Signing off@120

Weird title? I agree.Nevertheless, intriguing and captivating and isn't that what all writers thrive upon.Afterall don't they say first impression is the last impression.That i don't agree upon.But then again,I m but a microscopic speck in the world of intellectuals.
And before you get bored out of your wits listening to my gibberish words let me explain the title for without it the story would be incomplete and your curiousity insatiable.
Signing off @120 ,as for me ,stands for freedom and salvation.The traditonal route to end all traditions.To the conventional lay man its merely an unconventionally glorified way of suicide.In more dramatic and raw words it means ramming your bike into a truck, head on, at a speed of 120kmph.If the death gods dont have an off day ,that should do the trick.And for good measure you can skip wearing the helmet .We anyways don't wear it.
There is something about speed and there is something about death that no matter how hard we try we can never find out.I mean,scientifically speaking speed is but the distance travelled per unit time while death is simply when your heart decides to play spoilsport.But who can claim that this is just that there is to it.And the combination of the two defintely sets my adrenaline pumping.
The way i see it, if you have to sign off ,why not make the signature memorable ?Walking off into the dark night is something that sounds beter in novels and movies. And "sleeping away peacefully" is ,well,my idea of a mere whimper.And while there are so many ways to unite you and your maker I will stick to my way when my time comes.
Who can forget Vin Diesel's line in Fast and Furious when he says
"I live my life a quarter mile at a time. Nothing else matters: not the mortgage, not the store, not my team and all their bullshit. For those ten seconds or less, I'm free."
At 120 on a bike you are free of everything .All the shackles and clamps come off.You can feel the wind hitting your face with an intensity ,you never imagined ,possible.And no matter how deep shit you are in ,at that moment you will be relieved of everything else for you have realised the concept of utopia.Your mind will shut off any negative vibes or thoughts.With adrenaline in full surge ,in that one moment you will realize that you are alive and this is what it means to be totally alive.And just when you are started to assume that this is how heaven feels like and maybe wonder if this really was heaven,a sickening thought will creep into your mind that this is but a passing moment and soon enough you will be back to your own sick life amidst all that tensions, worries and problems.And that is what they want you to believe is life.
On the other hand, I ,who don't want to lose that moment,I,who don't want to walk after I have learned how to fly,I,who don't want to die after I have learnt how it is to truly live,I,who don't want to live the life they call life after I have realized that death can't conquer me now,I,who don't want to mar my image of eternal heaven by coming back to a mortal earth,choose to go out with a bang.I crash,head on,with a truck,at 120kmph.
Signing off@120

My letter to HIM

Dear God
I have no idea where to begin. Unlike others this is the first time i am addressing anything to you.
I guess I should start with confessions.
I always was in a dilemma whether i was a theist or atheist. Don't want to get into that now so lets simply assume that i m agnostic.
I m drunk right now,drunk enough to have trouble typing ,drunk enough to be using spell check three times in every sentence.
Now that the confessions are done with lets get to the main subject.
God, they say you are merciful and always true to those who believe in you.Too bad i don't.Yet for the sake of argument if i were to hypothetically believe in you,for you know at one time i did so,I would say you have been fair to me.
Unlike others i wouldn't be thanking you for a beautiful life,caring parents and stuff. All i would thank you for is letting me be what i m. i would thank you for this brain of mine which works in ways only you have the power to decipher. I would thank you for my spirit and will that, no matter what, is always on a rebounding course.
Though i have had my share of hardships and sufferings, unlike others, i m not a whiner and i thank you for letting me face my battles on my own so that i could finally know what stuff i m made of.
I thank you for all the happiness you have endowed me with and i thank you for my caring nature which has earned me so many friends.
At the cost of sounding repetitive God, i thank you again for letting me be a self made man,someone who is his own master and knows no other superior authority.Someone who is so free willed that no chains of the world can stop him from getting what he truly wants to achieve.Someone who so much believes in himself that he wont let any self proclaimed well wisher even near him. Someone who is such an ardent fan of individualism that he finds the smell of anything that remotely resembles "collective responsibility" positively disgusting and nauseating .Thank you for making me the way I am , for letting me live life on my terms,for having the sole authority and responsibility over my life and my actions.
You know i don't believe in you yet. Thank you for accepting my choice patiently.I hope one day i turn the corner and find myself believing in you.Till that day God ,you know, you mean nothing to me. Thanks for understanding that.
Thanks for everything
Thanks for nothing.

Kya Gandhi Vadh Jaroori tha

Nathuram Godse’s speech in court

This is Nathuram Godse’s speech in court.

Born in a devotional Brahmin family, I instinctively came to revere Hindu religion, Hindu history and Hindu culture. I had, therefore, been intensely proud of Hinduism as a whole. As I grew up I developed a tendency to free thinking unfettered by any superstitious allegiance to any isms, political or religious. That is why I worked actively for the eradication of untouchability and the caste system based on birth alone. I openly joined anti-caste movements and maintained that all Hindus were of equal status as to rights, social and religious and should be considered high or low on merit alone and not through the accident of birth in a particular caste or profession. I used publicly to take part in organized anti-caste dinners in which thousands of Hindus, Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaisyas, Chamars and Bhangis participated. We broke the caste rules and dined in the company of each other.I have read the speeches and writings of Dadabhai Nairoji, Vivekanand, Gokhale, Tilak, along with the books of ancient and modern history of India and some prominent countries like England, France, America and’ Russia. Moreover I studied the tenets of Socialism and Marxism. But above all I studied very closely whatever Veer Savarkar and Gandhiji had written and spoken, as to my mind these two ideologies have contributed more to the moulding of the thought and action of the Indian people during the last thirty years or so, than any other single factor has done.

All this reading and thinking led me to believe it was my first duty to serve Hindudom and Hindus both as a patriot and as a world citizen. To secure the freedom and to safeguard the just interests of some thirty crores (300 million) of Hindus would automatically constitute the freedom and the well being of all India, one fifth of human race. This conviction led me naturally to devote myself to the Hindu Sanghtanist ideology and programme, which alone, I came to believe, could win and preserve the national independence of Hindustan, my Motherland, and enable her to render true service to humanity as well.

Since the year 1920, that is, after the demise of Lokamanya Tilak, Gandhiji’s influence in the Congress first increased and then became supreme. His activities for public awakening were phenomenal in their intensity and were reinforced by the slogan of truth and non-violence, which he paraded ostentatiously before the country. No sensible or enlightened person could object to those slogans. In fact there is nothing new or original in them. They are implicit in every constitutional public movement. But it is nothing but a mere dream if you imagine that the bulk of mankind is, or can ever become, capable of scrupulous adherence to these lofty principles in its normal life from day to day. In fact, honour, duty and love of one’s own kith and kin and country might often compel us to disregard non-violence and to use force. I could never conceive that an armed resistance to an aggression is unjust. I would consider it a religious and moral duty to resist and, if possible, to overpower such an enemy by use of force. [In the Ramayana] Rama killed Ravana in a tumultuous fight and relieved Sita. [In the Mahabharata], Krishna killed Kansa to end his wickedness; and Arjuna had to fight and slay quite a number of his friends and relations including the revered Bhishma because the latter was on the side of the aggressor. It is my firm belief that in dubbing Rama, Krishna and Arjuna as guilty of violence, the Mahatma betrayed a total ignorance of the springs of human action.

