GUSSA ACHCHA HAI

I was a very aggressive person in school... they used to call me Hitler, and frankly speaking, I was quite proud of it. After I passed out, my friends told me that even my class teacher was scared of me. I still don't know the reason, because obviously, I never shouted at my teachers.

College came, and I found myself a completely different person. Quiet, shy and everything that I was previously not. The difference was so stark that had my school friends and college friends met each other and discussed me, they would have been sure both were talking about a different person.

Then started the office-office tales and my aggression came back, only to subside after a few years. I became calm, cool and composed. It reflected on my work.

Now, anyone would think that it was a positive sign, but by my standards, I was dead. I needed that famous anger of mine to keep the spark alive. But I had lost it, perhaps to please others... the same others who loved me because of my spark. And perhaps those others too never knew that my pleasing sweet side would not be a welcome change even to them, because by nature, that was not the true me.

Two weeks ago, my anger made one last-ditch effort to get out of the pit, and thankfully succeeded. It was a weird feeling of joy. I had expressed myself after many months of sleep. As if, as if winter was over... it was time up for hibernation. I felt free, I felt me was back. Me is not the sweet, me is the sour.

I realised that controlling your emotions is one thing, and changing them is another. In the process of trying to control my anger, I had actually tried to change it, killing my very being itself. So many voices in the world had told me that I needed to be sweeter. My fault was that I heard all of them, without listening to my own.

Just like our taste buds, people are different... sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and they are best left to just being themselves. After all, if sweet tries to become salty, or salty tries its hand in being sour, or sour gets all sweety-sweety, well, our tongue wouldn't really like it, will it? 

THE REAL MAN

He used to work with us. A nice, calm and composed fellow. I never saw him shouting at anyone. His writing was clean and flawless, but his promos (or ads as you will understand them), were what took the pie. They were simply superb.

When he left around two years ago, I saw it as a big loss to the team. There were no other emotions. Frankly speaking, I had a belief that like many others, he will end up a failure after leaving the job. He wanted to start his own small-time advertising agency. A year later, he came with an ad film for an oil company. Then he got some award, and went on a tour to Germany. Still, perhaps out of ego or jealousy, I didn’t call him a success.

Yesterday, I met him again. He invited me to his wedding. There was no written invitation, no proper card, we are just supposed to be there tomorrow at 7 pm. And I know come what may, I will be there. After all, you don’t get to attend such weddings every day.

Islauddin is a Muslim from Mysore in Karnataka, and the girl he fell in a love with is a Hindu from northeast India. They fell for each other while they were working at our office. We never got to know about their love story, at least, I did not. After being with each other for two long years, they decided to tell their parents, fully aware that they won’t be allowed to continue. Still, they tried, and failed. There was stiff opposition from both the families. There still is. The situation is expected to turn violent, and that’s why they are eloping tomorrow.

I thought about them last night, and realised what is the meaning of ‘man’. A real man does not necessarily have six-pack abs, or be 5’11 plus with a deep voice. He need not be tall, dark and handsome. A man is not the one born with the organ, he is the one born with the heart. The heart that believes, the heart that has the guts to do it, the heart that finally does it. Islauddin is that man. The real man.

I am not saying that you have to be a Muslim, elope and marry a Hindu to fall under this category. You can be rich or poor, young or old... just have the confidence and belief that you will do what you committed to. Be it love, life, work, or anything between that. 

And actually, it’s not only a straight male who could be a man. A gay, without any offence, could be a man too. Because he has the guts to come out in the open and say what he is and what he wants. He has the guts to live his life on his own terms. 

Not just him, a woman too could be a man. Perhaps that’s why they say, khoob ladi MARDAANI about the queen of Jhansi.

As a friend puts it, you don’t have to be a man to be a man. It’s a state of being, not the state of gender. In fact, you might not be a man even if you are a man.

THREE SHADES OF A PEG

I don't drink. Never have. As a kid, my parents always told me that drinking was bad. I grew up with that in my mind.

