An Open Letter to who-so-ever cares to listen…

It seems, my little one is feeling the pinch these days. The other day her papa remarked casually that he was paying income tax to the tune of some thousands rupees a month which left her agape! The reason being that she had suddenly started feeling the importance of money or the lack of it these days! “But why Papa?” and more importantly she wanted to know “what for?” Her papa tried to put some sense in her dull head by saying, “so that our Government has enough money to spend on welfare of the people, especially poor people and providing us basic facilities that you have become so accustomed of!” It put some sense in her block head and she didn’t grudge it anymore.

But she had a change of heart recently. It so happened that a day or two ago she read in the newspaper Dainik Bhaskar that the office of National Institute of Technology has acquired a table and four chairs at the exorbitant price of almost two lakhs, her curiosity was raised. “God it must be a gorgeous table” she exclaimed and added, “a pity indeed that you have not seen it.” Remembering the day when I had seen the interior of the office of the man-in-question and also having seen a side of his well shielded persona, I shuddered. “Pity to those who see the furniture!” I said non-chalantly! Not listening to my mumbling she continued in her childlike enthusiasm, “He must be a rich man to buy such furniture for his office!” And I looked at the magnificent pieces of furniture, imported from England, lying scattered around me which the English masters could not take with them when they left the place. I laughed aloud at the ironical similarity. “But Ma, how would he carry that back when his tem comes to an end?” she asked a very genuine question. “He will have to leave all that behind when he goes.” I said philosophically. “And it is not his money, it is the Government’s money that he has spent on buying such costly furniture.” Now she was in a dilemma and wanted to know where from the Government gets such amount of money and when I told her about the taxes that we, the honest citizens of India, pay so that the Government has money, she was genuinely surprised. “But Papa says the tax he pays is for the welfare of the people.” And now she was angry. “Why is my Papa’s hard earned money is paid to buy a table and four chairs for a person?”

A genuine question indeed which every citizen of India has a right to know an answer to! Why is public money wasted at the useless and snobbish whims of some persons who have the manipulations to flout rules? I think the Finance Minister Pranab Mukherjee would do well to answer this question to the citizens of India.

