THE (DEAFENING) SOUND OF SILENCE

 

Is Silence really Golden?  Whoever may have said it first, and, wonder why?  For anyone to actually ‘SAY’ that, in itself, is breaching silence. (err…by that I mean, when you speak, you make some noise, however meaningful your sermon may sound, it would be breaching silence anyways)

 

Silence holds different connotations to different  people.

There is Silence by order.

When Shatru saab thundered KHAMOOUUSSHHH,  it was the baritone which defined  the  Boss.

When (mafia) Don Corleone  swore his men to secrecy, the oath was one of silence.Omert’a. An Italian mafia’s interpretation to  A Code of silence.. Silence promising not to squeal even if caught by either the cops or rival gang members.

Then, there is silence by choice. ‘I like my space so I want to be quiet and be silent’; The Anna Hazare silence. Or,  I move into a conditioned and customized space to practice silence. Vipassana silence.

I am pissed off with you so I am not talking to you. Sulking Silence.

But this is not about the silences which are compelled by situations, circumstances or people. Voluntary or otherwise. 

This blog is on a different not, altogether.

 Is Silence really Golden today? Especially in a world where communication has become such a key? Where Speech has become even more critical. And misunderstandings  are like second nature to most situations. When Silence , however inadvertent, can lead to conflicts, bitterness or even assumptions which even time may not promise to heal.

Thus, this blog on the ‘other’ silence. That,  not by choice, or design, but, by default.

What if one is preoccupied? Or busy. Or unable to communicate (not deliberately but thanks to a situation which has cropped up all too suddenly). Don’t you have a right to that silence? And how accountable are you to the others, when faced with situations beyond your control at times? Is the word ‘accountable’ appropriate at this juncture?

 

In the silence by sulk, there is someone to blame. Action, Inaction, or very often, Ego.

But, what when the silence is provoked by nothing.? Who is to blame? The person who is silent for reasons beyond his control? Or the(other)  person who is suddenly subject to communicating with a wall when he/she keeps waiting for you to react?

Should one pounce on the other for deliberately withdrawing into silence? Assume that you are being ‘avoided’? And being unfair?  And slip into a persecution complex and launch snide attacks against the other? Or should the person who has slipped into a forced silent scenario still try to make the time and make amends? Is expecting even a moment of time from the ‘silent’ one to convey that he/she is busy, a fair expectation, or is it unfair to expect even that? Considering that the situation could be unforeseen. And that it could happen to anyone. Even you.

In a world where communication plays such an important role, is there any room for silence left at all?

Meaningless silence? 

Or should every quantum of silence come loaded with a meaning. I quote from an interesting book which I am currently reading…and I write this in context to what I am talking about.

Often, when we are confronted with silence from the other end, especially when silence is not the norm, we (and I quote) “over react, blow things out of proportion, hold on too tightly and  focus on the negative aspects of life”.

“We get irritated, annoyed and easily bothered, our (over) reactions not only frustrate us, but actually come in the way of what we are really wanting. We lose sight of the bigger picture (and here please do refer to one of my earlier blogs by the same name, The larger picture). Somewhere, somehow, if we do not realize this in time, there is a possibility we may lose the person for life. Or, the crack is far too deep to fill. Unless, there is the willingness to let go and look at the person in the same light, as we once did before the ‘assumptions’ took over.” (quote ends.)

I have seen many-a-friend(ships)  move in different directions when a silence is misconstrued. I have seen many-a -friendships get back from the brink, especially if the situation is handled well.  

I am not here to judge who was wrong when the gap widened. But I, for one know, that a stitch in time, always saves nine.

And assumption, is just a step away from destruction.

That brings us back to the point that I began with. If it is likely to cause so many misgivings, misconstrued feelings and conflicts, is silence really golden?  Or, more frightening though it may sound, is it the end of the road for Silence?

ends

p.s. I remember a senior cop once explaining the concept of ‘silence’ and said people accused of a crime have a right to silence.

What about the common man. Does he, or doesn’t he have a right to silence? Ironically, the moment he invokes that right, he becomes an accusedJJ

From Wikipedia:

Omertà(Italian pronunciation: [ɔmɛrˈta]) is a popular attitude and code of honour and a common definition is the “code of silence“. It is common in areas of southern Italy, such as Sicily, Apulia, Calabria, and Campania, where criminal organizations defined as Mafia such as the Cosa Nostra, ‘Ndrangheta, Sacra Corona Unita, and Camorra are strong. It also exists to a lesser extent in certain Italian-American neighbourhoods where the Italian-American Mafia has influence and other Italian ethnic enclaves in countries where there is the presence of Italian organized crime (i.e. Germany, Canada, Australia).

Omertà implies “the categorical prohibition of cooperation with state authorities or reliance on its services, even when one has been victim of a crime.^’Even if somebody is convicted of a crime he has not committed, he is supposed to serve the sentence without giving the police any information about the real criminal, even if that criminal has nothing to do with the Mafia himself. Within Mafia culture, breaking omertà is punishable by death.

The code was adopted by Sicilians long before the emergence of Cosa Nostra (some observers date it to the 16th century as a way of opposing Spanish rule).It is also deeply rooted in rural Crete, Greece.

ends

OPEN LETTER TO THE CHIEF MINISTER

 

Dear Mr. Chief Minister

 

I should have written to you almost one year back, when you took over as the driver of the elected machine in Maharashtra. The idea was to give you a brief about the state of affairs. Or, affairs of the State. Since you would be(relatively)  new here.

Mercifully, it is not too late. You remain as clueless and as far from reality as you were then.

I wonder if you were any point interested in handling this State? (Your disinterest seems a bit too obvious). After all, you are Prithvi-raj (one who rules the world) pray then why would a tiny inconsequential state like Maharashtra, however MAHA  it claims to be, should interest you?

Or is it that the hangover of your previous portfolio, MOS in the PMO,  still remains and hence, matters  of  a state, belittle your competence.

Having said that, I must confess, you are ideal for the state of Maharashtra.  Why, that I shall justify later in this note.

