Here, I am attempting to review a classic historical treatise, which has won acclaim for itself from diverse corners of the world. I feel inadequate. To exacerbate my feeling of inadequacy, the fact that it has been more than a month since I finished this 700 page long book looms large over my head. Still, I have now been infected by this incurable urge of expressing my view about any and every book I read, here, on Nascent Emissions. So this post, essentially, is my 'view', not a 'review' of Freedom At Midnight.

History is not a hailed discipline in our education system. It is pursued by those whom science rejects and commerce repels. Even still, those who brag about their knowledge of historical occurrences do so on the basis of extensive reading of world history- the wars, the revolutions, the socio-economic evolution. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with it, but how many of us are actually aware of the history of India, and I here mean that part of Indian history which has perhaps been pivotal in shaping the landscape of India as we know it today? All of us have a decent idea about the Indian National Movement, the struggle for freedom, the Gandhis, the Nehrus, the Patels, the Partition; but are we really aware of what was it that went into making India one of the world's most successful secular democracies?

Lapierre and Collins, through their characteristic exhaustive research, attempt to answer the above question, and a lot many more. Their research was conducted precisely to recreate the drama and the hysteria surrounding just one event, perhaps the most important in the history of Modern India- that of Independence, concomitant to which was the Partition. The idea that I would be reading about 700 pages delineating just one event, however mammoth its significance, was both, intriguing and putting off. I am glad that intrigue prevailed. This book is not a mere collection of words, or recollection of incidents. This book is a magnum opus. And had it not contained its own set of controversial detailing, it might as well have been an indispensable reading for all students of history in India. For me, it still serves much as an authoritative text. When you go through page after page of tireless details, a certain amount of credibility and an acceptance of the veracity of facts builds up inside you along with respect for the authors for their painful investigation of even the minutest of events surrounding India's independence.

For those not used to Lapierre and Collins' writings- and they do have to their credit other historical works of unquestionable repute, viz, Paris Is Burning and O Jerusalem- the opening chapters of the book can baffle the reader with both, their verbosity and a little over-the-top detailing. However, that is how the authors set the scene. When you revisit events from Indian history via the narration of these authors, you will be certain to feel a thrill and gush of personal emotions even though everything they've written about is a veritable anachronism in the 21st century. Their book is layered with interesting trivia, the most interesting perhaps being the chapter dealing with the lifestyle, the essentially eccentric and amusing lifestyle of Indian Maharajas. Their role in consolidated Indian politics becomes relevant when the independence plan grants them an autonomy to decide which side of the border to join, or to remain independent. More trivia about the division of state property when India was being partitioned can leave you astonished, with anecdotes you would perhaps want to sit over with a coffee and share with your friends.

The book begins with the appointment of Lord Mountbatten as the last Viceroy of India, and goes onto scan in detail many incidents gone unnoticed by famed historians. Particularly interesting are chapters dealing with Cyril Radcliffe's predicament. He was the cartiographer deployed to undertake the surgical division of Indian mainland, the irony being he had never ever visited India prior to this assignment. The bloodbath which preceded and followed partition has been narrated in a manner to leave you shocked and stirred. Marvelous are the portions dealing in an elaborate manner with the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi.

What I personally loved about the book was the theatrics. Many events, including the riots, were not just described, but narrated as a story from the perspective of that one person who could be easily lost in a crowd, but who as an individual was profoundly affected by the same. The story builds up on you, in a way that you understand the magnitude and consequences of events you read as dull parts of draggy history text. The book dithers a bit too much upon the role of Lord Mountbatten, gloriously described, in the pre and post independence times, so much so that you are forced to feel if the authors had a predilection towards him. However, the latter half of the book more than redeems itself with the kind of aura it builds around the person who inhabits the very soul of India- Mahatma Gandhi. Many a book, including his autobiography, have I read about him, but none has made me fall in love and awe of him as much as Freedom At Midnight. The book also paints interesting portraits of Nehru, Jinnah and Patel- the other big players at the fore of the political battleground. And, most importantly, trust me, you really want to read this book to delve into the chilling details of the fanatical plan which was put in place to end Gandhi's haloed sojourn among us mortals.

On a scale of 5, not less than 4and 1/2 stars for me. This is one book we all should read, with a warning, it might just bore you in parts, but at the end of it, you will feel immense satisfaction for having dared to undertake this journey. The following are the protagonists of the saga of independence, and any story which builds on them, along with numerous other faceless characters, can be nothing less than outstandingly thrilling.

Lord Mountbatten

  

Mahatma Gandhi

Jawahar Lal Nehru

 

Mohammad Ali Jinnah

"Gori sove sej par, mukh par daare khes.
Chal khusro ghar aapne, saanjh bhai chanhu des."

Nestled at the heart of alleys bustling with religious books, flowers and chaadar for worship, food shops to feed the lesser privileged, and beggars hauling you from all sides is one of the most inspiringly spiritual places in all of Delhi- The Dargah of Khwaja Nizam-ud-din Auliya. Whether you visit his dargah with the faith of a devotee, or the curiosity of an explorer- the unmistakable aura in the air flowing through its sacred precincts will touch you in a pleasantly memorable way. Each visit of mine to this dargah has been a mystic experience. Here, I've always experienced tranquility and clarity of thoughts; and an urge to explore the ruhaniyat experienced in Auliya's presence a little more. 

Hazrat Khwaja Syed Nizam-ud-din Auliya was a sufi mystic belonging to the Chishti Silsila (meaning a chain or lineage) of Sufism, the other known name from the same silsila being that of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer Shareef fame.In Delhi Nizam-ud-din Auliya is arguably the most venerated sufi peer, with the largest list of devotees thronging his dargah each day of the week, at all hours of the day. My luck was shining bright the day I made my first visit to his dargah. While I was lost in the magnificent golden hues which reflect off the dome of the main shrine, some enamouring sufi music greeted my eager ears, and I squatted down for close to two hours on the cold marble floor of its courtyard, soaking in the beauty of the whole atmosphere. Maati ke tum deevare, jo suno hamari baat...

One of the gravest anomalies in my life is that I have not found myself touched by spirituality or divinity in the slightest measure. That was precisely the reason why I explored the whole courtyard of Auliya's dargah with a childlike curiosity and amazement. I was informed of Auliya's almost filial love for his mureed, Amir Khusrau, the last in the line of great peers to have consecrated our land with their presence. Auliya willed that a devotee first pay obeisance at Khusrau's dargah (lying in the same complex) before he proceeded to worship at his own shrine- such was his love for his devoted student. Sufi diaries are filled with fables of  the interactions between Auliya and Khusrau. The dance of dervishes first manifests in one of such fable. Listening to these fables in an erudite company while staring at humble heads bowing down in prayer at Auliya's doorstep is an experience I may not be able to put fairly to words.

