Contrast

Though I was born in a small town called Giridih in Jharkhand, I originally belong to Madhupur, a suburb, countryside area, about forty kilometers away from Giridih. My ancestors lived there for a long, long time. My grandmother and my two paternal uncles still reside there. The home where they live is basically a four-room hut. The cemented floor is broken at a number of places, making sure that it projects an ancestral look. There is a large courtyard in front of that hut which gets extremely swampy during rains. Since my father had earned a job in Giridih, he moved out of that place. After working for ten years in a government owned bank, my father owned a decent house at Giridih.

Even though we have moved out of our ancestral home, we visit there every now and then. Our visits happened to be more frequent while I was a kid. We went there every year on the eve of Durga Puja, our prime festival and then, during summer vacations. The gathering during the Durga Puja used to be the best five days of the year. There used to be a sense of sacredness in the air. The large idols of Goddess Durga were worshipped on several streets of the town. People waited for months to celebrate this grand festival. I waited for weeks for the start of my Durga Puja vacation to buy new clothes, to go to Madhupur, to be a part of melas with my cousins and family members, to join my bare hands in front of the Goddess of power.

The stay during summer vacations used to be lengthy, usually ranging between a week and a fortnight, thus giving ourselves enough time to mingle with grandmother, uncles and aunts. During those 10-15 days, I, as a kid, was obviously more interested in being in the company of my cousins in my age group. The summer afternoons did no harm to their reputation by keeping the mercury level soaring high. Since electricity is not a 24*7 resource in our part of the country, hand fans were the only respite. The sun beat hard on the soil. Water disappeared from the wells as if it were put on fire. I, along with my cousins, waited for the sun to be merciful as the day gradually progressed towards its end. Arrival of the evening marked indispensable reprieve from cauldron like environment.

The evenings were particularly special for us as they invited vendors who sold ice-cream in their big containers on wheels. The containers were partially filled with solid ice to keep the ice-cream in good shape. The ice-creams were nothing more than small cuboidal pieces of ice in ripe, green mango flavor and others in coconut flavor with thin wooden sticks attached to them. The mango flavored ice-cream cost Re 1 while the coconut flavored one was worth fifty paise.

The vociferous shout of the ice-cream vendor infused astounding energy in our sweating bodies. After acquiring few coins from our mothers, we always rushed barefooted towards the main wooden door through the soil-laden courtyard. The touch of the bottom of feet with the blistering soil acted as sweet pain experienced while journey towards a historic achievement. The coconut-like taste and sourish flavor of ripe mango filled us with joy. Every bite of ice and every drop of flavored cool water (formed by melting of ice) was delight to the tongue. The trace of coolness that ice provided on the inner part of the cheek and the teeth was nothing less than divine elation. We tried to last our ice-creams as long as possible. And if our part of the ice-cream came to an early end, we used to ask for small bites from others. We tried every trick in the book to gain a part of others’ share. Sometimes the tricks worked, sometimes they didn’t.

These days, I live in Delhi, the capital city of this supposedly great country. Delhi—where money flows out of pocket like water in the drain during rains, where millions of people survive just in the hope of a better tomorrow, where people virtually run in order to maintain their lead in the race in their respective fields, where earning money is the only way of celebration.

Deepawali is the prime festival in this prime city of India. People buy gifts for each other. The costlier, the better—that’s the basic idea of people while buying gifts. It’s a way of demoing the weight inside their pockets. It’s considered a kind of insult if your presents to others appear cheaper than what they gift you. It’s a matter of fact that most of them struggle to answer if asked why exactly Deepawali is celebrated. Though this city may strongly disagree, what eventually matters in (and to) this city is money. I, on the other hand, tend to spend quite Deepawali’s on the roof of my hostel, watching millions of rupees, in the form of firecrackers, being burnt in a matter of few hours. Burning firecrackers, for instance, is also a contrived method of displaying the pile of money you sit upon.

