In the middle of 2 villages (equally far away) in the state of Uttar Pradesh, in the Gendamau Nahar (Marigold canal), below a strong bamboo footbridge, lived (?) the ghosts of a Pehelwaan (bodybuilder)& of a highly disgruntled old lady ...
This is on the way from my husband's town to his Granny's village, flanked by Bajra farms on both sides.
On one side of the canal, the Pehelwan is known as Kumbh Mall, on the other, simply as Koni Ram. It's variously fabled how he came to be a ghost. Some say, he was a lathail (Martial art fighter with stick), & was killed fighting dacoits on behalf of his master. Others insist that he stuffed himself with one poori too much in a poori-eating competition, released a single burp, & happily closed his eyes, never to open them again.
Either way, his life dream had remained unfulfilled - that of winning a major wrestling tournament, in his part of the world.
The other presence is a frail, hunched figure in a White Saree, silver hair tied in a high knot. (Neither is reported to wear any warm clothes in winter.)We do not know the name or origin of the geriatric madam, but what we do know is that her daughter-in-law was a no-good! She never cooked her anything good, & our poor gran died with her gastronomical desires ungratified!
She might look like a dusty relic, but Hell hath no fury like a Mother-in-Law scorned! Don't think that just because she died, she'll forget how her D-i-L neglected her!
If she caught you one evening near sundown, (If you happened to cross by Gendamau Nahar), she might suddenly demand for a bowl of Lapsi, or some Bedahi, or a Bhakoswa! & Vintage womanly swear words will be hurled at you, as well as the D-i-L (who must be dead herself, many years now!)
& Pehelwaan! Oh! Poor lost soul! He challenged to a match of wrestling, every soul that he lays his sight on, then & there, & there meaning, in the water!
Those who fell prey to the duo, would be simultaneously be threatened, chased, & be made a tug-of-war between z two tales. They literally had to run for their lives, (there was the very real danger of drowning in the canal). There was no respite from this twin assault, until you reached a village, when they would reluctantly disappear, at the edge of human habitation, though they had no issues with pouncing on unsuspecting (human) passers-by within their territory...
But if on reading my post, a Parapsychologist is inspired to go there, & meet in person & have a conversation with two alive & kicking ghosts, he's in for a disappointment.
last month, going to visit my Husband's Granny, I crossed the place. He pointed it out to me. The footbridge is now a pucca structure. But sadly, no water in the canal.
No-one has seen either of them, since last 15-16 yrs.
Our theory is that the concrete scared them away. They no longer feel at-home.
If urbanization is driving even the dead, the spirits, the eternal from their abode,
Think of the tigers & the dolphins, the turtles & the kingfishers ... certainly less formidable than a indestructible ambitious bodybuilder, & a indestructible grumpy Granny!
Ghost of the Pehelwaan & Gran Khit-khit
One that I care for
When I mentioned this black horse, (I contacted everyone, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances) & this 'black horse's shoe' trade, the first response will invariably be "Ya? Get me one too!" !!!!! Including my Dad.
With the prompt efforts of PFA activist Mr Saurabh Tiwari, the man who was selling 'black horse's shoe' got arrested. Don't want to name him. Don't know what got him - ignorance, indifferenc
e or cruelty? He really did not KNOW that he's maiming the animal?
Right now, the cruel trade is off. The horse is in 'police custody'.
As my friend pointed out, there are families which have old horses, bought earlier. They served in their hereditary occupation. Now they are too poor to maintain the animals, old taangaa-waalaas, with their trade going out of business.
& the horses remaining unglamorous, or somewhat wounded, (this horse's left hind leg is damaged), there is no resale value.
A horse can't simply be left stray. Seeing the black colour, this must have occurred to this man a very lucrative means of income... is it justified to put him in lock-up or drag him to court?
I do not know. But what is the alternative? What logic, what request would have compelled him to give up this practice & send the horse to a shelter? & if it was in his family, he should have known better.
However, locking up the owner, or even whatever is the provisioned punishment, hardly is any solution.
More important is to rehabilitate the animal. It can't be expected to survive as a stray in city traffic. He'll probably be sent to a Gaushaalaa. A horse is a lot of expense. Horse shelters even in developed countries require heavy charities.
