Sir,
Let all your detractors be doomed. You deserve to be reinstated as the chief minister of Karnataka, for you are one of a kind who graces the murky world of politics once in a while.
Sir, you are a leader at par with the standard bearers of India’s freedom movement. For those venerated bunch lured fellow countrymen, battered by penury and the batons of the police, with prospects of an independent country, a mere intangible gain. And here you are, commanding a herd of crooks motivated by their vested interests with panache and efficacy. Your triumph lies in weaving a seamless spell over this retinue who are seemingly oblivious of the doom they are headed to, going by the caustic reportage against you of late. But who cares as long as they maintain a bellicose stance against your adversaries, perhaps pampered by the pleasures that await them in distant farmhouses.
And there is no shame to it, sir, for pampering your paisan does not amount to nepotism. Had it been so, the Corleone family, perhaps novelist Mario Puzo’s greatest gift to the world of fiction, would not have attained the cult status it has. You merely extended a helping hand to your sons and son-in-law to make it big in life. You were the guiding force behind the millions your kin and acolytes allegedly amassed through clandestine deals, much the same way the Pandavas triumphed in Kurukshetra riding on Krishna’s perspicacity. Ignore the Lokayukta indictment, sir, for what it says is mere baloney. How can an apparently upright Santosh Hegde or governor H R Bharadwaj acknowledge the humungous efforts required to keep the surreptitious deals worth fortunes under the wraps? Do not ponder over the tarnished image before the electorate. Most of them, like those who paraded with Anna Hazare to the Ramlila Maidan, are charmed by heretics and crooks alike with promises that are never to materialise and you can well take care of that during campaigns, if given an opportunity. Their chagrin is fuelled by your nonchalance to resolving petty inconveniences like water scarcity, agonising waits at traffic snarls and the frustration of missing the dough despite bearing with grumpy bosses for over nine hours a day.
Sir, you are resilience personified. You have shown qualities of a pachyderm by absorbing every snub from your now-estranged colleagues and the party high command, who have forgotten that it was under your esteemed leadership that the BJP formed a government in the otherwise elusive Karnataka. Only the “graceful” bit was missing with you trampling their outcry since an acquittal from the court of law is pending. But again, law takes its own course and time and with the likes of Arun Gawli and Raja Bhaiya contesting elections, it is certainly not a poser to a prosperous career in politics. Probably prospects of a dystopian Karnataka with you at the helm barred the party higher ups from feting you for the unparalleled feat.
But you deserve to be commended for not getting languorous, an ill that plagues every average Indian. You fought back with fortitude and more vigor every time the disgruntled BJP leadership turned its back on you. Not your fault if your archaic bosses, who still nurture ambitions of a Hindu state, mistake your rancor for tantrums of a disobedient child who deserves a few lashes to be tamed. They seem not to realise that the hangover of the halcyon days (read productive) as chief minister is not as brittle as one imparted by a midnight tryst with excess whiskey, to be taken care of by lime and salt the next morning.
Your fall from grace was triggered by obstinacy and complacency. Not your fault, sir. How can a megalomaniac even imagine of being failed by his own handpicked protégé? But you have been a good tutor to an attentive student it seems, for Sadananda Gowda has beaten you at your own game, revolting and forging alliances. Only, he chose to be subtle in asserting his stance. When Lalu installed Rabri Devi as the chief minister of Bihar, it was an arrangement within the family. Moreover, the state was his fiefdom, which was not the case with you. You failed to register that the coveted seat of power is as dear to you as it is to anyone else. But you can ignore these, for they are pinpricks in a prickly relationship. We all hope someday L K Advani would receive you in Delhi instead of Gowda and the enervated leadership would reward you for faring better than a leech, instead of showing you the highway.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Walk Alone Anna
Of late an sms has been doing rounds where the blue-eyed boy of Indian cricket, our very own M S Dhoni thanks Anna Hazare and his acolytes for drawing all the pats as well as the brickbats the country has on offer. Otherwise, being flayed for recent rubber debacle in England would have been inevitable. Not that the cricket experts have gracefully abstained from subjecting our innocuous, overworked cricketers to derision. Still, the critics are a handful and irate supporters have sobered down to the extent of venting their angst by burning effigies only. On the contrary, team Anna rides on the support of gagged denizens in a democracy, unwilling to let go of the this blessed opportunity to vent their ire over irregularities in pension disbursal or dipping interest rates in banks. To cap it, Dhoni and his premier blue-blooded lot have been exempted from the scathing opposition's umbrage, much to Ajay Maken's delight.
The power of one is what our democracy seems to be at home with. As and when one has escalated to many, as in the star studded, venerated National cricket team, the outcome has wavered from the preset objective to a superfluous one. Take the septuagenarian Gandhian. Remodeling Ralegaon Siddhi into an exemplary village amidst rural hinterlands bequeathed with crude chauvinists, hence wife-beating, philandering drunkards was a humungous job done clinically well. Not entirely on the lines of Gandhi though as a no-nonsense Anna slipping into his army bearings with effortless ease to flog the errant men have made it to the local folklore. But, then it was Anna alone with a team of women and children sickened by their daily dosage of the stick. However, with a stage bigger and target monumental, in came the Bedis, Sisodias, Bhushans and Kejriwals. Then followed the megalomaniac opposition parties baying for the Prime Minister's blood and chair. Close on wheels were the ever speculative, TRP and circulation hungry media. And the country was served a platter of a beaming Anna, reaping a rich anti-corruption harvest. Close by were the co-crusaders, hell bent on carving a necropolis for the red-taped bureaucracy for a more accountable one.
The hullabaloo comes dear. According to newspaper reports, team Anna foots a bill of around Rs six lakh per day to satiate gastronomical requisites of the anti-corruption crusaders. A 15-day phenomenon is likely to cost around a crore. Anna, you would rather dole out the cash to the millions who languish in penury in the squalid nooks of the country rather than feeding truant students with a foot in India an eye on US or the oleaginous MNC employees seeking a break from the monotony of corporate decorum.
Swami Nigamananda would have been an ideal apostle of anti-corruption outbreaks to the millions who will be marauded by the Reddy brothers, Kalmadis and Rajas in future, had he got equivalent media coverage in the days leading up to his death by fasting. Anna, remember the late freedom fighter Jatindranath Das or even our modern day icon Irom Sahrmila. Nigamananda, Das and Sharmila did it alone and did it well. They neither hogged the limelight nor gave opposition parties the leverage to up the ante against the Government and degenerate their initiatives to a political circus.
