I Just Saw Death

I just saw Death
In the chilling night

Manacles choking my breath
Killing with His might

Where was I made to atone?
Were those snowy roads in Shimla?
Were those picturesque lanes in London?
Was it just my cold villa?

There he was with his mug of coffee
Glancing at me - from my window seal
There I was addicted to smokes of poppy
Raising his fist in wild vengeance - to kill

I knew it was Death
Bells were ringing over in the citadel
I guessed He was Macbeth
She was no victim but an infidel

Three Tales of Three Cities

(Caution:You might find it too cheesy)

Tale 1:Bangalore

This is where the "intelligent" people work !

He came out of the Embassy Golf Link Business Park in Domlur. Paused for a smoke. It was Friday. The day you don't need to dress up in formals in your capitalist companies. He decided to walk, all the way to Koramangala Sony World. He looked around. There were hundreds of them leaving their offices for the weekend. Many of them wearing T-shirts of their fancy colleges. There was a lean young man with high power specs in his IIT-Kanpur T-shirt. Another lady in her IIM-Lucknow attire dropped her cigarette and walked towards her office cab. And as usual there were a couple of BITS-Pilanis around. This is the city where the so-labelled high IQ people work. Sacrifice their days and nights, sweat and brains for capitalists and churn out a handful of money.What do they do with this money? 

He walked towards the legendary Legends of Rock in Koramangala and found a score of them sitting there. He ordered a pitcher of draught beer. He gulped down a few glasses, staring at these branded young people.He filled his fourth glass when a text message flashed in his mobile.

"Zyada mat peena :P" ("Don't drink much")

He kept on staring at the message for a long time. He couldn't recall the last time when someone had asked him to curb his drinking habits. He searched for the picture of the sender. A cute, little face. He couldn't drink any longer. He knew she doesn't exist in his world. It was just a digital electronic message in this silicon city. But he decided to obey.

He didn't realize it was cupid striking.

Tale 2: New Delhi

This is where the "powerful" people work !

He was walking downwards the Raisina Hills. On the straight road that led to the India Gate. He looked around. There were the majestic buildings. Built in the regal British style. The Ministry of Finance, the Ministry of Home Affairs and what not ! Not very far away, there was the Parliament House where the so-labelled powerful people decide the fate of the nation. On the other side, there was Pranab Babu's home. The Rashtrapati Bhawan.

He glanced to his right. She was walking with him. In her own graceful manner. Dressed in her loving red kurta and giving smiles to him. They stopped a few yards away from the Central Secretariat metro station. Sat down at a  pedestal. The lake in front of the President's palace right behind them.

He looked at her and gently said, "Can I kiss you?"

She was taken aback, "There are so many people around"

He replied back, "So what ! We will always remember that we kissed right in front of Pranab Babu's palace."

The next moment he implanted a deep kiss on her lips. For a few seconds, he was in another world. A heavenly world. The next moment he opened his eyes. She was not there. Whatever comes must also go away one day. He was left alone, gazing at the wide roads and the colorful crowd at the India Gate.

He didn't realize it was cupid striking.

Tale 3: Mumbai

This is where the "rich" people work !

He started walking from the Charni Road station all along the Marine Drive. It was night. And this is another India. Far away he could see Ambani's giant Antilla. This is the kingdom where the so-labelled rich people live. Tata, Birla, Ambani, Bachchan, Khan, Tendulkar ! You name them and you will realize this is their Paradise. He was heading towards the Nariman Point. There were a few royal chariots. Chariots that charged in dollars. So that the foreign tourists could boast of a ride in a horse-driven chariot in this land of snake-charmers and magicians.

He looked at her. He always wanted to take her out for a royal ride in a white horse. He paid two grands to the charioteer and got into the chariot. She was smiling at him. He got into the chariot and held his hand out for her. For a moment he could feel her soft hands. Touching his hand. And then there was no one. He was all alone in the white-horse driven chariots that took enthusiastic foreign tourists for an extravagant ride from the Marine Drive to the Gateway of India. She had vanished into the thin air. Far away in the Arabian Sea, a small boat was struggling against the mighty waves.

