DOCTOR DOCTOR EVERYWHERE, BUT NOT A LIFE TO LIVE

After a long time, I met my doctor friend of 15 years. He is getting married soon, so obviously it also became our topic of discussion. When I asked him about the girl, he told me she is also a doctor. And? And she is a good girl. And? Well, I hope she would have the same passions that I do, but I don’t know what she likes.

I knew someday this good friend of mine would end up marrying a doctor girl. His parents always wanted that, as if he is going to bring home a clinic, not a wife. Or perhaps, two doctors will give birth to a doctor baby. Or perhaps, they will have more topics to discuss at home, like new medicines, new procedures, new cases, new patients. Life would be fun.

Now before I proceed further, I want to make it clear that through this post I have no intentions of hurting my friend, because I can’t even think of doing that.

Two doctors, two lawyers, two techies, two entrepreneurs, two any for that matter, can make a happy couple only if they share the same passions, not professionally, but personally. Don’t marry a doctor only to open a clinic, don’t marry a lawyer only to start a law firm, don’t marry a techie only to make an app.

Marry someone only to make a life.

And ya, life is not about making babies. So don’t think that your decision to marry someone because he or she belongs to your profession would have a very positive impact on your child, or it would give an extra edge to your child. In fact, it would only give him or her the extra tension to perform better, to become like ‘daddy and mommy.’

Say for example, “Oh of course beta, you have to score well in Biology because your parents are doctors...” or “Beta, you have to act well because both your parents are actors...”

There are innumerable examples of children going wrong because their parents are passing them a so-called legacy. Look at your TV screens and you will find a live example in the form of Rahul Gandhi. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been a pappu politician if his father, grandmother, great-grandfather had not been in politics. He got that extra tension to carry on the legacy of being a Gandhi. He lost what could have been a great life in his struggle to become a great politician.

Taking the same example, look at Narendra Modi and Arvind Kejriwal who both have become great politicians without that ‘extra edge.’

Abhishek Bachchan, Siddharth Mallya, Tushar Kapoor, Amit Kumar (Kishore Kumar’s son) are all living examples of successful parents’ unsuccessful children because they were born with that extra tension to pursue daddy’s and mommy’s profession.

Having said all this here, I wish my dear friend gets to live his life on his own terms, I wish he has a kickass married life and doesn’t end up talking medicine all the time, and I also wish his children become something that they really want to be.

And ya friend, don’t open your clinic to make it a burden on your children’s shoulders, and hire doctors, not your wife at your clinic.

Two blue ticks and a heavy rotten potato

He was my best friend in the university, and he was simply the best. Most of the days we would travel to our respective Delhi University colleges together, which was some 20 kms from our homes. Many a times we would make the return journey together too. With him, I felt as if my introvert personality had found peace with another introvert personality. I wanted our friendship to be forever, but then, all wishes don’t come true.

My friend, this extremely intelligent but very shy boy, was hiding a secret. I still don’t know how he managed to keep it hidden from me, but nevertheless, he did. When it was time for him to let it out of the bag, he developed cold feet. Our friendship broke, but what hurt more was that I didn’t know why. This was in 2008.

I kept searching for answers without any luck. No, I wasn’t roaming around with a magnifying glass or torch, but I would try to start conversations with common friends. With my busy work schedule, I had to eventually lose hope.

One day, a call came. I would prefer to call it a small atom bomb... my own little boy or fat man. Here was the secret my friend had been hiding for years, and I was being told about it on the phone by someone else. I wouldn’t like to reveal it here, and someone’s secret is not why I am writing this post. My reason is much bigger, if understood.

That day I wanted to run and give my friend one big bear hug. I wanted to tell him how sorry I am for not even being worthy enough of his secret. I couldn’t do any of those. I had somehow obtained his new number, but I didn’t call.

Today, after almost seven years since I met my friend last, I sent him a text on WhatsApp.
There were no sorrys, no tears, no past. I was stuck with something I was reading and the only person I could think of was him. As upfront as I usually am now, I just asked him my query.

Bang came his response, ‘I am sorry, but who is this?’

‘Poorva here. I know you might block me after knowing my name, but my intentions are not wrong. I never intended to not tell you my name. I thought it would come on WhatsApp.’

‘Hi Poorva. Hope you are good.’ The response was delayed, but it came.

‘Ya... I am good, hope you too are. See, I am stuck here, in this problem. Can you help?’

‘Yes... do this...’

