We do miss you.

The Google doodle today, i.e. 17th September, bears an imprint of perhaps the most intrinsic part of my childhood. I have no memory when I got introduced to Tinkle comics, I just know I used to have a huge collection of them; every single comic prized. Like many other children who grew up with me, I too was into the habit of calling the remarkable creator of these comics as "Uncle Pai", and had a secret resolve that some day, when I am worthy enough, I will have Uncle Pai pat my back. Unfortunately, earlier this year, this enterprising and affable educationist, formally recognized as Anant Pai, passed away. My secret, innocent childhood resolve, struck my mind again, as did the thought that the resolve was best forgotten. Uncle Pai, who had guided me through numerous science projects, given me witty stories to reproduce in class and connected me to many more readers my age via their personal stories, is gone. I always wanted to, but never wrote to him. May be today I should, however silly it seems.

Dear Uncle Pai,

A very happy birthday to you. 

I have been one of your greatest admirers. When I was little, I never understood the manner in which you were enriching my life. Today, I do. In February, when I heard of your demise, I opened the neglected and dust ridden trove of my childhood books, only to glance back at the wonderful comics you made. Those comics did not even adhere to the definition of comics. They were educative, and yet, very interesting. For the most precious years of my young life, I have remained hooked to them.

Wasn't he the cutest?

I had a December ritual of rereading all the issues published during the year in just about a week. It was as if, I did not want any single story to be erased from my mind, so I kept on revising them. This much of dedication I never showed to my class texts- this loyalty was reserved for Shikari Shambhi, Kalia the Crow, Suppandi and Tantri the Mantri exclusively.

In my early days, I never enjoyed Anu Club. I needed to grow up to appreciate the effortless knowledge which came my way even through a very cursory reading of his experiments. My Science Projects, one I definitely remember on Sea Creatures, has been simply copy pasted from the informative features which were sine qua non of these path-breaking and endearing comics.

 
There was this feature, "It Happened To Me", which regularly appeared in Tinkle. Every interesting incident that took place in my life is carefully recorded in my journal, with me each time imagining as if I am writing it to Tinkle and young readers are gasping and laughing at my stories. You, Uncle Pai, made me pursue my diary writing habit with fondness, something of which, I am very proud. However, if today, I were to tell you a story for you to publish in the same column, then I would perhaps tell you of my very old friend, whose name is hazy on the pages of my memory, but whose face I distinctly remember. Some ten years back, he had come to Delhi from Nagaland to pursue the better quality of studies on offer in Delhi. My class teacher made his sit with me, but he never would talk to me. In a week I realized that he was very sad, and lonely; for he acutely missed his family, his friends, his toys. I was sad, and tried to be really good friends with him, but after school, he had nothing to do. No one to talk to, given that he was an introvert. So, I decided that every weekend, I would him give some copies of Tinkle to read- what better friends could there be for a lonely introvert. And this trend became the happiest memory of my bond with him. When he left school, he thanked me profusely, not for my friendship- but for sharing those comics. The excitement in those pre-teen eyes for getting some new copies of Tinkle to read still warms my heart.

The letter is long, but it won't end without me expressing remorse, and giving you a promise. The famous Amar Chitra Katha series you published- I could never lay my hands on it. I did, however, hear about the uniqueness of those books at introducing nascent minds to the royal mythology of our country which spreads much beyond just the staple epics- Ramayana and Mahabharata. I feel sorry for myself, as I had to take more circuitous routes, read more arduous texts to understand the same mythical stories which you told so simply through your inimitable story telling skills. I do, however, promise, that when I have children, the first books I would introduce to them would be your books.I hope my copies of Tinkle survive by then. And I earnestly hope that Amar Chitra Katha is still sold then by benevolent bookseller who are already facing competition from the electronic world. 

Uncle Pai, I hope your legend lives on.
I sign off as a little member of this huge extended family you created.

Saumya.

