Destined by Adminis-traitors

“In the air and OUT!!! Caught superbly at deep third man, diving low to his right, plucking the ball inches off the ground. Another reckless shot and another wicket gifted away by the tail enders as Karnataka are nine down, they are snatching defeat from the jaws of victory here.” honked the commentator unable to keep his disappointment down.

“Karnataka still need three runs to claim the all elusive Ranji Trophy, where as the thirty eight time champions, Mumbai need just one wicket to put the trophy back in their shelves.” reminded the second commentator, excitement and drama buzzed in the air at the Gangothri glades, Mysore cricket stadium, as the final match was gearing up to a nail biting finish in the last over of the day. People witnessing the thrilling match from all possible vantage points, stood up, gasping patiently for Karnataka’s last recognized batsman and the only centurion of the innings Vaman Reddy to seal the match with a authoritative shot and bring home the coveted trophy of the most prestigious domestic cricket tournament.

“Right, so Vaman will be on strike, the youngster has played out of his skin for his century but this is his real test, he is the only hope for his state now.” the first commentator said in anticipation, trying to build up the cacophony in the rather dull atmosphere, the domestic matches are played in.

“Will he be able to cope with the pressure situation and guide Karnataka to a well deserved victory?” asked the second commentator, more to himself in excitement than the audience, watching the close encounter unfold dramatically.

Last two balls of the match left, the bowler was trudging back to his mark solitarily as the captain came anxiously running in from the slip cordon trying to give the bowler some undesirable suggestions, waving his hands animatedly in a bid to set the field proactively and precisely for Vaman’s next shot. Vaman surveyed the field with keen eyes, scanning each fielder’s position thereby creating a mirror image of it in his mind. Vaman took his stance as every fielder including the captain marked their individual positions and settled down. The composure in bowler’s face by then had turned into apprehension as he started charging to the mark in a jittery manner.

“How did that miss the edge!!!?” the second commentator said as the ball thudded into the wicketkeepers gloves.

“What the non-striker is trying to do there?” the first commentator screamed as he jumped out of his wobbly seat, seeing the non-striker setting off for an improbable single, but common sense prevailed as Vaman turned it down, taking the onus on himself to strike the remaining three runs of the last ball of the over.

“It was a length delivery which moved away just a fraction to beat Vaman’s brandishing bat.” clarified the second commentator, trying to bring some tranquility back to the situation.

“Last ball left and still three runs needed, can Vaman do it for his state? It’s now or never!!!” the first commentator said in a seething manner, in view of the tight, droopy situation the game had winded, to his liking.

Vaman on the far end was preparing himself mentally for the last hurrah, talking to himself, gazing at the bowler in resolve, in an effort to outthink the bowler, who, in much the same way, composed and readied himself at the other end, after an intense discussion with the captain, clearly showing dissent at the field changes the captain had decided for him, without giving much weight-age to his inputs.

“Played uppishly, that is it, Game over!!!” the first commentator shouted in exhilaration.

Vaman leaped in the air punching his fists in glory, prior to which he came dancing down the track converting a yorker to full toss, the bat coming straight down to meet the ball with perfect timing, scorching the grass and speeding away to the cover boundary for four delightful runs. His teammates, who until then were unsteadily perched on the pavilion, stormed, racing down into the ground in total chaos and jubilation, forcefully pushing Vaman off his feet onto the turf, smothering him all over, enchantingly hugging him in the moment of unsolicited joy and victory, hailing their new born hero, signaling the rise of the phoenix from the ashes.

“Mumbai have been beaten fair and square here by one man, they are bitterly dejected, shock expression on their faces says it all, I feel sorry for the bowler…” the second commentator lamented.

“This is Vaman’s fifth century in the Ranji season, one he would remember for a long time to come, voices of his inclusion in the national test squad for the upcoming India-Australia test series is eminently doing the rounds, time has come to give this young man a chance to showcase his talent in the international arena.” the first commentator said with authority.

“Vaman, maga, barri illi (son please come over here) !!!” a distinct, weighty South Indian accented voice made it’s way to Vaman’s ears, amidst all the euphoria, making him look back curiously in confirmation that the voice he heard was indeed that of the person he had notably met and admired earlier. He was startled to see the chairman of selectors, Mr.  Chaitanya Swaminathan, standing in appreciation, in the aisle leading up to the players dressing room. With all humility and respect Vaman swiftly moved towards him, tucking his victorious bat in his left armpit, as the chief gave him a thumbs up on his super performance.

“Hege idhira (How are you), sir?” Vaman said, as he bent down to touch his feet, asking for his blessings to which Mr. Swaminathan duly obliged.

“I am fine. You played very well!!!” Mr. Swaminathan responded as he patted Vaman’s shoulder in appreciation.

“You have made my task tougher now for the forthcoming test series.” Mr. Swaminathan said, pacifying Vaman with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sir, I am happy that I have played well and made my team and state proud, the rest is on the administrators.” Vaman said, confidence and sense of excitement emanating from his voice.

“Ninu ondu bahumulya vajjra eh… (You are a priceless diamond), Go, Enjoy now!!! Hope for the best.” Mr. Swaminathan said with a smile and reassuring voice as he raised Vaman’s hopes for making it to the national team. The “vajjra” word uttered out with a typical south Indian tone, instantly striking a chord in him, which made the man of the match inhale a surplus quantity of air causing his chest to bulge out, feeling the pride and incalculable monetary associated with the word.

“Thumba danyavaadagalu (Thank you very much) sir, I will surely play harder and perform above your expectations.” Vaman said humbly and politely in an attempt to hide the pride and dazzle which had quietly illuminated in him.

“Nimmannu nodi santhoshavaythu (Nice to meet you.), sir.” Vaman said, soon they both departed in opposite directions after exchanging some more pleasantries.

It was a day to celebrate for Vaman, with his friends and teammates, more so, after having received accolades from his near and dear ones and a well deserved appreciation from the chief selector on his performance. It rocketed his confidence sky high as he was feeling on top of the world. At the same time, amidst all the victory chants, he vowed from within to play harder, much more than what he had done so far and bring glory to his nation.

A car screeched to a halt the next day near the cricket headquarters in Mumbai in between all the media glare, Mr. Swaminathan stepped out graciously to accompany the rest of the selectors to pick the Indian squad for the upcoming India-Australia test series. The selection panel usually comprises of five representatives from, east, west, north, central and south zones, an embodiment of democracy from outside but satanically biased from inside.  The rest of the selectors had already marked their presence, having a gala time, mocking the chief selector’s south centric antics, passing cheeky jokes on his tongue twisting bits and pieces hindi phrases, which usually took time to decipher given the staunch South Indian twist associated at the end of it. Mr. Swaminathan’s hindi speaking skills was of much amusement as it provided great entertainment to the rest of the people who interacted with him, outside his and neighboring South Indian states.

“Namskaram, gentlemen. Great to see you guys again.” Mr Swaminathan said, a mournful silence descended in the room, as he walked in and across the conference room diagonally, greeting his esteemed, diverse panel, shaking hands with them on the way through, to occupy the head chair, with his panel seated unequally on his left and right sides.

