The man not in books

Roaming around at the World book fair, it seemed as if the whole world, with all the possible pros and cons of the past, present and future has accumulated at this place.  Perhaps this is the only place in the world where Gandhi and Bhagat are seen next to each other. Or the only site where you can find both left and right occupying the center.

You might be known for your good or bad deeds but if you are a part of history, you are here in some or the other page of these millions of books.

After wandering around the endless collection of the books spread across many halls of Pragati Maidan, I was tired enough to stroll any further. A loud but soothing classical tune was constantly going on in the background., May be someone was performing a folk/ classical dance .I walked towards the open theatre of the ground, from where the music was coming, not to enjoy the classical dance but to give rest to my aching feet.

The enthusiasm of the audience there was unlike the previous similar shows I had seen.  But when I stepped up the six giant stairs and looked at the center stage, I felt that the show was actually not similar to anything I had seen before.

There was a man with earthen pots (matkas) placed on his head, not one but 6 of them. Carrying the entire load, he danced with such ease that not many can dance even with a hat on their heads.

He did all the moves graciously, then he danced on two swords and then on broken pieces of glass. And while doing all this he sported a smile as if nothing underneath his feet was hurting .

The entire crowd stood up in his respect, all one could hear was applause and whistles.

The man didn't need to speak anything. His dance had said it all. But he spoke. He spoke to make us realize that for the last 27 years, he is the only one in the city carrying the burden of this art on his shoulders.

One could easily feel the pain in his voice as he mentioned the term “dying art”. The man will celebrate his golden jublie next year. But there were hardly any traces of joy in his voice or on his

face as he mentioned this. It seemed he didn't want to grow old because he knew that with him will die his 'dying art'.

I entered the show late, so I didn't know his name, I asked some other people sitting around, they also had forgotten the name announced in the beginning, even the anchor did not repeat his name. It seemed as if his dance had overshadowed his all personal identities.

I could have taken the trouble of searching for a catalogue to find his name, or could have tracked the events website. But I didn't do any thing of that sort because I knew that although his was a historic art, this man would never be remembered in history.

The present that gets written in the books, becomes history and amongst the millions showcased at the venue, this man was not in those books.

The Smiley without a smile

Walking through the streets of the Delhi University campus is always a great experience. Away from the workload, the chaos of the office, you can sense the energy that you seem to have lost the moment you came into the professional world. While I was enjoying some street food on the roads of Kamla Nagar,I felt as if  someone was pulling my woolen jacket from below. I am precisely mentioning the term woolen here to emphasize on the fact that it was a cold day, a chilling cold day!

I annoyingly looked down to see who was not letting me enjoy my delight. There was a small girl, must be 9-10 years of age, shivering in cold without adequate clothes to cover her entire body. Someone would have donated a coat to her which she not only used to cover her body but also pulled it up to save her head from the cold wind.

I thought she was hungry. I offered her some food. But she was least interested in that. All she wanted was to sell the products she was carrying. The girl did not have any smile on her face, but she was selling smilies. Some in form of stickers, some in form of batches and others attached with pencils. 10 rupees was the cost of each.

The north campus of Delhi University is an area where some of the brightest students of India reside. Every year lakhs of students face the battle of scoring the highest in their board exams and those who win get rewarded with a chance to study in some of the best colleges of the country, situated in this part of Delhi. The university campus is not only the place for the brightest minds of the country but also has a pool of the most promising politicians of the future. And amidst the crowd of those intellectual and bright minds and promising politicians was this small, innocent poor girl. I wonder if not a single one of those privileged ever thought about doing any good to this not so privileged child.

Thinking about all these, I walked ahead. The street was cluttered with posters of student wings of different political parties. Some promised a better syllabus structure for the students, some promised a safer place for women, some other wished a Happy Republic Day.

There was a stark contradiction between the writings on the wall and the reality on the street. Like the small girl, there were many other children selling different stuffs on the street but I spotted a special boy amongst them. I call him special because he had a tray in his hand carrying tea. Yes, he was a chaiwala. Chiawla is undoubtedly one of the most discussed terms of the political scenario of this country. I took out my mobile phone to take his snap, but he realized it and ran away. I could only capture a hazy picture of his. Just hours ago, I had heard the US president talking about Chai pe charcha, the meeting he had with the self proclaimed and most reputed chaiwala of this country, our honourable Prime Minister.

