The long story of short hair

Recently I took my son to a hairdresser for a new haircut. Normally, all the salons are dressed up in a way to attract its customers. The signboard and the displays assure you of the entire transformation of your looks. They display the success stories of their earlier experiments with the clients. The pictures show different hairstyles and me looking smart and handsome. Well, I was hoping the least of them in my son's case. It was expected to be a transformation, but in the reverse order.
My son had to surrender to one such hairdresser at his threading ceremony where he had to get his head shaved off as per the rituals. He did that bravely and sported that new look for a couple of months. Once he had his hair grown sufficiently, we got his proper haircut suitable to his thin face. My experience says that you need at least fifteen days to look better after your visit to a barber. At least I think so about myself and even with my son, Abir. In fact, my theory says that you need to have a perfect proportion of hair to suit your face - size & shape. Precisely, there's a monthly season of your best look. Like the moon it either grows or diminishes every day. The best look is the full moon and the day of your haircut is the no moon night. But hair keep on growing and one really can't have the worst or the perfect look all the time.
Well, I am talking here especially us, the middle class men, who like to call it a haircut in public, but we get them cu in reality. Nobody has a clue of a smart haircut after looking at our hair after cutting. We usually have holidays on weekends. The places we go are flooded with the similar kinds. Each salon (saloons that's what we call) has 2-3 hair dressers each. They all are fully occupied. We ask them of our turn and roughly it's always after fifteen minutes. In fact, without any mistake, they count their one minute for three minutes. It always takes more than 45 minutes. Finally our turn comes and we sit on the revolving chair that never revolves, covered in a damp apron. We get a chance to take a good look at ourselves. Slowly we start feeling that we look good in the present hairstyle and we don't need a haircut and as if sensing our mind, the hairdresser turns up and we lose that only chance to escape.
Almost all of us are so obsessed by the mushrooms or cauliflowers or broccolis that we suggest the barber to shorten the hair at the back of our heads and keep them long in the front. They are also so used to this demand, that they've already started working with the scissors on our locks in the front. We bid farewell to the long hair and after some time we realise that he's shortening them more than we had wanted. But the job's already done. And even if we dare to say, he silents us with the jargons like level, texture, etc. Or simply he blames to the shape of our head. Can you do anything about it? No, you can't. And you've already handed your head to him, practically. So, he goes on working as per his will. Once he's done, he picks up a huge mirror and holds it near the back of our head to show us how much he's listened to you. You are not much happy with your hair. Again, you cannot say anything. But he makes it up by tickling and scratching your head that he calls head massage. You feel better. (That's what he thinks.) You pay Eighty rupees and leave. The small hair particles start pricking. So, you have to rush to your home and wash yourself.
I have also had a word with the people who go to some expensive parlours. They told me that the experience was totally different there. They go by an appointment, so that they don't have to wait much - fifteen minutes and not forty five minutes. They have magazines to scan through (who reads these days?) and a television to watch. And being a unisex salon, they have better faces and occasional smiles to face. You are greeted nicely when it's your turn. They discuss your look and haircut with you. You are treated like a king. And the artists start working, not with scissors, but with clippers. You also feel nice being covered in a crisp and fragrant sheet. The lighting sets the perfect mood and the good quality mirrors show your face in the same shape and size, unlike the salons we visit. The hair artists work on your head gently. They talk only if you ask them to. Finally, everything's done and still you feel like the demand has not met yet. You could have looked better if you were listened to. But, it's too late by then and you end up paying a bomb for that look. 
I remembered all that and took Abir to a local shop. It was that perfect time of looks for Abir - the fool moon. It was only eight days ago when Deepali, my wife and I were discussing about his looks. He had started looking better. And then the next day, he came with that news, a bad one. He came home with a demand to get his haircut done. We were thinking like how come he came with such kind of demand. He never asked for anything like this before. But slowly he started spilling the beans and disclosed that it wasn't his demand origally. It was a warning which he had painted as a demand.
He was warned at his school to get rid of his crop. It was a straightforward warning first saying that if he doesn't then he won't be allowed to attend the PT class. (How I wish I was warned something like this in my school days!) And then he, along with some of the other classmates, were also advised that the growing hair eat the share of calcium in the body that is supposed to be expended in strengthening of bones. All the children were convinced and threatened at the same time. As a result Abir threatened us, if we don't get his haircut done, he won't go to school. Did we have any choice being the 21st century parents, ridden by guilt that we can't give him much and filled with insecurity of what would he do if he is not allowed in the school? No, we didn't. Hence, I was the one who took him to a salon.
There was already a victim who had surrendered his head to the craftsman. He was working on his hair. In fact the zero machine was mowing his head and shortening the length. The hairdresser was aware the exact length required for schools. (Was there any under the table handshake?) Thank goodness, the schools haven't started suggesting a particular salon for the haircuts. (This can be a good way of marketing for the salons, in fact. Think about it dear hairdressers and don't forget to send me the royalty if it works.) The hairdresser also told me that the teachers keep their palm on the heads of the students. If they can pinch the hair between their finger, then they are ready for harvest. Looking at the plain and silky texture at Abir's hair, I was so sad that he was going to part them. But I was helpless. The monthly season of the best look for my boy was about to be over.
I remembered the elders saying during my childhood an old Marathi proverb that loosely means 'Grow your wisdom and be a Swami Vivekanand instead of being a Dev Anand by growing your hair'. I mean, seriously? With due respect to Swami Vivekanandji, in fact out of that respect only, how can we become someone like him? Come on. Every person comes with a fixed amount of brain. At least, we don't have that kind of brain in our family. My father always opposed this kind of bullshit even being a teacher. He always encouraged me to grow hair. He used to argue with his fellow teachers who would punish the students for not keeping short hair. Even today, he says how can the length of hair measure the wisdom. Obviously, he was the most to be unhappy when he saw Abir in his shortened hair. He even says what's wrong in being Dev Anand. Someone who earned Rs. 35 a month as his salary once, became one of the Superstars of Hindi Film Industry. Why can't be like him if you are not cut out to be someone like Swami Vivekanand?
There was also a news about a teacher and her headmistress were sued as they made a student to go under scissors in the classroom. Can you imagine? She actually called in a barber in the school and got the haircut done. I was curious if the barber took an opportunity and mowed some more heads. She did this because the student didn't pay attention to repeated warnings by her. This wasn't a grave crime that she along with her senior was sued. But still, this is insane. Why teachers are so obsessed of short hair?
Jokes apart, but I alos never understood the relation of hair and discipline or hair and wisdom or hair and manners. What's so big deal? The gods kept long hair themselves. We've seen in the pictures. And we know that people in long hair look good. Look at the filmstars. Then why do they want us or the students look so bad in short hair. I honestly feel that no man, except for Daniel Craig, can look handsome in short hair. Daniel Craig doesn't belong to the planet anyways. (Please don't misunderstand me by my comments about this current James Bond even if I respect the Supreme Court's decision of the Act 377.)
I used to keep long locks and people who knew me then would still recall. But gradually my hair started calling it a lifetime and receded. Now, I can't even though I want to. In short, the life of hair is short in this century. I have started fearing that hair will be declared as an endangered specie after a few years looking at the growing number of bald people. So, let the children enjoy them till the time they can have them on their heads. Please please please, don't measure them by the pinch of your fingers, consider the looks quotient too. Let there be more Dev Anands too.

