मखमल में पैबंद हूँ

DATELINE INDIRAPURAM
6-11-2010

मखमल में पैबंद हूँ
बरसों रही यही हैसियत मेरी |

मखमल को वो सहेजती रही |

पैबंद मखमल के साथ
अपनी कमजदगी का एहसास लिए
बरसों धुना, पिटा, निचुड़ा
पर मखमल का हिस्सा रहने
की मुहिम जारी रखी
पैबंद ही सही, पर था 
वो मखमल का हिस्सा |

फिर एक दिन पैबंद को
एहसास हो उठा कि
वो सिर्फ पैबंद नहीं है
वो तो मखमल का ही एक
मखमली हिस्सा था |

और फिर उसने मुहिम छेड़ दी
मखमल से अपना मखमली
वजूद स्वीकार करवाने  की |

पैबंद जागरूक हो उठा था
उसे अब और दबे-कुचले रहना
मंजूर नहीं था |

पर जो आँखे, जो हाथ, जो आत्मा
उसे बरसों पैबंद की पदवी पर बिठाये रखी
वो तैयार नहीं थी  पैबंद को
अपने विशाल मखमल का
मखमली हिस्सा मानने के लिए |

उसने कह दिया पैबंद से कि
क्यों इतना दुसाहस करते हो
पैबंद हो पैबंद रहो, मेरे मखमल
क़ी तरह मखमली वजूद पाने क़ी
ख्वाइश ना रखो | 

नहीं तो ये लो तुम्हे उखाड़ फेंकती हूँ
अख़बार में विज्ञापन भी बुक करा दिया है
तुम्हारी कमजदगी को जगजाहिर करने के लिए |

पैबंद व्यथित था, थक चुका था
उसने सोचा कोई बात नहीं, इससे
पहले तुम उखाड़ के फेंको, ये लो
में खुद अपने को अलग कर लेता हूँ
में पैबंद हूँ तो फिर मखमल
में मेरा क्या काम |

यही सोच पैबंद ने अपने
ताने-बाने को बटोरा और एक
दिन चुप-चाप अपने को
मखमल से अलग कर लिया |

गजब ये हुआ कि जो पैबंद था
वो मखमलमालकिन की आत्मा
को ढके हुये था |

पैबंद हटते ही मखमलमालकिन
की आत्मा कलप उठी |

उसका आवरण हट गया था
अब वो किस मुंह अख़बार में
विज्ञापन देती |

आज तो पैबंद ने हद ही कर दी
मखमलमालकिन
की बरसों पुरानी, सड़ी-गली आत्मा
को ही नंगा कर गया वो |

मखमल में पैबंद हूँ
बरसों रही यही हैसियत मेरी |

©sumeghaagarwal 

हाँ यही प्यार है

हाँ यही प्यार है
DATELINE INDIRAPURAM
8-9 -2006

हाँ यही प्यार है|
सच है ये प्यार
वो गालियों की बोछारें
वो इल्जामो के पुलिंदे
का कोई जवाब होता तो देती
वो सब थी तुम्हारी भरपूर कोशिशें
इस प्यार को झूठा साबित करने की|

पर जिस प्यार पर ना तुम्हारा
बस था ना मेरा है,
वो एक सच ही तो है |

चाहे कितना ही मंथन कर लूं
मेरा दिल दिमाग के हत्ते नहीं
चढ़ता इस मामले में |

सारे संशय, सारे प्रयास
इस प्यार को भुला देने में
बेकाम हैं|

वो जो सच था, अब भी वहीँ
उसी द्रढ़ता के साथ
खड़ा है हमारे तुम्हारे बीच|

मैंने तो इसे कब का गले
लगा लिया पर तुम्हारी
सरकारी मुहर की इसे
अभी दरकार है |

इतिहास जब लिखोगे तुम अपना
तो किस पन्ने को खाली छोड़ोगे |
कैसे जीवन के इस सच को छिपाओगे,
कब तक भागोगे इस से |

भाग तो रहे हो जाने कब से
पर फिर बार-बार अपने
को इस सुच के रूबरू
क्यों पाते हो ?