‘Thanks man. And listen, I forgive you and hope you forgave me too.’

No response.

‘May I come back for help if you are okay or are you going to block me?’

‘Let me know if required. I will try to help.’

‘Thanks. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

In between my small query, I had solved the big one. This was an apology to a friend I had been wanting to make for years, but never could. Either there was no courage, or a lot of hesitation.

My Baaji once told me a story which has taught me numerous lessons...

A teacher asked her 10-year-old students how many enemies they have. Some said two, some three, and some even ten. The teacher then asked the students to carry as many potatoes as the number of enemies each one had. The students were supposed to carry these potatoes for a month. A week passed, then two weeks. The potatoes started to rot and give a foul smell. Still the students had to continue carrying them for a month. Into the third week, the students could not bear it at all. They requested their teacher if they could stop, to which the teacher taught them the lesson for life:

‘The more potatoes you carried, the more number of days you carried them, the more tired you became. Then came a point when you couldn’t tolerate the rotting smell, but you had to continue carrying them. The potatoes you were carrying represented your enemies, your egos, and your worries. Imagine how your heart must be coping up with so many rotten potatoes you have been carrying for years. Let go of them.’


When I spoke to my friend today, I let go of one of the heaviest and smelliest potatoes I had been carrying for seven years. Though there was no response by him to my apology, the blue ticks on WhatsApp told me he had read it. The good night from his side just confirmed that my message had been conveyed and most probably accepted.

You have no idea how light I am feeling right now, sitting here and writing this post. And if you want to get the slightest idea, identify your potatoes and just let go of them.

http://poorvajain.com/two-blue-ticks-and-a-heavy-rotten-potato/

Hi. I have shifted my blog to www.poorvajain.com. Thanks for searching, and for reading.

IT'S BACK!

After a very long time, I took out my old bicycle from a dusty corner of the house. The tyres had got cut from places, the pink colour was hardly visible, the brakes were not in working condition. I had to take it four storeys down to the road and I struggled with that. I had no stamina and eventually gave up on the third floor itself. Embarrassed, I called for help and someone came to lift my bicycle.

Thankfully, I had exhausted my energy, but not my will. Once on the road, I somehow managed to drag the bicycle for almost a kilometre to the repairing shop. The man over there asked for a hefty amount but promised to make it new. A few hours and ten cups of tea later, my old bicycle was like its heydays again.

But this is not the end of the story.

After so many years, I struggled to balance on my bicycle. I had forgotten which brake was for which tyre. I had to drag my feet on the road to stop. But the biggest problem was something weirdly different. I was confused between my bicycle and my car.

At every corner, I habitually gave the indicator and tried to push the right handle up and down. Every now and then, I looked into the rearview mirror and found myself gazing up in the sky. I pushed the right pedal extra hard at every speed breaker confusing it with the car's brakes, and obviously went jumping after that. I rode my little bicycle in the middle of the road like it was no one's business.

A few hiccups later, I was riding like my old self again.

And it was then that I felt the cool wind blowing on my face, a feeling lost in the AC of my office and the closed windows of my car. It seemed as if my eyes opened after a long time, strained with the computer and TV screens.

I heard some kids playing, I saw aunties chatting, I went to roads I had never been to before. These roads were in my locality itself, those aunties were always around, the kids had grown up in my area, yet I had never seen them in the past few years.

So engrossed was I in work that the sun always set inside office and always rose when I was still in my bed. I was appreciating the beauty caught on camera but I never took out time to step out and see the real beauty that lies abundantly in the world we live in.

Today when I rode through that breeze, the colours were again brighter, the sounds were again louder, the thoughts were again clearer, the world was again the same place I once loved.

As I lie on my bed writing this blog, my calf muscles hurt after being made to do some real exercise after such a long time. But this pain is truly worth it, because it gave me my lost feeling of freedom back today.

BABRI OR BAMIYAN... IT'S ALL THE SAME!

On 6th December 1992, I was in Lucknow. About five years old then, I was a toddler unaware of the tension prevailing in the city of my birth. One of my next-door neighbours was a Hindu, another a Muslim. So it's hardly a surprise that the air had a whiff of what was happening some 130 kms away, in Ayodhya.

We were in the safety of our homes, and it's only after these twenty-odd years that my mother has told me what were the scenes like in our locality. After Doordarshan aired those horrifying visuals of karsevaks bringing down the Babri Masjid, my Hindu neighbours had a small hush-hush celebration at their home. My Muslim neighbours did not step out of their home for a few days.

