Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Scar
Not even the old rusted school bell could wake up Ritesh during his slumbers which seemed to take him to a wonderful world where he could build bridges near his house, buy ice cream from the stationary store and even have a dance with his on-screen hero. The last hour of the day was usually given as a leisure hour.It meant revising time for the first bench girls and it was also the time for the boys to score centuries in the game of book cricket. Finding the game too silly, ritesh usually looked forward to a good sleep for he knew that that was the only time in his life he could ever run faster than his classmates, do which nobody including himself thought he could accomplish. Unavailability of money and lack of medical attention was partly responsible for him having a crippled leg. It had worsened when he had fallen off the roof of his single storied shack when he was foolishly trying to imitate Shaktiman. He was bruised heavily and one mark especially caught everybody’s’ eye. A scar right across his right palm. If he were ever to be a legend, that would be his mark. Like the legend of zorro. At least that was what he had dreamed.
In one of his dreams, when he was just about to receive the Olympic gold, a hard nudge woke him up. He spun around with a irritated expression but that expression melted as soon as he saw that it was Shefali. A girl who bubbled with enthusiasm, shefali always looked forward to the walk she had with ritesh after their school hours. Ritesh ‘s shack was just a few blocks across shefali’s mansion in suburban Kolkata. Shefali was probably too young to realize that it was wrong on her part to share a candy, a walk or even a conversation with the boy who delivered newspaper to her house in the mornings. She had not even realized that ritesh had been given admission to the school under a special scheme where a certain number of students from the poverty areas were supposed to be admitted in every school. All of these did not matter to her. To her, he was a friend with whom she could be who she actually was, with whom she would not have to flash a phony smile with lips polished with costly lip-sticks just as in front of her parents’ business associates. It was very noticeable that she showed a very mature behaviour for her age of 12.
She had often fantasized about having a friend who could appreciate for who she was, who in her later stages of life would be just a phone call away and who would hold her hand in her darkest times, if not be the light. Her walks with ritesh was the happiest part of her day since her family had moved to Kolkata a few years back. She would narrate to him every single minute of her day forgetting the fact that both of them were in the same class. On one such day, as they walked the familiar roads, a group of classmates cornered them.
“look who it is. Its our shaktiman protecting the queen”, echoed the group. A shadow of anger passed ritesh’s face.
“oooooh. Will you chase us ? by the time he catches us, it will be time for him to deliver newspaper to my house. Ha ha”
“Lets go ritesh. Don’t mind those spoilt brats”, she had said and pulled him along. She had stopped when she realized that she would hurt his crippled leg.
Ritesh was always an intent listener. Shefali would sometimes go on and on even after reaching their homes. They would usually stand under a banyan tree and would chatter for an hour or until her mom called out to her. If he was absent to class, she would have a dejected feeling or would lose interest in the day’s classes only because of the fact that she would have to walk alone. She would have to walk without her friend. Without her best friend.
“ritesh, I feel that you are my friend only during school hours. I can always call up a girl from my class but sometimes when I feel bad its you I want to talk to. I wish that it was possible”, she had said once with a hint of sorrow in her voice. Ritesh in his usual calmness, having thought for a while removed a little bell from his bag. It had a lion and a bull engraved on its surface. It had a fiery red thread attached to it.
“My father found this on his way back from the fields. You take it now. When you feel like talking to me, run across the road and place the bell in the little burrow in this banyan tree. Nobody will know and I can see it when I come to deliver the newspaper. On those days I shall come early to school. “
Nobody had ever given thought to her feelings like ritesh had done. She felt better when she thought of all her girl-friends who used to put on masks to talk to the hunks of her class. Ritesh was after all her best friend. She had nothing to prove to him nor impress him. The bell would signify that Shefali needed Ritesh the most during those times.
Their friendship grew and ritesh never broke his promise about the bell. She had told him about her dislike towards the parties her parents insisted on her going, her plans for the future and almost everything else. It was during this time that she learnt that he wanted just to be able to stand on his own legs and that he dreamed about serving people one day. This dream was fuelled by his own experiences, his own father working tirelessly to make ends meet. It was also the time when she had discovered the scar on his palm and she had found that it was impossible to shake his hands without feeling the scar. The touch of the scar, she discovered, sent a sorrowing feeling through her soul and for her it symbolized a scar on ritesh’s life.
The holidays were a time in which they met considerably less frequently. The year in which she celebrated her 14th year birthday, she discovered on the first day of school that the class strength had reduced by one student. She looked around for the missing person and failed to identify the person as it was common practice that students usually skip the first few days of school. Among the missing was ritesh. This was usual as he had missed a couple of ‘fist-days’ before. She was disappointed with the fact that she would have to walk alone and so she decided to hang the bell on her way back. After wading through her first day of class, she listened intently to the attendance call.
Roll no 36 rahul, roll no 37 rohit…..37 was supposed to be ritesh’s roll number. She thought that it was just a mistake and that such things happen at the beginning of a new academic year. She hurried home after the class and hung the bell in the normal spot.
The following day, as per the ritual she went to school early and was horrified to see that there was no ritesh waiting for her near the gate. Sulking, she went to class with a hope that ritesh would come to class. The same attendance saga continued. She did not want to assume anything, she did not want to show that she was the only person in class who had noticed his absence in the class. After the last hour, which seemed to go extremely slow, she hurried home and rushed to the servant quarters and enquired about ritesh and his family. What she heard would leave a mark on her life forever. She knew it the moment she heard it.
“His father could not afford the fees in this school. They shifted to another town and nobody knows where madam. They did not tell us anything”
“Thanks”, was all she could manage.
She could not digest the fact that ritesh would leave without giving her the slightest of clues. She went to the Banyan tree, pocketed the bell and stood there looking at nothing in particular. It was not possible for her to come to terms that of everything she could possibly give up, her friendship with ritesh which was so pure and innocent had been one thing she was very afraid to give up.
“Some things in life are in your hands, some things beyond your control. Living in a society with a framework which aims at making people more sterio-type in thinking, which aims at making people believe that the only relationship possible between a boy and a girl is that of love, with a framework that is more suitable to the creators than to the mortals following it, you come to a point in your life where you have to decide whether you wish to live in this society or if you wish to create a world of your own where all that matters is how you feel, where everything is how you want”Shefali believed that she could have found a worthy friend in Ritesh whom she could treasure for the rest of her life.
Knowing that she could not find ritesh, shefali retired to her old ways where she would go to school with a grim and go home with a grim face as well. The banyan tree stood in all its glory and shefali always found that it mocked at her, reminding her that she could never stand with a person and have a enjoyable conversation like she had done so with Ritesh.
She had waited many a day for him, and the days had turned to months, months to years and it always seemed like a lifetime.
She finished her graduation in public relations and she had once waited for roll no 37 in her college. She knew it was very stupid. Her dream of being a news reporter never came to be realized as she was married to a very rich family in Mumbai as her father thought it was a very good business alliance. She had not protested and she often felt that Ritesh would not have let her agree to her father’s decision. But that was not to be and she had shifted to her husband’s house in Mumbai which was nothing like her own house. There was not a tree in sight, it was hard to say whether there were more number of cars than the people or not. She had often missed home, but as a married woman she had responsibilities which kept her occupied most of the time. In years to come she would have children and ritesh was just a fond memory.
“suno ji, there are no friends around. I feel lonely sometimes and your secretary says you are busy. How can I talk to you?”, she had asked.
“I cannot help it. I am busy and that’s how it is”, her husband had replied in the most sullen way.
That little incident had brought rushing back her memories of ritesh and the little bell and all that seemed like little adventures to her. She had spent almost a full hour cleaning the bell which she had preserved it like a piece of jewel. It was infact more precious than that. 16 years had seemed a very short time. It had been 16 years since she had a true friend. Well, that was all a memory now.
With the arrival of children her life had changed and so did Mumbai with the arrival of the monsoons. That year had been expected unusually high rainfall. Shefali lived in an area kissing the Mumbai water ways. She would always take a walk two times a day and her path would take her along the water ways. She would always find it soothing watching the water, the ripples jumping into the air, a bird swooping down and an occasional yatch in the distance. She would also sometimes visit her friend Anita’s house for a chat. Anita and Shefali had met in a marriage function and they soon discovered that they could brighten each others day with a little laugh now and then.
On a Thursday, a slight drizzle failed to stop Shefali from paying a visit to her friend Anita. Sipping hot tea, they watched an Amitabh starrer, Black, and soon lost track of time. They had also failed to hear the thunder outside and it startled Shefali when she saw that it was the heaviest rain she had ever seen. It was already 3.30 and she could not afford to wait longer as her children would return from school. Against Anita’s protests she started home. It was obvious that she find no rickshaw and so she had to literally wade her way home. Almost home. A few hundred meters from her house, a tea shop where labourers would have their hot tea and a cigarette was being uprooted and the winds were making the knee deep water flow like in a river. Shefali watched her house in the distance and she could catch sight of hardly any soul. Just when she thought she had gone through the ordeal, a swirl made her head turn and she saw the wooden roof of the tea shop flying towards her. That would be the last thing she would see for many hours.
Shefali was knocked cold and she had been carried by the current. She had crashed against a makeshift ration store, and she had been covered with the debris from the surrounding areas as the shop served to be the only obstacle in the path of the flowing water. Hundreds of people were trapped and it was only until evening that her husband realized that she was missing. A complaint had been registered. Rescue teams comprising of the Police and volunteers were sent in search of survivors.
