Category Archives: story

EQUAL INTERNET

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By Kamlesh Tripathi

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    The desperate debate raging on ‘Equal Internet’ in India is reflecting very badly on the Czars of telecos. Who otherwise project themselves to be the cat’s whiskers. In their day to day life they project themselves as honest citizens. True to India and its citizenry and especially its youth-force. But behind the scene they form such unethical cartels. That may scuttle and whittle the chances of many innovators and beginners and that too just for some extra pennies.

    This stealthy move jeopardizing equal internet has however exposed them. Ruling BJP should be very careful in playing into their hands. As they have lost a lot of sheen. Ever since they came to power. For not much has changed on the ground. The so called “Acchey Din” continues to be that alluring mirage. Please join the movement against this day light robbery of internet freedom.

Nice editorial in TOI of today: for your ready perusal

“An Equal Internet

Government and Trai heed citizens cry for net neutrality”

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SPINDRIFT

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    Finding is such pure joy. And how rare, too! It had been several years since I had picked up anything when I found a penknife, a Hindi thriller and a five rupee coin, the last named beaming at me from below the seat of a ramshackle bus plying in our very own metropolis. Recalling that Elvis ditty ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’ I closed my eyes, stiffened my sinews and commended my soul to God before picking up the coin glistening in the errant sunbeam which had chanced through one of the innumerable slits in the roof. Nobody noticed. The conductor did raise a quizzical eye brow but that was about all. The term ‘conductor’ through over use has lost its semantic substance. The fellow is basically a logistics manager and with training can outsmart any sophisticated route operator. Even a funambulist might take a cue from the number of jobs he juggles while on board the boneshaker. This perception is wholly reserved for our country. Now coming back to the treasure trove -the Hindi thriller was a disappointment- not a patch on the Col  Vinod and Capt  Hameed  era  whodunits. Hindi detective fiction since then has been on the decline, virtually on the ‘endangered species’ list. Such a sorry state is inexplicable considering the vast treasure of Indian fiction available in genres like Sorcery, Witchcraft, Tilism, and detective fiction. ‘Chandrakanta’ and ‘Bhootnath’ had once fired the imagination of generation of readers and also contributed immensely to the popularity of Hindi language. These works of Devaki Nandan Khatri have outlived the copyright regime and are in the public domain since the early 60s. That is why they were churning out Chandrakanta serials decades ago paying scant regard to the original text and plot. But perhaps I am digressing.

    In a life time frittered away looking at the mirror I scarcely noticed the ‘sixpence lying at my feet’.  I was never much of a chance finder. At times one does strike a gold mine but the instances are so far removed that they vanish like the may snow drift. Once while waiting to get my vintage Ambassador car serviced I came across an unclaimed copy  Of Human Bondage  by Somerset Maugham. I was familiar with the works of Maugham and therefore happy to add to my collection of Moon and the Sixpence  and Eyeless in Gaza. The neo-intellectuals in my college days would talk of Camus, Kafka and Maugham in the same breath. Perusal of their works was considered the hallmark of intellectual prowess and was a sure passport to the local salons where deipnosophists abound. Photograph of Camus in a trench coat and fedora with a cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of the mouth, looking very much the Bogart of the noir genre, was one of the most widely reproduced photograph of the time.

humphreyHUMPHRY BOGART

    God’s largesse did not end with the book. This time it was a crumpled hundred rupee note with remnants of superfine khaini , the closest western variant being the snuff, much in vogue among the aristocracy of Europe in the days of yore. This bonanza came my way while going to Ranchi town from my college campus at Mesra. It was not one of those savoury trips one looks forward to but an undignified exit due to hostel vacation orders. As the college had been closed sine die it was being hotly debated whether to push homewards or to foregather in some cosy pastoral retreat for some good times together. It all depended on the pelf and riches.

    Emboldened by the find I decided to join the merry revelers, home being at ‘Lands End’. Though I put the money to good use I still haven’t been able to figure out what made the fellow to ‘crumple it’ and to tuck the promissory note under the seat. Perhaps he was a chance finder like me and had acted the way he did to avoid detection by fellow passengers. Of course he would take the booty away while disembarking. Another plausible theory was that he has merely stored the surplus khaini there for a rainy day quite forgetting the king’s ransom in the form of a crumpled note.

    I might add, that now and then, perhaps a ball pen, pocket comb or a sparsely populated purse  or some such trifles, no matter how well supplied one may be with, cannot be acquired without a thrill. Think of a Blackbury or a Rayban thus found. We all live and learn. A defeatist may venture something like “it takes all sorts”.

    The essence of finding something which brings to us unalloyed joy is half unexpectedness and half uniqueness. There being no aposematic forecast, no intuitive premonition and the ‘gift’ coming to you by chance: no one is to be thanked, no one to be owed anything. “Something for nothing …  ” Ay, there’s the rub…”. Shakespeare has put these things so beautifully. To look for the thing is to transform the whole plot-to rob it of its ‘sublime suddenness’-perchance to become even concerned or greedy.

