Dearest !

‘Give me an idea to write a story.’ Aniket said.

He quietly placed his head on Vidya’s lap as he lied on sofa. She turned her face towards him and strings of curly hair came on her face. She was wearing a big red bindi, her cheeks were not thin as they used to be and her petite frame of adolescence had given way to graceful womanly shape. She looked at him thoughtfully, resting her chin on her palm. Her bangles clinked while doing that. She probably wanted to say something but just stared and gave a smile. Her dimple looked exactly the same.    

‘Write something different this time, something not inspired from our story.’ Aniket guessed her words.

The wall just behind the sofa was covered with their photographs, bright happy moments of their past, neatly set up in black outlined frame. Vidya had personally selected each of them.

The picture on the topmost left was a school group photograph. Vidya dutifully played the ‘guess where I am’ with anyone who was ready to play. It was a typical school photographs devoid of fun, with teacher sitting at front and children sitting or standing behind in a row. No one smiled in the photograph. A blue banner at the background read:

Class VI B, Sacred Heart Convent School

August, 1998

It was the year when she got admitted to his school. She was the daughter of new District Collector and her sitting posture, erect, proud and full of grace bore testimony to that. She became new star of the school and he never gathered courage to speak to her for next three years. That was the reason he wrote his first story; to express what he could never say.

It was an honest story written with naiveté and the school magazine did not find it worthy of being published. Vidya, being the ornamental ‘student editor’ on the editorial board found it labelled ‘Not suitable for kids’ and read it for curiosity’s sake.  That day when he was sitting alone, she came and said ‘Promise that I will be the first one to read whatever you wrote’. There was something in her eyes which told they had known each other for years.   

He came rushing whenever he came up with anything new. He loved to observe her facial expressions while she read; clear symmetric lines appearing on her beautiful face. That was enough reward for his work.

As years went by, a bond emerged between them which people termed love. They found it a blend of camaraderie, trust and craving for each other. Her father, who had retired by this time, did not approve. Aniket was not affluent and her father saw no future in him. ‘You are going to repent one day. He writes childish love letters in garb of stories and I will not let you ruin your life for a struggling wordsmith.’

Time passed by and it became difficult to keep count of publishers who rejected his work. Only Vidya kept him going and just when it appeared that everything was lost, his first book got published. It was a story of hatred, not love. The protagonist was struggling middle aged writer who found inspiration in a beautiful teenage girl. It was a dark story and the writer was possessive and cruel. He followed this girl wherever she went but she could never notice him. Her beauty increased every day and young men who proposed her multiplied exponentially. These young men also vanished without leaving a trace, and she was always left alone. As the story progressed it was difficult to decide what was more intense, his longing for this girl or his hatred for anyone she loved. When the story ended, countless corpses were scattered in writer’s chateau.

Vidya gave this book to her father to read and he consented to their wedding. After his first book got published, he never looked back. There was a rush amongst publishers to print his old work and he was termed as king of romance. His best work was inspired from his life. His latest book got him the prestigious Palm Award and an honorary PhD. That was a year back. Slowly he found difficult to concentrate and was never happy with whatever he wrote.

‘You know Vidya, I am aware of my mediocrity. This world is going to brand me failure.’

‘You are again stuck in Writers Block, you need a good break.’ He did not recall if she actually said it or just meant to say. They hardly needed words to communicate. Was this perfect union of man and wife? This finality did not comfort him. Why was he so restless at the height of his success?  

‘I think I have given this world whatever I had and it’s time to leave. I want you to hold me tight, I feel very lonely.’ Aniket said. There were tears in his eyes. She had never seen him like this. He shrunk on the sofa like an old man. There was a melancholic smell in the room, something which could have been labelled as the smell of death, and she was determined to ignore it.

‘Aniket, you have always bounced back with an amazing story. Do you recall the story that wrote about your proposal? It was really wonderful.’ His eyebrows relaxed after hearing that. He loved whenever she talked about his work. ‘I loved how the character wooed this girl, taking her on long drives in his dilapidated fiat and the manner in which he lighted his house with scented candles before hanging upside down to propose.’

‘And then the house caught fire from those candles.’ Finally a smile came on his face.  

She kept on talking about his stories and he maintained his smile. He forgot if she was talking about his writing or story of their lives. She talked about the night when they made love for the first time. He could feel that scorching summer heat and her tender skin. She talked about his love of her fragrance and his longing for her. He tried to decipher if it was love or lust. Both appeared to be the same thing. He thought about their nights on the terrace when they endlessly chatted till the dawn came, the sound of the trains passing nearby tracks and wind gushing in before the rains.

She mentioned strain in their relationship when she got busy with her work and their fiery debates if they should have kids. He then remembered their stillborn child, a lifeless lump of flesh and bones; and her tears which came every day for years after that. Moments of his life, of pride and embarrassment, of companionship and solitude, of love and his loss flashed before his eyes. It appeared that today was the judgement day. His life was being telecasted and someone was to pronounce judgement. Everything was in compartments, neat, isolated compartments and his eyes kept on moving between them. He was watching the moments and also living them. He could feel each moment’s joy and pain and whenever he tried to look for her, Vidya was standing next to him. He couldn’t remember the face of his mother and it had blurred with Vidya’s face.  He felt that she was his mother goddess.

            Noise of shrill doorbell broke his trance.

‘You slept few hours back.’ Vidya was sitting still, lest she disturbed his sleep. She gently kissed his cheeks and asked him to open the door.

‘Hello Bhabhi’ Harish said as he entered the room. He was Aniket’s childhood friend.  

‘Aniket you should allow Bhabhi at least some sleep at night.’ He had noticed their red eyes and never missed an opportunity to tease.

‘I will get some tea.’ Vidya left the room sheepishly.  

Morning was different from the night before. Birds chirped loudly outside, a beam of sunlight entered the room and everything looked changed. There was a calm expression on Aniket’s face.

After an awkward silence, Harish asked: ‘You have not told her anything?’

‘You are not my judge.’ Aniket said staring at blank. ‘Is everything ready?’

‘Here is your Visa for five years. Best of luck for your relocation to a new world, you never deserved Vidya bhabhi’. He gave Aniket a disdainful look and threw the documents at him. Vidya came with the tea which Harish quietly sipped and left without saying goodbye to any of them.

The day progressed just like any other day and in the afternoon they went to sleep. When Vidya woke up in the evening, she found a note:

‘Dearest,

I know that you deserve more than just a note. You merit everything that is worth in this world, but then you married me; an unsure restless soul. I am restless now and I do not know where to go. More than that, I know that cannot stay at the same place. I do not have the courage to apologise to you; others will never forgive me.

By the time you wake up, I would have already started my journey for an unknown terrain. To begin with, I am going to Colombia. Why Colombia, because I just found its name in the newspapers and it was Marquez’s land; remember Marquez, you introduced his writings to me.

I feel that my ideas, my creativity is already dead; the thought is suffocating actually. I need life to hit with a brick on my head.  I want to go to a place where I do not find your love. I want to get hurt, and I do not want you to be there to protect me. I always loved you, and I love you now more when I have the fear of losing you. I do not know if I will ever see you again but let us hope that one day when everything is well, when we are young and madly in love, we meet again. 

Everyone will think that I am mad but perhaps you will understand. I did not wish to die, I wanted to live.

Yours,

Aniket 

Point of View

The moment has come. He has lifted me in his hand, and no one may ever know what I meant. His other hand is putting a bundle into shredder and I could be next. I doubt if he will give me a glance. I have not lost hope but can destiny be changed.

The shredder makes a soft grinding sound and its shining blades whine for more. It would cut me like a cake, first tearing me off and then splitting me into bits. I would be reduced to pieces of junk.  

You may think what a piece of paper can mean. You may even accuse me of boastfulness. I do not blame you but the confidence which comes when everything goes well. You succeed in life, have secure family and childhood and nothing can go wrong. A hallucination takes over and you feel that there is only good in this world. You also believe that everything that you have is here to stay.

You can continue to believe that till life hits you with a brick on head!

