An ungrateful MPian

Some banners sprung up in Bhopal last week, proclaiming pride in being an MPian. The MPian is an altogether new coinage.

The banners obviously followed the State Government’s call to citizens to take pride in having been born in Madhya Pradesh.

The call coincided with the MP’s 53^rd foundation day. This is Chief Minister Shivraj Singh Chouhan’s latest fad, which ludicrously manifested itself in his utterance recently in Satna that jobs in MP belong to sons-of-the-soil and not to some outsider Biharis.

That he immediately retracted the statement hardly takes away tomfoolery of the singularly parochial statement.

One surmise has it that Shivraj Singh deliberately did a Raj Thackeray in Satna to preclude his chances for BJP national president post.

Be it as it may, the government has –perhaps less wittingly than otherwise-- sought to start a dangerous trend.

I strongly reject the MPian campaign. I too am born and brought up in Madhya Pradesh but don’t see any reason in the fact to be proud of. This is just a geographical accident just like my being a Brahmin is a biological accident.

What is so great about being born in a particular region or in a particular caste? The very idea, in fact, is obnoxious.

And what do I be proud of? The egregious fact that MP continues to top in the country in infant and maternal mortality rates? The ignominy of being born in the State where rapes are highest in the country? Or, where more than 68 percent children are appallingly malnourished?

What has the Shivraj Government done to mitigate the sufferings of the poor children and mothers to qualify in asking me to be proud of “ an MPian?

All these talks of false pride are red herrings. When the government cannot or does not want to address real issues, it resorts to such a gimmick. I refuse to buy the gimmick.

Before any one declares me an incorrigible cynic, let me categorically state that I would most certainly feel proud if the government shuns hypocrisy about removing corruption, dedicates itself to core issues of mitigating poverty, re-priorities its policy for the poor and deals sternly with communal elements, stop mollycoddling the mafias and power brokers.

Then and only then might I say I am proud of being an MPian.

Of Madhu Koda, Shivraj and D company

Madhu Koda’s profile in Hindustan Times last week reminded me of Shivraj Singh Chouhan. I discovered many common things in the disgraced former Jharkhand chief minister and cocky Madhya Pradesh Chief Minister.

Both were born sons of ‘humble farmers’; both cut political teeth in the RSS; both have been elected to Lok Sabha and Vidhan Sabha; both started –off with clean image; both managed to hoodwink people for long about their crores as CM.

Both are in early fifties. But Koda is now exposed. Will Shivraj too have the similar fate? Similarities between them don’t end here. The most striking similarity is that like Madhu Koda’s main corruptors—all those Vikas Sinhas, Sanjay Choudharys et al-- Shivraj too has a D Company to guide him on how to milk the government.

A suave builder heads the company. Top bureaucrats, police officers and, needless to mention, some media men, feel privileged attending the D company’s parties which, the CM too graces quite often.

Recently at a senior minister’s party, Mr D was one of the most-sought-after guests. The host sorely missed Mr D singing while himself sang duet with the CM. The host duly asked about Mr D from the stage on microphone.

Mr D is, arguably on top in the pyramid of power brokers in Madhya Pradesh. Mr D is also Mr Fixit. If you are a filmmaker, he will organize hassle-free locales. For a Yoga Guru, he has the requisite resources to ensure a huge jamboree in cooperation with VVIP spouse.

For officers looking for good postings, he is the one-window shop. The safest thing about him is that no body is going to write about his multifaceted feats. For, most journalists in Bhopal for now have other things to do- finding a house of their own is one for now.

Prabhash Joshi: Genius with contradictions

Veteran journalist Prabhash Joshi’s sudden death on November 5 has freshened myriad memories- of his polemical writings, deft coinage of new words and phraseologies in journalism, love for Hindi, rise and fall of ‘Jansatta’ the paper he founded, his association with the JP movement, loyalty to late Ramnath Goenka, nostalgia for Malwa, prolonged assaults on Bharat Bhavan under Ashok Vajpeyi, flip-flop on anti-Congressism, and, most memorably, his not-so-subtle attempt at simultaneous straddling medievalism and progressivism.

Admittedly, I’m not qualified to profile Prabhashji, for I didn’t know him that well. However, through his write-ups and my friends who knew him closely, I have constructed the journalist-thinker’s persona in my mind, which, at best, is a bundle of contradictions.

Like his mentor Jai Prakash Narayan, Prabhash Joshi too groped in the cavernous alleys of ideologies, perhaps beguilingly believing that the ideologies are malleable to a journalist’s stream-of-consciousness kind of writing for effect. He was sorely mistaken.

JP too, rather facetiously, sought to bring leftists and rightist together to wage his war against Indira Gandhi in 1975. He seemed to succeed for a while. The war cry of Total Revolution had drowned the irreconcilable ideological contradictions inherent in the Janata Party that JP had midwifed to dethrone the Congress dictator. What happened to the Janata Party is too well known though.

Prabhash Joshi too allowed his high intellectualism (his genius was unquestionable) to go ideologically adrift, especially in the twilight of his life. He sought to advocate obscurantist Brahminical order and Marxist economy in the same breath.

He seemed to see nothing unusual in breaking bread with Marxist doyen of Hindi literature Dr Namvar Singh and finding fault with the Indian cricket team selectors for not selecting more Brahmins! At times, his memoirs in the Kagad Kare (Black and White) would be too personal for any reader’s interest, forget concern.

I heard Prabash Joshi’s name first time long after he had become quite a name in journalism. It was in 1982. The paper – Gyanyug Prabhat- I was working in Jabalpur had folded up. Most of us had blithely looked forward to the demise of the paper. Future plan was last thing in my mind.

However, as months passed, others grew concerned. Incorrigible Marxist- romantic that I was then, I sniggered the colleagues’ careerism. Three of them—Rajesh Nayak, his cousin Manohar Nayak and my friend from Uttarakhand Arvind Upreti- moved to Delhi and joined Jansatta.

The paper was launched the following year. The paper brought a new idiom and a whiff of fresh air to an otherwise stale Hindi journalism. Yet, I would evaluate the paper critically on content while most of journalist friends seemed besotted by its stylistic writing. This much, however, I was pretty convinced that this paper is different and holds great promise for Hindi journalism.

Rajesh Nayak, when returned Jabalpur after joining the paper, had a host of stories to share. His enthusiasm was infectious. He would vividly describe the individual qualities of Prabhash Joshi, Manglesh Dabral, Ram Bahadur Rai, Alok Tomar and several others.

Jobless, I would derive vicarious pleasure of a journalist-warrior in the Rajesh’s anecdotage that he narrated with inimitable flourish – some times while sharing Charas-stuffed cigarettes at Kakka’s “ Chandukhana.”
(Will try to provide details of our smoking and drinking binges later)

A few months later, I went to Delhi and met Rajesh and Manohar. I also went to Jansatta office. The atmosphere was truly amazing. I saw Prabhash ji working till late night. He would churn out lead article for edit page in a jiffy, so to say.

The popular myth in a young journalist’ mind that big editors sit in a cabin with red light aglow at the entrance to scare others off exploded in Jansatta. Freedom to reporters was charmingly anarchical. I sensed an unmistakable envy in Indian Express staff for ‘poor Hindi (wallah) cousins’ and that was unprecedented. I returned hugely impressed. Since then Jansatta became a staple diet for morning.

The paper went several notches higher in my esteem for reporting the anti-Sikh riots in Delhi and elsewhere in India in the aftermath of Indira Gandhi’s assassination. No other Hindi paper showed such great courage in highlighting the miseries of the hapless Sikhs being butchered.

Four-five years down the line, however, the Jansatta began to lose its sheen. The crusading zeal had, mostly, degenerated into witch-hunting. Prabhash Joshi’s own fads manifested themselves rather poorly in write-ups. Experimentalism would often breach the acceptable.

The star reporters failed to digest the newfound power and began mollycoddling politicians. Freedom, the USP of the paper, would be increasingly abused by reporters. Prabhashji couldn’t have been so naïve not to know what was going on under his nose. Paper’s rightist slant became uncomfortably evident during the height of the so-called Ramjanambhoomi movement.

Of course, this slant had Ramnath Goenka’s blessings and Prabhaji couldn’t have defied his master. The fact that Joshiji himself developed ambition to enter Rajya Sabha did not help the matter. BJP was his first choice for realising the dream. But the party ditched him.