एक सवाल है तुमसे
एक सवाल है अपने आप से
कि अगर ये सच नहीं है
तो क्यूं तुम हर षण
साथ-साथ रहते हो ?

क्यों जीवित हो अब तक
क्यों जीवित हूँ में अब तक?
क्यों तुमने पूर्व जन्मो का हवाला दिया था ?

क्यों तुम सच उगल जाते हो
दूरभाष के लम्बे तार्रों पर ?

क्यों तुम जब मिलते हो
तो इस सच को निगल जाते हो ?

कुछ समझ है तुम्हारी कायरता की,
तुम्हारी मजबूरियों की |

पर कितनी बार कहा कि
मेरी ताकत के सहारे एक बार
यह तो स्वीकार कर लो
कि ये सच है |

अंगीकार कर लो इस सच को
चैन से तुम भी सो पाओगे
और हम भी |

इस प्रोजेक्ट प्यार की इतिश्री
कर दो वर्ना
अगले जीवन में फिर
तडपोगे, तडपाओगे |

कर्मयोग समझो इसको,
मुझे भी इस बंधन से
मुक्ति की दरकार है |

आओ दो-दो हाथ कर लें
इस सच से,
ताकि फिर चल पायें
हम अपने अपने रस्ते |


हाँ यही प्यार है
सच है ये प्यार |

©sumeghaagarwal 

Squirrel And Me

Squirrel And Me
DATELINE NEW DELHI
THE TRIBUNE OFFICE CP
12-9-1991

A little squirrel there on the terrace
Pokes and pokes into a big cloth she found there.

Is it a pantie or a shirt or a something?
What is she looking for in it?

Is it a grain attached to the cloth
or has she lost her ear-rings or the necklace?

no no no

I know what she looking for.
And she only told me that
lately she started feeling shy of being naked
when all around her clothe and clothe
not only their bodies but their souls too.

She told me
I am solid they are hollow, that is why
they need a wrap over their souls too.

The body is ok but the nakedness of the soul
they certainly could not reveal to all.
With body naked they could face some
but with the soul made naked
They Had It.

I wonder:
So what
What is new in that?

No comments please,
pleaded the squirrel.

You know what
Sometimes I feel if I too
Could adorn my beautiful soulful body
With some frilly, laced tiny clothies
And could dance and shout at the top of my voice
Look here I am with the wrap or without it

I Am.
I Am the Body.
I Am the Soul.
I Am the Creation.

:So what
Why do you make such fuss about it?
Your newly found curisoity to have your body wrapped in some frilly clothies.

You shut up.
I will do what I want to do
and would make a fuss too.
Watch it, if your clothes are
firmly attached to your body and oonh soul?

:Oofffffffffffffffff
It's Ok It's Ok It's OK

Then bye bye
and there goes the squirrel

A little squirrel there on the terrace
Pokes and pokes into a big cloth she found there.

©sumeghaagarwal 

तुमसे पहले तुम्हारे चुने इस रास्ते पर

DATELINE INDIRAPURAM
9 /03 /06


तुमसे पहले तुम्हारे चुने इस रास्ते पर
चल चुके हैं और भी लोग

संकेरे हैं उन्होंने कांटे और उगाते चले गये फूल
करते रहे समतल, सुन्दर इस रास्ते को वो

तुम भी कर्म के महायज्ञ में
धर्मनीति पर चलते हुये
समयानूकूल आहुतियाँ देते रहोगे
इसी आशा में तुमसे पहले चले लोग
इसी रास्ते पर चल कर मंजिलो को
अपनी अपनी पहुँचते चले गये

तुम्हारी शक्ति हैं तुमसे पहले
चल चुके लोगों के साह्स में निष्ठा
तुम्हारी प्रेरणा है तुमसे पीछे
चलने वालों की आशाएं और अपेक्षाएं

चलते रहो वीर तुम
इस चयनित पथ पर

निडर, निर्भय, चलो की
जैसे विचरण कर रहे हो
किसी सुन्दर कानन वन
की सुरमई पगडण्डी पर