Vasavadattas story- in Uncle Pai's peerless style

 

It all began with this photograph. Madhuri Dixit in a Marylin Monroe avataar. I first saw this photograph some years back. I was amused for a while, and then fell in love with it. Today morning, I came across it again. It lent me warmth, and a familiar smile. And then some sadness. Splashed across all newspapers is the dismal news of passing away of the most iconic photographer Bollywood has ever been testimony to, someone, who will be forever hard to find a parallel of. Gautam Rajadhyaksha. A name which is reverential for upcoming photographers; a person, the shock of whose sudden demise was more than palpable as I opened my twitter account to check random updates. 

I am not much of a follower of photography. However, a die hard fan of Bollywood I incorrigibly am. Along with many others, Madhuri Dixit has been among my top childhood obsessions; someone like whom I wanted to dance, and smile, and even act. Collecting photographs of favorite Hindi Cinema stars was a charming occupation while we were still kids. This picture, and another one carrying a fresh from sleep, yawning Salman Khan, are fond favorites, both iconic, both clicked by the master himself- Gautam Rajadhyaksha. 

I googled him, his photography, and arrived at some unmissable photographs. Gone are those days when we would endeavor to neatly cut out favorite pictures from newspapers and magazines, and daintily paste them in happy scrapbooks, along with footnotes murmuring of our playtime obsessions for years after. Now we just log onto Google, click on images, and have the whole universe of images unfold right before our eyes. I did the same, and found some portraits which I would want to paste here, as memories of a man I did not know, but whose art has has more than mesmerized my eyes. A small ode to a great artist.

Simplicity at its best. Is there any other instance we remember of seeing the sisters share a melodious laughter with such a candid ease?

The sensuous beauty, Rekha, reminiscent of some ancient queen, some Indian Goddess.

Smita Patil- her beauty and grace has over powered me for ages. I bet this is one of the photographer's personal favorites.

Hailed as one of his best works. Shows the master batsmen conquering the world; the ball being symbolic of just the same.

Salman, as he looked in his nascent days. At that time, I have fantasized about him.

I was red in my face, but my heart was galloping. That feeling is best experienced. Back in college to see the society I nearly built in my last two years embark on another year long journey of activities, I had imagined I would be ridden with nostalgia of the worst intensity. However, ecstasy was the only emotion I could experience as my juniors made me feel so grand, and so special- they gave me the VIP treatment I have been giving all my guests who would grace the events I organized during my tenure as the President of WSDC. Right from the invite, to the honor of launching our magazine, to giving a speech for concluding the event, my day could not have been better.

WSDC was indispensable to my existence in college, and going back to pass the baton on to some very able juniors was an occasion for much joy and celebration. It was a near perfectly organized Orientation Ceremony, where all new members are inducted into the Society, with permissible goof ups here and there. The Chief Guest was an inspiring lady with strong oratorial skills; most importantly, she was a Civil Servant of the AGMUT Cadre, and my obsession and awe relating to Civil Officers is fairly famous. At points during her speech, she drove me to tears while describing things as basic as hygiene conditions which are largely deprived to a large section of Indian girls- both, because of economic, as well as issues of ignorance.

Leaving that serious thought there, the clear highlight of the whole day for me was when I launched the second edition of my magazine, so lovingly drafted last year by me and a few friends-cum-colleagues. It looks pretty- the cover from last year has been retained. It was perhaps one of the most ambitious literary excursions I undertook during my college life, and honestly, though nothing close to perfect, it is still very special. The way the magazine has come out, it is not so commendable in presentation, but has a very rich and pride-worthy content.

Pasted below is the Editorial (-cum-President's message) written for the same magazine, the cover for which is displayed on the right, above.

Time really flies fast. This is the worst cliché with which I could have begun the editorial for this magazine, but really, I cannot help it. The Women Studies and Development Cell was more than just a part of my personality in college for the past two years. Two years! Now that is a lot of time. However, it does not feel that way. There is so little we’ve done, and so much more we can still do. But, like all good things, my tenure as the President of this wonderful society is finally coming to an end. It is an eerie feeling to know that there will come one day when I would wake up, and WSDC activities would not form a part of my daily agenda. It is equally disheartening to realize that this little-big family I had cultivated among the members of WSDC will soon be estranged. I will move on, from WSDC, from college, leaving behind things which will adorn the most beautiful canvas of college memories for me.