That infuriated Prabhashji so much that he idiomatically called the then BJP president Kusha Bhau Thakre ‘a cat’s excreta’. For some one who so critically wrote a piece on Sonia Gandhi’s foreign origin, Prabhashji’s ideological shift to Congress amazed his friends and foes alike. Now he was one of the bitterest critics of the BJP and, by extension, supporter of the Congress.

In one of my blogs, I wrote how Naya Theatre is orphaned by Habib Tanvir’s death. More of less, the same happened with Jansatta. Prabhashji’s energy and dynamism was matchless. Although the paper’s slide had begun during his time, his formal exit dealt a body blow. Prabhashji, like Habib Tanvir, had no second man of equal caliber to don the mantle.

If he had not indulged too much in politics and condoned cronyism in the paper, Prabhashji would have been remembered in more glowing terms. He was an original thinker and irrepressible writer. I offer heart felt tribute to the great journalist.

Three books; three Indias

I got to read three books this fortnight. Nothing unusual, you might say. Agreed. Many bibliophiles read even more books in a fortnight. Sometimes, I too do.

Nonetheless, I wish to share my reading experience. By sheer chance- yes, chance because the limited treasure in the Bhopal’s British, nay, the Vivekanand Library, doesn’t afford me luxury of planning-—all the three books are about contemporary Indian history, In a way, each compliments other about the recent history of the country.

The books are –The Story of My Assassins (author Tarun Tejpal), The Red Sun ( Sujeet Chakraborty) and the “ Riding the Tiger : Understanding India, the World’s Fastest Growing Economy” ( William Nobrega and Aashish Sinha).

The first book is a harrowing tale of the crime underbelly of semi-urban and urban India, the second deals with history of Naxalism, and the third pays glowing tributes to the potentialities of India surpassing China in near and the USA in a distant future as the world’s Super Power. This much introduction of the books should suffice.

For, I don’t intend to review them. My intention is to share experience of reading three books at a time- not simultaneously, of course; turn-by-turn; one chapter from one then another from another.

The experience was quite spellbinding. For instance, you have just been shaken by Sujeet’s lucid description of how the tribals of Bastar are caught in the crossfire between the Salwa Judum and the Naxalites, and the next hour you are treating yourself to the rosy projection of Reliance retail outlets in the next five years by writer duo- Nobrega and Aashish. As the stark contrast of the books begins to gnaw into your middle-class sensibilities, Tarun Tejpal’s superb prose takes you to the breeding grounds of crime cartels on Mumbai railway station platforms as well as politically –patronized bandicoots of Bundelkhand.

I realized I could finish the books faster than my usual time. The contrasts in the books were irresistible. On the whole, all three spoke about India but of different Indias- one that is riven by fratricidal war of tribals , another wallowing in criminal-political-bureaucratic nexus and the third where the middle and upper class urban populace is going ga ga over “ India Shining”, blissfully oblivious of the other two Indias’ growing decay.

More importantly, the turn-by-turn reading provided me a greater perspective to understanding India’s chilling dichotomy. The contrast often inspires-whether in appeal fashion or in book reading.

I consider myself fortunate to have discovered the joy of reading more than one book—preferably of different genres-- at a time pretty early in my life. This saved me from getting one-dimensional. The delightful memories of alternate reading of Ram Charitmanas of Tulsi Das and dialectic materialism of Karl Marx in early eighties still tickle me. I must thank my mother who kept me glued to Indian classical literature and initiated me to its unfathomable virtues.

Incidentally, my mother is with me. We still discuss literature. A mother is too close to her son for the son to thank her for what she has done to him- wittingly or otherwise. I only recall her gentle goading to make my reading so catholic without saying a word when we talk literature.

Unfortunately, quite a few of my old friends did not have my kind of mother. They were brilliant but never attempted to test the joy of varied reading. They were too besotted by Marxist literature. Of those who failed to cure themselves of the intoxication of one-sided reading are sworn enemies of books now. I can’t name them.

two novels; any one interested ?

Deconstructing Shivraj Singh Chouhan-ll

In his 15-year long parliamentary career from 1991 to 2006, Shivraj made sure he is not identified with any fraction in the party. Having won from one of the safest BJP seats in India—Vidisha—he felt himself spared of the worries of nurturing the constituency.

Except for annual mass Kanyadan of marriageable girls in his constituency -- an abiding fixation with him even today as a government policy--, he hardly did any thing for the constituency all these years. Instead, he focused on winning over senior BJP leaders and climbing ladder.

The lady luck, of course, never deserted him. The ascendance continued. So also elevation in party hierarchy. He became BJYM national president then BJP all India secretary and then general secretary. He also unsuccessfully contested state BJP president election against Vikram Verma.

The 2003 assembly election offered Shivraj an opportunity to return to state politics. The situation was ripe for him to become CM. But he lacked charisma that Uma possessed in abundance. Shivraj bided for his time. His mentors in Delhi had foretold him to gear up to replace Uma as MP Chief Minister sooner or later as the landslide victory for BJP in the assembly poll was a foregone conclusion.

The decision to field him against Digvijay Singh in Raghogarh seat was part of the strategy for his future anointment. The idea was to see to it whether he lost or won against the chief minister in his feudatory, Shivraj would share limelight with Uma Bharti. He lost but that didn’t matter. His political stock continued to rise.

Shivraj was very close to becoming Chief Minister in 2004 when BJP leaders conspired to oust Uma from CM’s gaddi barely eight months after she led the party to historic victory. Of course, her abject ineptitude was also responsible for Uma’s inglorious exit.

Uma, however, was still powerful enough to scuttle Shivraj’s chance. By this time, she had smelt the party leaders’ conspiracy against her. She succeeded in getting Babulal Gaur as her replacement. That was her wisest, if inadvertent, decision for the party’s interest. Gaur’s 15-months rule as CM is arguably the best-administered period in entire BJP dispensation.

However, Gaur was only a stop-gap arrangement, a fact he was not probably aware but his bosses in Delhi knew from the day one.

Gaur braved stiff opposition within his cabinet to carry on governance with aplomb. Shivraj was made state BJP president to breath in the Gaur’s neck more closely. The BJP high command had no patience for Gaur’s zeal to transform MP. He was shown the door. In came Shivraj. His succession took place on November 26, 2007 in high-voltage political drama the State had ever witnessed.

Events moved in quick succession- Uma was suspended and then expelled from the BJP; her four supporter MLAs too suspended but never disqualified; her political stock began to diminish quickly; her supporters started returning to the BJP, and before too long, she made herself completely irrelevant in politics through sheer self-destructive political moves.

The more Uma revealed her political immaturity and arrogance couched in self-righteous indignation, the stronger Shivraj grew. Comparison between them was inevitable. So, the public viewed even the lack- luster Shivraj administration as a relief in the face of lurking danger of Uma toppling the government.

But that did not mean, the electorate was happy with the Government. It was just that people were restlessly waiting for the assembly poll to oust the BJP government. Even the Subhash Yadav’s amusing leadership of the State Congress and befuddling inaction did not daunt the people to cherish the hope. By election results were showing which way the wind was blowing.

But, once again, Shivraj’s stars came to his rescue. Suresh Pachouri replaced Yadav. Within nine months from February to November 2008, the Pachouri’s leadership turned the table on the Congress. Pachouri, who was expected to be Chouhan’s nemesis, proved the Chief Minister’s Man Friday.

Deconstructing Shivraj Singh Chouhan-I

A cold, almost reluctant, handshake with Chief Minister Shivraj Singh Chouhan in a marriage party last Saturday night reminded me of the long-thought idea to write a blog on him. The handshake was fortuitous. Shivraj was coming to shake several outstretched hands and I was too upfront in the crowd for him to ignore mine. His plastic smile was firmly in place. It reminded me the contrast with Digvijay Singh’s vivacious guffaws in such public functions.

I had been thinking to write on the Chief Minister well before the Lok Sabha election. For, I am always intrigued what is the ‘Shivraj –factor’ that was credited for the BJP’s return in the assembly election and which, six months later, miserably flopped in the parliamentary polls.

I still believe the credit for the BJP’s return in MP should largely, if not exclusively, go to the Congress under PCC chief Suresh Pachouri.

I strongly feel none of the much-touted achievements of the Shivraj government impressed the voter enough to make a hero of the Chief Minister.

