Bangalore 22^nd April 2009

It’s been 2 weeks now that I am in this god forsaken city. And by stroke of good luck, my company has chosen to cut costs by not providing transport facility to its employees. This means, every day brings with it an all new lesson, an all new experience for me while travelling through those city buses plying on the streets of the silicon valley of India.

It was 7 PM, Rush Hour, when I boarded this bus with a dozen other people in front of my office. Two weeks of travelling by city buses has made me oblivious to who I am standing with and who is my co-passenger.  This day was a little different because for the first time I found some space to sit in the bus. I hate crowds. So I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep in my place.

Suddenly a tiny dark-skinned hand rested on my knee. I opened my eyes to find a little boy of 4-5 years staring at me with a sweet smile. His other hand was tightly held by his father, a tall lanky man in his late 20s.

Kids have a different language of their own. Somehow they come to know who is a nice guy and who is dangerous. And while travelling on those buses looking at a thousand faces every day, I believe that he might have developed a strong sense of judging people by their face. He knew I was harmless as long as my eyes were closed. The minute I opened them, he might have gotten a different story. He immediately hid himself behind his dad to not come close to me for the rest of the journey.

Minutes passed and our stop came. It’s crazy out here in Bangalore. If you can get down in time, it’s good. If you can’t, well, pray to god.  If you are all alone, it will be slightly easy for you to thread your way out of a bus. If you have a kid to hold with one hand, it is 20 times as tough. Chances are, you might skip a step and slip on the road on your face. And while falling, a father can never let anything happen to his kid. With all his mind and might, he protects his kid, even if it means a broken nose for himself. And brave kids don’t cry. They help the aliens in supporting their father to stand up and take him to the hospital for a plaster. It’s a different matter that the rest of the world moves on. The bus door gets closed automatically, and the driver starts the vehicle. From the closed door you can listen to the howl of the conductor for ‘tickets!’ the crowd keeps hunting for some bus while the traffic maintains its flow.

Had it been America’s Silicon Valley, lawsuits would have been filed, cases would have been fought, and the owners of the bus might have had to pay a compensation for making 10 times the allowed capacity to board the bus. In India it’s different. Life is in cheap supply here. You shrug and move on.

Tomorrow, news channels will flash some god forsaken leader making a thousand promises of a strong government and undaunted leader as Bangalore goes to vote, oblivious to the strength that flows through the streets of this country in their thousands every day.   Meet the 4 year old boy in Bangalore bus, Mr Politician. You will see raw courage. And it cares a rat’s ass for you and your promises. For him, life is still the game of survival. And he is living it all right.

 

 

Fatum

The Chinese movie that I saw the other day brought to fore what has been my most coveted dream for the past 7 years. A little kid loses his dad, and this godsend alien uses all his powers to bring him back to life. The next day the kid wakes up to find his dad lying next to him. And then, they live happily ever after.

The bad part – as one of my close friends has recently noted in her blog – is that life is not a movie. It takes its tax from any and everyone who walks by its lanes. To some the tax is high, to the other it’s a smooth sail... but it’s there all the same. Life has its own ways of beating the metal plain, of shaping the wire straight by twisting and twirling it. Only sometimes, those twists and twirls turn out to be quite painful.

When I was growing up, my mom used to tell me about this famous song by Tagore, “Jodi tyor dak sunay keo na asay”. And that pretty much shaped my adult life. To walk alone on my convictions when nobody else believed in me has been my definition of strength. And I stand by that in the darkest of hours in my life.

It’s not as if I have always been right. I have paid the price – sometimes unusually high. But eventually the wins and losses have evened out. Lost all my friends to find them come back one day and tell me that I was right. Walked past an opportunity to later find it was a trap. In the end, so to say, I have lived on. I do not know by the end of my life what I would think of all these decisions that I have taken. But whatever I would do, I would know that I took my decisions on my own, based on the situation that was given to me - for better or for worse.

The Greeks did not write obituaries. They just asked one question when someone died – “did he have passion?” If we have to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful faith on what the ancients used to call fatum. And what we currently refer to as “destiny”.

And I Was Cut Down to Size

I always believed that I was the best or at least amongst the best in any gathering of fellow human beings. And therefore, MBA for me has been an enlightening experience: in more ways than one. Being amongst the best people of the country has some major occupational hazards. It shakes you up to the core and makes you see things about yourself you always ignored as unnecessary or unimportant.

 The most gruelling of experiences in an Indian MBA is the summer placement process. I have been through the ordeal quite recently, and so, I have collected some rare marvels of wisdom that I would like to share.

The pristine ‘day 0’ starts with a great beverages company that wants us to go out in the sun selling cold drinks to the unlikeliest of characters. Now I am a bit choosy. Would I want to work in an FMCG? I am certainly not the kind of guy who would want to go out into the markets and deal with sundry retailers and distributors. Not my kind of role. But then who cares, it’s just for two months - I think I will try it out anyway. At least I will figure out if I actually want to do it or not. Besides, the markets are choppy and all.

