I was just into the third song of my play-list when Aditya, one of my department juniors came and handed me an envelope full of my share of Dopy pics for this BOSM. After one last check to make sure no more of my happily single and coupled wingees had billed me for random snaps, I sat down to have a look at them.
The last two months in this dark, desolate part of the country has been perhaps one of the most exhausting of my college life till now. Quite a big thing to say, considering the fact that this is supposed to be the easiest semester for a BITSian. But the combined effect of 8 courses, (and the weird concoction of very screwed up and very nice tests that follows), a sports fest and an attack of acute homesickness is enough to leave anyone gasping for breath.
Its 3:00 in the morning. The last shots of the Counter-Strike guns are resonating in the adjoining wing as my weird play-list of Simon and Garfunkel, Evenescence, Porcupine Tree and Avril resonates in the empty corridors of my own dark wing. Insomnia can be a very enriching experience, I realize as I have a rather fascinating conversation with my toothbrush on the depth of the universe.
Weird how simple pictures can haunt you as motifs in their own right, as they talk to you. I have just spent the last half an hour arranging and rearranging my 33 snaps in my empty albums. After sleepily arranging them top-down, the meticulous side of my sleep-deprived brain kicks in. I arrange them all again, in the proper fashion. I wanted symmetry in the album. But I guess that has to be forsaken for the need of 3 more snaps. Funny how the symmetry is never there when I want it to be there.
I know I am not making any sense. I can see my fingers randomly moving on the keyboard, following the inspiration of some unknown Calliope. Calliope. Muse of Homer himself. Talk about a Neil Gaiman hangover. Its October 2nd right now. I just realize that. It’s a double treat for me. It’s a double birthday bonanza- my dad and the country’s dad. Hell, I feel like giving someone bumps. Maybe I’ll go up to the Patel statue in the chowk just adjoining my hostel and give him (him or it, it or him?) sidie-bumps. That’ll be a grand encore of a day 3 years back when some brilliant souls did the same thing.
An album full of neatly arranged pictures. A huge loping grin on an unshaven face with a million expressions. And what an assortment of pictures!!! ‘ I was there in Budh when Soumyadeep was getting murdered’ snap, ‘We love Baski-matches’ snap, ‘Blogging Team forever’ snap, ‘Bong Bros Rock!!!’ snap all the way to ‘Why the fuck are you taking my snap?!?’ snap … A montage of happy memories in underexposed flashlights…
I just took a nice little walk in my corridor again. Complete silence with the last imaginary grenade having been thrown some time back. I can see the lonely statue of Patelji standing in the middle of the chowk all alone. In the yellow light. That’s weird. I could have sworn he was head-banging to ‘Losing my Religion’. I wanna just go out and join him( I think it should be ‘him’, ‘it’ just sounds funny).
I haven’t slept in ages. Am I dead? Or am I just screwed up? The clock reads 3:40. What should my response to that be? 40 minutes nearer to salvation? Or 40 more minutes of wasted existence?
Fuck all that. Time is an over-hyped concept anyways...
But I think I’ll sleep now...
Friday, October 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Pujo
Its 8 o’clock in the morning as I wake up with a slight headache to find my mom calling me. The exact location of the cell in my unkempt paradise confuses me for a few moments as I grapple among the bed-sheets and the random sheaf of paper spread all over it.
While it keeps on ringing. Cutting through the silence of the stale Pilani air in my 8’x10’ room and screaming out the ties that one must maintain with the outside world.
When I finally do get to it, the connection is cut. Blessing my perennially null calling balance, I attempt to go back to sleep with the cell in my pocket. But the call returns like the black cackle of a raven. Screeching like the tires of a braking car through the half-sleepy trance I was ensconced in.
Grumbling aloud I take the call. To hear the dreaded cheer in her voice as she wishes me a happy Puja. To hear her talk about how my dreary matchbox-like locality is trying to dress up, trying to hide the Arkham in the midst of their hearts and minds. The glints of magical neon bulbs as people try to find sanity in the middle of insanity… I am afraid of it, afraid of it all…
Is it because I miss it all? I don’t know for I hardly ever was a Puja fanatic to begin with. Perhaps something to do with the overall apathy that my family had for all things that didn’t have a logical reason behind its occurrence. Tradition never cut ice with them, and even though they never went out of their way to propound their view-point, they never jumped into it either.
My mom goes on the phone about the preparations for a business trip that she is taking. She expresses shock at the fact that I have classes on Oshtomi, literally an act of blasphemy in Bengal. I half-expect her to mentally applaud my college for going against their much-dusliked mob tendency, but she doesn’t. Perhaps she realizes the rather low tone of my voice as I croak out responses in mono-syllables.
What is it that makes one home-sick? Is it home itself? Or is it the people in it? Perhaps it is just the myriad familiar colors of life that you see that you have grown up seeing, a cut away from the people that you see everyday in the rote of student life. Whatever it is, I’m cursing it now…
I know as I will step out of my room, my vacant wing will look back at me, laughing at my indecision. I will move to a Report Writing class, where a few other hapless souls will share with me the morbidities of being stuck in a cage of lost futilities. And after that, I will pretend.
I will pretend that it’s all the same. That the so-called ‘home-away-from-home’ is enough. I will go to the make-shift little Mandap at a desolate corner of the campus. And even as the blowing hot sand stings me, trying to make me come back to reality, I’ll join others in my pretence. And we will sing and dance in our own little madhouse. And the phantom drums will beat from within a broken cassette player tactfully camouflaged somewhere out of sight. And we will try to put forced smiles on our faces.
And perhaps we will just accidentally smile once. At the incredulity of it all.
But then I am getting way ahead of myself. Its 10 o’clock. Have to go and play my part in a Group Discussion on an obsolete topic.
While it keeps on ringing. Cutting through the silence of the stale Pilani air in my 8’x10’ room and screaming out the ties that one must maintain with the outside world.
When I finally do get to it, the connection is cut. Blessing my perennially null calling balance, I attempt to go back to sleep with the cell in my pocket. But the call returns like the black cackle of a raven. Screeching like the tires of a braking car through the half-sleepy trance I was ensconced in.
Grumbling aloud I take the call. To hear the dreaded cheer in her voice as she wishes me a happy Puja. To hear her talk about how my dreary matchbox-like locality is trying to dress up, trying to hide the Arkham in the midst of their hearts and minds. The glints of magical neon bulbs as people try to find sanity in the middle of insanity… I am afraid of it, afraid of it all…
Is it because I miss it all? I don’t know for I hardly ever was a Puja fanatic to begin with. Perhaps something to do with the overall apathy that my family had for all things that didn’t have a logical reason behind its occurrence. Tradition never cut ice with them, and even though they never went out of their way to propound their view-point, they never jumped into it either.
My mom goes on the phone about the preparations for a business trip that she is taking. She expresses shock at the fact that I have classes on Oshtomi, literally an act of blasphemy in Bengal. I half-expect her to mentally applaud my college for going against their much-dusliked mob tendency, but she doesn’t. Perhaps she realizes the rather low tone of my voice as I croak out responses in mono-syllables.
What is it that makes one home-sick? Is it home itself? Or is it the people in it? Perhaps it is just the myriad familiar colors of life that you see that you have grown up seeing, a cut away from the people that you see everyday in the rote of student life. Whatever it is, I’m cursing it now…
I know as I will step out of my room, my vacant wing will look back at me, laughing at my indecision. I will move to a Report Writing class, where a few other hapless souls will share with me the morbidities of being stuck in a cage of lost futilities. And after that, I will pretend.
I will pretend that it’s all the same. That the so-called ‘home-away-from-home’ is enough. I will go to the make-shift little Mandap at a desolate corner of the campus. And even as the blowing hot sand stings me, trying to make me come back to reality, I’ll join others in my pretence. And we will sing and dance in our own little madhouse. And the phantom drums will beat from within a broken cassette player tactfully camouflaged somewhere out of sight. And we will try to put forced smiles on our faces.
And perhaps we will just accidentally smile once. At the incredulity of it all.
But then I am getting way ahead of myself. Its 10 o’clock. Have to go and play my part in a Group Discussion on an obsolete topic.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Random Reality
It has been a rather beautifully horrible day. I am sitting by myself in my room in front of a very dirtily arranged desk. My old desktop screen flickers as the voltage in the room dips momentarily, threatening diabolically of another imminent power cut. The hoarse croaking sound of my neighbor’s 40 year old radio continues to rattle my nerves as my jobless reverie suffers jolt after jolt from its harsh static. I wonder why I’m still not used to it. This radio has been my 90 year old neighbor’s main occupation from the time he retired. Stripped down to its barest of workings, the days of man and machine are spent in violating the known axioms of durability, as the shaky hands of the old man caresses the insides of the radio with the care of a passionate lover.
A dying fire glowed in the bluish haze of the room. A few of its haggard occupants gave unintentional shivers. The crass voices of the vultures frequenting the graveyard all around them cut through the silence of the night. The continuous creaking of crickets blends with the gentle rustling of the dry leaves of the burnt forest nearby. As he looks around, despair and defeat stares back at him. Tired faces branded with the jaded looks that comes with continuous fights for years. And at the first ray of the sun, in a few hours, the first battle-horns will ring out, putting an end to all of it.
All of it.
He stands up.
The old man, Mr. Mitra, was very active even at this age. In spite of the several ailments, age related and otherwise, he would wake up at 4 A.M. everyday notwithstanding the season or temperature. He maintained one of the most beautiful gardens in the neighborhood. He would then meticulously make his way to the milk shop, standing first in line with the happy excitement of a child less than tenth his age. I would often meet him as I was shepherded towards my school by my mother, rubbing my eyes with all my might. He would always be ready with a tooth-less smile and an endearing word of encouragement.
A hush descends on the room as he stands up. The moans come to a gentle and steady end. The floorboards creak as he steps forward. All the eyes in the room follow each of his movements. His black cape swishes as he stands in the middle of the room. He looks around.
‘They have us. Our Armies have been eradicated in the North. The help promised will not come. The firebirds of the enemy have scared the clan chiefs into hiding or submission.’
He looks around again.