We are what we think, having become what we thought…

A Page from the History: The Cooley Murder Case of Shimla

 
Sometimes my father, exasperated with some official apathy, procedural delays or corruption in public life, would say in utter desperation “the British Raj was much better!” I remember being very angry with my father and his friends when I would overhear them talking about something good about the British Raj. It was nothing less than blasphemy to me! But recently when I read a detailed account of an incident, that I had heard in bits during my childhood, it was an eye-opener for me.
The famous “Cooley Murder Case” brings to light some important facts. One is that to fight against injustice one needs moral courage which in this case was depicted by the Cooleys of Shimla—a class of downtrodden Indian slaves. If a class of people remains mute to the injustice meted upon it, it clearly shows the lack of moral courage to fight against the system.
We all know that the Sahibs and Mem-Sahibs during British Raj would indulge in fun and frolic and would party late during their sojourn in Shimla, the British capital during summers. The mode of transport in the hilly terrains of Shimla would be the old faithful Rickshaw that would be pulled by poor Indian cooleys. These cooleys would drive the Sahib Logs to their parties and would wait for them for the return journey. What would the poor cooleys do when the Sahib logs would be having a fun time. They would wrap their tattered sheets around their frail and sickly body and would try to steal a few winks of sleep, their bodies crying for rest. When it would be time for the party to be over, some English man would come to announce the same to the cooleys. They would get up hurriedly, rubbing all signs of sleep from their eyes. It was during one such party at Yates Place, the home to Mansel Pleydell, Controller of the Army Canteen Board, that one cooley by the name Jageshar fell down while trying to get up as his sheet got entangled in his feet. This infuriated the Master—the Sahib. He started kicking the poor man till the Cooley fell down writhing in pain. The other cooleys, so afraid of the Master, remained fixed in their place. They silently carried their sahib passengers back home, when one of them lay bleeding and hurt alone in the night. But they were slaves and belonged to the downtrodden class of the society. Bakhia, one of the coolyes, along with some others returned to the bleeding and injured man to carry him back. They found him in a critical condition. They took him to the Chhota Shimla Police station so that the his dying statement could be recorded to lodge a complaint against the British Officer who had so brutally hit that man. Can you imagine what kind of moral courage they might have needed to lodge that complaint? I am talking of a slave country where we had no rights. The police, as was expected, refused to lodge a complaint against the British offender. How could they. Not to be discouraged the cooleys walked to the house of Rai Bahadur Mohan Lal, Municipal Commissioner, and at his behest the report was lodged. The story so far brings to light the moral courage that the cooleys depicted as they had a strong wish to fight the injustice meted upon one of them and the support which was extended to them by one of the Indians who had considerable influence in the society. Mohan Lal did not refuse the help that was sought from him. He empathised with his fellow citizens, putting to stake his own interests.
The other part of the story depicts the sense of justice displayed by the British. The offender was tried in the court at Shimla. Much pressure was exerted on the cooleys who were witness to the inhuman treatment of the dead Cooley. Lala , too deposed in the Cooley Murder Case. He was cross examined for nine hours but he was unperturbed. The British house of common took note of the Cooley murder case and the case was discussed in the British parliament. The verdict of the court was in favour of the Cooleys and the British officer Mansel Pleydell was convicted, sentenced to eighteen months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of 4,000 Rupees. The man committed suicide in the jail.
When I look back and try to place my childhood memories regarding antecedents about the British Raj I owe it to my father—my first link with our hoary past of the slave India. It is because of him that I developed an undying interest in reading and also an undefeatable spirit to fight any injustice. I thank him from the core of my heart for making me what I am today. I grew up listening to such stories from my father who would take us for long walks and would recite such stories. I developed a strong will to fight and take stand against any kind of injustice. But when I see multitude of spineless people around me I ask myself—has the sacrifice of these so called common human beings gone in vain? Did they fight injustice so that we live in a free country and still side with injustice?
When a Government employee has the crude sense of announcing to a houseful of so-called-intellectuals, “I am the king”, and they all sit mutely and further watch him abusing, kicking and hurting a hapless innocent creature, and still maintain their silence, I am reminded of the courage displayed by the cooleys to fight against the real “kings” and the “masters”.
I cannot help quoting from the Dhampadda:
We are what we think,
Having become what we thought.
I am what I am today because I grew up hearing such stories about human courage depicted during adverse circumstances. Ask yourself very honestly what kind of childhood references you are giving to your children. When I see around me the kind of environment, corrupt and dishonest, wielded by the adults, I wonder what values are they teaching to their children? I shudder at the thought of India, a few years hence, where the children of today would run the nation. God save my country!

Where the head is held high and mind is without fear…

I momentarily pause my brisk steps and bow silently when my eyes behold the Indian Tricolour flying high atop the Indian Institute of Advanced Study which once upon the time used to be the Viceregal Lodge—the symbol of British power in India. My head bows to the sacrifice of innumerable people who laid down their life so that we could live in a free country.  The names of the big ones who steered the struggle for freedom would flood any mind and we repay our gratitude to them by celebrating their sacrifices. But do we ever try to find out or even think about the lesser known—even unknown ordinary and humble people who, too, sacrificed their life so that we could live in a free country.

This leads me to another question that has started haunting me recently: are we really free of the mental slavery that we show towards our masters? The names may have changed, the class and colour may have changed but the creed of the masters has not changed and neither is our slavish attitude towards them. This troubling thought became very clear when I met a few, so called intellectuals, of the country. They are labelled intellectuals as they teach in an Institute of national importance. “We are so afraid of the system” one of them said. Another one cooed, “I am but an ordinary person with no political connection.” “The system is in the hands of the ‘power that be’”, etc. etc. Here the word “system” is a synonym for the “master”. The country may be free but the relation between the master and the servant is still the same when the “servants” show clearly their slavish mentality by tolerating every practice or rather malpractice of the “master” as they are afraid of what the master may do to them.

I no longer am interested in the lame excuses they put to justify their action or inaction but I do feel bad when I look at the Tricolour flying high and reminding me of the sacrifices made by ordinary people so that “we” could live in a nation where the head is held high and the mind is without fear. I wish my friends ask themselves this question and answer it to their ownself, honestly—very honestly.

The Star Gathering at IIAS, Shimla…

24 October, 2009

How do you feel when you see Shyam Bengal, the eminent film maker, Hon’ble Minsioter Salman Khurshid, sipping a cup of coffee next to you, His Excellency Gopal Gandhi, the Governor of West Bengal standing in the sun and surrounded by news people and what more Nayan Tara Sahgal, commenting on how beautiful your saree is!

