The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 1

Pilot (or The incident)

Prajwal

Devika, Prajwal’s 12 year old daughter

Devesh

Champa – Devesh’s mother

Lakhan – tea shop owner

Sukhinder

Giridhar – Prajwal’s brother, victim.

Titu – Giridhar’s 10 year old son

Rains don’t come to these villages any more. Sweltering heat descends in the afternoon on the few tea lovers who flock the only tea shop in the middle of the village which serves savories (jalebis and samosas) as well. Padded fields on the other side of the road and a broken cycle wheel hangs from a distraught hook outside the tea shop; a reminder to the few old timers that this was a cycle repair shop. But there were no cycles here anymore after the rich flee to the cities. The wheel remained an item of utmost curiosity to the little child Titu born after the great fire. A rotund imagery devoid of poetry and prose synonymous with the very dark that engulfs the eight people who live in the village - four from the same family. A complicated hegemony of relations lying exposed as they choose to bid farewell to Sukhinder who leaves for the city today. Seven more to go – he thinks and waves at the bus as it comes to a screeching halt next to the aforementioned tea shop, creating a mirage of dust and smoke which settles snugly on the samosas.

Sukhinder lives alone in the hut adjoining Devesh’s behind the tea shop. Three houses in the village – each a landmark for the other and the tea shop. Ah! The tea shop – a giant fuck you to the huge coffee houses in the city with posh lighting and swanky floors. This is a hell hole of ever sweltering heat, drowsy flies resting calmly on the jalebis as Lakhan wipes the tea pot every afternoon at 2 pm in patient anticipation of the 6 people who drink tea everyday. His customer bucket decreases to five from today. He weeps no tear as death is a worse agonizer. There is hope still for Sukhinder to return. No one has returned yet in the past 15 years though. ‘Hope’, he thought is a treacherous emotion, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. It mixes with the pan as he cleanses it in the brown hued water from the borewell in the backyard.

The borewell was planted seven years ago when the village had enough people to warrant a political seat. Some call it government attention but the definitions are long lost. In the first year, the water was really clean and crisp but such was no longer the case. During the fourth year, after Devesh had lost to Prajwal during an arm wrestling game for the first time in two years, the water erupted a pale yellow. The borewell was scratching earth’s surface they felt – and the earth was too eager to stay quietly in the summer heat and every now and then found a way out through the water the borewell bore. A silent act of rebellion. Devesh’s father had planted the borewell in the village seven years ago when he was still alive. He was not any more. He died of haija outside the village borders which was no more than 3 kilometers. Devesh had gone himself to ensure he stays out and dies peacefully. Wrapped in five layers of clothing he carried his father and waited for life to flicker from his eyes under the starry night. It was a good night to die. He thanked the stars when he was completely gone and buried him in the ground he had excavated in the afternoon. He felt alive albeit guilty. Late in the night he stumbled into Lakhan near the tea shop. He woke not to console him but to scratch his big belly and ask in the most innocuous of tones “Dafnaaye aaye bhaiya? Chai banau?”

Prajwal was twenty seven but looked thirty five in the lungi and baniyan he wore all day. Unlike others who had hairy faces for wont of a barber in the village, Prajwal had a cleaner countenance (cleaner of course of the hair) and donned a dirty browning moustache alone. He wiped his face clean with a knife he cut onions with. He felt Champa liked her men cleaner. Champa was Devesh’s mother and a widow. And she was fifty three. But she was the second female in the village. The first was Prajwal’s twelve year daughter, Devika, from his now dead wife. Champa had grown intuitively fond of Devika as she grew older. She sat on the floor in the open hut as she blew air into the choolha making chapatis for Devika and Devesh. He chided her affection sometimes but loved the chubby kid to hangout in the garden every evening as she played with Giridhar’s son Titu. He was growing fast but the heat made it easier to not afford new clothes. Giridhar was an old ragged man devoid of hair on his head and emotion in his heart. His wife some said never died of natural causes unless beating her every night was natural in the village. She died shortly after Titu’s birth. Giridhar was only more irritable after the incident and spent his time swatting flies outside Lakhan’s tea shop. Occasionally he spoke with his brother Prajwal about his work. They grew rice and wheat in January every month and ate it through the year.

