TALKING DEAD

He lay there on the sidewalk

With a sheet covering his body

The wind had blown away a part of the tattered sheet

I could see the smile on his face.

With crowds gathering around his corpse

Unfazed he lay there smiling.

How could he smile with no morsel in his belly

How could he smile with no family around

How could he smile with no one to bury

For once maybe death was his moment of joy

This was his release from captivity of a life so cruel

Muqaddar ka Sikandar song reverberated

Rotey huye aatey hain sab, hansta hua jo jayega…

It was a Sunday morning and I had cleaned my car. Made sure every inch was clean and shining. Checked the fuel, air conditioner, music system and most importantly the seat behind. Before turning the ignition put up a small board on my bonnet, Last Mile Caretaker.

Drew my car close to the roadside and was helped by the crowds around to gently put the body on the back seat. I opened the boot and took out a packet from which came out two things. One was a clean piece of white cloth that was neatly put over the body. Next came out the flowers which were sprinkled over the body and a garland round the head. Everyone had to be given a decent burial. That alone was my dream job and I would do it one day in a week. Everyone in the vicinity knew my number including the police who would be most helpful in getting the paperwork done.

As I started the car and drove it to the next red light, someone tapped me from behind. I thought it must have been the beggar woman with small kids wrapped around her asking for alms but no, she was outside the car and with the air conditioner on, all the windows were tightly rolled up. Once again felt the tap….Oh it was my passenger behind….

Hey it’s me

Ok, what do you want?

Why don’t you give the woman some money? You seem well off and she needs to feed the kid.

No, I don’t feel like giving on these street corners. It’s an organized crime going around here. She has all her limbs intact yet she doesn’t do any work other than stretching her hands with a bowl.

You think jobs are that easy? I too had everything working yet no one gave me any work. Come on, you are a good man and a tenner will not rob you off your riches.

Stop sermonizing or I’ll throw you out of the car.

You won’t…I know it. Hey should I come in front and talk to you. I’m sure talking with constantly turning your head back to talk to me must be distracting….plus I have seen many a crash on the roads.

No, just stay there. Take this mobile and I’ll dial my number and put my phone on speaker and we can talk. I do this every time. People on their final journey always wished talking to me, so I keep this arrangement ready.

Hey. that’s very thoughtful. But may I ask for a favour…why don’t you give me your iPhone and you use this simple Nokia….I’ve always wanted an iPhone. Once I even flicked it from a person but before I could sell it off, was caught and beaten up badly. It’s a beauty…I would have died for it and now today I have it in my hands...that's truly called wishes coming true.

Reluctantly, I parted with my beauty and we started our conversation again as I concentrated on the road. He seemed more in awe of the gadget in his hand than talking to me, a stranger.

By the way, where are you taking me?

There’s a crematorium nearby and we will reach there soon.

But why are you taking me there. Do you know my religion?

Ok, then I’ll take you to the burial grounds for Muslims.

Do you think people here belong to just two communities?

Ok, I get your point. I’ll then take you to the church burial ground. You could have told me in the beginning to save this conversation. So tell me where should I go?

I am wondering where to go….I have stood outside the Haji Ali Dargah and found people to be very generous. I’ve even stood outside the Mahalakshmi Temple and people there too were very nice and kind. Then there was the Christmas time at Bandra, the people there too were very friendly and opened up their hearts.

What does your standing outside these places of worship have to do with your last rites? Tell me your name and please don’t say Amar Akbar Anthony!

Everyone called me Chotu. All I remember running away from home when I was a small boy after a fight where I hit someone on the head with a big stone. The other guy started bleeding and I ran and ran and landed myself in this city. Did odd jobs cleaning cars, washing cups and plates at many restaurants. But lately have been living on the pavement where you picked me from. Would get some food and money to bide my days. Had been unwell for quite some time and last night had a terribly chest pain. I shouted but no one came. The pain did not last long and then I felt free. You would have seen me smiling when you picked me…that was the end of my misery, my miserable life. Life always hurts more than death.

Sad story Chotu but it still doesn’t help me. Where should I take you?

I used to play football very well when a kid. Was a Champion. I dreamt of becoming a big footballer.

So did I! I too dreamt of playing for big clubs, be a part of the Indian team playing in the world cup and winning…dribble past players just the way Maradona would and then end up with a bicycle kick like Pele….everyone would stand up in ovation, lift me on their shoulders….

Then as I grew up, I just thought I’ll do some work in an office and lead a good life but with little education, no name, no certificate life went towards the road. Fortunately my time here was short and so was my agony.

All this is fine but where should I know take you to, tell me that.

