Beyond the Railways

by Himanshi Vij

I have had two homes till now. One in Chandigarh, where I belong, where I grew up, the city that defined me. The other in Paris, where my heart belongs, where I evolved, the city that refined me.

It has always been painful to leave one home for the other. When I’m in Chandigarh, at home surrounded by family, I miss Paris. When I am in Paris, at home surrounded by my dreams, I miss Chandigarh. It is so difficult to have two homes because I am never fully at one place. In Paris, I stay awake on so many nights staring at the ceiling hoping that my family is happy, that my old friends still miss me, and I make a mental checklist of things I should do when I’m back home next.

When I’m in Chandigarh, at home, certain nights I just wonder how easy it would be in Paris, to walk on a street and see the twinkling on Eiffel Tower whenever I feel like, to walk in to the Louvre and see new works each time and to randomly discover some magical streets.

Recently, I was hired by a French company to work in their Singapore office, an opportunity that I couldn’t refuse.

While at my home in Chandigarh, I kept thinking about Paris and feeling so much pain because I knew saying good-bye to Paris would break my heart. It was painful to know that I won’t wake up and go for a run along the Seine, or I won’t be meeting up friends at Pont des Arts on a summer evening and neither would I find a cheap flight to Milan for an impromptu trip. It was so painful, just the idea of leaving Paris.

But I had my one last month in Paris. I left Chandigarh with a heavy heart, to board my one last flight to Paris, to pack up, to make final submissions, to vacate my apartment, to say goodbye to my friends and to the Eiffel Tower, with promises of being back as often as I possibly can.

And then I arrived in Paris. With mixed feelings. Of anguish, of separation, of anticipation and of happiness.

From the airport, I took a metro to go to my residence. I had to change trains at Chatelet, which is one of the busiest metro stations in Paris.

Till now, I had only heard from my friends and tourists how often they had been robbed, mugged, or simply fooled by thugs in Paris metros. I always scoffed at these friends for their inattentiveness or negligence in getting their things lost.

But the moment I boarded my metro from Chatelet onwards, in a few seconds I realised that my red suitcase was missing.

The red suitcase that an entire new summer wardrobe for my final Parisian month. The red suitcase that had my unopened birthday presents. The red suitcase that had maa ke haath ka khaana and motichoor ladoos.

I tried to be calm. I quickly gathered three policemen and metro station officials. Within five minutes we searched the entire platform but the red suitcase was nowhere to be found.

We searched for about 2-3 hours. My friends consoled me. Policemen came and went. Officials went from being polite to rude. But for all of them, it was nothing new. Paris was known for thugs and thieves and pickpockets.

And they finally got me.

And in that moment, l realised, all that sadness and unhappiness on leaving Paris just evaporated. I didn’t want to live in a city with thugs at every step. I didn’t want to live in the city where I could trust no one. I didn’t want to live in a city where policemen would lie to you and disappear. I didn’t want to live in a city where metro officials are more concerned about ending their 8 pm shift rather than helping out a teary-eyed girl sobbing struggling with her French in that moment of distress.

I had loved Paris with all my heart, but l hated the people in Paris with all my gut. My last flight into Paris, as a resident, was pretty significant in a way. This was the day l had my closure with Paris.

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com

by Geetanjali Gayatri

AJAY DEVGAN’S much-publicised maiden venture “U, Me aur Hum” and its trailers of a love-struck couple romancing each other on board a ship was enough to interest a movie-buff like me. I waited for the movie’s release, gorging on the lavish trailers that flooded the television screen every now and then.

Finally, the movie arrived and opportunity presented itself with a friend offering to take us. The “date” was set and we were dot on time for the last show of the day to watch love take wings in the glitzy setting of a cruiser.

No, this is not a movie review if I gave that impression. It’s about how the movie moves at snail’s pace to capture the first flush of romance as Devgan tries to woo his lady love.

The interval brought with it the familiar round of popcorns and coffee and trouble for the lovey-dovey couple. The movie picked up after the break and finally did some justice to love. The handling was sensitive, the dialogues touching as the couple moved through troubled times, side-by-side and always together.

