Sunday, September 30, 2007

Hide and Seek


An expert hand at hide-and-seek
You hid behind the fuzzy veil
Of my closed mind, only to peek
Like Sun from behind a cloudy bale

While walking down a common path
You genty tapped, from behind
Smiled at me, then as-if in wrath
Banished me from top-of-mind?

I ever longed for that soothing smile
Amidst all the worldly tart
Severely yearned for that un-travelled mile
That unsaid promise - made heart-to-heart

I traversed deserts in mirage hunt
Meandered among the human herd
Exhausted, consumed and almost burnt
In a futile search - fake, absurd

On my blighted soul, shone mercy some
Eventually, after the prolonged test
Little I knew, more was to come
As you would be at your playful best

A little girl wanting ice-cream
Another moment - a caring wife
Effervescence and joyous screams
Confessions later, of internal strife

You howl and scowl like an angry mom
Then cuddle in me like a little baby
You toil at work and then come home
To cook with love - my favorite gravy

Ambitious dreams, your desires up-scale
Of plush hotels and luxurious cars
In simple pleasures, you yet regale
With tears on my lap, you trade old scars

Awestruck I watch, day-after-day
The way you don your different masks
Performer top-notch! And I must say
In silent pride, your audience basks

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Cobwebs in the mind**

Outside OT.
Forehead-folds.
Sinking hearts.
Cold, numb senses.

One of my own.
Under surgeon's knife.
That medicine smell.
Tense, frantic paces.

Sudden giggles?
A baby voice.
Stretcher wheeled in.
Few anxious faces.

What a gory sight!
A million pipes!
Of nostrils and veins.
One of critical cases.

Giggles some more.
At ignorant ease.
At elders' tears.
Through playful lenses.

A girl of 3.
Eased the nerves.
Melted all hearts.
Amidst heart-wrenches.

**Reflecting on a true incident

Sunday, March 4, 2007

Part C: The Punishment: Trilogy of Sweet Melancholy


I remember that day in 5th grade
The Math teacher's blood-shot eyes!
His favorite student had failed the class test
In effect, I had failed him
I could see the hurt in his eyes
Through dark-rimmed spectacles sliding onto his nose

I stood on the last bench - holding my ears
What an embarassment!
Abhay, Asha, Saurabh, Nishant had all passed
They'd look behind every few seconds
I was free entertainment!
It pained me - Who invented 'Punishment'?
How cruel!

In a strange parallel today, someone
Stands on the last bench in my memory
I've spared her the embarassment
She's excused from holding her ears :)
Endure she must though! As I bleed -

With every inch of gaping distance
With every recapitulation of past neglect
With every begging yearn
With every image of my lonely tomorrow
With every moment in my hibernation

She has failed me, miserably
This is her just punishment

As for me, I now realize
Why someone who loves and cares -
Punishes

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Part B: The Hibernation: Trilogy of Sweet Melancholy


When your own smile, charges an appearance fee.
You buy from the market, what comes free.
In the strive, to build your finances.
You forget life's little, nuances.
On the career path, by its curves and bends.
You get no time, for your friends.
When between airports, and hotel lobbies.
You profitably trade, your favorite hobbies.

Know it's time, to stop and take.
A deep breath, and then a status check.

When so-called friends, stand their real test.
And emerge but, acquaintances at best.
Even those few, for whom you care so very.
All you get, is their periphery.
Your belief, faith and trust turns rotten.
The moments sweet, are so easily forgotten.
When you are sure that none will miss.
When it's time for the goodbye kiss.

Know it's time for graduation.
A long-deserved hibernation.

Friday, February 23, 2007

Another Night Must Be Endured**


Another night must be endured.
Amidst subdued whimpers.
Mourning the loss of moments stunned.
Another night must be endured.

As the pulse-beat drowns in the scream of pain.
Love will disappear in rampaging fault-lines.
No hope that the rays of dawn would shade.
To let night-bride wear silvery moonlight.
Fragrance of memory, though, will surely rise.
And the hopeful heart will pump once more.


