A boy who couldn’t become a man

He walked to the mirror after the bath, naked, and stared into it. He wished to smile but couldn’t, went to the cupboard, took a dress out. It was a red sari; deep, stark red. He draped it around and walked to the dressing table, put on a pair of earrings, applied a lipstick and pinned up his blouse.

Once ready, he picked up his bag and locked his room. Turning back, Chand stood still for a second and took a deep breath. He glanced on the streets with a distant look. By this time, his friend Resham too was out of his room. They smiled to each other and started walking out of the chawl.

‘The Bombay Groceries’ was the first shop around the corner. They walked up to the shopkeeper, Mr. Jignesh Shah.

“Ei Raja,” Chand clapped his hands in a special manner and called out. “la dede. Aaj bohani tujhse hi karti hoon” Hey dear, give it to me. I will start my day’s income with you only.

“Chal, abhi meri khud bohni nahi huyi. Baad me aa.” Leave now. I haven’t earned my own day’s first earning. Come later.

“Aisa kya karta hai re raja. Dena. Bhagwaan tere ko salaamat rakhega. Laa de.” Why you do like this dear. Give please. God will keep you safe. Com’on, give me.

Chand caressed his cheeks to which Mr. Shah smiled and Resham laughed. Mr. Shah took out a Rs. 5 coin and extended his hands to Chand, “Ye le. Abhi jaa.” Take this. Leave now.

Seeing the Rs. 5 coin, Chand acted as if angry. “Kya bhikhari samajha hai kya? 10 Rupaye se kam nahi loongi.” Do you think of me a beggar? I won’t take less than Rs. 10.

“Rani, jyada naatak mat kar. Ye leke ja. Raat ko aa aur doonga.” Sweetheart, don’t make a fuss. Take this and go. Come tonight and I shall give you more.

“Rakh le ye khud hi. Apni rakhail ko dena. Kanjad saala.” Keep it with you only. Give it to your keep. Bloody miser.

He turned to the road and so did Resham. Mr. Shah called out but they didn’t return.

Almost like this, each day would start for Chand. On some days, he would earn decently; on others, almost nothing. And since the rains had started, it was even worse. Rains mean less customers for shop owners and hence lesser earnings for Chand and his friends. Each day he would undergo such humiliation and would laugh unnecessarily on silly things to wash it off. He was taught and had lived this life since the age of seven, the age of his kidnap and making of a boy into Hijra, a member of third sex family.
***

Chand was not Chand, then. He was Chandrabhan Singh; a bright, brave and energetic second child of Singh family from Jaunpur, a small town in Uttar Pradesh. He was studying in class two in the Jaunpur Public School. His grades in previous year were impressive and his family was very proud of him. Mr. Singh would talk about his son’s achievement at every possible occasion and boast about his own fatherhood. Chandrabhan’s cheeks were so full and red that everyone in the family, relatives and friends would love to tweak it with love. When done that, the kid would be embarrassed which created a moment of laughter and entertainment for others. In life, we hardly acknowledge the self respect for children. For most of us, the general society, they always remain an object of entertainment. The irony of this is the fact that many of us would have gone through such embarrassments as child but we either take our share of revenge or just forget our childhood and join the gang of so called adults.

In those days in Jaunpur and such towns of Uttar Pradesh, it was a ritual to call upon the Hijra community in marriages, child birth and such functions to make the day auspicious. They were paid and gifted for their song and dance performance, as per the affordability of the family. Chandrabhan’s birthday was a proud day for Mr. Singh to celebrate and to make the day truly auspicious he had called for the Hijra group to perform. Clad in colorful saris, they danced and sang in their manly mannerism. And to bless the child of the day, they would touch him as much as possible and wherever possible. Mr. and Mrs. Singh were profoundly happy and served the guests merrily. Chandrika, their ender daughter, showed the beautiful paintings of his brother to her friends and felt proud. The day was beautiful in every sense, for everybody present in the function, except Chandrabhan. He was deeply irritated with the mannerism of eunuchs. Once the party was over, he went to his father and sat in his lap.

“Papa, please don’t call these people in my birthday next year.”

“Which people, my dear?”

“Those men who were dressed in saris and dancing like females. I hate them. They would pull my cheeks and irritate me.”

“Hahahahaha…” Mr. Singh laughed aloud. “Don’t worry son. They are eunuchs. They can’t hurt anybody. There presence makes the day auspicious. Now you will see you will top not only in your class but in whole school.” And he laughed again.

“But I don’t like them,” said Chandrabhan and got down form his father’s lap. He went to his mother who was taking a nap after the day long function. He lay down by her side and held her tightly. In response to that his mother too put her right hand around him. He mumbled, “Maa… I don’t like them. I don’t like the way they look at me. I don’t like the way they touch me.”

“Hmmm…” being in sleep, his mother didn’t respond to his confession, but only to his sound.

A stream of tears flew out from his big, black eyes. He didn’t realize when he went to sleep. When he got up, it was already dinner time. He ran to the drawing room. And started looking into each box of gifts he had received. That was his favorite activity after his birthday party.

It was 19th July, fourteenth day after Chandrabhan’s birthday. Mrs. Singh was preparing lunch for him. His school used to end at 2:00 PM, two hours before Chandrika’s. At around 2:30 PM, the call bell used to ring continuously till Mrs. Singh would open the door. And when she did, she was always greeted by a warm hug, as if a soldier returned from war front and embraced his mother. Then they would sit for lunch where Chandrabhan would narrate the full day’s story in most articulate way possible and his mother would respond to it with appropriate expressions and nods. But today, the bell didn’t ring till 4:30 PM. She was sitting worried, but assumed that for some reason he will return with his sister. And when the bell rang, she rushed, opened the door and asked Chandrika, “Where is Chandrabhan?”

“Didn’t he come home? His school ends at 2:00 PM!”

“No, he didn’t. I thought he might have waited for you to come along.”

“No maa, rickshaw-wallah doesn’t let any other kid go in different shift.”

Now Mrs. Singh got tensed. She phoned Mr. Singh.

“Chandrabhan has not returned from school!” She sounded scared.

“Arre, he might be playing with the kids downstairs. Check there.” And Mr. Singh cut the call. He was in a meeting.

Mrs. Singh rushed downstairs. Few kids were playing there. He asked them if they knew where Chandrabhan is. None of them did. One of the kids told her, “Aunty, when he comes, send him to play with us please.”

“Sure, son.” She said and ran outside. She checked around. He was nowhere. She ran up again and phoned his father.

“He is not there, nowhere. I checked all around…” And she started crying.

“Don’t cry… I will go to school and check. Don’t worry, we will find him. Stop crying now. I am going to school, right now.”

She served food to Chandrika and sat by her side. Chandrika eat her food, slowly. Looking at her worried mother, she asked, “Maa, where do you think he would have gone?”

This question was irritating, but Mrs. Singh was more sad than irritated. She didn’t reply but gestured to tell her that she didn’t know.

After sometime, Chandrika asked again, “Maa, our school closes by this time. Nobody would be there. What if papa doesn’t find him in the school?”

“Eat your food, silently.” The irritation won over sadness.

At around 7:00 PM, the phone rang. It was Mr. Singh. “He is not in the school. I spoke to the principal and his class teacher. They don’t know about him. His travel teacher said. He was not there when the rickshaw left,” he paused for a second to take a breath, and then continued, “I am going to police station to file a report. If he comes home, call me. Meanwhile call up some of his friends and ask if he is at their place.”

