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.

Jajabara Trips - V (Biking in Odisha)

There were two options, either I stayed at home or frowned or I travelled and be happy. I chose the latter.

I thought about it while packing my bag for this short unplanned road trip on bike. I thought about it while taking shower, while making a phone call to arrange for a bike and while I frantically ransacked the entire house for my pair of glasses which were lying just next to the pillow. I did not have a plan or a map and I had never done this route before. I was alone, but as in the toughest moments of my life, this was my strength. It was a chance that my friend, from whom I had borrowed the bike and almost said goodbye also joined me for the ride, to attend a wedding he had forgotten about. The wedding was in the exact place where I was planning to ride to – Gopalpur-on-sea.

“…when men travel and meet, they talk and think…” – H.G.Wells, A short history of the world.

These lines were echoing in my head while we rode out of the city. It is interesting how when we are travelling on the road, what we eagerly look forward to many times, is a city or town to get fuel, food, sleep, medicines or to get the bike repaired but, most travels start out with this pressing urgency to get out of the city! We got out all right, tanked up the silver coloured Bullet Electra 350-‘the good old bullet’ as my friend Prakash would refer to it.

We stopped first at ‘BataBhuasuni’ which means Goddess of the road. I had once, many years before not stopped by at this temple and went ahead in arrogance but returned with a broken bike, back and ego. It occurred to Prakash that we could have the temple prasad for lunch. The Mother Annapurna fed her children well. The vegetable curry was cooked in mustard oil and has mustard paste in it, the strong smell still fills my nose as I write about it.

The road was the best I have seen in Odisha, riding was very comfortable. The ‘good old bullet’ was really good. It was steady even at 100kmph. The traffic was minimal by NH 5 standards. The afternoon sun was bright and hot but the cool winds of December helped shield some of the impact. My friend had no idea why I was on this trip. He got the first hint when I pulled over to turn to the Narayani temple, 100kms away from Bhubaneswar. The temple was clean and the mountain stream flew right through the temple, from the sanctum sanctum to courtyard all the way to the steps. We drank some of the water and exchanged the driving seat. The road continued to impress and give joy.

There is a small town on this road, known as ‘Tangi’ which means a large open space. That is what the roads would make you feel and you can very well see a good two or three kilometers away. The roads would be inviting you like the open arms of your beloved, to come and embrace them.

After a few kilometres, we came closer to Rambha, a scenic place overlooking Chilika Lake. Prakash has the fortune to drive on this ‘ghaati’ and I had the fortune to soak in all the beauty of the green mountains, black roads, blue sky and blue lake with green and black islands scattered over it. Prakash showed me a sign board and I asked him to pull over. There was a tea shop as well. The sign board was for Oliver Ridley Turtles. A narrow mud-road led to the mouth of river Rushikulya, where the turtles come every year for hatching and breeding around this time of the year. This event is a much-awaited one in the calendar of wildlife enthusiasts and lovers. The tea shop guys told us that we could see some turtles. This was certainly not a part of the plan and I was thrilled to say the least. We did some planning and headed out to Gopalpur-on-sea to find a place to spend the evening and half of the night. We would visit the tea shop again in a few hours but this time slightly angrier.  

We checked in into Swosti Palm Resorts. It was no coincidence that it did not have a ‘Sea’ suffix or prefix with its name. We discovered in the light of the morning that the only thing near that hotel was a large pool of foul-smelling waste. Then we headed out to the beach. It was dark and beautiful, the sky was clear and I could not remember when was the last time I had seen such a clear sky that you could tell one star from another. We roamed around, and exchanged stories that we had not shared for the last 5 years. We had some tea and some really fresh salad, thinly chopped sprouts, tomato, cucumber and onions with half of a lemon squeezed over it! The unmistakable ‘jhaal-mudhi’ followed. 