Another night must be endured.

Blood-vessels will face the revolt thrust.
The pillow of truth will no-longer comfort.
Oh! I shudder to wake under closed eyelids.
To see lost fortunes in clear daylight.
Each heavy breath, though, will be weighed in gold.
And charged to the heads that hang in shame.


Another night must be endured.

**Adapted from the Hindi original 'Ek Aur Raat Kat Jaayegi' by Mirat Trivedi

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Part A: The Substitute: Trilogy of Sweet Melancholy

Yes - It's true. I have found your substitute.
Take it from me - you were never indispensable.
Do not be proud of your shared past.
I have found your substitute.

We spend a lot of time lip-locked.
My fingers itch for that familiar touch.
The sweet aroma intoxicates.
Oh that brilliant spark at the touch of passion!
A fresh kick of life with every kiss!
Takes my breath away!
Addictive!
One just cant stay away!
Subtly filters my worries, insecurities - turns 'em to smoke.
Expensive to maintain - but so were you! (..Sorry..)

Don't be jealous. Please don't be.
Your substitute but knows all about you.
I have discussed you at length - over three meals a day.
Please don't go by hear-say.
Please don't grudge me my Marlboro Lights.
At long last - I have found your substitute.


Clinging onto Dear Life


Riding on the stroke of dawn
Comes every day the pearly dew
Oozing from the lazy yawn
Of the lotus leaf - the only friend it knew

"I wake you up from a hard night's sleep"
Spoke the dew "Coz I have lots to say"
"I conserve all day, thoughts carefully keep"
"To share with you, the very next day"

The whole world thinks, looks best the leaf
Only when the dew-crown it wears
The dew knows though - it imposes self
An extra load, the leaf charitably bears

Dew thinks aloud, hates imbalance
"Damn the lack of symbiosis!"
"Why this hopeless-hapless dependance?"
"Damn my birth of osmosis!"

"Excuse me!" bows out the leaf
The pearl slides down - Oh! It cuts like a knife
To see it hang by the tip of the leaf
And clinging onto dear life

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Anonymous Existence


When was it last that you held a hand?

To come in the way, of a tottering fall?
To transfer faith, break a wall?

To find conviction, make your choice?
To collect your courage, raise a voice?

To comfort a friend, sans expectation?
Or is love just an aberration?


When was it last that you wore a smile?

To bring hope, to one who has none?
To bring shade, from the scorching sun?

Be it fake, to show "I'm fine"?
To mask sorrow, yet bring sunshine?

To assure someone that "I'm there"?
To evince trust and say "I care"?


When was it last that you shed a tear?

For the Lord you claim, as one of your own?
Yet do not yearn, conveniently disown?

For that shadow, who faithfully trails?
But in your neglect, silently wails?

At your heart's whispering insistence?
For that one stranger - an Anonymous Existence!

Friday, February 16, 2007

An Experience in Maturity


Date of Incident: 26-Jul-2005; Retrospective Commentary: 28-Jul-2005


13:15
hrs:
I was in the Table Tennis room, a tree-house kind of a structure within the NMIMS campus. Rain drops falling on the sloping roofs made a rather rhythmic sound. But it seemed innocuous.

14:15 hrs: The game was long over. I just had a curling staircase to climb down to reach the ‘dry zone’. But taking this decision was proving to be difficult. The rains were ominous now. I took the plunge. A six–second climb down drenched me completely.

15:00 hrs: It had been some time now. But it was a welcome relief for NMIMS students, especially outstation students, who in mid-monsoon season were beginning to pooh-pooh the famed notion of Mumbai monsoons’ notoriety. They loved it. It was time for an impromptu rain dance. It was party time, caution thrown to the wind, and awesome fun.

15:15 hrs: Ankle height water in the ‘quadrangle’ part of the campus. My friends dragged me out. They ensured that my wallet-laptop-watch-mobile combination was tucked away to the safety of the 3rd floor lockers. The scene resembled ‘Ganapati Visarjan’, another Mumbai specialty.

