Boulevard of BROKEN DREAMS

Witnessing the same sight day after day returning home from workplace has become a part of my mundane routine. Every day I find an army of ants burrowing the earth on the left-hand corner of the bathroom door, marching adroitly and producing a mountain of it. A sight absolutely nettling to my worn out eyes (tiring because of staring at the Dell monitor relentlessly for eight, sometimes even nine to ten hours shift in the office), the first task I execute post entering the house is doing away with the soil and also most of the ants, thus blatantly destroying their day’s labour and ruthlessly enjoying the feel of being a cold-blooded murderer of the tiny helpless species, without any dash of regret whatsoever.

As a disciplined follower of all the self-set rules, I swept off the assiduous labour of the ants with a lash of the broom even today. It was barely a matter of ten good minutes that I saw them rigorously up at work, already having dug a decent amount of earth yet again. However, this time I looked at them not with annoyance but with a feeling I was reluctant to acknowledge; admiration and adulation at their undaunted determination and resilience of fighting the odds. And then suddenly something struck me; I realized the similarities we maintain at least on the work front.  Looking back at the corridors of the past I realize how puerile I was to have invested three precious years into the most inconsiderate company ever, overlooking the insult and profane remarks and still serving it dedicatedly. Doesn’t this betray a situational similarity with the dexterous insects?

Retrospection of all the hollow promises made and gleeful dreams then starts mocking me. Had Chetan Bhagat not purchased the rights for the title ‘3 mistakes of my life’, I would have published a book on the same with Coming to Bhopal, Landing up at Makhanlal and Joining my current print media house encapsulating my life’s biggest blunders.

When it comes to my company, the organization that has robbed me of all anticipations, all that the place has to offer is fake commitments by frustrated old lecherous bastards, who hardly deserve the kind of designation and power they enjoy or should I say misuse. Strong political nexus and a considerable amount of time spent in the company could be way powerful weapon than a nuclear bomb, if used meticulously to create mayhem in a diffident and introvert junior’s life. And this is exactly what the worthless braggarts do. A boulevard of broken dreams, the three-storied building, parked at a narrow alley of MP Nagar recounts gloomy tales of how I have been set to the gallous of unprecedented mental torture almost daily in the past 1058 days and how without any lamentation all my aspirations, in forms of appreciation, encouragement and increment been brutally crucified. The small office painted in olive green stand testimony to my ruptured dreams, crushed under the heavy weight of the newspaper and intolerable cruelty. Tantamount to the ants, even MY anticipations and hard labour have been flushed down the gutter every time. If not anything, one can witness some great dramatics in this replica of hell on earth.  Replete in politics and acts of making a junior’s life a living hell with unabated threats of handing a pink slip is what defines the character of the ominous place and some douchebags working in it. With absolutely nothing positive in the aura, there are times when you start suspecting your own shadow.  

Having said all these, the big question is why don’t I renounce? It is apparent that I am often tempted to give up trying my luck at this hell surrounded by such vile coxcombs. However, soon I realize how this office is but just an insignificant road, an address that will be effaced from the journey called ‘life’ very soon and how ONE DAY I will make THERE. It is perhaps this undeterred faith of celebrating the overriding joy of reaching my final destination that makes my charred hopes spring up from its own ashes life a phoenix, time umpteen. Just like the ants, banking on my prowess I keep going with stars of hope gleaming bright; for my dreams are much higher than some nasty old idiot’s dwarfed macabre ploy. After all in the end is it only the amount of patience we hold on to that decides how far we can go! And this journey has just unfolded….

PS: This has nothing to do with the popular Green Day track

A DAREDEVIL ON THE STREETS OF BHOPAL

Enjoying the evening zephyr caressing the face, while sitting comfortably on the window of the giant red bus, being chauffeured around the city; no, that isn't me, I am the one standing squashed just beside the lucky girl who got the window seat, waiting for this daily torturous commute from the work place to get over and cursing myself for the inability of being able to ride or drive a vehicle. The pang of not having picked up the art is quite unsettling as I often wonder how immensely exhilarating it would be, gliding through the broad roads of Bhopal, without being at the mercy of a friend or colleague. Just as I am approaching the climax of my delicate reverie, incessant honking and bashing of my head against the same lucky girl transports me to the harsh realities of the present. Dazed and confused in the pandemonium, smoke and smell of the burning rubber I realise a vehicle just collided with the leviathan bus I am in, leaving me in a quandary whether I am blessed not having to travel in a private transport. 

Although the enticement of romancing the lipstick red Vespa is too hard to resist, there always remains a chance of getting mown over by a car or bus that did not see you coming around. Not to forget, Bhopali rider's penchant for whizzing through the traffic might take you off-guard anytime, swiping you on the ground. Of course four-wheelers remain a pragmatic choice, but even they aren't spared the overwhelming touch of love received from fellow drivers who can squeeze their rides even where the pedestrians fail to approach. Every time serving pillion to someone you are likely to feel like a target with bevy of vehicles darting towards you from all directions.

