It's December Ducky !

This month always has special surprises for me. Not to mention the eternal weddings, birthdays that I am expected to attend, with a hope to re-patch my relatively poor social skills. I ain't absolutely asocial as you all know, but my socializing gets confined gradually to small circle. What you don’t know is, that it takes conscious effort. With time, I get comfortable more with books and small talks, than I get with people with their usual conversations. And I believe, people get connected to me faster than the usual pace. I feel responsible for maintaining a distance to develop and evolve for themselves.

Strangely, absolute strangers fascinate me. Their stories inspire me to think laterally across my existent comfort zones, and I end up telling all these observations to my inner core of pals and eventually, in my write-ups. But, the sheer presence of people whom you know for sure, will read anything you write, sends chills all along my spine. Of responsibility and of shame, to unable to reciprocate a different texture of love to all of them.

Updates from my life, I am doing all good. Reading loads and pondering a lot. I wish to take out some time to travel, and yeah, I often feel creepy for not having joined the lucrative jobs I bagged earlier. But it's all the part of the cycle.Even you have your up's and down's yeah ? Tell me about it !

I was in my routine, until I had three notifications this evening. Three lengthy text messages, narrating how my writing inspired them in its own tiny fashion. I am more than overwhelmed, I have thanked them obviously.

As I ponder deep inside, I was questioning our basic instinct to fall for appreciation. We love praises. We adulate upvotes. We crave for compliments. Is that a good thing afterall? Do we often need some external force to hail our inner awesomeness? Unusually, I like someone appreciating me, but if given a chance, I would avoid that.

But, this article is a tribute to all the goodness embedded in every soul, to appreciate tiny aspects of reality, surrounding themselves. So, what did I do about it? I must have written some 30 odd letters, in the last three weeks. To many people - Close friends, family, relatively okayish acquaintances and absolute strangers. Who mean something to me, who think I mean something to them.

I strongly believe that words will last longer than virtual media activity. Thus, satiated my tryst with emotional chunk of my mundane life, with scribbling my heart out.

For the rest, where I’ve failed to gather postal addresses, here take my embrace. And my honour to your empathy. I speak less, but you know I mean a lot when I do.

Ink Stain

A fell bent of mind is upon him. I can speak no words of solace to comfort him. We have been geeky amigos since childhood. Perhaps my pen can deliver the fluid balm he needs and soothe his agitated soul. Ever since we learned to write, we wrote as often and as naturally as fish swim or eagles fly. This letter, though, had to be special. The thrill and the subtle inspiration should let him get over the malady that has been bothering him.

Took out the feather that he gifted me when we once set out on a trek amidst the woods. I have been using that as a bookmark to explore the book-bound worlds we cherished together. As I fondled it’s soft texture, I realized how symbolic my friend can be, whose gift tokenism depicted both my sensitivity and my ordered synchronization of thoughts.

I set to shave off a few fibers at the tip with a sharp blade, and I was reminded of the miracles we created together to expand our minds. Our outings were in the libraries and the coffee shops on how to read, dissect and rewrite. Learning sessions they were, still are. We grew together as individuals and that growth has brought in many combinations of our reflexes. Leaving the feather in a bowl of water for an hour, I was lost in the heaps of notes we wrote together. There were more red ovals than tick marks, I smiled as he never tried to flatter me. The only way to grow is to re-do the gray areas, his voice echoed as the sweetness of the yellowed papers tinged my nostrils.

I tapered the feather-tip as an archer treating her arrow-head. A 45 degree cut is made to it, twice. When the edge became sharp, like his ideas, I created a split in the end, which resembled his divided past. Bending those two horns together, I was recollecting how our silent eye-gazing exercises has brought us to points of no return. With his wife dead last week, he had become a paranoid. I wanted him to know that I appreciate his tastes and decisions, and so the feather was now adorned with wavy streaks of wood brown, his favorite color. SIGH. I have made my gift ready. 

A Quill.  And some Papyrus rolls for the pulp representation of my soul. 

 

“ Σε λατρεύω my star! It’s all melancholy, pondering over how we should take things forward. But, do you realize....”

I was scribbling for long, before I knew I was staining the sheets. With tears. I am so proud of my dear friend, for choosing to be the master of your own universe.

As I was putting on my overcoat, heading to visit him, I was thrown into apprehensive future anticipations. Would he think that I mistook him? Would he fear sharing his contemplations in the times to come?

