Remembering ‘The Blitz’

Flipping Through my diary 2008 …

 The World of Journalism becomes poorer by the sudden death of Rustom Khurshedji Karanjia, the editor of the Blitz, a magazine that reveled in felling many a bad sky during its regime. The prominent place Karanjia had occupied in the portals of journalism will never get filled-up. True to his journal’s mantras – ‘Free, Frank and Fearlessness’, and the masthead of a bulldog-- Russi Karanjia, with a rare daredevilry, uncovered corruption in all walks of life.

 Blitz never trotted on beaten tracks like its fellow-journals who, for their existence, chose to play safe. Being a different mettle, and a wrought iron at that, Karanjia took up cudgels against corruption and aberrations in public life; unmasked those who’d used their positions and public offices for their self-aggrandizements; and he thus caused ripples in the stagnant waters of Indian journalism. A true, no nonsense investigative journalist, Karanjia strove hard to bring cleanliness and order in public life thru various scoops and investigations, which stoked fires of a neo idealism in the young and budding minds of his days.

 Quality Journalism and honest reporting of truth were the watchwords of the Blitz. Features like ‘The Last Page’ by Mr. Abbas, and the ‘I don’t know son’ humor lines heightened the mag’s standard and brought to its fold scores of young and old. I still remember that I’d walked miles from my house just to get a copy of the paper every Saturday from a faraway railway bookstall. I never regret having done so because Blitz had then become one of my acquired tastes and, holding the paper on hand, I tried to convey to the youth of my age that I was a notch or two higher than them in realm of knowledge and intelligence.

On the flip side, damsels [with wardrobe malfunctions] appeared in the pin-up columns of the journal hooked us every week and made our young hearts palpitate so rapidly. We were thrilled and excited when the pin-up girls started doing rounds in the classroom under the cover of note books. But as bad luck had it, our caressing of the girls with our eyes would not last long. For, our History Prof, a la Vishwamitra, caught us red handed many times and sent us out of the class as punishment. But then, such a happening came as a blessing in disguise for us and enabled us to go to a nearby theatre and watch an English movie more profane than the pin-up girls.

 I got all my memories and thoughts of Blitz relived when I recently read Mr. Sainath’s tribute to Karanjia in ‘The Hindu’. The fact that Karanjia had memory loss at the fag end of his life triggered me thinking: how could a colossus of intelligence, a sterling journalist of great acumen, and a fire-breathing dragon loose his memories and live with a mind, so bald and blank. I still keep some of the back copies of the paper in my scrapbook as my treasure-troves. Whenever I glance at them I feel as if I’m being transported back to the world of my youth, - my dreamland-, which in every respect was different and distinct from the intriguing one that’s going around me now.

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Let the Day Come …

Let the streaks of Dawn seep

thro my window blinds, driving

out the darkness to those hearts where they belong.

 Let the godly ‘ushath ‘hour come, spilling

solemnity and warmth over the universe, and cleansing

the Earth off its sins and impurities.

Let thick plumed birds of morn light

chirp in chorus from somnolent trees, making

the awful silence of night to vanish.

Let someone switch off the dull moon

and whitewash the grey sky. Let the

indolent night wind awakens in the scorching sun.

Let from my memory go off all black dreams I'd

the night before. Let the sun come,

burn out my fright and brighten up my hopes.

Let women wake up with a bang, hearing

temple bells, covering their bareness with hands

 looking impishly at their sleeping hubbies.

To wake up my love, to look at her cherubic

face in the daylight and to re-kindle my sagging spirits

let the Day come.

If the demon of night hugs you again, don’t

be afraid. For, the Angel of the Day will

soon bloom around you and take you back

in her gleaming golden lap.

[This poem just tries to mimic Jane Kenyon’s ‘Let Evening Come’]

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Wall of Shame!

 Wall of Shame!

For decades stood there in the village a wall

built with bricks of shame and tears of dalits.

