‘Why don’t you study?’ asked Dad in his typical high alto certifying that he was really angry. He can be scary as and when he wants; it comes naturally to him.
Now, how do you answer to that? Surely, not like this: ‘Dad, I just can’t get enough of Priya who sits on the first desk of the adjacent row in my class. I also can’t help but laugh hysterically at the mind-blowing jokes of my friend Vik that are usually aimed at the teachers and are strictly made in between their lectures. Also, it is not possible for me to leave Facebook, to stay at home and not get out of this place with my friends just for the heck of it, to sit and study for more than fifteen minutes, to not listen to the latest track and to not watch T.V for atleast an hour. And how can you forget my short day naps of minimum three hours? After all, I’m also a human being.’
Unwilling to drive Dad’s anger to the seventh sky, I answered short and sweet, ‘Dad, I wasn’t well prepared this time.’
‘Ha, you said the same thing when you failed in the first and second terminals. Can’t you make up any other excuse?’ Dad’s tone was getting louder and louder with each syllable.
‘Bas bhi kariye, atleast he’s passed this time,’ said my Mum who had apparently interrupted because our ‘conversation’ was causing some prime disturbance to her prime-time Ekta Kapoor soap. I love her.
‘YOU CALL THIS ‘PASSED’, ASHA?’ shouted Dad so loudly that Mum automatically switched off the T.V. ‘45%. He hasn’t scored above 50 in any subject, such bloody precision.’ He added turning to face me into the eyes, ‘With marks like this, you are not going to get a damn admission in any damn college. Then, like most losers, you’ll do a B.Com Pass with correspondence and will later on, shamelessly, join my business and I’m sure you’d bring down my company also.’ With this, he threw my tenth standard’s Pre-Board record in my hands and stormed out of the room. Mum switched the T.V. on, yet again.
Leaving Mum alone with Tulsi and her grievances, I also left the drawing room in slow motion. I was shocked, thoroughly stunned. The shock was bigger than Tulsi’s who had just discovered that her thoroughly principled husband had a son outside their marriage. Not that it was something new for her, she had discovered the same thing before also but this time the other woman was his sister-in-law.
But I am neither married nor do I have any sisters-in-law. I just have a typical set of parents, a typical father whose name alone would beat the best definition of the word ‘Father’ any laureate can offer. He is, as I like to put it, the mother of all fathers. A typical doting Indian mother who asks me sweetly while pouring kheer into my bowl ‘Beta, kitna lega?’ and stops ten seconds after I have screamed my third ‘BAS!’. Somewhat podgy and completely devoted to the world of saas-bahu serials and to the world of the Ram, Krishna, Shiva and others, she showered affection on me, her only progeny, in such astronomical proportions as to make me cringe, as if I was the greatest person ever born. Well that would be true to a certain extent. In my hearts of hearts, I was almost assured that I was the greatest person ever to set feet on this planet.
Now, it wasn’t the first time anyone had ‘abused’ me. My pals hardly speak to me without attaching a superior-level expletive carefully with every single word. But it was certainly the first time Dad had referred to me as a ‘loser’, a ‘shameless loser’ to be precise. I don’t know why but it hurt, very badly and extremely hard. I walked into my room to find the P.C, the fan, the A.C, the bed, the couch and everything you can attach a ‘the’ with staring at me, in deep contemplation, as if questioning themselves, ‘How can a loser as big as him can even attempt to register a shallow existence among other living species?’
Broken, and in desperate need to breathe in some fresh air, I stormed out of my window-less room and climbed up the stairs to the terrace. After a bright sunny day, the wind had also decided to take some rest and I was greeted with horribly humid and chilling air as I stepped on the rough and rocky terrace floor. Maybe, even the weather was mourning my result. My fate.
Notwithstanding, I went and stood at the railings and looked out at the rushing roads and the gleaming distant buildings whose occupants were probably enjoying the essence of life, were probably satisfying their senses, an experience so unmeant for me. So wanted by me.
‘Sam?’ came my mother’s voice from the doorway. She came and stood beside me and asked like one asks an old man on his deathbed ‘Are you alright?’. After a pause, she continued her condolence, ‘You know your father, no? He sometimes blurts out things which he doesn’t mean. He might have said anything but you don’t know how much he loves you.’
‘Oh really?’ I wanted to ask, shout back. Actually, my father did really love me. Infact, he loved me so much that he never used to shout at me after every minor or major mistake of mine. He loved me so much that his feelings towards me never used to undergo a change with every report-cad of mine. He loved me so much that he hardly used to carp me about my various incapabilities and shortcomings during our frequent calm and composed conversations. My father was indeed a very loving and adorable man.
Mum continued, ‘You know, beta, he is always worried about.’ I would be much happier if he stops that. ‘He has never denied you anything, has he? He has always brought everything you have ever demanded. Always.’ Why wouldn’t he? I’m his only son. And besides, is fatherhood all about this? ‘It’s ok beta. I know you are a good boy and that you’ll work hard in your Boards and will pass with flying colours.’ Please, for Satan’s sake, stop that. ‘Now be a good boy and show how you smile to your Mum.’
A beast in my heart took birth and told me that this lady who has been rattling shit incessantly all this while is uncool and knows nothing about the ways of the world. She will make a sissy out of you. Stop her. Now.
‘Mum, I am fine. I just need some time alone,’ my tone was unusually serene, through and through in contrast with the angry beast’s that was scratching my heart. Hell, I can tell you, the beast’s nails were as pointed as my mother’s.
‘Ok, then let me take off the clothes, we will go down together.’
For a split second I thought Mum had gone wacko, completely crazy but understood the next second when she started to remove the clothes off the wire above me.
My air-conditioned room is better, I thought and walked back to my room without a word more to her, she didn’t deserve one. I straightaway retired to my bed that creaked as I lied down, voicing its disapproval over the hopeless occupant it had to supply relaxation for the night.
That night was one of those when you don’t sleep for the first two hours and spend the first hour weeping about your hapless life and the second in deep thoughts, and when you finally shut your red eyes after having made a decision about your future, about your hopeless life.
Dads can never be satisfied; Newton probably forgot to observe this omnipresent phenomenon. Man, I had secured seven percent more than the last time. And Vik? He had dignifiedly deteriorated from fifteen to ten percent. I was a super angel in front of him.
But Dad did not think like this. He was so unlike me. I sometimes doubted if by mistake he forgot to transfer his genes into me since even my physical appearance was very different from him.
My Dad was an Uncle in his physique, with a ten inches protruding belly. He always wore low waist trousers, because his waist size didn’t allow high waists. I, on the other hand, was a lean machine, taller and fairer than Dad, part of a flaunt-it-even-if-you-don’t-have-it generation who had to dutifully and religiously adopt low waists. I would have been close to a Greek God sans my pimples, but girls differed from me in this point of view of mine.
My decisions for the next three months were simple: chuck Priya, screw Facebook, stop feigning damns to the latest track and struggle through a study-filled afternoon. Though T.V. and evening hang-outs with my neighbourhood gang would continue but I will try to make these last a while shorter. After all, the fact that I am a shameless loser doesn’t snatch away my ‘human being’ tag.
***
Everything seems straight when aggression takes over your mind, when fury fills your brain with vengeance. Studies, something which used to seem as alien to me as vegetarianism is to tigers, suddenly became manageable and doable. I was a tiger who had turned vegetarian. I went beyond the realms of nature. I guess India can also tackle the enormous number of obstacles that lie in its path to attain unusual glory through the weapon of aggression. But in the same second, I realize that the only form of aggression our antiquated politicians know of is throwing chappals at each other in the Parliament.
Boards came and boards went, but my anger stayed on. Two words had filled my life with more light. Light, which had shone painfully and had blinded me in the beginning, illuminated my path afterwards.