I do distinctly remember this very fair, middle aged lady, dressed in a rich black fabric, sitting on the right side of the main shrine from my first visit to the dargah. She had her forehead pressed to the wall lining the inner sanctum on which were engraved some religious words in Arabic script which I obviously could not decipher. Upon close scrutiny I realized that she is mumbling something. On closer scrutiny I realized that she is cring softly, huge beads trickling down her cheeks. I checked myself immediately, for it felt grotesque to be intruding in someone's personal moment of connection with her Lord. But I did settle down myself near her. She was reciting one of the chapters of Quran, the Sura-e-yaseen. Did I say reciting? No, she was singing it in a lovely husky but muffled voice, stopping only to kiss the Arabic calligraphy decorating the wall. I sat for almost as long as she did, listening intently to her, not understanding a word, but experiencing something overwhelming. The last thing I remember from that day is some tears in my own eyes before I left the sacred courtyard.

Ever since, I do feel overwhelmed when I visit this dargah. Devotion, faith, amity, honesty, miseries, smiles, desires, gratitude, divinity-all of these are palpable in the very air of this place. Since spirituality is not my domain, I end up shedding soft tears, sometimes in confusions, at others in relief when there. Each time, it is an overwhelming, yet liberating experience of its own kind. There is so much still for me to understand about things which are not easily perceivable. The only thing I understand as of now is that Auliya preached a message of love, patience, tolerance and secularism while he was making his important contributions to our city's rich history around 13th century AD. Tolerance and patience are virtues I am attempting to imbibe in. Love is what I make sure to carry within myself each moment the way Auliya and other sufi mystics preached it. When it is to that love that one surrenders, the peace and bliss we so yearn for can be the only natural thing to follow.

Do visit the Nizam-ud-din dargah complex if you still have not. There are lot of other historically significant sites in the vicinity, more on which I would perhaps write later.

Sultan-ul-Mashaikh Nizam-ud-din Auliya's mysticism is all that has charmed an amateur Delhi explorer's quill as of now.

Notes.
1. The couplet at the beginning was composed by Amir Khusrau at the time of Auliya's demise. Succinctly, yet hauntingly it captures Khusrau's crestfallen state when his object of devotion had escaped from his mortal body.
2. Sultan-ul-Mashaikh is an epithet for Nizam-ud-din Auliya, often used as a prefix before his name. It toughly translates as the "King of spiritual guides".
3. A rickshaw ride from the Jangpura Metro Station on the purple line is what you would need to have your own personal rendezvous with Delhi's greatest sufi peer, and also his mureed.

No. I am not at all attempting to shed my image as a cheesy, hopeless romantic. Nor am I trying to opulently put on display some new found sagacity in matters of the heart, arrived at by some personal bitter experience. I am only amused at something I read. And in the present context of everything happening around me, I find it worth recording on my blog.

What is happening in my life is irrelevant. But largely, suffice to say that love-lorn hearts (including my own) are strewn around me; most with an ache- the others brimming with (transitory) bliss. In this transitional phase in life, transitioning towards maturity, we, inter alia, grow from being a student to a professional, from being carefree to being responsible, from being a dependent to an independent...and alongside, with a presumptuousness we form philosophical perspectives on various aspects of life. One of these perspectives, inevitably, is about love. The grandiloquence of it, or the mere futility of it.

Though my beliefs ascribe to the former category, there was a King in erstwhile times, approximately around the seventh century A.D., who immortalized himself in a single line, perspicuously displaying his disapproval of any heart that ever loved- "Dhik tam cha, taam cha, madanam cha, imaam cha, maam cha." In particular, he displays his disapprobation toward those who are attracted towards others, disregarding and being unfaithful towards their own beloved ones. Story says that Bhartihari, a distinguished scholar and poet, besides being a King, composed a verse after discovering the infidelity of his wife, which approximates in English as-

"She, of whom I think ceaselessly, is indifferent to me, 

She yearns after another man, who himself is attached to a third one,

While some other woman pines away for me,

Fie on that woman, on him, on the God of love, on my wife, and myself!"

(यां चिन्तया सततं मयि सा विरक्ता
साप्यनमिच्छति जनं स जनोन्यसक्तः
अस्मत्कृते च परितुष्यन्ति काचिदन्या
धिक् तां च तं च मदनं च इमां च मां च )

 What the poet alludes to in the above verse is a time tested consternation; I call it time tested because what the poet experienced in his mature years, a lot of my friends are experiencing in their yet young times. The extrapolation of the above line approximates to the poet's feeling that true love in this world in rare. Man tries to locate his happiness in that of his loved ones, and when he discovers them to be unfaithful, he turns wholly averse to the very concept of love. Sounds familiar? It does to me! When people question me (and sometimes when I question myself) about the idealistic nature which we attribute to a feeling as subjective and formless as love, at times I have no answer but just a smile which seeks to convey an incorrigible belief in the truth of this feeling. Sometimes that smile is to check within myself if the belief/faith is still there. May be according to the poet above, true love can exist only if it satisfies a condition of double coincidence of desires; which are not as rare in the present world as would be in a barter economy. May  be I hold consonance with this thought. But may be I don't.

I only seek to shy away questions of how and why which tirelessly attempt to generalize the wonder that love is. Unfortunate is the fact is that that people start generalizing the notions of love only after they think they've been scathed by it. So, a lot of times, they don't generalize, but demonize it- curse whom they once loved, curse the feeling itself. I know things get harsh and hard sometimes, but they are always meant to. This one thought should never be lost sight of. There stands no example of an enduring tale of love which has not been tested amid the worst of circumstances. It stand tall if it survived the test, and it crumbled if it could not. The fact also is that it crumbles only to give way to something more worthy in its place. 

This might sound like an overtly optimistic thinking; but I do not know a better way of living. I, from whatever I have learnt in life, will always avoid generalizing love. I usually believe in love stories which propagate the love is forever doctrine, in the most convincing way; but have also caught myself sometimes philosophizing about it having an organic character - something that lives, breathes and has a life span. The eternity is then justified as something sublime, which ends with the people in love, but ends for sure. Love sometimes is a strength, the other times the biggest weakness of a person. A firm believer in love is only once in a lifetime dogma, I have often urged, and encouraged people to move on; and have even witnessed perfectly successful love stories emanate out of the second or even the third tryst of love for some people. Holding on and letting go are both contradicting essentials for knowing and experiencing love. There is a lot which is ideal about love, nothing that can be idealized about it. Our best bet is to live it while it lasts. To hold on till we can. To be happy, and spread the smiles. Thereafter, if ill omens do manifest, faith will lead you on. And if it does not, you should know that you have to let go. Love is a feeling to make your life beautiful and worth living; not to turn it into a grotesque painting with all the wrong colors at all the wrong places. And if the latter is what you feel has happened with you, did you not know that the artist capable of redrawing the painting resides very much within you?

