BOOK OF LIFE.

Back in school, I had to share the last bench with equally tall and hefty people like me.This was an opportunity to study the psyche of the academically under privileged for me and I enjoyed my school days with them. The only difference being, I always topped the class right from the beginning to the end, much to the surprise of the short people-nerds adorning the front benches,who were the recipients of all the love and attention of the class teacher. We were always looked down upon by the nerds. I cared a damn and the results used to lower their heads in respect for me. I had nothing personal against them but hated their book worm tendency and a sycophant attitude towards teachers, just to impress them. The teachers always used to thrash us for any mischief in the class, as they all, usually were long sighted. My hard knuckles still bear the wooden scale marks, maybe, they were toughening us for facing harder battles ahead in life.
Gulu and Manu were my bench occupants and both taught me life out side the books. Gulu had lost his father recently and had to handle his fruit business after school hours while Manu had to look after a stationary store in view of his paralysed father. At the raw ages of 14 years, both were handling the finances of their families and winning bread for them. Both were bright in Maths but other subjects were like Greek-Latin to them. They used to handle much complicated accounts in their businesses and our school maths curriculum was easily lapped up by them. Grace marks used to promote them to higher classes in other subjects. Sundays were the only free days available for them to study when the other students used to catch up on movies and outings. A premature responsibility was thrust on their delicate supple shoulders. However they passed the board exams and were separated from me by different fields of higher education. I went to science and they obviously chose commerce in view of their business.
Last month I had the pleasure of meeting Gulu and Manu in a hotel in our town. Both were running a flourishing business of export-import as partners and they were doing mighty well, judging by the glittering diamond studded watches and immaculately hand stitched crisp linen clothing. They immediately hugged me,were happy to learn my academic progress in life. As I was walking down with them, a swanky big car came to pick them up. They were flying the next day to Dubai for buying office space.The Sun was shining for them. I learnt, after class 12,they had left education. Their life's eclipse was long over.
We spent our entire lives reading heavy jargon filled books.
They were lucky.They did not cram their brains with pages of useless information.
They just read the 'Book of Life', right from the back benches, as children.
I wish well for them.
They have changed their place in the society now,
They occupy the reserved front seats !

WAR ZONE!

My head was tied with a tight band to secure me on the cold table. There was the background rhythmic hum, attempting to relax the helpless victim who was like a vegetable. I was slowly being pushed inside the white tunnel to worsen my claustrophobia. Then the noise started to emanate from the coils surrounding my fragile body.
The first sound was like a heavy metal bass guitar, being plucked incessantly by a mad junkie guitarist who was in cold turkey.He was probably a sadistic person, as he was all out to blast my ear drums and fry my cold brain.He was venting all his fury on my helpless soul. This ordeal was followed by a trash metal chord,which was shrill and totally lacked rhythm.It used to come and go like a noisy goods train. US army used to play trash metal music to drive out the militants from the caves.
Noise can torture you, especially loud one.
A few minutes of silence punctuated my agony.
Next was the light machine gun artillery fire which really reminded me of a war zone in Iraq. I could imagine the terrorists running for cover.But that was not the end. This was followed by the heavy machine gun fire which jolted me, but I could not move my fear paralysed body in the narrow tunnel.My captors just ordered me to be still in a stern voice. They said that in a few minutes, my protracted ordeal would be over.
I was not a militant or terrorist. Yet, I was being punished by them. My family outside the room was mute and willing witness to this method of madness.
I was set free after half an hour, I rushed out like a bird from a cage would and immediately hugged my worried daughter. I expected a bouquet, pretending to be a war hero.
My MRI scan was over.
Thank God!
I experienced what my patients usually go through, day in and out.
It was like a War Zone !

WELL PLAYED AJAY!

It was an unforgettable match. The inter club tennis finals were being played on my home court and I was pretty excited to be a finalist, my opponent was a junior level coach-Rafiq, who had a mean game, as he was playing since a decade. He lived in a slum, nearby our town. Tennis was his only source of income and he wanted to win this title badly. I am no bunny rabbit, when it comes to Tennis as I put in all my strength and wisdom into the game. My head coach remarks that I play Tennis like Chess! Rafiq was aware of my game, prayed to Allah before the match.

The match began on an even keel but soon I started dominating the game and Rafiq started wilting under crowd pressure. A few right shots would finish the match in my favour, much to the delight of my ego and pride. I was a dark horse and played without a care, Winning or Losing was not my concern in this particular match. At the drinks break, I saw an old lady sitting in the stands, wearing a passed on sari praying fervently to Allah for her son's victory. A win would mean a promotion for her son and recognition , which meant more money to run her over sized under fed family. Her plight and anxiety were palpable.

I would get only, an applause from the stands after the victory and a small trophy which would lie in some corner of my home. Tennis was not my profession and my livelihood was independent of it.Besides, I had just won the all state medico singles title which had given me good media coverage and fame.

At the victory podium, Rafiq was proudly standing with his cherished trophy, which would bring a change in his status and salary. His mother too joined the celebrations with tears in her kohl lined eyes and praying, paan stained lips. Allah had listened to her prayers.

