It refuses to heal

It's 2200 hours and I trudge along a lonely street
The cold, chilling winter wind freezes my lungs as I breathe
My mind prepares to explore, to take flight
as I stroll, head hanging low, on a November night
Searching for something to fortify me,
I could do with a bit of strength
so that I can look straight ahead even after
my spine was left broken and bent...

Everything started falling apart
I could see but could not believe
A dagger pierced into my heart
and the wound refuses to heal

It was all so unreal, such a vicious attack
and it's time to contemplate ways to get back on track
I walk along all by myself, there's not a soul in sight
Even my shadow has deserted me on this path with distant dim lights
As this darkness engulfs me,
I wish it blackened out the reality...
But the rain of truth lashes me in torrents
and I go back to that fateful moment when
Everything started falling apart
I could see but could not believe
A dagger pierced through my heart
and the wound refuses to heal

Divided we stand?

Wow… that was one EXPENSIVE roti…it cost them Rs. 15000 and also led to a dog’s conversion into an untouchable (Times of India, Sept. 24th 2010). This decision (the cash fine and the conversion) was taken by a village panchayat after a ‘Rajput’ household complained of their pet dog being fed by a ‘Dalit’ family. ‘Honour(?!) killings’ are also decisions apparently made by village panchayats, though they have denied that they order killing someone. Whatever might be the case, it defies simple logic to comprehend how such killings can ‘safeguard’ someone’s honour. And our education system defines ‘panchayat’ as a group of five elderly, educated and wise persons who can guide people properly and make decisions for their welfare. Some guidance and welfare we’re witnessing here…

'Jats' threaten scattering bovine barricades (cattle, in simple words) all over Delhi on the day of the ‘Wealth Games inauguration, to press for reservation under the OBC category (Times of India, 24th September 2010). 'Gurjars' uproot railway tracks in Rajasthan, demanding reservation in the SC category (May 2008). Tyres etc. burned all over Maharashtra to protest the murder of four members of a ‘Dalit’ family (2006).

Government approves caste census (August-September 2010) in which the populations of different castes will be determined. Differences in caste are really a serious menace, and the netas have come up with a fantastic way of dealing with it. Hats off to them.

Where is the awareness? Yes, people are raising their voices against caste-based atrocities, but why are they not reaching the ears of the concerned people? Paperwork? Headphones with latest Bollywood hit songs ("Sarkar badnaam hui neta tere liye...") playing at full volume? A ‘Light le’ attitude? A lack of understanding of equality? There are solutions other than reservations and factors other than caste which can make it possible to provide the right kind of help to the needy. And considering the praise lavished on India’s education and education system (where they teach concepts like ‘Unity in diversity’ and ‘equality’ since class 4th), this shouldn’t be too difficult to comprehend…

Playing Games

'There was a person with so much money that he decided to build a bridge out of it. One day, he wanted some money. So, he took some money from the bridge and it collapsed.'

Yeah, we approach the beginning of the 'Wealth Games. An approach ridden with procrastination, security issues, epidemics, child labour issues and what not. Not to mention a few crore bucks going poof somewhere along the way. They tried to build Rome, er... Delhi in a day. It didn't work.

Thankfully, I have no recent memory of news items related to the hydrolysis of the Capital (Sometimes, ignorance is bliss, isn't it?)...

Betrayal

You put your faith in them without too many a query
And everything’s going smooth and merry
You get extremely inclined towards them
You strongly opine in favour of them
But then they come back to hit you
And then proceed to slit your throat
And as the ground crumbles below your feet,
You notice the dark shadow lurking beneath…

Betrayal… it can transform you from master to slave…
Betrayal… it can get you to dig your own grave…

Be it hatred, greed, miscommunication or lust
Some things stain unity with patches of rust
Imitation forms an impermeable crust,
Which then ruptures to reveal a total lack of trust
Everything becomes desolate
It’s you whom they want to immolate
When the time comes, they shed their masquerade
And the last strands of your faith become frayed…