However, for all the sensitivity shown by Devgan in his home production, he failed to “deliver” an important message to the public — that a baby girl is as welcome as a baby boy. In one scene where a doctor emerges from the operation theatre carrying his just-delivered baby, he says he is sure the baby is a boy. “I am confident that my wife has given birth to a boy because she knows how much I wanted a baby boy,” he remarks.

While it passed off as just another scene for the audience, it raised my hackles especially since the girl child is a subject I feel deeply about. It was shocking for the sheer brazenness of portraying the desire for a boy when the entire government machinery, non-government organisations, people’s groups et al are waging war to save the girl child and fight the mindset that puts a boy ahead of the girl.

It seems their efforts have made little dent in the psyche of the people and the issue of a falling sex ratio is still treated casually. The desire for a boy remains intact in a society where girls are in short supply. It is all the more appalling that such a message comes from a couple who themselves have a daughter.

For me, the movie was forgotten the moment I walked out of the theatre into the cool night air, feeling the light drizzle on my face. My thoughts went out to my daughter, asleep at home, and I wondered to myself if I was missing out on something by not having a son? And, I answered my own question. I realised that the world is still full of incorrigible mindsets which don’t understand love that comes as a package deal with a baby, irrespective of whether it is a boy or a girl. For them, it’s about carrying the family name forward with the boy. For the unbiased, a family is entirely about U, Me aur Hum!

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com

by Yashanjit Singh

OH! I feel sleepy”, “My eyes are closing”,” “I want to lie down” are some of the expressions which I mumble in the afternoon these days. These are a natural corollary if one has a sumptuous carnivorous lunch as I do at IIM, Lucknow.

I am learning management as part of my civil services training. Post-lunch sessions are difficult, not because management is tough but remaining awake is a challenge.

Yesterday after lunch, I faced a dilemma. My mind supported the afternoon lecture whereas my heart preferred the cosy bed. Eventually the mind won; worrying about the attendance, but mind you, it was not the final victory.

I reached the lecture hall, I was late. I saw an old rickety male professor looking at me as if I was the person who eloped with his daughter. “May I come in sir”, I asked hesitantly. I only got a head nod in reply which indicated that I take the vacant seat in the first row. Now this is a disadvantage of reaching late in class as back benches are readily taken. I passed a smile at my friends and got seated.

The shrewd professor started with a moral lesson of discipline in his Bengali accent. All this, of course, was directed at me. I thought in self-defence: “This isn’t fair as I was late just by two minutes”.

The topic for the lecture didn’t interest me as I was already familiar with it. Initially, I tried to be attentive; nodding my head indicating my understanding of the concept but soon I slipped into a comfortable sitting position. The voice of the professor transformed into a cacophony. A glimpse of my friends at the back showed a big contagious yawn; half stooped heads and sheepish stares at my female colleague.

The wall clock showed 2:20 pm. “Oh no! Just 20 minutes passed till now.” I talked to myself. It seemed like ages have passed since I had entered. Now this is “relativity” that Einstein talked about.

I tried to see the professor with my half-opened eyes; he was going away from me as his voice faded and eventually he disappeared. Calmness and peace engulfed me. I felt like I was meditating.

“It is criminal to have classes after lunch. Why don’t they plan something intriguing for post lunch sessions?” I said to Adish, who was sitting diagonally behind me. He mumbled back, “Just imagine, your stomach is full of chilli chicken, malai kofta, pulao and delicious ice cream, upon that the air-conditioning comforting milieu topped with a salvo of verbal sedatives by an old uninteresting professor. “Isn’t it a chef’s special for an afternoon doze?” I just smiled and nodded my head in affirmation.

Soon others joined in, there were giggles and gags, laughs and gossip, the attendance sheet torn apart and no where the professor was to be seen. I was feeling rejuvenated, interacting with my friends and planning for a late-night movie. Suddenly I felt an earthquake, which shook me.. I could hear Adish calling me. My eyes opened and I found my friend shaking me. “Was I dreaming?” I questioned myself.

I got the answer from the professor, who marked me absent for sleeping in the class.

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com

Source Link: http://www.lucknowonline.com

by Sanjeev Trikha

IN my town we have to face unusually lengthy power cuts, lengthy enough to exhaust the inverter buffer. On one such occasion we were pushed to the unusual darkness combined with summer heat and humidity. The whole house saw much hue and cry, frequent calls to the complaint centre returned with the annoying busy tone. Such discomfort usually magnifies when the inverters in the neighbourhood are still working, making you sizzle and simmer in the heat and fire of jealousy.