In more recent history, it was the heroic fight put up by Chhatrapati Shivaji that first checked and eventually destroyed the Muslim tyranny in India. It was absolutely essentially for Shivaji to overpower and kill an aggressive Afzal Khan, failing which he would have lost his own life. In condemning history’s towering warriors like Shivaji, Rana Pratap and Guru Gobind Singh as misguided patriots, Gandhiji has merely exposed his self-conceit. He was, paradoxical, as it may appear, a violent pacifist who brought untold calamities on the country in the name of truth and non-violence, while Rana Pratap, Shivaji and the Guru will remain enshrined in the hearts of their countrymen forever for the freedom they brought to them.

The accumulating provocation of thirty-two years, culminating in his last pro-Muslim fast, at last goaded me to the conclusion that the existence of Gandhi should be brought to an end immediately. Gandhi had done very well in South Africa to uphold the rights and well being of the Indian community there. But when he finally returned to India he developed a subjective mentality under which he alone was to be the final judge of what was right or wrong. If the country wanted his leadership, it had to accept his infallibility; if it did not, he would stand aloof from the Congress and carry on his own way. Against such an attitude there can be no halfway house. Either Congress had to surrender its will to his and had to be content with playing second fiddle to all his eccentricity, whimsicality, metaphysics and primitive vision, or it had to carry on without him. He alone was the Judge of everyone and everything; he was the master brain guiding the civil disobedience movement; no other could know the technique of that movement. He alone knew when to begin and when to withdraw it. The movement might succeed or fail, it might bring untold disaster and political reverses but that could make no difference to the Mahatma’s infallibility. ‘A Satyagrahi can never fail’ was his formula for declaring his own infallibility and nobody except himself knew what a Satyagrahi is.

Thus, the Mahatma became the judge and jury in his own cause. These childish insanities and obstinacies, coupled with a most severe austerity of life, ceaseless work and lofty character made Gandhi formidable and irresistible. Many people thought that his politics were irrational but they had either to withdraw from the Congress or place their intelligence at his feet to do with, as he liked. In a position of such absolute irresponsibility Gandhi was guilty of blunder after blunder, failure after failure, disaster after disaster.

Gandhi’s pro-Muslim policy is blatantly in his perverse attitude on the question of the national language of India. It is quite obvious that Hindi has the most prior claim to be accepted as the premier language. In the beginning of his career in India, Gandhi gave a great impetus to Hindi but as he found that the Muslims did not like it, he became a champion of what is called Hindustani. Everybody in India knows that there is no language called Hindustani; it has no grammar; it has no vocabulary. It is a mere dialect; it is spoken, but not written. It is a bastard tongue and crossbreed between Hindi and Urdu, and not even the Mahatma’s sophistry could make it popular. But in his desire to please the Muslims he insisted that Hindustani alone should be the national language of India. His blind followers, of course, supported him and the so-called hybrid language began to be used. The charm and purity of the Hindi language was to be prostituted to please the Muslims. All his experiments were at the expense of the Hindus.

From August 1946 onwards the private armies of the Muslim League began a massacre of the Hindus. The then Viceroy, Lord Wavell, though distressed at what was happening, would not use his powers under the Government of India Act of 1935 to prevent the rape, murder and arson. The Hindu blood began to flow from Bengal to Karachi with some retaliation by the Hindus. The Interim Government formed in September was sabotaged by its Muslim League members right from its inception, but the more they became disloyal and treasonable to the government of which they were a part, the greater was Gandhi’s infatuation for them. Lord Wavell had to resign as he could not bring about a settlement and he was succeeded by Lord Mountbatten. King Log was followed by King Stork.

The Congress, which had boasted of its nationalism and socialism, secretly accepted Pakistan literally at the point of the bayonet and abjectly surrendered to Jinnah. India was vivisected and one-third of the Indian territory became foreign land to us from August 15, 1947. Lord Mountbatten came to be described in Congress circles as the greatest Viceroy and Governor-General this country ever had. The official date for handing over power was fixed for June 30, 1948, but Mountbatten with his ruthless surgery gave us a gift of vivisected India ten months in advance. This is what Gandhi had achieved after thirty years of undisputed dictatorship and this is what Congress party calls ‘freedom’ and ‘peaceful transfer of power’. The Hindu-Muslim unity bubble was finally burst and a theocratic state was established with the consent of Nehru and his crowd and they have called ‘freedom won by them with sacrifice’ - whose sacrifice? When top leaders of Congress, with the consent of Gandhi, divided and tore the country - which we consider a deity of worship - my mind was filled with direful anger.

One of the conditions imposed by Gandhi for his breaking of the fast unto death related to the mosques in Delhi occupied by the Hindu refugees. But when Hindus in Pakistan were subjected to violent attacks he did not so much as utter a single word to protest and censure the Pakistan Government or the Muslims concerned. Gandhi was shrewd enough to know that while undertaking a fast unto death, had he imposed for its break some condition on the Muslims in Pakistan, there would have been found hardly any Muslims who could have shown some grief if the fast had ended in his death. It was for this reason that he purposely avoided imposing any condition on the Muslims. He was fully aware of from the experience that Jinnah was not at all perturbed or influenced by his fast and the Muslim League hardly attached any value to the inner voice of Gandhi.

Gandhi is being referred to as the Father of the Nation. But if that is so, he had failed his paternal duty inasmuch as he has acted very treacherously to the nation by his consenting to the partitioning of it. I stoutly maintain that Gandhi has failed in his duty. He has proved to be the Father of Pakistan. His inner-voice, his spiritual power and his doctrine of non-violence of which so much is made of, all crumbled before Jinnah’s iron will and proved to be powerless.

Briefly speaking, I thought to myself and foresaw I shall be totally ruined, and the only thing I could expect from the people would be nothing but hatred and that I shall have lost all my honour, even more valuable than my life, if I were to kill Gandhiji. But at the same time I felt that the Indian politics in the absence of Gandhiji would surely be proved practical, able to retaliate, and would be powerful with armed forces. No doubt, my own future would be totally ruined, but the nation would be saved from the inroads of Pakistan. People may even call me and dub me as devoid of any sense or foolish, but the nation would be free to follow the course founded on the reason which I consider to be necessary for sound nation-building. After having fully considered the question, I took the final decision in the matter, but I did not speak about it to anyone whatsoever. I took courage in both my hands and I did fire the shots at Gandhiji on 30th January 1948, on the prayer-grounds of Birla House.

I do say that my shots were fired at the person whose policy and action had brought rack and ruin and destruction to millions of Hindus. There was no legal machinery by which such an offender could be brought to book and for this reason I fired those fatal shots.

I bear no ill will towards anyone individually but I do say that I had no respect for the present government owing to their policy, which was unfairly favourable towards the Muslims. But at the same time I could clearly see that the policy was entirely due to the presence of Gandhi. I have to say with great regret that Prime Minister Nehru quite forgets that his preachings and deeds are at times at variances with each other when he talks about India as a secular state in season and out of season, because it is significant to note that Nehru has played a leading role in the establishment of the theocratic state of Pakistan, and his job was made easier by Gandhi’s persistent policy of appeasement towards the Muslims.

I now stand before the court to accept the full share of my responsibility for what I have done and the judge would, of course, pass against me such orders of sentence as may be considered proper. But I would like to add that I do not desire any mercy to be shown to me, nor do I wish that anyone else should beg for mercy on my behalf. My confidence about the moral side of my action has not been shaken even by the criticism levelled against it on all sides. I have no doubt that honest writers of history will weigh my act and find the true value thereof some day in future.

-NATHURAM GODSE

And Then Caesar Fell...

Read this in some site and was so moved that couldn't help pasting it here. This is the story of a man who became the face of Gujrat riots. A lengthy piece nevertheless a worth- read.

