Sick Delhi

In the hot noon looking a cool place to rest in the night,

The Delhites boat is under the clouds of toxic sprite,

The water bodies stinking and encroached by the evil spirit,

The bravo for admired, favourites, sold to a passion of corrupt.

The flutter of the dirty curtain, give shade to sick inside the hospital,

The assembly of rivals, the false oath, the rage and fall,

The rowdy people, the leaders with arrogance, sunning duty call,

No listener to guiltless souls those collect and revisit dark wall.

Dominants growl of over-fed who fall in fits,

Invective women, dashing home, delivering babies blitz,

Criminal making shady offers, denial met with curved lips,

Women sat crossed legs, smoking, drinking waiting for client’s chits.

Unchaste girls going to marriage, in open air theatre, 

Dressed mostly in skin, trapping the groom by litter,

Long eyelash, breast bare, locks fall upon voluptuous curve glitter,

Beard and curls of groom making him queer gender, jitter.

The gravediggers arise early and wait for a man to die,

Tucking trouser-bottoms in boots, burying dead in tiny time,

The happy slave came, running, to him, another coffin outside,

And hurry, he kept digging the soil to bury another dead pile.

Young men and young girls bath together in a pool,

Young men and young women, friendly and cool;

But all, still very lonesome, friendless and fool;

Unknown hands passing from their temple and ribs like a tool.

I too am failing to understand, none too able to translatable,

Shocked to see the barbaric yawps, dashing on high way cable,

Wishing to leave the city and air harsh to escape hate racial,

I effuse my limbs in eddies and glide it in the lacy table.

I want my Mom

It was the celebrations of Holi.

From the cold, silent and narrow streets and passages appeared white clothes clad people and skull cap on head. Seeing them, the people avoided that closed road. They did not want to spoil their mood.  Some walking, some singing, some dancing, some riding on horses, some moving on bullock carts and some carrying colours. The entire city of Ghaziabad became one in this merrymaking.

One little baby ran between his father and mother, filled with joy and playfulness.

“Come, baby, come,” called his mother, as he left behind, attracted by the balloons, colours, pichkari and toys in the temporary kiosks those lined the lanes and roads.

He rushed towards his parents, his feet dutifully followed to their command, his eyes still roving on the diminishing toys.

As he reached to where they were waiting for him, he could not repress the yearning of his feeling, even though he knew well the familiar, cold gawk of a snub in their looks.

“I want the pichkari,” he begged.

His mother came back and bought a red colour pichkari for him. Cheeku gave a sweet kiss to his mamma. It is a well-known price for every demand. 

His father, softened by the joyous spirit of the festival and, giving him his finger to cling to, said, “Look, baby, what is before you!”

It was a huge mall, yellow lights glittering like the rising sun as it spread across shops and shops of beautifully constructed building. 

A group of foreigners was busy about on their shopping spree, capturing the best price through hard bargain and other shoppers in search of low priced items from the Holi festival sale.

The baby trailed them in the air with his stare, until one of them would stop their steps and relax, and he would try to go behind them with strange looks. However, they would move unconcerned, flickering, surveying different items up into the shops, when the baby had almost touched one of them by his hands. Then his father gave a reproving call: “Come, baby, come, come on with us.”

Hearing the call, he ran towards his parents merrily and paced side by side with them for some time, being a child, however, again left behind, fascinated by the little children of the foreigners and shoppers in the mall. They were moving merrily with their family members to enjoy the outing and shopping.

“Come, baby, come!” his parents yelled from the shade of an umbrella where they had seated themselves on the chairs to relax and take tea. He dashed towards them. A shower of multi-colours fell upon the baby as he ran towards the shade made of an umbrella, and, disregarding his parents’ call, he began to enjoy the raining colours by his tiny hands. 

But hay! He saw the running of a toy train and ran towards his parents, shouting, and “The train! The train!” 

The raining colours vanished out of his unconcerned tiny hands.

“Come, baby, come!” they screamed to the baby, who had now gone chasing the toy car in another toy showroom, and holding him tightly they took the narrow, zigzag walkway which led to their house through the market.

As they reached near to their colony the baby could see many other footpaths full of known faces, congregating to the eddy of the fair, and felt at once tired but happy and mesmerized by the puzzlement of the world he was enjoying.

Reaching home, his mother opened her laptop. On reading an email, she was flabbergasted. She could not utter a syllable. His mother was a manager in a nationalized bank ‘Indian Osea Bank.’ She has been transferred by the bank head office to Ludhiana. She has to join the bank in Ludhiana, on the coming Monday.

