वो, बैंगनी

(Pic courtesy - www.newslaundry.com ) 

निर्भीक, नासमझ, नादान, निरंकुश, नन्ही

वो,

बैंगनी।

छल, छलावा, घात-मात,  छेड़खानी, 

क्या करे?

वो,

बैंगनी।

रक्त-रातें, अश्रु-मिन्नतें, छिन्न भिन्न, मनमानी,

चिथड़ों में,

वो,

बैंगनी।

माथा, मन्नत, मर्यादा, मंदिर, 

मूक?

वो,

बैंगनी।

घिनौनापन, घोर, घबराहट, घृणा, घेराबन्दी,

बिलखती अकेली, 

वो,

बैंगनी।

दुहाई, गुहार, मोर्चा, प्रहार, मोमबत्ती, शब्दवार,  

न्याय-भीख,

किन्तु मौन,

वो,

बैंगनी।

माँ, बाबा, घर, घोड़े, तितली,

दो गज़ ज़मी,

सूखा रक्त, सपाट-सन्न, सफेद में लिपटी

सोती

वो,

बैंगनी।

मैं, तुम, क्रोध, आज, सब लाल,

मैं, तुम, याचना, ये दिन, सब स्याह,

मैं, तुम, कल, फिर से, वही  घिसा पिटा सा रंग, वही सवाल,

नहीं बदेलगा तो सिर्फ़,

वो,

बैंगनी।

Running The Harrowing Race Of Nursery School Admissions

“Don’t worry about your daughter’s schooling. Merit and talent never go in waste.”

Those were the parting words from my kids’ previous school principal as we bid her adieu to step in the new city of Lucknow consequent to shifting of my work base upon an official transfer.

I’ve never had to worry about my kids’ schooling. They are smart and happy girls with nimble wits. Besides, they are just six and ten. The very age in which chasing butterflies, climbing trees, mud wrestling or smudging pastels are far more important than sitting under a lamp cracking a competitive exam.

I was wrong. I was, rather, proven wrong.

After running around from pillar to post to seek admissions for my two wards ever since the time we moved to this new city, all schools of repute here dreadfully disappointed us – “No vacancies in mid-term!”

Holla! NO VACANY in classes as lower as Kindergarten? Are they kidding me?  Is it an IAS seat that my five year old is competing for? Or is she running for a Mayor’s election with calculative number of chairs? Or an employment opportunity that may have limited vacancies?

Every year, January to March season looms like an impending horror to parents seeking admission of their tiny tots for admission to Nursery and Elementary classes in a new formal school. Poor kid fails to understand why suddenly his reading and writing has become so central to the parent’s being. Bribed with a chocolate or lured with toys, by hook or crook, the li’l fellow is convinced to work hard enough to be able to crack the labyrinth of school entrance exams or interviews. 

Even the millennial mommy who we might have seen as representing the new-age woman changes her avatar from a loving Maria Rainer to a strict Nanny McPhee. She doesn’t hesitate a bit to enroll her four year old in crash course coaching classes.

And why not? The hapless parents are themselves mortified to hell by now thinking of what misery may befall if their kid doesn’t make it to a prestigious school. Next what follows is visiting the school premise (or a dependable and updated website) day in and day out like it was some harebrained religious ritual. While the utterly appalled parents would have already struggled with curtness from the school’s pricey reception staff and security guards, consider them hitting jackpot in case they get to speak directly to the Principal, without any middleman.

Then comes the day when the school gates are sprung open for selling of admission forms. The day when media hovers over the varsity to get a front-page news and pictures of harrowed parents who’ve perhaps been waiting in queue, hours before dawn broke. Unshaven, dishevelled, half awake or sleepwalking, the only thing that runs in their mind is to get hold of that precious A4 size printed one-pager from school that they think can change their child’s destiny forever. Some smart ones come wearing sports shoes, wisely anticipating that any fine moment the queue may splinter and they may have to push, jostle, shove, snatch and madly run cutting through the mahakumbh of parents, before the school declares forms ‘all sold out’.

