The Elder Son

 The morning was slowly slipping through Amina’s finger like water.

She had found Imran’s shoes under the kitchen shelf, his schoolbooks hid behind the sofa and an untouched glass of milk colling on the table, a thin film forming on top. Razia's uniform was still unironed. The rice from last night was still in the pot, clinging stubbornly to the sides…

Monday invariably brought in its wake an utter chaos for Amina as she tries to balance everything like the Dasabhuja Durga Maa. And somewhere in this two-room house was Siraj, who was supposed to have swept the floor an hour ago.

“Siraj” … “Siraj. Where has this stupid boy now disappeared to”. Muttered Amina as she hurried around the house trying to bring order to chaos. Her voice was swallowed by Javed's loud snoring from the adjacent bedroom.

She never expected this life. Even after eight years of marriage with Javed.

Her father had been a DSP of police, the first from their community. Her grandfather, Sattar Sahib, had served as Peshkaar in the old royal court before the British took over and made him a revenue officer. They had lived in a sprawling bungalow in Cuttack which was gifted by the erstwhile Raja. A sprawling bungalow with long verandahs, deep ponds ringed with jasmine, a garden with fruit trees ranging from the ordinary mango and guava to varieties Amina had never seen anywhere else. Her grandfather had later given her mother an adjacent plot to build on, when her father was posted away for years at a stretch and the children needed to be settled in one city for school. That house too was beautiful. There was a kitchen garden where the seasonal vegetables grew, and a backyard full of custard apples, guava and Mango that fell into the grass all the time.

As a girl Amina had climbed the mango trees in the back garden and read her textbooks sitting in their shade without a care in the world.

Her grandfather was the one who kindled her love for science by encouraging her to explore everything that appeared mysterious in nature. Why does this happen? What makes that move? She had chased answers like other children chased kites. Her father attended all her annual day where her name was invariably called for first prize in Science Subject. Through her interest and determination, Amina completed bachelor of Science from the local college – a rare feat for a girl from her community. Given her interest in teaching, she went on to complete B.Ed – a fact which was a matter of pride for her family members.

In 1950s India, being a girl who is highly educated and qualified belonging to her community was a sure recipe for disaster from a matrimony perspective. It was difficult for her parents to find a suitable groom for her in their community.

What they eventually found was Javed.

Javed was the son of a Zamindar from the nearby villages. He was good looking and had a government job; a most sought-after groom in the marriage market. However, Javed was looking for a wife who will also be a service holder (a popular term for being in a job). So, the match was hooked, cooked and booked as both the pair were married off and set forth to deal with life’s journey and what came along with it - the joys, discovery and travails notwithstanding.

What Javed had not calculated was the mess of it. The children arriving within three years, the school which took most of Amina’s day time, the cooking and the cleaning and the mountain of small work that waited for her at every hour of the day. This led to quite a bit of ugly scene and not so nice arguments between the husband & wife which proved one point clear as the daylight – Javed’s inability in helping in any way his wife in her daily chore. This arose part from incompetence and part from the lethargy that privilege helped seep through.

In the whole conundrum, Amina’s father-in-law stepped in as a ray of- hope in what was otherwise a bleak scenario stripped off any silver lining. Due to his stature as a Zamindar, he convinced poor families to send their kids as domestic help to Amina’s house, in rerun for a ‘handsome salary’ of Rs 80 per month. The househelp who came in were barely five to six years older than her own kid, a scenario which may appear hilarious and yet was tragic but was the only practical solution which emerged at that point in time and Amina was not complaining either.

The solution came with its agony & pangs. The first boy had cried for a week and run away. So had the second. The third had lasted longer before he was also engulfed by homesickness forcing him to flee.

By now, Amina joked to her friends that the line of her former house-helps would stretch a kilometer from her lane to the main road.

------------

But the recent one, Siraj, was different from the rest.

He kept the children engaged and looked after them like an elder brother. He was obedient, respectful and consistent, a quality which endeared him to Amina and his family. The one who was the happiest was Javed. He was relieved that now he will not have to bear the brunt of Amina’s taunt for not helping her with household chores and looking after the kids. Coming from a privileged background, he was unaccustomed to the drudgery of household works. He never anticipated that married life will bring in so much responsibility and hardships. One who loves the cool weather that rain brings in should also be ready to deal with the mud and the messiness that comes with it. Amina would think most of the times but will not utter it given the harmony that women are expected to maintain disproportionately in their matrimony.

