I stand behind my soldier.

“Don’t you dare die! It’s not worth it anymore.” I texted to him. “LOL”, he replied. After serving at Siachen twice, guarding hostile western and north eastern borders of India for almost 15 years, my army officer friend was very upset at the column published by The Telegraph Martyr’s Rites. He took it personally. Like every armed forces personnel in the country, Saurabh wears death defying patriotism on his sleeve and does not get affected by media jibber-jabber. He calls it half-baked information and skewed perspectives gained through a key-hole view of the situation since the media is seldom amidst the real action for more than a few hours. The noise does not affect the efficiencies of the Armed Forces at work, trying to either rescue civilians or executing combat missions. After all, every decision they make in the line of duty, is a matter of life and death.

The manner in which The Telegraph raises the questions about a war hero is revolting. Nauseating to the very person who serves the country every single day, year after year. While we were having an aggravated discussion about the growing apathy in the country, Major Navdeep Singh sent an eloquent response to The Telegraph. Although, The Telegraph’s decision to print such a degenerate opinion does not even deserve to receive a dignified response.

The more I think about it the more lost I feel. The Indian Armed forces is the solitary organization in the entire country that truly serves the nation and its people, in face of natural disasters or terrorism combat, irrespective of the social climate in the country or the political state of affairs.

As a nation, there is NOT one single thing that we all respect. Do we respect our Government or the bureaucrats? Or do we respect the politicians and the political ideologies? Do we respect the law enforcement or the law itself? Do we respect basic human rights or our duties as citizens? Do we respect education or religion or nature or personal choices or any bloody thing under the sun? NOTHING!! So when a fellow Indian, a person from media, questions if a dead soldier deserves respect, no doubt that my blood boils, but I am not surprised.

Not a single generation born in the independent India has had to support a cause or revolution in a manner where they put their lives on the line. Only the Indian Armed Forces shoulders that burden…a sovereign nation, at any cost. They serve with integrity, dedication and passion without asking for any special treatment. In over three decades’ worth of association with army, navy and air force, I have not once heard a serviceman or woman say that they joined the forces because they were not good enough for any other career. And every time a soldier dies, his spirit to serve the nation lives on through his family.

Indian Armed Forces has been understaffed, under-equipped, over-stretched, resource-strapped organization for decades only because national defense has not been the government’s priority since 1971. The bureaucracy got stronger but the Armed Forces was never invited to the party. There was a time when an Officer was considered part of the higher middle class in the society and held respectable stature. Not anymore. An officer cannot buy the same cars or afford the same property or have enough clout to send his kids to good private schools in tier-1 cities. The retired are struggling with ineffective pension system and the serving are besieged with obsolete technology and inadequate resources. The foot soldier is even worse off.

We do not teach camaraderie to our children nor do we practice any patriotism beyond supporting Indian cricket team. First, we do not ask our government the right questions, then we don’t investigate with objectivity and finally we don’t even bother to learn about the situation around us. Just because we don’t understand something, we believe that it isn’t worth any value so why bother with respect. In one way or the other, most Indians may admire the work done by the Armed Forces but every now and then some spineless reporter or a pathetic citizen with no real achievement to their name, will hit below the belt for two seconds of fame. 

All in a day’s work, it’s not that the Armed Forces needs you to do something for them…nothing at all. People are engrossed in their own lives and just doing what it takes to make ends meet. That’s all ok. But every time you think about the soldier in uniform, dead or alive, every time you see the soldier, please know that he is the ONLY one who will stand for you. Who will take a bullet for you. Who will die for you. There is not another person in this world, who without knowing your name, will do that for you. Our soldiers are our people.

If you allow any Indian or foreigner to insult your soldier or if you tolerate your soldier getting abused by a person who cannot take his place, then you’re not worthy of my soldier’s sacrifice.

So PLEASE STAND UP for your soldier, stand behind him, support him, trust him and when his job is done, thank him and salute him.

In the Palm of my hand...

This is my second submission for Times Of India's 'Write India' Campaign. Although it is a competition, I'm really writing for myself. The following story is a fictional piece based on a passage from the book The Bestseller She Wrote by Ravi Subramanian. The passage is highlighted below. This is my first stab at mystery.

In the Palm of my hand...

Present day: ‘Payal relax! Don’t take life so seriously. Just say – Thank you for the referral business’. Maya mocked. ‘This is not a curse, it’s power’. Maya spoke with pride.

Three nights ago: ‘What the hell is going on between my husband and that bitch?' Maya's patience was at its lowest ebb and she was ready to burst.

Sanjay knew that she was serious. 'Look, Maya. There is nothing going on between the two of them. Just a little bit of healthy flirting, I'd say.'

'Flirting? Healthy flirting? Really Sanjay . . .' she rolled her eyes in disgust. 'That's what you men call it? There is nothing healthy about flirting, Sanjay, not for a married man.

Healthy flirting is a term introduced by perverted men who want to lend legitimacy to their extramarital dalliances. Flirting invariably has a sexual connotation to it.' She got up from her seat and walked around the room gesticulating and muttering something to herself. Suddenly she stopped, turned back, looked at Sanjay and asked, 'Did my husband sleep with her? You are his friend. Did he ever tell you anything about it?'

As she was ranting, Maya casually lit a cigarette. With the first puff, she looked squarely at Sanjay and titled her head to the right. ‘Don’t bother’, she spewed disdain. She flicked her cigarette and a blob of ash plopped near Sanjay’s shoe. He watched the ashes intently as they spread on the carpet under his feet causing a few sparks. He glanced back at Maya, now speaking incoherently and her face was twisting and deforming with censure. He could smell smoke. Sanjay peeled his eyes away from Maya to see that the smoke had turned into a camp fire and the heat was rising to his face, making it hard to breathe. He desperately looked at Maya trying to find words or any sound but his throat felt dry and paralyzed. Maya leaned closer to his face and was repeating “…this was the pact and so even God can’t judge you.”

