CV- The Most Famous Personality of 2020

 There is a new entrant in the celeb-town. Let me take a bite out of your monotony and excite you with THE MOST FAMOUS PERSONALITY OF 2020. The fellow holds multiple titles, ranging from the most powerful to the most influential which Forbes and Vogue are yet to identify. His is not a transient persona which will be lost as a passing thought. He is an era in himself having etched a niche for the generations to remember…MR. CORONVIR! 

Usually, people follow famous personalities but on the contrary, Mr. CoronVir follows people on a tremendous scale. He is a die-hard fan of people and people literally die for him.  His presence can be felt high above in airplane to deep inside your bronchi. As an exception, only the weddings seem to be immune to him! He rose to fame with his resilient spiky personality and brobdingnagian performance far away in the East. Such is his magic that his name reached across continents much before his physical self and as expected, he left no stone unturned to not stand by what was expected of him, rather did much more. Finding his nemesis appeared like finding a needle in a haystack. However, Moderna and Pfizer seem promising enough but let’s not count our chickens before they are hatched. Meanwhile, Mr. CoronVir remains the top banana in the political and social circuits.

In the nascent stages in India, Mr. CoronVir has been involved in few scandals as well, as the media spilled the beans about his association with some pretty singer.  He was caught red handed negotiating with hundreds of people in an enclosed building so as to increase his fan following. And later, he made a huge splash in the celeb-town of the country. Recently, Mr. Bachchan too had a tete-a-tete with him and it went so well that he doesn’t stop mentioning his name. Make a call right away if I lie. Obsession is surely a thing in the world!

In this age of social media, having followers is a necessity. During lockdown, CV was in people’s mind, but not in their lungs  heart. Empty roads, metro rail, markets hampered his socialization. Those wary of his presence tried and still try to fetter his influence with pen, needle and sword. They are hailed as corona warriors. But, as the saying goes, the real fun of steering a canoe lies in the storming waters. Once the lockdown caused saturation, he swayed past the territories like forest fire. His very name was sufficient for opportunists to mint money. Various businesses flourished, from masks to sanitizers to even quacks coming up with medicines like Coronil. The monopoly of this person is such that the likes of Dengue, MalaRia, TB, Diabe-Tess, Asthma etc. have been severely underplayed. One bad guy was not enough when his long lost brother, PAULution enters the stage to twist the events in his favour. Both have collaborated to cause an eye sore to the frontline corona warriors.

The competition is still cut throat with most people having bad throat. Welcome to the times of Coronavirus. The fittest survives. CoronVir, with its resilience, is the unequivocal winner, hence the most powerful. Even the big gun USA bows to him. So he becomes a sure shot entry to Forbes list this year. Let’s just wait and watch. Till then (clears throat)…excuse me.

2019: The Game Played Well?

When 2020 meets 2019...
'20: How's the josh?
'19 (heart pounding against ribs): All is well... All is well.
'20: Chal jhootta.
'19: Bade bade deshon mein chhoti chhoti baatein hoti rehti hai Se...
'20: Khaaaaaamosh!!!!!
'19: Apna time aayega.
'20: Abb mai aa gaya. LOL

DISCLAIMER: The above conversation is made available solely for the entertainment purpose. It doesn't intend to allude to any political or economic or X events in the country. I have nowhere mentioned Triple Talaq ban, Article 370 or Ayodhya verdict. I play neutral here but am cerainly happy for India's Anti-Satellite Missile earlier this year and RISAT-2BR1 this month, even if Chandrayan-2 dampens the excitement a bit. But, it's not the Endgame anyway. If Boris Johnson can rise from ashes, then even our ISRO team can as well. I take "full responsibility" of the poor comparison though.
The material above is provided in good faith, however, I make no representation regarding the non-availability of any information about Howdy Modi, China- US trade war or India's sinking economy. Cyclone or Floods, Elections or Protests, Economy is still hopeful, "apna time aayega!" I feel sorry for Gully Boy's lost Oscar race. Special mention to Kabir Singh. Rebels without...shhh. I am not a bhakt but Indian citizen and Amit Shah is not my uncle. 
***
2019 has been a game played well. 

For more fun, stay tuned  with T20 innings. 
HAPPY NEW YEAR T20 TO ALL!

DRAMA IN DELHI METRO

He: Aaj mere paas gaari hai, bangla hai, bank balance hai. Kya hai tumhare paas?!
Me:  Mere paas Common Sense hai!
I doubt if Bollywood has yet come up with anything like this. Anyway, common sense wasn't rationed out well on Earth. Don't blame God for tempering with PDS right up there.  From diet to fiscal, India has this deficit or that and our Delhi Metro particularly, talks highly of the horse sense deficit. Horse! That's what you are when you put your blinkers on and shoot past a tide of people like son of a gun for a seat. I admit that currently, Metro has become my hobby horse. Also, notwithstanding the repetitions, I am not obsessed with horses. Well,  as soon as the door opens, you go at the seats hammer and tongs like a dog grabbing on a scrap of bread. Get your legs amputated or turn 60-years old and blah blah are some shameless suggestions Quora would offer you. And what for? A damn seat! This  reminds me of the local phrase I heard from my Nani, "Log chaand pe chadh ge, par in khachrya tae kurdi pe nhi chaddhya jatta" [People have climbed the Moon (big achievements) but these mules haven't achieved basic things even].

