Location Matters

Location, location, location – location can break or make business.  Panil knew that and he was not about to start a failed business by selecting the wrong location. New Link Road, which was not Link Road, held certain advantages. Cost was one, the store that he rented out here was not as expensive as the one on Link Road. New Link Road was still to come up, that’s why it probably made the first year rent cost an actual steal.

Two, buildings as high as 30 floors were towering the sky there and his shop was one of them. Behind those buildings were steel slums houses that stretched across an expanse. Come next year, they won’t be there. Their land will be barren with more construction of high rise buildings. Panil could see it, the future where all the residents from those buildings would come to his grocery store. There would be a growth spurt in New Link Road, and his grocery store was at the heart of it. The first shop to set up shop.

At the end of every day, Panil was tempted to sleep in the store, but home was much better choice, so he went back to Mira Road. He would be back by 5 o’clock in the morning to make sure he caught the earlier risers, joggers and buyers.

All in all, Panil had the ultimate business plan, it all hinged on the brilliance of a good and developing location.

That’s why Panil’s plan failed.

He lazed in his shop with products on his shelf that have not been replaced for the past two months. Biscuits, chips, chocolates and other groceries all gathered dust on his shelves. Panil could not even afford to hire a shop boy to help him manage the store.

The two buildings that provided over 100 homes together had just a skeleton number of residences. Just like every other day, Panil cursed those slum dwellers. Their protests destroyed his dreams, only if they went away from there quietly and let the high rise world be built. But, that was not the end of his trouble, there was talk of construction violations and that this building may be even broken down along with his shop. 

Panil closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. Just like every other day no one would come to his shop.

Continue reading →

Coloured Perception

“Don’t trust those neighbours”, my mother yelled out as she picked up the newspaper that was left outside by the delivery man. I looked outside with my beady eyes, I knew who she was talking about. Our lane was a small one with several bungalows on either side.

The untrustworthy neighbours were the ones who occupied the last bungalow at the end of the lane. At first, I never knew why my mother said that those neighbours couldn’t be trusted. Then, one day the newspaper was not outside our home like it usually was. Immediately, my mother declared that those neighbours had robbed it.

When I was small, I never saw the neighbours. It was only when my legs grew longer that I was tall enough to peek out the window and to notice the world outside. Old man Raju always left for his early morning walk, Sanchita left for work sometime after that, Ajay, Raveer, Sameer and others left for school in the afternoon. When those neighbours from the last bungalow left the lane, mother always grunted out, twisted her face and looked at each one of them with unforgiving eyes.

I grew bigger and soon enough I was running out on the lane. Mother loved a stray cat that she fed milk and food every day. Then it stopped coming. I found it near the wall of the last bungalow. My feet took me sprinting as fast as possible to my mother. She came running and picked up the dead body of the cat. She demanded my father to take the dead cat and nail it to their door. As always, he responded with silence and a shoulder shrug. “Coward”, that’s what she kept calling as she rummaged through his tool box. I didn’t know what it meant at that time. She marched to the last bungalow with a hammer, a nail and a dead cat. I don’t know what happened, father didn’t let me out, but I heard screaming. The vision of my mother’s unforgiving looking came to me.

When I grew older my mother told me, “They can’t be trusted, they filed a case against your grandfather and put him jail. That’s the reason why I grew up without a father.” I wondered who these cruel people were at the end of my bungalow lane, but I could never know because I knew my mother would never forgive me.

Outside the lane, we had a growing problem of stray dogs. One day I was returning home from college on my bicycle. A small boy was fighting against the dogs that violently snapped, bit and tore his clothes. I slowed down to pick a stone and chase away the dogs. Then, I saw who the boy was - the neighbour in the last bungalow who put my great grandfather in jail. I dropped the stone from my hand and I let him be.

Don’t judge me, my perception was coloured…

Or, judge me.

Continue reading →

A Conformer

It’s a classroom. Everyone is talking, the children are yapping away. Philip was talking too. The teacher entered the classroom and everyone fell silent. Maybe Philip didn’t see the teacher walk in, or maybe he didn’t realise that you’re not supposed to talk when the teacher walks in. Either way, Philip continued to talk. He found it odd that his listener, all of a sudden, went stiff and looked dead straight and away from him. Philip did find it odd. It was then he noticed that the classroom was dead silent.