    In its larger context we may use the word discovery-something akin to Columbus discovering America or was it the West Indies. Our concern for trifles and small findings are at once so stimulating and pure joy that to meddle with it would only appeal to a killjoy. Yet there are people who have an unsavoury sense of the sport!

    I recall the small rustic game or charade being played out by stringing a purse or paper money (bill or note) or any such desirable object which the casual walker gleefully stoops to pick up. The pranksters conveniently hidden from view have a field day as they pull the string leading the unsuspecting wayfarer on a merry chase. There are many clever variants which the fun-seeking lads have in their repertoire. In this cyber age of ours such diversions may seem blasé. But for a country whose half the population lives below poverty line there may still be some relevance left in such innocuous and simple pastimes.

    One common thread which runs through this serendipity is the absence of haste. My once rural seat and current urban dwellings present contrasting styles in time management. Reckon a simple activity like breakfast. Absence of haste is anathema to modern spirit. For most commuters it is always charged with disturbing quiet. The unnerving scenario of buses disappearing round the corner and the cacophony of traffic jams brood over the chota hazri , transforming mild God-fearing men into wild harpies as they sprint out like bats from hell. Down at the rural seat the meals are leisurely and indolent- a perfect epitome of laid-back country life of a cultured man. It is a breakfast of ease and languescent mood, a meal of ‘soft murmurs and rustling papers’.

    Circumstances afford little options. This harum-scarum age of ours has everything excepting time where brutish bolting of food is the in-thing. However, a quiet leisurely, laid- back meal by the crackling logs in winter has its unwavering charm.

    Let’s take a little time off for ourselves.

    “We look before and after

    And pine for what is not”

    A.K.Tripathi,

    Guwahati-2015

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NEHRU SNOOP ON FAMILY MEMBERS OF SUBHASH CHANDRA BOSE. DID HE SURVIVE THE AIRCRASH?

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    Mystery deepens today on Subhash Chandra Bose. For who was Gumnami Baba? Read the full column till the end and the two newspaper clippings appended.

    Everything needn’t be proved. The world can as well live, with unproven stuff. For there is no scientific proof that God exists. Yet the majority on planet earth, believes in some form of God. Arising, purely out of faith. And ‘faith moves mountains’ as the saying goes. Post Subhash Chandra Bose’s air crash some believed he was dead, and some felt he was alive. In Lucknow there was a strong buzz, that Subhash Chandra Bose is alive and in solitary confinement near Ayodhya, and this how the story goes.

    ‘When I was young and in a school in Lucknow. There were rumours galore that an old ‘Baba’ stays near Ayodhya in a secluded ‘mutt’ and that he is Subhash Chandra Bose in hiding. And that many senior political leaders and government officials often come to see him but no civilian is allowed to meet him. So, then, who was he, if not Subhash Chandra Bose? This was a common hearsay in Lucknow, Faizabad and even Ayodhya around late sixties and early seventies. The veracity of this story can be traced back to some intelligence archives of the UP Government. But the moot question remained, why was Subhash Chandra Bose in hiding?

    And, to that we were told that Government of India had an unwritten understanding with the British, after independence. That ever in future. If Subhash Chandra Bose was found alive post the air crash on 18th August 1945. He would be handed over to the British Government for his secessionist acts. Where, the only punishment would be ‘capital punishment.’ But Government of India could not have handed over, its worthy son of the soil to the Britishers, even if clandestinely committed. So, when Subhash Chandra Bose was found alive, after the air crash he was kept under house arrest, and in hiding at a secret location in Ayodhya. And, later after some years there were rumours that the baba had died.

    Whether proven or unproven. There is no smoke without fire and such issues where the masses are not at rest keep simmering off and on.

    Read the article by M.J. Akbar on Nehru snooping titled. “Some Fire Smouldering Within Smoke.” Appended above.

    And below is another interesting article titled–“Mystery lives on: Did Netaji Subhas Bose really die in that plane crash.”

New Doc 11_1_resized

By Kamlesh Tripathi

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life threatening diseases. Should you wish to donate for the cause the bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

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By Kamlesh Tripathi

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life threatening diseases. Should you wish to donate for the cause the bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

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Our publications

GLOOM BEHIND THE SMILE

(The book is about a young cancer patient. Now archived in 7 prestigious libraries of the US, including, Harvard University and Library of Congress. It can also be accessed in MIT through Worldcat.org. Besides, it is also available for reading in Libraries and archives of Canada and Cancer Aid and Research Foundation Mumbai)  

ONE TO TANGO … RIA’S ODYSSEY

(Is a book on ‘singlehood’ about a Delhi girl now archived in Connemara Library, Chennai and Delhi Public Library, GOI, Ministry of Culture, Delhi)