Prakash still had the Science (actually Zoology) hangover from his college days and I was in ‘I-need-to-get-my-poetry-back’ mode. He explained that the waves were due to temperature difference and that they actually don’t travel from one point to other as they appear. I said that the waves looked as moustaches on the face of the sea-god and that the stars twinkled when the talked. We walked back to our hotel to have dinner. We planned to sleep early after having minced vegetables and rotis for dinner. The pool table was the saving grace of the hotel and it kept us away from our wake-up early plan. I woke up at 2.30 AM, Prakash has not slept at all. We got ready and put on our jackets and helmets. Shoes gave way to slippers as we expected to walk long miles in the sand to watch the rare Oliver Ridley Turtles. It was cold and dark but our spirits were high and we rode at around 70kmph. Prakash was right, the chill of the night affected our speed. We reached the spot on highway soon but then the black magic began.

There were no fellow wildlife or nature lovers, there were no guides or villagers. It was 4AM and the world was doing what it should be-sleeping. The only light was that of our ‘good-old-bullet’ and we could not tell the road from the open fields. We followed the trail and reached a dead-end where we met white bright field and a red broken temple. A strong smell engulfed us along with fear. I could almost see a naked sadhu come out of the temple with something like a head in his hands.

‘Let’s turn back’ I said and turned my back on the temple. I did not want to see a one-eyed, broken-toothed smile greeting me.

‘I think we lost our way here’ Prakash has been here before and was trying hard to remember the right way.

We went ahead and soon we had a surprise company.

‘Look. A black hare’ Prakash shouted.

It was black hare, which was in a hurry. Though the road was full of stones and mud, it still allowed us a speed of 30-40kmph. The hare was faster. It was as if it was sent to us to lead us to the river mouth.

I would not have been surprised if the hare stopped and her mistress in stood there with a Dalmatian and a magic wand. Well, our guide disappeared at the next crossroad, leaving us to figure out the rest of the road. 

We lost our way again, Prakash’s past memory and present sense vying with each other. We finally reached the point, but there was no one.

‘The turtles won’t be here for another month or so’ a villager informed us as he came from the sea.

What was he doing in the sea all night? I was curious to look into his bag, but avoided the temptation. As we were discussing whether to head ahead, wait or get back, there was a sudden brightness behind us. First one and then two, three flames lit up. We turned back and saw three women besides the fires.

They were more fluent in Telegu than Oriya. They were cooking rice for their husbands which would be their breakfast and lunch both. They also confirmed that we were too early for the turtles. We tried to not get disappointed.

‘It was thrilling. I have made my first night ride’ I said.

‘The hare would be my take away!’ Prakash added as he laughed.

We decided to watch the sunrise from the Gopalpur beach and this time I was on the driver’s seat. It was meditative. The silence and the chill of the night, the darkness rendering an eerie uniformity to the landscape sent me to a meditative mood. Prakash was on alert thankfully and gave a timely pat to show me a diversion we approached in a hurry.

‘Keep your eye on the yellow indicators or the white line’

‘Ohh. Thanks.’ I followed this useful advice. 

It was still very dark when we reached Gopalpur but the horizon was a spectacle beyond words. It was as if a painter was preparing his canvas. It was lit with blue and red colors. The rest of the sky was pitch black with beautiful stars shining.

We decided to simply wait for the sunrise there.

‘Sunrise is at 5.45 AM’ Prakash informed.

‘Says who?’

‘Google!’ He smiled.

The sky slowly changed its colour-from the horizon to the centre. The morning clouds added the extra hues. It was well-past 5.45, but there was no sign of the sun. I was beginning to wonder if ever I would behold a sunrise over the Bay of Bengal. I had tried many times to witness the spectacle which my mother described something as ‘popping out of a ball from a child’s hand’, but had not succeeded. On some occasions, it was morning mist, on other it was long queues at gas stations and on yet another occasion, it was having an over-enthusiast photographer-friend for a driver, who decided to click palm trees on the road instead of sun-over-sea.

It was truly rewarding to say the least. The red sun turning to orange and finally yellow and all the while warming our bodies, hearts and mood. It was like the sky pouring out the wine of the sun to the glass of our souls. We carried the warmth and goodness to the huge red and white lighthouse. There was an abandoned project site with lovely stonework to match the images of ‘postcards from Europe’. We did some posing, not to miss out on the photo-opp.

We checked back into our hotel and played another round of pool accompanied by nice brown-black tea with strong aroma of ginger. We took shower and headed out for the religious part of the trip. First, it was the trip not planned to Dhabaleshwar – Shiva temple on beach and next it was to the temple of Mother Tatatarini on the hill-top.