It might sound weird to someone reading this, but my mother, a Jain, was quite upset too. However, her reasons were not religious.

She is an archaeologist, if not by birth, at least, by love. Just a few months before Babri was demolished, she had accompanied her friends in an excursion to the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya. None of those archaeologists knew then that it was the last time they were seeing it, else they would have at least clicked one picture with the mosque. They were all shattered to know that a structure of such historical importance had been demolished.

In 2001, after the Taliban destroyed the Buddhas of Bamiyan, my mother was again upset for days. She got hooked on to BBC and CNN. There were times when she would keep muttering how magnificent those Buddhist statues were, and how she wanted to see them in person one day. Those statues were UNESCO World Heritage Site and were destroyed with dynamite on orders of Taliban leader Mullah Mohammed Omar. The reason? Taliban declared them 'idols'.

For my mother, even though they belong to different religions, the men who destroyed the Babri and the men who destroyed the Buddhas of Bamiyan are the same. Both have brought down two archaeologically-important structures. The reasons cited by both are religious. Both did what they did to satiate their egos, nothing else. The Gods of both's religions preach peace.

And then she ends it with, 'It's the archaeologist, not a Hindu or a Muslim, who finally bore the pain of their actions.'

'KHAN' IS STILL A TERRORIST IN INDIA

For a long time, I was a Muslim on papers. Due to an error in my driving license, I had become Poorva Khan. I didn't mind. My parents are secular to the core, so we did not take the pain of getting it changed too... until I started suffering.

After I secured this Muslim driving license, my PAN card, my car loan, my phone connection, everything took so long that I gave up hope. I thought that's how it happens in India. But I did not know that that's how it happens with the Muslims in India. And this realization dawned upon me at the Bengaluru International Airport.

I look like a normal girl, just like your next-door neighbour's daughter. But if you are a normal Muslim girl, you are not normal. After the cop on duty checks your documents at the airport's entrance, he will 'request' you to step aside. He'll then ask you some questions very matter-of-factly... where do you work, where are you going, etc.

Initially you will feel the police are doing a good job. When this 'good job' becomes a routine JUST FOR YOU every time you go to the airport, the extra security starts making you feel insecure. You feel that a shadow is following you everywhere at the airport. Those policemen have an eye just on you. They are taking a bit longer in screening your hand luggage. In that massive crowd of people, you suddenly feel all alone.

When my fear got the better of me and I told my parents about these regular airport questions, they knew they had to act, and quickly. They took a break from their work just to stand with me in queues and get my documents corrected. Since we don't believe in bribes, our queues were longer too.

My first journey with the new corrected non-Muslim documents was something I will never forget. I stood at the airport entrance, holding my ticket and driving license, ready with the same old answers. But instead of questions, I got a smile from the cop. Poorva Jain was not a terrorist, Poorva Khan was.

We all know that deep in the heart of almost every Hindu, a Muslim is a terrorist. And every Muslim knows that Hindu mentality deep in his heart as well.

Today when I look back at my 'Muslim' days, I know how insecure a Muslim feels in this country. I have felt it for a couple of months. If you could feel it for just one day, you will know what I am talking about. Perhaps after knowing that, you will also truly understand why even Shahrukh had to say, My Name is Khan, and I am not a terrorist.

THAT IRRITATING MAN WHO IS EVERYWHERE

These type of people are present everywhere... during a boardroom meeting, at resident welfare association meetings, interfering in your conversations, poking their nose into your personal stuff, etc etc... they are there. They are everywhere. And they don't understand that they are not required anywhere.

They don't know a shit about what you are talking. They just know which person is THE man they must impress. Mind you, they are very good at that, at this impressing thing. In fact, howsoever intelligent you may be, you can never ever be as good them.

So what is the strategy of these people? They take this THE man's side in everything. And how do they do it? They repeat the words of this man, just after him. They might include a yes sir, a true sir along with it. But most of the times only repeating the words with a more convincing tone does the trick.

And what happens to you? You, who are so hardworking. You, who spend those extra hours, put in that extra effort? Nothing. You look like a fool in front of THE man. After sometime, you even start feeling like a fool because you hardly speak anything. Only THE man and the repeater are the ones involved in the conversation, supporting, well, THE man and his beliefs.

There will be times when you too will think you should be like him, the repeater. You will even try, but will soon give up. The original you will ask the fake you to give up. Relief will set in after giving up. And if you have waited enough, if you have held on, you will be lucky enough to see the repeater fail.

