An Open Letter To Bollywood: Mission Amangal Bollywood

I wonder if Bollywood had to make a ‘Zero Dark Thirty', they would

necessarily show Akshay Kumar fist fighting with Osama Bin Laden, before strangulating him around his arm. To a loud cheer and whistle from the audience Akshay Kumar would deliver, "Osama ye Bharat Maa ke betey ka haath hai, isse bach pana mushkil nahin naamumkin hai".

Why can’t Bollywood give a serious and an honest treatment to any story that deserves serious storytelling? Why it is always that in the name of showcasing true events on screen the Stars show case their own grandeur? Why do they forget that the story is always bigger than the storyteller?

Why not the star studded skills are left in vanity vans and a fair and sincere justice is meted to the stories likes Mangalyaan- ISRO's pioneer space mission to Mars The mission was a magnanimous achievement by a prestigious institution and it deserved more than just a commercial movie treatment as is shown in Akshay Kumar starrer Mission Mangal. The public does need entertainment while watching a movie but entertainment is very much possible without a song and dance sequence too or without few dumb sense of humour or showing over the board sequences like Akshay Kumar jumping across the table to reach ISRO chairman and deliver his words. Do you think in real life the esteemed scientist portrayed would have jumped across the table when he could have sublimely walked around it? Do you think the scientist would have carried a LPG cylinder over his head inside a meeting hall with full meeting going on to fry puri for practical demonstration on fuel saving? Why the scientists would mop the floors and paint the walls as is portrayed in the movie, instead of focusing entirely on the project? That, too, dancing? In the accent of Akshay Kumar "hainn?". They actually showed scientists dancing with brooms and all! Come on Bollywood grow up. Either you show a fiction with all your masala or show a movie based on real life story with real well researched events. You don’t mix up nonsense with sense and then say that's a sincere storytelling. Was it necessary to show a Muslim woman unable to get a rented accommodation because of her religion? Was it necessary to drop in a Saas-bahu angle, even when it was no where connected to the actual Mission Mangal? Why do you try to dole out same social message in stereotyped manner in movies which are based on real scientific endeavour? Don’t make your movies feel preachy every time we sit inside a theatre. There are far more people doing that now a days on social network. The first half was such a khichdi around the Mars Mission it felt as if we were watching a family drama based on lives of five women and not a movie based on space exploration. Just when the script went out of control, and as if to assure us that we are actually watching a movie based on Mars exploration, the director dropped in a song.  No points for guessing the words of the song. It was Dil me Mars hai. And because Mangal grah sounds similar to sanskrit word mangalam so there was also a background chorus of Om Mangalam Mangalam Mangalam. Ridiculous! Mars my foot.

There were few moments during the movie when I wished I was struck out of the theatre by an asteroid or consumed by a solar wave. During the launch when the communication was lost with the satellite, Tapsi Pannu switched off and on the entire communication system as if it was a desktop computer. Guess what? The communication was re-established as well. Kudos! Well it just doesn’t happen dear. In the end I was waiting for Akshay Kumar to tilt the rocket to 60 degree before firing the propulsion like a Bajaj scooter in Patiala. I am sure he would have suggested that before dropping the idea as too scientific. The movie used the word ‘home science’ very often. Rebudgeting a project is actually rebudgeting and not just home science as is portrayed in the movie. Well in their word they should understand that you don’t add masala to all the vegetables at home. Some vegetables can be cooked without the staple masala and still tastes good. And if all you have is MDH masala in kitchen then you better don't add it to Maggi and say that's Maggi. Maggi deserves a special treatment and so does few stories. By the way , what was the need to show a safety-pin prickled on the legs of Akshay Kumar during an irrelevant fight sequence inside the metro. Did someone laugh? I didn't. 

Trust me, public is far more intelligent now a days. You could have done away with that typecast American accent English speaking character, portrayed by Dalip Tahil, to show he is more inclined towards NASA. As if, in entire ISRO, the only English speaking scientist is the one who talks about NASA.  

Instead of absurdly making a more than two hour self tell tale, Bollywood should make one and half hour intense movie on such topics. The public in India is smart enough to lap it up. A serious treatment to such topics can be more engrossing and entertaining. It is time Bollywood try to sincerely compete for Oscars and not just eye the 100 crore collection. If all that matters is box office collection then please maintain the sanctity of such magnificent stories like Mangalyaan. Leave it to the fate of documentaries. We don’t need your farcical movies to realise the women empowerment in our nation.

I suffered from intense strokes of indigestion while watching the so called Based-on-true-events Mission Mangal. The next on the offer that week was Batla House, based on a true and much debated police encounter. But I felt sorry for my stomach which would have flooded out the moment a serious plot was interjected with the O saaki saaaki re saaki saaki. An item number in between a controversial encounter based story. Isn't that strange?

Well, back to Stranger Things on Netflix.

