Mumbai nights: Back with a bang

The Dhoble dampener is a thing of the past. The uniformed party pooper has been shunted out and the city’s bars, out of harm's way for now, are humming with life again, writes Aditya Raj Kaul  

The Sunday Indian Magazine

The September showers have swept the dust off the streets. A hint of discomfiting sogginess is still in the air. It is sundown. It is time to unwind after a hard day’s work in a city that never sleeps. Across the street from south Mumbai’s landmark Metro cinema, Sunlight Bar, among the city’s more popular watering holes, has begun to receive its first evening customers.

The clientele is made up mostly of young adults from the neighbouring St Xavier’s College, who have for years been regular visitors to the not-so-silent ‘hangout joints’ of SoBo (that is what the swish set calls South Bombay).

Sunlight Bar is a favoured spot for college students barely out of their teens because it sells the cheapest liquor in town. It is not the sort of place that is patronised by the well-heeled. The jukebox plays a wide range of music, from the Beatles to contemporary jazz, but the contraption has clearly seen better days. It's only the strategic location of the bar that makes Sunlight such a big draw for the young and the restless.

Although it is only meters away from the office of the city police commissioner, the bar has been plying its trade without any hindrance for decades save a brief lull enforced by an assistant commissioner of police (ACP) serving in the social service branch. The man in question, Vasant Dhoble, threw the rule book at every bar, pub and nightclub under his jurisdiction and had Mumbai’s nocturnal creatures on the run. Happily, Mumbai’s nights are back on even keel now that the party-pooping ACP has been transferred out of the social service branch.

Less than three years shy of retirement, Dhoble had, with the tacit support of the then city Police Commissioner Arup Patnaik, launched a wave of impromptu raids on restaurants, pubs and bars in order to nab under-age drinkers and clamp down on drug and sex rackets. In the process, several restaurants and discothèques had come to a screeching halt all of a sudden, leaving customers high and dry.

Dhoble was vehemently pilloried by many for arrogating the right to be Mumbai’s moral guardian, but he remained completely unfazed. His stock response to questions about his style of functioning would simply be that he was “acting under the purview of the law”. He probably was. Neither criticism from angry activists nor pressures from perturbed seniors could budge him. To Dhoble’s credit, since he took over, almost 100 girls were rescued from forced prostitution across the city.

“Obviously, morality means different things to different people. Honestly, some good has definitely come out of his rampage...a lot of bar dancers and young girls are reported to have been rescued from the clutches of the prostitution racket,” says Disharee Bose, a content manager with a firm in Mumbai.

But she is quick to add that Dhoble’s methods were high-handed and his idea of what is morally acceptable and what is not was old-fashioned. “A lot of innocent people in Mumbai were affected. For young people who like to party, the ACP’s actions were quite a nuisance.”

Dhoble’s zeal to enforce the law occasionally got the better of him. In June, Dhoble, on a regular raid at an Andheri-based eatery, arrested 11 women on suspicion of prostitution and packed them off to a city reformatory. Two of those arrested later filed a legal case seeking Rs 1 crore each in damages for what they claimed was an act of ‘illegal detention’.

This followed protests by those who were regulars on the party circuit, supported by owners of restaurants and pubs. Overnight, Dhoble became the symbol of the ‘moral police’ supposedly hell bent on striking hard on Mumbai’s nightlife.

Yet another incident in which Dhoble triggered outrage, he allegedly harassed a popular juice centre owner at Haji Ali, holding him responsible for overcrowding in the area at night.

The police officer known to sport a hockey stick during his raids was not remorseful. The raids continued, as did the protests, both on the streets as well as online over twitter and facebook.

In a strange turn of events, Dhoble’s biggest supporter, Police Commissioner Arup Patnaik, was himself transferred after the infamous Azad Maidan violence.

The media has labeled Dhoble’s transfer as a demotion. But informed sources told TSI it was only a routine departmental action which could even be described as a promotion.

For actor Ashwin Mushran, who actively campaigned against Dhoble on Twitter, the transfer has come as a relief, “I think Mumbai’s nightlife is quite vibrant again. A lot more people stepping out feel that they can have a good time without facing any harassment.”

Dhoble, he says, was acting beyond his mandate. “Even if an establishment has broken the law, there was no reason for patrons to be harassed.”

