'Khap'istan

“A born metropolitan from the countryside” the moment I read it (six years back) in Rushdie’s Fury, I knew he wrote to for me, or to say, for guys like me; people with rustic roots and metropolitan boots. But little did I know this seemingly glamorous tagline would implant a permanent duality in my psyche. The everyday dichotomy that was fun to begin with, has turned into an existential and metaphysical dilemma. The only consolation in this hurricane called CHANGE aka GLOBALIZATION, is the fact that I am not the only one. Ghettos surrounding the capital continue to churn out millions like me, millions metropolitans from the millions hinterlands.

The roots I am bound by, like me, are going through a thorough track change. An agriculture based civilization that prided itself in producing grains and protecting borders, is finding itself in total limbo in the face of gory globalization. The community that is known, over the years, as the ANNDAATA (bread-giver), is being forced not only to adjust to the changing global India but is also being compelled to restructure its culture and rituals. “Change is the only constant”. Agreed. BUT CHANGE BY WHOM AND CHANGE WHAT?

Has, all the advancement in technology and manufacturing, reduced human miserly by any shot?
Has, the gap between haves and have not’s, reduced in West dominated world?
Has the world become more peaceful following the CHANGE left, right and center?

That is not to say that change is undesirable. But how much to is to change, change by whom and change to what extent?

We, the rustics from Haryana, we don’t boast of a great renaissance nor of great education heritage. An age old system of Khaps is maintained to ensure the smooth flow of cultural and ritual norms. Khaps, for once, were started to oil the traditional machinery wherein dispute settlement and movement against a contentious issue figured primarily. There would be Khaps based “Kushti”(wrestling) and other healthier physical competitions. Khaps are autocratic. Yes, they are, but not overnight, and certainly not on its own. These have been empowered by its clan to look in to matter extra-ordinaire since inception. But does that mean Talibanization and Honor killing are matters of celebration? No they are not. But if Honor Killing is despicable so is killing the very notion of Honor. It’s been established within the clan that the same gotra female would be treated as sister/aunt and its an honor, duty and privilege to protect, support and facilitate them in anyway a clanster can. The big outcry against Honor Killing is understandable but what is missing is above board acceptability of same gotra marriage. In the new, global and changed India it might sound normal as well but not to those villagers. It’s a clear attack on their aesthetics. No wonder we have Taliban like dictates against every such matter and from within the most advanced and prosperous states of the country.

Now what am I trying to say?
All I want to maintain is a plain plea, an SOS call to all intellectuals and media think tank of the nation:

“Please, for the sake of all your comforts, decry and denounce every act of Honor Killing. But since you are the opinion makers of the nation and since you are shouldering the burden of nation all on your thin shoulders, please also suggest how can these poor villagers save their honor?”

Ruthless Compassion

"If you were that concerned with your performance, motherfucker, you should have had a reality check as to where you stand." He wished Deep had said that but did not.

Rather, post the fiasco, both had a long, animated and a revolting debate about the whole issue. In normal circumstances, it would have been just another issue and would be forgotten after another of his self loathing fits. But this time he wanted to overcome it and more than him, Deep understood the need and before he could open his mouth, came out with threadbare analysis, with encouragement, with truth and more importantly with love. It helped, it more than helped, it exalted, it absolved, it liberated.

Yesterday was a special day. he informed Deep. "Remember, the day of breakdown is also the day for breakthrough, its only a matter of realization" prompt came another sermon.

Yes ,traits, combine them. Some are similar and more apart but acceptance of same by both irrespective of their place in the world, makes it unique. People in normal circumstance would term it understanding, some would call it a need based adjustment but to them its pure joy, sheer relaxation. Neither money nor comforts mean much to them. Despite some necessity or other in pipeline both laugh at the futility of it all. And despite all the sameness and coziness they share, its strange that both hold strikingly opposite life views.

While, Deep's universe revolves around love, he can't think of a world beyond achievement. Deep comes from inclusive school of thought. "Accept the people as they are, love yourself and you will loose the ability to hate". He on the other hand, as Deep would describe, has very complex filtering mechanism wherein even he himself fails the screening. "How can I love those imbeciles irrespective of how my personal equation is with them?" he usually laments.

But when dichotomy is cherished at both ends the journey becomes not contentious but "house on fire" kind. Every year he comes across a person who he becomes very fond of. Deep, he knows for four years now but affinity developed just recently. Normally, the things are normal but every now and then Deep has this knack to come up with something he wants to hear and when Deep mentioned "Ruthless Compassion" he didn't follow what came rest. He stayed put but went lost. Not that they were astoundingly big words but the essence was timing.

He is listening to the sound of water. The waves are tiny yet full of jest. The fishermen have their net unfolded, milkmen are there with the herd of cattle, and crops have all enveloped the circular pond. The view from the small bridge is distinct. It unearths nostalgia on one hand and brings the much needed calm on the other. Every time he is on vacation, a visit towards the pool side is a regular feature in his schedule. The passage from bridge towards fields is narrow, raw and with out any sign of concrete. The sand-laced pavement with mixed imprints of animal, machinery and men is not unusual nor any special, unless you compare it to some crowded urban road named after some somebody who nobody cares about, until he brings the personal equation he shares with the passage.

