Part 2: The curious case of Samresh Painter and one strange night before the exams!

PART 2 of the story:

For part 1, please click here!
 
 
I pretty much hate exams - the idea of an 'exam' the next day makes me nervous and on top of it, whoever you talk to-meet or even accidently (and regretfully) bump into, will either be studying or would be making a fuss about the unfair demands that the exam makes! Maybe my dislike for exams also emerges from the fact that I haven't performed exceptional in any of the examinations that I’ve written. Yes, maybe that’s why I hate it. 'Hate' - a strong word uh?, but the concept of exams deserves that kind of a word! An exam tomorrow should be held responsible for the wasting of today's entire day to prepare and then wasting half of tomorrow to write the exam. That amounts to two days lost for a two or three hour exam!
 
Childhood was no fun, ask Samresh! He too absolutely hated exams, after all it was only to clear these dreaded exams that he was forced to leave all his friends from his batch and join the junior batch a year later, that was us. He had the best of friends in his batch, those who understood him, answered his weird questions and were even normal with his 'half-neurotic' behavior at times. They didn’t mind Samresh-the Dacoit, who looted their hair oils, shampoos, soap cases and buckets. Maybe living with him and putting up with his activities had actually engrained in the batch mates a rare like, even a trace of protection for his eccentricities. Samresh was known, Samresh was home. And before he knew it, he was now with us - the juniors.
 
End of the year - the final exams of the semester came.  Heads went deeper into the sewer of knowledge. And mouths started complaining about exams, preparations and the difficult subjects. Of all the subjects the most rubbished-ridiculed and unappealing subject was 'By-Products Technology'. Taught by a professor who was equally uninterested in the subject and had a weird sense of remembering student names by their roll numbers. He didnt speak to the class, he just murmured, that was the kind of volume his voice had. His words wouldn't even travel further than a couple of bench rows, thus giving a free license for the third row onwards junta to move from the ‘willingly not hear’ state to the 'cannot hear' one.

A day before that By-Products exam, just when students were getting demoralized and weren't upto studying anything more, Samresh started to adopt a reverse strategy - To combat the exams - blow by blow! He did not whine about the subject anymore and no more complaining in the hostel lobby, infact Samresh had secretly started preparing for the exams. He carried with him - the huge books, cups of tea and more isolation in the secret library corners. Looking at him, one could easily know, 'the exams were definitely around the corner'.
 
Now, it is very interesting to observe that as the hour of exam comes nearer, student behaviors starts changing - some wither away reading the underlined photostated notes of a long-lost senior, some react by studying only the underlined notes-crisp points-"andar toh kuch bhi likh denge types", some study hard by burning the midnight-lamp, endless text and diagrams read and re-read, some only prepare the 'most important questions' category, the (n)ever reliable ‘Guides’, whereas some leave it at the hands of fate, and some rely on their memory (I so envy them!!), some even devise new ways of cheating and some like me just have no clue, they run from pillar to post, from books to notes and ultimately fall asleep only to get up in the morning to behave like Satish Shah in Jaane bhi do yaaron: "oooo Tarneja bi iddddar, Ahuja bi idddar...hummm  'phas gaya'.
 
But something strange happened on that night, the night before the By-Products paper. Samresh must have been preparing for the exam, undoubtedly. But his preparations had got an amazing lift. He managed to get the biggest reference book possible on By-Products from the campus library. Now getting a big reference book of the subject whose exam is scheduled the next day, is a little strange, well not for Samresh. Why you ask, because the toppers invariably have a plan made for issuing the books on their names and mere mortals like the 'rest of the class' would never be able to reach to that level of 'foresight' or 'fear-sight' I might say - To 'book' the book in advance. Its almost like booking the tickets for the opening weekend of a blockbuster movie, you never get it. But that day Samresh had managed to beat the 'toppers' and get the Big reference book by that German scientist, whose name I do not remember. It was lying on the study table in his room. Like The Frog in Agastya Sen's bathroom in English, August.
 
The strange night had started. Post-dinner, everyone in the hostel lobby was heard saying the same thing: "its the most irritating subject of this semester, oh lord, please let this go! this too shall pass..." and quietly everyone retired to their rooms, the grumbles changed into murmers of text re-repated aloud from the notes of whey proteins, kappa casein, betalactoglobulin and more such dreadful names. Soon the heads deep into the sewer! Samresh, in his pyjamas and a shirt casually went to his study table, adjusted his spectacles and opened the first page of that Big book by that German Scientist, whose name I still dont remember. It was around 9 pm. Now, on several instances my father has insisted that I should learn and practice yoga - he says it increases your concentration. Fathers do know their boys well, but then again how to articulate the fact that my not being able to concentrate on things that don't appeal to me is more of a voluntary thing. So, after reading a couple of pages, my concentration dwindled in search of something more interesting. I would then go to the next room or the next lobby and strike a conversation, ask fellow batchmates about how their preparations were going and the expected questions from the last year papers.

Across the lobby - in the last room - with the door open, Samresh had started reading that Big Book, he had read a few pages. I remember peeping into his room and seeing Samresh standing at the edge of the corner table in his pyjamas and reading. Standing and reading. A few hours later, I again passed by and saw the same scene - Samresh at the edge of the corner table, standing and reading. Somewhere around 1 am, I got up to take care of natures calls-and a little loiter, I passed by his room again. And again the same scene, Samresh by the edge of the corner table, still standing and still reading. The only thing that changed in that room was the pages-read of the Big Book by that German scientist. The Word spread soon, and other classmates too begun to go and peep into Samresh's room, but nothing could break his concentration. It was like a force that binds you. As soon as the 'toppers' came to know of Samresh's unnatural(rather threatening)behavior, they developed cold feet. They too took rounds around his room and tried to tell him that 'he should not stress himself, after all its just an exam!'

See, this is exactly why I dislike this species called toppers, they will make sure that you sleep well(read 'study less') before the exam even when they know that my or that poor Samresh's studying is not going to affect his grades. If required they will go to each room and sing a lullaby so that everyone has a sound sleep.

 
Back to Samresh. The clock and the read-pages were the only thing that moved in that room. Page after page turned, Samresh just stood there like a rock. It was 4 am and Samresh had by now reached half of the book written by that German scientist, (yes whose name is still lost in my memory). Nothing could stop Samresh that strange night.  I had slept for a couple of hours and got up around 4 30 am. To 'awaken' myself, I went to the bathroom and took a quick shower. While returning, I saw Samresh standing there in the same position I had seen him at 9 pm. That was yesterday. A strong sense of deja vu. I shook myself and rushed to my room.
 
The final bell rang. The exam started at 9 am. The paper was difficult, people like me had started looking around, trying to gauge, whether was it only me who was finding it difficult or were there others too in the same boat. I looked at the toppers and saw the signs of nervousness. I was relieved for a second and then started writing whatever I knew-and could make up. Suddenly, I remembered Samresh. I did a quick scan of the room to spot him. I saw him writing impatiently, like a mad scientist at work. It was as if the nameless-err name-forgotten German's spirit was writing the exam through Samresh, perhaps the same gutso with which the book was written 60 years ago! 
 
After the final bell rang-indicating the end of the ordeal, the class gathered at the tea stall. Samresh had his tea and samosas. The nervous toppers now had a competitor or so they believed. An unlikely competitor, one who had repeated a year on account of failing in 4 out of 7 subjects in a semester. Sorry for diverting again and indulging in personal opinions, but I absolutely love the idea of defeating the toppers, as much as they hate the idea of being defeated! The underdog winner fantastically fascinates. There's indeed some moronic pleasure that I achieve while seeing a topper going from 2nd rank to 3rd. Now for the rest of the world, it maybe just a number but for them, its like a personal loss in family. They moan it so badly that it leads to some amazing moments to just stay and observe. Of course, there's no counting the morons like me, who are comfortably seated at 29th or 32nd rank!
 
I remember my Sr.Kg result in Bombay.
82%, 29th Rank.

And that's why the critics or a few may have issues with 3 Idiots, but in a way it definitely works. The world is not made of toppers, gentlemen.
 