He didn't realize it was cupid striking.

Bombay - The land where land ends

“Baarikhar Rati Tumar Kobik Monot Porene Arundhati” (Translates to: “Arundhati, do you remember your poet on a rainy night”).

It happens only once in a blue moon that the lines from an Assamese poem or song strike such a chord. Probably you need a rainy night for these lines to reverberate within you. Surrender yourself to the rains – on a rainy Bombay night. In the country’s westernmost end. The land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

Look around at the Bandstand in Bandra. On one end you will see the sea. The never-ending darkness it carries. You will see lovebirds chirping and holding hands merrily, oblivious and unconcerned that is raining. It is 11 in the night. It is weekend. And the city has just woken up from its week-long slumber. The gentle sea-breeze will hit you on the face, soothe you and also shake you. Sea-breeze cocktailed with doses of intoxication. Cans of alcohol and packets of cigarettes will seem trivial? Only the deep sea can cause the effect. This is the land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

This is the land where millions of dreams get lost. Look around at the statues, inscriptions and finger-prints. You will find the great Raj Kapoor standing and smiling in his “Mera Joota Hain Japani” attire. The man who could dare to stand up against the conservative Indian society and set his own everlasting trends. The “awara” who could dare to strike his own dad when he realizes that the man is not worth being his dad. The joker who could make you smile and laugh even when his own world was getting shattered into pieces. The man who could direct a Bobby in a bikini or a Ganga in a transparent white piece of cloth and still make the make the Indian moral police respect his art. Millions come to this city, aspiring to reign over the dream-world. And what happens? Get lost in the crowd of billions, heavy traffic and terrible downpours. Not very far away, you can hear a band performing. A young boy in his teens singing in his sublime, God-gifted voice. What will you feel? Jealous – because you can never ever sing so well to the Arundhati of your dreams. Respect – because the young boy deserves every bit of it. This is the land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

And then you see her. The Arundhati of dreams. Moving around gracefully. Did she look at you and smile? Probably she did. For a moment your heart will leap with joy. She smiles at you, she cares for you. The next moment you see a fancy limousine coming out of the Taj Lands End hotel. The car stops in front of her. You can see the rich and famous man coming out. He holds her hand, opens the car door for her. You can take a quick glimpse at the car. You can hear wonderful music playing from its imported music system. You will see bottles of expensive liquor near the front seat. She gets into the limousine and goes away for a drive. What do they do? Savor the pleasures of good music and expensive liquor in an imported vehicle? Make love? You don’t deserve to know. You will never know. A pauper in black shorts and torn slippers will never have the right to know what the dreamy Arundhati does in the rich man’s limousine. The city of Bombay strikes back. This is the world where a pauper can smile at his dream girl and see her go out with the man from Lands End. This is the world where you will realize your limits and your rights. You never have the right to know what happens in the world of Lands End, fancy cars and imported wine. This is the world where the slums of Dharavi and the Taj survive so close to each other. This is the land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

It Happens in India

Three strikingly similar incidents I faced in three different corners of the country - in less than 6 months.

I had accidental rendezvous with a Marathi couple in Bangalore, a Sikkimese Lama in New Delhi and a Tamil Brahmin in Guwahati.

Incident 1

Yesterday. Near Domlur Flyover. Bangalore.

It was almost 5:30 PM. I was returning from my internship work at National Aerospace Laboratories, waiting for a bus to Koramangala. A couple approached me. There was a young child with them. They were decently dressed and didn’t seem to look like beggars.

The Husband (to me): Sir…Hindi..Hindi ?

I replied: Haan, haan. Hindi aati hain. (Yes, I can follow Hindi)

Husband (in Hindi): Sir, we are from Nagpur. We had gone for a pilgrimage to Kanyakumari. Our entire luggage got stolen in Yeshwantpur Railway Station. All the money we had was in one of the stolen bags. So we were left empty-handed.

Wife (in Hindi): We’re not beggars, sir. But our child is very hungry and we don’t have any money to feed him.

I looked at the child. A four-year old boy and he definitely looked hungry.