“Ok.”

Mrs. Singh called every possible number which she thought could be his friend’s. The answer from everywhere was negative. Mr. Singh on his way to home, looked into each street, each gully, just in a hopeless hope to see his son. Neither had he ridden his scooter so slow nor taken such a long route back home, ever before.

“A father has to be strong,” He told himself, “Chandrabhan will come home. I have to be strong. I have to take care of the ladies in the house. I can’t cry.” By this time he already was; just that it had started raining heavily and the raindrops wiped those tears off the face.

“Don’t worry. I have filed the report. They will inform us if they find something. Did you call his friends?” He asked Mrs. Singh on reaching home.

“Yes. He is not with them. They don’t know.”

She couldn’t think of giving the glass of water that she was accustomed to on arrival of Mrs. Singh from work. She simply, lifelessly sat on the chair.

The night passed in waiting. Next day, Mr. Singh readied himself for police station. Mrs. Singh asked if she could come along.

“What will you do in a police station? I will find out. Don’t worry. You take care of Chandrika. She will not go to school today.” And he left.


Twenty years passed since then but Chandrabhan never returned.

***

It was a monsoon again, after all these twenty years. Chand couldn’t forget that monsoon, when he was kidnapped by a bunch of eunuchs and castrated to be a part of their community. He still used to shiver on reminder of those moments. In his loneliness, he used to cry; sometimes silently, sometimes aloud. He had saved his school bag and his second standard’s books, his last link to his life, his family. He opened his back. The pages had gone stale, yellow. But this stale smell was the oxygen for his life. When deeply hurt by the daily execution of life, he would close his doors, open his bag and smell those books. When walking on a road, you fall down and hurt yourself; you take care of the wound till it is healed. How do you heal the wound, which is caused by the way you talk, the way you walk and the way you exist?

His castration had killed the man in him, but not the human being. He was still alive and his mind was still functioning. He had to leave formal education after he was kidnapped but he didn’t leave learning. After all, who can teach better than life itself? In his spare time, in the trains, off the streets, at the tea shops, anywhere he could read, he did. He read newspapers, magazines, old and new, and developed his own thought process. Though most of the memories had gone faint of his early childhood, this was one of those few he had saved dearly in his heart. His father had asked him one night after telling a story of the pilot, “What would you like to become in life?”

“Papa, I would like to become a pilot, too. But what if I drop the plane?”

“Why do you think you will?”

“I don’t know.” He had looked at his dad, puzzled by his question and his father’s counter question.

“Don’t worry, you will not. I will be there to stand by you, always.” And he had smiled and hugged his father, holding him tightly.

Memories as such are strange. They bring smile and tears at the same time. Chand would wonder at times, “I was definitely incapable of saving my manhood then. I couldn’t fight with those bastards. But am I still incapable of leaving all this and live a life which I would like to call my own?

Don’t remember when was the last time I lived the way I wanted to and had proudly exhibited that. Either I live the way this world wants me to or I live the way I assume this world would want me to. If at all I dare to live by my own desires/standards I ensure I don’t display that.

An ideal life? What is that? Who decides what should be the ideology of one’s life? We live by stories, of others and our own life. We find reason in these stories but the fact remains is these are mere manufactured representations of situations, which may or may not contain any degree of fact. And what is a reason without hundred percent factual data?

I declare I fear. I fear to experiment what has never been done. I fear of being unaccepted in the territory I want to enter. So I surrender. I surrender to those I don’t wish to. I surrender to save something I don’t wish to, the life I don’t love, and in that I loose more. Just that I don’t realize this in that moment. By the time I realize, I am ready to make more compromises. And the cycle goes on.

Life lived in those few fearless seconds, when I live my dreams –dreams of flying an airplane, dreams of winning trophies in my schools, dreams of looking at a girl and wondering how would I have felt if I were not what I am - is the only true part of life. And such moments are rare, same as we rarely find diamonds in coal mines. Rest all is fake, is farce. At times I wonder how strange the production of diamond and coal is. They are composed of same atom, carbon; the difference comes when it bonds differently. Same as true and false moments contain us and the situations. The variations happen by how we react to those situations, how we bond with them. And we seek easiest bonding.

I have lived a whole life for the sake of others. I danced when they gave birth to a child, when they got married, when they bought a new house and so on. They said it’s auspicious for them to have a Hijra do it. And then they would feel insulted when the same Hijra would touch them. I lived my life for others, not because I was a saint and wanted to do some social service, but I was too weak to take a stand for myself; so weak that I easily succumbed to others expectations by pressing my own, down. And I pushed my expectations so badly that after a time, I stopped having any expectation from myself. Then others’ expectations became a fuel to my life’s engine. Now I couldn’t live without that. And they became the reason of my survival. Now when they don’t need me and have moved on, I wonder what I should live for. Now after all these years being habitual to live by other’s standard, I find myself incompetent to set my own. And what a life will be without a standard?

After all these years, when I retrospect, I wonder why it was so difficult to stand up against the world to hold my own self. Did I not go through a high intensity of pain in killing the person within and at times breaking them into pieces for them? Why it was hard to face the pain that was outside whereas I imposed a greater degree of pain within? Or had I gone so accustomed to torturing my soul that I didn’t realize when I was doing so? Probably the later is the case. I have found a solace in living by the way dictated by others.

The only thing I can’t do is procreate. Does it also imply that I can’t fly a plane? When and how did I start believing that? Who knows?”

Someone knocked the door. When Chand opened, he found Resham standing there.

“Aaj baju ke building me, satwe male pe god bharai hai. Aati hai kya?” In the next building today, on the seventh floor, there’s a celebration. Are you coming?

“Nahi. Main nahi aaunga.” No. I will not come. [Referring, himself as a man]

“nahi aaunga? Aai hai! Mard ban ri hai tu aaj!” He laughed out loudly, “koi nahi. Chal hum sab to jaa ri. Tu soch le. Jaate huye fir se poochhane aati hoon. Bade paise waale log hain.” [Commenting to Chand’s reference of him being a man] not come? Oh my! Today, you are trying to be a man! No problem. We are going. You think over. I will come again to ask you. They are rich people.

After closing the door, Chand banged his fist on the wall. He was angry. Angry at what? He didn’t know.

An hour later, Resham knocked again, “aati hai kya?” Are you coming?

“haan, do minute ruk.” Yes. Wait for two minutes.


They were a group of four. When the door opened to their ring, they all started singing and dancing. They entered the house forcefully. These days, it seems, people don’t wish to invite good fortune through eunuchs. Upon seeing the lady of the house, something struck within Chand. He found the face familiar. He searched back in his memories but couldn’t recollect. He looked around. There was a wall full of pictures. He slowly, with his dance steps, moved towards that wall. Browsing through the pictures on the wall, his gaze stuck at one. His hands were about to clap; they stood still halfway. Sometimes, memories hit on us so badly and so instantly that we don’t realize the fact that we are hit. We go numb. And how else could Chand react on seeing his own face after twenty years? There was a family photograph of the Singhs on the wall.