Cut to 4 months later: Results: The unbelievable had happened. Like the movies. The rise of Samresh had disturbed the order of toppers in the class. The hierarchy changed and how? Samresh stood second in the class of 40, first in By-Products. Six months back, he was the drop-out student who had joined the junior batch, a misfit in the class and now, he was what Di Caprio would shout while standing at the edge of the ship deck: "king of the world......"
 
I have seen underdogs winning and the impossible things happen but this was something else. It happened over a period of time, gradually and right in front of me.
 
After the result, when a classmate met Samresh, walking on the campus road alone, he asked him:
"Samresh, the topper, where are you going?
a bespectacled, nervous and a shy Samresh replied: "just ahead.."


© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

The curious case of Samresh Painter and one strange night before the final exams

A short story

There's something about the half-neurotics that amuses me but at the same time also gives birth to a strange aversion towards them. Now, what exactly is a half-neurotic? I dont have a dictionary definition for that, but its just that when you come into their contact, when one comes face to face with them, one tends to just know. It can also be a case of- since what is normal for a certain individual is not the same for other. Granted. But then opinions and choice is what makes us an individual different from other and thus the 'half-neurotics' according to me. Is it getting too "wannabe intellectual"? Cut the crap, lets jump to the story.

Now, I tend to have very mixed reactions to some kind of half-neurotics, sometimes its pure curiosity of what is going through that cracked nut's mind? and at times there is a feeling of jealousy that why cant I get into that kind of a realm where they don't give a fiddler's fart to the surroundings and carry on with their 'good life'. Yesterday night as I sat under a starlit sky at what one could label as the cleanest part of Juhu beach, my mind went back to one such half-neurotic I had met. Samresh. Reserved, almost to himself most of the times but was always a part of a group. You wont find him talking to all, but neither would you find him sulking alone and taking up his own corner in the hostel bed. The class knew that he had failed last year and was a year senior to us. But the circumstances under which he had failed were quite mysterious. There were rumors. Some say, he was suffering from malaria, some say, he didnt study at all and some say, he couldn't grasp the subjects. One fine day, he suddenly joined all of us in the class and a popular gossip went around saying: he was home practicing astrology and now when the semester began, he is back to the campus to repeat the year. Maybe he will leave engineering and join astrology. Samresh lived in a town that was some 70 odd kms from the campus in a different district altogether. Remember this piece of information.

Borrowing someone's bathing soap, detergent, hair oil, hair shampoo or other toiletries was one such passion for him. Not that he couldn't afford, maybe he couldn't. But in a boys hostel, going from room-to-room and checking out everyone's hair oil daily, is something that he purely indulged in. But what made me put him into one such 'cracked nut category' was that, unlike others who would go to borrow stuff from fellow hostel mate's room, he would just barge in with a towel wrapped around and go straight to the wooden cabinet and casually pick up the brand of hair oil or soap and then go to the next room and pick up the bucket after choosing from the two or three available options and then maybe to the next room to pick up his choice of tumbler and then rush towards the bathroom. Others who if wanted to borrow something from someone's room would casually come and strike up a conversation or two for some minutes and then gradually come to the topic of borrowing or if were in hurry would come straight to you and ask for the 'washing powder or detergent'. But for Samresh all rooms were alike. He didnt have to bother, if someone is snobbish, or selfish or doesn't-share types or a spoilt rich kid, he just had to casually come and before you know, he would be on his way with one of your toiletries. At times, I thought, he even didnt remember to which room did he go to, to take a particular hair shampoo, coz while returning from his bath, he would forget and thus someone's shampoo landed in someone else's cabinet. Now boys hostel is like that small town in Maharashtra where they do not have locks on their doors. Thus, Samresh would have a wild hunting ground if someone weren’t in his room. The best part, as the legend goes, he would never even look towards money or curiously look for other things lying around that could have got anyone's attention, his target was toiletries, almost always. At times, after bathing, he would go to the other side of the hostel or on a different floor for testing the deodorants or after-shave or if the room occupant is rich then hair gel. He sub-consciously knew almost everyone's brand preference, but interestingly would forget where did he pick Parachute from or where did the Gillette cream come from. Does this make him half-neurotic? There's more to come.

If one would find him walking on the campus road and ask him: "Samresh, where are you going?
He would reply pretty nonchalantly: "just ahead"

Like hello!! That we know that from wherever you are standing you would be going ahead. Even humanity is going ahead. But what response was that "just ahead". I thought maybe he himself at times didn’t know where he was walking to and thus the casual answer: "just ahead"
So many times had he told this to his fellow classmates that at times when I would confront him on the campus road, I would tease him: "Samresh, you must be going ahead, right? And he would start walking expressionless.

One personality trait of his that I appreciated was he had an amazing curiosity for new English words and during those times, a few of us in the class had started preparing for the GRE exams for a 'better' future ahead in the USA. Thus, any and every kind of new English word were welcome. Suddenly he would turn up and ask the synonyms, antonyms or meaning of words like: "loquacious", "taciturn", "hypochondriac". But the irony was, if he started speaking English, it would come out as a marriage of not-knowing pronunciations and not-knowing how to construct sentences. A professor could loose his/her patience if Samresh would stand up to give an answer. After a while, he would be asked to reply in 'hindi'. Not that he was such a pitiable character, but he would make things difficult for him, as if he had failed one year to test himself. Does this also make him half-neurotic? There's more to come.

One day, just a couple of hours before the internal 30-marks exam was about to start in the afternoon, some students spotted Samresh packing up his bag and heading out of the hostel. A curious classmate confronted him near the lobby, as Samresh continued walking from the lobby to the lawn and to the main gate.

Classmate: "Samresh!!, where are you going? Its 12 30, we have an exam at 2".
Samresh looked as if he was in a hurry.
Samresh: "ya I know, I will be back by then".
The classmate was not satisfied from the answer.
Classmate: "No, but why are you leaving now? Have you prepared for the exam? Have you studied the Boltzmann's constant?
Samresh: "No, I have not read that, but please allow me to go, I will be back by 2.
Curious classmate: "But where are you going with a bag and all?"
Samresh stunned the classmate with his answer.
Samresh: “I am going home, but will be back”.
Another classmate had by then joined in cajoling Samresh. Both of them were now trying to ask him that why does he need to go home, right now, just before the exam.
Second classmate: "Samresh, why home now? Do you need something? Is everyone okay back home?
Samresh: "I said, I will be back. I just need a 100-rupee note from my home and I will be back for the exam."

Both the classmates stopped on the gate and looked at each other. This guy who could borrow anything from anywhere as if the hostel was his ancestral property is now going home for a hundred bucks and that too before exam! They thought its better to return to Shri Boltzmann and his equation then bothering about this cracked nut. As the class was writing the exam, Samresh did return, albeit a good 20 mins late. Does this also make him half-neurotic? Well, it does in a small way. But there's more to come. That strange night of the final examination.

To be continued…


© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

The Men, The Mund and the stories from the Mallu Land.

Simply put the best of the journeys are the ones where you meet people. People with whom one can humanely identify and sometimes they do allow giving a sneak peak in their daily lives. At times me thinks that Indians have an amazing emotional quotient within themselves. A small train journey across the country, an afternoon bus ride, a casual conversation can lead an individual to unravel the most of his daily life to complete strangers like me. Meeting people can sometime change something within you, maybe it lets you loose the adamant inside you; maybe it leads to discovery of a world much bigger than one inhabits and many more such mysteries of life.

After graduating I had promised this to myself. Hell, if I ever make a film or not, whether I ever write a good story or not, whether I ever shoot a good picture or not, one thing that I would surely do and be honest with myself while doing that is – traveling and meeting people. Sometimes in the garb of film shoots, sometimes as a tourist, sometimes as a wanderer and sometimes till my pocket allows me to. To travel, to meet, to engage with people is an opportunity that a fiction writer would never let it go. It can give birth to his ‘characters’. Last month, my tryst in Kerala lead to meeting some such eccentric but everyday-life characters.


Warning: Some words are deliberately pronounced in the Mallu way.