So, as my last offering, I along with a team of some amazingly supportive members, present to all of you the second edition of ‘Being a Woman, Being Me.’ Our magazine is still in its nascent second year of being published, but from the first edition we published last year, it has certainly come a long  way. The first edition was experimental. More than anything, it aimed at providing a portal to our members for expressing that which affected them most. The magazine was received with much appreciation, but we knew in our hearts that we could do much better.

And so, when my team convened to put in place the themes for this magazine, their enthusiasm for bringing out a glazed finished product was palpable. We collectively decided to keep it simple; but we wanted to move ahead in a focused way. We pride ourselves on the kind of society we belong to and the kind of causes we espouse and fervently work towards. The first section of this magazine, hence, is dedicated towards highlighting issues of grave concern for females of all ages, strata and nationalities. We also knew that womanhood is not just about tears and melancholy-it is a celebration! Our second section is a tribute to the wonderful feeling that being a woman is. A poetess resided in the hearts of many of our society members. It was remarkable to notice the ease with which member girls of our society could express themselves via the relatively abstract medium of poetry and not prose. A third section was thus decided upon to provide a creative vent to the blossoming poetesses of our society.

Besides these three, a fourth very important section was born. While I was circulating our last year’s magazine among some NGOs and activists, a very unassuming confession was made by one of the NGO members about her inability to understand the magazine because of the linguistic barriers. I sat down to explain the varied topics which we covered in that magazine, and with more zeal for wanting to read it, she requested if I could attempt a translation of the whole magazine. Now that was a Herculean task to fulfill!  However, I made a mental note of the fact that if I am to ever again work on a magazine which has to have a larger mass reach, I have to make sure the linguistics don’t post a barrier. A first tiny step has been taken in that direction. We have introduced a Hindi section at the end of the magazine, which I hope, will only grow as successive editions of this magazine are born.

For anyone flipping through the pages of the magazine, I hope you stumble upon something that touches a nerve, that makes you stop and think. If that happens, the purpose of bringing out this magazine is more than solved. It goes without saying that I hold immense gratitude in my heart towards every single person who has contributed towards this magazine. I cannot end the editorial without thanking Ishani Tikku, who almost single handedly edited all articles for me, and treated this magazine with as much reverence as I did. I thank Rosemary and Priyanka Tampi, for their promptness in making the magazine visually attractive. I thank Ancy and Rohini for all their support. I thank Nikita Sailesh for being the tireless silent worker.

Most importantly, I need to thank my convenors- Dr. Amita Tiwari and Dr. Alka Marwah. I have gone on record saying that they are the best convenors we could have got, and I reiterate it most emphatically here. They were the prefect guides, motivators and friends throughout our endeavours. It comes from the heart- such was the faith they posed in us and encouragement they gave us that I could not have helped falling in love with them. For this magazine too, they were instrumental in giving me and my team all the necessary aid, guidance and assistance we most needed, and hence were pivotal to whatever the magazine has shaped up as.

Thank you all!

A quote would just do to provide the perfect end to this editorial. This quote coruscates in my best dreams. I share it all with you here, hoping it will inspire you as much as it inspires me.

“We live in deeds, not years: In thoughts not breaths; in feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart throbs. He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.”

 

-Saumya Kulshreshtha

Editor, Being a Woman, Being Me

President, Woman Studies and Development Cell, JMC.

 

 

PS- You can also read the Annual Report of WSDC at  "From the Pen of the President, Women Studies and Development Cell, Jesus and Mary College"

 

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)

Mike is a graceful old man. He is somewhere on the wrong side of fifty, fifty-five, sixty may be, but he looked dapper the last, and the only time I met him. Their was something very genuine about his persona, something very amicable. And something which still makes me think about him, almost ten days after the gentle, old, British man sought some help from me to take a trip down his memory lane.

