Back from Recluse

Ten days and you call it a sabbatical … err! OK, I rephrase, it only a break. And, I wasn’t hitting the roads. Sulking like wounded lion(ess) after slipping to a trap that left deep scar onto me. I am in process to repurcate but healing is a ‘strange’ word. Rather, I will never out of it, ever.

November Rain

November…Uh…November again!
The leafless bird-less coming of season like an old man’s fancy likely turns to thoughts of indecent assault. It was November, when cherry faces went for fishin’, rode canoes, swim at lake and merry picnicking uh, [pause]. Then, one November came when a flock o`ducks came in and landed on the land as temperature dipped so low that the lake froze and so does the ducks!

November 15th and all I ever wanna know they brought him dead.
My father died. One minute he was fine, the next, on his back, dead. My momma said “…this thing stinks. Can't you go home and get him a bowl?” So, I buried him in the backyard and since then I tried to remember his face, but it always slipped away from me. Why is that I wonder? Today, its November again…another father died (my friends father expired today).

'Oh my, it's fruitcake weather!' With corpses, lying inside the open caskets and the ghost had taken a dump in my shoe. Happy Halloween!

Unknown

जब श्रीष्टि की सारि कायनात बुनी तुमने

में कहाँ था, तुम कहाँ थे
जब, जिस्म से रूह तक थी सिर्फ तुम्हारी ही बातें

खुदा जाने!
में कहाँ था, तुम कहाँ थे

बारीश की इक बूंद जब ज़मीं को चूम रही थी,
बताओ --

में कहाँ था, तुम कहाँ थे

Born Loser

What makes me write is unknown but having recorded the events, chronicled bits of dream does relieve me a lot. Admit, I am not a good writer (correction: not even a writer) still I writes and sometimes I write reams.

Most of these writings are reflection of what I see, what I do, and dreams or people I have cherished. Nothing serious still I crave for more concrete and meaningful matters to write which I fail. Is that how you grow as a writer? One experiment with nothingness until the words form meaning and bear the fruits of genius.

Isn’t I pacifying myself with weird imagination? L—O—S—E—R.

Dreams (A Poem)

sapane बुनते देखा हैं मैंने
नीले, पीले, लाल, हरे

धागों में पिरोये...कच्चे धागे
टूटते, उल्जाते, सिरों से जुड़ते
उंगलियों से फिसलती
सिरों पे अटकती
सपनों कि माला बनाते देखा हैं मैंने

सोचा-
कि आंखों में सुरमा लगा लूं
अपनो कि एक माला गले में सजा लूं
नीले, पीले, लाल, हरे
हंसते सपने...
अधूरी, रुलाती, धुप में अकेली बारिश के सपने
तुम्हारे सपने
मेरे सपने...

सपने बुनते देखा हैं मैंने

When I born?

The story of my birth is indeed more interesting than me. For a change, on a lazy winter morning when the sun is yet to sit by the porch ready for a day-long tan; sleepy hawker preparing to brave the daily-bargain-trauma I was suddenly called for. Surprisingly, the nurse quit her job no sooner did I born and gone for hiding. In fact, the only living witness ever crawled under the sun who could claim to have seen my mother crying much before the baby [Oh-no honey! She wasn’t complaining of labor pain rather she could drop things at ease, anywhere] never heard of again.

Therefore,…when I am born, I am born and there’s no greatness attached to it (except my mother who bribed the pediatrician for an abortion that failed miserable) and she carried her swollen part gracefully for 9-months. Blame it on the father who tried hard but forgotten to keep his Y-chromosomes on check and passed them on one carnal night to my mother’s womb. My parents never shared a cordial glance ever since after that winter. Holy cow!

So, the greatness of Great! The ever whimpering, wailing, and complaining ME, with my butts safely hold by a gentleman *doctor*, was dumbstruck listening to a wailing mother and runaway nurse (hold on, I was only few minutes born). I couldn’t cry until my mother has finished hers and when I did, I stuttered. Doctors prescribed it as simple hiccups until it full blown and one Mr. Webster has diagnosed it cleverly and call “speech impediment.”

What impediment? Hey, come on! I’m not on hearing aids…just I can’t say *please* with a single ‘p’ or a single ‘e’. Vowels or consonants—I need an extra supporting pad unanimously. Eew! Otherwise, I am born fully decent, a nutty jerk left to wonder rather wander. It’s only my mother who gets me female accessories on my birthdays, and wishes, I may turn to a petite beauty with pigtails. I wonder.

Growing Up

Growing up was a hectic because I couldn’t grow more than 167 centimeters. There’s a minus point, as I’m the recognizable One in a group who stands tall with puberty on face and has kicked the ball hard or teased a local beauty. After a while, boys dumped me and girls never accepted my tender frame as something manly. Nonchalantly, I decided to grow up all by myself.

Expertise in mimicking (I must add that to my resume) I devised 1000 different ways to ogle, stare, ape, and mimicry. I’m so good at these arts that I turn to cynic. Well, I must correct myself—I’m too perfectionist to the degree that I could teach my pet dog the best way to wag a tail. (It’s another story that I never had a pet. My mother can’t afford to manage two at a time). Closed doors, mushy cushions, a pair of scissors, my sister’s secret scrapbook, and adult covers hidden under pile of stocky files in father’s chestnut drawer are the only witnesses of how many games I cultivate. (Sigh! They don’t speak but goodness gracious, what if they do…)

I told ya’ growing up was a pain.

Writing My Obituary

I asked for an Obituary and one was written. The blogger take pain to flower the speeches that could be anything ‘sweet’ but not me. I read it once and knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. So, I decide to write for myself. My own obituary…









<don’t you know dead can’t speak>

Stepping into the Sunshine

Now I know what a bird feels like.
Watching the red ‘orb’ putting sparkling yellow paint and then a beam of silvery sunshine hit you cutting a swath of glimmering gleam…'tis grown a bulge in it and zillions gold dust’ from a cold red dot.

An absolutely fascinating experience watching the Sunlight changed to candle light to torchlight then Neon and Incandescent. Light that banishes the darkness from caves, illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. I spread my wings against the breeze facing the sunlight fall directly onto me. I find comfort in shadows but now basked in sunlight my inside melts turning 'em into crispy critters.

Tell me, why vampires hate sunlight?

The Morning Post

To Whomsoever It Directed, the morning news book brings the best of sarcasms within me. This is one of them and hopefully the best.

“Bihar may have taken a step forward by empowering women in the village panchayats but rural men continue to treat women as commodities here.” – Wishfully, Indians should issue a legal notice to Ved Vyas for having written the epic saga of Mahabharata. Call the Litigation Bureau.

''Let Gujarat be a training ground for him and let him use all his skills to convince the people of Gujarat about his politics,'' Modi challenged the young leader Rahul Gandhi. – Wishfully, Indian males should stop wearing loincloths and lewdly tease each other on a public. Call the legislation for Article 377.

''Publicity is the soul of fairness. Where there is no publicity, there is no justice''. - Wishfully, Indian legislation should hire a publicity manager and get a production house. Do the ‘queen of Indian television’ hogging for more limelight and TRP?

''Autonomous correction of social customs hampering progress,’’ Vice-President Mohammad Hamid Ansari expressed over the low literacy level among Muslims. - Wishfully, Vice Presidents in India have more power to speech and clear expression than just mumbling random thoughts. Call for Special Zero Hour in Executive Assembly.

“India-China ties important for peace,” the External Affairs minister said. – Wishfully, Indians read more of history. Last time, the then Prime Minister said the same; the country lose borderline. India entered into a War. Call for Outsourcing Partnership Secret Deal.

''We have seen the entire scene and we did not find the policemen guilty from any angle,'' said Ram Kishore Singh, Member of Bihar Human Rights Committee. The comment was passed after a telecasted show where a thief is shown to be dragged along Bhagalpur's roads last August, after he was beaten by a mob. – Wishfully, Indians should stopped associating Human Rights Committee to states like Bihar and Gujarat.

Choto Golpo

Bhije ekla raat-ey barande-r kone budo miya saheb ka`nppa ka`npa haathey sarangi te dilo kathi. Ghumkature tar gulo te diyechen taan. Bodo Kl`anto behag sur. Aro kichu kkhun…

Timtim-ey tara-ra ar shesh prohorer chand, megher chador gaye diyeche. Ghum eshe dnaralo kha`nchar pashe. Posha moiyna danar majhe mukh lukhiye dol khete khate ghumocche ekhun; modna’r maa pash phire shulo tar-ri niche. Jhaad –ey bondi gola-gola mombatti’r aloy te shirshire-ey hawa, tader chokher pataye chotphotani. Alto hatey ’Rezwana’ eshe nibiye jabe jhadbati-ta. Andhar jombe ghono daalan-er buke. Barandatey thambe sharongi, kathi hathey dhole porbe bido miya shaebe… aro kichu kkhun pore.

Shei ekla ondhokare notun kore tkhun shagben Munni bai. Lal alta pora paye boshbe ghunghur. Shej-ey jalabe notun mom; surma anka chok duto mele ek khili notun paan diye notun kore rangabe kochi thont. Alto haath ka`ner pashe chaap diye bodo sureli alaap neben tini. Chok rakhben dorojaye. Ar kichu kkhun pore…shei gaan jeno harabe tar golaye, surma anka ankhi duto cholke utbe ektu, shej-er alo ta komiye diye nambe megher ghomta—bristhi jeno gola`r majhe aatke aache.

“Bodo deri holo, didi”, pas theke Rezwana bole othey.
“Hayn bodo deri holo…d`naara na auro kichu kkhun”, aashahin golaye aashash dei Munni.

Hayn! Emni koto raat shudu kichunk`khun—aashaye!

My Mother Feminist

I do not belong to any political party, sir. I guess you could call me... a feminist. Well, not those avenging feminist with a black belt in auto repairing or a vegan punk. I draw my definition from the sixty-year old girl, who works hard, sweat hard, and loves hard. She does my dishes, wash my clothes, and rule the house with no baseball cap.

And, when the starry night spreads, she sits on a hammock combs the hair neatly, apply lipstick thirty times a day. Not because she have to, but because of a mutual, unspoken agreement. She’s still too much of a lady like… when hundreds of women burned their bras.