We rode back to Bhubaneswar after a sumptuous wedding feast we had for our lunch. It was one of the most tasty wedding feasts I have had in recent times. We rode non-stop for three hours before stopping for tea and snacks. It was fast but steady riding with average speed of around 90kmph. The city lights and backlights of vehicles on the highway signaled the ‘same old world’ feeling. ‘Same old world’ of compulsions, delusions, confusions, emotions, duties, explanations and gumption (word borrowed from Zen and art of Motorcyle maintenance) of a different kind.

I DO NOT die!!!

This is a protest against everything that happened to the 23 year old young girl who was gang-raped in New Delhi and who succumbed to her injuries today. I chose the easier way-writing, than people who are on streets and expressing their protest, anger, grief and solidarity.
---

I DO NOT Die!

You may stifle my voice,
Choke my throat with iron hands,
Gag my mouth with black clothes of your party flags.
But my voice will resound and resonate
From the Gates and Hills,
Through thousands of mouths,
Thorough millions of hearts,
Of my sisters, brothers, fathers and mothers
Who are just like Me.

You may batter my body,
Infect it with pestilence and gangrene, 
Shift it to foreign lands,
To die with the darkness of the night. 
But, my spirit will shine in strength and brightness
Like the Sun and blind you,
You who are hiding behind
Your sun-glasses of hypocrisy. 

You may stab my heart
With knives of bestiality,
You may thrash my limbs
With sticks of lies and false promises,
You may cut my stomach
With bloody swords of accusations,
You may bury my shattered body
Under the cold mud and grovel of politics.
But, you can not kill me.

You may try to drown 
The rising waves of my spirit by water canons,
You may use gas to make me cry 
And make my vision blurry.
But, try as hard you can,
You, the hideous, heinous,
Abominable, abase character of every man,
I must let you know,
I am a free soul
Soaring high in open skies,
I am a free soul,
I did not die,
I DO NOT die!

besharm shayar

bada hi besharm hai ye shayar,

log kehte hain,

apne zakhm chupa lo,

duniya dekhegi to hasegi, mazaak udaegi,

kamzori ka fayeda bhi uthaegi.

par dekho, ye to apne zakhmon ko apne nazmon mein utar kar

unhe dikhata, padhta aur sunata phirta hai duniya mein.

 

sari kharashein saaf nazar ati hain iski

kyon na ho

pairahan jo halke shabdon ka hai?

ab khaab aur khaak ke beech ka faasla

is shayar ke hothon jitna hi hai.

uska dil aur chehra hi to wo safhe hain

jin par wo khoon-e-jigar ki syahi chipkata hai

bada besharam hai ye shayar

apne ruh ko jala kar din karta hai

apne nazmon mein apni raatein kaat-ta hai

है

क्या आप उसे जानते हैं ?

उसे जिसका कोई रूप नहीं है, जिसका कोई नाम भी नहीं है . 

जो कहीं से आया नहीं है और जिसे कहीं जाना भी नहीं है . 

जिसने आकाश और पृथ्वी पर बिखरे रंगों की होली को देखा, 

पर वह दृष्टी नहीं है . 

जिसने कोमल और कठोर शब्दों के निनाद को सुना 

पर श्रवण शक्ति वो नहीं है . 

प्रिय-अप्रिय गंधों का अनुभव किया 

पर वो घ्राण नहीं है . 

सारे रसों का आस्वादन किया 

पर वो रसना नहीं है . 

जड़-चेतन सभी को छुआ 

पर स्पर्श का अनुभव भी वो नहीं है . 

सुन्दर और वीभत्स विचारों को उसने देखा 

पर चंचल मन नहीं है वो . 

स्थूल-सूक्ष्म वस्तुओं को जांचा-परखा

पर वो बुद्धि भी नहीं है . 

सृजन-पालन और विनाश भी किया अनेकों बार

पर क्या वो महत अहम् नहीं था? 

उससे कई प्रेम करते थे, घृणा करते थे 

पर वो किसीका शत्रु या मित्र नहीं था . 

जिसने कई लोगों से सीखा और कुछ सिखाया भी 

पर ना वो गुरु था ना शिष्य . 