Sanjay awoke suddenly, coughing and out of breath. For a few minutes he just sat on the edge of the bed, tightening his torso as his body convulsed with dry cough. Exerting sharp and deep breaths, Sanjay wiped the sweat off his head and headed to the bathroom. He saw his reflection in the mirror and noticed that his vest was drenched in sweat. His body ached as he pulled off his vest and discarded the boxer shorts. He winced at the memory of his nightmare. Maya, he whispered painfully.

Sanjay was used to a lot of things – women drooling over his handsome face and sculpted body, rising sharply in the professional world with his impressive Ivy League degrees, power yielding banking career and a page-3 socialite status by virtue of his parents being famous eccentric artists, but he was not used to the nightly coughing fits that ended in urine stained shorts and metal taste in his mouth.

At 32, Sanjay had the world at his feet. Female fandom had shot up since his break up and he could cherry pick any femme fatale for a rendezvous any day. An alpha male, Sanjay knew his mind, had clear thoughts and sharp ideas, he said the right things and was never caught at a back foot. But he knew he was losing the edge quickly.

Earlier that evening: Maya lit a cigarette as she stretched her slender naked legs on the chair next to hers. Nothing more satisfying than an after-sex cigarette, out on the balcony of her penthouse. Her thoughts ventured towards confrontation with Sanjay earlier that evening. She took a deep whiff of her cigarette and felt a gratifying flow of peace as she recalled Sanjay’s stubble make a rare public appearance and also the visible weight loss. As Kabir’s childhood friend, Sanjay did not hesitate a moment to defend him He first played the nonchalant card and then botched it by using words like ‘trust’ and ‘loyalty’. Less than a year into her marriage with Kabir, Maya had undoubtedly overcome the ‘newly-wed glow’. Everything was the same old. She reached for her ‘morning after’ pill and popped one. Even Maya understood that bringing a child into this would be too messed up. And she wasn’t messed up. One could accuse of her being passionate and someone who wants it all, but not messed up. Most people would even risk describing Maya as a forgiving and loving woman.

Just momentarily, Maya was distracted by Kabir coughing in the other room. Maya smirked knowing well that he was too fast asleep to bother with the cough syrup or with any other self-prescribed concoction. She stubbed her cigarette and decided to call it a night.

She had grown up receiving a lot of love, from everyone. She was never short on gifts or luxuries. They came by dozens when she didn’t ask and came by hundreds when she did. Her mother taught her that sometimes love hurts and it’s all a give and take, but a woman’s touch of love never fails. Maya fully intended to follow her mother’s footsteps. Whichever way you sliced it, Maya looked stunning. She went from being a tender teenager to a full blossomed woman and totally skipped the socially awkward, gawky phase so vigorously enforced on all other young adults. Polished, smart and with an effortless intellect, Maya lived for the adoration of those around her and to have these lives be hers to beckon.

About a week ago: Kabir was draped over Maya, inhaling her scent and caressing the strands of her hair. Satiated, tired, slightly tipsy and totally amazed by this beautiful woman in his arms, Kabir was drifting off to sleep with loving thoughts of his wife. Whenever he dreamt of Maya, it was always the same dream. Her sparkling laughter as an 8 year old, the hooded gazes, shy smiles in her youthful teenage years, the vivacious style as a twenty something, her soft kisses and tight hugs. She was not overweight, and over the last few months, her body has gotten leaner. “I’m losing the extra kgs now so that I can gain them back during pregnancy”, she would explain when he worried. “I might as well stay thin now than kill myself trying to get in shape 8 years and 4 kids later”. “Four kids!!??” Kabir would exclaim in humoured horror.

He travelled frequently for his work and Maya seldom tagged along. Eager to please, always composed and classy, she gave him space and leaned in when he needed her. Maya had long outgrown her girl next door image and turned into a very desirable woman.

Sometimes Kabir could not believe he was lucky enough to marry her. He couldn’t imagine his life without her and absentmindedly wondered how he became worthy of her love. Perhaps it was love at first sight, or the summer she turned 13, or the prom when she wore the blue dress, or when she cried at her mother’s funeral. Yes, he had loved her all along.

Late March 2015: Maya didn’t need to check the caller ID when she answered her cellphone. Keeping her eyes on the road, she spoke “Yes, I’m on my way...”

“No preference. I’m ok with Chinese or South Indian so long as it’s the usual dessert.” She added a naughty tone to it.

“Hmm, that and I want to talk about the lab reports before I return home tonight.”

“No, you don’t get to avoid this conversation, else no dessert tonight.” Maya sneered

“O.K. see you in thirty.” Just as she finished her call, she remembered that it was time for her medication. Nothing new about her Monday evening detour after work, but tonight was going to be special. She knew exactly what was in the lab report. Another trophy for her. With mild variations, all her love stories had begun to play out the same way.

Early March, 2015: “Three weeks? That’s a long trip, Kabir.” Maya complained. “Don’t they realize that we are newly married and here they are throwing you in the middle of the horny Russian women” she continued to sulk. Kabir threw his head back and laughed. He reached out and held Maya in his arms. “You have nothing to worry about. I am 100% smitten by you and do not have appetite for any other delicacy. I have always been and will forever be in love with you” he whispered reassuringly. They stared into each other’s eyes and myriad emotions danced in between, a past woven with love, guilt, hurt. Maya was the first to blink and look away.

“Fine, then you deserve some flirting with those Russian women.” Maya tried to lighten the air.