Anyways who will appreciate my effort; I am just a dirty wrinkled rag. Can words scribbled on me change my worth? On a dark lonely night, I was quietly slipped on his table. For weeks I was buried under heap of papers. I cautiously hid myself. It was suffocating and hot, but I survived that. I waited and prayed that he gives me a glance.

Today when he has picked me up, he is not in a mood to read. The pile of papers has grown and he wants to clear them all. Some go into the trash bin but most are being diverted towards the shredder. His hands are careless but firm; they hold me tight at an edge. His fingers rub my ink.

They are hard and coarse, but that was his past. He was not so careless at that time; he was not so certain about life. His world was small and his dreams were large. He struggled hard to make his mark.

Many years have passed and now he lives in his carefree world.

He has held me for some time and he has not moved. His gaze is fixed outside. Maybe he is enjoying view of the sea. He recently shifted to this sea facing room, another sign of his upward ascent. The sea makes a loud noise. It rhythmically rises and fall but he does not get the message. He has refused to see other tell-tale signs as well.

Men feel that fate changes out of the blue but they ignore destiny’s subtle hints. For him, even I was sent.  

His eyes appear dazed. He is looking outside but his thoughts are somewhere else. May be he is thinking about his wife. Theirs had been an arranged marriage but she made his world. He was hardly an ideal husband but she was always there for him; without any bitterness, without any complaints. He never truly realised how much she meant to him.

Perhaps he is thinking about his kids. They were small just few days back, he can easily recall their first steps and today they are ready to face this world. He wanted to play with them, participate in their growing years but time just passed. Very soon he would take a long holiday.

He knows his family would not blame him for not being there. They would understand. Of course everything may not be rosy but they love him. At least he believes as much.

I do not see even a faint smile on his face. On looking carefully, I feel that his expressions are sombre. Maybe he is planning his next professional move. His business is at crossroads and he has to take some bold decisions soon.

His partner and his childhood friend has been his strength. They started all this together and he could trust him with his eyes closed. In fact he is more than family to him. Of course they had some differences but creative people always have that. He knows that his friend will support him. He hopes as much.  

He might even be thinking about his health. He was so involved in this work that he neglected his well being. He recently got unwell, but it was a minor affair. It did keep him on bed for a few days but recently he has started gaining his strength. There is nothing to be worried about. All his tests have shown improvement and everything would soon be well.  

   

He is a good man and everybody knows that. He has even helped many beyond his means. He has been fair even to his foes. He has also discharged his duties and his family will vouch for that. He is a self made man. 

That is the reason I feel sad. I feel sad because this is an unfair world. Kind men meet brutal fates. I may not change anything but I wish to prepare him for what is to come. I pray that it does not so happen that one day there is no ground beneath his feet.

Cool sea breeze has entered the room and I think he is back from his dreams. His eyes are looking towards me and his fingers move on my surface. The shredder is still making a whining sound. I want to scream but I cannot utter a word or move; I only carry a message. It is he who has to read it. If I fail, he will have no one else to blame. 

An Ode to that Wrinkled Face

This is not a story. A story should have a beginning and an end but this has only memories; distant and vague. The sad part is, not many are left.

She would always recite same stories; a story about some shepherd and his sheep or that about an obedient son. I would lie down in her lap and would fall asleep while listening to those. She covered me with her saree’s pallu, and I felt warm and secure. I have never slept so comfortably at any other place.

She was short and frail. Her hairs were silver and grey, and during winters she would comb them in the sun while I dozed off in her lap. Her skin was wrinkled and formed parallel folds. I played with the skin around her palm and face. It was so different from mine and I still remember its feel. Her cheeks were hollow and there were no teeth left. She had dentures and her face changed when she wore them.

I liked her hollow face.

She wore white cotton sarees and had two silver bangles. To amuse me, she would take them out and rotate on earth. I close my eyes now, and I can see them spinning, two bangles with blackened silver and linear grooves; I hear the metallic sound when they fall flat.

I locked her in bathroom one day. No one was at home and she kept on banging at the door. I cried and cried, and my neighbours broke the door to release her. The first thing she did was to console me. I still wonder why she never got angry at me.

She was my only friend. My father and mother went out for work and it was with her that I spent my entire day. We would start with Peek-a-Boo, then she would chase me while I ran and after that she would colour my picture book. She was my Aladdin’s lamp and no wish could remain unfulfilled. She got my favourite toys, helped me bunk school and avoid eating vegetable curry that my mother gave. She would quietly bring in chapatti and milk which used to be my favourite dish. She would fly with rage if anyone scolded me and would pack her bags to leave. My parents would invariably relent.

In the evening she took me out for a stroll. I held her finger and she would fend off elder kids who wanted to play with me. Some people would tease her that I was not looking great, but she would defend me with all her strength. How could her grandson not look good?

Her wooden rosary bead was her constant companion. She would keep on rotating it in her hand and murmur god’s name. She did that even while she slept. Every day she gave bath to Lord Krishna’s statue and performed her daily rituals. Then she would put a small chandan tilak on my forehead. After that she would put on her glasses, take out Gita and fix it on a stand. She chanted it in her soft voice, harmonically moving in the front and back. I sat on her lap as if it was a swing.  

She was particular about doing all her work herself. She would wash utensils, clean clothes and cook her food. She insisted on doing all this even when she was ill and this resulted in frequent fights with my dad. No one would interfere and in the end, both will not eat till the other had food. This banter is still fondly remembered at our home.

I do not know what kind of lady she was. It sounds weird that a grandson should know what kind of women her grandmother is. She is just a grandmother, period. Today when I think about her I do not remember her crying, I do not remember her laugh; I can only recall her serene face. I try to guess if I ask her a particular question how she would react to that. No answers come. I can only see a smile on her face.

I do not have her pictures with me. Her solo images exist, but we will discuss about that.

I was eight when she left. She started falling sick and was admitted to hospital at frequent intervals. When she was discharged, my parents behaved in a strange way. A bottle of Ganga jal was always kept beside her cot. My father would sit holding her hand, and at times his eyes were wet. I was not allowed to play with her but they would ask me to listen to her stories. She was often tired and would not recite them in her usual animated tone. I still remember the last story that she told.

My parents never told me that she was going to die. Somehow I gathered a vague feeling that she would not stay with us for long. She had been admitted to the hospital for quite a few days and I was alone at home with an aunt when a telephone call came. I overheard that she was no more.

I kept looking outside the window waiting for her arrival; my tears would not stop. A large crowd gathered at our home. She was brought back in an ambulance; and when they took her out I observed that they had put cotton in her nose. It appeared that she was in deep sleep. My father’s eyes were swollen. Incense sticks were lit around her dead body. Everybody cried and it was a sad scene. I had never seen so many tears. I was asked to kiss her for a last time. Her cheeks still had those folds.

I was quietly sent to some other place and I do not remember much about that day. Her last wish was to be taken to some particular ghat in Varanasi for cremation and my dad honoured that. I resented balding of my head.

A photographer was called and most of her pictures belong to that day. Other than that, her large picture, in which she is sitting on a chair in an attentive pose, is present at our home. Probably the one who clicked it had an idea that it could be garlanded one day. I cannot relate to that picture and she appears unnatural in that pose.

Her void still exists. Why did she leave me so soon?

I see my son playing with my mother and pray that he is more privileged than me.

The Real Truth

I am a smart man. You may ask how I know that, but there are some things which could not be explained. A smart person just knows that, period.

If you still do not believe me, I do not care. My neighbours also did not for a long time. But now you should ask them and they will tell that I am a smart man. Their attitude changed the day I was appointed an Inspector. No, I did not become a cop; they do the boring job of running behind criminals, I became an Inspector in the Social Welfare Department. People do not appreciate the work that our department does, but it does great work and the reason they could do that is smart inspectors they have.

The first day when I went to office and met my boss, we looked in each other’s eyes and there was a spark. It was something that happens when two intelligent people meet. He immediately understood what I was made of and decided to give me a tough job.

