The Textile Mills of Bombay

The textile mills of Bombay,

Got it its glory;

But Prosperity seems

To have forgotten their way.

The tall chimneys, still robust...

Seem like cigars, lying in dust.

All this however, has opened my eye:

Why should I court golry? -So fickle

-It seems to be, too stale a day.

Untitled

I was blind in my fit of rage,
I saw nothing beyond
The one in the mirror.
Since blind beyond, I was scared;
I swung my sword -its double edge.
My defense deluded, little did I realize;
I ripped apart the one I love.
The wound is deep, and it might heal;
But it will leave two scars, that will stay
-Just, on the other, one can see.

I lost strength -my strength to forgive;
More than the other, to forgive me.

Saffron Dawn; Weeping Sky

We all seek happiness, so much that beyond a point we seem to start enjoying grief. Till that point, we seem to be running away, until we realize that sadness is like a shadow… but then one can play around with it and make figures –maybe happy, maybe sorry.

---

The weather bureau had anticipated thunderstorms but it was a typical Indian autumn dawn. Everything, irrespective of its original colour, turned saffron. The colour filled every void –even air seemed to turn saffron. It was similar to how it was on his first big day when he wore his best trousers, a sparkling white shirt and his father’s best red silk tie.

He was in his early twenties then, and a lot had happened since. He now needed a walking stick, had his own ties –as many things had happened as the wrinkles on his skin. Then, he had fallen in love and now it had been a year since his love passed away. But he was particularly reminded of that first big day, by the end of which, he had asked a question; the answer to which, until now, he had not found.

That day he just did not want to take the tie off. He wore it throughout the day until something happened. The old beggar, whom he gave a quarter as alms every evening, looked very different –had his palm extended, but wasn’t asking for anything; seemed to look at something –with a sense of nothingness. He looked at the beggar trying to figure out what he couldn’t, until a fly sat on the beggar's eye –frozen open.

Shocked, he started walking briskly towards the train station –disappearing into the maze where millions of people were trying to make a way past each other to somewhere. A bus spat a cloud of black smoke on his face as it roared past him. In the midst of this, the dead beggar calmly sat with his palm extended – with a few quarters that he hadn’t asked for.

Our young man took his seat in the crowded second-class compartment of the train with his father’s tie still knotted to perfection. After a while, he took it off.

He slept early that evening, immediately after eating sweets with friends and family.

---

A lot had happened since then –as many things as the wrinkles on his skin.

Dark clouds had gathered by now and soon broke loose. He sat alone under the weeping sky, soaked in tears that nourish our world. He too wept, wept with a sense of fulfillment. He looked at the sky with his eyes shut and felt the raindrops on his open palms.

Yellow

Its raining and I am listenin to yellow by coldplay. Its been raining all day today. God’s bladder has been overflowing and the Sunday has not been sunny at all. As I aimlessly punch the alphabets on this black Logitech keyboard, it has started raining heavily again and with the wind a lil rainwater sprays on my shirtless body. As I look out of the my open window on my right, is a young palm tree, at the other end of the playground from my house, with its bright glistening green fledgling leaves swirling in joy under a white neon tube-light seems like the head of a young girl swaying, losing herself, at a rave - in slow motion. The reflection of the neon light in the water clogged playground has the form of an hour-glass. Aother coconut tree, a little farther and much higher, sways and the movement is similar… just that the older tree is a silhouette against the background of an orange sky.

The sky is orange because of a huge chemical plant many kilometers from where I live has many chimneys that spew flames. On some days, the sky glows like the indicator of a car. It brightens and fades alternately… that is when the flames are flickering. I remember losing sleep over this strangely glowing sky as a child. I could not go to bed unless I had my mother by my side to give me a reassurance. I do not know what the reassurance exactly was about, but yeah… that was the only thing that could have me sleep – reassured.

