The House with the Color Television

 I. The Kohinoor of the Lane

One summer morning in early 1980s, in a modest neighborhood of a sleepy town of Cuttack, my best friend Kuna and me, stood frozen, stunned, utterly dumbstruck.

A pickup truck stood right Infront of the Marwadi Seth’s house, and men loaded the household items one by one. Iron trunks screeched against the concrete. Utensils clanged and thudded. Furniture groaned as it was dragged out into the unforgiving morning light.

This awakened the neighborhood with a huff.

Our lane was a graveyard of ancestral pride, lined with rickety and crumbling houses that were once symbols of prosperity. Homes which were once made by proud and successful forefathers, now left in the hands of wayward children unworthy of that rich lineage.

A familiar sour smell hung in the air as the household waste water slushed leisurely through the open drains – a smell which was slightly inconvenient but well tolerated by the accustomed neighborhood.

However, to us children, this lane wasn’t an echo from the past but a joyful playground of infinite possibilities, with adventures waiting for us at every corner.

“Pintu, are you listening to me”?

Kuna rocked me like a goli soda bottle, forcing me to come out of my reverie.

“What”? I blinked, startled.

“Arrey baba” he said, voice heavy with betrayal. “Jignesh is a liar. He told us it was all a rumour. And now look at this!” said Kuna, dejected.

Now, the Seth family in our lane were all together a different story.

It is said that the Seth came from Rajasthan with nothing and used to roam around as a street vendor selling “Har ek Maal Saadhe Saat Rupaiaya” (all items for Rs 7.50 only).

Through sheer hard work and an entrepreneurial mindset, he prospered. First, he opened a small shop and then several more, and now is the owner of one of the largest garment shops in the city.

That is the success story of everyone who does hard work and shows perseverance.

It may appear strange how such a rich man landed up in a lane like ours. Some elders in the lane say that the Seth started his “Saadhe Saat Rupaiya” business from our lane and found the people to be very amiable and kind. As a result, when his fortune changed, he bought an old, dilapidated, large house and renovated it for himself and his family.

And some renovation it was.

The house emerged transformed, painted bright and proud, its windows always open. And Seth did something no one else in the lane ever did.

He invited us in.

Though we had seen it from the outside, what we saw inside blew our mind.

It seemed as if we had stepped in to a Bollywood cinema set - a large, lavish house with the latest furniture and expensive upholsteries with the latest gadgets and all items that comfort can want and more. The home had five bedrooms with a large drawing and dining room. Each of the kids had their own bedroom, with rooms painted in the choice of their colors, curtains and bedsheets carefully picked up by the Sethani which had Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters printed on them, smiling at you from every corner.

Once invited in, men sat on his sofas. Women admired the curtains. Children wandered without being yelled at. He did not ask anyone to leave. Everyone was welcome as the familiar warmth of Seth and his family embraced one and all.

And inside, glowing like a relic stolen from the future, stood the color television. It was indeed a rare possession for the lane and the Seth took great pride in showcasing it. It occupied a pride of place in his drawing room, sitting atop the teakwood table, polished and shining like a true Kohinoor diamond.

The first time I saw it, I thought it was alive.

Colors moved inside it. Actual colors, not the muddy greys of the black-and-white set that we saw in shops or other wealthy households. When actors cried, their tears shone. When songs played, dresses exploded with blues and reds I had never seen together.

With a VHS player.

And stacks of movie cassettes.

Little did we know then that this Kohinoor carried a curse of its own, and that our excitement around it would quietly grow into the source of many troubles and small miseries that waited for us in the days ahead.

***

II. The Departure

The next day morning the final loading began.

What met me outside was an incredible scene where the entire neighborhood had gathered outside their house to see off one of the most beloved family leave the lane.

Women, stopped mid-way from their Jhoti - making Infront of their houses - a traditional practice of creating Rangoli with rice flour against a background of mostly dried cow dung on the road, which was beautiful, aesthetic, and very Odia.

I looked at Kuna grinning in that infuriating, devil-may-care attitude of his.

It was very much like Kuna and I looked at him visibly irritated.

“Sanga, why are you cross with me?” Kuna said.

“Arrey, naahin Sanga”. I jumped before he could answer. I am just so sad to see Jignesh and his family leave the lane. It feels strange,” I said, trying to be as sincere and with as straight a face as possible.

Kuna looked at me for a long second, then snorted. “Don’t give me that, Pintu. White lies and all.”

“What white lie?”

“Are you really sad that Jignesh is leaving,” he said, folding his arms, “or are you mourning the loss of the colour TV, the VHS player, and our shameless back-to-back ‘free shows’ at his place?”

This time I did not get angry with him.

For the first time, the fool made sense and paraphrased our shared emotions correctly.

Suddenly Jignesh and his family came out of their house, met the people of the neighborhood and piled up in two hand pulled rickshaws.

The truck pulled out of the bend and the last sight of the packed TV, perched atop the furniture, was a sight so heart rendering that both Kuna and I let out a shriek, startling the neighbors and infuriating our parents, inviting royal size slaps from our respective fathers.

Jignesh turned, confused, trying to understand why his leaving hurt us so much.

I don’t think he ever did.