“Flirting?” exclaimed Kabir, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, nothing serious or long term. Just a little bit of healthy flirting, I'd say.'

“Healthy Flirting?” Kabir repeated.

“Healthy flirting. What’s not to understand? It’s absolutely normal, even for a married man. Healthy flirting is a legitimate feel-good conversation between two people endorsing mutual appreciation. It’s not about creating extramarital dalliances. Flirting does not even have to have a sexual connotation to it.' Maya explained with her arms still wrapped around Kabir’s neck.

Kabir looked serious, grasping every word spoken by Maya. Not sure of how to respond, he simply pulled her into his arms and said “I’ll miss you. Terribly. Everyday.”

“Me too” promised Maya.

Christmas 2014:

Beep: Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Sanjay Sahukar, please leave a message after the tone.

Beep: Mr. Sahukar, I’m calling from Dr. Gupta’s office about your latest test results. I’m very sorry to inform you that this report, like the 3 earlier reports, is HIV positive again. Dr. Gupta is concerned about your health and would like to schedule a counselling session. Please call our office for more details. Beep.

Summer 2014: “All this is moving so fast…I’m scared” Maya sobbed. “I just…if only… I can’t stop thinking about you…about us. I want us to be together forever. I love you. I want you to be happy” she spoke in a small voice and knew fully well, that her tears will tug at his emotions. She stood a little closer, held a little tighter, “We shared so much…don’t just let all this go. My heart bleeds at the thought of not being able to see you every day. I don’t care how, but I just want to stay in your life for the rest of our days.”

She rested her forehead just above his heart, she could feel his muscles flex under her fingertips, and at the right moment she nuzzled her face in the curve of his neck. “Please…just hold me.” She pleaded. “I love you.” The hand resting on the small of her back moved up and cupped her face gently, tender eyes looking back into hers, he leaned in to kiss the love of his life.

Here, this moment, perfectly lyrical. Maya was an artist in her head, being able to conduct a masterful symphony, owning…no, dominating each note like they were at her mercy for every release. An artist so greedy for the pleasure of their own art form that she would challenge the laws of nature and offer complete insolence to those standing in the wake of this creative swell. Yes, she wanted it all.

She wanted all the men in her life exactly in the same place in life, as her. None of them knew about each other. Neither did they know that their lifeline was twisted around Maya’s little finger. But Maya knew.

Diwali 2013:

Beep: Hi, I can’t come to the phone right now, but you know what to do.

Beep: Ms. Maya, I’m calling from Dr. Gupta’s office. You missed your third appointment today. All our HIV positive patients have a case manager assigned to them, so please expect to hear from your case manager Payal Chopra sometime today. Thank you. Beep.

Valentines’ Day 2013: He sat at a bar stool watching the drink in his hand. For the hundredth time the events of the day unfolded in his mind and his heart swelled with pain. A smooth and confidential divorce was granted on grounds of insanity and an eyebrow raising undisclosed amount of money exchanged hands. He made sure there was no fodder for the press, no crumbs to trace the story back to anything or anyone. Her mood swings, delusions, erratic periods of hyper activity and then long duration of sadness lashed out on their relationship viciously. She was a fireball of contradictions gift wrapped with a golden bow. The storm died just as quickly as it had begun.

He remembered the time when one of his business associates was flirting with her. With suave rebuff he pulled her away from the generous eyeballs of those titillated sugar daddies. Maya was irritated at the compromise of attention and hissed “There is nothing going on. Just a little bit of healthy flirting'

'Flirting? Healthy flirting? Really Maya . . .' he rolled his eyes in disgust. ‘There is nothing healthy about flirting, Maya, not for a married man. Healthy flirting is a term introduced by perverted men who want to lend legitimacy to their extramarital dalliances. Flirting invariably has a sexual connotation to it.'

He had always been protective of her, even when too many boys in school and college pursued her, trying to get lucky. She was innocent like a child and too naïve to effectively spurn alliances. It seemed surreal that as kids they made promises to live and die together. But the more he protected her, the greater their relationship suffered.

Maya, he whispered painfully.

Summer 2011: A beautiful red card peeped from the ornate ivory colored envelope.

Mr and Mrs. Sunil Sahukar,

request the pleasure of your company for the wedding of their only son

Sanjay Sahukar with Maya Gandhi,

daughter of late Mr and Mrs Cyrus Gandhi

on October 19^th, 2011 at 10:30am, at the Radisson Ballroom, New Delhi

June 2008:

“Dear Diary – I had a wonderful birthday today. I’m such a lucky girl to have the love of so many friends. Everything I was depressed about in the last few days worked out just fine.

Even Kabir, who was mad at me for rejecting his proposal, came around with a beautiful set of Tiffany earrings. Maybe someday I’d marry him, but for now I want Sanjay.

Today, my doctor called and told me that they will need to change the medication for my neurosis and delusional disorder. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I don’t need any medicines. I’m fine, couldn’t be better!

‘Dangerous sociopath’ they say…Hah!! I’m perfect!!”

Present day: Facetime call rings.

Maya: Hi Payal.

Payal: Maya, we need to talk. This is beyond serious.

Maya: Payal, relax! J

The scholarship deficit

I recently submitted this story for Times Of India's 'Write India' Campaign. Although it is a competition, I'm really writing for myself. Feeling excited about it. 