Giridhar breathed his last a night ago when someone strangled him to death in his sleep. It was the first murder in this quiet village of nine people. It would not be two days after today that Prajwal would find his brother dead who he assumed would be asleep otherwise under the influence of hashish the grew abundantly in his backyard.

But today was a different day. Everyone except the dead Giridhar were at the bus top wishing Sukhinder farewell as he boarded the dusty bus. He sighed as the bus leapt into the oblivion the villagers called the city. Prajwal started walking towards Giridhar’s hut complaining of his sadistic pleasures only to be repulsed by a stench of the dead. For the first time someone had died in the last three years. For the first time the cause was unnatural. Prajwal stood shocked at the door as Titu played with his dead father’s beard.

(To be continued)

Lessons from Paris

While sitting atop a small hillock outside the Dali museum and gazing far out at a city that seemed to be in love with itself I knew I would one day write about the inherent narcissism of Paris. In one of those astute moments of self realization, I even knew what I would write. I had it all figured out but the charm of the city is only seconded by the volatility of its soul which vaporises the moment you leave the place.

Alright! I will be honest with you. All the fancy crap you read above is a lie. I am doing this to appease a friend who I owe the maintenance of a soiled leather jacket. Let’s call this friend Avinash and let’s call this leather firm ‘Theo&Ash’. In case you are wondering they run a wonderful organization with one objective: Selling leather jackets in one of the hottest markets- India. When I say hottest I mean literally. Let us take a moment to wish them all the best. They are doing a great job. Till date they have sold 465 leather jackets.. which is 5 more than the bosses who have fucked me (this time - not literally).

While we are establishing facts, let me clarify a few. I did travel to Paris. Theo&Ash actually exists. Check out their site hereTheo&Ash. They do repair your leather jackets without charge if you are friends with them. I do own two of such gems, one of which I did soil on a plane.. Long story.. Some other time, unless you disregard this post as an attempt to publicise leather. I love animals. I actually am one of them. I work for a corporate organization.

Paris, for those of you who don’t know (and this includes the entire illiterate population of NCR) is the capital of France. Apart from the language French, which evolved as a tongue twister for the British, the city boasts of Eiffel Tower. It is like Shard went on a full on diet and lost all carbs….and bones were all that remained. The city hosts a hell lot of tourists every year. Pretty much more than the population of Iceland. (Wait for more imaginary adventures in Iceland in the next post). We reached Paris at 5 in the morning. When I say ‘we’ it was Abhinav, Anuj and Alex (names changed of course because their real names are pathetic loser types only). Also, Alex although is a girl’s name in German, we were travelling with a full on mallu who seems like he ate a heavy Sheikh in breakfast and forgot to digest him, which seems reasonable given that he could not digest even the preface of ‘Half Girlfriend’.

While we arrived in Paris early morning at the train station, our hostel bookings were valid from 1 pm in the afternoon. So we did what any first time tourist in Paris would do. Slept for 2 hours at the train station. Did I tell you that Gare du nord has a wonderful enclosed (read heated) waiting room for people who are on budget travel. They have nothing but love for their tourists, unless you are from England in which case.. ‘Go Fuck yourself you fries eating, beer mouthed pretentious oaf’… Paris is all about humility and simplicity. 5 French aristocrats choked on their Boreaux wine after reading the previous line.