***

III. The Failed Plan

Once the Seths departed and both of us went off to Kanika Kothi, the old palace where we hid when home felt unsafe. No one owned the palace, though its walls had broken and bats and rumors haunted its rooms.

Once alone, Kuna said “Actually, Sanga, I wanted to tell you that all hopes are not lost with Jignesh’s departure”.

He smiled with his eyes gleaming with the fire of a conspirator

 “There is a house in our close neighborhood of Sri Vihar Colony where a drunkard lives. It is said that the drunkard is a wealthy heir and has the entire house and all the wealth to enjoy”. He said drawing an air of mystery around the tale.

He continued. I was dying inside with excitement at the mystery and getting irritated at Kuna for not telling it quick enough.

“The whole day the man does nothing except drink and lay in his drawing room Infront of a large imported color television with movies playing in the VHS, which is also imported. What’s more, the window is always open for anyone to see whenever they want to”.

Both of us happily shrieked and squealed as he blurted out the last few details excited of the possibilities that lay ahead for us.

 There and then it was decided that Kuna and I would try to go for the movie watching at the drunkard’s house the very next afternoon.

Afternoon, of course, was the problem.

The tricky part was that it was peak summer vacation and most parents considered afternoon siesta sacred. It is not only a habit but an institution in itself in eastern India. People ate, melted in to deep slumber and awakened unreasonably refreshed and cheerful by afternoon 4 pm. Nay, in Odisha, afternoon was popularly known as char ita bele (4 o’ clock) as life truly geared up and resumed for the evening after that.

Stepping out then was dangerous.

Now I had my misgivings on this new adventure which I shared with Kuna.

However, he convinced me that this is a trip worth taking and that we should not miss it for anything.

Convinced, against my better judgment, we decided to sneak out the next day during the afternoon siesta.

 The next day afternoon, two little boys tried to escape for their mid-summer adventure but barely made it past the doorstep.

One of us tripped over utensils kept for washing.

Unfortunately, it was me.

 The noise woke up Kuna’s household as well.

They caught him mid escape.

That afternoon, the neighborhood could no longer sleep as it reverberated with the wailing and bawling of two innocent boys at the mercy of their fierce mothers.

Later that evening, we met up. Battered brothers who have fallen through hard times. Bruised, humiliated but our resolve now stubborn and hardened. Our plan was not going to die. We thought about the most opportune time when we could make the plan work without raising any doubt with the parents, especially the two heartless fathers.

It was decided that we will do it during the evening grocery run.

Evening grocery run was when each household will send their kids to fetch groceries from the local shop. As the fathers were too tired after a long day of office work & travel, it generally fell on kids like me and Kuna to fetch the groceries. Our incentive was a chocolate or a lollypop and if one was lucky, eat the tasty Dahibara Aloo Dum, the hallmark of Cuttack.

It was perfect. Trusted. Routine. Invisible.

So, two days after the last beating, we were handed our grocery lists and sent out. The two friends walked toward the local shop—

and quietly took a detour toward our cherished destination – the drunkard’s house.

***

IV. The Final Run

On and on we went, crossing roads, neighborhood and every rule meant to bind us back; with the breeze in our hair – truly carefree like the bird. The sun was setting; crimson light bled into the streets, staining the walls and stretching our shadows into uneasy shapes. The evening felt unreal, cinematic. It fueled us, pushed us forward.

We did not know what lay in store for us as in Jignesh’s case, we knew beforehand which movie will play. This uncertainty thrilled us & propelled us forward.

We finally reached the drunkard house. It was a palatial bungalow with long driveway and manicured lawn with a central fountain and our real point of attraction: the backyard. We snuck up the wall and landed on the other side of the narrow lane.

Through the open window, light spilled out: blue, yellow, impossible.

What met our eyes was unbelievable! A massive imported TV was playing the Amitabh Bacchan blockbuster Sharaabi - Fate had a macabre sense of humor, showing a movie about a drunkard to our very own resident drunkard.

Then we watched.

And watched.

And watched.

Time evaporated as the movie took us through various twist & turns as a lovable drunk with a golden heart drink his way through daddy issues, falls in love, sings iconic songs, and somehow proves that being Sharaabi is a personality trait, not a problem. And inside the room the reel was playing out the real!

“Arrey, sighra asi ki cassette badala… Nua bhala filim laga” (“Come and change the cassette and put on a good new film”) The drunkard shouted in Odia to his man servant when the movie ended.

What bliss!

V. All Hell Breaks Loose

That’s when we heard a gasping sound and turned.

“You scoundrels! Do you know what you’ve done?” shouted Jena Uncle, our neighbor. “Your families have been searching for two hours. The whole neighborhood is out looking for you. Your fathers are at the police station; and here you are, watching movies like thieves!”

The noise drew people from the neighborhood. Hands grabbed us, pinned us down, just as we tried to escape.

Off went Jena uncle to inform our fathers.

All our bad luck.

That devil, he took the effort to take out his scooter and transport our fathers so that he can have a ringside view to the entertainment that will unfold!

No longer that Jena Babu hit the brake that both our fathers jumped out from behind and descended on us.

All hell broke loose.

