INSOMNIAC @ ISB

(A re-rendition of INSOMNIAC)

I look out the rooftop, much like an HBS protagonist,

to view a chequered board of black and white.

A disarrayed bunch of knights and pawns, pausing their 'game'

for a convivial evening together in the moonlight.

I see majestic structures of sandstone all around,

dotted with guiding lights and welcoming doors. 

Separated by elegant green-yellow tree canopies,

which shadow cohabitant peacocks, snakes and boars.

I hear the faint strumming of an acoustic guitar,

punctuated with the sound of laughter and applause.

And the gentle whisper of the wind singing along,

as it slips through the atrium's deftly pillared jaws.

I smell the scent of tulips in the cool midnight breeze
transmitting the energy of a hundred high-spirited friends.
The aroma of chocolate and vanilla adorning birthday cakes
crafted beautifully to celebrate prevailing campus trends.

I have indeed been robbed this time, for I now have no sleep.
Even as this last fateful night draws to a hurried close.
As the robbers flee from sight, I realize - they are none other
than the crimson sky, the flowing lawns and the lovely ISB folk.

~Arnav

THE INSUFFICIENCY OF PSEUDO-FEMINISM

Vogue magazine definitely seems to have received a lot of attention of late through its 'Vogue Empower' campaign, even though it has also drawn huge volumes of flak. The magazine's marketing bosses must be beaming with pride and the joyful anticipation of exorbitant bonuses - after all, any publicity is good publicity, right?

Nevertheless, there's another consequence that the magazine has managed to drive - sparking a debate on the purpose and methods of feminism. Needless to mention, the following text presents my views as part of this debate.

It is apparent that the "My choice" video makes a strong case largely in favour of sexual independence and liberty of lifestyle, as is often observed in the arguments of contemporary third-wave feminism. A valid and welcome claim I'd say, even though a few messages could probably have been conveyed more tactfully.

While I do agree with the general idea and (most of the) content of this film, I would like to put forth a few arguments centered around three major questions:


1. Who?

Does Vogue speak for all women?

As inferred from the images of protagonists in the video and the various arguments it contains, the campaign appears to represent the aspirations of a limited proportion of India's women - those belonging to the upper-middle and higher classes, while failing to address those in the strata below. This is perhaps because the reader base for the magazine is restricted to the former. Nevertheless, creating a more inclusive portrayal could probably have generated much greater effect.


2. What?

This question ties back to the previous one. What does the the film speak about?

"To be a size zero or a size 15, my choice."
"To love a man, a woman, or both, my choice."

"To have sex before marriage, outside of marriage or not at all - my choice."

Are the demands and rights of a modern woman limited only to these? The freedom to come home at 4 am? To flaunt the latest in fashion? To choose between the permanence of love or the temporariness of lust?

To have a right to be promiscuous? (Why not - all the men are doing it! Why care about morality?)

More importantly. are these liberties a higher priority than securing the most fundamental opportunities that so many women in the country have been bereft of for so long? What happened to the goals of empowerment through better education and nourishment? To have financial independence by entering the country's workforce, of which women currently comprise only 30%?  To choose a career of a girl's own liking - as a sportswoman, an army captain, an entrepreneur or a bureaucrat? To lead companies and government establishments, and fight against the negative biases affecting females in many such institutions?

To be the harbingers of change.

Have these fundamental victories been attained already? If not, wouldn't achieving them prelude, and catalyze, everything else that this campaign seeks to accomplish? Shouldn't these issues therefore have been raised somewhere, atleast partly, in the film (in addition to issues highlighted currently)?


3. How?

What is the manner in which the message has been expressed?

The narrator repeatedly uses the phrase "my choice" to bring home the idea that a woman can choose to live her life as she wants. In a subtle manner, she also rebukes men for holding her back and claims to reserve the right to make decisions in mutual relationships - maybe as an attack on the prevalent patriarchal system.

"To have your baby or not - my choice."

"My songs, your noise. My order, your anarchy. Your sins, my virtues."

Before I proceed further on this third question, let's first have a quick look at the dictionary definition of feminism:

Throughout the 'Vogue Empower' narrative there is a conspicuous bombardment of the prepositions 'you' and 'I'. 'You', the man, is deemed a rogue and stripped of any influence over major (mutual) life decisions - abandoning the notion of gender equality. This pseudo-feminism in turn lends the message an aggressive tone, and has thus received a lot of aggressive criticism in return.

After all that women have been through in this country over the past numerous years, India needs feminism. There's no denying it. However, anybody calling herself (or himself) a feminist must also realize that the actual premise of feminism is equality - at home, in society and in the workplace. It does not advocate tilting the balance of inequality to the other side. Neither does it support maligning the other gender through vitriolic and vituperative accusations, or using feminism as a shield to justify the abuse of morality.

Any enterprise, whether a business venture or an interpersonal relationship, can only be nurtured through collaboration. It is thus crucial to realize that men have an equally important role to play in cultivating the fruits that feminism pledges to produce, instead of women championing this cause alone and alienating the other gender in the process. There is a strong need to move away from the differences and aggression of 'You' and 'I', and to embrace the promise of 'We'. 

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Feminism is a potent means of bringing change for the greater good of the society and of the economy. However, if continued to be misdirected (only) in its 'pseudo' form(s), it would never be able to culminate in its ultimate goal - equality in every sphere of life.

Let's make sure that it does.

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PS: A lot of ire is being vented against Deepika Padukone, who happens to be the popular face of the 'Vogue Empower' advertisement. I believe that criticism against an idea, if any, should be directed at the message, not the messenger. Hence it's unfair to chastise the actress, especially by targeting her personal life choices.

CHEERIO'ZS' !

It was the summer of 2011,
when I was still a young engineer
who dreamt of changing the world
by starting with an interesting career.

I joined ZS as an analytics associate
with unkempt hair and shoes devoid of shine.
To fight the monotony of SAS and VBA,
I doodled in the NEO to pass my time.

The doodles couldn't stay for long;
my first project was quite intense.
It took a lot of midnight coffee shots
until things finally started to 'make sense'.

Thus began my stint with forecasting,
as a cog in a small and specialized pod.
Over time the cogs grew in number,
and my role progressed to more than I'd thought.

It was fun to meet and know so many people
spread across the US, Asia and Europe.
While India was a stage for PD and fun,
Frankfurt gave me presents beyond hope.

The years have hurried past on time entry sheets
teaching me different things along the way.
From the pyramid principle to the concepts of business,
from teaching at Neev to being Toastmaster of the day.

It's the spring of 2015, when I look into the mirror;
my hair is in place and my shoes have their shine.
While training an audience on Excel and VBA,
I no longer doodle to pass my time.

I thank you all for bringing in me this change
as managers, mentors, peers and friends.
For helping me through 'urgent' deliverables,
for your company in the office and in various events.

The dream of changing the world still stands,
but now waits patiently at the end of b-school.
Hence I shall now take my leave of you all,
hoping we meet again when I'm a little more cool. :P

Ciao,
Arnav.

A TIME OF WAVERING FAITH

“The smallest coffins are the heaviest.”

I’m sure you would have stumbled across this quote in the aftermath of the widely condemned Peshawar attack. A quote that has echoed across social and news media all over the world. A line I personally believe to contain the most powerful and the most saddening set of words that have been used together in recent times. A line that questions the fickleness of one of the very foundations of human identity – mankind’s perception of good versus bad, often concealed behind a veil of religion. A line that indicates we have somehow managed to misplace our faith to a place where it never belonged, or should never belong.

The 16^th of December, 2014 will be remembered as one of the blackest days in modern history, when a misguided group of religious Taliban extremists murdered 134 schoolchildren in cold blood – apparently to teach a lesson to Pakistan’s army personnel, who had dared to launch a campaign against the extremist’s abuse of religion as a means of oppression and violence. The extremists were also angered by Malala Yousafzai being awarded the Nobel Peace prize – “how dare she promote education as superior to unquestioned faith?”
Since they could not extinguish the light of education, they decided to demolish the homes that sought this light instead of blindly following the Taliban’s religious prescriptions. It was not only the children that died that day; every bullet that pierced the heart of a falling child also attacked our faith in our understanding of that obscure higher presence, little by little.