Why don’t you just leave me in the open. Surely some vultures and scavengers will find their meat. I’ll be of some use to someone,if not in my lifetime, surely in my afterlife. Better a meaningful death than a meaningless life. Anyway, I leave the decision to you my good friend but tell me why do you do this dirty work that no other would do?

I smiled and said that the Bible says somewhere, “A man may have a hundred children and may live many years; yet no matter how long he lives, if he cannot enjoy his prosperity and does not receive proper burial, I say a still born child is better off than he.” And so is my life’s mission to make sure people get a decent burial. I can't improve their lives but their last mile I try and make it better. That is the least I can do and am doing.Nightmare for some but that’s My Dream Job.

Blame it on Rio

The Rio Olympics is just 100 days away and I went into a rewind mode.

It was the summer of ‘82 when the whole of Delhi was running. No it wasn’t any epidemic or a bus strike but there was action everywhere as the Asian Games was round the corner. The race was to get tickets for events of your choice. I had a three pronged plan- Ma, Murali & Manush. While Ma, working in Army Headquarters, would try and get tickets from those reserved for the defence forces, Murali, my friend who was staying with a senior Member of Parliament, would get some from the MP quota. I had shared my wish list with the MPs personal assistant, Gaganji, who looked quite amused at the new request as against the usual railway reservation quota. The last, of course was the Man or Manush in me, going to the special counters opened for sale of tickets where a million thronged for a paltry available ones.

Ma was highly efficient in getting tickets but having little choice she got plentiful tickets for equestrian, wrestling, possibly because there were not many takers for them in the defence forces, but she also got a booklet full of tickets of one football quarter final match of which no one had any clue who would be playing. Murali, too, had done his part and the MP had garnered tickets in plenty.  Somehow, by the time I went to get my choice of tickets for football and hockey finals, swimming and boxing, I was handed tickets of the preliminary stages. Gaganji must have surely obliged his more influential friends with the better ones.

State Bank of India was the sole distributor of tickets and the counters would open at 9am. The first day I landed at the nearest venue, I got the shock of my life…so many people. Quietly I stood in a queue in blistering heat and within 10 minutes my agony came to an end…the tickets on sale that day had been sold out. Empty handed folks like me cast aspersions on the bankers….saale chor hain…they must have kept tickets for themselves and their friends and are making fools of honest citizens like us. Once again Ma came to my rescue. She contacted a colleague of hers whose son worked at SBI and was assigned the task of ticket sale. As planned, I landed up post dinner at Mrs Beck’s Malviya Nagar quarters to meet her son Sunil, the banker. We would have slept no more than a couple of hours and then we went together to Faridabad where Sunil was to sit behind the counter. It was 5am in the morning and I was third in the queue…there was no way I was going to be denied the hockey finals tickets where we were all looking forward to India playing Pakistan. No sooner had the counter opened at 9 am than all the tickets were sold out in 10 minutes flat ….I could get tickets for the semis and no more.

From getting tickets to the opening ceremony all happened so quickly and then the Games began. We went to see a number of events with our friends. As luck would have it, India reached the quarter finals in football, thanks to a brilliant curling shot by Prasun Banerjee. The booklet of tickets turned out to be for the quarter finals…yippee… Suddenly everyone was looking for the tickets of which I had ten.  Whoever approached me first, I sold off the tickets to friends at the printed price of Rs 20. My best friend Gaurab,who hadn’t made any effort to get any of the tickets, then approached me. The devil in me came to the fore! Why should I give him the tickets so easily? Can’t I charge him more? You may call it ‘black’.  Yes why not…after all I had gone through hell to get the tickets…why should someone get them so easily? After creating a story about how I had contacted someone who was selling the tickets for Rs 100, I sold the ticket to Gaurab for a profit of Rs 80. This was my first and last attempt at entrepreneurship or you may simply say black marketeering.

Fast forward to 2008.

My cell phone rang. I saw an unknown number…to pick or not to pick was the question and so I chose to accept the call. “Shibu, this is Gaurab. How are you?” Getting a call from your closest friend after nearly twenty years is such a good feeling that can’t be described. We spoke for long and at the end of the conversation, Gaurab said he was in a fix. His father-in-law was to undergo a bypass surgery and sister-in-law was also getting married at short notice and he needed some money. “Kitna”, I asked. “About Rs 35,000 if you can spare. I will return it very soon”, he said.

We had been friends for so long and had shared best of times together. We were there together at all places at all times. He was the only friend who came down from Delhi to Kolkata to be with me when I got married….Jai Veeru you might call us. Today my best friend was in trouble and he was asking for not a king’s fortune. I readily agreed to transfer the money to his bank account the very next day. I came to know later that everything had gone off well from the surgery to the wedding. Felt nice to have come to the assistance of a friend in need and especially when it was a friend so dear.