Slaps, kicks, punches as if it was a WWF with no rules. Random slapping, kick, punch – all followed with generous number of unmentionable expletives which in some cases casted doubt on their genuine fatherhood and having sired the both of us. The pain & hurt was there but the shame cut deeper.

From the corner of our eyes, we could see the drunkard ambling out of his house to see what the commotion is all about.

Kuna, ever the wiser, pleaded, “Papa, please, everyone is watching. Let’s go home.”

That only fueled the rage.

This infuriated his father Mangaraj Babu so much that it tempted him to tell my father “whatsay Ahmed babu? These little brats have developed a sense of prestige and self-importance. Let’s give these fine gentlemen some more treatment so that they develop wider prestige all around” Said he gleefully. Trying to match his tempo, my father said, “lets drag this vagabond all the way up to home and teach them a lesson so that they will not repeat it”.

What followed was incredibly embarrassing and shameful with the best of Gaalis. Mothers and sisters reference were used so much that at one point of time we started to feel protective of them given how they were unnecessarily getting dragged and names getting misused.

In between, I mustered up the courage and told my father “maa – behen ke baare mein kuch nahin sununga” (“will not bear to listen anything related to my mother & sister”).

This infuriated my father so much and threw him in such a fit that he started hitting with greater intensity. That day everyone on the way just looked on stunned.

People stared. No one intervened.

The procession of the two fathers, their sons, Jena Babu and some onlookers entered our lane. The expletives stopped as both the fathers had some degree of social prestige in the lane and also, they did not want to come across as ungentlemanly in front of the ladies. However, the hitting continued. The neighbors poured out and formed a line along the lane as if giving a grand salute to us, the returning victors! while some thanked the lord and other philosophized about the transient nature of life, some old devils gleefully wished the two devils (us) had drowned in the muddy pond than to have caused such grief to their parents!

***

VI. The Redemption

By next day, the lane had gone quiet. The afternoon cricket seemed to have paused somewhere even as the chalked line of the cricket creases waited for its heroes to begin the fierce war of cricket. The news of the beating had spread across the length and breadth of the lane and beyond.

Just as the dusk began to settle resignedly, he suddenly appeared, swaying slightly as always.

It was the drunkard from the Sri Vihar colony.

Everybody was shocked to see him appear in the lane, almost from nowhere. He was someone whose reputation preceded him, and in not so good way either. Hence, his appearance was not only surprising but was considered to be inauspicious & ominous. His appearance did not help ether - shirt crumpled, hair unkempt and eyes strangely shifting beneath the haze. Behind him, two boys from the electronics shop carried a boxed television set and a second carton, a brand-new VHS player.

The lane stirred and suddenly came to life.

What is this? Who called him here? Who told him anything?

He stood in the middle of the narrow road, cleared his throat, and for once did not slur. “I heard,” he said quietly. “Heard what happened.” His eyes moved to our verandah where Kuna and I sat, visibly battered, silent and withdrawn. He looked at us for a moment, then looked away, as if the sight of us had confirmed something he had already decided.

“A TV is a mere machine. A box with wires & a screen with light”. He started, as if talking to himself. He turned to the people standing in the lane and continued “It should never become a reason for children to suffer.” As if a pointed references & reproach to the fathers who had gathered there. His word hung heavy and solemn in the lane. No one spoke.

“And it should never,” he added, voice tightening, “become the reason for love to disappear.”

Someone muttered that this was none of his business. He smiled, not offended, just tired.

“I grew up with the best that money can buy. My parents had three televisions,” he said. “Imported ones. Big house. Drivers. Servants. Everything.” He paused.

“Except time.”

“I would sit in front of those screens,” he continued, now his voice mushy & soft, “waiting for them to come sit beside me.” He swallowed & choked. “They never did.” There was no accusation in his tone. It was as if he was reading from memory.

“So,” he said, straightening, as if steadying more than his balance, “put this in the clubhouse. Let all the children watch together. Matches, movies, whatever they like.” He looked again toward the verandah. “No child should think a thing is more important than them.” The shop boys placed the boxes inside the small community room, the one with peeling paint and a broken ceiling fan.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, quietly, I & Kuna stepped out and walked up to the man everyone called useless. “Thank you,” both of us said. Not loudly. Not with any drama. Just enough.

The drunkard nodded once.

As he turned to leave, his steps were steadier than before. Both the fathers avoided each other’s eyes.

Inside the clubhouse, someone plugged the television in. The screen flickered to life; a blue glow filling the small room.

In the meanwhile, something else had changed in the lane. That night, more than one father sat beside his child: not in front of a screen, but on the doorstep, talking.

And the drunkard from Sri Vihar Colony?

For the first time in years, he did not stop for a drink.

He walked home under the streetlights, hands in pockets, carrying nothing and yet lighter than he had been in decades...

******

Modern Love Hyderabad Review

Watched Modern Love Hyderabad 2 weekends back and was totally floored by the whole series. What rich tapestry of human emotions and hues of relationship delicately and heart warmingly woven into a tale of ordinary humans going about their ordinary lives yet standing out due to a unifying emotions tying them all together - Love....

