DATELINE
SYDNEY 1997
I am as old
As that ficus tree
In the national reserve.
As young as the
Beansprout in the tofu soup.
As innocent as the
Joey in the pouch.
As bubbly as the
Froth in the beer mug.
©sumeghaagarwal
Sunday, August 22, 2010
में एक अनार हूँ
DATELINE
NEW DELHI 1992
में एक अनार हूँ
जलता हूँ
फुंक जाता हूँ
इस बीच बिखरता हूँ
फैलता हूँ
चमचमाता हूँ
बहलाता हूँ
सहलाता हूँ
चमन के फूलों को
महक ले लेता हूँ
देता हूँ महक
हंस-हंस के जलता हूँ
हंस-हंस के ख़तम हो जाता हूँ .
दम निकल-निकल जाता है
फिर समेटता हूँ
इस बड़े बिखराव को
फिर जलने के लिए
फिर फुंकने के लिए
लिए फिर महकने को
फिर हंसने को.
में अनार हूँ
एक हंसी का फूआरा हूँ
में एक अनार हूँ.
©sumeghaagarwal
NEW DELHI 1992
में एक अनार हूँ
जलता हूँ
फुंक जाता हूँ
इस बीच बिखरता हूँ
फैलता हूँ
चमचमाता हूँ
बहलाता हूँ
सहलाता हूँ
चमन के फूलों को
महक ले लेता हूँ
देता हूँ महक
हंस-हंस के जलता हूँ
हंस-हंस के ख़तम हो जाता हूँ .
दम निकल-निकल जाता है
फिर समेटता हूँ
इस बड़े बिखराव को
फिर जलने के लिए
फिर फुंकने के लिए
लिए फिर महकने को
फिर हंसने को.
में अनार हूँ
एक हंसी का फूआरा हूँ
में एक अनार हूँ.
©sumeghaagarwal
और वो मर गया
DATELINE
NEW DELHI
MANDI HOUSE 18th JANUARY 1992
और वो मर गया
वो आता था तूफान की तरह, काले घोड़े पर सवार होकर, कभी टी-शर्ट पहन कर कभी बाबुनुमा शर्ट पहन कर.
बहुत बार आता था वो. हर बार ये कहकर की गुजर रहा था सोचा मिल लूं. वो कहती थी क्यों रोज-रोज मिलने चले आते हो - मुझे और भी बहुत काम हैं करने को. मुझे कभी अकेला भी छोड़ दिया करो.
वो छोड़ गया उसे अकेला. दे गया उसे भगवान, मोम की नैनीताल में बना एक शिवजी का स्वरुप. और दे गया गुरखाओं वाली एक छोटी सी खुकरी, लकड़ी के केस में छिपी. ये कह कर, जब कभी मुझ पर गुस्सा आये तो इसे इस्तेमाल करना. मार देना इसे किसी गद्दे तकिये में. में तो बच जाऊँगा.
वो नहीं बचा. काले घोड़े ने उसे कहीं का न छोड़ा. जीने-मरने की कसमें खाई थी उस घोड़े ने. पर जब तक वो जीवन से अटखेलियाँ खेल रहा था, काले घोड़े ने उसका साथ दिया. मरते वकत वो अकेला था- काला घोडा थोडा टूटा कुछ फूटा, पर न रोया न हंसा.
वो और दिन-षण की तरह उस दिन भी पूरी रवानी में था. दोस्त पीछे बैठा था तो भरपूर मस्ती में था.
रात में हवाखोरी कर के दिल्ली की सड़को पर, अपने घर नॉएडा वापस जा रहा था. अपनी छोटी सी प्यारी सी दुल्हनिया के पास .
पर उस ट्रक में खुक्रियाँ नहीं लदी थी, न और कुछ था. थी लोहे की सलाखें ट्रक का पेट चीरकर बहार निकलती हुईं. ट्रक को इन सलाखों ने सता ही रखा था. उन्होंने सीधे उसके शरीर में घुसकर उसको तहस-नहस कर दिया, ऐसा की डॉक्टर उसकी मरमत्त नहीं कर पाए.
और वो मर गया. वो अकेला मर गया. बहुत तडपा वो, रोया भी. पर जब देखा की जिंदगी की बाज़ी हार चुका है वो हंसा था बहुत जोर से.
हाँ ऐसा ही हुआ था. मेरे कानों तक उसकी हंसी पहुची थी. मेरे कान खुले थे. मैंने उन्हें साफ़ जो किया था. उसी ने कहा था की माचिस की तीलियाँ कान में मत डाला कर, बहरी हो जाएगी.
अरे ओ वो. में तो मरी नहीं थी. मुझे जरासा तो बता देता की तू जाना चाहता था. तुने ही दी थी वो खुकरी जो इस्तेमाल न होने के कारन पड़ी-पड़ी जंग खा रही थी.
मेरे पास तो आता तू. मुझे गुस्सा दिलाता. इतना गुस्सा की वो खुकरी मेरे हाथ से निकल कर तेरे दिल में उतर जाती, पूरे दिल को घेर लेती. रत्ती पर जगह न छोडती और किसी के लिए. पर वो था, शादी क्या कर ली इस अनगढ़, अबूझ समाज के फेर में आके, वो मुझे भुलाने की कोशिश में लगा था.
उसकी कोशिश कुछ हद तक कामयाब भी रही. वो मुझसे दूर हो चला था. पहले हर रोज मिलता था, फिर कभी-कभी, फिर गाहे-बगाहे, फिर ईद के चाँद की तरह.
ओ ईद के चान्द कम से कम ईदी तो दे जाता. सिवैयां तो खिला जाता अपने काले घोड़े की पीठ पर बिठाकर.
जाना था तो कहकर जाता. फ़ोन कर दिया होता. अपने किसी और दोस्त से कहलवा दिया होता. पर उसे फुरसत नहीं थी ये सब जहमत करने की.
उसे तो जाने की जल्दी थी. बहुत जल्दी थी. फुल स्पीड पर चला रहा था काले घोड़े को. घोड़े को मेरी बात याद थी, वो ठिटका भी था अपनी गति थामने की कोशिश भी की थी उसने. पर उस घोड़े को पता था की उसकी पीठ पर उसके पीछे में कहाँ बैठी थी. मुझे तो उसने बहुत पहले मण्डी हॉउस के मोड़ पर धकिया दिया था.
तू चला गया, तेरी मर्जी थी. पर तू भूल जा अपने सपने को की तुझे जल्द आके मिलूंगी उधर. अभी मुझे बहुत काम हैं. मुझे फुर्सत कहाँ है.
और वो सर झुका के चल दिया फिर उधर हवाखोरी करने को काले घोड़े पर सवार होकर. तलाश में किसी घर की, किसी हमसफ़र की.
वो मर गया था लेकिन वो मरा नहीं है.
©sumeghaagarwal
NEW DELHI
MANDI HOUSE 18th JANUARY 1992
और वो मर गया
वो आता था तूफान की तरह, काले घोड़े पर सवार होकर, कभी टी-शर्ट पहन कर कभी बाबुनुमा शर्ट पहन कर.
बहुत बार आता था वो. हर बार ये कहकर की गुजर रहा था सोचा मिल लूं. वो कहती थी क्यों रोज-रोज मिलने चले आते हो - मुझे और भी बहुत काम हैं करने को. मुझे कभी अकेला भी छोड़ दिया करो.
वो छोड़ गया उसे अकेला. दे गया उसे भगवान, मोम की नैनीताल में बना एक शिवजी का स्वरुप. और दे गया गुरखाओं वाली एक छोटी सी खुकरी, लकड़ी के केस में छिपी. ये कह कर, जब कभी मुझ पर गुस्सा आये तो इसे इस्तेमाल करना. मार देना इसे किसी गद्दे तकिये में. में तो बच जाऊँगा.
