Some colours, some memories

Holi is over and so is the fun. People have gone back to their lives. The remaining packets of gulaal have been put back on the innermost shelf of the cupboard, in the storeroom. Some coloured clothes are washed and given to the servant’s kids. Some, however, will be worn again next Holi.

The imprints are visible on lanes right outside someone’s house. Colours lay sprinkled on the roads reminding you of those few wild hours. The splattered colours take you back to the relationships which have gone back to lonely beds after veiling them with bhaang giggles.

I step on these colours and move ahead to the roads to find if some spot isn’t so colourful, isn’t so bright.

I think of the man who I know must be thinking of me, right at this moment.

And then... I think of a man whom I wanted to think of me. While sipping tea in his office cabin, or reading a book, does he ever think of the way I move my hands or how I smile?

I have reached office. I switch on the computer to find him online. He seems busy, and I know he isn’t thinking of me.

My phone beeps. The message is from the one, who thinks of me every single second.

**

(Photograph clicked by Pooja Shali)

Let me Dream....

He stood at a corner holding a bundle of his published writings. People lazily browsed through some of the pages of his books, gave a nod of appreciation and moved on. For some it was a leisure time at the 19th World Book Fair, a family picnic. For Lakshman Rao, however, few precious hours were lost. Without a trace of exhaustion on his forehead, and an empty cash-box, he left pragati maidan disappointed with the crowd that pretends to read. Murmuring words to himself, he takes out his rickety cycle from the stand, stacks his books on the carrier and begins to paddle away. Humming old Hindi film songs and moving his cycle zigzag in Delhi traffic, he prepares himself for the day ahead.

Browsing through a pile covered under a dusty tarpaulin sheet, Rao grabs a pan, an old wooden stool and a bucket. As he assembles these bits and pieces, a pavement corner outside Hindi Bhawan near I.T.O, suddenly transforms into a tea stall. A huge plastic sheet is spread next to him for his most treasured possession- his books. Neatly covered in cellophane packets, he positions them well, for bystanders to catch notice. Within minutes, there is commotion. Udham Prakash stops his auto right in front of the stall and seeing him Rao hurriedly pours water into the pan. His customers have arrived. Auto drivers, government officials, labourers stand next to him waiting for a hot cup of tea. He mixes tea leaves with boiling milk and adds little more water watching additional customers arrive. “Milk is expensive”, he says.

When I asked him how much milk he bought the first time he opened his stall, with tired eyes Rao said “three litres. Out of which only half litre was used. I drank the rest half. I sat distressed knowing two litres will go waste. Suddenly a man appeared and asked for 50 cups of tea.” His eyes sparkled remembering the incident so vividly, “Oh I knew my business had started.”

The incident happened years ago and since then Lakshman Rao comes to the same spot every single day. “My customers wait for me”, Rao says. I saw that, when a young girl waiting for her tea left because she thought he was taking too long. He tried to stop her but others had to be served too. Looking at me Rao only smiled and offered another matthi, a salted cookie. I obliged and continued to talk. He showed me his recent publication, Ramdas. The first edition of this book was published in 1992. He accumulated money all these years to come out with a thicker issue and an edited version. He takes special care of Ramdas. A real story of a boy from his native village in Amrawati, Maharashtra, who drowned to death created an everlasting impact on Rao. It encouraged him, then a teenager to pen down his thoughts and by the time this book was finished, Rao knew he wanted to become a writer. Take him to a serene lake today, and he can be seen lost in some other world, perhaps recollecting the day he made a wish. Back then he only had a dream.

While one of the customers was busy sipping tea and chatting on phone, Rao took out some papers and began to scribble. I wanted to ask what he was writing. I didn’t. Realising he had taken too much time engrossed in words, he suddenly looked up to check if there was a new customer. He turned to me and inaudibly said it was another manuscript. “I am writing another book, as sales from Ramdas helped me get some money.” Then gently he put back the paper and pen and vigorously pumped the gas stove. More visitors were approaching us. He told me it is a group of theatre enthusiasts from across the road. Clad in kurta and jeans, the boys and girls chatted away sipping hot tea and discussing their rehearsal.