Every animal needs to raise money for its own preservation ... that's the new survival of the popular-est ... only those reserve forests which attract considerable number of tourists will ultimately be able to subsist, that's so obvious. Applies to domesticated animals too.
Why do you see so many stray cows, in a country whose majority faith holds the cow sacred?
More upsetting is the case of the buyers...
Whether the seller knows or not, whether he cares or not, he can only supply where there’s a demand.
One might be superstitious. One will definitely want to improve their fortune. But how are they blind to the animal's plight? It's not a 'black horse's shoe' displayed in some shop, they are seeing how it's being fixed on & pulled off. How are they aloof to it's suffering?
Black Horse
1st couple of times I saw them, I just thought 'What a shiny, beautiful horse'. Then I started wondering why there's nothing ON it - no saddle, no decorations, what kind of wedding mare is that?
The man accompanying it, is eternally attending to its hooves, curious instruments like screw driver & pliers in hand...
I stopped one of the days near them & asked him.
You are right.
The man is selling "BLACK HORSE'S SHOE"
All day long, he fixes a shoe on it's hoof, & pliers it out again, all in front of a customer, it's genuine black horse's shoe, after all!
The horseshoe is not removed everyday, like a man's shoes, have U seen a horseshoe?
It is fitted. Changed maybe 3 or 4 times in the lifetime... have U forgotten 'Black Beauty'?
The horseshoe protects the hooves when the horse runs on hard terrain.
But this voiceless animal ... not only is it unprotected, also, by now, its hooves are now so hole-riddled & brittle, it's just months away from being lame.
A lame horse!
Will they even be kind enough to shoot it?
In our hypocritic society, where, we hold cows sacrosanct, & yet, thousands of cows, someone's cows, roam unherded, & in the city traffic, & sustain on garbage, & the 'someone' retrieves them when it's milking time...
So, this torture will continue.
Because, screwed onto & dragged out of a defenseless animal's body, this talisman will bring Good Luck to your family!
Species of tailors
Tailors have something against me.
Ever since I was old enough to want to wear a particular look, I have been unable to wear it. That. The look that I wanted.
I'm not of very large dimensions, & the embroidered or embellished part of a dress material can make both front & back of my dress. But no.
Maybe it's against the code of Tailors to to make the backside of a dress from the cloth meant for the front!
Then there have been those who made me tops with quarter sleeves instead of three quarter & vice versa. The longer ones can be reduced, but the shorter? When I asked them to retrieve the rest of the cloth, the reply is 'thrown them' Surely you haven't thrown it out of the Universe as we know it? Get it from where You've thrown! 'thrown them'.
I bought a black stripes for a formal collared shirt, & left it with the Tailor! Sure, it came back, correct size too ... & guess what ? The stripes horizontal !!!
It won't even occur to me ...
Ladies' tailors can't cut collars, gentlemen's tailors never made a coat for 'a ladies'. Once a tailor returned me a dress with no buttons, hook, or zip! Like a polypack! How I was supposed to shrink myself into it, or wish it upon me, I did not venture to try it on. He very kindly put in a concealed fastening upon being pointed out.
Since tailors never return the surplus, & since there's often enough surplus for an entire dress for a slim girl, I decided to divide the cloth into two before placing it for tailoring.
My sister thought that I had made good mincemeat of the materials.
But I was yet to see more. Of the ways of the world! We put our pieces with different tailors. Her's returned it, though bit late, a satisfactory dress. She said 'she's managed even with your keemaa'. Mine. She cut the cloth. Front & back. & lost one of the pieces. She's still looking for it...
ANTHEM AT THE END
Today, I went to a meeting, where, the presiding officer decided to close with the National Anthem.
Feels different.
Feels remotely familiar.
Instinctive.
U don't even remember that U remember the words,
But U do remember.
Where heart is
How cold can it get? So cold that tears are freezing in the eyes. So cold that the clothes you are wearing are actual skins of animals.even the lowest wind is a splutter of snow. The ground slips beneath your feet. Life forms hide themselves. Daily activities are laboured, business has been shocked to a standstill.
Blinding! no! deafening cold! Mesmerizing cold!
