December 2012 is when the Apocalypse is predicted. The Mayan calendar has no dates running beyond that month, famous personalities have predicted the end of the world, and apparently there is a dormant volcano under the Yellowstone National Park. There are probably a 100 different reasons that can provide fodder for the dooms day enthusiasts.
I am sure that there are a number of detailed texts that talk about the possibilities of the world ending, and I have no impetus in writing about the same. I would rather want to write about what it means to us, and what it can mean to our lives. I have always wondered “what if the world really ends?” Join me in this thought and lock yourselves in 5 minutes of solitude, and brood over this. What if the world really ends? Have you done everything that you wanted to? Are you doing the things that make you happy?
Talking about this makes me nostalgic. When we were kids, when we were innocent, when we believed that being a bus driver was the greatest job of all, when we were just ourselves, we had dreams of making it big. Making it big as a cook, as a train driver, as an astronaut and maybe a hair stylist. In those years of innocence, when our mind and heart were still not corrupted by the world around us, do you remember how unbiased we were towards the people around us? I had no idea what caste was, I did not care what color the other person was, it did not matter to me what the income of my friend’s family was, and all it took for the person to become my friend was his/her smile. But as we grew older, we grew mature. Or so we believe. Meaning of caste came into the picture, money became important, Baskin Robbins replaced the 1 rupee ice-candy, and we started judging. Owing to the fact that we are the most advanced species on the planet, we have the ability to distinguish and make distinctions. I am mighty sure that when this was bestowed upon us, it was done with the intention that humans can use this for the good of the world. But somewhere, we have lost the plot. We started making distinctions between our fellow humans. Why did we start making distinctions between a boy who is of a dark complexion and a boy who is of a fair complexion? Why did we stop believing in our childhood dreams? Why are we not cooks and drivers? Education gave us the ability to understand the world and its different shades. But this amazing human mind of ours made us conscious of things around us and we started molding ourselves to fit into this society. Inhibitions and limitations are the factors that decide how we live, and not our dreams. Do you know why people drink alcohol? Many of my friends have heard my definition, but let me put it across one more time. “Alcohol is a suppressant of the inhibitory parts of your brain”. Like my friend put it in a much simpler way, it makes you do things that you want to but cant because of inhibition. When you grow up, you drink alcohol so that you can be that kid again. That kid who only saw the world in black and white, that kid who believed that he would be Prime Minister one day. I have seen a number of people who claim that they will one day make it big, and they tell this when they are high on alcohol. Why do we feel inhibited to believe in the childhood dream we once had? Somewhere we have lost that child in us. That child does not necessarily mean losing the innocence, but rather losing that belief in the crazy dreams of ours. Beliefs that the moon was so reachable, the belief that friendship and good faith was all that were needed to make the world a happy place, the belief that money was just a paper with Gandhiji’s photo. We have lost that part of us, but it is never too late to go back.
I beg your forgiveness, for I am very verbose and often lose my way while writing about my ideas. Coming back to the original point, what if the world really ends? Have you thought about what it means to you? Imagine you have 12 more months left before the world ends, have you done everything you wanted to? I am not expressing doubts on what you have currently achieved, but think about all the things you want to do but have not because you could not. Break the shackles that are holding you back, do things that make you happy. Go tell that girl that you love her, what if she says no? the world will end in 12 months anyway. Go find that childhood friend you fought with and say sorry, eat your ego. What if he snubs you? The world will end in 12 months anyway. Tell your parents that everything you are is because of them, you may not get that chance after 12 months. Forget the calories, and forget the cholesterol. Go eat that rich chocolate cake. You will anyways not get it after 12 months. Just think about this, and think about all the things that come to your mind and you want to do. It is time to live life to its fullest, without any regrets.
Imagine lying on a hospital bed, 60 years later and thinking “I should have told that girl that I love her”. Imagine getting up one morning, 20 years later, looking at an empty bed next to you. Imagine looking at young kids playing cricket and thinking “wish I could have played more”. Time is something that is so cruel that it lets you look back, but never lets you go back. We live in a generation where life proceeds at a rapid pace, where you are competing everyday to be on top. While we strive hard to excel in our jobs, we need to realize that we were brought into this world for a reason. The reason was not just to write C programs, nor was it just to perform surgeries. We were brought into this to make this world a better place to live, a happier place to live. It is sad that, as we grow old, we get confused with the fact that ‘doing something for a living’ with ‘living’. For a young age of 22, I can sometimes talk a lot of heady stuff. That is what happens when you realize that you have already spent 22 years of this gift called ‘life’ and have not even done anything on your wish-list. So go out and enjoy life, be that kid again and look at the world around you without prejudice. See the difference for yourself.