Our department looks after many NGO run home for kids. These NGOs claim that they rehabilitate abandoned/poor kids but one look at these urchins and you will know that they were happier on railway tracks. Which child ever preferred a, b, c, d to the exciting life of railway platforms?

For years they worked under our guidance, but recently this home received the prestigious Golden Tortoise award and in their indolence, forgot to mention my boss in the thanksgiving speech. There was extremely no problem with that, but an institution which commits such folly at international stage could not run the home well. That was the day my boss understood something was wrong. He gave me the tough task of finding the real truth and sent me there for inspection, with even more powers that departmental inspectors had.

As I am different from rest, I decided that this inspection should be done in an unconventional way. Only kids of that home knew what real truth was, and to know that I had to become their agony aunt. The administrators of that home shivered when I went there, and I told them straight that I was not there to inspect old registers, but will take children to the nearby beach.

It was the kind of beach whose exotic pictures in magazines, showing blue water and unblemished sand, ensured that everyone drove down there and spent rest of the time contemplating if it was the same place they had looked at. I knew that it was just another place where sea met land, and both were exploited by a large number of human revelers but it would have served my purpose.

Anyways these were children from a ‘Home’ and as I stopped my jeep, all of them ran in different directions of the beach. This is what I do not like about children; they have no respect for the person who brings them to the beach.

It was high tide when we reached and the sound of waves hitting the beach had a cheering effect. The beach was spread across a large span, and the one frequented by tourists was the worst. Area just right of it was covered by fishes and nets, and the fishermen used that place to unload their catch. It was full of stink which ensured that only fishermen with strong nose stayed there. On the left, there was a beautiful isolated patch and no one went there because of the red crabs. These fiery looking crabs appeared from holes, again drilled the beach and disappeared in the sand.

These children were attracted to this part and started playing amongst the crabs. One of them started building a castle of sand, another found a handball and the rest went for sea bath. The only problem was that although they did not mind mingling with crabs, they were not ready to include me in their games. I had to become their friend first to uncover the truth, but every time I tried to join, they went to another spot. I tried to woo them with snail shells, beads and jute hats but they were not impressed.

I decided it was the time to play trump card. I went to a nearby stall and bought some chocolates. Children are a real greedy lot, and if nothing impresses them, a chocolate does. Once I had collected enough chocolates, I called Akash who was youngest of them all. I told him to calls the kids so that I could give them a chocolate each and he would be given one extra to do this task. He was a dumb sort of kid, whose response to stimuli was not up to the mark but it worked nonetheless.

When all of them came, I asked them if they liked chocolates. I showed them the ones that I had got but did not give it to them. A person never values a thing which easily comes. I had to ensure that my investment gives good returns. I allowed them to touch the chocolates, smell its flavour and imagine its taste.

When they were excited, I told them that we will play a game. I would tell them how chocolates were made and in turn they will have to tell me something interesting about this world. Since I was a smart man and knew everything about this world, the only thing left was information of their home, the kind that outsiders did not know.

I told them in detail how chocolates are made. I started from selection of cocoa beans, extraction of butter and it’s mixing with sugar and milking. I slowly described the process of developing taste and flavours and I could see them salivating over the taste.

They wanted to eat the chocolates immediately that but I insisted on finishing the game. They told me that they did not like the wooden beds on which they slept, there were bugs in their clothes and the cow next door mowed all the time making it hard to sleep. They told me other things as well but still I was not at the top of this world. I had to get some specific information by which my boss could prove that no home could run without the able guidance of officials of social welfare department.

Getting no results, I parted with my chocolates and decided to proceed to my B plan. Akash who looked extremely sad had not told anything and I knew he had something serious in his mind. I took him for a long walk. The sea breeze had turned strong and we walked past the fishermen’s nets. This part of the beach had dense shrubs and it looked like a painter’s image of a beach.

I told him that since he was an extraordinarily intelligent chap, I would tell him more about chocolates. When chocolate is made, best cocoa beans are separated from rest and then special chocolate milk is mixed with extremely tasty sugar and milk and stirred for days to prepare an exotic chocolate. This chocolate was costlier than gold and only fortunate people got its taste.

I took out the one left in my pocket, and allowed him to touch that. It was packaged like pearl and I could see his pupil dilate with greed.

‘Just tell me one thing about your home, and the chocolate is yours.’ I saw him thinking hard and I knew I had hit the bull’s eye.

‘You know uncle, this home is not bad but there are certain things which no one knows. They never allow anyone to discover that.’ His voice cracked.

‘Hmm.’ I gestured him to continue.

‘In the morning they give us tea and snack. That is ok. After that give lunch in the afternoon and dinner in the night and even that is not bad. But the real problem lies with the evening snack.’ He spoke slowly to ensure that no one else could listen that. A boat full of sea catch landed nearby and he was distracted by struggling fish in the nets. He looked at it for some time and then again started.

‘They prominently display that they give us special puffed rice mix as a snack. Actually it is a mixture of many things and the names of the ingredients like peanuts, chilli etc. is approved by the social welfare board and they are not allowed to mix anything else in that. They ensure that everyone finishes it and no one is ever allowed to leave that. In fact even if we are sick, we have to eat that.’

‘Carry on.’ I said. The sun was setting in the sea and it appeared that this was indeed a beautiful beach. The scenery was perfect and my quest for real truth was also coming to a perfect end.

‘Since last seven days you know…..’ and then he took a deep breath.

‘You know peanuts, since last seven days there are no peanuts in that.’

Treating a Symptom is not the Cure

        Recently I had to meet a special fact finding team sent by a National Commission. It consisted of motley of NGOs along with a beautiful Bollywood starlet who worked with the commission as a part of her social responsibility. The team was concerned about the state of affairs and was equally vociferous in articulating it. I specifically remember this starlet describing sad tales of victims, the weaknesses of our system and changes that we needed to make. Despite great diversity amongst team members there was one thing common; no one had any experience of working in government; and though we appreciated their enthusiasm, none of their ideas were implementable.

         In the last sixty five years of independence, the government has fallen short to live up to the expectations of people. Not only have we failed to provide good governance, we have corruption cases of astronomical magnitude and crimes against weaker sections of society are increasing. People have started losing patience. Their anger was visible in the support that Anna movement generated in its initial phase (How they lost it later is another interesting case study). Who has not suffered at the hands of clerk who buries file in his desk, who was not been harassed by traffic constable who searches papers diligently to find a fault and how many of us could get a driving licence without depositing the ‘convenience fee’. The feeling is of utter disgust when common man faces double digit inflation and there are scams like 2G where counting zeroes of magnitude is an exercise in itself.

       Electorate want results and in a democratic polity like ours, can a solution be far behind. To deal with corruption we have Central Vigilance Commission (CVC), Lokayukta in many states and CBI. Finding it to be insufficient, we are en-route to formulate a leviathan Lokpal. To give justice to the weaker sections of society we have National Commission for SCs, for STs, for Backward Classes and the same have been provided for Women, Children and Safai Karamcharis. We also have Information Commission, Human Rights Commission and corresponding state commissions for all these commissions. It is as good as response to stimuli, you pose a problem and we will give you a commission.

      In this hurry to deliver, we should take time and ponder if the solution that we are being offered is the best. A friend of mine who was against corruption refused to pay bribe to take delivery of his driving licence. Every time he went to the RTO office he was told that his licence was not ready. He complained to the vigilance officer, filed various queries under RTI and after these efforts received his licence without paying any bribe; indeed a way to fight corruption. An imaginative departmental secretary mandated that no driving licence will be delivered by hand and since applicants give address, it should be sent by post. This is another way to tackle corruption. A colleague of mine often found complaints that files of a vital section are frequently lost. This resulted in numerous complaints most of which related to seeking a bribe. He found its solution by implementing e-office where all files are digitally maintained and processed. No physical files exist now and hence it is not possible to hide one.