AADAB LUCKNOW … FOND MEMORIES

(Is a fiction written around the great city of Nawabs—Lucknow. It describes Lucknow in great detail and also talks about its Hindu-Muslim amity. That happens to be its undying characteristic. The book was launched in Lucknow International Literary Festival of 2014)

REFRACTIONS … FROM THE PRISM OF GOD

(Co-published by Cankids–Kidscan, a pan India NGO and Shravan Charity Mission, that works for Child cancer in India. The book is endorsed by Ms Preetha Reddy, MD Apollo Hospitals Group. It was launched in Lucknow International Literary Festival 2016)

TYPICAL TALE OF AN INDIAN SALESMAN

(Is a story of an Indian salesman who is, humbly qualified. Yet he fights his ways through unceasing uncertainties to reach the top. A good read not only for salesmen. The book was launched on 10th February, 2018 in Gorakhpur Lit-Fest. Now available in Amazon, Flipkart and Onlinegatha

(ALL THE ABOVE TITLES ARE AVAILABLE FOR SALE IN AMAZON, FLIPKART AND OTHER ONLINE STORES OR YOU COULD EVEN WRITE TO US FOR A COPY)

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VIGNETTE: #SABHARWAL LEAVES #SWAMI BEHIND IN #KAROLBAGH

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    Both Sabharwal and Swami were very senior to me both in age and seniority. Our office those days was in the sprawling boulevard of Parliament Street in New Delhi. Just opposite to the VIP police station, and not very far from the point where it embraced the ever famous Connaught circus. The pride of New Delhi and even India.

    Sabharwal, a Punjabi Khatri used to reside in Kirti Nagar. While, Swami a Tamil Brahmin in Karol Bagh. That happened to be the nerve center of the huge South Indian population, residing in Delhi then. Sabharwal and Swami (S&S) made an interesting duo. One being the likes of a carefree, lively and mast Punjabi. The other, a conservative and ritualistic Brahmin from the South. Sabharwal then was the liaison manager and Swami the admin manager of the company.

    While Sabharwal truly believed in YOLO (You only live once) and often basked in the theory of carpe diem. Swami prescribed to the simple Brahmin culture of south. And he made it more evident by sporting the famous horizontal chandan tilak on his forehead. Which noticeably, by the time he use to reach office used to dry up and change its colour.

    But even with all the asymmetry between them in terms of their origin, habits, language and gait, I still found S&S to be the toast of office. I guess, the combination was explosive and somewhat different. Apparently, they were very good friends. They used to come to office together in the morning and even leave together in the evening. In Sabharwal’s faded, yet rugged Vespa scooter.

    Once, like every other morning. Sabharwal, with his helmet tied to his chin. That reduced his audibility anyway, in the crowded traffic of Karol Bagh. Reached the usual spot, from where Swami use to hop on to his scooter.  He saw Swami standing there. And as usual he halted for a moment and moved on. Thinking, Swami is well perched behind him. In about half an hour he reached office. As traffic used to be much less those days. Only to realise Swami was there. Most likely he was left behind.

    Sabharwal, perplexed to this very unexpected one waited for some moments at the car park for him. Then slowly walked up to the office in the second floor. And following him soon. In Rambo style entered Swami, fuming. Mobiles were not invented then.

    ‘Arrey Baba, kya hua? Before, I could even sit. You moved the scooter, when my leg was midair.’

    ‘Arrey Swami, sorry yaar! I just don’t know what happened to me. I was in deep thoughts. Thinking, how to tackle that idiot in Udyog Bhawan. I stopped and moved, thinking you were on board, and since I was in deep thoughts. I never spoke to you and for some strange reason. I thought even you are quiet today. It was only when I was nearing Patel Chowk. I realised the scooter was feeling very light. Is when I turned around and you were not there.’

    Out of breath Swami was slowly coming to terms with Sabharwal’s gross error. Is when we all had a hearty laugh followed by a cup of tea.

    Today, Mr Sabharwal is not with us. To laugh and remember about this endearing and hearty episode. But we all have cherished memories of him. And this is what life is all about. My tributes to him, and may, he rest in peace.

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PIGEONS-KABOOTARS: DURING WAR & PEACE-TIME

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    Pigeons or ‘Kabootars’ as referred in English and Hindi language respectively, have had a long history of human contact. Both in war and peace time and as the civilization kept unfolding. They have made contributions of considerable importance to humanity, especially in times of war. And quite admirably during war times, the homing ability of pigeons have been put to use by making them messengers. To carry important messages. During peace time they have contributed royally in sports. By participating in the ever royal game of Kabootarbazi. Generally enjoyed by pigeon fanciers. The so-called war pigeons have also been decorated for their services with medals such as the Croix de guerre.

