Where the road ends...

Evening time, especially on those days when it gets cloudy for no reason at all, seems ideal to allow melancholy to set. And when you let your thoughts loose in such quaint, lonely moments, you are often astonished at the expanse of subjects your mind can brood on...

On many a silent evenings like described above, I pass by frail old men and women and my thoughts find themselves wandering about in many hither-to untreaded terrains...

Some grandpas and grandmas are bent horizontaly from the level of their waist, almost parallel to the street they are advancing on... And then there are old gentlemen who religiously go about their evening strolls irrespective of the unruly traffic and the general self-engrossed buzz of life around them...

On one walk back home, an old man walking in front of me simply fell head straight on the road. He started his efforts to get back to his feet as soon as his nose bit the dust. With some difficutly and a little (politely refused) help, he was standing up again, although a somewhat sheepish, helpless emotion now covered his face.



What was he thinking when he resumed his walk again, I wonder... What does it feel to get old? To know that you are at the end of your existence and to be remined of the fact time and again by such incidences when your faculties start failing you?


It was late one night when we were leaving a restaurant. While we were looking for a rickshaw on the deserted road, we saw this strange figure totally leaning on a bicycle, shakily covering small distances in patches- with small breaks to catch his breathe. He pulled his body and the bicycle in a slow, effortsome manner... When we asked if he was sick and needed some help, he happily started explaining that he was perfectly alright and he was returning from a friend's place after watching his favourite film. He then he described his love for cinema and proceeded to tell us where his residence was. The distance he was to travel to reach home was another three kilometers at the least...

Gloom was definitely not on the mind of this old man, his spirits were livelier and his passion more passionate than even many of my age. His enthusiasm more than made up for his failing body...

My superstitious mind could not help assigning a deeper meaning to this chance meeting with a zealous old man in the middle of night, whose spirit far outweighed the decline of his health. It was one of the best lessons of enthusiasm and independence that I have ever learnt.

The thought of age, rather, the thought process of the aged always leaves me intrigued. Old people walking on busy streets, lonely men and women gathered in parks, or those unfortunate aged who's family seems to have completely forgotten their existence- how do they feel about the prospect of approaching death...

It's a very sensitive topic, but then, don't many old people whom we communicate with have that characterisitic emotion of resignation equalling to something like 'dont discuss the future with me, I may not be there'. They may be the strongest and most talented bunch of people, yet something about their attitude is way too realistic and philosophical to ignore. Actually, it's scarry...

When my aaji laments how her memory has begun to fail her, a painful shudder passes my heart. On the rare moments when that strong lady talks about the future with a sign of resignation and uncertainty, the helplessness we mortals associate with death stares in my face...

Old age is a very sensitive mixture of emotions... An old person should be regarded as a treasure for any household. The experience which comes with years is beyond evaluation. Their health may be failing them and also be a matter of concern for others, but give attention to their thoughts and attitude and you may learn a few important tips to sail the business of living for your entire life. Such is their wisdom.

I only hope all homes which are blessed to have the company of the old realise the significance of what they have- and what through they may soon lose- the wisdom of age...

GauriGC

Love me like you hate me.
For often, hate is more passionate than love...

Gauri GC

A thin layer...

A thin layer shields

Love from lust,

Desire from want

And sin from the sacred.

That clever masquerade

Of good covered up as evil,

And the bad done up as lucrative;

Of pros mingled with cons

And fake draped with genuine…

A thin layer indeed

Of right distanced from wrong.


Gauri GC

March 31’ 2007

Thoughts...

I wish sometimes, if i could live between the illusions of life and dreams, tread the mystical path of the subconscious, and freeze the existence which lingers between living and dying. I wish I could be more awake in my sleep, and bring out the meanings of the bittersweet intercourse I have with my memories, my future and my sorrow...

********
If I were you, you would not hesitate to tell me what you really think of me... That's the way I am... And perhaps that's why you and me don't get along.

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

Let me be me.
That's the introduction I am most comfortable with.

*******************
Gauri GC
Feb 19, 2007

Thought for the day...

Guard your dreams with ferocity, with passion. Be brutal to those who attempt to scorn at your idiosyncrasies. And stay away from them for good...



-Gauri

S0me more points t0 p0nder...

Hey Nehal,

I appreciate your comment on my post about suicides..(read bel0w)
It's a well thought 0ver, rather emotinal response. The points you have made: like suicide being a personal decisi0n, the absurdity which seems t0 y0u in it been labelled a 'crime' d0 n0t appear ill0gical on the surface..