Keeping in exile senses of mutual trust and honor

the upper caste built the wall, parading airs of supremacy.

A long and huge wall-- it wasn’t built by cement, but

by unjust and unruly ethics-- hatred being the Mason.

Poor dalits, mute they became seeing the wall in their way;

resigned timidly to their cell of subservience … a bequest

 they got from the Varnas. “It’s another albatross on our neck”

muttered the Dalits wrenching their hands in despair.

Happy they became when down went the wall of shame.

For, in its debris they saw no stones and bricks, but

the pride and arrogance of a haughty caste.

To the ground gone the village wall, but yet to go from

our minds is the sturdy wall of casteism, which

we still keep for revenge.

[A sturdy wall that was built across a village in South India which blocked the lower-castes to have access to the main road was recently demolished.]

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Some Things Will Never Change

“When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world/ I found it was difficult to change the world, so I tried to change the nation/ When I found I couldn’t change the nation, I began to focus on my town/ I couldn’t change the town too/ Now as an old man I tried to change my family, but to no avail/ I then realized that only thing I can change is myself and if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an impact my family, the town and the nation.”- Rabi Israel Salanter.

 While taunting man’s helplessness to achieve what he wants in life, this poem also underscores the impossibility of changing certain things in the world… things that remain immutable to change… things that go past human efforts.

 Some of my friends are always switching jobs and going in for new, green pastures. At the time of their migration to new companies, they would blame their old ones being regressive and dead to the changes happening around them. The new companies my friends hop in suddenly catch their fancy and I hear them speak highly of them. But, their fancy is a short- lived phenomenon. For, I know they would quit the new concerns too calling their bosses addled headed morons and the company lacking in long range visions.

So fastidious are my friends that they go on switching their jobs and adducing reasons for it. A deep study of their behavior may reveal that they have sort of mind-set that refuse to appreciate the goodness in other things or persons if they go against their pre-conceived ideas and thoughts. With the ‘I-am-always-okay’ thoughts ever filling in our minds, we built an imaginary world in ourselves and weigh the real world with our so- called self- worth.

 Like nature, we should have equipoise in life. We should appreciate that while there are many things in life that are liable to change, still there are some things that are immune to change. My friends who are switching companies are well qualified. They have all the know-how and expertise in their respective fields. However, they are not ready to adopt themselves to the atmosphere of a company, which requires a change of mind-set. They quit their jobs feeling it infra dig to work with companies that are incompatible to their self-worth. If they had been a little patient, they could have brought desired changes in their workplaces.

 ‘I am always infallible, doing things right,’ is the thought that drives many of us when we pitch in to change things around us. While we perk up our ears to hear the ideas and thoughts of our contemporaries, we never open our minds either to accept them or evaluate their merits. Unfortunately, we expect such opening of minds from others when we preach our notions and thoughts. It is a sort of ‘I am okay, but you aren’t okay’ mind-set that refuses to see the worthiness in others.

‘My mom doesn’t understand me; my family doesn’t understand me; no one in my office hears what I say; and the society too is not ready to travel with my thoughts and ideas,’ are some of the monologues we continuously indulge in all through our life without realizing that it is we who need to change and not the society.

 Why do we indulge is such mawkish monologues? Why people including our family and friends don’t understand us? Why the society is lukewarm and looks askance at us when we try to change things? This happens because we always sit in a high pedestal of vanity and expect the world to rally around us and adapt to what we preach or ignore what we impeach.

There were a lot of leaders in our midst who changed many wrong courses in the world. The world accepted their course corrections without resistance as the leaders did it smoothly without the air of ‘I-know-all’. They did not swim against the current; they rather went with the stream and turned it to their way at a right time. So, success becomes elusive to those who try to force feed others with their thoughts and opinions, however good they may be.