“An important series coming up eh…! I feel like a superstar of South today!!!” Mr. Swaminathan said, making a trademark Rajnikanth gesture, by creating a V shape with his right index and middle fingers, stylishly fitting his pen in between them by taking it out of his chest pocket and tossing it in the air, causing the pen to somersault. He got hold of the pen again, jamming it within the same fingers as it descended down, releasing the cap this time in the air, to make it land perfectly on the back of the pen, an act, he had perfected over time. He laughed erratically on his own antics as the other members were bemused, looking at each other with annoying faces, contemplating as to what reaction they should follow up to the south super star’s antics.

“Bhalo… errr… Good… Good…” the east zone selector said meekly, concealing his disgust, correcting himself in a hurry for speaking out his customary mother tongue, kind of extraterrestrial word to the chief’s hairy ears, trying to learn which, would have caused him to sink in a black hole and vice versa for others, who ran the risk of rupturing their taste buds in an effort to by heart the South Indian languages and it’s manicured pronunciations.

“I am going to read out the probable names, then I am sure we can discuss on them.” the chairman said with authority, reading out the fifteen names in one go without letting anyone to interfere in between. The selectors fell quiet after listening to the names from the chief’s mouth; the room was submerged in an uneasy silence like the lull prevailing before the unknown storm, as everyone had a serious look of disagreement and dissatisfaction on their faces.

“Mr. Chaitanya, pehle dus to thik hai, lekin ye baki paanch kaun hai… uh? How are they? (The first ten are fine, but who are the rest five?)” the selector from central zone said in his scrappy english, conveying his resentment over the de facto selection of the last five names.

“They play no in IPL, inko kabhi dekha nahi to kaise khilayenge, How play them? (They never played in IPL and we have never seen them playing then how can we play them?)” the central zone selector said, opposing and coaxing others into the argument by thrusting his biased views on the table.

“When I had asked all of you to come and see the Ranji matches, phir aap garaj se kaise nahi aaye? (why you guys did not even bother to show up? Illa (No), this is not going to work. I have included players on performance be it whichever state or zone.” Mr. Swaminathan said in defiance in his south toned hindi, causing a murmur among the rest of the selectors.

“Usko bolo ki kaam ho jayega, baar baar phone na kare, main abhi gilli danda ke meeting mein aaya hoon, baad mein call karo. (Tell him that his work will be done, ask him to call later, I am in a meeting now.)” the president of the association entered the room as he hang up the call on his cell phone. The murmurs had gone away as all eyes were locked on the president’s autocratic conversation.

“Anna, mere khiladi ka kya hua? (What happened to my player?)” the president said in an intimidating tone.

“Sir, we are discussing the list here, selection of players will be based only on performance.” Mr. Swaminathan said, as he tried to oppose the president.

“Thik hai, dekhenge. (Sure, we will see later)” the president said, turning to the rest of the selectors for further enquiry on selection.

“Sir, inhone hamare zone ke players liye hi nahi is series mein! (He did not include players from our zone for this series!)” the selector from north zone said.

“Swaminathan ji this is absurd, we have to follow the quota understanding we have set amongst ourselves! How can you do this?” the president said, shedding off his hindi, in seriousness of the matter, shouting at Mr. Swaminathan on top of his voice now.

“Mr. President, maine sabse zyada matches dekhe hain, aur jo logone perform kiye hai unko hi liya hai, Yeh koi mamuli series nahin he, ki kissi ko bhi select kar le! (I have seen most of the matches and those who have performed have been included regardless of quota. This is not a minor series that we can select whosoever we want!)” Mr Swaminathan said in revolt.

“Eta chol be na… ye hum hone nahi denga, yaarki hoche naki… chagal nahi hai hum!!! (This ain’t going to work, don’t fool around, we are not silent goats!!!)” the east selector spat out viciously, degrading himself yet again in true Bengal style by his choice of obscene words.

“Mr. Swami, we cannot select players this way, we have taken some responsibility and we need to fulfill it.” the President said, as he and the west selector stressed on the “responsibility” and “fulfill” words in unison.

“So you want to select your players, go ahead and select them, gampa (leader of fools)” Mr. Swaminathan said in disgust as he tore the paper and hurled the pieces in the President’s direction.

“I resign from this post. Go select your gully cricketers!” Mr. Swaminathan roared as he banged his fists on the table in frustration and walked out of the room belligerently.

The same day the selected players list was out, the media on receiving it first hand, hovered around the office premises, getting hold of the outgoing chairman in the process, probing him, posing uncomfortable questions over the non-selection of deserving players.

“Sir, What about Samay? Why was he not selected?” one reported asked.

“Why didn’t you select Vaman? Please give a justification sir” the other reporter pleaded.

“No comments. Please. It is the best possible squad we could have selected.” Mr. Swaminathan said firmly, wading his way through the sea of cameras and reporters, disguising his emotions in public as he jumped into the back seat of his car and directed his driver to speed away to the airport.

“Vaman have your food, son” Vaman’s mother yelled, as he was glued to the television, surfing the news channels, keenly anticipating his selection in the national squad for the future test series.

“Just a minute, Amma!!! they are about to show the names on TV.” Vaman shouted back as one of the news channel started displaying the list of selected players, wildly contemplating on their inclusion amongst their expert panel of ex-cricketers.

“One… two… three…….”  Vaman began verifying in a suppressed tone, as his eyes lit up examining the crucial list, expecting his name to feature at the end of it.

“This is impossible. It cannot be true.” Vaman said in a hushed tone, a quiver in his voice now.

He scanned the names again, rapidly as the channel, at their presenter’s behest, would make it vanish anytime soon, but his name was nowhere to figure in the prejudiced list. His heart now beating uncontrollably faster, he picked up the TV remote with his shuddery fingers and changed to another channel, believing that the previous one may not be showing the correct list or might have simply neglected to mention his, not so famed name, in a hurry, unintentionally. He came close to the screen this time, repeating the names in his mind, with his index finger touching the monitor, as soon as his shaky fingers reached the bottom of the list, his heart sank into coldness as a paralytic chill went down his spine. The fact that he was not selected to represent India despite performing consistently well dawned on him. He felt heavy from within like a labor burdened with sack of grains; his face went pale, his hands and feet cold as a sense of numbness and panic strangled him from all sides, making him ponder about his future playing the game he so dearly loved and embraced, in lieu of earning his livelihood. The world around him suddenly fell apart, everything looked strange and demeaning. All the euphoric emotions, chants of heroism, success, victory, he had experienced merely a day before seemed a distant memory.

The deafening ring of the telephone jarred Vaman out of his precarious thoughts. He steadied himself for a second and calmly moved towards the phone, to receive the unknown call. He picked up the receiver and said “hello” in a cracked, grief stricken voice.

“Hello” was the response from the other end in a subtle tone.

“Mr. Swaminathan!” Vaman exclaimed in joy which immediately turned into anger and hatred as he instantly recognized the man’s voice, whom he believed was responsible for his present misfortunes. Vaman’s mind was inundated with questions desperately wanting to interrogate and seek answers from the man he so dearly relied upon, on the basis of his valuable and consistent performances in the domestic circuit.

