The cynic in Aam Aadmi (or Aurat if you please)

Okay, so the AAP has formed the government and Mr. Arvind Kejriwal is the seventh Chief Minister of Delhi and the youngest one to be so. Remarkably, his ascend to this post, is also one of the swiftest and most covered (by media and public interest) in Indian politics. This phenomenon is nothing short of a mini-revolution or coo akin to the India’s freedom from the British. Use of democratic means to achieve the objective of movement, complete rejection of violence even in the face of provocation and involvement of every section of the society were hallmarks of this movement which were also that of the freedom movement; though the duration of freedom struggle, involvement of entire geography, the complete illegitimacy of British rule lend a different shade to that great movement.

What started as a movement against corruption, for which Mr. Kejriwal was acclaimed by the classes (Magsaysay award if you like) and masses (who were there at Jantar Mantar and Ramlila) alike, became a political movement out of which was born the AAP. Critics are quick to point out that this was always the plan and the movement and association with Anna was the façade. Even if it were true, one dares to ask ‘What’s wrong in that?’ Here are bunch of people who are well-educated, have no criminal background, have no muscle or money power to back them up, no surname which gives them a platinum membership the moment they are born and are not asking for votes because of our caste, religion or thankfully liquor. If having an experience or the backing of an already establish party is the only criteria for serious political dialogue, then political or social movements which essentially want to bring a change by new people would never have had the impact they have across the world. And, such movements are not a thing of the past, if one is even cursorily following the events in the Middle-East or for that matter in many districts of our own country where people have chosen violence as their only or last measure to get a rightful share of development.  Even if all this is not true, since when have we become dismissive of experimentation and why should we. In the words of George Bernard Shaw “We need more insane people in this world, look where the sane ones have landed us!”

The rise of AAP which was dismissed as ‘a story’ by the defeated and out-going Chief Minister Shiela Dikshit, needs to be studied for various reasons. Successful political movements have always had causes that people relate to at that period of time, and inspired leadership that is able to use and give momentum to the feelings and thoughts of people. Issues can rarely be planted or concocted; they can be given wind only if they exist for real. The issues that AAP championed – corruption, rising prices of utilities such as water and electricity, transparency in governance, high-handedness and aloofness of the political class, plagued the common man for a very long time and were actually party agnostic. The response of the common man was apathy at worst or finding a corner away from the mainstream to express himself/herself (as an organisation or activist) at best. The option of addressing these issues in the mainstream public or political arena was ruled out, despite our chest-thumping as the largest democracy in the world (even this sounds like such a cliché!).

To make matters worse a certain cynicism had crept in, which others used to colour the efforts of this movement and treat it with disdain. History is an easy refuse for the cynic. Comparisons were drawn to previous political movements that had either lost their sheen due to leadership struggles or failed abysmally due to governance and administrative reasons. Not surprisingly some of the biggest critics are also the victims of the same phenomena and are no longer ‘the party with difference’ as even people among them would admit. The need to create an alternative space which the youth of today could relate to and aspire for, was discounted. The entry barrier to politics as an occupation (one would shy away from using the word profession) is one of the highest and the youth was dissuaded and discouraged to have anything to do with the ‘dirty thing’.

This movement among others has certainly ended the cynicism for many. The ‘Aam Admi’ in India is a cynic and might remain so because of limited opportunities and practically unlimited competition for resources but there has been an honest attempt by some ‘aam aadmi (and aurats)’ to take matters that matter to them in their own hands through rightful means. That includes not only Mr. Kejriwal and his team of ministers and elected legislators, but the thousands of party workers and volunteers who worked tirelessly for their spectacular success. This attempt should be lauded.

This attempt will be under surveillance in the days to come, its success to be belittled and failures to be magnified. The foundation itself is shaky and contradictory – issue based support from the party or parties against the actions of which this movement was born. Whether the AAP is able to deliver on the causes it has chosen to take up and meet other challenges such as relevant and quality education, livelihood opportunities, affordable healthcare and inflation, if it does not compromise on transparency and corruption, it would remain vindicated. The AAP has to remain true most importantly to the people whose causes it espouses – the aam aadmi.  This might look simple but as the lessons learnt from past suggest, it is not. 