Talking of ideal, at least you are ideally better off than your predecessor, who seemed too engrossed in his ‘ideals’ ( Adarsh),which  led to his downfall.  How can we trust a Chief Minister who can disown his mother-in-law and say she is not family, at the drop of a hat, or in this case,  at the sale of a flat.

But that apart, I think it is high time you knew something about your State.

To begin with, a lesson in state capital, Mumbai’s Geography and contours.

Mumbai is not seven kilometers  in radius, from Mantralaya to Varsha. (For the uninitiated, Varsha is the official residence of the Maharashtra Chief Minister).  Mr. CM, you may live in Varsha, but, the real downpour happens in the rest of Mumbai.

 Central Mumbai for instance, once had mills which Mumbai was recognized  for.  Mills have made way for Malls. What remains are chimneys, more as a heritage fascination. Obviously you don’t seem them billowing with smoke as in the past. Strangulated off their last breath by DBuilders , or people who have more filth in their veins than that flows through Mumbai’s archaic drainage system.

The little hope, from public representatives has been dashed. In central Mumbai itself, one such rep  notorious for his stone chawl which even cops fear to scale, while another is popular for his dahi handis rather than ‘upliftment’.

.

But then, people have given up expecting much from the likes of elected representatives. Many of whom have criminal records and share space with you in the cabinet, or under the same roof  in the legislature. You , Mr CM, do not have the courage to enquire why the most inconsequential of leaders manages to travel in the fanciest of cars the moment he gets elected.

.Lower your cr windows and look at their convoys too, Mr CM, You could pick a tip on which car to use for your convoy the next time round.

As I maintained earlier, Mumbai is not only the road from Mantralaya to Varsha. You must some day, drive into rest of Mumbai. Oh yes, there is actually life beyond Dadar too.

Bandra, yes, the same where the sea link begins or ends. Yes the same Sea link which your party leaders and alliance partners squabbled, over the naming, the day it was inaugurated.

What? You haven’t heard of Andheri is it? It is one of the biggest suburbs of Mumbai. Yessss….that’s where Bollywood is. Oh Bollywood you have heard of, is it? How come? Yes, Correct, the same Bollywood where one of your predecessor’s son is gainfully employed. Yes the same chap who went with Ramu Verma into Oberoi hotel shortly after the 26/11 attacks. No wonder.

 

Honestly Mr. CM, Mumbai has grown. Oblivious to your information, some of your colleagues, hand in glove with the builders have managed to make this city’s geographies extend to far and beyond.

‘Ab Dilli Door nahin’, was once used by politicians who eyed a ‘influential’ seat in the Delhi political circle. Your men in Mumbai have redefined it, by promising land to the hapless Mumbaikar in far-flung areas which may appear closer to Delhi than to Mantralaya or mainland.

When (and if ) you do travel to the suburbs of Mumbai, don’t be shocked to see vehicles with just three wheels bobbing up and down.  These are not smaller jet planes going through air pockets.

These are called auto-rickshaws, which are going through crater like pot holes.  (A little word of advice. Instead of filling up pot holes, your civic admin can simply join all pot holes by breaking the edges. The road will get leveled. It is far cheaper and faster. True there is lesser money to make, in such a scenario. )

I invite you to a ‘sponsored’  auto-ride. (Of course, the first test will be if you manage to convince  an auto-wallah  to stop for a passenger.  Nope, the cops are very unlikely to pay heed.

 

Talking of locals and cops.

 I think you need to look at the police machinery too. Of the 33,000 police force, as of last count, only a handful are busy in investigating crimes. (Yes some have committed them and some have been shielding those who have committed them). Rest are busy guarding VVIPs, political morchas, clear traffic when your party’s President or the country’s President also from your party visits Mumbai, the latter, so very often.

 

There are also some in uniform, too busy hiding behind trees and bushes to jump onto the road and scare the shit out of an unsuspecting driver and pocket some money from him for traffic violation.

Net net, you don’t see them doing what they ought to be doing.

The locals are next.(here I mean the local trains and not the Bihari babus  who Raj bhau seems to be fixated upon) The scores of massage parlors which were fronts for sex rackets have now extended themselves  to the local trains too. Ummmm…..This is a feel you have to feel.

Talking of Local trains, I sincerely urge you to board a Virar fast local, and try getting out at Andheri.  Don’t forget to inform the Congress Hi-kamaan (HQ) to start looking for a replacement in the meanwhile.  The term Molestation gets redefined in such locations, whichever gender you may belong to.

Well, Mumbai as I repeat, is much more fascinating than your eight minute drive.

 In some suburbs, after you get off the train(or get thrown off ), stop by a paani-puri wallah and gently bend down to look under the stall. Hello Mr. ,  I didn’t ask you to look at the paani-puri wallah’s  fingers pacifying his itchy lower half. What I want you to gaze, is  at the ground below. These are called foot paths, meant for people to walk. (Some of these relics  are visible in paintings of Old Mumbai and  portions of Ballard Estate).

Your over-zealous money-maker partners-in-crime  have done a magic trick. Like you. They have made the foot paths disappear. Filled them up with hawkers and, converted them into elevated footpaths, which most senior citizens find it tough to climb. But, who cares.

It is all a blame game.Your guys blaming the cops, cops blaming the system and  everyone making hay, waiting for Madam’ s son to shine. Just a little note to tell you that in all this, your Executive, who are meant to execute what you guys legislate,  are busy playing God to anyone with grease.  This is one lot, who do not need palmists for sure.

Net net, Mr. CM, you need to wake up. You need to smell the coffee. When you start smelling, you will realize that Mumbai smells like crap. Different suburbs, different smells.

 

As I said at the beginning of my piece, this city deserves you. You deserve this city too. For someone who is now known across political circles in Maharashtra as too good and too nice a guy, let me tell you,  translated, in hindi, it is not a very charitable way to describe a person.

But, as I mentioned earlier, Maharashtra  and Mumbai deserves someone like you. We, of recent past, now belong to the state of  anti-corruption crusader Anna Hazare. With great pride and excitement we attended his rally. Some of us also packed our cars with booze so that we could party the night away after the day was spent waving at TV cameras in our designer ‘I am Anna’ caps.