Even the corrupt manages to fool around with efficacy when alone than in company of share- mongers. Be it Telgi, Harshad Mehta or the barons of Bellary- the Reddy brothers, all succeeded in evading scrutiny longer than their counterparts-the Rajas and the Kalmadis whose follies were facilitated by a barrage of prominent corporate honchos. Or at least, a mention of their accomplices did not ring a bell with the prying police or inconspicuous public, unlike Anna's band of brothers and sisters. The taciturn ate their dough before being incarcerated.
All it would take Anna to silence the foul-mouthing detractors is to refrain from rhetoric and resort to tangible demands. It would not require a raised platform at any public place, negotiations with the Government or Delhi police over fast venue, offering homage at Rajghat at the drop of a hat before shutterbugs or a celebrated team of acolytes. A sequestered corner is what it takes to embark upon a hunger strike and such coordinates are available aplenty. In addition, it requires an honest urge to denounce public adulation with a single minded sense of purpose and a realization that the minors bandaged with anti-corruption logos riding on their parent's back in the tedious rallies do not give two hoots about Anna Hazare and his anti-corruption campaign. Probably, a dearth of nannies has done them in. Otherwise, with substantial news encroaching the inches dedicated to the Anna saga in newspapers with every passing day, 'the answer my friend is blowin' in the wind.'
The power of one is what our democracy seems to be at home with. As and when one has escalated to many, as in the star studded, venerated National cricket team, the outcome has wavered from the preset objective to a superfluous one. Take the septuagenarian Gandhian. Remodeling Ralegaon Siddhi into an exemplary village amidst rural hinterlands bequeathed with crude chauvinists, hence wife-beating, philandering drunkards was a humungous job done clinically well. Not entirely on the lines of Gandhi though as a no-nonsense Anna slipping into his army bearings with effortless ease to flog the errant men have made it to the local folklore. But, then it was Anna alone with a team of women and children sickened by their daily dosage of the stick. However, with a stage bigger and target monumental, in came the Bedis, Sisodias, Bhushans and Kejriwals. Then followed the megalomaniac opposition parties baying for the Prime Minister's blood and chair. Close on wheels were the ever speculative, TRP and circulation hungry media. And the country was served a platter of a beaming Anna, reaping a rich anti-corruption harvest. Close by were the co-crusaders, hell bent on carving a necropolis for the red-taped bureaucracy for a more accountable one.
The hullabaloo comes dear. According to newspaper reports, team Anna foots a bill of around Rs six lakh per day to satiate gastronomical requisites of the anti-corruption crusaders. A 15-day phenomenon is likely to cost around a crore. Anna, you would rather dole out the cash to the millions who languish in penury in the squalid nooks of the country rather than feeding truant students with a foot in India an eye on US or the oleaginous MNC employees seeking a break from the monotony of corporate decorum.
Swami Nigamananda would have been an ideal apostle of anti-corruption outbreaks to the millions who will be marauded by the Reddy brothers, Kalmadis and Rajas in future, had he got equivalent media coverage in the days leading up to his death by fasting. Anna, remember the late freedom fighter Jatindranath Das or even our modern day icon Irom Sahrmila. Nigamananda, Das and Sharmila did it alone and did it well. They neither hogged the limelight nor gave opposition parties the leverage to up the ante against the Government and degenerate their initiatives to a political circus.
Even the corrupt manages to fool around with efficacy when alone than in company of share- mongers. Be it Telgi, Harshad Mehta or the barons of Bellary- the Reddy brothers, all succeeded in evading scrutiny longer than their counterparts-the Rajas and the Kalmadis whose follies were facilitated by a barrage of prominent corporate honchos. Or at least, a mention of their accomplices did not ring a bell with the prying police or inconspicuous public, unlike Anna's band of brothers and sisters. The taciturn ate their dough before being incarcerated.
All it would take Anna to silence the foul-mouthing detractors is to refrain from rhetoric and resort to tangible demands. It would not require a raised platform at any public place, negotiations with the Government or Delhi police over fast venue, offering homage at Rajghat at the drop of a hat before shutterbugs or a celebrated team of acolytes. A sequestered corner is what it takes to embark upon a hunger strike and such coordinates are available aplenty. In addition, it requires an honest urge to denounce public adulation with a single minded sense of purpose and a realization that the minors bandaged with anti-corruption logos riding on their parent's back in the tedious rallies do not give two hoots about Anna Hazare and his anti-corruption campaign. Probably, a dearth of nannies has done them in. Otherwise, with substantial news encroaching the inches dedicated to the Anna saga in newspapers with every passing day, 'the answer my friend is blowin' in the wind.'
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Memoirs of a Migrant
For a 25-year old unemployed adult, nothing is more coveted than a job, preferably outside the home state, when, after days of frugality, the enticing temptations of financial liberty takes precedence over a sane and secured life back home. I nurtured similar aspirations while packing my bags for Bhubaneshwar.
My first impression of the city was that of a demure, inexpensive, well planned town (respected denizens, pardon me, I am not trying to sound pompous in tracing my roots to more 'happening' places like Kolkata and Bangalore, it is a matter of personal observation and understanding). Of course, I was living out of my bags at a moderately priced lodge at Puri-Cuttack road, ordering wholesome dinners that satiated my Bengali taste buds from a modest eatery at Rs 25.
However, hopes of a good living crumbled in a week, as I embarked upon house-hunting. It was a Herculean task. What stood as a mounting barrier between me and an apartment with ample ventilation in a crime free locality, was rent. Its been two months and I am still trying to comprehend why does a rental apartment in Bhubaneshwar comes dearer, in comparison to Kolkata or Bangalore. The dilemma is inevitable as the city is about half the size of Kolkata and Bangalore, both in terms of population and civic amenities. Not that the migrants sleep under the temperamental Orissa sky, scorching now and pouring then. I would get myself one, I appeased myself.
The city, as said by long-timers here, witnessed a spurt in house rent business with an influx of migrants tracing the IT boom and prospect of quality education at a moderate cost. Settlements around these epicenters soon became dearer and much like an epidemic, a steep hike in house rents gripped the city over the coming years. Landowners benefited, tenants perished and the trend still continues.
Sample these. A two- BHK (Bedroom-hall-kitchen) apartment in Kharvel Nagar, Shaheed Nagar, Maitreyee Vihar relieves you of nothing less than Rs 10000, plus electricity bill and maintenance charges, per month. That was well beyond my expectation and moderate budget, as none of these places are easily communicable by public transport after 10 at night. Incidentally, public transport is a novel concept in Bhubaneshwar, with a recently deployed fleet of city buses which go off the road by 9.30 at night. Then on, passengers are lurched at the mercy of auto rickshaw drivers who are quite unabashed in demanding the 'extra' for a trip to an inconvenient location at inconvenient hours.