The Story Of My Mother

“During days of emergency”, my maternal grandmother had once said to me “your mother had become a firebrand in her college. She used to address large number of students outside her college about the ills of emergency. A rebel she was then”. I loved this narration of my mother. I had heard this many a times from my granny. Every time I portrayed my mother in my mind as a young and courageous rebel girl, firmly standing with her chin up, shouting  aloud from atop a truck, refusing to cow down against anyone.

This very image had come once again vividly before my eyes on the day her husband died. With all courage and might she pulled her chin up against the tyranny of life. She refused to be cow down, again.

A month earlier our parents celebrated their 25^th anniversary. About a month later her life’s companion had parted ways forever. The road of life has its unexpected bends and my mother happened to negotiate the sharpest and the toughest turn of her life on that bright summer day. My brother, sister and I were about to reach Dhanbad, from Delhi, where we pursued our graduation. My mother was preparing breakfast for all of us. My father was ecstatic with the prospect of a family reunion. He was washing his car when he suffered a terrible heart attack. In a minute he felled down as my mother rushed to hold him affirm. She and a maid held him firmly as she shouted for help. A neighbour arranged a car and holding his head on her lap she took him to a hospital only to find that the past few minutes that she spent with him were the last few minutes that they spent together. She had already lost him. The news was broken to her by my brother, after we reached the hospital an hour later. In my entire life that was the only day I saw her crying. She had seen enough struggles before and she would see many struggles after, but never ever I saw the lady shed a tear again. But that day when the dearest person to her was gone forever, she cried. She cried till she realised that we would need her all the more now. So she sat there on a bench, held three of us close to her, calming us, caressing us, protecting us, assuring us in quivering yet firm voice that all will be good, that she will be our father henceforth and sobbing incessantly for the largest void created in her life, that will never ever be filled again. Against the life’s plan for devastation, on that fateful day, she showed defiance. Amidst sea of sorrow on that day she chose happiness for us.

HURUNGA : Holi Festival

If Holi is festival of colours, then here you could breathe Holi. And if you open your mouth, eat it as well. 30 km away from main town Mathura, lies the village named Baldeo. Named after Balrama, elder brother of Shri Krishna. The much festive weeklong Holi celebrations of Brajbhoomi concludes here. And it did with all the ingredients for which Holi is called the festival of Joy. Colours, more colours, water, flowers, crowd, more crowd, song, drum, dance, cheers, sweet and what not. As if everything what I had read in those Holi essays in school had come alive in full spectacle. The event is called Hurunga and is set inside the temple premises of Lord Balrama, Dauji Maharaj Temple. It is an age old tradition here that the women and men come to the temple here and seek permission from Dauji to play with the colours for the last time before concluding the Holi.

It is also said that after a weeklong festivity, women come to Dauji Maharaj to complain about Kaanha's playfulness during Holi. And in front of Balrama strip their men off clothes and beat them with wet clothes. This version is celebrated so beautifully and with such an aplomb that you would wish you were down there. What started with a dry gulaal and songs and dance went on to a water draping Holi as water was artificially poured from above. The temple floor was packed to an inch, colour and flower was all around sprayed from the top. The air was booming with braj songs and dancing along in various colours. As men poured gulaal and splashed coloured water over women, the women left no effort to beat the men. And all this with a spirit of Holi with no nuisance around. People perched on every space around the temple to watch this spectacle .It was a sight I had never experienced in any Holi earlier. I was a little sceptic initially as to whether go to such a far off village all alone. But, then I was determined to devour the feeling of the famous Braj ki Holi. The Hurunga celebration and Holi at Dwarkadheesh a day earlier has made me miss Holi for the first time in my life.

A Tryst With A Foreign Land

Image : indiatoday.in

It was October of 2006. Earlier to it 20 Octobers had whizzed passed in my life. All went remarkably unremarkable. But this was special. For this was the first time I was to step into a foreign land. And it was not Nepal. Bhutan?. It wasn’t either. 

My college had signed a student exchange program with a German University a year earlier. Students from each university were to visit the other. Few privileged seniors from my college had already been to Germany as a part of this exchange program. It was time for the next batch. 10 of us were nominated to go to Germany. We were asked to get Passports asap. The touts and brokers outside passport offices helped us to secure one faster than asap.

Prior to that my closest association with the word 'Passport' was with the passport size photograph. But this time passport meant Passport. Back then, unlike now, Passports were rare. Unlike other government Ids the passport was given its due respect. You could actually see the scanned photograph and more so you could resemble yourself with it. Those who had it used it as an address proof. Like talent in India more number of passports died without ever being recognized to serve its intended purpose. My passport was rather lucky. It didn’t die a lonely death without ever being stamped. It got to show its power and together with a Visa it was destined to fly away in the very first year of its birth. The stamped Visa inside the passport was even better. Colorful and bright.The authorities had taken pain to present a milky white version of me that was nowhere like me.

