Prashant Yadav's Blog, page 2

Microstory 17: The wasp and the cloud

It wipes off sweat from its forehead. The wasp. Sitting in her home on a tree trunk. Power goes. Fan stops,TV too. Irritated, she comes out.

Bright, hot sun all around. And then, she sees a patch of shade. She quickly flies there, looks up. A dark cloud, covering the sun. She smiles. She looks at the cloud the way you look at very few people. Then, she feels a sudden urge to reach out and tell the cloud it comforted her. So, she flies up. Up and up. But the cloud is too far. She cries out, “Cloud. Oyi, cloud.” But the cloud is too far. Doesn’t hear. She tries to fly further up but her little wings won’t carry her. Disheartened, she descends.

Just then, the cloud sees her. Something about her draws him to her. He comes down. Down and down. So down, he reaches little Pintu’s terrace. Pintu, standing on the terrace gets all wet. Clouds are water vapours, after all.

So, cloud comes down. Wasp sees him. Smiles. “Thank you cloud,” she says, surprised at the tear in her eyes.

“Why cry?” asks the cloud.

“I tried talking to you but you were too far.” she says.

“Oh, no worries,” cloud says, “My friends are air and water. Say anything to the air and it will take your message to me. I will say it to the water and it will bring my message to you.”

The wasp smiles and then, makes a sad face. “But my friends are butterflies. They can’t fly up to you.”

Cloud too goes sad. The butterfly comes along. “What happened?” she asks the wasp.

“You are my friend, but you can’t take my message to the cloud.” says wasp and makes a sad face again.

“You worried for this?” the butterfly asks, then says, “Flowers are my friend. And their friend is fragrance. So, you tell me your message. I will give it to the flower and the fragrance will take it to the cloud.”

The wasp smiles. She hugs the butterfly. “Careful,” says the butterfly, smiling, “careful with the sting.” They both laugh.The cloud too smiles.

So, the cloud now sends his messages through the water and the wasp sends her messages through air and fragrance.

(Photo courtesy: pexels.com)

Microstory 16: The things I do for spite

Class VIII. Or was it VII?

Mathematics period. The Mathematics Teacher in class. (Do note the capitalisations – it’s not without a reason, but that for a later post). Some copies being distributed so everyone on their feet moving about – between the teacher’s desk and their own.

I sit with X. X has gone to get his copy. His notebook lying on the desk. I sense an opportunity.

Now, this X is a friend. But is also the guy who beats me 9 times out of 10 in Mathematics. Big deal? Big fucking deal. And he beats me 9 times out of 10 in overall score. Yes, till he didn’t leave the school, both of us would be either first or second in class – me being second, you guessed it, 9 times out of 10.

So, the moment X leaves, I pull out my fountain pen and write, “X chor hai” on his notebook. An act of pure spite. A kiddish way to get back at a competitor you can’t defeat. Also, I wrote with my left hand, so that handwriting could not be matched.

X returns. Sees his notebook, complaints to The Mathematics Teacher.

Now, I had a curious dynamic with The Mathematics Teacher too. Good words from her meant way more than good words from any other teacher. Perhaps because she was so tough to please. Perhaps because dad always glorified maths as this super cool subject every self-respecting human should excel at. Also because she always took great pains to answer all my questions – and my questions too arose from an interesting place. Somehow, I had heavily bought into the idea that all I needed to do to become a famous mathematician was to falsify any of the theorems taught in school. So, any new theorem or method taught, I would think of conditions when it would not hold. And that popped several questions in my head. And I would stand up and ask. And she would answer them. Am sure most of those questions would be pretty absurd. But she never seemed irritated and never discouraged any questions.

But I digress.

So, X goes to The Mathematics Teacher. She looks at the notebook and says, “Everyone bring their pens here. Check whose ink colour is this.”

And my heart sinks, the ground crashes beneath my feet. Why ink colour? Why?

“Ma’am, shouldn’t we match the handwriting?” I protest, not knowing that I had just given away.

“No,” she says, “Handwriting can be changed.”

