चवन्नी की मौत

नवम्बर  २०१०   का  महीना  था. अख़बार  की  सारी ख़बरें, हमेशा  की  तरह  बेवजह , फालतू  लग  रही  थी . लेकिन  अख़बार  पढ़ा  जा  रहा  था,हमेशा की तरह. शायद  पेज  १३ रहा  होगा . बायीं  तरफ  कोनें  में , एक  खबर  दबी  हुई  पड़ी  थी . शायद  खुद  छुपना  चाहती  थी . लिखा  था  की  चार  आने  का  सिक्का  जुलाई  २०११  से  बंद  हो  जाएगा . क्यों? क्योंकि सिक्के के धातु का दाम, सिक्के के मोल से ज़्यादा था. जो भी हो, सुबह  की  आपा धापी  में  वह   खबर  मैनें   देखी ,लेकिन  शायद  महसूस  नहीं  की . कुछ  दिनों  बाद  अचानक  उस  खबर  का  ध्यान  आया . बहुत  अजीब  सा  महसूस  हुआ . चार  आने  का  सिक्का  नहीं  होगा ? रोज़मर्रा  की  ज़िन्दगी  में  कोई  फर्क  नहीं  पड़ेगा , क्योंकि  अब तो  एक  रुपये  का  मोल  भी चार  आने  से  कम  है . ज़िन्दगी  हमेशा  की  तरह  रूकती  दौड़ती  लड़खड़ाती चल रही थी . तो  फिर  अजीब  सा  क्यों  महसूस  हो  रहा  था ?

                              ———-

फिल्मों की तरह अचानक फ्लाश्बैक  शुरू हुआ .श्वेत श्याम में मुझे  दिखी वो   मेरी  नीली  साइकिल , तारवाले  ब्रेक  थे  उसमें . काफी बड़ी  बात  थी ,उन  दिनों , ये  वायरवाली ब्रेक  की  साइकिल . मैनें  खुद को जोहन  के साइकिल के डब्बे पर  खड़ा पाया.सड़क से चिपका हुआ,लकड़ी के चार खम्बों  पर खड़ा ये आकार, बहुत महत्वपूर्ण हुआ करता था. इस आकार में समाये थे, एक गया गुज़रा हवा का पम्प,गंदे पानी से भरा एक घमेला, हद दर्ज़े तक काला और तेल से चिप चिप कपड़ा, बिना ढक्कन का एक डब्बा जिसमें तमाम नट, बोल्ट, पाने,स्क्रू ड्राईवर और न जाने क्या क्या पड़ा रहता था. वो  महत्वपूर्ण क्षण,जब हम पिचके  हुए दो टायरों  पर सवार,सहमी सी साइकिल ले कर जोहन के सामने जा कर खडे हो जाते थे. कुछ कहने सुनने की ज़रूरत नहीं  पड़ती थी. खीच खीच आवाज़ के साथ पम्प का जादू चलता और हम फुले हुए टायर और  फुली हुई छाती के साथ, दुगनी तिगनी स्पीड से साइकिल भगाते थे. फुले टायर की साइकिल का जोश कुछ अलग ही था (अब वैसे ही फुले हुए कार के टायर का जोश भी अलग होता है !!). यह रोमांचक अनुभव हमें मिलता था, मात्र पच्चीस पैसे, हर टायर के दाम पर. मोल लगाइए इस अनुभव का और तब पता चलता है पच्चीस पैसे का दाम.

                                                                   ——–

ये तो था केवल एक अनुभव, उस ज़माने का, जो एक नादान सी नदी जैसा आराम से बहता था. इसमें न तो कोई हड़बड़ी थी, ना पागलपन  और ना है न ही तूफानी वेग से ना-जाने-कहाँ जाने की जल्दी. इस स्थिर वेग नदी में चवन्नी के आकार के ऐसे ही और भी ढेर सारे पत्थर हैं. निकालें एक एक कर के?!

                                                                  ———

चवन्नी के बिना, गुजराती अंकल (हमारे किराना दुकानदार) की दुकान में आगे की ओर रखी हुई सात कांच की बोतलों में से पांच  खाली होतीं. स्कूल के सामने का चूरण का ठेले पर मिलने वाला लाट्टा  (डंडी पर लिपटा गीला  चूरण) , पचीस पैसे में दो की पानी पूरी, नटराज की एक पेंसिल , एक सेंटेड रबर, चाबी छाप माचिस की एक डिब्बी, आधे घंटे  के लिए किराए पर मिलने वाली वो खड़ - खड़ साइकिल, गुल्लक में डालने के लिए मिला हुआ वो  इनाम, भूरे लाल रंग का वो डाक टिकेट ,मरियल सा  पोस्ट कार्ड,  क्रिकेट टॉस के लिए उपयोग किया हुआ और मैच जीतने के बाद मिलने वाला वो  पुरुस्कार, बाज़ार से सामान खरीद कर बचे हुए और फिर शाबाशी  के तौर पर मिलने वाले चार आने…………………………….. ऐसी कितनी ही यादें जुडी हैं, इस नाचीज़ चार आने से.इस नाचीज़ का पहचान तब  भी थी , लेकिन एक सिक्के के तौर पर. आज इसकी  महत्ता  पता चल रही है, यादों की शक्ल में. ऐसी शक्ल , जो इतनी बदल गयी है कि अब  फिर से ना बने.