Coming back, the situation is equally grim elsewhere in the city. I remember coming across a proud owner of a three- BHK apartment at Bapujinagar, a posh locality. He was blatant in saying, “Rooms are hard to come by at Rs 2500 in this locality. You are lucky. All you have to do is to share the apartment with a couple of others.” That 'a couple' for the septuagenarian would mean nine, with provision for few more, was something beyond my imagination. Cursing my naivety for envisaging such a luxurious stay for Rs 2500 ONLY, I could not but wonder at the perseverance of the nine occupants-three in each of the 10 by 12 feet rooms. Probably gauging my expression, a bemused boarder with a welcoming smile said, “ You can adjust, even we do.” Nonetheless, I moved on.
“Sir, flats are available here, but not for bachelors,” apologized the broker as I placed my case. And he was not lying with an ulterior motive of usurping the Rs 200 I had already paid him as registration fee without putting in an iota of effort. Barring entry for bachelors is the newest phenomenon in town as the broker narrates the tale of the trio from a reputed IT company, whom he had found an apartment. “After a couple of months the landlord evicted them. They had brought in two girls to stay along with,” he beamed, his tobacco stained grin confirming the extent of stigma and saucy gossip attached to fornication.
I have finally found a place to live, a single room about 9 km from the airport, entirely at my disposal for Rs 4000 only. I do not complain, though in Kolkata, my friends have rented a two BHK apartment at Rs 3000, 2 km from the airport. I enjoy round the clock water and uninterrupted electricity supply. My landlords, a young couple, seems tolerant to vices like smoking and boozing though female guests are strictly prohibited . They have acceded to my erratic office hours and do not crib when I knock the main gate at the middle of the night, but, honestly, such considerate landlords are hard to come by in Bhubaneshwar.
For a 25-year old unemployed adult, nothing is more coveted than a job, preferably outside the home state, when, after days of frugality, the enticing temptations of financial liberty takes precedence over a sane and secured life back home. I nurtured similar aspirations while packing my bags for Bhubaneshwar.
My first impression of the city was that of a demure, inexpensive, well planned town (respected denizens, pardon me, I am not trying to sound pompous in tracing my roots to more 'happening' places like Kolkata and Bangalore, it is a matter of personal observation and understanding). Of course, I was living out of my bags at a moderately priced lodge at Puri-Cuttack road, ordering wholesome dinners that satiated my Bengali taste buds from a modest eatery at Rs 25.
However, hopes of a good living crumbled in a week, as I embarked upon house-hunting. It was a Herculean task. What stood as a mounting barrier between me and an apartment with ample ventilation in a crime free locality, was rent. Its been two months and I am still trying to comprehend why does a rental apartment in Bhubaneshwar comes dearer, in comparison to Kolkata or Bangalore. The dilemma is inevitable as the city is about half the size of Kolkata and Bangalore, both in terms of population and civic amenities. Not that the migrants sleep under the temperamental Orissa sky, scorching now and pouring then. I would get myself one, I appeased myself.
The city, as said by long-timers here, witnessed a spurt in house rent business with an influx of migrants tracing the IT boom and prospect of quality education at a moderate cost. Settlements around these epicenters soon became dearer and much like an epidemic, a steep hike in house rents gripped the city over the coming years. Landowners benefited, tenants perished and the trend still continues.
Sample these. A two- BHK (Bedroom-hall-kitchen) apartment in Kharvel Nagar, Shaheed Nagar, Maitreyee Vihar relieves you of nothing less than Rs 10000, plus electricity bill and maintenance charges, per month. That was well beyond my expectation and moderate budget, as none of these places are easily communicable by public transport after 10 at night. Incidentally, public transport is a novel concept in Bhubaneshwar, with a recently deployed fleet of city buses which go off the road by 9.30 at night. Then on, passengers are lurched at the mercy of auto rickshaw drivers who are quite unabashed in demanding the 'extra' for a trip to an inconvenient location at inconvenient hours.
Coming back, the situation is equally grim elsewhere in the city. I remember coming across a proud owner of a three- BHK apartment at Bapujinagar, a posh locality. He was blatant in saying, “Rooms are hard to come by at Rs 2500 in this locality. You are lucky. All you have to do is to share the apartment with a couple of others.” That 'a couple' for the septuagenarian would mean nine, with provision for few more, was something beyond my imagination. Cursing my naivety for envisaging such a luxurious stay for Rs 2500 ONLY, I could not but wonder at the perseverance of the nine occupants-three in each of the 10 by 12 feet rooms. Probably gauging my expression, a bemused boarder with a welcoming smile said, “ You can adjust, even we do.” Nonetheless, I moved on.
“Sir, flats are available here, but not for bachelors,” apologized the broker as I placed my case. And he was not lying with an ulterior motive of usurping the Rs 200 I had already paid him as registration fee without putting in an iota of effort. Barring entry for bachelors is the newest phenomenon in town as the broker narrates the tale of the trio from a reputed IT company, whom he had found an apartment. “After a couple of months the landlord evicted them. They had brought in two girls to stay along with,” he beamed, his tobacco stained grin confirming the extent of stigma and saucy gossip attached to fornication.
I have finally found a place to live, a single room about 9 km from the airport, entirely at my disposal for Rs 4000 only. I do not complain, though in Kolkata, my friends have rented a two BHK apartment at Rs 3000, 2 km from the airport. I enjoy round the clock water and uninterrupted electricity supply. My landlords, a young couple, seems tolerant to vices like smoking and boozing though female guests are strictly prohibited . They have acceded to my erratic office hours and do not crib when I knock the main gate at the middle of the night, but, honestly, such considerate landlords are hard to come by in Bhubaneshwar.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Kasab’s death is no good reason to celebrate
Yesterday belonged to Ajmal Kasab. And the 23-year-old agent of massacre seems to have basked in the media coverage showered on him. The Bombay High Court upheld the sessions court’s decision to hang him. The media went into a frenzy reporting a smiling and smirking Kasab, prior to the verdict.
Was Kasab indeed bothered about the verdict? Were the smiles and smirks purported to ward off the ominous thoughts of the hangman’s noose? Or was it a symbolic mockery of the judicious Indian government? As I try to conjure how a smiling Kasab would look, Jesus Christ comes to mind. And I cannot refrain from drawing a comparison between the life giver and the life taker. Kasab, to me, appears to be the chosen one of the Jihadi cause.
