“Are you a new student?,” housekeeping asked me as soon as I reached admin block of the hostel I was assigned.
I was carrying 2 trolley bags in both my hands, one laptop bag around one shoulder, one carry bag on the other shoulder, and one last bag was proving murderous as had its string throttling my neck taking my eye marbles out, and this person was asking me was I a student! This is what happens when people go by your faces. I mean what else was I supposed to be-a coolie, a salesman, an Al Qaida terrorist or what!
“Yes, I am a new student,” I answered monotonously.
“Are you here to take a room?” came the next one.
“What the HELL,” I wanted say, but the bag throttling my throat didn’t let voice utter out. What else would one do on this odd Saturday early morning coming directly with luggage to the admin block in hostel, that too when a new session is starting!
“Yes,” was my yet another monotonous response.
“Show me printout of mail of your room allocation,” asked the Human resource head (housekeeping guy) of this hostel in an investigation mode. James Bond 007 was on job.
He wasn’t looking secret agent James Bond 007 from all angles I saw him. James Bond doesn’t have any beard or even a mouse moustache, and this guy had this entire forest grown on his face. Then James Bond doesn’t suffer from myopia or hyperopia, but this guy was sure to miss even the hottest chick in the campus without his high-powered lenses.
“Excuse me Sir! Can I see your room allocation mail proof,” confused secret agent 007 interrupted me in my thought process.
“Oh, I am so sorry! I don’t have the printout,” I replied as no such mail had ever come that we had to bring the printout of our room allocation mail with us.
“What!!! You don’t have the printout,” he shouted surprisingly as if I had just stitched the patient’s abdomen and forgotten the scissors in.
“No,” was my yet another monotonous one. Mercury was rising both in the head inside and the weather outside.
Few moments of pause, and this Barack Obama, the busiest person of the world, kept staring in some remote corner contemplating, God knows what!
“Ok, I allow you into the room, but on one condition: I have generated a google spreadsheet for people who haven’t submitted the mail printout, will send you the link to fill it up, and on your filling up the sheet, would confirm about you guys from the school admin,” he said widening his chest and laying his back on the chair, as he was doing some great favor to me providing asylum to this nomadic refugee.
“Class 2011, Tonight is the Welcome party. Just for Youuuu,” graduating batch representative almost shrieked his lungs out in the campus corridor, one hand going high in the air, other hand on the microphone, putting extra emphasis on Youuuu as if he was throwing us a party himself, being so happy seeing us all on campus.
Birds-pigeons and sparrows- going back homes after their hectic dayouts, scaringly scattered in the sky, wondering at the happiness of this school alum.
“But one thing guys!!” the alum tried creating curiosity, his mouth half-open, eyes sparkling, few moustache hair in the mouth.
“We need to estimate how much liquor to order, so I have sent you all a google spreadsheet. Please fill up the link so that we could know who all are attending the party,” came the sermon to fill yet another google spreadhsheet, while we came back to hostels waiting for evening welcome party or for free beer (to be more precise)
“Class 2011, welcome to the party, DJ vendor promulgated at the party lounge.
“Hey!! Hurray!! Hooo!!” all kinds of voices which would make even owls and bats envious echoed in the air!
Some incomprehensible English songs were being played, and everyone was trying dance hard on this English music to sound neo.
Every time there was some Hindi or Punjabi song on-play, these neophyte girls were going off the floor, waiting way back for this incomprehensible English music to commence. Alum 2010 representative was busy guzzling free beer sitting in some random corner in the lounge, while his pigeons and Sparrows were already home sleeping, notwithstanding extreme happiness of this alum.
“I can’t live without Pink Floyd! Oh my God, they are so rocking!!,” one girl just yelled sprinkling her hands as if she personally knew many of them, so can’t live without their company anymore. Anyways!
“Enrique is way better than Floyd,” another girl, 3/4th bottle of perfume, ½ lipstick, 2/3rd bottle of mascara, 2/3rd of eyeliner, sunglasses on her head (for God knows what at 11 at night), and full bottle of face powder on herself, countered. Even the owls and pigeons sleeping at their houses were sneezing smelling these acute fragrances.
Now, this is the beauty with girls. Notwithstanding they are in a fine-arts school or a business school, when girls talk to each other, they never reach this word called “consensus”. “My viewpoint is better than yours” is their approach, that’s it!
And for guys, then they have to decide whose viewpoint they agree with based on which girl they want to hang out with! And that’s why these ¾th bottle of perfume, ½ lipstick, 2/3rd bottle mascara, 2/3rd of eyeliner, and full bottle of face powder.
“But Enrique is light rock. He is no good. Floyd is hardrock,” said the first one again. How could she agree to what the other girl said..Remember the “consensus” word?
Pissed off, second girl went off the scene, and finding the Floyd girl standing alone, I sneakingly joined her.
“Hi,” I said and before she could understand a bit, I was shaking her hand. Now this is another beauty of an elite b-school. You can sureshot take the hand of any girl in your hand and rest assured you are not gonna get a permanent stamp on your cheek. You know the so-called speed-networking!
“Nice Party, but I miss Floyd here,” here’s how I started conversation and could see the missing sparkle returning in her eyes.
Man, sometimes sneaking into conversations of girls helps! And here I was, the fan of Pink Floyd who didn’t even know whether Pink Floyd is a Mexican dish or some Pizza brand.
“I can’t live without Pink Floyd! Oh my God, they are so rocking!!,” she yelled same dialogue again sprinkling her hands in air in same posture. I had hit damn at the target!
“Even I can’t live without Floyd! The day I don’t listen to them, I feel something missing…as if something is incomplete….are you understanding? I asked her, while I was wondering I could damn understand myself what did I mean!
“Yeah, I mean yes…..I can completely empathize with what you mean….I can’t even sleep without Floyd,” she replied. She was getting into subtleties of Floyd, which implied high-time I change the topic lest she should figure out the real me asking me which damn album of Floyd I like the most!
“What’s your name,” I attempted to change the topic.
“Tuple,” she said extending her right hand again.
What the HELL…Now this is my grudge with parents. What the hell they name their children just to sound unique. Now how was it supposed to be pronounced-Toopl or Toopli or Toople or Tapli or Taple or Tapl…
Apparently, I knew I won’t be able to pronounce it, so I refrained from asking how to pronounce and gratified myself with just taking her hand in my hand.
“From States?,” asked she. Who cares to ask my name!
“No, I mean no….I am…..I am from……I am from Kumaon,” damn why the hell do I come from Kumaon!
She felt nauseas! Hell she shouldn’t puke!
Right hand taken back from my right hand
“I was in Canada. I stayed there for around 2 years,” I tried do some damage-control!
Right hand back in my right hand
“So, you are a Canadian citizen,” she excitingly asked
“No,” was my monotonous reply. Jesus, this was my 2nd interview since morning when I had met the secret agent 007, and all I was doing were these monotonous responses.
I saw damn in the dark, the alum representative was busy guzzling his stock of beer. I glanced around. The other girl was busy telling someone else that Enrique is better, at a corner I could see some new admits fighting with the DJ vendor to play some comprehensible music, and somewhere alums were telling new admits they couldn’t take free beer as they hadn’t filled the google spreadsheet!
Right hand taken back from my right hand
“I am a trained classical kathak dancer,” I bragged.
Bad attempt!
“mmmm…..I play harmonium and table very well,” was yet another one.
Another bad one. She looked disgusted!
“Hey man! I gotta go,” she pretended yawn. “I am so tired, I need take some sleep…Nice meeting you…see you around, she touched my right arm one last time and left. I kept watching her putting my left hand on my right arm where she had touched me, before I came back myself to read this Pink floy in Wikipedia myself!
“Guys! Congratulations on successful completion of your 0-week orientation,” same alum representative promulgated from the dais. And as this was not open-air amphitheatre, sparrows and pigeons were fine wherever they were.
“Wish you good luck and prepare yourself well for the pre-terms and club formations,” wished the alum. I wanted wish him luck too for his job search!
Dear Friends,
As I have known after my interactions with many of you, we have so many colleagues amongst us interested to know more about crocodiles. To pursue our interest in crocodiles, I am hereby attaching a google spreadsheet. Please fill this spreadsheet with your names, species of crocodiles you know about, your face-to-face with crocodiles etc. Please fill this spreadsheet before tomorrow evening so that we could have our first informal session held.
http://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=dGN2MXpXUXh4ZGFrZUdfdfdfrZUE6MQ
Warm regards,
P K Gire.
Class of 2011
I Received this mail on pre-eve of commencement of pre-terms. I opened the google spreadsheet, filled it and left for dinner.
Hey Girls,
We have so many clubs here in the campus, both professional and social. But there’s no club for girls interested to catch butterflies. All our childhood, we have loved butterflies, why don’t we like-minded girls come together and share our experiences/knowledge/skillset of butterflies. I have come up with this google spreadsheet, please fill this spreadsheet before this Saturday evening, so that we can have our first informal meeting of yet-to-be-formed Butterfly club in the campus.
http://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=dGN2MXpXUXh4ZGFrZUdfdfdfrZUE6MQ
Cheers,
Pinky
Brothers,
There’s so much happening around in the campus. People are already attending informal sessions for professional clubs, social clubs and sports clubs. People have also taken initiatives to start Crocodile clubs and Butterfly clubs. But in sports, we don’t have any Kites and Marbles club. We have got clubs for all English games viz. golf, cricket, soccer, snooker, but don’t have any club for home-based games. I have attached a google spreadsheet here. Please fill this google spreadsheet and let’s have our informal session to make Kites and Marbles club a formal social club in the campus
http://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=dGN2MXpXUXh4ZGFrZUdfdfdfrZUE6MQ
Wishes,
Rajwinder Singh
Damn, we had crocodile club, butterfly club, Kites and Marbles club, Bathing club, laundry club, Bhojpuri cinema club, 1411 Tigers club in making. Rivalry between who’s better-Tulsidas or Kalidas had led to the making of 2 more poetry clubs: Tulsidas club and Kalidas club.