He ran out and didn’t stop until he reached his room. He locked his room and took hold of his school bag. He cried and cried again. Sometimes we cry out of pain, some times relief. At this moment, Chand neither knew which feeling was more prominent not did he care. He simply cried until he went to sleep just as he had done some twenty years ago in his mother’s lap.


It was July 5th again. No one in his current circle knew his correct birthday. Some how, it had passed on from one group to another, and they all celebrated the day when he was castrated. They called it ‘the birth of a new Hijra’. Chand didn’t get up till everyone was gone and when he did, he was happy; for the first time on his birthday after 20 twenty years. He went to a hair dresser, got his hairs trimmed like a man. Then went to a cloth shop, got a pair of men’s formals. When ready to go out, he looked at his school bag, took it up, cleaned it and put the books inside. Looking into the mirror, he combed his hairs properly, just like he did before going to school. He could see the child of seven years he was, in him. He, then, walked out of the room.

On the road, he watched his steps carefully, ensuring that there was enough straightness in them. Turning at the corner, he looked into “The Bombay Groceries”. He saw Mr. Shah looking out. When their eyes met, Mr. Shah looked away as we do when our eyes meet with a stranger’s on the way. Chand smiled to himself. A few steps more and he reached the building where his sister lived. He stood at the gate, looked up at her floor. He remembered of the days of his childhood, when he would look up from the ground and wave hands to his mother when leaving for school. His heart ached. He was brought back to the present by security guard’s queries about his purpose of visit.

Chandrika opened the door five minutes after the bell rang. She had probably washed her hands before opening the door; the towel was still in her hands. It took some seconds before she asked who he was; she was a little uneasy by the stare fixed on her face by a stranger. Chand took another ten seconds to before he was ready for a reply. In his reply to her question, he opened his bag and took a book out where the name slip, though a lot faded, still had his name written on. He extended it to her. She was jolted by a huge force of reminiscence brought back so suddenly that it was not easy to handle. When she moved her head up and look at him, there were tears in the eyes; hers and his, both.

“They waited for you, till their last breath. Papa died two years ago. Maa was here with us for around six months, and then she too passed away. There wasn’t a single day when they didn’t look for you when the door bell rang or a message from you when a postman delivered a letter. Papa ran around the police stations till his last days. We couldn’t find you. I had protested a lot when they decided for my marriage. I didn’t wish to leave them alone. But they forced me into it. Why, my dear,” she held his face with both her hands, “Why didn’t you come back? Why?” she looked away. Chand got up and walked up to the window and opened it. He was feeling suffocated, of his own truth and of the fact that he was chained in it so badly that he couldn’t see his parents even when they died.

“I couldn’t, didi.” He stood still and stifled. Around after ten minutes, Chandrika walked up to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and asked, “Are you ok, bhai?”

“Bhai? Does this word hold meaning anymore?” He thought and felt an intense twinge in his heart. He turned towards her, looked into her eyes. They were looking forward to an answer from him. He repeated, “I couldn’t, didi. Something within me had died; rather was killed… murdered brutally. I was no more their son.”

“Why do you say so, my dear? Where did you go after school that day? What had happened?”

“I was kidnapped, didi.” He went silent. He wished to but couldn’t say what had happened next. His face was plain, emotionless and he was looking past her, into the void of her own mind.
“And then? Then what happened to you?” she asked. He kept quite. She asked again, “bhai, tell me. What did they do to you?” she was already horrified with his silence, not know what was coming next.

“They made me a Hijra.” His voice was almost a whisper. But it was a sincere confession, with no apologies. He knew he was not at fault for what had happened to him. His existence, whatever it was, was not a choice but enforcement. He continued in same tone, “They castrated me, kept in a small house in Jaunpur for days. Then took me to Lucknow. There, they sold me to an old man. There were other kids like me. We were, then, taken to New Delhi. I spent a few months there. Then I was taken to Calcutta. There I spent around eight to nine years of my life. They had a gang sort of. They function in groups. They used to take me to different functions. Many a times they sold me to foreigners who would beat me, harass me and do dirty things to me. From there, I was brought here, to the city of Bombay. I don’t know when and how I accepted it as my life, outside. Inside, I always remained that seven years old kid, waiting for his school rickshaw to go home. How could I come to meet you all in that condition? But when I saw you that day… I know you would not have recognized me. I was here on your godbharai, to bring good fortune, with other Hijras. That was when I saw our family’s photograph on that wall… and that’s how I found you.”

When he looked at Chandrika, she had moved away from him to the door and was standing there keeping it open, looking outside.

Chand looked at her. He didn’t understand what it meant, at first. It took few minutes for him to decipher. And when he did, he didn’t know how he should have behaved. He started walking towards the door, slowly. Outside the door, he realized his notebook was left on the table. But he didn’t take it. His back was facing Chandrika, they both stood still, not knowing what to do next. He pressed the lift’s button and turned his face to look at her. She was showing no trace of emotions. He tried to give her a smile, but couldn’t. The lift had arrived. He turned back and entered into it, and closed the doors. The downward movement of the lift was supplemented by a loud cry from the seventh floor.

Reminiscences

In the month of March, 2000, on the last day of my XII exams at my boarding school, I had signed off from my school. But somehow the school life and its memories could never do the same. They stayed back close to my heart.

Today evening, while playing a game of Football with Parimal, my eleven years old nephew (please note I don’t know the game. I play just to give company to my favorite kid), somehow the memories signed back in my mind.

It was drizzling, the first drizzle of the season. The atmosphere was filled with mist. Standing in middle of the ground, it felt like I was standing in the Assembly Ground, in blue, full sleeves pullover, by the side of the railing, trying to figure out the lake in the valley, whose existence I was aware of. I have spent many such evenings in my own company. I probably I loved my company too much or didn’t like the kind of companionship available to the extent that I preferred my own more. Whatever was the reason, those were good moments, and I call them good because now when I recall them I find a smile on my lips.

My nostalgia was hit by the ball Parimal threw at me. I looked at him. He was calling out, “Mama, hit… mama, hit the ball.” I smiled at him. He reminds me of my days at school. He is of age that’s exactly same as when I had joined school. I could see my childhood in him. Just that he is a little fatter than me (I wished to say ‘a lot’ but avoided as it could embarrass him) and he plays. He is a child of his age/times. I have always lived a different age than the one am supposed to. At that age I was supposed not to stand by the side of the railing and look for the lake through the rain. Rather I should have played the game of adrenaline-high football with my other classmates. And at this age, I am probably not supposed to run wild after a ball but watch news channels instead.

I guess that’s ok as the fun lies in living the age that you “want” to than the one you are “supposed” to.

But hold on! Does it appear as if I am complaining about something I didn’t do or am placating myself with the idea that I have lived my life as I like it?

Well I guess none is the case as I think my dear nephew lives his life exactly the way he wishes to. The thing is he wishes the same things as most of the children of his age wish, and which I didn’t when I was of his age. So it’s just a matter of different choices that we make and understanding those differences.

The evening was setting down. We were almost wet as we had a taken a bath with our cloths on. If played a little longer, we could have fallen sick. I asked him, “Shall we go?”

He replied with his trademark smile, “You tired?”

“Not really. But we are drenched and may fall ill.”

“Ok. Let’s go.” He hooked the ball up with his toes and held it in his hands. On way back home, he was talking about the game.