वो नहीं बचा. काले घोड़े ने उसे कहीं का न छोड़ा. जीने-मरने की कसमें खाई थी उस घोड़े ने. पर जब तक वो जीवन से अटखेलियाँ खेल रहा था, काले घोड़े ने उसका साथ दिया. मरते वकत वो अकेला था- काला घोडा थोडा टूटा कुछ फूटा, पर न रोया न हंसा.
वो और दिन-षण की तरह उस दिन भी पूरी रवानी में था. दोस्त पीछे बैठा था तो भरपूर मस्ती में था.
रात में हवाखोरी कर के दिल्ली की सड़को पर, अपने घर नॉएडा वापस जा रहा था. अपनी छोटी सी प्यारी सी दुल्हनिया के पास .
पर उस ट्रक में खुक्रियाँ नहीं लदी थी, न और कुछ था. थी लोहे की सलाखें ट्रक का पेट चीरकर बहार निकलती हुईं. ट्रक को इन सलाखों ने सता ही रखा था. उन्होंने सीधे उसके शरीर में घुसकर उसको तहस-नहस कर दिया, ऐसा की डॉक्टर उसकी मरमत्त नहीं कर पाए.
और वो मर गया. वो अकेला मर गया. बहुत तडपा वो, रोया भी. पर जब देखा की जिंदगी की बाज़ी हार चुका है वो हंसा था बहुत जोर से.
हाँ ऐसा ही हुआ था. मेरे कानों तक उसकी हंसी पहुची थी. मेरे कान खुले थे. मैंने उन्हें साफ़ जो किया था. उसी ने कहा था की माचिस की तीलियाँ कान में मत डाला कर, बहरी हो जाएगी.
अरे ओ वो. में तो मरी नहीं थी. मुझे जरासा तो बता देता की तू जाना चाहता था. तुने ही दी थी वो खुकरी जो इस्तेमाल न होने के कारन पड़ी-पड़ी जंग खा रही थी.
मेरे पास तो आता तू. मुझे गुस्सा दिलाता. इतना गुस्सा की वो खुकरी मेरे हाथ से निकल कर तेरे दिल में उतर जाती, पूरे दिल को घेर लेती. रत्ती पर जगह न छोडती और किसी के लिए. पर वो था, शादी क्या कर ली इस अनगढ़, अबूझ समाज के फेर में आके, वो मुझे भुलाने की कोशिश में लगा था.
उसकी कोशिश कुछ हद तक कामयाब भी रही. वो मुझसे दूर हो चला था. पहले हर रोज मिलता था, फिर कभी-कभी, फिर गाहे-बगाहे, फिर ईद के चाँद की तरह.
ओ ईद के चान्द कम से कम ईदी तो दे जाता. सिवैयां तो खिला जाता अपने काले घोड़े की पीठ पर बिठाकर.
जाना था तो कहकर जाता. फ़ोन कर दिया होता. अपने किसी और दोस्त से कहलवा दिया होता. पर उसे फुरसत नहीं थी ये सब जहमत करने की.
उसे तो जाने की जल्दी थी. बहुत जल्दी थी. फुल स्पीड पर चला रहा था काले घोड़े को. घोड़े को मेरी बात याद थी, वो ठिटका भी था अपनी गति थामने की कोशिश भी की थी उसने. पर उस घोड़े को पता था की उसकी पीठ पर उसके पीछे में कहाँ बैठी थी. मुझे तो उसने बहुत पहले मण्डी हॉउस के मोड़ पर धकिया दिया था.
तू चला गया, तेरी मर्जी थी. पर तू भूल जा अपने सपने को की तुझे जल्द आके मिलूंगी उधर. अभी मुझे बहुत काम हैं. मुझे फुर्सत कहाँ है.
और वो सर झुका के चल दिया फिर उधर हवाखोरी करने को काले घोड़े पर सवार होकर. तलाश में किसी घर की, किसी हमसफ़र की.
वो मर गया था लेकिन वो मरा नहीं है.
©sumeghaagarwal
Thursday, August 19, 2010
I Wish
DATELINE
SYDNEY Circa 2000
I wish my two feet
Could be walking on your streets.
I wish the love I drew here
Could rain on me when I walk on your streets.
I wish I had two pairs of eyes
One I could have left behind
Stuck on your horizon
To keep looking at you
So that I could still be alive
Still be awake
Awake to your smells
Awake to your colours, your smile, your pain.
I could have gone to sleep
With the other pair
After yet another day of wandering
Around here without you on my side.
I wish my two feet
Could be walking on your streets.
©sumeghaagarwal
SYDNEY Circa 2000
I wish my two feet
Could be walking on your streets.
I wish the love I drew here
Could rain on me when I walk on your streets.
I wish I had two pairs of eyes
One I could have left behind
Stuck on your horizon
To keep looking at you
So that I could still be alive
Still be awake
Awake to your smells
Awake to your colours, your smile, your pain.
I could have gone to sleep
With the other pair
After yet another day of wandering
Around here without you on my side.
I wish my two feet
Could be walking on your streets.
©sumeghaagarwal
Sunday, August 15, 2010
It happens in India too…
DATELINE
SYDNEY HOLI
28th March 2000
It happens in India too…
They all came. Sona, Mona, Rupa…Rahul, Rajeev, Amit…Mr. and Mrs. Gupta, Mr. and Mrs. Khanna, Mr. and Mrs. Murthi. They all drenched each other in coloured water, in water, rubbed Gulal on each other’s cheeks. Just like they used to do in the Mohallas and colonies back home.
There are some differences though. While India celebrated Holi a week ago, Sydneysiders played Holi with the same aplomb a week after. In India it’s neighbour gunning for the neighbour, here all with guts and desire to continue with their traditions gathered in the premises of a high school- Castle Hill High School – on this Sunday.
Just like India, most people carried their own pudia (packet) of Gulal. It was a BYO Holi. In India there are many who refuse to carry even a speck of Gulal to play Holi. They believe in pinching from the host’s mounds of Gulal to reciprocate Gulal greetings. Here too, many didn’t bring their own pudiya of Gulal.
Organisers, Australian Hindi Indian Association (AHIA) knew it too well. Initially they left a few plates full of Gulal on a small desk to be plundered by all. But as the revelry was nearing its crescendo, AHIA decided to drop a pinch of Gulal in all those hands spread before them. Holi Prasadam indeed.
As usual Indians proved to be most innovative lot. Since long they have left all the baltis behind in India but they were quick to adopt empty rubbish bins and mop buckets to make their coloured water. The kids were ready with their sprinklers with ‘tanker’ capacity. You see a daa.laa.r is 28 times higher than the Indian rupee. Now wet paint was not allowed so a group of four youngsters decided to anoint each other with two cans of shaving cream.
The Holi revelry was taken over by the young – in age. Young boys and girls were scouting for their next victim as they prepared their Holi arsenal. And there you go – another full load of coloured water drenching yet another femme fatal.
For Mr. Young ‘Marcos’ from Philippines, it was his first Holi. As he admired his pink and red cheeks, young ‘Marcos’ proved to be a quick learner of Holi rituals. Last he was seen running after a group of three young Indian females, politely telling them that they were a bit too clean. Without waiting for an answer from them Mr. young ‘Marcos’ managed to rub his pinch of Gulal on the long black hair of his young Indian Holi victim. He was delighted with the achievement.
And so was every one else. A group of youngsters decided to pitch their wicket in the background of it all and practice their batting and bowling. And this completed the setting of an Indian scene on a hot sunny day, in the neat, suburban Australian landscape.
Perhaps, all this pandemonium behind them, kept the adrenalin running high in the young boys. It was certain, one Sachin Tendulkar could run faster between the wickets when a kid chased him with a pichkari.
What went missing was the Holi specialty – The Honourable Gunjiya. One sniffed and sniffed but still couldn’t find the most Honourable Gunjiya. Rest was there – Chole, Samosa, Gulab Jamun, Rice and curry. One also couldn’t find a glass of Bhanng and a Bhanng ka laddu.