Siraj, however, settled down quite well in a few weeks’ time. What Siraj truly meant for them, came three months after he arrived, on an ordinary Sunday.

Amina’s daughter Razia was playing with Smita, the daughter of the Marwari family next door. Smita had a beautiful doll which Razia adored but Smita will not have her anywhere close. That Sunday, Razia decided to take things to her own hand to free the doll from the clutches of the ‘evil queen’ Smita. What ensued was the cutest fight ever but transcended to loud shrieks and cries from the children, a common occurrence which was ignored by both kids’ parents.

However, this time, the elder brother of Smita, Kishor, decided to step in and was trying to pull his weights literally, given his seniority.

Siraj has been lying on a palm leaf mat on the verandah watching the ‘cute’ duel with glee. However, he became suddenly uneasy with the appearance of Kishor who has now started to physically push out Razia forcibly.

“Don’t you dare to touch my sister”. Roared Siraj as he caught Razia from falling with one hand while deflecting the next move by Kishor.

Amina was cooking breakfast for the family while simultaneously trying to clean up the house, soak clothes for washing and warding off lecherous advances by Javed who always seemed to be in the mood on Sundays and holidays.

Hearing the cries of Razia followed by Siraj, Amina dropped the cooking spoon which landed down with a thud on the ground as she rushed outside to see what is happening.

There on the ground lay Kishor, still surprised but quick enough to understand it as a genuine assault even as Siraj towered over him with Razia behind him. “How dare you touch my sister and push her to the ground”? Thundered Siraj with the authority and command of an elder brother.

Kishor, who had evidently not expected a servant boy to say anything at all, least of all in that voice, stumbled backward and sat down hard in the dust. Got up. Dusted himself. Said nothing and Left.

It was as atrocious, as bizarre and as surreal as it could get but Amina could not help but notice the adorable demonstration of genuine love, affection and care that Siraj demonstrated in a moment that mattered, at least for her.

Siraj carried Imran on his hips as Razia held on to his hand proudly as they approached her. For a brief moment that day. Amina forgot about her chaotic life, the drudgery that came with it and a husband who was unloving and uncaring and the bleakness of it all. She embraced her three children. That moment she was a proud mother of her children and today her elder son had stood up like a man to confront all that is unjust, unfair and partisan.

That evening Siraj ate two plates of rice and asked if there was more.

He had stopped crying in the mornings a month ago but after that Sunday something had settled in him and he came in fully, the way children do when they finally believe they are allowed.

He had found his home. And if she was honest with herself, so had Amina.

-----------

"The boy has simply vanished into thin air." Javed collapsed onto the sofa, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I checked the bus stand, the railway station, even the truck depot but nothing. Ye mere Maula, tu meri madad kar. If Abbaji comes to know, he will grill me alive. Siraj's father is a known goonda and that mother of his… tauba, tauba… the woman can raise a storm over a fallen leaf." He had gone quite pale. Amina found this faintly funny but brought him water anyway, as a dutiful wife is expected to do.

"Phone for you." The Marwari Sethani's voice came sharp over the wall. Theirs was one of perhaps three telephones in the entire lane, a fact she ensured nobody forgot alongwith her other prized possessions - colour TV, VHS and telephone all under one roof.

The voice on the line was Abba Ji's, feeble and weak. “Come quickly. Both of you”. The line disconnected on the other side.

They packed in twenty minutes and caught the last bus to the village.

The bus smelled of diesel and tired bodies of people travelling not for joy but out of necessity. Somewhere in its wake, Amina found herself thinking of her Vidaai, that first trip into her husband's world, the shock of arriving from her father's grand house and well-manicured lawn into all this dust and chaos. She had come to understand that some distances were not measured in kilometers.

They reached the village after dark. Irfan was waiting and it was a good thing too as an angry crowd had gathered near the bus stand, pressing around Javed with questions about Siraj. Irfan was a well built and a hefty man. He pushed a clear path through and got them to the ancestral house without incident.