Months went by and then years went by, Gaurab did not return the money. A couple of times he said he would send me the money in small instalments. My friend must have been in real trouble or else he would have surely returned my money. That is what I kept telling myself and my wife. The money did not come back and the calls also ended. I never felt like ringing him and reminding him about the money. Now I have reconciled to the fact that this amount will never come back. Maybe it wasn’t mine.

This story is not to show a friend down but one to confess human frailty. How I sold a twenty rupee ticket at a higher price to a friend who was more than a brother to me. And now twenty five years later I had paid back my friend the amount I had cheated him with interest and inflation. Was this my karma…may be yes. Those are values we’ve been brought up with that when you do some wrong, you shall get paid back in the same coin. The redemption may not be immediate but surely it will happen in this world and in your time. Have you too ever felt the same? You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m n at the not the only one…..

PS. You may find it funny but I did go to Ambedkar Stadium with Ma to see wrestling on the day India and Pakistan were playing the finals of the Asian Games. After a couple of bouts came an announcement over the PA system that India had scored a goal against the mighty Pakistan at the National Stadium. Everyone started cheering and I was so upset that I was missing on the real action while watching some idiotic kushti. But then news started trickling in that Pakistan was scoring freely and they had beaten India 7-1….the most humiliating defeat for the host nation. The crowds at Ambedkar Stadium had gone completely silent but were woken up by Satpal winning the gold medal in the free style event….Chak de India!!

SS

Of Bus, Blues and Beatles

It was dawn when I stepped out of the cab and walked towards the entry gate of the Delhi airport. The early morning February air was pleasantly cold. I was travelling to Bangalore to attend a college friend’s wedding. It had been four years since we graduated from the same college. This wedding was also going to be a reunion of our batch mates. But what I didn’t know was that the reunion would begin much ahead of time; right in the queue in front of the airline counter.

I was almost sure it was she. Same height! Same long hair! Same complexion! Curiosity had my eyes glued to her. And then about 60 seconds later, when she turned, she proved me right. My ex-girlfriend stood two places ahead of me in the queue. We had never met after the college farewell.

“Hi Neera!”

“Hello Rahul, how are you?”  She said with a smile on her face which appeared quite a forced one.

“Great to see you…an absolute surprise.”

She just nodded and went to the queue for the ladies security check while I fumbled with my bag, having just been reprimanded by the CISF guard there, to put my mobile in the tray with the laptop. As soon as I had got off the foot stand after the frisking, I scrambled for my stuff quickly and stashed the same in the bag clumsily. I sure was in a hurry. By then she had found herself a place to sit and I was left standing and looking for a chance to sit near her. Why did I have such an urge to go to her, talk to her and sit by her side…will never know. After all it was she who had walked out on me, it was she who went off to Silicon Valley to pursue her dreams while I was left trying to prove myself…

As I waited, the man sitting next to Neera got up and I, like a Russian gymnast, did a perfect forward somersault and placed myself in the seat beating an old man who, too, was waiting for a place to sit. Like an idiot, I just smiled at the old man as he stepped back. Suddenly, the man sitting across started clapping and all the others joined the chorus…no word was uttered but I knew I had made a fool of myself. Neera, too, was embarrassed at my queer behavior and she apologetically offered her seat to the old man. Why did she do that? She’s at her act again of showing me down!

Soon found myself sitting by the window in the plane with an old couple by my side, memories of the summer of ’82 flooded my thoughts and Beatles sang for me that, " I once had a girl or should I say she once had me…"

My friend, JBS, and I were the rogues in the University Special DTC buses ragging the ‘fuchers’ even though we were one among them. That’s when we saw her for the first time.

"She was just seventeen, you know what I mean, the way she looked was way beyond compare…

Well she looked at me, and I, I could see, that before too long I'd fall in love with her."

Don’t know why, but both, JBS and I, didn’t feel like ragging her. Difficult to explain but such things often happened with us friends, falling instantaneously in love with the same girl. And as luck would have it, we got off at the same bus stop. She started walking with us, two loafers, following her ten steps behind, without her knowing, till we saw her getting into a house…Eureka! We now knew where she lived! After a couple of days, JBS found out that she was from the Physics Department in our college and he also got to know her name. He magnanimously declared that henceforth it shall be me and me alone who would try his luck with the Li’l Bong….