But Dhoble has his supporters. Actress Pooja Bedi feels that the cop acted under law. “Mumbai is a very cosmopolitan city. We do work very late hours hence we tend to go out a lot later”, she says, “Dhoble brought a lot of resentment. But, I do not think he acted out of line since he was merely upholding the law. As long as the law empowers him, the officer will make use of any number of laws, which are outdated and need to be changed.”

Following his transfer, the Dhoble saga may have turned stale for newspapers and activists. But the case for scrapping archaic laws still has many takers. “Some of our laws are redundant, archaic and have more nuisance value than anything else. They need to be done away within the interest of the people,” says Bedi.

“Society changes” she says, “you do not need a drinking permit to drink for God’s sake. In every city in the world, you can just walk in and drink. It is absurd to ask for a permit to drink rather than an identity card to prove age.”

Last heard, the Mumbai Police social service branch, of course minus Dhoble, raided two prominent nightclubs in the city for lack of permit and overcrowding at night. So, was Vasant Dhoble an honest officer who was merely targetted for doing his job well?

The city of dreams may never be able to answer that question. Actually, nobody is even asking. The dust whipped up by Dhoble and his hockey stick has settled and Mumbai is back to doing what it does best – living it up after night falls.

"My only aim is to work with commitment. That is my hobby"

In a candid interaction with Aditya Raj Kaul at his Vile Parle office behind Mumbai’s domestic airport, Vasant Dhoble asserts that there will be absolutely no let-up in his "commitment to work” even after his much talked about transfer. Excerpts:

Were you transferred because of the frequent raids?
What is the problem? Ours is a transferable job. In our police force, every two years there is a transfer order on an average. I was at the Social Service Branch for an extended period of four and a half years. The transfer was only a matter of time. It comes under the Crime Branch.

You faced much criticism for your style of work. How do you react?
Support or opposition of people does not matter. It does not carry any weight.

Did the outrage in the media disturb you?
No (laughs). I had stopped reading. It was baseless rumour mongering.

Does the current police commissioner support you as much as his predecessor?
Why will he not support me? These are all media-generated stories. I receive orders from my senior officials, not the media.

Have you been instructed to stop the spontaneous raids?
Who has told you all this? How do I know how you have made up all these stories? We have to implement the law. Maintaining law and order is our job. Only the place keeps changing.

Why is your hockey stick missing today?
What hockey stick are you talking about? I do not understand. They (the media) just keep writing whatever comes to their mind, all baseless. What will I do with a hockey stick? Strange, how things are projected.

What will happen to the social service branch now?
How am I supposed to know? I will do my work in the Vakola division, very simple.

Will your infamous raids continue?
That depends on what kind of information we get from our sources and our own investigations. We are always there, everywhere. Why should I trouble someone without reason? We are there to protect the people. If a citizen is law abiding, we will act as protectors. If a citizen is not, should I still protect him?

Your actions have adversely impacted Mumbai’s nightlife as per government sources.
How would I know? I do not know what they (government) would have said, and what you (media) must have written.

Are you working under some restrictions now?
I have no worries. There is nothing good or bad. Do you think this is a bad place? Why are the media and people concerned? If there is something, my department will take care of it. There is nothing positive or negative in law. In my 40-year-long career, I have not come across any such thing. Everyone has been given equal powers under law. There is no pick and choose. Seshan (well-known government servant TN Seshan) did not change the law to bring about change. He just implemented it the right way. Did not he?

Do you think the underworld still exists in Mumbai?
Underworld? I was waiting for this question. People talk and you take it seriously. Do you know what the underworld is, where the money comes from and where it lands? If you know, please let us know. We will also see. We will try to nab them. Is it in your personal knowledge or just a talk of the town with no basis?

What are your hobbies?
My only aim is to work with commitment. That is my hobby. Almost 30 years ago, I used to watch the toilet cleaner who worked with bare hands. I come from a family of farmers. During April-May, at the time of harvesting, people work without footwear or clothes. Why? Only because they are committed to their work. It is not a burden.

You mean every work has its sun and shade moments?
Sun and shade will keep occurring. It does not mean you will change according to the season. Just remember to work with commitment.

Interview Link - http://www.thesundayindian.com/en/story/my-only-aim-is-to-work-with-commitment-that-is-my-hobby/23/42170/

DEATH IN SPRING

Aditya Raj Kaul

Home had been a withered dream. It was a distant memory which had brought convulsions of pain along. Yet fragments of the memory remained stitched to wander in the sphere of chaos. There was a wish a writer had once. It was the longing to die.