But let me tell you one thing, when I interviewed Ms Anju Sheth of SAATH in 2004, the 0ne p0int she repeated frequently was that a maj0rity of suicide cases are a sheer act of impluse.. there's this crucial period less than half an hour t0 ten minutes when the person l0ses all h0pes, sinks int0 depression and gives up 0n life rand0mly, on impluse...

Can y0u then, justify these m0ments as th0se of astute decision making?? I think not...

Further, she went 0n to say that it is in this crucial period that he/she needs help.. A simple talk, a phonecall, just about anything that takes his mind away from the depressing thoughts can make him pull along...

I would be the last person to take a judgemental stand and say pe0ple wh0 c0mmit suicides are c0wards... H0wever, at the same time, I firmly believe that suicides are not a decent way 0f paying a tribute t0 the life we have g0t...And last of all, t0 call a justifiable decision, however pers0nal it might be...

I w0uld feel bad f0r th0se wh0 take the drastic step 0nly because 0f the extent 0f life they readily all0wed t0 g0 waste on mere assumpti0ns...

It is perhaps through writing and speaking more ab0ut such things that we can do our bid: to let s0me ann0nym0us people kn0w, as i put it, that n0thing is never the end.. and that s00ner or later, life really rules...

Keep writing, keep reading and yes! keep living!!! in the true sense 0f the w0rd :)

PS pl bear with the '0's, the key is giving me trouble...

Why suicide....

It was with utter shock and sadness today that I took the news of a college senior who committed suicide ... We could be passed as friends, a little more than acquaintances definitely.. The little moments I remember of having spent together are full of the most silly PJs and lots and lots of carefree laughter...
The smiling face refuses to fade, the happy tone... O it's so shocking...

Why??? What sort of moment it would be when a lively youth is so depressed to shed away the urge of giving in to the utter ecstacy of life? I only hope and request that if anyone comes to such a desperate point of misfortune, simply hang on... Somewhere there, beyond your knowledge, would definitely be someone who thinks of you and would be more than willing to listen out... Just hang on...

Here's a number in Ahmedabad, a suicide helpline service which simply talks to people on the verge of commiting suicide...
SAATH- 079 26305544

I wrote an article in Education Times, Ahmedabad when the high rates of suicides after (or before the board exams) shocked and saddened me greatly. I reproduce the same below....

Desperate Measures

You do not get a life to give it up…


After having done with the board exams, when all students are enjoying their summer vacation, a few individuals who gave up too easily to the mounting exam pressure, now linger as a distant, painful memory. With the rate of suicides committed by young students rising to alarming levels in the city, it’s time to deal with this sudden social upheaval urgently. The hype created by the competition crazy and mark maniac exam system may shake the students, however, they should understand that no ‘reason’ cannot be a reason enough to give up on life.


Disturbed by the alarming rates of suicide cases in the city, Mrs. Anju Sheth established SAATH in 1998. SAATH is an NGO, which provides support and counsel to people with suicidal thoughts. Anju Sheth opines that majority of suicides by the youth are a result of impulsive behavior triggered by loneliness, lack of support or the complete loss of hope. Hence, it’s extremely important to patiently listen to whatever your child, friend or student, without being judgmental. SAATH functions by ‘Listening Therapy’ wherein trained volunteers lend a patient ear to the caller. Many a times, the conversation is active on the callers’ side and passive on the listener’s side. Sometimes, if a person with depressing/suicidal thoughts simply gets to vent off the pent up feelings, he might get a reason enough to think on positive lines and give up suicidal thoughts.


Petrified by the fear of consequences following a failure and lack of awareness, students fail to see many different career choices available, many students and parents give up too easily and fall prey to dejection, opines Nimrat Singh, a career counselor.

Dr. Khushnuma Banaji, a professor of Psychology in St. Xavier’s College opines that there’s no knowing when the threshold levels of stress may be crossed. Many a times, very good students find it difficult to accept that they are unable to cope up. They live in state of turmoil, and fake up normal behavior to live up to the façade of being a bright student. Her colleague, Prof. Ami Mehra informs that some tell tale signs like the lack of eye contact while talking, the unwillingness to carry on discussions, sudden irritation, restlessness or a slouching body posture, if noticed, should not be ignored.

Friends, who spend a lot of time with the concerned person, can easily detect such signs. Hence a huge responsibility lies on the peers to listen to their friend’s fears, provide a firm support and work towards sensible solutions. If dealt understandingly by peers, they can also be convinced to share their feelings with parents as well as to see a professional counselor.

It is unfortunate that depression, which is perhaps as normal an illness as common cold is wrongly perceived as a taboo and dealt with in a clandestine manner in the society. Many a times, family members try to sort such situations by themselves without seeking the help of counselors or psychiatrists.