The man with a fountain pen

     Vishy collects pens. Rather he buys them and they keep on added to his collection. He never thought of doing it intentionally. But eventually after 20 years of relentless pen buying, he realised that he has a collection of pens. Then onwards, he doesn't buy them. He collects. He also feels good when I say that. This is another common thing between him and Mr. Bachhan, apart from both being Indians or Mr. Bacchan isn't (an Indian)? God knows.

     I also buy a pen, occasionally. A very few though. Like once in a year or two, only then when I realise that the current one is totally useless. They become useless if you use them more often or if you don't use them at all. I, being a writer, buy fountain pens and Vishy being a collector buys anything - a ball point, a gel pen and even a fountain pen. He goes by the looks of a pen. They should go with his clothes, as an accessory. I write scripts and he writes cheques. Not that he writes cheques to me for my writing. But he writes them to many. He finds it insulting if he has to borrow a pen from someone. He always uses his own tools to blow his money. Just kidding! He's a very disciplined businessman otherwise. And he also collects properties!

     That was a reason I had a chance to go to an NGO. Not a Non Government Organisation, but a Non (well) Governed Office. It was nothing less than most of the government offices are. It was a back office of a back office for a government office. Like any office, computer screens dominated the place. Unlike the government office, there weren't any tables to separate the needy ones from the authority. They both were sitting side by side in front of a computer, for a change. But you can tell their respective roles just by looking at their faces. The operators were busy. Their fingers were working swiftly on those keyboards. They used to stop occasionally, would ask something to the clients and then would start typing again. This whole time of break from the screen, they always used to break their knuckles as if they were making their fingers ready for the next assault on the poor keys. There, I could relate myself with them. I do the same whenever I write for so long which hardly takes place though. But whenever it does, I do the same.

     The computer screens were filled by the endless legal terms. People like you and I can recognise only 'figures' and 'rupees in words' of those relentless scrolling lines on the screens. They were all preparing the legal documents required to sale or rent a property. The place was filled with lawyers and their clients - who ranged from a student to a builder. But they all were the same for the operators. They were filling the blank spaces with names, amounts and a number of years (in case of a rental agreement). The exact same straight face for any amount or any name may it be a celebrity or a political leader or a student. So, my friend was one of the names in those blank spaces. That gave me a change to be present at such holy place.

     There was a post middle aged man sitting in a corner with a (once) black blazer like the lawyers wear. But this one was really worn out, both the man and his coat as a matter of fact. He had a small desk in front of him. A sly looking young man was slouching over the table by standing beside him. He was flipping through the pages and the lawyer was designing his precious signature at the designated places, almost mechanically. Once the document was finished signing, the prompt assistant would calculate the total based on the number of signatures. So, his signature came with a cost. He was a notary officer. He was authorised to sign those documents and he was charging his professional fees.

     During his signing spree, one of the documents was missing the signature of a certain party. It broke the chain of his signatures. He pointed out it to the assistant without uttering a word. The assistant was smart enough to understood it quickly. He was a mediator, so he politely asked the party to make a signature at the said place. The poor party dressed in branded clothes didn't have a pen. So, he asked for one directly to the notary officer. If looks could kill, the well dressed man would have been listening to his eulogy by then. The near sixty, harmless looking face of the officer changed into a fierce warrior they show in the old Chinese Kung Fu movies. He pierced his eyes in the man's eyes. For a second, he must have thought he was doing a grave mistake by buying or selling that property. But it was not about his property. It was about the property of the one who was staring fiercely at him, the notary officer. He looked up at his assistant with his forehead webbed in frowns. The assistant was calm, may be seasoned by the scene. It was Vishy who came for the rescue. He immediately held the latest addition to his collection in front of that man.

