Enter Bhagwaan

It was almost ten 'o clock now. Mummy and Pop (Papa was being called Pop these days) had left for work more than an hour back. The maid had finished her sweeping and cleaning too. Diya lingered over her breakfast today, when on most other days she would gulp it down hurriedly. She sat picking up and nibbling at the remains of the bread in her plate. When even they were over, she resorted to making spirals out of ketchup. Her usual play time was nine thirty but Nani's visit to their house had turned her world slightly topsy turvy. Since morning, which was when Nani arrived, Diya had been finding herself displaced from her usual spots. First Nani had sat on her favourite sofa, then Nani's big brown bag had sat where Diya liked her pretty Barbie kitchen set to be and now Nani had been sitting in the Puja Room for almost an hour.

On another day, by this time Diya would be in the Puja Room with all four of her Barbies. She would've set up the dining table (She dint have a dining table so she used the big book with the red velvet cover that Mummy read to Ramji every morning.) for them and seated them around it. Ramji, from Mummy's Puja also came down to sit and play. Ramji was her favourite doll. Because he had pretty ornaments and also Mummy had often told Diya that Ramji would take care of her. Ramji was her friend and protector while the Barbies were slightly lower in hierarchy in her scheme of things. She herself wanted to join them at the table but she found herself grossly out of proportion with the rest of them so she placed the 'diya' that Mummy lit everyday. Mummy had told her once, 'Beta, your name means this beautiful and sacred little flame that lights up everything around it.' So she used the 'diya' as a placeholder for herself. And then the story took its own different course each day. Sometimes it was a birthday party and sometimes the Barbies fought and Ramji sorted their fights out.

But today Nani was sitting there, taking her own sweet time. Didn't she know that Mummy had already read to Ramji once. She didn't have to do it again. (Anyway's Ramji enjoyed Diya's skits more.) So Diya sat and waited, twiddling her thumbs and planning out the screenplay for today's drama. When Nani was finally done, Diya waited for her to disappear into the bedroom. Then she ran into the Puja Room. She placed the red book on the floor. Today it would be a bed and not a table. She lay Ramji and the Barbies down on it. Then her creativity lost steam. She was trying to weave a tale, debating between a bedtime story competition and a everyone-is-ill story, when suddenly Nani hollered at her from behind. She looked very angry. She held Diya by her ear and made her stand up. Then she placed Ramji back into his usual standing place. Diya had no idea what the problem was. She had played here everyday after Mummy and Pop left. Nani then scolded her saying 'Yeh koi khelne ki jagah nahi hai. Bhagwaan gussa ho jayenge.' Diya tried to mutter something in protest but thought better of it. With tears welling up in her eyes, she collected her Barbies and left. All she remembered was Nani saying 'Bhagwaan gussa ho jayenge', 'Bhagwaan punish karenge'. Nani had pointed at Ramji when she said that but Diya was sure she meant someone else. Ramji only loved and cared for her. He didn't scold or punish her.

At night, after everyone had slept, Diya tiptoed to the Puja Room, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. She quickly picked up Ramji and took him to her room. She placed him next to her on her pillow and covered him with her sheet and said 'I'm sorry Ramji I couldn't rescue you earlier. We will fight whoever this Bhagwaan is and his silly rules. You won't have to stay in the Puja Room anymore if we cant play there. I'll talk to Mummy. I love you and I want you to be near me so that you can love and protect me.' She kissed Ramji's forehead and said goodnight to her favourite doll with shiny ornaments and eyes that never closed.

Feminism? No. Sense? Yes.