The following story is a fictional piece based on Farmer suicides in India. After you complete the story, do take a minute to watch this wonderful video - Help the farmer

Here is the story... (Some hindi words have been explained after the story)

That was unmistakably the shuffle of Kumar’s walk, I paused mid-sentence and turned my head towards the door. Unhurried, the footsteps drew closer and his silhouette appeared through the background of the mid-day sun. Every eye in the classroom was transfixed on Kumar, and he just stood there, stoic, staring at the floor. Arun was the first to move, slowly towards Kumar and wrapped his arms around him for a hug. The room quite except for a few silent sobs as the boys walked in and sat down on the mat. Karuna’s forehead was resting in her hands, the steady stream of tears, pain too fresh from her own father surrendering his life a week ago. The enormity of the defeat and yet the futility of it all.

Fifth time this year and I still have no words to comfort the grieving children. Awkwardly I searched for words, all out of courage to complete the class. Farmer suicides in our tehsil was national news but in this classroom, it was a personal tragedy. Overcome by helplessness and anger, I slammed the book shut and thumped it on the table. “I feel the same way, madamji” said Shankar. “This can’t go on. Else we will lose our fathers, our land, be forced to work as laborers in the city, lose our families, our future….and….is that what we are going to do for the rest of our lives?” Shankar’s voice raising in desperation. The students, just numb, resigned to their fate.

Panchayat meeting with Sharda Ram, the local money lender had not gone well. Pleading for loan forgiveness, begging for reduction of interest, extension of time had fallen on deaf ears. Farmers, with their families, social workers, representatives of 12 neighbouring villages at the gram panchayat, failed miserably in trying to convince the vain and selfish Sharda Ram that livelihood of dozens of families hangs by a thread.

“Madamji, I am ready to fight and I will not let another farmer from our village be driven to suicide.” Arun’s voiced sliced through the room as he stood and held my gaze. I knew that it was a call for everyone who heard him, to stop being helpless and to save lives.

Over the next few days, the classroom turned into a war zone. We knew time was limited before another tragedy struck. We had to act decisively and did not have the luxury of a do-over. Teenagers - thirteen boys and seven girls, came together for four days and nights; the classroom became a place for constant discussion, controlled emotions, engaged energies and finally a plan was put in motion where everyone had a role to play.

On Sunday, I visited Sharda Ram to sweet talk him to make Rupees ten thousand donation for our crumbling school. After much flattery, he agreed. It was decided that he would present this money in cash to the school amidst ceremonial fanfare the following Friday. As soon as I returned to the school, the students got busy calling the local and national media hailing Sharda Ram for being the hero who would sponsor scholarship worth Lakhs of rupees for the village students. The amount remained undisclosed and Chinese whisper gained momentum.

Hours turned into days and the media started to descend in our village in anticipation of the Friday ceremony. At first, Sharda Ram basked in the adulation and showed off his presence. Spoke about tradition, his grandeur and power. The students, as planned, engaged some key villagers to talk about the zamindaar’s wealth and generosity, and slipped some fiction into grapevine, including a sham congress election ticket.

The Wednesday press conference was being held at the gram panchayat baithak and the attendance was tremendous. Sharda Ram was momentarily confused and then furious when he heard a reporter ask what made him commit Rs.10 Lakh toward scholarship. “Sharda Ramji, how often you provide support to the local children towards building their future?” “Can you tell us more about your other charitable acts in the village?” “Sharda Ramji, both your sons study at a leading boarding school in Lucknow. What is your view about the education in the village?” “When this village proudly welcomes back its student as the first doctor or engineer, do you think the credit will go to you for supporting this vision?” “Once Congress gives you the election ticket for this constituency, what other development agenda would you take on?”

The barrage of questions and the limelight, while he was trying to grasp the horror of the donation amount, was too much to handle. Fumbling for words and sweating in the balmy morning, Sharda Ram felt cornered. There was no time to explain or clarify and no place to run. All eyes were on Sharda Ram and all mics were tuned in to catch his every breath and spoken syllable. At that moment he locked his eyes with mine. Seething with anger and a sense of betrayal, his eyes bore into mine, making me uncomfortable. “Madamji!” he bellowed. “You must be leader of all this commotion. Now I understand. Will you explain to these people what’s going on after all you keep preaching that education is every child’s right”. “Yes, but in this village, Sharda Ramji, it seems like a privilege. And thank you for being so generous towards our village students” my voice was surprisingly calm, cloaking the storm inside.

“Is this what you teach the students? That they are backward or underprivileged? That they are not capable of standing on their own feet without getting charity from other people?” he mocked. “I teach everyone the same thing – that status and success are both a state of mind. That each person’s ability is unique, immense and unstoppable. What each child learns from this teaching, is different.” I spoke with clarity and full belief.

“Madamji, those who can’t do, teach. It’s very easy to lecture and give baseless hope to poor kids. What is the guarantee you are willing to give for the future of these children?” “These kids take their future very seriously, Sharda Ramji. And I believe that each child in our school is capable of building a prosperous future for themselves as well as enable development in this very village. They have seen enough hardships to know that it does not get any worse than this. Question is, are powerful citizens like you willing to believe in their abilities too? So, with your commitment of Rupees ten lakh for the scholarship, I have no doubt that you’re setting a remarkable example of community leadership.”

Suddenly the crowd burst into a long applause. I wasn’t sure what they were supporting but it sure gave me a moment to catch my breath in this conversation with heated underpinnings. Undeterred, Sharda Ram moved to his next blow, this time knocking the wind out of me –“You are right, Madamji. These are very capable young minds. You would know, since you are their teacher. Also this scholarship is no small amount. After all, if we had agreed on Rupees ten thousand that would’ve been an easy thing; a small amount when compared to the big ideas that you and these kids have. So let the school prove that it deserves this scholarship. A test, to validate that every penny of Rupees ten lakh is an investment into their capable future. Let the students demonstrate their worthiness like their life depends on it.” Sharda Ram spoke as a final declaration, emphasizing each word of his last sentence.