‘Tomorrow’s the last day. You can either go and surrender and plead to the better sense of the enemy. Or you can charge alongside me for one last time. It was an honor serving alongside you gentlemen. ’
Since I was very small, I had just seen him and his equally ancient and wrinkled wife, going about their work. I often used to wonder what happened to their children. I knew of a married daughter who lived not-so-far-off. Her appearances at the home were at best seldom, a rather eventful occurrence that the old couple used to look forward with much enthusiasm. But the visits hardly ever ended on a happy note. We could often hear a broken down Mrs.Mitra groaning in between sobs. After a particularly bad argument, the daughter announced that she wanted nothing to do with her parents anymore. Mrs.Mitra never really recovered from that shock. She spent the rest of her days as a delusional wreck muttering something like, “If only he was alive, he wouldn’t have let her…” …
She died within a year.
The first rays of an orange sun shone on the red battle fields. The once green fields, now ravaged by the terrible firebirds of the enemy bore a parched look, sadistically thirsting for the blood of them who had fought for her well-being and independence. The sweet notes of a parakeet singing on the lone burnt tree in the middle of the battle-field wafted through the sleepy minds on both sides of the field. A drummer was rudely nudged. Grumbling he made his way to the front of the ranks. Thankfully, it was all ending soon.
A disciplined band of men made their way out of the wooden mansion. Their leader kneeled once. ‘For you, mother’, he muttered.
I had often wanted to know who the old lady had been referring to. She had been quite close to us. And her small eccentricities made her very close to the children of the locality. She was obsessed with cartoons and adventure movies. A rather chatty lady, I remember spending hours as a toddler arguing about Tom and Jerry and Dragonball-Z. The latter was her favorite.
As the enemy formations became visible at the other side, the paltry group of fighters halted for once. The leader looked at them. A steady set of eyes looked back at him.
It was time. The remnants of the Royal Army broke into a run. A volley of shots rang out. The leader felt a shearing pain in his arm. He kept on running. Several shots were fired at will. He felt his whole body going numb. Falling…
And that was how Mr.Mitra’s ten year old sleep-walking son had fallen to his death while enacting the last show of Rana Pratap that he had heard in the radio the day before.
‘For you, mother’, he muttered…
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Rainy Day Stories
I always loved the rains. May be it had something to do with the fact that I lived in one of the hottest and most humid parts of the country. But notwithstanding the relief of a sudden dip in the temperature on a hot day, perhaps my friendship with the rains lay somewhere else.
A small child walking back from school, expertly escaping the umbrella that his persevering grandfather tries to keep on his head. Shaking the trees for a bit of an extra drench, jumping on every small puddle that has collected in the crevices on the broken road…
As both my parents used to stay away for long periods for their work when I was growing up, most of my early childhood was spent under the watchful eyes of my grandparents. Dear souls as they were, they were more a bit paranoid about me going out, even to the immediate neighborhood. That part of my life was spent in a virtual curfew. I remember going up to the terrace when the first showers would come. And then the sky and I would shed tears together…
‘Rain, feel it on my finger tips
Hear it on my window pane
Your love’s coming down like
Rain, wash away my sorrow
Take away my pain
Your love’s coming down like rain…’
My curfew ended as I grew older, but my affair with the rain never did. The neighbors soon got used to yours truly bounding out at the first crack of thunder and doing a rather unseemly rain-dance on the road on or on the terrace. I never really cared for their disapproving glances, and was still doing it when my initial comrades had joined their parents on the balconies, giving me dirty looks…
Crazy football in the rain… sloshing around to find the ball in the mud pools… paper boats on the flooded streets… shuffling in quietly with a trail of mud, trying to escape mom’s wrathful glance… freshly made Pakoras with steaming tea…
I was very much a nerd and a loner in High School. Branded with the fire-stamp of mediocrity by my very own friends, I was never really a popular person. I often used to hide inside a shell of dreams and fake happiness that I had built around myself from getting hurt. I remember having lengthy conversations with the rains at that point. I would tell everything to it, everything that I wanted to tell to that very special friend that I didn’t have. I liked to think that it was responding to it, as the gentle rumblings of thunder comforted me… I would talk and talk till the rains had long stopped, and I would be sitting there, shivering terribly, muttering little insignificant tit-bits…
‘I guess it’s time I run far, far away; find comfort in pain,
All pleasure’s the same; it just keeps me from trouble.
Hides my true shape, like Dorian Grey.
I’ve heard what they say, but I’m not here for trouble.
It’s more than just words: it’s just tears and rain…’
But then again, may be the rain wasn’t satisfied with the passive role it was playing. One day, as I was returning to my home, it started in torrents. As I rushed into a broken shed for shelter, a quick shy glance around told me that it had another very washed up, very special occupant. A brilliant smile of recognition flashed on both sides. People say that the following minutes belong to a sun-kissed day and a brilliant weather. But the magical moments that followed were still the happiest of my life… A few minutes a rain-kissed ebullient couple ran out into the road to the Golgappa-wallah on the opposite side… That week heard the first and hoarsest voiced sweet nothings that I have ever uttered…
Living raindrops playing on your bare skin. Ecstasy.
A small child walking back from school, expertly escaping the umbrella that his persevering grandfather tries to keep on his head. Shaking the trees for a bit of an extra drench, jumping on every small puddle that has collected in the crevices on the broken road…
As both my parents used to stay away for long periods for their work when I was growing up, most of my early childhood was spent under the watchful eyes of my grandparents. Dear souls as they were, they were more a bit paranoid about me going out, even to the immediate neighborhood. That part of my life was spent in a virtual curfew. I remember going up to the terrace when the first showers would come. And then the sky and I would shed tears together…
‘Rain, feel it on my finger tips
Hear it on my window pane
Your love’s coming down like
Rain, wash away my sorrow
Take away my pain
Your love’s coming down like rain…’
My curfew ended as I grew older, but my affair with the rain never did. The neighbors soon got used to yours truly bounding out at the first crack of thunder and doing a rather unseemly rain-dance on the road on or on the terrace. I never really cared for their disapproving glances, and was still doing it when my initial comrades had joined their parents on the balconies, giving me dirty looks…
Crazy football in the rain… sloshing around to find the ball in the mud pools… paper boats on the flooded streets… shuffling in quietly with a trail of mud, trying to escape mom’s wrathful glance… freshly made Pakoras with steaming tea…
I was very much a nerd and a loner in High School. Branded with the fire-stamp of mediocrity by my very own friends, I was never really a popular person. I often used to hide inside a shell of dreams and fake happiness that I had built around myself from getting hurt. I remember having lengthy conversations with the rains at that point. I would tell everything to it, everything that I wanted to tell to that very special friend that I didn’t have. I liked to think that it was responding to it, as the gentle rumblings of thunder comforted me… I would talk and talk till the rains had long stopped, and I would be sitting there, shivering terribly, muttering little insignificant tit-bits…
‘I guess it’s time I run far, far away; find comfort in pain,
All pleasure’s the same; it just keeps me from trouble.
Hides my true shape, like Dorian Grey.
I’ve heard what they say, but I’m not here for trouble.
It’s more than just words: it’s just tears and rain…’
But then again, may be the rain wasn’t satisfied with the passive role it was playing. One day, as I was returning to my home, it started in torrents. As I rushed into a broken shed for shelter, a quick shy glance around told me that it had another very washed up, very special occupant. A brilliant smile of recognition flashed on both sides. People say that the following minutes belong to a sun-kissed day and a brilliant weather. But the magical moments that followed were still the happiest of my life… A few minutes a rain-kissed ebullient couple ran out into the road to the Golgappa-wallah on the opposite side… That week heard the first and hoarsest voiced sweet nothings that I have ever uttered…
Living raindrops playing on your bare skin. Ecstasy.
Friday, July 3, 2009
1942, A 10 Paisa Coin and Other Stories
It started off like so many stories do, in that shady little place beside the fountain of light where the memories of generations and the experiences of a lifetime time blend to produce a singular moment, the moment of a lifetime.
Running. Through the dried up paddy fields and the burnt down villages. Two lonely souls. Running. Running from their past and from the ones that they held dearest to their heart. Running.
When I was small, I had this strange fascination with coins. No, I was not a collector; I never had the patience to be one. I was more interested in amassing this huge number of coins. May be it was just Uncle Scrooge cartoons rubbing off on me, but making tiny buildings out of columns of coins was a very favorite past-time of mine.
There’s no light for miles around. Only the moonlight plays around the foggy path, like wisps of luminosity trapped in a magical mesh. Suddenly the girl sits down. She can’t run anymore… The boy stops too. Their eyes meet, and a silent plea is conveyed. The boy comes up to her and takes the sack she is carrying. The girl quietly brushes aside a teardrop. Weakness has never been a luxury that she could afford.
The smallest coin still well in circulation when I was that age was the 10 paisa coin. Quite naturally, scant changes that used to find its way into my hands at that point of time would invariably end up with the nearest grocer in exchange for the equal amount in 10 paisa coins. This being the least troublesome of my eccentricities (pyromania being the other one (:-)) my family humored me.
A Japanese plane flies overhead, for a moment drowning the sound of the crickets eerily resounding through the area, as it hurries to wreck havoc. The couple keeps on crouching many minutes after the plane has left. They finally muster up enough courage to move. The deathly still of the night rustles in protest as they run through it into the villages that come in sight. But its all in vain, most of the villages have been burnt down by the bombings or are graves after the deadly famine of the ’42 summer…
Not that this habit of mine of mine did not come with its share of hazards. Anyone and everyone in need of loose change would often just grab a handful of my precious collection. A 3 year old cousin of mine even got one of them stuck up his nose, something that had to be operated on to make right. My little hobby lost lots of patrons that day…
They slowly trudge out from the last forest into a clearing. A sharp gasp escapes them. In front of them is the magnificent Ganga, sparkling like a magical carpet, as millions of narcissistic stars gaze down on it and admire their own beauty.
The end of the journey is near…
The couple starts on one last tired trot on the river bank…
The final nail on the coffin for my hobby was however when the government decided to stop minting anything lower than 50 paisa. Soon, it was very hard to find abundant 10 paisa coins in the market. And pocket money being on the few things unaffected by inflation, I could not change to 50 paisa coins either. My columns of coins soon disappeared, with chocolates and chips being the most favored investments…
They near a enormous structure, a steel grey structure shining dully in the moonlight, giving a glum proud reminder to the world around it of its superiority and strength as if reaches for the skies. The couple stand staring at the steel arches stretching from one side to the other, binding the mighty Ganga in man’s steel grasps. They see a ghat at a distance, one that in later times would be known as the Howrah Bridge Ghat. The holy threads on the trees around the ghat tell them that the place is holy. The girl goes down to the water and puts some of the holy water on her head. At a distance thousands of coins are spread all over the riverbed by pilgrims… The boy keeps on staring at them…
A couple of weeks ago, I was coming back from Howrah, when this apologetic auto-driver suddenly handed me a handful of 10 paisa coins to make up for the remaining change. Cliché as it might sound; I suddenly felt a sad tinge for those funny little habits of old. Not complaining, I pocketed it.