So, the ink colours were matched. And it was mine. She just said, “Why do you say that? What has he stolen of yours?” and then let it go.

I now remember I used to write in Blue-Black ink by Chelpark – it had a distinct hue. Perhaps that prompted her to match ink colours. Or she would have done that anyway- no way for me to know.

But that’s how, yet another battle ended – between her, the defender of all ancient mathematics theorems and I, the challenger, only desirous of breaking in any one of them. The result, the same as always – me trudging away with my tail between my legs.

(Photo courtesy: Nicole Honeywill, Unsplash.com)

Microstory 15: The life of the little good

So, I am standing at a paan shop – one of those large shop-front variety that you find in Western India (different from the humble khokhas/khomchas that dot the North). A gentleman walks in, puts his hands in his pockets and several coins fall. One lands on my foot.

A fairly common occurrence – my standard protocol would be to shake my foot to drop the coin and step aside so that the gentleman can pick it. That’s how I would react, that’s how I have always reacted – it’s such a small thing – programmed in my head like press the button, bulb glows.

But, I bend down, pick the coin and hand it over to the gentleman. It happens so instinctively, I am amazed at myself.

And then, I remember. Some ten days ago, I was at Nazeer’s. Ordered food at the counter, time to pay. Wallet out, coins fall. One lands near the feet of the gentleman standing besides. He steps aside, bends down, picks the coin and hands it over to me. I smile and thank. End of the story.

Only, the story didn’t end there. It somehow seeped in my subconscious and changed one of the most automatic patterns in my head. The gentleman doesn’t know. But his little act just made me more civil.

Like the good in you finding its way into someone else and making him slightly better.

(Photo by Alena Koval from Pexels)

An ode to a friend – he was 50, I was 0 – till death did us part

Note: This was written exactly a year ago, give or take a week, in a different context. An excerpt of a larger piece. But this part talks about the first friendship I built. A friendship across an age gap of 50 years that lasted 23+ years. Till he passed away. Years later, I got a feeling I saw him in a market in Noida. I knew I saw him. Can’t explain how. I still feel his presence sometimes. Allow me to build some preamble.



My earliest childhood memories are me in an all aluminium rickshaw with bags hanging from its side going to Spring Dales School, Pilibhit in my Nursery. They gave me a really colorful handpainted report card, with columns, subject names, scores in colored sketch pens on a yellow chart paper. Very beautiful. I think it also had a picture of flowers pasted on it. I stood first. A few years later when I could understand, I saw that report card and felt proud. Mom told me I had only gone there for a month or so and that disappointed me.

Then, I remember police line scenes with my maternal grandfather. A towering man, with sword like moustache and a voice so powerful, it would freeze your blood if it talked to you in anger. We clicked immediately. Much later, I tried to rationalise it by thinking that perhaps I was the only boy in his family – he had six daughters, he also had a couple of sons none of whom survived and I was the eldest son of his eldest daughter – the first of his grandkids. I liked his gun. I liked how he told me that one should never lag behind in the matters of food. And will eternally love him for the fifty odd times he showed me the legendary Bachchan song, “Mere paas aao mere doston” from Mr Natwarlal in cinema theatres in Badaun – we would go to the hall whenever I wanted to see the song again, he would tell the theatre guy that the boy wants to see the song, we will enter the hall mid movie, watch the song and then leave. Rinse and repeat. I never got tired of seeing the song. He never got tired of showing me the song. Till the theatres changed the movie.

I loved how he talked Urdu poetry with me – a kid barely able to pronounce his own name but just happy with all the affection. And, he would take me to the barracks where I would play doctor to the innumerable cops, I distinctly remember me sitting on his office table using my plastic doctor’s set – using stethoscopes and thermometers and injections on sundry cops. The doctor’s set had other equipments too, none of which I knew and none of which I used.

Images with him fill my mindspace. There are some images from Shahjahanpur and Lucknow KG Medical College when dad fell severely ill and everyone had lost hope. Must have been a traumatic moment for all of them. I dont remember much or the severity as I spent most of the time at his place in Badaun.