*********************************************************************************

I… Qutubuddin Ansari, 29, tailor. I live with my mother, wife and daughter in Ahmedabad’s Bapu Nagar colony. You know me. This windy January, it was my kite that soared the highest in all Bapu Nagar. Every evening, the day’s work done, I’d close my shop. If I had money I’d buy a Vadilal butterscotch ice-cream on my way home, my daughter’s favourite. Some days I felt I should think things over — then I’d walk along Ellis Bridge… gaze down into the Sabarmati River… whether there was water or not, it didn’t matter. At times, I became sentimental — usually when young girls in Bapu Nagar, whom I had watched grow up before my eyes, came to get their bridal clothes stitched. Then I would go and buy red glass bangles from the hawkers on Relief Road. In the relative privacy of the mosquito net in our one-room house, I would give them to my wife. When we bought a fourteen-inch TV on hire-purchase, I learned to make cardamom tea. While my mother and my wife watched Kyonki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi and other serials, I would make tea; so engrossed were they in the drama on the screen that they took the tea without even a thank you… it made me smile.

Mother preferred eating out to going to the cinema: kebabs, mutton korma and fried fish from the wayside eateries in Bhathiyar Gali near Teen Darwaza. Or the ‘Ten Foot Family Dosa’ at Sankalp Restaurant, a treat that my daughter welcomed by clapping joyfully. Or kadi made with curds and oondhya at Gopi Dining Hall. My mother relished this dish made of sweet potatoes, brinjals and potatoes, and other chaste Vaishnavite Gujarati fare. We made it a point to take mother out to eat at least once a month; going by an auto-rickshaw, taking care to choose a day when none of their favourite serials would be telecast.

But not so long ago I, Qutubuddin Ansari, was transformed into a symbol. Delhi has India Gate; Jaipur, Hawa Mahal; Calcutta, Howrah Bridge; and Bombay, the Gateway of India. But Ahmedabad had no such instantly recognisable symbol. A city without a symbol is faceless; it lacks identity. Gandhiji’s Sabarmati Ashram could not symbolise Ahmedabad — it wasn’t impressive enough. The stone window in Sidi Saiyad’s mosque, with its intricately sculpted intertwining branches, was appropriated by the Indian Institute of Management. Ahmedabad never had a symbol unique to itself — until I filled the gap.

The year 2002 ushered in days windier than usual. As the north-westerly wind whistled shrilly through the willows near my house, I concluded that this year would be special for kite-lovers. I went to see my old schoolmate Bhai Chand, who worked in the Railways. His kites flew the highest in our locality. I told him: "Bhai, this Makar Sankranti, I’ll beat you." Bhai Chand thumped my back, laughed and said, "Okay."

The confidence in that laugh didn’t lessen my zeal. That very day I went out and bought three kites with fine rattan frames and a spool of thread from Ayub Patangwala in Teen Darwaza. I also bought a few old glass bottles from a scrap trader’s shop. Now Mother’s work began. I broke the bottles and gave them to her. She put on the thick cloth gloves I had stitched for her and began to crush the shards of glass on a tiny stone, which she used to crush betel nuts. I mixed the ground glass and glue thoroughly, spread it all over the thread and left it to dry.

On the day of Makar Sankranti, the sky appeared dappled with many-hued dots. There were so many kites up there, there seemed to be no room in the sky. My neighbour, Kabutarbaaz Hassan Sheikh, who kept pigeons, decided not to send his birds up for their usual flight. My light green eyes, which set me apart from other people, scanned the skies for unseen currents of air rising up into the sky. Suddenly I saw a dark dot, an eagle poised upon the wind; a couple of tugs and my kite flew into the thermal that held up the bird. The kite now soared on its own. It no longer needed my help. I stood watching the dizzying heights it had reached, my mind emptied of all thought… but after a while I began to fear for its safety. I stopped letting out the string.

My kite flew the highest that day. Bhai Chand hugged me. He had always been that way; he could share in another’s joy without the faintest trace of jealousy.

I began to pull down my kite. Now was the time to attack; the first kite I cut down was Bhai Chand’s, the thread that held my kite gleaming like the blade of a sword as the rays of the sun fell on it. I darted all over the maidan, cutting down as many kites as I could. And then I felt someone tugging at my shirt. Bindiya said: "Darzi chacha, please don’t cut down my kite." I had stitched Bindiya’s nappies when she was born — nappies that were held in place around her tiny waist with a large safety pin — then baby garments, frocks, and now skirts and blouses. She grew up through the pages of my notebooks, through the measurements that I jotted down in them. She was now twelve years old.

"I will. That’s part of the fun. If you are scared that your kite will be cut down, why did you come?"

As early as February, the pigeons alerted us to the unknown menace that lurked somewhere in the days to come. Hassan Sheikh said: "The birds just won’t fly up. Something bad is going to happen." That very day I went to the market and stocked up the house with atta, dal, potatoes and besan. Gas cylinders had already become scarce, so I couldn’t get one. Mother exclaimed, irritated: "What’s got into you? I know the times are not good, but why these crazy preparations? Amdavadis and Gujaratis are kind people, vegetarians, Bapu’s people, Jains who walk with bowed heads; they wouldn’t hurt an ant

So Bindiya explained kite-lore to me. For a girl, the kite is her lover; for a boy, his lady love. The thread is their love. A broken thread is a broken relationship. It is important that a kite shouldn’t be lost. Reunion is possible only if one can retrieve one’s kite. Bindiya concluded: "So, Darzi chacha, you shouldn’t ever cut the threads."

Bindiya joined in my laughter. I saw that her dimples had become more pronounced. On my way home that day, when Capricorn loomed in the sky, I saw several love stories enacted around me — love, separation, reunion.

My neighbour Hassan Sheikh lived on the terrace of his building, in a single room surrounded by cotes for his pigeons. He had let out the lower rooms. With the rent, he bought millet seed for his birds. Occasionally, he went to Agra or Delhi, to buy superior varieties of birds, like the Sikandari and the Kabuli. When he clapped his hands, his birds would fly up into the air from all over the terrace, form up in the sky and fly off into the distance. They would then wheel and turn back, still in formation like aircraft, fly back, make another curve and land on the terrace. The smooth, graceful turn just before landing reminded me of the twirling pleats of a dancer’s skirt. The wing-beats, the cooing, the bead-like eyes that reflected the joy of homecoming — my daughter watched it all, clapping her hands and shouting with delight. Besides himself, she was the only person whom Hassan Sheikh allowed to feed his birds.

As early as February, the pigeons alerted us to the unknown menace that lurked somewhere in the days to come. Hassan Sheikh said: "The birds just won’t fly up, however much I clap. Something bad is going to happen." That very day I went to the market and stocked up the house with atta, dal, potatoes and besan. Gas cylinders had already become scarce, so I couldn’t get one. Mother exclaimed, irritated: "What’s got into you? I know the times are not good, but why these crazy preparations? Amdavadis and Gujaratis are kind people, vegetarians, Bapu’s people, Jains who walk with bowed heads; they wouldn’t hurt an ant. Who’s their favourite God? Bhagwan Ranchod, who refused to take active part in the battle — Sri Krishna. Don’t go by what that crazy, unmarried bird-lover says."

The days went by and I began to think Mother was right, after all. Then one night someone knocked at the door: "Ma, Qutubuddin?"

Bhai Chand stood outside. He was breathing fast. He said to me: "I’m coming straight from the railway station. A compartment of the train from Ayodhya was torched by your people — Muslims living near the outer signal of Godhra station near Baroda. Remember Shantiben who was at school with us, who always topped the class in maths? She was killed, along with her husband and children. Several pilgrims, all returning from Ayodhya, were also killed. Loudspeakers have already been set up all over the city. I’m scared. Hassan Sheikh’s pigeons were right. On my way here, I booked Viren Shah’s Tata Sumo to take me, Asha and the children to my elder brother’s house in Jaipur tomorrow. Qutubuddin, look after yourself. Leave this place. I came to tell you this."

