The night before Holi

The loud speakers blared with Bollywood music. You know, the "hits" and the "chartbuster" type remixes, ones that end up making more money than what the original films do. They were interspersed with some Marathi tracks as well, the very popular ones, and some which were rip-offs of certain Bollywood remixes.  Such musical...extravaganzas are a regular feature in these parts, especially on occasions like elections, Ganesh pandals, birthday parties of some politician's kids- a memorable evening and some good entertainment, I suppose...for some votes in return, of course. As if that's a crime? Not in these parts, at least. 

Tonight's occasion is Holi – the festival of colours. 

For a large portion of my life, Holi was a favourite festival; the community coming together, visiting relatives, colouring their faces, and painfully scrubbing the colours off your skin (and hoping that you wouldn't have to use kerosene, or ghazlet, as they call it here). It was a perfect getaway from the mundane routines of life; to freak out, as one might aptly describe it. 

Obviously, playing with colours was more exciting than the bonfire. Nonetheless, I tried not missing the bonfire. The uncles in the neighbourhood collected dried coconut leaves and branches, and would try to make the pile more aesthetically pleasing; once, they'd even put an effigy of Holika. They were often helped by their kids, who tried juggling duties with a game of tag, and later, cricket. 

The next day was battleground for us: me and a few friends would take on our neighbours' kids in what we called the ''Holi Wars''; we'd prepare our arsenal weeks in advance, and fortify our 'base camp'. Water balloons became grenades, and the pichkari a sub-machine gun. People who came out dressed were never spared; I mean, who in their right mind goes out dressed on Holi?

I don't think we ever won; we often got outnumbered four against one. But, that was the closest I got to being John Rambo, with the war paint on face and all.

Today, those kids I played with are some politician’s workforce; they still set up the bonfire with their fathers and uncles, but the political undertones aren't as subtle as they once were; or perhaps, I’m now old enough to understand that. 

We’re not friends now; more so acquaintances- flashing a smile when I meet them on the street, or when they come over with a signature petition for some cause- coexisting peacefully on the same street, and neighbourhood. 

The friend I used to play with became a pain-in-the-neck, obsessed with money, pubs and high-end cell phones; I haven’t heard from the second guy for over seven years. Don’t know if he’s a politician’s right-hand or a tech-geek; though, I’d prefer the latter.

Needless to say, on this particular night I wanted to avoid the noise, and all my old friends. 

I found myself in a different neighbourhood, a quieter one. I haven't been to these parts in ages. A few kids ran past me, spraying water on each other, laughing. They probably had exams the next day, but heck, like that ever stopped kids?

Their fathers and uncles were stacking dried leaves and branches on the bonfire; they could aptly be described as merry and happy. Their mothers and grandmothers, not wanting to miss out any of the fun, were outdoors too. Just the way a community is supposed to be, almost like one of those serials they air on SAB TV.

I couldn't see any political hoardings, however, which were rather conspicuous by their absence. No fancy registration-plates claiming political allegiances either. Just people who value this event, and share it with   each another and their children. 

I walked on, thinking, 'how would Prahlad feel about his bonfire being lit by some corrupt politician?' But for a moment there, I forgot that's what his father was, wasn't he? A corrupt demon-king, ultimately slayed by the forces of good?
Holi, as we wrote in essays, symbolized the victory of good over evil, and all sorts of idealistic nonsense. I think it's an excuse for people with power (and lots of money) to throw lavish gatherings...I don't visit my relatives, who'd want to ruin a good holiday? 

Those neighbours still play Holi, or maybe they don't. I haven't noticed really; guess they're all mature now and think it naive to be nostalgic. I'd agree on that. 

Call it a cliche, but times change and so do people, for the better or for worse; that's not for me to decide. They do, occasionally enjoy a game of cricket, albeit with swearing and profane references. 

Maybe, I'm too judgmental on them. Or perhaps, a tad bit cynical. 

Ah, the loud music again- 'Sheila ki jawani' this time; how appropriate. I just hope they keep to the 10 pm deadline. As if I care; I'd probably shut the windows, and watch a movie, get up late in the morning, and laze around a bit more.