Post awakening (which is also used to describe the 24^th year of Alex’s life when he learnt how to speak to a woman. It was the same year Abhinav realized he is not one…) we went straight up to the Louvre(pronounced as loo in French)… This confused Alex because he does not like going to the loo twice in a span of 1 hour. It will take a normal human being approximately 2 days to see everything in the museum. It will take 7 lives to appreciate everything to their rightful measure.. There are more paintings than the emotional baggage Aishwarya Rai carried from her previous relationship with Vivek Oberoi… But do take a look at Mona Lisa when you are there.. See what the fuss is all about. If you are tired you can sit down and appreciate some old paintings and the way light works on them… The realization is much stronger if you have flown in from Amsterdam…

Then there is the Arch de triumph. It is pretty much like India gate, except that they charge you 15 euros which is enough to buy Old Monk to drink through 2^nd October… Then there is a Louis Vuitton store on the same lane.. Specifically placed to mock you.. If you walk in you will see some people buying stuff… for their girlfriends… 2 min silence for 0.0005% of Zimbabwe’s GDP spent on a brown bag…

Then there is the Eiffel tower which you have to go to.. otherwise no one in India will believe you went to Paris.. We went there twice because we are pukka 2 times patriotic… One should definitely visit the Notre dam.. or take a walk along the river if you are feeling slightly adventurous.. If you are feeling snobby and pretentious order 3 bottles of wine. Drink it slowly like making love to the glass…

But the best part of the stay was the 'Three Ducks Hostel'… It was started by three dicks who we will not name for the purpose of convenience.. the hostel name is a typo though… It is not a funny story… The hostel however is amazing and the bar inside is splendid…You should try the beer from the tap… If the lady at the bar is happy she might even play a song for you.. or lend you her lighter…

Don’t go on their underground trains though.. they stink.. Literally... I would call it a cement fiasco...

Take a walk in some cramped streets away from the chaos of the city and you might just realise why it is called as the most romantic city… chaos and quiet exist in harmony…....Go on find some love and if you don’t you always have “Three Ducks.”!!

नज़्म

जो दिल में दर्द है , उतारो कागज़ पर -
तो नज़्म जनमती है ……
तब तक जलती है हर रोज़ शायर के ज़हन में।

यह कैसी आग है जो न जलाती है दिन में
और न रात को रौशन ही करती है ……
बस भभकती रहती है हवा में जूझते चराग सी।

नवजात ही होती है , कमज़ोर भी
पहले पहल
तराशना पड़ता है बहुत मोहब्बत से
हर रोज़
मानी सिखाओ तो नज़्म बोलना सीखती है ……
बात करती है तुमसे, कभी  डाँट भी देती है
भड़ककर।

पलती है हर दिन -
सियाही पीती है , बड़ी होती है ……
दो चार  यारों का काफिला बनाकर -
दीवान बनाती है, नज़्म।

मगर कुछ  ऐसी अनाथ भी हो जातीँ  हैं
जनमकर ……
ना मानी समझतीं हैं प्यार के ना
बात करतीं हैं पलटकर ……

बस मरे शायर सी ही
बाँझ होतीं  है ……
उनसे  कोई नज़्म नहीं पनपती।

मेरी ऐसी ही एक नज़्म
स्टेशन के पास भूली बिसरी
आज भी ज़ुबान ढूंढती है  ……
जिसको  हाथ फेरकर  सर पे , अपनाया था तुमने ……
मानी दिए थे।  

खिड़की

वक़्त की खिड़की पर कुछ लम्हें सुखाए हैं ……
जो कल रात तुम्हारे आंसुओं में गीले हो गए थे

हवा उड़ा ना ले जाए ; बस यही दर रहता है …
की ना तुम्हारे प्यार का वज़न है उनपर....
और ना ही तुम्हारी डाँट का डर ॥  

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

सूरज अब भी आता है हर रोज़ जलाने को .....
और चाँद हर रात जल के राख हो कर जाता है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की जिन साँसों को तुम्हारी खुशबुओं की शोहबतें लगी थीं ;
उनको अब सिगरेट के धुंए की आदत हो गयी है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

शाम अब भी पूछती है तेरी बाहों का पता।.....
और सुबह तेरे माथे का किनारा मांगती है .....
शाम को मैं  टाल देता हूँ 'कल आना' बोलकर .....
पर सुबह से रात का जलता धुआं छिपता नहीं

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की मेरी सुबहें और शामें मुझ पे शक करने लगी हैं …
कल से शायद ना आएँगी ..  तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

लफ़्ज़ों के कारीगर

लफ़्ज़ों के  चार कारीगर सियाह रात में बैठे....
बुझती हुई अंगीठी में नज़्में  फूँका करते थे

बड़ी ऊँची अलावन  तपती थी.… भभक कर
उठती थी आग सर्द हवाओं में .....

