An Unforgettable Journey

Let me tell you a story.

Some orthodox Indian families do not whole-heartedly welcome the birth of a girl-child for reasons best known to them. This sort of tendency exists even today, often to an exaggerated extent in some pockets of our country. However, long time back, a family in Northern part of India did exactly the opposite; they were overjoyed when a girl-child was born to them. She was the youngest amongst three elder brothers and a sister. We are talking about the pre-Independence era, that’s nearly more than half a century ago.

She, as any other kid, enjoyed her schooling days and was extremely pampered as she was the youngest of the lot. Time flew and soon, she was done with her primary and secondary schooling. Many of her batch-mates left studies soon after that – to move onto a completely different chapter in their lives. Most of them were married off and some just helped their mothers in the kitchen back home. Financial crunch was probably responsible for eating away their careers. Maybe it was just a part of the tradition. Obviously, very few girls accompanied her to junior college and fewer to Degree College; probably just two-three of them. They had parents who were willing to sacrifice everything for them, much beyond the capacity of an ‘average’ parent, so to speak.

Soon, the little kid grew up to be a young, smart lady with a degree in arts. She did not stop at that, but completed her post graduation as well. Another two years down the line, she was done with her dissertation and was soon awarded doctorate in Hindi literature by the University – a great achievement by a ‘girl-child’ in peri-Independence India.

It was time for her to start a family as well and was soon married to a brilliant, tall, smart and rather soft-spoken barrister. He was unlike the ‘conventional’ lawyers – he did not take up false cases or fabricated suits. His honesty was well-known amongst locals. Soon, he became the youngest president of the Bar (Association of Lawyers) in a small princely town of Rajasthan. He was respected all over the state, his name and fame grew, but not his wealth. The reason was simple; he used to spend a lot of money in charity, lending it to people, some he didn’t even recognise. When he was at the peak of his career, he developed a chronic disease that affected his kidneys. Slowly, the disease deteriorated his health, and he was bedridden in about a year’s time.

She was widowed at a young age of 30-35.

Imagine a young 30-something woman with two school-going daughters facing the world with just despair to give her company. Resilience is just too little a word to be used here. It must have taken a mammoth amount of courage for her to start afresh. The PhD earned her the post of a lecturer in girls’ degree college. She worked very hard to make both ends meet. Within a span of two years, she was the dean of Binani Girls’ Degree College, Bikaner and also the dean of Maharani Girls’ College, Bikaner. These are two premier institutes imparting education in a small princely town of Rajasthan.

Apart from that, she was one of the founder-member of Arya Samaj, Bikaner – a socio-religious institute propagating good values and striving to bring an end to superstitions. People of this town (Bikaner) regularly tuned into her interviews aired on All India Radio and Vividhbharati. She was the only dean in the state of Rajasthan who was granted permission by the then Maharaj Karni Singh to order elephants from the palace (Lal Garh) for the annual day celebrations in the college. She was invited every year by the Chief Minister of Rajasthan for various governmental felicitation programmes.

Above all, she gave her young daughters the best of education – one became a doctor and the other obtained a PhD. They soon got married and left for their new homes. She was all alone once again.

After her daughters were married off, she began reading hundreds of books and spent most of her time in the college office. College work was her priority and her love for sitar and harmonium took a backseat. She lived alone all these years, struggling day-in and day-out so that students of her college excel in studies as well as sports. She ignored her own health, suffered mild heart attacks twice, but continued working relentlessly, selflessly.

At the age of 78, her body had taken enough and she was diagnosed with a rare tumour of the thyroid (Hurthle Cell Cancer). Like all good stories come to an end, she was soon bedridden. Her muscles became useless and her joints were all worn off. She could hardly get up from the bed and move about. Somehow, her courage and determination drove her along. She used to knit and read books in order to pass time.

One day, she suffered from a massive paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia (heart damage) and soon the beautiful story came to an end. The world changed within seconds; curtains were drawn on a radiant fable.

If you ask me where I was on the 24th of November, 2008, I won’t be able to hold back my tears. Well, I was with my mom and dad, giving this woman, my grandmother, cardio-pulmonary resuscitation.

We tried our best to keep the fable going, but the author had already put the full stop.

A Dark Introspection

I never wanted to put such things into words, but some unusual compulsive force is driving me into this.