 We cannot bring changes in the world without changing our mindset which only reflects our pride-self and know-all-character. We’d better remember that the world will never for once fall at our feet and adapt to the change we preach. Rather, it is we who should turn our thoughts to the course of the world. For, course correction, like charity, should begin at home.

 “My god, give me powers and prowess to change those things that are susceptible to change. If not, make my mind more pliable to accept such things that are immune to change,” has been the prayers of those who want to sail smoothly through the hard waters of life.

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Unbeatable Ticket Touts

The queue was longer than the extended, mystical tail of the legendary Veer Hanuman.   Fortunately, I stood in the middle of the queue that pitched in before a railway booking counter issuing open tickets. It was ages since I had travelled in an unreserved compartment.

The queue was only inching its way to the counter. I stood in between two fatties who virtually squeezed me into pulp. People who stood behind me too were uncharitable as they tried to edge me out of the line. But still, I was hopeful of getting my ticket in no time. I was always like that … a hopeless optimistic bloke who would attempt to dismantle a mountain with a chisel.

My CEO, a cranky old truck, could never identify problems/issues whenever they flicker in the office, but run amok when all are in flames. So, I was here in the queue to catch an early morning train, go over to Coimbatore and sort out some burning issues there.

The queue picked up speed for a moment only to stop its momentum abruptly. I spotted a middle-aged man came and parked him opposite the queue. He was clad in white dhoti and sleeveless shirt. His gleaming pate was smeared with vibhuti [sacred ash]. He took out a sachet of Pan Parag from his pocket, cut open it with his teeth and emptied it in the mouth, all simultaneously in reflex. Beside him stood a police constable. His presence soared my spirits, as I was now hopeful of getting the ticket without any hurdle. Again, the optimist!

Gosh! I was wrong [the optimist went down the drain]. For, I now saw a posse of goons appeared from nowhere and tried to break the queue. There started a pandemonium when people standing in the back came to the front and confronted the goons. The police man swung into action, but strangely he dislodged those, including me, who were already standing in the queue and enabled the intruders to take our places.

Jostled out of the queue, I suddenly found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with the dhoti-clad, pan-chewing man. He was holding a bunch of tickets in his hand and started selling them to those who were displaced by the goons. People had no qualms about shelling out as much as Rs. 300 per ticker [the original fare was only Rs 75] and buying tickets from the man. ‘He must be a tout … a blood sucker in disguise,’ I thought plaintively.

When the tout had an unsold ticket with him, he offered it to me demanding only Rs. 250, out of sympathy. I got wild and yelled at him blue and black. ‘You tout. You’re hand in glove with the police, dislodge people from the queue and sell them your bloody tickets for a fortune. I’m a responsible citizen, going to write to ‘The Hindu’ about this sordid incident.’ By now, a large crowd gathered around me, but the tout and the police man disappeared from the scene.

So, I missed the 6.15 am super fast train. Every time I stood in the queue for getting tickets for subsequent trains, the queue was broken by new group of goons with the help of a constable. It was now 10.30 am. I have missed the series of trains. My boss got me over my mobile and gave me a fine dressing down for being unduly late in catching a train.

Driven to the wall, I ran hither and thither; met the SM and the Railway Police. They simply shrugged off their shoulders, gesturing their inability to do anything on my complaint. Exhausted, I sat on a bench in the waiting hall.’ Why a bunch of touts is allowed to hijack a well-evolved system and convert it to their own convenience … convert it for spinning money’, I thought naively.

The tout, after some time, came over to me, of course in another avatar. For, I now saw him in the pants with his shirt tucked in. No vibhuti on his forehead, it was gleaming brighter. I could guess that his new avatar was only to hoodwink people about his identity. Brandishing a ticket, he demanded Rs. 400. All in gestures. I was reluctant for a moment invaded by my cardinal principles of anti-corruption. But then, my exigencies became more important than my principles and they made me submit myself meekly to the tout. I gave him the amount and got the ticket.