Subsequently begins the gruesome task of arranging tens of documents to be enclosed along with the admission form. Transfer certificate, migration certificate, birth certificate, catechism certificate (in case the school is a Catholic one), previous school’s mark sheet, parent’s qualification degrees, character certificate (What!! You didn’t know that a six to ten old could have a questionable character? You must be foolish!) and in some controversial cases, even a packet of crisp green stuff. Ah well, isn’t donation to school just a charity? Finally, why to forget the typical précis that parents are made to write in the form on topic, “Why do you want your child to get into ‘this’ school?”. Ha! No worries, there are hirable trainers available in the market to help parents deal with this tricky one.

All the needful list of to-dos noted and complied with, one still remains. Enter ‘jugaad’, the distinctive word in Indian context for fixing up anything not working out. The jugaad may be human, cash, kind, orison, power or politics and you never know, might just bring the ward a vacancy out of nowhere. Isn’t that amusing? Meant for highly desperate parents and contingent upon their good luck (read, powerful resources), everybody knows jugaad exists but can’t find where.

Well, while all this brouhaha is going around, the poor little Harry Potter and Hermione Granger who think of school as an interesting Hogwarts have no clue what lies ahead. They are made to practice writing pages after pages everyday and rehearse lines after lines by heart for the interview. On the d-day of their competitive exam, the palaver increases. Prayers, kaala teeka, chandan, last minute instructions and a long list of ‘how to sit, stand and behave’ in front of the interviewer, are passed by the parents.

Then come results! For those who couldn’t make it, it’s another similar and gruelling year of harassment ahead and for those who did, well, “Congratulations! Pappu paas ho gaya.”

This year, after a long over-due wait, both my little girls, one like a careless butterfly and the other like a quicksilver fish, will appear for their so-called formal school entrance exams. I hope I don’t make the mistake of forcing our fish to fly and butterfly to swim or make them both run the marathon race of my desperation. Just wish me luck!


____________________________________________________________

[ Originally published on Women's Web magazine, March 9th 2016]

Is It Enough To Celebrate Women's Day?

This article was first published on Women's Web on 08th March 2016, on the occasion of International Women's Day. Here's a reproduction of the article collected from the archives that makes sense not just on IWD but the whole year through. 

________________________________________________________________________

    [Image via shutterstock]

In the middle of an important official meeting, my mobile gives three continuous beeps. It might be important, so I pause and take a look – it could be one from a long distance colleague who is simultaneously and as aggressively involved in the annual HR appraisal process as I was, or from my parents staying far away from us, or from kids at home who may have wreaked havoc in absence of their utterly busy mommy.

But presto! It is a far more important message that runs like this – “Comfortable cotton salwar kameez for summer, with special discount up to 70% on Women’s Day… for women who deserve.”

I am aghast. For women who deserve? For heaven’s sake, which woman would not deserve to wear a comfortable cotton salwar kameez? Besides, nobody in the global advertisement world is concerned about my right to deserve ‘equal work equal pay’ but is very interested to help me buy a much deserving dress at a discounted rate on an impending Women’s Day!

Messages like this one suddenly remind me that 8 of March is once again around the corner and a lot more ‘deserving’ rewards are waiting for us women to cash on. Like there’d be one or two formal invitations to attend seminars on the rise of  womanhood, innumerable gift offers luring an otherwise forgetful husband to remind his lady love how special she is and a couple of events in the city calling for participation on emancipation of fairer sex in modern times.

Those who’d not be prepared enough for such heavy doses of intellectualism would alternatively be vying for get-togethers in the name of  IWD (that’s how gen-internet refers to the day) to chat, gossip, make merry over shades of lipstick and new wine, share vicious laughter and raise a toast to the new-age wonder women they think they are.

And that’s about it! Over and out! Beyond the furores, it is another ironical story that even if the entire elite gentry of this social fanfare are brought together under one roof, it would comprise a minuscule 7-10% of the population who celebrate the IWD.

It was in one in these happening women circles a few days ago, that a common friend needed help to lodge an official complaint against harassment and abuse by her former boyfriend. To our not so utter disbelief, she could hardly find any support from her uber-modern party friends.

Some claimed to be busy. Some did not want to indulge in someone else’s personal affairs. Some were fearful about handling the aftermath of being involved in a complaint. Some were suddenly remorseful about the girl’s inciting behaviour towards her boyfriend.