After a very long time, I saw fear on my mother’s face. No one except my daughter slept that night. I kept the doors and windows closed even after day had dawned. Finally, when my daughter became restless I opened the door that led onto the courtyard at the back of the house. She began to play in the sand. Suddenly, I heard something fall; as I sat up, alert, my daughter came in holding one of Hassan Sheikh’s pigeons. "Pretty bird," she said, giving it to me. It was dead, its neck broken. I stepped out into the courtyard. Just then I heard Hassan Sheikh cry: "My birds, my birds!" The next thing I saw was his flaming body. The rioters had drenched him in petrol.

Then they came for us. They poured kerosene all around the house and set fire to it. The gas cylinders that had disappeared from the market now made their appearance. Several were thrown at our house. In the flash of an exploding cylinder I saw the bodies of my mother, wife and daughter suspended in mid-air. I opened the outer door of the courtyard and ran out, only to find myself surrounded by people armed with broken bottles, petrol cans and swords and daggers. People just like us. Their waist measurements were those that had grown through my notebooks. The women wore clothes that I had stitched for them; they were the same women who had avidly discussed Kyonki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi with my wife. There were others whom I didn’t recognise, who carried swords, trishuls and placards that proclaimed: ‘Boycott Muslim shops’. I saw Bindiya among them; she was aiming a stone at the spot between my green eyes. Her mother stood nearby, a chopper in her hand. I turned towards the Rapid Action Force men who stood close by. I begged them to save me. Just then I heard the safety catch of a rifle being pulled back… I jerked back, frightened. Then I heard the click of a camera shutter. I saw the golden-haired representative of Reuters who had captured my fear on film.

The next day’s newspapers carried that picture of mine taken by the Reuters photographer — the green of my unfocused eyes heightened, the brimming tears and cry stifled and sealed off forever in the cold pages of the newspaper; my joined palms begging to be rescued gave you a glimpse of imminent death. I became Ahmedabad’s symbol

You might have read in the newspapers about what followed; how Qutubuddin Ansari and his family were attacked by the mob; how he cried and pleaded with the police and the RAF men to rescue him; how the six-hour-long agony ended with the arrival of the Army, who brought the situation under control. The soldiers took me up in their truck. They discovered my family under a culvert behind our house.

The next day’s newspapers carried that picture of mine taken by the Reuters photographer — the green of my unfocused eyes heightened, the brimming tears and cry stifled and sealed off forever in the cold pages of the newspaper; my joined palms begging to be rescued gave you a glimpse of imminent death. I became Ahmedabad’s symbol.

Corpses littered the streets of Ahmedabad, the city whose symbol I had become. The sky was darkened by the smoke from burning buildings. Through a gap in the smoke, I saw vultures. I had never seen them before. Half-burned red ribbons that had once been part of a schoolgirl’s uniform, women’s bloodstained undergarments, torn schoolbooks, broken bangles and half-burned family albums lay on the sidewalks. Flowering trees sprouted signboards that exhorted people to boycott Muslim shops. Decapitated dolls, half-burned cars with shattered windscreens, cycle-rickshaws heaped together — heaps that still smouldered; loops of cassette tapes like plucked-out entrails — audio cassettes of songs by Anu Malik and Pankaj Udhas; a report card with very low marks which must have won its recipient quite a few thrashings; and kites — torn kites, crushed kites, kites with their threads cut. I had taken an oath never to look at a kite again; yet they appeared everywhere. I recalled what my mother used to say: "You are an Ansari, momeen, weaver; your hands should never be responsible for the severing of a thread." The photographer from Reuters had made me a symbol of a city whose thread had been severed.

In the relief camp, the women were quartered separately. So I didn’t see my family. I wandered the streets day and night. One day I came upon something that lay shining in the dust — a broken bit of mirror with a stick-on bindi.

I had not seen my face for quite a few days. My reflection now showed that a beard had sprouted and darkened the lower half of my face. Fear still lurked in the eyes. I decided to try something I had not done for many days, something I had almost forgotten — to smile. But however much I tried, I could manage only a grimace. Like a masseur working on a paralytic, I began to work on my laughter muscles. I pressed and massaged my cheeks, the muscles around my mouth. Yet the reflection did not smile. The laughter muscles remained rigid, immobile.

N.S. Madhavan is an award-winning writer of Malayalam fiction. A senior Indian civil servant, he is based in Patna. This is a fictionalised account of a real-life incident in Ahmedabad

The Power Of Twenty

Have been noticing for quite sometime now, an interesting trend taking place in our country.The power of MOB. We always knew public opinion in any democracy matters.. we also know all the fables about the importance and benefits of unity. But the situation unfolding before our eyes defies logic and can hardly be defined as anything but insanity.I don't believe i m a cynic but these things happening,i can hardly help being a skeptic.

Give me twenty men who are willing to do anything i ask them to and i can bring the nation to a standstill.That,in short, sums up everything happening around us. Anyone who has a support of not more than twenty people can be listed in the who's who of the country's current affairs.
Let me point out the recent happenings that will support my theory.

One guy ,who is bored of life ,wakes up one fine day and thinks about something that he can do to increase his nuisance value,he gathers twenty men who are equally bored and have nothing better to do ,names his organization some crappy name and then start protesting against some movie ,in this case Jodhaa Akbar.Soon his crappy organization hits the headlines and more people join.The power of twenty transforms into hundreds for in this case everyone wants a piece of action no matter how ridiculous the action is.What does the government do? How can it defy public opinion? After all we are living in a democracy.The government does what it always does best.It takes pre emptive measures and in this case it implies banning the movie.So what if thousands want to watch it. The government can hear only the voice that speaks loudest and in this case its them,the protesters with their shrill cries.

Taslima Nasreen,who when was hounded by the fundamentalists in bangladesh sought sanctuary in India and was promptly welcomed in here.The author on the run found safe abode in Kolkata and was living there for almost a decade. Somebody woke up one day and decided that she was unwelcome. The wheels are set into motion. The process remains the same ,down to each meticulous detail. he gets twenty goons,hits headlines,more people join,the protest goes underway and the government falters and before we know it Taslima is hounded out of the second place she ever called home and after a brief stop in Jaipur she is under a virtually house arrest in some undisclosed location in Delhi. Even a minister goes on air criticizing her and her books, that despite the fact that the books in question had been written years back.
This is what Jug Suraiya writes on the entire episode

" Forced into exile from her native Bangladesh by religious fanatics who didn't like her feminist writings, Taslima sought sanctuary in Kolkata in whose Bangla milieu she felt creatively comfortable. However, after street riots instigated by local goons disguised as religious zealots caused the Marxist state government to decide that minority-appeasing discretion was the better part of secular valour, the writer was bundled out of the city and taken first to an undisclosed hideaway in Rajasthan and later to Delhi, where she was kept in virtual isolation.

Made to apologise for her 'anti-Islamic' views, she was warned by no less than the information and broadcasting minister - supposedly the custodian of the fundamental right to freedom of expression as spelt out in the Constitution - that she should not say or do anything that might hurt the religious sensibilities of any group. (Should the I&B ministry be renamed the ministry of intimidation and browbeating?) "

Last week, a group of 57 DU students was coming back to Delhi from Bhopal by train . They had the entire coach reserved but then people in our country never had too much respect for regularities. So five guys managed to get on board the coach and did what they and their likes believe is their fundamental right. See a gal,misbehave with her. Some guys in the tour party objected . These five guys got off the train,called twenty of their mates and before anyone could realize ,tried burning the entire coach down with all the people inside.One guy from the tour group is right now in hospital with the doctors trying real hard that they can save his eyes

So folks trust me when i say that you or me have lost our voices. Its the new power of twenty that is in demand for thats the only voice that is being heard.They now represent the public and when posterity will talk of public opinion it will actually be the opinion of the 20 they will be talking about.