My school is on the bank of river Daya

My school is on the bank of river Daya,

The river of kindness;

The river that was kind to mighty king Ashoka, 

And made him the ruler of hearts of men through Dharma. 

The teacher told us so in the history class,

Just before the rains came in. 

This river goes up all the way to the Lake Chilika, 

Which I wish to see through my eyes;

The words of  Utkalamani* ring in my ears,

Which I read in the school recitation competition

Just before the rains came in.   

In the holy month of Kartik, 

My mother and I, along with others of the village

Take our small boats made up of banana bark,

And set them sail on this river, 

In the glory of the tradesmen of Odisha who sailed 

To distant lands like Sumatra, Bali and Java. 

I too wish to go,

When older I grow, 

But the rains have come in, 

The river has flooded among other things, my school. 

There are no classes, no play, 

My friends and teachers I miss too. 

O kind river, be kind once more,

Let the water go away to Chilika,

And the children go to school with joy. 

* Utkalamani Gopabandhu Das 

Jajabara Travels - Khajuraho : Poetry in Stones

I have a new look on the art of sculpting and the sculpter after visiting the Western Complex of temples at Khajuraho. Sculpting requires, not only the art of a painter and imagination of a poet but also the calculations of a mathematician and the strength and discipline of a worker. It requires a perfect balance between body and the mind. This is where it becomes a more exacting art form than say poetry or painting.
            The sculptures of Khajuraho speak to you in a way that intricately carved, richly decorated and high priced pieces of 'art collections' at any museum would not. Here in the setting and surroundings of temples they are not isolated works to be admired as the output of some artist; rather, they are simply present as a depiction of collective effort of many and represent the everyday life. The setting and the place is their own.
They speak to you with their gestures, their beauty, their actions, with compassion on their face, inviting admiration, exclamation, empathy, love and sometimes jealousy.
           Precise beauty in human forms, sheer horror in form of strange beasts, divinity in forms of gods and architectural brilliance in setting up of richly carved stones ('balua' stones in this case) are all brought together in this magnificent world created by hammer and chisel. As a poet beautifully puts it and as recounted by the voice of Amitabh Bacchan in the glorious light and sound show here

'Make me a stone among the many stones here
O Master sculptor of Khajuraho !'

I reflect: Isn't the world we live in, a similar marvel created by God.

'O Lord! make me a beautiful stone and place me in my rightful place!' A prayer rises up in mind spontaneously. I am sure the Lord's reply, if we could hear it in the din of our restlessness, would be
'Tathaastu' (in Sanskrit) or 'It is already so!'

Dew drops on bamboo leaves

We saw them last night 

Spread against the sky. 

Somewhere in perfect patterns

Which we could understand;

And some we could not,

But, beautiful all the same. 

Smiling and winking at each other

Having a chat may be

About the moon, who was missing. 

Some said he got down,

Through its dancing reflection

From the sky into the beautiful lake

With white lilies,

Where a fair girl was bathing;

He has not come back since. 

And the blue lake, the green lily leaves,

The black night bird

Won't say a word. 

But, the sun

Has come out this morning,

Red in shame. 

Does it know?

Has it seen something?

But, it won't tell either.

The stars have now set it upon themselves

To look for the unwilling moon,

And have it come back to the sky.

Here, they have spread out against every leaf of bamboo

Hanging on the tips,

Looking in all directions,

Signalling each other with movements in the wind:

But will the find?

The sun is not helping at all,

Growing big and pale in anger.

The stars have to hasten their search

Else the sky and they

Will be without company at night. 

Of cyclones with funny names

I am the black fisherman's wife,
Who loves her husband dearly,
Even though he beats me up,
When Drunk;
But then, that is when he says the sweetest things
Only as a rugged fisherman can.
But, I never get angry on him from within,
Though I threaten to not to cook for him
I always do, even if it is only rice
And fish left over from selling in the local haat.
But, why did he have to fight this morning
Before going to the sea.

The clouds have completely covered the sky,
Rendered it black,
As if the night never got over.
The dogs have been barking as if they have seen a devil,
The hen have been running around as if there is no tomorrow.
And my right eye has been flickering since yesterday.
One can't trust these omens though,
But what to do of my heart which has been beating like a drum
And rushing to come out of my bosom.

