Why good people suffer?

Last week I was asking myself a question. A question that has stayed with me since my childhood but rises to my conscience on certain occasions leaving me bewildered.
The question is –“Why good people suffer?”
And I know no one has a satisfying answer.
It’s both difficult and dangerous to be good. Being good gives us simplistic happiness, honesty of purpose etc. But it needs courage to remain good.
I have seen people who practice good going to jail, losing in relationship at workplace, money and health wise. Though not all of them, but many of the good suffer. So do many of the bad.
But the problem is both good and bad exist. And the fine things in life come to both of them irrespective of their purpose in life.
Picture this: A teenager like Ruchika who lost her mother as a kid was harassed by a senior police officer and saw her family being harassed for years. While the police officer who has got everything in life does this act and has woman, his wife, to protect him all the way.
How could one justify this situation? Nothing asking from the government or judiciary....asking God if such a situation exists. Then why?
Ruchika never had the option to enjoy life while this old man has lived his life to the fullest. Even if the case progresses against the alleged culprit and he’s convicted punished. How much harm will it do to him?

Ruchika’s story is just a case point there are many such instances where injustice is inflicted upon the good. And we have never found an answer why?

You know you are from Delhi when...

This stuff is sourced from a forward mail.
It's very apt while describing the cultural practices in Delhi. There are few descriptions we may not like but they are mostly true.


You know you are from Delhi when...
1. You drink only on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday to Sunday evenings. And try
not drinking on Tuesday.

2. Treating a friend means - Daaru Shaaru te kabbab shabaab.

3. Even in the most posh colonies, you hear, "Aaloo lelo !!!, Bhindi le lo !!!!
Pyaaz le lo !!!!, Tamatar le lo......"

4. And you hear women asking the vegetable vendor "Bhaiyaa dhaniya hari mirchi
nahi diya!" [Even with Half a kilo Carrot - Dhania & Hari Mirch is expected free
] ;-)

5. A place to meet is Mocha, (CCD), Barista, Hookah.

6. You use the word "setting" or "jugaad" at-least once a day.

7. You have not visited either of - Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Lotus Temple. It is
only for tourists, so Delhiites say.

8. You ride on the cycle rickshaw in NOIDA (more popularly known as NEODA) -
haggle over the price, but still pity rickshaw walla's condition and give him
what he asked.

9. You glare at people who call Gol Guppas as Pani Puri!

10. You always ask the vendor "Bhaiya yeh Gol-Guppe Aate ki hai ya Sooji ke?"
11. Schooling is best is Delhi not because of CBSE, but because you've had
school cancelled thrice due to cold in winters & summer vacations preponed due
to sudden increase heat in Summers and at least two Rainy Day off during
Monsoon.

12. You have been to a wedding at a Mehrauli farmhouse at least once.

13. You understand all important words in Punjabi & punjabi "helping
verbs" like teri m*******, teri b&&&&&&&... oye etc etc. Almost every Delhiite
understands Punjabi to an extent. PUNJABI unites everyone.

14. You call the waiter in the restaurant "boss" or "Pappey" & tack on "yaar"
"bhai" to almost every sentence.

15. You know that Pappay Da Dhaba or Kake Da Hotel has better butter chicken
than Taj. You've at least tried it once! And you see a BMW, a Porsche OR a
Mercedes parked outside it!

16. You describe practically every other person on the planet as "Vella".
('Idle' or Nikamma in Punjabi).

17. You see middle-aged Aunties wearing Gucci shades and holding LV bags having
Gol-Gappas in GK or Bhelpuri in South Ex along with Diet Coke !

18. You call every stranger 'Bhaiyya'.

19. You refer to East Delhi as 'Jamuna Paar'. Recite Nanak dukhiya sab sansar
par sabse dukiya Jamuna Paar.

20. You refer to AIIMS as Medical.

21. Pretty girls as Totta, Maal or Bamb (Punjabi for Bomb).

22. Aashiq mizaz boys as Majnu di Aulad !

23. You dont buy tickets for a music concert or cricket match, but try to use
political contacts... of the deputy secretary of the chief secretary of the
Minister of State for Khadi.

24. You overtake everyone from the wrong side and stare into his/her eyes while
doing so.

25. You have at least two cars and a motorbike at home.

26. And you have fought at least once every month with neighbors over parking...

27. You park your Car and take a Auto-rickshaw to Lajpat Nagar / Rajouri/ Kamla
Nagar/ Karol Bagh. But CP, you don't get parking space easily, yet you go always
in your own vehicle.