     In our hurry to find solutions, we should find time to ponder if we are putting cart before the horse. Are we serious about doing administrative reforms? Have we devised a method to punish the erring bureaucrats and reward those doing good work? We are yet to put an end to the game of revolving chairs amongst bureaucrats and provide them a stable tenure. According to a research, the average tenure of IAS officers in the period 1980-2000 was sixteen months. Even this time period would appear too long in certain cadres. In her first stint of four months and fourteen days, Mayawati transferred 550 IAS officers, in her second stint of six months it was 777 and in her third stint the number of transfers stood at 970. The total authorised strength of UP cadre is 537.

     No effort is being made to restructure work procedures. We largely follow British era rules which are based on distrust. No one has time to think why a particular thing is done, why it is being done that way and how it can be simplified. An example can be attestation of various certificates. There is a huge demand for government jobs, and even if there is a single vacancy, thousands apply. We ask candidates to submit attested copies of certificates along with their application form. These thousand applicants will run around in government offices to find that mighty yet kind Gazetted officer who will take time out of her/his busy schedule to sign these. On one hand we give extreme trouble to these applicants and on the other we waste time of government employees on an unproductive work. Some other organisations ask for self attested copies and then thoroughly verify the certificates of one who is finally selected. Why can’t we make it mandatory for all?

    There has been a consistent increase in crime but has proper attention been paid to shortage of manpower in police force. In 2010 the vacancy in the police force stood at 24.4% with more than four lakh posts vacant across the country. We have 133 policemen per lakh people against the United Nations (UN) prescribed figure of 222 per lakh. The number in some other countries is Italy (559), Mexico (491) and Saudi Arabia (386). Even if we recruit the missing personnel, our average would be way behind the one prescribed by UN.

     The magnitude of work that any government office does is huge and till Information Technology (IT) is effectively used, service delivery can never be satisfactory. An ambitious National E-Governance plan (NeGP) was launched in 2006 which consisted of 27 Mission mode projects. Some of these initiatives like e-district/digitisation of land records etc if and when implemented would simplify some extremely cumbersome government procedures. Thus to say that government is not doing anything would be wrong. To say that it is doing enough would also be far from truth.

    The budgetary allocation for entire NeGP in 2009-10 was 700 crores. The money that CBI got in the same year was 335 crores. A National Commission may roughly be allocated 20 crores per year. The figure would be around 160 crores for the eight commissions mentioned above. Then there would be corresponding expenditure on state commissions. Unfortunately there is no separate State E-governance plan. This does not mean that CBI or various commissions which have been set up are without merit. They have their legitimate role in settling outlying problems but routine issues will have to be addressed as a matter of routine.

    The point that is being made is that corruption or delayed service delivery is just a symptom. The real malady is that our governance is still not SMART i.e. Simple, Moral, Accountable, Responsive and Transparent. All problems cannot be solved by forming special bodies or commissions. Even heinous crimes are a symptom that our police forces are not well equipped and trained to prevent such an occurrence. These initiatives do not find favour with politicians because they do not yield immediate electoral dividends. The number of opportunist politicians in our polity surpasses that of statesmen who can sell these to electorate and provide the political will to implement them.

    It is time we look beyond these symptoms and cure the real malady.

Hello Again!

I hope you remember me. I am the one who told you that world is a strange place. I am seven months old now and I still maintain it.

The first thing that disturbs me is that no one understands even simple things here. When I tell them that I am hungry, my mom tries to make me sleep; when I yell to change a toy, my father checks my diapers and when I scream to get the television channel changed my parents turn it off. The people here are too dumb to learn my language and I even do not see any effort on their part. I have decided that I will have to pick up theirs.

Dear lord had also told me that when I go into this world, my parents would always be at my beck and call. They were supposed to cater me all the time and they did that for few initial months but now their sincerity is gone. Whenever I am sleeping or am busy with a toy, they try to give me a slip. Since they understand nothing but my wails, I have to resort to it to call them back.

I should also tell you that people here are too scared to try new tastes. My parents give me only milk, banana and few other things. Even when I ask, they refuse to offer their palm, mobile and beautiful shining poly bags. With their little assistance I could have explored zillion other tastes but still I have managed to taste bed sheets, books and some other things I would not like to name. Someone please tell these grownups that their life is so tasteless.

Also no one here cares about the environment. Even I know that plastics are bad for this world but they keep me surrounded by it. I have one on which they make my bed, another one for my pram and a large third which is below the entire bed sheet. I tried to reason with them that I do not like its sound; neither its taste but then they handed me a rattle instead. God save me from these morons!

I should also tell you that in this strange world, I have found a real friend. He has been with me from the time I was born. He was present in the hospital when I came, he was in my Grandmother’s place and now when I have come to my new home in Kolkata, he is here too. He quietly lives on the roof and listens to everything that I have to say. In the beginning we could not connect but as summer approached, on seeing me his three wings have started rotating with joy.

You remember last time we met; my parents had not given me a name. I feared that as lazy they were, they could have numbered me instead. Once I even overheard my father formulating hypotheses that since all good names were exhausted, people were soon going to number their kids. He wanted to reserve number ‘One’ for me as no one had taken it but the idea did not appeal my mom.

After intense efforts they finally managed to name me Aariv, meaning the king of wisdom.

Since you are my friend, I will share with you a secret. From the time I came into this world, I have been checking out people. Everybody was good but a beautiful lady stood completely out. She took great care of me and remained with me all the time. She has partially managed to understand what I say and now I want her to be with me all the time. As she might feel jealous, I have stopped going out with other people when she is around. I think I have fallen in love with her.

Oh yes, I forgot to wish her, Happy Mother’s day mom.

Hello

The world is a strange place. It has been four months since I came here and I can tell you with confidence, this world is nuts!

The day I came into this world, my family decided to convene their long due gathering. The entire family tree including its offshoot branches and long drawn acquaintances chose hospital as their venue. They celebrated by eating some round stuff packed in colorful boxes and even gave it to the nurses and ward boys but no one bothered to offer me one. What they could offer me was oversize clothes, some of which I have not been able to wear till date.

It was my first day in the world but they behaved as they were seeing a small kid for the first time. Their interest in me was more than a five year old's in a Giraffe at the zoo. They made funny faces and funnier noises and many times when my mother was not on guard, they even pinched my cheeks. Grow up guys!

To tell you about my mother, she is a good lady. Well almost!

She treats me well but I hate her when she puts those oily creams and lotions on me. I know she is impressed with that baby in Johnson and Johnson’s advertisement but Hello, trying all their stuff on me will not make me him!

I normally trust her but she has tricked me into drinking those tasteless liquids that doctor prescribed. Of course I am wiser now and have perfected the art of blowing it on her face.

My father believes in Nehruvian foreign policy of peaceful co existence and non interference in one’s affairs. I feel he is scared to show this to my mom so he daily plays with me for an hour. I think I do not mind it.

It is true that my parents spend time entertaining me but most of their effort is directed to make me asleep. They try their horrible lullabies on me in their croaking voices and I have no option but to fall asleep. Also is there any respect in this world for the sleep of four month old. It is understandable that they do not turn off the lights but watching TV aloud while I am trying to sleep is beyond comprehensible manners.

I should also say that it is difficult to live in this world under this intense attention. Whenever I try something new or utter any novel sound, my parents present themselves with a camera. I think I am too small to be in the Bigg Boss house and it really puts me off. Till now I have never allowed them capture my best shot.

They also try to make me piss while sounding that silly sssss….. It is awkward to hang in that strange position with air chilling your interiors. I have to yield to get over that embarrassing position, but do I have some human rights. Mom, Dad, I am fully entitled to wet my pants.

There are multiple other ways to irritate me and one is that whenever I am in a mood to laugh or talk, my mother dials my grandparents. It turns chaotic with so many people talking so I withdraw from that chat show. Mom can’t we have any serious talk without involving anybody else.

The pressure to perform in this world is unnerving and these people do not even spare a four month old!

Otherwise my parents are somewhat ok and I have no grudge against them but they have not named me yet. Isn’t it preposterous that a four month old does not have a name; worse not even a nick name? I have noted it down and will take account of it in future.

For the present, I make maximum of opportunity available at night by keeping them awake.