There is this place on the bridge, from which the religious people throw down coins to the river below. For the first time, I felt this over-powering urge to join them.
Rushing to the thronging footpath, I threw down one of the 10 paisa coins…
On the other side of the river is their future home, the Land of Dreams and Shadows, the City. They will start their life afresh, together. They walked up from the Ghat and started walking along the bridge. When they were halfway there the boy stopped. He removed a small bag from his back and opened it. A solitary coin shone back at him…
And at that point, for the first and last time in his life, my grandfather had taken out the coin and thrown it into the river praying for good luck…
And the magnificent rivers of time and water kept on flowing silently into eternity …
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Remembering a True People’s Uprising – Tiananmen Square
This June marked the rather unceremonious 20th Anniversary of one of the most singular uprisings against a totalitarian regime that the world has ever seen. In this month of June in 1989, a peaceful protest to demand for greater democracy in China became one of the most enduring symbols of human courage in the face of fire.
Tiananmen Square. The very name had become associated with the most brutal repressions of a populist movement for a whole generation. In a year that saw the end of Communist regimes throughout the world, the intellectuals and students of China started organizing protests against the authoritarianism and market policies of the Communist Government. The death of Hu Yaobang, a liberal voice who was forced to resign from his post of Secretary General because of his pro-democracy stand, acted as a catalyst. Something that started off as a peaceful collection of students from Peking and Tsinghua Universities soon elevated. The officials refused to meet the students, even ordering the police to form cordons and keep students out of official institutions. This led to minor clashes. The state-run Chinese media however reported a distorted version of the nature of activities, something that backfired and ended up giving much-needed momentum to the protesters.
Police Brutalities on the protesters
The day before Hu Yaobang’s funeral, on 21st April, nearly 1,00,0000 students marched into Tiananmen Square. The authorities claimed that it was just ‘a segment of opportunists’, creating trouble. The next day a 50,000 strong assembly of students demanded that the statement be retracted. A complete strike in all universities was started and all communist associations in colleges were removed, with new associations setup in their place. Their next demand was the formalization of these associations and free media. The government rejected the proposed dialogue, only agreeing to talk to members of appointed student organizations. On 13 May, two days prior to the highly-publicized state visit by the reform-minded Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, huge groups of students occupied Tiananmen Square and started a hunger strike, insisting the government withdraw the accusation made in the People's Daily editorial and begin talks with the designated student representatives. Nearly a 1000 students went on hunger strike during these protests.
There was a large presence of foreign media due the visit of Gorbachev. Their coverage of the protests was extensive and generally favorable towards the protesters, but pessimistic that they would attain their goals. Toward the end of the demonstration, on 30 May, a statue of the Goddess of Democracy was erected in the Square. General Secretary Zhao Ziyang was ousted from his posts for his open support to the protesters.
On June 1st, soldiers from the 27th and 28th Regiments of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) were sent to suppress the protesters. There was widespread support for the protesters in PLA ranks as well, but these regiments had brought in from outside provinces.
As word spread that hundreds of thousands of troops were approaching from all four corners of the city, Beijingers flooded the streets to block them. People set up barricades at every major intersection. Protesters burned public buses and used them as roadblocks to stop the military's progress.
Carnage in the roads of Beijing
The battle continued on the streets surrounding the Square, with protesters repeatedly advancing toward the People's Liberation Army (PLA) and constructing barricades with vehicles, while the PLA attempted to clear the streets using tear gas, rifles, and tanks. In a couple of cases, officers were pulled from tanks, beaten and killed by protesters.
Meanwhile, the PLA had been given till 6:00 A.M. to clear the Square. They gave the protesters till 4:00 A.M. to clear it. While the protesters were debating on the further course of action, three armored cars rolled into the Square and opened fire on the protesters. Around 4:00 AM several tanks crashed into the square, crushing vehicles and humans under their treads.
On the morning of 5 June protesters tried to enter the blocked square but were shot at by the soldiers. The soldiers shot them in the back when they were running away.
The Chinese Red Cross put the estimate of people killed at 2,600 and the number of people wounded at 7000-10000. Other estimates on the number of people killed range from 3700 (by a PLA defector) to 10000 (Russian Intelligence).
Dead bodies lying around near Tiananmen Square
The Chinese Government categorically denied the firing of a single shot and in an official statement said that there were no mortalities.
The suppression of the protests were immortalized by the video and photographs of a lone man in a white shirt standing in front of a column of tanks attempting to drive out of Tiananmen Square. The pictures depicted the unarmed man standing in the center of the street, halting the tanks' progress. As the tank driver attempted to go around him, the "Tank Man" moved into the tank's path. He continued to stand defiantly in front of the tanks for some time, finally climbing up onto the turret of the lead tank to speak to the soldiers inside.
The 'Tank Man' stopping the Tanks - It is said he was killed soon after
Tiananmen Square effectively spelt the end of the pro-Democracy Movement in China. The controls over media were strengthened with sympathizers of the protesters removed from public life. All written records of Tiananmen Square were removed.
Despite early expectations in the West that PRC government would soon collapse and be replaced by the Chinese democracy movement, by the early 21st century the Communist Party of China remained in firm control of the People's Republic of China, and the student movement which started at Tiananmen was in complete disarray after the death of most of its leaders.
This month marks the 20th Anniversary of this gruesome turn of events. The new generation of Chinese students being mostly unaware of them, there was hardly anything to commemorate it.
There has been a lot of talk about how India should follow the Chinese system. Twenty years ago, in this very month, the Chinese showed us their system. Are we sure we want to follow it?
Tiananmen Square. The very name had become associated with the most brutal repressions of a populist movement for a whole generation. In a year that saw the end of Communist regimes throughout the world, the intellectuals and students of China started organizing protests against the authoritarianism and market policies of the Communist Government. The death of Hu Yaobang, a liberal voice who was forced to resign from his post of Secretary General because of his pro-democracy stand, acted as a catalyst. Something that started off as a peaceful collection of students from Peking and Tsinghua Universities soon elevated. The officials refused to meet the students, even ordering the police to form cordons and keep students out of official institutions. This led to minor clashes. The state-run Chinese media however reported a distorted version of the nature of activities, something that backfired and ended up giving much-needed momentum to the protesters.
Police Brutalities on the protesters
The day before Hu Yaobang’s funeral, on 21st April, nearly 1,00,0000 students marched into Tiananmen Square. The authorities claimed that it was just ‘a segment of opportunists’, creating trouble. The next day a 50,000 strong assembly of students demanded that the statement be retracted. A complete strike in all universities was started and all communist associations in colleges were removed, with new associations setup in their place. Their next demand was the formalization of these associations and free media. The government rejected the proposed dialogue, only agreeing to talk to members of appointed student organizations. On 13 May, two days prior to the highly-publicized state visit by the reform-minded Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, huge groups of students occupied Tiananmen Square and started a hunger strike, insisting the government withdraw the accusation made in the People's Daily editorial and begin talks with the designated student representatives. Nearly a 1000 students went on hunger strike during these protests.
There was a large presence of foreign media due the visit of Gorbachev. Their coverage of the protests was extensive and generally favorable towards the protesters, but pessimistic that they would attain their goals. Toward the end of the demonstration, on 30 May, a statue of the Goddess of Democracy was erected in the Square. General Secretary Zhao Ziyang was ousted from his posts for his open support to the protesters.
On June 1st, soldiers from the 27th and 28th Regiments of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) were sent to suppress the protesters. There was widespread support for the protesters in PLA ranks as well, but these regiments had brought in from outside provinces.
As word spread that hundreds of thousands of troops were approaching from all four corners of the city, Beijingers flooded the streets to block them. People set up barricades at every major intersection. Protesters burned public buses and used them as roadblocks to stop the military's progress.
Carnage in the roads of Beijing
The battle continued on the streets surrounding the Square, with protesters repeatedly advancing toward the People's Liberation Army (PLA) and constructing barricades with vehicles, while the PLA attempted to clear the streets using tear gas, rifles, and tanks. In a couple of cases, officers were pulled from tanks, beaten and killed by protesters.
Meanwhile, the PLA had been given till 6:00 A.M. to clear the Square. They gave the protesters till 4:00 A.M. to clear it. While the protesters were debating on the further course of action, three armored cars rolled into the Square and opened fire on the protesters. Around 4:00 AM several tanks crashed into the square, crushing vehicles and humans under their treads.
On the morning of 5 June protesters tried to enter the blocked square but were shot at by the soldiers. The soldiers shot them in the back when they were running away.
The Chinese Red Cross put the estimate of people killed at 2,600 and the number of people wounded at 7000-10000. Other estimates on the number of people killed range from 3700 (by a PLA defector) to 10000 (Russian Intelligence).
Dead bodies lying around near Tiananmen Square
The Chinese Government categorically denied the firing of a single shot and in an official statement said that there were no mortalities.
The suppression of the protests were immortalized by the video and photographs of a lone man in a white shirt standing in front of a column of tanks attempting to drive out of Tiananmen Square. The pictures depicted the unarmed man standing in the center of the street, halting the tanks' progress. As the tank driver attempted to go around him, the "Tank Man" moved into the tank's path. He continued to stand defiantly in front of the tanks for some time, finally climbing up onto the turret of the lead tank to speak to the soldiers inside.
The 'Tank Man' stopping the Tanks - It is said he was killed soon after
Tiananmen Square effectively spelt the end of the pro-Democracy Movement in China. The controls over media were strengthened with sympathizers of the protesters removed from public life. All written records of Tiananmen Square were removed.
Despite early expectations in the West that PRC government would soon collapse and be replaced by the Chinese democracy movement, by the early 21st century the Communist Party of China remained in firm control of the People's Republic of China, and the student movement which started at Tiananmen was in complete disarray after the death of most of its leaders.
This month marks the 20th Anniversary of this gruesome turn of events. The new generation of Chinese students being mostly unaware of them, there was hardly anything to commemorate it.
There has been a lot of talk about how India should follow the Chinese system. Twenty years ago, in this very month, the Chinese showed us their system. Are we sure we want to follow it?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Lies, Deception and Neglect - The Lalgarh Story
There has been a lot of noise being made about the present situation in Lalgarh and the so-called increase in influence of the Maoists in present-day West Bengal. There has been many discussions about the Left Government’s ‘reluctance’ to ban the Maoist organization even as they are declared as ‘class enemy’ Numero Uno by the Maoists. But sadly the hypocrisy and the shadow-wars being fought over and over again are just covered up.