But despite not having Bhanng and a Bhanng ka laddu, many managed to loss their – earrings.
One woman went round and round, looking for something in the green grass. Tim of Australia wondered if it was yet another Indian ritual. Yes, it was. The earrings do get pulled out and dropped when all this Holi wresting goes on.
You see Bareily doesn’t have the copyright on having a Jhumka getting lost in its markets. It can happen, 10,000 KM away on the playground of Castle Hill High School in Sydney. In fact Sydney came out a notch ahead in this Jhumka Giro ritual.
The woman after going round and round for more than 30 minutes found her earring, which was nestling nicely in a bit of green grass. What actually had happened that gold earring changed its colours to Holi colours making it too difficult to locate.
Now in India when you want to get the original colour back on your cheeks, you look for a clean pullo (Sari end) of a fellow Holi reveler or you very conveniently rub off all the extra colourings on the kurta sleeve of, let’s say your brother. But here in Australia, such a Holi act would be considered too rude.
All knowing AHIA had the solution. One AHIA volunteer was ready with piles of hand towels selling for a dollar each. Tim of Australia did some smart thinking. The hand towels, he found were selling cheaper then in the regular shops. He bought three hand towels to be used later – perhaps at next year’s Holi.
Meanwhile, Tarun was not able to solve the puzzle – Bhala Uski Kamij mujhse Safed Kaise Hai. You see Tarun wanted that ‘unique’ purplish Gulal to be spread on his white T-Shirt before he could pose for his Holi shot. It so happened that Pawan came pouncing with that purplish Gulal and rubbed it on his favoured few and disappeared. Finally, Tarun had to let his Holi desire die.
Later in the day, the action shifted to the auditorium hall for the cultural show. As it happens in India, here too all gathered as if directed by some divine force, pulled in their chairs in unison to get closer to the stage.
Ruchi Lamba of Sydney danced to the tune of ‘Chanak Chanak Gai, Churiya Raaat Maan’. Nikita and Ankita Kapoor continued with ‘Mohe Chedo Na Nand ke Lala’. An AHIA volunteer continued introducing the segments with, as we all agreed, with most Fatichar jokes.
But behold. Highlight of the Holi in Sydney was singing of Holi anthem ‘Rang Barse Bheege Chunar wali, Rang Barse’.
A most enthusiastic group of four females and two males thundered with the song – out of sync. As the female 'Rang Barse' hit the roof, the timid male ‘Rang Barse' came crashing.
But so what? It happens in India too.
©sumeghaagarwal
Go Home! Go Home! Go Home!
DATELINE
SYDNEY circa 2002
Go Home! Go
Home! Go Home!
That’s precisely what I was doing the other weekend when I took a bus on Parramatta road to the Inner-West. Since I started driving three years ago, I was almost out of habit of using public transport. That Saturday morning I went out on a nature photography tour to Bradleys’ Heads Point Road with a generous and very welcoming bunch of recently met photography enthusiasts.
In the morning I waited for the pick-up in front of my flat. I have already been in and out couple of times looking for my pick-up person. We had almost lost each other but much to our relief were about to be united and to continue with our journey. At this moment I realized that later in the day I will need my Travel Ten bus ticket. I used one perhaps every three months.
Much annoyed with myself I opened the two doors to my flat and grabbed my ticket and shoved it in the top pocket of my jeans. I knew that was not the right place to put it in but decided about transferring it to a proper pocket in my camera bag later on. As so happens, I forgot all about my ticket till about lunchtime.
After finishing with the nature walk we all sat down for lunch. I lost my pick-up person as she went in search of some coffee. While everyone unpacked his or her lunches, my lunch was getting warmed in my small backpack secured in the boot of the car of this person. The bag also had some travel money in its pocket.
After waiting for a while I started plotting a rescue plan in case my pick-up person didn’t turn up. I said to myself, never mind I can collect my backpack later. In the meantime I was happy to have an apple, which I kept in the pocket of my jacket. I had my Travel Ten and I could manage to get back home after finishing with the photography outing. Much to my dismay, poor Travel Ten ticket got all crumpled in my jeans pocket. It was still flat but I could seem some cracks in the magnetic strip. I worried about the fate of this Travel Ten and was not too pleased with myself.
Somebody else too was not pleased about it. When I dipped my ticket in the box of Sydney bus route 413, it didn’t go in. I was putting it in from the wrong end. Next time when I dipped from the right end still it didn’t work.
I looked around for this man and he was sort of trying to hide from me. In a flash of a second I decided not to take such bullying lying down. I walked towards him and stood there. The guy gave me a hard stare and had his headphones firmly ensconced in his ears. I asked him, “What were you trying to tell me there at the machine. Can you tell me again”?
He continued in his aggressive tone and repeated himself. Not only I could be dealing with a possible racist but a misogynist too. I tried to tell him that it was none of his business what should I do or what I should not. I tried to also tell him that my ticket still had five trips left out of ten and that’s why I couldn’t just give up on it.
He was not listening and he went berserk telling me to get off the bus. I tried to hold on to my ground. He got up and while telling me to get off the bus, pushed me to the floor of the bus. Bus was full and I heard a big sigh from the fellow commuters. But nobody tried to protect me or tried to tell him to stop shouting. As I picked up myself from the floor, he started chanting, “GO HOME. GO HOME.GO HOME.”
I knew his “GO HOME” meant – go back to your country. Earlier also once in a while, I had come across such people who asked me to go home as I shared my pains and struggles in settling down in a new country.
I still tried to maintain my sense of humour and told him that’s precisely what I was doing, going to my home in Summer Hill. He was not there to listen. He kept up with his chant – louder and more sinister. I walked back towards the front of the bus and told him that I was going to ring the police. Which I did. Police was willing to cooperate and asked me to ask the driver to stop at a particular section on the Paramatta Road.
Bus driver also radioed his people. This aggressor continued with his chanting – nobody asked him to shut up or tried to talk to him. Driver locked the doors but one or two people were getting restless and wanted to get out. At that moment, this man also walked up to the front and gestured to get out. I stood next to the driver with my back to the windscreen. One man in front of me wanted to get down and then this aggressor also queued up. He was quiet by now, he had stopped chanting.
For a moment I was worried that he may attack me. He might have had a knife or a gun. I was getting worried, what if he physically launches himself on me? In the meantime bus driver pleaded with me that he couldn’t keep this man in the bus and he has to let him go. I agreed and asked him to let the aggressor go.
Bus Driver updated his help desk; police perhaps were still trying to catch the bus. I got down at my stop. Looked around for the police as they said they would meet me there. But no police were around.
SYDNEY circa 2002
Go Home! Go
Home! Go Home!
That’s precisely what I was doing the other weekend when I took a bus on Parramatta road to the Inner-West. Since I started driving three years ago, I was almost out of habit of using public transport. That Saturday morning I went out on a nature photography tour to Bradleys’ Heads Point Road with a generous and very welcoming bunch of recently met photography enthusiasts.
In the morning I waited for the pick-up in front of my flat. I have already been in and out couple of times looking for my pick-up person. We had almost lost each other but much to our relief were about to be united and to continue with our journey. At this moment I realized that later in the day I will need my Travel Ten bus ticket. I used one perhaps every three months.
Much annoyed with myself I opened the two doors to my flat and grabbed my ticket and shoved it in the top pocket of my jeans. I knew that was not the right place to put it in but decided about transferring it to a proper pocket in my camera bag later on. As so happens, I forgot all about my ticket till about lunchtime.
After finishing with the nature walk we all sat down for lunch. I lost my pick-up person as she went in search of some coffee. While everyone unpacked his or her lunches, my lunch was getting warmed in my small backpack secured in the boot of the car of this person. The bag also had some travel money in its pocket.
