Welcome to the Great Indian Circus

Welcome to the Great Indian Circus

The first impression about the circus was good. I mean, with more than a hundred crore spectators, it sure was a crowd puller.
The speciality of the circus is that, it is totally indigenous. The performers (or most of them) are, from the crowd itself! And, there is a totally new experience; there is no schedule for the performances, it almost happens like a reality show!
The circus was currently in Mumbai, for the last four months. The Star of attraction, was the Big Baboon, with its gang of Macaques. On the receiving end, were the mules, from the Ganga plains. The show went on, with this Gang of monkeys, beating up the mules, and made them run for the shelter. The show was called off, when the Animal right activists took an objection.
Next, was the unexpected turn, when a Jealous Neighbouring Circus, sent its trained sabre toothed cats, Who swam a great deal, right past the sleeping sea lions, and sea horses, entered the circus tent, and threatened to blow it off! The item lasted for quite some time. The Leopards finally came to a rescue, after much persuasion, and gutted the cats, with minimal damage to the tent.
Reacting to it, a big horde of Pansy butterflies made an appearance on the stage, which was a hot bed of activity. They came one by one, finding time from their merriment. Some said very funny things, now, was it their loss of intellect, or was it because they wanted to lighten the atmosphere by their farces, they alone know.
But, the crowd was not happy. It loved the circus, though it treated the crowd badly, charging them exorbitant tickets, and not taking much care for the security. Agreed, the crowd faced minor discomforts, the bedbugs sent by the Jealous Neighbouring Circus , would suck some blood, but it was forgiven and forgotten just like a bug bite. But this was a big thing. Bed bugs were one thing, and the Saber toothed cats were another.
Suddenly, as if awakened by lightening, the crowd decided, that they needed new showman. The Peacock, who was the current manager was made to step down from his post. His deputy, The Crow, was a bit reluctant to step down. He even stated that such minor incidences happen in a big circus. This enraged the crowd even more, so he succumbed to public demand.
Meanwhile, the sea lions and the sea horses came under public criticism. Their leader stated that it needed more intelligence. Also, the leopards were dispatched, and were to stay in the sensitive areas.
The Chimp wanted to be the new Regional Manager. But the Big Dolphin, who was made to dress as a Lion by the Bluebird(National bird of Italy) at Delhi, would not agree. So, an unknown deer, with a clean background was appointed instead.
Learning this, The Chimp threw hysterics, commented that the attack was an Inside job. He left with his faithful gang of monkeys, and, last heard, was all set up to form a new circus troupe!
And, the crowd is still interested in what happens next!

cluttered outbreak

What is happening to this country?

In the last six months, we have seen a collective violence surpassing the incidences in the past six years. Political instability without any reason, language related discontent without any reason, series of bomb blasts without any reason stated. Makes you wonder, what is happening.

And what are we doing against it? Marathis not protesting against the atrocious behaviour of some madman, who is not even clever enough to mask it's political nature behind a cause? being happy that finally Hindus stood up and were responsible for the blasts at Malegaon? Is this the answer or the solution to anything?

Have we become so tolerant, or rather indifferent, that we turn a blind eye to injustice? Why are we not protesting against such law breakers?

Seeing all this, i refuse to be PROUD of my countrymen. If a bunch of imbeciles can cause such turmoil, I don't see any point in PLEDGING my devotion for my countrymen. On one hand, we spend a substantial revenue on defence, and on other hand, we turn a blind eye towards the vandalism. Are we a country of impotents?

and we brought the biggest irony of the century. 

Language, instead of being the mode of communication, has become a ground for discrimination. It has stopped bringing people together, instead, Language, today, pushes people apart.

short story-puppets.

1.

'Khel khatam bachha log.'

'Nahi chacha, aj kuch aur dikhao. ye kahani to hum sun chuke the. Aur dobaara isi kahini ko dekhne ke paise hum kyon de? chalo Babloo, hum kahi aur jate hai.'

