WHERE HAS ALL THE SPARKLE GONE

Waking up to the sound of crackers around nine in the morning on Deepavali was quite customary in the quiet railway colony we lived in.

Our first reaction was always, “There they go wasting all the crackers and sparklers in the morning itself.”

Yes, I was not wrong. My friends, Savitha, Sajani, Guddu, Shobha and Rajalakshmi had all gathered in our neighbour, Mr Swaminathan’s,   lawns to burst the Diwali crackers. They always went to the temple very early in the morning, dressed in their Diwali finery, and on return would indulge in displaying their fireworks till their mothers called them for breakfast. Though the breakfast was always mouth-watering and not to be missed, I had problem with their bursting firecrackers in broad daylight. Firstly, I thought it to be a complete waste. Secondly, their lighting up all their inventory in the morning itself meant they would come to play with me empty handed in the evening which was totally unacceptable. My problem lay there and I would make a mad rush to stop them and ensure they had some left for the evening too. Uncle Swaminathan, however, would genially assure me that there were lots still left in the boxes and invite me to join them. Vaguely reassured, I would decide to stay back since the aroma from the house was already reaching my nostrils. Those crisp, hot dosas dipped in ghee and sugar , served by Shobha –Guddu’s mom, were stuff to die for!

The days leading up to Diwali were always hectic with checking out the firecrackers and sparklers Dad would buy us, putting them out in the sun, watching our Man Friday, Bhola, and my brother make the anaars (flower pots) at home, helping mom soak the earthen diyas in water and putting them out to dry, learning to make the cotton wicks for the diyas .

Deepavali evenings saw all the bungalows resplendent with the earthen lamps lit all along the boundary walls, the sunshades, the terrace , the verandahs and porticos, outlining the whole house. Friends gathered together and burst crackers and then we visited each others’ houses to stuff ourselves with the sweets and other goodies. Anaar competitions were held and late at night when the adults came out with their special rockets and bombs and anaars and chakris, the display reached its fervent peak.  The fervour continued into the next day ending with a dinner and film show for all in the Railway Officers’ Club.

Gradually as we grew up, with prices escalating and enthusiasm dwindling, the firecrackers became less and less, earthen lamps gave way to candles, and candles to electric mini bulbs. Moving from small towns to metros meant less of inter-mingling and more of sticking to your own hearth and home.

Today it’s a different Diwali altogether. The postman still comes to collect the Diwali bakshish but he no longer has to deliver any cards. Who has the time to buy and send greeting cards? Besides to save trees we have to save paper. That little wonder app does it for us. Sweets and homemade goodies have been replaced by boxes of Belgian and Swiss chocolates. The Chinese made lamps and lights have completely erased the small earthen lamps. You don’t need oil and wicks for the fancy lamps, tealight candles and tiny batteries do the job. No worries about replenishing the oil or checking the direction of the wind, the LEDs will keep glowing and twinkling for many nights. Rangolis and alpanas with rice powder and pastes are too messy and time consuming. Besides, the Italian marbled floors will pose a bigger problem, so it is easier to buy readymade rangoli designs and have them affixed or filled in with flower petals and dry colours. The laddoos and the gulab jamuns are all readily available in the market, but the trend is to go organic and sugar-free.

These days the festive season is ushered in by the print media. We, who grew up in Kolkata, were used to seeing the Boroline, Jabakusum and Horlicks ads picking up during the festival season. These days it is the bulk of the newspaper that gives away the festive spirit. Today’s main newspaper had some 35 odd pages and the supplementary newspapers added another 25 pages each of which one whole page was devoted to the Tatas of Bombay House  and another to the Yadavs of  Lucknow House. For any other news you needed a magnifying glass since the ads, ranging from lingerie and lehengas to luxury sedans and duplex villas, filled every inch of the newspapers. I guess while everyone in the friendly neighbourhood is lamenting the loss of business from the mithaiwala to the local grocer, thanks to the online shopping trend, only our kabaadi-man is laughing all the way home. So it’s make hay while the sun shines for both the big newspaper house and our kabaadi guy. 

Keeping in mind all the latest trends I am drawing up a list of things we can expect this Diwali…Tension free, sugar free, sparkle free and mess free.

-          No Sparkle Diwali. The Jain Youth Forum in our Housing Society Complex recently organized a nukkad play entitled “ Crackers-gical Strike”( some brilliant mind must have been inspired by the latest ‘surgical strikes’ made by the Indian army and come up with this gem) which , as the name suggests, is aimed at completely banning the bursting or lighting of any form of firecrackers or sparklers.

-          Soundless and Safe Diwali. You can honk, you can hoot, you can play music in your car till the reverberations are felt on the twentieth floor, but you cannot burst even the tiniest chocolate bombs.

-          Maxi Dress Coded Diwali. The Dress Code for this Diwali’s dinner at our Housing Society party is Maxi. However, here’s a little helpful postscript for the uninitiated. Do not worry if you do not have one, you can wear one of your synthetic floral nighties or even the anarkali tops minus the churidars and chunni. This outfit is essentially a cross between the two and fits all shapes and sizes. And if you can combine the two, you are on the right track. Bingo!

-          Best Diwali Hamper- Babaji’s Hamper. All Organic, all Pure. This one and half eyed Babaji in his loin cloth, spent all his life breathing in and breathing out, tucking in and tucking out his belly, standing on his head, turning somersaults but today he has set up an empire that can put to shame the Big Business Houses. These guys, who have only run their business yet managed to land themselves in the messiest of soups, could take a lesson or two from him. I wish somebody would send me Babaji’s Special Hamper which is packed with all my needs to last me till my next Diwali- from jeans to  honey, ghee to lipstick, hair oil to instant noodles.

-          Diet friendly Diwali.  The sweetmeats are all sugarless yet they will taste so sweet. Ice-creams so creamy and rich but made from only natural products and no sugar. Diet cokes and organic chaats; oat laddoos and soya seekhs; dark chocolates that will melt in your mouth and also your calories away.

-          Light free Diwali. Little lamps will light your doorways, tiny colourful bulbs will twinkle all night. No oil, no wax and no flames.  Thank the Chinese and light up your homes.

-           Digital Puja. At the touch of a finger you can worship Lakshmi, Ganesh or any other God of your choice. The puja thali, the lighting of the lamp, the chanting of the mantras, the bhajan- kirtan, the aarti will all be done for you. All you will need to do at the end of it is to have the prasad.

While the Nobel Committee is left wondering ‘where has Bobbie Dylan gone’, we can hum a different tune altogether, “The times they are a-changin….”

                                                     HAPPY DIWALI TO ALL MY READERS.