ये काम अब धीमा पड़ गया है …… आजकल
मंदी है नज़्मों  के  व्यापार में ....

एक अमावस है जो आती नहीं
    की रात सियाह हो
    अंगीठी फिर से जले…

कोई नज़्म फिर से रौशन हो…।

अमावस पर कविता

रौशनी मद्धिम है आज फिर शहर में,
हवा दीवारों से चोटें खा के चीखती है अँधेरे में।
शायद चाँद ने वापस धोखा किया है ……  अमावस ही है। ।


कुछ बिका नहीं आज बाज़ारों में,
रोशिनी की ही कीमत लगाई है लंगड़े बनिए ने।
व्यापारी सारे भारी ही लौटे हैं घरों में आज। ।

कुछ चौदह दिनों में ही रोशिनी यूं खर्ची है निगोड़े चाँद ने,
गोरी का आँगन अंधेर लगता है आज।
इतनी बेफिक्री से तो अनाज ना खर्चा हमने भूखे बच्चों पर.....

(अधूरी)

नौ ....

नौ बरसों से जूझ रही है नज़्म,
अकेली, अँधेरी रात में  … चुपचाप
जैसे सगरेट लड़ा करती है तेज़ हवाओं से ॥

दसवें बरस जब निखरेगी तो…
गीत बनेगी गोरी का ....
फिर लाल पहन कर आएगी

और उसके ही पाँव में ये पाजेब सजेगी।

Looking at the Bigger picture

P.S.: For the sake of complexity, big and bigger are used interchangeable in the post. If you do not understand this stop reading Right now. You are missing the big picture here....

The domain of consultancy and analytics can be a torment, especially for the semantically unaligned. The evolution of language has found new paradigms and undesirable effect on individuals who for example ‘Have to touch-base’ with someone they don’t want to ‘touch’ in the first place. And this is just ‘scratching the back’ I must tell you. Or ‘the tip of the iceberg’ on a cold windy night when all you want is to cuddle in a blanket and listen to Himesh sing ‘Tera Tera suroor’ amidst heavy thump and infinite jazz. Not the general ‘Jazz by the way/bay’ but the jazz which manifests itself in an all time favorite wedding song.. ‘Jheemi Jheemi Jheemi.. aaja..aaja…aaja.’… You get my point??

Of course you don’t. Because you are not looking at the bigger picture. Which brings me to the daddy of all corporate terminologies: ‘Looking at the bigger picture’

This is how a typical conversation with your superiors in the corporate world would go:

Mathematical Geek/Genius

MG: Boss. The R sq of the equation which models the rate at which ice cream melts in a room and Katrina Kaif’s presence in the same room along with a poster of Tushaar Kapoor in the other room is ~70%

Boss: That is not enough. Did you also look at the possibility of an added variability of ‘Malaika Arora’s Z-balm’??

MG:  But Boss, would not the Variable inflation factor be more than 4? They both ARE highly correlated..

Boss: Of course it will…

MG(cutting short): ..which beats the point of using Malaika in the equation then Sir… Katrina alone suffices for both.

Boss: See.. there you are missing the whole point. You are not looking at the bigger picture.

MG: I beg your pardon Sir.. but I am. I am probably looking at the biggest picture possible.. I have a 10X10 poster of Katrina doing a ‘Chikni Chameli’ in my apartment…

Boss: So you will not account for the variability and add Malaika in the equation…

MG: Mathematically?? No sir…

Boss: But you do realize that your client is Arbaaz Khan.. What will he use Katrina for anyway?? You see…  you have to think about all these parameters before coming to me with such presumptuous solutions. You need to parameterize the entire variable space and identify existing patterns which help Arbaaz run his ice cream factory next to Salman’s school of Chastisement and Virtue…

MG: No wonder Arbaaz is moving to producing of ice creams now….