And today Chandanwadi was in an unnerving calm atmosphere. The sky was clear even though the air was gloomy. For once it wasn’t the sandalwood fragrance but the sea of humanity converged to fare final adieu to the man of his words. The man, who had attempted to stand on raging fire without any mark of pain, was draped in white. 

It was autumn. Crumbled dry leaves made screeching sound. Marine Lines was in a curfew like state. Traffic was replaced by mourning crowd; thousands of men and women walking alongside the railway tracks. The sea on the other side was still, in melancholy. It was too silent for a sea. 

It was an end of an unannounced journey. It was an end to an effortless flight in the vast skyline of desire. There was deafening silence which remained. Silence was where it all began, once.

***

And for yet another hour he stared in silence towards his laptop in search of words as his mind transferred into thoughts. The story was vivid in his mind, frame after frame, concise. Only the words played hide and seek with his imagination. For a journalist worth his caliber, it wasn’t a mammoth task to link characters and their quotes with the idea of the subject. To ink a remarkable, memorable story was an art worth his salt. He carved heartening stories with magical words out of nowhere it seemed. But, this wasn’t a normal 500 word byline. By any means it was no ordinary story on his desk. The tale of his longing would be narrated in no simple words. Every word had to travel a two decade long silence in search of hope. 

Samsar was under an ocean load worth of thoughts. He was a wandering shadow searching for a lost identity. His 23 winters had been spent in intense thought about his misplaced existence in an unknown land among people from different castes, regions. He was in a metropolis with varied cultural identities. Often he fumbled to question the very essence of his role here. In a rebellious zeal always, he lamented being part of a civilization of confusion. At the end, perhaps always, he stood against the tide, silent and neglected by the pace of the world inching towards a dream. And today he logged on his desk the memory which he would carry every passing minute as a burden of his ancestors; the memory, which had to be narrated before meeting a dead end in history. It was a threshold to a new journey of faith. 

The amber light of dusk had withdrawn Samsar from the worldly pleasures around the city on a regular Friday night. While his friends took over the discotheques and pubs in town, he would sit silent recollecting past anecdotes. In anxious gulps of breath, he stood, and surrendering, shut the laptop, ran towards the door. He paced in the boxed elevator, which had a toy sound in its background, all the way to the ground floor to catch an auto rickshaw to the Andheri station. As light trails of passing vehicles reflected in his eyes, Samsar thought of another journey he had undertaken, possibly, the very first in his life. The journey, was etched as a story forever within him, since the time he heard it in complete from his mother.

In this hour of dusk, time was crawling at a slow pace, passing through the ever crowded narrow passage with shops on both sides to enter the station, Samsar held his chocolate brown bag tight to make way safe through sea of humanity. He was used to the Mumbai way of life, running around with bags held in front over the shoulders only to manage a comfortable entry into the congested local trains. It had been six long months in this city of dreams. The monsoons were the worst time of the year to be here. Not just because of the scale of rainfall in this city living over a sea but because Samsar avoided using an umbrella. It wasn’t his usual lazy style that was the hurdle. He was in love with the transparent German raincoat that his mother was gifted by her pen friend from Munich. It was a 20-year-old raincoat which almost never came handy in plains of the north where rainfall wasn’t as harsh. “Or, was it 23 year old?” he wondered. Memory faded as Samsar climbed the stairs to reach platform five of one of the busiest suburban stations, boarding the Churchgate fast local train to Bandra. 

Within minutes Ville Parle passed and soon came Santacruz with an Air India flight taking off right above the train at shooting speed. After Khar Road, the train made a screeching halt at Bandra. Samsar spent these fifteen minutes standing at the door of his first class bogie holding the pole for support as the evening breeze cuffed his face. The calm chill, that the waves brought reminded him of his mother, who used to pamper him right up till his late teen years. Both mother and son often used to travel to explore new destinations, across the country. While the mother loved the unique historical and cultural insight to a region new to them, the son indulged in photography and often engaged in friendly conversations with inhabitants. He had a genteel way with people, of striking a chord even in an alien environment. Though often huddled and sporting a serious look, Samsar had a humorous side. It took his friends longer than usual to understand him. It was difficult to decipher his mind.

His mind was filled with an emotional conflict with which he grappled alone. Any interference from others wasn’t welcome, although he was never rude to curious acquaintances trying to partake the responsibility of conflict resolution through psychological mediation.  He was polite in his gesture to show them the door. 