 Many piled onto bikes and scooters, a-la three idiots,ignoring traffic laws, whistling and passing remarks at women on the way.(How dare any one stop us, we are Anna’s brigade and fighting corruption you see).  Some were also stopped by cops but a hundred rupee note ensured , that our rally-party wasn’t dampened.

Some also told their respective office that they want leave to attend Anna’s victory rally, but headed off to Lonavala. Booze and butter chicken zindabaad.

Dear Chief Minister, we have pot holes and no footpaths. We have traffic and no roads. We have rainfall but no water and we are such a huge and large city, but, your men have made it unaffordable for the average man to buy a place here.

We have to make a living, but we have no life.

We are proud to be Mumbaikar’s,  Mr. Chief Minister.  But, we don’t really care about Mumbai.

Somehow, we are like you. Same-same, but different.  You claim to be there, but, do you also really care?

 

ends

The (Real) Game Changers

My generation may recollect a once-so-very-common  screen saver  on their now-extinct desktop. Much before palm tops, flat screen laptops and slim fit Kareenas  had begun to corrupt the body and soul.

 A tiny, cute ball would gravitate towards one end of the screen, gently kiss the edge,  and with the impact of that touch.  would bounce  towards another end. The touch would determine the direction the ball would move in. The point at which it would touch the screen would determine the angle the ball would move. 

So often I think of that screensaver.

Game Changer,  is what I have named it.

For years,  It was a permanent fixture on my comp screen and, fascinated, I would stare, for hours as the soft-ball image would bob across, almost smiling at me..Often,  my colleagues wondered  at my ability to go deep thinking, when actually all I was busy doing was watching the screensaver.

It was during one of these endless gazing games that the Eureka moment happened.  All along I had been staring at the movement of the ball. One day, I decided to monitor the position of that touch and how that touch changed the course of the balls journey. One small tiny feather touch.

For the ball, THIS  blink-and-you-miss touch was the Game changer. 

Our life, is no different from that of the soft ball. We celebrate the impact. The direction we are moving in  and of course the end result of that direction. A new job, an acquisition. Meeting someone new.  Or, just something nice happening. Almost invariably, we thank the one above. Thank God we  at least thank God.

Well, at times, it is not only the one above that we are grateful to. We quickly identify the next in line in that chain seemingly link responsible for the goodness to have taken place. Rarely do we go beyond that.

How often have we taken  the thank-you-I-am-grateful  thought   to  the last key person in the chain? The link furthest away from the impact/result? The one act/touch/or person who  may have actually actually started the movement?

For instance, My first job as a journalist can be credited to my English professor whom I had bumped into, at a newspaper’s Sunday magazine office where he worked as a consulting editor.  Or so I had begun to believe, for a very long time. (Then, I was pursuing my Law and Journalism as a career was never even a speck on the horizon).

It was he, who kept pushing me to keep writing. Appreciating and critically analyzing my work. When the first vacancy came up, it was his persistence which won over my laziness. I got that job on merit,. But had he not been persuasive enough, I would not have even known about it.  To Sir with Love, Thank you.

Thus, by all means, I often credited my being in Journalism to this man. But if the screen saver is my barometer, is it enough to thank only my English prof?

At least five years prior to me writing for magazines, I remember my school chuddy-buddy showing off his name as it appeared in letters to the editor column of the local English newspaper. In Nagpur. With unfailing regularity. Call it competitive shit that I had, or the desire to see my name in print, I asked him how did he do it. Much before the term came into existence, thanks to my chuddy buddy, I had not only become a citizen Journalist, but, would look for areas of civic improvement and write to the newspaper. Three weeks later, and onwards, I was a regular in the newspaper too.

This was five years before I met the English prof.

Now, it has almost become second nature to me. To recollect a pleasant happening, sit back, smile about it and start tracing the people and events, backwards, responsible for the good deed. Finally resting at the last stop. Then, step two is to pick up the phone, track the persons number and, tell him /her what an important role they have played in my life. Leaving them puzzled or smiling. Or maybe both.

That this exercise has brought me in touch with so many more old friends, is the bonus. And there are so many wonderful memories, events and people I have met in life.  For instance, of all the people in the world whom I could be friendliest with is someone who neither shares my age, nor my profession. So much that we haven’t even studied in the same school or college unlike some of my other close friends. Yet,  we are like a house on fire, whenever we speak. We have passed the test of time (I know him for 25 years as of this day).

Is it destiny? Or should I now put it, is it JUST DESTINY? Will it then, not be unfair to thank all those who  were mere dots in the line-up to the circumstances which led us to having met. Dots which are now a complete circle.

 Any one of the dots not being at its place at any given moment, and my life would be so altered.  Often,  the last dot in the chain maybe so completely unrelated to the final result. Yet,  its presence at that place that time is all that it took for things to turn the way they did.

As  I maintain, these dots have played a huge role in my life. There are so many good things, events, people that I have been blessed with in my life. There are so many more dots that I am eternally grateful to. A short visit to Shillong which was till some time back not even on the furthest horizon.

As I look back, the trip is now a wonderful memory filled with fascinating people who have each been dots in their own way.  Where does one begin, where does one end and whom does one thank, is in itself a wonderful exercise.

I am sure your life is full of such game changing events too. Take some time off and reverse-join these dots.  You may find very old friends, totally off your otherwise busy radar, who have played a big role in what you are today, and whom you have completely forgotten to thank.

Game changers. That’s what I call these angels from the past. Who have been responsible for my present.

THIS India, THAT India and PREGNANT India

Which India do we really live in? ummm…which one do we really want to be in? And more precisely, which one do we belong to?

There as many answers to this question as opnions on how  Sachin Tendulkar misjudged a Warney off-spin.

There is that India which DOES. The rest of India watches.  Sometimes, it is This India which DOES  and THAT  India watches.

Each, wanting a slice of the other. An invisible F divides the two. Fence.

One often wonders, whether this India even knows  what goes in the mind of the Indians in the other India. The twains never shall meet. Except on screen.

I remember when Mumbai was drowning almost six years ago. I was in the August company of a few celebrity salesmen.  One endorses shampoos the other laptops while two others were champion salesmen for luxury car brands.

All hard core Mumbaikars.