It had been almost 12 hours and nobody had found Shefali even though she was just a few hundred meters from her house. Shefali had woken up and found her body going numb. She could not think straight. She knew she would die. She had not eaten and her body was too cold for too long a time. Just about then, “hey hey there is someone here”, shouted a voice. Just when everything seemed to be dark, a light came through the top of the debris. Shefali flinched as it had been a long time since she had seen light. A hand propped in and she heard,” take my hand. You will be alright”. Following it like a child, she held it. Something rubbed her hand and she held it harder. What she felt sent a chill down her spine. Even in that bruised state, it was impossible for her not to feel the touch of the scar. A scar which had fascinated her, a scar which she had not seen or touched for 16 years, a scar which had symbolized her best friend, he true friend.
She was drugged as soon as she was pulled out and she was airlifted to the nearest hospital. It was only 8 hours later when she woke up that she realized that it was god himself pulling her out. It was like an angel saving her, it was true both literally and metaphorically. She was confused if she felt happy that she had survived or because she had finally fund her best friend after 16 years.
After a days rest at the hospital, by which time the rains had almost stopped, she went to the nearest makeshift rescue station and enquires about the Thursday on which she was saved. She learnt that if she had not been saved in time, she could have died of hypothermia. That she had been found just in the nick of time was a miracle. Shefali knew within her that her story of her best friend saving her was an altogether a spiritual experience, something more than a mracle.
“ Could I meet the rescue team. I would like to thank them personally”, she asked with gratitude. She had hoped to see Ritesh limp towards her, she would narrate to him every minute of the past 16 years, she did not care how long it would take. But what she heard would take her more than a lifetime to grip.
“The team which went out never returned. They were believed to have been washed away into the water way. We all here feel the loss of the brave souls. You can make contributions for their families. Here are their names. Please pick a name and indicate how you would like to help”
It took her a full minute to read the first name through her tears. Ritesh Gorkand. She dropped the paper and ran home. She wanted to go back to sleep, wake up knowing it’s a dream, still waiting for Ritesh, with no rains in Mumbai. That was not to be.
He had been her best friend even in her darkest times, he had held her hand even though he himself was not the light. He had afterall realized his dream of helping people. He was afterall Ritesh wasn’t he ?
She lied to her husband the she has to leave for Kolkata urgently. The flight journey seemed to be a blur, she reached her house. She told her mom that she would go out to the store close to her house and where she went was a place close to her heart. The little cavity where she hung the bell was shielded from the rain by a thick growth of lichen. 16 years had had no effect on it. Out of curiosity, she thrust her hand into it. She felt a little metal and she pulled out a little metal container. She opened it and a stench greeted her. A rotting piece of paper was waiting fto be read by her,
“I have to leave for Mumbai. I don’t know if I will ever get to stay in one place. I am sorry I could not tell you. I was too afraid to come to your house. You will always be my best friend. Ritesh”
These words scribbled on the sheet would be etched in Shefali’s memories forever. Tears rolled down her yes. But these were tears of joy. Ritesh had not left her as though she meant nothing to him. Her best friend had infact treasured her friendship.
She slipped the container and the piece of paper into the cavity. She walked away.
As she did so, the sun caught a piece of metal and something shined from inside the cavity. A closer look would reveal that it had a fiery red thread attached to it.
In one of his dreams, when he was just about to receive the Olympic gold, a hard nudge woke him up. He spun around with a irritated expression but that expression melted as soon as he saw that it was Shefali. A girl who bubbled with enthusiasm, shefali always looked forward to the walk she had with ritesh after their school hours. Ritesh ‘s shack was just a few blocks across shefali’s mansion in suburban Kolkata. Shefali was probably too young to realize that it was wrong on her part to share a candy, a walk or even a conversation with the boy who delivered newspaper to her house in the mornings. She had not even realized that ritesh had been given admission to the school under a special scheme where a certain number of students from the poverty areas were supposed to be admitted in every school. All of these did not matter to her. To her, he was a friend with whom she could be who she actually was, with whom she would not have to flash a phony smile with lips polished with costly lip-sticks just as in front of her parents’ business associates. It was very noticeable that she showed a very mature behaviour for her age of 12.
She had often fantasized about having a friend who could appreciate for who she was, who in her later stages of life would be just a phone call away and who would hold her hand in her darkest times, if not be the light. Her walks with ritesh was the happiest part of her day since her family had moved to Kolkata a few years back. She would narrate to him every single minute of her day forgetting the fact that both of them were in the same class. On one such day, as they walked the familiar roads, a group of classmates cornered them.
“look who it is. Its our shaktiman protecting the queen”, echoed the group. A shadow of anger passed ritesh’s face.
“oooooh. Will you chase us ? by the time he catches us, it will be time for him to deliver newspaper to my house. Ha ha”
“Lets go ritesh. Don’t mind those spoilt brats”, she had said and pulled him along. She had stopped when she realized that she would hurt his crippled leg.
Ritesh was always an intent listener. Shefali would sometimes go on and on even after reaching their homes. They would usually stand under a banyan tree and would chatter for an hour or until her mom called out to her. If he was absent to class, she would have a dejected feeling or would lose interest in the day’s classes only because of the fact that she would have to walk alone. She would have to walk without her friend. Without her best friend.
“ritesh, I feel that you are my friend only during school hours. I can always call up a girl from my class but sometimes when I feel bad its you I want to talk to. I wish that it was possible”, she had said once with a hint of sorrow in her voice. Ritesh in his usual calmness, having thought for a while removed a little bell from his bag. It had a lion and a bull engraved on its surface. It had a fiery red thread attached to it.
“My father found this on his way back from the fields. You take it now. When you feel like talking to me, run across the road and place the bell in the little burrow in this banyan tree. Nobody will know and I can see it when I come to deliver the newspaper. On those days I shall come early to school. “
Nobody had ever given thought to her feelings like ritesh had done. She felt better when she thought of all her girl-friends who used to put on masks to talk to the hunks of her class. Ritesh was after all her best friend. She had nothing to prove to him nor impress him. The bell would signify that Shefali needed Ritesh the most during those times.
Their friendship grew and ritesh never broke his promise about the bell. She had told him about her dislike towards the parties her parents insisted on her going, her plans for the future and almost everything else. It was during this time that she learnt that he wanted just to be able to stand on his own legs and that he dreamed about serving people one day. This dream was fuelled by his own experiences, his own father working tirelessly to make ends meet. It was also the time when she had discovered the scar on his palm and she had found that it was impossible to shake his hands without feeling the scar. The touch of the scar, she discovered, sent a sorrowing feeling through her soul and for her it symbolized a scar on ritesh’s life.
The holidays were a time in which they met considerably less frequently. The year in which she celebrated her 14th year birthday, she discovered on the first day of school that the class strength had reduced by one student. She looked around for the missing person and failed to identify the person as it was common practice that students usually skip the first few days of school. Among the missing was ritesh. This was usual as he had missed a couple of ‘fist-days’ before. She was disappointed with the fact that she would have to walk alone and so she decided to hang the bell on her way back. After wading through her first day of class, she listened intently to the attendance call.
Roll no 36 rahul, roll no 37 rohit…..37 was supposed to be ritesh’s roll number. She thought that it was just a mistake and that such things happen at the beginning of a new academic year. She hurried home after the class and hung the bell in the normal spot.
The following day, as per the ritual she went to school early and was horrified to see that there was no ritesh waiting for her near the gate. Sulking, she went to class with a hope that ritesh would come to class. The same attendance saga continued. She did not want to assume anything, she did not want to show that she was the only person in class who had noticed his absence in the class. After the last hour, which seemed to go extremely slow, she hurried home and rushed to the servant quarters and enquired about ritesh and his family. What she heard would leave a mark on her life forever. She knew it the moment she heard it.
“His father could not afford the fees in this school. They shifted to another town and nobody knows where madam. They did not tell us anything”
“Thanks”, was all she could manage.
She could not digest the fact that ritesh would leave without giving her the slightest of clues. She went to the Banyan tree, pocketed the bell and stood there looking at nothing in particular. It was not possible for her to come to terms that of everything she could possibly give up, her friendship with ritesh which was so pure and innocent had been one thing she was very afraid to give up.
“Some things in life are in your hands, some things beyond your control. Living in a society with a framework which aims at making people more sterio-type in thinking, which aims at making people believe that the only relationship possible between a boy and a girl is that of love, with a framework that is more suitable to the creators than to the mortals following it, you come to a point in your life where you have to decide whether you wish to live in this society or if you wish to create a world of your own where all that matters is how you feel, where everything is how you want”Shefali believed that she could have found a worthy friend in Ritesh whom she could treasure for the rest of her life.
Knowing that she could not find ritesh, shefali retired to her old ways where she would go to school with a grim and go home with a grim face as well. The banyan tree stood in all its glory and shefali always found that it mocked at her, reminding her that she could never stand with a person and have a enjoyable conversation like she had done so with Ritesh.
She had waited many a day for him, and the days had turned to months, months to years and it always seemed like a lifetime.
She finished her graduation in public relations and she had once waited for roll no 37 in her college. She knew it was very stupid. Her dream of being a news reporter never came to be realized as she was married to a very rich family in Mumbai as her father thought it was a very good business alliance. She had not protested and she often felt that Ritesh would not have let her agree to her father’s decision. But that was not to be and she had shifted to her husband’s house in Mumbai which was nothing like her own house. There was not a tree in sight, it was hard to say whether there were more number of cars than the people or not. She had often missed home, but as a married woman she had responsibilities which kept her occupied most of the time. In years to come she would have children and ritesh was just a fond memory.
“suno ji, there are no friends around. I feel lonely sometimes and your secretary says you are busy. How can I talk to you?”, she had asked.
“I cannot help it. I am busy and that’s how it is”, her husband had replied in the most sullen way.
That little incident had brought rushing back her memories of ritesh and the little bell and all that seemed like little adventures to her. She had spent almost a full hour cleaning the bell which she had preserved it like a piece of jewel. It was infact more precious than that. 16 years had seemed a very short time. It had been 16 years since she had a true friend. Well, that was all a memory now.