    DS

Dirty Dancing

Athos, Porthos and Aramis, the Three Musketeers lived in my times as well just that their names got changed to Neeraj, Ravi and Ranjiv. And of course, I was a late entrant, DÁrtagnan, the trio to complete the Four Musketeers group. They were for me the ultimate heroes for they could talk, date and dance with girls literally at the drop of a hat. As for me the long tenure of having studied in an all-boys school, these were things of fantasy and forlorn hope. Just being with them made me feel happy, listening to their tales added to their statures in my mind and watching them in action was the ultimate experience.

These pranksters tried their level best to make a ‘Complete Man’ out of me. For once there was this pretty looking girl who had joined in the first year while we were in the third year. She would travel in the same University Special DTC bus every day. Once I told the Three Musketeers about my interest in the lass, the trio got into action. Neeraj went up to the girl and started talking and then invited me to the conversation. He introduced me by saying, “Meet him, he’s the topper in History with 62%. You can take his notes.” Just then Ravi came into the scene and said, “Arrey meet my friend. He’s a topper with 68% marks.” I blushed and tried looking away before the third Musketeer could arrive and raise my marks even higher. The girl never sought for any tutorials from me.

The Three Musketeers would invite me to their dance parties which I found real cool. Boys walking up to girls and asking them for a dance. I would just sit there observe others, never to have the courage to ask anyone for a dance for fear of being rejected. By now it was the third year and I was determined to break the jinx and my friends too stood behind me in solidarity that this year, during the New Year Party at their club in the colony, they would make sure their friend danced with a pretty girl. And so on the fateful day I reached the club well in advance and sat by the bonfire watching couples walk in holding hands and looking excited for the fun filled evening. Of course there were people who had come in alone like me in the hope to find a partner at the party.

As the music began to play inside the hall, Ranjiv came out and shouted at me, “Bangali Saale, have you come just to sit by the fire and eat the snacks?” and immediately dragged me inside the hall where all the action was happening. Good thing about these dance parties is that the lights are kept dim and the strobe lights make any form of shaking your limbs and hips look fairly good. All my life, I never grew out of the dance style of Amitabh who would put one hand on his waist, one extended out in front while slowly gyrating the hips doing light thumkas with grace...remember him dancing in Don singing Khaiyke Paan Banaras Wala? Here in this party that dance had no place. So tried my hand in doing a bit of twist and danced alone in one corner of the floor. All the time my eyes were on the couples dancing freely.

Among those dancing was another colleague Prateeksha who was from my own class itself and was also the college basketball captain. Not the tall and lanky basketball player sort but plump and short, no wonder we never won any matches leave alone championships. We knew each other well having studied together for nearly three years and were reasonably good friends. She was dancing with a spectacled guy when suddenly Ravi left his partner and went to her and asked for a dance. The spectacled guy chivalrously stepped back as Ravi took over. He danced and brought Prateeksha towards where I was standing. He came close and said, “Here, dance with her.” Quite flabbergasted but seeing Prateeksha smiling gave me the courage that it was fine to dance with her. And so began my first dance with a girl and my heart went....boombadi, boombadi, boombadi boom, boom!! Don’t remember my steps but we danced normally keeping safe distance between us. We would have danced for a couple of minutes when Prateeksha’s original partner, the specky guy who had lost her to Ravi the first time came around and asked me to step aside while he took the girl away. Like an idiot, I smiled and stepped back as I saw Prithviraj taking Sanyukta away.

As I went back standing in one corner of the dance floor, Ravi came back and gave me a mouthful. “Why did you let her go? You’re an idiot. This time when I bring her back, you better not listen to anyone. Just be rude and say no if someone again asks for your permission to take her away.” Saying this he left and I could see him again pulling Prateeksha out from her partner and bringing her towards me. As he came near, he said, “Come on, now dance with her.” I again got to the dance floor with her and possibly this time more free and confident than ever. The music had shifted to rock and roll and it was to my liking and I was now beginning to enjoy the evening. The Prithviraj with specs came to me once again but I just signalled him Thamba…Stop… the way a strict traffic policeman in Mumbai would do. He went away disappointed and saw him going towards the bar. Sometimes you need to get selfish and today was the day and this time I wasn’t going to be the kind hearted and philanthropic kind.

By now the time was getting close to midnight hour. Ranjiv while dancing with his partner came close to where I was dancing to say, “Now the lights will go dim and music will play soft numbers. This is when you need to do close dance and don’t feel shy. Just go ahead and do it.” With the girl overhearing all this, it was quite embarrassing but she showed no discomfort and stayed with me. By now my confidence had grown to follow the advice of The Learned One to the last word. And when the scene changed dramatically as forecasted by Guru Ranjiv, I saw the couples on the floor getting closer with the boys putting their hands on the waists of their partners and the girls reciprocating by putting their hands on the shoulders of boys.

Twenty years of solitude, reams of dreams over the years and I was pretty sure now my time had come. Remembered the Silsila song, “Aaj na chodenge ab humjoli, khelenge hum…” My arms went to Prateeksha’s waist in an instant. Don’t remember how I held her but surely it was the closest I had ever been to a girl in my life. I couldn’t make out if she was happy dancing with me or not but the smile on her face which gave me the confidence that what I was doing was fine. As the music got groovier and I saw the boldness others on the floor were showing, got emboldened and pressed Prateeksha closer and harder as we kept moving across the floor. I am sure I had never done this dance ever before so was simply going round and round in circles. No one was looking at us, everyone was living in their world except The Three Musketeers who gave me their thumbs up seeing me arrive in life.

This went on for how long I wouldn’t take a guess, but it was feeling absolutely wonderful and seemed as if this show must never end. Now the crowds were getting boisterous as the midnight countdown began. The music too became loud and the close dance gave way to good old disco stuff. As the clock struck twelve, some of the couples kissed their partners. It seemed quite normal in the circumstances but we just wished each other Happy New Year after which we went our ways, me going to the Musketeers with the widest grin ever and she went towards the Prithviraj who had been sulking all this while and gulping down drinks by the dozen.

The party got over and I went back home. Next when college re-opened after the winter break, I came to the class in one of my rare appearances and saw all the girls giving me dirty looks while the boys gave me a rapturous welcome. The reaction of the boys was understandable as by this time I had spoken about the night to some of my friends and had, for them, become quite a hero for having done a close dance. Prateeksha wouldn’t look at me in the eye. This went on for some days till I took the courage to ask one of the other girls.

“What’s wrong? Why isn’t any one of you talking to me and why have you been giving me such dirty looks?"

She said, “What you did with Prateeksha was in bad taste. Were you drunk that night?”

“Hello there, I don’t drink and I was completely sober that night. I just danced with her the way others were doing on the floor that night. I never did anything for which I should be ashamed of so what is this hullaballoo all about?”

She sobered down a little and said, “Do you remember there was this guy she was dancing with before you took her away? That was Ajit and Prateeksha liked him but after that night he saw you doing the close dance with her, he is refusing to see her. Prateeksha feels it is entirely your fault.”