कोयों का कलरव तो है
पर अनभिज्ञ नहीं तुम
कोयल की कुहू कू से

पथ पर कंकर सही
पर ऊपर विराट आकाश
की नीलाई तुम्हे अपने
आगोश में रखे हुये है

अभी तो सूरज उगा था
फिर  चाँद भी अपनी जगह आ टंगेगा
उसे पता है कि गहन वन की
पगडंडियों पर निर्बाध चलने के लिए
उसे रोशनी देनी ही होगी

तुमसे पहले तुम्हारे इस
चुने रास्ते पर चल चुके हैं और भी लोग.

©sumeghaagarwal

उसके साये में पलती हैं

DATELINE GULMOHAR PARK NEW DELHI

15/07/05
For Anjali Gopalan

उसके साये में पलती हैं
जाने कितनी ही जिंदगिया

उसकी आँखों की चमक से
होती हैं कितनी ही राहें उजागर

बालो की उलझनों में
समेटे है जाने कितनो की उलझने

उसकी आवाज की गूँज से
जिंदगी उफान लेती है

फ़रिश्ता नहीं ना खुदा है वो
वो तो बस, बस एक ही
आम इन्सान है

अथक प्यार उसकी पहचान है

कभी उदास, कभी गुस्सा तो
वो भी होती होगी
पर खबर किसी को मिलती ही नहीं

वो तो बस एक, बस एक ही
आम इन्सान है.

©sumeghaagarwal

जाने ये लोग मुझे चाहते हैं क्यों

DATELINE SYDNEY
28/10/03

जाने ये लोग मुझे चाहते हैं क्यों
मेरी जद्दोजहद तो सिर्फ
निकल जाने की है.

ना बांधो मुझे तुम यहाँ
सुना है वहां
मुक्ती  का राज है.

गलबहियां ना दो मुझे
मेरी सांसे बढ़ जाती हैं.

मत दो सहारा तुम मुझे
जोकि पैर कहीं इधर
ही जम ना जाएँ
मेरी जद्दोजहद तो सिर्फ
निकल जाने  की है.

यहाँ में अकेले ही चल सकती हूँ
दायें बाएं जगह नहीं है.

मत अटको तुम मेरे रास्ते में
मत पकड़ो पीछे से तुम
छाया को मेरी.

जाने भी दो मुझे.

जाने ये लोग मुझे चाहते हैं क्यों
मेरी जद्दोजहद तो सिर्फ
निकल जाने की  है.

©sumeghaagarwal

आधी अधूरी पर पूरी ये जिंदगी

DATELINE INDIRAPURAM
5 /10 /07

आधी अधूरी पर पूरी ये जिंदगी


अधूरी होली, अधूरी दिवाली
थोड़ी सी ईद, आधी सी क्रिसमस
बरसो से मेरी खिल्ली ये सब उड़ाती.

आती हैं, जाती हैं
ritual निभाने
रावन की जगह तीर मुझमे आजमाने.

पूरी सूली पर आधा-अधूरा
मुझे टांग जाती.

नियम  से हर साल
अपने-अपने नियत समय पर
आकर मुझे मुंह चिढाती
कि हम तो हैं पूरी
तुम  ही अधूरे.

अधूरेपन की धुरी पर
चकरघन्नी बन कर
आधी-अधूरी सांसों के दम पर
करने में जुटे हो तुम जीवन को पूरा.

चलो बहुत try  मार लिया 
समझो कि तुम कि
हो चाहे आधे-अधूरे 
पर जी है जिंदगी तुमने पूरी

हमें है आना, हमें है जाना 
बहुतो के दिल को बहलाना
आशायों को जगाना. 

हामिद की तरह जाओ मेले से
चिमटा तो ले आओ
दादी कभी मिल ही जाएगी. 

रंगों की पुडिया खोले  ही 
रखना कभी किसी को 
लगा तो सकोगे.

एक दीप हर दिवाली जलाते ही रहना 
पठाखे कोई उससे जला ही लेगा.

