Hello zindagi…….. I am cancer

Doctors are probably trained to break the news slowly. Don’t be specific. Don’t draw hasty conclusions. Drop hints. Raise the concern levels. Let the news sink in. Slowly. Gradually. Incrementally.

“It’s a patch.”
“A well defined spot.”
“A small lump.”
“Further investigations will be required to check for malignant neoplasm.”
“Of course it could be benign. Be positive.”
“Possibilities are there. We want to eliminate them one by one”.

Gradually the vocabulary expands. New words drift into your lexicon. Anorexia. Cognitive dys-function. Neutropena. Hormonal disturbances. Peripheral neuropathy. And then finally you come close to the dreaded word…….carcinoma….. cancer.

“We will have to refer it to an oncologist.”

“Don’t panic, they will just put you through a histological examination of a tissue biopsy.”

When you reach there two days (one lakh seventy two thousand eight hundred seconds to be precise) after the sample had been taken they ask the attendant to bring the “case” papers and shuffle through the reports ever so slowly. When doctors consult each other in whispers with a look devoid of any emotion you actually can hear your own heart pounding and the world spinning out of control.

Panic grips you. Oh! My God, my mother is going to die. She has that dreaded disease. She has cancer. Welcome to the 13% club.

That’s when a thousand centipedes crawl on your spine. Your stomach knots up. Your throat turns dry. Your feet and palms go cold. There is a blur. The voice of the doctor seems to be coming from outer space. Very faintly you hear your own voice imploring for a second check. But deep down you know all these days they were not actually groping in the dark. Then comes the final act of clutching on to the proverbial straw by a sinking man. You blurt out, “What stage is it?”

Grow up. Stop believing in those fairy tales. It’s time for a reality check.

For about 21 days I drove my mom from Delhi Cantonment to Rajiv Gandhi Cancer Institute in Rohini. That was as close to hell as one can get to without dying. Before that, my elder brother and then my wife had, in turns, taken care of the operation and the subsequent recovery- a recovery that makes you good enough to go through the ordeal of radiotherapy.

For my wife it was like going through an action replay, a case of Oh! No….. Not again. A few years earlier she had lost her mother after five agonizing and painful years of senseless battle with cancer. Imagine the news of your mom’s cancer filtering out when you yourself are in the middle of a pregnancy. She finally succumbed to uterus cancer spreading towards the ovaries before jumping across to the liver and then finally hopping on to the intestines.

What do you do, or say, or think when your mother grapples with the truth of cancer? What do you say when she lies huddled up in the back seat as you negotiate the early morning Delhi traffic. What do you say when you look at emancipated figures drained of all energy waiting in the queue for a radiotherapy shot or worse getting ready for chemo?

Nothing works. Absolutely nothing. Neither optimism. Nor realism. Neither hope nor despair. All dissolve into a meaningless nothingness. And don’t try to cheer up things. Sense of humour just never works in such situations.

Those were the days of long silences…..of unexpressed feelings….. of unshed tears……of unspoken fears……. Days when you felt so depressed, so angry, so helpless and so irrational that you even lost faith in God.

A cancer hospital teaches you lessons that the Harvards and the Oxfords of this world can never teach you. Life itself would not have taught you but for a specific calamity. At the Rajiv Gandhi Cancer Institute in June 2005, I went through a crash 21 day diploma course on life and death.

Cancer does not have any favorites. It afflicts people of all classes across all age groups. There were old men in their seventies. They were simply wishing that their ordeal comes to an end soon. It was not defeatism. Just acceptance. And with it came calmness and a serenity which only death can give.

There was a couple in their early thirties. The husband had throat cancer. They would always come and sit side-by-side holding on to each others hands. They hardly spoke. What was his beautiful wife clutching at? Her husband’s hands? Life? Death? Pain for sure….. God could you fast forward life a bit. Pleaseeee… I want to know what’s in store for them. Tell me God if there is a twist to the tale. Tell me everything gonna be Ok….. But God has his own ways.

There was a kid just about nine years old. Her mother told me that he had lymphocytic leukemia. With defiance in her eyes she added, “It’s not the acute types you know.” The hope in her eyes as she refused to use the word cancer is the strength which can only come from a mother’s irrational heart.

Then there were a handful of kids in their early teens too- just to dampen the situation further.

Like my mother they all waited in their queues armed with a ploythene pouches that had sheaves of paper with their death sentences written in ineligible handwriting, a few CT scans and a bottle of water. Their blank expressions refused to mirror their innermost thoughts, almost as if the wire that connected their hearts to their faces had been permanently cut off.