As I listen to ‘yellow’, probably the fifth or sixth time in succession, it asks me to look at the stars and how they shine for me… and everything I do. I try to, but there are none that I can see.

And there goes my cell phone and I have to convince the person that I wasn’t sleeping. So, I am going to chat with that person online when we’re there. And ‘yellow’ tells me.. "the cloud is shining for you-ooo"! Yes, the clouds shine another shade of yellow.

I’ll listen to yellow another time as I chat with the person who’s just arrived online…. Cheers!

Suspended in Oblivion

There has been more than a couple of reasons for one to panic, of late.

Let me start with the rains and floods that brought this fabled city (Mumbai) of grit and gumption to a stand-still. The "resilient" Mumbaikar was back in the papers.

The very next day, after it stopped raining, we had shiv sainiks holding the city for undisclosed/unknown ransom on July 8, to protest against the defacement of a statue of Meenatai Thackeray, the late wife of Bal Thackeray, the Shiv Sena chief. Several buses were burnt and stoned and shutters of shops that I had never seen shut, even at 3 AM, forced shut.

Then came in our way (literally here) seven bombs that ripped open as many first class compartments of as many trains. And then hoax bomb calls that put the railways into total disarray.

So, all that adds up to one whole terrorising week. I am not spilling any more ink over recounting events and facts and figures about loss of money, life and property -the whole world knows about it.

Rains 'n' Floods: Well, this time though I was slightly impressed with the BMC, they foresaw heavy rains for the then "next 48 hours" and sent mass SMSs on every phone warning them about it. One hopes that the High Court brings to task the authorities that caused the "Rs. 250 crore go down the drain" as it has promised.

Shiv Sena Vandalism: In the first place, the bust was built with tax-payers' money, when, the Shiv Sena, forget Meenatai herself, has done more destructive work than constructive. Of course, Meenatai did nothing. So, what if it was defaced? -It could be cleaned. "But then the Shiv Sena, we all know, is Shiv Sena and will continue with its histrionics."

And despite most people saying or implying that these histrionics are to be discounted, the amazing part was that we still chose not to leave our homes and have our shutters down!

7: I was at work when a friend called and asked me not to take the train back home. I had no clue of the blasts. The phone lines were jammed. We all left work at where it was and rushed home.

I reached home after spending about two hours in the taxi and learned that the number was 7. I shot off to the bombed spot closest to my home to help if any was needed. Many VIP cars and their security vans had lined one and half lanes of the two lane road. A contingent of khaki clad policemen were standing in a conglom on the footpath parallel to the train station. On the opposite side of the road were many-a-volunteer trying to help by running all over the place maybe trying to hitch a ride for people stranded, because of the trains not working. The already hassled and now irritated drivers would jump lanes and the entire place was still and noisy lake of cars - pedestrians running all over.

After about two hours of helping there, I ran to a hospital where a blood donation camp was put up. Here, after sometime, many people gathered to donate blood. Hundreds of them. And soon the camp turned into a picnic spot with donors cracking vulgar jokes and laughing loudly. Just a few ten meters from them were about fifty dead bodies from the bomb blasts. We were waiting in queue when a new patient was brought in. He was alive though only a quarter alive. He was wrapped in a plastic bag neck-down and head bandaged - no eyeballs in his sockets - squirming. The loud laughter and jokes barely stopped.

Next morning, we mumbaikars were back with the steel wheels rolling on iron tracks! The trains were as packed as ever and the stock market was on yet another day of bull-run. We all were back to work. Not that it was a bad thing. But it seemed like we're living like sheep -giving wool, not knowing to whom and then we run the risk of being butchered the very next moment! And if not, we continue giving the wool. And my phone lines are jammed when I need to get in touch with my loved ones the most.

And sheep I feel like -bullied by the shepherd's dog. For the whole of last week I was wanting to access a few blogs including my own. It was only today that I read in the newspapers that blogs were banned! There should be no criticism of the Government, you see...

