I have always been very close to kids. I don’t know whether it’s because our mental levels are comparable or whether it’s because like kids, my heart is as pure as a driven snow. Whatever the reason, I have always been accepted into their world as one of their own and have seen their world from the inside.
It’s not a nice world.
Kids have this amazingly rigid socio-economic structure. When we were kids the economic part did not exist. Someone was branded a whiney, for example, irrespective of whether he was the son of the local coal shop owner or the son of the para doctor. There was no concept of differentiating people based on their parents’ money, stature or social position. Now I see these kids leading sheltered lives in enclosed residential complexes, with no exposure to the outside world and no idea of how people less fortunate than them are living in the outside world. Most children (and unfortunately their parents) are downright callous and indifferent about the poor and homeless. My son’s idea of charity and social responsibility is that when one of his toys breaks he keeps it aside saying that he would give it away to a street child to play with. Similarly, my contribution towards poverty eradication is to pay for the education of a couple of faceless girls through monthly deductions from my credit card. But then again, I am rambling.
Coming back to the kids, their world beats the competitiveness and ruthlessness of any high-pressure, performance oriented MNC or the machiavellian schemes of a coalition political party. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, allegiances are sworn and forgotten at the bat of an eyelid, bosom friends discarded and ridiculed in front of newly found soul-mates, shy insecure loners ganged up against and banished to their pitiful ignored existences and loud, brash, aggressive kids (or quiet, arrogant kids with the latest Nintendo or Gameboy) suck up to, adored and followed around. Only the fittest can survive here, and ‘fit’ is a person who doesn’t form any lasting friendships, who doesn’t display any conscience pangs and who can go with the tide and always duck the big wave coming their way.
I make no judgment or attempts to influence their world. I won’t stick around long enough to either change their directions or witness the world where the kids of today have taken over. But I can’t prevent my heart from feeling a twinge of regret or a shaft of fear, for innocence lost and purity killed.
Dec 28, 2006
Dec 26, 2006
My son's christmas wish
When i asked him what he wanted from Santa he said he wanted a tree in the house which grew money instead of leaves. That way I would be able to stay at home the whole day and play with him, instead of going back to Delhi.
Sniff.
Sniff.
Dec 20, 2006
Briefcase
I dont know if any one of you is old enough to remember the briefcase. From my earliest childhood, it was something that symbolised the transition from youth to manhood. Muhalla bhaiyas who used to lounge around in the club-rooms, playing carrom or cricket or generally discussing global issues, day in day out, without break or dip in enthusiasm, suddenly became respectable and serious when they landed jobs and started taking the 8:55 bus to office with a briefcase in hand. You no longer could greet them and ask them the East Bengal Mohun Bagan score of the previous day's match, or whether the latest Mithun starrer was worth watching or not (you could of course ask him these when he held court in the club in the evenings, but then you would have to wait till he has finished a lengthy discourse on how office politics is ruining the work culture in India, or how had ticked off his boss when he had dared to ask him stay an hour after office to complete some urgent work).
Not everyone was so lucky though. There were some poor souls who got jobs where the office did not give them briefcases to carry (after all, not everyone can aspire to be an Insurance Salesman, Maintenance Engineer or Sales Executive). These guys were treated with absolute disdain and we used to ridicule these poor bastards when we used to occupy our newly inherited positions of importance in the club house. 'Imagine', we used to say, with a superior smirk and knowing winks, 'Biltuda goes to office without a briefcase and have you seen the superior expression on his face? As if we dont know what a shitpot he must have joined'.
One such dada must have shared the same opinion as us. And after scrapping through his BCom Pass and landing a job somewhere, he started for his first day in office with a gleaming VIP swinging in his hands, looking as if the moment he would be approached, he would point the damn thing and mutter 'go ahead, make my day'. But we knew Keshtoda, and his academic record and his personal magnetism. And we were pretty sure that it was quite beyond him to secure a job that would require him to carry a briefcase. This was discussed in great detail over the next few days and finally a courageous handful of decided to waylay him one morning and demand to inspect what was inside.