I am out of round 1.

Who cares – I didn’t want to go there anyway. I will wait for the dream company – the consulting major or the trading house. The next thing I know, the consulting major I was waiting for has ditched us at the last moment and is not coming this time. And trading houses do not like people with prior work experience - especially in the IT Industry.

Suddenly I find myself applying to all the FMCGs coming to the campus – only to get rejected in round 0,2,1 and 2, in that order.

My interviews go in the following fashion:

Interviewer:  Tell me something about yourself

Me:  Blah blah...

Interviewer: What is the BCG Matrix?

Me: Blah blah... (this one is literal)

Interviewer: No, that’s the KCG Matrix. By Kinshu Consulting Group. Have you ever read about it? (With a look that suggests that the flesh will melt off his face)

I blabber some more and the interviewer suggests that I may leave; which I quite happily do.

12 companies come on day 0. No luck.

Somehow I manage to sleep shamefully for the night. Speaking to myself- why the hell I didn’t study? Memorizing for the 100^th time my answers to some questions which the panel never asked, even in any of the 8 interviews I appeared subsequently. Reading for the nth time the profile of the company, who’s the CEO and what they have to offer.

Day 1 has some more FMCGs, 1 bank and 2 IT Companies. IT suddenly sounds like music in the ear –A green oasis on the gruelling deserts of summers. But I suddenly feel I am too good at killing interviews. IT will be no different as well.

FMCGs reject me more than what a normal respectable human being can bear. 48 hours into the process (sleeping for roughly 2 hours in between) tires you to death. And then: these rejections. I decide I will never buy products of the companies that rejected me. This would mean that for the rest of my life, I will never brush my teeth, never use soap, never use a shampoo and yes – never clean my toilets.

Finally I am completely exhausted when the interview shortlist for the good old IT Major is announced. I am quite sure that I am not going to make it. Completely sapped out, spent, drooping I go in. But suddenly I feel at home. Good old discussions on the current state of Indian IT Industry. Good old discussions on the benefits and opportunities from the nuclear deal. Good old question on my strengths – which I have seriously started doubting by now. Good old discussions on good old things which make me feel better about life.

And so I am back to square one with my internship just across the road from the company where I worked for the past 2 years.

 Life is good!

But one learns the following lessons from the experience:

1.       Don’t try to fit in where you do not belong.

2.       Find out where you actually belong.

3.       Prepare well – there are no parallels to it.

4.       Know your subject inside out. This is what you are here for. And finally,

5.       Don’t give up cleaning toilets if a company rejects you, it gets nasty for people around you.

There are more benefits to going for a dental treatment than meets the untrained eye. To name a few:

1. You tend to get closer to your family – your mother, brother and your sister-in-law – because it scares the hell out of you,

2. You tend to get more devoted to God – because it scares the hell out of you, and,
3. You learn to handle stress – because basically, it scares the hell out of you.

It all started on a Tuesday afternoon while having my lunch when I suddenly realized that half of my tooth was missing. And in its place there is a mushy ugly sensation that feels like my gum. Blessed as I am with an unfaltering instinct, I immediately came to know that its time to hit the dentist’s for the first time in my life.

As such, bravery is the second nature of a Sinha. But as they say when it comes to dental emergencies, the bravest of the braves give way to their natural instincts. Something of the sort happened to me that evening as I was going for the initial checkup with a dentist of decent fame in the circles of IT Companies (he was suggested by a colleague).

Dr. Gupte turned out to be an ok looking man in his 30’s and this, so to say, sent shivers down my spine. I'll tell you why it sent shivers down my spine. There is something about these ok looking men in their 30’s that makes them jealous of handsome looking men in their 20’s, such as me. And this made me a little skeptic in trusting him with my dental insides. But it is what it is and I let him go ahead with the checkup.

Dr Gupte: “Looks like a big cavity”

Me (trying to look intelligent): “ahem”

Dr Gupte: “might go for a root canal”

Me: “ahem”

Dr Gupte: “There is another very small cavity in the front tooth. But it’s very small”

Me (hating myself for eating chocolates): “ahem”

Silence

Me (hating myself again for sounding stupid): “Does it hurt?”

Dr Gupte (like a smiley sadist): “It might hurt a little. Might”

There is something about the way doctors say ‘it might hurt a little’. It makes you feel as if it’s going to hurt big time. They cannot be trusted – these doctors - especially of the dental variety. And so I decided that I will confirm the details with all my family members who have gone through it. I made some 20 odd phone calls that night.

Cousin of a friend: “Root canal is a piece of cake. No pain at all. Tooth extraction, on the other hand, is very painful”

Friend: “they inject an anesthetic in your mouth, it doesn’t hurt at all.”

