Amit Shankar's Blog, page 2

Boot to Butt, Umar to Barkha Dutt

I am so glad that finally my country, India, after 60 long years, has woken up to the expression “Freedom of Speech.”  CONGRATS!
It was long overdue. We have to be indebted to media, especially luminaries like Barkha Dutt, Rajdeep Sardeasi, Shekhar Gupta, Nidhi Razdaan and a few others who worked tirelessly and intellectuals like Nayan Tara Sehgal, Ashok Bajpei who made us realize the ease of practicing it. Also, we owe it to every sloganeering student of JNU; Umar Khalled to Kanhiya, who displayed how empowering it could be.
If we pull ourselves a little back, Freedom of Speech started somewhere around the year 2012 or maybe a little earlier. This was the time  when Modi was rising.  Who else but the ruling party, Congress, after tirelessly licking the asses of the Brits to win our freedom, were the ones to kick start the great 'Freedom of Speech' movement. Led by great leaders of our times, Honorable Digvijay Singh, Mani Shankar Aiyar, Salman Khurshid and at times the Messiah of the poor, Mrs. Sonia Gandhi, the nation woke up to new terms—Chai wala, Maut ka Suadagar, and the list was exhaustive. These great visionaries ensured that they led by examples and no wonder they left no stone unturned. Amidst all this, another great thinker of our times, Shri Rahul Gandhi was busy taking it to a new level, almost introducing another Freedom to our set of constitutional rights—Freedom To Idiotic Speech--Har ek main se do baccha, gujrat ka doodh, today morning I woke up at night...sigh.
These great leaders made us realize the true implication or no implication of this right. You could abuse anyone; call names, malign, rubbish him or her without fear of anything. The breeding ground was ready and many people took the baton ahead. Yug Purush, Shri Arvind Kejriwal was the front-runner. He used this right against everyone, without any compunction, guilt or fear. Using this weapon, in no time, he was the undisputed king of Freedom of Speech. Few other crusaders like  Rajdeep, Barkha , Nidhi joined the train.
However, we did not know that the right came with a clause, a caveat.The clause of ‘Selectivism.” 
It was to be practiced only by a selected few, on selected few and for a selective few cause. If anyone took an exception, like Kamlesh Tiwari who used the same to criticize Islam, he was booked under NSA. Yes, for months he has been in jail for disturbing the peace and security of this great 'intolerant' nation. He has no right to practice the same as the right only sits with students of JNU who can use the same to abuse the nation, threaten it with revolt, challenge the decision of the Supreme Court, call the judges murderers, sing songs in the praise of terrorists and express solidarity with them. And the beauty of this Freedom? A large part of media and intellectuals, of course politicians, would support the cause.
I am confused. Can I practice it or would I be thrown behind the bars? Can I call Rahul Gandhi a ‘C*****’, Barkha Dutt a ‘R****’, Rajdeep Sardesai a ‘H*****’, Nayan Tara Sehgal a ‘K****,’ Digvijay Singh a ‘G****,’ Mani Shankar Aiyar a ‘D****’ yet get away with it? Would the nation and the media back me if I shout slogans against Allah, Islam. Would media support me the way they support when the propagators of this right paint Hindu deities naked, call them names, issue notices to Lord Ram and Hanuman, post insulting cartoons of them or would they brand me as an “Intolerant Hindu?” Can I even practice my right and shout “Jai Shri Raam” “Bharat Mata KI jai” or “Vande Matram? ” I am sure I can't as I would become a threat to the nation. I don’t even have the right to carry a tricolor as a section of media finds it to be dangerous to the peace of nation.
What kind of times are we living in? In this country, everyone has a right but for me. Right to reservation, right to job, right to expression, right to getting pampered, right to being treated fairly, right to equal growth, right to equal opportunity—I have none. All these rights are reserved for vote bank; please read Muslims. The destiny of this nation is to be decided by Lallo, Mayawati, Mamta, Rahul and other flunkies who are just an extension of the great Nehru Legacy, which believed in licking anything—boot to butt, for chair.
With great caution and apprehension, I am winding this blog with VANDE MATARAM. Hope I am not disturbing the peace of this nation.