Emerging as an obvious  victor, you would ascend the throne, after having all squashed up and put on your blinkers while digging eyes in your phone. The ceremony gets over with the unforgettable ear plugs.  Kids cry and sway by inertia. Oldies cough while holding the bar. But YOUR blinkers are on. (Anyway, a smart move, huh? Fie!). If the shooting past technique doesn't work out, you spread the carpet of your butt and root on the floor with the paraphernalia around attending to Your Majesty! And again the blinkers are out. You get up ...to de-board (obviously). If an elbow touches you or a push undoes your wisps from this side to that in an apparently jam-packed compartment, you behave like agitators on Jantar Mantar. But your ego gets good competition from the Gate Guards.  Earthquake, stampede, flood... come what may but they would not budge from their place. Even the company on the platforms is ready to go all militaristic, barging in as if boarding the last metro rail of their life. It's then when I smirk. Karma strikes back, horses!

Delhi Metro commute is not a journey in Noddy's Toyland. Toyland didn't have 'fully fledged social subjects of urban life' talking, texting, video-calling while sharing their unwanted and irritated personal life details. Not everyone is interested and not nobody peeks searchingly in your phone. However, PDA interests me a lot. Oyo has definitely failed its exam. The other PDA is even more interesting. Someone dares to fart in the metro and with a snotty face, you say, "Bhaisahab, tameez nhi hai aapko!" and this initiates an eye treat i.e.  full Public Display of Aggression. I do enjoy the scene without popcorn. Anger, frustration and Twitter are too handy these days. You can *beep*,  bleat & tweet anywhere and everywhere. In a crowded coach, how dare someone even fart when people are standing not even within an elbow length and also when Delhi pollution is already beyond severe limit! You avow that Odd-Even Policy is a horseplay. Anyhow, it's better to pick up an air mask than a fight.* Two birds in one shot for sure. Thank me later.
*[DISCLAIMER: Fart machines, there is a difference between excusing yourself and carelessly farting around assaulting others' senses. Unless you have a medical condition, or are sick, please excuse].
***
So, Hello Citizens.
Cyber Citizens!
Cast off the Blinkers m. Till it is worked upon, let's read books & people, and laugh, because the world is too funny to laugh at.

Btw, what is your next station?  

HOME ALONE #Part2

Again, the sink is piling up with utensils. Thanks to  my erratic  hunger. But hey, you got to eat to pass time, no?  We'll talk about overeating some other day when it's about my favourite snacks. Between writing and washing, the former is the obvious choice right now. Mom will come tomorrow. The responsibility of the 100 yards 2BHK with the un-mopped floor, crumpled bed sheets and obviously the unwashed utensils is on my tiny tender shoulders which would probably collapse under the #liability of being home alone.

Courier wala came, herbal products wali aunty, garage wala Nandu for water bottle and the random neighbour I mentioned in the previous blog. Had I been preparing for UPSC CSE, by now, Consistency would have departed to her final abode! Kitchen is a mess. If it's not cleaned, the ant invasions would invite Mom's wrath.

Head is messed up too, with approaching boredom now. 'I' say to 'Me' that a good sleep would help. I love sleep. Hemmingway said it right- "My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?" Only if I had Richie Rich's Irona or Aladdin's Genie or some Doraemon's gadget, I won't have thought of Hemmingway. Aha! Dad is five hours away. Hope to wake up with the will to cook dal and rotis for dinner. Also, Mom is expected to compensate her absence with wafers tomorrow!
"Sleep now, O sleep now.../ A voice crying "Sleep now"/ Is heard in my heart." Joyce. James Joyce! Ha.
Relax. I'm not a connoisseur of poetry. i googled it.
***
zzz...

HOME ALONE

"Once upon a time" is a good way to start, I guess. But "once in a while" fits here better.
Never mind.
Being home alone, once in a while, comes with indescribable happiness.

You own the house!
You can sing in your best cacophony when Bruh won't be complaining to Mom.
You can jump on bed without Dad admonishing you for those perennially dirty feet.
You can keep the fridge open till you drink chilled water whilst remembering the date you had your last periods on... Being home alone is when fridge's beeping sound blinks you out of reverie.

'Home alone' gives you this freedom without Mom's IDW after you. By the way, a super TMI. Belan is the most sought after Indian Domestic Weapon. Ladle follows the league. To know how it feels when it hits your shoulder blade, contact me. Hold on. You become vulnerable only when you tickle Mom while she is rolling chapattis in 48 degree heat or wipe your sweat off her favourite yellow duppatta. It's just then when the belan hits you with wireless speed. Also, cheers to the timely digressions!

Another perks of  being home alone trail along. You can rummage into secret places Mom hid the cookies in and snacks that Dr. denied you. YouTubing the latest hots and other 'hots' isn't a hoax at all. Tell me if u catch me winking here. Amen.

Stuff your Tummy. Shake it like Shammi... Being home alone is like Parliamentary Privilege. Anyhow. Life is not a smooth mountain skiing. Breach of this privilege happens when some random neighbour rings the door bell. However, justice delayed is justice denied. The revenge is sought when she is duly reciprocated with a robotic monotone, a poker face and rolling eyes, and finally, a thudding door behind her.