A restaurant in Eddapally post 9 30 pm. Anyday of the week. A wiry man with a small bushy moustache, big eyes, semi-curly hair sitting outside the restaurant. Having a conversation in English in the Mallu land can lead to disastrous damage to the grammar and the sentence formation of an individual. The exchange would be sprinkled with amble amount of sign language thrown in and the most common words to be heard will be: OK, Esss (Yes) and Good. Infact, if it weren’t for the invention of the word ‘OK’, survival for a non-mallu in Kerala would be next to impossible.

Me: Dinner?
Man at Restaurant (gets up with a smile): Ess…

Me: What for Dinner?
Man at Restaurant: Ok...
He stares at me for a while, as if the sooner I utter the food item name, the faster the dish will appear. He gives an expression that says: “Hukum karo mere aakaa…!” I didnt know what is available post 9 30pm, so I look around.

Me (Sign of opening a book): Menu??
The Man at Restaurant smiles and keeps smiling for reason he alone knows.
Me: MENU???
Man at Restaurant (suddenly realizing): Esss…Only Chicken, Beef, Feesh, Prawns and Rice…
Me: Rice…Ok.
Man at Restaurant: OK…Egg Rice??
Me: OK
Man at Restaurant: (some sign language, which I cant comprehend and I choose to ignore)

A little later he brings as much Rice in a plate that could be eaten by half of Gujarat. I look at him and from underneath his bushy moustache comes his irritating smile.

Me: So much?
Man at Restaurant: Rice. Good for brain…OK
Me: But half of this will go down drain…OK?

Man at Restaurant: No problemb…! Give to the Temble people.


He smiles again. I look towards the intimidating rice plate and eat it for a while. I needed a camera there, thought of capturing his unique smile, but I didn’t have a camera then.

On another instance, when the auto rickshaw driver didn’t know English or Hindi, I had to bargain for money through typing the digits on my mobile.
I type: 100

Auto Driver looks at the numbers: “Ille, Ille, Ille..”

I type: 120

Auto Driver looks at the numbers: “Ille, Ille, Ille..”

I type: 140

He looks at the numbers and smiles, starts the auto rickshaw and there we go.
Between him, and me there was only one word that we knew: “Allepey”. Which is where the auto driver was taking me from Muhamma. There again I didn’t have a camera, thus from the next day, I promised that come what may, I would have to keep a camera with me.
Below are the few characters I met subsequently, when I had a camera with me.

The Dreamseller



The lotterywallah. Perched outside a public place in a small town or hanging near the busy market would be this dreamseller. Just 10Rs for a ticket. Buy one in the morning and results will be out in the evening. The lottery is sponsored by the Royal king of Bhutan. The prize money, well it ranges from 2000 to a princely 5 lakhs. Needless to say, he attracts a lot of attention in the wee hours of morning. From shopkeepers to drunkards, from fisherwomen to housewives – all try their luck here. He has a bicycle for himself. Thus the mobile lotterywala goes to its patrons and not the other way round. To pass the good luck around, he himself puts vermillion on his head for Cod’s blessings.



The Pandit-Purohit of a local Polish Station


Fans of Maqbool will remember the incredible duo of Pandit-Purohit played by Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah. Asked by their senior inspector to be on a duty on a movie set, their day was made. Free tea, free biscuid and free enderdainment. Since they are told in the morning that they would be going to a movie set, they come in their crisp uniforms and trimmed moustaches. They are permanently found near the beverages stall, as if the Producer told them:
‘Gendlemen the bar is open’

The Naavi


The one who lives, sings, eats and drinks in his naav (boat). One can easily locate Mr. Naavi during the sunrise and sunset times, as if the Department of meteorology sends him daily to note the sunrise and sunset timings at the backwaters. The arrival of Mr. Naavi is signaled with a murmur-like Malayalam song that he sings for himself. With his fishing gear inside his naav and a song on his lips, he appears to be in sync with nature. Looking at him, I remember Ernest Hemingway’s ‘The Old Man and the Sea’.

The Shop of the Town



Believe it or not, I haven’t seen alcohol being sold like this ever before. It’s as if after a major drought, the government has sent a water tanker to the town for its thirsty people. Patience, outside the alcohol shop gets a new definition in Kerala. There is amazing discipline when it comes to buying alcohol. The lungi brigade is always found in hundreds but always in a single queue. Some shops also have iron-made small pillars outside for the queue to remain straight, the way Bus stands are in Bombay. By the time the clock strikes 10 pm, one can see some of the men who were in the queue now lying on the footpath or sleeping completely inebriated, hardly knowing which part of the world they are until the harsh morning sun wakes them up. So the next time one fights the election from Kerala, you know how to lure the men there. One of my graduation colleagues who now lives in Aluva told me to catch up around 4 pm and I thought that’s quite an odd time to meet friends looking at the heat in Kerala. She later told me that post 6 pm, once the wiry, lungi-clad brigade start lining up at the alcohol shops; the scenario for a girl changes from bad to worse. For more click on this BBC article passed by a friend.

The Men and their Munds.


What is a Mallu without his Mund? Pass through a village and you would find the men in their small little groups staring at you. Maybe waiting for the next Rally, a Union Congregation, a Minister, a Road Show or a Film Hero to pass. By the way, if a Mallu finds himself besides a non-Mallu in the Mallu land than one topic that they both would invariably come across is Mohanlal. Whether you have seen his movies or not, the Mallu will have hundred and one things to say about his ‘Supersdaar’: The latest I heard is: Priyadarshan and Mohanalal are buying a new IPL team!


The Best Character I met in the Mallu land.


Rafey. But I call him Scientist. His story is long enough to be a separate entry on the blog.

P.S: My favourite thing in kerala for the whole month was: Chud Vellum before lunch. For non-mallus, please find it out for yourself. ☺

Do not forget to vote for your genuinely favourite Bappida song.


© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

The Final chapter – The Inheritance

For those who have been missing the story, here are the links to Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.
Suggestion: Don’t continue reading the Final Chapter, if you have not read the earlier two Chapters.

Warning: a long post.

The routine life was now set. Face the situation. Prepare for the impending disaster. Learn how the visually impaired tackle daily life problems. And the worst, wait for that day, when darkness will come to swallow your world.

Meanwhile the family members got busy trying to trace this defect in their own genes...where, where did it happen last? From grandfathers to great grandfathers the rest of the forefathers, as far as the family tree could be traced but they couldn’t spot the root of this defect. Not even an iota of evidence of the genetic ailment. This baffled the doctors too.
“How can that be? There must be, there has to be! The genetic connect.”
The pointless debate was put to rest, none of this meticulous tracing would avert the current predicament of the young man. Whatever had to happen… had already happened.

The young man yearned to move away from this dark chapter. In the summer of 1992, amidst the tunnel of darkness, came the first stroke of light in the form of...

The young man’s father was a good singer whose dream to sing for a famous hindi film music director was cut short due to familial bindings in the 1960s. And why do we talk about the father now, because here again another genetic transmission happened, albeit a different sort… this ‘inheritance’ was to become the light and sound of his life to come.

So though the father’s musical sojourn was cut short – that didn’t stop him from letting his children take a sneak peak into it. The young man had learnt harmonica for a few months during his childhood…musical roots which had then deepened within him, but as they say… once a grown up with the ‘grown ups’ responsibilities to shoulder, sometimes drawing from once own roots becomes a task. We forget to acknowledge what forms the core of us, what roots us. We forget, till it shakes us from within.

So coming to back to 1991 - As Salim in his auto rickshaw continued to ferry the young man from his Bank-to-home and back, the dark boredom had settled in.

Much like several other men, who turn to different kind of vices/devices to fight boredom, the young man too took upto one such addiction: tobacco.
Lesson no 1: Addiction is perhaps one of the very few things in the world that is above the class and caste divides, it eats up all, alike.

The young man had developed an amazing addiction towards ‘mawa’. ‘Mawa’ as referred in the colloquial Gujarati language is wrapped up in a small square-shaped plastic bag with a small thread tying the whole bundle. The constituents apart from heavy intakes of tobacco are lime, small pieces of betel nuts, and areca nuts like shrapnels of a military bomb. Infact the ‘Mawa’ in that small plastic wrapper is actually like a mini atomic bomb, which works a little differently. If dropped on someone, its uniquely evil elements would near hypnotize the senses; lure the individual for life, and ruin him hence. A ‘Mawa’ has to be vigorously rubbed on the palm to get its soothing hypnotizing element out. The young man had fallen for the charms of this mini atom bomb. Darkness can swallow you in different ways; tobacco was one of them.