                                                         —————

हम में से हर एक के पास यादों की ऐसी ही एक (या कई) गुल्लक है. तोड़िए उसे. मिलेंगी हर शक्ल सूरत वाली यादें, चवन्नी की रूप में.

                                                          ————–

चवन्नी गयी, लेकिन अपने साथ ले गयी और भी बहुत सारे ज़िन्दगी के टुकड़े . ज़रा सोचिये, कैसे  चढ़ाएंगे अब सवा रुपये का प्रसाद?! कैसे बताएँगे कि कौन सेर और कौन सवा सेर ? अगर आज वह खूबसूरत मधुबाला अपनी कार सुधारने अगर गराज आयें, तो किशोर कुमार क्या गायेंगे?! इशान (मेर नौ साल का लड़का) अगर पूछे तो उसे यह समझाना मुश्किल होगा कि किशोर कुमार इतनी कशिश के साथ मधुबाला को  पांच रुप्पिया बारह आना यानी  क्या  मांग रहे हैं? तो अब चवन्नी अपने साथ ले गयी, हर वह चीज़ जिससे बन सकता था कोई  सवा या बारह आने का अफसाना .

                                                         ————–

इस फ्लाश्बैक के दौरान, मुझे धीरे धीरे  एहसास हुआ कि चवन्नी की मौत के बारे में सुन कर मुझे अजीब सा क्यों लगा था . कोई ऐसा चला गया था ,जिसके मैं बहुत  करीब तो नहीं था लेकिन फिर भी ज़िन्दगी के काफी जीवंत पलों  में वो मेरे साथ था.

                                                        ————–

आज चवन्नी, कल अठन्नी , फिर रुप्पिया….सिक्के सब चले  जायेंगे लेकिन रह जाएँगी उनसे जुडी छोटी  मोटी मज़ेदार यादें और उनका वो  जेब में खन खनाना. सिक्के. इनकी मौत इतनी सस्ती, कभी नहीं होगी .

Pilgrimage of an atheist

Atheist:a person who denies or disbelieves the existence of a supreme being or beings. Agnostic: person for whom the existence of god, and the essential nature of things are unknown and

unknowable, or that human knowledge is limited to experience. (Courtesy: Dictionary.com)

I am either of them or both of them,but frankly couldn’t care more either way. That’s not the point.The point is faith and its expression, of the believers. Myriad ways that the faith gets established and expressed. Every expression is  more curious and increasingly colourful. I had never understood as to what drives the believers to do those extreme things, which are madness to others. However, the glow on the faces of believers after their “faith expression” gets consummated is to be seen to be believed. Like say keep following the same road, at the same time for years hoping to meet that elusive somebody, sitting with one bent leg while a cricket match is on, eating only a particular thing  or not eating at all, standing on one leg or not standing at all while praying, repeating the name of a deity thousand times or not talking at all ( Maun Vrata)……… Add as many expressions of faith and still you would have left out many more.

It is very difficult for a believer to explain the logic of this to a non believer or a neutral believer (?!), and in turn equally impossible for her to understand.  Any instance of such expression of faith meets with widened eyes and disbelief, bordering ridicule.It is not only things “religious” or related to religion per se. It envelopes various interpretations of religion.

Given my firm belief in matters of faith, I had always struggled to keep my feet on ground while dealing with these expressions of faith of others. More often than not, I had found myself to be a stunned observer of these overtures of people to their different “deities”.

Never thought that one instance, will change my complete perspective on this whole matter of “Expression of faith”. That one evening rather couple of hours, suddenly made me feel comfortable with what had never made sense to me till then. Why people go to crazy lengths to do/feel/touch something, which only they know the meaning of or importance about.  Maybe this was my baptism, by experience.

It happened thousands of miles from the Indian shores, on the 21^st day in the month of May of the year 2008. Sydney. 3 days of mesmerisation over and we (self, Shivani/ my wife and ever-a-good-boy –on-tour Ishan/my son) were to leave for Melbourne the next day. It was there somewhere with me but had never become an active part of my tourist mindset. But it  came to the fore and overflew sometime that day, for me. How criminal was it for me to come all the way to  Sydney and not see my childhood dream landmark, the SCG ( Sydney Cricket Ground, for the uninitiated). Managed to convince Shivani and Ishan that going to SCG was the best way to kill those couple of hours in hand . They were not convinced but kind of played on.