That fateful morning, we waited at the curb, with hearts beating slightly faster, but secure in the knowledge that the para would get a scoop that would be talked about for ages to come, ensuring out place in para folklore for eternity to come. Sure enough, Keshtoda was challenged, his briefcase siezed, opened, while he blabbered in forced indignation, shoulders already stooping, downcast eyes fighting back tears as we all stood around his open briefcase containing a ridiculous collection of children's books and stuff and his tiffin of a banana and 2 slices of sugar sprinkled bread.
In the evening it all came out. Frustrated at not getting a job he had joined some social organisation that goes to slums and teaches children how to read write and stuff like that. They pay conveyance (state transport) and a princely sum of 20 bucks a day for lunch. We all had a great time that day, ribbing him for his worthless life, the other successful dadas explaining to him that he should have gone to them, they would have arranged something for him, why even the peon in their office gets 750 bucks a month!
Keshtoda took all this quite well. He just sat there quietly, sometimes giving a rueful smile when someone said something particularly funny (like Ajitda telling him to start helping our uncles with their housework and chores and then all families in the para will pool in with some contribution for him), sometimes clenching his hands when Romada declared that these NGO-s basically supply young women and children to the Arab world (and Romada would know, his uncle was settled in Canada for the last 28 years), but generally disappointing all us neither by breaking down or trying to fight for and defend himself.
Anyway, from the next day onwards Keshtoda started going to 'work' with a jhola slung on his shoulders. Initial ribbing died down soon enough as our interest moved on to other topics and targets. We all moved on in life, in turn got briefcases of our own. Some fell, some soared. The briefcase no longer generated respect. Kids were moving around with mobile phones and laptops. Some carried only combs to work. Some sat at home and earned trading shares on the phone. But all of them had one thing in common. Everyone moved like an automation. Nobody smiled, nobody stopped to talk to people they crossed in the streets. Nobody came to the club room anymore. Nobody knew whether their next door neighbor was alive or dead. Nobody had anyone to talk to when they felt lost and hopeless and needed someone to talk about their memories or their fears or their hopes.
Except Keshtoda. He looked as serene as ever. He looked fulfilled, satisfied and totally at peace with himself. Someone was saying that he was working as an advisor to Unesco. Someone was saying that he might go to the US soon to deliver a paper. But one thing I knew. The briefcase I had lent him when I started using a laptop looked like it had finally found its way back home.
Not everyone was so lucky though. There were some poor souls who got jobs where the office did not give them briefcases to carry (after all, not everyone can aspire to be an Insurance Salesman, Maintenance Engineer or Sales Executive). These guys were treated with absolute disdain and we used to ridicule these poor bastards when we used to occupy our newly inherited positions of importance in the club house. 'Imagine', we used to say, with a superior smirk and knowing winks, 'Biltuda goes to office without a briefcase and have you seen the superior expression on his face? As if we dont know what a shitpot he must have joined'.
One such dada must have shared the same opinion as us. And after scrapping through his BCom Pass and landing a job somewhere, he started for his first day in office with a gleaming VIP swinging in his hands, looking as if the moment he would be approached, he would point the damn thing and mutter 'go ahead, make my day'. But we knew Keshtoda, and his academic record and his personal magnetism. And we were pretty sure that it was quite beyond him to secure a job that would require him to carry a briefcase. This was discussed in great detail over the next few days and finally a courageous handful of decided to waylay him one morning and demand to inspect what was inside.
That fateful morning, we waited at the curb, with hearts beating slightly faster, but secure in the knowledge that the para would get a scoop that would be talked about for ages to come, ensuring out place in para folklore for eternity to come. Sure enough, Keshtoda was challenged, his briefcase siezed, opened, while he blabbered in forced indignation, shoulders already stooping, downcast eyes fighting back tears as we all stood around his open briefcase containing a ridiculous collection of children's books and stuff and his tiffin of a banana and 2 slices of sugar sprinkled bread.