Salim and the young man had become great friends by now. Lesson no 2: Tobacco can be a great ‘unifier’.
Someone should suggest the ‘mawa’ on the Indo-Pak border. The new friendship atomic bomb – Mawa sponsored by Danikchand.

On one of the regular evening meets at the Pan Shop in the city, a friend heard the young man singing casually. He loved the sound of it. He looked at the young man and a little later the discussion took another direction.
“What’s the point in continuing this Bank job?”
The young man of course came up with those societal reasons. Supporting the family, earning pension post retirement, getting the daughter married, when the time comes etc. etc. The friends won’t give up. The Friend who heard him singing just now pounced on the idea of trying out his hand in music. All the friends now suggested that the young man should give music a chance. This was 1991-92. Electronic music had just started to come up. India had started developing post liberalization symptoms. The economy was looking ‘good’ as we were told. Electronic goods were on a high.

Since the young man had a propensity to play the harmonica and sing, his friends suggested him to buy an Electronic KeyBoard. The young man was not sure of this investment. It could create a huge hole in his annual earnings. Nevertheless the risk had to be taken.
Music as the world will tell you, is often the best healer. Many visually impaired people have taken up music – From Charles Ray to all the railway station beggers. But here the story is a little different. Soon, the first mid-range Yamaha KeyBoard was brought from Bombay and the young man started to get a hang of the black & white keys and some simple functions in a few months. Now comes the most difficult phase, a reality check in some way - the Electronic Keyboard can avail thousands of instruments with a few change in buttons and some numbers.
For eg: 463 - Indian Flute.
522 – Acoustic Guitar
525 – Spanish Guitar
127 – Church Bells

The world of music was indeed on one’s fingertips through the Keyboard. It was a cumbersome task to learn from where and how all these instruments originate through just a combination of few buttons. If all this seems complex for someone who is gifted with eyesight, then for the young man who has just arrived in the world of darkness, it looked like an impossible task… it was foolish to even think of this idea! But by now the accidental idea had gone down deep within the young man – and brought to life an old-forgotten enthusiasm; As wise men would say: “Passions cannot be perceived on weekends” The way a poet and a painter do not create their work on working or non-working days, so the regular bank job was bid adieu to.

Soon another question that came up: “what will he do after learning the whole of KeyBoard? Is he planning to compose, sell, play – but where?” The friends suggested playing and singing in the Orchestra Parties that happen in and around their town. But for a visually impaired – to travel around the city at nights, to perform at big functions, to support the family, all couldn’t happen together. The family too couldn’t help the young man here. His children were in school, how could they support him everywhere.

And just then God sent Salim.

Salim, the auto rickshaw driver, was still hanging around the young man even after his Bank job was done. He had been observing the young man’s child-like enthusiasm on the new Keyboard. Somewhere deep down him, he too wanted to be a part of this madness. Madness is like magnet; it can attract and connect the most weird two things together. Soon, Salim volunteered to become the young man’s assistant cum sound engineer cum driver. He came up with the idea of supporting the young man in all the Night Orchestra shows by driving him around the town in his auto-rickshaw. He also took the additional responsibility of carrying all the instruments and holding the young man’s hand in those initial days of struggle.

If Salim had not lent the helping hand in these troubled times, this story would not have been written. As days passed, Salim also learned the art of sound mixing, joining microphones, checking the right volume, whispering the lyrics when the young man sang and a hell lot of other activities including preparing the ‘mawa’ after every performance for both of them. Stuff that could only happen in movies. A good muslim confidant is always there for the protagonist to prosper. Life is like movies. Ain’t it?

With all arrangement being done, the biggest task was now to play and sing together in front of a large and little unpredictable audience. How would they take a visually challenged entertainer? One could never know what would be their mood and what would be demanded from the singer-performer – a bhajan, a qawwali, an item song, an old classic, a ghazal. Any and every genre has its following. For a performer on stage, this is the task –to be prepared with all at all times! You never know what kind of demand would come next. All you know is you have to be ready with at least 400-500 different kinds of popular tunes which the Orchestra night crowd could demand. And if one makes a mistake, the crowd may get annoyed but will try to give you a sympathizing behavior due to one’s disability. And let me tell you any disable man in this world hates that kind of attitude. Remember Sai Paranjape’s beautiful film “Sparsh”

Having known the seriousness of the situation, the young man confined himself into a room and started concentrating and practicing the KeyBoard – 14 to 16 hours a day. There was no time for any social activity. Days, nights, weeks, months, years passed. Manna Deys, Talat Mehmoods, Jagjit Singhs, Ghulam Alis, Mukeshs, Rafis, Kishores, Narendra Chanchals, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khans, Kailash Khers – anyone and everyone was practiced and performed. The young man would listen and sing Salim would copy all the lyrics for him from the audiocassettes. The young man’s elder brother who had been with him all throughout his darkness couldn’t understand this madness. He thought this as a ‘phase’ that too shall pass. The young man spent some of his best years confined into a room under the huge photo of Saraswati Devi – the hindu goddess of arts and music. This was the ‘phase’ in the young man’s life that can’t be put into words… the sincere… sublimal devotion… stuff that purity it made of. Like the two decades that Andy Dufresne would have spent in the landmark film ‘The Shawshank Redemption’.

By now, the young man had started performing with different local orchestra groups that played at parties, weddings, occasions and hotels. Money started to come.
In a few years, the unbelievable happened. They saved up enough money to bring a bigger and an advanced model of Korg Keyboard from Bombay. Again got dedicated to learn this even more complex electronic instrument.

Such was his dedication towards playing the Keyboard that his guru, Mr. Kanti Sonchhatra who taught him in his initial years, challenges that today this young man (who is now 55 years old) is undoubtedly one of the fastest piano/keyboard player in our country.
“Let him sit in competition with almost all the piano players who can see the keys and lets judge”.
Yesteryear’s great singer – Manna Dey himself has felicitated the young man in his own town. He has a picture of the legendary singer with him in his almirah that is full of different trophies and medals.

A lot has changed since the day he first brought his Electronic Keyboard. His friends have moved on, but they do occasionally meet at the pan shop. His daughter is married and is going to be a mother in a few months.
Salim no more drives the auto-rickshaw. He has taken the driver’s seat in a brand new Maruti Alto. Their friendship is always talked about in the town. Salim and the young man – both still rub the tobacco on their palms and chew it regularly.

Seeing this the elder brother comments: “God took away his eyesight; and now tobacco will take away his voice”

The young man laughs it off. He believes it’s his genes that led him to the world of darkness and it’s the same genes that had music flowing in them. He inherited the ailment and he inherited music. Of how RP happened – it still remains a mystery.

Freeze. Visual of him sitting in his verandah, laughing with the red stained teeth and a sound that resembles zest for life.



Post-script: I have plans to make a documentary on the young man. But this was the back-story of the protagonist. The documentary isn’t about his back-story. It is about his today and the genes that could affect my future generation or me, and the idea of dealing with life as it comes.

The young man happens to be my uncle.

This story would not have been this interesting if it was not for the wonderful editing by my partner in rhyme and crime: Akanksha Tewari. Thanks.

Below are the few pictures that ‘psycho’, Bharat Parmar and me took during one of his performances.





I remember a Graham Parker song: – “Passion Is No Ordinary Word.”

© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

The Inheritance - Chapter 1

It was 1978. Rain was incessantly pouring outside. For a young man who had just shifted to this part of the world, such rain was nothing short of a catastrophic, but for the people of that sleepy small town on the Konkan coast, it was just another day in their half-year lasting monsoons…they slept unfettered by the thunderstorms.
The young man had no idea of how things would shape up in this new place. Geared with his ambition to make a career in radio, he had recently joined as an engineering assistant to the Akashvani radio station of Ratnagiri.