It was difficult to fathom what went on in their minds. Why me? Why my nine year old son? Why not them? Why not their children? Why not their mothers? Is it fair? Is there God? And just what the hell is medical science up too? What have they been doing all these F@#$%!* years. Can’t they find cure to one bloody disease?

I looked at my mother. Of late I had even avoided making eye contact. She had the uncanny ability of reading them, especially if they hid fear or sorrow. All my bravado, power of positive thinking and management gibberish would lie exposed in a millionth of a second. Almost as if she has read my mind she said, “We are so lucky. I am now 65 but look around. Look at those kids. Look at that young couple…..”

One day she reveals her true inner strength. To a question from another lady in the queue as to what she was suffering from, my mom said, “Kuch naheen. Maine zindagi mein galat kaam karna toe dooor kissee kay bare mein galat bhee naheen socha toe mujhe cancer kaise ho sakta hai? Actually my children panic easily and it is they who have got me into this mess. Zabardasti operation kavaya aur ab radiotherapy bhugat rahee hoon. I am doing this for the happiness of my children.”

I decide to go out for some fresh air. The name of my nine year old ‘favourite’ is being called out for his session. His mother is cajoling him to go but he is TV gazing. Virender Sehwag’s blistering shots are on display and the news channel is saying as to how in the forthcoming tournament he is the player to watch out.

My nine year old hero smiles. Medication had ensured that his teeth or what had remained of them have gone black and eroded. His bald head was probably evidence of him having gone through a course of chemotherapy. His skinny frame stood witness to the hammering that modern science had inflicted upon him at an early age.

But nothing had crushed his spirits or his optimism. His eyes were still bright and cheerful, evidence of the fact that he had still not given up. There was hope in them. Genuine hope. Genuine valour. Genuine guts. He was defying fate, he was defying destiny, he was defying God himself.

Cancer continues teaching lessons on life and death to many more. But whenever my heart sinks. Whenever I feel down. Whenever I feel that life is not being fair to me. I think of that black toothed, bald headed, skinny nine year old child. His smile had made a statement that billions of words can never.

Move over Mona Lisa, I have seen a smile better than yours.

What’s in a name? A lot if its Jhumri Talaiya

Places like people have names. And some of them have an aura, a magic and a history that attracts you towards them. The rhythm and the phonetics of some of these names made you fall in love with such places even though you knew nothing about them. I remember growing up as a kid in the sixties being enamoured by exotic and quaint names like Dehradun, Chamba, Landsdowne, Mackleski Gunj, Dehri-on-Sone, Stratford-upon-Avon, Adis Ababa, Timbuktoo, Honalulu…

The list is long actually, but none can take the place of two words that rhyme so beautifully when juxtaposed next to each other- Jhumri Talaiya. The small town in today’s state of Jharkhand has been immortalised by Vividh Bharti and Radio Ceylon. Rather, it would be more correct to say that the music loving people immortalized their towns’ name in our national consciousness during the sixties and seventies.

Almost every song in Vividh Baharati’s Aap ki farmaish programme that was aired during that era had people from this town sending in their requests. But way back in the sixties there were many who even doubted that a town with the name Jhumri talaiya existed. The cynics said that it was a fictional town created just to keep the songs going. Gradually people realized that this small town in the then state of Bihar actually existed and was famous for its mining activities.

Apart from Mica which is mined in Jhumri Talaiya there is also a dam here under the Damodar Valley Corporation (DVC). It is because of this dam that the place has a beautiful lake- talaiya. This explains half of the history behind the origin of this name. The first half- Jhumri is ascribed to a particular type of broomstick that is made in this area. A-broom–town-next-to-a-lake!! Even the English literal translation sounds beautiful isn’t it?

Apart from people with a fanatic love for Hindi film songs, mica, brooms and lakes this place is also well known for its Sainik School. The surroundings are lush green and beautiful and during the monsoons it really was a sight for sore eyes.

My visit to Jhumri Taliya, after being in love with her for almost four decades, was a short one but somehow I felt that the people who I came across were not aware of the (sound) waves this town had created in the sixties and seventies. As a tribute to this town I picked up couple of CD’s of songs from the seventies. The songs, the nostalgia, the monsoon, the ambience and the long drive back was really memorable. It was truly a childhood dream come true.

Sorry Shakespeare but there is a lot in a name especially if its Jhumri Talaiya.

