A walk by my side

The evening has softened with an unexpected shower and breeze. Lonely me walking through the green meadows of an unknown settlement, somewhere in central India near the Satpura forest range...far from any railway station or bus station, where you are sure that you cannot get back to city life soon.

Where you know you are not under any obligation. Where you know the addiction of checking your Facebook of Gmail account every few moments, won’t bother you.

Where you know you have no presentations to make and anticipate reactions from the superiors, clients.

Here I am with me. The old good me that doesn’t critically analyse me. The me which is happy with what he sees in the nature. No questions asked. Just walk with a bare-soul, bare feetand bare-chest.

I feel saintly....I consider myself near the moment of truth, near the atoll of serendipity, until some one rediscovers the warm blooded human in me.

A tiny yet sharp voice breaks the connection with truth, serendipity. “Kaha ja rahe ho babu,” asks an angry looking Gond kid. I said,"hello."

Dark night's conversation

Suspicion and deceit have always ruled our mind in one form or the other.

The other member in the family, the best friend, the office colleague, everyone or someone has breached our trust sometimes. We have nursed injuries. We have cried foul and thought of ourselves being at the receiving end.

Yet we have also not been worthy of others belief many a times, knowingly or unknowingly we have hurt others. It seems being human we become part of this precarious game.

Alok was in a thoughtful mood defining and redefining silently what is the essence of 'trust'.

Didi (the maid) has left since an hour after cooking a oil-less meal without chappatis (bread). It’s about eight in the evening.

The tiny Oraon tribal hamlet of 40 houses is into deep sleep, except the dim-lighted broken community toongi (club house), where half-a-dozen men were enjoying semi-distilled mahua. Alok looked at the chapatiless, boiled vegetable dinner neatly placed near his table.

It didn’t excite him, though his conscience was forcing him to have it or else it’s the waste of the pure labour of love with which Didi prepared this food.

Guilty! Yet he moved ahead, opened the thatched gate of the mud house and wandered in the clean red-earth-road of Dhan-Gaon. Still thoughtful, Alok stumbled upon a lonely Jokhi didi loitering in the dark.

“What’s the matter babu...not asleep?” “You educated young men always roam in search of what you only know.”

“See our boys are always in search handi (traditional rice beer) or mahua. Goddess bless them...”
Alok had no point to make, neither was he avoiding Jokhi. He quite liked Jokhi, who must be of the same age as Alok. In her early twenties she looked worn-out, dilapidated skeletal human body.

Her age is that of an old lady in this hamlet, where life expectancies rarely cross beyond late thirties.

Sharp and witty, Jokhi asked Alok again. “Want Khaini(chewing tobacco).” Alok said,”yes,” with thinking and realising he never had it nor did he ever intended to have it. “It doesn’t matter,” he mulled, and put some in his mouth in a manner similar to how Jokhi did.

“What’s the matter with you Jokhi didi? You are the old lady,... mother of two young men why are you roaming,” said Alok jokingly.

“I knew you will have this question. Very predictable of an educated young man,” she said and laughed hysterically, usual of her style.

Alok knew there will be no answers. This was a trust building exercise and he has not succeded building the bridge with Jokhi, or for that matter anyone else in this village to get a straight answer.
Jokhi, the smart one she was, could gauge Alok’s apprehension.

“Not in a mood to be in this village ..sometimes sit with us in the evening have some daru and see how people trust you..we are simple people you just need to be simple with us,” Jokhi said.

Jokhi’s 10-year-old daughter came running. “Mai mai (mother, mother) come fast chutki (the small one) is running high fever.”

Jokhi gave all her khaini to Alok and ran saying, “Babu this looks like bada bukhar (Malaria).”

Another day in Shobhita's life

The main character here is a woman fictitiously named as Shobhita.
I was not out of my battered soul yet, when Rukmini knocked my door. Unhappy with her new boss and workplace, which I have been hearing for the past two months, she almost banged my door till I broke my inertia and opened the door.
She had this very original worrisome facial expression on her egg-shaped beautiful face ....and as always she anticipated some genuine concern from my side. I was not too enthused at that moment entertaining her trivial woes. She demanded my attention anyways.
I had to wear a fictitious smile in an effort to soothe her imaginative worries which included how her boss may not allow her to order from Pizza Hut as the company has tied up with Dominos.
"What say...see how unlucky I am,” she said.
I had no words and conviction to cajole her and say,” this is just a phase in life you will soon get to work at a new place and order from Pizza Hut." But I did it anyway.
When you enter into this long phase of relationship where you do things out of habit rather than realising them, it gets seriously boring. But then you have never really tried to behave any other possible way and allowed this habit to grow.
"It doesn't matter," I thought. Just five months to go and I'm out of this place.
Rukmini and I have been staying in this working women's hostel since the past two years and never have there been a day she has not complained about her life.
She's perpetually happy in the morning at the breakfast table in the music room....then goes the days her depressing SMSes flood my hand-phone.
Co-workers smile suspiciously as if some romance is brewing...unfortunately it would have been some message reading, "pata hai me an aaj bahot sad hun.. know this guy with that Harvard-type degree..my new manager yaar gives me hi funda and forces me to accept that mine is a nondescript degree...I fought with him..u see my MBA degree is the best in Jabalpur your may be in the US... I'm so sad he is also very cute but that Delhi girl is getting all the bhao...my life is all sad ...mujhe call kar na."I would be preparing some presentation for our new clients in clean energy business...and will typically not respond to her.
Then a flurry of her SMSes reiterating how the damsel-in-distress is almost doomed.
When I go back home she won't be there typically i will have my session of television and non-fiction reading. When I'm just into my bed she will come running he Shobhita what the hell yaar you didn't even call me.
"Where were you ..why so late today," i will ask with little interest. You know I was sad in the day then in the evening Rohit took me to the cafe near the sea-face, I was amazed. ...but then he pissed me up he told, "I can work with you despite your poor education in Jabalpur."
I said he must be joking. She said," tu sunna ..he also said that he was joking." But I didn't believe....you know why?
"Why" I had to ask.
That Delhi hot girl was waiting for us to join at the bar in the inner city circle. He thought I won’t understand.
Then all the nonsense will continues till 1:30 and then she will say chalo mujhe sona hai or else I will have pimples.
I don't know but by this time I never felt like sleeping she i will have to wake up and read some stuff like "The world most respected companies,” The biggest financial disasters in the world history," and so on...
What a day....what a night ...what a friend I have I would think subconsciously with no hope and strong feeling of escaping it.