     The party was soaking in sweat. He signed in a jiffy. The job was done. He left by paying whatever the assistant had asked for. I am sure he must have charged him more for asking for pen. It was our turn next. But, the officer got up from his place and left. That was the time, he had decided to take a break. That's what the assistant told us while checking for all the necessary signatures on our document.

     'So, what was it all about?' I asked him.

     'Tomorrow, you would ask for his liver,' he said without even looking at us. There was nothing attractive in our faces as compared to those signatures.

     Vishy and I looked at each other. I have been always teasing him for carrying pens like a school boy. But it paid off today. He was smiling and I was relieved, thank god I was nothing to do with this signature thing. I was not carrying any pen.

     'What's the big deal about a pen?' Vishy - the epitome of generosity - was genuinely surprised. Forget a pen, I am sure he wouldn't hesitate even for a second before lending his Audi.

     'This is not a pen we are talking about,' I remembered the man saying. I was transported to the past by sitting on that pen.

     Now I was in Kolhapur. At a similar kind of place - a then NGO. In fact the activities were similar, but not the operations. They were the days when there were no computers, hardly any typewriters. Pen was still a useful tool and papers were still a commodity to be associated by the act of writing and not only printing.

     My father had bought a house in Kolhapur and we were all at a property registration facilitator's office. I was small. I remember the lawyer who was working out our agreement with the seller, took us there. So, we were there at that little office crammed with people, desks and a typewriter. Even today, these offices are essentially clumsy, so was that office then. Hence, I was dying to escape that place. But it was right on the main road. So, my parents weren't allowing me to go out alone. They showed my father and the other party some drafts and got them approved. Once everything was settled, we were asked to go to the next level.

     The whole procession of 8-10 men, women and a child (that was me, yay) led by our advocate, marched towards an old building nearby. This building was an ancillary to the main registration office. Utilities had peeled off the aesthetic charm of that structure. All three stories of that commercial place. The shabbily painted signboards were shouting the existence of stamp vendors, advocates, notary officers, copiers and every other thing that would require for the registration of the property dealings. There were ancillaries even to them. A corner of the lobby was occupied by a tea stall. There was a table sat in another corner where an old man was selling a common man's energy food such as tobacco, cigarettes and paans, the residues of which were present on the walls and the corner spaces on the stairs. Parties, lawyers and agents were either drinking their miseries with a strong cup of tea or were chewing & spitting the gossips with every dose of well mixed tobacco or sending their frustrations wrapped in the grey blue smoke.

     Our group crossed a long verandah and reached to a staircase. I started climbing up assuming that we were supposed to go up. But our leader stopped me and he went into a tiny alley made by the stairs and the wall. Living upto the reputation (and may be the eligibility criteria), this one was also a crammed space, this makeshift office. There was a group of village people standing awestruck. They were covering the entrance of that small set up, engrossed watching something intently. Their lawyer was impatiently waiting outside and urging them to reach to the main office for the registration. He greeted our lawyer exasperatedly like 'as if this guy is a hero and we are his attendants'. Our lawyer too replied with the same expression. It must have been a common reason of their frustration apart from the pain of the other procedures in registrations itself. Now, I became curious. What exactly this place was doing to the papers that people were so much in awe and who made the lawyers jealous?

     I, being a child, had an advantage. So, I tried to penetrate through the wall created by the white clad villagers to catch a glimpse of the centre of attraction. But I couldn't pass them as the group disbursed. The spectacle was over it seemed. Their lawyer took charge of the documents. He checked them thoroughly and he started to leave. He was expecting the others to pay and follow him. But the villagers stood there chatting and admiring while paying. Finally, the group left after much insistence of their lawyer. And I saw him. I wondered what it could be in the heaven's sake this man possesses that he had a spellbound audience for the past half or more hour.

     His white chicken kurta and pajama was spotless even though his mouth was full with the paan juice. His beard was neatly manicured and the grey streaks were peeping occasionally. He was sitting on a mattress that was kept atop a setty with a small squat desk in front of him. He was looking like some seth at the Market Yard by his appearance. His big bright eyes spoke before he opened his mouth. Obviously, he couldn't speak even if he opened his mouth, because he did it to empty his paan juice and residues. He got up from the seat and went out. He smiled broadly on his return and greeted our lawyer, 'Namaskar Saheb!!'.

     Our lawyer too greeted and described the job. I still hadn't any clue of what he does. The elders with me probably had or they were keeping mum to keep their fists closed being the grown-ups. He was all set. He took the papers in his hands. Then he opened his desk and took out a thin stack of pale green blank papers matching the size and the colour of a revenue stamp paper. And then he took out a black pen as thick as a flute. He opened the cap and then opened the ink tank. He started pouring the ink from the Camel ink bottle. He knew the exact quantity of ink the pen can store and he actually required. He stopped even before it was fully filled. He closed the pen by the other half and capped the bottle. It seemed to be a ritual before starting a new job. He was now ready with for his show.

     He sat with one leg crossed on the mattress and the other one down on a small stool kept on the ground. He took the stack of blank papers in front of him and placed the stamp paper on top of it. He kept the reference document to his left. He took out a paan from his pouch and popped it. Then he stared at the papers in front of him for almost thirty seconds while we all were watching, curiously. I saw a few of us covering their smirks. He opened his eyes and uncapped the pen. The brass nib shone. It was a fountain pen. He put it on the stamp paper and began his magic with that black wand. First he wrote the names of the parties. The stamp paper that bore a standard stamp and some scribbling in the name of receipt by the stamp vendor. Now, it started looking like a love letter when our guy wrote the first word - the name of one of the parties. It was just the beginning and what followed next described me of the spell that he took all of us under. The stamp paper and the blank paper underneath and the next and the next... every paper began to look like a beautifully printed document.