How did humankind arrive at this juncture? If religion was created to serve humanity, how did it change so much to turn against the very people it sought to nurture and protect? Is it a tool that can be modified to anybody’s convenience? If yes, does its presence or absence really matter? Which religious doctrine exhorts pious followers to take up arms to murder children? How many of these innocent children knew the meaning of religion in the first place? What had they done wrong?

These are questions that perhaps nobody is capable of answering confidently. Not even the staunch fundamentalists who launched this dastardly act of terrorism. They might have an objective, but how that objective came into being is a question they have probably never asked themselves.

We are slowly moving to an age where the face of religion is continuously being morphed to suit vested interests or to support various forms of political propaganda. And this is happening not only in one country, but more or less throughout the world – including secular India.

'Hindutva’ as a concept is absent from our ancient Vedas and Upanishads, as well as from the Bhagavad Gita. Lord Krishna, in his sermons, never endorsed the notion of a single Rashtra that should unite all who follow his path and look down upon those who don’t. The supremacy of the Hindu race is a purely political ideology established in the twentieth century, and has never been advocated by Hinduism itself. Yet certain self-proclaimed outfits have often tried to mislead people by giving Hindutva a religious tinge, and using it as a shield for perpetrating acts of violence. At the receiving end of this violence, directly or indirectly, are innocent people, sometimes from their own community.

It is surprising to know that the same outfits are simultaneously leading humanitarian initiatives for social welfare, more in line with the original ethos of the religion. They are driving rescue efforts during natural calamities, setting up primary healthcare centers in remote villages, and sponsoring children’s education. 

How could such contrasting perceptions of duty co-exist? Which one is correct?

There could be numerous ways to find God. Many of these ways are dictated by religion in its original form. As for the other engineered forms, none should carve a path that passes through the graves of innocent children, men and women, and yet only leads to a false illusion of finding a false God.

INSOMNIAC

I see a crescent of white shining in the heavens,

engulfed in an embroidered black blanket of stars.
Watching over the land as a silent guardian,
frowning at humankind's never-ending wars.

I see giants of concrete staring at me from everywhere;

their empty eyes glinting with tiny little lights of hope.
Standing still and solemn on deserted boulevards,
unaware of the shadows that move within their folds.

I hear the cricket chirping persistently in the silence;

hidden in the darkness that cradles fragile homes.

And the sound of wind rustling through mahogany leaves,

gently whistling a lullaby as the wearied city snores.

I inhale the scent of flowers in the midnight air,
laced with broken whiffs of steel and dust.
I smell the despair of a prolonged summer
praying for rain to heal earth's barren crust.

I can feel the night robbing me of slumber
like an evil sorceress relishing sadistic thrill.
Do what it may, I'm going to dream
as soon as I close my eyes against its will.

~ Arnav

INDIA: PERSPECTIVES

Sitting on the 22nd floor of a building two blocks away from my office, I gazed at the plethora of lights shimmering on the Frankfurt skyline. The last ray of sunlight was being retracted away from this part of the world and yet I could not see the moon making its way upwards. The sky, now a hue between deep blue and black, arched over a maze of Victorian houses and modern commercial complexes - some of them towering higher than the one I was in.

I could hear soft music playing in the adjacent hall, sometimes punctuated by the clattering of glasses, or the sound of collective cheering and laughter. The air inside this segregated room at the corner of the floor smelled mildly of wine and cheese. A circular puff of smoke entered my line of sight from the right and slowly wiggled its way across. It collided with where the hauptbahnhof was plotted on the window pane and disappeared. I could feel someone touching my arm gently as I heard a question.

"Cigar?"

Maria enquired smilingly as she offered me the roll of tobacco, with her elbow resting on the large round beech table that occupied most of the room. A thick white smoke was oozing out from the left corner of her lips.

When you are in the company of people you have only recently met, it becomes difficult to judge what would be a good way to refuse a polite offering. The only person I knew in that group was Adam, a colleague from office, who had insisted I accompany him to a graduation dinner with a bunch of his friends.

"It will only take an hour", he had said, "and then you can go back to work. Besides, they need some advice and I think you are the right person. I already told them you are coming." And that is how I had met this motley group - Maria, Philip, Eric and Gabriele.

Not wanting to become one of those epidemiology data points I so often work with as part of my profession, I chose to decline the cigar humbly with a "No, thank you" and a smile in return.

"Are you sure? This is special. You should at least try it once. It's difficult to find otherwise."

"Actually, I don't smoke."

With a casual upward movement of her shoulders, she passed the roll to Philip, who gladly accepted and slowly took a puff.

"OK. What would you like then? How about a Martini? Or would you prefer a Heineken?"

"Well, I don't drink either."

As if taken aback by my response, she conjectured - "Really? You're from Delhi, right? Based on what I know, alcohol is quite popular in your country. In fact, I have a lot of Indian friends and my image of a typical Indian guy is one who drinks and smokes all kinds of stuff all night and then wakes up next morning with a lot of headache and a lot of regret."

"Well, then I guess I'm not your typical Indian guy. I'd rather have fun seeing a drunk Beercules than become one myself. And to be honest, I think you haven't met so many of us to have a substantial sample size for your hypothesis. Besides, there are states in the country where the government's attitude towards liquor is similar to its attitude towards the polio disease."

"Yeah, this guy is boring", Adam interrupted with a grin. "Except for his wicked sense of humour. And, as per internal company sources, his dancing skills."

"Oh, that is interesting!", Maria chuckled.

"Don't be surprised", Eric jumped in. "I recently spent two weeks traveling to various Indian cities; which, by the way, was super cheap. It seems the locals there have good dancing skills in general. Maybe they learn from their Bollywood movies where the music videos take up half of the run time. I once went to a discotheque in Bumbay. People there were dancing like crazy, throwing their arms and legs wildly in whatever space they could find in that packed hall. I think we Germans are more restrained when it comes to dancing, but the Indians like to go all out."

"Yes, I guess that is an innate talent we share, although I wouldn't speak so highly of me. Nevertheless, you should come to one of our marriage processions and see for yourself", I proffered to the rest of the group.

"I've been to one in Day-lee. That is quite a sight, with the horse and the dresses and the blaring 70's music." Adam winked his approval, and the others looked like he had piqued their interest.

Eric, although was unfazed. He looked at me and then continued, almost in an accusatory tone.
"I have a question for you though. Why do people in India rub their bellies against your back whenever you are standing in a queue or a crowd? And then they keep pushing you like a lawn mower. I found it everywhere - whether it be the discotheque, a cinema theatre, a railway station or a superstore. It is very annoying."

Treading carefully, I suggested:
"I don't think anyone would do that intentionally to get some depraved sense of pleasure, or you were living amongst some really plump people. Not that I agree it happens so often, but a rational answer would probably be 'due to space limitations'. India's population is 15 times that of Germany, whereas the land area is only 10 times. Also, the relative size of urban areas compared to total land is much lesser than in the developed countries, resulting in a high population density in the cities. Any small urban facility is therefore not large enough to accommodate so many people. The cities you have been to probably include metropolitans like Delhi or Mumbai, each of which are home to upwards of 10 million citizens and guests. And life in these cities is both difficult and busy; time is precious and patience costly. That explains the likely cause for your unpleasant predicaments."

"I get it. But can't they just stand apart by an inch? Especially when the weather is so hot", Eric retorted.

Observing that the argument was not going in a favourable direction, Philip intervened, much to my relief. "Let's order", he proposed. "We can't talk for so long on an empty stomach. What would you like to have, Arnav?"

"Any good vegetarian food that you can recommend?" I acknowledged his timely intervention with a silent nod.

"Oh, I'm not the right person to answer that question. My only recommendation would be that you should start eating meat if you want to stay here for long."

"Nah, I'm fine with living on Italian and Mexican cuisines. Besides, I have figured out a few Indian places I can go to every now and then. I can suggest a few you guys might like as well."

"How can you eat that food every day? It's too spicy for my liking." It appeared Eric wasn't quite open to the idea.

"Spices and condiments are a part of our tradition. I grew up having salts and spices in my meals whereas you are probably accustomed to food with little or no flavour additions to the primary ingredients.  So I prefer some garlic or chillies in my food while you don't. It stems from a difference in culture."