On the morning of October 6th the 10 of us and 2 additional professors stepped into my first flight of life- that too an international. Our family members lined outside the Delhi airport and gave a farewell as if we were NASA astronauts heading for ISS. Unlike astronauts we were ordinary people with ordinary hopes, ordinary aspirations and ordinary dreams. A foreign visit was nowhere in our scope of bucket list. Not even in an Indian mugga list. So we were treated like specials. My mother hugged me. My father patted me and whispered " there is a letter in your jacket's pocket. Open it when you are up above". 

We Indians have a tendency to cheer everything that is excitingly unique for us, especially when we are herded together.So when the flight ran on the runway, we cheered. It ran further. We cheered louder. It ran further. We doubted if it will run all the way to its destination or will it ever fly. Someone from the passengers shouted " Jai Hanuman" and we all followed "Jai Hanuman". Just then the flight took off and the sanctity of science and religion both prevailed. A few minutes past it was up and above.

I felt the letter with my hand and opened it. In bold blue letters of hindi my father presented emotions that reverberated with the then ongoing time. As if the letter shared similar feelings to mine. It echoed in words what I felt during those moments. "Upar Surya tumhare bhaagya ki tarah prakaashit and divymaan hai..." I turned around and the sun was perfectly glaring in its beauty. "Aur tum Pavansut k teevra veg se aakash ko cheertey huay pavan se badhey jaa rahe ho" . I looked far deep into the sky. I was actually cruising. In a four page letter he blessed me for a bright future and happiness.  As I read it, I knew I will cry. I did. For him it was a great day and so was it for me.

Coming back to my Passport, it spent its remaining entire life in the company of other stupid I-cards, sealed inside a folder with a diminished hope of getting a chance once again to prove its worth. It never got another. Since I was no Jason Bourne, that was my only passport. With its demise died my hope of another foreign tour.  

That was in 2006. Orkut was rife, testimonials were still being written, facebook was yet to gain immortality ,'like' still meant liking and had nothing to do with an unemotional click on mouse. Foreign tours were still rare, I was in my 20s and I still had hairs. 

Come 2018. Orkut is only in memories, I am in my 30s, the hairs count sum up to 30. Facebook governs the status war. Updates of foreign trips of my friends and friend’s friend’s friend’s are all spluttered on my homepage. I, for one, possess still those lovely ordinary thoughts, that in its fantasy and grandiose manage only to travel as far as Andaman Islands. 

In a private job it may be a regular phenomenon to be asked about your Passport and an onsite visit to a foreign nation. But a govt. job is bound by the law of the land. The law ensures that you are always grounded on this very land and never take off. 

Amid such laws arrives a moment when I am asked "Do you have a passport?". I had regressed to my naive stage and produced two passport size photographs in response    "I have two". The person concerned consoled my mental apathy and said " Passport sir, the one which gets you out of our motherland". 

Full twelve years after that auspicious October someone was again interested in sending me to a foreign land. And again it was not Nepal or Bhutan. This time to the land of the rising Sun-Japan. So once again I own a sleek new Passport, bearing my scanned colored image, duly stamped with a Visa. The authorities have done justice to their work this time, for now I look like a dacoit and I can totally relate myself from the image.

40 of us are to visit Japan as a part of technology learning program. Not that we are the chosen few. There have been earlier groups as well and future groups are scheduled ahead. I like others just happen to get an opportunity to be a part of it. Nothing outstanding and no bragging.  A mere mix of luck, coincidence and God’s will, that’s it. Nevertheless, the opportunity in itself bestows a big exposure on all of us.

For me and people I know, foreign visits are still held in awe. We still 'like' and envy the status updates of our friends and relatives from a foreign land.  It is still a big game for my kind of people. So tomorrow will be a fortunate day.

Tomorrow as I fly again to a foreign nation I will recall that October and the friends from the last trip. I will again remember my father and his letter. Standing outside the international airport I will try to recall the place from where he waved me then. Tomorrow I will wish my Passport a better luck than its predecessor. I wish it gets to see many more colorful Visas on all pages of its life. And many tomorrows later I would like to turn around and see how I felt prior to this trip which I could not do then. Normal?Excited?Can't tell. May be both, may be none. I may share this post or I may not. But tomorrow this post will serve as a memoir of that lovely October and this eventful December both.

Thank you for reading

An Encounter With The Airtel 4G Girl

It started unlike the recent Airtel ads have started”

The camera first focused on the Airtel 4G girl as she produced an incandescent smile, brighter than the Ujala supreme safedi on white shirts.

" Yes this is me”, she assured me, as if I didn’t know that she was her. “You must try and test before opting for Airtel", she insisted, with an expression signifying that she is bothered about my poor mobile network.

"I have tried, tested, disliked, abhorred, got mentally stressed, pledged to never use Airtel and only after that stuck to Airtel", I said without a hiatus.

Happy to hear my estranged association with Airtel, she smiled leaned back and smiled again    "So 3G or 4G?"

"Parle G", I said

"No no no", she corrected me, " your network? 3g or 4G?".

I pretended to manoeuvre something out of my pocket below the table, and when it came out it was Nokia 3310. Having listlessly kept the phone in between us, I said  “Check for yourself".

