136. Revenge

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 22; the twenty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

It started today morning. Since then the word REVENGE had been coming to me again and again, I did not know from where. Sure, I had thought of it for long. No doubt, my life for two decades was focused on this word, this theme. I had reserved all my energies – mental as well as physical for the execution of this idea. The thought was bold, it was aggressive, it was demanding, it was provocative. It was dancing before my mind’s eye constantly. Instead of getting pumped, this time I was completely drained.

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Apparently I had forgotten it all in the last few days. Not because there was a change of mind, but because I was in a completely different environment. Every idea, every thought has its place and time. Irrelevance is the dumbest crime. Sometimes someone speaks to you and the word lingers – every time bringing new meaning, creating new space for itself. But I had not spoken to anyone in the last eight to nine days. Not even the customary greetings or formal conversations.  I was in a large crowd and though I knew most of them, I had no eye contact with anyone around me, leave speaking. Yes, there were teachers with whom I could speak to if I wanted, but I did not want to speak to them. They asked me few questions once in a while, but they were so superficial that my nod was enough. 

I was in a Vipassna camp. I mean I was in my usual residence. But I was also in a ten days camp; where one was supposed to observe complete silence. No talking, no reading or writing, no music or news, not even exercises. Get up early at 4.30 and till 9.00 in the night meditate, meditate and meditate. There were recorded instructions and some teachers to help if you needed any help. I was not sure they could help, so never asked them any question. I did not want to open my mind to them; I was always a very private person.

I was always made to follow rules and orders. I could never afford to be a rebellion. So, generally I accepted discipline, rules set by others. I was always surrounded by police – moral and material – and they always controlled me. I always wanted to be the controller of my own life, but that never happened. Everything for me was decided by somebody else, without my consultation, against my wishes. So being in Tihar Jail was not much of a problem for me, neither for the Jail management. Oh, yes, Tihar Jail is my residence for the last twenty years. This Vipassana camp was Bedi madam’s idea. Since this officer took charge of our Jail, things have changed; life had become much better for us.

I was used to hard work. I actually never had the luxury to live without work. Initially it was difficult to sit with folded legs for hours. So the knees pained. The body rebelled. The mind was shattered as it had no activity to fill the gap. I felt sleepy many times. So many unwanted thoughts hidden in the mind came to the forefront that I was frightened. Was I very violent? Was there no softness, no love in me? Was I that bad as a human being? Was I so selfish? Was I so shallow? The world always said so, but I knew I was much better than what the world thought about me. With so many intense feelings appearing clearly, I was in a complete chaos. I was not sure that I would remain sane at the end of the camp. The way I had lived my sane life, to become insane really did not make any difference.

Determination, courage, tenacity were required. That is what the recorded message told repeatedly. Slowly I started enjoying myself. Anyway, I was living as dead. Why not try this option? My mind needed some change; my soul needed some kind of reprieve. The rhythm of breath was soothing. Slowly the mind started to calm down. There were memories and memories – some good and many more bad. But the words “anichcha, anichcha” (transient) of Goenka Gurujee gave another perspective. Everything was so temporary I realized. I could see the connection between the body sensations and the thought processes; I understood the concept of ‘observing without response’ and when I practiced that everything suddenly changed. There was peace, there was calmness, there was light, there was happiness. The thread which was invisible for so many years suddenly appeared and the past was forgotten completely; without any hopes of future. But there was no vacuum.

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You know what was my crime? I was accused of killing my young daughter and my husband. The fact is different though. That rascal and his gang (God forgive them!) raped me consistently for two days and two nights. My baby cried as I was not even free to breastfeed her, he killed my daughter first. My husband was made to watch the rape. I never knew whether he died of the weapon or he died of shame – shame of not being able to protect me. It was a clean murder.

Someone found me unconscious with the dead body of my daughter and my husband. I was accused of their murder. I was so shattered that I could not explain. I had no proof either. The rascals were ‘friends’ of my husband – they said and everybody believed. The people I knew accused me even before the court trial. I had no place to go and stay so I came to jail. I found jail to be the safest place for me.

But once I regained my sense, I always wanted to take revenge of those three animals – those who killed my daughter and my husband …. They had killed me too. Revenge was the goal for which I had lived for the last twenty years and I was ready to die for that moment.

Since today morning, the feeling of revenge is trying to guide me, it is trying to gain control over me. It is teasing me, it is motivating me, and it is provoking me. It is talking about sense of duty; it is talking of love, my commitment towards you. The feeling of revenge is exploding within me. But the mind is not completely accepting those suggestions.

Now I don’t think it is possible for me to take revenge.  No more.Never. I can’t torture or kill anybody. I am not fit for it. I have lost the urge, though my love for you remains intact. Would we meet again? Not in body but at least in spirit?

My dear little angel, wherever you are, would you forgive me for not taking revenge? For forgiving those who killed you so young and so brutally? 