Then , by now we had got informal meetings done for Capri v/s shorts club, Jeans v/s pajama club, nails cut v/s nails grown club, ghosts exist v/s ghosts-don’t-exist club, kasab from Pakistan v/s kasab not a Pakistani club, lalit modi in v/s lalit modi out club, cow milk v/s buffalo milk club, mango v/s apple club, tang v/s juice club, facebook v/s orkut club, google v/s bing club, blackberry v/s i-phone club, twitter v/s buzz club, and yes, my favorite, Floyd v/s Enrique club.
Needless to say, there were google spreadsheets for all these clubs which like-minded people had to fill in before end of some day……….and as a trained management student, I filled all of these google spreadsheets.
Floyd!! This reminded me of Tuple, whom I hadn’t seen/met for last 2 weeks now.
“Oh Hi! How’ve you been?” I encountered Tuple in one of the club meetings. I was coming out of ‘Bhojpuri Cinema club’ while she was coming from Butterfly club.
“Where are you coming from?” came a cold question. This is the first time she had met me in all these 2 weeks and all she had to ask was where was I coming from, and that too when I was out of this damn Bhojpuri Cinema club.
Jesus! There were myriad clubs in the campus, and all I could choose to go in was this Bhojpuri Cinema club! And then on top of that, I had to encounter Tuple the day I had to attend the informal meet of this Bhojpuri club.
“I…….I am……I am coming……I am coming from…,” God open the ground or split the sky, but do something before I have to utter “Bhojpuri.
“Hey Tuple! Long time,” a tall, handsome guy hugged Tuple as soon as he entered the scene. I was feeling bad on him hugging her, but don’t know why I was so happy at this intervention of God by sending him at the right time, though at the expense of him hugging my Tuple!
“Heyyyyyy!” see how enthusiastically she greeted him! I was already out of conversation, or I should say, I was already made to stand out of their conversation, and was standing there just as a mute spectator while they were busy conversing with each other.
“Where were you all these days? Have no time for friends!!” Tuple sulked to him. Her sulking reminded me of old south Indian movies where actress used to punch hero’s chest with both her hands frequently to show her sulking.
“Hey, you know I went to the city today for shopping stuff,” this guy told in his broad European accent.
“What did you buy?” Tuple quickly asked.
All these days, all she had asked me was where do I belong to and where am I coming from. She never asked me these not-so-significant questions, and here she was going all the way out to ask these t
“I bought two kinds of Papaya, two kinds of ranch sauce, one big Orange, one big apple, one box of proteins, brown wheat bread,” the guy revealed the mystery of creation of universe, in his broad European accent, making double quotes in air with fingers of both hands as he enumerated all the items he bought.
“Yayyyyyyyy!!!” Tuple shouted making fists of both her hands in air.
“How sweet! Two kinds of Papaya!! Oh my God! Yayyyy!!” Tuple was unrestrained now.
This is where smart guys earn those brownie points. Girls like listen to hunky-funky stuff, so tambola, harmonium, kathak don’t mesmerize them enough unlike box of proteins, two kinds of papaya, ranch sauce, and yes one big orange…damn it!! real-life lessons learnt at the b-school!
And as I couldn’t handle their over-the-board conversation, I left the place…Also I didn’t want Tuple to ask me again where was I coming from!
“Fall in love with Data! Data is your only friends. Girls would ditch you, Guys would dump you, your children would kick you, but data would never chuck you,” was how we got introduced to statistics in the class.
“Flirt with data,” Prof winked and kick-started the course.
“Interpretation of quantitative and qualitative data taking a sample out of the entire population to estimate the populace involving the development of null hypothesis assuming that whatever proposed as a cause has no effect on variable being measures is statistics,” Prof prophesied in the classroom, and my first reaction on listening to this definition was a 35 second Yawn.
I looked all around, few guys and girls were busy writing the sermon in their notebooks, few confused ones were formulating the questions to hurl on the Prof, while the rest were yawning with different time durations.
Hell, I was thinking statistically seeing population as different samples!
“Now tell me, what is Statistics,” looked like Prof pointed at me. God, he was asking me only!
All I could do was to drop my head down so that he could go to the next one.
“How many daughters you have,” I wish I could ask.
“I have a question Prof,” came one hand out from the crowd.
“Yes please,” don’t know why these crazy profs get so happy on when someone expressed desire to ask question in their subjects….I mean these profs have read/learnt/eaten/mugged only one subject in their entire lives, then what’s so buzz about knowing the hell of the subject!
“Taking the null hypothesis assuming that cause has no effect on variable, isn’t it a wrong fallacy?? Infact, if we take null hypothesis on x-axis and sample data of populace on y-axis, don’t we get cause is infact changing the variable??” she asked from within her power-8 spectacles.
Another 35 seconds yawn!
Man, this was insane now!
First those incomprehensible English songs in the welcome party, and now these incomprehensible questions in the very first Stats class.
“Brilliant question!” hailed the Prof.
“Cause won’t still change the variable…because sample data of populace can’t be drawn on y-axis, because null hypothesis and x-axis don’t have a functional relation,” one guy from amidst the class tried answer that girl.
I had surrendered by now
Few colleagues were still busy taking notes in their notebooks, few colleagues were preparing their questions (weapons) to hurl on the prof, rest were all yawning at different time durations. I wished I could be one of those sparrows or pigeons whom the alum representative had scared on our welcome day, so that I could go out of this damn class to whirl free in the air with those birds.
“Excellent answer,” hailed the prof.
Now this gets helluva easy for the profs if there are two nerds in the class…One raises the question and other always has the answer ready, and all the Prof has to do is say “brilliant question” and “excellent answer”.
“That’s it for the day, come afresh tomorrow having solved all the problems given, and yes, most important, don’t forget to fill the google spreadsheet I have sent you all on forming an informal Stats club,” winked the prof and nerds nodded positively.
And I came back to the hostel dreading the days ahead in this business school…..and envied those sparrows and pigeons.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Is this how a pre-school meet takes place?
This evening is our pre-school meet. If I kind of refrain from going into so many banal reasons for doing these meets such as team building (guys, you all aware could you achieve anything playing water ball in pools with your teammates in half pants), team spirit (which goes for a toss when it’s a tie for weekend support for the customer), informal communications to understand other person’s viewpoint (where after all we all are outgoing calls only with all incomings barred) etc etc etc…., then in nut-shell, you can say such kind of pre-meets are basically the platform for many to prove their mettle to rest of the batch……you know, to kinda prove to rest as to why they should be considered saviors of the world on doomsday, kind of Barack Obamas you know…..to feed us….the refugees in the asylums at Bangladeshi borders…
So here’s how pre-school meet of top-notch school commences: be it school for MS, school for MBA…..top-notch school for LLB et al….
Some guy proposes a venue for meet, ofcourse the one nearest to his place…remember, he is an admit of the top-notch school, hence a smart guy. And as girls are okay with any venue, coz they don’t have to take any bus or auto…don’t forget they are girls…hence there would surely be guys living only a few metres away from those girls (though in reality they would be few miles). Hence the venue finalizes….coz no one would object to the venue…guys won’t as they get these girls to bring to the venue on their barren bikes (barren coz these bikes haven’t had the honor to have a girl sat on them…don’t forget these are the bikes of admits of top-notch schools…ok, to be blunt, bikes of geeks and nerds….hence no girl has sat on these bikes)…..girls won’t object to the venue coz, as said earlier, they have kinda call-centre kinda pick and drops by these guys (read owners of these barren bikes)
4pm is the meet. And though it’s Saturday…a weekend…where you aren’t supposed to take bath, you have taken bath and that extra pain of shaving your beard…….now you find your best clothes……you forget for a while queen Elizabeth hasn’t chosen you for knighthood..but never mind……you apply that body odor (whose advt on television has that ticket checker (read a lady) getting drowsy on the guy applying it)……you take out your power zero specs…..which you keep reserved for such occasions…..now you are ready to start for the venue……remember you are Barack Obamas of this world……..and so you are going to the meet to make this point loud and blatant.
Venue isn’t extra decorated for your arrival. Jesus, how come these Barista people didn’t know some saviors of the world are here……to save us from doomsday….neither is queen Elizabeth there to bestow upon you knighthood…..but never mind….you would wait for rest of the team to come……so slowly the venue has started getting dense…..music in the background has automatically switched from jazz to some soap opera….no one entering the venue knows anyone else….the refugees of asylums of Bangladeshi borders would keep a low profile and stand in various corners of the venue…..they won’t talk to others…..remember they are refugees and thus mal-nutritioned……they see at each-other and then put their eyes down off-the-sight…..you know the Sita Mayyias of Ramanand Sagar’s ramayan………..talking to a stranger is barred for them by our Vedas you know……so they are still standing in various corners of the Barista day……now is the time for entry of these knights…….beaming faces with those extra-facials, hair right in the place they should be……zero powered specs on they eyes, the saviors enter the scene……..now these barack obamas go to all the corners….collecting the refugees and gather them all in the centre of the venue.
Next is the action-power round….now you are barack Obama…you have gathered them all….so obviously you start…you shake hand with them…..every time you shake hand with someone, you make sure you pronounce your name slow and loud…..and wait a few seconds for the reaction….you are kinda sure you are known everywhere……you are just waiting for the exclamation where the other person would just scream and say ‘oh, youuuuuuuuuu’……but it doesn’t happen….you kinda get surprised..lil shocked also…but never mind….you shake hand wit the next refugee….you make sure you say your name even louder and clearer…you also make extra sure you say your nickname also….the nickname you use for your email communications with them in those google groups and facebooks…….same response…..refugee doesn’t scream and no ‘oh, youuuuuuuuuuu’……you are kinda getting pissed off……..you are barack Obama, and these are the refugees of the asylums of Bangladeshi borders….how the hell they don’t recognize you..the knights of United Kingdoms…the saviors of the world……..you are kind of dejected….so you are introducing yourself to the last refugee…..you tell your name with equal vigor and energy…same tone, same volume and same clarity…..and response comes ‘oh, youuuuuuuuuu’……chest widening….face beaming back reflecting those facials…which were otherwise going futile…….You hug that refugee…….you remember his name……you stand next to him…..now you make sure you affirm what all he says…..you make sure he gets the best sofa to sit…..next to you…….after all, he is your die-hard fan……….and finally you settle down on chairs and sofas on the venue…..the guy who proposed the venue has yet to turn up.
