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.

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.

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'?

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'.

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.