From Heart To Heart!

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS – 2011

2011-12-25T00:26:00.000-08:00

I AM beginning to hate Christmas. Well, “hate’ may be too strong a word for what I feel. But then, for want of anything better, I said, “I am beginning to hate Christmas”. And I have a reason for this. Just the other day I was reading a news item in Hindustan Times about a Training Camp for prospective Santas. The candidates will be taught, among other things (such as how to smile, how to avoid being trampled by the eager crowds, and so many other things I found oh-so-irrelevant!) how to handle those occasional Santa-haters. Yes, let me assure you there are quite a few of them around. What I found funny was that there are training camps for things which, I thought, should come rather naturally for those wanting to take on the identity of Santa Claus. Well, in this age of commercialization, there are training camps for everything. Training parents to face the interviews for their children’s KG admissions; training camps or coaching classes for the children themselves to face the rigorous interviews, so on and so forth. Not to talk of so many other training camps! So, why not a Training Camp for those wanting to earn extra bucks as Santa Claus during this festive season?

I FOUND it rather hard to believe that there were to be training camps for wannabe Santas to be SANTAS! Simply because when I donned the costume of Santa many, many years ago, there was no such thing as a Training Camp. And thinking about those times, I am not even sure if I would have made a better Santa by attending such training camps. Must have been early- or mid-Sixties when I had read the advertisement by Akbarally’s Departmental Stores, asking interested candidates to come for interviews for Chacha Deepak. By the way, that was the Indian version of the Santa Claus during Diwali. I walked through the interview with ease and landed at Akbarally’s one evening to be Chacha Deepak. Then Santa’s assignment fell into my lap. I had no training sessions for either of these. Being the affable, laughing and dancing Chacha Deepak and then Santa Claus came rather naturally to me. I handled the pressure (pressure, did I say?) well. I was taken by the store people to J.J. Hospital children’s ward to distribute gifts, and more important, cheer and good-will among the ailing children. Again, I had not undergone any training to handle the whole thing.

I WENT to Dubai in April, 1975. My niece, Shamsia’s birthday falls on 25th December. I continued to celebrate this day in the garb of Santa Claus. One sweet lady, Mrs. Pais, stitched a wonderful Santa costume for me and I used to gather children from the building and distribute gifts to them. Shamsia’s Happy Birthday and Christmas Day both combined together, without any clashes between the religious or cultural identities. Then Dubai’s Mohebi Centre employed me to act as Santa for about a week leading to the Big Day. And, of course, I was paid for this. Everyone came for meeting Santa. Many came to just see Santa and shake hands with him. Some came for the free gifts and many parents came again and again, pushing their children for a second round of free gifts. There were times when some local youth, who perhaps were looking for cheap thrills, punched me, tried to pull off my mask and bad-mouth me. I handled this pressure also rather well. Needless to say I was not trained for this. It came naturally.

DURING these stints, first in (then) Bombay and then in Dubai, I made some friends who are still in touch. Again, at the risk of repeating myself, I had not taken any training in Dale Carnegie Institute for “How To Make Friends And Influence People”.
The present training, touted about in Hindustan Times, intends to train prospective Santas how to entertain the children, without getting too close for comfort. “Hug” was the word used. I fully understand the reasons. But what about the times when I dressed up as Santa Claus at The Indian Sports Club and The Indian High School, Dubai! The teachers who were supposed to handle the over-eager crowds of children were busy with their own stuff (don’t ask me what!) and least bothered to control the children who wanted to hug and shake hands with Santa. I was almost buried under the hordes of children who fell on top of me and I was struggling for breath. However, my worry was more for the children who were on top of me and themselves must have been struggling for breath. How I wish there were these training camps back then!

I RETURNED to Mumbai in year 2000 and continued to celebrate Christmas, helped with the strong (yes, that’s the right word for that lovely costume worn by that gentle Grand Old Man, Santa!) and stitched for me by the ever-smiling Mrs. Pais. That was till year 2006… The year 2007 saw me struggling to get over my weakness after my (almost) life-threatening cancer surgery. I had lost so much weight that even if my spirit was more than willing (to masquerade as Santa) my flesh was weak, and couldn’t bear my own weight. So, to bear any other weight would have been out of question for me. 25th December, 2006 was my last stint as Santa… even if it didn’t fetch me any remuneration. I enjoyed these immensely. Now, the bright red Santa costume, lying in my closet, is still bright red … and waiting for me to regain the lost weight. I know my days as Santa are long over. I can only watch people trying to pose as Santa, perhaps trying to fake Santa’s emotions… some of them un-trained and some, as the story of Hindustan Times says, having undergone training camps.

NOW perhaps, I hope you understand me when I say I hate (I know "hate" is too strong a word!)Christmas.

WELL, training camps, or no training camps, the spirit of Christmas remains the same.

MAY THE MIRACLE OF CHRISTMAS FILL YOUR HEARTS WITH WARMTH, LOVE AND PEACE. WISH YOU, YOUR FAMILY AND FRIENDS A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR!

Steve Jobs – Saying Goodbye!

2011-10-12T09:35:00.000-07:00

I WAS fast asleep when the loud SMS beep woke me up with a start! “Steve Jobs dead”, read the message. My eyes were still half-closed with sleep that was eluding me the whole night. The sender’s name said “Unknown” and I closed my eyes again. But you know that’s easier said than done, trying to sleep once it is disturbed, I mean. I picked up the phone and messaged a reply, “In my present condition, I can’t seem to recollect who Steve Jobs is and who this is spoiling my sleep to give me the bad news.” After some time, the phone beeped again to say, “Steve Jobs, Apple co-founder”. This time, the sender gave his name. After exchanging some messages, it turned out that the sender wanted to wake up someone else with the news of Steve Jobs’ death.
WHEN the newspapers came, they were full of Steve Jobs. The Hindustan Times of Saturday, October 08, 2011 carried some other vignettes which were of more interest to me. One headline screamed “Jobs wanted his children to know him”, while another said “Jobs made choices” detailing how Jobs was “In control and in his final days, he chose to spend time with his family, close friends”. And I said to myself, “If Jobs knew what he wanted to do in his last days, I know my job, too!” I decided that I was going to do the same, and called my ‘Better Half’ to my bedside. Well, it wasn’t exactly in the style of the Final Goodbye and all that, but I wanted to make it as close a job to Jobs’ as was humanly possible.
“DEAR, you remember, my 6-monthly check-up at Tata Hospital is due on 19th October,” I said as softly as possible.
“I CANNOT COME WITH YOU,” she said firmly. “I have my tuitions. The Children’s exams will be going on.” Period!
“I WILL come … IF my visit visa doesn’t come by then and if I am forced to change my plans of going to Muscat on 19th,” my ‘pyaari behna’ declared lovingly but firmly. A little earlier she had already informed all of us that her flight was booked for 19th evening. (Second) Period!!
“PAPA, I have accompanied you before this to Tata, but we are working on some very important projects, soooooo …” (Third) Period!!!
MY enthusiasm to spend some time with my family the Steve Jobs’ way took a deep dive that day.
THE next day was spent in attending a family wedding which we all attended in full strength. As it always happens at these weddings, I ended up over-eating and had to stay back with my sister at her place in Andheri. After spending a disturbed night, due to acidity problems, I felt slightly better after bringing out all that I had eaten so recklessly. ONE good thing that happened during my stay there was that my (late) brother’s wife gently assured me that she would definitely accompany me to Tata on 19th. This assurance spared me from worrying who I would command.. err, request … no, beg to come with me. I always boasted to my family that I just had to express and all … most … some, hmm, well at least one friend of mine would agree to join me on this oh-so-time-consuming, oh-so-tiring and oh-so-boring picnic (sic!) to Tata.
ANYWAY, by now, I had made plans to bring out to my family all that my dear heart held. I decided to continue my Steve Jobs-like mission to spend time with my family. I sure had a good excuse to familiarize the family with my (not-so-huge) investments (of course, unlike Steve Jobs!). After searching high and low for the relevant papers in my messed-up cupboards, I spread all the papers on my bed and called my wife by my bedside. As soon as she saw the mess, she said, “My students will be coming any moment and look at the mess you have made here!” Trying my best not to get disturbed, I said, “This is the certificate of the amount invested with the Posts and Telegraphs Department. The amount is …”
“…THE amount is measly! And I don’t need to know. And if you are going to ask me to go all the way to the station to collect the monthly interest, I am telling you I am NOT going to be able to do that. I have my tuitions in the morning, children’s exams are coming and the Post Office is closed in the afternoons. And what savings are you talking of? In more than 26 years of our marriage, you haven’t saved anything for our daughter’s marriage.” That bit of truth shut me up like nothing ever did.
LIKE a true soldier (remember I had spent 3 years of my youth in the Indian Army!) I continued my mission after a day. This time I thought it wise to change the venue of “getting to know each other better” discussions. Having read somewhere in some manual of human relationships, I chose the dining table instead of the bed. I gathered the courage to summon my better half (or whatever you choose to call your wife!) and said solemnly, “Look, I want to tell you something.” Came the promptly firm rejoinder, “Even I want to tell you something.” Ah! Finally we had a common meeting ground, I said triumphantly and looked at her expectantly. “Your lunch will be slightly late today. I had gone to look for fresh fish in the market. Before you say anything, this is for your loving student who is coming to see you over lunch.”
“OH, late lunch is no big deal, once in a while. And after all, it’s my loving student coming and it was you who suggested to call him for lunch since he was coming from so far just to meet me. And anyway, you have been serving my dinners on time. That makes a lot of difference to my beauty sleep at night,” I said, in an effort to declare a truce. “But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to get to know you better. And before it’s too late…”
SHE cut me short with, “You? Want to know me better? After more than 27 years of marriage? Have you no other better job to do? Or you think I have none?”
“NO dear, it’s like this. This was one of the jobs Steve Jobs did before his death. Look, it’s all over the newspapers. Your favourite paper Hindustan Times also has carried the story.”
“NOW, who is this Steve Jobs?” she asked curtly.
STILL trying to keep that fast-fading smile on my face, I said, “When I first got the SMS early morning, I asked exactly the same question. Steve Jobs is the co-founder of the Apple Group. He founded the Apple.”
WRONG English, she pointed out with a stern tone that she so easily adopts while talking to her Class II students whose fast-approaching exams had prompted her to reject my loving proposal of getting to know each other better by accompanying me to Tata Hospital for my six-monthly check-up. “It is ‘He found an apple’, not ‘founded an apple’.”
“HEHE, that was Newton who found the apple on his head and discovered the Law of Gravity. This is the Apple that was co-founded, not found, by Steve Jobs. See, he is all over the papers for his Apple,” I tried half-heartedly to humour her.
‘DON’T talk of his apple. When you go for auditions, you can’t even cut an apple for yourself. I have to do that job. So, don’t tell me about this Steve’s jobs,” she declared with an air of finality before she walked out.
AND that’s when I decided to bury all my plans of getting to know my better half better, the way Steve Jobs was said to be doing months before he passed away that morning. This will have to wait for some more time before I actually get down to the job of “SAYING GOODBYE”!

Yogesh Gajanan Khanapurkar (1970-1989)

2011-08-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

1981

There is a pat on my back. I look back at the ten-year-old cherubic boy with a freshly-written paper in his hand stretched towards me.
“Suneel Kaka, look at this. I wrote it just now. Maybe you will like it for your children’s magazine.”
I read the poem scribbled on the paper, with an amazed look.
“You wrote it NOW?”, I ask him disbelievingly.
And the boy smiles profusely, “Don’t believe, naa? No one did first. Not even my Ma and Pa, but now they do.”
I am working with Gulf News, a newspaper in Dubai. I used to hear a lot about this child-poet named Yogesh Khanapurkar from The Indian High School. So, this fine morning, I have landed up at his house to interview him. And I am very impressed with what I read.
“I wrote Lame Dame, my very first poem, when I was eight,” he says, pointing to the poem.
“Hmm, tell me, how do you approach poetry?” I ask him trying to impress him, pretty sure he won’t be able to answer that one.
Without batting an eyelid, he replies, “I don’t approach poetry. Poetry approaches me, I mean, poetry comes to me like … like, say, breathing and living! Know what I mean?” Humbled, I conduct the rest of the interview. When the interview is published in The Junior News of February 23, 1981, the readers are very impressed, too and I get many inquiries. Subsequently, Junior News publishes many more poems of his, as a regular feature and he continues to write on varied subjects like Mother, Father, Teacher, My Queerest Companion(shadow) to subjects like Opportunity, Success, Creation, Destiny, Heavenly Abode and such.

1989

There is a knock on the door. I am busy with my class at The Indian High School where I have now become a member of the family. The peon at the door says grimly, “Sir, there is an important announcement to be made.” With a careless shrug of shoulders, I snatch the paper from his hand and stare at it in utter disbelief. Shocked, I read loudly, “Yogesh Khanapurkar, son of our beloved teacher, Mrs. Sudha Khanapurkar, from the morning shift passed away in an accident in India while he was on a college assignment. Stand in silence for two minutes to pray for the departed soul.” There is a stunned silence all around. Suddenly, I remember the title of one of Yogesh’s poems ‘Heavenly Abode’. I attend many condolence meetings at different places, but still can’t come to terms with the sudden passing away of a young promising life. “Are they sure?” I continue to ask myself. But then, like Yogesh may have written in one of his poems, life goes on. That’s the biggest tragedy of life, it goes on despite everything! Life moves on for me, too. We return to India in 2000, two years before my retirement, no thanks to the then Principal, Mr. Ashok Kumar.

2011

There is a tap in my heart. I listen to the faint yet smiling voice of Yogesh, with a paper in his hand, “Suneel Kaka, I am presiding over a Kavi Sammelan in the Indra Darbar here. And here’s the latest poem I have written. Give me your opinion. You can even publish it if you like.” With a sudden shock, I look at Sudhatai Khanapurkar, sitting in front of me, with a bulky file in her hand. Earlier she had called to say that she wants to see me in connection with her plans to publish a book of poems written by Yogesh over the years, as a tribute. Since I knew him so closely, can I write something about him? There is so much I want to and can say about a young promising poet I had met many years ago, and then lost touch with. But then just how do I put my feelings in words that will make sense? And what can I write when I believe he is still around somewhere and will playfully hand over a freshly written paper and say, “Suneel Kaka, remember you had asked me many years ago, ‘How do you approach poetry?’ I am still trying to find that out, in my life-after-death.” But then is Yogesh really dead? I don’t believe so. He is alive in my heart. He is alive in the hearts of so many people he touched, even if briefly. I remember the poem “Death Be Not Proud”, written by a grieving mother on the loss of her young son, in the book by the same name by John Gunther. I remember words I had read somewhere, “Only those people die who are forgotten. Death is a small price to pay for immortality.”

My Copy-writing For Ads

2011-08-11T10:10:00.000-07:00

IT happened many many years ago. I must have been a student of Siddharth College of Arts and Science, Flora Fountain. There were not many advertising agencies in the market then as there are now. But then, I am sure, there were not so many products either flooding the market. Now I don't remember where and how we met, but I met Leela Kurle from (hope I remember the name right!) Richardson Hindustan, who were handling the Vicks account. She asked me to write some copies for Vicks. I loved creative writing and always had this funny bone. (Only problem is no one took my funny bone seriously! Not that anyone does so even now!) And I gave her many scripts, in fact, maybe many more than she expected, or wanted! She read them and said, "Suneel, these are good ... but. This comic writing may make for good reading, but not suitable for the market. Try and come up with something better, something more simple. Like, Vicks is good and it does this and it does that." I was almost tempted to do the simple thing because the money was attractive, (even by those days' standard) and would have more than taken care of my travel and other expenses. And let me tell you I have simple tastes, now as I had then. But then I have this (near-crazy, as people around me accuse!) obsession of not wanting to do what I don't believe in. And I refused. Refused politely and we remained good friends. But truth was I lost the money. Unfortunately I don't have any copies of the stuff I wrote back then. I continued my copy-writing even in Dubai and met with the same sane response to my crazy way of looking at things! However, now I see TV screens full of such funny ads and I feel like giving a hard kick to myself, you know where! I am reproducing here some of the copy-writing I did in recent, and not-so-recent, years. Some say, I was much ahead of the times. I don't know about that. But I do know it is very important to be at the right place at the right time. Maybe my times were not right. Hehe!! Anyway, here we go. Some funny and some not so funny. Read on.

W o W Baby Wet Wipes
(CONCEPTS)
(1) We hear sounds of a baby crying… Then we see the visuals of a baby crying. Camera pans to the door from where we hear the sounds of a mother “coochi-cooing” trying to pacify the baby. The mother enters and rushes to the baby and picks it up. She starts playing with the baby to comfort him. Then she looks at hi closely and keeps him down. She looks into the camera and gives a confident smile. The camera follows her as she goes out of the room. We see only her hands, with a pack of WoW Baby Wet Wipes. She takes one out of the pack and wipes the baby with it. The baby stops crying and starts gurgling with joy. The mother smiles happily. Close-up of the WoW Baby Wet Wipes.

(VOICE-OVER: As comforting and pure as a mother’s loving touch, WoW Baby Wet Wipes, with Aloe and Willowherb and alcohol-free.

(2) First we hear the sounds of a mother and her baby laughing and playing happily. The camera enters the room where we now see the mother and the baby playing and enjoying themselves. We hear the voice of an old woman “Bahu, what is the secret that your baby is so happy with you? He is so grumpy when he is with me.” The mother shows her folded hands to the camera and says proudly, “Ma, the secret is in my hands. W o W Baby Wet Wipes, with Aloe and Willow-herb, alcohol-free”

We see in close-up the pack of the product.

(3) We see the visuals of a baby with his mother. They are smiling and playing happily.

VOICE-OVER : WOW! The secret of a happy baby and a happy mother. WoW Baby Wet Wipes, with Aloe and Willow-herb, alcohol-free.

(4) In the cradle, a baby is gurgling happily and playing with something in his hands. At this point, we don’t see what he is playing with. The mother enters and sees the baby. She tries to take the thing out of his hands, but without success. The mother looks at the camera helplessly, with a look of bewilderment on her face. The camera slowly reveals the pack of WoW Baby Wet Wipes, in close-up.

VOICE-OVER : Even the baby knows what he wants to be happy. WoW Baby Wet Wipes, with Aloe and Willow-herb, totally alcohol-free.

We see the happy face of the mother as she looks at her baby and says, “Smart baby, smart pack!”

(5) A baby is playing happily in the cradle. The mother enters with the pack of WoW Baby Wet Wipes and looks at the camera directly.

VOICE-OVER : WoW Baby Wet Wipes … sensible choice of sensible mothers for the baby’s sensitive skin. With Aloe and Willow-herb and no alcohol. Smart, naa?

(6) TEMPTATION : We see a young woman, talking into the Camera. She has a very serious expression on her face, as if she is about to share a top secret. She says:

“Waise toh maine yeh apani Munni ke liye liyaa thha. Lekin …”

Suddenly her expression changes.

“ … Lekin main yeh apane liye bhi ‘use’ karti huun. Kyaa karoon?

Temptation hai naa? (SINGING) ‘Dil hai ke maanataa nahin…”

She smiles and winks at the camera. From one side, a tiny hand stretches towards her, with a Baby Wipe in hand. She looks at the hand, and we see a baby handing her the Baby Wipe. She smiles and takes it and rolls it over her face. The baby gurgles and smiles profusely.

VOICE-OVER : W o W Baby Wet Wipes … sensible choice for the sensitive skin, ‘phir chaahe maa ho yaa Munni. With Aloe and Willow-herb and no alcohol. Temptation that is difficult to resist. Aakhir “dil to dil hai.”

The camera focuses on the pack of W o W Baby Wet Wipes and then on the baby and the mother.

(7) MATTER OF CHOICE : Stock shots of some animals licking their young ones to clean them. Then we see a woman with a smug look on her face, and a cute baby in her arms. The camera focuses on the book in her hand that has these photos of animals cleaning their young ones. She smiles at the camera and says proudly, “Thank god, we have a choice, W o W Baby Wet Wipes.” The camera looks at the pack of the Baby Wet Wipes from all angles.

VOICE-OVER : Sensible choice for sensible mothers and babies with sensitive skin, W o W Baby Wet Wipes, with Aloe and Willow-herb … no alcohol.

Never Say 'No'!