Me: “WHAT?? they put a needle into your mouth? And you say it doesn’t hurt? What do I look like? porcupine eater?”

The conversation in the other 20 calls went almost on similar lines. Except the ones that I dialed to my mom to tell her how much I missed her and if the tooth got bad and I don’t get to see her again, she can keep all my wealth – which consists of a ball point pen and a notebook.

The next day was when I had the doom’s appointment. I found myself biting my nails in the waiting lounge listening to the moans of an old lady in there for her tooth extraction. Every time I heard her cries, I thought of taking my money back. But before I could muster up the courage to do that, it was my turn already. I suddenly wanted to send some one else before me, but there was no one there and the Sinha pride was at stake. So there I was, sitting in the time machine type chair, waiting for the monster to slay me.

This is for the record: he did pierce a needle into my mouth. And yes porcupines taste better.

The next 45 minutes were almost eventless except for the 26^th minute when Dr Gupte, while running a driller of sorts into my mouth, suddenly shouted “OH SHIT!!”

Me: “WHAT HAPPENED??”

Dr Gupte: “The band took off”

Me: “What does that mean? You will extract my tooth now?”

Dr Gupte: “No stupid, I will just put another rubber band. It’s to keep the joining intact”

Me (Sighing): “Whatever. You scared the hell out of me”

And so the ordeal was over in 45 minutes. Dr Gupte gave me another appointment for the front tooth cavity the next day but that experience was much better and easier for various reasons. We got along well as he told me that I was much braver than many others who create a scene at his clinic by holding his hand and kicking him at all the wrong places whenever it hurts them bad. And he also mentioned, in passing, that I was good looking. (I am a Leo so can’t help some bragging.) You’ld like Dr Gupte if you get a chance of meeting him – although it’s something you should wish against!

Note: I go about the world saying that I love to write and that I believe that the various ways of expression is the best gift that God has given to mankind. It’s been 6 years now; and all these years not even one day has passed when I have not thought about this fact of my life.
If I say that I love to express myself, and I don’t express this, it will be equivalent to being untrue and dishonest to me… And that is not what being Kinshu is all about…
I know I can never write well enough to express this in words… perhaps a few volumes would have done some justice… But let me begin with a blog… to my beloved father…

He smiled…

I am running to hide from mother for I have not completed my homework yet. I find him lying on his bed watching the television. I hide myself in his blanket and when mom asks about me, he says he doesn’t know. He looks at me and… he smiles.

Often for those insignificant, minute things which always seemed to make a lot of sense – lack of money, problems at work, and problems with relationships – he just smiled his way through. His bright, confident, cheerful smile that endeared him to anyone who saw it once. They say it’s not important how long you live. What’s important is how much you live in those moments. And as far as that goes, he lived many lifetimes on end.

I am so afraid of riding a bicycle that I even avoid watching my brother ride the wretched thing. I am already seven and my mom wonders if I will ever ride a two-wheeler. I am forced to sit and paddle. I have tears in my eyes as I search for him. He looks at me and… he smiles.

He is the best speaker I have ever heard. He never prepares for his speech, but on every Independence Day function I hear him speaking after hoisting the flag, always with his characteristic poise. I hope I could speak like him too. I enlist myself for a speech at my school assembly – only to find my hands shaking, my legs trembling and my voice stuck in my throat. I decide I will learn to speak from him.

It’s my birthday tomorrow. The phone rings and I lift the receiver. The person on the other end confirms my address and says that my video-game will be delivered in a couple of hours. I couldn’t believe my ears – when did we buy a video-game? I know that thing is expensive and we cannot really afford it. He himself said that when we first asked for it. But here it is, all for me and my brother to play with. Where did it come from? I am too happy to bother.

I am growing up to become an unabashed admirer. I want to copy the way he walks, the way he speaks, the way he eats his food, even the way he sleeps. I follow him everywhere he goes. I carry his briefcase to his jeep and style myself as he walks with it. I fight with him for pillows. Because he sleeps on two, I want two for myself; just because I want to be like him. He knows. He just smiles.

Its parents day at school and I haven’t done all that well this time. I am standing by the side of my teacher’s desk – head down and shameful. I know it will be even more difficult at home. I have done badly in mathematics, none of my spellings are correct; as if that was not enough, I disturb the entire class with my silly pranks. My teacher is furious and so is my mom. I lift my head a little – my eyes meet his and… he smiles.

The first thing that a son learns from his father is devotion. As I grow up, I feel my devotion towards him grow without bounds. I don’t want to question him. Not that I don’t have any questions. But there is so much love and awe that there is just no space for questioning. He is the hero of my life and if there is one person I want to be like, it’s him.

He takes pride in all my little achievements. He celebrates the day I become the Head Boy of my school. He celebrates even if I pass my exams with only an acceptable score. He calls up after all my papers and asks how I did. “I want 100 on 100” he says; and smiles.