“Amazing fun, mama. Today I defeated you in both batches… hehe… you know in my school, I play as a defender mostly…. Most of my friends copy my style…” And he went on. I would look at him, smile and nod time to time, to be a part of the conversation. But I wasn’t there. I was lost in the reminiscences of my own childhood.

Desires, Shattered... and Reshattered

She kissed him and moved out… The wetness from the kiss lingered on her lips longer than it generally does. She smiled to herself…

Valmiki tore the paper and threw it in the dustbin. “Perfect shot,” he said to himself when the paper dropped in the bin.

Valmiki Mishra was on the verge of being frustrated. After all it’s not easy to have an idea and not being able to transform it into a good story. That too when you are a celebrated writer. Being a fan of famous Bengali writer Mr. Sharat Chand and having read a lot of Bengali literature, he had decided that he could actually write something with Bengal as the backdrop. So he had started working on a story of a woman from Bengal who had settled in Uttar Pradesh after marriage. He wished to write about the contrasts of two societies and its impact on this female’s life. But till now he had not got a nice start, not even a suitable name, to his story in last two years.

So today morning, he was on the verge of  being frustrated. He had got up at 3:00 AM, pushed his thoughts east-west-north-south; but nothing came out that was satisfactorily good.

It was seven in the morning when his wife, Lata Mishra, came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She asked with a smile, “Any progress?”

“Story development is not a bloody manufacturing business! It takes its own time…” He had started with a high note (that almost matched to the note of a shout) but had then lowered his voice appearing it to be loaded with his own new frustration and guilt of shouting on someone who doesn’t deserve it. After few minutes and few sips of tea he looked up at quite Lata whose morning smile was gone and she was sitting there as if she had an option to go, she would have run away. He whispered, “I  am sorry… I guess… am a little worked up…”

She gave a forced smile and a forceful lie, “I understand.”

After they finished their tea, Lata carried the tray back to kitchen. She got herself ready for office.

It was afternoon 3:00 PM. Not many people feel like taking a walk at this hour in Haldwani in the month of May. But Valmiki, after having his lunch alone, wished to have the company of some books. He usually visited nearby bookstore at such hours when not many people would be there, except some young college students who would come there to flourish their romance in the corners of the store. So he decided to walk down.

“So what’s new in the store, Raju?” He would generally start a conversation with the storekeeper without any formal greeting as if just continuing from a previous conversation left half done.

“Hello, Sir!,” and his face broadened into a big smile, “Nothing much actually. Not many people write these days, it seems. Even you have not written for so many years now. Moreover not many people read these days. Our small CD’s section gives more business than the books sections put all together.” He continued without realizing that Valmiki was not listening him but was looking around. Catching his gaze at Indian Fiction section, Raju added, “There are three new books in this section, sir. One is a travel book on Himalayas, other a cook book and third one is a fiction called ‘Desires, Shattered… and Reshattered’ It is by a first time writer. Delhi News has given a good review for this book. But you know our readers, right? They prefer English names over Indian in the author list.” By the time Raju could realize, Valmiki was already near the book shelf . He looked at the cover. Read and reread the title. Something struck in his heart.

He hesitated  for some moments. He wanted to pick that book out, but he wasn’t sure if he should. After those few moments of uncertainty, he decided to go for it. He picked it up. The book was credited to some Sudhanshu Sagar. He turned the book and started reading the brief on the back –

… This is a new place for her. She has lived her twenty one years in Kolkata. It’s a new world. She does not know how it will treat her… nor does she know, how she will treat this place…

… And twenty five years have passed since she arrived in Allahabad. Now when Parbati Das looks back, she smiles… in the colony of Gupta’s and Shrivastava’s, Das’ has made their own life… and in the process some desires are lived… some shattered… and some reshattered.

 What sort of feeling it would be to realize that you are not standing in front of a mirror but your own clone? And what sort of feeling it would be to find  a feeling or thought, very personal to you, unexpressed till now, one that you have not been able to tell yourself clearly, is presented in its exactitude in the work of someone else? How should you react? Happy? Amazed? Shocked? Surprised? How should you behave when your thoughts attain shape in the words of someone else?

Valmiki didn’t know for sure. He was just stilled. He opened the book, flipped through the pages, but didn’t read a single word. To some observer it could appear that he was looking at some picture book. Few minutes later, he walked up to the cash counter, paid the bill, bagged the book in and walked out.

When he reached home, Lata was back.

“Where had you been?” She asked.

“Had gone for a walk. How was your day??”

She was surprised by the question as she was rarely asked about her days. And in last two years, never. But hiding her surprise, she responded happily, “It was good. Had some strange customers. Very entertaining in fact. There was this kid all of ten years who wanted to open his own bank account with a saving of 17 rupees.” And she laughed.

“Well ‘child’ is better word, ‘kid’ is more of a slang.” He commented with a straight face and then added with a smile, “I would love to have some tea.”

Valmiki listened to Lata’s elaborate details of the day with a smile on his face, while they had their tea together.

 He wanted to spend these moments like this. Not for her sake, but his own. He didn’t know how to spend these moments alone. At time we actually fall short of ideas for spending the time we have in hand.

 It was midnight. Valmiki had requested Lata that he would like to spend the night in his study. She was used to such requests. He was lying on a small couch in the corner of his study. He had switched off the light in a hope to get some sleep. But the attempt was of no help.

 He switched the light on and opened “Desires…” He never read prologue of any book. He believed they kill the aroma of the story being told if read beforehand. He opened chapter 1, ‘The last night of bachelorhood’.

 The chapter opened with the night before the day Parbati was to be married. It was a conversation between her and her mother. They talked about their childhood, the fun, the fights and her mother’s teachings. They cried and laughed, and cried again. Valmiki could smell Bengal in each word, in each sentence.

 He didn’t realize this thirst till he happened to read a passage where Parbati talks about it to Mr. Das.

“Deb, what is more important – the thirst or the liquid that satisfies it?”

“Depends.” Deb had replied with I-am-not-here look on his face.

“Which part of the body expresses it the best? Eyes or the lips? Tongue or the throat?”

“Again… it depends.” The straight lips on his face had curved in an enigmatic smile.

Valmiki looked around. There was a jug of water and a glass on the table. There are times when you know your requirement, can see your destination, but still to take an effort to reach there becomes an issue. He closed the book, putting in his fingers as bookmark. He took two minutes to decide before he actually got up. He poured the water in the glass, took it up and took the longest route back to the couch. Sometimes we do things deliberately but we do not know why we deliberate.

When he got up from his seat, it was late afternoon. His wife and staff in the house were instructed not to disturb him when the door is closed from inside. When he opened the door, his wife smiled at him. Then he realized she was smiling in response to the smile he gave her.

“You didn’t go to office today?”

“No, I don’t work on Sundays.” She replied jovially.

He grinned and said, “Ok then. We will have lunch together. I shall get fresh in another thirty minutes,” and returned to his room. 

“Parbati Das,” he said to himself under the shower, “you walked straight out of my thoughts and made this book your residence. But why? You were mine. I had created you. I gave you a beautiful house – my mind. Though abstract, it was full of you. What made you leave me and go to him?” His tears were washed away by the shower.

Post lunch, he sat with the book again. He read and reread it in parts. He had loved the parts of the book that elaborated on the various moods of Parbati. At one place, where the author had compared the colours of the evening sky to the various layers of her mood, Valmiki read it again and again.

