A matter of rats.

A matter of rats -A short biography of Patna-, the book says on the cover page. But it appears to be, a literary collage of the city. The writer has carefully and diligently, pulled out the relevant pages from the historical sheaf.

The changing face of Bihar, in different domains, from the past to the present, has been wrapped in an interesting pattern. The pictures of Patna, in the political arena, on the literary canvas, with the dust laden snaps of its glorious past, and the black and white snaps of its present.

It takes you to a Patna, where history might show you a glimpse at any nook and corner. Where you can get a ubiquitous look of the city surviving in tatters. From the rat eating -Mushar- “Sinhasan” to Subodh Gupta whose painting sold for 1.2million dollars. From Chandragupta Maurya, who established India’s first empire to Lalu Prasad Yadav who brought the misery laden social equality.

From the Fa-Hein’s book to the recent, scarce mention of it in literature. It takes you to a Patna, where every patnaite will get one’s own Patna. From the villages to the narrow congested lanes of Lohanipur, on pages, it will take you to a Patna, which you have not known.

For those of us who are still living there, it will give them more of their city. And for all of us, who have migrated, like the author himself, it’s the city itself, wrapped in a book. Something, one of a kind to have it. Amitava Kumar has crafted this biography in such a way that it doesn't only talk about the city but touches you personally.

  

Those Days..

For the last few days, as I have been posting my blogs on Facebook, every time I log in, there is always an excitement bubbling inside me. A thrill simmering, to see if someone has read it or not? And perhaps it is the USP of Facebook, that it generates such feelings, whenever you post something.

Last evening, gripped under the same set of emotions, as I logged in, I was in for a pleasant surprise. My cousin sister and my younger brother had read it and left their comments, with their views. These are only among the exceptional few on Facebook, who have known me since I was a firm believer in the legacy of Santa Claus. And these people were reading my blog, putting forward their views and discussing it. It was appreciative, acknowledging and brought a genuine smile on my face. It was different, more stimulating, because it came from the closest quarters of my life.  

The nostalgic winds blew and took me to the lanes of childhood. Like in every other Indian family, my concept of brothers and sisters were not limited to my siblings only. It extended to all the cousins on the maternal and paternal sides. My only cousins on the maternal side, who were of my age, were my aunt’s children. Anu -didi for me- and Manu.

We were five including my younger brother and sister, and lived in the same city, few kilometers apart. But back then, we were kids and these few kilometers seemed miles apart. We were always dependent on our parents to take us to either’s place.

We waited for those days when we would meet, or best stay together during vacations. When there were no schools to attend, no home works to be completed, parents not compelling us to study and no worldly worries. The scorching sun or the chilling winter couldn't deter our spirits. The chuckling and roistering came in huge packages. When our little games were the order of the day and we competed with nonchalant intensity, to show our expertise.

All of us have these memories of the care free past; we have spent playing and laughing with our cousins. But as all good things come to an end, so did these days. However, even today, as we look back at those vividly smiling memories, it seems like yesterday.

This poem is for all these brothers and sisters. For those memories. Yours and mine.

अभी, जैसे, कल की ही तो बात थी,

जब, खुशी, बस हमारे साथ में थी.

पर, शायद ख़्वाबों को भी,

समय के साथ पर लग गये.

सपनों की डोर से बंधे,

उड़ती हुई पतंगों से,

हम अपनी उड़ान में,

उड़ते चले गए।

जाने कब, इन पतंगों का,

फिर उसी छत पे आना होगा।

उड़ती हुई पतंगों का,

जाने कहाँ, आशियाना होगा।

The Widow Protester.

With the mellowing sun spreading lingering and lustrous warmth overhead in a clear blue sky, I took a leisurely stroll from Rajeev Chowk metro station to reach Indian Coffee House.

As I was waiting for the traffic light to turn red, I saw a procession nearing the roundabout. By the time the light could turn red, the procession had reached the crossing and police had to divert the traffic.

The apron clad protesters clearly insinuated that the protesting chunk of population were doctors. The protest was lead by few suit clad men, probably senior doctors and the member of Indian Medical Association. There were few journalists covering the protest. Multiple placards in numerous hands read the cries of justice and condemned the murder of a doctor in Gaziabaad.