And your own fiery corner. You bake, and the oven keeps you warm.The red glow of the cinder adds an environment of mystery to the gray background. Window panes are fogged. Only the cocoon of warmth is the field of awareness, all else is background...
In the flour mill run by the little stream, you dip your hands in the freshly ground flour, it's warm! In the village in which the Rooster lives, with two pesky rodents, in a hut with thatched roof, & earthen pots inverted over the chimneys, Summer arrives.
The mist slowly dissolves. Mornings turn from silver to golden.
Gold is everywhere. There is an energy which spreads, not an excitement or a hustle,
a warmth, a smoothness,
from the glittering blue sky and the clear stream sparkling gold, to the fields which are rippling seas of golden wheat, to your heart and mind.
The golden sunshine filters through the green. Golden green and gray green, blue-green and olive. Canopy of towering trees, undergrowth upto your knees. Large sheety leaves rustling, tiny feathery leaves whispering. Bright green blades of grass, & dull green carpet of moss.
Little white mushrooms and huge red toadstools. It's the forest where the bear lives. Who kidnapped Masha. Who escaped by tricking him. It's on the edge of the village which turns from silver to gold every year.
I spent my childhood there. In thin Soviet story books. Which cost Rs 5. In 1991. Home is where heart is.
Out of sight Out of mind
What matters to us today, will it still matter after 3 yrs? 4 yrs?
I wonder how a news item reaches the cold sack.Is it because the legal proceeding come to halt? Because new developments in the case become infrequent? Because ‘the public’ loses interest? Because all scandal value of the issue has been wrung out?
Or is it simply that news has an expiry date?
I simply want to know, what happened of the Satyendra Nath Dubey, & B. Manjunathan cases.
Sure enough, the news is there, the hoopla is not. On searching, one will come across a lot.
Firstly, a blog has been established in each case. Anyone who cares may add their comments, condolences, outrage.
http://manjunathshanmugam.blogspot.com/#pressLink
http://www.rediff.com/news/dubey.htm
The families had met , to participate in “India Empowered: Roadmap for Tomorrow” conclave of The Indian Express.
The killings, in part, influenced Jayashree JN to start an awareness & activism campaign, http://fightcorruption.wikidot.com/ in March 2007 “to protect (her) whistle blower husband MN Vijayakumar”, as she unabashedly tells.
In October 2004, Satyendra Dubey was posthumously awarded the International Honesty Award by the
Manjunath Shanmugam Trust (MST), an initiative of IIM alumni, award the ‘Manjunath Integrity Award’, starting 2006.
www.manjunathshanmugamtrust.org .
Uday Chaudhary, one of the 3 accused in Satyendra Dubey murder, ran away, not once, but twice, from court premises, ridiculously, by slipping out of oversized handcuffs.
A special CBI court, a
He was shot dead on November 27, 2003, in front of the circuit house at
the government, suspecting involvement of those against whom Dubey had pointed an accusing finger in the crime, ordered a CBI probe.
CBI, however, later concluded that the whistle-blower was killed by petty criminals in the course of robbery. According to the CBI, the accused robbed Dubey and during a scuffle, Mantu Kumar shot him with a .315 country-made weapon.
Monu Mittal, main accused in Manjunath Shanmugam murder and 5 others, Devesh Agnihotri, Sanjay Awasthi, Rakesh Anand, Shivkesh Giri, Rajesh Verma, Harish Mishra and Vivek Sharma were given life sentences on Dec 11 2009, & 2 were acquitted. On November 19, 2005, when Manjunath had gone to collect samples of adulterated petrol being sold at the outlet, he was shot by its owner Pawan alias Monu Mittal.
India doesn't have a law to protect whistleblower
Whistleblowers should be given protection in India: Lokayukta
Right to Information, State Accountability, and Wikileaks
There remains dissatisfaction regarding whether those convicted & sentenced in Satyendra Dubey murder were really those who murdered him.
Frown, scowl, clench Ur teeth ... swear!
One of the passengers complained of nausea. (the car soared ... ahead... until it was obstructed abruptly. And then soared again, and so on) It was diagnosed that that's because she was facing away from the direction of journey. (This car had seats facing backwards)
Like rider, like mount! The car was conditioned & tuned to Archie's driving. On braking, it reared up, like a horse !!!