Not a soul stirred in the crowd and all the students held their breath. For five long seconds I stared back at Sharda Ram. This was not a moment for weakness. This rink needed a fighter that would fall and stand up again. “We accept” was my ultimatum.

Just as unexpectedly I was pulled into the arena, I was suddenly pushed to the background as the Sarpanch pulled the focus of the crowd. “Friday is the day that our village school is expected to receive the biggest scholarship in the history of our tehsil. Before Shri Sharda Ram delivers the amount, students shall participate in a quiz. The students will need to score 60% correct answers in order to earn the said scholarship. If the students succeed, Shri Sharda Ram’s name will go down in history as a generous, well respected Zamindaar vested in the bright future of the next generation. But if the students fail to score 60%, then Shri Sharda Ram will be given an option to decide the fate of the scholarship.” Murmurs of discussion swept through the crowd.

“I do not agree Sarpanchji” barked Sharda Ram. “If I am the only one giving the scholarship,” he emphasized on scholarship with sarcasm, “then I am the one to decide the merit. To decide the level of challenge. My sons will prepare the questions for the quiz. Madamji, you can choose your team.” I was shocked and disturbed. “Sharda Ramji, half my students don’t have a parent, 80% of the parents are illiterate and cannot participate in their child’s education, in the current situation students are unable to even come to school every day, we have acute shortage of educational facilities and aide, very limited access to information, and under these difficult conditions you want to test the students against national level curriculum?”

“You seem to be losing the confidence you displayed just five min ago, madamji. Are you not ready for the challenge because perhaps what your students have is a sense of entitlement, not merit? Take it or leave it, your choice” He smirked. My face was red with anger and my head ready to explode listening to this despicable man talk about entitlement? It was a stare down. Out of nowhere Arun appeared and said “We accept Sharda Ramji. You and your family are cordially invited to host the quiz at our school on Friday at 11am. Our team will be ready.”

Two hours, three cups of tea and four Disprins later I was pacing up and down the classroom. Switching between anger and anxiety, I didn’t know how to begin the preparation for quiz. The group had ballooned from nineteen students to over fifty students, parents, members of press and NGO. This challenge had caught everyone’s attention and people were now picking sides. Brainstorming ideas, what-ifs and hope-nots was taking the noise level higher by the hour. We have one and a half day to prepare and this was going to be a long night.

Gradually, we started to bring some order to this chaos. Groups were formed, discussions ensued and lists were made for everything – subjects, challenges, strengths, risks, reading inventory, styles of questions, common quiz shows and techniques, preparation strategies…everything. Students dived in taking up one subject after another, assessing what they knew and how much they needed to learn or rote. Afternoon turned into night, modest food was brought in for the swelling group, oil lanterns were lit, some mats were added too for those who had been on the floor all evening. Looking out of the class window I noticed the local chaiwala serving tea to the small crowd outside. Nobody got much sleep and the preparation was on non-stop, in shifts.

Thursday was slow and intense. Nobody left the school and I think more people joined in. By dusk, the students were getting tired but I could see a calm determination on their faces. Mood was somber and despite the crowd, it was getting quieter. Late night, I urged the students to sleep. With bodies at rest and minds turbulent, one could only pray.

Friday morning started before dawn and every minute leading up to 11am was painful. People poured in through the morning and the crowd was bigger that it had been all week. By 11am, the whole school was seated and our handpicked group of 7 students were in the front row. The hall was humid with anticipation. Sharda Ram and his family kept us all waiting for almost an hour and when they arrived, he started without a greeting or introduction.

“In 10 minutes we shall know the result. There is potential to play 5 rounds but if you fail in a round, game is over. Each round is 90 seconds of quick questions and you must score 80% in each round to move to the next round. Ready?”

God help us, I prayed silently. Sharda Ram wanted no team work and tested confidence before competence. Round 1 was arithmetic and students aced it. The soundless crowd burst into ear shattering applause. Round 2 was history. The students felt the pressure as the questions fired like bullets. More intense, hesitant but successful.

Thoughts evoked overwhelming emotions as I realize how each child here is a hero. Learning everyday despite challenges that can break a spirit, with responsibilities that ruin a childhood. Here they are, trying to save their families and the village. Despite their devotion to this quiz, I was scared for them. Confidence was a luxury.

Round 3 sports. The first answer, wrong. Next three were correct. Fifth incorrect. The next four correct. 15 seconds to go and the team was stuck. Which year did India first participate in the Olympics? This question could break us.

Sharda Ram stood up. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

“1900” shouted a student from the audience and the buzzer rang. Like a flash of lightening, the message drove home that the entire school was part of the team. Children squealed with joy and the crowd erupted in a minute long applause. People were visibly on the edge, some crying and other praying.

But the challenge was far from over.

Round 4 science. Exerting highest caution, only the students with strongest confidence about their answer, spoke. With one wrong answer, we moved to the final round.

Round 5 current affairs. My students’ Achilles heel. The first question knocked them out. Five excruciating seconds later, “Spain” shouted a journalist. “I’m in this team”. Almost instantly 5 villagers rose to display allegiance, then 15 and many more. Sharda Ram could not argue with what he saw. Students fielded questions and community helped once more during the round. The buzzer rang and the room erupted in a joyful uproar at the perilous victory.

Rupees ten lakh were won as scholarship and the school announced that this money will be used to pay off the farmer debts in the village because no student can afford the loss of a parent. The cost of education for my students is very high and today, these children won hearts and earned a future.