Of the many things that I have learned from him, the most special would be his ability to love unconditionally. His love for his wife, his parents, his children, his brother, his sister, his nephews, his niece, and for all that was ‘his’, was beyond the scope of any kind of judgment. He simply loved them – no strings attached. If only people could learn this little secret, there shall be no problems in relationships.

We are building the house of our dreams. The dream that I remember my parents seeing since the time I have gained consciousness. I have never seen him so excited before. He wants to discuss every single detail of the house with his family, including the 17 year old me. And I do give my inputs though they are often stupid. He explains me why we shouldn’t do that, and just smiles.

I am filling applications for my engineering admissions. I gather everything I know about engineering colleges throughout the country. There is a good college in Patiala, another in Vellore, an REC in Allahabad, Bhopal, Trichy etc. There is a new common exam for engineering admissions throughout the country. He helps me in filling all my forms but always says the same thing: “I won’t let you go anywhere”.

“How will your papa live without you” he’d say. I am all smiles. In my heart of hearts, I don’t want to leave him either. But I already have a dream - the dream of giving abundance to my family. I insist as the dream beckons me. He knows that I will go. He just smiles and let it pass.

I am writing my 12th board exams. As always he asks after my papers. But he looks exhausted. Is that age catching up on him? But he is just 51. I see him growing weaker in a matter of months. Probably it’s the pressure at work. He’ll do fine – as always. After all he is my father. Nothing ever goes wrong with my father. Nothing can happen to my father.

It happened on a Thursday night. And my life was never the same again. It is a vacuum that cannot be filled, a pause that cannot be resumed, and a smile that I can never smile again.

The priest asks me and my brother to ask for one last wish from him before he leaves us. As I grapple with a thousand excuses of why he shouldn’t leave us, my brother says it:
“Please be my papa, in all my lives… ”

“Please be my papa, in all my lives… ” I repeat after him before I close my eyes… and he smiles…

Mushkil si raho mein din raat chalta hu

Bar bar girta hu bar bar sambhalta hu

Khwabo ki umeed me raato ko nikalta hu

Suraj ko dekh subah chand sa pighalta hu

Naumeed nahi haar se, phir koshish karta hu

khali nahi vishwas se, phir sapne dekhta hu

bikharne per takleef hui to kya

phir tukdo ko jodta hu, phir talaash karta hu

Asaan si wo raah mujhper meherbaan kab hui hai

Manzil ki mehek yuhi kadr-daan kab hui hai

apne mehnat ke fal ko ab hasil karke hi rahunga

A gaya hu mehfil me to geet gaa kar hi uthunga

A gaya hu mehfil me to geet gaa kar hi uthunga

The Race - I simply love this poem by Dee Groberg...

QUIT! GIVE UP! YOU'RE BEATEN!" They shout at me and plead,

There's just too much against you now, this time you can't succeed.

And as I start to hang my head in front of failure's face,

My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.

And hope refills my weakened will as I recall that scene.

For just the thought of that short race rejuvenates my being.

A children's race, young boys, young men; how I remember well.

Excitement, sure, but also fear; it wasn't hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope. Each thought to win that race.

Or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.

And fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son.

And each boy hoped to show his dad that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they went, young hearts and hopes of fire.

To win, to be the hero there, was each young boy's desire.

And one boy in particular, his dad was in the crowd,

Was running near the lead and thought, "My dad will be so proud."

But as he speeded down the field across a shallow dip,

The little boy who thought to win, lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,

And mid the laughter of the crowd, he fell flat on his face.

So down he fell and with him hope. He couldn't win it now.

Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.

But as he fell, his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,

Which to the boy so clearly said, "Get up and win that race!"

He quickly rose, no damage done - behind a bit, that's all,

And ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself to catch up and to win,

His mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.

He wished that he had quite before with only one disgrace.

I'm hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn't try to race.

But, in the laughing crowd he searched and found his father's face

That steady look that said again, "Get up and win the race."

So, he jumped up to try again. Ten yards behind the last.

If I'm to gain those yards, he thought, I've got to run real fast.

Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight or ten,

But trying so hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.

Defeat! He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.

There's no sense running anymore - three strikes and I'm out - why try?

The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had flew away.

So far behind, so error prone, closer all the way.

I've lost, so what's the use, he thought, I'll live with my disgrace.

But then he thought about his dad, who soon he'd have to face.

"Get up," an echo sounded low. "Get up and take your place.

You were not meant for failure here, get up and win the race."

With borrowed will, "Get up," it said, "You haven't lost at all,

For winning is not more than this, to rise each time you fall."

So up he rose to win once more. And with a new commit,

He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn't quit.

So far behind the others now, the most he'd ever been.

Still he gave it all he had and ran as though to win.

Three times he'd fallen stumbling, three times he'd rose again.

Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered the winning runner as he crossed first place.