Tomorrow is your interview with IIM Calcutta and you haven't touched the black and white printed god in three days. So you wake up a tiny bit earlier than your usual, cut short your long drawn out lazing-in-bed-hating-the-morning ritual and sit down to read TOI (unluckily that's all that's available). And TOI, as always, doesn't disappoint. Wait a minute, it just beats itself. The whole 15 or 20, or however many pages there are, scream out 'happy women's day'. You (you're a girl.(who'll be a woman soon)) yawn, raise your eyebrows (eyebrows are nicely shaped) and say 'oh yeah? Give me a break'. You read on only to find every next thing more ridiculous than the previous. But you read on anyways. You hate this women's day charade, it irritates you that every tiny article in the paper has a refernece to women's day. Sometimes so far-fetched and out of place is the reference that you wonder if the journos and editors at TOI have had an introduction to words like irrelevant, non-sequitur etc. Ok, sample this. Some XYZ woman was released from prison and there was tiny article about it. And instead of writing why she was released, TOI writes something to the effect: XYZ released on the eve of Women's Day! As if, Women's day was what saved her from the dungeons. And look at this: Kingfisher Airlines to operate an all-women flight to Delhi and Bangalore wherein all cabin crew, pilots and passengers will be women. Goodness gracious me! What in this friggin world are they going to get out of that? If they wanted women to benefit, they could make their tickets cheaper. If they wanted to pamper them, they could let them fly free and if they wanted women to celebrate, throw them a party. An all women's flight for god's sake! Thats just ridiculous. Anyways you brush it aside without giving it much thought as you carelessly fold and throw away the paper. Its the next day. You're ready and in position for your group discussion. And they announce the topic. 'Should there be a men's day?'. And this was exactly what you needed (for being able to analyze and articulate why the newspaper yesterday irritated you and for blogging material too). We'll cut out of this scene now and just have an opinion dump.What is Women's day? A celebration of the emancipation of women/ a celebration of womanhood/ a party for women's rights activists/ heyday for commercial nautankis? Probably in its conception it was an encouragement and a commemoration of liberation of women. The concept came to India pretty late and was popularized by the media. By the media. For the media. Of the media. (can't make sense of 'of the media' but for the sake of the phrase, lets allow that). That's why no acts of any consequence or any meaning happen on this day but women get to travel on a flight full of women. Some organizations try to get close to meaningful and hold talk shows. Sadly, nothing except cliches are spoken at such events. Some try to get even closer. Even if you grant them the kindness of believing in their intentions, you can't agree with their ideas. For ex: Some organizations held a walk-in interview day for women job applicants. Are they trying to say that they will hire more women? Or is it just a gimmick and men apply on another ordinary day and the women get the marvelous opportunity to apply on this glorious day? Next point: It is patronizing behaviour. Instead of bringing in the feeling of equality, it is defeating just that. Should there be a men's day? There isn't any need for a women's day either. But if we do have one, why not a men's day as well? Some said that men have anyways always showed their strength and made women accept their greatness. What they don't understand is that voluntary acknowledgment by women or rather the opportunity to voluntarily acknowledge men gives worth to acknowledgement by women which in turn gives them a more equal status. (If more equal is grammatically or semantically correct). Some may say that you are all uppity about it because you are an urban, confident and independent woman but the rural women aren't refusing patronization because they're still facing a lot of gender discrimination. For them: excuse us urban women our snootiness, but reality check, the gibberish about women's day isn't loud enough to reach these backward rural areas. So women's day ain't helping no ablaa naris. People tell you that you're a self-proclaimed feminist. (whatever..) so you should stop ranting now. Last shout of protest. You love being a woman. AND you like men. You just prefer the label 'the fairer sex' to 'the weaker sex'. You rest your case.

Pot Pouri

It’s a cold December night. Others would argue it’s pleasant but I’d say cold. It’s a little late, most shops have pulled down their shutters. Riding the breeze, piercing the otherwise silent night, most out of place at this late hour is Himmesh Reshamiya, crooning Tera sarafa kaisa hai hum dum . The street ahead is pretty deserted. I can’t see where this music, if you can call it that, comes from. It’s way too loud to be a radio playing somewhere or even to be the music at a bar. There’s probably a party somewhere. But it’s still 3 days to Ring out the old, ring in the new.

I turn a corner and I can see bright lights and a small crowd. But it’s not a party. Goodness gracious me! Blistering barnacles! Heavens above! God’s nightgown! That can’t be true. There is a Santa Claus jiving to Himesh Bhai’s nasal notes!! A shiny banner above screams ‘Merry Christmas’! (And btw it’s almost four days past X’mas) Right above the banner a board proudly announces ‘Radhe sweets’, in Devanagri. Wow! They take secularism, or mixed bag, or khichadi if you may, to another level. A closer look reveals the presence of a perfectly idiotic looking clown on the stage, as well. His face is painted an ugly pale pink with the quintessential red clown’s nose. Some little kids have climbed onto the stage and they are bobbing up and down, without any sense of rhythm or direction whatsoever, while their proud and grinning parents look on and cheer. I don’t know if I’m flabbergasted or amazed or amused or about to crack up.