It was the first time my boss was taking us out for dinner. At least that's what he had told us what it was. I was expecting paneer and rice and curry and what not. We all sat at a corner of Taj, Bengaluru. There were comfortable seats, but really small tables. I didn't know how I was going to eat. But I knew I'd manage.

It started with drinks, and well, ended with them too. I said orange juice, and everyone stared at me. They ordered everything from wine to whiskey and scotch and beer and... blah blah blah. I didn't care about the names. I didn't know the difference. Still don't. All I cared was that I was going to see drunken men for the first time in my life.

Nothing happened for a long time. I was almost disappointed. But after three glasses of orange juice and two bowls of peanuts, I heard something. My senior was shouting at my big boss. He wanted his glass of wine. Boss didn't mind. He's a seasoned fellow, you see. My senior disappeared with a bottle and the glass. Next I saw him dancing near the swimming pool. All alone.

I still tease him for that night. Wish I had taken a pic. Anyway, I did that on the next occasion, just that the pics were vulgar.

My flatmates of those days were drunkards. Big time. I got to know only after my night shift was changed to morning. I would hear sounds. Weird noises. I would keep my door closed. One day when I opened it, I knew it was time to leave that house.

Five of my colleagues, two of whom were those who shared the flat with me, were high... and, well, on top and bottom of each other. I didn't bother to find out who was with whom. There were no couples for sure... they were five after all. I set an early alarm to click their pics in the morning. I still have them, saved somewhere on this system. I don't share them, so don't ask. They are just a strange memory.

Two days back, my best friend called me up at 2 in the night. He was down two cans of beer, a peg of vodka, tequila, whiskey and scotch... that's all I remember him telling me. But more than that, I remember him telling me stuff that I could have never imagined he would say. Not in my wildest dreams.

In the hour that followed, he punctured every artery and vein of my heart. He was sloshed, and I was shattered. He was stabbing me, stomping on my heart, cutting it into pieces that can never be stuck again. However filmy it might sound, but his words did sound like undiluted acid that night.

I didn't sleep after that. I couldn't. In his drunkenness, my friend, my best friend, had lost me. I called him in the morning when I thought he would be awake. With a fake cheerfulness in my voice, I bid him goodbye, without making him realise that it was the last time we were talking.

'Poorva, I love...'

He was, no doubt, a handsome man. Tall, good looking, well spoken with a heavy Brit accent, a nice broad smile. He was neither fat nor fit. He was quite particular about the way he looked. I think he shaved everyday because I never saw him with even a slight beard. I guess he used to get his eyebrows thread too. His hair was never out of place.

I never noticed him much till the time I noticed that he was noticing me a lot. Yes, he was way too much polite to me. He would make it a point to ask me everyday how I was. Depending on my mood, I would reply. But no matter how his mood was, his way of talking to me never became even slightly rude.

It was his birthday in a week's time. He made it a point to invite me every single day to his big day. He told me that I was special and he was looking forward to celebrating with me. A lot of his friends were going to be there. Everything sounded perfect, but my gut feeling said it was not.

For some reason, I could never think that he was special. I didn't go to his party. He rang me up at least 25-30 times, there must have been 40 messages in my phone, three of his friends came to my office to pick me up. But I didn't go. I didn't feel like going. I know I sound like a very hard-hearted person here, but I never do anything my heart says no to.

I thought he would be mad at me and won't talk to me for days. But my phone rang the next morning itself. It was him. His voice told me that he had been crying. A lot.

'I want to see you. Right now.'

'It's a Sunday. I am off, and have hardly got out of my bed. I don't think I can meet you.'

'I will come to your house. Give me your address. I must, must meet you.'

'Boys are not allowed here.'

'Ok. Come to the CCD near your office. If you don't meet me, I'll do something to myself. I want to say something to you. I have to. Please.'

'Tomorrow?'

'No. Right now. Please.'

I didn't want to be the cause for a grown-up man's suicide. Crime shows had taught me that police look for the last phone call made or received, the number of messages sent to one person, interrogate friends of the deceased etc etc. No boss. I didn't want to be grilled by the cops. And CCD sounded like a safe place. I crawled out of my bed, changed and left for CCD without having my breakfast. (Of course, who in the world would eat and go to Coffee Day?)