Philip looked up, the teacher stood above him. “Show your hand!” she commanded, “Show your hand.” The wooden ruler was lifted up and struck down. “Be happy she didn’t use the metal ruler”, his listener said as the teacher moved to the front of the classroom.

“Good morning, children”, the teacher announced.

“Good morning” all the children chimed in together, Philip added his voice with everyone else’s just because they were all saying it.

***

They were all meeting after a long time. With the constant pressure of work and a so-called professional life, gatherings like these were rare. Philip was glad to be here. A gathering of friends who hadn’t met in a month or longer, Philip couldn’t remember.

They’re all talking; talking about the past, the present and future. There is so much talk about on what each other are doing now. A few friends have surprising news. The conversation moves on to salary.

“I’m earning 20K”

“I’m earning 18K”

“I’m earning 20K”

So and so forth, each of them gave their salary rate that was around the same figure.

Philip’s turn came and he wanted to tell them that, he just started working, he just started this job and it would be impossible for him to earn so much. Yet, it was happening so fast, he didn’t have a chance – “Of course, I’m earning 18K”.

They all nodded their heads gleefully and laughed. They all must be doing something right if they are earning that much.

***

For whatever reasons, Philip had long ago lost faith in religion. Religion was a pointless way to connect and worship God according to him. Yet, here he was in the church. A familiar tune was being played on the piano. He looked behind to see the massive crowd standing up and everyone waiting for the bride to walk through.

When he had announced his marriage to his family, there had been no question of it, that yes off course he had to have his marriage in the church. There was no chance to protest, this sense of taking his beliefs for granted was so powerful, Philip could not fight against it. He could only conform.

***

Life had passed him by and now death stared him in the face. Philip could feel it, his body had aged, become frail and now was dying.

As death approached, of the many thoughts of his children, his wife, his friends, his family, there was one thought that dominated his mind, I am conformer. There were so many things he wanted to do and so many things he didn’t want to do, yet Philip failed to fight against the powerful and hell bent force of society. He sighed to himself, what a hopeless thought, to be part of society, you have to conform.

Continue reading →

Bertha Benz and her Cross country drive

The engine trudge on the cobbled road meant for horses, the speed wasn’t magnificent, but it was surprising for a working engine… in fact, it got heads turning, noted Bertha Benz. That’s exactly what she wanted. Richard and Eugen, her sons sitting at the back glared, waved and made all kinds of faces at people who were shocked by the machine.

The first of its kind, the motorwagen steadily rolled across the street. Bertha’s hands clutched the wheel. Driving from Mannheim to her mother’s in Pforzheim was a 106 km journey. Setting out early in the morning, even before Karl Benz could get up, her children were sleepy at first. Now the sun had completely risen up in the sky and her children were completely quite wide awake.

Nervousness and excitement, that what’s she felt. Bertha wanted her husband to be here, but Karl was too timid, he was even afraid of the test drives. The idea of a cross-country would drive him with worry. “Non è disposto (It’s not ready)!” that’s what he would say.

With a maximum speed of 10 kilometers per hour, it was hardly fast, a horse carriage could easily overtake it, but the motorwagen was faster than any human striding on their two legs. A cobbled road meant for horses was bumpy and filled with jutting stones and open holes. However, Bertha managed to avoid them since the motorwagen was trudging at a steady pace.

When the engine grumbled, the first worry struck her. The fuel was running low, they were far off from the city of Mannheim and yet to reach Pforzheim. Luckily, a store appeared on the lone road. ‘La Farmacia’, it read, ‘Pharmacy’. The motorwagen stopped and she hurried inside. One must understand that petrol was not there that time. She got her hands on ligroin, a petroleum solvent, that was poured into the engine using a funnel.

The day progressed forward, the sun was directly above them, her children had grown silent. That’s when a loud snapping sound rang out. A quick check revealed that the chain had snapped. No matter, the motorwagen could still run, she just had to be careful.

The motorwagen turned heads again when they passed through a small town. Pulling off her gloves, she removed the broken chain, got it repaired, snapped it back in place and ensured it was well oiled. That’s when another problem occurred, the engine wouldn’t start. By this time, a crowd had appeared. Questions were asked, but Bertha was too engrossed to reply. Richard and Eugen gave the answers, one or two of them from the crowd seemed to be reporters who were busy scribbling down notes.