For years there was an image he encountered in dreams. An old nailed blue door with its handle locked. A bottle green cloth hung from its top corner, partially visible to his eye. The door must have existed forever with a rusted metallic sheet covering it from left bottom. Nothing existed beyond this door. It was an image that haunted him since childhood.

Most of his early years were spent in haste; there weren’t any happy memories. Samsar was ten-months-old when his longest journey began. A journey which only his mother recounted well. The very first and the longest journey which began with no end, no destination. Just like a migratory bird travels in the sky, he undertook this journey in utter chaos. Not for food or shelter. For hope and safety across a long tunnel. Jawahar tunnel.

It was 19^th January, 1990. A wintery haze had set in. Dal Lake was frozen, so were the shaken bodies of those hundreds of frightened pigeons who were to embark on a journey. And there crawled Samsar in the courtyard of his home on the banks of Dal Lake. It was an island like formation on the river bed with houses scattered around. Rainawari, a unique mixture of a town and a village was often called the Venice of the east by European travellers. It was situated amidst the most beautiful environs overseeing the Himalayas on one side and the magnificent Dal on the other. 

It had been little more than nine months since Samsar was born. His mother, still completing her PhD in history from the University, had to manage her infant and research at the same time. For the lady worth her salt, it wasn’t a challenging burden to shoulder such a responsibility. She could handle Samsar well as he was unusually quiet child from the very beginning, but curious. 

Things didn’t move steadily for many days. It was that fateful winter night when the loud speakers uttered raucous warnings against them to leave. The warning became more unbearable than the terrible winter chill in the valley. It had been pouring snow all night. Old houses with white flakes covering their slanting roofs stood silent witness to these gory voices. The electricity went off early that night, unexpected. Sometime late into the night gun shots rang in the air. Someone on the street corner had been screaming “Thathye saeb ha morukh mandras nish” (Thathye, elderly person, was killed near the local temple), until his family members pulled him inside holding his mouth in silence. The eerie calm surrounded the valley of sorrow at night.

It was the longest night of trauma as death marched to and fro in the darkness. All through the rendezvous with death, these souls waited for the first morning rays to escape fate. Even the animals could be heard sulking on the street. That night humanity didn’t get enough sleep. 

As birds braved their way into the morning, people emerged to flee from the reign of fear. Houses were locked in the hope to return when the situation improved over the next few days. Samsar was huddled into a white cloth by his mother and covered by woolens. His mother packed few bags to carry necessary clothing, utensils and some cash along with some age-old photographs and rare paintings that were close to her heart. Never would she have imagined that these photographs would become relics in the years to come. 

Majid, a friendly milkman in Rainawari who owned an auto rickshaw helped some families escape their way with light luggage to Lalchowk. He had already made almost six rounds from Rainawari to the bus stand at Lalchowk. At the cost of suspicion by local area commanders of terror outfits, Majid made a brave attempt to rescue families risking his own life. 

“Welyiv jaldi, bus hay aasyi weny nernas tayaar” (Please come fast, the bus would be ready to leave), he screamed from the porch outside her house. It was a vast compound overlooking a giant tree that was worshipped as a deity.

Holding Samsar the white bundle that was, she raced to sit inside the auto rickshaw after locking the main door. She stopped mid-way and ran towards the tree of Vittal Bhairava which wasn’t far off. Bowing her hands in prayer with tears in her eyes, she took the basme tyok (ash formed by burning the holy lamp) slowly pasting it on Samsar’s forehead. Samsar stared into her eyes silently. Holding back her tears, his mother boarded the auto rickshaw to Lalchowk. And the journey began...
 

***

The fear of turning old had been recurring all through these last few months. Not that the grey hair would bother his ego, not even the flab of dry whitish-brown skin protruding out from calcium-less bones. Samsar wasn’t too conscious of his looks or even the ever growing beard lately. Most of his life had been without any particular fear.

As he was driving away in the dark to seek solitude, the fear grew stronger. It brought quick sweat on his face and the deep forehead, added along was a rattling effect on his nerves. His right foot pressed hard against the accelerator on this empty city road far away from the city of his thoughts. The racing heart was faster than the car. “I wish to stop and run away to my home”, he thought. Though he knew he couldn’t.

“There seems no end to this journey. The farther I travel, the more I seek to return. The time dissolves into memory. In this thorny path ahead of me, I see an identity-less non-stop journey into darkness. The journey itself begins in darkness of hope. An ironic life of a wandering soul”, he scribbled on his brown notepad.