Last minute change…

Begin a bright new day and let's not mince words. I, uh, suggest we all take a few minutes to compose ourselves and, uh, get on with the proceeding. Copies of schedule with printed dates listed under rows of red, green, and yellow column circulated amidst several head nodding. You pause for a coffee break, deadlines spill over the coffee mug; and each other stick their bayonets into space. We’ve work to do… [ah, pathetic] but flaunting busy.

A VCT[1] and Workbook[2] …great mind is on work. Day-in, day-out. I'm a totally ongoing Bigfoot, slam-dunk Learning Analyst with a pro-active outreach, a raging workaholic, a working rage-a-holic, out of rehab; nattily stroking the keyboard to get a great design. Charged up? Honestly, it mere bombastic. All you have to do is to be fully charged, sonic-specific bionic being commits tactile energy transference – I mean ‘act’. Nah! You don’t have to read the guidebook or throw yourself in - eat the food, use the wrong verbs, get charged double, and end up kissing complete strangers. Or, you’ve to ME.

We’re at PC World, right? And, I am talented.

Day two begin with bright sunlight and Pains-in-the-butt. Walk stodgily to the coffee machine smelling coffee beans and trying to be awakened. Still charged up? Oh, I need to press the button — the blinking LED — and all set to log. Ah! I’ve work. [Now, stop posing]

“We apologize for the last minute change and would like to discontinue the work. The client is changing the scope on this project”, Duh! What’s that? You blink, [blink again…once more please]. Eyes widened, jaw dropped. Lost? The project and so does you. Welcome honey, to the modern world of corporate crack jack!!!

There’s always a ‘last minute change’, in fact, almost to everything you do. Godsend! Last minute change… (Grrr) “Fierce, savage, bloodthirsty, merciless…think more!” You shouldn’t be surprised, but you’re, a little [no] a lot. You want to look like a legitimate visitor until the very last minute. Now, you’re legit, confused, and maybe … [blank]. Right now, this is myjob. If I advance any higher, this would be my career. And if this were my career, I'd have to throw myself in front of a train.

[1] Virtual Classroom Tutorial: Couple of craftily presented PowerPoint slides and Leader lines. Nice chopped and garnished.
[2] Instructor Booklet: Stripes of specifics written warily and the instructor has to mug them all before heading to session or catch a secret eye and get cue. A great prompting machine that you need to read onstage. Duh!

Mental Makeup

With festive fun dried down and now back to my 'basics' ogling the blue-chrome window screen and dysfunctional server — the mind seeks for makeover. Arrogance subdued and enthusiasm hitting the lowest bed, I felt as deadbeat. There's an ennui left around and I am lost, midway. Oh! Depressed? Nah…

I'm disgruntled. Disappointed. Hopeless.

To be honest, I am scared. I’m scared to lose and now the feeling deepening within me. Losing? Huh! Lose what? Ain’t you know I am soft and possessive and I am scared of losing closeness, lose the touch—always, forever. Lol! Scared of losing that never owned…[Sigh!]

I do.

I like to run. I want to hide in some desolated land and live with nothingness. Nothing to pin for or to be faithful I would rather live as *nothing* and pass silently. I am scared to lose. (Again, again) Boy, lemma correct you, “you are *NOTHING*” and with nothingness encompassed…

Oh, my faith dwindles. I don’t wanna lose thee.

Nostagic Ramlila and Childhood Days

We grew up looking forward to the autumn when weather became cold and comfortably having wrapped our self in light blankets munching dried fruits and watching Ramlila—local theatre, late night. Reminiscences branches out, like whitish soft grass and well-ripened rows of paddy that grows curvy under the weight of cobs, and catch the gleeful childhood on street. A bunch of colorful embroidered tunics with exaggerated dots of crystal mirror practicing ‘dandiya’ – the stick dance, down the lanes; chirpy sunshine. Hmm…

It reminds me of ‘Ramlila’. Come autumn! By-lanes richly decorated with fluorescent gas pipes on sundown, huge tableaus hit the streets, screeching loud speakers playing the latest songs from Bollywood flicks. Sell of roasted corncobs soar so does lithe bow and broke in every mock fights.

Evenings spent rehearsing “Ram Chandra ki jai’ (the only dialogue we had) and re-enacting the last night episode; sneak at dressing room watching the burly ‘Ravana’ adding extra streak to the mushy brows while ‘Sita’ (a man) coiled-in chair smoking paper roll bidis while the dressmaker tweak her rubber balls stuffed to grow a feminine form. A group of ‘us’ sit cross legged in the foreground applying rich array of face paints (red, blue, green) while soft and loud murmur of audience gurgling on the background go sky-high.

When the curtains rises to hundreds or so spectators to be dazzled by the story they know by heart but still wish to see in Technicolor; memories get afresh of chaos which are key attraction than Ramayana. The gymnast Lakshman famed for his back arch, thumping Ravana with wobbling belly button, and lewd Vibishana overtly swinging his pelvis, and (oh) “flying Hanuman” who was a great disappointment yet star attraction for his somersaults.

A silky smile kissed the corners of my lips – warm, sunny yet honeyed. Alas! Time has changed so does the end of surrealism. Last year, watching the huge effigies of Ravana and his compatriots set to fire I realized the numbers of crackers are less. It doesn’t sound like the childhood days. Hordes of advertisers teamed as sponsors and no more ‘puppy-punju Lalla ji’ showering hundred-rupee note to the juggling breast of Sita. Now, Sita has real breast (and Rama don’t dare to tweak them to put in the overtly tight blouses. I remember the older times and sulk…

Children on street still rehearsing their steps and older folks tanning under the autumn sun look remote. No more lithe bows; its ‘a new time’ and new game. Innocence left me stranded.

Privacy…Eh!

Couple of days back, news of hospitalization of yesteryear legendary Bengali cinestar hit the headlines and paparazzi. Famed for her romantic pairing with the Bengali demi Greek god and then years of seclusion; the ageing beauty turn to most sought after figurine to paparazzi. Oh! Did anyone heard of ‘privacy’.

Eh, too strong a word to guard oneself yet so fragile, like a virgin on the countryside, hard to nail but bleeds when undone. Have you lost it? Oh, I must say it’s the most underrated word used to myself. I never enjoyed one until date. I claim, I scream, I desire, and rest left to bleed.

Nevertheless, F*** off; you ask me questions and I say “F*** off!” Read my blog, pull another scrap, ask me another question and “F*** off!” I won’t reply. I won’t be explaining, I won’t say you a word or spill the secret beans. Try hard. Try hard, dahling.

Wonder how hard it is to remain ‘private’ but ain’t we all have privates. Why, then get to know me? I need my ‘privacy’ and I ain’t the Virgin Mary to lose ‘that’ to a damn shepherd giving birth to a hellu’va chaos. I don’t need the stars to tell me the birth of Messiah who would one day stripped to the cross and Gospels telling his story. Let the Merry Old Wives spin another tale and sulk inside their grave.

I live happily in my private apartment; privacy unperturbed.

Again! The Glassed Cubicle

Rescued from Nazis concentration camp where a group of people locked in and asphyxiated by carbon monoxide, I was sent to corporate glass chamber with a ‘dumb’ and ‘the dumber’. Last time, it was a bimbo and now a ‘harebrained’. I’d have stayed in the camp *happily ever after* and uncomplaining. Aarrgh!

Life sucks!
No, it ain’t a slow death. In fact, you’re not dead. Never! The neurons crawl inside million tiny chambers of your brain and realization get frustrated sitting with a lousy phone that spe—a—ks and poker faces around. In fact, what you earnestly crave is a ‘houseful of porn’.

What you pervert? Whoa! Sit with a loony for the next 15-minutes inside a glass chamber and you know how refreshing it is. Talk of blonde some MEN are blonde too. Open the phone diary and ‘tip-tap-tuc’t’ 10-digits pressed forth. The recorded instructions guide us to another chamber with fresh smell of FALL and nobody. The phone didn’t speak but ringed uninterrupted. Nobody to speak! Ah…what a relief. Oops! Did I say ‘relief’?

Somebody has all the ears. A half-buttoned Project Manager with swinging posterior and then the ‘jerk’ with gay-ish gait. Fifteen minutes, oh Gawd! Well…some people have that “I know it all (snigger)” look. Nev’r minds it’s only nothing but ‘look’. Hold on! He plopped, jump, hop, and talk. For a change, I earnestly wished the jaded telephone to do the work (I mean talking) but wishes die faster than they hit mind. But this moron!

Scribbling suggestions under ‘feedback’ notes (didn’t I say some has the *look*…brains, what’s that?). The swinging bloke has dropped a cue. F***! Next time he did it I’m gonna kill the man. He stopped writing and began to preach, Heaven! Administration. Systems. Network. Client Relations. Project Management. “Pencil dropped so does my jaw (oooh…it aches now) does Instructional Design ring a bell, you idiot?”

The phone didn’t speak. Inside the glass cubicle with stuffy conditioned cool ‘a nerd’, ‘a cheesy beefcake’ and an ‘idiot’…! Will Mr. Godot please appear?

Menstruation and Hol[y]ness

“Well…I’m having periods.” Oops! Is that how you wish to start a conversation?
Confronting the last Unmentionable taboo and you snigger “eew! Disgusting” I’ve never followed such a situation in my wilderness and thus, clueless. My mother had it. My sister did. I had never — I’m a MALE. We don’t recycle.

After initial hiccups it time for me to act with sane. I believe (men) are curious knowing about women’s period but don’t understand “menstruation’. When they do talk; they talk stupid: “I don’t trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn’t die” or “Thank god! My girlfriend got her period this time on-time. I was pretty worried then.” I don’t know neither was I looking for a perfect explanation. Soaked sanitary belts tucked behind the bathtub are all over mind. I’d catch a couple of them in the washroom but never been ‘curious’ - "it’s not a splatter of blood". I responded by leaving my mind a self note: "Well dude, everyone knows that. Precautions?”

Yea! We need precautions. Precautions for many reasons and more coz’ I will entourage to Holy places with [Un] Holy-ness. Doublespeak. What? Me? Are women sub humans then? Dunno! But I’ve noticed women are abstained from rituals making it obvious beyond doubt, to everyone present that she is menstruating making it obvious beyond doubt; and “Foul” “fetid” “squalid” – yes that’s how the sanctity of a woman addressed. Either ways, whether it is kept under wraps or put on the spot, imagine how it must stab at a woman’s self-esteem - all through her growing years? When everything around her dishes out messages saying she has a filthy body, can she really feel good about herself?