But the dormancy of the Congress under Pachouri ensured that Shivraj emerged a first preference by default. Then, of course, memories of the Uma Bharti’s disastrous eight-months as CM also helped her successor. Like nature, politics abhors vacuum. If Pachouri is to be rejected, Shivraj has to be chosen. No other choice.

The Shivraj- factor was a BJP-created and media-sponsored myth. A large section of the media still seeks to perpetuate the myth even after the BJP debacle in Lok Sabha election in MP. His spin-doctors maintain Shivraj charisma holds though BJP’s might be waning.

Incidentally, this media had similarly caressed Digvijay’s inflated ego when he ruled the State. He too was projected bigger than the Congress. So, nothing unusual about it.

Much as I might try to be generous to the Chief Minister, I can’t recall one enduring, forget spectacular, achievement of his government. I would love to be enlightened by his supporters on this point.

Road, electricity, water, industrialization, law-and-order, social indices, education, health—all these sectors cried for qualitative improvement all these years. What they got in the bargain was a status-quoist system inherited from the Congress. The government is just going on, much the same way as the day follows the night and vice versa. The State is where it was five years ago, if not skidded backward.

I don’t intend to empirically analyse pluses and minuses of this government in these sectors. However, I would still maintain the government’s performance is dismal. I can give not more than 3 marks on the scale of 10 to this government.

Now the million-clichéd question: why, despite his self-evident administrative failure, Shivraj Singh is virtually unchallenged Chief Minister?

My simple hypothesis is that Shivraj owes his phenomenal rise to a great amount of luck he is born with. His stars have never dimmed. His ability to project himself a humble farmer’s son also helped him a great deal.

Let me try to analyse how

An above-average youth from Jait village in Sehore district arrives in Bhopal to study; he is from a lower middle class farmer family without any vaunting ambitions; the urban milieu of Bhopal gradually transforms this rural bumpkin; he discovers that his tongue runs faster than brain-- a gift of the gab imbued in peculiar rustic charm; he is soft-spoken and ready to bow before any one of consequence at the drop of a hat. He is religious-minded too. The combination was perfect for the boy to be drawn to the RSS.

It was early seventies of the last century. Gathering political storm coupled with youth angst convoluted the nation. The collective national unrest spawned a variety of romantic revolutionaries. Left ideology attracted some, socialists fascinated others and quite a few impressionable youths foresaw the glorious past of the Aryavart about to revisit the land soon, if they helped the cause. The last category of starry-eyed youths joined the ABVP. Shivraj belonged to this category. He was a sincere activist who actually believed in the RSS ideology.

By the time post-emergency student politics came into play in Bhopal, Shivraj was in college. He had had an advantage of having spent some days in the jail during emergency as one of the youngest MISA detenues. This (and other factors like the acute dearth of dynamic youths in the ABVP then) catapulted him in the ABVP politics. The oratory stood him in good stead. The characteristic genuflection before elders helped too. Soon, he was an ABVP leader of consequence but not the top one.

Luck began to favour Shivraj when he graduated from the ABVP to BJYM. The Ramjanambhoomi agitation was burgeoning. Advani’s rathyatra had agitated the nation like never before. Shivraj had become BJYM state president. He used his oratory skills to influence the cadres on one hand and played the ‘humble son’ histrionics to win over party leaders, on the other. The BJYM rally in 1989 under Shivraj in Bhopal is still remembered for its vast number.

Now let me recapitulate the subsequent events in short.

BJP comes to power in March 1990; SL Patwa elected CM; Shivraj too debuts in the assembly; CM’s indulgence for Shivraj becomes known to all who matter; Shivraj plays cool and safe, without letting the newly-acquired power to go to his head.

The defining moments in his political career comes when Atal Behari Vajpayee vacated his Vidisha seat. Shivraj fill the seat. Now he is in Central politics at a time when BJP’s stars are on the ascendance. Rest, as they say, is history. ( Part two later).

(Sorry, the blog has become a bit over-sized)

Performer versus Actor: Naya Theatre's future after Habib Tanvir

This is something you won't get to read in the print. We have paid, deservedly, glowing tributes to the doyen of Indian theatre Habib Tanvir. He was, as the cliché goes, an institution in himself. But this raises a pertinent question: doesn't an individual becoming an institution militate against the very spirit of democracy? Doesn't institutionalizing an individual at the expense of the institution ultimately lead to its extinction?

Now that the institution Habib Tanvir built 50 years ago with his late wife Moneeka (she died in May 2005) is orphaned, what will be its future? Can Naya Theatre survive the late couple? I am doubtful.

So long Habibji was alive, the Naya Theatre basked in his reflected glory. Even when, of late, the illness and old age severely restricted the thespian's movements, Naya Theatre's some of the plays remained alive. Only last month his arguably the most famous play “Charan Das Chor” was staged in Bharat Bhavan (Bhopal) to a huge audience.

Now what? Two possibilities. One, some urbanite theatre persons who have been associated with Habib Tanvir lead the group; two, the core team of folk artistes whose histrionics made the Naya Theatre a world famous group carry on the tradition on its own. Both the possibilities are fraught with the danger of Naya Theatre losing its sheen beyond recognition.

The third possibility is death of the institution. And that will be a tragic chapter in the Indian theatre history. I have not seen Habib Tanvir's group from very close quarters. But whatever little I got to see as a theatre-enthusiast, I have doubt that the first two possibilities will come true.

Now, I come to the fundamental question. Should folk artistes perforce remain mere performers lest their imbibing modern education should 'pollute' their innate traditional energy potential to emote on stage? Should they be just puppets in the hands of a genius puppeteer who knows only too well how to make them regale the audience?

The world knows about Habib Tanvir. But how many even in theatre world know about Govind Ram , Bhulua, Fida Bai, Mala or many more of the Naya Theatre's artistes. Habib Tanvir was decorated with a legion of awards but how many of his artistes have been even one-hundredth as privileged? Yes, they have traveled half of the world many times over. But did the globetrotting help them understand, much less imbibe, fine nuances of the modern contemporary theatre?

Two of Habib Tanvir's artistes Amar and Dwarka broke away from Naya Theatre to join the long wound- up Bharat Bhavan repertory in late eighties. They did exceptionally well in the repertory when they got 'their kind' of roles—such as Vladimir and Estragon in the Alakhnandan-directed play 'Gonda La Dekhant Han' (Waiting for Godot) in Chhattisgarhi. Dwarka essayed his lead role with great panache in the 'Caucasian Chalk Circle' ( Bertold Brecht) directed by German director Fritz Benetiwz.

But, outside the repertory their traditional acting potential hardly helped them survive in the big world of theatre. At times we get to see Dwarka in odd TV serials in small roles but I don't know where is Amar?

I used to often debate with friends, particularly with Alok Chaterjee, Naveen Choubey and Arun Pandey, the desirability of an actor transcending the barrier of an instinctive performer. We by and large agree that the actor must read a lot to acquire modern sensibilities to essay any kind of roles.
We have shining examples in Naseeruddin Shah, Pankaj Kapur and, of course, Om Puri. Lately, exceptionally gifted actor Irrfan Khan has also proved his mettle as an extraordinarily versatile actor. All these actors are very well read. Nasir's reading habit is famous. Their acting prowess is enlightened by understanding of complexities of human nature in the given situation. They are not just intuitive performers.

I have put forth my point. I wish more people join me in this debate.

Why men can’t weep?

Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.
His play ‘ The Father’- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world—has been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr Auster Mark—in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee. Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.
First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain the objective behind mentioning it.
The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter. The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.
While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the father of the child.
Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually insane. Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery. Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.
In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints-“ You are weeping? What kind of man you are?”
Captain bursts out amid interminable sobs, “yes, I am weeping. Can’t the men weep? Don’t they feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin? Don’t they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The soliloquy is very long. It’s gist is that the manhood has nothing to do with weeping.
Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family.
It is just one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me—Why the men can’t weep?
As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either don’t recognize it or, if recognize, don’t confront the question.
When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective prescription for catharsis than weeping. We –means me and quite a few friends like me-- would weep when listening Menhadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali, reading Pablo Neruda’ immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant’s novel “Sukha Patta”, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s nazms on Palestine child or Bertold Brecht plays.
I even wept reading Semuel Beckett’s play, “ Waiting for Godot” which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying – and tearjerker too.
And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels so very subliminally purged our hearts.
Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don’t weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the ‘ Salad Days”.
I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern.
The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping. Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me. They respect me but, obviously, can’t share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray.
In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed. If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the “ system” with utter disdain. We have over the years become conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.
Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers’ time in mind. Don’t I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?

Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most
important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.

His play 'The Father'- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world, has
been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr
Auster Mark in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee.

Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.

First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain
the objective behind mentioning it. The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter.

The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.

While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the
mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she
fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of
instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the
father of the child.

Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually
insane.

Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the
straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery.
Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.

In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s
shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints; You
are weeping? What kind of man
you are?

Captain
bursts out amid interminable sobs, & yes, I am weeping. Can't
the men weep? They feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin?
Don't they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The
soliloquy is very long. Its gist is that the manhood has nothing to
do with weeping.

Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me
clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family. It is just
one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me;Why the men
can't weep?

As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not
to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the
people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either
don't recognize it or, if recognize, don't confront the
question.

When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective
prescription for catharsis than weeping. We & means me and quite a
few friends like me-- would weep when listening Mehadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali,
reading Pablo Neruda immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant's
novel & Sukha Patta, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz' nazms on Palestine child or Bertold
Brecht plays.

I even wept reading Semuel Beckett's play, Waiting for Godot,
which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath
the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying and
tearjerker too.

And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels
so very subliminally purged our hearts.

Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don't weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the Salad
Days.

I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern. The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping.
Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me.

They respect me but, obviously, can't share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray. In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed.

If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the
system with utter disdain. We have over the years become
conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.

Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers time in mind. Don't I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?

Why men can't weep ?

Many of you may not have heard about August Steinberg. He was one of the most
important playwrights of nineteenth century Europe.

His play 'The Father'- one of the 10 all time great plays in the world, has
been a memorable experience for me. I essayed the role of the doctor- Dr
Auster Mark in the play directed by Alok Chaterjee.

Alok, a very talented theatre person, got gold medal from the National School of Drama in 1988. He was the second actor to achieve the feat 19 years after Om Puri was awarded gold medal in the NSD.

First let me introduce in brief about the play. Then, I will equally briefly explain
the objective behind mentioning it. The play portrays the tragedy of a man and a woman struggling for possession of their 13-year-old daughter.

The father, a cavalry captain, is intellectual, a freethinker, a man of ideas. His wife is narrow, selfish and unscrupulous in her methods when her antagonism is wakened.

While the father's love is concerned with the development of the child, that of the
mother is interested mainly in possession of the child. Therefore, she
fights the man with every means at her command, even to the point of
instilling the poison of doubt into his mind by hints that he is not the
father of the child.

Not only does she seek to drive her husband mad but also through skillful intrigue she leads every one, including the Doctor to believe that he is actually
insane.

Finally even the old nurse is induced to betray him: she slips the
straitjacket over the Captain, adding the last touch to the treachery.
Robbed of his faith, broken in spirit and subdued, the Captain dies.

In one of the last scenes, the devastated Captain succumbs to his wife Laura’s
shenanigans and weeps inconsolably. The triumphant wife taints; You
are weeping? What kind of man
you are?

Captain
bursts out amid interminable sobs, & yes, I am weeping. Can't
the men weep? They feel pain like women when a needle in pierced through their skin?
Don't they agonise on being deprived of things so dear to them? The
soliloquy is very long. Its gist is that the manhood has nothing to
do with weeping.

Now let me explain the motive behind mentioning the play. But first of all, let me
clarify that the play has absolutely no bearing on my life or my family. It is just
one poser of the dying Captain that keeps haunting me;Why the men
can't weep?

As I am ageing, I feel the social milieu brings more and more pressure on me not
to weep. It is a mid- life crisis and not very typical one. Most of the
people of my age might be feeling that pressure. But perhaps they either
don't recognize it or, if recognize, don't confront the
question.

When I was young, I used to cry a lot. I strongly believe nothing is more effective
prescription for catharsis than weeping. We & means me and quite a
few friends like me-- would weep when listening Mehadi Hasan and Ghulam Ali,
reading Pablo Neruda immortal poetic tribute to poet Lorka or Amarkant's
novel & Sukha Patta, or reading Faiz Ahmed Faiz' nazms on Palestine child or Bertold
Brecht plays.

I even wept reading Semuel Beckett's play, Waiting for Godot,
which otherwise is seen as a (black) comedy evoking wry humour. Beneath
the comedy, the absurdity of the mankind is terrifying and
tearjerker too.

And mind you, the tears were not a lachrymose manifestation of a maudlin. The tears were a natural tribute to the great men whose ghazals, poetry, plays and novels
so very subliminally purged our hearts.

Most of those friends have outgrown the phase. They don't weep any more. Many even sneeringly laugh when recall the tearful tributes of the Salad
Days.

I am perhaps caught in the time warp, as far the idea of weeping is concern. The age and circumstances have combined to conspire against my longing for weeping.
Most of my colleagues at work place are at least 10 years younger to me.

They respect me but, obviously, can't share the emotional outpouring my sublime thoughts might betray. In the peer group, such ideas on literature, music or ideologies are seldom discussed.

If at all discussed, we often end up showing cynicism for the
system with utter disdain. We have over the years become
conditioned to talk, mostly, contemporary politics.

Oh, I have already typed out 750 words. So, I stop here. Much as I might want to write on this subject, I have to bear the readers time in mind. Don't I keep saying that brevity is the soul of good writing?

Focussed writing

Which of the two options would you go for if you were asked to write on “ Water crisis in India” or “ Why voluntary labour campaign at the Upper Lake in Bhopal not yielding desired results"?
You can write reams and reams of papers on the first. To write meaningfully on the second subject, you must be more informed and focussed. The first theme has little chances of impressing the reader, no matter howsoever painstakingly it is written ; the second has great potential to become eminently readable if the writer has actually observed the Upper Lake and followed media reports on the campaign.
I recently evaluated 57 essays on water. Students of a journalism institute wrote the essays on the theme “ Bin Paani Sab Soon”. I felt the students’ writing skills could have been judged better, had the theme been less vague and vast. Because of the broad canvas , the subject astounded the students.
Most of them had to resort to generalizations like what percentage of the Planet Earth is filled with water, the threat to ecological balance, spectre of growing global –warming, myriad awareness campaigns etc.
They also tried to embellish their essays with statistics, which are often boring, no matter their usefulness.
Such sweeping generalizations take the sheen off a write- up, whether it is a college essay or a soft feature or a hard newspaper story.
The more focussed the subject, the more scope for effective expression it affords. It doesn’t mean that write-up should be one-dimensional.
A story on Upper Lake can touch upon global water crisis as well. It all depends on how beautifully you weave the story, marshal your facts and keep readers interest alive.
Brevity and focus are the keys to holding the reader’s interest. I have been telling this to my colleagues for years.

Joy of losing

I can’t recall winning a single bet I had with friends at the Indian Coffee House all these years. For, I had not betted to win in the first place. If at all I won any, the victory was despite my wish to lose. Before you wonder if I am a big fool or flush with ill-gotten Crores, let me explain why I enjoy losing bets.
The contentment on the faces of stakeholders (friends) while ordering some thing to eat at the ICH from the won bet enthralls me. Every one believes the money belongs to either none or all. The equitable sense of belonging to the bet engenders an enchanting cacophony when stakeholders dispute over what to order. The added bonhomie lasts till at least the ordered snacks are served and eaten.
Alas, all this is under jeopardy ICH Mehfil is all but deserted.
I guess Rashid Kidwai, my fellow ICH sitter, shares my idea. He too is fond of losing – at times winning by default- bets. The won money is meant to be spent then and there only.
Some might say buying happiness thus is also selfishness. I agree. Maybe, I secretly seek to derive a vicarious pleasure of a host in losing bets. This is plausible because I don’t socialize.
I have never celebrated my children’s birthday or my marriage anniversary at home. Neither my monotonous career or less-than-ordinary horoscope has occasioned any great moments to throw parties. Power parties where ministers, IAS officers and ‘Who’s Who’ types are invited and keenly awaited are anathema to me. Some friends in the media, of course, use such occasions to gain access to VIPs.
Friends, who are otherwise great friends, don’t seem to think it fit to visit my home just for visit. I guess not-so-swanky home with down market drawing- room has its own disadvantages. Nonetheless, I am happy this way.
This being the case, the host in me must be restive. And that probably explains joy of losing bets.
Admittedly, I haven’t lost fortunes in betting. Most bets were worth Rs 100 each. A couple of them were in four-figure too. We have mostly betted on cricket and elections.
In the last assembly election, I betted on Congress victory. I knew for sure I am going to lose. Having spent 29 years in journalism, could I have been so naïve not to have read writing on the wall ?
Once again I have betted with Rashid on Congress winning at least 15 seats in Lok Sabha election from MP. Am I winning?
One famous bet on the World Cup Football two years ago in which every one had an equal stake was won by a friend, who was not exactly an ICH regular. That big bet had a different fate than the other ones. We failed to make the ICH richer with that big money.

