BABA, Black Sheep!

Since times immemorial (quite literally) relevance of the Gurus has been immense in the Indian society. Not particular to any specific religion, this tribe has been assigned different names across different sects.

The present day self-styled godmen have taken failure of the concept of “guru-chela” to just another level. Right from Asaram- the pyaare bapuji to engineer-turned-religious-terrorist Rampal, they have failed not only their followers but caused a dent on the very idea of the religious and spiritual guidance.

Controversial guru Rampal 

The drama that unfolded in Barwala was nothing short of a war zone. It was hard to believe that the massive Satram ashram was earlier used for religious purposes (read Satsangs). This Kabirpanthi Sect head Rampal managed to captivate people when he is a murder accused. Right under the nose of the government, he built his own equipped-private army. It has also been alleged that the godman owns not just land but also luxury cars-Mercs and BMW’s.

Its not rocket science to understand the real role of a guru- show the right path and lead by example. If one takes in consideration the violent scenes outside the ashram on Tuesday, it talks a lot about the character of this baba. According to police, telephonic complaints were registered by people inside the ashram who alleged they were being used as shields to protect Rampal by his commandos.

 If I take Joginder’s word (private security guard) who said and I quote, “Our Guruji had instructed us not to resort to violence, so I stood with folded hands when a police team approached us,” will he explain the gunfire, Molotov cocktails, stones, use of acid and presence of LPG dump on the policemen?  Or, maybe the television was lying.

This devotion when you shut your brain and close your eyes is nothing less than lunacy. As we have complicated our lives, problems have increased, and so we go to such mad men who call them God to seek solace. Two words of mythology, two of spirituality and boom people are swept off their feet. With monetary gifts, they also give away their ability to reason and differentiate between good and bad. What follows is what I think is nothing short of a dictator-sort of rule.

The media also needs to share the blame for an increase in this religious-dictatorship. These self-styled godmen were given crucial space and time. Nirmal Baba was once a hit on some News channels, not too long ago. As a result with questionable credentials, these religious heads become the hypodermic needles and influence the people in a negative manner-we have all seen how.

Love in the time of Railways

Image Source: Google

For a long time (really long) in my life, I had never seen the insides of a train. Totally devoid of the experiences of the world within the world of which I caught a glimpse through the crowded-platforms. Now when I avail the services of the Indian Railways, I am mostly fascinated. Every journey- irrespective of the hours spent in the dabba is distinct. All that remains constant is the set within a set found in the trains.

Continental-seeking: This tribe is pained to witness the phenomenon of missing continental cuisine in the train. And when the railway worker politely laughs the request away, he is taught the history lessons (even i did not get the relation). The worker still keeps the bewildered smile.

Know-it-all: Brace yourselves for this species. "After all they have experienced the world, already" and you still are immature. After evaluating you from your sex to the profession, they do not fail to pass judgments. No, don't dare argue with them or you will have be taught the sacred lessons of morality.

Mom away from home: Almost missed the train and hence no food supplies for the night or you just don't have the appetite! Dont worry in either case iff you are lucky, you will get the food- home cooked poori and aloo ki sabzi. Showering motherly love the aunty won't be able to see your loneliness. Her heart will melt and even if you dont want to, you would have to "accompany" them.

X-Ray machines: Cliché but nothing else would justify their activities. Right from the time you boarded your train to the point their eyes shut because the massive hard work involve, they will scan you. And no, not just the men but women have a busy day at work too.

Phénku: They were created for entertainment, to ensure that you keep half-a-mile smile right through the journey.  They will be full of interesting tales. Tales you have always heard before-just from another pheku. From ghosts to famous people, they have seen them all.

The Nerd: My favorite people. They won't bother anyone. Umm or
maybe they would. But to those only  who want to prematurely doze off . This is because you see they are accompanied by this interesting novel whose suspense-drama has killed their sleep cells ( are there any sleep cells?)