Rao sells each book for Rs. 300, printed clearly on the hard cover of every edition. Perhaps he guessed what I was about to ask and remarked, “Even when I die I will make sure my books are printed in hard cover, because that is what makes a writer’s image”. And what about the price, does he feel price is as important for his image? He shook his head and with a look of immense wisdom replied, “An expensive book does not get me more money. I market my work well. Marketing is the most difficult job in a writer’s life... I am a writer, and without solid support also a publisher, a distributer.”

He was once refused by a renowned publisher who, in Rao’s words ordered him to “Get out”. Surprisingly, he holds no vengeance today. Instead, he feels thankful for no favours were done to him and he learnt his lesson early. Now, Rao pens down literary drafts during nights when the family is asleep in their one room house.

He adores the calm silence after a day on Delhi’s chaotic streets. The books are published when the money is enough, and he distributes them in school and college libraries. His mode of transport is his cycle, at times also a confidante.

Busy multi-tasking to fulfil his dream of working as only a writer, Rao has performed enough struggle. At an age of 54, it seems incredible to watch him exhaust himself ruthlessly to balance family responsibilities and a teenage wish. His dreams refuse to die down and so do his barriers.

Posing for a photograph, Rao sits erect, making sure he looks attentive. I tell him to remain casual, but he reacts strongly saying it will not look nice when printed. After a few exchange of words, there is a sudden change in camaraderie between the photographer and Rao. Aiming at the photographer, Rao looked at me and said, “He is the same man, who clicked my first ever photograph for a national daily... two decades ago, at the same spot. As if two friends catching up after a long time reminiscing of good ol’ days, I was suddenly the odd one out.

Rao, adding to instances which shaped up his life talked about his recent felicitation from the President of India, Pratibha Patil. Some more awards were on the way, to which he very excitedly invited me. “So are you finally getting recognised”, I interrupted while he was narrating his itinerary to me. He was ready with an answer, but a labourer appeared and asked for a cup of tea. I decided to let it be.

The sun was about to set and Rao had done considerable business for the day. He lit an oil lamp and pumped his stove again. Like a silhouette in a dark lazy street, Rao became a figure refusing to pause. Either his hands jostled between the tea pan and cash or his thoughts wandered to a character he was shaping up in his mind. The wind blew and hit our bodies with unkind precision. I tucked my hands inside my black shawl.

With a sheepish look and an awkward voice I asked if he is planning to head home, as the cold was becoming unbearable. He laughed and said, “Well it isn’t raining at least, or I don’t need a shade to hide from the blazing sun.”
I am glad it was dark and the lamp did not register my guilt.

The tarpaulin sheet attached to a banyan tree behind him, gives him respite during summer. The same becomes a tiny shade during monsoon. In winter though, he comes wrapped up in a sweater, creased shirt collars peeping out.

Before a goodbye, I bought the latest edition of Ramdas from him. Like all customers who come and go, I too moved away leaving the silhouette to jostle between two worlds. Browsing through pages of the book, a paragraph from Ramdas read: “Suddenly tears began to flow from his eyes. What was in those tears? A mere history of seven months, those tears had an image of a new era, which broke even before taking shape…. and withered away forever.”

Only… for Lakshman Rao, seven months were really 27 years.
Rao saw me leave and came running to me, calling my name. “I forgot to tell you, I bought a colour T.V. recently!” The happiness of his latest purchase was too obvious in his eyes.
After a moment of broken thoughts Rao continued. “Well I do not watch T.V., I am just happy my kids have one for themselves.”

There you go again, Mr.President!!

by Pooja Shali

Asif Ali Zardari seems to be creating one storm after another. As if his extremely vocal appreciation of Sarah Palin’s beauty was not enough, there appeared one more explosion from the late Benazir Bhutto’s husband. The recent one, however, is more dramatic and exclusive. In an interview to Bret Stephens of The Wall Street Journal, Zardari confessed to the active presence of militant Islamic groups in J&K (according to him within the Indian occupied border). He elaborated by referring to them as ‘terrorists’ and continued to say that they are not ‘freedom fighters’ as Musharraf must have liked.

As the broadcast and print media began to flash these exclusive words, our countrymen were stunned. Coming from a Pakistani President, predecessors of whom have supported the absurd so-called freedom struggle, this was an uncanny moment.