What happened to our fundamental right to speech which includes, right to free press and right to information? No state emergency has been declared to suspend these rights!

Even the Supreme Court, the guardian of the constitution and the fundamental rights contained therein, does not deny any publication, in any form, the right to, bona fide, criticise even its judgments and orders -upholding individual liberty - who the hell is the Govt. to shut us up? Maybe one could have expected the NDA doing something like; but this was the UPA -Singh, not Advani.

Brainwashed is how I feel - suspended in oblivion - not having an exact idea but a slight, unclear and blurred picture in my head. But this obliviated picture is enough to make a few constructions. Where is Lashkar-e-Toiba? And if we are intelligent enough to know that they exist, how come we do not know where they are.. for so long? Is it a "truth" or a mere "artificial reality"? For that matter, Osama bin Laden is "real" for sure; but is he "true"? We seem to know the very entity that causes every corresponding act of terror. But, with all our satellites and stealth bombers and technological hocus-pocus, no one seems to know where that entity is.

The whole world hates Osama, Lashkar, etc., etc. But do we really know if they exist? Are they true? To me (on no basis of tangible evidence) it is an extremely convoluted scheme of the politicians.

How can one rely on what is told? On July 8, when shiv sainiks rioted.. I stepped out to be where the riots were being telecast from as "Live"... when I reached the spot... I found a few kids playing football on the empty piece of road!

A Lesser God - II

Finally day before yesterday I went and met those kids who are put up in Dongri remand home. I did not quite know what to expect. I took a few sweets for them; but had no clue about what their reaction would be like.

"Hey, it's the same guy", said Amar when he saw me. The three boys were dressed in the remand home uniform –sky-blue shirts and navy-blue shorts. Amar, who is twelve years old, Salim and Suraj, both of whom are eleven years old, were smiling. When I got up and went to them, Suraj could not hold back his tears and when I wiped one, he hugged me!

The boys are doing well and are currently under observation and the authorities are still trying to trace their parents.

It took me ten days to get permission to see them. Ten days in a remand home before even someone, who was responsible for them being there, comes to visit you. You do not quite know what is in store for you next. And you're only eleven or twelve. A bit like flowers plucked and stuffed in a gunny-bag. Wouldn't be surprised if they are smeared when seen next.

When I was eleven, I had a bicycle. A black Avon BMX. And I went outstation during my vacations.

I am not trying to garner sympathy for the kids here; maybe, we owe them more.

Like my uncle says: Mera Bharat Mahan Nahi Hain; Lekin Yeh Dosh Mera Hain (My India isn't great; but it is my fault).

A Lesser God

Yesterday, while waiting for the Churchgate fast local to arrive at Dadar station, I noticed a man pouring white-ink (generally used for correcting/covering written mistakes) into handkerchiefs of about four boys no older than 10 years of age, in exchange of money.

This correction fluid contains Toluene, which contains benzodiazepines and other substances that are listed as psychotropic substances in the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substance Act, 1985.

The peddler and the boys hopped in the handicapped compartment. Once in the train I called the police from my cellular phone and told the man who answered about the incident and asked him if anything could be done at the next station, which was yet about four minutes away. He said he’d see if anything could be done. I knew what that meant: nothing.

It was really young kids there, kids who are supposed to receive free and compulsory education from the Government from the age of six through fourteen years. And they were picking rags and buying psychotropic substances. So, many people saw what was happening and conveniently chose to look away as if it was none of their concern. So, I got off my first class compartment and caught hold of the peddler by his collar and three kids (one managed to run away) and called the police, which took its sweet time to arrive (well, at least they did). Meanwhile a crowd had gathered around us and it became easier to hold on to them.

Well, the peddler was arrested, and the kids were sent for a medical check-up.


Right to Education is a fundamental right every individual from six through fourteen years of age have. And this right is not what one would generally associate with –it cannot be renounced; it is an obligation. Actually, let me just quote Article 21A of the Constitution of India.