At dinner, he announced, “I have to meet him.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Sudhanshu Sagar.”

“Who is this?”

“The author of Desires, Shattered… and Reshattered.”

“What book is this?”

Valmiki didn’t reply, just smiled. Then he asked, “Can you find his contacts for me?”

“Sure.” Said she, expressionless.

After dinner when Valkimi was studying by the window in his study, Lata knocked.

“Its open.”

She entered in and handed him a piece of paper. It contained Sudhanshu’s contact details. He thanked her which meant ‘You may go now’. Lata walked out of the rook and closed the door behind her.

Though it was a small piece of paper, Valmiki held it by both hands. He was staring at it, without any feelings.

It was 11:47 PM in the clock when he finally decided to call.

“Am I talking to Mr. Sudhanshu Sagar?” He almost yelled on hearing a ‘Hello’ on the other side of the phone.

“Yes.”

“Oh, hello! Sudhanshu. This is Valmiki speaking. Valmiki Mishra. I write.”

“Valmiki Mishra? The author of ‘The water and the sand’?” Sudhanshu almost exclaimed.

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, My god!! Sir is it really you? What a great surprise it…”

 

“ I called up to congratulate you for ‘Desires…’, Sudhanshu.” He said, “… and I would like to meet you.”

“Anytime, sir. Just tell me when and where.”

“You live in Delhi, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You OK with a little traveling? I am avoiding going out of Haldwani. You will be personal guest, here at my home.”

“That’s my pleasure, sir.”

Then Valmiki briefed the meeting details and hung up.

  

Next morning he announced at the breakfast table, “We are having a guest from Delhi on coming Saturday.”

Lata waited for a little more information.

“I invited Sudhanshu.” Valmiki smiled.

“OK.” She said and called for the maid, “Geeta, come here.” When Geeta arrived, she was briefed to clean the guest house and prepare it for the guest before Saturday. 

When the clock ticked 06:30 PM in evening, Valmiki opened the door. He was eagerly waiting for Lata. With the help of Geeta, he had prepared some tea and snacks. Lata was amazed to find him at the gate to welcome her.

While having their tea, he looked at her and said, “I met her,” waited for a few moments and continued, “I met Parbati Das, the woman who was hiding in my thoughts all these months and years. I met her finally.”

Lata had not seen Valmiki so happy in last two year. His face was warmed with pure happiness. He came closure to her, kneeled down, held her hands and kissed them.

“Lata, I am very happy today. I FINALLY met her. I sat with her, spoke to her, laughed with her and at other times cried with her.” Its great to hear your own name from people whom you love but who rarely call you by your name. Though the discussion was not about her, Lata felt important as he had started an important  conversation by her name.

Since then, every time they sat together, Valmiki always talked about Parbati and various facets of her life. It was Friday night at dinner when Valmiki was talking about the love scene between Parbati and Gupta’s son who was ten years younger to her. He remembered every details about Parbati’s body mentioned in the book, its curves and moves. For a moment, Lata thought, “Does he know my body in such exaggerated details? How can somebody be excited about someone so fictitious and happily ignore a real woman around him?” Her stream of thoughts was broken with a loud applaud that followed a happy appreciation for Parbati, “That’s the kind of woman, I always thought of. That’s my lady!”

Lata was had picked up the plates and was moving towards the kitchen. She turned half back and said, “Really?”

“What do you mean?” asked Valmiki, raising his eyebrows.

“She is Sudhanshu’s lady, my dear.” She smiled, fixing her eyes on Valmiki. Before see could see the change of moods on his face, she turned back and went into kitchen.

*** 

Next morning, at 8:30 the doorbell rang. Lata opened the door.

“Hello, Mam. I am Sudhanshu. Sudhanshu Sagar. I was invited by Valmiki Sir for a meeting today.”

“Hello, Sudhanshu. Please come in.” She greeted him with a smile and directed him towards the drawing room. Guiding him to sit, she went to the kitchen. After some time, Geeta came in with water.

“Would you like to have something to eat first or get fresh and then eat? She asked.

“I guess, I would like to meet Valmiki Sir first.” He said with the same eagerness as a child would seek for his hero on a prefixed date.

“Sir, is not ready yet.”

“In that case, I guess I will get fresh." 

“Come, I will show you your room.” She picked up the luggage bag which Sudhanshu requested to let him carry that.

It was 03:00 PM post lunch. Sudhanshu already had two rounds of food and a small nap in between. Lata was not sure if she should knock on the door of the study. It was locked from inside since last night. Finally she decided to knock when it dusk.

First knock. No response. Second Knock. No Response. Third Knock with a call for his name.

“Yes?” a question popped out of the room.

“Sudhanshu is here since morning. He is waiting for you. You may like to meet him.”

“I do not. Ask him to go back. You may extend apologies from my side.”

“But that’s rude!” She whispered.

“I guess we have discussed that you will not teach me interpersonal skills and will keep it for yourself. Now you may like to stop disturbing me.”

There was a silence on both side of the door.

In the guestroom, Sudhanshu was sitting on the bed, in a ready position to meet Valmiki when Lata knocked the door.

“Please come in.”

“I am sorry but I am afraid Mr. Mishra may not be able to meet you.”

“Oh!”

“I am really very sorry. But he is not keeping well. He…”

Before she could continue her excuse listing, she was stopped by Valmiki.

“She is lying.” Valmiki announce with a false smile. “I am well but was in no mood to meet you and had asked her to say so. But after she left my door I realized, I actually may like to meet you.”

Sudhanshu didn’t know how to react. He was standing by the bed side in attention. Valmiki walked up to him and shook his hand, “Congratulations. Your book is wonderful.”

“Thank you, sir. Its indeed a pleasure…” he too was cut before he could complete his sentence.

“Don’t bother. You relax. We will meet after your dinner,” said Valmiki and turned to his wife, “I will not have dinner tonight. Going out. Not sure when will I return. In case Sudhanshu wants to sleep before I come, please make his arrangements.”

Lata shook her head to express her agreement to the said directions and walked out of the room after Valmiki.

When Valmiki returned, he found Sudhanshu waiting for him. He smiled and asked him to follow him to the study. Once inside, he asked him to close the door.

“Come sit, make yourself comfortable,” Valmiki said and roamed around in the room replacing a few things here and there.

“Sure, sir.”

“First of all, I am very sorry I wasted your day. I was not in a good mood.”

“No problem, sir.” Sudhanshu gave a forced smile.

“Well, I loved your book. Word by word. Sentence by sentence. I called you because I wanted to see who is the person behind this masterpiece.” Valmiki had lifted to book from the table.

“Thank you, sir. That’s an honour.”

Valmiki smiled, “Thanks to you for writing  beautiful book! Tell me more about it.”

“I didn’t get you sir.”

“Tell me about the idea, the concept behind the book. How you thought of this, and why only this as your first book… and yes, first relax yourself. Forget the day. We have the whole night with us,” Valmiki said with a smile.

“Actually sir,” started Sudhanshu, “ I hail from Bengal. And I love Bengal. I have read almost everything written on it. In fact I have read all your writings. I find Bengal in them,” he widened his grin and continued, “ I have read your ‘The water and the sand’ more than twenty times.”

“So how you decided upon the characterization of Parbati the way you have done? Let me tell you, it has been done beautifully.”

