Sorry Mrs. De, I’m not willing to join you at the airport to welcome Hussainsaab. Not because I am a religious fanatic who wants to seek sinister pleasure by forcing a frail, old man into exile in his twilight years. But, at the same time, I cannot possibly embrace the pseudo element that pervades the popular concept of secularism or morality.
You seem to be dismayed at the fact that people who have appropriated the role of nation’s moral keepers are the ones who think of violence as the only way of expressing resentment. I share your dismay. But have you ever wondered why? Isn’t it true that the ones who can actually protest against religious or cultural diatribe in a sensible and democratic manner- the well educated, foreign-returned intellectuals like you- are more comfortable talking about “the sexes,” and do not bother venturing into “the politics of that complex issue.”
I agree that an artist of Husain’s stature is not dumb enough to offend people deliberately. But what is, then, the idea behind painting our Gods and Goddesses nude? Will he ever do the same with his faith or his God? Why single out Hindu deities alone? An immediate argument could be nude deities are there in the cave temples as well, and that they have been built by the Hindus themselves. But madam, time has moved on. What was okay one thousand years ago cannot necessarily be acceptable in today’s context. Why not respect this choice?
I am aghast that there could be so much of double speak from a learned woman like you. You speak of “tameez” for people who have retaliated to Hussain’s art by painting Hussainsaab himself in the nude, thus offending the dignity of the man. But what about the dignity of our revered Gods, worshipped by one billion Hindus worldwide?
Examples galore in history that adherents of monotheism have always been critical of animistic religious practices. Who knows Hussain’s depiction of our Gods in the nude could be his way of looking down upon idol-worship? Champions of “secularism”, however, will shy away from debating this, as lampooning religious fanatics is so much easier. It makes good copy for the press, as well.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
One Autumn in a Faraway Land
I looked at the grassy plane that spread out like a verdant oasis in this far-off village of Rikiadham. The weather had changed overnight, when a bank of dark clouds and a bluster of racing wind showed up like unsought guests. It was only two o’ clock in the afternoon but the pallor of a winter evening had begun to set in, cloaking the nearby hills in mist.
Jyoti greeted me with a beam of smile and said that my mother was calling me inside the ashram to attend her Guruji’s sermon. It was the autumn of 2005 and my family was holidaying there to attend the spiritual-fest that is organized every year.
During my sojourn, I had developed a close rapport with a bevy of young girls who studied in the ashram’s gurukool. They were poor peasant girls, whom the ashram educated until they finished high school.
Jyoti was the most vivacious of all. Unlike her friends who remained uninspired by the idea of education, and who would never think of defying the trifle plans that destiny had contrived for them, this dark, bonny girl harboured a whole world of dreams.
“Baba has no qualms in my studying in the Gurukool, and Maa says she’ll convince him to putting me in Zila College afterwards. I’ll complete a BA anyhow and find a job in the village schools,” she would often recount her plans.
Jyoti, to me, mirrored the power of man’s will, the exemplary courage that transforms unassuming ‘little-things’ into men of noble ranks. She was poor, yet not prosaic; she was obviously aware of the trials of a meager existence, and yet full of dreams to transcend the mundane and become extraordinary.
Once, Jyoti introduced us to her mother Radhe Devi. I remember Radhe Devi for her plump cheeks, her rotund body, the happy countenance on her face, and mostly for the tumultuous laughter she had exploded into when one of the guests quizzed her about her daughter’s plans. Jyoti remained unruffled though, reminding me that hope could thrive even in the midst of penury – despite the poverty, the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, and the lack of electricity.
Six months back- on visiting the Ashram again- I realized I was mistaken.
Free from commotion or tumult, and reposing under the serene skies of an imminent spring, the place was still as peaceful. The grassy planes around it were just as verdant and lush. And, Radhe Devi, too, had remained as stout and shapeless.
The only change was that Jyoti, whom Radhe Devi summoned before us, was now married and had become the mother of a newborn. She looked like a strong, hard woman; the clever woman of the petty household.
She greeted me with a forced yet kindly courtesy. Despite all the broken dreams and shattered hopes, she had retained the art of conducting herself gracefully. But, the pangs in her eyes she could not hide.