As he was about to enquire Mr. Swaminathan on the selection horror, he heard a weeping voice from the other end.

“Where is this moaning coming from?” he asked in his mind curiously.

He held the receiver tightly in his hand gluing it as close to his ears as possible. On analyzing and ratifying that the voice was indeed that of Mr. Swaminathan, a sense of warm heartedness engrossed him, deriving an unconditional apology from within, for no fault of his, instructing his mind to shed off all negative selection thoughts and try and rectify the situation at hand.

“Vaman, please forgive me my son!” Mr. Swaminathan said, as he broke out in tears recollecting his inability, under extreme pressure from regionally biased administrators, to select talented, performing players in spite of being an esteemed national chief selector.

“I could not keep my promise…” Mr. Swaminathan said, clipping his sentence in between as he choked inconsolably figuring out an explanation for his incapability and incompetency to fulfill his commitments.

“It is fine sir, I understand your position…” Vaman said assertively, shunting the plethora of questions, his mind was occupied with.

The long uninterrupted beep of the dial tone signified the end of the remorseful conversation as Vaman with a heavy heart tried comforting Mr. Swaminathan in pretence.

“I am not hungry, amma” Vaman said angrily as he proceeded towards his room and banged the door shut. In a fit of rage, despair and animosity he scraped, tore all the cricket related posters, collections, certificates… adoring his room walls, tables and showcases until then.

The night was pitch dark, resembling the darkness in which Vaman’s life had plunged into, he lay lifelessly on his bed with his eyes closed, remembering his enthusiastic and promising cricket career, so far, right from his childhood days. The knocks that he played, the bat that he raised every time, he reached a landmark, his friends and their light hearted banters on and off the field, his favorite gloves, the jubilation, when he was selected for the Karnataka Ranji team and above all, the endless sacrifices made by his family, supporting and nurturing him, so as to enable their son to receive world class training in an effort to develop him as a great renowned cricketer, they so desperately hoped and needed to end their woes. All this and much more in vain, a tear rolled down from the corner of his right eye, as Vaman resolutely drew an end to the future famed international cricketer, he always envisioned him with. A sad abrupt end to a long promising career, cut short by regional bias, resulting in the death of the sportsman in him.

A Tribute To Water

Imagine the External Affairs minister of India Mr. S.M Krishna paying an official visit to the U.S Secretary of State Hillary.R.Clinton in America, which they frequently do, in a conscious joint effort to build and strengthen relationships between India and America on humanitarian grounds of much publicized Indo-US strategic dialogue. On his arrival to the United States, Mr. Krishna is greeted with a two litre bottle of water presented by Mrs. Clinton which the Indian minister accepts with awe, and the other Indian subordinates being presented with just a litre by the respective subordinates of U.S Secretary of state which they accept gleefully but at the same time frown expressionlessly from within on sighting their minister being presented by a higher volume. Bear in mind, the bottles of water presented to the Indian dignitaries is pure, hygienic as per the standards and thoroughly drinkable to the last drop, but the irony of it all is that it is not meant to be drunk; rather it is presumed to be preserved as a memento, a national treasure, meant to be showcased in the Foreign ministry office premises.

Another such show of mutual understanding, which instantly captures my imagination, celebrated blissfully by us Indians with much fan fare and pomp is the marriage ceremonies. Nuptial ceremonies to my liking are an exasperating show of wealth and treasure, more than a middle class family seems to possess. So imagine in such a ceremony, the bride’s family gifting away barrels of water or the bridegroom’s family demanding dowry (a shameful defiant act in Indian society) as barrels of water for a certain number of years in order to quench their extensive needs and sense of dryness, failing which the marriage would be terminated. Visualize, instead of tons of gold jewelry, specially designed miniature water packet necklaces and bangles being used to adorn the bride in order to enhance her beauty and after marriage people distressfully gifting the bride and bridegroom items made out of water packets in the reception ceremony. You may believe that the above events  are an exaggerated, unrealistic, out of bounds and far stretched imagination, good for gut aching humor, but not possible in the wildest of dreams. Well, let me caution you; give it a second thought…

A day will surely come when water will be treated with utmost gratitude and respect, like the sole precious and priceless commodity on earth, i.e. if we do not mend our ways or intention and respect it’s unchallenged and irreplaceable existence. Water for most of us is a common, daily usable commodity, one which we cannot, by any means, part away with, but it’s sheer presence has come under scrutiny as scientists round the world have started examining and debating on the facts of it’s sources diminishing by the day. Prima facie of the problem is lack of awareness and responsibility among the people who believe wasting water generously is a fundamental right, which no one can deny them. Going by the statistics globally established and circulated with mutual consent by the scientists worldwide, ninety-seven percent of the water resources present in our life sustaining planet is salt water, two percent is glacier ice and the rest one percent is fresh water that we can actually use for our daily needs. Just one percent? We already have a shortage enforced by nature, and our more than sufficient expendable usage (in addition to the ever meteorically rising population) is threatening it’s default scarce presence.

People can live several weeks without food, but can barely survive few days without water. Let’s try and visualize what the conditions will be like if not a drop of water is left on the earth’s reliable sources to drink. First and foremost the water cycle, which we all have or probably should have studied in our first or second standard sciences, will be ceased. So what if it ceases? You may question competently… Well if it ceases then there will be no vapors, no vapors mean no cloud formations, no clouds mean no rain and no rain means the end of the story as simple as that, No rain!!! What looks, our gorgeous planet will boast off, if there is no rain? Blatantly speaking earth will then probably be a mirror image of the moon or mars, dry, desolate and devoid of any living form, summarizing in brief, it will bring an abrupt end to the human race…Water scarcity is a major problem not only in India but also around the world where ground water levels are depleting at an alarming rate. Taking water for granted is no more a whimsical notion which we can afford. We need to act now or else our future generations will start facing the brunt of it’s limitations.

Water pollution is another notable menace leading to the dearth of fresh water sources. In Delhi and it’s surrounding areas the Yamuna river has almost been reduced to a mere sewage drain due to the constant dumping of industrial wastes and harmful chemicals in it’s banks. Overlooking from the Agra fort, the river which was once an inspiration for every poet, with the enchanting Taj Mahal in it’s backdrop, the reflection of which, in the river’s steady, calm waters in a moonlit night, sent chills down the spine of every person admiring the magnificent sight, is now meandering in a pitiable state, best described as a sewage stream carrying human wastes and hazardous chemicals induced by the industries built around it. Is this the way to treat our rivers, which has always blessed us and satisfied our ever increasing needs, unconditionally? Great civilizations have nestled on the banks of these significantly nourishing water sources and also been wiped out due to the deficiency or drying out of such sources. The day is not far when the complete human race will be eradicated from the face of the earth if we do not start heeding Mother Nature’s ceaseless warnings and it’s quiet sobbing in pain which it suffers at the hands of selfish and unmindful humans.