    While pigeons are good at carrying out orders. They also risk their lives unknowingly. And it’ll be a bit of a news, when one hears, that even today security forces keep a hawk’s eye on them. Says the column below:

QUOTE

    You might think birds are free to fly; but there’s the security risk…

BIRD BRAINS AND CLOAK AND DAGGER

    Indian security forces must be commended for spotting a single pigeon flying suspiciously off Gujarat’s coastline. Not dismissing it as just a seagull in mufti or even a hopelessly off-course pied harrier. That alert guards managed to apprehend the flying object is a further feather in their collective cap. After all, this is not the first time that pigeons have been in the thick of clandestine activities. Though they have not been used seriously for surveillance, espionage and message-running since World War II, considering a similar questionable bird was nabbed in Punjab in 2010, investigators should not deem it a mere coincidence. Back then, police had seized an empty ring around its claw and noted a Pakistani telephone number and address stamped in red ink on its body. As this latest pigeon also had puzzling appendages and markings, a wider probe to net any other accomplices, unwitting or otherwise, is surely warranted.

Interrogation and debriefing of this suspect would be difficult- as was the case in Punjab- so the only option is to keep an eagle eye out for possible undercover avians in the future, especially in this era of spy drones. The authorities should also keep a close watch on all pigeons around sensitive government buildings, given the nationwide preponderance of the bird and its ability to blend in.

UNQUOTE

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Posted by Kamlesh Tripathi

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https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Share if you like it

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life threatening diseases. Should you wish to donate for the cause the bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

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Our publications

GLOOM BEHIND THE SMILE

ONE TO TANGO … RIA’S ODYSSEY

AADAB LUCKNOW … FOND MEMORIES

REFRACTIONS … FROM THE PRISM OF GOD

(CAN BE BOUGHT FROM ON LINE BOOK STORES OR WRITE TO US FOR COPIES)

*****

 

 

CASUAL CAUSERIE- MY HOME ALONG THE COUNTRYSIDE

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By Aolla Tripathi

The cock would crow in the nearby village almost at the stroke of dawn. The chatter and chirping of the birds wafted in the air, as I would linger on my bed a little longer, listening to it for some time. There is almost a languid laziness about the whole morning scene. I would get up yawning, bleary eyed. The footfalls of the cowherd, approaching, can be clearly heard. It is mingled with the jingle of the tiny bells around the neck of the cattle. The herd is almost always accompanied by a village urchin, the nominal ‘cowboy, just the antithesis of the gun slinging gunfighter of ‘ O.K. CORRAL ‘. All he has on his body is a nicker, a nondescript stick and a flute in his hand. Swarthy, he looks unruffled and happy.
The boy would ride a buffalo or rather recline on its massive back as the herd made its way to the green countryside a little beyond our house. The cattle spread out and settle down on the verdant pasture. The whole scene affords a blissful quiet occasionally broken by the lowing of a cow or the laboured chug of a passing train clambering up a gradient. The tracks are bare and empty with no nocturnal traffic. Where do they vanish at night has always been a mystery to me much as what the ‘cowboy’ eats during his long sojourns with his cattle.
It has rained last night. The trees are still dripping and the sun is trying to break out of a leaden haze. Our good friend ‘Gungadin’ appears once more with his merry band and heads straight to the Watch Tower which has always remained unmanned, why, a riddle as tortuous as the ‘Riddle of the Sphinx”. Though intended for Security it is only poetic justice that the young ‘cowboys’ use it to keep watch over their cattle. Well, this tower serves them during the rains. On a clear sunny day they would be rather on the sleepy meadows without a care in the world. It is not long before the strains of a folk song are audible. The little group is singing. The difficult rhythm of the folk song is soon abandoned; the easier ‘Filmi’ songs are tried out. Mom is up in arms against my slow motion cameo to the morning chores. I remind her it is a holiday. I hurry with my rituals and chores while sneaking a peek at them. This entire rustic scene is soothing and gives a restful continuity to my life. Years back life was not so humdrum. There was so much variety, so much innocent pleasure: Opening the coop and feeding the chickens, fetching water from a nearby spring, stealthily eating berries and oranges from the fenced orchard. Then there would be all the time in the world to laze around near the spring watching the seasonal brook going down in all its eddies and whirls. The water used to be surprisingly warm in the mornings. We wended our way over the ridges and ledges and ere long we were at the water point.  The noisy torrent of the stream would add to the din of our impromptu singing. The ‘soprano’ would take up a new piece as suddenly he would discard a new one. Alto, tenor, bass and all would join in the fun. While all this went on someone was sure to filch our meager repast. Oh! It was great fun. All the magic of youth and joy of life was there. I wonder if you have tried filling water in a bamboo stump. It is tricky- especially if you are collecting from a stream. Having apparently filled the thing and congratulated yourself for doing a good days work, you were more likely to find the ‘container’ less than half full on return home.
But it was the small fishing trips with my dad I enjoyed most. We would, for hours by the swimming pool, be waiting for ‘Godot’, as it were. Noise was forbidden. A tongue-lashing was in store if I made the slightest sound. There would be sudden ripple, a gentle tug on the fishing line amidst a flurry of movements up would emerge the silvery. The anglers are a queer lot. I have known some who would spend a whole day waiting for a catch. Catching fresh water prawns is another thrilling corollary, meant for the experts, I believe.
My mother, one of those traditional stay-at-homes would discourage these outings and would rather that I helped her out at home. I used to sneak out on some pretext or the other. Over the hills and dales and down the vale –that is how I used to love it-a far cry from the concrete jungles where I live now.