I am writing this on a chilly Tuesday morning in the best office in the world, with a cup of coffee by my side and watching the impeccable Dravid eating the lives of the Australian bowlers. This makes me happy. This makes me content. In December 2012 I want to look back and say, I am ok with the world ending now;and that I have done things that made me and the people around me happy.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The Innocent Bomber: The story I wrote 5 years ago
18 years had passed since the Soviets had let Afghanistan from their claws. Nothing had changed since then, other than the falling levels of Opium cultivation. Thousands of youth were now becoming “The Students”. They are famed for all the wrong reasons. They are an organization whose influence runs deep in the war torn nation of Afghanistan. Like parasites, they feed upon the war-wounds of the country. They are feared by the western world, immortalized by the fanatics. They run Afghanistan. They are “The Students”, which in Arabic means, Talibs. We know them better as Taliban.
Amjad Khan, a man in his early forties, like many other had seen the men from ‘The West’, destroy his tribe, among many, which had for many centuries made the slopes of Nowshak its home. His father, Imjat Khan had died fighting the War that was not theirs. They had no interest in the senseless violence down in the planes of Peshawar. As far as they were concerned, Nowshak was their home, their nation and their heaven. The Soviets though pulled them into the war when they made air strikes on the great mountain ranges of Hindu Kush. They destroyed cattle, homes. They destroyed innocent lives. Then arrived the Arabs, then the Americans and they kept coming. It was all like a spiral descent, going round and round the same point but always going down with every round. For the people victimized in this everlasting war, revenge was one thing which stuck to their heart like a leech sticking to your leg. You never know that it is there until it is too late and it starts bleeding. These people were not educated. They did not even know that a country called USA or Russian existed. All they knew was, there is Afghanistan, there is Pakistan and then there is the west. They hated the west.
Amjad Khan was married when he was 19 and he now had 3 children. He, like most others, did not believe in Education, and he himself was uneducated. His children spent hours memorizing the Quran. After all they were doing what their father asked them to and their father told them what he was taught. Amjad’s brush with reality happened in a Mosque on an early December Friday morning. As he got up after his prayers, a rough yet caring voice spoke to him,
“Salaam malik hum”
“Malik hum salaam”, he replied courteously.
“I know all about you and your past. I want to help you”
Amjad had never seen this man and the man said he knew him and wanted to help him. He was baffled by this.
“I know you don’t know me. Meet me near the old mosque near the market tomorrow. You will always be grateful”
The man disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Amjad tried hard to remember if he was one among his old friends, or a relative. Coming up with no answers, he convinced himself that it was a case of mistaken identity. It was always difficult to recognize someone when everyone around has the same turban and a beard.
The whole incident slipped from his mind and he was soon submerged in his daily routines and the calendar ticked like clockwork. Amjad went to the usual prayer place the following day and offered his prayers in the direction of the Holy Mecca. It was only then that he was reminded of the mystery man whom he had met. He tried to forget about it but then a strange thought passed his mind-what if it was actually mistaken identity? What if it was an emergency? He could at least go to the mosque and explain to the man who he really was. Pleased with this idea he walked to the old mosque near the market.
“Welcome my friend. I knew you would come”, said the same voice which had baffled him the previous day.
“I am sorry. I think you are mistaken. I do not even know you”
“You don’t have to. Please follow me”
“But…” he could not complete as the man had gone ahead and was beyond the audible range. Amjad trotted behind him and entered the mosque. He could never have guessed what he would see inside. There was a big hall with ruined walls. In the middle sat business men he recognized, some teenagers he had seen occasionally and the mystery man who was responsible for him being here. All their attention seemed to be focused on a heavily bearded man who spoke with inspiration in his voice, hatred in his voice.
“…..This is a direct assault on Islam” was all that Amjad could catch from the man’s talk. The men dissolved into little groups of their own and spoke in low voices. Nobody seemed to notice his presence.
Amjad decided to resolve this situation and moved towards the mystery man. The man almost instantaneously turned and gave a gentle smile. It was the first time Amjad got a detailed look of his face. It was tanned, bearded and had a scar on the cheek. This seemed unsymmetrical on the short, thin body.
“Why did you call me here? Do you know who I am?”
“I know about you my friend. You are Amjad Khan, son of Imjat Khan. I know you lost your tribe, it is like losing a part of your soul. I am afraid we both are in the same boat”
“how on earth do you know that?”, a bewildered Amjad asked.
“Allah has wished and it is destiny that our paths have crossed”
Amjad Khan had no idea who the man was and yet he was talking about his life and their destinies.
“Allah has a path planned for everyone. The westerners crossed their path and strolled into ours. They thought it to be their own and if that was not enough, they wanted it all by themselves. Centuries have passed and the Holy Quran and the Prophet are still our guiding lights in this dangerous journey. We live on this Earth as long as we have a duty to fulfill. Once completed, we leave and join the beautiful, eternal gardens of Allah”
“why are you telling me this ?”
“do you not see the signs ? Allah provoked you by making you lose your tribe. He calls upon all the holy warriors of Islam. He has foreseen an attack on Islam and The Quran says that it is not crime, but duty to injure or kill your enemy if the cause is to protect Islam.”