28. And then you say apni Kanvense (conveyance) howe na ta badi Kanvinyance
(convenience) hondi hai ji !!!!

29. You've hit 120 kmph at Nelson Mandela Marg and waited for midnight to do it.

30. You have bribed a traffic cop (Mama) at least once, every month.

31. You know that a farmhouse has nothing to do with cattle or farming. It is
luxurious hangout for whole night.

32. You use "contacts" (jugaad) for everything, from getting movie tickets to
restaurant bookings to play-school admissions.

33. You have had Anda parantha outside Vikram hotel and Bun Omlette at Dhaula
Kuan, Kulfi at Karol Bagh, Gol Gappe at India Gate, Dosa at Madras Hotel,
Chana/Kulcha at Scindia House and Chaat at UPSC.

34. Metro rail is your Pride but you travel in your Car.

36. You think EVERY South Indian comes from ' Madras ' and is a Madrasi.

37. You feel indicating which way you are going to turn your vehicle is an
information security leak.

38. You are a good driver coz you are correct in your guess of what the driver
in the front vehicle will do.

39. The only time you went to the Chidiya Ghar (Zoo) was on a school picnic.

40. You expect around 10 FM STATIONS in every city! Woho.!

41. DESPITE all the good and bad........You still Love Delhi...

42. You keep singing ..... Dilli hai Dil Walon ki..... Oye Balle Balle !!!

The decade ends; remembering poppy flowers, ghats, rock pythons and friends

In past few days, I had a sudden consciousness about losing or going past another decade, the third one in my life.

When you think voluntarily, the recollections become vivid, unpredictable and leave you with sighs and mild laughter depending on what situation has appeared from memory lane like calling up a rare video from YouTube.

It comes up in your mind all the time. While preparing a cup of pepper-mint special tea for yourself on a Sunday morning, while jogging inside the small park in your locality, while travelling in a jam-packed Mumbai suburban train or even while chewing a Kalkattia mitha paan from the local cigarette and paan vendor in posh south Mumbai after office hours are over.

The first memory I had was of the undergraduate university days in eastern Uttar Pradesh. My university consisted of large colonial academic structures, a whitewashed small Chapel and vast stretches of green farm land and Orchards spread over 600-acres on the banks of mighty Yamuna River.

The 100 year-old campus was secluded from the crowded Allahabad city, separated by an old dilapidated Naini bridge that officially expired in 1970, but was able to support five-million-strong city populace, hundreds of passenger trains and every logistics carrier on its way from the north down Madhya Pradesh.

The winter months of December 1999 and January 2000 were full of hope and hesitation thanks to the the next century will be India's optimism, world will end fear, Y2K buzz etc. Those were also the months of floriculture practical classes for us. We were given small plots to grow and identify flowers. There was faint love affair with the delicate flowers in an otherwise boring and secluded campus. Three flower patches -- gladiolus, carnation and poppy – were in my kitty.

I loved of all, the bulbous red and pink poppy flowers which belonged to the Papaver genera popularly known as the Oriental or Opium poppy . When I remember how I welcomed this decade and millennium, tossing poppy flowers on windy wintry evenings instantly appear on my mind.

The early years of the decade also remind me of the morning and evening Yoga classes in another University in neighouring city of Benares, the mindless but spiritual wanderings on hundreds of ghats of the 3000-year-old settlement, the occasional association with bhang and regular listening to BBC Radio to improve English pronunciation and soft old Bollywood songs on Vividh Bharti to get a nice sleep.

The long hours spent in the huge lighted central library of the university, where I was the only one reading The Economist, Times and The New Yorker always taunt my present day painful reading adventures on a bean bag in my small sub-urban apartment balcony in Mumbai.


The memory lane also took me to my early days with the Indian Express newspaper in Delhi. The support from the Police, the threat from a builder and the protection from another bigger builder while doing a particular story was interesting.

A year in solitude, when I dared to craft a dream livelihood intervention project in southern Jaharkhand districts, and failed against the system touches me till date. I still remember the early morning trips to impassable villages crossing torrential rivers and rock pythons with a passion to connect with village women and build self-help groups for them.

The passion that forced me to try for cheaper innovations for the villagers.... How aggressively I fought with the local bank employee, when he passed lewd comments against my clients a 27 year-old Oraon tribal woman, whom I called didi, and her 14 year old daughter Chini, when they had approached the bank for a loan to buy a goat to sustain their six member family. There were many haunting moments that come to the memory but I have no words or intention to shock myself or readers.