Since I did not open a single book after the last exam, I did not come to know when the day of declaration of result arrived. But opposite to worldwide expectation, I wasn’t nervous, probably somewhere deep inside I was confident about certain things.
The result was announced at four in the morning. I fail to understand why these board guys don’t usually declare the results in evening or afternoon. I feel they want to take the maximum advantage of anxiety of poor kids who had miserable exam days. Bastards. Though none of my exams had gone miserable, I didn’t sleep that night, just to drench and drown into the air and aura of result-mania.
I secured an unexpected 84%. To this day, I have seldom felt again the delight I felt that day. I ran straightaway to my parents’ room and broke the news to them.
Mum instantaneously went hysterical: shouting, patting, blessing, kissing, praying, hugging. In short, irritating. Actually such a reaction was expected of Mum. But it was Dad who was a surprise package. That day, I saw him happy minus any inhibition for the first time since I have known him, like he has forgotten something. Though there were no tears and hysteria but there were enough blessings and pats to tell me that he was far more contented than his usual self. My two guardians made me feel like a newly knighted king that day.
The morning brought a frenzy of phone calls, like everybody was frantically fighting to hear from me, to congratulate a vegetarian beast of prey. I was on cloud eight and a half. Not nine, because I was celebrating my success without a girlfriend to plant a kiss on my first victory on my face like Bollywood movies and on my lips like the Hollywood flicks.
My parents threw a party the next day to flaunt their son’s intellectual abilities and to increase the altitudes of their personas in the social circle. Soon, my friends started calling me to ask for their share of my victory, i.e., to ask for a treat. I have never understood why a guy who has burnt the midnight oil to get some decent marks in exams has to give treat to his friends and family. Shouldn’t it be the other way round? Isn’t it weirdly awkward that the one who works hard has to literally pay for it later?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
You’ve Got Chaos. Yet Again.
It’s the same sight and same story year after year. After months of scorching heat, the much-awaited monsoons visit Delhi and rain so much chaos all over that one is forced to feel sorry about waiting for the rains in the first place. The situation is repeated oh-so-often during the monsoon months that not only the scenes of waterlogged streets, caved-in roads and massive traffic jams, but even the news stories reporting about the same have now begun to appear stale and repetitive.
Now, it’s not as if only the by lanes and minor arterial roads of the city experience deterioration due to the rains. The scenario is same on even the highways and newly constructed roads. But this is not to say that there is not a single stretch in the city that is able to withstand the wrath of the rains. In fact, there are some stretches, such as those in the Chanakyapuri area where all the embassies are located, that do not undergo any declension even after the heaviest downpours. The reason behind this discrepancy is all too evident: usage of quality material instead of substandard equipments in constructing such resilient roads.
And the reason why not all major roads are built like the roads in areas like Chanakyapuri is also too obvious: intensive and extensive corruption at all levels of the civic agencies. That the authorities are able to get away by using substandard construction material while building and renovating roads is somewhat surprising. After all, the construction and renovations do not take place under creaky office tables or inside the premises of dilapidated government buildings, but are executed absolutely in the open, within full public view. The fact that the same inferior quality of material has been in use since decades paints a very worrisome picture of the lack of policing, monitoring and regularization in the city that’s preparing to host its biggest event roughly after a month. With such a sorry state of affairs, it can only be hoped that there is a complete dry spell when the Games are on in October, since hoping that the condition of the roads would improve by then seems like a very far-fetched utopian dream.
Now, it’s not as if only the by lanes and minor arterial roads of the city experience deterioration due to the rains. The scenario is same on even the highways and newly constructed roads. But this is not to say that there is not a single stretch in the city that is able to withstand the wrath of the rains. In fact, there are some stretches, such as those in the Chanakyapuri area where all the embassies are located, that do not undergo any declension even after the heaviest downpours. The reason behind this discrepancy is all too evident: usage of quality material instead of substandard equipments in constructing such resilient roads.
And the reason why not all major roads are built like the roads in areas like Chanakyapuri is also too obvious: intensive and extensive corruption at all levels of the civic agencies. That the authorities are able to get away by using substandard construction material while building and renovating roads is somewhat surprising. After all, the construction and renovations do not take place under creaky office tables or inside the premises of dilapidated government buildings, but are executed absolutely in the open, within full public view. The fact that the same inferior quality of material has been in use since decades paints a very worrisome picture of the lack of policing, monitoring and regularization in the city that’s preparing to host its biggest event roughly after a month. With such a sorry state of affairs, it can only be hoped that there is a complete dry spell when the Games are on in October, since hoping that the condition of the roads would improve by then seems like a very far-fetched utopian dream.
DUSU Election: Only Music, No Lyrics
DUSU elections are just around the corner. The contesting parties are campaigning heavily and the campus is abuzz with slogans and political energy. But this year, a drastic change in the method of campaigning by the parties can be observed. There are no more printed placards and posters pasted on the campus walls, there are no more candidates rallying around in expensive luxury cars and there are no more party cards being thrown around the campus. Evidently, after the last year’s strict measures and the consequent cancellation of candidature of many ‘promising’ candidates, parties are playing their cards with much more caution and responsibility. This is an extremely welcome change, as this year around, the campus is not strewn and littered with party notices and posters, even though the election day is only a few days away.
But something is missing as always: all the campaigning and slogans still sound hollow and unconvincing since the candidates are only interested in promoting their ballot numbers and not their ideology. The candidates perhaps consider party agendas insignificant and unimportant and therefore they are highly disinterested in outlining their motives, plans and goals. Till last year, for many students, the face of the candidates was ground enough for casting their votes. But this year, with handmade posters, even the faces are unknown to most students. In such a scenario, one is forced to wonder on what grounds are students expected to vote.
The disregard with which the candidates are treating their agendas, even in a year when it was extremely important to make promises and articulate plans, only goes on to display what they are really interested in: power and no function. Now, it only really remains to be seen how many students come out to vote on the d-day because, right now, even the though the campus is abuzz, the student population is not impressed, let alone influenced.
But something is missing as always: all the campaigning and slogans still sound hollow and unconvincing since the candidates are only interested in promoting their ballot numbers and not their ideology. The candidates perhaps consider party agendas insignificant and unimportant and therefore they are highly disinterested in outlining their motives, plans and goals. Till last year, for many students, the face of the candidates was ground enough for casting their votes. But this year, with handmade posters, even the faces are unknown to most students. In such a scenario, one is forced to wonder on what grounds are students expected to vote.
The disregard with which the candidates are treating their agendas, even in a year when it was extremely important to make promises and articulate plans, only goes on to display what they are really interested in: power and no function. Now, it only really remains to be seen how many students come out to vote on the d-day because, right now, even the though the campus is abuzz, the student population is not impressed, let alone influenced.
You Are Blessed (Poem)
If you think you aren’t blessed,
Think of the person who knows he will die soon,
Leaving his place his relatives and his success,
Whose life is like a dark tunnel
Which he knows will end soon.
Think of his feelings, his heart, and his dying mind
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of the girl who on gaining consciousness
Discovered that she has no parents.
Think of her emotions when this reality dawned on her
That she’ll have to spend her entire life under a naked sky,
Without any father's support, without any mother’s affection.
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of the guy who lost his everything in a calamity.
With no food, no shelter, no money, and no clothes,
He’s forced to build no dreams, no desires, no wills, and no goals.
His life becomes a burden, a load;
His will to live finishes, explodes.
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of a deaf, dumb and blind woman,
Whose life is all black, dark, and silent.
Her thoughts and wishes are all neglected and crumpled.
She leads a life so mute, so unfulfilled.
No dreams she constructs, and so has no fear of failure.
She doesn't live; she rather drags her body to death
Through the path of life.
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of the poor, the diseased, the handicapped.
Think of a man who loses his job,
Think of a girl who was abducted and molested,
Think of a wife who lost her husband,
Think of a mother who lost her son.