During the July rains, before during and after, all of them were art home.  “What? “ Reallly””? You mean a double-decker bus was submerged in water in Andheri Lokhandwala?” You mean this happened in Mumbai yesterday when I was at home? “ Oh FXXXK, and that’s why my cable wallah was not responding to my phone calls as my cable wasn’t working.

Finally, a week later, the salesmen were out on TV, appealing for likeminded people to loosen their purse strings. The meeting of minds did happen. On screen.

Their Mumbai and our Mumbai.

Do you know that they have a 27 storey house, only for themselves. Their car park is six floors and can fit in 168 cars and one floor for a car servicing station. That means, even if they fall on bad days, financially, the3y can make enough money only by renting the six parking floors through BMC for a car pay and park and make both ends meet, isn’t it? It means when it rains even if their ground floor gets submerged they can move to the second floor without extra cost? Wow.

The house is ready but the hose-warming will be next year. Saw it on TV.

Our India and their India.

Then there is an India which merges somewhere. I call  it the Then and Now India. When the young and the not so young compete for scores in the Tenth and Twelfth standard. When good marks are as easily available as a back rub in a Mumbai local train. My neighbor’s  not-so-bright teenaged brat  was depressed because he scored only 93 per cent.  His equally not-so-interested partner in crimes had scored 96 per cent.  Cool, is all that he reacted.

If 96 was cool and not a  big deal, I wondered how they would have reacted  had they heard what the topper in my tenth standard batch had scored  a whopping 63 per cent and had become  a school hero for his scores. Ummm….I was happy looking at my name in the “Passed” list.  Yes 34 per cent was actually passed, even in those days. Then India.

And just heard that a college in Delhi has kept a first cut off of 100 per cent.  Now India.

I Enough of reflections. This  India. That India. Then India Now India. Their India. Our India.

I decided to sit back and watch some TV.  The screen which binds the two Indias.

Watched  the previous morning’s images of  One India trooping down streets, some on hunger strike and others with candles, demanding strength to the world’s most populated democracy.

 Switched channels. This time, the evening image. The same India. Having changed into chiffons and silks.Candles replaced by candle-lit dinners. Ready to step out for a party. To celebrate  the good news that OUR  daughter-in-law was finally pregnant.

For newspapers, it was page one no doubt. So what only a single column. For TV (smoke) screens, it was the  Big (B) story.

Should India  worry that Lok Pal was still a distant dream or should India celebrate that the Bahu was pregnant.

This India and That India. We had chosen Both.

We are like this only. Same same. But different.

Life in a Real Concrete Jungle:)

 

What do I do with my son, the moment he wakes up, he says I want to go home, a young mother was complaining, of her seven year old.

“Going home? Doesn’t he live at home with you?” I asked her. Oh no, she said. The moment he wakes up, he clicks his laptop on and, gets into facebook. Farmville. Buys farms., trades animals . “That is his new home”.

Far from the  Madding Crowd.

On a bright and busy Monday morning, my eureka moment had arrived.

Enough of the urban chaos I said to myself. “I am going home too ” I muttered,  loud enough to convince myself. 

It is time I bought myself a farm and traded animals. Since I could not afford it in Gandhi’s India, Farmville and facebook was my new destination.

The space, the privacy, the non intrusion of familiar names seemed far sexy an idea to resist.

 

 

I picked up my headphones,  switched on my laptop and, stepped into the world of Facebook.

I want peace, I said to myself. I can easily find myself some corner where I can sit, catch forty winks or just hum a song. No intrusions.

Facebook, I was told, has hundreds of such corners where I can crawl into.

I opened the facebook door.

Ketan stood there, with a morose look. “Kafan to hain chehre par, lekinj kambhakht maut nahin milti….” (Am shouldering a coffin, in wait, but, death eludes me).

Not a great way to begin, I told myself.

 “Is there an explosion outside Delhi High court”?? frantically questioned Sanjay. I didn’t have the answers. Even if I did, I was running away from people. Wanted space.

Shreyansh had occupied  another window seat. “Groan. I have an upset stomach. Loosies. Groan”.  Deeksha and Siddhartha “liked” it.  Sadists, I muttered.

“My legs, my torso, my legs are all travelling in different directions. Crocin, do your thang”, Mansii was  pleading.  Nobody seemed to care.

I didn’t want to either.

Move on, I told myself. Amrita stood in the next corner. Just smiling. Maybe she was in love. Or maybe out of it.

The next corner I saw Naiji, a close friends sister. “Naiji is building a livestock  pen” She needs woven wire. Help her you will be rewarded. Whets got into Naiji, wasn’t she happy in  her IT job?

Why should I help? Help me, I said to myself.

Even before I could move on, I saw Naiji screaming for help again. “Needs soap dishes for her shower”. Move on, my sixth sense told me. This is getting too personal.

Guys really look way way way hotter with beards, Shilpa was crooning. I looked at my clean shaven chin and the thick greying mouche and wondered if she was taking a dig at me. Move on fast, this corner s not for you either.

In the next cove, Sheetal was looking for more bushels in Farmville and Sanjay was busy wooing Aroona, ‘Happy birthday dear Aroona, Long time no see no hear no do.’

 NO DO?? Wonder what he meant by that!!

Shweta was busy adding a smoke free badge to her profile. There were ten who ‘ l”liked” ‘ the way Sanjay was “Doing” Aroona but hardly any takers for a smoke free city.

Blogger Kiran was an enraged soul in the next lane. “Femina steals a story and uses it without credit”, she  howled. Bloggers of the world unite. Holy shit, said one. I knew they would do it. Said another. Take a chill pill remarked a third.

Somewhere further down, more hell was breaking loose. “My hotmail account has been hacked”, Parsa complained. Don’t write to me on that account.

Suddenly, someone ‘poked’ me. For a moment, I felt I was travelling in a packed-like-sardines all male local train somewhere and had reached Bandra. I dared not ‘poke back’.

I was beginning to worry. For myself. And  whether I would find any space for myself here. “I lost my pet poodle” cried Anamika. Eight people ‘liked” it and three people said. “Oh”, “Where” and “So Sad”.

I began walking faster. Someone had announced he was  married. Two others announced break ups. Many joined the fun.Break-up or Marriage. For facebookers, it was the same.  Liked. Disliked. Comment.