With the arrival of children her life had changed and so did Mumbai with the arrival of the monsoons. That year had been expected unusually high rainfall. Shefali lived in an area kissing the Mumbai water ways. She would always take a walk two times a day and her path would take her along the water ways. She would always find it soothing watching the water, the ripples jumping into the air, a bird swooping down and an occasional yatch in the distance. She would also sometimes visit her friend Anita’s house for a chat. Anita and Shefali had met in a marriage function and they soon discovered that they could brighten each others day with a little laugh now and then.
On a Thursday, a slight drizzle failed to stop Shefali from paying a visit to her friend Anita. Sipping hot tea, they watched an Amitabh starrer, Black, and soon lost track of time. They had also failed to hear the thunder outside and it startled Shefali when she saw that it was the heaviest rain she had ever seen. It was already 3.30 and she could not afford to wait longer as her children would return from school. Against Anita’s protests she started home. It was obvious that she find no rickshaw and so she had to literally wade her way home. Almost home. A few hundred meters from her house, a tea shop where labourers would have their hot tea and a cigarette was being uprooted and the winds were making the knee deep water flow like in a river. Shefali watched her house in the distance and she could catch sight of hardly any soul. Just when she thought she had gone through the ordeal, a swirl made her head turn and she saw the wooden roof of the tea shop flying towards her. That would be the last thing she would see for many hours.
Shefali was knocked cold and she had been carried by the current. She had crashed against a makeshift ration store, and she had been covered with the debris from the surrounding areas as the shop served to be the only obstacle in the path of the flowing water. Hundreds of people were trapped and it was only until evening that her husband realized that she was missing. A complaint had been registered. Rescue teams comprising of the Police and volunteers were sent in search of survivors.
It had been almost 12 hours and nobody had found Shefali even though she was just a few hundred meters from her house. Shefali had woken up and found her body going numb. She could not think straight. She knew she would die. She had not eaten and her body was too cold for too long a time. Just about then, “hey hey there is someone here”, shouted a voice. Just when everything seemed to be dark, a light came through the top of the debris. Shefali flinched as it had been a long time since she had seen light. A hand propped in and she heard,” take my hand. You will be alright”. Following it like a child, she held it. Something rubbed her hand and she held it harder. What she felt sent a chill down her spine. Even in that bruised state, it was impossible for her not to feel the touch of the scar. A scar which had fascinated her, a scar which she had not seen or touched for 16 years, a scar which had symbolized her best friend, he true friend.
She was drugged as soon as she was pulled out and she was airlifted to the nearest hospital. It was only 8 hours later when she woke up that she realized that it was god himself pulling her out. It was like an angel saving her, it was true both literally and metaphorically. She was confused if she felt happy that she had survived or because she had finally fund her best friend after 16 years.
After a days rest at the hospital, by which time the rains had almost stopped, she went to the nearest makeshift rescue station and enquires about the Thursday on which she was saved. She learnt that if she had not been saved in time, she could have died of hypothermia. That she had been found just in the nick of time was a miracle. Shefali knew within her that her story of her best friend saving her was an altogether a spiritual experience, something more than a mracle.
“ Could I meet the rescue team. I would like to thank them personally”, she asked with gratitude. She had hoped to see Ritesh limp towards her, she would narrate to him every minute of the past 16 years, she did not care how long it would take. But what she heard would take her more than a lifetime to grip.
“The team which went out never returned. They were believed to have been washed away into the water way. We all here feel the loss of the brave souls. You can make contributions for their families. Here are their names. Please pick a name and indicate how you would like to help”
It took her a full minute to read the first name through her tears. Ritesh Gorkand. She dropped the paper and ran home. She wanted to go back to sleep, wake up knowing it’s a dream, still waiting for Ritesh, with no rains in Mumbai. That was not to be.
He had been her best friend even in her darkest times, he had held her hand even though he himself was not the light. He had afterall realized his dream of helping people. He was afterall Ritesh wasn’t he ?
She lied to her husband the she has to leave for Kolkata urgently. The flight journey seemed to be a blur, she reached her house. She told her mom that she would go out to the store close to her house and where she went was a place close to her heart. The little cavity where she hung the bell was shielded from the rain by a thick growth of lichen. 16 years had had no effect on it. Out of curiosity, she thrust her hand into it. She felt a little metal and she pulled out a little metal container. She opened it and a stench greeted her. A rotting piece of paper was waiting fto be read by her,
“I have to leave for Mumbai. I don’t know if I will ever get to stay in one place. I am sorry I could not tell you. I was too afraid to come to your house. You will always be my best friend. Ritesh”
These words scribbled on the sheet would be etched in Shefali’s memories forever. Tears rolled down her yes. But these were tears of joy. Ritesh had not left her as though she meant nothing to him. Her best friend had infact treasured her friendship.
She slipped the container and the piece of paper into the cavity. She walked away.
As she did so, the sun caught a piece of metal and something shined from inside the cavity. A closer look would reveal that it had a fiery red thread attached to it.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Innocent Bomber
18 years had passed since the Soviets had let Afghanistan from their claws. Nothing had changed since then, other than the falling levels of Opium cultivation. Thousands of youth were now becoming “The Students”. They are famed for all the wrong reasons. They are an organization whose influence runs deep in the war torn nation of Afghanistan. Like parasites, they feed upon the war-wounds of the country. They are feared by the western world, immortalized by the fanatics. They run Afghanistan. They are “The Students”, which in Arabic means, Talibs. We know them better as Taliban.
Amjad Khan, a man in his early forties, like many other had seen the men from ‘The West’, destroy his tribe, among many, which had for many centuries made the slopes of Nowshak its home. His father, Imjat Khan had died fighting the War that was not theirs. They had no interest in the senseless violence down in the planes of Peshawar. As far as they were concerned, Nowshak was their home, their nation and their heaven. The Soviets though pulled them into the war when they made air strikes on the great mountain ranges of Hindu Kush. They destroyed cattle, homes. They destroyed innocent lives. Then arrived the Arabs, then the Americans and they kept coming. It was all like a spiral descent, going round and round the same point but always going down with every round. For the people victimized in this everlasting war, revenge was one thing which stuck to their heart like a leech sticking to your leg. You never know its there until its too late and it starts bleeding. These people were not educated. They did not even know that a country called USA or Russian existed. All they knew was, there is Afghanistan, there is Pakistan and then there is the west. They hated the west.
Amjad Khan was married when he was 19 and he now had 3 children. He like most others, did not believe in Education, he himself was uneducated. His children spent hours memorizing the Quran. After all they were doing what their father asked them to and their father told them what he was taught. Amjad’s brush with reality happened in a Mosque on an early December Friday morning. As he got up after his prayers, a rough yet caring voice spoke to him,
“Salaam malikhoom”
“Malikhoom salaam”, he replied courteously.
“I know all about you and your past. I want to help you”
Amjad had never seen this man and the man said he knew him and wanted to help him. He was baffled by this .
“I know you don’t know me. Meet me near the old mosque near the market tomorrow. You will always be grateful”
The man disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Amjad tried hard to remember if he was one among his old friends, or a relative. Coming up with no answers, he convinced himself that it was a case of mistaken identity. It was always difficult to recognize someone when everyone around has the same turban and a beard.
The whole incident slipped from his mind and he was soon submerged in his daily routines and the calendar ticked like clockwork. Amjad went to the usual prayer place the following day and offered his prayers in the direction of the Holy Mecca. It was only then that he was reminded of the mystery man whom he had met. He tried to forget about it but then a strange thought passed his mind-what if it was actually mistaken identity? What if it was an emergency? He could at least go to the mosque and explain to the man who he really was. Pleased with this idea he walked to the old mosque near the market.
“Welcome my friend. I knew you would come”, said the same voice which had baffled him the previous day.
“I am sorry. I think you are mistaken. I donot even know you”
“You don’t have to. Please follow me”
“But…” he could not complete as the man had gone ahead and was beyond the audible range. Amjad trotted behind him and entered the mosque. He could never have guessed what he would see inside. There was a big hall with ruined walls. In the middle sat business men he recognized, some teenagers he had seen occasionally and the mystery man who was responsible for him being here. All their attention seemed to be focussed on a heavily bearded man who spoke with inspiration in his voice, hatred in his voice.
“…..This is a direct assault on Islam” was all that Amjad could catch from the man’s talk. The men dissolved into little groups of their own and spoke in low voices. Nobody seemed to notice his presence.
Amjad decided to resolve this situation and moved towards the mystery man. The man almost instantaneously turned and gave a gentle smile. It was he first time Amjad got a detailed look of his face. It was tanned, bearded and had a scar on the cheek. This seemed unsymmetrical on the short, thin body.
“Why did you call me here? Do you know who I am?”
“I know about you my friend. You are Amjad Khan, son of Imjat Khan. I know you lost your tribe, its like losing a part of your soul. I am afraid we both are in the same boat”
“ how on earth do you know that?”, a bewildered Amjad asked.
“Allah has wished and has its destiny that our paths have crossed”
Amjad Khan had no idea who the man was and yet he was talking about his life and their destinies.
“Allah has a path planned for everyone. The westerners crossed their path and strolled into ours. They thought it to be their own and if that was not enough, they wanted it all by themselves. Centuries have passed and the Holy Quran and the Prophet are still our guiding lights in this dangerous journey. We live on this Earth as long as we have a duty to fulfil. Once completed, we leave and join the beautiful, eternal gardens of Allah”
“why are you telling me this ?”
“do you not see the signs ? Allah provoked you by making you lose your tribe. He calls upon all the holy warriors of Islam. He has foreseen an attack on Islam and The Quran says that it is not crime, but duty to injure or kill your enemy if the cause is to protect Islam.”
