Missing home and myself...

The Indian Independence Day dawn is just a few hours away. And I am in a country that is not mine.

I have come here before, as a tourist. To see as many malls as I could, to eat as many previously-not-eaten-delicacies as I could, to visit as many relatives as I could – the objectives, the bent of mind, everything was typical. It felt great while it lasted.

This time, I have come to give my dad some company. He has lived in this country for three years now - alone. It means I am here for a longer period of time with boring things like looking for a job in an industry which almost does not exist in the country, thrown in. In flat one fortnight, I have begun to appreciate my country, my own country, infinitely more.

My country is not so sophisticated. The roads are not so smooth; the buildings are not so tall. But I can step out of my home and walk. To wherever I want to and even if I don’t know where to.

My country doesn’t pay as much money. With soaring house rents and real estate prices, city life is almost a battle for most middle class people. With ever-increasing food prices, sustenance is difficult for others across cities and villages. But there is always this house or that house to go to when you are hungry and not in the mood to cook.

My country is not one of plenty. There are people who don’t have it to eat one day’s meal. But when you do have it, you can have it where you please, even on the road, even during the holy month of Ramzan, without the worry of offending anyone, because acceptance comes naturally to us.

My country does not believe in autocracy or monopoly. We have more than ten telecom companies giving the consumers the best rates in the world for the sake of their existence. I can call anyone I want anytime I want without burning a hole in my pocket.

My country, with all its imperfectness, makes me feel at home.

To a country that made me what I am, thank you for the freedom you have endowed on me. Not just from the British, from all the other things that you as a country could have been and did not turn out to be. Love you India.

Leening's Manipur, Our Manipur...

Request: Please read the whole post before you make any judgment about me. :) I love Manipur!

Leening Meetei is my classmate at University of Hyderabad. If there is one word that describes him, it's Manipur; he eats, drinks and sleeps Manipur. When a research or writing assignment is given in class, no effort needs to be taken to guess what Leening would do. It would invariably be about Manipur.

I have very often been amused by this. I am a very proud Malayali; but I do not take up Kerala for every damn thing like he does. I have often thought; why such forceful assertion?

The other day, Leening was doing rounds in the class with a signature petition. It was addressed to the President of India against the fake encounter killing that happened in Manipur recently that took the life of Chonkham Sanjit (27). My turn was over and I was casually watching him. Then, I saw something in his eyes that I had never seen before - some amount of passion and a lot more of pain.

That's when I started thinking more deeply than I used to. Earlier, my thought process was something like this. 'With the very little knowledge I have of this huge issue, I know that most North Eastern states demand autonomy. Yet, there is a North East quota in my university (and probably in many other places in the country) and they are all duly filled. I mean, if you want to get separated from this country, why use the infrastructure here? That's sheer selfishness! If you want to take advantage of the facilities here, might as well stick to the sovereignty of the country!'

The pain in his eyes told me that he and I were different. I was born in a part of India that, post independence, has not witnessed a massive conflict of any sort. A place where democracy is probably at its best with everyone taking their right to life and freedom of expression for granted. I have hardly seen a person from the Armed Forces at work in the part of Kerala that I live. My perception of violence, freedom, civic sense and security is different because of this.

Leening, on the other hand, has probably spent his childhood in fear. To quote Tehelka, "Life in Manipur is like a lottery. You are alive because you are lucky." He did most of his education in Andhra Pradesh because the situation in his state was not condusive. He hasn't seen his family for months together now, because conflicts are consistent back home and travelling during our last vacation would have been dangerous. He has probably witnessed the death of a relative in the hands of people who are supposed to ensure security - the Armed Forces.

I have now realised that a comparison between him and me is futile; we are so darn different. It is because of the North East quota, that I used to detest, that Leening is being able to give wings to his dreams. It is because of his belief that change is possible in this country, despite all the atrocities that his state is witnessing, that he is still going on with that signature campaign. If he does not deserve to be a citizen of this India as comfortably as I am, with all the security that I was born with and am used to, then who else is this India for?

Many North Eastern Indians migrate to other parts of India in the hope of a better life. But is it any different for them? Armed Forces may not attack or kill without a reason, but what about civilians? They attack with detesting looks that speak on the lines of "Why the hell have you come over to our place?"

Just the other day, I was comfortably seated on an APSRTC bus. A North Eastern family comprising a young man, an almost-girl-like woman and their tiny kids got into the bus. The mother clad in a saree was a far cry from the stylish and sleek looking North Eastern girls I have seen on my campus, I thought. I noticed that people maintained a safe distance from the rough looking short man as though he was a terrorist, an intruder.