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VARIANTS OF BEAUTY

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    The trio of Akansha, Parnita and Sarita, was a glued group in our college. They were mostly together in the classroom, where they sat in the same row. Or the canteen where they hogged together, those stale microwaved snacks, or sipped that atrociously sweet chai, coffee, or the unhygienic nimbu-pani or even the chilled soft drinks from the college canteen. And, if nothing else, they were seen sauntering around the college lawns discussing what not. Where, we thought it was that reaaal whaaaat not.

    Even when the trio was mostly together in college. They appeared to be poles apart in terms of their personal habits and traits. Parnita appeared the bold, chirpy and articulate sort. Where, Akansha was fun loving, and Sarita somewhat frivolous. One day I found Akansha standing alone near the canteen is when I asked her.

    ‘Hi Akansha, where are the rest?’ She looked at me, even without a smile. I could make out something was upsetting her, is when she said.

    ‘Sarita hasn’t come today, and I had a tiff with Parnita.’

    ‘Tiff! but why?’ I asked eagerly.

    ‘Because, she is a bloody motor-mouth and just can’t shut up.’

    Seeing her upset, I asked her for a soft drink and she joined me. And, when I had just about had the first gulp I softly asked.

    ‘But, what has she said that has upset you so much?’ She looked at me somewhat dazed and started softly.

    ‘See Parnita, is a very average looking person and we all are aware of that fact. But she has an articulate tongue and a sexy singing voice, and that makes her talk excessively, which is highly irritating. She has this false notion that by talking excessively in her sexy voice she will be able to impress and hook boys or even the male faculty. My foot!’

    ‘But, isn’t a sexy singing voice, a beauty in itself, a much adored gift from God, and that she can articulate well enough, a bonus? I asked.

    ‘May be yes, but the takers are very few. And you just can’t compare Parnita with me and Sarita who are always eyed by men.’ And, with that our cold drink was over. We started walking towards the classroom for the next period. But Akansha’s mindset had got me thinking.

    Couple of days had passed when one morning in the assembly there was an announcement by the Principal after the prayers:

    ‘Dear students,

    The teacher’s council has selected Parnita for the inter-college debate contest, starting next week after a rigorous selection process and we wish her all the best. We are sure with her debating skills she will definitely bring laurels for the college.’

    The announcement was followed by some loud clapping, by students and the faculty members. Parnita, was suddenly surrounded by whole lot of students wanting to congratulate her. When in the far corner of the assembly, I saw Akansha standing, all alone and all by herself, .

    Surely, in talent lies the ultimate beauty that has many variants.

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By Kamlesh Tripathi

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                                                       https://kamleshsujata.wordpress.com

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Share if you like it

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Shravan Charity Mission is an NGO that works for poor children suffering from life threatening diseases. Should you wish to donate for the cause the bank details are given below:

NAME OF ACCOUNT: SHRAVAN CHARITY MISSION

Account no: 680510110004635 (BANK OF INDIA)

IFSC code: BKID0006805

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Our publications

GLOOM BEHIND THE SMILE

ONE TO TANGO … RIA’S ODYSSEY

AADAB LUCKNOW … FOND MEMORIES

REFRACTIONS … FROM THE PRISM OF GOD

(CAN BE BOUGHT FROM ON LINE BOOK STORES OR WRITE TO US FOR COPIES)

*****

 

 

BOOK QUOTES … INTERESTING LINES

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Name of book and author is not mentioned. Should you want to know please write to us.