“I have to leave”
“think about your children and wife Amjad Khan”
A shady shack, a tired wife and three innocent faces passed through his mind. They meant more than anything in the world to him.
“what about them ? don’t you dare even think about pulling them into this nonsense”, shouted Amjad. The people around, for the first time turned to have a look at him.
“Anger is important my friend, but only when used at the right time. The Westerners never cared for us, we did nothing wrong, yet they tore us apart. They did it because we are Islam. Please meet me tomorrow here at the same time. You wont regret this Amjad. I promise”
Amjad felt numb, he felt he was transformed into another dimension. He had no idea as to who the man was, what he wanted and yet what he said made sense to him. The Westerners hurt them for no mistake of theirs, didn’t they?
He went home, had a silent lunch, then a silent dinner of roti and sabji and retired to bed. He kept thinking about the incident in the mosque. He could even sleep a wink. He contemplated on whether to meet the man, what was wrong ? he would just listen to him and come home. He would lose nothing. He, anyways had no work. It was a very simple situation. He could pull out anytime he wanted. That was the mistake. He was now wandering into a world which had only an entrance gate and no exit. He neither knew why he was entering it, nor did he know what was waiting for him.
After a rather long night, when time seemed to have stopped, Amjad Khan went to the prayer place, offered his prayers and rushed to the Mosque.
The same voice greeted him, “I am glad you came”
He silently led him inside and the heavily bearded man who was speaking the previous day was waiting for him.
“hello my child. It is indeed a pleasure to have such dedicated Islams. Allah has finally made your path clear, his intentions are that you carry out his mission and he is waiting for you….”
The man who called himself ‘The Shiekh’, spoke almost the same words the mystery man had spoken the previous day, but this was only more refined, more convincing and Amjad Khan had fallen for it.
“You are making the right choice. People wait to do this. But everybody is not so lucky my child. Allah awaits you”
If the mystery man had managed to brainwash Amjad, the Sheikh had rinsed it and removed every little bit of sanity left in him.
After innumerable brain-washing sessions, Amjad was somehow talked into believing that the only way of serving Allah was giving up his life and in the process, taking some non-believers with him. “They take more lives of their own people than that of the enemy”, was an amorphism which suited these fanatics.
On one such meeting, the Sheikh said, “Child, its time. This is your destiny. Allah-o-Akbar”
A strange looking man, with spectacles and a lean body approached Amjad. He held a strange looking apparel. It looked like a jacket, but there were wires all over it.
“who are you ? and sheikh, what is this ?”, sputtered Amjad.
“there is no need to explain, son. Just wear it”, said the strange looking man rather blandly.
Amjad was given a few more tips and they said, “you will mwwt Allah tomorrow. May the Lord be with you”. They told him that a car would pick him up at the mosque at 10.00 am and that there was no need for him to know any other detail.
It might seem that ‘volunteers’ are trained and stay in waiting line for months, but its logically senseless. It is not feasible to give them so much of time, simply because it was too much a time for them to realize their mistake. It is like bread, its sold as soon as its baked.
Amjad Khan ate through his dinner quietly that night and looked at his children.
“Baba, I don’t feel like eating”, said the youngest of the lot.
Amjad Khan looked at him with an expressionless face.
“Please feed him. The child has not been eating properly. He might fall sick”, said his wife with a tired face.
Amjad monotonously fed the child. He was physically there, but his mind was roaming the gardens of Allah.
“maa, food is so tasty in Baba’s plate. I want another roti” the child munched through the roti with gleeful innocence.
Amjad’s eyes filled up with tears, but he never let them roll down. He retired to bed, but sheerly due to the physical exhaustion, went to sleep.
He woke up very early the next day, finished his prayers. He sat with his children, tinking about all the moments he spent with them. The birth of each one of them was more special than the other. He wished to give them a life better than his. But his encounter with the ‘Messengers of Allah’ had changed him. He had not even once thought about his family. But before he could stroll down that path, the clock ticked 9.50.
He said he would go to the market and left with a strange jacket under his dress and tears in his eyes. It was 10 when he reached the Mosque and a red car was already waiting for him. An unknown man was inside.
“Amjad Khan ? Sallam-malikhoom”
“Malikhoom Salaam”, he replied and he got in.
He was informed that there was a button the driver would press, then they would count ten and they it was “Destination:Allah’s Gardens”
As the car rolled, Amjad was lost in his world. All he could think was his family. This was strange as they had never appeared to him ever in the earlier months. The radio was broadcasting a Urdu news update
“…innocent children lost their families in the suicide bombing. With no parents, the future is very dark for these little darlings….”
It hit him like a rock. Who would take care of his little ones ? what would he gain by this ? if it was so good, why did the Shiekh himself not do it ?
Tears rolled down his cheeks as pictures of his son eating roti from his hands rolled into his heart. He wanted to pullout.
“Bhaisab…”
A ‘click’ cut through his lines, and also his life. the button had been pressed.
10
“…He could pull out anytime he wanted …”, is how he had thought in the beginning.
9…8…7…6…5
He would leave his children fatherless, he would leave his wife a widow. This was a crime.
4…3
He would not only leave his family torn, but also many others. He did not want to do this.
“Baba…”, echoed his child’s voice.
2…1
If only….
Amjad Khan, a man in his early forties, like many other had seen the men from ‘The West’, destroy his tribe, among many, which had for many centuries made the slopes of Nowshak its home. His father, Imjat Khan had died fighting the War that was not theirs. They had no interest in the senseless violence down in the planes of Peshawar. As far as they were concerned, Nowshak was their home, their nation and their heaven. The Soviets though pulled them into the war when they made air strikes on the great mountain ranges of Hindu Kush. They destroyed cattle, homes. They destroyed innocent lives. Then arrived the Arabs, then the Americans and they kept coming. It was all like a spiral descent, going round and round the same point but always going down with every round. For the people victimized in this everlasting war, revenge was one thing which stuck to their heart like a leech sticking to your leg. You never know its there until its too late and it starts bleeding. These people were not educated. They did not even know that a country called USA or Russian existed. All they knew was, there is Afghanistan, there is Pakistan and then there is the west. They hated the west.
Amjad Khan was married when he was 19 and he now had 3 children. He like most others, did not believe in Education, he himself was uneducated. His children spent hours memorizing the Quran. After all they were doing what their father asked them to and their father told them what he was taught. Amjad’s brush with reality happened in a Mosque on an early December Friday morning. As he got up after his prayers, a rough yet caring voice spoke to him,
“Salaam malikhoom”
“Malikhoom salaam”, he replied courteously.
“I know all about you and your past. I want to help you”
Amjad had never seen this man and the man said he knew him and wanted to help him. He was baffled by this .
“I know you don’t know me. Meet me near the old mosque near the market tomorrow. You will always be grateful”
The man disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Amjad tried hard to remember if he was one among his old friends, or a relative. Coming up with no answers, he convinced himself that it was a case of mistaken identity. It was always difficult to recognize someone when everyone around has the same turban and a beard.
The whole incident slipped from his mind and he was soon submerged in his daily routines and the calendar ticked like clockwork. Amjad went to the usual prayer place the following day and offered his prayers in the direction of the Holy Mecca. It was only then that he was reminded of the mystery man whom he had met. He tried to forget about it but then a strange thought passed his mind-what if it was actually mistaken identity? What if it was an emergency? He could at least go to the mosque and explain to the man who he really was. Pleased with this idea he walked to the old mosque near the market.
“Welcome my friend. I knew you would come”, said the same voice which had baffled him the previous day.
“I am sorry. I think you are mistaken. I donot even know you”
“You don’t have to. Please follow me”
“But…” he could not complete as the man had gone ahead and was beyond the audible range. Amjad trotted behind him and entered the mosque. He could never have guessed what he would see inside. There was a big hall with ruined walls. In the middle sat business men he recognized, some teenagers he had seen occasionally and the mystery man who was responsible for him being here. All their attention seemed to be focussed on a heavily bearded man who spoke with inspiration in his voice, hatred in his voice.
“…..This is a direct assault on Islam” was all that Amjad could catch from the man’s talk. The men dissolved into little groups of their own and spoke in low voices. Nobody seemed to notice his presence.
Amjad decided to resolve this situation and moved towards the mystery man. The man almost instantaneously turned and gave a gentle smile. It was he first time Amjad got a detailed look of his face. It was tanned, bearded and had a scar on the cheek. This seemed unsymmetrical on the short, thin body.
“Why did you call me here? Do you know who I am?”
“I know about you my friend. You are Amjad Khan, son of Imjat Khan. I know you lost your tribe, its like losing a part of your soul. I am afraid we both are in the same boat”
“ how on earth do you know that?”, a bewildered Amjad asked.
“Allah has wished and has its destiny that our paths have crossed”
Amjad Khan had no idea who the man was and yet he was talking about his life and their destinies.
“Allah has a path planned for everyone. The westerners crossed their path and strolled into ours. They thought it to be their own and if that was not enough, they wanted it all by themselves. Centuries have passed and the Holy Quran and the Prophet are still our guiding lights in this dangerous journey. We live on this Earth as long as we have a duty to fulfil. Once completed, we leave and join the beautiful, eternal gardens of Allah”
“why are you telling me this ?”
“do you not see the signs ? Allah provoked you by making you lose your tribe. He calls upon all the holy warriors of Islam. He has foreseen an attack on Islam and The Quran says that it is not crime, but duty to injure or kill your enemy if the cause is to protect Islam.”
“I have to leave”
“think about your children and wife Amjad Khan”
A shady shack, a tired wife and three innocent faces passed through his mind. They meant more than anything in the world to him.
“what about them ? don’t you dare even think about pulling them into this nonsense”, shouted Amjad. The people around, for the first time turned to have a look at him.