Wrapping up the puppets, Abdul felt cheated. he always felt so, when viewers refused to pay money after the show. And the viewers were always children. "bachhonse kya wasooli karna?" he thought to himself, while pushing the cart away.

But this notion was going to cost him his lunch. Noor was going to be very mad at him for this. she always insisted that he should collect money beforehand. like some kind of a ticket. but Abdul was an artist. He had no heart for this coldhearted commerce.

 "hum kalakaar hai, koi dalaal nahi." he used to say. 

"to bech khaao mujhe bhi. is nautanki se taang aa gayi hoon" she would taunt back.

He hated to argue, and, the fact was, she was right. 

The puppet shows were not as popular as they were in his childhood.

Unlike other forms of earning a livelihood, this had no place in cities. He could go, as far as small towns. There too, the 'video game' bug had bitten the children. 

              Abdul would feel sad. not for himself, not for his wife. He would feel bad for the children. They had no innocence left. even the smallest of the kids used to be a shrewd customer. They were no longer happy with his stories. They all wanted to see wars, and guns and victories. They asked strange questions; ones he could not answer. No one wanted to see the 'Raja Rani Ki Kahini'

2.

Swati was not happy. She had a bad day at work. She had worked day and night on that presentation. And when the crucial time came, her boss presented the same, and took credit.

She felt cheated. There was some mute sympathy from her colleagues. But sympathies were the last thing she wanted.

Kaushal was not being supportive either. He never understood her feelings. “He could be more supportive” she thought. The presentation had meant a lot to her, it being a chance of getting ahead. Yet he complained of her late hours, not once asking her about her progress in the presentation.

 Just two months in marriage, and there was a clear drift. The house had one Dictator, her mother in law. Being a small town girl, she was never disrespectful towards elders. Yet, on a day like this, she resented her marriage.

It was a plain, colourless day for her. She was in no hurry to go home.

Home!

She laughed at the idea. Nevertheless, she had to accept it as it was. And it was not that bad either, she told herself. She was allowed to work, and occasionally, her saas would actually be good to her. She was never threatened about anything, nor was she harassed like Manju, her distant cousin.

“I don’t know,  I am confused.”

And she remembered her mother. Her house, the one that was really her home. There was warmth in it. There was always someone to listen to what she had to say. Her father always encouraged her to study, to get educated. She was taught to have her own opinions, and when she made her decisions, they were never opposed.

“God, I miss it.”

Diwali was near, and she had a lot of work to do. But she was in no mood. Walking down the road to the bus stop, she noticed the small park, with the bent Gulmohur, and the odd bench beneath it. Being impulsive was not her nature, so she was surprised when she found her leaving the queue and heading towards the bench.

It reminded her of her school playground. It had plenty of Gulmohurs. And diwali used to be a special time then, because, the playground used to be turned into the village fair. There used to be sweet shops, there used to be colorful dresses. And there used to be the puppet show.

She was in her own thoughts when she saw the old scrawny man pushing the familiar cart with multicolored adornments. And for the first time since the morning, she smiled.

3.

            Abdul had passed the afternoon empty stomached, cursing his fate. Passing from one street to another, he was looking for an audience. He wanted some money, of course, but the one thing he wanted the most, was some appreciation. The sound of claps was sweeter to him, than the clinking of coins in his old cap.

He searched every playground, every corner on his way, but spotted no children. No one wanted to see his dingy puppets. The people eyed him with suspicion, and the mothers called their children in as soon as they saw the old man in rags pushing the gaudy cart.

            And then he saw the girl in the blue chudidar, sitting below the Gulmohur. She had the innocence on her face, which he had much longed to see. There were a plenty of expressions playing over her face, just like his puppet show. Suddenly, she looked up. Their eyes met and she smiled a child’s smile. 

            Swati walked over to the cart. The old man too had stopped by then.

Standing in front of his cart, with all the memories behind her, she said.

“chacha, ek kahani sunao.”