I mean, who in their right minds goes out dressed on Holi?

Old times, forgotten places

Being indoors was killing me. I'm not usually an outdoorsy-adventurous kind of person; but I like my share of hiking, football, walks and travelling (more so commuting). So, after three days of studying efforts, I decided it has high time I took a little walk, nothing too fancy; just around the neighbourhood.

It's a funny world we live in. Normally, I'm a bit of a social recluse, preferring to be out when people arrive, and being in when the rest of the clan pushes off to someplace. But, while walking down the road in front of my house, I felt there was a method to my madness.

Eight-thirty in the night is not exactly a respectable time for an evening walk, especially in respectable neighbourhoods.

It was a Monday night, so as it stands to reason, most of the people were tired after a hard day's work. The houses were quiet, with the permissible TV, of course; switching between news and soap-operas. Even the strays seemed tired. Maybe, I thought, that was the mass mood; or perhaps, it was the caffeine in my system.

I took a turn and entered a cul de sac, the alley obstructed by trees and foliage, with a 50 foot drop beyond that. Thankfully, there was a streetlight.

An old man lived there, many years back; and died there too. I don't remember what his name was, but he had a dog, a ferocious one. Bingo, I think his name was. Yes, I was afraid  to cycle here; almost got bitten once. The house still existed, now consumed by dust and trees and reptiles; nature claiming what was once it’s.

Poor Bingo. I wonder what happened to that ferocious son-of-a-bitch.

The street parallel to ours had changed. A lot.

I could see at least three new buildings, one housed a coaching class; but there was a building, which is as old as I am; probably older. A constant in a changing world.

I walked further.

I had a friend who lived there once, nice chap. He lived with his grandmother and cousins, in a lovely bungalow; my mother once said it was very Goan. Yes, even I thought so.

We friends used to climb over the walls, enter the neighbouring buildings; it was our sport, a retreat. Sort of like a Quest World, you know. We used to get yelled at, barked at; once chased, too. But heck. We were kids. That's what kids were supposed to do.

Today a lavish building complex stood there, still under construction, right where the Goan bungalow once stood. Not even a coconut tree remained. So much for a Goan experience, I suppose.

Where he and his family are right now, I don't know. Until this moment, I don't think I even cared.

They're probably at a congested flat somewhere in Thane, or a MHADA colony. Or, if fortunate, a Goan bungalow somewhere in the outskirts of Bombay; I mean, further away from where I am right now.

The walls of the buildings were there where used to be. My hands itched, I could feel the cement scraping under my palms, the heavy breathing, the sweaty clothes. And the people yelling behind us. Just a little hop and a skip, that's all. No chance; the walls have been raised and now have barbed wire fences. A classic case of ''good fences make good neighbours'' I guess.

Besides, I'd probably end up spooking an old couple. Not cool.

A motorbike entered the alley, and a man disembarked. I could hear the sound of the TV from his humble chawl-like house; a 70s Amitabh Bachchan film, I think.

God, they still air those movies? And people still watch them?

He was looking at me rather suspiciously. I didn't know him; he is new around here, maybe. That's why I think he didn't know me. Oh, damn. How will he? Where do I ever socialize?

He was still suspicious. Darn, I know why: there was a spate of break-in attempts here a few weeks back. A teenager in a black shirt and jeans, unshaven: a likely suspect on a reconnaissance mission. It’s weird how they suspect good people in their neighbourhoods.

Then again, I don't quite fit the bill of a good 'neighbour' now, do I?

I quickened my pace and left for home. No point in spooking people. Last thing they (and I) want is to raise an alarm, only to discover a loner minding his business, at nine in the night. Right.

Ah, home. Dinner was ready, but I wasn't hungry. Just thought of a blog post. I entered the gate, the strays gave a warm and welcoming look, the first one in the last half hour. I latched the gates and checked the locks once again.

Good fences, after all, make good neighbours, don't they?

All For The Gold

The sound of drum beats came as a surprise. 

