FROM MOUNTAIN TO MOLE HILL

It was not a mountain.
But at that time I was too young to know the difference between a mountain and a hillock. Any rock beyond my size was a mountain for me. It didn’t have a name like many other mountains. Huge rocks arranged in different patterns with out any path to the top overlooking our school.
I used to climb to the highest level possible balancing on the hot hard rocks looking down at my school the tiny houses and the green paddy fields like biscuits neatly margined with small water canals and foot trails.
Taking deep breaths at every step higher the hot breeze blowing through my hair and shuffling it. It used to be a tricky feeling going away from the flat earth and reaching the sky away from the buzzing crowd and hearing only the sound of the wind.
I used to try to read old weather beaten cinema posters pasted to the rocks –some legible some not. And the no more relevant election posters fluttering and undecided whether to be with the rocks or blow away with the breeze.
An unknown lover proclaiming “Madan loves Mohini as long as stars are there in the sky” Does he still love her? I wondered.
And somebody requesting to vote for so and so, and small lambs at the summit crying for something.
I used to wonder how they reached there. If they can reach there why can’t I ?
The mountain never answered.
I used to go there to study for my examinations to do home work settling down on a roughly plain surface. It was more often than not an excuse to avoid my crowded house, the dirty streets, and the noisy parks.
Discovering nameless flowers tufts of grass from cracks in the rocks crossing the long straight streaks on the rock ( which I came to know later were drill marks used for detonators ) dipping my feet in the water trapped amidst the rocks.

Sometimes the mountain hid his head in the clouds and sometimes suffocated in the factory smoke. A couple of trees on one shoulder and a huge electric tower on the other fast flowing narrow broke in the front and a fuming pipeline at the back.
The mountain never complained. It was a mute sufferer. It was a humble understanding neighbor to our village. I remember the small dark cave where we used to play act as kings .Sometimes thieves of the mountains and as rishis in meditation depending upon which movie was running in our theatre at that time.
It was decades ago but it is fresh in my memory as if all incidents happened just a few moments back.
The bus stopped with a sudden jerk and I realized I had reached the place. I didn’t want to see my aged parents my caring wife my lovely children or my childhood friends. I craved to see my mountain.
I went to my old school and started searching for my old
Mute friend, my humble neighbor.
Surely he cannot hide behind the clouds today because it is a bright and cloudless sky.
Only smoke and dust hung in the sky. I ignored shouts from behind me and looked for my mute friend.
“Hey you are here!” it was my old school pals now with graying temples and newly acquired bifocals.
The hot wind blew through my hair and whispered something in my ears which I could not understand. I asked my friend about my mountain.
He showed me a small stone not bigger than a tomb stone in a cemetery.
”This is what we left of your friend” said my old school mate. The rest melted in to roads, buildings, factories and some of it migrated to alien countries
I dragged my feet close to the small rock. I wanted to touch it I wanted to feel him. My hands were trembling, my eyes clouded over. I could not read the small green poster somebody has pasted upside-down on the rock.
I cleared my eyes and read the poster.
“Plant a tree before cutting one”.
But…but ..What about a mountain?


First published in Indian Express dt 15 December 1991

r o a d s

Roads always fascinated me .Narrow or wide muddy or concrete dry or water logged straight or curvaceous , cross roads, dead ends uphill, down hills roads to no where all roads.

I think we need more roads not for connecting different places people etc as the roads are hardly used for locomotion than other purposes.

Come elections we will find posters pasted on floor, slogans and graffiti in different colors languages at important junctions festoons and flags all along the road. And all junctions will became open grounds for meetings forget the commuters inconvenience because roads were never meant for them.

Come Ganesh puja , Ram navami and other seasonal festivals on our roads take in to religious attire and drive in temples in the evening transforms in to walk in theatres .
Now marriage? No hall is available and all are booked? No problem hire few chairs and couple of shamiyanas you can block both sides of road.. Lo ! ! your marriage hall is ready with all infrastructure.
Can anybody imagine a road without foot path shops, vegetable vendors , sharbat waalas, second hand book stalls , ready made cloth hawkers , astrologers. Our roads are getting crowded because too many service people and too less roads.