The defence minister of Pakistan (on Times Now) expressed shock at this statement, and tried to cover up the matter stating that the president was misconstrued. So was it really a preposterous blunder by Zardari? Or the leadership of Pakistan has decided to finally withdraw its support to the ongoing terrorism in Kashmir? Or was it just another well planned political move?

The author would like to believe that it’s all three of the above. Pakistan has thought and rethought its stand on Kashmir. The upheaval that their government has supported for decades in Kashmir, which ruined a million lives, has begun to haunt them now in the global arena. While its favourite neighbour is all set to sign a nuclear deal, Pakistan is busy trying to hide its inner turmoil that has also paralysed its borders. Constant references to terrorism in India supported by the ISI, became too much of a burden for its leadership. The inability to counter such claims has also unwrapped Pakistan’s insecure present and uncertain future. Perhaps, it was obvious that Zardari came out to be an authority against terrorism in the valley as opposed to supporting it. Whether or not he meant his words, is a different game altogether.

The Pakistani government weighed too much of its integrity on Kashmir, but failed miserably to convince the world that it was a fair deal. They seemed to have realised the rickety platform on which Pakistan currently stands. Expanding space for Kashmir will only push them into murky waters. For a while it shall be a wise standpoint for Pakistan to depart from their pretentious adoration of the valley and concentrate on its inner advancement.

PPP might try to clarify his stance by distinguishing terrorism and Kashmir Liberation Movement as two separate entities, but the debacle has been witnessed. The smouldering divide between Muslim separatists and Pakistani leadership is unbolted for the world to see.

Going by the current scenario in valley where ‘Yahan chalo’ and ‘Wahan chalo’ movements are in vogue, the isolation of separatists is visible. A Frankenstein they created against non-Muslims in Kashmir has today re-emerged to attack their own side, and certainly with a more monstrous outline.

As for Zardari, if he tries to clarify his words anymore, I too shall have a small advice for him- “Mr.President, the sooner you try and understand the ideology of Pakistani leadership the better it shall be for your throne”.

Don't flush please...

A friend suggested us the Arizona hotel at the end of the lane. The moment, I and Rajat checked into a room, it suddenly dawned on me that I’ve spent few days five years back in the same hotel, and interestingly in the same room. Rajat suspiciously looked at me and with a sarcastic grin asked who was the one I spent, “my few days with”.

“My parents u jerk”!

“Acha.?! Now c’mon tell me honestly, who was it…? Which boyfriend?”

Rajat is a painter/writer and I, as you all know, a sloppy journalist. It’s been 15 months of our happy marriage.

“Arrey, don’t talk nonsense yaar. It was daddy and mummy I had come with, for a weekend”. I shrugged off any further questions and went to take out my bathrobe from the suitcase.

Suddenly a washroom flush roared in the next room, across ours. “Hmm... so at least we are not alone in this dreary quiet hotel”.

As I came out tying the knot of my bathrobe, I told Rajat that I’ve decided that we shift into another room. I do not want to think of my parents while I enjoy my time with you. He thought it did not make sense, and that we would only be wasting our time. I, as always, did not budge. The knock on our door coincided with the voice of the receptionist. Dressed in black formals, she came in to ask if we were doing fine. I told her we would like to shift into another room.

“I am sorry Ma’m but there’s no empty room at this moment”.

“Not even one”? I questioned, taking it as my failure to convince her.

Rajat seemed to be alright with it and continued with painting the sunset that looked exceptional from our window. Just to strike a conversation I asked her whether it is a family staying across our room.

“Across your room Ma’m? Aah...there’s no-one in that room.”

“No-one? But I just heard the sound of a washroom flush!”

“That’s not possible Ma’m. That room always stays empty. I do not want to scare you but will tell you a lil secret. We call it the haunted room… after an accident few months back”

My insides shook as I heard that, but remained silent and gave Rajat a frightened smirk. His fingers continued to colour the dying orange sun. The receptionist waved goodbye and reminded us of the facilities available.

I closed the door and sat by Rajat wondering why he did not reply to the haunted room story. He knows how scared I am of the ghosts!!! Though he wasn’t very glad that I disturbed him but still he looked up at me, and laughed.

“O c’mon, do you really believe her? She was just trying to keep you away from picking up your luggage and moving out to a different room. And am sure there are loads of empty rooms in this hotel and the one across ours might be empty too”.

He then pulled me to his side and kissed me on the cheek. His point seemed convincing. I decided to lie down on our bed and relax. And suddenly, the flush roared again. I shuddered thinking there is in fact a ghost staying in that room, and oh we are doomed now. Rajat heard it too and looked at me expecting the reaction of a scary cow.

I ignored him.

But after a few minutes my alarmed senses embraced a pragmatic thought.

“Hey hang on… why would the ghost be relieving himself and with so much decency to ‘flush’ his waste down the sewer? Hmm that’s really interesting…”

The journalistic streak overpowered my inborn ghost fear. I unzipped my bag and took out my video camera to check its battery.

“There is something extremely suspicious going on here. Be that as it may, ghost or no ghost, I am going to find out”.

We digested a sumptuous dinner in our room, enjoyed a few vodka shots, and then charted out our plan for tomorrow. At 5.30 the car would be ready with an escort to take us on our planned journey. All this while, my brain simultaneously created a graphic representation on how to catch hold of our neighbour convinced that no ghost stood behind that door.

The lights had dimmed in our room and I switched on my camera and set the mode on night-shooting, prepared to toil in darkness. The vodka shots had helped. Perhaps, today was meant to be the day when I would capture all my fears. Scary ghosts and their safe haven- darkness.

Meanwhile Rajat grumbled in his sleep that even on a vacation weekend his stupid wife was geared up with her camera trying to grab a story… so much torture to marry a journalist.

The door creaked open and I heard muffled footsteps head towards the corridor.
I picked up my camera and followed; prepared to unravel the concealed secret……

The Silent Scream

And then he breathed his last….

A year before he was shot dead, the child was sucking milk from the soft white breasts of his mother. The mother recited those infamous Lalded’s verses to soothe his nerves while her golden pair of athoor dangled in the air, from the upper earlobes.

The dreams for this young infant were being passionately weaved like the sweater he would have worn, if he had managed to stay alive. But alas..! Even before he understood that he was to pray with hands folded in Namaskar (and not otherwise), the guests had arrived. He, perhaps, was trying to figure out these new unfamiliar voices in the room which soon transformed into the disturbing noise of fireworks. A noise, profoundly, he heard for the last time, ever.

Terrorism in Kashmir had emerged, yet again. A second phase- more brutal, more inhuman and more prepared to kill innocents. For 23 Kashmiri Pandits, the brave struggle to survive ended that very instant. For the one (and only) young survivor- a teenager- life would never be the same again. Wandhama, an unknown village somewhere in Kashmir was suddenly into the limelight. The lifeless queue of two dozen bodies, smeared in blood marked its space in the press. But the one photograph that stood out, like no other, was of that infant. Blood oozing out of the tiny nose, and one eye damaged. The petite still body bore the enormous weight of twenty one bullets. On his sweater was a yellow coloured clown jumping in happiness, I wonder why?

Unlike others, these courageous families in Wandhama had decided to stake their precious lives for their treasured homes. They, however, lost both. After they were murdered in cold blood the homes of these Pandits were set ablaze by the gunmen. The sacred temple was not spared either. Indian Express quoted the remarks of the young survivor-" …all I saw were bodies lying scattered everywhere... my mother, my sisters, relatives... all dead…I saw the other three houses burning, a temple near our home was also in flames..."

Take into account the neighbourhood u grew in, and the sacred place u worshipped at. Reminisce of those friends and siblings you played with, in your childhood. Now try to imagine the flames you might have to light for their pyre and the flames you would extinguish of your burning home. It was more brutal than that.

Recently commissions were set up to probe into the killings of innocent Muslims by the Indian army in Kashmir, movies are made on the brutal use of AFSPA, politicians/ NGOs are always eloquent about Human Rights Violations of the population that currently resides in the valley. But strangely and interestingly, no intellectual of a high authority ever stood up in support of the initial victims- the Kashmiri Pandits.