Under the influence of my inquisitiveness, I approached one of them, and inquired regarding their protest in detail. He told me that some MLA has killed a doctor in Gaziabad, and they were demanding action against him.

I would have asked him why? But I couldn't as I saw a lady in the crowd, walking very slowly, supported by two female students. Her pale face suffused with pain and grief. They were cordoned by a group of students.

Who is she? I asked him.

She is his widow. He replied.

For a few seconds, I was dumbstruck. Few days back, she must have been so full of life. Happy, contended and cheering life with a complete family. With her husband, her hopes and her wishes. And this sudden tyranny of fate had eviscerated her off everything. I thought.

I was not talking to the protester any more. He had moved away. What if I was at her place? What if had to go through this pain of the loss of a family member like this? This thought made a shiver run down my spine, which I tried to jerk off but it clung and made me sick.

A rogue’s blotted ego, and his bullet. Is human life so cheap? How long will we try shedding our responsibilities? How long will we continue to be insensitive, and insecure? How long will we choose to be part of this impotent mass? Do we need a death in every family, to nudge this impotency out?

The embarrassed son..

Just like the residents of “Shanti Niwas” in “Anand”, I was also desperately looking for a maid. One who could just cook me two square meals a day. One who could take care of my food, a big challenge for a bachelor.

Finally I got one. A dark complexioned, soft spoken lady rustically clad in a worn saari, whose accent indicated that, she was from Bihar.

On the first day I was amazed by her efficiency, as she took only 30mins to cook lunch for two -I and my younger brother-. I was equally goaded by her talkative nature but my brother found it interesting. Compelled by his own nature he struck an instant rapport with her.

They were soon busy talking to each other, oblivious of me. I didn't mind this negligence of mine and accepted to be mute spectator. She told him that, she lives nearby, in a low income group cluster, and this is why everything there is of low standard. Her husband and two sons completed her family.

What does your husband do? He asked bluntly.

He is an auto driver. She answered, busy in preparing dough for rotis.

An auto driver! Whom did you vote for? AAP? He asked in a tone, as if it was mandatory for the auto drivers to vote for AAP.

Yes we all voted for Jhadu. She replied.

Very good. Arvind Kejriwal is a good man. He will do something. We will also vote for him. He appreciated her, and supported her, raising his voice an octave higher.

Don’t know, but seems like. He reduced the price of auto gas -CNG-. She spoke in collusion with him.

See, I told you, he is a good man. Do vote for him this time also. He tried to reassure and persuade her.

She kept mum and he asked her, “How old are your sons?”

The eldest is in class 10^th. His exams are a week ahead. She replied looking at him with a smile.

That is good. How is he in studies? He asked as if that was going to affect the taste of food she cooked.

How will I know? I am an illiterate, she replied and laughed, as if, her being an illiterate was obvious.

But still. Do you see him studying? Does he show interest in his books? He tried to explain her that even if she couldn't read and write, she could judge whether his son studies or not.

I don’t know much about it. She answered sounding helpless and bit irritated.

OK. No problem. Bring him along tomorrow. I will talk to him and help him with studies, if he would need any. He sounded genuinely concerned.

He wouldn't come. He says that he feels embarrassed, that I work in homes, cooking and cleaning. He doesn't want me to do all this. She explained her son’s thinking and tried to laugh it off.

This statement of her, made my brother a bit grave. He looked at me and remained silent for couple of seconds, as if he wanted me to say something. But I didn't react.

Guessing my deliberate silence, he spoke again, “You should not worry about his mentality. He doesn't know that, you are helping someone have his food. We, who stay away from our homes, know your importance. He is stupid, who feels embarrassed by your profession. I will meet him one day and make him understand this.” He was perhaps touched by her mental agony and angered by his son’s insensitive and hypocritical attitude.

I too felt the same about her son, but a thought crawled in my mind. How would have I reacted, if I would be in her son’s position? 

