178. Innocent

" Wai Wai? or Momo? What would you prefer, Madam? " my colleague asked me.

Momo, I know. I like Momo. After coming to Delhi I have been consuming them regularly. However at that moment  I did not want Momo only because yesterday afternoon and yesterday evening I had already tested Momo in this part of the county. So, I asked what is Wai Wai? And realized that they are kind of noodles.

I was in the village Sikkp in Namchi area of (South Sikkim district) in Sikkim. My local colleagues were with me. In the morning I had climbed up and down the hills in village Wok and had used lot more calories, so I was hungry. But here there were only two options - Wai Wai and Momo.

I decided to have Wai Wai and it was filling. But my colleagues were still hungry and were planning to order Momo and Soup. Instead of waiting for them to finish their food, I decided to use this time to walk around and take some pictures. Because of my presence my colleagues were not able to freely converse in Nepali so they gladly accepted my plan.

I came outside and noticed the beautiful river flowing to my left. While going to Wok village I had asked about the river and was told that the name of the river is Rangeet (which literally means colorful or colored). This is a tributary of Teesta river - the lifeline of Sikkim. About Teesta river, there is a lot to tell - but not today. I was planning to climb down to the river and enter into the water - just stand in the water for few minutes. But then I realized that the water was too deep and was moving very fast. I also realized that there was no path to climb down and that during the last three days I have not seen anybody near the waters. The river is flowing with flurry - so better to keep away from her!

To my left there was a bridge. In Sikkim one comes across these bridges very often. I can imagine that when these bridges were not built, how the villages would remain cut off from the rest of the world for days. These bridges appear to be old and one wonders whether they are strong enough! But these bridges are very strong. They play a major role in connecting villages and in turn connecting people with each other. They carry the burden of the vehicles and make living of people a little less hazardous during monsoon and winter. 

.

I was adjusting my  camera when I saw both of them chatting together. They were standing in the middle of the bridge in a relaxed manner. Initially they were little worried about the camera in my hands. However, I believe that was the reason they wanted to interact with me. They started staring at me. I leisurely walked towards them. That increased their curiosity. I could understand that both of them were in two minds - whether to smile at me or not. I took the initiative and smiled.

"Can I take your photograph?" I asked in Hindi. One of them smiled signaling me his permission and was immediately ready to pose. The other was bit hesitant though. "Can't you speak Nepali?" he asked me expressing his distrust. I said, "No, I can't." He started thinking on my response. But the first one did not want to lose the opportunity to get photographed. He just made his friend quiet.

I took a photograph and showed it to them. Both of them were delighted.
"Are you alone?" one of them asked.
"No, I am not alone. My colleagues taking lunch, I finished with it and so came outside to take some pictures," I explained. 

"Why are you taking food in the hotel? Is your home here?" the first one asked again.
"No, my home is not here," I answered.
"Then where is it?" another question.
"It is in Delhi," I inform.
"Oh! That is the reason you cannot speak Nepali", the first boy who was still doubting me seemed to be little convinced. 

"Where have you come? To whom did you meet?" he asked.
I indicated the office where I had been.
"Ok, I know that office. You met the officer there?," another question.
"Yes," I answered without explaining more.
"Where will you go now?" one more question.
"Namachi", I answered again.
"Which car is yours? The Jeep or the White one behind?" he asked. I was impressed with his observation power. I answered that too.

Then I decided to ask few questions to them. Though the children looked very young, they were studying in fifth class. We had an interesting conversation about their school, Nepali language, mid day meal in the school, their teachers, hostel and the students in the hostel ...

"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Watching the water level" both of them answered together. 

Then there was another round of conversation- this time about the river. The name of the river is Rangeet, there is a dam on the other side, the water level increases during day and reduces in the night because it rains more in the night. They can swim but nobody swims in the river during rainy season.

I asked about fish. One of them explained, "There are no fish now. Like flowers they too are seasonal. This is not the season for fish..." he was patiently trying to explain. 

Suddenly they shouted at me, "Run fast. Your car is leaving. It will go without you..." They were able to see the car though I was not. I knew that the car won't leave me but I was touched by the concern the kids expressed about me.

"The car will pick me up. It will pass this bridge, won't it?" I tried to assure the boys.
"Namachi is not in this direction. It is on the other road...." the kids almost pushed me towards the car.

In the cities we are taught to act with purpose, taught 'not to befriend strangers'; taught to guard our privacy; in short we are taught to distrust people around us. Of course I agree that the changing situation has provided  a solid context to such behavior and attitude. 