Who knows what crossed his mind while he smiled and smirked? Was it a Jesus-esque thought? Oh father, forgive them, they do not know what they are up to. A belligerent Ujjwal Nikam, the prosecutor, a vocal Prithviraj Chavan, the Maharashtra CM and all others who wanted to have their share of the Kasab pie, might have missed something. A Kasab hanged would ignite hundred of young minds back in Pakistan, vulnerable to misinterpretations of the Quran, to join the fidayeen movement, lured by martyrdom. And Kasab would serve as an ideal inspiration.
It appears that Kasab’s trial acts as an easy outlet for the nation feel righteous and purposeful after failures to pull the noose over other s accused of crimes of similar magnitude. India applauded the verdict, including the revered ministers and public servants. The finance minister has congratulated the decision makers.
The PM’s might do the same but he is the same man who says that corruption and subsequent inaction over it are cons of coalition politics. How credible does this chest thumping over killing one lone, captured militant look when you consider how many in the country actually die because of plain bad governance?
Kasab’s death will do nothing for India. We will still plead with US to arbitrate with Pakistan on Kashmir. Indian army will still be accused of conducting genocide to subdue rebels in disturbed areas. Maoists will still continue with the hostage taking exercise and butchering.
These pertinent issues needs to be attended before the celebration over Kasab’s verdict commences. Or is the verdict indeed worth celebrating? What’s the use of hanging a pawn when the big fishes still lives to mastermind similar acts? Probably Kasab is nonchalant of his fate. He will attain heaven after embracing the gallows anyway. He will be a martyr.
Why don’t we keep Kasab alive and attempt to reform him, which is the true aim of justice. A rehabilitated and human Kasab would be an excellent proponent of cross border peace. A martyr Kasab would definitely ignite similar desire in many souls across the border. What does the government want?
Was Kasab indeed bothered about the verdict? Were the smiles and smirks purported to ward off the ominous thoughts of the hangman’s noose? Or was it a symbolic mockery of the judicious Indian government? As I try to conjure how a smiling Kasab would look, Jesus Christ comes to mind. And I cannot refrain from drawing a comparison between the life giver and the life taker. Kasab, to me, appears to be the chosen one of the Jihadi cause.
Who knows what crossed his mind while he smiled and smirked? Was it a Jesus-esque thought? Oh father, forgive them, they do not know what they are up to. A belligerent Ujjwal Nikam, the prosecutor, a vocal Prithviraj Chavan, the Maharashtra CM and all others who wanted to have their share of the Kasab pie, might have missed something. A Kasab hanged would ignite hundred of young minds back in Pakistan, vulnerable to misinterpretations of the Quran, to join the fidayeen movement, lured by martyrdom. And Kasab would serve as an ideal inspiration.
It appears that Kasab’s trial acts as an easy outlet for the nation feel righteous and purposeful after failures to pull the noose over other s accused of crimes of similar magnitude. India applauded the verdict, including the revered ministers and public servants. The finance minister has congratulated the decision makers.
The PM’s might do the same but he is the same man who says that corruption and subsequent inaction over it are cons of coalition politics. How credible does this chest thumping over killing one lone, captured militant look when you consider how many in the country actually die because of plain bad governance?
Kasab’s death will do nothing for India. We will still plead with US to arbitrate with Pakistan on Kashmir. Indian army will still be accused of conducting genocide to subdue rebels in disturbed areas. Maoists will still continue with the hostage taking exercise and butchering.
These pertinent issues needs to be attended before the celebration over Kasab’s verdict commences. Or is the verdict indeed worth celebrating? What’s the use of hanging a pawn when the big fishes still lives to mastermind similar acts? Probably Kasab is nonchalant of his fate. He will attain heaven after embracing the gallows anyway. He will be a martyr.
Why don’t we keep Kasab alive and attempt to reform him, which is the true aim of justice. A rehabilitated and human Kasab would be an excellent proponent of cross border peace. A martyr Kasab would definitely ignite similar desire in many souls across the border. What does the government want?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Paradise lost
“I don’t care about the money anymore. All I wish is to make a film on my life. People need to know it’s not that hunky dory after a National Award.”
The words reeked of despondence, dejection, desperation, possibly every adverb with a negative flavor that begins with a ‘D’. I say reeked because the words come from a National Films Award winner who probably deserves a better deal than slipping into limbo from the volatile public memory that every artist dreads.
Shafiq Syed, at 37, is a sad shadow of the diligent Chaipau he played in Salaam Bombay (1988), a Mira Nair film, which was the second Indian film to make it to the Oscars, after Mother India (1957). In the 22 years that stands tall between Salaam Bombay and now, Shafiq have grown wider and bald, a paradigm shift from the lanky Chaipau. The only semblance with a 12-year-old destitute wandering the streets of Mumbai, is the benign smile stained with beetle tinged teeth.
The rise
I wonder whether Shafiq is yet another shooting star with a very short stay at the helm of affairs. A backward time travel in the history of Hindi cinema would reveal few names with similar fates. Some like Sachin Pilgaonkar could manage to hang around the sidelines. Many like Shafiq fades away while more like Sabina, Azhar and Darsheel Safary stand in queue, God forbid. “The need to earn drove me to Mumbai. It was me and three others who decided to go to Mumbai to make a career in acting,” says Shafiq, who admits being an ardent admirer of Govinda.
Homeless and foodless days followed until he was spotted by Dinaz Staffer, assistant director to Mira Nayar, who was casting for Salaam Bombay then. “I was promised Rs 20 per day plus food. The money did matter to me then. In addition, I would be meeting the likes of Nana Patekar. After a two month long workshop by Barry John, I was finally cast as Chaipau. They paid me Rs. 15, 000,” says Shafiq.
The role fetched him the National Award for the Best Child Artist actor in 1988. Patang (1993), a critically acclaimed film directed by Goutam Ghosh followed, where Shafiq shared screen space with Shabana Azmi. “Wahi pandra hazaar (The same Rs. 15, 000 once again),” says Shafiq.
“I was not in touch with my family for over a year then. I came back home, to Bangalore, to pay off my family’s debt,” he says. His family had changed base by then and it took him great pain to trace them.
“My parents were happy to see me back. They didn’t inquire much about the money and the fact that I was acting in cinema was not that exciting to them. Salaam Bombay was not a phenomenon then,” says Shafiq. Equations changed once the National Award happened. Like every poverty struck parent, Shafiq’s gathered some money to fan their National Award winning son’s career. Shafiq went back to Mumbai to act.
The fall
“I attempted suicide once by jumping into the Arabian Sea,” says Shafiq.