The atmosphere of the family was changed. Now, little baby Cheeku has to live with his grandparents.  A hushed silence engulfed the house. His mother started preparations to go to Ludhiana to join the new branch.  The child realized that there was something wrong in the house.

Ultimately, the day of partition arrived. On Sunday evening, his parents boarded Chhatisgarh Express from Ghaziabad, to go to Ludhiana.  Little Cheeku cried and cried. His mother also cried with him. Nevertheless, she had to leave. Clutched in the lap of his grandmother, little Cheeku saw the train of his mother lost in the dust.

The system of transfer is a system of breaking families. Children have to live like orphans, far away from their mother or father or from both. It is snatching and killing of their childhood

This transfer also snatched the happiness of litter child. Little Cheeku was silent. He did not enjoy his milk and food. Throughout the night, he kept on looking for the cosy lap of his mother.

 Next day, his grandparents took him to the mall to make him happy. 

A toy seller hawked, “Car, cycle, flute, balloon,” at the turn of the entry and a throng pushed around his counter at the base of a design of many coloured toys, decorated in papers, bright of silver and gold. The child gazed open-eyed and his heart wished for the car that was his favourite toy.

“I want that car,” he slowly murmured in the heart. However, he controlled his passion. His grandparents were equally very sad on the separation with their loving daughter-in-law.

He knew as he begged that his plea would be heeded because his grandparents would see him laughing. But, he remembered his mom. Therefore, without waiting for anything he moved on. 

A flute seller was playing on his flute, hawked, “Flute, the flute of Krishna!” The baby appeared temptingly drawn. He went towards the trolley where the flutes lay exhibited and half mumbled, “I want that flute.” But, he very well knew the sad mood of his grandparents and they would not snub to buy him those flutes because they would buy a flute for him happily. But the little baby remembered his mom and without waiting for an answer, he moved on.

A man stood holding a stick with red, blue, yellow, green and purple balloons tied and flying from it. The baby was naturally drawn towards the multi-coloured brightness of their shiny colours and he was overflowed with an irresistible craving to seize them all. However, he well knew his mom was away. He did not want to disturb his grandparents. Therefore, he moved away farther.

A monkey-player sitting dancing with a damroo to a monkey that danced and jumped in the open space of the mall, its head lifted in a stylish manner like the neck of a king, the music entered into its undetectable ears like the soft hymn of an invisible temple. The child went towards the monkey-player. But, knowing his grandparents’ predicament, he preferred to remain silent. He refused him to hear such coarse music as the monkey-player played, he moved farther.

There was a big crowd at the clock tower of the city. Men, women and children, dancing in a revolving action, yelping and yelling with woozy amusement. The child gazed at them fixedly and then he retreated and said: “I don’t want to go to the clock tower, please, grandfather, grandmother.” There was no response. He turned to look at his grandparents. I want to go back home.

They were surprised at his changed behaviour. He turned to look on both sides. They were not ready to take him back home. He looked behind. There was no sign of going back.

At last, the baby could not control himself.  A bursting, fierce cry ascended inside his arid gullet and with an unexpected jolt of his body he ran towards his house where he stood, weeping loudly, “Mother, Father.”  Tears spanned down from his eyes, burning and furious; his red face was trembling an urge to meet his parents. 

Fear-stricken, upset, he tried to leave them and he started running hither and tighter, one side first, and then to the other, in all directions, knowing not where to go.

“Mother, Father,” he screamed.

His new clothes became dirty and his red cap came down. 

Having run from side to side aimlessly looking for his parents, in a fit for a short distance, he could not understand what to do, his screaming concealed into sobs.

At little distances on the pavement, he could see, through his teary eyes, people talking about the transfer of his mom.

He tried to look intently among the people laughing, talking loudly and senselessly about others, a typically Indian mentality, especially among the lower class people, But his father and mother were not there among those street roadies.

He forced his grandparents again, to take him near a place of worship, where he was petrified to see the huge crowd. Devotees occupied every little inch of space.  He ran his eyes through their bodies, his suppressed sobs persisting, fearing the devotees: “Mother, Father!”

Close to the mosque, however, the crowd became very large: men bumping each other, rude men, with flashing beard, brutal eyes and sturdy bodies. The sobbing baby fought to drive his eyes between their bodies and feet but his ageing, weak grandfather was pushed knocked back and forth by their atrocious movements. They might have been crushed underfoot, had his grandfather not yelped at the maximum pitch of his voice. He too cried “Mamma, Papa!”