Abdul smiled. He was contented. Now, since many years, he had an audience.

“kaunsi kahani sunau beti?”

He asked, not wondering about the absurdity of the situation. And he almost leapt with joy when she said,

“koi achhisi Raja Rani ki Kahani Sunao na Chacha!”

Where am I going?

What is coming next?

What do I really want from my life?

Why is everything suddenly so messed up?

Why is there no drive in me anymore?

Why can I not remember things as I used to?

Why are the text books suddenly so dull?

Why am I watching so much tv?

When did I quit taking small pleasures in life?

Why am I frustrated about everything?

What should I do to feel satisfied?

What should I do, to get things alright?

Some Questions

Advertisement industry has become an entertainment in itself. One liners are the all time favorites, but talking about the tv commercials, they have become intelligent. In say ten years, the quality, the thoughts and the impact of these commercials has noticeably improved.
Who can forget the superb advertisements promoting Idea telecom? Or the new ‘Jago Re’ campaign by Tata tea? Or the beautiful Nescafe ads? They really convey the idea, the pulse, the drive.
But, I have some questions.

Why are the women in these commercials always talking about some detergents/ toilet cleaners/ free offers/ face creams/ sanitary napkins? Do women in real life do that? Do they really dance on the roof because the detergent works better? Or is doing all this the sole aim of their existence?

Why are the Doctors shown wearing a lab coat even in some departmental stores? Why do they carry their sthethoscopes everywhere they go? Why do they analyze floor cleaners/ disinfectants? Don’t they have some real work?

Why are the advertisements promoting chocolate coated corn flakes/ candy bars/ health drinks instead of the healthier products like milk/ eggs/ home made food? Why is there a big substitution in the diet right from infancy? Were things we ate/ drank in our childhood not good enough? How can today’s moms tolerate their children not finishing their breakfast? Is it not pampering?

How can somebody reduce the content of Sodium from common salt? is it not like making water less wet? or trees less woody?

Why do 50 % of the kids in commercials have spectacles? Is the problem of vision that bad here?

How can twenty different chain stores claim to charge the lowest price? Or is there a new definition for the word?

And lastly,

How can one be smart enough to understand the ‘intelligent’ ads, and at the same time, stupid enough to ignore such questions?

Mumbai

I saw Mumbai meri jaan yesterday.
A much critically acclaimed film, catching the essence of Mumbai.
A story of many people:
A cop who cannot tolerate injustice, another who has adapted to the ‘accepted standards’,
A tv reporter who is famous for her prompt 'breaking news',
A company executive and his pregnant wife,
A computer salesman who thinks all Muslims are terrorists,
A coffee vendor from Chennai who wants to have a taste of the riches,
And, a series of train blasts, affecting their lives.
A story beautifully told, refrained from any bias from the directorial point of view, this movie captured my heart. We have amongst us, people who have lost much in the blast. Still, life goes on.
Often I wonder, when I hear things like ‘mumbai marathichyanchi!’ etc. Or the recent drive against the North Indians, or the compulsion for Marathi sign boards. I ask myself,” is this really necessary? With all the city’s resources used up in this, is anyone’s life improving?”
We conveniently shut our eyes to the injustice caused by such society hooligans. Just being Marathi does not give us the right to see justice being massacred like this. Somewhere, the city is suffering much from this.
There are many pressing issues in this country: floods, violence, generalized disorder. Do we really have to spend our resources on this? Why are only caste/language related sensitive issues taken up? Why is there abundant media coverage for all this vandalism? Why is such breach of law being tolerated by the Law makers?
I am a Mumbaikar. I was born and brought up here. Whatever I have, Mumbai offered me. Still I have a question:
Is it really necessary to state a claim on the city to reside here? Can a man not just stay here, not being frightened to display his identity and talk his own language? Is this not something against our fundamental rights?
Maybe someday, we will get the answers.