 

Amitabh said he was checking into the Taj lands end. Wondered  whether it was a proposition. Hint hint.

Here I was running away from the concrete jungle. Hoping for a peaceful corner. Round the bend, bumped into  Priyanka seeking donations for  her Jungle habitat in City ville.

Send a donation, and you will win an animal, she was telling the world.

Am I crazy? I have enough auto rickshaw-wallahs of my own to deal with.

“I don’t have a problem with myself. If you have, that’s your problem,” Vivek was shouting. A dirty, I-know-it-all grin on his face.

Somehow, I felt, Vivek’s was trying to tell me something. I had a problem dealing with chaos in the city and was running away from it. Escapist? Maybe. I had to deal with it. Face it. Not Facebook it.

Be a MAN, I told myself.

The chaos within the virtual world was way too deafening then the world outside.

I ‘Power-offed’ my laptop.  It took a few seconds to refocus. I was back in Aamchi Mumbai.

Ugly hoardings of uglier politicians smiled back at me. Loser, they seemed to say.

 

Got into the car. Rolled down the windows. The stench. Suddenly it felt so good to breath real stench. Compared to the virtual confusion.

 I Drove onto the main road. I did not have to ‘join’ the traffic snarl. It was everywhere. “You XX###@@$$” screamed an auto wallah. To another. I smiled.

Honk honk went the bus driver. I smiled. Again. In an attempt to miss the bus, I almost crashed into a pole. My car missed the pole. But not the pot-hole.

The two-hundred meter drive had taken me 45 minutes, a few abuses and a big gash to my car. And a grubby sweating me.

But emerging from the car, I felt  like a Gladiator.  Having battled a real war. Real people. Unlike the moans groans and drones of the virtual world.

Opened the newspaper. An ‘Adarsh’  Chief Minister had disowned his mother-in-law . All because of a flat. A national leader’s politician daughter had been beaten up by her businessman NRI hubby.  An IAS couple had amassed hundreds of crores through corruption. An actor had been charged with rape.Farmers had been beaten black and blue by political goons.

Thank gawd nothing had changed here. The concrete jungle seemed so human.

It is so good to be back home.:)

ends

The Larger Picture…..

A little boy, his skin darkened by hours in the sun, dark skinned. Visibly unkempt. Clasping the grills of a tiny unlit room. Cage.

 Caged?

“How inhuman can anyone be? ” Barbarians. ” “Can we report this matter to someone”? “Is there no other way to treat a child but this way”?

I have heard many-a-reaction when people accompanying me first set their eyes on him. The reactions have been no different when I have shown pictures, like the one posted here on my facebook page.

The intensity of the reactions vary.

From outrage to concern to disgust to sympathy. In favor of Sonu. It is but natural to feel so. We all think with our heart. First. And then react. Almost spontaneously.  To ask if the reaction is justified, I have no answer. But one can concede that the reaction is not entirely unjustified.  Same same, but different. We are after all, human.  

But having said that, isn’t the reaction a very micro approach?  Are we not reacting by just one point of view that we have? So, is the reaction then justified?

What could the larger picture  be? If one were to ask. Is it important to look at the larger picture? I think so,  yes.

Because, the moment we begin to look at t it that way, the picture changes. The reaction does too. Reluctantly but yes, Gradually.

Take Sonu’s case for instance. Indeed he was in a caged. No denying that. But, Sonu has a story.

What is Sonu’s story?

Sonu is a little-over-six years,  naughty boy. As naughty as a six year old can be. If not more.

 He is the apple of the eyes of residents of Somnath, a project set up by Baba Amte, in Chandrapur district in Maharashtra. Somnath is an extension of Baba Amte’s leprosy eradication project in Anandwan.

Sonu though, is not here for leprosy treatment.

Somnath is often the venue for a annual youth camp where thousands from all walks of life converge for social work.

Little Sonu was rescued a couple of years ago, off a railway track where he was reportedly thrown by his parents . He was bundled in a sack and wrapped in barbed wire. Left for dead. A bunch of youngsters enroute Somnath had seen the bundle and brought there. For treatment. Initially, just to see if he could live.

I met Sonu the first time in 2010,  during an educational visit to Somnath. 

He had  warmly hugged me, then, clutched on to me. He was bare-chested. Not for want of clothes, but, the barbed wire wrap had left bitter scars on his mind and every time he was made to wear a shirt, he would tear it off.

But he roamed about freely, chatting with strangers and following every warmth that got extended. too.Almost like a cute little pup,

Following people by sound and smell. Because Sonu was blind. By birth. One of the key reasons he had been abandoned by his parents and left on the tracks. For dead.

When  he met Sonu first, in 2010, he could barely mumble a sentence in full.  One year later, in February we met Sonu again. 

A little older. More naughty than last year, He had stopped tearing off his clothes. He had begun wishing people politely and would engage them  in conversations. Talking nine to a dozen.

He had also begun eating. On time.

Somnath incidentally is a large expanse of land, splattered with a few homes here and many a fields there. But, skirting a massive jungle.

Somnath is in the middle of almost nowhere, and the residents  spend their day in the fields cultivating  or in workshops. Night time, people rush indoors, because among the uninvited visitors are jungle cats and others from the wild.

Till Sonu was finding his ground in Somnath, last year, his soft fingers never let go of any adult hand. His insecurities getting the better of him. Today, he is older. Wiser. And naughtier. More confident.

He seldom holds on to a finger for long. His handicap of vision notwithstanding, he zips around the village. Often, making it impossible for the not so young residents of Somnath to catch up or catch him.

And hence, they keep him occasionally in this little room.

We  see it as a cage. From where we have come. They see it as their own little way of keeping little sonu safe. From the wild. Or uncertainties which loom around.

Till the time they return and spend their meaningful time with him. He is their tomorrow.

Following  our heart, it  is so easy to react. Impromptu.

The sight of a little boy in a cage is enough to pick up the phone to alert “social vigilantes” and little Sonu would have been taken to a remand home.  For what we would have thought is a better life than  he is currently leading.

Is it really so?