The girl then vanished for some days and this got me worried. Would cycle around her house often in vain for a glimpse…completely like a Roadside Romeo, you may say. Then suddenly one day I saw her in the morning 7.25 U Special. So for the next few years, even though I never had a class before 10am, I would do anything to be on the 7.25 bus….often missing my breakfast and at times even giving a miss to a shower in blistering Delhi heat.

Don’t remember when I started talking to her but my routine was set. I would everyday rush for the morning U Special and keep a seat for Neera. On days that she would not come, I would even get off at the next bus stop and try taking the next U Special….just in case she was there. By now she was all over my thoughts, my dreams. Every night, before going to bed, I would rehearse lines I wanted to tell her and by next morning, I would chicken out and just say inane things here and there.

That year my friends had organized a New Year Party at Chanakya Puri and I took courage to ask her to go out for the evening with me.

“Come home”, she said, “and speak to Ma about it. If she says yes, then we’ll go.”  

I was completely petrified. How could I just go to meet her mother? What would I have said, “Hi I’ve come to take your girl to a party?”  The mother would have surely shown me the door for such audacity.

“Why do I have to take your mom’s permission for a party?”  

 “You know my family background. My father no longer lives with us and mom is everything to us. We wouldn’t dare do anything without her knowing. That’s the least we can do for all she’s been doing for us.”

I didn’t go to the party that year. Just stayed back at home watching the Doordarshan program with my family but my thoughts were all with her. How wonderful it would have been with her dancing by my side…

Sometime later, I asked her out for a movie. Her answer this time was again the same… “Come home, speak to mom and then I can go out with you.” And so it was with us…just meeting for sometime in the morning bus, talking a while of anything but love. Don’t know how the three years went by. She kept up with her good scores, planned and prepared to go to the US for higher studies; I kept scoring goals for the college football team, barely crossing over to the next year. 

Was she my girlfriend at all? I never said it to her. She never said a word like that to me and yet we often enjoyed each other’s company. But deep in my heart I knew she meant everything to me. I would have done anything for her…completely and madly…

"If there’s anything that you want, if there’s anything I could do,

Just call on me and I’ll send it along with love from me to you…"

It was then that I took to pursuing my Civil Services Exams with seriousness…I wanted to be someone in life....someone who could knock on the front door of her house with confidence, with head and shoulder held high, speak to her mom… “May I?” To which she would have said with pride, “Yes, You May.”

Then came the day of our college farewell. Neera came in a flowery dress. She looked just unbelievably beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. As the music began to play, I walked across to where she was sitting to ask her for a dance. She just shook her head in denial. I couldn’t understand it, so asked again. She said she wanted to talk to me….”Great, let’s take a walk to the college canteen across the street”. I could not believe my luck…she was with me alone, no crowded bus, no eyes watching us, no wagging tongues, just her and me all by ourselves as we sat down with ‘nimbu paani’ in our hands.  She opened her purse and handed me a letter that I opened and read… she had got admission to one of the best universities in the US and would be going off in August. She said nothing but I could see her eyes going soft and watery. Like a fool I shouted, “Wow! This calls for a party.” I, too, was acting strong before her and started talking about her travel plans. Not a word of sorrow or regret did I offer even though deep within I was a broken soul.

"Guess I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today; the girl that’s driving me mad, is going away…"

 I wish I had the courage to just tell her, “Don’t go”, how I wish I could tell her how I felt for her at least once before she left, how I wish I could hold her hands and say all I wanted, all that had been lying within for years together….alas a coward is a coward forever!

Between the time of the final exams getting over in June and her flying out in August, I tried calling her a number of times. Many a time her elder sister would pick up the phone and I would just put the receiver down. There were other times when it just went on ringing…

I joined the Rau’s IAS Classes and started getting serious about the exams. While preparing for the Civil Services, I got through the Bank Probationary Officers’ Examination, and jumped at it immediately. It was training for me at another city from where I wrote a couple of letters to Neera. Don’t know if she got any of them. I waited for her reply which never came.

"Wait, wait Mister Postman, Mister Postman look and see
Is there a letter in your bag for me, I been waiting a long long time"

I never gave up hope….I even went to her house once hoping to knock on the door but then came to know she had moved out of the place and no one knew her new address. Wish we had FB and mobiles in the late eighties. We could have kept in touch like love aaj kal.

As the plane taxied down Bangalore Airport, I looked forward to the evening when my dear friend JBS would be marrying his girlfriend of many years.  I was also looking forward to many of our batchmates joining us for the night. “Will you join us tonight at the wedding, Neera,” I, finally, asked her expecting she would again tell me to get her Mom’s permission. “No, I am here on work and will be going to my office now and fly out late in the evening”. I didn’t have the heart to argue with her. She went off in her office car while I took a cab to Hotel Mayflower. Sad and depressed I was sulking in bed when the telephone rang…it was Neera, “I could see you this evening at 5pm at the India Coffee House on MG Road.”