PS- If you read through till here, and you liked even a little of what you read, and you are a person in love, and you are slow-and-not-so-expressive, take this at the perfect opportunity of letting someone know, in may be a little sentence that he/she is special to you. Trust me, it might mean the world to someone. Even if it is just a friend, sometimes you simply need let people know.

Shubh Deepavali

 So, here. The festive season begins with full gusto from tomorrow. A little prelude to this Great Indian Festive Season is provided by the Dussehra, Diwali sets the pace, and all the brightness, gaiety, and celebratory fervor finally culminates into the arrival of a brand new year, heralding with itself brand new hopes and aspirations. I especially wait for this time of the year- when the weather is perfect, the mood is happy and time is ripe to rekindle old associations. Visiting relatives, calling up friends and exchanging gifts- besides the pooja, these happen to be my favorite aspects of Deepawali. However, since the past few years, as I have been gaining consciousness, I have also witnessed a marked decline in what was supposed to be the very purpose of these festivals- togetherness.

The morning of my Chhoti Diwali began with a text, not from a kith-or-kin, but from my efficient mobile service provider. The information intended for my perusal was that the standard rates of smsing would apply on 25th and 26th October, and it being the auspicious festival of lights, the upper ceiling on number or sms per day would not apply. Wonderful. This meant that more messages than I expected would be coming my way. And this, is not a very welcome thought for me.

I am not much of a texting person. True, I send out a lot of texts, but they are the last ditch attempts at keeping in touch with people who are too busy to make/receive calls, and way to busy to find time for more personal interactions. We are so preoccupied in life with I don't know what that even festivals are not spared the brunt of our busy schedules and our new age techniques of keeping up. Diwali, Holi or Christmas- the way we share wishes and happiness is by sending texts. Corrections- not sending, but 'forwarding' texts, in bulk. This serves as the perfect death of any personal touch, any warmth which is intended to be conveyed. I on my part (and a few other people like me, who I hope do exist) only cursorily glance at these texts. What I do read with a smile are the names of people forwarding me those texts. Rudely enough, I do not always reply back. Cutely enough, I call as many of them as I can. Not everyone picks up- the poojas, the socializing, cracker bursting keeps them busy. Everyone I have not been able to reach out are finally texted- and I type and send texts, not forward them. Somehow, I can't bring myself to.

There was a time when cards labelled 'Season's Greetings' would be delivered by the postman on our door, and a corner in the house was reserved for displaying these greetings. They were tangible, not like the e-cards which have an expiry of 15 days from the date of sending. Each person was wished personally, either through a warm hug, or a chirpy greeting over the phone. Diwali wishes were not posted perfunctorily on one's status for the world to itself take notice of. It is all very sad, especially for people like me, for whom keeping up with the pace of the progressive deterioration in relationships is a daunting task. Our families mandatorily command our presence; and what is not mandatory is easily ignored.

When in tenth standard, there was this particular question in English literature which used to be important from the board exam point of view. "Festivals keep humanity afloat. Justify." This was supposed to be answered with reference to A Christmas Carol, the last chapter in our English text book. It might appear naive, me ruminating upon what I did write as a high scoring answer in an internal exam, but all the points I argued are seeming more valid today than ever. Festivals are really about coming together, taking out time to do those things which the usual drill of life forbids us from doing. And I do not allude towards mindless partying in the least. Deepawali, in particular, is a festival which celebrates the homecoming, the re-union of our greatest mythological hero, Rama with his kingdom- akin to his extended family. We would be blessed if we could preserve the original spirit of this festival; that of sharing; that of dispelling darkness, that of making special people know that they are remembered and cared for.

If not for my exams four days hence, I would've had a really busy day ahead. Beginning from my Nanaji, to my school and college friends, each one would have been called up, and inquired after. I will make a few special calls though. And wait for a few special people to call me up before I call them.

For all my blog readers, warmest Diwali greetings. Try and abstain from formal forwarding this season. Visit people, call up friends, get updates on their life. What better time than now to share those genuinely missed smiles. Be not crippled by the all-pervasive facebook. Nothing matches the happiness on the face of relatives you meet, nothing matches the ring of laughter you share with your friends over the phone. Take out time, light Diya's with your family, and this darkest night of Shravan, make sure you dispel all the darkness from you heart. Have a happy and prosperous Deepawali.

May they shower their choicest blessings on you

उपमा कालीदासस्य भरवेः अर्थगौरवं

दण्डिनः पदलालित्यं माघे सन्ति त्रयो गुणाः 

From this Shloka (श्लोक) begins my much looked forward to journey in the resplendent world of Samskrit Literature. Aah! Pleasures galore.

Not since today, but since forever, I have wanted to more than take a peek into the stories- historical and mythical- written by the preeminent scholars of the most ancient among all languages spread over the SaptaSindhu- more commonly recognizable as the Aaryan India- संस्कृत. I did, to some extent, quench this desire by reading quite majestic English translations of the most common Samskrit epics- The Ramayana and the Mahabharata (and the Bhagavad Gita), along with the not so great translations of other exquisite pieces of Samskrit literature; but now, and for the past weeks, I am reading pieces of literary genius, in the language of the vidvaans themselves. And it is proving to be nothing short of an experience lending ecstasy at every bend and corner I encounter in this journey through the greatest of Samskrit works.

The above Shloka has been composed by an anonymous scholar, who, adhering to the most basic of poetic meters, has stated in succinct precision the most renowned of literary traits of four Samskrit poets of unparalleled accomplishments- कालीदास, भारवि, दण्डी, and माघ.

Kaalidasa- Upama Kaalidasasya

Hailed as the 'Kavikulguru', the above shloka points out to the mastery of Kaalidasa at weaving the most beautiful similes in his poems. His similes, the genius at comparing and contrasting and drawing parallels, lends a perspicacity to his poems, which makes the thoughts of the poet effortlessly enter the mind of his readers. Raghuvamsa and Kumarsambhavam are two easy testimonies to his glorious similes.