There he was. Smiling. Too glad to see me finally. His eyes were puffed. Too much alcohol and too many tears perhaps.

We went inside, my mind already set to order a Devil's Own and paneer tikka sandwich. But guess it wasn't my day.

'Poorva, can we go a bar please?'

'I don't drink. You know that. Tell me what it is. I have to rush.'

'Ok. Then can we at least stand outside? I need a smoke.'

He had started jumping on the sofa like a madman and everyone was staring at us. Embarrassed, I stepped out.

He took out a cigarette and two cans of beer.

'I got this for you.'

'You know I don't drink. And I don't like the smell of smoke. For God's sake, tell me whatever you want to. I want to go home. I am hungry.'

'Let's go to my home in that case. Girls are allowed there. I'll order anything you want to eat. Everything you want to eat. Just come with me to my home. Please.'

'No. I am leaving. Right now.'

He was on his knees by then. Yes, on the road, on the knees.

'Please Poorva, please. Don't go.'

At that moment, crime shows did not matter. Devil's Own and paneer tikka did not matter. Call records, messages, friends... nothing mattered. This guy was insane. I was petrified. I turned and started running as fast as I could. My athletics coach would have been so proud of me had he seen me then.

The next day somebody told me that he had left his job. A week later, I got to know that he was taking counselling at NIMHANS. After a month or so, he called me up for the last time.

'I am leaving India for good and going back to my parents in Britain. But before I go, I want to tell you what I wanted to, the other day. I promise there won't be any drama this time. I'll meet you whenever and wherever you want me to.'

'Okay. You can see me at my office at 4 pm.'

An awkward silence before I realised that I was losing my patience.

'You wanted to say something, I guess.'

'Yes Poorva. Just that I don't know how to say that. I have never said this to a girl before.'

Oh ya. And pigs fly.

'Okay. I am not going to waste even one more minute of yours. I will finally say this to you.'

I tried not to shift. I felt so uncomfortable. Believe me, I didn't want to hear what I thought and you think I was about to hear.

'I am in love. Poorva, I love him. So much.'

Go ahead. Read the above line again. I did not make a mistake.

'Poorva, I have been in love with him ever since I saw him first. We were a pair. I invited you to my birthday party because I was about to make a surprise announcement of our engagement that day. I hadn't even told him about it. I was forcing you to come because somewhere in you I saw a friend. You never tried to take advantage of me like everyone else does. I wanted you to be a part of my big day.'

I sat there, stunned. This was the first of its kind.

'The cake was ready. The champagne was there. All my friends had gathered in the hall. I went searching for him. I heard some commotion in one of the bedrooms and knew he was there.'

Tears had started trickling down his cheeks. He was shaking. I held his hand.

'I opened the door of that bedroom. He was right there... with my aunt, in the bed. I screamed. He turned and looked at me. Then he simply said, 'I am bi. Sorry for not telling you before.' I was shattered, Poorva. I wanted to tell you. I knew you would understand.'

He is with his parents these days. He has had counselling in London and is finally enjoying life again, thanks to his mom and dad.

I wrote this blog to apologise to him...

Sorry for not trying to understand you when you needed me.

KASHMIR oh KASHMIR!

The other day I was searching for an Indian map on Google to put on my blog along with my last post. But what I saw made me feel bad. Very bad.

I am not trying to boast, but I was quite good at drawing maps in school. My geography teacher would send in a message beforehand, instructing me to draw a huge map on the blackboard before class begins. I could even draw it blindfolded. But when I saw the Indian map on Google that day, I knew I could not draw it. In fact, I would never want to draw it.

Try drawing that Indian map I was taught in school, and you will always, always start from that solid head we have... Jammu & Kashmir. But look at the Indian map now. The head is half gone... as if it met with an accident. It's got a big dent. It pains.

On the left is India as it was given to us on 15th August 1947. On the right is the BBC map of India with Kashmir half gone. This and many such maps are available on Google.