"I personally like the Spaetzle with Asparagus", Gabriele spoke for the first time. "It's a local dish made from cheese, specially grated in the form of noodles. Pretty good. Wanna try? It's a little tricky to handle with the knife and fork, but I can teach you."

"Sure. Would love to." I thanked her for the gesture; kindness is a virtue I value highly.

She responded with a warm smile and went back to reading the menu. As the others discussed their own preferences for dinner and drinks, the language suddenly switched to Deutsch. I could only make out a few phrases in between the sentences.

Assuming that I could no longer contribute effectively due to my limited domain (and linguistic) knowledge, I diverted my attention towards the panoramic view from the window. Little white dots had started appearing in the sky; which was otherwise unchanged. The number of cars plying through Frankfurt's streets were now fewer in number. An occasional pedestrian walked though one of the many crossroads in this perennially illuminated city. A junkie tiptoed through a dark alley, swaying like Santa Claus dancing to the tune of 'Jingle Bells' at Christmas.

I have no idea how long I had been engrossed in studying the streets when Maria whispered into my ear, "Isn't this a nice view?"

A little startled by her presence, which I had forgotten for that period of solitary observation, I answered - "It is awesome! I always wanted to get a glimpse of the city from higher up".

"Do you see that elegant white building? That is the Old Opera. We also have a new opera. There it is, with the garden in front", she said, her finger pointing to a more contemporary structure about a kilometre away. I recalled 'Occupy Movement' activists protesting for days in the same lawn during one of my previous visits. "Adjacent to the Opera is the CommerzBank. Further in that direction is the Main river, where you can see those bridges. You should go there some time."

"Yes, I've been to the riverside once with a friend. Quite peaceful."

It seemed the rest of the group had noticed by this time that I had been left out of their conversation.

Philip was the first to apologize: "So sorry we started talking among ourselves in German. We were discussing a final case study assignment due for submission on Monday. Would you mind sharing your ideas on the case after dinner? We were hoping we could use a consultant's help - for free, obviously."

Flattered and amused, I assented with "I'll be glad to be of any help".

Gabriele was the second. "My apologies, Arnav. I should have known you don't speak Deutsch. Anyways, tell me a little more about yourself. Do you have a background in management?"

Feeling like an expert with no expertise, I truthfully answered with "No. I am an engineer."

"Which university did you go to?" Eric questioned with a curious look on his face.

"Indian Institute of Technology. I won't be surprised if you haven't heard of it."

"You mean IIT Chennai? We have an exchange program with that university", Gabriele asked enthusiastically. It was I who was taken aback this time.

"It's the same parent institution, but at a different location called Roorkee in northern India."

"I hear guys from IIT are smart. Why is that? I received my GMAT score yesterday, which is 600, and I was happy. But then Adam told me this morning his Indian colleague had a 760. Must be from an IIT, I think. Now I'm just hopeless about my own chances."

"IITs admit students through a tough nationwide exam after rigorous academic preparation, with about 200 thousand candidates competing for 3000 seats. And so these universities usually get the brightest students. Although I don't believe that graduates from other universities are not intelligent and cannot score a 760."

"Have you been to Chennai then?" she inquired, changing the topic a little abruptly.

"No, although I want to. It's in the southern part of the country, which I haven't explored so much."

"OK. I've watched 'Chennai Express', the movie. That's how I remembered the name. Can you remind me who the main actor was? I kind of like him."
This was my second surprise of the night.

"You mean Shahrukh Khan? I didn't know you watch Bollywood movies."

"Oh, yes. Is he popular among girls in India?"

"I think so. Although some new actors are now starting to steal the limelight."

"Do people in Chennai also speak Hindi?"

"Not many of them. Chennai is largely influenced by its own regional language. Hindi is spoken mainly in the northern states. India is otherwise a multilingual country with more than 20 officially recognized languages."

"Wow! So many? Can you speak Hindi? Is it popular in Delhi?"

"I can. And yes, it is spoken by the majority of Delhi's population."

"One of my Indian friends was telling me Delhi is not safe for girls. I also recently read an article which indicated that the country has a very high crime rate against women. Is that true?" Maria touched on a subject that I had been dreading.

"Sadly, that is true. Although the crime rate is lower in southern parts of the country."

"Why is it so bad?"

"Honestly I don't have a right answer. I think it is because our society is largely patriarchal and also very orthodox. Throughout our long history, women have not been treated as equal to men, a notion I strictly denounce. Their responsibilities have been curtailed to tending to the family and performing household chores. This has led to a false impression of their place in society, especially among men who are rarely taught the virtue of respecting the fairer sex. This is more so in the North. However, this perception is slowly changing, at least in urban India."

Philip came to my rescue again. "What is one thing you like about India?", he asked.

"A rather unique trait that characterizes our culture is the importance of family. We try not to drift away from our parents and siblings once we start a career or get married. I like the fact that young Indian boys and girls are still unabashed living with their parents while they are studying, or even working at a job."

"Hmm. Living with one's parents here after a certain age casts doubts on the person's ability. So it's not very common."

"One more question from me", Gabriele demanded politely, with a funny look on her face. She probably had had too much apfelwine. I hoped it was the last.

"If you were asked to choose between Delhi and Frankfurt for spending the rest of your life, which one would it be?"

This one was easy.
"Delhi, definitely. I like traveling and can probably even stay away from home for a year or two, but I'm too Indian to be able to permanently live anywhere else."

RED SIGNAL

Gurgaon traffic slowly made its way through the city's dusty roads as morning commuters patiently crawled inch by inch on the uneven asphalt. The sun shone radiantly from above, its heat permeating through the atmosphere and settling as little drops of sweat on drivers' foreheads. It was only 10 am in early April, but it appeared as if the summer peak had already arrived, as if the climbing sun was mocking at the futility of an air conditioner against its mildest flares. Amid the honking of automobile horns and the revving of engines but to no avail, my Innova jerked to a halt. The colour on the approaching traffic signal had turned to red just as the car had reached the intersection.  "Damn !", I muttered to myself as the prospect of another forfeited breakfast in the office seemed to materialize. "This is not turning out to be a very good beginning to the day."

As the digital countdown until the next one minute started, I looked out the window to my left. There was the usual mix of autorickshaws, motorbikes, schoolbuses, cars and the occasional lorry or tractor eagerly awaiting the green light. To my right, I could see a steady stream of morning traffic shunting off in the direction of Sohna road. But what I saw next was hugely discomforting, for it questioned my very belief in the innocence of children and in the bond between siblings.

A little girl was resting on the sidewalk, siting cross-legged. She probably resided in one of the neighbouring slums that dotted the surrounding area. She was wearing a dull green salwar kameez; a thin layer of rubbery worn out slippers separated her feet from the burning ground. Wrapped in her red dupatta was a toddler, barefoot and covered only in a ragged old white t-shirt. The girl would not have been more than twelve, and her baby brother (or was it her brother?) not more than two. As soon as the signal turned to red, she leapt up and set the toddler on his feet. Out of the blue, a hard slap landed on the little boy's cheek from her elder sister, as I watched with eyes wide open. Then another, and then another. This continued until the baby was crying uncontrollably, until his eyes profusely spewed out tears which refused to dry even in the parching heat.

When the baby could look no more pitiable, she took him in her arms again and carried the poor little urchin into the stationary traffic. Moving from one vehicle to another, she begged for alms, often pointing to the bawling toddler and pleading how he hadn't been fed for so long. The trick didn't seem to work - it's very difficult to find true empathy, or for that matter, any form of emotion nowadays. People tend to conserve it as a precious resource - unless, of course, it can fetch them something in return. The bystanders had probably already witnessed her clever device and were therefore not falling for her miserable attempts at convincing them for money. If they indeed had, nobody bothered to ask what she was doing on the road on a Monday morning when other children were going to school; why she was abusing her own little brother when other siblings were happily playing pithu together with their friends. Just as the girl knocked on my window, the signal turned green and the needle on the car's speedometer swung to the right. With an air of business, as if accustomed to this routine, she strolled back to her station on the sidewalk while a fleet of automobiles flowed past her through the crossroads. This one hadn't been a very good exploit. She should probably hit her brother harder next time.

