Summers at Sacandaga

where mountains faded

into the twilight sky

and the sky spilled itself

onto the lake, 

where the lake 

rushed towards the shore

and the shore

towards the crescendos of laughter..

amid the clinking of  glass,

towards the sputtering of fire

and the rising aroma of home food,

towards guitars strumming

over the whisper of voices,

and shuffling of cards...

towards the huddled fellowship

of ancient pines and rocks

soaked in starry nights...

where life spelt fun and peace

both at once,

where cooking and eating

were parallel pursuits,

where discussions on philosophy,

work and politics, 

all happened in the same breath...

where we gained a few inches

on the girth thru our own gourmandise, and a few in height

by pulling each other's legs

where, when summer over, 

Labor day party concluded,

the shore would recede,

leaving a treasure trove

of smooth, rounded pebbles,

and driftwoods for

die-hard camp-lovers, as they walked,

reminiscing the season,

their feet wobbly 

on the uneven terrain, 

autumn colours

strewn like a quilt over their face

the cold breeze 

beginning to sting the eye.

yes, this is where our kids grew up,

learning to gather kindling,

light a fire, roast marshmallows...

and, this is where we flocked,

summer after summer,

to feel young again, 

just one more time... 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light...

110 children died

attacked by encephalitis:

young martyrs...

would you ask for votes

in their names

when the next elections

come around?

In that case, 

Let me give them to you.

one was called, 'Kahani',

'Story',

and lo, how quickly

his story ended.

how sudden the end,

like an art movie

which leaves one hanging

between two parallel moments 

another called Samreen,

'Fruitful'

a born helper, 

evaporated in the heat

while gathering fruits...

little hands,

perfect for the job,

now, no more

Sanjeet, the Invincible,

he must have fought bravely,

to live up to his name...

him, who hardly knew life,

how could he have known

the cruelty

of death? 

Anisha,

'The One Beyond Despair',

i wonder what she dreamt

and hoped

as she plucked the fruits

what did she want to become

when she grew up

Raja Babu,

'The Little Prince',

the apple of his mother's eye!

yet, his hands already coarse

from the morning chores

now lie limp by his side, 

no more 

waking up early:

never again

Muskaan, 

with her 'Smile',

lighting the dimly-lit path

as she trudged to the orchards

in pre-dawn hour,

sleepy... a thousand

dreams still hovering

in her eyes mi-clos

Gudiya, the Doll,

loved by all,

snatched away

by a sudden squall...

and taken yonder

beyond the fangs of

poverty,

to rest in peace

Vikrant, the Brave,

always striding

ahead of everyone,

a real warrior

in the wee hours

of the morn:

bare-foot, determined,

tireless...

but, alas! his battle now over

and, how can

one forget, Khushi,

'Happiness':

it shone through his eyes,

through the uneven grin,

it was felt in the lightness

of his steps...

until he could walk no more

Shahnaz, the beauty queen,

'Royal and Stately',

like a peacock

she strutted,

like a lioness

she fended for her clan,

and like an eagle,

soared away. 

all these children

and 100 or so others like them died,

gathering lychees, 

(our oriental delicacy)

and devouring some,

for their own

empty stomachs rumbled 

and growled,

begging for the fleshy fruit

would you like

more names?

i could give you more.

but maybe it's wiser

to wait

until next elections...

for, who would remember them?

their families, and perhaps

the forgotten files

gathering dust on the desk 

of some wretched clerk

Pressing for Freedom

On June 8^th, two plain-clothed police officers entered the house of Delhi-based freelance journalist Prashant Kanojia and whisked him away. No questions were asked, no explanations given...His offence? Sharing a video on social media on which a woman claimed to be in a relationship with U.P.’s chief minister Yogi Adityanath, and expressing her candid desire to marry him.

The same day as Kanojia was picked up from the capital city, the U.P. Police detained two more journalists, Ishita Singh and Anuj Shukla. Even though India’s journalistic fraternity protested against the arrests, and Anant Bagaitkar, the President of the Press Club of India  also strongly condemned them, these three cases are reflective of a disturbing trend in India. `It is an authoritarian misuse of law’.

It should come as no surprise, that India’s global standing vis-a-vis freedom of the press has slipped by two more points in the span of one year, bringing it down to rank 140 amongst 180 countries according to an annual survey carried out by RSF, Reporters Sans Frontieres (RSF), or Reporters Without Borders. Within a span of one year, with at least 6 journalists killed and several beaten up,  many removed from their jobs at the behest of the bureaucrats, and many others detained for posting things not favorable towards the ruling party and its entourage, it is no brainer that our status dropped below that of Morocco, UAE, Qatar, Bhutan, Gambia and 135 other such countries. In reference to India, what caught the attention of the RSF staff was the alarming rate of hate-campaigns and threats waged on social media against journalists who dare to bring to light the failures of the government, or expose the Hindutva slant of its staunch supporters.