Jangam Vidyapeeth

Poet Rajesh Joshi’s excellent write-up on Dr Namvar Singh in Dainik Bhaskar’s Sunday supplement today touched the core of heart. It is a great piece of literature worth preserving. How I wish I could present the piece in English translation here!
Rajesh has quoted Baba Nagarjun as describing Dr Namvar Singh “ Jangam Vidyapeeth Ke Kulpati”. Admittedly, I read this phrase for the first time. But I am absolutely marveled at the most apt description of the octogenarian ace Hindi critic.
Rajesh has simplified ‘Jangam Vidyapeeth’ as ‘Bol Kar Batana’. Its literal translation is a futile exercise. Viewed in the context of the write-up, the Jangam Vidyapeeth Ke Kulpati could mean the scholar-head of the varsity that disseminates knowledge through spoken words rather than written ones.
Dr Namvar Singh is endowed with rare gift of erudition and articulation. The combination has made him the most respected (and controversial too) Hindi critic. He has been regaling his audiences across India with his incisive observations on literature, social science, politics and ideologies for the last three decades.
Dr Singh’s baritone voice, Marxist worldview, accurate selection of words, weaving personal experiences with the given subject, treasure of anecdotage and repartees come into a vibrant play when he speaks.
More importantly, the sensitive listener gets enough in Dr Singh’s lectures to carry on home for long time to ruminate with friends. It is not as though a juggler of words has cast a spell whose magic is off the moment one is out of the lecture hall. His magic is enduring.
Dr Khagendra Singh Thakur has done a great service to Hindi literature by compiling Dr Namvar Singh’s important lectures in a book form—‘Alochak Ke Mukh Se’.
Rajesh’s piece has evoked some old memories too.
Hindi’s progressive writers have a penchant for invoking Dr Namvar Singh, Muktibodh and Munshi Premchand at the drop of a hat. Of the three, only Dr Namvar Singh is alive.
That perhaps explains why the Hindi critic is not always remembered reverentially as the other two (Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh and Munshi Prem Chand) are.
During the famous literary standoff between the Bharat Bhavan and the progressive writers during Ashok Vajpeyi’s heydays in eighties, Dr Namvar Singh was leading the Marxists’ charge against the multi- art complex.
I had numerous opportunities to mingle with writers, wannabe writers and camp followers of both sides in those years. The reactions would amuse me.
Many young writers on both sides would denigrate or eulogize Dr Singh without much knowledge about his contribution to Hindi literature. The camp following in literature is as much, if not more, blinded by personal loyalties to the leader as in politics.
Words like “Akahdebaaz”, “ Paththa” emptily reverberated the seemingly fierce debates in closed- door drinking sessions and seminars on polemics about Bharat Bhavan versus progressives.
The debates amused me no end. Since I was neither a writer nor aspired to become one, I could afford to view Dr Namvar Singh objectively.
My assessment of Dr Singh was illuminated by reading of his book ‘Doosari Parampara Ki Khoj’ and his marvelous evaluations of the poets of “Tar Saptak.” It was he who established Muktibodh as grater poet than Agneya. It was he who, despite ideological differences, pronounced Nirmal Verma as one of the most important storywriters.
I can go on writing endlessly. But that’s not my purpose. The purpose was to tickle the memory of the days when the camp following in Hindi literature in MP had spawned a plethora of ill-informed and semi-literate writers.
They are nowhere in the contemporary literary scene.
Only those who had the capacity to imbibe their literature with historical insight survived.
Rajesh Joshi is one of the most illustrious examples. And such writers still respect Dr Namvar Singh.
Lastly, I can’t go without mentioning that when Bharat Bhavan’s magazine ‘Purvagrah’ was revived recently, the trust chose Dr Namvar Singh to release it in New Delhi.
An incorrigible Marxist was thought most suitable by RSS-controlled Bharat Bhavan to release its in-house magazine. Of course, it enhanced prestige of both.

An earthworm

I had the privilege of spending time with noted satirist Harishankar Parsai in Jabalpur for years in early eighties. I am also fortunate enough to have read his oeuvre contained in his six volumes.
A few comments on my posts reminded me of one of Parsai’s great stories- Thanda Sharif Aadami—(“A cold gentleman”) .
Parsai’s inimitable style is impossible to translate in English. Yet, I am just trying to give a sketch of the story.
Two acquaintances are talking about a man who died on the day. One is describing to the other how gentleman the dead was. The virtues of the dead were many, the describer recalled. To begin with, he ( the dead man) was loathe to criticizing any body; would come straight from office to home ; shunned political talks; had no ideology; never got entangled in any ‘Lafda’ on road whether it was related an accident or a quarrel or any thing; mortally feared police; kept his eyes low; worshipped gods and goddesses demonstrably; obeyed the bosses and people of higher status without questioning.
In all, he was a gentleman who ought to have lived longer, the first man opines to the other with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
Parsai narrated the story in first person. In the story he was the man listening the virtues of the dead.
Now see beauty of the conclusion of the story. When the dead gentleman’s qualities were being described to him, the writer had an irresistible itch on his leg. He felt some slimy insect was creeping on the leg.
When the friend seeks reaction of the writer about the dead gentleman, the writer suddenly flings his leg. “ Kya Tha ? (What was that?), the man wonders.
“ Kenchua Tha”. (It was an earthworm).
No prize for guessing whom the writer described an earthworm.
I certainly don’t want to become a cold gentleman, an earthworm. Hence the blog. Hence the posts.

Pointing to overcast sky

Chahta to Bach Sakta Tha
Magar Kaise Bach Sakta Tha?
Jo Bachega
Kaise Rachega?
Isiliye
Main Dhundhuaya
Chitkane Laga
Karah Sakta Tha
Magar Kailse Karah Sakta Tha?
Jo Karahega
Kaise Nibahega?
(Shrikant Verma)
If I dare translate the above lines in English, the translation could be roughly like this –
I could escape if so wished
But how could I?
Who escapes, can’t create
So,
I smoldered
Crackled
Could moan
But how could I moan
Who moans can’t manage
This poetry is from ‘Magadh’. Melancholy dominates Srikant Verma’s ‘Magadh’, his last of four anthologies. He penned most of poems in ‘Magadh’ following disillusionment with politics. He was an AICC general secretary during Rajiv Gandhi’s time but was gradually marginalized. Or, perhaps withdrew himself. He died a thoroughly disillusioned man in 1988.
I am recalling this poetry to reply to some of the comments on my previous blogs.
Some well-meaning commentators have advised me against writing “ too personal things” or “settling personal scores”. They cited rules of blogging to caution me.
I thank them all from the core of my heart, not the least because they thought it fit to comment on my blogs.
But, dear friends, what is the good of blogging if you don’t express your innermost feelings? Admittedly, I am novice in blogging. But I am thrilled by its potential. It has given me the kind of freedom of expression I always yearn for. The blog has turned me what writer Arundhati Roy says, a “one-man mobile republic”.
Me and my senior friend for 25 years Rajesh Pandey often used to lament we don’t have an effective device to reach out to people.
Launching a paper or magazine by individuals like Rajesh or me in this age is simply out of question. Even the ‘high class’ papers are gasping for want of capital. The age of ‘small magazines” is passé.
To me, the blog has come as a divine intervention to raise your voice and be heard across the globe. I recently read the Thomas Friedman’s book “ The World is flat” and came to realise invaluable potential of the blog.
Since then, the idea of starting blogging agitated my mind. And now I am into it.
Dear friends, let me recall another poet Dushyant Kumar’s line
Mat Kaho Aakash Mein Kohra Ghana Hai
Yah Kisi Ki Vyaktigat Aalochana Hai
(Don’t say the sky is thickly overcast
This is someone’s personal criticism)
Should I desist from pointing to the overcast sky for the fear that this might ruffle some individuals’ feathers?
I would welcome criticism and assure you none of the comments on my posts would be deleted unless their language is completely obscene.
Let the thousands flowers bloom. This is the beauty of democracy. This is beauty of secular republic we have inherited.
Blogging is a cultural tool for personal protest and must be used to its optimum potential.
Let me finish this blog with one example.
About a couple of years ago, the RSS-sponsored mega play ‘ Janata Raja” was staged in Bhopal. The play is about Shivaji’s life. Its sets were spectacular, consumes dazzling but acting mediocre. Nonetheless I was delighted to see the play.
Why? Because it was a cultured way of propagating RSS ideology, a far cry from hooliganism the Bajrang Dal hoodlums often indulge in, in the name of saving ‘ Bhartiya Sanksriti”.
Many of my secular friends sneered at staging of the play. They pointed to the state patronage to the play by the Shivraj Singh Government.
Well, the objection to selective state patronage to the play might be justified but we must welcome such cultural and cultured enterprise to propagate any ideology. It is shorn of violence. If theatre becomes a true language of protest, nothing like that.