Unseen, Unheard, Unknown

An arrow periodically blinked on the screen and flashed “He is SDO soandso, Mr. AS." The clipping showed only three shots; the nameplate of my house, my camp office and then me appearing on the screen, moving towards the camera and a camera lying on the floor.

Here I was on TV, the new-found villain of a news channel; and the Breaking story ran “Shameless Administration: SDO breaks the camera of press." An entire one hour program was dedicated to this and various intellectuals, politicians showered several imaginative phrases on me.

I do not know from where to tell the 'story.' This was my first encounter with yellow journalism; and truth being told, I was quite disturbed when it happened. But then, though on a smaller platform, I thought I too had the right to tell my side of story.

Soandso sub-division comprises of many tea gardens and living conditions there are far from satisfactory. There have been reports of Starvation deaths in some Tea Gardens, and after that government started many welfare projects there.

The recent story began when an overzealous news channel discovered that two people had died out of starvation in a particular Tea Garden. It came as a shock for us as such incidents; if any; were probable in only in closed tea gardens.

An inquiry was conducted and it appeared that news report was completely baseless. Both the persons were suffering from long term physical ailments, were financially sound and had died a natural death. While we were about to make this inquiry public, the Block Development Officer (BDO) went on two days leave.

The same news channel immediately ran the story "Impact of our reporting on Starvation deaths: BDO sent on compulsory leave by the government." My BDO got demoralized and I was furious. How could a news channel carry such a story without verification?

I talked to the channel concerned and their standard reply was that they got this news from a ‘confidential source’. After trying to show reason for some time, I realized its futility and refused to have any further communication with them. The person on the other side insisted on taking a bite from me as they believed in ‘balanced’ reporting but I politely refused.

Next day was holiday and early in the morning, two press reporters came to my house. I asked my staff to inform them that I was not interested in talking but they refused to leave without taking my bite. I got irritated and came out to ask them to leave. They had already recorded my house and without either introducing or taking my permission, they started recording me too. I asked them to stop immediately.

They refused blatantly and then it happened. I raised my hand to turn off the camera and in the commotion, some part of it got disconnected. After that they started screaming that I had broken their camera. Their bosses in the headquarter directed them to leave immediately and the 'breaking news' started. In a moment, I was turned into a camera breaking high handed monster who was enemy of press and hence that of mankind. A shot of camera lying on the ground was added to the clipping later on to further spice up the story.

The aftermath of this episode was not completely negative. All other channels/newspapers decided to support me and nobody else ran this story. Both my seniors and juniors in administration unequivocally told me that my credentials were known to all those who mattered. Numerous local people called me to say that they shall be with me come what may. Even people from press were sorry that I was being demonized by a particular news channel.

Every time I received such a phone call, there was a lump in my throat. Before this incident, I never knew people loved me so much and I was overwhelmed. My resolve to work for people became even more firm.

When I look back, I do not know how I should have reacted. How do you react to people who enter your house without your permission, refuse to leave and forcibly try to video graph you? Whatever be it, I regret things went as they did. A strange melancholic feeling persists in my heart.

I am still trying to understand how free, the free press should be!

Life is Beautiful

Suddenly there was a loud noise and then everything was calm. It must have been fraction of a second but I still remember everything; as if my mind had taken a snapshot of that moment. Front seat of my vehicle had tilted backwards and my legs were trapped. The glass on the back side was shattered and there was dust all around.

So there I was going to a block on a routine inspection. Newly built highway was inviting and soon our vehicle crossed the speed of the three digit mark. I was enjoying the scenery of Buxa Tiger Reserve talking to S who had come on training in my subdivision and it was just any other day; but then it turned out it was not.

From the last few days there were numerous articles in the newspapers showing violations of traffic norms in my area. Particularly irritating were buses having scores of passengers sitting on its top. Ideally these checks are conducted by police and Motor Vehicle departments but at times enthusiastic SDO’s also do these.

At a distance, we saw a bus coming towards us and it had persons sitting on its top. In a strange fit of enthusiasm I asked my driver to signal it to stop. The bus did not pay heed and crossed past us. That was when it all began.

I asked my driver to stop and was telling him to note down its number and suddenly there was a big jerk along with a deafening noise. My driver had stopped; but what he probably missed was that behind us there was another vehicle speeding on the highway; and it was not able to replicate our action.

There was dust all around and we were trying to reconcile with what had happened. Luckily none of us was hurt barring a few minor bruises. Scorpio is a sturdy vehicle and it had absorbed all the shock. S still maintains that we must have been cursed by the vehicles on which I had imposed fines.

Whenever I look back, I cannot resist thinking why that happened. I should not have tried to stop that vehicle on highway, my driver should not have stopped on road, and the vehicle coming behind us should have maintained a distance. Anyway, that is not worth dwelling upon.

As I stood there trying to figure out our injuries, the first thoughts that crossed my mind were of my wife and family. Never in that half an hour did I think of the unfinished work lying on my table. So, though, many times we get lost in our work, we should never forget for whom we are working for.

I also felt the transient nature of our existence. Life can go in flash of a second and we may not even know. I felt a strange pain for that Scorpio. It was a beautiful new vehicle and after that incident, its beauty was suddenly gone. We thanked God that we did not meet a similar fate.

Standing on that road, waiting for some other vehicle to pick us up, I also realized that being alive is a wonderful feeling. I feel bliss when I breathe the fresh air, when I see the green bushes of Tea Gardens and the colorful mountain stretches beyond them in Bhutan. I also I feel bliss when I write this, when I wait for your comments on my blog, and when my wife teases that I am just another ordinary writer.

Life is Beautiful. Indeed!

Better Left Unsaid

Strange are the ways of Love.

The first thing she noticed was that he did not brush his teeth. He was somewhat fat, somewhat lazy and enigmatically interesting. She had known him for three months; and she hadn’t in real sense. They were put together in a group of ten that went together on ‘Bharat Darshan’ and that was when their journey began.

Bharat Darshan is a two months tour in which bureaucrats are sent to discover India. At the end of the journey, discoveries are not confined only to ‘India’. It is an experience in itself and two months of continuous journey bring out the best and worst in all. Ten people who are randomly put in that group often end up as best of friends; and in some other cases avoid each other for lifetime.

So their journey started along with that group. There was something that pulled them together. Both of them lacked enthusiasm that new tourists have, both of them had a flair for cards and both of them were loners. One thing led to another and soon they realized that there is something that binds them together.

Nothing in this world is more beautiful than falling in love and you cannot appreciate this as long as you experience it. They carved a world out of themselves and they talked about anything and everything. When you fall in love you realize that there is so much you have to talk about. There is nothing that is stupid; there is nothing out of bounds.

They were away from their friends and families, away from their ‘roles’ and there was nothing else that mattered. But then, all good things come to an end!

Many relations are best left undefined and same was true probably for this case. The problem started when they tried to name their relationship. It was the last day of their journey and boy proposed the girl.

She denied that she was in love with him; she also denied she was ever in. In fact her marriage was settled and she had known that boy from last five years. It was going to be a love cum arranged marriage and she was prepared for it. Her eyes were dry and plain and this was not the girl he had known.

It is difficult to understand women but the men never mind trying. He tried to argue, he tried to convince but somehow she had made her decision. She was not ready to take on the world and defy her social role.

From some distant corner they heard a song being played:

मेरा कुछ सामान तुम्हारे पास पड़ा है,
सावन के कुछ भीगे भीगे दिन रखे हैं
और तुम्हारे ख़त में लिपटी रात पड़ी है,
वो रात बुझा दो, मेरा वो सामान लौटा दो.

Many things were left unsaid and for the last time in their life they hugged and cried together. Bharat Darshan had come to its end and so had their relationship.

I Never Nag

I never nag and I will not do it now. I only want to tell you about a journey. It was not of the kind of holidaying but some enforced journey that you undertake on the pretext of work.

So there I was, in my office attending a meeting and the people kept on repeating the same things. I told them that I have a train to catch but they still kept on repeating the same things and the meeting ended without a conclusion. Not that I wanted a conclusion as conclusions never come but because of that I had to rush to catch the train.