Mrs. Anju Sheth (SAATH) opines that sometimes, medical assistance becomes necessary. There is a need of increasing the awareness that to seek the help of a counselor is only another way of taking care of yourself, which no one has a right to look down upon.


Rita Shah*, who gave her 12th Arts exam this year misses her close friend who committed suicide a few months back. All she can say about her friend’s drastic decision is that there was no reason for her to escape away like this…

Life is beautiful and sooner or later people agree on this fact.


* Name changed

In case someone shows suicidal tendancies

DO NOT
Negate the feelings expressed
Mock/ridicule whatever is said
Avoid stereotype assurances
Emphasize on the shortcomings
Attach excessive importance to passing/good marks


DO
Listen patiently
Encourage positive thoughts
Encourage meditation
Indulge in recreational activities, hobbies
Sign in a different short-term classes- language, public speaking, etc.
Be vocal about your feelings
Generate alternate career options
Get medical assistance/counseling if required

SAATH-079 26305544


- Gauri V. Gharpure

I am tired of Radio Mirchi... Vividh Bharati rules!!!

It was sometime during my jewellery making spells that I started getting majorly irritated of Radio Mirchi... The RJs are always hyper active, hyper excited, hyper happy, hyper artificial... Perhaps they are groomed to appear 'bubbly', 'youthful' and 'fresh' 24 7, but they have been grossly overdoing their acts of late...

It was also during the same spell of gritting my teeth everytime an RJ went overboard in his/her hyper spells, that I started tuning in to Vividh Bharati. Vividh Bharati is accused of being stagnant, of being operating by the same rulebook that it was initiated with: more weightage to classical music, followed by old hindi film songs.

Vividh Bharati, I discovered is quite efficiently living up to the 'image'. And due to this very image, it will definitely stand out with its own loyal and huge fan following in future. More predictably, almost all media are populated by the hyper active communication style which has become fashionable today and so will be the radio. But sooner or later, people will grow tired of the induced excitement and constant chatter, of the forced vivaciousness and high pitched action based information. They will want something sober, something more balanced.

The best thing about the simplicity of Vividh Bharati is that you can indeed keep the radio as a 'background' compnanion and proceed about your chores without distraction. The music is soft, the presentators calm and composed. The melody as well the the presentation does not interefere with your work. The 'rjs' here dont order you about in the shrill screams and hyper urgings to go see the latest movie, and dont play some horrible, far fectched jingles idolising anyone from filmstars to sportsmen. Talking about idolising, I was pissed off beyond the levels of my tolerance on hearing a jingle sounding like a garba aarti, which sang praise of Indian cricketor Sreesanth after his performance in a match against South Africa... Outright ridiculous!...

Vividh Bharati offers its listeners a well planned schedule. The variety of the contents took me by a pleasant surprise. The simplicity of presentation was something I was to eager to welcome. I remember listening to A K Hangal's radio interview one quiet night about a month back. I shall be indebted to some anonymous team at the radio station who put the programme together to bring to us A K Hangal's old shaky voice, the nostalgia of past evident from the highs and lows of his talks, the emotions and the pieces of history saved for ever thanks to an excellent interview on the radio waves.

Sometime in the morning the presentators (Mahindra and Mamta Singh)were reading letters sent by Vividh Bharati listeners from far away corners of the country. One listener said of taking help from someone to write the letter and walking a distance of twelve kilometers just to post it. Her indigience when she complained that her letters were not read up was justified. I listened to old Hindi film songs coupled with information about the composers, the lyricists, programmes giving information about some famous music directors, lyricists, film makers. A slot for instrumental music in the afternoon, a programme for youth, small plays... Vividh Bharati...O! I am fascinated...

New Year's Eve


I walk along the familiar paths

As some friendly hopes give me company,

Little regrets wander along

And few desires go out of sight,

arguing with the future...

Carefree laughter still echoes

The difference those kind words made, shows.

A few more events add to the memories

I'll fondly look back to...

As time ticks unhurried, I walk along-

On this New Year's Eve.

-Gauri G

The goldfish in the bowl
An orange dollop of life
She laps about in circles
For but a rubber playman,she is alone, all alone...

The goldfish in the bowl
Have you ever seen it closely
Or is she just for show?
For but a rubber playman, she is alone, all alone...

That dollop of orange,
how she slithers her paper thin fins,
And how gracefully she turns and bends
within the scarcity of life she has...



How her shades of orange change,
From a vibrant orange to reddish,
A tinge of golden here, a hint of yellow there,
An orange dollop of life, that goldfish in the bowl...