The gentleman

26th Feb.2014

Do you meet some people, whom you want to shut up, as soon as they start speaking? But then, you don’t actually shut them, just because you can’t.  There may be a number of reasons. The person may be elder than you, probably a relative, or he may be a complete stranger, not even talking to you, etc.

In the evening I went to a cyber cafe to fill a form online. I often go there and the owner falls in my age group. As I pushed opened the “not so heavy” glass door and managed myself in, he was busy talking to an acquaintance. I disturbed them by asking the owner for a system. He gave me an acknowledging smile and asked me to use system number 2.

I squeezed myself in the narrow space between the miniature plywood cabins, and by the time I had adjusted myself on the plastic stool, they - the owner and the gentleman- had resumed their conversation. I could not see their faces, but I could clearly listen to them.

The gentleman had come to inquire about the PNR status of a ticket.

Who is coming? The owner asked, to proceed the conversation.

My wife and her parents are coming from Bihar. Actually, since the time we got married, she has only spent six months here. There was some chore to be completed back home. Sometimes there is a marriage ceremony in either family to attend, then there were her exams, and you know how it is. So finally she is coming now. The gentleman gave the detailed information.

How long have you been married? The owner asked again.

I am married for two years now. You know something; I have always asked my wife to be modern. To learn the city way of life. I tell her, that if tomorrow you have a daughter, she will be a part of this society. She will think modern, I can adjust with her, but what will you do? How will you accompany her to school meetings and social gatherings? Do you know what she says? She says, “That on such occasions I should send my girl friend to accompany my daughter”.

The gentleman and the owner remained silent for few seconds, before the gentleman started again, “You know, whatever my wife says, this whole girl friend stuff. It’s easier said than done. Tomorrow if I send my girl friend with my daughter, my wife will writhe in jealousy. It’s not practical man.”

Absolutely. This is not practical. The owner jumped in with enthusiasm and supported him.

The gentle man and the owner remained mum for few moments, and the gentle man started again, “This time I will make her join a personality development course.  At least she will learn something. You know, my girl friend is very bold. Let me tell you an incident. On Rajiv Chowk metro station, someone touched her in the crowd and she started fighting with that man. And that man was so nervous and scared. She is very bold.”

The gentleman reinforced his girl friend’s boldness and paused for a while as the owner got busy with a customer. Once the owner became free, the gentleman started once again. “Actually my girl friend has been working in Delhi for the past four years. She travels alone to places, and I want my wife to be like her.”

By this time it had been 15 minutes in that cramped, closed and congested place listening to the gentleman. I had successfully submitted my application and got up to leave the place. As I waited on the counter for the owner to return the change, my eyes met with the gentleman’s, and I felt like laughing out loud, but I just managed a smile.

Sparrows & mobiles.

20^th Dec. 2013

From my childhood, through adolescent till now, the roof had always been my favorite place in my house. Counting from, my lonely personal moments, to numerous gathering and friendly gossips and endless sittings with my family, I had loved it because it gave me my own sunsets and own dawns.

The roofs of the five houses, I had lived in Patna, the roof of my school, the roofs of my college hostels. One life, different shades and multiple memories.

In my last two years in Delhi, I had stayed in a building, where the entry to the roof, had all its rights reserved with the landlord. Be it any weather in Delhi, I had always craved for my favorite place in the house. Goaded by the confinements of the four walls, I craved for the warm, mellow sunlight in winters, for the soothing, cool night in summers and for getting drenched in the rains.

On the 1^st of this month, I have shifted to this one room set. I was glad, because the roof was open for all here. After lunch, I went upstairs and as I opened the door to the roof, I found myself on a small 10ft*20ft open space. –yup, the room is small, but the tenant’s heart is large.- a substantial part of the roof was occupied by four 500l water tanks, which made the roof even smaller.

The small size of the roof didn't disappoint me. The fresh air and open space welcomed me. I accepted it with a deep breath, and looked around. The afternoon sun was smiling and there was a presence of mist in the air. In-numerous concrete structures dotted the canvas till the horizon, which was blurred by hazed visibility.