2011-08-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

“ADITYA, for the last time I am saying ‘No’. Please go and let me carry on with my work.”
AND Aditya slowly walked out. He was the fastest runner in the whole school, but as he came out of the Principal’s office now, he was barely able to walk. Hee had to drag his feet. He was very frustrated with what had happened. “Why can’t I do this? When I have no objection to run bare-feet, why should anyone else object to it? I think I will ask Mr. Rao the last time,” he said to himself and knocked on the door once again.
“YES, come in,” he heard the Principal’s stern voice and slowly pushed the door half-open. When Mr. Rao saw Aditya at the door, he screamed once again, “Now, how many times do I have to tell you that you cannot take part in the Inter-School Athletes’ Meet? The rules clearly say that all runners must have new shoes on. No new shoes, no race. Understand? You may be the best runner in my school, but I cannot bend the rules for you. In fact, I did not make the rules for this meet. Now …”
NOW, from where am I going to buy a new pair of shoes for this race? I cannot ask Papa for anything more this term. How can I ask him for a new pair of shoes after all the expenses he had to undergo? New school term meant new things, new expenses. And on top of that, he had to pay Rs. 10,000 as donation for Aditya’s younger sister’s KG admission. And now Mr. Rao wants me to buy new shoes if I have to participate in this Inter-School Running Race? I wish I was Jack in that fairy tale ‘Jack And The Beanstalk”. Then I would get all the money I wanted. But fairy tales don’t happen in real life!
THE next day, as soon as he entered the class, all his friends surrounded him and asked him why he looked so sad! He almost cried when he repeated the incident in Mr. Rao’s office the previous evening.
“WHAT are you saying? You are not taking part in this year’s Inter-School Athletics’ Meet?” said Rohit.
“JUST because you have no shoes? Very mean, yaar!”, said John.
“THAT’S not fair,” shouted Ali, Aditya’s best friend. “I always show off when you win a race. What’s going to happen to me now?”
“WE must do something,” everyone said in one voice.
“AND do it fast,” declared Aditya excitedly. “Tomorrow is the last day to give names for this event. If I cannot run in this race, I am never ever going to run at all.”
“EVEN if Mr Rana, the PT sir punishes you and asks you to run round the ground?” asked Bhushan, with a wink.
“I CAN do that even with my old shoes. But I won’t be allowed to run this important race this year, without a new pair of shoes.”
“WE can’t let that happen,” announced Ali loudly. “Aditya, you go and give your name to Mr. Rao in the recess today…”
“BUT the new shoes?”
“THAT’S our responsibility. You don’t worry at all,” declared Ali and the whole class chorused in agreement
IN the recess, all his friends from the class literally pushed Aditya into Mr. Rao’s office. When he came out, Aditya had a big smile on his face. “Rao said I can run this race IF I have a new pair of shoes.”
THE Inter-School Athletics’ Meet was scheduled for the next week and Aditya practiced very hard every day for the event though he was still not sure from where his new shoes would come. Finally, the day came and the school bus was packed with all excited young participants. Mr. Rao personally came to wish everyone “Best of luck!” And then he gave a stern look to Aditya as if to question him, “And mister, where are your new shoes?” Before he could answer, Ali gave a packet into Aditya’s hands. “Your new shoes. We know you are going to win this race.” And they looked at Mr. Rao and gave a mischievous smile. Mr. Rao could say nothing and just left, leaving the boys to shout and cheer.
“ALI, how did you manage this?” asked Aditya.
“You come back in the evening and I will tell you,” Ali assured him.
WHEN the boys returned to school in the evening, Aditya had the biggest Trophy in his hand. “Now Ali, please tell me how did you manage this?” pleaded Aditya.
“SIMPLE! Remember it was my birthday three days back? I asked my parents to gift me a new pair of running shoes. And remember, we are not only best friends, we also wear the same size of shoes. Simple, I told you.”
AND both the friends lovingly hugged each other as they walked into the school auditorium for the special felicitation programme.
“I REQUEST Master Aditya Shetty to say something on this fantastic victory of his,” declared Mr. Rao, the Principal.
“SIMPLE! Never say ‘No!’, said Aditya proudly and winked at Ali who stood by his side.

It Happened One Night! (A Dark Comedy)

2011-07-06T07:35:00.000-07:00

NOTE: All the characters in this dark comedy are purely imaginary and any resemblance to anyone living, dead or yet-to-be-born is beyond the comprehension of the writer.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
1. Scaria - An ambitious small-time actress
2. Gnome Tomtom – Her obsessive boy-friend
3. Justice Chandiwale – A Judge in the Additional Sessions Court
4. Neeraj Grover – A TV Executive (appears only in the flashback)
( DRAWING ROOM OF THE JUDGE WHICH ALSO DOUBLES AS A BED-ROOM, AT TIMES. WHEN THE CURTAIN OPENS, WE SEE THE JUDGE PACING THE FLOOR, RESTLESSLY. SOON THERE IS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR. HE RUSHES TO OPEN THE DOOR. THERE IS A YOUNG LADY, MS. SCARIA, DRESSED PROVOCATIVELY. HE GIVES HER A PECK ON HER CHEEKS AND USHERS HER INTO THE ROOM. )
CHANDIWALE : So, you are here. You are late.
SCARIA : (SMILING) Better late than never, naa?I had to make sure that no one saw me enter your house. You know how the world is. Always misunderstanding!!
CHANDIWALE : You bet. Now, tell me what can I do for you?
SCARIA : Plenty! You are the only one who can get me out of this …
CHANDIWALE : … You mean the Arthur Road jail?
SCARIA : The jail… the whole mess! I have already spent half my precious jawaani in jail. I don’t want to die there, with cockroaches and mosquitoes for company.
CHANDIWALE : (HOLDING HER HAND) Dear, that you won’t. I have studied you inside out. I mean I have studied your case inside and out. And with so many loopholes in the Prosecution story, only I can get you out of this dirty mess.
SCARIA : And I can do anything for you… absolutely anything.
CHANDIWALE : (SMILING) Like you were ready to do anything to make it big in Hindi films. Enh?
SCARIA : Tell me, what choice did I have? I was only a small-time actress in Sanskrit films. Who makes Sanskrit films these days? And who sees them anyway?
CHANDIWALE : Even I don’t. Imagine my forefathers were priests. (SMILES WICKEDLY.)
SCARIA : And this creep called Neeraj promised me a big break in Hindi films. What all I didn’t do for him! And at the end of the dark tunnel, all he managed for me was an audition for some reality show on his channel.
CHANDIWALE : And you sent him into the dark tunnel, never to return. (LAUGHS.)
SCARIA : If I had not done him in that night, he would have done it for me. If not him, surely my boy-friend, Gnome Tomtom, would surely have. He knew I was sleeping around with him. And that night was THE chance for me to prove to Gnome that I was only interested in a break in Hindi films, and not breaking up with him.
CHANDIWALE : So, would you like to tell me what exactly happened that dark night.
SCARIA : Do I have to go through that nightmare again?
CHANDIWALE : You better. Do you have a choice? Unless you want to spend the rest of your nights with roaches and mosquitoes in the jail. Before I pass the judgement tomorrow, I need to get the naked truth. (SMILING) You know what I mean.
SCARIA : I do. Listen.
( SCARIA GOES INTO A FLASHBACK MODE. THE SCENE NOW SHIFTS TO HER SMALL BEDROOM. NEERAJ IS SITTING ON THE BED. SCARIA IS BY HIS SIDE. )
SCARIA : So, Neeraj, when are you going to fulfill your promise made to me?
NEERAJ : Look, I already arranged an audition for you last week. I am nit the producer or director to do anything more than that. You will have to prove your inner worth for that.
SCARIA : (MOCKING) Just an audition for a reality show on your channel. For all the nights I spent with you, proving my inner worth! Come on, I am sure you can do better than that!
NEERAJ : My dear, you are 27 already and not getting any younger.
SCARIA : Now, don’t give me that age lecture. Even a famous writer has said, “Put off the lights and all women are same”.
NEERAJ : That’s only in the bedroom, yaar. We are talking of putting you in front of the movie camera. There are lot many younger chicks ready to do much more than you.
SCARIA : So, you are not going to help me?
NEERAJ : You know I am trying my best…
SCARIA : And your best is just not good enough. I have had more than enough.
NEERAJ : So, let me go.
SCARIA : I will let you go. That’s why I have called you today. Even Gnome is coming here.
NEERAJ : What do you mean?
SCARIA : You will soon know. (GOES TO THE TABLE AND PICKS UP A KITCHEN KNIFE. NEERAJ IS RELAXING ON THE BED, WITH HIS EYES CLOSED. SUDDENLY SHE ATTACKS HIM VIOLENTLY. HE SCREAMS AND STRUGGLES TO FREE HIMSELF, BUT SHE CONTINUES TO STAB HIM. SOON, HE LIES LIFELESS.) If you are no use to me, I have no use for you. Goodbye, friend.
( THE SCENE SHIFTS BACK TO THE DRAWING ROOM OF JUDGE CHANDIWALE. )
CHANDIWALE : So, you killed him?
SCARIA : What other choice did I have? He tried to force himself on me. And I couldn’t have waited for my boy-friend to arrive. You will never know how I spent the night sitting by the side of a dead corpse.
CHANDIWALE: Wrong words! A corpse is dead. You don’t say a “dead corpse”.
SCARIA : Okay, you don’t have to show off your knowledge of words. Just tell me how you are going to get me out of this.
CHANDIWALE : I am a judge and can easily play with words. It’s easy for us at the top of the order. But tell me more. Your story is getting damn interesting.
( SCENE SHIFTS BACK TO THE BEDROOM OF MS. SCARIA IN THE FLASHBACK. SCARIA IS SITTING, READING A FILMY MAGAZINE. HER BOYFRIEND, GNOME TOMTOM, ENTERS IN A HURRY. )
GNOME : (LOOKING AT NEERAJ’S BODY ON THE BED) So, slut, you are still sleeping around with this creep?
SCARIA : Darling, that was in the past. Now he is sleeping alone. He is in an eternal sleep, never to rise again. I killed him. Now what next?
GNOME : What a stupid question! You don’t seem to be seeing Ram Gopal Verma’s horror films! We will have to dispose off his body.
SCARIA : How?
GNOME : (SARCASTICALLY) We will put him a wheel-chair and drive him around. You silly girl, you go and buy a knife from the mall next door.
SCARIA : I have this kitchen knife with which I killed him.
GNOME : You can cut a chicken with this knife, not a human being. We will need a chopper for that. And two travel bags. And a bottle of kerosene.
SCARIA : I get you. We are going to chop him. Right? (GNOME NODS.) And stuff the pieces into the travel bags. Right? (GNOME NODS AGAIN.) And then burn him. Right?
GNOME : Well, you are not as hare-brained as I thought you were. Now hurry.
( SCENE SHIFTS BACK TO THE DRAWING-ROOM OF CHANDIWALE. )
CHANDIWALE : And you did just that. Very obedient.
SCARIA : Yes, but before that, we did something else.
CHANDIWALE : Wait, I will tell you what you did.
SCARIA : (EXCITED) How do you know what happened that night.
CHANDIWALE : Because that’s what the Defence Lawyer is going to say. When your boy-friend entered your room, he saw Neeraj lying naked in your bed. Obviously he lost his head on seeing another man in his girl-friend’s bed. And in the heat of the moment, he killed him.
SCARIA : You are brilliant.
CHANDIWALE : Thanks. And the Goddess of Justice is blind. (STRIKES A POSE OF THE LADY WITH THE BALANCE.) But I cannot prove you both totally innocent. Of course, I can let you off with light punishment.
SCARIA : Like?
CHANDIWALE : You will get 3 years’ imprisonment.
SCARIA : I have already spent 3 years in the jail.
CHANDIWALE : Exactly. So, you will walk free, to pick up the pieces, so to say. And your boyfriend will get 10 years. 7 more. When you both come out, you will still be young to start your lives all over again. But …
SCARIA : Butt … whose butt are you talking about?
CHANDIWALE : B ..U .. T. Not BUTT. Can’t you see beyond butts? You will have to pay some fine.
SCARIA : Fine! Suits me!! How much?
CHANDIWALE : You will pay about Rs. 50,000 and Gnome will pay a couple of lakhs.
SCARIA : No problem. These are small sums. I can raise 50,000 in one sitting.
CHANDIWALE : And the rest in a couple of sleeping sessions. Right?
SCARIA : So, it’s all final.
CHANDIWALE : Just you wait till I deliver the judgement tomorrow. But make sure you control your emotions.
SCARIA : That’ll be easy. I am an actress after all.
CHANDIWALE : Of Sanskrit films. Forget it. The society opinion might differ from that of the court. What matters is the evidence produced in the court and not emotions that you or the dead man’s family shows. It is only the evidence.
SCARIA : (LAUGHING LOUDLY) And the dead don’t speak. So, what we say will be the truth. No eye-witness at all. Neeraj is resting in peace.
CHANDIWALE : … in pieces actually!
( BOTH START LAUGHING. THE SCENE SLOWLY TURNS DARK. )
( ONLY THE VOICE OF JUSTICE CHANDIWALE IS HEARD IN THE DARK. )
VOICE : The Prosecution has failed to prove the murder intent. The accused, Gnome is guilty of culpable homicide not amounting to murder and the co-accused Scaria is accused of destroying the evidence. I hereby sentence Scaria to 3 years in prison and Gnome, her fiancé, to 10 years in prison. Since Scaria has already spent 3 years in Arthur Road jail, in the company of cockroaches and mosquitoes, she will be allowed to walk free and pick up the pieces of her life. I can imagine the mental trauma undergone by the victim Neeraj’s parents. I think a sufficient fine should be awarded to them by accused 1, Scaria and accused 2, Gnome. I fine Gnome Rs. 50,000 on two counts and Scaria Rs. 50,000 on one count. The compensation of Rs. 5 lakh would be handed over to Neeraj Grover’s family. I declare the case closed.
VOICES OF PROTEST ARE HEARD FROM ALL OVER FOR SOME TIME AND SLOWLY DIE DOWN.

Another Jonathan Livingston Seagull

2011-03-09T10:23:00.000-08:00

“PEOPLE who make their own rules when they know they’re right … people who get a special pleasure out of doing something well (even if only for themselves) … people who know there’s more to this whole living thing than meets the eye: they’ll be with Jonathan Seagull all the way….”
THUS reads the back cover of the wonderful book ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’ by Richard Bach? Have you read it? I have. I have lived it. I have been with Jonathan Livingston Seagull all the way. And I have enjoyed these moments immensely. And today, I want to share with you all a little story of another Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
THIS Jonathan, unlike the other Jonathan, had no ambitions of high flying. He was content to have his feet firmly on the ground while he let his heart soar higher. He loved to talk. And how! When he talked, people listened intently. At least, that’s what they said. He could charm his way to the hearts of his listeners. Yes, that’s what they said. But he not only talked. He also encouraged others to talk. He listened to the young ones around him when they talked. He did this while others around him asked the young ones to shut up while they talked, often making no sense to them. He did this because he believed everyone who could talk had a right to be heard. Naturally, the young ones liked to be with him.
AND then one fine morning (not really fine, if you ask me!) Jonathan stopped talking. Not because he was tired of talking, but because a serious health problem deprived him of his power of speech. He didn’t give up though! He continued to make desperate efforts to speak his heart. He underwent treatment that would enable him to talk. Sadly, that was not enough. Ironically, his voice was not loud enough to be heard … and understood. Some years passed. Everyone in his inner circle got used to his voice not being heard. They argued, where was the need for him to talk? Who would bother really? Quite often, Jonathan felt frustrated but bore through it all, patiently, hoping that someday he would be heard. He went about his work doggedly, talking softly at times, to those who cared to listen, and at those rare times, screaming, urging his people to listen to him.
OFTEN he felt frustrated, but never gave up. His heart still soared higher while his voice struggled to keep pace. There were times when he came close to achieving his dream but found no support from people who didn’t share his dream. Then one fine morning (really fine, if you ask me!) he met one of his early followers, Viv by name. Viv understood and prodded Jonathan to chase his dream of talking once again. Patiently, he removed the hurdles in his way, so Jonathan would grope his way out of the confusion. “I am doing all this for purely selfish reasons”, he said. “When I was learning to talk, you listened to me and helped me to find my way. Now, it’s my turn to help you find your way out of the wilderness. Go on, chase your dream. It’s your right,” he assured Jonathan lovingly.
AND Jonathan listened, and decided to act on his conviction. He let his people know that he wanted to talk once again, not for them but for his own satisfaction. Talk once again so everyone would be able to hear him clear. He would talk so that he would be HEARD, and more important, be understood. And that this time he would allow nothing, absolutely nothing, to come in his way. They didn’t understand his stubbornness, and stopped talking to him, hoping he would come round eventually.
AS of now, Jonathan is waiting to start talking once again. At this moment, he is not sure if his dream of being able to talk would come true, and if it did, for how long that would last! But Jonathan is sure of one thing … that one moment of his talk would be worth thousand moments of silence he was forced to follow.
FRIENDS, you understand what I am talking about, don’t you? All our dreams may not come true. But that shouldn’t stop us from dreaming! So, let’s raise a toast to all the dreamers of this world!

March 7, 2011

I Had A Dream!

2010-01-27T08:40:00.001-08:00

I HAD a dream last night! Well, if that beginning sounds a bit melodramatic, don’t blame me! Another great soul (who went by the name of Martin Luther King, separated by years!) is responsible. So, what’s so dramatic about having a dream, you might ask. Nothing actually! I keep having dreams from time to time; long and short; black-and-white and multi-coloured; some random, some routine ones; some disturbed ones (like those short and teasing, often misleading promos of forthcoming films), and some undisturbed, like full-length feature films themselves, depending on the kind of sleep I tend to have (which again depends on my fluctuating health condition).
SOME dreams are recurring and keep coming to me at regular intervals. One such dream has me flying high in the skies, just by flapping of the hands, like Superman, looking down (literally) on the world left behind. Don’t remember how this one ends. The second recurring dream features me as a dead body, lying on the floor. I can see three people ready to carry me along to the waiting pyre. Not finding the fourth shoulder, (not to cry on, but to complete the team, so to say,) that will ferry me onto my final journey. I don’t remember how this one ends, too. The third recurring dream, I used to have, again features me in the lead role (if you will permit me the fantasy of living my fond dream!), as the sole survivor of an otherwise fatal air-crash, walking around, looking for something (god knows what?) in the debris scattered all around me. I know how this one ends, though. It ends with me celebrating my triumph (?). (The fact that I have survived my serious cancer surgery 2 years ago, gives me reason to believe I have actually lived this particular dream!)
HOWEVER, the third dream I started my story with was nothing like the ones I have mentioned before. I never had anything like this before. I am not blushing when I say that this dream, too, had me in the leading role. I was waiting in a posh tailoring shop, (or was it a tailoring showroom?) waiting for my turn to be called by the Boss for my exact measurements. It was funny that I was actually waiting in the lobby of a tailoring shop, like you wait at the airport for your turn to be checked-in, or on a railway station, waiting for the train to arrive, or in a theatre showing a blockbuster hit (say, ‘3 Idiots’?) waiting for a ticket. There was a big crowd along with me, waiting to be ushered to the elite area for the Tailor Master to take my measurements. Strange, isn’t it? I mean, with so many out-of-work tailoring shops around, one has to actually wait to be called for suitable fitting clothes? But that’s how it was … for me … in my latest dream. After a long wait, my name was called and I rushed to the counter where the receptionist was waiting. When I presented my “case papers”, I was just brushed with a remark that my turn had not yet come. “Wait,” I was told. And I was waiting.

I AM still waiting to find out what exactly the dream was all about. I remembered the words from Mahabharata (now, please don’t ask me the exact Sanskrit words!) that said (roughly translated), “There comes a time in the life of everyone when one has to discard his old clothing and prepare to wear new ones for another journey”. I don’t remember if this reflection on the words from Mahabharata was part of my dream or I am remembering them now, as I wait to find out the significance, if any, of my dream.

January 22, 2010

Lizzy

2009-12-31T01:42:00.000-08:00

Wishing all my readers a very Happy New Year ... with an old story. This happened almost 4 decades ago. Hope you will enjoy reading even now.
I HAD known Lizzy only for about a fortnight or so. To tell you the truth, I was not particularly fond of her in the initial stages, but as I spent more and more time in her loving company, I came to like her. With all near and dear ones away, to love someone and be loved in return does give such a high feeling! And same was the case with me.
THIS HAPPENED in the early Sixties. I had been in the Indian Army, Army Service Corps to be precise, for more than 8 months. The day I was recruited was to mark the beginning of an indefinite period for me to be staying away from my family. I had never left the security of my home, except for some brief spells. I had no real friends as such, to speak of. I was always more attached to my own home and my own people. But …
BUT THEN one fine morning, I joined the Indian Army, which was the beginning of a new phase of life for me. (Now why I joined the Army in the first place is another story!) For the first time – and I didn’t know for how long this would last – I was forced to stay away from my near and dear ones. As it happens with all the people, I soon got used to staying alone, though, of course, sometimes I felt quite lonely and homesick.
I NEVER used to mix up with the other chaps, but got along like a house on fire, with the young ones in the area. After an initial training phase at Bangalore (now Bangaluru, I think), I was posted in Poona (now Pune, again if I am not mistaken!). This posting would definitely be closer home, I thought. Unfortunately I knew no one in Poona proper. After some time, however, I got friendly with the Kulkarnis, a Major in AOC (Army Ordinance Corps, for the uninitiated!). He happened to be from our own community. Of course, I was always more friendly with Vijay and Smita, the children of the household. I never got to see much of the master of the house, as he used to be away in the Northern borders somewhere, for long spells, lasting over a month or so at a time. It was then that I first saw the lovely Lizzy, and instantly felt a strange attraction for her. Hey, I can assure you, it was NOT love at first sight. Lizzy was not born into the family but was brought up lovingly as a member of the family, since she was very young.
THE FIRST time I went to Lizzy’s house (I mean, to the Major’s house where she was brought up), I was in my green Army uniform. Lizzy saw the familiar green uniform and came running to me. Vijay and Smita were not too pleased with this as they themselves wanted to play with her. I must confess, I found Lizzy rather attractive then. I made her sit on my lap and began fondling her. In return, she started licking me all over.
WITH ALL near and dear ones who loved me, so far away, those loving licks gave me a new thrill. You understand, don’t you? Even a dog’s licks mean a lot at such a time. Yes, Lizzy was a dog (call her a ‘bitch’ if you so wish!) in the family. But wait, this is not the end of our love-story. I soon became like a member of the family, and started spending quite some time with them, sometimes even sleeping there at nights, to return to my barracks early the next morning. As long as I returned to duty on time in the mornings, I was fortunate enough to be given this unique liberty because my officers knew I was close to the officer’s family.
ONE MORNING, after spending my night there, as usual I left their home to report back on duty. As I walked, I had a sneaking suspicion that someone was discreetly following me. When I turned back, that ‘someone’ would quickly hide. This game of hide-and-seek went on for some time. By now, I had covered a good distance from their home and was closer to my barracks. By the time I realized that it was Lizzy who had been following me, it was too late to try and lead her back to her abode. Smart as she was, she would have hidden the moment she saw me turn back on her trail.
I ALLOWED her to follow me to the barracks. Keeping a dog in the barracks would have meant breaking the strict rules and the discipline of the Army. But then I was left with absolutely no choice. My other colleagues helped me feed Lizzy and prepare a cozy bed for her. I was not aware of the amount of panic Lizzy’s absence must have caused at the Kulkarni household, but I knew they would be worried like hell, not knowing where Lizzy was.
EARLY NEXT morning, I left the barracks with Lizzy leading me now to her rightful home. Perhaps, by now even she had realized the mistake she had committed the previous evening. When we reached closer to the house, Lizzy ran into the house, barking loudly. Hearing her barks, Vijay and Smita came out, tears of happiness rolling down their cheeks now. Lizzy jumped onto their young bodies, licking them lustily. No one in the family had been able to sleep the previous night, their mother explained. They had a vague feeling that Lizzy might have followed me when I had left the previous evening, thinking she was following her master. And, maybe, by the time she realized her mistake, it was too late for her to find her way back. Anyway, like they say, “All’s well that ends well”.
YEARS HAVE passed since this incident. Vijay and Smita must have grown up, married and have children of their own. We haven’t crossed each other’s path since I left Army. That pets can be great stress-busters is a well-known and proven fact. Where I was concerned, it took a dumb (and clever) animal to prove it for me. Oh, LIZZY!