     That was the very reason he had been admired and demanded. He was a genius writer. Writer not like an author, but more like a typewriter, a human copier. He was gifted. The calligraphically written words on the paper were equal in height and breadth. Each letter was spaced out like a programmed one. And his handwriting on tip of it! It was something one would call a human marvel. So beautiful and neat! A stunning piece of art. He was a true super star of his work. He went on writing ahead, so focused and so patient. The world around seemed evaporated to him. His concentration and consistency were paying off in the form of lines after lines filled with beautiful looking words and that with not a single error, thought though all of them were legal terminology. It was a lovely treat to watch, this man sitting there and writing while others watching intently. He was obviously used to the praises. But now, he was at work and he was not ready to pay attention to them. Our lawyer suggested that that would take an hour or two, so he would be back by finishing his other work. The elders decided to have some food in the meantime. I didn't want to leave. In fact nobody wanted to. But we had to.

     He was still writing even when we returned. I was happy that I could watch it for some more time. In fact, I was also advised to learn some tricks to improved my handwriting which was not less than an alien code language. I myself was seriously considering to learn though. We were even told that even the government officers or the judges used to send their special letters to him for converting them into masterpieces. Finally, he capped his pen like a warrior puts his sword back in the scabbard after a victory and he got up to empty his mouth. That was the indication that he must have finished. He handed over the papers to our lawyer who was checking them by now. And the genius writing artist was busy accepting praises from us. He was no less than a star to me. The lawyer approved the documents. It was the time to sign. My father signed first and then the other party and they went to discuss something with the lawyer. It was my mother who was supposed to sign as a witness. But she didn't have the pen and she asked it to the writer. And that was it.

     'I can't give you my pen, sorry,' he said politely.

     'But, it's a matter of a signature, a mere word,' my mother pleaded.

     'No Didi,' his tone was still polite, 'I can't. That's my pen.'

     A pen was a pen. So, what was the big deal? Even I thought so and so as everyone else. But he kept on refusing. Now, my mother and the wife of the other party got irritated by this attitude. He wasn't arrogant at all. In fact he was having pen refusing my mother's request. He was also saying that unfortunately he didn't have a spare pen. But he insisted said that he couldn't lend his own.

     Now, that was getting awkward. Finally, my father came and the ladies made their signatures. But the good vibes turned into sour by this incident. The artist sensed it and he explained.

     'It's my Laxmi, my only tool to earn my livelihood. I have trained it for the purpose. I can't let it bungled.'

     That was the last thing one could hear. But he explained to us further. As per his experience, fountain pens have nibs that take the shape of your handwriting. That one had been trained and shaped to suit his handwriting. So, if my mother or the other lady used it, it would lose its shape, was his defense. This was strange. He was a writing artist, a handwriting master who loved his profession and was possessive of the tool of his livelihood. We left the place after paying him. I still remember that guilt for the inconvenience caused by his adamant attitude. But he looked helpless.

     Years passed by and even today my father and I joke about it sometimes. This incidence of possessiveness about a pen surfaced again after that Notary officer's outburst at this facilitator. Though everyone found it strange the way we did at the artist in Kolhapur, I had sympathy for the Notary officer. He must have his reasons for being possessive of his pen.

     'What's so big deal about a pen?'

     I looked around at the computer operators filling the blank spaces on the screens with names, addresses and amounts relentlessly and the printers churning out the pale green papers satiated with neatly organised sentences full of legal terminologies. It somehow reminded me the writing artist. He must be old by now. But computers started taking over right after five or six years since we bought our house. So, what must have happened to that master writer, who took pride in his art? He was a professional who used to love the sight of people surrounding him while he was engrossed in turning the unrecognisable legal documents into masterpieces. Was he too compelled to learn a computer? He had to, I guessed. Otherwise how could have survived? That was his only source of income. Every time I went to Kolhapur, I thought of visiting the place to see that old building and that star human copier. But I didn't dare to. I couldn't see him typing on a keyboard or taking out copies on a printer. I couldn't see the pain in his big bright eyes of parting his most favourite tool.

     The fact that I didn't have courage to see him without his trained fountain pen.

Friends n Foes

     Shatru (a foe) is an antonym to Mitra (a friend) in Marathi. Abir, my son, had to write it as an answer in his mid-term examination. He wrote 'I don't know' as an answer, because he simply didn't know. He should have known, but didn't. There's a lesson about this strange human relation in the text books and he must have forgotten. Then I thought how wonderful it is if we don't know the antonym of a friend! What if a foe didn't exist at all?

     Abir is now eight years old and he might have known the opposite of friends. He might have forgotten during the exams. But I feel like he does not know the term a rival or an enemy. Kids don't have foes among their friends of their age. They might think us, the parents, as their enemies which they confirm once they enter into their adolescence. (Well, that's fate!) Recently, I reacted harshly to some of his mischiefs. He didn't expect my such reaction at all. It took me a moment or two to realise what I had done. But the damage was done already and I could read it in his innocent eyes. They started welling up. But his ego didn't permit them to flow down. I felt so miserable of myself at that time. Laden with guilt, I tried to be over nice at that time. My wife understood this and she started the talking. He was not ready to meet my eyes. I thought it was because he was angry and that was right too. But I was wrong. It was an attempt to hide tears from me which I realised later on. After a couple of sentences he was back to normal, smiling and jovial once again. But I was still in a shock and guilt. I was still in that damage control and repair mode. Now, he was perfectly alright. Sans any grudges, without any hatred. It was me who felt of his resentments. I was scared of what if he hated me.

