We are alive…

It was 5 O’ clock in the evening, and we were standing on the pavement of a not-so-busy area of the famous Connaught Place market, trying to locate a vintage coffee house. With our hands on our foreheads to avoid the direct sun rays falling on our head, we looked upward toward an old, medium-built shopping complex, which engulfed in it several pigeon holed shops, to search for the coffee house.

And there lurked from the opening of the second floor an old white wooden plaque broken from the right bottom side indicating the coffee house in faded bold letters. This was the coffee house that Anil had incessantly talked about for 10 minutes before reaching the place.

This coffee house boasted of its rich past. People belonging to political fraternities and elite classes often frequented this place once, and the place claimed to have been a hub of all major political conspiracies.

After climbing the steep, dark staircase of the first two floors, when we finally approached the entry point of the Coffee house, we were greeted by the murmurings of the old people, who seemed to be occupied with some secretive, contemplative talks. The ambience pervaded in it a touch of seriousness. From the broken glass windows, the light streamed in the room in sufficient amount—which tried to cover up the serious, dull ambience.

As our feet moved forward crossing the threshold, we could see some eyes glinting toward us as if trying to probe ‘How come these young guys here?’ and as if curious to know ‘Have Café Coffee Days stopped their Indian operation?’

We looked around focusing our eyes in different directions to find a place, but the entire place seemed packed.

Exercising our eyes for a while, we finally managed to locate an empty table near the half broken window, which gave an outside view of the activities happening on the roadside. The table was broken from the middle and bent to whichever side the more weight was put, so we preferred not to put our hands over it. Air conditioners didn’t work; in place old Usha fans rotated in fast speed over our heads, offering no respite from heat. With that kind of air, it was hard to conquer sweat, so my hanky found a way out of my pocket and delicately moved over my sun-attacked face.

After resting ourselves for a while, we cocked our heads in every direction to look for a waiter, but the place seemed to be deserted of them. After waiting for a while and filled with disappointment, we moved to another room in search of a waiter and luckily found an empty chair opposite to the manager’s desk to sit on. With his spectacles touching the tip of his thick nose, he looked grimly towards the long register, which he held loosely on his hands, and seemed oblivious of and uninterested in the activities happening around. It seemed as if he was bored of his monotonous work— and his life as a whole. From the group of Uncles sitting nearby, one spoke a few words of the famous Pakistan transferred Indian revolutionary poet, Faiz Ahmad Faiz:

“Har admi main hote hain 10-20 admi. Agar kisi ko dekhna ho toh kayi bar dekho (Every man has in him 10-20 men. If you want to see a man, see him many times).”

It seemed he had followed those lines a lot during his lifetime, and now he was telling others to follow that. Oh! quite late.

Suddenly from nowhere, a waiter, wearing white clothes and a Gandhi cap, appeared in front of us and asked for an order. “What is there in the menu?” Anil hungrily asked. With an obsequious smile, he quickly babbled a list of items on offer. “Three coffees and two cutlets, please.” The waiter vanished, and we waited in silence till the order arrived.

After having a quick round of coffee and delicious cutlets, and looking around the old, dilapidated interiors of the coffee house, we had come out wondering why this place registered such a memorable past.

Weather was sultry outside as a result of the intermittent drizzle a day ago, but the air carried in it a touch of approaching evening freshness. Evening had started to register its presence by the fading sunlight, casting a long shadow of the buildings on the wide road. The roadside market buzzed with different activities— it was packed with people of different age groups ambling inquisitively, hawkers attracting customers by their loud offerings, and sleepingly autoricksaw drivers waiting for their customers. Several shops on the roadside formed a pattern of eclectic choices to the passersby, who often stopped for a while to have a look at the items on offer.

Looking at the poster outside the Rivoli theatre, my friend screamed, “Hey, you guys want to watch Singh is King?” My another friend’s chuckling voice showed interest. With a twisted nose, almost at an angle of 60 degrees, I immediately followed, “I’ve watched it. It’s ok.” Nobody said anything after that, and we moved on along the pavement. “What to do then,” said Anil complainingly. “Let us first explore some books, and then we’ll go in a pub to have some beer,” I said. It was warmly agreed, and I saw two happy, blinking faces.