I don't have much of Kashmir connection, except for two friends, a holiday plan and bhumbro-bhumbro. So why did half the Kashmir gone make me feel bad? Why did I fight tears? Why did I look at my Kashmiri colleague the next day and said sorry in my head?

This colleague of mine had once told me about the house he grew up in. It was huge. Enough for it to be converted into a High School now. He had told me that he learnt to swim in the Dal Lake. His first crush was a red-cheeked girl. They hardly saw the sun during winters. They actually used kangri which sounded like a weird thing when I read about it in my GK book in class 5th.

He also told me that he had wasted a college year because of migration. After that, he didn't say anything.

The other day I downloaded Google Earth on his laptop, and he took me straight to Shalimar Bagh on it. He was so excited. He hasn't gone back in 20 years. Only Google Earth takes him to his Kashmir now.

I know he is going to blast me for letting out his secrets to the world. But perhaps it's every Kashmiri's secret today.

That brings me to the same question again... why did it make ME feel bad?

I have always been a perfectionist. When I saw India's map that day, I realised the drawing had been ruined. My India can never be perfect without the perfect Kashmir, and I do not want to make an imperfect drawing.

For me, it was just a drawing gone bad. But what about those whose whole life... the past, the present, the future...

I am sorry. I really am.

Oh poor GANDHI!

Gandhi divided India. He could have done something to ensure a smooth partition. The Kashmir problem is because of Gandhi.

'Why don't you do a special feature on Gandhi for tonight's prime time?'

'Aah! It would be full of controversies, Poorva.'

I fail to understand why people talk about Gandhi without knowing anything about him. Or why lately people have started calling him a controversial man, blaming him for all things bad that happened to our country during the 1940s' phase. I thought he was associated to freedom, to goodness, to peace. In fact, as a kid, he was my favourite after Buddha. He still is.

When people around me started calling him names, I was hurt. I wanted to know who is wrong... those people or my favourite old man.

There is something very interesting about knowledge: if you know the full and proper version, it's good. If you don't know anything, it's ok. But if you know only half of it, it's the worst. It's like eating a half-baked biscuit which would cause stomach ache later. Either eat a full-baked one or don't eat at all.

My fondness for Gandhi grew when I was in nursery. I don't have a reason why. But when I grew up and got to know from people that the same Gandhi was a bad man, I was disturbed. This time I wanted to know why. Why do they say he was wrong?

I did some serious research that cleared my mind. Please read the next few lines only if you can read with a clear mind. Leave it if you can't. There is a lot of reading and only for those who can look at things practically instead of blindly following some rumour-mongers.

• Rumour number 1: Gandhi divided India

Gandhi never wanted to divide India. In fact, he was the only man standing when everyone else was hellbent on doing so. Gandhi had once famously said, 'Before partitioning India, my body will have to be cut into two pieces.'

The idea of a separate state of Pakistan was coined way back in 1933 by a man called Rahmat Ali (yes, it wasn't even Jinnah's idea). This guy wanted a separate state for India's Muslims so that they could be independent. The name Pakistan came from the five northern parts of India that he had in mind would constitute Pakistan: Punjab, Afghan province, Kashmir, Sind, BaluchisTAN. It was hence initially called Pakstan, and i was added later.

Rahmat Ali wanted Jinnah to take over this movement of a separate state of Pakistan, but Jinnah called it an 'impossible dream'. Later in 1937, Jinnah's Muslim League started having issues with Congress, and that's when he began working towards making this impossible dream possible.

• Rumour number 2: Gandhi should have divided India in such a way that Muslims should have gone to Pakistan and Hindus should have remained in India

Now this is something most people are not aware of and they don't bother to check the facts too: Sir Cyril Radcliffe, who was generally acknowledged as the most brilliant barrister in England, was given the task of dividing India and West & East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). And why did they choose him? Because Radcliffe didn't know anything about India, and that's why there was no chance of him getting influenced. The orders given to him were, 'divide the two nations based on the Muslim and non-Muslim populations, but keep other factors in mind as well.' He did exactly the same.