जन्म-मरण के चक्र से वो गुज़र चूका था 

पिता-पुत्र, के चरित्र निभा चूका था . 

जो निर्विकल्प और अद्वैत है 

जो सर्वत्र है , जो शाश्वत है 

जो था, जो है और जो कल भी होगा 

क्या उसे आप जानते हैं ?

Rat Race?

We all knew the saying
"The winner in a rat race is still a rat"
But, we all kept running all the same
For the bounty and the shameful fame,
Of being 'The' rat
Or the First among rats!

A mere piece of bread,
Thrown purport-fully to tempt,
Would never fail to agitate our lot,
Whether we got it nor not.
Some would run for fear,
Mostly imagined, never real.

Yet many would run,
Simply because, Many others are.
Too busy to ask 'Why?'
Or even think 'What for?'

There are a few who run
To get away from the tails of past.
After years of sweat,
Only get frustrated to find the past
Clinging on to them and moving just as fast!

Oh, the old puzzle is never old enough,
Of an onlooker trying to make out
"Who is ahead?"
"Who follows whom?"
In an ongoing race in a circle.

A race where the means and the ends
Are not in sight.
Eyes myopic, sense of smell ageing,
Blurs the sense of wrong and right.
Rats come and go,
Rats watch rats run,
Rats live and Die,
But rats never learn!

Jajabara Trips IV (The Holy Monsoon!!)

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1400 kms of Train - 1583 kms of Road Journey | 5 states | 
Gods | Saints | Monuments | Caves | Forts | Forests | Rivers | Monsoon | 
1 car | 3 Travelers |


Details soon...

main na achha hua, bura na hua

main na achha hua, bura na hua...

(this line can only be written by inimitable Ghalib)

I have used this and completed the poem.

 

main na achha hua, bura na hua...

tere saath chal na saka,

ya saath tera naseeb na tha,

safar to tab bhi tanha guzar hua.

 

tu nazar andaaz kar na saka,

jinhe main nazron se dur kar na saka,

tera daaman chhota nahin

mera haah hi kaabil na hua

main na accha hua, bura na hua.

 

sifar se ummed bas sifar

kaafir se umeed bas kufr

kuchh nahi tha, chah bhi nahin,

tune jo chaha mere paas wo na hua.

 

jism ki zarooraton me sab-o-roz kat te the,
sunte the fakiri ki, ruh ki baatein,

insaan aur jaanwar mein fark kahan,

jab jism se main ruh na hua..

main na accha hua, bura na hua.

Main ya Tum

Ab sab kuchh tum Ho, aur sab kuchh tumse hai...
Subah ki dhoop ki garmi,
Drawing room ke neele parde se jhaankti hai,
Bistar tak aa kar, razai hata, chipak ke gale mil kar let jaati hai,
Wahan jahan tum so rahe the abhie.
Main samajh jaati hoon, tum abhie park me apne run ke liye gaye hoge.
Ab sab kuchh tum Ho, aur sab kuchh tumse hai...

Tum saath na Ho to daal feeki aur roti humesha kachhi hi lagti hai.
Par aaj, ab bhi bhook lag rahi hai.
Tumne lunch nahi kiya kya ab tak?
Chai bana doon?

Kabhi aaine se darti thi,
Aaj dopahar bhar baithi hoon,
Kai baar baal sawaare, shringar kiya, sindoor lagaya.
Tum jaldi ghar wapas aa rahe ho na?

Pata nahin aaj itni khush kyun hoon,
Tum yaad kar rahe Ho?
Ye muskuraahat bhi meri nahin, tumhaari hai.
Kal raat ko aise hi chale aaye the do aasoon,
Tum shayad udaas the?
Ek anjaana sa Dar tha, ya Koi bura sapna,
Chaha ki tumhare seene me chhup jaun,
Dekha to tum mere seene me sar rakh so rahe the.
Tum jaante Ho...
Ab sab kuchh tum Ho, aur sab kuchh tumse hai.

unsought flowers

It was raining. The sky was grey and beautiful. But, it was raining flowers. Flowers of different colours, shapes and sizes. Gladiolus, Orchids, Primroses, Lavenders, Hyacinths, Bell Flowers, Bouvardias, Jasmines, Gerberas, Sweet Peas, Anemones, Magnolias, Gardenias, Irises, Pancies, Daisies, Poppies, Camelias and many many more.  She was feeling them all in her face, in her hands and she cupped her hands to gather as much of the flowers as she could. It appeared to her that the clouds were smiling and occasionally laughing too.