Barren bike is yet on the way…….biker is as happy as the bike is….and girl is as happy as both biker and bike are…after all she has pick and drop man…kinda win-win you know……..today traffic is also relatively more……bike is extremely happy…..and biker is kinda showing concern cursing traffic that they are getting late……and kinda getting happy internally thanking traffic…..for these jams…remember, he’s a nerd…a geek…who doesn’t get to have girls sit on his bikes any often……finally, cursing, thanking…..they reach the venue.
Obamas are busy telling these refugees on what all they have already done to change the world……how they are better in music than rahman, in cricket than Sachin, and in economics than Amartaya sen…refugees are obliged meeting these saviors…super geniuses….and in between they are gazing at the café day counter…..remember they are mal-nutritioned and need grab those few bytes and sips…..
Owner of barren bikes and the girls have entered the venue….Guys are busy parking their vehicles outside, whereas girls have kinda disowned these guys…and already entered the venue…..so first Obama stands up to take the lead…..he extends his hand and do the same name pronouncing ceremony….louder and blatant….no ‘oh youuuuuuu’……he sits down…next Obama…..next Obama…..refugee 1…….refugee 2……intro done…..girl settles down…..owner of barren bike enters the scene…….gets to find place far away from that girl…….settles down…..looks at the girl….girl is busy talking to these knights and refugees….no eye-contact with driver of her pick-and-drop cab...barren bike is standing helpless again in scorching heat outside the venue
So everyone is at the venue now…..all girls, guys have reached…..the guy who proposed the venue has already reached the venue…..The Barack Obama whom one refugee had recognized as ‘oh youuuu’ is still taking that extra care of this mal-nutritioned refugee.
Remember…you are the barack Obama…so you are supposed to bang the NASDAQ bell to start the pre school meet….so you take the lead….you randomly choose a guy asking him to start with his introduction…..excitingly, that guy is also no less than savior of the world…so here’s how it goes:
Hello Friends, so I guess most of you already know me…most of them just wonder looking at each other…notwithstanding, he continues…..so friends, I am the Deputy General Manager of Bedi & Bedi….I guess most of you already know it…another round of wonder…everyone looking at each other….notwithstanding, he continues…..though I am deputy GM, I take care of responsibilities of general manager also…Why? no mention…. what the hell this GM is doing …..has his wife run away with his driver…..or has he run with his wife’s maid……that this Obama is taking care of GM’s responsibilities………he continues…….I brought 6 new clients to my company…..I delivered 4 challenging client assignments on time….I saved $6 mn of my company optimizing costs…I started Eco club in my company…..I recruited 40 new employees for my organization…I set up the vertical for corporate finance in my company….I captain Rugby team of my company…….I represent my company at Pragati Maidan, Delhi……I setup an NGO for women empowerment with financial support from my company…..I setup BPO operations for my international clients in my company…..Refugees in full awe, jaws open…..but don’t forget…..there are other obamas too…..so one Obama speaks up-how could you manage to do all this man?..... I drive my passion from this work man…..I am a multi-dimensional person….I love to deliver best and in-time…I just love my work so much….Then why you want to do an MS man?? One asked…….Man, actually I am bored of work..tht’s why…Yeah right!
So the Obama who had banged the NASDAQ bell is back in action….when the Deputy General Manager was speaking, he was busy in back of his mind comparing himself with that DGM…..and proving on every point to himself how he’s better than this DGM…..and as DGM is finished with his intro, and as this main Obama has told himself making a point-to-point comparison with DGM that he himself is the best, he is assuaged, hence back to his best again……ready to randomly pick someone else for intro……Girl is still busy talking to knights and obamas in her vicinity…her driver, sitting remotely, is solacing himself watching Television on the wall screen some 10 feet away….watching advt of Pulsar bike on MTV, his barren Pulsar bike still stood intact under scorching heat in the parking lot.
4-5 introductions have already happened……It’s a big team of around 20…….hence sitting on remote ends can’t hear each other…..so they are kinda making small groups in their vicinity and talking their own local stuff……..like in an island….far away from what’s happening in the capital of the country…which is far on right end…where main Obama and DGM are sitting…..so discussion happening on this remote end island is like this:
So, watched My name is khan? yes, says the other person from this island….junk movie, proclaims the first one…..it was okay, third person jumps in the discussion…this is the same guy who was watching pulsar advt on television, after being dumped by his co-passenger on the bike……what’s going on….I can’t hear anything, complains the second person……why you want to hit your head…..take it easy man….advises the first person……this is not the way meets take place, third one hits back….after all he is pissed off his co-passenger is not even looking at him…..being sitted on the other island………
2-3 introductions of okay-okay looking girls also happened….but people sitting in their islands din’t bother enough…..and now this main girl….the prettiest of the all had his turn……main Obama pointed his directive finger at her to start……islands signed the treaty and joined the government of main country……..no more My name is Khans….no more local dialects…..all focused on this girl……and this girl starts:
Well, I don’t know…I mean…I think……..you know…….and all guys, esp obamas, nodding their heads up and down understanding what all this girl is saying…..refugees are busy figuring out what the hell this means what this girl is uttering out…then they see these obamas nodding their heads………they surprised why they can’t understand anything out of it……then they remember they are mal-nutritioned…….so sit back normal to pay attention to this wisest-than-thou oracle……..and heres the girl continues:
Hahaa….and she starts giggling…Obamas follow path…..refugees confused…Pulsar advt is back on the television…….but this driver doesn’t see there…he wants to listen to what this prettiest than all has to say…..infact, everyone wants to listen to what she has to say….it’s pin-drop silence….nagasaki and Hiroshima have been demolished…and there’s complete muteness now..and the girl continues:
I have always wanted to….you know…..shrugging her shoulders…..now hand on her fringe sliding down the hair…fringe put back behind the ear…t-shirt pulled down to stretch it even more…….then sip of her lemon tea…..then another sip……then giggle……saying why you all looking at me…it makes me nervous…..then final giggle……and intro over…main Obama, other obamas and DGMs appreciating her intro…….refugees cursing their governments for mal-nutrition and lack of proteins for their brain development….that couldn’t understand an iota…..
New guest comes in…everyone hasn’t joined yet….it’s already 5, an hour late than set….he comes, joins, sits and keeps sitted……main Obama hasn’t bothered to ask his name or introduce him……as soon as he settles, a girl also joins in…..it’s 5:05pm…..main obama is back in action…tables, chairs and sofas are being adjusted and aligned….to make space for her to sit comfortably………….she waves ‘hi’ hand to main Obama, one girl, second girl, third girl…….then sits and settles down……..refugees solacing themselves…….DGM thinking in mind I am the DGM in my company…handling GM responsibilities…I…….I……….I……….I
Now other obamas feel they should also get into action…..they get hyper-active for some time……..talk to people near them…..hurl poor jokes even when not needed……..try speak extra loud so that they are properly heard in the entire herd……..repeatedly ask names of people sitting in remote islands….remember country is divided into islands as soon as wisest-than-all prettiest girl has finished her enlightening speech……..then after 4-5 minutes of hyper-activism, all these obamas go into dormant state turn-by-turn.
Now 2 refugees get up and decide to go to their asylums….they have some work to do…some appointment might be…..world bank is sending some flour or pulses……or they have some other work….but they leave…….1 or 2 girls also stand up to go……..looking at their drivers…..drivers are back to their vintage facial faces…….barren pulsars are beaming too.
Now, only 7-8 people are left…It’s 6 pm, and most people have left….
I am the state chess player, main Obama says
I don’t like chess..it’s too indoor….I am the company captain of Football team, other Obama states
I started chess club and football club in my company, DGM pronounced..It’s not yet clear whether GMs wife ran away with driver or GM ran away with wife’s maid
I am the state bhangra team captain, main Obama says
I don’t like bhangra…it’s too folk…I am the Salsa guy, other Obama states
I started Bhangra club and Salsa group in my company, DGM pronounced….he loves his job but wants leave for MS because his job is boring...yeah right!
So, two obamas are off the scene………main Obama stays back..2 refugees and one driver-co passenger couple are still there…..Barack Obama is there on newspaper in Barista day…that page proclaims Obama popularity 52% down from during his 2008 elections….
Main Obama, probably after reading this news, goes off-the scene…….one refugee takes immigration with this Obama in his car……the driver, co passenger and barren bike go off the scene….
Last refugee is walking down alone…thinking what was this all…..why we came there….what all we did….what point did we want make…..was this meet to know each others’ achievements, profiles or designations? Had we gathered to showcase or expose some kinda strengths like in Mahabharata era, where warriors used to gather (kind of Olympics of those times) to showcase their competencies?
Last refugee is thinking hadn’t we gathered to become friends? To know each other more as humans….to establish that eternal bondage and to take a first step towards that…….Refugee is confused…Refugee is probably confused because refugee is a refugee and hence mal-nutritioned!
So here’s how pre-school meet of top-notch school commences: be it school for MS, school for MBA…..top-notch school for LLB et al….