15:30 hrs: A campus tree fell down as if it was felled by a chain saw. No rain-dance enthusiast was injured, luckily. Suddenly it seemed that it was no longer fun and games. News started trickling in about the severity of the scene, mainly through word of mouth. All cell-phone and landline networks were down. There was no electricity either. It was clear that every-one in the campus was stuck for good – students and faculty alike. The female students were worried, and so would have been their parents. It was at this point that someone came running to our campus gate. What he said shocked us, one and all.

16:30 hrs: It was a lot darker than 16:30 hrs. NMIMS students were negotiating the waist-high Vile-Parle waters to rescue pre-school children whose school buses stood stranded in the flooded street. The tiny-tots were carried on shoulders to the safety of the NMIMS campus. The wet kids were shivering – more in shock of the situation than the wet, feverish weather. They were channeled to Room 21, second floor. The kids were restless. Every time one wailed, it set off a chain reaction. Volunteers manning the centre had it really difficult.
Water had flown into the college building by now. The library and the ground floor computer centre resembled the ‘Titanic’. The water was rising alarmingly.

18:30 hrs: The flood situation was clearly out of hand. The campus water was chest high. Most female students were being taken to the safety of the girls’ hostel, near Amitabh Bacchhan’s bungalow, Juhu. It was not an easy decision. The rains were not letting up one bit, it was quite a distance and it was very dark. What’s more, the group of male students that was to lead the way had to return to the college campus. After all, a major crisis situation was unfolding there. NMIMS students had rescued children from 5 school buses stuck on the roads nearby. Approximately 150 school children, including some special kids, were camped inside. There was no food, no light, no electricity, restless kids and to top all that – worried parents were expected shortly. Volunteers were aplenty, but nothing seemed to be aplenty then.

19:30 hrs: Parents of the rescued tiny-tots had been trudging through neck-deep JVPD waters for hours to reach here. And now they were coming in hordes. Anxiety levels sky-rocketed. Obviously, very little information regarding the whereabouts of their wards was made available to them. Schools from where the buses had left could provide little help but for the bus codes. The only choice available to them was to charter the entire bus route on foot so as to locate the ill-fated vehicles.

20:15 hrs: Room 21 had turned into a war zone. A visibly shaken Prof. Dr. Kondap, Vice-Chancellor NMIMS deemed university, admired in silence his students’ collective effort. He must have felt great pride. NMIMS students were putting up a real brave effort. The rooms were now swelling with children, parents and volunteers alike. Children wailed on one hand and so did disappointed mothers on the other, unable to fathom what had become of their wards whose names did not feature in the list available with us. Additional rooms were being opened to facilitate the scenario.
Handling the parents was becoming a nightmare. Two class room tables had been joined together to form a temporary information centre for parents. There was practically no light with just a couple of emergency lights being the only main source, apart from candles – which were nothing more than birthday candles really. Mining the names of the missing from the ad-hoc lists that were being updated continuously was difficult and the search often proved negative. Every time that happened, it seemed that all hope had ended for the parents. Obviously, at this stage, it was impossible for them to venture out anywhere else to search their kids. One improvisation we carried out immediately was that we never said “The name doesn’t exist in our list.” Instead, we said “It is possible that your child may have been harbored in a building close to where the bus was stranded.”
The streets in Mumbai had turned into rampaging rivers in the unrelenting rain. Floating Mercedes cars and auto-rickshaws alike bore a grim reminder of nature’s law of equality. However rich or poor, nature’s fury knew no distinction.

22:30 hrs: Most children had been united with their parents. Must confess, seeing tears of an improbable re-union was the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life. I was gripped by emotions.
Comfortable arrangements were made by the volunteers for the children and their parents to spend the night at NMIMS. The rain after all didn’t indicate to be running out of gas. In an ingenuous effort, NMIMS students had ventured into neck-high waters to collect edible food items from nearby buildings. They received open-hearted responses. Food items ranging from chips, biscuits, and bread to even dal-rice and poori-bhaji were collected this way. This kept the spirits relatively higher in every soul in the campus that night. Grateful parents also offered help in the way of cell-phone calls (in case a particular network was working), food items and harboring unclaimed children in case they lived close-by.