Yehi hai right choice, PC

It was a cold afternoon.Of course, as usual, I was at Starbucks, Cyber Hub. Seated amidst aroma of roasting beans and warm sandwiches, I was watching people pass by. I looked at my watch and cursed her. Why can’t she be on time?
“I know I will live for hundred years.” She hastily walked towards me, unknotting her pink scarf. “Traffic.”“At least, think of some new excuse.” I berated her.“I swear, near the underpass the traffic was heavy. Ok, let me make up for it. Let me buy you a coffee.”The deal was tempting but then I knew how to better it.“Two should be fine.”“Done.” She smiled and walked towards the counter.
“You know what, I have some bad news.” She placed small plastic card that announced our order number. I looked at it. Damn, why it has to be 13 every time. I got back to the conversation.“Bad news?” My bile churned.“Yes, the Padamshri and bhushan award list is out and your name is not there.” She flashed her trademark wicked smile.“Ah.” I heaved a sigh of relief as I was anticipating something worst.“Everyone has made it, Priyanka, Ajay and even Anupam Kher.” “That’s ok, just get me Padma Lakshmi and I should be happy.” I grinned.“High hopes, you would not be able to afford even her coffee.”“You are being mean.” I defended the entire writer fraternity.“No, but on a serious note, why are all these film stars being conferred these awards?” She was clearly not a Bollywood fan.
“Why shouldn’t they be?” They work hard, are talented and have every right.”“My foot. I mean can you beat that Priyanka is getting this award and is also the top runner for being the brand ambassador for Incredible India campaign.”“I don’t see any harm in that.” I sipped the foam, trying to reach the coffee.“All men are the same.”“Now that was a gender biased comment. And I seriously think Priyanka has the right cred to endorse India.”
“You mean there is no one better in a country of 1.6 billion to represent us?” She was agitated. I knew a woman could never stand another woman, that too as gorgeous and successful as Priyanka. “There would be many. But I know a little about the lady in question and I firmly believe that she has it all to represent the country, specially during these turbulent times.”“I know you like her.” She sulked.“I like you too.” I flattered.“Please elucidate.”“On Priyanka’s cred or why do I like you.”“You are a rascal.” She sniggered.“Ok, so let this rascal tell you the credible story of Priyanka. Of course we all know her meteoric rise—from a beauty pageant to Bollywood and then essaying roles of all stature and genre and proving her grit and talent beyond any doubt. I mean how many of Bollywood heroines have the guts to play a Mary Kom?”“I am with you on that one. I loved her for that.” She was buying my line of logic.
“You would love her more when I tell you that her new TV series, Quantico is being aired across the globe, reaching out to thirty or more countries. She is the first Indian lady to play an American in an American series. Do you think that to be a mean feat? Ain’t we should be proud of her?“Well, she got lucky.”“And a PadamShri at 30?”“Well…”“And I hope that you are aware that it takes real talent to get PadamShri so early in life.”“Hmmm.”“And would you still maintain that hmmm when I tell you that she has a fan base of more than 10 million?”“Really?” She gasped“Check her FB page and twitter handle.”“Wow, I never knew that.”
“Are you aware that her family is a happy mix of Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Brahmin and more. A complete Manmohan Desai saga.”“What do you mean?”“Well, she has strong Christian lineage on her mother’s side, also a few of her relatives are married into Muslim families or have married Muslims. Not to mention Punjabis.”“So what does that make her?”“A true Indian.”She looked at me. I smiled and elaborated upon my point of view.“I mean, an Indian who understand the rich tapestry of this country, respects every religion for what they bring to our lives and salutes the great spirit of this incredible nation.”“You mean that makes her a great Indian who is the perfect choice for Incredible India campaign?” She quizzed me.“What do you say?” I returned the volley.“Well, yes if you say so.” She smiled. “Some coffee?” I smiled back.“Who would pay for it? Your new Incredible India brand ambassador?”“No, I would love to pay on the behalf of our Incredible India brand ambassador.”“You men…”

Cafe Latte Review by Argha Ghosh

Book Reviews: Café Latte
08 AUGUST, 2015
Reviewer: ARGHA GHOSH“Fiction has been maligned for centuries as being “false,” “untrue,” yet good fiction provides more truth about the world, about life, and even about the reader, than can be found in non-fiction.” (Clark Zlotchew)And this notion regarding short stories becomes all the more evident in Amit Shankar’s Café Latte, Eighteen unusual short stories. Author of three national bestsellers, Mr. Shankar has proved his mettle in writing lovely fictions yet again but this time with a compilation of eighteen short stories which vary in their themes and plots yet strike a chord of accordance in presenting the bits and pieces of life.The author while telling the stories has delved into the mysterious realms of human psyche as the various facets of human mind are explored in the short stories. The author shows how unpredictable human mind is as in the short story “Let Me Help You Die” where the protagonist finally understand the value of life after having attempted suicide on four occasions. In “A Highway Called Life”, there is an element of inspiration for all as it is shown how human beings can defy all odds if they have enough confidence in their abilities. While these two ends on a positive note, “The Black Widow” creates an ambience of eeriness with its supernatural happenings. “26 Down Express” saddens us as the cruelty of fate is depicted with great artistry.The most striking feature of this anthology lies in the way the short stories are interwoven in the space of 193 pages. The theme of death plays an articulate role in stitching together the short stories. Here we can trace a parallelism with Srijit Mukherjee’s renowned movie ‘Chotushkon’ where the three short stories are clubbed together with death being the theme of accordance. However Amit Shankar besides depicting death has slowly moved ahead with the progression of the book into the celebration of life. In doing so, the author has shown his mastery in creating characters. Each character differs from one another in its basic features and it shows the author’s capability of creating a microcosmic world which enables the readers to come out of a monotonous world.Mr. Shankar’s style of writing also makes the reader curious about the upcoming twist. The lucid style of writing with the use of colloquial terms enables the readers to relate themselves with the characters in the story. But at times the short stories become a bit predictable like in the “Temple of The King”, “The Jazz Player”, yet there is nothing much that will restrict the reader from turning over to the next page.In all, Amit Shankar has managed to publish a book which is comprised of eighteen short stories which are indeed unusual, as the title itself suggests. “Short stories”, as Neil Gaiman says, “are tiny windows into other worlds and other minds and other dreams. They are journeys you can make to the far side of the universe and still be back in time for dinner.” And Café Latte has managed to keep accordance with this."

