Saturday, March 22, 2014

The 'running' mind

12 kilometers. Decided. Few quick waist turnarounds. Few push-ups. Started. Little steps. Loose body. Part over waist swung. People joined. So many pointed elbows. Too many half closed fists. And folded arms. 15 of us. All running. Talking. Laughing. 

15 turned to 5 by one kilometer. Calves tight; Head swinging; Vision straight. Breathing audible. Two men crossed. Faster. Adrenaline rushed. Speed rose. Brain resisted.No. No. No. It's a Marathon. Don't react. Slow down a bit. Think: It's not about speed. It's all about creed. Save your strength. Cut down few breaths.

7 kilometers left. Saw many quit. Saw many smiling. Rows of sweat beads on forehead. Dry throat. Numb feet. Uncomfortable heart beats. Unending road. Target, kilometers away. A familiar signboard smiles. Gives an idea of distance. Still too far. Doubts surfaced. 5 have turned to 3. Farther than had thought. Unsure. Shall run till 10th KM. Next time I shall make it 12 or 15. No. Set targets. Of counting upto thousand. Achieved. Lied to myself. About the distance. Set a new target. Get hold of breath. Hold it and release slowly. Save some strength. Eluded the brain. Bore the pain. Told it to count the breaths. Told it to think of the old beloved. Told it to count the potholes. Told it to create a story. Let it respond with anything but 'Stop!'. Set my head. Kept moving. May meet mud. May pass heaven. Nothing shall stop. Nothing shall bind. Ah! the foot is aching. The heel is cracking. The sun shines. A passerby smiles. 

The last mile. The toughest. Longest of all. Brain turns hyperactive. Speaks loudly. 'Shall take rest for a moment. Shall wet throat. Shall slow down a bit. Shall stop at all and quit'. 'No. No. No. No 'shalls'. Run. Promise you won't quit. Promise you'll run till the last drop of life. Promise the heart. Run.Just run. Ignore 'shalls'. Lie to yourself. Held you head high. Set the heart free.' Eyebrows strained. Vision focused. Eyes narrowed. A mantra. A chant. Run till you die. A madness. To run. Neither for medals nor for titles. 

The aim is here. I can see it. Joyfully. Feet separated from the brain. Forgot everything. Looked at the finish line. The aim smiled at feet like an old beloved. Speed rose. Every drop of strength coalesced. A lightning of energy struck. Heated body. Sheer joy. Ecstasy. Kept running. Ah! only two of us. Ah! the head is spinning. Every joint paining. Breathed Fully. Calmed. Looked back at track. Smiled. Laughed. Laughed harder. And said to myself "The way was long." An old coach responded "And so is life." I pondered. He made sense.

Monday, March 10, 2014

Divorced to Sustainability [Puns Intended]