Music and Mathematics were two of his greatest passions, the ones he had successfully nurtured since childhood.
If middle class would have allowed a luxury of choice between his passions – and had he made up his mind to sing and play the harmonium, he could’ve been a prodigy.
But nonetheless through his indigenous formulas, he soon treated numbers like musical notes… he would calculate huge numbers within seconds… like an illusionary creation of musical symphony… numbers and musical notes grew more alike.

So being the kid of the 60’s and in a family of 6… the academic route was the safest. After graduating in Physics, he grabbed the opportunity to work at the radio station as a technical assistant, something that combined his academics and his passion for music.

As Gulzar Sa’ab has famously said, ‘…jo lagaye ne lage aur bujhaye na bujhe…’ Passion never dies.
So even unknowingly, the kid… now a young man saw himself taking up the ‘engineers’ job at the ‘radio station’.

The rains showed no signs of letting up; the peon came into the technical room and brought with him a world full of solace: a cup of hot tea. With it also came the first job at hand - the young man was asked to inspect a technical error, none had been able to figure the lapse. The sound console was lying like a corpse that was turning colder every minute. The technical error had to be resolved to bring the radio station back to life.

He concentrated his sight on the wooden board, the board with the colours of the world descending on it in the form of the many different coloured wires. Soon the hot tea worked its magic, he noticed the two wires that were responsible for this technical glitch. The wires were separated from each other and to get the Sound console working, the wires needed soldering. The peon got the equipment and soon the dexterous hands started to repair the fault. But something strange happened then…something he hadn’t seen in the 23 monsoons of his life. Hardly, did he know that this ‘first’ incident were the ‘first’ of the symptoms to come, his troubles had still nine more years to come by.

As he was about to join two extremely thin wires through soldering, he couldn’t figure out the approximate distance between them! It was amusing, for an adept technician like him, joining two wires was not the hardest of the tasks. Little did he know that his amusement could lead to a frightening reality.

Scientifically, observing a very thin set of wires during soldering requires many of one’s eye nerves to concentrate on that small junction. And even after putting in several attempts, the young man still couldn’t notice the distance between those thin multi-colored wires. Finally, he had to give up. The Sound console couldn’t be repaired, even after successfully identifying the problem!

His apprehension got the better of him… neither did he mention this rather unusual occurrence to anyone, nor did he took up soldering in future.
Few months into the job, personal family reasons had him to leave the job at the radio station – thereby terminating a career close to music, however obliquely but still close to music. He returned to his hometown in Gujarat. The family needed him there.

Then – much like the quintessential small town middle class today, all that the family aspired was a government job for their son and the obvious perks associated with a stable job. Soon, the young man struck gold. He was appointed as a cashier in a centralized bank. The mother was ecstatic and the family members couldn’t have asked for a more suitable career. A few years passed, he got married, and soon ‘settled’ in his career and routine life. He’d to his good forgotten that obscure occurring on that rainy night in that coastal town, an incident which had left him baffled then… now rested in the deep forgotten pits of memory.

Life was looking up - sometime later, he fathered a beautiful angelic daughter.

And then came 1987. The year that he would never forget throughout his life. The young man and his two brothers, with their respective families decided to visit Kashmir. This was just a year before the Kashmir insurgency. (The insurgency has got nothing to do with this story though.) The joint family was enjoying the snowfall at a hill station near Gulmarg. They had just come out from a major Railway ticket-fiasco at Jammu (an incident I would narrate some day later, it’s a different story for a different day).

The weather was extremely cold. There were some tourists lurking around. The tough dark-brown horses were shuttling the tourists, the mules were carrying the heavy construction material and the locales were busying milking the tourist season.

While enjoying the snow, the eldest brother took out his film camera and asked the family to pose for a memorable picture. After all joint family trips, snow, Kashmir - all are a rarity. Our man was given the camera and asked to click a picture of his elder brother and his family.

As soon as our man held the camera, he was in for a surprise again… a surprise that would bring back a memory conveniently forgotten. He saw through the viewfinder and could easily see the family he was trying to take the picture of, but there was an electric pole besides the family, which appeared strange for some reason. No he wasn’t seeing a ghostly apparition… but on second thoughts – what followed wasn’t any less ghastly.
The sight left him cold. A certain portion of the pillar that was in the frame appeared bent from the middle. It was as if someone had hammered the vertical pole from the centre and taken its central part away from the vertical line. What was it?

To be continued…



© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

Maa Reva Calling and an encounter with Indian Railways: Part 2

WARNING: A Long Post.

To continue from where I left… I finally reached Amarkantak.
To tell you honestly, the exact place where they say that Naramada originates from - the place with "Narmada Udgam" engraved, (In a very ‘I was here’ way), the first look makes you feel it’s like a municipal gutter lid, which has been leaking for years. The water is at its opaque best, there are ‘just-about dead’ flowers, ‘rotting dead’ flowers, ‘life being sucked out’ fresh flowers thrown in. Add to it the green pudiyas and some organic waste floating around. The instant thought – Did I travel 1300 kms to see this puddle? So much for the romance of Narmade… No I couldn’t let go of the hopeless romantic in me, not so easily… I saw a Panditji sitting there in all his pomp and glory.
So we, Psycho and me, thought of testing him:

We announced our arrival to Panditji...in the very trance like pronunciation of the word – very popular among the pilgrims, "Narmadey..."
(with emphasis on the ‘…deeeeeeeyyyyyyy’….. the sound of which would ring till the end of any conversation!)

"Narmadey" is like the buzz word in Amarkantak. The way "Oh, so cool…" is for Bombay and "Jai Mahrashtra" for Mumbai. Or like "Ganga Maiyaa ki Jai" in Haridwar. The holy man reverted back with not-so warm an enthusiasm. I asked him:

Me: "…Panditji, yeh Narmada shuru kahaan se hoti hai? "

Panditji: "…tumhari umr kitni hai…"

Wise question, but what’s the connect? – I thought to myself, not wanting to irk him I replied.

Me: "…Sataais saal"

Panditji: "…Toh wahaan kya likha hai saamne, padho...." pointing to the engraved writing.
Oh! Now I saw the point – the pandit with the attitude, I continued.

Me: "…Panditji likha to hai Narmada Udgam, lekin lag nahi raha ke Narmada yahaan se shuru hoti hai..."

Panditji: "…yaheen se shuru hoti hai."
He said, getting up – actually I knew from the tone itself – it was the very end of discussion tone, his arising from his glorious posture merely confirmed it.

Infact for a moment I visualized the next cut, the panditji - accusing me of blasphemy, takes the holy - opaque water in his hands and throws it on me saying, more chanting:

"moorkh baalak, mata ke baarein mei sawaal karta hai...

Errr…I raised my hands to cover my face…err…” and I snapped out of it.

We went around the series of temples and then caught hold of another Sadhu – he was the visibly harmless one:

Us: "…Narmadeyyyy..."
Sadhu: "…Narmadeyyyy..."

Me: "…Baba Yeh Narmada ki dhaara kahaan se shuru hoti hai..."

Sadhu: “…Yeh jo jitne chaaron aur parbat dikhaai de rahein hai na, (he said pointing around a full circle – after the finger tour he continued) - …in sabhi jagah se dhara aati hai...So convincing was his act - that both psycho and me did a 360 degree with our eyes following the direction of his finger – we looked around…and before I could ask him anything more, the Sadhu vanished much like a mythical figure.

Psycho concluded: "Basically no one has a clear idea of what happens with the river, but everyone has their story... jaise unke saamne hi shuru hui thi…"
Yeah, the start we don’t know – the end, we’re ensuring is very near!

For the next 3 days, we kept walking-walking-walking and talking-talking-talking, of course without any Mobile network. So sorry dear Idea, Balki, Abhishek and Ilaya Raja, your campaign didn’t work in Amarkantak. – No mobile coverage is equal to being completely untraceable! Much like what I feared…that the river would be once it leaves Amarkantak.

So coming back to the River, the most amazing thing that struck us that they have stopped the flow of the river just about – actually nearly right from its start!
Right after the few small ghats, for people to - wash away their sins, pets, kids, clothes, utensils and their SUVs, not necessarily in that particular order, comes a small dam-like structure which kills the flow of the river.
Why the SUV mention in the pilgrim land of Amarkantak, here’s why… there was a man constantly roaming on a Bicycle and shouting on top of his voice: No it wasn’t “All is Well!” He was shouting in chaste hindi:

"Ghat par gaadi dhona manaa hai. Jo koi yeh kriya karta paaya jaayega, toh usse 500/- rupiye jurmana vasool kiya jaayega"
(Washing your Cars in the River is prohibited. Rs. 500/- punishment).