 “Yeah, surely I’ll be there.”

Yippee!! She’s agreed to see me alone…I still felt a joy like never before…how long it had taken us to meet beyond the U Special and the farewell day. Freshened up, sprayed my exotic deo in abundance and went to the coffee shop nearly an hour early…how could I be late today. I took a corner table and  sipped two filter coffees ,waiting for her, as my eyes stayed glued to the door…waiting impatiently. At about 5.10 pm Neera walked in. She was wearing a nice maroon silk saree…how elegant she looked. “I am starved”, she said. I ordered for two plates of idli-sambar and coffee. She then started talking, asked me about my work and people at home. And then without my asking or prompting she spoke softly about her life which left me numb.

“I never went to the US. My mother was detected with leukemia when the final exams were on. Jayshree, my elder sister, finished her graduation in medicine and went to the US instead. Studying medicine there is so expensive and with Ma’s failing health and expensive treatment, we had to take a call between her and me. We felt Jayshree was a better bet for an opportunity to study overseas. I have been at home all these years. My routine is the same almost on all the days. Get up early in the morning, give Ma her medicines, make breakfast, help her take a bath…till she goes off to sleep, my world revolves around her… days and nights are all the same. The only difference is when she actually feels sick and has to be rushed to the hospital. Her health is going from bad to worse and can only pray that she has a relatively peaceful end soon. Can’t see her in pain on days she undergoes chemotherapy.”

“I did get your letters but never answered back. What could I have written to you? I was really happy for you when you got your job in SBI.  Sitting at home, got some time so did my computer designing course and now do some odd assignments once in a while. I had come here today on a project from CISCO. It just keeps me ticking….have a full time nurse at home for Ma on such days.”

Why didn’t she tell me all this before? Why didn’t she call for me? I would have surely helped her in these difficult times. One call was all I needed. 

I felt like taking her in my arms, putting her head against my shoulder. I wanted to shout, “Let me take your burden, Girl.” But as usual held myself back… Just sat with her for some time and when her cab arrived to take her to the airport, I, too, sat down beside her. Didn’t seek any permission nor did she say no. All through the journey, we just kept quiet, looked at each other once in a while, possibly both wanted to say many a thing to the other but silence won the day. As the cab came to a halt, she was about to get down, she put forth her hand to say good bye and I felt the urge to keep holding her hand, not to let her go, say to her please, please don’t go…

"I don't know why you say "Goodbye", I say "Hello, hello, hello".

As Neera walked away, the cab turned around, I took out the engagement ring from my pocket and bravely wore it again remembering the immortal Beatles’ lines... 

"Mother Mary Whispering Words of Wisdom…Let it be…And when the broken hearted people, living in the world agree, there will be an answer, Oh, Let it be!"

SS

PS. The first two paras in bold and italics were given by an author in Write India campaign of TOI. This story was woven around it, sent but missed making the cut.

THEN AND NOW

8000 sq.ft Auditorium

Wi-fi enabled Campus

Multi-tier Security

AC buses with female attendants

Cafeteria offering nutritious meals

Media Centre and Preview Theatre

Apple Labs

Art, Dance and Music Studios

45,000/- sq.ft Indoor Sports Complex

That’s an advertisement for –guess what? Residential Complex, Commercial Centre, Centre for Arts, IT Complex----no, no, you have got it all wrong. That’s an ad for a school- International School. The very thought of entering such a school gives me the shivers. I am sure I will not be able to cross the multi-tier security barricade.

That’s what made me walk down the memory lane and take a look at my Alma Mater. Though I cannot say that I have studied from Kindergarten to Class X in one institute- my father’s transferable service never permitted that luxury- it is certainly where I did my high school. You have to go past Jessops Factory, go past the Dum Dum Central Jail and find this school in a narrow lane in North Kolkata. In its mundane, dull surroundings the well painted, grey building stands out with the bougainvilleas hanging from its walls, and the statue of Mother Mary as she graces it from the top. I think none of us have ever forgotten all the things that the Salesian Nuns taught us - whatever little world History, Geography or Mathematics I retain along with some very basic simple habits ingrained in me were all learnt inside those grey walls of the Convent.