Cafe Latte Review by Rit Chattopadhyay

REVIEW: CAFÉ LATTE27 JULY, 2015 BOOK REVIEWSAUTHOR: RIT CHATTOPADHYAY
“Cafe’ latte” is an Italian phrase designating a type of coffee, literally translating into English ‘milk coffee’. ‘Cafe’ latte’ is the title of Amit Shankar’s collection of ‘eighteen unusual short stories’. Keeping true to its title, Amit Shankar’s short stories are brewed with awkward, intrepid moments, the moods move up and down, sometimes reaching into the unknown-the stories become a ride-simple yet sensuous. The book opens with ‘The Temple of the King’ (which is itself the name of a revered track of the British rock band Rainbow)-Dada teaches us to stand in the middle of the circle, hear the black bell and make the journey towards the temple of our inner self; a journey into our true desires, to be the king again. A God-like atheist, Dada strumming his favourite metal tune expresses his wish of building a cafe on the valleys of Jagroi for the weary traveller that we all are-running in concentric circles to earn that bit of material recognition. Dada dies on the way back, but “the baton has to be passed on’, so Ash runs Dada’s dream on the top of the valley….if you travel, take a sip.A frantic father waits for his son on a desolate platform, night after night, exclaiming “Anjan! Anjan!” hallucinating the return of his dead son. ’The 26 Down Express’  comes and goes, Anjan doesn’t return….but that’s not all, Shankar induces another layer of mystery, implicitly indicating a seminal prophetic power of the senile old father. Take a ride, the rest is yours. ’The Lion, The Leopard and The Hyena’ reads almost like a moral fable-the young leopards have to be trained in the ways of the world by the lonely, yet wise ,Lion, if we falter to believe in the Lion and fall prey to the allure of the Hyena, we’ll be victims, always of betrayal. The stories meander along culminating in  ‘True Lies’    which gives us a myriad of perceptions about life, sin and living.”Cafe latte` is the phrase with which the last short story  ‘Writer’s Block’  ends, which blends a chance narrative and has features of magic realism, but somewhere fails to pack the last punch.Amit Shankar’s language is a colloquial one-it is warm and humane, his style is lucid, the readers can move through the stories without a strain-you’d want to read some of his Unusual short stories-it is good Cafe to visit-an unusually homely one."

Cafe Latte Review by Subhojoy Ghosh

CAFFE LATTE: A REVIEW
Reviewer: SUBHOJOY GHOSH "Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for death/He kindly stopped for me-“keeps resonating the reader’s mind when one goes through Amit Shankar’s Cafe latte.An anthology of only “Eighteen Unsual Short Stories”is poignant enough to give you a severe chill down your spine. Amit plunges into the deep human psyche to travel much into the abyss of the subconscious to bring out the most inextricable aspect of life-Death. The colloquial language and characters drawn from day to day life is easily relateable to, which indeed plays a pivotal role in making this anthology appeal much to the readers.The journey through these stories is a journey through the complexities of human everyday life, the mysteries and the challenges that one has to deal with everyday and of course the latent subverted desire to succumb to the evil. The very first story with which the anthology opens, Temple of the king, is itself like the “dewy window pane” which is instrumental and equally evocative enough to set the reader’s grey cells ticking. The Jazz Player in the Jazz Player is drawn towards his own death by the lure of his exquisite blue silk. Let Me Help You Die portrays a man whose sole preoccupation is death; he romanticises death and attempts several times of committing suicide however when death actually comes and knocks on his threshold he is afraid. This conjures up in our mind what Francis Bacon thought of Death in the Sixteenth Century in Of Death. The Other Side is the author’s bold attempt to depict the plight of a woman suffering from nymphomania.The stories are in no way repetitive in spirit or in mood. Nor are they the same in their narrative techniques or plot construction. This is indeed one of the most unique aspect of the anthology. The Black Widow with its subtle touch of supernaturalism casted in a modern day love story is sure to give goosebumps to the reader, A Highway Called Life is a testimony to live life on optimistic fervour disregarding the physical disabilities;26 Down Express surely makes us aware of the pangs of separation; Writer’s Block reinstates our believes in talent and chances. Cafe latte although centrally based on the cardinal issue of death, it celebrates all the emotions and feelings associated with the same. This reminds us of a National Award winning movie Chotuskon by Srijit Mukherjee where the treatment of death was in a similar vein but in a different context.On a dark, gloomy afternoon just let yourself loose on your couch with a chilled bottle of beer and keep turning the pages, the journey will be much more enthralling than any other travella."