After waiting for a while I started plotting a rescue plan in case my pick-up person didn’t turn up. I said to myself, never mind I can collect my backpack later. In the meantime I was happy to have an apple, which I kept in the pocket of my jacket. I had my Travel Ten and I could manage to get back home after finishing with the photography outing. Much to my dismay, poor Travel Ten ticket got all crumpled in my jeans pocket. It was still flat but I could seem some cracks in the magnetic strip. I worried about the fate of this Travel Ten and was not too pleased with myself.
Somebody else too was not pleased about it. When I dipped my ticket in the box of Sydney bus route 413, it didn’t go in. I was putting it in from the wrong end. Next time when I dipped from the right end still it didn’t work.
In the
meantime a big middle-aged guy crept up on me. His face was full of disgust and
contempt for me. He howled at me, “Buy a new ticket. Don’t use this. Buy a new
ticket …” And walked towards the rear of the bus and he continued growling.
Obviously I didn’t like it. I felt totally crushed and bulldozed over. He took a seat at the rear end of the bus and I walked up to the driver and explained him the situation. He took the ticket from me, dipped it in the box on his side and validated it. I secured a standing spot in the front end of the bus.
Obviously I didn’t like it. I felt totally crushed and bulldozed over. He took a seat at the rear end of the bus and I walked up to the driver and explained him the situation. He took the ticket from me, dipped it in the box on his side and validated it. I secured a standing spot in the front end of the bus.
I looked around for this man and he was sort of trying to hide from me. In a flash of a second I decided not to take such bullying lying down. I walked towards him and stood there. The guy gave me a hard stare and had his headphones firmly ensconced in his ears. I asked him, “What were you trying to tell me there at the machine. Can you tell me again”?
He continued in his aggressive tone and repeated himself. Not only I could be dealing with a possible racist but a misogynist too. I tried to tell him that it was none of his business what should I do or what I should not. I tried to also tell him that my ticket still had five trips left out of ten and that’s why I couldn’t just give up on it.
He was not listening and he went berserk telling me to get off the bus. I tried to hold on to my ground. He got up and while telling me to get off the bus, pushed me to the floor of the bus. Bus was full and I heard a big sigh from the fellow commuters. But nobody tried to protect me or tried to tell him to stop shouting. As I picked up myself from the floor, he started chanting, “GO HOME. GO HOME.GO HOME.”
I knew his “GO HOME” meant – go back to your country. Earlier also once in a while, I had come across such people who asked me to go home as I shared my pains and struggles in settling down in a new country.
I still tried to maintain my sense of humour and told him that’s precisely what I was doing, going to my home in Summer Hill. He was not there to listen. He kept up with his chant – louder and more sinister. I walked back towards the front of the bus and told him that I was going to ring the police. Which I did. Police was willing to cooperate and asked me to ask the driver to stop at a particular section on the Paramatta Road.
Bus driver also radioed his people. This aggressor continued with his chanting – nobody asked him to shut up or tried to talk to him. Driver locked the doors but one or two people were getting restless and wanted to get out. At that moment, this man also walked up to the front and gestured to get out. I stood next to the driver with my back to the windscreen. One man in front of me wanted to get down and then this aggressor also queued up. He was quiet by now, he had stopped chanting.
For a moment I was worried that he may attack me. He might have had a knife or a gun. I was getting worried, what if he physically launches himself on me? In the meantime bus driver pleaded with me that he couldn’t keep this man in the bus and he has to let him go. I agreed and asked him to let the aggressor go.
Bus Driver updated his help desk; police perhaps were still trying to catch the bus. I got down at my stop. Looked around for the police as they said they would meet me there. But no police were around.
Once
the aggressor exited from the bus, driver asked me for contact details. He
firmly stated that my ticket matter was none of aggressor’s business. I told
him that I was ready to buy a new ticket if he, the driver, thought that was
the only option.
All this happened within a matter of 10-15 minutes. I could see faces from the world in the bus but nobody came to me later and nobody spoke or did anything when I took this big guy head on.
Once the aggressor was out, I sort of addressed the whole bus and told them that I had to this for all of us and I belonged to this country (Australia) as much as anybody else.
©sumeghaagarwal
All this happened within a matter of 10-15 minutes. I could see faces from the world in the bus but nobody came to me later and nobody spoke or did anything when I took this big guy head on.
Once the aggressor was out, I sort of addressed the whole bus and told them that I had to this for all of us and I belonged to this country (Australia) as much as anybody else.
©sumeghaagarwal
You just don’t get it right!
DATELINE
SYDNEY Circa 2002
Oh my friend, you just don’t get it right
Too much of sun
Too much of sand
Too much of water
Your country just doesn’t have enough of Love.
Too much of motion
Too less emotion
Too much of body
Too little soul
Oh my friend, you just don’t get it right.
Too many things
Not enough people
Too much of Me
Not enough We
Your sun is sharp and bright
Devoid of caressing warmth
You seem to have doused
The fire of Love
Oh my friend, you just don’t get it right.
Emotions lie all dried up
As grains of sand
At your pristine beaches
Salty sea waters
Have cleansed your soul
Of the spirit of sharing,
Spirit of joyful living
Oh my friend, you just don’t get it right.
You don’t connect
Vast masses of ocean
Separate you from the rest
You don’t merge
You break the continuum
Of the soul safari
Oh! you just don’t get it right.
[My beloved friends back in Sydney, this is how I felt in response to one particular Aussie mate]
©sumeghaagarwal
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Futility VS Utility of Catching Up
DATELINE
SYDNEY APRIL 2009
Futility VS Utility of catching up
Yet another time, this friend down the road said, “I will come around knocking at your door to make a time to catch up.”
And yet again I wondered about the futility versus utility of catching up. This issue bothers me now when I am in my forties. However this query always bothered me as I started engaging with existential stuff.
In the youth there was some thrill, excitement about meeting up all sorts of people who I befriended at work, bumped into them walking down the street or having met them at an event.
I was single, available and purposeless – or you can say trying to figure out the purpose of it all. Everything else was secondary – career, partner, good food, good clothes, nice car, house, looks – all that mattered to me then was to change the world and to talk hours about injustices, to begin within my home country.
But then as it happens, I too got strayed from the dream path owing to ever rising pressure of making sure that I had some pennies on me, had a roof over my head and some semblance of a career. It went on and on and here I am today – same person with lot more experience of life, have a roof over my head, food in my pantry and some work to keep me busy. But I have lost the charm about meeting up with friends, catching up over a cup of coffee, going for a drink or a walk in the park.
I am back in my second home Sydney after a gap of four years and fondly remembered so many connections I had made here over nine years when I lived here.
With my friends in India, I talked of my mates in Australia as members of my global family. I felt that a kind of invisible force of support, empathy and kinship existed for me to go to sleep with. A kind of precious heirloom not handed down by an ancestor but my own legacy. I thought, it really didn’t matter how I have progressed materialistically or what brought me back - my mates here would still like to catch up as they should be as interested in me as I was in them.
I started looking up for some mates with lot of excitement and enthusiasm but more I tried to reconnect more I became aware of futility of it all. A rolling stone gathers no moss, I have been told by many people across the continents.
I was out of the physical space of mates in Australia and thus sort of made myself redundant in their mental space. Me, as a global villager took their presence with me but little did I realise their au revoir in fact meant goodbyes.
I was perhaps too unstable to have any worthwhile connection with. I thought it was, but it was not that kinship which stands by you whatever way your life shapes up as long you don’t ask for a loan or ask for a out of the way favour. May be they are tired of me- me always in greater need of advice, assistance, empathy, support as I have made myself homeless by virtue of being a migrant. Not one who is busy digging gold but more akin to an Indian sadhu (ascetic) ceaselessly in motion searching for TRUTH.
It’s their (my Aussie mates) collective conscience which manifested in the form of invitation (visa) through their government to their country - an invited guest, vetted guest, processed guest thrown at the deep end of it all. They woke up one morning and found me amidst them looking for everything which sustains life.
They did a great job but behold I inadvertently conveyed to them that I could do without them. In a way I ‘dumped’ my Aussie mates by packing up to wander again.