While this scene was enough to ruin my Monday morning, a similar event transpired the next day. When I reached office, Shruti was fixed to her laptop screen, searching desperately for something. Jai and Deepak were standing to her either side, staring as she typed away on her internet browser. I gave her an inquisitive look, wondering this was too early in the day to be worried over work. She rolled her eyes as she looked up.

"Aapko pata hai?"

"What?"

"A woman approached my cab at a traffic signal, begging for money. She was carrying an infant - numb and still as a statue made of stone. I'm sure the baby was drugged. I've read about this on Quora but I never believed it, until today. I asked the cabbie to halt so that I could ask her about the infant, but the stupid driver didn't stop the car."

"You might be wrong. The baby might just have been sleeping, or sick."

"No, this is not unusual. These things happen", Jai interjected.

"I'm searching for an authority to whom I can report this", she continued. "Is there one?"

"You can dial 100"

"Oh, no. They would dismiss it as irrelevant. Isn't there a dedicated helpline for such matters?"

"I don't know", I answered honestly.

"There should be one. They have a helpline for reporting frivolous complaints. This is a much bigger issue. How can these children survive for long! Kids in orphanages would have a much better life."

"Not necessarily", I suggested, although not confidently.

"Well, my mom visited an orphanage once. From what she told me, the kids were at least well fed and educated. They didn't have to spend their childhood by the roadside, serving as props for this heinous business, or begging for alms so that their lunatic father could get his daily dose of daaru."

I could not dispute her premise. She was right.

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At a time when 27 crore Indians live below the poverty line, we have come to accept the fact that economic disparity is inevitable. There will always be that huge band separating the uber-rich and the famished poor. But we can still try to somehow reduce the gradient of that band. We can try to ensure that poverty does not thrive as a business where young innocent children are employees without pay. Perhaps the best means to this motive is through education.

“Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” 

― Nelson Mandela

“Education is essential to change, for education creates both new wants and the ability to satisfy them.” 

– Henry Steele Commager

The first step would be to draw these kids out of the shadows. I shudder at the thought of how their lives might turn out if they also spend the rest of their childhood on the roadside, and maybe coax their own younger siblings, future sons and daughters to follow their lead. The malaise of poverty can never be cured from the country if we allow this practice to persist unchecked; if we continue to be ignorant of its marginalizing effect on the lives it controls.

“Children must be taught how to think, not what to think.” ― Margaret Mead

Can each one of us not collectively sponsor a child's education, at least at the primary level? Can this not slowly, but surely, reduce the number of kids who are made to squander their days on a traffic signal hoping for trinkets from a merciful, maybe even gullible, stranger? When these educated kids grow up, do they not add to the "productive" workforce? And once they are themselves out of the darkness, would they ever want to send their progeny back in? Would this not solve to an extent a problem that the country has been grappling with since the time of its independence?

It doesn't take much effort on our part. There already exist organizations like the Smile foundation and World Vision India that have long started working towards this cause. All we need to do is just spend 5 minutes on their website every few months purchasing a book, a school uniform or part of the tuition fee for an aspiring young kid. Is that too much to demand from ourselves?

If yes, this begs the question:
As a nation, are we really committed to 'Vision 2020'?

A YEAR OF LIBERATION

"And now, dear children, we present to you a wizard who will entertain you with his tricks and share his knowledge of magic. Let's hear some applause !", announced the host of the event as a bunch of primary and middle school kids looked on curiously at the table placed in the center of the stage for the upcoming performance. The firm's CSR team had helped the school establish its own library -  furnished with books and a desktop computer, a luxury most schools in rural India cannot easily afford. This small institution, a walled area of barren land in the village of Neev, a major detour from the city roads in Gurgaon, was among the few to have acquired these necessary school facilities. This was a day of celebration; the library had officially been launched.

As I walked up to the podium with a balloon in one hand and a soda bottle in the other, posing as a sorcerer to the innocuous and clueless group of little children gathered in the courtyard around a peepul tree planted in the middle of the small compound they call school, I decided I would tell them the truth. There is no such concept as magic; it is merely an art of playing with science. Magic lies in craftily deceiving your audience, cloaking their minds with the mist of fantasy that they cannot see through. My purpose today was quite the opposite - it was to make them aware of this mist and implore them to follow logic and reason so that they could someday conjure their own magic tricks.

I took my place in the center stage under the light of the morning sun. I looked directly at the crowd of little faces staring expectantly at me, and opened with a question that elicited a favourable response from the majority of children.

"How many of you would want to become magicians when you grow up?"

At once, scores of hands shot up in the air.

"Thank you dear children", I continued. "That is an encouraging sight to see. Now let me tell you something about magic."

By the end of the twenty minutes for which I occupied the podium, I had told them about the far-reaching possibilities of science. I had demonstrated experiments embodying various guiding principles of nature. I had encouraged the kids to think out loud, and maybe ignited a spark for inculcating scientific temperament. I had spoken to an aspiring girl pilot, listened to a young boy sing, and suggested drawing tips to a bunch of pre-school kids in the activities that followed. While doing so, I had spent my time on something I really liked, something that fetched a different kind of contentedness no amount of money can proffer - something I haven't been able to accomplish in the last few years.

That day, I finished my work efficiently and returned home from office earlier than my usual schedule. I logged on to youtube, looked up 'guitar lessons' and plucked at the strings of my Fender for the next hour. Music has a rejuvenating effect - it carries you away into another world, curing your fatigue and soothing your senses, making you forget the problems and miseries that daunt your mind. I closed my eyes, and after a while, the only sound reaching my ears was the cadence of notes bouncing off the soundboard, resonating in the closed room. I am not a seasoned musician, not even a dilettante, but the beauty of a guitar lies in its ability to read its master and play along. Those erratic, uneven chords gradually acquired rhythm as I strummed an unknown tune, played my own chords and hummed my own song.

That was perhaps one of the best days in the year gone by. A welcome deviation from normality. A day of realization - that there are things more meaningful and impactful than a routine corporate job, that you can find happiness in sources richer than money, that you are capable of magically changing lives, including your own. A day when I had acquired control.
A day of liberation.

2013 was crammed with work and travel and preparation for that coveted business school degree. Now that I don't have to bother about one of these anymore, I think I now know what my new year's resolution for 2014 is going to be.

A VISION

Waiting impatiently for his meal, Pranav picked up his spoon and started drumming on the edge of the porcelain plate that his mother had already arranged neatly on the dinner table. Mr. Mehta was busy scanning the pages of The Hindu and did not seem to notice. Encouraged by his father's nonchalance, Pranav increased his rhythm to test if he could play as fast as his music instructor in school.

"Don't do that ! It is irritating", his elder sister, Surbhi, suggested very calmly.

"Go to hell ! I'll do what I want", he snapped.

This seemed to have caught Mr. Mehta's attention, for he immediately lowered the newspaper.

"Pranav, that is not how you speak to your sister", he interrupted.

"OK, sorry", apologized the young boy as he turned to face the teenage girl.

"That's my boy. Just talk to your sister more politely from now on. In fact, do not be rude to any other girl."

"I will not be rude, Papa.", he exclaimed.

"Very good.", Mr. Mehta smiled at his son's obedience.

"Such sweet children. I'll also bring the rajma. Once you finish, we have icecream to celebrate Surbhi's academic result", Mrs. Mehta said as she entered from the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetable pulao. The girl had achieved a ninety five percent aggregate score in her class 10 board exams, second in the entire district only to her friend Ritu who lived in the neighbouring slum.

"Chocolate?", asked Surbhi expectantly.

"Yes, dear", her mother affirmed. "Exactly what you asked for."

As the family sat down together on the dinner table, Mr. Bachchan posed the first question to his ecstatic participant on KBC. When the show had ended, the kids retired to their rooms. They had to wake up early next morning to catch the school bus in time for a trekking excursion.

"So, honey ! Anything worth noticing in the news today?", Mrs. Mehta asked her husband as she settled next to him on the sofa after a fulfilling dinner and rested her head on his firm shoulder.

"It is in the headlines. A bunch of youths gave a sound thrashing to some miscreants who were eve-teasing a 20 year old girl in New Delhi. Apparently, the girl raised an alarm and a few passers-by quickly came to her rescue. The culprits are now in jail facing an appropriate sentence dictated by the Nirbhaya law. This is one of those rare instances where people have stepped in to prevent a potential tragedy."