In the early hours of the day, I sat with two of my friends besides the huge rain-washed window, at the Janpath McDonalds- having the distinction of being one of the few serving a very English Breakfast Menu, in addition to the usual burgers and fries. While I have been talked many a times into eating the wonderful and healthy pancakes, served exclusively between 7:00 and 11:00 am everyday, I have preferred to stick to my obsession with the not-so-healthy Hash Browns in stead. If gluttony were a legal crime, I do not know how many non-bailable prison terms I would have already served by now.

So, while I nibbled on what I had promised to be my last hash brown of the day, and spoke in loud volumes about the way I saw my future unfold, a bespectacled English gentleman came and knelt right beside my chair, scaring me a little. He had a map of Delhi in one of his hand, a black ball pen in the other, and a very simple question  on his lips- "Do you know English?"

Given my infatuation with the language and an incorrigible urge to show it off on every given opportunity, I eagerly nodded my head. It was as if he exhaled in relief. Yes, you can find many English language savvy passersby as you walk around in Cannaught Place or any adjoining area, but at 10:00 am in the morning, even a place supposed to be as busy as McDonald's is practically empty. Beautifully deserted, is how I like to put it. And it was in this quietude that I had a five minute short, fond conversation with him.

Mike wanted to know where he was on the map he had in his hand. After studying it for some ten second, me and my friends could point out exactly where he was, where we all were- at the intersection of the Janpath Road and the Tolstoy Marg. In an exaggerated happy emotion, he made a mark on the map and confirmed the route the would lead him to the Inner Circle of CP. He got the route right. I further offered to guide him to his exact destination, but sadly, he did not have any.

"Where do you exactly want to go? May be I can tell you the route." I offered. A second later I realized that the genial Englishman was still sitting on his knees, and in a apologetic gesture, me and my friends offered him to join us on our table. He refused, then obliged, and gave us a glimpse into his itinerary for the next hour. Clad in a simple cotton shirt, with a rich smile on his face, and morning redness on his cheerfully white cheeks, he told us that this was only his second visit to India. The last one had been "35 years ago"! I  distinctly remember the self found incredulity with which he emphasized on the numeral. He was not simply vacationing, he was rediscovering a few things. He wanted to visit the heart of CP to check if it lent him a musty feel, or if with time, it had paced ahead to unrecognizable limits.

This much information is enough to allure a hopeless romantic like me. "So, what all do  you remember of CP?", I asked, the animatedly inquisitive me. "Not much", he replied, "but when I last visited, I bought a skirt for my fiancee, from one of the little shops." His words were accompanied with animated gestures-- it was as if he was trying to explain to us what a skirt is. His hands informed us that it is a garment tied at the waist, and the one he bought extended all the way to the ankles of the wearer. I smiled at his simplicity. He wanted to see if he could still locate that shop.

"So, did you go back and marry your fiancee?" My queries continued. "Oh yes!", he replied with an expression which conveyed the futility of my inquiry. He gestured at his ring, and then to a female sitting right behind me, "That is my daughter". I looked back to find a girl a little older than me, engaged in a discussion with two elderly people- a man and a woman. At first, I felt compelled to assume that the elderly lady was Mike's consort, but the way she locked her arms with the other man, they both clearly seemed to be a couple. So Mike was on a visit to India, after some 35 years, with his daughter and some friends (or may be relatives) as travel companions, and not his wife. I felt disappointed. I wanted to see the lady who caused instant alacrity in the eyes of her husband even after 35 years of companionship.

We wished him luck for his journey ahead. He, with a grace characteristic of English people, thanked us and took our leave. My gaze followed him as he moved from our table to his own, had a brief discussion over the huge Delhi map with his companions, picked up his belongings, and headed for the exit, and on his little walk towards a place he picked up a gift for his fiancee from, some 35 years ago. Something made my heart feel heavy as my mind registered the last image of his, walking away with his arm around his daughter's shoulders. He seemed to be romantic; he was a romantic. But he did not have his better half for company. Why was she not with him? I kept wondering. I could conjure ten reasons of her absence, none of them a happy one.