My dear man, would you understand the change of my mind and would you embrace me with the same love, if and when we meet again?

It is the last hurdle I need to pass….and then I would be free for ever…..In a world without revenge.

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135. Shoe-Watch

I realize that I am on ‘Shoe-Watch’ mode once again.

No, I have not changed my occupation. I was never in the ‘shoe’ business; nor do I see it happening in either near or distant future.

Then what am I talking about?

During the last few months, I have been out of Delhi many times. Every time I return and every time I take a Metro to reach office after the gap, I realize that I am engrossed in ‘Shoe- Watch’.

I know: it still does not make any sense.

Why do I watch shoes? Am I obsessed about shoes?

Let me explain.

When in Delhi, I take Metro to reach office and for coming back home. Metro is good: it saves time; it is less crowded; it is clean; it is not very expensive and all that. The most important part is the first coach of Delhi Metro is reserved for women.  That makes travel less irritating, much comfortable.

The Metro line I daily (well almost daily!) use is an underground Metro line. Once I enter into the Metro station, I am completely disconnected from the sky. As the Metro is fully AC, the doors and windows are closed – except that the doors open wide in the station.

So, while traveling by Metro, I get caught in the limited space. No sky, no trees, no buildings, only darkness outside. I feel completely uprooted, empty. I need some activity to fill the vacuum within me. But one cannot do any activity here except watching. When my eyes wander here and there, they certainly fall on some woman’s face. It is disgusting to be noticed when I am watching someone without purpose, without knowledge, without any real interest.

For everyone it is an awkward moment. There are different responses. Some women smile as they are involved in the exactly similar act – they too are watching me without purpose, without knowing, without interest. However, some women feel irritated, which is natural. It is in a way trespassing their privacy. Some women get angry. Some women start listening to music, speaking to someone on mobile. Some talk loudly with their friends, colleagues sitting or standing next to them. Some women become more conscious; some women ignore; some women stare back as if challenging me. Some politely open conversation.

Some women are wise; they look at me and close their eyes without  any expression. They treat me as if I do not exist. I am sure, I too respond in all these different ways in different situations!  Well, that is one of the best option I too have - to close eyes. I can take a nap if I want. If I don’t want that, I always have so many moments to remember, to re-live. I have so many ideas to give more thought to, to plan their expression. I have things to remember and things to forget.

But somehow I close eyes only to open. With every announcement (and there are too many) I open eyes. I close eyes and open them again; I open eyes and close them again. I cannot relax completely. I don’t like to use earphone for listening music. I do not know anyone with whom I can go on talking for half an hour on Metro. I don’t make or receive calls (unless absolutely necessary) when I am amongst strangers – I like to keep my world to myself. So, closing and opening of eyes goes on endlessly – again attracting attention.

What do I see with open eyes? As I said earlier, there is nothing to see outside and I need to avoid watching faces. So, as a last resort I have developed a habit – I watch shoes. Generally women around me don’t understand that I am watching their shoes – because in one glance I can cover a range of shoes.

Let me tell you, that is an amazing world – the world of shoes! They come in different sizes, colors, styles, designs; they are made of different materials and have different personalities. There are sandals, floaters, chappals. There are some with single strap, some with cross straps, some with double strap and so on.  Each one of them expresses something – not about itself but about its owner. I look at the shoes without looking at the face and imagine how this particular woman would be – and funnily when I look at the woman, my guess about her outward personality is almost right. It is certainly fun to imagine about a person wearing pink shoes or zebra stripes or blue bordered red shoes. It is not just imagination but a combination of logic, experience and imagination. Even the shoe lace speaks volumes about the person (how tight it is tied, what is its length etc.) – that is what I have learnt.

The ‘shoe-watch’ is no more an awkward habit for me; I no more feel guilty about it, nor do I get bored by it. Shoe-Watch is a topic of entertainment, and silent learning. It is a world without words. The experience gets synthesized (without words), and makes way for new hypothesis, observations, and inferences! The cycle continues… the challenges provoke and keep me awake and connected.

It is amazing that when we are forced in a certain situation how our mind finds out moments of happiness and creates its own space within the limited space. The mind creates its own world even when the walls are limiting the view. Mind has the capacity to rebuild from what is given, to interpret anew. It has a capacity to find meaning in apparently meaningless life.

Every time we fear that there is no alternative, we just need to change our intent and the whole new world emerges – even when all the external aspects remain the same! The same ‘shoes’ will not interest us forever, the purpose will of course change from time to time- but does not matter until we enjoy and grow.
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134. Clap: Artificial, Funny, Formal

It was a huge gathering of rural women.
Women from 10 different villages had gathered together.
Many of them were for the first time participating in such a huge event. They did not know about meetings, gatherings, lectures, guest speakers etc. They were all poor, middle aged, never had opportunity to see the larger world. Most of them had never been outside their village, had never seen pendal, had never known microphone.....
They were anxious, they were excited, they were curious, they were smiling.
They were clearly enjoying the event.
There were songs, quiz and competitions like 'Musical Chair' etc. Women had lot of fun. It was a happy environment.