“Thank you, sir. Parbati was a kind of my dream girl. She has evolved out of all my stories I have read since my childhood, from all the Bengali women I have met in my life. In fact, she was also inspired by Aparna from ‘The water and the sand’, specially her moods during the days of her infidelity towards Mr. Das.”

Valmiki looked up, focused into Sudhanshu’s eyes and asked, “And?”

“And.. and that’s it sir.”

“Do you really think you can evolve a character, that appears so original, out of some previous reads?”

“Well, if it appeared original to you, that’s really an appreciation I am going to be proud of for rest of my life, but I understand that how she came into existence.” He replied and smiled confusedly.

Through rest of the night, they talked about Parbati, in and out. When Sudhanshu left his study at 05:00 AM in early morning, he had not realized that everything they discussed was recorded by a tape recorder.

Next day, Sudhanshu left for Delhi.

 ***

A month later, on a Tuesday morning the doorbell at Mishra’s rang. When Lata opened the door, she was faced by Mr. Ranjan Upadhyay, the best advocate at Delhi High Court.

“Hello, Mr Upadhyay. Nice to see you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Mishra. Is Mr. Mishra at home?”

“Yes, please come in.” She guided him to the drawing room and called for Geeta to bring some water.

“May I know what it is regarding Mr. Upadhyay?”

“Frankly speaking, even I don’t have much idea. Mr. Mishra said he had something important to discuss.”

Geeta had arrived.

“Mr. Upadhyay, please make yourself comfortable. I will inform Mr. Mishra that you are here. I will take a leave for office.”

Then she instructed Geeta, “Take care of Vakil Saab.”

She went to Valmiki’s study and knocked.

“Mr Upadhyay is here. You called for him?”

“Oh yes. Please ask him to wait. I will be there in a minute.”

When the door opened, she asked him, “What for?”

Valmiki smiled, “You are getting late for your office, don’t you?”

Lata looked at him for a while, then walked towards the room to collect her bag to leave for the day. 

In the drawing room, after greeting each other, Valmiki started the conversation.

“He stole my story.”

“Who?”

“Sudhanshu Sagar.”

Then he briefed Mr. Upadhyay about the whole thing. By then, Geeta had set up the table for breakfast for both of them. After breakfast Valmiki played the tape recorded while conversing with Sudhanshu. He also made them read his comparative analysis of his previous work with ‘Desires, Shattered… and Reshattered’.

“But Mr. Mishra, it doesn’t prove that he stole your story. It can be a simple case of drawing inspiration, that’s it. It cant be proved illegal.”

“I didn’t call you here to tell me this. If its not illegal, make it. That’s what your job is.” Valmiki smiled.

Ranjan looked confused.

“If you think you can’t do it, let me know. I will hire someone else.”

“Mr. Mishra, it’s a case nobody will win.”

“Tell me, who is nobody? I will hire him.” Valmiki laughed as if he cracked the best joke in the world. Then shading his tone with seriousness, he said, “I have to win this case, Mr. Upadhyay. And I can pay anything, I mean ANYTHING, to win this.”

There was a silence for next ten minutes. Only a few birds chirped outside the window.

Ranjan looked again at the comparative analysis, this time studying it closely. Then he listened to the recording again. After investing another one hour, he replied, “I will fight this.”

Both of them smiled to each other. Valmiki handed a copy of the analysis and recording and said to Ranjan before he left, “She is MY lady. I HAVE to win her back.”

A week later, Sudhanshu received a court notice.

 

When appeared for the first time in the newspaper, that was when Lata got to know the purpose of Mr Upadhyay at her place. She ran to Valmiki’s study and banged on the door restlessly.

Valmiki opened the door. “What’s the matter? Have you gone mad? I have told you not to disturb…”

“What’s this?” Lata showed the newspaper article.

“Don’t bother.”

“What the hell you mean by ‘don’t bother’? You are fighting a case. It is in the newspaper. And you want me not to bother?” She almost shouted.

“Yes.” Snapped Valmiki and was about to close the door back that Lata opened it forcefully.

“You cant get away like this. I need an answer. What is this?”

Valmiki looked in her eyes for a moment. Then he gave a slight hint of a cunning smile and said, “She is my lady. And I will win her back.” Before he could hear any response from her, he closed the door from inside.

“You mad fellow! You goddamn, mad fellow!!” She was shouting.

Till now she had only heard about Parbati from Valmiki. And she was convinced that she is not worth reading. But today she felt an extreme rush to read the book. She rushed to the book store.

She read and reread the book. She didn’t understand whether it was the strong dislike she had already developed for the character or it was a reality, but she didn’t find anything special about the character of Parbati.

The case went on for an year, with a hearing or two per month. In each hearing, Mr. Upadhyay would present a new angle to the case.

Lata, in all possible opportunities she got to have a word with Valmiki, she only talked about the case and reasoned that why he should take the case back for his own good.

 

But the power of status and money played its role beautifully. The decision was given in Valmiki’s favour. ‘Desires…” was declared a copy-in-parts and the publisher was asked to call back the stock available with bookshops to be re-floated in the market with credit for the concept and characterization of the lead character, Parbati to Mr. Valmiki Mishra and an apology by Mr. Sudhanshu Sagar for lifting the idea from Mr. Valmiki Mishra.

The newspapers reported this case as a corruptness infused in the young generation of writers and how they plagiarize the work of old, renowned writers, assuming that the audience is stupid not to find this out.

 

After the declaration, Valmiki didn’t return home for two weeks. Finally when he arrived one night, he found Lata sitting in the drawing room with no lights on.

He switched on the lights. Looking at her, he said, “She is my lady.”

Lata was looking away. Without looking at him she asked, “Really?” This word had the summation of all the pain she had gone through during the whole processing of the case.

She didn’t look at Valmiki at all and walked out of the room. She went to her bedroom and came out with a packed suitcase and started walking towards the exit. Valmiki had come out and was standing on the way.

“Where are you going?”

“Doesn’t really matter. Don’t bother” she walked a few steps then stopped and turned back, “Wish you a good life with your lady. Goodbye.”

She turned back and walked out.

One-night stand

Confused. That sums up my mental state. I don’t know what I want to say. I don’t know what I want to do next. I don’t know where I want to go. I don’t know what I want to be. All I know is - I don’t know. Every morning I wake up with this hope of clearing the mess off my head. But the more I clean, more it gets messy.

That night my mind was loaded with the shit generated out of all day’s information digestion (and indigestion). I wished to excrete. But didn’t know how. Standing on the railway platform at Santacruz, when the station clock was about to click “12:00” in midnight. I figured out my options. I didn’t wish to go home. I checked the listing of people I could call and spend the night with. After scrolling a few names, I stopped at Arvind. I called him up.

“Hey Ridhima, What’s up?” He almost exclaimed on the other side of the phone.

“Hey Arvind, I hope I haven’t disturbed you!”

“Of course not!!! But where are you at this hour? I can hear some noise in your back ground.”

“Ya. Am at Santacruz station… was wondering… if we can meet?”

“Now?” He exclaimed again, but with a hint of happiness this time.

“Yes.”

“Sure then. Where you wanna meet?”

“Is your place free?” I wondered if it was me who asked that. And then I wondered if I really asked that. Such a question is a social, and a more civilized, way to ask – Can we have sex?