“I have to leave”
“think about your children and wife, Amjad Khan”
A shady shack, a tired wife and three innocent faces passed through his mind. They meant more than anything in the world to him.
“what about them ? don’t you dare even think about pulling them into this nonsense”, shouted Amjad. The people around, for the first time turned to have a look at him.
“Anger is important my friend, but only when used at the right time. The Westerners never cared for us, we did nothing wrong, yet they tore us apart. They did it because we are Islam. Please meet me tomorrow here at the same time. You won’t regret this Amjad. I promise”
Amjad felt numb, he felt he was transformed into another dimension. He had no idea as to who the man was, what he wanted and yet what he said made sense to him. The Westerners hurt them for no mistake of theirs, didn’t they?
He went home, had a silent lunch, then a silent dinner of roti and sabji and retired to bed. He kept thinking about the incident in the mosque. He could even sleep a wink. He contemplated on whether to meet the man, what was wrong? He would just listen to him and come home. He would lose nothing. He anyways had no work. It was a very simple situation. He could pull out anytime he wanted. That was the mistake. He was now wandering into a world which had only an entrance gate and no exit. He neither knew why he was entering it, nor did he know what was waiting for him.
After a rather long night, when time seemed to have stopped, Amjad Khan went to the prayer place, offered his prayers and rushed to the Mosque.
The same voice greeted him, “I am glad you came”
He silently led him inside and the heavily bearded man who was speaking the previous day was waiting for him.
“Hello my child. It is indeed a pleasure to have such dedicated Islams. Allah has finally made your path clear, his intentions are that you carry out his mission and he is waiting for you….”
The man who called himself ‘The Shiekh’, spoke almost the same words the mystery man had spoken the previous day, but this was only more refined, more convincing and Amjad Khan had fallen for it.
“You are making the right choice. People wait to do this. But everybody is not so lucky my child. Allah awaits you”
If the mystery man had managed to brainwash Amjad, the Sheikh had rinsed it and removed every little bit of sanity left in him.
After innumerable brain-washing sessions, Amjad was somehow talked into believing that the only way of serving Allah was giving up his life and in the process, taking some non-believers with him. “They take more lives of their own people than that of the enemy”, is an amorphism which suits these fanatics.
On one such meeting, the Sheikh said, “Child, its time. This is your destiny. Allah-o-Akbar”
A strange looking man, with spectacles and a lean body approached Amjad. He held a strange looking apparel. It looked like a jacket, but there were wires all over it.
“Who are you ? and sheikh, what is this ?”, sputtered Amjad.
“there is no need to explain, son. Just wear it”, said the strange looking man rather blandly.
Amjad was given a few more tips and they said, “You will meet Allah tomorrow. May the Lord be with you”. They told him that a car would pick him up at the mosque at 10.00 am and that there was no need for him to know any other detail.
It might seem that ‘volunteers’ are trained and stay in waiting line for months, but its logically senseless. It is not feasible to give them so much of time, simply because it was too much a time for them to realize their mistake. It is like bread, it has to be sold as soon as its baked.
Amjad Khan ate through his dinner quietly that night and looked at his children.
“Baba, I don’t feel like eating”, said the youngest of the lot.
Amjad Khan looked at him with an expressionless face.
“Please feed him. The child has not been eating properly. He might fall sick”, said his wife with a tired face.
Amjad monotonously fed the child. He was physically there, but his mind was roaming the gardens of Allah.
“Maa, food is so tasty in Baba’s plate. I want another roti” the child munched through the roti with gleeful innocence.
Amjad’s eyes filled up with tears, but he never let them roll down. He retired to bed, but purely due to the physical exhaustion, went to sleep.
He woke up very early the next day, finished his prayers. He sat with his children, thinking about all the moments he spent with them. The birth of each one of them was more special than the other. He wished to give them a life better than his. But his encounter with the ‘Messengers of Allah’ had changed him. He had not even once thought about his family. But before he could stroll down that path, the clock ticked 9.50.
He said he would go to the market and left with a strange jacket under his dress and tears in his eyes. It was 10 when he reached the Mosque and a red car was already waiting for him. An unknown man was inside.
“Amjad Khan ? Sallam-malik hum”
“Malik hum Salaam”, he replied and he got in.
He was informed that there was a button the driver would press, then they would count ten and then it was “Destination:Allah’s Gardens”
As the car rolled, Amjad was lost in his world. All he could think was his family. This was strange as they had never appeared to him ever in the earlier months. The radio was broadcasting an Urdu news update
“…innocent children lost their families in the suicide bombing. With no parents, the future is very dark for these little darlings….”
It hit him like a rock. Who would take care of his little ones? What would he gain by this? If it was so good, why did the Shiekh himself not do it?
Tears rolled down his cheeks as pictures of his son eating roti from his hands rolled into his heart. He wanted to pullout.
“Bhaisab…”
A ‘click’ cut through his lines, and also his life. The button had been pressed.