Mumbai ki baarish aur ek cutting chai

This year she was more like your girl friend- late on a date. The unpredictability only added to the romance and when she arrived she overflowed with fun, frolic and emotions that just cannot be described. The flood-gates of joy and nostalgia simply opened up.

Of course there were those numerous hassles that come along with every girl friend I suppose. Parel, Andheri and Milan subways along with Hind Mata chowk promptly go under water. Schools close down. Central and Harbour line trains take hours to normalize. Bumper to bumper car drives become the norm.

But hey!! Who cares? Paush la padto and its time to rejoice with bhajiya, pakode, vadaa-pav and of course bheegte-bhagte Mumbai ki road side tapri mein doston ke saath ek cutting chai.
Chroniclers of history say that it was two thousand seven hundred thirty seven years before Christ was born that a few leaves of Camellia Sinennsis, found in abundance at the intersection of latitude 29 degrees North and 98 degrees East longitude, fell into a pot of boiling water. The legendary Chinese Emperor Shennong noticed the colour of water changing to brown and took the risk of drinking it.

Long before Neil Armstrong took his small step on the moon, Emperor Shennong took a small sip of this concoction. The rest, as they say, is history. One small sip by the Emperor led to a giant gulp by mankind and the world was never the same again.

Since then tea has traveled far and wide. It is said that King Charles II was coaxed into tasting this brew by his wife Catherine Braganza who had brought it along with her from Portugal (And they say dowry is an Indian concept!!). His Highness smacked his lips in appreciation and lo behold rest of Britain followed suit!! I have a sneaking suspicion that Britain conquered India not because it was then a land of milk and honey but because it was the land of milk, honey and tea- and not necessarily in the same order.

So obsessed are the British about their tea that it is said even in the middle of a war their troops stop shooting from the trenches. Once, seeing the sudden lull in the proceedings, the German soldiers shouted, “What’s the matter with you guys?” Pat came the reply, “It’s tea time folks, the war can wait.”

If you think tea was only for the taste buds just see what the Americans did. When they decided that they had enough of the British and their brand of Imperialism they declared their intent of independence by having a ‘Boston tea party”. The fishes in the Boston harbor sure had a whale of a time in a sea full of tea leaves! Aha.. the taste of liberty.

In India tea is part and parcel of our social ethos. You get up in the morning you need a cuppa tea. With breakfast you need another. Reach office- have one. Meeting starts have one more. Meeting prolongs have another round. Someone drops into your cabin have some more. You pop into someone’s cabin and there is an encore. Finally you reach home and say, “Ek cup ghar ki chai ho jaye.” Tea is in fact a convenient excuse for everything. And this is where India differs with the rest of the world. It forms the contextual background for arranged marriages, political alliances, boss bashing, spicy gossips or plain and simple adda baazi. There is a coffee chain in India that claims, “A lot can happen over coffee.” A good ad line. But tell you what let the copy-writer visit a road side tapri and he will realize that everything can happen over a cutting chai!!

Then there is chai, there is light chai, there is kadak chai, there is adrak wali chai, there is adrak-elaichi wali chai, there is masala chai, there is Irani chai, doodh wali chai, there is cutting chai, there is two by four chai with friends… the list is long and endless. However, it is the khadi chai that takes the cake. Taken mostly in rural belt it means you first put in so much sugar in your glass that your spoon actually stands on it without support!!

The most enchanting cup of tea I had was in the outskirts of Mangalore. It is known as KT chai. You first pour some milk in your glass. The tea is then poured delicately above it. The tea concoction is made in such a specification that it actually forms a layer on top of it!! With the help of a spoon you then have to mix both of them to get your desired glass of tea. Wonderful isn’t it?

Even as I write the rains in Mumbai have become a bit heavy. But as long as one has friends to accompany you to the road side tapri round the corner for a cutting chai who cares?

Rain Gods open your heart…. I am ready.

Hi Honey

It was a typical lazy Sunday afternoon in Mumbai. Kids were busy playing games and chatting. I was catching up with cricket on TV. Wife was cursing the delayed monsoons while doing this and that. I was weighing important strategic moves. Should I go for the chilled beer straight away? Or should I first help her in the kitchen, promise a late night film and then casually open the fridge?

That’s when the door bell rang.

The guy was selling what he claimed was pure honey. “How can we believe it’s pure?” I heard my wife enquiring skeptically.

“We will take it out in front of your own eyes madam,” was his reply.