It was a dream world. The stars had all come to dazzle the Historic Seminar room of the Indian Institute of Advanced Study at Shimla. The best part was that they all were so very human that It was shockingly pleasant to a person liek me. Nayan Tara Sahgal, my favourite  author during my college days commenting on my saree, mesmerized me. Her fragile and delicate frame but a steely resolve to take stand during Emergency, that she recounted, made me literally swoon over her moral strength. I would write in detail about all the small details that I could catch up during this clase observation of these and many more dignitaries on 24 October, 2009. Let me catch my breath for the time being!!

Nostalgic about Shimla of my Days…

Chaura Maidan

We came to live at Chaura Maidan in the year 1973. The house we came to live in was spacious, sparsely furnished and secluded. With nobody to talk to, I would stand behind the window so that people from outside would not be able to see me and would gaze and gaze at the horizon outside. The back of the house had a verandah but I could see only the Himachal School Board building (the present Kotshera Boys’ College) and nothing else; so the view from the front was always better. There was a police post, the small round one, in the middle of the open space called by the name of Chaura Maidan. I wonder what would the policeman do throughout the day as he had not to manage traffic the way his brethren do these days on the Mall. The only vehicles that we could see plying on this restricted road would be the ever faithful Mail Vehicle and some ambulance once in a while and the vehicles of the governor’s retinue that would be a sight to behold! One or two black ambassadors of some Brigadier who lived in the vicinity would be seen. To cut it short the police walah had little or no job except to give the place a semblance of a high profile area.

Human memory is really very short. I crossed Chaura Maian so many times in the recent past but did not miss the round or hexagonal structure of the Police post that was a land mark during our days! It was a chance discovery of an old snap that I remember having taken from the window of our Chaura Maidan house which revived all the lost memories about this post. In fact I had taken this picture not as a keeps-sake but since it was the last picture in the roll and I wanted to exhaust it before giving it for developing so I extended my hand out of the window, and without even focussing on anything, clicked the picture.

The old timers talked about a big tree where the Police post was in our times. I remember vaguely hearing to a story about a tree that used to be atthe place in the nineteenth century where we had this police post in the seventies. It was said about this tree that it was abode to a benevolent spirit

and whosoever wanted to have some wish to come true, would hover round this tree! The tree was cut, much to the dismay of old-timers. But we in our times never even missed having a tree in the middle of the Chaura Maidan. It is the same way as the present generation people don’t even remember that there used to be small police check post in the middle of the Chaura Maidan, once upon a time. But as I remember having seen the Police post, I wish to make a record of it so that we remember the evolution of the then Simla to the Shimla of today! And also to invoke the blessings of that benevolent spirit if it is still hovering in the area and is listening to me!

The Caravan on the “No-entry” Zone of Shimla Roads…

12 September, 2009

Shimla

After a spell of incessant rains for almost four days it had stopped raining and Shimla looked just bewitching, as it always had seemed to me, after a long rainy period! Clean and bright! The sun rays of the evening sun had bathed whole of it into a golden haze. I could not stop myself from having a long walk and relive on the way all the images that came surging to my mind of the Shimla of early seventies!

With a song in my heart, I started towards the Chaura Maidan and was at once shocked at the sight that awaited me—so many vehicles parked on both the sides of the road near and in front of the Cecil Hotel! Had some accident taken place—was the first thought that came to my mind. I frantically looked around and was more surprised to find more vehicles coming towards the Cecil. Most of them with Punjab registration number and a few with Himachal registration number! The police personnel with guns-in-hand peeping from many of the vehicles, made the scene look dreadful. This was a sight that I had never even witnessed when late Prime Miniter Indira Gandhi had come to Shimla during the famous Shimla agreement or even during the first statehood day in 1971!

I walked fast as for me it felt sacrilegious to watch so many vehicles plying on the road that was a “no entry” zone for vehicles during not-so-distant past. I could make an assumption that someone-someone big from the Punjab Government must have come, and rued! I continued walking though the initial excitement had died down and by the time I had reached the State Bank of India, a pilot car blared its hooter and I found two-three dogs so taken aback by it that they chased the pilot car! I was almost smiling because the Shimla dogs were doing what the conscientious citizens of Shimla must have done—trying to drive away the motor vehicles from the Mall. This pilot car was followed by not less than 20-30 other vehicle—a long caravan of vehicles of all types and makes. I felt very bad for such a sacrilege of the Mall. When I reached the CTO, I found all those vehicles parked there and that at least was a solace to me that the vehicles were not taken straight to the Scandal Point! 