Bharavi- Bhaarave Arthgauravam

Bharavi has been accredited with writing few of the most poetically  beautifully verses, which are rich in both- beauty of language, and beauty of meaning. The above shloka specifically points out to the arthagaurav- his ability to express a plethora of meanings in the least possible words; in other words- the depth of words. While sifting through his Kiratarjuniyam, some of his verses virtually left me stunned, but this shall be the topic of one of my later writings.

Dandi- Dandinah Padlaalityam

I have not yet read any of Dandi's works so commenting this line would be difficult- but padlaalityam in basic terms implies the beauty as represented in the arrangement of words in his prose. Of his most famous creations in Dashkumarcharitam, which I happen to be reading at present.

Maagh- Maaghe santi trayo gunah

As remarked by certain scholars, Maagh was perhaps the most accomplished of all kavis, as far as the beauty of his compositions if concerned. This is concurred by the anonymous composer of the shloka under discussion, who grants the climax of his shloka to Maagh, stating that the Great kavi Maagh has all three of the discussed qualities- upama, arthgauravam, and padlaalityam.

Not much is available about these poets on the internet, but I guess it is a blessing in disguise for a seeker of literary treasures, like me. I was driven towards more authentic sources to aid my learning, and in my quest, I am being guided by the ablest of mentors available- my mother- one of the best Samskrit teachers in Delhi. Her zeal to teach makes me want to learn faster.

PS- The last piece of gyaan bestowed on me today is whether they write prose or poetry, the writers in Samskrit are addressed as 'Kavi'- गद्यकवि (Gadyakavi)  and पद्कवि (Padkavi)

August 15th, 2011

Happy Birthday, India!

 Today was the most beautiful morning of the season to wake up to. I won't get poetic uselessly. It was not as if the air carried a whiff of freedom with itself, or that the first breathe I inhaled made me feel romantically attached to the land I was born in. It was simply a beautiful morning. I was wrapped up head to toe in my bed sheet, shivering as I woke up. A scene similar from last year greeted me. As I stepped into the wet balcony, bare-feet, the sight of a rain-washed street was the first to be registered at the back of my head. However, this time, there were add ons. I could hear the faint rhythm of drums from somewhere in the distance, making the otherwise quiet and lazy morning come alive for sometime. I was imagining, quite creatively, teenagers splashed with colors of the tricolor, dancing away to celebrate the 65th year of our freedom. My reverie was broken by the shrill voices of excited kids running right over my head, on my terrace, their attention fixated on the kites they had been flying since, I reckon, the moment the rain gods showed mercy. How did I miss it? Now that I looked up at the sky, I could not see many, but at least some kites. A celebration of our glorious Independence Day is incomplete without the ritualistic kite flying. I was happy that the rains had not spoilt the fun, and the custom. They had, rather, added to the day.

I am a die hard patriot. Having said that, I will confess to being a buffoon, and not exactly knowing what does being a patriot mean. I feel irrevocable attached to my country, and don't have notions of ever wanting to venture out. I am filled with, not violent anger, but some rage at least, when I see things going wrong and people doing wrong to my country. But do I concretely do anything about it? I am not sure. In a discussion with cynics, I always end up taking my country's side, sometimes adamantly, sometimes foolishly. But the moment I get time to reflect on what those cynics had to say, I find much truth and reason in their thoughts which can be easily labeled as 'anti-India'. I keep on my toes, doing my bit for the community, whenever I get a chance. In college, I got more than my share of chances to do good, be good, make a difference. But was that enough? And now that I am out, will I get such chances still? I'll have to work harder than just hum some patriotic tunes, and feel an intense attachment to this country I so pride upon.

I have never celebrated the Independence Day, except for a day or two in advance when I was in school and in college. Last night, however, there was a little family gathering, which, by chance, got extended to the north of 0000 hours. The first scene that I recalled as soon as the Independence Day officially began was that of a mad crowd of people outside a liquor shop in Uttam Nagar, hoarding for the Dry Day that is today. They were uncountable, and uncontrollable. I was left pondering if liquor was to be their means of celebrating our independence, or it was simply a need and a fetish they could not let go off even for a single day. Back at the family gathering, I was asked to sing. I wanted to sing something patriotic, given the time and the occasion, but the hesitance and the disapproval among the younger ones at my choice of song was more than palpable. The elders of the family intervened. Few stories were exchanged. We sang Saare Jahaan Se Achchha in a chorus. My elder relatives re-lived their college days. The nods and smiles as we fumbled on the lyrics and corrected ourselves was heart warming. This is one of the many songs we should know, must know- not for showing off, but to teach to our younger generations, to let them feel the vigor which comes with singing these songs in a chorus and absorbing the lyrics. My mother, father and many other elders have lived through the war years, the China and the Pakistan wars. A few more stories were shared. I was asked to sing again. And then, I hummed these lines-

"Thi khoon se lathpath kaya, 

Phir bhi bandook utha ke, 

Dus Dus ko ek ne mara

Phir gir gaye hosh ganva ke,

Jab ant samay aaya toh,

Keh gaye ke ab marte hain,

Khush rehna desh ke pyaaron,

Ab hum toh safar karte hain"

An epochal composition, this song resides in all of our hearts. No matter how many times I sing it over, it can never sound mundane to me. It mesmerizes me. However, the lines which echoed in my head on my way home, with cool breeze lashing against my face, as my car sped on a deserted road were these-

रहबर राहे मौहब्बत रह न जाना राह में

लज्जत-ऐ-सेहरा नवर्दी दूरिये-मंजिल में है

ऐ शहीदे-मुल्को-मिल्लत मैं तेरे ऊपर निसार

अब तेरी हिम्मत का चर्चा ग़ैर की महफिल में है

खींच कर लाई है सब को कत्ल होने की उम्मींद,

आशिकों का जमघट आज कूंचे-ऐ-कातिल में है ।

These are three of my favorite verses from perhaps the best patriotic poem ever written. I've recited these at the conclusion of numerous Independence Day functions in school and college. They induce a vigor which lurks in my heart till much longer. Right now, they make me want to fight towards a freedom, which rids the society of prejudices, antiquated traditions, opportunism, hypocrisy and corruption. Yes, corruption too. I do not know if I will go and be physically present to lend my support to the movement which our generation is fortunate for being a testimony to. It is not merely a chance for us to be a part of something good, but the most favorable opportunity to raise our voice against the hydra headed monster hell bent upon sucking the last of resources from our economy, and for once take responsibility on our own shoulders for heralding a change. I do not know if I will at all be able to lend visible support to the movement. But the lights of my home will remain off, at least in a show of mute solidarity to the cause. This is my country being debated about. And if today I cannot show that I belong to it, I do not know when will another chance come my way. 