Being home alone is good. You realise that you don't want anyone  but your phone in one hand, few eateries in the other and some cynical plans up your sleeves. I am not winking this time. I swear, not.

Hi to all happy Home Alone-s.
If what I said (with the much unneeded digressions) is not enough, hail Kevin, the ultimate inspiration.
Tata.

PS: Got to wash utensils.
#Flipside
#householdResponsibilty

To be continued...

Part 2 in the offing.

YOUR RECIPE OF EMOTIONS

Her first wedding night.

Passed.

Second night.

Passed too.

Then third.

Fourth.

And now, a week.

Somehow!

Anyhow, she skulked in the shadows into the kitchen, her mind lingering in the nights to come. A sudden chill would run down her spine. The burden on her breasts, every night, only accentuated the wound that etched her dreams. The intrusion. Or humiliation? Perhaps, both. Her mind often wandered to the sweet nothings before this bondage and now, fate grimaces at her face. Tying the helm of the sari to her waist, she poured rice in a bowl kept in the wall cabinet. "What good are daughter-in-laws for if not cooking?!" Sabirah heard this from her mother-in-law on her first day and was, therefore, familiarised with her 'abode' like the palm of her hands. From the spices to the ladle, the locations fixed in her head as nicely as a glove in hand. She handled the kitchen as if she belonged to it since ages.

On the chopping board, she slayed few tomatoes - ripe, unlike her marital relationship and squashed, like her body. She moved to the basin, held the china bowl of rice. 

Her core quivered.

He was coming.

Disquiet rang through the bowl.

Her intuition was never wrong.  Her palm froze on the bowl, as if giving it some protection.

It was nauseous. His hand coiled on her naked waist. Squeezing, rubbing and moving. She twitched  his grip and mutely, began chopping garlic and onion and carrots and potatoes and, she could chop all veggies in the kitchen if that could drive him away. But for her, gone were the days when wishes were low hanging fruits. He digged his rough chin in her shoulder, tightening the hold, while cold shiver bolted her body. "It's not fair," she thought angrily. It's indecent.

"Feels good, no?" He smirked her unease away. She stood silent. Crestfallen. Her hands trying to betray her passive mind. The hot oil was bubbling. As she poured the ingredients in the pan, he bit her neck. Her scream escaped through the spattering, sputtering noise. Precisely, her life in capsule when her voice buried in the cacophony of discomfiture. She jerked herself away from his repulsive grip with a huff. Turning her face away, Sabirah tried to escape. The veggies had caramelised by then.

Her thoughts leapt to the day when Sabirah was trying a family recipe in her flat.  Waves of pleasure had run through  her body when those succulent lips licked off the sauce off her lips. The charred smell halted her stream of thoughts. He had gone. Perhaps in rage. Only the coming night could  tell. The recipe was ruined. Her recipe. A nasty odor thickened the air.

How brisk and spicy that day was! The steam of the food blended with that of their bodies. Sabirah had looked in  her eyes with a heavy breath.

She smiled.

TAMASHA - Movie Review

"Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hai ki mai kaun hoon?"  The movie begins with the Robot fixing the trope of the movie i.e. the question of identity. The director creates a dichotomy between the heart and the world, and from there on begins the Tamasha of angst and passion, wonderfully sketched out by Ranbir Kapoor, Deepika Padukone and of course, the director, Imtiaz Ali. The joker on the stage replicates the true self of the Robot which buries in the rubble of the mechanised system where conventions dictate our behaviour through normalisation and discipline. On metaphorical level, the 'janam janam ka taka' between the Joker and Robot is jinxed and later manifests in form of bipolar personality of Ved (Kapoor). In the movie, to applaud the sheer intelligence behind the dialogues , adjectives will fall short!

VED

Ved loves to parachute in the world of fantasy but his transitions in the movie is what Tamasha captures on celluloid. From an extremely inquisitive child who feeds on stories to an adult caught in a ho-hum existence, Tamasha is an intelligently portrayed story with a timely placement of songs and lyrics. The presentation of the story in the form of musical narrative and non linear screenplay surely betray the grapevine influence of the crap feeding Indian audiences which fail to digest quality cinema. The music carries the story forward and intensifies its rich tapestry. Starting from the actual tamasha on stage to the figurative tamasha of life and emotions, the metaphor of Robot stands high for the mechanical existence of conformist people which prey on the dreams and inner self of individuals. Imtiaz Ali, once again, weaves a character with potential rebellion, and from  Jordan to Veera to Ved, his journey hasn't ended yet!

Ved's character is a round one in the movie. The movie begins with his childhood when his heart leapt to behold the rainbow which never let reality get in way of captivating yarns spun in equally mesmerising way by Piyush mishra. "Mai toh chala hiran ke shikar pe" - these lines and the "Chali kahani" song, thereafter, sum up the first part of the movie establishing the incredible network of stories which keeps us compact and interconnected. For instance, the story of Soni-Mahiwal echoes with that of Ved and Tara in the second part of the movie, hence the director rightly throws his dilemma that no one knows where a kahani begins and ends. It just travels!