The Lalgarh situation has elevating since the last year, with the tribal inhabitants of the area creating a so-called ‘Liberated Zone’ with the ‘People’s Committee Against Police Atrocities’ a hitherto unknown Organization assuming control, with a so-called army and kangaroo court to boot. The government, unwilling to create another PR fiasco on the lines of Nandigram, just let it happen. The eternal blame-game between Mamata Banerjee and Buddhadeb Bhattacharya started afresh, with the age-old rhetoric in press conferences.
The most brutal irony of the situation is even as the politicians battle over the ‘who?’, the more fundamental question of ‘why?’ was just left out. On closer observation, Lalgarh, which has a tribal dominated population, has been long known as the home of the human ‘ant-eaters’. The starving population of the region have the one of the worst living conditions in the country with no basic civic amenities, not least of which is the complete absence of medical facilities for miles around.
Another very recurring image in this fiasco is that of a rather palatial home being broken down by a raging mob several hundred strong. The building, which belongs to the regional CPM strongman, Anuj Pandey, is the only private brick house for several villages. This setup, very much akin to Ceauşescu's Centrul Civic* project, had for long been a symbol of the unfairness of the world to the tribals, many of whom still stay in the forests and have no substantial property or education to speak of. The destruction of the house was symbolical of freedom to the tribals, very much like the destruction of Saddam’s statue in Baghdad was for the Iraqis.
And finally, the sealing off of the area to outsiders and the creation of the parallel government of the region. The comparisons with the Nandigram situation which this action brought could not be farther from the truth. While the Nandigram and the Singur situations were more for the Right of the residents to the profession of their choice, Lalgarh, has been just about the Right to Survival with dignity. Nothing but that one final right can perhaps push the emaciated and haggard faces we see on television to take up arms against a seemingly insurmountable enemy. There were several debates on Singur and Nandigram and two strong opposing views on the matter. But Lalgarh never deserved these debates; Lalgarh deserved and wanted a solution.
But then, everyone wanted to know who PCPA were, instead of why they were doing it. The Trinamool Congress said it was an extension of their movements elsewhere in the state, even claiming Chhatradhar Mahato to be one of their own. (It was claim they would later distance themselves from when the connection of PCPA with Maoists was established. ‘Chhatradhar Mahato was a member, he was expelled. ’, they claimed.)
The Maoists in West Bengal have a very colorful history. Even though it is considered the birthplace of the Naxalite Movement in the ‘70s, West Bengal being the pseudo-Leftist state that it is, has always escaped the full scathe of Maoist insurgency unlike Chattisgarh and Jharkhand. As a matter of fact, during the resurgence of Congress and TMC in the 2001 State Assembly Polls, Maoists were openly supplied firearms from CPM Party Offices, apparently to combat the common ‘class enemies’. It wasn’t till CPI (ML) and the Andhra factions of the Maoists combined to form the CPI (Maoist) in 2004 that the fight against the Left in CPM government was taken up in earnest. And herein lies the so-called reluctance of present day Left leaders to ban the Maoists in Bengal.
However, the revelation about the Maoist presence in Lalgarh could not have come at a more opportune moment for the Government, both State and Central. Just as the stunning apathy of authorities towards this forgotten corner of the country was being brought out, and the media was finally trying to get to the root of the problem, when this news just unified all opinion and media against the so-called common shadowy enemy.
Ironically, the Maoists stand to gain just as much, if not more than the government. As the combined might of the Paramilitary forces and the State Police rolls into one empty village after another, it’s increasingly becoming evident that the Maoists never had long-term plans in Lalgarh to begin with. Brilliantly using the human shield as protection, they have carried out one of the most comprehensive recruitments in recent memory. Something that started off as a spontaneous outburst against the nepotism and neglect was just hijacked by them. Once this was done, they practically invited the Army by holding a public press conference and announcing the plot to kill the Chief Minister. And the empty villages and the minimal resistance to the advancing army just stand to underline the fact that a whole generation of tribals has been sucked into the terrifying vortex of permanent insurgency.
All while the icons of a failed governance system, namely the State and the Central Governments point fingers and submit hypocritical petitions.
The Army keeps on entering village after village liberating phantoms and left-behind senile cattle…
And the tragedy of the situation is lost, one more time…
*- Ceauşescu's Centrul Civic - Ceauşescu's was the last Romanian Communist President who tried to build a complex called ‘Centrul Civic’ that was so extravagant that the people had to be rationed for electricity and essential food items to cover the costs.
The Lalgarh situation has elevating since the last year, with the tribal inhabitants of the area creating a so-called ‘Liberated Zone’ with the ‘People’s Committee Against Police Atrocities’ a hitherto unknown Organization assuming control, with a so-called army and kangaroo court to boot. The government, unwilling to create another PR fiasco on the lines of Nandigram, just let it happen. The eternal blame-game between Mamata Banerjee and Buddhadeb Bhattacharya started afresh, with the age-old rhetoric in press conferences.
The most brutal irony of the situation is even as the politicians battle over the ‘who?’, the more fundamental question of ‘why?’ was just left out. On closer observation, Lalgarh, which has a tribal dominated population, has been long known as the home of the human ‘ant-eaters’. The starving population of the region have the one of the worst living conditions in the country with no basic civic amenities, not least of which is the complete absence of medical facilities for miles around.
Another very recurring image in this fiasco is that of a rather palatial home being broken down by a raging mob several hundred strong. The building, which belongs to the regional CPM strongman, Anuj Pandey, is the only private brick house for several villages. This setup, very much akin to Ceauşescu's Centrul Civic* project, had for long been a symbol of the unfairness of the world to the tribals, many of whom still stay in the forests and have no substantial property or education to speak of. The destruction of the house was symbolical of freedom to the tribals, very much like the destruction of Saddam’s statue in Baghdad was for the Iraqis.
And finally, the sealing off of the area to outsiders and the creation of the parallel government of the region. The comparisons with the Nandigram situation which this action brought could not be farther from the truth. While the Nandigram and the Singur situations were more for the Right of the residents to the profession of their choice, Lalgarh, has been just about the Right to Survival with dignity. Nothing but that one final right can perhaps push the emaciated and haggard faces we see on television to take up arms against a seemingly insurmountable enemy. There were several debates on Singur and Nandigram and two strong opposing views on the matter. But Lalgarh never deserved these debates; Lalgarh deserved and wanted a solution.
But then, everyone wanted to know who PCPA were, instead of why they were doing it. The Trinamool Congress said it was an extension of their movements elsewhere in the state, even claiming Chhatradhar Mahato to be one of their own. (It was claim they would later distance themselves from when the connection of PCPA with Maoists was established. ‘Chhatradhar Mahato was a member, he was expelled. ’, they claimed.)
The Maoists in West Bengal have a very colorful history. Even though it is considered the birthplace of the Naxalite Movement in the ‘70s, West Bengal being the pseudo-Leftist state that it is, has always escaped the full scathe of Maoist insurgency unlike Chattisgarh and Jharkhand. As a matter of fact, during the resurgence of Congress and TMC in the 2001 State Assembly Polls, Maoists were openly supplied firearms from CPM Party Offices, apparently to combat the common ‘class enemies’. It wasn’t till CPI (ML) and the Andhra factions of the Maoists combined to form the CPI (Maoist) in 2004 that the fight against the Left in CPM government was taken up in earnest. And herein lies the so-called reluctance of present day Left leaders to ban the Maoists in Bengal.
However, the revelation about the Maoist presence in Lalgarh could not have come at a more opportune moment for the Government, both State and Central. Just as the stunning apathy of authorities towards this forgotten corner of the country was being brought out, and the media was finally trying to get to the root of the problem, when this news just unified all opinion and media against the so-called common shadowy enemy.
Ironically, the Maoists stand to gain just as much, if not more than the government. As the combined might of the Paramilitary forces and the State Police rolls into one empty village after another, it’s increasingly becoming evident that the Maoists never had long-term plans in Lalgarh to begin with. Brilliantly using the human shield as protection, they have carried out one of the most comprehensive recruitments in recent memory. Something that started off as a spontaneous outburst against the nepotism and neglect was just hijacked by them. Once this was done, they practically invited the Army by holding a public press conference and announcing the plot to kill the Chief Minister. And the empty villages and the minimal resistance to the advancing army just stand to underline the fact that a whole generation of tribals has been sucked into the terrifying vortex of permanent insurgency.
All while the icons of a failed governance system, namely the State and the Central Governments point fingers and submit hypocritical petitions.
The Army keeps on entering village after village liberating phantoms and left-behind senile cattle…
And the tragedy of the situation is lost, one more time…
*- Ceauşescu's Centrul Civic - Ceauşescu's was the last Romanian Communist President who tried to build a complex called ‘Centrul Civic’ that was so extravagant that the people had to be rationed for electricity and essential food items to cover the costs.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Broken Promises
It had been a rather regular English class. The teacher being one of the better ones, the yawns had been delayed by a substantial time. But even as the class meandered along its own course, the teacher announced that there would be a new short lesson to be covered. It happened to be a song, one that no one in the class had heard before.
A four year old child gaping at a black and white television where a man is performing apparently gravity defying dance moves. The broken antenna on the roof-top brings down a steady series of disturbances, constantly reminding of its age like a disgruntled clerk at the verge of retirement. The child keeps on gaping. The momentary shrill pitched parts attract the attention of his family. A few leave the room with a disgusted face, while the rest remain. A few moments later his father ventures to ask with a patronizing smile, “How do you like it?”
The child stares back at his father for some time, perhaps trying to come back from the amazing world of grey-scale glitterati. “Its brilliant…”, he mumbles rather dazedly.
The name of the song was, ‘We are the world’. As the whole class grumbled and fumbled their way to prepare to take hurried notes, the teacher stopped them. It won’t be necessary, she said, there is history related to this song.
The artists who sang the song - U.S.A. for Africa
It had nearly been 20 years since the foremost artists of the time had united to sing the song. Most of the artists were on the wane by then, a few were even retired. But even though they no longer dominated the popular culture scenario at the time, the names of greats like Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan, Tina Turner and Lionel Richie were enough to capture the attention of the students. The very idea of more than forty of the greatest of the era coming together to sing one song intrigued us at that time. Heated debates followed, but the sense of awe and respect reserved for the song was evident.