And the last who may or may not be a subset of the above sets is the "in-love" couples! They are still the same: lovey-dovey! Even when the world sleeps, they are busy because of things they best know of!

Haiku 1: Story of the democratic dillema

      The democracy in this country is celebrated with much fanfare. Personally, I feel that the real win-win situation is when the competition is tough. When one has to do brainstorming to choose the leader. 

But, when the quality of the political power-wars feature weak competitors, it reflects bad on the democratic idea of a nation.

 

"They asked the adults,

What would you choose? Us, the bad

or rivals, the worse"

When I questioned myself...

Things in life are divided in two categories. While some are desired, others are loathed. But, fortunately for some and unfortunately for the others, some things in life are complementary. And at that time, we either see the half-empty or the half-filled part , based on our perception or need at that point of time.

Journalism is that one thing in life, at present. When the decision to pursue journalism was taken, it was very well known to me that it would not be a cakewalk. The shift from the desk to reporting as an intern was indeed amazing. But little did I know that an untoward incident would force me to question the career choices I made in my life and the bubble in which I was living would burst, juxtaposing me to the ruthless realities of the society.

A few days earlier…

After working on the assignments during the daytime, I came back to the office to file the stories. By the time the stories were filed, the clock had already breached my curfew timings. In an attempt to not bother my guardians, I decided to avail the service of an auto. I was still some 100 feet away from home when the auto driver dropped me 'safely'.   

Relishing a chocolate-Marie cookie and analyzing events of the day, I  started walking towards home in a carefree manner. Just around 25 feet away from the house, a man stealthily came from behind on a bike, took advantage of the dark place (defunct street lights in a community park!) and snatched my bag. With the bag, he took away everything. From my wallet which had debit cards, identification cards to my prized possession-my gadgets.

The incident shook me from inside. Never before, had I experienced such a terrible thing when the probability of 'anything could have happened to me' was at its peak. The authorities are surely to be blamed for their irresponsible behavior. But the incident posed some questions in front of me.

Its when I questioned myself...

 

Why did this happen?

What if there was a serious assault?

Have I taken the right decision to follow this career?

Can I accept the complementary things that come along with something I cherish?

After days of self introspection and analytical dissection, I am trying to accept the complementary things. The incident has sadly left a deep mark on my mind but then the fact that journey would never be a cakewalk was always known. Maybe this was the way the bubble had to burst. Only time will tell if this was for better or worse!

The enveloped memoirs

   That day was just any other normal day. But, only for me. That day, I was too young to comprehend the real connotation of the cream coloured envelope that had been delivered in person by an elderly man. On a black and gray Hero cycle, the man in khaki carried a cross body bag. The bag was stashed with infinite white, cream and blue coloured envelopes.  Mom told me that the man was called a postman. He had come to deliver my first ever telegram. In an Instant, all the descriptions of the ‘daakiya’ that dwelled in those kindergarten books breathed life.

      This first-ever telegram was special. It carried news about my admission in a prestigious school of the city. Of course, for my parents who had left behind everything in their ancestral village to start afresh in the new city, the telegram was the source of extreme happiness. Time and again, they opened the telegram gently so as to avert any damage to it. They read it and smiled as if it meant the world to them.  After that, many telegrams made their way to my address. While at times it was a circular issued by the school authorities, other times it carried information regarding the insurance policies. Once, in a telegram even a personal informal letter written by an aunt arrived. And there were times when one hoped  that the dreaded telegram announcing the semester result never reaches home. 

   Telegrams had (sadly, past tense) an innate charming effect. Maybe, because of their definite physical form. Or maybe this was due to their connecting factor where the receiver felt much closer to the sender. Some of the times the telegrams were written decorated in ones own handwriting. Such telegrams were even more special. These enumerated stories behind all those letters smudged when the tears would have taken the better of the writer. They were a witness of the happy and the sad expressions.