So how exactly do you look at the bigger picture? Fear not my fellow corporates. After mining through loads and loads of data.. about the perimeter of Sonakshi’s forehead that forced me to use Big data paradigms, I have devised a 3 point plan which harnesses existing data patterns to enable your mathematical mind to harvest business acumen and not fail to spot, identify and even understand ‘THE BIG PICTURE’.

1    Never look at the Big picture directly: You can’t look at the big picture directly. No Sir!! That is not acceptable. The route to the big picture lies in magazines that teach you about the ‘5 most important foods that cut fat’, ‘7 things to ensure you are the most macho in a band of jazz players’ or ‘ 5 things you should never do while eating breakfast on the moon with a dolphin’s infant child, playing football in low gravity eco-space with a chimpanzee at the same time’.

Wait for a leeway into the knowledge space provided by hard working big picture enthusiasts. Read. Rehearse and then look away… you will gain visibility.

2       Understand the consumer: Now that you are done with your fancy analysis with shiny pies and cool bars, without getting fat or hungover…. You are on to the tricky part. What you need to understand that the output of any mathematical equation in the corporate world is composed on two components: the mathematical equation and the ‘big picture deviation’ (also called as error rate by sports enthusiasts). Getting the first part of the equation is easy. To get the remaining of the component you need to understand who your consumer is.

You need to gauge the frequency of your consumer’s bowels, find his favorite brand of constipation pills, his most preferred strip club and 5 strands of hair from his unborn child. Seems difficult? Wait till you get to the last part.

3    If a big picture does not exist, paint one: This involves breaking into your customer’s office, picking a brush and painting huge potraits from the stories ‘P.S.: I love you’ with the skill of a five year old and the adventure of Salman Khan’s virtue… Untainted..that is… Once you are done, they will be printing about this in the magazines all over.. then you move to Step 1.

P.S.: If you are unable to comprehend the intent of the article and got lost at R sq… you definitely did not get the big picture. Wait for my post on ‘How to look at the literature about ‘Looking at the Big picture’ ’. I am co-writing it with Chetan Bhagat. He is paying for the ink I spend. Also involved is a corporate firm predicting number of words I would write without making any sense… the current count is 884. 

Their Story - At the bar and after

"Can i just see you once tonight?" she inquired.

"Yes you can." he said. "You can see me tonight.
I will come alone in the glassy night.
Will usher a storm of broken twigs
and bring with it the strength of light.
You will be dazzled like sparrows are when they look straight into the sun ...alright
but you will see me Yes... You will see me tonight"

“You seem somberly poetic. What’s the matter ?” she retorted with an uneven baritone.

“Prose my dear, is such waste of words. Deemed to fail where sounds coerce,

Despite they stem from roots all same… words are words; (there’s) music in verse”

“So what makes the sky so blue and the blade’s green does color impart?

What evil does your head conjure? And what motions will your soul start?

..See I can play too…!!”. The heartless wench stood glorious. The sun shining in her pride.

“You complete me now.. I wish I could say..

Yet cautious is the path to love.. and beset with misgivings unknown to fools,

Though carries close two broken hearts;

Yet many a time it leads away”

“Ok! I know you like words. But this is really disturbing. So, let me be shameless and complete your verse.

You might like words and love you would

A grimly room with whiskey’s cup..

But I do swear to all my gods..

You sleep alone if you don’t ‘Shut the fuck up!!”

And he did.

***********

“The world, you see, is not trying to be saved. It wants to burn. Burn with rage and a mutiny so horrid with violence that all the water from the glaciers up north or all the tears from the widows of men won’t heal it. And believe you me, that day is not far.” She said as she downed the fourth shot of vodka.

He was taking it slow tonight.