I wondered, “Can that PM chiawala turn the world around for this chotu chaiwaal?”

Suddenly an update from a popular news paper application popped up on my mobile phone. It stated: “The suit that PM Modi wore during his meeting with president Obama had his name inscribed on it in minute letters. The cost of the suit is estimated to be around 8 lakhs”

Was this the answer to my question?

And they marched.....

Light is all you can see in the above picture. The light is not merely of the burning candles in their hands, but also of hope - for justice, of anger – against atrocities and of faith – in the system.

Some of them must have had their exams, their tuition classes. Some must have had a fear about any mishappening . Some of their parents must have warned them not to participate in the event. But fighting all the unavoidable situations, they marched and marched like never before.

Yes there was rage in the minds of these students, but they belong to the land of Buddha, and they stood by his principles. Not a single person agitated.

“Justice For Akash” was what they demanded. But this march was not only for that one medical student. This was for all those who died without their voices being heard.

And this is just the beginning, there’s a lot to be done.

In the words of Dushyant Kumar-

सिर्फ हंगामा खड़ा करना मेरा मकसद नहीं

मेरी कोशिश है कि ये सूरत बदलनी चाहिए।

मेरे सीने में नहीं तो तेरे सीने में सही

हो कहीं भी आग लेकिन आग जलनी चाहिए।

                                

Delhi awaits another movement……

A Nazarite Dead: Not just news

Amidst the chaotic situation in the news room,came the news. ‘A boy found dead at railway tracks in West Bengal after allegedly being ragged’. I heard it and like any other news item I did my best to ignore it. I thought someone else was assigned to work on it, so why should I bother. Two days had passed since then that yesterday I noticed on the Nazareth alumni page that the boy who died actually belonged to my school, Nazareth Academy. The biggest draw back of being a journalist is that things like death, rape and murder hardly evoke your inner consciousness. Every crime, every inhuman activity, every death is nothing but merely news for people like me.

I have been active on this blog for around two years now. And every time I write a new article, I make sure that what I write is NOT something news worthy. This might be the first article on this blog that relates to an event that has been reported widely in all the news papers and television channels. I still decided to take up this issue. Because today I realize that every death is not just news, that death of a Nazarite is not just another news item for me .

Aakash Agarwal passed out from Nazareth Academy in 2011, a year after I left the place. I tried hard to recall who he was, but I failed. I don’t know if I ever met this guy. He must have been someone competing with me in a debate or writing competition. Or he must have been someone encouraging me from the audience while I was on the stage. Or may be someone for whom I clapped during a football or a Kabaddi match.

May be Aakash was not one of the above mentioned.  But his death has still managed to evoke me because there was certainly a time that we shared the same campus, ate our lunch at the same time, in the same field. There was certainly a time that we prayed together in the morning.

After studying in an institution like Nazareth, it is sometimes difficult to realize the true nature of the world around. The place taught us to respect our seniors and at the same time taught the seniors to behave with the juniors. The idea of ragging or being ragged hardly comes in the minds of the students of this great institution.

Was it the sudden change in the kind of people around Aakash, whom he found difficult to tackle, forced him to give up his life?

My mind is not ready to accept this. My school was not as harsh as the real world but at the same time my school taught the students to face the challenges of life. Nazareth Academy taught us to fight for the right. And more than any thing else Nazareth taught us to believe in God and have faith that in the worst of the situations, the Almighty will lend a helping hand.

Whether he was murdered or not is a subject of investigation. But a Nazarite gave up his life and surrendered in front of the wrong, as an alumnus of the prestigious institution, I find it difficult to believe. 

Rest in peace Aakash Agarwal. I still have faith in the police and judicial institutions of this country. May you get justice soon. And may your sacrifice be a lesson for all other students.

Who’s staring?

