Honestly, I am a huge fan of internet (who’s not) and shall be thankful all my life to Dept. of Defense, US or Tim Burners Lee or even CERN (whoever invented it or claim to), but this is not an ode to World Wide Web. Rather, this curious incident took place during my stay in Gwalior and gave me an enlightening foretaste of what the future may have in store for us.
After a late night show of The Inglorious Bastards (on my laptop), my bed didn’t let me go early (any kind of sleep is becoming luxury to me, off late) and when I finally woke up thanks to constant yelling of my roommate, it was already 8, less than an hour to report on duty.
“Saale, uth jaa…the taps are running dry!” he screamed, almost into my ears.
I yawned as I pushed my head out of the quilt with effort and asked, “Is there a river nearby?”
His comb froze amidst his hair as he turned back and laughed aloud, “We are in a semi-arid desert and even the Chambal is 30 km away.” Clearly he had risen up early and got a naturally unfair advantage over me (and others).
After 5 more minutes of gargantuan effort, I finally managed to stand straight. Some 40-45 minutes were left to my reporting time. After 6 months at home, a water crisis was unanticipated for me.
“Why don’t they just switch on the motor?”
“Tried that already, the motor is down!!!”
Great, and it was supposed to be a Mechanical Engineering company. Why couldn’t they just call a machine freak from the workshop and have it repaired.
Being a KECian, this water crisis was definitely not new to me. But we always had this surplus of water in the gadera in college. I quickly went to bathroom and opened the tap in the bucket; it fizzled out in a couple of seconds. This certainly was a time to race my army of neurons.
I quickly went on the ground floor and brought the master key to the room locks. (My room was the only one occupied amongst 10 others on first floor; everyone else lived on ground floor) I opened all the rooms and tried to empty their taps of all the water that lay secure in pipe lines. 9 rooms and I had at last crammed up my bucket. But was this enough?
I took another spare bucket and went to see how everyone else was arranging theirs. It was a complete catastrophe for all my friends. Most were in a state of awe never having seen such crisis before. They lay sprawled on the sofa having resigned to the fate and watching TV. Some were busy writing applications of leave to the HRD. But the happiest were those who had risen early and had managed to have themselves dry-cleaned.
I dodged questions – if I had already arranged the water and where was I going looking for it. The garden outside seemed dry too having been stripped of its daily water feed. There was a tap on the hind side, veiled from the inquisitive eyes of young trainees. It was during a cricket match, that a six went stray and I discovered what that day could be a life savior.
I looked back behind my shoulder to check if I was being followed and hastily rushed to the tap. There certainly was some water in the line, but soon the tap started coughing and gave itself away. There was still quarter of a bucket left bare.
As I moved back in the hostel, a lot of stares followed me and even as their eyes were curiously (some jealously too) looking at the water in my bucket when all of a sudden my eyes found a treasure. There was a lot of water yet to be used…in the water filter. I poured more than half of the canter into my bucket, leaving some for the thirsty crows to throw pebbles in who were watching me, accusingly!
And within the next half an hour, I had done all the bath room activities including an additional shave! I was the cleanest, much to the dismay of my colleagues in the mess (I had to stuff up all the slices of bread that morning and rush).
The lessons of survival learnt in KEC prepared us for the hard life that awaits many of us. Sure it is going to be a tough battle but I am supremely confident that we are going to win this World War for Water…
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
License to Kill
“Oye, bring two tea...special, quickly!” hollered the large man, Ganesan. He continued scanning the shops in front. The shorter man, Ramesh with him turned towards the rear of the tea stall, staring hard into the jungle.
The shops opposite the tea stall were even smaller, books and medicine, never to be used by the natives. Occasionally, a car would stop and someone would ask for a cup of tea, flip some pages from the magazines, refill the medicine inventory and drive away.
A small boy came with the tea. He looked not a day more than 8, tattered clothes, and his rib cage prominent. His hands were rough, nails coarse. Misfortune in one’s kismet was not limited to malnutrition in these parts. “Why, chhele, don’t you go to school?” quipped Ganesan. His partner apparently was not interested. Before he could open his mouth, the boy’s father spoke meekly from behind the stove, “Saabji, I can’t afford the books and uniform. And what good it’ll do to him, he must learn what he’s learning with me from the books of life.”
The transmitter under his gamochhi crackled with static, and his words choked inside the throat of Ganesan. “He’s approaching, alone...” the electro-mechanical voice said, as Ganesan steadied the transmitter. Both the man’s eyes turned towards the road yonder. The tea shop owner sensed that something was wrong and gestured his son to come back.
Both the customers continued to sip their tea.
A young man grew into the vision, gradually, walking slowly towards the shops. His hair locks flew behind him and he effortlessly tucked them behind his ear. He looked an intellectual, simple, thin, in slippers. A bag hung on his shoulder; it bounced with his steps – in rhythm. Keeping his eyes straight he turned to the book stall and peeled off a magazine from the shelf. The owner, waved off the flies.
Couple of steps behind him, the radio crackled once again – “All teams, move in!”