Whatever their reasons, her ‘much dependable’ female coterie conveniently managed to escape a chance to endorse and support women’s rights in true spirit.

The bubble of Women’s day celebration has but a fragile skin. One prick of a challenge and plop! It bursts. What can be more disheartening to note is that it is largely the women themselves who year after year and generations after generations keep bloating the water bubble with the futile air of gender discrimination.

A few days ago, when my neighbour was blessed with a baby and we rushed in to congratulate, her tempestuous mother-in-law uncannily interrupted, “Why a treat? It is her third girl child.” Even before we could get over her annoying statement, she butted in again to cajole the new mommy by saying, “Chalo, koi baat nahi…..jaisi jiski kismat?” Read (Hard) Luck!

I wasn’t as disheartened by her judgmental comment as I was about the fact that it came from another woman! It is certainly baffling why women act so foolishly sometimes. Instead of teaming up with each other for the benefit of us all, we wilfully fall in a self-dug filthy pit.

At ‘karvachauth’, don’t we raise our life partners on to a pedestal by fasting the whole day long and praying for their long life, as if our own is any less important? At ‘rakshabandhan’, don’t we again place our brothers a step above by seeking a pledge of protection from them, no matter how protective we ourselves might sometimes have been in raising them up? At a ‘kanyadaan’ don’t we often look for the eldest man in the family to pitch in on behalf of the bride’s widowed mother, thus depriving her of the privilege?

How unfortunate that a woman’s freedom to choose is devoured by what her close kin want her to choose. Like a career which is safe for her matrimony in future (whoever has heard of parents encouraging their girls to become wrestlers?) or the choice of dresses she must put on (short skirts is her invitation to wanting danger).

Even the right of reproduction is not her sole right. When must she bear her child? Who bestows legitimacy on the baby, by law? Can she reject her pregnancy? Must she surrogate? To bring her own baby to this world through her own body is not considered her decision but a collective moral pronouncement by the entire family.

It is not surprising that while some of us have the advantage in reading, commenting and celebrating Women’s Day ordeals, half of India’s as much worthy women warriors struggle day in and day out to meet their daily bread and butter – Working in open farms in some remote village. Labouring under the fearful sun carrying bricks on their heads while they build our houses. Doing our dishes and cleaning our homes to make them fit enough for celebrations. Some struggle to make it to school and some never do.

I’d rather think of Women’s Day remembering my old world grandmother who knew nothing of the international day but never missed a chance to stand up for our poor domestic help whenever her ruthless husband resorted to violence upon her. To an extent that at one point of time, the petite, skinny, seventy year old woman challenged a mob of fiery young men who were trying to outrage the poor girl’s modesty.

The idea is but simple – Walk the talk!

Until we get the majority of our women folk to be a part of the Women’s Day hubbub, it will remain but a mythical bubble created by the elite, privileged and happening people.

I will spend the day ditching chocolates, flowers and careless chortles in a party and instead remembering the inspiring women who have created a difference to women’s lives.  And you?

What Really Works - A Cleanliness 'Abhiyaan' or Self-driven Cleanliness?

Cleanliness's first birthday season has arrived. One year ago when Mother India gave birth to its newest baby with a sacred mission - "Swachchh Bharat Abhiyan", dreams of a messiah mission refuelled our dying hopes to tidy up our literally grim background with delight. We joined hands together crossing all boundaries of caste, religion or creed, to unite for our common birth right - hygiene. The idea was to explain the lessons of meticulousness and etiquettes to friends, neighbours, subordinates, children. Well, actually to anyone but 'me'.

Within days of inaugurating the cleanliness drive by Mr. PM, offices, schools, institutes and homes emerged on streets with a broom stick in hand to sweep off dirt under one's feet, so what if it was tossed off in the neighbour's garden? Women association and ladies club tightened saree-pallu around their waist posing for epic photographs in groups displaying their commitment to keep their premises clean, least caring that back at home when they are off their saree and make-up, some would not even think twice before throwing away kitchen junk out of their window to add up to the already piled up garbage hoarded on public street? It was amusing to find employees cleaning up dump of office files as if it was an year end appraisal target which if not done before midnight of the D-day, would lose its significance by next morning. By the end of few hours, or few weeks for some truly sincere ones, the cleanliness love affair dissipated beneath routine habits which obviously had little concern for keeping premises clean.