Join me in pray

We are keeping our fingers crossed as my colleague in Hindustan Times Manish Dixit is struggling for life in the National hospital in Bhopal. He is suffering from severe pneumonia. Both the lungs are massively congested. How this happened is a mystery. Doctors suspect it could be due to fungal /bacterial emission from repeatedly re-circulated air from the AC at Manish’s bedroom. What lends credence to the suspicion is the fact his wife and a son are also afflicted with the same problem but in lesser degree.
Just imagine the condition of the family at the moment! Manish’s 64-year-old father is fighting hard with himself to look sanguine. The mother is just quiet. Younger brother is pillar of strength.
Many of us in the reporting section have had little sleep since Manish was admitted. He is with us since launching of the paper nine years ago. In fact, I know him for the last 15 years when he used to come to National Mail.
Crisis, as the cliché goes, brings out best of the human beings. How true! Most of my colleagues are doing every thing possible to see that Manish gets best of treatment. We have spoken to doctors in Mumbai, Delhi, Nagpur and , of course, Bhopal.
For three days, our routine is confined to hospitals, office and home. We felt sad that we couldn’t give good coverage to the first phase of Lok Sabha poll. How could we?
It is not only we in HT who are doing our duty to Manish. Chief Secretary Rakesh Sahni came to the hospital and is keeping himself abreast about Manish’s health. Commissioner, Public Relations, Manoj Shrivastava, spent many hours while Manish was to be shifted to AIIMS by air ambulance. Manoj guided arrangements on his mobile. He looked genuinely concerned. It wasn’t as though he were doing a PR man’s job for a journalist. The AIIMS shifting plan was, however, dropped on the advise of the doyen of Bhopal’s medical fraternity Dr NP Mishra.
The aborted plan also got me in touch with Sanchita Sharma, our health editor in HT in Delhi. I haven’t met her but when I explained Manish’s condition on mobile she said, “ok, bring him here and I will take care of treatment at AIIMS. Nothing to worry.”
Sanchita’s assurance contrasted with Mazhar Ulla Khan’s dithering. I spoke to Sanchita for the first time but I know Mazhar for the last 18 years. We worked in National Mail (wound up English paper of the Bhaskar group) for seven years. He is now public relations officer with the Bhopal Memorial Hospital and Research Centre (BMHRC).
Desperate, as we all were due to Manish’s critical condition, I called up Mazhar to know if BMHRC could do something for the pneumonia patient. Frankly, I expected him to say, “ Arre Bade Bhaiya, just bring him here. Every thing will be taken care of”. I expected too much from him. Any way.

Please join in praying for Manish's speedy recovery.

Kabir, my guide

Most people are dumbfounded when asked what is their philosophy. Fortunately, I
am not. My philosophy is absolutely clear. I am eternally indebted to
great Sant Kabir whose one " Doha" most aptly encapsulates my
philosophy.
Sai Itna Deejiye Jaame Kutumb Samay
Mai Bhi Bhookha Naa Rahun Sadhu Naa
Bhookha Jaye
Its literal translation will be some thing like; O almighty, give me enough to
sustain my family, so that not only I have not to go hungry but also the
mendicant at my door is not turned away without enough alms.
This is just a loose translation. The true philosophical import of the Doha is too
profound. Of all the ancient philosopher-Sants, Kabir's is the most
arcane philosophy. And, most charming too. However, the bottom line is
--meaningful contentment, which, in other words is conquering lust.
Philosophy always confuses even the most learned people. They feel it is too esoteric
to learn, much less adopt in life. The confusion is mainly borne out of
linking philosophy to ancient scriptures, mainly religious. Philosophy has
essentially secular outlook, I feel.
I tend to look at philosophy in much simpler ways. Besides the Kabir's
immortal Doha, I am inclined to recite a famous Hindi song when quizzed
about my philosophy.
Mai Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya
Har Fiqr Ko Dhunve Mein Udata Chala Gaya
The entire song in its four stanzas is, in fact, a rich philosophical treatise.
Whenever ever green star Devanand comes on TV screen singing the song in his characteristic gay abandons, I am exhilarated.
Yet another thing that defines my philosophy is great French writer Moupassant's
famous story.
It is like this. A barefoot person walking on road is grumbling about want of a
pair of shoes as he sees another man walking ahead of him wearing brand
new footwear. The barefoot man meets a friend on the way and cribs about
lack of shoes. The friend asks the grumbler to turn around. He turns and
sees that the man behind him is without legs!
Whenever any undue desire overtakes me momentarily, I recall this story.
Of course, my family does not share my philosophy. The wife often cringes for my
inability to change this dilapidated F-type house in South TT Nagar that
is virtually abandoned by the PWD as irreparable: the 18-year-old son is
too starry-eyed to see virtues in my philosophy; the 14-year-old daughter is most embarrassed by my philosophy in the family.
In fact, no one in the family is happy with the way I look at my life. Out of
affection, they feel I deserve a " better" life. And better
means- more comfort, more luxury and greater social status.
My mother often weeps that her eldest son is without his own house whereas the other
two have nice ones -- one in Jabalpur and the other in Delhi. The
younger brothers lead an upper-middle-class life with all the luxuries
they have assembled. Their nice life style, of course, gladdens the mother
but, at the same time, accentuates her sorrow (pity?) for me.
I am really confounded. Don't know what to say to her. For, I don't
understand why should she be unhappy.
Let me recall one instance. In the last summer, I woke in the middle of the night
to muted sobs of my mother. She was sitting on the bed. I inquired the
reason for her weeping but she kept mum. On persistent inquiries, she told
me the reason and I was confused whether to laugh or cry.
The reason was funny for me and heart-rending for her.
It so happened that I decided to sleep on a mattress in the bedroom because she
occupied my bed. We had only one cooler and it was scorching summer. Every
one in the family had to adjust for cool air of the cooler.
The mother said amid sobs when she saw me asleep on the mattress, she became
miserable.
" How my son whose academic brilliance in school had ignited millions of dreams
in the family is coiled on a shoddy mattress and still looking content!"
It was hard to convince the mother of my philosophy in the night.
Instead, I assured her to buy a new cooler, which I did the next morning.

More about philosophy in next blogs.