The compartment was moderately full, about a dozen and a half people or more; a few standing. They, too, were a little surprised to hear the drums. When you travel in local trains for a considerable portion of your life, the sound of drums usually indicates one very certain possibility—beggars.  

And quite certainly it was one; a child. They come in various sizes, you see. This particular girl, all of 6 or 7 years, was a performer. And, yes, they come in various specializations, too; singers, dancers, performers and other kinds. 

In a swift motion, she somersaulted in the narrow passage-way; forward, then backward again. Then, twisting her arms, almost like she dislocated it (which I think, she probably did), she spun it around the entire length of her little, frail body; like a skipping rope (remember King Louis, from The Jungle Book?). If there weren't people sitting, she'd probably have done a horse bar, or parallel rings type of stunt-thingy, all in the moving train, mind you. Then of course, came the inevitable—alms. 

I honestly felt sorry for her. A girl of her age could probably put our national gymnastics team to shame, with only street-level training. And there she was, displaying her skills on a local train, begging for alms; where she could very well be India's next gold medallist.

The socio-economic disparity between two people in our country is so wide, almost like a chasm; which unfortunately secures an unjust system too. As I sat in a very comfortable first-class compartment, this realization dawned on me, like it had several times before. But this girl’s story wasn’t about missed opportunities; she obviously didn’t have any. This issue goes much deeper than that.

In the 1980s, when Mrs Indira Gandhi was the Prime Minister, the Sports Ministry came up with the idea of tapping into these talent pools of street performers, circus gymnasts and the likes. There would be benefits for them, training and, well, better chances for India in international events. It is a known fact that several East European nations, like Romania, enroll their children, particularly girls, into gymnastic schools as soon as they learn walking. The intensive training and hard work pays off; two Gold medals in the Olympics and the family’s future would be more or less secure. 

Why did this initiative fail in India?

Come now, I think the answer actually is quite obvious. Bureaucracy.

I think it is extremely stupid that the bureaucracy has so much of a say in the field of sports. Not that I have a problem against it in other walks of life. For one, how on earth can these guys possibly think that they can run the show in sports? You see more officials on the Indian contingent than athletes. I mean, forget transparency and accountability, is it too much to ask for a little decency? 

Knowing these guys, that probably amounts to more than the entire universe. That’s why bribes suffice. And that is why only those who can pay rise to the visible level in national sporting, only to disappear because of lack of training (and in many cases, talent).

One solution is to privatize the sports sector. This is a possible option, especially after the CWG debacle, and the fact that our present athletes (not sports-persons, like cricketers and hockey players) receive pathetic training, poor allowances and no respect. 

I mean, the government would be only too happy to wash its hands off a responsibility; not that I mean this in negative sense. Skilled athletes would do the nation proud, wouldn't they? 

We, as spectators, would be happy; the young children, like the girl in the train, and their families would have a chance to be happy, and well off, while making their country proud at the same time.

What I say here is not an optimistic future that I personally envisage; this is a possibility, and this can work out. And like all problems, this requires rational thought, and most of all, political will.

Political will? I guess, now you could call me a naive optimist.

As for the bureaucrats, I'm pretty sure they'll find some other victim to fleece. Hmm, they should try making that into a sport, right? A bronze for a fraud that’s under ten lacs; silver for ten crores. And a gold for a scam above one lakh crore.

Then, I can be positive that the gold will indeed be ours.

The Village Fair

The station road usually remains calm, quiet and somewhat deserted for most of the day; filled with the sound of scattering feet and hushed (or at times, loud) voices during the morning and evening peak hours. Today, however, while walking down the very same road, I thought I'd taken a wrong turn. I looked around, past the crowds (teeming crowds, actually), and apparently, I was still at the station road; the annual 'jatra' or fair had begun—and as it has been for so many years, it was set up at the station road.