I been sexual liberator although yet never confronted to question of sensualization (apart of question on my own orientation) – a sense of guilt and gnaws traveled with me. I won’t deny I was skeptical yet when reached Shirdi. Confusion evades. No indication or predicament maketh me fill remorseful or guilty of having escorted someone who’s menstruation.

I say, “Divine Intervention” rules. Thank holiness. Realization won’t have come to full sensibility unless I been on the womb of an [un] holy woman. She had did, my sister does. I had it now. I recycles thought she — the LIFE.

Stray Thoughts after Days

For some time I take a retirement from blogging (dunno). Well, I wasn't even going to go to the ceremony or to trek but... And I've been lying here remembering why I never take to stroking the keyboard. On contrary, I was lying low and struggling with mundane living. The week has been one of the times of life when complexities multiplied within me like microorganism. I’ve too much to express yet words are too less to speak the mind.

A menstruating week! Emotions flowed down and I'd be more in tune with the moon and the tides. In fact, I realized I’d have been put in one at birth.

Wish'd a Maple Leaf

I dreamed of leaves on fingertips
A bud that grew between my lips
My eyes were opened in my sleep
I saw unfold the maple leaf

Beneath my hand, I felt the heat
The tree had risen to its feet
And then I craved,
…bring me a maple leaf

When you are off from the land of the Czar bring me a maple leaf—dried and auburn!

Tell you a Story Afresh

Long time ago, there lived as prince king riding high on his own oedipal might and transformed to demigod by group of fanatics, takes 24,000 verses classified under seven cantos, to sing his glory and a single affidavit to negate the claim.

Re-telling the epic saga fashioned with my ubiquitous thought I largely view ‘Ramayana’ as a sexist and racist literature glorifying a nondescript king, as Victorian or Elizabethans court poet. Ramayana is a work of exultation that contributed to deification of its prince king ‘Ram’; nonetheless an insignificant and immature character.

Cash in to the recent controversy of Ram Setu which split this part of the world’s sub-continent into two factions I might conclude within few paragraphs over the perfunctory myths associated to the ‘bloody religiosity’. Isn’t that an irony? But, I must have reasons.

On contrary to its mythical aspect, RAMAYANA, if studied in historical per se is an epic saga that aims to reinstate and consolidate the supremacy of Aryan race in Indian land. As portrayed, the superior pure-blooded race who migrated to northern terrain of India now on a siege to Eastern and Western plateau, inhabited by large-bodied barbaric race with a ten-headed king, Ravana. This is a conscious attempt wherein the aboriginal natives are portrayed as vile, vicious, and immoral by their disposition compared to ‘Great Aryan’ tribe. Thus, by negating the mythical aspect and focus to the interpretative history of the great Indian epic, the literature consciously portrayed Dravidians in a lighter realm to establish the supremacy of Aryans using discriminatory overtone.

This isn’t a standalone feature, but an universal practice applied to all invaders’ literature who represent natives or aboriginal groups as too vicious compared to their own and Ramayana is not an exception.

Let’s not debate, if I claim, the epic saga sanctifies observance of chastity and sexual repression as a signature to womenfolk/feminity, thus conforming to the Aryan concept of ‘bad girl’ and ‘good girl’. The stereotyped woman with a meeker disposition and object of lure or sex is a concept initiated in Aryan literatures. In significance, prominent women characters belong to Aryan blood are fragile, dependent, and abused (drawing a commonality to the prevalent state of women in northern part of India).

Except few of the female characters, like Kaikeyi, her hunch maid, and Surpankha who were sexually receptors and have shamelessly used/flaunt it as the tool to meet objectives. Comparatively, the main female protagonist, ‘Sita’, (seen to be rebelling against prejudices on few minute events) remained as protected, self-guarding, meek, all-accepting, and dependent. Interestingly, women belonging to lower races or natives are independent, vocal, rebellious, and sexual. The portrayal of women is more consciously drafted to give back male dominion and categorize women as much lesser gender thus reducing them to a mere sexual object. Further, subjugation of womanhood would indirectly lead to character deformity and grow lack of confidence thus defunct their behavioral and psychological disposition. (This practice can be evident among modern Indian states and tribes, especially the Northern regions.) Most of the women are groomed to be perfect resemblance of Sita—chaste, dependent, meek, and loyal while girls who’re independent are categorized as sexually schematic and to punished.

When I was a child, my grandmother told me the story and made me bow to the deity of Ram (a common deity to every Indian household). Ages later, I discover a feeble, lethargic, and immature bloke being in distress and never a demigod but a mortal man with frailties. The story of Ram and Ramayana no more does allure or awakens the mind of unmindful unless its time to celebrate the chaos.

Man Proposes, He Disposes

It reminds me of “Joan Crawford” from the movie Humoresque. I watched multiple times and always want to be Helen Wright (you never know when dream comes true). Time seeped in and I became Helen Wright, today; deep shadows of disappointment to my self-destructive, lonely love-starved soul as I suffer from tragic realizations. I am the Chosen child to Destiny: he’s always at his ugliest best.

I've tried my best a thousand times to tell you it doesn’t matter. I've tried a thousand times to tell ‘how much I love’. You calculate, you weigh, you thought, you decide…I’ve seen you measure! “Measure the Love”. Dunno, something about me makes you want to be weak and find ways to be happy with anyone, but ME.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all

Wait a minute! To all the pain you’ve placed onto me, take it all back! I still survive.

Why, if we still breathe, does life end until the rocky moment of acceptance? How does love end? It takes some getting use to. Never mind! You never understand and will never…

Momma Told Me a Lie!

Years ago you told me a lie. A lie, every night and I bow faithfully with belief. It was some mythical prince who walked into epical Hindu saga as ‘Ram’ and made bridge to rescue his wife. A panel of Indian scientists concluded that the bridge was “a geological formation, which took place about 17 million years ago”.

That ‘Dude’ walked into (credited by his besotted followers) the history book like my corporate colleague who recently take the Microsoft pie after I’ve strained myself. What next Momma? Are they going to tell us that monkeys who wore clothes and fought with weapons and constructed bridges across seas never existed? Or that Ravana really didn’t have ten heads? Or that Sita was not really swallowed up by the earth? And most importantly there never was a talking bear named Jambavana?

The recent political drama over Ram Sethu (aka Adam’s Bridge) tethered Hindu beliefs into right and left wings and an affidavit. Neither does any stone left by Ram, nor does any bone of Ram, exist. So, they ask, how could Ram has exist? Well…King Solomon built a wall at Jerusalem; does his bone or stone exists?

Whether Ram is a myth or a reality does that change my faith? Am I so unguarded?

Any way, it is new experience for Ram himself. Poor guy! He constructed a masterpiece without an engineering degree and forgets to pay the bribe. Once exiled for fourteen years only to return and rule now convicted by Indian legislation. Who said ‘judiciary system is fragile’?

I Got an Identity

I’m young, witty, introvert but talented professional (keeping a heavy pay pocket) and single with no passport.

“You mean a Gay?” Well…!

That’s the initial impression and now wears it like a ‘label’. I don’t mind (in fact) I don’t care. The world around me is so homophobic that’s a tough question to answer. Gay, Queenie, Faggot, Chicken (hehe)

Does that make you know the real ME? How many times have you seen gay men go bowling and walk without swinging posture? "We live in a strange bubble." And, being a gay it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind. Ready to blow-out still sputters, wave, and survive steadily.

I am single, young, witty, talented professional with no passport…now; they call me ‘Gay’. That’s my identity I live with it. Ain’t that makes life worthy to live than being straight all through? We're told to go on live our lives as we want then why judge me?

My father asked if I am gay
I asked Does it matter?
He said No not really
I said Yes.
He said get out of my life
I guess it mattered.
My friend asked if I am gay
I said Does it matter?
He said No not really
I told him Yes.
He said Don't call me your friend
I guess it mattered.
My God asked me Do you love yourself?
I said Does it matter?
He said YES
I said How can I love myself? I am gay
He said That is the way I made you

Nothing will ever matter again

Reuniting to Friendship

Fourteen years is too long time to say “I want my family back. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I want to reunite to the band”. You know, when you started getting invited to your fourteen year lost high school reunion, time is catching up.

Battling long lounge hours before the six-hour delayed flight finally covered the hundred miles, scent of reminiscences flushed through the fluorine streets. I knew them…I’m on my way to the reunion.

Oh, just until the reunion. This seems to be your day for renewing old... acquaintances. It was memory full of good times as I was recalling the pretty yearbook pictures so everybody I could recognize in the crowd. (lol) Sweet nothing and taste of ol’ times that’s’ what you take back when leave the reunion today. (Huh) Take a good look again!

Well, we’d excuses and apologies. For a while, I thought the whole point of going to the reunion was to impress people. I mean, how am I gonna impress ANYBODY by selling ban-lon smocks at Bargain Mart? Or sound, just another corporate big shot planning world conquest! Welcome to the magical world of reality.

The ashen faces from the pretty yearbook pictures changed. You don't want to go to the school reunion because everyone is gonna remember you were a...My friends have changed. We all have changed.

No more maroon pullovers over the silver tunics I am now among housewives with kids from convents and corporate husbands, oh-so-convert Buddhist missionary practicing Chinese Zen, corporate cowboys out there ripping off millions of dollars, a womanizer, a drunkard, a self-inflicted Juliet, a grieved but true painter (though lost). The portrait is changing.

Well, not all are that moron but even a sneak peak to their private after we’ve grown up is worthy. These are like, uh, different colors on a painter's palette. We all are separated to be reunited by friendship again.

Solna...

“Will you write me a blog?” she said me once.

There's only one explanation – I dare to! How many could stand before the sunshine straight face and say “She could use a few driving lessons, but, uh, other than that, she's all right”.

I met the little brat from school picture book whom I hardly knew much, other than now. Grown from her blue tunics to a nice cheerful little neighborhood, brighter as “Sun”, a rogue river-child; freed of bolted and steel-barred restraints seeking tributaries. I admit and owe that this homecoming season wouldn’t be an eventful if *she* hadn’t been there.