I could figure out the expression on his face. He must have grinned and looked in the mirror, if one was near him, to ensure that he was looking good, even though he knew I could, in no way, see him, and must have screamed “YESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!”

“Just be there, I shall come and pick you up in another fifteen minutes. It wont take more than that.” He lied. He knew he could not reach here from Mahim in fifteen minutes however fast he drives. But I said, “ok,”, cut the call and started walking out of the station.

I thought of him - not Arvind, but Ritesh, the guy who had not responded to my proposal a few minutes ago the way I expected him to. When I asked him if he will marry me (and this was probably hundredth time that I had asked), he had said, “Darling, why do you need to worry about that. We are happy together, aren’t we? Just relax. Everything will fall in place.” He was about to kiss my hand before I had withdrawn forcefully. I wished to see him elated with fact that a girl had shown the courage to propose a guy. He should have hugged me, kissed me deep. Probably taken me home. Made love with me. But he didn’t, and this was all my imagination. I had looked in his eyes with utter gravity, to which he had replied with a feeble smile and then had looked away. I then, collected my bag and carried myself out of the restaurant.

Now, this was the moment when I was waiting for this guy, Arvind. He was a rich guy (he had a duplex apartment in an area like Mahim, by the sea). Not some hunk, but looked decent. I had once met him in a club. Since then he was placating me to be friends, which again was a sober translation of “Please have sex with me”.

I didn’t know what forced me to call Arvind. In the moments of waiting for him I was wondering if I should wait for him or not. I double-checked with my mind. I wanted to stay and wait and I wanted to run away; exactly in the same moment. But all I did was pacing up and down the staircase of the station. During this, my mobile was flooded with Ritesh’s messages which I didn’t bother to open and read. Some twenty five minutes later it rang. It was Arvind.

“Where are you, I just reached station. Am standing outside.”

“Coming. Wait for me near the ticket counter.” And I cut the call before I could hear his confirmation.

I almost ran to the counter. I wasn’t sure if I was chasing or running away from something, but I wanted to move; move fast. Reaching at the counter, I saw him. Standing and smiling. We exchanged a quick ‘Hello’ and I moved towards the exit, forcing him to follow. I didn’t wish to be there, in open, with him. Though no one knew what we were meeting far, I felt I was standing there, naked. While driving back, we hardly spoke. He did inform me that there were some friends at home and they would be gone by the time we reach.

“Did you tell them where were you going?” I enquired.

“Ya. I told them. I have to meet a friend urgently. So they said they will pack up and leave.”

Then there was a silence till we reach home. In each moment in the car I was wondering – whether I should or should not. Will it be all right if I tell him to drop me back to station?

When he keyed in to open his door, I put my hands on in back. He turned back and raised his eyebrows that meant, “What?”

I shook my head that meant, “Nothing.”

His drawing room floor was littered with bottles of alcohol and cigarette buds. There were some cushions lying around. He smiled to me apologetically and said, “Gimme a minute. I will clean all this. Meanwhile, you can freshen up yourself in case you want to. There’s the bathroom…And its clean.” He laughed as if it was the best joke in the world and it was the best time to crack that. I smile even though I didn’t wish to, and moved towards his supposedly clean bathroom. When I came out, the room was clean and there was a glass of water on the table. He called from the kitchen, “There’s water on the table.” Then he came out with two glasses. The content within both looked same. “He handed one to me and said, “don’t worry, its plain cola… by the way, would you like to eat something?”

I thought about my dinner with Ritesh for a second and said, “No.”

“Well then, sit.”

We both sat. he had switched on “You’re beautiful” by James Blunt in his bedroom and volume was loud enough to flow in the drawing room. I wondered if he was trying to convey something through the song. But washed that thought off the very next moment.

Before it could go awkward, sitting silently there and sipping in our drinks in slow motion, I kept the glass on the table and moved towards the bedroom. The lights in were off. I reached the window and stood by its side. I could see the sea and the Bandra-Worli sea link in progress. The structure appeared as if they were building up a small hill in middle of the sea. I heard the sea falling on the shore and looked down. There were few lights on the street.

Then I felt a hand trying to reach my navel from my back. I didn’t realize when did Arvind enter the room. He slowly moved his face around my nape and kissed. Then he tightened his grip and lifted me to the bed. He kissed me where ever he could, starting from my feet. When he reached my face and was about to kiss my lips, I held his chest with my fragile hands as a signal to stop. He understood, smiled and moved down to undress me. I let him. For next few hours, he caressed and kissed my body, but I couldn’t feel him. I couldn’t make a sense of out this act. I was not there. Though he possessed my body, he too knew I wasn’t there. In each of his act, I could only imagined how Ritesh would have done that. In the moment before he was about to enter inside me, I collected myself and walked up to window. I could see a part of me naked in the light coming from outside.

He called from the bed in a low voice, “What happened?”

I replied without turning back, “ Nothing.” Then after a pause, I said, “I think sex is the most boring activity in the world.” I smiled dryly. Then I went back and sat on the bed, my feet touching the calm earth and my back straight, looking directly out of the window. The moon was a little yellowish, but full.

“Didn’t you like me”, he whispered.

“No, its not about you. Its something about me and frankly speaking, I don’t know what it is.” I replied.

When Arvind caressed my back with his fingers again, I let him. It didn’t really matter. Nothing really mattered, then.

I don’t remember far how long I was there, but when I returned home, the milkman was leaving our building on his cycle. I unlatched the door, went straight to my bedroom. My flatmate was asleep in her room. We don’t really enquire about whereabouts till we don’t need each other. And in fact in this moment, I didn’t wish to talk to anyone. When I entered my room, I saw someone standing, staring at me. Her hair was badly undone, eyes red and encircled with deep darkness. Her dress was crushed. She was trembling. I could see beyond that, beyond her physical appearance, inside her heart. It was filled with guilt, shame and fear. The problem was, she didn’t know towards whom should she feel guilty, what she should be ashamed of and why should she fear. But despite all this, I could sense a feeling of calmness. I didn’t understand if this was my own confused mental status which forced my to see her in this divided emotional state or she actually was in one. I moved my eyes away from her, took my sandals off, undressed myself and lied on my bed.

I smiled to the fact that I have a full length mirror in my bedroom in front of the entrance and closed my eyes in an attempt to sleep.

तेरे जलने के बाद...

तेरे जलने के बाद बची थी दो ही चीज़े -

राख-अस्थियों से भरा हुआ एक कलश पड़ा था,

जिन्हें विसर्जित कर आई पावन गंगा में;

और बची-खुची, कुछ कटी-कटी सी तेरी यादें,

दिन के हर एक पहर में लिपटी अलग-अलग सी,

जिन्हें बहा दिया है खून में अपने, हर एक नस में...

अब सुबह-सुबह जब भाग रही होती हूँ

तब तुम याद आते हो,

और कभी सोने के पहले आँखों में मंडरा जाते हो,

कभी बिना तौलिये स्नानघर से हाथ बढाऊ

वो हाथ वही पर थामे थामे से रो पढ़ते हैं,

कई बार यूँही मैं दरवाज़े को खोल के आऊं

इस आस में की तुम कहीँ से शायद लौट आये हो!

