Rajrupa Gupta's Blog, page 12

Contradiction Characterizes a Community

Everywhere I go, masses of contradictions stare
straight up at me. We all are contradiction personified. We all are living
breathing and walking contradiction. I too, don’t always agree with things I
say or do.




Since the society consists of us, it also is bound to
be characterized by contradictions. 




In recent times billions of words have been written about
the Delhi gang rape. We have been like raging bulls thrashing around our society,
educational system, faulty upbringing, absence of laws, corrupt law enforcers
and so on. Though I refrained from joining the wagon with yet another article I
mostly agreed with them. I signed many petitions, joined a rally and blamed
everyone I could think of.




But then one of my female colleague’s experience cast
a totally different light on the whole thing. Just two days before the horrible
incident of Delhi, my colleague was saved by a group of construction workers
when a sophisticatedly dressed man tried to pin her down after she’d asked his
help when her car broke down. That man drove a Toyota Corolla and wore an ID of
a reputed company! When the workers confronted him, not only did he run away in his car, he almost ran over one of the workers when he fled at full speed.




Now there has been much hues and cries about the social
class and education of the people who could stoop to such low morality. What do
you think this incident suggests? The man who was at fault here had probably
gone to a B-school given the ID tag he wore while those workers who saved my
colleague had probably never crossed the threshold of a pre-school. Contradiction.
Isn’t it?




Everyday newspapers carry at least one article on
Global Warming. It is a very common topic of discussion among newly acquainted
people because everyone has a fair amount of knowledge about it. Yet the
roadside garbage or the dry fallen leaves at the backyard are set on fire with
an astonishing frequency.




Schools teach elementary environmental studies from
the first grade. But I often spot adolescent kids in impeccable school uniforms
hanging from feeble tree branches just for the fun of tearing them down.




Indian society is all about respecting elders. Each parent,
at some point of time or the other, has taught their children to show respect and
care to the elderly. Yet in a crowded bus or train, it takes a teenager to point
out to a middle-aged man (father of another teenager in all probability), that
there was an old man standing and probably needed more to sit down than him.




The wife of the big house that my apartment’s balcony
directly overlooks into, washes big buckets full of soiled clothes every
morning, occasionally running to stir the curry cooking or to supervise her
small son, while her husband reclines in an arm chair with 2-3 newspapers. But as
my office bus passes by an inhabited footpath, I find a wife rubbing a small
piece of soap on the clothes while the husband dips them into bucket full of
water.




If drinking alcohol is bad and is the main reason
behind most of the unorganized crimes, then why do we have at least one government
liquor shop every 100 meters? And why does the government offer hundreds of thousands of money as
compensation to the family of anyone who died from drinking liquor from a
government shop?




Well. I am confused now! Contradictions are very
confusing indeed.  Hmm. I would better brush
my teeth now listening to the soothing sound of the running tap water which I would
leave open just to hear the sound. Oops! Sorry! Contradiction. Again!

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

Why Don’t We Have a Barney Stinson in Indian Television?

 Because we are hypocrites.






I am sure all of us know him. Barney Stinson I mean! He is
one of the five main characters of the popular sitcom, How I Met Your Mother (in
its 8th season at present) and the most popular.



Those of you who still don’t know who
Barney is –






He is a despicable character but
still manages to be loveable. He is a playboy/womanizer and has numerous
meticulous lies up his sleeve to be used to trick a female to bed. Interestingly
the character is played by Neil Patrick Harris who is a homosexual. In Indian
context both characteristic traits are abominable.








Barney has a dream get-paid-for-doing-nothing job and an enormous
commitment towards his friends. Yet he is manipulative and often uses his skill
to satisfy his selfish interests. His mother is not sure of his father’s
identity.






He is someone who has 3 million
likes in FB – Indian fans being just the second in number after the Americans.
You can read his blog here.




But even though Indian Television has
mastered the art of copying any type of reality show from the American
Television, it never made an attempt to copy popular sitcoms like How I Met
Your Mother(FB likes – 22 millions) or Big Bang Theory(FB likes – 24 millions).
We used to have Hum Paanch, Office Office and the likes and we have Tarak Mehta
now but still one can easily see the trend.