Santa Comes!

2009-12-20T23:08:00.000-08:00

MY earliest memories of the affable old man date back to the time when I couldn’t even spell Santa Claus. I was a little brat who tried to stop his running nose with his shirt-sleeves. That was the time when my mother used to put me to sleep by frightening me with the images of a fat old man with white flowing beard who would carry me away from her and the family to the land of demons if I didn’t sleep. And it worked. And how!
I BEGAN to associate this frightful character with this smiling (?) red-clothed (red for danger?) man who would appear on the occasional greeting cards my father received around the time of December. I was naively convinced that the big sack on his back was full of naughty children who wouldn’t sleep easily.
SO, it was a pleasant surprise when the grand old man with the bag sack appeared in flesh and blood at a children’s party my father’s ‘gora saab’ (white boss) had given on that December evening. My first reaction, I remember, had been to scream and run away when he put his sack down. And just when I was about to faint with fear, to my surprise, instead of stuffing poor little me into the sack, he fished out a big prize for me. I squealed with joy.
ON reaching home, I quarreled with my mother for telling me untrue things about the friendly old man with the red dress and the flowing white beard. And, for once, she had no answer to my questions. Maybe it had something to do with her belief that Santa Claus (I had found out his name by now!) belonged to Christianity, a faith she neither understood nor followed.
I HAVE come a long way since those days. I know now how Santa Claus must have felt when I used to run away from him, even when he beckoned me so lovingly. Some children used to do that to me. Yes, I know what it feels like to be Santa Claus.
MY only niece’s birthday happened to be on Christmas Day. Ever since I left the shores of India in search of greener pastures (!) to Dubai, I started celebrating her birthday in the company of a few children who were my friends. When one of the younger children asked me if Santa Uncle was attending the birthday party, I said to myself, “Why not?” An old Christian lady stitched the red costume for me, complete with the cap and the sack. A lively mask with flowing white beard, bought from one of the super-markets, completed the picture and Santa Claus was born.
“HE is here… He is here!”, came the squeals of delight from the surprised children. Joy, disbelief loomed large on their innocent faces. They came from everywhere. They were of all ages, all faiths. What bound them together was that they all wanted to see Santa Claus, touch him, feel him, be a part of the joy he brought, and, yes, grab the gifts he carried for them. It was to share this joy that I jumped at the offer when one of leading departmental stores, the Mohebi Centre in Dubai, offered me an assignment to move about as Santa Claus for some days.
MY ready costume came in handy at this time. I only asked the Centre to supply me with big black gum-shoes. I remembered that on an earlier occasion, a child had asked me why Santa didn’t have his gum-shoes on. I was completely foxed for a moment before I answered that he didn’t need them in Dubai sands. The different questions asked by children kept me alert throughout my brief stint.
“WHY are you so thin, Santa?,” a little girl asked.
“WHY is your beard so white?” asked another.
“YOU are not real, are you?,” doubted one curious boy.
YET another wanted to take off my mask. What I was like behind the mask, no one knew. It was like seeing the world from so near… and yet, so far.
“WHEN did you come from Panchgani?” I asked a boy who, I knew, was studying in a boarding school there.
“HOW do you know I study there?”, he asked in bewilderment.
“SANTA knows everything.”
‘YOU know my daddy, too?”
“YES, when he was a little toddler.”
AND he just stared at my flowing white beard and nodded.
THEY came singly and they came in large numbers. Some came just to see and feel Santa, to shake hands with him, to get photographed with him. Some came again and again for the gifts. Many parents dragged their children, hiding the presents they had already got and asked for more. Some invited Santa to come to their homes.
“SANTA, will you come to my house?,” one boy asked, pulling my cloak gently.
‘OF COURSE, I will, darling.”
“WILL you come for Eid to my house?”
“YES, I will.”
“THEN will you come to my house for Diwali, too?”
THESE questions symbolized their belief in Santa.. Santa Claus was no more a Christian symbol for them. He knew no barriers of time and place and religion. He was just a harbinger of peace, goodwill and joy -- be it Eid, Diwali or Christmas. For a child knows no religion, other than that of humanity. In the adult world, full of strife, tension, terrorism and war, each child comes with the message from God that He is not yet disappointed with man. And Santa Claus comes with but an extension of that all-important message.

Environmental Protection - Am I Responsible?

2009-12-11T09:47:00.000-08:00

This evening, the lights in the city and elsewhere in the country, will be voluntarily (and hopefully)put off, for some time. And hope no one will complain about this “power-cut”. Here, I am reproducing a speech written by me many, many years ago for one of my students for an Inter-School Competition in Dubai. This is December, 2009. The year we were talking about back then is already at out doorsteps. Here’s hoping the matter is still relevant for the present times. Here we go then.
THE YEAR is 2010 -- we are out on a beach. The beach is cluttered with wrappers, empty cans and bottles. The environment is reeking of stench left by rotting food left-overs, half-burnt cigarettes and petrol. And just as we are struggling to get a whiff of fresh air, a welcome voice is heard: “A can of fresh air... only 100 dirhams.”
HONOURABLE JUDGES and my dear friends, a nightmare? A nightmare that could soon be as real as all of us sitting here and listening to speeches on ‘Environmental protection: Am I responsible?’. Friends, the topic today should have been ‘Environmental protection : Am I not responsible?’
WHAT SORT of a world are our elders asking us to inherit? Water pollution... air pollution... noise pollution ... landscape pollution... pollution everywhere. Like Wordsworth says, “I know wherever I go, That there has passed away, A glory from the earth”.
CREATURES OF the earth! Even animals clean the place before they occupy it. Then why cannot we demand that our elders hand over a cleaner, and healthier environment to us? Look at these two pictures! They say, smoking is injurious to health. Then they fill the air with cigarette smoke. A mile of walking will do you good, says Dad. And he takes his car out to go to the super-market just a few blocks away! Water is precious, screams Mom. And she runs to discuss the latest gossip over the phone, leaving the tap running. Traffic is too much. But no one shares a car to go to a common destination! Electricity must be conserved. But we pull the blanket over our bodies instead of switching off the AC. Lights, fans, stereos, TVs and videos are on with no people for company. My company pays the bills. I am not worried. But then who is worried? Who is responsible? You? You? Or you? No sir, I am responsible. I must be the first person responsible. The world begins... and ends with the First Person who matters the most, “I”. Then why this question at all, “Am I responsible?”
INDUSTRIES ARE flourishing. But can we shut down the industries? The ozone layer is depleting. Then why not launch ourselves into the space with a needle and thread to mend the ozone? Do we really need a Superman to save this planet? No. You and I can take on the responsibility. If only we understand that I am the source, and the target, of pollution. Am I not responsible to make sure that all the lights and fans are switched off when not in use? Am I not responsible to ensure that the environment is not polluted with cigarette smoke and the garbage so carelessly thrown about by us? Owning a car is a status symbol. Fine! But surely I can tell my elders to forget their egos and share cars going in the same direction!! I can tell my elders that I NEED this world and I am responsible for it. Yes, I am responsible.
I STARTED with a nightmare. But I have a dream. A dream that one day all the youngsters will become so much environment-conscious that we will not have to ask ourselves the question, “Environmental protection, am I responsible?”

Bragging About Blogging!

2009-10-01T22:39:00.000-07:00

AFTER a non-stop struggle for almost three weeks or more, I hit the "Send" button for my Marathi blog. Ever since my cousin sister, Seema, told me about this Marathi blog-writing contest for Star Majha Channel, I was in a "to-be-or-not-to-be" state of mind. It so happens that she seems to have more faith in my writing abilities than Yours Truly. After she told me about this particular contest, I kept procrastinating. (Wow! I have been wanting to use this word for a long time, and now I have managed, I hope, to get the spelling right on the first go!) After her constant SMSes, calls and then missed calls, I decided to at least check the site for Star Majha, to get the details of this Blog Majha contest.
"HEY, know what, the main condition for this contest is that the blog has to be submitted in Marathi Devnagari script. And I am not at all comfortable with Marathi," I told her one morning reluctantly.
"REMEMBER Big Brother, you have studied in Marathi Devnagari script, right till your SSCE Board Examination. And however much you take pride (sic!) in your so-called English writing proficiency, I know, you can still write in Marathi," she said.
"But ...," I protested.
"No ifs and buts," she counter-protested. "I have been reading your English blogs, and worse comes to worst, I will find time and even translate your English blog into Marathi. But... no more 'buts' from you."
WELL, that left me with no choice. And I logged onto the Star Majha Channel to get further details about this Blog Majha contest. I pored through all the terms and conditions. Then I checked through 'hazaar' corresponding mails to find out about different sites for transliteration. I also sent mails and SMSes to my friends from the Marathi TV industry, asking them for possible help to get my English blogs translated into Marathi. I sent them links for my blogs; "Copy-Pasted" some of my blogs for their benefit... and waited for their responses.
THERE were none. I consoled myself that maybe they found my English blogs too good-to-be-true for translation into Marathi, I totally overlooked the possibility that maybe they found my blogs to be not-really-worth-taking-the-trouble for Marathi translation. One good thing about me (even if my friends and well-wishers may not agree about the 'being good' part of me!) is I am 'maha ziddi' and don't give up easily once I take a shine for something. And now this writing Marathi blog had become more than an obsession for me. More than me, Seema was happier that I was not going to give this up so easily now.
MY student-friends on Facebook came up with suggestions for the Marathi script thing. I tried all of them, with varying degrees of success, but none to my entire satisfaction. And then, I found a friend in Ashish Kulkarni on Star Majha helpline, who introduced me to Baraha transliteration scheme. I downloaded the free software onto my computer and started experimenting with the Devnagari script. After a two-week-struggle, I managed (mastering was still miles and miles away for me... and still is!) to type-write in the Devnagari script. I dug out all my dictionaries -- Marathi-English, English-Marathi and some more -- to help me out. Meanwhile I received a Teachers' Day card from one of my old Indian High School students, Nandu Gopan, which became my diving board, and starting point. And finally my first Marathi blog was ready to take off.
NEXT, I dug out all my old photographs from the cellar and selected some to beautify my first baby, my Marathi blog. And after a three-week-struggle, I hit the "Send" button. Winning the first three prizes or even getting an honorary mention was not on my agenda now. I just wanted to follow my 'zidd' to fruition and was able to do so. And then, after sending my entry for the Blog Majha Contest for the Star Majha Channel, did I realise that in pursuing my Marathi 'dream' I had totally neglected my English blog-baby. "यह नहीं चलेगा", I said to myself. I had managed to revive my Marathi roots with this blog-writing stuff, and achieved my distant dream. And you people will agree with me that once you achieve your dream, it doesn't hold the same charm for you anymore, isn't it? I have finally achieved my goal of writing my first Marathi blog and must get back to my original love of the English language, so what if that was not the medium of instruction for me in school right till my SSCE Board Examination, as Seema had reminded me, and that I had learnt my English because of my love for Hindi films. But then, friends, that's another story.

Happy Teachers' Day

2009-09-05T05:33:00.000-07:00

Received many calls and SMSes today, to wish me a Happy Teachers' Day. Felt great that so many of my student-friends still remember me, years after leaving the school. I remembered the different programmes we used to have at school to celebrate this great day: short plays, short and long speeches, melodious songs and colourful dances, the felicitations. I particularly remember one year, I think a year before I decided to leave, when we had this discussion between the teachers and the students. We had selected 5 student representatives and 5 teacher representatives. The theme was: "What I expect from my teachers" and "What I expect from my students." The Principal and other supervisors were apprehensive about what was likely to happen with such an explosive theme on hand. As a precaution, we asked Nikhil Harikrishnan to move across the stage with a board, "Censored" whenever the goings seemed to be going out of hand. I was also unsure whether such a programme would even take off.
AND then the function started. The other programmes went off well, as expected. And the discussion started. It took a while, but once it took off, there was no stopping it. Quite a few times, Nikhil had to move with his banner, "Censored". And at the end of the stipulated time, we threw open the proceedings to members of the audience. One student moved about with a microphone in hand. As expected, there were explosive situations and we had to stop the programme due to lack of time. But was it fun!

I AM reproducing here a Dialogue Between A Teacher and God, that was presented on the occasion of the Teachers' Day. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as we had enjoyed presenting it that afternoon.

A TEACHER AND GOD – IN CONVERSATION!
A TEACHER SPEAKS:
I am a teacher, dear God, striving hard to do and give of my best,
but not succeeding always.
I often ask myself, why I chose to be a teacher.
Why this, and not something more lucrative?
Only yesterday God, I met a classmate of mine,
now an executive in a flourishing concern,
earning almost thrice as much as I do.
I am inclined to feel envious and frustrated
when I think of those others, doing so much better than myself.
And apart from this, Oh God, there is the heavy work
that teaching demands and entails –
large classes, piles upon piles of books to be corrected,
lessons to be prepared, reference work to be done,
and co-curricular activities to attend to.
Besides, dear God, teaching can become so monotonous after a while.
The interest and motivation seem to fade away,
and often I find I have to force myself
to do the myriad tasks I have to do.
In addition dear God, there are the misunderstandings
and differences of opinion one meets with,
while working with one’s colleagues.
The lack of appreciation and affection one often encounters in one’s students.
They tend to take us teachers for granted and then how much it hurts,
and teaching does not seem worth the sacrifices it entails.
I feel I cannot go on much longer, God,
Please help me God … need your help.

GOD RESPONDS
Take heart my child and do not be discouraged.
Do you think I do not understand your problems,
your failings, your difficulties?
Teaching is a hard task, I know.
But think of the countless students to whom you bring the light of knowledge.
Think of the countless young characters which you mould and form for the future.
For what you instill in them today, they will carry with them, through life.
They are the leaders of tomorrow, the nation’s only hope for the future.
And the country’s destiny lies in your hands.
I understand how you feel, when you meet with ingratitude and rejection.
I suffered these too.
I know how much it hurts.
But remember, I have chosen you
to be the instrument of My Love,
Caring and Concern.
I will help you to carry on, and together we can build,
A BETTER, BRIGHTER AND HAPPIER WORLD.

GIVING SPACE!

2009-09-03T05:40:00.000-07:00

I WAS thrilled to see the Press ads, more so because I read the name Nitin Mirani almost after ages. "Dubai Stand-up comedian, Nitin Mirani, to perform in Mumbai for the first time", proclaimed the ads. I couldn't believe my eyes the first time I saw the ads and didn't take them seriousl;y. Then I saw the face sprawled up and took notice. Yes, it had to be the same Nitin Mirani, the boy with the comic sense, I had known years ago when I was teaching at The Indian High School, Dubai.
I HAD to meet this Nitin Mirani. But will he really remember me after all these years? I called the mobile number given in the ad. "What is it?" the voice at the other end said. In my not-so-strong voice, I tried to explain to him as best as I could. That Nitin was my student years ago and that I would like to get in touch with him. I could make out the voice was disappointed that I was not calling to do a group booking, or to book a show. I waited for the next two days for him to get back to me. No luck!
THEN I did some quick networking to contact another student-friend of mine, Niladri Mondal who, I knew, was in the field of entertainment and media. Please can you get me the contact details of one Nitin Mirani? Meanwhile, I searched for Nitin Mirani on Facebook and got his e-mail address and dashed an urgent mail to him. Niladri got back to me and gave me Nitin's Dubai number. (I am not an official spokesperson for Facebook, but I must confess it has been of great help in reconnecting me to so many of my old student-friends. ) Thanks Facebook!
WITH nothing better to do with my spare time (of which I have plenty these days!) I checked my In-Box and found Nitin Mirani's reply to my mail earlier. He was already in Mumbai, he said and promised to call me on my mobile. Which, I must say to his credit, he did promptly. And then we were in constant touch with each other. When I asked him about a ticket for his show, he said that he would make sure I would attend his show, as his guest. St. Andrew's Auditorium at Bandra, on Friday, 21st August, I reminded him.
THEN he got back to me on the morning of 21st to tell me of the cancellation of the show on 21st and that we would be meeting at Sophia Bhabha Auditorium on Saturday, 22nd August. And finally we met backstage that evening. The first thing he did was touch my feet and seek my blessings. "A stand-up comedian, enh? Great! And what is the response of your parents?" I asked Nitin.
AND he laughed. "They are proud of me now," he beamed.
I REMEMBERED the days at school. Many parents used to call me and ask me to counsel their children. "He never listens to anything we tell him. He will listen to you for sure", was the common refrain in most cases. "He doesn't study as much as he should. More interested in singing, dancing and acting-shacting. What will he do when he grows up? Look at his brother/friend who is so serious about studies. He would rather concentrate on his studies so he grows up to be a respectable doctor or engineer or a banker." (By the way, Nitin's father and younger are bankers by profession.)
WHILE trying not to disappoint the anxious parents, I used to try and counsel the parents that a doctor, engineer or a banker were not the only respectable options open for a child these days. "There were many more doors that were waiting to be opened. Give him space to grow and, I am sure, you will come back to me and tell me some day that you are proud of your son/daughter", was what I told them. I also spoke to the "wayward" children and told them that their parents were not wrong in expecting them to concentrate on studies. "Check your passport and you will find your profession listed as 'Student'. You have a whole lifetime to chase your dreams and try and change the profession to something you like."
AGAINST this background, I was more than happy to hear from Nitin that his parents were proud of what he had achieved over the years. Then I waited for the show to start.For a long time, there were not many people in the hall and I was beginning to worry whether Nitin was in for a disappointment as a stand-up comedian. And then the crowds started coming and soon the auditorium was full. Then the show began and I watched enthralled. Nitin rocked and people applauded. Then towards the end, something happened that touched me deeply. He pointed to me in the audience and said, "I would like to introduce you all to my teacher who had immense faith in me, when I was a little boy back in Dubai. And he is the reason for me to be here performing. Meet Mr. Suneel Hattangadi, my first Drama Teacher in The indian High School, Dubai."
AND there were claps in the auditorium and tears in my eyes. Nitin didn't have to be so vocal in public for what, he believed, was my contribution towards his achievements. After all, I had not done anything special for him as such. I had just done for him what I had been doing for all my students all along. I had just given all my students A Space To Grow.

Encroachers - Animals.. or Humans?

2009-08-17T02:06:00.000-07:00

One 'smart' minister who goes by the name of Thorat in Maharashtra, entered the cage of a cub and created headlines in the newspapers recently. Onreading this story, my mind went back to the time when the topic for an Elocution Contest was "Encroachers -- Animals, or Humans?" The student who came to me for help had no idea whatsoever about what the topic meant. (So much for current state of education!) I am reproducing a copy of the speech I had written for the student.