“Most nights are spent in the ‘white and black’ of the unseen past. Past being a predicament as much as the future”, he continued to write. Samsar had a poetic touch to his intricate prose writing.

“I stare at the photograph of a rare sparrow sitting on the gate of a mausoleum with her back turned towards me; on the front is a ‘hazy green’. One of the many photographs pasted above my work desk. The haziness of this forced journey is unpredictable. In this concrete jungle, I do not long for another machine. All I yell for is my lost abode,” he concluded.

The past nostalgia was still churning itself inside him; and the hope for future burning all around.

Was it the fear of turning old? Or, perhaps of being a homeless man, which was an ordeal haunting him since years together.

“No matter how much the fear grapples within my silent heart. It’s too late now; for the journey has been halted”, he had noted on the last page of his diary.

Samsar once crept on the walkway talking in doddering tone to his own self, “Just as the withered dislocated leaf of ‘Chinar’ which narrates the agony in its fire brown tint before being crumbled, the fear in me shall pass. The silent journey alone to my home shall never end. I shall remain young forever to recount the ‘untold story’ of a forgotten tribe. The tribe that existed in their homeland, not so far long ago”, he mumbled.

“Freedom is a prison for I am not at home. I remain confined in that prison lark”, he once told Tarangini, staring into her eyes sitting at Marine Drive way past midnight.

Tarangini, who was a well-known journalist with a popular news channel, would hear his anguish patiently. His words would echo in her dream.

Samar had a strange way with words. He loved his hearth as much he loved Tarangini.

Tarangini had met him over half a decade ago on a walkway in New Delhi. It was not as silent as Marine Drive. At that time it was a sweltering June summer at Jantar Mantar, the protest junction of the country where an entire sea of humanity would converge to sing through their tears on tragedy and travesty of justice.

It was a late afternoon. Samsar in his late teens at that time was more of a crusader of justice who worked as a cub reporter. He was the focus of attention for uniting masses to protest against the police for botching up a brutal case of rape and murder. While journalists jostled for space to grab him by his arm for a quick sound-byte, his eyes fixated on a figure at a distance. The figure, restless, holding a placard in hand led the protest as a passing storm. Samsar couldn’t gather strength to look into the eyes of the figure, as he was too steady for the storm to catch pace. It was an extraordinary moment for the teenager. For a moment, he stood unaware about the cause that had led him to this place. It was a Bollywood story; love at first sight.

As loud music reverberated around Samsar stared at the figure without a breathing break. In darkness, the crowd mingled, limbs moved in all directions uncontrollably while he stood there with his hand in the denim jeans pocket and eyes still fixed in the direction of the creation, “the one created for him, perhaps”, he thought.

In the motionless stance among mechanical bodies, his mind didn’t flicker an inch. The loveless figure sat at a distance with uncomforted eyes but smile glued on the melancholy filled face; the perfect smile of a disappeared love regaining consciousness slowly.

Their path in-between still crammed by souls in tempo didn’t let them move, or was it the velocity of pain shared by them?

As a couple of years passed in their relationship, Samsar traveling through the mountains in a distant land on work assignment wrote in his diary, “Love doesn’t fade away. It griddles fine and tosses well. And, then it returns with a thud for good. Because love isn’t a relationship, it’s madness. The madness is of patience and heart-aches. It’s a revolution shaping up each day, tangled with missiles landing everywhere. The missiles are in a confused state of consciousness. It’s a state of longing for the beloved with abated heartbeats. Love doesn’t end anywhere, it only grows till eternity”.

The short span of separation from Tarangini had left him sleepless. He was restless in love. While the nights passed sleepless, during the winter days Samsar walked around the hills amidst natural green environs away from the clatter of the city.

“Your absence is a deep wound in my silent heart. It doesn’t heal. In solitary moments, it pains till I fall asleep. And find you smiling in a sweet dream”, he wrote in his diary.

Love was her innocence and his commitment; her sweetness and his gentleness; her talking, him listening. Love was her sunshine and his moonlight. 

Tarangini returning from office often stayed back with Samsar in his room at Carter Road overlooking the magnificent sea. They would talk endlessly into the night. Their stagnant bodies would meet in silence making love. Devoid of the pain they would part.