“Anger is important my friend, but only when used at the right time. The Westerners never cared for us, we did nothing wrong, yet they tore us apart. They did it because we are Islam. Please meet me tomorrow here at the same time. You wont regret this Amjad. I promise”
Amjad felt numb, he felt he was transformed into another dimension. He had no idea as to who the man was, what he wanted and yet what he said made sense to him. The Westerners hurt them for no mistake of theirs, didn’t they?
He went home, had a silent lunch, then a silent dinner of roti and sabji and retired to bed. He kept thinking about the incident in the mosque. He could even sleep a wink. He contemplated on whether to meet the man, what was wrong ? he would just listen to him and come home. He would lose nothing. He, anyways had no work. It was a very simple situation. He could pull out anytime he wanted. That was the mistake. He was now wandering into a world which had only an entrance gate and no exit. He neither knew why he was entering it, nor did he know what was waiting for him.
After a rather long night, when time seemed to have stopped, Amjad Khan went to the prayer place, offered his prayers and rushed to the Mosque.
The same voice greeted him, “I am glad you came”
He silently led him inside and the heavily bearded man who was speaking the previous day was waiting for him.
“hello my child. It is indeed a pleasure to have such dedicated Islams. Allah has finally made your path clear, his intentions are that you carry out his mission and he is waiting for you….”
The man who called himself ‘The Shiekh’, spoke almost the same words the mystery man had spoken the previous day, but this was only more refined, more convincing and Amjad Khan had fallen for it.
“You are making the right choice. People wait to do this. But everybody is not so lucky my child. Allah awaits you”
If the mystery man had managed to brainwash Amjad, the Sheikh had rinsed it and removed every little bit of sanity left in him.
After innumerable brain-washing sessions, Amjad was somehow talked into believing that the only way of serving Allah was giving up his life and in the process, taking some non-believers with him. “They take more lives of their own people than that of the enemy”, was an amorphism which suited these fanatics.
On one such meeting, the Sheikh said, “Child, its time. This is your destiny. Allah-o-Akbar”
A strange looking man, with spectacles and a lean body approached Amjad. He held a strange looking apparel. It looked like a jacket, but there were wires all over it.
“who are you ? and sheikh, what is this ?”, sputtered Amjad.
“there is no need to explain, son. Just wear it”, said the strange looking man rather blandly.
Amjad was given a few more tips and they said, “you will mwwt Allah tomorrow. May the Lord be with you”. They told him that a car would pick him up at the mosque at 10.00 am and that there was no need for him to know any other detail.
It might seem that ‘volunteers’ are trained and stay in waiting line for months, but its logically senseless. It is not feasible to give them so much of time, simply because it was too much a time for them to realize their mistake. It is like bread, its sold as soon as its baked.
Amjad Khan ate through his dinner quietly that night and looked at his children.
“Baba, I don’t feel like eating”, said the youngest of the lot.
Amjad Khan looked at him with an expressionless face.
“Please feed him. The child has not been eating properly. He might fall sick”, said his wife with a tired face.
Amjad monotonously fed the child. He was physically there, but his mind was roaming the gardens of Allah.
“maa, food is so tasty in Baba’s plate. I want another roti” the child munched through the roti with gleeful innocence.
Amjad’s eyes filled up with tears, but he never let them roll down. He retired to bed, but sheerly due to the physical exhaustion, went to sleep.
He woke up very early the next day, finished his prayers. He sat with his children, tinking about all the moments he spent with them. The birth of each one of them was more special than the other. He wished to give them a life better than his. But his encounter with the ‘Messengers of Allah’ had changed him. He had not even once thought about his family. But before he could stroll down that path, the clock ticked 9.50.
He said he would go to the market and left with a strange jacket under his dress and tears in his eyes. It was 10 when he reached the Mosque and a red car was already waiting for him. An unknown man was inside.
“Amjad Khan ? Sallam-malikhoom”
“Malikhoom Salaam”, he replied and he got in.
He was informed that there was a button the driver would press, then they would count ten and they it was “Destination:Allah’s Gardens”
As the car rolled, Amjad was lost in his world. All he could think was his family. This was strange as they had never appeared to him ever in the earlier months. The radio was broadcasting a Urdu news update
“…innocent children lost their families in the suicide bombing. With no parents, the future is very dark for these little darlings….”
It hit him like a rock. Who would take care of his little ones ? what would he gain by this ? if it was so good, why did the Shiekh himself not do it ?
Tears rolled down his cheeks as pictures of his son eating roti from his hands rolled into his heart. He wanted to pullout.
“Bhaisab…”
A ‘click’ cut through his lines, and also his life. the button had been pressed.
10
“…He could pull out anytime he wanted …”, is how he had thought in the beginning.
9…8…7…6…5
He would leave his children fatherless, he would leave his wife a widow. This was a crime.
4…3
He would not only leave his family torn, but also many others. He did not want to do this.
“Baba…”, echoed his child’s voice.
2…1
If only….
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Guardian
There was a definite poise about the young man which showed that he was from a very affluent family. His tie was elegantly fastened, his shirt neatly tucked and the shoes could have shown a reflection of the dead twigs along his path. Walking home after school was a relatively new experience for Nidhish Malhotra,who had seen the beautiful canopy of trees and the old Maratha Fort near the school only through the windows of his car. He had always wished that he could pack a picnic lunch and go around in his bicycle with his friends to visit the old fort and the little hillock nearby. His friends however had long forgotten the idea of a bicycle. Their free time usually consumed by their girlfriends and the bubbling pubs, they rarely made it to the category of ‘friends’ in Nidhish’s book.
On the wake of Globalization and India becoming a major player in the World Economics, Malhotras had an almost 150% growth in their family business of shipping which operated in the Jawaharlal Nehru Port,at Nhava Sheva[Navi Mumbai].The Jawaharlal Nehru Port now handles 65% of India’s container traffic. Nidhish always disliked his father indulging in corruption, paying the port authorities hefty amounts to get easy clearance for his carriers. When he asked him about this,” Its all a part of survival, son”, was the answer he got. His father had now made enough money to ensure that even the next generations of Malhotras could live lavishly. Nidhish’s mother however rarely questioned the virtues of her husband nor the progress of her only son. She was content as long as she got her pocket money.She spent most of her day indulged in kitty-parties, shopping, movies and other equally useless activities.
The Malhotras lived in a lavish bungalow near the Thane Creek and their little burrow had cost them 3.5 crores. They had so many servants that they could afford to have a servant exclusively to clean their pets. Nidhish always longed for a friend or a brother with whom he could share his joys and sorrows. He was very much liked by his servants as he never scorned looking at them,unlike his parents. Apt to his name, meaning ‘Lord of Treasures’, he had all the riches a boy could want.He had everything except the family bonding he wanted. And he knew all the money in the world could not buy it for him.
On a cloudy Saturday in the month of August, after yet another day of his 11th standard classes, Nidhish had walked down to the auditorium for his Drama practice.But due to some unforseen rains in the city of Mumbai, the practice was cancelled. His car was scheduled to pick him up only in the evening. He still had almost 3 hours with him. He decided against calling his Dad’s office and requesting the car. He instead wanted to walk down to his dad’s administrative office which was just around 3 km from his school.
He was studying in Embassy International School, one among the best and the costliest in his city. It was located on a hillock, near a summer fort of the Marathas. Though the fort was in ruins, Nidhish had always harboured a desire to explore it. The day provided the perfect opportunity for him to do this and thus he started walking down the rocky path, covered by a canopy of trees like a beautiful green umbrella and this was indeed ‘picture perfect’. He could get the glimpse of one of the ruined, yet beautiful, pillars of the fort. He reached for his lunch box and nibbled through the sandwich and decided to save it for later. As he walked down ,strange thoughts crossed his mind. He wondered wat he would do once he finishes his studies. Would he go into his father’s line and keep the family tradition? Would he also be consumed into this westernized world? He would have deeply appreciated someone being there with him when he wanted to discuss his dreams, his fears, his anxieties, and his thoughts. Just when he was venturing off into his other thoughts, he was brought back by a deep rumbling sound which reminded him that it was August and it was the peak of the Monsoon season in Navi Mumbai .He hurried along planning to take shelter in the fort and he also knew that there was a little settlement of sorts nearby.
Nidhish Malhotra was elated to see the Maratha fort. He was greeted by puzzled faces of little children, men in their early 60s coming down to have a peaceful lunch after working through a humid afternoon. Among the people there, a old man caught Nidhish’s eye. He was sitting by the gate, smiling at passers-by. His back was bent such that it would have done a Chalukyan-architect proud. There was something about the old man which made Nidhish believe that the old man had absolutely no worries. but the fort was more appeasing to him. so without sparing much thought to the old man, he hurried along marvelling the structure around him. As he made a quick tour of the place, he began to wonder as to why the tourism department had not maintained the place. He was among the very few who knew that the place actually existed. As he was consumed by the Maratha grandeur, the sputtering of rain drops brought him back to this world. He ran to the nearby shelter which turned out to be a ruined storehouse, but the roof was intact. He rarely carried a cell phone to school and the nearest phone booth was only 2 km ahead. So he decided to wait it out. He took out his iPOD and started humming to the tunes of Bob Marley. He had never felt the necessity to carry an umbrella or a raincoat and he found himself to be up against the fierce cold and rain with very little protection. He sat down putting all his belief in the Maratha architects and masons, hoping the roof would not crash down on him.