To some of you the picture looks grim, some of you see it as an opportunity. There are only two ways you can react to it.The first, go down on your knees, fold your hands, bow your head for the mighty 20 has arrived.If you show your appreciation and gratitude towards it, it will welcome you into its fold and thence you will be invincible and will have the powers of a god.You can shape national policies , molest any woman you see,thrash anyone you want to. It short you can increase your nuisance value to the maximum and feel the world at your feet.

The second is forget everything and go back to sleep.All you have to do is tell yourself very slowly that you are in no way affected by the turn of events.Taslima Nasreen and her plights don't affect you. We can always watch Jodhaa Akbar on a pirated disc or better still download it.As for the the guy from the train who is battling for his eyesight we can all shrug off our shoulders and exclaim that he shouldn't have tried to become a hero after all.And having thought all this we can go back to doing whatever we were doing before reading all this. In my case i m gonna sleep.

Wait a second., did i just hear some of you whisper , something that sounded to me like you guys planning to take on the power of 20 head on. Are you seriously planning to fight it? I mean, are you insane? out of your mind? I only wish better sense prevails on you and in case it doesn't, always remember i will pray for you always and when the time comes ,will pen epitaphs and obituaries in your honor.May god bless your soul. R.I.P

The heights of going GREEN....

Read an article in The Times Of India and honestly i found it funny and insulting though i have reasons to believe that the writer had by no means intended it to be either.In this fast moving world ,when we don't really have the time to think for a moment, lets take a break and try to see where we are going.They say the environment is at a risk.I agree. What i don't agree upon is that almost every second some researcher/scholar/self proclaimed environmentalist comes up with a new theory and people actually believe it throwing their common sense to the winds.Are we living in a world where we care two hoots for our own intelligence and let some moron take it for granted.Are we so caught up in life that we stopped doing the most important that helped us to evolve...THINK.
Read on the article and let me know your views.

DON'T SHAVE

."Interpreting faces to know people's personal commitment to environment can be a bit presumptuous. But a male face can still give some idea. For example, one could say that going strictly by the face, R K Pachauri stands slightly more to the greener side of the environmental spectrum than fellow Nobel laureate Al Gore. Why? Because he sports a beard which the latter doesn't. For the same reason, the Bachchan son and father duo scores (son more than the father, for he sports a full fuzz) over Bollywood's Khan triumvirate.

It might sound a little far-fetched, but to shave or not to shave isn't a carbon neutral question. From shaving foam to electric shaver and from aftershaves to face-smoothening creams, everything that is used in the act of shaving has environmental implications. The wet shave - in which one uses shaving cream and warm water - is a greener option but not the greenest. Similarly, using a mug instead of running water is better but not without its tiny carbon footprints.

In any case, one must also reckon with the environmental costs of anti-wrinkle creams, sun-screen lotions, facials and face-lifting interventions like botox and surgical removal of wrinkles that go into maintaining the exposed face skin taut.

That's not all. The daily act of shaving takes a lot of time and effort, which involves an indirect environmental cost. To think that nearly half the adult world population indulges in this extravagance (some more than once a day) should make one's facial hair stand on end. Indeed one wonders why in these times of hyper-green sensibilities no one has thought of banning the darned morning ritual. But while the law can take its time, it should not stop the males of the human species from taking proactive action to shave the carbon emissions by growing a beard. It would be their unique contribution to the green cause.

Lest the skeptics scoff at the suggestion calling the beard a vestige of medieval maleness, one should mention other advantages of leaving facial hair alone. A clean shave might be dandy but beard is trendy. For, it can be styled into different shapes and sizes. Not that one would recommend dyeing it, which is environmentally hazardous again.

Facial fuzz has some egalitarian value too. For, if all males were to sport it, it would break an important cultural barrier and cease to be a symbol of identity and basis for discrimination."

I, Bihari

THEN

NOW

Always wanted to write something on this... finally got rid of my procrastinating habits and m writing something, I should have written ages back.
I m a Bihari, was born one and though technically m now a Jharkhandi, still believe in my heart of hearts that I m a Bihari to the core. Have traveled extensively round the country and have marveled at the changes every place brings, one thing that remains constant and consistent is the cardinal rule , “Biharis are to be hated for they are disgusting corrupt and extremely backward” as a result of which the moment u mention u r from Bihar u can see conversation cease and eyebrows raised.

Ok we have a peculiar accent that can put any listener beyond a shred of doubt that the speaker is Bihari. Our economy is in tatters. We have an ex CM, present railway minister who pays more attention in entertaining the public by his colorful remarks than development. Crime rate in our state is among the worst. Corruption is at an all time high. No one pays any attention either to literacy or higher education. The media famously coins a term BIMARU (Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh) when it refers to Bihar. People all around the country complain that no matter where the biharis are they group and become violent. I can go on and on highlighting the alleged pitfalls of my state.

Before I go any further let me share some incidents that actually happened with me.

On my way to Kota in 2003 I stopped at a place about 60kms from Kota and was sitting on the platform waiting for my next train when an elderly gentleman sleeping nearby struck a conversation with me and asked me where I was from. On replying that I was from bihar the gentleman sat down and with wide eyed wonder enquired “tell me son ,is it true that if I keep 100 bucks in my pocket in bihar ,in a second it will disappear”

In Kota I along with some of my friends went to a restaurant and while waiting for a table to clear the owner walks up to us, smiles and asks us where we were from. Some reply Delhi to which he smiles approvingly, some reply Mumbai which draws more affectionate smiles. When my turn comes I say bihar to which he almost gets a heart attack but recovers in time to add,” its so difficult to believe you are from bihar “, to which I promptly reply,” why uncle do all Biharis have horns on their foreheads with which u identify them”. Needless to add he was too taken aback to reply.

While we are still in Kota, my friend had a roommate who was from Delhi. They got along very well until one day when his roommate’s mom came .Among many things, she asked her son, one was about his roommate and on learning that he was Bihar she exclaimed in horror and asked her son to be careful and keep all his stuff under lock and key as all Biharis are thieves.

I mentioned three events from Kota, not because I loved the place or that the place has a special place in my hearts. It’s merely because that place had a very cosmopolitan crowd as students from almost every part of the country came there and hence their views are consistent with the views of the country. Another such cosmopolitan place is manipal. If all the events happening in Kota made me proud of being a bihari only because of the prejudices prevalent in the public about bihar manipal reinforced the pride in me. If kota was about the apathy of the previous generation towards bihar, manipal was all about the same genes in my generation and the inferiority complex among Biharis themselves.

In the first year during our orientation program it was a common sight seeing the guys and gals from Bihar passing themselves off as delhities or mumbaikars just to escape the ridicule of non biharis so much so that at one point my friend got on the podium and much to the delight of everyone present sarcastically remarked that even his train to manipal passes through Delhi. I happened to ask a guy why he said he was from Delhi when he was from Bihar and he honestly replied that if the gals in the class knew he was bihari he could kiss the idea of having a girl friend goodbye.

I have no bihari accent and I can manage to speak in English and that is why so many people here thought I wasn’t from bihar and on being told so their reaction was exactly the same as that uncle in the restaurant in kota which brings us back to the original question, why are biharis considered so vile that the entire universe is hell bent in ridiculing them.