Jai Hind!

 




 

I know it is a protracted response. By now, much of the ecstasy-laden-disbelief would have subsided. By now, most of us would have accepted that we are world champions. The dancing, singing and shouting would have been over. The inebriation after gulping down bottles after bottles of alcohol would have become history. The SMS chains would have broken. The tears would have dried. The demands of a National Holiday ended. Yes, many of us are still congratulating each other, but the instant laughter has metamorphosed into a more smug smile, which will linger on with a firm cognizance of the fact that we are number one! Our greatest national passion, Cricket, has triumphed! Our team has won, and made us all proud.

Yes, I am a little late, but I have to express my absolutely crazy delight at the Indian victory.

It was a perfect catharsis. The moment we won, my apartment building reverberated with a collective roar of jubilation. Everyone ran out. Gathered in the society park, and broke into impromptu jigs, even before a Dholi was summoned to make our celebrations more rhythmic. Even as everyone was shouting for me to come out, I remained firmly glued to my television set. We had won, but my favorite part was yet to come. No, not the Presentation Ceremony, but the celebrations on field. Players were crying on field, and I was crying with them. I had still not registered what had happened, but I knew it was a major event, and I knew about millions of us were happy. I was happy to be happy with them. My neighbourhood aunty remarked- 'This is the third Diwali I am witnessing!" She was so true. Crackers, and fireworks coruscating the sky. It was a national festival, only this time not bound to some religion. It was bigger. Much bigger.

It is for him that they claimed they did it- for the legend, the phenomenon, the God of Cricket- Tendulkar

It was sheer pleasure being treated to this site (gratitude to HT photo gallery for preserving such amazing moments). I was left pondering for a long time as to what would be crossing the mind of this great man. So much adulation, so much love, so much respect- a living, breathing idol. 

And even as I was thinking all of this, my eyes were searching for that face which has made me sit in front of the television set for hours to catch a single glimpse of his while India fielded. He is that cricketer, who made my teen years more cherishable. I had a mad crush, and it was, of course, him! So while my two best friends, in an innocent eighth standard classroom, somewhere around the 2003 world cup declared a war between Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly, I would proclaim in all snobbishness that they both did not stand up anywhere in front of Zaheer Khan- my one and only love from the world of cricket. Even before I completed my sentence, the whole class would be staring at me incredulously. In fact, contemptuously. While in my heart I would feel a little sheepish, I would never allow the sheepishness to reflect on my face. With an air of conceit still accessorizing my face, I would then go on to defend my choice. I would offer 'expert' opinions of his bowling in that naive tongue of mine (most of it a repetition of what the commentators would have said extolling Zak). More than the bowling, I would rant on about his looks- his athletic physique, his intense eyes, his boy-next-door appeal. I has a pathetic teenage crush on him, something I in no way will ever regret. 

At that time, Zaheer was an upcoming talent, and understudy of the much revered Javagal Srinath. I was smitten by him the first match I saw in World Cup 2003- India versus Holland, which India, conveniently won. I had no understanding of the sport, so I could never understand why experts criticized him, whenever they did. For me, every ball of his was a wicket taking delivery. It was a celebration for him when he would be declared the Man of the Match (I remember two such occasions, one from WC 2003 itself). On his birthday, I would be silly happy. My fondness for him was so well known, that once, one of my friends gifted me a print out of his bio data, just because she wanted to make me happy. And happy I was. Very very happy! 

The naivity had gone now. The fondness has not. I still watch cricket matches to catch as many glimpses of his as I can. And I still have that eight year old copy of the bio data. It is torn along all folds, but, it is still very cherishable. 

So, as Kumar Sangakkara put India in to field first, I was obviously waiting for our bowling spearhead to give our team an awesome start in the Final. Honestly, I was scared. The memories of WC '03 Final were still ripe. Zaheer had to bury some very ugly ghosts from the past. He did it! And in style! He gave India the best start possible, made the Lankans starve for runs, and got the first breakthrough by taking Tharanga's wicket. He bowled three straight maidens in the Final, a feat, I believe, is unparalleled in any records. His last two overs did yield some 30 odd runs for the opposition, but for me, it is insignificant. From being plagued by persistent injuries, to losing his place in the team to upcoming stalwarts like Irfan Pathan, Zaheer has bounced back as India's pace spearhead, has been touted as second Wasim Akram, and regarded as a bowler with tact and adroitness to make India stand tall in front of the most intimidating batting oppositions. For me, this World Cup was about seeing him shine. Even when he has performed bad, I have never felt let down. But this time, what was special was, he did not let the country down. Every one sang his praises. Those praises were honey to my ears. Kudos Zaheer! You made us proud!

(A little photomontage of his best time frozen moments I could find on Google images)

"A gun is a reasonably good way of settling an argument but, unfortunately for his assassins, the posthumous Gandhi turned out to be as dangerous as the living one." -Ashish Nandy

I have never been an admirer of the much hailed Father of Our Nation, Mahatma Gandhi. It was my ignorance. I have always been more in touch with people who seek pleasure in denouncing the personality that Gandhi was, and who glorify his misgivings much above his contribution towards making India which we are proud of today. Of the many good things I derive out of my recently acquired habit of reading newspapers with a pious, unwavering dedication is feeding on knowledge which is dynamic in essence. I always knew that the Martyrs Day was celebrated on 30th of January, the day when the hand of the Mahatma which blessed our land with a sort of filial love was robbed of us, forever. However, it never happened that I understood the importance of this day. For that matter, many a 30th Januaries came and went- little did I even realize them passing by. Not for once did I stop to pay a brief homage to the soul of this great benefactor of India, whose ideals, though largely an anachronism for many around me, still haunt that part of my mind which is blindly patriotic- and proudly so.


I regret it. I regret never having understood Gandhi. Never having devoted time to it. It is quite riveting to read the venerable journalist, Karan Thapar insinuate towards the not so admirable facets of Gandhi's idealism through his column in one of India's leading daily. It is equally riveting to read a reply to Mr. Thapar's article in the same newspaper by Gandhi's grandson- Rajmohan Gandhi- a prolific scholar, a human rights activist, noted political figure, and the winner of the prestigious Biennial Award from the Indian History Congress in 2007 for his book A True Story of A Man, His People and An Empire, Gandhi's biography. And what was most fantastic while reading the two articles was a conspicuous realization of the fact that there was so much of history of my own land which I failed to connect to, despite having harbored loud ambitions of one day serving the country to the best of my capacities. Knowledge in this context is certainly not irrelevant, in fact, it is most imperative. The present system of education (encompassing the preparations for most governance related competitive examinations) invariably makes us a slave to facts; not for once endeavoring to give us enough time and space for understanding and developing ideologies and principles which we may regard as our own, and which remain a part of our system through every stage of life. A cornucopia of facts can only baffle us, while a cognizance and identification of the ideological path which we seek to tread on can certainly elevate us above our puerile self; aiding in the process of decision making and lending us that coveted mental clarity, without which, any discernment is hollow.