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.

My Guru Gets Magsaysay

Last month one of my mentors got rewarded by the society. The great soul, I idolize for inspiring and bringing me into the world of social engineering, worked for long before being noticed by the society for consideration.
However, it’s another fact that he never wanted any attention for being good.

Deep Joshi, the founder of Professional Assistance for Development Action or PRADAN was considered for Ramon Magsaysay award for his pioneering work in rural development on August 3.

Joshi two decades ago founded PRADAN with the hope that technically qualified people will turn livelihood interventionist. Six years ago, when I first interacted with Joshi in the Kesla, a central Indian settlement surrounded by dense jungles of Satpura, a had a complete metamorphosis.

In a Gond tribal village nearby we discovered how people educated in Indian Institutes of Technologies and Managements have created livelihood opportunities from mushroom cultivation. The interesting thing the mushroom is flaked and sold as the popular Knorr-soup brand by fast-moving consumer goods major, Hindustan Unilever Ltd.

Joshi said, “This product and livelihood integration fits in and around this part of the country ..as a professional you can work different livelihood concept as per the location.”

Joshi was always shy of admitting that he did anything, instead he promoted the local team as the owners of the success. It worked well promoting innovation at more that 30 locations in India, where PRADAN worked.

In my early 20s and raring to do something for the country, I remembered each of his word, until I created a livelihood concept in South-Jharkhand. It was about introducing hybrid corn in about 30 villages.

This concept prevented a imminent large scale migration from the region to brick kilns in Uttar Pradesh, and added on an average an income of about 5,000 rupees or nearly $100. I still find this the most satisfying work in my life.
And I thank Deep and the villagers who believed in me for all of it.

Joshi, an alumnus of MIT and Harvard, saw the first to realize the potential in professionals working a village. However it’s true that every large organization has problem, PRADAN too has.
At the height of decentralization few people started becoming egotist, they chose to exploit the very people whom they were to help. But such minor instances will not take the idea of success as ‘PRADAN’ that Deep Joshi conceptualized.

Cheers Deep. Do inspire more people.

The 'Dalal Street' as I know

I have mostly been parsimonious in my lifestyle and detached from the act of multiplying money in a spectacular manner.

This has to do with the Hindu Brahminical household surroundings, followed by a social and left-affiliated education system I was exposed to in India.

For the initial twenty years in my life I knew stock market is all about speculation and opacity, where no one ever gains. A stock-broker or dealer was a kind of taboo word in the educational and family discussions.

And interestingly in eastern India, where I come from, never did I meet anyone who had dabbled in stocks or the unreal money as they call it.

The ‘Mehta’ and ‘Parekh’ scams that rocked Indian capital markets in the nineties vindicated the belief of me and folks, teachers around me. “This is such dirty scandalous world all about black money and you see they sell papers and write on computers to make money,” said a teacher once in my senior school years.

“It’s only for the dalals, the middlemen, who make money even when the country is at war. They are thick skinned and thin blooded people only money runs in their blood,” told a senior who was an aspiring left student leader.

At 1700 kms from Mumbai I saw in Bollywood films only smugglers in Amitabh Bacchan films play in ‘satta’ or stocks and race course. One movie ‘Satta Bazaar’, showed how a family is ravaged only because the son becomes a stock broker.

My uncle, a senior official with a nationalised bank once told me “See I’m simple man but even I can make out from the name of the street where this Bombay Stock Exchange is. It’s called Dalal Street.”

‘Dalal’ in eastern India carries a certain negative connotation. It refers literally to a miser, some one who makes money from unethical means. I as a school boy had little idea, but thanks to daily reading of newspapers I was not sure or convinced what all people were saying.

I thought if ‘dalal’ is so much of a bad word, why a journalist called Sucheta Dalal was instrumental in unearthing the stock scam. There must be something more to it.