I am not going to mention the most cliché line used to defense of the Bihari about their numbers in IAS or IPS cadres or the excellent work they are doing there. But I can’t help setting some facts straight.

We speak with an accent. Is that grounds enough to discriminate against us. In that case I can easily point out that almost every state has an accent of its own. Why don’t you look down upon a delhite when he uses a mish mash of Haryanvi and Punjabi and tops it up with the two most hated expletives in a Bihari dictionary? Need I say anything about a Bengali and his accent? Or for that matter a mumbaikars when they speak with the mumbaiya accent that seems heavily inspired by a bollywood movie. And when we are at it how about any south Indian state? And yet you have the nerve to ridicule us for our accent.

The economy is in tatters. Is it our fault? The politicians there are corrupt. Try counting the names of the politicians you honestly believe are not corrupt. The ex CM’s histrionics’, well I have heard them all and you have to admit it he is a channel stopper. You can’t help watching or hearing it when he speaks no matter how much you hate him. They say he has been the worst CM ever. How can you forget when the entire nation was in flames post babri majjid Bihar witnessed not one communal riot? Same post godhra. You say He hasn’t done anything to improve the condition in Bihar. Why don’t you point the blame at centre’s doorsteps for never giving funds to Bihar where they could afford give crores of bucks to J&K? And why make Lalu the scape goat when for 40 years since independence he was no where near the CM’s chair?

You say Biharis are violent and hence to be dreaded. Ever wondered why? You drive them up against a wall and when they retaliate you run crying, we told you so. The only reason why biharis gel so well is because they know that their only chance against you is their unity which thanks to the society and upbringing in bihar they imbibe since their birth.

A bihari is not what he once was. You made him what he now is and your prejudices are confirming your worst fears. The original idea of a bihari was a dedicated and ideal person, so dedicated that he toiled better than you and got better outputs. You got insecured and started picking up on him and in the process you added a new dimension to him. He now knows how to defend himself and fight for what is his but trust me when you remove the hard exterior he is like anyone of you. It just takes an extra effort on your part to walk the extra mile to know him before having a bias against him. Do that and trust me you are guaranteed a life long friend.

Yeh Jo Desh Hai Mera

I don't do movie reviews but then this movie was different . A movie like this comes but comes once in years that touches your heart and soul alike.The following was written by me on Jan 11 2005 for the site MOUTHSHUT.COM
***************************************************************************
FIRST THE SUMARRY OF THE MOVIE IN MY STYLE
’’ .......APNE HI PAANI MEIN PIGHAL JANA BARF KA MUKAKKADAR HOTA HAI.....’’
This is the one line that sum up the plot, storyline and message of SWADES ( note its not SWADESH)
After three long years after a movie like Lagaan comes Swades.It is always hard on a director to reproduce the same magic again after delivering a superhit like LAGAAN but does ASHUTOSH GOWARIKER disappoint ....My answer to that is a big NO.
Those of u who haven’t watched it yet heed my advice
’’ if u are going to watch the movie coz u are in need of a typical bollywood masala movie complete with item numbers, bare bodied babes and matrix copied fight sequences u r wasting ur time and money’’

but if u really know what a good movie means..and if u r still intelligent enough to recognize a good movie after watching the masala potboiler garbage for years GO FOR SWADES and u won’t ever regret ur decision.....

THE PLOT

Mohan Bhargav a top gun NASA scientist getting applauds and laurels from every side, feels nostalgiac abt a lady who was his aayah and decides to pay his kavriamma a visit..Mohan Bhargav, a man who is so much pampered by the comforts of US that he literally looks down upon the country that made
him ,INDIA..he doesn’t come to INDIA to find the real india ..he comes simply to take his Kaveriamma with him to US...A man who takes a caravan so that he doesn’t have to sleep in UNHYGENIC AND UNCOMFORTABLE huts or hotels.. a man who knows that water from the village wells are unhygenic and never drinks water from any other source except the mineral water bottle he always carries.

Enter Gita,a school village school teacher, a lady with her own set of principles and she knows the best way to contribute towards the welfare of the society..teaching village kids..she doesn’t appreciate the feelings of Mahan abt the country

Slowly but steadly Mohan starts observing the villagers and he gets hooked up..he get saddened by the problems faced by an indian villager.He is moved so much so that he decides to put up a power plant in the village and does his bit for the country when he makes the sarpanch understand the traditional inhibhitions that are impeding the progress of the village in particular and the country in general.

then it is time to face the question that is staring at the audience from the time Mohan undergoes a change of heart..will he go back to US or stay in INDIA

THE PERFORMANCES
Sharukhs best performance up to date
this is one movie where u don’t get to watch the king khan..here u watch MOHAN an ordinary man..
The rest of the crew shine too in their well scripted roles.be it the debutant actress Gayatri Joshi or the ambitious and day dreamer dayashankar Pandey as Mela Ram or the village post master

The movie in general
there are very few movies u get to watch like this
--The very same Mohan who never Drank water except mineral water buys water just because he cannot bear the sight of a little boy who is selling it.
--The Mohan who never knew what the real caste system gives 1000 bucks to the same man from whom he went to collect revenue.
--Mohan fueding with the sarpanch when the sarpanch sayz india is the best because it has its rich cultural and traditional heritage and Mohan replies that he doesn’t believe India is the best country in the world
--the scenes between Mohan and Gita are great ones coz they are always contradicting one another
---the words of the ambitious Mela Ram when he talks of opening an indian dhaba in USA
---the efforts Mohan puts in to generate power in the village
---the shine on the face of the villagers when they first see’’ BIJLI’’
all these scenes are extremely well shot and a treat to watch...
the music is hummable though not extremely good...

CONCLUSION
As i said earlier if u think u are inteligent enough to understand which movie is good
and which is not dont sit deciding when to go and watch SWADES....GO NOW..and take this from me......U WON’’T B THE SAME ARROGANT MOHAN THAT U ARE NOW ONCE U WATCH THE MOVIE...and yeah Mohan is someone that lives in each one of us....and this is a movie that seeks to change that MOHAN ...

The Agra Trip one cold night.

I always knew i was weird but it wasn't until i read my post to my school yahoo group that the magnitude of my weirdness hit me.The year was 2005,the day a cold December day with temp. going as low at 0.5 deg C.
Two lunatics set off for Agra from Delhi at 2am on a bike.

There are two versions of the event ,the first part is Alok's which i must admit tends to be over dramatic and which starts with the circumstances that led us to take that trip
The second part is my version of the actual trip itself.

************************************************************************

PART I

************************************************************************

Ashu (Rakesh) visited Delhi by the end of November. Rang me up a after
a couple of days (my mistake, I was not available) and we met at Pvr Priya. I also met Shweta (Sahay) after a long while. Then after
dropping her at JNU, we spent some time at Ansal Plaza, and got back
home late night (11 30 pm).

Ashu said: let’s go to Agra
I said: sure we will

but I knew we were never going to Agra.

I was busy for another 4 days and over the weekends; Ashu took the
Agra pill again. he had his train on Sunday, 9 pm, and i was doing
the graveyard shift. i came back from the shift at abt. 10 in the
morning (sat). Ashu didn’t let me sleep and i kept dozing the whole
day.

Towards the evening, we went to meet shweta, and ashu said in cold
words " we r going to Agra... I don’t know how".

LET’S HAVE A LOOK AT THE SITUATION
TIME 5 PM
DAY SAT.
CONVENIENCE BIKE YAMAHA FAZER.

ASHU'S TRAIN LEAVES SUNDAY 8 PM


AND AGRA ......... 200 KMS.