She might have sensed that this is not going the way as the script demanded. In all her previous encounter with people, things were well planned and rehearsed. She had to convince already convinced people that even though they must be using Jio or Vodafone, all they had to say was Airtel is the best. She had to act as a medium of exchange between the alleged Airtel followers and the Airtel kafirs, say a few good words in the end to sum up the conversation. But this was different. Here, unfortunately she met an irritated government employee, who had just lost his 120 rupees in frequent call drops. 120 Rupees meant 120 rupees to him and the lady Airtel had to bear my grunt for the losses.

The camera roll was on and it was her turn to speak. Looking at my prehistoric key pad phone on the table she thought ‘hell, who uses Nokia these days’ and comported herself to say “Wow, you are still using Nokia these days”

“Yes”, I smiled, “I have a penchant for antiques”

“You sure? it supports internet connections?”, she was dismayed.

“The phone does but not the SIM”

“Which SIM “

“Airt…..”

“NO! wait… wait… wait…”, she stopped me in between and tried to steer the conversation away to a point from where she could finally get to prove the worthiness of the brand that sponsors her.

"What about UCLA?", as a hint she gleefully dropped the name of UCLA, the alleged what they call the-global-speed-tester. Like zillions of Hindustanis I had never heard of anything like this before the advent of recent Airtel advertisements.

"Why? what happened to UCLA?", I sounded double concerned.

"UCLA dear, the-global-speed-tester. You must say that, it is part of all our advertisement. We are here to make it a household name", she whispered as she hid her anger behind her smiles.

"Madam, ask me anything about Upla aur Upma and I am ready. While Upma is every household breakfast,  Upla from cow dung is our indigenous household fuel. People like me still see the number of lines on top of my mobile screen to check whether the network is available or not", I confided.

“But that is so ancient way to check your speed”, the disgust on her face was clearly visible and all she did was smile.

“There is the other way too”

“What?”, she leaned forward on the table to listen to the ultimate truth ever spoken before her.

“ The speed of the buffering wheel on youtube, ting tang tiding!. Simple”, I smiled.

“Holy GSM”, She felled back on her chair aghast, “ God Save this Man, this phone plays youtube for you?” and covered her face disbelievingly.

“Madam this is Nokia taitteess dus,  baap of all smart phones”, I had a boisterous laugh, the one bollywood villains had after having their sinister ploy unfold before their eyes.

Lady Airtel turned tired, she asked for a glass of water, drank it till the last drop, looked at me and asked “Why? Why you are doing this? When you can go home happily watching Jio TV after just few good words about my sponsors”

I stared at the empty glass then looked in her eyes and said, “Vengeance madam, vengeance”

I went on a discourse of my association with Airtel “It was because of you that I took Airtel. Few years back every hoarding and billboard, which now are flooded with Oppo and Vivo, had your innocent picture. You were up against all the mobile network service providers with your Airtel challenge. Like many Indians, I simply believed in you and switched to Airtel. After few months of usage I realized the blunder I had done by choosing the network meant initially for bourgeoisie families. Being a proletariat, subscribing to Airtel is like being a pauper boyfriend to an affluent girl. Both are difficult to maintain. Moreover, when in need both the network and the girlfriend are difficult to find. Utterly irritated, I looked out for only two things. Ask me what”

She was absorbed in my monologue and was also pleased to know how I remembered her first advertisement. For the first time the most assertive girl of Indian advertisement seemed to hear more from me. She asked, “What?”.

“Your network and you”, I spluttered in one go.

Expecting a similar reply, she was not taken aback. Instead she found an opportunity to end the directionless conversation. She turned towards the camera confidently, smiled pleasantly as she always does and said “tabhi to kehti hoon, sab kuch try karo fir sahi chuno!”. And off she went to baptize another Jio subscriber into airtel.

 Thank you for reading

Got A Sunday?Yawn & Protect It

When I see the seven days of a week, I see them not as days but as seven immature school kids. Kids sitting inside the classroom of life. Every week, I enter as a class teacher into that classroom and deal with all seven individually. My 5 notorious children, Monday to Friday, like to herd near the back benches, create noise and make my presence utterly uncomfortable. While the other two innocent studious kids, Saturday and Sunday, take my notes down peacefully at the front. The fearful five always create nuisance, with Monday leading the pack. In the name of daily routine they try to make my life miserable. When I crave for pin drop silence, they drop bombs. When I try to set them in order, they become innovatively chaotic. My two studious children dislike them. They are obedient, peaceful, sincere and always eager to listen to me. It is in tranquillity of Sat and Sun that I seek solace after losing my sanity on Mon, Tue,Wed,Thu and Fri. They are the only reason that I could face the other five. As a class teacher I need to cater to the demands of all seven. But, I consider it a bigger responsibility to guard two of my peaceful pupil, Sat and Sun, from the bad company of miscreant five.

