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'?

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.

STALEMATE

Lost in a state of torpor, I struggle to hide a muffled yawn as my eyes water up from the exhaustion of having to listen to another lecture on 'Mechanical Working'. I manage to steal a quick glance at my watch, taking precaution the professor scribbling away notes on the board doesn't discover my impatience, and I rasp under my breath in frustation when I realize it's only been 20 minutes. Another 40 minutes to go - of course Ash Ray has no idea. He happily prods along, squawking in his omniscient but insipid tone, ever reminding us of how little we know of our own discipline. The particles of chalkdust settling on his beard and caput blend perfectly with the pale white pigment coating his hair. Unperturbed, he rattles on. He probably knows the pen I hold in my hand is never going to make contact with the blank diary resting on my table. And yet I can do nothing but listen, and fake interest.

Not long ago, I used to listen in ceaseless attention to each word he uttered; each principle or theorem he dictated making its way verbatim to the pages of my notebook. I was a 'first-bencher', a distinction not many would possess - not even the voracious pedant feeding on piles of textbooks and the sound of a learned professor giving away 'upadeshas' on the nuances of engineering. I remember raising my arm time and again to ask questions. I was the revered note-maker, the most reliable scholar for classmates. I was 'Baba' in the true sense of the word.

The times are changing.

In a few month's time, I will graduate as a Metallurgical and Materials engineer. Convocation is within sight. Soon we shall complete the ceremony announcing the end of four years of ordeal, and pass into a completely new world. I am about to make the transition from a student to a professional - I am employed. I also fancy a call from an IIM, the next big thing after IIT.
But I am no more the inquisitive student, the knowledge seeker, the 'first-bencher' - not in the classroom atleast. I have accomplished what I had planned for all this time, albeit a bit differently than imagined. With no purpose left, I can feel the inner flame within me wavering. I no more possess the driving force propelling me towards yet another goal, the inner unrest that would keep nagging and cautioning me - "Something is still lacking !".


I am stuck - clearly in need of a more meaningful pursuit during the last few months at Roorkee. Football, music and Cogni are just pastimes. I'm in search of a bigger challenge, a new objective - hoping to find a new 'me'. I wonder what it'd turn out to be, what I would turn out to be. For now, I'm just a 20 plus person aspiring to become a 20 minus dilettante once again, just so I am not devoid of a fervent tenor to keep moving forward.

The January chill has subdued my spirits for now. I'm waiting for the sheath of winter ice to melt away, so that I may free myself of the freezing frost immobilizing me, and feel the warmth of a new, illustrious sun rising.

WITH AND WITHOUT

"Jis din in dono me se kisi ek ki bhi naukri lag jaaye us din meri moochen uda dena" - barked Virus with contempt and derision as he lay down flat on his stomach with his head tilted to the side, for the typical 15-minute session with his personal barber. He knew there was never a chance those two pricks could pocket a job even if they were the last two remaining to be placed with a hundred more employers due to pay a visit. But little did the poor chap know he would part with his dear moustache during his punctuated, cacophonous snores, and his undoing would be heralded by the very two of Rancho's comrades whom he loathed beyond words could describe, who themselves had been suffering in great turmoil as they knew it'd be ridiculously goosey to field any hopes of a job in the offering - atleast until that dreadful day.

Neither did I. It was there when I last saw it, perched on top of my lips, a black crescent resembling a bow crafted to precision for the most adept of archers, cultivated through careful grooming over several years, not a whisker out of place. The eclectic model which would make its way into the halls of fame once it attained its final dimensions after subtle 'machining' (the word I have so repeatedly been confronted with ever since my return from TATAland), and stimulate envy in men less tolerant towards facial hair especially that found in the region south of the nostrils.

And then in a trance of impulsive mindlessness, it was gone - rather forfeited, abnegated. As soon as I yielded to the misleading proffers of our 'Punk-ie' friend (who has continued to receive constant attention in my writings), it took him no time before he conjured his instrument of mass demolition and wielded it in all malice along the bushy contours of the terrain north of my upper lip, wiping out anything that interrupted its evenness, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Curious as I was to see for myself the results of this experiment, I prodded along without objection. It was only after the damage had been done beyond repair, that I realized I had committed a blooper. It looked as if I had suddenly recovered a few years in age - like a child trapped in an overgrown body, and I was overcome by the desire to become 'Baba' again.

The sands of time will settle down upon the emptiness and conceal it until blossoms of thin grass begin to grow from underneath and shed them away. The process will take its time, working slowly to regenerate what has been lost. This would probably strengthen my resolve to act with thoughfulness in matters relating to the foreseeable future. But as with every other story, there is a lesson to be learnt. Never heed the advice of a friend who, by any coincidence, happens to have an association with 'Pink'.