निजामुद्दीन के ठिये से
सिवैय्यों के झुरमुट लाते ही
रहना, कभी तो उन्हें
सही-सही बना ही लोगे.

ईसा के मंदिर में जाते ही रहना
कभी तो तुम्हारे मौन को वो सुनेगा.

हम भी अधूरे, तुम भी अधूरे
पर मिल कर हो जातें हैं पूरे.

 अधूरी होली, अधूरी दिवाली
थोड़ी सी ईद, आधी सी क्रिसमस
बरसों से मेरी खिल्ली ये सब उड़ाती.

©sumeghaagarwal

सूत से कच्ची ये दोस्तियाँ

DATELINE SYDNEY
25 /01 /01

सूत से कच्ची ये दोस्तियाँ
पत्थर बने दिल, चट्टान सा अहम्
रेशम में लिपटे खुदरे-खुदरे लोग.

में कि गोद में पनपते-बढ़ते लोग
राहों में बिखरे कंकरों जैसे
कैसे ढोऊ में इन्हें.

सूत से कच्ची ये दोस्तियाँ
ये लिजलिजी दोस्तियाँ.

हाथ मिलाउ तो ये 
छिल-छिल जाएँ
कदम बढाऊँ तो ये
पैर जल-जल जाएँ.

एक कदम आगे बढ़ा के 
दस कदम पीछे हटती ये दोस्तियाँ.

 सूत से कच्ची ये दोस्तियाँ.  

English Translation

SHALLOW FRIENSHIPS
These friendships,
Are weaker than the cotton thread.

These stone-hearted, egoistical,
wrapped in silk but rough
and crude people,
nurtured in the lap of individualism
lie scattered on my path
like sharp pebbles.

How do I deal with them?
These friendships
Are weaker than the cotton thread.

These shallow friendships,
When I hold out my hand
it gets bruised

These friendships, take one step forward,
Ten steps backward at the same time.



©sumeghaagarwal

BE WITH ME

DATELINE NEW DELHI
circa 1992

Be with me
Like the soft clouds overhead.

I see you or not
But you be there
For those moments
When I like
To be soaked in your love.

I carry on with my travails
But you follow my trail
Without me knowing it
Without me feeling the itch
To get rid of you.

You don't knock at my door
I am lost in my world
Which includes you.

You just come and caress me
Toe to head
In your unconditional love
Your unending compassion.

You have touched me
My friend
A touch
Like that of soft clouds overhead.

©sumeghaagarwal

I am a solitary walker

DATELINE SYDNEY
13/04/01

I am a solitary walker
On the shifting sands.

I try to stand firm
Waves wash away ground beneath me
Grain by grain
As my life ebbs away
Breath by breath.

I leave behind my footprints
Waves come rushing to them
As I watch my footprints disappear.

I go deeper, dig deeper in the sand
Waves go fiercer
They need their fodder.

Deeper I go, deeper they go
Continue eating the ground beneath me  grain by grain
My life ebbs away breath by breath.

I am a solitary walker
On the shifting sands.

©sumeghaagarwal

मेरे कदम चाँद पर

DATELINE INDIRAPURAM
8 /03 /2006

मेरे कदम चाँद पर
चहलकदमी करते हैं
और वो यहीं
जमीन पर घुटने टिकाये
इर्द-गिर्द फैले टुकड़े-टुकड़े
दाने को ही बटोरते रहते हैं .

कह-कह कर थक गई
आओ उठो तुम भी
थोडा चाँद पर चहलकदमी करके तो देखो
उठ नहीं सकते तो पकड़ो मेरा हाथ
और खिंचे चले आओ यहाँ तक.

मेरे कदम चाँद पर
चहलकदमी करते हैं

यहाँ कई और कदमो की आहट
मुझे सुनाई देती है 
अहसास है मुझे इन सह्पथिको की उपस्थति का
पर लगता है सब बहुत शर्मीले हैं 
इस विस्तार में अलग-अलग
खुद अपने ही साथ 
निशब्द ही टहलते रहते हैं.