She twisted the ignition engine and it refused to start. She did so again. Her sons peered on and so did the crowd. It was a slow process of glancing at the engine, checking the parts were alright and then attempting it again. The engine refused to start. It was only when half hour passed that Bertha realised that the ignition coil was burnt completely. For five to ten minutes, she stood thinking on the problem. The crowd had already dispersed, giving up on it as another failed device. Then, it struck her. Bertha without embarrassingly  pulled down her thong, tore it a bit and pulled out a wire. Within ten minutes she fixed the problem.

Once again, they were on their way, leaving the town. Heads turned and surprised looks appeared on them. The wheeled machine that looked like another failure was running. News spread.

The closer they were to Pforzheim, the longer the motorwagen ran and the higher the chance of a problem occurring.

The third problem finally revealed itself and once again, the first cross country driver and perhaps the world’s first driver used her resourcefulness to clean the fuel line that got clogged. Her hairpin was used to give it a good clean and get the engine started again. The fourth and finally problem resulted in Bertha designing the world’s first brake pads from a local cobbler when the wooden one broke.

By the time they entered Pforzheim, a crowd had gathered at the entrance. Reporters and people mobbed her. The first thing Bertha did was send Richard to the telegraph to send a message to Karl that they had reached. He would be sick with worry wondering if car worked, and if they were safe.

Then, she began answering the questions from the reporters. “Yes, there was finally a working motorwagen in the world and I have driven it”.

Continue reading →

Do you have regrets?

‘It was Valentine's day and I refused that girl. I was too shy. Was that it? No, that was not it.’

The pen scratched the words out.

‘Was it that time when I had first had a sip of alcohol secretly without my parents knowing?’

Again the sound of scratches emitted in the air. That was not it either.

‘They were the thugs of the street. They asked me, “Do you want to do us a favour?” How could I say no. They were the cool guys. The whole neighbourhood respected them. I nodded my head furiously, I was just a kid. Was it that time?’

The room was completely dark except for the dim light that emitted from the candle. The electricity bill had not been paid in months. Our writer liked the darkness. It calmed him.

‘It started off with ‘Do you want to do us a favour’. It’s what you call… the gateway. Soon enough, I went on be the person who actually held the money. Someone else was the courier. Finally, I was the one who actually managed the whole thing. I didn’t have to do anything, just sit on the torn sofa and watched the people come to my lackeys with their crumpled notes. The cops gave me stares on their patrols, but I didn’t have anything on me, they couldn’t do anything. I digress’

Cockroaches did not even bother to be stealthy, in the kitchen they scurried about looking food, but it was all over long ago. The dirty dishes that piled in the in the kitchen were already cleaned off food.

‘From there, it went to hurting people, beating people, that was the way to get things done. Did I regret that too?

Our writer picked himself up from the table and went to the toilet. Even before he opened the door, the smell assailed his nose. The stink of shit and piss. He had not paid the water bill either. He whipped his thing out and a little urine poured out. He walked back the toilet. In the darkness, his hand felt out, clinking against a few bottles. He picked one up, twisted it open and upturned the bottle directly above his mouth. A little bit of whiskey dribbled down his throat. The scratching resumed.

‘Dark long eyelashes, the way her eyelids closed, there couldn’t be anything more beautiful than that. It was the way I took her that was horrible. Then I just left her…’

The pen tapped on the paper. Could our writer scribble more? He was so old, his body only had skin and bones, skin that wrinkled and folded up.

Suddenly, light exploded into his darkness. Someone had crashed open the door and light poured in the from the corridor. He scribbled the last line.

‘Are these my regrets? Fuck that, I’ve lived a full life’

He put the pen down and pointed the gun at his visitor. His visitor too had a gun stretched out in his arm.

“For mother”, he whispered and our writer’s son fired the weapon. The writer, of course, did not pull the trigger.

Continue reading →

A Digantar Workshop Working

And that’s Where the Workshop happened

An experience at Digantar is uncomfortable, awkward and close to being amongst aliens when you are not a teacher. It’s a good thing that I didn’t think a lot before going a Children’s Literature workshop run by Digantar in Jaipur. If I did, I would have been more than just nervous. An assumption was made that there would be other writers who interested in writing and children’s literature. Once again, good thing that I didn’t do in-depth research.

