A Pen to Purify

The pen fell down into the shit-pot. He got hold of a toilet brush and tried to manoeuvre it out. He could not. He tried several more times, poking about with the brush. The pen would come up for a while, and then fall down again with a splash into the shitty water. He shied from using his own hand to remove the object. The mere idea made him nauseous. His hands continued to work the long-handled brush as his mind dwelt on the undoable act of removing the pen with his hand.
He cursed himself for his fondness to solve Times crosswords on shit-pot. He cursed himself for his carelessness in letting the pen slip his fingers.
Lo! The pen had disappeared! His lapse in attention had caused the brush to make a few random strokes. The pen had been accidently pushed into the hole where potty goes when you flush.

He was dismayed. Uff! What will happen now? The pen would travel up...then down....then down again. Down, down, down, down. Into the bowels of the earth. The pen! Into the bowels of the earth. The pen soiled with shit and urine. The pen that could have signed names. That could have written poetry..prose...newspaper reports...school exercises...competitive examinations....
The pen that would have made persons out of people.

That pen now lay embroiled in muck. Every pressing of the flush button caused jets of water and human refuse to push the pen further toward the chambers.
His brain refused to cease thinking about the pen. He couldn’t consume his breakfast for the thought of it. The journey of the pen began to haunt him. Finally, he walked up to the Municipal Corporate Office and demanded he be given a map of the city’s sewers. The officers were astounded. They asked him why. He could yield no answer. All he could do was to reiterate that he wanted...no...needed the map.
They thought he had a nut or two loose in the head. They decided to humour him. So they asked him to wait. He waited. Hours ticked away. He grew impatient, but the thought of tracing the pen spurred him...kept him sitting at the municipality office as it he had grown roots there.

They took pity on him. The map was found for him. He was asked to Xerox it and to return the original to them. He did what he was asked. His feeling of utter dejection that had been increasing ever since he had lost his pen appeased a little. He was doing something to get it!

He went home and spread the map before him. With trouble, he located his area on the map. He wasn’t much of a map-reader. He rued having wasted away his geography classes in school, then realized his geography classes had little or nothing to do with the present map study. He continued to pour over it.

He found the point where the sewer pipe of his building met the street pipe. He traced the pipeline with his finger, for he had no pen. He used a pencil to mark the point where the street pipe became narrow. Too narrow for his pen to travel transversely. He wondered if his pen had passed that point – it could have, if it had been oriented properly. He saw that near this point, a manhole was positioned.
He rushed back to the municipality office.

“I need to know the name of people in this area who are in your employ to clean the manholes. I have lost something valuable.”

“What?”

There was no mistaking the municipality officer’s avarice.

“A pen.”

The officer was disappointed, nay disgusted. He gave him the names and addresses he wanted without further interest.

He sped out of the office. He was afraid if his pen had not been stuck inside the pipeline, it would be well inside the river near his city where all municipality pipes drained. He did not want that to happen.

He found the manhole cleaner at home. He was not very keen on opening the manhole when his job clearly didn’t require him to. The drain-cleaner wanted a bribe. The pen-owner didn’t want to give it, but wanted his pen back. So, he bribed the cleaner.
The manhole was opened. The cleaner went down inside it, grumbling. He struck his hand inside the pipe where the pen-owner thought his pen might be. His hand came out holding nothing. He groped again. Nothing. He was impatient. He insisted that the idea be given up. The pen-owner insisted. He was frantic.

“Search inside the manhole, too, if you please.”

More groping, probing, searching, sifting. No finding.

At last. “There it is.”

He forgot it was mucky, shitty water. He nearly snatched the pen out of the startled cleaner’s hands.

He had work to do.

He had a pen to purify.

The West's penchant for 'Real India'

A young boy is caught while pick-pocketing and is in the process of being thrashed senseless by the police. "You wanted to see the real India? This is real India", claims the kid as he falls into the arms of an American lady. The lady who had been overflowing with the milk of human kindness, responds. "Here, let me show you a bit of the real America," and nods to her husband who in turn proceeds to empty his wallet for the boy's defence.

A country as sensitive as India where every third or fourth film is banned for hurting the sentiment of some section of Indians or the other, did not find above scene from the 'Slumdog Millionaire' inoffensive. It seems the Golden Globe Awards were bribe enough?

The Man Booker 2008 went to Aravind Adiga for the 'White Tiger', as it again showcases the real India.

Real India? Real India! Real India my foot! Both the above-mentioned literary pieces only portray one side of real India - the only side that the wesetern world seems comfortable with. And not only comfortable with, but the only side that must be advertized and made the single important thing about India.

Do tell me, is the seamy side of India the only, mind you, only significant thing about us? Are we nothing else? How can responsible people like Adiga and Vikram Swarup not recognize these awards as sweet poison, as a roundabout tacital method of India bashing?