“THE PANTHER strikes, yet again”; “Lawyer is cat’s latest kill”; “Leopards kill two”; “Half-eaten body of six-year-old found”; “The death toll rises to over 10 in June”. These are the kind of headlines that have been dominating the newspapers time and again. Going by the headlines and the stories that follow them, it would seem that the ruthless animals are encroaching in the territory of poor humans. But friends, think. Try and think what the poor animals must be feeling. Poor animals, did I say? I know, most people are going to call me crazy for calling the animals ‘poor’. But think again. If only the animals could speak!
“WHERE do we go from here?” “What do we eat to survive?” “We need to survive, too, don’t we?” These are just some of the questions we humans are likely to be asked. In the name of progress, humans are beginning to conquest spaces which are not their natural habitat. It’s not enough to conquer the outer space. So, the next thing they do is destroy the jungles. The politicians want to ensure their vote-banks, so they allow the slums to grow in places which were once occupied by the animals. And then one fine morning, you discover the dead body of an innocent human on the outskirts of the jungle.
“… WE will take further action … we will eliminate the man-eaters …,” says Ashok Khot, Additional Chief Secretary of Forests. Sounds impressive? Hardly, if you ask me. Sunjoy Monga, naturalist writer, says, “The solution lies in controlling human activities, not the leopard or the panther. It is necessary to stop the human encroachment in the animal territory.” “We have encroached so much into the jungle that the leopards are now finding easy prey in human settlements,” says Bittu Sehgal, the Editor of ‘Sanctuary’ magazine. “We should barricade the forest from human settlements. But with little food available within, the panthers are bound to look outside,” feels the Deputy Conservator of Forests, AR Bharti. Leaving rabbits or pigs is not the solution. Instead, stop the disturbance by humans inside the forests, which results in a drop in the population of the prey.
IF we have to look for a long-term solution for the human-animal conflict, we need to do something fast. We must free up forest space. Human settlements must be separated from the National Park areas. In short, human encroachment MUST be stopped. It is only then that we will not find the screaming headlines such as: “The panther strikes, yet again”; “Leopards kill two”; “Lawyer is cat’s latest kill””Half-eaten body of six-year-old found”, and the like. I hope I have made my point very clear: It is not the animals who are encroachers but the humans who have encroached the animals.

62nd Anniversary of the Indian Independence

2009-08-14T06:13:00.000-07:00

GREETINGS to all my reader friends on the eve of the 62nd Anniversary of Indian independence. I am reproducing here a speech I had written in November, 1997, for a young student of mine, to be delivered at the Indian Consulate, Dubai, as part of the celebration of 5th anniversary of Indian independence. Many things have changed since I first wrote this speech. Sadly, many things haven't changed since then. You read and then decide for yourselves, and please send me your feedback, as you always have been doing so graciously.

“FIFTY years of Indian independence … have we been worthy of it?” I said to my mother that evening, after returning from school. And she screamed, “Another project for the poor parents to do, enh?” I said, “No, Mom, that’s the topic for the Declamation Contest to be held at The Indian Consulate next week, to celebrate 50 years of Indian independence. And guess what, I have been chosen to represent The Indian High School. But tell me, Mom, why are they doubting if we have been worthy of it? Have we NOT been worthy?”

FRIENDS, 50 years of Indian independence … have we been worthy of it? Yes, of course. No doubt about it! I am only ten years old, but can list more than fifty Indian achievers in all fields. Take Gandhi, Nehru, Vinoba Bhave, the first winner of the international Magsaysay Award. Take beautiful faces like Sushmita Sen and Aishwarya Rai. Or Mother Teresa with a beautiful heart. There is Satyajit Ray, Lata Mangeshkar. Take P.T. Usha, Vishwanathan Anand, Sunil Gavaskar, Sachin Tendulkar. Writers like R.K. Narayan, Nirad Chaudhary, Vikram Seth, and now Arundhati Roy with ‘The God Of Small Things’. After Rakesh Sharma, an Indian woman, Kalpana Chawla, is all set to conquer space aboard Columbia shuttle. There are many more and surely, there will be many more.

INDIA’S march in the last 50 years has been a long, uphill climb. We may have slipped a bit during this period. The tiny plant, sown by the likes of Netajis, Bapus and Chachas has grown into a big bunyan tree with many branches. In doing this, we have lost sight of our one identity. Grandpa says that he was known as an Indian. Today we are known as Tamilians, Keralites, Maharashtrians, Gujaratis and so on. Everywhere I go, they ask me whether I am a Hindu, a Christian, Muslim or a Sikh. We all live in one country but don’t speak one language of a united India.

EDUCATION has become the birth-right of every living Indian. We have some of the best and highly-rated educational institutions in the world. To match it, even the rates for admissions to these “highly-rated” institutions are very high, and beyond the reach of the common man. By the time India celebrates her 60th anniversary, and I celebrate my 20th birthday, the rates will have further sky-rocketed… 10 to 15 lakhs for medical … 15 to 20 for engineering, and so on. And, remember, I am being modest in these estimates.

BUT then, who is responsible for this state of affairs? India? Or Indians? Like you and me? Or our parents, who readily pay these hefty sums wherever and whenever they are demanded?

INDIA’S cup of achievements since independence may not be full. But then tell me, when we pick up a glass, half filled with water, what do we say? That the glass is half empty? Or that it is half full? Whatever you may say, I am a ten-year-old youngster, with hopes in my eyes and dreams in my heart. I say India’s cup of achievements is half full and will be soon ‘full’ full. And in years to come, youngsters like you and me, will fill it with more and more achievements. It is said that every Child comes with a message from God that He is not yet disappointed with Man. We shall not disappoint our forefathers, They gave their toil, sweat and blood to get us independence. Their sacrifices will not be wasted. They will bear fruit.

AND when that happens, there will not be any doubts. We will not need to ask ourselves, “50…60… or even 100 years of Indian independence, have we been worthy of it?"

JAI HIND!

My First Love!

2009-08-09T06:46:00.000-07:00

DIWALI time! Mom had cooked yummy dishes, things that were my first love! But that morning, I declared a ‘fast-unto-death’ satyagraha. “I will not eat anything till I see her,” I announced loudly, “I love her and want to marry her”. On further enquiry, my parents found out my love interest was a top star of her times. My parents begged of me; cajoled me; threatened me and then finally gave up. They thought my childhood fancy would pass with time. By evening, when I still hadn’t eaten anything, they were worried. .
THEN Dad did some quick networking (there was no Net then!) and got the address of the lady in question. That bright Diwali night, he took me to her house at Marine Drive. She had gone to see a movie at Eros. “We will come later,” he suggested. “Nothing doing,” I declared, “I am staying till I see her.” Then she came home and saw me waiting. On hearing my noble intentions, she took me in her arms and said softly, “Not possible in this birth, dear. May be next birth.” She asked my father to go home and promised to drop me home. We talked for a long time into the night. Next morning, she dropped me home in her posh car. *I was fully loaded with choicest crackers and sweets, and lots of her lovely photos. Only when I came home on cloud nine, I realized, in my excitement, I had forgotten to carry the photos. The sweet memories still lingered in my fond heart.
She was in her early twenties and I was an innocent lad of 8. But I can never forget her. After all, she was My First Love. Her name? Well, that will remain my ‘Childhood Secret’.

Shaadi Se Pehle, Shaadi Ke Baad!

2009-07-29T21:57:00.000-07:00

SAIF Ali Khan is ready with his first production, Love – Aaj Kal”. It purportedly (hope I have got that spelling right; have been wanting to use that word for long!) takes a look at Love Today, and of Yesteryears. Being a romantic at heart (even if my Better Half doesn’t seem to think so!) I was inspired to have a light-hearted look at the subject of marriage, a subject so sacred that not most people would be scared to touch it with a barge-pole. So, friends, here’s my take, (remember be warned, MY personal take), a light one, at how perspectives change, before and after marriage. If you can help it, please don’t take me too seriously. Just enjoy it. And, yes, if you feel like, add some of yours to the list. Ready?
Before Marriage (to be referred henceforth as BM) : Hey, Chandramukhi! (Oh Gorgeous, the Moon-faced!))
After Marriage (to be referred henceforth as AM): Aah, now I know from where the gorges on the face of the moon come!
BM : Let us live the rest of our lives together…till Death do us apart!
AM : Now, I know what a life-term, with hard labour means in legal parlance! Oh Death, please don’t part with me. Be my constant companion!
BM : I promise you, I shall never look at another face again, as long as I live.
AM :I was blind, not only in my eyes, but also in my brains, for not looking at other faces before committing to you. (Ab maro!)
BM : I shall devour anything that you serve me.
AM : I would have preferred to devour dollops of poison gladly, after what you have been subjecting to me, under the disguise of food.
BM : Darling I so love your ‘bindhast’ way of life!
AM : Devil, look at those things lying about all around the house. Is that what your mother taught you before you trapped me?
BM : You smell so divine!
AM : Now, please change those clothes before I choke to death. They are beginning to stink.
P.S. : ( I better stop here. I have just heard the footsteps of my wife barging in… oops, I mean tiptoeing in) And remember what I said earlier. Please add your versions, too.

Horlicks Inter-School Fiesta - 2009 - Homecoming!

2009-07-16T23:53:00.001-07:00

I AM back to writing my blog after what seems like ages. But then there was nothing special happening in my life, so to say. The only good thing that had happened during these days was that my TVC for Fortune Cooking Oil had gone on-air. And then there was a lull. I gave so many auditions, without any positive results. I was beginning to get bored. And then this one call on the afternoon of 13th July changed it all for me. One Abhishek called (to disturb my afternoon siesta, I felt at that time), giving the reference of Sushma Bharat, and said they wanted me to come and judge a Mono Acting event on 14th afternoon between 2:15 and 3 p.m. Without wanting to know any further details, I confirmed that I would be there at Bhaidas Hall, before time. And I thanked him. For some time, it was an exchange of "Thanksgiving".

THE NEXT morning, I woke up, to the sound of rains thrashing my windows. I had no mind to miss this event, so I left home early, so as to reach Andheri on time. And while I was boarding a rickshaw, Abhishek called again to ask if I could come early. Then while I was in the train, he called again to say, "Sir, it is okay if you cannot make it." I thought they had changed their mind about having me judge the event. "I am on my way already," I said. "Can you reach before 1:30?", he called again to ask. At Andheri, the rickshaws refused to come, saying it was flooded there. Finally, I begged of an auto-driver and he agreed to ply me there.

WHEN I finally reached Bhaidas Hall, some children were already walking out. Have I missed the bus, I wondered. It was only on reaching there, I knew what it was. I was to judge an event for Horlicks Wizkid Inter-School Fiesta, about which I had only heard before. Abhishek thanked me profusely for making it despite the rains. After some initial introductions, I went inside the auditorium and felt it was 'homecoming' for me after many years. The Quiz Contest was going on, on the stage. What I saw there in the auditorium reminded me of the days at Dubai, where I was part of The Indian High School contigent for so many inter-school cultural festivals. Here, there, hordes of children everywhere. Some dressed in colourful costumes for the Folk Dance event; some shouting themselves hoarse, cheering for their friends; some waving colourful banners while some banging the drums. I cursed my voice that I was not able to keep up with the high spirits of the enthusiastic youngsters. I was soaking it all in anyway.

THEN the host, Mr. Sultan, announced that the rest of the events scheduled for the day would have to be cancelled due to the continuing rains, that would pose problems for the children to return home on time. And the children present started screaming, "We want the events to go on". The children dressed up for the Folk Dance event were just not ready to leave. And Mr. Sultan had to give in. One volunteer came and asked me if I could judge the Folk Dance Competition, as the regular judge had not been able to make it, no thanks to the rains. Secretly I thanked the absent judge for giving me the chance to judge something which I have always enjoyed. Three of the schools present presented their dance items, and I thanked myself for managing to come despite the rains.

THE NEXT morning, I went to Bhaidas again to enjoy the infectious atmosphere there. And I was not disappointed. Why am I saying "not disappointed" when "I had a whale of time" would be the right description. I had a blast during these two days, in the company of the young children. I remembered the days when in Dubai, we used to go for different cultural competitions and, most of the times, return with the Overall Winners' Trophy. I know, winning is not the only thing in a competition. but then who doesn't like winning? It was the same atmosphere... with some teachers coming and whispering in my ears, "Where did my school go wrong?" It was not easy to give satisfactory answers to all, but then, as an Activities Coordinator at The Indian High School, Dubai, I had been doing this successfully.

FOR THE duration of the day, I totally forgot that I had no proper food in my stomach and that I had lived just on the sandwiches available in the canteen there. I felt years younger when I left the venue at the end of the day. I felt fresh enough to even go for an audition after the programme ended. At this stage I am not sure if the many auditions I have given will result in any positive result for me. But then, at least at this moment, I don't even care. The sweet memories of these two days are enough for me to live my life for some more time to come. After all, this was "homecoming" for me.

THANK YOU, Sushma, for remembering my name for this event.

I have posted some old photographs with this blog for those who visit this site. I am sure, the photos will be like "homecoming" for some of them.

P.S. : Friends, I was struggling for quite some time, to organise the photos in place. And finally, I am giving up. So, you have the photos first and then the writing. I am sure you will forgive me for this arrangement, blaming it on my knowledge (or lack of it) of computer.

New York -- Old Memories!

2009-06-28T05:43:00.000-07:00

Saw the latest blockbuster 'New York' this afternoon. Good content; good presentation. Hey friends, I am no spokesperson to promote this new film from the Yashraj Films stable. Just thought will share a few stray thoughts that flashed my mind while watching this flick. One particular scene has stayed back in my mind: Sam aka Sameer played by John Abraham's jail sequence. Post-9/11, there is a veil of suspicion all around and Sam is taken for interrogation and tortured in the jail. Reminded me of the night when I was taken to a jail in Dubai. Shocked, enh? Not under suspicion as a terrorist or something like that. Tell you more about it .... Read on.
AFTER spending 25 years in Dubai, and many of them as a Teacher of Dramatics in The Indian High School, I returned to India in April, 2000. Part of me was left behind, as some of the best years I spent in Dubai were spent in the school, where I received plenty of love from my numerous students. And, I longed to go back at least once. The chance came when one of my students was passing Class XII and wanted me to attend the Convocation Ceremony. And, of course, I jumped at the opportunity. My sister offered to sponsor my air ticket. My niece, Shamsia (who was married and now settled in Dubai) and her husband, Kamran offered to sponsor my visa. And I left for Dubai that evening in February, in time to reach the Convocation Ceremony after two days. I was, naturally, full of excitement as I landed at the Dubai Airport.
I NOTICED the airport had changed quite a lot since I left. My niece was unable to come to the airport as her husband was away from Dubai. My student-friend, Deepak Divakaran, accompanied by his father, had offered to pick me up from the airport and were waiting at the airport to receive me.
INITIAL immigration procedures were cleared and I was asked to give, (how do I put it?) an "eye test". And then I was stopped and asked to go to the Immigration Officer at the end of the lobby. I tried asking them what the matter was. But life is strange and never offers any answers when you are most desparate to get them. After a long wait, I was taken to the Immigration Office on the first floor of the building. "There is a court case pending against you", was all that they were willing to divulge when I kept asking them. "Police case? Against me?" I asked myself. And in that one moment my mind raced through the 25 years I had spent in Dubai, trying to remember what exactly I must have done to warrant this police case. Again, like I said, I got no answers.
I WAS getting more and more impatient as I thought of my student and his father waiting outside the airport to receive me. I requested the officer concerned to allow me to talk to Mr. Divakaran who, I argued, had absolutely no idea whether I had arrived or not. No response! Meanwhile, I had to go through what every other prisoner in any part of the world must be made to go through: facing the camera in different angles (even at that difficult time, I was reminded of the various angles I had effortlessly given while getting my portfolio done for my acting assignments); having my handprints taken, and all that jazz. Here I was still wondering what the police case against me was all about, and getting no answers! And then I 'begged' of them to at least allow me to talk to the anxious people waiting for me to come out. And wonder of wonders, I was allowed to talk to Mr. Divakaran. Just as I explained to him that I was detained at the Immigration Office for some police case pending against me, the phone was snatched from my hands.
I WAS relieved somewhat to see Divakaran in the office after some time. And when he asked them what the case was all about, I learnt that there was a case against me in the Real Estate Department of Dubai government. That revelation (hope I have got the spelling right!) relieved me somewhat, as at least I didn't have to race my mind trying to remember my past follies that could possibly have landed me in the soup. Well, I assured myself, it had something to do with my one-room studio apartment in Shaikha Latifa Building in Al Karama. What exactly that "lafda" was, was still not clear to me. And then they said I would be taken to the Dubai Jail the same night. (See, John Abraham was not the only one who had to spend some time in jail, albeit New York, though only for a film sequence!)
AND THEN the nightmare began. This jail was for real, I reminded myself. And as I was being taken in the police van, Divakaran was able to put the pieces together. When I had left Dubai in April, 2000, many people had shown interest in taking my apartment. After all, renting an apartment meant a big thing in a place like Dubai and getting one for the annual rent of just Dhs. 6000/= meant a lot. I had already paid the amount of Dhs. 6,000/= till December, 2000,
half of that by way of a post-dated cheque, dated 6th July, 2000. A friend (I can't think of any other name for this strange relationship!) of mine had introduced one of his friends who was looking for a cheap flat to accommodate his wife who was to join him in a month or two. In all good faith, I had handed over the keys (without taking any key-money) of my apartment to this Malayalee gentleman, after stressing on the fact that he would be required to deposit the balance amount of Dhs 3000/= in July, and in January the next, get the studio apartment transferred to his name. This, he assured me confidently, he would do when the time came, i.e. January, 2001. He boasted he had some 'solid' contact in the Real Estate department. And in Dubai, when a Malayalee assures you of his contacts anywhere in Dubai, you better believe him. At least I did.
NOT that I had much of a choice in the given situation. I had already resigned from my job, following differences with the then-Principal, Ashok Kumar (now this is another story, I assure you friends) and had to leave as soon as possible, before the academic year began in Mumbai, so that my daughter would be able to continue her education, without much problem. So, I had to believe this man and hand over the keys to him. He said he would surely deposit the required amount in my bank account (I had to keep the account running for this to happen) at the beginning of July, and get the flat transferred in his name in January when the House Contract was due for renewal.
HE had failed to do this. And that action, or rather his inaction, had brought me to a Dubai Jail that fateful evening. While I was being taken to the jail, Divakaran made ceaseless efforts to get in touch with my family in Mumbai, to try and get relevant papers, without much success, of course. I was made to change from my clothes into the prison 'uniform', after handing over all my possessions to the police on duty, before being led to the cell. John Abraham was in solitary confinement in New York (as I realised now, after so many years) while I was in a cell, housing many inmates. Many of them were there for all the 'right' reasons (if one can call them that); attempt to murder, violent fights, fraud involving huge sums and the stuff that I used to read about on page 3 in the local newspapers. I was given a rough mat and a matching blanket to cover myself with. And then the food (if I can call that stuff food!) was served. I had seen such stuff only in Hindi movies so far. I was to be taken to the Dubai Court for hearing when my turn came.
FORTUNATELY, my turn came the very next morning. I am sure Diva must have had lots of running about to do to expedite the proceedings to ensure that my case would come up for hearing. Or else I would have to spend my time in a Dubai Jail, instead of attending the Convocation for which I had come in the first place. I must admit I was fortunate in that I wasn't stripped (like John was in New York which, I saw this afternnon, let me remind you readers!) And, much against my wishes, I wished I had not agreed to attend Deepak's Convocation Ceremony and put them through so much trouble.
MY NIECE had sleepless night, too, worrying about my fate and being helpless not to be able to do much as her husband was not in the station. In the court, after what seemed like an endless wait, my case came up for hearing and I was asked to cough up Dhs. 6000/= towards the outstanding rent/fine I had not paid before leaving Dubai. The money was arranged and paid, resulting in my being set "free". To cut a long story short, as I later discovered, this Malayalee gentleman had not been able to get the flat transferred to his own name and had fled, without surrendering the house keys to the Real Estate Department, as he should rightly have done. When my things were returned to me as I left the jail, it was only much later that I found I was relieved of the dirhams I had carried with me for shopping and all. And I couldn't complain, could I? Who would have believed a 'convict'?
NOW, I can empathise with what innocent people jailed for wrong reasons must be going through. It becomes a living nightmare that continues to haunt them through their life. No, overnight I didn't turn into a terrorist or a hardcore criminal, like they show in movies. But that one night spent in the Dubai jail, still gives me shivers and many sleepless nights. And back then it was enough to throw me into severe depresssion through my stay in Dubai. Many a times, I was tempted to throw myself out of the fifth-floor flat I was staying in with my niece and her husband. But I discovered the I am made of stronger stuff. If I was still able to put up a brave front and sing and dance at the Convocation Ceremony, the credit must go to the people who rallied around me during my brief, but troubled stay. I may not have mentioned many names who were part of my support group then. But those who helped me then and happen to read this, hopefully, will forgive me for this lapse on my part. And those who were in a position to help me but did not, will, I am sure, thank me for not mentioning their names now.
MANY of my (student) friends on Facebook who keep asking me when next I am coming to Dubai and get only evasive answers from me, will perhaps now understand the real reasons for this and forgive me. If there are any (and there must be many) unanswered questions in this true story, that is because, at times life only poses questions to you, without giving any definite answers.

K.G. Admissions - A New Look

2009-06-19T06:55:00.000-07:00

Hi friends, once again, it's the season for new admissions... from K.G. to college. So, let's have a sneaky look at what happens behind the closed doors.

