Think, think

24 hours. A long time to ideate. And sometimes, too short to hold even a single thought. Three months of domestic life and I am already struggling to stay afloat fighting the deluge of thoughts. All kinds of thoughts. Of my yesterdays that were filled with an actionable idea a day, sometimes two. Today I am living on an hourly basis. Feeding hour, sleeping hour, eating hour and feeding hour again. Its difficult to call it a day, there is no definite end to one and the beginning of the next. So thoughts have very little shelf life. A random one might stay longer than another, but it may not be deserving of my precious little mindspace. Just good timing can get it attention. So I consider myself incapable of rational judgement, for the time being.
But most important are future thoughts. And thoughts of the future. As a TV journalist I am used to advance planning. The kind that is always accompanied by the caveat of uncertainty. Plans often get shelved in the hurry of breaking news (or someone else’s plans, not necessasarily better). But those are story plans. Insignificant things that matter for 90 seconds. It’s funny how you can give something all you have, and then find it insignificant from an armchair view. Life is longer than 90 seconds. Plans have to be definite. Certain. Clear. Life cannot depend on breaking news. Rather, it better not. So what will tomorrow be like? What’s my day plan, MIS? Any ideas?

Baby to be

Your jelly feet
my wobbling tummy
your tiny turns
its a call for mummy

I can see you in the ultrasound
hip-hopping
sleepily knocking

Open up, let me out....

Wait tiny nose
hold that little pout

Wait a little more
you growing embryo
let the heartbeat steady
let the world be ready
for your tiny hands
and the promiss in them
for your closed eyes
and the light in them

Baby,
wait to give me life
as I wait
to give you birth.

-Mama to be

Small mind Big mouth

Dear Jaya aunty,
What were you thinking ?
So Raj Thackray used your family's name as a shortcut to fame. And you happily walked into the trap and decided he even deserved a reply.
Then you do nothing to shut your party collegue Abu Asim Azmi up who it seems has taken an oath of fanning every possible divisive sentiment humans are capable of feeling.
And now this completely uncalled for controversy? When matters seemed to have settled for the time being.

I am sure you know what I am talking about aunty. For those who are not glued to the tele 24*7, let me explain.
It was a regular bollywood do. Film launch, everybody praising everybody else, saying how this was the best thing that could happen to them etc. Nothing out of the ordinary (the Bachchan's presence too is ordinary these days given their visibility of late).

And then comes that bolt from the blue.
"Kyoki hum UP se hai, hum Hindi mein bolenge. Maharashtra ke log hume maaf kar de"(laugh)
No we have not lost our sense of humor. But yes we have not lost our sense and sensitivity either.

There are a few things we must keep in mind when we analyse what seems like a light hearted dying-to-be-cheeky one liner.
First. This is an MP speaking at a public forum poking fun at an issue that is sensitive.

Second.Suddenly Hindi is a regional language spoken by people who come from UP.
Since when did that happen? I thought we all spoke the National Language. The one that seeks to be the unifying thread running through a diverse fabric we call Nation.

Third. She apologised to 'maharashtra ke log' (for either speaking in Hindi or belonging to UP. I guess both). And that drives home a vital point. She, in one irresponsible sweep, equated Raj Thackray's bigoted views to a sentiment shared by all Maharashtrians. Thats tragic. If this is how all 'Maharashtra ke log' thought she and her family would not be in business.

My suspicion is this may not have been a momentary laspe of reason, a spur of the moment joke. Raj Thackray is gaged till the end of this month by a police order. Aunty knew this is the best time to attack. So why not take a chance. Be brave while you can.

But aunty you hurt me. I loved your movies even though they were in Hindi. And I dont think the entire film industry or anybody for that matter should be apologetic about speaking in Hindi in Maharashtra. 'Maharashtra ke log' do not accept your apology. So save your sorries for later. Infact I feel sorry for you.

Love (though a little sour)
Prachi


You said tit
I said tat
you said this
and I that
oh! what a gentleman's game we played
my concience the ball
your soul the bat
-the struggling poet

Awakening

When I opened my eyes I saw a mosque
green
serene
cold.
The marble was white
it seemed to invite
my feet shifted in hesitation.

I moved to the fountain that never seemed to dry
I looked into the pond and saw a reflection
It stared back at me with a smirk
Why are you here it asked
faith?
But I'm not muslim
curiosity?
Do I really want to know?
doubt?
Who could I question?
the walls?
the marble?
the water?

I heard a blast
I heard a scream
I saw a man enter in pain.
I dipped my hands into my reflection
It smiled and vanished into waves
I poured the water in man's bloody mouth
He took your name
Allah! he said and died.
I saw the waves overflow the pond
They washed the blood from the cold white marble.

I gave him a bit of myself
but he did not live
Why?
And then I saw a gun in his dead hands.

I came a doubter and left faithful
He came infidel. Died infidel.
I had no questions
He had no answers.

- The struggling poet

A tale of two women. A tale of two cities.

Rama and Rupa.