Now as I have wandered back again in, logically meeting me would be a waste of time for all these stable mates. For me it would involve repeating my story to all the mates, telling them what I did in all these four years when away. I felt there was not much point in making efforts to catch a train, to make them pick me up and devour their precious time.
All this catching up could be done in the form of an email status report too which my mates could have read in their own time, came back with some or no feedback and it would have satisfied their little curiosity which we all have about each other – I wonder what she has been up to? Easier to catch up on email; person is better in your inbox rather than in your face. On email you just share bits of information but when you meet in person you have bigger responsibility to engage with the person.
I often felt catching up was all about checking on each other, to ensure that the other person has not left me behind or vice versa; to see if there could be any synergy; to keep up with the social necessities; to make sure when one has a party there are some people around to invite over; to get affirmations that we all are stuffed up - and thus all is well.
I am still looking for answers to this question – why catch up? Why meet up?
I carried this question with me to India and found somebody I thought could answer this question.
A very inspiring woman who lived by herself and I befriended – very young in her nineties- she lived a life queen size till last year. She has left the physical realm. She told me, you meet people to share. She told me when you share for example your pain – it gets distributed, dispersed among the people you talk about. Your pain gets reduced in size. So it’s downsizing pain by sharing. Similarly when you share your joy, it becomes a bigger joy- so it’s upsizing by sharing.
I have faith in the explanation as given by one of my dearest mates and for now I shall continue making efforts to catch up with all very connected, disconnected, disenchanted, disengaged mates of mine. As I do like to hand over the status report of what I had been doing all those four years personally. It won’t deter me that I have greyed though I try to keep the grey bits coloured or hidden, that I have yet to properly tune into the colour of money, that they had four years of respite from me hassling them to catch up. I am still as insignificant as I used to be, just a speck of dust which can dust itself out of any space.
In the meanwhile I shall catch up personally – because I am a being, still have legs to carry me around and many tales to share.
©sumeghaagarwal
SYDNEY APRIL 2009
Futility VS Utility of catching up
Yet another time, this friend down the road said, “I will come around knocking at your door to make a time to catch up.”
And yet again I wondered about the futility versus utility of catching up. This issue bothers me now when I am in my forties. However this query always bothered me as I started engaging with existential stuff.
In the youth there was some thrill, excitement about meeting up all sorts of people who I befriended at work, bumped into them walking down the street or having met them at an event.
I was single, available and purposeless – or you can say trying to figure out the purpose of it all. Everything else was secondary – career, partner, good food, good clothes, nice car, house, looks – all that mattered to me then was to change the world and to talk hours about injustices, to begin within my home country.
But then as it happens, I too got strayed from the dream path owing to ever rising pressure of making sure that I had some pennies on me, had a roof over my head and some semblance of a career. It went on and on and here I am today – same person with lot more experience of life, have a roof over my head, food in my pantry and some work to keep me busy. But I have lost the charm about meeting up with friends, catching up over a cup of coffee, going for a drink or a walk in the park.
I am back in my second home Sydney after a gap of four years and fondly remembered so many connections I had made here over nine years when I lived here.
With my friends in India, I talked of my mates in Australia as members of my global family. I felt that a kind of invisible force of support, empathy and kinship existed for me to go to sleep with. A kind of precious heirloom not handed down by an ancestor but my own legacy. I thought, it really didn’t matter how I have progressed materialistically or what brought me back - my mates here would still like to catch up as they should be as interested in me as I was in them.
I started looking up for some mates with lot of excitement and enthusiasm but more I tried to reconnect more I became aware of futility of it all. A rolling stone gathers no moss, I have been told by many people across the continents.
I was out of the physical space of mates in Australia and thus sort of made myself redundant in their mental space. Me, as a global villager took their presence with me but little did I realise their au revoir in fact meant goodbyes.
I was perhaps too unstable to have any worthwhile connection with. I thought it was, but it was not that kinship which stands by you whatever way your life shapes up as long you don’t ask for a loan or ask for a out of the way favour. May be they are tired of me- me always in greater need of advice, assistance, empathy, support as I have made myself homeless by virtue of being a migrant. Not one who is busy digging gold but more akin to an Indian sadhu (ascetic) ceaselessly in motion searching for TRUTH.
It’s their (my Aussie mates) collective conscience which manifested in the form of invitation (visa) through their government to their country - an invited guest, vetted guest, processed guest thrown at the deep end of it all. They woke up one morning and found me amidst them looking for everything which sustains life.
They did a great job but behold I inadvertently conveyed to them that I could do without them. In a way I ‘dumped’ my Aussie mates by packing up to wander again.
Now as I have wandered back again in, logically meeting me would be a waste of time for all these stable mates. For me it would involve repeating my story to all the mates, telling them what I did in all these four years when away. I felt there was not much point in making efforts to catch a train, to make them pick me up and devour their precious time.
All this catching up could be done in the form of an email status report too which my mates could have read in their own time, came back with some or no feedback and it would have satisfied their little curiosity which we all have about each other – I wonder what she has been up to? Easier to catch up on email; person is better in your inbox rather than in your face. On email you just share bits of information but when you meet in person you have bigger responsibility to engage with the person.
I often felt catching up was all about checking on each other, to ensure that the other person has not left me behind or vice versa; to see if there could be any synergy; to keep up with the social necessities; to make sure when one has a party there are some people around to invite over; to get affirmations that we all are stuffed up - and thus all is well.
I am still looking for answers to this question – why catch up? Why meet up?
I carried this question with me to India and found somebody I thought could answer this question.
A very inspiring woman who lived by herself and I befriended – very young in her nineties- she lived a life queen size till last year. She has left the physical realm. She told me, you meet people to share. She told me when you share for example your pain – it gets distributed, dispersed among the people you talk about. Your pain gets reduced in size. So it’s downsizing pain by sharing. Similarly when you share your joy, it becomes a bigger joy- so it’s upsizing by sharing.
I have faith in the explanation as given by one of my dearest mates and for now I shall continue making efforts to catch up with all very connected, disconnected, disenchanted, disengaged mates of mine. As I do like to hand over the status report of what I had been doing all those four years personally. It won’t deter me that I have greyed though I try to keep the grey bits coloured or hidden, that I have yet to properly tune into the colour of money, that they had four years of respite from me hassling them to catch up. I am still as insignificant as I used to be, just a speck of dust which can dust itself out of any space.
In the meanwhile I shall catch up personally – because I am a being, still have legs to carry me around and many tales to share.
©sumeghaagarwal
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Circa 2000
Sydney, Australia
My Wish at Their Command
Somebody called out for me. I can hear it. Somebody who knows me. Somebody who is close to me. I turn around.
“Hey. It’s you.”
I am frozen. That too at the sight of a person I have known only from a distance, though for a good five years. Pia rented a room on the same floor as me in a high-rise serviced accommodation. Had it been my best friend from home standing in front of me, I would have melted and spread all over the platform of this suburban station; I would have chewed the whole suburb in my smile; I would have let my joy spray all over my suburb.
I stand still.
“I never thought I would see you again. Last I heard you were leaving for Australia? How are you?” howled Pia.
She always howled. Got used to speaking at a high volume since she had to teach intricacies of Shakespeare and Joyce to her mob of young adults. My hands started moving, wanting to pull Pia towards me in an embrace. I saw her rushing into me. I was ecstatic to see her.
I don’t know how she felt. Don’t know if she could see the huge waves of pain lurking underneath my ecstatic self – this was the pain of living away in ‘exile’. My eyes swelled up with tears. I tried to hold back my tears. I still had to catch a train and walk back home from the station. I couldn’t let the world get a glimpse of my vulnerable self.
“You are brave, living by yourself in a foreign country. Back home we all talk about you. In a way we all miss you. You know most of us now live in our own apartments and some of us continue to socialise with each other. Wish you too were there, a member of our loosely-knit ‘community’ of independent women,” moaned Pia.