I know that train always comes late but I still have this habit of going there an hour before. So I reached the platform and bought coffee to kill time. It was bad coffee but that was not the reason of my disgust. I was really hurt when the shopkeeper gave things to two persons who came after me, only because their voices were louder than mine. The kind of depression that sets in after such incidents spoils my whole day, many times whole month.

I somehow swallowed that coffee and after that I had an empty paper cup in my hand. I tried to be like civilized types and looked for the dustbin. I held that cup for five minutes but after that when no one was looking and threw it on the railway tracks.

After announcing seven times that the train was on right time and would come any moment, the train came half an hour late. I tried to form a queue to enter but the old fat auntie in front of me blocked the door with her big baggage. She did not allow passengers to get down and climbed the coach with the help of her able coolies. I tried to look for the second door but the coach attendant had already kept it locked.

Somehow pushing and cursing, and seeing large posteriors of passengers trying to fix their large luggage, I managed to reach my berth. Nine people were already uncomfortably sitting there. I tried to act smart and ask their berth numbers but they just smiled and requested to adjust.

This always happens with me that whenever somebody asks me to adjust, I actually more than do. Not that I really want it because after that also I continue fighting with them for days and months in my mind; but my face maintains a stoic smile.

Then they asked me to further cooperate by giving my lower berth. See this is the issue I am bit touchy about. I like the lower seat and but every time some fat old auntie asks me to adjust.

I was quite depressed by now and I asked the attendant to give me sheet and blanket so I can sleep. The sheets were pathetic and their condition reminded me the smiling faces of railway ministers who refused to raise fare in a row. The blanket also had some twelve odd holes in it but the attendant looked at me in a way that I felt guilty of wishing for more, thereby not cooperating with minister’s effort of keeping the prices low.

The family sitting down kept on chattering till late night but to prove their courtesy they did so only after switching off the light. That day I decided like myriad similar incidents, I will never forget them and that is why I am immortalizing them in my blog.

For Necessary Action

The letter was really intriguing (i.e. interesting and confusing). The writer had found a solution to the problem of climate change. He stated that he had been researching in the dense forests and had studied the impact of climate change on changing color of the frogs. He had also analyzed its effect on the decibel level of their croaking.

After listening to the data for twelve years and feeling it on a handmade supercomputer made out of completely organic ingredients, he had derived a formula to reverse the climate change. The only thing he needed now to hand it over to the government was a small appreciation letter from the Prime Minister of India and twenty one lakh cash. Since he felt that foreign secret agents were behind his life, he had refused to divulge any further details.

So there I was, sitting as usual in the first hour my office and doing my most important job, seeing the ‘Daak file’. In simple terms a Daak file is a file that keeps the Daak or the ‘correspondence’. Every day I get scores of letters which I skim/read/try to read in the first hour of office. The above mentioned letter was present in the same Daak file and I had already given it two minutes, twelve times the usual 10 seconds allotted to a usual Daak.

I get anything between 50 to 500 letters a day and two minutes to a single letter was certainly extravagance. For a moment I felt that I held the future of humanity in my hand. Pictures of huge melting glaciers with white polar bears flashed in front of my eyes and I decided to act in a conclusive manner. I tried to think hard to decide the various alternatives.

I could have forwarded that letter directly to the PMO and asked them to act upon it. I could have written to the science and technology department. I could have additionally sought funds to further research upon the matter. I could also have called a meeting of all college professors to discuss the issue. In case I wanted to deal conservatively, I could have sought advice from my district magistrate.

I also thought about making a round paper ball from that paper and throwing it into the dustbin. Alternatively I could have tested my memory by trying to make an aeroplane from that sheet of paper. I could have additionally sent a doctor to examine the mental status of the writer.

The pressure became huge and I felt exactly as Arjun would have felt in the battlefield when he said “Mind is restless Krishna”.

And then I realized the solution was simple. What had I to worry when I had the most efficient phrase invented by the bureaucracy. In fact what Sachin is to cricket, this phrase is government; only more consistent and match winning.

I marked the letter to my deputy officer and wrote ‘for necessary action’.

Capturing Life

That was the first time I was wearing a suit. It was my class 12th farewell and the idea was to imitate the elderly; ladies in saris and gentlemen in suit. I carried a mustache at that time and hello……how thin I was. I was invariably smiling in all the pictures and looking at that I can tell that I was not very comfortable.

So in the fits of cleaning my house, I rediscovered a bag full of pictures; pictures that captured life, pictures that captured past. Each one of them extrapolated an event and started telling a story. The time frame was not continuous and stories started coming randomly; just with a turn of a page.

And suddenly I was a girl. I was three years old and my mother had made me wear a frock. My father was helping her and the camera captured all three of us. It was festive day as Bhagwat uncle had come to our home with his new camera. So all of us got clicked myriad times; in different poses and in different dress; and that day continues to live on as representative of that age.

I had always liked her. She looked gorgeous in her cream sari and was the first woman I had a crush upon. And there she was; looking gorgeous as ever; sitting at the center of fifty of us; Class of UKG Section B. For me she never grew old and that snap took her from this world and pasted her that picture forever; at least for me.

The picture was clicked for finding her a perfect groom. She was Bhatnagar uncle’s daughter and had entered marriageable age. She was wearing a sari and the photographer made her cheeks look extra pink. Her eyes were expressionless, and after six years when she committed suicide those eyes kept haunting me for days. We never knew why she did that but that marriageable girl with extra pink cheeks is still alive in that album.

I was sitting on a boat, and I tried to look smart. I was not smiling and neither was I serious; and I had tilted my head slightly tilted towards the left. It was our trip to Varanasi and at least a score of us had gone there. Whenever any relative came to visit us in our suburb, we dutifully took them to some of the places around and such excursions were my window to the world. I in fact jumped from that window and eventually saw the world, but the joy never matched the one of that boat ride.

And then there was a generation leap. I was not even born and my parents were getting married. My father wore bell bottom pants and my mother had a big stylish bun on her head. I wonder why people of that generation comment on our fashion sense. My father had mischievous eyes and I always found it hard to believe that even my parents could have been so young.

Sometimes I wonder if I could go back in time carrying those albums, and then tell everybody what future has in store for them. I could have told my gardener that a storm would destroy his flowers that season; I could have asked that girl to be positive towards life.

But then I realize that I am mortal and put these questions to rest.

The Second One: A Lady

After that incident life continued as it was. The strange thing is I still do not know how I should have felt. I was not at all scared but something had changed. My mom always told me that human beings are survivors. Keep us in any conditions and we will come out stronger. I involved myself in the studies and started running with life.

It was the first day when we were taken to a morgue for dissecting a human body. It was cold inside and was the room was dimply lit. The wall contained small rectangular boxes with rounded handles, and each of them contained a frozen dead body.

The unnerving thing about a morgue is that you start become philosophical once you see dead; made of same flesh and bones as you are. The frozen bodies also have frozen expressions and it looks as if there was a sudden pause in life, similar to the ‘Statue’ game we played in childhood. Many of us vomit or faint there but at the end of the day you take a big knife and cut it straight across the chest.

In no place you can feel so closely what mortality of mankind means.

From first day in college, we had been hearing of stories that seniors lie there as dead and try to scare the juniors. I was ready for that but I did not anticipate what actually came for me.

All of us were being shown a dead body and we were going to start the dissection of it when I found somebody whispering my name. At the entrance of that room, there was a lady who was signaling me to come to her.

While walking towards her, I noticed that she was fat and was dressed in complete black. She was wearing a distinguishing large bindi on her forehead and had all sort of strange ornamentations, somewhat similar to those of hermits. Her appearance sent chills down my spine but it was too late to turn back.

Her voice was polite and without introducing herself she asked, “Vandana, how does one donate her body to the medical college?” I looked taken aback not only at her question but also as if asking her how she knew my name. She just smilingly gestured towards the batch that I was wearing.

I explained to her all the formalities and sent her to the relevant office. After a week we again had a session at the morgue. Last time we were told how dissection was to be done and all the external features that had to be marked before touching a dead body and today was going to be the day when we were to cut open a dead human body.