This repeater, he always eventually loses, because he has nothing original within. He is just a master PR whose irritating behaviour is only there to test your patience. The original will win, no matter what. I know, because I have experienced it, and am still experiencing it.

DAD, YOU BETTER DIE

Back home in Delhi, my neighbour aunty always used to boast about the perfect family that her father had raised. He had two happily married daughters and a son. The family's Diwali used to last for at least three days, and same was the case with Holi. Five years ago, the children had celebrated their parents' fifty-year anniversary with a lot of pomp and show. The celebrations were nothing short of grand, considering their middle-class background.

In December last, my mother told me that aunty's father had been diagnosed with cancer. He had just a few weeks left. Doctors gave hope of some extra lifetime if he is immediately shifted to a cancer hospital. His total radiation and chemo expenses for one month were to come to approx Rs 10 lakh. This was after all the benefits he could have claimed being an ex-central government employee.

Looking at the 'perfect' family background and well-earning children, I was sure the poor old man would live to see one or two more Diwalis. But for him, even the very next Holi didn't dawn. He passed away towards January end. His children didn't bother to admit him to the cancer hospital. The expenses were too much for them.

When Supreme Court denied Novartis a patent for Glivec in India a day before, I could not help thinking about aunty's late father. I do not know which cancer he had, nor the drugs he was supposed to take. But I am sure that he would have taken the cheaper Indian version of most of the cancer drugs that were prescribed for him. Even then his children did not have the heart or the pocket to shell out the money for their dad.

As far as my knowledge goes, or whatever I could gather from the papers, Novartis wanted to patent its drug called Glivec in our country. This drug is supposed to be a miracle cure for a type of blood cancer. Indian manufacturers too produce the same drug and sell it at a much cheaper rate. While Novartis sells it for about Rs 1.2 lakh a month, local cost is Rs 8,000. Had Novartis been awarded this patent, local guys would have to stop manufacturing this drug. As a result, the cost of treating this blood cancer would have shot up by many thousands or even lakhs.

Novartis calls its defeat in the Supreme Court a big blow. It says the SC decision would affect innovative drug discovery. But what use is that innovation which doesn't reach the people who need it? The affluent class that can afford Novartis' Glivec @ Rs 1.2 lakh a month, can also travel to countries like the UK and the US for treatment to avail those innovative drugs. Most Indians who can't go outside for treatment, can't also afford Glivec.

Just imagine, a middle class family let their father die because they could not afford his cancer treatment. If manufacturers like Novartis are given their patents, how many more fathers will have to be sacrificed.

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.

Doctor V/S Doctor

It’s been more than four years to this incident. I had just shifted to Bangalore and was experiencing a lot of pain in my legs. Nothing was helping so I finally decided to visit the doctor. He sat in a big room in one of Bangalore's most prestigious hospitals. The setting looked 5-starish. I had a feeling the doc was going to be awesome too.

He patiently asked everything and jotted it down. At the end, he gave me a long list of tests I needed to get done. God! Was I so ill? He even gave me an offer to visit his friend's clinic for a good discount on those tests instead of getting them done at the hospital. He told me that the total after the discount would be somewhere around Rs 10,000.

Seriously, the leg pain was nowhere in front of the pocket pain that day. I had heard that doctors charge a bomb, but this looked like nuclear that day. I had never visited a doc without my mom before and this time the money was from my first salary. So obviously it hurt even more.

A friend advised me to take another opinion before going for the tests. But I was in no mood to pay more fee to one more doctor. She persisted, and I had to relent.

This doctor did not sit in a posh room. It was hygienic and more doctorish than 5-starish. He did not recommend any tests. He did not scare the hell out of my wallet. He just told me I need to drink more milk and eat bananas for extra calcium. I was fine in a week.

Had I not taken the second opinion, doctors would have remained money-eating mongrels in my mind throughout my life. That one experience taught me that it's very easy to form a bad opinion. But one man's wrongdoing cannot be implied to his whole community... be it professional or religious. 

I realised that not every doctor is a looter. Not every businessman is a cheat. Not every maid is a thief. Not every restaurant serves stale food. Not every girl has weird mood. Not every saint is a sinner. Not every prisoner is a killer. Not every Muslim is a terrorist. Not every Hindu is NOT a terrorist.

If you ever find a rotten apple, keep it aside and look for the healthy ones. Chances are you'll find some, only if you are not stuck in a government department where all the apples have become rotten after years of exposure to bad air.