Head high and proud and happy; no falling, no disgrace.

But when the fallen youngster crossed the line, last place,

The crowd gave him the greater cheer for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last, with head bowed low, unproud;

You would have thought he'd won the race, to listen to the crowd.

And to his Dad he sadly said, "I didn't do so well."

"To me you won," his father said, "You rose each time you fell."

And when things seemed dark and hard and difficult to face,

The memory of that little boy - helps me in my race.

For all of life is like that race, with ups and down and all,

And all you have to do to win - is rise each time you fall.

"Quit!" "GIVE UP, YOU'RE BEATEN." They still shout in my face.

But another voice within me says, "GET UP AND WIN THE RACE!"

-Dee Groberg

Jo Raam Rachi Rakha

An octogenarian somebody raises questions on the existence of Ram in the public media. And I, 23 years of age and much less experienced in the matters of the world, find myself gripped in a twinge of sadness for several hours that followed. Did Ram exist? Haven’t I always looked up to Ram as the divine embodiment of man’s righteousness? Hasn’t my family sung “Bhaye pragat kripala…” at the birth of every child in the family? Haven’t I remembered his name at all moments of fear and suffering and joy and almost all human emotions that I have experienced in my lifetime? Haven’t I chanted “Ram naam satya hai” while taking people who were dear to me on their last journeys? Did Ram exist or not? To be honest, I don’t care either way. For me he not only just existed, he still lives to this day in the hearts of every Hindu man who promises himself every single day that he will go to any extent to fight for his dignity. The way Ram went to the other corner of the world to fight for his. Somewhere in their hearts, Ram inspires a confidence and strength that nothing else does; a confidence which enables the Mahatma to stand up for his dignity and fight for the freedom of his people. And how aptly he describes it in his autobiography: “Nirbal ke bal, Raam.”

None of my statements in this write up can shake my faith on Sri Ram. As stated in the Bhagvad Geeta: “The shine of thousand suns in the sky, shouldn’t match my lord thy brilliance” But I don’t fear putting my beliefs to question and analyze the situation in newer lights. This is by no means an attempt to convince the reader on my beliefs, or to influence any one with my faith – which is beyond scope for tests or empirical experimentation. I am just putting forward what my humble being can infer from the facts around me.

In the preamble of the Kavya Ramayana, Sage Valmiki mentions that he was “Inspired to write this shokat shloka (song of sorrow) after watching a pair of love birds separated by a hunter’s arrow”. And that is what the Ramayana actually is – a song of sorrow – the sorrow of separation of a son from his father, of a husband from his wife and of a king from his subjects. Valmiki brilliantly uses his creative insights to embellish the epic with mysteries and allegories. Given the supernatural nature of these events, as such, there is no reason why the story cannot be categorized as purely a “work of fiction” if not a “mystic exaggeration”, probably more the latter than the former.

Historiographers have always had a hard time in India trying to figure out what exactly is fiction and what constitutes fact. The major reason for this difficulty is the unorganized nature of the ancient text, with absolutely no conceivable interrelation between the authors, yet a great degree of overlap in the characters and stories. For instance, in ancient Sanskrit text, the name Krishna appears for the first time as a teenage uncle-slayer followed by a full-fledged biography some 500 years later in Bagvad Purana; again followed by the inclusion of Srimad Bhagvad Geeta into the Mahabharata another 1000 years later. Again, in case of Ram, Tulsidas’ Ramcharitmanas eulogizes him and makes him an ‘incarnation’ in the Bhakti Movement, a few thousand years after the Valmiki Ramayana was written. Between these two greater milestones, there were thousands of texts and stories mentioning Ram and other characters of the epic. And then there was the Kamban Ramayana in Southern India and other forms of the epic in the different parts of the world. It seems that every author has had his chance to play with the stories and characters, thereby creating newer stories with newer morals.

What then could be the secret behind such a massive populist success of these characters? Sanskrit, in the Indian parlance, was never the language of the masses. It was always the language spoken by the elite and any person well verse in Sanskrit was considered to be an intellectual. The epic of Ramayana was written in Sanskrit by Valmiki, one of the most revered sages of his time. It not only captures the cultural traditions of the erstwhile dominating Aryan society but also lays down the foundation of several moral and ethical concepts for the future civilizations in India. To name a few, concepts like monogamy, responsibility towards ones’ family and the culture of joint families will survive in the Hindu society for a long time to come. Although, the epic was written in Sanskrit, it was narrated to the masses in vernacular forms. All Gurukuls which taught literature had the Ramayana in their syllabus as an instance of the highest degree of literary genius. Valmiki was the Shakespeare of ancient India. Even to this day, his works are revered by Hindu saints all over the country.