The water woes are same if not worse and increasing by the day, in Mumbai and it’s suburbs, as the case is in Delhi, where people are suffering in an identical way. No water for two to four days at a stretch brings life to a complete standstill. The other day I came across a story by chance in one of the newspapers about a water thief in Mumbai. The water thief, most pleasantly surprising for me was a lady who used to steal water from the tankers, which normally supplies water to the societies demanded by. So this lady had a pact with the driver of the truck i.e. by mutual treaty of some kind they had agreed upon that the driver would stop the truck at a distance outside the society, away from the ever intoxicated and sleepy surveying eyes of the society watchman. The lady on seeing the truck from a hideout, like a soldier waiting to attack on the enemy, would come charging in with her empty vessels and barrels and fill as much water as she could. She was not the only one though, committed in the sinful act, which was more out of anguish than desire, there were others as well, but she got highlighted as she was perceived by the general public as the master of all the thieves, the commander in chief. The truck after appeasing all the female thieves would then make it’s way inside the society premises to dump the left over water. Slowly but steadily as days passed, the time for which the water, used to be available for the people living in the society reduced at an exponential rate. People started questioning the watchman and the chairman of the society for receiving such low volume of water in spite of paying the proper taxes in time. One day someone from the society decided voluntarily to keep a watch on the truck, following it like a detective by maintaining an unrecognizable distance, soon found out the exact cause of the Mission he had set out to accomplish, i.e. “Mission Missing Water”. The lady thief and all her disciples were caught red handed and bashed up by the women of the society, parading her through the streets with her face bleached in black. Eventually the procession was brought to a halt, much to everyone’s dislike, when the police arrived at the spot and took the lady under their custody.

The above story just serves us a reminder about the many small wars being fought in an around us for the divine liquid we so desperately crave for and without which our life would be totally in disarray. Small wars such as these accumulate with time and take shape of a major war which globalizes and outbreaks into a world war. A world war scenario, which will be the last nail in the coffin for us, beleaguered by the water woes, is building up steadily like an active volcano ready to erupt at any moment, all because of the inadequacy of one simple but life saving resource known as WATER!!!

The Ganges is considered to be the most sacred river of all in India, but even she has not been spared by the torments we humans have unfortunately bestowed on her. The bulky river is slowly dying in fragments and will be long gone if we keep polluting it the same way we did to the Yamuna. Image of the people standing in the bed of the Ganges with water up to their waist, praying and paying tribute to the Lords (according to Hindu mythology the Ganges originates from Lord Shiva’s elongated hair locks) by releasing the holy water from their folded hands, will be soon be a distant memory and fittingly replaced by the fact, i.e. people standing in it’s dry bed and releasing the ashes of our dear dead ones from their same folded hands, in a bid to pray with numb and tearful eyes and ask pardon to the Lords for the sinful act of not treating water with the due respect it deserved, pleading in disbelief for returning their life line back to them, which will be too late and very much a myth to depend on, in an effort to bring back our thirst quenching fluid. HOPING FOR DIVINE INTERVENTION IS LIKE DIGGING A WELL AND TRYING TO FIND WATER ON THE MOON, WE NEED TO ACT NOW!!!

Raag Malhar – A Farmer’s Plight

Recently I was bounded by formality more than anything else, to pay a visit to my in laws (not that I am henpecked by them) who reside in the quaint little town of Bhusawal in Maharashtra and keeping in mind that the summer season is at it’s peak, I made all possible efforts to keep my visit as distinctly short as possible but it turned out to be an unexpected, hapless but enlightened expedition. I boarded the train around 11PM in the night and soon fell asleep after getting a sense of my surroundings which was the same sleepy self. I was shaken up at 8AM in the morning with all the noise of the hawkers and Gujrati accents bellowing from the bottom. Soon I peeped down eagerly to find what all the fuss is about? All I could see was packets of  Khakras (Gujrati snack) spread all over the seats, with a flock of unknown people munching away at them producing a distinct and unbearable noise over a cup of tea, the sipping noise of which further unharmonized the already disturbing atmosphere. “This is noise pollution” I revolted from within “there should be a law on eating decibel limits as well” I thought. 

Reluctantly I came down and managed to procure a seat in between all the breakfast hoopla. I tried to divert my attention from the entire disturbance by gazing outside the window as the train was cutting across fields and farms of the country side. For the next one hour I kept on gazing the country side, farmers toiling in the fields with their bullocks, cows grazing, kids and grown up men dumping their daily morning waste in the wide open spaces, no man’s land I suppose. Finally my destination arrived and I was more than obliged to get off and part ways from the noisy atmosphere, but little did I sense what unprecedented events were in store for my encounter with an invisible supernatural element. The moment I stepped out from the air conditioning comfort of my train compartment at 9AM in the morning I was engulfed by a heat wave which had the aura of charring me from head to toe. As I was reeling to come to terms with the heat wave shock, instantly a sudden realization of an unavoidable magnitude struck me with a force, effective enough to paralyze and deport me straight to the ICU ward of a hospital. The rays of the SUN, diverging from it’s volcanic source like lasers laden with RDX. As I was stepping out of the railway shed into the well exposed sun rays, I told myself meekly surrendering to nature’s fury “I am done, trapped now for good. Oh God!!! Where am I? Is this what hell actually looks like? I wish I had a boon to skip from one place to another or order the sun, it’s enough for the day please switch off your rays and go back to the place where you set.”

The searing heat and unimaginable barren and desolate look of things in my vicinity made me sweat profusely. I started hallucinating myself dumped on a large pot filled with water, the demon from hell stirring it with all his might and garnishing it with all sorts of spices and vegetables, anxiously looking at me to get the first possible taste of the delicacy beckoning him. I tried to console myself by remembering the known fact “All right, these parts of the state are bound to be hot, but why for God’s sake did I come here knowing this undesirable fact? Fairly enough, I heard my wife’s nagging voice (not sure if I will be allowed an entry in the house if my wife reads this) echoing from within, constantly urging me to come and meet my dear in-laws as I had not seen them for a while. My next thought was a weird one to say the least, I made a valiant effort to humm the raag malhar (absolutely unaware of it’s tune or rhyme though) pledging the heavens to open up, lashing down the unexpected spate of torrential rains drenching me from top to bottom, but it was off no avail (worth a try if nothing else works). I shook off the dreaded feelings and the fantasies conquering me from all around and finally decided to proceed forward, come what may. On my way, pondering over the intense heat building up as the day was unfolding, the image of the farmer ploughing his field which I had noticed from the comfort of my train compartment flashed in my inner self, which gave me the inspiration to inscribe this blog.

