Thursday, January 26, 2006

Who were they?

More often than not, when we remember the past, its the small incidents that we remember. In many of my travels that life has taken me across India, complete strangers helped me, even without my asking, when help was needed the most. Most of them vanished as silently as they had come but left behind a few tracks of fond memories etched in my heart. This is a tribute in my little way to all those mentioned and many more not mentioned here.
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It was a cold winter afternoon and I had just finished appearing for an exam and was feeling hungry since I had eaten nothing since morning. It was already 1 pm and there was a call for 'bandh' given by terrorists and there was no public transport availiable. I managed to get into a BRO (Border Roads Org, the guys who maintain the roads to supply troops in forwards posts, in terrain where mules find it difficult to walk) truck which was headed to Dimapur. I supressed my hunger as I was eager to get back before it was dark. They were the days when ceasefire was not in place and any army vehicle was a prized target for the militants especially in the dark. The driver was a sardarji who enquired in his rustic punjabi style, 'oye munda, khana vaana khayiya ki nayi? (Hey lad did you have anything to eat or not?) I told him not to worry and stop wherever he chose to if neccessary. He didnt say a word, but after a 45 min of journey, he drove into an BRO base camp and took the truck straight to a langar. I watched him get down and appear with a big plate full of food and he asked me to have it. I couldn't just thank him enough for the food and as I started eating it I noticed that he was only having a cup of tea which he could have had on any wayside tea stall. When asked he told me that he already had food. Sardars are not light eaters and the food he brought was sufficient for two guys like me. Somehow I managed to finsih it and was heaving a sigh of relief when he appeared again this time with a big tumbler of 'kheer'. To cut the long story short, he drove happily singing some punjabi songs and he dropped me near my house before vanishing around the corner of the road in darkness. I never remebered his name and prefer to remeber him only as a sardarji.
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I went with my father to visit a place in Bhutan he frequented during his monthly trips to a remote 'site'. My father was off to meet a local official and since the transport is very fast it would take him the entire day. I was left in the office which was no more than a thatched hut with two rooms. One of which served as the bed room and kitchen for the two workers there while the other room was the office cum bedroom for the 'officials'. As I lazed around in the day, one of the workers told me about a bright stone that looked like gold that he found in a secret place somewhere there. He suspected it to be gold. But I was delighted to hear about it as I strongly suspected (with a current course in physical chemistry I was taking at my college!) it to be 'fools gold' an ore of Iron that glitters like gold. Thrilled, I asked him to take me to the place where he found it and he led me through the forests always on lookout for snakes and leeches that were hanging on the branches of the trees rather than being on the ground. We came across a hut of Bhutanese elderman and being tired of walking for almost three hours we went there to ask for some water. The old lady brought me water and offered freshly brewed rice beer and said it is good for health. When I politely refused she roasted a few corn cobs from her field and applied some salt and butter and gave it to me. I still remember how she bowed and folded hands when she was giving us corn cobs or beer. I watched my companion gulp beer and I was curiously absorbed in the simplistic surroundings I was in. Meanwhile she roasted a few more cobs wrapped them carefully in a banana leaf and sent us home. I bow in humility to the elderly couple on a remote hill in Bhutan who served their unkown guests with honor.
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Lush sugarcane fields were swaying graciously in the evening wind. Evening sun was casting his last shadows in his golden glory. I was walking along the shore of river Bheema in Maharastra and came across this farmers hut. The farmer was sitting outside with his wife cooking inside as was apparent from the intermittent smoke rising from the small chimney on their hut. He looked curiously at me as I was walking and was trying to avoid the annoying barks of the lone dog closeby. Feeding hens intermittently raised their heads to watch the stranger. I smiled and the farmer smiled back and with that we struck a conversation. I told him I was an agricultural engineer who studied how to improve the farming. I was curious as to the ways they use to make jaggery and the finer aspects of it. He was more than happy to tell me and lighting a beedi volunteered to show me around his facility where he makes jaggery. I was overjoyed to get an oppurtunity to get first hand knowledge of jaggery making process. To cap it all, when it was time for me to take leave as it was getting dark he asked me to wait for five minutes. He summoned his son and told him something in an accent that I could not understand and the kid sped off to the field. In a few minutes, he came with hands full of freshly harvested sugarcane. The farmer started the engine and put the sugarcane into the crusher while his son came out with few lemons and a glass tumbler. They poured the juice into the glass taking care to avoid any stray fibers and added lemon and offered it to me. As I drank in that glass, from the broken edges of the glass I realised it must have been on of those few 'best' glasses that are reserved for guests in every Indian household. Never in my life did I have a more sweeter sugarcane juice. I folded my hands in gratitude and left silently.
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Only the tall trees among the tea garden could catch the last rays of the setting sun. Most of the birds were silent too except for the lone voice of an unknown bird from somewhere deep in the adjacent forest. The last village bus that brought me sped ahead to its last destination a few miles away on the Indo-Bhutan border bathing me with dust. Largely a village of tea garden workers, there were no lodges. A communication gap caused me to arrive a day earlier than what I told my father. His kingdom was deep in forests, hidden from everyone and thus he had to choose to speak to us. I waited on the road and watched in despair the lock on the only hotel in the village whose owner I met during my previous visit. I saw a man and two kids following him at a distance. As they approached me the man said, 'Babu who are you?' I told him that my father worked in such and such place and I was waiting for him to come next day. He asked me how I would be spending that night and I told him I didnt know. He offered to take me to his house which I accepted gladly. His house was a thatched hut, with two rooms. One big and another small. In the big room they had a 'chulha' in one corner and two old trunks in another. Kids books were stacked neatly against the trunks and their drawing of 'mountains and rivers' pasted on the wall above it. There was also a framed school certificate that was welcoming the visitors. In no time the lady of the house made a few rotis and fed me. I could hear the whispering voices of the children and muffeled voice mother in the next room as I was eating my dinner. Rotis for any poor family in a small town of Bengal are a luxury as I knew they were more expensive than the more common rice. I was given a bed with some blankets covering it. It was made of four bamboo poles and a bamboo mat tied with few wires. The family slept in the adjacent room on a blaket spread on floor. As I slept there, I wondered about the relation between me and the man with two kids and the lady who had just made rotis for me.
Next day my father's office truck arrived and as I left, I gave some money to the man which he promptly refused. I called the little girl and gave her the money and asked her to study well. She smiled and ran to her mother. The only way I think I can ever pay my gratitude is to pass it on, as they say in America.
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These are only a few of the examples I encountered in my motherland. Together we can accomplish a lot more than what we can do alone. Taekwondo taught me that it is true even in crossing seemingly impossible physical obstacles. At times when optimism flickers like the last star of the night looking at the treachery and cunning in the world we live, I remember these people and stand up again with the conviction, that until there is atleast one such person on earth there is hope and I see the golden orb of the rising sun heralding a new dawn.
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Monday, January 23, 2006