10
“…He could pull out anytime he wanted …” is how he had thought in the beginning.
9…8…7…6…5
He would leave his children fatherless; he would leave his wife a widow. This was a crime.
4…3
He would not only leave his family torn, but also many others’. He did not want to do this.
“Baba…” echoed his child’s voice.
2…1
If only….
Amjad Khan, a man in his early forties, like many other had seen the men from ‘The West’, destroy his tribe, among many, which had for many centuries made the slopes of Nowshak its home. His father, Imjat Khan had died fighting the War that was not theirs. They had no interest in the senseless violence down in the planes of Peshawar. As far as they were concerned, Nowshak was their home, their nation and their heaven. The Soviets though pulled them into the war when they made air strikes on the great mountain ranges of Hindu Kush. They destroyed cattle, homes. They destroyed innocent lives. Then arrived the Arabs, then the Americans and they kept coming. It was all like a spiral descent, going round and round the same point but always going down with every round. For the people victimized in this everlasting war, revenge was one thing which stuck to their heart like a leech sticking to your leg. You never know that it is there until it is too late and it starts bleeding. These people were not educated. They did not even know that a country called USA or Russian existed. All they knew was, there is Afghanistan, there is Pakistan and then there is the west. They hated the west.
Amjad Khan was married when he was 19 and he now had 3 children. He, like most others, did not believe in Education, and he himself was uneducated. His children spent hours memorizing the Quran. After all they were doing what their father asked them to and their father told them what he was taught. Amjad’s brush with reality happened in a Mosque on an early December Friday morning. As he got up after his prayers, a rough yet caring voice spoke to him,
“Salaam malik hum”
“Malik hum salaam”, he replied courteously.
“I know all about you and your past. I want to help you”
Amjad had never seen this man and the man said he knew him and wanted to help him. He was baffled by this.
“I know you don’t know me. Meet me near the old mosque near the market tomorrow. You will always be grateful”
The man disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Amjad tried hard to remember if he was one among his old friends, or a relative. Coming up with no answers, he convinced himself that it was a case of mistaken identity. It was always difficult to recognize someone when everyone around has the same turban and a beard.
The whole incident slipped from his mind and he was soon submerged in his daily routines and the calendar ticked like clockwork. Amjad went to the usual prayer place the following day and offered his prayers in the direction of the Holy Mecca. It was only then that he was reminded of the mystery man whom he had met. He tried to forget about it but then a strange thought passed his mind-what if it was actually mistaken identity? What if it was an emergency? He could at least go to the mosque and explain to the man who he really was. Pleased with this idea he walked to the old mosque near the market.
“Welcome my friend. I knew you would come”, said the same voice which had baffled him the previous day.
“I am sorry. I think you are mistaken. I do not even know you”
“You don’t have to. Please follow me”
“But…” he could not complete as the man had gone ahead and was beyond the audible range. Amjad trotted behind him and entered the mosque. He could never have guessed what he would see inside. There was a big hall with ruined walls. In the middle sat business men he recognized, some teenagers he had seen occasionally and the mystery man who was responsible for him being here. All their attention seemed to be focused on a heavily bearded man who spoke with inspiration in his voice, hatred in his voice.
“…..This is a direct assault on Islam” was all that Amjad could catch from the man’s talk. The men dissolved into little groups of their own and spoke in low voices. Nobody seemed to notice his presence.
Amjad decided to resolve this situation and moved towards the mystery man. The man almost instantaneously turned and gave a gentle smile. It was the first time Amjad got a detailed look of his face. It was tanned, bearded and had a scar on the cheek. This seemed unsymmetrical on the short, thin body.
“Why did you call me here? Do you know who I am?”
“I know about you my friend. You are Amjad Khan, son of Imjat Khan. I know you lost your tribe, it is like losing a part of your soul. I am afraid we both are in the same boat”
“how on earth do you know that?”, a bewildered Amjad asked.
“Allah has wished and it is destiny that our paths have crossed”
Amjad Khan had no idea who the man was and yet he was talking about his life and their destinies.
“Allah has a path planned for everyone. The westerners crossed their path and strolled into ours. They thought it to be their own and if that was not enough, they wanted it all by themselves. Centuries have passed and the Holy Quran and the Prophet are still our guiding lights in this dangerous journey. We live on this Earth as long as we have a duty to fulfill. Once completed, we leave and join the beautiful, eternal gardens of Allah”
“why are you telling me this ?”
“do you not see the signs ? Allah provoked you by making you lose your tribe. He calls upon all the holy warriors of Islam. He has foreseen an attack on Islam and The Quran says that it is not crime, but duty to injure or kill your enemy if the cause is to protect Islam.”
“I have to leave”
“think about your children and wife, Amjad Khan”
A shady shack, a tired wife and three innocent faces passed through his mind. They meant more than anything in the world to him.
“what about them ? don’t you dare even think about pulling them into this nonsense”, shouted Amjad. The people around, for the first time turned to have a look at him.