Hazra Bi embraced Javed and her grandchildren, then said to the room at large, carefully not looking at Amina, that in her time women had ten children and still managed their homes properly, that today's modern girls believed a government job absolved them of every other duty. “Tauba tauba”…

“Siraj’s mother, Asma, has been sitting on a hunger strike at the market place and saying that she will only eat from her son’s hand” Said Abba Ji visibly irritated and frustrated. “you rest up Beta. You people had a long journey and must be very tired. We will talk in the morning” Said Abba Ji even as he affectionately patted Amina on the head like a father. He admired his daughter in law and was very happy when the alliance was made. To have a graduate daughter in law is something only few people are blessed with, he will think, an enthusiasm which was not shared equally by his wife.

-------------

Before the Fajar azaan, while everyone slept, Amina slipped out in her burkha and took the long way through the mango orchard to the market square. Asma had set up a befitting spectacle: on a charpai, her arms were raised and she was wailing loud enough to ensure that her voice carried through the market. “Mere bacche ko le gaye, pata nahi kahan hai, haaye, in logon ka gairat ho, Allah inko kabhi maaf na kare” Around her a motley crowd had assembled: some genuinely worried, some came for the fun and some, who were like her, were there to see the performance that she was putting up. After a certain point of time, to Amina, she started resembling like her mother-in-law.

“This woman, Asma… such a drama. We all know where the Son had disappeared and what plan she has…” her voice got lost as the crowd reacted sharply to another of the antics of Asma.

Amina walked back through the orchard in the early light, the dew cold underfoot. She had heard enough to know that something evil & insidious is at play.

The next morning, over breakfast on the Dastarkhan, Javed proposed returning to the city. His friend Manoj was the DSP there and could help in the search immensely. He said this with careful phrasing and due rehearsal because Abba Ji still had, even now, the ability to make him feel like twelve years old. After giving it some thought, Abba Ji nodded and said “I think you are right Javed. Your presence at the city will be more fruitful than here. Don’t worry about the people here. I will handle them”. He said with some degree of conviction.

They left that afternoon. As the bus pulled away Amina watched Abba Ji's figure shrink at the gate, even as he waved at them. She felt particularly sad as she understood the sorrow of leaving someone behind who deserves better than what life has handed them. Javed watched his village disappear from the window.

They reached the city late and found a rickshaw home to the two-roomed house where it all started.

From the next day, Javed took off along with Amina to start searching for Siraj. This was part owing to the love and affection for the boy but mostly due to the fear of official action as Siraj was still a minor and having disappeared from their care, they could be held accountable and it may have adverse effect on their job.

What also helped was that the city DSP, Manoj, was a school friend of Javed and when Javed reached out to him, he was very supportive and assured all assistance.

They split the search in 2 parts: Javed would work with his friend, DSP Manoj to locate the boy with the help of the police team and Amina with her brother would try to scour the neighborhood to find out the whereabouts of Siraj. Luckily, they had a photo of Siraj which was clicked when the family went off for a photoshoot in the local photo studio recently. As Siraj had become close to them as a family, they also invited him to join them for the photo. In the photograph, he stood slightly apart from the others, not quite sure of his place in the frame, but present.

The search went on for almost a week with the city police leaving no stone unturned to find the servant boy of Manoj Sahib’s friend. They rounded up all suspects from their list including child lifters, ex-felons, small time thieves and others with some criminal record. The search was so intense with police vehicle coming 2 – 3 times a day to pick up Javed that it led the neighbors to start developing respect for both Amina & her husband for their ‘higher’ connection in the police hierarchy.

The search of Amina with her brother also did not yield much results. The people in the neighborhood were sympathetic of their situation but could not help much beyond that. Looking at the photo, many thought that it was Amina’s kid that had disappeared but were not very supportive when they came to know that it was their servant that they were looking for. Some of them even showed utter surprise to see Amina getting so concerned about a servant disappearing. “These vagabonds roam around for few days and when they become tired & hungry, they all come back, eventually”. Was how an old grumpy lady summed up.

Nobody had seen him.