In fact, the most serious ones emerging in the entire cleaning business were little children who wrote essays, made collages and spoke extempore on the topic, educating the society around. Ironically, they were also the ones who knew least about some 'policy driven mission' and yet knew most about the simple habit of cleanliness. While the elders had to be forced to go through an instruction manual pointing 'Do's and Don'ts' of keeping clean, focused around a government directive, the little ones effortlessly took care to stick to a hygiene rule-book they had never even read about. My four year old child held something tight in her hand for five jolly good hours while on a trip to Munnar until she spotted a dustbin and wanted us to stop the car. When asked why, she said she wanted to throw the toffee wrapper in the bin. Isn't it appalling to know why when a four year old can understand, appreciate and follow the simplicity of a good habit inculcated, a grown-up adult must need a mission or a drive to get reminded of the same?

The question, however is, even if the noble government attempts to play a motivating Uncle Sam, how far will a 'drive' change the habits of self-driven people who have in all these years adopted shameless display of untidiness as their way of life? Is it a wonderment any more to spot the front door of a car speeding ahead suddenly fling open, driver's head pop out of it like an action movie thriller sequence and the hero shoot a file of gargled red tobacco from his mouth in place of bullets, sometime hitting and sometimes missing the person passing by on a two wheeler? A country in which urinating in open streets in full public galore considered a much healthier option to holding it back for a couple of minutes until reaching a public utility? Blowing nose or coughing without putting hands on mouth in railways, metros and buses, quite often right on the face of the nearest neighbor sitting by, unapologetically done by even the most educated and well-employed of citizens? Littering parks with eatables, spitting at tourist places, leaving filth behind in hotels and restaurants and worst still, not caring to flush out one's own shitty remains in public toilets are few common examples from daily life. We insist cleanliness is godliness but do we really care to spare our beloved God's abode in temples from filth either?

How strange is it to know when these highly qualified individuals cross the boundary of their motherland to step in some part of America, Europe or Australia, they adopt a different avatar altogether by suddenly becoming well-mannered, sophisticated gentlemen and ladies, following rules of the land like primary school babies? Perhaps they know that pretending to be naïve in a foreign land will either have them penalized or get them behind bars, even to the extent of being shown a return visa with no-thanks slip. Exactly opposite of what happens in our dear country where despite being caught and frowned upon, one can easily get away unabashedly.

If one wants to witness a live case study of our callousness towards tidiness, consider taking one train journey on a general seat. Why just general, consider sleeper or any of the AC tiers only to find that the legendary Indian Railways is the most vulnerable victim of our heartlessness. While sixty plus is to four already an alarmingly low number of toilets provided by the, its pathetic usage by people renders it distressingly unhygienic. Who cares about reading the instruction board put in toilets, when shit and quit is the rule of the rail set by passengers themselves? Using latrines when the train is at halt is obviously far fetched and much difficult instruction to follow, let alone scribbling names on walls, tearing off seat's leather even sticking chewing-gums on ceilings or fans?

So while PM and his army do commendable work in constructing multitudes of toilets, cleaning river Ganga and sanctioning crores of money for furtherance of the cleanliness cause, little is anticipated to change unless people are ready to change themselves. Drives and dialogues get delivered only with discipline. Penalty or incentive may catalyse the need to stay well behaved, it is however either the habit that one inculcates or the concern for fellow community members around that makes the big difference.

Those who keep dogs as pets would know that with proper and timely training, even an animal with lesser white matter in the brain follows etiquette of tidiness without much fuss. Why then the ones with highest of intellect need to be driven by a top-down rule-book approach and why not concern and care for each other's right to clean space be the driving force? 'Tis time we think!

Do women want to be treated specially or equally? Do men know the difference?