The earliest memories I have of the 'jatra' are the ones when I was about seven or eight years old. The 'jatra', or as we preferred calling it 'mela', translated into excitement; we were excited to ride on the carousels, the toy-train, the 'Dragon Boat', a host of other rattly rides; and cheap toys, of course, were a perennial attraction. A personal favourite of our's was the shooting arena. 'Arena' here is a very sophisticated term; in actuality, it was a small stall/kiosk, with many balloons stuck to a canvas and a rattly air-soft rifle to shoot with. When the target's three feet away, and when there's so many of them, accuracy is rather inevitable. But for my seven year old self, hitting a 'bullseye' within three shots (for five rupees, each) was quite an achievement.

Well, now in the present, the 'mela' has still retained its nostalgic charm; replete with the shooting 'arena', and many other small little shops, stalls, kiosks etc. I was here, neither with the intention of visiting the fair, nor for reliving the past; I had some important work. What it was, I'd forgotten for the full minute I stood there, just looking around; the colours, the noise, the voices...

"Three chances for ten rupees!" 

"Necklaces! Bangles! And all kinds of jewelry! Starts at rupees thirty!" 

"Come, see the Magic Show! Tickets for twenty rupees!"

Oh, things have become expensive. But, like always, the fair manages to remain affordable to the common-man.

Another voice distracted my attention; it was a woman's and I'm pretty sure it was a Marathi swear word...something about a pick-pocket. Instinctively, my hand reached my back pocket; yes, it had a bulge; the wallet is safe. I might have to keep walking this way. 

So what? One can't be too safe these days, can they? 

Whether it's the streets of Bruges, or the subway in New York or London, or a fair in some obscure Indian village, there are several 'cultural universals'; the way people behave in groups, religion, faith, prayer, and yes, as this case illustrates, pick-pockets, too.

While walking in a 'mela', it is nigh impossible to resist the temptation of the sheer variety of food on display; from hot, crispy bhajiyas, vada-pavs, to fresh jalebis and many, many other sweet-meats, of various sizes, shapes, colours...and names I haven't even heard of! I vaguely remember tasting some as a child—after my dad convinced me; and in spite of my initial scepticism, I think I'd enjoyed eating them too. Though I confess, I'm not too sure now; maybe, if I finally manage to learn what sweet is what.

As the sunlight faded, the artificial lights lit up the streets, the noise got louder, and the streets got worse, with the public spilling out on the roads, (well, whatever was left of it for motorists to use); Bollywood, it seems, never loses its charm. Somewhere, I heard a Hannah Montana song playing; after a closer look (yes, I was just curious) I realized it's a jingle from some kind of a guitar toy; pink, of course. Also, I could see lots of Spider-man stuff, Ben-10 and Transform-Robots. I won't say that I was cynically amused, because I wasn't; it's just that, globalization has reached well beyond the proverbial shores...and I, for one, am not really complaining.

On my way back (unfortunately, the work I set out for remained unaccomplished) I noticed a lady, presumably on what seemed like a tattoo stall (it was actually a plastic sheet she was sitting on, with xeroxed copies of many designs, and a tattoo machine). She looked at me, flexed her flabby, wrinkled biceps and pointed at one of the photos; a dragon, I think it was. I smiled, shook my head, and resumed walking.

From the sky-walk, I could see the carousels, the giant wheel and the 'Dragon Boat.' I felt a slight nudge against my shoulder; in my mind, almost subconsciously, I heard a woman swearing in Marathi...'pick-pocket'. I felt the bulge in my back pocket; yes, wallet's still there.

One can't be too careful these days, can they?

The Noble Profession

The classrooms across the city and many of its suburbs are set to wear a deserted look. The children, for one, aren't really complaining. Their teachers, on the other hand, are; not complaining, exactly, but are voicing their concerns over the impending census duty. And, they have every right to protest this "national duty", as I shall discuss it in detail in this essay.

For those who're unaware (yes, I believe there are quite a few), the Census of India takes place every 10 years, to not only gauge the increase in the total population, but to also note the changes in the standard of living, birth rate, family patterns etc. And to carry out this mammoth task, the Government of India and the Census Board delegates this work to the local municipal bodies--in over six hundred districts throughout the country--who in turn employ, or rather enlist the services of civic employees, school teachers etc.