NARRATOR: THERE is a major revolution coming in the field of education. Experts have realized the importance of the family influence on a child’s development. As a result, for granting K.G. admissions, along with the child, parents are also being interviewed by the school authorities. Here is a sample.
(THE ADMISSION OFFICE OF A NORMAL SCHOOL. THE ADMISSION OFFICER ENTERS AND EMPTIES SOME PLAYING BLOCKS ON THE TABLE IN THE CENTER. THEN S/HE TAKES A GUN OUT OF THE POCKET AND ANNOUNCES POMPOUSLY.)
OFFICER : Let the K.G. admissions begin. Send the first patient, I mean, send the first parent in. (ONE NERVOUS PARENT ENTERS, BITING HIS NAILS.) Relax, young man, and sit down. Your name?
PARENT 1 : Mr. Patel.
OFFICER : (BRANDISHING THE GUN IN HAND) Full name?
PARENT 1 : (NERVOUS) Mr. Ramjibhai Devjibhai Patel.
OFFICER : Education?
PARENT 1 : M. Com. M. Phil.
OFFICER : Relax. Now, can you arrange these blocks here according to their colours? ( PARENT 1 FUMBLES FOR SOME TIME.) Hmm… you will need more practice. Come back next week. (THE PARENT EXITS, GIVING THE OFFICER NERVOUS LOOKS). Who’s next? (ANOTHER PARENT ENTERS.) Your name?
PARENT 2 : Dr. Ananthaswamy Rangaswamy Mudaliar. (SMILING WEAKLY) My full name.
OFFICER : Education?
PARENT 2 : M.B.B.S, F.R.C.S. from Boston University…
OFFICER : That will do. Now, tell me, which letter comes between ‘S’ and ‘U’?
PARENT 2 : (SMILING CONFIDENTLY) That’s easy. I will tell you in a minute. (STARTS COUNTING ON HIS FINGERS) …’T’.
OFFICER : Excellent. You may go.
PARENT 2 : My admission guaranteed?
OFFICER : (SURPRISED) Your admission?
PARENT 2 : I mean, my son’s admission.
OFFICER : We will have to interview him, too. You wait outside.
PARENT 2 : Now, can I go and have my tea? My throat going dry. No tea for long time. (EXITS HURRIEDLY)
OFFICER : Next victim?
(PARENT 3 ENTERS.)
OFFICER : Your name?
PARENT 3 : My name, Mr. Mansukh Tankharamani… M.A., M.COM. First Class from Ullhasnagar University.
OFFICER : Now, take this pencil and draw an egg for me. (PARENT 3 DRAWS SOMETHING ON THE PAPER AND GIVES IT TO THE OFFICER.) Your egg looks like an omellette.
PARENT 3 : I like my eggs cooked. That’s why.
OFFICER : You can go out and wait. (THE PARENT EXITS HAPPILY.) Now, the children start coming. (ONE CHILD ENTERS, JUMPING.) Sit down.
CHILD 1 : No, thank you. I like to stand. Mummy says I cannot sit in one place.
OFFICER : Your name?
CHILD 1 : Manoj Ananthaswamy Rangaswamy Mudaliar.
OFFICER : Education?
CHILD 1 : Waiting for K.G. admission.
OFFICER : Now, answer this simple question. What do you know about the American War of Independence?
CHILD 1 : (CONFIDENTLY) Everything you always wanted to know but were afraid to ask. (HE GOES ON SPEAKING LOUDLY AND CONFIDENTLY. FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT, WORDS ARE NOT HEARD.)
OFFICER : Now, tell me, what were the causes of the French Revolution?
(ONCE AGAIN THE CHILD ANSWERS CONFIDENTLY WHILE THE WORDS ARE NOT HEARD.)
OFFICER : You may go and send the next child.
(CHILD 1 GOES WHILE CHILD 2 APPEARS AT THE DOOR.)
OFFICER : Come in. Your name?
CHILD 2 : Amitabh Ramjibhai Patel. Education upto Playschool near my house. Next question.
OFFICER : What do you know about the Golden Age in India?
(CHILD 2 ANSWERS CONFIDENTLY.)
OFFICER : What were the causes and effects of the Industrial Revolution?
(CHILD 2 ANSWERS CONFIDENTLY.)
OFFICER : You may go and wait outside.
CHILD 2 : I have no time to wait outside. I have to go for my Shiamak Davar Dance Classes. You can speak to my parents who are waiting outside.
(CHILD 2 EXITS WHILE CHILD 3 WHO WAS ALREADY WAITING AT THE DOOR ENTERS.)
CHILD 3 : Please hurry up and ask me whatever you want to. But hurry up fast. I have my acting classes to attend.
OFFICER : Your name?
CHILD 3 : Please… say “Please”. It’s good manners.
OFFICER : Your name … please.
CHILD 3 : That’s better. My name, Hrithik Tankharamani. Next question. Shoot.
OFFICER : Now answer this simple question.
CHILD 3 : Say “Please”. I told you already. Saying “Please” is good manners.
OFFICER : (LITTLE IRRITATED,, BUT CAUTIOUS) Please try and answer this simple question. What were the causes of the Indian Mutiny.
CHILD 3 : I don’t have to try. Listen carefully. I will give you the causes and effects of the Indian Mutiny. I have seen ‘Mangal Pandey’ ten times. (ANSWERS CONFIDENTLY, ACCOMPANIED BY APPROPRIATE GESTURES.). Anything else you want to know. Your office has our residence as well as my mobile number. Inform us when you are ready for the admission procedure. (TURNS TO GO OUT, STOPS SUDDENLY AND ASKS THE OFFICER) Now, tell me, why are you people so obsessed with Social Studies? You could have asked so many other questions. Tell me…
OFFICER : (NERVOUSLY) In the last few years, failures in the Social Studies subject have been rising at the Board Exams. So… (FUMBLES FOR WORDS)
CHILD 3 : (SMILING) So, you are trying to catch them young, right?
(CHILD 3 EXITS WITH A FLOURISH.)

Mukti - Deliverance (A Psychological Thriller) Opening Sequence

2009-06-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

In continuation of my story, Mukti - Deliverance, (which I had written to be further developed as a complete screenplay for a possible screen adaptation) here I am reproducing the Opening Sequence, as I had visualised. Hope you enjoy reading this and come up with your valuable comments and suggestions in this connection. If there is someone who would like to collaborate with me for this, please jump on-board.

THE SCREEN IS TOTALLY BLANK. VOICES OF DIFFERENT NEWSPAPER SELLERS ARE HEARD SCREAMING: “ANOTHER SENIOR CITIZEN MURDERED IN CITY” … “69-YEAR-OLD WOMAN STABBED TO DEATH IN NAGPADA” … “ELDERLY COUPLE MURDERED BY DHOBI IN KANDIVALI” … SLOWLY THE VOICES RISE TO A CRESCENDO. AND SLOWLY THE SCREEN BEGINS TO LIGHT UP.

THE BOARD READS “OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER OF POLICE, MUMBAI”. CLOSE-UP OF TWO FEET WALKING BRISKLY. THE CAMERA FOLLOWS THE FEET TO A ROOM.
CLOSE-UP OF TWO HANDS, HOLDING A FEW NEWSPAPERS, PUSH THE DOOR OF THE ROOM. INSIDE, MANY POLICE OFFICERS ARE SEATED AROUND A TABLE. AS SOON AS THEY SEE THE MAN WALKING THROUGH THE DOOR, THEY QUICKLY STAND TO ATTENTION. WE SEE THE POLICE COMMISSIONER, MR. CHAUDHARY. MR. CHAUDHARY THROWS THE NEWSPAPERS IN HIS HANDS ONTO THE TABLE AND SIGNALS EVERYONE TO SIT DOWN. EVERYONE SITS DOWN.

POLICE COMMISSIONER
Good morning, gentlemen. Yeh hain aajke newspapers. Ummeed karta hoon
kii aapne bhi padhe honge.

EVERYONE IN THE ROOM HANGS DOWN HIS FACE IN SHAME.

POLICE COMMISSIONER
Aap ke chehre dekhkar mujhe lagta hai kii aapne yeh padhe hain.
Har ek akhbaar mein wohi news chhapi hai. Murder of senior citizens.
Iss mahine mein yeh daswa murder hai ek senior citizen kaa.
Aur media ke sabhi logon kii zabaan par sirf ek sawaal hai,
“Police kya so rahi hai?”

SUDDENLY CAMERA ZOOMS TO A POLICE OFFICER DOZING IN HIS SEAT. THE OFFICER NEXT TO HIM NUDGES HIM AND HE WAKES UP WITH A START.

POLICE COMMISSIONER
Main kya jawaab doon janta ko? Kii sachmuch Mumbai kii police so rahi hai?
Aur kahoon toh kis moonh se kahoon? Agar hum so rahen hain, toh,
please ab jaagne kaa waqt aa gayaa hai.

POLICE OFFICER 1
Sir main sochta hoon …

POLICE COMMISSIONER
Friends, ab sochne kaa waqt nahin, kuchh kar diokhane kaa hai.

ALL THE OFFICERS LAUGH LOUDLY.

POLICE COMMISSIONER
Aap sabko hasne kii zaroorat nahin hai. Woh toh log hum par hans rahe hain.
Kya main yeh samjhoon kii ab Mumbai kii police force majboor ho gayee hai?
Kya ab hamein England aur America se police kii madad
maangni hogi?

ALL THE OFFICERS PRESENT BEGIN TO EXCHANGE STEALTHY LOOKS WITH ONE ANOTHER.
FADE OUT. SOUNDS OF A PLANE LANDING ARE HEARD. WE SEE AN AIR INDIA JUMBO JET TAXIING IN. AS THE PLANE IS PREPARING TO MAKE A LANDING, THE TITLES BEGIN TO APPEAR.

Mukti - Deliverance (A Psychological Thriller)

2009-06-15T09:23:00.000-07:00

RAJ PRADHAN, just about to turn 60, was returning to India after spending about 25 years in the United States of America. His decision to return back home was prompted by the deadly terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center in New York on September 11, 2001. His wife, Damayanti, about 55, was not very happy with Raj’s decision to return to India but, like a faithful wife, decided to accompany him.
“ATTACK or no attack, if one has to die, he can die anywhere. So why go to India for a living death?”, Damayanti asked Raj when he first told her of his decision to return.
“I COULD not be by the side of my old father when he passed away. We have made enough money here. I value human relationships above everything else. I have my roots in India and would prefer to die in India rather than anywhere else. My dear Damayanti, for better or worse, we are together in whatever we do now,” Raj counter-argued with Damayanti.
THEIR trials started at the Customs and then at the Immigration counters of the Mumbai airport. Damayanti gave him a “I told you so…” looks, but he dismissed them as only teething trouble in a new place after living a more-than- comfortable life for a long time in a foreign country. Things WILL settle down soon, he assured her.
TIME passed and they were on their way to settle down in Mumbai. Wherever he went, Raj met with a stiff resistance and a ‘couldn’t-care-less’ attitude, when he tried to get things done in a straight-forward manner. “Pay money and get your jobs done”. seemed to be the simple message he got from all corners, and more so when people realised that he had returned from a foreign land.
ONCE, when Raj was travelling by a local train, he came across an old man who was peddling things in the crowded train. A few passengers bought some things but most of the people around made fun of him. When the train stopped at a station and the old man wanted to get down, he was pushed about instead of being helped by the co-passengers. A sympathetic Raj helped him down and started chatting with him.
MR. PINTO, after retiring from his cosy service, lived in a small room in a crowded locality, along with his wife. His son had them thrown out of his own house after getting the house transferred to his wife’s name. Now faced with a hard life, he had no other option but to make both ends meet by selling whatever he could in the local train. He confessed that there were times when he wanted to end his own life and get rid of life’s problems, but couldn’t do it because of what would happen to his old wife. She had always warned him against getting their house transferred to their daughter-in-law’s name, but he had ignored all her warnings. He had to live now till death came to him, he said sadly.
RAJ PRADHAN returned home with a heavy heart and a sad story for his wife. The next morning, Raj was shocked to read a news item on the local page about the unfortunate murder of an old man when he was returning home late at night. On reading the details, he immediately knew that the victim was none else than the Mr. Pinto he had met on the train. The motive for the murder was, of course, robbery as the murderer had ransacked the contents of his bag and brutally murdered when he met with resistance from Mr. Pinto.
RAJ remembered he had taken Mr. Pinto’s address, promising to place him in a better position as soon as possible. But it was already too late. He went to meet his wife who repeated the same heart-rending story Pinto had earlier told Raj. Her son had come to meet her, after reading about the murder but refused to take his mother with him fearing his wife’s reactions. Raj offered some money to the old woman but she refused saying what she needed in life was not money but “mukti” (deliverance) from the terrible life she would be forced to lead after her husband’s death.
RAJ PRADHAN returned home with a very heavy heart, Mrs. Pinto’s words reverberating in his ears all the time, “I want ‘mukti’ from my problems… mukti… mukti… MUKTI… MUKTI…”.
NEXT day onwards, Raj read all the old newspapers for anything that he could lay his hands on, on the topic of the condition and the murders of the senior citizens in the city. And what he came across shocked him beyond belief. According to a news report he read, about 75% old people suffered from physical disability; 60% faced a sense of alienation; 48% were extremely lonely while 46% faced economic problems. He found out the addresses of some homes for the aged and also the locations of Nana Nani Parks for the old people.
NOW he took it upon himself to visit some of the homes for the aged to meet the old people who lived there or the parks where they came to spend some time in their lonely evenings. He would spend hours talking to different old people he met there. After meeting these people, the one message that clearly came across to him was that most of the old people were not happy with their fate. Some felt that they felt unwanted by their children or relatives; some felt no one helped them or spoke consolatory words to them; some felt not respected in the family; some were worried about their failing health while some old people of both the sexes were left to do all the work for themselves, including cooking, cleaning, etc. and felt a sense of loss about daughters-in-law not helping out. Only 1% of the people he met enjoyed what they were doing. He remembered the words of one old lady who said, “Our youngsters use us old people like ‘kari patta’, use and throw.”
RAJ accompanied some old people to their homes and saw the miserable conditions they lived in. Some people had uncaring or disinterested servants for company; some managed to earn a meagre living while some received regular allowances from their children who were away either in the same city or abroad. However, what they lacked, Raj noticed, was the sense of belonging… sense of being loved and cared for… And in absence of this urgent need, most of them just existed, not really lived, waiting for the final moment when they would receive ‘deliverance’.
AT HOME, Raj talked to Damayanti about his sense of futility in all that he saw around him. “I must do something, Damayanti. We have something to look forward to in our lives. But after coming here, I have found a mission in my life,” he confided in his wife with utter desperation.
“WHAT can you do about it, Raj?” she would ask him every time he spoke about his frustration. “I don’t know, Damayanti… I really don’t know at this stage. But I want to do something… Looks like God has sent me on a holy mission to this place… And I must achieve it,” Raj said, his voice choking with a sense of urgent desperation.
IN THE next day’s morning newspapers, once again there was a report of another murder of a senior citizen. A man of 89 years was strangled to death while his wife, 83 years, had died of shock on seeing her husband being murdered. The police were clueless about the murderer. Raj felt that there was something terribly wrong with the way things were happening. For some time, Raj stopped communicating with anyone, including his wife, Damayanti.
EVERY evening, Raj would go out and frequent the parks where old people visited. He chose some to talk to and accompanied them to their houses. He befriended many of them. Over the next few days, reports began to appear of different old people murdered in different localities. Some were stabbed; some were gagged; in some cases robbery seemed to be the clear motive while in some cases there appeared to be simply no motive.

THE Police Commissioner put Inspector Gupte in charge of the team to investigate the case of senior citizens' murders. Insp. Gupte carried out intensive inquiries and managed to catch some culprits. In some cases, however, it was later discovered that the police had apprehended the wrong people. In some cases the police found out that in some of the buildings, security was lax as the security persons were either not trained or were used by the residents for doing odd jobs. Even after talking to different people, he was not able to have a clear picture of the motive behind many of the murders or the identity of the murderers.
FINALLY, after giving appeals in the newspapers asking the people to help the police catch the culprits, some common factors emerged. Some people came forward to give vague descriptions of people who seemed to be involved in the murders of the senior citizens in the city. The police were able to produce rough sketches of some alleged murderers and print these in the newspapers.
ON SEEING some sketches, some rickshaw and taxi drivers came forward with some information about someone they happened to have picked up from certain points or having dropped them at some other points.
AFTER thorough investigations lasting several days, Insp. Gupte was able to pin down their suspicions on one person and were led to the residence of Raj Pradhan. The first time the police landed at their home, Raj was not at home, and Damayanti was shocked to see the police at her doorsteps. However, when the police told about the alleged involvement of her husband in the murders of several senior citizens in the city, she remembered what Raj had said to her about giving “mukti” to some of the old people he had met. The police said they would return soon and left.

IT was while investigating these cases, Inspector Gupte came to realise what he himself had done to his own parents. Influenced by his scheming wife, Gupte had put his old parents in an Old Age Home in a distant suburb and visited them, without his wife knowing this. He understood the motives behind the actions of Raj Pradhan and sympathised with him, though he was not in a position to do anything else for him. However, he decided to do penance for his earlier indifference towards his old parents and decided to bring them back to stay with him.

HIS sympathies for Raj Pradhan could not, however, stop him from performing his duties as a police officer in arresting Raj Pradhan. Soon, he returned to Raj’s house and confronted him with their suspicions about Raj being the murderer. To their surprise, instead of denying the allegations, very coolly Raj confessed that indeed he was behind some of the murders though not all. He said, “I don’t think I have done anything wrong in killing these people. But then why am I talking to you? You just will not understand. I can justify my actions in a court of law.” Damayanti was shocked to hear Raj’s confession.
THE next day’s newspapers carried Raj’s pictures on the front page. Soon he was produced in the court. He refused to accept the assistance of a lawyer when the Judge offered one. When asked to speak in his own defence, Raj was a picture of cool confidence as he spoke to the full court.

“I AM here today, charged with the murders of so many senior citizens in the city. Yes, I have killed some of the senior citizens whose murders have been reported in the newspapers. But I have not killed ALL of them. I have killed the old people I did, only by choking them, very gently, making sure that it doesn’t hurt them. And I am proud to say that the ones who were killed brutally, either by strangulating or stabbing or by slitting their throats, are NOT my victims. I could never have imagined hurting these old friends of mine while they breathed their last. I have killed my victims, call them victims if you like, mercifully, NOT mercilessly. I could have done it no other way. And for those I have killed, I have nothing to say in my defence … because I firmly believe I have done no wrong. The so-called senior citizens of your society have all led productive lives behind them. And what do we have to offer them in return? Like one old lady I had met told me, their children and relatives use them like ‘kari patta’. They use them and then throw them out when they have lost their flavour. Some people are conveniently put in homes for the aged where they are looked after by people unknown to them. They have a room and four meals and a ‘family’ doctor. Once in a while, they get the mandatory visits from their so-called relatives, perhaps to help them lessen their guilt.
“IN MANY cases, this may be a better alternative. But in many cases, their children push them out to fend for themselves, unloved, uncared for. Some children send regular money for the old people they have thrown out or left behind. They are cared for by paid servants. The same servants who turn greedy some day and kill them brutally for a few hundred rupees. Is this all they are looking for in their twilight zone? I don’t believe so. These old people are looking for people whom they have loved and want some love in return when they need it most. They live in flats in society buildings where the security people do everything else except looking after the security of the people who need it most. Try talking to these old people and you will realise they are longing for one simple human touch, a touch they have all along provided to their loved ones. In absence of this human touch, they would rather die… at least that’s what they feel and express if given a chance. But when the death comes to them in the brutal form, the one thought that haunts them is that they would have preferred to live, but in the company of those whom they have loved. In many cases, it’s their own loved ones who kill them for property, money, jewellery. Do you think they deserve this? You may call these murders but I gave them “mukti”… I gave them deliverance. I hope we can create a society where every old person will live in a home of his own, surrounded by loving people. I hope we can create a society where there should be no age-old homes. Yes, I am guilty. Please give me ‘mukti’.”
THE JUDGE, after spending lot of time in introspection in his chamber, while delivering his judgement, said, “Mr. Raj Pradhan, perhaps you are right when you said all those things about a new society where we can take care of our old people with love and concern. But right ends cannot justify wrong means. In the hope that such a caring society will soon be created I am forced hereby to pronounce a sentence of life imprisonment for you.” Damayanti ran to hug Raj as he was being led outside the court. He hugged her fondly and whispered something in her ears. Slowly and surely Damayanti wiped the tears flowing from her eyes and whispered back in his ears, “I promise, Raj. I promise I shall do what you want.” And with that promise, Raj Pradhan was led out of the court.
EPILOGUE
RAJ PRADHAN was sitting in a prison cell. The Prison Warden came with a newspaper in hand and gave it to Mr. Raj Pradhan. The headline read in bold letters: “LAW AGAINST CRUELTY TO OLD PARENTS”. Mr. Pradhan began to read the news item. A voice-over is heard: Offspring inflicting mental or physical torture on their parents will now invite police action, acccording to a path-breaking law being worked out by the State Government. Raj Pradhan put the paper down. There was a smile on his tired face.