We moved further looking for a bookshop. Just nearby on the pavement was one, touching the iron-grilled boundary of the wide road. With rapid strides, I moved towards the place and, on reaching the place, I leaned forward to have a good look of the books dispersed over a thick piece of cloth lying on the rough, cemented pavement.

I’ve often observed that I loose my control when I am surrounded by books. I should have been a librarian in my past life.

I liked the cover of a book, held it on my hands, and tried to look inside of it. My friends peeped from the backside— looking at their respective choices.

The cover of the book I was holding read The Age of Kali by William Dalrymple. Cocking his head from the left side of my shoulder, Anil said excitedly, “He is a good writer. He wrote The Last Mughal.” The book seemed to be good to me too. I was still in the process of deciding whether or not to buy it when a loud sound brought the calculating process of my brain and the cheery movement of the marketplace to an abrupt halt. Hardly had we got time to think what it was, another earth-cracking sound just in front of us made the book I was holding fall off my hands. The sounds had enough power to fill in the atmosphere a feel of terror. The sound emanated from the Central Park— the place at a distance of only 150 meters— which was covered by a wall and a thick bush, blocking the view of the blast site. Some people came running down from the gate in such a manner as if uncertain what actually had happened.

People who were carefree a minute ago seemed panic stricken; they ran toward their respective vehicles in order to flee away. A boy and a girl whom we had seem roaming intimately with each other for quite a while were now running in opposite directions. It was perhaps their first date.

Immediately, after the blasts, dark smoke had billowed in the sky and had hung above the blast area. Our mouths were agape in utter disbelief. Maneesh hurriedly said, “What to do now?” “Let’s quickly move back,” Anil responded even more hurriedly. With our feet moving forward and our heads still turned backward, we ran away directionless to leave the place. We waved our hands towards many autoricksaws, but they were already full, so we moved swiftly towards the main road to find one. Jostling with the buses and scooters in the slow moving traffic, we managed to catch a bus. Maneesh had to go to a different place, so he took another route.

We were relived to be inside the bus, but still clueless what actually had happened. After a few moments, Anil’s mobile clinked, indicating an SMS from Maneesh. Anil read “There was an autorickshaw that blew up”. Even the bus didn’t seem safe now. ‘What if the third bomb was implanted inside this bus?’ the thought came. But then who knows, it could be on any of the other auto rickshaws outside. Soon the bus filled to its capacity, but traffic showed signs of no movement. In a matter of few seconds, there came barging from the backside a series of ambulances and fire brigade buses, all screaming loudly to find a way forward. Everybody in the bus seemed to be speculating in that noise about the blast. They had their own versions of the incident, but nobody was certain of what actually had happened.

To our relief, in a minute’s time, the vehicles in front started to move, clearing the way for our bus to take the left turn and pickup the speed. My friend’s mobile rang, and his serious sounding Tamil conversation of a minute removed the curtain of mystery. Moving the mobile swiftly down from his ears, he said with elated eyes, which seemed to be popping out of his spectacles, “There were five blasts—one in CP, one in Janpath, one in Gaffar market, and one in M Block market.” With my mouth wide open, I hissed “Oh! My God”. Situation was far grimmer than what it looked. These serial blasts had taken place only a month after a series of blasts in Ahmedabad, Bangalore, and Jaipur. On the way back, Anil’s cellphone rang at regular intervals to give us the updates.

With the air touching my face from the open window of the moving bus, my thoughts moved towards the people who were victimized.

People go merrily with their family members for shopping, and nobody expects all this. In such incidents, some family members loose their lives while some by way of destiny are alive to moan over their family members’ death, which in no way is a better condition. The blood splattered dead body of a smiling and close family member just a minute ago becomes a torment for the life time. The person lives, but the heart-rending images remain hung on the deepest core of his mind just to wake him up often in the night. The ones who were now dead on the roadside didn’t know it would happen to them. They didn’t want that. They had just come to enjoy and to find some joy in shopping for themselves and their family members.

Anil and I didn’t talk much on the way back home except the updates that he gave me on regular intervals.