Women! The most talked about, debated, interpreted and empathized lot in the country. As if she was a newly arrived accessible-to-all product in the market! Almost everyone around seems to be having an opinion on her. Why just opinions? Many actually have an unverified judgment to pass about her being. If she stands for other women, she could be a fame-hogging damn feminist and if she condemns them, she may pretty well be an enemy of her own clan. If she’s well-read and voices boisterously, she is a maligning image to traditional sophistication of Indian woman persona and if she is illiterate, she is a self-proclaimed victim who deserves to suffer in wrath. If she looks hot and sexy, she quite possibly is an over-ambitious vacuous girl who uses her body for malicious favours from successful men and if she is laid back in bed, darn her for not satisfying her man’s desires.

Nevertheless, this article is not a rant about what laments have been put by society on women since ages but about why such laments have been put on her without her consent or approval? Did anyone care to ask her when and how far a victim she considers herself to be? Or did we rather believe the media circulated stories, word-of-mouth or the exceptional wisdom by self-established advocates of womanhood who claim to have read her mind and have spoken on her behalf?

High time! Let’s bust the myth. Most of the women I have known, from school to employment, from middle-class homemakers to liberated young lasses, from empowered ladies leading NGOs or start-ups to the ones who are marginally labeled off as hailing from ‘underprivileged society’, have mostly been mettlesome women of steel and valor fighting a hard day’s battle but without any dash of self-pity. Even the ones who tire day-in and day-out to get daily meals for the family by doing dishes in others’ households when their drunken husbands lay off under sun, refuse to think of themselves as a ‘poor wretched thing’. They work hard and inspire harder their children to redefine their forthcoming future.

So even when women do not feel as victimized, as weak or as slanderous as she is made a subject to talk about, the stories of her pain and discomfort do more rounds in our society than the tales of her courage, strength and endurance. The worrisome question is why at all do we want to see women as utterly victimized and marginally unsecure section of the society who can hardly fight a battle solely on her merit? Is she really that frail or does thinking of her as ‘weak’, when she is not, act like a soothing balm on a patriarchal mentality of a nation?

In a way, the proposition that women desire to be “treated equally” is actually downright ridiculous. It assumes that men are born or become superior to women who need to be pushed upwards to match their level. Which is also to assume that men and women are like rats and cats in a race who eventually have to battle each other out to reach the finishing line first? Seriously hilarious an assumption to start any emancipation from!

A woman is like a special piece in a big jumble puzzle. Special not because she is an alternative gender but because every other piece in the puzzle of society, including a man, is as special and important to arrive at the best fit. The very question of an equal, similar looking, ditto piece just doesn’t exist!

Most men know this. Those who do are the ones who have helped women complete their struggling journey in a most dignified manner in past many years otherwise there is no other thinkable way in which the race has progressed so far helping and nurturing one another.

And of course, there are men who don’t know. And also some who don’t want to know. Such number may be miniscule. Like men, who want to live in a self-spun myth of masculinity in which women will be the ones who would always perform Karvachauth for their long life, tie them a Rakhi pleading their protection or be the carrier of their surname’s legitimate child in their womb. There would always be few macho men who would not squirt an inch to ill-treat, harass, exploit or banter women to establish their supremacy and some who would not mind taking avatar of a Messiah on constant alert to save the poor, hapless fairer creatures. Honestly, it is best to let them be and move ahead with the progressing ones.

So what if a certain group distorts the puzzle of gender balance, has it not always been a few good men who have changed the rule of the game?

Women are as much a smart player. I refuse to think of my gender clan as self-pitied, victimized or sufferers of someone else’s malice waiting for positive discrimination to change their lives forever. To voice or assert for rights of one’s dignity, safety or opportunity is not the prerogative of any gender in particular but rather a movement of humanism. No matter how much level playing field one may fetch for women, she never aspires to be known for her gender but be valued for her ability, competence and courage.  

And like it is said, “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” Both men and women know that just right.

[I’m blogging for the India Today Woman Summit 2015 #WomenPower activity at BlogAdda.”]

VIP (Culture) Stands For Very Irritating People

[Photo courtesy: The Indian Express, VIP lane leads to traffic chaos]

Recently when an elderly couple, one of who was a 67-year old differently-abled wheelchair patient, was denied entry to the VIP lounge at Udaipur airport without any justifiable reason, huge annoyance floated throughout the country. Many media giants including NDTV expressed their solidarity in raising a common voice for the common man against burgeoning misuse of VIP culture in India, who tend to forget that 'With great power, also comes great responsibility." The question, however, is this -

Who is a VIP?