But sometimes, the colour begins to fade...

How she refuses feed one day,
And then the day next...
how the water turns murky,
And how her fins go limp...

That dollop of orange,
will just fall still one day
And float in the glass bowl
O how ugly would it look!

The goldfish in the bowl,
Do you see it daily
Or she is just for show?
For but a rubber playman, is she alone, all alone?...

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

Please keep pets only if you can keep them with love, care and proper medical treatment...

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

By Gauri Gharpure

In that small moment
When I lost you
Life ended and began all at once
Everything smelt new...

Time betrays without a tinge of emotion
And the clock ticks on.
Why then, live a burden of memories
When life never ceases to make new songs?

In small moments
I look at raindrops clinging to green leaves
And sparrows hopping about on window ceils;
Squirrels scampering up the trees

Time smiles a sly smile
And says: 'Nothing will change
Whether you be
Or choose not to be'

I would rather choose to be me
Than trail in the shadows of expectations
I would rather be me
Than my father's daughter,
My husband's wife
My aaji's grandchild...
I would rather be me
By my choice.

For in small moments,
When I lose many more
Life can begin all over again
For nothing is never the end...

Gauri Gharpure

The neem tree cried yesterday
It had seen me grow...
It shed lush, bitter tears,
And hustled about in pain
As I got ready, bejeweled and made-up;
It suddenly began to rain.
The neem laughed at the irony
At relief and salve unasked;
It wanted to brood in solitude,
pampering the pain.

My grandfather would sit below the tree,
Bare-bodied, with only pajamas on.
The neem would sway from side to side
to greet the old man a good morn.

As I ran about from shrub to shrub
Marvelling at the nests littles birds made,
My granpa would hold out his arms
in an effort to embrace...

Grandfather is gone,
the tree sways in loneliness.
It has grown heavier under the burden of memories
And servants urge that the tree be relieved.
As I agreed, in a hurry to go
The neem tree overheard.
A loud cry it muffled.

The neem tree saw me grow
The tree saw me go.

Gauri Gharpure

Eat, Drink and be merry
Party, yeah, party real hard…
Dance: twirl yourself round and round,
In circles till you get dizzy…

Drink, drink and Drive.
Party, yeah party real hard…
Then drive your costly car;
Drive, drive real fast…

Drive fast and rash and rude,
Drink while you drive,
And scream while you drive
Play music loud and clear…

Then sip some more from the
Whisky and the beer,
Then, drive fast, faster
And mow up someone sleeping still…

Put just a few people to sleep-
Sleep, Sleep, a peaceful sleep…
By driving your car over them,
But still, drink, drink and drive, you will…



Then get out of the car,
And shout, shout an arrogant shout,
On the recently bereaved…
Whose dear ones were crushed in sleep…

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

- By Gauri Gharpure

To the youngsters who allegedly drove over sleeping daily wagers at Carter Road, Mumbai- killing six on the spot, including one seven month pregnant woman… Several more lie seriously injured…

To them, (and such alike…)who still showed no remorse…

Click here and here to read more about this accident.

Red

Jessica Lal... Shot dead in cold blood. Witnesses turned hostile and police behaved brilliantly enough for the common man to lose all faith.. And Judiciary!! The black coat mites might as well be on summer vacations all year long...

I penned down a short story, trying to put myself in her shoes. This is what resulted:

Red

The concept of lesser and higher mortals must have been evaluated well before being implemented. I have come to believe mortality depends on the less or more you have…

I woke up. Or was I sleeping at all in the first place? I imagined the pillow to smell salty and yearned for that comfortable wetness against my face. Crying can make a clumsy little pillow a tiny heaven of sorts. Only if I could cry my heart out…

Blood shot out. I saw in amazement, in a flickering moment, the beautiful red. My favourite colour. The thud I heard when I fell on the shining marble floor mocked at life. Dull, loud and sudden. I could feel the intensity of each part of a second till I felt the cold stone.

You read about such things and it creates a high drama. Yet when it happens, the moment is as real and deliberate as drinking tea or making love. You sip in each second of the act. As if bathing your soul with the realisation of each moment of action. Life doesn’t let you escape its nitty gritties. Neither does death allow such luxuries.

Death breathes in the last breath of life with such skill and intensity that it is utterly ironic. Such precision for the last moment seems a little out of place. It totally envelopes you in its mysterious process. The moment of truth comes in all its unabashed nudity. Death comes with a downright bare and basic approach. Well focused on its mission.