While Javed was anxious about this event snowballing and affecting his job, Amina was much more saddened in way a mother will understand. She missed the reassuring presence and persona of Siraj who, like an elder son always stood by her and was also a very loving brother to her children.

On the eighth evening, tired and worn out, more mentally than physically, Amina asked Javed to get some food from the local Muslim hotel Ajmatiya.

Ajmatiya was the old hotel on the main road, run by the third generation of the Habib brothers, famous in the Sultan Bazar area for its meat dishes. Siraj had loved the place. In his free hours he would wander over just to stand near the kitchen and talk to the staff. Maybe it was his way of socializing and fend off loneliness. Amina didn't think of this when she sent Javed.

She was just tired and hungry.

--------------

Javed pushed through the door of Ajmatiya and joined the short queue at the counter. It was the evening rush; a few regulars seated at the heavy wooden tables, the smell of mutton shorba and something caramelising in the back, the low murmur of conversation. He gave his order and stood waiting, half-watching the door to the kitchen for his order.

The door swung open.

Out came a boy carrying a tray, moving with the trained ease of someone who knew the room. Blackened hands, a smear of coal dust across one cheek, wearing working clothes with his head down and concentrating on the tray.

Then the boy looked up.

Javed felt the recognition hit him like a nuclear missile. The world seemed to go briefly spinning in his head. There was Siraj. His Siraj, their missing Siraj, the boy whose disappearance had cost Javed a week of sleep and a humiliating number of visits to Manoj's office. Here, in an apron, carrying food to someone else's table.

"Siraj!"

The word came out louder than he really wanted with every head in the room turning towards him. Siraj stopped. For one moment the boy looked at Javed indifferently with no guilt & surprise. It was an expression of a person who may have been found but had not been exactly hiding.

Javed covered the distance between them in four steps and grabbed the boy by the arm.

What happened next went fast like a blur. The tray went flying. The two men from the kitchen came through the door. A chair scraped. One of the Habib brothers, the heavyset one who managed the floor, stepped between Javed and Siraj with his arms out, trying to pacify him in low voice that Javed could not hear over the rage in his head. Javed tried to go around him. He couldn't and swung around and caught an elbow somewhere on his face or perhaps he walked into the wall, later he couldn't be sure. Suddenly, he found himself outside on the pavement, with a cut lip and a torn shirt and the door closing behind him. The Marwari Seth from the lane was passing by on his evening walk and saw him.

-------------

Amina heard the commotion from inside and came out to the verandah to find Javed at the gate with the Seth holding his elbow, blood at the corner of his mouth. Before she could get to him, he pulled his arm free and came inside walking past her. Then he turned and that’s when it all came out.

“This is your doing. You gave him too much liberty. You encouraged him. You treated him like one of the family and now look… look at what is happening now.”

She stood there and did not say anything. She had learned this over the years, that certain things were like monsoon squalls: they came, they went, and the only thing to do was stand still and wait them out, because whatever you did in the middle of them only made things worse.

She thanked the Seth, who left with a sympathetic look at Javed and a disappointed one at Amina.

Then she sat down.

Siraj had been at Ajmatiya all along. He had been working of his own choosing and full knowledge of the hotel staffs. He had not been kidnapped or lost or in any danger. He had simply left, and gone somewhere he wanted to go, and continued to exist cheerfully a fifteen-minute walk from their house while they turned the city upside down for him.

She did not know, sitting there, whether what she felt was anger or relief or something in the region of grief which could not be named. She lay down and stared at the ceiling.

That night she did not sleep.

---------------

The next day she took leave from the school after the farcical incidence of the previous day and found that Javed was also languishing at home. Unable to bear his sight, she took a rickshaw and bundled her kids on to it heading towards her parents’ home.

Getting back to one’s parents’ house is the most cherished and treasured moment for any girl, especially after marriage. Amina was not someone who was known to run to her parents’ house at the slight sign of hardship. However, this incident proved to be beyond her tolerance and patience and she needed a good break from all the chaos and confusion.

She does not know for how many days and nights she slept. Her mother would try to wake her up and feed her even as she stayed in a dazed condition. Again, she will slip back to the stupor, a dreamless sleep where you find yourself in a twilight zone, swinging between day & night, between clarity and confusion and between trust & betrayal.