“The State shall provide free and compulsory education to all children of the age of six to fourteen years in such manner as the state may by law determine”

So, if we look at it logically, the education that the Nation thus guarantees (forget the implementation), is until a child attains the age of fourteen (which is also the age beyond which a person can be legally employed), must enable the child with skills and ability to sustain himself and his family with a respectable standard of living. If we look at the education provided to children between six and fourteen, we realize, is nothing except building a foundation for higher studies, which is not guaranteed!

If you’re Indian, you definitely know that children are produced so that they can help feed the family, two extra palms to earn by putting them forward, before air-conditioned car windows and crowded trains. Why is it that their producers would send them to schools?

This, unfortunately, is not the end of the irony. Add to all of the above, reservations and quotas to “Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST) and Other Backward Classes (OBC)”.

Who exactly comes under the umbrella of “backward classes”? The lower castes of an era immemorial. So, a rich student who falls, by virtue of birth, in one the above-mentioned categories, belongs to a backward class, whereas a Brahmin living in a shanty in Dharavi, without two square meals to eat is not!

The two hypotheses of enabling children of a lesser God to lead a respectable life by providing free and compulsory education on one hand and providing for quotas on a basis illogical on the other, seem to be outrageously at disparity, to say the least.


Well, the peddler was arrested, and the kids were sent for a medical check-up. Will they be sent to school? Even if they are, will it help? There are tens of thousands such children in Mumbai itself.

Actually, there is every probability that these kids are sent to an inhumanly overcrowded remand home where they might just be subjected to further abuse. Or maybe a social service organization might take up their welfare.

I shall pray. However, we can do more.

The Student

The Student:

There once lived a very intelligent-but-manipulative boy in a big city. He was so manipulative that during the exams he would ask doubts to the teachers in such a manner that they would blurt out the answers without realizing. His classmates were scared to complain about him. Every time they would try to do so, he would confuse them so much that they would say something that made the teacher punish them instead. The teachers never scolded him for anything because according to them, he was the most intelligent student in class. He would always be first.

That year too, he was first in his class. As he had never been second to anyone, he was sent to a special school where only extraordinary students were sent. Everyone and everything was exceptionally extraordinary. For the first time, the boy was in awe of something.

“The professor too must be as extraordinary as everything around” he thought.

The class patiently waited. The bell rang and something extraordinary happened. All the other boys opened their books and the books turned into lakes! Lakes with water, the color of which is very difficult to describe.

The boys dived into the lakes and started swimming in them. The boy was shocked at what he was seeing! He dared not open his book; and just sat at his desk. He did not know how to swim. In fact, he never learnt because he was afraid of water.

So he sat, waiting for many hours, before the bell finally rang again and the class was over. The other boys waded out of their lakes of knowledge. The lakes immediately turned back into books, which were neatly packed in their bags and the boys left for home.

“What happened to the extraordinary professor”, thought the boy, “How can a professor be extraordinary if he forgets to go to class? Isn’t that what he is paid for? Maybe he was unwell.”

Next day, once again after waiting the whole day, he was disappointed that there was no professor. Again the following day, and the entire week, there was no sign of the professor.

“How can this school be extraordinary? This is not extraordinary, but strange. All the other boys do is swim in their books, all day! Is that all they were taught: swimming? May be the professor drowned and now no one wants to do this crazy job.”

After many days of unfruitful waiting for a professor to came, the boy thought of opening his book. He was scared, but he finally dared to open the book slightly and peeped into it. It looked like a puddle inside. Now comfortable, he breathed a deep breath and opened the book. To his surprise and shock, to puddle grew into an ocean! He quickly shut his book. He was sweating.

Before he could think about what happened, something very unusual happened. The other boys waded out of their books before the bell rang! They sat at their desks, and for the first time there was commotion in the class.