In the evening it all came out. Frustrated at not getting a job he had joined some social organisation that goes to slums and teaches children how to read write and stuff like that. They pay conveyance (state transport) and a princely sum of 20 bucks a day for lunch. We all had a great time that day, ribbing him for his worthless life, the other successful dadas explaining to him that he should have gone to them, they would have arranged something for him, why even the peon in their office gets 750 bucks a month!
Keshtoda took all this quite well. He just sat there quietly, sometimes giving a rueful smile when someone said something particularly funny (like Ajitda telling him to start helping our uncles with their housework and chores and then all families in the para will pool in with some contribution for him), sometimes clenching his hands when Romada declared that these NGO-s basically supply young women and children to the Arab world (and Romada would know, his uncle was settled in Canada for the last 28 years), but generally disappointing all us neither by breaking down or trying to fight for and defend himself.
Anyway, from the next day onwards Keshtoda started going to 'work' with a jhola slung on his shoulders. Initial ribbing died down soon enough as our interest moved on to other topics and targets. We all moved on in life, in turn got briefcases of our own. Some fell, some soared. The briefcase no longer generated respect. Kids were moving around with mobile phones and laptops. Some carried only combs to work. Some sat at home and earned trading shares on the phone. But all of them had one thing in common. Everyone moved like an automation. Nobody smiled, nobody stopped to talk to people they crossed in the streets. Nobody came to the club room anymore. Nobody knew whether their next door neighbor was alive or dead. Nobody had anyone to talk to when they felt lost and hopeless and needed someone to talk about their memories or their fears or their hopes.
Except Keshtoda. He looked as serene as ever. He looked fulfilled, satisfied and totally at peace with himself. Someone was saying that he was working as an advisor to Unesco. Someone was saying that he might go to the US soon to deliver a paper. But one thing I knew. The briefcase I had lent him when I started using a laptop looked like it had finally found its way back home.
An apology to the Sachins of the world
I suddenly realised that I am in the same league as the Sachins, Sharukhs and Amitabhs of the world. For you lesser mortals this concept will be difficult to grasp, but its absolutely true, believe you me. Where previously the fingers used to fly over the keyboard, for the past 6 days I have been struggling to think of something to write about. And its all due to critics who dare to question my greatness. Me!! Nowadays, whenever I am about to penn something down, I stop and force myself to think whether the 'true meaning' will be understood by those pea-brained nincompoops. And i can understand how Sachin, about to launch into a cracking cover drive, checks it just in time and tries to guide it towards point and nicks one to the keeper. All the time thinking what Harsha Fucking Boghle will say if he missed the drive.
To all couch critics of the world...FUCK YOU TOO!!!!
To all couch critics of the world...FUCK YOU TOO!!!!
Dec 14, 2006
The long walk
Suddenly decided yesterday to walk from point A to B. Maybe it was the thought of the traffic snarls, or the lovely northern breeze or the bimbette who passed me as i was opening the car door. Anyways, I was glad I did.
I dont go to gyms or malls, and these are the only places I see people walking these days. So the walk brought back a lot of memories. There were times when we used to walk home from college just for the heck of it, prolonging the meaningless banter with friends, or delaying the return and the mandatory pointless sessions with an open text book. 90% of my first affair was walking together in winding bylanes for hours on end, feeling on the top of the world, feeling the thrill of the everpresent danger of someone seeing us and reporting the incident.
There have been memorable walks in my life. A 140km trek in the Kumaon has to be the best. But not far behind are the winding streets of Dublin, or the white sand beaches of Thailand, or beautiful countryside of Goa and many more. But gradually over the last couple of years, the mechanised home-office-home routine has squeezed out this activity from my life.
Anyways, it felt good. I discovered a lot of things I had never bothered to find out. The security guy at the gate has a beautiful 3 year old son, there is a gap in the hedges from where one can see a not-so-bad view of the surrounding neighborhood, the reriwala makes a great concotation of peanuts, onions, masala and nimbu, the stray dogs understand bengali, the neighborhood ladies give 'interesting' looks..
Ours must have become a developed first world country. If our lives have become such that these simple things now give us pleasure, then it must be so.