Fabulous contacts

Fabulous Contacts

The crème la crème of Bhopal media was in the party last night. It was a Congress leader’s daughter’s wedding reception. Lesser mortals like me too were there. The party was magnificent, food sumptuous, varieties mind-boggling and the ambience suffused with opulence.
The Congress leader resides in a locality, which in local media circle is also called “ Dalal Street”. Of course, not all the residents on the street belong to the ilk. But, as very few in Dixitpura Mohalla in Jabalpur are Dixit, the Dalal street too has few who qualify the street. The street- qualifiers are, obviously, resourceful persons. They enjoy ‘fabulous contacts”, as a journalist reminded me in the party.
The word ‘fabulous contacts” flummoxes me. I have discovered that ‘fabulous contacts” is inversely proportional to true reporting. The richer a journalist in contacts, the less he tends to write. And whatever or whenever he/she writes is, deservedly, seen with suspicion.
I must confess I too write sparingly but can’t be accused of “ fabulous contacts’. Forget the chief minister, even a beat policeman of my locality doesn’t know me. It is, in fact, my preoccupation with the job in hand that keeps me away from regular reporting. Laziness is another, perhaps bigger, reason.
In media jargon, words ‘contacts’ and ‘sources’ frequently crop up. Both hugely differ from each other. Contacts connote knowing and be known to bigwigs including top politicians, bureaucrats, businessmen or similar influential people in the society. They seldom supply a tip for reporting unless it concerns furthering their own nest. Sources are different. They belong to lower categories and wish to remain mostly anonymous.
I recall my friend Late Jagat Pathak who had very few contacts but innumerable sources. His sources mostly comprised cobblers, washer-men, hammals, masons, police constable and such people. Jagat Bhai leveraged these sources to dig out stories. And his reporting was unsurpassable. He was hugely popular city reporter.
Whenever I pillion rode on his much-talked-out dilapidated schooter in late eighties and early nineties, I noticed with amazement that Jagat Bhai’s one hand is almost permanently waving to the greetings of passers-by. Naturally, I had high regard for him.
Another name that crosses my mind is of Bharat Desai. He worked in local and national papers and magazines but didn’t claim to know high and mighty. His marriage reception in 1993 was markedly shorn of “ fabulous contacts.” Only friends and close acquaintances attended the intimate and warm party. Therefore, I was not surprised to learn that Bharat Desai, now RE of Times of India, Ahmedabad, has hardly, if ever, met Chief Minister Narendra Modi.
I have also known and worked with journalists with “ fabulous contacts”. They are innately timid. The fear of “ what so-and-so might say” always haunts them when they wield the pen. The higher they ascend in the career ladder, the deeper the fear.
I always wonder why this fear haunts them as the stage of their life when they have achieved every thing in terms of money and fame. I believe the “ fabulous contacts” imprison these journalists in their own cocoon of thinking. Their ‘contacts’ overawe them.
At times their conscious pricks but gets overwhelmed by the overriding idea of high social status. This social status, they convince themselves, is a direct derivative of their “ fabulous contacts.” So, why lose them ?
As far fairness and social commitment in journalism, who cares for these ‘ avoidable’ attributes any more? This is how they allow their sense of fairness to degenerate.
The degeneration is unstoppable. Once a journalist has gone astray, mainly on the strength of “ fabulous contacts, he seeks to assert his position through means vastly different from journalistic. He uses the “ fabulous contacts” as a capital to endear himself to his paper owner.
The paper owner, in turn, puts the journalist on liaison for his myriad business interests. And thus a nexus of IAS-politician-newspaper-owner-journalist is formed. The nexus discreetly invades the paper’s editorial propriety and independence.
The newspaper baron wants more business, the politician favourable coverage and the IAS/IPS cover-up for their misdeeds and expose for their detractors’. And where is the journalist? He becomes a wiling tool, now that he has already sold his conscience.
So beware of “ fabulous contacts.” Rely on “ sources”.

Dream and nightmare

Dream turns nightmare
What was my enduring dream for years in youth time has turned into a recurring nightmare. Failure haunts me persistently. Often in the middle of night, I wake up, perspiring. What is that dream-turned-nightmare?
In school, my ambition was to become an army officer. What fuelled this ambition was praise for my body constitution (I grew faster than most peers, and was 5’, 11” feet tall and lanky in Class 11th).
By the time I entered college, I had got hooked to literature- Hindi and English. So, the army plan was forgotten.
Instead, I yearned to become a writer. At 20, I joined Jabalpur theatre group ‘Vivechana’ and the association ignited in me fire to become an actor. As passion for literature and theatre grew, I leaned to Marxism.
And a new dream beckoned; to become a teacher. I dreamt myself of going in poor ‘bustees’, teaching slum children.
I was lucky to pursue all these avocations for years in Jabalpur (except of a writer) but not lucky enough to carry them on after I left the City.
Destiny intervened. I strayed into journalism accidentally. Well almost. Father died. The dreams shattered. The city of birth left behind. A new city (Bhopal), new people and new responsibilities (marriage and children) combined to transform me.
But the dream survived in deep recess of my consciousness. And still haunts me, not as a dream but a nightmare.
Why I am talking of this? Because I feel the dream is still realizable. Why can’t I become a writer, a theatre man and a teacher, besides being, of course, a journalist?
There is one major hurdle- financial insecurity.
In India, few like Khushwant Singh, Dilip Padgaonkar or Sanjay Baroo in English (In Hindi we have a long list that prominently includes Agneya, Raghuvir Sahay, Shrikant Verma etc) are fortunate to straddle the academics, literature and journalism with aplomb. They are all financially well-off and intellectual giants.
I am miles behind them in purse and caliber. Maybe, if I were born in the West, I could have hopped from one vocation to another of choice with whatever little intellect I possess.
Nevertheless, I still try to repel the nightmare. How? Reading habit continues to be my most dependable companion.
Occasionally, I dabble in theatre too. My last appearance on stage was barely two months ago in Jabalpur as Dr Oster Mark in Steinberg’s play ‘ The Father. Becoming writer remains an unfinished but not unrealizable mission.
As far teacher, I have sincerely attempted to perform the role while working as bureau chief in HT.
Here I owe a debt to interns of Makhan Lal Chaturvedi University of Journalism. I have had opportunities to share my knowledge with at least a dozen interns from the institute.
Of course, they were not exactly brilliant. But, many of them with positive attitude to learning did well in the small durations of one to three months they were in the HT.
I would always wistfully yearn I had more time for them. But the routine of the bureau chief job keeps me occupied. The teacher in me would be delighted to see the pupils learning new things.
I did not teach them any great things. It was just how to write correct English in news format. I strongly believe, once a new comer understood the essentials of formatting a report, he/she has learnt more than half of journalism. The rest will follow naturally.
In this season of internship, however, I felt deprived of the delight the ‘teacher’ used to derive in the past. Some interns came.
Barring one, all were put under others. The one with me was likeable, if quite fidgety, girl. She is diligent, punctual, reverential and, most importantly, inquisitive. But, I couldn’t train her as much as I desired.
The others wouldn’t interact with me. Nearly two months passed.
One day, I learnt all of them are abandoning internship half way. I had been sensing some discomfort in them for some time but had no inkling that they would just quit the training.
They did not divulge the reason for their regrettable action when I spoke to them. They said all was fine here. But their voice betrayed their disappointment.
Later, the girl who was working with me told me that the interns feel discriminated against. Her remark was as shocking as it was acerbic. ‘ My crime is that I could not choose an influential father to sire me”. I was aghast.
The remark left me wondering why every journalist doesn’t have a well-intentioned teacher in him/her. It is not about one particular organisation.
In every media organisation, trainees are either contemptuously ignored or condescendingly saddled with inconsequential tasks having no or little bearing to their training.
The specious argument advanced by the “ mentors’ for such rubbish assignments is that “ we too learnt journalism this way’. Many such mentors get insidiously nostalgic about “ those days” when their editors or immediate bosses would ask them to do the kind of work they are now asking the trainees to perform.
All this nostalgia talk is nothing but disingenuous self-aggrandizement.
The young boys and girls with stars in their eyes don’t want that nostalgia. They want to learn. The sooner media organisations realise this the better it is for their own image. After all, the interns can be transformed into assets for a media group if groomed properly.
It is a symbiotic relationship. They have human resources, energy and readiness for assignment. The paper has experience and technology to mould the energy into a useful product.
I feel sad about those interns.