Cut to the tram station opposite Paddy Market in Darling Harbor (a walk away from our hotel). We must have looked like a complete goofs. Know the place but don’t know the specifics of where and how. Coming from India, thought  SCG in Sydney would be as iconic as say an Eden in Kolkata. Hence, finding it  would  be a walk in the park. After all, it was SCG ! Everybody will know it. I approached a boyish looking chap with his head dug deep inside something that looked like a newspaper . I blurted something like “We would love to go to SCG. How do we reach there? “I thought he was hard of hearing. I repeated the question. Same blank looks as if I had asked him the birthday of his mother-in-law. Then I started explaining what SCG is and the more I spoke to him, it became abundantly clear that he had never heard about it. I forgave him. On to the next  Aussie and the next and the next……… My faith was being questioned  very harshly now. How can people in Sydney not know about Sydney Cricket ground?! How can it not be a part of published tourist itinerary?

Disheartened , I still persisted. Shivani was trying not to show her overflow of pity felt for me, while Ishan was more interested in trams passing by. I had rarely felt so lonely in the world. Finally, the 17^th guy I approached smiled. I had found a fellow believer, or so I thought. But he turned out to be a neutral believer ! But he did help. He told what I was looking  for ,resembled a description to be found somewhere near the Fox Studio. I tried to control a lava of disbelief mixed with hatred for these ignorant plebeians. Still, “Fox Studio” was helpful.

The next episode. How to reach Fox Studio? Like a true Desi, we did not even think about consulting maps. In our Desi scheme of things, a map is a series of landmarks.  For Australians, it is not. For them, a map is a map. So, a big mismatch. Anyway, we were somehow guided to  take the tram to  Central Station, from where we were told to hope and get on to something (!) which will take us in the general direction of the Fox Studios. For some reason, I thought that we will get a metro from the Central Station to SCG (Oops.. Fox Studios). It was never meant to be.  Going by the mismatch of Ind-Aus maps (again!), we must have spent 30 odd minutes hovering around the Central Station while reaching nowhere in particular. Ishan’s now shriveled face made me realize that it was almost 80 minutes since I had set out on my pilgrimage, with one non believer and another couldn’t-care-more in tow. It was not the metro that would have taken us to the destination.It was supposed to be bus and Fox Studio was NOT the name of the station, where we needed to land up. It was Moore Park (something like Eddie Avenue was also mentioned).

Managed to get in THE bus, with a helpful looking conductor. On the way, we crossed a Sydney Boys/Girls High School. For some strange reason, felt very good because the name seemed very Desi and very Apna Types. It was getting dark and three of us were sitting  in an unknown bus suitably bewildered. Nothing seemed known/familiar to us. Others in the bus had a more definiteness to their destination ( and possibly to their expressions too).  Tense moments suddenly came to a halt with the bus veering around in a spooky looking service lane and the conductor smiled and said there you are. We smiled too but weren’t feeling sure about it. Still, got off.

It was getting dark and three of us were left facing a huge nice grass ground, filled with nothingness. Some silhouettes of structures lurked around at some distance. Nobody around, to ask for help. More importantly ,to give us confidence.  We started walking. Looked like approx 1500 meters worth of walk. Suddenly, there was a pathway and suddenly there were sign boards too. Again, suddenly we seemed surer. The destination      ( my temple, my deity, my destination ?!) seemed closer .

Towards the end of the grass ground , there was a better firmer shape to the structures. No, there was no Fox Studio Neon (or similar) signage blinking but the structure looked imposing. But this was not what the end of my pilgrimage was supposed to be. My eyes were desperately searching for and then I did see my temple. The outer wall had a washed faded red brick look. I had wanted to run and jump with joy. This was SCG, THE SCG !! The culmination of my pilgrimage.

As we neared it, we realised that all the gates of SCG were closed and not a single soul in sight ( forget Warnie, Waugh, Border…. not even a janitor was around !). Had expected it but felt disheartened. Whatever it was, I still felt  overwhelmed. It was as if I was standing in front of ..well.. SCG.. and I was !! What would have surely looked amusing to a passer by (although there was none) would be the fact that there were these 3 people and them only ( seriously, there was nothing in that 2 square Km visibility, except for 5 cars parked randomly!), just staring at a wall of a stadium.

I came closer to the washed red brick wall and touched it. Touched it with a bit of trepidation as if it might suddenly part like that Alibaba Cave. Nothing happened to the wall but a lot happened to me. A combined sense of joy, contentment, disbelief, achievement and their synonyms engulfed me. All  this, for what I had touched was (all said and done) an outer wall of a stadium, for heaven’s sake ! Proceeded. Tried to position myself in front of a closed gate made with split bars.  Peeped in, hoping that my neck will extend amidst those split bars , almost a Kilo Meter like a la Jim Carrey. This could have helped my neck go beyond those brownish walls, closed windows , office doors and straight into THE playfield. Saw the tapered roofs and spires of the  iconic pavilion  in the much adored green, all this through the split bars gate. Saw the legendry clock too.  While my extended neck show was on, don’t know what Shivani or Ishan were doing. I was oblivious to them, for that moment.