     I remember once writing such a telegram addressed to my bua (paternal aunt). With the help of newly learnt English words in school, I constructed complex sentences in which I thanked her for loving me more than her own kids. And then, with the help of ‘her own kids’, I telegrammed the letter to the adjacent room. Her reaction is still etched in my memory. With the lips giving a proud smile, the teary-eyes exhibited a paradox. Such was the beauty of a simple yet powerful emotion- evoking thing called a telegram!

Cut to the present.

   The fact that the telegrams are a thing of past saddens me. The government of our country after acknowledging the dominance of the internet plus its easy accessibility and utility decided to call it a day for the telegrams. With easy features available at our ‘computer-step’ like email and instant messaging, telegrams were pigeonholed. The timing of the decision was bad. While my first ever admission letter came through the telegram, I was looking forward to the admission letter from my postgraduate institution through the same cream coloured telegram. Sadly, it never happened. Only a general list on the internet gave me the news. The online list didn’t mean anything, both then and now. The online version deprived me of the pleasure to see the personalised account of the admission letter in my dream institution. It took away a possible piece of cherished memory from my down-the-memory-lane box.

    How much ever personalisation and user friendly interface of online messenger is made, according to me the simple joys attached with a telegram can never be replaced and the memories attached with it can never be replicated. Like many things, with an end of the telegrams another snap with the childhood of 90’s has been broken forever.

Why the bias?

     Sometimes when we delve deeper into even the most normal daily event, we are left intrigued by the intricacies of it. Since times immemorial, I have always been a ‘public transport’ aficionado. Hence, when it was time to traverse distance between distance between my office and home, I chose to avail the services of ‘shared autos’. Shared autos because ‘special autos’ have the maximum potential of forcing one to use the expression I-am-broke frequently.

   Just another day, I took an auto to the office. Since it was a shared auto, the driver was halting his vehicle after every minute in order to find passengers for his trip. After failed attempts to convince passengers to travel in his auto, he finally found two prospective passengers, a girl and a boy. After confirming their destination, the driver announced the amount he was to charge both of them for their journey. But, both the girl who was holding a red and white box of Domino’s pizza and the boy didn’t seem happy. You ask why?

Because they were of the opinion that the driver was charging them ‘too much’ for their 'only'10-km journey! While the auto wallah after intense negotiation came down to 15 rupees from 20 rupees, they wanted to pay only 10 rupees. Even after the driver kept convincing them that he wasn’t overcharging, they refused to agree. And owing to their disappointment with the driver due to 5 rupee margin, they left.

I am sure this is a story relate-able to many of us. On one side sometimes we can happily buy a pizza which ranges from anywhere between 300-700, on the other side we simply refuse to pay that extra remuneration to a needy daily wager whose whole family might depend on him for survival which it rightly deserves. I ask why such an indifferent attitude? Why the bias?

Because it’s only about an ordinary daily wager!

Because unlike Dominos (or any other brand), its prices are bargain-able!

Because helping a brand economically >>> doing your bit to improve the living standard!

In a lecture few years back while studying the economic disparities in the developing countries, my professor had raised similar issue. She rightly pointed that when we do not hesitate to spend money on high-end brands which we know are many a time overpriced, we should in the same manner not hesitate to pay if not extra, then justified amount to these auto wallahs and rickshaw wallahs. Some might argue that how can a little extra remuneration benefit this community. But I am sure that even an individual can make a significant difference to the lives of these people who value even a rupee. We should try our best to remove this bias and side by side contribute in bridging the economic gap.

The journey has just begun..

   I can’t help but pull out the cliché card from my pocket to describe the beginning of a new chapter in my Book of Life. “And how time flies!” Even though it is used metaphorically but in the ten ‘short yet long’ months at my journalism school, I think I actually saw how time flew. No, not joking. The clock in its different forms, shapes and sizes haunted me forever reminding me of those rigid contours of the deadlines. Did you think who really cares about deadlines? Oh! A journalist, irrespective of the fact if it’s a student or a professional can surely enlighten you with the real value of time (timeliness).