Fat Man's diary- Introduction

Hi there. If you come across this implies that I have either canvassed you to read this, or you suffer the same agony. Food, the most, (and probably the only edible) delicious thing in this world, comes with a price tag. No, I am not talking about the cost in monetary sense. I am talking about the most dreaded seven lettered word- ‘CALORIE’
But before you empathically listen to my woes, let me first introduce myself. I am Anay a 24 years old guy, who was blessed to be born in this country. I can write quite a bit about myself, but that would not serve the purpose. The fact is- I am fat. Now, grammatically there are a number of ways one can describe this condition. One can call me overweight, some other, obese. But I prefer to call myself plain simple ‘fat.’
There was a time when I was careless about what I ate. (those were the blissful days!) with a highly taste sensitive palate, and a creative mother, I had a fantastic time with my friends- the carbohydrates, the Fats. They were simple too then. They were not called ‘trans’ fats, or fruit carbs etc. we had some very interesting time together.
But then, all nice things should come to an end (somebody said this. What a pessimist!) I crossed well over ten kilograms over the normal weight for my height. At first, I consoled myself. I mean, there are some people are short for their age, I was just short for my weight! I could easily cover the extra fat by some baggy dressing. Soon enough I was declared as a Bad dresser. Now, that was an insult! It was always my secret dream to be a French man some day. But French do not dress in grabs. And I was not growing vertically any more. So I decided. I was with a bad company. All my nutrient friends had to go.
I bade a hungry good bye to all those wonderful things. Gone was cheese, gone was butter, gone were cakes and gone was sugar. It was a very bitter moment then (literally). I decided to join a gym. It gives a moral boost. When you spend money for something, you feel dedicated for that cause!

Road ethics!

'Driving is a privilege, not a right.' proclaims my driving license. Well, I believe it. And that is why I find driving in the city a bit of a disheartening experience. People drive big flashy cars, race superbikes, not once thinking about the privilege- right issue. We often complain about the potholes or the bad roads, but do we always follow traffic ethics? Forget rules. They are to be broken. No one considers a signal jumper a criminal. But are we driving ethically?
Mine is a land of rickshaws. (there is no such word in the Microsoft dictionary!) the rickshaw wallahs are a different breed. You have to be born with it. Something which you cannot learn. I presume they are denied their badges if they give an indication of their turn. They are the absolute savages of the road. They think that their vehicle is meant to fill in the gaps in the traffic. They feel that the world is full of Photophobic people. They absolutely shun headlights! They never, ever give you a clue about what they are going to do next. A word of caution here: If you are an amateur, keep at least 10 meters gap between your vehicle and the Bajaj Ape (that’s their trade name. it lives up to it!) you will end up with a dent and without an apology.
Then there are those kids, hardly ten or twelve, who think that the traffic rules do not apply inside residential complexes. I think they are the ‘unwanted’ children- their parents are not scared of any harm which they might sustain, or worse, do.
Female drivers scare me. I don’t mean to be prudent, but it is a fact. They ride their gearless scooters with the same valour that the great Marathas once rode on their steed. One friend of mine is a good driver, but, she does not believe in applying brakes when she sites a speed breaker. She scares me. The scarier fact is not their driving alone, added to it, is the indifference towards learning the mechanics of the motor. They never try to learn to correct the minor faults or to try to know where the fault lies.
And the ultimate winners are the drivers of Pune. Even Rocci cannot drive there. There is an ABSOLUTE lack of rules there. Now, thinking about the cause, half of the Punekars are pukka Punekars; they will never give up their pride. And other half thinks that they are Americans. So there arises confusion. WHICH WAY TO DRIVE! The females moped-ers of Pune are the scariest of the species. At the first look, you would feel you are in Afghanistan. All the veiled Taliban roaming around. Then they will take a wild acute turn to the right, from the leftist lane. Their mirrors are for adjusting the goggles. I have actually seen a girl typing an SMS while riding on her Activa. I mean, we can make exceptions, she was not breaking any rules. Just talking on the phone is not allowed while driving!
I burn my own blood every time I see people not respecting others lives, overtaking without asking for a pass, or taking a turn without indicating. I have given many people a verbal bashing, at times sarcastic, at times stern. I know it is not enough. Something must be done. I am not asking to get everything ship-shape. That’s asking for too much. Just value the lives of other people on the road. All it takes is a flick of the thumb, and you might just have saved a life!