A six-month stay at Barry John’s place and futile rounds of production houses later, Shafiq had given up. Frustration of failure had driven him to commit suicide.
“I realized how insignificant the National Award was when it comes to securing roles. Everybody was sympathetic to me, than being professional. I approached the Saalam Bombay crew for work but everybody warded me off with snacks and some money,” Shafiq says. “Shahrukh Khan was staying with me then at Barry John’s place. Fauji was on air then,” he sighs, probably comparing the trajectory of his life with the superstar’s.
After a year’s stay at Delhi, Shafiq finally returned home rejected and dejected, to take up auto-rickshaw driving, which has been his profession for the last 17 years.
The Present
“I wish I was educated. Education is important. Had I been educated, I wouldn’t have been an auto driver,” says Shafiq, in between fixing the sound recording instrument at a set in Ravi Kiran estate, Bangalore. He works as a sound technician in a Kannada daily soap these days. Needless to say, Shafiq is glad to be somehow close to the buzz of ‘lights, camera, and action’—which is a welcome break from running errands across the city driving an auto. He hasn’t driven an auto for the last four months. “I had worked earlier with Jain studio while in Delhi. I learned the basics of sound recording there,” says Shafiq.
His prime concern is to educate his four children. He seems to have long forgone the lure of the silver screen to the extent of being nonchalant about losing his National Award certificate and medal. “I lost them in Kolkata way back,” Shafiq shrugs.
“I met Mira Nair last December in the International Film Festival of India (IFFI), Goa. Saalam Bombay was screened there. But we didn’t have any conversation about my sagging career,” he adds.
He attributes his family for the stable life he is living now. He says that the air of momentary stardom or the sudden disappearance of it, never really rubbed on to them.
“To them, I am a bread-earner. Back then, I earned by acting, today I earn by driving an auto or working part time as a technician. I earn anyways. My ascent or descent doesn’t make much difference, thus,” says Shafiq. “All they want is to see me happy and I am happy with this job as a sound technician. My wife and children have watched Saalam Bombay, liked it and liked me in it. That satisfies me.”
He is candid in admitting that coping with anonymity got onto his nerves many a times, especially during the initial days as an auto driver in Bangalore. “Few passengers recognized me, very few though,” Shafiq sighs.
The trend
The likes of Shafiq nurture the anguish of failure behind a façade of tranquility. For Shafiq, series of setbacks has been a good teacher, good enough to make him pragmatic. Television crews lining up for an interview, to seek his opinion on Azhar and Rubina (two slum children who played central characters in the movie Slumdog Millionaire), doesn’t excite him anymore. “They are interested in my opinion on two children with a background almost similar to me. Just that. I know this won’t revamp my career in any way,” says Shafiq.
Shafiq is one among the many child actors who have faded in due course of time. Possibly a trend has been set with him, Sachin, Junaid Mehmood etc, which suggests child actors usually fails to make it big. “Probably because we had been stereotyped. The audience was not ready to accept the kids they had already seen running around naked on screen as a child, romancing,” he suggests.
According to Shafiq, there is a basic difference in the upbringing of child actors of then and now.
“They have education and are trained to handle success, attention and rejection. We were not. I am a victim of illiteracy, perhaps,” he says. “I pray not a single child meets my fate.”
However, the hang of a National Award still lingers as Shafiq says: “I don’t expect any preferential treatment from my crew. At times though, I feel I could have been better off than many who are making a living out of acting.”
Probable resurrection
“I want everyone to know my story.”
O. S. S. Entertainment Multimedia, a Mumbai-based production firm, had agreed to make a film based on his life. An informal deal was made almost a year ago. “I had recorded a voice clip of about four hours, detailing my life. They had promised me Rs. 15lac for the project. I had been to Mumbai three months back to sign the deal,” says Shafiq. As luck would have it, neither Vivek Shukla, the prospective director, nor Kanika Kapoor, C E O, O.S.S Entertainment, have responded to his calls since, Shafiq complains.
“Maybe they have started working on the script,” Shafiq anticipates with a possible hope of resurrection.
The words reeked of despondence, dejection, desperation, possibly every adverb with a negative flavor that begins with a ‘D’. I say reeked because the words come from a National Films Award winner who probably deserves a better deal than slipping into limbo from the volatile public memory that every artist dreads.
Shafiq Syed, at 37, is a sad shadow of the diligent Chaipau he played in Salaam Bombay (1988), a Mira Nair film, which was the second Indian film to make it to the Oscars, after Mother India (1957). In the 22 years that stands tall between Salaam Bombay and now, Shafiq have grown wider and bald, a paradigm shift from the lanky Chaipau. The only semblance with a 12-year-old destitute wandering the streets of Mumbai, is the benign smile stained with beetle tinged teeth.
The rise
I wonder whether Shafiq is yet another shooting star with a very short stay at the helm of affairs. A backward time travel in the history of Hindi cinema would reveal few names with similar fates. Some like Sachin Pilgaonkar could manage to hang around the sidelines. Many like Shafiq fades away while more like Sabina, Azhar and Darsheel Safary stand in queue, God forbid. “The need to earn drove me to Mumbai. It was me and three others who decided to go to Mumbai to make a career in acting,” says Shafiq, who admits being an ardent admirer of Govinda.
Homeless and foodless days followed until he was spotted by Dinaz Staffer, assistant director to Mira Nayar, who was casting for Salaam Bombay then. “I was promised Rs 20 per day plus food. The money did matter to me then. In addition, I would be meeting the likes of Nana Patekar. After a two month long workshop by Barry John, I was finally cast as Chaipau. They paid me Rs. 15, 000,” says Shafiq.
The role fetched him the National Award for the Best Child Artist actor in 1988. Patang (1993), a critically acclaimed film directed by Goutam Ghosh followed, where Shafiq shared screen space with Shabana Azmi. “Wahi pandra hazaar (The same Rs. 15, 000 once again),” says Shafiq.
“I was not in touch with my family for over a year then. I came back home, to Bangalore, to pay off my family’s debt,” he says. His family had changed base by then and it took him great pain to trace them.
“My parents were happy to see me back. They didn’t inquire much about the money and the fact that I was acting in cinema was not that exciting to them. Salaam Bombay was not a phenomenon then,” says Shafiq. Equations changed once the National Award happened. Like every poverty struck parent, Shafiq’s gathered some money to fan their National Award winning son’s career. Shafiq went back to Mumbai to act.
The fall
“I attempted suicide once by jumping into the Arabian Sea,” says Shafiq.
A six-month stay at Barry John’s place and futile rounds of production houses later, Shafiq had given up. Frustration of failure had driven him to commit suicide.