I am angry. Seriously angry. I want Adiga to throw back his Man Booker - not because he does not deserve it, but because of the reason he has been given it. I want the spurious love of the west for the Indian underbelly exposed for what it is. I want a comlete picture of India to be presented to the outside world, where slums do not out-balance sky-scrapers.

But then, this has another side to it. Let them sit complacent and comfortable about the weak us. Maybe one day we shall surprize the living daylights out of them! Let's do it!

SHUT up spitting SHIT

These comments were directed at MPs from Bihar. ‘Dung-beetles’. ‘The Ganges of Corruption’. ‘Rotten Brains’.

When it comes to criticizing Bihar, I am one of the Biharis who have generally been ahead of people of other states, at times. Yes, the average Bihari is rather lazy, likes to shirk his duty whenever he can, is a little silly several times, and shrewd whenever he can grab unearned money.

Does that justify the above poison pen comments?

No.

Many sensible readers of my blog may mention that this is merely a political statement, aimed at vote banking. And that, my friends, is the actual cause for concern. The fact, that statements like these can win votes elaborates the fact that the average voter in Maharashtra agree with the Thackreys!

Some weeks ago, the author of ‘City City Bang Bang’ for TOI wrote something like this – ‘Statistically speaking, more than 50% Maharashtrians do not conform to the views of Raj Thackrey. We are happy to hear that. Do we bother that nearly 40% Maharashtrians do.’

During my five year stint at Pune, Maharashtra, two separate incidents sort out as glaring examples of the same.

We were a group of nine girls in a flat, eight of us being from North India, five of those eight from Bihar. We were stopped in the midst of celebrating a birthday party by angry yells from our next door neighbours.

“These shameless north Indians,” spluttered ‘auntie’, “you have no manners. You have not been brought up well” and words to that effect.

Next day, ‘auntie’s’ daughter, who was about our age, came to us smiling. “Don’t worry. I understand. If I had been sent to a hostel like you and wouldn’t have the pressure of guardians, I’d have freaked out like you guys!”

Another incident was when we once rode wrong side up into a one-way street. The traffic police stopped us, arrested – yes, there is no softer word, arrested us and detained four of us Biharis in the traffic police station. Any word uttered in Hindi did not appeal to him. He wanted nothing short of 500 bucks. We girls had been on a shopping stint and had perhaps about twenty rupees in all between us. Things remained at a stalemate like situation. He wouldn’t budge and we couldn’t budge.

Finally, two hours later we were allowed a phone call. Which we made with alacrity, to the only Maharashtrian flatmate of ours. She came in thirty minutes. She spoke to the policeman in Marathi for about five minutes. After paying a hundred rupees as fine, for which we were given a receipt, the four of us walked free again.

I do not want to mention the number of Chemistry and Botany lectures that bounced above my head because they were given in Marathi in my college. There is no point in mentioning that when in a group of Marathi students, I always laughed late, if at all, depending on if a translation of the joke came my way. It shall be useless to mention the several travel concession and hostel admission forms I was unable to fill because of them being in Marathi only.

But there is a point in mentioning this – even today, when my CSIR fellowship comes to Patna University, it mentions the name of my Pune college and the address is still that of my hostel in Pune. I know that tomorrow if someone else from my department is called for the Shyama Prasad Mukherji fellowship, they will perhaps remember my name for I have been, till date, the only student from my department to be called for that same fellowship.

I am not the only example of such irony. There will be hundreds of people like me. People who work there, have bought houses there, have lived in there for ages and ages and given the state the best years of their lives.

For what?

For being called ‘dung beetles’ and being the possessors of ‘rotten brains.’

Interesting.

(The author of this blog has often been accused of possessing a Marathi accent while speaking Hindi, has a large number of Maharashtrian friends and is well-liked amongst the lot for knowing passable Marathi. My dear average Maharshtrian – respect your language and culture. I agree it is worth it. Be proud of it. But come on! Stop being an Australian Cricketer about it. Er, did I mean Arrogant, when I accidentally typed Australian Cricketer? By the way, my knowing Marathi is not the only reason why my friends like me.)

Beware the tricking Bunties - busting the bootpolish brigade

"Didi, do you want me to polish your sandals?" My cousin and me were lolling on the walls of the Pyramids mall on M.G. Rd, Pune, when this query was addressed to us in decent accent and impeccable English. No wonder our heads snapped up. Medium height, thin, sallow-brown complexion, long hair, red jacket, yellow pajamas, barefoot, big smile. In forty seconds, 'Anoop' was diligently polishing our sandals while discussing his mother and sister and his village in Rajasthan and his English education in a nearby Convent. We were thoroughly impressed.

He saw that.

Soon as he had pocketed the modest five rupee remuneration, he struck while the iron was hot.