On reaching home, I switched on the television and there flashed pictures of the blast area—blood, unconscious bodies, and crying people. Sniffer dogs were running and sniffing around the blast area, and police personnel were trying to match their energy levels. A young balloon seller, crying helplessly and who claimed to have seen the terrorists who planted the bombs, was being taken by the Police. The newsreader reported that there were many more bombs planted in that area, but they were defused now— one at India Gate, the place we crossed walkingly in the daytime; another one in a dustbin outside Rivoli where my friends had wanted to watch the movie and the pavement on which we had walked carelessly for quite some time and where I held that book on my hand; and a few others in the Central Park, a place where my friend was desirous of going to buy some DVDs.

It was unbelievable to think that we had walked in every that area that could have snatched our body from us and thrown us without our wish to another unknown dimension if only those remaining bombs had blown off. I couldn’t believe that we had walked “so closely and so happily” with death for 30 minutes around that dustbin outside the Rivoli theatre.

Isn't it really an "Age of Kali?"

Shareef (Good Man)

A few days ago I had a discussion with a friend over a community website. He said something to me, which I didn’t associate myself with. So I responded by saying “Don’t tarnish the reputation of a good man.” To this, he responded, “How do you define a good man?”

And that made me think…my mind took me to my childhood days.

In my childhood, I often found grandmothers, middle-aged ladies, and school and college going girls often appreciate guys who spoke less, didn’t look directly into eyes and blushed often while talking. They were tagged Shareef. But, as time passed by, I observed the same guys getting changed entirely— many a time I often saw them becoming just opposite to their images given to them by those beautiful ladies of different generations.

How did this change come about in those shareefs?

The same shareef guys were sent to boarding schools for further studies because of the lack of good schools in their home town. Suddenly finding themselves in a new place with no restrictions from parents and nobody in the neighborhood to watch them, they did what that desired. When a human being suddenly finds independence, his wildness finds a way out and his hidden and suppressed part becomes visible. Something similar happened with these shareef guys. Their angel-like images were a product of their parental guidance and the neighborhood they grew up in.

When a human being lives in his home, he has to follow rules of the home. In a subtle, but powerful way, rules of the neighborhood and the whole society also affect human being’s life. His actions outside home or inside home are watched not only at home but are of interest to the neighborhood as well, and so the human being adjusts to live in a shell of family and neighborhood, trying to create an image that doesn’t create any trouble for him.

But in hostel life was different. No more conformances to rules and no restrictions. What do you expect from young guys? Unless they carry some sense or the teachings of their parents are mixed entirely with their blood, they are generally directed towards something wild. Bunking often from classes, waking up the whole night, and spending time outside watching some movie in a nearby theatre are a few of the things that the young blood likes. Things like rules and so called sense don’t remain so important then.

That is what happened to these guys, so they couldn’t remain the same.

On holidays, when these different looking chaps came home, a striking difference was visible in their demeanor. The way they talked and walked was entirely different. The same beautiful ladies frowned looking at them this time and said “Shareef bacchon ko pardesh ki hawa lag gayi (City has changed these good chaps).”

I grew up hearing these lines and often wondered that the same Sushant who hardly let a single word come out of his never opening lips was blabbering those abuses starting with B and M. Cigarettes and tobacco had become his close associates, and he would often be spotted with his group—all equipped with iron chains and nickels. In some cases, I even saw somebody being thrashed by Sushant and his group.

I forgot to tell you that he was no more called Sushant. He was now Michael, the reason for which was he now danced well, fluttering his bamboo shaped legs, accentuated by his tight jeans, unstoppably whenever somebody played an adrenaline pushing dance number. His dance supported well by alcohol was one of the reasons of his popularity. Without caring about his image, I often observed girls looking appreciatively toward him while he danced. Even though I never saw a single girl falling in love with him, I noticed most of them liked teasing him and being teased by him. I often overheard some such exchanges of those moments, and I mostly found them senseless.