He’d gift me a gun almost everytime. And he’d get something or the other everytime he came home. I saw him fire a gun and that segued into my first trysts with smoking, as the only thing I noticed about the gun was the trail of smoke. I was his bright shining puppy and he was my first friend. Interesting that it was across a massive age barrier. I think we loved each other as men.

He continued talking Urdu poetry with me from the days I started walking upright. And he never explained it till I asked him to. He expected me to understand. And that made me push harder and ask for help if I could not. There, he treated me as an equal. He also loved to quote Ram Charit Manas. And he had a big scar on his back. Whenever I’d see him without his shirt on, I’d want to touch that scar. I think I did too once or twice when we slept in the same bed. Or maybe not. I loved his sweaty smell but I hated his blanket. It pricked me.

Much later, as a teen I’d spend bulk of my summer vacations at his place. He’d wake me up at 4 and take me to really long walks. We’d walk some 7-8 kilometers, from his home to roads to fields to the bridge on the river Sot (called Laal Pul – I’d wrack my brains everytime to figure why it was called Laal Pul but I never saw anything red). In class VIII, I told him I wanted to learn Urdu and he taught me to read and write it. I can still read and write Urdu though might need a quick 5 min revision to identify all letters.

They say I’ve inherited his height and voice. Perhaps the dark hard face too. And that scares me. He died of throat and lung cancer when I was in my first term at Ahmedabad. They didn’t tell me he was gone till a month and a half later when I merrily returned home in the term vacation and innocently asked where he was. I also remember him lying on his sick bed in AIIMS, a pipe going through a slit in his throat, his booming voice had left him. That was three months ago, in mid 2000, when I had just been selected to Ahmedabad and was waiting to join.

We had our share of adventures too – like him fighting off a pack of twenty growling, snarling, salivating stray dogs with his stick in a dark night on a deserted street with me tangling behind his knees. But all of that for another day.

Of all the wonderful friendships I have and have had, and I have been very lucky with friends, this, the first and the longest lasting has to be up there at the top. Wherever you are, my friend, hope it is as fun as you always made everything, hope the Urdu poetry still flows and hope that voice still booms.

Chicken a la poos doesn’t exist!

Yes. You heard that right. There is nothing called chicken a la poos. Not in the least a French dish.

Does that make you smile, chuckle, open your eyes wide or fall off your chair? Good. You are one of the small tribe that gets ‘Chhoti si Baat’ jokes.

But don’t despair if this exotic sound French preparation doesn’t ring a bell yet. It’s a situation you would have faced. In some way or the other. At some time or the other. A smartass hijacking your date and walking away with your girl.

The genius of Basu Chatterjee is not just in inventing a faux French dish but also, how he named the characters. Nagesh is the smartass. Everyone has or has had a Nagesh in his life (am sure it works for hers too, any insights be welcome). Check this out if you don’t believe me:

And then, the reposte. How Chicken a la poos comes back to bite Nagesh in his ass. Not everyone gets such a sweet revenge, but something one must aspire for.

Oh, and don’t miss the legendary line: “Auraton ki kayi kharidariyan aisi hoti hain jo har kisi ko nahi batayi jati hain.”

 

Does publishing need its own “Writer’s Room”?

It is high art. Writing a book.

Interestingly, making a shirt was high art, till garment factories came along. Making a shoe was high art, till systems came along that churned out as many shoes in a day that artists (rather, artisans) would do in ten years. Heck, ‘making’ a book (as opposed to writing it) was high art before Gutenberg came along.

(Image courtesy: Inc.com)

Of course, the idea is blasphemous. How can you compare writing a book to shoe making? Almost like saying god is a stone, or a marble slab in a particular direction, or a wooden cross.

Ok, artistic indignation aside, let’s look at the industry. Trade publishing is struggling. People are reading more, on computer as well as on paper and yet most published books don’t sell beyond three digits. New winners are few and far in between. It takes a year plus for the book to hit the market after done writing. Writers make peanuts. Publishers don’t spend on marketing and writers lack the skill. Structurally, at 8-12% royalty, not much incentive for the average joe writer to spend on marketing. We are pushing smart people out of writing books.