All this has made me feel so indignant that I didn’t even care to find out the name of the dignitary who had come to visit Shimla with such a fanfare following him. Could be anyone—do names really matter when it is the power that decides the privileges that you enjoy?

On my return walk, someone asked me—Did you see Prakash Singh Badal who had come to the Mall?  “No”, I replied, “But I did see all the vehicles that preceded his car and more vehicles that followed his car” and added humorously, “and of course some vigilant dogs chasing the pilot car!” I rued about the good old days when the leaders cared to walk and interact with the common men on the Mall and seemed to us like human beings and not the Avtaars they are made to look like these days!

Denuding Kamand to set up IIT Mandi…

The news that the Forest Department of the Himachal Government will be cutting a lot of trees, to the tune of thousands,  to make way for the setting up of a premier Institution IIT Mandi, made me feel sad for Kamand. I could visualize the mute trees whose fate was sealed and decided in the air-conditioned office of some administrator who had little or no knowledge about denuding the already declining forest cover in Himachal.

I felt sad—very sad as I had spent some very happy days of my life among these trees at Kamand! The first time I saw Kamand from the window of our vehicle, I could not stop myself from exclaiming, “How beautiful!” and that too when such sceneries were not something new to me being born and brought up in Himachal. But there was something heavenly about Kamand.

Kamand is a picturesque destination for all who want to rejuvenate their lifeless mundane existence that the banality of city life does to us. The experience of the clean and pure air of Kamand, the farm fresh milk of the cows of the Kamand Cattle Farm and the refreshing long walks in the evening remains etched in my mind. For countell hours I would be gazing at just nothing but the nature around me. The trees in our courtyard seemed to speak to me of the times they had witnessed and the fact that now those will be cut down, is killing me. I remember each and every tree on the campus of the Cattle Breeding Farm which, unfortunately, is the point where the inauguration for the new IIT Mandi was laid. It had so many trees around it. I am so sad that all that is going to be lost to the coming generations. I wish Sunderlal Bahuguna, during his present trip to Himachal, does something to take up this issue with the right persons. Someone in the corridors of power may listen to his voice. Is it not ironic that the newspapers reported on 10 September, 2009 of the impending cutting of so many trees to make way for the IIT Mandi at Kamand and today the statement of Sunder Lal Bahugana to save trees in Himachal has been reported. Doesn’t someone take notice of the sheer irony of news reports coming barely at the difference of one day.

I hope Prof Prem Kumar Dhumal listens to my feeble voice or the HRD Minister Kapil Sibal takes notice of my pleas!

Thanks to my Students that I have Survived the Worst…

05 September, 2009

A very differernt experience I had on this Teachers’ Day and would write about it some other day. But today I would share something different with my readers, an email that touched my heart on a day when I really needed something to cheer me up! I am not giving any name of the sender but am copying the mail as my post on this Teachers’ Day in a way to thank all  my students who have made my life beautiful! Amen!

Thank you all!

Dear Ma’am,

It was at once heartening and depressing to read your mail. At the outset I would like to offer you my apologies and my congratulations. Apologies for not being in regular touch and congratulations on your daughter and sons excellent academic achievements. As they say like mother like children.

Ma’am, after 6 years of working one realizes that the world does not  move only on technical knowledge but also on parameters like imagination, attitude, ability to think beyond and further than before and the ability to be sensitive and mix with all kinds of people, listen to them and make them listen to you. I am saying this because what I found in REC was that instead of making us ready for the world and telling us to use our natural talents most professors stressed only on technical issues.

However a very small group which I can safely say included you, Anoop Sir and a few others actually stressed on all round thinking and getting us ready to face the world. That ma’am for Pandey and me is your achievement. Teaching and telling students (even if only a few heard it) on how to go beyond just technical learning and see the whole world, see how it is developing and what your role is and how your knowledge, skill and natural gifts can be used for this development. There are very few people who I could go and talk to straight at REC and you were among them.