And then as is the usual case, there was formal learning session.
Some well known social personalities were on the stage. They were to guide the gathering.
But even before that  some of the rural women were invited to the stage to share their experiences - about Self Help Groups, about their struggle, about their successes, about their challenges and about their hopes.

I like to be at the backstage, that is my strength. That is also because I generally easily get bored with the formalities that have to be carried on the stage with pomp and show. Generally it is so artificially funny, that I cannot sit on the dais with stone faced seriousness. So, I was sitting in the audience. Initially some of the women were little bit frightened to have me with them. But many of those women knew me well and were happy to have me with them instead of me sitting on the distant dais. With exchange of lot of spontaneous smiles and nods  from them and from me; we finally were set to listen to the speakers.

The experiences shared by those rural women - most of their were illiterate - were very touching and inspiring.
The dignitaries on the stage and some of the people sitting in the first rows clapped for the first woman speaker.
The women sitting around me exchanged hurried looks, I noticed that none of them actually clapped.

The second woman spoke and the sequence of the events was repeated - dignitaries and people in the first few rows clapping, the large gathering of rural women sitting quietly.

I did not understand what was happening.
Had we (the organizers) chosen wrong women to share the experiences?
But that did not seem to be the case, because their experiences were worth listening to, the stories were told with vigor,  honesty and simplicity.
But why these other women were not clapping?
Were they angry? Were they not  happy with the speech, the speakers, the content, the prestige some of them were getting?

I was not sure how to interpret the silence of that large crowd. Was it indicating some potential disaster?

No, the women  were smiling, they were in agreement with what their representatives were saying. I was getting more and more confused.

When the third woman's eloquence was met with silence, I spoke to the woman sitting next to me.
I asked, "Don't you like what she said? It is not true? Is it not the real story? Is it not the right kind of expression?"
Before the woman answered, another turned to me and asked, "Can you go to the dais and tell those learned and urban people not to clap?"

That was such a strange request that for a moment I was speechless.
"What do you mean?" I asked with a great courage.
"Why are they discouraging our women by clapping?" another woman asked me with visible irritation and anger.

I did not know why they thought that the dignitaries were discouraging their colleagues.
"They are not at all discouraging them. On the contrary they are appreciating your friends," I tried to explain.
"By clapping they are appreciating? That is what  you mean?" another woman was amused.
"Are you sure?" third one wanted the assurance.
The whole conversation was happening in a hushed tone but within moments it spread like a fire.

From almost every corner, women turned to me and smiled at me sheepishly, some even encouragingly, some with their faces glowing as if with a new light.
I was completely lost.

"Oh! We thought only when you don't like what somebody has said, you clap", another spoke in my ear.
I did not know why they had such a concept, from where they borrowed it or how they imagined it.
It could be only due to their lack of exposure to public life and social gatherings.

I do not know how the message was spread without speaking, without words .. but when the fifth woman spoke, at the end all the women clapped loudly - so loudly that even the dignitaries on the dais noticed that. Maybe for the first time they realized that the four earlier speakers were not greeted in the same way by the crowd. And the fifth woman looked stunned.

At the end of the function, one of the senior colleagues came to me and said, "That was well done, truly well managed, your backstage contribution is always noteworthy."
"What?" I asked, not knowing for what the appreciation was.
"Oh! For asking the women to clap properly, the silence was so embarrassing you know...." and  with a mild pat on my back, he moved on.

But since then whenever I see people clapping I ask myself - is it really appreciation? Or is it a relief that finally the speech has ended? Or is it just a formality? Is it just a norm? A stereotype? Do people clap only when they want to appreciate? Is there any spontaneity? Why do people really clap? When did the clapping start? How did people learn it? What if I don't clap but appreciate in some other way?

I am not sure whether I gave the right information to the women that day.
Somehow from that day. I find claps very artificial, funny and formal.

133. Tripurization: Part II

Border was one of the most frequently talked topics during my stay in Tripura. Maybe, people around me understood that I was fascinated by the fact of their life – with which they have learnt to co-exist, rather peacefully now. I did not meet old people who might have memories of at least 1971 (leave apart 1947); if that opportunity had been there, I might have experienced something different. These are all ifs and buts! What I experienced is still worth remembering and worth sharing.

When I was six year child, I had my first experience of ‘border’ which I still remember. We were traveling by a bullock-cart to the neighboring village for some religious function. I was looking forward to some kind of demarcation separating the two villages. To my utter disappointment, there was no border as such... the land continued, the people were of the same type, the animals were the same kind of animals, and the trees were no different. I was expecting so much from the ‘border’ and was completely disillusioned. The disillusionment was so strong, that I still remember that evening and that moment.