Why? Because we are the upholders of
the highest moral values and ethics. The closest we ever had to Barney’s character
was Shah Rukh’s in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. But even though Rahul was a womanizer,
he had to be a devotee of Durga Mata and had to go to the temple every Tuesday
in order to make him likeable. After all we are the religious Indian lot. An
epitome of everything good.






To us sex is sin. That too
premarital! The influence of America is already ruining our youth. We certainly
don’t need a Barney Stinson, who is also a bastard in literal sense, as a hero
in our drawing rooms. Even though we worship Shiv Linga (Image of a penis
entering a vagina) we would rather not have sex education in schools. We would
rather not let our youth mix freely irrespective of gender. We would rather let
them adopt some crude ways to find out than telling them about the most natural
hormonal instinct.




Instead it is better to ban usage of
mobile phones for girls. It is wise to have boys and girls sit on separate benches
in schools and colleges and have a letter of complaint sent to their parents if
they are seen to be talking or developing a friendship. It is better to inculcate
an alien feeling in them about the opposite gender. Of course we didn’t read
about the forbidden fruit in our ancient scriptures - that it’s the most basic nature
of the humankind – to be drawn to something that is forbidden.




Letting our youth watch the free
mixing society Barney and gang belong to is not a good idea at all. This will
only increase the already alarming rate of rapes because –



1)   We don’t have enough young girls
because we kill them in their mothers’ wombs

2)   Good ideal Indian girls don’t engage
in pre-marital sex

3)   Good ideal Indian wives are loyal to
even marital rapes and do not seek pleasure outside their marriage




Also what types of men are they who
can’t control their desires? Our heroes are men who respect women as mothers or
sisters. Who don’t think of sex even with their partners – believe only in
platonic love until marriage.  How can
Barney, who gets beaten up so often for his stupid histrionics, be made a hero
and likeable to the average audience? Guys don’t need sitcoms – they have their
sports channels.




For girls it is advisable to watch
the daily soaps instead – after all, all of them portray ideal characteristics
of how a girl should be – homely, meek and silent – whose only motto in life is
to uphold the prestige of her family even at the cost of her own dreams.









That’s why we can’t have Lily, Robin
or Penny being played in our living rooms. After all what types of girls live
all by themselves, go wherever they wish, wear anything they like, drink/eat
whatever they prefer and sleep with anyone they want? What types of girls are so
headstrong? What type of girls would leave their partners of nine years to
pursue their own dreams? Not us! We are the model women – daughter, wife and
mother but never the self. We signify sacrifice – the highest virtue of life.






So what’s the conclusion? Be good and
don’t go watching them online or on Star World (old episodes but fun still). What's the point of having some pointless legen-wait for it-dary fun? It is not nearly as good as wallowing in high emotional family drama or
forcing some Adrenaline rush from stale Cricket highlights. 



Image Courtesy: Google Image Search

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

Holding On and Letting Go!

This
article has been written for Indi
Fiction Workshop. It is a story writing workshop for bloggers interested in
fiction. It was conceptualized by The
Fool and C.Suresh. As a part of the workshop, a detailed outline of the plot is
given by the judges and the participants have to develop it into a full grown
story. The winners get to decide the plot and judge the next edition. This plot was conceived by Leo.
The other two judges are – Radha Sawana
and Medha Kapoor. You can find the plot at http://indifictionworkshop.blogspot.in/2012/11/exercise-for-edition-3.html 

You can also read the story here.




I

The aroma of the cake baking was invigorating. It
told me that finally Sandhya had come in terms with the shifting. Though she
had never complained and kept perfectly enthusiastic about the move and attended
my party-men and the visitors tirelessly, I knew it was never easy for her to
move back here. Not only because this place bore the memories of the
devastating earthquake that took away her puppy but also because she had to
take a transfer to the local rural branch of her bank from the head office in
Delhi. She was often complaining about fat men coming to bank wearing little
dhotis which gave hot shorts a run for money.




But I didn’t have a choice. Many politicians could
win elections miraculously without ever visiting their constituency, but I
lacked the talent. And grandpa just wouldn’t tell. So I was running amuck,
visiting blocks after blocks, talking to people, delivering elaborate speech in
venues decorated like circus tents and promising them what I deemed was
possible. My decision to not promise washing machine to everyone who voted for
me in response to my opponent Shyamlal’s promise of colour TV infuriated my
party leadership. I was sure they were regretting the refusal of the party
ticket to Shyamlal by now.