I dont go to gyms or malls, and these are the only places I see people walking these days. So the walk brought back a lot of memories. There were times when we used to walk home from college just for the heck of it, prolonging the meaningless banter with friends, or delaying the return and the mandatory pointless sessions with an open text book. 90% of my first affair was walking together in winding bylanes for hours on end, feeling on the top of the world, feeling the thrill of the everpresent danger of someone seeing us and reporting the incident.
There have been memorable walks in my life. A 140km trek in the Kumaon has to be the best. But not far behind are the winding streets of Dublin, or the white sand beaches of Thailand, or beautiful countryside of Goa and many more. But gradually over the last couple of years, the mechanised home-office-home routine has squeezed out this activity from my life.
Anyways, it felt good. I discovered a lot of things I had never bothered to find out. The security guy at the gate has a beautiful 3 year old son, there is a gap in the hedges from where one can see a not-so-bad view of the surrounding neighborhood, the reriwala makes a great concotation of peanuts, onions, masala and nimbu, the stray dogs understand bengali, the neighborhood ladies give 'interesting' looks..
Ours must have become a developed first world country. If our lives have become such that these simple things now give us pleasure, then it must be so.
Dec 13, 2006
The month that was - Nov 2006
(Sing along to the tune of 'We didn't start the fire')
I dont know who is right
Greg Chappel John Wright
But I know the men in blue are a bunch of arseholes.
Dada on the sideline
Sachin missing ball's line
And all the fielders' hands are full of gaping holes.
Tata offers thousand jobs
Streets full of fighting mobs
Didi says that she wont eat until farmers get back their lands.
Dalits on the rampage
Someone abused their sage
Smashing cars stopping trains and taking law in their hands.
Hakla in takla out
KBC starts a new bout
Ash kiss beau hiss
Big B looks like losing clout.
Heat kills cold kills
Children starving in the hills
Jobless men trudge door to door
I cant take this any more.
I dont know who is right
Greg Chappel John Wright
But I know the men in blue are a bunch of arseholes.
Dada on the sideline
Sachin missing ball's line
And all the fielders' hands are full of gaping holes.
Tata offers thousand jobs
Streets full of fighting mobs
Didi says that she wont eat until farmers get back their lands.
Dalits on the rampage
Someone abused their sage
Smashing cars stopping trains and taking law in their hands.
Hakla in takla out
KBC starts a new bout
Ash kiss beau hiss
Big B looks like losing clout.
Heat kills cold kills
Children starving in the hills
Jobless men trudge door to door
I cant take this any more.
A revenge on Loky and Vikas
So..u dont like my poems do you? Okay then. Henceforth, all my boring posts (rants against the system, country, countrymen etc etc) will be in glorious verse.
So proclaimed Bhishma..and the heavens opened and the crows shat on his head.
So proclaimed Bhishma..and the heavens opened and the crows shat on his head.
Dec 8, 2006
A poem for Britney
Britney went to a party
Forgetting to wear a panty
Shutters clicked and the media screamed
But i thought she looked pretty dainty.
Forgetting to wear a panty
Shutters clicked and the media screamed
But i thought she looked pretty dainty.
Dec 5, 2006
Oh Calcutta!!
Just got back from a short trip from Cal. This was after a gap of almost 18 months and I just loved it. December and January are the best time to visit Cal. The nip in the air is divine. And if you want to compare the weather with that of Bangalore, I would like you to consider an incredient that Blore sadly lacks..and you would get that if you sit on the banks on the Hoogly, with a steaming hot 'bhaar' of tea in one hand and a packet of 'jhalmuri' in the other. Bliss!
Things have changed but if you dont seek them out you will find that your nostalgia will remain intact, safe from the marauding hands of progress and growth. No one I know grew up in Rajarhaat or Eastern Bypass...so no one will feel like an alien if he decides to visit his old para, or his old dating places, or his old hangout places. These remain the same, comforting you with their ageless solidity, enabling the celluloid of your memories to remain in crystal clear DVD quality.