And I was true there was more to it. Much more. ‘Dalal’ is a surname like a Mishra or Chopra and they are successful individuals in all professions and as entrepreneurs. Stock market is no dark land; it’s one of the indicators of the country’s economy.

And India’s Bombay Stock Exchange is the oldest bourse in Asia and Dalals, or the brokers have kept it alive facilitating flow of high value investments in the country. It has a flip side too which the scams have brought out, but it’s like any other necessary evil the country has like its tax system, postal department, banking system etc.

They are great tools for the growth of India, but have to be well regulated. Four years ago I also became a party to the share trading world, thanks to my job as a market writer with a leading economic Web site.

Off late direct market participation is off limits for me due to some professional obligations, nevertheless we are always linked to the market through our mutual funds portfolio.

And guess what. I liquidated a portion of my funds portfolio, invested a year ago, with an average 30 percent return and used the profits (read the unreal money) for some social cause, which I’m proud off.

This is where markets are good. The gains can fund some one’s education, medical bills, or even food. But only if we use it for good and not buy inflated luxuries.

Surrounded by Entrepreneurs

Layoffs and salary cuts triggered by the worst economic downturn in the past 80 years has launched many entrepreneurs across the world. India is no different.

Many of my relatives, friends and acquaintances have become the sole founders, co-founders and jobholders in many such ventures. At the end of everyday you collect more business cards of CEOs and Directors than managers.

It feels good though to see people of my realm talking business. Some have become quick learners and have already generated revenues; some are in the process of making many, while most are simply undecided on what they are working on.

What ever may be the stage of their development in the journey of entrepreneurship, it echoes a spirit that is crucial for building a successful and resourceful India.

Last Saturday morning I had brunch with a younger sister who’s the chief executive of a branding firm, and is yet to make the fist dollar.

Yet what she thinks startled me. She has her third year operations plan and profitability ratios well calculated. She also has plan B, C and D ready incase plan A fails.

This is a girl who was piggy-tailed few years ago and was unable calculate the price of her dolls. Now she watches business channels and writes on increasing operating profits before you get venture funding.

The same evening I met Om, an agricultural graduate from Rewa in Madhya Pradesh. He had just got a loan approved for his proposed warehouse project.

In college he didn’t have enough money to go home in vacation, now he is preparing himself to create 50 million rupees enterprise to help his village farmers store perishable farm output.

Om was fired from an oilseed processing unit eight months ago, while the young girl couldn’t find a job after she was back from sabbatical.

But both of them unfazed. This time you can smell it. It’s in the air. The confidence, the audacity and the honesty to go beyond hurdles and create value; value not for self but for a generation. There comes your new leader.

Casualities of War

Last week I slept late mostly, preoccupied with finishing my newest oil-on-canvas creation. A still life painting of an eastern Indian village girl, trying to depict some of the lost innocence we have in an average Indian village life.

This blog is not about the painting, but a film I got to see late in the night that shocked and questioned me from inside. Brian De Palma film casualities of war had such an effect on me.

The war drama about the Vietnam War, starring Michael J. Fox and Sean Penn and filmed two decades ago was so real and fresh and intriguing in the present day clash of civilizations, ethnicities and religions across the world.

I’m not trying to be preachy about things like war and peace, but want to speak out about how I was touched.

The drama unfolds with a US patrolling team deep inside Vietnam fighting an exhaustive gorilla war with Viet Cong squads. Sergeant Tony Meserve (Sean Penn), who heads the patrol, kidnaps a teen aged woman from a village, considered an ally to Viet Cong.

Meserve and other three in the team treat the girl as a sex slave and beating and raping her repeatedly. One member of the squad Private First Class Max Eriksson (Michael J. Fox) resisted the crime, but in vain.

Than Thi Oanh (Thuy Thu Le), the Vietnamese woman grew ill and developed a persistent cough. When the squad was Onah was constantly coughing exposing them to the risk of getting caught.

As things grew worse and fear of being spotted by patrolling helicopters carrying a rape victim, Tony Meserve and three other killed her initially by stabbing and then pumping bullets intro her body. She falls off and dies finally. Erikson watches helplessly.

Deepely hurt emotionally Erikson refuses to let the secret die. He reports of the incident to seniors and was not taken seriously. Eventually, following an attempt on Eriksson's life by the squad, the four men who raped and killed Onah were court martialed.


In the final scene Erikson wakes up from a nightmare he was having of the incident only to find himself on a Metro train in San Francisco. He suddenly saw a Vietnamese-American student (also played by Thuy Thu Le) who resembles the kidnapped girl.

She leaves the train fearing Erikson’s constant watch, and forgot to take her scarf. Erikon runs behind her and returned the scarf, while she noticed something is troubling him, and guesses that she reminds him of someone.

The movie ended here hinting Erikson feeling better and coming over his guilt of not helping the victim girl to survive.

My 26/11 survivor's account

Never have I used any of my professional write-ups in personal space. But this has to do with a survivor’s story, one that has to be told clearly, objectively and needed scrupulous editing. Sourcing the story as was first published on Dec 10.