Good marketing skills, I thought. Previously someone had tried selling a product by addressing her as aunty. He was promptly shooed away.

It turned out that Administration department had given a contract to local guys to burn out the numerous bee-hives that had sprouted under the roof-top of our building. The honey was then being tapped in front of everyone ensuring quality. The entire building was then advised to shut their windows and 'operation honey' began. A few hours later we had pure honey delivered at our front door.

'It’s yummy’, the kids said. Far from feeling good I felt bad. Thousands and thousands of bees had literally been smoked out. Their houses were raged and put on fire. Within a few minutes they were now homeless in Mumbai. Bitterness crept in.

Life was never meant to be fair but this was really-really-REALLY unfair. The facts that I pulled out made me feel even sadder. It’s one thing to say, ‘hard work’ its quite another thing to break it down further and see what constitutes their hard work. Just sample this:

· Bees from the same hive visit about 225,000 flowers per day.
· One single bee usually visits between 50-1000 flowers a day, but can visit up to several thousand.
· Queens will lay almost 2000 eggs a day at a rate of 5 or 6 a minute. Between 175,000-200,000 eggs are laid per year.
· Just a single hive contains approximately 40-45,000 bees!
· During honey production periods, a bee's life span is about 6 weeks.
· Honeybees visit about 2 million flowers to make one pound of honey.
· A bee travels an average of 1600 round trips in order to produce one ounce of honey;
· To produce 2 pounds of honey, bees travel a distance equal to 4 times around the earth.

Then the bees too are divided into two groups. The field workers and the home workers. The field workers suck in the nectar from the flowers and do a mouth to mouth transfer of the nectar on to the home workers. The nectar which has up to 80% moisture/water is then dried out through a complex procedure and converted to honey. It requires hours and hours and hours and hours of hard work and plenty of patience.

After all this hard work what do the bees get in return? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!! Not only is their honey stolen but their house (actually the word hive disturbs the conscience the least) is also melted and used to make lipsticks and candles.

Now do you realsie why the kiss is chooo sweet and candle light dinners with your honey so romantic?

But are the bees alone in this tragedy? Does it not happen to people most of time around us. Haven’t we too felt like a bee a hundred times over during our professional career? Does the guy who works the hardest gets the raise or the promotion?Clearly, doing hard work is not enough. In life one must also know the trick of protecting ones hard work from evil eyes of co-workers and competitors. Many a times it is others who project the work you have done and get the reward that was due to you.

There is an air of defeatism in the teaching of Gita when it says, “Karm kiye jaa, phal ki ichha mat kar..’ This philosophy is OK as long as someone else does not take a piggy back ride on your hard work and claim success. Preventing others from taking advantage of your own hard work should also be part of ones strategy.

Compared to the sweet honey, I somehow felt that the bitter beer tasted better that Sunday afternoon.

What say honey?

Love in the times of Sri Rama Sene

In contemporary India, Love has become that four letter word which finds itself trapped in a two pronged pincer of three lettered acronyms.

On the one side there is the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP), the Shri Rama Sena (SRS) and other such political outfits that represent the ultra-conservative face of our society while on the other there is this technology aided instant pop and pub culture that the youth of today freaks out on - SMS, MMS etc. forcing even neo liberals like us to raise their eyebrows.

But before we look into the future of love lets delve a bit into the past.

As a kid, when I could just manage to start mumbling a few words, visitors and relatives to our house would often ask me, “Whom do you love more, mummy or papa?” At any time, at any age, for anybody it is a difficult choice to make. At the age of three it almost becomes impossible to respond!!

But then that was the first lesson in love I learnt. And that is: Love is never meant to be easy.

In the sixties and seventies love was a word that was never pronounced loudly. It was always whispered and it was always something that happened in Hindi films and not in real life. Remember, when Rajesh Khanna used to disappear with his heroine behind a bed of flowers and the flowers used to flutter wildly and dash against each other? Well that was love for us. I still re-collect summoning up enough courage to ask my elder brother as to why did the crowd whistle and go berserk when the flowers bumped into each other? He whispered in a clandestine tone, “There was love in the air”. There was something in his voice which told me that no further questions were allowed on this topic.

It required a sensitive film like Mera Naam Joker to assure me that I had not committed a crime by falling in ‘love’ with my teacher. Years later I was really relieved to know that my never expressed bottled up feelings which I had for my teacher did not even qualify to be called love. It was only a crush. Thank God what a relief.