Let’s admit she was the perfect muse (okay, now you can feed to your narcissism) but on serious note, SHE IS. Vivacious, engaging, affectionate but isn’t blonde (sic). Meeting Solna was a nice experience, in fact she leaves you with sweetness like Danish pastries from Wengers®. Chewy soft filler guarded with hard crusty outline sweaking non-stop like spongy globs of jelly. You gotta boil it, till the glue gets soft. They think 'cause she’s a woman she’s supposed to be "Miss Merry Sunshine". Well the hell with that!

Exaggerate? Over-estimate? Nah…Do you like her? Hmm…Oh! I forget, even after 14-years she still stings like a bee.

A strange bit of curiosity crept on me (in fact) I was more observant as I spent couple of days listening to her only to realize what lies beneath. "All sunshine makes a desert". Yea…!

At time I felt like standing on the banks of river—no gurgling streams but a fading stretch that lose its way to the desert. You think she a feminist (hmm…) I, on the contrary, find her a mellowed and lost. With grievous eyes and desolate loneliness, she dwells in herself.

Solna! The name suits her best.

It reminds me looking at the sun shining brightly and radiant but ‘there isn’t a single star to keep the companionship. The lonely Sun! Stripped away of life's denial it’s burning itself inside her I was close enough to feel her scars. I never felt I will be meeting the spirited tomboy from the school picture book changed to a spindly woman seeking tributaries.

A single sunrise she stored away in the soul.
And a brave heart! We call her CEAT

Picture Perfect!

“…But it only a picture” I calmed myself.
Don’t get mushy… (lol)… Still the question lingers on “Why”? In my earlier post I said, “Dunno…” Seriously, I dunno…! You ask me repeatedly and last night too. I don’t owe anybody an explanation; I never did but now want to. Hmm…I’m confused?

Shocked? Hmm…ain’t all minds think likewise. Well, don't we experiment? Press some buttons, see what happens. I like to experiment. I would sell my soul to Mephistopheles and settle with a caveman. Hmm… Ain’t the idea thrilling?

Nah! To tell ‘ya “its quicksand” and slowly you sank watching everyone die a slow, agonizing death. I mean first of all, it suck you right in, and even if you scream, you get all that muck in your mouth. I never tried to defend just walk on. With clowns and queens [referring to others] having a date with hook-ups I turned hostile playing “Find a cutlet; lock in early, grind with all night 'till…” always a piece from cutlery. I played the game.

I was ‘unsure…’ Yea, that’s the key. The right word indeed *I was unsure*.

Look around and there are housefuls of clowns. Just because he's got a bigger boat he thinks he can take up the whole river. I wish there was something…(something) worthy to laugh about.

Flip the pages from life and you’ll know I’ve changed to an uncooperative, insolent, flippant, combative, anti-social, excitable (think of all likeable adjectives) *moron* for I met more frickin' backstabbers. Bastards! They ripped me down to my *soul*.

“I was alone my heart was cold, it was a stone
My soul was lonely like a stone - there was no moss…
And when I danced
I danced alone because I *was* alone.”

Nah! They all are ‘always friends’ ‘always cousins’ (Do you know straight friends? I never liked clowns they only serve as guinea pigs to my unsure expeditions). Some did coz’ ‘what I am’ others ‘coz they had ‘me’ in closed chambers. The stench, the muck, the lies of ‘friendliness’ now irritates me, scares me. I don’t trust ‘friends’ and ‘love’ anyway. I am devil’s best child he bless me *ill-fate*.

I fled. Having pulled myself to a new line (rather I crash landed and now rebuilding it again) I spilled down everything. My life, my early success, (yea, I was famous professionally) my career, my preferences – everything and start branching out new. I am lucky doing it endways. I've got to start focusing on what I'm doing. Self-realization (lol) I was thinking of the immortal Socrates, yet I’m not ‘Him’. I can’t hide myself, I can’t always deny, disguise, or escape. I can’t be unsure anymore when I’m certain.

So, let’s face the harshness with equal cynicism and be a rebel. I pity my heart for I strangled and gagged it. Honestly, I am now a dead meat. But I still long I dunno ‘why’ but I do.

Does that pull you?

Partially ‘YES’!

To tell the truth I’m still too soft if you crack the crust. If you peel me I cry. You ain’t a clown (nor the other two’s) nor a friend. I ain’t scared of you neither do I *hate*. Picture Perfect! Twinkle eyes, mischievous smile, dimple cheeks “you a face, a chat box, coded bytes” mysterious. A picture, a chat box and I still I love thee. Yea! For once in lifetime I know ‘One’ who won’t betray. How could a picture betray? I am safe. You can’t *use* me…you…you…! Strange, ain’t it?

A faceless figure, whom I never meet, knows the deepest secret of my life. Truths that I won’t share with others told to a stranger. I, who has never agreed to throw an explanation, now willing to…I say I owe you ‘One’. I spend the best of my hours decoding the cryptic bytes, playing wit games, being guileless and Original. I could message you nonsense (hoping you’d read them all) while you close the window and I won’t know. The person on the other hand reply to me, listen to me, laugh with me, flushes, blushes, in fact, ‘You’re same as me”.

Crank! Oh, I’m a madcap and outrageously blunt. There dwells a lonely ache. I’ve caged myself for years now like to soar high. You, a reason – A joyous reason, did that hurts? I won’t deny I seriously am in ‘love’. You!

Joyous Heartbreak!

[This part of my blog is about ‘love’…yea! I can’t say a lie to my blog and now wish my blog be never discovered. But let me confess. Wish it might get me relieve of myself. I’m a writer. They say I play with words but honestly words haunt me. I am sick of words. And, today for once in my lifetime I am wordless…I lost my words…” This part of my life I call it “Deeper feelings for a Dr. I have heartache”]

Dear Love...
Dunno! But for some strange reasons I would remember the *SUNDAY*. A silent path full of clumsy green trees on the sidebar, brighter sun showing over the sky and stray dogs coiled. A quiet place I've found. A lonely place! Haunted by the broken cry of a solitary crow, the dry bones rattle of paled beech leaves and the shades of those who crowd close 'round, felt the warm touch when I’m heartbroken. The occasional bicycle bell and silence outspread otherwise it was surreal. I’ve haven’t had a lonesome Sunday like this for ages!

I lighted my last cigarette and watch the smoky ringlets fade in horizon. There’s writing on the wall you’ve quoted, “I desire for a known he knows me not. An unknown feeling I don’t cherish.” I remember…I remember again…I cried…I… An unknown feeling entertains me night long, did you realize?

Reason? Duh!
Reasons aren’t important now for I am love struck. It’s only the feelings of a ‘lost love’. I know I'm in love when I see you. I know I’m in love for I long to see you. Not a muscle has moved. Leaves hang unruffled by any breeze. The air is still. I have fallen in love without taking a step. Sometimes you land as a mall fish to your bait. You unhook him very carefully and place back in the water. You set him free so that somebody else can have the pleasure of catching him. Poor fishy! The little one had wounded him more deeply with an intoxicating love bites and return loveless.

Where to begin? I’ve lost my way. Look at my eyes; the breeze of pain, deepening loneliness I can’t stand over the aisle saying you ‘goodbye’; I would die. You’re beautiful. You’re mysterious. But, why are you so scared and apprehensive, so defensive and withdrawn? I know not. Several times this evening, I want to cry aloud; I returned empty-handed.

I shall never have another. I couldn't, now.

I keep worrying that by cutting you out completely, I'll be burning the bridge I so desperately believe will one day lead us back to each other. But, it’s a fanciful idea for I know the match will end in futility. Dear… Things have gone so far that it is quite impossible to restrain myself. I feel an awful fool. Will I ever come to that happy moment? A faint imagination filled me often if I’ve had a DAY with you and me. I would read you poetry in a moonlit night, walk by the countryside and thousand *kisses* to tell “the sickness the doctors cannot cure, the wounded...”.

Wish, if I had one perfect day...I know that isn't come true. I'd lose the very single moment we met. Deep down in the hearts of all of us there dwells a lonely ache, a desperate yearning for those we love, and a fear. A fear of becoming forgotten men (love) but one thing I must do perfect, I wouldn't say goodbye…ever, any day!

“I desire for a known he knows me not. An unknown feeling I don’t cherish.” I remember you’ve said. Now, a million pieces of heartbreaks I keep to myself.

Happy Birthday Mom

I am very tired and exhausted. I want to return back home and celebrate the sixtieth birthday cake. Shall I come back home, please.

I want to come back. I am choking, starving, living fake life, and lonely always. Would you think I am fail if I don’t have career like my friends or cousins? Would you love me less if I earn a meager sum and can’t afford to have another heavy pay packet like now? Would you mind if I stay all day long to you and have no busy schedule to follow?

Momma! I want to be back to you…Trust me…the heart is cold. Foods are bland. I sleep with loneliness. I need to be loved by you. I want to touch you. I want to count the number of grey streaks you added on your sixtieth birthday. I want to be with you today, always.

It's a Dog Life and I pay the Rent

My neighbor has a ‘dog’. Okay! With all due respect, she’s *a bitch*. (Grr…) Nah! Not the matron but the pet. It’s a bitch! It’s a bitch. (Grr…rr…)

Stop It, Bitch! You don’t pay rent? Know, how pain it’s to the A** when the first week of the next month is the next week. Bills start dropping like bird’s poo. You’ve it all across yourself. And for some weird reasons (dunno) the delivery man hand it to the lousy matron, next door.

I’ve bills for everything and all bills come to her, first. She delivers them to me with usual tingling knock. Ting-tong! Ting-tong! Ting-tong! F*** Man! I’ve bills to pay for the electricity, it don’t come for free. (One more time, she press the switch I’m goin screw her brain out.) Open the door and there she standing as a teapot with her two pooches looking at me and one sniffing the other. Like a spilling teapot at my door, “there she’s…” narrating a brief act like a fairy tale and waving the piece of paper over my nose, repeatedly. I serve as the doorpost pretend to listen and occasionally respond in mono-syllable or an incomplete sentence.

“Bill…”! Yea…I know, it’s always the bills. Bitch!