REUTERS WITNESS - Back from the dead in Mumbai
Wed Dec 10, 2008 5:03pm IST
By Sourav Mishra
MUMBAI (Reuters) - It’s not often that you get to read your own name in the obituaries. Three days after armed militants went on the rampage in Mumbai, newspapers and TV channels included my name in the list of more than 170 people who lost their lives in the carnage.
They were wrong -- obviously.
But I had a tough time fending off phone calls from anxious relatives, friends and colleagues who thought I had succumbed to my injuries.
Yes, I am alive and well. And painfully aware that my first trip to the Leopold Café might have been my last.
I was there on that unforgettable Wednesday night, deep in conversation with two French acquaintances -- Kate, a filmmaker, and her friend Clementine.
As we drank beer and tucked into prawns and chicken tikka, we talked of Kate's debut Hindi film -- a comedy about a girl in Paris who wants to marry a man with a moustache.
An hour later, as Clementine suggested we order more beer, a diner at a nearby table caught my eye. I remember thinking he looked uncannily similar to actor Johnny Depp in the 'Pirates of the Caribbean' series.
The next instant, his table was smashed and the diner was flung aside. I heard what seemed like a blast and something hit me hard on my back. I panicked and ran out through the nearest door.
Out on the road, I touched the wound and found it was bleeding profusely. I could hardly move my right hand. I shouted for help but no one paid any heed. Tried to move ahead but couldn't and fell down.
As I lay there, I felt someone grab hold of me and help me to my feet. The Good Samaritan hurried me towards a nearby cinema where we clambered into a taxi and rushed to the hospital.
I could still hear the gunfire in the street and my companion told me there was some sort of gang war going on.
The doctors at the hospital were reluctant to admit me but the stranger beside me begged them to take me in. As I removed my shirt and pressed against the wound, a copper-coated bullet fell out.
The woman treating me smiled and uttered the three words I'd been waiting to hear - "You will survive".
The 60-hour siege of Mumbai continued and not everyone was as lucky as I was. More people were brought in as the minutes ticked by.
The man next to me had two bullets lodged in his stomach and was writhing in pain. A weeping mother clutched her dead child. Two policemen were dead and another was battling for his life.
"Only Allah can save us now," whispered someone on my right, a man who had been shot in the chest.
As I began to come to terms with our ordeal, I turned to the man who had rushed me to hospital and asked his name. Turns out Kishore owns a small shop near the Leopold Café. He had already informed my friends, dialling a number that I had mumbled earlier.
My bureau chief in Mumbai, Charlotte, was among the first to find me at the hospital, weaving her way through a row of dead bodies before she spotted me and heaved a sigh of relief.
My ribs hurt and I was feeling breathless but I wasn't badly hurt.
I was alive. I was safe.
Later, as local politicians made a beeline to the hospitals, I was glad to see none of the staff or the victims paid them much heed. The old man at the X-ray machine shouted at one of the leaders, asking his supporters not to obstruct hospital staff.
I was moved to a private hospital on Thursday morning where I was told a rib fracture had prevented the bullet from puncturing my lungs. I underwent surgery to prevent spreading the infection.
And what of my companions at the Café?
I felt like a coward when I thought of Kate and Clementine. I had left them behind. It's hard being a hero when you are busy trying to save your own life.
I learnt that Clementine had been shot in the arm but it wasn't serious and both my friends flew to France soon after.
This week, I got an email from Kate. She says she'll back in India soon.

Beyond the karmic wheel of life

It has been about nine months, since I have not blogged. There were two reasons. One obvious – being shot at on the 26th of November last year – made me feel real enough to not write what I think.

The other not so obvious – workload – which made me find an excuse for not dabbling in words after draining my brain for nine hours in the office.

At a deeper level the consciousness of surviving November 26 made me introspective, though in a positive way. I had more thoughts about life and its goodness, above the myopic vision of mundane daily routine.

Past few months have also been equally or even tougher for my well-wishers and friends with people battling dreaded diseases, accidents and relationship disasters.

But they all were brave, have fought and are fighting. I just followed them and tried to be part of the game of survival. There was/ is a belief that we will recover and the power-above-us will let us add better things to the world.

I had so much to say, share but I chose to remain silent, pray and think inside.

I also had a refuge in my work, as a journalist, which gives me an opportunity to meet different people from all walks of life and finding survivors everywhere.

They say being in Mumbai and that too if you work in the financial markets, doesn’t give much time to preoccupy one with self.

The tick-tock of an average Mumbai clock, the dig-dig of the local train wheels and the green-red of the ever blinking financial instruments put you into track, in tandem with their speed.

It makes you believe you are moving with your karmic wheel, so easy to feel good.
Nevertheless, I have finally decided to write more often to release at least part of my pent-up thoughts.

Technocrati Validation

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Mumbai Malaria

This is a story I wrote almost 10 months back, when I just recovered from malaria. Was reading back found it worth posting.

In October 2008 I fought a severe attack of malaria, which made weak enough to realise the power tiny mosquitoes hold over an ever progressing human race.