“Anger is important my friend, but only when used at the right time. The Westerners never cared for us, we did nothing wrong, yet they tore us apart. They did it because we are Islam. Please meet me tomorrow here at the same time. You won’t regret this Amjad. I promise”
Amjad felt numb, he felt he was transformed into another dimension. He had no idea as to who the man was, what he wanted and yet what he said made sense to him. The Westerners hurt them for no mistake of theirs, didn’t they?
He went home, had a silent lunch, then a silent dinner of roti and sabji and retired to bed. He kept thinking about the incident in the mosque. He could even sleep a wink. He contemplated on whether to meet the man, what was wrong? He would just listen to him and come home. He would lose nothing. He anyways had no work. It was a very simple situation. He could pull out anytime he wanted. That was the mistake. He was now wandering into a world which had only an entrance gate and no exit. He neither knew why he was entering it, nor did he know what was waiting for him.
After a rather long night, when time seemed to have stopped, Amjad Khan went to the prayer place, offered his prayers and rushed to the Mosque.
The same voice greeted him, “I am glad you came”
He silently led him inside and the heavily bearded man who was speaking the previous day was waiting for him.
“Hello my child. It is indeed a pleasure to have such dedicated Islams. Allah has finally made your path clear, his intentions are that you carry out his mission and he is waiting for you….”
The man who called himself ‘The Shiekh’, spoke almost the same words the mystery man had spoken the previous day, but this was only more refined, more convincing and Amjad Khan had fallen for it.
“You are making the right choice. People wait to do this. But everybody is not so lucky my child. Allah awaits you”
If the mystery man had managed to brainwash Amjad, the Sheikh had rinsed it and removed every little bit of sanity left in him.
After innumerable brain-washing sessions, Amjad was somehow talked into believing that the only way of serving Allah was giving up his life and in the process, taking some non-believers with him. “They take more lives of their own people than that of the enemy”, is an amorphism which suits these fanatics.
On one such meeting, the Sheikh said, “Child, its time. This is your destiny. Allah-o-Akbar”
A strange looking man, with spectacles and a lean body approached Amjad. He held a strange looking apparel. It looked like a jacket, but there were wires all over it.
“Who are you ? and sheikh, what is this ?”, sputtered Amjad.
“there is no need to explain, son. Just wear it”, said the strange looking man rather blandly.
Amjad was given a few more tips and they said, “You will meet Allah tomorrow. May the Lord be with you”. They told him that a car would pick him up at the mosque at 10.00 am and that there was no need for him to know any other detail.
It might seem that ‘volunteers’ are trained and stay in waiting line for months, but its logically senseless. It is not feasible to give them so much of time, simply because it was too much a time for them to realize their mistake. It is like bread, it has to be sold as soon as its baked.
Amjad Khan ate through his dinner quietly that night and looked at his children.
“Baba, I don’t feel like eating”, said the youngest of the lot.
Amjad Khan looked at him with an expressionless face.
“Please feed him. The child has not been eating properly. He might fall sick”, said his wife with a tired face.
Amjad monotonously fed the child. He was physically there, but his mind was roaming the gardens of Allah.
“Maa, food is so tasty in Baba’s plate. I want another roti” the child munched through the roti with gleeful innocence.
Amjad’s eyes filled up with tears, but he never let them roll down. He retired to bed, but purely due to the physical exhaustion, went to sleep.
He woke up very early the next day, finished his prayers. He sat with his children, thinking about all the moments he spent with them. The birth of each one of them was more special than the other. He wished to give them a life better than his. But his encounter with the ‘Messengers of Allah’ had changed him. He had not even once thought about his family. But before he could stroll down that path, the clock ticked 9.50.
He said he would go to the market and left with a strange jacket under his dress and tears in his eyes. It was 10 when he reached the Mosque and a red car was already waiting for him. An unknown man was inside.
“Amjad Khan ? Sallam-malik hum”
“Malik hum Salaam”, he replied and he got in.
He was informed that there was a button the driver would press, then they would count ten and then it was “Destination:Allah’s Gardens”
As the car rolled, Amjad was lost in his world. All he could think was his family. This was strange as they had never appeared to him ever in the earlier months. The radio was broadcasting an Urdu news update
“…innocent children lost their families in the suicide bombing. With no parents, the future is very dark for these little darlings….”
It hit him like a rock. Who would take care of his little ones? What would he gain by this? If it was so good, why did the Shiekh himself not do it?
Tears rolled down his cheeks as pictures of his son eating roti from his hands rolled into his heart. He wanted to pullout.
“Bhaisab…”
A ‘click’ cut through his lines, and also his life. The button had been pressed.
10
“…He could pull out anytime he wanted …” is how he had thought in the beginning.
9…8…7…6…5
He would leave his children fatherless; he would leave his wife a widow. This was a crime.
4…3
He would not only leave his family torn, but also many others’. He did not want to do this.