00:00 hrs: The exceptions in the happy re-union story numbered in single digits. But they were the worst to handle. Their patience was running out and no information was forthcoming about their wards as all the cell-phone networks lay dead. One mother in particular was so agitated that four – five volunteers were constantly restraining her. She would have no other way than venturing out at this hour in waters higher than her physical height. She calmed after she was assured that a search party would leave at the sight of the first rays of the morning light.

27-07-2005

01:30 hrs: After some frantic and hectic activity in the hours before, 3rd floor corridor was more or less at peace. The rains, still, were fury personified. The kids were off to sleep as their parents stood guard.
The pre-school children yet unclaimed, disturbed the quiet intermittently with their high-pitched crying. It is at this point that I discovered totally different personalities in some female class-mates whom I thought I knew well. They hugged the children to their breasts like their biological mothers would, walking from one end of the corridor to the other and patting them gently on their backs – in rhythm with the continuous gibberish dialogue. This carried on for hours – tirelessly. I salute the sense of womanhood they exhibited.
At last we had some time to sit and cool down a bit. We were suddenly faced with the prospect of chatting and gossiping to kill time – what a welcome relief! Almost 12 hours had passed before we could even wink.

02:15 hrs: I had found space above the student lockers. Admittedly, the 3rd floor notice board was invading that narrow space. But it was by far my best option to have some sleep. Every other area seemed to be occupied. It wasn’t even five minutes when another anxious parent rushed in. It was back to office for us. The gentleman was a doctor from the Breach Candy hospital. He had abandoned his vehicle at Matunga, and covered 15 kilo-metres in consistent chest-high waters from there to reach NMIMS. There was no problem in locating his child. Relieved, the doctor praised our efforts profusely. His 4-year old child suddenly sprang to unseen energy levels on seeing the familiar face. Before the doctor was to take our leave for his residence, the child very sweetly repeated after his father “All unkils aunties, pils come home shum day. Tank woo. Ba-baeee”

07:15 hrs: It had rained unabatedly till now. However, the intensity now was much lesser. We decided to bide some time till the waters receded. We were to take refuge at a friend’s place in Juhu, after dropping a female classmate to the already overcrowded girls’ hostel.

09:30 hrs: The heavens had fooled us again. It was still raining, minus the venom. We decided that the waiting game had to end. This was the time. The college was evacuated of all children, parents and most NMIMS students, but for a couple of challenged people with two accompanying attendants. Help for them was on their way. We moved them to the faculty area in the custody of some faculty members who were waiting for the waters to recede further.

10:30 hrs: Waters had receded to waist level but it was still drizzling. We found our group of five people to be among hundreds who were wading the water. Slowly the scene of destruction became evident. Immobile cars, buses and auto-rickshaws had choked all roads. The incessant rainfall had removed all signs of life, it seemed. It was one huge, staid water-body. The only things that moved were puny humans like us. Human superiority on mother earth: Alas! What a mockery! A royal joke!

12:00 hrs: The police ambulance was ferrying three dead bodies to the Cooper Municipal hospital. As it passed by us, the raised water level almost drowned us for a minute. The floating cars were also agitated violently. Everywhere there was mayhem. Sights of mothers carrying new-born babies on their heads, physically challenged people making a fight out of it and office goers of the previous day still on their way home greeted us. It left a very depressing taste.

12:15 hrs: As the group made its way in a reflective mood, a very funny incident changed our mood. A man completely drenched, yet carrying an umbrella, sat on the roof-top of a floating Mercedes. “Ek gaadi pe ek free! Aao aur le jao!” he exclaimed to very amused wading members of the public. We burst out laughing and quite appreciated the man’s terrific sense of humor even in this time of disaster. It was infectious.
A foreigner with a camera hanging on his neck soon waded past. The group in a sudden jolly fit asked him if he could click a picture. Even before he could nod his agreement, the group had assumed the ‘say cheese’ pose! As soon as the camera flashed, one in the group exclaimed “Sir, hope it wasn’t a false flash!”
We had a hearty laugh as we moved ahead.