Auditorium we had none, at least there wasn’t one in those days. All our Inter-house plays were performed in a large hall with a temporary stage. The Sisters never allowed us to have male characters in the plays except for fathers and brothers. I mean male characters could be there minus the big R- Romance. Imagine what effort went into finding short stories or even plays or even scenes from novels to enact which had no “hero”, no dialogues of love or passion, not even a whiff of romance- scenes from Shakespeare, Shaw, Dickens, Jane Austen could safely take the backseat. Even one from ‘Little Women’ would mean hiding poor Laurie behind the curtains. How we hated the Sisters then!

Once in a while, certainly very rarely, we would be taken to see some movie adaptation of Hardy’s ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’ or a British Council presentation of Shakespeare’s ‘The Merchant Of Venice’ (since these existed in the syllabus). How we girls revelled at their discomfiture seeing Sergeant Troy kissing Bathsheba or Bassanio declaring his love to Portia!!

One such excursion saw some of us being taken to the All India Radio for recording for an Inter-School Drama Competition. The elocution teacher would not suffice and a Sister made sure to accompany us so that we girls would not ‘stray’. We must have made quite a sight trooping in, with our knee length pleated skirts, starched white blouses, long socks, small buckled ties, hair done in tight plaits with those horrendous white ribbons accompanied by two chaperons at either end. How we envied the girls from Loretto and La Martiniere in their short A-line skirts, ankle length socks, hair tied in pony tails- we blushed in anger, seethed in rage and counted our days to get out of the nunnery. Our only interaction with our male counterparts from Don Bosco or St. Mary’s were at a few such events  or at the time of Board exams under strict surveillance of the nuns .Strangely, as we would observe, the Brothers from the Boys’ Schools seemed quite casual in these matters, and let their wards alone.

Wi-Fi obviously did not exist in those days. Apple was just the name of a detested fruit. Lab to us was the Physics, Chemistry and Biology labs where everything was spotlessly clean, where everything had to be taken out from and kept back inside glass cases or cupboards. Everything had to be spick-n span- strictly no hanky-panky business inside the labs. The corridors were so clean you could sit and eat there, unclean bathrooms we came across only after leaving school.

Our only Security was Mr. Chaudhury. Being the sole male member on the premises, except for the Fathers and Brothers who came, occasionally, from Don Bosco for some special Mass or inter-school events, the entire burden of protecting us fell on him. He took his job of opening and closing the gates a bit too seriously, almost like the old durwan played by Om Puri in Ketan Mehta’s ‘Mirch Masala’. We chanted “Good Morning, Mr. Chaudhury” everyday to him as we entered the gates. But that apparently insipid, rotund man, dull looking man knew everybody and everything and you could never ever get past him without a Sister’s permission. Once I had forgotten my tiffin box at home and my cousin came to give it. He had chosen to reach around lunch break expecting to see many girls in and around school. Imagine his disappointment when Mr Chaudhury asked him to write the name of the girl and her class on a piece of paper and hand over the box to him!!

  

Sadly, I do not have a picture of the rickety old school bus that would come to pick me up from the gates of my house. The closest I could come to is what you see above. The school had hired many of these, each a vintage piece, which picked up the students from their doorsteps and dropped them back there. In case that was not possible, at least at a point close to where the child lived and the bus driver would keep on honking till someone from the house came to pick her up and the helper made sure that the child never had to cross the road alone. Actually, there was no need for the driver to honk, the bus created such a racket that you could hear it at least a mile and a half away. As expected, this rickety old thing would have a breakdown almost ten days a month and we would, invariably, be late for the assembly. Our driver, Gaur-da, would get off the vehicle gallantly, put on his shades to muster some semblance of confidence, accompany us to Sister Superior’s office, and offer his profuse apologies. We made sure we never stepped in without our Protector in tow!! It took up a lot of their time, but those drivers and helpers were dedicated people for whom our safety mattered more than anything. All this sounds like a fairy tale in the context of the horror stories we hear and read about these days.

Our cafeteria was the lunch we carried from home in our steel and plastic tiffin boxes. There were cemented seats under the shade of a few large trees and we had our lunch there. The nuns kept strict vigil so that we could never buy from any of the hawkers outside even if they dared to venture anywhere near the school gates. This was another time of the day when Mr.Chaudhury was extra vigilant. So our supply of churan , ber and ice lollies reached us only when we were ensconced safely in our rickety chariots on the way back. 

In those days Bollywood was a big no-no inside the school premises. Any music or dance programme meant hours of rehearsals but they had to be either folk or classical based, be it English or any of the regional languages. Students and teachers pitched in with their repertoire of talent. No dance or music studios for us! But we still managed to put up decent shows- way better than the ‘lungi’ dance and the ‘chaar bottle vodka’ charades that the kids in the neighbourhood have been putting up for the umpteenth time!!