My mom faints if I don’t call and when I do she complain. So, my service provider charges me for having talked to mom and sent me a bill. Didn’t they have heart? I live a plush floor with two rooms and designer mattresses that need some lightning. Wonder…why doth the Dark Ages come to an end? I’ve a maid who makes me food… (Okay, she sit over the rack with a long rubber shaft fixed into her tight hole) and gets cold if the cylinder dry-out. For some humane reason, I buy her a lover every month and go frigid myself. I learn a secret from her, “Never go twosome”.

What? You think I exaggerate.

There are few more, the gateman who wear a rifle that fire only when filled with gun powder (Gee…!). He’s also too fragile and barely walks. He sits, dozes, and charges me for security. What…Security? The Flintstonian, a runaway pugilist from the Battle of 1857 or maybe Plassey need security for himself. [Ain’t I serving him bills to bore me day in-and-out?] Oh…! There’s a lift or to be politically correct, we’re having a ‘lift’. Philosophically, if you’ve something needn’t meant you’re entitled to use it. So, we’re having a lift that nobody could use because it remains halted or in a broken state. But, we have a liftman (how’z dat?) and we don’t use Him too. Still, you need to pay his bill because he wears a blue tunic (that has never been washed since the Dark Ages) and inform you to take the stairs as the “life is again broke down, today”.

“Next month, I will be broke and you take to roads, Is that okay?”

My insurer sends me bills to pay the premiums for my life needs insurance. I’ve a suggestion! Lemma, rest in my grave happily than paying for insurance! Yea…I also own a car and there’s yearly billing for that too. Gawd! First, I made payments to buy one and then my sister conquered and drive away. I still pay the premiums to keep her driving on road safely while the haggles with auto-drivers. Last month, she banged the car and bills are served me to again.

Ranting… (Ah!) My poor balance account refills on month only to empty by the first weekend. Ting-tong! Now, the bill comes not in paper but in a figurine. My handsome landlord standing at the door with pearly tooth-set; the pooches sneak from their doorstep and one bark mockingly. Bitches! He’s the bill himself! Six thousand grand, two cups tea, and rounds of shoot questions to field…I am on rent.

It’s dog life but dogs don’t pay rent. Why should I? I clean the floor, mop the windows, flush the toilet after use, throw dust in the bin…dogs don’t do any one them. And in describing a picture of the two dogs in my neighbor (man’s best friend), slacked on the rent; they eat Oakley goggles, chew the comfortable pair of designer high heels, bark at anyone. Last time, I catch one of them pee at the lift and the ever-free liftman cleaning the place. Why don’t they pay rent?

I wish, the first week of the next month to arrive few days early I won’t be paying the monthly rent. My entire life is in rent. I rented love, happiness, accommodation, services, living itself and served with bill any day.

Party @8

It’s been a month and more, when I live in web-forum with groupies of similar *choices* [read allegory]. Protocols don’t make me bore to death now; nights aren’t lonesome. Back home, dinner time pre-poned to switch on the fluorescent LED to catch Party @8pm.

Venue: Forum Lounge (somewhere over the web area)
Dress Code: Clothing optional. Wear your *wits* and *heart* only!
Attraction: Wild nights, Gets perky as the moon slide to the Western horizon.
Theme: The Bong Connection
Time: 8:00 p.m. onwards

A lonely heart set the table and there are *We*! The blues, the dreamer, the blissful delight, a wandering jewel geared to “blow-out”. Night long repartees, cups of breweries refilled, and cigarette stubs quashed on to the muddy cemetery with their posterior edged. A bond (not Mr. 007) soaked to our Bong bloodline brings us together, we’re similar specimen. (Ahem!)

Before I get to the floor, lemme’ introduce you to the party-hopper. ‘The Blues’ always dream, the Dreamer is Blissful, ‘The Blissful Delight’ is an amorous jewel, the Jewel find means to Blow-out. Then, you reach to me…I am blown-out. To get some more butts to the jive ‘the plump Rony’, ‘somebody too cute’, ‘the occasional Moderator’ and extras practicing rigmarole. Non-performers stopped by, ogle, drop-a-post while regulars sliding down airy love buzz and gettin’ frisker!

The clock strikes 11’. You’re served freshly baked note (err) message and like swarm of bees hooked to honeycomb *we* pounced. Hold on! There’s rule to the game…

Rule One: Pull your best stings brewed with scathing repartee and be snarky @best. With patrons start jibing, a newbie is allowed to perch to the gallery ranks calling out cue till all are dumb stricken. (LoL) We’re never dumbfounded.
Rule Two: The Queens and King’s squabble over [the] *Blissful Ace* who’s always act as the pawn. (Poor boy!) A stack of commoner can jester lewdly, winks at anyone excluding the *Ace* otherwise get themselves booted in their Niagara. The game overtly follows directive “Pick any of the cards from the stack” but can’t stamp on *Ace*. A Queen of Heart tagged him…so watch your game!
Rule Three: Let’s rock it! Put your throttle to chock-a-full, exchange winks, send love bytes unashamed. A group of bizarre celebrates qui a des goûts spéciaux and the ‘wandering jewel’ glacises your itch. The cactus loves hot, dry air. She’s the Dame.
Rule Four: When you like play it low, share couplets or trauma from the pages of personal Self. We don’t play sugar daddies but Agony Aunts, to each of us—we’re somewhere bonded.

Nights fly…! The cyber sensation turns to mute cacophony. Snarky remarks had half the room on the floor laughing and the other half ready to walk out. Overflowing heart melts to delightful ‘muchki hansi’; fingers dodge over the edgy type pad like fluttering pairs of winglets, naughtiness seeped into us down the bones and we’ll now getting’ fingees.

Night crawled till it’s the wee morning hour. Switch off the lights and there are lonely bodies throbbing with loneliness. A bunch of hoodlum cybies belonging to similar specimens crave for company and ‘love’ (does the word sound crude to you; it’s meant lot of each one of us). We’re loners and every night we gifted each one few joyous moments and then make adjustment to our personal lives worthily.

So what…? If we’re just photographs we found new meaning to ‘be friend’.

Statutory Note: Due to certain reasons, the names of the popular participants are allegorized. I would be happy to simplify them but…I won’t. The reason of not doing so…you don’t bother to know them but they’re NICE and they’re NOW a part of me. Thank you ALL.

Ek Nazm...

ख्वाब-नगर है आँखें खोलें देख रहा हू

उसको अपनी जानिब आते देख रहा हूँ

मंज़र मंज़र वीरानी ने जाल ताने हैं

गुलशन गुलशन बिखरे पत्ते देख रहा हूँ

किस की आहट कार्य कार्य फैल रही है

दीवारों के रंग बदलते देख रहा हूँ

दरवाज़े पर तेज़ हवाओं का पहरा है

घर के अन्दर चुप के साए देख रहा हूँ

Thinking Seriously

With the recent downturn for proverbial political issues to trigger Indian electorate; political parties now take refuge to communalism that has earlier spearheaded victories to many. India is now on the edge of a major socio-political crisis with controversial CD believed to be circulated by one of the nationalist party containing inflammatory campaign materials (in one of the election bound state) opened the Pandora box on whether India is a ‘victim to Hindu fundamentalist’s bullets’. Succumbing to ailing leadership, corrupt party members and hardliners, the saffron brigade of Indian parliament or resort back to its much acclaimed ‘communal color’ that voted it to power in 1999.

In a near contemporary order, the country with its diverse religions and ethnicities has experienced with fundamentalism yet bloody and traumatic followed with assassination of some of its prominent leaders such as, M. K. Gandhi, Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi as some of the stark reminders. From a perspective of non-fundamentalist, the ideology is often criticized and claimed to be scandalous resulting to factionalism, violent ethnic conflicts, civil wars and political degradation. But, it would be wide of the mark to claim Hindu fundamentalism in India as a progeny of post-colonial or independence era. Way back in 1666, the tribal king ‘Shivaji’ venerated in Maharashtra as the father of ‘Hindu nation’ lead his forces to fight against the then Mughal emperor Aurangzeb. A large numbers of historians from previous generations who have written on Shivaji and his consequent battles with Mughal ruler cannot undermine the strong prevalence of an unrelenting hatred towards Muslim and his desire to become the first and great Hindu monarch. (Ironically, Shivaji served as the unofficial mascot to the saffron brigade of Indian Parliament and its outfits)

Yet, a clear relationship between fundamentalisms in India was established for the first time in 1947-48•the year of India’s independence when Muslim League (a polito-religious order founded by Mawlana Mawdudi) eventually separated itself from the bigger cause and constitute a separate and distinct nation resulting ‘Partition’. Many were deported, mowed and transported from their land amidst mass violence resulting to greater hatred and reason for newly fangled Hindu fundamental ideology. Similar strife’s were witnessed between 1960 and 1980 but the year 1990 brings forth the shifts that have occurred in the nature of communal riots in India to a more prominent form.

Critics or Congress eulogists often considered the fall of Congress (I) and accession of BJP as the strong political force insinuating the communal patters in the nation, largely for politicization of Mandir-Masjid issue and subsequent demolition of Babri Masjid • an abandoned mosque situated on the precincts of what claimed to be the birthplace of Hindu god, Rama. The mobilization campaign for Kar sevaks to construct the proposed Ram Janmabhoomi Temple at Ayodhya on 30th October 1990 aggravated the communal atmosphere in the country. Communal riots occurred in the wake of L. K. Advani’s Rath Yatra wherever it went.. These riots were led by RSS-BJP men to consolidate the ‘Hindu’ vote bank. They were widespread over almost all the states from Assam to West Bengal, Bihar, Orissa, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Gujarat, Maharashtra and Delhi. Eruptions of communal violence are prevalent since then and Ram (the Hindu God) is long-ly established as the tool to instigate violence, bloodshed and hatred in communally sensitive areas. Indeed, BJP-RSS combo was largely benefited from the game plan. Their effort to brand Muslim community as the source of terrorism and anti-national activities abetted the efforts of the Hindu communalists.