Boys and girls in that era were not supposed to fall in love. They were supposed to read, play, find a job and marry the partner the family chose. This was what people of “achha khandaan” were supposed to do. But there were still some who dared to beat the stereotype.

In that era, love had an unhurried, slow, almost a lackadaisical pace that made romance such a long and beautiful journey. In an era, when one just could not walk up to a girl and talk, you basically had only the written option available to you. Here you had a choice of either expressing your love in a lengthy prose or in a short poem. Invariably the lover boy would be bad in both the forms of communication. Drafting the letter or writing that poem would therefore be a collective responsibility of his “friends”. The friends of course did it for a ‘fee’ which was never exorbitant. At the simple cost of a “cutting chai” in the college canteen, where invariably the canteen owner would extend the benefit of staggered payments long before EMI came into vogue, lengthy love letters and poems were drafted, re-drafted and re-phrased with some trying to make it spicier while others tried to tone down the rhetoric.

Next would come the even more difficult job of delivering the letter. For this we had to find out the subject she was good at. Then one of us (mind you not the lover boy) would have to summon up the courage to ask for her class notes and finally manage to slip in the letter while returning it back to her. After that would begin the long wait for a response which rarely came. The fastest that a project of this nature could be accomplished in the seventies was probably a year or so.

In the rare cases when Cupid’s arrow struck and love blossomed it worked wonders. The cigarette would be thrown out of the window. The hair cut would be more decent and baths would be more frequent. The occasional beer would be shunned. Academics would be pursued vigorously and a job would be searched for desperately (after all her parents were threatening to marry her off). Love made many a Romeos mature and sensible in double quick time.

I used to wonder then and wonder even now: Why is our society so schizophrenic? Why do we have such blatant double standards? On the one hand we talk in glowing terms about Laila-Majnu, Heer-Ranjha, Romeo-Juliet, Radha-krishna…. while on the other we vehemently and vociferously condemn every time a heart flutters. We talk of our “culture’ and the need to “protect” it passionately but fail to understand that it is we who have deified the love of Radha and Krishna. Yes, it is Radha who finds a place in our temples and not Rukmini his wife. Is it not so because we have seen divinity in Radha’s love?

The youth in its turn should realize that it is not love that is being opposed but the way it is publicly displayed and the way it is used so flippantly and so casually that is abhorrent. A distinction needs to be drawn between love and passion, between sex and sincerity and between causal affairs and committed relationship. And I trust that wisdom will prevail and the youth of today shall ultimately make the right choice.

We would do well to remember a love story from the Mahabharatha. When ultimately King Dushyant recovers his memory and recognizes his lady love Shakuntala, he accepts her as his wife. The King and the Queen name their son Bharat. Many believe that our country itself was named Bharat after their son for it symbolized true love and affection and that’s what this great country is all about.

This Valenitne day, when love will once again be in the air, let us the people of Bharat, pledge to spread the message of true love and friendship. Believe me, we owe it to our ancient culture.

Masa-kali Zara Matak Kali and the Plight of the Pigeons

It’s beyond doubt. Age and awareness are accomplices to murder- the murder of innocence and that too the pure and pristine innocence nurtured from childhood.

The other day a flock of pigeons brought home this brutal point.Not so much in Berhampur but it was in Cuttack that I noticed that many in my neighbourhood had pigeons on their rooftops. Once released from their pigeonholes they would soar towards the skies. Everyday early in the morning they would flap their wings ungainly and circle around the house. After a few minutes of freedom, the owner would call them with a slightly over-exaggerated throaty beckon call, “Aaaaaaaa, Aaaaa, Aaaa, Aa.” They would then descend happily and eat the grains spread for them. The loud flapping of their wings and their equally sonorous, “guttaar guttaar” was real music to ears. Nice neighbourhood, Nice souls, I thought about such people.

A feeling that I carried with me for over three decades.

A few years back I began a closer relationship with these lovely pigeons. My elder brother began feeding them on his rooftop. Soon the trickle became a torrent and believe it or not almost a hundred pigeons descend every morning for their feast. This became one of the ‘highs’ during my trips to Bubaneshwar. It became a daily morning ritual. We would throw the grains and pigeons would come flapping wildly to our rooftop. You could then sit in a reclining chair, sip your morning cuppa tea, browse through the newspapers or simply gossip about this and that with your family members while the birds would be busy feasting. The more adventurous would literally eat out of your hands. And all the while they would make that guttar guttar noise.