Be it the tentative, now halting now overflowing love between a daughter and a mother held together by culinary delicacies and gustatory overtures, the trick that the mind plays as a two lovers find, lose and rediscover love through a common medium of slipper!, the agonising and lacerating tale of a young boy separated from her only support - the grandmother and wondering for a lifetime on why she left him only to rediscover the love through a tiny hand clutching his little finger & pulling him back to the circle of love, on the heartless world of cinema and daily soaps, the concern of a father for her growing & marriageable daughter and a girl trying to find her soulmate through analogies drawn from the animal world!

No series could have been as diverse as "Modern day Love Hyderabad" and the first thought any producer or critic could think of would be that it would land up in great disasters. But thanks to Nagesh Kuknoor for most part and other directors, no such mishap was seen. All the stories just warmed your cockles and few of them made you reach out for that box of tissues - I did especially for the episode "Why did she leave me there...?"

A refreshing departure from the run of the mill extreme narratives in all contemporary genres of its time, "Modern Love Hyderabad '' touches you deep within making the character relatable and  in tales which are achingly beautiful steeped in love and  romance which is soul touching. The series was so overwhelming in the beauty of the narrative and characterisation that I was unable to watch it in one go as I needed the time to soak in the bliss and let my soul bathe in the eternal tale of love, romance and relationships. 

Folks, watch it at the risk of falling in love all over again....

Half Lives

 

Shuttling between office and home,

shouldering the personal and professional,

one wonders if one is not leading a half life...

 

Leaving small cities with eyes full of dreams

and a resolution in the heart to make life fulfilling...

Fulfilling those dreams to settle in city of dreams,

yet looking back at the small city left behind…

the nostalgic memory and few places which seems to be frozen in history

as if waiting for you to return to once again embrace it...

 

A waft of morning breeze, a smattering of familiar smells, 

bringing back suddenly waves of long past memories

deepening the feeling of half lives being led...

A promise of solidarity,

of being there with one's own loved ones

being relegated to the background in view of " life's priorities"

 

A journey which began in making the life full

now appears to be falling somewhere short,

showing the meaningless pursuit and mirages once chased...

 

I come to my balcony, looking at my piece of blue expanse

 that I pay handsomely to get a view,

I hear the sudden catching of breath from my adjacent balcony...

Looking at my neighbour's balcony,

I see a reflection of me staring right back at me

with the same journey and question in his eye –

" have we all lived and continue to live half lives?"...

The Migrant Worker

                          

 "Donon ka ik hi rasta hai     

Donon jalti tapti sadak par            

Suraj ki garmi se pighalte

Nange paanv

Apne thhake kandhon par

Apni bhookh aur pyas ki gatthri lekar

Jaane kitni sadiyon se yun hi chalte hain" (Javed Akhtar)

                               

                                      "And both are seeing it                                        

Both on the hot burning road

Melting in the scorching sun

Barefoot

On their tired shoulders

Carrying their luggage of hunger and thirst

Don’t know for how many centuries

They have been walking like this" (Javed Akhtar)

 

The Covid19 lockdown was declared in the country on 24th March, 2020 leading to the massive mass migration of the migrant workers across the country walking back home thus evoking multitude of emotions. Well my post is not an analysis of the mass migration, the utter chaos and bad planning behind it. May be that is a topic for some other time.

 My post is on the similarity and contrasts that migrant workers have with each other and how their lives intersect & diverge in reality and figuratively. 

 Having seen the moving image of the mass migration and having closely worked in providing relief to many such workers, the closest imagery that comes to me as a similarity is a moving image of someone close to me, someone I know...

 

And that person is me...

 

While the migrant workers mentioned here are at a basic subsistence level, one may argue on how do I identify myself with them? While I may be better paid many times over as compared to the workers in question, the other criteria that defines them also defines me.

 Many may feel, at this point in time, that I am over romanticising the comparison and that it is taken out of proportion. Allow me to explain and then you may draw your conclusions as you feel fit.

 When I am comparing myself and millions of other middle class sons and daughters coming from smaller cities to work in larger cities for better employment opportunity, actually I am drawing up a context, situation and reality which is akin, if not as stark, to the migrant workers under mention.

 Millions of middle class youngsters like me set out to establish themselves in today's world through better education and training. However, when such an education is over and then they start looking for suitable opportunity closer home, such opportunity forever eludes them as it is simply not there. Having no other options, they take up jobs and career options in larger cities thereby subjecting themselves to the bondage of a life time away from their home and hearth.

 Living in small cubicles which are called living spaces in modern cities, they get used to their little windows & balconies giving them a piece of the universe - which is always silent, does not talk to them and has no answer for them... With parents left in the smaller cities, the middle class son & daughter lives a dual life as one part of their being is with their parents - worried sick if they are doing well, depending on goodwill & charity of friends / relatives when they fall ill / have to be hospitalised and forever dying of guilt of how they can be of no use to their parents when they need their children the most...

 They try hard to go back but as they progress in their career, it becomes increasingly difficult for them to go back as similar opportunity can never be created or are available in their home states. Grudgingly and reluctantly they continue to trudge along living a life,  which though is full of comfort and better amenities but forever missing the joy, fun and the familiar camaraderie of an era gone by...

 Such urban robots work their whole life paying for endless EMIs, bills and expenses hoping against hope that one day they will get a chance to go back...