We don’t hear about servicing centers for buses , trucks ,mini buses, vans and automobile beyond size of car no? Not necessary roads are there one can park on road side and do the cleaning. How convenient!
Children want to play and there are no play grounds now a days we can’t waste land for play grounds while the need of houses, multi storied buildings, housing complexes and shopping plazas. Go to the road you can easily play cricket the pitch is already there , just put the wickets and start playing. That uncle on scooter ? He can wait till the over is over.
There are no drains in your streets you don’t know what to do with waste water don’t be silly…lead the water up to the road it will take its own course. After all who set the courses for all our rivers?

It is summer; house is too small to accommodate all members of family at night and stuffy too? Simple .Draw the cots out to road stare at moonlit starry sky, feel cool breeze and in addition to both have latest film reviews from people coming out of movie halls.
We want to have a small get together or want to take stock of latest fashions or just pass time with your friends select a “busy” road go to a road side ( most of the time he is on the road ) chaatwala you can spend time. Yes you are right, every place in the world cannot have a beach, park, river etc.. We have to live with what we have.

Now live stocks like buff allows, cows etc they are also our family ( I mean mammals )if we cannot find a place for them we can tie them to road side lamp post , telephone post if there are no such poles then it is more convenient we can put a small wooden post where ever we like on the road and tie them they will be very happy and am sure they will show it all over the place.

You are from country side your problem is place to pile your harvest, thrashing the paddy, loading. I understand you need not elaborate why don’t you use roads preferable junctions? Oh you are already using and you want more roads.

No other use came to my mind till recently I read that one woman laborer delivered a child on road in broad day light. I saw quacks medicines doing eye treatment (may be operation) but not delivery.
Do we need any more reasons to ask for more roads??
…………………………………………….

GORSSERY SHOP

I remember when I used to go to our family grocery shop with my ruled book three pages full of groceries for the month.

I will go only during lunch time because I know our “Shaukar” will always ask me to come that time. .Not only that he can do the job leisurely and I can have plenty of time to go through all old magazines, foreign language news papers , answer papers of some unknown schools not that I can read and understand all but it’s different pleasure to gaze at beautiful photographs and unknown persons like gazing at clouds in the sky.

I liked the place because it is the first place I was introduced to news papers, books with multi colored pictures, advertisements etc. Only one thing I didn’t like was the way he used to tear off the binding covers from the books. It was like tearing off the wings from the bird. But I was too young to explain and he was too old to understand.

It will be interesting the way he used to select a paper for an item square or a rectangle. A news paper or an answer sheet, glossy magazine sheet or just a leaf. To be made in to a cone or flat packet. Still I do not understand his logic behind packing powders in flat packs and cereals etc in conical form.

There were many instances I specifically asked him to use particular pages of a book. And also remember how I used to cut the pictures from the pages and exchange for something special from my class friends.

I used to put all my five senses to find out what is there in which pack and often I used to go wrong except in case of jaggery and tamarind. I wonder how my mother used to tell all correct. And what a suspense it was to see what you guess in the pack and what actually it is. I learnt from my mother how to transfer the contents from the packets to the respective tins. Just lift the conical packet and pinch the bottom and put in to the tin. It is a sight to see the items changing its shape from cone to cylinder and slowly dropping like sand in the sand clock.
It will be a different experience altogether collecting all papers after unpacking, and slowly reading the papers drifting from original job. I used to wonder how some foreign language news papers reached my small town. When ever I ask him he gives only one answer “came by ship”

Now the other exercise collecting the papers so that these can be sold to the same shop keeper for fifty paise and can go to the movie. What a disappointment it used to be when fallen short of some few papers and have to bring back all the papers all the way home and wait for the next month’s grocery list.
What a beautiful way of re circulating the waste.

Now when I see the supermarkets, departmental stores and shopping complexes I see everything is so naked transparent and monotonous hardly one needs five senses to guess what is inside a pack. And after transferring the contents one cannot learn anything from the packing to read, to discuss, to exchange, just throw them out.