“Baba…” echoed his child’s voice.
2…1
If only….
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Straight from the heart...
" Small minds: discuss people,
Average minds: discuss events
Big minds: discuss ideas
Great minds: work in silence"
I certainly hope that this euphemism holds true in the case of our dear PM. Since I got my new phone, I am now hooked to Twitter. One of the best tweets I came across went like this- "Even Anna and Baba Ramdev have entered politics, it is now high time that even Manmohan Singh enters politics". Coming to think of it, it is indeed miraculous that this massive democracy is actually functioning with two of the strongest pillars virtually defunct. The PM and the President. Not that we expect much from the President, it is actually unfair when the Prime Minister of the country does not even think it is appropriate to utter a few words of assurance in the midst of all this drama.
Speaking of the drama, there are a certain things which I would like to write about. Baba Ramdev and Anna Hazare have received the load of media attention and the attention of the Government. Does this mean that they are the only people who have been protesting against the system ?
Irom Charu Sharmila has been on a hunger strike for over 10yrs demanding that the Govt. repeal the Arms Act (Special Powers Act) in Manipur. She is termed as the 'world's longest hunger striker'. Even people from the European Parliament have written to the Indian Government seeking to roll back the law. The Government can send cabinet ministers to meet Baba Ramdev, but cannot care to look at this woman who is now in a derelict state for the past decade.
Swami Nigamananda died while protesting against the quarrying in the Ganga. He was on a fast unto death. The real fast unto death. The Govt. did not even bother to listen to this poor soul, but they can spend weeks negotiating with Baba Ramdev.
Ever wondered why the faces of Irom Charu Sharmila and Swami Nigamananda are not plastered across the media like that of Ramdev and Anna ? The equation is simple, their death is not as damaging to the government as that of ramdev or anna. I know Indian politics is not that simple, but the bottom line remains the same. Their death is of no political importance.
The government will be allowed to get away with this because we have just stopped caring. I have always though that we were an ungrateful nation. We were never grateful to all the sacrifices that were made by our founding fathers. We take things for granted, we have no idea about the efforts put in by our forefathers to build this nation. Acknowledging their efforts and appreciating them will automatically translate into love, i suppose. But when one billion people who owe their existence to this country can be so indifferent towards it, I think there is some serious issue that needs to be looked at. If you ask me, it is our Primary Education system.
Just go back in time. When you were in high school/higher primary, you studied history. They say history is one of the most important subjects because your history defines your present and shapes your future. We studied the subject history alright. Or did we just learn facts ? We learnt the list of rulers, the temples/mosques/churches they built, the rulers who defeated them and the endless dates of all the wars. We then studied the advent of the Europeans, the chronology of the viceroys and the laws they passed. Then came the account of the freedom movement. I remember my text having a total of 6 chapters which covered the entire Indian Freedom movement. 120 pages encompassing lifetimes of sacrifice and 120 pages expressing the heartbreaking story of the Indian Freedom movement. If you ask me, the entire education on our history was nothing but reading eulogies on all the characters involved in this beautiful epic called 'India'.
You have had to face questions like "What are the achievements of Gandhi? ?"; "What were the achievements of Akbar ?"; "What made Chandragupta Mourya a great man ?".
Did you have questions like- "Mention Gandhi's greatest flaws as a human being"; "What were the personal sacrifices made by Nehru for the sake of India?"; "Explain how Indira Gandhy became Indira Gandhi".
Well, all we studied was the greatness of all these characters. These great people were always projected as demi-gods who descended straight from heaven. The Indian Independence is one of the most beautiful stories you will ever come across. Love, hatred, bloodshed, victory. The book 'Indian Summer' by Alex von Tunzelmann explores the real people behind these smokescreens of greatness and then you will realize that they were ordinary human beings who rose to positions of extraordinary power by making unbelievable sacrifices. We need our people to know this. We need our people to believe that Gandhi and Nehru were ordinary people who did extraordinary things and not that they were heavenly creatures whose birth dates and places of birth are the only details of importance. People need to know the struggle that was involved in freeing India from her shackles, people need to know the lives lost and the sacrifices made. Like the great Russian leader said, "One death is a tragedy, a hundred is just a statistic". Knowing 1000 lives were lost in Jallianwalla Bagh is not important, it is important to know that every drop of blood shed was for the betterment of this country. For the betterment of our lives. Once the people understand this and begin to see that we have been selfishly reaping the rewards of their efforts, we can make an effort of repaying them. The only way we can do that, my friends, is by protecting what they died for. India.
I dont know what needs to be done. Patriotism is not standing with a puffed chest on August 15th nor celebrating a World Cup win. Patriotism can be as small as not jumping a traffic signal or as big as dedicating your life to protect the Indian forests. Our children need to realize this. Our people need to realize this. We need to realize this.