In the next two or three days in the ashram, I hardly got a chance to speak to Jyoti, who anyway, avoided coming across me. Time rolled away like a fleeting glance, and we took leave of Guruji. While on our way back, the wheels of our car creaked and groaned as they sank into the ruts of the road, flinging and spattering mud all over. The mud soon mingled with the rain drops pattering against the window, obscuring the view of the countryside that I gazed at from the back seat.
Much like Jyoti’s illusory dreams which were dulled by the caprice of destiny - I thought to myself.
(Sep, 2009)
Jyoti greeted me with a beam of smile and said that my mother was calling me inside the ashram to attend her Guruji’s sermon. It was the autumn of 2005 and my family was holidaying there to attend the spiritual-fest that is organized every year.
During my sojourn, I had developed a close rapport with a bevy of young girls who studied in the ashram’s gurukool. They were poor peasant girls, whom the ashram educated until they finished high school.
Jyoti was the most vivacious of all. Unlike her friends who remained uninspired by the idea of education, and who would never think of defying the trifle plans that destiny had contrived for them, this dark, bonny girl harboured a whole world of dreams.
“Baba has no qualms in my studying in the Gurukool, and Maa says she’ll convince him to putting me in Zila College afterwards. I’ll complete a BA anyhow and find a job in the village schools,” she would often recount her plans.
Jyoti, to me, mirrored the power of man’s will, the exemplary courage that transforms unassuming ‘little-things’ into men of noble ranks. She was poor, yet not prosaic; she was obviously aware of the trials of a meager existence, and yet full of dreams to transcend the mundane and become extraordinary.
Once, Jyoti introduced us to her mother Radhe Devi. I remember Radhe Devi for her plump cheeks, her rotund body, the happy countenance on her face, and mostly for the tumultuous laughter she had exploded into when one of the guests quizzed her about her daughter’s plans. Jyoti remained unruffled though, reminding me that hope could thrive even in the midst of penury – despite the poverty, the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, and the lack of electricity.
Six months back- on visiting the Ashram again- I realized I was mistaken.
Free from commotion or tumult, and reposing under the serene skies of an imminent spring, the place was still as peaceful. The grassy planes around it were just as verdant and lush. And, Radhe Devi, too, had remained as stout and shapeless.
The only change was that Jyoti, whom Radhe Devi summoned before us, was now married and had become the mother of a newborn. She looked like a strong, hard woman; the clever woman of the petty household.
She greeted me with a forced yet kindly courtesy. Despite all the broken dreams and shattered hopes, she had retained the art of conducting herself gracefully. But, the pangs in her eyes she could not hide.
In the next two or three days in the ashram, I hardly got a chance to speak to Jyoti, who anyway, avoided coming across me. Time rolled away like a fleeting glance, and we took leave of Guruji. While on our way back, the wheels of our car creaked and groaned as they sank into the ruts of the road, flinging and spattering mud all over. The mud soon mingled with the rain drops pattering against the window, obscuring the view of the countryside that I gazed at from the back seat.
Much like Jyoti’s illusory dreams which were dulled by the caprice of destiny - I thought to myself.
(Sep, 2009)
Holi 1994: I waited for him, and ditched him when he arrived!
My world appeared a grim portrait of despair against the bright canvas outside where a gauzy mist swirled around the strip of lawn and the sidewalk. Droves of men whirled along in merry, unbridled gait, smudging one another with mugs full of color. The flamboyant trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms mingled with the pleasant incense of gulal to create the dreamy, reposeful land of poetic imagination.
Inside, I lay on bed with a sombre face. This was the first Holi mumma had refused to take us to granny’s place. Apparently, she had had a falling-out with my mama that year.
My brother and I missed our cousin desperately. He was the hero of our little world. Eight years my senior, he would help us in our studies, buy us stuffs from his piggy bank, take us on long cycle-rides under the serene skies of early spring, and enliven us with his blithe antics if we ever incurred mom’s wrath. He once missed his train to Malda when he rushed in to our place to say goodbye. We believed he could jump off the cliff for us!
Lying on bed, I felt caught up in the reveries of years long past. I thought to myself: twelve kilometers away, in the duplex house at Bihar Ink’s Compound; Dada must be sad too. We knew he would miss us as much as we missed him.
In the apartment next to ours, however, Harsh had reasons to smile. He was the only son of our new neighbour, the Choubeys, who had shifted to this place a month ago. Awash with the excitement of festive gaieties, he told us this was the first time he would be having a company of his age to celebrate Holi with. Rahul Uncle, his dad and a bank executive, had been wandering throughout the states of Bihar and UP, sometimes down to Maharashtra, and at times, transferred off to south, and as such, Harsh had grown up isolated.