"Why did she not say No to me. No sirf ek shabd nahin..apne aap mein ek pura vakya hai. Ise tark, spashtikaran, explanation ya vyakhya ki jaroorat nahi hoti hai. Even we boys realise that No ka matlab No hota hai. Usey bolne wali ladki koi parichit ho, friend ho, girlfriend ho, sex worker ho ya aap ki apni biwi kyu nah ho. No means No and when someone says No, we will definitely stop. Why did she not say No even once?”*

In some days, things got better and almost all the friends in the class except Prateeksha got back to old days. Thus ended my first and last foray into the world of club dancing. Thanks to it, I’ve since mastered the Amitabh style dancing and when the party is in full swing,  all I do is to drop down on my knees to do the nagin naach.

SS

PS.* Lines taken from Pink, the movie, but since they fitted in appropriately in the story, have taken the liberty to quote them.

Hippocratic Oath

I asked my doctor daughter, “Why does one doctor never agree to the line of treatment recommended by another of their own fraternity?” She just smiled. The question has intrigued me over the years and around 35 years ago had the courage to test the theory.

Rewind: It was the summer of ’80 and the class 10 boards had got over. The feeling of relief and freedom is difficult to capture. One evening while playing football I had injured my knee. It gave me much discomfort during the night hence decided early morning to go to the CGHS Dispensary close by. For those not familiar with the way the CGHS used to work, let me give you an idea.

Step 1: Enter the dispensary and stand in a Q to get a token.

Step 2: The person in the window would check your CGHS card and allot you a small chit or token on which would be written the room number and your wait list number.

Step 3: Go to the room given and you will know which doctor has been allotted to you (no choice to decide which doctor you wanted to go to).

Step 4: Stand in the Q and when your turn comes, go to the doctor who will examine you and write a prescription.

Step 5: Take the prescription to the first window. The person there will write the medicines prescribed in one register, put a signature and then you go to the medicine counter to collect your medicine.

The system worked quite well and for free and instant treatment that we got there, it wasn’t bad at all. So here I was a sixteen year old brat who first went to one doctor and got medicines prescribed and all entries made in all registers till Step 4. But before collecting the medicines, once again took another token for visiting another doctor in the dispensary. Completed my second doctor’s examination and now had two prescriptions in my hands, both for the same ailment.

Tried reading the two prescriptions and even with my little knowledge of medicine and the bad handwriting of the doctors, could make out both had prescribed different medicines and treatment. But never a person to do things halfheartedly, I wanted to get the two sets of medicines from the dispensary and prove my theory right with unquestionable evidence in hand. So I walked once again to the window to get the second set of medicines registered in the file. The man in the window even before writing a word looked up suspiciously and said, “Were you not here a little while ago?” Confidence is something I never lacked, even though common sense was in great scarcity. “Nahin, bilkul nahin!” said me. The moment the man started entering the prescription details in the register he saw the name of the patient already appearing a few rows above on the same day. He coolly asked me to show my CGHS card to him once again for verification and I smilingly handed it to him.

With my card in his hand, the man on the window stood up and asked me to come inside the enclosure where he was working from. “Chori kar raha hai davaiyan? Stealing medicines! He shouted aloud so that everyone standing there could hear and see. “Come to the Superintendent and then we will file a police complaint against you.” I’ve always had great faith in the ability of my legs to take me to safety in such situations and felt that the opportune was ripe for it but knew with my CGHS card in their hands, the dispensary and police would easily reach me. I was taken to the Superintendent who reprimanded me and said that we will cancel the dispensary card forever.

I returned home and told the whole story to my dad who was at home being a Saturday. Had it been my Ma, I would have got what all Hindi movies say, “doon kya kaan ke neechey (tight slap below the ears)?” My dad has always been my biggest supporter, often blind to all that I did. He just asked me the reason for what I had done and when I honestly told him the reason, he just smiled, changed his attire and went to the dispensary. Fortunately most dispensaries always had many a Bong doctor. My father who was a frequent visitor to the dispensary knew Dr. Dasgupta, the Superintendent very well. He retrieved the CGHS Card and saved the day for me as he had done many times before.

...........................................................................

Fast forward: A year ago when my daughter was an intern at government hospital at Mumbai, she was a witness to a strange case.

As interns, their work never gave them any breathing time and was difficult to say which day was worse than the other. One day, as she was in the surgery ward she was asked to go down to the hospital reception to bring in a patient. She hardly had expected a patient like this….a bearded man with a skull cap on his head, shackles in his hands and accompanied by a lathi wielding policeman. The man had blood splashed over his white dirty kurta. The man himself was bleeding profusely and had to be attended urgently. As she walked with the police and the patient through the passage in the ward with beds lying on both sides, our patient loudly shouted, “Doctor Saab Salaam”.

The intern looked up to see who the patient was addressing to. “No, he is not calling me. He is looking at a senior consultant who was attending to another patient in the ward. Is this fellow mad? The consultant will kill me for this indiscretion on the part of this criminal? I would get into trouble for no fault of mine.”  

“Paagal hai kya? He is a very senior doctor. Why are you shouting at him?”Said the petrified intern.

“I know Doctor Saab very well.” And he stood his ground strong as he shouted aloud again, “Doctor Saab Salaam!”

The consultant looked up and his jaw dropped in awe, “Abey tu, fir aa gaya? (Hey you, you’re back again?) he smilingly said, as he got up from his chair and walked towards our man in red and white.

“What have you done this time?”

“Doctor Saab, there was this guy Jamaal and his friends who would constantly trouble me in the cell. There were days when they would snatch away my food and would not let me sleep in peace. I warned him many times but he would not listen. Today I lost my cool and attacked him with an iron rod. He had a knife and a chain. I beat him up and stabbed him. Saala won’t live for sure.”The policeman standing by nodded his head as if to affirm the facts.

“Doctor Saab, please keep me back again this time. I will do all your work. Keep me for long and I will be of great help to you, just like last time.”

“No Zameer, I can’t. This time I will not be able to keep you back in the hospital. Last time it was a simple scuffle but this time it is a much more serious case . No one will let me keep you here. Now I am also no longer an intern and today have much more responsibility. I just cannot do what I did ten years ago. Sorry Zameer, can’t help. Yes, I will attend to your wounds and make sure you get well soon. After that, it will be back to the place from where you came."

Later in the day, the consultant called the confused and bemused intern over and shared his tale.

"I was a resident ten years ago when Zameer was brought in by the police. There was a fight in his chawl and he was badly hurt. A police case had been registered against him but Zameer was a jovial fellow. Some of us residents became friendly with him. He got well quickly but wanted to stay back in the hospital. We told the police that he needed more time to recover and he should be allowed to stay in the hospital. While at the hospital, Zameer would help us with managing hundreds of people who would come along with the patients some of whom would often threaten us. But with him around we were safe.”