Some guy proposes a venue for meet, ofcourse the one nearest to his place…remember, he is an admit of the top-notch school, hence a smart guy. And as girls are okay with any venue, coz they don’t have to take any bus or auto…don’t forget they are girls…hence there would surely be guys living only a few metres away from those girls (though in reality they would be few miles). Hence the venue finalizes….coz no one would object to the venue…guys won’t as they get these girls to bring to the venue on their barren bikes (barren coz these bikes haven’t had the honor to have a girl sat on them…don’t forget these are the bikes of admits of top-notch schools…ok, to be blunt, bikes of geeks and nerds….hence no girl has sat on these bikes)…..girls won’t object to the venue coz, as said earlier, they have kinda call-centre kinda pick and drops by these guys (read owners of these barren bikes)
4pm is the meet. And though it’s Saturday…a weekend…where you aren’t supposed to take bath, you have taken bath and that extra pain of shaving your beard…….now you find your best clothes……you forget for a while queen Elizabeth hasn’t chosen you for knighthood..but never mind……you apply that body odor (whose advt on television has that ticket checker (read a lady) getting drowsy on the guy applying it)……you take out your power zero specs…..which you keep reserved for such occasions…..now you are ready to start for the venue……remember you are Barack Obamas of this world……..and so you are going to the meet to make this point loud and blatant.
Venue isn’t extra decorated for your arrival. Jesus, how come these Barista people didn’t know some saviors of the world are here……to save us from doomsday….neither is queen Elizabeth there to bestow upon you knighthood…..but never mind….you would wait for rest of the team to come……so slowly the venue has started getting dense…..music in the background has automatically switched from jazz to some soap opera….no one entering the venue knows anyone else….the refugees of asylums of Bangladeshi borders would keep a low profile and stand in various corners of the venue…..they won’t talk to others…..remember they are refugees and thus mal-nutritioned……they see at each-other and then put their eyes down off-the-sight…..you know the Sita Mayyias of Ramanand Sagar’s ramayan………..talking to a stranger is barred for them by our Vedas you know……so they are still standing in various corners of the Barista day……now is the time for entry of these knights…….beaming faces with those extra-facials, hair right in the place they should be……zero powered specs on they eyes, the saviors enter the scene……..now these barack obamas go to all the corners….collecting the refugees and gather them all in the centre of the venue.
Next is the action-power round….now you are barack Obama…you have gathered them all….so obviously you start…you shake hand with them…..every time you shake hand with someone, you make sure you pronounce your name slow and loud…..and wait a few seconds for the reaction….you are kinda sure you are known everywhere……you are just waiting for the exclamation where the other person would just scream and say ‘oh, youuuuuuuuuu’……but it doesn’t happen….you kinda get surprised..lil shocked also…but never mind….you shake hand wit the next refugee….you make sure you say your name even louder and clearer…you also make extra sure you say your nickname also….the nickname you use for your email communications with them in those google groups and facebooks…….same response…..refugee doesn’t scream and no ‘oh, youuuuuuuuuuu’……you are kinda getting pissed off……..you are barack Obama, and these are the refugees of the asylums of Bangladeshi borders….how the hell they don’t recognize you..the knights of United Kingdoms…the saviors of the world……..you are kind of dejected….so you are introducing yourself to the last refugee…..you tell your name with equal vigor and energy…same tone, same volume and same clarity…..and response comes ‘oh, youuuuuuuuuu’……chest widening….face beaming back reflecting those facials…which were otherwise going futile…….You hug that refugee…….you remember his name……you stand next to him…..now you make sure you affirm what all he says…..you make sure he gets the best sofa to sit…..next to you…….after all, he is your die-hard fan……….and finally you settle down on chairs and sofas on the venue…..the guy who proposed the venue has yet to turn up.
Barren bike is yet on the way…….biker is as happy as the bike is….and girl is as happy as both biker and bike are…after all she has pick and drop man…kinda win-win you know……..today traffic is also relatively more……bike is extremely happy…..and biker is kinda showing concern cursing traffic that they are getting late……and kinda getting happy internally thanking traffic…..for these jams…remember, he’s a nerd…a geek…who doesn’t get to have girls sit on his bikes any often……finally, cursing, thanking…..they reach the venue.
Obamas are busy telling these refugees on what all they have already done to change the world……how they are better in music than rahman, in cricket than Sachin, and in economics than Amartaya sen…refugees are obliged meeting these saviors…super geniuses….and in between they are gazing at the café day counter…..remember they are mal-nutritioned and need grab those few bytes and sips…..
Owner of barren bikes and the girls have entered the venue….Guys are busy parking their vehicles outside, whereas girls have kinda disowned these guys…and already entered the venue…..so first Obama stands up to take the lead…..he extends his hand and do the same name pronouncing ceremony….louder and blatant….no ‘oh youuuuuuu’……he sits down…next Obama…..next Obama…..refugee 1…….refugee 2……intro done…..girl settles down…..owner of barren bike enters the scene…….gets to find place far away from that girl…….settles down…..looks at the girl….girl is busy talking to these knights and refugees….no eye-contact with driver of her pick-and-drop cab...barren bike is standing helpless again in scorching heat outside the venue
So everyone is at the venue now…..all girls, guys have reached…..the guy who proposed the venue has already reached the venue…..The Barack Obama whom one refugee had recognized as ‘oh youuuu’ is still taking that extra care of this mal-nutritioned refugee.
Remember…you are the barack Obama…so you are supposed to bang the NASDAQ bell to start the pre school meet….so you take the lead….you randomly choose a guy asking him to start with his introduction…..excitingly, that guy is also no less than savior of the world…so here’s how it goes:
Hello Friends, so I guess most of you already know me…most of them just wonder looking at each other…notwithstanding, he continues…..so friends, I am the Deputy General Manager of Bedi & Bedi….I guess most of you already know it…another round of wonder…everyone looking at each other….notwithstanding, he continues…..though I am deputy GM, I take care of responsibilities of general manager also…Why? no mention…. what the hell this GM is doing …..has his wife run away with his driver…..or has he run with his wife’s maid……that this Obama is taking care of GM’s responsibilities………he continues…….I brought 6 new clients to my company…..I delivered 4 challenging client assignments on time….I saved $6 mn of my company optimizing costs…I started Eco club in my company…..I recruited 40 new employees for my organization…I set up the vertical for corporate finance in my company….I captain Rugby team of my company…….I represent my company at Pragati Maidan, Delhi……I setup an NGO for women empowerment with financial support from my company…..I setup BPO operations for my international clients in my company…..Refugees in full awe, jaws open…..but don’t forget…..there are other obamas too…..so one Obama speaks up-how could you manage to do all this man?..... I drive my passion from this work man…..I am a multi-dimensional person….I love to deliver best and in-time…I just love my work so much….Then why you want to do an MS man?? One asked…….Man, actually I am bored of work..tht’s why…Yeah right!
So the Obama who had banged the NASDAQ bell is back in action….when the Deputy General Manager was speaking, he was busy in back of his mind comparing himself with that DGM…..and proving on every point to himself how he’s better than this DGM…..and as DGM is finished with his intro, and as this main Obama has told himself making a point-to-point comparison with DGM that he himself is the best, he is assuaged, hence back to his best again……ready to randomly pick someone else for intro……Girl is still busy talking to knights and obamas in her vicinity…her driver, sitting remotely, is solacing himself watching Television on the wall screen some 10 feet away….watching advt of Pulsar bike on MTV, his barren Pulsar bike still stood intact under scorching heat in the parking lot.
4-5 introductions have already happened……It’s a big team of around 20…….hence sitting on remote ends can’t hear each other…..so they are kinda making small groups in their vicinity and talking their own local stuff……..like in an island….far away from what’s happening in the capital of the country…which is far on right end…where main Obama and DGM are sitting…..so discussion happening on this remote end island is like this:
So, watched My name is khan? yes, says the other person from this island….junk movie, proclaims the first one…..it was okay, third person jumps in the discussion…this is the same guy who was watching pulsar advt on television, after being dumped by his co-passenger on the bike……what’s going on….I can’t hear anything, complains the second person……why you want to hit your head…..take it easy man….advises the first person……this is not the way meets take place, third one hits back….after all he is pissed off his co-passenger is not even looking at him…..being sitted on the other island………
2-3 introductions of okay-okay looking girls also happened….but people sitting in their islands din’t bother enough…..and now this main girl….the prettiest of the all had his turn……main Obama pointed his directive finger at her to start……islands signed the treaty and joined the government of main country……..no more My name is Khans….no more local dialects…..all focused on this girl……and this girl starts:
Well, I don’t know…I mean…I think……..you know…….and all guys, esp obamas, nodding their heads up and down understanding what all this girl is saying…..refugees are busy figuring out what the hell this means what this girl is uttering out…then they see these obamas nodding their heads………they surprised why they can’t understand anything out of it……then they remember they are mal-nutritioned…….so sit back normal to pay attention to this wisest-than-thou oracle……..and heres the girl continues:
Hahaa….and she starts giggling…Obamas follow path…..refugees confused…Pulsar advt is back on the television…….but this driver doesn’t see there…he wants to listen to what this prettiest than all has to say…..infact, everyone wants to listen to what she has to say….it’s pin-drop silence….nagasaki and Hiroshima have been demolished…and there’s complete muteness now..and the girl continues:
I have always wanted to….you know…..shrugging her shoulders…..now hand on her fringe sliding down the hair…fringe put back behind the ear…t-shirt pulled down to stretch it even more…….then sip of her lemon tea…..then another sip……then giggle……saying why you all looking at me…it makes me nervous…..then final giggle……and intro over…main Obama, other obamas and DGMs appreciating her intro…….refugees cursing their governments for mal-nutrition and lack of proteins for their brain development….that couldn’t understand an iota…..
New guest comes in…everyone hasn’t joined yet….it’s already 5, an hour late than set….he comes, joins, sits and keeps sitted……main Obama hasn’t bothered to ask his name or introduce him……as soon as he settles, a girl also joins in…..it’s 5:05pm…..main obama is back in action…tables, chairs and sofas are being adjusted and aligned….to make space for her to sit comfortably………….she waves ‘hi’ hand to main Obama, one girl, second girl, third girl…….then sits and settles down……..refugees solacing themselves…….DGM thinking in mind I am the DGM in my company…handling GM responsibilities…I…….I……….I……….I
Now other obamas feel they should also get into action…..they get hyper-active for some time……..talk to people near them…..hurl poor jokes even when not needed……..try speak extra loud so that they are properly heard in the entire herd……..repeatedly ask names of people sitting in remote islands….remember country is divided into islands as soon as wisest-than-all prettiest girl has finished her enlightening speech……..then after 4-5 minutes of hyper-activism, all these obamas go into dormant state turn-by-turn.
