Koshish

When I said to my better half that I can still write songs and poetry, she sensed a chance. She gave me a scene and wanted me to compose something. The scene was that the protagonist is on the beach, mulling whether to say 'yes' to a proposal from his/her love interest. Here is what I came up with. To say the least, I feel good and mushy again...

कोशिश
इक बोझ था सीने पर
समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया
कुद्रत की गुफ़्तगू समझ
जन्मों की हामी भर, मैं निखरा आया

दिल के तारों की उलझती गाँठ
नींदों से परे बेसुकुनी भरी रात
मिलने से पहले की गुदगुदी
मिलने के बाद का इन्तेज़ार
यार संग मुट्ठी भर आसमाँ बटोर आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

लहरों की कोशिश ज़ारी है
समंदर के पार नये ठिकानों पे पहुँचने की
किरणों की कोशिश ज़ारी है
मधिम्म सूरज से टूट कर, लहरों पे नहाने की
रेत की कोशिश ज़ारी है
सैलानियों की चित्रकारी बचाने की
पवन की कोशिश ज़ारी है
तैरते मचलते बादलों को हराने की
ये कुद्रत की गुफ़्तगू समझ
मैं कोशिशों का दौर बिखरा आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

मुमकिंन नही लहरों का समंदर से खफा होना
मुमकिंन नही सितारों का आसमाँ से जुदा होना
ना किरणें अलग हो सकती हैं, ना रेत कामयाब
ना वो अलग हो सकती है, ना उसके साथ मेरे ख्वाब
इन्ही चन्द नॅज़ारो में, उनकी यादों में भीग सा आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

July 28, 2009

Celebrating Kargil

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Tomorrow, we celebrate our victory in Kargil. It happened a decade back but I must confess, the war still shakes me up. I must say that this has been a prominent incident where I have been disturbed without being impacted. Heavy artillery, piercing gunshots and blaring media coverage brought war to our drawing rooms during the summers of ninety nine. I was disturbed by the people (and media) raising questions on Army’s inability to guard the borders at the outset, people hero-worshipping them despite being a failed unit and real politic over the dead bodies.

Initially, there was lot of negative news around blaming the political leadership, the army (not the air force) and our neighbor. I just had an appeal. I pay my ode to those brave hearts today.

An Appeal

The panorama of gory wars
Signatures unconcerning scars on one’s forehead
The soldier fighting valiantly
Scripts his role verily in the bloodshed

For the pristine glory of the motherland
And the demanding duties of national services
He stood there, firm on the Border
Reckoning the need of the crises
Wounded albeit, He fought, gunning down malicious enemy intruders
Brave He fought, then enlisting himself among ‘Characteristic Indian Supreme Sacrifices’

Arrived the martyr’s coffin
Draped in majestic tricolor
Gallantly, He had laid down his life
To cause the Indian Flag flutter

The moving vignettes of sufferings
Along the hostile battlefield fires
Creates deep clamour to dumb chagrins
But everything annuls at soldier’s burning pyres

The crazy heartbeat of the unborn child
Salutes the father’s indefatigable courage
The pregnant newly widowed young mother
Pledges her son for yet another sacrificial page

Not everybody keeps dry eyes
Not everybody courageously sights into skies
The dashed dreams and crushed hopes bring tears
The felt emptiness and gloomy future brings fears
The father feels weak on the knees
The mother seems to have lost life’s keys
The wife’s somber solitude abnegates to cease
But don’t feel piteous, demeaning their honour, their pride –‘PLEASE’

Yes, rightly ‘Not everybody can be at war’
But a true patriot leads himself someway to the national altar
Bid carping with august conscience
And express your solidarity with utmost gratitude
‘We need them’ and ‘We are with them’
Show the concerning approach with right attitude

July 11, 1999

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Banking on Rajma Chawal

‘It can’t happen to me’ – My stubborn and proverbial ostrich like ‘bury head in sand’ behavior refuses to allow my mind the thought of being laid–off at the work place. Many of us will continue to live in this denial mode till the time lightening strikes; and rightly so as the options now are like a needle in a haystack. A few will have to face it head-on; either leaving it to the ‘wicket-keeper’ for the next suited delivery or hook it over the shoulders for a six. I have a classic ‘head-on’ case.

Avinash (name changed), a manager at one of the largest housing finance company realized surprisingly late that his cordial stay during low interest rate era has become increasingly burdening for the organization in this higher interest rate environment. He was shown the door. His savings could have sufficed the interminable house rent, pruned monthly expenses and undesirable LIC premiums for a few months but were insufficient for his vehicle IMIs (Inflated Monthly Installments). Keeping his Shining Red Dream ‘Swift’ would involve defaulting on children’s tuition fees; thereby leaving them clueless in the unforeseen future.