The bushes hurled and figures appeared out of nowhere. They were armed as if to control an entire mob, surrounding the lone lean figure as the shopkeeper tried to lower himself below the books. His paunch clearly required some extra effort to move.
Ganesan and Ramesh came forward, breaking the ring of people. The young man was yet to turn; he persisted with the pages of the magazine, indifferent to his environs.
“Finally, we got you, you son of a bald woman!”
Unhurried, the man put down the magazine and turned back. His eyes exuded radiance, and his mouth was in a half-smile, as if he had himself planned his incarceration.
*
The police station was just another sarkari office. The shelves that lined the walls were overloaded with files, bathing in dust. The only lively story they could tell was of the spiders and cockroaches that dwelled in them. Everyone else was dead. The gap between the tables was punctuated earnestly by wooden benches. Their skeleton was broken at places and sometimes entirely hinged off too.
Some of the havaldars had earned desks to themselves; they kept the surfaces clean. At the far end a chocolate coloured table was resting – royal most furniture in vicinity, for the senior most officer. A telephone sat on its top. It had not rung ever since it was installed. The petty thieves joked from behind the bars that they put the phone, but forgot to extend a line to it.
Behind the table, a dark alley led to the prisoner cells. It was dark, from the lack of electricity or from the deeds, nobody knew. Somehow, both led to each other. The three cells were filled with the stench of urine, beedi and of dark chill of crime. The policewallahs avoided the cells except for the daily inspection rounds, or to lock someone up when they would cover their nose and switch on a bulb, do their work and rush away. There was no electricity that day and the interrogation was to take time, this was no ordinary man. And so Ganesan decided that the man should be kept in the office.
The prisoner stood in the middle of the room. Eyes from all sides peered at him. The young man stayed silent looking down at his handcuffs. Ramesh saw that and jibed, “You won’t be able to break them.”
“I am not planning to”, he said, as he looked up to Ramesh, still smiling.
Ganesan interrupted, “Enough, look we are not here to play games, just tell us where the fuck are all your other companions.”
“They are hanging on the wall behind you.”
“You think you can get away by pointing to Gandhi, Nehru? You are wrong Chetan, you are damn wrong!”
“But who said anything about getting away?”
A constable who was scanning Chetan’s bag had found out some books in it. One of them fell on the ground. The interrogation stopped in middle. Ramesh promptly went and picked it up. It read – Mahatma Gandhi’s Interpretation of Bhagwad Gita.
“Bhagwad Gita haan, you read Gita and kill innocent people?”
“The people who got killed were not innocent, have you read Gita?”
Ganesan interjected again, “Don’t give me your intellectual crap. Just tell us the name of your friends and their location.”
“Gita, asks us to fight against what is wrong and in favour of the righteous”, Shyam quipped, unbothered by the question.
“Don’t you piss me off boy, you can’t justify violence and blame it on the sacred book, you are not even old enough to understand it.”
“Are you? Are you old enough? And what text do you use to justify your violence on innocent junta - the constitution?
“Look here you...”
“What gives you the right to justify your violence, to justify you raping the young girls, of sodomizing the culture of this land? What’s wrong if we become violent in protect what is rightfully ours?”
“How dare you argue with us? You cannot break the law...”
“Oh, so this is it, you are on that side of the mutilated table of law, and so all that you do is lawful! Is it? And since I am on this side of table, my deeds are crime. Tell me, does the government of India officially issue you the license to kill?” Shyam’s voice had risen from its usual level.
Ramesh started towards the young lad, his hand clenched into a fist. He was stopped by Ganesan.
“Look son, let’s not make it tough for either of us; just give me the names of your friends and I’ll help you in all the ways I can.”
“I already told you, who are my companions. There’s no more to us than the idea that they planted. We’ll not let you run down our homes, culture and people. Do you want to know why we killed that mahajan? Because he took away a man’s land in lieu of his payment and made his family slaves. That is why we killed him. We killed that engineer, because he had made that road in village not of coal tar but of millions of bribed rupees. And do you want to know, why you are still alive, inspector Ganesan? Because you only are doing your work without any tainted intentions, doing what you are ordered to do, by your Government of India.”
Chetan’s legs buckled and he fell down on his knees on the floor. He was hit by a lathi behind his knees by Ramesh. Several men drew their weapons and moved towards the man on the floor.
This time Ganesan didn’t stop any of them; his eyes went to the floor and then closed.
The shops opposite the tea stall were even smaller, books and medicine, never to be used by the natives. Occasionally, a car would stop and someone would ask for a cup of tea, flip some pages from the magazines, refill the medicine inventory and drive away.
A small boy came with the tea. He looked not a day more than 8, tattered clothes, and his rib cage prominent. His hands were rough, nails coarse. Misfortune in one’s kismet was not limited to malnutrition in these parts. “Why, chhele, don’t you go to school?” quipped Ganesan. His partner apparently was not interested. Before he could open his mouth, the boy’s father spoke meekly from behind the stove, “Saabji, I can’t afford the books and uniform. And what good it’ll do to him, he must learn what he’s learning with me from the books of life.”