The association with the passage goes way back. He would come with fellow fraudsters sometimes to play in that only field(disputed) left barren, sometimes to run along the fields in the hope to beat them some day and sometimes to just sit along the railway track and to experience the thrill of deafening sound and sheer speed of the passing trains. The railway track had bifurcated the village nicely into two halves; one containing homes, shops, ponds and temples and the other just fields: wheat fields, mustard fields, carrot fields, onion fields, all types of fields.

The passage has played a mute friend and an encouraging patron from time to time and on need to need basis. The first memory he has of the passage, still brings that magic smile on his face, when the entire group with an average age of 9 years would strip down their shorts to wave off the trains passing by. It had become a ritual, to strip down and run in the passage simultaneously, until one of the live audiences turned out to be one of the fathers.

Not all in the community preferred this side of the world, unless one had some field commitment or one is slightly educated and thus employed and therefore just to alienate oneself from the rest, would one come here. But it was neither the field job nor the aloof air that were instrumental in forming the robust bond he had with the pavement. Everything happens for a reason but still something in life just happens and his camaraderie with the passage was with out any motive. When he would visit it in summer he would ask, "Ain't I the best athlete around?". Tell me "I am going to win this time"

Urge

Once again did speak, the urge

Will you follow me or will go merge?

Hey, lonely roads also pave for surge

Listen, hunger, too,is an option when all go splurge

Knee jerk may not be better than a nudge

Honey, just follow me and to hell with all who judge

P.S.-what if the urge is CHAOS???? As GG, my split-soul would say "God, save Thy Krrist"

Drowning of a Dream

With every setback arises a new challenge, begets a new dream. With every loss a dream is shattered, with every defeat a new dream afloats. He could have been better its the dream who did him in. He's been a loser yet its the dream that strengthens him. Life is a dream-full of dreams-good dreams, silly dreams, short dreams, not so hot dreams.

The amusing thing about dreams is, even while dreaming one is unsure of its attainability-one's own ability, its susceptibility-one's own vulnerability. One just goes on dreaming and dreaming. Even at the hindsight, there may be ifs and buts but there is never a single entity to blame-neither the dreamer nor those part of the dream nor even the dream. All his life he dreamed sweet dreams, pure dreams, long dreams but the ones that required inclusion of others-be it for sanction, be it for celebration. The more he tried the more he failed.

"Should one, then, dream within the boundary of reason and means only?" he is pondering.

A things that reasons itself out with immediate surrounding, he doesn't consider a dream. Its a settlement, an adjustment. a process oriented approach that may keep one busy but not a dream. A dream is dream first, reasoning later-limitless, borderless, adamant yet afresh, helpless yet uplifting, hurt but full of heart, dying yet flying-that's what a dream is to him.

It was neither rational nor in his means when he dreamed his dream but such insisting was his dream, it made him adamant. He would reason with situations, argue with people but always in favor of his dream. Some would relent, some would appreciate, most would harp, most would discourage. He cared for none, neither relations nor career, just his dream. After all, that was what a dream to him.

The ordeal had started much before he took his dream train yet he boarded it with aplomb. There was shine in his eyes, there was unyielding will to cross the final frontier and he never thought for a moment of failure and options thereafter. So naive was him, so unrelenting this world. And so deeply was he absorbed in his space, neither comfort nor majority mattered to him.

But as it happens mostly, just when he was almost there, just when he progenated his first prototype, demons of past would haunt him. Just when he was so close, he was overwhelmed. It was usual of him-his unpreparedness to accept the eternal longing whenever it knocked on his door. Whether it was love, whether his dream-he would get chocked in the final moments. The dream he had drowned in the same ocean he fought all life, the sea of circumstances, social norms, oddity. He knew all along he would have to reason-with people, with means, with fate, with system-everything that would give the final acknowledgement to his being. And he readied himself hard, too, but just when it was the time, just when his nerves needed to be held-he backed out. A stream of vague idealism had engulfed him-it was lying dormant all along but just when was required for it to sleep one more night, it roared furiously. It decimated everything that came its way but there came nothing except the infantile dream.

Is he hurt then? Yes but not for him, for his dream. After all, it was the dream that gave him the time of his life. There is never a failed dream nor a failed dreamer, there is mixed past and there is a missed tomorrow. He had betrayed his past and he killed his tomorrow. But such is ,usually, the fate of a wild chase.

It's been months now since the fiasco and he's wondering at the entire episode. An epic that was to be and that took six long and most important years in the making, had ended in a thunderous disaster. All these while he is trying to curb every urge to look ahead so close, after all, was his dream to him. With every 'what next?' there is a 'but why?' and 'for whom?'.

Those dreams are all drowned

Those eyebrows are all frowned,

He ,too, would've been crowned,

But the naivety would surround

From 'within' always came a sound

But it never yielded a penny forget about pound

He aimed for the sky that was not to be found

And he fought and lost all along the ground

Hearts break, dreams drown, people fail, men die, people try but such is life none bothers.