I could identify three personality types. The fat ones (motoos) would monopolize areas of the roof where others dare not enter. The smart ones (chaaloos) would go to those areas not frequented by the fat ones yet grab a good meal. The meek ones (darpoks) would wait for their turn in safe corners. I noticed that there were also the romantic ones who would even steal a kiss or two in between their breakfast!! Who says there is time and place for everything? Tell it to the birds!!

The endearing nature of this feathered species was also reinforced by the fact that they were considered reliable and faithful carriers of love letters penned by romantics during the age when love was a crime. In fact history is a witness to the fact that emperors and generals used pigeons regularly for carrying their messages across hostile terrain. The Orissa police still have these feathered faithful in their ranks. When Nehru inaugurated the Hirakud dam he had to address a meeting in Cuttack the next day. The report of the dam inauguration was carried by a pigeon in four hours flat and was available in Cuttack even before Nehru had arrived!!

Then came the film Delhi 6 and the Masak Kali song. It’s a hummabale light fun tune which along with its slick promos pushed me into seeing the film. But the film itself brought home a different grim reality. Masak kali, the most beautiful pigeon, could not fly. Why was it so? The answer was simple- because she was the most beautiful and therefore the owners favourite. And the owner, fearing the risk of losing her, clipped her wings. A heavy price indeed that Masak kali had to pay for being beautiful.

Things quickly fell in place for me. The unusual extra effort that the pigeons were making to fly when I had encountered them in childhood was probably because of this. The owners of these pigeons were not good Samaritans after all. They had clipped the wings of their ‘loved’ ones ensuring that they couldn’t fly far.

I felt sad but little did I realize that worse was still to come.

Last week, in a distant village, I noticed a series of earthen pots hanging at the roof-top level of a thatched hut. “What’s that?”, I enquired. I was told that pigeons invariably lay their eggs in a very safe corner and an earthen pot tilted at a particular angle was their most favoured egg laying site. The pigeons too consider it their home and spend the nights there in the relative warmth of the earthen pots.

“Oh, a good Samaritan who loves birds,” I said aloud.

“Good Samaritan my foot”, retorted my colleague. “He is doing this because he supplements his income by selling pigeon meat”.

After enticing them with love for years he was simply waiting for them to fatten so that he could get a good price. Once the bargain was struck, all that the owner now had to do was to put the lid on the earthen pot.

It was like being struck by lightning. Call it ignorance, innocence or sheer idiocy I had never ever thought that these innocent lovable birds were actually being ‘loved’ and reared for their meat. That the cute carriers of love letters were actually a source of culinary delight simply devastated me.

It sure was a recipe for a perfect murder - the murder of innocence.

Fly pigeon fly

When shall you learn about your folly?
When shall you read the tell tale signs?
When shall you realize,
That the hand that feeds you,
Shall one day feast on you?

Fly pigeon fly,
You know not what’s in store for you.

When you eat out of his palms,
When your perch on his shoulders,
When you straddle on his rooftop,
When you walk down the courtyard,
Don’t you see those feathers
That once belonged to your brothers?
Don’t you see that blood stain
Where your parents died in pain?
Don’t you ever look around
And miss your friends that no longer surround?

Fly pigeon fly,
You know not what’s in store for you.

Never have I tied a letter around you,
With heartfelt lines for the lovely lady.
Never have I ordered armies to advance,
With a message tied to your slender legs.
The lover,
The emperor,
The general,
Always have used you,
The message I have is just for you:
For you are:My love,
My innocence,
My fractured soul.
And the message is worth repeating till my last breath:

Fly pigeon fly,
You know not what’s in store for you.

















P.S:With due apologies to all those who relish pigeon meat.

CRICKET WITHOUT APOLOGIES

At 5ft 6inches or so Kamran Khan does not possess a fast bowlers’ physique but his final delivery leap and sling action generates pace of above 140 kms per hour. Till last year he used to play tennis ball cricket in the gallis of Azamgarh. His father is a woodcutter. Poverty and lack of medical care led to the death of his mother. A few months back he used to travel without reservation and sleep in railway platforms. He is yet to play first class cricket or represent his state in any age category.

Today at only 18 years of age, armed with a 12 lakh rupee contract, he is playing IPL in South Africa.

His biggest challenge- “How does one sleep soundly in a five star hotel?”

Does he know about the rave reviews he has got from Shane Warne? “Pata naheen, Englis bahut fast bolte hain.”