Our country has gone to GODS!

I don't think Ganesha would be too happy with all of us... for polluting the rivers in his name. Year after year, putting POP down the lakes. Saying Ganpati Bappa Morya, and adding chemicals to the water-bodies.  He never asked for it. No God ever asked for it.

Today I was walking down a road which has a huge Ganesha temple at the corner. The biggest rangoli I have ever seen, the most beautiful idol, that agarbatti smell, the garlands... and the devotees immersed in a BRAWL! One of them holding the other’s neck, shoving him to the temple wall, calling him names...

Many a times I wonder if we actually fear God. We keep our phones on silent during a meeting with our boss, but attend calls in a temple. We build temple to encroach a land and then keep expanding it, because we know no authority would dare touch it.

We remember Him in trouble and forget Him as soon as we are out of it. We pray hard during exams and an hour before the result, but we would rather watch a movie during our holidays. When we are left with nothing, we leave it to Him.

We pollute His land on Holi, His air on Diwali and His water on Chaturthi, and we USE Him in doing all this.

You say it’s all written in the puranas. But can you tell me even one line from the same puranas which makes you do all that you actually end up doing on these festivals? They say Parvati created Ganesha from sandalwood paste. But did Parvati also ask you to create him every year from Plaster of Paris, paint him with some chemicals and immerse him in water? Ram returned to Ayodhya after 14 years of vanavas. But did Ram ask you to blow up thousands on useless firecrackers for his feat? When Prahlad sat on the pyre and Holika burnt instead, did he also ask you to burn trees each year and give the Earth a colourful chemical bath the next day?

God has become a commodity these days. Man uses it to take holidays, to enjoy, to blame, to kill, to hate. Seriously, God looks like the most pitiable personality I have come across.

But God, please don’t worry. Not everybody is that bad. Not everybody is trying to ruin your creation. In fact, some of those great souls have taught me the good lesson too.

My Ganesha is only clay. I double-checked. No colours added. And by God, it looks so beautiful! Even Parvati would be proud of it!!

I haven’t burnt any crackers for ten years now, ever since I took that oath in class 9^th. Yes, I stuck to it. Last year, I bought two sarees for my maid’s daughters for the same amount that an average Delhite burns on a Diwali night. She was so happy. Told me the elder one wore it at her graduation.

I don’t play Holi even if they keep asking me. They tried to drag me into the mess this year, but I am strong, you know.

God, I am on your side. Not only because I fear you, but also because I love you and respect you a lot. I know you painstakingly created the world where I live. I know how much it hurts when someone puts a minor scratch on my car. And look at you... they are putting major scratches on your model every day, every minute, every second! From my side, I can assure you I won’t add to your miseries. Promise. I don’t know about others though.

The SMALL BULLIES of Bangalore

It's not a big tanker. It's not a rickety local bus. It's not even a posh SUV. It's either a bicycle, an auto or a woman! If you have had the awesome experience of driving in Bangalore, then you know what I am talking about.

The most painful people on this city's roads don't sit inside huge vehicles. They are on two feet or on two/three wheels. They are those who cannot hear a honk, they can't even hear three, four, five, ten honks. They don't care about the world around them. They know if some big four wheeler *&%^$ dares to touch them, he would be blamed. After all, it's always the fault of the big guy. The small ones can't be bullies. That's the thumb rule.

Take for example the auto driver. He rules the city. He doesn't use one lane, he uses two... half of both. On top of that, his speed won't cross 30 kmph. So both you and your friend on the other lane are stuck. Buy a Mercedes here but you will be forced to slug at 20 kmph behind this auto. And for goodness sake, don't take that 6-gear car a company introduced sometime back. You will never even get to the 5th gear here.

I forgot to mention that you won't find parking space outside your office because that auto driver would have already used it. He is sleeping inside. Don't disturb.

I don't know why some Bangaloreans are demanding a separate cycle lane in the city. Sir, all the lanes belong to the cyclists only. I am not talking about those activist-types who wear cycle helmets, knee pads and all that fashionable safety gear to go to office on their mountain bikes. I am talking about that black bicycle that my laundry man used when I was a kid. Yes, that black cycle is still being used here... that too, on the main roads!

Our Mr Cyclist rides during rush hours. In the middle of the roads. I am so glad he doesn't have the size of using two lanes at a time like his auto driver friend. But well, he fills in the void by his sweet pace of 5 km per hour.