Incident 2

May 2012. Near Meghdoot Bhawan. Guwahati

I was coming out of Meghdoot Bhawan the largest post-office in Assam when a young man approached me. He was of the same age as me and he indubitably didn’t look like a beggar. He had a long lines of sandal paste on his forehead – a typical Tamil Brahmin.

The young man (to me): Sir…English aata hain? (Sir, do you know English)

Me: Yes.

Young man: Sir, I’m from Tamil Nadu. I am a worker in the NHPC power-plant in the Subansiri river. I was returning from home when my luggage got stolen in the train. I need to reach the place called Gerukamukh in upper Assam but I don’t have a single penny with me. Sir, can you please give me some money. You can give me your bank account number. I will return back the money to you once I reach Gerukamukh. I can’t comprehend the local language here and I am really feeling scared.

Incident 3

March 2012. Near Old Delhi Railway Station. New Delhi.

I had just arrived in Delhi from Pilani for some one-day work. I was heading towards the Chandni Chowk metro station and was talking to a friend on the phone. I was speaking in Assamese. Someone gently pulled me from behind. I turned back to see a Buddhist Lama.

The Lama (to me): Brother, are you an Assamese ?

Me: Yes, I am.

The Lama: I’m from Sikkim. I belong to the Gurkha community.

Me: Well, I can also speak your native language Nepali.

The Lama (in Nepali): Brother, I am in serious trouble. An hour back, I arrived from Dharamshala in Himachal Pradesh. And my entire backpack got stolen in the train just before it could reach Delhi. My mobile, ATM card everything was in the backpack. I have a train to New Jalpaiguri tomorrow morning. Can you please give me some money so that I can take an auto and go to my friends’ place in Delhi? You can also give me your account number. I shall return the money to you as soon as I reach Sikkim !!

The Spark

Living with 24x7 internet connection in the hostels of BITS leads to one advantage. One gets access to some of the best movies in the world very easily. Being engrossed in a world where Scorsese, Kubrick, Tarantino, Eastwood and Francis Ford Coppola are the talk of the day, it took me a long time to realize that it has been years I missed the awesome palatable food made at home. Had I not made an accidental trip to Delhi a few weeks back and had I not bumped into an Assamese film festival near JNU campus, I would have remained oblivious of the beauty that is Assamese cinema. The cinema of my native land that has garnered many national and international awards. The cinema that has given birth to legendary figures like Bhupen Hazarika !

One of the remarkable movies I got to watch in the movie festival was ‘Firingoti’ (which translates into English as ‘The Spark’). An award winning movie directed by Jahnu Baruah, the movie won lots of acclaims when it was released in 1992.

I grew up hearing about Moloya Goswami as a lecturer who taught my mom during the latter’s college days. Although Ms. Goswami is more popular in the north-east as someone who won the National Award for Best Actress for her charismatic performance in the Assamese movie ‘Firingoti’.

Moloya Goswami receiving the National Award
from President of India R Venkataraman for Firingoti

Set against the backdrop of the Sino-Indian war, Firingoti narrates the tale of a young widow who is sent as a school-teacher to one of the remotest parts of Assam. On reaching the remote village, she realizes that the village children had not had the privilege of attending a school since decades. The movie chronicles the struggle of this young lady as she sets up a school for the children of this village which had been deprived for so long with the blessings of education and knowledge.

If someone like me – from a generation that grew up on Hollywood and Bollywood flicks would sit to watch the movie, one would keep presuming how the turn of events might take place. A hero might enter the scene and start running around the trees with the protagonist. Some high-voltage drama might take place in the climax!! The new-generation spectator would keep making wild guesses as he sits watching the movie. And he would get it wrong every time. This is where the movie shines. No romance, no action, no high drama and still the viewer would end up watching the movie of a life-time. Firingoti lights up the spark within the viewer with a simple tale narrated in a simple manner. The audience is left enamored in the end, thanks to the brilliant direction of Jahnu Baruah.

PS: Watch Jahnu Baruah’s only Bollywood venture Maine Gandhi Ko Nahin Maara (2005) to see his crafty style of direction. Maine Gandhi….. bagged the Special Jury award at the National Film Awards and also won many awards in various international film festivals.