MY ALL PURPOSE BAG

I think it was 25 years ago that I discovered for the first time the joy of carrying a bag to school. I was convinced that I deserve one because I was joining in class 6 and was to go to high school. No more half broken black slate and dog eared mathematics table book. I thought now I must carry nice smelling glossy paged text books. One for each subject. note books , geometry box etc.
After three days rehearsal, I murmured to my father as he was about to leave for office “I want a school bag “
“What for?”
“To carry books”
“Then you need a bag, not a school bag.”
“ No I want a school bag. That Tahasildar’s son brings a school bag,”
I protested. I could not make him understand the difference between a bag and a school bag, and why I wanted one.
“He is a tahasildar’s son,” he said simply and started to his office.
I could not understand the logic. I went in to the kitchen and asked my mother, and started explaining why I needed a school bag. Tentatively it was agreed that for the time being I shall use the bag hanging from the nail on the wall in the kitchen.
It was an over sized khaki colored bag with disproportionately small handles crudely embroidered on one side Hare Rama Hare Krishna , exhibiting my fathers devotion to god and a rising Sun with all his rays ,small and big on the other side.
My mother taught me how to carry it. Insert my arm through the handles of the bag up to my shoulders and tuck the bag under my arm pit.
I liked it in spite of the inconvenience. It was so long it touched my calves. I could not run with my bag when I was late to school. It used to dangle from my shoulders like the hard, heavy stick our milk man used to tie to his cow’s neck to prevent it from bolting.

But the home grown contraption had its uses.
I could carry many things other than just the books, like unripe mangoes and curious looking objects .And in class I could take out the books and spread the bag on the ground, and use it like a mat to sit on the bare earth.
In the evenings my dear little school bag used to serve different purposes; to bring the groceries from the store at the street corner. I could stuff all the provisions required for the coming month and carry them home.
On ration day it could carry provisions like rice , wheat and sugar. If the shop hadn’t opened yet ,the bag used to represent our whole family in the queue (other families used oil cans, kerosene tins and stones )while I played in the street.
On Sundays my school bag transformed itself in to a vegetable bag carrying green leaves, potatoes bananas etc.

Everything went well till my mathematics teacher discovered sugar in some pages , rice in others for which misdemeanor I had either to go out of the class or stand up on the bench. I preferred the former indignity.
After that I tried to refuse to lend my school bag for other purposes. It was not successful. Then again my mother came to my rescue. and gave me a brilliant idea.: turn the bag inside out while using it for shopping !
It worked well.
Nobody found any other use for my school bag for many days. The bag used to play limited roles. Only when the summer holidays began when I had to go to my uncle’s place, did it changed its role and it became “the travel bag” All my clothes were stuffed in to it making it bulge in to an odd shape. The only problem was that I had to carry it with both my hands. No more could I tuck it under my arm.
Now a days I see my children carrying school bags with many compartments, one for the pencils, one for the books, one for the lunch box and so on and slings to hang where ever you want.
Now we have separate shopping bags for my wife for the vegetables one more bag for the provisions. And you cannot imagine carrying clothes in any of them For that only acrylic molded luggage will do.
I pity my children for what they are missing.

17 th November 1991
published in Indian Express (Sunday edition )

L A M P

illustrations by Author

Like many other things my mother taught me that every evening I should salute him with folded hands and eyes closed. I used to do it religiously without fail every evening .
After some time as my acquaintance grew with him I started greeting him with only a smile and I knew he is smiling back to me.
He may be a sheet of tin few spoons of kerosene and a crude wick made out of used cloth for the others but for me he is friend and mute companion through out the night .He can understand my joys, my anxieties he responds positively to all my feelings, he is just reflection of mine.
He was not more than four inches tall altogether including base flame and smoke but used to illuminate all my text books and note books. I know that he knows what to illuminate and what not to .You may think that I am exaggerating if I say that he never used to create any inconvenient shadows while I read or write.

How grateful he used to be when I cup him with both hands from wind blowing through suddenly opened door .He flutters almost parallel to ground as if he is about to leave the wick and I run to him like a person running to save a drowning child gasping for breath. I watch him with appreciation while he gathers his strength to stand on his feet. When I am confident that he is safe then I slowly take out my palms.
He blushingly says “Thank you”
Some times I play this as a game cupping and removing my palms the way my mother plays with months old child leaving to walk and holding back before falling.

He used to stand steady and bright with all attention while I read my favorite stories haltingly and loud. Running along Oliver twist ,traveling with Gulliver ,adventuring with Mobby Dick even though I don’t understand a single word.

I know he is feeling miserable when he is half bright red fluttering while I am struggling to find answers for some imaginary persons loans and interests, how many people would be required to complete some job in a particular time, when two trains will meet when they start at same time but running at different speeds, I know that he is not enjoying when I am not enjoying.