Their love wasn’t a secret anymore. It wasn’t the paparazzi filling the air with rumors but their families came to know of the secret affair. They had begun coercing both to tie the knot. It was a matter of few days.

Early evening on a Sunday, Samsar left his room to meet Tarangini at Kayani Bakery. It had been a usual day with bright sky. He took the local train at Bandra to Churchgate. On way he decided to get off a station before Churchgate at Marine lines and began walking towards Kayani. Thoughts mingled inside his mind in a joyous overtone as he thought of making love the previous night with Tarangini.

It became sultry as he walked in pace. At the Metro Cinema he halted for the traffic to stop to cross the road. He had a habit of avoiding the subway which meant climbing up and down the stairs. Escalators were still restricted to the upscale malls. He thought of taking the subway but since the traffic signal turned green he brushed away the thought. He continued walking.

Jarring sound suddenly left the road ahead of Metro Cinema in thick black smoke. Passing vehicles flew in air as wailing sound filled the area. Minutes later emergency sirens took to the street.

Samsar died. The chains of longing ended in spring of his youth. 

And, home remained a withered dream.

Devil’s Advocate – Middle-Class turning to Protest Theatre?

A raging debate on safety seems to have taken Mumbai by its tide as the conscience of the Mumbaikar has shaken after the recent murder of two youth in the suburbs. Has the city which is known for its ‘night life’ lost its much talked about safety tag.  Aditya Raj Kaul elaborates on the mindset that the city needs to fight against in this crucial hour.

Once known as a ‘safe haven’, Mumbai has suffered a major jolt after the recent cold-blooded killings of Reuben Fernandes and Keenan Santos while they were defending their female friends from drunk hooligans outside a restaurant in the suburbs of the city.  The killings didn’t merely send tremors across the country but forced the Chief Minister of Maharashtra Prithviraj Chavan to appear on national television ensuring people that the state would demand ‘death penalty’ for the accused since the crime committed could not be tolerated by any means. He however failed to guarantee better policing and complete digitalisation of the Police Control Room (PCR) for efficiency in tackling life threatening eventuality. 

Even as it took more than two weeks for the murder story to get front page lead status in the newspapers and catch the attention of the otherwise busy TRP driven news channels, a fear psychosis seems to have engulfed upon the city which never sleeps. The dastardly act is talk of the town in local trains, colleges, private establishments and even government offices. The youth are burning with rage and especially women feel a sudden sense of insecurity to walk free in the city. And, the murmurs continue to falter the spirits of the Mumbaikars.

The collective conscience of civil society now turns itself into yet another candlelight vigil and an online etition demanding zero tolerance towards crime against women. Who are we protesting against? There are no ‘elite’ powers behind the crime, not even money-muscle men of politicians. The killers, apparently uneducated and from the lowest strata of society who have confessed to the crime and are behind bars facing trial before court. Are we moving towards a protest theatre? 

While organizing the very first online protests and candlelight vigils in the country demanding justice for Jessica Lall, Priyadarshini Mattoo, Nitish Katara, Aman Kachroo and several others since early 2006 what activists had in mind was a deterrent which would impact the criminal mindset from acting in the most barbaric way they had in these cases. The remarkable judgments in the Mattoo and Lall case could have sent a precedent even for the investigative agencies and criminal justice system in the country. While the gory criminal mindset continues to rattle us, it most importantly raises an alarm bell for the governing system to dwell into introspection, furnish modern policing and give the citizens basic rights of security and emergency needs.

The Home Minister of the state has recommended the case to a ‘fast track court’, which is one of the biggest positive developments in the case. The aged parents of murdered Priyadarshini Mattoo had to wait for seven long years for the Delhi High Court to take notice of the dust gathering file and put the case on speedy trial. It didn’t happen overnight. ‘Justice For Priyadarshini Mattoo’, was launched to pressure the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI), while people took to the streets across the country demanding fair trial. Now, having come a long way watching such criminal trials, wonder why the middle-class takes on to the streets every time a crime strikes the semi-conscious conscience of us all. Is it to gather the attention of sometimes ignorant national media? Is it the anger against the justice delivery mechanism? Is it the wave against the establishment in the country? Or, are we losing patience to see instant justice on the street in the Rang De Basanti way?

The candle light vigils in the country have sadly now become clichés of upmarket protests for photo opportunities and sound bytes. The online petitions do help spread awareness but not much is achieved till the news channels swoon to action. Till Reuben Fernandes died battling his life in the hospital, the news channels continued to wonder still whether to take up the story. More than eleven days had passed since Keenan Santos had been dead. This underlines the apathy of the common man in the country. Or, for that matter the power of the press! 