My brother and his family were also with us due to summer vacation. The ladies in the house had their own worries of cooking food in the quirky ambience of the candle-lit, humid and hot kitchen.

My wife decided to use the tandoor lying abandoned in the courtyard and floated the idea that dinner would be cooked and served there in the open. The children for whom it was a novel idea, hoping to enjoy something unique, instantly approved the suggestion and pulled their socks and started collecting the necessary material for the tandoor cooking. They amazingly witnessed the entire exercise from heating this desi gadget to cooking garma garam chapattis.

The unique experience of enjoying the delicacy of home-made makkhan on the crisp tandoori roti and ‘mukkimar pyaz‘ (onion crushed with hand) and the omni-present aam ka achar (mango pickle) and that too with the cool natural breeze in the open court yard was enjoyed by all in such magnitude that the children named the dish Makhanni roti da piazza which has become quite a routine in our household menu.

Thanks to the electricity department and the exhausted inverter, the abandoned tandoor was back in the limelight. After the sumptuous dinner we decided to pull the bedroom mattresses to the open courtyard and enjoyed the natural air. Amidst chatting nobody knew when they fell asleep.

The night was so enjoyed by everybody that it was named as the ‘tandoori night‘ and has become a regular feature whenever the whole family gathers. My nephew, who has a special liking for such moments and tandoori rotis, has named my wife and his taiee as ‘Tandoori Taiee‘. My wife proudly acknowledges this name as it speaks volumes of her culinary traits.

We are not afraid of power cuts any more as we have a silent inverter, a silent tandoor and a not so silent Tandoori Taiee at our disposal. Keeping in view the creative instincts of my nephew with regard to giving names, I have categorically told my wife not to try her hands at jalebis for him otherwise that naughty little devil would retag her from Tandoori Taiee to ‘Jalebi Baiee‘.

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by Upendra Bhatnagar

DURING our college days there was a common teaser we used to discuss “what is there that comes in our lives and never goes back, and what is that which goes and never comes back?” The answer was known to almost everybody but still someone will raise his or her hand and answer the riddle as if the answer was known to him/her only, and the answer was: “It’s old age that comes and never goes back and it’s the innocent childhood that goes and never comes back”. But this riddle got lost somewhere in the struggle of life.

The struggle for “bread and butter’ is so cruel that the age and innocence of childhood have no meaning for it but still there are brave men who laugh at the time and say “we will never allow the child within us taken away by the kidnappers of time” and such people always enjoy the company of that child within.

I vividly remember the days when my father used to have a strange kind of joy on his face seeing thick black clouds, and as soon as rain started, he would run outside the house like a child (he was 58 at that time) and jump and sometime roll down on ground enjoying the freshly made rainwater pond, singing a song of his choice.

We used to get surprised at his child-like act and would ask him repeatedly to come back inside else he would catch cold or fever but he would always say, “Beta mere andar jo bachcha hai voh mujhe kehta hai mein abhi mara nahin hoon, chalo barish mein nahate hain, and I cannot stop my feet to stay within the four walls.”

Today my father is no more with us but whenever there is torrential rain and my own children enjoy the rain as papa used to do, I always feel his presence around, whispering into my ears, Beta agar sukhi aur lambi life jeena chahte ho to apne andar ke bachche ko kabhi mat marne dena.

Nature has given us so many gifts to enjoy and rain is one of them but most of us ignore the joys coming in our way, falling prey to the tiring day-to-day life. But I never forget to pay a tribute to my father and always become a child with my children whenever they enjoy rain. Only a hot cup of coffee brings me back to my adulthood after the rain and keeps my father alive, the child alive.

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com

by Rajbir Deswal

ON a somber occasion, when I see mourners immaculately dressed in all white, I don’t find them serious enough in paying their condolences, barely for the fact that they had time enough to be in a gear that suited the occasion, and not being in a mind that is genuinely grieving or even empathising. The same goes for black suits for such occasions.

On the contrary, I like people who in their festive spirits are seen flaunting light-coloured, butterfly and ornamental designed bermudas, bikinis and vests. Also the bridegroom’s parents in that sherwani and lehnga-cholis are not out of place. But, yes, I do take exception to Salman Khan wearing a tie on a dhoti.