The village head-man was saying about
Something on the radio
Some funny name which can't be from here.
Sometimes I wonder, who sends these curses.
Can't be the sea,
Who is our father and feeds us throughout the year
Even mother earth was kind this year
And the fields of the farmers looked green
When my husband took me to the market last Monday.

O what disaster will ensue!
Houses will be swept away,
Cattle and other animals will die first,
Fields and roads will all be filled with,
Dirty water, broken trees,
Belongings of people and corpses too.
Food and clean water will be scarce,
People used to break their backs for their earning,
Will live on crumbs of mercy thrown at them.
God only knows when will people return to their old homes
And old ways of life.
But my heart goes out to my husband,
Who will be the first in harm's way.
Alone, on his small ship,
In look out for the fish,
Looking at the sky occasionally
And maybe muttering 'another bad day'
Only, I am afraid it isn't any 'other bad day'
O Godess Kali ! I offer you my two hens
On the puja day;
And also the small black goat with white spots.
Let my husband comes back well.

Puraana Akhbaar

अखबार कागज़ पर नहीं छपते,
छपते हैं समय के चेहरे पर,
फिर इनकी कई कापियां बनके
पहुँच जाती हैं हमारे पास
एक आइने की तरह ।
हमारा और हमारे समाज का आइना ।
अखबार, इतिहास का ही पहला स्वरुप होता है ।

अख़बार कटता  है, बंटता है,
जुड़ता और पढ़ा भी जाता है ।
अख़बार हम इंसानों की तरह ही हैं ।
लोग इनका इंतज़ार करते हैं,
मिलने पर खुश होते हैं,
कभी शिकायत भी करते हैं ।
ये कभी अकेलेपन के साथी होते हैं
तो कभी घर की चहल-पहल,
और बात-चीत का ज़रूरी हिस्सा,
चाय इनके बिना फीकी ही लगती है ।

ये हमारी घर की  कुर्सियों को
सीधा खड़ा होना सीखाते हैं ।
सन्डे के पिकनिक में कभी बैठने की या प्लेट रखने की जगह तो
कभी खुद ही प्लेट बन जाते हैं ।
हमारे बच्चे इनसे खेलते हैं,
कभी नाव तो कभी रॉकेट बनाते हैं,
इनपे कलम या रंग चलाते हैं ।
और माँ हर एक-दो महीनो में
घर के सारे अलमारियों पर
पुराने अखबारों को उतार कर
नए बिछा देती हैं है ।
सच ! पुराने अख़बार बड़े काम के होते हैं ।

हमें अखबार बहुत कुछ देते भी हैं ।
काम करने को नौकरी की खबर,
रहने को आशियाने का पता,
और कितनी ही बार
उम्र भर को निभाने को रिश्ते ।
अखबार कभी पुराने नहीं होते ।

The Plateaus of Deccan

From the last blue mountains,
Where your sight reaches,
To the other blue mountains,
When you turn back,
Lie the great plateau,
Reminding of Buddha's
'Middle Path.'

--
A hot summer afternoon of Decaan

A tired farmer
Sleeps in the shade of neem tree,
He bullocks ruminating
Over the changing colours of the tilled earth
Or varied symmetry of crops in the field,
And flicking their tails in between,
Which two tireless flies dodge without effort.

A brown bird looks left and right
And then digs its beak into the field,
Quick and swift,
Looking for food without luck.

The dark clouds above
Cling to the neck of the mountains,
They might come down the curved path soon
And provide some respite.

We Were the Forests

Story of vast dry stretches of Yawal forests in MP. It is called Yawal Wildlife sanctuary, but , there is hardly any wild or life in it any more. 

We were the forests,
But we are no more now.
What you see around 
Are sad pictures and bad memories.

An uninspired photographer 
May have some interest, 
In our leaf-less structures,
In our grey and black hues,
In patterns that our pale thorn-like branches 
Make against the dark monsoon sky.

Monsoon! 
We once waited for it,
And rejoiced when it came.
Used to feel the tiny cool raindrops 
Touch us, tickle us and trickle down 
To reach our happy bosoms,
Through our veins. 
Those were happy days and nights!