After a long and tiring day, it was the time to go home. But the idea of traveling from Dwarka to Noida and that too in metro seemed like a nightmare to me. Like all the hundreds of other people waiting for the train, I was also praying that I get a seat. The metro came, the doors opened and everyone rushed inside in search of the most precious thing of the time – a place for their bums to rest. But amongst all of them it was me who succeeded.

picture:google

After 6 days of night shift, with 3 days of no sleep at all and 12 hours of continuous traveling on my week off, the joy of grabbing a seat was not less than winning a battle. As the metro moved I counted the number of stations- 36! That means not less than an hour and a half, I calculated. But at least I had a place to sit. While I was thinking about all these things, a harsh and rude voice interrupted me. Excuse me! I looked up, she was a girl in her early 20’s wearing a black spaghetti and a skirt or to be precise a mini skirt or to be more precise a micro mini skirt. (Statuary warning: Before accusing me of being a sexist or a male chauvinist, you should read the whole article)  

She continued in the same rude voice, "You are sitting on a Ladies seat." All my happiness of winning a seat in that rush went into vain. I felt like shouting at her, “Look at me, can’t you see the tiredness on my face. You are traveling alone, why can’t you go into the ladies coach. If I can travel without a seat, why can’t you do the same? And then people like you will talk about equality.” But I couldn't say all those things because being a boy, at times you are helpless . I silently stood up.

30 stations to go .Another bunch of young girls entered the coach, an old lady also came in, the place reserved for old people were occupied by people equally old as her, then she looked at the ladies’ seat, young girls including the one in the micro-mini was sitting their, but they did not find the need of offering her the seat, as if offering seats is only a man’s duty. Finally it was a boy sitting next to them who got up.

26 stations to go.My attention now shifted to the young girls who entered the coach with the old lady.  And this was not because they were too beautiful or attractive but because of their peculiar behavior. All of them were looking at the micro-mini skirt girl or to be precise at her legs. If a boy would have done the same it would have been called ‘peeping inside the skirt’. So I take the leverage of saying that a bunch of young girls were peeping inside another young girl’s skirt.

15 more left. All the way these girls were pointing fingers at her and talking something about her which of course I couldn't listen. I looked around, there was nobody else not even a boy looking at her. 8 more stations to go….

Somehow my destination station came, I came out along with those girls, I was not interested in looking or hearing anything around but one of the girls' comment caught my ears. “ She was looking like a slut”. Her friends agreed, one of them replied, “She should not have wore the skirt at all,” and they all exited laughing. 

They were all modern educated girls. If they themselves can't respect the attire of another girl, how can they expect the opposite gender to do the same? Who was being sexist, me, the other boys or the girls????? Who was being disrespectful????

At least not me. I left my seat in respect for a girl who did not do the same in respect for someone much older and in much more need of that seat.

Well my journey of being respectful was so tiring that I couldn't get up today to go to my office. But there's always a positive side of being good, I finally got time to sit at home and write a blog after so many days!

#Trending on twitter @ All rubbish

I have never been an active player on the internet but the recent hype on the importance of new media,especially at the time of elections, forced me dwell into the all new world of Twitter.

I failed to follow the tweets and trends during the elections but caught them up on the day of the results. I initially thought that Twitter was a serious stuff. And after listening to the media debates I was convinced that whatever happens in this country, trends on twitter.

So I started following the trends. The first trend that I noticed was #thankyoumanmohansingh . I was really happy to see that people wanted to thank their 10 year long prime minister. I felt that at least at the end of his long serving to the nation, people were giving him a nice farewell. But I was wrong. Barring a few comments that catered to thanking him for the economic and development decisions taken during his tenure, rest all made a mockery of his style, his speeches and more than anything else speculations of his relationships with Sonia Gandhi. Is this the developing India about which the media was howling for so many days????

Then I felt that this was an exception and people of this country, especially the educated youth, who is supposed to create new trends, also had some serious stuffs to do. But I was proven wrong once again.

While I am writing this article the top twitter trends are:
·                                 #PervertedLines
·                                 #SantSatayeSattaJaaye
 
The first one, as the name suggests, is the brain child of all perverted minds. And all these perverts, who would have hardly have done anything for this nation are making all sorts of sexiest comment on tennis ace Sania Mirza.