Being a politician in India was a tough job. If
you were one then you needed to be always dressed in pressed khadi,
occasionally accessorizing it with a Nehru cap. Although India was modernising,
its politician still had to be traditional. And although we were a democratic
nation, monarchy was still cool; and just like Bollywood where children of
famous actors carried on the legacy, irrespective of talent and capacity,
politicians too expected their children to carry on their legacy. That is why
when after a generation skip, I picked politics as my career my grandpa’s joy
knew no bound. People too believed that I was a better politician because I had
it in my blood. My party leadership also used to believe it but these days they
seemed a little demoralized after I refused to indulge in any grey transaction
to finance my campaign. They wondered how the grandson of Pratap Bhatnagar –
winner of five Assembly Elections, could lack so horribly his political
finesse.  And they were so sure of me
losing this election that they promised me a post in the cabinet if I won this
one.




II




I whistled a favourite tune of mine as I prepared
the icing for the cake. It was liberating to find a departmental store in the main
town square which stocked most of the items required for making a Raspberry and
Lemon chiffon. There was a new spring in my feet – I was feeling genuinely
happy for the first time after moving here. I believe it was because I learnt
that Bheem uncle was dead. Deepak gave me the news last evening just as trivial
information without realizing what relief it brought to me. So today I was
giving him a treat of his favourite cake.




He was outside trying most earnestly to convince
Bholanath that we indeed were vegetarians and absolutely could not accept his
present of a young goat. Being a politician sure had its perks. They were the
modern version of the ancient king. Every morning before even we could get up,
the front porch of Deepak’s grandfather’s Victorian Bungalow would be full with
people waiting with gifts. While some people came to ask undue favours, some
people came to express their love and gratitude for something good Deepak had
done for them. Initially Deepak tried to refuse but soon we understood that it
meant hurting people sentiment and being snobbish. So within the two months of
our move here we had filled a small room with things that we were never going
to need.




It made me so proud of my husband. In my lifetime
I had never seen a politician who was so honest. Though his party didn’t
believe that he would win this election, I was certain. I saw people’s love for
him. I also had full faith on Nielsen’s survey which claimed that 97% people of
this constituency were supporting Deepak. Of course they would. After all, did
they in their lifetime see any other politician who was so honest and educated
and not to mention so mind-blowingly handsome?




Banno-ki-mummy came to ask if I was still
considering my agenda to clean the gift room. Then she would ask Sarala bai to
stay back and help me. I assured her that I was indeed looking forward to it -
open each package and try to sort the useful and non-useful things properly.
This was another advantage of staying here. The dread of finding a faithful
domestic help was non-existent. 




Deepak entered the kitchen. He was still in his
kurta pajama from last night. His messy hair fell on his broad forehead in
careless curls. His specs were little askew. His bold lips slacked a bit emphasizing
his prominent chin as he crooned to the pitch black goat in his arm oblivious
to the fact that it was chewing on his sleeve. I sighed. Yet another addition
to our backyard farm that had grown to twelve chickens, one cow and seven goats
in two months.




III




I let Ramdin the new goat of Bholanath free in his
new habitat, watched him bleat happily and chew on the juicy grass before
returning back to the kitchen. Sandhya was furious that I had accepted yet
another goat but I knew it was nothing a kiss couldn’t ease.




She put up a fight when I hugged her from the back
but calmed down quickly when I kissed her. She was an amazing woman. She was my
domestic god as no one of any lesser stature could put up with my theatrics.
She looked up at me, made a face and then served me a piece of hot cake. She
then nuzzled my hair and went on about her chores.




I have never stopped marvelling how comfortable we
felt around each other. We were not among those couples who never fought, on
the contrary, we fought so often, but at the end of the day both of us had
difficulty in remembering what we were fighting about. I was not among those
husbands who considered their wives a fragile toy; she was not among those
wives who were like creeper plants. She was my equal in every sense.




