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"

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.

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.

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?

Fall of a Teacher

     Around a week ago, after calling it a day following the regular tradition, I switched on my laptop and straight away switched to my favorite night activity,Tweetering! While 'tasting' my timeline, I realised that most of the tweeters had mentioned Tarun Tejpal. According to the reports he had taken a sabbatical for 'unknown' reasons. Till then it was only the tip of iceberg, murky details emerged the next day.

     A veteran journalist, novelist of the respected Tehelka fame and 'someone-budding-journalist-look-up-to' had allegations leveled against him for sexual assault. The victim, a young woman journalist who was assisting him during thINK fest 2013 had been assaulted not once but Tarun had the audacity to repeat the action and later easily termed it as a drunken banter!

   In the whole drama during course of the week, what dissapoints me the most is the failure of Tehelka as an institution. It has failed to protect it's own employee against such a grievous crime. Hypocratic standards of the top bosses has been revealed. Shoma Chaudhary instead of setting up a formal committee of investigation comforted the victim by gifting Tarun a sabbatical of 6 months. Cover up and more cover ups.

    The whole issue has progressed from sexual assault to a case of alleged rape. Even though FIR has been lodged still the media baron hasn't been arrested. Instead, there is a bail plea submitted before the Court. Meanwhile the veteran investigator of dirty politics has himself started indulging the cheap tricks. He complains of being victimised by BJP-run Goan government who according to him are in vengeance mood. There has been a constant demand from his supporters to shift the case in Maharahtra and not Goa so as to ensure 'fair trial'.

    As a mark of unity, The victim as well as many colleagues of the brave journalist have resigned from Tehelka.I can still understand the position of the victim who nomore wants to be associated with the organisation. But in case of other employee's, is that even a solution? After all Tehelka hasn't committed the crime, odd one out is the person who created the brand once. Instead of jeopardizing their individual careers, the employees should collectively think and demand for removal of criminals and save the magazine. There already looms the possibility of it  loosing major investors.

    Whats done cannot be undone. Thorough investigation, non media trial, unbiased attitude, punishment to the guilty as well as those who tried to save his misdeeds should be ensured. The victim has already suffered enough! No unconditional apology in the whole world can heal the permanent scars. Justice should be done. Fair, unbiased and fast.