How does he feel with a 12 lakh rupees contract. “Thoda late ho gaya, apnee maa ko bachaa naheen paya.”

Welcome to India where cricket is religion and Sachin is God.

The good news is Kamran is not the lone case. There are scores and scores of them. Last year it was Ravindra Jadeja. He hails from a small town in Gujarat and used to live in a one room house with his four sisters and a widowed mother who worked as a nurse in the local hospital. Part of the under-19 world cup winning team he played IPL for Rajasthan Royals and then donned India colours. In financial terms his growth has been meteoric. He has now moved to a more than decent house, has told his mother that there is no need to work and when she would have voiced concerns about the future and the marriage of his sisters he probably might have said with a Shah Rukh Khan drawl- Maa….main hoon na.

The Pathan brothers are another case in point. A huge family living out of a single room in the premises of a mosque in Baroda, their dad used to work there and sell incense sticks to supplement their income. Today, Irfan and Yousuf are worth crores many times over.Then there is Joginder Singh who bowled the last over in India’s historic 20-20 world cup final match. His dad has a kiosk and makes a living by selling paan in Rohtak- a small town in the outskirts of Delhi. Such rags to riches stories are part of the cricketing folklore.

With money flowing in to the BCCI coffers and with a Board that is willing to plough back the money, even first class cricket is gradually becoming financially viable for the cricketers. A first class cricketer who plays Ranji trophy, Duleep Trophy and Deodhar Trophy matches can eke out a decent living provided he is physically fit to play the game for over a decade or so.

The real trick behind crickets’ success has been the ability of the game to mould, evolve and change according to the needs and tastes of the people. During childhood I still remember hitting a boundary through mid-wicket and yet being admonished by the coach for an ‘ugly’ cross-bat stroke. Hitting in the air or jumping out of the crease to smash the ball were also considered too adventurous and risky. Within a decade the so called copy book technique has been done away with. The high left elbow pointing towards mid-on during your defensive stroke, the foot moving towards the pitch of the ball, the proper batting stance, the head position etc. have all become minor and dispensable details. All that matters now is the ability to smash the ball to all corners of the park.

The purists can still shake their heads in dis-approval but the game has moved on.Five days is a problem? Then come over for a day. One entire day is a problem? Come over for half-a-day. Day time is a problem? Then come at night under the lights. Do you find the white clothes very drab? Wait a minute sir, the coloured and fluorescent clothes are ready for use. Red ball is a problem? Then let us go for a white one. Bored with the white one? No problems the orange/pink one is round the corner. Want spicy fun? Come on cheer leaders give it all you have. Want glitz and glamour? Bollywood, the red carpet is here.….. So no full stops and no excuses!!

The discipline of Marketing, the fine art of enticing sponsors and grabbing TV viewership was behind every stage of the evolution of the game. The prime-time slots were targeted and the battle for the eye balls began. Ad revenues are flowing in and the game is promising to become bigger and bigger. This years’ IPL shift to South Africa on security grounds is just an aberration. Ten months from now when it will come back to India it will no doubt be bigger.But is it becoming better? Who cares? For the gen-next choices between better and bigger, good and bad, right and wrong is only an issue of semantics and not ethics. Choices are dictated by convenience, not by moral positioning.

So deep rooted is the love for the game that cricket even entered the world of diplomacy with India and Pakistan arguably coming closer because of this sport in early 2000. When Sachin drove through the covers Pakistan applauded and when Sohaib Akhtar ran in to bowl, India held its collective breath in awe! Imran Khan bowled our maidens over while Lakshmipati Balaji smiled his way into Pakistani hearts. So strong was the bonding that even General Musharaf approved of the flowing locks of Dhoni! Wow what a feeling! What a high!!Is it a bubble that will burst?I just have to walk down to nearby Shivaji Park to get convinced that it will not.

The ill maintained Shivaji Park, where political parties hold meetings every week spoiling and littering the ground further, there are on an average around a thousand kids slogging it out with their anxious parents watching from the sidelines. Most of them are from middle and lower middle class backgrounds. After all, the fire in the belly comes from an empty stomach. You can see the hunger when they come in to bowl. You can see the burning desire when they whack the ball. You can feel the power of their dreams when after an afternoon of dust, sweat and toil they enjoy Mumbai’s iconic vadaa pav or ragda- patties in the pavements of Dadar. Mumbai is not alone. Hundreds of small towns of India are now part of this great Indian dream.As long as this great Indian middle class dream is alive nobody can kill the great game of cricket.