An Evening in Delhi

(To Whomever it May Concern: Most of the characters and events mentioned here are fictional. Any resemblance to those living or dead MIGHT be or MIGHT NOT be a mere co-incidence. So please don't try to screw my life :P)

“Is this the real life?/ Is this just fantasy?/ Caught in a landslide/ No escape from reality/ Open your eyes/ Look up to the skies and see….”

The Bohemian Rhapsody echoed through the walls in Namit’s room. His twin brother Amit was furiously playing his favorite tune on the guitar and humming the song. The view of Amit sitting on the balcony with a guitar made Namit restless. How could this eccentric fellow be so tragic on a Diwali afternoon!!

“Amit, your packet of cigarettes is burning out. I can’t believe you finished the whole pack while playing the guitar.”

“Yes, my dear brother. That’s what life does to people. Can’t help it.”

“What!! Come back to senses you ……”, Namit tried to lower his  voice, “ I can’t comprehend your intentions when you come to Delhi? Obviously you don’t come here just to meet me. You go out and party hard with every second beautiful girl you meet here. In fact, you know the girls in my college better than I do….”

“….Yeah, and then I come back to your room from the parties, pick up the guitar, take a smoke and sit down as if I am the biggest loser in the world. I know that my dear. Say something new bro.”

“Amit, why don’t you just focus on your career? You are in such a good position. A little bit of dedication now can take you to great heights.”

“Namit, I never knew doing honors in science can make someone so unromantic like you”

“And I never knew doing engineering can make someone a hopeless romantic like you”

Namit gave a grim look and continued, “Have you heard of the association called FOSLA. You join that. I can bet they will make you the president there.”

“FOSLA!! What is that?”

“Frustrated One-Sided Lovers’ Association.”
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Delhi! The mesmerizing capital city of India. Far away from the balcony in Mehrauli, Amit could view the towering Qutab Minar. It soared high like the pride of this city which has borne the brunt of many a generation; this city which has been the seat of rulers over centuries. Rulers who have changed the destiny of this great nation.

 The city of love. The city of power. The city which has taught him how to fall in love. The city which shaped his illustrious career. And maybe even destroyed it!

It was a walk from the Chawri Bazar metro station to the Jama Masjid. It was the taste of royal Mughal food in the restaurant of Karim’s that allured him. She was sitting next to him, ordering every expensive food item available there. Sheena or Sheela or…..?? He could hardly recollect her name. They had met just the previous night. And there he was, taking her out for a royal treat. He knew this incident would lead to another session of “change yourself-live a better life-blah blah” lecture from Namit. His twin brother has been trying a lot to mend his wayward ways. Namit.  The only person in this fast-paced city who cared to care about him.
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“ You know, I always have wanted to be a social-worker. And do something for my people. For my country.” She was speaking to Amit in a serious tone. He had never envisaged that a boozed-up woman can be so serious. He had always thought girls get over-emotional after being drunk. But here was the big exception in front of him.

Damn! He couldn’t still remember her name.

She was high with two shots of vodka and she started talking patriotism in front of him. She might have probably started feeling she was a Sonia Gandhi giving political instructions to the distraught Amit in front of her.

Namit would have definitely told him, “ I don’t understand what do you get by spending money on these girls. Better give the money to some beggar who would really need it.”

Namit knew Amit would never mend his ways. His twin brother. His alter-ego. Amit would continue to be the hopeless romantic.

Amit and the wannabe-social worker girl walked through the crowded Chandni Chowk market.

They kept on walking, Amit listening to She-Whose-Name-He-Couldn’t-Remember’s blabbering talk until they reached the Jantar Mantar. The observatory which showed the erudition of the ancient Indian astronomers.

“You know Amit, I met Anna Hazare here. I gave an application to him. And he agreed to listen to my request.” Amit thought it would be wiser to ignore the drunken lady’s words. He was getting restless to reach his brother’s room.
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“Yes, it is true. She actually met Anna Hazare”, Namit’s statement almost choked Amit who was trying to have a glass of water.

“What! Namit, don’t tell me you have started boozing.”