Think otherwise, if BJP as a party is popularizing and supportive to Hindu fundamentalism other political parties too not faraway. They are happy to use communal divisions to try to garner political support, and to foster “minority appeasement” despite of the fact that the basic architecture of Indian constitution remains secular. In his recent political speech, Rahul Gandhi • the unofficial crown prince of Congress (I) and grandson of India’s only women prime minister Indira Gandhi pull the strings of Ayodha and Babri Masjid as a means to appease electorate. (Well, they say never bury the hatchet in politics) Not to forget, Congress were the prime force for anti-Sikh riots that broke out in Delhi and parts of North India after the assassination of the then prime Minister Mrs. Indira Gandhi by her Sikh bodyguards. The pattern of these riots showed that they were organized and planned against a particular community and the many senior Congress leaders were alleged to have participated in the anti-Sikh riots. The main accused in these riots were H. K. L. Bhagat, Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler. All these senior Congress leaders were exonerated till the CBI on July 11, 2003 filed an appeal against a lower court which acquitted Sajjan Kumar.

Signs of similar turbulence and catastrophes are likely to revisit and haunt India in recent years. What I believe the nation and the Parliamentary forces needs to combat the communalism in India is to use development assistance programs that work toward long-term prevention of communal violence by establishing educational exchange programs among communities and other countries that have dealt with communal violence.

Inside the Glassed Cubicle

Inside the glassed cubicle I slumped on the leather chair, relaxing, as the blaring recorder SPEAKS. It has been S—P—E—A—K—I—N--G and not *speaking* for the past 30-minutes. Coffee cups refilled twice, pencils sharpened and nicely placed over the ruled pages which have few scribbled lines. The immobile cerulean Windows sit over the glass top silently with occasional pull of mouse from a sucker. It baited and looked at us again, listlessly.

Good god! I need a break… I'm bored as hell!

Monkeying around with the tablet notebook I started ruffling the lead over the blank page trying to etch-out a figure and keep myself awake (although I don't really know what I'm doing...a lot of boredom sipped-in). The noise-proof glass cubicle is silent and cooled with lot of conditioned air pumped into it. It smells of ‘tofu’ and cheese (kindaa) tasteless.

Ten more minutes passed the recorder still S—P—E—A---K—S. The pencil sit over the ruled page with few more added ‘short’ messages scribbled over. The computer dozed off sometimes back, for a minute, with floating marquee preaching motivational rules in corporatedom. OK! OK—I’m trying to be motivated. Gosh! I’m broke; I can’t be motivated with the moron going ON oozing so deliriously as if he’s having a blowjob! Hey! That’s a nice idea to get the butt of motivation.

I raised myself from slumber and looked at the page. Cleavage! (Gee…!) I look around and sighed. My eyes are fixated to the low neckline of one of the roomy (didn’t I say I am *GAY*, well in the closet. Shhhh!) The other one nibbling her fingernail (why, don’t she try donning the toenail also), the third one nodding to every single syllable that the recorder *S—P—E—A--Ks*. “Are you with Moses?—Heaven!”

You always have the flake who shows up unprepared, the weirdo who has to bring an entire four-course breakfast buffet with them, the idiot who got lost on the way to the meeting, the jackass who halts the meeting for other sidebar meetings on the phone or in the hallway, the rebel who won't follow any protocol whatsoever, and the Nazi who tries to keep everyone in line. Inside the glass cubicle we have *All* and into limbo.

“To summarize…” Whoa! Am I hearing noises or is the hour of the day! I sifted through the pages with a straightened spine and exchange glances with others. Vibrant faces, gleaming eyes and stiff corners of lips dropped archly; ecstatic and relieved after having ‘cummed…with a BIG MOAN”. Seven more minutes passed…

The summarization still continues… (heaven)!

Small Confession

It has been a long time since my last...I did a confession last nite.

Donkeys don't have layers. We wear our fear right there on our sleeves. But, now I feel guilty. I must be fool to make an open confession. Technically, I'm having bad thoughts, really bad thoughts later. I'm weak on my knees since then...admittance wreak pride, gets you roomy to f*** the guts off.

Well, it ain't change the world but doesn't make you feel great or relieved. Yet, there are more of *such* confessions awaited. So, I try a few more courage...(Gee!)

Stop pretending moron!
Break off from the hysterical fit as if you did whisper a big secret in your ear.

Prologue

Can you imagine the excitement of breathing the greenery, smoking mist, hung to a rock, and battling against wilderness? How about becoming a vagabond?

This indomitable urge for pain and pleasure led me to roads (err!) to the ‘hilly terrains of Sahaydri’). Reading about treks feels like stuffing you to the armchair and smell the hot coffee brewing. Imagine…the joy of a trekker when he walked through the velvety carpet of green pasture, crawl upright to flat-bed rock with running trails of waterfalls, and moss on his sole.

My *folks* who felt my settlement to Pune is the end to the search for a social life and sweet bagel come to realization (with much awe) that it’s a ‘New Beginning’ to my own self.

Up to the Hills Again…

Come weekend and its time to unwind old maps, polish my trekking boots, brush through the pages of history; I’m amongst the wilderness. The recent trek to Torna (aka prachandgadh) on August 15th is one of the most memorable of journeys I survived till date. Set in a perfect picturesque ensemble of velvet greenery, smoky mountains, passing clouds and a hill-top fort that inaccessible. Destination set to ‘Tower above the hills again!)

Infamous for its huge built, stretchable green plateau, and dodgy steps glinted with running falls filled with acid soil. A surreal emptiness capture as you moves higher to conquer 4200ft high hilltop, a signature that established Marathadom to the Indian history. Nestled in the rugged Sahaydri ranges with galloping waterfalls, acres of soft-green paddy fields the brown soil wriggles up. Ah! The fort…the fort veiled in thick passing clouds unlocked herself to pump the adrenaline rush…determination solidified. The trail wriggles and gets narrower as the composition changed from rich red granule to oily rock substances. You trek.

Importance of the fort, apart of its rugged cliff head, is to its historic importance as the tribal king from the Sahaydri ‘Shivaji’ having captured it at an young age of 16; thus establishing the Maratha power in Mughal India. Significance of the fort also added with Aurangzeb—the then Mughal Emperor having battled with Maratha ‘lion’ to gain his share of consolidation. Historical events mesmerizes not only in its eventual percept but when a loose trekker scaled the way after 400-odd years wondering ‘how did they manage’.

Defeating random drizzle and losing foothold after it skunk deep-down the heart of red soil; we crawled, gripped, lift, push, slipped yet march through the wild ravines full of thorny bushes, pile of squib, giant cascading ferns and twisted vines. Went up the hill…you look back to appreciate the beauty unscathed and lying prostrated. Sky changing the hues that airbrushes to the picture galore as we march, till we realize we’re lost.

Did I say lost? Oh…yea! Aren’t ‘he’—Shivaji—an expert to guerilla warfare. Torna is the perfect example to prove so. Well, many a thing happen unreasonable that add experience, add pizzazz… (gawd!) I am lost in wilderness yet undefeatable from the goal to ‘Tower the hill again and today’). In fact, to make simple things go difficult you need to be Godson to the Angels of Providence. Stranded at the end of valley and no way to move ahead but to be home like a ‘loser’; inspiration drawn from Shivaji and not to shake hand but defend Destiny. Time to invent and make own route…we head-on.

I really wonder what crept onto us but the desire to find a shortcut by climbing the mountain upright was not a sign of sanity. Desire and determination transformed us to powerful spirited calibers that deign to dig a hole in the heart of the rock to make a ways. Roughening the rough terrain, we took the stream lane with marks of landslide as we glide, hold, stretch, pull, push, slip, and meet the deadlock that inclined horizontally kissing the Earth. Huge surface of glistening rock stand before us with no crevices. At an approximate height of 3500ft, we’re stranded and lost.

Nature is merciless but has its own rules to follow so step on the soft patches, hold the branches, foot angled at 45 degree we finally decided to scale down the way and trace another. Many a times, it was either ‘us’ or the ‘death’ but the battle continued as we make through the hill, down only to be bewildered that a new set of experiences awaiting us soon. I blame inadequate information feed to the Internet by earlier trekkers that conveys no update on the rock patches at the last foothold of the fort before entering bini dwaar—the stone walled arched gate to Qila.

The fort is finally overpowered. I’m at the top of the world yet have no power. After a hectic scale, lost-n-found myself in the wilderness, dodging the deadly crevices, and being under the constant rain for more than 3-hours I was shivering like the leaf by O’ Henry on a wintry spell. But, crawling down was the toughest of journey. We crossed rocks, turned around them, crawled, sat on the rocks, jumped; affection for life was so strong that feet managed to find route and rocks didn’t slipped away.

Torna is a mesmerizing rugged hilltop in a landlocked to other fortresses, a great venue for trekkers unless you’re a lily-livered chicken.

Epilogue

The story about trek never come to an end unless you’ve known the smell of mud, sprained your back and left with haunted imageries. The weekend trek to Torna has all elements to take through roller-coaster of emotions yet, ended in a disaster. Well…I don’t blame the ‘king’ for that. The trek was outstanding and a memory that I would have restored to myself for the lifetime.

But, the journey to and fro… (ugh!)

Give me any other day minus the Puneite and local transport. Having traveled across the country with good, bad, and moderate transportation facilities but none matched to Poona—the city of Peshwas. In fact, the time still hasn’t changed and is periodically slow. First, it’s inconvenient to communicate with a ONE who speak a regional language and if the other one ‘stutter’. Buses don’t ply on the route as scheduled but often delayed.

Journey to Torna from Pune takes approximately 3½ hours as you sway in rickety wooden buses, tucked into jeeps like a pack of sardines, walk the directionless signs, and communicate to a local only to realize that he, in fact arguing and not intent to answer questions. To be a Puneite, I feel you need to be directionless. For simple reasons, yet unknown when asked the distance they raised a finger and say ‘5-minute’. After having walked for a mile, you realize the destination is another ‘5-minute’ far away.

So, next time you asked me about Torna lift the index finger and say to yourself ‘5-minute’ and a box of sardines would be blessed.

Independence (Part IV): Birth of a Nation

As the 60th anniversary of Indian Independence approaches, apparition of Partition haunts many. Well, the survivors might have been longly buried and the successors were brought up in their own land with no or little malice [err. Memories] India’s independence still holds an interesting study to historians.