Ma’am you always thought differently and history has shown that people who shift from status quo (history of Physics and Astronomy is full of such examples.. Galileo, Kepler, Newton etc) are always targeted as rebels/ disturbances and bad influences. Maybe this is a sign that what you had set out to do that is take your students beyond just our subjects and introduce them to a larger world has succeeded and that is why you are being targeted.

And that brings me to my second point ma’am. You are our teacher. You are a person who has taught us and I am sure taught your children to fight for what they believe in and succeed in this world.  Your self esteem has to be not just high but sky high because your students look up to you. Even to my mother I say that you are the artist who has moulded the future generation leaders and so be proud. As Lord Krishna said to Arjun keep fighting the fight, to win or to lose is not in your hands but mine … you just do your Karma….. Ma’am if you are not there REC might retain its brain but it would certainly have lost a large part of its spirit.

And in the end Ma’am whoso ever says that you have defiled the tranquil atmosphere at the college should be told to go and hang himself. Has REC been created to provide tranquility…. It has been created to fashion future technical leaders and believe me to create something new you need to have chaos, disorder and what people at REC would understand “entropy”. So you along with the rest of the faculty have the responsibility to create an atmosphere where we all have what is called constructive destruction….. And questioning old concepts is not defiling but “constructive destruction” if something better emerges.

An Octogenarian’s Tales of Shimla’s Past

26 August, 2009

Wednesday

Early in the morning when I walked past Snowdon hospital alongwith my brother and my daughter, my brother looked up and said, “there is my school.” I looked up and saw clouds having hidden the Kendriya Vidyalaya Jakhu’s building which was thus could not be seen but he could see it as it came alive to him–in his memory.

 I saw the Poodiwala sitting near the tree on the Ridge where the road from Lakkar Bazaar meets the Ridge and could not help thinking that the tree did not look as big to me as it looked during my childhood. What had happened? Perhaps now I was watching it from the critical eyes of a seasoned mature person and not a small girl who seemed to be in awe of such a big tree on the Ridge!

Near the Golcha Restaurant where the steep stairs lead to the Lower Bazaar, we looked down at the market which was yet to open and decided to visit our old neighbourhood. Who would be there to remember you? Protested my daughter, scared at the thought of descending into a hub of small structures, seem to be grown on the sliding side of a hillock, and that through such steep stairs!

“We used to run countless times up and down these stairs!” said I in a reproaching tone. The small girl in me wanted to run the way I used to almost a decade ago! My knees and legs felt sturdy and I wanted to gallop down the stairs to the labyrinth of lanes where my childhood memories lay still fresh!

Down we went. My brother and I full of exciting chatter and my daughter grumbling at, what she considered, the precarious stairs! It was early in the morning and ringing the door-bell at such a nearly time was not, by any means, a good manner. But that was my neighbourhood where every time was considered a good time to call upon neighbours. I rang the bell. The door opened instantly and I could see her sitting by the side of a window. I had nearly overlooked the pretty young woman who had opened the door as I was literally dying to meet my childhood role model—Leela Behan Ji!

I was overwhelmed to see her. She was still the same—beautiful, graceful and ever smiling! Though it seems sacrilegious to me to name her by first name but this is how we have been addressing her ever since we became conscious of her existence. I ran to her open arms when she acknowledged me saying, “Kalo”! My childhood name never sounded good to me but it seemed musical to me at that moment as I seemed to find a way in the labyrinths of the maze of my childhood memories.

She was nostalgic for the good old times, for the old friends and for so many other things and the tales that came from her made us all mesmerized for their plain simple truth. Even my grumbling daughter sat quiet and absorbed in all that she heard. Stories and tales of a different time, a different world that was so different from the world she had seen.

I wanted to listen more stories, sitting at her feet, when she would be travelling in a far off past that was unknown even to me.

Stories from the Raj that she had seen from close quarters being a witness to so many of the happenings of those days of the Raj! I would relate all that I hear from her to my readers so that instead of the polluted information we get first-hand information from the perspective of a small girl who would run through the Mall, touching the satiny and silky gowns of the English Mem Sahibs!

Recurrence of the Chewing Gum Dream…

26 August, 2009

It was strange–very strange but the dreaded dream about chewing gum stuck to my teeth recurred after a very long time. Perhaps I want to say a lot but am not saying it and this dream was a plain indication of these suppressed thoughts. So, taking a cue from the dream I had last night, I would, henceforth, write down all that comes to my mind. Better to write than to have a strange dreadful dream!