ULYSSESHARRY PORTERBENHUR

  • For as his brain developed—you cannot stop your brain developing, and it is one of the tragedies of the half-educated that they develop late, when they are already committed to some wrong way of life.
  •   “It’s all very well,” grumbled Ellis, with his forearms on the table, fidgeting with his glass. The dispute with Mr. Macgregor had made him restless again. “It’s all very well, but I stick to what I said. No natives in this Club! It’s by constantly giving way over small things like that that we’ve ruined the Empire. This country’s only rotten with sedition because we’ve been too soft with them. The only possible policy is to treat ‘em like the dirt they are. This is a critical moment, and we want every bit of prestige we can get. We’ve got to hang together and say, ‘We are the masters, and you beggars—‘ “ Ellis pressed his small thumb down as though flattening a grub—“ ‘you beggars keep your place!’”
  • He followed her into the bedroom. In a week–it was only a week–her appearance had degenerated extraordinarily. Her hair looked greasy. All her lockets were gone, and she was wearing a Manchester longyi of flowered cotton, costing two rupees eight annas. She had coated her face so thick with powder that it was like a clown’s mask, and at the roots of her hair, where the powder ended, there was a ribbon of natural-coloured brown skin. She looked a drab. Flory would not face her, but stood looking sullenly through the open doorway to the veranda.
  • “Thank you, Monsieur.” She spoke in English but her voice was foreign, a rich low voice very seductive in quality. As she was about to pass on, she hesitated and murmured: “Pardon, Monsieur, but I think you were recently at Grasse?”
  • At the same time, the Emperor had a great desire that I should see the magnificence of his palace; but this I was not able to do till three days after, which I spent in cutting down, with my knife, some of the largest trees in the royal park, about a hundred yards distance from the city. Of these trees I made two stools, each about three feet high, and strong enough to bear my weight.
  • Alas,” said Candide, “my dear Pangloss often proved to me that the goods of this world are common to all men, that everyone has an equal right to them. Acting on that principle, the Franciscan should have left us enough to finish our journey. So you have nothing left, fair Cunegonde?”
  • P.V. Narasimha Rao came from humble home. His intellectual centre was India; his roots were deep in its spiritual and religious soil. His knowledge of Sanskrit profound. He was a man of learning, a scholar, a linguist and a thinker of the first order.
  • Gogol has never heard the term ABCD. He eventually gathers that it stands for “American-born confused deshi.” In other words him. he learns that C could also stand for “conflicted.”
  • The Don said meekly, “Wait, I’ll get you your money.” Then he went out into the garden and said to Sonny, “Listen, there’s some men working on the furnace, I don’t understand what they want. Go in and take care of the matter.”
  • “The rudeness spread to one of the assistant directors,” said Moriarty. “Instead of calling Marilyn for a scene, he would stand there and glare at her, tapping his foot for as long as he could. There would eventually be a big blow up, when all the man had to do was say, ‘Excuse me, Miss Monroe, we’re ready for you.’ She was denied all the prerogatives of a star.”
  • Taken aback by this passionate eloquence, Ruru lowered his staff. He feared that the snake might be a sage in disguise. Seeking to appease the great soul, Ruru said, “You do not seem like an ordinary snake. I believe you must be some other being only temporarily occupying this form. Tell me then, how did you come to be a snake?’
  • The sun was now setting. It was about three in the afternoon when Alisande had begun to tell me who the cow-boys were; so she had made pretty good progress with it- for her. She would arrive some time or other, no doubt, but she was not a person who could be hurried- Sandy’s Tale- Mark Twain page 107
  • I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if we do not venture somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.
  • FAY. Your son is a thorn in my flesh. The contents of his dressing-table are in indictment of his way of life. Not only firearms, but family-planning equipment. A Papal dispensation is needed to dust his room.
  • In a country as diverse as ours, there will always be passionate arguments about how we draw the line when it comes to government action. That is how our democracy works. But our democracy might work a bit better if we recognized that all of us possess values that are worthy of respect; if liberals at least acknowledged that the recreational hunter feels the same way about his gun as they feel about their library books, and if conservatives recognized that most women feel as protective of their right to reproductive freedom as evangelicals do of their right to worship.
  • The pigeon that stays at home is always in terror for the fate of the pigeon on the wing.
  • All this modern brag about women’s lib, male bashing appeared as poster signs for the erudite to read and jostle through this not-so-good world, as you still had the Ria’s of the world to be saved from the callous studs and the bitchy hens of the ‘scheming jungle’ called society.’
  • ‘Mar. Death is a penalty which a person can pay only once, and she has made that payment. What you wish to do has been done already for you. the last words she spoke were, “Anthony, most noble Anthony!” and in the midst of her speech, a rending groan came in the middle of “Anthony”; the word was split in two between, her heart and her lips. She gave up her life, and the half of your name was buried within her.’
  • “All is well so far. The lambardar reports regularly. No refugees have come through the village yet.I am sure no one in Mano Majra even knows that the British have left and the country is divided into Pakistan and Hindustan. Some of them know about Gandhi but I doubt if anyone has even heard about Jinnah.”
  • In the Mahabharata, Pandu has two wives but cannot have sex with them because of a curse. Pandu means pale and weak and could be related to the Sanskrit word panda meant for men unable to have sex with women for a variety of reasons.
  • ‘Mr Gilmer’s back stiffened a little, and I felt sorry for him. Perhaps I’d better explain something now. I’ve heard that lawyers’ children, on seeing their parents in court in the heat of argument, get the wrong idea: they think opposing counsel to be the personal enemies of their parents, they suffer agonies, and are surprised to see them often go out arm-in-arm with their tormentors during the first recess.’
  • ‘Well, there was once a tortoise, who was, of course, provided with a shell, and within this shell he used to hide for protection against the attacks of his enemies. One day, someone said to him, “You must find it very hot inside there in the summertime. Besides, when you are hidden, no one can admire your bodily perfections. Now, here is a serpent who will give you a million and a half for your shell.”’ ‘Good!’ said Monsieur Fouquet, laughing.       ‘So the tortoise sold his shell, and had to go about unprotected. He was discovered by a vulture, who, feeling hungry, broke his back with a blow of his beak, and had him for dinner.’
  • A little later, full into view swung a duplication of his dromedary, tall and white, and bearing a houdah, the travelling litter of Hindostan.’
  • Viswamitra, the greatest of the ascetic heroes of the Iliad of the East, had in him a perfect representative. He might have been called a Life drenched with the wisdom of Brahma- Devotion Incarnate.’
  • ‘He spoke bluffly, and only somebody like Sherlock Holmes or Monsieur Poirot could have divined that at the sound of her voice his soul had turned a double somersault, leaving him quivering with an almost Bill Rowcester-like intensity.’
  • Initially the losses ran to crores of rupees, Sir, but since we stopped production it has proved very economical !