I lost the match. I had to.

Mansi, who was watching the match closely, came to me with moist eyes.

She understands me very well, she understood my sacrifice for Rafiq.

She said 'Well Played' Ajay!

THE KATTA.

It was the most favoured hang out in the entire college- The Katta ! It was a platform opposite our main canteen and the library where we used to sit idly and gossip about all the little things of our life. The Katta was located so strategically, that no girl escaped our hawk like eyes in entire span of college life.

A sparingly used tennis court with a fence embraced our katta from behind along with tall trees. The place was like a right angle and the intersection was our vantage point, the right far side was dominated by the senior faculty members who would relax with a cup of tea after their rounds. The left side was for the near by chronic hostelites who would sit for long hours ruminating about their passing grades and failed attempts.

Class divide permeated our holy katta too.

The smoke rings, changing shapes were like a kaleidoscope of our future dreams.The katta saw many events of our lives silently, It was our seat of inspiration and provided courage to us for tackling various issues of our troubled lives. You could just sit there and hours would lapse like minutes. Maybe the shady trees towering around the katta instilled peace and harmony into our troubled lives.

The rich kids would park their dad's car near the katta to gain maximim visibility and a sense of awe from us, jealous folks. The chicks would be seen being dropped home by these good for nothing kids much to our dismay. We would only ogle, but that was enough for our soul satisfaction. We never imagined about having a girl friend in our college life, we were happy alone- with our sour grapes' status.

Priya was an exchange student from London who was impressed by my knowledge and looks and she immediately confessed her liking to me. She was a rich Punjabi girl, closely related to a Bollywood family and was a 'to be shattered' dream come true for me. We used to sip hot cups of tea on this very katta. My hours of effort in warming this place had yielded some fruit for me! I was on cloud 9. But it was time for Priya's departure and a day earlier, she casually asked me out for a movie and a dinner date.I was overjoyed, but it was the last day of the month and my pockets were empty. The katta curse was working against me, It could not bear my happiness and was out to shatter my dreams. I complained to her about a non existent headache and declined her rosy invitation much to her surprise.She thought of it as my rejection to her advances and after a formal hand shake, returned to London the next day. She could never understand my plight. I was destined to be alone.

Priya never came back, who comes anyway?

Life moved on and my place on the katta was still secure as a single eligible bachelor.God had some other plans for me, A sweet dentist was studying, would enter my life and change it for the better. She would colour my monochromatic existence! Everything happens for a reason in life.

I am very sad today, as it is the last day of our college.

The Katta looks so lovely now. I will miss the Katta, everyday of my life.

NEGATIVITY.

The vada pav seller in our locality does brisk business round the year, come rain or shine! All the classes of people are seen munching the delicious item with dollops of sour chutney and a juicy chilly. Cars, scooters and cycles are seen hovering around this stall, all the time. People envied the rich vada pav seller, wondered about his penchant for using the finest spices and the farm fresh potatoes. I am a very keen observer and noticed that the entire stall was resting on the tiles of the covered municipality gutter where the netherworld creatures and the repelling insects lurked around, multiplying their creed numbers in all their glory. Rats as huge as cats were rumoured to hang around the sewer. Cockroaches of all sizes and shapes lived with the teeming bugs. This stall had the best take home statistics in the whole town. The seller used to wear a thick gold chain around his neck to match his golden coloured swanky car.He used to feed his left overs to the poor sewage workers and they in turn would feed their leftovers to the omnivorous inhabitants of the sewer.

A celebration was going on in the house of our neighbours,a baby boy had arrived in their world and their joy knew no bounds. The dholaks were being played along with the cymbals to make the crowd dance. The eunuchs were just letting their hair down and joined the melee, Their outrageous lipsticks and the heavily made up faces were a sight to behold. It was a custom to call these unfortunate ones to bless their new child. No ceremonial proceedings were complete without the participation of the eunuch gang. Their blessings were of paramount importance in every household in our town. Eunuchs would never have children of their own in their entire sad lives.The dancing eunuchs earned their livelihood, but most of them now,were resorting to flesh trade to make their ends meet and to satisfy the perverted people in our town.

A major residential township was emerging in our town, it would include a mall, school and a theatre too. On the inauguration day, When the first stone was being laid, a fistful of soil was mixed with the cement. It was carried in a small plastic bag by the builder. It was from a brothel where the diseased soiled women used to ply their trade, much to their discomfiture, each one wishing a new lease of life.This soil was very auspicious and was the essential ingredient in all foundations of our town. No builder risked missing this vital act.

The sewer, eunuchs and the brothel all signify negativism. These deprived creatures and people are all suffering through out their lives. Yet, they impart immunity from all disasters to the blessed people.

Their negativity protects us.

They absorb all the negative energies upon themselves to keep us safe and sound. Their acts make us prosper. Their negativity balances our positivity. I wonder, why their blessings do not work on themselves and extricate them from their misery.

It is indeed a strange contrasting world.