Agriculture and farming has been the backbone of our country ever since people started inhabiting this beautiful land.The recent plight of the farmers has been a matter of intense speculation and concern as the ever growing incidents of farmer suicides have been brought to notice of the government and the people at large. The government has vehemently denied the allegations of non-cooperation with the farmers which is believed to be the reason behind such unprecedented deaths, but the forecast of freezing of such incidents in the near future still seems to be in the gloom. In the next few moments I will try and unfold the fact as to why this epidemic is spreading and what are the circumstances which force them to commit such a ghastly act? It’s time for some introspection…

In lonely country side miles away from any urban area, in a straw thatched mud cottage a small, frail, dark complexioned and shabbily dressed farmer lives with his wife and two children. The younger one is his son aged 18 and the elder one is the daughter aged 25, who is due to get married. A bullock which for the farmer is the most precious possession, is chewing away nonchalantly at the hay, stacked in front of him, tied with a rope, much to his disliking, outside the house with the merciless sun beating down. More out of love and care than anything else, the animal who is the sole breadwinner and an integral part of his income, is treated like his third child and the farmer always keeps him well fed, even if his family is starved off one meal a day. His son has been denied education, (the daughter’s education is not a cause of concern as it is never taken seriously) one which he can ill afford. Poverty and hunger is written all over his grief stricken and wrinkled face. His wife and children have to manage with a few ragged clothes; he has no money left, to buy even the simplest of dresses for his family. His wife, who is very dear to him, does all the work at home and also helps him in the field. She gathers all the cow dung, flattens and dries them in the sun and uses the dried cow dung pancakes as fuel which quenches the famine in the family, i.e. if they manage to gather some raw materials for cooking. In the hindsight the thought of his daughter getting older is much of a burden and headache, for him to bear, amidst all the problems he faces every day. Finally out of pressure and haunted thoughts of his daughter not getting a suitable bridegroom, he decides to marry off his daughter by taking an impregnable loan from a village tout, assuring the tout of his only land as a security.

With great enthusiasm and much fan fare he marries off his daughter, a burden which he is more than happy to get rid of. Relatives and all his well wishers attend the marriage to congratulate him in this joyous moment, but no one manages to feel the pain and sorrows of this poor man, which lies beneath the superficial smiling face. He is numbed by the fact that he has to see off one of his family member’s, more out of compulsion and a nagging society rather than an opposing belief from his inner conscience. After getting over the pain of parting from his daughter, he trudged out of his shanty shed in order to resume preparations for the upcoming sowing season. On stepping out, looking at the vast open spaces with sparse vegetation lying barren in front of him, he is harshly reminded of the previous season which did not yield adequate crops as a result of scanty rainfall. Recollecting the painful debt he owes to the village tout, he has to start this sowing season in the hope of yielding good crops but lack of sufficient funds, again puts him in a fix. Seldom does he possess ornaments or precious jewels which he can trade off and purchase the necessary seeds or agricultural equipments. Above all the burden of feeding his family is wearing down on him (the daughter’s marriage loan to add to his never ending problems) eventually forces him to seek the government’s help. The next day he reaches the government’s agricultural help center and applies for a loan which is repayable in a way, if the season yields excellent crops. In the hope of a good season he takes this big decision and soon his loan gets approved which enables him to buy good seeds at the start of the sowing season. He and his bullock set out every day to plough the field, with his wife and son accompanying him to give him the required support. The scorching heat and intense pain of the work load takes it’s toll on his body day in and day out, with his bullock huffing and puffing, panting continuously in order to come to terms with the work, heat and the whips lashed intermittently by his master. As time goes by, he buys the necessary good quality seeds and sows them in his land which he has been nurturing all summer. All he can do now is wait for the rains to arrive, and be in the trance of it, lashing down with full force which will give his seeds the right environment to emerge and grow into the final product he so desperately needs. As the rainy season dawns in, the farmer looks at his fields and then the clouds above, in anticipation of the much expected rains, but all he observes to his dismay, is the sun playing hide and seek with the grim clouds, which all, but looks threatening to shower.

The rainy season came and went by; all but flattered to deceive, it further deepened the sorrows of the raggedly dressed man. He is now out of money and food stock to feed his family and cattle. The thought of “How his debt is going to repaid?” haunts him in his dreams. One gloomy day the water laden clouds ominously gathered overhead in an effort to salvage some lost pride, and overnight it rained like hell compensating for it’s deficiency in the rainy season. The whole area was submerged by torrential rains and gale, his mud house damaged to a an irreparable extent, water dripping from every nook and corner from the roof of his house, the whole night he could not dare to close his eyes as he kept worriedly thinking what the next day had in store for him? Gazing at the feeble lamp burning with great efforts in one corner of his house, eventually it dozed off unable to sustain the constant gale and dripping water droplets from the roof. The next day he came out hoping for some miracle from the almighty but all that he and his family could see was the devastating affect that Mother Nature had bestowed on them. Their field flooded with water, leading them to believe that all their hard work had gone in vain, out of remorse they resigned to the fact that all their crops have been ruined and there was nothing left to be salvaged. He sobbed from within; tears rolling down his cheeks, like a child left unattended by his mother, soaking in the reality about the untimely calamity and the huge debt from all sides starring at him with disdain. He thumped his head with his hand, unable to bear the sight of the great loss which beckoned him, as he unconsciously sat down with a thud on the ground, with his wife and son trying to console him; unaware of the next grief, knocking round the corner which was about to engulf him, he started sucking in air and gathering all the determination and courage he had left in him trying to come to terms with the horrific situation. Just then, momentarily the thought of his beloved child crossed his mind, he immediately sprang up to his feet, looked around in panic stricken mode trying to search his only meaningful possession that was possibly left. He screamed on top of his voice, with all his might, running frantically from pole to post in a desire to coax his child to return back home, but it proved to be futile; the child was deserted forcefully by Mother Nature. His possession lost, his determination betrayed and shaken, the place where his child used to rest calmly outside, now lying empty, in it’s place hollow straws circling around in a frenzy in the soft breeze symbolic of the hollowness his life had plunged into. In just a few moments his life was in topsy-turvy, jinxed to the extreme as he had lost his priceless shadow of his self which used to accompany him to the field every day. He was inconsolable and grief stricken to the point of no return. Weird thoughts crossed his mind, surrendering himself to the painful situation; in a fit of rage and fury, without any hesitation whatsoever, he made up his mind and heart reluctantly, for the inevitable and gruesome act.

After all he we went through the day, his hopes shattered and the debts haunting him in his mind, like a cheetah in pursue of it’s prey, preparing himself astutely to take the last big leap of drawing an end to the sadness and grievances his life was surrounded with. Consciously resigning to the sorrows and unrelenting pains he made up his mind without heeding his heart’s voice that it was time to bid the last goodbye to his wife and only son he had. The following night he made it a point to forget about his pains and sorrows momentarily, one last time, chatting with his wife and son, joking with them animatedly as he had never done before, as they were enjoying a quiet meal together, his family unaware of the unrecoverable loss that would follow day after. After the meal he made sure that his wife and son fell well asleep, on getting an assurance that his family had slipped into sub-consciousness, an hour after midnight, he decided to execute the suicide plan by drinking poison, the moment, for which he had patiently planned all day. Closing his eyes one last time with tears pouring out of them continuously, his entire life started flashing back, flooding his mind with the innumerable thoughts, remembering his mother and cursing the sorrows inflicted on him by GOD, in the final moments of his life, in between all this he picked up the bottle of poison and brought it closer to his lips. Just when he was about to gulp the bitter liquid down his throat, he was jolted out of his thoughts and horrendous action by a large thud on the door, as if someone was trying to break in forcefully. The noise was loud enough to wake up his family. Not knowing what awaited him on the other side of the door; he curiously walked towards it, cleaning his eyes in the process so that no one notices his tears and quietly disguising the coward act he was about to perform. On opening the door with bated breath, he was awestruck to see what a miracle GOD had in store for him. His child and shadow, the bullock, had returned!!! He could not believe his eyes at the unbelievable sight, the thought of which never crossed his mind, his happiness had no bounds as he cajoled and kissed his child all over by laying his arms round his neck. He fed him gleefully, sitting beside him trying to sink into whatever little happiness he had witnessed after a long period of time. He had found a new vigour and enthusiasm to lead his life, GOD at last had done a favour by returning his child to him. He was ecstatic; his life now had a new endeavour.