The kid, now six, waits impatiently as his father brings out a cassette from the loft. Putting it in the new cassette player, both father and son wait as the songs start. And soon the nasal voice from two years back fills the room. The kid, still not fluent enough in English can just understand snatches of the song. But soon, as the melody gets to him, he just breaks into an impromptu jig. Smiling indulgently, his parents join in…
After the discussions on Ethiopia and the effectiveness of individual contributions in making a difference in the world, we had ventured to make a request. The request was for the teacher to sing the song to us. The teacher, who also had a great tenor, would be the nearest replacement to the real thing that we had.
Another couple of years had passed. The whole family had congregated in the living room for a double treat. It was a new color Television with cable connection. Coming from a grainy black and white one which had all of two channels, this was a huge leap. As they surfed through the channels happily, he suddenly stopped in this channel with a gigantic ‘M’ in the corner. It was the same man. He looked a bit different from earlier, but the moves and the voice remained. The kid’s moment of ecstasy was short-lived though as the older sections of his joint family started complaining and the television was closed for the day, leaving the kid scowling away teary-eyed.
The teacher however refused. There was this untold regulation in our school, which forbade music to leave the confines of Music Class unless in drastic situations. Being a senior teacher, she could not break it. But looking at the long faces all around her, she relented. But not at that moment. She would sing the song to us on the last day of term.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The parents, ever gently, entered the room where the scowling kid sat listening to his cassettes. The kid turned to them, visible salty tracks down his cheeks marking the latest unwanted canal in the beaches of adolescence.
“When I grow up, I will go and see him in a stadium from the front rows.”
“Really?”
“Yea… And I will dance there with all those other people…”
“Make sure to take us with you then OK?”
“Sure I will!!!”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The last day of term came. Even though the pressure of approaching exams did do its bit to push it out of our heads, a few students made their way to English class on the last day of term to hear the song. But a big disappointment awaited us. The teacher refused to sing it to us because of the poor turn-out. Next term, she said, or else the rest of them will pester me to sing it again.
As the kid struggled clumsily in the throes of approaching adulthood, the glib stunning dance displays and the slightly shrill voice was replaced by the more refined (?) and modern thrash metal and its accompanying head-banging. The magical performer passed away from his life very much like the black and white television where he had first appeared.
Many more ends of terms came. The song never did. By this time, we had discovered the wonders of international music channels and Youtube. Music was no longer inaccessible. But for some reason, I could never bring myself to go there and listen to that song. It was some kind of weird mental block that I could never bring myself to overcome.
And one day, the last ‘last’ day of term came. We left school.
I met my teacher that day, but the persistent thought about that song got lost among the thousands of emotions and memories churning away in my mind at that moment.
The promise had been broken.
I heard the song for the first time two days ago, as the channels launched into a series of tributes to M.J. But sadly as I heard the song, I realized that just like my teacher, a child would also be breaking a promise he made to his parents all those years ago.
Rest in Peace, Michael Jackson.
'If you enter the world knowing you are loved and you leave this world knowing the same, then everything that happens in between can be dealt with.'- M.J.
A four year old child gaping at a black and white television where a man is performing apparently gravity defying dance moves. The broken antenna on the roof-top brings down a steady series of disturbances, constantly reminding of its age like a disgruntled clerk at the verge of retirement. The child keeps on gaping. The momentary shrill pitched parts attract the attention of his family. A few leave the room with a disgusted face, while the rest remain. A few moments later his father ventures to ask with a patronizing smile, “How do you like it?”
The child stares back at his father for some time, perhaps trying to come back from the amazing world of grey-scale glitterati. “Its brilliant…”, he mumbles rather dazedly.
The name of the song was, ‘We are the world’. As the whole class grumbled and fumbled their way to prepare to take hurried notes, the teacher stopped them. It won’t be necessary, she said, there is history related to this song.
The artists who sang the song - U.S.A. for Africa
It had nearly been 20 years since the foremost artists of the time had united to sing the song. Most of the artists were on the wane by then, a few were even retired. But even though they no longer dominated the popular culture scenario at the time, the names of greats like Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan, Tina Turner and Lionel Richie were enough to capture the attention of the students. The very idea of more than forty of the greatest of the era coming together to sing one song intrigued us at that time. Heated debates followed, but the sense of awe and respect reserved for the song was evident.
The kid, now six, waits impatiently as his father brings out a cassette from the loft. Putting it in the new cassette player, both father and son wait as the songs start. And soon the nasal voice from two years back fills the room. The kid, still not fluent enough in English can just understand snatches of the song. But soon, as the melody gets to him, he just breaks into an impromptu jig. Smiling indulgently, his parents join in…
After the discussions on Ethiopia and the effectiveness of individual contributions in making a difference in the world, we had ventured to make a request. The request was for the teacher to sing the song to us. The teacher, who also had a great tenor, would be the nearest replacement to the real thing that we had.
Another couple of years had passed. The whole family had congregated in the living room for a double treat. It was a new color Television with cable connection. Coming from a grainy black and white one which had all of two channels, this was a huge leap. As they surfed through the channels happily, he suddenly stopped in this channel with a gigantic ‘M’ in the corner. It was the same man. He looked a bit different from earlier, but the moves and the voice remained. The kid’s moment of ecstasy was short-lived though as the older sections of his joint family started complaining and the television was closed for the day, leaving the kid scowling away teary-eyed.
The teacher however refused. There was this untold regulation in our school, which forbade music to leave the confines of Music Class unless in drastic situations. Being a senior teacher, she could not break it. But looking at the long faces all around her, she relented. But not at that moment. She would sing the song to us on the last day of term.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The parents, ever gently, entered the room where the scowling kid sat listening to his cassettes. The kid turned to them, visible salty tracks down his cheeks marking the latest unwanted canal in the beaches of adolescence.
“When I grow up, I will go and see him in a stadium from the front rows.”
“Really?”
“Yea… And I will dance there with all those other people…”
“Make sure to take us with you then OK?”
“Sure I will!!!”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The last day of term came. Even though the pressure of approaching exams did do its bit to push it out of our heads, a few students made their way to English class on the last day of term to hear the song. But a big disappointment awaited us. The teacher refused to sing it to us because of the poor turn-out. Next term, she said, or else the rest of them will pester me to sing it again.
As the kid struggled clumsily in the throes of approaching adulthood, the glib stunning dance displays and the slightly shrill voice was replaced by the more refined (?) and modern thrash metal and its accompanying head-banging. The magical performer passed away from his life very much like the black and white television where he had first appeared.
Many more ends of terms came. The song never did. By this time, we had discovered the wonders of international music channels and Youtube. Music was no longer inaccessible. But for some reason, I could never bring myself to go there and listen to that song. It was some kind of weird mental block that I could never bring myself to overcome.
And one day, the last ‘last’ day of term came. We left school.
I met my teacher that day, but the persistent thought about that song got lost among the thousands of emotions and memories churning away in my mind at that moment.
The promise had been broken.
I heard the song for the first time two days ago, as the channels launched into a series of tributes to M.J. But sadly as I heard the song, I realized that just like my teacher, a child would also be breaking a promise he made to his parents all those years ago.
Rest in Peace, Michael Jackson.
'If you enter the world knowing you are loved and you leave this world knowing the same, then everything that happens in between can be dealt with.'- M.J.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Second Life
Her new life had always been a gambit. At twenty years of age , not many would have dared to take the risk that she had taken . But then, she wasn’t really one of them . Or , so she felt , as she hummed a little ad jingle while working in the kitchen .
She was getting a bit heavy. The little work that she had done in the kitchen in the last half an hour had worn her out . She sat down in front of the old gas oven , wiping her forehead with a dirty rag as she did . Maybe , it wasn’t really working out . And maybe , she thought angrily , that small town hick practitioner she was going to would stop this herbal crap , and just give her an Aspirin .
The kettle on the oven in front of her gave a small gentle whistle, shaking her out of her reverie . Muttering to herself , she got up .Take your medicines on time . As if this tea she was taking was a medicine. The name always made her smile though ... 'Pennyroyal Tea' ... Sit and drink Pennyroyal tea, distill the life that's inside of me , she mumbled , suddenly feeling nostalgic about those Grunge days back in the Bronx .Endless freedom . The hash just a call away . And now, I’m holed up here trying to make this freaking kettle to work ,she grumbled , taking the first bitter sip .
This life wasn’t really meant for her . She had been made for the Casino circle from day one . The rich asses and their punk pimps . The big boys who played rough . And them . The scum of the Bronx . The small fish . And it was all swell . The circle fed them . It wasn’t really a Casino though . More of a big bordello with hell lot of gambling going on . But then , as Jimmy said , it was a refuge . And Casino means refuge in Italian , he would mention in his deep accented voice .Well , he would have known . He was the college kid . He was the youngest in the gang except for her . But he said a lot of stuff that they never understood . Crazy kid . Wanted to travel to stars and stuff . But he was cute when he wasn’t acting all loony.
They had been sleeping together for an year when the big boys started making noises . Loud noises about the percentage. Word was they had made huge losses up in white market . Jimmy was in the middle of one of his freedom talks . Being someone . ‘Transcend’ from the ordinary . Hell , those were big words . Freedom talk was shorter . But it was good enough to bring him all the way up into the big boy’s radar . One day they picked him up . She cried a lot . Couple of days later , he was found hanging in the Alley . He looked like he had been chewed up by steel toothed alligators . It was the special treat of the mob . The Iron Maiden . It was said the Boss brought it back from Europe way back . It was a pretty nice ‘transcending’ session for the kid though . Rising up all of two feet from the rest with a steel hook pierced through his neck .
She had lost it when she had seen it . It had taken three people to keep her from it . A couple of days later she went to Jimmy’s uncle and squealed . He was a sheriff with the State Patrol . That created some noise with reporters and other random people shouting and coming down to the Bronx . He took it all in and had told her to lay low in this town while he figured it all out. She had protested , but he had nearly packed her off forcefully . That was three months back. Before she knew that she was carrying Jimmy’s kid .
She patted her belly . Jimmy junior would be with her forever . She would keep him decent . Educate him and stuff . Make him what his daddy wanted to be . She choked as she drunk down the now cold tea . Maybe one more cup wouldn’t hurt . The evening was becoming cold . She put some more water to boil .
She really missed him a lot . He was the part of her that was there for only the one year they had been together . Like a hallucination . Wake up and its not there anymore . Often after a night together , he would just sit and look blankly into the night sky . If she asked , he would say that he was looking on at his journey trough hyperspace . Another of his words that she would never understand . But back then she never tried . She had better things to do to him.