We used to share a story or two 
With the travelers,
Who stopped by for some shade or smoke.
No one stops by now.
Not even the birds,
Who fly past us. 
May be we look like men now.

An army of men rather,
In straight rows and columns,
In arms outstretched and ready 
To ready to strike down..
Another small world,
Of us trees, animals, birds.
Another one of us,
We who were the Forests,
But now we are Men !

Babuji

She was there every day on Ashwin’s way to office, too loud to be unnoticed, too commonplace to be remembered. She used to sit a few yards away from the metro, in sun during whitish winter mornings of Delhi and in the shade of a tree for the rest of the year. She used to cry out to people for a few rupees, a baby either playing around her, eating or simply sleeping in her laps. She used to always ask for the child and his welfare. Ashwin wondered sometimes if the kid was even related to her remotely. He never gave anything other than a condescending glance.

One day she was not there, conspicuous by lack of her definitive presence for the eyes and ears. Ashwin was not bothered, but simply curious. Illness? Then, he remembered a man trying to get her off her usual seat last evening. She was not even replying or protesting. A man was shouting at her and asking her to leave the place immediately. He was rude and extremely curt. Ashwin was wondering if he was an official who was doing her duty or simply an irritated commuter who had had enough. Also, he observed that the girl was keenly looking at the shoes of the man, particularly the orange strings that were sewn to the sole.

‘Did you get the clothes Babuji’

‘No. Not today. Will get you tomorrow. Have you had anything to eat?’

‘Yes sir’

‘Okay. I have to leave now…’

Ashwin remembered a broken conversation between the girl and a person whose face he had not seen. A good Samaritan, he thought and moved on lost between his thoughts of home and office.

Ashwin started to conjure up a story.

The girl was intently looking at the shoes of the man. She did not remember anything else. It was too dark the previous night as she was gathering her stuff and money collected throughout the day. A man came up to him and talked to him about promised clothes. He took her to a corner and offered him a hundred rupee note. She was surprised. She extended her tentative hand to take the note. The man grabbed her hand and asked her to come with him. As the girl refused and pulled back her hand, he came closer and grabbed her by both hands. He offered more money – thousand rupees and tried more force. Then he tried brutal force and no money. The child was screaming and crying, simply hungry, not too sure of what was happening. The girl was on the ground and the man had her by the throat, trying to avoid any sound, though there was no one at this point in time. Her face was pressed against his shoes, which has orange strings sewn at the sole.

Few days later, the girl was still staring at similar shoes with orange strings. She did not confront the man. She did not shout, or protest. She simply walked away. Who would be interested in what happened to her, who would believe and why. She was rather happy that she did not have to have another child to carry around. 

Unseen-Unheard | Farmer protests in Jantar Mantar - New Delhi

We are cynical, disparaging many times at the motley crowd of protesters assembling at Jantar Mantar or Ramlila Maidan for various reasons thinking aloud 
'what will they achieve?' 
'what a nuisance to the traffic/public'
'another farce'
'attempt at political mileage'
but the most elitist being 
"Do these people even know why are they here for?"
or "they would have been just handed a few notes or cheap liquor"

Well, I got to know better today.
I hesitated for a while, but then finally stopped near two elderly farmers to ask the brig question
"Why are you here for dada?'
"For our rights" answered the friendlier looking one.
"That I know, but, what exactly do you want?"
"Minimum prices for our produce."
"Hasn't the government decided that already?"
"Forget the government, but the courts have decided the minimum prices for agricultural produce and urged the state governments and companies to follow. But, this government does not even follow court rulings!!"
"Such 'looteraas' these governments are" added the other fierce-looking farmer who was standing at a distance and scanning me
with his yellow eyes to decide my background and motive.
"You tell me sir, you are educated and you do a job here. How would you feel if 3-4 sets of people took share from your salary. How will you feed your children" asked the former farmer.
"If the farmer get his right share he can't produce. Then what will you eat" again the angry farmer added and came closer to me.
" I understand dada, I come from a village and understand the hardships you face. That's why i am talking to you"
"This government is so arrogant, they don't even listen to Supreme Court!. What option do we have?" they were talking among each other.
"Is there a market around? asked one.
"What do you want dada?"
"A mobile shop?" said one, absolutely non-chalant.
I showed them the route and went ahead on my way to office. Some curious onlookers were, looking at us having the conversation. I am sure the same questions and cynicism would be there in their heads.
Go. Talk to Them.