Yet somehow it felt strange that Sandhya should be
in my life as my wife given that she fought so badly with me the first time we
met. Sandhya and I were introduced to each other at a party by her mother and
my grandfather. Her mother used to be the campaign manager of my grandfather.
Within two minutes of our conversation Sandhya had established that she hated
politicians. She hadn’t given the rationale behind her belief but had fought
with me with so much passion. Her face had become red, her nostrils had flared
and beads of sweats had formed on her frowned brow while she argued with me.
And there I was, the future leader of our country, who had taken it upon
himself to change the face of Indian politics, crouched before the storm that
blew in front of me, like the straw in the high tide, mesmerized by her beauty
and aura. A few minutes later her mother saved me from blowing away by taking
her away. That night I hardly slept. I would have called her the next day
anyway but she did it first to apologize. And I was in love.




We were married within a year and the last two
years we lived, loved and fought together.




“Why are you eating the cake like you are tasting
pickle? Don’t you have any meeting today?” Sandhya broke the fibre of my reminiscing. I wondered why as a banker she got to be the
practical one while I as a politician was so prone to be lost in thoughts.




“Yeah going.” I said
and finished the cake reluctantly. I knew I would not get another piece till
the evening. The day ahead loomed large in my eyes- an open jeep hand waving
tour of the southern blocks, inauguration of the new building of the St. Anne’s
facility for human psychology, a speech at Kishan Chowk and then finally the interactive
sessions with the villagers. If everything went well I would be back home by
seven and then there wouldn’t be any stopping me from savouring the entire
Raspberry and Lemon chiffon. Daydreaming about the evening I started towards
the bathroom.




IV




 The gift
room in spite of me turned out to be a treasure trove. Half an hour into
unpacking and I was regretting not doing this earlier. I unearthed everything,
from golden Rolex to silver teddy bears. It was all over again like my wedding,
except that I could not show much enthusiasm at that time because I was being a
demure newly married bride.




Deepak had gone out for the day to run havoc in
the constituency. Though normally I kept out of his campaign details, I had
accompanied him once or twice on his whirlwind tour of a campaign. And I found
it crazy, I tell you, outright crazy. The speed the efficiency the
professionalism with which he and his team handled the whole frenzy was commendable.
I had watched the transformation of Deepak from the man I knew to the savvy
politician up this close with absolute awe. I had felt goose bumps all over my
body that I was so lucky to be married to this man. God indeed had his own way
of compensating everything.




Sarala bai let out a small gasp. She was unpacking
a small rectangular thin box. It must be a photo frame which might have come
with a cheesy black&white photograph of a couple, I chuckled to myself. But
I called out nevertheless, “what did you find Sarala bai?”




“Nothing bhabhi.” Sarala bai was too quick to
answer as she hastily tried to put it away.




“What is it Sarala bai? Give it to me, let me
see.” I said.




But suspiciously she repeated that it was nothing
and tried to go out of the room with it. But I caught her. After all a fifty
year old could only hope to outrun a twenty seven year old. Her face turned
ashen as I snatched the package from her. I opened it. It was indeed a photo
frame. I turned it face up. Deepak’s smiling face greeted me, my heart warmed,
but wait, who was this girl with him? And why was he hugging her so close and
why “lovers forever” was written across it?




Was Deepak cheating me? Was he also like just any
other man? All the faith all the stability I had collected so protectively through
all these years slipped through my hands in a moment. My eyes felt like dried
wells of fire. I screamed out loud. I pulled my hair open. I might have looked
frightening because Sarala bai shrieked and ran out of the room. I took the
wooden log used to close the door and ransacked the entire room. I destroyed
the Rolex and tore open the teddy bear. I broke all the cheap china and
whatever else there might have been inside those unopened packages. I stood
amidst the ruin, suddenly conscious of the damage I caused. A cold fear crept
up my spine. Oh my god! What had I done? Deepak would come and beat me up. He
would lock me in the attic and not give me anything to eat. Maybe he would tie
me up and let those hairy spiders loose on my body just like Bheem uncle did.