In the second part of the movie, the beauty and warmth of Corsico lie parallel to the mood of the characters. Happy Ved, happy Corsico and happy music- Imtiaz's use of pathetic fallacy is as fitting as a shoe. The role play again reinforces the dominant trope of identity and can be seen as a way of escape from a socially conditioned self of Ved which stifles him like his tie in the later part of the movie. This is also his unconscious attempt to leap up to that same rainbow of childhood. "Dil ka bhanwar kahe sun sathiya, chup na duppatte mein tu o chhliya" - this precisely capsules what Imtiaz ali wants to portray through his film. This "Matargashti" song and then "Heer toh badi sad hai" songs carry the story forward and set the ambience of the story.

The dexterous use of shadows on stage, mirrors, and other important symbols like clock, his cubicle in office...display inner conflicts and also the gloominess of monotony of a low spirited survival. In part three, even on his date with Tara, Ved's keeps a check of time which shows his complete thrust into the hole of the robotic existence. Moreover, this part also sees his consequent rebound and redemption.  The interval at the break up scene pins its importance as it is a turning point when Ved's life will take a new route. The rickshaw wala of the "Wat Wat" song, emerges as the double of Ved who is "andar se kuchh aur (hi hai hum) aur bahar se majboor" which further trigger's his memory of his engineering days. His final redemption comes from the kahaniwala who, enraged, says-  "dil mein heer liye aur heer khojey viraane mein. farebi, dhokebaaz'' and  indirectly urges him -  Bol De Tu Koi Aur Hai, Chehre Jo Odhe Tune Woh, Tere Kahaan Hain.

TARA
The idea of 'waiting' seems peripheral in the movie, but it actually binds the whole narrative in a nuanced way. Amongst all the 'wait', Tara's is most obvious and also underrated in terms of due acknowledgement.

Laila-Majnu, Heer-Ranjha, Romeo-Juliet, Soni-Mahival, Ram-Sita, and even Helen of Troy who wished to be reunited with Menelaus...all these legends end with the characters waiting, for their lovers, to meet, no matter in death! Ved apparently waits to be Don again and Tara, for her Don...and regardless, she is twice removed from Ved's actual, real self. Tara's period of waiting becomes lesser important , perhaps because of the pact before the 'pack of lies' life in Corsico. However, she is Ved's heroine, his soul's voice which literally and metaphorically gets established in the very beginning of the movie- the joker who juxtapose the robot and is actually the rainbow the latter buried for him. In true sense, Tara is the actual hero who becomes instrumental in varied ways. Moreover, Tara's wait is more corporeal whereas,Ved's wait for the rebound is more psychological. the both stay, because of faith that they will be together. and here, Ved's wait becomes important because he is on verge of mental illness whereas Tara is psychologically healthy and she only is emotionally distraught and nonetheless, both are all by themselves to tackle their own selves. This makes Tamasha much more than just a love story as human emotions have a much larger canvas which can't be exhausted in popcorn worth storylines.

Tara is a very strong character and it becomes important when we view it in context of modern relationships and hook-up culture where physical proximity brushes faith and emotional intimacy aside.


TAMASHA IS A MOVIE WHICH LEAVES A FANTASTIC AFTER TASTE; IN A KIND OF ZONE YOU WANT TO BE IN SOMETIME, ALONE BY YOURSELF!!

You love your blanket, too?

Life is a struggle. It seems as if you have fallen in the Rabbit hole like Alice and stuck midway. You keep whining about it and waste your life in contemplating problems. I am not wise enough to say this but other people are! Well, I think that Uncle Chips and Vanilla ice-cream don't leave any scope for problems.

Life is a struggle. Winter is a struggle. The very question of your pale existence hits you straight on your face like an ill aimed high five, when you have to spurn your new found love time to time. Swiping your doubts, I am  talking about my velvety haired, chocolatey comrade with white and beige crisscross pattern... my BLANKET! Well, Mr. Coelho said that if you want something [vehemently] then the Universe conspires in helping you get that. Really? If I need a coffee, I have to move out of the blanket to let the winter cold beat me all over. The Universe doesn't seem to conspire in my case.  aai shappath.

My thoughts move like a drunkard...they aren't steady and make me ramble through the paragraphs. Mind you, it's not my fault. Read British Literature and you would know, I was predestined* to digress. Anyway, on a much serious note, winters are our lives in capsule. You have to carry arms full of things just like Tweedledum and Tweedledee to have a "battle". We slide into the blanket of illusion of a goody- goody existence and pretend to deny the cold-like hassles. The chill blasts of winter are just like the hammerings life and people give to make you formidable. The fear of cold can't keep you in the blanket for long, for problems can vanish only when you face them. Coffee won't come to you through wind; efforts are needed, for sure. As my part time thinker...overthinker friend says, only a pachyderm can get this coffee, literally and figuratively. Philosophically, humans have an inborn tendency of making the "heaven of hell and hell of heaven." In actuality, human being is an idiot, and the massy flesh on the top of her frame being a bigger idiot.

This winter, welcome, yet not welcome the "Satanic" tendencies in you and push yourself harder to make way out of the Rabbit hole to witness reality, full of adventures!! Good luck.

Also, I am ageing, technically, we all are. I tend to forget. New year is in the offing.

So, HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL.

Lipstick Under My Burkha

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Musings

Winged but ringed

Emancipation promised

Yet impeded with gazes and characterizations!

This happens when you step in the big bad world with all your kit of innocence and artlessness. The world and its people stir your mind through constant jabbing; refresh it and initiate the process of rethinking.

As fast as words could fly, one year in Miranda House too was quick enough to realize. I entered as a fuchcha, in awe of the north campus, only that nobody pinched me if I was dreaming. My campus life precisely began and begins every day, with the walk from the Vishwavidyalaya metro station. No sooner you exit the station, the overexcited rickshaw walas with their blatant hospitality, welcome you in their monotone, “Mirinda, KMC, Hansraj, 10 rupay …madam kahan jaogey?” I started from smiling at them, took to frowning in weeks and over months, ended up ignoring them. Trust me, it happens!

Just when I escape this humdrum, our dear idler student netas are up with their NSUI/ ABVP posters, not least unaware that in no seconds, the paper would be crumpled and hurled, only to clutter the place! But amidst all this, the smell of hot momos and kachodi don’t fail to tingle my nostrils. The booklover inside me doesn’t forget to steal a glance at the book stall adjacent to the antique jewellery stall, where, girls, unlike me, swarm over the items, haggling over the 40 rupees’ danglers!

The area outside the VV station is no less than a mini university in itself where you see students everywhere, laughing at lame jokes, discussing the theories of Marx, fighting over cola, reading Dan Brown or even puffing cigarettes.  The stalls and vendors, the hubbub of people, the eateries and the whole hustle bustle add up to the charm of north campus. While going back home, the occasional nukkad nataks at the station area sum up your day. Walking a little further, in a secluded corner, an old man, clad in a crushed blue check sarong and an outgrown pale white frayed shirt is no less a figure of dignity, squatting against the wall with his weighing machine, earning money and respect in the unsparingly hot sun.

Talking about MH and not introducing cats can definitely hurt the sentiments of the latter. You will see cats and kittens, if not anything, cuddling in laps, lazing in lawns soaking sun, or balancing themselves on roof edges. But I personally dislike Wilson for having devoured an innocent squirrel! Whenever the college’s name echoes, mentioning of the canteens is obligatory. The tidiest canteen in the campus, here, sumptuous chhole bhature and the 6-rupee samosa is a must for all. The Nescafe coffee is the best to keep you refreshed in between the lectures.

The Principal’s corridor, Nescafe lawns, the Hogwarts stairs, Heritage hall…to describe life at the red brick Miranda, one may fall short of adjectives. Some freshers, including me, enter(ed) here with a lot of apprehensions but learn(ed) to dodge the stupid stereotypes the college is looped into. None of the walls in the college reverberates that men are extraterrestrial and girls are not…so they should be loathed. It gives you a lot of space for free ideas and discussion but surely doesn’t provide a battle ground for feminism. Though the class discussions are linear, with no male perspective, but that doesn’t make it any less from other colleges. Another seed of doubt our dear Non-Mirandains may have is that the girls remain desperate to see boys. So, to clear the mist, dear men, you may linger in our conversations but hardly become the epicenter of it.

The estrogen filled corridors with all its pitter-patter seemed suffocating initially but the same aisle became liberating with the feminine vibes, swelling me with pride for what I am, unwary of the judgmental eyes. A girl with long wavy hair to a bad headed one, a girl draping saree to the one wearing shorts and flimsiest of tops, not just this but the Mirandaians are also massive brains who are witty and intelligent with their tongues. Independent as they are, these girls make Miranda what it is and Miranda makes them who they are!

One year in college

Withered away…

Like a Bakula flower

Leaving the scent of memories in air!

Jaggu diaries

#1

The loud music was failing badly to deafen the voice of her crying heart. The pain had sunk its fangs deeper inside her, which oozed out in the form of tiny, warm droplets. “Let’s write,” she thought. With the heart drumming against her chest, she began writing, struggling to manifest her agony in words.

Jaggu began, “What is it that’s more painful? Is it that he hit me in front of 50 people or is it that I hurt him badly by running away, to his utter shock?” She continued, “I know I am obstinate but what I did, is it expected of a bad daughter?” While it was raining cats and dogs, people around her were seeking shelter under the shop shutters or tarpaulin tents of the sabzi walas, and there she was… running anxiously and sobbing uncontrollably. Fully drenched from head to toe, Jaggu finally reached home, the wet face camouflaging her teary eyes.

She was happy that she acted it out well in front of her mom!

Jaggu retired to her room and picked up a book, her solace. But as she started, the letters became hazy. Guilt had then taken better of her. The only thing she wished to do was…apologize!

//Year 2001//

Tallest among the guys, he had ‘tall’ egoism too. He was ever ready to flaunt his fat, yet ridiculous vocab of crude words. Jaggu was no less a rebel and fought with him hand to hand whenever he tried to bully her. He used to hate her in class IV and so did she. They couldn’t see eye to eye with each other. In fact, she had strong urges to break his banana long nose and crush his rowdiness too with it.

Classes reshuffled, and they weren’t in the same section anymore.

Years flew.