मायूस वो भी हैं
सोच कर कि जाने कितने ही साथी
जमीन पर घुटने टिकाये
बंदरबांट में ही जीवन
कि तलहटी पर रेंगते न रह जाएँ. 

चलो छोड़ो जाने भी दो
जब तुम्हे फुर्सत हो तो
इस रस्ते भी चले आना
चाहे अनचाहे , तो यहीं चाँद पर
फिर  मुलाकात होगी.

मेरे कदम चाँद पर
चहलकदमी करते हैं
और वो यहीं
जमीन पर घुटने टिकाये
इर्द-गिर्द फैले टुकड़े-टुकड़े
दाने को ही बटोरते रहते हैं.

©sumeghaagarwal

PUPS FOR ADOPTION IN INDIRAPURAM, GHAZIABAD

PUPS FOR ADOPTION IN INDIRAPURAM, GHAZIABAD



I have been sheltering four lovely pups of a bitch that lives around in my apartment building. Worried about their safety, I brought them up and kept them in the space next to the staircase near my flat.

I no time, we had some bowls for them to give food and water and one kind resident donated a tube shaped little tent for them. They quickly settled in and their mother came around to feed them.

I have named them as Parchum, Chumchum, Titli and Jogin.

They are now one month old and each has a distinct personality. Parchum is a simpleton, Chumchum is royal in his manners, Titli is too agile and naughty, Jogin is meditative and loves to sleep flat on her tummy. Parchum is full black with white snout, Chumchum is all white with beautiful tiger like black patches, Titli is all black, Jogin is dark brown with a blackish strip running through her spine.


They are born of a street dog but they are beautiful and being taken good care of. They lounge around in my lounge room, play with my slippers, furniture, newspapers and what not.


Please take them home. The are lovely and with your good care can become good pets. My heart bleeds for letting them go but I am unable to keep them as I live in a flat and often I am out of town.
Soon I shall post their photographs as well.


Please get in touch on meghalive@gmail.com or call 9899 29 3449


Many thanks
sumegha

I AM OLD

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

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

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

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

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.

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. 

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

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

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

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

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

"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

DATELINE CHAIBASA (JHARKHAND)

DATE 24 DECEMBER 2009
TIME 9.30ish

A CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH INDIA IN TATTERS

I travelled to Chaibasa district in Jharkhand to meet a person I had befriended over the phone. Aim was to meet this phone friend in person and also to mobilize recruitment for a domestic help placement service initiated by my friend Kalpana basically to provide employment for women in need.

During our rounds through areas inhabited by the lower classes around the place we stayed, I came across a young woman who was lying in a cot outside her very humble home. She held on to a copy of Bible resting on her chest. I couldn’t walk away from her. I discovered she was ill for a long time and had no clue what ailed her. Her mother with a swollen face served her.

I ended up promising young Putli to organize some medical attention through my friend Shakeel. Putli was in a bad shape and lamented about nobody ever sitting with her, comforting her. Her nails were dirty and overgrown. Another young girl a friend of Putli came around. I reprimanded her for not taking care of Putli and asker her to cut her nails.

By now I realized, perhaps fear also played a big role in Putli being neglected and that’s why Putli’s friend was so reluctant to go close to her. With a promise to be kept, I returned to Shakeel’s place and told him about Putli. He had a very busy job running immunization programs for an international welfare organization. The weight of the promise weighed heavy on my conscience and I waited for the desired response from Shakeel which was not happening.

One evening as we sat around in his living room talking about this case, he said, ok let’s go. We, six of us, Shakeel and his two young children, house help Mono (a local tribal girl); Kalpana and I filled ourselves in Shakeel’s Maruti van. Together we reached to Putli’s house. There we were confronted by a family who seem to be living in a cesspool of domestic violence, drug abuse, ignorance and hopelessness. This too was very much India, an India perhaps no tourist would like to hang out with.