The later half of the decade showed me journalism of different shades. Investigative, page 3, human, colourful and business. I travelled across many parts of India, exposed to its diversity and unique blending propositions.

Living in two megacities -- Delhi, followed by Mumbai – has been less than fun but an immersing affair. Witnessing the mindless terror acts and being a victim of one left me a changed person, almost like a new born.

The greatest discovery of the decade for me, were friends, who stood by me at all costs involved. That was the most permanent and satisfying discovery precious than hitting crude oil blocks or gold mines or even being nominated for a Nobel.

Idiots sell in India

I am an idiot and following is my analysis on all kinds of idiots that rule India. The grading of the idiots is inspired from Chetan Bhagats's novel 'Five Point Someone'. The grade points are between zero and ten.I'm posting this analysis after my comment on facebook attracted good audience so thought of sharing with blog friends.

"Idiots sell in India never the talented ones.
The zero point no ones become the policymakers.
The one point someones become historysheeters.
The two point someones grab land for SEZs.
The three point someones become kingmakers.
The four point someones become successful filmakers.
The five point someones like Chetan Bhagat become bankers and successful authors. The six point someones like me do facebooking and tweeting to get attention.
The seven point someones teach the nation. The eight point someones protect and build the nation.
The nine point someones treat and cure the nation and the ten point someones take orders from the zeropoint nonones. Cycle completes.

PIS (Post Idiotic Script):The above description is not to be taken seriously, This is for pure fun and fiction similarity with any person's name is purely coincidental.

Orissa, mining, marriage and smartphone

On an early December evening two news agency journalists and an investment banker were travelling in a crowded intercity train into the mining and industrial belt of Orissa. The three hour journey seemed longer than usual.

It was pronounced winter, cramped train coaches and jostling of people from all walks of life - executives, government employees, fruit/chat vendors and daily labourers – catching the last train to the mining hinterland of Orissa. The three from Mumbai were on a their way to a journalist friend’s wedding in Angul, industrial capital and the most centrally located city of Orissa.

The immobility inside the train forced them to converse relentlessly in order to evade the drudgery of the small yet tough journey. Topics discussed varied from whether to sell gold just when it has hit the peak to the charisma of Obama that was worthy a Nobel. Heated arguments followed and the intellectual cells of the brain were stimulated.

The concentrated intellectuality was also lightened by some talk of women, i-pod and twitter, but it couldn’t beat the pursuit of talking about money and economy. The three realised they despite there humble background were talking something incomprehensible to their fellow passengers, who were dumbfounded.

The three realised exposure to metro-life and education has already created a water tight compartment between them and their own people who are pressed against them in this cramped coach, who speak their own language and about their own region.

A quick realisation was enough to stop the discussion about stock market, 8 percent growing economy, mergers/acquisitions, investment banker fees and switchover to local issues. The three spoke to their co-passengers in Oriya about the best trains in the route, new industrial development coming up in their neighbourhood and how is the government paying after the sixth pay commission report was implemented. It was relaxing to all of them.

The three finally reached their friend’s wedding reception and joined the celebration dinner. Here they were surrounded by locals, many of them related to the the hundreds of small and large neighourhood industries.

They overheard two of them talking in distress about China’s pressure tactics about lowering the offer price of some commodity.

One of them soon recalled a coverpage story he did about black gold (iron ore) and China some years ago. The three soon discussed how thousands of small time exporters have turned rich overnight by exporting minerals primarily iron ore from Orissa to China, world’s biggest steelmaker. However, with insatiable demand and import monopoly Chinese authorities are deciding prices in the past few months.

While chatting over Orissa's mineral policy and unknowingly meandering through the large open air banquet space the three spotted the glowing faces of the bride and groom which reminded them of their own families.

The gorgeous pink designer lehnga and neatly tailored western suit was making the couple look like one of those from the Shahrukh Khan starring Bollywood movies. Both of them were sitting on two large princely chairs, ususal in most Indian weddings.

At the entry of the marriage hall there was red ticker going on intermttently --Devidutta Weds Purabi-- all in capital letters. The guys joked, it looked a ticker on a television set or a news platform.

The groom, a telecom reporter and the bride, an engineer were trying to hold eachothers' hands in the absence of few attentive eyes but had to soon stay away from eachothers like a playful couple in a garden.