Anna and Ramdev make juicy prime time television subjects, but they can never hope to make even an iota of a difference if the people do not realize what they are fighting for. That the idea of India is something worth fighting for. You may call me a pessimist, but I wold rather assess reality than be a fantasist. I love my lady, and I know what I am fighting to save. You just need to find your reason to fight. I have found mine.
My Lady. My Love.
Average minds: discuss events
Big minds: discuss ideas
Great minds: work in silence"
I certainly hope that this euphemism holds true in the case of our dear PM. Since I got my new phone, I am now hooked to Twitter. One of the best tweets I came across went like this- "Even Anna and Baba Ramdev have entered politics, it is now high time that even Manmohan Singh enters politics". Coming to think of it, it is indeed miraculous that this massive democracy is actually functioning with two of the strongest pillars virtually defunct. The PM and the President. Not that we expect much from the President, it is actually unfair when the Prime Minister of the country does not even think it is appropriate to utter a few words of assurance in the midst of all this drama.
Speaking of the drama, there are a certain things which I would like to write about. Baba Ramdev and Anna Hazare have received the load of media attention and the attention of the Government. Does this mean that they are the only people who have been protesting against the system ?
Irom Charu Sharmila has been on a hunger strike for over 10yrs demanding that the Govt. repeal the Arms Act (Special Powers Act) in Manipur. She is termed as the 'world's longest hunger striker'. Even people from the European Parliament have written to the Indian Government seeking to roll back the law. The Government can send cabinet ministers to meet Baba Ramdev, but cannot care to look at this woman who is now in a derelict state for the past decade.
Swami Nigamananda died while protesting against the quarrying in the Ganga. He was on a fast unto death. The real fast unto death. The Govt. did not even bother to listen to this poor soul, but they can spend weeks negotiating with Baba Ramdev.
Ever wondered why the faces of Irom Charu Sharmila and Swami Nigamananda are not plastered across the media like that of Ramdev and Anna ? The equation is simple, their death is not as damaging to the government as that of ramdev or anna. I know Indian politics is not that simple, but the bottom line remains the same. Their death is of no political importance.
The government will be allowed to get away with this because we have just stopped caring. I have always though that we were an ungrateful nation. We were never grateful to all the sacrifices that were made by our founding fathers. We take things for granted, we have no idea about the efforts put in by our forefathers to build this nation. Acknowledging their efforts and appreciating them will automatically translate into love, i suppose. But when one billion people who owe their existence to this country can be so indifferent towards it, I think there is some serious issue that needs to be looked at. If you ask me, it is our Primary Education system.
Just go back in time. When you were in high school/higher primary, you studied history. They say history is one of the most important subjects because your history defines your present and shapes your future. We studied the subject history alright. Or did we just learn facts ? We learnt the list of rulers, the temples/mosques/churches they built, the rulers who defeated them and the endless dates of all the wars. We then studied the advent of the Europeans, the chronology of the viceroys and the laws they passed. Then came the account of the freedom movement. I remember my text having a total of 6 chapters which covered the entire Indian Freedom movement. 120 pages encompassing lifetimes of sacrifice and 120 pages expressing the heartbreaking story of the Indian Freedom movement. If you ask me, the entire education on our history was nothing but reading eulogies on all the characters involved in this beautiful epic called 'India'.
You have had to face questions like "What are the achievements of Gandhi? ?"; "What were the achievements of Akbar ?"; "What made Chandragupta Mourya a great man ?".
Did you have questions like- "Mention Gandhi's greatest flaws as a human being"; "What were the personal sacrifices made by Nehru for the sake of India?"; "Explain how Indira Gandhy became Indira Gandhi".
Well, all we studied was the greatness of all these characters. These great people were always projected as demi-gods who descended straight from heaven. The Indian Independence is one of the most beautiful stories you will ever come across. Love, hatred, bloodshed, victory. The book 'Indian Summer' by Alex von Tunzelmann explores the real people behind these smokescreens of greatness and then you will realize that they were ordinary human beings who rose to positions of extraordinary power by making unbelievable sacrifices. We need our people to know this. We need our people to believe that Gandhi and Nehru were ordinary people who did extraordinary things and not that they were heavenly creatures whose birth dates and places of birth are the only details of importance. People need to know the struggle that was involved in freeing India from her shackles, people need to know the lives lost and the sacrifices made. Like the great Russian leader said, "One death is a tragedy, a hundred is just a statistic". Knowing 1000 lives were lost in Jallianwalla Bagh is not important, it is important to know that every drop of blood shed was for the betterment of this country. For the betterment of our lives. Once the people understand this and begin to see that we have been selfishly reaping the rewards of their efforts, we can make an effort of repaying them. The only way we can do that, my friends, is by protecting what they died for. India.
I dont know what needs to be done. Patriotism is not standing with a puffed chest on August 15th nor celebrating a World Cup win. Patriotism can be as small as not jumping a traffic signal or as big as dedicating your life to protect the Indian forests. Our children need to realize this. Our people need to realize this. We need to realize this.