Betrayal… it can transform you from master to slave…
Betrayal… it can get you to dig your own grave…

Promises, promises

I open my Facebook account and find links to contenders' manifestos dominant among the updates. The printed versions of one or two such manifestos are lying around somewhere on the floor in my room. As I check out some other updates, someone knocks on my door. I open it to find half a dozen people who slip another paper into my hand. The contender steps forward and starts off. "Hello, I am so-and-so standing for the post of so-and-so. My manifesto isn't too long(Yeah, I can see that). I will do this, do that, arrange for an alternative and more efficient system for something, make these provisions available..........last year I held this post, I did this, I did that, I was actively involved in this...............so please vote for me and tell your friends as well." Shakes hands.

The campus is under the grip of election fever. Elections. That occasion when the only thing in a contender's mind is that the way to securing a person's vote is through his/her heart (in one particular sense). Yeah, you come up with a huge list of what you intend to do and people in the campus are feeling the necessity of a number of things among those mentioned. If that catches people's eyes and you do end up winning, then you have to make it a point to ensure that it turns out to be more than just another 'plus point' for another election campaign. If it is possible to devote time and effort (and money) in performing research on the people in campus, identifying vote banks and coming up with all sorts of ways for attracting them, then it is definitely worth a try to put in some of that effort into doing something productive.

Election Day coming soon. Time will tell how our 'netas' fare.

P.S. The hostels are littered with manifestos, half of which mention an intention to make the campus litter-free.

Miss Emma

She had a group of really close friends. Seven months back, a new member had joined her group. Miss Emma was now an integral part of their group. She was especially fond of Emma, and ever since their first introduction, they had become inseparable. Emma had always been there for her during all the bad times that she had faced in the last seven months. Emma always made her feel good, and she couldn’t imagine life without Emma.

Shortly after Emma’s introduction, the friends joined a business venture. Their choice paid dividends quite quickly. The business was running smoothly, customers weren’t much of a problem and the bucks kept rolling in. Being an indispensable part of the business, Emma deserved a fair share of this income. However, they had run into trouble now. Hostile elements were on the prowl. The stakes were high. Emma wasn’t looking too helpful either, but the group thought of Emma as being too important to do without. She, especially, shuddered at the mere thought of their separation.

The bad times had begun. She was getting affected. She had become thinner, would have regular hallucinations and would often wake up in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat. Then she started having problems with breathing. She was going through painful times, and the hostile elements were also always around. When two of her group fell into the hands of the hostile elements, their business collapsed. She desperately tried to take control, but was unable to do so. She couldn’t take it any longer. The dream was over. But she knew that Emma was there for her.

The next day, the police found her dead, with revolting syringe marks on her arm and a bottle of Emma, or morphine, solution. Miss Emma. Her best friend, till the very end.

Throbs and Beats

My heart’s pumping more than just blood through my body and brain
Thoughts drench me from within, like cascading rain
Something so overpowering, it leaves everything else slain…
Just how much more of this can I take, can I sustain?

Long way to go to stop all this, it’s causing internal outrage
It’s pounding with the mighty beats of a drum against my ribcage

It throbs and beats, it throbs and beats…
Pushes my progress into hasty retreat

I feel an urge to rewind in time, a craving to go back
to go and do something I wanted to but didn’t, or fetch something I lack…
I feel like I’m losing cohesion, like I’m going slack
Asking myself questions that make me lose track

Long way to go to stop all this, it’s causing internal outrage
It throbs and beats with the mighty beats of a drum against my ribcage

I want to stop madly rejoicing every speck of light for the fear that I’m going blind
I’m trying to harden myself against the weird wanderings of my mind
I slowly recover, gain my consciousness…
The real world drives out my self-created emptiness…

I glance through the book of my life, find reams of empty sheets
and gradually continue filling them up while it throbs and beats.