The black iPOD,8gb was a gift from his uncle from the US and it had proven to be a very nice companion during his lonely hours. He had put enough songs that he could play it continuously for 6 hours straight. He was now almost nearing the end of his song-list, when panic set in. it had been 4 hours and the rain showed little signs of subsiding. He received another blow when he realized that he had a 2 inch gash above his ankle and he guessed that it must have happened when he ran for shelter. He was anaemic and he had let the wound to bleed for nearly 4 hors now. He ripped a piece of his white shirt and tied it around his wound. He had learnt this in one of the scout camps. Within minutes the white cloth was fiery red. Mumbai and its surrounding areas are famous for their thunderous rains and Nidhish feared that he was caught in one. Just when he was getting bored of the sound of rain drops, he heard a light cough. The shelter was around 15 feet deep and most of it other than the entrance was shielded from the sun. Nidhish hesitantly made his way down towards the source of the sound, guided only be the glow of his iPOD. He caught the sight of a dim lamp at the corner and noticed a rock of a very peculiar shape next to it. Intrigued by it, he went close to it only to realize in amazement that it was the old man near the gate and not a rock.
“hello”, whispered Nidhish.
Speaking in classical Hindi, “wat brings u here my son? Did my lamp draw your attention like it does to an insect?”, asked the old man in the most caring of tones.
“I was just wandering around in the fort when I got caught in the rain. So I decided to wait here”
“the sky will not stop roaring for a few more days. I and you are comrades in a battle against the Rain.”
“how do u know about that ? are you from around here ?”
“I have no place I can call mine, son. I wander around and I believe God will take me my destination”. There was a tone of sadness and Nidhish was not sure if he saw the wrinkled face turn on a bland expression, the light id not let him notice this.
Before Nidhish could speak, the old man noticed the red cloth around his ankle and asked “ what is that coloured cloth ? is it another of those fancy new styles from the city?”
Nidhish laughed and said, “no sir, it is just a cut I had. Its nothing at all”.
“is it paining?”
“no. its nothing at all”, lied Nidhish.
He just sat there silently browsing through his iPOD aimlessly. Before he could realize, he had slipped into a slumber and he was woken up by the old man. Nidhish was shocked to see that the time was already 9pm. He then realized that he was about to spend the rest of the night with the old man in a century old Maratha store house.
“where do u live? Wont your parents worry about you?”
The idea of his parents worrying about him was rather strange to him. “ I am from Navi Mumbai. I live near the Thane Creek. Nidhish is my name. Nidhish Malhotra”
“Nidhish u say ? that is a very rare and also a very familiar name to me. Are u by any chance the son of Lalchand Malhotra ?”
Nidhish was awestruck on the mentioning of his father’s name. how could a total stranger recognize his name and associate it with his father’s ?
“how on earth….” His voice trailed as he felt that he was being taken on a flying saucer going round and round. He had experienced once before in his life. He had been taken to the hospital where the culprit was identified as Anaemia. The doctor had warned him about the situation and that negligence could lead to dire consequences.
“wake up son. Wake up” The old man sprinkled some fresh water and Nidhish noticed that he was now sleeping on a pillow which was made out of the old man’s turban.
“ you had passed out for almost an hour. are u inflicted by any disesase?”
Nidhish reluctantly explained his situation and admitted that he is scared of being in a new place all by himself. The old man took out a small piece of cloth and placed it on a rock nearby. He got up and his bones creaked like an old teak door in a palace. He made his way out towards the entrance and trotted back with fresh rain water collected in a small cup made out of beetle leaves. He had taken 20 min to go the distance and Nidhish could see the old man’s heart telling him to go on when his body refused. He sat down with heavy panting and poured the water on the wound and cleaned it with his bare hands. Nidhish had never felt such warmth in a living being. He was always used to being treated by his servants who were just doing their ‘duty’. But the old man had no obligation of doing this to him. He was almost 8 times his age, with physical problems, but had never lost the humanitarian heart he was blessed with.
The old man elaborately cleaned the wound, applied turmeric with his trembling fingers, and pressed the cloth on the wound.
“chacha, you knew my father? And why do you travel alone? Where is your family?”
On hearing the word chacha, his face blossomed. It had been a long time since someone addressed like that
“ my name is Ram Shankar Prasad. 65 years ago, I left my home in Karnataka and came to Mumbai to find a job. My first job was to clean the public areas where people urinated and the Britishers did not like the stink. After doing my job for 3 years, I got a promotion of working on the Jawaharlal Nehru Port. We were responsible for cleaning up the rotten left overs from the trades. It was during this time that your grandfather, Ramchand Malhotra, hired me as a porter for his shipping company. Gem of a man, your grandfather was. I worked for him for 40 years son. 40 long years I lifted sacks of silk, spices, cloth and vegetables for him. That was when your father took over the business. He apparently wanted to get rid of the waste, and he fired me. He had found me inefficient as my back had bent under the weight of my family, my children’s education. I had given my blood and sweat to my work and my 3 children had finished their graduations with assistance from your grandfather. They were also given jobs in the same shipping company. They found me and my wife as a burden and put us in an old age home. She could not take it I guess. She passed away 15 years ago. I managed an excuse and came away to live on my own. And here I am, free as a bird, roaming the country side like I please. These young people want people like me to quietly tuck into a corner and die. But I tell u this son, Ram Shankar Prasad has not seen his last day yet.not yet….”
Nidhish fought hard to hold back his tears, but in vain.
“did you keep your bag outside by any chance ? I saw one completely drenched outside”
There goes my sandwich, thought Nidhish.
It looked like Ram could read thoughts, he asked “Do you have any food ? you look very tired”
“I am afraid not sir. But don’t worry, I can manage for a night”
Ram smiled innocently and without a second thought told,” a woman gave me 3 rotis in the afternoon. I would be happy to share it with you. You can have two”
Not wanting to hurt his feelings, Nidhish accepted the offer. He ate two hard, dry rotis sharing stories with the old man whose spirit was brighter than the lamp next him. It was the happiest meal he had had in recent memory.
“time to sleep son. Take my shawl. I can do with one less clothing for a night”
Nidhish was so greatful to him that he held his hand and told, “thank you”. The eyes lit up with an innocence like a child, and the happiness on Ram’s face was the most genuine Nidhish had ever seen.
The shake of the hand and the twinkle in the eye spoke a million words.
Nidhish got up early the next morning to find that the rain had stopped. He found a little boy to whom he promised money if he would get the message to his father’s office about his place. The boy gleefully ran with a hope of earning his first salary.
Ram made his way out slowly. He had a big smile on his face.
“I hope we can meet again”, said he as he began walking towards the gate.
“chacha, why did you do this for me? You took care of me like family”
“everybody is family, son. We are all travellers, wanderers in this huge circle of life. and one more thing, I did this for your grandfather. I can never forget the timely help he had given me in raising my family. A gem of a man he was, a gem of a man…..”, he said in his shaky, caring voice.
Nidhish stared with deep gratitude and somewhere down his throat, words had lost their way.
The black Corolla pulled up on the entrance and the driver, Utsav, ran towards Nidhish.
“are you alright sahib ? wat happened ?”
“nothing. Lets go”. He paid the little boy 30rs and got into the car.
“Utsav, I would appreciate it if you would not tell my parents about where you found me”
“As you say sahib”, replied Utsav. He, like other workers liked Nidhish and agreed without a second thought.
Nidhish reached home and found his mom in the dining room.
“where were you beta ?did you go to..”
He cut through her talk, “ I was at Rahuls’ mom”
He did not wait for her reply. He simply did not care. He had bigger things to worry about. He had decided to lend half of his pocket money to Ram and he was about to make the necessary arrangements. He knew that Ram would be still around and he could find him easily. He wrote the withdrawal requisition and started for the bank when he realized that the bank was closed that day and he had to wait one whole day for the withdrawal. He spent the whole day gloomily, thinking about the previous night. He had a bad sleep as well.
He got up early the next day, grabbed a photograph which had his grandfather in it. He skipped breakfast, called out for Utsav and sped away to the bank. He made the required transaction, and told Utsav to take him to the fort. His heart raced along faster than the car looking out for the old man. He then found the little boy whom he had paid and asked him, “ oye, have you seen the old man with the bent back?”
“ Ram sahib ? one minute”
The boy called out to his mother. A thin lady, visibly exhausted by her work approached Nidhish with her colourful veil covering most of her face.
“have you seen Ram, madam?”
The name seemed to trigger an emotional outburst from th lady. Her eyes swelled with tears and Nidhish knew something was wrong.
“Sahib…sahib..”, she stuttered.
“what happened? Is he alright?”
“there was a landslide last night only a few kilometres ahead. I am afraid Ram has finally finished his journey sahib”
“you are lying. She is lying, isn’t she Utsav?”, shouted Nidhish even though he felt she was not.
He pulled Utsav by his hands and went to the district hospital. He enquired about the landslide and was directed to a big hall. It was the hall where the bodies were kept for identification.
“sahib, you wait here. I will ask and come back”
“no Utsav, I have to do it myself”, said Nidhish as we walked with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He entered a gloomy hall. Nurses were walking around with writing pads in their hands, masks covering their mouths.
Before he could even ask, he had noticed the figure of Ram at the corner of the hall. The arched body was unmistakable even from a mile.Nidhish broke down. He could no longer fight his emotions. He did not want to.
“he ran towards the bed, the face was clearly recognizable, it was the face of a man who held gratitude over hatred, happiness over regret and more importantly the body had housed the soul of the most wonderful person Nidhish had ever met.
“would you like to help us in identification sir?”, asked a young nurse.
“I would like to claim this body”, answered Nidhish meekely,still crying.
The nurse produced a form. “ your name sir?”
“Nidhish Malhotra”
“the body hasnot been known by a name sir. Do you know the person?”
“Ram. Ram Shankar Prasad is the name”
“right sir. Your relationship with the deceased?”
The night at the Maratha Fort fluttered through his mind, the touch of the old man still lingered around. The warmth had touched him, it would change him forever. He knew it. In the old man, he had found the love of a parent, the concern of a teacher and more importantly he had found a friend.