But there’s something that makes me smile. It’s not Christmas and it’s not New Years. The music isn’t a Christmas carol. The Santa has a white beard, brown skin and black eyebrows. The clown is dancing with the Santa for no apparent rhyme or reason. And the kids are just happy doing their own Brownian motion. Any dream will do. We just need an excuse to celebrate.

As i walk away I hear a Punjabi song blaring from the speakers. As if the pot pourri wasn’t enough of a patchwork already. Jee karda bhai jee karda tainu kol bithawa jee karda. It won’t be a surprise if India invents a girlfriend for Santa next! (Maybe Karina) And maybe Santa and his girl would do a Raas Leela outside Radhe Sweets then. Gujju Khichadi!

Peepul/People

I reach home after a usual day at school. Even before I step out of the car I can sense something unusual. There is a flurry of activity. There are some men, strong muscular ones , in vests and dirty pants, milling around. Servants from our house (first floor of the big bungalow), Chacha's place (ground floor) and Tauji's place (another building in the same compound) are out too, doing no particular work though. When I demand an explanation, the maid tells me that these men have been hired to cut down the big peepul tree in our compound. Holy crap! It had never occurred to my tiny brain that such a big tree could ever be cut down. When you are four ft. eleven inches a tree that huge seems unconquerable, if thats a word. But the powers that be had decided that and that it would be. But, oh ho, that was my favourite hiding place for hide and seek. The trunk was thick enough to hide me completely. I run to Dad to complain. He lays my anxieties to rest. Says, the trunk wont be cut. Everything else will be. He explains that the tree is very old and is becoming hollow. Its branches arch over our terrace garden and the whole compound. They make break and fall. And that would be very dangerous to the building, which happened to be very old too (almost 90 years old. They say it was built when my great grand dad got married.), and to the people. The branches would have to be cut. Perfect, I thought. My hiding place was secure and as for the rest of the tree, it really hadn't been of any use in my life of 9 years.
I become part of the excitement around the activity. People shouting instructions to each other, Dad telling the men that no branches must fall over the building, the men beginning to axe away. Our terrace garden would be the perfect vantage point to view the operations but Bhaiya, who treats me like a kid just because my age is still a single digit number, doesn't let me go there. Says kids may get hurt. I sit at the window and watch. There are so many windows which i can see it through; the dining room ones, the sitting room ones and the glass door of the terrace garden. I watch all day, marveling at the skill of the men.

I reach home after another usual day at school. The compound is so sunny today. Oh! The tree is gone. Hmph! The compound used to be cool and shaded earlier. Anyways, I'm hungry. I go sit at the dining table. My usual seat is opposite the window. Usually, at least five times a meal I'm scolded for staring out of the window absent-mindedly and forgetting the food on my plate. I can't really help it. I get amused by the tiny pieces of the sky peeping from in between the foliage and making different shapes everyday. But the view outside is so weird today. I can see the sky, which is a dull uninteresting blue, actually closer to 'white with a hint of blue'. And some ugly building across the road. Who paints their building dark pink? I wouldn't even eat ice-cream of that colour. And do i live opposite that building? Gross! There is a dusty little ground where boys are learning karate. Can they see inside my house too? I feel so exposed.
The dining room isn't the only one naked. The sitting room and the terrace garden have been stripped too. There is a sense of the vacant in every room along the length of the house. We've lost the peepul, or people? I'm confused. Every room feels less like a room now and more like a balcony overlooking the street. My home was my home. Now, the pink building, the karate boys and the street below are part of our wallpaper. To move out of a home is disturbing but to stay there and have the home move out requires a word not yet assimilated into my lexicon. Maybe by the time I'm in class five like Bhaiya I will know the word but maybe when I'm older, I, like Bhaiya, won't miss the tree enough to tell you this story.