She was feeling surprisingly dizzy . The room seemed to be revolving all around her . She tried to hold on to the oven but her hands snatched at only air ….
A few blocks away a fake herbalist received an envelope from the Bronx that he was eagerly waiting for . He whistled softly when he read the amount . Enough to pay for an year’s rent …
New bets were placed on old whirring Roulette wheels …
Some hundred’s of miles away ,a man woke up from a nightmare of a young man’s corpse crying out to him , blaming him … Jimmy’s uncle shakily lighted a cigarette .. it would be another sleepless night …
A dead girl lay on the floor of a room …
The kettle gave its second soft whistle of the night .
.
She was getting a bit heavy. The little work that she had done in the kitchen in the last half an hour had worn her out . She sat down in front of the old gas oven , wiping her forehead with a dirty rag as she did . Maybe , it wasn’t really working out . And maybe , she thought angrily , that small town hick practitioner she was going to would stop this herbal crap , and just give her an Aspirin .
The kettle on the oven in front of her gave a small gentle whistle, shaking her out of her reverie . Muttering to herself , she got up .Take your medicines on time . As if this tea she was taking was a medicine. The name always made her smile though ... 'Pennyroyal Tea' ... Sit and drink Pennyroyal tea, distill the life that's inside of me , she mumbled , suddenly feeling nostalgic about those Grunge days back in the Bronx .Endless freedom . The hash just a call away . And now, I’m holed up here trying to make this freaking kettle to work ,she grumbled , taking the first bitter sip .
This life wasn’t really meant for her . She had been made for the Casino circle from day one . The rich asses and their punk pimps . The big boys who played rough . And them . The scum of the Bronx . The small fish . And it was all swell . The circle fed them . It wasn’t really a Casino though . More of a big bordello with hell lot of gambling going on . But then , as Jimmy said , it was a refuge . And Casino means refuge in Italian , he would mention in his deep accented voice .Well , he would have known . He was the college kid . He was the youngest in the gang except for her . But he said a lot of stuff that they never understood . Crazy kid . Wanted to travel to stars and stuff . But he was cute when he wasn’t acting all loony.
They had been sleeping together for an year when the big boys started making noises . Loud noises about the percentage. Word was they had made huge losses up in white market . Jimmy was in the middle of one of his freedom talks . Being someone . ‘Transcend’ from the ordinary . Hell , those were big words . Freedom talk was shorter . But it was good enough to bring him all the way up into the big boy’s radar . One day they picked him up . She cried a lot . Couple of days later , he was found hanging in the Alley . He looked like he had been chewed up by steel toothed alligators . It was the special treat of the mob . The Iron Maiden . It was said the Boss brought it back from Europe way back . It was a pretty nice ‘transcending’ session for the kid though . Rising up all of two feet from the rest with a steel hook pierced through his neck .
She had lost it when she had seen it . It had taken three people to keep her from it . A couple of days later she went to Jimmy’s uncle and squealed . He was a sheriff with the State Patrol . That created some noise with reporters and other random people shouting and coming down to the Bronx . He took it all in and had told her to lay low in this town while he figured it all out. She had protested , but he had nearly packed her off forcefully . That was three months back. Before she knew that she was carrying Jimmy’s kid .
She patted her belly . Jimmy junior would be with her forever . She would keep him decent . Educate him and stuff . Make him what his daddy wanted to be . She choked as she drunk down the now cold tea . Maybe one more cup wouldn’t hurt . The evening was becoming cold . She put some more water to boil .
She really missed him a lot . He was the part of her that was there for only the one year they had been together . Like a hallucination . Wake up and its not there anymore . Often after a night together , he would just sit and look blankly into the night sky . If she asked , he would say that he was looking on at his journey trough hyperspace . Another of his words that she would never understand . But back then she never tried . She had better things to do to him.
She was feeling surprisingly dizzy . The room seemed to be revolving all around her . She tried to hold on to the oven but her hands snatched at only air ….
A few blocks away a fake herbalist received an envelope from the Bronx that he was eagerly waiting for . He whistled softly when he read the amount . Enough to pay for an year’s rent …
New bets were placed on old whirring Roulette wheels …
Some hundred’s of miles away ,a man woke up from a nightmare of a young man’s corpse crying out to him , blaming him … Jimmy’s uncle shakily lighted a cigarette .. it would be another sleepless night …
A dead girl lay on the floor of a room …
The kettle gave its second soft whistle of the night .
.
The 'Naked' Truth
About 3 weeks after the cyclone Aila struck Bengal and created an impact that left parts of the states gasping, this myopic creature found himself rummaging through the newspapers of the last month trying to find something useful for the archives.
As I was sleepily browsing through the lot, muttering away (‘death, destruction, storm, storm, storm…’) I noticed the absurdly large number of times the word ‘naked’ and its synonyms were mentioned. Now, this being rather deviant from the regular dosage of the 101 popular derivatives of doom, I was forced to don my glasses to get a closer look.
It started off normally enough. It was mostly in reference to the residents of the Sunderbans after the devastation wrought by the Cyclone Aila. The terrifying storm has left more than 1 million people homeless throughout the state in its wake. The Relief Operation was also as wonderfully messy and irregular as any endeavor of the West Bengal Government in recent years has been. A week down the line ‘naked starving villagers’ begging for water (food was a luxury they did not dare expect any more) was the term that I found most commonly.
In the second week, things took a rather horrific turn. The starving and still ‘naked’ villagers started getting visits from the VIP s of all colors of the political spectra. The media coverage for these events was, as expected, immense. While in reality these visits achieved nothing of substance as far as the villagers were concerned, they did manage to hold up Relief Operations, shabby as they were anyways. After a round of visits from both the sparring leaders Buddhadeb Bhattacharya and Mamata Banerjee, and no progress whatsoever, the people of the delta truly lost their cool. The next visit by a CPM MLA Gopal Gayen saw him get smeared with mud, as the audience indulged in some very literal mud-slinging. He was also forced to walk in the knee-deep muck by the villagers while some tore at his kurta.
‘Naked anger’ had arrived.
All Hail His Highness, The Great Indian Politician ...
Meanwhile, elsewhere, a different drama was unfolding. So, even before the bloated rotting corpses of man and creature had been buried or burned, it had gradually been banished to the mid pages.
Strangely enough, ‘naked’ seemed to be in no mood to leave the front page.
The Lok-Sabha elections had seen the TMC-Congress sweep to a majority after demolishing the Left in many parts of their so-called strongholds. Before the desperate cries of the victims of the victims of the cyclone had stopped, a terrible turf-war broke out throughout the state with both sides leaving no stones unturned to increase their territory or reclaim lost ones. The brutalities continued unabated for a week will the death tolls showing a steady increase as the politicians played their favorite blame-games to perfection.
And the highlight of the show?
The brutal death of Yudhisthir Dolui, a TMC worker in Arambagh, who was mutilated and murdered in front of his family.
The politics of revenge saw the deaths of several CPM workers in retaliation.
‘Naked Aggression’ was on the cards.
As I continued looking after that, ‘naked’ seemed to have taken a hiatus. I had nearly given up, when suddenly, in the last paper, something caught my attention in the spot where I had found most of my earlier ‘naked’ news. But this came with a bit of a twist…
It read –
‘ STREAKER SHOCKER IN SCHOOL
Young intruder strips in front of Class X girls and scoots
… As he stripped down to his birthday suit, the girls screamed - out of fear, the authorities asserted - drawing the attention of students in the other classes.
The rest also caught a glimpse of the streaker as he sprinted like Usain Bolt without his spandex and flashed through the rear exit…’
Upholding Traditions ...
As I was sleepily browsing through the lot, muttering away (‘death, destruction, storm, storm, storm…’) I noticed the absurdly large number of times the word ‘naked’ and its synonyms were mentioned. Now, this being rather deviant from the regular dosage of the 101 popular derivatives of doom, I was forced to don my glasses to get a closer look.
It started off normally enough. It was mostly in reference to the residents of the Sunderbans after the devastation wrought by the Cyclone Aila. The terrifying storm has left more than 1 million people homeless throughout the state in its wake. The Relief Operation was also as wonderfully messy and irregular as any endeavor of the West Bengal Government in recent years has been. A week down the line ‘naked starving villagers’ begging for water (food was a luxury they did not dare expect any more) was the term that I found most commonly.
In the second week, things took a rather horrific turn. The starving and still ‘naked’ villagers started getting visits from the VIP s of all colors of the political spectra. The media coverage for these events was, as expected, immense. While in reality these visits achieved nothing of substance as far as the villagers were concerned, they did manage to hold up Relief Operations, shabby as they were anyways. After a round of visits from both the sparring leaders Buddhadeb Bhattacharya and Mamata Banerjee, and no progress whatsoever, the people of the delta truly lost their cool. The next visit by a CPM MLA Gopal Gayen saw him get smeared with mud, as the audience indulged in some very literal mud-slinging. He was also forced to walk in the knee-deep muck by the villagers while some tore at his kurta.
‘Naked anger’ had arrived.
All Hail His Highness, The Great Indian Politician ...
Meanwhile, elsewhere, a different drama was unfolding. So, even before the bloated rotting corpses of man and creature had been buried or burned, it had gradually been banished to the mid pages.
Strangely enough, ‘naked’ seemed to be in no mood to leave the front page.
The Lok-Sabha elections had seen the TMC-Congress sweep to a majority after demolishing the Left in many parts of their so-called strongholds. Before the desperate cries of the victims of the victims of the cyclone had stopped, a terrible turf-war broke out throughout the state with both sides leaving no stones unturned to increase their territory or reclaim lost ones. The brutalities continued unabated for a week will the death tolls showing a steady increase as the politicians played their favorite blame-games to perfection.
And the highlight of the show?
The brutal death of Yudhisthir Dolui, a TMC worker in Arambagh, who was mutilated and murdered in front of his family.
The politics of revenge saw the deaths of several CPM workers in retaliation.
‘Naked Aggression’ was on the cards.
As I continued looking after that, ‘naked’ seemed to have taken a hiatus. I had nearly given up, when suddenly, in the last paper, something caught my attention in the spot where I had found most of my earlier ‘naked’ news. But this came with a bit of a twist…
It read –
‘ STREAKER SHOCKER IN SCHOOL
Young intruder strips in front of Class X girls and scoots
… As he stripped down to his birthday suit, the girls screamed - out of fear, the authorities asserted - drawing the attention of students in the other classes.