The groom, 48 hours ago on his wedding day amused everyone by his typing skills on the his smartphone. The instrument was in his hands even as he was tying knots with the bride. Whether it’s his affiliation to technology or effort to update his status on Facebook, the invasiveness of the tech revolution was loud and clear.

The bride also earned some reputation 48 hours ago by beating hands-down the technosavvy groom in a thousand-year-old game of finding the cowdy. The groom complained about the sharp nails of the bride going against him.

The three idiots had a nice wedding experience afterall.

(all characters here are fictitious and don't bear any resemblance with anyone living or dead)

Bhubaneswar Post

Early December I had to plan a quick holiday to my home town Bhubaneswar to be a part of the mostly unplanned year-ending weddings of friends and relatives. The sojourn was demanding from the beginning as I had to opt for the 40-hour long train journey from the west-cost to east coast of India with air tickets suddenly out of reach after the wedding rush began.

As every unwanted event in life provides us with some pleasant surprises, this laborious journey provided me with the opportunity to finish ‘Sea of Poppies’, a five-hundred page long novel by Amitav Ghosh, which I had my hands on for the last six months.

Bhubaneswar, the capital city of Orissa state in eastern India, is a large, expandable and beautiful settlement but without the million plus population that every large Indian city possesses.

As the wedding season was in progress I had move throughout the city which exposed me to the newly developed roads, malls and hospitality infrastructure in the city. It was a surprising and refreshing moment to discover the beauty of your hitherto neglected sleepy town after struggling nearly a decade in the dismal infrastructure of some supposedly largest and most developed cites of the world.

I understood the with population just under a million, radius stretching over fifty kilometers and initial town planning by legendary Le Corbusier, Bhubaneswar remains one of the best definition urban cities in India along with Chandigarh, also designed by the French architect.

The largely unmanaged yet clean structures of hundreds of Shaiva temples, Jaina and Buddha caves surrounded by numerous water bodies and greenery intermingle gracefully with the clean, western swanky buildings. The good thing is that most people of Bhubaneswar can still see the sky in the morning and evening, get their vegetables from the garden and buy their grains annually from villages in the outskirt to beat inflation.

Middleclass, confident, moderate and aspiring is how the city represents herself in the first decade of the new century. All is well in the political and administrative epicenter of this small eastern Indian state. But like acid test paper a certain part of the city its changes colour everyday to showcase the distress in the hinterland. The road stretching from Bhubaneswar station to the legislative building always hosts quiet protestors of various sort amid small policy cover.

Most protestors are people from the tribal dominated non-costal parts of the state where world’s largest miners and steel makers are waiting to set shop. Most protests are about losing land, insufficient compensation and rehabilitation. As mining related protests dominate, real issues like malnutrition, hunger, lack of health facilities and illiteracy take a backseat.

Some of my friends from Delhi and Mumbai made some passing comments at the hoardings across the town. “Like brokerages, asset management companies grabbing every corner of advertising place in Mumbai … steel, ingot and billet companies do the same in Orissa.

Soon I discovered the truth in their observation Bhubaneswar airport there are two-dozens of hoardings of natural resource firms. One of the most controversial projects had a large hoarding depicting a happy tribal family with a caption larger that the photograph saying, “Mining happiness for the people of Orissa.”



My neighborhood pan shop endorses ‘Surana billets’, my dilapidated primary school walls had ‘Vijay saria’ asymmetrically painted on it and to my horror I discovered the lichen adorned walls of my boundary bears the names “Too Strong saria,” written in cheap brick colours. I quickly removed the stains and breathed easy.

As mining advertisings are creeping on everything in this coastal city discontent and people’s war is creeping in the vast tribal plateaus of the state.

My date with alcohol; the highs and the not so highs

This post is a work of fiction and it has nothing to do with me. The main character here is refered to as 'me' for ease of reading. (Photo courtesy: http://lmgfieldmarketing.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/usable-all-breezers.gif)

I’m not necessarily an alcohol aficionado, but I had my share of getting drunk, high and wild too. A decade ago I hated the smell of alcohol, the dipsomaniacs and their unpleasant behavior after a spell of drinking.

I was introduced to this not-so-heavenly liquid by force during one of the ragging sessions in my early graduation days by four gentlemen in one of the British styled 100-year old hostel rooms, on the banks of wide Yamuna river in a dark winter night.

It disturbed me, I vomitted and I went back to my room praying for forgiveness to my God with the explanation that bad times made me touch something as untouchable as alcohol.

The next day I complained to the University Procter that landed the above mentioned gentlemen in a soup. They were suspended from the hostel for 2 months but that did no wonders for me.