And, hush, you had sometimes thought
That you are the only suffering soul in this world,
That mishaps occur only with you,
That you must live no more, breathe no more
THINK OF THEM AND YOU'LL KNOW YOU'RE SO BLESSED
Think of the person who knows he will die soon,
Leaving his place his relatives and his success,
Whose life is like a dark tunnel
Which he knows will end soon.
Think of his feelings, his heart, and his dying mind
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of the girl who on gaining consciousness
Discovered that she has no parents.
Think of her emotions when this reality dawned on her
That she’ll have to spend her entire life under a naked sky,
Without any father's support, without any mother’s affection.
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of the guy who lost his everything in a calamity.
With no food, no shelter, no money, and no clothes,
He’s forced to build no dreams, no desires, no wills, and no goals.
His life becomes a burden, a load;
His will to live finishes, explodes.
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of a deaf, dumb and blind woman,
Whose life is all black, dark, and silent.
Her thoughts and wishes are all neglected and crumpled.
She leads a life so mute, so unfulfilled.
No dreams she constructs, and so has no fear of failure.
She doesn't live; she rather drags her body to death
Through the path of life.
If you think you aren't blessed,
Think of the poor, the diseased, the handicapped.
Think of a man who loses his job,
Think of a girl who was abducted and molested,
Think of a wife who lost her husband,
Think of a mother who lost her son.
And, hush, you had sometimes thought
That you are the only suffering soul in this world,
That mishaps occur only with you,
That you must live no more, breathe no more
THINK OF THEM AND YOU'LL KNOW YOU'RE SO BLESSED
A Boy's Tale (Poem)
This is the story of a guy
Who never spoke a lie.
He topped tenth last
He was everyone’s dear.
Such a fine, simple boy
Who never even demanded a toy.
***
A simple day it was
The teacher taught: Everything has a cause.
The last period was boring
He was waiting for the bell to ring.
With a smiling face he returned to his place
Not having a clue of what he would have to face.
A strange smell came as he entered the house
In his heart, a strange feeling aroused.
He kept his bag on the bed
And went to the kitchen to ask for a bread.
Not finding his mum in the kitchen was a strange thing
He went to the other room searching.
He opened the door and his eyes went red.
He found his mum murdered on the bed
His sister’s body was lying on the floor
And his father had been killed beside the door.
Some dacoits had looted the place
He didn’t even register a case.
***
One week later, he was in a cinema hall
The next day he was wandering in a mall.
He opened the door ‘of his land’
With some CD’s in his hand.
He went upstairs and switched on the TV
After sometime, he inserted a VCD.
He did not come to know when he slept
But mind it, he hadn’t wept.
The other day, he returned home with a box of pastry
His other hand held a bottle of Pepsi.
All he had was the life of his
He spent the whole month like this.
***
Today, the house doesn’t have a living soul anymore
As his blood also stains the floor.
Truly, everything has a cause
Such a fine simple guy he was.
Who never spoke a lie.
He topped tenth last
He was everyone’s dear.
Such a fine, simple boy
Who never even demanded a toy.
***
A simple day it was
The teacher taught: Everything has a cause.
The last period was boring
He was waiting for the bell to ring.
With a smiling face he returned to his place
Not having a clue of what he would have to face.
A strange smell came as he entered the house
In his heart, a strange feeling aroused.
He kept his bag on the bed
And went to the kitchen to ask for a bread.
Not finding his mum in the kitchen was a strange thing
He went to the other room searching.
He opened the door and his eyes went red.
He found his mum murdered on the bed
His sister’s body was lying on the floor
And his father had been killed beside the door.
Some dacoits had looted the place
He didn’t even register a case.
***
One week later, he was in a cinema hall
The next day he was wandering in a mall.
He opened the door ‘of his land’
With some CD’s in his hand.
He went upstairs and switched on the TV
After sometime, he inserted a VCD.
He did not come to know when he slept
But mind it, he hadn’t wept.
The other day, he returned home with a box of pastry
His other hand held a bottle of Pepsi.
All he had was the life of his
He spent the whole month like this.
***
Today, the house doesn’t have a living soul anymore
As his blood also stains the floor.
Truly, everything has a cause
Such a fine simple guy he was.
The Task (Short Story)
She was lying alone on her bed. Nobody else was inside the house. It was late evening and everything was dark and silent and still including the room. She was thinking about him and the task he had given her. Suddenly, her phone buzzed. She picked the mobile up and was about to press the “Accept’ button but then decided against it. She must not be disturbed. She must concentrate on the task she had been trusted with. How could somebody be so lethal? The task that he had given her was supposed to be done by the next day. He was never like this. He was never this cruel, this difficult, and never this evil. He had always been very kind, very lenient and extremely friendly. But after that incident at school, everything had changed. He had changed, completely. When she had protested against the task, he had actually shouted at her, scolded her. She had been hurt. She used to love hi but now she was almost indifferent. Angry and sad. If she begins with the task now, she would be able to complete it before her parents arrive and they would never know what had happened in their abode in their absence. After contemplating for a long time, her eyes fixed on the fan circling above her, hardly cooling the room; she strengthened her resolve and got up. She untied her hair and went to the washroom. She washed her face. She kept staring at the mirror before her for a long time, water droplets falling into the basin from her face. Suddenly, becoming conscious, she wiped her face using a small towel. She went back to her room and switched on the small bulb in the center. The time had come. She must now begin with the task or everything will be lost, she would never be able to show her face to him again. She opened her wardrobe and began searching for it. No, but it wasn’t there. She won’t be able to do the task without it. She kept searching but didn’t find it. Should she call him? Yes, she should. She picked up her phone and dialed the number. The bell rang for a long time. And finally he picked it up. Trying to keep her calm and cool, she said, ‘Sir, I think I’ve forgotten my Math book at your home. So I won’t be able to do the questions you had given for homework.’ ‘Neha, if you don’t change your ways and don’t become more careful, you would fail in the school exams again,’ said her sixty-something tuition teacher. ‘Sorry, sir,’ said she and disconnected soon. Now she was happy, delighted. She went and threw herself again on the bed.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Exonerating Woods
Tiger Woods has returned to golf after a break of twenty-two weeks. His multiple infidelities had led him to issue a public apology and announce an indefinite break from golf in December last year. His series of extramarital affairs were imputed to his addiction to sex. Back home, in late December, N D Tiwari, Andhra Pradesh’s then governor had to resign from office following a sex scandal and accusations of extramarital affairs. Gustave Flaubert’s canonical novel Madame Bovary (set in an altogether different country and century) portrays the downfall of its protagonist, Emma, after multiple and perhaps inevitable extramarital affairs.
Infidelity and extramarital affairs are not uncommon in any society and have never been so. In fact, they are more widespread and prevalent around us than we all think and reckon. Marriage is a vow of faithfulness to one’s spouse and infidelity, which is the breaking of this vow, is condemned by all and sundry. But, is infidelity in matrimony all that morally sick? No, perhaps the question that needs to be asked is: Are human beings genetically programmed to be not inconstant?
Everybody who has spent a normal adolescence with multiple flings or innumerable infatuations or has ever felt like getting intimate with someone else during his or her years of ‘faithful’ marital or love life knows in his or her heart that the answer to both the above stated questions can not be in positive. And, I reckon, it would not be wrong to assume that the ‘everybody’ of the last sentence is actually every single one of us.
Now, if human beings are not genetically monogamous, doesn’t that make the vow of lifelong monogamy that marriages basically are inhumane? After all, they require the participants to negate a cardinal aspect of their nature, which is anything but not brutal and, above all, severely asphyxiating. And why shouldn’t it be so? After all, conventionally speaking, marriages are the backbone of the holy family structure, which in turn is the backbone of the perhaps one of the most brutal forces possible: Society
After this, it can be safely concluded that marriages are fundamentally one of the most flawed institutions erected by mankind precisely because they seek to freeze the inconstant and ever changing human nature in consistency and invariability. And, in this light, not only Tiger Woods but all Tigers and Emmas who live among us become victims of our collective crimes and therefore deserve nil punishment.