The monotonous music of the alarm, woke her up from sleep and sadly from the dream as well. It was quarter past 8 and she had to rush to work. She was surprised to see her face in the mirror while brushing her teeth. For a moment, she thought she saw couple of flowers tumble down her long black tresses. She laughed at the thought and was concluded it must be the dream.
'Some dream!' She said to herself.

She loved to have a long hot shower in the morning. She would simply stand beneath the shower, hear the water drops fall on her shoulders and make noise as they came down on the floor. She closed her eyes today for sometime to hear them better. She was not absolutely sure but she could smell a familiar smell as she did that at the shower. She kept hey eyes closed and concentrated some more. It was the smell of flowers!
Some of which she saw in the dream. She again attributed it to the dream and came out and dressed up to go to work. She got in her car and put on her favorite music.

'May be I should get some flowers at last! They have been tempting me since early morning.' She thought and looked out to spot a vendor. There were many flower vendors near her place. She could recognise the flowers - if the Gladiolus have long stem, he would have got it from the small boy near the metro station. Purple Gladiolus were only found at the store near the market. Once she jokingly told him 'Are there only two clours of Gladiolus?' and he got her Gladiolus of seven colours. 'Your T Nagar only has five, I must tell you' he said while handing the flower bunch to her in front of her office next morning.
Gerberas were hard to tell, but if they were really big yellow ones, he would have got it from the shop near the police station. He never got her roses. None of them liked them. Orchids were found in the big flower store of 'Ferns and Petals' right under the flyover. He never told her where he got the exotic Magnolias and Poppies. She would conclude, he would have picked them somewhere else, may be near his office, on his way back.

But, today, she could not find a single shop open. She took another route, where she had seen some flower vendors. It was as if all the flower vendors were on strike. This route was bereft of any colour or fragrance of any flower. She was nearing her office and desperation bordering of despair. Finally she spotted one shop as she took the final turn for her office. But, the flowers were so dull and pitiable that she felt like crying.
She stopped her car a few yards before her office and cried. There was only his face, his hands and the many kinds of flowers that came to her mind at that moment. She finally wiped her tears and went in to her office.

She was back at home early. The few moments of longing, of memories, of flowers, of him stayed with her throughout the day. She tried to shuffle between watching TV, reading a book, making coffee to avoid those thoughts, but could not. She sat down in her sofa in the balcony, her face in her hands and looked at some Bouvardia flowers on the tree outside. She thought she heard her doorbell ring. She smiled and ignored it and kept looking into the blank spaces between the beautiful white flowers reflecting the moonlight.
The doorbell rang again after five minutes.
She ignored it again and kept looking at the moon, the tree and the flowers. After and hour, she had the urge to go to the door and check. She ran to the door and opened it. There was a note on the latch and there were a bunch of beautiful flowers of many colours, wrapped in a white foil and inserted carefully to the handle of the door from outside.
She opened the note "For Meera Nair. On Diwali, for your continued support. With Thanks - M/S Arun Industries'.Meera Nair, used to be her flat mate, who had left for the US couple of weeks back after marriage and used to place orders with Indian factories such as Arun Industries, on behalf of her clients.
She held the flowers close to her, slipped into her bed with them, closed her eyes. There was only his face which shone through the darkness.
A drop of tear found its way from her eyes to her lips, and she silently whispered 'Thank You!'.

photographs (c) Parthajeet Das, Soumya Mohanty, 2012

Sleeping humming bird

It is morning again, I say,
Look at the bright and fast day,
The city is moving in the roads,
And destiny is working its destined way.

A tired humming bird returns to its nest,

On the bosom of the horizon,
A fatigue-worn red sun takes rest,
Like a baby, innocent and mildly vulnerable,
You gently sink into my chest.