So, did you think public transport was a better resort? As a vulnerable commuter, left to the whims of petulant mini-bus drivers, words of a friend from France currently in Bhopal, on the nettling traffic system of the city often resonate- 'Bhopal has the worst drivers in the world, ones without any regards for the  traffic rules whatsoever'. You can experience the pathos of this foreigner and the unadulterated veracity of his statement no sooner you board a bus or an auto-rickshaw. It is like conductors of the dingy mini buses are in some inexplicable competition of stuffing the 'sawaris'  like chicken into their vehicles, to the point the poor thing gets tilted. Having said this, imagine the roller-coaster ride you live through at every turning. If this was not enough, there are times when drivers, irrespective of buses or auto-rickshaws, possessed by spirit of some F1 racer, speed through the traffic, exhibiting their kinetic competency and making you apprehensive if this would be your last journey.

Working behind the wheels, a dedicated commuter of public transport or a harmless pedestrian, life is an equal gamble for all on the streets of the city of 'Nawabs'. No wonder then, had Hamlet been born in the present day Bhopal, his biggest crisis would possibly have been 'To go, or not to go'!

Unabashedly unsocial

I have never been a very social person. Memories of those moments often pop up when while my sisters would be busy entertaining the guests I’d jail myself in the world of books and music. No, I have neither been a bibliophile but books have been the best escapades. Resorting to a career like media, I soon realized the key role socializing plays in escalating your career graph. Talking of socializing, in this age of new media, the word ‘socializing’, without the interference of the cyber world can sound quite profane. To avoid any such heresy, I too surrendered myself wilfully to the universe of social media.

With nearly eight hundred friends (read namesake) and a recently developed twitter handle with mere sixty followers, I am gradually climbing the ladders of networking and socializing, in today’s sense of the term. Leaving alone twitter, as not much of my friends have made their debut into the site, let’s talk about Facebook. The ten-year-old networking giant has become the lynchpin of existence now. A recent development on my FB profile has compelled me to contemplate on the very purpose of the site. It’s been nearly a year that the only updates I get is about an old school mate getting hitched, another going on a honeymoon across the globe and yet another delivering her second child. With a flurry of overtaxed notes and photographs of conjugal bond and childbirth, my profile sometime looks like a baby calendar and most of the time like a matrimonial site. It is incredibly amusing how people have the mettle and time of keeping the world updated from a labour room or ‘shaadi ka mandap’.  While some might define this new-age phenomenon as an act of socializing, for me it is nothing but ‘extreme insanity’. Having said this, I would always prefer being tagged as a recluse than indulge in such hilarious social cacophony.

When the new editor cajoled me out of the comfort zone

Shades of summer

Abandoned asphalts with elongated mirages, veiled commuters, mud-pots with brimful water parked on roadside for people struggling with the gruelling heat, dusty lanes, air-coolers and air-conditioners adorning every home and shops unarguably conjure up an apt image of the atrocious attack of summer in Bhopal. While days break gray and dull with patchy clouds dangling in the thin morning air carrying pollens of a million blooming plants and trees, and coaxing enthusiastic morning-walkers throng parks and streets; the afternoons reflect a starkly different scenario with the overhead sun pouring fire all around, forcing Bhopalis to ditch the idea of moving out. Though awfully hot and humid, the season is not bereft of its share of virtues. Summer evenings give the perfect reason to dine alfresco, drink unlimited soda and lemonade and take set out on long drives. Travelling through the landscape of the 'City of lakes', the lens arrests some quintessential shades of a sultry day in Bhopal.

The Royal Cool Off

The old and unlucky Santiago was not the only one who had to battle hard to save his marlin from the brutal assault of the sharks in Hemmingway’s Old Man and the Sea. Fighting against the vagaries of nature is a daily business of the fishermen in the city who move out of their homes at the crack of dawn and labour had to make their ends meet. While the rest of the city lazes around in the comfort of their chilled offices and at noon, these anglers carry on their duty with undeterred dedication in the Upper Lake, shielding themselves from the heat lashes with an umbrella. 

An angler's diary

The old and unlucky Santiago was not the only one who had to battle hard to save his marlin from the brutal assault of the sharks in Hemmingway’s Old Man and the Sea. Fighting against the vagaries of nature is a daily business of the fishermen in the city who move out of their homes at the crack of dawn and labour had to make their ends meet. While the rest of the city lazes around in the comfort of their chilled offices and at noon, these anglers carry on their duty with undeterred dedication in the Upper Lake, shielding themselves from the heat lashes with an umbrella.