Two days out of job, Avinash rubbishes the idea of selling his ‘Dream’. He drives out his Swift and parks it outside a large ‘Shared Services’ firm; the rear luggage cabin of the car facing the gate of the firm. The traffic through the gate is still high these days; with ‘worried’ employees probing cheaper food options and taking shortened yet fulfilling ‘sutta breaks’ for a next error free session at the office. At around 6 PM, when the sunlight is not glaring and hunger reigns supreme among ‘graveyard shift’ employees, Avinash turns on his beloved, the Kenwood DVD player, lifts the rear hood of the car and plays out loudly the party hip-hop songs. Three silver bright drums at the rear seat of the car, carrying Rajma, Kadhi and Chawal, throb at the play of the music, as if trying to deliver sales pitch of their own. Avinash puts on his matching bandana, takes out two thermacol plates and writes ‘Rajma Chawal’ and ‘Kadhi Chawal’ on them; with the same handwriting stroke which he used to while signing cheques at his erstwhile bank. The first day results in a few enquiries and even fewer consumers. ‘Word of Mouth’ however starts adding pennies to his ‘Hand to Mouth’ existence; second day onwards.

The extensive hygiene routine clubbed with disposable and robust cutlery, the competitive pricing of Rs.30 per plate and profound goodness of fresh homemade food were the factors that made people experiment his ‘SWIFT’ business. What made them stay was his relationship building persona – his manner of English speaking, providing small credits, sharing cigarettes and paan masala with the employees and above all sharing his story to this place. All this added to immediate empathy and sense of hope for the 'worried' employees who started flocking in groups. Avinash now runs two shifts a day and earns more than what he used to and he is ever so thankful to his wife for expanding his three-storeyed lunch box at the bank to three drums just outside a bigger office.

It is true – ‘Tough times don't last, tough people do’. Does it really matter then if you are not called a banker by a needy few but ‘SWIFT Rajma Chawal Wallah’ by a worried yet hopeful lot? I don’t think so.

Cooking Conundrum

A Bowl of Yellow Dal, Half-a-plate of Jeera Pulao and a three eggs’ Cheese Omelette – The delicious thought of a perfect supper made my taste buds go dancing in the lush stream of saliva. For a beloved Indian male with a doting mother and an equally adoring wife, Kitchen is seldom visited. Not yesterday, when I sneaked in a chance of cooking my meal as the Wife informed me of working hard in office in this recessionary environment and the mother was at a decent distance of 50 kms. from the kitchen.

I immediately rubbished the idea of calling the Pizza guys as I wanted to satisfy myself that ‘I Have It in Me’. While going back home, I toyed with the idea of having a well cooked Omelette with fashionable brown breads. The idea fell flat as I had just ten rupees in the purse; having offered the rest to charity earlier in the day.

The Kitchen resembled a battleground and I, a lone anxious soldier with artillery in the sink. Cooking should not include washing dishes but this night it was not to be. I cleaned every iota of cooker’s configuration to make the most hygienic Dal of the world; struggling hard to locate the ‘whistle’ in the process – Why are small things (whistle) so important and get lost so easily? My engineering brain did a nightmarish calculation of Water Dal ratio (1 large cup of water will create enough vapors to pressure-cook 20 gms. of Dal). As I put the cooker on the three-stove burner, I decided to prepare the pulao next; before switching to my core competency of making edible omelettes. Since the lone cooker was still creating vapors, microwave seemed to be the quicker option. Shining glassware with 2 table spoons of rice sprinkled with Jeera and oodles of desi ghee was put in the microwave for a brief period of 120 seconds. CRACK – I never again saw the glassware intact although it kept rotating for a nice 20 seconds before I realized to stop the microwave. Had I put a little water along with the rice, it would have lasted long. The grains of rice have coagulated and stuck muscularly at the bottom of the bowl. I cursed myself of having wasted the staple diet in these times of food inflation and tidily put the glassware into the dustbin. By that time, I had heard shrill whistles and put the cooker off. Rice cooking had to start all over again; this time on the gas. I hunted down the tea pan and put the rice to boil; the small base of the pan delicately balanced on a rather large burner. Multi-tasking comes naturally to me which prompted me to use the third burner to make the omelette. CLUCK – The Cooker’s Lid fell to reveal partially cooked Dal; that too without any water left. The Dal has to be cooked more and I was prompt to add water, not suspecting, the ratio miscalculation, that I did again. Putting finely chopped onions, small crushed tomatoes, strands of chilly and a few coriander leaves on a hot butter soaked Tawa blinded my glasses and the smoke made me feel fighting in the Gaza strip for a split second. TUCK – The poised rice tea pan could not handle the heavy shelling and caved in. Hot water and rice grains spilt all around the burner. In an effort to reinstate the pan, the occupational hazard came real. I still have a baked palm and burnt fingers.