Ha ! I tittered. Deep down, I knew he would kiss the papyrus rolls and the quill, and give me a million dollar smile, with those ink-stained lips.

# Reposting from my Quora Blog - http://threeminutestories.quora.com/Ink-stain

The Guilt of being Relatively Rich !

" Didi, aap ke paas favicol hai ? "

(Sister, do you have some fevicol ? )

I am sitting in my balcony this morning, with my armour set of books, pens, sheets revising my exam topics. My door opens to the road, separated by a few steps. Everyone here knows that I do mug up a lot of time, and will entertain no stupid gazing. So, sitting squatted like this is no big deal for me. Or for them.

Then came Soni. The girl who lives next door. Kid who is in Class 1. Studies in the local Govt school. Their house is the one you usually wouldn't expect to be in a posh locality. No gate surrounding the wall, kitchen in the balcony. No wonder people can't see them. They are the invisible mortals here.

I asked "Why? "

" It rained na yesterday, all my books got drenched. The cover bound has come off and my teacher will kill me in the class if she sees this. I asked mom for 5 rupees, she gave me a heavy thrashing. "

The crying session obviously began. So did my consoling session.

"Girls should never cry. Every problem has a solution. Give me your books"

I took up a cello tape and gave her battered books a chunk of life. I started flipping through her notes.

" Where is the Home work ? Your teacher doesn't teach anything ?"

" Hahaha, My teacher comes twice every week. Today, she might come. "

" But your hindi book is well written?"

"I like Hindi very much. English, I don't understand a bit. Teacher doesn't explain nicely"

"Why are you still talking to me? You are ready, now go to school !"

" No, I am not to go to school alone. My brother comes. He went to deliver the newspapers. I am waiting. Didi, what are these colour papers? "

"They are called stick-notes. You can add something in your notes while reading"

" But the book already has papers no, why are you sticking these, when those are not completely used? "

.......

" 2 X 1 = 3 ? This math book has disasters little girl. "

" I don't have a rubber "

" Lo. Take it. Share it with your classmates okay ? Tell me the address of your school. "

"Thanksssssss Didi "  And she zoomed to her brother, who was visible down the lane.

I remember how most of us cried for stickers on our books, which were carefully covered in brown paper/plastic sheets. My childhood friend used to collect erasers of different colors, smells, shapes. we had autos and school buses to attend the school.

Here lay, the future of India, not knowing why they go to school in the 1st place, as the only incentive is the Midday meal offered for lunch.

Poor Parents believe that sending to school will enlighten and better their lives. What exactly happens in the school is beyond their comprehension.

Yesterday, she came running to my room, knocking " Shall I bring you some milk? You go to that shop daily. You keep studying, I will go get it"

Laughing, we both went to the store, got some, shared a coffee. She asked me many questions ranging from why I have so many books in my room to what does a collector do ?

I explained her and then she says, " Quickly become a one. You can come to my school to donate a water filter and a good bathroom"

Sigh. Things out of quick action. I shall study hard. I shall thereby negate the guilt of being relatively rich.

By serving for those who are deprived of their rightful choice.

A beautiful childhood.


( Originally written at http://www.quora.com/Priyanka-Peeramsetty/Posts/The-Guilt-of-being-relatively-Rich?__snids__=648058627&__nsrc__=2&__filter__=priority  )

 

Under the Rainbows

Folding the dreams that gave me a warm sleep like my quilts, I woke up to the calm rain striking my window pane. The coziness is not attributed to the encapsulated air between the covers but to the solace my mind has acquired over a few days. Droplets of drizzle-like memories which impounded on my etching past, made not writing about them impossible, almost next to kissing a cute little baby when taken into arms.

If I were to say that I am a soul with humanly experiences, I would submit myself to negation. Because, all the philosophy and the due outputs are out of your nasty thought twinges, only once you relish the homosapien delicacies. To some it is Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. But to emotional freaks like me, it is those flavours of love. Tasting like a Rainbow.

Why is that we love? Someone, something, somewhere.

Beyond dimensions and beneath conventions.

I realise, it’s not about attraction or convenience. It’s about connection. I love reading because I realise I am not the only person with a particular set of ideas. I love writing because I know that I am not the only person longing to read about them. It is simply justifying one’s self-admiring persona.