I wished this to happen every moment of my life in Sydney – on the streets, in the university. To have a long lost friend calling out for me. To turn into a statue in the middle of the road at the sight of a friend from back home. To have my gaze float around as I went about my daily travels only to encounter the loving gaze of a friend.
Every time I rushed to attend to unexpected knocks at my door – I wanted it to be a friend from back home. A friend, who from travels around the world would have decided to stop in Sydney and surprise me.
It never happened. No long lost friend called out for me. I never had any unexpected arrivals knocking at my door.
I have new friends, new commitments, new responsibilities for the same me. Old wine in a new bottle. Perhaps old wine building its own bottle, its context of being…
©sumeghaagarwal
Sunday, August 1, 2010
AN EMPOWERED INDIA
DATELINE CIRCA 2005
GULMOHAR PARK NEW DELHI
[I had returned to India after a decade being away in Australia. Indian Express newspaper has advertised seeking responses to the query: What does an empowered Indian mean to me. In no time my response was ready and submitted but was not published. I had a feeling that responses only from well-known people were published. Never mind, my sole aim was to share my views which I am doing now through this blog.]
For me India empowered is about reducing/covering/closing distances between Indians; it’s about getting to know of each other’s pains, dreams, aspirations and concerns. It’s about gaining an insight into each other’s world from a non-judgmental, non-stereotypical and caring bent of mind and heart. It’s about thinking in terms of we - the rich and poor, carwalla and cyclewalla, malik and naukar – all having a vision of working together as a team; as we individually go on about chasing our dreams, doing our errands.
The urban privileged (middle class, higher middle class and the rich) often don’t even know much about their own crew of drivers, domestic help, ayahs; forgetting that these are fellow Indians who too have families and who too dream.
For me India empowered is about not buying into the logistics and definitions fine-tuned by international welfare structures and groups about Indians. It’s about not accepting pitiable living and working conditions of fellow Indians as a calamity of fate. It’s about looking at our less privileged through our own eyes not via shocking logistics. It’s our own hardened attitudes, our own callousness, our own neglect and lack of interest which has made millions of fellow Indians to feed into these shocking logistics. Invariably we do have loads of pity, sympathy and concern for the miserable lot. Need is for pity to convert into compassion, sympathy to become empathy and concern to turn into action.
It’s about not blaming the burgeoning population for all our ills; because when the privileged talk about masses they tend to think of working class poor who thanklessly run our cities; they clear our dirt, sift and separate it for us and often are forced to live with this dirt around them.
While some of us look forward to that morning nirvana in the cup of tea with the day’s paper in hand, it is millions who toil hard through the night, often putting their lives at risk using humble means of transport on our mean roads and by lanes. They ensure that when some of us get up, we have our papers lying on our door step. They deliver vegetables at our doorstep; they lug thelas in scorching heat to bring us so many goodies which we need through our day.
I don’t wear a hat but I do like to take my hat off to these millions of toiling Indians –men and women – in our suburbs, our cities, on our roads, on our pavements and in our jhuggis.
And this is what I meant when I talked about reducing/covering/closing distances. India empowered to me is when the privileged, the moneyed of our country give much needed attention to the dreams of those who serve them tirelessly often without complaint, with no job security, with hardly any infrastructure to take them through the exigencies of life.
For me India empowered is when we look at a fellow Indian more as a fellow human rather than just an autowallah, kamwali, sabjiwala, naukar, tiffinwala and so on. When we don’t assume that just because these people are doing lowly paid jobs they are perhaps half-human. We don’t realise that a little attention, a little hearing, a little encouragement from us - the privileged, the educated, the sophisticated, the elite - goes a long way in making these unsung feel empowered, feel human, feel part of the game.
These Indians are the unsung army of this country who don’t get any special uniforms or allowances, who have to negotiate for every little comfort from their maliks. Please do not get me wrong, there are many who tirelessly endeavour amidst us to make life a little better for our toiling masses. But I like to see a greater level of cooperation, consideration and concern for each other.
Poor are people with less money, less resources at their disposal, less pulling power. They eke out an existence living at the margins of the society; often they don’t speak out against exploitation, injustice and inconsideration for fear of risking whatever meagre earnings and belongings they might have. And also being poor doesn’t mean that they don’t have a culture, they can’t think for themselves. They can as well as any one from the privileged brigade.
We call them illiterate, we call them poor, we call them uncultured; we think they lack enough morals.
I often wondered while living overseas - when I used to visit all these India-centred arts and crafts melas, exhibitions and so on – that I might have not contributed anything directly to the making of this culture. It’s the so-identified poor, the marginalised women and men who pour out their imaginations on their walls, on their clothes, in their festivals, in their dances, in their songs. Majority of them can’t speak the language of the urban privileged – the English; they can’t decipher our dreams, our discussions, our ponderings and feel totally alien to us. And we hardly ever feel much need to reduce this sense of alienation.
The lyrics are in Hindi, music is Hindustani, English is Hindustani but Mohammed of Nizamuddin is unable to place a song request with our glorious commercial FM channels. Mohammed, the autowallah, doesn’t have a landline and has spent loads of his hard-earned money calling all those numbers belted out on FM stations from a PCO. His problem is that he just can’t get through the pleasantries/questioning thrown at him by Hindustani English speaking sophisticated platoon of program executives. Suave, sophisticated, Hindustani English speaking India is in self-denial. It forgets that it’s the likes of Mohammed, Dina Nath, Meena, Sheela, Raju and Ram, Ali and Rehman make a Sholay out of a Sholay or a Mother India out of a Mother India. Once they have done it then only we wake up to our cultural realities as shaped by our non- English speaking Hindustani masses.
We often blame these working class poor for their pitiable situation. But I guess it’s time when we stop blaming them for their situations and instead ask how they continue to tide over monster obstacles on their path and have a life?
They have oral traditions, age-old wisdom and knowledge and time tested web of relationships to guide them through their lives. We try to force the need to be literate on them, yes it always helps. But need is to take into account what they have to say, to listen to their unwritten voices.
It was a moment of awakening for me few years ago when P. Sateesh of Deccan Development Society (DDS) based in Hyderabad postured: Why should I wait for these women to become literate first before we can do empowerment work with them? These illiterate, farming class women already have a language, they have words, they have wisdom, they have knowledge and they can talk.
And no wonder these women have lapped up the medium of radio as initiated by DDS producing radio programs which have content emerging out of their context. This is one example of India empowered.
I also have reservations about using the word empowered as if we lack some power and it’s has to be fed in. I like to say, power is all there among our people. But it’s a power denied. It’s a power harnessed when we need it to showcase our culture. Khairati Lal of Lajpat Nagar has travelled the world sponsored by Government of India showcasing his art. Ravi, son of same Khairati Lal lugs stuffed elephants on his young shoulders hawking for his bread in the by lanes of the rich. He can’t afford stall fee at Delhi Haat; he goes to India Gate lawns in the evenings and there he and his fellow hawkers are forced to give a hafta of Rs 300 to the police. He is not sure if he will have a jhuggi to return to since Khairati Lal has been served a notice for demolition. This is just one life lived at the edge next to where life is lived at best in our posh colonies, bungalows of overly empowered.
We all have been swapped up in singing glories of globalisation. I am not for entering into a debate about benefits and perils of globalisation. I feel it’s time we need to cater to localism. It’s every local need, desire and right which needs to be paid attention to. Otherwise we have injustice, exploitation and disempowerment confronting us every minute of our life in India. I feel we need to adopt each other, nurture each other, act for each other and take India ahead as Team India made of not just much celebrated techies, scientists, fashion designers but all those living life at the margins.
I would say India is a powerhouse of emotional warmth and emotional intelligence, its people have not lost touch with their humanity. They have not lost their hearts and souls into the alluring morass of goodies, money and rational ethos and thus continue to bewitch the whole world with their ability to express the magnanimity of their hearts and souls.