Nine months back it was all different.

   While doing the undergraduate course, sense of urgency in life had gone astray. Both the education set up in the college and mesmerizing beauty of the new city were responsible for the obnoxious carefree attitude. But you tell me, how a college student can concentrate when it’s a learnt fact that exams are only an annual responsibility, when attendance criterion exists only on the chequered-patterned pages of a register littered with dark red slanting lines and the assignments are optional. It has to succumb to adventures of the new city calling it to unravel its mysteries from every direction. And so Chandigarh ensured that the ‘deadline’ word lightened in my mind dictionary. The only time it mattered was when the scare of the strict night in-timings of the PG accommodation (Girls PG, I tell you!) sprang back to life and even a couple of seconds made a difference.

Then the J-school happened.

    There wasn’t even the basic transition phase. Life was dragged back to the track. But, this time the wind blew in the opposite direction. From early mornings aided by multiple alarms to coffee overdosed late nights, it was all hectic. Important Assignments and more assignments were the order of the day(s) in the J-school. Sometimes it was the reporting, other times the cumbersome editing. And some days hell broke loose because those days were based on photography assignments (umm..I am photographically challenged). There was never any chance of carefree attitude because there were always DEADLINES looming over our heads. Even for cutting-chai drinking sessions. As mentioned in the beginning, time used to fly. Especially during assignments minute and the second hand of clocks made every possible effort to outrun each other.

    After ten months, life has come to a full circle and laid foundation for the new beginnings. Every moment spent inside the third floor campus was worth the effort. The super fast software lessons, forcing the eyes to hear those lectures, taking turns to read the presentation slides in order to stay alert in the class, surfing and nodding during the discussion to prove that one is actually present in the class, though being virtually absent. With the lessons learnt from the past, its time to experience the STRESS in reality. Its time to learn, unlearn and relearn again.

Let the voter vote!

    Majority of us by this point of time 'by heart' know what 'by the people, of the people and for the people' means. Exactly. DEMOCRACY. And so, yesterday I finally became a part of this democratic process in India.You see I, for the very first time got my finger inked. The experience was great. I felt empowered. Instead of just criticizing repeatedly about the same old things, its refreshing to exercise the power bestowed by the Constitution .

Since I happen to be doing a postgraduate course from my home state only, I was lucky enough to
exercise my vote. But not many people share my luck. In India, people tend to leave their home towns in search of better academic and job prospects. They are unable to commute back for a day to their home town in order to cast their vote. The reasons differ and these may or may not be rational. The unfortunate part is that majority of this age group Wants to vote but cannot.Why? Just because they are studying or earning their bread and butter in a place within India but not their home state. That is enough to prevent them from voting.

In my own batch at IIMC Jammu, out of 13 people only one was able to vote. Rest of them couldn't since they do not belong to the state. Imagine what difference those 12 votes would have made.This is not just about those 12 votes but there are many such 12-vote stories. Such stories can certainly play a crucial role in deciding the main players of the government.

What I fail to understand is the rationale behind the absence of a flexible system of voting where Indian citizens could avail their right through out length and breadth of the country. Not only would this improve the voting percentage (which is needed also) but subsequently ensure an increase in participation.

Not much can be done to forcibly get a registered voter to the polling station. But I am sure constructive steps can be taken to get the polling station to a willing registered voter. Let's empower each voter irrespective of his/her geographical location and ensure that in the end India, The democracy emerges as the winner.

Jammu 101

  When I moved to Chandigarh, it was the very first time that I actually got to know what 'inside' people feel about the 'outside' Jammu and Kashmir. And let me tell you, majority of the people were wrong. Not just about the Kashmir part but also about its capital, Jammu. I remember learning during my childhood from my grandfather that India was infamous in the outer world for being the land of snake charmers and poverty. Presently, similar comparisons are drawn for this State as well. You see, India in those days suffered because the third world countries were devoid of any platform to communicate. Likewise, its deja vu all over again for the so-called disturbed state.