And as fate would have it, didi obliged her little brother with the one experience that i thought I would miss out on this trip. But, thankfully, the cruel industrialists decided to build factories that would provide jobs for a thousand families and open doors to other such elements to enter the state and spoil our culture, heritage and tradition. So didi obliged me with a bandh.
Last night, at a friends place, finishing the last peg before heading back home, and concluding the open items in our discussions on Osho, genetics, Taoism , tantrik sex and degradation of the grilled prawns in Tyangra, I thanked my stars for such a perfect experience of my roots. But...it was still not over.
After all, what would a nostalgia trip be without the women of Calcutta? You can keep your Ibizas and Rivieras and Mardi Graas or whatever provides fodder for your fantasies. If you havent experienced the Calcutta girl, your life has been one of utter wastage. So, as I was sitting alone in the share auto, my heart did 27 sumersaults, when she languidly raised her delicate fingers and signalled the auto to stop. She was like a fresh daisy, the way a daisy looks when the early morning sun passes through a dew drop resting on its petals. None of the brashness of the northern indian sisters, or the excessive conservatism of the southern sisters. She sat close to me, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, ankle to ankle, demurely looking down, riding the speedbreakers, jumping potholes, swerving the minibuses, in perfect harmony, in a ritual dance synchronised to perfection.
She got down a couple of stops before. As she did, our eyes met for the first time, and in them i saw an answering look of ecstasy, a knowledge that what we shared will be with both of us for a long time to come.
I was walking on clouds when i got down. Can life be any more perfect? Should I finally start thinking seriously about taking a tranfer to Cal? Should I postpone my ticket tomorrow and wait at the auto stand at the same place and same time? Should I pay a 100 bucks to the auto driver?
Thoughts of money brought me back to harsh reality. The driver was waiting impatiently with palms outstretched. I aplogised and fumbled for my wallet.
It was gone.
Things have changed but if you dont seek them out you will find that your nostalgia will remain intact, safe from the marauding hands of progress and growth. No one I know grew up in Rajarhaat or Eastern Bypass...so no one will feel like an alien if he decides to visit his old para, or his old dating places, or his old hangout places. These remain the same, comforting you with their ageless solidity, enabling the celluloid of your memories to remain in crystal clear DVD quality.
And as fate would have it, didi obliged her little brother with the one experience that i thought I would miss out on this trip. But, thankfully, the cruel industrialists decided to build factories that would provide jobs for a thousand families and open doors to other such elements to enter the state and spoil our culture, heritage and tradition. So didi obliged me with a bandh.
Last night, at a friends place, finishing the last peg before heading back home, and concluding the open items in our discussions on Osho, genetics, Taoism , tantrik sex and degradation of the grilled prawns in Tyangra, I thanked my stars for such a perfect experience of my roots. But...it was still not over.
After all, what would a nostalgia trip be without the women of Calcutta? You can keep your Ibizas and Rivieras and Mardi Graas or whatever provides fodder for your fantasies. If you havent experienced the Calcutta girl, your life has been one of utter wastage. So, as I was sitting alone in the share auto, my heart did 27 sumersaults, when she languidly raised her delicate fingers and signalled the auto to stop. She was like a fresh daisy, the way a daisy looks when the early morning sun passes through a dew drop resting on its petals. None of the brashness of the northern indian sisters, or the excessive conservatism of the southern sisters. She sat close to me, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, ankle to ankle, demurely looking down, riding the speedbreakers, jumping potholes, swerving the minibuses, in perfect harmony, in a ritual dance synchronised to perfection.
She got down a couple of stops before. As she did, our eyes met for the first time, and in them i saw an answering look of ecstasy, a knowledge that what we shared will be with both of us for a long time to come.
I was walking on clouds when i got down. Can life be any more perfect? Should I finally start thinking seriously about taking a tranfer to Cal? Should I postpone my ticket tomorrow and wait at the auto stand at the same place and same time? Should I pay a 100 bucks to the auto driver?
Thoughts of money brought me back to harsh reality. The driver was waiting impatiently with palms outstretched. I aplogised and fumbled for my wallet.
It was gone.
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