“During the day he was more than a ward boy to us. He would run errands for us in the ward and in the hostel. At night, Zameer would retire to a patient’s bed allotted to him in the ward itself.  He was our partywala khansama cooking some delicious biriyani for us, the starved souls. Everyone in our batch knew his story and sometimes we felt even our senior doctors and consultants knew about him but never questioned us. Zameer stayed with us for nearly six months before the police did a covert operation to do a check on him and found out the truth. They weren’t too angry at us because Zameer in the hospital was less of a worry for them than at the jail. Moreover for us at the hospital, the policemen of the Kalachowki Police Station nearby were literally Mamoos (Friendly Uncles).”

The patient Zameer was the same, his ailment was the same and for once even the doctor was also the same yet the treatment meted out to him was different. Was this incident in some way proving my theory true that no two doctors think alike and cure alike?

On hind sight remembered the Hippocratic Oath taken by doctors by which they are sworn by Apollo, the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygiea, by Panacea and by all the Gods and Goddesses to carry out to the best of his ability and judgement to treat the sick. They treat the sick based on their clinical findings and judgement of the ailment and they will never act similarly as no two doctors nor two patients are ever alike. Like there is no single perfect path that leads to God, there is no single proven path to any cure. The doctor will try newer and better ways to cure the patient. No wonder it’s the noblest of all professions.

There goes my theory which till recently seemed my only way of winning the coveted prize in medicine at Alfred Nobel’s home town.

SS  

Casino Royale

It was another Saturday morning till the newspaper popped out of the grill on the door. As I pulled it out to read, saw a large envelope neatly in between the folds. Initially thought it to be a promotional material but on closer look found my name written on it. Opened it up and was completely overjoyed to find a beautiful card inside with almost all the office colleagues signing on it and congratulating me on completing ten years at work. This happened exactly 5 years ago on 8^th October 2011.

After finishing reading the card from cover to cover, went out to pick up the weekly fruits and vegetables from a market nearby. As I was leaving my building saw a delivery boy coming in with a cake box from Monginis and a bouquet. On returning home, saw the same two things kept nicely on the dining table. It felt good to be remembered by people with whom you had worked 10-12 hours daily. This was followed by a flurry of congratulatory sms messages. Now it felt even better so replied to each one of them individually. After this was an uneventful Sunday watching English Premier League matches

On Monday morning  I drove down to the office early. No sooner had I parked the car in the basement, than the phone started ringing, “Boss, where are you?” Usually I’ve been amongst the first to reach office and was surprised at getting the call from Shishir who normally came in much later. “Just reached and coming up now.. Why?” “No, nothing Boss.” Guessing what was in store, entered the lift and as it reached the 5^th floor, the door opened smoothly and I was taken aback to find the office folks standing in two rows leading to the office main entrance with flowers in their hands. Shocked and embarrassed, I refused to come out of the lift but a few stronger ones pulled me out. A sea of smiling faces greeted me as I walked in….people of other offices in the building were having fun at the tamasha happening at the insurance office. This was more like the Bengali groom with topor on his head entering the marriage pandal when everyone greets him with flowers and ooloos which is the strange sound only Bong women folk are capable of making with their tongues wagging from right to left in quick succession and with pouted lips. One of the boys remarked, “Boss, for ten years you have always come to work before anyone of us, so we had decided that today we shall be there before you. But Boss, please do not expect this of us everyday!”All I could do was to smile and put my head down in shame at the love that they had just showered.

The office was completely decorated with balloons, festoons and sparkles everywhere. The elders in the group escorted me to my room which looked no less than the Sheesh Mahal at Red Fort. As I sat down, a coconut with straw was placed before me. Even before I could finish the drink, was taken to the pantry room where an egg burger, hash brown and coffee from MacDonald’s was kept. They remembered me commenting on the MacDonald Breakfast poster on the road, “Accha lagta hai…khana padega.” One freak comment casually made and these people made the wish come true!

Somehow ate a little, then went back to my workstation when Anurag walked in to say that there is something important he wished to discuss but for it he needed some privacy. Normally this happens when someone is about to quit work. Being a sensitive matter, I agreed to walk down to a Café Coffee Day shop below. When he began talking to me, I realised it was just a ploy to get me out of the office. Anyway, by now I was beginning to enjoy the day. Soon Anurag received a telephone call and he was now in a hurry to take me back to office. As I now entered the office, I found every member of the senior management team, except my Managing Director who was travelling, had come down from the Head Office to join in the celebrations.  This was going to be a Special Day not for all the biggies in suits and ties but for the other commoners who had planned and executed so many surprises and were today enjoying the fun happening before them.

Post the handshakes and exchanges of pleasantries, the action began with a Q&A with some whacky questions for me to answer. After a few came, “Who are you most afraid of?” The answer ought to have been easy for any married man but I answered, “My shadow.” “No Boss you are not being honest. Please give it another try.” ”Ok. So you all want to hear me say, my wife…yes I am afraid of her.Happy?”No sooner had I given the answer, from one of the meeting rooms walked out Debi. Now this was a pleasant surprise. The next question was easy for me to answer, “Who do you love the most?” “My daughter, of course!”And right then out of another room saw Mrittika walking towards me, smiling and looking pretty as ever. 

Now the attention shifted to a giant screen that had been put up in one corner of the hall. The compere announced that they wished to show some videos of people who wanted to wish me. This would be nice and simple I thought as the screen came alive. A film started by playing, Jeena Isi Ka Naam Hai which started by showing a young lad wearing ManU Tshirt playing football and the mother shouting in the background, “Shibu, shop playing and concentrate on your studies.” The father’s voice immediately tried calming her down, “Don’t worry. One day he will do well. I have faith in him.” Absolutely the words my parents had said about me innumerable times. I would have again shared their dialogues with some office friends who had captured it in the movie! Simply amazing.

No, can’t say if the beginning of the movie was amazing but what followed was completely out of this world. These friends from office captured my life in a 20 minute film with audio and video inputs from my school favourite teacher Brother D’souza who was then at Shillong, school and college friends and of course colleagues from my previous organizations, existing company mates and seniors, staff including security guards, distribution partners and clients. While they all spoke so well of me that I couldn’t believe it myself but two comments I must repeat for you. One said,” He is our Shah Rukh Khan.” Another said, “He is loved by his office people because he is like a grandfather to them. He defends them like all grandparents who will never believe his grandchildren can ever do any wrong!” As if all this was not good enough, I was shocked to see my wife, daughter and mother-in-law on the screen talking about me. Their shooting had happened in my house and I never came to know about it? My mother-in-law, who could never keep a secret, had not spoken a word about someone coming home with a camera and microphone and that she had been filmed! How I wish I could share with all the video for you to see, done completely by amateurs at office, fit to be screened at Cannes.