“I realized how insignificant the National Award was when it comes to securing roles. Everybody was sympathetic to me, than being professional. I approached the Saalam Bombay crew for work but everybody warded me off with snacks and some money,” Shafiq says. “Shahrukh Khan was staying with me then at Barry John’s place. Fauji was on air then,” he sighs, probably comparing the trajectory of his life with the superstar’s.
After a year’s stay at Delhi, Shafiq finally returned home rejected and dejected, to take up auto-rickshaw driving, which has been his profession for the last 17 years.
The Present
“I wish I was educated. Education is important. Had I been educated, I wouldn’t have been an auto driver,” says Shafiq, in between fixing the sound recording instrument at a set in Ravi Kiran estate, Bangalore. He works as a sound technician in a Kannada daily soap these days. Needless to say, Shafiq is glad to be somehow close to the buzz of ‘lights, camera, and action’—which is a welcome break from running errands across the city driving an auto. He hasn’t driven an auto for the last four months. “I had worked earlier with Jain studio while in Delhi. I learned the basics of sound recording there,” says Shafiq.
His prime concern is to educate his four children. He seems to have long forgone the lure of the silver screen to the extent of being nonchalant about losing his National Award certificate and medal. “I lost them in Kolkata way back,” Shafiq shrugs.
“I met Mira Nair last December in the International Film Festival of India (IFFI), Goa. Saalam Bombay was screened there. But we didn’t have any conversation about my sagging career,” he adds.
He attributes his family for the stable life he is living now. He says that the air of momentary stardom or the sudden disappearance of it, never really rubbed on to them.
“To them, I am a bread-earner. Back then, I earned by acting, today I earn by driving an auto or working part time as a technician. I earn anyways. My ascent or descent doesn’t make much difference, thus,” says Shafiq. “All they want is to see me happy and I am happy with this job as a sound technician. My wife and children have watched Saalam Bombay, liked it and liked me in it. That satisfies me.”
He is candid in admitting that coping with anonymity got onto his nerves many a times, especially during the initial days as an auto driver in Bangalore. “Few passengers recognized me, very few though,” Shafiq sighs.
The trend
The likes of Shafiq nurture the anguish of failure behind a façade of tranquility. For Shafiq, series of setbacks has been a good teacher, good enough to make him pragmatic. Television crews lining up for an interview, to seek his opinion on Azhar and Rubina (two slum children who played central characters in the movie Slumdog Millionaire), doesn’t excite him anymore. “They are interested in my opinion on two children with a background almost similar to me. Just that. I know this won’t revamp my career in any way,” says Shafiq.
Shafiq is one among the many child actors who have faded in due course of time. Possibly a trend has been set with him, Sachin, Junaid Mehmood etc, which suggests child actors usually fails to make it big. “Probably because we had been stereotyped. The audience was not ready to accept the kids they had already seen running around naked on screen as a child, romancing,” he suggests.
According to Shafiq, there is a basic difference in the upbringing of child actors of then and now.
“They have education and are trained to handle success, attention and rejection. We were not. I am a victim of illiteracy, perhaps,” he says. “I pray not a single child meets my fate.”
However, the hang of a National Award still lingers as Shafiq says: “I don’t expect any preferential treatment from my crew. At times though, I feel I could have been better off than many who are making a living out of acting.”
Probable resurrection
“I want everyone to know my story.”
O. S. S. Entertainment Multimedia, a Mumbai-based production firm, had agreed to make a film based on his life. An informal deal was made almost a year ago. “I had recorded a voice clip of about four hours, detailing my life. They had promised me Rs. 15lac for the project. I had been to Mumbai three months back to sign the deal,” says Shafiq. As luck would have it, neither Vivek Shukla, the prospective director, nor Kanika Kapoor, C E O, O.S.S Entertainment, have responded to his calls since, Shafiq complains.
“Maybe they have started working on the script,” Shafiq anticipates with a possible hope of resurrection.
Book review: The story of my assasins by Tarun Tejpal
When a journalist of the order of Tarun Tejpal takes to penning a book, his antagonists can not refrain from feeling a pang of threat, a threat of misdeeds being unveiled, dark secrets being divulged and so
on. The reader waits with bated breath to come home to potshots, scandals, tantalizing criticisms of policies or individuals, backlashes from ‘victims’ etc.
‘The story of my assassins’, on a similar note, promises a lot. However, Tejpal ducks every opportunity to turn heads with revelations. He resorts to taking mild potshots at the decadent journalists, who form the backbone of modern day journalism, activists going gung ho for defending those they believe to be wronged, driven by an urge to satiate their moral responsibilities than backing their beliefs with coherent arguments. Last but not the least, the queer Indian police, which has gracefully learned to function ineffectively in spite of the plethora of ire and mockery they have been subjected to from all quarters, remaining nonchalant to criticism all the way.
Tejpal narrates the story through a journalist, who finds himself at the centre of media attention and round the clock police protection, inadvertently, for being the prime target of a foiled assassination attempt (for the exposes he has conducted on various honchos in politics and business), claimed to be a brainchild of Pakistan backed terrorists, by the Indian government.
The reader will unfailingly empathize with the protagonist, who is seemingly trapped between foul bureaucracies in the work place, a dumb and beautiful wife ‘Dolly/Folly’ (as addressed by the protagonist)
back home, an intellectual lover Sara fond of obscenities who needs ‘….a dose of Vedanta to cleanse her head. Hindi abuse for the body; Hindu philosophy for the soul’: a gold digging, parasitic, self proclaimed best friend Jai, who can be as diverse as to quote Pablo Neruda to charm women and hurl abuses after downing few pegs of country liquor and a police inspector Hathi Ram, who is fascinated by ‘The Naked Lunch’ succumbing to the provocative title and not the content. So disdained is the protagonist with the hullabaloo around, that he seeks repose in ‘Guruji’, a religious preacher, a symbol of loosing confidence in self.
The book succeeds in captivating the audience right from the beginning. Narratives with a hint of ambiguity are hilarious, so are the conversations between characters with undertones of confrontations. Too many characters pop in between, new dimensions to the lead characters are unfurled, all to the comfort of the readers. The sub plots, revolving around Jai’s opportunistic endeavors in selling off a dying publication house at the expense of the protagonist’s newly earned fame, the monotony in domestication with ‘Dolly/ Folly’, violation of privacy by a bunch of bodyguards seemingly disinterested in their job and a beaming discord over their way of functioning with the protagonist, are fitted aptly in the story. Another aspect where Tejpal scores over his Indian contemporaries is the lucidity of language, making his second novel a pleasant read.