With this happiness and rebirth, in a unique way, he decided to abort his suicide plans. Therefore the next day with all excitement and vigour he went to his field with his bullock, thinking to clear all the mess and work much harder so that he can feed his family and repay all the outstanding debts. Approaching his field from a distance he was not able to mark the area where his field actually was. On looking closely, narrowing his eyes in an effort to mark his land, a sense of intense excitement energized him which made him run with all his stamina, there-by releasing the rope of his bullock from his hand, who looking at his master also started charging with the same enthusiasm and hope. He had finally identified his field, he was transfixed by it, stopping near it’s boundary unable to make sense or draw any conclusion on viewing the unrealistic yet fascinating sight it posed. He had no words to express his feelings; he froze, rendering himself motionless, as if it were an enchanting dream. His child, the bullock was shaking it’s head frantically, trying to convey the same emotions to his master in acknowledgement. What lay in front of him was his crops bearing the fruits of his labour that he had so long expected, he ran across his field taking stock of the situation, his child following him the same way. The farmer danced around in his field feeling the softness of his labour like a small child gifted with a toy car. The soft breeze gently caressing the leaves of the plants, infusing much needed life in it’s branches, making them sway from one direction to the other. Finally he was exhausted as he fell down on the ground, his eyes looking up to the light blue sky thanking GOD endlessly for the miracle he never expected to witness. Life suddenly and unexpectedly turned for the better, his heart felt light, like a free spirit in a joyous trance of it’s own, devoid of all sorrows and negative thoughts. The burdens released miraculously, the inhibitions dumped to the bottoms of the ocean. At last he the joy and pleasure echoed in his heart, “I am bereft of all my sorrows and pains. I am now free... free... free...! Oh GOD thank-you for giving me this miraculous day, I will be ever indebted to you for the blessings you have showered on me!!!” closing his eyes to savour the moment of glory. He felt like a butterfly wanting to dance and skip from one place to another with all the colours he could possibly imagine. This was the beginning of the end of his sorrows he was long deprived of.

I love happy endings to most of the stories I read or write but not all farmers and their lives have such a rosy story to tell, some end their lives mercilessly leaving their families in a state of despair, who then are unable to recover from the trauma and pain of losing their only breadwinner. It is these homeless families who then face the brunt of exploitation from the wolves and hyenas waiting to pounce on them at every given opportunity by taking undue advantage of their weak links.

I gleefully compiled this story, only in an effort to remind and demonstrate everyone from all walks of life that a miracle is not far away if we have patience and inner virtues. Faith and dedication towards our work will definitely bear the fruits. No matter what the outcome is, never take a coward step which puts the lives of all the people, dependent on you, in jeopardy. Death is inevitable, but fast forwarding it to our liking, is not a solution we should aim for. Educating the society and especially the minors is a pivotal goal, one which will help us to move forward with courage and determination. Thank-you all for showing the required endurance and reading out the entire melodrama which I hope unfolded dramatically. Praying soulfully to GOD for the incessant rains this season on which our farmers thrive on, thereby expecting an enlightened future for the nation’s poor but most deservedly honorable man…. Thank-you again, for taking out your precious time and reading this story. Bye for now.

"The farmer is the only man in our economy who buys everything at retail, sells everything at wholesale, and pays the freight both ways." - John F. Kennedy

Voting a Dilemma?

Another somber day passed by, another Maoist attack, another painful train tragedy, another high level enquiry, another assurance of compensation with an employment guarantee for the kin’s of the deceased (new promotion offer added in the vote package) and the bickering in the Indian political circles continues… Sometimes in life tragic and unexpected events happen so much so in a flash that it diminishes the very fundamentalist approach with which we lead our life day in and day out. As good things come in small packages, bad things too come in mega packages and we sink into depression even before the realization of it hits us. Nevertheless life moves on with time and so do our pains and sorrows and who knows what the next day has to offer. If you are wondering what is this philosophical drama all about? It is about the train derailment tragedy, executed audaciously by the Maoists in Jhargram in which many lives were lost and more than that, many families driven to the depth of sorrows and despair. This brings in mind one of Christ’s quotes “Forgive them for they know not what they do”, but for how long will I be able to peach this reluctant saying, God knows….

In spite of all this we need to move forward and try and restore peace and harmony amidst the volatile and disoriented atmosphere. 

The only right that we the people of India reserve according to the Indian constitution is the right to VOTE. Yes Vote, but whom? Corrupt leaders? Leaders with criminal backgrounds? Or Leaders who play petty vote bank politics in the name of development and education? For the record let us get it straight, in the last general elections and probably in the last two decades we did not have a single educated leader who was eligible to get elected with exception to our present honorable Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh and Mr. Rajiv Gandhi to some extent. 

Getting the facts straight, out of 1.1 billion population in India 714 million people are registered to vote, which is roughly 65 percent of the population, fair enough isn’t it? I would say yes, considering the fact that out of the 65 percent only 45 – 50 percent vote on an average and to add to it out of the 45 -50 percent who actually vote 25 to 30 percent on an average are the field workers (better known as supporters) of the 300 plus political parties which the election commission has registered and given the rights to fight an election (absolutely democratic to the extreme). So to sum it up all in the viewer’s perspective, only 20 percent of the common man out the staggering 1.1 billion population vote? Keeping in view the mathematics of it all now you would say, “Hang on, that is actually not enough, we need more people more of the aam admi (common man) to register and stack up the numbers in the vote fest”. That is exactly what our Gujarat CM Narendra Modi is vying for, by making voting mandatory for each and every person who is above 18 years of age in the state.

Before making the rest of the population who are above 18 years of age, liable to vote, let us ponder over the fact, why does the 15 out of the 65 percent who are registered and liable to vote do not exercise the franchise which is at their disposal? When election time dawns in, you are asked by all political parties and their rallies (featuring all the stars who descend down or ascend up from hell), new channels and every possible medium of communication pledging and begging in all possible forms to vote, vote and vote (as if there is no other work but to dwell, eat, sleep and drink only vote). When the Election Day arrives before going to the polling booth you would set up your mind or possibly be allowed to pre-program yourself by any political party, on which political leader of the deemed parties you would vote for. Here comes the irony of it all, how many of us keep track of the local leader of any political party for whom we would like to caste our precious vote for? Not many or rarely isn’t it, we always see the icon of the party and vote, and invariably fail to get the larger picture. What is the need to track such local leaders whom we see once in a full moon? Rhetorical in it’s true sense. What is the criterion that we should search for in any leader in order to vote for him or her? They should be well educated, well mannered, we should try and foresee that they will be able to bring in some subtle changes (if not wholesome) to our constituency and above all should look smart and be our generation kind of leader, but what we get instead of the near perfect virtues, is a political goon who believes, to be a leader is his sole birthright and can stand in an election even if they are locked up in a prison with all the luxury at their footsteps. 