Have you even wondered what life in a remand home could be like? Would it not be better to spend an evening with Sonu and hear him squeal with laughter at the sound of feet returning from the fields. Rather than jumping the heart-gun and remanding him to ‘official’ custody? Just because you felt that was right?

Very often, we jump to conclusions. Seldom  stepping back to look at the larger picture. Being judgmental. Being the judge. Not realizing whether the statement or our reaction is a qualified one or not.

We react to a situation, verbal or non verbal, without realizing how it may impact or affect others. An immediate reaction need not always be harmful. But, at times, can be harmful. Because the impact can be cascading.  Sometimes, just a sorry never works.

As I said earlier, it is not unjustified to react the way we do. But, look at the larger picture and think. Is it justified either?

We are human and to feel a high or go through a low is but natural. But, our reactions also impact so many other lives. Those are collateral damages that we are liable for. My view.

The next time we are about to react hastily, think that your hurry may result in one  Sonu being sent to a remand home. Maybe, it will help you sit back and look at the larger picture.

ends

post scrpt (ps)

Here is to clarify and due credit to a reader who commented and hence brought to my notice.

Sonu has been caged behind an iron grilled room. The reasons are two. The option of a wood (or softer) structure could have been there but it has time and again been found unsafe from a strongly built wild cat on the prowl. Hence, the iron grilled option.

Secondly, this is not a cage ‘built’ for little Sonu. It was a sort of a room/storage. It faces the road within the Somnath campus where lot of people pass constantly. So, rather than keep Sonu in a secluded room (in isolation) all day, he is now in a room where he can talk and chat with passersby and his extended family aross in the fields.

Lastly, this is not a room where he is kept from dawn to dusk. Anytime any of his “local guardians’ are back during the day, he joins them again.

Please also remember that Somnath is not a urban hot spot. Resources are scarce. Residents are largely senior citizens. Few young people opt to go there for a living.  Hence, the residents have not much choice  but to make do with available options.

“…Paper-wallah…Paayperr-wallah…”

“….Paper….Paper-wallah….”….boomed a voice, slicing the pregnant silence in the dimly lit room.

The ten odd faces in the waiting lounge of the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) looked up, startled by the intrusion. Not as much of the person, but by the noise.

The sight of the paperwallah had broken my chain of thoughts, taken me back a few years. 2005. It was another medical emergency i was attending to. Spending my days in a hospital room for a very dear one.

“Paperwallah…” rang the voice…as the door opened…a head peeked in..deft fingers tossed a paper in my direction. Customarily he glanced towards the patient’s bed. Glanced back at me. This time, a wee bit sadder. Nodded his head consolingly but reassuringly, before vanishing for the day.

Only to be back the next morning. The ritual was  unchanged. Initially, I  would wait for the newspaper. Then, out of habit, (and since I did spend a considerable time in the hospital), I had begun waiting for the gentle face of the newspaper wallah.

subconsciously, waiting for his reassuring nod.

For a man who was letting me peep into the world with the bundle he carried in his hands, I wondered what was he getting to see as he peeped into the room every day. This room where I was, or so many rooms within the hospital. A different shade of life, maybe.

Then one day. Things changed in the room I was in. The patient was better. Set to be discharged. The bills were being settled and we were all set to leave, waiting for the doctors final nod.

The bed, for a change, and unlike the last few days, was spotlessly done up. Waiting for a new occupant.

Just as we were to leave the room, there  was a knock. “Paper-wallah….”   came the voice first and then the head peeped in. Out of habit, he flung the paper in my direction. Within a fraction, he had noticed I was all dressed up that day. A little puzzled and almost simultaneously, he glanced at the bed.

His eyes betrayed his shock and sadness when his eyes did not see  the almost sedated patient covered in a white sheet, which he was habituated to seeing.  

He stopped in his  tracks. Stepped into the room. having imagined the worst, his face had changed. The human behind the vendor had emerged. With a bow of his head, he offered his condolences before wanting to zip away. This time, not out of habit, but, almost unable to control his tears.

I stopped  him. To explain that the  empty bed was not because what he may have imagined , but that the patient was stepping out of the room on twos, and not being lifted away in tears.

His face broke into a jubilant toothless smile. His eyes sparkled almost like a blessing. Relieved.

Then he was gone.

“Paypeerwallah…” I heard the voice again. Bringing me back into reality. I was back in this hospital setting. Slightly worse. . The waiting lounge of a hospital’s Intensive care Unit. (ICU).

There were ten odd people in the room. Some grim, some in prayer. Some, a bit of both.

The paper-wallah’s eyes  quickly scanning the faces for a nod. Searching for any eye which wanted  a glimpse of the world outside.

His eyes rested on the wrinkled and tired face of seventy year old. The man looked at him  and as if on cue, the paper-wallah  pulled out a hindi newspaper, and tossed it at the old man.A ritual I could never forget.I had been through it.

Before we could  blink, the paper-wallah was out of the room.

I wondered what does  the man, our paperwallah, who every day unfailingly gives us a glimpse of our universe, get to see when he peeps into a hospital room?

Life in so many forms. Pain and happiness in different shapes. The rainbow and the clouds. And grief too.

Have we spared a thought for the paperwallah who delivers the paper at home? Those early hours of the morning when we are …..so fast asleep.

 He comes into our life when most of us are dead to the world. fast asleep. He is also among the very few who sees us when we are completed unprepared to face the world  Dishevelled. Dreamy. Off-guard.

Maybe he is also among the very few who wakes us from our slumber and says, hey wake up. There is reality waiting for you. Smell the coffee, literally.

How many of us have even seen our newspaper wallah? Would you even recognise him if he stood in front of you? Probably not.

He surely will.

This is a salute to that  faceless angel of sorts. A chance encounter with him made me realise how much he offers us. And how much more he manages to absorb every time he delivers the universe into our hands. Hoping that with news paper vending machines taking over our lives, would this human machine become extinct too?

This is also a tribute to a friend whom I lost recently. Was selfless. Gave us so much and before we could blink, like the newspaper wallah, he too had disappeared.

This friend, had gone for good.

He was like the most priceless  fire cracker during the festival of lights.All that is left behind after his burst of energy,  is a deafening silence.

Life. Transient life.

JOURNALISM MENTOR TURNS TWO……(Already?)