Cafe Latte Review by Arjyarishi Paul

CAFÉ LATTE: A REVIEW
26 JULY, 2015 BOOK REVIEWS AUTHOR: ARJYARISHI PAUL
"Amit Shankar, the author of three national bestsellers, has churned up an entirely new concoction; this time finding his voice through eighteen different short stories. For any lover of fiction, this book will surely be a treat as the stories that Shankar has penned encompass a vast range of human emotions, aspirations, intricacies and diversities. His creative perspectives have also not ignored the borders of the surreal and the super natural. All of the eighteen short stories in the book are one of a kind; unique in their own way, while some amaze, some tantalize and some others tug at the heartstrings. Shankar shows an amazing grasp over his knowledge of the diverse Indian culture through his portrayal of the characters in his stories, all of whom seem to hail from various portions of India.The first story, Temple of the King, gets Shankar off the mark in consummate style. The characterization of Dada and the entire milieu of the story are bound to give you the goose bumps of a spiritual reverie. There is an ethereal feel of serenity akin to any Leonard Cohen composition. The beat undertones of the story are only the exoskeleton covering a peek-a-boo into the realms of spirituality gratifying the human soul space. With only two characters in the first two stories, Shankar reminds you of an O. Henry or a Saki, the setting too, being one of a brooding tranquility. When the protagonists speak, there is no way you can be left feeling detached from the on goings of the story. Dada seems to be a character as flesh and blood as can be found in an urbane setting whereas, in stark contrast, Guptaji is more of an enigma. Bikash and his helpless tryst with fate ring a bell of the vulnerability of Synge’s protagonists; at the hands of destiny. The railway station setting takes you back to Bond’s Deoli and Shamli but Shankar maintains his own with adequate mastery of his descriptions and his narration. The altercations between Bikash and Guptaji impart a sense of urgency to the story, leading on the readers to an unexpected ending that is impossible to fathom. Kudos to Shankar for handling such different themes with equal élan. The Dream Chaser and Let Me Help You Die are different in context and concept altogether from 26 Down Express but do carry a similar somber quilt of tension nonetheless.What Shankar achieves primarily in this wonderful anthology, is the ability to penetrate into the core of realities and the world beyond tacit factuality. It is never a cakewalk for an author to traverse a trajectory as widespread as Shankar dares to and does so with confident craftsmanship. He lulls the readers into his world of the ‘unusual’ and gently shoves them forward, from one story to another, effortlessly. It is this astonishing ability of Shankar to disperse the ethos of his characters so minutely that the reader is compelled to be one with it. The reader will envisage a confession box and feel the pangs of guilt, the remorse of wryness and be hopeful of redemption as he will flip through the pages of True Lies,arguably among the finest of the stories.The most difficult task for an author is to write simply about the inmost complications of life and even beyond the threshold of life. Shankar himself refers to life as an enigma but like Blake, is fearless in his ardour of facing it; delving deep into its nooks and crevices and giving us, in turn, an enthralling picture of it, even though he never goes overboard with his images and articulations. He pulls off brilliantly the most obscure of themes and leaves the readers in awe with his story telling.The musical exponent he is, there are instances when his narrative resembles the strumming of an acoustic guitar, the stories reflecting arpeggio melancholia or a psychedelic chord progression, at various levels. If you are looking for a sheer coffee table read, stay away from this one. But if you care to find some meaning and look for a not-so-usual insight into life, go for this nuanced beast. Sensitive yet scintillating, Shankar will take you for an unassuming pilgrimage; an experience that you will love to cherish."