As the kids dozed off leaning to their mother's shoulder, I kept on gazing much to the discomfort of that woman. I was thinking how similar these four human beings were to any other random family in that bus. Yet, how different! It wouldn't be easy for them to get a house to live or a job to earn a living. The struggle to garner an identity was clearly visible on all the four faces. Even if they wanted to think of themselves as Indians, we the 'original Indians' would not let them do so.

Unity in Diversity is probably the most overrated myth that is taught in schools. You will grow up to learn that equality, let alone unity, is still a dream for many in this country.

Which is why I love you Debo! I love you for the fact that you are one of the few people who can think broad enough to assume a North Eastern Indian as close to you as I would assume a Malayali to me.

Fighting for a Reason...

I had told you about my middle class mania last week, right? Please do not confuse that with what I am going to tell you. This one is not about money, it is all about my belief. (Thank you Uma, for this cool oneliner.)

Maximum Retail Price. We know that is the expanded form of MRP. We know that is the 'printed price' on most goods, and the price that we should 'go by' especially with regard to FMCGs.

But how many people actually check it on a regular basis? Forget the regularity, even from time to time? I know this depends on a lot of factors. One - the class that you belong to. If you drive around in a Merc, it is less than likely that you will go to a supermarket in person, let alone check prices. I am talking about an average Indian here - the Mango Indian as JK calls himself. Two - if the product in question is new to you or not. It is very likely that the Mango Indian will check what the price is if it is a new product - mostly by asking the shopkeeper 'kya daam hai,' 'ithinethra' etc. but sometimes otherwise too.

I don't own a Merc and I do my shopping myself. I am a Mango Indian who buys new things like Parle Golden Arc Pineapple-stuffed rolls and old, time tested things like Dove soaps. Yet, each time, every single time, I check the MRP religiously.

Take a look at these situations and answer in your mind, okay? Just so that you know where you stand in this test of mine.

• You are about to board a train for a long distance journey. You go to the nearby stall on your platform. You ask for a bottle of mineral water. Will you ask 'Kitna Hai' and pay what he says or check the MRP and pay the amount?
• You are returning home after dinner with your friends. The gang feels like having something sweet and cold down the throats. You stop the car at the first visible Kwality Walls/Amul guy on the road. A orders a Cornetto, B orders a Feast and you get a Chocobar. Will you ask 'Total kitna?' or check the MRP and do the math yourself?
• You are walking towards an office to get something done. You are dead tired and go to a pan shop to get a bottle of juice. Will you ask 'Kitna Hai' or check the MRP printed in feeble black on the glass bottle?

It is very likely that you answered either a Former to all or a Latter to all. If it is the former, have peace. 99% Indians belong to your tribe. If it is the latter, welcome aboard, you are a member of my club!

I have travelled long distances without a bottle of water because the stall owner said he wants fifteen for a Kinley water bottle when I gave him twelve – the printed MRP. I have given my favourite Amul Kulfi away, all upset and angry with the vendor who thought getting more than what’s printed is his birthright. I have rendered a 1.5 hour long Geet Gata Chal show on Rainbow FM exhausted and thirsty – just because the Panwallah outside All India Radio wanted 20 for the Minute Maid Pulpy Orange bottle that actually costs fifteen. All for my belief – that being able to buy things at MRP is my right as a citizen.

One could easily think that I suffered in each of those battles. But I have felt immensely proud of myself each time I stood and fought for my rights. Except for once, never has any vendor obliged and given me the stuff at MRP. But I still feel it is a battle won, because someone is questioning the wrong they are doing.

One could also feel sympathetic towards the vendor and tell me, “What’s wrong with you? Let the poor guy have a rupee extra.” My apologies there. If you need a bigger business margin, go for a business that offers you the same. For God’s sake, selling goods above their MRP is a legal offence. In a wave of sympathy, will you ignore a Panwallah selling micro drug packs and think let the dude make some money?

Until now, I have not been able to get hold of a Consumer Care number where I can report such cases. Soon, I will get that to ensure that the wrong is not just questioned, but overthrown by establishment of justice. Big words for a Kinley bottle at Rs. 12, an Amul Kulfi at Rs. 12, and a Minute Maid for Rs. 15, I know. But then, as I said in the beginning, it is not about the money, it is about my belief.

India Untouched!

I have a love-hate relationship with my University Mondays. It is effectively the only day on which we have an inflexible afternoon schedule. We have a film screening during that time. Okay, don’t be mistaken by ‘films.’ They are documentary films and not the usual feature films that most of you may be thinking about.

Coming to the point, our class watched the gem of a movie called ‘India Untouched’ on such an afternoon. Conceptualised and created by a talented man called Stalin, it took me into a hitherto undiscovered planet of information on untouchability. And I.. was left astonished.

The film begins with a dedication note to all the people of India who think and say that untouchability does not exist here any more. It goes on to show visuals from a multitude of Indian states including my state to prove this claim wrong.