From publisher’s side, it is spray and pray. Only, sprays happen too few times and far in between. And with a directionless writer occasionally following the beats of his heart and at other times, trying to ape what has worked, publisher has very little control to use her industry knowledge to impact the sprays so that their probability of being a winner successively increases.

But the industry has plenty of positives. People still read books and they will continue to read on paper at least till the school system relies on paper books. Shift from paper to fully digital content in schools hasn’t even happened in the US, so we are covered here for twenty years at least.

And people read what they see or hear about. The idea is to find new winners. How? When the cost of new product introduction is low, the key is to cut the time for new product introduction. How? The way it has been done in shirt or shoe making, cooking, furniture making – by making a process.

TV has done it with Content Heads conceptualising an idea and then assembling a Writer’s Room, a Showrunner and the show being directed by a team of directors instead of a lone, magical mad genius. And it has created art at a massive scale which has been commercially successful too.

James Patterson has done it in books. His fiction sells in massive numbers though the constant criticism is, his work isn’t aesthetically pleasing or profound. But then, the utility of his model is just to show the direction. There could be other ways to build a process that don’t dumb down art – Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad and countless other TV shows show us it is possible to have an integrated process and yet create deeply engaging stories that work for many people.

The question is, do we leave books (here, fiction) to die prematurely or do we think of faster, better ways to create books that reach more readers. Do we continue the spray and pray or do we work to build frameworks to better integrate market intelligence, creative work, and production?

Is it time for the books to have their own Writer’s Room?

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Is karwa chauth sexist?

As a little boy, once I grew up old enough to understand Karwa Chauth Vrat Katha, the day itself began scaring me. While mommy couldn’t drink a drop of water throughout the day, dad’s life would be on the line if she faltered just one bit.

The fear factor only grew as I grew older and began understanding how difficult could it be to stay without food and water throughout the day.

The vrat katha is particularly brutal. Brothers take pity on the fasting girl and lie about the moon and the girl in good faith, completes the ritual and eats. But her husband dies because technically, the moon wasn’t out.

This was in total contrast to the God, who I was told by parents, was only interested in your feelings and not specific rituals. This God here, was a stickler for process, dishing out deadly punishment to those who slipped. The stress was so high that twice or thrice, between class VI and VIII, I even wished secretly that the day never arrives.

Then of course, I grew even older and cynicism, disbelief and questioning left little room for fear.

Today, as a married man for ten years I cringe with embarrassment every time she gives me the karwa chauth treatment. Thali, diyas, sieve, moon. And it reminds me of that fear I felt as a little boy years ago.

I am sure my son will feel the same once he begins making sense of the vrat katha.

Of course, it is a choice. Of course every religion has its oppressive practices. And of course, all those women look lovely in the traditional attire. But somehow, the question stays. Is karwa chauth inherently oppressive? Sexist too?

(Photo courtesy: http://www.festivalsofindia.in/karvac...)

Patriotism, two minute noodles

Feeling patriotic since morning.

That warm, gooey vande mataram feeling has grown into this boiling and bubbling molten lava of uncontrollable love for my motherland. Ahh, how would I love to annihilate some Jaichands or sublimate some Mir Jaffars. Keep’em coming. What para commandos do across the LoC, I will do it in the towns.

What will I do, you ask?

You scum. Open your eyes. Put on your tricolor goggles and see the world. Smell the masala chai, with Tulsi.

But what the hell will you do?

Errmm. Let me think. Required, a patriotic mission. Bollywood or cricket preferred. Disrupting films or digging pitches always made news in India but now, no one really cares for cricket. So, Bollywood.

Gather enough goons, stop films.

Para commandos undergo 90 days grueling probation, only 15% make through. We got no such problem. Anyone jobless and brainless enough will do. Top it up with a wannabe leader who wants few more assembly seats.

Burn down Aye Dil Hai Mushkil. Beat up Karan Johar. Mere desh ki dharti needs sacrifice. Burn, beat, disrupt. Break, dig, riot.

Make Bhagat Singh proud. Make Bose go gaga. That’s ready made patriotism, two minute noodle style.