     ______________________________________________________________________________________

Panchayat - Village local self-governance body comprising of 5 officials elected by the participating villages
Sarpanch - The Chief among Panchayat

Zamindar - A local lord or barron who owns most land and often becomes a money lender

Baithak - A place for gathering of people for leisure or meetings

Madamji or Sharda Ramji - 'Ji' is a term of respect used in Hindi, usually added after a noun

Chaiwala - tea seller

Lakh - One hundred thousand

Tehsil - District or county

Neighbouring - English version of Neighboring

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Farmer suicides in India is a very tragic phenomenon. Being a food surplus nation and also a country with starvation deaths, Indian agriculture is full of dichotomies. On one hand the government gives large subsidies to the farmers and on the other hand the small farmer is always impoverished and in debt. When one farmer commits suicide, with him dies the spirit of the whole family, lost is the future of his children...but remains intact the debt. I cannot say anything that has not already been said about this tragedy. Here are some links to know more about Farmer Suicides in India:

1. Wikipedia

2. Save Indian Farmers

3. The agrarian crisis

Its officially a Race.

Recently, we were filling some government paperwork and just like every other time before, we were asked to identify our race. This questions is never mandatory, however, it has a way of snaking itself into important decision making. Since Nikhil had completed the paperwork online and with his attention to detail, all the T’s are crossed and I’s dotted, this question was correctly and completely answered.

Although we had an audience of two other people, I politely told Nikhil that I never want to answer this question, unless mandatory. Almost immediately, and with equal civility, our witness thought it was necessary to clarify that the race classification is to ensure that we have not been discriminated against. That this is a neutral process, neither leaning towards affirmative action nor prejudiced.

I thanked him and confirmed that I was aware of this approach, and that in principle do not agree with the existence of this question – please identify your race. The gentleman I was talking to became surprisingly uncomfortable, even amused at my unexpected request. But there is a background to all this.

In general, discrimination is stereotyping and prejudice that impacts behavior of the person holding the bias. So unless the ‘victim’ specifically identifies the exact nature of bias, it actually hard to say the kind of discrimination you have faced. As a legal alien, I have been discriminated against in more countries than just America. However, the most discrimination I have faced has been in my own country. Ironic that it is the single nation in the world that harbors most cultural diversity. To what I can recollect, I have been discriminated with staggering variety - being a female, being educated compared to masses, for being a proletariat amongst elite, caste, religion, for being single or for being married, being too young or too old – whatever applies, for being a north Indian in south India, for studying in Kendriya Vidyalaya, for being a social worker, for being a corporate woman, for being a Delhi-ite, for being a Punjabi, for being a city dweller visiting a village and for perhaps many reasons that I could not even clearly distinguish.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in an “it-only-happens-to-me” syndrome. I am not picking any personal example where people’s tolerance was tested when I was being myself, rather I am picking situations where I was fit into a stereotype and subsequent actions were taken in alignment with the said prejudice. Where any person with a common context as mine would be subjected to similar biases.

Again, don’t get me wrong, this is not a petulant rumination of all that was pitted against me. I saw discrimination as being very individual and yet nothing personal. Once I was able to extricate the precise stereotype, it would become easier for me to manage the situation. So over the years, I’ve gotten wired to look for the prejudice and deal with it as if it were screen door to an entrance. This was a battle that was given. Everyday. And this is perhaps the unique story of everyone in India – a nation of diversity where people are desperate to label you as ‘one-of-them’.

And then I moved to America. A country that is exceptionally sensitive to differences amongst people. Sensitive to a fault. Where children are taught to celebrate individual differences and to own their preferences. And yet, as like-minded folks commune they talk about not feeling accepted along with their differences & preferences. The political affiliations, sexual orientation, class, race, gender, physical abilities anything can cause people to disagree. But it gets tricky when the government steps in. When the government lends a validation that people belong to different races and that is the most pervasive prejudice and that they need to be ‘protected’. Additionally, enough research is being done in our current world where race is being hauled to limelight as being a closeted deciding factor. A small but significant and growing section of population in America does not fall under any of the race classifications. America being a multi-cultural melting pot, mixed race children here may find their options for race identity to be limiting. And this is how a prejudice becomes personal.

Sadly, America is still dealing with racial conflicts every day. And every time I have to identify myself with a race, I lend a voice that supports race identification. Of all the times I have been discriminated solely on the basis of my race (in America or the 11 other countries I have visited), it would probably amount to less than 10%. Perhaps I haven’t fully evaluated the cost of all the racial discrimination against me – did it cost me a college seat? Or a job? Or equal pay? I don’t know. But to even recognize race to be a differentiating factor, in my opinion, is not progressive or productive.

Biases don’t offend me and discrimination doesn’t scare me. But to create and maintain differences that impact the social fabric of a country and touch each individual personally, is something I do not support.

So onward I march. Each time I am asked to identify with a race, I chose the ‘skip question’ option

Earth is the limit...

“Are you ok?” he asked. His breath felt warm on her neck and since he asked, she realized she was not sure. She wanted to say ‘No’ but the words won’t come out…she was barely breathing. She nodded yes instead, to appease. ‘Breathe’ he spoke again, more softly, in an understanding sort of way… ‘relax and feel free to scream’. He threw his head back and laughed, all she could manage was a weak smile and unsteady gaze. ‘how could he be on the edge and still so relaxed? Ugh, he has done this a thousand times before…he said so earlier today’

She had been sitting on his lap for just a few moments but it seemed like the heaviness of eternity descending already. Trussed up with him, she knew this was her decision and wondered if saying No right now would make her regret the retreat for the rest of her life. She wore her favorite Chanel, after all it was her first time. Now she was sure he could smell her fear and feel her palpitation. Seconds ticked by as her lips dried, kneeling between his legs she couldn’t feel her legs any more, her brain screaming words she could hear.