While walking in and around we discovered that there is still a lot of vegetation, forests, trees, natural resources remaining for men to plunder. Good News all you corporations. Plunder….

From the place one is standing till the far end, right where till one's vision can go - there are mountains and mountains, covered with thick – dense trees, trees and some more trees. It was a beautiful sight. Seen in the photo below.
We sat there hours, letting the eyes soak in the sight of so many greens – eyes deprived of them for years in the megapolis. Then from somewhere behind one of those mountains came the moon. It was 31st December - Full Moon Day… the BLUE moon day. I hadn't seen the Moon so clear, so full in so many years. If the year was 1969, one could have seen Armstrong and Aldrin eating popcorns and jumping around.

While watching the river flowing ahead, we picked up a conversation with a local guy at Dudhdhara waterfalls, we asked him, "…where does the river Narmada go from here?"
He replied back: "To the Gulf of Khambhat..."
Wow...10/10 on geography, but we’ve not exactly come from Brazil.

I insisted: "We know that, but what's the first town or village it crosses".
He realized his mistake and smiled back saying: "Dindori..."


That night, we heard some hushed gossip among the Sadhus and some local men at Amarkantak: "Aaj to partyyyy hai... DJ bulaane waale hai ladke..."

I felt like running, but where to?? I had left Mumbai and come here, only to run away from the party nights-DJs and now this!

At the same time –I got curious, how would the Amarkantak version of new years DJ night be? Not probing further - Psycho and me decided to return to the city and now explore the 0.25 sq. km market area of Amarkantak. Finally we found a dilapidated tea stall with a small bonfire… The perfect place to celebrate our 31st dec 09.
The perfect place to
“To thank the someone up above – who watches, takes care and keeps a check on us…”
“Thank God…”
“For the love and peace”
The decade has been a very good one. We swam across careers and felt the high and low tides of life. At the start of the decade, we didn’t know where we were headed, joining the B.Tech in dairy technology at age 18, the quintessential gujju boys headed to the US land four years from then…to age 27 – the trying to be film maker/story teller.
With the decade coming to an end - we finally know where we want to row our boats.

While returning we spotted a small serene lake. We sat there for next many hours.
As Dev sir told me a few days back: "We have forgotten to hear the sounds that are around us". Right there I heard a dragonfly flapping its wings, the sound of the small tides, the shepherd whistling to his herd, his stick sometimes landing on the hard wet mud ground and sometimes on the cattle s back, the sound of stone landing on the lakes surface – and the ripples that generate, the sound of feet sinking in the wet grass… the wriggling toes to remove the mud stuck to it. I stored these sounds, crystal clear in my memory bank – If technology would’ve permitted; I would’ve recorded them and taken with me back to Bombay. But on this go greenesque trip, I had to rely on my senses to capture it all… the eyes the sight... the ears the sound.


Part 2B: The Journey Home

Indian Railways are always known to surprise you with its unadvertised-or rather uncalled for adventures. Our foolishness lead to one such adventure. It was biting cold that night. Like biting. I cant stress more. It was somewhere near 5 degrees. And like most of our trip, we were as unplanned. We emptied our backpacks, whatever last bit of clothing possible for a drape that we had with us, it was all on us yet we were feeling cold!
As we reached Katni Junction, we were told that the next train towards Mumbai is "Bhagalpur express" (again) at 3 30 am. The clock was striking 2 in the night then, an hour and a half in this biting cold!! Freeze!! A few minutes later to our ‘warm’ surprise - the Mumbai-Gorakhpur Express chugged in. We thought that the "Enquiry" person must have goofed up and this train must also go on the same route. We got in and surprisingly found a relatively empty compartment, contrary to the popular belief, that all trains headed to Bombay are full!

The thought of the warmth of our homes, and the much satisfying exhaustion of the trip made it easy for us to sleep till the biting cold out did my intention - I got up and rather innocently asked Psycho: "Why has Jabalpur not come?" It was 5 in the morning now.

"CHAI, CHAI, CHAI..." - breaking the calm of a cold morning, came the ubiquitous tea vendor. We thought of asking him: "Bhaisaab, Jabalpur kab aayega?". At first he was surprised and gave us a look as if we have asked his Tea for free. In a split second, his expression changed. It was his moment of power – knowledge is power, and it was clearly with him this time on!

Vendor: "bhaaisaab, Jabalpur reh gaya 250 km peeche..."

SHIT!!! We realized the mistake. The Train was actually coming from Mumbai and not going to – heard of the glorious Up/Down version. 3120 up means to the destination 3120 down means from –or some such! And there we were somewhere near Satna - supposedly the last station in northern Madhya Pradesh. If it wasn't for that biting cold, we would have slept in hope and dream of our homes and got up to find ourselves in Gorakhpur amidst travel agents who would take us to Nepal and from there to the Mount Everest.

"Jaldi...bhaag" screamed Psycho. We were shivering with the cold. It was severe. While running I realized that all these bloody news channels should get out of delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore and take temperatures for interior India and the statistics would be alarming. Soon on the next platform came "Gorakhpur-Durg" express.

To the Enquiry guy: "Yeh train Katni jaayegi?"
Enquiry guy with on his yet another lazy morning: "haaaaaahhh ... jaayegi..."

BHAAG...




Below are the few pictures of Amarkantak and that terrible cold night inside the train. They are in low resolutions.




















© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

Maa Reva Calling and an encounter with Indian Railways: Part 1

5 days. 3 states. 2 friends. 3000 kms in 4000 rupees. (all included)

The idea was NOT to spend the New Year amidst the jing-bang of Mumbai.

"Where do you want to go exactly?" asked Psycho. "I dont know, but the idea is to find peace when the next decade arrives" said me.

Then something struck: I replied him again on sms: "lets explore Indian Railways. Destination koi bhi ho, bas ticket kataao aur train mei chad jaao.." (Just think of a destination and get on board of the train that goes there).

Then again a destination came to my mind: Amarkantak. We did a basic research of whether a train goes there or not. It doesnt. Amarkantak is situated amidst Satpura Hills on Madhya Pradesh-Chhatisgarh border. Infact its on the top of the mountain range. The rivers Johila, Son and the most important lifeline of Central India, Narmada - they all begin here. "Udgam" as they say. River Son goes eastwards and joins Ganges without much controversy. Narmada flows westwards and as with things that go westwards, it comes face to face with controversies, wicked intentions, corrupt people, baseless right wing rhetoric and a BIG fucking Dam.

Back to Amarkantak, it has been a place in my heart than being on the map. Its been a place I have wanted to go ever since. And there s an interesting link on why Now?

Three reasons.

1. The river Narmada and its flow is a topic that is very near to my heart. I have my politics for trusting in Narmada Bachao Andolan. Thus, where and how does this river actually originate from has to be seen, before the politicians change its course or change the place from where it originates. On second thoughts, have they already changed?. Once while thinking wild I had made it a point to follow Narmada and its flow from wherever it passes through - various towns, villages, cities etc. Maybe a motorcycle ride awaits. But as of now, where does it all begin had to be seen.

2. Aseem Chakravarti, member of the wonderful band Indian Ocean, expired a week back, their wonderful song "Maa Rewa" has struck a chord ever since i had heard for the first time. For beginners, Maa Rewa is Mother Narmada.

3. Believe it or not. But the third reason is watching Avatar. When i saw the Na'vis being forced to leave their native land in the name of development, i was so shocked. I had always read about Harsud, about Kevadia, about all those fucking Big dams leading to displacement on mass levels but maybe had never seen that in actual visuals. Avatar showed me the sorrow of people and how does it feel to leave your own land, your own natural resources. As Arundhati Roy describes in her most dedicated essay: The Greater Common Good: "India's poorest people are subsidizing the lifestyles of her richest". More on Narmada later.