The helpless grandfather in the swelling crowd took him out of the crowd. The baby was still sobbing. With great difficulty, clutching the child in his arms, he cursed the authorities,” Why his mom was transferred? They are responsible for killing his childhood.” The old man murmured to himself, as he came out of the crowd, protecting his grandson. The child wept inconsolably than ever now and only sobbing, “I want my mother, I want my father!”

The grandparent tried to calm him by taking him to the park. “Will you enjoy swinging?  He softly asked as he draws near the swing. The baby’s throat burst into a hundred piercing sobs and he only screamed, “Where is my mamma and where my papa is?”

The grandfather went towards an amusement park where all typed of games were played. In an open space, children were enjoying the ride on the toy train and toy cars. “Look at those beautiful train and cars, baby!” he pleaded. But the child shut his eyes and cried his double-pitched voice: “Where is my papa and where is my mom?”

The grandfather took him to a toyshop, thinking the dazzling colours of the toys would amuse the child’s attention and calm him. .“Would you like bright-coloured toys?” he believably asked. The child turned his face from the playing toys and just sobbed, “Take me to my papa and take me to my mamma!”

Tired and exhausted the old men thinking to please his gloomy mood by the taste of sweets, and he will also take a cup of tea and relax there. He took him to a corner table of the shop. “What sweets would you take, my dear baby?” he asked. The child closed his eyes in the sweet shop and sobbed bitterly, “I want my mother, I want my father!”

The old grandparents, still trying to please the child, took him to the gate of the railway station to console about the arrival of his father and mother.

“Look! Can you see thousands of people coming, child! Soon your papa and mamma would also come.” The child turned his face and opened his eyed widely in the hope of seeing his father and mother.

There was a big crowd at the railway station. All types of men, women and children, coming and was going, some of them were carrying loads on their heads. The child gazed at the cried fixedly, in the hope, finding his father and mother. All of a sudden the child cried “ My mamma-papa!” His mother dashed, clearing the crowd, ‘My son!”

Swati took Cheeku in her lap. Cheeku clung about her mother. Swati kissed, kissed and kissed him. Her tears once again refreshed Cheeku, dropping like rain after a long drought. 

The child played and frolicking in the lap of her mother in the old innocent ways.  

Higher authorities were kind enough and the transfer of Swati was cancelled. 

Spiritual moments at the Holy Kumbh

Only Hindus can do this magic. It was magical moments at the Kumbh Mela: Everybody was busy doing his or her own work at this congregation place of a sea of humanity. There was a fear in my mind about the biggest gathering and its crowd. Nevertheless, it was also a motivation that forces me to this have this spiritual journey to the Kumbh Mela.

Braving the filth and garbage on the lanes and the degenerated buildings in the old Prayagraj, I was afraid of the sea of humanity crushing me down at the main mela site, rather than blessed with a spiritual experience. My eighty-five years old mother felt more energetic after touching the soil of Prayagraj.

After hard bargaining, we got a small makeshift guest room, at the rent of Rs.6000/= per day, at Allapur colony, a ghetto type colony, consisted of Muslims, Dalits and poor people, but all busy in making quick bucks.

We all four reach Gau Ghat and bargain for a boat journey to the mammoth Sangam area. The boatman charged Rs.1500/= per hour. The Sangam, for which Prayagraj is known, is the amalgamation of the Ganga, the Yamuna and the Saraswati, which is believed to be secretive-underground now. The boats are dilapidated but soon we all lost in the beauty of the Kumbh Mela. We forgot about all the troubles.

The cold wind was blowing that cleared the fog and the bright sun appeared. There was a new incarnation of the river Yamuna – it is not the frothing, stinking and slothful cadaver of water, one is adapted used to in Delhi. The Shyamal Yamuna is very aptly named. It is dim, deep and sweet smelling; it's sapphire waters hitting against the boat’s sides. Thousands of migratory birds, gliding inquisitively around our boat, over the holy waters and occasionally dipping into it. This was the difference between the Prayagraj of a Yogi and Delhi of Kejriwal.

The gentle winds tousle their wings and our hair. I widen out on the boat, watching the huge New Yamuna Bridge cruise diagonally the blue sky. The birds ascend like a rainbow cloud and start wheeling and rotating above our boats and heads, in search of eatable titbits.