Due to paucity of space our sports was restricted to basketball, throw ball and badminton but still we were given time to be out there in the courts playing whatever we could. Private tuition or coaching was unheard of in those days. Weak students were made to attend extra classes in the school itself. Teachers and the nuns took the trouble to see that they passed instead of shifting the burden on to the parents at home. The teachers took pains to teach us, they made efforts to learn, improve and to say the truth it was not easy since they had limited access to resources unlike today.

 We said our quota of ‘Hail Marys’, we prayed innumerable times at the school chapel, before exams we attended special prayer services, we sang Christmas carols, we put up tableaux at Easter, rejoiced when a new Pope made his way to the Vatican and even mourned when another died. Fortunately, neither our parents came running to school crying ‘no conversion’ when we learnt the hundred sayings of Jesus nor did the media or the intelligentsia break their heads over such matters. We got out of school with our religions intact, our names and traditions untouched and unscathed. In fact, at that time, studying in missionary schools was considered a matter of pride. Today, they are a thing of the past as we surge ahead chasing our American dreams.

By the time we reached our final year, like all teenagers, we were a restless lot longing to get out of school, waiting to spread out our wings and fly. We resented the restrictions, longed to get rid of the schoolgirl pigtails and ribbons, longed for freedom from the cloistered existence. At that point all that lay beyond those high, grey walls beckoned us. We passed out but the small lessons picked up in school have remained etched in our consciousness and beings and have held us in good stead time and again. Now after so many years, I still feel good saying my ‘Our Father’, I still feel good extending a helping hand, I still cannot throw a wrapper just anywhere, either I hold on to it or shove it in my bag till I find a bin, and a lie still pricks the conscience.

In those days the teachers knew every student by name and it still amazes me how Sister Superior remembered the name of each and every student. They discussed family problems with the girls and helped those who needed them. We did not need separate counsellors.

Many years later I had taken my three year old child to a branch of my Alma Mater in Delhi for her Nursery admission and the warm welcome I got from some of the same sisters, who had by then been transferred to that city, really touched me. It is a different matter that due to pure logistics we put her in another school but the idea of returning to the fold had genuinely appealed to me. The warmth with which they recalled each one of us speaks volumes about the sheer dedication of these nuns and also the love they showered on us. It pains me to read about how a handful of hooligans, protected by political stalwarts, are attacking the missionaries in various parts of the country – they forget that these men and women have left behind all that they had to raise, take care and educate other people’s children.

Yes, today’s kids are a lucky lot with their air-conditioned buses and classrooms, their gyms and pools; they go cycling looking like little Lance Armstrongs and make way to the football ground with kits which probably even Pele never had; they are getting the chance to play sports like skate hockey and ice skating in our tropical land but somewhere deep down I am sure the child in them longs for:

“Give me some sunshine

  Give me some rain

  Give me another chance

  I want to grow up once again”

DS

NO EDEN FOR ME

After winning against the Aussies, a picture that we all found on our Whatsapp messages was this:

So confident were we that not only did we dance but we made caricatures of Windies dancing and saying, Now we will lose to India…Oye Hoye!! But that fateful day, India lost. Here are some lessons we could have learnt from Sholay, a movie possibly every Indian including our cricketers have seen many times over.

1.       The Coin Matters: Jai had a coin which would always spin Heads and he always had his way. Jai was the thinking type, the calm one like our MSD but the only difference was Captain Cool forgot to get a coin with Head etched on both sides….Heads I Win, Tails You Lose as the saying goes did not happen that fateful day. All through the Championship, we were good at chasing or should I say Virat was good at it. We knew how much to score, plan it and then execute the chase clinically. Against the Windies, losing the toss and setting a target was our one big misfortune. Almost all the living Indians brilliantly said,…we should have scored at least 225 runs batting first on this pitch. Next time possibly we can ask our dashing Banking ka Boss, Raghuram Rajan to have some special coins minted to suit our cricketing champions.

2.       Goli & Kohli Matters: Although both Amitabh and Dharam Paaji were equal in stature and were both superstars, all our sympathies and devotion were to Jai. He died fighting till the last bullet. Possibly if he had more bullets as ammunition, he would have single-handedly vanquished the gang of dacoits who came from outside the village and plundered it often. Windies, similarly, came from half way across the globe, and may have lost had Kohli got more balls to play. Having scored 89 runs off 47 balls, think if our Virat had another 15-20 balls to play. We would have surely reached 225 runs and won the semis. While playing with Rahane who was playing well but maybe he could have rotated the strike to give the Number One Batsman more strike as could have Veeru ,who too was good at fighting, but ,maybe, he should have saved on his ammunition and given it to Jai.