Later I realized that there are no district borders, no state borders. In USA and Canada people were different but there was somehow no feeling of crossing the border then. Maybe that is because these countries are at such a distance, that I expected to find different things there and was not surprised with the change. However, here in Tripura, I was to re-live my childhood experience. In a way a sort of disillusionment and in a way standing face to face with reality!

On the first day, there was no range for BSNL cell phones. I took it as a normal situation. BSNL is certainly an enigma to me. In remote areas, BSNL always provides good range. Only in bigger cities it has a problem in providing satisfactory services. Maybe in remote areas BSNL does not have competitors, in urban areas it has. It seems that BSNL cannot handle competition or it has some subtle ways of accommodating its competitors!!

During lunch break, there was discussion about ‘no range’. People nowadays get so uncomfortable if they can’t send or receive SMS for couple of hours!! Then one local person explained, “Oh! The border is just half a kilometer away from this place, so there is no range!”

“Just half a kilometer?” I was indeed surprised.

“If you go to the top of this building, you will see Bangladesh” another person explained.

I actually planned to go to the top of the building (which was just a two storied building by the way) but once the meeting started, forgot all about it. Well, one forgets border when one is not directly affected by it, or when one in involved in something more interesting!

One evening we went to visit Kamala Sundaree temple at Kasabaa. The place is about 25 kilometers from Agartala. On the way, the scenic landscape mesmerized me. It is in fact a Kaalee temple situated on a hillock and has a huge lake at its base. The lake is called Kamalaa Saaagara and was excavated by Maharaja Dhanya Maanikya Bahaadura in the late 15th Century AD. It was evening time, and the place was peaceful. (See the third photograph in the earlier post) A train was passing by beyond the lake and my colleague told me, “Look, the train is going to Bangladesh”. A tiny light was seen on the other side of the lake – that too was from Bangladesh – I was told. I was amazed at that. And then the ‘Aarti’ started in the temple (by then I was wandering around the lake) and simultaneously the ‘Ajaan’ was heard from mosque in Bangladesh. An Aarti and an Ajaan at the same time, on the same piece of land, but divided into two countries - by the border!

While traveling to Hezamera, my car driver showed me ‘the border’ again. Here it was a huge fence cutting across the land. On the Bangladesh side were fields and on the India side were shops, houses, and a road running by. Though very peaceful I thought it to be so artificial.

While returning from Khowai, I received a SMS saying ‘Welcome to Bangladesh’. I had not entered into Bangladesh, but somehow I received this SMS. Does it mean land and space work in different ways? I wonder.

Another day, I was coming back to Agartala. Looking at the setting Sun, I realized that the Sun actually never sets in this village... it always sets in Bangladesh. That could be a tagline to attract tourists here!

Border no doubt is human-made ( I am tempted to use ‘man-made’ here!) concept. These were not the two separate lands just 64 years ago. It is an artificial line that divides people, land, water, sky, trees... emotions and lives. This side of the fence, you are an Indian and that side of fence; you are traitor if you are in Indian. This side, this is the law, other side is the other law though the crops, the food, the landscape is the same. Standing there I wished that all these borders vanish!!

After those moments at the border, I am glad that I am not accountable to the larger world; the masses – I am accountable to some but that is more of my choice. I can imagine the burden the leaders would have carried in the heart during Partition, during 1971 war. It is a difficult call to make. One can’t be Utopian (like me) when one has the responsibility of thousands and crores of lives, their present and their future. One has to take into consideration that if I am not ready to defend myself (and my country) others would mercilessly attack and kill my people. If the leaders were like me, they would have been blamed more than they are blamed today. We could always debate about ‘what could and should have been done then’ but whatever would have been done; this debate would have continued. I am sure of that.

Has the partition helped? Had the border made people happier- though not completely happy? Do they feel secure? Well, the people I met seemed not much bothered about the border. They have accepted it as a fact of life; they have learned to live with it.

Of course, there would be other people with other experiences, other opinions, other views. Unfortunately I could not meet them. So, my perception of border remains incomplete! It is incomplete not only due to my personal bias but also because of not meeting the representative strata of the communities, of the generations, of the history.

And the border continues. There are many more borders around. It is not the border with Bangladesh alone. Within the country, within the state and within the community there are more borders that need to be destroyed.

Take the example of caste! In a small state like Tripura there are as many as 34 notified scheduled castes (http://socialjustice.nic.in/sectorsc239.php) and as many as 19 notified scheduled tribes (http://tribal.nic.in/writereaddata/mainlinkFile/File1067.pdf)! Why such a tiny population is divided into so many categories? Is it not a kind of border that too is artificially created by us?

Take another example of women’s status. I was happy to see women traffic police and women on petrol pumps. However I noticed one very young girl maybe 14 or 15 in a Saree. First I thought that it must be school function or some religious day. Then while traveling to many villages, I saw many more such young girls in Saree. When asked about it, I was told that in the government schools Saree is mandatory for girls after 9^th standard. Is it not an artificially created border between 21^st century and 20^th century? Can’t we leave the choice to people about clothes? Why government wants to rule young girls in this way?

I met two women who receive monthly salary of Rs. 1700/- ; they work in the organized sector. I felt ashamed while talking to them, because I earn much more than what they earn! The amount of work we are putting in would be in the same range though. Is it not another kind of artificially created border which differentiates physical work and intellectual work in such an exploitative manner?

Well, there are borders and borders around! All of them, rather most of them are created by human beings. We respect them, nay, we adore them! We feel that limits set by borders are to be strictly followed; anybody crossing the border is treated as a traitor!

Can’t we change that? Should not we change that?

If we can destroy the borders within the community, within a state, within a country ... then international borders would cease to exist. At least they won’t matter much, they won’t be frightening, they won’t hurt and they won’t make people more violent in the name of patriotism.

As I said earlier, for me the process of Tripurization has just begun. To be in Tripura, I do not have to be physically in Tripura! I can close my eyes and remember the beautiful landscape, the rain, the peace, the coconut and beetle-nut trees, the people, and I am in Tripura.

For me, the process of Tripurization means a lot more than just being in Tripura. It means opening of a new window; it means seeing reality with new perspective; it means understanding our own flaws; it means the art of differentiating between good and not so good; and it also means the determined courage to make a change!

132. Tripurization: Part I

About a week ago, I knew only two things about Tripura. One: it is an Indian state; Two: Agartala is its Capital – thanks to my middle school Geography teacher!! When I received ticket for Agartala, I hurriedly browsed through Wikipedia and updated myself. Sometimes I wonder whether now I depend too much on Wikipedia; is it another kind of GranthapraamaNya (Unchallenged Authority of books)?

I am basically not an ‘information’ kind of person. I would certainly fail any and all General Knowledge tests. I value information. But there is too much of information around and one would never be able to say ‘I know completely’. Secondly, there are sources of information – books, websites, and people. You only should not feel shy about accepting your ignorance – then there are many sources. By experience I know that information is many time ‘fact interpreted’ by someone; so it carries biases. The way information is collected gives the form to information collected; and we can interpret the information the way we want.

While discussing the population size of Tripura, someone informed me that it is about 36 lakhs (3.6 million). Another person, who had been part of India Census 2011, immediately corrected him by saying, “actually it is 3,671,032”. Well, I was impressed by the accurateness, the efficiency, the enthusiasm and the memory of the person. But for my purpose, the difference of 71,032 was not very critical. I could understand that the population of Tripura was almost same as Pune.

After a weeklong stay in Agartala and visits to eight villages, I have gathered little information. Well, I now know that Tripura has four districts as I interacted with people from all these four districts. I now know that Tripura shares border with Bangla Desh, because I was on the border a few times. I know Bengali and Kokborok are the two official languages of Tripura – I saw official boards in these two languages. I know that Tripura was a Princely State as I saw the Palace of the then King. I know that Tripura has still not banned animal sacrifice in the temple, as I saw those spots in the temples I visited.

But there are still many things that I do not know about Tripura. What I have is: hundreds and thousands of impressions.

On the first evening, I went on walking alone through Agartala for an hour. It was a lovely walk, the evening was pleasant. Being Sunday evening, there was not much traffic on the road. Walking always shows things differently – from different angle, in slow motion. The city though strange, sounded familiar to me. It is a sort of hilly city – with roads up and down, bridges on river, and many ponds. It ridiculously reminded me of Dharwad – ridiculous because I have visited Dharwad only once.

Next morning, when I woke up, the Sun was already ablaze. I thought it must be 7.00. The wall clock in the room was ticking and showed 5.07. I thought the clock must be running behind. Then suddenly I realized that I was in the North East. I enjoyed the early Sunrise for the next few days.

However, the early rising of Sun does not ensure that people reach on time. They came late and they had all the excuses for reaching late. They went early and they had all the excuses in the world for leaving early. Whichever part we visit in India, some things are common; and this is one of those.

For long I have been fascinated by Bengali. Here I listened to it continuously; read shop boards on the way almost perfectly; picked up couple of ‘utility’ sentences like ‘tommara naama kee? “(what is your name); and listened to Bengali music. As I tried to make most of this opportunity to polish my Bengali- it was fun not only for me but for others too as I kept on committing silly mistakes. They had hearty laugh each time I asked something very preliminary. I never had an opportunity to learn Sanskrit formally, but I realized that Bengali has too many words which are close to Sanskrit. So I could make 2+2 and picked up many words in conversations. This could happen as I knew the context of the discussion – I have been fully into the subject that was being discussed. People were surprised when I answered the questions asked in Bengali without waiting for them to get translated. “If you stay here for a month, you would be able to speak Bengali well” – they gave me a certificate. I know people were just polite to me. Picking up a language is not so easy.

Tripura is surrounded by Bangla Desh on the North, South and West. National Highway no 44 connects Agartala to Mizoram and Assam. On the highway I saw many buses traveling towards Gohati. It takes about 30 hours to reach Gohati by bus, people told me. Agartala has a beautiful railway station. Silchar is the nearest junction which takes people to other destinations in India. I also was shown a train going towards Bangla Desh – but to which station it reaches, I do not remember. So, in short Tripura is connected with rest of the India only through East - to know that was indeed scary.

I traveled in West Tripura district and I liked the landscape of Tripura. For the first two days, the humidity was awful. People told me that about ten years ago, they did not need fans – now they need Air Conditioners. This has to do with climate change and also with the changing pattern of crops and trees. For example, Bamboo is making a way for Rubber. A huge rubber plantation can be seen on both the sides of roads and bamboo was seen only in remote areas. In Melaaghara, I had an opportunity to interact with members of a Bamboo Federation. This is a Federation of self employed workers who are engaged in making Bamboo products. They told me that the Bamboo prices are constantly rising – earlier they used to get on ‘Paavaraa’ bamboo for Rs. 10/- and now they have to pay Rs. 180/- for the same piece. They also told me that the bamboo cultivation area is diminishing due to rubber plantation.

I saw many fruits in the markets – jackfruit, pineapple, mango, banana, were available in abundance. Fish, meat and chicken are consumed a lot. At Heazemara, my car driver complained that food was not good. I asked him why and he answered that ‘it was cooked by Tripuri people and not by Bengalis’. There is no apparent tension in local tribes and Bengali communities now – but in many ways they are still different.

Tripura Legislative Assembly has 60 members – a very small assembly indeed. In February 2008, the Left Front came to power with 49 seats. Now as it is the only Left Front state in the country after the loss in West Bengal and Kerala in 2011 state assembly elections. The environment in Agartala seemed politically active... red flags across the roads and corner meetings at couple of places.

As Agartala is state capital and as the state is surrounded by Bangla Desh, the presence of Military is very noticeable in Agartala. I came across buildings indicating presence of Border Security Force (BSF), Tripura State Rifles (TSR), and Assam Rifles (AR). On my way to Teliamura I saw the board “For your tomorrow BRO is here” and was confused about who this BRO could be. Then I realized it was Border Road Organization.

Border was an important experience for me. I will write about it later – maybe in the next post.

For me the process of Tripurization has just begun.

131. The Other Day

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 21; the twenty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

(1)

It was about six in the morning. Somaa was in his 8^th round of the police parade ground. He was feeling tired and weak. He was not able to sleep well yesterday night – for no apparent reason. He was remembering his home, his village, his parents, his friend Mangu, the hillock, the trees and his dog. His friend Shyaama laughed at him and said, “You are becoming really girlish now a days. What is wrong with you?” Somaa had smiled and kept quiet. However he continued to feel uneasy about something, which he was not able to name.

Suddenly a car appeared on the scene and a man alighted down. Somaa had never seen him. He must have called the people here, because at that moment Somaa’s reporting officer too rushed in. From the manners of the reporting officer, Somaa could guess that this must be a very senior officer. “City Commissioner”– somebody said in hushed tone.

“Somaa MaDaavee, come here,” Somaa’s reporting officer ordered.

Somaa stopped in an instant. He felt weak in legs; a drop of sweat ran down his neck. He knew everybody was watching him.

“Sir,” he came forward and saluted both the officers.

“Are you from GaDachirolee district?” the Senior officer asked.

“Yes sir,” Somaa answered. The reporting officer nodded in affirmative.

“From which area?” another question; without revealing the cause of the inquiry.

Somaa answered. The officer thought for a second. Then he ordered, “Pack up. You are traveling to GaDachirolee in 10 minutes.”

Somaa panicked. What was it? Was he being expelled? What was his fault? He looked at his reporting officer, but he avoided eye contact. “Run, only nine minutes now,” the senior said.

(2)

After half an hour, Somaa along with a group of police officials was in the railway which was heading towards Nagpur. Most of them were from Chandrapura and GaDachirolee districts. He knew some of them and he gathered about others from informal interaction.

He heaved a sigh of relief when he realized that he was not expelled but was called on a Special Duty. What would be that duty? They were going to GaDachirolee – meant some special mission. In GaDachirolee area, Special Mission could mean only one thing – combat with Nakshalites. From experience Somaa knew that combat with Nakshalites meant life or death – nothing less than that.

Was he ready for that? His relief was so short lived.

(3)

Somaa remembered Mangu. Mangu had strongly advised him not to join police force. Somaa’s family had little land and so many mouths to feed. There was no alternative but someone in the family had to move to city and earn money. When the police recruitment advertisement was announced in the newspapers, Somaa decided to give it a try. Having studied in Ashram School, Somaa had such dreams to be a ‘man in uniform’. He was mature enough to understand that he could not become a doctor or an engineer.

Somaa’s father did not object, “You are grown up now, you know what is good for you” he had calmly said. Somaa’s mother did not understand anything; she was used to Somaa’s being away from home. Somaa’s siblings were too young to understand anything. However Mangu opposed the idea and Somaa was surprised by that.

Mangu had dropped out of school very early, but Somaa’s friendship with him remained intact. Somaa always was surprised with the knowledge Mangu had in spite of lack of education. Lately Mangu seemed to have been earning good money – he wore posh clothes, had a golden wristwatch and even had a motorcycle. When Somaa asked him the source of wealth, Mangu had told him that he was taking various forest contracts. Somaa had accepted it without giving much thought.

When Somaa shared his idea of joining the police force, Mangu asked, “what for?”

“Money, obviously,” Somaa had said.

“Ok, work with me. I will give you more money.” Mangu had said. Initially Somaa thought it was a joke. So, he humorously added, “I don’t want to work on wages. I want to earn status. I want to see the world at large.”

Mangu with exceptional seriousness had said, “I promise you more status, more power, more money and more luxuries if you work with me.”

Somaa was confused and asked Mangu to explain. But Mangu did not explain. He had another point.

“You are half the time in the city, so you do not know. But those people have banned us joining the police or for that matter any government job.” Mangu said politely but firmly. Somaa knew that ‘Those people’ were Nakshalites. He had come across some suggestions of joining them, but he always had kept himself away from them.

“What are those people to me? Do they feed me and my family? Do they take care of our needs?” Somaa spoke angrily. “They have not bothered about me, why should I bother about them? Why are they against my progress? ” Somaa was still furious but stopped when he saw Mangu’s face.

“Tell me the truth Mangu, are you one of them?” Somaa asked, hoping that it won’t be true. Mangu was silent. “That is how you get all that money, by killing some, by exploiting our own people… “Somaa stopped once again abruptly.

“Look,” Mangu was very polite, but Somaa could sense the volcanic anger behind his calmness. “I never came to ask your advice, so keep it to yourself. What I want to tell you is that don’t join the police force, I assure you that you will be taken care of.”

“And as a friend it is my duty to tell you that if after all this assurance, you decide to join the police, I will not be responsible for its consequences.” Mangu said again.

“Are you threatening me? You, my friend? Do you think it is Sultanate? We are free people and we can do anything that we want. Now let me see, who stops me from joining. I also tell you, that come what may, I will make it happen. I am not going to join the dogs….” Somaa had to stop again because Mangu left without even looking at Somaa.

(4)

Somaa traveled from Wardhaa towards Chandrapura – with a tea break at Jaama. On the way they were not allowed to read newspapers, no radio, even mobiles were ordered to be switched off. But Somaa gathered that Nakshalites had struck some of the villages in GaDachirolee. Somaa knew that Nakshalites always struck badly – involving many deaths.

After a brief at Chandrapura district police headquarters they moved towards Etapalli with many more joining the group. They were moving like an army in the battle. Somaa knew the forest paths, and once they entered the forests; his role was to guide the team.

Slowly they moved in the direction towards Somaa’ village. Somaa became more and more anxious. Was his village surrounded by Nakshalites? Was his family safe? Was his home safe? Could he help them? Or was it too late?

Now he knew that it was his village that was at the center of the event.

From the distance Somaa saw fire mounting to skies. He ran. He screamed. He shouted. He wept.

But it was of no use.

There were no human beings – only dead bodies – some half burnt, some burnt into ashes.

Somaa had no time to lament, to grieve, to weep for the dead. Nakshalites were in the next areas, other villagers were trapped by them. They had to be saved. Somaa had to lead the police force to the next village through the forest.

(5)

The other day, this village was vibrant.

The other day, his family was here.

The other day, the trees were adding serenity.

The other day the animals were moving listlessly.

The other day he and his friend Mangu were smiling together.

Someone found a piece of paper, well preserved in a plastic sheet. It must have been kept when the Nakshalites left the village. The officer tried to read but could not. It was written in Devanaagaree script but in tribal language. Assuming that Nakshalites had put their demands, the officer asked Somaa to read those lines.

Somaa read it.

The note said: “The other day, I tried to convince you. But you did not heed to my advice. Now, this is the price you had to pay. For your foolishness, the villagers had to pay the price of their life. Have you now the honor, the money, the status, the power you were talking just the other day?”

Somaa’s agony had no end. Somaa’s anger had no outlet. Somaa’s pain had to be kept to himself.

Everybody looked at Somaa questioningly. Somaa had no answer.