As was done to the thousands of cases concerning Kashmiri Hindus, the Wandhama Massacre too was paid a tribute- the case was shut down. I do not know where and in what health is the lone survivor- Vinod Kumar Dhar. However, I am certain that he is a survivor in the real sense of the word. The memory of the affectionate mother, who unknowingly served hot simmering kehwa to her killers, is unforgettable. The rare valour of these few families unfortunately proved to be fatal for their own lives, but it was the worst possible blow to a community that was already at the brink of extinction.

The readers would have loved to read as to who killed these innocent souls. Were they criminals, communalists? I apologise but I was not able to pursue a conclusion to these words. I have absolutely no idea as to what name must I render to those who kill innocents on the basis of religion. Others might call them terrorists or warriors of God but in my dictionary… they have no name.

Like a thief, I silently walked behind him fretfully watching his every move. As he crossed the by lanes of the city, I kept up my pace so as not to lose sight of him. I knew he took long steps to walk. I had, after all, walked miles with him- in dreams and in reality. The maroon shirt that he wore today, while he briskly rushed past everyone, was a gift from me to him on our first anniversary. The bag that hung on his left shoulder was the one I had forced him to buy for himself, when we were out on our vacation to Sikkim. As I was half asleep this morning, I had seen him pack the same bag; and I made up my mind to follow him.

Today I was breathlessly running to spy on the man who had, a few years back, taken my breath away. That day he had knelt down on his knees; with a ring pressed between his fingers and a chivalrous grin between the lips. I had scolded him for proposing to me with such an obsolete European style, which totally turned me off…. Then, how he had pampered me for innumerable days before my mood turned normal, and we walked down the altar.

He loved me like none else had. He would understand what my thoughts were, even before they came slipping out of my mouth. The first time we were about to kiss, I tried to shiver and shy away (in true filmy style) but by then we had grown so comfortable with each other, that the lips united without any slow motion. It turned out to be the most boring kiss, without any stories to remember..!

But the years following that kiss were remarkable. It was as if, the dreams were coming true and heaven had finally bestowed some blessings on my roof. We were the best of friends, who shared each moment like a celebration. True soul mates that fought like devils when a solution didn’t seem to flourish. We made love, like same.

But something had gone wrong for the past few weeks. Each moment became an individual celebration and there was hardly anyone to fight… or laugh with. I tried to reason out with him. It seemed alright for a day or two. But the following weeks I found myself alone at ‘the home’, which we had built together.

Was he angry... for so many weeks? Couldn’t be. Was there a new woman? I asked him; but his ‘no’ was as clear as my question. Then what was taking away my once ‘European styled knight’ into a loner?

This morning as I turned to the other side of the bed; he got dressed up, picked up the Sikkim bag, gave me one last look (I know he must have, even though my back faced him), called up someone and in a soft whisper said, “ I am coming..”, and walked out. Without acknowledging anything else, I wore my pair of chappals (may be it was his) and followed him. It seemed he was determined to reach some destination soon. Not batting an eyelid for any soul on the road, he just kept walking.

The shopkeepers were opening the shutters and it felt like the façade of our relationship was opening up…with a jerk...step by step. Both of us were walking, I behind him, like when we had walked around the fire. Sometimes he slowed down, and often he walked as if he had to, had to win this time. I walked accordingly, wondering hard where he is heading to.

And then…suddenly… he stopped. I was startled. “Should I hide myself behind the chai shop”? I thought. “But why should I…I have not done anything wrong...!!” Decisively, I kept my feet intact with the ground. He turned, and looked at me. The blood red eyes pierced through every bone of my body. I do not know, if that was anger on following him through the lanes, or was it his tiredness on swinging past so many lanes just to fool me, or were they tears just about to flow down his cheeks.

But I knew one thing for sure; it was to tell me to stop walking behind him. Strangely, I did. I stood there on the cement road, and saw him disappear into the crowd. I stood there, dumbfounded, for almost five minutes. It was when Khan Chacha came and asked what was wrong that I moved and headed back to “our home”. I took a bath, and left for office. There was no time for tears.

...it has been a week now that I wrote this in my diary. He rang me up today evening and wanted to come over to take the rest of his stuff. He’ll come over at 10 pm tomorrow.

Should I ask him why did he leave?