We went to meet Shweta and told our crazy plan to her. She screamed
out" pagal ho gaye ho kya? itni thand hai". And she was right. The
temp. was as low as 4 degrees. We didn’t have hand gloves, driver’s
license, or the bike’s RC.
I said to ashu lets drop the plan but he was adamant.
We arrived home.

We made up a story.... our friend sunny's b'day. So we are going for
a night stay.

Finally, as the departing hour approached, I went in the kitchen,
packed some "badams", stuffed some newspaper inside my clothes ( we
were even short of winter clothes) and set off for our loooong
journey.


The first issue was the driver’s license and RC. Without that going to
Agra was a big risk. At 11 30 in the night, we set off and reached
south ex.II police station. i made up a story that I lost wallet that
contained all the necessary stuff..... Drivers license, RC, my credit
card, 8 debit cards, my college id card and all similar stuffs.
However I failed to convince them.

Then we did a daring act.
Went to south ex I. I stopped the bike before an unknown house, and
told ashu to note the address of the house. That spectacle man
couldn’t see clearly, so I had to help him with that. Then we went to
the police station and came up with a leak proof story.
The police enquired for abt 1 hour. And ashu was wandering outside
the pol. station. He was too afraid to get in ... afraid that if ever
the police verified the address, our Agra plans would turn to jail's
plans


after a long enquiry that lasted abt an hour, they finally bought my
story, and we got the FIR paper stamped.

and we set off for Agra at abt 1.30 am on Sunday

ONCE AGAIN LETS HAVE A LOOK AT THE SITUATION.

2 People
DESTINATION 200 KMS FAR.
ON A BIKE
1.30 IN THE NIGHT
WITH ONLY A RECEIPT OF FIR AND NO RC OR DL.
IMPROPER CLOTHES

MONTH DEC. BEG.
TEMP. 3 - 4 DEGREES

...DRIVING AT 110 KMS PER HOUR.

I was wearing newspapers underneath, then a sweater, and two jackets.
Ashu was wearing similar stuffs exp. for the newspapers. I put on the
hand gloves we borrowed from Shweta (god bless her for that), then the
woolen cap, and then the helmet. Ashu followed my steps and we moved
on to a 200kms long journey in the cold night.

When we started, I drove at abt 30kmph feeling quite secured due to the
voluminous clothes I was wearing, we speeded up to 60. As we drove
past Lajpat Nagar flyover, I realized what big mistake we had done.
Although I had covered myself with ample clothes above the waist, I
forget to wear some more trousers. Also the gloves I was wearing were
very thin as a result; I felt the first pinch of cold in my hands
which immediately went numb. Slowly, I felt the cold sprawling down
to my legs and a cold shiver ran across my body.

We had just started!!

Ashu asked "kya haal hai?",
and all I could say was "tt..tthh..eeeeekkh hooon."

We drove past the ashram flyover and took a right turn for Mathura
road. After I had learnt to adapt to the cold, and was in a position
to speak, I whispered " ashu!, kaise ho?". The words echoed in the
helmet and I realized I had spoken too slowly. I made multiple
attempts and finally succeeded in passing my words to Ashu. He
said,"Maja aa raha hai." i felt like jumping off the bike and cursed
the moment I told him to come to Delhi.

When we crossed Badarpur border, something happened.

We had two helmets and one of them had dark glasses. To get a clearer
vision in the night, I chose the one which was white and this indeed
turned out to be more disastrous since after attending the graveyard
shift I barely had time to sleep, I was feeling drowsy. I had speeded
to around 80kmph and was half sleeping on the bike.

Just then, i saw a truck coming from the opposite direction. The
headlight of the truck blinded me however; I felt I was
safe because the road had a divider. BUT what I didn’t realize was that
there was another road crossing the highway at right angles. Amidst
the blind vision, and dark night and the strong beam of the
headlight, I suddenly saw two dim red bulbs glowing at a horizontal
distance of about two meters, and about 1 meter above the ground on my right.
Almost at the same time, I saw a similar picture on my left as well.

I suddenly woke from a dream and realized I was driving right in the
middle of two trucks at a speed of 80kmph. And the trucks were
barely 1.5 meters apart.

I applied the rear brakes and the bike skidded on to the left. Since
the speed had decreased, therefore, we were just saved and didn’t come
below the truck.

a narrow escape!!

Ashu shouted "Abe mar jaenge! If you are feeling sleepy,
lemme drive" but I thought, the poor chap is not a pro driver.
So....

************************************************************************

This part is my narration from there on….
************************************************************************
Part II
So we set off from Delhi at 2 am with the idea that we would halt at
30 kms take a break and then continue again. But after the first stop
at 42 kms it was evident that this was not feasible since the cold was
something that we had not taken into account. Moving at speeds of more
than 80 kmph and then taking a break and setting off again only made
us more uncomfortable. So I got on the driver seat and with a challenge
to myself that I would take this bike as far as possible.
We soon came across a check post and the police there asked for the
papers. We were so cold that all I could say to alok was "get the
papers out" to which he said, "they are with u "...and then we pretended
to find them ...The guy asked me where we were off to and all we could
say was "AGRA" to which the cop gave us a strange look as if we were
the only two lunatics in the entire world...meanwhile the trucks were
lining up behind us and the cops got somewhat frustrated and asked us
to move on.
All that Alok told me was to get behind a truck whenever the cold got
unbearable. The first time I tried ,it was a relief but then the truck
was moving at 85kmph and I could go as high as 100 easily .So I said
to myself .."What the hell, get over it as soon as possible" and with
that gone was the shelter of the trucks and we were out on the open
roads again with no respite from the cold.
After sometime I felt something on my shoulder and I realized that my
dear friend was dozing off easily .This from a guy who never trusted
me on a bike. That in some way reassured me and boosted my confidence to
an all time high. All I asked him was what was the max speed that he
had done on his bike and he told me "105kmph" and in few mins I showed
him the speedometer which was hovering around 110kmph..my personal
best till then..
The next break that we took was at 102 kms from Delhi with another 98
to go. We had hot tea and after a break of some 10 mins off we set
again to hit the road. Moving at max speed we crossed Mathura and were
some 35kms from Agra.
It was still dark....
after driving at that speed for more than 2 hrs with no breaks the
eyes were bloodshot and as we entered Agra we met with our first accident .I
m still not sure what happened. But I feel that I missed a turning only
to realize it at the last moment and applied the brakes at the last
moments .Maybe the brakes failed at that time or maybe the disc brakes
played foul the end result was that the bike skidded and before we
could realize we were both lying down on the road and the bike was
like 2 mts away with some damage of course. How we managed to get away
without injuries can b best explained that we had at least 4 layers of
clothing and the helmets .That was the first time I thanked the Delhi govt for
make helmets compulsory.
This was how we finally reached Agra. We parked the bike at the parking
stand and made sure we were among the first ones to enter the TAJ.
6 15a.m.
Standing before the Taj and shivering in the cold was a combination
that not many would have experienced and all I could say then was "The
trip ,the cold, the accident was worth it to see the grand spectacle"
Alok could only nod in agreement.
Somehow we managed to get into the Taj...and inside the main complex
both of us were lying down on the floor, looking up, and not saying a
word for close to 15 mins .I felt something akin to Wordsworth's
feelings sitting on a river bank and writing poems on Nature. That was
the best part of the entire trip and made every lie that we told to
get there or every hardship that we faced enroute, worth it.
After spending like 2 hrs in the Taj we moved to the Agra Fort and had
an extensive tour of the entire complex, read everything that was there
to read. Saw the Tajmahal from the place Shajahan saw it when he was
imprisoned by his son.
Somewhere around 10 we were off to Delhi with Alok at the wheel. .The
poor guy really had a hard time trying to keep awake and there was one
instance when I felt him leaving the highway and head towards a
ditch. When I asked him abt it he was like" sorry bhai aankh lag gayi
thi"..Whoever said drinking and driving was not safe forgot to add
"sleeping and driving was unsafer",....that is something Alok didn’t
know perhaps.
We took a stop in Mathura and then with me at the helm I made sure
that we moved more than 120kms at a stretch and within 90 mins we were
30 kms from Delhi when I decided to take another break. That was the
longest stretch of biking that I had done non stop. I needn't add that
my arms were aching like anything but at least we had a welcome sunny day.
By 1 30 we were in Delhi and headed to JNU...to return the gloves to
our classmate and beloved friend Shweta. She was like "hey u guys made
it..u 2 are the craziest guys I have ever seen. I was thinking u would
b lying somewhere on the highway frozen"....that was the time that
realization sunk in that we made it. Something that was billed
impossible by all my friends there.
Came back home and had a nap for 3 hrs and then i was off to railway
station to board my train to Sbg. I slept for 18 straight hours on the
train to which a fellow passenger later remarked
"aap trains mein kafi sote hain"
to which I politely smiled but wanted to say
" u !@#$% if u haven't slept for more than 3 hrs in 36 hrs ,braving the cold and
traveling 500kms on a bike and then u sleep for 18 hrs it sort of makes up for it"
Even today when i tell my friends here in Manipal who are originally
from Delhi abt out trip they grin sheepishly and say
"don't cook up stories"
....that makes me realize the wise words of Alok when he said
"Rakesh u know what ...no one will ever really feel the sense of
adventure unless they have been there and seen and felt the cold at
that time"
Two days back i read an article that Delhi recorded 0.2degress ...and
i wonder to myself what the temp on the highway was when we were
moving at 100+ kmph speeds and when the helmet visors would turn
white in 5 mins due to cold and every 5 mins u had to wipe them
clean. At least when the temp is 0.2 you guys are in the cozy comfort
of ur houses with the heaters on....or maybe bonfires.
I never missed the comforts of my home than during that wild night trip.
But sprawling inside the main complex of Tajmahal and gazing the
interior of it or standing where once Princess Diana stood, and watch
the first rays of the sun hit the marble edifice made everything worth it.
That is the whole story of two crazy Xaverians who knew they had to do
it because they had to do it. Maybe it was the "Never say Die" spirit
that Xavier’s inculcated into our beings.
There was this discussion recently in my institute and there was this
female who went around asking everybody what was the craziest thing
that they have done. When she asked me all I could say was " I don't
remember" while in my mind of minds the whole Agra trip was
flashing. I could have answered her but refrained coz I felt she or the
other chaps there wouldn't truly appreciate our Agra trip.
One thing that always bothered me was why many foreigners know India
by Tajmahal but standing there and watching the monument made me
remember the words of Rabindranath Tagore "A drop of tear on the face
of time ".Need i add anything to that.