Sushant had remained a very close friend of mine till the time he set off to his hostel in a remote location. On the day of his leaving for his hostel the first time, I remember him being a quiet, fear stricken guy standing on the roadside waiting for the bus. Sun shone brilliantly on his white skinned face, which was intruded by thick lines of mustard oil finding way from his scalp. He wore black polished shoes and clutched a big square shaped iron suitcase with his name printed in white bold letters. His father stood on the opposite side of the road, and his mother peeped from the half open window—her face covered by a part of her Saree and tears rolling down her cheeks. In such occasions, I often found every mother doing the same. They don’t come out and show their emotions to children. They are emotional, but they don’t want their children to be emotional.

I had noticed that as the bus approached Sushant, his fear had grown stronger. The fear of going to an unknown place was evident in him.

But within one year of remaining in that new unknown place, the fear stricken and innocent looking Sushant got changed. For the first time, he failed the exam and his involvement in a list of activities forwarded by the school authorities made his parents call him back.

This one year time period was his transition period from Sushant to Michael. A shy, quiet guy metamorphosed into a guy who now preferred to be among groups of hooligans who were often spotted whistling at girls. He didn’t do these activities in front of those ladies who once admired him, but the change in his aura was enough to let those ladies say, “Sangati kharab hai iski (His company is bad).”

Like Sushant there were others too who were once tagged as shareef, and now they all could be seen with all those iron chains and nickels cramped in different areas of their clothes.

During his one year in the hostel, Sushant had come home 3-4 times on holidays, and I had observed all the changes in him. His hair style changed, his dressing style changed, his walking style changed, and his vocabulary changed. In fact, I can say quite confidently I saw all the developmental phases he went through to become Michael.

I was somehow unaffected from the so called bad practices, and in the entire village which was divided by a long road I would often see older people, while talking among themselves, pointing at me and saying ‘Bishtji’s son is the only one who is unaffected’. There wasn’t even a temptation of doing those filthy things in my mind, but when it came to being a part of cricket tournaments, I broke the rules. I remember bunking my school in quite a few occasions just to participate in some.

Being a reliable opening batsman and a handy leg spin as well as medium pace bowler (not like Manoj Prabhakar), I found respect among this group and we often roamed with each other. Once my maths teacher, who used to appreciate me a lot, made me stand up in the class and reprimanded me “Aur ghumo un logon ke sath. Tabhi itne acche number nahi aye tumhare (Be in the company of hooligans. That’s why you haven’t scored well this time).”

Teasing girls was one thing that I never supported. I considered it to be a very cheap act—a few bunch of guys passing comments on a lonely girl and seeing those strained marks of fear on that girl. What bravery is that? That’s not being a man at all. But I saw those so called friends of mine doing that often whenever one passed by. At those moments, I would change the angle of my neck and would feel very bad, but at the same time I liked the adventure of sitting with these directionless youths near the roadside on a small bridge hanging over a small canal. We would often talk till darkness engulfed the houses around and there were chirpings of only crickets (insects found in villages) emanating from no particular direction. There were only voices telling stories—faces were invisible in the dark. Ghosts were the favorite topics that occupied strong interest. It’s hard to express, but they were the golden moments—a spherical shaped bridge, water flowing under it producing a music that fused well with the sounds produced by crickets, and wind caressing our faces in a flirtatious way.

After completing my schooling, I came to Delhi for higher studies. During the time in Delhi, I kept getting updates about Sushant and his group. They failed the exams and couldn’t pursue further studies. Their family member almost shunned them. That was enough for a wake up call, so they looked for some source of income.

A few years ago when I went to my place, I heard that Michael had opened a restaurant with his group. They serve people in a different way—not with chains and rods of course.

I heard ladies say ‘Sudhar gaya time pe, nahi toh gaya tha hath se chhora (He changed his habits on time; otherwise, he would slip away from his parent’s hands.’)

I met him and found some touch of realization in him. He retained his old image back.

Experiences change people. After a lot of experiences of different aspects of our lives, we form conclusions, which are based on what we did that made us feel good and what brought us trouble. And then rules are formed—rules telling what one should do to get good results and what will bring bad results.

Some people have to go through a lot of experiences to realize for themselves what is good for them while some don’t even require one experience because they are already realized by their deep observation.