//Year 2008//

After 7 years, she became aware of his existence in school. He came back into her life through a mutual friend. Even then, for Jaggu, his presence was like gravity…hardly noticed!  Tall as he had always been, he had turned handsome and to her incredulity, shareef. 

//April, 2011// 

During her second semester in college, he showed up.

Again.

Like a soft blow of wind…

ruffled her life tenderly

and disappeared as morning dew,

having promised to come back…at the right time!

Those four months compelled her to think as where he had been during all those years in school. She found it incomprehensible that the guy whom she detested so much, whose presence didn’t matter to her, who just didn’t exist for her during those 7 years, had now taken refuge inside her. She wondered, why missing him became so ritualistic?! He entered her life at the most unexpected time as the most unexpected person and vanished, taking away a part of her.  Those hands which once wanted to smack his nose, now wanted to belong to him, forever. She often sighed, “Dear ‘dear’…I am not the same person anymore you crossed paths with.”

//August, 2011//

“Where is the envelope mumma,” Jaggu asked peevishly from her mother. Reverting irritably, her mom refused to have any. The girl had scribbled something on a paper and folded it in three pleats. After her frantic search, she found an envelope buried under the spiral pads in the almirah. She secured the letter with a stapler pin and slid the wrapping under the stacks of books while her eyes were moist.

//October, 2011//

Finding solace in books became her need. She unconsciously searched him in the characters of the author’s imagination. The moment she left the book, his picture flashed through her head, replaying everything like a recorded film. Jaggu dreaded her tears while sitting alone as her mind had become ‘his’ favourite haunt. She was often doubtful if he really understood her compulsion and why she did what she did.

//Year 2015//

Everyone wants to love and be loved. “Love is the best feeling on Earth,” they say. It’s a more of a spell to me. It gives you joys of the world. You don’t just the feel the butterflies but the whole bird sanctuary in your stomach. It also gives you sorrows and hurts like nothing…forming lumps in your throat and pit in your stomach. It comes with a baggage overloaded with emotions and sentiments. Your feelings remain on a roller coaster ride.

But once the spell breaks (trust me, it does!), it dawns upon you that what you had been doing all this while was utterly nonsensical! Love is like any other phase of life – which comes and goes…

Dear me

BEWARE

This world is vulnerable…full of hopeless romantics.

P.S.: I am an emotional fool!

*****

Jaggu stumbled upon this letter when she was organizing the mess in her book shelf.

She had written it four years ago. She laughed at it, finally confirming to her own words… utter nonsense!

...

It was the month of July when the sun becomes unsparing. The heat reaches its peak, sapping energy of the innocuous creatures. Myra had come early from college that day and was expecting to be asked what she was expected to do!

“Myra, don’t welcome a beating for yourself and look sharp to get the reports.”  Myra’s mom was in no mood to accept any excuses. But, for the girl, getting up from the couch came with reluctance, given she was enjoying the TV remote in her hands in her brother’s absence.

Muttering under her breath, the 18-year old, hurried from the house and reached the lab to collect the reports. She galloped out of the not so handsome building with the envelope tucked under her arm. As she crossed  two blocks, all of a sudden, a street light pole fell down beside her and she was saved by the skin of her teeth. Amid the panic-stricken birds and perplexed bystanders, there she was, white as ghost. Irrespective of the loo, her nerves got cold and her heart was thumping at the speed of a bullet train. Myra's eyes were opened wide, jaw half sunk, fists clenched tightly, and goosebumps exploded over her skin. She hallucinated as if someone had shackled her legs. The girl could hear the hubbub of people who had swarmed around her. The excruciating shock had robbed her of her senses for a few minutes. Someone from the crowd quaked her and said, “You are saved dear. By the Supreme’s grace you are safe. How lucky! You had a hairline escape.” A gust of wind helped her retrieve her lost senses. she was about to shed tears but sniffed them back.

Feeling wobbly on her knees, she got back home. The TV remote laid on the couch waiting for her to grab it and start pressing the buttons like crazy. But it laid there and there only…

When you sacrifice your kulcha in the face of adversity!

Haggling with the rickshaw wallah for a few seconds, we paved the way to the Delhi ridge. But before we could march ahead the aroma of the kulchas tingled our nostrils and the very next moment, we had them packed for the ‘picnic’. But we hadn’t walked even three steps when we realized that the monkeys have an eye on us and our hotly packed bread. Seeking refuge in my satchel, the food was safe. We ascended the steep track. All we could see were trees, monkeys, more trees, squirrels, even more trees and birds…love birds, perched here and there, everywhere!

When we found a vacant bench after an innocuous search of five minutes, I promised to treat myself with the three oranges I had in my bag, then and there. The moment we rested on the bench, a squirrel began frolicking around us. I thought that the pickle in the chholey will satisfy her but she mistook us to be too generous that she called her friends too for the lunch. And lo and behold! The squirrel hopped on the bench when we had had not many morsels of the bread. We got up hurriedly, clutching all our paraphernalia and whisked from the place only to encounter a monkey gawking at us. My first instinct was offering him my food, which I did. So, did my friend. But two kulcha rolls (which we had managed to make in the meantime) didn’t seem to appease him. At the back, we could hear guys making sundry remarks. Fully equipped with his sharp canines and harmful intent, he was in an attacking stance. God bless those boys who scared the animal away with their loud cacophony otherwise I wouldn’t have been writing this so amusingly.