Nasir unemployability

Nasir’s unemployablity
Those of you who avidly read Sunday column ‘Time Machine” (earlier Then and Now) in the Hindustan Times, Bhopal Live must have been impressed by the column writer’s lucidity of expression and intimate knowledge of Bhopal. His name is-- need I tell? --- Nasir Kamaal.
Till six months ago, he was HT’s deputy news editor. He quit as he felt his health was not permitting him to endure work pressure. He suffers from slip disk. Nasir took up a 9 to 5 assignment with an NGO working for the gas victims. Work pressure has lessened on him but his worries have increased, primarily financial. He is sole bread earner of the family with a wife and two sons- one grown- up and the other growing.
Nasir expressed the desire to return to the newspaper. We in the HT were delighted that Nasir Bhai will be back soon. It was, however, not to be. We were told that Nasir (54) is too old to be reemployed. I was more anguished than shocked. Why must 54 be an age of unemployablity? I ask myself. This is preposterous. Let me explain why.
Till three and half years ago, Nasir and me used to work together on the HT’s desk. Both were chief sub editors. Our routine was to come around 5 pm in the office and stay till 1.30 am. We would edit nearly 90 percent of all the stories from Bhopal and other centres’ correspondents. I would rewrite stories too -- mostly political and administrative ones. The routine went on for more than three years. Nasir’s diligence, punctuality, neat copyediting and, above all, a little avuncular charm won over every one in the paper. At times, of course, he would lose tempter but the duration would be rather short and absolutely devoid of rancour or malice. I can safely claim Nasir used to perform work of at least four sub editors. By the time many others (10 to 15 years younger to Nasir) on the desk could edit two copies, Nasir would be through with a dozen. More than quantity, Nasir excelled in quality in editing. So, where was the age problem?
It is all about attitude to work. You can be young and chronic shirker; and quite old and still be hard worker. Nasir’s is one glorious example.
I feel so sad for Nasir but can’t express lest he should take it as pity. Life has not been kind to him. He has every quality of an illustrious journalist and yet he is nowhere in the media scene. He is an MA in Urdu literature from prestigious JNU.
On the other hand, we have a bunch of racketeers masquerading as “ Varishtha Patrakar” who are thoroughly enjoying all the benefits that the profession accrued them- by means less fair than foul.
I came to know Nasir in 1991 when he was with the Free Press, Bhopal bureau. His innate goodness was inescapable. Later I too joined him in the bureau. We could have stayed in the FP but for Kalpesh Yagnik. He was sent as bureau chief six months after I joined the paper. Kalpesh was (at least in those days) a rank hypocrite. His English was atrocious and his news sense pathetic. He showed qualms about drinking tea or having dinner in CM’s or ministers’ press conference but secretly lobbied for mining lease to his relatives in the corridors of power. Some other racketeering escapades of Kalpesh also surfaced later.
Both Nasir and me couldn’t suffer Kalpesh for long. I quit first. Nasir followed a few months later. We joined at different times the National Mail, which had been revived under Dr Suresh Mehrotra’s editor ship. Dr Mehrotra is hardly a journalist. He can’t write. He claim to fame was his ability to befriend bureaucrats and politicians. He was known as Arjun Singh’s man and Dr Mehrotra quite enjoyed this identity.
Having said this, I must admit the editor was good to us in initial four years. He virtually left the paper to our joint responsibility. The National Mail did remarkably well under Nasir and me. Gradually, however, Dr Mehrotra’s visionlessness and mediocrity overwhelmed him as well as the paper. The National Mail started sinking. We tried hard to retain professionalism and were sidelined as a result. Nasir again left the paper in disgust and decided to move to Bangalore. I sulked but stayed on, completely marginalized.
A few months later Nasir returned from Bangalore. The magazine he was to launch there was not taking off because of some problems. Doors of the National Mail were closed to him. He reluctantly joined the Central Chronicle as just a copy editor. A year or so later, I too finally decided enough was enough in the National Mail and joined the Central Chronicle. It was in 2000.
We were in Chronicle for just a couple of months when HT’s Bhopal edition was launched. Nasir was called and appointed sports reporter. For some one who was out of reporting for over a decade, Nasir did reasonably well as a sports reporter. The then RE Askari Zaidi recognised Nasir’s abilities and absorbed him in the desk as chief copy editor.
I had to quit Central Chronicle in 2002. Reasons behind the decision were many but I don’t want to discuss them here. Once again I was jobless with two children and no savings. It was the worst time for me. I approached Mr Zaidi. He was receptive to my request and assured to do some thing. Nasir lobbied for me. His soothing words were much-needed consolation for me in that troubled time. Two months later, I got into the HT. Once again—it was fourth paper -- Nasir and me were together.
It is not easy to remain friends if you have worked together in four papers for over one and half decades with some one. But we have never had any differences, much less quarrel between us. He is such a fine human being.
I pray Nasir Bhai’s financial problems are solved soon even if he doesn’t have to work in any newspaper any more.
Rakesh

Bhopal Media

Some journalists today got together to discuss media and the shoe. The shoe obviously refers to Jarnail Singh’s. His target forgave the Dainik Jagran journalist immediately after he hurled the show.

The shoe instead hit Jagdish Tytler and Sajjan Kumar. Any way, here I want to share view about Bhopal media and not the ‘Shoegate’. I was not invited in the meet that was grandiosely (foolishly?) termed “Gol Mej Conference”. I am seldom invited in such gatherings and I am happy this way.

The few journalist meets I attended in the past left me more skeptical-- rather cynical-- about a section of the Bhopal media. When some of these journalists rather sanctimoniously talked about ‘declining ethics’ and ‘deteriorating professionalism’ in the media, I sardonically laughed within myself. What a bunch of hypocrites and fraud these gentlemen are!

This is my 23rd year in Bhopal. Twenty- three years is a lifetime. Most of these enthusiastic flag bearers of the Bhopal media sprung in the scene barely a decade or so ago. They are smart chaps. Most of them live in E-type government bungalows. Most of them are saffronites. Quite of few are just semi-literate. Books repel them.

What holds their interest is gossiping about politics and, of course, about fellow media men. They unceasingly gloat over ‘close’ friendship with ministers and bureaucrats. Chief Minister’s company is most coveted desire. They were genuinely elated over the BJP victory in the assembly election.

I rarely figure in their talks, much less in their scheme of things. If ever I get mentioned in their small talks it is with sneers. My reticence ( I find it hard to open to hypocrites, though I can suffer fools) annoys them and they show it by consciously refusing to recognise me wherever they run into me.

I don’t know what they talked in the ‘Gol Maze Conference’. But I am trying to visualize all that sitting in my office. More on Bhopal media in next blog.
Remeber this does not apply on all who attended the meet. My collegue Ranjan was also there. I am proud of my HT team. It is this team which has kept my faith in fair journalism alive.

Bade Bhaiya

Bade Bhaiya- I love to be called so. When my colleague Shams was helping me create this blog and asked for title, I blurted out –Bade Bhaiya.

I am the eldest of us three brothers in the family. But that is not the reason for me becoming ‘Bade Bhaiya’. The sobriquet has a funny history. I came to Bhopal in 1987 but even 22 years after I left Jabalpur my heart still beats for the City of my birth. I am very fond of narrating anecdotes about Jabalpur. Of myriad anecdotes, one is about how typical Jabalpurians get sentimental when drunk.
It is like this.

Two Jabalpurians are savouring country liquor in a ‘Kalari’ (My fondest memories are about Kalari visits are of the one that was situated near Damoh Naka in Jabalpur). One is in twenties and the other in late thirties. They enter in the Kalari, buy booze and seek out a secluded place. Can’t get place of their choice and settle for a corner that is a little less crowded.

Both are cheerful but almost silent. Their eyes are glinting in anticipation of the mirth they will have soon. Bottle kept on the floor, they call for Soda and some Namkeen from the kiosk adjacent to the Kalari. Two minutes later their order is delivered and drinking session begins.

The older one pours liquor in two glasses put before them and looks condescendingly at the younger one. Both dip third finger of their right hand into their respective filled glasses and then drop some drops from the glass on the floor. “ Jai Bhawani”.

They invoke the goddesses with eyes closed and gulp down the entire glass.
Third peg turns garrulous. Fourth peg under the belt, both are sentimental. Workplace, family, girl friends(theirs and others’), shrewdness of colleagues, spirituality and personal philosophy crop up in animated and largely incoherent talks which is no longer a dialogue.

“ Bade Bhaiya , Bus Aapaki Izzat karate Hain , Baaki koi Ho XYS..” the younger says, getting up gingerly. The elder one has a smug slime on the face. I have seen this scene being enacted in the Kalari and in slight variations in other places so often that the way ‘Bade Bhaiya’ is uttered is itched in my memory.

I have regaled friends with this anecdote hundreds of times. This is my small way to pay tribute to the city I love most. Rejoicing the anecdote, some of my friends started calling me “Bade Bhaiya”. Earlier I used to associate the address with the mimicry of the Kalari but , gradually, I started feeling a sense of intimacy, if not respect in it. So, thank you Shams for helping me open the blog for bade Bhaiya.
Next blog soon

Today's diary

This is my blog. My personal space.