Women and girls who wear sports shoes with sarees and salwar-kameez are totally unacceptable. Likewise, wearing sandals with a business suit is a disaster. Very recently I was surprised to see college boys and girls wearing breeches at their annual-day function. They looked funny but let us see if this catches on with the desired amount of horse-sense roped in fashion.

Kitty parties should always have in-things at play. The critique that follows makes juicy gossip too. I don’t think the non-serious, strictly and stunningly offbeat stuff makes it to the kitties, generally. Baggies, loosers blazers, jackets, chesters, overcoats, pantaloons, trousers, skirts, minis, etc, all have their own grammar and syntax for various occasions. Women should also be borrowing stuff to flaunt when the onlookers are not going to make out the transaction. Transsexuals’ dressing though has to be what it is, but there goes some sort of inquisitiveness and curiosity with it as to how does one get titillation wearing clothes not strictly suiting ones gender—well, I don’t have to brag about it, you know what I mean. Unisex though is the buzzword today.

I was happy to note the excitement on a school kid’s face, when he saw me wearing a pirate’s hat with one eye covered, as if gone blind, in Seattle last year on Halloween. If as a teacher you don a suit addressing a group of fine arts students, and wear jeans and a tee addressing MBAs, you can have your students wearing only frowns. I recall the times when back in my village Anta, I heard people enquire of the one person, who wore washed and clean clothes, if he was on a visit to the relatives in another village or had to appear in a court as witness or even as an accused. The reason was that generally the yokels did not indulge in ostentations and stayed simple. They wouldn’t even mind ‘taking life out’ of a handed down cloth.

I have had interesting experiences regarding my dressing when I was a growing up adolescent. Once donning a mustard band-gala with black trousers, I was mistaken for a bearer in a Delhi restaurant. Worse was when in the early seventies, I got a grey safari stitched for me, blissfully being unaware of the fact that they had prescribed this uniform for the Haryana Roadways staff and an oil company too. Those days we had no gas connection in our village and I got a cylinder from Karnal after putting it on the rooftop of a bus. When I asked the conductor to help me bring it down, he said, “Why not? For the staff we are extra-helpful.” Next time, being wiser, I brought the cylinder on my bike when while filling fuel the petrol pump guy asked me to operate the machine myself, ‘being a company employee!’

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com

by R.C. Rajamani

The Indian media coverage given to the death and funeral of former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was truly mind-boggling. All national newspapers carried the story on their front pages with plenty of photographs. There were analytical articles too that kept coming in for days together. Parliament too paid homage to Thatcher. The Rajya Sabha chairman Hamid Ansari, a former diplomat, observed that lady Thatcher was a leader of great eminence and would be remembered for her notable contributions to the evolution of relations between India and the United Kingdom.

Was it all due to the ‘colonial hang-over’? Or did the Iron Lady deserve the massive coverage? In fact, it is a combination of the two. There is no doubt that Thatcher was a global leader who played a major role in the Cold War era. She hit it off famously with President Ronald Reagan in their common cause against the “evil empire” (the erstwhile Soviet Union). She was Britain’s first female prime minister who transformed her country’s political and economic life with her conservative, free-market policies. The sobriquet Iron Lady truly fits her, the way she crushed the coalminers’ strike, the way she fought a war to reclaim for Britain a small island in far off Argentina in 1982 and the way she fought the Irish Republican Army, even surviving an assassination bid.

Her critics variously called her “Margret Torture” and “Thatcher, the milk snatcher” (for ending the subsidy on free milk supplied to children in government schools). Coalminers did not forgive her even after her death. They sang ‘Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ at a party on Margaret Thatcher’s funeral day.

No doubt, Thatcher made many enemies, even within her Conservative Party. She was notoriously unpopular among working-class communities in northern England, Wales and Scotland, where many lost their livelihoods when her government closed Britain’s mines in the 1980s. But the fact remains that she restored economic health to a seriously ailing Britain. Nations need such a leader at times of crisis.

She was an admirer of our own godman Chandra Swamy who predicted Thatcher would become PM when she was in the opposition. He advised her to wear red and Thatcher promptly did for some time! God knows if ‘red’ did the ‘trick’ for Margaret!