Sarala bai came back with Banno-ki-mummy. They
were my best friends. I told them to hide me somewhere safe from Deepak. They
put me to bed and patted my head. Oh! No. Who was that man? Why was he taking
out that syringe? Were they all together? Were they all planning to kill me?
Yes that was it. They all wanted me dead so that Deepak could be together with
that girl. I didn’t want to die. I put up a fight but Sarala bai pinned me
down. “Traitors”, I shouted before I drifted to nothingness. My eyelids
drooped. I was dying.




V




Being a politician in India was tough. It was
tougher to be a politician grandson of a politician grandpa. The southern
blocks had been the staunchest supporters of my grandpa. To them I appeared as
some angel who had descended from heaven and at the same time as a loving
grandson of each one of them. They interpreted my little slouched structure as
respect shown to them. Nobody from my team including me corrected them that it
was from those six super heavy garlands that I was wearing.




Finally when we were through I had to massage my
neck all the way to St. Anne’s.




Here also the shadow of my grandpa’s aura didn’t
leave me. Turned out, he had been instrumental in funding this facility. He
smiled down at me from dozens of life sized cut outs on both sides of the road
as I entered St. Anne’s.




“Why did you have to take all the opportunities yourself?
Couldn’t you just leave some for me?” I called him up and demanded. To my
irritation he simply said, it was not good to call grandfathers up in the
middle of a meeting and advised me to switch it off!




The new building was made in the pantheon style. I
wondered if mental patients would be able to appreciate its beauty. Would it
not have been better to concentrate more on the utility than on the beauty? All
those pillars in the front – were they really necessary? I ticked another
agenda in my mental notebook – spread practical sense among people to minimize
resource wastage.




I cut the red silk ribbon. At the huge entrance
suddenly I noticed a particularly large cut out that was captioned – Pratap Bhatnagar (MP) with all the inmates
at the inauguration of St Agnes block (2004).




My grandpa stood in the middle. Standing on the
right hand side of him was – Sandhya! He had a protective hand over her
shoulder. Was it Sandhya? Yes it had to be! That unique white golden skin tone
of hers wasn’t very common among Indians. And how could that mole on tip of her
nose be mistaken? Even the hazel eyes! Her brown hair was also same – left open
with a thin partition on her right side. Waves of disbelief washed over me. As
I walked ahead I kept turning and looking into it.




I sat there on the podium restless and anxious.
Was she an inmate or was she someone else? Why would she be an inmate? She
didn’t have any mental disorder! She was as normal as one could be! Then why
did they have her photograph in “all inmates”?




I delivered my speech with the precision of a
robot ignoring the weight of yet another heavy garland that seemed to drag me
down. The claps hardly reached my ears. I sat there counting my breath waiting
for this torture to end.




“Grandpa. Do you remember the inauguration
ceremony you attended here in St. Anne’s in 2004?” I asked. I had called him immediately
after the ceremony was over.




“No. I don’t.” said grandpa.




“Don’t lie to me grandpa. I know you do. You never
forget anything.”




Suddenly grandpa’s tone changed. He became
agitated and shouted, “Now what did those insects of sewage drain tell you?
Would you believe them or your grandpa?”




“Nobody told anything grandpa. I saw a picture of
yours with all the inmates at the inauguration ceremony.”




“Oh!” grandpa curled up like leech under salt.




“Yes. And would you mind explaining why Sandhya is
there with you in the photo?”




“Well. She was an inmate. That’s why! What’s the
fuss?”




“Grandpa!” I had to shout to bring some common
sense to him. Clearly old age was failing him.




“Well Deepak, what do you expect from a girl who
had been subjected to extreme child abuse for ten years in her life? When I
saved her mother and her from Bheem, the damage was done. She was prone to
depression and anxiety, occasionally a display of violence. So I put her into
St. Anne’s and she was fit and fine at the time of the photograph.”




“Bheem. You mean the ex MLA of your party who died
few days back?”




“Yes. He was some relative of her mother who took
them in after her father’s death. And her mother was too gratified to do
anything. Unfortunately I also could not take any legal action because he was
powerful in the party.”




“Why didn’t you tell me all these earlier?” I felt
betrayed by my own people.




“Well. We thought you would know after the way she
argued with you at the party. Anyone but a fool would have. But I had never
seen you more glassy eyed. So I discussed with her mother and decided that we
didn’t want to bitter your relationship based on some forgotten horrible past.
We convinced her as well. But honestly Deepak, did you never notice how unhappy
she was to go back to the town?”