“Yes, the winds are changing,” the old man said, rubbing his callous right thumb on his left palm. Lali stood at the edge of the rock, shielding her eyes from the sun with her tiny palm. Far away, in the next town maybe, the clouds were gathering. It was going to rain! It meant a lot to her. Now, her grandmother would not have to sell the goat.
The goat had been her best friend till the date. It was dumb though. And it especially irritated her when it looked at her with its wide blank eyes, masticating the grass. But it was a comfort. At night, Lali would curl around its belly, feeling the welcoming warmth, often counting the breaths of the goat. She used to call it ‘Deju’. It meant nothing in her language, but she liked its sound.
So here was she, grinning widely, flashing a toothless grin. She had lost her incisors a week back while having a fight with a girl in the neighbourhood. Granny had told her that the teeth would never grow up unless she gave up fighting. It was not meant for girls. They needed to learn important things in life.
There was a drought the previous year. The wells were going dry, leaving the people concerned. Somehow, they had managed to survive the dry, but a draught this year meant migration. Lali could not understand why people were getting upset. Migration meant going to a new oasis, meeting new people. The people of the deserts have a big heart. Someone would have easily accommodated them. And she made fine bangles. And Deju would always provide milk.
But here were the clouds. They were heavy with the treasure they carried from the faraway seas. And they were going to fill up the wells, wash their roofs and carry the wariness away.

Mobile

It came in our lives and made a big statement. The thing every rich and powerful person wanted. To be able to defy the wires and cords and go mobile!
I remember reading the blue coloured ads. Rs 10/min it said. And I used to wonder. Those days, a call to Bombay would cost Rs.3.5. so this was an out of bounds! Also, the fact that the person who received a mobile call would pay to listen, was something which was unheard of. So, it became an object of pride, something to show off, for the owners, an object of awe for yet another group of people, and of ridicule for people like me!
And yet, I went mobile. In the pre 'Ab incoming free hai' era, I got my own SIM and got tangle-free! The phones were simpler then, with the maximum feature of having a game etc. but in another six months, I saw a camera phone. I mean, it was something like in a fairy tale. A utility device, click where you go. No need for a Kodak film and all. And of course, the tariffs started dropping like anything. All this added to our own dependency on the 80 grams of plastic which we care for more than our flesh!
I became a big-time mobile addict. I got myself a gaming phone. So when I was not talking, or short messaging, (I don't know why it is called as SMS.) I was either racing or roaming through the jungles or killing someone with my M 16 semi-automatic. It was a constant companion, a bulk in my left pocket, without which, I felt like I was missing something important.
And today I decided not to renew my subscription. I decided to go off the mobile. One would ask why. The reason is simple but multifactorial (big words, docs like to use them!) To start with, I do not like the idea of someone else controlling my life. And this '80 grams of plastic' was slowly taking a grip of me and for that matter of everybody else! I mean, previously, we had loads of topics to discuss; we had sports (read cricket), babes, mean machines to swap our knowledge of. And now, all we talk is about is in terms of megapixels, and 30p/min and in gigabytes! I mean, does it matter if a camera has twice the pixel capturing capacity of another camera? Do we frame every huge snap we take? Previously, when we decided to hang out, we used to be us, only the friends, and nobody else. And now, we get an important call every 12 minutes, and an SM every 3 minutes. If we are not receiving any, we are just typing something.
Previously, we knew how to face confrontations. There were emails of course, but we were quite adept to have a one on one conversation. And now, we just send a 'sorry yar' message and we think we are done! We have lost the art, or should I say, nerve, to apologize, without using any kind of media. Today, everyone is late, thinking, 'are yaar, who pohchega to call karega'. When two people decide to meet, the typical line used is," give me a missed call when you reach. We will decide then the exact place." We have lost our ability to plan beforehand! And we feel very important doing so.
We feel that being mobile saves our time. It saves our anxiety, it keeps us informed. We can access the internet, get in touch with our friends, can listen to music when we are travelling, and thus save our time from getting wasted. All I ask is, is our time that important? Do we need to cramp all that we can do, into the 24 hours we get? Is it all that necessary to lose our solitude to things that can wait? We should understand that the blank spaces make the object of a picture more worthwhile.
It has been five days since I last tapped on my cell phone. (I know that I am sounding like a person in rehab!) I do not use it even for the basic purpose of alarm. And what can I say? I save started meeting people coincidentally; something which never happened in the past six-seven years. I think it is a good omen. I don't know how long can I stay off mobile, but I am going to enjoy the phase, until it lasts!