After the above three reasons, of which the last two happened in the previous week there was all the more reason to go to Maa Rewa. Its like she was calling, the way Delhi middle class would say: "Mata ka bulava kaun rok sakta hai..?"

Thus, we - Psycho, my best buddy in the last decade - our friendship literally started in 2001, now a student of NID, Ahmedabad, he and me started on this journey. We took the Bhagalpur Express from Kurla-Lokmanya Tilak to Jabalpur. From Jabalpur we hardly knew that we would be changing two more trains and one more bus ride to finally reach the destination. Being off season worked in our advantage - we got Sleeper Class tickets upgraded from General Class. In the wee hours of a December morning, we saw the great megapolis pass by.

There is an amazing romance involved with seeing the world pass by through the windows of an Indian Railways Train. Huts, Slums, Colonies, Trees, Cows, Herds, Kids, Electric poles, Clouds, Farmers, Vendors, Cities, Towns, Stations etc come and go. An interesting difference I observed is whenever one travels on Mumbai-Delhi or Mumbai-Ahmedabad route - we only see vendors selling packed wafers, branded food items, mineral water, cold drinks, chocolates etc - but when one travels through central Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh etc - we came across vendors selling grapes, bananas, oranges, custard apples along with the usual packed food.

Sunrises, Sunsets, Moonrises, Moonsets all suddenly become magical when seen through the windows of the moving train.

Below are some of the pictures taken through the moving Bhagalpur Express. Of course, needless to say, the Rights to use the pictures aren't your Father's Uncle's ancestral property. so please be aware.

Part 2 on Amarkantak and how we celebrated the arrival of 2010 at a dilapidated tea stall will be posted soon. Till then, enjoy the pictures.


CLICK ON THE IMAGE TO VIEW LARGE


















© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

Of Blood counts, Hospitals and dear life.

"Why are your eyes red?" asked Akanksha, on meeting after almost two months of the Rajasthan schedule for Mr. Benegal's "Road, Movie". I didnt have an answer, I checked in the mirror and thought, must be due to the traffic, or pollution, dust or something. Little did i know that Akanksha could see the danger coming, and well I could not. As usual, ignoring her concern, I went on with my activities, of being the part of post production team.

A few days later, it did come, like the invasion of those deadly locusts in Days of Heaven. First, in the form of rashes on the body leading to the scare and doubt of it being 'measles' and later in the form of high fever, extreme weakness and loss of appetite. As, the eyes started getting more red with passing days, I went to a physician. She suggested a few tablets and asked me to come after a week, But I had my sixth sense telling me
"ma'am my condition is too weak to survive on your small tablets till the next bloody week".

And since it was measles I was frightened to go to any of my Uncle's or Masi's place, fearing they all have kids ranging from the age of 8 to 20, who can be easily susceptible to such viral infections.

I can understand how some people would like to run away from such trouble rather than helping out the diseased. In a city, where every other day you find a dead body lying unattended on a local train station, the act of ignoring or even hating the idea of you being forced to see a diseased person for a few days in your house, is completely logical. In addition to it, you also have the fear of getting the virus transmitted, but then measles do not come so easily to adults as it comes to children. Thus, with those individuals I can empathize, but I cant respect them.

This is where in a state of complete helplessness, all one needs is a two second of concern and a gentle smile that "all will be well". No wonder Munnabhai is one of the best characters to come on screen in recent years, so much so that you wish that every hospital had a post called "the healer" without the patient knowing it who he or she is.

Coming back to the sob-story, on 21st October, MNS (Maharashtra Navnirman Sena) called for a local transport strike. No auto taxi or cab was allowed to ply on Bombay roads. On this fateful day, everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. A "stranger to this city" Tanmay and a workaholic Akanksha were subjected to run from pillar to post in a city that they were far from familiar. They knew no good doctors, no good hospital and almost no good people.

Akanksha's colleague came to help, she suggested her family doctor, Dr. Shenoy in Santacruz West, Shastri Nagar. On examining me for five minutes, Dr. Shenoy told us to rush for a Blood Test. The apocalypse had begun. The blood sample took away whatever little energy I had. I sat there on the steps of that "world's most expensive" (or so I thought) laboratory. Akanksha rushed to an ATM and Tanmay ran to get some food, whatever he could lay his hands on. At that moment, even in that state, it occurred to me how could someone feel if he/she is left alone to die in a city of billions.

The results of the Blood Test were soon out and by the time the results came (in some 5 hours), I had completely lost consciousness, as they say "life was getting blurred and out of focus", the only thing I remember is Tanmay's mom, Ruchi Aunty and Akanksha talking to Dr. Shenoy over the phone and uttering words like "admit", "hospital", "ambulance".

Before I knew, I was inside an ambulance that was enjoying its fast pace on the empty streets of Mumbai at 7 30 pm, the so-called rush hour in the evening. Well, in a certain sense it was a rush hour. As we reached hospital, there was a wheel-chair ready, on which I was put and the only visual I saw or I remember is Tanmay paying the ambulance driver.

Now as they show in movies, big hospitals have their own way of dealing with any and every kind of patients.

"25,000/- deposit" said the man at the reception. Remember those were early days in Mumbai to have your bank account filled with that much amount.

And as it happens in the movies, like a fairy tale godmother came Bhavya Mishra with her Citi Bank card. Whoa, the next minute I was in the ICU with all kinds of needles, tubes, bottles, sharp objects, bandages and an army of nurses working. Dr. Abhishek Bhargav entered the ICU, he was informed by Akanksha and Dr. Shenoy about the Blood count and all the different kinds of numbers from haemoglobin to platelets, from WBC to RBC. Akanksha was talking like an expert with the doctors and for a moment I thought, "was she an undercover Doctor" like Dipti Naval in that film, when Utpal Dutt gets a heart stroke. Ah- the perils of being a movie buff, you can never gauge the seriousness of a situation. Many more tests were conducted, with no certain results - neither it was Dengue, nor it was the deadly Falciparum. Even the virus was confused. The only thing they knew was that the platelet count in blood had gone terribly low and there was no resistance power left in the body. If it was mental resistance, I could have shown "Who's your daddy!", but here I didn't have a choice.

I came to senses when there were five people rubbing my feet, like that monotone sound that suddenly switches to the atmosphere sounds. From then till next seven days, I was subjected to the pungent odour of the hospital, the sight of patients with even more dangerous problems, shift-changing nurses, regular visits from concerned relatives, ever-increasing medical bills, a sense of claustrophobia, a set of worried parents and my worst fear in life - those Knife-like POINTED god-damned Injections.

The most touching memory of this whole incident: Hospitals have this system of Lunch for relatives of patients. Over one such lunch, my father broke down and couldn't end thanking Dr. Akanskha "from the depth of his heart" for saving Hardik. (from the depth of one's heart)

This week, 21st-27th October is the first anniversary of that incident.

I cannot end this write-up without this: Thank you Tanmay, Ruchi Aunty, Bhavya and Dr. Akanksha. I owe it to you.
(let it sound like an Oscar speech, after all life is precious)



© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

The Legend of Uncle Nemesis and when Gabbar Singh came in Lungi....

When he shouts, his voice soars like a hungry hawk, making echos in his area

When he raises his hand, the chaos would suddenly organize itself.

When he dons those black glasses, mankind will get justice.

And when he lifts his Lungi, the Earth under it is going to shake the world apart.

Enter Uncle Nemesis.

The protector of a hapless film crew.

The self-appointed guardian of public morality on how to behave when a Star actor is around

The defender of the 'outsiders' in a city like Mumbai


The Man who could easily give Quick Gun Murugan and Bappi Lahiri a complex with his combination of style, substance and sophistication.


I hereby take an opportunity to introduce him.

Shooting at real locations is always tough, especially in a crowded city like Mumbai. So, when the locales came to know that a film shooting with a Big bollywood superstar is going to happen at their Port area, they as usual went berserk. As the military conquest by the Vanity Vans started in the area, people started pouring out in huge numbers. The Film shoot security staff found themselves helpless in front of such a huge number, unable to take control over the situation they were threatened by such an outpour. The Mass was literally out on roads, a few were hanging from their roofs, some were perched on trees and some taking the best available positions for viewing, whatever the corners or support available. Nobody in the film production unit had the clue about how will they pull the shoot off. The Mumbai police constables had conveniently parked their vehicle in a corner and were waiting for the superstar to come. They had no particular interest in controlling the people or the crowd there. They were literally as they are shown in the movies - lethargic and waiting for some free lunches.