     I remembered myself as a child. I had plenty of friends and space to let the childhood imaginations wild, back in a small town in Konkan. When I was around Abir's age, I had a fight with one of my best friends during the first short break. We used to have 2-3 breaks if I remember correctly. It was a huge fight. A physical fight. A fight fight. Fists. Kicks. And even belts. We both were hit real bad. We had to be separated by other friends only when they realised that they had enough fun. Finally, it was over. My friend and I used to sit side by side. But we sat separately that day and didn't talk. In fact we talked through others.

     There was a drawing period, after the break and my friend was damn good at it. Even our teachers used to admire his drawing. On the contrary, I was a kind of artist who had to give a little description if I drew even a sunrise scene. So, as usual I had nothing much to do. I was trying hard to draw something that could be recognised at least, not a masterpiece though. And my friend was drawing fabulously as always. He had this magic in his hands. A pencil in his hand would do wonders when it touched a paper. He was at it, bringing alive those dead pieces of stainless steel in a weird installation put on the table.

     We used to sit on the ground back then. There were no benches. It was an ideal thing to sit down at least for a drawing class. Our teacher told us to draw that form and disappeared the way he used to. I hadn't much to do once I finished my drawing, which took place exactly in seven minutes. I put my paper down and looked around. I had partners in this crime. It was all as usual. They were also done as I did. My friend was still drawing like he was meditating. He was totally into it. Engrossed. He had a style of drawing such things. He would stare long at the form kept on the table, as if reading it, absorbing it, being one with it and then suddenly he would put his pencil on paper. Then he would hardly look up. He used to finish it from start to end without looking at the model. Then he would turn to his colours once he's finished with his pencil.

     That day too he was drawing with full focus on the paper and pencil. His pencil was literally dancing on some rhythm. That was a wonderful sight to watch. I always used to watch it. How can someone be so into something? Most of us used to look at drawing as just another subject. I was watching him that day too. He was drawing intensely with all his attention. There was a boy passing stumbled upon something and fell on our friend who was drawing. It not only broke his rhythm, but his pencil too was forced to detour on the paper and there was a long awkward black line on his nearly perfect drawing as a cruel scar on a face. The boy who stumbled upon laughed at the drawing and that was it. We (yes including me), who already had finished our drawings, started hitting that boy. Suddenly, the teacher came, so we had to put our fists into our sheaths. Everything seemed back to normal to the teacher. He asked us to wind up soon and again he went out. Now, our artist friend erased the wrong line and finished his drawing. I was so happy. I congratulated him. He accepted it gracefully. The drawing period was over soon. During the next break we, I, the friend with whom I had a fight and also the one who laughed at my friend's drawing, were all playing Kabaddi as a part of the same team. We didn't even remember what had happen among us a while ago on the same day.

     There might be many such incidents of our childhood, I don't even remember. All of us, even you, must have such fights with our friends. The best part of my fight was I never felt, even once, that he nor the other guy was my foe. Everyone was a friend back then. The only difference was we had a fight. That's all!

     It was a reminder again with these incidents with my son that every bad emotion is temporary at his age. The best part is there's no apologies and forgiveness. It's all unsaid. It's all approved. They have their katti-battis. They decide not to talk to someone for a while. But for that, they take the consent of the person whom they decide not to talk and then again they both agree upon when to talk. When ego inflates then people start to think that they are bigger to others. Then the problem starts. We don't want to talk to our friends unless they want to talk to us. We start assuming more and talk less. We hardly go up to them and ask the reason, instead we imagine and moreover confirm the reasons of non-talking.

     It's not with animals. They don't fight. They don't avenge. They kill other animal because it's their food. They would die if they didn't. But we humans capture that struggle for survival in our cameras and brand them as a war. We enjoy that so called war as our primetime entertainment. Survival and peace are two aspects and both of them exist as our natural instinct. That might be the reason these two emotions are predominantly found in children. But slowly they fade as we grow up like they had shown in Inside Out.(Watch that movie by the way. Amazing!)

     Abir tells about the fun at his school. He keeps on losing his erasers, pencils or his Poke-cards. But he never blames his friends. There're races, but no competitions. There are winners, but no losers. Childhood is pure. Innocent. Then what happened to us, adults? Has our education really rotten our minds? Why can't there be friends all over and not foes at all? What if we fight and then forget about it? Why can't we be just children all the time and not adults, at all? What if all were mitras & none of us had shatrus?

My dirty cheap life

The biggest villain of Indian mythology must be having identity crisis when the world heard of some 5 or 7 headed cobras.

I seriously hoped of bumping into some alien during his regular visit to our planet. At the same time I started wondering about the dumb ass scientists at all the space centres of the world that why don’t they make a flying saucer for their space missions? Why rocket?

Let me tell you, I didn’t step out the whole day when the sun was most fierce and ready to hunt me down with its deadliest ultraviolet rays on a particular day.

I religiously followed and spent a fortune on further medical treatment when I tried hundreds of sure shot homemade remedies to lose weight and constipation. It almost made me a doctor now and seriously thinking of recover my money by giving a consultancy.

I didn’t know that I was working hard to help all the other economies but India.