The success, as well as shortcoming of the book are the four chapters attributed to providing a background of the accused assassins, entwined with confrontations between the protagonist and Sara, the activist who believes in the innocence of the accused and takes up the onus of exonerating them before law with panache, as if she is on course to fulfilling a moral obligation.
With his infallible narrative, Tejpal creates a vivid image of the assassins, replete with their childhood, introduction and ascent in the profession of vandalism, even adding a spiritual dimension to the
characters as he deduces Chaku’s (one of the assassins) inference of the Gita: ‘of fearlessness and action and the legitimacy of violence’. Even from their monikers (Chaku, Chini, Kaliya, only exception being Kabir.M) the readers get a feel of them being hoodlums with all social ties renounced. All one can conceive are personifications of brutality.
Just as the reader climbs the crest of anticipation, making wild guesses at who might be the master mind of the plot which has thrown the protagonist’s life into disarray, or whether Sara was right in smelling foul in the set up or even a violent altercation between Sara and the protagonist over conflicting interests (in a patriarchal Indian society, a man inevitably finds it difficult to digest his woman supporting the cause of his opponents), a series of events are insinuated that unravels the mystery to the reader. An ending, which
can be safely presumed, will not cross one’s mind throughout the entire read, but sadly devoid of the impact it had promised to impart.
Overall, the book almost serves its purpose. It is humorous, it is a racy read and it takes potshots, successfully. Most importantly, it unveils a virtual nexus between the government and law enforcing
agencies which is capable enough to make a mountain of a mole or disrupt the normalcy in one’s life, for the vested interests of the powerful. It gives a reader a sense that policemen we accuse of being incompetent are mere pawns directed by bureaucrats, as Hathi Ram sighs, “….in our line of work, nine right and one wrong is wrong, but all ten wrong is right.” It is a compelling read if read, if not, not a loss.
on. The reader waits with bated breath to come home to potshots, scandals, tantalizing criticisms of policies or individuals, backlashes from ‘victims’ etc.
‘The story of my assassins’, on a similar note, promises a lot. However, Tejpal ducks every opportunity to turn heads with revelations. He resorts to taking mild potshots at the decadent journalists, who form the backbone of modern day journalism, activists going gung ho for defending those they believe to be wronged, driven by an urge to satiate their moral responsibilities than backing their beliefs with coherent arguments. Last but not the least, the queer Indian police, which has gracefully learned to function ineffectively in spite of the plethora of ire and mockery they have been subjected to from all quarters, remaining nonchalant to criticism all the way.
Tejpal narrates the story through a journalist, who finds himself at the centre of media attention and round the clock police protection, inadvertently, for being the prime target of a foiled assassination attempt (for the exposes he has conducted on various honchos in politics and business), claimed to be a brainchild of Pakistan backed terrorists, by the Indian government.
The reader will unfailingly empathize with the protagonist, who is seemingly trapped between foul bureaucracies in the work place, a dumb and beautiful wife ‘Dolly/Folly’ (as addressed by the protagonist)
back home, an intellectual lover Sara fond of obscenities who needs ‘….a dose of Vedanta to cleanse her head. Hindi abuse for the body; Hindu philosophy for the soul’: a gold digging, parasitic, self proclaimed best friend Jai, who can be as diverse as to quote Pablo Neruda to charm women and hurl abuses after downing few pegs of country liquor and a police inspector Hathi Ram, who is fascinated by ‘The Naked Lunch’ succumbing to the provocative title and not the content. So disdained is the protagonist with the hullabaloo around, that he seeks repose in ‘Guruji’, a religious preacher, a symbol of loosing confidence in self.
The book succeeds in captivating the audience right from the beginning. Narratives with a hint of ambiguity are hilarious, so are the conversations between characters with undertones of confrontations. Too many characters pop in between, new dimensions to the lead characters are unfurled, all to the comfort of the readers. The sub plots, revolving around Jai’s opportunistic endeavors in selling off a dying publication house at the expense of the protagonist’s newly earned fame, the monotony in domestication with ‘Dolly/ Folly’, violation of privacy by a bunch of bodyguards seemingly disinterested in their job and a beaming discord over their way of functioning with the protagonist, are fitted aptly in the story. Another aspect where Tejpal scores over his Indian contemporaries is the lucidity of language, making his second novel a pleasant read.
The success, as well as shortcoming of the book are the four chapters attributed to providing a background of the accused assassins, entwined with confrontations between the protagonist and Sara, the activist who believes in the innocence of the accused and takes up the onus of exonerating them before law with panache, as if she is on course to fulfilling a moral obligation.
With his infallible narrative, Tejpal creates a vivid image of the assassins, replete with their childhood, introduction and ascent in the profession of vandalism, even adding a spiritual dimension to the
characters as he deduces Chaku’s (one of the assassins) inference of the Gita: ‘of fearlessness and action and the legitimacy of violence’. Even from their monikers (Chaku, Chini, Kaliya, only exception being Kabir.M) the readers get a feel of them being hoodlums with all social ties renounced. All one can conceive are personifications of brutality.
Just as the reader climbs the crest of anticipation, making wild guesses at who might be the master mind of the plot which has thrown the protagonist’s life into disarray, or whether Sara was right in smelling foul in the set up or even a violent altercation between Sara and the protagonist over conflicting interests (in a patriarchal Indian society, a man inevitably finds it difficult to digest his woman supporting the cause of his opponents), a series of events are insinuated that unravels the mystery to the reader. An ending, which
can be safely presumed, will not cross one’s mind throughout the entire read, but sadly devoid of the impact it had promised to impart.
Overall, the book almost serves its purpose. It is humorous, it is a racy read and it takes potshots, successfully. Most importantly, it unveils a virtual nexus between the government and law enforcing
agencies which is capable enough to make a mountain of a mole or disrupt the normalcy in one’s life, for the vested interests of the powerful. It gives a reader a sense that policemen we accuse of being incompetent are mere pawns directed by bureaucrats, as Hathi Ram sighs, “….in our line of work, nine right and one wrong is wrong, but all ten wrong is right.” It is a compelling read if read, if not, not a loss.
In your face but out of your brain
God has many incarnations, human nature has many faces. So does poverty. Poverty which might be one’s companion day in and day out, poverty which might be a fleeting visual from a speeding four wheeler (even a two wheeler suffices), or even as one walks past the poverty stricken, occasionally mulling about their squalid existence.
An inebriated soul might find a reason or two to sympathize with the plight of the poor, so does a fistful of noble souls. I was neither of the two.