The rest also caught a glimpse of the streaker as he sprinted like Usain Bolt without his spandex and flashed through the rear exit…’
Upholding Traditions ...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Nights in the North-East - Manipur
A visit to the north-east is always special, more so perhaps because of the feeling that you are visiting a place that has over the years became an untouchable among all wavelengths of the Indian Tourism spectra. This is presently my fourth visit to the North-East but the first time I’m visiting Manipur. And the experience has been very very different from the earlier ones I’ve had in Assam and Tripura.
Manipur has been one of the states worst hit by insurgency in the North-East. The combined terrorism by the P.L.A. and the various other Mao-Manipuri (tribes having nothing to do with the communist fractions in the Central parts of the country) factions has torn this valley state which has a comparatively miniscule population of 24 lakhs. But the state also has a long historical significance in the Indian Freedom struggle with it being the state where the flag of independent India was hoisted for the first time by Netaji’s Indian National Army in 1944. Also, the people of Manipur were involved in a very bloody and violent war against the British in 1891. Ecologically speaking as well, the various natural parks with its rare flora and fauna are all factors that should have contributed in making it a tourism hub.
The most accessible place in Manipur is easily Imphal, its capital. One and a half hours by flight from Kolkata, it is perhaps the only habitat in the state that even comes close to the definition of a city. This capital of a mostly agrarian state is a small poverty struck place with a very low standard of living. And most surprisingly the people of this state have not woken up to the fact that their state can be a tourist hub. So the set-ups in hotels and restaurants are not exactly very friendly towards outsiders, with a very negligible percentage of the employees having even a working knowledge of Hindi or English.
Imphal city in itself has very few tourist attractions. There are two temples in the city- Iskon and Govindjee. Both of them happen to be Vaishnav temples with a completely different style of architecture (Iskon has a Thai architecture while Govindjee is very stereotype Hindu temple) and history (Iskon is just about a decade old while Govindjee is a few centuries old). This doublet forms the main visual attractions (and very nice ones at that) in this city. Located at peaceful corners of the city, it was a very nice experience interacting with the friendly devotees at those places.
Two of the most beautiful and unique places in Manipur are Loktak lake and Keibul Lamjao National Park. At a distance of about 48 kms from Imphal, Loktak lake is the only lake in the world in which the floating weeds have collected together to form solid floating islands. These islands are solid enough to support small houses built on them, but still are not stationary at a point. Keibul Lamjao National Park basically consists of these floating islands and is the last home of the Asian Dancing Deer. Moreover, the lotus forests in and around Loktak lake make the path worth the effort. The last point of the advent of the INA’s progress, (marked by a Japanese Martyr’s Memorial) and an INA museum on the way were additional incentives.
But then again, this happened. This is an exercept from the day’s ‘Sangai Express’, a local daily –
“Although it is almost a month since the Army’s Operation Summer Storm was called off, villagers in and around Loktak Lake are still gripped by a strong sense of insecurity.
The villagers, who returned to their homesteads after the operation, have not completely settled when tranquility of the area was shaken by the killing of eight non-local people inside Keibul Lamjao National Park followed by military operations…”
The Brochure released by the Manipur Government claims that both these places are “beautiful picnic spots” …
Loktak Lake - All of the green vegetation is floating but mostly hard enough to walk on ...
Fortunately or unfortunately, we were oblivious to this report or anything of Operation Summer Storm when we set out the next day for a tour of Loktak Lake and Keibul Lamjao. We had visited the government tourism office the previous day. In another stunning display of government apathy towards the state’s tourism prospects, the man in charge of the office could not talk in any language other than Manipuri and very broken Pidgin English. But even after getting through to him and telling him the purpose of our visit, we never heard a word about the present scenario of the Lake and the National Park.
Getting back to our nice little car trip, the first on our list for the day was a tribal temple. The last remnants of a pre-Hindu and pre-Christian Manipur, the quaint traditions of the mountain gods were drastically different from the valley ones. From the prasads of raw meat to the holy bamboos planted in remembrance of the spirits, it was a drastic shift from the standard.
The holy bamboos in the Tribal Temple
The next on the list was Loktak. The biggest island in Loktak is a permanent hilly one called Sendra. The brochure claimed that there’s a guest house on Sendra along with a watch-tower for photography enthusiasts. This is where we were in for our first big shock. The path leading up to Loktak, a few hundred meters from Sendra had a huge shooting range on a barren face of the hill with ‘SHOOT TO KILL’ in huge unfriendly white letters written above. As we approached the habited part of the island, we were shocked to see the entry to the guest house complex being flanked by barracks on all sides. We were allowed entry on producing our identifications and promising not to take photographs of the army establishment. The guest house, as we realized, had been taken over by the army and entry restricted. The watch-tower was still open, and photography allowed. The lake with its green floating islands was visible for miles around, but the restrictions placed by the Army prevented us from leaving the watch tower and inspecting them from a closer distance. The only fact that proved that the islands were not permanent was a cleaning operation being carried out by the government. We could see the water being exposed as soon as one layer of soil was removed. Beautiful as the place might have been once, the outposts all over the place stuck out like bruises from the beating the state is taking from insurgency.
A house built on one of the floating islands on Loktak Lake
We were rather edgy from the time we entered the place. But the tension in the air was considerably decreased when a huge group of small children flocked to the tower along with their teachers for a school trip. Talking to the kids cooled our nerves.
But nonetheless, we weren’t all that sad to see the back of the place. It was particularly pleasant as the road from the Lake to the INA museum was through the lotus fields. And the INA museum happened to be next on our list.
Our enthusiasm was short-lived. The museum happened to remain closed on Mondays (nowhere mentioned on the brochure or in our conversation with the Tourism Department employee the day before). Also half of the museum has been converted to Army quarters. BSF Jawans were seen patrolling the place. This also happened to be the first Museum I’ve seen with bunkers inside it.
As we were roaming around the museum, we met a couple of BSF soldiers from the town my mother is originally from. Talking to them, we came to know of the present state of Keibul Lamjao (“We are afraid of going to that place unless we have some strategic operations there. It’s been long closed for tourists”). Another spot near Loktak, an embankment on the small rivers draining into the lake (‘idyllic beautiful spot in the foothills of the mountains’ according to the brochure), was again closed for tourists. Apparently, two army personnel had been killed in the spot a few months ago.
Coming back to the museum. Standing derelict in the middle of the myriad rank and file of the army, the museum is in a state of stark neglect. It has also been a constant target of insurgents and the statue of Netaji in front of the museum was destroyed in a terrorist strike in 1993. It has been rebuilt since.
Bunkers inside the Museum
And the historic significance of the spot? Well there is only one small marble engraving beside a bunker telling that this was the spot where the flag of independent India was unfurled for the first time in Mainland India. In 1944.
History has been covered in the cobwebs of time and the murky shadows of human minds…
The last spot in our list for the day was the Sadu Chiru waterfalls. Deep in insurgent territory as it is, thankfully, the restrictions placed on tourists in this case are a bit lax. The way to the waterfalls consists of a small trek up a rather stiff terrain in the middle of a jungle, something that I was really looking forward to.
The road to the base of the hill (the point from which the trekking starts) runs through a tribal village. The warnings that we had received turned out to be pretty true. The village was closed to outsiders. The walls of the houses we could see were full of pretty ominous PLA propaganda. The car also passed through a very shady looking toll-office that had no hint of officialdom anywhere near it.
A very disheveled me during the trekking to the falls
The base of the hill was however, the first spot we saw fully free of any army or outsider presence. The trek was a beautiful experience rounded off with good local tea, made from seeds instead of leaves. Thankfully the few shops at the base were friendly towards tourists and gave no inkling of the turmoil in the villages a few hundred meters from the place.
One of the very unique features of Manipur is that the traditional Manipuri family is a matriarchal one. The family decisions and the final say are all taken by the matriarch or Ima as she is called in Manipuri. A living example of this long standing tradition is the Ima market in Imphal. As the name might suggest, the market is maintained and controlled fully by the female population of the society. Moving through the market can be very eerie for a guy at times, as you’ll often end up feeling uncomfortable in the seemingly alien surroundings.
The city of Imphal is at a distance of 110 kms from the Indo-Burmese border. The border town of Moreh is also a main trading outpost maintained by the army of both the countries. Being a trading outpost, people visiting the place are allowed to move 5 kms into Burmese territory, to a city called Tamu. This Tamu-Moreh trading post is a very important outpost for most of the north-east as it is the one-stop place for the entry of cheap Chinese and Thai items.
We however looked at this as an opportunity to visit Myanmar (albeit only one small town ) without going through the tedious bureaucratic red-tape of Visa applications and stuff. And like most other road-trips in the north-east, this one was supposed to be pretty picturesque as well, through the virgin forests and what not. Honestly, after the previous day’s experience, we were all very cynical about it all.
But then again the trip started off nicely enough with a beautiful hilly road and a driver who fancied himself to be a NASCAR race-driver. It was entertaining. Scary, but entertaining nonetheless.
But then, the Assam Rifles outposts started. We had been forewarned that the road had several such ‘outposts’, both official and unofficial for purposes more often unofficial than official. These outposts, which are maintained by the Assam Rifles and the Manipur Police are said to have the ability to make life a misery for the tourists and well, let me just say that they lived up to their reputation.
At each outpost, we had to disembark from our car, walk for a few hundred meters and wait while our car was checked. The driver was expected to rush off to ‘pay’ visits to the chief officer of the check-post. The amounts of the ‘gifts’ that the driver had to part with varied from post to post from Rs. 30-50, a sum that is not all that paltry when put in the perspective that this was repeated nearly 10 times on the way there. The Assam Rifles posts were at times content with just checking, but the Police outposts needed oiling to allow peaceful passage.
The really painful parts were observed for the times they observed our cameras. A small-time interrogation would follow, along with I.D. Proof being displayed for good measure. Then, they would demand to see our cameras and command us to delete all photos and footage of everything, be it the surroundings hills or a harmless pic of the road.
Irritating as it was, the news that we read in the papers during our stay there convinced us that it was all in good time. But the bare-faced corruption was really disheartening.
Anyways, 110 kms of mountain paths and 10 Assam-Rifles check-posts later, we finally reached Moreh. The town, all-in-all had the looks of a medieval fish-market. It did not have any electricity. The roads were teeming with people coming from Myanmar, laden with goods. After a few stops at the shops, we headed off to the border. After submitting our I.D. Proofs there, we entered Myanmar.