Now 2 refugees get up and decide to go to their asylums….they have some work to do…some appointment might be…..world bank is sending some flour or pulses……or they have some other work….but they leave…….1 or 2 girls also stand up to go……..looking at their drivers…..drivers are back to their vintage facial faces…….barren pulsars are beaming too.
Now, only 7-8 people are left…It’s 6 pm, and most people have left….
I am the state chess player, main Obama says
I don’t like chess..it’s too indoor….I am the company captain of Football team, other Obama states
I started chess club and football club in my company, DGM pronounced..It’s not yet clear whether GMs wife ran away with driver or GM ran away with wife’s maid
I am the state bhangra team captain, main Obama says
I don’t like bhangra…it’s too folk…I am the Salsa guy, other Obama states
I started Bhangra club and Salsa group in my company, DGM pronounced….he loves his job but wants leave for MS because his job is boring...yeah right!
So, two obamas are off the scene………main Obama stays back..2 refugees and one driver-co passenger couple are still there…..Barack Obama is there on newspaper in Barista day…that page proclaims Obama popularity 52% down from during his 2008 elections….
Main Obama, probably after reading this news, goes off-the scene…….one refugee takes immigration with this Obama in his car……the driver, co passenger and barren bike go off the scene….
Last refugee is walking down alone…thinking what was this all…..why we came there….what all we did….what point did we want make…..was this meet to know each others’ achievements, profiles or designations? Had we gathered to showcase or expose some kinda strengths like in Mahabharata era, where warriors used to gather (kind of Olympics of those times) to showcase their competencies?
Last refugee is thinking hadn’t we gathered to become friends? To know each other more as humans….to establish that eternal bondage and to take a first step towards that…….Refugee is confused…Refugee is probably confused because refugee is a refugee and hence mal-nutritioned!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Digressed Nestlings!!!
“Get up Ravi,” answering machine announced.
“Why? Let me sleep Rexy. This is Sunday today,” I requested.
Requested because this is all you can do when you are talking to a girl. These girls are so egoistic and egotistic, they understand only please, can, and may words!!!
“No Ravi, we need to go. I have to submit my thesis and in the wake of Mumbai terror, I have got the theme of my thesis. So get up and pick me up at 7,” voice asserted, advised, ordered and then shut up.
Rexy is doing her PhD and her thesis topic is South Asian terrorism. So we have to go to meet one family whose sole son is a martyr and died in combating terrorists, and the other family whose sole son was a terrorist and died in combating Indian armed forces.
“You are late. I asked you to come at 7 and it’s 8:30,” Rexy shouted, apparently angry waiting outside her home for quite long.
“Let’s have some coffee first,” I hit her raw nerve. You see, girls have a unique chemistry between coffee at coffee café day and choleric. The more you take them to café day, the less choleric they get and vice versa.
“So, where are we starting from,” I asked.
“We will go to meet the family of great martyr first,” Rexy said and we reached the home of the martyr.
Scene 1
“Namaste,” Rexy gestured along with her broad Canadian accent.
“We have come to know about Major Khan,” Rexy requested. It gives lot of satisfaction seeing girls requesting!!
“Imran was an outstanding student, a brilliant sportsperson, a great Indian, and the best son of India,” Imran’s mother told, her eyes welled up with tears, but tone exuding pride in being the mother of a martyr.
Her voice had determination, hands becoming fists every time she remembering her son.
The same pride I and Rexy could feel in every person we met in Meerut.
“I am amazed at the way everyone here remembers a martyr,” Rexy said getting emotional along with some dew drops in her eyes.
“Do you miss your son,” Rexy asked his dad.
I felt furious at this question. What kind of question this was after all!!!
“Yes, I wish he were alive. If he were alive, he could kill many more terrorists, and could be a part of operation cyclone to kill terrorists in Mumbai,” Imran’s Dad wished.
This was the first family we met. The pride parents feel when their children do something extra-ordinary, something which we ordinary human beings can’t even imagine, is something which can only be felt. No dictionary has such words which can define that pride.
And if at all there’s any such word, then that word is Salute!!!
Scene 2
“Excuse me, can you tell us about Bashir’s house,” Rexy asked someone at azamgarh’s bus stop.
“No, we don’t know anything about that,” the voice vehemently responded.
Rather than responding with ‘I don’t know’, his response ‘we don’t know’ was something we felt abstruse.
“Excuse me Madam, can you suggest us Bashir’s house,” Rexy asked one burqua-clad woman.
“That terrorist,” voice answered with a question.
Rexy nodded, both stunned and shocked.
After all, why would a muslim woman address Bashir as a terrorist.
After all, Bashir was a muslim who fought for zihaad and died for a purpose. Isn’t it?
“Terrorist??” Rexy wondered
“What else. He attacked our nation. He killed innocent children, women and people. How else would you define him?” her voice had rage.
This is something Rexy and I weren’t very acquainted and comfortable with. An illetrate-looking woman had clear convictions about who Bashir was.
“And not once did he think how would his parents live their old ages with this stigma that their son was a terrorist, a traitor, a betrayer” she spelt curse for Bashir and left.
Somehow we reached Bashir’s house and on request, his father started:
“Bashir was our only son. We are a poor family, still decided for his best education. After his +2, I took loan from a lender for his Engineering. He finished his Engineering and joined a high-tech company. Then I thought he would pay his loan. But one day read in news that he was behind many bomb blasts in India. He died but left us in living hell, we are made to live with stigma of being parents of a terrorist, a traitor. I am working as a watchman at night to earn money at this age to pay for his loan I took from local people,” old man told and then broke up.
“I am so sorry we gave birth to such a son,” Bashir’s mother regretted.
Our two scenes ended and we returned to Bangalore.
It’s 9 at night, and I am sitting in balcony working on this post. Rexy is busy preparing coffee (how lucky you feel when your girlfriend prepares coffee for you at home, that too for free).
I am pondering about the state of 2 families, of the parents of a martyr and a terrorist.
One mother wants to give birth to Imran in her every birth, other mother is so sorry to give birth to Bashir in this birth.
I feel sorry for Bashir’s parents for the stigma they experience everyday for the evil deeds of their sole son.
I wish I could show these 2 scenes to all terrorists to convince them get back into mainstream, rather than playing into hands of foreign terrorist organizations. I wish that many more Bashir’s take examples of Major Khan rather than of bastard Osama.
May God give these digressed nestlings the illumination that they can experience and feel these 2 scenes, and get back to mainstream leaving their heinous and lethal activities far behind. May these digressed nestlings help make India the best place on the planet.
The Zion!! The Utopia!! The Shangri-La!!!
“Why? Let me sleep Rexy. This is Sunday today,” I requested.
Requested because this is all you can do when you are talking to a girl. These girls are so egoistic and egotistic, they understand only please, can, and may words!!!
“No Ravi, we need to go. I have to submit my thesis and in the wake of Mumbai terror, I have got the theme of my thesis. So get up and pick me up at 7,” voice asserted, advised, ordered and then shut up.
Rexy is doing her PhD and her thesis topic is South Asian terrorism. So we have to go to meet one family whose sole son is a martyr and died in combating terrorists, and the other family whose sole son was a terrorist and died in combating Indian armed forces.
“You are late. I asked you to come at 7 and it’s 8:30,” Rexy shouted, apparently angry waiting outside her home for quite long.
“Let’s have some coffee first,” I hit her raw nerve. You see, girls have a unique chemistry between coffee at coffee café day and choleric. The more you take them to café day, the less choleric they get and vice versa.
“So, where are we starting from,” I asked.
“We will go to meet the family of great martyr first,” Rexy said and we reached the home of the martyr.
Scene 1
“Namaste,” Rexy gestured along with her broad Canadian accent.
“We have come to know about Major Khan,” Rexy requested. It gives lot of satisfaction seeing girls requesting!!
“Imran was an outstanding student, a brilliant sportsperson, a great Indian, and the best son of India,” Imran’s mother told, her eyes welled up with tears, but tone exuding pride in being the mother of a martyr.
Her voice had determination, hands becoming fists every time she remembering her son.
The same pride I and Rexy could feel in every person we met in Meerut.
“I am amazed at the way everyone here remembers a martyr,” Rexy said getting emotional along with some dew drops in her eyes.
“Do you miss your son,” Rexy asked his dad.
I felt furious at this question. What kind of question this was after all!!!
“Yes, I wish he were alive. If he were alive, he could kill many more terrorists, and could be a part of operation cyclone to kill terrorists in Mumbai,” Imran’s Dad wished.
This was the first family we met. The pride parents feel when their children do something extra-ordinary, something which we ordinary human beings can’t even imagine, is something which can only be felt. No dictionary has such words which can define that pride.
And if at all there’s any such word, then that word is Salute!!!
Scene 2
“Excuse me, can you tell us about Bashir’s house,” Rexy asked someone at azamgarh’s bus stop.
“No, we don’t know anything about that,” the voice vehemently responded.
Rather than responding with ‘I don’t know’, his response ‘we don’t know’ was something we felt abstruse.
“Excuse me Madam, can you suggest us Bashir’s house,” Rexy asked one burqua-clad woman.
“That terrorist,” voice answered with a question.
Rexy nodded, both stunned and shocked.
After all, why would a muslim woman address Bashir as a terrorist.
After all, Bashir was a muslim who fought for zihaad and died for a purpose. Isn’t it?
“Terrorist??” Rexy wondered
“What else. He attacked our nation. He killed innocent children, women and people. How else would you define him?” her voice had rage.
This is something Rexy and I weren’t very acquainted and comfortable with. An illetrate-looking woman had clear convictions about who Bashir was.