A little ahead, a group member suddenly realized that her childhood dream was to drive an auto-rickshaw. She explained thus to shocked group members “Look, what’s the big thing if one dreams to drive a Ferrari? One can always work hard, earn lots of money and fulfill the dream. If one thinks pragmatically, my dream is much more challenging.” We saw logic in what the fellow MBA said. I held her hand and manipulated her to a stranded driver-less auto-rickshaw. She achieved her dream amidst our giggles. Someone shouted “Abbe meter to chaalu karo!” Our accomplished ‘auto-driver’ friend, otherwise a strictly ‘luxury cars only’ traveler, started looking all over the steering area for the meter!

13:30 hrs: We finally reached the girls’ hostel and dropped off our ‘auto-rickshaw driver’ friend there. We also had a sneak peak into the famed girls’ hostel which now, of course, had turned into a refuge for more boys than girls. In an unprecedented gesture, the otherwise extremely secure building was thrown open to all keeping in mind the severity of the calamity.

14:00 hrs: We then made our way to our final destination for the day, yet another refuge, this time a friend’s place. We had lots to look forward to – promise of warm food, drinks and rest!

As we took the flooded roads again, thoughts of how life itself played management games with us that night, with people who were to ride the business world in a few days, came into my mind. How inconsequential humans are in God’s scheme of things! And yet, we all must play our part. We believed we played our part well that night. Yes, satisfaction felt good and warm in the heart. What an experience, an experience in maturity! A lot of people had ‘grown up’ in just a night.


Note: As I write this piece on 28th July, I have reached my 11th floor residence in Andheri (W). There’s no electricity yet, no water supply, no essential food supplies and no cell-phone connectivity. Mumbai, India’s premier city hasn’t yet recovered from a day’s rain that has broken world records, consumed 300+ lives and caused widespread devastation.

Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi

What images does the word ‘adventure’ bring to your mind? Paragliding? Bungee Jumping? Rock Climbing? Trekking? Jungle Safari? Wild River Rafting?

Well, all right. For me, ‘Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi’ was also an adventure.

MBA results were out and joblessness reigned. Someone suggested in jest “We are so bored, even Bhojpuri movies would be entertainment!” I picked up the sound-byte. I thought the idea had merit. In the past, I’ve enjoyed many of Mithunda’s past-prime movies like ‘Gunda’, ‘Suraj’, ‘Jallad’ etc. Discerning readers would understand what I’m referring to here – a neatly perfected art of unintended humor. I’m told that many south Indian flicks starring Rajni anna are equally entertaining. If Mithun can kill two villains with one bullet by halving the bullet, Rajni can race electricity to prevent his mother from being electrocuted! Who needs Superman in India?

I moved the motion convincingly, and it was promptly passed by the house through voice vote.

We had seen posters claiming ‘Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi’ as the latest Bhojpuri rage. But, there were no listings available on popular media. Someone revisited one such poster to find show timings and the display theatre. Navrang Cinema it was, Andheri (W). My residence wasn’t far away from the venue, so the responsibility was mine to book tickets.

I reached half an hour earlier. The dilapidated structure looked interesting, actually quite a change from the swanky multiplexes we frequent. As one entered the compound, my eyes turned yellow. There was a parking lot for three-wheelers! At least thirty to thirty five auto-rickshaws were parked in discipline. It didn’t take me time to reinforce ‘Target Audience’ for such cinema. The bright yellow-black combination emanating from that area still hurts my eyes!

Next, my eyes fell on the seemingly regular patrons of the theatre, a motley crowd comprising largely of the male species. Most of them were perched, as if relieving themselves on Indian style latrines, on a very thin parapet. The rest stood smoking ‘beedis’, ogling at the posters depicting revealing postures of heroines in upcoming films. They were waiting eagerly for the ‘current’ ticket counter to open.