Suddenly the Production Manager spotted an avuncular figure amongst the crowd who was making way for himself in the frontline, so that he can be the first to see the Bollywood star, when he comes.

The figure was an Uncle who was dressed in a white shirt, Blue checkered lungi and was wearing dark glasses. His teeth were ultra-stained, his dark fingers were covered with long gold rings and he was armed with a black Umbrella, which he considered his style statement. He shouted something in Tamil and the roaring crowd came to a silence. When he raised his Umbrella, the kids started running helter-skelter, the unemployed & loitering youth checked their catcalls & whistles, the women grouped themselves together, the men made way for him and the chaos came to an abrupt end. The Uncle shouted again and everyone froze. His voice created an echo in that area and came back three to four times. Like the mazda of an army, like the seasoned warrior of the Mughal Empire and like the batsmen who scored a century at Lords - he raised his Umbrella - waves of hush-hush followed.

The Production manager was quick to spot his ability. Without wasting a second, he offered the Uncle some money and food, the Uncle assured him the rest will be taken care of, like in the Movies.

The Shoot was about to begin now. People were as quiet as the school children who have just noticed a long cane in the hands of their teacher. As soon as the Star walked out of his Vanity Van, suddenly the Avatar of Uncle Nemesis changed, he himslef became a kid -

"Won Photto...pleaz...Won Photto....with Sarr.."

The Production Manager allowed and the shoot went on smoothly. Impressed with his abilities even I asked him if he could oblige me for a photo with him. He smiled and posed.

Uncle, you were the real superstar for me that day. The star could be there coz you were around.


Thank You Uncle Nemesis.

You saved our day.





© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta

Tackling the language and how I made friends in class 6

People almost always have an affinity towards their own language. Not many can detach themselves from their own mother tongue and carry on with their cosmopolitan existence. Somewhere down the line, the “apanapan” in them “jaag he jaata hai...”!! Even, when students leave their home, one of the first things that come to their parents’ mind is that it would be better if their daughter/son finds a roommate/classmate/friend/colleague that belongs to the same region or speaks the same language.

“Ideas ka exchange aasani se ho jata hai, you see”
And / Or
“woh tumhe zyada behtar samajh sakenge..”

I remember how I used to make it a point to speak in the same language to my fellow ‘same-language’ classmates in Delhi. Sometimes it was forced but I carried on, maybe the language had a wonderful “sugar-syrup” quality attached to it. Remember, that interesting episode in the Akbar-Birbal story, about a man knowing every language, so well that nobody could decipher his mother tongue. But then, Birbal always had different ideas.

Ok, so cut to July, 1993 -

Our family was transferred from Mumbai to Baroda. I had just completed my class 5 then. Marathi was a part of my course in Mumbai and I was just getting a hang of it, when the transfer order came, my tryst with the Marathi language came to an abrupt end.

(Flash forward to July, 2008, the forgotten language came back like a long-lost boomerang in the Australian desert carrying Pandit Nehru’s famous words “tryst with destiny”. Enter the local train. Anyways that’s for later.)

Back to July, 1993.

So, when I reached Baroda, and entered my new class 6 - I saw this guy with a lanky frame, long face, and trying to be the hero of the class types (a few months forward again: I too would become of the same type - cutting out the lanky part, of course).

Enter class 6 classroom. Watching this “trying-to-be-hero” guy and his tall structure near the blackboard, I instantly started to have a dislike for him. Maybe it’s with the tall guys or maybe it’s with the idea of intimidating the class with your overbearing persona and ya maybe coz I m “not-so-tall”. To add to my “new-classroom blues” - the teacher hadn’t come and as a result it was time for monitors to mind the class. So, you see this lanky guy is a “monitor” aah...

As soon as he was near the blackboard (green board in our case) he selected a chalk-piece from the lifeless chalk box and started drawing something. No, it was not the drawing, but what he used to draw that irritated me. The drawing would consist of just one face - the side-view of a macho guy with a cigar on his lips and long hair that would extend till his shoulders. (Oh the other day I saw Nirmal Pandey at Lokhandwala market buying Naturals ice-cream. Same pinch. Even I love Naturals)

So now you know what that chalky figure on the board looked like. But Nirmal Pandey hadn’t graced our screen then. So, classmates felt that the lanky guy was trying to sketch someone like Sanjay Dutt in Khalnayak. Back in 1993, it was one of the super hit films, combining Dutt's real and reel life. Remember the 1993 Bomb Blasts case.

But wait, after the drawing came the most irritating part. Mr. Lanky would stand back and admire his sketch and would turn to the class and shout the most absurd thing that you would have heard.

"Ye waqt hamara hai.."!!!

Reference: even "Waqt Hamara hai" - a Akshay Kumar, Sunil Shetty film (then he was Sunil and not Suniel) was released in 1993. Thus getting clearly inspired from the movie, he used to do this stupid act. Oh, so maybe that chalky figure was of Akshay Kumar!

"ye waqt hamara hai,
ye waqt hamara hai"

Day 2 - Class 6.

The teacher enters the classroom and announces that since this is a free lecture, she will take Gujarati subject. She asked us to open our Gujarati textbooks. Now having studied in Mumbai, I never had Gujarati as a subject - but the irony is that my mother tongue happens to be Gujarati. But I was never taught to write.

I could speak, yes, very well.
Read: well, very slowly.
Write: A big No.

Although once my mother came to know that we are going to get transferred to Gujarat, she instantly told me that you will have to learn Gujarati now. She taught me for two or three days before I lost patience. Writing Marathi is much simpler due to its proximity to Hindi. But Gujarati, well I was never ready for it.

But here I was, the teacher had asked now to take out our notebooks and she started dictating. Mr. Lanky was sitting besides me. The class started writing. I was clueless. Words from her mouth came like the arrows in a Zhang Yimou film. They shot my head like a rocket. I could only match her speed of dictation for one or two sentences. Eventually, in the web of familiar words but unfamiliar territory of writing, I lost her. I thought I will look into Mr. Lanky’s book and start copying, but as soon as I tried to do this - Mr. Lanky turned the page. Now I was helpless. I choked. I couldn’t comply.

To everyone's amazement in the class, the 12-year old inside me started crying. The teacher stopped dictating and came to me. On knowing the reason she smiled. She told me to take Mr. Lanky’s notebook for copying at home. She said "practice". In a few days I would catch up - she promised.

The guy gave me his notebook. His mother tongue happened to be Hindi. Amazing irony!

Since that day onwards I started taking his notebook to home. During all the exchanges, I started seeing Mr. Lanky in a different light. I came to know his name: Shailesh Gupta.

The moment I made friends with him - school was never school. From then on, I so enjoyed coming to school. Sitting on last benches, we always had our comments reserved for every classmate, teacher, and peon of the school. We used to cycle together to the railway tracks to watch the brand new Shatabdi Express pass at 3 45pm in afternoon. We made sure that we go as far as possible from the station, so that we see the train in its maximum speed. One fine day, oh sorry, one fine night we were also caught by a police constable. Memories, I tell you.


Post-script:
In class 8, the Gujarati teacher was so impressed with my essay in the exam that not only she gave me the maximum numbers, but she brought my answer sheet from the junk and handed it to me saying: “please read this essay for the class”

The essay was called “shaak-bhaaji na market ma ek kalak” (An hour at the Vegetable Market) I remember describing the vegetable market (Kadak Bazaar near Baroda station) as a melting pot for people, vegetables, voices, noises, cows, cowdung, cow horns, car horns. (in Gujarati - it read - “Jo aam chaale bai, ne vach ma chaale gai... toh kya jaai aapda bhai...?)

Quite an achievement that was from the guy who once cried for not knowing how to write the language. Sorry for this last self-appraisal post script. But I loved that few seconds of celebrityhood.



© Copyrights 2009 www.bhaandgroup.blogspot.com. All Rights Reserved. Hardik Mehta