It was a busy night, a night of serving drinks and more drinks to a large number of people who considered themselves the top brass, or better still- ‘higher mortals’. They groped each other, oblivious of age, sex or reaction. Their shrill screams of feigned laughter competing with loud music didn’t pierce my ears. I had long since gotten used to such a racquet of excess of everything.

I was preparing to leave. It was well past the closing time. The thoughts of going home, the luxury of a cold shower and sleep almost took me to a different world. I was about to leave the bar. Just about. And then this man came up to me and asked for a drink. He smelt of alcohol and looked like a human. But his eyes gave him away. Beast. Eyes, as if screaming, ‘This Goddamn world is under my belt’. Ha!

I refused to serve. Politely at first. And then firmly when he didn’t budge. I remember the swears which followed. But they stopped midway. I wondered why. In that minuscule moment, he had already taken something out of his pocket. And then I felt the blood.

It was an odd hour much before dawn, which I fail to describe even today. It had a strange smell to it. Time smells strange when future is about to pounce on you. Or was it blood?

He saw me fall on the floor with indifferent eyes. There wasn’t a tinge of any emotion. My eyes searched for a sign or regret or remorse in vain till they lost focus. He hit his hand on the counter in frustration. Like someone does to regret a careless move in a game of chess.

As I fell on the floor, few men gathered defensively around him and shouted to the no one in particular, “We did not see who fired, did you?” Then they roughed up someone who attempted to speak up. They took the petite socialite owner of the bar aside. Her make-up was drenched in sweat and was giving away the sight of withered, freckled skin. She nodded in agreement. Only a few weeks before she requested that I fill in for more shifts. With a few final settlements, the gang rushed out, pulling the beast with them.

There was complete silence for a moment. Hushed whispers followed the coward quiet. As the socialites brushed against themselves the costly fabric made a papery sound. There was a faint tinkle as liquor glasses were kept down in a hurry from all sides. A few civil servants, top policemen and who’s who of the city quietly walked past my pool of blood and slipped out.

I expected to lay there for hours. Uniformed strangers would arrive in a short while and take over the scene. The murder mysteries I had read with gusto were complete with descriptions of forensic investigations, those rubber gloves donned to handle objects at a crime scene, a photographer taking shots at various angles… But what did I see?

The petite bar owner peeked down at me with a worker who had a huge mop in his hand. He approached me with a mixed expression of fright and sorrow. She motioned him to start his work. That beautiful red, which ran in me only a while ago, had oozed out to be wasted on the floor. The worker soaked it in the cloth and squeezed in a bucket with shaking hands. My favourite colour smelled sad now. The activity was repeated again and again, till the marble surrounding me appeared as clean as before.

Immediately, the petite socialite ordered other servants to pick me up. A group walked behind the party towards an expensive car and reached a nearby hospital. It was just a formality I guess. The beast had conveniently slipped off in a car, with a bunch of goons protecting him.

I cannot forget that arrogant look and the frustrating winsome smile he refused to give up. Each effort to revel the truth was brutally crushed. The judiciary I had looked up to presented itself in faith shattering shades.

Indeed, the concept of lesser and higher mortals must have been well evaluated. Mortality, perhaps justice for that matter, depends on the less or more you have in this country.

The virility of life had drained out of me with surprising agility. The moment was too short to agonise over how unfair it all was. A loud thud, a wet and cold back and one last gulp of air. I didn’t realize I should have cried then. My last cry…

Gauri Gharpure May 15, 2006

To Sorrow

I am grateful to the sorrows
Like the green grass after rain,
They spring up from nowhere
And add colour to my life.

I am grateful to the sorrows
Which bunch up like old friends,
Uninvited, uncalled
And thoroughly help themselves...

I am grateful to the sorrows
Which complete the jigsaw of my life
By placing themselves piece by piece
Exactly wherein they fit.

I am grateful to my sorrows
For when they are gone
My happiness is sweeter;
And smile, a wise smile.

I am grateful to the sorrows,
To their benevolent teachings
For without them, how would I appreciate
The good offered by life?

Gauri G

Death Sentence for Santosh Kumar Singh

The news is enough for a lot of emotional brooding over. A reason to rejoice, even for strangers like me sitting miles away.

Some news spread like wildfire. Some gain momentum slowly. This case, throughout its proceedings, perhaps witnessed a mixture of both the phenomena...

While the aquittal on December 3, 1999 was met with dismay and shock, nothing much ensued immediately. It took time to wake up the citizens of India from their indulging luxuries, their safe coccoons of existence and peep into the system which had gotten stinking rotten.

