Oktoberfest in April?

Saturday evening was an unexpected delight. We began with a visit to the Lotus Temple Auditorium for an evening of French musique and chansons. A very lively and young group, led by the highly energetic Gabrielle Boda-Rechner. Two compositions were familiar - from our own collection of Edith Piaf – and made us feel special.
When the concert ended , we raced to the German Centre at Max Mueller Bhawan, KG Marg, to catch the 'film night' the second of 3 German films being screened under the open sky.

This was a truly delightful experience – 4 front rows of broad sofas you could curl your feet upon, cushions galore, a breezy April night a choice of Foster’s and Kingfisher and a variety of nibbles. Amidst a very polite, film buff crowd discussing film in hushed tones, we chose to nibble on some sesame toast and some softdrinks; eagerly waiting to catch the film on the giant screen.

The film was by Fatih Akin – a recent Turkish-German filmmaker who has been getting critical acclaim, dealing with issues of assimilation and isolation of Non-white immigrants into White Europe.

The film ended a little before Cinderella hour – an absorbing tale, bucking the trend to end on the simplistic note that marks our kind of cinema.

Reluctantly deciding to pass the next film screening at midnight, we decided to leave.

An icecream cone helped round off an evening of pure delight. Joyous more so, because of the unexpected and novel element of having the stars for a roof – during the show.

The Vanishing Pill box

The purveyor and recipient of our hopes, wishes, thoughts and dreams in the form of letters, rakhis, greeting cards and all, the once common red pill box of the Department of posts – is now a rarity. The all recognized khaki uniform of the postman is now a light blue shirt and dark blue trouser. People already call them ‘courier wallas’.

Recently looking for a pill box to drop 2 pre-paid business reply cards, I came upon not one, but two of them. Just off Palika Bhawan, ahead of Park Hotel, in CP.

I was happy that my job was done. Sad because of the loss of yet another element from my childhood and adolescent days...

Jaagore? Form 6 being tossed for a six!

Dear People at Jaagore,

My Election consituency zone falls under 55 Sahibabad of the Ghaziabad Lok Sabha constituency of Uttar Pradesh, part of NCR Delhi.

Today morning I went once again to the Tehsil Office in Ghaziabad near Gandhi Nagar market. at approx. 11 am.

The tehsildar , Shri Satish Chandra Shukla ,told me and several others that they are accepting forms of only those people who were unable to submit form 6 earlier on account of election duty.

If my name is the list or is incorrectly entered, I could come and get it changed on the 16th of April 2009.
Otherwise he refused to entertain /accept any other forms. In addition the same gentleman told us "ab kuch nahi ho sakta - aap october november mein aaiye."

Incidentally, the other senior official Rakesh Chandra Sharma, PCS, who is the 'up-zila adhikari' was not present in his seat, who might have prevailed upon the first gentleman to accept our filled up forms!!!
In the light of the Hindustan Times' news column dated 8th April 2009, that is today, a clipping regarding acceptance of Form 6 in Noida zone, does this not constitute a blatant and flagrant violation of the law?

How can the forms be accepted in neighbouring Noida and not in distt Ghaziabad?

If, as I saw later on, some forms are indeed being accepted later, on the ground that these are election duty officials, how is it that we have two sets of laws for the same citizens and residents of this country???

How is it that you write to me saying that since the electoral rolls are in Hindi, you cannot help me? Is Hindi not the national language?

How is it that in January 2009, when I had gone to submit the same earlier, the same land records officers in the tehsildar office, refused to accept the same, saying the people will come to collect information in your own locality?

How is it that these officials never turned up?

How will you ever face the people and urge them to vote/fill form 6/8 /whatever needs to be done and not be present to help these poor hapless lambs like me and my family and several others, in whose face the doors of parliamentary and assembly democracy are repeatedly being banged, time and time again?

I need answers!!! JAAAGOO RRRR EEEE!!!!!

This way to hundred percent?

Last week when my daughter came to visit, she made a startling disclosure. The fact that after every exam sheet that she submitted to her class teacher, the teacher pointed out her mistakes made. So far so good.

And then what she says next, blows my mind. Apparently, her teacher encourages her to change her answers. Erase her mistakes. Pencil in the new answers. Voila! And we are done. The way to get high, sorry, hundred percent marks in her exams.

And what class does she read in? Oh, just a lowly first, at the moment. The first step, perhaps, she smilingly informs me, to doing something that’s not quite right. But the end justifies it.

Her class teacher wants everyone in her class, to get good marks. Isn’t that what every parent wants? A seat in a great school. Great marks in every subject. Great grades to pass out with. To land a prized placement from the country’s best companies.

But is this way the right way? Or is it the only way? Only time will tell. For the present, I can only send up a prayer – to the greater force – to give her courage and strength – to help her do what feels right by her. Not by the people around her. Nor by the standards of the world that she will grow up into. Amen.

How could I ever do anything to harm you?

Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate ads carried a similar caption, trying to limit the damage control caused by the rumours of
Brominated Vegetable Oil – BVO –a harmful carcinogenic ingredient being added as a preservative – in soft drinks and chocolates, when I was in my mass comm course in 1993.