I didn’t know all the celebrities have so much time to draft a very long letter to me about our culture, dangers of the society and many other.

I almost believed that the new 2000 and 500 rupees currency notes have a GPS chip. I was so hoping to hand them over to some of my defaulter clients so that the government could catch them. Alas!

I was seriously scared to take shit after eating Kurkure. What if the toilet pipe got jammed due to its plastic contents.

And I had to scrap my newly written script with a heavy heart in which the heroine took her revenge by giving Frooti to her rapists. Because I got inspired by the news of the soft beverage containing of HIV positive blood.

I started sweeping the floor in my office hoping that someday I would also become the prime minister when I saw a particular b/w picture of NaMo sweeping the floor. It’s true, no big dreams or good morphing artists for the middle class.

I didn’t eat and let anyone at home eat Chinese food for one whole week when NaMo himself appealed to ban Chinese. I read his signature too. It’s different that I had to eat it on next 5 weekends as a part of my son’s revenge on me when I found out that the PM gave a statement about that letter which was not a fake one.

I started admiring the hotshot leaders at the G-20 Summit being carefully listened by other big shot leaders only to be found out later that almost every country has its version of its respective leader in the middle and all others are listening to him or her.

I also mourned on the death of many actors and famous personalities for several days and later found them attending the TV shows or an award function.

I have been signing for more than 30 times to make our national anthem as the best anthem of the world. I am wondering when I still see it’s coming back to me for voting.

I was about to file a petition to form a force by combining all the God-men together so that our army could be given some well deserve break. These God-men and women could outpower the bombings, deadliest weapons and radio signal systems by sitting in their luxurious dens or having a private satsangs with their shishyagans.

I have seen the deadliest animals caring the weakest ones, part animal-part human, the golden temple in Amritsar lit with the lanterns, a shark on the streets during a hurricane and what not. I have learnt new and amusing facts in my 10 years life on social media.

I recently came to know how delicate our sentiments are and how people can kill over a simple message.

People!! Wake up!! They are making fools out of us and we are feeding their evil wills.

Nobody’s going to die for not forwarding a message. There are no aliens visiting the earth, no 5 headed snakes or no prime minister (no matter how powerful they are) could outrightly ban something and definitely on social media.

It’s called hoax and we Indians are the biggest victims.

Guys, internet is full of such fake news. Check Google and you’ll come to know the facts about it. Don’t spread any hoax news and don’t be a part of a big scams. We are a country with different cultures seamlessly weaved together. Let’s not destroy it. Nobody hates anybody so much that we are compelled to believe. Try and check the fact before sharing anything.

There are people who are putting Facebook and WhatsApp for good and productive use. Let’s not become someone who’s using the social media for some destructive cause.

Cheap internet doesn’t mean cheap mentality. Don’t get your hands dirty with such horrible game of fake news.

Please keep in mind that not everyone is as smart to identify the hoax news from real news. Please help them understand. People are dying because of such fake news. This is really getting serious. Nobody’s ego or purpose is bigger than someone’s life. Please don’t become a medium to spread such false message and create chaos.

We have lawmakers and law keepers at place. You are not the only one who’s responsibility to save this country. The leaders today are competent enough and so were the yesteryears’. They all must to follow a system that has been set by our constitution. The country is not run on our whims and fancies. They have better think tanks and data analysts than we are. Let alone the politics. Let’s accept that the country has progressed in these years of independence.

And who’s giving you this gyan? Those who keep on sending about honesty find every single occasion to jump the signals? Those who advice about taking care of their parents leave them at the old age homes? Or those who curse the independence day because it’s a dry day? Don’t let your social life affected by the Social media. Use it wisely. Use it carefully.

Above all our ancient culture, religious sentiments, all the gods, saints and the historic personalities are and were great. They are not so vulnerable that could be hurt or be maligned by mere words by some lunatics. You don’t be a vehicle to transcend some idiotic messages. They could act as as a wildfire.

Let’s be united and fight the grave danger of social media. Let’s be a great nation beyond hatred, castism, communal differences and politics.

Laxmi’s Padgiri

“Thak thak thak thak.... thak thak thak thak...”

Something was punching in my ears in my dreams, I thought for a moment. There was again that irritating thumps penetrated into my head. I thought I was still feeling the sound that was deafening me in the back of the tempo I had travelled the last evening. It took a while to realise that it was not a hallucination or dream.

“thak thak thak thak.... thak thak thak thak...”

The sound bounced in a desperate loop. It was someone on the door. I had heard of peculiar ways of treating people in Pune, but definately did not expect this fashion. So, that’s how we were greeted on our first morning in Pune. But that wasn’t it as something more weird was ready to welcome us in the then emerging metro.

We had shifted our belongings a night ago and yet to place them. That was hardly a space to live as compared to our previous house. But that was it. We were dog tired and crashed out like ice bears the last night. So, it took a couple of moments for both of us to figure out what exactly was going on.

That was something to remember. Afterall, that was the first knock on our new house. In fact, it was a big thump and not a knock. Well begun is half done! I half opened the door to face a furious female face with a big red bindi and underneath it was a pair of eyes shooting out a truck load of anger at me.

“Where’s your wife?” she shouted.

She was right behind me, my wife. She also was taken aback with the dreadful style of welcoming someone in the neighbourhood. I was a bit relieved as my wife, trying as awake as possible, took the charge from me.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Are you having your periods?”

“What?” We both screamed at once. What a way to break the ice! As if take an aim at the iceberg with an excavating machine and boom... make a tunnel. The entire heap of an iceberg is churned into flakes the next moment.