When we reached Putli’s house it was locked from inside with some light filtering out. Mono took courage and knocked at the door. She told us not to worry she being a local. The door was opened. In the front little space, Putli’s mother was lying in a cot with eyes swollen and a fresh bloodied cut on her forehead. Her father was in another little space. He greeted us, a gaunt looking thin man. He guided us to Putli who was lying in a cot in one big room space. Also a young man lay on a cot next to Putli. Their belongings were all sort of displayed in the room. Some shining utensils kept on a side shelf. There were lot of small and big TVs stored in the house. We wondered about why they had so many TVs.

While Shakkel attended to Putli, organized medical checkup etc for the next day with the district hospital doctors, Kalpana and me talked to rest of the family. It so happened that Putli’s father used to beat his wife every day. His lament was that his wife was not taking good care of him and the house and was drinking every day. He worked as a safai karmachari (Cleaner) with local municipal body and earned enough to fend for his family. His son, one could gather was too depressed. He was missing school and worked occasionally. Little money he earned, he didn’t give to his mother but spent on it looked like on some intoxicants etc. For a young boy of his age, he looked forlorn and resigned to all encompassing hopelessness.

Putli’s undiagnosed sickness added to the woes of this family and added to the violent bickering between his parents. Neighbours, who by now were spilling out of their homes, told us they were aware of this family’s misfortune but didn’t know how to help the family. They tried to reason it with Putli’s mother to restrain herself and be more cooperative with the man in the house. But it seemed nothing worked and this was going on for sometime and everyone seemed to be used to it. Putli was taken to doctors, her parents also fought over treatment for her, Her mother changed the treatment often as she wanted her to get better soon while father insisted on sticking with one treatment for a while.

Shakeel's two young children – a boy and a girl felt too uncomfortable in seeing all this. Shakeel had the courage to expose his children to one such crude reality of India. These children studied in good schools and had almost every wish provided for.

We felt so helpless. We couldn’t do much except to use tact and talk to console these people and hoped there might be some impact, hoped there might be some improvement in their behaviour. We really hoped that once Putli got better; she would be able to get her house in order. And that’s what we could do. And we left.

Later after few months I called up Putli. They had a mobile phone in the house but didn’t know how to use. Often ringing mode was inadvertently put on silent mode. So after trying perhaps 15 times over a period of four months, I got through. Putli had recovered but was in no mood to talk much. She was not satisfied with the medical help we had organized. We felt bit disappointed for fretting and worrying about her and her family.

I don’t know what is the status now. If Putli, as we fervently hoped, has been able to get her house in order? If her mother is taking in less of beatings? If her brother has mended his ways? if her father has sobered down a bit etc?

I will never come to know unless I visit her again. Till then that night confronting that India in tatters shall remain ever etched in my mind and heart.

DATELINE

NCR

JULY 4 2010 TIME 10.50 PM

A COOL PROFESSIONAL

Who is cool? I we take it as one who goes about their work with calm, delivers what is promised, doesn’t try to extrapolate seeking something else in lieu of the work done; someone who does the work and doesn’t let his/her ego become a bottleneck. In other words someone who does your work effortlessly and puts to bed all your worries, stress about the work to be done. Here I want to share story of an insurance professional I came across in connection with my car insurance job. I dealt with him for three years for insurance renewal and to me he came across as a cool professional who delivered as asked on time.

…I went to a national insurance company office in Delhi for the renewal of insurance on a second hand car I had bought recently. I met this guy let’s name him Avi who was working away at a computer. Being in a government office I worried about the usual hassle of being told like - it can’t be done today as Comps are down or told it can only be done in the morning or the person concerned is on leave etc etc.

As I approached him nervously, he very calmly took my papers, did some calculations, gave me a figure, and changed the address taking my government bank account book as evidence. I had all the papers but still worried about a missing paper. But his approach was very positive right from the start. Everything was in order. I paid, got the receipt and was told papers will be ready tomorrow. Looking at my address in Indirapuram, he himself offered to drop it to me next morning as he lived close by. I worried about him seeking some extra money etc or having to chase him. But no next morning he came early morning and gave me my papers and left. I was so relived as the renewal was done on time and just to collect the papers I didn’t have to waste another four hours to travel to the insurance office. Avi also offered his card and told me that the following year when the renewal is due all I had to just call him and he will do the rest.