But that was up to a few years ago. Because, a few years ago, I started losing my hold on Saturday. I ignored signs when on few occasions Sat behaved like one of them, totally chaotic and restive. It was wooed away by the false sincerity of work pressure and fun of the mischievous five. The imaginary urgency to manage my work on each day of a week secretly encroached my much adored Saturday. And somewhere in the middle of journey, due to the hectic nature of work and the din surrounding my life, Saturday fell behind.

So lately, in my life I have started guarding my Sundays. The loss of , what could have been a peaceful Saturday to the heckle and bully of group of  weekdays made me overprotective of my Sunday. I started having this impulse to protect my Sundays from outside world. I treasure my personal space on a Sunday and more or less treasure it alone. I wish no one calls me on a Sunday, no one tells me what to do, no one bothers me. At least , for one complete day in a week, I wish I don’t exist the way I exist. A bit similar to this inspiring man below ;).

The only day when I become one with myself is on Sunday. This day defines me and I define the course of this day. I may treat myself a feast or I may famish. I may spend the day reading a book or I may pass it aimlessly observing traffic from my balcony. On Sundays, I plan to be as out of routine as possible. An out of routine lazy schedule gives a sense of ownership over this day to me. The morning is prolonged till afternoon with regular interval of tea. Lunch seldom sees me on time and dinner includes a distasteful dish prepared on my own.  I try not to pick any phone calls. If I do, that is only after swearing a mouthful of curse to the caller and gaining the right tone in time to say, “ Hey hi! What a wonderful surprise, Kaisa hai bhai?”. The airplane mode on smartphone comes a little handy while I wander in my city of thoughts. Actually, I keep a secret desire to live a day out from the lyrics of the song, Dil dhoondata hai fir wohi fursat k raat din and that desire comes alive on every Sunday.

Even as a child I waited desperately for Sundays. With no phone calls to attend, no whatsapp forwards, no facebook updates and no urgency of work and little care for future, Sunday brought the cheerful spirit of life at hand. The morning started a little late than normal weekdays. Mummy never needed to scroll through hundred channels on youtube to prepare a delicious meal. She did that beautifully out of her own experience. Television which was restricted to limited hours for kids on weekdays was left all at our whims. Back then, no one told us what to do. Neither had we cared about the next day’s schedule. Evening started a little earlier when we came out to play. Back then, a match of cricket or kabaddi or just an ideal talk with neighbourhood friends brought more pleasure than watching an online viral video. At night the whole family huddled around television to jointly savour any movie bestowed on us by erstwhile Doordarshan. Back then, Sunday meant an actual carefree holiday.

It may sound like being nostalgic or brooding over the past, but Sundays count among many other things that I miss from my childhood. In today’s overburdened busy life keeping myself reserved on Sunday is a way to connect to my past and to myself. These days, we are struggling to keep pace with streaming fast life, mindlessly consuming bombarding information, competing to prove our worth in ever demanding professions and actually disconnecting to connect online in virtual world. We are clueless and trapped in chambers which echoes everyone else's opinion except our own. An intermittent period of deafening silence and luxurious leisure to really know ourselves is all what we need. I want Sunday to be that period of mine.The stay-active-stay-fast schedule has crept over all of us. It has taken away the immense joy in sitting idly. There is no crime in being lazy for a day. In fact ,there is pleasure in staying afloat in our thoughts with no purpose at all. There is real pleasure in a lazy Sunday. Try it for yourself. :)

Thank you for reading

Mere Odd-Even Ayenge- Karan Arjun Revisited

*Also on theindiasatire.com*

http://www.theindiasatire.com/2016/04/mere-odd-even-ayenge-karan-arjun.html

It’s an action-packed story. No, it is a thriller. Alright, let us not be partial, it is an action-packed suspense oriented melodramatic emotional thriller.

This is not an ordinary punar-janam script. It is the Baap of all of them.

It goes like:

Once upon a time in the urban fartlands of Dilligarh there lived a rustic and dreadful Thakur. Thakur Durgandh Singh. Durgandh? Because his presence created an atmosphere of durgandh-read toxic gases- in the village. The two sons of Thakur, Nitrate Singh and Sulphate Singh, had intoxicated the atmosphere of the village by setting up many industries, construction units and crop burning that emitted noxious gases. Particulate and construction dust lingered now on the otherwise clean air of Dilligarh. People were afraid of their presence. Where other villagers moved in cart or bicycle, Thakur and his crony family, sister BEHENzene and mother  AMMAnia vroomed past on dusty roads in their  motor vehicle. The naive villagers did never object to the noxious gases their vehicle emitted and consoled themselves with just covering their nose with a torn piece of cloth. Whoever raised his or her  voice against Thakur khandaan polluting habits were meted a capital punishment of forever living in toilet-less slum. The ignominy and horror of openly defecating in a field ensured that no one ever attempted a dissent. The tyranny of Thakur khandan abjectly left the villagers to meekly surrender and suffer in an atmosphere of above permissible limits of Durgandh, Behenzene, AMMAnia, Nitrate and Sulphate. 