Having seen emotions juggled with and relations dallied with, I have always been attracted towards real time, enduring, subtle tales of love. Not just love, but respectful, warm, and blissful companionships. People my age are tired of being with a person after a year or two. Not all, but many are often knowingly unaware of the selflessness which beautifies mutual existence. An overtly strong sense of individualism is the death of relationships. Barring a few cherished exceptions, I think it has largely become an anachronism to keep aside personal pursuits and lend time to the thoughts and happiness of people we claim we love. Even these musings have now acquired a musty odour.

To find that one person who could become cause of  your very existence must be special. Sitting around in CP, I observe a lot of couples, holding hands, snuggling, smiling- but in very few have I observed a comfort and faith which communicated their enduring togetherness.I look for it, because I desire it for myself. My most cherished desire. Stories like that of Mike reinforce faith. His' is not just about togetherness, but prized togetherness. His' is about love. Love, nascent like dew drops. Love, serene like still water. Love, serenading like sylvan sounds. Love, impregnable like a weather beaten wall. And love, enduring through all the seasons of life.

My love, for all the love in this world. I don't know of a thing as worthy as itself to live for. 

Neendon ke sandookon mein, 

Kabhi sone ke sapne the, 

Aaj Peetal ke tukdon ko mohtaaj rehti hoon

"Its been long since I felt like a winner. Tomorrow, I want that to change."

There is a song for every occasion, they say. This less known song was on my lips most of the time as I attempted to stoically wait for what could turn out to be the biggest dejection for me in my recent life history. Had that happened, I would have had no option but to turn stoic. I would have been impassive, may be. If I don't fool myself at all, I know I would have been depressed. For sometime at least.

The rays, they did manage to find me :)

However, for once, Providence ruled in my favour. After showing me some despondent scenarios, it chose the most perfect time to resuscitate my confidence, to at least partially make me feel like a winner. The ecstasy for having cleared the first major level towards the realization of one of my two most important dreams in life is indescribable. It lasted for two full days- the excitement, the restlessness, the smiles, the congratulations, the revived expectations, the disbelief. Now, things have sobered down. For good.

The last bit of my twitter profile's mini bio data describes me as 'an aspiring bureaucrat'. I've crossed first of the three hurdles towards becoming one. People have seen me past two years digging into newspapers, coloring crazy bits of information in about five journals a week, starting a full fledged debate at the slightest of provocation on almost any issue, carrying three times the book load with me around everywhere I go, and almost leading the life of a noctambulist. All this, without compromising on any of my other interests or involvements. Fortunately for me, all the diligence reaped due dividends. And now, with a bright smile on my face, and bright expectations in my heart, I am looking forward to battling with the next hurdle.

However, everyone has not been as lucky as me. Becoming a Civil Servant is the ultimate dream of many people, it being touted as the best job which grants you almost everything- power, prestige and pay. But for some people, becoming a Civil Servant has meaning beyond these three. Clearing UPSC is all they have lived for, all they know they want to live for. The drive at times is so much, that they leave a lot behind- their families, academic pursuits and even well placed and stable jobs. From my perspective, its madness. From theirs', its devotion. There are many of my fellow 'aspiring bureaucrats' who have not been able to jump over this first hurdle; but there is just one, whose inability to clear through the first round hurts me as much as my own failure. She was an inspiration for all of the people in my coaching centre- a vivacious figure and a very eager learner- who would keep everyone engaged with her numerous doubts. Her urge and capacity to learn was unmatchable. And she had taken a break from a partially unsuccessful marriage to give life to the only dream she had ever known of. 

I wonder what plans God has for her in mind; hasn't she already suffered her share of ordeals? Did she not deserve this little victory more than me? Will He make her try once again? I don't know. I would never know. But I know he sent her into my life as a lesson. Dreaming is not an end in itself. A dream which once you are convinced about, has to be relentlessly pursued. On the way to winning the ultimate war, there are several smaller battles which need to be won. And my way is to go one battle at a time. That is only as much as I can plan, albeit, without losing sight of the ultimate Prize. Also, what has to be borne in one's mind is a sense of balance- neither excessive ecstasy at small triumphs, nor insurmountable depression at failures. Triumphs and failures are mere experiences, something to live through and learn from. 