Then, what is the reason for something called self-less love? I hear it often, experience it rarely, but empathize with it constantly. Mind urges me to dissect them case by case. Yet, gives up only to realize that I am not just a drop in an ocean, but an illusion of being a drop itself.

Parents. There is a special reason why their ordinary traits assumed extraordinary influences upon me. Dad. How he managed being ambitious in his career and yet, never compromising on the qualitative and the quantitative aspects of loving his doting daughters, beats me. Mom. She is this unnamed feminist who in fact cried with joy when she got two daughters, only to realise they would just imitate her to become mature women. Calling their love as sacrificing would be an inappropriate christening. But, understanding the reasons which give them joy, will give you memories. Of fondling medals in a race called life....

They are just visible examples. But there are umpteen forces who still don’t show up. It’s not show time yet, may be. It takes a sleepless night to assimilate this. As it did to me yesterday.

How do I thank the guy who first told me I love you? Because if not for him, I would never understand what does it feel like being a rainbow. Of hormones tangled in assertive urges. And the matured ability to reject by seeing beyond them.

How do I thank my friend for believing in my worlds and pushing above my potential? Because if not for her, I would never take any of my inherent capabilities for granted. 

How do I thank that co-traveller in the train for sharing his life’s miseries? Because if not for him, I would never assimilate what does it take to destroy a rainbow. People and their self-centered desires.

How do I thank my hater? Because if not for her, I would never know that even rainbows have to be made and re-made.   

Love is all above sense and sensibility, I told myself.

After all, what is my rainbow? It’s my inner world. It’s the beautiful receptionist who sits nears the entrance desk, checking the details of events and stamps an entry/exit mark on their sheets, to let them happen to me. It’s my conscious which has adapted itself over the years to acceptance. To take pain and joy, as they embrace me.

All that is needed for a rainbow to be visible, is water in the air and light from the source. If you take in, tears in your eyes and the light of experience, will bring the colours of life to the main stage. Just like that. 

It’s really awful to stress the need to hope for it. Because Andy Dufresne was not wrong in The Shawshank Redemption, when he wrote..

Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. 

And no rainbow will give you the deception of success or failure. But only the reality of tasting life as it is. How it cooks a story for you is beyond your comprehensibility.

ఆదివారం కబుర్లు :)

అలారం మోగగానే ఉలిక్కి పడి లేచిన నాకు, తల నొప్పి మొదలైంది. వారాంతం అనే సౌలభ్యమే లేకుండా, జీవితం రోజూ ఒకేలా ఉరుకులు తీస్తుండడం తో ఇవ్వాల  విరక్తి  తారస్తాయికి చేరింది. సరేలెమ్మని కాసిన్ని కాఫీ నీళ్ళు తాగుదామని వంట గదిలోకి వెళ్ళాను. పాలు లేవు సరి కదా, కాఫీ పౌడర్ కూడా లేదు. ఇవ్వాళ మన శకునం బాలేదు అనుకొని, మొహం కడుక్కొని అలా రోడ్ మీద నడుస్తున్న నాకు, పేపర్ వాడు తెలుగు పత్రికలు అమ్ముతూ కనబడ్డాడు . అంతే !! 10 ఏళ్లు వెనక్కి వెళ్ళిపోయాను.

అది ఒకానొక ఆదివారం. "ఈనాడు" ఆదివారం పుస్తకం కోసం కొట్టుకొనే ప్రయాసలొ నేను, నా చెల్లి మునిగిపోయాం. అమ్మ కు ఆ రోజు వంట సెలవు ప్రకటించుకున్నాం. కాబట్టి, నాన్నకి ఫోన్ చేసి మాకు కావలసిన, దోసలు, పూరీలు పట్టుకురమ్మన్నాం. నాన్నలు ఉరికే బహుమతులు ఇస్తారా? ఇచ్చేముందు, దానికి సరిపడా కాసిన్ని నీతి వాక్యాలు వివరిస్తారు. ఆ రోజు విషయం "ఆరోగ్యం- వ్యాయామం". ఆదివారం 8:౩౦ కన్నా ముందు లేవని మాకు ఆది కొంచెం బాధాకరమైన ప్రసంగమే. కానీ తప్పదుగా ! చక్కగా బుద్ధిమంతులుగా వినేసి, దోసల మీద పెట్టాం మా దృష్టిని.