My streaks of poverty were confined to a wallet deserted by all but a single hundred rupee note, with seven days left for the month of my plight to get over. ‘Month of my plight’ needs clarification: mother was infallibly benevolent in such times of financial crisis. The aforementioned draught had hit me not more than thrice till then, because benevolence was not always affordable for maa (that is what I call mother).
Not that I was unmoved by the poverty around. But its scope was limited to fleeting thoughts, as mentioned earlier, which added to my melancholy, after spells of lambasting by mother after exam results were declared.
Durga puja is one festival where West Bengal is lit up, lamps illuminating the streets flooded with people dressed in their best attires. Every Bengali assumes the mantle of a prodigal, every prodigal philanders money to live up to their expectations. Bassanio’s (courtesy: Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare) impact on me was prominent, as I took great pleasure in splurging my pocket money whenever I could afford to.
That an early morning stroll in a drunken stupor, on one serene dawn during the festival, would make ‘spendthrift’ an obscenity to me, was beyond my comprehension.
As opined earlier, poverty has many faces. The face which introduced me to the plight of a poor, a homeless one at that, was that of a girl, asleep on the bare floor of a pavement, curled up in one corner of a pavement, presumably with her family. The girl in her teens did not have a face pretty enough to evoke sympathy, nor was she in any significant trouble (poverty in the form of hair, unwashed for days, clothes tainted with dirt which would now refuse to go even after a hot water wash, bare feet, etc are a common sight, not soul stirring anymore by the monotony of the its occurrence in a city inhabited by large number of pavement dwellers).
She was in a sound sleep. It might be out of the delight of enjoying a stomach full dinner after a while, or of tired bones exhausted after a day’s toil at work place. She was sleeping in serenity, oblivious of a white tinge on her forehead. A curious and close look revealed that the tint was feces of any bird, presumably crow, going by their prevalence in the city’s sky.
Until then, the misery in poverty was an unexplored territory to me. An unknown face, serenely asleep, was the least expected path to it. How miserable a life could be, one which has compromised the onuses of sleeping beneath the sky, without a roof in between, for the sake of a sound sleep. The miseries of the homeless, which, till then, had been confined to literature, were glaring straight at me.
I pitied her helplessness, pitying myself at the same time. Reality, at times, becomes too real to bear. Poverty had never been so real to me. No woman begging with a rickety child in her arms, no urchin running errands in a traffic signal, selling their petty merchandise, no child scouting through the contents of a road side waste bin for a morsel of food, had unsettled me the way a tinge on the fore head of a sleeping girl did. The miseries began to make more sense than what I had deduced from literature themed around poverty.
Misery became synonymous with poverty. I loathed Bassanio. I was wary of prodigals and spend thrifts. Money was no longer a commodity, but an asset. Poverty was no longer a thought provoking subject for a heart wrenching poetry, but a harsh reality staring straight into my eyes.
I wished to wipe the disturbing tinge off her forehead, but didn’t. I wished to place a hundred rupee note beside her head before walking past (the latter wish being inspired by noble philanthropists I had encountered in literature or even a benevolent hero of a Hindi cinema, whose prudence and benevolence draws applauds, in the form of whistles, from the audience). I refrained from fulfilling either of my two wishes because none would be worthy of acknowledging the misery in poverty.
An inebriated soul might find a reason or two to sympathize with the plight of the poor, so does a fistful of noble souls. I was neither of the two.
My streaks of poverty were confined to a wallet deserted by all but a single hundred rupee note, with seven days left for the month of my plight to get over. ‘Month of my plight’ needs clarification: mother was infallibly benevolent in such times of financial crisis. The aforementioned draught had hit me not more than thrice till then, because benevolence was not always affordable for maa (that is what I call mother).
Not that I was unmoved by the poverty around. But its scope was limited to fleeting thoughts, as mentioned earlier, which added to my melancholy, after spells of lambasting by mother after exam results were declared.
Durga puja is one festival where West Bengal is lit up, lamps illuminating the streets flooded with people dressed in their best attires. Every Bengali assumes the mantle of a prodigal, every prodigal philanders money to live up to their expectations. Bassanio’s (courtesy: Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare) impact on me was prominent, as I took great pleasure in splurging my pocket money whenever I could afford to.
That an early morning stroll in a drunken stupor, on one serene dawn during the festival, would make ‘spendthrift’ an obscenity to me, was beyond my comprehension.
As opined earlier, poverty has many faces. The face which introduced me to the plight of a poor, a homeless one at that, was that of a girl, asleep on the bare floor of a pavement, curled up in one corner of a pavement, presumably with her family. The girl in her teens did not have a face pretty enough to evoke sympathy, nor was she in any significant trouble (poverty in the form of hair, unwashed for days, clothes tainted with dirt which would now refuse to go even after a hot water wash, bare feet, etc are a common sight, not soul stirring anymore by the monotony of the its occurrence in a city inhabited by large number of pavement dwellers).
She was in a sound sleep. It might be out of the delight of enjoying a stomach full dinner after a while, or of tired bones exhausted after a day’s toil at work place. She was sleeping in serenity, oblivious of a white tinge on her forehead. A curious and close look revealed that the tint was feces of any bird, presumably crow, going by their prevalence in the city’s sky.
Until then, the misery in poverty was an unexplored territory to me. An unknown face, serenely asleep, was the least expected path to it. How miserable a life could be, one which has compromised the onuses of sleeping beneath the sky, without a roof in between, for the sake of a sound sleep. The miseries of the homeless, which, till then, had been confined to literature, were glaring straight at me.
I pitied her helplessness, pitying myself at the same time. Reality, at times, becomes too real to bear. Poverty had never been so real to me. No woman begging with a rickety child in her arms, no urchin running errands in a traffic signal, selling their petty merchandise, no child scouting through the contents of a road side waste bin for a morsel of food, had unsettled me the way a tinge on the fore head of a sleeping girl did. The miseries began to make more sense than what I had deduced from literature themed around poverty.
Misery became synonymous with poverty. I loathed Bassanio. I was wary of prodigals and spend thrifts. Money was no longer a commodity, but an asset. Poverty was no longer a thought provoking subject for a heart wrenching poetry, but a harsh reality staring straight into my eyes.
I wished to wipe the disturbing tinge off her forehead, but didn’t. I wished to place a hundred rupee note beside her head before walking past (the latter wish being inspired by noble philanthropists I had encountered in literature or even a benevolent hero of a Hindi cinema, whose prudence and benevolence draws applauds, in the form of whistles, from the audience). I refrained from fulfilling either of my two wishes because none would be worthy of acknowledging the misery in poverty.
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