A tiny battle has been won. More than being an end, it was a milestone which shows me how much of the path is still to be covered. I might be feeling bright, but I do not want to lose the sobriety. For some weird reason, totally incomprehensible to me, I am still humming this song..and this is definitely not the song for this occasion. It is just on my lips. And I guess its there to remind of the times things went wrong, and I could not cope up. In an attempt to cauterize, I ended up being burnt, and bruised, and lost faith in some of my dreams.

But, leaving those thoughts behind, getting down to task now. I have thanked in person every single friend/teacher/acquaintance who helped me through- whether by sharing notes, or by simply showing confidence. If anyone be left out, I am sorry for being careless. Thank you. It is one of the most significant events of my life, and irrespective of what happens in future, I won't forget the ecstasy I felt when I finally felt like a winner. Partially though.

"A dream of glory
Wishing to hope
Nervous to hope
Nonetheless, I hope.
I'll wade through, I'll cope."

(Plagiarized  from my own work- A Table For Two - copied and tampered with)

Wondering, with a merry heart.

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 do not remember exactly where it all started. My misfortune, however, lies in the fact that I remember precisely where it ended, how it ended. I felt miserable, asked too many questions- the answer to none was forthcoming.

Vision 1- Chirpy and casual, she would break the ice between some forty odd people by screaming a deafening, yet pleasant "Hi". Part of her attention would be deflected towards me, and after she moved on with a flowy gait to a next group of people, I remember being extraordinarily happy in my heart.

Vision 2- Fair, short and sweet, she sat like a sincere student with a purpose, eagerly eyeing me as I entered the small room. She was a competitor. She smiled. I smiled back, with a remarkable warmth in my heart. Stress of competition evaporated in that one moment.

Vision 3- First photo session. Group hugs. Cheesy messages. Eager letters. Class bunks. Medical Room. Copious tears. Tightest hugs. More photo sessions. Birthday surprises. Fake anger. Coaxing and cajoling. Montage. A photo montage.

This montage of not just images, but emotions, which makes me warm and happy right now, was ripped apart sometime back. How? It is quite a story, but quite a personal story. So, why do I write about it? I do, because the key actors from the three visions just cameback to piece the montage together. It looks pretty now. Majestic, in fact. And all the tears that had thus far been wantonly suppressed are now flowing out with vindictiveness. They're proven right. They're telling me- Bonds are fragile. Most of them. Not all of them. These ones were not. We told you.

Things between friends go awry all the time. Most unfortunate are the times when they go awry because one of them forgets to care. Forgets to care, but wants to care. Things get further complicated when the other person involved is a hyperbole of touchy, like myself. Sentimentality has its boons, as well as its banes. The blessings include an acute sensitivity to the thoughts and feelings of others. The banes include an acute and exaggerated sensitivity to the emotions and ideas of oneself. A combination of the two leads to a desire, easily transformed into actions, to care for the loved ones, and, expectations, many a times grossly defeated.

What I have tried to put into words in the above para is a rather laconical account of the cornucopia of thoughts flashing through my mind, making me live back few experiences which I would much rather forget. A long time, as I began to lose faith in everything fair and good, I kept on floating like a hollow vessel. Life seemed convenient. Don't care, don't expect to be cared back. Sounds simple, doesn't it?

But it is not simple. It can never be. Loving people, having bonds to hold close and rely upon, having friends who extend as a family- these are the essentials which make life beautiful, which infuse life in life. I have had such friends, who made life splendid for me, and then disappeared for a while. Only for a while. Now, I hear knocks into the door of my world again (Knocks more like unexpected rings on my cellphone). It a homecoming of sorts. The closeness is being welcomed again. The faith is being reignited. Whatever were the feels I thought I had gotten over, just like that last visit to college, are forcing their way again into not just my heart, but my being. I am feeling loved and blessed again.

And the hug- the grand and special hug- its as tangible as anything real. My two friends from college are hugging me again. We're hugging each other. And life seems bright once again. "Sunshine"- Did I tell you both that this is the sobriquet my journals recognize you with?

I don't want to be a bad person. I am not one, just a little distant. Lets cover the distances. This time I ask. What say? "Friends Again?"