"Yes, that is indeed rare. There is not a lot of empathy found on the country's streets. But anyways, this is a relief. I think people have finally begun to realize change cannot happen unless they strive for it themselves; things can only get better if we start taking initiative and stop waiting for the government to swing into action."

"Hmm. We have waited for a long time. It has made us lethargic. After the series of crimes that have blotted the nation in past years, people probably cannot take it anymore."

"If only we could try to similarly stand up against other evils that plague our society."

"I think we have made a start. With the Jan-Lokpal bill being very likely to be passed in this parliamentary session, we might finally be able to force graft under control."

"That is debatable. Nevertheless, I was referring to issues that do not contain a large political association." 

"Well, even on that front, I heard Tushar who lives next door convinced his parents not to ask for dowry from the brides's family. When his parents cited financial stability as a motive, he declared that his qualifications provide him enough earning potential not to depend on any form of depraved assistance. Good lad, that one."

"Yes. You never asked for dowry, right?", Mrs. Mehta prodded him with a grin.

"Oh, no. I thought you would be enough", Mr. Mehta smiled, stroking his wife's silken hair.

"Good. Because I would have thrown you out of my house had you asked.", she giggled. 

"That would have been a sight", he laughed. "Speaking of being out of the house, I just remembered I have a business trip planned for the US next month. How much is the current exchange rate, by the way?"

"Fifty six."

"So the rupee is slowly recovering. Anyways, can you remind me to make travel reservations? If you are able to get a few days leave from work, you and the kids should come along too."

"I'll see. But first, I hope you recall you promised the kids we are going to Mussoorie this weekend."

"I remember, sweetheart. We most certainly are."

ONLY THE LORD SHALL TAKE AWAY

Question : Who decides when to end a life?

Answer : NOT the life-bearer

You, dear reader, might wonder what has suddenly sparked this subject. It is the shocking, self-inflicted demise of a person whom I considered to be a rational, jovial and ambitious human being. I do not know the reason for this extreme step, but I am unable to come to terms with the fact that such an individual can actually go through with such a preposterous and callous act.

There cannot be a greater gift to mankind than the ability to perform any action at will - the freedom to make a choice, to love and be loved, to travel this beautiful world, to embark on a passionate dream, or to do nothing at all. And there cannot be a more blatant disregard for that pristine gift than to throw it away in a mindless, impulsive error of thought.

Also, our life is not ours alone to give away. We are just the bearers of this asset; it is much more a property of everybody else who has a stake in our existence. And since we are not the complete, rightful owners, we have no right to discard it without consent.

Of course, life is not always the joyride that we wish for, but a wave of crests and troughs. While we enjoy the crests, we often tend to resign in the troughs. I have travelled through fairly deep trenches, and I am sure so have you. All it takes to make our way up is a little courage, and a little faith. It is the plethora of such high and low experiences that is the basis of life. There cannot be perfect order in anything worldly; if there is, we would cease to exist - that is a fundamental law of nature. 

The prolific inventor Edison had a series of failures - professional and personal, before he could finally invent the electric bulb. If he had given up because of any one of those failures and chosen the quick escape route of death, he could never have touched the billions of lives that thrive today on his inventions.

If you ever find yourself harboring the slightest "self-destruct" ideas, perhaps you can remember these words. And who knows, it might help save a million more lives someday in the future.

THE NEW YEAR POST

A rope traveled the breadth of my waist and clung in tension to the mast of the motorboat. A parachute hung loosely over my head, fluttering in the wind. As far as I could see was the expanse of the blue sea underneath a light blue umbrella of the clear sky. With a little apprehension, I put on the life jacket and slithered my arms into the thick brackets of elastic but tough polymer fastened to the ropes that held the parachute to the mast. An uneasiness had descended in my mind since the time I had boarded the motorboat. I did not know how to swim. This was my first attempt at parasailing. I clutched the reins to the parachute tightly as I stood at the edge of the boat.

The ferryman pulled a lever, and the rope, as if suddenly emerging from a secret crevice in the floor, hurtled up towards the sky at an oblique angle, lifting me along. It continued its ascent until the people on the boat had reduced to tiny dots sailing in the vast sea. When it steadied, I could see other ferries and ships scattered across the shimmering water. I could see the bustling activity on the coastline, and admire Lord Murudeshwara's gigantic statue watching over the town with the sun forming a halo around its head. I loosened my grip on the acrylic and stretched out my arms, letting go of all fear and submitting myself to the calm wind. And then, hundreds of metres over the Arabian sea, I was flying. It felt great, as if I had been liberated from a long acting bond.

We all possess fears - of the dark, of ghosts, spiders and snakes, of burly monsters; of commitment, of loss or failure, of humiliation, heartbreak and despair. Some of them are apparent, some are buried deep inside our thoughts. Some of them can be overcome, others are simply invincible and at times render us helpless, clouding and conquering our ability to think logically. Fear often leads us astray, away from our deepest ambitions and our most heartfelt desires. At certain points in our lives, often unknowingly, we all fall victim to the prowling beast of prey that is fear. Days, months and even years after our timid surrender, when we realize the blunder we committed, we regret our actions. We wish we could travel back in time to go for that football game as a member of the school team, to take up that lesser paid job or internship that we liked more, or to speak the words we could never muster the courage to bring to our lips. Sometimes there is still time for corrective action. Sometimes, it's too late. It's just a matter of how far we have wandered, and when we come to know of it.


Fear is not invincible. We can defeat it. We should know it when we are being lured into its net. We should decide, then and there, if we can afford to take the easy route and give up. Or we can take it head on, and fight for a win.


The trick is to let go.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is my new year's resolution. To keep winning.

WHAT'S YOUR PASTIME?

Nothing can equal the warmth of human companionship. None of the numerous devices that reflect the achievements of modern technology are capable of producing the same effect as the familiar sight or sound of a friend or family. Not even the so-called 'social networks', which are a feeble attempt to simulate the essence of human relationships within the unrealistic bounds of an artificial computer screen. But then, something is precious only when it is irreplaceable. If the presence of a companion could be exchanged for a playstation or a facebook chat box, he/she would lose his/her true worth.

But as is often the case, we value something most when we are devoid of it; when we face a nagging dearth of it that constantly reminds us of its magnanimous influence in our lives. It is at times when we are alone, when we are surrounded by a swarm of strangers and a fleet of cranky, noisy, thoughtless machines, that we realize the futility of all artificial forms of entertainment and the indispensable bonhomie of a coterie. It is then that we look to fulfill the void left by the absence of a familiar face. When we find nobody to occupy that void, we turn to our own inner selves - our true interests, our hobbies, to give us company. We create pastimes that we can call on any time we want to. Gradually, they come to define us, and become an integral part of our identity.

Each one of us has his/her own way of nurturing this inseparable part of the self that manifests as a hobby or a special interest. In my case, I write. It is one of those rare talents that I enjoy engaging in. It saves me from boredom, for I take the refuge of words from my pen when threatened by monotony or loneliness. It is an eternal friend to whom I can confess feelings otherwise forbidden to be spoken of to anybody else, who helps alleviate the weight of a hard-kept secret. It breathes life to thoughts and endows me with a purpose, even though a brief one. It is a safe haven I can always turn to for shelter, an abode impervious to the heat of the burning sun or the numbing chill of a snowy winter.

Perhaps its only other equal is a long walk alone in the midst of nature’s serene endowments on a summer midnight, when the air is cool and the environs quiet. The shimmering stars overhead become my navigators - little patches of light in the dark sky that stay with me no matter where I go. The pristine stellar light from up above the heavens gives me solace and strength when I’m down and alone. It helps compose and gather my thoughts, and in the absence of all forms of sound other than the rustle of leaves in the woods or the song of waves in a flowing river, helps me find answers to cope with the challenges that confront my life every day. It reminds me that I live in a beautiful world, and that I can forget about anything else atleast for a tiny while.

These little pastimes, seemingly unproductive activities that apparently make no addition to intellectual “value”, have come to my rescue whenever I have heeded them, as they have today. And I am certain they will always be at my side, giving me company and wisdom and strength for all my life.

Today, I raise a toast.

To you, dear hobby !