Originally posted at

Note: Those who have promised themselves not to listen to others’ private affairs may avoid reading this or can read it after chanting Hanuman Chalisha 108 times.
One of the few terms I heard and started using too often after joining this scheme is “Sustainability”​. No, I shall tell you the truth. Actually, I heard this in 4th year of my Graduation when after three years of teaching “how greedily to take out as much minerals as possible from ground underneath?” the same professor taught us to leave some of mineral down there, not out of generosity or the self-discipline stuff but enough to let the ground stay where it is or it may subside and fall into the hole. 
But, my definition of sustainability received a severe blow after I joined Coal India; blow, the kind you received while spending first evening in your district’s guest house. There, sustainability was like Harry Potter, just a fictional character. People talked about it and knew he existed, in stories of school of Magic. To become sure of his existence, they looked around and asked their brethren if they had seen someone selling pots or earthen vessels, but all of them denied. (To those who don’t know Harry Potter: Harry is anything but a Potter.) Most of them believed in their hearts that Harry Potter didn’t exist, but due to an important need to look intelligent, publicly they acknowledged that Harry Potter existed. Some of them, in fact said they even had had dinner with Harry Potter in Paradise, the Biryani Moghul in Hyderabad. Some even went lengths and produced vessels in front of public to show Harry Potter had sold it to them. But in their hearts they knew, they didn’t know him. 
Let me get straight to the point now. “Sustainability” was like childhood sweetheart, who would come along, whenever I am thinking something important, knock on mind’s door and would shout with a contorted face “Hey! You better not forget me.”. I felt trapped and even cried without tears. Trapped in ‘Sustainability trap’. She didn’t stop coming to me until I got her married to someone else (Yes. You’re right. I, in my mind, have married her off to someone in our current batch, 2nd Batch.) Now, I don’t think of her. 
Sometimes, I missed her. Sometimes. But I stopped missing her after I got a new girlfriend. Now, everyone must be wondering who the hell she be to replace sustainability. 
Must be some kind of greatsustainmanagexistecologyfriendlytimeless-bility. 
God’s promise!! She is not that. 
One of my mentors introduced me to her (better her to me). She is called “relevance”. Now, she doesn’t act as a pain in the ass; rather she helps me by enabling to ask questions like:
“Would the intervention, you’re planning to take, aims to make some positive contribution in lives of people?”
“Would the people involved like/love/benefit it? If yes, how many are those and how resourceful are they. if no, what powers and resources they have to stop that.”
“Still haven’t started, eh? Go on field.”
“Are there groups (Youth, NGO, Elderly etc.) who realize the intervention is relevant for people out there? Engage them and make them feel its relevance. Bring inasmuch as you can.”
I am happily dating her on some of the small drinks (read ‘ideas’). She neither asks me to think of the marriage propositions nor she hides the fact too long that she has deserted me. She is ruthlessly frank but simple and precise. Friends, she is one to be desired for. 
Now, I think I’d rather have better fallen for greatsustainmanagexistecologyfriendlytimeless-bility than falling for sustainability. 
For two benefits: 1. I’d have added this large word in my memory and would have sounded intelligent in front of you and others and 2. I’d not have been heartbroken so many times. 
But anyways, who knows? You know, fate, destiny…. fatalistic stuff. (We all secretly believe in this God-staged-drama story thing. Don’t we?)
(Friends…Regarding the first evening.. I know some of you had awesome evenings when your pious feet touched the motherly soil of your districts and your district collectors opened their arms like Shahrukh Khan of DDLJ and hugged you tightly like you were their long forgotten lost love. Please don’t reply with that story. Because in my part, I was like miserable Mr. Biswas of V S Naipaul’s “A HOUSE FOR MR BISWAS”. I had to wait for five hours to have a look of my holy grace. The condition also didn’t turn better than Mr. Biswas, later on.)
Dare  you not ask me who has been married to sustainability? )

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

'Rights' and Wrongs

One could have easily misconstrued him as a member of a rebel outfit. His olive green shirt recalled some memories from TV news telecasts with someone 'reporting from Chhatisgarh'. A small dose of fear mixed with some feeling of uncertainty arrived in my heart before I could take notice of it. I was sitting on a wooden jute cot with Subhash at its other end. Small piglets were being locked away in kennels. Almost every kid below 5 was draped in mud and was playing without pants. One may call the area congested but not dirty. One of the reasons may be that people would go distances to defecate, to keep their neighborhood clean.  

An old man and a few middle-aged women listened carefully to the results of oral test of their children. Subhash seemed positive, unlike the earlier visit when he found students performing quite bad on paragraph reading. Though Subhash says he struggled hard for making it to 'Pratham' and harder to be good at the job, he believes that efforts shall be made on 'fertile ground'. (Pratham is the largest NGO working on elementary education in India and Subhash is Pratham's District Coordinator for Rohtas.) Here, expectations are the precursors to frustrations. But today, the ‘fertility’ found glitters through his smile. 'Geeta', aged 9, a Class V student is able to read a paragraph nicely. Better than expected. Enough 'fertile' to justify to us the time and effort being put in. 

I and Subhash have teamed up to visit Mahadalit Tolas to promote the evening sitting for learning of kids. A young person from the Tola is selected and is made responsible for arranging sitting space and maintain discipline in the sitting classes. Out of the three places, we have been able to run it at two places. Subhash has learnt a number of tools to engage with kids by creating a playful atmosphere. He creates the amicable atmosphere and then we do the sense-talking with Tola people. The sense talking has already been done here. Classes stopped after they ran for three days. So, we are here to postmortem the past.

Golden paddy plants are down due to self-weight possibly singing "It's harvesting season". Almost everyone from this tola has been engaged in harvesting business since; since they don't remember. The old man saw his grandfather doing that and he handed over the torch to his grandson, Sonu, a 25 years-aged young man cradling his two kids. 

Poonam runs to see machine harvester. She is small enough to comprehend that the way of her happiness is a source of despair for her family. The Old man complaints the decrease in demand of Human harvesters. "With machine, the big farmers are able to harvest a bigha in two-three hours. Normally, one person would take two days to reap one bigha paddy field."