How can I ever forget the hospitality I indulged in from my fellow not so privileged Indians? I like to recall one such experience.
Years ago, I visited the village of my friend’s father, a senior official in Delhi who was visiting his village. We were being feted and celebrated by the villagers. They wanted to show respect to my friend’s father and to our educated status. One family on behalf of all invited us for dinner and they served us in the spirit of Athithi Devo Bhava. All they cared about that we had accepted their invitation and they cooked pouring their heart and souls into the food. In return they didn’t ask for jobs in the city, they didn’t ask for anything. In any case there was nothing we could have given them. They had simply outdone us in showing us their exalted human warmth, respect and care.
How can I ever forget having a lunch of boora-ghee and chawal when my family was invited to the wedding of my father’s assistant’s daughter in a village? Though we were Gharatis, we were served first. I can never forget the divine taste of that basic feast and the warmth of their hospitality.
The other day I was feeling bit low, pondering about this struggle of resettling back in my own land after living in ‘exile’ for many years. I passed through India gate area and as usual they were many women and men hawkers selling jamuns and what not on the glorious wide pavements of Rajpath.
I wondered about these women- being pushed around by the police, being bullied by their very demanding customers- roughing it out in our killer public buses. Where are the toilets for them? What about their personal safety? Thinking of their difficulties and recognising their determination to make a living shook me out of my temporary mellowed mood. My head bowed down to the indomitable spirit of these ‘insignificant’ masses of India who do it so hard but can still smile, laugh, eat and find shelter; and sing, dance and draw. I felt I had no right to feel disheartened. For me these marginalised are the inspiration to bring me back to this land of my birth and making.
Once again for me India empowered is reducing/covering/closing distances between the privileged and the marginalised. Then I shall dig up a hole somewhere and retire with my books, my learnings, and my yearnings and shall watch from a distance at India and its people blossoming together. That India wouldn’t have a need for me and then I shall feel be free to leave India to its destiny.
©sumeghaagarwal
GULMOHAR PARK NEW DELHI
[I had returned to India after a decade being away in Australia. Indian Express newspaper has advertised seeking responses to the query: What does an empowered Indian mean to me. In no time my response was ready and submitted but was not published. I had a feeling that responses only from well-known people were published. Never mind, my sole aim was to share my views which I am doing now through this blog.]
For me India empowered is about reducing/covering/closing distances between Indians; it’s about getting to know of each other’s pains, dreams, aspirations and concerns. It’s about gaining an insight into each other’s world from a non-judgmental, non-stereotypical and caring bent of mind and heart. It’s about thinking in terms of we - the rich and poor, carwalla and cyclewalla, malik and naukar – all having a vision of working together as a team; as we individually go on about chasing our dreams, doing our errands.
The urban privileged (middle class, higher middle class and the rich) often don’t even know much about their own crew of drivers, domestic help, ayahs; forgetting that these are fellow Indians who too have families and who too dream.
For me India empowered is about not buying into the logistics and definitions fine-tuned by international welfare structures and groups about Indians. It’s about not accepting pitiable living and working conditions of fellow Indians as a calamity of fate. It’s about looking at our less privileged through our own eyes not via shocking logistics. It’s our own hardened attitudes, our own callousness, our own neglect and lack of interest which has made millions of fellow Indians to feed into these shocking logistics. Invariably we do have loads of pity, sympathy and concern for the miserable lot. Need is for pity to convert into compassion, sympathy to become empathy and concern to turn into action.
It’s about not blaming the burgeoning population for all our ills; because when the privileged talk about masses they tend to think of working class poor who thanklessly run our cities; they clear our dirt, sift and separate it for us and often are forced to live with this dirt around them.
While some of us look forward to that morning nirvana in the cup of tea with the day’s paper in hand, it is millions who toil hard through the night, often putting their lives at risk using humble means of transport on our mean roads and by lanes. They ensure that when some of us get up, we have our papers lying on our door step. They deliver vegetables at our doorstep; they lug thelas in scorching heat to bring us so many goodies which we need through our day.
I don’t wear a hat but I do like to take my hat off to these millions of toiling Indians –men and women – in our suburbs, our cities, on our roads, on our pavements and in our jhuggis.
And this is what I meant when I talked about reducing/covering/closing distances. India empowered to me is when the privileged, the moneyed of our country give much needed attention to the dreams of those who serve them tirelessly often without complaint, with no job security, with hardly any infrastructure to take them through the exigencies of life.
For me India empowered is when we look at a fellow Indian more as a fellow human rather than just an autowallah, kamwali, sabjiwala, naukar, tiffinwala and so on. When we don’t assume that just because these people are doing lowly paid jobs they are perhaps half-human. We don’t realise that a little attention, a little hearing, a little encouragement from us - the privileged, the educated, the sophisticated, the elite - goes a long way in making these unsung feel empowered, feel human, feel part of the game.
These Indians are the unsung army of this country who don’t get any special uniforms or allowances, who have to negotiate for every little comfort from their maliks. Please do not get me wrong, there are many who tirelessly endeavour amidst us to make life a little better for our toiling masses. But I like to see a greater level of cooperation, consideration and concern for each other.
Poor are people with less money, less resources at their disposal, less pulling power. They eke out an existence living at the margins of the society; often they don’t speak out against exploitation, injustice and inconsideration for fear of risking whatever meagre earnings and belongings they might have. And also being poor doesn’t mean that they don’t have a culture, they can’t think for themselves. They can as well as any one from the privileged brigade.
We call them illiterate, we call them poor, we call them uncultured; we think they lack enough morals.
I often wondered while living overseas - when I used to visit all these India-centred arts and crafts melas, exhibitions and so on – that I might have not contributed anything directly to the making of this culture. It’s the so-identified poor, the marginalised women and men who pour out their imaginations on their walls, on their clothes, in their festivals, in their dances, in their songs. Majority of them can’t speak the language of the urban privileged – the English; they can’t decipher our dreams, our discussions, our ponderings and feel totally alien to us. And we hardly ever feel much need to reduce this sense of alienation.
The lyrics are in Hindi, music is Hindustani, English is Hindustani but Mohammed of Nizamuddin is unable to place a song request with our glorious commercial FM channels. Mohammed, the autowallah, doesn’t have a landline and has spent loads of his hard-earned money calling all those numbers belted out on FM stations from a PCO. His problem is that he just can’t get through the pleasantries/questioning thrown at him by Hindustani English speaking sophisticated platoon of program executives. Suave, sophisticated, Hindustani English speaking India is in self-denial. It forgets that it’s the likes of Mohammed, Dina Nath, Meena, Sheela, Raju and Ram, Ali and Rehman make a Sholay out of a Sholay or a Mother India out of a Mother India. Once they have done it then only we wake up to our cultural realities as shaped by our non- English speaking Hindustani masses.
We often blame these working class poor for their pitiable situation. But I guess it’s time when we stop blaming them for their situations and instead ask how they continue to tide over monster obstacles on their path and have a life?
They have oral traditions, age-old wisdom and knowledge and time tested web of relationships to guide them through their lives. We try to force the need to be literate on them, yes it always helps. But need is to take into account what they have to say, to listen to their unwritten voices.
It was a moment of awakening for me few years ago when P. Sateesh of Deccan Development Society (DDS) based in Hyderabad postured: Why should I wait for these women to become literate first before we can do empowerment work with them? These illiterate, farming class women already have a language, they have words, they have wisdom, they have knowledge and they can talk.
And no wonder these women have lapped up the medium of radio as initiated by DDS producing radio programs which have content emerging out of their context. This is one example of India empowered.
