The car and the brief case

When he left his office it was already dark, rather unusually dark. The security lights had also been switched on. “Am I late today?” He rushed to the spot where he had parked his car.

He kept going around the office building but he could not locate his car. He recalled that he had parked it near a Letter Box. Yes, it was a Letter Box hanging somewhere on the wall. Or was it a Letter Box somewhere on the footpath outside the building. Yes, he had parked his car on the road.

Suddenly he realized that his brief case was not in his hand. But he was sure that he was holding it when he left the office. “I must retrieve it. ATM Card, driving licence, identity card, credit cards, everything is in that brief case. I think the cheque book is also in it. What a mess I am in.”

“But where did I park the car? Why is it so dark? There was a Letter Box somewhere here. Which side of the building did I park the car? If I can at least find and retrieve my brief case I will not have to go to the Police Station. I can go back in a bus. There are no buses plying on the road, why?”

The thoughts were like an endless running stream of water that he could not control.

Then an alarm went off somewhere in the office building.

He woke up with a start. “Thank God,” he said to himself greatly relieved. 

कभी सोचा था

कभी सोचा था कि

एक देवदार-सा धरती से उठ

आकाश की और चल दूंगा

हिम पर्वत पर बिखरी किरणों को

मुठ्ठियों में बंद कर लूंगा

तारों को छूं लूंगा

लेकिन

सारा सोचा समझा जीवन का गणित

कहीं बीच में ही खड़बड़ा गया

जब भी जितना भी

ऊपर उठा

उतने ही नीचे धँसता गया

नीचे

एक गहरे लिजलिजे अंधकार में

हर बार का ऊपर उठना

अपने को

नीचे धकेल कर ही हो पाया

तारों को छूने से पहले

रसातल छू लिया

परन्तु

इतना सम्मोहित कर रखा था

ऊँचाइयों  ने

कि पतन का अहसास ही न हुआ

कभी सोचा ही नहीं

कि जितना जाऊंगा नीचे

उतना ही दूर होते जायेंगे

हिम पर्वत/आकाश/तारे

आज पड़ा हूँ

एक गहरे अंधकार में

ढूंढता उस देवदार को

जो धरती से उठ

सीधा चल देता है

आकाश की ओर

© आई बी अरोड़ा 

Man, that’s how the Government of India works-2

As usual I was in my office at 9 AM and was busy disposing off couple of pending files. Normally no visitor would come at that time. I would usually clear all outstanding matters and set the agenda for the day. But that day I had a visitor at an unusually early hour.

Visitor: Good morning Mr Arora. I am Air Commodore So & So and I have just taken over as Air Attaché to the Chief of Air Staff. I thought that I must meet you today itself.

Me: Welcome to New Delhi, I hope and wish that you have pleasant and fruitful tenure.

Visitor: How can it be pleasant? Mine is the most difficult and taxing job in Air Headquarter. That is why I am here in your office. I must immediately settle my family. I must immediately get a house. It is impossible for me to leave my office even for minute. I may not even be able to meet you again in my complete tenure. Please ensure that something is done immediately.

Having already worked in the system for 17 years, I knew he was being rather dramatic, for rarely there was an officer in complete Government of India who was as overworked as he was pretending to be. Everyone had enough time for his personal errands, foreign trips, training programmes and for availing leave that would otherwise lapse. But I did not wish to spoil his exuberant mood.

Me: You should immediately meet the Quartering Officer and give your application for allotment of house. In your capacity as Air Attaché you are entitled to get a house on out of turn basis. But sometimes there is a waiting list for such out of turn allotments also. The Quartering Officer would be able to tell you about that.  He will tell you how many officers are already on the waiting list.

Visitor: Mr Arora, I believe in one thing. If you look after me then I will look after you. No doubt about that.

I was taken aback. It was an open secret that people in the system look after each other. But till that date no one had made such an offer to me and with total assurance. For a moment I did not know what I could say.

Me: We will definitely look after you, it is our duty. But I don’t think I need any looking after.

Visitor: but I mean it, you look after me, I will look after you. Anything you need from us just name it and I will see what can be done.

Me: For the moment I think you should immediately submit your application for the house. If you delay it, someone else may give his application and score a march over you. You may get relegated in the waiting list.

Visitor: Oh! Yes, you are right. I will immediately give my application, but don’t forget what I said.  You must look after me.