Jim Carrey did vanished and I started looking around the wall, for some other memorable icon. Managed to catch the closed members entrance. Still felt like standing in front and clicking a keeps sake there. Asked Shivani for help. Amused, bemused and (am sure) tired but she was all game. Ishan was as unconcerned as any 6 year old would be.  I tried to look for more excitement but couldn’t see beyond an unending length of a wall. Was dying to go alongwith the wall, see where it ended, what was on the other side and similar inconsequential feelings. Better sense prevailed and (much to Shivani and Ishan’s relief) I announced “Let’s go back”.

Clutching the camera tight with photographs stored in it and other memories stored elsewhere in my head, we trudged back through the big grassland and stood at the desolate bus stop  once again. By now, it was pitch dark. The easy return journey looked like a video film rewound in an “on” mode.

Exhausted but elated, I felt on the top of the world. Felt bad for Shivani and Ishan but they probably had understood this expression of my faith and did not want to discourage me. I also forgave the larger part of Sydney (that I had encountered) for being so ignorant about my temple, my belief, my deity.

Our next stops were Melbourne and Perth. It was not just “touch” but a complete “feel” at MCG (Thanks Sandesh Hegde) and WACA (Thanks Ravi Gupta, my Brother-in-Law). These had different yet another set of extensive “pilgrim” moments too.

SCG, MCG and WACA.  It was like me completing  my “Tridham Yatra” !  What’ s next? Lords, Gabba, Wimbledon Centre Court, Rolland Garros, Pixar Facility, Disney Studio, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, , Madison Avenue, Broadway, Western Ghats  ……… The joys of pilgrimage!!

Now, any expression of faith is so flesh and blood for me and will remain so all my life. A student slogging  at unearthly hours, a hopeless lover doing impossible acts , a fan standing outside a star’s house for hours, a 90 year old great grand mother’s Thursday fast  just so that the single rash on her great grand son’s face  vanishes…. all seems so real. I know exactly what is happening.

More power to believers and their expressions of faith.

I have become a  believer now but remain an atheist ( or is it an agnostic?!) !

The Cricket Extremist

There is a Cricket Extremist (CE) alive and thriving amongst 97.283567809%  of the Indian men.  Any research trying to disprove this fact is yet to be initiated. If you are amongst the balance, you could be a legally certified outcast.

Guess “extremism” is so much of a men’s thing. Apart from many other , the one which has  MEN ( bold, capital, underline, point size 72) stamped all over it, is the delightful magic moment spent in the morning, with one hand holding the warm cuppa in all possible angles and combinations, while the other balancing and folding  the newspaper. This tricky act of balancing the cup, newspaper and devouring the printed words and sipping their various interpretations is a story in itself.  More on this in some other post.

What makes this MEN moment nowadays more extreme, is the WC. No, no…. this abbreviation may have many related full forms but the one that dominates the day is World Cup.. ICC Cricket World Cup to be more precise. I read TOI and it is overflowing with WC. So would the other newspapers be (I guess), else they are not newspapers.

The TV would have prepared the CE the earlier evening with the 1983 times seen 1983 footage while the net and mobile will shove in more cricket during the day but he still wants more.  An extremist is hell bent on getting more of what he thinks is right for him. More is never enough and more of same is as welcome as more of new.  So, the CE still applauds that wily out/in-swinger (or was it in/out swinger) from Balwinder Sandhu to Greenidge 1984^th time.  Kapil’s two shining front teeth, while he was eyeing that skier from King Richards, still lights up CEs day. However, he still gets shivers and prays that the Dev doesn’t drop that catch. Even today, after 28 years. If he did, that would have been a  sure “ You just dropped the cup, son” moment.

There is enough and more cricket overflow which threatens to drown the CE in you but he treats this as a delightful exercise and keeps his head above the water, asking for more. Ask 40,000 plus CEs who went to devour the Ind-Aus WC practice match in Bangalore and 1000 times those, who sat glued on the telly. For heaven’s sake, it was a practice match, others said. The players may not have taken it that seriously but the CEs did. For CEs, it was still a do or die.

The newspapers stoke this CE fire so much that the WC coverage is drunk, eaten, smelt, (even) heard and spoken. All this, with such ferocity and concentration that the world around you seems irrelevant, while you are reading Cricket. Even the most innocuous enquiry about “what time are you leaving for the office today”, sounds like a Tahrir Square threat when you are just about getting over that sentence on whether Steve Waugh actually said that dreaded world cup dropped thing. It is the 1756^th time you are reading this, in last 8 years. Still, it’s a  Tahrir Square threat alright. Haven’t you heard yourself shouting aloud rubbish, when you read that most trite comment made by Sanjay Manjrekar ? In the same breath, you shriek AWESOME, when you remember that swing and ferocious pace of a Steyn ball missing Laxman’s bat. There it is. A newspaper is being heard and spoken about too. A CE can easily manage to do this.