When I met Rupa, I had this uneasy feeling in the stomach. Stomach. Not heart or head beacuse I met her over lunch. Maybe that was my gut feeling.
So I met this 19 year old on a street in South Mumbai. I was waiting for her in her home, the pavement. She lives on this pavement with her mother, 4 aunts,7 cousins and grandmother, all of who were born on the same pavement, except the grandmother. The story is too common to be retold here...the beginning at least. Old lady moved into this street with her husband in their poverty stricken young days from another part of India.They came here to ride the famous rags-to-riches waves that brush the shore of Mumbai regularly. Only the riches never came. While the old lady had 4 daughters, old man drank himself to death. The daughters sat by their mother's side as she spent days, weeks, months, years eating what poeple gave her, sleeping when there was no food to be cooked or eaten. They begged to survive the day and waited for that wave to come and sweep them off the pavement to a life more comfortable, secure and meaningful. Youth came to the daughters but unlike for many of us, it did not bring ambition, or aspiration or that fire-in-the-belly to change their plight, to them. Their youth got them husbands, also from the street. 4 girls with 8 hands did not consider putting them to any use beyond holding them out waiting for food/money/luck to drop from the heaven. It didnt.The husbands drank themselves unconcious keeping the family tradition alive. The daughters had more daughers and some sons, no work, no income. Rupa is one of them.
Could it be possible that able bodied people find no work in a city hungry for hands for a full 40 years? The pavement leads to many homes, shops, mills and now malls. None of the daughters thought it worth a walk to any of these just to check if they fit.
A job was offered to one of Rupa's aunts, as domestic help in a nearby high-rise. She was bringing up a child on that pavement at that time so the opportunity meant money and contacts. As is often the case, one home becomes 2 and then 3 and soon you have a full 1000 rupees in the purse on the 1st of every month. Pocket money for many but a good foothold for those who could not be worse off. Yes it meant hard work, honesty and courage to keep going untill you get there. But for this daughter of the old lady cleaning a whole home for 300 rupees a month seemed too much. Gave it up in less than 30 days. Back on the pavement, saying she is better off sitting there 24 hours doing nothing, watching her child do nothing. The kid is growing up all right, just as she herself did, right there, with no education and no idea about what is, what can and could be.

Rama wakes me up with the doorbell at 7 am. She makes me a cup of tea even as she helps herself to one with an extra spoonfull of sugar. She needs it, certaily more than I do. Rama helps me run my home, while I help her run her's. But as my day begins with her doorbell, she is already a few hours through her's. She wakes up at 4 am, cooks for her family of 4 women, packs off her daughters to school and college, puts everything her ill mother-in-law whould need in order, and then travels a full 45 minutes by train to shake me off my bed. Married into the city as the second wife of a widower, she is the pillar of a family waiting to collapse after her husband died a decade ago. Left with a daughter,a step daughter,and a mentally unstale mother-in-law Rama stepped out of thier shanty after her husband died. With no education to back her, she took on what came her way and what she had hoped to do all her life, albeit in her own home. She cooks, cleans and does everything I need her to do, so I can do what I want to do. And mine is not the only home she helps keep in order.
Rama is now worried. Her step daughter needs to take up a job so she can support her in keeping them going. She asks me to counsel her on what to do. I offer to pay her fees so she can study further. Rama refuses. She must work and study, since she is now 18. Is she not worried about her daughter's marriage, I asked. No. No marriage untill she is capable of making it on her own. What if her husband dies like her father did. Will she wash utensils then? Anyway, the men who live in our locality and belong to our community are alcoholics. No point depending on marriage.

Rupa was lucky. Someone put her in a convent where she grew up away from the pavement. With shelter and food and education untill she passed class 12, Rupa returned to her birthplace with new hope, for me. Now, I thought, comes the moment of realisation. This family is now set to finally begin the journey to a hard but good life. To vindicate the promiss of Mumbai. She managed to get a job at a call centre. A full 10,000 rupees a month. Night shift, so better opportunity for a double income. Office pick-up and drop so no overheads. This is it, I thought. It cant get better. I didnt.
Rupa quit in less than a month. Night drive to office in the office cab, was not safe she told me. But hundreds of girls are falling over each other for these jobs,I told her,and all of them travel at night, even I do. No, she insisted, her family didnt think it was safe. Her family that sleeps under the street light, on an open road didnt think a call centre job was safe. And Rupa who grew up on charity in a hostel in another city agreed. But the job could get her a room in a slum at least, I argued. No, she argued back. Home means rent. And deposit. The street is free. And they are too many to sleep in one room anyway. So what do you want really? I asked.
'Someone should come to help us. The government maybe, or the rich people who live around this pavement. We have been here for decades now, how can they not feel for us'. How can I help I asked. 'Could you help us get the free food on the homeless card we have?The ration shop does not give us anything on this. We even met the corporator of this area...he said....and then...' I lost the rest of the conversation.
Back home Rama is worried again. She has realised that soon she will get old and her hands may not be of much use to her. She wants to know if it is too late for her to learn English.

- Prachi Jawadekar Wagh
May 18, 2008
The struggling poet says:
I took pity, gave a fourth of my wealth in charity
duty done, my place reserved in heaven
for someone I helped heal
I didnt know I would meet in Hell, those who I helped steal