It was in an article in one of the many newspapers I follow that I came across information pertaining to a Fast Unto Death being organized at Jantar Mantar to register loud, but non violent protests against the high degree of corruption pervading our country, by the veterans of an organization called the Gandhian Satyagraha Brigade. This news piece stirred a now dormant part of my memory. A little more than a month ago, I had had the good fortune of meeting up with the vanguard of this long enduring movement against corruption and the honorary General Secretary of the GSB. It was a tryst by chance- but one, that continued to haunt me for long. And I promised myself that I would write about it, a promise that was submerged under a deluge of assignments, examinations and then placement stresses. So 'today' I feel is the perfect day for me race back to that day, and recapitulate, and record in words everything that is worth remembering from then.


Mr. Shambhu Dutt. A nonagenarian. A freedom fighter. A really young and energetic old man. An invitation to meet him came my way through Colonel Dharmadhikary, who works for Transparency International, the very same organization which has ranked India 87 on an index of corruption, in the derisive company of states like Iran. Colonel was a dapper old man, who made me want to listen to him once he started speaking. He requested me to take out time and visit the office of GSB, to meet a 95 year old young man, fighting against the most ugly form of contemporary social evils- Corruption- much in the Gandhian spirit. Colonel said that a dialogue with the young, concerned blood of the nation will infuse a lot of courage and enthusiasm in the heart of this freedom fighter. It was not an invitation I could deny. And so, on a cold winter morning, I set out with my friend Namit, to honor my commitment of meeting Mr. Shambhu Dutt, not knowing what to expect, and pondering even if it was worth undertaking the effort.


It was not a meeting. It was an experience. This I realized the moment I sat down across the table from this affable person in his late nineties, who gave me a very comprehensive peek into the post independence history of corruption in our nation. The medium of our conversation was the Colonial language- English- and the way he spoke his long monologues, I could only feel like a buffoon for sitting there, taking down notes under the table on his linguistics, rather than the content of his speech. He was an austere man, firmly dedicated to the vision of one day living in an India totally free of the hydra headed monster of corruption. Besides explaining to me their three demands from the government, viz., appointment of an effective Lokpal, confiscation of illegally acquired property and disqualification of candidates seeking to contest election who have a pending criminal case against them, he laced his talks with a lot of inspiring opinions and interesting anecdotes. He expressed his angst on the way the common man today has accepted corruption as way of life, and explained to me and Namit the top-down approach at combating corruption which their organization endorses. He stressed the need for the higher echelons of governance to be transparent, because corruption breeds from higher to lower levels. He gave us a lecture on the recalcitrant attitude of the government to go ahead with any concrete step that would help retard the monster of corruption which has already devoured much of the resources of our economy. He told us several other things which have, unfortunately slipped off my mind.


A lot of times while he was speaking, I could feel several miniscule tremors at various parts on my body, which, I later realized were very visible goosebumps. At other times while he spoke, I felt acute derision for myself when I contrasted my often bleak visions of my own future with this nonagenarian's bright, zealous and enthusiastic hopes from tomorrow. A flippant remark on the impossibility of him being able to celebrate his next birthday made my heart sink a little, but my heart sank a lot more when I could witness in documents the callousness of the Indian administration at administering its own subjects. 


Mr. Shambhu Dutt was a true Gandhian who went on reiterating that it was not possible to ever be a true Gandhian. His earlier name was Shambhu Dutt Sharma, but he renounced his surname in opposition to the caste based atrocities which are rampant in our country. I had never in my dreams imagined that I would ever hear from a freedom fighter himself what having fought in the famous Quit India Movement would have been like. He resigned from administrative services under the British Raj a day after Gandhiji was jailed in QIM. Quite promptly, he too was imprisoned. "Now when I reflect back on it Colonel, I feel it was a very wise thing to do. I would never have been entitled to my freedom fighter's pension had I not gone to jail- the only thing I ever did and was tagged a freedom fighter!"- he gently jests while looking at Colonel who was still accompanying us, in the concluding moments of our rendezvous. 


I smiled at myself, finished my tea, collected a daintily prepared envelope which was given to me as a souvenir from this meeting. While Namit gathered most of the attention because of his composed outlook when the monologues were still going on, I was happy I could make a lot of notes which surely added a great deal to the pool of knowledge I was desiring to create for myself. Colonel thanked us for taking out time and keeping our word. We thanked him back for giving us this experience. It was nothing formal- we both meant every word of gratitude we expressed. 


Upon returning, I sank back in my bed, and started rummaging through the contents of the envelop given to me. It had a lot of documents- letters, publications etc. At the beginning of one of the articles were mentioned the three basics which the Satyagrahis of the GSB swore by-

1. There is no room for untruth or violence in a Satyagraha.
2. In Satyagraha there is no enemy.
3. A Satyagrahi knows no defeat.

The last one sounded like a cool thing to inculcate in myself. So did the second, and may be the first too. 

Suddenly, Gandhi no longer seemed distant, or anachronistic. That night, upon reflecting, I could become a little more perceptive of his influence on the modern polity. The Gandhigiri propounded by Raj Kumar Hirani, no longer seemed only a cinematic concept, or at best, a gimmick. I am still to understand Gandhi, but so far, what I have heard of him sounds good. It sounds good enough to intrigue me into reading a lot more about him. For today, I tried reading about the Gandhian Satyagrahi Brigade on their official website. Along with the above mentioned three basics of a Satyagrahi, a quote by Gandhi adorned the first page of the website. I find it worth sharing.

Corruption will be out one day, however much one may try to conceal it, and the public can, as its right and duty, in every case of justifiable suspicion, call its servants to strict account, dismiss them, sue them in a law court or appoint an arbitrator or inspector to scrutinize their conduct, as it likes.

- Mahatma Gandhi

 (If you feel like, you can read more about this organization run by some really dynamic and young-at-heart concerned citizens of our society-http://gandhiansatyagrahabrigade.org/)

I am no connoisseur of literature. I am just an hapless addict, who is forever beguiled by the rich, commanding, resplendent world that books (novels in particular) offer. My own cute way of referring to the books is not to call them 'my best friends', rather, 'my intoxicants', the only ones capable of elevating me above my surroundings, and drawing me into another galaxy. Mentioned below are five books from my own mini library, which according to me are a must read for every single person belonging to my environment. A curious fact about these books is that they are all authored by Indians, but then, that is how I am prejudiced as far as literature is concerned.