Untouched by the city and its ways,
A benign smile and breathing at calm pace,
Wrapped like a gift in purple blanket,
You sleep besides me and my life finds an humble base!

khaab

Raat bhar ek khaab ban leti rahi mere sirhaane;

Tamaam tare aasman ka aangan chhod kamre ki chhat se use dekhte rahe;
Chaand naraz tha, dekho kahin muh chuupa baitha hoga, kisi daryia ke kinaare.

Phoolon me ras bhi na pada aaj, uske surkh hoton me ghul rahe the jaane kitne hi rang.
Shabnam ki boondein, uske maathe ke paseene bane hue the, nanhi kopalon ne subeh shikayat ki.
Pahadi ki nadi bhi raat ko taaron ki madham roshni me uske laton ka naksha utara,
'hum bhi aise hi lehrana chahti hain, behna chahti hain, ulajhna chahti hain!'
Par neend ke khulte hi, khaab aur uska na hona bhi lazmi tha!

Janani - The Mother

It is hard to write an article or a post which is based on a true incident and have calculated reactions. It is harder if you know the people involved, both the affected and the effectors. Names and relationship do no matter, as it could be anyone, any woman, any family, in any remove village (there are quite a few of them) in Uttar Pradesh, which is the 7th largest country in the world by population.
The incident is not unique or 'urgent' or 'disturbing' by our Indian and specifically, Indian government standards.

A mother died during child-birth. The reactions are followed by facts which every academician and practitioner quote with immaculate accuracy but disappointing ineffectiveness.

'So many of them (mothers) die'
Around 300 on average out of 100,000 live child births across India and more than 500 in UP.

'Oh! The child is okay but, na?'
60 die per 1000 live births in India and 99 of them do in UP.

'Where was she born?' 'Arre baba, not the mother, the child!'
Only 22 out of 100 child births happen at a medical institution

'Did she receive any medical care?' ' There must be a Sub-Centre with an ANM or at least an Aanganwadi Centre'
26% of women receive proper Antenatal Care (3ANC visits) - % of women who received 3 ANC visits.

'We have Janani Surakhsya Yojana' (thank god it is not called Jawahar, Rajeev, Sanjay or Rahul Yojana, else, I would have had to choose a different title!)

The central and state government under this scheme pay for the expenses of an institutional delivery and pre-and post-check-ups. It is probably largest conditional cash transfer scheme in the world. Many surveys and audits, done by international and local consulting/research companies and NGOs (Hundreds of Thousands of rupees would have been spent by the World Banks and iNGOs (look at the Apple style nomenclature of international NGOs!) claim success.

Now, back to the incident.

The woman was not well for 6-7 days before the date of child birth. The only medical facility in the village is a Sub-Centre. Wait. The building of the Sub-Centre. There is no staff.
There is an Aanganwadi centre with a worker. She gave 'some' medicines to the woman, with no signs of improvement. Nothing else was done as well.
So, on the day of the birth, matters got complicated.
They finally decided to take her to the district hospital at Barailey. This distance of 30 kms takes one and half hours! This is another aspect.
Many state governments have Janani Express Yojana. The mother is reimbursed the cost of transport for institutional delivery. But, what can you do about the roads.
I was advising the state government of UP, not so long back on two such projects.
1. Mobile medical units (to make health care reach remote locations)
2. Emergency Medical Services (to tackle situations such as mentioned)
We were aware of situations where it could take 90 minutes to cover 30 kms. We ideated, planned and recommended many suggestions. Some were implementable, some were not. It has been more than 4 years. Nothing has happened on those projects.

Continuing the narration, the woman died on the road. The child was born healthy, almost healthy. The child was a girl. She would be a mother, if she survives i.e. I do not want to put facts and figures about child mortality, immunisation coverage, nutrition etc. but you get the idea.

A faint hope is that things would have improved by the time this small girl becomes mother.

ps. Incidental to this is the fact that Barielly is the constitution of Sonia Gandhi, The Sonia Gandhi, the single most powerful person in this country.

weekend

dedicated to the inverted ratio of 2:5

-------
friday ke 4 baj te hi,

hoton se hafte bhar gayab
haasi ka wapas aana,

doston ke numbers
jo 'last dialled calls'
se gayab se hone lage the,
unhe phir se dial karna.

newspaper ke safhe palat palat kar
stock prices aur headlines ke badle
theatre, music aur art galleries
ke events check karna,

chun ke kapde almari se bahar nikaal na,
long walks pe jana,
early mornings uth na, (early can be swapped with late!!)
jam ke khana and wine peena,

tera weekend ki tarah aana,
aur aakar chale jaana.
kya bura hota agar
tu aur weekend, dono reh jaate!