Anna and Ramdev make juicy prime time television subjects, but they can never hope to make even an iota of a difference if the people do not realize what they are fighting for. That the idea of India is something worth fighting for. You may call me a pessimist, but I wold rather assess reality than be a fantasist. I love my lady, and I know what I am fighting to save. You just need to find your reason to fight. I have found mine.
My Lady. My Love.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Dreamy thoughts...
"You may call me a dreamer, but I am not the only one"
Everyday as I switch on my television set, I pray that I see something positive on the news channel. Now when team Anna took the channels by storm, I wondered if my prayers were really answered. Is this positive ? Is this helpful for our democracy ? I have no idea, although sometimes I pretend I do !
It is sometimes a scary prospect when you look at our leaders and wonder if they really do know how to run this country. Now the entry of team anna is like adding an extra cook to cook an already spoilt broth. We educated people underestimate the Indian politician. The Indian Politician and the Indian Police are always given far less credit than they deserve. A politician's job is to win an election and the indian politician does a fine job at this. The upper class of the society may have many qualms about the abilities of the politician, but as they say "...the mob is Rome. As long as you control the mob, you control Rome". With the indian voter ready to throw away his vote for a bottle of brandy or the promise of a TV, the indian politician has supreme control over the mob. Like it or not, votes from people like us are like seasoning on a Pizza. It adds extra flavor, but no real value to the pizza on the whole.
Like many of you, I am also frustrated at the state of affairs. In this regard, I am doing what I know best- write about it. The blog is titled 'The Indian Love Affair' because I believe that our relationship with the country is nothing but a steamy love affair. We hate every aspect of its system, but the only feeling in the heart about the country is really 'love'. Sometimes we crawl into bed with the enemy, sometimes we crucify them but we simply cannot live without them. It is a love story that has spanned centuries. Blood has been spilled to rescue the damsel from the foreigner, some people gave up their lives for her. For a while the relationship was a happy one, but again we have let the lady be taken by the enemy. But this time, the enemy is from within and that is what makes it most dangerous. We love the lady but behind the curtain of love, we mercilessly violate her physical sanctity and destroy her physical wonders. We love our country, but I begin my blog by praying that this 'love' is coupled with 'respect'. Because ultimately without 'respect', 'love' just becomes a feeling you reserve for your dearest and is not necessarily gentle. A drunkard loves his wife and shows this love by thrashing her, something he reserves only for her. This is 'love' in his view and one which is bereft of any respect towards her.
This blog will encompass all aspects of my love affair with my country. Reviews of books which are relevant, new acts in the circus called 'Indian politics' and many more random thoughts. I dream of a better country and of a better system, but at the end of the day I shall always love my lady no matter how she is.
Everyday as I switch on my television set, I pray that I see something positive on the news channel. Now when team Anna took the channels by storm, I wondered if my prayers were really answered. Is this positive ? Is this helpful for our democracy ? I have no idea, although sometimes I pretend I do !
It is sometimes a scary prospect when you look at our leaders and wonder if they really do know how to run this country. Now the entry of team anna is like adding an extra cook to cook an already spoilt broth. We educated people underestimate the Indian politician. The Indian Politician and the Indian Police are always given far less credit than they deserve. A politician's job is to win an election and the indian politician does a fine job at this. The upper class of the society may have many qualms about the abilities of the politician, but as they say "...the mob is Rome. As long as you control the mob, you control Rome". With the indian voter ready to throw away his vote for a bottle of brandy or the promise of a TV, the indian politician has supreme control over the mob. Like it or not, votes from people like us are like seasoning on a Pizza. It adds extra flavor, but no real value to the pizza on the whole.
Like many of you, I am also frustrated at the state of affairs. In this regard, I am doing what I know best- write about it. The blog is titled 'The Indian Love Affair' because I believe that our relationship with the country is nothing but a steamy love affair. We hate every aspect of its system, but the only feeling in the heart about the country is really 'love'. Sometimes we crawl into bed with the enemy, sometimes we crucify them but we simply cannot live without them. It is a love story that has spanned centuries. Blood has been spilled to rescue the damsel from the foreigner, some people gave up their lives for her. For a while the relationship was a happy one, but again we have let the lady be taken by the enemy. But this time, the enemy is from within and that is what makes it most dangerous. We love the lady but behind the curtain of love, we mercilessly violate her physical sanctity and destroy her physical wonders. We love our country, but I begin my blog by praying that this 'love' is coupled with 'respect'. Because ultimately without 'respect', 'love' just becomes a feeling you reserve for your dearest and is not necessarily gentle. A drunkard loves his wife and shows this love by thrashing her, something he reserves only for her. This is 'love' in his view and one which is bereft of any respect towards her.
This blog will encompass all aspects of my love affair with my country. Reviews of books which are relevant, new acts in the circus called 'Indian politics' and many more random thoughts. I dream of a better country and of a better system, but at the end of the day I shall always love my lady no matter how she is.
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