But the chief of the mission understood – he said, “My God! They had warned you against joining us. Is it?” Somaa nodded. The chief patted him as consolation and ordered to move on.

Somaa wished, he could go back to ‘The Other Day’ and change everything, but he knew it was too late.

The Other Day is either in the past or in the future, it is never in the present!

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130. His Daughter’s Dream

“Do you know what I had when I came to Delhi?” he asked me with a proud smile.

Now I knew and he knew that the question was meaningless. Not because the question was not important; but only because I had met this young man just about 10 minutes ago.

I always feel that there is some kind of spark in working people, in poor people that connects me with them in an instant. The person I am referring to was a Taxi Driver – a clan; I have lot of interactions with and learning from.

When I came to Delhi, I was advised to take MERU cabs – a well known Taxi service. It is little costly – but safe, clean and always on time. I have interacted with many MERU cab drivers in the last eight months and have always enjoyed the interaction. Today was no exception.

After initial dialogue about Delhi traffic, MERU working, customer behavior, driver behavior etc. we entered into more personal kind of information sharing – rather he entered into it with the above question.

“No, I do not know. What was it?” I asked.

“I came to Delhi with just a Zola (a small cotton bag) - that is all. I had no education; I had never been to a big city….. and see now for the last 15 years I am driving a Taxi in Delhi”, he added with the same pride. I can understand him. Coming from a small village, I know what it is to be in a Megacity. I know what challenges it poses and I know how one feels disconnected sometimes.

This man, Jai Inder; in his late 30s was born and brought up in Banka district (earlier Bhagalpur district which is now divided into two districts) in Bihar. At the age of 17 or 18, he came to Delhi in search of livelihood. He worked here and there and saw a great opportunity in driving profession. Then he purchased a taxi (kali –peeli – black and yellow colored cab used for public transport) and drove it for years. It was only recently he joined services of MERU and he was enjoying his new work. He does not at all know English but can make out generally whatever text messages he gets on his "GPR"System installed in the cab.

I had been to Banka district a number of times; so I could talk to him about the places, the people, the environment, the hopes etc. He was thrilled to meet a woman who had been to ‘his’ area. (This is one of the advantages of my profession that I have visited places where city people hardly go!!) Then he started talking about his family. He has a 10 year son and a 7 year daughter. When asked about them, he told me that they are studying in a good school in his village. He added, “I have decided to provide best education to my children. Madam, like you are sitting and I am driving, I dream that when my children grow up they would be sitting like you and someone else would be driving their car….”

I was touched by his dream. I was touched by his passion. I was touched by his hopes. I was amazed by his simplicity. I could see a poor, illiterate (or just functionally literate) man, staying away from his family, working hard... so that his children have a better tomorrow. I wish his children know this and remember this when they grow.

“But what does your son want to become?” I asked.

“Oh, he wants to be an Engineer. He studies hard and gets good marks.” Again a proud father emerged.

“And what does your daughter want to become?” I asked. I was ready for an answer: teacher or a doctor or a pilot or a computer operator – that is what most of the girls say.

Jai Inder looked at me. Then he asked me very seriously, “Won’t you laugh if I tell you what she says?”

I was astonished by his question. “Oh, certainly not. Life has number of possibilities – so even if your daughter is dreaming something impossible – who knows, it would happen!” I encouraged him.

“Well, she actually wants to become a Railway Minister!” he said sheepishly.

I was taken aback by the innovativeness of his daughter’s dream. I have interacted with thousands of girls and this was the first time I have come across a girl and just a 7 year young wanting to be a Rail Minister.

“Who knows? She might become a Rail Minister one day….. “I said honestly and was glad to be able to feel and say this.

The father was very happy. He even narrated me a childhood story of Dr. Man Mohan Singh (whether true or not true I cannot say). The story goes like this: Man Mohan Sing’s father sold vegetable in the market. One day he had some other matters to attend and he asked his young son to manage the stall for few hours. Young Man Mohan declined. His father became angry and asked, “If you don’t want to sit in this chair, are you going to sit in Prime Minister’s Chair?” On which young Man Mohan replied, “Yes, I am going to be Prime Minister of India.”

It was one of the rare occasions when I did not argue about the story. I mean there are such stories about all people who became successful later in life – it is trend to rediscover and exaggerate their greatness from (and in) their childhood. But today I realized that such stories (whether true or not true) have a bigger role to motivate those who are not in a good condition, who are poor, who have the capacity to dream but no means to achieve those dreams.

I cannot say whether His Daughter’s Dream would become a reality. Maybe, when she grows, she would want to become something else. What I appreciate that a 7 year girl can think so differently and her father loves her so much that he wishes the dream to come true – he strives in that direction – giving her best of the education is first step according to him.

Girls now dream differently. Bihar expresses itself differently. Poor have the tenacity to strive for their dreams - differently. India is shaping differently.

Daughter’s Dream can certainly make the difference.