It’s well past midnight, two-thirty to be exact; I have nothing better to do. All I can see is a speck of dust on the keyboard as it meets my eye with queer alacrity. Every time my brain cells repose and drift into a mild slumber, I am awakened by an enigmatic note. It doesn’t stop ringing in my ears, however much I try.

It’s probably something in my subconscious that’s keeping me blighted. I found my guitar while cleaning my room today afternoon. I looked at it for a moment with empty eyes. I had an intense desire to play the same note that’s keeping me awake now; by all means, I know how to play it. Sadly, the guitar went back to its place without a string being plucked. I’ve kept lots of things in hiding from cutting allusions that hover in the world around. There are a few things that’ll go with me; without anyone getting a whiff of their existence.

There was a party for some casual occasion few days back somewhere. I didn’t attend it. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to go alone. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t even there for a music concert last month. I missed that too. My mistake – how can I expect her to know all this when I haven’t told her a thing? I’ll never have the courage. I don’t know why this has come up suddenly in the midst of a discussion on a lifeless musical instrument with out-of-tune strings. Probably there is some vague connection between the two. Or my neurons have just jumbled up.

Things look quite different from my window now. Today morning, there were at least five parrots perched on the grille. They flaunted their bright colours with a tinge of ostentation. Now, things are very dark. The mangroves are harbouring a look that makes them resemble a sinister, murky and a gloomy moor. The only sign of life that can be imagined on it is the slithering of snakes when a cool breeze disturbs their morose torpor. An alcoholic is lying helplessly on the road waiting to be run over by a slapdash vehicle.

Last-to-last week I heard some unbelievable stuff that has been discussed about me. I swear none of it is true. I want to explain everything to the people concerned; but I’m sure none of them want to hear me out. Nobody ever has made an attempt to do so anyway. Meanwhile, I don’t want those people to know anything more, anything less. It’s been more than a year and the discussion has died down. I don’t want it to become buoyant again. The same day, another person comes up to me and tells me that she has done a job that’s much better than what I had managed to do. I felt like slapping the judgemental bitch; but then, how does it matter?

I don’t look forward to a good night’s sleep. That’s because I know I won’t get it. This is the only time when I have to myself; I can be with whatever I’ve hidden from the analytical eyes of friends and foes, without the fear of acidulous mockery. This is not lack of self-esteem or confidence. I know that I am not an under performer. So this is probably an exaggerated kind of introversion. That’s what a friend told me once. I think he is right. This is the only time I get to give undivided attention to otherwise unheeded objects born out of pure id. As I said earlier, the world won’t come to know about them. They’ll go with me.

I promise that never again will such a thing flow into words. In fact, at this very moment, I don’t know why I have written the stuff that you’ve just read. Take it at its face-value. If you ask me now, I won’t be able to recollect in what context a particular thing has been written. This is like a trance; a momentary séance and an ephemeral poignancy. It’ll fade away soon – only to return some other day. Or another night.

(A request: Introspection is probably a good habit. Introspect before you comment, reader. For some reason, comments on this blog will be moderated for a while.)

The Sick Poem Contest

Okay, as the name suggests, this is a contest of writing sick poems. How does this thing exactly work? Read on:

In the section for writing comments, the readers must post a poem according to the rules. Two examples have been given below. The poems must be:

· Four-lined

· In English

· With some rhyme

· Weird, idiotic, asinine, senseless

· Readers can post multiple poems

The best (or worst?) poem will get an ice-cream treat. I think that’s a good enough incentive.

An example:

A mouse went up the ladder,
But he had a full bladder,
So when he reached up,
He urinated in a cup.

Another example:

There was a desperate woman,
Who met a desperate gibbon,
They both jumped about,
Till their desperation was out.

How about it?

I Am Dead

It’s high time I stopped blogging for a while to get back to studies. Prelim timetable is out and I have less than two weeks to go. Quite rightly, there will be no posts till at least the 18th of September, the last day of my exam. I guess that should be okay; meanwhile, life goes on.

The ‘statement of the week’ may not be updated; I may not be there to read any feedback/comments. Sorry Entrecard, I will not visit your website. Those of you who have repeatedly asked me about the comic, it’s impossible for me to put them up before December.

There would be something to read in the third week of September though, here’s what’s there in my brain waiting to be typed:

A Trip to Jaisalmer

An Emotional Story

Ideal Teacher

India and Kashmir

Theory of Life – II

The Babe, Behenji, Bhaisahab and the Hunk

Unfortunately, a day has only 24 hours. Meanwhile, happy Ganesh Chathurthi; I wont reply to any text messages wishing me the same. And don’t wish me good luck.