On analyzing the nature of the writings in the time of Valmiki, one hardly finds anything written ‘purely as a work of fiction’. Although, there used to be a creed called ‘Bandi’ who sang eulogies for their Kings and princes in order to popularize them among the masses. And yes, there was a lot of ‘mystic exaggeration’ in their hymns. These exaggerations were targeted to make people honor and devote themselves to the King. The world over, man has had a tendency of worshipping the supernatural. Jesus dies and then raises again a couple of days later to lead mankind on the divine path. He cures diseases like cancer by the touch of his hand. Prophet Mohammed rides on a horse to heaven. There are many such mystic stories associated with almost every God that man has devoted himself to. If this was a deliberate effort to make Gods Gods, then what a profoundly successful strategy it was! But it should also be noted that none of these supernatural stories about the Gods can prove that these men, as individuals, never existed. There are explanations of at least some of the mysteries popularized about them. Reiki, telepathy, proper use of mental prowess explain but a small part of these mysteries. Just because science has no means of proving it, it is not a good reason to disqualify what has been the working belief of thousands of men right from the ancient times – some of them as great as Aryabhatta, Patanjali, Chandragupta, Vivekananda and Gandhi.

Religion and mysticism have always gone hand in hand the world over. Despite of this fact, historically, religion has provided the foundation for governments to rule over people. If religion were not there, someone among the great statesmen would have created it. The ethics and morals of a religion give the legislators the means of controlling an otherwise savage man within a society. It will not be an exaggeration to say that religion makes civilization possible. Apart from that, where science gives a mechanical explanation to man’s existence and evolution, religion provides meaning and objective to his life. It is difficult to presume for thinking men that they were created by Mother Nature without any higher design in mind. Religion fills that gap and provides the sense of importance of an otherwise desolate but a brilliant mind.

Modern history of India has had people like Nehru, Rajaji, Patel, Rajendra Prasad and others who made no secrets of their religious inclinations. And were they not secular? Well, they were the very people who laid the foundation of secularism in India – only to find it getting confused with ‘atheism’ 60 years later. They made no secrets of their faiths and honored it to the end of their lives. Why then scathing people's sentiments over their faith is becoming a fashion in a country which has had a history of tolerance for all beliefs...

Salaam Zindagi!!!

सुबह सुबह जब आँख खुली,
दुनिया थी कुछ धुंधली सी
नया नया कुछ मैं भी था
नयी थी मेरी सरगम भी

हाथ बढ़ा जब मैने देखा
फूल भी थे तो काँटे भी
जीवन की इन तंग गलियों में
धूप भी थी तो छाओ भी

बदल से आवाज़ सी आई
की मौत है तो जीवन भी
बारिश की बूँदों ने सिखलाया
इस गीत के है बोल यही
सलाम सलाम सलाम
तुझे मेरा सलाम ज़िंदगी

Irony's Nest

“They don’t have chronological ages, they have mental ages.” Replied Major Khare to a query raised by a candidate about the children’s age group. It was the venue of practical exams for B.Ed. [Special Education], a missionary resident school for the Mentally Retarded in a posh location of Bhopal. My mother was one of the examiners. I was her driver. All candidates were supposed to present their teaching skills in front of the evaluators. As there were as many as sixteen of them, and it was to take time, my mother asked me to have a look around. Sister Divya, apparently a senior teacher at the school, was only too obliged to be my guide to the place.

It was only after a few steps through the clean corridors, admiring the orderly arrangements of things and those innocent sketches that hung through the notice board when I met the first resident of the school. Kamal, however, was not a student. He was an employee. His duties ranged from waking the children in the mornings to dressing them up for classes to tucking their beds and washing there clothes. On listening to this, I was at once surprised and shocked. This factotum of the school was mentally retarded. He was, infact, an ex-student of the same school and belonged to a rich family in the North Madhya Pradesh. After the brief introduction, all Kamal could mutter was a polite ‘Namaste’. I returned his greetings and we moved forward. I could not keep myself from asking Sister Divya that why, if Kamal’s studies are over, he does not go back to his family? Why does he still stay with them? The nun preferred to remain silent.

Before I could repeat my question, assuming to myself that she didn’t hear it, we were in the boy’s playroom. It was a small classroom where close to fifteen children of the age group 5 to 10 played with stuff like colored discs, wooden blocks etc. As we entered the room, there was a roar of “Namaste”. Perhaps that was the only word these kids could speak clearly. Everyone was excited on having the motherly Sister Divya around. All of them wanted to show her their drawings, their buildings of wooden blocks and what not. Amidst this hullabaloo, there sat a little boy quiet and lonely. As he saw me seeing him, he waved his hands to call me. When I reached him, he moved his hand on his cheeks, as if stroking his moustache and uttered something resembling “Pa”. At this I took a start.

