Sometimes some things happen because they ought to happen.
My best friend is no more a best friend. I met him few weeks before and I found a completely different person standing in front of me. He looked straight through me, as if I do not exist! I consoled myself somehow and decided to move on. Just one stupid mistake and I lost him completely!
Quite the reverse, happened with my other friends. I never realized our friendship would turn into a beautiful bond. But, the buds of our friendship are blooming gently.
I hope this spring lasts forever!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Every Slumdog has a million dollar story!
I've no words to blog about this article. Please read it yourself to know the truth... the bitter truth!
Man Bites ‘Slumdog’
Don't let the movie mislead you: there are no fairy-tale endings for most of India's street kids. I was one of them myself.
NEWSWEEK From the magazine issue dated Mar 2, 2009
On the way to see "Slumdog Millionaire" in Kolkata, I had my cabdriver pass through the slum district of Tangra. I lived there more than 35 years ago, when I was in my late teens, but the place has barely changed. The cab threaded a maze of narrow lanes between shacks built from black plastic and corrugated metal. Scrawny men sat outside, chewing tobacco and spitting into the dirt. Naked children defecated in the open, and women lined up at the public taps to fetch water in battered plastic jerry cans. Everything smelled of garbage and human waste. I noticed only one difference from the 1960s: a few huts had color TVs.
I still ask myself how I finally broke out. Jamal, the slumdog in Danny Boyle's award-winning movie, did it the traditional cinematic way, via true love, guts and good luck. People keep praising the film's "realistic" depiction of slum life in India. But it's no such thing. Slum life is a cage. It robs you of confidence in the face of the rich and the advantaged. It steals your pride, deadens your ambition, limits your imagination and psychologically cripples you whenever you step outside the comfort zone of your own neighborhood. Most people in the slums never achieve a fairy-tale ending.
I was luckier than Jamal in this way: I was no orphan. My parents came from relatively prosperous families in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), but the newlywed couple lost practically everything in the sectarian riots that led up to India's independence. They fled to Patna, the capital of northeastern India's Bihar state, where I was born a few years later. The first of my five sisters was born there in a rat-infested hut one rainy night when I was 3. My father was out of town, working as a construction laborer 100 miles away. My mother sent me with my 6-year-old brother to fetch the midwife, an opium-smoking illiterate. The baby was born before we got back, so the midwife just cut the umbilical cord with a razor blade and left. My mother spent the rest of the night trying to find a spot where the roof wouldn't leak on the newborn.
My parents got us out of the slums three years later. My father landed a job as a petty clerk with a construction firm that was building a dam, and we found a home. It was only a single rented room, but it was better than anything we had in Patna. I went to school nearby. Sometimes a teacher dozed off in class, and a few of us would sneak out the window to steal ripe guavas from a nearby orchard. If we got caught we could count on being caned in front of our classmates. Sometimes it would peel the skin off our backs. By my early teens I was running with a local gang. Membership was my source of confidence, security and excitement. We stole from shopkeepers and farmers, extorted money from truckers and fought against rivals for turf. Many of my pals came from broken families with drunken fathers or abusive stepmothers. Their big dream was to get a job—any job—with the dam-building firm.
Those days ended abruptly when we challenged a rival gang whose members had teased some girls on our turf. Both sides suffered serious injuries before police arrived to break it up. My parents didn't try to stop me from fleeing town. I made my way to Ranchi, a small city then in southern Bihar. I took on a new name and holed up in a squalid neighborhood. A local tough guy befriended me. He and his partners liked to waylay travelers at night. He always kept me away from his holdups, but he fed me when I had no other food. I also fell in with a group of radical leftists. I didn't care much about ideology, but they offered the sense of belonging I used to get from my old street gang. I spent the next five years moving from one slum to another, always a step ahead of the police. For money I took odd jobs like peddling newspapers and washing cars.
I might have spent the rest of my life in the slums or in prison if not for books. By the time I was 6, my parents had taught me to read and write Bengali. Literature gave me a special refuge. With Jack London (in translation) I could be a brave adventurer, and with Jules Verne I could tour the world. I worked my way up to Balzac, Hemingway and Dostoevsky. I finally began teaching myself English with the help of borrowed children's books and a stolen Oxford dictionary. For pronunciation I listened to Voice of America broadcasts and the BBC World Service on a stolen transistor radio. I would get so frustrated I sometimes broke into sobs.