Happy Chinese Diwali Sir

“No, I will not buy any Chinese lights this Diwali”, said the Additional District magistrate (ADM)  suavely, as he signed papers brought to him by his aged office babu.

The babu nodded in affirmative. But the affirmation was not loud enough , so saaheb looked straight into the eyes of babu and repeated “NO CHINESE ITEMS!! I say”.

The automatic response system of babu was triggered, “Sir,sir, sir,sir” . Every inch of his body shook in affirmation. ADM saaheb was fond of repeated ‘sir’ in a row and the babu just gave him enough.

“Very well sir, I will shortly arrange to send 100 diyas  and 50 candles to your home . No Chinese items sir”, babu grinned. The last line pleased the officer more than the combination of 150 diyas and candle.

Himanshu, a man aged around 30 but a young boy by Provincial civil services examination standards, observed the ADM saaheb and his Babu. Having completed his training schedule  he  had reported for joining as Sub Divisional Magistrate. Thus he displayed all the more interest in the ADM saaheb’s administrative manners.

“Guptaji, a diwali without Dipak is as bad as  India without Vikas”, the officer laughed a self congratulatory laugh at his self manifested  bureaucratic joke. Devoid of any other option Himanshu too chuckled in unison.

Soon ADM saaheb put up a brooding face, leaned back in his chair, straightened his leg beneath a massive wooden table, rested his hand on side arms and looked purposefully into the eyes of babu. The Babu was unfazed by such tectonic shifts in his officer’s composure. He knew that in those purposeful gaze of his saaheb there lies no purpose. Only he will  soon be exposed to words more foreign than French, all originating from his officer’s mouth. His 33 years of experience had taught him that Saahebs suffer from  verbal diarrhea which is often spilled out as moronic monologue in form of essays. Essays, they once could not complete in PCS written examination due to paucity of time and inherent word limit.

ADM saaheb started with a misplaced discourse on  Mao revolution in China to flaunt his knowledge in history , then switched to Doklam issue to proclaim his understanding of current affairs, then tuned to give a philosophical discourse on reason behind boycott of Chinese lights and support of local earthen diyas to brandish his mastery in Philosophy. In the end as a mark of patriotic feeling and deep understanding of geography he also lauded the Army Jawans especially in Siachen.  Expecting a standing ovation, he turned towards Himanshu, who by now had adapted to the administrative atmospheric conditions and  knew just what to do.  “Sir,sir, sir,sir”, he nodded.  

In any casual discourse a bureaucrat feels hollow until he/she drops a name of a poet or a writer and mouths a few stanzas of poem or a quote that establishes his/her interest in literature too. So ADM saaheb  pitched in a name of a hindi poet Gopal Das Neeraj and few stanza of his poem that he claimed he remembers from his class 8^th hindi book and not from any recent facebook post:

Diye se mitega na man ka andhera,

Dhara ko uthao, gagan ko bujhao.

Bahut baar aayi yeh Diwali,

Magar tam jahan tha wahin khada hai.

Himanshu gestured in a way to resemble that he want to clap but has only restrained his jubilation in respect of his senior. In a more dignified and bureaucratic way he settled for a smile and remarked, “Sir,Sir,Sir,Sir”  . 
Sensing the explosion of a boring jam session between the two officers and with a satisfaction of a sprinter in relay race who has just handed the baton to another , the babu  left the room in quick hurry.

ADM saaheb had discovered  a keen disciple in Himanshu and now expected inquisitiveness  in the young officer. Himanshu did not let him down.

“But sir these days  even the earthen diyas are also Chinese made”, he tried to look worried.

“Arey nahi??”, ADM saaheb was amused,  as if he was presented with a secret report on Chinese invasion and wanted more of it.

“Yes sir”, Himanshu sensed the eagerness and said “ even our native gods available in market Ganesh-Lakshmi  are Chinese made. Their eyes have shrunken to the Chinese proportions sir”

“WHAT?”, ADM saaheb was struck with a thunder bolt. The revelation of Chinese intrusion into  the Indian culture punctured his nationalistic arousal.

“Now I see”, he said in bemusement “why  Radha and Krishna  look like twins in that glittering idol I brought from Mathura. Both look so chinese..ehh” .

A mobile ringtone interrupted his chain of thought. ADM saaheb laid his hand on Xiaomi  Redmi Note 4 mobile  he recently brought from flipkart big billion day sale.

“Home Ministry, you see dear”, he smiled meekly to Himanshu as he answered his wife’s call.

The voice from the other side echoed into the suddenly created vaccum in the chamber.

“Bring those multi coloured LED lights when you come back.  Diwali is three days away, I can’t keep  supplementing oil and wick in your earthen lamps. And dear! I have bought a designer Ganesh-Lakshmi  idol this time. They are so beautiful; you will love the eyes they have. ”

ADM saaheb submissively kept the phone back on table, turned towards Himanshu and passed a sheepish smile, “ Home Ministry dear, you see!.”

Himanshu smiled back and concluded, " Happy Chinese Diwali sir".