But wake up, they did. One whisper to another, then muffled discussions, then furious debates, slowly people found a voice whose existence they had forgotten. They shouted, not caring if they were heard or not. Shouted their shouts of frustration. It was necessary to spit out the years of meek tolerance and mute witnessing of injustice...

Jessica Lal, Priyadarshini Mattoo, or Nitish Katara. On the face of it, these are just three names, of the innumerable number of people who are murdered or raped in India. But they are different because the victims' relatives did not give up. These cases have managed to wake up a nation and compel it to seek justice.

I want to pay tribute to the families of all the three deceased above. Had it not been for their committment, had it not been for their perseverance, their sorrow which they resolved to turn to their strength, I would not have been able to see today the Judiciary bending down to a public outrage. I would not have seen the retrial. I would not have gotten elated hearing the news. I would not have been touched.

I have learnt one of the most important lessons of my life through Priyadarshini's father. If you want something, you don't get it merely by wishing it. You'll have to slog for it and be prepared to stumble upon all the unseen, but almost certain obstacles on the way. But most importantly, if you want something dearly and are certain it's right, the most conscientious thing to do is to go ahead and try.

It's a moving paragraph when Atticus tells Jem and Scout in 'To Kill a Mocking Bird' :

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."

It is because of such courage of Chaman Lal Mattoo that we can manage to see a brighter side of the judiciary.

Gauri Gharpure

Life or Death for Santosh Kumar Singh...October 30 The Red Letter Day...

It's October 29, 2006. It's a stale, redundant, selfexplanatory lead.
But I repeat: it's October 29, 2006. So what...

I'll tell you what.

A family somewhere is huddled up in anxiety. Remnants of sorrow are mingled with flakes of hope. They would love to be optimistic. But they might have learned to fear the feeling. Being optimistic is risky these days. It can also be devastating. It was, on December 3, 1999, when Santosh Kumar Singh, a rape and murder accused was acquitted. The conscience of a nation was rocked.

The Priyadarshini Mattoo case might have limped up to the courtroom, fought a galant battle and finally glimpsed at justice. From December 3, 1999 to October 17, 2006. That's the journey of justice. A haggard, effortsome, unrelenting journey.

There's a strange anticipation in me when I write this blog. I fear this anticipation, for I hate not getting the anticipated. I anticipate, with all my willforce, that Santosh Kumar Singh is ordered to be hung to death.

I assume that the reader knows about the case. Priyadarshini Mattoo was raped and murdered on January 23, 1996 in New Delhi. Evidences pointed to Santosh Kumar Singh, but these were smothered by power and influence. Period. The Delhi high Court, on October 17, 2006 pronounced him guilty of murder and rape, and is expected to read out the sentence on October 30.

I have a few questions to ask.

Have you wondered how Santosh Kumar Singh managed to go on to become a practising lawyer? (Who were the people who trusted him with their cases)

How did he manage to get married? (!!!)

How his friends had the gumption to rough up the media after the October 17, 2006 conviction?

Having pondered over the above questions, it seems there are a large majority of people to whom 'right' or 'wrong' and 'conscience' do not exist. And the rest, perhaps a minority, have to be preprared to struggle against this gamut of negativity.

When such attitude and arrogance survives in our country, I cannot dare to call it a 'civilised' nation or attempt to bask in an illusion of security. We, as a people, are in an urgent need to be more sensitive. Sensitive to corruption, senstive to rapes, murders, political scams and all the innumerable news which we assume unaccountable and irrevocable. Sensitive, because the bad things in life are not always benign.

Cynicism has, sadly, become a fashion statement for many. People may not be satisfied by 'one' such stray verdict against powerful and rich accused. They are granted their intellectual brooding over.

October 30, 2006, for one, might prove instrumental to fuel up strength in some more weak, haggard bodies to stirr up another long battle, just to get a glimpse of justice. The battle has begun...

Gauri V. Gharpure

Food for thought

All my spurts of impulse and misbehaviour at home would invariably be followed by a shrill scream from Aaji, "You'll get to know what living is all about when you go live in a hostel".
Infact, there are a lot of things which teach you about living, but let's not get that personal.
I eventually did leave home.

It's different to be shouted at home, called names and be scolded to the bones. You are nestled in security and protection in spite of all that. It's different when you get to a new city, start hunting for places where you can get a decent meal two times a day.

When I came to Pune, I initially devoured the idea of eating outside. I humoured myself with my fascination as long as I could. But one day I realised I was missing home. And aaji's cooking. In time, I discovered there was a decent 'mess' just in the lane behind.