All these three decades I thought I was invincible to malaria. I have survived it all. In my University days in Allahabad, on the banks of the Yamuna and surrounded by 600 hectares of agricultural land, where mosquitoes were omnipresent, I survived.

They sucked litres of blood from my body, but I was never victim of their dread. Four years in University made me ignore them and gave me the confidence to venture into mosquitoes territory without any fear.

A year in my journalism school in the hills of Dhenkanal, Orissa and another year in the of southern districts of Jharkhand, all falling in the malaria prone corridors of the country, cemented my confidence that I have some inbuilt resistance to mosquito related diseases.

In Dhenkanal many of fellow mates in the hostel would lost to the mosquitoes face but I was unscathed. In Jharkhand when I was into my unfulfilled social engineering dreams, the situation was alarming. In the 36 villages I was working everyday some or the other house will have a malaria patient.
Many of the didis in the 60 self-help groups I was working with would be absent on weekly meets. Either they themselves would be ill or their children.

I have seen with a weak and guilty heart many of them losing lives to the dreaded mosquito related disease. The poor guys had no option but to rely on the local quack, for which some of them had to walk as much as 60 kilometres.

But today I fear a mosquito more than ever. Also my utopian believe – Indian metro cities have no such old world oriental diseases as malaria – died for ever.

Jab We Met (Mumbai to Vishakhapatnam)

When I boarded the train at Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus, for home, I was reluctant. It's almost three years since I had not traveled by train, thanks to the low airfare regime, official trips, and reporting assignments, that brought me into the sky mode. For some one with almost eight years of traveling experience in general and sleeper compartments of trains, that runs through most of India including Bihar, (you know why i mentioned this state's name only..with all respect to its residents offcourse) another long train journey shouldn't be that bothering. But it disturbed me at least at that moment when I smelt the train steel. This disconnect happened because I was amazed by the air travel, its glamour and tried forget my humble past. But energy brokers in Manhattan and Singapore worked day and night to screw my happiness...they relied on crude oil to get over the down turn in the equity markets. As crude pries jumped three times in two years, pushing the whole world to a high-cost-proposition (what we call inflation)...now everything is expensive on this earth..not to mention air fares. I was still meandering through my thought maze, when the train stopped at Dadar. My co-passenger in the third-class AC compartment entered. She entered gracefully and asked me to stand up and give her a second to manage her stuff. Her stuff meant a small bag and a her kid, whose eyes were transfixed on me. I didn't know why kids always look at me with amusement...but her mom was not too happy with her kid taking interest in this uncle. I must be looking like a rouge fighter, who just back from some battle. I tried pacify her suspicion by opening a novel I was carrying. I took all the pain to show her the title and authors name till the time she read it and remember it. I know she was reading my book and through which supposedly my mind. Her child, by now I an guess, must not be old that two years was also reading the ook cover with her mother (I guessed). It read 'A distant Window' by Mahashweta Devi.
This one was gifted by Tripta, a visitor to my place, when I was in Ghaghra, the beautiful nondescript settlement in south Jharkhand.
After some investigation it seemed the mother and daughter behaved as if they have realised I'm not the kind of guy they are afraid of. Till Lonavla it was raining and the baby was excited about the rains which she could she through the window. I was shifting my eyes between distant window, the book, and the nearby window for a glance of the beautiful nature. As Konark Express, the train I was traveling in, pierced through the misty Shahyadri hill I was into romantics....the kid by that time realised she's wasting too much of her precious time watching the scenery and not playing. Now the rolly-polly baby was suddenly full of energy and decided to stop my romanticism with nature from the train. She suddenly pounced on me with permission of her mother naturally and shouted "ab bebo khelega", almost with the authority of a general. I didn't have the courage to refuse such a sweet heart and started a pillow fight with her. She won all the time and punched me with her tiny pillow. I was defeated and showed all the gestures of a loser to her...she was all the more excited. I didn't realise, when the night crept in...her mom took her as she was tired. She wanted a session of breast feeding, and shouted 'doodh'. But her young mother was conscious of my presence in front of her. I understood and chose to go to the doors at the end of the compartment.

Friends in my life

Today is friendship day...and like most of us who have given thought to this day's existence in the calender year must have one question in mind...who are the real friends in our lives? So far as my life is concerned...I have my shares of trials and trivia to find out who true friends are. At the foremost its the family. Values that have been inculcated into my life and have kept me afloat through a quarter of a century are obviously gifted by them. Their support or rather influence is always there with me and is like a fixed asset. Through most of my early childhood parents and my sibling have been my best friend. Outside them was there really anyone else?
I think Draupadi, a local fisherman's daughter was a closest friend both for me and my sister outside our parents as long long as we had not been to school.
She's the one who will play the whole day with us when mom and dad will go to work. I remember her teaching us numbers, dancing, and our favorite castle building in sand. She left quite a long lasting impact in our lives. She for first time taught us to become creative.
Draupadi, I last heard was working with her husband for some large farmer in Bathinda district of Punjab. In 2006, during a reporting assignment I even tried to find her out in Saddepur village, near Gidderbah...(address as given by her parents)....but she was not be found...