Much to my surprise he did it. Next year I called him just a day before renewal. He made the papers and next morning gave it to me personally. While I was still sleeping, he was already there at my society reception. It so happened he was dropping her daughter to school and my house was on the way. Still it was some effort to come and wait for me to come down. Once I asked Avi to come up and offered tea but he refused. He never asked me any personal question, never took any interest in my matters. He never told me about himself and never tried to build a friendship saying things like do visit us etc. He came, he delivered, gave me my papers and left. I wondered what was in it for him. I realized there couldn’t be anything for him except that he was being helpful and didn’t think much of it to serve a client personally. He didn’t’ make it an issue for having to come to my society reception though he could have asked me to collect the papers from his home or could have asked me to come to some point to collect the same. One year, when he came up to my flat I was buy preparing for a cultural program with the society kids. I sort of told him the reason behind the messy state of my flat.

Much to my surprise, he was very appreciative of my efforts and wished me good luck and said if he could he too would join in with his family. The following year, I followed the same routine. He did the work, apologized for not been able to come to the function last year etc . I am not sure if insurance agents working directly in the office get a commission on every job done. But so far for three years he didn’t ask for a single extra rupee. In the fourth year, he did talk of something like facilitation fee. By now I started thinking how do I reward Avi for the hassle free service? I thought of buying a gift etc. I had no qualms about giving him extra Rs 200 in the fourth year. He had already saved me at least thousand rupees, time over last three renewals. Above all he saved me from all the unnecessary stress as just in the nick of time insurance used to be renewed and I was able to continue using my car. Because of his efforts, I didn’t have to a miss a single day on not being able to use my car.

Avi played a cool and graceful role in keeping me on the road. He never made any disparaging remarks on me using an old car. He did ask me once or twice to buy a better car as he said it would suit me better for somebody who worked and lived abroad. I told him it didn’t matter much to me as long as car took me to my destination. I also told him than generally in the West owning a car was not a status symbol but a convenience.

I forget to mention, Avi never tried to sell me any other insurance polices. Never cross-referred me. Occasionally I had some other insurance queries for him. Once I called him regarding some insurance related educational matter. He proved to be a great help. Now my second hand car is slated to go to scrap dealer as having run out of its fitness limit etc so I won’t need Avi’s services but he will always remain a reliable trustworthy source on issuance matters for me.

DATELINE
NCR
July 4 2010 Time 8.15 pm

A DEAD RELATIONSHIP

Often it happens, you meet someone, you feel a great bonding and you see immense possibilities ahead for making it a success together for both involved. You start calling each other, you make plans, you keep the other person in your plans. All this because you want to believe in what you felt in your very first meeting and you want to believe in the possibilities and you want to keep the hope alive. Every relationship adds to the compound hope for keeping alive, for continuing striving. But then the hard reality, of which you had lurking doubt right in the initial stage, hits you that it was a futile connection and nothing ever was going to come out of it, for you and perhaps for the other party. Here I like to share with you one such story of a dead relationship in the arena of work. This is my version; I can’t give you the version of the other person as that is beyond my reach. However I do feel the other party involved didn’t have much need for me. She was already settled in her life, in work etc and for her a possible synergy with me was an added thing – if it worked or not worked it didn’t have much impact on her.

…She came in. I was sitting around a round table in an office in NOIDA getting briefed of an E-learning project. She was also going to be the part of the team. For our convenience, let’s name her as Sally. I can’t give her real name as my purpose of sharing this story with you is to just share a commonplace life experience and it’s not an attempt to defame her or get even with her. I write as it helps me to develop my understanding of this world and I believe in sharing as some of you might have had similar experiences.

Let’s get back to the story.

Sally came in. She was puffing and panting and told me that her family had a history of high BP or in other words her family and she too tends to get overstressed. I smiled at her for sharing such intimate information even before we shared each other’s names. She looked well-bred, sophisticated, very modern and un-needy for work. She worked because she likes to work and has to keep herself gainfully busy.