A-Cola

Seventh Grade:

‘Hey, I’m Anushree*(Name changed to protect privacy).’ ‘Hi, I’m somebody-I-just-met from some-known-town. Where are you from?’ ‘I’m from Akola.’ ‘Akola? A cola?’ Oh no. not again. ‘Ya. Like Coca-cola. I’m from this town which has a huge Coca-cola factory, thus the name.’

Believe it or not, that is the story I told a couple of people a couple of times when those couple of people from a couple of known cities asked about my unknown unsung little hometown.

Eleventh Grade:

‘Where are you from?’ ‘I’m from a town called Akola.’ ‘Akola? Where’s that?’ ‘It’s in Maharashtra.’ ‘Oh. West coast.’ Don’t people learn Geography in school? Why do most non-Maharashtrians think Maharashtra is all on the coast? Reality check: It extends all the way to central India and my A-Cola is pretty much right in the centre of the country. Back to the conversation. ‘No. It’s actually almost central India.’ ‘M.P. you mean?’ Give me a break. ‘No. Maharashtra. Do you know Nagpur? It’s about 200 kms from that.’ It’s funny, when people from Assam or Bihar or Punjab say they are from Assam and Bihar and Punjab, no one asks them ‘where in Assam, etc. etc’. Why do people want to know where in Maharashtra?

So now you know why ‘Where are you from?’ isn’t really a question I’m excited about.

College:

(Wiser from experience)

‘Where are you from?’ ‘Hi. I’m from Bombay.’ Phew! No further questions.

Now, now, don’t you go thinking that I’m ashamed of my sweet home Akola. Not one bit. Neither do I lack affection for it. I love it. Just that explaining to every Tom-Dick and Harry, or every Rohit-Rahul and Raju, where it is gets a tiny bit too tedious. The most hilarious was when one old man said ‘Wow. Is that even in India?’ and one dumbass mused ‘Sounds like an exotic far-away place’. You’re way off the mark, both of you. On the other hand, when someone nods when I say I’m from Akola and acts like he knows, I look so shocked and incredulous that I, to sane eyes, appear insane.

Anyways, let’s start from the beginning. I’ll give you a quick background on it. It lies on 20° 42' N 77° 02' E on the Deccan plateau. Akola is in the cotton belt and is in fact even known as ‘the cotton city’. It has a population of above 16 lakhs (yes, that’s no exaggeration). And you would like to know, it does have electricity and movie theatres and schools and hospitals. (Actually Akola also has Mercedes’ and Accords.)

Over to more interesting things like the soul of the city, the culture, the language, the essence. :Wink: It’s no Calcutta or Bombay to boast of a history or culture but, be kind, it does have its flavour. (Apart from the oldest fast food joint by the name Fresh Flavour that has looked the same ever since I was a foetus.)

Akola has its own language. Some influence from bambaiya but otherwise original. There are some words only Akolaites (like Mars:Martians::Akola:Akolaites) will use. They won’t say ‘Tu kahaan jaayega?’. They prefer ‘Tu kahaan jaayenga?’

There are some amazing good points as well. Lets enumerate.

1. If you can drive in Akola’s traffic, it’s given that you can drive anywhere in the world, even in Right hand drive countries. Akola has no traffic rules, nor any traffic sense for that matter. Every auto, cycle, scooter and car is apni marzi ka maalik. Makes for great training under the toughest of conditions and has undoubtedly produced some of the toughest drivers in the country.
2. You never envy anybody. No one is wealthier, smarter or prettier or at least not way wealthier, smarter or prettier than you. You never wish you had more money. You can afford everything here. It’s a peaceful saint-like existence.
3. You can have a bedroom the size of a skating rink and a garden the size of a football field.
4. You can come home year after year, decade after decade, and not feel like you’ve been away. Nothing changes. Except maybe they add a street light here and a hoarding there.
5. Filthy rich rolling-in-money businessmen marry girls from Akola. Our girls have been placed at the Birla’s, the J.K. tyres people and the Sterlite group. So we also have three private jets that land at the near-private airport, or must I say airstrip, once every year.
6. There is an amazing variety of restaurants that crop up every now and then. (And close down with the same frequency). Nothing other than the aforementioned Fresh Flavour, with its age old décor and songs like ‘sau saal pehle mujhe tumse pyaar tha’, runs consistently.

