Spirit of sheer excellence

As I child… I remember

I waited for the rains, watched it from verandah

Tried to steal away into the showers

But for those watchful granny’s eyes

And when it stopped

I darted to the nearest puddle

With a newspaper… Papa was so keen to read

And a burning ambition

To make a boat

Bigger and better than the previous

Child’s play

One might say

But for me it was a spirit

Spirit of sheer excellence

*************************************

It was my first date

I shaved for the umpteenth time and showered

Showered until what seemed like eternity

That bottle of scent…coming straight form America

And preserved so keenly… half emptied

The wardrobe dugged like a quarry, everything tried

From Safaris to three pieces, Jackets and Pullovers

But as I was … far from satisfied

And then all of a sudden … a combination struck the senses

Faded jeans and stained T-shirt

Youth’s energy

One might say

But for me it was a spirit

Spirit of sheer excellence

*************************************

The news was out

She was nurturing a part of me

The days started to seem too small

To hunt down all the toy stores in town

Followed by nights to wake and to care

And then the days arrived

When I stood there

Chewing my nails

It happened

I heard a baby’s cry from inside the room

Father’s Enthusiasm

One might say

But for me it was a spirit

Spirit of sheer excellence

**********************************************

Bombay- My City of Dreams, and Resilience

Around the same time when I was writing my last blog, yesterday, Bombay was rocked by series of blasts, which butchered about 200 people to death.

I was numb. It could have been me among those 200s. I have lived in Bombay for three years and have used those ill-fated suburban trains, nearly everyday of my living- many times a day. I do not have to stretch my imagination to see myself as a torn piece of flesh, lifeless and sacrificed on the altars of a stupid notion of political reasoning.

A few days ago, on the eve of Deepawali- New Delhi was rocked by another series of bomb blast, one of them in the crowded market of Sarojini nagar- this time I left the place ten minutes before the blast- and no sooner I had crossed the road. I heard a loud thud and then within minutes sirens of Police vans and ambulances. Again, I could have been ten minutes late in the market.

But, despite this hide and seek, of death- I am not shuddered. Not that I am not afraid of death. At times, I imagine what will befall on my seven-month-old kid if I am killed in a car-crash or if I accidently fall from the balcony of my flat on the ninth floor of my building. For me that is fate, a scheme that is divine – which I cannot question. However, I am not afraid of a stray bomb of an even strayed individual, because that is not fate- it is a murder, a well-planned murder- to subdue me, to terrorize me- and by not subduing myself, by not getting terrorized, I defeat him even in the laps of death. I am not murdered, I am a true martyr. And I am not alone; I know out there every Indian shares the same feeling. Every Indian is a living martyr, living to embrace death anytime for the country.

I heard a few experts saying that perhaps, the Islamic militants were behind it. ‘Islamic Militant’ is a word that is an invention to simplify and generalize our understanding of global terrorism as a phenomenon. I have a very serious reservation to this invention. By inventing this nomenclature- for the sake of simplifying and generalizing our academic database on global terrorism, we do not only demean the religion of Islam, but also create an idea of significance for an otherwise peaceful adherent of Islam, and a majority belongs to them- despite the prevalent notions, elsewhere.

First and foremost, no religion teaches this mindless violence- when targets are not even remotely connected to the perceived grievance. I have read the Holy Koran- and am yet to find a verse, which propagates such a heinous idea. On the contrary I feel, that it is a message, if followed- will lead to nothing else but peace, tolerance, compassion and universal brotherhood, same as a Bible would, a Guru Granth Sahib would, as a Ramayana would. The message of every religion is the same. Therefore, those who perpetrate such an evil cannot derive their doctrine from the holy book. And they are least Muslim. I claim to be a better Muslim than them, despite being a Hindu, despite praying in front of an idol. The truth lies not in rituals but in the spirit; I have a spirit that is more innocent, more humble, and more compassionate than anyone of them may ever dream to have despite their rituals.

Secondly, those who claim to fight for a just Islamic cause- would do nothing but disfavour to the same community for which they claim to wage a war. What are the chances that a blast in suburban train would kill their own brother, 1 in 5 or even larger. It is not as if Muslims do not use the suburban trains, it is not as if they do not shop at sarojini nagar. They do, and the perpetrators know it rather too well. And yet they choose to ignore them because they are not fighting for Islamic cause, they are just fighting a political battle, where they will be the beneficiary- where they will convert their listless existence into an elitist one, of power owners. And simply to camouflage their narrow interest and a teething inferiority complex, they claim to derive their ideology from a noble and compassionate religion, thus demeaning it.

Their idea is far too simple- create terror, so that a normal man lives in its shadow, and two severe the centuries old bond between Hindus and Muslim, largely secular in spirit and create grounds for proliferating themselves. They may choose to ignore it, but my best friend is a Muslim, her parents were the happiest person when I was blessed with a baby. They may never like to believe, that in India a Hindu marriage is not completed without specific rituals by Muslim barbers, and mine had the same ritual. They may fret and frown, but Sarojini nagar returned (and not limped) back to normalcy in a matter of hours. They may bang their heads against wall, but no communal riot broke out, when the holy city of Varanasi was targeted by them. They may cry in despair but Bombay will be normal by now, the suburban railway system was back into chugging in seven hours.

And I saw images people helping people, people solacing people.

A few days ago, a poll said that Bombay is the most selfish city in the world. I laughed at them. Today I pity them, for being awefully wrong in understanding the spirit of Bombay. Selflessness is not about asking how are you and saying I am fine thank you. Its about being there in times of need, like the mumbaikars.