Infidelity and extramarital affairs are not uncommon in any society and have never been so. In fact, they are more widespread and prevalent around us than we all think and reckon. Marriage is a vow of faithfulness to one’s spouse and infidelity, which is the breaking of this vow, is condemned by all and sundry. But, is infidelity in matrimony all that morally sick? No, perhaps the question that needs to be asked is: Are human beings genetically programmed to be not inconstant?
Everybody who has spent a normal adolescence with multiple flings or innumerable infatuations or has ever felt like getting intimate with someone else during his or her years of ‘faithful’ marital or love life knows in his or her heart that the answer to both the above stated questions can not be in positive. And, I reckon, it would not be wrong to assume that the ‘everybody’ of the last sentence is actually every single one of us.
Now, if human beings are not genetically monogamous, doesn’t that make the vow of lifelong monogamy that marriages basically are inhumane? After all, they require the participants to negate a cardinal aspect of their nature, which is anything but not brutal and, above all, severely asphyxiating. And why shouldn’t it be so? After all, conventionally speaking, marriages are the backbone of the holy family structure, which in turn is the backbone of the perhaps one of the most brutal forces possible: Society
After this, it can be safely concluded that marriages are fundamentally one of the most flawed institutions erected by mankind precisely because they seek to freeze the inconstant and ever changing human nature in consistency and invariability. And, in this light, not only Tiger Woods but all Tigers and Emmas who live among us become victims of our collective crimes and therefore deserve nil punishment.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Stranger At The Signal
The traffic as usual was enormous. I was waiting for the signal to glow red. The red digital timer below it displayed a waiting time of 120 seconds.
“Do you know where Saraswati Bhavan is?” a middle-aged man approached me and asked.
“No,” I said. I had never heard of any Saraswati Bhavan all my life.
“I am new to this city and have lost my way. Will you help me?” He offered his hand. I had to shake it.
“Hmmm,” I murmured reluctantly. I looked at the timer. 93 seconds more
“Do you know Hindi?”
I feigned disinterest, started looking elsewhere. He seemed illiterate. 80 seconds more.
“Are you returning from you college?”
My eyes zipped back to his face and zoomed into his eyes. How did he know?
“Do you live around?”
Forcing fear out of my voice and replacing it with rudeness, I said, “How does it concern you? Get lost.” 57 seconds left.
“Are you a Hindu or Muslim?”
He had crossed his limit. “Get aside. I have to go,” I shouted, pushed him aside and took two steps forward. He grasped my left hand.
With a violent jerk, I rescued my wrist out of his grip. 42 seconds left.
I decided to jaywalk through the moving traffic.
“Where are you going?” followed his voice.
I nearly missed being hit by a bus.
On reaching the other side of the road, I turned back. He hadn’t moved. His face suppressed a sinister smile. The traffic stopped after 10 seconds. I turned and rushed back home.
I have never stopped on my way to help anyone ever since.
“Do you know where Saraswati Bhavan is?” a middle-aged man approached me and asked.
“No,” I said. I had never heard of any Saraswati Bhavan all my life.
“I am new to this city and have lost my way. Will you help me?” He offered his hand. I had to shake it.
“Hmmm,” I murmured reluctantly. I looked at the timer. 93 seconds more
“Do you know Hindi?”
I feigned disinterest, started looking elsewhere. He seemed illiterate. 80 seconds more.
“Are you returning from you college?”
My eyes zipped back to his face and zoomed into his eyes. How did he know?
“Do you live around?”
Forcing fear out of my voice and replacing it with rudeness, I said, “How does it concern you? Get lost.” 57 seconds left.
“Are you a Hindu or Muslim?”
He had crossed his limit. “Get aside. I have to go,” I shouted, pushed him aside and took two steps forward. He grasped my left hand.
With a violent jerk, I rescued my wrist out of his grip. 42 seconds left.
I decided to jaywalk through the moving traffic.
“Where are you going?” followed his voice.
I nearly missed being hit by a bus.
On reaching the other side of the road, I turned back. He hadn’t moved. His face suppressed a sinister smile. The traffic stopped after 10 seconds. I turned and rushed back home.
I have never stopped on my way to help anyone ever since.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
“Education is not filling a bucket, but lighting a fire”
All of us, especially students and their parents, take great pleasure in complaining about how marks-oriented the education system in India is and how it suffocates creativity, innovation and the ‘student’ in every student. But, what we forget is: “When you point your finger at someone, three fingers are pointing back at you.”
Today, a Stephens or an SRCC unblinkingly demands a 95% for its top courses not because it takes great pride in setting new records but because if it doesn’t set its cut-offs so obscenely high, students would flock to it just for the brand name irrespective of where their inclination lies. IITJEE is so impossibly tough not because it takes a sadistic pleasure in mentally harassing students but because it wants to sieve out all those extra candidates who sit for it attracted only by the pay-packages that IITs almost guarantee to its graduates. To put it concisely, the reason why competition everywhere is “so tough” today is that students throng after degrees and placements instead of introspecting themselves and scrounging out what they are capable of doing, where their interest lies and, above all, what they are truly passionate about. Of course, parents who refuse to understand that their ward is also a human being and an individual do not help matters either.
Here, I am not overlooking the need for more top-notch colleges like SRCC, AIIMS, IITs and IIMs. Of course, we need more good institutes with better infrastructure, there is no debate about that. But it is more important that students choose the right institute and a course that is best suited for them. Because even if the government does start building more excellent places of higher education today, it would not be able to satiate the hunger of every student anytime soon considering the number of young minds this country is overpopulated with. And, besides, in today’s world, when information on every single subject is just a mouse click and a key-press away for most of us, one is not always wholly dependent on teachers and colleges when one is inflamed with a hunger to know more, a hunger that comes only when one is insanely passionate about the subject one wants information on.
To sum up, instead of complaining incessantly of how our education system needs a complete overhaul, students should make themselves the harbinger of change by thinking, choosing and ‘studying’ correctly instead of following herd-mentality. Education should be a pursuit for more knowledge and not degrees and placements. It is time that we take all those quotes which lecture us on knowledge, passion and education, and expel the unwanted mud from our world in order to live a more illuminated and satisfied life. Because, 3 Idiots was as much about quotes that are read, appreciated and forgotten as it was about satirizing the Indian education system.
Today, a Stephens or an SRCC unblinkingly demands a 95% for its top courses not because it takes great pride in setting new records but because if it doesn’t set its cut-offs so obscenely high, students would flock to it just for the brand name irrespective of where their inclination lies. IITJEE is so impossibly tough not because it takes a sadistic pleasure in mentally harassing students but because it wants to sieve out all those extra candidates who sit for it attracted only by the pay-packages that IITs almost guarantee to its graduates. To put it concisely, the reason why competition everywhere is “so tough” today is that students throng after degrees and placements instead of introspecting themselves and scrounging out what they are capable of doing, where their interest lies and, above all, what they are truly passionate about. Of course, parents who refuse to understand that their ward is also a human being and an individual do not help matters either.
Here, I am not overlooking the need for more top-notch colleges like SRCC, AIIMS, IITs and IIMs. Of course, we need more good institutes with better infrastructure, there is no debate about that. But it is more important that students choose the right institute and a course that is best suited for them. Because even if the government does start building more excellent places of higher education today, it would not be able to satiate the hunger of every student anytime soon considering the number of young minds this country is overpopulated with. And, besides, in today’s world, when information on every single subject is just a mouse click and a key-press away for most of us, one is not always wholly dependent on teachers and colleges when one is inflamed with a hunger to know more, a hunger that comes only when one is insanely passionate about the subject one wants information on.