NIRVANA

Most of what I have written about in recent times has been somehow connected to travel. I think a journey often endows us with new perspectives; it molds our perceptions of people and cultures, and of our own self. Travelling helps us explore the marvels of nature and find peace in its numerous embellishments. Sometimes it can transform the way we see the world around us, reconcile us with unknown truths and change our life in a manner which we might never have imagined. It is a necessary component of the cognitive process. A man, however literate, who has never traveled, has not completed his education. In the words of Saint Augustine :
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

If you are reading this post on the internet, or even know the meaning of the term 'blog', you probably live in one of the country's flourishing and rapidly growing cities, bustling with commercial markets and office complexes and automobiles plying on busy roads. You probably dress up in western attire designed by one of the major clothing brands, largely converse in Hinglish, listen to hip-hop rock music and spend your weekends in a pub or a cinema theater, if not in a shopping mall. There is a good chance that you do not know the name of your neighbour who lives next door. And you proudly declare yourself a citizen of 'shining' India. Well, that's pretty much what I do.

The original flavour of India, however, can only be found in its villages. They give us a glimpse into the lives of our forefathers and a peek into our rich and eventful history. They teach us that the charm of skyscrapers in a metropolitan city is dispensable. That we cannot live without the comforts of an air conditioner and a luxury car is merely an illusion. And that amassing wealth is not the primary way of life. If you have never seen life in the village, you are yet to understand the heart of India.

I do not clearly remember the last time I visited my ancestral village, the place where my great-great-grandfather established the family mansion that still stands as a shadow of its past glory. I was still in middle school at the time. And I probably would have never visited it again but for my grandfather's funeral ceremony.

The news had come as a shock. It was only days before that I had sent him a small present via the internet. I still remember the smile that used to light his face when he showed me the letters I wrote to him in my childhood days. A scholar of English himself, he would affectionately pat me on the back for my writing. I imagine he displayed the same expressions upon getting this last present from me. A few days later, when I woke up in the morning, I was told he had departed to the heavens. It was thus, he, who brought me back to my village after a gap of eight long years.

In those few days in the countryside, I saw that most of the people in the village were happy and content. They were self-sufficient and capable, and yet they did not seem to lack ambition. Everybody knew everybody else in the small village and in the settlements nearby. One did not require the television or the internet to while away time, for he would always be in someone else's company. One did not need the ceiling fan or the air conditioner when sleeping in the night, for the breeze would bring cool air laced with the scent of dew from the fields. There was no fear of theft or burglary, and people kept their doors open all the time just in case a guest would drop by. One would treat the entire village as one large family, and express genuine happiness or sorrow in the well being or misery of others.


In the evenings, I would climb to the roof and examine the village from above. Sometimes dad would take me around on a tour of the peaceful hamlet, walking through crop fields and fruit orchards. Sometimes I would go on a stroll alone. Almost every time, somebody I met on the way would ask me - "Tum Thakur jee  ke bete ho na?" and invite me for a cup of tea or a snack. More often than not, I gladly accepted. Small children stared and smiled at me when I wandered alone, trying to figure out the right direction on one of my random excursions. I would offer them chocolates in exchange for information, and they would happily oblige, scampering away grinning as soon as I placed a bunch of goodies in their hands.


I spent a major part of the day overlooking preparations for the grand feast that culminates the final ceremony. This included managing the supply of grains and groceries and entertaining guests who arrived unannounced.

In the absence of a pastime, my thoughts would often wander back to the city, and I would miss the fragrance of Gurgaon that I have unwittingly grown so fond of. I missed my little sister back in Gujarat. I sometimes thought of friends from Roorkee. I wished I could have seen grandpa before he left. But it is said you are never far from the people you love. Whenever I wanted to see them, all I had to do was close my eyes.

A fixed set of rituals had been scheduled for each day. The mornings comprised of prayers and daan-dharm and a feast was hosted in the afternoon or at night for the entire village. Every guest was well fed and served, irrespective of his or her stature. I was amazed at the sheer number of people who came to pay homage each day in that small settlement. And each one of them left with a smile and a blessing in return.

According to village folklore, a happy spirit displays its pleasure by summoning rain from the clouds. On the 11th day, after all the invitees had been served and after they had left for their own homes, I sat down in the pandal for lunch. As I started digging into the sumptuous meal of dahi-chooda, a faint drizzle began to fall from the sky above.

FREEDOM

On January 26, 1930, the Indian National Congress proclaimed the need for complete self-rule by the Declaration of the Independence of India, which read:

"The British government in India has not only deprived the Indian people of their freedom but has based itself on the exploitation of the masses, and has ruined India economically, politically, culturally and spiritually. Therefore, India must sever the British connection and attain Purna Swaraj or complete independence."

We still haven't attained 'Poorna Swaraj'. We are yet to achieve freedom from the shackles of casteism, dowry, infant mortification, child labour and other social evils that bind the society. We live in a time of economic disparity where the rich continue to amass wealth as the poor plunge into greater destitution. Some of our own chosen politicians, bureaucrats and industrialists continue to exploit India and its people as the British Raj did 80 years ago.

I, therefore, reiterate the call for 'complete independence'.

THE ZEITGEIST

Does the name "Nadia Comaneci" ring a bell? No? Let's try a different name. Perhaps "Yelena Isinbayeva" might sound more familiar. While the former is the first female athlete in Olympic history to be awarded a perfect score of 10 in a gymnastic event in 1980, the latter is the only female pole vaulter to have cleared the five-metre barrier in the event and has recently been the cynosure of several tabloids and newspapers on account of both her performance and her appealing looks.

There are numerous other examples of Olympians who have carved a distinct stature for themselves by surpassing the realms of ordinary achievement in the field of sports and transcending to the extraordinary. There is Carl Lewis, who dominated track and field for almost 20 years. Muhammad Ali, known for his boxing prowess as well as his pre-match bursts of aggression on his opponents. Amongst contemporary athletes, there are Usain Bolt and Michael Phelps, world record holders and legends in sprint and swimming, respectively.

There also are a few prominent Indian athletes who have brought glory to the nation from their Olympic feats. Major Dhyan Chand, considered to be one of the greatest field hockey players of all time, has led the Indian hockey team to many a victory during the mid-twentieth century era. Milkha Singh, nicknamed 'The Flying Sikh' and 'Payyoli Express' P T Usha are two other figures who have received international acclaim and reverence for their scintillating performances on the race track. And then there are sportsmen without Olympic fame but with no less skill, with the likes of Prakash Padukone (Badminton) and Geet Sethi (Billiards).

Now browse through the following list of names:
1) Sir Donald Bradman
2) Sir Garfield Sobers
3) Sir Vivian Richards
4) Sunil Gavaskar
5) Kapil Dev
I'm certain most people would recognize the cricketing legends that this list refers to. Also, compared to the time it would have taken to recognize the names cited in the preceding paragraphs, these would have been recalled to memory almost instantaneously.

There is perhaps no other sport in modern India that has ever enjoyed the same stature as cricket, which has maintained a monopoly across all sporting events in the last two decades, largely owing to the associated glamour and media coverage. It has become more than just a game; it is rather a thread that unites the whole country. Whether it be the World Cup or a clash with archrivals Pakistan, we think of a win or a loss for the Indian cricket team as our own. Victory brings jubilation; defeat spells despair. And this feeling of victory or defeat dominates the spirit of the entire nation, spanning almost all age groups and all classes of a diverse population.

The Olympics are perhaps the closest comparison to a cricket tournament that can orchestrate such a feeling within the country's people. We root for a Mary Kom or a Gagan Narang, who until yesterday, was a stranger to the general public, to bring to us an Olympic medal. With each victory and each medal come a million facebook status updates such as "Well done, Saina !" or "I knew you had it in you, Sushil !", and the like. Of course, most of these messages are put up by people who are complete strangers to boxing or badminton themselves, who would probably be tongue-tied when asked about Abhinav Bindra or Karnam Malleswari, whom they had apparently rooted for the last time. In reality, therefore, it seems we don't really care if the medal is won by a Saina Nehwal or anybody else, as long as it is won for the country; for us. We wouldn't have been as enthusiastic if it were a regular sporting tournament not encompassed by the Olympics. We probably wouldn't even have wasted our time watching the game in that case. However, the Olympics is a stage for the whole world, and we wouldn't like to be called the citizens of a country which is, by any means, inferior. And so, we cheer.