It was already eight. The morning sun streamed in through the open windows. Mom, soaking the malpuas with a practiced hand, reminded the two of us to get ready for the merry-making as Harsh would be coming anytime soon. We reluctantly obliged. But just as we were about to move, we heard, as if by a magnanimity of fate, the familiar, sharp, squeaking sound; the creak of the bicycle, unleashed by sudden exertion of the brakes.
“Could it be Dada?”
“But, how could he be?”
Holi, back in 1994 in the small city of Patna, was punctuated with unruly wilderness- drunken men strolling all along the streets, revelers silting mud on others, and inebriated youth drawing sinister pleasure with their foul-plays. No parents would ever let their 15 year old child ride alone in the city.
Mama, too, had not.
“I jumped off the fence in the backyard,” he announced; his eyes twinkling with triumphant joy, as if he were a sailor who had crossed oceans and the mountains to come back to the people he loved.
“Quick, pack few of your clothes; we have to leave immediately,” he finished his sentence in a single breath…
......
........
..........
Ten minutes later, dada was preparing to leave alone. A grim silence prevailed. Dada’s eyes were fixed to the ground as he took his cycle out, and there was an expression in them that we could not read or understand. It was not anger, not disapproval, not horror, not betrayal, not pangs, not any of the emotion that one would associate with this situation...
The discretion of mind had defeated the desires of heart. We had refused to go with our cousin who had jumped the fence for us, and jumped it with the cycle on his back.
But what could we do, how could we betray Harsh?
He got on the bicycle and rode away.... A sudden strong wind came in gusts.... It blew through the lanes with such force that the whole body of the cycle trembled, swaying at places like a drunken man.... Peeping from behind the curtain, we watched him. He peddled on and disappeared from view...
(Sep, 2009)
Inside, I lay on bed with a sombre face. This was the first Holi mumma had refused to take us to granny’s place. Apparently, she had had a falling-out with my mama that year.
My brother and I missed our cousin desperately. He was the hero of our little world. Eight years my senior, he would help us in our studies, buy us stuffs from his piggy bank, take us on long cycle-rides under the serene skies of early spring, and enliven us with his blithe antics if we ever incurred mom’s wrath. He once missed his train to Malda when he rushed in to our place to say goodbye. We believed he could jump off the cliff for us!
Lying on bed, I felt caught up in the reveries of years long past. I thought to myself: twelve kilometers away, in the duplex house at Bihar Ink’s Compound; Dada must be sad too. We knew he would miss us as much as we missed him.
In the apartment next to ours, however, Harsh had reasons to smile. He was the only son of our new neighbour, the Choubeys, who had shifted to this place a month ago. Awash with the excitement of festive gaieties, he told us this was the first time he would be having a company of his age to celebrate Holi with. Rahul Uncle, his dad and a bank executive, had been wandering throughout the states of Bihar and UP, sometimes down to Maharashtra, and at times, transferred off to south, and as such, Harsh had grown up isolated.
It was already eight. The morning sun streamed in through the open windows. Mom, soaking the malpuas with a practiced hand, reminded the two of us to get ready for the merry-making as Harsh would be coming anytime soon. We reluctantly obliged. But just as we were about to move, we heard, as if by a magnanimity of fate, the familiar, sharp, squeaking sound; the creak of the bicycle, unleashed by sudden exertion of the brakes.
“Could it be Dada?”
“But, how could he be?”
Holi, back in 1994 in the small city of Patna, was punctuated with unruly wilderness- drunken men strolling all along the streets, revelers silting mud on others, and inebriated youth drawing sinister pleasure with their foul-plays. No parents would ever let their 15 year old child ride alone in the city.
Mama, too, had not.
“I jumped off the fence in the backyard,” he announced; his eyes twinkling with triumphant joy, as if he were a sailor who had crossed oceans and the mountains to come back to the people he loved.
“Quick, pack few of your clothes; we have to leave immediately,” he finished his sentence in a single breath…
......
........
..........
Ten minutes later, dada was preparing to leave alone. A grim silence prevailed. Dada’s eyes were fixed to the ground as he took his cycle out, and there was an expression in them that we could not read or understand. It was not anger, not disapproval, not horror, not betrayal, not pangs, not any of the emotion that one would associate with this situation...