NO PLACE FOR FAILURE, IN CHANGING INDIA: INDIAN MEDIA & SOCIAL NETWORKING SITES JOKE AND RIDICULE 44 YEAR OLD SON OF THE SOIL RAHUL GANDHI WHO COULDN’T MEET UP WITH SUCCESS

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By Kamlesh Tripathi

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Ever since the stormy news of Rahul Gandhi’s sabbatical for ‘personal introspection’ during the ensuing budget session came in. Both the media and the social networking sites in India have hounded him to cruel smithereens. A parallel of which one cannot remember, at least in the recent past.

When, other, light and more decent ‘critical’ phrases could have been used to put him down. Double-meaning expressions like ‘missing in action’ (MIA) were continuously aired by certain TV channels, knowingly or unknowingly.

‘MIA is a casualty classification assigned to armed services personnel and other combatants who are reported missing during wartime. They may have been killed, wounded, become a prisoner of war, or even deserted. If deceased, neither their remains nor grave has been positively identified.’ And, so the usage of MIA was in bad taste and a clear case of media going overboard.

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And that brings us to the moot point. Is the youth of this country (as reflected in social networking sites) which is sixty five percent of the Indian population, getting intolerant to failures. That they won’t even spare a person around, their own age group. While this is a welcome sign and also an insignia of progress. It is also a double edge sword. For, in times to come Indian youth with lack of opportunities and explosion of population will surely witness failures in every family, and will every family then treat their loved ones in the manner they have treated Rahul Gandhi, over the last couple of days. For let us not forget he is still part of the great Indian family.

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Most blame Rahul Gandhi for ditching the Congress party at the crucial Budget session. There are other reports that say he is set to bid adieu to politics. Some say he is unable to have his way with the old guard and therefore beating a tactical retreat.

And we all know, with all the effort put in by him he could not win a single election for his party, in the near past. Many of his own party men are blaming him for the state in which Congress is today. When most of them are either, arm chair politicians, lawyers or inconsequential statesmen. But there are certain other points also to be considered before we rip this man completely.

Rahul Gandhi signals a new kind of India. Where, a politician may leave the turf and decide to do something else. Which may be worth his while and worth his salt, during his lifetime. And that should be taken in the stride; and not be indecently reported by the media. For one will see more politicians behaving in this fashion in times to come. So, give the loser his due.

Prime Minister Narendra Modi says ‘I don’t dream for success in what I do. I only dream to do something worthwhile.’ This is a very powerful statement in today’s context and more so in Rahul Gandhi’s context. So whether you lose or win keep moving. As there is no intrinsic insult in moving away from politics. For politics is only heart burning and time consuming mistress for some. Perhaps, Narendra Modi could have nudged the media to be a little more relenting towards Rahul Gandhi this time, more so when the youth of India looks up to him.

Let us not forget in the emerging India there won’t be any fixed route to politics. For it won’t be necessary to remain a politician all your life. For one could also be a politician like Kiran Bedi who excels in one field and takes away Satish Upadhyay’s due. Or be a tornado like Arvind Kejriwal to take Delhi by storm.

But coming back to Rahul. At least he goes on leave all by himself. Whereas, some like LK Advani and MM Joshi are sent on leave. So which is better? And, India shouldn’t forget its great culture of being humane to all. Irrespective of a winner or a loser.

*****

YOU REALLY WON’T KNOW WHO ALL WILL BE THERE TO SEE YOU OFF WHEN YOUR MOMENT COMES

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We know nothing about our future, yet we all have a future.

As narrated by anonymous in Lucknow.