This movie was followed with all seniors and colleagues taking the mike and speaking showering praises and gifts more than I would have ever imaged in my life. Once again  I must talk about a special gift and a talk that touched my heart. A youngster, Mohsin, with whom I had played cricket and football matches for the office, had a photograph of me playing football. He took the picture to an artist friend of his who did a sketch which Mohsin framed and presented it to me. I still have it on my desk at office.  Then there was Janifa who narrated a poem which she had penned for me. Later shared the same with me and I wrote back to her saying that what she had written was fit to be put on my tombstone. Go on and read it and tell me if I was wrong?

The scene now shifted to the pantry where all trooped in.  A cake was brought in and as the box opened I was swept off my feet when I saw the cake was made to order with the logo of the football team I follow, Manchester United.  There was much more than the cake, sweets, namkeens, soft drinks and more. I too got a chance to talk. Although choked with emotions, I spoke for some time. Today, I don’t remember much but to my COO who was present I said, “Sir, actually today I have completed 11 years and not 10.” When he asked me how, I explained that in these ten years I had not taken a single break of more than 3 days, never a long leave or holiday which means I did not use the 25 -30 odd allowable leaves for ten long years. He understood but he too had an ace up his sleeve, “Since you have worked so much in ten years, today I want you to take half a day off with your wife and daughter.” And handed an envelope to me, inside were three pre-paid lunch coupons for J.W. Marriot, Juhu.

And so we left for the lunch but my wife said I need not take out my car. As I stepped out of the portico, a driver in immaculate uniform opened the door of a Mercedes Benz. My wife a daughter smiled and nodded as we sat down in the dream car. Office had arranged to pick up my family early morning in this car and had booked it for the day for us to use. The lunch was outstanding with Sikander Kher and Lucky Ali in the room on adjoining tables, we couldn’t have asked for more. Finally reached home and was about to take some rest when office people called up to say that they had arranged for a dinner at Juhu Club . With hardly any appetite left but no heart to say no to the people who had done so much, we joined them and ended the day with some wonderful NW Frontier food. What a Day!

Next morning in my thank you mail to all I wrote, "I have always believed that P=P that is investing and trusting in People leads you to better business and Premium. Of course, I got my equations wrong many a times with the first P almost at all times getting more weightage. Often blamed by many for not pushing and punishing my people enough for 'better results'. Anyway, I have no regrets in having failed in the mathematics of business as long as I passed the examination of life."

And today I complete 15 years at my company.

SS

Letter to a Daughter

1^st October 2016

O Teynu Kala Chashma Jajda Hai….

Aarti’s phone was ringing. Her daughter of twelve, Munni would often change the caller tune depending on her current favourite. She rushed to pick it up when the caller’s name popped up, “Sirji.” She loved to call Subedaar Ranjit Jha of Bihar Light Infantry by this name. It just made her happy. She had been waiting anxiously to hear from Sirji for many days, ten days to be precise. With no news there was an air of uncertainty and sadness in the household for Ranjit always made it a point to ring up daily. It was not just for Aarti and his parents who lived with them but he longed to speak to the light of his life, Munni. A soldier’s life is tough but his family too lives a thousand deaths in the absence of news in a world where sms, whatsapp and mobile call was cheap and had reached everyone. To Aarti the phone was her life line. She had studied upto class four only and Ranjit would help her read and write the text messages whenever he came for his annual vacation.

“Kya Sirji, you forgot about us? Have you found another woman that you’ve stopped calling this one?”

“ArreyNahin. I was on duty and there was strict instruction not to contact anybody. I will talk to you later but is Munni around? Call her, I need to talk to her urgently.”

Munni was standing just next to her mother for she knew her father would want to talk to her. The mother handed over the phone to the girl who shouted, “Baba, I am very angry. Every day I would wait but you never called even once. You know how the other children in the school would make fun of me saying tere Papa shahid hog aye hain. I would cry alone.” Her eyes could no longer hold back the tears as she spoke to Ranjit.

“Munni  beta, sorry. I promise not to do it again but I also want a promise from you.”

“What is it Papa?”

“Promise me that you will tear off the letter which I last wrote and should be reaching you anytime now.”

“But why Baba. I love reading your letters. You know I have kept all your letters safely in the drawer of my desk, neatly folded and I read them once in a while.”

“No Munni, not this one. Just promise me. Don’t open it. The moment you get it, rip it off and throw it in the dustbin. Promise?”

“Ok Baba, promise!”

After that Sub Ranjit spoke to Aarti who kept smiling. As she put down Sirji’s phone she asked Munni what promise had she made to her father. Munni told her honestly and went back to her room to study.

Two days later when Munni returned from school, she instinctively opened up the letter box and she found an inland letter there. It was addressed to Miss Artika Jha and she didn’t have to even turn it upside down to read the sender’s name. The round black stamp on the back showed it had come from army post. Her heart stopped as she remembered the promise she had made to her father. She entered her home and even as her mother offered her a glass of water, Munni ripped the letter into small bits and threw it in the dustbin in her room.

Munni was very quiet that afternoon and her mother understood that the letter must have been troubling the little girl. Munni finished her lunch and went back to her room. Aarti left her alone as she went back to her room to do some sewing and soon lay down for her afternoon siesta.

Munni tried hard to concentrate on her books but just couldn’t. What was in the letter that her father did not want her to read? Unable to control herself, Munni emptied the dustbin on her bed and the bits of paper fell down. Meticulously she sat down to put the torn bits of paper together. At first she was unable to set the jigsaw puzzle right but she quickly started putting the pieces right keeping the printed side of the inland letter facing up. Now it came together logically and properly. She then tore off a page from her long notebook, put glue all over it, picked it up carefully and placed it over the letter…..bingo!

Munni had never lied to her father nor had she ever disobeyed her. But her age was such that inquisitiveness got the better of her caution and she turned the page upside down and started reading the letter where some words had had smudged but good enough for her to read.

56APO

28^th September 2016

Dear Munni,

How are you my little one? I always keep thinking about you and have your smiling photo in my top shirt pocket and when look at it before going to bed. Today I am writing to you and I want you to read this out to your mother and your grandparents.

You must be wondering why I am writing a letter when it is so easy to call you on Ma’s mobile phone as I often do. No, not today. For I cannot make a call from where I am. I cannot even tell you where I am right now. By the time my letter reaches, you will understand things better.

For the moment all you need to know is that I am good and could not be better. Today I have been selected to be part of a special team for a very special mission. Me and my mates are all excited for what does a soldier want in life? Action and doing something good for the country. I have seen many actions within the country from people stuck in flood affected areas to places torn by men killing others in the name of religion. That’s not what we army men are trained for. For us it is using our guns against the enemies of Bharat Mata. And today we are going out to do just that.