I started hanging around the offices of an English weekly newspaper in Ranchi. Its publisher and editor, an idealistic lawyer-cum-journalist named N. N. Sengupta, hired me as a copy boy and proofreader for the equivalent of about $4 a month. It was there that I met Dilip Ganguly, a dogged and ambitious reporter who was visiting from New Delhi. He came to know that I was living in a slum, suffering from duodenal ulcers. One night he dropped by the office after work and found me visibly ill. He invited me to New Delhi. I said goodbye to my slum friends the next day and headed for the city with him.
In New Delhi I practiced my English on anyone who would listen. I eventually landed an unpaid internship at a small English-language daily. I was delirious with joy. I spent all my waking hours at the paper, and after six months I got a paying job. I moved up from there to bigger newspapers and better assignments. While touring America on a fellowship, I dropped in at NEWSWEEK and soon was hired. That was 25 years ago.
My home now is a modest rented apartment in a gated community in New Delhi. I try to keep in touch with friends from the past. Some are dead; others are alcoholics, and a few have even made good lives for themselves. I've met former slum dwellers who broke out of the cage against odds that were far worse than I faced. Still, most slum dwellers never escape. Neither do their kids. No one wants to watch a movie about that. "Slumdog" was a hit because it throbs with excitement, hope and positive energy. But remember an ugly fact: slums exist, in large part, because they're allowed to exist. Slumdogs aren't the only ones whose minds need to be opened up.
I still ask myself how I finally broke out. Jamal, the slumdog in Danny Boyle's award-winning movie, did it the traditional cinematic way, via true love, guts and good luck. People keep praising the film's "realistic" depiction of slum life in India. But it's no such thing. Slum life is a cage. It robs you of confidence in the face of the rich and the advantaged. It steals your pride, deadens your ambition, limits your imagination and psychologically cripples you whenever you step outside the comfort zone of your own neighborhood. Most people in the slums never achieve a fairy-tale ending.
I was luckier than Jamal in this way: I was no orphan. My parents came from relatively prosperous families in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), but the newlywed couple lost practically everything in the sectarian riots that led up to India's independence. They fled to Patna, the capital of northeastern India's Bihar state, where I was born a few years later. The first of my five sisters was born there in a rat-infested hut one rainy night when I was 3. My father was out of town, working as a construction laborer 100 miles away. My mother sent me with my 6-year-old brother to fetch the midwife, an opium-smoking illiterate. The baby was born before we got back, so the midwife just cut the umbilical cord with a razor blade and left. My mother spent the rest of the night trying to find a spot where the roof wouldn't leak on the newborn.
My parents got us out of the slums three years later. My father landed a job as a petty clerk with a construction firm that was building a dam, and we found a home. It was only a single rented room, but it was better than anything we had in Patna. I went to school nearby. Sometimes a teacher dozed off in class, and a few of us would sneak out the window to steal ripe guavas from a nearby orchard. If we got caught we could count on being caned in front of our classmates. Sometimes it would peel the skin off our backs. By my early teens I was running with a local gang. Membership was my source of confidence, security and excitement. We stole from shopkeepers and farmers, extorted money from truckers and fought against rivals for turf. Many of my pals came from broken families with drunken fathers or abusive stepmothers. Their big dream was to get a job—any job—with the dam-building firm.
Those days ended abruptly when we challenged a rival gang whose members had teased some girls on our turf. Both sides suffered serious injuries before police arrived to break it up. My parents didn't try to stop me from fleeing town. I made my way to Ranchi, a small city then in southern Bihar. I took on a new name and holed up in a squalid neighborhood. A local tough guy befriended me. He and his partners liked to waylay travelers at night. He always kept me away from his holdups, but he fed me when I had no other food. I also fell in with a group of radical leftists. I didn't care much about ideology, but they offered the sense of belonging I used to get from my old street gang. I spent the next five years moving from one slum to another, always a step ahead of the police. For money I took odd jobs like peddling newspapers and washing cars.