CEs get inspired by most static things. A picture, for example. It’s still goose bumps to see Imran Khan’s  elegant leap captured in that black and white snap. You would have already imagined his bouncer, heard the thunderous uproar at the Gaddafi Stadium in Lahore and relished Jimmy Amarnath’s  following flawless hook. For a cricket atheist, it would have been just a man jumping in air with a red ball in hand, while for a CE, it was a picture worth splashing on his wall, even today.

Nothing delights the CE more than the smell of sweat mixed with earth. See the flying Jhonty crash the sloth Inzy’s  stumps and you would want to put that moment in a tightly secured army’s reinforced bunker.  Remember Mike Gatting’s paddle sweep V. 1987? CE still shakes his head and shouts aloud something which has a chance of sounding like bastard. He still turns emotional with the recall of  Kapil’s 175 at Taunton against Zimbawe. Mind you, no one ever in the world, except the handful in the ground that day, have seen this innings since it was never telecast / recorded. Still, the CE has all of it stored in his heart. Did you say Sachin’s six over third man, to the snorter from Shoaib Akhtar in the 2003 WC, was just another shot?  Never challenge the CEs faith, unless of course, you know what.

CE does feel helpless with the recall of failure  viz  the 1987 mauling by Mike Gatting, which crashed India’s  dreams at Wankhede or the crying Vinod Kambli at Eden Garden or the most lacklustre Team India in the 2003 finals or the rape in the 2007 match against Bangladesh or… The CE is hugely hurt with this but always forgives his Gods and hope that they behave better next time.

There are very few acts, which bring out as many extreme emotions as cricket does.  For the CE anytime is good time to experience Cricket Emotions (CE again).  How on earth can anybody be excited to read about a about a hit of the bat on the ball 8 years ago, by a man all of 5’ 5’’,  some few thousand miles away from him. All this at, say 7:15 am! Disgusting, for others. For CE, it is a pleasure-pain delight which is time agnostic and unparalled.  So, the cup of emotions overflowing at 7:30 am is as natural as it would be at 2:30 am.

Yes, the reality is waiting to sock you, traffic waiting to eat you, work waiting with the wicked smile to welcome you to the slaughter house… but the CE allows his “real” life to continue amidst all these mundane occupational hazards.

The CE tribe is growing exponentially, despite the media Nostradamus claiming to be otherwise.  Join in . Let the WC of extreme pleasure-pain begin!

PS: Most the above is written in a highly secret and complicated  CE software, which is a code cracked by all of 97.283567809%  of the Indian men. Others may need to get a special access to understand the same.

Dehaati Live – The batch reunion ( Caution: Long blog. Blong?!! )

Dehaati (Day-haa-tee) : A state of mind which is uncluttered, action oriented and without a pretense. This definition is most unique and no dictionary on the earth can claim to carry it (maybe they wouldn’t even want to !).

So, what does it mean to the world? Don’t know about the world but it means a lot to us/select 89 denizens of this precious earth, including dear Sanjiv Agrawal who’s still alive somewhere for us. We constitute the batch of PRM 90-92 from the Institue of Rural Management, Anand (IRMA). By design, we were supposed to be a bunch of less-than-neutral IQs grouped together, by the wise men of the Institute. Delve into that and the two earliest magical years of the decade 90 and it will become Dehaati Recorded or Dehaati Highlights, if you will.

So, cut to now and presenting the Dehaati Live. Circa January 2011, 22nd + 23rd . Dateline: Anand, Gujarat, India. Occasion: The batch reunion, as a part of the larger Alumni Meet (Milaap 11). “ Dehaati” was our theme ie a phrase, an emotion which defines our batch. Some of us were uncomfortable with this,but then FI !

The evening of 21/1, as I alighted on the platform number 2 at Anand from Baroda, I was hoping to feel like what a certain gentleman of yore with a green hat had felt, sometime in the 1940s (the venerable Dr V Kurien, for those not in the know). I didn’t. Despite me wanting to feel full of mush, homecoming and nostalgia, I just felt like the most bored normal train traveler alighting at a known station. There after everything was super normal. The auto ride, a little bit of an amusement of seeing an endearing and dusty Anand town add few steel-glass “modern” buildings and yes, street signals too. It was the equivalent of a joy of seeing your distant cousin’s son grow up in last 2 decades. Pretty much worth a smile but not worth an extreme emotion. While all this was going on in the head, the auto guy took couple of unfamiliar turns and suddenly, the iconic IRMA gate happend. The iconic gate was still there but is now neatly split into two. Seeing the gate, suddenly I felt at home. The security guards have changed (ofcourse), but they had dutifully carried the legacy of courteous indifference. When enquired about the stay arrangements etc, “ Mess Pe Jaaieyey” happened. Then mess happened.