Since grass on the other side always looks greener, people from all parts of the country visit this city to earn money and then, to spend it if they succeed to earn any, against every odd. I, as a student, am yet to enter this race of earning money; and then more money. I just spend money that is sent to me by my parents residing at that small, unknown town. It’s just that the denomination in which I spend money these days has multiplied several folds; may be hundred-odd folds. A simple, far-from-extraordinary cold coffee or cappuccino costs around fifty bucks in Barista. A decent meal in a decent restaurant costs above hundred rupees. A vegetarian pizza costs around two hundred bucks at Pizza Hut. I have started visiting these coffee shops and these decent restaurants since last couple of years, thereby increasing my monthly expenditure to an alarmingly high amount; amount that I, as a student, am scared to think of.

But the saddest part of the story is that I don’t find these 50-bucks coffees and 100-bucks meals even half as tasty and satisfying as those fifty-paise and one-rupee ice-creams. Ironically, the cost of the bread doesn’t (and can’t) determine its taste. Money, as they say, can’t buy everything…

But, who knows, I might also become a part of this demeaning city with the passage of time...I can only pray to Goddess Durga to shield me against all evils of this only-money-matters city.

Cafe Rendezvous

Vegas @ Bihar

Definitely not a happy summer (vacation!!!..err I mean training) for me, I would say. Since I was only a couple of hundred kilometers away from my hometown, I usually managed to visit my home every now and then. Most of my friends were enjoying their vacations there but there was a serious scarcity of cards-playing-members in our group. So, during one of my visits, we decided to play cards. 29 is the name of the game of cards which almost every Bihari (and Jharkhandi as well!!!) knows. But playing cards is considered a serious offence in our families. It’s a game made for Juadis, they would always say. What to do??? Guys want to play 29 and parents won’t allow. An issue of grave concern! So, three of the most dedicated players, all of them being IITians (including me), sat down to discover a decent enough place to play. Since ours is a very small town and people know each other very well (especially we IITans, lol), it seemed quite a difficult job. Several places were talked about, analyzed, scrutinized and eventually discarded. At last, one of us came up with the weirdest idea of all…The Crematory Place!!! Hardly anyone alive visited that dreadful zone. A nice, quite place on the bank of the monsoon-fed river with few half-burnt corpses waiting for us. I was quick to say yes. The third guy hesitated for a while but the urge inside was so menacing that everything else appeared secondary. So, the grand casino for us was decided. It was just a matter of finding the 4^th player. But that issue hardly bothered us. The 4^th guy was at a phone-call-distance. One of us had a pack of cards in his house. All problems solved! We all agreed to meet in the evening.

Evening arrived and so did we. The 4^th guy was ringed at his home. Unfortunately for us, he was not at his home. It is, indeed, criminal to expect finding people from our group at our respective homes during summer evenings. So, we waited and waited for someone to arrive. We always gather at a pre-decided place so that none of us is left roaming on the streets finding others. (See, we are quite methodical and always plan things wellJ.). Time flew by and we were left wondering when the fourth ‘card-playing-member’ would arrive. It had started getting dark. Finally, the fourth one arrived and we quickly moved towards the abode of non-living lives.

A really captivating place for we Juadis. A Peepal tree, cool breeze blowing, a thirsty river, green fields on the other side of the river, a boundary wall good enough to separate us from the rest of the town, a cemented mundane and most importantly, not a single known and alive face other than four of ours. Perfect scenario! Our eyes lit up with excitement. Good choice, we said to each other with an element of satisfaction over the time we spent planning the diligent space.

We sat down on the dusty, cemented zone. The handkerchief was taken out and spread. The cards started slipping on the handkerchief with crisp perfection. One aspect that separates a classic-cards-player from other players is the panache of letting the cards fly away from his hands and the ease with which cards slip on the surface. If you play cards, you must know its elegance. We were miles away from reaching our peak when the darkness in the environment called the end of the play. We wished we had brought a bulb with us.

Nevertheless, we were glad that we, at least, got the feeling of the smooth cards on our palms. We came out of the crematory talking about the indifferent nature of the stock market during those days, the companies which were relatively safe to bet upon and the way we performed at the grand casino!!! End of a more-than-happy rendezvous with non-living lives. I hastily left for my home as it was time for my early dinner.