untitled

I sit by the window reading the newspaper.

I like to read it in parts, the front and the sports page in the morning, the page 3 stuff in the afternoon, and the other page-fillers in the evening. I open up the inside pages and begun reading. The familiar headlines spring in front of my eyes. Rain arrived some three days back. A month ago, some official had declared shamelessly,” Mumbai is ready for rains this year.” And of course, he is proven wrong in just three days. There is a bit of flooding, a bit of power cut, a bit of trains going off schedule! All routine, nothing worth making it to page one. The pages are filled with articles accusing, defending and counter accusing people, some ‘intelligent’ people telling us what to do, some stupid celebs telling us how they ‘enjoy’ the rains, someone dying, someone getting crushed, all on the same page! Then the ‘smart’ journalist turns to some ‘smart’ doctors who has goofed up big time.

There is an interesting article. Some doctor has operated a lady for some pancreatic problem, and having found one of the kidneys infected, removed it too. Now, the smart journalist has filled three hundred words, stating how the action is morally wrong, how it was removed without consent(!) etc. the newspaper claims to have a CT report stating that both the kidneys were normal in size, shape and density! Now that is what irks me. After all, a CT is an investigation; you cannot overtly rely on it! And if you open up a person, and find some organ affected, so much so that the life of the person might be at risk, would you rely on your eyes, or on the CT report?

A professor of mine once stated that being a doctor is a thankless job. People fall ill on their own accord, and they feel that the fifty odd rupees they pay the doctor are a catalyst (def: a substance or a condition helping in speeding up a process or a reaction) warrant them an immediate recovery. After all, it is just a sore throat, if the doctor cannot heal it in a nick of time, he is not worth it! I remember the prof. every time I see or read such articles.

It is this point of time, that I am horribly confused about what I want in the future. I don’t have an idea whether to go into the conventional PG stream, or to go for research, or for that matter, do something else. And here I sit reading things which disturb me immensely. We have money for IPL, for building statues, but not for the proper development of the city! I cannot complain. The people who decide such things are elected by people like me! At this juncture, when the storm is raging outside, and a similar one inside, I pick up the towel, and head for a cold shower.

Justify

We have a habit to justify everything. Be it related to us or not is a different question. But justification is a quality we pick up very early in our life. As soon as we start talking, and become capable of making mistakes, we start to justify.
It is a habit. We justify our actions, our words, our looks to everyone around us. Be it our parents, our neighbors, friends, or even the unknown person who may be sitting besides us in a public transport. And if we are not with a company, we justify to ourselves!
It may be a good thing to justify. But I feel that it takes the fun out of everything we relish. I mean, why do we have to justify if we have one more bar of chocolate if we like it, or take a drive at 3 am if we like quiet roads, or for that matter, just speak what we think is right? We have to justify, or rather we are in a habit of doing so, for every single thing we do.
Odd it seems, that those who do not justify things are branded anti socials. Why is it always necessary for us to make others understand our point of view, or our line of thought? Why can we not just live our lives like we like to live? Instead we just do those things which we can justify convincingly. Why is it so?
I will not answer that. Because then, I will be justifying our social norms!