The presence of hundreds of BTS towers (mobile towers), jutting out on the roofs, appeared like big cactus plants in the concrete jungle. There was one tower for almost 10 houses, sustaining the burden of millions of mobile phones in operating.

I had read it somewhere, that, all the sparrows in Delhi have died because of the hazardous radiations from these towers. How many of them had been here? Millions or more than that? These small creatures, flying freely, cheering everyone with their melodious chirps, in their own righteous space allotted by nature. Contributing to the ecosystem, through their own little world. So little that, that no one even had the faintest effect, or idea of their disappearance.

They didn't die in ones or two, dozens or hundreds, but every one of them, the whole specie was wiped off. Do we all carry a portion of this sin, of making a creature of nature extinct? Has every mobile phone, the lives of few sparrows locked in it? With future technologies to come, and human race growing more self-centered, how many creatures on earth are going to be erased?

With the warm sunlight, infusing a gradual laziness in me, I was lost in these random thoughts that my mobile rang. The ringing mobile nudged me back and I kept staring at it. With the press of a button, will I be responsible for any death? I thought, and received the call

  

the village

7th Jan 2014

Sometimes, the memories long gone, appear to meet you someday, suddenly. The day lost in years, moves vividly in front of you. As if driven by an occult power.  Today was one such day.

The day which appeared in front of me was my friend’s wedding. The barat was to go from Jharkhand to Bihar. Some ten years ago, there would be no “and” required. But thanks to these honest politicians and their politics, no one knows how many “ands” are waiting?

We were four of us, in car. We were almost 50 kilometers away from the interstate border, when we stopped at a small rickety eatery. All of us needed a nature break.

 By the time we had relieved our self, and lit some cigarettes, we decided to have a look around, just out of curiosity.  There was small village nearby, which started some 50mts from the eatery.

With the mid June sun sweltering, the slanting rays hit the face directly. As we entered the village, the first thing which struck my mind, the first feeling, was the stark contrast between me and the surrounding.

The lane we had entered had not a single piece of stone or brick. It was only the ground under our feet. The ground layered with a layer of dust and a small plume of dust formed as we put our feet forward. No one was as dressed as we were. Even the women had greater portion of their bodies uncovered than us. They were sitting in the shade of their mud houses, some of them busy with their infants. Malnourished kids of all ages, were ubiquitous on the street.

It was as if I were a foreigner for them. And we also behaved like one. All of us had taken our mobile phones and, and got something to capture. May be something different and unusual for facebook. They all looked at us with excitement, and curiosity. I also tried talking to the kids, but many of them didn’t speak. Few tried and exhibited their smartness. They spoke to us, trying to speak in “shudh hindi”.

The next thing which came to my mind, was, I had hardly seen any adult male till now. Surprised I asked one of the kids, who was talking, about this absence.

All of them have gone out. Surat, Dilli, Kalkatta.

Hmmm.. I agreed and asked, “ isn't there anyone?”

There are some, but they are in the fields. He answered promptly.

Do you have shop here? I inquired, because we were short of water.

The eater is the only shop. Otherwise there is a haat on Friday. He informed me. I asked someone to click a snap of our’s. The chap and me.

When we were back at the same eatery, I asked him if we could get some drinking water? If possible a bottled one.

The only drinking water is in the pitcher, and I can only give you a mug of it. He answered apologetically.

Why? Why do you say that? I asked with a concern.

There are four wells in the village out of which three have dried up. There is pond which has dried up too. The whole village has a single well to depend upon. Everyone is eking out water from the same well, but we don’t know how long this modicum supply last? Few kilometers away there is a big pond, which still has some water stuck to its base. But that can be used only by animals. We have to take our cattle daily, there, to keep them alive. We don’t know, when the rain will come. Stoically he finished and glanced up at the sky.

My thirst and the need for water vanished by the time he finished. And guilt took me over. The way I had treated the village, the feeling of being a foreigner, appeared cruel and hypocrisy reeked out of it. But would I have made any difference to it, had I not behaved as such. How should I have treated it?

this poem is about the village from the villager.