Then i Cried....

Since i m still finally finding my feet in here i thought it wise to share all my previous online posts here.
The first of the many posts i m going to share here is my review of LOVE STORY by ERICH SEAGAL.
Wrote this way back in 2004 when i was still in the process of rediscovering myself in KOTA.


*********************************************************************************
July 22, 2004 05:04 AM
Today I was sorting out my mails that were sent to me long back and came across one peice which referred to Love Story.Actually I had let my friend know about this book and had asked her to let me know about this book..and her view were,

’’I just finished reading Love Story and was so moved!!! I just held the book after finishing it...flipping the pages...reading the end again and again...trying to think why she had to die. I was just crying motionlessly not knowing wut to think really...it was as if I was living in their world as if I had lost someone beloved...I’ve been in not so great mood for past 2 days anyways and this book just made me even more emotional. god wasn’t it the best novel ever....as soon as I finished it the first thing i did was came online to mail u...i don’t know y but just wanted to talk to you.....I knew it was impossible to find u online at this time but still wished for a min to see u online......wish to talk to u soon.... ’’

All those of u who have read it are at this moment nodding their heads in agreement coz all of us have felt the same way that my friend did. I am never ever going to try to give the gist of the novel because if reading novels is my religion then Erich Seagal is my god and Love Story my bible.And to try to interpret Love Story in my words would tantamount to blasphemy on my part.
I read this novel on a train and couldn’t help but read it again and again and to my horror I found my eyes getting wet.I asked myself what what was wrong with me and got no answer.Once I reached my destination I gave this novel to a friend and begged him to finish it and when my friend arrived next morning one look at his face was enough to tell me that there was nothing wrong with me for he felt the same way that I did. In his words:
’’ I felt as if Jenny was sitting in that sofa beside the fireplace softly smiling that cunning wicked humorous smile of hers as the story is happening in front of my eyes’’
And at that moment i understood the comment that was written at the back of the book. In this novel U are an unwritten Seagal character.
In the beginning of the book you are informed that Jenny will die but as the book progress you get so much involved in the lives of Jenny and Ollie that u dread the thought of jenny dying..you pray to god ..oh god let a miracle happen,let the first lines of the book be a trick that my eyes are playing on me. Let it not be true that Jenny has to die.

Jenny is the most beautiful female character that could ever be described on paper while Oliver executes the role of an underdog with perfection.The way Jenny dies in Ollie’s arms is really moving and much more moving that that is ollie’s pledge to himself that he will not cry. If love story is all about love I guess love is the most beautiful thing in the world. and the best lines of the novel... Love means never ever having to say sorry.
Though there are so many scenes in the novel worth recounting the one that stands out for me is Olliver standing on the curb outside the hospital in the bitter cold telling himself that the cold is good for him because it is taking away the numbness of his heart.That is one scene that seems cut copied and pasted from my life and hence i can so easily identify with it.
Read this book for sure..do what ever u can ..steal the book..rob a book store..kill someone for this book. But if ever you see this book and not read it then you will regret not taking it then and there itself. Once u read this u will see love in a better perspective.
A comment rightly says ’’For someone who was in love, is in love or hopes to be in love’’ This is no doubt the last word on LOVE

My First Post ....again

Before i start it would be prudent on my part to explain the title...
This happens to be my Nth attempt to invade the world of blogging and thats precisely why i candidly admit i have been a failure in this domain.
Every time i see myself promising that from here on i will b a loyal soldier of the blog revolution yet me and my old ways cant let me keep my promise . Sometimes it lasts a day ,sometimes a week...the best i managed was 27days.
I could give u a thousand and one reasons but like always they will b one and thousand excuses so why bother. The plain fact is i m a very lazy bum with loads of commitment problems.
And like that drowning man who feels that the straw can save his life or the lady in "The last Leaf" who believed that the day that the last leaf falls off the tree will b the last day of her life, i have this unexplainable and maybe stupid notion that if i succeed here my life will take a new direction.I can only explain that by adding that we all have our foolish moments,this being the one for me.
That being the reason why the blog is being created.
A little about me...
I can go on and on writing abt me but the essence of it all will b that my name is Rakesh and that right now in Manipal.
This is all u need to knw if u dont know me and in case u knw me u dont need me to write fables abt me.
I believe that breaks the ice.
Last and not the least i would include something i am compelled to share with u.Its a quote from one of my fav. movies "Dead Poet Society" and cut copied and pasted from my brothers orkut profile.
"I went to the woods, because i wanted to live deliberately
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life
To put to rout, all that was not life
And not when i had come to die, discover that i had not lived "

That my friends is the mission of life.
adios till my next post .