Nothing Special

Sorry folks, it has been long since have I have scribbled. But what to do!!! I am tethered to such a place where finding internet is as easy as finding penguins in Sahara. I'll continue this blogging as soon as I get back to Delhi....
Life sucks, it truly does....trust me:(

Survival

They talk about religion, they talk about faith, they talk about science and technology but what eventually matters is the struggle for survival. Nothing else matters to man more than survival when the dark clouds of demise start shrouding. And it is during those times that anything that aid his cause of existence is celebrated. Morality and ethics take a backseat when our endurance is interrogated. This is perhaps why a crime committed during self-protection is not considered beyond the horizon of humanitarian laws.

Religion and science ought to be embraced as long as they assure better living conditions for the whole ecology. No sooner than they become a burden and hinder the smooth flow of the system, they are thrown out to make room for some other useful tool for easy survival. Rigid and brittle customs and ideas always make way for flexible ones. Change is the law of nature and anything (and anyone) daring to go beyond this eternal convention is shown the exit door.

We always use things (and ideas) around us. Don’t we? That’s what they have been created for. Who cares about religion if it can’t cater essential daily meals to a man? Likewise, why will someone endorse science if it can satisfy the basic needs of a man? The first thing that a man worries about is the source of fulfillment of his basic needs. Everything like humanity, brotherhood, charity, holiness are taken care of thereafter. Many call it selfish attitude but that’s the way it goes! My-survival-comes-first attitude is what man has honored till now. Let’s see how far this aureate attitude can carry us. There is and always will be a huge gulf between ideality and reality. What do you say?

Random

Life, as they say, is full of many more surprises and eldritch events than those in the most enthralling fiction one would ever come across. Just when we think that it is the end of the richest and most eventful experience, life promptly throws one more opportunity to attend something new, something unexpected. On the similar lines, when everything seems to be going right and we feel ourselves to be the best and luckiest person around, Someone makes sure that we know that dreadful times can be just around the corner. A great leveling act…isn’t it? I need to meet this equalizing person (person???).

We always gauge life in terms of victories and defeats, gains and losses, good(s) and bad(s), successes and failures, love and hate, and what not! But the subtle difference between the above mentioned terms is that while all other terms are relative, love and hate are always absolute, to say the least. There are zones beyond the periphery of gains and losses, beyond the boundaries of good and bad, beyond the fringes of success and failure. But everything and everyone seems to lie within the set of love and hate. Right from the first look, we tend to form a certain degree of respect (or disrespect) which gradually changes as we come across it thereafter. The scale of respect (and disrespect) can always be modified into that of love (and hate). Where shall I keep that equalizing person on this scale? Never thought about it! See, I am (of course, pretending to be) too busy a person!!!(lol)

Anyway, coming back to the topic of surprises that life presents, the weirdest of all is the microscopic amount of time (microseconds???) one needs to change his view about something. Knowing the kind of moody (read insane!) person that I am, one can easily guess how quickly my finger moves on the love-hate scale. And delivering no surprises, I woefully inform that the worst hit person in my game of pointing-finger-on-scales is none other than yours truly. Can’t help! Rules of the game are fixed and the show must go on. Casualties are part and parcel of the game. No matter if the injured (or killed) person is the mentor himself. That’s what the audience enjoys. Entertaining the world at one's own cost has a delight of its own.

"That’s the spirit my boy!!!", Someone whispers into my curious ears every now and then.

Words

There are phases in one’s life when empowerment of speech becomes the most appreciated gift of God to him and he just seeks acceptance of one last wish, which, according to him, is as important as the gift of speech---the presence of one such person who can listen all his thoughts, all his feelings, all his plans; that too without making any comment, without yielding any solution, without rendering any appreciation, without pointing any flaw. He solely wishes to read all the remarks, solutions, admirations and transgressions through the medium of continuously changing emotions on the face of the silent listener. Those births and deaths of different horizontal lines on the forehead, those narrowings and widenings of the eyes, those frequent changes in the curves traced by the lips of the trusted listener are supposed to generate indispensable, invisible words that the speaker’s eyes can easily decipher. The idea of transferring thoughts from our own mind and heart to someone else’s using audible words as protocol and then deriving response in the form of facial words brings holy peace to mind and soul…Trust me…
It is just a matter of finding one such person! Easier said than done...:)