 Rushing through the maze of life in the cities, they however pause, even if for a little while, when they smell the earthy smell of the moist earth after the first rain, a random smell of food wafting through the air or the fun of kids playing a 'competitive' game of cricket on the road... The imageries achingly reminding them of a time when they were alive, bustling with energy and looking forward to life with hope and aspirations in their eyes...

 Back home their parents are proud of them and would not stop showing off to their friends and relatives of the good job & life their children and grandchildren are leading... However, the parents are very careful to hide the sense of emptiness and hollowness which comes from the knowledge that their near and dear ones are not with them when they need them the most... The parents always encourage their children to do well in their life and march ahead in the competition but once in a while you will hear a silent whisper, almost like a fervent prayer to their creator, when they ask you this question over telephone while trying to sound casual " do you see any new openings in the state which may be suitable for you".... Hoping against hope that there is actually such openings which will ensure that their loved ones return home... 

 The longings, the fear, the insecurity and the sense of emptiness is the same in all types of migrant workers - be it the one walking back home or be it the one sitting in posh flats wishing that they could also go back home...

 Is there a way out of it...? Is there a solution which will magically restore the migrant workers back to their native place...? Is there an answer to the many prayers that parents across this country are making to atleast have their family around them in the last leg of their journey... ?

 I don’t know nor do I have the answer... Some of you may say that the answer lies in entrepreneurship and entrepreneurial spirit of starting something back home... The answer to such suggestion is that many lack the entrepreneurial spirit as in the India of 70s, 80s & 90s (where the current generation of white collar migrant workers grew up in) had families which stressed on education and finding good jobs to sustain yourself. Such an approach has not bred the spirit of entrepreneurship and there is a very miniscule of people from this generation who actually go back and start something on their own - the local regulatory & economic conditions also not being conducive to such start-ups...

 So where does it leave the  migrant workers at... Well that leaves us at the cross road of emotions, longings and a sense of emptiness & hollowness in what could have been and what the imaginary possibilities were... Till such time that one formally retires from work and returns back to the cherished land to find out that over a period of time you are suddenly considered an outsider by virtue of staying out of the state for a long time...

 

Hence the migrant worker, sadly, will always be a migrant worker - in search of his identity in a city which considers him an alien and which he equally considers as a foreign place, never adopting each other, never comfortable with each other and never belonging to each other... '

 

So the spirit of the migrant worker floats around eternally unable to find a place which he can call home and missing the era long gone by where he belonged, mattered and cared for.... Continuously searching for it in the earthy smell of the moist earth after the first rain, random smell of food wafting through the air or  in the games kids play on the wayside...Reminding him of a time when he was alive, bustling with energy and looking forward to life with hope, aspirations and joy glistening in his eyes...

Blast from the past

Our generation, brought up and constantly fed with the staple diet of Doordarshan and borne in an era of license raj who did not have the luxury of the Internet, cable TV, Netflix or X box or video games are a species to be marvelled at by the present generation... So how did we entertain ourselves, what is the things that kept us occupied or to use the latest in thing, what kept our mojo flowing...

So here goes the list of things that kept us occupied and made our childhood a memorable one to yearn for a lifetime...

1. Going to School:

While we did not have fancy air conditioned school buses to pick/drop us and neither took rickshaw to school (that was a really 'girlish' way to do things), we went to school like our heroes from 'Jo Jeeta wohi Sikandar" - JJWS (which become sort of a cult movie during our days for school going kids where everyone pretended to be from Model School and the others from Rajput school) in Streetcat and BSA SLR bicycles...




2. The friends that eat together stays together:

While the popular phrase is " The family that eats together, stays together" we kind of replaced 'family' with 'friends' and it was to a large extent true... While all of us were classmates, but among us also there were groups which stayed together due to shared sports, subject or other interests (now do I need to list down all interest areas ;) and sometimes even common tuition teacher ! The best part about this grouping was that they stuck together during lunch time, small breaks and other leisure times and met up over weekends/holidays... The best part of it was the lunch break or also known as tiffin break where everyone shared their tiffin with others...For some, actually it was the case of entire tiffin being transferred (as they really hated their home food and shared it with others who had mutual likings for the others' food).




3. The seeds for IPL T 20 was sown in our era:

 It must be hard to believe and it will be so for today's kid... But to be very honest, the concept for the shorter version of cricket actually was sown in our era... After school, we had only 2 hours to play before the evening study time and all of us wanted to play as many game as possible... Hence came the concept of 5 overs per game or the corresponding concept of even lesser number of overs... It also allows us to play individually (by 'numbering' method) if number of players were very less (less than 5)... As since we played 'gully' cricket, it allowed us to refine our shots in a way which no international coach or net practice can teach...The option of getting out was so much that in order to survive and also to make runs, we played like pro...And caution was necessary & required as the rule was whosoever loses the ball will have to buy a new one!





4. Bollywood - The ultimate panacea:

For us watching a Bollywood movie in the theatre was an Utopian dream... The only close brush with Bollywood which we had was with the Binaca/Cibaca Geet Mala or the 9 a.m. songs on Vividh Bharati... The closest we came to seeing a new movie was during Chitrahaar when few selected songs would be shown as promo for the upcoming movies.. And there will be counting  done on how many times the hero or heroine changed costumes...