I wanted this blissful never to end but within an hour we reach the main Sangam spot. The amalgamation of the Ganga and the Yamuna in a double coloured pattern was clearly visible but less clear than the merging of the Alakananda and the Bhagirathi in Dev Prayag, Uttarakhand. However, the waters are not so clean, here it is almost soil brown.

The boatman astutely drove the boat through the jam of boats, reminding of traffic jams of Delhi and leaving them behind to arrive at the sacred spot where we could take our holy bath. We plunge into the blessed water, holding tightly the ropes tied around the boat.

A small strip all along the Yamuna has been prepared and barricaded off and in that strip, which is mainly slow-moving water. Men, women and children, in different levels of undress, are frolicking in the water and taking the exemplary bath or dubki. Old women with hardly covered breasts and bottoms shuffle into it and carefully dip their heads into the water.

It was a unique scene. There was no distinction of gender, class or caste. Even no roving eve was there to look at the scantily dressed young girls.

The ground is wet … dry straw has been positioned on the sand to keep it as dry as useable. Signboards dot the area guiding the pilgrims and giving some holy message. There were very simple changing rooms for women, who crowd in there, removing their wet clothes in front of unfamiliar people, but nobody was concerned about other’s nudity. This is the wonder that is called Hinduism.

After the Yamuna, we stroll down to the bank of the Ganga. The river is flowing freely; thousands of birds of different hues are gliding on its speedily flowing waters, which was surprisingly very clean. The river meets the Yamuna after taking a curvy turn. This is the real Triveni or Sangam.

Just then, the lights were lit. It is a thrilling experience. The setting sun was like a big red plate. The bathers were shining the bathers are shining tired in the orange radiance. The full bright moon shines through holy water, the assembling nightfall and the thousands of floating lamps give the waters the facade of lotus floating on it.

We all had a long-cherished wish to attend the evening aarti on the banks of Sangam, which we observe at the ghats of Varanasi. Here all were rushing for that moment. People were rushing into different directions, like pendulums. All were following each other. All were confident about reaching the right point. This is Bharat and everybody here has confidence in his or her knowledge, which is a beauty. This includes the police on horseback, who helped us on yet another pious chase. We have to remove our sleepers. Poor sweepers were guarding the footwear.  The charges were Rs.100/= per pair.

Mesmerized and tired, we choose to go back to our hotel. But walking back is a scary expedition.  Three kilometres is a gigantic job when your feet are begging for rest. A poor rikshawalla offers us to take us to our hotel for Rs. 800/=! Everybody is minting money. A true Indian character.

But big thanks to Yogi, big thanks to UP administration, big thanks to UP police and big thanks to priests and all others who help us for this mesmerizing pilgrimage and helped and blessed us to fulfil this blissful journey. My 85 years old mother has no words to express her divine joy. Only she blesses all with tears gliding on her wrinkled cheeks.

Judiciary must be Respected

Modi government has about to complete its term. During his tenure, his government faced some unprecedented challenges such as Islamic terrorism, Naxal terrorism, quota fights, Triple Talaq tension etc.  On all these issues, the government and all the opposition parties never cared about the judgments of the Honorable Supreme Court and the judiciary. The constitution is supreme and it is above all the interests.  Constitution has created a free and independent judiciary.

In its last cabinet meeting, the Union cabinet overruled the judgment of the Honorable Supreme Court in the implementation of a roster in the appointment of University and college teachers. The execution of the Supreme Court order to use 13-point roster was overturned.

Judiciary has witnessed one of the worst periods. The restoration of faith is really a colossal and supreme task. Nobody knows how to restore the respect of judiciary. Priority should be given to the judgment of the courts.

Now nobody respects the judiciary. All must uphold the principles of the Constitution and protect the right of equality guaranteed by the Constitution.  All the governments submit an affidavit in the Supreme Court, stating that whatever may be the court verdict, the governments would abide by that and would implement it. Therefore, it is the fundamental responsibility of the government to implement the verdict. Unfortunately, the same people started openly challenging our Constitution. Their ultimate aim was to disturb and malign secular mind and devise a religious and caste riot. Even those who claim themselves as the champions of secularism and equality fell in that trap.