To sum up, instead of complaining incessantly of how our education system needs a complete overhaul, students should make themselves the harbinger of change by thinking, choosing and ‘studying’ correctly instead of following herd-mentality. Education should be a pursuit for more knowledge and not degrees and placements. It is time that we take all those quotes which lecture us on knowledge, passion and education, and expel the unwanted mud from our world in order to live a more illuminated and satisfied life. Because, 3 Idiots was as much about quotes that are read, appreciated and forgotten as it was about satirizing the Indian education system.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Festivities of Folly
I have a huge problem with the manner in which festivals and ‘joyful’ occasions are celebrated around me. And when I say that, I mean it. Therefore, my acquaintances see me participating in all celebrations with reluctance and apprehension. Sometimes, I think, the problem lies within me. Maybe, I think too much.
Allow me to explain my problem in detail by ranting about the festival of lights and shubh-laabh, Diwali. I begin with the assumption that the point of celebration of all kinds is to have a good and memorable time with the ones you love and catch up with some mad moments of laughter and decent debauchery in the process.
The only thing that I like about Diwali is that it gives an excuse to all households to cleanse themselves of unwanted and unnecessary objects. Well, that it also gives an excuse to slothful souls like me to procrastinate the cleaning-up and washing-down is an altogether different matter. The celebration for Diwali starts many days before the D-day with the aforementioned cleaning of the house by the family members.
After a family has lightened its abode of dust and filth, it starts planning about gifts and sweets that need to be distributed to friends and relatives. So, old lockers are opened up, useless gifts of previous years are scrounged out and minds are pressed into recalling who had given which gift. After these imprudent persons are identified (sometimes with the assistance of dilapidated diaries) to everyone’s satisfaction, which gift should be given to whom is decided. This practice is sometimes used to take revenge from that disagreeable distant relative who happens to share the city with you for gifting you that useless cutlery set on the last family wedding.
After everything is neatly chalked out and gifts are attractively wrapped in glossy packing papers, begins the magnanimous and exceedingly fatiguing task of visiting the people who you ‘wish’ to wish ‘Happy Diwali’ and taking gifts and sweets to their places. These hurried visits generally and to the best of my knowledge comprise of some forced laughter, some superfluous pleasantries, some high-on-calories consumption and conversations about how crowded the roads are, how hot the weather still is and how adulterated local sweets generally are. These visits are ubiquitously followed by an obvious anticipation of a well-armed return-visit of the ‘visited’ household if the same hasn’t already been done. Some experienced people make these visits after Diwali, much to the relief of their relatives and friends, and profess in eloquent terms their wisdom in being late and thereby avoiding exacting traffic snarls.
After or during these visits, idols of the needed goddess and lord are purchased from the market and placed safely at a secured place until the puja-time arrives. When the big day finally arrives, everyone invests in looking cheerful and beautiful in the morning and prepares himself or herself for a busy and a heavy-on-work day. Generally, while the day is spent by the women of the house in preparing the evening feast, the girls of the house spend their day-time energy in making a rangoli in the veranda and the evening-time energy in lighting the diyas and decorating the house. The men and the boys spend their day in bringing material required for puja, evening feast, rangoli, decorations and so on and going to the site of family business and doing a small puja there.
When all the work is done and after the sun has set, each person in the house goes to his/her respective wardrobe, digs out that expensive and slightly uncomfortable dress that he/she had bought/got stitched on the occasion of the last family function, looks at it in nostalgia and then spends the next hour in dressing up and observing himself/herself in the mirror in satisfaction or sulkiness depending on the prevailing circumstances.
After this, the family sits down in a well-lit room to do the puja. The men do the puja first and then make way for the women. The puja is done rather fastidiously in order to impress Lakshmiji and even Ganeshji and in hope that the prosperity of the house will only be positively affected in the coming months. After the puja is completed and the younger lot of the house has been given some cash by the elder lot, the family sits down to consume the dinner during which loud and celebratory calls are made to relatives living in other cities in order to wish them and tell them that it is because of their blessings that their household is surviving in happiness and prosperity.
Post consuming the dinner and the sweets, everyone changes into light cotton clothes to prepare himself or herself for the customary fireworks celebration in the veranda or the terrace or even the street before the house. After the family has polluted the air and the area around to its contentment, everyone either retires to the main hall to gamble or to their respective rooms to sleep on the new bed-sheets, sometimes after taking a Disprin or a Crocin Pain Relief.
In this mad operation to make sure that everything happens in accordance to the centuries-old conventions, most people around me forget the motive of celebrating the occasion. And this irks me, since I am left with no choice but to become a part of such celebrations. That I like to believe that I am an atheist only worsens the matter. The only solace that I am left with is that one day, things will change. That one day, I will have the power to change things.
Allow me to explain my problem in detail by ranting about the festival of lights and shubh-laabh, Diwali. I begin with the assumption that the point of celebration of all kinds is to have a good and memorable time with the ones you love and catch up with some mad moments of laughter and decent debauchery in the process.
The only thing that I like about Diwali is that it gives an excuse to all households to cleanse themselves of unwanted and unnecessary objects. Well, that it also gives an excuse to slothful souls like me to procrastinate the cleaning-up and washing-down is an altogether different matter. The celebration for Diwali starts many days before the D-day with the aforementioned cleaning of the house by the family members.
After a family has lightened its abode of dust and filth, it starts planning about gifts and sweets that need to be distributed to friends and relatives. So, old lockers are opened up, useless gifts of previous years are scrounged out and minds are pressed into recalling who had given which gift. After these imprudent persons are identified (sometimes with the assistance of dilapidated diaries) to everyone’s satisfaction, which gift should be given to whom is decided. This practice is sometimes used to take revenge from that disagreeable distant relative who happens to share the city with you for gifting you that useless cutlery set on the last family wedding.
After everything is neatly chalked out and gifts are attractively wrapped in glossy packing papers, begins the magnanimous and exceedingly fatiguing task of visiting the people who you ‘wish’ to wish ‘Happy Diwali’ and taking gifts and sweets to their places. These hurried visits generally and to the best of my knowledge comprise of some forced laughter, some superfluous pleasantries, some high-on-calories consumption and conversations about how crowded the roads are, how hot the weather still is and how adulterated local sweets generally are. These visits are ubiquitously followed by an obvious anticipation of a well-armed return-visit of the ‘visited’ household if the same hasn’t already been done. Some experienced people make these visits after Diwali, much to the relief of their relatives and friends, and profess in eloquent terms their wisdom in being late and thereby avoiding exacting traffic snarls.
After or during these visits, idols of the needed goddess and lord are purchased from the market and placed safely at a secured place until the puja-time arrives. When the big day finally arrives, everyone invests in looking cheerful and beautiful in the morning and prepares himself or herself for a busy and a heavy-on-work day. Generally, while the day is spent by the women of the house in preparing the evening feast, the girls of the house spend their day-time energy in making a rangoli in the veranda and the evening-time energy in lighting the diyas and decorating the house. The men and the boys spend their day in bringing material required for puja, evening feast, rangoli, decorations and so on and going to the site of family business and doing a small puja there.
When all the work is done and after the sun has set, each person in the house goes to his/her respective wardrobe, digs out that expensive and slightly uncomfortable dress that he/she had bought/got stitched on the occasion of the last family function, looks at it in nostalgia and then spends the next hour in dressing up and observing himself/herself in the mirror in satisfaction or sulkiness depending on the prevailing circumstances.
After this, the family sits down in a well-lit room to do the puja. The men do the puja first and then make way for the women. The puja is done rather fastidiously in order to impress Lakshmiji and even Ganeshji and in hope that the prosperity of the house will only be positively affected in the coming months. After the puja is completed and the younger lot of the house has been given some cash by the elder lot, the family sits down to consume the dinner during which loud and celebratory calls are made to relatives living in other cities in order to wish them and tell them that it is because of their blessings that their household is surviving in happiness and prosperity.