The discretion of mind had defeated the desires of heart. We had refused to go with our cousin who had jumped the fence for us, and jumped it with the cycle on his back.
But what could we do, how could we betray Harsh?
He got on the bicycle and rode away.... A sudden strong wind came in gusts.... It blew through the lanes with such force that the whole body of the cycle trembled, swaying at places like a drunken man.... Peeping from behind the curtain, we watched him. He peddled on and disappeared from view...
(Sep, 2009)
My first Day at ACJ
My first day at ACJ unravelled for me a simple rule of nature. I discovered that though life is made up of components as diverse as sobs, sniffles and smiles, it is largely our own perception of circumstances and our responses to the pressures of existence that makes one component predominate the other.
"And mind you, we are bloody strict". The daunting words of Madame Nalini, presumably the administrator, reverberated in my mind as I ensconsed myself in the canteen, flagged by the hard day's work. Resplendent with the new coat of paint, this famed j-school reposed under the sun of a grand July day. I struggled with the bland south-Indian food. Pardon me for the unkind word, but Madame Nalini's outburst, illustrative of what tratment awaited us, and the burden of assignments that professors had heaped nonchalantly, engulfed my senses with dismay. The future looked bleak.
Still struggling with the food, I recalled how earlier on the day I had reached the college pushing my way through the crowded local train. Once inside the college, I rushed into the conference room where we had our orientation class. Ace journalist N.Ram honoured us with a visit. Thereafter the dean informed us how the year would unfurl for us.
During recess, I had ice-breaking with a few students who quizzed me with the perfunctory questions: where I had been, what I had studied, what I'd like to do…….. and they also enriched all this with their own share of experiences.
Later in the afternoon, we had a reporting class. Already feeling like a fish out of water, I could not help but bemoan fate when Miss Bindoo, the instructor, ordered us to be ready with two snippets the following day.
And there I sat in the canteen, thinking of all this and sulking, at intervals, unsettled with this new sojourn of life. The lines of Madame Nalini tortured me. The taxing assignments of Miss Bindoo intimidated me. And the hurly burly of the local train reappeared in my sad regrets…
And then a month passed away... The threat-lines of the lecturers remain just as intimidating. The assignments are just as gruelling. And, the traffic at the local train is still as commotious. The only difference is I am a content person now, enjoying every moment of my stay here….having come to know that life does not classify situations. Our attitude to life does this, instead. And the best attitude to life is to sketch out humour in banal situations. I would try to do that….Always.
(July, 2009)
"And mind you, we are bloody strict". The daunting words of Madame Nalini, presumably the administrator, reverberated in my mind as I ensconsed myself in the canteen, flagged by the hard day's work. Resplendent with the new coat of paint, this famed j-school reposed under the sun of a grand July day. I struggled with the bland south-Indian food. Pardon me for the unkind word, but Madame Nalini's outburst, illustrative of what tratment awaited us, and the burden of assignments that professors had heaped nonchalantly, engulfed my senses with dismay. The future looked bleak.
Still struggling with the food, I recalled how earlier on the day I had reached the college pushing my way through the crowded local train. Once inside the college, I rushed into the conference room where we had our orientation class. Ace journalist N.Ram honoured us with a visit. Thereafter the dean informed us how the year would unfurl for us.
During recess, I had ice-breaking with a few students who quizzed me with the perfunctory questions: where I had been, what I had studied, what I'd like to do…….. and they also enriched all this with their own share of experiences.
Later in the afternoon, we had a reporting class. Already feeling like a fish out of water, I could not help but bemoan fate when Miss Bindoo, the instructor, ordered us to be ready with two snippets the following day.
And there I sat in the canteen, thinking of all this and sulking, at intervals, unsettled with this new sojourn of life. The lines of Madame Nalini tortured me. The taxing assignments of Miss Bindoo intimidated me. And the hurly burly of the local train reappeared in my sad regrets…
And then a month passed away... The threat-lines of the lecturers remain just as intimidating. The assignments are just as gruelling. And, the traffic at the local train is still as commotious. The only difference is I am a content person now, enjoying every moment of my stay here….having come to know that life does not classify situations. Our attitude to life does this, instead. And the best attitude to life is to sketch out humour in banal situations. I would try to do that….Always.
(July, 2009)
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