Difficult.

What is the most difficult thing to do? This is a question on which I took a poll. Many answered, ‘maths’ some said, ‘living in Mumbai, others said ‘asking a girl out.’
Maybe it is difficult. According to me, it is overcoming our fears. Difficulty lies, not in achieving the results, but in initiating the things which we are afraid of.
I distinctly remember one such incident. Once I witnessed a scalp suturing early in my medical school. And I fainted. I still remember the bright red blood oozing out as the Mama was doing the contused lacerated wound suturing. I don’t know why I fainted. I mean, I was pretty much stable at the sight of blood and all. May be because I felt the bacchu’s pain, or I was on an empty stomach (not an excuse. Seriously!) but the fact is that I fainted.
Long afterward, I could do everything but suturing. Then dawned my surgical posting as an intern. Now as an intern, there are always two ways out of a situation: do the thing, or simply feign ignorance! I said, “Beta, kaam to karna hai. Surgery hai to taka to padega.” I learnt suturing, and now can do it with either hands ( an advantage if you are left handed). Now that is not something great, but I was happy that I could just overcome one of my many fears!

Ams.

That’s my brother. We used to call him Amu till recent times. But now he is in a degree college. So the mutation of the name.
He is a typhoon. He stays away at a hostel, comes home every 3-4 months. Mother is happy when he is at home and is always busy in the kitchen. I guess this is a universal way of showing motherly love!
For me, he is tolerable only on the first day. We usually give a bear hug when we meet first, often loosening a few bones. But after that, he is a total mess magician. I mean, my room starts looking like his hostel room overnight, like magic! He uses my clothes without asking, dumps soiled clothes and socks on my study table, takes the bike on a ride without asking, never dries himself in the bathroom, instead makes my room wet, uses my phone to call is friends, just as if he is the king of the world. On top of that, there is no regret, or remorse seen anywhere.
Still, I love that guy. He has grown a beard, and suddenly started talking something sensible. He gives me advice on various topics and has turned a bit patient. He has this ‘one look and you will fall in love with me’ kind of personality. He is a completely irritating person, will drive you nuts. But still, he is my bro, and we keep it that way. Still when the day comes when he is about to leave, I start becoming restless. I have seen him growing up, and now I am going to miss those golden years of his maturation.
Though he irritates me with, “dada, majha recharge kar na please!” calls, or convinces me to talk with his hostel incharge as his father, I miss him when he is not around. Now, I don’t know how to show my love at this age, but before he leaves, I still take him to the nearest convenience store and ask, “ kaunsa chocolate khaega?”

I wish i were a girl.

I wish I were a girl. Now, people reading this might doubt my integrity or sexual orientation. I mean, who wants to be a girl? (Read it as, guys want to be macho, not feminine.) here again I wish to say, I don’t want to change myself. I just wish that I was born as a girl.

There are many things in my life, which have changed just because I am a guy. There are many social pressures you have to succumb to. One has to set up a family, earn a living, has to forego most of the joys to be an early earner. A guy has to hide his sensitive side, lest he is branded as gay. He cannot shed tears while watching a movie, or later accept the fact that he did so!

I underwent through all this, and I wish I were a girl. Agreed I would have to undergo a lot of physical torment, the PMS, the actual periods and all that. Living in a society where dominant equates with the male sex is difficult.and competing with pigs is more difficult than competing with bitches! But, things would be different. I would be free to laugh and cry, paint and dance, be weird, act stupid and still not be ridiculed at. i would be able to choose my future without much stress on starting an early income! That would be a free life I think. Lesser bindings despite innumerable bonds!

P.S. i know that the grass is always greener on the other side. still, it is a pleasant sight to lean over the fence and watch the greenery.