(OK this post is getting too long now.)

All this Akola bashing has been done for I was tagged because someone wanted to hear me do exactly that. But I must tell you more, lest you take my bashing too seriously. Akola isn’t too bad. I did 9 years of my schooling there and also junior college, so it can’t be that bad.

Some of my fondest memories are based in Akola. My old house which was 90 years old, with colored-glass windows like you see in Devdas and a fountain in the courtyard. My alma-mater. The pani-puri wala near school. The lane next to the petrol pump that still reminds me of my first crush ( whose house is on that road). The back lanes and the dhobi ghat to which I cycled with my cousins. But oh well, you don’t wanna know of those things.

We have a cultural club where big artists like sonu nigam, jagjit singh, shiv mani etc. come to perform. We have Radio Mirchi and a Reebok store and lately we’ve added the Levis’ feather to our cap. And once in a while Akola even finds mention on the front page of leading dailies. Farmer suicides in Vidarbha, you know. Our claim to our two minutes of fame.

For the uninitiated:

The first historical reference to Akola is found in the 17th century, when in 1658 Aurangzeb ascended the throne of Delhi. Akola was granted to Asad Khan, the prime minister of the Mughals. At that time Akola was a village known as Akola Balapur. Berar, of which Akola was a part, was in the Nizam of Hyderabad's dominion. In 1853, the Nizam ceded Berar to the British East India Company, but in 1857 part of it was restored to the Nizam. In 1903 the Nizam leased Berar to the British Government. It was then transferred to the Central Provinces. In 1956 with the reorganisation of states, Akola was transferred from Madhya Pradesh to the Bombay Province, and in 1960 with the formation of Maharashtra, it became one of the districts of the state. (The picture on the right: Big Ben:London::Khandelwal Tower:Akola)

Bombay. Bambai. Mumbai.

Coming from a town where everyone I knew had a bungalow, how the world looked from a seventeenth floor apartment was fascinating, if not enchanting. I sit at this huge French window and look at Bombay, its streetlights, its yellow and black Padmini Premiere taxis, rivers of molten lava of the bumper-to-bumper traffic and the sea beyond. You’d be lucky if you could spot a single star in that sky. Yet, the zillion skyscrapers twinkle, celebrating something known only to Bombay.

Aamchi Mumbai. Maximum city. City that never sleeps. City of dreams. Tinsel town. Too many epithets, too much hype for the big apple of India. I never, not for once, felt new or lost here. Even when I had just come, it felt like I’d always been here. Maybe that’s what Bombay is all about. There is no space but there’s place for everyone. The page three millionaire is here and so are the urchins. The queen of high fashion has her Bombay and the famous dabba-wallahs have theirs. The rich dad’s girl holds on to her Gucci shades and listens to her iPod while the lower middle class Maharashtrian clerk shoves and pushes to grab a seat on the train so that she can cut vegetables on her way back home after a long work day. The Shiv Sena has its Bombay and the stoned-out-of-their-wits firangs have theirs.

At one glance from my window, I can see the hutments in the little slum below, the 7-star hotel a little away, the queen’s necklace a little farther, Porsches on Marine Drive and the fishing boats on the sea. And none seem to disturb the harmony. The warm damp sea breeze carries the perfect song. And just then my reverie is broken as a Borivali fast local screams its deafening whistle on the rails below.

That’s Bombay for you.

Effortless

Surfing channels, I caught a little part of one of these ubiquitous reality T.V. shows. The judge praised the contesting dancer and said ‘Good Effort!’. The dancer gushed, delighted.

‘Good Effort!’ I repeated, analyzing the sound of it. It can be used with sarcasm. But people probably won’t catch the sarcasm and I’d hate the waste of it. Effort! That’s not a flattering remark. Some things are beautiful only by virtue of seeming effortless. Like singing. Like playing an instrument. Like writing. And like dancing. If the effort shows maybe you haven’t put in enough of it. Ironic, isn’t it?

Effort probably is the only thing that you must make more of so that the evidence of its existence may be erased.