“No. I am serious. I know the girl well. She is from my college. She went to Anna Hazare when he was in Jantar Mantar and gave a letter to him describing the plight of Irom Sharmila Chanu.”

“She knew about Sharmila!! She looks so dumb!” Amit had not yet recovered from his state of shock.

“I don’t know why engineering students think that they are the cleverest lot in this world,” Namit patted his brother, “yes, she knew about Irom Sharmila Chanu of Manipur. The lady who has been fasting since a decade. The lady who has dared to raise a voice. The lady who has been on a hunger strike demanding the removal of the Armed Forces Special Power Act from her home-state.This girl went and told Anna Hazare in front of the elite crowd that if a few-month long hunger strike from Anna was enough to grab the eyeballs of the whole nation, then why are people so silent about the sufferings of this brave lady who is being fed through her nose for many years; who is being constantly arrested and re-arrested for no reason. Why can’t Anna Hazare bring her to national limelight just the way he has glorified himself.”

“And what did Anna say?”

“He has agreed to visit Manipur and meet Sharmila. No one in the huge crowd of politicians, activists and erudite could care to remember about Sharmila. Everyone was too busy bashing the government and venerating Anna Hazare. But this young girl had the guts to raise her voice. I don’t think you or I could have done that brother.”

A Few Moments of Love

(A fiction written by me, which was published two years back in "The Assam Tribune" - a leading English daily in north-east India.)

I wonder if you will again appear in front of me. I doubt if those mesmerizing eyes will ever smile at me. I know you will never have those feelings for me. But I know you will never forget those few moments with me. I want to remain as a flying non-erasable desire within you. You seem to be the tranquillity within me. You seem to be the only solace for me……………………..

…………….Decades of terrorism has played havoc with the beautiful land of Assam. The banks of the Brahmaputra and the Barak that have sheltered the homeless and fed the umpteen farmers are being polluted with the burning cartridges and the blasting bombs. Barbarism in the name of revolution has made many innocent souls cross the Ajax. Their beautiful dreams devastated in less than a few seconds. Hiding in the jungles of Assam and its bordering nations the revolutionaries and their various demands have put the common people in a state of panic and distress. It so happened one day when a huge force of BSF jawans marched in one of the jungles of Assam. But why were they marching in those woods? All dressed in green; their faces painted in black!!!!  Who informed them that some regiment of a militant outfit was hiding in the wilderness? Their intelligence bureau? Or a foreign government of some border nation in pursuit of getting some help from the government of India? None knew the reason but the jawans moved on and on. Very soon, a few tents in between the trees were visible to them. There might be some terrorists hiding there. The soldiers instantaneously took position on the ground; their rifles ready to shoot at any moment………………………..

………………..I could perceive that the helicopter was rising in the air. There were handcuffs on both my hands. My eyes tied with black cloth. I could feel two BSF soldiers sitting on my both sides. I turned my head to the right, then to the left. There was nothing but darkness all around. And in the midst of the darkness I could feel her. I could sense her. Far away in the river bank there she was filling the steel pots with water. And then she shrieked when she saw me .Well any lady would have been scared seeing me in that condition. My entire outfit was drenched with mud. My right arm bleeding due to the bullet shot I had received the previous night. Probably I might have been looking wild and deadly. I had spent the whole night in some muddy pit clenching the pen-drive inside my shirt. The pen-drive was more important than my own life. I could not lose it. I could not demolish it. Nor I could hand it over at the disposal of the Indian army. The survival of our entire militant group depended on the documents stored in the pen-drive. I could no longer stand up. I fell on my knees in front of the lady.

 “ O merciful lady. Please help this man in distress. I am badly wounded. Please help me.”

I did not realize at that moment but I was literally begging in front of that young girl. There was a look of sacredness in her eyes. But she finally replied.

“I live in the foothills. But my parents are not at home.”

“Please help me young lady. I am dying. I need some rest and food.”