Post consuming the dinner and the sweets, everyone changes into light cotton clothes to prepare himself or herself for the customary fireworks celebration in the veranda or the terrace or even the street before the house. After the family has polluted the air and the area around to its contentment, everyone either retires to the main hall to gamble or to their respective rooms to sleep on the new bed-sheets, sometimes after taking a Disprin or a Crocin Pain Relief.
In this mad operation to make sure that everything happens in accordance to the centuries-old conventions, most people around me forget the motive of celebrating the occasion. And this irks me, since I am left with no choice but to become a part of such celebrations. That I like to believe that I am an atheist only worsens the matter. The only solace that I am left with is that one day, things will change. That one day, I will have the power to change things.
He came. He saw. He conquered. (Short Story)
I sat on the bed, alone in the room, waiting for him to come, hoping he doesn’t. I could hear merry voices coming from outside, audible over the noise produced by the cooler. But my heart was not merry, darkness filled my frame, uncertainty agitated my nerves. It was a quarter past one in the morning and my happiness, my love was probably sleeping peacefully on his bed, several kilometers away from where I was weeping.
I remember when I saw him the first time, twelve years ago, he was eating his dinner with his father in the dining-room. When I had entered the room, both he and his father had looked up from their plates, smiling at me. He had a round, fair face, like his mother’s; his eyes twinkled when he smiled.
We became friends soon. Whatever time I used to get when I had no household chores to attend to, I used to spend around him if he was at home. At such times, he used to order me to do petty jobs for him like tidying up his room, fetching a glass of water, arranging his clothes and even sharpening his pencil. He always thanked me after each job and attached a ‘please’ before the next one. All in all, he treated me in a much better manner than his mother.
We grew up together. We were the same age. When he grew older, he started spending lesser time at home and I used to long for him every time he would be gone. When at home, he continued to order me to run him small chores and I used to oblige him happily.
When we were younger, he used to tell me stories about his school, teachers, friends and so forth. I used to enjoy them thoroughly. His tales used to fill me with wonder, amazement but I never let my sentiments show themselves. But when we grew up, he hardly talked to me about his life though he used to patiently answer whenever I asked him anything. He was sweet. I felt he cared for me.
Initially, I called him by his name. But one gloomy day, six years after I met him, his mother asked me to stop calling him by name. ‘Call him bhaiyaji,’ she had sternly said. I had no choice but to call him like that. I hated his mother.
He grew up beautifully. By the age of seventeen, he was taller than his father, much taller than me. I had to tilt my head up on the rare occasions when we came to face. His features were handsome. His face had become oval but his color had remained the same. He was lean but not skinny, just like me, just the way I liked him.
On Sundays, I used to spend more time in bathing and dressing up. He used to spend most of his day at home on most Sundays.
When we were eighteen, his parents had to go out of station once, for two days. He refused to go with them. His mother asked me to stay with him. I agreed happily. I was excited. I trusted him but at the same time wished that he would break my trust.
In those two days, I took complete care of him, served him as best as I could, tried to make him happy, satisfy him. I loved his smile and whenever I used to see him smiling, something used to twist inside my stomach. His parents had to extend their trip by one day. On that day, he brought four of his friends home, two of them were girls. Both looked pretty. I took solace in the conviction that given a chance, they would not be able to take care of him as nicely as I could. And beauty? It lies in the eyes of the beholder, no?
He started shaving that year, his face became manlier. I loved him. But he had stopped talking to me altogether and I felt shy in asking him anything now. I was forced to admire him from a distance. He was smart, confident and still ordered me to do small chores for him with a ‘thank you’ and ‘please’.
He called me by name and I loved to hear my name called by him. From a boy, he transformed into a complete man soon. And started working in a company after he passed out from college.
I hardly used to enter his room now when he was inside and I had been instructed since the age of fifteen to always knock on the door before entering his room if he was inside and if it was necessary for me to enter.
One Sunday morning, when six moths still remained for my wedding, his mother asked me to go and wake him up as it had got very late in the morning. He had returned home at half past two in the morning. I had not been able to sleep before his arrival.
I went and knocked at his door. Twice. Thrice. But his voice did not answer my knocks. Excited and both scared, I opened the door and entered the air-conditioned room. He was sleeping on the bed on his right side. Sunlight coming from the window opposite the door illuminated the entire room. While his right leg was fully stretched, the left one was bent more than ninety degrees. His left hand concealed his face, revealed his hairy armpit.
I could not take my eyes off him for what seemed like a minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. Until it was absolutely necessary to wake him up.
His blanket had fallen down from his bed. He was clad in a black vest and red cotton shorts. The shorts revealed more of his thighs than they would have usually done because of the manner in which he lay. His legs, long and sculpted, were covered with a thick blanket of black hair. His upper body had lesser hair. His biceps seemed well-formed. On the whole, he looked exotic. Erotic. Storms were taking birth and clashing with one another somewhere inside my body.
After I don’t know how many minutes, I called his name again. Slowly. He didn’t stir. It was becoming impossible to restrain myself. I took my palm to his bare shoulder and shook him. The touch was heavenly, every nerve of my body had felt it and had felt alive, had tickled.
This time, he stirred, removed his hand, revealed his breathtaking face, and opened his eyes. My heart was beating insanely. He parted his red lips, said, ‘I’m coming,’ and placed his hand in its original position. His shamelessness over his state struck me. It was after a long, long time that he was present in so little clothing in my presence. But he didn’t seem to mind anything.
After filling my mind with his image for five more seconds, I left the room, wanting him more than ever before, craving for his touch, his body. His love.
The door of the room opened. He had finally arrived. I felt no excitement. I was just tense, scared. He closed the door and bolted it. He came and sat on the bed, his face facing me. My eyes were cast down, orange flower petals strewn on the bed-sheet were dancing in my head. He lifted his right hand, put it under my chin and lifted my head to have a better look at my face.
I lifted my eyes and saw his dark mustached face, his soon-to-be-bald head, his red hungry eyes, his breath smelling of alcohol, his charred lips. He smiled and revealed his yellow teeth. By now, I was petrified.
He pushed me back. My back touched the soft mattress. The jewels on my body made noise. He got up and switched off the lights. The window above the cooler sent moonlight inside. He came and lay beside me. His heavy fingers touched my lips. I wished, hoped, prayed that he would stop. Sleep. Die.
He didn’t.
I remember when I saw him the first time, twelve years ago, he was eating his dinner with his father in the dining-room. When I had entered the room, both he and his father had looked up from their plates, smiling at me. He had a round, fair face, like his mother’s; his eyes twinkled when he smiled.
We became friends soon. Whatever time I used to get when I had no household chores to attend to, I used to spend around him if he was at home. At such times, he used to order me to do petty jobs for him like tidying up his room, fetching a glass of water, arranging his clothes and even sharpening his pencil. He always thanked me after each job and attached a ‘please’ before the next one. All in all, he treated me in a much better manner than his mother.
We grew up together. We were the same age. When he grew older, he started spending lesser time at home and I used to long for him every time he would be gone. When at home, he continued to order me to run him small chores and I used to oblige him happily.
When we were younger, he used to tell me stories about his school, teachers, friends and so forth. I used to enjoy them thoroughly. His tales used to fill me with wonder, amazement but I never let my sentiments show themselves. But when we grew up, he hardly talked to me about his life though he used to patiently answer whenever I asked him anything. He was sweet. I felt he cared for me.
Initially, I called him by his name. But one gloomy day, six years after I met him, his mother asked me to stop calling him by name. ‘Call him bhaiyaji,’ she had sternly said. I had no choice but to call him like that. I hated his mother.