Often when I was bombarded with what I concluded were stupid questions about Jammu & Kashmir (J&K),two thoughts would cross my mind. First was that how can people be so ignorant and that also about something that IS an integral part of their country. And the second would be that am I the only one who has observed the trend that people are all but correct about J&K! And so I checked with my other migrated friends who have crossed the Lakhanpur border. It was then that I realised that each one (literally) had gone through the same thing. 

Since a long time, I wanted to highlight these myths about my city . But something was holding me back. Now that today again the same questions were asked to me by a friend from Delhi, I decided to take my blog as the platform and disseminate accurate information to 'all Indians who are my brothers and sisters' about  'a country within the country'.

Vela(y) thought

Jammu &Kashmir is no doubt a single unit. Having said that, it is important to mention that the state is not entirely a valley. Jammu city is cosily placed in the foothills of Himalayas and quite far away from Kashmir Valley. Would you believe that the distance between the two capitals of the state is approximately 300 kms! Yes, 300. Hence the demographics also differ.

Snowfall! Where?, When? 

 No people, It doesn't snow here in Jammu. Guess what, It never has! Twenty revolutions around the sun completed but, believe you me I have never seen nor heard from my forefathers about snowfall in Jammu. I fail to understand the relationship between Kashmir's 'real' snowfall and Jammu's alleged. Its certainly not a complementary thing.

Dangerous place

Stop for a minute. Remember the last time you were out and how crowded the market was. Jammu is no different. Terrorists equipped with guns DONOT patrol the streets here. Fact of the matter is they donot even exist here. And about the security angle. Its as safe as any other city in India. Yes, agreed its sensitive to communal issues. But tell me which place in India isn't.

Media has played a significant role in injecting these myths in the minds of Indians. I have many a times seen seasoned journalists referring to Jammu city as the valley. Also, the government has to also share the blame. All you Jammuites let me ask you a question. Have you ever seen a tableau showcasing Jammu's culture. The answer to this question would highlight how ignorant the State government has been towards its winter capital.

Just the Straight line

   Last time I updated the blog was literally light years ago. But then wait! to my rescue is a detailed list of excuses. Blame it on the busy academic schedule, assignments and more assignments, either there wasn't any time and when the time waited for me, motivation was absent. Doesn't that happen with most of us? You see, we humans have a strange relationship with Marginal Utility of goods and services available at our disposal. If I were to draw that curve, it would be exactly as drawn below;

THE curve exactly describes my love and hate relationship for 'salty blog'. Initially the motivation was phenomenal. Almost everyday, I tried to update it. But , then came the stagnation phase at the top of the curve and as a result, first my constant surveying the blog faded and later my writing succumbed and I fashionably diagnosed my condition as the deadly 'block'. Sad na! No, the story doesn't end there. Some of my friends and even the audience tried to persuade me to write regularly. It did help. I wrote one or two posts after that but it was not for too long. The downward phase of the curve began.

Relatively, in place of blogs we (have and still do) replace many things/people (Yes, people!) in our own lives. After a point of time, we tend to move on and leave behind our once-close partners of life. Some days later we may/may not realize their significance. Cliche, but till then usually we have lost them. 

I am really glad that I reunited with my blog today. And no, you salty blog we aren't breaking up any soon. I can't afford you see. ELECTIONS are approaching. And that means my venting out frustration and happiness. Also, how can I forget. Its Sub-Continent Cricket Season!! From now on, there won't be replication of crests and troughs. Instead, just a consistent straight line.

The lost paradise

(Book Review: Curfewed Night: Basharat Peer) 

Debutant novelist Basharat Peer’s Curfewed Night is a firsthand account of a Kashmiri youth in the turbulent times. Overall an emotional and poignant tale, it talks of the medieval city dying in a modern war.