The transmitter under his gamochhi crackled with static, and his words choked inside the throat of Ganesan. “He’s approaching, alone...” the electro-mechanical voice said, as Ganesan steadied the transmitter. Both the man’s eyes turned towards the road yonder. The tea shop owner sensed that something was wrong and gestured his son to come back.
Both the customers continued to sip their tea.
A young man grew into the vision, gradually, walking slowly towards the shops. His hair locks flew behind him and he effortlessly tucked them behind his ear. He looked an intellectual, simple, thin, in slippers. A bag hung on his shoulder; it bounced with his steps – in rhythm. Keeping his eyes straight he turned to the book stall and peeled off a magazine from the shelf. The owner, waved off the flies.
Couple of steps behind him, the radio crackled once again – “All teams, move in!”
The bushes hurled and figures appeared out of nowhere. They were armed as if to control an entire mob, surrounding the lone lean figure as the shopkeeper tried to lower himself below the books. His paunch clearly required some extra effort to move.
Ganesan and Ramesh came forward, breaking the ring of people. The young man was yet to turn; he persisted with the pages of the magazine, indifferent to his environs.
“Finally, we got you, you son of a bald woman!”
Unhurried, the man put down the magazine and turned back. His eyes exuded radiance, and his mouth was in a half-smile, as if he had himself planned his incarceration.
*
The police station was just another sarkari office. The shelves that lined the walls were overloaded with files, bathing in dust. The only lively story they could tell was of the spiders and cockroaches that dwelled in them. Everyone else was dead. The gap between the tables was punctuated earnestly by wooden benches. Their skeleton was broken at places and sometimes entirely hinged off too.
Some of the havaldars had earned desks to themselves; they kept the surfaces clean. At the far end a chocolate coloured table was resting – royal most furniture in vicinity, for the senior most officer. A telephone sat on its top. It had not rung ever since it was installed. The petty thieves joked from behind the bars that they put the phone, but forgot to extend a line to it.
Behind the table, a dark alley led to the prisoner cells. It was dark, from the lack of electricity or from the deeds, nobody knew. Somehow, both led to each other. The three cells were filled with the stench of urine, beedi and of dark chill of crime. The policewallahs avoided the cells except for the daily inspection rounds, or to lock someone up when they would cover their nose and switch on a bulb, do their work and rush away. There was no electricity that day and the interrogation was to take time, this was no ordinary man. And so Ganesan decided that the man should be kept in the office.
The prisoner stood in the middle of the room. Eyes from all sides peered at him. The young man stayed silent looking down at his handcuffs. Ramesh saw that and jibed, “You won’t be able to break them.”
“I am not planning to”, he said, as he looked up to Ramesh, still smiling.
Ganesan interrupted, “Enough, look we are not here to play games, just tell us where the fuck are all your other companions.”
“They are hanging on the wall behind you.”
“You think you can get away by pointing to Gandhi, Nehru? You are wrong Chetan, you are damn wrong!”
“But who said anything about getting away?”
A constable who was scanning Chetan’s bag had found out some books in it. One of them fell on the ground. The interrogation stopped in middle. Ramesh promptly went and picked it up. It read – Mahatma Gandhi’s Interpretation of Bhagwad Gita.
“Bhagwad Gita haan, you read Gita and kill innocent people?”
“The people who got killed were not innocent, have you read Gita?”
Ganesan interjected again, “Don’t give me your intellectual crap. Just tell us the name of your friends and their location.”
“Gita, asks us to fight against what is wrong and in favour of the righteous”, Shyam quipped, unbothered by the question.
“Don’t you piss me off boy, you can’t justify violence and blame it on the sacred book, you are not even old enough to understand it.”
“Are you? Are you old enough? And what text do you use to justify your violence on innocent junta - the constitution?
“Look here you...”
“What gives you the right to justify your violence, to justify you raping the young girls, of sodomizing the culture of this land? What’s wrong if we become violent in protect what is rightfully ours?”
“How dare you argue with us? You cannot break the law...”
“Oh, so this is it, you are on that side of the mutilated table of law, and so all that you do is lawful! Is it? And since I am on this side of table, my deeds are crime. Tell me, does the government of India officially issue you the license to kill?” Shyam’s voice had risen from its usual level.
Ramesh started towards the young lad, his hand clenched into a fist. He was stopped by Ganesan.
“Look son, let’s not make it tough for either of us; just give me the names of your friends and I’ll help you in all the ways I can.”
“I already told you, who are my companions. There’s no more to us than the idea that they planted. We’ll not let you run down our homes, culture and people. Do you want to know why we killed that mahajan? Because he took away a man’s land in lieu of his payment and made his family slaves. That is why we killed him. We killed that engineer, because he had made that road in village not of coal tar but of millions of bribed rupees. And do you want to know, why you are still alive, inspector Ganesan? Because you only are doing your work without any tainted intentions, doing what you are ordered to do, by your Government of India.”
Chetan’s legs buckled and he fell down on his knees on the floor. He was hit by a lathi behind his knees by Ramesh. Several men drew their weapons and moved towards the man on the floor.
This time Ganesan didn’t stop any of them; his eyes went to the floor and then closed.
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