However these kids talked to me for half an hour, they showed trust in me, they had a concern for me, they understood my limitations - I am touched by their action, 

Whenever I will remember the roaring waters of Rangeet, the green Himalayan range I will also remember this innocent conversation with these two young boys. 

**

177. Shadow

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 30; the thirtieth 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.

“Let us go to the seashore,” Anil suggested.

Sunanda was excited with the suggestion, even when she was worried. She had seen sea only in the movies and in the books – but she never had been on its shore. This was an opportunity.

However, Sunanda was caught in two minds. Something strange was happening in her life and she was not able to understand it properly. She was feeling uneasy about it but was unable to pinpoint the cause of her uneasiness.

Sunil had not taken her to ‘their’ home this morning. He talked about ‘some urgent meeting’ in the office which he had to attend to. He introduced his friend Anil to her and asked to follow instructions from Anil.

“When will we meet?” she had asked Sunil and he had just said, “Don’t know”.

Wasn’t it strange?

Anil seemed to be a good person. He took her to a restaurant, fed her well. He convinced Sunanda how life in Mumbai was different than village life and how Sunil was compelled to leave her and all that. She was not convinced. But she had nothing to complain about Anil. He seemed to be a decent fellow.

*****

Sunanda had arrived in Mumbai at about 3.00 in the afternoon. Sunil, her husband came to receive her at Dadar station. They were meeting for the first time after their marriage which took place a couple of months ago, and she had dreamt of a very romantic meeting.  

Sunanda after the accidental death of her parents was brought up by her maternal uncle. Well, life was not good there. Sunanda clearly knew that she was unwanted there but had no options but to stay with uncle. She managed to score good marks in her secondary school examinations but the doors of college education were closed to her. If there was a college in her village, she could have still managed it. But going to block headquarter for higher secondary studies and graduation was out of her bounds.

For the last two years, she was just at home, doing nothing and not knowing the purpose of her life. She had nobody to talk to, nobody to communicate. So, when the marriage proposal came, she accepted it gladly, thinking that she would be able to make something of the new opportunity.

Sunanda’s uncle did not find it necessary to ask her consent. He had fixed it in a local Samudayik Vivah Sohala (Community marriage ceremony) organized by a political leader. Sunanda only knew that his name was Sunil and he was working in Mumbai. She also came to know that like her, Sunil too was an orphan. She thought that they will be able to understand each other well because they had gone through the same peril.

And here was her husband; not taking care of her but delegating to his friend!! Sunanda felt very insecure.

*****

Anil had entertained Sunanda well. He seemed to have a knack of making strangers talk. He listened to Sunanda with sensitivity which surprised her. Once in a while, she asked him to call Sunil. However every time Anil politely answered that in the meetings cell-phones were not allowed.

Sunanda did not know what to do. She realized that in this strange city, she did not know anyone except Sunil. She also realized that she did not know anything about Sunil as well. She had his number but no cell-phone to make a call. She had some money with her – but she was sure, she could not go back to her uncle’s house. There was no place for her.

She had only one person to depend on – that was Anil.

So, she accepted his idea of going to sea-shore.

The Sun was about to set and the horizon was reddish –orange. The waves sounded beautiful. There were many people playing with the waves. Sunanda forgot all her worries and was excited like a child. She wanted to run into the waves, but was frightened to do so. What if she gets drowned?

“Do you want to go inside? Don’t worry, I am with you. Just hold my hand,” Anil promised her.

For a moment, Sunanda was aghast at his suggestion. How can she, a married woman, hold hand of her husband’s friend?  She politely refused and went on.

But just before entering into the water, she stopped.

She saw a monster ahead of her. She turned back and she realized that there was another monster there.

She realized that she was caught in a trap.

She turned back to Anil.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Sure”, Anil was as polite as ever.

“Is my husband ever going to come to me again?” she asked with some hope that she would be proved wrong.

“You are very intelligent.” Certified Anil.

Sunanda stepped back. She looked around. There were many people on the sea-shore. Some were walking, some were running, some were playing with their kids, some were building sand castles.

If she shouted, would any of them come to help her? Would anybody believe her? Would she be able to speak their language? If she calls people, what would Anil say? Would people believe her or Anil? He had been good to her so far, but what would he do if she called people or police? Sunanda wanted to cry loudly but only silent tears rolled on her face.

“Come on. Don’t worry. I will take you to my home.” Anil assured her.