The only time we were able to see new movies were during festivities when VCR/VCP will be rented along with colour TV to watch new movies over VHS along with the entire family. That too there used to be an 'ordinary print' (no guarantee on picture quality) or 'master print' (full guarantee with high clarity of picture) VHS tape. With the VCR/VCP came along with an operator who was accorded maximum prestige in the house especially by the kids...




5. The national Entertainer - Doordarshan:

What Doordarshan meant to our generation can never be appreciated by any other generation, for in Doordarshan, we found our ultimate escape to the world of Nukkad, Buiyaad, Ye jo Hai zindagi, Byomkesh Bakshi not to forget of epics like Ramayana & Mahabharat (I still remember, a crowd gathering outside our window each time when ramayan were being telecasted  to watch the serial)... The good things about Doordarshan serials were that it came once a week and actually had some good subject and storyline and not like today's Saas-Bahu drama which is artifical and manufactured; not to speak of the concept which is done to death in umpteenth daily soaps...






Later we were introduced to the world of animation.. We still fondly remember He Man, Spider Man, Tale Spin, Jungle Books etc. We also remember the days when Shaktimaan was a crazy hit and kids started copying Shaktimaan and jumping off roof tops! Poor Mukesh Khanna actually had to oame on TV to demystify how these stunts were "engineered" with special effects which might have finally proven to be the cause of the serial's decline in popularity leading to it being finally taken off air...





6. Exam Blues:

Cometh exam season, when even the climate indicates through their change from the cozy and comforting wintery chill to a gradual warmth in the air which nay turns to an unforgiveable sweltering afternoon; make no mistake that exams are round the corner... And who knows it better than the young adolescent preparing for the myriad exams be it the 10th, 12th, competitive exams for Engg and medicine...

Our era of the baggy pants and Bazigar specs were no different. we somehow identified the exams season with not only the seasonal changes but with some Bollywood numbers which sticks to one's mind in a way which is difficult to separate from one's memory of the ultimate test of life - Exams...

6.a. Shardi Khaansi na malaria hua...

How can I or 30 odd of my batch mate appearing for 10th exams forget that fateful day when we had the most important paper of our life (Science) fall on a Holi day... Now let me pause here to explain... Since we were appearing in our 10th ICSE board exam and as per their (ICSE) calendar, Holi was celebrated a day before in North India as compared to  eastern India (Odisha, W. Bengal etc)... So we were actually writing our science paper when the whole town was celebrating Holi... To make matter worse, our school was strategically located between the ladies and gents' hostel of the city's one and only reputed medical college, the SCB Medical College. This caused a lots of heart burn amongst the lovestuck pairs from both the establishment as we had encroached on the only vacant land which was supposed to be their free zone... So to take their angst out on us (we were also culpable of 'vitiating' the lovers' moment whenever they were having one ), they started playing the recently released Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman song on a loop for the whole day... The reason why this song stuck to me and many of my classmates is beacuse this was played on full volume during our 1st paper which happened to be the most difficult - Physics...

So to sum up, for all of us and especially for those who did not do well in Science exam, till date are left wondering that even though we did not have any Sardi (cold), Khaansi  (cough) and malaria; why fate (and nay the inhabitants of the hostels) were unkind to us on that holi day in 1993... Anyways, bura na maano, holi hey...

6.b. O' priya priya.. Kyun bhula diya..

This became a common theme of pathos for our chemistry group friends who used to go for chemistry tuition from a 'learned' man who was living at the other part of the city. Now it so happened that the learned man developed a sudden liking for building his own house and with this endeavour all desire of our's to own good house went out of the window. As we regularly went for tuition punctually, we would find or beloved teacher missing with his new young bride coyly conveying the message that "Sir has gone for the house construction work"... We kept on following him and he kept on eluding us and as a result when we sat for our chemistry exams we were found humming this tune from  Dil... RIP Chemistry...

So see, our genration had their share of fond childhood memories which, how one might say, is very ' organic' and actually meant real human interaction with friends who are friends for a life time... Still...

Who Knows...

Sometimes I think that the reason why I am so creative or risk taking in my professional work in discovering new ways and innovations may be because I am deeply insecure and non-risk taking in my personal front…

So what could be the reason for such deep insecurity and risk averse nature? Reading Paulo Coelho and getting inspired from his oft quoted lines where he exhorts you to take risk and not get in to the comfort zone, I have taken life’s lesson from these writing and have got exhilarated and suffered too… am I not being  very carreristic… too entrenched in my comfort zone… well I believe not… I have left jobs at the zenith of my work in the previous organisations to the point that one old super boss was forced to comment that” a rolling stone gathers no moss”…

Am I like the rolling stone which gets impatient after a ascertain period of journey in life and look forwards to explore newer territory? Well, l supposes I could be called that but for the fear of being left in the cold now that I am responsible for a family and have responsibilities…

So what does all this translate for me as a professional…?