Who is this new breed of species in India whose every second of life a precious holy water which must be protected even at the cost of public discomfort? Whose every glimpse a precious blessing for the common man who must stay stuck in traffic for long hours before the Majesty's convoy passes by? Who is this 'very important person', who when not even around, is reserved a special room in his commemoration, prohibited from use even by the most needy?

While we thought the country is divided into caste, creed, religion, colour or gender, here's an addition to its rich classification. The common versus the very important person! Depending on how the VIP is using tag bestowed, the 'I' in the word often gets replaced with impolite, idiot, imbecile or irritating. VIP is a species of its kind. One could be an admirable minister, a bureaucrat, a corporate bigwig or a media giant in professional life but the moment one steps in public domain, the VIP puts on a typical avatar so that he can be easily identified even in a crowd of millions.

How about taking a look at the characteristics of this peculiar species that India has bred since the time British left us obliging in their pious hands?

VIPs use divine vehicles. No! It's not a meta-airplane that descended from the clouds above for this special person but the same ordinary SUV, car or jeep that one spots in a local market's showroom or in any of our homes. What gives it a divine touch are the red, amber, blue beacons and flashlights donning its roof tops which whistles, glows and clears way for the red carpet on road. Just one 'touch of glow' on top of vehicle and suddenly one can see convoys adorning roads, barricades erected, cops running in action and public waiting like helpless mute spectators. If there's no beacon, a flag of some national or local political party serves the purpose as deftly. Coupled with intense honking and reckless driving, even their chauffeurs begin to think of themselves as no lesser a Supernova.

VIPs love their family like no other. Wife, children, close kins and distant relation or whoever? Our special person has amazing qualities of doting. While most of benefits and privileges are meant for effective official discharge of duties, the VIP magnanimously distributes all to his close ones. Office vehicles, special passes, reserved seats, bodyguards, tickets, tours and even an admission for children in colleges through backdoor special permissions? Not a big deal when instead of the VIP, Mrs. Minister or Mrs. Bureaucrat (who otherwise is Mrs. Nothing herself) cuts the ribbon at most inaugurations on his behalf.

VIPs believe in leading. Without an exception, these meritorious individuals lead us everywhere. They are the first ones to grab a seat in stadium, block a space in parking, book special passes to entertainment, seek appointment from doctor and sadly, may even claim entitlement to a prospective patient's bed in star-hospital, emergency or no-emergency. It could well be the reason why nobody has ever seen a VIP waiting for his turn in a public toilet like any of us?

VIPs love God or vice versa. Whatever be it, there are sufficient reasons for us to believe in the strong bond of affection between God and VIP. Right from the time they are offered special entry to religious places to overlooking worshipping queues to special darshans for their well-being and prosperity. At a scared place where everyone is presuming equal before the Almighty, our special one is anointed the blessed soul and savior of mankind by the very pujaris. who eagerly give them special attention.

Finally VIPs, like little children, love stickers. If you find it difficult to identify this species on the basis of characteristics discussed a while ago, feel free to spy their cars. There you go with the Eureka moment! Bharat Sarkar, Pradesh Sarkar, District Administration, let alone Judges, even advocates of Supreme/High or any petty court, flaunt stickers all over! And why not? Isn't bypassing rules no more than a silly child-play to some?

Strangely, nobody has a clue how 'genuine' the VIP is? He could actually be a person of national asset who deserves a special treatment or he could be just a funny muse making mockery of his post? Whatever specie he is, let's accept, it is we who help breed the VIP culture. How some of us brag around in our social circle about knowing some high profile VIP or having links with him? How some want to get even remotely associated with VIPs in order to receive smattering spillovers of their privileges? How few of us do not hesitate bowing before them to get favoured out-of-the-way recommendations, only to oblige later?

But lo and behold! After all, ours is a culture in which we believe in preserving our nation's rare wonderment even at the cost of our lives. We have been protecting old historical monuments, dolphins, Indian vulture, tigers and other rare species with much commitment, patience and zeal. How about including VIPs, eh? 