Thankyou for reading

Rain Rain Go Away, Don't Come Another Day

Have you read the nursery rhyme which goes like:

Rain Rain Go Away Come Again Another day, Little Johnny wants to play.

This rhyme always makes me wonder why does Johnny wants the rain to go away? What game is he involved in that he can't play now in the rain. How selfish of him to be bothered about his game and not the rain's as it tries to play along with the thirsty earth. Why can't he play an indoor game and let the rain play outside?. "Come again another day?" Johnny! are you nuts? What are the chances that on an another day you will not be annoyed by rain again. Oh Johnny! don’t throw tantrums and give us a break. Please you boy let the rain just rain.

How can someone not like rain. What if Johnny was not Johnny? What if he was a native Indian Jassi or Hari? Or say our own street lad Hariya who jumps and waddles in any knee deep water overflowing from a drain just after the first showers. I could have bet a thousand tomatoes, when the price of tomatoes were Rs 120/Kg, on any Indian lad for liking showers.

Few years back after every hot summer day I prayed for rain. When it rained I prayed for more. When it didn't rain for many days I was saddened by the poor state of farmers as reported in newspapers. At the sight of dark rain clouds my eyes welled up with joy, my heart leapt like a frog. As my face felt the gush of cool winds  preceding the showers, I was reminded of 'Kaali megha, kalli Megha, Baadal to barsao' song from the movie Lagaan. I have bicycled in rain, floated paper boats in water streams adjacent to paved roads, I have splashed and jumped in puddles. Few years back I loved rain and loathed Johnny.

But not now. Now I hate any sign of rain and appreciate Johnny's concern. No one has a right to interfere with a child's play and an adult's peace not even rain. Not even when it rains only on few days in an entire monsoon season.

Rain and me stopped being on talking terms since the day I officially joined as a Railway engineer in Kanpur. One of the busiest railway yard on the busiest route of Indian Railway, Kanpur was the symbolic blue eyed boy of Allahabad division. So much so that even a little congestion in train traffic due to any minor technical failure sent the blue eyed boy into tantrums. When Kanpur irked, Allahabad ouched. In no time all concerned officials would reach railway station to pamper Kanpur.

Once the not so benevolent rain god was benevolent over Kanpur. After months of sweltering  summer rain was a welcome affair for all. So was it for me. But the intensity of benevolence was so heavy that within hours an entire yard of Kanpur station was submerged in water. Track circuits were down, Signals failed, tracks were inundated and trains were literally cruising in water. As more rain poured all platform lines cried for help. Help meant pumping out the water. Pumping out the water was possible but arranging a pump at 02:00 A.M was not. Moreover, the final outlet of yard was into a municipal drain which itself was flooded.  Everyone tried his/her best including making several phone calls and updating every possible railway organism about the situation (we are perfect in it). The series of phone calls went through the night. When rain stopped and water receded at its own pace it was wide daylight. I was tormented by the experience and wished not so heavy rain again. The bitterness in my relationship with rain shifted levels as I and my colleagues spent several sleepless nights attending failures at station.

The work profile and work place has changed for me now. But my equation with rain has only soured thereafter. In my story rain has become that wicked villain that never lets the hero to relax in peace. If it rains we have to rush to a remote location just to ensure the smooth running of trains over an under construction bridge.

A minor water leakage over platform shed is not dangerous at all unless it starts making round as a lethal image in whatsapp groups.

Questions are raised over our ability, we are reminded about our accountability till we feel guilty and then in one such rainy day someone fixes the responsibility. The erstwhile culprit Rain goes clean as always.

So when an entire country wishes an early arrival of monsoon, I wish it never arrives. In newspaper reports of monsoon forecast I inadvertently look out for El-Nino. When it rains normal people think of hot tea and pakodas while we railwaymen think of water in yards, bridges, leaky roofs, breaches, caution in speed of trains etc.

Rain has become an imaginary thief breaking into my empty house as we are away on a vacation. Mere sight of rain clouds sends shivers down my body as if someone is threatening me with a "Duguna Lagaan Lagega" consequence.

As I try to grab and write my thoughts, a close friend of mine is all set for his pre-wedding engagement. A forecast of high intensity rainfall is also beaming across news channels. My mind is split into two: one half planning to be alongside my friend on his ring ceremony. The other half is worried about rain and the 24 hour vigil near newly constructed bridges over tracks. After much deliberation, mental confusion and my wife's persuasion I firmly rekindled the faith in the unreliability of meteorological department and am all set to attend the ceremony. Thus how I was reminded of that old nursery rhyme:

Rain Rain bloody go away,

And don't show your face on any other day.

Thankyou for reading.

Travel: Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary- Bird's Paradise

Keoladeo Ghana National park or the better known Bharatpur Bird sanctuary is as good a heaven for birds as it is for birdwatchers.  Thanks to almost no rainfall this season both were missing from this spectacular natures abode as we planned an almost sudden trip to Bharatpur.