"Didi, shall I ask you one thing? Please don't take me otherwise, but you can see I am carrying my boot polish stuff in a plastic bag. This way I do not get enough customers. Can you help me buy the proper wood box and equipments?"

I was a little taken aback. Not because I don't expect street children to have such gumption, but because this request was ringing a bell! Where else had I heard this story? A similar emotion was playing on my cousin's face. She too seemed to be grappling with her elusive memory. She came out with 'Raghu' just as I cried out 'Bunty'.

Then she looked at me and spoke out her roommate's name while I mentioned my friend's name.
Readers with me so far? No? You may want to follow the link 'Abhilasha idles' in my 'Blogetarians like me' section. There you may want to read her 'Bunty blog' which may cause several of the chunks of the jigsaw puzzle to fall into place.

There is an idiom in Hindi - 'Tu Daal Daal Main Paat Paat'. The one-up strategy. The counter-move. The stuff that happens during evolution between the prey and the predator - something we called the 'Red Queen Effect' after an intelligent evolutionary biologist read 'Alice in Wonderland'.

We are living in a constant state of tussle - to be fooled or to be callous - that's the question. Intelligent charity - the new mantra of people interested in lavishing shiny 1 rupee nickels on traffic signals.

Wielding the juggernaut - circus over, challenge begins

Now that the nuke deal is nearly initialed on the dotted line, one begins to feel twinges of misapprehension. Have you come across tales of a couple awaiting a baby for years and years, and then when the son turned out to be a blackguard of the first water, wishing they hadn't hoped for his birth. You begin to fathom what I am trying to hint?

There has already been enough passed on as to how the deal is not a bed of roses all the way and has its gray areas by the kilometers. We know the nuclear power shall not be cheap, as we shall be buying technology and raw materials from the wealthy west. We know India's foreign policy shall be under the microscope of the international watchdogs and an atom bomb shall not be born in our arsenals, much to the glee of our pleasant, friendly neighbours.

However, my concern is none of the above real or imagined reasons. My motivation is a purely personal one at the moment where fear for my own skin is the inspiration behind the blog.

Think and project - are we, as a nation, as a people, capable of maintaining nuclear reactors? A nation where municipality taps miss maintenance, roads cave in, bridges fall, trains bang head-on, airforce planes crash and rocket launches fail. A nation where non-issues mar the real crux of the matter all the time, where corruption reigns, where criminal politicos run elections from jail, illiterate housewives rule states, below par candidates on reservation seats try to manage public offices. A nation that fairly bends double under the weighty threats of terror attacks from nearly all its neighbours.

Is such a nation capable of handling several nuclear reactors safely?

Pranab Mukherji mentioned that winning over the trust vote was the easier part of the deal. How right is he, albeit I am taking his words in another sense.

Most probably I am behaving like a gypsy gone crazy and perhaps tomorrow I shall laugh at this web log of mine. But meanwhile, pledge to be exta-careful, India, lest a Chernobyl happens here.

Of tone-deaf adults and buzzed teens

It took two long years for the Children's Commissioner of UK to realize that the 'Mosquito Teen Deterrent' was against human rights of teen-aged Britons. Professor Sir Al Aynsley-Green took his time commenting that the device was 'demonising' the youth, and his time came only after about 3,500 units of the 'demoniser' had already been traded. But shop owners are loathe to get rid of it, for they owe the security of their businesses to these non-adult alarms. And the 'Mosquito Teen Deterrent' is here to stay, claimed the UK Government when it refused to ban it.

I salute you, O Commercialism, for having managed to devour every other consideration, including the capacity to decide what is human and what is not.

Does it hurt you to think that a large population of the teens residing in the Queen's land are being treated with pest-control measures? Are they being, by any chance, confused with a flight of locusts?

However, that is a less relevant query.

Does it matter to those children and teens who are being meted out this treatment?

Frankly, this was where shock set into my system.

The situation where the injured party themselves should have been the ones to register antagonism, they were found gleefully enjoying it all! I found myself actually fidgeting to find incidents of irate mobs, angry slogans and wrathful showdowns where the youngsters participated. What I came across instead were mobile ringtones that were rip-offs from the ultrasonic alarm that became popular overnight - students began to use it to get messages during class hours right under the noses of presbycusis stricken adult teachers! Their message was loud and clear - 'Treat us as non-humans if you wanna, we shall enjoy it anyway.'

Someone please go tell the marketing honchos in charge of selling the Mosquito - they can actually use it as an age-detector in catching the lying mommies and cinema actors red-handed. Why do they need to make money out of such Mephistophelian activities? No, I understand its not their fault. Where else would they find a market where victims are lapping up the products designed to harm them?

Ah! Mother Evolution! Here you were with the gift of the most evolved creature - the human. And here is the new human generation devoid of any respect for your gift!