The officer left my office. I spoke to the Quartering Officer and told that he could expect a visit from Air Commodore So & So. I suggested the officer should be allotted a house immediately but strictly as per the laid norms and procedure. I never met that officer again. But I kept a watch on his progress in his career.  

The Air Commodore rose, with passage of time, to become an Air Marshal of the Indian Air Force. 

When I killed a Hoopoe

It was summer of 1965.  I had nothing to do. I was roaming in the orchard in front of our house. It was not a well maintained or well managed orchard but it was good enough for an idle boy to keep himself engaged. There were a large number of apple and cherry trees, a huge walnut tree and of course one plum tree. But first I must tell you about where this orchard was.

If you have been to Kashmir and if you have visited the Mughal Gardens, you may have seen some villages located between Shalimar Garden and Harwan (Harwan, of course, is not a Mughal Garden). Midway between these two famous landmarks, there is village named Chandpura; you would not have heard of it. My grandfather had purchased a piece of land, with a good number fruit bearing trees, in that village. The orchard was almost next to a stream of ice cold water coming from Harwan. He had built a two storeyed house in that orchard.

Grandfather rarely stayed in that house.  But it was a beautiful place to live in. In 1965 my father decided to shift there for a few months. There was no electricity till we ‘managed’ a connection.  For water we relied on a spring which was just outside the boundary wall of our orchard. Spring water was crystal clear and ice cold. There was fish too; but traditionally in Kashmir no one catches fish from a spring; they only use spring water for drinking and cooking.

Life was slow and lazy; the minutes and hours were unusually long in that peaceful and serene place. I always had plenty of time to while away. So it was on that one summer day in 1965. I was whiling away my time in the orchard doing nothing. I kept drifting and roaming among the trees and stones; I climbed a tree; I crossed and re-crossed the boundary wall. There was a pencil-thin stream of fresh water flowing through the orchard; I waded through it for some time; I criss-crossed it a few times. And yet, not even an hour had passed.

It was then that I saw this hoopoe which I eventually killed. It was full of energy; it was cheerful and lively; it was a beautiful bundle of unrestrained movements; it was mesmerizing.

A wild thought came to my idle mind, ‘what if I hit it with a stone?’

And even before any answer could come from anywhere, I picked up a stone and threw it at the bird. What followed thereafter is itched on my memory and for ever.

The moment the stone left my hand, the bird flew; not because it had sensed the imminent death; but because of the destiny which was about to intertwine two of us. The stone hit the bird when it had just taken off. It fell on the ground like a dead stone. For a few seconds I was stunned. I could not believe what I had seen. Even in my wildest imagination I had not expected to hit the bird. I stood rooted to the ground, not knowing what I should or could do.

Then with trepidation I approached the bird lying on the ground. Anxiety and fear were over powering. I felt as if I was approaching an injured wild animal. But it was only a little bird and it lay helpless and dying. I was scared to touch it. I was scared to even look at it.

Then very carefully I picked the injured bird and brought it to the water. I dipped its beak in water. But the bird did not react. Perhaps it needed something more than a sip of cold water to revive and overcome the injuries. Guilt and frustration were raging in my disquieted mind.

I left the bird near the stream hoping that somehow it would survive the injuries that I had inflicted on it. But it died; perhaps it died a painful death.  

Even fifty years later I still suffer the remorse and guilt of foolishly killing an innocent bird. It met premature and unnatural death just because I had nothing worthwhile to do to while away my idle time.

रंग ले आये

सुनो,

रुको/सुनो,

सड़क पर, गली में, नाली के अंदर

बहता यह लहू

अगर तुमको दिखाई नहीं देता

तो इस लहू का ही दोष होगा,

शायद यह लहू रंगहीन होगा.

पर देख सकते हो तो देख लो

यह छलनी सीना

यह कुचली देह

यह फूटा सिर.

रुको और देख लो,

यह सब अभी इसी पल,

कौन जाने कब किस पल

ऐसा ही कुछ

तुम्हारे साथ भी घट जाये.

तुम्हें बहता लहू दिखाई नहीं देता

लहू से सने हाथ दिखाई नहीं देते

अँधेरे को चीरती चीखें सुनाई नहीं देतीं

तो यह तुम्हारा भ्रम ही है

क्योंकि यह सब यहीं हैं

जैसे मृत्यु यहीं है

यह सब तुम्हारी ओर बढ़ रही हैं

जैसे मृत्यु तुम्हारी ओर बढ़ रही है,

हर पल, हर क्षण.