With the changing political paradigm after WWII worldwide, Indian freedom movement faced the grappling issue of ‘two nation’ theory that eventually resulted in one of the world’s greatest tragedies‘ Partition of India’. In short, negotiations broke down between Gandhi and Jinnah on September 1944 resulting to a mutual agreement consenting Muslim League to cooperate with Congress in the formation of a provincial government and post-war the Northwest and East of India with Muslim majority would have been separated as an independent body. (C. Rajagopalachari, 1944)

It is to be noted that until 1920, Jinnah's loyalty was with the Congress party and India, the great undivided India of the time. For much of his life he chaperoned the idea of Hindu-Muslim unity; later demanded, obtained, and administered a separate Muslim homeland. Interestingly, his father Jinnabhoy Pooonja—a Gujarati from Kathiawar and a ‘convert’ was a modestly wealthy merchant of Hindu stock. Jinnah, himself was never driven to faith unlike Muhammad Iqbal. Interestingly, the rift and transformation of Jinnah’s mind was best captured in an anecdote by Diwan Chamman Lall. As Jinnah—a perfect Victorian or true British by mannerism often addressed Gandhi as ‘Mr. Gandhi’ drawing severe criticism yet not obliged. In one of those evening [when one Muhammad Ali] ridiculed him for his ‘the right way’; Jinnah boarded the train to Bombay ending his everlasting relationship to Congress. Jinnah opposed and to what other reclined, “Congress has become Gandhi’s”.

It was only in 1925, when we first encounter Jinnah upholding the causes of Muslim faith and regarded them as the ‘minority’ received strong backlashes from Congress for pressing his move for a separate Muslim electorate under Delhi Proposals of 1927. As confessed to Jamshed Nusserwanjee on his departure he said, “Jamshed, this is the parting of the ways”. Though, it is a seldom moment yet important but insignificant to laid the foundation where we could align Jinnah to Muslims also. As he commented after the failure of Round-Table Conference of 1930, “…Hindus are short-sighted and I think incorrigible. The Muslim camp is full of spineless people who will consult the Deputy Commissioner about what they should do.”

Yet, it was Muslim League that nourished the feeling of its ‘quam’ with most of its leaders have been buried to grave, losing credibility with the masses, and struggling with the issue of financial crunch was an opportune moment for Jinnah to return from his self-professed exile at Hampstead. Thus, added a new leaf to the Indian political history of pre-independence phase that ultimately ended in its ‘Partition’.

In fact, the overpowering Congress would be made responsible for cementing the claim for Pakistan had it share equal power to League in 1937. But, Congressmen under its President J.L. Nehru foresee the move of League as a pro-Pakistan. It is also to be noted that Nehru and Jinnah had been never an ally to each other. The Mahatma of Indian Independence too failed in this one incident to voice for his Hindu-Muslim unity leaving League as the sore, the ‘spoilt brat’ grown up to demand for his share.

Calculative and meticulous in his decision, Jinnah chose Lucknow as the suitable venue for 1937 session and Liaqat Ali – the first Prime Minister of free Pakistan as an ally, to show his affinity to the quam and secondly, the venue to woo people belonging to faith where they’re in majority. The new Jinnah, frail and suffering yet glowing in his political stature publicly attacked Gandhi and demanded for separate nationhood to Muslims. Thus, skillfully ever then, Jinnah played his cards more aptly and aligned to Raj power indicating Muslims of India are supportive to colonial empire provided they’ve their interest awarded after the war discontinues.

The political gamut as reveled to me during my research work, the period from 1936-1947 I find more interesting in terms, [it] prepare the land, the ministers, the acts, and policies suitable for a free divided nation. Most of the notable freedom commanders – ‘the Seer’, ‘The Rose’, and ‘the fanatic’ lay aside their agendas and common enemy only to be entangled in their personal stride of ambition.

What happened to the common men? Ah! The guinea pigs. Speeches ad political commentaries are fake, concocted and do not reveal the right mindset of political authorities. They’re fashioned and modeled evocatively published or broadcasted to feed the guinea pigs. Thus, sixty–years later, when my generation looks at Independence, it’s a ‘mere holiday’ – an ‘extra day in a week to rejoice and celebrate’.

Indian Independence (Part III): Gandhi or Mahatma

On January 30 1948, NATHURAM GODSE—a Hindu fanatic fired at Gandhi, thus ending and era to Indian political struggle, pre-Independence. In a sense, this man who lived only 655 days (January 30, 1948 to November 15, 1949) never ever spoke ills about Gandhi, as the person but a hardliner critic to government policies, especially of Gandhi.

Unbelievable…Unheard of!

The ‘MAN’ (or as he’s considered ‘mahatma’) who is regarded as one of the greatest politicians of 20th century; having inspired political histories/ideologies to many others, and propagated non-violence to humankind found a critic in his own homeland. Thus, when I decide to publish a series on Indian Independence I choose Godse over Gandhi as one of my subject.

There are two reasons for doing so. First, the age and generation that I belongs ‘lived under terrorism’ and conflicting ideologies witnessing more bloodshed ever in the history of mankind, borne out of ideological battles between these men. Second and most important, Jinnah’s plea for an independent Muslim nation to uphold “Islamic sentiment and Faith…” [that] otherwise would have crumbled under Hindu dominion find rebuttal. Here’s the man and his faith [who] claimed “we killed with a motive, to serve the highest interests of our people” is a result of vindication afflicted to all Hindus when Hindus are a majority. How ironical!

So, I traced to find how majority in a country is treated as minority and do that led further to Indian politics, in its contemporary time. The debate is left open to intelligent masses and scholars while my role in writing this article is similar to that of a chronicler.

Gandhi, as we traced his political days emerged as one of the most talked-about politician since his South-African days. Not until 1920, when Gandhi joined Indian freedom struggle amidst ‘lull’ with prominent leaders like Tilak, Gokhale succumbed to death leaving a room for a new aspiring leader to emerge and guide. Gandhi fit the structure whether as [an] ideal candidate of coincidence or calculative is disputable. But indeed, he was the most undisputed one for a long time.

When I use the term ‘for a long time’ it need to be clarified that Gandhi was always never an undisputed figure in the political history or to be correct, Indian freedom struggle. Few like Bhagat Singh or Subhas Bose appeared to challenge and add a new political ideology to the freedom struggle that challenged Gandhi’s non-violence. It is sad that new crop of freedom struggle either succumbed to execution or disappeared leaving Gandhi and his [ism] to be alive. So, we can’t say Godse was completely an insane or a fanatic who criticized Gandhi’s political ideologies but a follower to few of his predecessors.

This opens a new question about what’s wrong with Gandhi’s ideologies. Aren’t they good enough to any political movement? Or has they lost their motif and failed to achieve what Indians sought for?

When I talked about this research to most of my friends, bloggers, and generation born post-independence I countered comments which are not of suitable to write and largely venomated. In fact, I find there are more Nauthram Godses’ born post-independence though a majority of them are largely opinionated and not having a proper ideological bases yet, hard to dissuade.

So…it is better to analyze Gandhi’s feat and understand what’s went wrong with this great man that beget Godse. Indeed, Gandhi’s work in South Africa upholds a highest order that a political leader could offer. Yet, it is also to be noted that Indians living in South Africa, irrespective of their castes and faithdom treated similarly by both Britons and Bocans. India is a different ball game, a different platform with different and divergent ideologies [which] forced Gandhi to develop a more subjective mentality on his appearance and offered nothing new or innovative, but crippled or ‘customized’. To understand the fragilities of [his] ideologies in Indian perspective it is worthy to take a dig at the Hindu-Muslim relationship in India. Interestingly, the relationship has always been under the scanner and tried to unity yet, never successfully achieved. Added to it, India which always been a Hindu dominion with Muslim rulers; historical events show Hindu communities as ‘guinea-pig’ on whom policies are executed, since Khijlis. Gandhi was not an exception.

Stranded between Moderates and Extremist groups, Gandhi with his non-violence stride was a more moderate and harsh critic to extremist powers. In fact, Moderates in India are largely pro-liners to Islamic faith. Well, there’s nothing wrong to be one yet, members of Muslim League since its inception were disloyal and treasonable to the Union government. They played a fiddle to British Governance as Syed Tyabji or Iqbal either been nostalgic or too concentrated to upliftment of people belonging to their faith in terms of education and social order, and has least devotion to non-violence practiced by ‘so-called political seer’. [Note: Jinnah’s wish for a separate nation is chiefly inspired from the teaching of Tyabji and Iqbal].

What about Gandhi? As Nathuram Godse claimed, “He alone was the judge of everyone and everything; he was the master brain guiding the Civil Disobedience movement; no other could know the technique of that movement. He alone knew when to begin it and when to withdraw it. The movement might succeed or fail, but that could make no difference to the Mahatma's infallibility. 'A Satyagrahi can never fail' was his formula for his own infallibility and nobody except himself knew what a Satyagrahi is.”

Gandhi’s predicament was a real wish-wash and followed with guilty of blunder after blunder, failure after failure, disaster after disaster. His pro-Muslim policies though commendable in theory yet practical in achieving and hence, [they are] irrational. Also to noted, with a most severe austerity of life, ceaseless work and lofty character Gandhi to many Congressmen was too precarious, thus either they withdraw or dissolve their own independent views to a sublimated whole.

One of the few events, if we analyze, such as question of national language in India, Gandhi’s support for ‘Hindustani’ is farcical. It is quite obvious that Hindi has the most prior claim to be accepted as the premier language and has a vernacular to offer. Gandhi gave a great impetus to Hindi but as he found that the Muslims did not like it, he became a champion of what is called Hindustani. Earlier I coined it as a farce because ‘Hindustani’ is not a language but a mere dialect. It has no grammar or a vocabulary – a crossbreed of Hindi and Urdu (the language most favored in Muslim literary).

He, therefore, made Hindu-Muslim Unity as the foundation to his political ideology yet find no-acceptance among Muslim leaders. As I am working on my research paper that discuss events led to Indian Independence on the midnight stroke of August 15, 1947 – ‘Partition’ is one of the issue where the role of a feeble Gandhi and rise of Godse clan is evident. Jinnah’s claim for an independent nation supported by colonial kinsmen and on the reluctance of Nehru [the consort] brought Gandhi back to his ideologies and find him ‘dead’.