“And not once did he think how would his parents live their old ages with this stigma that their son was a terrorist, a traitor, a betrayer” she spelt curse for Bashir and left.
Somehow we reached Bashir’s house and on request, his father started:
“Bashir was our only son. We are a poor family, still decided for his best education. After his +2, I took loan from a lender for his Engineering. He finished his Engineering and joined a high-tech company. Then I thought he would pay his loan. But one day read in news that he was behind many bomb blasts in India. He died but left us in living hell, we are made to live with stigma of being parents of a terrorist, a traitor. I am working as a watchman at night to earn money at this age to pay for his loan I took from local people,” old man told and then broke up.
“I am so sorry we gave birth to such a son,” Bashir’s mother regretted.
Our two scenes ended and we returned to Bangalore.
It’s 9 at night, and I am sitting in balcony working on this post. Rexy is busy preparing coffee (how lucky you feel when your girlfriend prepares coffee for you at home, that too for free).
I am pondering about the state of 2 families, of the parents of a martyr and a terrorist.
One mother wants to give birth to Imran in her every birth, other mother is so sorry to give birth to Bashir in this birth.
I feel sorry for Bashir’s parents for the stigma they experience everyday for the evil deeds of their sole son.
I wish I could show these 2 scenes to all terrorists to convince them get back into mainstream, rather than playing into hands of foreign terrorist organizations. I wish that many more Bashir’s take examples of Major Khan rather than of bastard Osama.
May God give these digressed nestlings the illumination that they can experience and feel these 2 scenes, and get back to mainstream leaving their heinous and lethal activities far behind. May these digressed nestlings help make India the best place on the planet.
The Zion!! The Utopia!! The Shangri-La!!!
Heroes Reinvented!!!
Heinous Mumbai act is over. All seized symbolic monuments of financial prosperity of Mumbai have been freed and dead bodies of innocent people have been handed over to their loved ones. In essence, Mumbai is back to business like ever before, but with a difference this time.
I am talking about the Re-invented Heroes, the hitherto unsung heroes of India state. The heroes who have always worked whole-heartedly for the service of the nation, notwithstanding the nonchalance with which society has always reciprocated to them. I am talking of those armed forces, those National Security guards, those Marine commandos, and those para-military forces which have always served the nation when called.
If I have to find one good out of the entire gloom, this would be our Re-invented heroes.
When Mumbai was seething, there was no such hero whose body had 6 packs, there was no such larger-than-life person who has taken enough steroids to make his body best-fit for his upcoming movie, and there was no such hero who anchored dangerous acts of Indian celebrity girls on a newly launched channel. All these paper heroes were absent.
I couldn’t find any such hero there whom we all have grown up seeing fighting 10 villains at a time. The same hero writes in his blog that he couldn’t sleep whole night and had to keep a loaded gun under his pillow!!! And the irony of this nation is that such heroes have always been talked about, songs recited about, yagnas done for et al.
I failed to find even that hero who is very notorious to fight with co-stars and colleagues. And when he had a brawl with some colleague some time back at some birthday party, he was media’s darling. Where was that darling when Mumbai was seething!!! Was he hiding himself under his bed or what!!!
I couldn’t find even that hero who is our hero because he hits 4 sixes in an over, or because he is very aggressive on the field dancing like jokers after hitting a six. These were our heroes, the undeserving, much talked about heroes.
And then yesterday, I saw the real heroes. The heroes who didn’t have 6 packs, who mightn’t be having large mass appeal, and those who know that they would be unsung heroes again within weeks with a release of couple of movies of paper heroes, and sixes of other paper heroes. But for me, I had my heroes re-invented yesterday. The heroes who are so down to earth and so humble that everyone would wonder that these are the same heroes who carry those wits and courage to nip any enemy, and mind you, the real enemy, not the villains of silver screen.
In a way, this incident was an eye-opener for Indian public. Those politicians who talk all nonsense about nations’ integrity and patriotism were hiding, those movie stars who have those muscles and bodies (I don’t know for what) were nowhere visible at attacked sites, those stars who in movies have killed kidnappers and taken hostages back from kandhar in movies, the business people who always talk of nation were nowhere visible (probably afraid that a bullet might pass thro’ their heart also, the heart that carries all love for India!!!). Only people remembered at that time were these hitherto unsung heroes, those whom everyone knows as real heroes, but who, in our day-to-day hypocrisies, we all had forgotten.
India, this is not the day to get complacent again. And if you do, everyone can take my words for granted-we would be the worst and most cunning and selfish state in the world. This is the time to get up, stay united and stand up to high-five our real heroes. The heroes who die for nation, no matter what!!! These are the heroes who don’t have the luxury to take 10 re-shots to look more heroic in acts, these heroes don’t do any make ups on their faces, they also don’t have expensive clothes to wear, these heroes also don’t have pony-tails, these heroes also don’t marry the so-called most beautiful women of the world (as per media), and these heroes also don’t take steroids to show their fake and useless body to India public.
But these heroes have got that heart which beats for India cause. These heroes have got that chest that is ever ready to face a bullet on their heart, and these heroes have got that perfection that they really never need any re-shots in real life while killing villains. These heroes always look heroic in their acts, in their uniforms, their gait, their army hair-cut, and above all, in their zeal to serve mother India.
I salute these Re-invented heroes, and take the vow today not to forget the sacrifice this time. No more paper heroes, the time has arrived to sing songs of these lions. This is my humble homage and tribute to my Heroes. Jai Hind!!!!
I am talking about the Re-invented Heroes, the hitherto unsung heroes of India state. The heroes who have always worked whole-heartedly for the service of the nation, notwithstanding the nonchalance with which society has always reciprocated to them. I am talking of those armed forces, those National Security guards, those Marine commandos, and those para-military forces which have always served the nation when called.
If I have to find one good out of the entire gloom, this would be our Re-invented heroes.
When Mumbai was seething, there was no such hero whose body had 6 packs, there was no such larger-than-life person who has taken enough steroids to make his body best-fit for his upcoming movie, and there was no such hero who anchored dangerous acts of Indian celebrity girls on a newly launched channel. All these paper heroes were absent.
I couldn’t find any such hero there whom we all have grown up seeing fighting 10 villains at a time. The same hero writes in his blog that he couldn’t sleep whole night and had to keep a loaded gun under his pillow!!! And the irony of this nation is that such heroes have always been talked about, songs recited about, yagnas done for et al.
I failed to find even that hero who is very notorious to fight with co-stars and colleagues. And when he had a brawl with some colleague some time back at some birthday party, he was media’s darling. Where was that darling when Mumbai was seething!!! Was he hiding himself under his bed or what!!!
I couldn’t find even that hero who is our hero because he hits 4 sixes in an over, or because he is very aggressive on the field dancing like jokers after hitting a six. These were our heroes, the undeserving, much talked about heroes.
And then yesterday, I saw the real heroes. The heroes who didn’t have 6 packs, who mightn’t be having large mass appeal, and those who know that they would be unsung heroes again within weeks with a release of couple of movies of paper heroes, and sixes of other paper heroes. But for me, I had my heroes re-invented yesterday. The heroes who are so down to earth and so humble that everyone would wonder that these are the same heroes who carry those wits and courage to nip any enemy, and mind you, the real enemy, not the villains of silver screen.
In a way, this incident was an eye-opener for Indian public. Those politicians who talk all nonsense about nations’ integrity and patriotism were hiding, those movie stars who have those muscles and bodies (I don’t know for what) were nowhere visible at attacked sites, those stars who in movies have killed kidnappers and taken hostages back from kandhar in movies, the business people who always talk of nation were nowhere visible (probably afraid that a bullet might pass thro’ their heart also, the heart that carries all love for India!!!). Only people remembered at that time were these hitherto unsung heroes, those whom everyone knows as real heroes, but who, in our day-to-day hypocrisies, we all had forgotten.
India, this is not the day to get complacent again. And if you do, everyone can take my words for granted-we would be the worst and most cunning and selfish state in the world. This is the time to get up, stay united and stand up to high-five our real heroes. The heroes who die for nation, no matter what!!! These are the heroes who don’t have the luxury to take 10 re-shots to look more heroic in acts, these heroes don’t do any make ups on their faces, they also don’t have expensive clothes to wear, these heroes also don’t have pony-tails, these heroes also don’t marry the so-called most beautiful women of the world (as per media), and these heroes also don’t take steroids to show their fake and useless body to India public.
But these heroes have got that heart which beats for India cause. These heroes have got that chest that is ever ready to face a bullet on their heart, and these heroes have got that perfection that they really never need any re-shots in real life while killing villains. These heroes always look heroic in their acts, in their uniforms, their gait, their army hair-cut, and above all, in their zeal to serve mother India.
I salute these Re-invented heroes, and take the vow today not to forget the sacrifice this time. No more paper heroes, the time has arrived to sing songs of these lions. This is my humble homage and tribute to my Heroes. Jai Hind!!!!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Bihar is to India what India is to the West!!!
“Another debacle,” Rexy said disappointingly and changed the news channel to one of her favorite K-word lachrymose program.
“What happened?” Did Tulsi die finally?” I asked. I am very optimist but Ekta Kapoor ditches me every time making her alive again and again.
“No, I am talking of these Biharis beaten up in Mumbai,” Rexy responded. “Why can’t this entire non-sense end up finally” She had agony in her voice.
“I don’t find anything wrong in this. Maharashtra belongs to Marathis, what in the heck Biharis were doing there,” I counted-reacted impromptu.
You shouldn’t take the chance of arguing with girls, but as I mistakenly did so, now it was going to be really big. Rexy won’t let me go so easily.
“What’s wrong in this, did you say?” she shouted furiously. Eyes red, hairs open (she had opened her hair band when poor I opposed her) and face frowned.
“Poor unemployed empty handed chaps beaten up savagely and you are saying what’s wrong in this. Are you crazy or what” Rexy shouted. It was going to be really big now.