The political parties who bring such goons into the fray drastically diminish their chances of getting elected and in turn demoralize the general public to vote. So asking the question formally, do you think increasing the voter registrations will affect the voter turnout in anyway? No, educated, professional and economically capable India will not vote until such leaders are projected which will only continue to make a mockery of the elections symbolizing democracy. If a leader cannot develop and shine their own constituency, do you believe they will be able to develop India in any better way? These questions keep haunting us whenever elections knock at our doorsteps and we as a mute spectator observe the same sequence of events unfold precisely again and again. Why do we ignore independent candidates? Madhu Koda was an exception all right, but it is probably time that we start mustering support for them. Young and smart India needs to come forward and make a statement so that everyone gets transfixed by them and most importantly perform what they promise. We do not need overnight restructuring, we do not need extravagant promises and we certainly do not want our priceless vote ending up in the wrong hands which sets us back in time, all we need to see is action speaking for itself.

STANDUP AND GET YOURSELF COUNTED. INDIA’S FUTURE IS IN OUR HANDS. YOUR VOICE IS OUR VOICE IT’S THE NATION’S VOICE.

Dance of Democracy

Few months back I just happened to watch a debate on a news channel, the topic for which was Political ideology, Mr. Sanjay Nirupam (Congress MP from Mumbai north) was asked a reasonably simple question by the host on Mr. Narayan Rane (previously a member of Shiv Sena but currently in Indian National Congress and revenue minister in Government of Maharashtra), “Do you think the Congress party and its leaders were able to infuse the party’s political ideology in Mr. Rane since his inception in the Indian National Congress?”. It was a sincere and straightforward question which demanded an equally simple and straight answer. To everyone’s amazement and horror Mr. Nirupam for a split second had WHAT IS HE ASKING!!! expression and looked clueless on top of that, he had his mouth open for 10 seconds (enough to challenge a swarm of bees to build a nest in) as he was left speechless trying to figure out answers. All eyes were on him, waiting patiently for 15 seconds believing he would compose himself and answer in the affirmative, but one could see his inner voice imploring from within “What type of a question is this? Get me out of here!!!”. The next second he tried to speak poignantly (his mouth by now was in vacuum as all the air seemed to be sucked out of him) on the politically aesthetic ideas (trying to divert from the situation at hand), the studio audience who until then sat in a state of remorse anxiously waiting for their chance to express themselves suddenly woke up observing the facial expressions of the man and burst out in applause, giggles and murmurs which created a bit of chaos and stir in the usually effervescent atmosphere, eventually it led the host of the show to declare a break (the gold rush which all the news channels die for) in order to give him some respite from the uncomfortable scene building up. Mr Nirupam’s face by now had undergone a dramatic transformation from confident and cherubic to "What should I say?" pale and distressed. This is one form of dance in democracy where leaders join any political parties whenever they wish without taking a crash course (the least that they can do) on the ideologies of the parties involved. So this begs the question, Are Political parties today driven by any ideology? No, is my answer as they represent the likes of pre-medieval nomadic tribes who migrate from one ideology to another depending on the situation at hand with great zest and zeal. Politics is perhaps the only profession for which no preparation is thought necessary.

Where is the Mahatma in the Gandhis? I bet he would have committed hara-kiri several times had he been alive 10 years hence the 20th century to observe the facial expressions of Mr. Nirupam. Jawaharlal Nehru in an interview in the year 1947 said "Democracy is good. I say this because other systems are worse.” I wonder if he or the Mahatma or for that matter any freedom fighter were alive today would they think the same way? What is Democracy? Democracy is a popular term with a populist meaning. What is its definition in the Indian constitution? “For the people, of the people, by the people”, that is what is inscribed in the Indian preamble. Did our political leaders of the past define the essence of democracy? When India is in despair and often feels the danger from its friendly yet volatile neighbors’, whom do they look up to, to bring them back to surface from the depth of the oceans?. Yes, you have guessed it right (no prizes for guessing though), USA. “For the people, of the people, by the people” was quoted by Abraham Lincoln and it is from there we got the essence and flavor of the term democracy (before the speech and several years hence we were clueless of its meaning). Aping the west has been India’s enigma, one which we can do away with, especially the ones which does not hold true or perhaps has no place in our society. Democracy is one such thing, which compels me to reiterate another saying which does the rounds in our everyday life “Little or half knowledge of anything is a dangerous thing”.

Democracy has acquired many cultural and ethnic dance forms in our country as it has been reinvented and mutated based on what each perceived or should I say misconceived.

Recently I came to know about another form of democracy. Mr. Lalit Modi the suspended Chairman and Commissioner of the IPL (Indian Party League as some say right now due to India’s T20 world cup debacle twice in a row) has been accused of several fraudulent money transactions and ownership deals of various franchises, therefore in his place Mr. Chirayu Amin (noted businessman as the BCCI portrayed, never knew him, was he noted by anyone before? let alone me) has been made the interim Chairman of the IPL. He passed a statement recently that all IPL decisions will be taken democratically and with everyone’s consent. “Wait a minute now!!!” as I paused trying to gather sense of the sentence in my mind and thought what does democratically mean here? I did not take long to conclude that in this case democratically meant decisions taken in cohesion with the governing council members of the IPL. So ultimately the people in the so called preamble definition are thrown out of the window as if some aliens from far and away planets come to watch the game and turn a deaf ear to opinions of the people who shed the big bucks and make the game popular.

As far as the common man goes, needless to say, everyone has developed their own way to be democratic and it changes from person to person based on their perception or misconception, but that can only be changed when our leaders show us its true meaning. Putting it in perspective Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people, by the people, for the people in our country.

I believe a conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking, therefore I would like to end this blog by a quote from Thomas Jefferson “When the people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty.” Being liberal is what we should crave for. Here’s hoping for a bright and liberal future…

Nautanki, The Political way

Commencing with the much publicized and out of the blue rendezvous with our honorable Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh at Vigyan Bhawan in New Delhi, I switched on my television the morning of previous day in anticipation of some fireworks from our beloved PM on the tantrum of questions which were expected to be directed at him from our ever so witty and unforgiving (as they seem to project in their news channels) journalists. I was rather disappointed, to say the least, as all I observed and perceived (as usual) was a mundane, subdued, monotonous and squeaky tone of the PM on all the issues that were raised by the journalists and international media (who I believed spoke and enquired in the same manner as the PM answered them). I was not expecting a George Bush like shoe hauling incident but at least our journalists could have been a bit more aggressive in their questionnaire and possibly body language. Putting it straight, they were as poor as the church mouse. Well, let’s leave it at that, I believe “A fool at 40 is a fool forever” (goes for all our political leaders). At this day and age, India need answers to “WHY?” and not shying or ducking away and washing your hands off at every given opportunity and issue. I personally thought it was the best opportunity the PM had presented himself and the nation at large, to drive away all the misconceptions and silence his critics by taking a firm stand on the issues which are long overdue. The only time the PM looked perky and excited was when he was politely queried about Rahul “baba” (BTW, India is also known for her various kinds of babas).