Death of An Evening

The sky wept all night. The tears which twinkled in its eyes as stars came down as rains and moistened the bosom of the earth. Each drop had a story; unspoken pain, long longing, abandoned hope and definite despair. The apathy and indifference of man made no difference anymore. The leaves though were trembling and nodding their heads in silent but helpless empathy. The wind was restless and angry like a young boy pacing up and down in his room, unable to understand why his parents are fighting or what he should do.

The evening, the beautiful bride, which the sun brought home had died.

A train journey

Wo doosron ke ghar ke bane poori aur aloo ko dekhna, 
Offer karne par, pehle naa aur phir haan karna,
Pede ka aadha tukda kha kar, padosi ko aadha.badha dena,
Breakfast me humesha bread cutlet ka hona,
Samose wale ke baad chaiwala aur chaiwale ke baad mungfali wale ka wait karna, 
Bahut yaad aata hai, train mein safar karna.

Politics se lekar cricket tak, 
History se lekar weather tak,
Faasle khatam Ho jaate the, par guftagu nahin,
Antakshari, dumb cherades aur Taash ki baaziyon se
Haseen silsilon ka shuru hona,
Nazron ka milna aur milte hi  pher lena,
Muskurahaton ko dabaana, 
Phone numbers ya address exchange karna,
Aur kabhie kabhie un khaabon ka mulaqaton me mukammil hona,
Bahut yaad aata hai, train mein safar karna

Khidkiyon se hawa ka chehra choom lena,
Suraj ko patriyon par bhagte hue dekhna, 
Baarish ka bijli ki taar par naachna, 
Sufaid kohre ke shawl odhe peele.sarson ka neend mein unghna, 
Station ke kaale-peele naam padhna, 
Chalna-rukna, aur hilte-dulte, dhire-dhire,
Jaise maa ki thapkiyon ke sahare so jaana,
Bahut yaad aata hai sach train mein safar karna

Morning Walk

Yaadon ki gathri ko baandh kar
Ummeedon ke chiraag ko jalakar
Kal ka kaajal ponchh kar aankhon se
Aaj ka chamakta suraj laga maathe pe
Ek thaka hua raahi uthkar jaise
Phir se taiyaar hota hai
Raat ki rajai se uthkar
Theek waise hi, hum chal dete hain
Din ko seene se lagaane
Jo shaam hote-hote bojh sa lagne lagta hai,
Aur hum betaab ho jaate hain
Ki kaise utaar phenk kar use
So jayen raat ke god mein phir se.

Din-raat, log-bag,
Aansun-muskaan, Jeet-Haar,
Baichaini-sukoon, sukh-dukh
Dard-Dava, Sab mile
Jaise park mein morning walk karte hue
milte hain, doosri taraf se aate hue log,
Jinse milkar hum chal dete hain
Apni-apni disha mein
Akele, Ekaant,
Hum akele hi chalte hain
Apne khayalon ke udhed-bun mein khoye hue.

Ye nahin tay kar paate
Ki ant kahan hai?
Lakshya kahan hai?
Aur chalte hue
Kuch duri, Kuch deri ke baad,
Phir milte hain

Aansun-muskaan, Jeet-Haar,
Baichaini-sukoon, sukh-dukh
Dard-Dava se,

Aur milkar hum phir chal dete hain
Apni-apni disha mein
Akele, Ekaant.

Work

There are days,
When we work,
And work much,
Without any rhyme
Or reason as such.

Too busy to be glad,
Too busy to be sad.
Moving from one thing,
One person, to the other,
Not knowing whether,
We loose or we gain.

All get mixed up,
All look the same,
Too far to future,
We can not see
No fruits of action in sight
We dig only in earnest right.

Friends and foes
Both forgiven and forgot.
Victory and Misery,
All relinquished.
Fame and defamation,
Cast aside like yesterday's flowers
From the body of temple deity.

Forward or backward,
We are not certain,
But we move,
And one this is certain,
We act, and We do,
We do it rather good.