(Registered with Film Writer’s Association, Mumbai,No. 106020 dt. 30/12/2004)

The Convocation - A Personal Viewpoint

2009-06-14T02:09:00.000-07:00

I CLAPPED MY HANDS loudly, some of the dust went into my eyes and I couldn’t see anything for some time. But I was happy I had got the right poster for the occasion. You see, I have a vast collection of big and small posters; round and square plaques, and thin and thick books of golden words, proverbs, quotations and all that jazz. One of my favourite hobbies, you know. I collect them and keep them –- at times, I must confess, to gather dust in the closet drawers . . . like so many of my reader friends must be doing. I often collect them, without reading them. From time to time, I go through my vast collection to find the most appropriate one as the occasion demands. Like I did for this one today, on the eve of the Annual Convocation Ceremony the next day.
FEBRUARY, THE 13TH! 13th . . . lucky for some and not-so-lucky for the others . . . like today. It was a holiday for the Afternoon Shift. The Afternoon Shifters are always lucky to get a day off for such functions, grumble some Morning Shifters, good humouredly (I hope!). The ladies are lucky. They get to show off their lovely, colourful dresses for such functions, grumble some Afternoon Shifters, not so good humouredly (I am sure!) The Afternoon Shifters always have to wear the same dull white shirt with the bright-coloured (but not matching!) tie, with the school logo. Grumble or no grumble, everyone makes it to the function (as if there is any choice!). Like they did today for this one, the Annual Convocation Ceremony.
THE D-DAY . . . sorry, the C-Day arrived without much fanfare while the various guests started arriving with much fanfare (and the honking of the horns), flashing their best dresses and lingering perfumes. Slowly and surely the atmosphere began to wear the look of a big “mela”, with people all around, chatting and laughing. The Twelfth-graders were in their flamboyant moods, if not exactly the clothes. (They were all in their freshly-laundered uniforms.)
“HAVE YOU got a safety-pin?” asked a lady to one of her colleagues.
“HAVE YOU got safety-pins?” asked yet another.
“HOW MANY?”
“ABOUT FOUR dozens,” she replied, leaving the other with a shocked expression.
“AND WHAT do you want to hold together, with four dozen safety-pins? Playing safe, enh?” her colleague asked.
“DON’T BE SILLY, yaar. I need them to tie the sashes together,” she answered with a giggle.
SOON ALL the things which were forgotten in the rush were put together and the whole scene started gathering momentum. After initial confusion about distinguishing the parents from the teachers and the distinguished chief invitees from the not-so-chief, things were sorted out and all the guests were seated in the right seats, while some parents were still trickling in.
ONE PARENT who looked visibly upset, perhaps at the thought of letting the strings loose for their loved ones, asked one volunteer, “Where are the convicts . . . I mean, the Convocatees . . .?” After struggling for some time to find the right word, he gave up and just asked, “Where are the children?” Not very sure whether the children would really like to be addressed as ‘children’!
CHILDREN . . . CONVICTS . . .? I said to myself. No more convicts . . . no more criminals, caught for breaking the oh-so-many rules . . .And definitely, no more children! They were grown-ups now, waiting to soar in the wide open skies with new wings to their personalities . . . on the threshold of new freedom for which they had waited for so long . . . perhaps?
AND THEN they started coming, in files, accompanied by their teachers . . . dressed in robes with matching headgear that looked like helmets that would protect the vulnerable youngsters from the harsh blows of reality in the world outside. And they filed into the august auditorium to a hush.
AND THE FUNCTION started . . . right on time . . . with the right touch of seriousness. I couldn’t hear a thing . . . I was too busy looking at these youngsters I had seen grow and now, who were leaving their cocoons behind to emerge into graceful butterflies, ready to fly into the world. One by one, their names were called as the Chief Guest handed over the Graduation Certificates to all, so very graciously, so very patiently. And then the speeches began . . . the Juniors bidding adieu to their departing Seniors . . . the Twelfth-Graders reminiscing about the good times they had (while conveniently forgetting the bad ones), the close ties they were about to leave behind.
AFTER THE speech of the Head Girl, it was the turn of the Head Boy. “We have nothing to offer to you, dear teachers . . .”, I heard him say sometime during the middle of his speech, “. . . nothing except our love and a promise, a promise that all that you have done for us will not go to waste. . .”
THEY ALL CLAPPED and something hit me in the eyes. . . I just couldn’t see a thing before my eyes. I could only hear the loving words that seemed to be coming straight from his heart. And suddenly I remembered the words in the poster I had taken out from my vast collection a day earlier. The words appeared clear this time: “. . .If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it was yours. If it doesn’t, it never was yours!”, set against the picture of a bird soaring high into the open skies . . .
THE BOYS and the girls were being set free today. . . Will you come back to the fold? If you ever do, you will find our open arms ready to welcome you. If not . . . for who has seen the future? . . . aurevoir . . . goodbye until we meet again . . . goodbye, good boys!
THE CANDLE-LIGHTING ceremony was the highlight of the evening, they said. And I cursed my eyes for giving way just at the right, no, the wrong time. Now I know what had hit my eyes at that time. It was the pain in the heart!!!

Free For All!

2009-06-08T09:38:00.000-07:00

DEATH is a great leveller! Now, don’t ask me who said this profound thing. I had read that statement somewhere. Now, please don’t ask me WHERE. I don’t, for my life, remember when, where and who said that. But, believe me, whoever said that has said the right thing. Death, indeed, is a great leveller; brings everyone, rich and poor, big and small, fat and thin, to one level.
TALKING of great levellers, how about a barber? Doesn’t he also do the same? I mean, bring everyone to the same level? Everyone has to bow down to him, sometime or the other, isn’t it? During the DSF-1998 (Dubai Shopping Festival, for the uninitiated), when I was in Dubai, I discovered another great ‘leveller’, something that brings everyone to the same level and the same line. Free gifts! Yes, I am talking about free gifts.

NO, I am not talking about the free gifts that the clever (cunning, if you may) advertisers advertise all over the newspapers and magazines in bold, big print while the catchline is always in small print. You may have read such things aplenty, isn’t it? “FREE PENCIL … on every purchase of only Rs. 250/= or so.” The free gifts may vary; the amount to be spent on your purchase may differ; the words in the ad may change. But the message is loud and clear. The appeal is for everyone who loves free gifts. But I am not talking of such gifts either. I am talking of something totally different, totally free, with no strings attached of purchase necessary. Just fill in the coupon attached and present it. In this case, at Podium No. 5 at the Bur Juman Center.
I AM sure everyone must have read this ad that appeared faithfully every week in Khaleej Times during the DSF-’98. And the free gift advertised was … hold your breath … a 100ml bottle of the exclusive Blue for Men, Made in Dubai by Rasasi. I don’t know about all of you, but I love free gifts. I used to regularly visit all the fairs and exhibitions that kept coming to Dubai or Sharjah regularly. And collect all free gifts on offer, even if it was only the colourful bags. So, how could I stay away from a free gift of an exclusive perfume bottle for men?
ARMED with the coupon duly filled in and neatly cut from Khaleej Times, I left home early morning. After all, I didn’t want to be the 201st visitor. You see, only the first 200 visitors with the coupon were entitled for the free gift. I didn’t have the patience to walk the small distance. (At other times, I am a great one for walking long and short distances.) Nor I wanted to wait for the municipal bus and be left behind. When I left home, I was quite ready to bet my last dirham that I would be among the first ten at least. Sorry to say I was rather disappointed to find that quite a few had already lined up before me. (And I had thought I would be the only one to read the paper that early!)
AND that’s when I stumbled upon the great theory about free gifts being the great leveller, in competition with Death (and the barber). There were all kinds of people in the serpentine queue … rich and poor; big and small; young and old; males and females. How naïve I was to think the ‘Blue for Men’ was only for men. There was great excitement all over. Some people were talking about the number of coupons they had collected from different sources. Just then, somewhere in the distance, I heard the security staff complaining about how all the complimentary copies of Khaleej Times from the mall had gone missing. At regular intervals, hands went up to have a ‘dekho’ at the wristwatches. And then someone informed that the stall would open only at 10 o’ clock. For a brief moment I was tempted to go back and catch up on my cuppa tea that I had forgotten to drink in the excitement to rush to the mall. But when I saw the crowds trickling in, I changed my mind. The clock ticktocked away, slowly but surely. And then everyone turned to look at someone who looked like someone who could be in charge of the free gifts. And indeed, he was.
“WHAT’S the catch?” I managed to ask him in whispers.
“NO CATCH”, he said loudly. “Just grab. We want everyone to grab the spirit of DSF-’98.”
SOON he was joined by another colleague of his. And they started… not handing out the free gifts, but collecting the coupons, one by one, to be exchanged for another card to be filled in. “Fill in this card and take it to Level Two for your free gift of Blue for Men,” he patiently informed everyone who gave the coupons.
ONE woman grumbled, “Now, why do we have to go to Level Two?” Another joined with, “If you want to give a free gift, why don’t you just do it right here, at whatever level we are?” Another protesting voice was heard, “I gave you two coupons but you have given me only one card.”
THE GENTLEMAN tried to explain, “Madam, the ad says very clearly ‘One coupon per person’.”
“BUT this second coupon is for my man who is away at the office,” came the pat reply.
“MY ten coupons are for the staff members working for our office. Surely, you don’t expect them to leave their work and line up here for your free gifts. I have come on their behalf since they have got better things to do,” said yet another.
AT THIS ten others in the line flashed the coupons in their hands and started screaming.
THE man in charge explained coolly, “Madam, there are people waiting in the line for so long. If you want another card, come back and join the line once again.”
THE lady lost her cool and said, “With so many people in line, do you think my turn will come again? You must be crazy. Who wants your free gifts… At least give me one more card. I have waited soooo long.” The man lost his defences and gave her another card to be filled in. She left with a victorious smile and headed for Level Two.
“MADAM, would you like to try this new line of perfumes?” said the saleslady in the perfume shop at Level Two.
“ARE you crazy or something?” said ‘Madam’. “I have already wasted so much time waiting in the line for the free gift of a perfume. Who wants to buy and try your new line of perfumes? Just hand me the free perfume bottle and let me go.”
THE SALESLADY shrugged her shoulders and gave her one 100ml bottle of Blue for Men. But she didn’t budge. “Where is my other bottle?” she demanded, “I gave you two cards.”
“MADAM, one free gift per person,” the saleslady said, as cool as the blue perfume bottle she was giving away.
“I HAVE heard that line from the chap below. And he gave me only two cards for the ten coupons I had collected from different sources. Who are you to stop me, enh?” The lady seemed to be in no mood to give up her cool … free bottle of one more Blue for Men.
“SORRY, Ma’am, one bottle …”
“I DEMAND two…”
“ONLY one…”
“I NEED two…”
“… ONE…”
“I BEG for two…”
NO ONE was ready to give up.
AND THEN THERE WAS A FREE FOR ALL.

The Deadline - A Short Story

2009-05-27T09:53:00.000-07:00

IF you have done any writing anytime, you will agree what a great tension a ‘deadline’ can be. I mean, any ‘serious’ writing – not those small love notes we send across the desks as adolescents in love; nor graffiti as each one of us is tempted to scribble on public toilet walls at one time or another; but real serious writing, say, for newspapers or magazines, or as for this purpose now. I have done that. And believe me, a deadline can be killing.

AND this is a story of a Deadline. You see, I don’t really mind deadlines when I had nothing better to do than sit at my news-desk and hammer at the typewriter. But this deadline came when I was at sea. And I must tell you at this point that I loved nothing better than a turbulent sea.

TO TELL you the truth, I always had this fascination for water. Even as a child I would walk back home from school. And I would walk back NOT to save the bus-money my father regularly gave me. But I would do that because the long walk always gave me a chance to walk along the seashore. My schoolbooks tucked under my shirt, I would walk as the roaring waves splashed and drenched my neatly ironed clothes. When I returned home late, long after the deadline to return home was over, my books and clothes dripping wet and my feet full of wet sand, my mother would give me a sound thrashing. That was a routine I was used to … and so were my long walks by the sea.

AS I grew, my fascination for the sea grew. I joined Wilson College because it would give me a chance to visit the sea more often. I would venture into the sea as far as I could and stand there for hours together watching the receding horizon. Oh yes, I must confess at this point that I did not know swimming. You will perhaps laugh that someone so fond of water did not know how to swim. But that’s true. And this did nothing to lessen my fascination for the deep sea.

THERE WERE times when I was standing in the sea, with the waves roaring around me, and suddenly I would be overcome with this intense desire to become one with the vast sea. I sometimes hoped that I would get a watery grave when I died. Strangely it was the fear of death which prevented me from taking that one suicidal step that would lift me off my feet and unite me with the never-ending sea. And I didn’t do that even when I was jilted in my first love. Ironically, when I asked my lady love what I would do without her, she asked me to go and jump into the sea. Instead I decided to cross the seas and go to Dubai. I joined a local newspaper there as an Editorial Assistant.

AND THAT brings me back to the deadline.

THE DEADLINE this story is about came when I was at the sea. And as I said before, I loved nothing more than a turbulent sea. Naturally I jumped with joy when my cousin, Ravin, turned up one morning at my bachelors’ pad and invited me to visit his ship. He had joined the Merchant Navy some years back and his cargo ship was at the port to unload some cargo. Knowing my deep love for the sea, he had thought of inviting me over to his ship. And naturally I jumped with joy. He had arranged a special pass for me to visit, and nothing could stop me from accepting his invitation __ not even the deadline I had for the next day.

THAT AFTERNOON, he picked me up. We took a small launch-boat to go to the giant cargo ship that was anchored a few miles away from the port. All we could see from there was waves, waves and more waves. Ravin gave me a separate cabin to sleep. That night was the most unforgettable night of my life. Never before had I felt so close to Nature. When everyone went to bed, I just stood on the deck, listening to the black music of the waves. The whole world seemed to rush into oblivion. And then the inevitable happened. The morning came.

I HAD enjoyed my stay and I wanted to go. After all, I had a deadline to honour. So I waited … waited for the small launch boat that would take me back to civilization and to my routine world. But it never came. I don’t remember at this precise point if I was happy or sad that it didn’t come. The evening came and still there was no sign of the launch. I was worried. All would be waiting for me at the office. You see, the feature I had in mind had to go in print the next morning. I felt bad that I had not learnt swimming. If I had known swimming, perhaps, I would have jumped into the sea and swum ashore. For the first time, I cursed myself for not learning swimming as a child.

“RAVIN, ISN’T there absolutely ANYTHING that will take me back?” I asked.

“We do have a small boat aboard for emergency, but …” he protested, “I can never let you travel in THAT boat. Not in this weather anyway.”

AND THEN I looked at the raging sea outside. And for the first time in my living life I was frightened of the sea. I had never seen this ugly face of the sea as on that night. For just a brief moment I was tempted to stay on the ship till another safer mode of transport would be made available to take me to the shore. But you see, I had a deadline to keep. And I had my fill of the sea the night before. I had to go. Ravin was helpless and, with great reluctance, roped the small boat into the huge endless sea, followed by a sailor to man the boat. When I climbed down the rope-ladder, I could hear my own heartbeats, loud and clear.
THE BOAT was shaking violently, but now there was no backing out. With prayers on our lips (and fear in our hearts) we started on our long voyage back to the port. When I stole a look at my companion, for a moment, I had a nagging guilt feeling that I had put him in peril, perhaps.

WHEN MY companions saw me sitting at the desk, I was fully drenched.

“WE THOUGHT you would never come,” said one.

“WE DID not even know where you had disappeared,” said the Editor, in exasperation. The next moment he heaved a sigh of relief that I was at least back.

“AND THAT’S precisely why I had to come,“ I said. “You will never know how I made it,” and handed over the copy of my feature.

“WHERE ON earth have you been?” echoed my colleagues.

“AT SEA. Want to hear?” I volunteered.

“YES, YES. You have always been a good story-teller.” And with this, everyone crowded round my desk.

“I ALWAYS had this fascination for water.. Even as a child, I would walk back home from school. And I would walk back….”

BY THE time I came towards the end of my narration, everyone was breathless.

“WHEN I climbed down the rope-ladder, I felt I could hear my own heartbeats, loud and clear. The boat was shaking violently, but now there was no backing out. With prayers on our lips (and fear in our hearts), we started on our long voyage back to the port…” And I paused to register their response.

“CONTINUE,” shouted everyone.

“THE JOURNEY which had taken only about 20 minutes the previous day seemed to be an endless one now, as the waves grew bigger and bigger. They seemed to engulf us. It was getting darker and darker outside. MY companion lit the power-lantern he had so thoughtfully carried with him. For a moment it seemed very bright. And what I saw in that light blinded me with a deadly fear. A giant wave was over us, and with that terrible impact, my helpless companion was thrown overboard and it was dark once again. For a moment I could hear the roaring waves perform a death-dance.
“THEN AS the boat overturned, I could see a faint light in the distance. Once in water, I began to struggle. I didn’t want to die … not as yet, anyway… I had promises to keep… and miles to go before I sleep… no, I was still young, no, I didn’t want to die. I doubt if even an expert swimmer could survive the fury of the sea that night. And I did not know swimming at all. Then. . .
s—l—o—w—l—y my breathing became fainter and fainter. I knew my childhood dreams of a watery grave were coming true. The time had come … and I was not prepared. I was dying… I was d – e –a – d…..”

AT THIS everyone clapped and roared with laughter.

“AN INTERESTING story well told! We always knew you had it in you to make a good storyteller. But the ending did not click. Dead, enh? And if you ARE dead, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I HAD to come because I had a deadline to keep,” I said.
AND AS I said this, I disappeared as everyone watched incredulously into the vacant space.

Are Some Teachers Prejudiced?

2009-05-22T01:06:00.000-07:00

ONCE upon a time (well, it seems so, so many years after I have left school!) when I was a teacher in The Indian High School, Dubai, I was participating in a debate initiated by Young Times, a popular weekly magazine for youngsters. The topic was: Are some teachers unduly prejudiced against some students, especially when it comes to selecting them for extra-curricular activities? Here, I reproduce my views, some going beyond the topic under discussion.
“I DO agree this happens at all levels. It is there amongst teachers; between managements and the teachers and, of course, between teachers and students. Very often, the same children, who win once, keep getting selected, because after some time winning becomes a habit with the school managements and they begin to take pride in displaying the various trophies won by the students. Often, the parents come and fight with the teachers-in-charge if a chance is given to some other children who may be capable of winning the competition. A school is a like an ocean full of precious pearls and there is so much talent that you cannot say that these handful ones who win once are the only capable ones.
HOWEVER, on my part, every time an Inter-School Competition was announced, I held a fresh Elimination Round, whether for elocution, quiz, mono acting, singing, or anything else. And I made sure that every student who wished to participate in these elimination rounds, was allowed to do so. This was apart from the regular Class Competitions for these activities. At times, there were more competitors than the spectators. In a place like Dubai, where there were so many cultural institutions announcing so many cultural competitions throughout the year, that it was always possible (and practical) to send as many different children for the different competitions. As far as possible, I made it a point not to repeat the same winning individuals, or teams because there were so many other capable students.
I BELIEVED that children should be taught the skills of fishing rather than being given fish. My purpose was to give them the confidence to participate, rather than to just win. After all, success in any field depends on many more factors than the just talent of the participants. At times, these cultural institutions competed among themselves and made sure that most of the important participating schools went back home (school, I mean) with some trophy or the other. This also ensured that the school managements were kept happy and were ready to participate the next time around. Whether the students won or lost, my duty was to stand by them at all times.
THERE WAS an Inter-School Quiz Contest where I was put in-charge and I worked equally hard with both the Juniors’ and the Seniors’ teams. While the Juniors emerged the winners, the Seniors came Third. And a certain teacher from the Morning Shift remarked, “Your team deserved to lose”. When a respectable teacher says such a thing to your own school team, simply because someone else (in her view, her rival) was in-charge, you can imagine what happens to the morale of the young students. Naturally the boys were on the verge of tears. I had a tough time to control them. Truth is no one enters a competition with the intention of losing. When the results are not as expected by them and they don’t emerge as the winning team, they deserve sympathy and encouragement, not caustic comments.
THIS prejudice happens in academics also. Taking private tuitions has become a thriving business in education. Teachers are so busy with their private tuitions that they have no energy left to teach in the regular class. Many students have shared with me sorry tales happening in the class. A student goes for tuitions with someone who is not their teacher in the class for that particular subject. And this teacher says in a voice filled with sarcasm, “Oh, so you are going to ‘that’ teacher for tuitions. Here’s your paper”. And the paper is literally thrown at the students, in full view of the embarrassed class. In fact, many reputed teachers screen students before taking them for tuitions and only accept students who are already 85-90% material. Students who really need tuitions are not accepted, even if they are ready to pay the highly unaffordable fees, simply because they are not A-graders. We have become horses running a race with blinkers on. That’s what the present education system has turned students into.
HERE goes another story, true one, believe it or not! A 5th-grade class was asked to write a composition on the topic, My Favourite National Leader. One boy wrote about Lokmanya Tilak. And the teacher just tore the page and remarked, “You have to write only about Mahatma Gandhi or Jawaharlal Nehru.” With due respect to these two, India has produced enough leaders of repute.
AS FOR gossiping about students and pulling them up publicly for their so-called mistakes, it happens all the time. Even the top bosses, Principals, are found indulging in this mal-practice. It happens in open assemblies and gatherings. By all means, a child needs to be corrected, but surely not in front of the whole school. We elders, teachers and parents, do so many things which we are not supposed to do. Imagine what would happen if you are humiliated in front of a group. Like I have said earlier, giving labels to young ones is a favourite pastime with many elders. What is important is that we tell the children not to believe in such labels, but have the confidence to believe in their own true worth.
I WOULD like to end with a story. A distressed mother took her small child to a Child Specialist. She kept complaining about him to the specialist, “This boy of mine is quite well-behaved when he is out in public. But you just should see him when he is at home. He is just terrible.” The Child Specialist listened to the mother patiently and said towards the fag end of the session, “Madam, but then aren’t you the same?”