The same thought crystallizes my frame of mind, when my daughter Janvi does not visit me this week. She has been advised bed-rest by her doc.

It is also not possible for me to visit her at her mom’s place. Apparently, her last week’s diet of home-prepared maggi and freshly squeezed orange juice, readied by me, her dad, has resulted in a case of delhi-belly, coupled with high temperature and a few times of throwing up.

Perhaps, the visit to a friend’s place and the breathless romp with his hyperactive daughter, along with the drive by ‘she who must not be named’ has also contributed to her not deciding to drop by.

This would have been acceptable, but for the fact that barely two weeks back, she had begged off citing her exams. Exams. Final exams that will see her into the next grade. And not to count the countless number of times she has been out of town or needed to meet other people, on her designated visitation day.

The court order places an onerous responsibility on my child. She has to play the balancing act – very skilfully. Appease her mom who has custody over her 6 days and 18 hours a week. And manage her dad and his family who thirst after her – for 6 magical hours on Saturdays and on some special occasions.

I muse aimlessly. I wonder, if her telling the truth gets her into more trouble than she would have, normally. When I met her after a long hiatus, post the court’s intervention to restore my visitation rights, Janvi exclaimed that among other things that she had learnt to do, she had learnt to tell lies.

I made her promise that she will not tell lies, no matter what the cost. In between, she is forced to do so, to save her skin. I am uneasy. Yet, I am forced to compromise. Another day, another explosive exposure. Now she says she will tell the truth. And nothing but the truth. I tell her I am glad. But underneath, there is a feeling of dismay. Her tendency to tell the truth is not being appreciated; it is being used to twist her emotions and blackmail her.

I hope she sticks to her principles as she grows up. And learns that for every love, there is a sacrifice to be made. And like her father, she too chooses to walk on the razor’s edge. Though it may be infinitely tougher, it is the only way.

Survival and Celebration

I meet a relative this morning. Squeezing a bit of time between looking for my own survival, to lending a hand with helping another survive. And perhaps, thrive. Now why did I use these near contrasting words? My elder sister often used them interchangeably, loosely. Much to my consternation. Today, I am more at peace. More tolerant, perhaps of my own and others' limitations and shortcomings.

I keep thinking and my belief is strengthened further. In these days of uncertainty, each day is a profound lesson in survival . And a celebration of being alive. To see another sunset. To gaze in awe at snow-capped mountains. To hear the soothing sounds of a spring. To glimpse another swell of a seawave. To sniff at a bunch of cheerful daffodils, next winter. To press a chubby cheek and glimpse a momentary smile on an innocent face. And live in the unspoken joy of shared happiness.

I urge the relative I have been talking to, to take a break. To 'thrive' for a while, before she goes back to'survive'. She says she is tired. And sadder still, is without hope. I bid farewell to her. I tell her as cheerfully and strongly as I can muster "I, am not tired. Not yet." Madadayo!(Kurosawa's film of the same name)

It is feverish february. Feverish, because all around me is this frenetic activity of compulsory savings and tax benefits. I do my bit, struggling. Urge others around to do the same. Lest this bogeyman with an unknown face, should carry away what rightfully belongs to us.

And all the while I wonder. Who is this person for whom I save. Why must this money that I work hard enough for, have to go into savings that are locked away with 8.16% interest compounded half-yearly, but that I can't touch over the next 7 years.

A million thoughts buzzing, once again, I step out into the seething mass of humanity. Nehru Place. Laughing faces. Arrestingly beautiful faces and figures. Talking sotto voce into headsets. Secretive smiles. Shared hopes for companionship. Colleagues and co-workers walk together. Talking shop. Bad mouthing their merciless bosses. Walking to their respective vehicles and transport. For yet another end to the day. And a hope for a more merciful tomorrow.

And what, if there was no tomorrow? What good would those compulsory savings do, then? Buy back the smiles that have been wiped away, like water colours leaching from a child's painting ? Staunch those tears that flow ceaselessly?

Would they even be worth the proverbial umbrella for the rainy day?

Pic courtesy :Akira Kurosawa: Film Artist October 8th, 2008 by Doug Cummings ·

Mommy & Friends

Dusting through yellowed photographs, taking trips down memory lane. Of people long forgotten.Of people who have moved on.Or are no longer with us. I come across this photograph. There she is. On the extreme left. My mother. 'Ma' for all the times that I have been able to utter her name.

And 'mommy' for the sometimes affectionate occasions when I call her over the phone. With 4 of her friends from college. Her youthful times.

Judging from her token jewellery and simple make-up, I gauge that she was recently married at the time of the photograph. And that it was taken in a studio - with a stark limbo background.
I ask her about the photograph. Now all of 77 years, she frowns. Dredges up a couple of names from her memory tank. Remembers the day it was - when the friends had met as witnesses to a friend's registered marriage. Post a treat, they had moved on to this studio in College Street, Kolkata, for a shot that would survive to this day.

I smuggle away the shot for a grayscale scan on my office Vistascanner. And lo and behold, the yellows disappear and Mom & Friends come to life and reality.