“STALLS: Rs. 20 Only; BALCONY: Rs. 25 Only; BOX: Rs. 40 Only”

“What premium charge for ‘balcony’!” I wondered and smiled. Much that I knew about the difference in the three segregations, I still opted for ‘balcony’. The biggest motivation was that the counter for ‘balcony/box’ was a separate one. A large queue could be avoided.

The noon show ended at 14:45 hours. A sizeable crowd made its way out, went to the parking lot and drove out in their auto-rickshaws! I gazed at this event, bedazzled. The ‘stall’ counter had opened. A serpentine queue had already resulted. I turned to find that the ‘balcony’ counter hadn’t yet opened and not a single soul stood in the queue there. As I stood at the counter waiting, the watchman came up to me, perhaps in sympathy to my cause. He said “Lagta hai aap pehli baar aaye ho. Balcony ka ticket bhi stall ke counter par hi milega.” I felt like a fool and asked angrily “Aisa kyun?” This perhaps put off the watchman. He twitched his eyebrows and said “Yahaan aisa hi hota hai! Bhalaai ka zamaana hi nahin hai!”

I waited with tickets outside the gate waiting for the rest of the gang. As the show timing grew closer, people slowly poured in from all directions. Auto-rickshaws, public bus, bicycles, on-foot – they came in hordes. An ‘Opel-Astra’ pulled in too. I was pleasantly shocked. Seconds later, the chauffeur walked in, after parking the car. At last the gang arrived.

On entering the relatively empty ‘balcony’, we found most people with their legs placed comfortably stretched on the seats in front. We sat in a virgin row. We had missed a good ten minutes. The seats were rickety, the projector was feeble and the sound system was equally outstanding. As and when the projection blinked into temporary darkness, the ‘stalls’ would erupt in protest.

The story line was that of the age old ‘Thakur and Peasant enmity’. We had not even sat down properly when a song greeted us. As the innovative story line unfolded, we started enjoying ourselves. We couldn’t stop laughing at even the tear-jerker scenes! It was hilarious stuff! Carefully detailed characters came to light as the story unfolded further. There was Thakur Kali Singh, the main villain. Dressed in Gabbar Singh type army fatigues, he usurped the property of the nicer Thakur, of course with generous help from the vamp. The vamp had the central dialogue of the film “Mar jaibe ladoo khaike”, which she uttered umpteen times. It was time for another song.

Then there was the aggrieved peasant family of three brothers - no prizes for guessing that the youngest was the hero. Another song erupted. He studied in a city university, captained the university cricket team, was well built, well mannered, girls swooned over him – overall endowed with all humanly desirable qualities. Of his female fan following, one was a desperate mini-skirt clad bimbo. She was the villain’s younger sister, thereby highlighting a deliberate attempt by the script-writer to complete the loop. Yet another song happened. But, the hero’s heart was always with the traditionally dressed girl in his village. One more song – but this time it caught our attention. The lyrics went “Maanga tha chumma, mila chocolatiya”. We went berserk. Obviously, the bimbo wouldn’t like this, right? It was another song time, this time featuring the bimbo hitting on our dude. The hero burst into a song “Cycle se dhakka nahin maar, shahar ki chori”! Good lord, this was too much. We laughed our guts off. We promptly left thereafter, not risking a very probable headache/tummy ache. So, for readers who expected me to complete the storyline, I beg forgiveness. But I’m sure they can themselves tie up the loose ends.

The piece wasn’t aimed at ridiculing this emerging film segment. Neither was it aimed at ridiculing the patrons of this segment. What moved me to document this incident was the realization that there is no one India. Religions, states and languages apart, there are so many Indias concurrently living within India. Mind you, all of them are alive and kicking within this complex diversity. This is despite the fact that they seem to belong to different eras in mind-set. Their tastes differ, needs differ and so does their consumption behavior. India Inc. has woken up to this reality rather late. New products are being developed and new services are being offered and tailored. No wonder that an entirely new film industry has been created with pure commercial motive and has met with commercial success. Just read somewhere that Amitabh Bachhan, Ajay Devgan and other mainstream stars are also taking the plunge.