May be I would keep exploring and trying till I find what is perfect for me… may be I may get in to academics which would open avenue for me to “officially” explore and satiate the adventure in me… may be I would just keep fixed physically at the same place and explore and create novel things… who knows…

Sometime I think that life is not fair… is it only birth, contacts, false utopian images one build about themselves etc. which gets people ahead in life… or is it the constant critique in people who love to criticise and take all other things as inferior and not unbecoming them is what causes them not to get ahead in life… who knows…

Wanting… no no… yearning dearly for things which will never come to you and yet pushing away things which are well within your grasp, is this what is called the irony of life… then will the irony help solve the riddle when the thing well within your grasp turns out to be a nightmare or vice versa… who knows…

In the older days it was very simple… invade a region/state/province/country and enslave their people… now a days Pension funds, house loans EMIs, education loans are the modern day tools for enslaving a man and his intellect with assurance of a better and secure life style when he retires… it all starts from birth… the theory of effort and reward… study hard for your 10^th and you will never have to work hard in your life… then comes 12^{th ....}entrance, more entrance, professional course, more entrance, interviews and jobs… and then the ultimate way of ensuring a man lands in his graves are the above said modern tools for enslavement… there is also other tools for enslavement post death but again that is the purview of religion and philosophy…. Is there any breakage from these bonds in life… who knows…?

Freedom in professional life is more of a mirage than a reality… “You are free to do whatever you want to do”… But then “do not do this, don’t do that, do not cross swords with these, do not talk to them like that, that is not our purview, we are only the managers and not the core product etc. etc.” If this is freedom then what is slavery…. Who knows…?

Why managing conflict in work place is so hard… haven’t we done it at various places – among friends, relatives, cousins etc.… why do people run away from resolving conflict and in situation when their own team needs their support the most… If leadership can be defined by one critical factor on which it will depend solely for its future efefctiveness, it is the ability to resolve conflict and divert the energy for positive organisational changes… But who will bell the cat and who will make people see… who knows…

Welcome Back !

“Namaskar Sir”  (Greetings Sir) The feeble voice on the other end of the line crackled even as I strained to  figure out as to who could be calling me on a Sunday afternoon…

“Kaun bol raha hey” (who is speaking?) I asked even as I was trying to guess the person on the other side as recently all my numbers got deleted due to a technical glitch…

“Hum Anil bol rahein hein Sahab” Came the reply… (This is Anil here Sir - Name changed)“ aaj bahut accha camp hua Sir… Ek camp se 521 patient hospital surgery ke liye jaa rahein hein aur ek camp se 200 patients… (We had very good camp today sir, from one camp we got 521 patient and from another camp 200 patients taken to the hospital for surgery)

As the voice crackled on, I was transported to about 1 and a half years back when a medium built, heavily accented and someone who wore his attitude on his sleeves was brought to my office and introduced as the team leader for Outreach in one of the newly opened hospital in the northern part of the country…

For the uninitiated, we are the largest community eye care provider globally and 80% of our services are provided free of cost to the rural poor who otherwise would have become blind in the absence of provision of basic eye care surgery. More of that later.

Anil came to us with substantial experience in community eye care having worked for 15 years with a local eye hospital carrying out community outreach. We had interacted with him through video conferencing and our hospital head also had interacted with him and we thought given the years of experience and the context, he was a suitable fit.

He came to Coimbatore for his training along with his team and that is where we first met each other.

We put him and his team through the standard training program which we have where the team is put in the field and gets exposed to all aspects of community outreach as conducted by us… Few days in the training and we received complaints about him from our team and later by his own team about addiction to tobacco and liquor which he has which he indulged in during his official hours also…

This was infuriating for us and I called him in to my office and along with the hospital head gave him a strict warning that if he is found to indulge in such practices in future then he would be asked to leave… He duly apologised and promised not to repeat it again…

The training was over in due course of time and Anil and team departed to our hospital in the north to start the activities of community Outreach…

Even as work started at our new hospital, I would often get to hear about Anil taking to his old practices not only in terms of addictions but also dishonest practices which he was used to from his earlier job… He also started throwing temper tantrums to increase the salary or otherwise threatened to leave the job…

We finally decided that enough is enough and decided to ask him to leave if he did not mend his way soon… This, it was decided, would happen during one of my visit during May/June when I was due to visit the hospital…

I reached our northern hospital in the blistering heat of peak summer and as soon as I landed up I had a brief meeting with the hospital head on various matters one of which was regarding Anil… surprisingly the unit head was now all in favour of Anil and said that he has reformed completely and there is no need for us to expel him now…. I was not convinced and wanted to meet the man and decide for myself….

The meeting was arranged between me and Anil in one of the afternoons in our conference room…. Anil walked in at exactly the appointed time and greeted me in a very humble way and stood there till I asked him to seat…. I was surprised to see the vast change in the body language but thought it may be some theatrics which he has adopted to beguile us…

I straight came to the point of discussion and told him that if he is not happy with the salary and working with us then he should start looking for other opportunities… Anil looked up painfully as if hurt and with folded hand asked me to give him some time to explain himself… Thus he started his story, one which was not only transformative but one which completely changed him as a person that he was….