You would have read how some madmen from across came and killed 18 of our jawans. For the soldier dying in battle is one thing but to die without firing a bullet in retaliation and getting burnt is sad. We have seen so many such deaths of good jawans and officers and we always felt like retaliating but as loyal soldiers we only work on orders of our superiors and they never gave any such orders. But this time it is different. We will not let the death of our jawans go unpaid for. Those who did and those who were the masterminds will have to pay. For once we shall teach these blood thirsty killers that humney choodiyan nahin paheni hain. We shall make them pay, teach them a lesson of their lives.

We have checked our guns, our bags are packed with enough ammunition and our commanding officer has carefully taken us through the entire plan. He is also coming with us in this mission. The helicopters that will carry us across the border are all ready and are targets have been carefully identified. In fact everything has been planned so well, that there will only be one outcome- victory for us and death to the enemy. We have been told “Leave no buddy or body behind.”

Even though we have all things stacked in our favour, in war nothing can be certain. The enemy is by no means to be underestimated. They too have been trained by the Special Forces and will surely fight hard. But one thing is certain, My Dear Munni, I shall return a hero anyhow. If I come back safe and sound, we would have vanquished the enemy and everyone will applaud. If, however, the enemy bullet finds me, I will still come home to a hero’s welcome wrapped in tricolours.

You have always been proud of your Baba and surely I will not let you down even today.

You are now 12 years old and turning into a pretty girl. Tomorrow if Baba is not there, I want you to study well and follow your dreams. Take good care of Ma. Teach her English so that she is able to read your mails on the computer. Tell her to keep up with her hobby of stitching clothes. Buy her a sewing machine with the money that will come her way from the government. She can earn some money and will stay engaged during the day when you attend school and college. The government will give your mother good money which should take care of your needs and marriage when you come of age.

Your grandparents are already so old and may be badly affected. Kiss them, hug them often and be kind to them till they are around. Tell them that their son lived and died for the country.

I need to drop this letter in the army post box now. Wherever I am, here or from up there, I will be watching you My Love. Remember a soldier never dies and for you, my Munni, I will always remain with you forever.

With Lots and Lots of Love,

Baba

By now many a tear drop had fallen on the letter in front that even if it had been intact, no one would have been able to read it. Munni folded it back and held the letter close to her chest. She ran out to her mother’s room and took the phone lying beside her mother. She had to speak to Baba and unhesitatingly she dialled. After a few rings, Ranjit picked up on the other side.

“Baba…Baba…”

Ranjit knew why Munni was crying. The soldier, who had a couple of days ago gone into enemy zone and eliminated dozens of terrorists, today felt weak holding the phone line to a little girl on the other side.

“Baba…Baba…you are my hero and will be my hero forever. Forgive me Baba for reading the letter but now I know how brave my father is. To those boys in school I will tell them that they can joke and have fun because my father keeps awake on the border and kills the enemies of the country. Baba, I love you Baba.”

By now Aarti had woken up and saw the letter in Munni’s hand. She held it in front but could not read it. She held her girl tightly as the little one kept sobbing and talking to her father, she realised from the tremor in his voice that Sirji too was crying.

 SS

How Green Was My Valley

Akhtar Rasool, a well-built man of forty five, woke up early as usual. After a quick shower, he changed into a fresh set of shalwaar-kameez, said his morning namaaz dutifully and then, without disturbing anyone, quietly opened the front door and just pushed it back as he walked away at 5.30am. There was never fear of anyone entering another’s house in this sleepy town. It was raining heavily and his folding umbrella was of not much use. By the time he reached the furniture factory he was almost fully drenched. There was quite a large number of workers who had arrived and were all walking into the shed. The shed was buzzing with activity as all the men there were changing their regular casual clothes into police uniforms. Rasool’s family, like his other colleagues’, hardly knew where they worked for it would be difficult for them to understand and accept anyone working in the J&K Police or in the Indian Armed Forces. Life for such a man and his family would become unbearable. They would either be ostracized or brutalized by the people claiming to be fighting for independence. The furniture factory was a good cover up for people like Rasool who told the people about the long and awkward working hours.

Rayaz, a young budding cricketer in his teens, too, woke up early at 6am, much earlier than is regular time of 9 to 10am. He quietly brushed his teeth and put on his wind cheater, smart looking sneakers and a check scarf that hung loosely from his shoulders.  He put in two apples in his pockets and slid out of his house from the back door, leaving it slightly ajar as he left. As he stepped out, some of his team members also joined him in his walk towards the Dal Lake.  All the kids looked very enthusiastic as they galloped their way to a huge structure on the outside of which hung a board of a flower store where, possibly, workers like Riyaz would come and decorate the shikaras with flowers. There was flower all over as Riyaz entered the place but he went by into an ante-room where another white board was put up and a bearded man stood looking at his watch impatiently.

Fatema woke up at her usual time. Made herself a hot cup of tea as she went through the morning chores of kitchen and cleaning the house. By around 8am she was out of the house, heading for the make shift medical unit. Fatema always wanted to be a doctor but somehow due to the turmoil in the state, she never got the chance to prepare well enough for the exams. She then set her eyes on becoming a nurse but having been married off early, her dream remained unfulfilled. After the birth of her son she got all the more tied down but once he began going to school, Fatema found enough time to go to the emergency ward in the local hospital where the injured always outstripped the hospital staff, who were only too happy to get additional help from people like Fatema. She slowly learnt many a thing of hospital care especially bullet injuries and stone injuries to people of the town. With the growing tension in the state, which just wouldn’t die out, patients in uniform and in casuals were always there and Fatema never distinguished between the two warring sides. For her, a patient was a patient…nothing more, nothing less.

By 7am the police forces gathered and stood at attention, chests out, guns held tight by the nozzle as the base rested on the ground below. As the Commandant gave the orders, the Indian tricolour was unfurled and in hushed tones the men sang the national anthem. After 52 seconds the song ended and the Commandant now spoke, “Today is 15^th of August, our Independence Day.  All across the state Section 144 has been imposed as we know for certain that the separatists will cause trouble today. We have to be on a tight vigil. We will not let these handful of man men destroy the peace of our land. Each one of you will observe extreme caution in handling the situation. While you have pellet guns in your hands as well as regular guns, do not use them unless the other party gets violent and uncontrollable. There are enough people from the media and Amnesty who think we are the sadists and brutes who enjoy killing and maiming our citizens. Caution to a point but not at the cost of your own safety and security. All the Best. Jai Hind!” Rasool heard everything carefully and instinctively his eyes looked at the gun in his hand.