I was completely relaxed and got my instruments issued. Everything was normal and then I shrieked. On my table, staring right into my eyes with calm frozen expressions, as if trying to soothe me up, that same lady was lying……..dead. I felt as if I have forgotten how to breathe and I became dumb for a minute.

After that I shrieked and shrieked and my friends took me out of that room. Later on I found that that lady’s death was completely natural and her body had been shifted to the morgue just that morning.

I took a break and went home for some days. There while turning some family photographs, I found pictures of last days of Sharmila aunty. Under the influence of some hermit, she has started wearing black and when she was being taken for cremation she almost resembled the lady that had come to meet me in the morgue.

The First One : A Call

I had receiver in my hand and I was sweating. I still remember what Sharmila auntie said “Vandana please help Vinhanshu, he is in pain”.

When I recall it now, it looks so weird. Till date I have found no explanations, and I keep on wondering why it happened to me. In fact those two incidents shook my life.

Sharmila aunty was always known to us. In fact Ghosal’s were like family to us. Sharmila aunty was mom’s best friend, uncle was Papa’s eternal golf partner and I grew up playing with their son Vibhanshu.

Still I do not think I had any special bonding with Sharmila auntie. She was good to me and always brought candies; and that was it. She continued to bring them all along, from time I was a kid till the time I entered medical college.

And then one day out of nowhere, I received her call. With no niceties exchanged, she told me she had cancer, and one at a pretty advanced stage. Her voice was sad but composed. She said she had only one month to live and I was the first person she was telling that. I could hardly speak a word. In a jumbled voice I uttered something to console her.

I do not know why but I was gripped with a strange fear. I immediately called my mom and just kept on crying. After that I never called Sharmila auntie nor did meet her but my mom confirmed her medical condition. She died exactly after a month and I could not muster courage to go to her funeral.

That was one year back, and now at 2 am at night I had just talked to her again. I sat there holding the receiver, and I could not even dare to move. After sometime I checked the telephone line and it was dead.

It was impossible to sleep after that and I sat on that sofa for a time that looked immemorial. At 6 am in the morning, I rang at her home. Their servant picked up the phone and told that Vibhanshu had met with an accident at night and everybody was at the hospital. He was in pain, but was out of danger.

At afternoon, I went to meet him and wished him fast recovery. We talked about many things and he told me that was missing his mother a lot that day. Somehow I could not muster courage to tell him that it was she who had informed me of his condition.

I was left shaken by this experience but I did not know what more was in store for me.

PS: This story was based on a true incident as narrated to me by a close friend. Its second part will be coming soon.

With You, For You; Always

“This is too much. After sixty years of independence, this cannot go on.” Bilas said after endlessly waiting for the Taluka officer on third consecutive day.

Bilas was the first person who had passed higher secondary in his village. His father had the hobby of describing how he overcame all the obstacles to educate his son. And now he believed that his son would change their village.

So, he had taken Bilas to the Taluka office to apply for an agriculture loan. But it was their third consecutive day, and they still could not locate the Taluka Officer. The usual reply of the peon was, “Sir has gone for a field visit.” His father wanted to wait, as he knew that patience was the virtue needed to deal with government, but he could not tell this to his higher secondary pass son.

“We must do something. These officers take us for a ride only because we let them to. I will go to the highest level.” an angry Bilas said.

Then and there he wrote a request to the Chief Minister (CM) asking him to provide his father an immediate agriculture loan. Before posting that, his father showed it to the entire village and told them that since now they have an educated boy in their village; they can directly send all their requests to the CM.

The CM was an honest man. He wanted to help everybody, and told his secretaries to help everybody. After some days, Bilas’s letter reached the CM office and found fortune of being opened by a CM’s secretary.

And since the CM was pretty strict about helping the poor, his secretary drafted a letter to the District Magistrate of the Bilas’s district; strictly asking him to explain and send an action taken report. The DM was an honest man. He wanted to help everybody, and told his secretaries to help everybody.

So after some days, one of the secretaries of DM forwarded that letter to the Sub Divisional Magistrate (SDM) very strictly asking him to immediately explain and send an action taken report. The SDM was an honest man. He wanted to help everybody, and told his secretaries to help everybody.

This time the letter was seen himself by the SDM. He drafted a letter to the Taluka Officer very, very strictly asking him to immediately, immediately explain and send an action taken report.

The Taluka officer felt grief and pain after receiving that letter. He wanted to cry feeling that a person of his Taluka had to go to CM to ask for the loan and already a year had passed in the process. He decided to take an action at that moment itself and send an action taken report to the CM via DM via SDM.

His action taken report read, ‘Since the loan application must be addressed to the Taluka officer, a letter has been sent to Sri Bilas asking him to immediately come to the Taluka Office and submit the loan application in prescribed format.’

PS: For any confusion that may arise later, I hereby confirm that this is a work of fiction :)

Some Frequently Answered Questions

What work do you do?

Right now as a part of my training, I have been posted as a Block Development Officer (BDO). And the truth is I never knew before that government worked so much.

In last two months, I have handled jobs like conducting camps for differently able people, arranging for the visit of central government team, meeting political party leaders, facing deputations (that’s a gathering of hundreds of people which comes to raise their grievance), conducting inquiries, pushing up for the NREGS works, handling the never ending election work and the list just goes on.

In short, the spectrum in which the government works is unbelievable and each day comes with a new experience.

Can Civil servants work honestly in this environment of corruption?

This question comes with a bias that majority of people in government are corrupt. I have limited experience but till now I have never found any reason to believe so.

Nobody can force anybody to be corrupt or vice versa. Just like any other big organization, I have found all the colors in my office. So giving a certificate to all government employees that they are corrupt may be fashionable, but not always correct.

Deviating from this question, I would like to give an example. I have a clerk who shall be retiring in six months. He was inducted as a clerk; he shall retire as a clerk. His salary always was and is, meager. He was never given any training; he was never given any reward. But still he is the most hardworking person of my block, backbone of one of the important departments and even in this age he works on Saturdays and Sundays without any extra remuneration.

The truth is I am still searching the source of motivation of such people. I do not understand what drives them, and I feel really bad if somebody flatly brands entire government as corrupt.

Do Politicians let you work?

This question comes with a preconceived notion that you want to work but politicians do not let you do so. The truth is in many cases may be far from it.

One must understand that politicians are representatives of people. Their understanding of ground reality is much better than that of a civil servant. They also know man management pretty well since they ‘deal’ with lots of people.

Good work in field is necessary for them for being re-elected too. So most of the time, they genuinely help civil servants to do good work. They have some limitations as they must have a ‘please all’ attitude but if a civil servant makes sense no politician can stop him from doing good work.

Why do you like civil services?

1. More often than not, I shall be the boss in my office. In other words, I get a good amount of freedom. A senior civil servant once told me that the reason why our service class parents term this as the best job is that here you get least interference of your superiors and maximum freedom to do your work. Most of the time, you are the one who is managing the show, be it big or small.

2. In course of my job I have seen almost entire India, visited the Parliament, met President and Prime minister, learned entirely new language and came to know of opportunities to work in hundreds of fields where government is present with its ever unfolding spectrum. Which other job can offer me this? I end this answer here as I have already dealt this subject before.

The Idea that drives India

On 15th August 1947, a strange nation started its ‘tryst with destiny’.

There was hardly an iota of homogeneity in its nationals; they spoke myriad languages, had cultures poles apart, and consisted representation of all diverse religions. Not only that, it was left high and dry by its colonial masters.

So the entire world predicted doom, and doom’s day they said was not far away. They waited and predicted, and predicted and waited. But then nothing happened. Actually they missed that an idea was driving that nation; and that was its Democracy.

Thus this new blog is dedicated to the magic called democracy and the means to achieve it, free and fair elections. I know quite a few eyebrows must have been raised by now.

Before my readers put me down with zillion cross questions, I remind them of a quote of Churchill ‘Democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried’. And trust me, I cannot agree more.