After Draupadi it was Saroj for me. At the age of five I met him first in the school and we became the best friends. It all started with competition in the school and suddenly started appreciating each other's academic performance. I think he has been instrumental in deciding my future career. In a competitive environment I would always stand first and he followed, ut in mathematics he was 100 from class one to ten. I started with 100 in class one and ended at 75 by class ten. I did really well in every other subject. But losing in mathematics to him made me hate the subject and never strive for it. The result I'm a journalist today.
But remember at least 20 people who were worse in mathematics than me in school are either --techies, professors or managers --but all in the field information technology.
As expected Saroj is a techie too and lives in amchi Mumbai.
In intermediate days i had no friends from college. I was in the best science college in my state and though I was open to friendship no one else was. For everybody it was IIT-JEE or cracking some state level engineering or medical entrance.
This was the time when my female language teacher in the science college became my best friend. This woman was feeling out of place in this cutthroat island of IIT dreamers and equally fierce know-all science professors. In the period of two years we had discussed it all. The bad ones like the boring atmosphere, the fear of dreaming surroundings, her domineering science counterparts and the deadly subject mathematics. The most illogioal of all subjets. Where everything is based on 'let us assume.' The demons --Calculus and Coordinate geometry-- simply sucked.
She was like an oasis for me in that desert:) Here my friendship chapter ended in the eastern Indian city of Bhubaneswar. The language teacher continues to teach in the same college.
At 17, when I entered University of Allahabad in the true North Indian city, I discovered a whole new world of experience. The people here were too different from my earlier notion. I feared to have any friends here primarily because of severe ragging during the first year. Later I realized the social fabric here is torn unlike in Orissa. Caste and religion undertones dictated relationships to great extent. I was not to accept this. My best friends here were all Keralite Christian guys and girls. I just loved their temperament. Joshua, Edwin, Jincy, Sommy, Parthiva and many more names. All 44 in my batch were like great people. Being in the Christmas chorus, evangelicals...I liked every moment with them.
Bidhos Paul from Koraput, - a district whose per capita income is as low as Ethiopia -is another man who had been a great friend and philosopher in my life. Bidhos today works in rural development projects in interior tribal districts bordering Orissa and Andhra Pradesh.
Javed Jan from Kasmir and Junwa from Burma were two more.
After Allahabad came Banaras Hindu University. Here I had encountered brilliant people but simpletons. Here I like the Univeristy and its lirary the most. The Yoga classes, the evenings on the banks of Ganges. The city itself was my best friend this time. It changed me internally for sure. I nearly discovered my soul here. Friends who made my days here were Amit Kanaujia and Tripurai Sharma..both have been very influential. Whole dairy technology batch, laboratory, library and hostel staff, my Yoga guru. Islam barber, Bihariji chaiwale. Dr Prabha Singh, the law professor, Swetlana, the russian tourist were a part of my life here.

Lily Boy ...

I finally made my splash it into water... and Dad is a proud person. The ace swimmer of his village, who nearly made it to the state level events had always this in his mind that I can't swim.
Today, in his late 50's he can swim effortlessly for hours in the broadest and wildest of rivers in Orissa, the eastern Indian state where both of us were born.

In childhood days his swimming pool was the algae infested green village Pond. He understood the pulse of water, snakes, frogs, and all his companions in swimming at a very early age. People say, how once he developed the fancy to beat the water snakes in free style swimming on their own turf.
It went like this his friends would hit the water snakes resting at the coast of the pond and then Dad will make his splash this would ensue at least a 50 meter race side-by-side withe snakes. Which he would win constantly. In his boyhood he had another heroic distinction to his kitty...Protecting the village lilies :)

In coastal villages of Orissa, only some well managed less utilised ponds play host to lillies. They could be pink, blue or white in colour and blossom in all seasons except summer.

In this case the village boys had a gang war like situation:)....the gang war like situation evolved after boys from the other village started stealing pink water lilies from the pond in which Dad and his friends were swimming.

The lilies were so important...why?... because unmarried village girls would adorn them during the 'Rojo' festival, a way of welcoming rain God, crucial for sustainable food production and the rural economy.

So in village parlance in those days lilies were almost like diamonds. Stakes were high for those lilies about 500 in number all blossoming to the fullest...the festival is tomorrow...
It was a half moon night when five boys decided to stay awake to protect the pond from the attack of the foreign boys :)
They had rice flakes and jaggery with them for food and by 9 'O clock in the night the boys swam midway through the river and took positions on the small island like structure inside the river. It was drizzling Dad and others had to wait for about 7 hours before the enemies strike. It was 4 a.m, early in the morning but with rain and clouds the vision was not clear. Shankarda, Dad's friend could see some underwater movement and informed his gang.
Dad took the lead and along with his four friends staged an underwater fight with the enemies, who were double in number.
Most in Dad's team lost the fight and pleaded for a safe passage to the pond coast and allowed the boys from the other village to take the lilies. But Dad was not to oblige. But didn't have much choice to make. He chose a dangerous one....:)) to stay and fight till he can... the result was not easy... biggest boy the other village got him by his neck and pushed him underwater......after some resistance Dad overpowered him and the rest was recorded in his villages history. With the chief inside water his sub-ordinates panicked. By that time villagers came to understand about the underwater fight. All of them were caught and at the age of 9, Dad was a saviour for the villages lilies and maidens too:)...
Since then he's called the Lily boy in his village.
Note: The biog boy whom, Dad got into underwater later helped Dad in his studies and remained his mentor forever...Happy ending........