.

Bade Ho Kay kya Banoge?

Khudi to thi humaare paas,

Par Khud ko kabhi banaya na tha.

Papa fakr se kehte
'Aji..humaara ladka to 'Ye' banega!'
Aur 'Ye' waqt ke saath badal ta raha.
'Jo bhi ban..par ek accha insaan ban'
Maa kehti.
'Mere fancy dress competition me
Mujhe ek gadha chahiye, aap banoge?'
Behan ne laad se poochha ek din.


Teachers akad te
'Student ho...
student hi ban ke raho'
'Abe O...Itna mat ban'
Dost log naraaz hote to kehte.
Theatre ke director to
Har rehearsal se pehle poochhte
'Is baar kya ban ne wale ho?'


Naam ke aage peeche
Chand Akshar jode,
Graduate Bane,
Post-Graduate bhi bane...
Phir naukri karne lage,
To naukar bhi bane!

Tum ne us raat, jab dheere se
Sehmi aakhon se poochha,
'Tum mere ban ke rahoge na?'
Mano is ban ne, bana ne
Ke udhed-bun se chhoota,
Tumse kuchh kaha nahin tha maine tab,
'Haan, yahi ban ke rahunga'

Transformation

Transformation: Is it a process of evolution, a strategy to grow, an em-betterment, an improvement on the past ? It could be, but most importantly, it is not a matter of choice, it is something we all have to go through, whether we want it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, whether we are currently ready for it or not, it is a process that happens by itself but sometimes it is even a matter of survival.
There is no option but to shed the scales of past and crawl out of it, no matter how painful or long the process might be, how much unfriendly the environment be, how much the odds be stacked against; into a new beginning. The process eventually opens up new realities and makes newer dreams and brighter hopes possible. Could the caterpillar ever dream of flying in the open air, without the process of transformation, without the wonderful wings of a beautiful butterfly?

Transformation is essential, and hence the environment that incubates transformation becomes critical.
The whole effort behind "Love...one another" is to create an environment conducive and as helpful as possible for that transformation to take place. To put many signboards that would help the builders, the planners, the observers and anyone willing in any way, to find their respective ways to create such a large pool where thousands of caterpillars would find the right impetus to turn into butterflies and get their rightful wings to soar in the skies, at their own will.

I have a similar story to share. This one is not spectacular, may not have the anticipated climax, no miraculous results could be shared and no exaggerations will be made.

Me and a group of friends visited Pravartak Sangha - a home for mentally challenged orphans in Salt Lake, Kolkata. How we found out about this organisation and started our relationship is a story of chance and persistence. I walked back to my home in Salt Lake after work everyday, and my route used to generally depend on the odd vegetables to be carried home or the sudden pangs of hunger that had to be met. That day, I took another route without any particular reason. The dimly lit signboard of the institution caught my eye. I had been working with special kids for over two years now, but had not been very active in the City of JOY.
'Should I go in?'
'This place looks closed; there is something in the air that suggests that casual visitors are not welcome here'
This hunch was proved right in the next hour of struggle and persistence to speak to the manager/owner of the place. The gates were barbed, locked and guarded. But, with little courage and lots of hope, I managed to sneak in and even though I was not welcome, I managed to convince the manager and his stout wife that I could come again with friends and do a useful programme with them.