Human

There are times, when you are at the peak of sensitivity. You respond to everything, regardless of its miniscule nature. And there are times when your senses are so blunt, that you wonder, “am I the same person?”
I was doing my pediatric posting, and was posted in the Neonatal and Pediatric intensive care unit. I had nothing much to do as the day was light, so was engrossed in a novel. Suddenly I heard some commotion outside, and responded to it by getting up. A Bacchu of about 4-5 years was wheeled in. he was delirious, was calling for his mother, and was bleeding from all possible orifices. He had severely depleted platelets, which his reports revealed. He was immediately hooked up to all possible medical machinery, and his father rushed to get his platelets, and the rest of the relatives were firmly excused from the NICU.
I was standing there, momentarily numbed by the scene. Paediatric emergencies are spooky. They can knock the air off your lungs. Recovering from my trance, I made myself useful. My seniors were trying to intubate him, ( a process where a tube is put in the wind pipe, helping the doctor to achieve proper patient breathing.) now, intubating an adult is relatively easy. But it takes a bit of practice to intubate the children. We cound sense the boy’s end coming near, as he was brought to the hospital a little late. He was chanting his mother’s name, with the big fat tube in his mouth, and the mother was outside somewhere, probably chanting Allah’s name.
I cannot forget the scene. There were four efficient paedritics experts working on him, I was standing near his head, giving him manual breathing. The child was struggling to get free, to get it done with. Maybe he was fighting the ultimate peace. Sadly, the peace won. The boy quit struggling, we lost the pulse and the ecg was flat. Cardioversion was tried, without avail.
My resident (read immediate senior) took me aside. He asked me to accompany him to deliver the news to the parents. Meanwhile, the other residents were practicing the intubation on that dead bacchu. I wanted to scream, I mean the body was not even cold. He looked as good as asleep, and people were trying to practice skills on him.
My mind was asking me, is it human to do so? Does the boy deserve no peace? Immediately I answered back, it is necessary. This is how we learn. Maybe someday some other life may be saved.

Luck

I do not believe in luck. I believe that it is just a mathematical probability. Look at it this way. A person cannot be just plain lucky. Something has to act in conjunction with luck. Thus is my belief.
Adding to my belief is my Faithful science background. So I have no belief in miracles or any sort of paranormal things. I believe that whatever happens has a face of logic in it. When I say face, it might not be visible all the times. So that adds fate to my ‘I do not believe in’ list.
It was a night like any other Saturday night. I was sitting in the emergency room during my surgical rotation. I was happy as there were a few surgical references as against a load of medical references, which someone else was handling. I know I sound selfish. Medicine makes a person selfish. So, as usual, I was finding peace in the chaos around me. It was around 2.00 – 2.15 am, that a huge man was wheeled in the casualty. He was accompanied with a dozen of relatives, and a police constable. It was a medico legal case, a usual customer on a Saturday night. It was a surgical reference, so I rushed in to have a ‘damage assessment’ look, termed as preliminary examination. He was sweating profusely, was cold with jumpy vitals. He had three stab injuries in his abdomen. History from the relatives revealed that the person had a drunken brawl and acquired the injuries. There was a need of a CT scan to assess the extent of injuries to internal organs. But the facility was not available at our establishment, so it was suggested that the person should be transferred to a better hospital.
While the necessary paperwork was being processed, my senior suggested me to do a digital examination of the wound. By this, he wanted me to poke my pinky in those stab wounds and feel the inside of his abdomen. Plainly speaking, I was not interested. The idea in itself was too gross. But I followed the ‘obey thy senior’ dictum, donned my latex gloves (they are a rare sight in the government hospital. you need to carry your own box!) and put my little finger in the gaping wounds. In the most upper wound, I could feel the heart beating. It was so near the heart, that had the stab been a centimeter above, or had the angle been a few degrees more, the person would have been wheeled in toe first in the morgue!
Was it his luck, or was it just a mathematical probability, I cannot say.
P.S. I don’t know what happened to the patient after he was shifted to KEM. One cannot trace all the patients you know!