That 2 minute walk from the mess parking to the mess door was like a sudden downpour of ice cold water. No,nothing had changed but then that was the ice cold water. I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own home. Everything was familiar. The evening tumblers of tea/coffee were dangling as precariously from many a set of fingers, the loud solitary laughter on what somebody thought was his best joke of the day, indifferent eyes darting into nothing after a good siesta…. it was all there. However, I knew nobody and was not a part of all this. A ring on my mobile suddenly felt rassuring. It was Ganju ! He went into length to tell me how he has been trying to reach Anand early but Raja, Kranti and Nagesh were just not leaving the Law Garden attractions behind, in Ahmedabad. Suddenly, felt more nice and comfortable. This was followed by a call to Gopa, who met me within 20 minutes or so. Common room sofas were still the same although the TV was more stylish flat screen (maybe LCD whatever, but I am tech challenged) with a DTH connection. India was playing South Africa. Life now seemed perfectly normal.

I was deposited into a G Block hostel room, temporarily vacated by the current occupant     ( I still don’t know who he is) for “ sir”. Felt bit odd initially but then the familiarity (again) of the passages, wash rooms and wash basins (which looked as clumsy and old as they would have been on Januray 21 st , 1991), a Jab We Met/Tum Se Hee trying to escape from the door gap in a room, a mildly acrid smell of oddly yellow, wet and stubbed smoke butt, the lonely studious looking gent struggling with an eerily familiar looking TAU material…… it was all coming back. The odd Dominos Dabba lying around , the cellphone firm in every hand and many bikes around the hostels (remember Kalsi’s only Vespa !) were the only changes seen. I went back to the mess.

Life was alive every moment, then on . It started as one or two of us hanging around the mess and suddenly within couple of hours, there were 12 of us. We began getting familiar once again after two decades. Ctrl C + Ctrl V of this to the next day and finally 32 of us were there. We started the day in the now expanded mess, having a hearty break fast and also having a Kem Cho wave of hands with the mess workers . They must be meeting as warmly with alomst every passed out batch and without knowing names , I suspect. Sanjiv Kapoor, Sanjay Tripathi, Rekhi, Sanjay Kumar and Singhi were there with families. They were trying to look and sound more responsible than most of us “singles”. The local landlords viz Rahul Kumar and Jugal were more than happy taking care of our minor,if any, requirements.

We had put two posters on the notice board viz Bees Saal Pehle (BSP) and Bees Saal Baad (BSB), side by side. BSP consisted of our mug shots taken from our IRMA application forms given so many years back (many thanks to Gopa for finding a way to collect it, D P Misra for telling us how and Alpesh from the IRMA admission office to have actually culled out these !). BSB was the set of current mug shots, collected so diligently by Gopa (again), after he alongwith Rekhi and Dinesh had whoopped our backsides , to send our current details and the mug shots. The BSP and BSB posters were a hit amongst the kids and wives of Dehaatis. It was a huge ROFL moment for them , to see a familiar face albeit thinner and with a thicker mop of hair on the top (except Ganju and Abbas ofcourse, who were as bald then too).

A formal inauguration of the event in the audi was followed by a very serious seeming panel discussion in the Library Basement. Most of the Dehaati interest in this panel discussion was about the pearls of wisdom struggling to drip out of Rekhi’s thick more salt-less pepper beard. Initial excitement over and many of us scooted gingerly from the back door. Gave us a big kick of reliving, a “class” moment. Aimless and enjoyable roaming around the campus and catching up with the delicious past (and a seemingly rough looking present) followed. Tried looking for and found a couple of familiar faces viz DPM, M S Sriram, Satyendra Arya and the Jayen Mehta. Loud back slaps and mild laughter followed. Afternoon was signed off with a suprisingly improved mess lunch. We had a mighty laugh remembering the “Only Aloo” lunch served by Rekhi’s Mess Comm ( as a Khunnas against a silly protest by some of us!) and similar many many bits of memories served on the plate.

The evening was marvellous. The kids (as in, the junior batches) had put up an awesome cultural show. They all looked the same to us ie kids but am sure there was a huge amount of Senior – Junior momentum propelling this show. The energy was infectious and stage was alive every moment. Singhi’s impromptu entry on the stage was delightful. Dehaatis were called on the stage for a special word and the formal unveil of their event book. All Dehaatis looked smart in their black-green event t shirts. The hall was full of deafning appluase, as they walked on to the stage in a group. This surely was a goosebump moment and a Kodak moment and a Fevicol moment, for me. We invited DPM to unveil the event book. Gopa, Dinesh, Rekhi, Rahul, Chandan (through his art director), Subbu, Sandeep , Pankaj and yours truly were involved in giving shape to this superb keepsake, while Vinod brought alive the t shirts. Have I missed out names? Kill me, if I have. Later on, the batch GBM too happened. Phone call with Kamlesh Sharma ( Daddu) in US was very special, for me. Bacchus for many of us and Dinner + the long postprandial walk for others followed.