Lucky Bastard

Publication: Suburb Issue: July, 2015 Title: Lucky Bastard
“Let’s see.” The doctor replied as he hurriedly entered the OT.The red light of the OT came on.Tears blurred the red light as he raised his arms, wiping his eyes, using the sleeve of his blue shirt.This could certainly not happen to him. He was God’s favorite child, the muse of Lady Luck. After all, he was known as the ‘Lucky Bastard.’ He had never lost any bet, game of cards and had won numerous prizes and lucky draws.  Wherever he participated, he won something. From winning a simple game of Tambola at the club to a trip to South Africa to watch the world cup match, his list had the entire repertoire.
“God, take away everything that I have but please don’t let anything happen to Tici.” He pleaded.A cascade of tears escaped. He used his shirtsleeves again. Somehow he was confident that nothing could happen to Tici—her daughter. For days, he had consulted every surgeon; read every article, every research paper that was available on the net. Brain tumor in a child aged five was a rare occurrence and a successful operation hinged largely on the surgeon’s expertise and of course luck.“Papa, you are my teddy bear.” Tici’s face played in front of his eyes. Ever since she was diagnosed with brain tumor, he could not comprehend God’s sense of humor, rather sadistic trip. On one hand he gave him all that he never needed—the right mentors, the right breaks, out of turn promotions, loads of luck for every single endeavor and here he was, battling something without any luck when he needed it the most. Was he really a Lucky Bastard?
“God, please, send me all the luck that I have.” He said a little prayer. Every single visit to the surgeons reinforced the same—Tici needed loads of luck to see the light of a new day. Temple, mosque, shrines, lucky pendants and rings, he did all that was obligatory to have luck on his side. Was he the same guy who scoffed at people’s effort of seeking divine intervention and displaying the same through the assortment rings, fasts and rituals? After all he was a Lucky Bastard. He needed nothing, not even God as he was destined to win every game.
The OT door opened. In anticipation of the unexpected, his face tuned pale. “Sister, what happened?” His throat was choked and he could barely whisper.“Need more units of blood. Patient critical.”“Sister…” He wanted to enquire in detail but she had already turned right, towards the blood bank.
He rushed towards the OT. Maybe the doctor would update him. Before he could reach the door, it opened again. Another sister rushed out. “Don’t stand here. Have patience.” She gave him a stern look as she hurriedly walked down the corridor.
The sister who had walked out earlier for getting more units of blood was walking towards the OT door, carrying three bags of blood.“Sister…” He pleaded.“Pray.” She patted his shoulder and gave a forced, feeble smile.
He stood there, feeling the trickle of sweat travel down his spine.Beep beep, beep beep. He cursed himself for not putting his phone on a silent mode.It was a Watsapp message. He opened it hoping to divert his mind.
“Luck is like a bank account, if you don’t replenish it with good deeds, you run out of it.”                                                            **** **** ****

I'm Khan

"My name is khan and I'm not a terrorist."
But Mr. Khan, Google it and you shall realise that all terrorists are either Khans, Masoods, Afzals or Syeds. Shocking but true. 
However, the bigger question still lurks somewhere in the shadows—how many deaths would it take us to accept this fact? The dastardly attack in Kenya, by Muslim terrorists has proved yet again that the menace of this failed religion is assuming overarching consequences. In a new world order, there is technology, growth, innovations, prosperity, but for some obscure reason this one religion can’t think beyond AK-47. God forbid, if this unfortunate incident would have happened in India, the pseudo seculars—Shabana Azami, Javed Akhtar, Amir khan, Teesta, Arvind Kejriwal and the entire ‘red bindi’ brigade along with hate mongers like Owasis of the world would have pronounced it to be a retaliatory action by the Muslims against the anti-Muslim venom being spewed by the Hindu organizations. 