तिनका तिनका, बिखरा हुआ घोंसला.
ज़मीं पर बिखरे हुए पंख.
ठन-ठन, सूखा तालाब.
तलहटी मे फटी दरार.
ये गाँव है मेरा,
और हम इसके गँवार.
टुकूर-टुकूर देखती हुई माँ,
रोते-बिलखते, लुढ़कते बच्चे.
उजड़ा, फूंस का झोपड़ा,
जिसमे, टूटे बर्तन है दो-चार .
ये गाँव है मेरा,
और ये इसका परिवार.
धू-धू कर, जलती हुई दोपहरी,
कुछ जूझते हुए लोग.
फटे, टाट की दुकानों में,
बिकता है नून-अचार.
ये गाँव है मेरा,
और ये इसका बाजार.

Rajdhani & the monkey's herd

On the roof of Indian Coffee House, oblivious of the noise and chaotic run on the road, he was quite and relaxed. He looked at the beautiful orange sun, growing darker every moment, turning into deep Red. His eyes peered at the glowing balll, going down every moment, through multiple branches full of colorless leaves, of the peepal tree, which was on the western corner of the building.

He was lost in his own thoughts, that a group of monkeys –two adults and two babies appeared, running and demonstrating their acrobatic mastery. Few persons sitting close to them flinched and hesitated. But the group, without giving a care for the people, started eating the bits of food scattered on the floor.

He turned his attention at this sudden invasion and looked at them carefully. The way, they were picking the fallen pieces of the food from their almost human hands. They must have roamed carelessly for about ten minutes, that the waiter chased them away, using a stick to scare them.

That morning at Guwahati junction, some ten years back, flashed back to his mind. He had gone there to appear for his engineering entrance examination. He had stayed in an army cantonment, where his elder brother was posted. That morning he had to leave for Patna.

It had rained all night, and the drizzle continued till the morning. The sky was clear, and Guwahati, surrounded by mountains covered with greenery, looked a glittering landscape. Everything bright and clear.

But as soon as he stepped down from the army bus, he felt if everything was defiled. The road was covered with a filthy blanket of mud and the footpath was filled with stinky drain water. As he carefully made his way towards the entry gate, he saw some railway sweepers, disposing off hundreds of plastic plates smeared with leftovers, in an open field.

Just like these monkeys, a group of semi clad men and women, accompanied by some emancipated children, appeared from nowhere. They entered the field and started collecting the leftovers, stuck to the plates.

Seems Rajdhani has arrived. His elder brother said.

Why? How do you say this? He enquired with genuine innocence.

Whenever Rajdhani arrives, these people come here to collect the food from these plates. His brother replied.

AK-47 & Bihar

26^th dec. 2013

Mikhail Klashinokov, the man behind the birth of Klashinokov series rifles died today at the age of 94. After fighting in the Second World War, he designed the AK 47 rifle, which has killed more humans than any other firearm in the world, till date. AK standing for Automat Klashinokov. However the man himself didn't get a single penny as royalty for his deadly design, as he didn't apply for patent rights.

All over the world, millions of these perilous, death firing machines are in action. In the villages of Bihar, where there might not even be the basic amenities available for the citizens, but these highly sophisticated, lethal and expensive machines have got hands, using them with ruthless proficiency.

There must be someone, some syndicate, or mafia, which is marketing death and terror, in the land of Buddha and Mahavira. They may have better action plan than the government, or the government and the machinery have failed completely? They may even have vested interests in this failure.

 But the question is, why have we created such hands, which cater death to their own people? Who, and what, is responsible for such an environment? Is only the government to be blamed, or equal proportion of onus lies on the citizens too? Is it poverty, illiteracy, caste, regional or religious conflicts, or are all these spiraled into one?

But the real problem seems to be our stupidity, if I bluntly say. Those of us who have not got the privilege of education, can decide to vote for someone on the basis of caste, creed and may be for bottle of cheap liquor and some hundred rupees. But the educated mass of the society too, seems to forget everything and elect anybody keeping only the caste factor in mind.

Hasn't the time come, when we should choose someone, who can create a better machinery to change the environment, to make a better society, “Where the head is held high, and the mind is without fear”.