Eventually she acquiesced with my pleas. She asked me to follow her to the foothills. I limped behind her.  She kept turning behind and looking at me. Waiting for me to catch up to her pace. But she never held my arm and helped me in moving fast. It was beyond the rule of a country lasso to hold the hands of a stranger. I moved on. Finally we reached the young lady’s hut. I entered inside the hut. My strength could no longer support me. I fell down…………………………

………………. The BSF jawans crawled on the ground. They moved very near to the militant camp. A few terrorists were visible to them in the tents. A series of bullets were fired. The terrorists were at a loss to comprehend anything. Most of them succumbed to the shots. The others fell wounded. The militants in the neighbouring tents tried retaliating with bullets. But soon they were too gunned down or captured. The militant outfit was of no match to the huge force of BSF soldiers…………….

……………..I tried moving my hand only to find it was stiffened. It was bandaged. A smell of mud entered my nose. I was in a hut and there she was staring at me sitting in a stool beside me. The next moment I realized where I was.

“So Saab   you are back to senses. I have bandaged your arm. You were bleeding very much.”

Her voice sounded soothing to me. For the first time I looked into her face. Never had I beheld anyone so beautiful. She was very young – maybe in her early twenties. She was fair, had long hair and small eyes – the typical look of a tribal girl living in the foothills. But my heart felt she was mesmerizingly beautiful. I longed to move my hand forward, touch her small hands and smile at her.

“Saab, drink this tea. It will give you some strength. It’s almost dark and my parents will be back home very soon.” she spoke in haste. She might have felt uncomfortable because of me staring at her.

“Thank you young lady”, I told her in a feeble voice. I had realized that I was too weak to utter even a few words.

She smiled back at me. It was a small smile but a beautiful one. And then there was a knock in the door. She peeped out through a hole.

“It is the army people.”

I sprang to my feet. Fear of death always brings out intrinsic strengths from a person.

“Hold on”, I told her “let me get out of the back door first. Only then you open the door.”

She gave a look of alarm at me. Till then she might not have realized that the person she was sheltering and tending to was a most wanted terrorist. But for some unknown reason she complied with my request.

………. By mid-day the soldiers ransacked all the militant camps in the woods. Until a certain soldier raiding the base camp noticed that in the base camp there lived seven terrorists but they could only find six dead bodies there. The soldiers were pretty sure they had surrounded the entire base camp and shot down every single being inside the camp itself. But still one person was missing!!!

   Another observant soldier noticed that there was a destroyed laptop in the base-camp. Soon it was deduced that some shrewd terrorist had escaped the gun-shots, destroyed the only laptop in the terrorist camp and probably ran away with some important documents. The jawans set out in the woods hunting for that one terrorist…………………..     

……………I got out from the backdoor of the young girl’s hut and tried running into the thick forest. In a few minutes I could hear heavy boots following me. I tried to run faster………and faster………….even the bandage in my arm seemed heavy. I had to get away. I needed to get beyond the hills and hand over the pen-drive to our unit there. A sharp bullet hit on my leg. I collapsed. My hand reached out to destroy the pen-drive. The next moment there were several rifles pointing to my forehead. Four uniformed soldiers were surrounding me…………………………..

………………… The helicopter landed somewhere in Guwahati and we were taken to the police station. A huge group of reporters and photographers followed our van. I was taken to police-custody in a wheel-chair. There were blood-stained dead-bodies of my fellow-cadets lying in the police-station. There was also the body of a young lady. There were bullet-shots all over her. My heart almost stopped. I asked the officers to show me the face of the lady. My eyes closed down. I could no longer bear the sight of it. Yes, it was she. She, whose name I never knew. She, who had smiled at me. She, who had bandaged me.

I had spent the last twenty years of my life in the hills and forests evading the ravages of the military and the police. But never had I panicked on seeing death. Never had I cried on seeing a body covered with blood. But this time it was different. My heart screaming at me that this is how you feel when someone you love gets snatched away from you. Maybe, this was how many innocent people had wept when I had blasted bombs across the towns of Assam and killed their near and dear ones. Maybe, this was how the mothers had panicked when my bombs emptied their innocent laps. Maybe, this was how the helpless widows had shrieked when my bullets wiped out their husbands and orphaned their children. Long years of bullets and bombs could never teach me that. But a few moments of love did it.