Bright and Dark

I walked along,
On road alone.
Darkness followed daylong,
On road unknown.

World is full of pain,
Workload is insane.
Freedom in chain,
Life is vain.

I walked along,
On road alone.

A girl in rag,
Carrying filthy bag.
A kid to drag,
With their hands swag.

Darkness followed daylong,
On road unknown.

We walked by,
Girl singed high.
Boy little shy,
A cut on his thigh.

I walked along,
But not alone.

One piece of bread,
Two hungry head.
Sick dog lay spread,
Even it was fed.

Darkness follows daylong,
On road unknown.

Both smiled bright,
Was I right?
Life is sprite,
Its how you sight.

I returned along,
But not alone.
Brightness stays nightlong,
On road now known.

South Scrutiny

I arrived at Erode, Tamil Nadu on the morning of 21^st June. My friend Banshi and I, we decided to take breakfast at platform only. The first bite of uttapam with tomato chutney and coconut chutney, and I fell in love with this place. My God! It was yummy.

Do you remember good old Doordarshan? Whenever something remotely obscene or indecent was to be said, it will blank it with sound of ‘tuunn...’ For example,’ tuunn..., tuunn..., main tumhara khun pee jaunga’. If you had asked me before 21^st june about my views on south India, it would have been complete ‘tuunn...,tuunn...’ only.

The irony is that I had never visited south Indian states – Karnatka, Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu and Kerala before this visit. But I always deeply hated the idea of visiting them. For me, south India meant hot scintillating summer, no water in the tap and black people in lungis and sarees eating rice with both hands muttering some unknown language and the sweat from their foreheads falling into the food.

Now, after spending two weeks in ‘hardcore’ Tamil cities of Erode and Madurai, when I am returning back to Gujarat, I miss the taste of that tomato chutney.

First, the food. Its not all about idly, dosa, rice and no spoon. It’s about the style of serving them, it’s about the things with which they are served. I had the opportunity to eat in the traditional tamil style at my friend Srinivasan’s house. We sat on the floor and dinner was served on banana leaves. The real taste of food is not due to it’s core content – rice, but because of spicy chutneys and sambhars with which it is served. Even rice is full of spices and variety – tomato rice, lemon rice, curd rice and sour tasting rice – the name I don’t recall. The menu is not so restrictive. Uttapam, vada, pongal, puri, parotha (its not the north Indian parotha), biryani – they can make anyone’s gastronomic juices flow. One interesting dish I ate at Srinivasan’s house was chilly parotha. It’s similar to chilly paneer, where a thick parotha is broken into pieces and cooked in chilly gravy. The food is no doubt tasty but certain things look different and peculiar. Even in good restaurants, they serve on banana leaves kept over plates. They certainly save lots of dish washing charges. And, no spoons. Absolutely none. You have to eat with hands. The only use of spoons was that they kept it over the bill so that it doesn’t blow away in fan! Also, they always give bill before you have finished your meal. And, with food-tainted hands, it is difficult to pay them without washing your hands. Wash-basins, hence, are a must.

Coming to language, most people understand basic English. It is a great thing. Although I have never tried, but I doubt if many people will understand English in north Indian states. Tamils are too emotionally attached to their language. They prefer speaking in Tamil and to a certain extent hate Hindi. I picked a few Tamil words – ‘nira’, ‘sundal’, ‘runda’ etc. It was quite an experience when you have to communicate with someone believing them to be deaf and assuming yourself to be mute.

Lifestyle of Tamils is unique. Their dressing style is very traditional. Women wear sarees with usually thick golden borders. Girls wear salwar kameej. Every day they will buy jasmine flowers and thread them together to wear it in their hairs. It’s like a ritual. Almost every female I saw had ‘gajras’ in their hairs. Skirts and jeans are extremely rare. Men wear white shirt and white lungi. Modern men wear formal pants and coloured full sleeved shirts which are many a times red bordered and flower-printed. It looks so funny.

People are found of jewellery. They are very religious. Madurai, anyway, is a city of temples.

Everything is not so good also. People drive rashly. Crossing the road is very difficult. Tamils are also not much concerned about hygiene.

Coming to my favourite topic – girls. I liked Tamil girls. Despite their uncool dresses; oily, plaited, combed and gajra-ed hairs; dark shade of skin and all other factors that make a girl non-existent in north India; I wish I could talk to and befriend any such Tamil girl. They have this element of ‘lajja’ in them. Whenever you look at them, they will shy away, leaving behind a trail of curiosity. You feel like a boy and they behave like a girl. It’s not like Delhi, where if you glance at a girl, she will gaze you back so intensely as if you are butter chicken masala for them!

Ah! I want to explore south more. I need more south tours. :)

Young girls and not so young man

(Written en route Pune to Ranchi on 21/05/2011, so all little stories refer to incidents within train)

Faces can mislead. Emotions, thoughts, character – face is a great revealing entity. And yes, age. But due to some unknown quasi-cosmic reason, my face stopped ageing a decade ago.

Any girl on any given day will be ready to run up and down the Vaishnodevi shrine five times to stop her face showing signs of ageing. But ask any boy – er – man. The sole reason for the existence of male species on this earth is that, well, he has to be a man. When a male is not able to get himself branded as man despite being a man, the awkwardness he faces is unique to me. I haven’t met anyone who is asked of the class in which he studies even seven years after last attending the school.