Now I don't understand how does Gandhi come in here. The man who did not want a divided India is being blamed these days for not dividing it properly. Seriously, irony couldn't have a better place.

• Rumour number 3: Kashmir problem is because of Gandhi

Two of my closest friends are Kashmiri Pandits, and that's why I particularly wanted to find the truth behind this rumour.

There is a little city called Gurdaspur in Punjab. While Radcliffe was on his mission Partition India on the map, he decided to follow the natural boundary line of the Ravi River. With this, he left Gurdaspur and the Muslim villages around it inside India. 

Had Radcliffe awarded Gurdaspur to Pakistan, Kashmir would have easily gone to them as well. Without this city, India would have had no practicable land access to Kashmir, and its Hindu Maharaja Hari Singh wouldn't have a choice except to link Kashmir's destiny to Pakistan.

So how did Gandhi come into the picture here?

There might be many other such rumours, but these three are the most common which I have heard so far.

Before I wrap, I need to talk about Gandhi's personal life as well. Nowadays, a lot of people say that he was a womaniser and that he slept naked with a few women or something like that. First of all, there is no proof of what happened inside his bedroom. Secondly, I don't give a damn if he slept with ten, one or none. 

All I care about is that he gave this country, this world a wonderful message of peace. He showed us the non-violent path. I am not against those who gave up their lives by resorting to violent means for our freedom, but why should I be against someone who did the vice versa?

Leave Hinduism or Islam, CRICKET is the biggest RELIGION in India

'I hope I marry a man who is not so crazy about cricket,' I thought out aloud seeing my whole office stuck to the India v/s Australia T20.

'Now that's a tough demand, Poorva. Such a man would be really hard to find,' one of my colleagues told me what I already knew.

No dying people, no political scams, no tragedies mattered today... because the biggest tragedy and the most important news was India's pathetic performance.

In my channel's newsroom, all the headlines were written in advance. The packages were ready. The shows were all set to go on air ten minutes before time! The reason was neither a sudden salary hike, nor the big boss' presence. Everyone wanted to get done with their work in order to catch the remaining balls.

Those fathers who could not make it to their daughter's birthday party on time, were home early. Those shopkeepers who don't shut shops well past 11 pm, had already downed shutters. Those students who finish their homework by 2 am, were free at 7:30 pm. The roads were empty, parking was full. Only one channel was on in every home.

As I absorbed that feeling standing in that unusually silent lane which leads to my home, I realised that no Hinduism, no Islam, no Christianity, no Sikhism binds India like cricket does. No festive season is as much awaited as the next series and no festival is as big as an India match. No result is as fruitful as a win. No failure is as bad as a loss.

Cricket is the biggest religion in India with eleven gods who keep changing. But mind you, these gods have a tough job in retaining their godliness in front of their devotees. Drop a catch or miss a ball, and their temple will start shaking. Lose a match, and prayers will stop. Defeat in a tournament means they are not gods anymore. Even the real God doesn't have such a tough challenge in front of him!

But even after the challenging nature of the job, everyone wants to become this cricket god. It's like what they once used to say about government jobs... your life is set if you become a cricketer. One match will give you a good bride, one tournament will be enough to open a restaurant, if you are good looking as well, advertisement offers will knock your door everyday. A cricket academy or a career in commentary is obvious. You see, this job comes with the best retirement plan too.

A close friend of mine who was an awesome athlete gave up the field. His father had told him... doctor, engineer or cricketer. No other sport is welcome in the Indian household. After all, what do hockey, football or athletics give you in this country? One or two medals perhaps. They are of no value. Nobody needs them. Nobody cares a damn about them. A thousand athletes can't equal one cricketer. Nobody will watch their race on the free-to-air DD Sports, but everyone will happily pay Rs 45 to catch the match on ESPN-Star Sports.

That friend is an engineer today. He is earning well, much more than he would have ever earned as an athlete. But I know he is not true to his job. His heart is on the tracks. It always was. But this cricket-crazy country didn't give him a choice.

And well, he is not the only one without an option.