THE CARD (a Short Story)

2009-05-21T01:42:00.000-07:00

THE CARD

I ALWAYS bought my cards from the Al Nasr Stores. My friends made fun of me for this, and termed my frequent trips to the store a waste of time, money and energy. Maybe they were right. I could have bought my requirement of cards from many of the super-markets near my home. Al Nasr Stores was on the Dubai-Sharjah Road and each trip there cost me not less than Dhs. 15/=. And this was in the early Seventies. My friends thought that Al Nasr Stores was for the nouveau-riche and for people with chauffeur-driven cars. But unmindful of their constant digs, I always bought my cards from the Al Nasr Stores on the Dubai-Sharjah Road.
IF you have the obsession for cards that I had, you will have agreed that I did the right thing in buying my cards from the Al Nasr Stores. Obsession, did I say? Perhaps that was the right word for my ‘habit’ of collecting cards for all occasions. You name it and I had the most appropriate card for that occasion. Over the years I had built up a formidable reputation as the right person to choose cards. Come any emergency, even my friends who made fun of me would ask me to choose a card for them from my collection. I had cards for engagements, and for marriages; births or birthdays. Whether you passed school or flunked graduation, I had a card ready. You wanted to go on a holiday, or move your home, I would have a card ready for the occasion. And this is where the Al Nasr Stores came in handy, with their wide selection of cards for different occasions.
ONCE every week or a fortnight, I would go there and spend hours together selecting different cards I fancied – birthday cards, engagement cards, wedding cards, so on and so forth. And at the end of those two or three hours, I would march out of the store triumphantly, loaded with the choicest greeting cards, but poorer by a hundred or more dirhams. So what if the salesman there would give me funny looks which, I suspect, suggested that I was nuts. Sometimes, the salesman would joke whether my friends were always getting engaged or married, or were giving births or celebrating birthdays. And in all seriousness, I would reply that I could always use these cards when the occasion demanded, without having to look for them. And unmindful of the sarcastic glances and nasty comments from the salesman and from my own friends, I continued to buy cards from the Al Nasr Stores.
‘WHAT about this one?” the salesman asked me one evening, pointing to the shelf. “We have just got this lot today.”
HE may have been making fun of me, I thought to myself, and with just the right touch of seriousness and ridicule, I said, “No thanks, I have already got those ‘Get Well’ cards.”
“NO, not the Get Well cards. Look at this one,” he said, handing me a card with the picture of a fresh-looking rose with the caption “The Rose Beyond The Wall”.
THE catchy caption fascinated me enough to forget the fact that the salesman was being impudent enough to suggest that I buy the card since some day, somewhere, someone or the other I knew would be sure to die and the card would come in handy. I even suspected a snigger on his face as he gave me the card. But I liked the caption and read the contents inside. The poem inside was like nothing I had read before; the thoughts were profound and philosophical. I wanted to buy the card but hesitated for a while, thinking what the salesman would feel.
AFTER all, no one in his right senses would buy such a card in anticipation of its use at a later date. The card expressed sympathies for the survivors of the dead. I hesitated, but only for a while. What the hell, I said to myself, a thing of beauty is a joy for ever, and I really had liked the profound thought in the card. Besides, one doesn’t have to use all the cards in one’s possession, I satisfied myself. And “The Rose Beyond The Wall” was the only card I bought that day.
THE poem, “The Rose Beyond The Wall’ haunted me the whole night. I had a strange dream. I was dead and I could hear people stand beside my dead body and pay all sorts of compliments that people normally reserve till after one’s death, before paying them to the person concerned. However, the best compliment that I, rather my survivors, had received was the card with the caption, “The Rose Beyond The Wall”. I almost wanted to extend my hand beyond the barriers of Time and Space and thank the person who had, so thoughtfully, sent the card. And then I woke up with a start.
THE phone was ringing… I don’t know, for how long. Before I was able to leave my bed to answer the phone, my room-mate, Dilip, had picked up the phone. “There is a telegram in your name and the fellow from Emirtel wants to dictate the contents before the telegram can be delivered the next morning,” Dilip explained.
“PLEASE go ahead and take the message for me,” I said as I pulled the warm blanket over me on the cold December night, to be able enjoy another brief spell of sleep. I must once again have fallen asleep before I felt Dilip’s trembling hand trying to wake me up. His face was filled with some unknown fear as he handed me the piece of paper on which he had taken the message over the phone. What was it, I grumbled. I had to take the paper though I would have loved not to do it at that moment. The paper read, “Father expired. Start immediately”.‘WITH a fearful and forceful gust of wind that must be raging outside, the window banged open, leaving the glass splinters all over the carpet as a sudden blast of unseasonal shower hit me into rude awakening. Carefully avoiding the glass pieces, I bent to pick up something else that had fallen down. As I picked it up, the caption on the card I had bought that evening, stared at me, “The Rose Beyond The Wall”.

A MATTER OF GRADES!

2009-05-20T00:13:00.000-07:00

THIS happened when I was a teacher in The Indian High School, Dubai. The then-new Principal, Mr. Ashok Kumar, had introduced a new system of giving increments to the teachers. It was called “Efficiency Allowance”, and was linked to the grades given to teachers, supposedly based on their performance. After checking my bank accounts, I had realized that I was given a ‘B’ Grade. I believed (and most of my colleagues backed my belief) that my ‘performance’ spoke through the various trophies and laurels my students, trained by me, brought home for public speaking, dramas, quizzes and so many other co-curricular activities I was handling in my capacity of Dramatics teacher and Activities Coordinator. I was wondering if all the extra hours I spent in the service of the school and the students had been a total washout by being ‘degraded’ with a ‘B’ grade. In short, I was totally demoralized and was enveloped in a black mood that afternoon.
I WAS in this black mood when some Fifth-graders walked into the room where I took my Art Education classes. It wasn’t the first time that they had come to my room. Students from different classes always walked in, asking me to come for a ‘Proxy’ period whenever the class was without a regular teacher. And I always willingly picked my armour, that is, the quiz cards or other material I kept handy to keep the students busy and interestingly occupied. Often we played Drama Games, or dramatized some of the lessons from the English text-books, in the absence of the regular English teacher.
LIKE I said earlier, it was not the first time that the students had walked into my room, asking me to come for a ‘Proxy’ period. However, it was for the first time they found me screaming at them, “Please go back to your class and ask Mr. D’Souza (the Supervisor) for a proxy period.” They had never seen me in such a foul mood and left promptly, their faces reflecting their amazement at this sudden volcanic outburst.
SOMETIME later during the day, the same bunch of boys came and stood at the entrance of the room. Once again I yelled at them, “Boys, I told you I am not coming for a proxy period. It’s not my job.” A little boy approached me meekly, put his hands on my shoulder and said softly, “Sir, please don’t come to our class for proxy if you don’t want to. We came to give you this.” Saying this, the boys handed over to me what looked like a hastily prepared card and stood in a corner, waiting for me to open it. It showed a colourful heart, with words inscribed inside them: “Sir, no matter what others think of you, but for us students, you will always remain an ‘A’ Grade teacher. We love you always.” I felt ashamed at my own behavior and pulled the children closer. I apologized for my behavior and gently asked them what had prompted them to give me that loving card despite my atrocious behavior.
“SIR, we understand why you had shouted at us and refused to come for a ‘Proxy’ period to our class,” said the boy who had handed over the card to me.
“WHY?” I asked.
“YOU shouted because the Principal gave you a ‘B’ Grade. We heard about it when we had gone to the staff-room during the recess and heard all the other teachers discussing this.,” said one boy.
“SIR, we love you for what you are,” said another, “and nothing can change that for us.”
‘YOU will always remain an ‘A’ Grade teacher for us. We love you and will always love you, no matter what happens,” said yet another.SAYING this, the group left just as the bell rang to signify end of the recess. And in that one moment, I learnt the most valuable lesson of my entire teaching career. That the true worth of a teacher lies in not what the school authorities think of him, but in what the young innocent children , who really matter, think of him/her.

Well-known People -- Little-known facts!

2009-05-19T06:01:00.000-07:00

WELL-KNOWN PEOPLE … LITTLE-KNOWN FACTS!

HIS face may not have launched a thousand ships, like the legendary Helen of Troy’s did. But his smiling, sunny face sure lent, and still does, a rare dignity to many a product advertised. After all, it’s a face well-known all over the world. The face – and the name that goes with it – will remain part of the history, as much as the beautiful historic face that supposedly launched a thousand ships. This well-known face has been associated with thousands of runs. I am talking about Sunny, the original Little Master of Cricket, Sunil Gavaskar.
I AM talking about a time when this face, and the name that went with it, was not so widely known. And this little-known story belongs to that period when Sunny had not yet made it So Big on the cricket scene of India. True, for quite some time, many people in the island city of Bombay (as it was known then) had been talking about ‘the little schoolboy’ from St. Xavier’s High School who had made a habit of scoring centuries and double and triple centuries in the Giles and Harris Shield matches and the Zonal Inter-School cricket matches. But that was when Sunny was still in school.
THIS little-known story took place when Sunny had already left school and was on his way to establish his feet in a bigger way on a bigger canvas. Seeing movies and idolizing screen heroes was as much in fashion then as it is now. So, when the chance came to be part of a film shooting, even if only for a party scene for a day’s shoot, the Young Brigade gladly agreed for some ‘time pass’ moments. “Chalo, dekhte hain” (Come on, let’s see!), echoed every member of the group when I told them that the matinee idol, Dev Anand was looking out for some young collegians for his maiden directorial venture ‘Prem Pujari’. A family-friend of ours, Maya by name, who was the hair-dresser for the debutante heroine, Zaheeda, had asked me to get some collegians.
ON the given day, the group, consisting of Sunil Gavaskar, Milind Rege (a brilliant all-rounder), Sharad Hazare (a great wicket-keeper) and a few others from the cricket and non-cricket crowd, boarded the Western Railway local from Grant Road station (where we were all staying then, not on the station, but nearby) and reached Bandra to head towards Mehboob Studios where the shooting was to take place. We were all in high spirits, getting in mood for the party scene, of which we were to be a part. In this exuberant mood, we all arrived at the studios and waited.
ANYONE, who is even remotely familiar with the working of a film unit in India’s Follywood, oops, I mean, Bollywood, will know what a ‘wait’ means, particularly for those taking part in a crowd for a party scene. So, we waited -- and waited… had cups of morning tea, and then lunch on the house, and then some more tea again in the afternoon. And we waited. But there was no sign of being called to the sets to face the camera and the shouts of “Ready … sound … camera…action… ”. And then, after a long wait, it was pack-up time. A unit-hand came to inform us to report for the shooting the next day.

“NO CHANCE!”, screamed everyone as we marched to the railway station to go back home, after waiting and wasting a whole day, with no “shoot-at-sight” of the legendary Dev Anand. For months after that, Sunil and his friends would rag and make fun of me for the “great shooting experience” and were literally ready to shoot me dead.AND before long, Sunil made it big, real BIG, on the cricket scene and “shot” to international fame. And the rest, like they say, is history. Now, anyone would give his right arm, so to say, to be seen in the company of the Great Little Master. However, on that day, I am sure, Dev Anand never knew who was waiting in the corridors of the Mehboob Studios, to be called on the sets to give a shot. Of course, that was way back yesterday, many, many years ago. Today, many, many years after his retirement from active cricket, Sunil Gavaskar, the original Little Master, continues to call his shots – and what shots, folks!!

My School Cricket!

2009-05-17T10:30:00.000-07:00

MY SCHOOL CRICKET!

I KNOW, no one will believe this, but it’s true… as true as the fact that IPL-2 will soon be ending and (hopefully) life will return to normal. To return to normalcy from lunacy is not easy. See even I am in the mood of cricket. People who know me will exclaim, you and cricket? I can’t really blame them because I was always loud and clear when I expressed my views about cricket which, I said, is a game of fools, game by fools and a game for fools. But then you can’t blame me if I am possessed by cricket, what with cricket in the air. It’s fashionable to express one’s (expert) views about cricket. I have even heard many, some in whispers and some shouting from the rooftops, that if chosen, they would have performed much better than those chosen to represent the KKR. Now, don’t expect me to tell you what that is. If you don’t know that, I suggest you stop reading this piece NOW. Some are heard saying, “Even my sweeper-boy plays better cricket than these chaps”. To come back to what I was saying, even I am possessed by cricket and I am going to share my experiences of cricket with you reader-friends.
LIKE all famous (and not-so-famous) cricketers, even I started playing cricket in my childhood, while I was still in my cradle. Yes, I threw my first ball while I was in the cradle. I must have been about a year-old then. I think it was my birthday and lots of women had gathered in my house. As is normal, all of them were bringing the roof down, by talking together, at the top of their voices, too. The only way I could make my presence felt was by crying out louder than their collective noise. And I did just that. In a desperate effort to make me quiet, my mother gave a rubber ball in my hand. I was quiet for some time and started howling again, louder than before. And, without taking an aim, I threw the ball out with all the force a one-year-old could gather. My crying stopped only when there was a sound of crying by another woman. It was only later that I knew that the ball I had thrown had hit the nose of that woman.
I THREW my second ball when I was three. Perhaps, not remembering my (m)adventures with a ball, Dad had given me a ball to play with. (Some parents don’t give up, do they?) And I threw it hard onto the big mirror in the drawing room. I knew what I had achieved only when Mom came rushing and gave me some hard slaps.
I CONTINUED to play cricket (by now I had known this ball-throwing was known as cricket!) even when I was a little older. There was a film studio next to the colony where we stayed. Every time they needed children for some scene showing children playing, they called us kids. The kids with me were so selfish that they never allowed me to face the camera. Finally, I got so wild and angry that I smashed my bat onto their heads. The blow was so hard that my bat broke and the unsympathetic director, instead of sympathizing with me, showed me the way to the door of the studio. I became wilder and I screamed as I ran out of the door, “Forget about the film cricket, I will play real cricket… like … like … Pataudi.”
EVEN when I joined the Middle School, I was kept away from the school cricket team, no thanks to the opposition from the other kids. But I was not the one to give up so easily. Hoping that some day my dream of making to the cricket team will come true, I continued playing gully cricket with the colony kids. By now I had graduated to a tennis ball. I may not have improved in my art of cricket skills, but I had made good progress in the art of ‘buttering’ the school cricket captain and the school coach. And at the end of three years, with all the butter used, the ‘pitch’ had become soft and accessible, and my name started appearing in the school cricket team.
FINALLY, the day dawned for me to play my first cricket match. Not wanting to take any chances, I went to the cricket ground before anyone else and waited for the other team members to appear. At the stroke of ten, the match began. I had practiced the art of buttering and was able to convince my captain to send me as the opening batsman. I had also convinced my gullible father to get a newly stitched and starched uniform for me.
I CLOSED my eyes in prayer to God to give me courage and, from the corner of my eyes, saw the opening bowler of the opposition team take his run, rubbing the (dangerously) red ball on his white pants. I held the bat tightly in front of the stumps and continued praying. I opened my eyes to a thunderous applause of the crowd, and saw the ball had crossed the boundary line. I was possessed with a new-found confidence and looked at the bowler cheekily. He returned the cheeky smile and went farther for his run. I closed my eyes once again and opened them only when I heard the shout “Caught”, which was followed by the umpire’s louder voice, “No Ball”. The bowler gave me a look that I haven’t been able to forget even now after so many years. I closed my eyes once more, determined to open them only when I heard a roar from the crowd. There was none and I was forced to open my eyes. I was wondering what was wrong that I could see only one stump. (And I thought cricket was played with three stumps!) Then I saw a fielder walk towards me with the other two stumps and the umpire’s hand had gone up to signal the fall of wicket… my wicket. I was so red with uncontrolled anger that I ran towards the umpire and, before anyone knew what was happening, I smashed the bat, with all the force I could gather, first on the head of the umpire and then on the bowler’s head. AFTER this incident, our school Principal put an end to my cricketing dreams. And thus ended my cricket career even before it had taken off.

Looking At Self

2009-05-16T09:34:00.000-07:00

Have been struggling to find this beautiful poem to publish as part of the blog. Finally, I have found it and here it goes. Hope everyone enjoys reading it and then spend some time to reflect on the contents. Happy Reading, folks!

THE MAN IN THE GLASS!
When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what the man has to say.
Some people may think you a straight shooting chum
And call you a wonderful guy
But The Man In The Glass says you are only a bum
If you can’t look him straight in the eye.
For it is not your father or mother or wife
Who judgement upon you must pass
The fellow whose verdict means most in your life
Is the man staring back from the glass.
He is the fellow to please, never mind the rest
For he’s with you clear up to the end
And you have passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If The Man In The Glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But for final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you have cheated The Man In The Glass.
(Source Unknown)

On Relationships

2009-05-10T02:01:00.000-07:00

ON RELATIONSHIPS

CONTINUING from where I left off, on the (controversial) theme of Marriage, which seemed to have ruffled quite a few feathers, here are some reflections on the theme of Relationships.

RELATIONSHIPS -- of all kinds -- are like sand held in your hand. Held loosely, with an open hand, the sand remains where it is. The minute you close your hand and squeeze tightly to hold on, the sand trickles through your fingers. You may hold on to some of it, but most will be spilled. A relationship is like that. Held loosely, with respect and freedom for the other person, it is likely to remain intact. But hold too tightly, too possessively, and the relationship slips away and is lost.

AND when it happens in a relationship going by the name of Marriage (and mind you, I am not talking about the 'piece of paper' going by the name of Marriage Certificate), it is unfortunate because it affects more than just the two people directly involved. It affects the two families involved. It affects the children, when they enter the picture. I have known of cases where the partners have ended their relationship of marriage when the children are old enough to understand the implications of a a separation of their parents. And, in at least one particular case I know of, it has resulted in the untimely and unfortunate passing away of a child, due to the impact it had on her..

SO, friends, here's wishing you all, those who are long married, those who are newly married, and, those who are about to get married, the very Best of Luck. I sincerely hope you don't become a Philosopher, like Aristotle mentioned. Now, honestly, I am not aware if Aristotle was married (happily or otherwise) or not.

To Be, Or Not To Be...!

2009-05-08T09:57:00.000-07:00

Most of us love to read fairytales, don't we? I read them a lot in my childhood. Those who love to read, or may have read, even without loving to read, fairytales, must have noticed that most of the fairytales end with the words, "And they lived happily ever-after". The more I read the words, the more I was stuck with the words, "...And they lived happily ever-after". Remember, they (referring to the hero, the Prince, and the heroine, the Princess) lived happily ever-after. The stress is on "living happily", not, living together, or .happily married. Get my point, dudes?

LIVING together, happily married, according to me is a contradiction in itself. And, please remember, I am a male and can talk purely from the male point of view. It is generally believed that marriages are of two kinds: Successful Marriages (in which the husband and the wife live together, not too sure if they live happily ever after, as in the fairy tales!!) and the other Failed Marriages (those ending in divorce). In both of them, the piece of paper going by the name of Marriage Certificate is important. Please note, I am not referring to the live-in relationships, in which the two people who really matter, are least bothered about the piece of paper or what the society thinks about their relationship. But at least they are living together, married or not. At this point, I want to remind my readers about the fact that the Prince and the Princess in a fairy tale just "live together happily ever after", not necessarily married. I hope I am not beginning to sound repetitive. But then the topic of marriage is such that after some time, the whole thing begins to sound repetitive, and one becomes used to the whole thing.

AFTER some time, the two just begin to live together... like two people travelling together in a train or a bus, or in a shared taxi or a rickshaw. They just share the space together, without any communication whatsoever. And it is this kind of marriage I was referring to earlier, two people sharing the same space. They share the space, without any communication. Maybe they even begin to get on each other's nerves, but continue to live together, simply because they cannot gather enough courage to end the relationship, and the freedom granted by the piece of paper, going by the name of Marriage Certificate. Slowly, they begin to take each other for granted and even start taking important decisions for them. Personally, I don't believe this should happen in any relationship, least of all, in a marriage.

SOMETIMES, this stagnation sets in almost immediately after, and in some cases, many years later. And by then, it's too late to end the marriage. So, the two parties continue ... to just stay together... JUST STAY TOGETHER, mind you.

THEN why does one get married at all? Social security? Financial security? Sex? Or any other reason? But then you can get some of these, or maybe all of them, even without having to get married. To me, the most important thing in a marriage is space... communication between the two parties who have decided to come together in marriage, whatever the reason. Before marriage, one is ready to accept the other, with all his/her good and bad points. But almost immediately after the marriage rituals are over, the good points are forgotten, and the not-so-good points begin to appear magnified beyond acceptance. More problems arise when one partner takes the other for granted and tries to change him/her overnight. It is at this point that communication becomes very important. Unfortunately, it is not always there. At times, you realise after many years of marriage that there never was any communication between the two. Then one day, you understand that your spouse has been talking about you to the relatives or friends, instead of you, which should have been the case. By then, as I have said earlier, it is already too late to change things and people become used to sharing the space, without feeling the need to give some space to one's partner.

"MARRIAGES are made in heaven", said Tennyson, "... and turn into hell soon after", as he must have conveniently forgotten to add. There may be some truth in the French saying, "Love is the dawn of marriage, and marriage is the sunset of love." Before this discourse on marriage gets too rambling, and too serious, let me give you some funny quotes on marriage. It's for each individual reader to find some truth in them. Here we go.

"MARRIAGE is a romance in which the hero dies in the first chapter." (Anonymous)

"A MAN finds himself seven years older the day after his marriage." (Bacon)

"A GOOD marriage would be between a blind wife and a deaf husband." (Montaigne)

"EVERY woman should marry --- and no man." (Disraeli)

"THE WOMAN cries before the wedding ... the man afterward." (A Polish Proverb)

"MARRIAGE is the one subject on which all women agree --- and all men disagree." (Oscar Wilde)

"ADVICE to those about to marry --- DON'T."

OF COURSE, I won't go so far as to say "Don't marry!" After all, as I said in an earlier post, "Every man should marry. If you get a good wife, you become happy. And if you don't, you become a philosopher." (Aristotle)

The Truth Is ...

2009-05-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

Hi friends, I have a confession. This one is not entirely new. I mean I had first written this years ago, when I was teaching in The Indian High School, Dubai. And as all my student-friends would testify it is almost ten years since I returned to India, after resigning from the job. (Now, why I left the job one year before my actual retirement is another story.) I had reflected on the nature of Truth, back then, in relation to my relations with the staff and management of the school. I was asked by the Principal, Mr. Ashok Kumar, to write something for the Notice Boards 'adorning' the school walls in all the blocks. Write true stuff, I was told pompously. Truth is he found all my pieces too true (and brutally frank) to his liking. So, I was not at all surprised that none of them was published.

ALMOST a decade later, I find that the nature of Truth hasn't changed at all. It is not enough to be honest in one's dealings with the people around you. Whatever the truth, they will only accept whatever, and only what, they want. Truth is still twisted out of shape, by people to suit their convenience. So much so, that after some time, when you face tjhe truth, you begin to doubt whether what you are seeing is the 'real' truth. See, I had to use the word "real" before the key word "truth" to make my point.

"I THINK, after some real hard thinking, I am reaching nearer the truth about the real nature of Truth. Truth is like an onion.
"I THINK, you will laugh on reading this. You might even say, “He’s crazy!”. But pause for a moment and think. Just for a moment. And then, perhaps, you will agree with me. When I reached this conclusion, I was full of tears in my eyes . . . and I was in the kitchen . . . peeling an onion. Please don’t laugh. Now and then, I do spend some time in the kitchen . . . to remind myself of my bachelor days. Besides, why should the kitchen be considered the domain of women? So, as I was telling you, I was in the kitchen, peeling an onion when I reached this conclusion. . . that Truth is like an onion.
"I WAS peeling the onion, removing layer after layer. And the more I peeled, the more I cried. Come to think of it, isn’t Truth a bit like an onion? Like the onion, Truth, too, is covered with so many layers . . . so many cobwebs. And the more we try to uncover these layers camouflaging the Truth, the more it begins to hurt . . . bringing tears to our eyes and hurt to our heart. But it needs courage to continue peeling an onion, and to unravel the truth. And believe me, the results are worthwhile, in both the cases. It does help to know one’s onions . . . please don’t mind my poor efforts at the pun.
"I THINK, you all must be wondering what has all this got to do with what we have to do in schools. The truth is we teachers, who, everyone says, mould the destinies of those who shape the future of the world, need to look into the mirror and face the truth, from time to time. Now, what these truths are that all of us need to face will depend on, and will change from person to person, and from time to time. One truth is that education must be . . . at least, needs to be, child-orientated. And a child, whether as a toddler taking his first steps or as a youngster stumbling on the road to adulthood, needs to be understood as an individual and not just as a book in the library, waiting to be labelled and put on a shelf.
"TALKING OF labels, I think, the easiest, and perhaps the most potentially dangerous thing, to do is to label a child. Everyone around him is so busy giving him labels that soon the vulnerable youngster is likely to forget his true identity and start believing in the different labels that the people around him have been giving him, merely because they find it convenient. And slowly, but surely, the truth is covered with a thick layer of cobwebs. And when one tries to peel the layers in an effort to clear the cobwebs, it begins to hurt . . . like the onion!
"I THINK, I’ll leave you alone . . . to peel the onion and arrive at the Truth."

AM I beginning to sound like a philosopher? Maybe it has something to do with my 26 years of married life. After all, was it not Aristotle who said, "Marriage is good for man. If you get a good wife, you become happy. If not, you become a philosopher."? Now, don't blame me if the person who declared this profound truth happens to be Socrates or Pluto or any of those great Greek philosophers who walked on the face of the earth years ago. If I have forgotten the real name of this great speaker, it, too, may have something to do with 26 years of my married life. But then, that is another story. Want to hear it?

It's Not Fair!

2009-05-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

“IT’S not fair,” I screamed in protest. Unfortunately, even my most violent protests always turned into mild whimpers when talking to Rekha.
BEFORE I knew what hit me, Rekha banged the copies of all the local newspapers on my bed. (I have a sneaky suspicion they were actually meant for my head, and not the bed). I had just returned from a gruelling night shift. Not wanting to disturb my ‘better half’ (?) when I walked in, I had changed into my night suit and hopped onto the bed quietly (or so I had thought!). Just as my eyes were closing under the weight of sleep, I felt the weight of the newspapers, with the near-hundred-page supplements that the newspapers come out with from time to time, perhaps to be used as spread-sheets for lunches and dinners the very next day. And then came the inevitable stinging question, “Are we, or are we NOT going to the Consumers’ fair tomorrow?”
AND I had protested in the voice of a whimpering mouse, “It’s not fair!”
“YOU know nothing,” Rekha countered as she banged the heavy-weight newspapers onto my bed. And with that, whatever little sleep that was coming my way – and the pretty dream-girls to follow – vanished into thin air with this violent attack from ‘My Fair Lady’.
“HERE are the full-page ads in the supplements announcing the opening of the Consumers’ Fair at the Bandra-Kurla Complex. How can you then say, ‘It’s not fair’? Rekha continued persistently.
AND I almost chuckled under my breath at her ignorance, but on second thoughts preferred not to provoke her further by venturing into anything louder.
“YOU have been putting it off for the last so many days, ever since the ads started appearing. Look, if you don’t want to take me to the fair, better tell me so straight on my face…”
“YOU mean, you will take my ‘No’ for an answer and forget the fair?” I asked gleefully, jumping out of the bed.
“FORGET it? You forget it. If you don’t want to take me to the fair, you can tell me so straight on my face. Then I will go alone with all my friends from the Ladies’ Society. Understand?”
“TELL me, darling, is it absolutely necessary to go for the fair?” I said sweetly, hoping desperately to win the day… oops, the night with the armour of love.
“LOOK dear, why don’t YOU understand that I want to go for the Fair for your own sweet sake?” Rekha cooed more sweetly.
FOR my sake? I felt myself suspended into the thin air (with a thinner bungee-jumping wire)) where my dream-girls had vanished a while ago. “And may I know HOW,” I asked with an unbelievable air of innocence.
“LOOK here,” Rekha held the paper in front of my sleepy eyes as she so graciously read it out for my sweet sake, “…last few pieces left at bargain prices! Come to the Consumers’ Fair at the Bandra-Kurla Complex and get yourself a deal that is absolutely fair.”
“AND what’s new this time?”
‘PANASONIC DVD Players.”
“BUT wasn’t that what we got the last time we visited the fair?”
“NO, no, no. That wasn’t the Panasonic DVD Player. That was the Panasonic 40 inches TV, with Picture-in-Picture. And it wasn’t from this Fair at Bandra-Kurla Complex. It was at the Fair at Andheri Sports Complex. For your kind information, that was the Fair at which they had offered electronic items at real bargain prices. Remember?” she tried explaining patiently to an impatiently sleepy me.
“YES, at least that’s what you said when we went to that Fair. And we ended up buying six sarees, one Sanyo Food Factory, twelve non-stick frying pans, the 40-inches Panasonic TV and a semi-automatic LG washing machine…”
“… AND all at real bargain prices. Why do you forget that?” Rekha said. “And besides, the washing machine wasn’t purchased at the Andheri Sports Complex Fair.”
“WHAT do you mean?”, I asked, getting more and more puzzled.
“THE LG automatic washing machine was bought at the NSE Goregaon Fair,” she said, trying not to lose patience … and the battle.
“BUT wasn’t the NSE Goregaon Fair held last year?” I asked more innocently.
“OH my god, that was the Spring Fair, held at the World Trade Centre Hall. The washing machine was bought at the Autumn Fair held in year 2006,” she explained, a little loudly this time. It was getting clear that she was losing patience slowly but surely.
THAT, of course, didn’t help me any. I was still as confused as the star batsman who refuses to walk out of the ground even when the Umpire has declared him clean bowled. “But, dear, I distinctly remember walking out of the same Fair with a cartload of things…”
“NO dear, when we walked out with a cartload of things that was from the Winter Fair held at the grounds next to Bandra Reclamation, a month earlier. You are clearly confusing one fair with another. You see, the NSE Goregaon ground organizes a fair almost every two months,” she said impatiently.
“AND we come out of all these fairs, heavier with goods and lighter in cash. That’s what you mean?” I asked in sheer exasperation … or whatever it is that you feel at such testing times.
“FOR god’s sake, why are you always complaining? Why don’t you look at the brighter side? We don’t always use cash for these purchases. We use the different bank cards you have. And the things we buy at these fairs are sold a lot cheaper than outside,” Rekha argued.
“AND that’s what I am trying to complain about. Because the things are sold cheaper at these dozen fairs, we go all the way to these fairs – petrol costs money – buy tickets for the entrance and then buy a whole lot of things we could otherwise have done without. Enh, now what do you have to say to that?”, I said, now nearly wide awake.
“SO, in short, you are NOT taking me for this Fair, enh? Well, you have left me with no choice. I will go alone with all my friends from the Ladies Society this time…” she paused for a while and then continued. “Hope you will join me at the Pakistani Trade Fair opening at the Taj Inter-Continental lobby the day after tomorrow. Remember, by doing this, we will be contributing towards developing better ties with our neighbouring country. And we can go by a taxi, so you don’t have to complain about spending for petrol money. Since it is in the hotel lobby, the entrance is free, so you can save some cash. And the Pakistani dresses are really very, verry, verrry cheap, compared to Indian dresses…”
AND for the first time in ten years of my successful married life, I screamed … really SCREAMED I mean and not the screams that always turned into whimpers. I screamed at Rekha, “IT’S NOT FAIR.”
…AND with that, I pulled the sheet over my head (to save it from being hurt) as I threw the bundles of local newspapers, with the near-hundred-page supplements, back at Rekha's head.

Why Me?

2009-05-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

Before I knew the plane was in high skies. For some time everything was smooth and people had lost themselves into deep slumber. Then there was a sudden announcement and we all woke up. It was the air-hostess: "Please fasten your seat-belts. We are running into turbulent weather. However, there is no need to panic." You can be sure that when someone says, "No need to panic", there WILL be panic all around. There were screams heard from all the sides. Perhaps, I was the only one who was not visibly disturbed. I was actually enjoying this turbulence. And as suddenly, the plane started nose-diving. And the next moment, it had crashed. When I came to my senses, I could see dead bodies scattered all around me. I walked, as if in a daze, looking for any survivors, but there were none... except, of course, me. Can you believe it, I was the only survivor in an aircrash. I continued to walk, triumphantly. Then as suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulders.
AND I woke up. Yes, it was only a dream. But I had had this dream many times before. In fact I had come to enjoy this particular dream. There was another dream which I used to have. But I will save it for another time. Looking back over what has happened over the last two years, I feel that I have lived this dream of being a survivor.
I AM talking about my fight with cancer.
LET me cut back to May, 2007. My whole family was holidaying in Goa while I had stayed back, due to my shooting commitments. Then I noticed I was having difficulty swallowing. Sometimes, it was bad and I was unable to swallow even water, while at other times, I had difficulty swallowing only solids. My wife's sister-in-law, who is a doctor in Goa, asked me over the phone to take some tablets for acidity. I had temporary relief. When our family doctor
returned from her vacation, I met her and told her about my problems. She suggested I get some tests done immediately to rule out anything serious. By this time, my family had returned and we went ahead with all the different tests. When the reports came, our worst fears had come true. It was cancer of the esophagus, or in simple terms, cancer of the foodpipe.
WE were seated in front of the specialist, Dr. S. Shetty, to collect the report of my endoscopy and biopsy test. And he announced grimly, “Very bad cancer.” “Thank you, doctor. I always thought cancer was good”. Of course, I said all this under my breath. He continued, “Get operated immediately.” We muttered a weak “Yes.”
THEN he offered help. “I have contacts at Lilavati” I had only seen Lilavati Hospital on various TV channels with all reporters pushing each other for an 'exclusive' of the star visitors. I was elated that I was considered fit enough (oops, I mean unfit enough!) to get admitted into THE Lilavati Hospital. Now I would boast about this to all and sundry. But then we silently moved our heads from left to right. “I have contacts in Tata Memorial, too.” And we walked out.
NOW were sitting with our family doctor, to show her all the reports. And I asked her, “I don’t smoke, I don’t drink. Why me?” “Destiny!” she said. While my wife was waiting out in the reception, I said weakly, “Will I have at least two years? I want to see my daughter graduate.” Think of the greedy human heart! “Cancer is curable, dear” she assured me gently.
AFTER some quick networking by my sister and her friends, we were sitting in front of the specialist at Tata the next morning. After a long wait, we met the doctor who patiently explained, “It is wise not to delay cancer treatment. However, two or three weeks should not make much difference.” And he wrote some tests which we had to get done from the Tata Memorial Hospital itself.
THE next morning we were at Tata again for different tests. And what I saw there changed my perspective. People had come from all corners of India (and abroad, too). They came from different age groups, different economic backgrounds, in different stages of cancer. Some came with just their case papers. Some came clutching their very little baggage. Outside the hospital, they waited with their belongings, enquiring from others about reasonably-priced boarding-lodging arrangements, from where they could make it on time for their timely treatment, not knowing at this stage how much time the whole thing would last.
AND there, waiting in the long queue I saw many young children, caps covering their bald pates, some with tubes hanging out of different parts of their bodies. Some were as young as two- or three-year olds. There were some who looked in extreme pain and yet smiled bravely. Some looked bewildered as to what they had done to deserve this fate. And then I noticed these two young boys, busy talking to each other. I couldn't help but to listen to them.
ONE boy asked the other, "How many chemotherapy sessions did you have?"
The other answered, "This is my first one. Does it hurt?" "You will get used to it soon enough," the first one said, "I had five sessions so far." And they continued to chat, smiling from time to time.
AND here I was. At 65. I had experienced life... seen and enjoyed the rainbow of life. Who was I to question my Destiny by asking “Why me?” I looked at the rainbow around me and asked myself, “Why not me?”
NOW, it is May, 2009. I had my cancer surgery in August, 2007, in which my esophagus, that is the foodpipe, was removed and my stomach pulled up in its place to function as foodpipe. During this surgery, my left vocal chord was paralysed and I had almost lost the use of my voice. After another surgery for thyroplasty in April, 2008, I have partially regained my voice. I have even started going for auditions, though not as effectively as I used to do previously. I have even shot for some TVCs and am looking forward to go for more shoots. I dream of being able to "sell" my different scripts to prospective film-makers, though I know it is not going to be an easy job, to give long narrations, with the present state of my voice. My daughter will be graduating this summer. AND most important, I have survived my cancer where many I know were not so lucky to do that. So what if children I meet guess my age as 83, when I am only 67? So what if I am not the only survivor of cancer? At least my favourite dream of surviving an aircrash has come true. Only in this case, the aircrash goes by the name of cancer. Now, I don't ask any more, "Why me?"

A Taste Of Dark!

2009-04-30T06:55:00.000-07:00

I must confess this blog is hours late... for no fault of mine really! My student-cum-friend-cum-blog-guide wrote to me he had read my blog and (believe it or not) quite enjoyed it. With this to boost my ego, I dashed to the computer early morning (if 7:30 in the morning can be called 'early'). I wanted to write my next blog before the mood (and the electricity) went off. And started the computer.
"Are you planning to sit on the computer?" asked my Better Half. (Now why anyone would call his wife the Better Half is open to discussion).
I didn't answer her (like she complains many times I do) and logged onto the site.
"The power might go off," she warned me with all good intentions.
I giggled first and then laughed loudly. "Today is election day, and they dare not switch off the power," I said triumphantly.
I had spoken too soon. The next moment, there were some funny noises and the power was off. I suspected my Better Half (at this point, I wouldn't mind giving her that title, since she obviously knew better about the 'power'ful people.) was giggling. Cursing no one in particular, I got up and went back to whatever I was doing then.
Then I heard my wife giggling again and saying, "The lights have come back. You can start the computer." I returned to the computer and switched it on (thinking the earlier power-off was a mistake on the part of MSEDC, now please don't ask me the full form of this, I may go out of breath by the time I finish). This time, I proceeded a little further. And then the lights went off again and I was faced with the prospect of staring at a dark computer screen. Not that this was happening for the first time to us. I visualized the scenario at the Control Room of the Electricity Board.
Two-three people walk drowsily into the Control Room. Their names could be Pandu, Mandu, Landu or even Gxxxx.
PANDU: Arre bhai, has someone switched off the power for Evershine City, or not?
MANDU: Enh, what time is it? I thought it is going off after one hour today.
PANDU: You know nothing, Mandu. Switch it off NOW.
(THE SWITCH IS TURNED OFF AND IT IS DARK IN THE EVERSHINE CITY. THE STAFF STARTS DOZING OFF. THEN LANDU ENTERS LAZILY.)
LANDU: Now, which fool switched the lights off in Evershine?
MANDU: Pandu ordered me, so I did.
LANDU: You know nothing, Mandu. Switch it on NOW.
(THE SWITCH IS TURNED ON AND EVERSHINE CITY IS BRIGHT AGAIN. AND THEN GXXXX ENTERS IN STYLE.)
GXXXX: Now, which fool switched on the lights? It's time for the lights to go off. Mandu, switch it off NOW.
MANDU: But sir, today is Election Day. (GXXXX LOOKS AT HIM POWERFULLY.) Yes, sir. I will do it NOW.
(AND IT IS DARK ONCE AGAIN IN THE EVERSHINE CITY. THIS GAME OF ON/OFF CONTINUES FOR SOME TIME WHILE THE PEOPLE SUFFER, NOT KNOWING WHETHER THE LIGHTS ARE COMING OR GOING.)
Friends, you know what I mean. It's just a game of 'power'... elections or no elections. The people in power (pun intended!) just want us poor junta to have a taste of dark.
In this dark scenario, I suddenly remembered the hazaar candles lit in the public procession that was taken out at the Gateway of India, following the 26/11. I had ventured out there, to keep a date with an Orkut friend. I had found it very difficult to keep pace with the (mostly) youngsters who had gathered to protest against the lackadaisical (hope the spelling is right!, but here is my chance to use this word) attitude of the people in power. Many souvenirs, pamphlets and folders were shoved into my hands then. All the different groups that had gathered there in protest should have combined in one effort, I had thought to myself , rather foolishly then, to make some impact. There were as many groups, distributing as many pamphlets and shouting as many different slogans. But at least, the youngistan people are coming together to protest and this was sure to make a difference at the coming elections, I thought then.
I switched on the TV (there was power by now!) to see the latest scenario at the polling booths. I kept surfing channels to catch some channel to highlight how the young voters had turned out in large numbers to vote, to make a difference. Sadly, the TV announcers on all the news channels had no different story to tell. The voter turn-out in most places was poor. And in South Mumbai (where the protest candle march had taken place in the dark evening hours post-26/11) it was a mere 11%. This was at about 1 pm (when we at the Evershine city still had power and I can only hope things get better as the day progressed).
And yes, I did go out to vote, and must confess there were not many youngsters in the line to vote. One little boy who had accompanied his grandfather asked me my age. You guess, I said. "83," he volunteered. Is this something to do with my cancer, or with my state of mind, I wondered. But then that's another story. For the time being, I was left with this never-changing "Taste of Dark".... perhaps an indication of the state of things to come in the post-election period.
Bye till we meet again, young friends.

Can I Really Do This?

2009-04-29T09:27:00.000-07:00

Wow! Finally I am on my way to creating my own blog. I have been thinking about this for so long, just thinking, mind you, and not putting my heart into it. And my computer skills is something I am not at all confident about. But then, from encouragement from all my student-friends, here I am making a feeble beginning to blog. Can I really do this? How do I go about this? How do I begin at all? And then I remembered a song all of you must have heard so many times: Let's start at the beginning, a very good place to start". And what better beginning than something about myself?
Most of my student friends know me as Suneel Hattangadi. I must confess that's not my real name. And I have got into quite a few tight spots because of this name? You will wonder why I took this name in the first place. It happened when I was in school. I must have been about 14 or so. I have always been fond of writing. And I had written this short play about blood donation titled "A Gift Of Life" for the All India Radio. When I showed it to my Marathi teacher, Mrs. Leelavati Bhagwat, she said the play was good but the name of the author wasn't. My original name 'Laxminarayan Hattangadi', she said was too old-fashioned. She said, take the name Suneel. Why Suneel, I asked her. She said one new actor named Sunil Dutt was beginning to make waves then and that I resembled him from some angles. Believe me, that was what she said. And naive that I was I believed her. You know how boys at that age are, idolising their (lady) teachers. And I submitted the play to the All India Radio. And that was accepted... can you believe that? At 14, I was a writer and had written for the All India Radio. The play was a hit. The play was even broadcast on the occasion of the death of Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan. And it was some of my family friends who told me about this. That was the beginning of my journey on the path of writing. As I go along, I wish to... I plan to include some of the writings I have done through the years. Hey, is someone still reading this (crap) I am writing? I think I will stop here, after all enough is enough, naa? Maybe at a later date, I can continue with the story of my life. If any of you can really survive this, please do tell me. Bye till we meet again through this blog.