Over the years a steady decline in some of the most prestigious media-houses has been observed as editorial content is compromised to accommodate the political preferences of the sponsors. At the end of the day, it is the integrity of the written word that is made the sacrificial lamb, as more and more of our communication channels are reduced to becoming the mouthpiece of the government, where voices of dissent are quickly quashed. Be it the untimely egress of popular editor-in-chief Bobby Ghosh of Hindustan Times, or ABP’s premature termination of the Masterstroke anchor Prasun Bajpai’s contract, or the dismissal of Aakash Banerjee as a Times of India blogger, they were all elicited directly by orders either from the I&B ministry or the PMO. For something uncomplimentary to PM’s golden-boy image was shared with the public by the respective media.

Bobby Ghosh, who in a matter was 14 months galvanised Hindustan Times, and took it to a new height by his visioneering skills, was asked to resign following a behind-the-door meeting Mr Modi himself held with Shobha Bharthia, the chairperson of HT. As for Bajpai, exposing the official diktat which preceded his departure, he writes, “From being told not to take Narendra Modi’s name or show his picture on any of the my shows, critical of the government, to a sinister blacking out of Masterstroke, was nothing short of censorship...” And Aakash Banerjee, the blogger with the Times of India, after his controversial remarks on Modi, was asked to discontinue. A senior official from the organisation, not wanting to be named, confided, “The company had eight crores of advertising money at stake...so, naturally, they wrote several letters of apology to the ministry, and dropped the blogger.”

The noted French journalist and author, Albert Camus once said, “A free press can be good or bad, but, most certainly, without freedom, the press will never be anything but bad.”

Holy Cow!

A while back, when Subramaniam, our gardener-turned-dairyman with a cow and a-year-old calf, did not deliver the milk, we took him to task the next day. He smiled his toothless smile and said that the cow had kicked the bucket.

"Oh I am sorry. Was it an accident?" My concern for his sudden loss was genuine. 

"Of course it was an accident, you silly girl! What do you think, my gentle cow-sy will  spill  the milk on purpose?"

While Subramaniam sounded quite offended, I was relieved to hear that the cow, fondly called Sundari, was alive and kicking, and had not kicked the bucket yet.

A few days later, Sundari was invited as the chief guest by the village headman to the inauguration of his new mansion. She was expected to be the first one to saunter into the building and bless it with her divine presence. Instead of feeling honoured, she was horrified by the prospects of stepping into a confined space.  Used to roaming around in green pastures and soft wet ground,  concrete floors and plastered walls seemed to terrify her. The headman determined to get her blessings, pushed, nudged, poked and bumped her, trying to thrust her forward, past the vestibule into the main living room, where oblations were being offered.

So traumatic was this experience for Sundari, that from that day onwards, she stopped giving milk and had to be sold off.

So, there we were again, reluctantly buying homogenised milk, packed in polythene bags. It did not even have the thick,  dark yellow layer of delectable cream which adorned the surface of Sundari's milk. Moreover, buying packets of milk translated into contributing our fair share of plastic to the landfills. So, we started getting powdered milk in a cardboard box. Even though it could not equal the fresh one from the cow, our eco- conscience was  guilt-free.

One day, I saw a woman, on her way back from work, trying to load her Vespa with a pile of fresh grass. "What are you going to do with this?" I asked, while helping her secure the bundle to the extra career she had attached to the back seat. 

"Oh, it's for the cow we just bought last week," she answered matter-of-factly. Her answer must have inadvertently brought a quizzical look on my face. For, who in the cities, buys a cow? We  hear of people buying TVs, washing machines, cars...but a cow? Sensing my puzzlement, she continued, "Our two children don't like the store-bought stuff, so my husband and I decided to buy a cow. They love both, the cow and the milk she gives!" Perplexed, but happy to learn of the great lengths some parents go to,  in order to ensure that their children receive the nutrition they need, I muttered, "hats off to a great mom" as she sped off.

Subramaniam soon bought another cow. This one, he named Lakshmi. She was all brown, with great compassionate eyes and a white trident shining on her forehead. And the whole neighborhood rejoiced. Subramaniam's wife Shanti cooked pal khoa with the first fruitage, and distributed it around,  a very spontaneous gesture which reinforced our customer loyalty towards her. And just like before, we were back on the track, with fresh milk from Lakshmi being delivered to our doorstep. We felt pampered and grateful. The quality of milk was excellent and yielded enough cream to make our own butter. Time flew past, and fresh milk from Lakshmi became part of the mechanical clockwork a day tends to fall prey to. And just as we began to take this great privilege for granted, Subramaniam announced he was selling Lakshmi. Shanti, his wife was not well, and could no longer milk the cow. "How about you, or any of your three sons? Isn't anyone up to the job?" My mother asked, implying that the boys just needed to work harder.

"I wish..." sighed the gardener-turned-dairyman, adding, "she is partial to Shanti, when it comes to milking, and wouldn't let anyone of us near her during the process". 

Now, that was an eye-opener. And it was with some irony did I realise that while most all politicians can milk the cow,  it needs a different set of hands for the simple yet graceful act of milking a cow. Holy cow, indeed!