As I climbed the wooden stairs, each floor showed a different kind of lifestyle. On the ground floor, inside the building entrance, there was a modest courtyard, and a tulsi plant right in the middle. On the first floor was a well furnished house, with expensive tiling, a spacious kitchen with most modern gadgets and visibly well-off people stayed there.
Then I reached my to be 'food place'.

To the right of the stairs, was a small passage, 10 ft by 4ft by my vague estimations. A small wooden bench was accomodated to the left of the passage. The kitchen where kaku (aunty or an elderly lady, as called in Maharashtra) sat, eternally rolling chappatis was, to put it most generously, another 10 ft. by 4ft.

But in this area, also imagine a cooking platform, a gas stove, cooking utensils, a small TV space, 4-5 large steel vessels full of the days vegetables, rice and dal, besides a small single gas stove on which kaku cooked chappatis. And why forget- the two to three girls eating their lunch in this space? Life accomodates everyone...

The first day I ate there, a strange feeling enveloped me. I could faintly hear my aaji's screams, "When you go and live in a hostel, you will learn what living is all about".

I paid Rs. 15 per meal. A meal which was cooked with hygiene, precision and most of all, affection. At Rs. 15 per meal, I ate two chappatis, a generous serving of rice and dal.

My meal meant business to kaku in more ways than one. Each day, her work would start early in the morning, perhaps 4 or 5 AM. I always saw her with the rolling pin and the dough, skillfully going about one chappati after the other. She had to visit the doctor when she couldnt sustain the backpains any longer. As kaka, her husband, who helped her side by side in the kitchen, cutting vegetables and serving us, fondly put it one day, "Your kaku doesn't get up for 2-3 hours once she sits for making the chappatis". And then other day, he told me, as if divulging a great personal moment, "Your kaku's home is just 5 minutes away from this place, but since marriage, she has not once gone away leaving the business to me. She has stood by my side all along."

Half a dozen sparrows always hopped up to us while we were eating. One was rather brave. She came right to the stove and picked small balls of dough from kaku's hands.

I met honest people who made a living out of cooking. They didn't use bad cooking oil, the dal was not water-thin, plain salt and turmeric like I experienced in a friend's tiffin. The rice was not full of stones which crackled thru the teeth. In the chutneys she made, out of beetroots, guavas, sesame or mango, we got glimpses of kaku's culinary mastery. And on sundays, she lovingly treats us with sweets.
Rs. 15 a plate...

I used to buy shoes and clothes and earrings and what not. And spend without thought, to hear once again, "When you begin living on your own, you'll know the importance of money".

I still buy what I like, but I have started giving more thought on my expenditure than before. The efforts people have to put in to earn whatever little they do are much more than can be imagined. And yet, they don't grumble. In their contentment and simplicity, I find new meanings of humility.

- Gauri Gharpure

How temples should be

The place where I stay in Pune fits perfectly into my imagination of what a hostel should be like. It's a huge bungalow, with such utilisation of space that we have as many rooms as could be built in, a large veranda and a spacious courtyard. Girls have enough places to talk in peace on their cell phones thus...

Just as I step out of the comfortable recluse, I find myself on a narrow, busy street. By general observation, most streets that are narrow buzz with unusal activity...Merely ten steps of walk leads to an unassuming little gate on the left. From this gate, one can see a small black stone ox sitting patiently on a concrete block. An elementary garden of sorts is formed by a few rows of plants neatly maintianed in the little space available.

A frail old man sits on a plastic chair near the entrance. He is dressed in khaki, and wears a calm expression. Ocassionaly he rubs off the drops of sweat from his bald head. His eyes are deep and soft and bore right through the believers with a mix gentleness and aloofness. On hot afternoons when I return to the hostel, I peek inside the temple to see the old man sleeping on a sheet in the courtyard. In the mornings and evenings, he sweeps the floor clean. Around nine at night, he usually checks if everything is in place, perhaps puts the broom to use again and gets out of the temple. I don't know where he goes, but each morning he is right back.

The temple from the inside, is spic and span. There are two large bells, and a small raised platform where diced sugar is kept in a bowl, covered with net. This is the daily prasad, simple and sweet, literally! On either sides of the entrance inside, two clean mattresses are placed. A mirror is arranged at a perfect angle, that I can see the Shivling from far behind.

In visiting this temple, I feel like paying tribute to an old man's conviction in his job. His slow movements never alter the state of the temple. Everytime I have entered this temple, it is just as clean and quiet as before. His behaviour is so dutiful, so disciplined, that he personifies worship in itself. He is not a priest, no sir! God bless the trustees who decided to keep him there. His gentle demeanour is much more spiritual, than the fanatic pandas I encountered in Pushkar, near Ajmer and many other 'famous', 'jagrut' temples..