I might have spent the rest of my life in the slums or in prison if not for books. By the time I was 6, my parents had taught me to read and write Bengali. Literature gave me a special refuge. With Jack London (in translation) I could be a brave adventurer, and with Jules Verne I could tour the world. I worked my way up to Balzac, Hemingway and Dostoevsky. I finally began teaching myself English with the help of borrowed children's books and a stolen Oxford dictionary. For pronunciation I listened to Voice of America broadcasts and the BBC World Service on a stolen transistor radio. I would get so frustrated I sometimes broke into sobs.
I started hanging around the offices of an English weekly newspaper in Ranchi. Its publisher and editor, an idealistic lawyer-cum-journalist named N. N. Sengupta, hired me as a copy boy and proofreader for the equivalent of about $4 a month. It was there that I met Dilip Ganguly, a dogged and ambitious reporter who was visiting from New Delhi. He came to know that I was living in a slum, suffering from duodenal ulcers. One night he dropped by the office after work and found me visibly ill. He invited me to New Delhi. I said goodbye to my slum friends the next day and headed for the city with him.
In New Delhi I practiced my English on anyone who would listen. I eventually landed an unpaid internship at a small English-language daily. I was delirious with joy. I spent all my waking hours at the paper, and after six months I got a paying job. I moved up from there to bigger newspapers and better assignments. While touring America on a fellowship, I dropped in at NEWSWEEK and soon was hired. That was 25 years ago.
My home now is a modest rented apartment in a gated community in New Delhi. I try to keep in touch with friends from the past. Some are dead; others are alcoholics, and a few have even made good lives for themselves. I've met former slum dwellers who broke out of the cage against odds that were far worse than I faced. Still, most slum dwellers never escape. Neither do their kids. No one wants to watch a movie about that. "Slumdog" was a hit because it throbs with excitement, hope and positive energy. But remember an ugly fact: slums exist, in large part, because they're allowed to exist. Slumdogs aren't the only ones whose minds need to be opened up.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Life's beautiful!
Really busy for last few days, catching up with lots of things as and when possible!
Sunday: Morning
Finally, I managed to wake up at 4:30 in the morning. After giving a nice bath to my car, went for a lovely drive with Mom and Dad.
I saw the place where Dad used to go to study!
Sunday: Evening
Met my very old friends Kedi and Bhagya after a very long time. Have been in touch with Kedi, but met Bhagya after almost three years. Good to see her. She has changed a lot. More confident, more mature, more beautiful. Complete transformation!
Monday:
Kalaghoda festival is on and I had decided to attend as many performances as I can. But, today, I couldn’t. It was my Aatya’s Shraddha today. I thought I would attend the fest and then go for the ceremony. But, then I felt ashamed of myself. I realized Aatya’s Shraaddh is more important than anything.
I miss her a lot… more than any other relative! Thank you mum! It’s cause of you I got lovely Aatya and Aaji. They loved me and cared for me, more than their own kids.
Tuesday: Evening
Thanks to the Kalaghoda crew for giving a platform for young artists and showcasing outstanding performances of professional ones.
Overall good show. But, somehow I feel last year’s installations were much better and well-thought.
Watched ‘Narmade hara hara’ - a beautiful Bharatnatyam performance by Vaibhav Arekar, a man of substance. It won’t be an exaggeration if I say that he had completely devoted his life for revering the art of dancing.
Man! He is graceful yet vigorous! (For a moment, I secretly envied Di for having such reverent guru. How lucky she is!)
Throughout the show, I was admiring him with eyes wide open, not letting a single step miss out. The show got over but, the ghatam and ghungroo were still reverberating in my mind.
Wednesday: Night
I insisted Di to come with me and luckily we got to see another mind-blowing performance of Lasya group, choreographed by Vaibhav Arekar. The piece was titled as “The Collage’, and depicted the life in Mumbai. Wow! It was a beautiful rendition of two classical dance forms – Bharatnatyam and Kathak, juxtaposing moods of morning, afternoon and night in this busy city.