Experiences

It was a hot summer afternoon. The sweltering heat and the gusty winds made the journey uncomfortable. The loud noise of an arguing couple few berths ahead of the window seat and crying children in next, was supplemented by the inexperienced coconut seller spilling coconut water on the compartment making the floor making it sticky. As the winds blew, train reached 'Cuttack'. They were the years of infamous drought in Kalahandi of Orissa. People were eating mango seed soups to survive and the state ministers were running amock claiming it was the 'traditional' food.
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Vendors surrounded the train as soon as it approached the platform. So did the beggers.
Jignasu wasn't interested in them, he just had a hearty meal of the snacks he bought in the morning. He remembered the shopkeeper gave him a spoiled 5 rupee note and was angry at him. Jignasu was determined to get rid of the wretched note which reminded him of his carelessness. Then he saw her. An old begger, barely able to walk, came to the window Jignasu was sitting. She begged for food. Jignasu thrust into her hands the note, which he knew, no shopkeeper would possibly accept. In a faint voice she pleaded, ' Babu, nobody will accept this note give me 1 rupee instead'. Being reminded of the worthlessness of the note made him more angry and he didnt bother to give her anything more. And the train moved forward, leaving behind a hungry old woman with a note that nobody would accept and would never throw away either. It was a cruel way of treating an old begger, giving hope knowing fully well that it was false.
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As the journey progressed, the train travelled north through Calcutta, the temperatures were a little lower and it made the journey more enjoyable to Jignasu. One and half days of journey had exhausted all the snacks that he had brought. Feeling hungry he summoned the vendor and ordered a pack of soaked peas garnished with spices. As he gave the 50 rupee note, and was about to take the mouthwatering peas, the vendor suddenly said, 'eta na cholbe'(this won't do). Jignasu searched his pockets only to find 500 rupee note for which the small time vendor had no change. Many hours and vendors passed by and no one had a change for 500 rupees note that was useless to satiate the hunger of Jignasu. Finally it was the pantry car guy who broke the note for him. As he happily counted the change, he remembered the sad face of the old woman in Cuttack. He had only felt hunger for half a day and was thinking it was unbearable, what of the woman who might have been hungry for days? On that day, he vowed never to forget the hunger in his affluence. He never remembered the day quite well,but it didn't matter: Perhaps it was a tuesday.
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Friday, January 20, 2006