Spitting out the last bit of the pan parag into a garbage bin, the tout smiled at me sheepishly and said: ‘That’s it. Illiterate persons are smarter than the educated lot like you. For, the unlettered know how to go about in life. They don’t cling to useless principles. But, you, the pants-clad people are mere wastrels not knowing the intricacies of life, but living in your own make-believe world. Come on, sir, go over to the 3^rd platform and board the 11.15 train. My people in the general compartment will help you get a window seat.’

I nodded grimly, started leaving the waiting-hall for the 3^rd platform. When I walked over the foot over bridge, I felt like walking over the corpse of my anti-graft feelings and principles.  Let them RIP.

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I’m Completely Different

[A poem has the power of healing a wounded-heart. It can show a way through or it can give you a shield to hide behind. It can turn the light back on in a place you thought was permanently disconnected. It can be a talisman to be worn in the head for warding off miseries. Kuroda Saburo [1919-1980] is a Japanese poet, he writes often of matters relating to love & family. ‘I am completely different’ is one of his best poems- I even call it a modern mantra, for the act of reading it is somehow comforting. Saburo always sees roses in debris; hear dirge as a song from a Nightingale. He feels eruption of hope in the midst of devastation and destruction. It is one of my favorite poems- I read it again and again whenever I feel blue… whenever the course of life becomes uncharitable.]

 I am completely different.

Though I am wearing the same tie as yesterday,

am as poor as yesterday,

as good for nothing as yesterday,

today

I am completely different.

Though I am wearing the same clothes,

am as dirty as yesterday,

living as clumsily as yesterday, nevertheless

today

I am completely different.

 Ah-

I patiently close my eyes

on all the grins and smirks

on all the twisted smiles and horse laughs

on all the shameful defeats and defaults-

and glimpse then, inside me

one beautiful white butterfly

fluttering towards tomorrow.

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For Whom Should I Cry Now?

“Alas that love, so gentle in his [Romeo’s] view 
should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.”- William Shakespeare

Back in time, when young was the moon 
speechless we stood in a train station. 
Holding hands, we’d wept for our failed- love. 
Pale went your face as you fought tears, 
concealing wounds in your heart. 

Shrieking horns came then a blue train and 
home it carried you… your marital home. 
There under new skies you’d become 
a wife, mom, and grandma. 
Stupefied I still watched the train 
running over my love heartlessly. 
The moving devil now looked red not blue, 
showing the color of my tears. 

Leafing thro my Memory Book, 
your pretty face I oft look. 
Can I ever forget your elegant eyes? 
that spoke volumes and volumes once. 
Seeing your bubbling dimples when you laughed 
rainbows bobbed up in my heart. 

All sweet kisses your rosy lips gave me then 
still remain moist in my mouth, tasting like nectar. 
The perfume and fragrance you’d wafted when hugged 
still remain spread in my body, making me ever balmy. 
My love! 
To keep your memory ever green in heart and soul 
I had to fight with Time, a heartless Monster. 

When waves of time brutally wrecked my life boat, 
I struggled like a fish in a hook. 
Void and emptiness grew thick in heart 
as I wished to see the face I’d lost to Time. 
Leaving me in a limbo you’ve gone 
to the wind to make a wind, 
to the moon to make her more shining, 
and 
to the grey sea to make it green. 

Shocked, I felt like falling into a cauldron 
when your demise I knew from a tabloid. 
I smothered my sobs and fell into my knees. 
But… but… 
Amidst sorrows, I felt a drizzle 
drenching my soul. 

For, in the ‘obit’ column of the paper 
I didn’t see an age-ravaged, time-eaten 
face of an ol’ lady.’ 
The photo therein was the one 
you gave me long back when 
we were in the spring of love 
breathing for each other and 
praying for each other. 

Now- 
Straddling relief and sorrow, asked my broken heart: 
“For whom should I cry now? 
You or your failed- love or your dead lover?