1. 'My Experiments With Truth' by Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi Every Indian, irrespective of caste, creed, age, religion must read this book. It is, for me, one of those books which can be termed as a life changer (and has proven to be for a few people I know). The lesser said about this book, the better, but I would advise everyone to at least attempt to take a peek into the life of that man, who has veritably contributed the most in the making of modern, Independent India.

2. 'Train To Pakistan' by Khushwant Singh

 In my view, Khushwant Singh is the greatest storyteller ever to have been born on the soil of India. His first novel, the Train to Pakistan makes nothing short of an compelling, invigorating, and satisfying read. With one of the most vivid and poignant portrayals of India's bloodbath during partition, this book is written such that at no point will the reader feel detached from the narrative; rather, if the reader is like me, he would end up crying more than once, for the pangs of partition would be too much to bear even for him.

3. 'The Broken Nest'/ 'The Home and The World' by Rabindranath TagoreI've always rued the fact that I can't read Bengali, for Bengali literature is touted as one of the finest and richest in India; but thanks to the translations, I've been able to go through the writings of someone who should ideally be called the Father of Modern Indian Literature - Rabindranath Tagore. These two books make for an excellent starter if you want to delve into the wealth of Bangla literature


4. 'Our Trees Still Grow In Dehra and other stories' by Ruskin Bond         
He is an author for all seasons, for all ages. He looks at India the way no Indian can. He can make you feel attached to the Indian soil the way you yourself might never be able to. The magic of this collection of short stories can be felt only if you read them; my only guarantee would be that Mr. Ruskin Bond absolutely does not know how to leave his readers dissatisfied.

5. 'Ramayana'/ 'Mahabharata' by C. Rajagopalachari
 Although attributed to their original authors, Valmiki and Ved Vyasa respectively, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata have many versions in different languages of India. This version, published by Bhavan's books, has been penned down by Rajaji, the first Indian Governor General of independent India, and has been written in a style that despite assimilating the facts of all the different versions, is striking in its originality and beauty.

Is it strange that I have not been perturbed by any sort of intrigue about the much hyped, recently released Aishwarya and Abhishek starrer RAAVAN? Well, at least my cousin thinks so as he gives me those incredulous looks when I tell him I don’t care about the ‘hot new looks’ of the stars or the scenic locations or the great direction of Mani Ratnam which has surely made this movie a masterpiece. Frankly, I am glad the film has bombed at the box office (1 and ½ star rating by HT), a befitting answer to all those die heard Abhishek fans, eagerly awaiting the release of the epic film, hailed as a ‘landmark’ in his career. It may still turn out to be just that, but for me, the hullabaloo surrounding it has been consistently incomprehensible.

What I am glad for, though, is the fact that due to this movie, the media and the intellectuals have been compelled to undertake a debate on the conceptualization of ‘villain’ in our society, in our films, for once trying to give their characters their due respect. This is most aptly stated in the following lines- “Every story needs a villain. The Jain Chronicles are very clear about this. For every Vasudeva, they say, there must be a Prati-Vasudeva. Against Rama stands Ravana, against Krishna stands Kansa. In fact, the villain comes first, justifying the existence of the hero. The villain’s villainy props up the hero’s heroism, justifies the adoration and worship.” (-Devdutt Patnaik, mythologist, and author of The Pregnant King)

A particular source of fascination for me has been the obsession of print and electronic media with revisiting the much celebrate, legendary villain-Ravana- straight out of the epic Ramayana, composed by Valimiki. He is the iconic villain- one whom we love to hate!

Having my mother as a Sanskrit teacher has its own advantages. I dunno how small was I when my innocent tongue started chanting these lines-

“Damadamadamadamanninadavadamarvayam
Chakaarchandtaandavam tanotuna shivashivam”

I never understood their meaning - I still don’t. I was merely overtaken by the rhythm and vigor that emanated while chanting the initial part of these lines. What I do know today is the fact that these lines constitute the second part of the first verse of the 16 verse long Shiva Tandava Stotram, composed by the Asura king Ravana himself. When the fact that Ravana was a staunch devotee of Shiva, so much so that he composed this Stotram to appease the Lord from his petrifying anger, was first revealed to me, I stood in disbelief. Ravana was the sinister demon king who abducted Sita leading to his own destruction at the hands of Rama- how could someone like him be then related to a figure of a deeply religious and learned king, I failed to fathom.

“Ravana is a symbol of evil”- has it not been fed into our system since the time we were toddlers, and were still learning to identify figures, and used to sing alphabets along with other nursery rhymes? We couldn’t boast of any worldly wisdom at that time when our grandmother taught us that evil always gets defeated at the hands of good, as is the case of Ravana, during one of her bedtime story sessions. Such are the common, conventional and delusional wisdoms imparted to us through the oral transmissions of our mythologically rich heritage. Did anyone tell us that the immoral son of sage Vishravas and Kaikesi was actually a learned Brahmin and a great scholar of his time? Did anyone bother to tell us that he is ascribed as the author of Ravansamhita, the most powerful treatise on astrological investigations derived from our Vedic texts? Did anyone tell us that there exist communities in unknown interiors of our country, for whom, Ravana is the only deity they’ve ever worshipped? Did anyone tell us that there is a Jain temple dedicated to the mighty king Ravana near Alwar? Perhaps no one told us because they themselves are not aware. I myself was not, till I saw and was captivated by a documentary on NDTV India this weekend, my eyes glued to the TV screen as I stared at an idol of “lord” Ravana- perhaps for the first time witnessing a serene, and ‘vinamra’ expression on his face, as against the ‘raudra’ image as is commonly perceived in our society.

So today, Ravana stands for me not as the widely professed super-villain, but as an ambivalent figure- part daitya and part Brahmin. His ten heads would not so much frighten me as they did when I was a kid, for today I know his ten heads are symbolic of profound knowledge of four Vedas, and six Upanishads. I will recall him to mind as the composer of the hypnotic Shiva Tandava Stotram, whose hubris was karmically fated to be subdued by Rama. The next time I see Ravana go up in flames on Dussehra, the biggest celebration of triumph of good over evil as witnessed in India, I will for once bow my head humbly to the great and glorious demon king, who has ‘clearly fallen victim to the distinction drawn in Ramayana by Valmiki between a good human guided by moral ethics and marital bonding, and the Rakshasa Jati- the race of demons and illusionists who practice profligate living.’ (HT, 20/06/10).