ఇక సెలవలు కాబట్టి పుస్తకాల ప్రస్తావనే లేదు. ఆదివారం అంటేనే వారానికి మొత్తం సరిపడా జ్ఞాపకాలు పోగు చేయలి. అందుకే ఇక రంగంలోకి దిగాం నేను  నా చెల్లి. బొమ్మలు, చిలిపి ఆటలు ఆడే వయస్సు దాటేసిందని మా బామ్మ చెప్తునే ఉంది, వింటామా ఏంటి ? వంట సామాన్లు తీశాం. ఆ వంట ఏదో నిజంగానే నేర్చుకోవచ్చుగా అని అందరు సలహాలు ఇచ్చేవాళ్ళే. అలా చేస్తే అది ఆట ఎలా అవుతుంది, Explosion అవుతుంది గాని... కావలసిన సామాన్లు అన్ని తెచ్చుకున్న మా చెల్లి ని చూసి మా నాన్న గట్టిగానే నవ్వేశారు. మరి మా వంటకాలు అలాంటివి. బూస్ట్ బాల్స్. పంచదార పకోడీ. ఉడకలేని పప్పు. మంచి నీళ్ళ చారు. ఓ, మార్చేపోయాను, కొరక లేని జిలెబీలు.

అందరికి బలవంతం గా తినిపించడం తో మాకు మేమే ప్రపంచం లోనే అతి గొప్ప chef లు గా సంబరపడిపోయాం. ఒక శకం ముగిసింది. ఇక, వారాంతం అంటే సినిమా ఉండాల్సిందే. అది ఎంత పనికిరానిదైనా సరే, వెళ్లాల్సిందే.. 1st show కి టికెట్స్ కావాలి ఆదివారం అంటే మేం మాత్రమే కాదుగా, అందరూ వెళ్తారు. కాబట్టి, నేను బయలుదేరాను, మా నాన్నతో,  బ్లూ స్కూటర్ ఎక్కి.

హాల్ బయట జనం చూసి బెంబేలెత్తిపోయాను నేను, హిట్ సినిమా అంట. ఇక అయిపోయింది పదమన్నారు నాన్న. వింటామా? నన్ను లోపలికి తీస్కెళ్ళమని గోల. సరే ఆ Gateవాడు మంచోడు, మమ్మల్ని పంపించాడు లోపలికి. క్యూ బయట హౌస్‌ఫుల్ బోర్డ్ పెట్టేశారు. నాన్న ఎవర్నో కనుక్కుంటున్నారు దొరుకుతాయేమో అని. ఇంతలో మనం ఆ కౌంటర్ పక్కన సందులోకి దూరిపొయి, " అంకల్, ప్లీస్ ఒక్క 4 టికెట్స్ ఇప్పించండి" అంటూ  మొదలుపెట్టాను. "అలా ఇవ్వరు అమ్మా" అనేసాడు, ఏడుపే తక్కువ. అలానే నించున్నాను. దీనం గా చూస్తున్న నన్ను ఒక 5 నిమిషాలు ఆగి రమ్మన్నాడు. కౌంటర్ మూసేసి, "ఇదిగో, నేను ఇచిన్నట్టు ఎవ్వరికీ చెప్పద్దు, సరేనా " అని చేతిలో టిక్కెట్లు పెట్టాడు. డబ్బులు తీస్కొని, ఒక చిన్న చాక్లేట్ ఇచ్చి " నిన్ను మా అమ్మాయి తోటే చూశానులే, స్కూల్ డ్రామాలో, బాగా చేశావ్ బామ్మ లాగా. అందుకే ఇవి . బాగా చదువుకొని  గొప్ప ఉద్యోగం చేయాలి ". అన్నాడు. అంతే.... పరిగేతుకుంటూ వెళ్ళా మా నాన్న దగ్గరికి.

ఇది మరి సామాన్యమైన గెలుపు కాదు ! అరుస్తూ ఇంట్లోకి వెళ్ళిన నాకు మా చెల్లి విజయ రథం పట్టింది. నువ్వు world  లోనే best sister అక్కా అని సత్కరించింది :) ఇంతలో సినిమా టైమ్ అవ్వనే అయింది. అమ్మని త్వరగా రెడీ అవ్వమని చెప్తే నాన్న లేట్ గా వచ్చారు బయటకి. 7 మినిట్స్అయ్యింది మొదలయ్యి, ఇంకేమన్నా ఉందా.. టైటల్స్ మిస్ అయ్‌పోతాం. దూసుకుంటూ వెళ్ళా లోపలికి. హీరొ ఇంట్రొడక్షన్ సాంగ్. చెప్పానా? ఇంత హడావిడి లోను పాప్‌కార్న్ మర్చిపోలేదు నేను. సినిమా బానే ఉంది, ఫైట్స్, సాంగ్స్, ఏవో ఉన్నాయి. సమ్మర్ కదా, a/c hall భలే నచ్చేసింది.

ఇంటర్వల్ లో మళ్లీ బయటకి వెళ్ళి, కావాల్సినవన్నీ కొనిపించి, లోపలకి వచ్చాం. ఇంత ఆవేశం గా తీస్కెల్లిన్నదుకు, నేను సమోసాలు తిని నిద్రపోయాను హాల్ లో. క్లైమ్యాక్స్ లో ఏదో పెద్ద dialogue కి లేచాను, అప్పటికే మా అమ్మ నన్ను చూసి ముసిముసి గా నవ్వుతోంది. సరెలే, పరువు పోయింది గా అనుకోని, బయటకి వచ్చాం.

ఆ హాల్ లోంచి బయటకి వస్తుంటే భలే అనిపించేది, చుట్టూ అందరు ఒకే దాని గురించి మాట్లాడుకుంటున్నారు. అదీనూ మూవీస్టార్స్ గురించి. వాళ్ళంటే పెద్దగా ఇష్టం ఉండేది కాదు గాని, అదో గమ్మత్తు అనుభూతి. ఇంటికొచ్చి అమ్మ కి చపాతీ లో సాయం, నాన్న కి తాళం వెయ్యడం లో సాయం  చేశాం. అలా చేస్తే గుడ్ ఇంప్రెషన్, తెల్సా ? తినేసి చూసోచిన సినిమా గురించి ప్రోగ్ర్యామ్స్ మళ్లీ టీవీ లో మోగించేవాళ్ళం. అలా వాటికి అంత వెర్రితనం అనవసరం అని వివరంగా అమ్మ నాన్న చెప్పడంతో మా భోజనం అయ్యింది.

గుడ్ నైట్ చెప్పేసి, ఇద్దరికీ బుగ్గమీద ముద్దు పెట్టేసి రయ్ మని రూమ్ లోకి పరిగెత్తాం. బారిస్టర్ పర్వతీసం బాగుంటుంది రాత్రి పూట చదుకోవడానికి, నవ్వుకుంటూ నిద్ర లోకి జారిపోయాం ఇద్దరం.

ఫోన్ రింగ్ అవ్వడం తో ఈ లోకానికి వచ్చాను, ఇంకెవరు, అమ్మ.

" టిఫిన్ చేశావా" అని. " ఉప్మా-పెసరట్టు తెప్పించుకున్నాను, ఇల్లు గుర్తుకు వచ్చింది " అని ముగించా.

బాల్యం ఎంత మధురం. చిన్న చిన్న ఆనందాలతో ఒక పెద్ద జీవితాన్నే  అల్లుకునే దశ.

అమ్మ కౌగిలి, నాన్న ఓదార్పు, చెల్లి సహచర్యం.

ఎన్ని నేర్చుకుంటే అంత ఉపయోగం. జగమంత కుటుంబం అనే నాంది కి మన సొంత కుటుంబమే గా స్పూర్తి ! 

2 Cultures... Err ! .... 2 Planets !!

Welcome !

I was engrossed in today’s newspapers, thankfully Sunday, most of them carried the below analysis. If you have to marry your love who happens to be not amongst your caste/colour/region/state/country you will have to face a battle or boycott. Yes, real time, simple. Deal with the great "Khandhan" human emotions and the parent’s prestige. Don't panic. This is not going to be a review of 2 states - The book/ the flick. Enough spoken about that, I know, even you are bored. 

But... 

Why do we hate people or cultures out of our belonging? Didn’t we read “India is a land of diversity, tolerance and accommodation” in the 1^st page of our history books? Where did things go wrong then? Right here, in our heads.

When I was in my 6^th class, I had a friend. A good one indeed. My family also liked her, and things were all fine, until her mom asked my caste in a casual conversation. I was struck, I dint knew my caste name; thankfully I know that I am a Hindu as I wore bindi and visited temples. I went home and asked my awesome dad (Who still doesn’t talk of caste, I love you Dad!) regarding the same, he told me the name. Little did I realise the sense of false identity at that moment.

I told her and surprisingly, her attitude changed. She started bringing the caste topic too often. Oh, listen. She was a law graduate who runs a school. Well educated in all terms, not an illiterate as one could have presumed. I was deaf-eared as all that I cared at that age was paintings and long jump. Slowly, that caste bug intoxicated my little friend as well. It dint take long to break our amity.

 

Then, Scene 2. My neighbouring aunt. I befriended the poor maid of theirs and was helping her out in small stuffs. The aunt yelled at me for ‘unholy’fying our caste and economic status as she was an untouchable. I asked what that meant. She said, I should wash my hands ASAP with dettol. Right in front of that girl.

Infact, we face such scenarios once every week, if not less. Oh yes, we are civilized now. We don’t turn away our heads right in the face these days. We are educated. So, we gossip and marry within the caste, culture, status, and the same colour tone as well. It’s not our fault. Let’s go technical. It’s the psychological instinct called Labelling. We tend to attach tags to everyone around us, to buckle up human processing speed of daily chores and relations. Self-fulfilling prophecy.

The beggar - The watch man - The Teacher - The Collector.

What we don’t realise is it builds stereotypes which if aren’t looked keenly, become permanent discriminatory headings. 

The beggar.  The watch man.  The teacher.  The Collector.    See ?

We call him a Bihari, the ruthless. He, a Bengali, the orthodox. She, the Madrasi, yew, Sambar. She, a Chinki. Wow, straight welcome for sexual provocation. The gore/kaala effect is undisputable universally. Thank Fair and lovely and Himami for that. What I don’t understand is that a south Indian is not okay because she is dark. A north eastern girl is not acceptable because she is too white. Eh? Did you get it? For strengethening my argument - "A stigma is defined as a powerfully negative label that changes a person's self-concept and social identity.^[2]." Who said racism is a different thing altogether? I can see it right here. Just in another bottle.

The point of easy mingling of same cultural worlds is acceptable. Parents, relatives list out things like food, religion, customs which define the social life. Who asked to discard all of them? But I cant see how it is justified to draw lines around only a few domains, alienating the rest and terrorising the most.

Elections were fun in my home state. Apart from contributing the highest sums of fund money in the whole nation during police checks, my state, AP, this time did a caste blend. Two rival caste groups, who were sprinkling slush on each other’s faces till 6 months ago, suddenly became a political alliance. No names needed, everyone knows. The leaders are quite happy, taking sefies and sharing dais to give revolutionary speeches. How about the masses?   

I personally know two brothers in my street who have campaigned for these two diff caste (sorry) political groups earlier, have broken their blood relations. Now that these parties came closer, what do you expect them to do ? A Kabhi kushi kabhi gham moment ? Ridiculous.

It’s time we realise that these labels create unbridgeable rift valleys across people and their inclinations. For a change, let’s try defying the caste, region, rich-poor, religion, colour differences and see every one out there. Just like us. 

Well, if you ask me what a stupid article I have written, here goes my prayer.

“ Holy Mother India!  Why do you house so much variety in your bosom when your sons and daughters can’t even stand a similar neighbour?

Hamare Caste ki jai ! Bhagawan hamari Religion par krupa kare.

Aur Doosaron ko Maar de ! ”

P.S. Cross - cultural Salutes to Mothers, btw. Happy mother's day. You are the only one who keeps us sane in this trauma. 

The Great Indian Railway Apathy

It gave me Goosebumps when the headlines told about a 24-year old killed in the bomb blast in the train, which was running late. Near Déjà vu moment, just 4 days ago. I was about to take the Kerala Express to reach Delhi from Vijaywada (Near to Guntur). I have always loved railways, as it showed life as it is. Added, belonging to an average middle class, I felt air travel was beyond what I deserved, except for inevitable emergencies. So, I went through the 1^st stage - the Tatkal booking. Let the play begin !

Stood in the queue for 3 hours only to see my counter officer talking on phone, at 10:00 am - yes, the time when the bookings start like mad in the whole nation. People behind me - shouting, most of them even jumping the line and the rest of us were in suspended animation. We were not to miss his attention through that small glass opening as he would throw the form away, if the smallest detail was unclear (in my case, the full form of New Delhi, NDLS, dint work as per his rules.) After winning the race, I went home with the pride of winning The Bharat Ratna equivalent, only unaware of the perks I got free with it. 

I went to the station promptly the next day; it was announced to be late by 10 hours. The enquiry process is another feat - Half of those machines don’t work, the only saving grace is the Internet I thought. It was my 2^nd wrong step. 

 

Spot the train option in Indiarailgov.in was showing the expected arrival at 4:00 pm, enquiry fellow shouted at me (just less than swearing) for asking futile questions. He promptly leaves for the lunch break 30 minutes before and comes to the office 1 hour late. I had 10 solid hours to explore the station. Vijayawada was expected to be one of those decent stations in my state. Then began the waiting hall debate. I was requesting the lady to let my parents in as I was travelling alone and was not safe for me to wait till 12 in the night. The cold reply to my polite request was to  go take a hotel room outside “Can’t you afford half a thousand bucks when you booked an a/c chair car?” Yes, we the voters don’t get a say till the next election. We waited outside, drinking that watery coffee (note, standards aren’t maintained, in any level). Curiosity made me check that website which was still showing 4:00 pm arrival when the clock ticked 5:30 pm. The LOL moment.

I had been a cooperative citizen till then - I never litter on the platforms/trains and carry a bag for the waste, always bought the parking tickets and platform tickets, never used the lift which was for the elderly. But I lost my cool, when people there, showed that apathy is not just big word, but a way of life. These were chunks of their duty after all. In the meanwhile, there is this constant stick-your-eyes-glued phase, watching that little TV showing various train arrivals. It resembled a world cup match. Uff's of people whose train is still not displayed, and swift joy for those who had a platform number shown. The train finally arrived at 11:45 pm, actual arrival being 10:15 am. 

My worried parents asked the family in my coupe to keep a watch on me. Yes, ladies have the cumulative disadvantage in such scenarios. 2nd Class Sleeper berths aren’t safe in the first place, nobody checks who came in or jumps out. So book the A/c car, whether you can afford it or not, if you have to travel alone. Yes, the very next morning started the typical Indian male flirting. What could I do, except for dissecting that in my head? There is no place I knew where I could complaint/ write a grievance against that in the whole train. TTE (The Travelling Ticket Examiner)comes only if he can make some money in letting an authorised passenger. As it takes almost 25 hours to reach your destination, you tend to get befriended with the Co- travellers, but, yeah, wait. This rule is dangerous for women, fate ! Poker face is the best and then look away. A new tool I found, speaking in English and reading an English newspaper. 90% of the nuisance cut down. Food. Oh yeah. The best I had ever got, only charging twice its worth. Well, better that those movie scenes, which carried cockroaches and papery papads.

My point is simple. Why to torture the passengers who are in concordance with the rules. We never did dharnas for the railway price hikes. We never complain for the stinking shitholes, sorry, the bathrooms in the train. We don’t destroy your berths with marker ink’s “praneeth loves radha”. Is silence considered the new helplessness ? I wonder.

If I had to take a pro-government stand in all my views, I can rant this paragraph “ certain committee recommendations are to be stringently followed, there is need to awaken and empower the civil society, draft new rules as per the changing demands and allow holistic international collaborations”. Common man just doesn’t get all that. Remember, a particular class of people have already discarded railways and shifted to air travels. Safety has already given a blind eye, so far no one spoke of it in the plan documents nor amongst serious academic discussions. Indian railways is the largest employer in the world, yet such service availability is not a good way out. Improve it or please remove “Athithi Devo Bhava” from Incredible India’s tourism promotion. It’s as if we, the passengers are made gods, deprived of a chance to articulate our legitimate say. 

This is not to blame the system per se, we, the people also make significant contributions to make it dysfunctional. Start with spitting on platforms, jump the queues, avoid buying tickets. If this proceeds, Railways The life line of my nation, will not take longer to become the dead end. Of zero hope and null growth. 

P.S I want to quote my friend who says, Govt most often doesn't serve us, it assumes charity tone, assuming we are passive recipients and Citizens assume no resposibilities and want all rights, in the most prompt way. Any debates ?