“You seem overly poetic in prose tonight.”

“Well what would make you say so?”

“The fact that you took our moot point of global warming on our 43^rd date quite far. A possibility of a fire riot is kind of far fetched.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Hmmm… so I guess the vodka is working. I feel free.” She sounded exalted.

“No.. honey.. what you feel is precisely a chemical condition where your heart betrays your mind… your brain does not like it one bit and triggers a biological reaction making your muscles weak there by restraining the heart’s wishes.. spiraling you in a maze of inner conflict and disillusioned self loathing which stems from your hatred for humanity in the first place… an argument which you would dismiss without considering one bit….” he stopped for a sip of his own drink.

She considered a bit. She dismissed. Then began:

“Funny thing.. coming from an alcoholic himself…. And back in our days people just called it ‘sloshed’…. And you being pedantic about your girlfriend drinking at an open bar about an event which supports kids from child abuse by alcoholic parents is a testimony to how full of shit you are…”

“You took it too far. The evening is over. I love you too much to pay heed to your rationality” he got up from the table in a hurry.

“Oh! Now you speak sense!!… What happens when the vacation is over? With me sulking over  you and you away rattling your time in a cold country, oceans apart… which by the way drinks booze like kids drink milk”

“Statistically speaking … not all kids love milk.. actually well below 45% kids in the united king…..”

“Oh! You can shove your stats and stats-fucking-company up your torrid tight ass”

He did. He loved her way too much to be rational with her. Rationality kills fantasy. Fiction dare not reside where reason lays its ass.

“Let me walk you home. You are drunk”

“You bet your ass I am. And you will be a gentleman and not take advantage of me”

“Do I bet my ‘torrid-tight-ass’ ?’ he smiled with a wink. She kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you” she said.

“I know you do.” He put his arm around her shoulder and carried her purse.

“Might I say that the purse looks astounding on you” her words lacked the cynicism of an avid drinker.

“No madam.. You look astounding on me.. the purse is just a collateral ornament”

She walked erratically. Joining imaginary dots on the road. He followed like a dog smitten with a bone.

She was drunk for the first time. He was not. It was a first too.

“So …wh…at happens…. when you go…………. away?” she asked in broken verse.

“We deal with it”

“How?”

“Like lovers do. Being honest and truthful” he spoke with an air of disillusionment.

“Fuck you” she swore at length.

“I know”

“That is not something to know. That is something to work on”

“I am on it. Your apartment is here”

“Come on in. Nehal would love to meet you.” She lingered.

“Really? It is 2 am. She would be fast asleep”

“You seem to know her sleep times quite well.. mister.. should I be suspicious?” she slapped him on the cheek and fell over in the exercise.

“Not after you know that statistically speaking, more than 80% of the human population sleeps by 2 am. It is called as routine” he held her hand and pulled her from the floor.

“Alright! She might be asleep. But come in for my sake… also.. did I not ask you to shove things up your torrid-tight-ass”

“What sake? You are drunk. You should sleep. Like the remaining 20% who are about to go to sleep in the next 30 mins.”

“That should be enough…” she whistled through the cold air.

A drunk eye winked. A hug was bought in compensation for a slap. A kiss was procured by promises made old by enthused clocks. An arm was held at an arm’s length. Words were spoken in soft hush of the night only to be engulfed by the dark. Ears failed. The eye would not see.

Motion ceased for an hour. Not all love stories deserved this.

“My flight leaves in 3 hours. I really need to go..” he talked to her hair.

No response came. The words reached her ears but did not register in her brain. Brain and heart had not made out since the 7^th shot.

Someone somewhere played a song. He laughed at the words…

John Denver adjusted his throat before he began singing from an old stereo…

’All my bags are packed.. I am ready to go..

……..’

She woke up after 5 mins. Alone.

“Don’t..” she said, incapacitated by the slumber. Half asleep, half mourning the last 15 mins lost in oblivion. She slept on the floor that night.

He did not sleep at all….

(..to be continued)