It's a pity we shall have to wait for another two years for the Cricket World Cup to elevate our spirits again. But let's hope that at least by then, the stars of this year's Olympics are not thrown into oblivion.

GIVE AND TAKE

Vadodara is rightly called the cultural capital of Gujarat. It is a city that combines the traditions of yore with the advancements of today to result in a vibrant culture that represents the lasting values and progress of a humble yet ambitious people. These traditions are imbibed in the architecture of the city's major buildings including the Maharaja Fateh Singh museum, the Nyaya Mandir, the Maharaja Sayajirao University, the Laxmi Vilas Palace and the Vadodara Railway station - monuments that represent a prosperous people with a rich history and a flourishing economy. The city is home to wealthy businessmen and a squandering middle class population which constitutes most of the crowd swarming expensive retail stores and ostentatious restaurants on a weekend day. Seldom would you come across a beggar, and it seems the entire city dwells in peace, with each denizen capable of fulfilling at least life's basic necessities. Of course, all this is merely an illusion that conceals a harsh truth - a fact that is visible to barely a few of its lakhs of affluent inhabitants.

But sometimes, all it takes to draw the curtains off this illusion is just one meeting at the right place.


It was 11pm on a Sunday night. I was wandering on the railway platform, waiting for the Mumbai Rajdhani Express to arrive so that I could escape from the summer heat into the comfort of my berth in the air conditioned coach. I had reached the station a little too early, and the announcement that the train had been delayed by a few minutes did little to dismiss my boredom. Finally, I dropped my luggage near a tea stall and stuffed a pair of headphones into my ears to cut off the noise of the loudspeaker bellowing railway itineraries amidst the honking of trains and the cries of hawkers. I then extracted a copy of 'Shantaram' from my bag and started reading, and soon I was completely ignorant of the bustling activity I was surrounded with.

I had read only a few pages when a gentle touch on my arm prompted me to look up. I saw an old man, probably in his sixties, with his right hand swinging up and down in anticipation while his left hand rested on his stomach. At first I thought he was a beggar, and decided to turn back to the pages of the novel. But then I noticed his appearance, which forced me to think again. He wore a simple, blue half-sleeved shirt and a pair of plain cotton trousers. A gunny sack was hanging from his left shoulder. His face was freckled and wrinkled, a sign of old age. His hair was thin and white, and he had a desperate look in his eyes. 


He repeated the gesture, hoping I would pull out a banknote and hand it to him. I had more than enough money in my wallet than I needed. It would not have been a huge loss to take out a hundred rupee note from my pocket and place it in his open palm. But I was busy considering the appropriateness of what I was about to do. Did he really need the money or was he yet another impostor just trying to take advantage of a person's sympathy and kindness? Would it set a wrong precedent? Couldn't he earn a wage in exchange for work or labour to fend for himself? While I was still in that state of indecisiveness, he left. 


Perhaps he was just asking for help. Probably he was just another drifter who needed some money to travel to somewhere else, or to have a single meal which had eluded him for the day. It might even have occurred that he had lost his own wallet somewhere while commuting and couldn't retrieve it, and had to depend on the charity of complete strangers to reach his destination. Even though he looked destitute, he was definitely not a beggar. He never pleaded to me with fake tears in his eyes or made excuses. He just stood in front of me silently, hoping that I would have the heart to help him out.


As I saw him leave with a disheartened look on his face that portrayed anguish and helplessness, I was moved. I was angry with myself for having wasted all this time in making a simple decision that could help him reach home. I watched him step down from the platform onto the railway track and walk along the rails. I guess he was searching for a packet of 'Lays' with a wafer or two remaining or a carton of 'Frooti' that still had some of the liquid left in it that he could squeeze out to quench his thirst. When he could not find anything, he climbed back up onto the platform. 


Having watched all this, I lifted my bag and headed in his direction, hoping to correct the blunder I had committed and help him out of his misery by giving him a sum of money that would serve his purpose and at the same time not hurt his self-esteem too much. But as soon as I approached close enough to call out and stop him, a storm of passengers disembarking from the Intercity Express blocked my way. When the platform cleared, the man had disappeared, leaving me in a state of despair. I looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. Disgusted with myself, I slowly walked back to the tea stall where I waited for the Rajdhani Express. I hoped I would see the old man again before I boarded the train. 


But I didn't.


I had a chance to do something that I could be proud of, but I had failed. Because I spent a lot of time thinking. Had I acted sooner, I would have been much happier from the joy and satisfaction of helping a stranger in distress. Days since this incident, I still regret my first line of thinking.

Most of us run after riches and exorbitance all our life. Some of us even manage to achieve more than we had initially asked for. But what do we do of that surplus money that we can do without? We spend it buying redundant additions to our numerous, unending luxuries. We build a multi-storeyed residential complex, replete with a multiplex and a five-star restaurant when we already live in an opulent bungalow. We buy more cars, when we already own one belonging to one of the most expensive brands. We purchase more of the latest in fashion, and when our wardrobes are full, we get more wardrobes.

All this when we can help the larger society by building a subsidized hospital, starting a small scale cottage industry, or simply sponsoring a poor child's education with those extra finances that we do not need. Or as an average citizen, donating a small fraction of our income to charitable institutions and public trusts which can act on our behalf. And if we do not believe in the integrity of these institutions, establishing one ourselves. If every person who earns well beyond his necessities starts to contribute, the collective effort should be good enough to significantly shrink the size of the nation's population that lives below the poverty line. As they say :
"Every drop makes an ocean."
And what fire dare not submit to the might of an ocean?

There is more to life than avarice and indulgence.
We should realize the joy of giving. Before it's too late.

CROSSROADS

It was my last term in SJA as I would soon leave Dehradun to live in the North-East for the next few years. The academic results of standard four were out, and I was a little apprehensive regarding my Hindi grades. I was relieved when I noticed that I had been able to manage a five star rating on my report card, indicating an aggregate score of over 90 percent across all subjects.

After my parents had thoroughly examined my grades on the report card along with the teacher's comments, and had discussed my overall progress with Miss Sheetal, my computer instructor cum class teacher, we headed to the school canteen to buy chocolates for me and my younger sister as a reward for my good performance.

The canteen was run by a rather aged man with white hair and wrinkles on his face. He immediately recognized me as the boy who asked for candies during recess time. After knowing that I had done well in the final exams and handing me over two large slabs of Milkybar, he added a small lollipop as a token of his own appreciation. As I gleefully accepted his present, he asked me a question I had not been prepared for :

"Arnav, tum bade hokar kya banna chahte ho?"

As a young lad of ten who had not given any thought to his future career, I had no answer then. 
"Pata nahi, Uncle." was my honest reply.

"Koi baat nahi. Baad me kabhi aaram se soch ke batana."

Over dinner the same day, gorging mouthfuls of my mother's delicious aalu ke paranthe, I pored over the canteenwala's question. When I could not make a decision by myself, I turned to mom for help. 
"Mummy main bade hoke kya banu?"

She smiled at me, and replied :
"Beta, jo tumhe accha lagta hai."

I rummaged my brain for all possible vocations I could think of, to see if there indeed was something that I could engage in as a prospective career when the time arrived. It was a difficult exercise balancing the pros and cons of known professions as they would appear to a child.

I didn't know what an engineer meant then. 
Perhaps I could become a scientist, just like dad. I was curious to know what was so interesting about the subject 'physics' that he sometimes used to teach me; what lay hidden within the fossilized rock samples he once brought home from remote oilfields which he studied with so much diligence. But I didn't approve of the way he used to come home tired from the office late in the evening after sitting at his desk all day, with little energy to play badminton or cricket with me outdoors. So a 'scientist' seemed like a good back-up option, but probably not my first choice. 
Being a doctor was not much fun either, given that I was not the least fond of disease and death. I didn't like the gloom that descended in hospital corridors, the unnerving silence that prevailed in a physician's clinic. I almost loathed medicines and syringes, and couldn't imagine myself administering the same to a fellow human being. 
There were a number of lawyers in my extended family. From what I had observed on television, I realized that a lawyer had to debate like a fierce orator and often lie, which was not really my cup of tea. The longest I could speak in public was the time it took to recite a poem in the school morning assembly. It was only when I was much older that I started participating in debates and extempores. This vocation too, therefore, was out of the picture.
I couldn't become a teacher seeing that my experience as a class monitor had been horrible and I did not like to be burdened with too much responsibility. I liked playing cricket, but being a full-time athlete seemed to be boring and exhausting. For similar conflicting reasons, a policeman, actor or politician were also ruled out. It looked as if I was arriving at a dead end.

What else could it be? 

And then it struck me. A profession that was both noble and exciting, which commanded respect and provided some peace of mind. A profession that was different from the rest.

On the day the school reopened for the next academic session, during the lunch break, I visited the canteen once again and declared to the old man with an air of self-assurance :
"Uncle, main army me jaunga."

When I said this, I never thought about how much money I would make, or how successful or popular I would become. It came straight from the heart. A soldier was gallant, and he was patriotic, clad in the most graceful uniform adorned with stars and medals. He lived in the midst of beautiful nature in lush green establishments like the IMA. He helped the community in times of crisis. He was brave and strong, and fought the nation's enemies with guns and tanks accompanying him in the battlefield. And at the end of his honourable life, he died a hero's death, wrapped in the tricolour with a crest of flowers and laurels upon his chest and the salute of guns bidding him farewell. That was all that fascinated me. Nothing more, nothing less.

Fast forward thirteen years, and I am an engineering graduate working as an analyst in a multinational consulting firm, aspiring for a masters in business administration from a prestigious business school. "What happened?", you might ask. Well, my parents thought it was too dangerous to join the army or the air force. So I joined the rat race in my quest to land the perfect white collar job that would entail a hefty pay package and catapult me high into the upper strata of corporate hierarchy. And that's how I ended up here.

Today, most of us find ourselves at a crossroads, struggling to find the right path from amongst the multiple routes that diverge in different directions from where we stand. I am no different. I have no idea where I will be in the next five years. I might have completed my postgrad by then, but what comes after that is anybody's guess. It's not as if I don't have a plan, but these are uncertain times; who knows if something would not force me to change my mind once again. It's like a game of chess, where your next move depends on the situation in which you find yourself. 

Now when I ask myself the same question as I was faced with thirteen years ago, once again, it is difficult to come up with a definitive answer. I guess it is not that simple anymore. Times have changed, and so has the definition of the right vocation. I no longer have the luxury of being able to make a decision only with my heart, for now the mind has started to dominate. And because the world around me has grown too mean to let the heart take charge.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL?

Ever since the inception of life, the morals of virtue and vice have been at loggerheads. Like the many human civilizations that have come into being over the ages, they have continued to evolve too, each carving out its own territories while attempting to conquer dominions in the other's control. Like a treacherous foe, each has attempted to lure away loyal but capricious minions of the other with the promise of worldly gifts and other consequential gains - material or ethereal. This raging rivalry continues even today, to which every living creature on this planet is a silent witness - a prey, if you will.

The scales always keep tilting, and the person, the prey, is often torn between the two as his fate hangs in the balance. On the one hand, virtue yields long term returns such as self actualization and reverence from one's peers and posterity, but frequently demands patience, sacrifice and a heart strong enough to bear immediate material losses as a compromise for achieving the larger motives of moral integrity and an unsullied, angelical character. On the other hand, the shortest road to glory is often marked with clandestine deals, maleficence and deception. Once you begin to tread this path, there is no turning back; no switching lanes as you are pulled into a vortex of misdeeds which drag you further down in order to rise up. Even if you are reminded nostalgically of the merits of the righteous path, there is already a stained blemish waiting to haunt your life forever once you defect away from the dark side. Perhaps Darth Vader could testify to that.

Superheroes on the movie screen make it look too easy. Never yielding, they continue to battle against baneful, vicious usurpers and threatening villains to eventually assert the victory of righteousness over evil - without ever submitting to the luring portals of corruption, filled with the promise of unlimited power and infinite riches to rule the world. "With great power, comes great responsibility" is one of the fancy mottos that makes them persist in this challenging enterprise.

But then fiction has its own constraints. For one, it's often unrealistic. The principles of moral ethics are much more complicated. Atleast for normal human beings living ordinary lives with no special powers, faced with a Hobson's choice every now and then. Today, almost every face wears a mask to conceal his/her true self. Everybody but little, innocent children - impervious to corruption and malice, strangers to avarice, immune to disappointment and heartbreak, and most importantly, ignorant of all material pursuits that eventually rob us of all the aforementioned qualities.

I have always strived to maintain a rigid set of ethical standards, and have succeeded more often than not. But it's getting more difficult with advancing time. Sometimes I wish I could turn into a child again, just so that I don't have to care about it anymore.

APOCALYPSE

The world as we see it today is the outcome of a plethora of transitions that have, at times, entailed gigantic shifts in the history of the universe. Planet Earth has silently withstood the test of time, surviving catastrophic events such as meteor showers, earthquakes and the defining Ice Ages while the infinite life forms it has been host to have gradually vanished into oblivion, making way for more adaptable and superior beings. Like the changing seasons, it has been subject to constant metamorphosis - from a tiny speck prior to the 'Big Bang', to a humongous mass of solid matter containing the most wonderful of natural endowments that make it so charmingly beautiful.

And yet, come 2012, it must end.

One would never have thought the world would have been manufactured with an expiry date. Well, anybody except a few enlightened Mayans blessed with awful foresight. Perhaps they ran out of material to continue their legendary calendar post the 21st of December, 2012. Or their prediction was just an ingenious gimmick aimed at having their name inscribed forever in the pages of history even after their entire civilization was expunged from the face of the planet. Or maybe, just maybe, we are indeed approaching 'Judgement Day'.


It would be interesting to argue what would beget 'doomsday'. I have been told of possibilities ranging from  natural causes such as climate change or global warming to human blunders such as a nuclear holocaust to climaxes bordering on the insane, such as a zombie invasion. I would envision the curtains being drawn to a close after a more grandiose finish. Definitely better than cities being engulfed in a sheath of ice or flooded by ocean waters. It would be nice to go down with some noise. For example, a war between mankind and aliens would be apt. And what if, a certain John Connor eventually survives to reconstruct the human race once again.

The finale could be left to anybody's imagination. The looming question, however, is -
How long until we can confidently declare : "That's all folks !" (?)

The Medallion

My parents tell me it took a great deal of persuasion from them to make me enter the school gate on my first day in kindergarten. It was with the promise of my favourite chocolates that they could finally bribe me into spending eight hours away from home in the company of complete strangers. With a tiny bag and a water bottle, I set off on the path to enlightenment, completely unaware of what would lie ahead.

The process of 'education' commenced with learning the alphabet in carefree idleness, without having to bother about tutorials and pesky homework assignments. I had no competitors, for every rival was an innocent friend helping me build a sandcastle or planning fanciful treasure hunts in and around the school premises.

Gradually, smiling primary teachers were replaced by shrewish middle school instructors and then nutty professors whose facial expressions were, at any time, representative of the characteristic function 'f(x) = constant'. The contents of my schoolbag became heavier with each passing year. Academics now was a rat race in which mediocrity was not any better than failure. There were rewards to keep me motivated in this arduous enterprise. Every time I stood first in class or did exceptionally well in the annual exams, I received dainties from the school canteen, and sometimes, a bicycle or a holiday vacation present from mom and dad. 'Dolce far niente' was no longer permissible; it was displaced by drudgery and tedium, often resulting from my innumerable attempts to unscramble the Schrodinger equation.

Aspirations and expectations changed with time. Come Roorkee, I no longer cared for the occasional reward or censure. There was the higher motive of launching a successful career and smoothly transitioning to a life in which profession was the attribute that determined a person's ultimate destiny. Four years went by in a hurry, and all of a sudden, my 'education' was complete.

With the final oath, the convocation hat tossed in celebration, I have been vested with the right to pronounce myself an engineer. Today, as I stare at my degree certificate and the accompanying silver medal, glistening like a radiant emblem in all its lustre - now a souvenir from the past, things seem to have abruptly come to an end. I wonder if there's something to look forward to. If only I could relive the last four years....So long, alma mater !