Somewhere into the movie, I accused myself of being pompous of my social strata to be mocking at what was a serious entertainment source for others. But, just the next scene again made me roll with laughter. I can’t remember when I last had so much value for the money spent on a film ticket!!! ‘Hamra Byah Toh Se Hoi’ was unadulterated fun – an adventure worth undertaking.

Lovely Hair Cutting Salon


It was just an ordinary day. And as usual, I was lazing around in the NMIMS campus. The TV set in the campus was beaming a live debate on ‘India – The Growth Drivers’. I stood in-front of it, concentrating on the India-England scorecard scroll instead. The kiddo of the 2006 MBA batch, Vrunzie, came running from behind and in a quick flash, playfully ruffled up my rather long but kempt hair. I saw her gleaming face in front of me as she displayed her characteristic 1000 Watts smile, ecstatic at having turned my hair into modern art.

She then teased me, “Mr. Poodle, this is the last warning! You either get that crop cut by tomorrow, or I take out my scissors in your aid. The choice is yours.” I normally take a long time to decide on the simplest of things. But here, the opportunity cost was too high. I promised a visit to the ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’, the very next day.

“Why am I being made to wait so long for my turn? The salon doesn’t even have a magazine worth its salt!” My ego fumed. Lovely, wasn’t this luxurious kind of salon. But it was decent, close to home, air-conditioned and of-course it had the services of Raju. Raju had over the years built up quite an understanding with my hair, and thereby with me. But I wasn’t in the best of moods. I started looking at everything in the salon with angry eyes. “The light was inadequate, the room-freshener was offensive, the AC wasn’t working and the hairdressers were slow.” A very nasty myself cursed all and sundry. And then my eyes fell upon this woman hairdresser standing outside the women’s section. She’d probably be in her early thirties, was excessively made up, wore outlandish clothes and with her pierced nose looked typically Muslim. “She looks like a bloody, you know what!” I thought to myself.

Raju ushered me in. Resting my mobile phone on the raised platform in-front of me, I told him up-front arrogantly, “Raju aaj baal baraabar se kaatna, nahin to teri khair nahin. Baal chote karde aur ek professional look de mereko, samjha?” He began work like an artist over sculpture.

“It’s a terrific hair-cut!” Raju had delivered yet again. Also, the fifteen minutes of calming down, sitting in the eyes shut – chin down position had changed my mood. I was very pleased at Raju. I gave him a hundred rupee note and asked him to deduct ten additionally as tip. That brought a smile on his face and he rushed out to get change from the nearby grocer’s shop.

I saw that woman coming up to me. “Why?” I asked myself in light of the images I had earlier conjured up in my mind about her. She faced me, lowered her eyes and in a very polite tone inquired “Kya aapko school ka form bharna aata hai?” I was taken aback. I nodded haplessly in the want of a better reaction. She unfolded a multiply folded yellowish paper, the application form for a junior school. “Saa’b, main padhi likhi nahin huun na.” Her expressive eyes lowered again in embarrassment.

With a borrowed pen, I began filling up the form. It was for the admission of her child to junior kindergarten. Yes, she were a Muslim, an immigrant from UP. After duly filling up her son’s name, I stopped at the residential address column. “Goregaon, Goregaon” She fumbled. I said “Theek se address bataiyye, aadha-adhura nahin chalega.” She suddenly lowered her voice and asked, “Saa’b bada school hai, aur main rahti huun Goregaon ke chawl me. Baccha bada hoga to iska asar to nahin padega? Aap gaur se dekhiye na saa’b, kya poora address maang rahe hain? Sirf Goregaon se nahin chalega?”