Behind her, he moved gently holding each of her hand in his, spreading them on the sides, away from their bodies. He waited for resistance, any sign that told him to stop. It’s a habit, he looks closely at all them…he wants to know how much can he push them, how much can they take? “are you ready?” He asks. Almost instantly she nodded, not looking at him. He brought his hand to her forehead and tilted back her head to have her rest on his shoulders and pushed to a plunge.

15000 feet above Chicago, the first timer jumped out of a perfectly good plane with her instructor. In the final few seconds before the jump, being hitched on the edge of the plane with her feet dangling in air Aky wondered if she would have a life altering thought that would become a catalyst for the rest of her days. How could she not? She’d flown in airplanes all her life but never dove out of one. She saw the world below and recalled ‘sky is the limit’…no, that’s wrong. Ground was the limit, not sky. She was basking in the experience of her first skydive. This has got to be special in more ways than she can make it to be. Perhaps later she would ruminate.

The jump itself was a conflict between holding on and letting go. Even though the instructor was harnessed behind her, to Aky, she was the only one there. The training said scream, but not a sound came out of her lungs. Suspended in air, floating above an entire city, not a single fully coherent thought in your mind, face being molded by the thrashing wind, in this venerable moment how could one scream?

‘SCREAM’ Jose broke into her thoughts, he needed to make sure her normal breathing kicks in. Perched 3 inches above her, he felt every muscle in her body. He sensed that she was enthralled and would submit to more adventure. Without needing any acknowledgement, he always understood when the experience had enslaved a person enough to accede to more. That’s what made him special, letting people fall with grace and call it an adventure.

Jose pulled her arms by her side, changing their pace and if it were possible to free fall any faster, they did. The screaming had stopped but Aky could not remember to exhale. Cutting through the clouds, she pulled her eyes away from the farms below to the flock of birds in a distance. With lack of focus, the birds looked like beans spilling out of the clouds. Within seconds, Jose swept her hands back into position and they began to spin! Despite herself, Aky squealed a mix of laughter and trepidation…this was a roller coaster that she did not see coming. She continued laughing and getting tickled as Jose orchestrated circus tricks in their free fall. The earth’s curves and horizon loosing angles, Aky could see the ground approaching fast.

‘Pull the chord’ Jose shouted behind her ear. Aky moved her right arm out of position towards her hip. The wind sabotaged her efforts to reach the flapping red chord. Jose caught her hand in his and steadied near the chord. Even that didn’t help. She was sure that Jose rolled his eyes at her unsteadiness. So he pulled the chord…

Jose was in full didactic mode. Aky found him akin to a mathematician describing the grids behind Van Gogh’s ‘Wheatfield with Cypresses’. While she was still vacillating between heeding to Jose’s decree and getting awed by contiguous corn fields marry the clouds over the horizon, they ricocheted mid-air. This time she screamed, but with complete control. She could’ve chosen to cease this moment with a single long or even a broken breath, but a scream just seemed like a suitable homage to a 60 second free fall. Feral laughter escaped soon after.

Where is the line between being in control and losing all of it?  Obviously, when you dive with abandonment and literally throw control to the wind, you are relinquishing every fiber of self-command…oh, except that lifeline worth of parachute above your head, keeping you afloat along with your prayers and the seer positioning your descent from 15000 feet to precise 20x60 feet of earth.

Aky had seen this view from airplane window a hundred times before. But this buoyant, transient window to the world below was conceivably the best seat in the house. Despite the speed of descent there was an epic stillness in the moment. The expanse of earth, punctuated by enormous constructed products where man stakes claim – farms, buildings, highways; and yet the diminutive-ness of this effort so striking in the all-encompassing earth. Food, one can eat to their fill; even flirt with gluttony but you will have to stop eventually. But drinking in these august visions, you just can’t have your fill. In a matter of minutes, she will be back at her feet, consumed by the world around. One that she viewed from above, moving seamlessly and uncaring about anyone having a cathartic experience. She looked up, beyond the orange parachute, she saw the sky…limitless. It’s a space to be visited, but no one can make a home there. Just like memories, can’t live your present or future there.

This journey begins when I can walk no more
I carry all my baggage when I lack forte
My breath heavier than my grinding feet
My thoughts too vivid but my heart steady
The weather changes here, with every emotion
I hunger, I thirst, I yearn, to live that story all over

Time loses gravity and it’s the passions that pull
The visions flash as fast as lightening
And they linger until the heartache dulls
This is a city where I live with lot of souls
But I visit to escape and then abscond all alone

Somewhere during the descent, Jose stopped talking. He felt Aky experience the same contemplation as he did during his first dive. This was his devotion. This is what kept him coming back a thousand times. If there was one thing that he loved more than skydiving, it would be the sole witness to so many others dive for their first and only time, plunge into fear and emerge on the other side of courage. Every dive unfolds a unique emotional story and he is happy just to be an audience, without indulging.

One word “brace!” and a few seconds later they land smoothly on their feet. There was no clumsiness, no stumbling. Silent exactitude. Jose unbuckled and Aky turned around. They saw each others' faces for the first time since the jump. A single smile and a thank you was all that she could offer for something so profound. He took it all.

This remarkable fall infused into her memory, Aky walks away, abound with gratitude.

Floating between two heavens

Here I am, floating in the pristine blue ocean on this glorious day, i looked up at the clear blue sky. I could swear that the sky and the water were the same color. I let a giggle slip realizing that just 4 hours ago I was flying in that sky to arrive at Maldives. From the airport, a water taxi takes passengers to their islands in this corner of the Indian Ocean. Once at the resort, I wasted no time in changing, renting a pair of snorkels to head out & explore the reef. 