A special standing ovation for:
1. The bus scene
2. The rape scene
3. The jungle scene
4. Reporter getting killed
5. And the aftermath of the terror strike (almost brought a lump to my throat)
And to top it with a cherry, we all went to Mondy’s. We all were hungry and thirsty too! But, I never thought my thirst will be quenched by a glass of red wine. For the first time in my life, I felt the warmth of the red liquid as it was going down my throat.
Wow! I don’t know whether it was the wine, or the music, but I was feeling very special. After all, wine is the most elegant drink. :)
Thursday: Evening
Had a bellylaugh with Di and her gang of girls! Goodness, their jokes are more pakao than mine, only Di could beat them on that!
Friday:
I got a letter saying that my college wants to felicitate me for my academic performance. Wow! Sounds great, isn’t it! I am really looking forward to the ceremony.
Am really happy that in spite of being a brat of the college, in spite of bunking some boring lectures, in spite of passing stupid comments and silly chits during lectures, in spite of spending hours at our good old tapri, in spite of all that back-bitching, college politics, events, tours, friendships both broken and revived… I have EARNED it!!! :)
Wow man! Life’s beautiful… I wish I could just freeze these moments and live them all over again!
Sunday: Morning
Finally, I managed to wake up at 4:30 in the morning. After giving a nice bath to my car, went for a lovely drive with Mom and Dad.
I saw the place where Dad used to go to study!
Sunday: Evening
Met my very old friends Kedi and Bhagya after a very long time. Have been in touch with Kedi, but met Bhagya after almost three years. Good to see her. She has changed a lot. More confident, more mature, more beautiful. Complete transformation!
Monday:
Kalaghoda festival is on and I had decided to attend as many performances as I can. But, today, I couldn’t. It was my Aatya’s Shraddha today. I thought I would attend the fest and then go for the ceremony. But, then I felt ashamed of myself. I realized Aatya’s Shraaddh is more important than anything.
I miss her a lot… more than any other relative! Thank you mum! It’s cause of you I got lovely Aatya and Aaji. They loved me and cared for me, more than their own kids.
Tuesday: Evening
Thanks to the Kalaghoda crew for giving a platform for young artists and showcasing outstanding performances of professional ones.
Overall good show. But, somehow I feel last year’s installations were much better and well-thought.
Watched ‘Narmade hara hara’ - a beautiful Bharatnatyam performance by Vaibhav Arekar, a man of substance. It won’t be an exaggeration if I say that he had completely devoted his life for revering the art of dancing.
Man! He is graceful yet vigorous! (For a moment, I secretly envied Di for having such reverent guru. How lucky she is!)
Throughout the show, I was admiring him with eyes wide open, not letting a single step miss out. The show got over but, the ghatam and ghungroo were still reverberating in my mind.
Wednesday: Night
I insisted Di to come with me and luckily we got to see another mind-blowing performance of Lasya group, choreographed by Vaibhav Arekar. The piece was titled as “The Collage’, and depicted the life in Mumbai. Wow! It was a beautiful rendition of two classical dance forms – Bharatnatyam and Kathak, juxtaposing moods of morning, afternoon and night in this busy city.
A special standing ovation for:
1. The bus scene
2. The rape scene
3. The jungle scene
4. Reporter getting killed
5. And the aftermath of the terror strike (almost brought a lump to my throat)
And to top it with a cherry, we all went to Mondy’s. We all were hungry and thirsty too! But, I never thought my thirst will be quenched by a glass of red wine. For the first time in my life, I felt the warmth of the red liquid as it was going down my throat.
Wow! I don’t know whether it was the wine, or the music, but I was feeling very special. After all, wine is the most elegant drink. :)
Thursday: Evening
Had a bellylaugh with Di and her gang of girls! Goodness, their jokes are more pakao than mine, only Di could beat them on that!
Friday:
I got a letter saying that my college wants to felicitate me for my academic performance. Wow! Sounds great, isn’t it! I am really looking forward to the ceremony.
Am really happy that in spite of being a brat of the college, in spite of bunking some boring lectures, in spite of passing stupid comments and silly chits during lectures, in spite of spending hours at our good old tapri, in spite of all that back-bitching, college politics, events, tours, friendships both broken and revived… I have EARNED it!!! :)
Wow man! Life’s beautiful… I wish I could just freeze these moments and live them all over again!
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