He grew up beautifully. By the age of seventeen, he was taller than his father, much taller than me. I had to tilt my head up on the rare occasions when we came to face. His features were handsome. His face had become oval but his color had remained the same. He was lean but not skinny, just like me, just the way I liked him.
On Sundays, I used to spend more time in bathing and dressing up. He used to spend most of his day at home on most Sundays.
When we were eighteen, his parents had to go out of station once, for two days. He refused to go with them. His mother asked me to stay with him. I agreed happily. I was excited. I trusted him but at the same time wished that he would break my trust.
In those two days, I took complete care of him, served him as best as I could, tried to make him happy, satisfy him. I loved his smile and whenever I used to see him smiling, something used to twist inside my stomach. His parents had to extend their trip by one day. On that day, he brought four of his friends home, two of them were girls. Both looked pretty. I took solace in the conviction that given a chance, they would not be able to take care of him as nicely as I could. And beauty? It lies in the eyes of the beholder, no?
He started shaving that year, his face became manlier. I loved him. But he had stopped talking to me altogether and I felt shy in asking him anything now. I was forced to admire him from a distance. He was smart, confident and still ordered me to do small chores for him with a ‘thank you’ and ‘please’.
He called me by name and I loved to hear my name called by him. From a boy, he transformed into a complete man soon. And started working in a company after he passed out from college.
I hardly used to enter his room now when he was inside and I had been instructed since the age of fifteen to always knock on the door before entering his room if he was inside and if it was necessary for me to enter.
One Sunday morning, when six moths still remained for my wedding, his mother asked me to go and wake him up as it had got very late in the morning. He had returned home at half past two in the morning. I had not been able to sleep before his arrival.
I went and knocked at his door. Twice. Thrice. But his voice did not answer my knocks. Excited and both scared, I opened the door and entered the air-conditioned room. He was sleeping on the bed on his right side. Sunlight coming from the window opposite the door illuminated the entire room. While his right leg was fully stretched, the left one was bent more than ninety degrees. His left hand concealed his face, revealed his hairy armpit.
I could not take my eyes off him for what seemed like a minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. Until it was absolutely necessary to wake him up.
His blanket had fallen down from his bed. He was clad in a black vest and red cotton shorts. The shorts revealed more of his thighs than they would have usually done because of the manner in which he lay. His legs, long and sculpted, were covered with a thick blanket of black hair. His upper body had lesser hair. His biceps seemed well-formed. On the whole, he looked exotic. Erotic. Storms were taking birth and clashing with one another somewhere inside my body.
After I don’t know how many minutes, I called his name again. Slowly. He didn’t stir. It was becoming impossible to restrain myself. I took my palm to his bare shoulder and shook him. The touch was heavenly, every nerve of my body had felt it and had felt alive, had tickled.
This time, he stirred, removed his hand, revealed his breathtaking face, and opened his eyes. My heart was beating insanely. He parted his red lips, said, ‘I’m coming,’ and placed his hand in its original position. His shamelessness over his state struck me. It was after a long, long time that he was present in so little clothing in my presence. But he didn’t seem to mind anything.
After filling my mind with his image for five more seconds, I left the room, wanting him more than ever before, craving for his touch, his body. His love.
The door of the room opened. He had finally arrived. I felt no excitement. I was just tense, scared. He closed the door and bolted it. He came and sat on the bed, his face facing me. My eyes were cast down, orange flower petals strewn on the bed-sheet were dancing in my head. He lifted his right hand, put it under my chin and lifted my head to have a better look at my face.
I lifted my eyes and saw his dark mustached face, his soon-to-be-bald head, his red hungry eyes, his breath smelling of alcohol, his charred lips. He smiled and revealed his yellow teeth. By now, I was petrified.
He pushed me back. My back touched the soft mattress. The jewels on my body made noise. He got up and switched off the lights. The window above the cooler sent moonlight inside. He came and lay beside me. His heavy fingers touched my lips. I wished, hoped, prayed that he would stop. Sleep. Die.
He didn’t.
Wazz Aal Really Well?
This write-up (not a review) is not going to extol the movie that has been liked by everyone who I have spoken to so far. Even I loved the flick; it deserves all the money and acclaim it has managed to garner so far. But, call me cynical if you want, there are certain things pertaining to 3 Idiots with which I have a problem. This write-up is going to speak about those problems.
Since Bollywood churns up so many absolutely pathetic movies every year, some of them starring actors who charge obscene amounts to ‘act’ in them, we in India go berserk when a good movie hits the theaters. Sorry, I correct myself, a good movie with big stars hits the theaters.
3 Idiots was a movie waiting to be made for a very long time. Nothing much has recently changed in the Indian education system in recent years: JEE is almost as tough and competitive today as it was a decade ago, IIM’s have been dream institutes for generations of students. So, why the movie now? Shouldn’t it have been made years ago? Perhaps, then, Raju Hirani is not an Idiot, he just happens to be smarter than all the idiots who write scripts and make cinema in Bollywood.
Now, permit me to point some problems that I have with certain portions of the movie. The most popular scene of the movie probably is Silencer’s balatkaar speech scene. Last checked, the number of members of the community of the fans of the scene on Facebook had crossed 600. The scene shows Silencer making a fool of himself by declaiming a mugged-up that had been tampered with by Rancho previously and his audience laughing uproariously at him. Now, does the director want us to believe that Silencer was so dumb that he couldn’t even understand that his audience was laughing its lungs out at his speech and was mocking at him? I concur some students are hopeless crammers but it is very difficult for me to believe that a normal adult man can be so silly and stupid that he fails to understand chagrin of the magnitude depicted in the scene.
Before that, we are shown that Rancho (Amir) manages to give a hilarious tit-for-tat to the senior who tries to rag him. After the incident, neither the seniors take any action against him nor do college authorities take any action against the seniors. When did senior students of Indian colleges become so altruistic, decent and non-violent? Also, the absence of any trauma or embarrassment shown by his two friends’ after the incident again smacks of lack of comprehensiveness of the story.
After this incident, we are introduced to the mantra of ‘Aal Izz Well’ and its origin. Rancho tells us that a blind night watchman of his village used to chant it at night to induce a false sense of security in the villagers’ heart. Later on, we come to know that Rancho was a servant of an affluent family in Shimla. When did Shimla become a village, will someone take care to explain to me? And when we are at it, let me also point out that couples never wait for a decade before getting married as is towards the end of the movie.
Barring, perhaps only Dil Dosti Etc., 3 Idiots seems to be the only movie that I can remember of which gives a realistic and un-stereotyped perspective of colleges in India. For a very fresh change, 3 Idiots was without exaggeratedly pigeonholed characters like the Tina of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the Lucky of Main Hoon Naa, the Payal of Ishq Vishk and so on. 3 Idiots does deserve a small round of applause for breaking all these stock and unrealistic stereotypes portrayed in almost all campus movies that have been produced by Bollywood so far. A small applause because it surprises me how these exceedingly irritating stereotypes could manage to survive in Hindi movies for so many years. The movie also deserves praise since it focused not on college romance but studies and syllabus, though it would have been better if the protagonists had mentioned which branch of engineering they were pursuing.
The message that the movie primarily gives is that everyone should follow his or her dream and should chalk out one’s career according to one’s interest. The real reason to worry is that many of us in India needed a 3 Idiots to understand this. And not only this, I’m sure, after the movie, many parents, on being approached by their B.Tech-pursuing students to ask them to let them pursue a career in wildlife photography, would have said, ‘Idiot, they show anything in movies. Real life is different. Go and study.’
I am extremely aware of the fact that all this criticism would hardly affect the immense love that everybody in general has for the movie. But, for me, all this makes 3 Idiots only one of the better movies made by Bollywood so far, not the best one for sure. Give me a TZP, RDB or Black anytime!