Is It A Toilet? Is It A Canvas? Is It A Dating Site?

'Modern art' clicked during a trip to Amber Fort, Jaipur

Like any other date, 18 April passed by. But not before it was celebrated with much fanfare and media attention across the world as 'World Heritage Day". There were seminars, heritage walks, quizzes, interactive programmes, slogan contests, a Twitter trail of hash tags, pictures flooding Instagram. It seemed as if everyone had a stake in saving our ancient heritage sites and historical monuments.

But even as diverse voices chimed as one to commemorate our glorious past, the chorus felt like a dirge. An obituary. It was as if a monument in its death throes was witnessing from its half-grave the soft pastel wreaths being offered as a mark of respect along with a few kind words in remembrance of its erstwhile stardom. Listening to futile prayers to "let's keep it alive forever". Now that we did our bit in paying condolences, may its dear soul rest in peace while it actually rests in pieces.

As an avid traveller who has traversed the most difficult roads to scale the heights of our country's majestic forts, I can vouch that we are too rich to ever get ripped off our national heritage. No matter in how bad a shape we leave our monuments, their ruins will speak of its grandeur and legends of bravery. Unless of course we try to overwrite these legends with our hastily scrawled names and doodles.

The moment you enter an old monument, somewhere in the corner of the entrance you will spot welcoming graffiti carved on the wall by a former visitor. Most likely, the graffiti will be a proclamation of profound love for his sweetheart, often in the form of a heart pierced with Cupid's arrow etched with the names of our very own Romeo-Juliet, or perhaps excerpts from an open love letter mostly ending with "I luv U". At times, you might discover a tourist's knowledge of human anatomy, especially genitalia. Whatever form it takes, there will always be an indelible mark of a tourist's courteous presence.

As you tear yourself away from these modern-day murals and advance towards the dark and begrimed rooms, you stagger under an olfactory assault. While the tourist guide narrates legendary tales of the fort and insists that you go deeper towards the corner to get a feel of the monument's earlier magnificence, all you can think of is the ammonia flooding your nostrils. And then it dawns on you. The ammoniac smell originates in the now-dry urine of those who came here before you. Maybe they just couldn't wait to use the public utilities just a few metres away from the site.

While government authorities take special care to place specific signboards instructing tourists to follow certain guidelines, the rebellious child sheltered within an adult mind immediately pops out to break rules. If the sign warns not to pluck flowers, somebody will pick their very own bouquet. In signboards apprising "Do not scribble on the walls", "not" will be scratched off. At places where "Do not touch the wet paint" is subscribed, impressions of palms like dirty X-ray bones will be imprinted forever. A "Photography Prohibited Area" will be illuminated by flashes from hidden mobile cameras and in all possibility, most selfies will be clicked in "Danger: Stay Away" zones.

There are other pastimes too. Visitors to heritage site seem to have a great proclivity for spitting out great gobs of reddish brown paan masala (tobacco) commixture freshly prepared in their mouths, staining the walls in a botched water-drop fashion. Noses are blown and mucus ejected at the mere hint of a scratchy nostril or throat. Such emergencies cannot be postponed until reaching a toilet or bin.

Nevertheless, whether these heritage buildings may or may not be human friendly, they are indeed the most serene abode to monkeys, cows, stray dogs, snakes and bats. The authorities also usually let them be, which is why we were shocked when recently the parliamentary standing committee banned the daily procession of some 150 buffaloes across East Gate and VIP Gate of the Taj Mahal in a concerted effort, fearing it could dirty a world heritage site (read, it could impede VIP visits).

And why just animals? The sequestered rooms, secluded gardens and dense bushes in the vicinity of old dilapidated monuments offer young couples a safe and secret dating place, where they can easily meet or mate, away from the eyes of a cynical society. "It must be a rabbit," you hurriedly tell children straining to see the cause of the commotion behind the rose bushes. Then for fear of causing embarrassment, you take a different route.

We hear that the recent earthquake in Nepal savaged many monuments of historical significance, and we once again paid tribute to their dear departed remains. Perhaps we didn't realise that whatever happened was just nature doing to them for one day, what we have been doing bit-by-bit for years now.