There are never queues lined up at this temple though. Like the ones at the Camp Hanuman in Shahibaug, Ahmedabad, or at the Dakshineshwar temple near Kolkata. Does that mean that the black stone which is carved out in this temple is 'less Godly' than the others I mentioned before.

I was angry at myself for standing in a long queue at the Dakshineshwar temple, When, finally when my turn came to 'pray' after about half an hour of standing in a long line, the priest inside the temple matter of factly asked what I had to offer. When I said 'nothing', he gave a loud expression of disapproval and hurried me to exit. My father persisted and he thrust a few flowers and two pieces of sweet in his hand. Three priests were 'maintaining' the queue by hurrying devotees to back off as soon as they stepped in front. I don't need flowers, fruits and mithai and money to please my God. Thank you.

What drives people to such random belief in God. Why do people walk miles, eat the offerings which might have turned sour from heat and drink water which is more than guaranteed to be impure, as a sign of devotion? Why smear the kumkum, which is chemical to the core and can spark of an allergic reaction with ease? The reason my bafflement multiplies ten fold is that most often, most people do this by choice.

We all need somekind of external, inexplicible and supposedly higher source of referance to look up to at one time or the other. We conveniently label this abstract idea as God, go on to complicate it further and further, in the form of different manifestations, rituals, scriptures, idols and omens.

What started as a source of positive energy perhaps becomes a form of bondage without our realisation. Not all bondages are bad. Life, in itself would be meaningless if we were loners, not bonding with our surroundings, people and ideas. But when those ideas and actions hinder your intuition and impulse, become a morbid compulsion and an aimless destination, the soul rebels.

My soul, to cut things precise, something in me always rebels when I see large queues of people lined up at temples. I love the temple opposite my hostel. It gives me time to be with myself. This is how temples should be.

-Gauri Gharpure

Obituary- Ustaad Bismillah Khan

It was a special day in June 2003. Ustaad Bismillah Khan was to play the Shehnai at the annual SPICMACAY concert in IIT-Bombay that evening. We were awaiting his arrival in the green room. We ran about to ensure we had enough bottles of Mangola (chilled) and enough packets of Good day biscuits. Ustaad Bismillah Khan loved this treat, we were told. We were anxious and nervous. Was the room clean enough? Was the mangola cold enough? Were the biscuits soggy from the stuffy Mumbai humidity? Were there enough chairs? We were rushing about double; triple checking whatever arrangements we could have done to make the old and empty room comfortable. And then, there was a hush. Suddenly activity stalled. Being brought in a wheelchair was the Ustaad himself. We were shooed away as were most others. Only his core people remained around, till he was safely shifted onto a chair. His dislike and discomfort to be seen on a wheelchair was obvious. He began sipping on the Mangola and ate a biscuit or two. He was not chatting with many. Seeing our job done, we left to find ourselves good seats in the open air auditorium. It was the first time I had heard him live. And the last. In the middle of the concert, he suddenly got angry. He shouted at the audience for being inattentive. He thundered he would play just for fifteen minutes for the sake of Mr. Singh who had called him there. We were stunned. Some were meekly looking down, like you do when Grandpa catches you unawares. And then he began playing. He played for almost another one and a half hour. The next day, Mr. Singh and Pooja were to meet the Ustaad at the hotel he was staying. I requested if I could go too. The request soon turned to begging. She allowed me to accompany. Ustaad Bismillah Khan. I sat mesmerised, sitting near his feet, almost gaping at the legend. A quaint object hung from his right ear. His two front teeth which peeked out from a gap made his smile all the more endearing. The gleam in his eyes added to his mesmerising aura. It could change from being naughty, angry, sad or blunt with alarming ease. He was in a mood to talk. And as we heard him begin his passionate diction, we found ourselves getting emotional for no fathomable reasons. On a random note, he began narrating incidents from his childhood. ‘When I was a child, I saw an old man. His skin was a shimmering like bronze. He was roasting vegetables. All kinds of vegetables. It was very hot and flies were buzzing all around. I was getting irritated. But you know what I saw? None of the flies could sit on the old man’s back. They attempted indeed, but simply slipped off his back. I went to him and asked the reason and he simply smiled…’ He too simply smiled when he didn’t want to answer some questions. Interviews were definitely not on his mind. He cracked witty jokes, made wise observations and his voice became emotional when he talked about the Ganga. After over half an hour, he started to wind up the rendezvous, ‘I have one thing to ask of you all. You all pray, don’t you? When you pray next, don’t forget to tell Him, ‘Bismillah jo chaahta hai, use de dena’