“No, I am not your Pa.”, I hesitated. But he kept repeating the same gesture. The incharge of the play room, a woman in her 40’s, noticed this. “He is not calling you his papa.” She said. “He is asking whether his father has also come along with you to see him? These children are very young to live in a hostel. They miss their parents. They keep asking for them.” Utsav kept listening to this intently without understanding any of our words. At the end of this dialogue he again started repeating the gesture – this time, a lot more violently. The incharge and others tried to calm him down –only to make him cry even louder. When I could not bear the pain in his eves any longer, I rushed out of the room.

Sister Divya followed me to the corridor. Somehow she knew what was going on in my head. “It’s even worse than what it looks like.” She said as a matter of fact. “Some parents come to pay money to us to keep their children here even during the summer vacations. What they don’t realize is that these children are not lunatics. They are just mentally retarded. They are SPECIAL – in more ways than one.” Now it dawned on me that why Kamal still stayed in the school even after so many years of ‘passing out’.

Before ending the excursion, Sister Divya took me to another heart rending story. In the girls’ dormitory - which was predominantly empty as all its occupants were attending classes – there, behind a corner bed, stood a little girl bewildered at the presence of strangers in her room. As we moved towards Kaushal, she lowered her head and started staring at the floor in order to avoid an eye contact. Sister tried to introduce me to her but she seemed to be uninterested. She was 5 - mentally, even younger. So young, that the school found itself incapable of deciding a class for her. She always stayed in her dormitory - occasionally visiting the playroom.

For the brief amount of time we were in that room, Kaushal raised her head only once, to look at the stranger encroaching at her dormitory. It was that single look after which I gave up all hopes of being friends with her. It was a look which clearly said that she didn’t need friends. She didn’t need teachers; neither did she need the perfect arrangements of that school. What lacked in her life was that warmth which only one’s parents can give.

As we prepared to leave, I tried to compliment Sister Divya by saying that hers’ was a difficult profession and that it was amazing how they managed everything. “It is not a Profession dear, it is a service” she replied. Despite of all that umbrages I had for the negligence of careless parents, I realized that the Almighty has after all sent these children to the right hands. It is true that they still lacked a lot of love they deserve. Its true that they still live in a world where nothing reaches them and they reach nothing. It is also true that no one, as, or even more dedicated than Sister Divya, can take the place of their parents but still, Kamal, Utsav, Kaushal and their friends have learnt to smile, to play, to help one another and to care for each other – thanks to Sister Divya and her Team. Hats off to them!

~Kinshu

Tonight I dance with you...

Tonight I dance, for one last time,
I dance to my death tune.
I break the promise that I once made,
For tonight, I dance with you…

Tonight, I smile at the scars you gave,
Tonight, I embrace them all.
I love my misty eyes tonight,
I love the knot in my throat.
For tonight I dance to my death tune,
Tonight, I dance with you…

I dance till my feet start to bleed,
I dance till my heart breaks apart.
Till the last of my breath engulfs me,
I kiss you good bye once last.
I know my soul shall rest in peace,
I know that this is true.
For tonight I danced my last dance,
I danced my last with you…

~Kinshu

People like them...

Have you ever given a second thought to those beggars sitting by the roads asking for the cheapest coin you can find in your pocket? Where do they sleep? Were they always the way they are? I for one never did. I mean, whenever some one asked me for money, I turned him down, reassuring myself that even if I give him some money, he will 1) run straight to the liquor shop, 2) never stop begging, and 3) only ask for more. But the following experience of mine made me ask strange questions to myself. And now I can assure you that some beggars were not always beggars.

My father, being a government servant, was used to transfers. In 22 years of his job he was transferred 17 times. And the one of which I talk about here took us from Gwalior to Raipur. Even after a week of stay in the new city, life was still not on track. I had still not joined the school and a feeling of torpor prevailed after the tedious job of shifting places. On one such evening, after rising from an afternoon siesta, I went to the drawing room to find mom talking to a middle aged Oriya woman. She was a short, dark complexioned Chhattisgarhi-speaking woman. After bargaining deftly for a few minutes, mom was able to convince her to work for Rs.150 a month. She would work in the household in two shifts. Mornings 8 to 10 and evenings 4 to 5 pm. This done she went happily and took up her job from the next day onwards.

Devki was a diligent and efficient worker. She hardly absented herself from her duties and mother was quite satisfied with her. All that matters. My parents wedding anniversary was arriving and a party were to be thrown. This being a grand affair, mom informed Devki a week in advance that she was supposed to stay up late that evening to assist her in dinner, to which she had readily agreed. When the dinner was over, the hour being late, my father ordered me to drop Devki to her house in the car. I was glad to have another chance to drive the Maruti Omni. Her house was a little shack covered on the top with black poly-ethene to protect the dwellers from rain. When we reached there I found the family waiting outside the house. The husband appeared to be older than I had expected. Two daughters and a little son completed the family. As I reversed the van I heard the couple yelling at each other. Harsh words were being exchanged. Relations between the couple, it appeared to me, were not well at ease. I drove on without giving a second thought.