Lost in love

 Love knows no boundaries. Lost in love, when couples forget even two of the bare essentials of life, food and sleep, the excruciating heat is but only a freckle. Transcending all trials and tribulations of nature and outshining the unbearable heat, lovers do not shy away from canoodling at popular hangouts. Braving the noon heat a lovey-dovey couple share some light moments against the backdrop of the vast Upper Lake on a mid-May sunny day.

The street...that did not feel the heat

Abandoned asphalts with elongated mirages, veiled commuters, mud pots with brim-full water parked on roadside for people struggling with the gruelling heat, dusty lanes; unarguably conjure up an apt image of the atrocious attack of summer in Bhopal. The days break gray and dull with patchy clouds dangling in the thin morning air. The afternoons however, reflect a starkly different scene with the overhead sun pouring fire all around. Travelling across the landscape of the City of Lakes we tried capturing some such quintessential shades defining a sultry day in Bhopal.

Clocking the heat

The two binary digits blinking in red hardly crossed the number twenty even a couple of months back and the same digital clock audaciously flaunts forty-three degree, reflecting the transient nature of everything in life. Just like heydays even rainy days are a temporary state of affair and the busy traffic, indifferent to the changing phase of the gigantic clock befittingly pass on the message of how life always moves on, irrespective of its thick and thin. 

Skilfully serenading on a Sunday

Music has the power to override the worst crisis in life. Good soulful music can give an orgasm unprecedented. Those who have ear for music and worship this divine art form will surely find my statement disparaging and sacrilegious. That however, I presume was the best way I could define the overflow of emotion experienced listening to Indian Ocean perform live in Bhopal.

 It was one such evening when heat and chill was at a tug-of-war, leaving us baffled with an erratic weather. Cannot surmise if it was the lulling zephyr of the upper lake, the beatific charm of Bharat Bhawan or the invigorating notes of the popular Indo-Western fusion band of the country, something had enveloped me in a stupor, an intense one, which followed me to my dingy one BHK apartment and remained adhered for a substantial period. The four-member troupe started the performance with a song titled ‘jhini’. By the time I entered, the open-air theatre was reverberating with enthusiastic singers crooning along. Not surprisingly, the musically and culturally advanced breed called Bhopalis were aware of all the songs played subsequently, most of which I had not even heard of! The only songs I managed to lip sync were the incredibly popular ‘Des mera’ from Peepli Live and ‘Bandeh’ from Black Friday. Other songs that quenched the ear’s thirst included tracks like ‘bhor’, ‘Maa Rewa’ etc. The enigmatic bunch of musicians further bewitched all with scintillating rendition on a single-stringed instrument, used fundamentally in Baul music, a genre typical to Bengal.  The musical spell was so profound, I never realized and three hours passed away in a jiffy, punctuated with small episodes of tiffs between my close buddy and her usually submissive boyfriend. Getting to meet a candid Rahul Ram, the vocalist and bass guitarist of the band was like icing on a whole platter of deserts. Trained in Indian Classical music, a singer who has the chutzpah to smoke chillam on the stage, Raghu, is one from that coterie of people you feel like having a cosmic connection with and can relate immediately.

Mellifluous music and a small talk with an astounding singer, what can be a better way of signing off a weekend!

The 'historic' fourth post

Once upon a time there was a lady, precisely, happily married and mother of two, who one day got a call from her husband telling her that  their marriage has gone kaput without a substantial reason whatsoever. The envelope of her happiness is torn apart by the cruel hands of destiny and like any Bollywood flicks she vows into getting him back, her first love. After turning pages of unnecessarily created situations and hours of boring read, you finally find her husband returning to her with heart full of remorse (one thing that is most unlikely on the part of any man on this planet). Yes, I take pride being a feminist at times for in the end male chauvinism and feminism germinates from the same seed called emotion.Kindly do not misjudge my humble purpose behind bugging you with this expected climate of the most expected plot from a novel I’ve recently perused. No, I am in no mood to switch my profession from a journo to an orator nor was it a suggestion for you to read the book. It nowhere provided me a delightful time pass but helped me recognize my urge to reconcile with my first love, playing with words. I decided on the spur that now since it has been nearly an epoch of my divorce with creativity, I should mend things with the Eco-system of alphabet and provide some nutrition to my electronic diary with the food of another post, My fourth Post! Applause intended.  

From thought's casket

Thoughtful thought

It’s a coy night;
A dimly lit room obscure my sight.
Literature invade the bed lying helter shelter
Thoughts want to break into the dream world
Alas!  They fail to enter.
Grey cells race to a distant past,
Reminding the essence of memories-
Only thing perhaps, never lost.
It’s eerie, yet I love the silence,
Just the heartbeats audible;
Not often do you get this chance.
As sleep delude the eyes,
I ponder twice and thrice-
If thinking ushers in intelligence,
After an intense thought process night long,
Tomorrow shall I get wise?