So far so good, right? I mean, this is a duty of national significance and not to mention, of great magnitude. And it is the job of government employees to aid the Government in any such undertaking. This is precisely where the authorities make a mistake.

Enlisting civic body employees is not restricted to a handful of them, being sent to every god-forsaken corner of their respective wards; it usually requires a great percentage of the work force to engage in enumeration, often as high as 60-70% of a municipality's full workforce. To add to it, the teachers, in both aided and non-aided schools are roped in for enumeration. This is not the first instance where teachers are compulsorily roped in for such activities--election duty during the Lok Sabha, State elections as well as the municipality are extremely common, and are, at times, carried out for three years in succession. 

So, who bears the brunt of these "national duties"? The students? Yes, of course; but they're not complaining. Nor are they directly facing any of these hardships, other than perhaps a significant delay in the completion of their syllabus. It's the teachers who're directly, and most affected by such "duties". 

In any democratic nation, people's participation in such processes strengthens democracy, firstly; and then, the people as responsible citizens. But, by what right does a democratic nation 'compel' its people to perform such duties? The very fact of the country being a 'democracy', and the 'compulsion' it has on its people is a paradox. But for the government, these duties are 'justified', as they do not consider 'teaching' a valuable profession; all this as India is on the threshold of implementing much-needed reforms in education, including the Right to Education. 

The potential of any nation is calculated by the quality of its youth, more so, the students, especially in primary and secondary school. And the quality of these crucial school years is directly related to the quality of teaching. The point is: reforms in the education sector are incomplete without key policies affecting teachers' well-being. Many, like the government, are of the opinion that teaching is not a challenging, or a productive profession. Such misguided, and callous, remarks sadly illustrate the real 'illiteracy' prevalent in India. 

With extracurricular duties, like Census enumeration and election duty, both private and public schools teachers are diverted from their school duties, and are even threatened with heavy fines and possible incarceration. The teaching force, thus is stressed from both ends; on one side, they have their official responsibilities in schools, catering to over 60-70 children in each class, along with examinations; on another side, they're coerced into doing these 'national duties'- often during the academic year or even the vacation--whatever little they get. 

I have seen first hand what many teachers (and other enumerators) have to go through, each having to visit about 140-150 households; in one area if lucky, or worse, spread out. Then, there's the language barrier. It's funny how a 'national duty' has its forms printed in the regional language, and requests for these forms in English, or even in Hindi, is laughed off like a humourless joke. To add to their woes, the public who're being enumerated have absolutely no clue about the dates of birth of their spouses, parents etc. and are often very hostile and uncooperative. Even worse is that teachers are paid a pittance, if they're paid at all, that is.

All in the name of national duty.

What I fail to understand is: why doesn't the government employ people, who are currently unemployed, registered in the Employment Exchanges, and, in many cases, are adequately qualified. I often resort to cynicism because of such stark paradoxes: a group of professionals being overburdened, unnecessarily while another group stays unemployed. This is democratic India, I suppose. 

One might say I'm motivated by a personal agenda; my mother's a teacher in a local private school. To that, I say: yes, I am. I know what a teacher has to go through even in regular academic years. Added to that are these duties, and of course, lack of motivation and proper work conditions are a constant issue.

So, is there a solution to this? As always, there is a solution. All that the government and administrative bodies/agencies need is a little creativity, some sensitivity and most importantly, the political will to implement reforms meaningfully for them to make maximum impact. 

Until then, I guess, teaching will remain the "noble" profession that it always has been, in this great nation of ours.

New year, new beginnings. And the same old story

The year's almost come to an end, just seven hours left, to be precise.
Some are getting ready for parties, dinners, night-outs and all the things that people like you and I would like to do on a night so special. It's all perfectly normal.

So, is there a catch? Sadly, if you might say so, there is. There is always a catch.
Of course, this year has been great for so many of us, and for others, not that great. Well, good, bad, and shades of grey apart, the point is, we're so quick to dismiss out misfortunes in the hope of a better tomorrow. Then again, hope is something we all cherish, no matter how dark the times; it gives us a sense of reason, destroys the futility of life, makes us believe that there is a tomorrow, and that it is gonna be better than today, or perhaps yesterday. All that's perfectly normal. I mean, even I allow myself that little bit of delusion.