Riyaz stood with the other youngsters as the man with thick black beard started speaking, “Today is an important day for you. You are the chosen one for showing your love for Allah and many brothers who have perished fighting for independence from India. With curfew at all places, you will split up into groups of 3 and you will be joined in each of the locality by others coming from various camps. The bags you carry will be used for inflicting maximum damage on the imperialist forces. Show no mercy to anyone who sides with India.” Riyaz’s hand slid into the bags that had been given to them as they entered the room. He could feel the coldness of the stones and his eyes lit up as he was eager to step out and start the pelting. He was a fast bowler of his cricket team and batsmen feared his beamers and bouncers. Today the ball had been replaced with stones big and small but the target still was the head of the person 22 yards away. The bearded man spoke again, “For our Azadi we have to make their azadi  hell. In your teams will be one senior who will be in constant touch with us through a walkie-talkie and they will also carry hand grenades and a pistol. Whosoever amongst you tries to run away from your goal of freeing Kashmir, these seniors will shoot you down and the blame will of course be on the security forces. Go out and give them hell today. Jannat awaits you.”

“Today we will have many casualties.”Fatema stood listening to the medical unit head of Sisters of Humanity speak to all the doctors, nurses and helpers like her. “The locals will surely cause trouble intermittently and the security forces will try and quell the problem. We can expect a large number of people with injuries to their eyes and other bullet injuries. We will also have injured policemen as well. We have got in extra bandages and medicines. We must not discriminate. Our religion is service and we shall give it to all those who need it. We have but one religion and that is of service to all. Ameen!”

Till about 10am, the city looked like a ghost town with no movement other than the police and army columns doing flag marches and red beacon cars with hooting sirens driving in great speed. It was an uneasy calm, everyone could guess. Even birds seemed to have sensed something about to erupt and were quietly sitting on branches or holed up in their nests. The main government function was happening at the Sher-e-Kashmir Cricket Stadium where the governor was taking the salute along with the Chief Minister and other dignitaries. Security was at its tightest here. Even roads remotely leading to the venue had been sanitized and every person, be it on bicycle or foot, was subjected to multiple layers of body and metal detector search. After all, the Home Minister from Delhi was the chief guest at the function this year.

At 10.30am sharp, suddenly the bolted doors in the Hazratbal Mosque area near the Dal Lake opened up and a large number of youngsters with their faces covered with scarves were seen running out. And then it started raining…not water but stones. Stones of all shapes and sizes. Each of the youth had a bag slung across his shoulder and in it were the stones, big and strong. Stones, sharp and heavy. Each selected to deliver a deathly blow on whosoever it hit. Today, these arsenals were being aimed at a small battalion of state police forces who were stationed at the heart of the township. The police had their heads covered with helmets and netted visors in front of their eyes. On their legs were strong pads upto the knees, smaller than the cricketing ones, but not as sophisticated. Some of the security personnel had fibre glass shields and long batons and some others, like Rasool, had guns that could fire pellets at rapid succession which could incapacitate the person on the other side without killing. Then there were others who had shot guns that fired tear gas shells.

There was never a more fearsome battle on the streets of Srinagar. Bullets, pellets, tear gas and batons on one side and stones and stones and more stones on the other side. The youngsters had been well trained to quickly pick up the tear gas shells and throw them back at the policemen causing much discomfort to them. Stones were there in abundance and the bravery of the youth was never in question as they fearlessly kept moving ahead, some got hurt and they were quickly carried away on shoulders of the able ones. Others, like Riyaz, fought like David with a sling in hand fighting the Goliath of government machinery. In the melee no one could see where one was shooting or who was getting hurt.

Rasool and his fellow policemen had been surrounded from all four sides and the number of stone pelting youngsters kept growing in strength by the minute. The Commandant asked for additional help from the base camp but since most of the personnel were keeping vigil at the stadium event, he was told that no one could be spared. The Commandant saw before him many of his men bleeding profusely. Helmets had cracked and stones were pouring on naked heads. He could see complete slaughter of his men before his eyes so, in desperation, he ordered his men to break out firing their guns without any concern for lives on the other side. The police did just that and in an instant they started firing at will with their automatic weapons and began running out of the circle of death. Only a few made it past the marauding crowds. Most of them were caught and hammered to death. Some were thrown into the flowing river after breaking their hands and legs. Surely the coldness of Jhelum would be their watery grave.

Fatema and the Sisters of Humanity had their hands full. One youngster after another was being brought in with injuries deep and deadly, each looking more painful than the other. Bodies were getting piled on top of one another and it seemed a lost cause. As she was cleaning the wound of one of the boys, Fatema saw another lad being stretchered off. “Riyaz,” she shouted loud and ran after the stretcher, stopped the wheels and looked at the boy lying atop. Her worst fears had come true…her son Riyaz was bleeding, his face was covered in blood….”Ammi”, said a weak Riyaz who identified Fatema with her voice. His eyes wouldn’t open. The cursed pellets had pierced both his eyes. As Riyaz was wheeled inside the make-shift OT, Fatema took out her mobile phone and dialled for her husband. The phone went on ringing. She tried many times and each time she would get a recorded voice speaking from the other end, “The number you have dialled is not answering. Try again later.” Fatema went back to work and when the doctor emerged from the OT, she knew it was all over for the boy, her loving Riyaz. He will never see the beauty of the valley ever again.

When there was no news of her husband, Fatema went to the ‘furniture factory’ he worked in only to find there was utter gloom. She told the guard at the entrance her husband’s name and she was immediately ushered into the small open enclosure. She was surprised to see the police force there in full uniform. For once she thought she had come to the wrong place. The Commandant walked up to her and with his hand motioned her to follow him till they reached a place where Fatema saw over 20 Indian Flags wrapped on to wooden boxes. Against each box was written a name. the Commandant walked her to one where it was written in bold ‘Sub-Inspector Akhtar Rasool (Body Untraced)’. She stood there in silence as she saw many women like her, most of them younger, some crying aloud, others on their knees bent over the box and some, who were getting hysterical, being comforted by the police women stationed there. A band played a soft note, guns were raised and fired in the air, the tricolours and the uniforms were packed and handed over to women there. Fatema slowly walked back home.

Riyaz was waiting for Fatema. He needed her for everything, from feeding to giving him a bath. Today Fatema continues her work at the Sisters of Humanity. She gets a monthly widow pension which helps her run her house. Riyaz will never come to know that his father was a policeman and that he had died the same day at the same place that he had lost his vision. Whether father and son had come face to face, no one can say. As Riyaz waits for his Azadi and Jannat, Fatema and many like her in the vicinity who, too, had lost their husbands and family in this War for Independence, wait endlessly for a moment of joy in the sea of gloom. Many a Rasool has perished in this War of Independence un-cried for, un-cared for, un-traced and lost as the Jhelum quietly flows by. The whole valley is turning into a valley of widows, a ghetto of the lame and the blind.

Whose independence is this we are protecting? Whose independence are they fighting for?  When will this madness ever end? They once said about the Valley, “Agar Firdaus Bar Roo-e-Zameen Ast, Hameen Ast-O Hameen Ast-O Hameen Ast.” Today, it is the Valley of Death and a Paradise Lost.