The other day I was watching a public rally (held before May general elections last year) on my television of our beloved (pyari and dulari as some might say out of sheer ignorance) Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Kumari Mayawati (a.k.a behenji) where the news channel was framing allegations against her, as to how she betrayed the general public by making false promises (if ever they had made a true one) and going gaga over her monumental statues and elephant carvings, I noticed a usual gesture of “Good-bye” or simply put, waving of hands to the masses, made by her from the podium she was standing on, which irked me, instantly a thought came storming into my mind and I felt the need and desperation to include it in my next blog, which I am doing it now gleefully.

How does a common man bid Good bye or greet another common man? Well, It’s simple, raise your right or left hand (whichever you may feel comfortable with) just on top of your forehead (as I am a perfectionist) spread your palms and fingers and wave with a smile on your face!!! Simple!!! Now allow me to narrate the same gesture in a political, democratic and sophisticated manner. Raising hands, smiling and waving remains the same, in addition to it, they rotate their over-sized and un-toned bodies in clock or anti-clock wise direction up to 270 degrees (the remaining 90 degrees is reserved for PA’s and fleet of bodyguards) and savor the moment as it goes down in the annals of Indian history. In short, Political leaders never greets “a” common man, they are always accustomed to address people gathered in flocks which gives us an interesting insight to their corrupted and delusional minds. During elections if a political expat cannot go door to door or bow down to a common man for votes or seek his advice then I am afraid holding political rallies, gathering people like herds and cattle, making a mockery of the opposition and demanding votes on behalf of the oppositions wrong doings does not make any sense. A person is not remembered by the position he or she occupies, they will always be remembered by the legacy they preach, practice and leave behind.
 The people of India need to understand the legacy of “vote bank politics” and “dynasty politics” and refrain themselves from being a part of it. Indian Politics is the spiciest, scripted and over the moon masala melodrama (nautanki) you can ever witness.

We do not have to go too far to understand political chutzpah, Jarkhand at the moment is in a sorry state of affairs, BJP and JMM are playing a cat and mice game, the result of which the state is suffering from the ever evolving threat of the Maoists (to add to it the Madhu Koda scam).

Both the political parties are least bothered about the common man’s safety from the Maoists, all they are vouching for is the CM’s Kursi (Chair) and Ji mantriji (Yes minister) PA. It is agonizingly painful to see that since its inception 10 years hence as a separate state all it has managed to cultivate and reap is Maoism and a dirty money laundering scam which has been the icing on the cake. The very objective of Shibu Soren of supporting and upbringing the minors for which the state was carved out of Bihar is gone and Maoists it seems have taken up that cause and spread havoc in their own merry way. When will the government intervene and take some serious action? Words and politically extravagant speeches alone do not serve the purpose Mr. Palaniappan Chidambaram Chettiar…The question beckons for a long time; we do not need another political melodrama, we need action, whole of India is waiting… with bated breath.

To end my blog I would like to say thanks to all the viewers (1 follower from USA is not bad I would say) especially colleagues from my work place for their overwhelming response and for taking their precious time out to read my views. Your comments are of paramount importance to me, please do keep them flowing in. I have updated the comments section, which as per the feedback I received was not appealing. Point taken, well now you will be able to view each other’s comments by signing into iGoogle with your Gmail id and password. By now I hope you have added my blog in the favorites section of your browser, if not, please do so. Thanks for the constant support. Cheers and have a good time ahead.

Incredible India

What a morning it has been!!! My heart goes out to all the family members of the persons who lost their lives in the Mangalore plane crash and that’s not it, amidst all the chaos, Praful Patel the civil aviation minister has offered to resign. Even resignations have become a charade like so much else in public life. Instead of mock resignation offers, netas (politicians) should do penance by serving the people without seeking reward.

Focusing on my blog “Incredible India”.

Do these two words strike a chord in you? Today do we even think of India as an Indian before letting outsiders know how incredible she is? Let go off the layman, do our honorable MPs and MLAs (I am not sure of how many political parties, my software counter just crashed as I came to know Amar Singh is planning to form yet another political party with all his bandwagon) who are supposed to represent and work for the common man, care to know what is going on around their chairs of power and selfish money churning policies. Let’s leave it at that before I get bashed by any political goons as ironically the state where I am in is very sensitive to being “Indian”. It’s a well known truth (not sure of the type of truth here as I cannot write universal, being Indian comes first) and we can write an epic about The Big Indian Political Tamasha and the sheer mockery of democracy made, therefore the less said the better. 

The advertisement which the ministry of tourism in India keeps on airing on the numerous news and entertainment channels, in order to attract so called guests (whom we believe to be GOD) is top notch but we, the viewers, fail to realize what lies beneath or shall I ask you this way at what cost the incredibility comes?
At the dawn of  21^st century and after 63 years of acquiring freedom through incessant fighting for our basic needs, the first 50 years of which was spent in organizing and building the country (not sure who all political bigwigs planned and how it was planned, as the country still looks in disarray) our economic stability still depends on our farmers whom we neglect the most, who still fights tooth and nail to get his average two meals per day. In a country where poverty, hunger, ill literacy (to name a few out of the never ending list) is still so eminent and rampant everywhere you set your eyes on, that it cannot possibly be neglected. We can invest millions of rupees on inviting “guests” to visit our country but we cannot spend at least one fourth of that in the needs of our own countrymen? I do not think we have gone blind, I think we are blind, blind but seeing, blind people who can see, but do not see. If you can see, look. If you can look, observe. Behold and beware here comes the next level of incredibly psychic blindness.

Observe this picture carefully and guess what can you make out of it? Pretty simple isn’t it, a woman carrying a matki (water pot) on top of her head surrounded by the heat and unforgiving dessert. This very picture has been nonchalantly uploaded on the Incredible India site by the govt of tourism in India as the face of Rajasthan.

Now let’s put on our thinking glasses and try and see what else does this beautiful picture, as it may seem, portray. Assuming the lady carrying the matki as the protagonist, her inner voice screams (which obviously no one is interested to hear) “God save me from nature’s wrath & fury. I have to walk 20 kilometers per day back and forth for collecting drinking water for my whole family, what kind of life have you given me. Please free me from my torments and I wish to suffer no more.”, but alas who cares?


Instead of hearing this oppressively mute voice our government has chosen to inspire foreigners to come to our country by using this incredible and equivocal picture. I may sound a bit exaggerated, but this picture is a true narration of political apathy and rot in our country i.e. even in the 21^st century our countrymen do not get the basic necessities (food, water and electricity) readily available at their disposal. All I have to say is it is a tyrannous disregard of human rights. Truly Incredible.

So much to think about, so much to write about and so much to be done, this is just the tip of the iceberg. The optimism in me and so in you should always be kept alive, as that is what at the end of the day will adrenalize us to do something extraordinary. Keep your spirits high.Until next time…… Good Bye.