The intuition was deep-rooted that the monkey was still eyeing us and can attack us anytime with his entourage. So, while retreating, we made sure to be tails of a random couple!

P.S.: The ridge in DU’s North Campus is

Green

Beautiful

Lovers’ friendly

BUT

In the face of ADVERSITY,

you might have to sacrifice your kulcha!

Amira

The dusk had descended and the chill blast of winter was not so welcoming. Almost everyone in Amira’s vicinity had withdrawn to their burrows. Lying on her stomach and murmuring her favourite song, the six-year-old was doodling something on a scrap of paper which she found near her tent the other day. Her one-year-old brother, Moosa, slept in tranquility making Amira envious of his garden of dreams, full of serenity. After a short while, she was carried away by sleep.

The rays of the morning sun came slicing down her face. It was not long ago when the girl dreamt of going to school and making more friends.  But it took just one harrowing day to transform her world into a nightmare. The bomb blasts took away her father, her house, her country and her hopes. Amira’s only experience of madarsa was what she fantasised of in her head. Her happy future came crumpling down like that building in her neighbourhood two years ago, and lost somewhere in the rubble.

“I am quite brave, but I feel scared now,” Amira exclaimed while climbing the boat to the Lesbos islands. Yes, she was scared of the huge waves and of course, her life. Nonetheless, she was just a six-year-old caught between the conflict and a futile war, struggling for survival. Amira recalled, “The sea was enormous, windy and scary at the same time.” She vividly remembered that she couldn’t move her hands and feet for five hours at a stretch, for the boat was overloaded. Allah-u-Akbar echoed in the air because everyone feared that the boat might capsize and the hungry waves might devour them all.   

The little girl travelled with her mother and younger brother. Fear of insecurity, uncertainty and death was written in large letters on every single person’s face. Amidst the hullaballoo of cries and discontent, there was a sort of quandary shrouded on the boat. The trauma people went through, including the end of livelihoods in their own homeland where they sadly became refugees, shifting from one place to another and finally to Lesbos, in search of hope. Also, the flux about the future and the hardships reflected in their eyes and flowed down in form of tiny droplets. Amid all this, Amira thought of her new toys and dresses which she had not used even once and to her amazement, the baggage was flung in the sea. Moreover, water splashed all over the boat and this further aggravated her distress as her only frock too was damp by now.

It grew pitch dark and the island could be seen. Fortunately, the boat reached the shore safely and people hurled their life saving jackets out of sheer joy. Some were happy and some were horrified at having taken such a risk. The fear had shackled their very souls and had left them in an eerie numbness. But the shivering Amira was gay, ironically, for the future prospects in the island!

Like yesterday and a day before, Amira was again lying on her stomach when the world went in slumber. Up with her pencil and another shred of paper, she landed in her world and scribbled. A gust of wind twitched the paper from her hand. On the paper, the little creature had sketched what she experienced at such tender age. A building being bombed, a boy bleeding from the head, a mother wailing with her dead child on her lap… in nutshell, the cruel and pathetic condition that had become the reality of Syria. Maybe in the stillness and solitariness of night, the girl tried to manifest her plight in those sketches and experience a cathartic release.

Amira sneaked through the camp and took hold of the paper and resumed her drawing, silently humming her regular song:

“We've come to wish you happy holidays,

Why is that we do not have any holidays/decorations,

World.... my land is burned down,

My land's freedom is stolen.”

Musafir

Few days back, with all my paraphernalia, I went for a walk to the Qutb Complex. I grew up hearing a lot about the Qutb Minar. Doesn't it look like a crafty pencil from the metro station? 

 An aunty living next door recalls her experience of Qutb Complex-

“Ah! Nice place for recreation.

I liked the construction but it also seemed plundered.

 The designs were artistic, though quite ambiguous.

 I don’t remember much but yes…we clicked a lot of selfies!!”

It feels good that we live in a country with rich cultural heritage. But as a matter of fact, these cultural sites (for most of us) are sheer touristy structures.

For me as well, these were pride taking edifices but these are much more than this. Ahead of the red sandstone structures are times gone by. From the Alai Darwaza to the Iltutmish tomb to the Khilji madarsa, the expertise of the then architects can be seen. It is true that visiting this place has truly inspired me as it has elevated my understanding of the cultural aspects of that period and why they are what they are.

Stepping inside the complex, I learnt about the true and the false/ corbel arch. Initially, to me, the curve meant to be just like another doorway. Alai Darwaza has the only true arch in the whole complex.

Moving further, the beautiful designs on the stone pillars in the Quwwat-ul -Islam complex interested me. Actually, the mosque was built, rather restructured, on the ruins of Hindu-Jain temples. Since Islam doesn’t allow Hindu symbols, many human figures were disfigured, especially the faces. The pillars outside the mosque are plain and the ones inside are ornate. The bell and ‘kalash’ motifs are prominent. The Alai Darwaza too is richly carved with geometrical inscriptions and the horse shoe arches are decorated with lotus bud motifs.