Initially though, he [Gandhi] delivered speeches against partition but wise enough to analyze that it would have little effect on Muslim League and its practitioners. He was fully aware from past experience that Jinnah was not at all perturbed or influenced by his fast and the Muslim League hardly attached any value to the inner voice of Gandhi. This I say is the dilemma of a ‘great man’ – The Father, whose sons have grown-up too big to fit his own shoe. The partition is regarded as the top ten tragedies of the world.

But what about Hindus and their guinea-pigness? Hindu dominated areas like Lahore went to Pakistan and in order to 'purify' the land many Hindus were massacred, women abducted and married off to Muslims, and other such heinous acts were committed. Similar actions against Muslims are carried out at Muslim quarters by Hindu groups. Gandhi went on a fast in order to protest the violence against Muslims. But, the fast was never been came across him to protest subjugation of Hindu communities in Pakistan (both East and West). He has purposely avoided any imposing any conditions to Pakistan on the issue or massacre during ‘Partition’. After Pakistan is separated on 14th August, 1947 the Government of Pakistan demanded that India should give it Rupees 55 crores as its share from the Government treasury. This was quite an extraordinary amount at that time yet Gandhi supported despite of Congress reluctance.

The hope of Hindu Muslim Unity was hardly entertained in history by anybody; but Gandhi continued to be resolutely optimistic and surrendered and thus, born a man with gun ‘Nathuram Godse’.

The pyres of both have been dead. All the men – Jinnah, Gandhi and Godse cremated and dead. What remains is the ever-lasting and unending prelude of difference, in terms of faith, ideologies, and guineapigness’. As I conclude this part of my research phase, I wonder what should I be rejoicing on the eve of India’s sixtieth Independence. The cause of freedom? Division of nation? End of an era and there born a fanatic? Should I celebrate Gandhi or should I moan for Godse?

Independence (Part II): Spirit of Independent

Sixty-years of self-styled independence…Ah! Too short for a nation like India to scale achievements yet Indians has redefined them. From a newbie nation somewhere in the coast of Arabian Sea to a top-claimant for superpower title and the most sought-after outsourcing partner, India, as nation has evolved itself. Yet, achievements are yet to achieve and unsung glories to be sang.

This 15th of August, when a few would be delivering speeches commemorating the birth of a nation and the tales of sacrifices ‘grand old-man’ made I wonder why the rejoicing is restricted to dead-ones only. If it was 1947 when a handful of British set to sail homewards, after having divided nations, and one Mountbatten cooling off inside the plush Rashtrapati Bhawan. Independence would have been a farce, if there’s no 1965, 71 or 1999. Yea…our predecessors might have been entangled into drafting guidelines for 1947 when streets of Bengal, Bihar, and Punjab are painted with blood, flesh, and tales of horror. But, the years 1971 and 1999 compensated for what we craved – Indians go have guts’ to fight back.

Personally, I recall the monsoon of 1999 when my friends and I waited patiently to join ‘armed forces’ and become a martyr. It was later accepted to be a military misadventure by Pakistani Army forces for having masterminded and executed an inappropriate attempt that ultimately led to humiliating defeat in the hands of Indian Army. Indians thronged to the roads amidst loud drum-beats and thumping; year-long jubilations carried out at every street corner, most painted the country – ‘SAFFRON’. Back home, my mother recalled her youth as apparition of India’s victory in 1971 visited us and neighborhood. I learnt to rejoice ‘independence’ then…and what with 15th August?

One more holiday in the week.

Indian Independence (Part I): History as I See It

The August of 1947 witnessed political turmoil in South-east Asia and as Jinnah in his inaugural speech claimed, “…beginning of a new and a noble era”. Indeed, a new beginning for both nations and [the] races which went from sour to bitter with the later time; hard for nostalgia to embalm and heal. At the stroke of midnight hour when India fulfill its tryst with destiny by marching into the history as one more independent nation; some journeyed through darkness to keep with their tryst to destiny. To be politically correct, I find Nehru’s inaugural speech on the birth of a nation is misleading as India (err! Hindustan) never made a pledge to gain independence with having it ‘divided’. Textbooks from both countries there onwards customized events to rewrote/retold ‘the tryst with freedom’ in a fashionable form where heroes belonging to particular race played a formidable role.

Births of post-independent era to both countries continued to live under the mesmerizing spell [and] feed with versions with ‘independence’ as an extra holiday in the week to rejoice and fly kites. I am sure, my Pakistani counterparts too feel the same till [we] walk to history ourselves and re-discover.

Sixty-years later when history is retold by citizens of both the nations with true sentiments having dissolved, we study why ‘we’re partitioned’ to be independent. First, the fact. Majority of nations in South-east Asia who’re once a part of colonial rule started emerging as independent nation[s] due to colonial rulers from Thames having incurred loss after WWII. Though, the war ended in 1945 registering victory for Allied armies over Hitler and his Axis power (and divided German)… [Britons] government incurred huge financial losses that impaired them to continue with another settlement – imbued with nationalist fervor, conflicting ideas, and embroiled with Gandhi menace “a seditious Middle Temple lawyer, now posing as a fakir of a type well known in the East, striding half-naked up the steps of the Vice regal palace”, as Churchill claimed.

But we’re not covering Gandhi in this cover but ‘Independence’. True, yet Gandhi is an inevitable figure to do away with for he had contributed much to the publicized series of events and debates pre-and-post Independent phases to both nations’ history (especially India) and not to forget his much controversial ‘ism’.

Back to the motif…if Britain was reluctant to continue with a settlement and focus solely to their wounds then what’s the ‘independence’ doth both the nation claim for and rejoice of? Post WWII, a new political emergency grappled the mind of nationalistic fervor. As many Indians and historian claims, a movement led by M.A. Jinnah who publicly conceded his desire for a free state peopled with similar race (err. Faith) for he surmises that, in a free country with Hindu majorities, “the development and maintenance of Islamic democracy, Islamic social justice and the equality of manhood” would have been crumbled. What we therefore envision and witnessed is “a free Muslim state” borne from Indian land and soaked in history’s largest immigration, chaos, and bloodbath.

August of 1947 thus, witnessed birth of two nations – India and Pakistan respectively, largely on the principle of faith and not of nationalist sentiments. It is to be noted that Jinnah was ruthlessly undisguised voicing his sentiment on the eve of Pakistan’s birth quoting, “A moment comes which comes but rarely in history, when we step from the old to the new, when a age ends, and when the soul of a nation long suppressed, finds utterance”. This is unlike to Nehru who was diplomat and craftily designed his inaugural speech only to walk to the Hall of Fame. So…it is the freedom of a nation (or both nations) not from colonial imperialism but freedom of […] or to be a Jinnahite in my expression ‘freedom from nothingness’.

Yay – I’m special like my days...

Years that passed to history – eventfully and noticed – the survivors remained to tell the tale. Many of us who grew into bloggers, techno-geeks, and technolusts; acquired citizenship to virtual communities were licking our lollies in baby cot which was promptly chewed and licked till we grown-up to MAN of twenty-first century.

But, memories haunt us and we cherish the bygone days.

Cable television and sitcoms were yet to make a living with us. Ol’ granny with silver-rimmed spectacle and toothless smile rule the roost. The electrifying jukebox draw inspiration from many of the lullabies; our mothers sang, and we played with latches, door locks, or the aluminum pans. They make rumbling noise when hammered but mothers never complain of pollution. When we rode our bikes, wore no helmets; when we tumbled and the crown is broken; with a bandage we return to the game – the very *next day*. When exhausted we drank water from the hosepipe and mind’ ya it tasted the same.

We did not have Play stations or X-Boxes, no video games still we will have our own score cards and fun with plastic balls in cricket tournament. No law suits were filed against me for hitting my friend or when I got my leg broken (courtesy my dear friend). The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke a law was unheard of...they actually sided the teachers for punishing us and claimed it to be officially permitted.

Parents never chit-a-chat of how guilt conscious are they for we keep a hordes of sororal or real guidance to take care when mommies go to offices. Picnics are the treat and we shared one drink with four friends from one bottle and no-one actually died from this. We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell and were actually afraid of the owners catching us, if any.

Streets are the playfields and mothers never complain unless it’s the *company* or fluorescent street lamps dictating us to return home. We never heard of Uptown Girl or Billy Joel or Westlife - For us, there have always been only one Bollywood and one regional plays. After a long time, recently I watched a black-and-white television in my colleagues’ place (An antique curator, okay ‘a junk dealer’) I stooped low to check the label…Ahhh! ‘CROWN’

No cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or chat rooms....... how could I be surviving then? Explosion of innovation and ideas we bring to the world and consumed ourselves. Now, our children lose the innocence leaving us guilt-laden or we lost ourselves.

Often it makes me feel kindaa to run through the house with scissors and give a haircut to my sister’s favorite doll … (wink). [She turned 33 and don’t play with dolls anymore…]

Be Anonymous…huh!

Work life continues at its own with a change of order as HR desk send a mail on Monday calling help to one of the employee diagnosed with Cancer and now broke; battling for breath (if not the last) and hours of relief. The world to which I belong with its lily-livered roosters and ladyprimers it’s a fool’s job to respond. And how do we keep our balance?

I-G-N-O-R-E

Yea…ignoring is the best way to brave it out all. The six-lettered pack is a favorite tool to blow the face off. You can call the buckshot and turn the offender to a *dead meat*. A judicious decision for which you get a corporate pat on your back and colleagues praises your *sanity* (sic)!

But, it’s difficult to ignore for I splurge more than *a thousand* as a golddigger (with a phallus). Either a casual instinct or ‘buying penance for myself’ I simple couldn’t I-G-N-O-R-E. I acted anonymous (alike many others) who open their blue cheque book and their account. I am *relieved* I acquired *happiness*.

What about the corporate world? Some sniggered, others refute and the rest call me *fool*. One poopyface compute the financial report orally estimating the donor capacity to 100-odd namby-pamby. (Companies make a waste by having spreadsheets– dey must hire him). Another shrugged off stating the responsibility lies with the company ONLY and, “if you wanna do it be anonymous, you poop show-boy’. Hell’ ya!

First, I didn’t explain or talk about my share of donation to any. Secondly, if I did then what’s to hide? Why a contribution or a help need to be from anonymous. Get a life, boy!
To me: I-G-N-O-R-E