Ciao.

The Real Treasure

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In school, we tend to take friends for granted. We never realise how difficult it is to make friends with complete strangers – after all, we end up spending so much time with each other. It was for the first time in Ruparel (my junior college) that I suddenly felt how difficult it is to interact with people I don’t recognise.

I was the only one from my school to join Ruparel. This made me a bit apprehensive, but I didn’t pay much attention. Really speaking, I was bored of school life and looking forward to college. Soon, it was time for the first lecture and orientation by the principal. I remember this as if it were yesterday.

I was seated on the second bench on the left side. Harsh gave me company from Andheri station; I had met him in Ruparel earlier that month, at the time of admissions. He promptly sat next to me. We talked little, but didn’t bore each other. I thought he would know more people than I do and so, wouldn’t need my company. Of course, his ‘choke slam’ and ‘aye Haaaarsh, ye building chche, thaaro playground nathi!’ keeps us entertained.

Kunal and Sohail knew each other. They were in the same school. Kunal entered the class before Sohail and asked us if anyone else was occupying the seats beside us. On an average, each bench of Ruparel accommodates around 6-7 average healthy Indians. We had no problems with Kunal sitting next to us. Sohail sat elsewhere, on the right side, third bench I think (you can’t miss out his aristocracy, can you?). He had come later. They exchanged a ‘hello’; this sort of depressed me – am I the only loner out here?

Kunal seemed very talkative and came up with a new topic of discussion every now and then. In fact, he kept Harsh and me very busy with his controversial topics such as ‘ICSE is better than SSC’, ‘Biology sucks’, etc. Discussions turned into heated arguments. We screamed at the top of our voices to get our point across when all of a sudden a smart aleck excused himself.

“Hi, I’m Mohit!”

We didn’t ask him his name. We did not even reply to his gesture. His thick black jacket, gold necklace (!), broad wrist band and a French beard was rather scary (they called him Bappi Lahiri in school, I’m told).

“Can I sit here?”

Most welcome, there was enough place for three more. He was a part of the discussion too, but soon it was time to disperse.

Next day, Kunal, Harsh, Mohit and me, we were on the same bench. Sohail was feeling left out, he joined in. Chetan dropped in too, there was lot of place and a thin guy like him could easily fit. We had more discussions, more random talk. Chetan contributed his viewpoints rather calmly. His biking adventures and two-wheeled knowledge was a good topic of contention.

Gaurav was a rather late entry. Poplai, as we call him, was introduced to us by Chetan. He seemed a very happy-go-lucky guy and has a smile as broad as his stomach (sorry Popu, I gotta admit). It didn’t take long before we officially inducted him in our ‘second bench committee’. We loved his jolly nature and his narration of Bacardi/Kingfisher adventures.

Amit was always a last bencher and it was not before 12^th that we inducted him too. He’s always been a latecomer. Can you beat this, he has just joined Orkut! Soon we were eight of us – Harsh, Kunal, Chetan, Mohit, Gaurav, Amit, Sohail and me. I don’t know why, but Mohit prefers to call us ‘Shooting Stars’.

Then there were others too – Rohit, Sachi, Soumyadri, Neville, Vishaal, Nirali, Rahul, Rashmi, Vini, phew! The list is endless.

It’s been more than 5 years now; the eight of us have always been together (...ahem, without doubt, we’re all straight). We’ve shared each and every problem, crushes, journals, answer papers etc. We laughed on the same jokes, on the same people (low waist jeanswala, body builder), on the same teachers (remember Gawde? Shimpi?) and laughed aloud. We guided each other – in our careers, homework, love life (?), etc. We’ve had innumerable lunches together. None of us will ever forget – Canepy, Xeroxwala, ‘aye Gujarati!’, Toke Ma’am, Tapan and his ‘slapstick’ adventure, Mahajan’s lecture (aunty log, aunty log!), etc.

Today, as some of us are leaving this country for further studies, memories are refreshed. Over these years, Ruparel has given me the best of friends. The aim of this passage is simple – to relive those memories and remind its readers of similar experiences.

Surprising how life comes up with so many treats. Maybe some of you can dedicate a comment to such a similar friend(s). I’m sorry I’m late – Friendship day was nearly a week ago.