It was just the other day when I had gone for a cocktail dinner to one of my friend’s place, on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding somewhere in Gomti Nagar. I had really done a lot of planning to be there. Having come, all the way from Delhi. But for some reason my wife couldn’t accompany me on that particular day.

Considering it will be a late night. I had hired a cab for the evening; and was expecting to have some great recalling moments. Catching up with some very old friends.Whom I had not met for an eon now. Besides that, I also expected many unknown, yet distinguished guests on the occasion. Overall a formal flashy gathering, where I wasn’t wrong.

The party had just about begun in the first floor of a guest house that he had hired. The epicenter of the venue was quite well lit, with a festive ambience. Buoying with some lilting ghazals and appropriating the celebratory occasion to a rocking start.

I too saluted the moment by gulping down some whisky, as I waved out for some piping hot chicken-tikka-kabab, in the freezing, yet enjoyable ambient temperature. And, as I put a piece in my mouth, very strangely it went straight down my throat and into my food pipe before I could even chew it and started choking me. I felt a little alarmed and cussed to begin with.

First, I tried to gulp it down with some whisky and then some water. But to my shock both whisky and water started oozing out of my nose but the chicken remained where it was. I rushed to the toilet thinking I’m about to vomit but there too nothing great happened as the chicken piece or the chicken bone, still remained stuck.

In all of this some fifteen to twenty minutes must have passed. By now the party was in full blast, when I could hazily see, some unknown, yet smartly dressed up couples and their children around me. Just then, I felt I was close to a blackout. But there appeared not a single known face in the tangible surrounding. Whom I could have shouted for help. Moreover the music was too loud. And, by now I was beginning to feel a little embarrassed.

It was an unexpected and painful moment for me. When I could feel my present withering to a repulsive future. Coming my way on fast track; to grip me. I was now in deep agony now, for over twenty minutes. Breathing heavily through my nose and messy all over, is when I decided to leave. For I didn’t want the party to get spoilt. And by now my eyes had even blurred. All the fluid stuck in my throat was dripping out of my nose. My hanky was all wet and by now some people had also started noticing me.

Fortunately, I was able to locate my cabby in the car park. I waved at him. He appeared to be a smart guy. As he smelt something was wrong with me, just by observing my body language and drove the car right up to where I was standing, as if in divine sync. I slid in, and in panic, I asked him to take me home. And even though, he could make out, I was unwell, He did not say a word till he put the car in motion.

By now, another five minutes had passed. I called my wife at home and told her to be at the gate, to take me to a doctor forthwith. Briefly describing, what was stuck in my throat. She panicked upon hearing this. I was in deep agony by now. My eyes were closing and I was breathless.

Meanwhile, the driver, while he was driving, opened his water bottle and asked me to forcefully drink some water even if I couldn’t. Which I did, but nothing improved. On the contrary I became a little more uncomfortable. He then slowed the car and started patting me on my neck, but I remained uncomfortable. By now, I could make out we were crossing ‘Bhaisa Kund,’ the cremation ground at around 9.30 in the night. That was indeed scary. As, I found it quite still and dark, with I  so close to it. Will I be brought here tomorrow? Was the weird feel I got. And, will I survive this onslaught of chicken-tikka-kabab, I wondered, in surrendering emotion.

It was one of the most frightening moments of my life for obvious reasons. Since, no one from my family was there to hold me, except, the cabby who appeared as a family then. Who happened to be a young guy, and my only source of inspiration. Perhaps, the divine co-passenger sent from heaven, for the hallowed moment. I helplessly thought, will I make it from here? I pondered in pessimism, but by then my head had slumped forward, almost resting on the dashboard; perhaps the end was near, thought the cabby.

Is when I suddenly felt he had stepped up the vehicle. We were to turn right but he took to the left and in just about five minutes he stopped in front of a small hospital. He rushed inside and got a wheel chair and took me straight to the emergency ward with the help of a ward boy. By now, I was hardly able to converse, but the driver explained to the doctor, and the doctor with a minor procedure pulled out the chicken piece and advised me not to attempt it, ever again. And with that my trauma had subsided, but myriads of introspection arose.

Because, the last one hour had given me a feel of life’s biggest certainty, death. It also conveyed, you have very little control over your future. So enjoy every moment and create similar situations for others also. As anything can happen anytime. And all around you, you only have fellow passengers. For you don’t know who all will come to see you off. And, who all, you’ll see off, when the moment comes.

And, last but not the least, the incident took me close to an accident victim. Who suddenly dies away from his family and without any forewarning. He has no one to see him off. But my case was slightly different. Where, the fellow passenger, the driver in this case had come to see me off. For a moment I thought, the strong thread of family would have helped me go past that last flicker. From the feel of future to actually arriving at the future–death. But I guess the longing best wishes of my family and the presently departed souls at Bhaisa kund still wanted me alive and about, and so pulled me back with the lease of life. But then who knows when it will strike again.

*****