Kids climb over to the driver's cabin to see the features that they couldn't see till now owing to their short height. Four kids have lined up. One jumps from the top of the ladder after watching and checking carefully, allowing the one-in-waiting to follow the process. This is a circus. Probably, not a circus. A circus brings happiness to everyone but this harvester does't. I avoided falling in the trap of mental debate titled “lessened opportunities due to industrialization” and focused on the kids instead.

The ladies shout at the kids. Here parents don't coax kids like the parents of cities. Or if they do, it is a rare occasion-probably when the kids are grown-ups and it's a matter of marriage. It seems that their shouts have produced the same effect as a crow's caw, unpleasant to hear but bearable. 

Just few moments later, Sunil shouts at the kids. For kids, this is surely not the crow's caw. It's raw, tough and harsh. The last kid has not yet seen the driver's chamber, but he jumps off and runs to us. The four add up to make the group larger, about 10 kids. Presence of Sunil turned the atmosphere grave, but the tests and the instructions on education continued. The olive dress had stirred up our curiosity. Our eyes exchanged each other's faces once. He intervened to know who we were. It was annoying to ignore him, but we ignored. 

Normally, a village meeting gets swayed in an unwanted direction if an attention is paid to a single person. But then, he was not a single person. Not with this olive green uniform often used by paramilitary. We didn't answer; instead asked him a question. "Can you read this?" 
Pretty confident, he replied: " Yes."
But, he couldn't read beyond few words. The middle-aged ladies erupted in laughter. 
"I can read the whole passage if you give it to me tomorrow.", Sunil said.
The laughter continued in the background, this time more members joining already laughing ones. My cat of curiosity finally belled the dress question "Where did you get this dress from?",
He laughed, "From a friend in the police."

I looked at the old man to see his response to the answer. He smiled. The laughter of the people dispelled the smallest traces of fear. From my prior experiences of visits to remote villages which had a recent past of left extremism, I could say that extremism doesn't leave the soil of conversation fertile enough for laughter. The conversations there are barren with suspicion, fear, resentment and logic.

"Come here and sit with your books.", Sunil commanded. Then he ran to his house to bring a plastic sheet for kids to sit. Kids went to their homes and brought books and a dibiya. Few minutes later, they were studying and the Olive green-clad boy was the disciplinarian. Sunil promised to make kids study daily in the evening. Sunil is a resource, even if he cannot read or write. What is required in kids' routine is someone to enforce evening-studying habit and a disciplinarian would be a perfect match. This kind of solution seems sustainable and impact-promising. Two days later, Sunil is still making kids sit and study.  

After spending one more hour, we returned. In the midway, I saw some kids running on roads with gunny bags in hand. I stopped one kid and asked "From where are you coming?"
"Khet been ke
I turned my head a bit backward to seek its meaning from Subhash. 
"They are coming back after collecting the leftovers of the Harvester Machine." Subhash said with a calculated smile.
"And no one objects?"
"No, the big farmers burn the fields after harvest. Also, the amount is very feeble. The kids would sell the paddy at shops to buy something for their pleasure: chocolates, may be biscuits."

This was not considered as theft. It was like the act of collecting mangoes when there was a wind. Nature’s gift bestowed. Like millions of other kids, my house was also near to a small mango orchard that would keep us calling, sometimes in our dreams. In my family and neighborhood, even collecting the fallen mangoes was considered bad, but I and my brothers rarely submitted to those beliefs of our parents and elders at that age. Well, who first spoke the word "theft"? And who firstly said, that stealing is wrong? ‘Theft’ is defined differently in different social groups depending on their value system. Even in our childhood, we must be having something coded in back of our minds, something pure (If children are considered to be) that made the act of mango-stealing justified in our eyes. It was probably, the “right to possess mangoes”. It was foolish like “right to love and seek love.” Even throwing pebbles to collect mangoes was in accordance with our “right to possess mangoes” which my neighbors considered ‘theft’.

For a moment, I felt the “right to possess mangoes” true to the core, coming directly from the heart. Then the mind reasoned, "Does every ‘theft’ have to be balanced with a ‘right to possess’? Does against every 'wrong', there are few 'rights'? Does there have to be a boundary? And what that boundary would be? Is the "right to possess" morally strong enough to justify the "idea of theft" on grounds of creating a society that seems to move toward equality?"