The so called "Voice of Youth" is busy discussing the breast size of a Padma Shree award winner on the so called the “Generation next media".

The second trend is all the more shocking. It is criticizing the congress government but not for its policies but for jailing rape accused saint, AasaramBapu. According to this trend the congress performed disastrously in the elections because they were cursed by the hindu saints who were  jailed during the government's rule!!!!!!

Does the future belong to this "ANTI-social media"?????????????

Democracy heals itself

"Democracy is the physician that heals itself, and 2014 must become a year of healing." I was reading the speech the president on my mobile phone while waiting for a bus at the bus stop.

Before I could dwell into the actual meaning of what the old man had said, somebody pulled my hand. I looked down; she was a small little girl in a torn piece of cloth, shivering in Delhi's cold. In her hand she carried hundreds of Indian flags. "2 rupaiya ka ek hai bhaiya ek le lo". I tried to ignore her but she insisted. I searched my pocket and found a two rupee coin. I gave it to her and said that I didn't want the flag. She insisted that she would take the money only if I bought the tri colour. I uninterestingly snatched the flag from her hand. She gave a smile and departed. But as she went away I noted that there was something wrong in the way she was walking. I looked down at her legs to find that her right toe was bleeding. 

The words of Mr.Mukherjee echoed in my ears-"Democracy is the physician that heals itself". Is this how this democracy heals itself? This small girl doesn’t have any resource to get herself a treatment. Her bleeding leg is not the concern of anybody. It will never get treated. Either it will get healed on its own or it will never get healed at all. Is this what the president of the largest democracy meant? While thinking about all these big issues and pondering upon all these senseless ideas, I swear that not for a single moment did I think of getting her legs treated.And why should have I thought about it, I had to board the bus, I had to get back to my college, my friends were waiting for me, I had to join the grand party thrown on the occasion of 'Republic Day'.

While I tried to focus on the speech again, a sweet voice interrupted me," Excuse me, where did you buy this flag from?" I looked up, a pretty girl in her early twenties stood in front of me. "A small girl was selling it", I said. She looked confused and puzzled."I saw her going that side," I added. "Will you please help me find her?" My bus had arrived, but I, who did not have the time to think about the wound of that little girl, could not resist the request of the beautiful lady. "OK", I answered.

For the next half an hour, I ransacked the whole market in search of a little girl for the sake of a beautiful girl. My phone was constantly ringing, my friends were waiting. The party was about to begin and all I was hoping was that I don’t find the little girl soon. (Not to mention, I was enjoying the company of an unknown pretty lady).

But all my wishes do not come true. We soon found that girl in a corner, requesting others to buy the flag in the same way she had asked me. Her toe was still bleeding and everyone seemed to ignore it in the same way I had ignored it. But the girl beside me jumped in happiness as if she had won a jackpot. She got hold of the little girl and started scolding her," Aapko kahan tha na maine kahin nahi jane ko, Samajh me nahi aati aapko koi baat?" She then snatched all the flags from her hand and told me to hold them. I obeyed her like an obedient child. She then opened her bag, took out some cotton, bandage and antiseptic and started applying them on her injured toe. Never before in my life, had I seen anyone caring for someone who according to me was actually 'no one'.

I still don’t know what Mr. Mukherjee actually meant, but what he meant was completely different from what I had perceived. And this is because I never had understood that a democracy is much more than thinking about one's own self. This beautiful girl had actually shaken my inner conscience. "Hello, what are you thinking, return the flags to her. Let’s go now and thanks a lot," the girls voice broke my hallucination. I stood their for a couple of seconds, completely lost. Then I turned to the little girl and asked,"Ye poore ka kitna logi?" "Bhaiya poore ka 110 rupaiye hote hain lekin aap ek sath loge to mai 100 me de dungi,"she replied with a smile. I searched my pocket. A last 100 rupee note was left. I gave it to the poor girl.

"What will you do with so many flags?" the beautiful girl asked me.

"A small gift for you from my side. Wish you a happy Republic day. Thank you for teaching me the real meaning of democracy....,”was my reply.