What I have a problem with is the fact that we can never fully come to understand and respect the 'tomorrow', or in today's very special case, 'the new year'.

'End of the World in 2012 Conspiracy' apart, there's a lot that we're just forgetting. Not on purpose; that would be understandable. But by sheer, shameless neglect.
Am I cynical? Of course, I am. You can appreciate the fineness of life only after criticizing and demeaning it.

For example, resolutions. There is no bigger lie on earth that we've invented than New Year Resolutions. It's just to make ourselves feel better (yes, that includes me, too. No matter how much I try, I am human). We feel better for all that we haven't done, and for all that we're not going to do.
Moralistic reasoning apart, some resolutions do work out. Not because it has the auspicious stamp of a 'new year', but for the simple fact that it's a change we accept. We might lose those extra kilos, we might ask the person we like out, we might become super successful, super rich, super intelligent and class toppers. But the truth remains, the world will still be a lousy place. Of course, we'll be liberated from that mess; now that's for someone else to resolve, isn't it?
Sadly, they never quite do get resolved.

Personally, I don't dwell on the past. Nostalgia is one thing; keeping the past half alive, quite another. Actually, the correct phrase is, 'burying the past alive'. Brutally, and in cold-blood.
So, call me cynical or whatever you may, I think you're all murderers. You got away with the murder of your past, and will get away after you murder the future.
People you never cared for, people who receive your mocked pity, they're all buried alive, like the past. Forgotten, uncared for and simply silenced.
That's the price of a 'better' tomorrow. That's the price of your mawkish fantasies.
You can make it stop. Yes, you can. But whether or not you will, now, that is an entirely different question, is it not? The one, perhaps, you may not want to answer.

Well, anyway, happy new year! And have a fantastic 2011!

Those Who (Think They) Know Better

So, I met a friend of mine this morning. Well, he’s not actually a ‘friend’, just some dude who was with me in school. You know, another one of those, ‘oh-I-can-get-anything-done’ types.

So, the conversation goes like this:

Him: So, what’re you doing these days?

Me: I’m doing my BA from St Xavier’s.

Him: What? Why do you have to go that far?! I could get your admission done here in Ulhasnagar!

Me: Um, what makes you think I wanna go to Ulhasnagar?

Him: Arrey! It’s not worth it going that far! That too for a BA! So, what’re you doing after that?

Me: Planning to do an MA.

Him: What!? You wanna become a teacher or what?

Me: Yeah. (He gives a stupefied look; actually, he looks that way, but this was more pronounced) So, what are you doing?

Him: Law, I couldn’t get into computer science.

Me: Great…so, now you’re gonna be attesting documents in front of Esplanade?

Well, I didn’t exactly saw those lines (what! it’s rude, right?) Nevertheless, I meant every word of it. 

I’m pretty sure you guys must’ve met characters like this friend of mine at some point in your life; be it a friend, a cousin, uncle, aunt or even some random acquaintance in the train (yes, even that has happened to me. This particular person tried convincing me to do an MBA then get into finance, ‘cause marketing is ‘too hectic’).

And I am also sure that they’ve managed to test your patience time and again. They never seem to understand, do they? I call this, the ‘I-know-better’ syndrome’ (for the lack of a better name).

These people, as my observations go, are a given in societies. You see them in communities, trains (in plenty, mind you), and among any social group. As irritating as they are, they manage to serve a purpose: annoy you (ok, not a scientific conclusion), and give you a lot to think about. Primarily, the notion that first comes to your mind is: ‘God, I hope I don’t turn out like them.’

They boast about their contacts, relatives, and Heaven knows someone from somewhere, while they, themselves, are stuck in the mediocrities of life. Yes, sometimes I do feel like pitying them, not exactly pity, sorry; but, just sympathize. For all their contacts, they never could make things ok for themselves. Or, perhaps, it’s because of these very contacts that they are where they are—and not on a level worse than that. Because, God help me (and them) if they were.