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com

Slide 1: The Secrets of Old Age

Slide 2: To All Retired Friends…

Slide 3: Secrets of Life in 6 words: Before middle age – Do not fear! After middle age – Do not regret!

Slide 4: Enjoy Your Life While You Can Do not wait till you cannot even walk just to be sorry and to regret! As long as it is physically possible, visit places you wish to visit.

Slide 5: When there is an opportunity, get together with old classmates, old colleagues & old friends. The gathering is not just about eating, its just that there is not much time left!

Slide 6: Money kept in the banks may not be really yours. When it is time to spend, just spend, treat yourself well as you’re getting old!

Slide 7: Whatever you feel like eating, just eat! It is most important to be happy!

Slide 8: Foods which are good for health – eat often and more but that is not everything. 2. Things which are not good for health – eat less once a while but do not abstain from them totally. 。

Slide 9: Treat sickness with optimism. Whether you are poor or rich. Everyone has to go through birth, aging, sickness and death. There is no exception, that’s life!

Slide 10: Do not be afraid or worried when you are sick. Settle all the outstanding issues before hand and you will be able to leave without regret!

Slide 11: Let the doctors handle your body, Let GOD / NATURE handle your life, But be in charge of your own moods!

Slide 12: If worries can cure your sickness, then go ahead and worry! If worries can prolong your life, then go ahead and worry! If worries can exchange for happiness, then go ahead and worry!

Slide 13: Our kids will make their own fortune.

Slide 14: Look After Four Old Treasures Your old body – pay more attention to health, you can only rely on yourself in this Retirement funds – money that you have earned, it is best to keep them yourself Your old companion – treasure every moment with your other half, one of you will leave first! Your old friends – seize every opportunities to meet up with your friends, such opportunities will become rare as time goes by

Slide 15: Things You Must Do Everyday! Smile, and laugh

Slide 16: Running water does not flow back. So is life, make it happy.

Slide 17: Bless You!

by Harish Dhillon

“BROKEN Bridge”, the name spells sheer magic for a certain vintage of Sanawarians. It does for me. So when my daughter suggested that we take the children there for a picnic, there was excitement in my agreement. The place was a bit of a disappointment – childhood places revisited in old age always are. For one, the broken bridge was gone, replaced by a new concrete bridge. For the other the stream seemed narrower and shallower than I remembered it to be.

My grandchildren, wading in the stream, called out to me to join them in tones that would brook no denial. So I took off my shoes, rolled up my trouser bottoms, put a polythene bag around my artificial foot and got into the water. The childrens’ infectious screams of delight and peals of joyous laughter washed away the initial disappointment. We reached under the water and picked up the most beautiful stones — of many different colours, some speckled and streaked, and tried to catch some of the butterflies fluttering by. It was again like the first time I had come here when I was in Lower III (Class V).

We had got permission from our Housemaster to be out till five and were given the packed lunch which was provided for all such outings: ‘parathas’, ‘aaloo subzi’ and a banana.

It was a magical day, a lovely walk down to the bridge and a joyous splash in the river. We collected stones of the most beautiful colours only to find that they had turned to nondescript browns and greys when they were dry and we had tried to catch some of the many butterflies that flew around us. John, the head cook, had added a special treat to our packets: thick slices of cake. Now 61 years later I frolicked once again in the water, collected stones and lunched off ‘parathas’ and ‘aaloo’ – I did miss the cake! It was again magical.

What was so special about that outing and about all the other outings to the Gorkha Fort, the Sunshine Valley, Dagroo, Monkey’s Point and the forest Rest House near Sabathu? They were an escape from the regimentation of school life, and Sanawar was still very much a military school, they brought us the oneness with nature that all spiritual quests seek and they got us away from the tyranny of the seniors, even if for so short a time.

Coming back that day, I said a silent prayer of gratitude – I was truly blessed to be so placed that I could visit once again all the places of my childhood – and I have visited them all, sometimes again and again, and each visit has brought back the magic of my childhood visits.

Now when the evening shadows lengthen and darkness gathers, each visit brings back the childhood vision of the young, bright, radiant and unflawed world, that once was, and my days are brightened by the memory of a life that was simple and unclouded by experiences of loss, defeat, failure, rejection and betrayal.

Source Link: http://www.tribuneindia.com