While I sit on my feet resting my chin on my knees desperately finding answers there are times he touches and caresses my front hair assuring that everything will be alright But my father used to misinterpret that I burnt my hair while napping.
How to explain him?
When I say that I am not well and my father forces me to study every night after dinner at least for two hours he only knows that I am really not well. Because he reflects by half of the usual brightness long column of smoke, coughing and jumping.
But as usual my mother used to misunderstand that “some water got mixed up in kerosene”.
I never liked putting him off in spite of lectures from my father about increase in fuel prices, non availability of essential commodities ,serpentine queues at ration shops , unnecessary burning of precious fuel without reading school books. As per him after dinner lamp need to be used only for reading school books, otherwise put off. But I always reduce the flame to minimum as small as fire fly.
I can see him but nobody can see me. I can reach him but nobody can reach me. He wears a small globe of light around him, while an old blanket myself.
I never liked him without flame. Then he is like body without life.
I used to wonder where the flame goes off when it is blown out.
“Where you want to take it?”
* * * * *

My father asked while I was putting my cone shaped kerosene lamp in my old trunk along with my clothes and books. I was to move to my brother’s place to join high school .I didn’t answer because I know he knows the answer.
“You need not take it all the way there. There in his house you will have electric lamps.”
“In case if necessary…” I murmured.
“They will be having some alternative arrangement. Leave it . It will spoil all the clothes…books.”
“I will remove the kerosene and ….”
“I told you to leave it.” It was final.
Afterwards I haven’t seen him.
I haven’t seen the same warmth, compassion, understanding with those hanging filament lamps. staring at me with the same monotonous indifferent look. Neither I can talk to him nor play with them. I always used to feel these electric lamps are intruders into my world.
Not only electric lamps later in my days I have seen many lamps earthen , brass , oil , gas lanterns…etc but none near to any tin sheet lamp.

Women may be many but mother will be only one.

S H A J H A N P U R -4

J A G D I S H P U R

A shocking hoarding welcomed me as soon as I stepped out of Lucknow station.
“GARBH PATH SALAH EVAM SAHAYATA Rs.150” Abortion advise and help for Rs.150
I could easily understand what help they are up to. for Rs.150 to kill a future citizen before he / she is born just for 150Rs.
Outside the railway station is full of small stalls and carelessly parked PHATPHATIS and footpaths neatly spread newspapers.
Rikshaw?
Yes
Chaliye.
Bus stand.
I moved towards to rikshaw making my way as the man was leading me.
He opened a lock and removed a big chain.
Why locking a rikshaw? a foolish question.
Chori ho jayega saab.
Phatphati (soorgadi pig vehicle for it’s shape may be) Never stop their engines even while idling making too much of noise and above that to overcome the noise they play stereo tape recorders and above both noises they shout the places the phatphati intends to go.
You can hardly recognize a policeman among the crowd carefully scanning the newspaper.
“This is your bus.”
“Are you sure” another foolish question.
When I will stop asking such foolish questions.
“Yes.”
He picked up the luggage and dumped in to the bus. You can hardly recognize the conductor he does not wear uniform .I stopped looking for him and settled in a vacant seat.
The seats are reserved for people those who never travel in the bus.
MLA & MP’s
Distinguished press reporters
Freedom fighters
I am waiting for others to take their tickets so that I can recognize the conductor.
In the mean time somebody shouted from the front SULTANPUR
He must be the conductor. Two persons got up and made their way to the conductor and paid the money.
I raised and said JAGDISHPUR
He ignored me and shouted SULTANPUR
I was puzzled and for a moment I thought I may be on the wrong bus. Some how I will be always under the impression that I board the wrong bus or train till I confirm from somebody.
“Will it go to Jagdishpur?” I murmured to my fellow passenger. He nodded his head. Thank god.
After issuing the tickets for four more passengers the conductor shouted Jagdishpur. By this time the bus is full with passengers and luggage. I made my way carefully ducking all the people and luggage to the conductor and took the ticket.
So he prefers the long distance passengers first.

The same hoardings were following me till the bus reached the out skirts of Lucknow.
I surveyed the bus body for any notices.
“ Those who are in a hurry please don’t occupy seat.”
“Don’t take any food items from any strangers “good advice . But everybody is a stranger for me. so better not take anything from anybody.