I remember, what had happened inside the Iltutmish tomb. I sat on the grave oblivion of the fact that it was the cenotaph which is to be revered. Ignorance rules the world. Isn’t it? For a layman, it is just a marble structure. Just in front of the cenotaph is a mihrab which is the doorway to ‘Jannat’. That’s why we say, “Life is lived forwards, but understood backwards.”

Terms like squinch and arabesque seemed alien to us before, but now we use them flamboyantly in our vocabulary. Efforts were made to amalgamate Hindu and Islamic architecture and the instances can be seen in the entire complex.

The heavily decorated interior of the Iltutmish tomb lies in sharp contrast to the Khilji tomb which appears to be in ruins. The presence of the grave and a symbolic mihrab shows that Aluddin khilji had detached him from the material culture.

Qutb Minar is a kind of face of Delhi. The very sight of Qutb Minar was amazing. The cylindrical shafts separated by balconies, honey comb designs, floral motifs, arabesque and other inscriptions make it no less beautiful. Even the “Lohe ki Laath” (the Iron Pillar) is incredible. The hallmark of Indian scientific technology, this magical rust free pillar goes back to 400 CE.

After visiting the monuments, I have developed a certain sense of understanding of our own identity and of course, the culture. In the metro my time passed reminiscing the walk. Now, next time if I go to Gurugram, the very spectacle of Qutb Minar is going to freshen up the history behind it!

“GENTLY FALLS THE BAKULA”

Well! Most probably in class 3, we had read a story of a boy whose parents gifted him a canary on his birthday. Initially, he nurtured the bird with utmost care but after a few days, his caring attitude shrunk to zero.  Alas! The poor animal died one day following the lad’s slackness.

Relationships are ditto. A “relationship” perishes when it is not cultivated well. Perseverance, patience, love, time and care are the ingredients required for a healthy relationship …“Gently Falls The Bakula” hinges on the same theme.  It’s a story of a marriage turned sour.

The prolific writer, Sudha Murthy, has precisely captured the reality of the society, in fact of the corporate world, in a book. The simple language laden with an intense theme adds additional stars to the beauty of the novel.

The novel lingers around Shrikant and Shrimati , who are neighbours . Also they are classmates and more than that, tough competitors. Bakula holds great significance in the novel as it is the bakula flower only which first attracts shrikant towards shrimati. Love blooms between   them during their higher studies. Shrikant pursues engineering from IIT, Bombay. But distance doesn’t diminish the love between ‘Shri’ and Shrimati. To put it better, the relationship stands the test of time and distance. Every time Shrimati writes to Shri, she attaches a bakula flower to the letter and these attachments are symbolic of the fact that the fragrance of their love would never go away. Though, the families of the two are engaged in a feud but still the love birds tie a knot.

But fate has something else in store for the couple. “Behind every man’s success, there is a woman.” This statement is true as far as the story is concerned.  Shrikant climbs the corporate ladder steadily whereas Shrimati acts like air under his wings. The horse vision of Shri makes him overlook Shrimati’s aspirations. Be it doing a job for the sake of her in-laws or putting on hold her studies; be it suppressing her motherly instinct or craving for Shri’s love and time…Shrimati bears it all. She curbs her own dreams; her love for History. But Shri just doesn’t acknowledge Shrimati’s silent support. Rather he uses her as a tool; a tool that is intelligent and who, he knows would never voice anything. True! “When favours are expected, then they are not appreciated” and henceforth, things are bound to go downhill.

Shrimati’s life takes a somersault when she gains deeper insight into the fact as how she makes her husband’s dream hers and in the process digresses from her own path and loses not only her identity but her self-esteem as well!!

So, what do you think she does next?

Does she carry on with her deplorable life or does she break free?

Does she chase her passion for History?

What becomes of her relationship with Shrikant whom she had loved so much?

Whatsoever happens in end, one thing that is obvious is that Sudha Murthy etches her characters wonderfully and the message in her books leaves you introspecting and brooding. The bakula tree whose flowers once stood for the love between Shrikant and Shrimati collapses sadly. The fragrance of their love disappears. And hence, the bakula gently falls!!

Harshita Kaushik

“ Vision without action is merely a Dream;

Action without vision is merely passing Time;

But Vision and Action together can bring about a Revolution.”

Once upon a time there was a poor man, Manjhi,who carved out a road from the mountain single-handedly with a hammer and a chisel. He took 22 years to do this incredible feat. He was bitten by snake; he victimized femine ; survived on grass and weeds....Doesn’t it sound like a grandmother tale? But it is not! A true saga of a pitiable man who lost his wife, which remarked the beginning of his venture.

 If you are fired from within and vehement to achieve something, then the whole universe conspires in helping you achieve that. Dashrath Manjhi has become an epitome of single-minded focus and sturdy will power. One comes away gob spanked at the sheer grit, undeterred determination and faith of the Mountain Man who simply refused to give up. It is unfallaciously true that one just cannot beat the person who never gives up! A mammoth inspiration for the populace, Manjhi’s story is also one of conviction and valour. Doggedly chiseling away the formidable rock is not having a piece of cake.

Next time if you find any task challenging or a hard nut, just conjure Manjhi’s image and recall his words, “ …pahaad todne se bhi mushkil hai kya?”

Saandaar Jabarjast Jindabad !!