On Friday night we looked around for places in an around Aligarh for a much needed weekend break. Just before we fell for Delhi (yuk again!!) Google baba enlightened us with a 110km far sanctuary. It was non-other than  Bharatpur , the one  we all might have marked as red dot in school geography Atlas book. By 8 am next morning  me and my spouse hit the road and by 11 am we were in Bharatpur.  We checked in a government guest house and allowed our lethargic body to compensate for a lesser morning sleep.

Bharatpur is a small district in Rajasthan and shares border with Mathura and Agra in Uttar Pradesh. It is well connected by road and rail networks. Nearest airports  are in Delhi and Jaipur, both roughly  180 km away by road and is accessible within 3 to 4 hrs of road journey.  From Agra it takes around 1.5 hr via a four laned highway and from Mathura around 40 minutes via a two lane highway . It is also part of the itinerary on the much acclaimed Indian Railways Palace on Wheels (http://www.thepalaceonwheels.com/detailed-tours.html)

The official  website of Rajasthan Tourism (http://tourism.rajasthan.gov.in/bharatpur) boasts  numerous sites to visit in and around Bharatpur. But trust me none of them can compete with the aura of the National Park. I would rather suggest not to waste time in other average locations labeled as tourist spots and better spend as much time as possible inside the national park.

In our case we googled several such locations on our way to Bharatpur. So on Saturday afternoon we headed for Lohagarh fort. It was beautiful, but only in google images. The actual fort was dilapidated and  was crying for restoration. Well built concrete houses plagued the inside of fortress and it never matched either to our expectations nor to the website descriptions. A museum was under renovation or may be under construction. The guard at the gate was polite enough to inform us about its closure even before we stepped out of the vehicle. Thus, we were also denied the selfie-moment with the museum.

Having suffered two blows to our plan in two successive steps we abandoned other alleged tourist spots and headed for the place Bharatpur is known for- the bird sanctuary.

It was 3 pm when we arrived at the entrance of the national park. A long straight road surrounded on either side by vast open green field and trees welcomed us. We knew we are at the right place.

The sanctuary or Keoladeo Ghana national park is 6 km away from railway station and has several hotels ranging from high to low budget near to the main entrance. It is a vast stretch (appx 29 sqkm)of man made wet land, a world heritage site and literally Mecca for bird watchers. Our guide informed us that it receives an average daily  footfall of 4000 visitors during winters i.e from November to February. Although winter is the peak season for migratory birds and so for tourists but the beauty of this national park can be relished throughout the year.

The park is opened from sunrise to sunset. Per person ticket charges is Rs 75 for Indian Nationals. It is advisable for first time visitors to hire a guide for few hours and then roam around at will. Guide charges are Rs 150 per hour. Hiring time starts from the time printed on entrance ticket and half an hour is charged as a complete hour. Or you can hire a hand-pull Rickshaw without a guide for Rs 100 per hour. The best way to explore the wilderness is on rented bicycles @ 40 per/day.

So did we and never regretted a minute spent inside the park riding our way through. As sun played
 hide and seek with cloud we pedaled at a brisk pace on a narrow paved road. As far as our sight could reach the land was covered in a green blanket. We sat near a watchtower for over an hour and  breathed  silence of the nature. The atmosphere was a perfect tranquilizer from the mundane din of cities. One could not resist feeling as if lying in the lap of mother nature.

At one place several  Jamun trees (Indian blackberry) are lined up on both sides along the road. After parking  our bicycles I tried justifying  the extraordinarily priced DSLR camera with below ordinary shots. As I explored the wilderness my spouse explored Jamun trees. While the market rate of Jamun was Rs 100/kg we enjoyed the deliciously tasty Jamuns for free.

Our guide never missed a chance to impress us with his knowledge of english names of birds. Pelicans, cranes, wild ducks, bee-eaters, warblers and what not-he churned out several names as we moved on.  May be that was his warm up before the tourist season. One could easily spot Nil gai, monkeys, Reindeer , jackal as well.

The sanctuary is named after an ancient Shiva temple ‘Keoladeo’ located  at the end of the straight paved road. The temple is appx. 6 km from the entrance so to and fro ride is around 12 kms. In between there are several nature trails ( unpaved natural paths) which may take you further  deep into the sanctuary. If you go by a bicycle such trails are highly recommended.  A government run canteen is present near the entrance and one near the temple. And if you are lucky the canteen might be open as well. So don’t expect any eateries inside rather carry in your food and water and do carry out empty wrappers and bottles. Few hotels deliver packed lunch inside the park for which it is better to talk to your guide or the hotel you have stayed in.

Keoladeo Shiv Temple

As is customary in all temples that are labeled ‘praachin’(ancient), the priest assured us that all our wishes will come true here. I made none, my spouse made a dozen and the priest  stood in anticipation. Not for our wishes to come true but for our wallets to come out. We made some offerings which if not impressed Lord Shiva then it definitely impressed the priest. At the end of the tour we all were happy – me, my spouse, the priest and Keoladeo.