It was a model of a few years ago, Indian cars back then were not manufactured with seatbelts. & even if they were, You would need seatbelts in 3-D – also to suspend you from the hood & tie you to the floor, apart from the usual.
Indian roads are not equipped to handle Indian traffic, & thus get destroyed very fast, are too narrow, & etc., etc.
He also does the things that common Indian people do on Indian roads – You overtake from both sides, (what a shame you can't overtake through!), attend mobile calls while driving, block the left lane when you have to turn right, & then block everybody else too, crossing all the lanes (If not for the streetlamps, you'd be driving on the divider.)
However, Indian public is used to this, & those who 'ride' with Archie, are part of Indian public.
Yet.
“A casual friend, once, actually started reading aloud the Hanuman Chalisa.” Archie Blushed. “His Mom called. He told her he had made a mistake by agreeing to travel with me, & if he reached home safely, won't repeat.”
After he dismounted, he apparently asked Archie “Who are you brother? I do not know you!”
Archie is very progressive. He likes to move ahead. Wants to wriggle into any minuscule space, if it enables him to move forward an inch.
'Give him an inch & he'll take a few feet' . Even reverses if he finds a more lucrative gap just left or right of where he is. True, sometimes, in order to keep marching on, you may have to retreat a tiny bit.
Archie is as proud of his driving, as others are doubtful & suspicious.
Sometimes he is made to forgo what he loves, for others fail to appreciate his ahead-of-the-times approach!
It was my wedding time & my brother in law had his hands full. ''We need your car, but You, we keep in the luggage dikey''
Wearing the rain
Feels like a drizzle, looks like a fog ... when the spray rises from the Jog falls.
I went there in August, just hopped on to a bus without planning, bit risky, but it was such a melancholy morning...
I was chilled as soon as I stepped out. A perfect day to get lost. I asked at the booking office. The tourist buses, both state-run & private were booked full, & more importantly, already departing. I went to the Bus depot, I was quite familiar, I carried my windcheater too.
One of the tourist buses was tallying its passengers. There was a person missing, & they sold me the ticket.
On the next seat was a college girl, going on the tour with her sister & father. They were decent polite people, at once took me into their fold, without being the least intrusive ...
I hardly remember them – they were nice to be made friends,
but on certain days, You feel like just taking the rain on yourself & letting it run down your face... You do not remember people.
... People were carrying cameras. The bus made a stop for breakfast & another at a temple. All is hazy, it was a large temple with golden gateways, the girls & their father offered pooja...
There were two approaches to the Jog falls. We were above it. Like many large falls, it was a horseshoe shape, & viewing points were on both arms.
It was a day when the Sun didn't show it's face at all.
All scenes were shifty, like reflections in rippling water, only not all that clear,
All views were wet, breath was steamy, all colours had shades of smoke & mist. Grey-green, grey-blue, grey-transparent.
That fine spray which rose, when parts of streams of the water, falling over the edge, broke their flow on the jagged backside of the fall,
was sticky & a little sweet.
The lunch & snacks available there at the stalls, I considered unfit for human consumption. Lot of human beings were having them.
Every once in a while, there will be a gust of wind, & the spray-mist will lift for a few seconds, clearing the view to the frothing white waters rushing down the falls. Collective clicking of couple of hundred lenses, a sudden lighting up of a small part of the air around us, already laden with moisture, by the simultaneous flashes, a low, generic exclamation of awe.
A moment, isolated, suspended in time,
& then time is rolling again, everyone moving, this spot is covered, on to the next stop.
When the bus moves through an early evening, even the darkness is not too thick, because it is wet! Unknown woodland, unknown roads, unknown evening. No road lights. Lights inside the bus dimmed, because everyone is tired. Unknown music leaking out of someone's earphones. Wipers grinding continuously. A shop or shandy seen only after an hour. The headlight beams the only visible & distinguishable area ahead. Drumming of the drops, splashing of the tires. A ride back from 'tourist spot' through wilderness to civilization.
In the fluorescent light, everything is familiar. Everything is routine. It is not melancholy anymore.
I had a bitter fight with the houseowner for returning late at night.