And parking? Aah! That's no problem at all. Find a two-wheeler parking and abandon your cycle between two bikes. It's poking out, huh? That's not his headache! His cycle does not get scratches.

Have you seen a cow on the road? And have you seen an aunty ji on the road? What's the difference between them? I would say none. Both of them walk as if they have earphones on and are listening to loud music. They don't hear traffic noise. They are not designed to hear traffic noise. You are honking, screaming... dear, you are actually wasting your energy. Sit back, relax, take a deep breath, try not to get angry. Let aunty ji enter a shop and then drive out in peace.

Just because you have a big vehicle does not mean you are big. Here in Bangalore, small is bigger than the big. 

What the HELL!

When they first brought me here, I was excited. I liked my new cage, my new home. I would get biryani almost every alternate day. The kids would come and play with me. Their mom would clean up my cage. Their granny, that fat woman who shouts at everyone, never shouted at me. They were happy. I was happy.

I am the parrot that spends its days and nights in a cage that Poorva's landlords have kept. 

One day they took me to the terrace in my cage to play with, but after five minutes, they lost interest and got busy with themselves. It was then that I met someone.

A pigeon was perched somewhere over there on the top. I could see she was about to lay eggs. She looked hungry. She had to build a nest as well as search for food. I felt good. I had a better home, I did not have to hunt for food, the winter was not going to kill me. 

My owners were nice initially but I had no clue that they would forget me so soon. That they would throw food and water in my cage like a daily routine, without even looking at me once. They would stop cleaning my cage, playing with me. My new cage became old in just two weeks. The excitement died down. Biryani was no longer tasty.

After about one-and-a-half or two months, my owners showed some sympathy and took me to the terrace again. I had almost forgotten about the pigeon, but recognised her as soon as I saw her. Her egg had hatched.

That day too, she was hungry. She had to arrange for food not just for herself, but the baby pigeon too. She would keep flying short distances to find some food for the little one but in vain. She did not have the option of going to a faraway place because she feared for the baby.

After concentrating at her for sometime I realised that she still looked the same she did when I saw her last. But I looked sad even though I ate better food and had no tension. So what was lacking?

My mother had once told me the story of heaven and hell. In hell, they give you everything you can wish for... good food, clothes, lavish life and to top it all, there's no work! In heaven, they give you all that, but only after you work. I had laughed at that story then. I thought if this is the case, I better go to hell. Only after God fulfilled my wish, I realised why hell is called hell.

The TOM, DICK, HARRY College of Mass Communication

I hate it, simply hate it. How can government give everyone a license to open a college with pathetic standards of Mass Communication? And the result... these colleges produce 'journalists' of such poor standard that we want to hang our head in shame.

Mass Comm was once considered a prestigious course which only a select few could crack after three-four grilling rounds. In my college itself, they selected only 28 out of the 2,500 who took the test that year. My parents would proudly claim that I am studying Mass Communication. But now it has become the course-next-door.

Everyone is offering this 'in-fashion' course. But mind you, fashion only lasts a few seasons. If you buy all the dresses of a particular fashion, you will have to change your full wardrobe to remain in fashion after sometime. Unfortunately, you cannot change your career after studying a professional course for three years.

You will end up rejected in media jobs or become teachers to produce more pathetic batches of Mass Comm students.

Their motto: Bye-bye journalism!

Please realise that India does not need so many journalists. The channels are full. The papers are full. The magazines are full. And they all want the best. You are not the best because you went to the Tom, Dick, Harry College of Mass Communication and did nothing there apart from getting a degree.

You don't know camera, editing, scripting, PCR, production, and you all want to become anchors or reporters. You stand in front of the mirror saying Good Morning with a smile and you imagine yourself on TV. Your parents encourage you without understanding that you are not meant for the business. You can't say a line without fumbling but you want to be Arnab Goswami or Barkha Dutt. You don't have good command over language, you write wrong spellings, you can't frame sentences, you can't pronounce simple words, still you have your own show in mind.

I am not saying that you must do Mass Comm to be a mediaperson. We have doctors and engineers doing quite well in this field too. But they are here for their passion, and not only for profession, and that's what is the key to every mediaperson's success.

Journalism is neither an art nor craft. It's not a job, it's not money. It's life, it's dedication... it's like what my boss says, 'Journalists are a separate breed of people, as if God made human beings and then God made journalists.'

If you don't have that in you, then perhaps God made you for something human. Don't mind, but please don't pollute this passion.