It was always an idea. On the back-burner. Waiting to hatch. Over endless cups of tea in a cafe thousands of miles from Mumbai, it finally took shape. Initially, in the form of a determination.

One year and a few months later, as paid journalism took one more giant step forward, we decided to take our tiny step. To educate.To empower.

“Is it a coaching class? Is it a college? Is it….one of the many booming educational businesses that already exist?”  There were scores of questions which were thrown at  us.

There is no use damning the various “competing” educational bodies. I am sure they are  doing a marvellous job in a gap which exists. That was not a road we wanted to take.

There were (unethical) paths which we, as journalists  had (almost) taken at times and had realised much later that had we got the right mentoring, maybe we would have avoided many of the mistakes which we unknowingly had committed.

Mentoring it was, so we decided. This day, two years ago, in a room which could seat not more than eight but, had the capacity of an imagination of the universe and beyond, we decided to give it a go.

Thus, Journalism Mentor was born. (www.journalismmentor.in) We knew we were different in intent. From all the others.

But we did not have the resources to advertise and tell the world. Hence, all those who came to know, either through word of mouth or otherwise, and who decided to walk the road with us, we are grateful to you.Indeed.

For those who are not aware, Journalism Mentor is a 14 month intensive mentorship based full time programme in Journalism. It is a post graduation programme located in Mumbai. (www.journalismmentor.in)

There is no age, language or qualification barrier(except the need to be a graduate across any stream). It is a programme meant only for those who are ready to work hard. Selection is based on a simple application form and interview. There is no entrance examination. Some of India’s best names in Journalism, either practicing or academics, are mentors here.

Through JM, we decided to make Journalism Education all that it did not provide in most places we had known of. Age barrier was one. That was removed. Language was the other. You could be from any language background and yet, have the opportunity to study with us. Be mentored by JM mentors. We inked that in our ‘constitution’ too. The only condition that remained was to be a Graduate. Across any stream.

As we spoke to students across, we realised finance played a crucial role in post-graduate education. Education was indeed expensive. Loans were not easy to get. Even more tough to repay.

For us, sans any school premises of our own, we had to rent a place. Pay faculty. Provide for resources. We dug into our pockets for some. Then set up a basic fee structure  to ensure that everything else works with precision.

However, we resolved to educate every deserving student, irrespective if he had money or did not.  The option to repay (once the fees were waived off or deferred) remained between him, his conscience and the One above.

I remember the story of one student who was bright and did not have financial resources. Only earning member in a family of six.Unhesitatingly, we had waived off her fees.  Whats the catch, she wondered? Why are we doing this, would have been the obvious question.

That day and in the days to come, we structured Journalism Mentors’ bye laws and made them even more stringent  We turned this into, not just a Not for Profit, but  a section 25 company. Which meant that as founders, we would not take any remuneration  as salary. It had to be selfless. Even the littlelest  of a doubt had to be erased. Education needed to be a good Business model and not a Business.

We are grateful to the first batch. Proud of them too. Grateful that they showed the faith in us (upstarts by all standards) purely on the strength of  credibility. Remember we had nothing else to talk about. A room the size of a matchbox, workstations and a work-in-progress library. (We did not even have a man-friday to clean the office at that  time so, two hours before the day would start, yours truly would get to  the office clean it  and place the room  in order). Proud that the first batch has students who  are all good journalists today.

As time went by, we experimented with teaching methods. Mentors, editors  and faculty, some of whom had stood by us from day one and others who joined in as the course developed,  appreciated and suggested.

Within months, students had put together a book dedicated to the martyrs of 26/11 India’s Home Minister Dr Chidambaram released the book. The proceeds we donated to the children of the policemen who died.

Journalism is also about realities. An Imagined India and a Lived India. We did away with clichéd educational programmes. Took students  into the heart of a conflict zone for a ten day travel and learning exercise. A Conflict reporting assignment. That is now a regular feature.

The first batch paved the way for the second. A bunch of confidence builders, for us. Who are already into their first of the two internships.

Today, Journalism Mentor is two years old. The admission process for its third batch of students has begun.  JM is now part of a larger umbrella of the JM foundation fr Excellence in Journalism. (www.journalism.org.in) We are proud to say, we have grown. In vision for sure.

The foundation is now engaged in Journalism Research and Archiving (tiny projects which have begun slowly but steadily). Apart from Journalism Education. It started with our 14 month formal programme Journalism Mentor and now we have High school Journalism and Citizen Journalism, what we are truly proud of.(www.citizensreport.in) Citizen Journalism has over 250 strong army of Citizen journalists in seven cities so far and which we promise to take it to at least 50 cities in the first couple of years.

This story can go on. It has been a journey of self belief. For the founders and those who have wished us well. We do know we have had our share of ups( which we have shared) and our moments  of downs where we required much strength (where the good wishes have worked). Thank you all again.

At this point, all that we promise is Journalism Mentor is here to stay. We do not promise a campus. We do not promise the moon.

What we promise is qualitative learning. Mentoring.  A library and reading facility that belongs to you. And education that you can cherish.

Fo those who are deserving and those who value it. Irrespective if you have money or you do not.

Thank you to all those who have been part of JM.

Thank you to the others too.:)

…..Yeh Jeena bhi koi jeena hai:)

Over a period  of time I have realised, I spend lesser time in the edit or op-ed pages of a newspaper, as compared to the Obituary page(s).

The content there seems so much more real.

Or maybe, I am growing old. Which is what is drawing me to OBit pages…(I can almost hear my handful of  friends scream  out You ARE old, the moment they hear I am still claiming to be ‘in the process’ of getting old). “Handful friends”, out of choice, and not because I am so so old now that most of my friends are dear departed. I am growing old.   But I am NOT  old.  Grow up Shishir YOU ARE OLD , they will scream back.  Err…Grow up? How can I, if I am already old:)?

Eff it. I will not play with Wordsworth arguments.

What fascinates me, increasingly, about the obit page, is not just the size of the obituary (if it’s the TOI, the size of the ad will also mean how wealthy the departed was. )

What however, catches my eye most often is the dateline. The birth date. Oh how young he was. Wonder how and why would he die so young. I promise you, todays newspapers have many such obituaries. Of lives cut short at an early age. Not  just of people younger than I am, but of really younger people. A teenager here, a toddler there or someone in his early twenties having left behind a very young family to mourn and fend.