The next day again had a set of programs. Slowly, the crowd was thinning down. However, the sense of belonging and bonding still as thick, amongst those available. We had invited Dr Tushar Shah ( the then IRMA Director and now on the board of ICICI Bank, amongst many other noble preoccupations) for a BSP interaction. He readily agreed. Very cool 90 odd minutes, spent with him. Later, we went to the classrooms, felt the familiar wood beneath our bums and clicked pictures there and all over the campus. A nostalgic Jaagnath  ( Bey burger aapo, still intact) visit followed. Earlier, Jugal had invited all of us to his home (in the comfy GCMMF campus) for a massive breakfast. A big thanks to him and Bhabhiji.

Armed with a paper and a pencil and the genuiene effort to collect the money for the t shirt and other activities, the class Rekhi act was seen full on. Dinesh is still his calm reassuring self. Singhi hasn’t lost the zeal for life, while Ganju seemed more tense than he used to be. However, his loud laughter still reverberates. Ranjan made a very late night dash from Delhi, So, did G V Rao from US. Nagesh is still as tall. Ram still seems as much of a disciplinarian. Nilesh has enhanced the boyish charm, which hides one of the most widely seen sharpest financial acumen, on the Business Channels. Sanjay Tripathi came with oodles of muscles bulging out. His PR team has made him an almost celebrity , atleast amongst us. All this, well deserved. Rajesh Ghatge was a surprise package. The guy has toned down so smartly that many of the kid girls were seen letching at him. Subbu’s observations are still as sharp. Vinod is still as quite while Kranti’s patented C Dance has become better. Nakul, the CEO-from-day 1, still remains a CEO while trying to take the efforts worth his salt across the nation. The youth in KT still jumps out. Raja, Basant, Uma, Sanjeev Jain, Dilip Mohanty, Anindo, Sunil Kaushik………………

Big designations – bigger achivements but intact humility, endearing normal human being trait and many similar still undimindished. Solid grounded confidence and the calm reassured talk was the change from the past. Also, the zest for life and a strong sense of bonding  remains undiluted. Feels great to be a part of this august company.

Impossible to recall all but these were some of my vividest Dehaati moments.

Our batch has agreed to form a fund , with a target corpus of minimum Rs 5,00,00. Nilesh has promised to manage this fund ( he did lower his minimum fund criterion !). The usage to be decided over , our FB page interactions in the next 90 days. However, it didn’t take a second for us to approve a comprehensive Mediclaim + Accidental Insurance cover for years to come for the 12 mess workers, who are still cheerfully fulfilling their messy duties. KT helped us brief them and will be coordinating the interaction part in the future, alongwith Rekhi, Sanjay Kumar and Tripathi. We also agreed to dedicate one of the significant initiatives/usages in the memory of Sanjiv Agrawal.

Most heartfelt thanks to the kids especially Aneesh Gulati, for making us feel so so special. It was a humongous task and they did it so well.

In memories too, it will be always be Dehaati Live.

Nayi Dulhan at 40.

Ok, am not exactly 40 but closer. Also, am unlikely to be a Dulhan in this lifespace (my preference is straight and clear).

However, I had this surreal experience which I am sure most of  the new Dulhans ( past, current and aspirational) will empathize with. I changed my job recently. Big shift for me since this was after a an experience of approx 7 years in the previous company. Believe me you, 7 years is too long a time in this age of  impatience.

But the long 7 years also get you used to the place, people, process and PJs in that company. The 5 senses became tuned to the work place an immune to outer world. It becomes a home, a Maika. A curious mix of good and bad. Good that you find difficult to explain to others and bad that others can’t empathize with. Anyway, I decided to leave this home with a mixed emotions keeping me uncertain every moment.

The destination was the new company, in the same town. A known name, had met couple of people from their side for interview, checked about the company on the net and with people. Good feedback.My next company (next family) was a known name but still a hugely unfamiliar terrain for me. New Dulhan?  Right, all broadly seems fine and familiar but is completely unknown. Head wants to reassure but the heart refuses to believe.

In the hindsight, the job interview now looks like Ladki Dekhne Ka Karyakram. The most important (and select) people met me and had finally given a nod for the new Dulhan. She is about to into the new place.  Mixed feelings of joy, sorrow, fear of unknown, excitement of finding the hitherto unknown pleasure.

The new place was a relatively small cozy place unlike the sprawling bungalows, campuses  with huge joint family like other new Dulhans , I had known of.

New Dulhan ka Griha Pravesh. Day 1. The home that the Dulhan entered was in the process of shifting to a newer and bigger one over next month or so. Hence, the place looked happily fluid and chaotic. Some of those concerned were waiting for me.  Warm welcome preceded introduction to all. Some of the eyes were smiling, others unsure and couple of them darted and said here-comes-the new-upstart. The comparison with Maika happened. For an instant, the bad in Maika suddenly seemed passable while the good in Sasural was yet to be discovered. The elders in the new home were genuinely interested in making the Dulhan comfortable. Everything was new including the loo and the water cooler. Given that this was a new position created (new Dulhan again?!), no precedences, no clear definition of why, what, when, where, which and how. The new Dulhan was expected to crack this code and write the new rules.