'Theek acche, aapni aaasun...letter niye asben' their tone was a mixture of sarcasm and disinterest. I had been in similar situations in Bhubaneswar before.
The voice of the principal of a special school in Bhubaneswar rang in my ears.
'Na, Na, Na...mu kahili para Na' which in means 'No, No, No..I said No'.
This was her determined reply on the last day before an event very close to my heart 'Know your special friend' in which we paired up special kids with "normal" kids to create a painting together. An event we conducted in 33 cities.
That principal was to send a the largest contingent of special kids to our event - 30 in all.
So, with that faith, I started to plan for the first and may be the most important visit. Winning the trust of these inmates, who not only had no parents or siblings, but also, were not looked after in the best way, the most important task.
(Authors personal note: I would though apologise for making a statement like that without having run an institution. I am aware that this is almost a blasphemy on the part of a arm-chair consultant like me and could appear as criticism, but the idea is to only highlight that there was lot of scope for improvement)

I spoke to Diana, the founder of Chrysallis and my guru in this field. She has taught me how to work with special kids, how to have faith despite odds, how never to loose heart if you are alone and the spirit of volunteerism, above all. I chose a few volunteers to help me: the odd colleague who would become a friend now, the friends who would become family and the strangers who would become friends.
None of them had any experience of working with special kids and as with most sessions that we do with kids, I did a dry run with the volunteers, which most of them attended.
So, we reached there with a laptop, a small sound system, some sweets but no letter. But, we were allowed in. They thought we got some sweets, food etc. which would be distributed and then we would leave with some smiles and tears. To their surprise, we set up our laptop, music system, inserted the CD and asked them all to come in one room. The helpers and others were not very happy with our simplest of demands - get all the kids, get them in a line, ask them to be quiet, don't give them anything to eat now. Our volunteers were struggling and juggling a variety of emotions - love, compassion, pity, anger, frustration, fear and insecurity. I did not intervene then but I knew when to be firm.
The hall was set.  10 kids each in 4-5 rows. The music was on and so was the conundrum and utter confusion of all concerned. It took 10 minutes, some help from volunteers and my loud voice to finally get some semblance of the co-ordinated movements which Diana had asked me to do with the children. I had no idea how they worked, but I trusted Diana and continued the steps for 30 minutes.
The helpers and other people of the orphanage were curious but not sure of what we were trying to do. The volunteers had no idea either, they just had trust in me. I acted well to show that I know what I was doing. Ha!
Then, sweets were distributed and we all returned with promise to come again. We all had a chat in an adjacent park to chalk out our plans. I knew by then which volunteers I could count upon to come again.
I gave some feedback to some of the volunteers:
'dont cry in front of kids',
'dont be too lenient with them',
'we have to make them independent not dependant'
'never, ever have or show sympathy or pity'
'we are here for our own joy above all, no help to anyone but ourselves'

I went back home, tired, exhausted, with a hoarse voice, but a moist and happy heart.
We would continue to go to the Sangha at regular intervals of a 7-8 days.
Diana's visit after a month acted like magic for children and a training session for us. Diana repeated all those 'isms which I had ranted with the volunteers.
We continued our visits and sessions.
Many things were added, the odd gifts we would get for the kids, the prayer 'bhabasagara tarana karana he' which we would sing together on many evenings, the snacks that would be shared, the festivals that were celebrated together and the relationships built.
We was 'kaku', 'didi', 'dada', 'police', 'hero', 'heroine' and many more things.
But, what we started to notice after two-three months in most children was a transformation. A slow, tentative and vulnerable one. The children were using their bodies in a more better and confident manner, they were able to understand instructions, follow them and co-ordinate their actions with their friends. There was joy in what they were doing, they looked forward to these sessions and asked us to come more frequently.
Some of their hopes were met, some did not.
'You promised Kaku, you will take me to my village. You will take me this time no?'
'I want this bag' pointing to the laptop bag.
'I want to go to city, we are not allowed to go anywhere'
We could not do anything about these. But, what we could do, we did, slowly and ever-so surely.

Transformation, is a process, not a destination. I had to leave Kolkata to work at Mumbai. I urged the volunteers that we must continue. I knew, it would not, not in the same fervour. I thought of the hitherto unknown kids in Mumbai, who will give me a chance to work with them. I thought of the new set of volunteers, strangers who would work with these children in future. Some other kind of transformation would take place, I was hopeful. The agent is not important, the process is!!
A few years later, I am hopeful, that the board of Pravartaka Sangha is brighter, a volunteer more determined, a set of friends more frequent, the children much more independent, the workers much more cheerful, the owner much more resourceful and the transformation much more spectacular.

painting made by a kid

smiling volunteers with kids

i will tell

what's that?

I sincerely hope.