It took me two days to write the blog and the update is that I can swim even better .....

Working on a rainy day

Working on a rainy day is not new to me, but it was new to discover, what happens to those who lose their food and home, when rains arrive.
Mumbai's rains are unique, they are as disciplined as its people, they pour and pour atleast more than any of the four other metropolitan cities India has. Yet, more people turn up at work in Mumbai, than in other places, on a similar rainy day. Reason, rains come at all the unwanted times in those cities. In Mumbai, it always hits its highs only after an average worker reaches office. It is also synchronized with the exodus time of the commuter for home in the evening. Rains stop, during the peak commuting hours, as if they are offering guard of honour to the spirit of Mumbai.
Interestingly it lashes on Saturdays and Sundays,when most of the workforce is back at cozy, homely atmosphere, thereby not comprising on its duty of water distribution to this part of the world. Well my analysis is based on my two years of stay in the city and sans the horrible rainy July in 2005, when the city was in rocks, as it experienced highest preipitation in its recorded history.
Now, I think my idea of Mumbai is too limited. I'm talking about the white collar workforce, what happens to those who have to work everyday for their food.
Last week, Rags...(heart of gold as I call him) helped me to have a sneak preview to the that world. I was not exactly convinced to curtail my leisurely Sunday plans for knowing the constraints of of people in Bharat (as we all deprived India). But then it was heart of gold (HOG), who had asked. I couldn't refuse.

It was raining since the morning, we took a train from Belapur, which stopped after 30 mins, or after covering about 25 percent of our destination path. Then we walked, took a bus, again walked and finally reached near the opulent Hirnandani township near Powai. HOG took me to Mrs Thanawalla, living in one of the swankiest Hiranandani villas. I was surprised to see a Humvee, the giant utility vehicle, most prefered by the American military , in front of her house. Well that was not anyway related to our move. Mrs Thanawalla gave us six bags of biscuits and bread and a bucket full of milk. I knew HOG, can mould people to help his cause. But I was got more interested in knowing how he got to this lady, and what's the story behind the hummer (you can't run it on Mumbai roads then what was it doing there). Anyways the time was not conducive for me to ask such questions then. So I had keep the questions with myself.

We left in a hurry from her house and entered into the nearby slum, which was like a dilapidated valley surrounded by exceptionally tall, brilliantly designed plush skyscrapers. But the look of the slum was equally dreary, dingy and broken if we talk of a comparison with the buildings. Suddenly some twenty kids ran toward us. "Raghuda".."raghuda" alare (meaning here comes Raghuda)...offcourse they were referring to my friend, HOG.

HOG asked me to help him in distributing the food stuff. We had a nice time chatting with the kids while getting drenched in rain. HOG knew everyone by name and had a personal chat about health, school and food. After about two hours we were to leave when HOG asked for 'what would they require next Sunday'. Milk and Parle-G they all said. HOG immediately informed Mrs Thanawalla about next weeks menu over phone.

Now it was time to go back home. HOG seemed to be happy after serving the kids. I too was feeling more confident about myself after talking to the kids. I was pursuing HOG to come to my place, but he had to live for Latur for delivering another menu in some village. I said goodluck. As I reached Kanjurmarg station to get back to Kurla, found all trains of the track due to heavy rains. Spent some four hours in the station before services resumed. Was sipping coffee and thinking about working on a rainy day with the kids and HOG. But, yes intermittently, the surprise of Humvee was entering into my mind.

Power theft happens because power can't be given, it has to be taken

Today I went to see the first Hindi movie in a theater after some months..umm.. almost six..yes exactly six months. Most of these months I avoided my friends' idea of watching some run-of-the-mill hindi stuff after I suffered the torture of Jhoom Bara Bar on their advice. Besides Abhineet, the movie enthusiast in our gang is married now and has more interesting things to do than forcing us to Meghraj. Well Mehraj is the oldest of Vashi cinema theaters and even today we prefer it the most. Firstly because the tickets here are at least 40 percent less expensive than the rest of the theater brigade, including Adlabs, Cinemax and all..secondly you have 50 percent more chance of getting tickets here than the other swanky places.

Now back to the cinema today. Mr Roy, aka the-news-smuggler, who knows more about this world than most of we friends do, proposed watching Sarkar Raj, the new offering from Ram Gopal Verma (the Francis Ford Coppola of Indian cinema).

We didn't agree initially for the movie as we were strolling on the Palm Beach road and enjoying the breeze from the Thane creek, while counting the newly erected scrappers on the New Bombay skyline . But after sometime we four men were thoroughly bored with each other and proceeded to Meghgraj.

The movie initially was about style of Abhishek Bachhan, the most happening of the children of the yesteryears' super star actors, and his wife Aiswarya Rai, to whom he's married for an year now.