Adding water to the rice pan, preventing the omellete ingredients from burning, stirring the eggs, timing the Dal’s cooking time – Multi-tasking; my Foot! – was crimson with bites from mosquitoes who had exercised cunningness while I was in distress; cooking.

Partially cooked rice, syrupy Dal and mutilated, salt-less and cheese-free Omellete made for a struggling dinner, made better only by ‘Mother’s Recipe’ pickles.

SPLASH – After dinner, I flinged the dishes into the basin; after all I was not supposed to wash them anymore.

I liked my dinner though, after all who doesn’t like his own creation.

My Wife says that I should rather be writing than cooking and she is right. Over to you Dear…

Female Protagonist of my book: Avanti

“Come on Engineers! Get-up and freshen yourselves. I have got you special tea”. Both the sides of the black dilapidated door swung open. The three engineers were all cuddled-up in a double-bed. It was neither the fresh breeze of misty air nor the direct sunlight of the now open door that made the boys immediately get-up and take notice. It was rather the sweet voice that interrupted their deep slumber. The ‘neem’ filtered sun rays had come right through the door into their eyes. Their half woken eyes went into ‘STARE’ mode on finding the ‘Goddess of Himalayas’ at their doorsteps. As a mechanical engineer, one never expects such a great start to the day.
Avanti stood as epitome of beauty with a tea kettle in her right hand. Her long hair now soaked in sunlight from behind, created a mysterious halo. The curls of her hair kept blowing on her face; seemingly the breeze was saluting to her beauty. The dazzling and alluring face with her forehead smeared with flame-colored ‘Tilaka’ made her look as pristine as snow from the Himalayan peaks. The silvery ear rings resembling intertwined snakes took the attention away from her perfectly shaped collar-bone; disguised unsuccessfully by aqua-green beaded necklace. Equally magnetic, were her eyes; as if telling a hundred stories. The violet colored round necked t-shirt matched colorfully with the ‘kaleidoscopic’ wrap around. Her taut outfit mesmerized the three boys from the sex-starved nation. A single anklet on the left foot and an identically designed bracelet on the right hand (placed comfortably on her waist) would make anyone rate her high on the fashion quotient.

More on 'her' later. For latest updates - Subscribe 'NOW'

30 Years on Planet Earth

When you are young, you never think of life beyond 30. I, now have to, because what I have been dreading has just gone by. I am 30 years old now. I managed to skip the sight of a ‘small bright white pineapple cake with 30 candles pierced mercilessly’. However, I can still imagine the sight. Thirty candles would not leave out enough space for the text ‘HAPPY B’DAY UTSAV’ to stand out. I see ‘HAPPY’ being bludgeoned by the candles, suggesting my state of mind. I am depressed because I am old.

So you grow wise with your age, so you are respected more, so your opinions have more weight, so you are financially independent, so the world is your oyster…Bull Shit (pardon). I am still as (un)wise as I have been, I still behave like a 15 years old and I am more financially dependant.


Despite being shown the brighter side, I still fear the changes that will come with age:

· I will grow older and not better. I dread the fat deposits on my face and else where. Exercise won’t help me, I am sure
· I will have to go for regular health check-up. This is expected out of all people more than thirty.
· My investments will now be more in pensions and retirement plans.
· My vacations will increasingly become more of sight-seeing and less of adventurous.
· The white streak of hair that will pronounce in me despondency if not ‘old’ age.
· Declining inclination of fairer sex and ever tightening and entangling web of life and its responsibilities.

This sounds really miserable. Isn’t it? Yes, if one’s mind ages with age. Since, in my mind, I am still 15 years old, the charm of ‘living’ far outweighs the calendar entry called ‘age’. Thus, I look forward to:
This sounds really miserable. Isn’t it? Yes, if one’s mind ages with age. Since, in my mind, I am still 15 years old, the charm of ‘living’ far outweighs the calendar entry called ‘age’. Thus, I look forward to:

· The ability to plan my life, the way I want it.
· Switching my career pursuant to my hobbies
· Fathering a new generation and grow old with it
· And above all ‘LIVING LIFE’

As an ending note, Can a thirty year old still be called in his late twenties? It sounds good somehow.

India's Change

I don’t know how the phrase ‘India’s Century’ became part of our daily diction. Perhaps it was Rajiv Gandhi’s stubborn dream of 21st century India followed by India’s giant leaps towards economic liberation. Perhaps it was the Pokhran nuclear tests that announced India’s arrival to the covert club of ‘cream of the crop’ countries. Whatever be the genesis, it seemed to be India’s century – India’a IT Super Stardom and India’s brain gain. Now, India has gone a notch ahead. We have India’s 9/11 and more recently India’s Enron.

I read somewhere - "It's not important how you start, but how you finish – India Next". What follows Next? As Obama Presidency arrives, we wait for India's CHANGE. Anyone out there?