Democracy has power to smoothen all the folds of the society; it has power to merge different colors of society and mind it, none of them lose their identity. In years of human existence, democracy faced just one strong opponent, Communism, but that too got completely crushed by the fallacy of its own weight.

Now let me come to the phrase ‘free and fair elections’. Its normal to question ‘Are we anyways near that?’ and my answer to that shall be a loud Yes. As an insider to the government machinery, I can say with full confidence that I have never seen a process as efficient as conduct of elections.

The process starts years before any election is due. Voter lists are periodically revised and re-revised. Booth level agents go door to door to confirm who has moved in and who has moved out. All political parties are asked to give their views and objections to the entire process.

When election comes near, almost all other government work comes to a standstill. The letter with mark ‘Election Urgent’ acquires topmost priority.

After each election, the Election commission gets wiser and now they are monitoring at multiple levels. There are government observers, there are agents of all political parties and then there are also some random citizen checks.

So have we become perfect? My answer is no. There are still evils to be tackled; like those of criminalization of politics, politicization of religion, use of money and muscle power etc. But if you feel the sheer magnitude of election operations, you cannot resist but call it magic.

After all, isn’t this the magic that has, and god willing shall, keep India moving.

From Darkness to Light

The dust has settled now and I thought it was over with me.

But I was in a restaurant in Kolkata and there was a loud noise. My heart skipped a beat and everybody present there was looking in the direction where a balloon got burst; with fear in their eyes. Then I realized that 26/11 terrorist attack was still living with me; and living with others.

So we were hit by another terrorist incident and this one was different from others. It was marked by the audacity of terrorists, and also the television coverage that they got because of it. For almost three days, entire India was glued to television.

This incident brought terrorism so near to common man. It is difficult to relate with a person blown by a bomb in the train, but the impact is much more when we discover the count of dead after three days of anxious wait on television. It is also not pleasant to know that terrorists can attack a family dining in a restaurant, or those sleeping peacefully in an obscure building.

I think the aftermath this time should be different. I hope we are really fed up of terrorism and we will not take it any more. But a voice inside me keeps murmuring; this reaction is because elites were hurt this time. I dismiss this as a vague thought and try to figure out why blasts in north east or Naxal attacks in interiors almost go unnoticed.

I also try to figure out why workers of the hotel were helping their guests amidst the attack; or how the GM of Taj was working for the safety of guests when he had himself lost his entire family. Can this ever be lure for money or promotion… I imagine what goes in the mind of a commando unit which knows that they might be sitting on a ticking time bomb. I salute them all and envy their love for their job.

I hope that sooner or later we will find a solution for this menace, but I still do not know what it shall be. I get irritated by people who keep on repeatedly stating ‘we must something about it’. I also do not like those who feel that ‘hot head’ is the solution for everything.

Winston Churchill once said that democracy is the worst form of governance, but it is better than all other forms ever tried; and I cannot agree more. I know that we will have to and we should live with our democracy, though choosing the right representatives remain our job.

I also do not understand how attacking Pakistan is going to help us. Though we will have to pressurize Pakistan to deliver but turning into another Iraq (and this one with nukes) by destabilizing it can be more dangerous. At the same time we also have to find answer to the homegrown Sadhwi Pragyas and the likes of Indian Mujahideans.

When all this was happening, I felt a rage inside me. But in a calm mood, I feel blessed that I am in government service and work for my country. In case you are naive like me and do not know what should be done now, just work for this country.

Let us take it from darkness to light; and that can only be done with a calm mind

Of Tiger, Mistakes and a Freak

Read a quote today “I have nothing to do and the complete day to do it” So out of complete ennui, a blog comes that can be titled as Of Tiger, Mistakes and a Freak.

Lest I raise your expectations and face the aftermath, I should explain the meaning now. After many days I started reading novels again and finished three in a week. The blog’s title connects all of them.

The first one that I read was ‘The White Tiger’.If this novel deserved a Booker or not might be debatable but according to me it is worth a read. The story is short and it generally does not get dull. The protagonist ‘Balram Halwai’ binds you with his dark humor.

At times it betrays that writer has seen poverty only with a rich man’s sympathetic sunglasses. Anyways, the writer’s description of ‘India of the dark and light’ does remind us the grim reality of growing divide once again (and my guess is Booker judges love it).

If this novel had come half a century earlier, it would have been branded as pro communism. An analogy can be established between the plot and ‘socialist revolutions. The protagonist ‘Balram Halwai’ represents the oppressed proletariat who overthrows his exploitative bourgeoisie masters by a violent revolution.

Now let us move to the Indian writer of masses, Chetan Bhagat. This man has made the best use his MBA degree. He knows the real meaning of 4 P’s; product, price, place and promotion, the meaning that is still to be discovered by the likes of Shobha Des and Vikram Seths.

His first novel sold 5000 copies in the first month, second sold 50000 and the third one has crossed the threshold of 500000. He writes what the youth of this country want; college life, fun, dreams and romance (of course with some premarital sex). And then it is priced at 95 Rs; certainly worth buying on a small train journey.

Coming to the ‘Three Mistakes of My Life’, it’s a ‘perfect’ novel. In other words, it is what Chetan Bhagat wants to write. It is much better than ‘One Night at Call Center’ and has many witty one liners that shows his growth as a writer.

I guess that he has a fetish for Bollywood movies, so his story at times starts looking like a Bollywood masala flick where everything is possible. But again, his novel is small so before your rail journey ends, this novel also finishes. Certainly worth its 95 Rs price!

And now coming to the third novel/book; ‘Freakonomics’. Of late (see I did not write Off late) I have developed a liking for Economics and this book is certainly for people who are discovering Economics. In case you have no opinion on the subject, this book is strongly recommended. Trust me once you read this, you will be able to answer what is common between teachers and sumo wrestlers; or better still ‘Why drug dealers still live with their mothers?’

Just for the sake of it

Of late I have not been blogging. So this blog is just for the sake of it. It is a bunch of unexplained, unverifiable, random musings; nonetheless I feel no remorse in unleashing them on my naïve readers.

1. So why was ‘Rock On’ a hit? My take is that it had two elements that add beauty and mystique to life; Friendship and Passion.

Coming to the later first, in life we do not know how to have a good time. In many lucky souls, there is an inner voice that tells them that. A very few of them actually pursue it and that is when they attain self actualization. In others, the guilt of abandoning their dream remains. They go for the ‘best career’, ‘right moves’ and so on but somehow their inner voice keeps on disturbing them.

So when we see guys in ‘Rock On’ pursuing their passion, we ensure that at least in reel life, their move become a hit.

And now about ‘Friendship’; in the beginning I belonged to a school of thought that said, ‘There are no friends in the real world’. But years passed by and friendships just happened. If I look back, I made a decent number of friends who despite of ‘I being myself’ accepted me. Now I know that friends make our stay in this world comfortable, and we all like to see and feel the magic of true friendship.

2. I feel that as we grow in life, our dreams become ‘realistic’. It is a euphemism to state that life is not as colorful as we expect it to be in childhood. I was a dreamer and I motivated myself by believing that if I perform well in studies I will be everyone and everything in this world. In contrast to this on my first job, my manager motivated me by saying work well and you will get a pay hike. Yuck! What kind of motivaion was that. That was the day I welcomed myself in the real world. (Though I could never stop dreaming of becoming everyone and everything)

3. I got married and people have been asking me what has changed. Well, some things have certainly. I can no longer talk on phone for hours without facing an angry glance. I have become accountable and I have to give account of the towel thrown on bed, missing socks and what not. Since I will have to give account of these lines too, I think I should cut them short.

4. Like all great men, I cannot resist in giving a talisman. Whenever in doubt about anything, think ‘Anand hi param uddesha hai’ or ‘Happiness is the ultimate goal of life’. But this happiness has to be eternal so if you feel something can give you ever lasting happiness, do that!

5. After many days I found an intelligent celebrity blogger who writes more than "I got up at this time, named my dog this and met so and so.". Read Ramgopal Verma’s blog here.