“Your home? Who else is there?” Sunanda asked again. She must doubt this man, his intentions. He knew Sunil won’t come again, still he never indicated anything to her until she asked. And why was he ready to take burden of an unknown woman? Sunanda was getting confused.

“Oh! My mother is there. My sisters are there. You will enjoy their company. They will teach you how to earn money in this strange city. You will get enough food and good room to stay. You will have to work for few hours only. You will become a rich person. I promise you, you will never remember Sunil. Anyway, Sunil does not deserve you. He could not bring this luxury to you that I promise. Come with me. Let us go.” Anil’s voice was very assuring and peaceful.

*****

Sunanda looked at those shadows on the sea-shore once again.

She knew she had left one dark corner to have more darkness in life. The past was dark and so would be the future.

Sunanda had to give up to the darkness where there will never be any other shadow.

The reddish –orange horizon and the setting Sun are not as joyous to her as they are to others.

In her life, she is never going to see the rising Sun, never to enter the sea waters, never to have blue sky, never to have the fresh breeze and orange shadows.

She would be drowned in life itself. Now onwards, she would be the shadow of herself.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. I’m thankful to BLOGGER NAME, who introduced Blog-a-Ton to me, and I debuted in XX edition.

Credits Image - Shades of Orange by Harsha Chittar Courtesy - Curious Dino Photography via www.blogaton.in

176. Right Question

When I read the notice about a Panel Discussion, initially I just ignored it. 

Then I saw that RB was going to chair it, I noted down the date and the time. 

I respect RB though I do not know him personally. I had listened to him a couple of times and had liked his talks. So, I decided to go for it. 

And I could make it as was planned. 

Before the panel speakers started the presentation, RB announced that all questions would be taken up for discussion in the end. He appealed that all those who had questions to ask to panelists should write those on a piece of paper. the small pieces of paper were circulated. 

I was amazed to see a number of people from the audience writing enthusiastically and handing over the piece of paper to the volunteers. I was wondering how people can have so many questions to ask. It was bit ridiculous of me to think so as I too keep on asking many questions. The only difference is I ask questions to myself and they were asking it to others. Maybe, I am too egoistic to admit my ignorance. RB was going through all those questions that kept on coming to him. 

The panelists shared their ideas one by one. RB summarized the discussion. He was brilliant as usual and did a lot of value addition that the 'Chair' is supposed to do and by thanking everyone he declared 'end of the session'. 

The audience was stunned. One of the volunteers rushed to him and spoke something to him. I was sure and everybody else was sure that the volunteer must have reminded him of the questions people had asked. 

RB smiled. He nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to lost in some kind of thoughts. Then the usual peace returned to him and he spoke calmly. He said, " Thanks .... (abc) for reminding me about those questions. I have read all those questions. None of those was a question. I invited questions and not comments, not your ideas. However, all those were comments. I kindly request you to learn to ask Right Questions. That is very important when we are seeking answers sincerely."

There was complete silence. Those who had written questions must have been hurt with the gross insult. But everybody kept quiet. 

Asking the Right Questions!!

Well, that is what I need to learn.  

175. Two Minutes

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 29; the 29th 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. The topic for this month is 'TWO MINUTES'.

Veer Bhadra Sing is sitting in the courtyard. He is just sitting. He has been doing nothing else but sitting and waiting. The Sunlight is warm and he is enjoying it. It reduces the cold that is entering into his bones. He is waiting for what?

Since when is he sitting alone like this? For how long - he does not remember. It seems that for ages, he is just sitting there; waiting something to happen. If someone asks him ‘what he wants to happen’- he will not be able to say anything. He has not spoken to anyone for a long time. Rather he wants to talk to but there is no one around.

The other day some people came to his home and asked many questions. He could follow only half of them and could answer very few of them.  They were asking about his age. How could he tell that? He is old – that much anybody can see. He has lost his wife long ago and his two sons died due to some illness. His daughters (two? or three?) were married to boys in nearby villages but he has not seen any one of them lately. Have they all died? – He does not know. Now only two of his grandsons are there; who come to village occasionally. They never send him any money. Maybe, they too are poor like him- he thinks.

Those unknown people were also asking about his home, his land, whether he has TV and what not. He wondered whether they could not see themselves that he is poor and he is hungry. He has nothing in home to cook for. Earlier his neighbors used to give him a rotee and subjee – they in their own way used to take care of him. But now they too have grown old. Veer Bhadra Sing has not seen any of them for many days now. He is not sure whether they are dead or alive.

Hunger is spreading in his veins. He wants to eat something – anything. He closes his eyes. He smells Chawal and Daal. He smells hot rotee and his favorite baingan subjee. Aroma of hot tea hits his nostrils. His lips make an involuntary movement to sip that tea only to realize that he is sitting alone and hungry.

Everything around seems deserted at first glance. Then Veer Bhadra Sing realizes that he has lost his vision and hence cannot see what is happening around. He has not been able to hear anything. Maybe the world around is as colorful and as live as was in his young days – only his capacity to experience that world has diminished. Only if somebody spends two minutes with him now and then, things would change! But alas! Nobody seems to have two minutes to spare for him.

Suddenly Veer Bhadra Sing realizes that he is waiting for death. But the Lord of Death is a brute. He visits those who do not want him. And those who want him to come and pick them up, he invariably makes them  wait.

Veer Bhadra Sing feels helpless. He wants to die, he desperately wants to die.

***

“Sir, a case of hunger death”, Nitin calls his news editor.

“Well, what is it?” news editor has no time for more details.

“Sir, I am in village Ashoh, district Banda i.e. Chitrakut district in Uttar Pradesh. A man has apparently died of hunger.” Nitin continues.

“Man, cut it short. Tell me one thing. Is it significant?” News editor.

New editor has not time. He is working in a ‘cut throat competition’ environment. He is weary of this young generation recruits who think that media coverage can bring in social change.

“Sir, he was an old man. Apparently he was alone; nobody to take care of him.” Nitin is not stopping at all.

“Old man! What caste he belongs to?” news editor asks.

“Caste? Sir….. Well, I do not know.” Nitin is suddenly apologetic. “But Sir, this shows our apathy to old people. Does it mean once people cross their productive age; we should just let them die? What is government doing – with crores of rupees being spent on ‘old age pension’ scheme? What are NGOs doing? What is society doing?” Nitin continues.

“Listen Nitin. You have a 30 second byte”, News Editor is clear of his priorities.

“Sir.. but listen … “ Nitin wants to say something.

“If you get caste of the man, if you get political equations covered in right manner, you will get two minutes, two full minutes.” News Editor emphasizes.

“Come back to me in five minutes”, barks News Editor.

Nitin is aghast.

Two minutes!

Nitin thinks bitterly of his profession, of the insensitivity of his clan, of his compulsions to be part of the rat race, of his ruthlessness ….

He overcomes his weakness. This is an opportunity for him, he can’t waste it.

Nitin knows that two minutes’ byte would give him a break. He has to catch those worthy two minutes which might turn out to be the greatest moment in his short career. This will help him to grab better job.

He turns around to the crowd and throws questions at them.

The aim is clear: 

Make a story worthy of Two Minutes. 

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

174. My Choice

I was visiting this particular city after a long time.

“How many years ago, did I last come here?” I asked myself.

Well, maybe five years ago, maybe seven; I did not even remember it.

So, I gave up that idea. If I don’t remember, then it is not important for me at that moment.

I suddenly remembered my friend. In all my earlier visits, this particular friend’s home was my contact and staying place in the city.

“For how long we have not communicated with each other?” I asked myself again and had no answer and so gave up that too.

I found the phone number of that friend in the contact list.

I was not comfortable in directly making a call. I was not connected and I know I cannot take for granted anything from anybody at anytime.

I texted a message on that number even when I did not know whether the number still existed or not.

“I am in your city today. We can meet if you wish.” I knew this was rather a cryptic message.

Five minutes passed away. Another ten minutes ran away. I was waiting for the reply and was anxious about what it would be.

After half an hour, I received a text message. It said, “I have lost contacts from my old handset. Whose number is this?”

I wrote my name, which on second thoughts I should not have.

If somebody who was your close friend once upon a time has lost not only you but even your contact information - the message is loud and clear.

You are lost – forever.

Why try to keep things which are not yours?

I smiled and then forgot everything about that friend.

But then afterwards I asked one more question to myself – “What is the difference between two of us?” Nothing; actually.

So I have no business to feel bad about how others treat me.

"They" have their choice and I have my choice.

173. Blank Pages

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 28; the 28th 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. The topic for this month is 'BLANK PAGES'.

The great news today in the newsroom is sudden announcement of a press conference by PD. Poornendu Dey, lovingly called PD by the press is one of the most popular novelists and thinker of the era. He is not only popular amongst intelligentsia but also among the common ranks. He is not only popular in the East but also in the West.  He is known to be fearless and stands for the tribal and the exploited. He basically writes in Bangla but almost all his works have been translated in the major Indian languages and even the other major languages in the world. He travels a lot and his lectures on various topics ranging from literature to atomic energy and from dam displacement to ecology are well attended and appreciated.

“Now what would be the announcement?” everybody in the room is guessing. They are all budding journalists and are willing to do anything to achieve name and fame. Each one of them would like to cover the press conference today and each one is trying to find who would be that lucky fellow! Within five-seven minutes they come to know that one of the Senior Editors would cover the prestigious Press Conference. So all of them- the juniors - have nothing else to do but have enough time for some gossip. Such opportunities are rare indeed. The world as if has come to standstill – every telephone call, every news channel is talking about only one thing – PD and his Press Conference.

“Has PD finally accepted the proposed honor of Bharat Ratna?” asks Nandita loudly.  But in that case some high profile Government official would announce it and not PD.

“Has he rejected it?” asks Sameer. But then PD is decent enough not to make miles out of other’s failure. So, it won’t be about any award or any kind of fight with Government.

“Is PD going to return Padmashree Award in protest of tribal exploitations in Niyamgiree in Odisha? Or anything related to the proposed Refinery in Chhattisgarh?” Sahu has another question. But PD had accepted Padmashree long back that returning it now won’t be relevant. PD is shrewd enough to be relevant all the time.

“What would PD by saying?” everybody is still guessing.

“How many novels has he written? And how many awards?” one asks.

“Aranyer Satya, is the best” one says.  “Oh! I like his sense of humor. Do you remember the political satire he wrote about communist power in West Bengal?” another asks. “No, I like the one he wrote about a tribal boy turning out to be Nakshalite the best”, third opinion is expressed. The discussion goes on and on. It brings out three facts clearly: PD is a multi-faceted personality, everybody loves PD and everybody loves PD for different reason.

*****

Time is clicking. TV channels are showing the venue of press conference. All big names in the media are present, cameras are flashing. Mani Shankar, PD’s close friend cum secretary is smiling as usual. He is busy with checking microphone and talking to all the journalists. Everybody is waiting for arrival of PD.

It is indeed strange that PD is making people to wait for him today. Generally, he is a person who abides by his high standards; he is never known to have reached late to any venue or event. Today something seems to be very special.

One TV channel is smart enough to show coverage of area just outside the residence of PD. They would gain extra TRP for covering PD leaving his house and entering his car. The time is running. The press conference is at 4.00 PM and it is already 3.50 and PD has not left his residence yet. Everything seems to be peaceful and quiet there. PD has such a kind of aura that nobody dares to enter his house or call him saying that he is getting late. They all wait for him like the subjects wait for the King.

It is 4.30 PM. No PD yet on the scene. Channel anchor persons are tired of saying the same things about PD which almost everybody knows for years. The speculations of why PD might be late are on – not on the channel but off the camera. People are convinced that there must be something very important and that is why PD is getting late. Is he discussing his announcement with someone placed in a powerful position? There are guesses and guesses.

Mr. Mani Shankar is trying to hide his stress. He has been working with PD for more than 25 years and as far as he remembers, it is for the first time PD is getting late. To his embarrassment, he does not know what PD is going to say to the press. It was decided so suddenly that Mani Shankar had no time to speak to PD about the event.

*****

A senior police official is walking with a constable holding a young child. They all walk towards the stage. The child seems to be frightened. The official calls Mani Shankar in a corner and hands over an envelope to Mani Shankar. “What is it?” Mani Shankar asks.

“This bloody rascal brought it to the security guard saying that it has to be given to you. I just want to ensure that there is nothing threateningly serious.” The officer speaks gravely. The child shivers.

Mani Shankar opens the envelope. Two pages come out of the envelope.  Mani Shankar hides them in his shirt pocket and looks helplessly at the police official. Then he takes a closer look at the envelope.

“What is this letter? Is PD Sir being kidnapped? Is he not well?” the officer demands.

“Well, my name is written on the envelope. And no doubt it is the handwriting of PD Sir. Let me call him first.” Mani Shankar is sweating now. He is under tremendous stress.

 “The mobile you are trying to connect is switched off” – the announcement keeps on repeating; as expected by the police officer.

Now some journalists have realized that some other drama is going on in the corner. A police officer; a constable; with a child and stressed Mani Shankar and no PD. What could be the story?

Police officer pulls both the child and Mani Shankar in another room. Constable follows the direction automatically.

“Who gave you this envelope?” asks the police officer to the child.

“A sahib came on a motorbike and gave me ten rupees. He said he was in a hurry and asked me to give this envelope to the guard at the entrance.” The child is frightened.

“Do you remember the bike number? Do you remember how the man looked like?” the questions are thrown at the child again. He shakes his head tearfully.  “He was wearing helmet, goggle; had beard and his bike was Bajaj …” the child is trying to be helpful. But the officer knows that if he starts searching a man with this description, he will get thousands in the town.

“First things first”, says Mani Shankar. “Let me announce that PD is not able to address the journalists today. That will make us free from the wolves …”

Mani Shankar regretfully announces postponement of Press Conference. The journalists are trying to get reasons from Mani Shankar but he refuses to answer. The journalists are shouting, pushing the microphone, the flash is passing through the wires with speculations.

After about 10 minutes there are very few people in the hall. The child; Mr. Mani Shankar and police personnel.

“Ok, we already have police in the residence of PD and he is not there. So, his ill health is out of question,” the officer says calmly.

“Now what does the letter say? Is any ransom demanded? Who has written it? Can you know the handwriting?” the office continues to throw the question.

Mani Shankar is completely clueless and helpless. He hands over the two pages to the officer.

Nothing is written on it.

They are Blank Pages.

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172. Mind Games

On that day, I was traveling from Mumbai to Pune once again. During summer vacations it is difficult to travel on this route. Though there are innumerable options, they are all crowded. It is hard to book tickets in advance and even if you have 'reserved' seat, it is of no use is my experience. So, there is an inevitable discussion among the co-passengers on "vacation - crowd - railway reservation - corruption - railway management - government - increased population ..." and so on. Some respond to the situation coolly and some show their experience by saying something like "Oh! This crowd is nothing. Last year I was traveling to ...." 

We Indians like to discuss. The discussion does not end even if everybody agrees. The disagreement is generally on un-important points. These points vary according to the season and situation. On that particualr day everybody agreed that 'the summer is getting intolerable' -and on this the discussion continued. 

In my childhood the topic of summer had a short life. The summer was either mild or strong or severe. Now even kids talk in terms of temperatures like "Yesterday Pune was 39  (degree Celsius), our Mumbai is much cooler you know, it was only 34." The credit goes to 24X7 news channels as well internet. I never find news on TV channels interesting, but people refer to those news bites seriously in various discussions. 

Everybody was sweating during the journey. The price of cold-drinks was making poor parents sweat more. Then the discussion as expected turned towards 'water' and especially 'drinking water." People remembered how the delayed monsoon caused trouble last year and hoped that "this year the monsoon is on time."

The discussion continued. The train passed Kalyan station and then Karjat station. The train was on time. People were planning what they would do when they reach Pune. Outside, the Sun was blazing, the hills were barren and dry. Everybody was waiting for the end of the journey. 

When we reached around Monkey Hill, there was a sudden change in atmosphere. There was wild breeze and the sky was covered with black clouds. The blazing Sun had disappeared behind those clouds. There was the typical smell of earth when it rains .. and within moments we met stormy Rain.

I love rain. Even by its hope, I become happy and fresh. My mind becomes rain when it actually rains outside. 

I was happy. I looked at my co-passengers and was surprised!  Nobody was in a mood to welcome Rain. All windows were hurriedly shut down. The train lost its speed. It stopped for ten minutes in Khandala station and took twenty minutes to reach Lonvala from Khandala. Passengers were not comfortable and everybody was looking at his/her watch after every minute.

Slowly, people started complaining about the delay, about the railway management, about the rain. Someone said, "Why this rain had to come only now! It  could have come later!!" Others agreed. They continued the discussion on 'how untimely the rain always arrives". Some other even suggested that "why it does not rain only on agricultural and forest lands? Why do we people in cities need rain for?" The argument no doubt was unwise, foolish and disastrous. It clearly showed selfishness and lack of understanding and respect for Nature. However, nobody argued and it seemed to be that everybody was thinking on the similar lines. 

I found the change in response of the people around me rather funny. Why are we always dissatisfied with what we have? In summer, have we ever tried to exchange a smile with the Sun? In summer we complain about the heat, in winter we complain about the cold and in rainy seasons we complain about rain. Why do we do that? Why do we behave and respond like this? Why do we think that only a farmer could be happy with the arrival of rain? 

"I should get what I want" is not a very healthy attitude. 

And do we really know what we want? 

Are we aware that our wants, our desires, our demands keep on changing. 

Whatever we have, we are not happy with; and whatever we don't have, we always want. 

What kind of Mind Game(s) are we playing? 

Will it ever end? 

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