“sir, your relationship with the deceased please”, repeated the nurse.
“My Guardian”, was the ironic reply.
On the wake of Globalization and India becoming a major player in the World Economics, Malhotras had an almost 150% growth in their family business of shipping which operated in the Jawaharlal Nehru Port,at Nhava Sheva[Navi Mumbai].The Jawaharlal Nehru Port now handles 65% of India’s container traffic. Nidhish always disliked his father indulging in corruption, paying the port authorities hefty amounts to get easy clearance for his carriers. When he asked him about this,” Its all a part of survival, son”, was the answer he got. His father had now made enough money to ensure that even the next generations of Malhotras could live lavishly. Nidhish’s mother however rarely questioned the virtues of her husband nor the progress of her only son. She was content as long as she got her pocket money.She spent most of her day indulged in kitty-parties, shopping, movies and other equally useless activities.
The Malhotras lived in a lavish bungalow near the Thane Creek and their little burrow had cost them 3.5 crores. They had so many servants that they could afford to have a servant exclusively to clean their pets. Nidhish always longed for a friend or a brother with whom he could share his joys and sorrows. He was very much liked by his servants as he never scorned looking at them,unlike his parents. Apt to his name, meaning ‘Lord of Treasures’, he had all the riches a boy could want.He had everything except the family bonding he wanted. And he knew all the money in the world could not buy it for him.
On a cloudy Saturday in the month of August, after yet another day of his 11th standard classes, Nidhish had walked down to the auditorium for his Drama practice.But due to some unforseen rains in the city of Mumbai, the practice was cancelled. His car was scheduled to pick him up only in the evening. He still had almost 3 hours with him. He decided against calling his Dad’s office and requesting the car. He instead wanted to walk down to his dad’s administrative office which was just around 3 km from his school.
He was studying in Embassy International School, one among the best and the costliest in his city. It was located on a hillock, near a summer fort of the Marathas. Though the fort was in ruins, Nidhish had always harboured a desire to explore it. The day provided the perfect opportunity for him to do this and thus he started walking down the rocky path, covered by a canopy of trees like a beautiful green umbrella and this was indeed ‘picture perfect’. He could get the glimpse of one of the ruined, yet beautiful, pillars of the fort. He reached for his lunch box and nibbled through the sandwich and decided to save it for later. As he walked down ,strange thoughts crossed his mind. He wondered wat he would do once he finishes his studies. Would he go into his father’s line and keep the family tradition? Would he also be consumed into this westernized world? He would have deeply appreciated someone being there with him when he wanted to discuss his dreams, his fears, his anxieties, and his thoughts. Just when he was venturing off into his other thoughts, he was brought back by a deep rumbling sound which reminded him that it was August and it was the peak of the Monsoon season in Navi Mumbai .He hurried along planning to take shelter in the fort and he also knew that there was a little settlement of sorts nearby.
Nidhish Malhotra was elated to see the Maratha fort. He was greeted by puzzled faces of little children, men in their early 60s coming down to have a peaceful lunch after working through a humid afternoon. Among the people there, a old man caught Nidhish’s eye. He was sitting by the gate, smiling at passers-by. His back was bent such that it would have done a Chalukyan-architect proud. There was something about the old man which made Nidhish believe that the old man had absolutely no worries. but the fort was more appeasing to him. so without sparing much thought to the old man, he hurried along marvelling the structure around him. As he made a quick tour of the place, he began to wonder as to why the tourism department had not maintained the place. He was among the very few who knew that the place actually existed. As he was consumed by the Maratha grandeur, the sputtering of rain drops brought him back to this world. He ran to the nearby shelter which turned out to be a ruined storehouse, but the roof was intact. He rarely carried a cell phone to school and the nearest phone booth was only 2 km ahead. So he decided to wait it out. He took out his iPOD and started humming to the tunes of Bob Marley. He had never felt the necessity to carry an umbrella or a raincoat and he found himself to be up against the fierce cold and rain with very little protection. He sat down putting all his belief in the Maratha architects and masons, hoping the roof would not crash down on him.
The black iPOD,8gb was a gift from his uncle from the US and it had proven to be a very nice companion during his lonely hours. He had put enough songs that he could play it continuously for 6 hours straight. He was now almost nearing the end of his song-list, when panic set in. it had been 4 hours and the rain showed little signs of subsiding. He received another blow when he realized that he had a 2 inch gash above his ankle and he guessed that it must have happened when he ran for shelter. He was anaemic and he had let the wound to bleed for nearly 4 hors now. He ripped a piece of his white shirt and tied it around his wound. He had learnt this in one of the scout camps. Within minutes the white cloth was fiery red. Mumbai and its surrounding areas are famous for their thunderous rains and Nidhish feared that he was caught in one. Just when he was getting bored of the sound of rain drops, he heard a light cough. The shelter was around 15 feet deep and most of it other than the entrance was shielded from the sun. Nidhish hesitantly made his way down towards the source of the sound, guided only be the glow of his iPOD. He caught the sight of a dim lamp at the corner and noticed a rock of a very peculiar shape next to it. Intrigued by it, he went close to it only to realize in amazement that it was the old man near the gate and not a rock.
“hello”, whispered Nidhish.
Speaking in classical Hindi, “wat brings u here my son? Did my lamp draw your attention like it does to an insect?”, asked the old man in the most caring of tones.
“I was just wandering around in the fort when I got caught in the rain. So I decided to wait here”
“the sky will not stop roaring for a few more days. I and you are comrades in a battle against the Rain.”
“how do u know about that ? are you from around here ?”
“I have no place I can call mine, son. I wander around and I believe God will take me my destination”. There was a tone of sadness and Nidhish was not sure if he saw the wrinkled face turn on a bland expression, the light id not let him notice this.
Before Nidhish could speak, the old man noticed the red cloth around his ankle and asked “ what is that coloured cloth ? is it another of those fancy new styles from the city?”
Nidhish laughed and said, “no sir, it is just a cut I had. Its nothing at all”.
“is it paining?”
“no. its nothing at all”, lied Nidhish.
He just sat there silently browsing through his iPOD aimlessly. Before he could realize, he had slipped into a slumber and he was woken up by the old man. Nidhish was shocked to see that the time was already 9pm. He then realized that he was about to spend the rest of the night with the old man in a century old Maratha store house.
“where do u live? Wont your parents worry about you?”
The idea of his parents worrying about him was rather strange to him. “ I am from Navi Mumbai. I live near the Thane Creek. Nidhish is my name. Nidhish Malhotra”
“Nidhish u say ? that is a very rare and also a very familiar name to me. Are u by any chance the son of Lalchand Malhotra ?”
Nidhish was awestruck on the mentioning of his father’s name. how could a total stranger recognize his name and associate it with his father’s ?
“how on earth….” His voice trailed as he felt that he was being taken on a flying saucer going round and round. He had experienced once before in his life. He had been taken to the hospital where the culprit was identified as Anaemia. The doctor had warned him about the situation and that negligence could lead to dire consequences.
“wake up son. Wake up” The old man sprinkled some fresh water and Nidhish noticed that he was now sleeping on a pillow which was made out of the old man’s turban.
“ you had passed out for almost an hour. are u inflicted by any disesase?”
Nidhish reluctantly explained his situation and admitted that he is scared of being in a new place all by himself. The old man took out a small piece of cloth and placed it on a rock nearby. He got up and his bones creaked like an old teak door in a palace. He made his way out towards the entrance and trotted back with fresh rain water collected in a small cup made out of beetle leaves. He had taken 20 min to go the distance and Nidhish could see the old man’s heart telling him to go on when his body refused. He sat down with heavy panting and poured the water on the wound and cleaned it with his bare hands. Nidhish had never felt such warmth in a living being. He was always used to being treated by his servants who were just doing their ‘duty’. But the old man had no obligation of doing this to him. He was almost 8 times his age, with physical problems, but had never lost the humanitarian heart he was blessed with.
The old man elaborately cleaned the wound, applied turmeric with his trembling fingers, and pressed the cloth on the wound.
“chacha, you knew my father? And why do you travel alone? Where is your family?”
On hearing the word chacha, his face blossomed. It had been a long time since someone addressed like that
“ my name is Ram Shankar Prasad. 65 years ago, I left my home in Karnataka and came to Mumbai to find a job. My first job was to clean the public areas where people urinated and the Britishers did not like the stink. After doing my job for 3 years, I got a promotion of working on the Jawaharlal Nehru Port. We were responsible for cleaning up the rotten left overs from the trades. It was during this time that your grandfather, Ramchand Malhotra, hired me as a porter for his shipping company. Gem of a man, your grandfather was. I worked for him for 40 years son. 40 long years I lifted sacks of silk, spices, cloth and vegetables for him. That was when your father took over the business. He apparently wanted to get rid of the waste, and he fired me. He had found me inefficient as my back had bent under the weight of my family, my children’s education. I had given my blood and sweat to my work and my 3 children had finished their graduations with assistance from your grandfather. They were also given jobs in the same shipping company. They found me and my wife as a burden and put us in an old age home. She could not take it I guess. She passed away 15 years ago. I managed an excuse and came away to live on my own. And here I am, free as a bird, roaming the country side like I please. These young people want people like me to quietly tuck into a corner and die. But I tell u this son, Ram Shankar Prasad has not seen his last day yet.not yet….”
Nidhish fought hard to hold back his tears, but in vain.
“did you keep your bag outside by any chance ? I saw one completely drenched outside”
There goes my sandwich, thought Nidhish.