They were back with a vengeance and with the determination of converting me into an alcoholic. And they succeeded in a way. I had to drink a glass of concentrated cheap rum, and vomit almost everyday.

They wanted me and other fresher students to join the movement 'a-glass-of-rum everyday', until one late night drinking session on a highway dhaba followed by a disastrous accident killed one of those seniors.

The surviving three left alcohol forever and preached the benefits of being non-alcoholic. That was the end of more alcohol for me in during the period of my four-year graduation.

I however learnt and loved the idle urdu gazhals in the praise of alcohol and women and regularly won prizes at inter university events.

After graduation I joined a reputed media school where liberty, intellect and alcohol enjoyed the same status. I was slightly curious! How could such decent looking intellectual types are friends with alcohol? Even the teachers would speak about it with dignity in the classroom.

This changed status of alcohol made me think about it with some respect. I did research about the colour and nature of different varieties of alcoholic drinks....this time it looked better.... didn’t smell as awful... But I continued to resist from touching it.

A year after, I landed in the city bureau of a national daily newspaper. Day one, the forty year old city editor welcomed me by taking to an event in a luxury hotel, where booze flowed free and everyone had a glass in hand.

The bureau slowly discovered about my distance from alcohol. A bureau of 12 women and 4 men, all of them except this beautiful lady from Kashmir was a drinker.

They didn’t ridicule me but rather sympathized about how I’m missing something so adorable in life.

Still unaffected.... I stayed away ... but alcohol no more looked ugly or untouchable to me. I accepted being friends with those who loved alcohol and discovered the pleasures of smoke filled cramped pubs in an otherwise spacious Delhi.

In the meantime I was losing my heart to a female reporter in a rival newspaper, thanks to the job of reporting at the not-so-cool late night page three parties.

We shared the goal of spotting celebrities, their gossips and their glamorous lives, while we had to come back to our humble lives in the by-lanes of typical south Delhi villages.

Those trips back home in some PR sponsored car on wide Delhi roads at about 2 hours past midnight that made us closer. She was a rebel child born to a strict Bengali teacher’s family almost similar to mine except for the region.

She was a year younger to me but was a step ahead at least in her experiments with alcohol.

Almost a year after we both were on a junket to a beautiful Himalayan hill station, where a large hydropower corporation arranged for a luxurious stay and trekking adventures for journalists before their entry to the primary market for raising funds.

There was no reportage to be made except the interview with the chairman, which ended on day one of the five day trip. Rest of the four days was for us to retreat.

We succumbed to the idyllic charm of the hills and absolute comforts of life for those few days. It was easy to be romantic and shed all inhibitions. And that was a good chance for alcohol to enter into my life.

She introduced me to the finer and expensive, non-smelly and no-vomit side of alcohol. I was floored. We had more Himalayan adventures and more introduction, appreciation and to some extent addiction to alcohol.

The high continued as long as we romanced. It ended in a year’s time when she chose to go for higher studies abroad, as many journalists do after their fling with journalism in junior positions. I lost my interest in alcohol again note merely because I was heart-broken or something but because I couldn't afford the finer expensive stuff she introduced me to.

This time, male friends tried to revive the trend by introducing me to the dark, cheaper alcohols of our times, thanks to the duty free thekka shops in otherwise dutyful Delhi.

And the cheaper variety of alcohol comes as a natural support to the guys nursing their broken hearts at least in India.

Ever heard that, “Rumko pio aur ghum ko bhulao.” (Drink rum and forget the sorrow)

By now I was graduated to a learned appreciator and critic of alcohol, a much needed quality in the media and party circuit in the city of the Djinns.

Then work and professional excellence took over me and I had to move to Mumbai, the maximum city, where you have to survive on the minimum. Minimum sleep, minimum romance and minimum parties, because your maximum time is taken by the suburban trains.

Here you have a outlet for journalists called the Press Club, where you network rather than the party meets of Delhi. You have to be in good shape to go back home safely in the trains.

So being a Mumbaiah in Mumbai I here, discovered an alcopop, called Breezer, smooth alcoholic yet keeps you fit for a train journey back home. I just slip into some networking group and sip a bottle of red, yellow or green coloured Bacardi Breezer much to the annoyance of the young women journalists around.

The girls must be thinking this as an intrusion of sorts. I heard a remark once, “Look that uncleanly shaven un-cool guy holding a bottle of our drink as if he will eat it like a Wada-Pao.”

So it be, but I’m a breezer man now.