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[This post by the author was originally published on Huffington Post.
Incidentally, this  post also got chosen as best pick on Blogadda's "TANGY  TUESDAY" series. ]

The Unholy Side Of Holi

This is a reproduction of my post which got first published on "The Huffington Post" (06th March 2015, 08:24 IST): The Unholy Side Of Holi

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Aha! That time of the year is once again here when the machismo of Indian men gets so built up that it sexes up one of North India's biggest festivals, Holi, in a not so holy manner. The air is full of colourful and myriad thoughts. Thoughts of Prahlada on a pyre with Holika, Lord Krishna playing Holi with Radha, the colourful descriptions in the 7th-century play Ratnavali. Wait a minute! Is this the Holi we know about? From what I have grown up with and seen around, our Holi is not such a holy affair.

Somewhere in the nip of the mid-February air in the plains of Uttar Pradesh, the erstwhile Krishna Brij, I hear the first Holi song playing in the local market. It goes like this, "Chabe gori ka yaar, balam tarse, rang barse..." In plain words, overt shameless adultery! So here we go again. It's time for the double entendres and pun-intended songs to start. Words which otherwise are supposed to be uttered in hushed tones will now be bellowed at every passing woman.

I have disclaimer to offer. I'm rather a Holi fan. It's a lovely feeling to play colours (organic, of course!) with your loved ones, to collect in a posh colony's garden, rain dance to the latest beats, wine-dine together and give each other hugs of gulal.

However, one metre beyond the walls of our apartment gate, the scene is little less wholesome. Gangs of men, loaded with bhang and out of their senses, patrol the streets. These streets may be quiet because the city knows what can happen at times like this. But they are not the only danger around. Even the balding neighbourhood uncle has relinquished his pleated pants and checked shirt in favour of a half-open shirt, a la Salman Khan. He is not at his government office today, so he thrusts his pelvis to the lecherous lyrics of a Bhojpuri number.

With his comrades, he too hunts for ladies who by noon are colorfully drenched in translucent saris sticking to their bodies. His imagination soars. While the 'gentlemen' in the gang stay happy leching, taking pictures or making videos, some bhaiya-devar-jijas leave no opportunity to rub their hands first on the cheeks and later unobtrusively slide it lower to other parts of a woman's body.

Those who miss the chance to lay their hands on victims do the next best thing. What could be better than a water balloon? They can hit what they would have loved to touch and are greeted by the sight of girls and women screaming with 'joy' and running around in their wet attire. This is the day words change their meaning. "Please let me go" is heard as "Do it more, baby." If the girl says, "I'm ready to play," she is thought of as inviting touches and if she says, "Don't", well hurray because today force will not be equal to harassment. Bravo!

This reminds me also of the glorious contribution of Bollywood in spicing up Holi's concupiscence. Like lascivious lover-boy Amitabh smearing Rekha with multitudinous colours in front of her husband and his own wife in the movie Silsila. Haven't we clapped enough on such chousing in the cinema halls? Like Deepika Padukone and her puerile company in the Holi song "Balam Pichkari" brilliantly dancing to the signature step of emulating a pregnant belly? Oh, we completely get the naughtiness intended, don't we? How about B-town lyrics rhyming into Holi-choli, ang-rang, gaal-gulaal, gulaabi-bhabhi that even the street urchins sing boisterously while the police and district administration enjoy the holiday slumber?

Come dusk and when one is done with playing colours, hogging on gujiyas and downing laced thandai, it is time to clean the body with soap and shampoo, to wash away the sins of the day. After a liberal application of Boroplus and eyedrops pinched into red eyes and falling into bed dog tired, delirious bewilderment takes over.

"I should've said 'No' to thandai."

"I can't believe it was Jiju who behaved that lecherous way."

"Shucks! I hate the way he put it on my face."

"I should've slapped him in public."

Just then someone suddenly barges-in, empties an entire bucket of coloured water on you and, as you stare speechless with disgust, hollers "Bura na maano, Holi hai! (Don't feel bad, it's Holi)"
Seriously? Well, I can't!