I felt very strongly about what he showcased in the film; I still do. A Malayali woman who started talking about a land feud she had with her neighbour on the grounds of roadway, ended her byte in tears explaining how the rich and the upper class neighbour also caused her husband die a slow and horrific death. How? By banging him against their house wall multiple times on different occasions. I always knew that untouchability and caste differentiation are still prevalent in those dark states of North. I never knew it was existent so close by, at home.

Another realization I had – caste was one of the reasons used by many animalistic men to exercise their ‘rights’ on poor women who did not have a voice. The film showed two Dalit women who were brutally raped at a very young age and left with nothing but deep scars. When shot, both of them were married and mature ladies, but I wonder if the wound inside would ever heal.

Two little girls explained in amusement how they (lower caste boys and girls) were made to sit on the floor in a corner while the privileged ones used the benches and desks. Additionally, they also had to clean the toilets for others to enjoy a neat and tidy experience! It is extremely pathetic that even schools, the temples of knowledge, are not devoid of caste bias.

There was a Swami (I detest calling him one though, considering the divine undertones of that word) whose interview formed the crux of the film. He was adamant that the upper class represents God’s head and the lower – His feet. For the very same reason, they should perform their respective jobs as prescribed by the caste system (read all dirty jobs for the lower caste, and the divine stuff for the upper class). He went on to say, “the lower castes do not have the right to study or do anything related to acquiring or sharing knowledge. Hinduism and Manusmriti say so. These are rules we cannot live without.” Absolute rubbish. I wonder what he knows about Hinduism which is not a religion, but a way of life; a culture in itself. For once, I felt I am much closer to God than many others who proclaim themselves to be so.

The opening and closing shots were of some innocent children from Uttar Pradesh who were born into and brought up in the filthy pool of casteism. Initially, the director asks some of the upper caste kids to accept water offered by the lower caste ones who also happens to be their classmates. They obviously don’t do that. The film ends where one kid with great hesitation gulps the ‘lower caste water.’ And lo! Nothing happens. No mountains fell, no sky came down.

Just before I say bye this time, a small point to ponder for you. A Malayali girl gave a byte that she does not think that Kerala practises casteism in anyway. She herself says though that she would prefer a person from her own caste when it comes to things like marriage. What does this mean? To you, to me, and to all of us? Is change really the thing that never changes? I don’t think so. India truly remains untouched.

The Indianism of our times..

It has been quite some days since I have been contemplating telling this to you. There are two parts to it. One is the disturbing side; and the other, the pleasant one. Let me warn you, the kissa is long. J

I was travelling with my friends one day from Kothaguda to Gachibowli in a share auto. (To give you some trivia, Kothaguda is the place near my yesteryears office Google Omega, and Gachibowli, of course, is the place where Hyderabad Central University stands in glory today. Also, share auto is a phenomenon that is very prevalent in this part of the city and one that I was uninitiated about earlier, considering I lived 2 years of my initial Hyderabad life in the so called ‘hep’ Begumpet.)

Sigh. Coming back from the details of the route and the share auto, the auto driver was an illiterate Telugu man who earned his and the family’s (probably) living and did it with pride and respect. How I got to know the respect aspect, I will tell you in a bit.

He was jet flashing through the straight and flawless road with his new ‘Piaggio’ (I guess). He suddenly stopped with great effort, just an inch behind a biker who also had stopped his vehicle just then, almost in the flash of a second. The most natural reaction of a motorist followed then from our auto driver. He put his right hand (and head) out and asked in a raised voice “What the hell is wrong with you?” (in Hindi of course).

Our Dhoom hero, the man on the bike, then put up a spectacular show of frustration, depression (to himself) and disgust (to all of us). He started screaming at the top of his voice. He talked about how glorious Dilli is and what damage he can do to the poor auto driver if he does the same thing in Dilli. He asked in rage if the driver was blind and could not see that the signal was red. Then, *thadaaa* thapad. A lot of other gaalis followed which my better-with-Hindi friends told me are filthy enough not to be worthy of explanation. It involved revered terms like mother, sister, and the like, used in a very inappropriate context. Here is the funniest thing he said – “You stupid Rajnikanth fans” generalising all South Indians; followed with another thapad and challenging “Dikha tu kya kar sakta hai, saale Hyderabadi.”

The poor man at the receiving end obviously wasn’t as well-built and he was clearly intimidated by the biker’s educated look. The way he looked helplessly just saying, “Sir, give respect and take respect,” made me realize how lack of education made him feel inferior most completely. Also, how lack of education wasn’t reason enough not to possess some basic manners.

The feud went on for about ten minutes more in the middle of the road as the Dilliwala desperately wanted to fight harder involving some Khiladi stunts and kept probing the autowala for reaction. Thankfully, our driver was more civilised.