Imagine the strength of character of our country, where outright  Muslim fundamentalists; Shabana Aazmi and Javed Akhtar, cleverly disguised under their garb of designer sarees and kurtas, shamelessly strut wearing their “Secular” and ‘Nationalist” mask and get applauded for the same. Sure, fighting for the cause of Shorabbudin could not be a mark of a true nationalist.  I wish if someone could just slap them tight on a TV show. If I happen to be on one of them, well, my dreams would come true.
Am I biased? Am I pro Hindu? Am I a Muslim hater? Well, the questions seem similar but they are very different from each other. Let me answer them sequentially. The twin tower attack, the attack on Indian parliament, the Mumbai blast, attack on Mumbai, the Kenya massacre and the ever increasing nuisance of this race has made me look at this religion in a new light. 
Am I Pro-Hindu? Yes, I am proud to be a Hindu. Can you hold it against me? Can any one debate on the ‘sanatan’ lineage of this religion? Have you ever heard Hindus killing people basis religion, creating terror, conspiring against the state? Never. Yes, I believe that Hinduism is a way of life. It teaches tolerance, co-existence. If you ask me, like million others ‘I’m an angry Hindu who hates my religion for being so lenient. Why can’t we get up, unite and for once tell the world at large that our compassion should not be mistaken for our cowardice. We do have strong arms to carry the weight of AK47 and 56.
My uncle married a Muslim and that too in 1960s.  Being staunch Hindu household, there was a commotion. But then our large hearted approach and 'easily compromised' religion belief made us accept her. I love my aunt, her brother who happens to be my mother’s rakhi brother too, his family and loads of other Muslims.  I love their contribution to music, art, culture and history and India. Love their cuisine, their distinct sense of style. But now all this has been overshadowed by the nebulous sheet of despicable actions and thoughts of the Muslim satraps. Talk to any Muslim and he is angry.  Angry with system, the governance, the nuisance of living as Muslims in a world which is clearly hostile towards them and the never ending debate of anti-pro Islam.  
What I fond strange is that a desolate building, out of nowhere, treated as church gets vandalized and the entire media starts a witch hunt; not against the perpetrators, but entire Hindu religion, every Hindu organization and every single Hindu leader. But when a large scale violence is committed by Muslims, it is always about the terrorists and the Muslim religion “my name is khan and I’m not a terrorist.” Why this double speak? Are Hindus punching bags? Or are they the best way to increase the TRP? Look at parochial and completely out of tune anchors like Arnab. This guy has the audacity to demand resignation of everyone over his boorish and chaotic talk shows. Mr. Goswami, you are watched because of the crass entertainment value, not news.
Choosing between the devil and the deep sea, I would have more respect for Akbaruddin Owasi who claim to be fanatics and speak the same lingo. At least, there is synch between his point of view and action agenda. It is the pseudo secular bastards who pose clear and the present danger. They should be whacked whenever they open their mouth. The moment they seek refuge under the much abused freedom of speech right, they ought to be whacked again, this time harder, telling them that voicing anti national sentiments amounts to treason. Ban them from talk shows, public gatherings and social platform.
And solution to the larger problem? Well, first let’s accept that we have a real time problem.  