I insisted on the complete address. I then proceeded to ask her about her husband. She told me his name and age and then took a big yet pregnant pause before divulging his occupation. “Saa’b, wo kaam kuch nahin karta, bimaar aur berozgaar hai – din bhar khaat par hi pada rehta hai.” She said in a typical matter-of-fact rustic manner. She hastened to add, “Par main ghar ka kharch chala leti huun na saa’b, chal jaata hai apna.”, as if to dispel any sympathy for her. I reluctantly put a ‘–’ against the ‘Father’s Occupation’ column.

Raju put change into my palms. I accepted with indifference. I proceeded with the form-filling. In response to ‘Mother’s occupation and office address/ telephone’, she again paused. “Saa’b kaam to main yahin par karti huun. Lekin aap please salon ya beauty parlor mat likhna. Aap to jaante hi hain ki aaj kal log humko kis nazar se dekhte hain. Bacche ke school ka sawaal hai saa’b.” I diplomatically entered ‘Service’ against the ‘Mother’s Occupation’ column. She opened her purse, took out the salon’s business card and asked me to copy the address from there. As soon as I lifted my pen, she exclaimed “Lekin mobile mera khud ka hai saa’b, aap likho 9322131570 - reliance ka hai saa’b.” I asked the ‘4th standard pass’ woman to sign. She slowly signed in Hindi. She looked at me; her eyes were no longer lowered. There was gratitude in them - after all I had played a part in her son’s school admission. She smiled and said “Thank you saa’b”.

As I walked back to my residence, my mind was filled with thoughts. This seemingly simple incident had somehow touched me. But why did it move me? It moved me because it was real. We, the privileged 1% of the country, conveniently prefer to stay in our comfortable cocoons. We go to private schools, have fun, graduate, have fun, go to b-schools, have fun and then join large MNCs to prolong the fun. We being intellectuals conduct debates on whether India is ‘Growing/Shining/Rising’ and come out with learned conclusions. May I, in my small humble capacity, stick my head out and say “No. India’s growth story is not a reality because of reasons like ‘billions of dollars of outsourcing money finding way to India’. If it’s a reality, it is because of the will, determination and sacrifice of people like that hairdresser in ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’. There are so many ordinary Indians like her, struggling and fighting for survival every day, and yet hoping for a better tomorrow. They realize that prosperity in their own lives can only go thus far, but they still toil for their wards’ sake – trying to give them all that they never had, at the same time taking the greatest care that none of the undesirable legacies fall upon them.” Her concern “...Sirf Goregaon se nahin chalega?...Lekin aap please salon ya beauty parlor mat likhna…” rang in my ears.

On reaching home, I realized that I’d left my mobile phone at Lovely’s. I called up to tell them that I’d collect it on my way to college the next day. As I was walking in, Raju, as cheerful as ever, rushed out with my mobile phone clutched in his palms. “Kaise ho Raju?” I inquired as a matter of habit. “Accha huun saa’b” He replied with a smile. As I was turning away to exit, I stopped and inquired “Raju, kal jo form bhara tha maine, wo uske kaam aaya ki nahin? Ho gaya uske bacche ka admission?” Raju stood with his head down and said slowly “Saa’b, admission ka to pata nahin. Kal uska pagaar ke maamle mein maalik se jhagda zaroor hua tha. Maalik ne kal shaam ko hi use naukri se nikaal diya saa’b.”

I was again at the NMIMS campus, sitting alone on a bench. I wondered what would now become of her, her husband and her child. I wondered if she would ever be able to move out from her Goregaon chawl. I wondered if her child would ever be able to educate himself and then make a difference to the well-being of the family. I wondered if she would find another job. But somehow, at the back of my mind, I knew that she had the courage to survive, and fight for another day.

Suddenly, Vrunzie appeared from nowhere. In a quick flash, she again playfully ruffled up my short but kempt hair. She stood in-front of me, displayed her 1000 Watts smile and remarked “Won’t call you Mr. Poodle any more. With hair cut so short, Mr. Schoolboy is more appropriate!”

So much for the visit to the ‘Lovely Hair Cutting Salon’.