SS

Of Saints & Sinners

“If I ever become a saint, I’ll surely be one of darkness.I will continually be absent from heaven…to light the light of those in darkness on earth”--- Mother Teresa

As a college student, in the mid-eighties in Calcutta, I often visited Shishu Bhavan run by the Missionaries of Charity. I did not do it out of any desire to obtain a social services certificate, as is usually the case these days with youngsters who join NGOs for a very short while in order to flaunt their certificates while securing admission in universities in the US. It serves as a passport to fulfilling the Great American Dream. Those days were different. I started by accompanying a friend who, being an adopted child herself, was instinctively drawn to these children, but gradually I started enjoying the company of these children, singled out by Fate and abandoned by their own.

They were little kids, from a few days old to teenagers, but what always struck us in every group was the one irrevocable fact that most of them were girls. You could see very few boys among them. Obviously, parents or mothers or their relatives were pretty selective about whom to abandon. They craved for love and, therefore, the not-so-shy-ones immediately ran up to you with arms wide open. The others took a while to warm up as most children do. There was this beautiful girl, a cherub who seemed to have come out from one of those Renaissance paintings and live for a while among us, who would just run into your lap the moment she saw you with the most disarming smile. Later, one of the Sisters told us that she was deaf and dumb.

We didn’t contribute much, just played for a while and gave them company .The nuns let us play with the toddlers and the slightly older ones. The infants in the nursery we were allowed to see only through the glass doors from outside. They lay in spotless little cribs, covered with clean pastel sheets. Not a spot on their sheets or a grain on the floor. Every hour they were cleaning and scrubbing and disinfecting. Once we even saw Mother entering Shishu Bhavan, getting off a car and walking inside. Within seconds the Mother was surrounded by her brood.

I remember coming home and telling my people that the nuns kept the babies as well as the older kids far better than what we ever managed to do  in our own homes.

One of the sisters narrated to us how a couple adopted a baby boy and within a few months came to return the baby saying that he was suffering from some developmental abnormality, which had come to light only recently, and therefore they wished to choose another baby in his place. The nuns had asked them what they would have done had he been their biological child. Where would they have gone to return the baby?

Those of us from Calcutta are all too familiar with these Sisters in the white saris with the thin blue borders draped in the Bengali style, the pallu pinned over their heads completely covering the foreheads, feet covered in blue strapped flip-flops, walking through the streets of the city doing what they can for the dying and the abandoned, the diseased and the decayed, the old and the young. What I didn’t know was that all these saris are woven at the Titagarh leprosy centre. We have all gone past Mother House, Shishu Bhavan, Nirmal Hriday on innumerable occasions. Did we ever give a thought to the fact that Mother herself lived in a small room 12ft by 8ft with a cot, a table and small stool? She did not even have a fan in her room.

 Yet , I was taken aback to hear some people even pointing out on the day of Mother’s canonisation that the Sisters of her Order did not lead a life of poverty but moved around in vans donated to them. Can we be so mean as to deny these women that much luxury given to them by someone trying to reach out? How can we forget that these women were once young girls who gave up everything, friends and families, loved ones, the little joys and luxuries of life to help and serve those who had been left to die or perish by their very own flesh and blood? How can we stoop so low? It is not easy to give up everything and serve another. They are cleaning the sick, the diseased, the dead, and the mutilated when we find it difficult to even clean our own children and parents. We hire people to do the same.

On the 4^th of September 2016 these Sisters must have shed tears of joy to see their Mother canonised as Saint Teresa of Calcutta. Not just them, many of us must have felt proud and happy to see one of us, an Indian by choice, and a Calcuttan, rise from the ranks of ordinary men, shrug off the criticisms and barbs being aimed at her by some, and fly out with little wings to take a place in that haloed seat reserved in heaven for the Saints. I am sure it is one of those rare and great moments when, even if for a short while, we pause to think, to feel and to have our faith restored in the goodness of Mankind and greatness of Faith.

However, it is not to be so. Sinners that we are, we choose that particular moment to run our commentary on measuring her true worth. Many of her detractors choose that very day to question her contribution to society. That is the moment we choose to vilify her, denigrate her. Our national TV channels and their anchors, who judge one and all, the wise men that grace their panels and the more vociferous ones who enthrall the social media decide to question whether all that she had done was right or wrong. You may not agree with Mother’s views on all matters- abortion, contraception or mode of treatment meted out to the sick and the dying. Every person is entitled to his views. But that was not the day to question. Also there is no one who can question what she has done for the poor and the destitute and to do that kind of service you had to have unquestioned Faith and more-than-human capabilities. That is exactly what drove her- absolute, unadulterated, unquestionable faith. And that is why we are nobody to question her.

 Not just that, what irked me most that day was that many national TV channels were busy playing and replaying a sleazy video of a debauched politician and his sexual escapade. They were all so concerned about protecting the dignity and identity of the woman in the video that in their urge to do so they continued to repeatedly show that clipping in which she was being dishonoured. Could anything be more hypocritical? Could there be anything more shameful? Could they not have forgotten about their TRP for a few hours and not harped about being the only channel to have in their possession such a recording?

 If nothing, at least, we could have kept quiet for a while and paid our respects due to the dead and the great.

Perhaps, Khushwant Singh once gave it back to one such critic of Mother by saying that if anyone spits at the sky, it’s his face that gets spat down upon.

Yes Mother, even though you are St.Teresa of Calcutta, to many of your most ardent admirers you will always be Mother, the Saint who lived among us even before being canonised.

Whenever I listen to  Debabrata Biswas’s rendition of Tagore’s ‘Boro asha kore eshechhigo, kachhe deke lao….” there is only one face that comes before me and my head bows down in reverence on its own. I can think of no one else.

Tagore’s Original

Boro asha kore eshechhi go kachhe deke lou,

Phirayo na janani||

Deena-heene keho chahe na tumi tare rakhibe jani go|

Aar ami je kichhu chahine charanatale boshe thakibo

Aar ami je kichhu chahine janani bole shudhu dakibo

Tumi na rakhile griha aar paibo kotha, kende kende kotha berabo-

Oi je heri tamasa ghanaghoro gahana rajani||

English Translation:

With a high hope I have come up to you, Hold out your arms,

 O Mother don't you send me back.

 Nobody likes to care for destitutes, You will give refuge I know well I know,

 I have no other desire in me, But to remain seated at your feet,

 I have no other craving in me, But to call you O Mother dear,

 Unless sheltered by you, Where else shall I get a home, Where else shall I go about weeping.

 There behold, there behold,

There's a deep and very thick darkness of the night,

 With a high hope I have come up to you, Hold out your arms,

 O Mother don't you send me back.

DS