For me the best cricket news of the month came from Afghanistan. They failed to make it to the next edition of World Cup by a whisker but gained recognition to play international one day cricket. For a country, ravaged by decades of civil war, cricket could still open a window to civil society.And as long as kids in Afghanistan will be lured to hold a bat instead of a gun and be taught to hurl cricket balls instead of grenades why should cricket offer any apologies?

Lights, Camera.... ACTION

Immediately after roti, kapda and even before makan there is Bollywood in our lives. The influence that Hindi films have had on our lives is probably dis-proportionate to its overall technical excellence. However when it comes to dialogue-baazi I doubt if it can have competition from any corner of the world. Sample this:


When the son tries to act smart and learns a bit of biology in the bargain:

Beta, main teri maa hoon. Nau maheene maine tujhe is kokh mein pala hai

What did the fifties ki Mom tell her hubby when she was sure about her daughters’ affair?

Suniye jee,………… ab mera shak yakeen mein badal gaya hai

When mother and audience both believe in re-birth:

Mere Karan-Arjun jaroor ayenge

And when a son paid the greatest tribute to motherhood:

Mere paas meri maa hey

Now this guy has to be a born loser or a man with a golden heart:

Kyaa????????...... Tumney mujhe bhai kaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The ultimate middle class tourism fantasy of the parents of sixties:

Bus beti ki shaadi ho jaye, phir hum teerth yatra mein nikal jaenge

The classic hook line of the sixties that spilled over to the seventies as well:

Mein tumhare bache ki maa ban ney waali hoon.

In the sixties what was the best way to get rid of guilt feelings about falling in love?

Pyar kiya naheen jata, ho jata hai.

What does an over-anxious, agonized, anguished, distressed, tortured, tormented, middle-class rustic father of an eighteen year old girl tell his wife in the middle of the night?

Jis ghar mein jawan beti shaadi key layak ho, uske baap ko bhala neend kaisi.

Best way to remember your relatives? Just try molesting a woman:

Kameeney teri maa behen naheen hai kya?

Sure shot way of getting a namaskar. Try rape:

Bhagwan key liye mujhe barbad mat karo Mein tumhare haath jodtee hoon.

When even the ‘bad’ guys had a good soul:

Heads- aspatal chalte hain, tails- bhaag chalte hain.

When two is greater than three:

Ummm…Kitney aadmi thay?


As a kid I laughed at this. Now I feel it is a Rajesh Khanna classic:

Pushpa………I hate tears

When in 7th standard, I realized the transient nature of life (in Utkal Talkies)

Babu moshai, zindagi aur maut upar waale key haath mein hey….

When the seductive courtesan meets the tall-dark-handsome match:

Munni bai key kothe mein log chot khaa key aate hain ya phir chot khaa key jaten hain. Yeh pehela shaks hey jo chot dey ke jaa raha hai.

How does one drop a hint to a garrulous, over talkative, non-stop silly bantering- chattering rustic taangewalli obsessed with the “ I- Me- and- Myself- syndrome”:

Tumhara naam kya hey Basanti?

The crowd felt this too was a classic:

Mard ko dard naheen hota

When Amitabh did a double-deal with the underworld don at an unlikely venue :

Sunaa hai lift key dewaron key kaan naheen hotey

The legendary Devdas on the virtues of alcohol:

Kaun kambakht bardasht karnay ko peeta hai,
hum to peete hain ki…..
behosh ho sakain,
Paroo ko bhula sakain….

When the tragic Devdas gets hounded even by his own mother:

Babuji ne kahaa gaon chhod do,
gaon walon ney kahaa Paro chhod do,
Paro ney kahaa sharaab chhod do,
aaj tumne kah dia, haweli chhod do,
ek din aayega jab wo kahenge,-duniya hi chhod do

When sublime love mustered courage and fought the imperial power of Zille Elahi!!

Anarkali, Salim tujhe marne naheen dega aur hum tumhe jeney naheen denge

When Akbar tries to force Anarkali not only to desert Salim but also convince him that she never was in love:

Anarkali: Jo zabaan unke saamne muhabbat ka iqraar tak na kar saki ho, woh inkaar kaisay karegee?

When the mother tries to dissuade her son:

Jodha Bai: Humara Hindustan koi tumhara dil nahin ek laundi jis pay hukumat kare.
Salim: "Toh mere dil bhi aapka Hindusthan nahin hai, jo aap uspar hukumat kare."

Jai Ho