So, the boy asked one of his classmates about what was happening. “It’s a break”, came the reply.

A break?

In a few minutes, once the other boys were dry, an old man entered the class. The commotion, however, did not come to a halt. But our boy there, was quiet as the moon.

The old man had eyes that were very difficult to describe, almost impossible. One could never tell whether they were deep or shallow. Mostly they looked absolutely lusterless and opaque but occasionally there would almost be a twinkle, almost. They became lusterless before the twinkle actually twinkled. Maybe I am just confusing you; I told you his eyes were almost impossible to describe.

The old man never spoke a well-formed word. Whenever someone asked him a question, he would mumble or he would say something like, “Buph”. “Buph, booph, beeph…” it seemed like he was saying something. The commotion never stopped.

The boy was trying to figure out whether the old man’s eyes were deep or shallow. He was too focused to be aware of all the commotion. Finally, his extraordinary professor had arrived!

The professor sat on his chair and was almost about to say something. Well, almost. But he seemed to have swallowed the words that were about to jump out of his mouth. He simply sat staring blankly at something, one could never be sure what.

The bell rang and the professor promptly left the class. All the other boys were happy to leave; but our boy there, he was shocked. He had waited for the entire while for his extraordinary professor to say something, in vain.

The street slid ever so slowly under his feet as he walked back home. He went straight to his room once he reached. He lay the whole night staring at the mysterious book that would transform itself into an ocean, when opened.

Next morning, his alarm rang as usual, but he was awake anyway. So he packed his bag, dressed up and marched towards the school. Today he had made up his mind to talk to the professor and get to know about the mysterious book.

The professor was already there! Our boy was glad to see him there. Everyone in class looked very cheerful. All the students were gaily chatting, playing games, laughing while the professor sat in a corner. It was quite unusual indeed. There were no book-lakes or lake-books… just cheer!

The professor was at the other corner of the room, and the boy did not want to talk to him in front of everyone. He thought he rather wait for everyone to leave. He sat in a corner of the room for a while before he walked up to a boy.

“Hi, my name is Po.”

“Hey Po, I am Popo.”

“Hi Popo, could you tell me what’s going on?”

“Sure. A party! Come join us. Meet Popopo and….”

So, Po finally made friends with his classmates. He learnt that every weekend all the students would go to play ball at the park. He was invited to join them during the weekend. Reaching home, after the party was over, he realized that he forgot to talk to the professor. But he was not too worried about it. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.” He slept well that night.

Next day when he reached school, everything was back as usual. The boys were all seated at their desks, quiet with their books before them. Po sat on his, and waved out to his friends, each of whom smiled back. As the bell rang, the boys did what they usually did: opened their lakes, dived and started swimming. Po, as usual waited for the ever-elusive professor. The bell rang at the end of the day and everyone went back home.

The professor did not come. Po however, was not too worried about that. He was looking forward to the next day. He was going to play ball with the other students. It was going to be a weekend!

Next week, everything was back as usual once again. Po waited for the professor as the others swam.

This went on for a sometime, before a sheet of paper on every desk announced the examination schedule one day.

“The examination will be held…” Po read the paper on his desk. It wasn’t much time left! Po was very scared now. He decided to wait another day before he could think of what to do next. But the professor did not show up even the next day.

“What should I do now?
–I do not know.”

“What should I do now?
–I am so scared.”

“How will I write the exam?
–Maybe I’ll copy.”

“But what if they do not help?
–They’re all too smart.”

“What will happen of me?
–I’ll be humiliated if I fail.”

“What if they send me back to my old school?
–They’ll all laugh at me.”

“What should I do now?
–I do not know.”

“What should I do now?
–Ask the professor, if he comes tomorrow.”

“What if he does not come tomorrow as well?
–Ask Popo.”

“Ask Popo?
–Ask Popo!”

“Ask Popo!!”

“Ask Popo!!!”

“Hurray!”