As it turns out, my assumptions was dashed, battered and broken against the rocks, or if you will – Digantar’s wall.

Turns out that Digantar was training teachers. Teacher’s I scoffed, I laughed, I was afraid – I knew nothing about teaching. Nothing to do but wade along with the workshop.

The shock

I heard stories about the educational world. These stories are more real than those ones I’ve read on a pieces of paper or online pages. These are stories from the movers and shakers of the educational world. Teachers and NGO workers all trying to make a difference in a churning and wheeling machinery that grinds students and teachers alike.

Stories from a Harayan teacher who is trying to get parents to care about education. Stories about a University professor who asks students to return the favour not through monetary means, but by getting more students. An NGO worker who is trying to convince students to just sit and read. Or the story of an NGO that futilely tries to convince a State Education head that the latest curriculum is more of a burden than a problem solver.

They are driven by a need to give something back to society. For some reason, they feel indebted to the goodness of society and teaching is a way to give back. For others, it is the pure joy of children that drives them forward.

Humbled

I know a lot. I read a lot. I consume information of all sorts. Yet, in front of so many teachers I was humbled in a manner that I never imagined. The stories, the discussions, the ideas, the thought process – everything was foreign to me.

Imagine being in discussion between educationalists on why a child is not interested in a particular type of picture storybook. Ideas and suggestions are flying fast and hard, each as valid and possible as the other. These are suggestions and assessments based on experience. It’s all alien. All I could do was listen.

Listening

Even though I consider myself a good listener, the next three days of the workshop took my listening skills to the limits, because that’s what all I could do.

The amount of feedback or suggestions I can give is very limited. A simple story about a children’s story based on a math’s problem can be turned into a drama for children, while a slow story about a tribal girl trying to get school can be quite interesting. I had to change my thinking. 

What goes in the mind of the teacher is very different from a normal human.

The Passion

One thing that you cannot doubt – the passion. The passion shown by these teachers, these NGOs, these educationalists. This is a passion that stands the harsh cogs of the educational machine.

“Fresh water pond” that’s what one teacher called the workshop.

They all face an onslaught.

And even at the end of it all, at the end of the workshop – they are all excited. They can’t wait to take these new learning, these teachings, these passions, this creativity back to their children. 

Continue reading →

A Dental Visit

I wish my father told me, “Fear the Dentist, son”, instead of, “Always visit the dentist once a year, you only have one set of teeth blah blah”. However, now I have the habit of visiting the dentist. There is nothing to worry about from the moment you walk inside the dentist office to sitting in the waiting room. But then I worry and fear hits me as I get seated on the dental chair.

The grey metallic implements are clearly visible on the table. “Open wide”, she says and the bright light flickers on.

“Any complaints?” she asks.

“No, just a regular checkup”, I manage with my jaws still wide apart.

Her hand stretches out and grabs the pick and mirror from the table.

It’s okay, it’s just the pick. She always starts off with the pick.

The metal implement scratches against my teeth as her finger keeps flicking the mirror side to side in an attempt to get a better view.

She says nothing, I knew she wouldn’t say anything. There is nothing wrong with my teeth. She puts the pick and mirror down and then, she picks up the drill.

That’s when I feel the jitters. It vibrates through me as I watch her select a long pin and attach it on and give it a spin. The noise is terrifying for what is to come. As always she does not tell me anything. There is the fear of the unknown.

The drill goes inside and begins chipping away at my teeth. It’s a scary feeling. I wait for the pain to start. You can feel it touch the edges, sending vibrations through the root nerves and my face winced… or winced as much possible when its jaws are stretched wide open.

She took a pause and I took a breath. I didn’t realise in my anxiety I held my breath.

The drilling continued and all that can be said was that it was terrible. I felt parts of my beautiful teeth being chipped away for an unknown reason. When she paused, a quick internal lick of the tongue, revealed a small hole drilled inside.

White matter was poured into the hole and just like how a pothole is filled up, a filling was added inside.

But, that was not the end of it. To my horror, she had a new implement in her hand, one that I hadn’t seen before. Some sort of flat brush which began rubbing against my teeth. “This will give it the white look it needs”, she proclaimed, for the first time telling me what was actually happening.

But, wait, I didn’t want any of this. My teeth are prefect. That’s what I wanted to tell her, but in silence I sat on the chair and let her do the good work to my already good teeth.

Continue reading →