Tiger

The day started on a rather delayed note, as I had overslept. So, hurriedly I finished the daily ritual of breakfast and filled my mug with steaming tea and set off to work. It was a bright morning and uncharacteristically yet welcomingly warm for a mid january morning. As I hurriedly walked to the bend in the road, I noticed I had company. As I sharply turned around and looked straight into the eyes, he was wagging his tail and staring me with equally mischevious eyes. He was obviously in a playful mood. Horror struck, I shooed him and said,"Tiger, go back to house". As if mocking me he sped across the road ignoring the lone car turning around the corner at 40 mph. I heart skipped a beat..rather several. For once, I thought 40 mph was dangerous speed!

To any spectator watching, it would have reminded the movie 'Tramp' where trapped in a lion's cage, Chaplin tries to shoo a little dog that is barking at him and is about to awake the sleeping lion. I cajoled him again..no he wouldnt budge. Perhaps he wanted me to play with him as I had the previous day in the house. I threw objects and he fetched them for me and thought it was a very interesting game. Now I cursed myself for doing that as this dog wouldnt let me go to work. All kinds of scenarios of a dog being injured or worse killed on a street and the house owner I was staying with suing me for that and me being deported to India flasjhed before my eyes. I also imagined a NY times headline, " An Indian terrorist responsible for the death of a poor dog in PA". A few beads of perspiration accumulated on my brow.

Now I stopped threatening and held my hand as if it had something for the dog to eat. But he was as cunning as 'Attila' ( R.K. Narayanan's story) and knew in an instant that I wasnt having anything in my hand and sped past me into someone elses house. Now, I remembered my fathers's words, spare the rod and spoil the child. Unfortunately, I wasn't in a position to use his advice in a country where the pets are called 'companion animals'.

Perhaps he realised the meek look in my eyes. That of a helpless graduate student as I stood on the pavement. He came near me, and as I tried to grab him he sped across the road now causing my heart to beat twice its usual rate. I tried different strategies..ranging from pleading, cajoing, ignoring and threatening.. all in vain.

Finally I remembered gajendra mokhsa story and surrendered. As I walked back to home, he was following me always maintaining a safe distance of about ten steps. I gave a look of desperation and meekness and said tiger don't come with me. Whether it took mercy on me or played enough I still don't know. But this time he didnt follow me. I felt relieved as if I had achieved something and laughed my way to work!
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Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Who are we?

Severed from internet, it was a forced break. But now thinking of it, they were worthwhile two days. Sitting next to a fireplace sipping a big cup of tea, reading a novel and playing with a dog wasn't that bad after all. As I came out of my shell, tall trees surrounding the house looked serene as if they were sages in deep meditation. Winter breeze spoke in hushed voices in my ears. The winding path up the hill to workplace effused youthfullness. Impending deadlines, concerns about career, life in general and all other storms inside seemed to ebb under the silent gaze of the winter sun. Shouts of playing children in a house I just passed resembled a running mountain stream. I emerged refreshed and came to the lab to read the blog of a friend to find how beautifully a contemplation in silence was described. I wonder, are we human beings on a spritual journey or spiritual beings on a human journey...
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Friday, January 06, 2006

Language of the eyes.

There are times when words are insufficient for expression, silence too mysterious and heart aches to speak. There are times when mind is unable to comprehend and put into words the feelings of heart, its in those times that the eyes speak.
They speak of determination in the eyes of defiant,
Of rage in the eyes of furious,
Of valour in the eyes of fearless,
Of hate in the eyes of oppressed,
Of love in the eyes of beloved,
Of hopelessness in the eyes of depressed,
Of loneliness in the eyes of disheartened,
Of shyness in the eyes of bashful,
Of verdict in the eyes of judgemental,
Of hurt in the eyes of cheated,
Of empathy in the eyes of devoted,
Of peace in the eyes of serene,
Of sadness in the eyes of heartbroken,
Of surprise in the eyes of curious,
Of shame in the eyes of disgraced,
Of pleasure in the eyes of ecstatic,
Of fear in the eyes of coward,
Of joy in the eyes of enlightened,
Of sensitivity in the eyes of gentle,
Of greatness in the eyes of humble,
Of commitment in the eyes of passionate,
Of exhaustion in the eyes of weary,
Of energy in the eyes of youthful,
Of affection in the eyes of sympathetic,
Of understanding in the eyes of wise,
and the truth is that when the eyes speak, hearts listen.
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