So, next morning, Po walked to Popo’s desk and told him that he needed to talk. Popo said, in a low voice, that they’d talk later because the class would start anytime. “But the professor isn’t even here” Po said. Before Popo could say anything the bell rang and all the boys opened their lakes and dived in them. Popo too, opened his lake. Po was scared and stepped back. Popo looked at Po, was about to say something before stopping himself and dived in his lake. He looked concerned.

Po was baffled. He had no idea what was wrong with everyone at school.

“The boys are always swimming in their books, when the professor is not in class. When the professor comes they all talk. And Popo? –He was rude!” thought our angry Po.

So Po waited… waited for the professor to come that he could finally talk to him. But the professor did not come. Po stared desperately at his book. “Everything here is so weird” he sulked. The bell rang to mark the end of the day at school and Popo and the others waded out of their lakes shut their books and packed them to leave for home.

Popo went near Po, but Po looked away. Popo put his hand on Po’s shoulder but Po did not respond. He was almost in tears, infact, just holding them back. Popo sighed a sigh of concern, and left for home.

Everyday, Po remained silent before, during and after class. He did so even when Popo tried to talk. During class, there was no one he could talk to anyway.

After spending a lonely weekend he decided not to go to school at all. “I’ll just go to the park and sit there.”

Now, it was only two days to go for the exam. Po thought of not appearing for the exams at all, but then he was afraid he’d get caught. He was cold. However, he was sweating. He was thinking hard about what to do.

“I must just go to school tomorrow. Maybe I might find the professor there.”

So, the day before his exams would start, he went to school looking for the professor. Everyone waited for the bell to ring before they could open their books. The professor was not there. As Po entered the class, Popo smiled at him. But Po did not respond. The bell rang. Po sat at his desk waiting for the professor.

Suddenly, Po heard something behind the door. Someone seemed to be hiding there. Po quietly went to the door and looked out. It was the professor! The old man was horrified. He screamed, “baaaah”

“Professor, I need your help. Please help me” said earnest Po.

“Buph, booph, bbbeeeeph, b… b…” the old man mumbled for a few seconds, shivering, before screaming, “baaaaah!” and he started running away. Po tried to run behind him, but the old man was just too fast. Po could hardly believe that a man that old could run that fast.

Po, dejected, returned to class. He sat and stared at his mysterious book with teary eyes. A tear dropped in the book, which immediately absorbed it. Po was very angry now. He did not want to fail.

“It is better to drown rather than to fail” thought Po, “at least they’ll hold the school responsible and no one will laugh at me.”
Thinking this, Po suddenly opened his book. He was shocked to see what he did. A giant wave was coming at him. Before he could shut the book, the giant wave engulfed him and dragged into the ocean that the book had become. There was no sign of Po.

The bell rang and the other boys waded out of their books to see Po’s raging ocean. They were all very concerned. There was a lot of commotion in the class. But Popo silently looked into Po’s ocean.

After a while, the storm in Po’s ocean calmed down, but there was still no sign of Po. Now Popo was very anxious. So, he decided to take matters in his own hands. He dived in Po’s ocean. The others looked in bewilderment.

Popo, inside Po’s ocean was surprised to see Po swimming quite comfortably! Po saw Popo and quickly swam to him.

“The first thing the ocean taught was how to swim!” he said to Popo, smiling.

“Yes I know. But what are you doing in the book even after the class bell has rung?” asked Popo.
“Did it? I could not hear it.”

“Hmm… maybe the storm was too loud…. now let’s go”

The two of them swam back to the shore and shut the ocean. Everyone was very happy. Po and Popo walked back home, friends again.

Next day Po wrote his exam… without cheating! Po and Popo discussed the answers on their way back home.

After the exam was over, the old man, who was watching all this from behind the door entered the classroom and sat at his desk. For the first time, he took out a book –one much heavier than Po’s and sat staring at it.