“They have got their own state, why can’t they just stay within their own boundaries? Why they are moving to Punjab, to Maharashtra, to Bangalore in not only dozens or hundreds but in hundreds of thousands?” I said softly. I don’t dare shout in front of her, so I kept myself soft.
“This is India Mister. This Maharashtra doesn’t belong to Marathis only. This Punjab doesn’t belong to Punjabis only. This Bangalore doesn’t belong only to Kannadigas” Rexy was very angry now. She even had got her cheeks vibrating with anger now. Only thing left was a smooth slap on my face and thus end of the show, but she chose to continue.
“And what boundaries you are talking about? Biharis staying in Bihar doesn’t mean they won’t go out of it. Bihar is after all India only,” she was soft this time while saying this.
“No, they are coming to Maharashtra and grabbing otherwise Marathi employment. They are coming to Punjab and seizing otherwise Punjabi farmers’ employment. They are even moving to all other prosperous parts of India and are taking hold of employment of local people. Why in the hell can’t they just stay happy in their own land, with their own people, within their own boundaries,” I was happy because I thought that I defeated her with this argument this time.
“After all, we local people suffer due to these Biharis” I thought.
“Ravi, what’s your dream business school?” Rexy asked.
“What?” I wondered.
We are discussing Bihar and Rest of India, and this Rexy girl is all of a sudden asking me about my dream school.
“Haha,” I thought but didn’t laugh loud.
“She has conceded defeat, so wants to change the topic” I thought.
“Harvard, Stanford, Wharton, Kellogg, Insead, Oxford, Cambridge,” I uttered all the top business schools all in one breath.
“Oh really!!!” came the first reaction
“Yeah baby,” I tried to make that rocky rock star pose but felt myself a joker, so came back to normal human posture.
“And Mr. Ravi, where in the world all those schools are,” Rexy asked.
“She herself belongs to Canada, then why is she asking all those bizarre questions?” I wondered.
“US, UK, France,” I crowed.
“Here you go,” she said energetically.
“Hmm. Biharis shouldn’t come to Mumbai or to Bangalore or to Punjab. They should also stay within their own limits, their own boundaries. They shouldn’t even try to grab opportunities and jobs of local people. Right?” she asked me.
She was repeating the same lines that I had said a few minutes ago. What’s she up to? These girls, no one has ever understood them, nor will one ever succeed!!!
Everyone from our grand grand fathers to our grand fathers to our grand children to our grand grand children have and will ever falter on this front!!!
“Right,” I said and widened my chest. After all, I had defeated a girl in an argument. At least, I thought so.
“Then why should Americans or French or British should let you in their country? You can’t let people of same country live in other state, then why should people of an altogether different country let you come there and accommodate you,” Rexy shouted.
Man, she had a point here, the point that I never pondered, the fact that I never noticed.
“You work with an IT company and so do I. But why should American companies give you work? Why should their work be outsourced to India? Tell me,” she questioned.
“You become a braggart and tell even remotest of your friends that you are going to States. Your parents boast to your relatives that their son or daughter stays in the States. Am I correct?” she again questioned. Her voice was very serious and she was nothing but honest at the moment.
“Ravi, you know why you got this job?” she asked straight forward.
“Because US companies want to do cost cutting, and we are skilled but cheap labor.” Well I confessed.
“Why shouldn’t every Indian IT engineer be beaten up when he goes to the States or the Britain?” she questioned and now I had no answer to any of her question anymore.
“Now you will say that we are skilled and give consultation to the States, but what these Biharis do, right?” Rexy was a visionary, a philosopher, an original thinker now.
I simply nodded in yes.
“Ravi, you surely are skilled and are a wonderful consultant. But you were privileged that your parents could afford to make you that skilled. Many Biharis may not be that skilled in technology, but they are skilled in construction and they get employment in this outside Bihar, that’s why they come to your places,” she clarified.
“All the buildings, the infrastructure, the flyovers you see, these hardworking people have made it. But really they won’t want to do so conditional they have the privilege to learn technology.” I was wondering at Rexy’s scrutiny.
Rexy finished this argument. Well, this was no more an argument because once Rexy started revealing facts, I was no more an arguer, but only a mute listener.
Rexy is again busy watching her lachrymose K-serials, but has left me contemplating.
What we Indians are? Isn’t Bihar to India what India is to the West??
Don’t Indians go abroad for labor? Don’t Indians go abroad as cheap skilled labor in IT? Don’t Indians go abroad for education or for employment??
We do go!! And here we Indians are people of those prosperous Bangalore or Punjab or Delhi or Mumbai et al.
If we want to go for better opportunities, then why can’t people of less prosperous states of India come for employment to other states, to the states where they don’t need even Visa to come??
Do they really grab our opportunities? If yes, then don’t we grab opportunities of Americans or the French or the British? If there we have no issues, then why here? Why this volte-face?? Why these self-determined dual standards?
India is a democracy, and every Indian has the blunt right to live or work anywhere in India. We don’t need any advocates of regionalism. If we really need, then first call all your near and dear ones from the West, where they are grabbing opportunities of hundreds of thousands others. Till then, be Indians, not regional!!!
It’s 11 at night when I am finishing this post. Rexy has given me yet another insight. I feel myself a bit more Indian today than a Punjabi. Today, when I see people of Bihar in my state, I don’t look at them with hatred, but pass a smile, a smile that takes their sorrows of being away from their families away!!!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Solution of Ram Temple issue!!!
How will you address God if you realize that the one standing in front of you is God!!!
Same quandary I was in the first and the only time I met God!!!
“Shall I say Good Morning or hello, or shake hands, or prostrate, or simply hug!!” I was in a multi-dimensional dilemma!!!
Rexy, my girlfriend is a Sci-fi and had made me a world-machine. World-machine is something very much like a time-machine, boarding which you can not only go to different time eras, but also to different worlds.
“So where shall we go first Ravi,” Rexy asked.
When girls ask such questions, be prepared that another couple of hours, and you would have lost couple of hundred rupees in Baristas or Café days.
“Baikunth” Rexy herself proposed while I was pondering that Barista would cost me 200 rupees, while at Café day I may save 20 rupees.
“Yes, let’s start with meeting Lord Rama,” Rexy suggested. Rexy is a Christian by birth but, as per her, that isn’t a sufficient reason to stop respecting or praying Gods of other religions.
I still have much to learn from her!!
“Lord Rama!!” I wondered.
“Why not go to see our future? To see how much more money of mine will you waste this month etc etc etc.” I thought but only thought.
You bet if you have a girlfriend, her word said means the final word said, so I conceded.
A couple of commands fired on her world-machine and we were in the official residence of Lord Rama (or Lord Vishnu, to say!!)
“Welcome Ravi and Rexy,” Lord Rama himself pronounced, God was aware that we would come there. After all, God is God!!
“So how is your planet doing,” he enquired.
“Nothing much Sir,” I responded, I wasn’t still sure about how to address Him. So I better used my IT company soft skills to address him Sir!!
“We are fighting to get our right, to build your temple at your birth place Sir,” I chose to earn some petty points in front of him, looked at Rexy and winked.
“And what purpose would it fulfill?” he wondered.
“Will it resolve your rich-poor gap, Hindu-Muslim riots, unemployment, global warming, terrorism, reservation issues,” God enumerated.
“Man!! We are fighting our elections on this issue and God has nothing to do with it. HE is totally indifferent towards it,” I was nothing if not stunned.
“And who made you Hindus and Muslims,” God continued.
“Which scripture has it written that I don’t care for Muslims or Sikhs or Christians?”
“Which book has it written that Jesus or Waheguru do bless Hindus?” my head was reeling.
“See this Super Computer. It has Rexy’s details. I had blessed him with idea to make this world-machine. Now how can you say that I am of Hindus,” God’s voice had disappointment.
“I kept shouting telling you that I am Vishnu, I am Jesus, and I am Allah. But no, you won’t pay a heed to it. God is one. But no, you won’t understand. At the end of the day, you are just residents of planet Earth.Educated illiterates,” God shouted.
"Any number of births I take to tell you this single point, but you will end up doing the same Earthish thing.Categorizing and Classifying. Can't you live without these races, these castes, these religions?" God asked.
“Go back to your earth, and tell your people and politicians. I don’t need temple. I need Humans. And tell your earth, you guys are not humans. You have just got the hardware (the body of humans), not the software (thoughts) of humans. You change your software, and that would be my Temple. The Rama temple,” God proclaimed, asked his waiters to serve us Ice Cappuccino, and left to fulfill his other appointments.
I and Rexy were just wondering about what happened. But surely, Rexy was no more Christian now, and I no more a Hindu. We were two humans praying to same God, just with different names.
“What next?” I asked Rexy.
“Let’s go to meet Babur,” Rexy said.
This Rexy girl gives me shock sometimes. First Lord and then Babur
What’s she up to? What’s going on in her mind?
I forgot to ask Lord why He made girls!!
“Ok,” I surrendered and we were in Heaven to meet Babur.
“Hello your highness Emperor Babur. We have come from earth to meet you,” I said with extra chocolaty face.
“Did you hear about Babri Masjid demolition,” I asked the blunt question straight forward.
He nodded in yes!!
“Your people are trying their best not to let the Ram Mandir construction happen there,” I said.
Emperor stared at me and kept staring, pondering something at the back of his mind.
“Ram Mandir, Babri Masjid,” he said and started smiling. Smiling converted to laughing and laughing to Guffaws.
I and Rexy looked at each other, wondering at this reaction.
“Your highness,” I interrupted.
“Are you a developed nation? Does every Indian sleep with food-filled stomach?” he questioned
“No,” I moved my head in east-west direction.
“Is your economy independent of exports? When western economy jolts, Is India independent of those shocks?” he questioned like an economist.
“No,” same gesture
“Is India a pollution-free, corruption-free, weather-calamities-free nation?” Emperor hurled another question
Pathetic I again replied in No.
I didn’t know where the conversation was heading to. I was confused but the Emperor continued.
“Is every Indian employed?” another one.