“Are you on with your periods?” The lady was asking in a Marathi dialect. Still, the content prevented us from understanding the meaning, concern and purpose.

“N..n..No.. why?”

“Then it is ok. Let me tell you that our gods don’t allow us and they’ll punish you if you do.”

“What? What for?”

“Let me finish, you’ll be punished by our gods if you throw that f**** cotton in the trash.”

What cotton? What trash? What gods? Why punishment?

Did we commit a blunder by coming to Pune? Is cotton not allowed here?

“Who are you?” my wife seemed to be sorted and brave than me.

“Laxmi... I am a trash collector for your building. You are not supposed to throw your dirty cotton in the trash. Everyone knows here.”

Now, we realised. Not me of couse. My wife realised it first. The girly talk you know. Laxmi was the garbage collector and she found some ‘dirty cotton’ in her basket. She was referring to a stained sanitary napkin. And someone told her that we were the new ones in the housing society, so she thought it might be us who pushed her towards the sins.

“But it doesn’t seem like if you are telling the truth.” And she stormed out of our baffled faces. I was sure she left us to find the culprit and appeal to her gods.

We looked at eachother after closing the door and then we exploded laughing. What was that? We asked eachother, but quickly realised the horrible feeling of Laxmi, the garbage collector, to pick some other woman’s menstrual blood in her hands to dispose off just because she was poor. This happened almost 17 years ago in a suburb in Pune.

That was my first encounter with this situation of sanitary pads. I didn’t have any sister, so I really never needed to face this issue. And we were living in a small village where this thing was a good taboo. The pads met me only after my marriage. But still, I never realised the grave problem till the time I met Laxmi in Pune. Lakshmi never had to wear this scary Avatar against us as we were threatened enough not to throw the ‘dirty cotton’ in her garbage basket. But then where to throw them? That question stayed with me for many days later on.

Slowly, the struggles of life overpowered the sensitivity towards social issues and I almost forgot that incident till the last year. There was a small effort taken by the Pune Municipal Corporation to add some respect to the profession of a waste collector. It was an initiative in association with an NGO called RED DOT. It was a campaign of the same name. The organisation had asked the women to wrap the used pads in the multiple layers of the newspaper and seal it with the adhesive tape, make a big red dot on it to differentiate. This waste would be collected in a separate baskets by the collectors and the PMC workers would pick and the organisation would dispose them. It was such a great initiative. I don’t know if it’s still on. Then, there are some efforts taken by the BJP led central government where they made it compulsory for the manufacturers to provide a leak proof pouch with every napkin. This at least helped to stop leakages and stains in the garbage. At least they don’t have to see what they are picking though they know that it’s there somewhere in the piles of garbage.

The internet is filled with the dangers of sanitary pads and their disposing problems. I read somewhere that the plastic and the chemicals are so hazardous to the environment that these non-biodegradable materials could stay for 800 years. It’s like leaving our sins to be repaid by our future generations if they survive from the extinction during these years.

There’s hardly any change in the situation of the waste collectors in last 17 years, may it be a female or a male. Many residential societies have male garbage collectors. The modern and educated women, living there, hardly have awareness about this issue. Moreover they also don’t have any choice but to throw the sanitary napkins in the garbage. The problem is still more with the offices where women work.

Definitely, we need to give more and more women access to their basic rights of celebrating womanhood. But still, the problem might remain the same. What about the disposal of the pads?

There are disposable sanitary napkins also available, but they are not in everybody’s reach. And there are a few locally made disposable napkin brands that are not much preferred by the women. The other options like menstrual cups need more awareness in India. It’s a one-time investment. Using cotton cloths like old days is not possible for a working woman in a metro. So, all they can do is to rely on the easily available brands over the counter.

And let’s not forget that it’s not only about sanitary napkins. The same sad story tags the baby and adult diapers. There are not enough facilities to collect them and dispose them properly. That too without causing any harm to the environment.

Today, the celebrities are posting their pictures on the social media holding a new and unused sanitary pad in their hands and tearing the shame out of it. We all know that it’s about the movie PAD MAN. It’s a promotional drive. The movie is based on the inspiring greatness of the real life padman - Arunachalam Muruganantham. This might be a real good entertainer, may be a message driven flick. A few lakhs of deprived women might get their honour and they might start using this hygienic option. The leading actor Akshay Kumar might get another national award for this. The director R. Balki may get praises and Mr. Muruganantham certainly will get the deserved bows. Unfortunately, this will fizzle out, barring the exception of Mr. Arunachalam Muruganantham, with the next big release. People will start with new drives and campaigns and worships.

Mr. Muruganantham is no doubt a pad man. He deserves such honour and acknowledgement. But there are many pad men and women around us who are doing equally great job. They don’t ask for a pat on their backs or an honour with an award. All they need is some respect.

I am not an expert on this who has done all the scientific research to come up with solutions. I am a commoner like you who can think. So, please spread a word and see if someone extra-ordinary among us come up with a respectable solution for our garbage collectors so that no Laxmi needs to wear a mask of false anger to hide her shame.

Dre's impatience and Mr. Han's lessons

‘What did you learn?’ mom asks.

‘Nothing...’ he says frustratingly by putting his jacket on the holder of a coat rack standing in a corner and he goes inside. The mother watches him go and then looks at the jacket on the holder. ‘Is this my son?’ she keeps wondering as he goes inside. That is the first time he has tucked his jacket perfectly up on the rack after returning home. He does this exceptional thing and yet he says that he has learnt nothing. Isn’t that something he has earned and he doesn’t even know?