A month had passed. We were busy with our lives and preoccupied in our routines when one day on returning from school I found Devki speaking to mom in the drawing room. It surprised me that she was at home at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, far before when she was expected. But what shocked me more was that she had a swollen eye, a red face and was sobbing implacably. Between her sobs, she would raise her head and say a word or two to mom in Chhattisgarhi, of which mom couldn't understand much. I went in without listening too much, to feed myself with lunch. When father came home from office that evening, mom apprised him of Devki's problems. "He drinks a lot," said my mom, "and beats her. He takes away all her money to spend on liquor. She was in such a bad shape today". "Why doesn't she go to the police?" questioned my father. I agreed with him. No decent family involves itself in family disputes of household maids. The subject was closed.

Later I gathered from another servant of the household, that the two daughters were from the man's ex-wife. Devki had only the son, who, the servant informed me, was the apple of her eye. He also told me that the man didn't work at all, and lived on his wife and daughter's earnings. The daughters too worked as household maids.

Even in these odds, Devki persevered to keep her work on. For the sake of her son, I assumed. It was only after a month or two that she absented herself from work, consequently for a week. When she finally appeared she informed mother of what she had went through the last week. Her husband went away from home and also took along their son with him to some place she could never think of. The two daughters were living with the families they worked for. And for last one week, she was alone in her shack, searching for her son in the days and waiting for him in the nights. She resumed her work in a hope that her husband will eventually return with her son. She could not think of a better alternative, I guess. All these days she was a sorry figure, a hapless mother waiting for her son. "Mor turaa laa sut aat he baai" she would say to mom. Meaning "I really miss my son, ma'am".

This continued for a week or two when she finally stopped coming for work. Other servants started sharing her job between them. Our lives were quite unchanged when one evening I went outside to find a woman sitting at the gate of the house. She was a haggard. Her hair uncombed. Her face swollen. Her eyes bloodshot. "Who's that?" I asked. At this Devki appeared to be deeply moved. "You don't recognize me, chhote baba?" she yelled "how many years have I worked for you". I recognized her and yelled for mom. On seeing mom, Devki started wailing loudly. "oo mor tura laa le gayees baai" she lamented "moka wapas dila deo baai". We were both disconcerted. Mom fruitlessly tried to appease her. After saying this and crying for a while she stood up and started walking away. "She's gone mad" mom said sadly. And she was right. Devki was now a lunatic. From this day on, and perhaps forever afterwards, I had this very special place for Devki in my heart. I always felt bad and my heart sank when I thought of this luckless mother. But I never happened to hear or see of her again. I took it that they might have taken her away to some lunatic asylum.

A year later, I Iost my father. On the 13th day, as per a family tradition, my brother and I were supposed to give away food and money to beggars outside Shri Ram temple. There were two lines of beggars. I started giving food from one end and my brother from the other. Just reaching for the fifth beggar, my brother called for me. As I walked towards him, he said, "Look at the woman. Is she Devki?" As he lived in Indore for his engineering, he could hardly recognize an ex-maid turned beggar. I bent over to look at her and replied, "Yes, she is." She didn't recognize either of us. Instead she was busy playing with a doll. Her son's perhaps. I gave her lots of food. "For your evening meal." I said softly. She still didn't recognize me, and joined her hands and moved her head as if to say "thank you." With a heavy heart we drove back home.

As I write this I wonder where she is now. Or is she still alive? But one thing I know of her is that Devki was not always a beggar. No sir. She was an honest, sincere worker who had a purpose of life, a reason to work hard: to feed her son. Somebody took her purpose away from her, and she had nothing left in the world. And now whenever I look at a beggar by the road I ask myself "what kind of a wretched person it might have been, who took away his purpose of life from him?"

Kinshu

At the first glance to the title of this space, It may appear that I feel it is a big deal being me. To be honest, I do not. To make people who will eventually land up at this page clear about what I mean by that; It is just an attempt to describe what I felt, when I really felt the last time.

My life so far has been a confused crisscross of events - Some exhilaratingly happy, others devastatingly sad. But your's truly has never given up. As they say "The show must go on.." and it is going on for me. More like the first line of my father's favourite song "मै ज़िंदगी का साथ निभाता चला गया.."

I have my share of treasures too. I have earned some friends who I look forward to cherish all my life. I have a loving family including my Mom and Big B and am soon to have a beautiful and caring Bhabhi. I am the pampered youngest son of the family - the apple of their eye, hopefully not a rotten one. I am working for one of the best companies of our times and earning a salary, more than enough for me to survive. What else could I have asked God for?

There are some aspiration, some yet to be fulfilled dreams. An itch in my heart to do something I have been aspiring for a long enough time now.

This space is dedicated to all those people and things that rustle through my mind in a day's time.

More shall come, eventually, and make this space beautiful.

At least, let's hope so. :D