Anyway, first few days were good. Trying to to come to terms with the new place, people, process and PJs and getting the five senses re calibrated. One slowly does manage this, somehow. Life now seemed more predictable. The Bahu became more sure with every passing day, strutting around with the confidence in the tone now coming back , like it was in the Maika. New discoveries were happening every minute and the line between friends and foes ( metaphorically speaking) was now getting more defined. The Dulhan ( note the absence of New!) had started finding the corners (metaphor again) in the house where her shortcomings would remain in dark and the windows which will throw a full blast light on her achievements/strengths.

Some days your felt like you owned the world , while on others it was just the worst of the days to be alive on the earth. Life certainly seemed to be normal again.

And then, it happened within few days of the Dulhan settling down. Another new Dulhan entered the house. We met. Our eyes spoke to each other more than they spoke with others. I smiled knowingly and just the two of us spoke leisurely over coffee, after the formalities were over. The circle of life…. round as ever. We are now running well in the circle and forming our own new Maika.

…And I saw DD Bharati, just so that I could cry.

DD Bharati is not a TV Channel which most Indians watch, maybe including those who run it. On my DTH menu too, it’s the most neglected buried deep under the never seen  channels.  Still, I did tune in and that too for 2 hours plus at a stretch.

It was one of those Sunday late evenings, when suddenly life looks like scarily ending and you feel like the prisoner awaiting gallows in the next few hours. I was doing a bored speedy channel round and stumbled upon this treasure, which I have dug up so many times and will keep on digging till the end of my life. It was DD Bharati showing the most horrid looking super announcing the start of a movie in another 10 minutes. A movie for others but a life for me. Those 10 minutes were the most unbearable ones. A very bored looking presenter trying to sound very engaging by drilling in the virtues of Indian democracy or some such exciting topic.

Then it happened. I saw the movie Anand. Probably for the 17^th time , equal to or more than I would have seen Sholay and Jaaney Bhi Do Yaaron.

Still, my sense of anticipation for every frame was much fresh as it would have been for the first time. Now gross looking and sounding Rajesh Khanna was at his earnest refreshing best while the now most appealing Big Bachchan was at his awkward best. It was a fantastic duel, between two extreme personalities. Life coming alive in every pause and the sound of sincerity felt in every word uttered. And then, there was the legendry non existing “Jaichand” in the form of Johnny Walker smirking across the canvas, with a befitting touché every time to the irrepressible Anand. Lalita Pawar in a two frame “Sister” cameo, Dara Singh in his most artistic bash up act till date, their Hindi dripping-with-Marathi duo of Ramesh and Seema Deo and many such true-to-life characters providing enough reasons for the master craftsman Hrishikesh Mukerjee to create his unequalled creation.  The Salil Chowdhary and Gulzaar + Yogesh  combo never missed a chance to  give us unsuspecting viewers an intense delightful  bucket  full of life insights.

Like the earlier 16 times, I shed copious amount of tears throughout. Could not differentiate if it was the lump in the throat or was it the throat in the lump. Couldn’t care .  Life was rushing past with its regular ferocity. The cooker whistle whizzing intensely, Shivani trying very hard to tell me something most important in life, Ishan running around seemed wondering as to what had happened to his you-should-never-cry Baba. I was too oblivious and was stuck in the unending  audio spool  in the movie, with RKs sincere Babu Moshai, punctuating suddenly to make life even worse, of both mine and  Bachchan’s.

Cannot get over it and will never want to get over it. Maybe many like me will keep going  through this emotional roller coaster ride and come out crying and others  will walk out stud like life –is – normal-it-was-just –another-movie. I am still stuck there shaken and will probably remain so.

Just wish somebody would reinterpret Anand for this modern day impersonal e-life full of mediocrity. Nikhil Advani tried to do that with Kal Ho Na Ho, but it was a gravy dripping with the K Jo seasoning.  Have never liked that taste. So, Who is best positioned to take on this onerous task? Sanjay Leela Bhansali, Farhan Akhtar, Ashutosh Gowarikar or maybe somebody as normal and as anonymous as Anand ? Maybe. Who will be the Anand and who will be the Babu Moshai? Amir Khan – Ajay Devgan, my pick.

Hey there ! Another Sunday evening and another life near gallows and another  tacky promo on DD Bharati, for the one of the most refined tales of our time “ Koshish” by Gulzaar to be aired soon. Looking forward to getting immersed again, on DD Bharati.

PS: This was my first Bol Daal moment, also known as Blog to most of the e-people. I thank Santosh Ojha for making me familiar with the charm of this medium with his delightful tales of hard core moments middle India  which very few people bother to tell these days ( Except maybe a Dabang Salman and the impressive Ishqiya !) . Thanks again, Santosh !