There’s this scene from the famous Hollywood movie ‘Karate Kid’ starring Jackie Chan (Mr. Han) and the little Jaden Smith (Dre) on the television and there is this scene where the little boy, Dre is pissed off at his supposedly kung fu teacher, Mr. Han. The khadoos teacher makes him take off his jacket and put it on a holder and then again taking it off from there and wear and then repeat. He does it for whole evening where as he keeps on hoping to learn some instant kung fu tactics and could use them against the guys bullying him. But the poker faced master goes on this tiring ritual in the name of teaching that he couldn’t realise the reason. He starts following the instructions, uninterestingly first and unknowingly later. Mr. Han doesn’t teach him Kun Fu. Instead, he teaches him a much needed lesson of life, discipline.  And in the process, the boy learns some patience too.

So, when Dre returns home from the first day of training and puts his jacket neatly on the hook, it surprises his mom and what surprises more is him saying ‘I don’t know’. Here, Dre is lucky to have such a teacher though he couldn’t delve the meaning then. But not everyone among us share his luck. Still, each and everyone knows the story of Ekalvya from Mahabharat. Yet we prefer to ignore.

Life gives us lessons. Some become the signposts while other go unnoticed. They don’t leave any visible mark, yet they have their meager existence. In the philosophical words ‘life is a training session that ends with us.’ This might be the reason why people take it for granted. Nobody likes a nagging teacher around. We tend to ignore the lessons even though we know we are being taught. Ekalavya’s story ends with him losing his thumb. We all remember that.

Therefore, people might be saying that life screws us all. It takes its toll. Folks, life is not a social media enthuasiast that will troll you. We get screw only when we ignore a lesson taught by life. In other words we get punished for not learning from the lesson we call a mistake.

Nobody is sent perfect in this world. The person achieves so, will become god. And this world still belongs to humans, barring a few self proclaimed gods or messengers of gods. We are allowed to do mistakes. In fact we are bound to err and that’s what makes us humans. But we should keep on learning from them.

Some, take learning for losing courage. They cage their hopes inside a shell and never let their aspirations fly again after one failure. Well, that’s a wrong perception of learning from mistakes. One needs to outperform self and shine again. We are allowed to fail again, but with a new mistake. Repeating  a mistake is a crime or it’s like you punishing yourself over and again. Losing heart is not a solution to your mistake, but winning a mistake is.

We all are like little Dre from the movie ‘Karate Kid’ and our Mr. Han is invisible who is at the job of training us. There are people who still have hopes from us like Dre’s mother from the movie. There’s never the end to hope till it actually ends. Better we start putting our coats perfectly on the hangers. This might begin to set our lives on the right paths.

Mistakes are occasional. Learning is eternal.

Shhh..Halt. Sue. Ban. Crush.

Finally, it’s Padmavat and not Padmavati!

I was hoping that the letters would go on receding if the objections continued. Then, it would come down to Padmav and then might be Padma. And then SLB could sue Balki for copyright that he copied 90% of SLB’s film title. Balki just added ‘n’ and made a Padman out of it. Oh! Balki, SLB fans would have protested and your film also could be halted. By the way if Padma was reduced to Pad or further to Pa, don’t forget Balki has already claimed the title - Pa. So, he could have been sued once more.

Shhh..Halt. Sue. Ban. Crush.

Well god bless R. Balki, one of the finest filmmakers, who fortunately haven’t seen any such bans on his films. Wish it would be the same case with SLB who always likes to land in controversies. I think Bhansali must be brain storming with his team before picking up a subject for his films and then must be selecting the ones that is the most controversial of the lot. Deepika and Ranveer like to play the characters that are supposedly historic and SLB likes to play with the characters.

I don’t think he would even consider a script that is plain, simple, message driven and entertaining. Potential of controversy must have been a base eligibility for a subject to be made into a film by SLB. He’s a seasoned one by now. He has this habit of modifying history. There are people who make the history and some who change it. Bhansali along with his opponents fall on the latter category and many will share their quality in our country.

Shhh..Halt. Sue. Ban. Crush.

The government must be seriously thinking of keeping two history books in the school courses - one that is supposedly original and another that is modified or interpreted (for the intellectuals and the fools). And the second book could be like an open source operating system. Anyone can go on adding, editing and modifying as per their desire. People in our country have already distributed the claims of the gods, kings and saints among themselves. And if someone tries to speak against their will?

Shhh..Halt. Sue. Ban. Crush.

By the way, we have an addition to the league of oral scientists. Oral is nothing to do with the organ mouth here. It’s about the tongue dangles inside their mouths which they use absence of thoughts. Real scientists give their lifetime to a single discovery and here we have this new kind who keep on discovering new theories at the drop of a hat (or topis?) Dear Darvin, you were wrong. We were not evolved from monkeys. But we are the ones even now.

That is why we go on aping the cap sellers even today. We halt, sue, ban or crush anything if they tell us. We are told to believe that our prides and faiths are so vulnerable that they can be hurt by anything and everything. We don’t even bother to recheck or even know the fact. We follow our cap merchants blindly. We are still the apes or we are going back to become one. There must be time somewhere we were still human. Sadly, not now.

Shhh..Halt. Sue. Ban. Crush.

Let’s hope the newest outing of SLB - Padmavat - turns out to be different than his habit. But all we can do is to hope. He’s even altered the proverb now, Jaisi bharni, waisi karni.

Shhh..Halt. Sue. Ban. Crush.