खाने की मेज़ सजाती कभी-कभी मैं

थाल तुम्हारे नाम सजा कर रुक जाती हूँ ,

कभी बच्चों को एक शून्य में पा स्तंभित होती

और कभी खुद शून्य में उस गुम हो जाती हूँ,

तुझे आस पास ना पा कर कई बार मरी हूँ,

पर पा कर अपने अंदर तुझको जी उठती हूँ

तेरे जलने के बाद बची हैं दो ही चीज़े,

कुछ कटे-कटे से हम हैं... और कुछ तेरी यादें!

Post Slumdog Millionaire...

A lot has been said… a lot written… a lot expressed… and to be true, I loved every bit of everything that happened post Slumdog Millionaire release.

Some people liked it for being shot well, written beautifully, conceptualized with a fresh approach, tuned with some amazing music scores and above all its from Hollywood (the last criteria does apply to some but not all people who loved it). Others hated it for showing our (shining) India in a bad light, for fictionalizing various facts, for not being a great movie and still getting all the limelight and above all its coming from Hollywood (probably because some people believe ‘when our moviemakers don’t bother to shoot Mumbai slums and rather concentrate on the Switzerlands of the world, why the hell should a foreigner do that?’). In fact, some of my friends, who are against the movie, went out to decrease the profits of the movie by promoting video piracy against going to cinema for this movie!

Well, for me the important thing is not to support or rubbish the movie. Rather I observe a few interesting things about us, the Bhartiya Janta, and our societal behavior.

One good thing that has come out is we are still an open community; we freely express whatever we think. I read feelings for and against the movie in the same newspaper. That says, our media, to some extent, has still maintained the job of reporting (I have talked about this in my previous blog, ‘setting up my morning tempo’). Then it doesn’t really matter, if I am Amitabh Bachchan or a slum dweller (had used slumdog before, but changed it keeping in mind the various sentiments); everyone is expressing opinions. On a lighter note, the movie has also provided a reason to get away from the sadness of Taj attacks on 26th NOV, 08 in Mumbai. Those who liked it happily danced to Rehman’s tunes and celebrated when he won the Golden Globe; those who didn’t had a matter to discuss over their tea, coffee, etc.

What I don’t understand, or rather is not convinced with is, the opinions expressed by the people who didn’t like it. Here are a few points put forth –

1) India has been shown is a bad light
Let’s forget for a moment that Slumdog Millionaire has been made by a Non-Indian or for that matter, the movie has an exposure to the world and let me ask, “Is Dharavi not a reality? Is it not the greatest slums in Asia?”

I guess, we all agree to this and say a mutual ‘Yes’.

Now let me ask, “What attracts us when we look at USA or Europe or Australia?... Their huge buildings, the open culture, the mega cities, right?”

The question is - when we get attracted towards what is big, bigger when compared to the same things of our own, why the same logic is not applied when these foreigners look at us? We definitely have bigger slums and smaller buildings than what they have; so is the attraction to make a movie on the bigger things.

Also, have they ever complained about the way we bitch about their openness in society, mock about their culture and disregard their traditions to glorify our own in our movies? Then why do we complain about some mere factual filming about us in theirs? Because not many people see our movies and a lot many see theirs? Now is that their problem or ours?

In fact, I see it as a positive movie where it is said that Indians are deeply spirited people and even things like poverty, hunger, pain, etc can’t lower our heads that we hold high (That’s what Zamaal Malik was). I don’t mind being shown as a poor country if I am also shown as a country which dares to dream and can fight to realize it.

2) A lot has been fictionalized
Were this movie to be a documentary, we had had every right to complain. But I understand it falls into the genre of Drama/Fiction. And when we say fiction, we must mean fiction, in bold letters. Except the base is a reality. Moreover, when an Indian (Mr. Swarup) wrote this fiction no one complained then why when a foreigner (Mr. Boyle) filmed it?

3) Rehman has given better tunes than this before, so why an award for this movie?

I agree to a part of this. Mr. Rehman has given us much better tunes than this. So what? Can we really argue on this point that Mr. Rehman should never be honored for any future work anywhere since he was not for his fantabulous works like Roja, Bombay, Dil Se et al?

C’mon people, all of the previous works by Rehman were not marketed well, were not seen. This one is. The Music for Slumdog Millionaire is not competing against other works by the composer but against the work of other composers in the same year. And it stands out in the competition it has this year. So it won. Simple.

And personally I didn’t like two things about this movie –

1) The title
Probably, the movie could have titled something more sober than Slumdog. Why to abuse someone when you don’t intend to?

2) Lack of credit to Mr. Nepali
I learnt in today’s newspaper that the song ‘Darshan do Ghansyam’ was not written by Surdas but a lyricist from 50’s, Mr. Gopal Singh Nepali for the hindi movie 'Narsi Bhagat'. Such ignorance while doing your homework is not acceptable when you plan to make a world-class cinema, in fact not even otherwise.

With or without merits, Slumdog Millionaire remains one of the most discussed movies in recent past. This in itself is an achievement, even if we leave everything else for the debates and discussions. And by the way, I loved the movie, scene-by-scene!!!

Setting up my morning tempo...

So finally some good news has arrived in our morning news papers!

News, in its essence meant ‘what’s new’ to me. But for past few months, every morning I open up my Hindustan Times with this hope that ‘What’s new, but good’. Now the second part is very important, more so after months of bad times we have lived by (in fact still living in the after effects of some).

Be it the attack on Taj in Mumbai or on the Bars in Manglore; Blasts in Assam, Malegaon or Jaipur; Christian-Hindu rift in Orissa or war of words (and at times of swords/pistols) between North-Indians and MNS (Please note I don’t call Maharashtrians, as MNS is no way a representation of real Marathi people); The ill effects of Global Recession or our very own Satyam Fiasco. And to add to all this God gave us a big, fat Floods in Bihar from which people there are still to recover.

But after this huge bad patch, finally good news has appeared. A.R. Rehman has won the Golden Glob Awards for Best Music (Though some of my fellow Indians have different opinion on this. It will be an all new debate to talk on and right now I am in celebration mood. So no such talks please) and Yuki, Mahesh and Sania have returned as winners from Australian Open Tennis Championship.

It feels good as an Indian citizen, in fact great, to be out of those painful moments of worrying about national security and job security. Even if this happiness is short, it’s sweet. Thank you, all three for giving us a reason to cheer!

I personally believe in two most important things about journalism.

First, Newspapers (and of course the Electronic media) can help create a mood for the nation’s mornings. How nice it would be if our newspersons could work a little extra and could find (not create or fictionalize) some real success stories for us, every morning! The size of the success is insignificant. It really doesn’t matter if I am reading about the Success story of Shahrukh Khan or Mumbai’s Dabbawalas. What matters to me is to be aware of the fact that we have such fellowmen (and women, of course) who have the dreams and guts to work for them. It creates and sets a positive morning tempo for me. I am in a good mood that day and even my work for the day, then, shows that.

Second, news reporting should be reporting in real sense. It should not be cooked with opinions of the reporters or the media house. Why are we, the readers, are to be taken as stupid people, who can't conclude things for themselves? Why are we to be fed with someone else’s opinions? And if it’s so very important, there are Editorial pages, Comment sections and many such columns, where the media house can express opinions. Front page news should be a Report. Period.

Hindustan Times has started this section called ‘2009 – India can, India will’ which qualifies, to a great extent, to both of the above two points. This is where they report of stories of opportunities from adversity. I just wish if they could shift it from the page eleven to page One!