“No,” same gesture
“Does every Indian live above poverty line? Does every Indian consider other Indian a human?” another one
Same response!!
“When one Indian becomes superior, does he respect his juniors or consider them his slaves?” Emperor asked
“He becomes brutal, a beast,” Rexy replied this time with some furiuos expressions.
Emperor again started laughing, not to stop this time.
I was responding without facial expressions, but these girls, they have this art of contorting their faces as per the situation. God, you are really great who devised them!!
“Go and tell your world’s people. The day every Indian will start considering himself an Indian before any other thing, my soul will be most happy,” Emperor replied.
“We don’t need temples or mosques. If anything, be humans and love other humans. If anything more, open Charitable Hospitals at contentious places, where those wanting mosques or temples will donate money, and where every human will be served without a matter of his religion” Emperor replied and left.
I and Rexy also came back to our World.
It’s 9 at night; Rexy is busy watching one of those late evening K-programs, and devising new tantrums to ask free coffee or chocolates from me, while I am writing this blog conveying the message of Lord Rama, and the solution of Emperor Babur. Don’t know how many would be the takers, but even if one, I win!!!!
Friday, October 17, 2008
Agony of a Bomb!!!
“Excuse me Sir,” one voice came as I was passing by a Railway platform.
I looked around, but found none.
“Help me,” came the voice again. The voice had pain and agony.
I scouted but to fail again.
“Where are you? Why don’t you come in front of me,” I hurled umpteen questions, wondered and curious.
“I am here in the trash,” shivering voice came. I could feel its pain; it wanted to cry but was somehow controlling itself.
I glanced around to find a trash on my left side with “I am Hungry, feed me!!” on it, and a black bag inside it.
I guessed that sound was coming from inside the black bag.
I opened the bag to find my eyes wide open, extremely shocked and stunned.
It was a bomb!!!
Next 2 minutes we had no verbal conversation but only eye talk. Then the bomb started with tears, tears starting from his eyes and covering the entire contour of his face, then hiccups and then blubbing.
Bomb is a very dangerous thing, but finding it crying isn’t something we get a chance to see very often.
“Wh…Wha….What are you doing here?,” I was getting apprehensive as soon as I was getting the realization that I was very near a Bomb, the RDX bomb which would explode to demolish everything all around.
“I am here to destroy this platform,” the bomb replied and started weeping again.
“But why?” I was scared now, still gathered my courage to ask.
“I don’t know,” bomb replied, and as usual kept crying.
“What the heck!! You are here to destroy this place, kill hundreds of innocent people, and you don’t know why you want to do so.” I shrieked my lungs out.
No response!! Only a few hiccups.
“Why this volte face. Why are you crying,” I questioned, re-questioned and then kept questioning till he started.
“Can you see that man standing there,” bomb pointed by his finger to show some 28-30 year old man.
“He is an army man, and is going back to his village after 6 months. He is the sole bread earner of his family and is going on a 15-day vacation to meet his old widow mother, wife and a daughter” bomb told in his usual piteous voice.
“Can you see that child playing there with plastic bag,” he showed another 3-4 year old baby kicking some plastic bag.
I nodded.
“That couple standing at a little distance from him are his parents. They have been blessed with this baby after years of prayers and wait. That innocent child will come to me also, and may kick me ignorantly to get his life ended.”
“See that coolie there. He is the sole earner of his family of 4 children and sick wife. That newly wed couple who are married for only a month now,” the list was endless.
“Ravi,” bomb addressed me.
I was somewhere in thoughts, but his address made me stare at him.
“I have to kill them all,” bomb’s voice was shivering but had firmness.
“Can’t you stop,” I requested.
“I wish I could. I wish I could explode to end my life in the hands of that bastard only who planted me here. I wish I could rip him apart into pieces,” the voice had wrath.
“But I couldn’t. And now, I have a dharma to follow. The dharma of my purpose. My reason of existence,” bomb said.
“Can’t this destruction end? Can’t people be allowed to live peacefully? In no panic?” I asked.
“Not until the time you will keep differentiating yourselves into Hindus, Muslims, or into other religions. Not until you will think beyond religion to find another religion Humanity. Not until fanatists realize that we bombs don’t look before exploding that we haven’t to harm people of their religion,” bomb had a point.
Bombs don’t filter that if fanatists of X religion have planted a bomb, then people of x religion won’t be harmed. They equally do it to X as they do to Y. Then why this volte-face by fanatists on the name of religion?
“Can you do me a favor,” bomb asked.
“Yes,” I nodded
“Please defuse me to end my life before I explode. This way I will get a sweet death. A death which every bomb wants- Death by defusion,” bomb’s voice was happy now as he knew he had got a messiah who would consummate him before he explodes.
“Good bye Mate,” bomb said last before I took his connections off to defuse him.
“Get up Ravi,” answering machine sounded. This was Rexy.
“Calling you for last 10 minutes, why don’t you pick up your phone,” she shouted.
God!! I was in a dream.
But dream had a point. I wish I could tell those fanatists that bombs aren’t like those fanatists. Fanatists might differentiate between Hindus and Muslims, but these bombs won’t.
For them they have only one dharma. To kill people, Hindus or Muslims or even Christians or Sikhs.
I wished that Fanatists could read this post to stop planting bombs, if not for me, then at least for people of their own religion.
Now as I hadn’t picked Rexy’s phone for 10 minutes, I will have to compensate taking her to Barista or Coffee Café Day.
You know these Girls!!!
Need a reason for free coffee!!!
I have just returned from Barista. It’s evening 8 when I am writing this post. Though I met that Bomb in my dream, but its helplessness, its tears, and its satisfaction to die before exploding are still vivid in my memory. Like we had really met!!
I looked around, but found none.
“Help me,” came the voice again. The voice had pain and agony.
I scouted but to fail again.
“Where are you? Why don’t you come in front of me,” I hurled umpteen questions, wondered and curious.
“I am here in the trash,” shivering voice came. I could feel its pain; it wanted to cry but was somehow controlling itself.
I glanced around to find a trash on my left side with “I am Hungry, feed me!!” on it, and a black bag inside it.
I guessed that sound was coming from inside the black bag.
I opened the bag to find my eyes wide open, extremely shocked and stunned.
It was a bomb!!!
Next 2 minutes we had no verbal conversation but only eye talk. Then the bomb started with tears, tears starting from his eyes and covering the entire contour of his face, then hiccups and then blubbing.
Bomb is a very dangerous thing, but finding it crying isn’t something we get a chance to see very often.
“Wh…Wha….What are you doing here?,” I was getting apprehensive as soon as I was getting the realization that I was very near a Bomb, the RDX bomb which would explode to demolish everything all around.
“I am here to destroy this platform,” the bomb replied and started weeping again.
“But why?” I was scared now, still gathered my courage to ask.
“I don’t know,” bomb replied, and as usual kept crying.
“What the heck!! You are here to destroy this place, kill hundreds of innocent people, and you don’t know why you want to do so.” I shrieked my lungs out.
No response!! Only a few hiccups.
“Why this volte face. Why are you crying,” I questioned, re-questioned and then kept questioning till he started.
“Can you see that man standing there,” bomb pointed by his finger to show some 28-30 year old man.
“He is an army man, and is going back to his village after 6 months. He is the sole bread earner of his family and is going on a 15-day vacation to meet his old widow mother, wife and a daughter” bomb told in his usual piteous voice.
“Can you see that child playing there with plastic bag,” he showed another 3-4 year old baby kicking some plastic bag.
I nodded.
“That couple standing at a little distance from him are his parents. They have been blessed with this baby after years of prayers and wait. That innocent child will come to me also, and may kick me ignorantly to get his life ended.”
“See that coolie there. He is the sole earner of his family of 4 children and sick wife. That newly wed couple who are married for only a month now,” the list was endless.
“Ravi,” bomb addressed me.
I was somewhere in thoughts, but his address made me stare at him.
“I have to kill them all,” bomb’s voice was shivering but had firmness.
“Can’t you stop,” I requested.
“I wish I could. I wish I could explode to end my life in the hands of that bastard only who planted me here. I wish I could rip him apart into pieces,” the voice had wrath.
“But I couldn’t. And now, I have a dharma to follow. The dharma of my purpose. My reason of existence,” bomb said.
“Can’t this destruction end? Can’t people be allowed to live peacefully? In no panic?” I asked.
“Not until the time you will keep differentiating yourselves into Hindus, Muslims, or into other religions. Not until you will think beyond religion to find another religion Humanity. Not until fanatists realize that we bombs don’t look before exploding that we haven’t to harm people of their religion,” bomb had a point.
Bombs don’t filter that if fanatists of X religion have planted a bomb, then people of x religion won’t be harmed. They equally do it to X as they do to Y. Then why this volte-face by fanatists on the name of religion?
“Can you do me a favor,” bomb asked.
“Yes,” I nodded
“Please defuse me to end my life before I explode. This way I will get a sweet death. A death which every bomb wants- Death by defusion,” bomb’s voice was happy now as he knew he had got a messiah who would consummate him before he explodes.
“Good bye Mate,” bomb said last before I took his connections off to defuse him.
“Get up Ravi,” answering machine sounded. This was Rexy.
“Calling you for last 10 minutes, why don’t you pick up your phone,” she shouted.
God!! I was in a dream.
But dream had a point. I wish I could tell those fanatists that bombs aren’t like those fanatists. Fanatists might differentiate between Hindus and Muslims, but these bombs won’t.
For them they have only one dharma. To kill people, Hindus or Muslims or even Christians or Sikhs.
I wished that Fanatists could read this post to stop planting bombs, if not for me, then at least for people of their own religion.
Now as I hadn’t picked Rexy’s phone for 10 minutes, I will have to compensate taking her to Barista or Coffee Café Day.
You know these Girls!!!
Need a reason for free coffee!!!
I have just returned from Barista. It’s evening 8 when I am writing this post. Though I met that Bomb in my dream, but its helplessness, its tears, and its satisfaction to die before exploding are still vivid in my memory. Like we had really met!!
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