While I do read in my Indian Culture readings about Samudragupta, the scion of illustrious Gupta dynasty, famously called the ‘Indian Napolean’ by V.A. Smith, as being a prolific veena-vaadak, it has been little in my cognizance, as of most around me that Ravana himself was an unparalleled player of the Veena- the instrument most profoundly associated with the image of the goddess of learning, Saraswati, herself.

The next time I go through the much simpler and abridged version of my copy of C. Rajagopalachari’s Ramayana, I will be in a position to give much more thought to the fact that Ravana is not simply a figure who should be used as an instrument to establish the good and astute image of maryadapushottam Rama year and year again in our highly saffronized society as his effigy goes up in flames during Dussehra; he is a legend in himself, capable of imparting much wisdom to all of us. As I rue the way the good and the evil forces were balanced inside Ravana, I remember the following quote I read in HT’s Saturday Editorial, written by Gopalkrishna Gandhi, former Governor, West Bengal- “While I too believe in Gods, I don’t believe that God concerns himself with the fates and actions of individual human beings- in their daily chores, in their pettinesses and quarrels, in their moments of joy and sorrow… As a Zoroastrian, I believe that good an evil exist as separate forces and that the world we live in is a battlefield.” – Fali Nariman

With Ramayana having already attained its much exaggerated place amongst us, I am eagerly waiting to grab my copy of the ‘Ravanayana’. ‘Ravana’ definitely is the flavor of the season!

Sooti chhaan, rang mahal maa,
sooti na aayo re janjaad,
sapna re bairi, jhootho hi aayo re.
Dag dag mehlaan ootri,
gayi gayi samad-tadaav,
Kurzaan e mhaaro, bhanwar mila de re.

You see her in fields, you see her in mountains. You see her laboriously working her way through a soop to free grains from impurities, you see her pumping air out of her lungs into choolha so her her family is fed. You see her sowing the fields, you see her weaving cloth. You see her all around you- yet, the presence you don't appreciate!

The above quoted lines are from a folk rajasthani song, which i have been singing since perhaps i was eleven. The beauty of this song would fill me, the melody of it would escape my lips even before i knew it. In my head for the past many years, it took a long, long time when the actual beauty and worth of its lyrics dawned on me. Now this song wasn't confined to regional music competitions; now it had acquired a meaning- and a beautiful one that is. Now i had started comprehending a life which i knew would never touch me; but wouldn't stop fascinating me either.


Rajasthan has always been a place that has enamoured me- beckoning me with all its varied hues and vibrant cultures. More intriguing for me have been the native women of this land, and the lores and traditions skirting them. I associate them with a typical kind of appearance- long, bright, flowing ghagras; intricately woven cholis, with sunlight reflecting off the embedded mirrors; odhnis in variegated colors, swaying to the command of the flowing breeze; and heavy, (coveted) silver jewellery.

Spotting any of them on my way to Jaipur transports me into the world of my imaginations, centred around them and their lives. Most of these women are married at the age when we, the proud urban class, have still not got a hold of what it means to be a women. My aim here is not to express dissent to the phenomenon of child marriages- yes, they are rampant in Rajasthan- but in this article, I am trying to reflect on the bountiful feminism, leaving aside all rage and frustration for having been treated as inferiors. These womenfolk are very muh snug in the lives they lead, and have carved around themselves, with discontent not getting any place in their busy schedules.

It is apt to relate an anecdote here, that was told to us by Dr. Suman Sharma (Dept. of Pol. Sc. Moti Lal Nehru College). In an interior village, somewhere in India, a counselling group intiated a programme on family planning, that they intended to air through a locally operating channel, and were looking for a suitable time slot for the same. When they went out to survey, the menfolk were convenient with almost any slot. The problem occured when women were approached. Assumed to be easily bought, it is the women who were tough customers. Morning time- "No, no! we've to send our kids to school. Too much work." Later- "Husbands leave for work, have to lay their breakfast." Afternoon- "No! Have to clean house, make lunch, wash clothes, and carry lunch for our husbands in fields." The other hours during the day weren't much different. After much discussion and persuasions, only a half hour slot could be identified.....Oh! Our benevolent mothers and wives....

Anyway, so the song quoted at the beginning voices the sentiments of a married woman, who has been pining and praying for the return of her beloved for many years now. Nothing, absolutely nothing has lessened her love, devotion, and commitment towards her husband. Sitting in fields, lost in thought, she reflects on what it would be like when 'he' returns. She envies the other females on the common village well when she goes to fetch water, because they all chatter away about their husbands- the gifts and care and attention they recieve. When she cooks, she worries if her husband has eaten. At night she can't sleep. She tosses and turns at misses him, and wonders when will he be back.

What a contrast it is to our new age woman, for whom, sustaining a long distance relationship is like an unconquerable feet. Here we are talking of a woman, who is not even keeping in touch with her beloved, her only communication being an occassional letter, nothing more, that comes and makes her heart dance. When she gets frustrated, she turns to all elements of nature, searching for omens that night predict 'his' return. The innocent women in her is even prepared to bribe the Almighty with all she has, only to get her beloved back.

Sitting in the snug zones of our cozy, comfortable living rooms, we look at these women with contempt. We pity their lifestyles, we call them 'not-ambitious', we distance ourselves and our innate feminine nature from them. We think ourselves superior. We think we are sensible, for we make wiser choices in life. This, however, is not the case. These village women have sensibilities of their own, ambitions of their own. Being a good homemaker, a good wife, a good mother is what their ambitions and aspirations comprise of. We call their vistas constrained. If their sensibilities do not conform to ours, we have NO right to scorn at them. These are women, grounded, simple, and living lives much more virtuously than we ourselves ever can. Their biggest asset, in my view, is their 'simplicity'- their loving, caring, and giving nature. They don't demand for themselves. The just know how to make someone else's life better, even if it is by killing their own desires.

My song, that has sort of stringed this articles together, concludes with a couplet, which suffices to throw enough light on the love these women hold for their husbands deep within their hearts. Love, which is so giving that it doesn't for once consider that their husbands might be so lost in the better lives they lead in cities and towns where they work, that they might not even be thinking of the wives they've left back home....

"Kaaga sab tan khaaiyo, chun chun khaiyo maas,
Do naina mat khaaiyo, mohe piya milan ki aas."

(She pleads to the scavengers, that should she die waiting for him, feed on all except her eyes....her eyes still, just once want to behold his form in them)