 A young Muslim boy who was born and brought up in the beautiful valley returns as a journalist from Delhi years later to realise its degradation into a breeding ground of insurgency.

The book has been divided into two parts. In the initial part, the author takes us through his childhood artistically describing his scenic native place Seer, Anantnag. The increasing disturbances in the valley compel him to leave in search of greener pastures. He meets people of different backgrounds in Delhi and notes their reaction towards the problem in Kashmir.  

Drawn back to his homeland, he returns to Kashmir. Through his search for stories, he paints a harrowing picture of people who came in the line of fire. He describes the lives of others who were scarred by violent experiences. Peer describes the turbulent times, the atrocities and injustices that Kashmir witnessed and suffered.

He gives an account of empty streets, locked shops, angry soldiers, boys with stones and common people tortured for information. In a few words, the book aptly describes the mutilated condition of Kashmir, ‘a several thousand military bunkers, four golf courses and three bookshops’. The author talks to survivors of traumatizing experiences like the Gawakadal massacre, torture house Papa 2 and to the people who have lost their loved ones. The teary eyes of these people are still in search of their loved ones.

Basharat Peer’s debut attempt on not-so-often-written ‘Kashmir’ is appreciable. It is quite evident from his emotional reporting that every word has come from heart. Though there is confusion when there is an abrupt jump from one story to another, but it is acceptable. There is so much to tell which is impossible to cover in a short book. It is correct that there are heart wrenching details in the book but these accounts capture the unheard cries of a more or less misunderstood community. An insider’s glimpse Curfewed Night a must read.

Practice Haiku#1- Love's Labour's Lost

My first attempt :

Warm passionate hug,

that plucked me away from you-

Since then, I hate you

Dear Diary, je t'aime encore

My brown coloured personal  diary has always been by my side. There is historic documentation of my life in it. Unlike my OCD for perfection in almost everything, it reflects the imperfect side of me. My diary lacks uniformity. There is no perfect order. Its my 'Life' in more ways than one.

   It dates back to .. *scratches her head* Ahem! Lets not pretend, I can never memorize the historic years! All I can recall is taking my English teacher's advice, I rented an annual chocolate brown diary from papa (father). Certainly, I was offered other colours and distinct shapes, but my obsession with chocolates and coffee overpowered my feeling and prevented me from picking up the glossy hot pink one. I henceforth, became the proud owner of my mini-life brown diary.

Initially, it was literally in blue and black. All those years of cursive writing in the Convent school showed its consequences. Off white pages that were always adorned with an 'OM' on top were decorated with flawless calligraphy. I tried to record all that I did or felt back then. I have to admit that I literally wrote everything. The aggression of the initial teenage years gave way to comparatively settled but highly confused pre-adult days. Trust me, now when I go through all those date entries, its all captured and evident.  

    'In-order' writing slowly vanished. A new form was born. From blue and black, it became any-colour-on-the-planet-that-lied-next-to-the-table. Chronological sequence ceased to exist. I wrote wherever,whenever and whatever I wanted. Sometimes, I didn't even complete my poems. When I initially compared my life with my diary, this is what I meant. The trade cycle curves of inflation, recession, boom are all there in that diary. There is a vivid description of my highest high and the deepest low. Writing a daily diary is fun, but re reading them once you grow up is hell of an experience. 

   Our recent love hate relationship bothers me a lot. The sight of the deserted diary that lies in seclusion on the table haunts me. Layers of dust are slowly settling permanently. The culprit, Thou my laptop! How I wish I get back to my love and start afresh. That would bring back the lovely days of writing on a page with a pen. ( This rare phenomena is witnessed only during examinations)

Note: This post writing attempt has been really difficult. I have written after a very long time. Thank you Brandy for helping. I was ignoring the problem but when you brought it up, it kind of motivated me.  

For the French:  Google what would I do without you?