Asked by a family once travelling with me in train, when I told that I study in class 12, the man replied, “You look too young to be in class 12, doesn’t he look like Pitto who goes to school with our Chooti?” His wife nodded with the biggest possible grin and gave a little pat on Chooti’s head. Chooti who seemed to be in class eight or nine smiled at me shyly and the depth of drooling in her eyes suggested that either she had a major crush on Pitto, or a face like Pitto with more manly credentials had really excited her. I gave a hint of smiling back.

This is the problem. For Chooti and her family, its a perfectly normal reaction. But for me, I am not even in class 12, I have been in job for more than two years now and Chooti is just a little girl for me.

I have been unfortunate enough to study in IIT and now to work for the government of India. Both places are devoid of female species of every possible kind. I really don’t know the intricacies of talking to a girl. I have no idea of how to stand, sit, look, breathe, hear, and think – in the presence of opposite sex of similar age. So, I have developed my own ways to face the challenge. Some of them are -
i) Get ignored by them, this is the easiest. Thank God that most girls ignore me.
ii) Try to spend as little time as humanely possible in presence of girls of same age.
iii) Talk as if your every sentence is costing a month of your salary and try to keep the sentence to really rudimentary form.

To the top of this, when girl-kids, half my age, simply make all excuses to talk to me, I feel like hanging myself. When everyone else is asleep in afternoon, this Bengali girl asks me, “Tumne khana nahi khaya?” She shows such a feeling of care that I curse myself. I don’t know what to do. I know most boys will hate this, but I will be mighty happy if some day these girls start calling me ‘bhaiya’. Now this girl is offering me Britannia cake. My God!

This mismatch of actual age and the perceived age is already taking toll on my working life. I naturally don’t fit in as an officer of many employees. People find it hard to see me as their future boss.

I have a history of young girls developing ‘very soft’ feelings towards me. Fortunately, the feeling is not mutual. I really hope that some day a twenty something girl will also develop similar feelings for me. I will wait the whole time while I am also in my twenty something. Or else, I will write another blog in my forties on same issues. ;)

Midnight @ NSC Bose Gomoh Junction

I bought this ‘Exal 4 – STAR’ scented pen at Ranchi junction just to have it. Few hours later at 0011 i.e. 00:11am, I am writing this diary with this pen and waiting for the Howrah Mumbai Mail to arrive at Gomoh junction.

I am waiting outside the upper class waiting room (Gents). I prefer to sit outside. This terminology of the waiting room itself reflects so many divisions. Class, gender. I am not sure how much of casteism we have forgone but we are happy to add new divisions. Indigenous or western, I fail to understand this constant desire of people to categorise themselves.

An empty freight train have just passed through platform 2 where I am sitting and writing. The guard at the end of the train stares at me. Probably he has not seen many people writing something at midnight on a platform. People all around me are sleeping or pretending to sleep. Songs are being played from the mobile of one person who is sound asleep. It seems he was trying to keep himself awake. ‘Duniya ka gham dekha to apna bhula dala...’ catches my attention.

It’s 0039. Another freight train passes before me. The loud grumbling sound of the train makes no difference to the ambiance around me. The air is very still. The scent of the written words can be felt distinctly. A coolie is strolling along the platform. Somebody makes a sleeping vendor sell ‘kurkure’.

When I see all the people around me, they seem to be venerable and innocent. Every person at the end of the day just requires a 6 feet by 3 feet space to sleep. One man in his early 20’s is standing before me and pushing some buttons on his mobile. He asks me,”Aapko kanha jana hai?” I reply dryly,” Mumbai”. He nods and goes back. Anyways, where was I? At the ‘end of the day’ problem. I am remembering a story in Bal Bharti or Kishore Bharti, where a man can own as much land as he can run on a single day. At the end of the run, the man dies of exhaustion and ultimately he needed only that much land in which he can be buried. How true! The good old NCERT has instilled into many kids of my generation a strong moral sense.

The fourth freight train passes before me as it’s 0121. Announcement for the arrival of Jharkhand Sampark Kranti Express from Delhi on its way to Ranchi is being made. People from the Postal department have thrown in many bags of mails on the platform. The Sampark Kranti train has arrived. I am wishing if I can board this train and go back to Ranchi. I cannot tell you how much I love Ranchi. A girl is peeping out of the window of S1 coach. The platform has came alive now. A coolie comes to me and asks if I require his services. I deny.

One blind man is asking for directions from another man. This man picks up his luggage and holds the blind man’s arm and is taking him to the desired platform. Humanity is not dead after all! It’s 0153 and I am getting little restless. I have also observed in these 2 hours that except for an old lady sleeping inside waiting room, I haven’t seen a single female on the platform. I think they are missing something very interesting in life. To be alone at night in a remote station where anyone hardly notices you and you notice everyone else and write, its a wonderful experience. It’s hard for a girl to be alone at rural stations in night and even harder for them to remain unnoticed.

Dehradun Howrah express has arrived. I had come home from Roorkee for the first time by this train only. It’s 0203 and my train will arrive in about half an hour at some platform which I still don’t know. So, better I should go to inquire. Two people come to me and ask, “ticket idhar hi kat-ta hai?” I say,”pata nahi”. Might be, with a diary and pen in hand, I seem to be the most knowledgeable person here.

Anyways, it’s time to wrap up. Goodbye.