सुनो,

कोई चिल्लाया

शायद किसी कंस ने

किसी बालकृष्ण को मार गिराया.

सहमो मत

सहमा हुआ व्यक्ति

बहुत धीरे मरता है

और एक दुखदायी मौत ही मरता है.

रुको और लौट आओ,  

लौट आओ

और भिगो लो अपने हाथ

इस बहते लहू में

अभी इसी क्षण.

फिर शायद

तुम भयभीत न रहो

फिर शायद

तुम्हें दिख जाये

बहता लहू

लहू से सने हाथ

हाथ में खंजर .

फिर शायद

तुम्हारे हाथों में

जुम्बिश आ जाये

और तुम्हारा लहू

सड़क पर, गली में, नाली के अंदर

बहते इस बैरंग लहू में

रंग ले आये.   

(कई वर्ष पुरानी घटना है. एक पत्रकार और उसकी पत्नी को किसी राजनेता के गुंडों ने पीछा कर मारा और अंततः उनकी हत्या कर दी. लोग बस चुपचाप देखते रहे. कोई उनकी सहायता के लिए आगे न आया. उस घटना के वर्णन ने मुझे बहुत प्रभावित किया था और मैंने यह कविता लिखने का प्रयास किया था. ऐसी घटनायें लगातार घट रही हैं कल भी कहीं कुछ ऐसा ही हुआ है पर हम कुछ सुन देख नहीं पा रहे)

© आई बी अरोड़ा

Why I have stopped ‘studying’ newspapers

I recall that an article titled “Plebs and Princes” written by Frank Moraes was published in Indian Express about 45 years ago. I think I read this article, word by word, at least two times.

Interestingly this article was republished by the newspaper after a gap of month or two.  I thought the newspaper had made a mistake. But then I saw that there was a small clarification. It was mentioned that the article was being republished on the demand of readers. The article was directed against the political class, particularly those who were members of Parliament and were being giving privileges befitting princes. Despite obvious bias against the politicians, it was fair analysis of the realities. And, therefore, one was tempted to read it word by word.

And it won’t be an exaggeration if I say that most of the reporting by newspapers in those gone by days was professional.  It was ‘reporting’ in true sense of the term. Facts were reported and analysed; judgements were rarely passed by the press people. At least I enjoyed reading newspapers. In a sense I was studying the newspapers, many a time reading an article or news report two or three times.

But things appear to have changed quite a lot. Now, by just knowing the name of the newspaper and that of the author one can know as to what the news report or the article would contain. The biases are so obvious that objectivity is at a total discount. And reporting is, more often than not, pathetic.

For years I was subscribing to one newspaper only. Generally it was Indian Express; but in between I switched to HT, Times and Pioneer. And I used to spend quite a bit of my time reading the paper. These days I buy three papers, but hardly invest any time in reading them; most of the time I like to read sports news only, and even on sports page I look for Tennis news, rather Nadal news. Rest appears nothing but bunkum.

Man, that’s how the Government of India works

“Who is senior, Major General or Lt General?” he almost barked the question. I was taken aback, and for many reasons. He was an IAS officer with at least 28 years of service behind him. Agreed that it was his first assignment in Ministry of Defence, but with his background and membership of elite Civil Service he was expected to have some understanding of the rank structure of Indian Army. 

“Sir, a Lt General is senior to a Major General,” I replied as politely as I could; a Joint Secretary must always be replied to politely, for that is the level where Government of India starts working and every underling is expected to assist him in performance of his onerous duties.

 He was not satisfied with my reply, and I could easily guess from his looks. But even in my wildest imagination I was not prepared for what was to come.

“Who is senior, Major or Lieutenant?” he fired his next question. I was totally floored. But I had no option but to reply.

“Sir, a Major is senior to Lieutenant,” I tried to be as polite as I could be.

“If that be so how come a Major General is junior to a Lt General,” he said with a triumphant glint in his narrow eyes.

I was dumbstruck by his logic and just did not know how I should react. I was tempted to say, “Sir, you would do a great service to the nation if you could analyse and decide issues with equal brilliance.’

However, I just mumbled something inane and wriggled myself out of the situation.

The officer in due course of time rose to head one of the crucial Ministries of Government of India. That is how the Government works.