Tale of a town, two lakes and a zoo, Tripura- Part One, Reaching Agartala

The northeastern parts of India do not evoke a pleasant feel for wanderers. Ask them, they must have visited the tiniest nook & corner of the mainland India, and yet give a pathetically deficient look when queried about the Northeast.

And I am no better; the seven sisters remain the most unexplored territory for me. I can always come up with excuses but within me I know, I do not have any. The distance has always been psychological and not geographical. And I always wanted to amend that. Therefore, when I got a chance to visit, Tripura, I jumped on to it. Many told me it is the worst off among the seven sisters, and go to Meghalaya instead. However, even if it is the worst, it is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined

Reaching Agartala, its capital is perhaps easiest among all the capitals in Northeast. It has an hour long direct air flight from Kolkata. The route hovers over the entire stretch of Bangladesh. The terrain is geographically so contiguous that after landing you second the long repeated lore as how boundaries are artificial and nature did not mean them.

A visit to Agartala starts way before you reach the place, in Kolkata. In Kolkata, there are various versions for Agartala, of admiration and of condescend, depending upon who you talk to. Some would go gaga over the ‘Hilsa’, which one may get in Agartala, and other would criticize them for incorrect usage of Bangla, so like I said, start exploring about Agartala long before you reach there.

Nevertheless, whatever critical one may say about Agartala, Tripura is always considered an extension of the West Bengal. Evident from the fact that a huge number of families in Kolkata have linkages in Tripura. At times, it is next to impossible to get a seat in the Kolkata-Agartala flight. The cuisine is alike, the fervour for ‘Durga Puja’ is alike and an attitude to live life positively even in the adversity is alike

A piece of advice, even before you proceed to the destination, spend some time in Swabhumi. This place is a small complex, where lots of handicrafts are exhibited and sold. This place has nothing to do with Tripura as such, but has many stalls, which would display beautiful handicrafts from Tripura. The sheer sight of these handicrafts, builds in a natural excitement to rush towards the place. (In hindsight, I feel that because this place displays handicrafts from most of the northeast and because route to northeast mostly is via a flight from Kolkata, it may be a nice idea to visit swabhumi, before proceeding to any place in northeast). This place is close to the famous Salt-Lake stadium, so if it is your lucky day, you may catch up a match over here, or rub your eyes in disbelief that attendance in football matches over here, at times, far exceeds that of a World Cup match.

Upon reaching Agartala, I stayed in ONGC guesthouse, which is outside the city, but a comfortable place to stay. The route from the airport to the ONGC township criss-crosses entire Agartala. So at one go you can see the entire cacophony of the city and after that the serenity of lush green rice fields and enticing sideway ponds at one go. And you start forming images of the place based on the two. Of a place rooted in simplicity and yet striving for a modicum of urbanity and suffering from the syndrome of neither here nor there.

The city of Agartala has some imposing architecture, but mostly pedestrian one. The beauty of the place lies majorly in the manifestation of nature outside the city. The city itself is small enough to be visited in a day. Nevertheless, a few excursions, a few hours away, would make you feel so enchanted that even weeks there may not make you blink.

Loneliness

Somewhere, far away

I see a few lights twinkling

Piercing the embryonic darkness around

Somewhere, far away

I hear a few bells tinkling

Breaking the eternal silence around

Somewhere, far away

I feel a few lovers loving

Violating the ephemeral existence around

Are they for real

For if they are

How I wish to be a part of them

Far from my loneliness

Far from my loneliness

Remembering my mother, my mother land

It was a chilly morning

On the street of delusion

Among the countless faces

Faces… stranger to me

I felt, I was all alone

I reached out for the pocket

Pocket of my overcoat

And therein lied safely

A dibbi of kumkum

And a piece of bangle

I felt a drop of moisture

Rolling down my cheek

Overlapped by diffused images

Images of days bygone

And of my mother, my motherland

With my hands holding her pallu

I used to roam around

From one place to another

And often… I played with her hairs

And her bunch of keys

And when the approaching night

Brought slumber to my eyes

I used to lie on her laps

Trying to hear the Lori

Greek to me, yet sweet

I grew up hearing the tales

Of Ram and Ravana

Of Bapu and Gautama

Of India, my motherland

Where spirits are free forever

I wiped the tears from my eyes

When someone patted my back

I turned around and there she was

Calling me back

Back to my motherland

Beggar

(Phil Collins once said, Think twice its another day for you and me in paradise. This poetry is dedicated to millions of homeless all arond the world- when people talk about supercomputers, nuclear technology, double digit growth and tucked away in a desert an ice skating rink)

There she was…

Sitting in the darkest corner...

Of the shabbiest of lane.

Alone…

Possibly, waiting for the inevitable

I passed by her, everyday

Everyday

I saw a litter of coin, beside

Untouched

Though

She hardly ever asked for

Sometimes

In the scorching fire of summers

She dragged herself to a nearby tap

And as if, she punished herself

She returned back

Back to the fold of the scorch, thirsty

Sometimes

In the torrential showers of monsoon

She rushed herself to a nearby shade

And as if, she despised herself

She stepped out

Out to the fold of the pierce, wetted

Sometimes

In the eternal gloom of nights

She moved herself to away from the squalor

And as if, she loathed herself

She returned back

Back to the fold of the dark, engulfed

And one day

When I passed that corner

I did not see her

But noticed a faint foul smell

And very far away

A municipal truck going away