3.       The Foot Matters: In the last scene of the magnum opus Sholay, Thakur was seen fighting Gabbar just with his feet. He even spurts out an immortal dialogue, “tere liye to mere paon hi kaafi hain.” In short, I can win against you just with my feet. Inspired by this movie, our cricketers forgot that in the Field of Wankhede, hands ought to have taken precedence over the feet. Look at the no balls bowled by Pandya. Not to be outdone our Spin Raja Ashwin also went over the line.  Forget the bowlers, our Sir Ravinder Jadeja while catching the ball on the boundary line touched the rope with his feet giving the West Indies a sixer and a life line. Our Captain Cool had shown during the Bangladesh match that he could out sprint the batsman Mustafizur Rahman even though he had a long bat in hand. Surely Dhoni would have also remarked, “tere liye to mere paon hi kaafi hain.”The learning from Sholay is, What worked then,Will not work now; what brought you into the semis will not take you to the finals.

4.       Gabbar Mattered Then & Now: Can you imagine Sholay without Gabbar….no way. He was bigger than the heroes and everyone else in the movie, even though he was a baddie. Ramesh Sippy tried achieving similar success by creating Shakaal in his next movie Shaan but the movie bombed. And so it was with our Indian Men in Blue. Shikhar Dhawan, who is also known as Gabbar, was dropped from the team. No doubt he too was playing a Baddie and like Gabbar was not scoring runs but you don’t change a winning combination. Had he played, possibly, he would have as usual got out early and Kohli would have walked out with his Excalibur and slaughtered the Windies with extra balls to play. Remember how many of us insisted on wearing the same set of clothes to the exams which were worn the day the exams went off well? Many a times we insisted on even wearing the same set of undergarments….Never change a winning combination.

5.       Everyone Can Be a Hero: Who knew Ramlal, Sambha and Kalia before Sholay became a hit…almost no one other than their parents and children. After the movie, they became heroes overnight. Touch your hearts and tell me for certain how many people can name the West Indies Team beyond Galye, Bravo and Sammy. Yet almost a good many will still remember the names of the all-conquering Windies of the 70s and 80s even today. But after that fateful day, Simmons, Russel, Badree, Braithwaite, Benn and others have all become big names. Hopefully we shall see them in many more movies in Indian Bollywood called IPL .The lesson learnt is one movie and one match can change fortunes.

6.       Russian Roulette is Dangerous: “Kitney aadmi thay?” remember how Gabbar questions the 3 men who came back empty handed after losing a fight to Jai and Veeru. “Sarkaar hamne aapka namak Khaya hai.””Ab goli khao!” Gabbar fires off three bullets in the air to ensure there are three bullets left in the pistol and then he rotates the magazine. “Ab hamey nahin pata kaunse khane mein goli hai aur kaun se mein nahin. Dekhen kiske hissey mein zindagi likhi hai aur kiskey mein maut.” With three bullets in the pistol Gabbar fires the first three shots all of which are blank and all three of the dacoits survive. They start laughing aloud that they have survived, they feel they have won the survival battle quite alike what the Indian Team felt after having survived Gayle and Samuels, the best batsmen in the West Indies team. But then they started celebrating and got complacent of the next minnows who were to follow. Although in Sholay, Gabbar was unfair to have fired after the first three shots had gone blank, the fact is that Russian Roulette is a dangerous game. The next 3 bullets West Indies fired were Simmons, Charles and Russel and it was enough for them to wrap up the match in style.

7.       You can Win Without Playing Actively: In the movie Sholay, Thakur is a smart chap. All he does is to hire two goons who beat the hell out of the Gabbar and his Gang. Did he fight anyone?No.  Did he run around anywhere?No. Darren Sammy has won five of his last six matches and if someone were to check what he did in the six matches is hardly worth mentioning. He has not scored more than 10 runs and taken wickets worth mentioning and yet he, like Thakur of old, won. The management lesson is that get yourself some good guys in your team and tell them, “Mujhe Gabbar Chahiye aur woh bhi zindda!” I am sure one day our famed institutions like IIMs will some day run a leadership course named Hakunamatata…Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Sammy.

To end, must write an ode for the billion die-hard Indians fans and our cricketing heroes.

I shall not go to Eden tomorrow

I shall burn my tickets tonight

Maybe give it to any beggar on the street

Give him my India shirt as well

Shall observe Earth Hours tomorrow

By shutting all lights and television sets

My heart will be with Dhoni and his boys

Lying in bed

Watching Sholay

singing...

Jab tak hai Jaan

Jaaney Jahan

Main Khelunga Main Khelunga….

SS