From the window in the plane, the green islands outlined with silver sand beaches looked just like luminous emeralds scattered about. Words fail me on how to describe the ocean. Pure. Refreshing. Vast. So beautiful that it took my breath away. I watched without blinking, just soaking in. My mind just free, calm & unthinking, trying to save all this to memory.

How can I feel the same powerful feeling of wonderment again and again? First in the airplane, then in the boat and then again now, in the ocean. I look back at the shore, palm trees and virgin beaches interrupting the blue horizon. Its like a wonder that's refusing to wane. I move languidly in the water, feeling the soft waves glide over me like satin and watching the late afternoon sun loosing its piquancy. I put on my snorkels again and turned around to face the ocean. 

What a difference a perspective makes. One moment I am watching the endless sky consuming the horizon and the other moment I am a witness to the explosion of color underwater. The water making me feel vulnerable to the whole world of sea beneath me, as if I was an obvious, indiscreet onlooker, trespassing the schools of fish and colonies of reef. A couple feet below me and miles ahead of me, I could see every color that I could name and every shape that was beyond my imagination. Gems of reefs swaying gracefully, molding around the playful fish. I have to remind myself to keep breathing because the view frequently captures my breath! Fish, of all sizes and colors, stingray, sea horses, eels, turtles, all of them equally surprised by their visitor and the visitor herself amazed at every blink.

I cannot get enough of it, even without trying I am swimming away from the shore, moving from the inner reef to the reef crest. The ocean floor in gradual decent and density of reef increasing. The bio diversity, unlike anything that can be recreated in an aquarium, the harmony of sea life seemingly choreographed around me, for me. A shiver runs through me but I fail to realize that the water temperature is getting cold. I had walked into the water but i was now about 10 feet above the floor. I'm not a good swimmer, so quickly i reach out to the diver nearest to me. Though amateur, he is practicing for his upcoming deep sea dive. He holds onto my hand and points at a place behind me and signals me to be calm. I turn around and freak. Just a couple feet ahead of me is the ocean cliff. The diver held my hand and put another on my shoulder to steady my, almost as if irritated by my reaction. Calm down, he signaled. I did. 

For a few moments I saw the most beautiful view, the sun rays slashing through the surface of the water blended in with the darkness like water color, the schools of fish exponentially bigger with thousands of them moving in tandem, the colorful reefs as if giving respect to the boundaries and only a few bold ones venturing to live on the side of the ocean wall. The temperature dropped a few degrees and the water pressure changed. The density of the water was overwhelming, for once gravity was failing as I floated above the cliff, sea life emerged from the depths with the as much ease as they disappeared back into it. The chasm staring back at me, if I ever understood what abyss meant, here it was, right in front of me. Infinite. If I ever had a moment in my life where I held not a single thought in my mind or not moved a single muscle in my body, this was it. Suspended, between sky and the ocean, if i ever understood what dreamlike could be, this was it. 

My being the most insignificant thing in this universe was never more obvious than it was in this moment. It was as if humility devoured me, showing me the expanse of everything in life, the illusion of security, the futility of discord or opinion, the discernible divergence & diversity, the power hope and the efficiency of fear. And the meaning of it all....it just 'is'.

I wasn't moving a muscle but i was floating away. The diver tugged at my hand and despite my trans, we started to swim towards the shore. Every now and then I would turn to see the depths I left behind as if trying to recapture the moment between me and the altruistic ocean. Once at the shore, the diver started to ramble something about being alert, aware and giving me tips on how to venture out to the ocean wall again. I wasn't listening. I was not going back there even though all I wanted was to go back. Words have a way of polluting the chasteness of an experience and if I returned to the ocean wall, I would carry with me the burden of expectation, memory and my thoughts.

And i liked it better this way, one memory was enough for the rest of my life. And in my dreams, heaven is underwater, not in the clouds.

Circle of life...

Sweat dripped from the center of his back, but he barely noticed the sludgy contact. He did not want to move a muscle because that would uncomfortably peel his sweat-soaked shirt that stuck to his body in the scorching heat. The august afternoon air, thick and heavy with the burning odor, still as a corpse. What an ironic metaphor, he pondered. This is the kind of moment that presents a limited opportunity to reflect and perhaps earn an intense life lesson or two. Does one wait until the lesson slowly fills the mind or does one effort and search for a meaning? Would this effort be of a feverish pace attempting to reflect the eternity evolving through each moment or should it be frantic because life was a fleeting moment? He couldn't decide.

The priest spoke something about the burden of death and the eternal soul. He lifted his bowed head to look at the priest in the hope that he would be able to listen better. His view partially blocked by other taller mourners. He felt tired and overwhelmed. The dramatic funeral rituals lend a dominant identity to death and the declaration of sorrow heard in the overflowing emotions, he was suddenly unsure if he really grasped the entire depth of the loss here. Lifting his arm, he absentmindedly cleaned his sweating forehead, a slow desperation that some movement would attempt to break this wicked grief that the family had descended into for the last 2 days.

Perhaps tomorrow others will remember about his 13^th birthday that is just around the corner and will make it as happy as it has always been. His favorite part was his mother waking him up in the morning, fragrant after a fresh morning shower, her wet hair against his cheek as she hugged him and gave him the firstPrasad from the dawn-break prayers, not once missing a beat on the holy chants dancing at her lips as she would gently nudge him to the prayer room to get his ‘special’ blessings for the day. Playfully he would not want to relent his sleep and theatrically fall back onto the pillow mumbling “no mom….”

“mom”

“mom?”

“MOM….??

“NO MOM…..”

“MOM!!!”

The heat was quickly taking its toll and the tired attention of the procession moved from the burning pyre to the young boy sobbing at his mother’s final journey. It was going to be a long day….it was going to be a long life…..