What hope do we have for justice in a state where a civil rights activist Arun Ferreira is falsely implicated for having Maoist links and kept as an under trial in jail for years, or 26/11 Mumbai attacks convicted terrorist Kasab who continues to enjoy luxuries of the Arthur Road Jail with ‘death penalty’ pending on till the tedious judicial process ends in this country?

The middle-class has significantly broken the cocoon and ventured out to vent anger against injustice by modern means of protest. While the anger needs to be nourished well to see light of the day, it now seems to have been famished by the undersupply of arguments and misguided missiles being launched. If the democratic values are the essence of these protests, aim should be to spread awareness against the horrific crimes being committed, aim should be to cultivate the notion of right and wrong in the society, aim should be to restore moral education and restrict anger. ‘Death Penalty’ isn’t ultimate justice. 

The anger emanating shouldn’t flicker. All shouldn’t end with a candle light vigil. It has to be a fight against a growing mindset of hate. We ought to reflect the idea of a just society by learning tough lessons. Not all should end as the TV Cameras and reporters disappear.

The Autumn of Love

Every year while celebrating the arrival of spring the chords of emotion create ripples through my veins. Today the sea besides me has turned silent. I lay hidden on the boulders besides it with questions galore. The evening is hidden somewhere behind the sea. Darkness isn't far away. It is a matter of few moments. Life has brought me here at a new pedestal in haste. Just as the evening sets in every passing minute, autumn seems to have set in life. The process of detachment has begun. All this while I thought I was in consistent never ending attachment. Now, I remain in waiting for the tide of time to return.

I stare at the melancholy around the sea. Strange shadows seem to be running on these boulders where I sit. In search of a soul. The lost soul of the body. Perhaps, I see my own reflection. My eyes cannot match the pace of the running shadows. I float effortlessly like a bird lost in the vast skyline of desire!

 

It is an unannounced journey far away from home. In an unknown land of dreams two hours away from the land of reality where I remained in exile all these last twenty two years. In exile, every shelter is home. I remain in exile, at home!

The separation has left me sleepless. I am like a wandering shadow in love. Shadows have a short life span. They die much before an opportunity to clench hands of the beloved till eternity. Shadow is dead before turning at the fork on the road. The fork for which I waited has disappeared in a sweet fragrance. A girl named love is lost. Lost she is. Before those hands could meet to rest forever in union!

Those eyes understand love. The echoes of my silent heart reflecting in them. Her face like a fairy. Smile as a tender flower. I wonder how many rebirths will it take to find my lost beloved?

The lifeless shell on the sea shore shook me from this solitude! Only to become a catalyst in itself!

I want to turn the wheels of time. And, scream before the world, to get me the one who is lost. The one who let me drown in the depth of the sparkling eyes of faith. The kohl eyes!

Like that poet who is a phoenix writing his last song longing for love before being consumed by the flames of his own fire! I see my own reflection in the phoenix.

In such times when I weep for the lost beloved through the gloomy night, Shiv Kumar Batalvi, the phoenix above, gives me solace.  

In the 'Pinch of Separation' (translation into English of the song 'Maae Nii Maae') he says:

My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep!

Soaked in perfume,
But the pain does not recede.
I foment them
With warm sighs,
Yet they turn on me ferociously.

And need guidance myself.
Who can advise him?
Mother, would you tell him,
To clench his lips when he weeps,
Or the world will hear him cry.

Tell him, mother, to swallow the bread
Of separation.
He is fated to mourn.
Tell him to lick the salty dew
On the roses of sorrow,
And stay strong.

Who are the snake handlers
From whom I can get another skin?
Give me a cover for myself.
How can I wait like a jogi
At the doorstep of these people
Greedy for gold?

Listen, o my pain,
Love is that butterfly
Which is pinned forever to a stake.
Love is that bee,
From whom desire,
Stays miles away.

Love is that palace
Where nothing lives
Except for the birds.
Love is that hearth
Where the colored bed of fulfillment,
Is never laid.

Mother, tell him not to
Call out the name of his dead friends
So loudly in the middle of the night.
When I am gone, I fear
That this malicious world,
Will say that my songs were evil.

Mother, o mother
My songs are like eyes
That sting with the grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep!