The younger brother I never had

The lump in my throat when I shared this news with my wife surprised me. When a classmate asked me how well I knew him, to which I told him that I knew him more in the last 5/6 months and knew him socially since the last 5/6 years; this was his turn to get surprised.

My degree of grief defied the conventional logic of proportion.

His passing away didn’t take me by surprise. Since morning I was dreading to face this news and by noon it was all over and by early evening, I was seeing his mortal remains a few minutes before it was about to be consigned to flames. With tears welling up and lumps in my throat I chose to leave the place. At this same place, I had bade farewell to many of my dear ones in close succession in the last few years.

Who was Smarajit? And what was he to me? And why was I reacting like this?

If my memory serves me right, we bumped into each other at a pre-Holi party organized by his doctor friends. That was 2015/16. A friend took me there to escape from another boring party. Joining a party uninvited isn't new to men and my hosts were at ease in minutes. The only odd thing was that I wasn’t their age. In minutes it was free for all with expletives flying about and snacks flying off the plate keeping pace with it. But in that chaos, one guy could sense my discomfiture and kept chatting up with me to distract me from what was happening only a few feet away. Valiant was his effort even though chagrin was written all over his face. In the air filled with irreverence, he instantly established our equation which he maintained till the end.

That I'm the respectable senior and he, my junior.

We met many times at his workplace, Apollo Hospital mostly while chaperoning some relatives for their orthopedic problems. Courteous as ever, he would deal with me with his signature inimitable style. Later I realized that I wasn't the only one who was touched by his good manners and disarming smile. Hundreds of posts on FB bears testimony to the happy patients he helped get back on their feet. He had a legion of satisfied patients from every possible part of the society – important to common.

My wife's persistent heel pain took both of us to him some years later. He in his courteous best told us that he can numb the sore area which will make the patient falsely believe that she is cured or undergo physiotherapy to strengthen the parts thus progressively lessening the pain. We chose the latter. At that time was dealing with his mother's cancer and the trauma had made him philosophical. He, commenting on the uncertainties of human life and lack of family support because of dwindling numbers of family members in the future, told that he has instructed his attendant to give him some basic food when he is all alone battling loneliness and old age. A few days later he was detected with cancer. God had made sure that he will neither see old age nor deal with loneliness. A bulwark of response got initiated with the latest and best possible treatment regime under the subconscious realization that the countdown has begun. That was 2018.

2021; after working on a concept to preserve our mother language since 2019 and keeping it on deep freeze for the duration of two waves of Covid, chose to push for the launch of ReciteWorld. With only the goodwill of friends and faith in the purpose, we unleashed all our energies. Any sane man would have said it's akin to spitting into the oncoming wind or sure-shot hara-kiri, but we kept moving.

Smarajit called me up once after seeing one of our contents on our YouTube Channel and offered his all-out support. He after listening to one story had realized how little he knew about our literary heritage. His guilt spurred his resolution. He was a man on a mission. He would in a state of excitement call me to tell me how this has now become his new passion. He would forward the links to hundreds of his friends and check the status on the channel. Starting from arranging the chief guest to sending a flawless invitation letter spoke of his sense of commitment. He from his self-imposed bunker would handle every issue like a master puppeteer. The day it was inaugurated, his sickness kept him away from watching the event on TV. But like the blind Dhrutarastra watching the war, wanted me to brief him about every minute detail just to ensure that everything went well.

On realizing that ReciteWorld is free to air and is fully dependent on private contributions, offered to arrange resources. I was shocked upon knowing that the amount committed by one of his close acquaintances for his medical treatment got diverted to us to take care of the production expenses.

That was him. A warrior even if he is on a hospital bed.

Life for him was a cycle of battle with the Big C, trudging back to normal with occasional bouts of treatment-related trauma. These bouts became more frequent with time. I kept track of his health from common friends and his postings on FB. He always wore a smile, this time the smile was that of a brave soldier who has returned from the borders amputated.

We kept exchanging notes. He would ask for his favorite chicken stew and caramel pudding but then refuse it next time when we offered to send some when we cooked it again, but each time making ensuring that I am not hurt by his refusal. I could sense that he was getting exhausted after his treatment sessions, staying disconnected, and avoiding communicating with others. I was dreading that the slide to the worst has begun. When a friend from the US who was his classmate called me up early morning yesterday to inform me about his deteriorated status; I knew the worst is about to happen in just a few hours. And here I am after 24 hours, grieving his death and trying to decipher my attachment with him. Now, I kind of am ready to answer the question my friend asked me yesterday - How well did I know him?

The answer is - he was the younger brother I never had and yesterday he became the younger brother I don't have.

Goodbye Smarajit; I'm sure much more people are waiting in the other world to benefit from your grace and kindness than the number of people whose lives you had touched positively here. You will always be remembered my younger brother. 

So long!

The Tale of Two Commissionarates

NEAR THE VICTORIA EMBANKMENT ON THAMES RIVER, ONE WOULD find this humble building with basic signage identifying it as the New Scotland Yard. This is the new headquarter of the London Metropolitan Police. Built in the year 1930, the Met Police operated out of this building till 1960. It is only in 2013 that the decision to relocate from its earlier place was taken and redesigned to suit the new age requirements. The old one is now converted into a hotel and is owned by an Indian.

The word Scotland Yard takes us to our growing up ages where had pictured a stern disciplined efficient police force ready to crack down the crime networks of London of that period. This imagery of the fabled franchise and their slogan - Working together for a safer London was largely influenced by the TV serials of that time and the novels we read. It was a tad disappointing. The humble reality crushed my perception of that institution.

No match to the impressive Greco-roman architecture-inspired Police Commissionerate we have back here in Bhubaneswar. Both were commissioned around the same time in 2012, our Commissionerate building can be compared with their National Gallery overlooking the famous Trafalgar Square. While ours was an awe-inspiring structure with a large setback overlooking the second most important road of the city, theirs was so timid in comparison.

The new age resurgent Indian in me felt good that like in many other areas like Cricket and IT, we have beaten the Brits hands down on one more count.

Back in my room after a tiring day after hopping on and off buses and walking around large art galleries, I was tempted to revisit that conflicting emotion of disappointment and pride upon seeing New Scotland Yard. My trip to Westminster had evoked a similar feeling. At their Parliament building, one could see the main entrance from the road which was just a few meters away. MPs take the famous London bus service or come in the underground tube. No security cordon thrown around it and no menacing marshals ordering you to keep off the road or not to loiter. By looking at the Westminster and the Big Ben clock behind it you wonder if the historical decisions you have read in your textbooks were taken by people working in these places. It leaves you wondering if it’s progressing into a weak state.

The sense of superiority that I was overcome with was now overtaken by deep thought.

Everything about their Government and various arms of it was so basic and accessible - so approachable. The country which was our colonizer only 70 odd years back terrorizing generations of our ancestors its police and policymakers maintain such low profile is a choice or its compulsion. I dug further into various websites to know more about this building. One website which talked about the underpinnings the building is built upon and what are values it communicated to the people it serves read as follows.

“A revolving sign – one of the most iconic features of the Met's old home in Victoria – has been retained and now signposts the AHMM-designed entrance pavilion. Spanning almost the full width of the front facade, the pavilion is raised on a pale stone plinth that visually marries the addition with the Portland stone walls of the original building. Its curving glass walls are intended to convey a message of organizational transparency and create a ‘non-institutional’ entrance. The pavilion is also intended as a memorial for officers who died in the line of duty, with an eternal flame and contemplation pool visible through the glazing.”

Two phrases ‘Organizational Transparency’ and ‘Non-Institutional’ caught my attention. The confusion about their being accessible and approachable was getting clearer. That this was not the sign of a weak state but was the intended purpose on which the whole government is structured. The conscious effort to descend from the pedestal of the ruler to the ground to serve the citizens. I perhaps had found my answer and the food for thought for our situation back in our own country which we rule ourselves.

From awe-inspiring buildings which are named various Seva Bhawan, people with cadres which end with some Seva (Service), people from amidst us operate in a black box inaccessible to many. Forget accountability even they have insulated themselves from being questioned by the public. The people who do these are not from outside but are people like us. But then why do they behave differently or like a ruler when their role changes? Do they elevate themselves to a different class because of the power and privilege they enjoy and behave as the role expects them to? Is it because of the general acceptance of the society of that role? To a large extent – Yes.

So much has been the acceptance and internalization of this that a common man doesn’t react to being violently pushed aside to give way to the passing VIP cavalcade. Being abused if he stops his car near Gate No. 1 of the Secretariat; being rudely dealt with by a peon in an office when he realizes that the visitor doesn’t pose a threat to his job. A junior officer when is ill-treated by his superior considers this as an occupational hazard. It is not limited to the common man only. An officer immediately on his retirement when gets harassed by his former colleagues or juniors who reported to him once is not seen as an exception. He is just being meted out what he had done to others. The smart ones choose to bribe and butter their way through the system.

Are they in line with what they are supposed to be? While addressing the first batch of IAS officers and retired ICS officers told them that from the ones who ruled to serve you will change to serve to rule. 74 years after gaining independence from being ruled by the Brits and their loyal officers, the common man still is governed by a set of mindsets who feel that they are here to rule the populace in the guise of serving them. This CLASS is the new CASTE.

There exist two worlds one for the rulers and the other for the ruled. Two worlds – the world of the former colonizers and the world of their colonies. In these 74 years, our former rulers and the global colonizers have started the sincere process of governance with the attitude of service at its core, but we seem to be stuck to that binary legacy of the ruler and the ruled.

At the core of this rut is our mindset. The mindset of an average citizen and that of the ones whose job is to serve the citizens. The mindset of an average citizen is to break away from the situation where he is not fairly treated but to Segway into a class where he can use his power and position - no one tries to change things. The cycle continues. In how many years will be the next discussion be held where the administrators will sit with the designers to consciously redesign the next Commissionerate building which is open and inviting and not imposing and awe-inspiring? When will a common man rise from the pits to change the status quo? 

Till that happens we have to fill our chests with pride watching how great our rulers are and staying in a state of awe seeing their impressive buildings.

The Same Dawn

Predawn sky.

Motley birds waking up building up a chorus of their own,

Few morning walkers on the road,

Few minutes left for us to grab the fresh air before the city wakes up.

The bleating of a herd of goats as they are eased down a carriage,

The eerie sound of the chopper grinding against the sharpener,

Few minutes left for the goats to breathe for the last time before the city wakes up.

The same dawn!

The Rotis which couldn’t be uploaded:

Train runs over 15 migrant laborers in Aurangabad!

The news started appearing early morning on 8^th May 2020. Nothing unusual about this in a country of 130 Cr, with thousands of unguarded level crossings, the train runs over trucks, buses, tractors loaded with people with frustrating regularity.

Finding people crawling under the level crossing barrier with the train barely meters away is a routine human behavior we have seen for ages and have accepted. Sixty onlookers of burning of a Ravan effigy event got trampled as they chose the track as their vantage point on this occasion.

I personally never had any sympathy for the people who fall victims in such situations.

That is India! Where the behavior of people would surprise any man with a minimum IQ. The land where each street provides a thousand opportunities for a photojournalist. The magnitude of the problems in this country is too big and the problems in your own life are not few. You are taught to be philosophical. You are conditioned to hearing such news and to flip back to your own life a few minutes later.

COVID has forced us into our homes – the only shelter to escape the invading virus and the overzealous state which is out to protect us. It has taught to only think of us, our family, our money, our business. It also has taught us to stay positive and to distract our minds from thinking too much about the impending danger and the complete uncertainty. We watched reruns of the old TV serials, learned to cook and clean, learned new skills, connected with associates across time zones over zoom calls. We broke generation gaps, gender, and technological stereotypes. We have rediscovered ourselves.

We are alive fighting our battles in our world.

The details of the accidents start trickling in through the day. A group of 20 migrant labor mostly in the age group of 20 to 35 working in a steel factory in Jalna near Aurangabad, were rendered jobless because of the sudden lockdown, they chose to return to their homes somewhere in Madhya Pradesh. With no public transport in place and with no permit to cross borders, they chose to walk on the railway track which would lead them home and let them evade police and the check posts. They walk overnight, fatigued, sleep on the track thinking that to be safe. A goods train runs over them, killing 16. Some three escape as they were bit farther from the track.

They died fighting their battle in their world.

The picture of the bloodstains, strewn Rotis, used clothes, worn-out sandals on the track gave us a peek into their lives, their hopes, and their aspirations and how small they all were. How small! Both of us are fighting. But how different are our battles! How different are our battlefields! How different are our issues and challenges! How different are our hopes and aspirations! How different are our worlds!

But it was supposed to be one world.

Next time when we bake a cake and the network breaks preventing us from uploading it to Instagram; let us remember that our cake was their roti which never got uploaded.

IrrFAN

Just a day before 29^th April 2020, if anyone had asked me who my top 10 favorite male actors are, he would not have found a mention - maybe his name would not even have crossed my mind. I was not his fan. And If I am writing this piece after a week of his death with a deep sense of loss still in my heart; he was just not another accomplished actor for me.

What was he then? What was he to all of us?

On that day, I was depressed, edgy and knew something was not quite right.

In the evening I was strolling with a friend and randomly stopped by at a food charity to donate some money to lend a helping hand, I felt a distinct lump in my throat.

Unusual. I was perplexed by my own reaction. A friend calls at night to tell how she has been handling the news of Irrfan Khan’s death since morning and how she could not hold it any longer and broke down in her bathroom. That lump in my throat was coming back. Another friend I spoke to the next day, couldn’t speak in as many words, but the fact that he was deeply disturbed was apparent. Now it was clear, it was Irrfan who was causing all these. I thought this news in the gloomy times of COVID is perhaps accentuating our reactions. Had never cried over the death of an actor – he was my age almost.

Posts in the social media were overflowing. But something was different, the posts were not in the usual line how obituaries are written. The reaction of the people who didn’t know him personally but through the roles, obituaries by the people he worked with, those who mentored him, those who gave him his first chance, those who he gave their first chances were all over the place. Those were not the words of adulation reserved for a highly talented, successful or accomplished persons, but the words we naturally use on losing our best friend, our pet – the one we knew too closely, the one with whom we shared a deep bond, the one we trusted, the one we could go to share our deepest fears, and talk about our failures.

How can the reaction towards the person he was and the persona he became on the screen be the same?

We all know how diametrically different both can be. Writers and artists are infamous for breaking our fantasy with their real selves. In the case of Irrfan, if only a thousand would be knowing him personally, millions knew him through his screen persona.

Sahabzade Irfan Ali Khan, was popularly known by his film name Irrfan Khan. Many liked him on the screen but did not carry him back to their homes nor pasted his poster on their walls. The connect ended there. He was chilled but not conventionally cool. Who would give attention to a person who has the unkempt look of a common man, deep bulging eyes of a drunk man, no heroic swagger, no style of his own, no great voice or didn’t deliver his dialogues in the best theatrical way? He was not perfect. He did not fight for what he thought was right or was his right – he let go of things which wanted to go their way. He was honest in expressing his wishes but moved on when denied. He did not break down on losing but accepted failure with a smile - the smile of a resilient determined warrior.

Now perhaps I know why so many of us feel we knew him. We in him were seeing ourselves living our lives, losing things, picking up the remnants and moving on to rebuild our ravaged cottages and still smiling and waving at a friend as if nothing has happened. Our heroics lie in our ability to stand up again and again after falling and after being betrayed by the world around us.

He was our hero, he was us!