At the end of it, I just uttered “Arre bekaar mein kyon ladna hai yaar” more helplessly than the driver himself. I doubt if that biker even heard that. He was in no mood to listen to anything below a certain level of energy.

The driver carried on humiliated with a weird silence in the air that we all felt. That let me think about it. It wasn’t really as funny as I thought it was – not the Rajnikanth remark, not anything. How the *hell* could he talk like that? Behave like that? The issues that bothered me were:

# He was educated – He flaunted his identity card of God-knows-which MNC. He carried a laptop backpack. All were clear symbols of his formal education. What purpose did his education serve if he hasn’t learned the basic etiquette to follow even while talking with anger? Forget it. What about a hint of compassion? Normalcy?

# He was young – Damn, he was a member of the modern generation that is supposed to take India ahead in its race for the 2020 goal. He, like you and me, has huge responsibility towards this country which has given him education and employment. The most primary aspect of it is to make this place better for living – for rich and poor alike.

#He was frustrated – This is understandable. After probably a long day’s work where his boss squeezed his talent out in the form of coding, it is really understandable. But is there any justification for taking it out in the public, that too, on a poor man who rides to earn a living unlike him who might be doing it to make a style statement?

#He was a victim of partition – The final and the most disturbing aspect - he bore a heavy burden of the South-North divide which is more like an incurable disease than a social phenomenon. He generalised South Indians (sorry for the redundancy, but needs to be mentioned again) as Rajnikanth fans and said that all South Indians could only watch stupid movies and clap unlike the North Indians who have a much more enlightened sense for art and culture. Balls!

I hate to emphasize which part of India I come from because I love being an Indian rather than a Punjabi, Malayali, Mumbaikar, Bengali etc (dejavu of Chak De?). But let me say it this time without guilt. He doesn’t know about Kerala, my homeland, where cinema is made and experienced in its highest sensibility. It stands proud along with Bengali cinema in the realm of meaningful cinema which probably he is not even aware about. And For His Information, Kerala happens to be in ‘South India.’ Nor is West Bengal a part of ‘North India.’

When the citizens of India still see themselves as South Indians or North Indians or neither, what is the point in saying there is something called ‘India’ or that we have independence? It hurts to know that another Indian as I see him looks at me or another Indian from Hyderabad as a South Indian. Not an Indian.

The only point he had to be upset that was valid - there was a sudden red signal that caused him halt his machine in that fashion – almost evaporated in the scorching heat of the mess he created. His fury was of a very unreasonable degree and it balanced out the only error our driver had made – not observing enough.

And I sympathise with myself more than the biker or the driver - for not having reacted. I cannot forgive myself to this day for not having asked on the driver’s behalf, one single question – ‘Dilli se itne khush ho to jake Dilli mein hi kyon nahi rehte?’

May be, that would have been wrong. What is the difference between him and me then? But I should have reacted for sure. Let me confess that I also know that anything short of a comment that I just told you would not have been of any good or effect to a monster like him.

Whatever. It left a deep scar on my positivist feel about my nation and its generations to come. The good thing is, it was healed that weekend.

This might really sound silly to most of you. The emotional person that I am, it had a soothing effect on me, however.

I went for the movie ‘Rock On’ with a friend to Talkie Town in Miyapur, very near Kothaguda again. We reached quite early for the movie and waited for a while before we entered the podium. And when we did, what a sight it was! My focus was mostly on the screen, and up there was an unfamiliar visual that seemed like an album. Theatres generally show ads just before the movie and I was a bit confused. And then, I heard my friend uttering, ‘Gosh, what the hell is happening?’ I shifted my focus and saw the entire audience getting up in groups and clusters realising what was happening on the screen. By then, the DTS Sound system filled my ears with the eternal music – Jana Gana Mana.

I closed my eyes and opened again, now to see the screen that bore various shots of Indian soldiers in chilling areas clad in unbelievably uncomfortable clothing looking at the Indian flag with reverence. I also saw simultaneously a number of members of my generation standing with the very same reverence in the theatre.

I grabbed my friend’s hand who was still fidgeting in disbelief that something of this kind could happen in our times. And then, it was ‘Attention.’ When the one and a half minute album rendering ended, I couldn’t see anything at all. My eyes had welled up and I was still smiling.

I really do not know if I have been able to convey to you what I felt. I really have not experienced something so positive about my nation in recent times. Considering this was soon after the horrible experience with the biker, I was exhilarated.

Enough said. The only point I was trying to bring home is – it is not so bad after all. I mean there are hiccups; rather, there are great diseases. But they aren’t incurable altogether. The examples I told you about are on the lowest level when we think about the real problems and the real hope. Nevertheless, it tells us a lot about the balance on which our country strives.

I am happy that India does have a streak of shine all the time even if we are not *shining* as BJP thought. J