Before roster, on the judgment of denial of forest right to tribal people, again the Supreme Court was the target of all. Unfortunately again, the judgment stayed. The government has never taken strict action against the perpetrators of violence across the nation against the judgments.  The protest has even reached to the level of throwing the bomb at a police station. During the Bharat Bandh called by the Dalit groups and supported by all the parties, there was large-scale violence by Dalits. The government was on knees and the bill was passed in the Parliament to appease the caste and communal groups. Again, the judgment of the court on the SC and ST Act was overturned.

Most of the culprits arrested in these cases are Dalits. The most bizarre thing that we see today is that the same Dalit and minority organisations campaigning about equality and peace. This is the technique of orchestrating religious and caste enmity and riot in order to garner political gains. Urban Naxals and left elements are at the forefront of the violence.

The renaissance movement and social reformers have failed in front of vote banks. Muslim leaders from Kashmir and Islamic groups openly warn the Supreme Court not to take any decision on Article- 370, Article-35A and the minority status to Hindus. Court immediately stopped the hearing. Similarly, on the minority character of AMU, triple talaq and other Sharia and Quran laws, nobody gives any respect to the judiciary. The ruling the highest court on Uniform Civil Code is yet to implement.

In the verdict, the Supreme Court has clearly spelt out that any violation of the fundamental rights guaranteed by our Constitution cannot be allowed. All governments, come into power based on the constitutional principles, are obliged to uphold the constitution as supreme. It is the duty of all the political parties to respect the judiciary. 

But immediately after the Supreme Court verdict related to Muslims, Dalits or tribals, there was a dangerous and regressive effort, in the name of secularism and social justice. Against the court verdict of upholding equality, minority and caste-based defamation reached into the level of violent attacks. There took place incidences of attack, in public, against innocent people. These events necessitated organised resistance against these disruptive forces. All are in favour of reservation and help for economically backward classes and minorities. But all should be with the spirit of our Constitution.

Now, special treatment to certain castes and Muslims has to stay. At the same time, there are thousands in the general category too who face economic difficulties. So relief should be provided for economically backward sections of the upper castes. The Supreme Court has maintained that reservation should not cross the 50% mark.  Now special treatment to minorities, Dalits and tribals would result in enmity between different communities or even result in clashes between communities.

Aggressive left –wing, secularists and social justice brand caste leaders register significant blackmailing powers in different parts of the country. In India, we see such an upsurge or emboldening of such forces. It is very difficult for the government to resist such forces. Hindu society maintains a unique secular mindset. This secular social formation is a result of numerous struggles led by the nationalist movements and other patriotic forces. Because of this historical legacy, the nation still keeps away these left-wing forces. Discredited with having no popular support in society, they try to show their might and influence through their muscle power. We have seen violence and aggression in the protest against SC and ST Act judgment, faculty roster judgment. But unlike in the past, the left wing forces were not able to gain much influence in India due to the strong resistance offered by the secular nationalist forces.

In a pan-Indian context, the nationalist movements and the Rights pursue many folded battles against neo-liberalism and communalism. It is because of this strong stand on these two fronts that these forces are continuously targeting the judiciary now and attacked by the opposition parties in different parts of the country. In a number of states, recently, BJP and Hindu leaders who were in the frontline of struggles against such forces were brutally killed by those who protect the interests of the divisive forces.  All this shows that nationalist forces pose a real political challenge to these divisive communal forces in the country. The principal aim and policy of these agitations are to grab employment opportunities without merit.

Nation has a situation where the secularist and the Left-wingers try to crumble the basic edifice of our judiciary. The assault on constitutional bodies and autonomous institutions is unprecedented. We have a situation where judgments of the Supreme Court are not honoured and overturned. It is a serious matter.  In higher education institutions and research institutes, people without enough qualification and people with complete obedience to the Left and caste forces are appointed.  Fake stories are being presented as the oppression of SCs, STs and minorities. The journalists steal even confidential files.  Therefore, in this context, the coming election assumes much significance in protecting the basic idea of India.

The current government is one of the most pro-people governments in the history of this country. Minorities, Dalits, peasants, students, writers, and the working class have got the maximum benefits.  But they have instigated into an active protest against this government. The general sentiment in the country is now against such forces. Both the opposition and the Congress are equally enthusiastic about implementing neoliberal policies in the country. All these parties also use communal sentiments in different ways and degrees. They pursue communal politics aggressively, as they are trying to win the Muslims. Now they are trying to communalize the SCs and STs. There is great danger of fascism involved in their politics.

The Lok Sabha election is an opportunity to evaluate the Union government and national politics. The people have realised from their experience the difference between present BJP and the situation five years ago.