MY FIRST CAR.

Back then, I had just started my practice, used to commute to my work place by train and our city's favourite 3 wheeler, the auto rickshaw. I used to enjoy the shrill 'dhin-chak' music played in their music players and used to hum the latest songs on the way.
I was uncertain of my future in medical practice. I had given up a decent job to venture out in this field.
One night, I got a call from my hospital about an admission and I rushed to catch the train to my station.While coming back, it was well past 2am and the first train would only arrive at 4am. I found an empty bench and slept off, after hastily puffing my cigarette away. I was dead tired and I never thought about the homeless tramps and beggars who would sleep on this same bench.
I can sleep standing also! Once, I had slept peacefully in a bed adjacent to a dead body in my ICU. I can sleep anywhere when tired.
I got up to catch the first train and rushed home to be welcomed by my mother to a cup of tea. I told her about my sleep venture on the platform bench. My dad also came to know about this.
Next week, I was surprised to see a gleaming new Marti car in my building compound.It was my dad's gift for me. A night on the platform had compelled him to buy it for me, I had never asked for it. There was a problem though, nobody knew driving in our house!
After a few days, I started driving to work in presence of my brother who picked up driving skills pretty soon, in my new Marti car. It was a heavenly car! It was small, but our heavy family could sit comfortably in it to be driven around.We used to spit polish to keep it shining, all year round. After all, it was our first car.We were proud of it and covered it with a plastic cover to prevent the bird droppings from spoiling the car.We even went to holy places in that car.It was a memorable car!
As my bank balance increased,the car started to look small and a decision was reached to buy a bigger car.My dad was against the idea of selling this car but there was no use for a second car as my brother had left abroad for higher studies.
Many cars later, I now drive a luxury car with a music system as costly as the price of my first car. How times change! There are car cleaners and chauffeurs to pamper the car.It elicits stares from the chicks in our small town. I am married now, so the stares are never reciprocated and do not excite me. Some bigger car will soon catch my eyes and this car too, will change hands.
I still miss my first Marti car.
I miss it very badly,
It bears my blood and sweat marks of my early struggling years.
Have you seen it zipping anywhere?

PLACE OF ORIGIN.

Ramu was a poor migrant daily wages worker, he had come from the scorched hinterlands of Bihar to try his luck in the melting, ever assimilating pot of Mumbai. The city offered hope for everyone in the country and thousands of people, like Ramu flooded the rail terminals in all their glory. He landed a job as a peon in a diamond export centre, After managing to rent a room in a slum, so small that he could touch the adjacent walls by stretching his small arms.
A lonely deity, in a wooden frame decorated his wall.

He and his wife barely, eked out a living.

He used to work as a watchman in the neighbouring building during nights to boost his paltry income. His sleep was compensated in a hour long train journey to the office.
He was burning the candle at both ends.

A responsibility was entrusted to him by his boss one day, he had to carry the unpolished diamonds to the polishing centre and get them back the next day. A small incentive was on the cards for him, Ramu lapped the opportunity with both hands. He was an ordinary man who aroused the least suspicions and hence would never be robbed, was the thinking of his boss.

His modus operandi was simple, he bought a new 3 storeyed tiffin to carry his food along with the unpolished diamonds. He used to keep the tiffin in a cloth bag under the seat of the train and sleep in a state of bliss.

It was a turbulent time for Mumbai,that year. A series of bomb blasts had rocked the city and awakened the citizens from their complacent slumber. A state of paranoia gripped the to and fro commuters, travelling daily for their livelihood.

That day, a snoopy commuter was checking under the seats for suspicious parcels and he found this huge tiffin under Ramu's seat. He immediately went berserk and started alerting his fellow commuters who rushed to see the supposed explosive, lurking inside the tiffin.

Ramu was in his dream world, happily thinking about his extra bonus by working as a diamond courier. He would buy a new sari for his wife and maybe, a movie in a mall which his wife wished about, all the time. He also thought of buying a tri-cycle for his son.
Tears of joy would follow soon.

The wheels of fortune were finally turning for him.

Meanwhile,the worked up crowd became highly agitated and not able to locate the owner of this huge tiffin, came up with a brilliant idea. The train was going fast over the creek, they just took it and flung it out of the train with all their might. The deep waters in the creek would defuse the bomb! Smiles and Backslaps passed on, through the entire compartment.

A major disaster was averted!

Ramu was oblivious to this whole commotion, as his destination neared, he woke up yawning, rubbing his tired sleep deprived eyes and was surprised to see his tiffin gone.His neighbour thanked the almighty for saving their lives.

He was the only sad person in the overjoyed compartment.

As realisation of events dawned, he cried his heart out. His diamonds were gone forever.His employees would brand him as a thief and put him behind bars. He cursed his sleep.
The tiffin was gone forever.
The precious rough diamonds, back to their place of origin-Mother Earth at the bottom of the Sea, via the creek.
Ramu hurriedly packed his bags, he boarded the train to his place of origin-Bihar!
He tilled the arid lands, achingly in despair.