“Amina, beta Amina… Wake up Beta, see Habib Sahib is here to see you”. Amina’ s mother voice seemed to echo and come as if from a far-off valley. Giving a faint smile in her dream, Amina changed side and went off to her sleep. Only after a strong jolt and violent shaking by her mother that Amina finally came to her senses.

Putting a Dupatta on her head, Amina walked to her father’s study where Habib Sahib, the owner of Ajmatiya hotel was sitting.

Seeing her come, he got up courteously and said half embarrassingly “Bitiya, sorry to trouble you and wake you up. I really wanted to see you and explain things so that you should not count me as guilty as I will have to show this face to Sattar Sahib in the Yome – Qayamat” He said almost embarrassingly and full of regret.

Keeping his eyes low, Habib Sahib continued, “Beta, I never wanted to take the fool Siraj as one of my staff. But what can I do, my sons would not have any of it. The staffs also know him and have gotten fond of him. I was helpless,” Said a visibly dejected Habib Sahib.

“On top, Siraj’s father came and threatened us that if we did not give him money, he will let you know that we have lured Siraj to join our hotel. Its only when I came to know that they have created ruckus in the village and also received confirmed news that they were trying to extort good amount f money from you Bitiya, that I said enough is enough and came running to you” Habib Sahib was now visibly shaken and disturbed, perhaps in the apparent guilt of being the culprit who has set off this unfortunate chain of events, started to shed some unabashed tears.

“On top of that, my wretched blood had also the temerity to mishandle Damad Ji... Chi, Chi, Chi”…. He started crying uncontrollably.

Amina’s father comforted him but he was beyond consolation. Izzat and Waqar (dignity & honor) meant a lot to people of his generation and he could not bear to see the same now run down to the ground due to the unfolding events.

That evening she took a rickshaw home.

---

The rickshaw came down the main road and slowed turning into the lane. Ajmatiya was on the corner, its doors were open and the evening smell of coal smoke and cooking mutton drifting out into the dusk.

And there was Siraj.

He was crouched at the side of the building beside the coal stove, extracting the spent pieces, sorting the usable coal with the same complete and serious attention he had once given to every task in her house. His hands and face were black with it as he was utterly absorbed in it.

He looked up as the rickshaw approached. Saw her.

His face opened into a smile: a wide, innocent, a flash of white in a coal-dark face. It was not the smile of a boy who knew he had caused trouble. It was the smile of someone who was simply glad to see her, and wanted her to know something without having the words for it; beyond the deviousness and plotting of his parents, beyond the accusations and allegations that everyone was heaping on him he wanted her to know…

“I am all right, Mother. I found the place I was always looking for. Don't be angry with me.”

Amina looked at him.

She felt the months of his presence in her house, the early morning crying, the doll fight, the two plates of rice, the stories about his village told while he swept; and she felt them pass through her without the sharp edge of grief she had expected.

He had not been hers to keep. He had been, for a little while, exactly what she needed, and she had been, she hoped, something of the same for him. It was enough. It was beautiful and as with every beautiful thing, it must come to an end.

She gave him the smallest nod. Just enough. Then she turned back to her children.

Imran had fallen asleep against her arm. Razia was watching the lane go by with her serious eyes. Amina tucked a loose lock of hair back from her daughter's face and held her close.

She thought about Javed. He would be home already, probably, sitting in the dim of the bedroom with his injured face and his bruised pride and the particular sullenness of a man who knows, somewhere, that he was wrong. She thought about the door she had closed so long ago and whether it was too late to open it, and decided, in the way you decide small things sometimes in the back of a rickshaw, without fanfare, that it was not.

That nothing was too late for people who loved each other, started a life together for the love and now bonded together by their beautiful children. Now, no matter how imperfect their relationship has been, there is always time for new beginnings.

She would go home. She would make the dal he liked, the slow Friday one, with the proper tadka and the whole spices and the patience that the Ajmatiya cook had explained to Siraj, who had explained it to her. She would put the children to bed. And then, perhaps, for the first time in longer than she could clearly remember, she would sit down with her husband and actually talk to him.

The rickshaw moved on down the lane.

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…