Lotus cultivation in the lakes
The nearest Burmese town (I prefer calling them Burmese as I find Myanmar-ese a irritatingly long term) is 5 kms from the border, a small town called Tamu. The roads on the Burmese side are maintained by the Border Police of both the countries. The town in itself was a clean little town, flush from the riches of the Trade route passing through it. Even then however, there was no electricity. The locals said that the place received electricity for one hour everyday in the evening.
But putting all of that aside, Tamu was the first place that I visited in this trip that was a true gourmet’s delight. In the small shops that lined the roadsides, true Burmese food in a net and clean package was available for reasonably cheap prices. A full delicious meal with traditional Burmese preparations of fish, beans, chicken and bamboo with a beautiful salad of mangoes and boiled Ladies Fingers had us all smacking our lips with delight!!! The menu, though surprisingly similar to a standard Indian restaurant in the items, varied greatly in the method of preparations. The people of Myanmar are said to resemble the Nagas much more than they do the Manipuris. That is said to be another major reason for the stark differences observed the boundary of the two…
As the afternoon progressed the restaurants began filling up with workers back from work. By the time we left the place, the banter over the Beer bottles had reached its crescendo. We had a couple of over-enthusiastic people bowing effusively as we left .
The way back was more or less the same story with the generous sprinkling of check-posts being kind enough to make us take a walk every time we dozed off…
As we trudged into the hotel after the hard day of travels, the power went off for the umpteenth time. We heard later on that it was just a part of what was going to be a three-day long power cut in the city of Imphal…
The next day we caught a bus in the morning for Kohima, our next destination.
As the bus choked and spluttered its way out of Manipur, I found myself asking if I would like to come back here ever again.
And I answer myself, Yes, but in a better day.
But as far as tours to Manipur in the recent future are concerned …
“The juice is just not worth the squeeze…”
Clouds overshadow the Arakan Valleys
Friday, May 15, 2009
LEAVING
The gentle rocking of the train has been unable to accompany me to a timely sleep. Unfortunate as it might be, I find this the perfect time for some moaning. My obsession with the negative and more morbid aspects of our lives does not disappoint me as I can still hear a nagging voice in the back of my head cribbing about how the rhythmic movements of the train are making the writing of this hard for me. But then again, I’m too bored to try anything else… And a very long period of boredom back home looms near anyways…
“…I have been here long, too long, need to go out in the real world and not do stuff there.” - Pallavi
A train journey with people you don’t know might me a pretty unique experience according to some, but for me traveling with people you know a bit vaguely is mostly more enjoyable. A hapless myopic observer of the myriad colors of human life as I am, I often find this a rather refreshing exercise… And besides, my rather introvert-ish nature does not naturally allow me to catch a steady look at strangers, let alone strike a conversation… …
Today has been a rather funny Dr.Watson-like day for me. I observed what I had not observed before but only because I knew how and where to observe… Its like stealing a candy from the past, you know where it is kept, so half the guilty pleasure of finding the hidden treasure is lost …
But then again, maybe today was not about the small occurrences that keep on adding to the shades of grey to the shadow of the dream that we like to live. Today was one of the few days that had more of true black and white than the hues in between…
If you live in a particular room for the better part of 10 months of your life, you are bound to have some attachment towards it. I’m not pretending that I’m an exception, or claiming that I’m not… But as I vacated a room where everything from getting ragged to ragging batch-mates, banter to fights, sadness to ecstasy had framed and formed me, well… you get the point … It’s a part of you, like it or not, it has grown on you, and you while you will feel nostalgic about the days when this symbiotic creation of the craters of your mind was not there, you’ll live with it. And the funny thing is, while all of this happens right in front of you, you won’t even notice, and neither will others…
“These walls are funny. First you hate ’em, then you get used to ’em. After long enough, you get so you depend on ’em. That’s institutionalized.” – Naina (Quoting ‘The Shawshank Redemption’)
Risking sounding like a very gen hypocritical bastard, I’ll say that the wheel turns …
And people move on …
And on …
I’m not the world’s most systematic guy ( as the shoe, handwash and laptop squashed into the same bag will testify ) Packing a trunk is not something I thought I’d be an ace at, but then again the torturous 3 hours of trying to stuff an year’s worth of ‘home’ into a trunk was tough…
“…And before you know it, you have to leave. What will you take away? Will you see your life flash before your eyes?
Home. Albeit for a little while.” - Bhat
So, shutting the lid ( baith eske upar …), unsuccessfully trying to wrap up a gigantic mattress into a puny plastic cover ( Mittal, Haraamkhor !!!) and carrying all of them along with a cycle from one hostel to another… (Chabi kidhar gayab kho gaya ????) That was more or less my part of the great Pilani shift …
But then the most memorable memories are often hardly the most enjoyable. Most of the times, the emotions attached to events like these transcend beyond the classification of the same. And the futile attempts made can just … confuse you ...
So what was the purity of emotions and situations that I was talking about? Abstract as this might sound I think it was pure only in its homogeneity, its unadulterated adulteration with varied proportions of elixir and poison, all bubbling up to give the wannabe tear drop that will never be… It will just sparkle at the corners of your eyes before disappearing in the flood of the activities and feelings that are a part of our shadowy existence…
As I stepped out of the cloak room after depositing all the stuff there, I looked back for one last time. The glint of the hundreds of steel trunks arranged in rows in the yellow bulbs of the common room somehow reminded me of coffins…
The tombs of one year’s worth of memories and dreams…
“Respect the Undead. Zombie Apocalypse isn’t far away.”- Sarada
You try to convince yourself that its not over. You’ll keep on repeating a couple of thousand of times the fact that after a few months you’ll be back here complaining of the tut tests in the mornings and enjoying club lachcha sessions in the evenings. You’ll try to convince yourself that this is the place that has graced the foremost position in your mental dartboard as you ripped it apart for anything and everything. But then it doesn’t really work…
“…The cup now contained the last remains of tea sedimented with dissolved sugar. I drank it more out of habit than desire, and it left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth. As the lights flickered out, I left wondering if it was the same tea from which I had the first sip.”- Gera
And all of a sudden that wannabe little drop at the corner of my eye begins to get more ambitious. In spite of my best efforts, it begins to take a route it has not taken in a long time …
“Happy holidays man!!!”
“Same to you man !!! I’ll miss you guys…”
“What the fuck man …You getting all senti and shit or what?”
“Fuck you man … Ob not … Just got some shit stuck in my eye …”
“…I have been here long, too long, need to go out in the real world and not do stuff there.” - Pallavi
A train journey with people you don’t know might me a pretty unique experience according to some, but for me traveling with people you know a bit vaguely is mostly more enjoyable. A hapless myopic observer of the myriad colors of human life as I am, I often find this a rather refreshing exercise… And besides, my rather introvert-ish nature does not naturally allow me to catch a steady look at strangers, let alone strike a conversation… …
Today has been a rather funny Dr.Watson-like day for me. I observed what I had not observed before but only because I knew how and where to observe… Its like stealing a candy from the past, you know where it is kept, so half the guilty pleasure of finding the hidden treasure is lost …
But then again, maybe today was not about the small occurrences that keep on adding to the shades of grey to the shadow of the dream that we like to live. Today was one of the few days that had more of true black and white than the hues in between…
If you live in a particular room for the better part of 10 months of your life, you are bound to have some attachment towards it. I’m not pretending that I’m an exception, or claiming that I’m not… But as I vacated a room where everything from getting ragged to ragging batch-mates, banter to fights, sadness to ecstasy had framed and formed me, well… you get the point … It’s a part of you, like it or not, it has grown on you, and you while you will feel nostalgic about the days when this symbiotic creation of the craters of your mind was not there, you’ll live with it. And the funny thing is, while all of this happens right in front of you, you won’t even notice, and neither will others…
“These walls are funny. First you hate ’em, then you get used to ’em. After long enough, you get so you depend on ’em. That’s institutionalized.” – Naina (Quoting ‘The Shawshank Redemption’)
Risking sounding like a very gen hypocritical bastard, I’ll say that the wheel turns …
And people move on …
And on …
I’m not the world’s most systematic guy ( as the shoe, handwash and laptop squashed into the same bag will testify ) Packing a trunk is not something I thought I’d be an ace at, but then again the torturous 3 hours of trying to stuff an year’s worth of ‘home’ into a trunk was tough…
“…And before you know it, you have to leave. What will you take away? Will you see your life flash before your eyes?
Home. Albeit for a little while.” - Bhat
So, shutting the lid ( baith eske upar …), unsuccessfully trying to wrap up a gigantic mattress into a puny plastic cover ( Mittal, Haraamkhor !!!) and carrying all of them along with a cycle from one hostel to another… (Chabi kidhar gayab kho gaya ????) That was more or less my part of the great Pilani shift …
But then the most memorable memories are often hardly the most enjoyable. Most of the times, the emotions attached to events like these transcend beyond the classification of the same. And the futile attempts made can just … confuse you ...
So what was the purity of emotions and situations that I was talking about? Abstract as this might sound I think it was pure only in its homogeneity, its unadulterated adulteration with varied proportions of elixir and poison, all bubbling up to give the wannabe tear drop that will never be… It will just sparkle at the corners of your eyes before disappearing in the flood of the activities and feelings that are a part of our shadowy existence…
As I stepped out of the cloak room after depositing all the stuff there, I looked back for one last time. The glint of the hundreds of steel trunks arranged in rows in the yellow bulbs of the common room somehow reminded me of coffins…
The tombs of one year’s worth of memories and dreams…
“Respect the Undead. Zombie Apocalypse isn’t far away.”- Sarada
You try to convince yourself that its not over. You’ll keep on repeating a couple of thousand of times the fact that after a few months you’ll be back here complaining of the tut tests in the mornings and enjoying club lachcha sessions in the evenings. You’ll try to convince yourself that this is the place that has graced the foremost position in your mental dartboard as you ripped it apart for anything and everything. But then it doesn’t really work…
“…The cup now contained the last remains of tea sedimented with dissolved sugar. I drank it more out of habit than desire, and it left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth. As the lights flickered out, I left wondering if it was the same tea from which I had the first sip.”- Gera
And all of a sudden that wannabe little drop at the corner of my eye begins to get more ambitious. In spite of my best efforts, it begins to take a route it has not taken in a long time …
“Happy holidays man!!!”
“Same to you man !!! I’ll miss you guys…”
“What the fuck man …You getting all senti and shit or what?”
“Fuck you man … Ob not … Just got some shit stuck in my eye …”
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