 “Sir I know, I have not been a good employee and despite what the organisation has done, I have not been able to reciprocate in the same manner” Began Anil in a meek voice…

“I agree that the incentive for leaving my old job was the thought the working with a larger chain of hospitals would give me more money and comfort… I will not lie but when I started work here I also started all the old corrupted practices of taking money from our local supporters and patients… I also indulged in addiction and got in to the habit of receiving favours from local camp supporters for unsavoury things… Given this practice, you are within your right to expel me and I will also not object… But before that please hear my story and how it has transformed me…”  Anil paused to take a sip of water from the glass put infornt of him and then continued…

“2 months ago I went to a village to follow up patients who have not come for review… This is a village where I have also worked in my previous job and those people knew me well…whenever I used to come earlier in my previous job, they would insult me and hurl abuses at me for being corrupted and indulging in bad practices.. I used to let it roll of my back and ignore them for what they were saying was the truth and there was no point arguing them…”

“So I walked in to the village and I could see the village elders, young man and some of the panchayat members standing near the village pan shop…With thumping heart and with lots of apprehension I slowly approached them all ready to face the abuse that was going to start”

“As soon as they saw me a noise and commotion arose and I just clenched my teeth and closed my eyes for the 1^st roll of abuse to hit me… But then nothing happened and when I opened my eyes I could see all of the village elders and panchayat member encircling me and falling over each other in inviting me to come and sit while some young fellows were rushing to get me a charpoy… Some others were asking me whether I needed tea or lassi!...I could also hear some elder shouting to the young fellows to make it quick as Doctor sahib has come”….

“initially I though it to be one big joke where they were setting me up for some sarcastic leg pulling which will end up with abuses hurled at me… as one village elder tugged my sleeves other made way for me to occupy the charpoy…”

“I sat down, took a deep breath and asked them that is it some kind of joke that they want to play with me” surprised and hurtful they had this thing to say” aap aise kaise soch sakte ho doctor sahib… humein aapke naye hospital ke bare mein pata nahin tha par jab log wahan se operation karake aaye toh pata chal kaisa swarg hey woh” (how could you even think thus doctor sahib? We did not know about your new hospital but came to know of it when people had their surgery and came told us what a heavenly place that is”)

At that point of time, one frail looking old man with dark eye glasses like the one which people use after eye surgery, broke the protocol and jumped in to the conversation….

“Kya hospital hey aapka doctor sahib, itna saaf, safai ke saath aap log rakhte ho.. Humein toh camp se itne pyaar se sab log hospital le gaye aur wahan par aapka sab staff itne aadar satkaar se humara kahyal rakha… Khana, pina aur rehna itne acchhe tarike se diya… Hum aapko kya bolein, saare staff hum logon ko dada aur daadi ke name se pukarte the… Itna samman toh kabhi humko apne bacchon ne nahin diya… (What a hospital you have doctor sahib, so neat and clean it is maintained… we were taken from the campsite with much respect and at the hospital your staff took so good care of us with dignity, food was served with so much love as well as the stay…. I even feel choked now emotionally as I tell you this: your staff called us grandpa and grandma for all the duration of our stay… such love and respect we have never ever received even from our own children) at this point he choked and started crying…

“A feeling on guilt on time wasted and a self-loathing about the opportunity which I was just frittering out at Sankara overtook me at that point of time… unknowingly tears of gratitude on a second chance and also the respect of the poor and needy for me started to roll down heavily from my eyes as I unabashedly cried that day in that village which had forever scorned me but was now welcoming me with an open arm as one would to their own child”

I could see Anil wiping tears from the corner of his eyes and I was just overwhelmed to see this cocky and a man so sure of himself can also cry….

“That day Sir” Anil continued “I vowed to change myself and dedicate my life to Sankara and the noble work it is doing…. I do not need any salary hike nor any money for doing this work… I just need the organisation’s permission for me to do this work… For 15 years I did the same work but was always met with abuse and expletives thrown at me but never broke down under those feelings of hatred… This one moment of love and respect which the villagers showed me that day changed me totally as a person… Now, whether you decide to keep me or throw me out, does not matter to me… Even outside Sankara I would continue to work and help the hospital in its noble work…”

 I asked Anil to wait outside and give me some time to think before I can arrive at a decision…. I just sat back and contemplated on what transpired between the two of us in last half an hour… What Anil realised and received 1^st hand is something none of our training manual, field exposure or theoretical framework can give him… This is the gem which one can only discover when one has really given that care and love to the countless masses selflessly which gets returned back manifold and becomes so transformative that it can change the total perspective of community work and can prove to be life changing…. This ultimately is for me is the real fortune at the bottom of the pyramid!

I conferred with the hospital head who is also a good friend and who listened to my tale of Anil with a smile on his face and asked me to take the final decision…

I called in Anil and asked him to sit down….

Slowly with emotion choked voice I said  “Ab tak aap kahan the Anil…. Welcome back”

Epilogue:

Since then Anil has gone to work like a man possessed and has broken many earlier records in the state of reaching out and serving many poor patients through surgery and provision of quality eye care.

He also has enrolled himself in a de addiction program and is slowly limping back to normalcy even as we speak. Though his doctor has advised him complete bed rest, he could not resist to come to today’s mega camp which was one of his dreams which he had promised to me as we departed each other’s way on that blistering hot day of summer...