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?