It looked like Ram could read thoughts, he asked “Do you have any food ? you look very tired”
“I am afraid not sir. But don’t worry, I can manage for a night”
Ram smiled innocently and without a second thought told,” a woman gave me 3 rotis in the afternoon. I would be happy to share it with you. You can have two”
Not wanting to hurt his feelings, Nidhish accepted the offer. He ate two hard, dry rotis sharing stories with the old man whose spirit was brighter than the lamp next him. It was the happiest meal he had had in recent memory.
“time to sleep son. Take my shawl. I can do with one less clothing for a night”
Nidhish was so greatful to him that he held his hand and told, “thank you”. The eyes lit up with an innocence like a child, and the happiness on Ram’s face was the most genuine Nidhish had ever seen.
The shake of the hand and the twinkle in the eye spoke a million words.
Nidhish got up early the next morning to find that the rain had stopped. He found a little boy to whom he promised money if he would get the message to his father’s office about his place. The boy gleefully ran with a hope of earning his first salary.
Ram made his way out slowly. He had a big smile on his face.
“I hope we can meet again”, said he as he began walking towards the gate.
“chacha, why did you do this for me? You took care of me like family”
“everybody is family, son. We are all travellers, wanderers in this huge circle of life. and one more thing, I did this for your grandfather. I can never forget the timely help he had given me in raising my family. A gem of a man he was, a gem of a man…..”, he said in his shaky, caring voice.
Nidhish stared with deep gratitude and somewhere down his throat, words had lost their way.
The black Corolla pulled up on the entrance and the driver, Utsav, ran towards Nidhish.
“are you alright sahib ? wat happened ?”
“nothing. Lets go”. He paid the little boy 30rs and got into the car.
“Utsav, I would appreciate it if you would not tell my parents about where you found me”
“As you say sahib”, replied Utsav. He, like other workers liked Nidhish and agreed without a second thought.
Nidhish reached home and found his mom in the dining room.
“where were you beta ?did you go to..”
He cut through her talk, “ I was at Rahuls’ mom”
He did not wait for her reply. He simply did not care. He had bigger things to worry about. He had decided to lend half of his pocket money to Ram and he was about to make the necessary arrangements. He knew that Ram would be still around and he could find him easily. He wrote the withdrawal requisition and started for the bank when he realized that the bank was closed that day and he had to wait one whole day for the withdrawal. He spent the whole day gloomily, thinking about the previous night. He had a bad sleep as well.
He got up early the next day, grabbed a photograph which had his grandfather in it. He skipped breakfast, called out for Utsav and sped away to the bank. He made the required transaction, and told Utsav to take him to the fort. His heart raced along faster than the car looking out for the old man. He then found the little boy whom he had paid and asked him, “ oye, have you seen the old man with the bent back?”
“ Ram sahib ? one minute”
The boy called out to his mother. A thin lady, visibly exhausted by her work approached Nidhish with her colourful veil covering most of her face.
“have you seen Ram, madam?”
The name seemed to trigger an emotional outburst from th lady. Her eyes swelled with tears and Nidhish knew something was wrong.
“Sahib…sahib..”, she stuttered.
“what happened? Is he alright?”
“there was a landslide last night only a few kilometres ahead. I am afraid Ram has finally finished his journey sahib”
“you are lying. She is lying, isn’t she Utsav?”, shouted Nidhish even though he felt she was not.
He pulled Utsav by his hands and went to the district hospital. He enquired about the landslide and was directed to a big hall. It was the hall where the bodies were kept for identification.
“sahib, you wait here. I will ask and come back”
“no Utsav, I have to do it myself”, said Nidhish as we walked with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He entered a gloomy hall. Nurses were walking around with writing pads in their hands, masks covering their mouths.
Before he could even ask, he had noticed the figure of Ram at the corner of the hall. The arched body was unmistakable even from a mile.Nidhish broke down. He could no longer fight his emotions. He did not want to.
“he ran towards the bed, the face was clearly recognizable, it was the face of a man who held gratitude over hatred, happiness over regret and more importantly the body had housed the soul of the most wonderful person Nidhish had ever met.
“would you like to help us in identification sir?”, asked a young nurse.
“I would like to claim this body”, answered Nidhish meekely,still crying.
The nurse produced a form. “ your name sir?”
“Nidhish Malhotra”
“the body hasnot been known by a name sir. Do you know the person?”
“Ram. Ram Shankar Prasad is the name”
“right sir. Your relationship with the deceased?”
The night at the Maratha Fort fluttered through his mind, the touch of the old man still lingered around. The warmth had touched him, it would change him forever. He knew it. In the old man, he had found the love of a parent, the concern of a teacher and more importantly he had found a friend.
“sir, your relationship with the deceased please”, repeated the nurse.
“My Guardian”, was the ironic reply.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Something about EC....
"Its RVCE-E&C combination this year"--these were the exact words from the Deccan Herald on the day after CET Councelling,Engineering round-Day1.From that very day i began to wonder "wats about EC in RV?????".I was fortunate enough to get into RVCE to have a look at 'the most sought after branch in the sate of Karnataka' myself.
The first look at the department building shows no characteristics of being the 'colloseum of technical education' which it is hyped to be.I asked my friend wat he thought about this and he said "Y u want all this da ??..no good girls only in EC".I was satisfied with the answer due to the fact that i had no more impetus to investigate this very peculiar trend in the ELITE STUDENTS of the state which shares its borders with TN,Kerala,AP and Maharashtra.This was the scenario until we actually met an "EC Student".
It was the second day of college.Me and Nakul sitting in College Bus,are greeted by a very warm smule and the face bearing this smile was fair,and the body holding it was normal.This guy turned out to be Gaurav.He seemed to be one among the nicest guys i have known(he actually is) and as a part of our conversation,he mentioned that he is from "EC".The moment i heard the question,a question escaped my throat--
"CET rank?"
"43" was the answer i got.But there was absolutely no auroa,no arrogance,no "i am EC and u are not"kinda look.
I have now learnt that CET-1 is also in RVCE EC and that he is among the most polite students in College.So i was thinking and thinking as to wat defines an RV student apart from the single digit and two digit CET ranks.It is their humour,thier perception in many issues which is so unique and funny sometimes--
Gaurav--"Do u know y Electronics fest is named 'E to the power IT',its because the geekiness of EC students is rised to the exponential power to that of IT students"
I swear i could not catch wat he was talking.The fest is named liked that only to show that both the EC and IT departments are taking part.I could not see even a nanometer of another view regarding this issue.
Me-"Look at that girl da..she is that Telecom girl everybody talks about na ?"
Nakul-"yes da,thats the one.hey gautam,is she from ur school??"(Gautam-EC)
Gautam-"yes da,she was in D section.She was studying well.She had once got the 3rdrank in 11th....................................................................everyone says she is cute also"
Finally !!!!!..that was wat we wanted.But its EC u see.
But these guys are among the best.They complete assignments one week before the last day,they attend 3.25 hours off a 3 hour lab.Their marks are somethng like this--
50
49
49
50
47
That 47 is wat fuels them for the next internals."i lost 3 marks in Environmental Science !!!!!!"
There are a lot of things i appreciate in the EC friends of mine,which is applicable to us in all aspects,thier humility.Getting into RVCE EC is not a joke and definitely not something normal.Whether they like it or not,they can choose to be indifferent and arrogant academically towards others because they are licensed to do so[academically ONLY].But they are the most humble,nicest,over-the-top kinda people u can find.
"You earn respect by showing wat u have,rather than by telling wat u are going to have"
The first look at the department building shows no characteristics of being the 'colloseum of technical education' which it is hyped to be.I asked my friend wat he thought about this and he said "Y u want all this da ??..no good girls only in EC".I was satisfied with the answer due to the fact that i had no more impetus to investigate this very peculiar trend in the ELITE STUDENTS of the state which shares its borders with TN,Kerala,AP and Maharashtra.This was the scenario until we actually met an "EC Student".
It was the second day of college.Me and Nakul sitting in College Bus,are greeted by a very warm smule and the face bearing this smile was fair,and the body holding it was normal.This guy turned out to be Gaurav.He seemed to be one among the nicest guys i have known(he actually is) and as a part of our conversation,he mentioned that he is from "EC".The moment i heard the question,a question escaped my throat--
"CET rank?"
"43" was the answer i got.But there was absolutely no auroa,no arrogance,no "i am EC and u are not"kinda look.
I have now learnt that CET-1 is also in RVCE EC and that he is among the most polite students in College.So i was thinking and thinking as to wat defines an RV student apart from the single digit and two digit CET ranks.It is their humour,thier perception in many issues which is so unique and funny sometimes--
Gaurav--"Do u know y Electronics fest is named 'E to the power IT',its because the geekiness of EC students is rised to the exponential power to that of IT students"
I swear i could not catch wat he was talking.The fest is named liked that only to show that both the EC and IT departments are taking part.I could not see even a nanometer of another view regarding this issue.
Me-"Look at that girl da..she is that Telecom girl everybody talks about na ?"
Nakul-"yes da,thats the one.hey gautam,is she from ur school??"(Gautam-EC)
Gautam-"yes da,she was in D section.She was studying well.She had once got the 3rdrank in 11th....................................................................everyone says she is cute also"
Finally !!!!!..that was wat we wanted.But its EC u see.
But these guys are among the best.They complete assignments one week before the last day,they attend 3.25 hours off a 3 hour lab.Their marks are somethng like this--
50
49
49
50
47
That 47 is wat fuels them for the next internals."i lost 3 marks in Environmental Science !!!!!!"
There are a lot of things i appreciate in the EC friends of mine,which is applicable to us in all aspects,thier humility.Getting into RVCE EC is not a joke and definitely not something normal.Whether they like it or not,they can choose to be indifferent and arrogant academically towards others because they are licensed to do so[academically ONLY].But they are the most humble,nicest,over-the-top kinda people u can find.
"You earn respect by showing wat u have,rather than by telling wat u are going to have"
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