Since Bollywood churns up so many absolutely pathetic movies every year, some of them starring actors who charge obscene amounts to ‘act’ in them, we in India go berserk when a good movie hits the theaters. Sorry, I correct myself, a good movie with big stars hits the theaters.
3 Idiots was a movie waiting to be made for a very long time. Nothing much has recently changed in the Indian education system in recent years: JEE is almost as tough and competitive today as it was a decade ago, IIM’s have been dream institutes for generations of students. So, why the movie now? Shouldn’t it have been made years ago? Perhaps, then, Raju Hirani is not an Idiot, he just happens to be smarter than all the idiots who write scripts and make cinema in Bollywood.
Now, permit me to point some problems that I have with certain portions of the movie. The most popular scene of the movie probably is Silencer’s balatkaar speech scene. Last checked, the number of members of the community of the fans of the scene on Facebook had crossed 600. The scene shows Silencer making a fool of himself by declaiming a mugged-up that had been tampered with by Rancho previously and his audience laughing uproariously at him. Now, does the director want us to believe that Silencer was so dumb that he couldn’t even understand that his audience was laughing its lungs out at his speech and was mocking at him? I concur some students are hopeless crammers but it is very difficult for me to believe that a normal adult man can be so silly and stupid that he fails to understand chagrin of the magnitude depicted in the scene.
Before that, we are shown that Rancho (Amir) manages to give a hilarious tit-for-tat to the senior who tries to rag him. After the incident, neither the seniors take any action against him nor do college authorities take any action against the seniors. When did senior students of Indian colleges become so altruistic, decent and non-violent? Also, the absence of any trauma or embarrassment shown by his two friends’ after the incident again smacks of lack of comprehensiveness of the story.
After this incident, we are introduced to the mantra of ‘Aal Izz Well’ and its origin. Rancho tells us that a blind night watchman of his village used to chant it at night to induce a false sense of security in the villagers’ heart. Later on, we come to know that Rancho was a servant of an affluent family in Shimla. When did Shimla become a village, will someone take care to explain to me? And when we are at it, let me also point out that couples never wait for a decade before getting married as is towards the end of the movie.
Barring, perhaps only Dil Dosti Etc., 3 Idiots seems to be the only movie that I can remember of which gives a realistic and un-stereotyped perspective of colleges in India. For a very fresh change, 3 Idiots was without exaggeratedly pigeonholed characters like the Tina of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the Lucky of Main Hoon Naa, the Payal of Ishq Vishk and so on. 3 Idiots does deserve a small round of applause for breaking all these stock and unrealistic stereotypes portrayed in almost all campus movies that have been produced by Bollywood so far. A small applause because it surprises me how these exceedingly irritating stereotypes could manage to survive in Hindi movies for so many years. The movie also deserves praise since it focused not on college romance but studies and syllabus, though it would have been better if the protagonists had mentioned which branch of engineering they were pursuing.
The message that the movie primarily gives is that everyone should follow his or her dream and should chalk out one’s career according to one’s interest. The real reason to worry is that many of us in India needed a 3 Idiots to understand this. And not only this, I’m sure, after the movie, many parents, on being approached by their B.Tech-pursuing students to ask them to let them pursue a career in wildlife photography, would have said, ‘Idiot, they show anything in movies. Real life is different. Go and study.’
I am extremely aware of the fact that all this criticism would hardly affect the immense love that everybody in general has for the movie. But, for me, all this makes 3 Idiots only one of the better movies made by Bollywood so far, not the best one for sure. Give me a TZP, RDB or Black anytime!
Fathers and Sons (Short Story)
Samarth Kumar was heartbroken. The call had not come. He had begun to realize that he was mistaken to think that his academic qualifications and his intellectual capabilities would always compensate for his humble background. But he had not lost confidence. He was pursuing his passion and had adequate faith in himself. I can’t change my destiny, he hopelessly convinced himself before beginning to consume dinner. I just hope it doesn’t take too long, he murmured aloud before filling the registration form of monster.com later.
*
Vishnu Agarwal was feeling a bit guilty. He had allowed his personal life to influence his professional decisions that day. He had liked Samarth a lot. No other candidate had neither better qualifications nor better sharpness and smartness than him. But his decade old friendship with X’s father had led him to choose X (who he had always found just about average) over Samarth. His friend’s phone-call the previous evening had left just two options before him: introducing awkwardness and fissures in his friendship with the caller or cementing it even further. Not surprisingly for anyone around him, he had immediately chosen the latter.
*
X was both happy and despondent. Though now he was officially settled and was soon going to start earning, he knew he would have to forget his ambitious plans of becoming a professional model, he would have to let go of his passion. The way his father had asked him to go for the interview, he had understood that not only he would have to go for the interview, but also that he would be selected courtesy his father’s connection. He took solace in the fact that he will not have to spend years struggling now and that he would begin to earn big money soon. He convinced himself that he would somehow evoke interest in accounts and economics soon. His days of independence were about to begin. But there was hollowness inside him already.
*
X ate up a lot of time in grasping the tricks of the trade. He contributed little in the projects he was made a part of but boasted generously among his friends when those projects became successful. Since everybody at Bolllytics Pvt. Ltd used to appreciate and encourage him out of respect which they had for his father’s professional excellence, he began to think that he was really good and deserved everything that was being bestowed on him. In less than one year, he was laughing at himself for having ever thought of taking up modeling as a career. Everyone in the company loved his father so much that they never criticized him despite the fact that they almost hated him for his incompetence.
While X remained employed in the company until he retired, Vivek took up a less-than-satisfactory and a not-that-well-paying job in a smaller firm. Vivek never managed to earn as much as X managed, he never became as successful as X.
*
I had a number of names in my mind for X’s character. But, since I was unable to zero on any one of them, I decided to go ahead with X. Few of the names that I had in my mind were: Abhishek Bachchan, Tusshar Kapoor, Rahul Gandhi, Imran Khan, Fardeen Khan, Zayed Khan.
*
Vishnu Agarwal was feeling a bit guilty. He had allowed his personal life to influence his professional decisions that day. He had liked Samarth a lot. No other candidate had neither better qualifications nor better sharpness and smartness than him. But his decade old friendship with X’s father had led him to choose X (who he had always found just about average) over Samarth. His friend’s phone-call the previous evening had left just two options before him: introducing awkwardness and fissures in his friendship with the caller or cementing it even further. Not surprisingly for anyone around him, he had immediately chosen the latter.
*
X was both happy and despondent. Though now he was officially settled and was soon going to start earning, he knew he would have to forget his ambitious plans of becoming a professional model, he would have to let go of his passion. The way his father had asked him to go for the interview, he had understood that not only he would have to go for the interview, but also that he would be selected courtesy his father’s connection. He took solace in the fact that he will not have to spend years struggling now and that he would begin to earn big money soon. He convinced himself that he would somehow evoke interest in accounts and economics soon. His days of independence were about to begin. But there was hollowness inside him already.
*
X ate up a lot of time in grasping the tricks of the trade. He contributed little in the projects he was made a part of but boasted generously among his friends when those projects became successful. Since everybody at Bolllytics Pvt. Ltd used to appreciate and encourage him out of respect which they had for his father’s professional excellence, he began to think that he was really good and deserved everything that was being bestowed on him. In less than one year, he was laughing at himself for having ever thought of taking up modeling as a career. Everyone in the company loved his father so much that they never criticized him despite the fact that they almost hated him for his incompetence.
While X remained employed in the company until he retired, Vivek took up a less-than-satisfactory and a not-that-well-paying job in a smaller firm. Vivek never managed to earn as much as X managed, he never became as successful as X.
*
I had a number of names in my mind for X’s character. But, since I was unable to zero on any one of them, I decided to go ahead with X. Few of the names that I had in my mind were: Abhishek Bachchan, Tusshar Kapoor, Rahul Gandhi, Imran Khan, Fardeen Khan, Zayed Khan.
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