I identify with this guy because I can grow my beard and mustaches like him. But I envy him when I think he had his first hit film, after 21 flops. And today he's the rising star. Not everyone is as lucky. The media which blasted him for years, now adulates him, every other day. Well thats a part of the game, and it also enforces the believe that if you have it, (I mean perseverance) people will have to accept.

But the samething didn't happen in the film, where the Bachhan kid is killed ruthlessly, despite having nearly absolute power. He's the son of a political God father (a very Indian coinage I think of, where politics is powered by someone who's neither a politician nor a businessman, not even a don). And the film had tried to draw some parallels from the failure of Enron, the American utility giant, and its Dabhol power project in India. Verma portrays, how the idea of a massive power project was the breeding ground for political turmoil in the western state of Maharashtra. The director, however, refused any such connection in his reply to the media.

Now the film was not bad to me at all. It could be called a good movie as per my movie quotient. I learnt three things from this two-and-a-half hours show. First, power cannot be given it has to be taken. Second profit is something which is for all. Third, you should live by your principles or at least tell others what you think...because you may not be successful in your own mission, but some one more capable may realise your dreams.

And one fourth idea I have discovered about five hours after the movie ended. Before deciding on your mission in life take a break ask others suggestions as well gauge their reactions. Because your grand mission in life will only click , when it achieves scale. People may laugh at you pre-mission but then you know what they are laughing at.

You will be smarter the next time when the real thing begins.

Hill school memories

This is a Sunday evening... all friends who flocked my house since morning have left. We had a nice time playing cards over wine and cheese. We discussed about all the beautiful days we spent in the hill school, where we did journalism. Though from different batches we all graduated from the same school.
All boys and girls discussed about their long lost relationships and how the limited period of nine months didn't allow them to build a permanent one. We tried to figure out about our buddies who have found space on television and those who's bylines appear on newspapers.
Now I'm back in my bedroom-cum-study going back to those days through the few pictures I have managed to save. I'm getting nostalgic, can't help it. But anyways will have to sleep now ...tomorrow is a Monday.. so its better I sleep now...

In and out in three months: feeling bad

I'm not lost forever. And if you think I am, you must be tracking me really close... nearly lost in me. Those were my helpless explanations to MS. She's getting married this month end and wanted to know.. was never really interested in her.
She had many admirers, she was like a queen.....It was not that I wouldn't have been interested in her. She turned my head every time she walked by me. But for some strange reason I thought I'll pretend as if I'm lost in my work, or analysing the toughest thing in the world, with no space in my eyes for a beautiful woman, just to avoid her.
It worked for me ....MS would wait till late and one day asked where do I stay. I laughed as we both knew we stay next to eahothers' place, and travel in the same train.
But as a gentleman I did talk all the formal stuff...then she was exited .."oh thats great we will take the same train...the 8.20 (p.m) one from VT. Now I won't be bored for an hour." I too was equally happy such a beautiful woman for company in the train drudgery.
My life had changed... Mumbai's trains and madness was beneficial, as it allowed us to indulge more on ourselves.
It all began in October, just before the Mumbai's inconspicuous winters and we moved together for three-months. A trip to the tiger trail in Kanha, one to Bhuj and weekends at my place. Occasional night roaming in South Mumbai.
Mid-January ...one day she called me tell that someone's to come to see her. Her parents are coming to Mumbai from Indore. I knew she's to get married. I said congrats. She cried. I said we were clear from the beginning that we are not to be here for ever for each other.
She said that's fine "I know that,..but just thought that you will feel bad and will dare to say so," she cried again.
We still went to Matheran (a small hill station nearby) on a weekend trip poured ours hearts on eachother. Tried to say that, "we are mature human beings," and "we will always remain good friends."
This was the time for me get lost in myself again and her to enter into her new relationship. No body was to blame, but we both were sad...feeling bad. But friends now poke at us and say..in and out in three months...

New Mumbai

People warned me .....I didn't listen to....I moved to Vashi, staying away from the Mumbai that glitters. It's called the sleepy-line by western and central liners. Oh now what am I talking on 'lines'. It's a language only Mumbaikars can understand.
Let me explain to others.... Mumbai's life, love, money, entrepreneurship and even temperament is defined by train lines. Well before that let me clarify one thing, those people who are the ultra rich, politicians -basically people who don't travel by train- live in a place called south Mumbai, which is next to the Gateway of India, Nariman Point, Bombay Stock Exchange and Reserve Bank of India.

Now after south Mumbai, it's the western Mumbaikars, who, live and talk about the famous Bandra and Juhu (where Amiabh Bachhan lives),.... here glamor and money thrives. Central line is rooted to the ground, belongs to culturally stable hardworking people, the soldiers on whom Mumbai thrives. Then comes the harbor line, where I live and lives the dreams of a new Mumbai. New people, who came to Mumbai only after Manmohan Singh liberalized India's economy.

Just more than a decade ago even this line was limited to Chembur, where Bollywood actor and director Raj Kapoor set his studio years ago finding the Thane creek and salt pans nearby as suiting locales for his movies ....The line then moved over the small creek of sea to bring people like me to this new city.

This city has sea, hills, space and dreams of people who belong to a different Mumbai. People who are ready with their ideas to rock the world. Watchout.....