Return of VP Singh

’10 reasons why BJP lost’‘5 reasons why AAP won’50 reasons why Congress was decapitated’‘A million reason why Kiran was not the right choice’
Media, especially the internet is abuzz with such articles. Everyone with an access to a computer is sharing his viewpoint. And why not, we are a democracy and the constitution guarantees ‘right to speech.’ Ask any Indian, including me, and we would go ballistic about our rights. Ask the same set of Indians, including me, about the duty part and silently we would excuse ourselves. Somewhere the real reason to the win or loss of the 2015 election results, lies in the tussle between right and duties. Let me try elucidating upon the same.
The greedy rebel Remember VP Singh? Yes, the Congress leader who started his political career being a part of Sanjay Gandhi’s kitchen cabinet. Owing to his drink fixing skills, he was made the CM of the largest state of India, Uttar Pradesh. But little did anyone know that the bartender was fixing something more potent than his mentors could ever handle. A diabolic social equation that would divide the country forever, wedging a deep divide between castes and communities, polarizing them and in turn ensuring a cakewalk to the PM’s seat. Needless to mention, how Mandal Commission permanently divided the country, upsetting its precariously balanced social fulcrum. Disruptive politics at its worst.
The reason Why did he do it? Simple, owing to his greed, ambition and lack of choices. Before you disagree, I would like to pause this discourse. Fast forward to the year 2013, Anna movement, the whole country getting together to fight corruption. The setting was perfect as a scam plagued nation wanted a crusader to show them the much needed ray of hope. Who better than the Gandhian Anna. Arvind and Kiran were in his kitchen cabinet. The urban, erudite and middle class face of the movement. Armed with coveted degrees, awards and aspirational background, they captured the imagination of an entire nation. Congress was the establishment and the trio of Anna, Arvind, Kiran , the anti-establishment brigade with whom every average Indian identified with. With years of ruling experience, Congress tactfully handled the moment and in no time it fizzled out. Anna retraced his step but Arvind had tasted blood. On the ill advise of his own coterie, he floated a party and became a political party, albeit with a difference. Delhi state was still throbbing with Anto corruption movement. People were angry and they wanted a change. Arvind cashed on it and made his political debut with 28 seats.
The journey Fair enough. A middle class, educated man with balls of steel to take on the system. Kudos to him. But then suddenly the activist in him was made to govern. But for the post of Mess Secretary which he held during his IIT days, he had no management experience. He cringed with fear. The same fear was felt by his team members too. Most of them drawn from various fields were novices to the corridors of power. Out of choice, he resorted to what he knew best—agitation. Playing to the gallery, he did all sort of antics—getting on electricity poles and cutting power connections, protesting in front of Jantar Mantar and the list goes on. When it got too hot for him to handle, he just quit. I wouldn't go to the Lok Sabha debacle election part as the ill times, ill-advised move is well known.
Out in the open, wet and cold, he had no place to go. He needed a comeback plot. A strategy which could take on the might of Modi and his development saga. Was there one? The whole country was singing the tune of development and good governance. Arvind had none.
Revisiting past History is an excellent teacher. But it takes a wise man to pick the right chapters. Knowing Arvind and his anti-establishment ways, for sure he sought what he wanted—Disruption. In no time, a strategy was formed and forged. Part of the AAP think tank is a sane lot. I am sure they would have known and debated the consequences of the route on which they wanted to embark on. But then greed becomes too overpowering at times. Taking a cue from VP Singh era, which saw a rebel rise to power in no time and conquer the PM’s chair, 
APP started its dangerous campaign. A campaign to focus on the poor, marginalized and the minority vote bank. To lure them with freebies, lollipops and promises, to make them feel cared for and special. Everything in the state was promised for free—electricity to water, housing to hospital. Inhabitants of the unauthorized colony, migrants, slum dwellers, the rickshaw pullers, cart owners, hawkers went ballistic. To them Arvind was their only ray of hope. 
The support was polarizing fast. Modi’s pragmatic speeches of job, progress were not making any sense. After all, who would like to work and earn if there was this man, who looked like one of them and promising everything for free.
Government of non-tax payers In no time with aggressive door to door campaign , following the footsteps of VP Singh, Arvind successfully divided Delhi into two parts—have and have nots. A master stroke as powerful as the one played by VP Singh some 20 years back. Every single man or woman, most of them who never paid a pie as tax wanted to see him as the CM. Without being a statistician, you would know that minority votes, dalit votes, votes of the underprivileged constitute a large part of the fifty percent vote share bagged by AAP. Is it fair for a democracy to be ruled by a representative of non-tax payers who formulate policies at the cost of tax payers in interest of non-tax payers? To me it is not acceptable. What would Kejriwal deliver to me? Dharnas? Agitations? Demonstrations?
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you… A mediocre public servant, a biased journalist, a stage poet, a someone from nowhere and the motely crowd never ceases to surprise you.  I shudder at the thought of the B grade poet being a minister, or the more salt and less pepper haired gentleman unleashing his vitriolic tongue while addressing his staff. There are men with vision too. Yogendra Yadav seems to be a very balanced and articulate, very statesman like person. So is Manish Sisodia. But then with such a brute majority, I am afraid the Somnath Bhartis would prevail.  
VP Singh’s greed permanently damaged the fabric of this country. I am afraid that lofty ambitions of Arvind could dent the capital city too. Be honest and tell me, would you like Delhi to be known for its history, infra, glitz and glamour or to be known for its largest unauthorized colonies, slums, agitation and unpredictability?
 I guess the day is not far when t-shirts would read “AAP ki Dilli, Legi Jaan”