Then there are those, who have had their stay and say.  Silver citizens, having lead a full life. Their photographs also, betraying the black and white days of photography, almost subtlety hinting at having lived a life with clear demarcations. All black and white. No shades of grey.

In such cases, one always hopes that the end has been peaceful. Quoting eminent actor and psychiatrist Dr Mohan Agashe, Padmashree, from a recent citizen journalism workshop.” Very rare it is to see an old person pass away peacefully, these days. Often, you hear of people spending many a days in the ICU or ailing, and waiting desperately for the end to take over.” In almost a scathing barb at the growing medical lobbies, he quipped” it will not be long before a legislation will make it mandatory to keep a person for 72 hours in artificial respirator before declaring him dead”.  I hope from my road from here (at the age of 65), to vaikunth dham (the crematorium), I do not have to encounter a stop-over (a hospital or an ICU), he  remarked.

Often, the journalist in me finds a story tucked in somewhere. May not be a story to be written, but to be filed in memory. Revealed through the names of those left in mourning.

Coming back to having grown old. There was a time when those passing away were grand parents of our friends. Or people of that age. Then, one began hearing of demise of a friend’s father, or a colleague’s uncle. Increasingly, one gets to hear of cases of “that friend of ours…..” or “that guy one batch junior to us…”.

This could also be about how people are dying young,nowadays. But it also means you are not growing younger. And that you cannot fight mortality.

Makes you wonder that if life is all about such  uncertainties, do I get a chance to look ahead and start leading a better life or get a moment to even ponder and look back whether it has been one well-spent.?

 (Almost) jokingly, I ask students to try writing their own obituary. Pick the good deeds within, if any. How many do that, I wonder. I do it, at times.

But nothing to beat quirky artist Sudarshan Shetty, who at an art summit in Delhi last year  put up his own epitaph as an installation art. Leaving many a people gasping. Not knowing whether he was actually alive or….

I guess that’s life. Either you live it like the Big B said in Mr Natwarlal. Yeh Jeena bhi koi Jeena hai. Or like artist Shetty. With a tangy take to it all.

As long as the end, when ever it comes, is not preceded by a long stint being serviced by a hospital respirator.

Gosh, if this blog sounded depressing………..then you ain’t seen anything. I mean, you ain’t seen Himessssh bhai’s Karzzzzzzzzz yet:)

CAN WE HEAR A ‘SORRY’, PLEASE?

 It is an Error of Judgment , she said.

Obviously, she wanted us to know that what she really meant was it was NOT an error of INTENT. (And what she wanted us to read between the lines was, that OBVIOUSLY, she wasn’t saying SORRY.)

He, on the other hand, made it sound he was doing us a favor. I did nothing wrong, was his emphatic response. I remember one TV anchor pointedly asking him whether he was going to apologise. “Do not put words in my mouth”, he told the anchor. Which basically reads, “What the BEEP, no way.” Only on being subjected, repeatedly, to the questioning did he whisper those THREE WORDS which we wanted to hear. “I am sorry”, Vir Sanghvi said. (And as a defiant defiant rider, he added that he is sorry ONLY if certain sections of the society feel he has done something wrong).

She did admit that there was an ‘Error’ of Judgement, did she not? Then, for that error, should there not be an apology? As in, a SORRY? Why fear the ‘S’ word?

Vir seemed more evasive. . The question of sorry never does arise, he felt. And kept insisting. At one point, he justified his alleged wrong doing by saying he was playing her(Niira Radia) on. We do play along with sources, but, there is a distinct line between playing on and playing ALONG. I guess he got it wrong there. For the naked eye, or the aid-less ear, it is so very obvious that there is more compliance and collusion than a ‘trick-of-the-trade’ being applied.

Why do some people have this resistance to say sorry? Is it because they know they would be committing the wrong again and hence, what’s the point? Or is it that they never believed that they have sinned?

Often, people may actually intend to  apologise. But the word SORRY  is like demeaning for them. They will pick every alternate from the Thesaurus  and  beat around the word Sorry without actually saying it.

Take for instance, Ashok Chavan. The uncrowned chairman of the Adarsha society. First, there was the alleged allotment of a land for kin of the kargil Heroes. No sorry for the misappropriation came from him. Then there was the involvement of so many of his party colleagues and bureaucrats (he being the head of the family as Chief Minister should have apologized). But, no sorry here either. Then, as the noose tightened, his own mother in law’s name figured in the list of the beneficiaries. But, instead of saying sorry, he did something which surely would have inspired Ekta Kapoor’s script writers. He disowned his dear departed mother-in-law by saying “Mother in Law does not constitute Family”.

I am always baffled by people’s reluctance to say sorry. As children, we would never say sorry (this statement excludes those who have been prompt in saying sorry on their own and not when their ears were twisted or when a five-finger imprint came on their cheeks). The first thing we would do is to avoid saying sorry. Why don’t you spank the other mischief makers first, we would question our elders. The older we get, our inspiration bank multiplies. ’Deewar’, the movie  has been one such movie for many of us. In  the movie, Big B, and his memorable “ Jao pehley us aadmi ki dastakhat le kar aao….”to Shashi Kapoor, as a pre condition to signing on the line of apology.

Life hasn’t changed much. Times haven’t. At a panel discussion the other day, I heard Barkha react sharply at one of the panelists. Why are you picking on us? Why haven’t other scribes in the tape recordings being interrogated the way we have been? She questioned. Flashback Deewar and Big B. By B I meant Bachchan . The programme ended. Unedited it was. Commendable from NDTV.

 But, Barkha did not apologise. —

(Errrr….I keep saying sorry at the drop of a hat. Because I keep making mistakes. Maybe I say sorrry so often because  I know I may end up making them again. Or because, it’s the best possible way to get a pardon and start afresh. Because…because…and Because the next time someone errs, and refuses to say sorry, I can write a blog and request them to say sorry.

 Coming up next: A small piece in Defence of Barkha Dutt. Watch this space for me.