I also have reservations about using the word empowered as if we lack some power and it’s has to be fed in. I like to say, power is all there among our people. But it’s a power denied. It’s a power harnessed when we need it to showcase our culture. Khairati Lal of Lajpat Nagar has travelled the world sponsored by Government of India showcasing his art. Ravi, son of same Khairati Lal lugs stuffed elephants on his young shoulders hawking for his bread in the by lanes of the rich. He can’t afford stall fee at Delhi Haat; he goes to India Gate lawns in the evenings and there he and his fellow hawkers are forced to give a hafta of Rs 300 to the police. He is not sure if he will have a jhuggi to return to since Khairati Lal has been served a notice for demolition. This is just one life lived at the edge next to where life is lived at best in our posh colonies, bungalows of overly empowered.
We all have been swapped up in singing glories of globalisation. I am not for entering into a debate about benefits and perils of globalisation. I feel it’s time we need to cater to localism. It’s every local need, desire and right which needs to be paid attention to. Otherwise we have injustice, exploitation and disempowerment confronting us every minute of our life in India. I feel we need to adopt each other, nurture each other, act for each other and take India ahead as Team India made of not just much celebrated techies, scientists, fashion designers but all those living life at the margins.
I would say India is a powerhouse of emotional warmth and emotional intelligence, its people have not lost touch with their humanity. They have not lost their hearts and souls into the alluring morass of goodies, money and rational ethos and thus continue to bewitch the whole world with their ability to express the magnanimity of their hearts and souls.
How can I ever forget the hospitality I indulged in from my fellow not so privileged Indians? I like to recall one such experience.
Years ago, I visited the village of my friend’s father, a senior official in Delhi who was visiting his village. We were being feted and celebrated by the villagers. They wanted to show respect to my friend’s father and to our educated status. One family on behalf of all invited us for dinner and they served us in the spirit of Athithi Devo Bhava. All they cared about that we had accepted their invitation and they cooked pouring their heart and souls into the food. In return they didn’t ask for jobs in the city, they didn’t ask for anything. In any case there was nothing we could have given them. They had simply outdone us in showing us their exalted human warmth, respect and care.
How can I ever forget having a lunch of boora-ghee and chawal when my family was invited to the wedding of my father’s assistant’s daughter in a village? Though we were Gharatis, we were served first. I can never forget the divine taste of that basic feast and the warmth of their hospitality.
The other day I was feeling bit low, pondering about this struggle of resettling back in my own land after living in ‘exile’ for many years. I passed through India gate area and as usual they were many women and men hawkers selling jamuns and what not on the glorious wide pavements of Rajpath.
I wondered about these women- being pushed around by the police, being bullied by their very demanding customers- roughing it out in our killer public buses. Where are the toilets for them? What about their personal safety? Thinking of their difficulties and recognising their determination to make a living shook me out of my temporary mellowed mood. My head bowed down to the indomitable spirit of these ‘insignificant’ masses of India who do it so hard but can still smile, laugh, eat and find shelter; and sing, dance and draw. I felt I had no right to feel disheartened. For me these marginalised are the inspiration to bring me back to this land of my birth and making.
Once again for me India empowered is reducing/covering/closing distances between the privileged and the marginalised. Then I shall dig up a hole somewhere and retire with my books, my learnings, and my yearnings and shall watch from a distance at India and its people blossoming together. That India wouldn’t have a need for me and then I shall feel be free to leave India to its destiny.
©sumeghaagarwal
"मेरे गोपाल" ने दूध पीया
जुलाई २०१० इंदिरापुरम
"मेरे गोपाल" ने दूध पीया
काकी गोपाल को बेटा-बहु के हवाले कर आई थी।
बहुत काम था गोपाल का। दिन में तीन बार खाना देना होता है, सुबह नहलाना पड़ता है, सब कुछ नियम से करना पड़ता है।
काकी का दिल जब तब टुगबुग करता रहता है। पता नहीं, बहु-बेटा "मेरे गोपाल" की सेवा ठीक से कर पा रहें हैं की नहीं ?
एक दिन बहु का फ़ोन आया। गोपाल ने दूध पी लिया। बेटे ने रोज की तरह गोपाल को दूध दिया और गोपाल ने दूध पी लिया। आस पास खबर फ़ैल गयी, गोपाल दूध पी रहा था। फिर क्या था, अड़ोसी-पडोसी, आस-पास के लोग गोपाल के लिए दूध लेकर आ गए। काकी का मिटटी का छोटा सा घर लोगो से भर गया। सारे फर्श में कीचड़-कीचड़ हो गया। गोपाल ने खूब छक कर दूध पिया।
फिर बेटे को कहना ही पड़ा की इतना दूध मत पिलाओ, मेरे गोपाल का पेट फट जायेगा।
जब से गोपाल ने दूध पिया है, बेटा भी गोपाल को एक फेरा खाना दे देता है। बाकी काम काकी के जाने के बाद, बहु ही कर रही थी अब तक।
काकी का दिल बहुत खुश है, अपने गोपाल के दूध खाने पर। काकी सोच रही हैं की अबकी बार जब थोडा पैसा होगा हाथ में, तो गोपाल को कपडा देना होगा। सब कुछ बनाना होगा - मुकुट, अंगरखा, धोती और जाने क्या क्या।
©sumeghaagarwal
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
2004
समर हिल मोहल्ला, सिडनी
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
बिन बरसे ही टंगे रहते हैं
तुम्हारे आस पास
तुम इनको छूते रहते हो बार बार
बादल हैं बरसना तो है ही
अब जब आ कर टंग गए
हैं मेरे सर पर
तो इनको तुम पर बरसने
का मोका तो देना ही होगा
तुम्हारे हाथ में तो इनकी लगाम नहीं
अब बरसे तो कब बरसे तुम्हारी बला से
तुम तो ये तुम्हारे पास हैं यही
जान कर तकते रहतो हो इनको
पर अगर तुम्हे मालूम होता की
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
तो तुम अपना बरसना थोडा लटका देते
बरसते तो लेकिन साथ साथ बरसते
इन्हें तुम्हारा चुपके से आना जाना
तुम्हारा हलके हलके बरसना
भी प्रेरित नहीं करता
तुम एक बूंद गिराओ तो उसको गटक लेंगे
बूंद से बूंद नहीं मिलायेंगे ये लोग
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
[काफी उकता चुकी थी विदेश प्रवास से,अधूरी मुलाकातों, अधूरी अधूरी जिंदगी से। यह कविता एक प्रतिकिर्या है उस दोरान मिले लोगों को लेकर । ]
©sumeghaagarwal
समर हिल मोहल्ला, सिडनी
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
बिन बरसे ही टंगे रहते हैं
तुम्हारे आस पास
तुम इनको छूते रहते हो बार बार
बादल हैं बरसना तो है ही
अब जब आ कर टंग गए
हैं मेरे सर पर
तो इनको तुम पर बरसने
का मोका तो देना ही होगा
तुम्हारे हाथ में तो इनकी लगाम नहीं
अब बरसे तो कब बरसे तुम्हारी बला से
तुम तो ये तुम्हारे पास हैं यही
जान कर तकते रहतो हो इनको
पर अगर तुम्हे मालूम होता की
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
तो तुम अपना बरसना थोडा लटका देते
बरसते तो लेकिन साथ साथ बरसते
इन्हें तुम्हारा चुपके से आना जाना
तुम्हारा हलके हलके बरसना
भी प्रेरित नहीं करता
तुम एक बूंद गिराओ तो उसको गटक लेंगे
बूंद से बूंद नहीं मिलायेंगे ये लोग
सूखे बादल हैं ये लोग
[काफी उकता चुकी थी विदेश प्रवास से,अधूरी मुलाकातों, अधूरी अधूरी जिंदगी से। यह कविता एक प्रतिकिर्या है उस दोरान मिले लोगों को लेकर । ]
©sumeghaagarwal
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About Me
- sumegha
- I am a dreamer, an optimist, a person with a voice. A normal being who trained as a media professional in India and Australia. I am also a trained community worker. I love trying out new things, taking up new ventures etc. etc. I am bilingual and multicultural. I am a planetarian and try my best to live beyond barriers created by often very unkind human kind for humans and other more important living beings. I live my life reading, thinking, writing and talking.