U Turn

We all have faced this situation more than once—wishing if life could take a U turn. Men discuss it over beer with their friends, women dream of it at kitty parties. But have we ever tried to figure out if there are actual U Turns in life?
Well, not once or twice but maybe thrice in a day, I wish if there were U Turns. This obsession has made me discuss, research and decipher this topic more than a normal soul. However, I was not able to articulate the same. No until I was speaking with a friend who articulated it beautifully.
Life has only 3 exits. The first, Exit 1 welcomes you just as you have got on the highway of life. Packed butt to butt, with crawling and snarling traffic, it is be a frightening sight. With sweaty palms and trembling feet as you press the pedal, your mind is divided in two; to be or not to be. You are just out of school or maybe college. Young, brash, confident and overflowing with energy. Those dream filled eyes and hope filled heart knows no boundaries. Life awaits you, either with open arms or bare fangs, depending on the choices that you make.
Your first choice could be the first exit; off the highway on to a freeway, for good forever, exploring the crystal blue sky and lush green meadows. The choice is simple—of career. This is the point where you get lured by the comfort of a nine to five job, a secure conventional career, of being a doctor, engineer or an MBA grad. Though you know the unconventional, lesser known - lesser sure career choices too—being a poet, writer, musician, a painter, film maker, activist, a photographer, a model, even a hair stylist or a make-up man. But the lack of security make us shun them. Also, we know that the unconventional career choices only support exceptional talents. Mediocre in any unconventional career gets weeded out in no time, as there are no takers. It is only a 9 to 5 job that sustains mediocrity, also pays them. They day you choose a conventional career your first exit route is blocked. You have to drive on the highway, with no U turn, no side lanes for long—till you reach the next exit; Exit 2.
This second exit comes after long. Still on the freeway, fighting blaring horns, screaming people, letting the carbon monoxide fill your lungs, you have been sitting inside your car. Looking ahead of you. All you could see is a serpent like queue, slithering ahead. You curse yourself for not taking the Exit 1, getting off the dammed cursed road, living life the way you would have liked. You look around, searching for a U Turn. But there is none. Also, you are not as young as you were when you got on here. At 28 or maybe 30, the cells have already started to degenerate. It was just the other day when the first grey hair shocked you. Mornings, noon even evenings are not exciting any more. You drag yourself to work and back home, drowning pent up frustration in pint, everyday. 
Get off the Exit 2, your heart cajoles you. It warns you that you cross the next toll, and punch the marriage toll ticket you would be stuck worst. Get off you stupid ass, your heart shrieks. Beer, wafers, junk food is still better than being a domesticated ass who is not supposed to think, feel or express.
But as if under some spell, you follow the queue. Up ahead you could see some tails flashing their left indicator, getting off the highway, towards the exit. The traffic tries its best not to let them escape, blocking their way. A few scared ones, give up as they are too afraid to sport a dent on their cars. However, the gutsy ones persist. You sit there in your car, watching them get off as you inch towards the toll, ready to punch the second ticket, Marriage.
Exit 2 is well past. In your car, now sitting with your wife, ‘just married’ sign shamelessly displayed on the rear bumper, you are not allowed to look either to your right or left, just straight ahead. Your favorite CD has been ejected long back and some saccharine sweet, diabetes inducing love song is wafting through the speakers which you had spent a fortune on to surrender to the gut wrenching riffs and vocals. The car compartment has been cleaned, all packs, matchboxes, cans, ash cleaned up. It looks sterile, like a hospital ward. The nauseating car freshener fragrance is driving you insane. You steal a glance towards the passenger seat and you know that till you kill yourself, the passenger would never change.
Damn, this life, you curse and look around. ‘Dude, there are no U turns;’ your head gently taps you. But you are still alive with hope. You know that there could be another exit. Keeping your fingers crossed, cursing yourself, the wretched life, you drive. The air inside the car cabin is heavy. It is hard to breath. The last argument was just a Nano second ago and the last to last one, another Nano second. You realize that the entire conversation, between you and the co-passenger, are nothing but arguments. Every line leads to an argument and then the argument leads to another. ‘God, please show me another U turn, please,’ you silently pray.
Silence prevails, so does stillness. The car is stalled due to heavy traffic. Or is the lack of motion just a play of your mind? Someone knocks at your window. It is your father. You are surprised to see him in middle of the highway. Another knock on the other window. You turn around. It is you mom. ‘Damn, what are they doing here,’ you wonder. Not too sure which window to roll down first, you sit there, motionless.
To add to your confusion, there is another knock; this time on the windscreen. Your uncle with your friends is standing there. I got to be dreaming, you think. But then there are times when dreams and realty cross path. Your father, mother, uncle, friends, they are looking at you, with a wicked grin. You roll down the window where your father is. ‘Son, it is ok. This is life. We all have to go through this motion. You are being normal. Just have a baby and things would be fine. Trust me, I’m your father, I know it all.’ You are in a state of daze.
The knock at the other window is gaining intensity. It is your mom. You stretch out to roll down the other window. ‘Son, you are doing well. Now be a good boy and let me feel the joy of being a grand mother. You have such a pretty wife. How beautiful your children would be? Come one, give me a grand child.’Your uncle, your friend, standing right in the front of your car are smiling, enticing you to take the bait.
Pufff! Was it a dream? You are still in the car, straddled with your co-passenger. You look at her. Well, she ain’t bad either. The traffic moves, so does your car. ‘Should I make baby with her,’ you cant help but think. Maybe it will better the situation, you reason with yourself. After all, I have some responsibility towards my parents too, you give yourself another reason.
Up ahead, your eyes could read something. Exit 3, The Final One. God, do you mean it? Weighing the pros and cons of not having a baby and getting off the highway vis a vis having one and staying on, the car inches towards the third booth. You want to steer towards the left and take the Exit 3. Your mind, your heart, your entire being jostling for supremacy over you, trying to win over you with their own logic. You know the choice but then too scared to make it. You have always been scared, a weakling. After all, following is easier than leading. God, show mw the right way, you pray. Huh, as that is the only thing God is supposed to do. The Exit is still in sight. Your hands freeze and you cant turn navigate. The car rools towards the toll booth.
Exit 3 could be seen in the side mirror, fading. The third ticket gets punched.
Now, you are still in the car, driving on the highway, with two kids on the back seat, a dog, baby food, dog food, cosmetics, toy for the kids, toy for the dog. The cabin filled with cacophony, shrill cries, and sound of Pogo channel. Numb at the wheel, you drive missing being yourself, adjusting the blinkers, looking up straight, scanning hoardings with retirement plans, education loans, health check ups etc. Suddenly your eyes find a very interesting hoarding. It claims that the portal could sell anything.

You make a mental note of the website, wondering if it could help you sell your life too.