We struck a chord. We were given a separate room away from the main office space where permanent staff worked. While working in the same room, we started sharing bits and pieces about our professional life and started sharing our ‘dreams’, started consulting each other when we got stuck with something with the work in hand. Soon I found myself accompanying her for little drives around for some errand of hers as a break for me and we kept talking in her car. Our supervisor got wind of it and started asking us about our walkabouts which we found amusing. We were two mature freelance professionals and had every right to meet, discuss, plan etc. I felt it resulted in us getting separated. She was given different kind of work on the same project and was given a workstation in a space faraway from me.

We took it our stride and busied ourselves with the work in hand. After few months I left the project and went away overseas but by that time we had developed an email thread and I had started sharing my existential worries too with her. I enjoyed talking to Sally as she listened to me as a very involved and compassionate listener and never tried to pull me down.

I felt I could talk with Sally endlessly about any matter which concerned me - professional, personal, societal, spiritual etc etc. She showed great interest in my writing and I was too happy to email her first chapter of a long-pending work. I eagerly waited of her feedback but it never came. Not a word. I started getting worried about my work being plagiarized, misused etc and stressed over it for a long time. Then I requested her to send me an email saying that she will not misappropriate my work. That email never came. My frustration started building up. I was no longer getting response to my mails from her. While overseas, I called her few times as I wanted to share my experiences but she was always in a rush and always talked about not checking that particular email account which she only gave me.

Never mind. I returned to India and after resettling reconnected with Sally. She sounded happy and again talked about the possibilities which could arise out of our association things like setting up an Editorial service, setting up a publishing house. I freely made my inputs and said to work with her to realize these ‘dreams’.

One day she called up asking me to consider a project. After initial discussion she asked me to prepare a power point presentation so that she could pass it on to the client for further discussion. She told it was all at an exploratory stage but if it works out I will be part of her team. I took my time and after exchanging few phone calls did email what was asked for.

In no time she asked me to visit her in NCR at her home office. I dusted off my rattling car, organized a driver and went to her place. We had a good discussion and I felt she was not following obvious leads for preparing the text for the proposed writing project. I felt good in making a good input and following up on some leads by calling up etc. We worked out our strategy and I returned home spending over Rs 1000/ on fuel and driver.

Then there was a sort of silence. I did some follow-up emails. Got no reply then in utter frustration I called her up and asked about status on the promised work. I was told things like the project director have changed and the whole thing was being re-discussed etc etc and she will keep me in the loop. But I was never in the loop. Nothing came out of this month-long mental churning and till today I have no idea if she got the project or not. Or I allowed myself to be used up to facilitate her securing the project.

I also observed that all through almost a year-long phone, email, personal meeting routine, Sally never ever shared anything personal and always talked in response to what I had to say.

I felt very let down and white-boarded her name making a note that I had to close chapter with her. I still had to receive that precious mail regarding my work of writing I had emailed much earlier in the course of our association.

I called her and told her about how stressed and deceived I felt and wondered why she can’t just pen down a two-liner email to calm my nerves. I knew even after sending this email, if she wanted she can misappropriate my work anytime. It will be difficult for me to trace as word of writing is so big which includes internet-based publishing. I trusted Sally and still trust that she is a person of good moral standing and wouldn’t do any such thing. She herself is a writer. When called, she was amused with my worries and laughed it off but did email something similar to what I asked for. I still need to print a copy and keep it safe in case I might need it in the future.

With this all was over between us. We had reached a dead-end. All the possibilities which we envisaged I knew were not going to take off, I got on with life. Then again I got an email from her seeking my interest in some project which sought her recommendations for a writer. I was least enthused about it. I let the email wait in my inbox but then replied sending her CV thinking may be it was a genuine query. I thought I will consider when I come to it. Otherwise it felt like sending my CV to an online dustbin. I suppressed my ego and gave Sally one more chance to redeem it all for both of us.

But there was nothing to be redeemed. I never got any response from Sally and I have no interest left to follow it up with her. I still have her number on my mobile which has escaped deletion.

I still feel we could just talk and not work with each other but what’s the point. I rather take things deep within to have a better understanding, I shall rather write and share to have a better grip on things.