“PHATE GAO”

A small bus stand .
One man in kurta pyjama had golden chains hanging from elbow to the wrist climbed the bus.
He announced the chains are not gold Everybody believed and appreciated his honesty
“Pehan ne keliye sonay se koi come nahi “
“khojanese koi gum nahin “
“Daam panch rupaye se kam nahin.”
He tied one chain to the handle took one pocket knife and started scratching the chain vigorously to show that it is not gold coated.
He distributed one chain for all willing passengers as he won’t charge for seeing.
Everybody is seeing.
He started explaining the complicated process of making the chain from old 20 paise coins.
He stopped his narration looked into all faces.
The engine started all the chains raised towards the “Midas “ and returned..
Without any grumbling the kurta pyjama left the bus boarding into another bus.

Suddenly I turned my face and looked through the window.
One woman both hands missing from arm pits only small pieces extending from torso in place of hands tucked one red plastic mug between toe and the finger and begging for alms.
Nobody cared for her.
She walked towards me and she didn’t ask me probably she knows that the people with pants shirts and cooling glasses will only write and speak but don’t give.
She moved to the window behind me.
No body paid she completed her round and went to the round platform below the Peepal tree.
She went and sat on the platform.
One boy operating a hand boring pump. She called him and raised her leg towards face as if you catch with your hand she caught the mug extended the mug towards the boy for water.
He filled the mug and gave it to her feet. She held the mug with one foot and took some water with another feet and started washing her face and then teeth.
She took a comb and started combing her hair with toes and fingers.
She once again adjusted the bindi with toe (For whom)
The process continued as the boy was feeding with water and there was no desperation or self pity on her face full of contentment.
She is laughing at the jokes of the boy.

There was a sudden urge that I should do something for her.
By this time the bus parked before our bus was removed and bus started moving towards Jagdishpur.

“When will the bus reach Jagdishpur ? “ I asked the fellow passenger.

S H AJ A H A N P U R 3

Jog .......Jog .............Jog

Have you ever seen clouds on the roads?
Thick black clouds of various sizes and shapes. I have seen them.

That day also as usual I touched the road at 6 a.m. wearing my blue T shirt, blue dotted bermudas and white canvas shoes. I started walking and crossed Head post office entered cantonment area and came to the junction of BOSE road and KARIAPPA road.
I looked for ‘MOTI ’ aurat walking shyly. She has become may be because of ‘Motivation” .I proceeded towards Bose road.
I came across the man in SAFARI suit ill fitting may be he thought the suit is no more suitable for parties at the same time he don’t want to throw it out so he started using for morning walks. He is walking straight and stiff as if he swallowed a seven feet rod and along with his dress he also got starched.
Walking …Walking…
Reached BOSE road and M G road junction.
The old man raised his walking stick to full height and shouted ‘JAI SIYARAM’ I raised my hand and murmured the same.
This is the point normally my warming up ends and I start jogging.

Thud..Thud…Thud..
I looked for sardarji. Yes first I saw his belly and behind the belly the sardar pushing his belly forward. We stared at each other. He must be envying my figure.

Thud..Thud…Thuu..
Now the two bobbed hair madams bright colored cardigan flashy chudidaars matching shawls thrown on their shoulders full with make up at 6 a.m.!!Lazyly
Walking ignoring the outside world and in deep in their world of gossip.

Thud…Thud. .Thud…
Now the novel sardarji. He is novel because instead of walking a dog he chose to walk a deer! young and healthy deer with wide eyes, slim legs small bells tied to each leg.

Thud.. Thud…Thud…
I passed linking road and entered KARIYAPPA road . My left side wide ground unnamed and my right Ramleela ground. I can see live flickering lights of distant city. Young children practicing their KARATE kicks in the fog at Ramleela maidan .

Thud….Thud…Thud..
Now…Now I have seen I could not believe myself. like lazy buffalos crossing the road leisurely pace clouds you may call them fog but big enough to call them clouds were crossing from play ground to Ram leela ground.

I am few feet from them. I am already tired but I want to catch them. I want to be in them. I want to feel them. I don’t want to watch them the way I watched them through an aero plane journey or the way I watch them on TV or in dark cinema hall.

Thud…Thud…Thud…Thud…
I increased my pace. My heart is thumping I am gasping for breath. My 44 year old lungs are hammering my ribs
The clouds are passing towards maidan. I want to catch at least the last cloud but no the last cloud passed to maidans and melted away by sun.

I turned to sun catching my breath.

Babrala 30th November 1995