“I thought it was because her puppy...”




But grandpa didn’t let me finish. “The party
leadership is correct. You wouldn’t win this election. You really need to learn
to observe.” And he cut the call.




So at the end of the conversation, it was I who
was stupid and inobservant. And Sandhya and grandpa in spite of keeping me in
dark about such a horrible truth got to be the saints again. I felt very angry
at Sandhya. At the same time I felt sympathetic too. I could not justify why
she would keep this hidden from me. But strangely I knew why too. No one felt
comfortable discussing a trauma they went through as children. But I wasn’t
sure if I should speak to her about it or just let it be. Maybe grandpa was
right. It was a forgotten past. I should not dig that up. In any case I
remembered now, provocation could bring up the violent streak in her. It had happened
few times but I had passed it off as just tantrum. I didn’t want to worsen it
now. I didn’t want to lose my Sandhya.




I cancelled my next agenda and headed back home. I
couldn’t decide anything about what I should do. Neither could I decide my
feeling toward Sandhya. I needed some time to my own to cool it off.




But home was unusually quiet. It was already dark
but no light glowed in the house. Bahadur at the gate shot strange glances at
me as my SUV passed through it.




I felt a chill of unease. Was something wrong? No
more surprises today, please god.




VI




The car sound at the gate told me that Deepak was
back. I had woken up from my sleep. My mind was calmer and I felt ashamed at
how easily I had succumbed to my old disease again. I almost destroyed all the
hard work I had put to make my life what it was today. If there was indeed any
reality about the photograph could I not talk with him in a civilized manner? I
tried to get up from the bed to receive him but my head still felt heavy from
the tranquilizer the doctor had given.




VII




Sarala bai thrust a photograph on my chest
forcefully. Her eyes were full of loathing. “What? Oh! Shit. Where did it come
from? Oh! Hell, where is Sandhya?” I heard myself panicking. The silence of the
house was explained to me in a second. I was filled with the worst premonition.
God forbid if something happened to her how would I ever be able to forgive
myself! Sarala bai was still shouting something animatedly. Anything hardly
made sense. I ran toward the bedroom.




Sandhya lay there. She seemed to have shrunk to
half her size in half a day. Her face was drained of all colour and faint dark circles
had appeared around her eyes. She smiled weakly at me. A heavy weight relieved
me. The force of the affection I felt toward her shocked me. I stumbled clumsily
over to the bed.




VIII




They both looked at each other. Each one seemed to
have aged drastically to the other. Each one looked and recognized the love and
concern mixed with thousands of questions in the eyes of the other.




“She is Gargi. My girlfriend in college. She died eight
years ago in an accident. I don’t know who sent this photo now.” Deepak answered
the unasked question.




“Maybe Shyamlal.” Sandhya suggested.




“Maybe.” Deepak wondered.




“Eight years ago I used to be a patient in St.
Anne’s.” Sandhya said. She felt relieved that they were finally completely
clear to each other.




“I know.” Deepak said. A shadow of a smile was playing
in his lips. He realized how stupid he had been to expect Sandhya to tell him
about her condition when he himself could not bring himself up to reiterate the
trauma he went through when Gargi died.




“You knew!” Sandhya looked surprised. But there
was also an unmistakeable hurt in her voice.




“Just today Sandhya. You know right I went for the
inauguration ceremony to St. Anne’s. They put a big picture of grandpa and all
inmates.” Deepak said.




Deepak watched with satisfaction as the cloud
slowly vanished from Sandhya’s pale face. “Why didn’t you tell me about Gargi
before?” she finally asked.




“It was very difficult to recount Sandhya. I just
couldn’t do it.”




“I know.” She smiled.




Deepak smiled too and climbed into the bed beside
Sandhya.




As they cuddled, for the first time in three years
of their relationship among which two they spent as husband and wife, they were
mirror to each other. Finally they could let go of their respective pasts and could
hold on to each other completely and fully without any dead weight or barrier.




At the door, Sarala bai wiped a drop of tear with
her saree and tossed the photo frame in the fireplace that was cackling with youthful
fire now.

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random