Myanmar deja vu and India's false pride

Myanmar’s military dictatorship won’t allow international aid to come into the country that has been left devastated by Cyclone Nargis. The world is rightly outraged. Even junta-friendly India has urged the Myanmarese government to accept global aid.

But then, look who’s talking.

India had also famously refused international aid and access to foreign aid groups in the Andamans after the devastating tsunami hit its coastlines in 2004. New Delhi had then stated with a confident voice that it could and would manage its own affairs, thank you very much. But three-and-a-half years after the tsunami, permanent shelters for the homeless in the Andamans have still not been built. Tender notices for the reconstruction projects are still appearing in local newspapers.

One might be tempted to question the comparison made between India, a democratic, regional superpower, and Myanmar, a secretive military-ruled State. But the comparison, which should have been impossible to make, is there for all to see — especially for those suffering, who don’t quite care whether a democratic government or a tin-pot dictatorship is denying them food and shelter. A confident India, with a rising economic prowess, has all the right to say ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to outside help.

But shouldn’t we be eating at least a slice of the humble pie if thousands are left to suffer for years because of national pride?

The tsunami was not the first time that India was hit by a natural disaster of such proportions. More importantly, it also won’t be the last time. India needs to firm up its ‘rising power’ pride by actions that signify that it can ‘do it alone’.

In the Andamans, almost 10,000 permanent shelters were to be built in the archipelago where 7,450 people died. A total of 16,400 people were killed across Indian coastlines. Construction has not even begun on more than 80 per cent of the houses. In the rest, the basic structure is yet to be built — and this according to the government’s own project report that was made public at the end of February.

Read the full article here in the Hindustan Times, where it first appeared today on the editorial page).

Please also read this piece I wrote about the Andamans in the Span magazine.

Kashmir Homecoming

Raka Khashu -- whose first name means the moon -- lives in New Delhi. She is a young lady in her late twenties, having already charted a very promising career path to become a senior executive with an international company. She is one of the most wonderful people I know.

Raka is the daughter of Mr. Upendra Khashu and Mrs. Girija Khashu, two of Kashmir's celebrated cultural personalities. They are, and have been, popular radio presenters and theatre and television artistes -- though as you will read in the story here that I wrote two years ago, one got death threats from Pakistan-controlled Kashmir and the other marriage proposals.

In March 1990, the Khashus -- Kashmiri Pandits -- had to rush out of their home after death threats, even as food was hot on the oven.

Raka's younger sister Nipunta, now a successful public relations executive but then just a three-year-old, had one simple question from her mother's arms as they scrambled out of their home into a paramilitary truck to take them to the airport -- to be thrown into an uncertain future.

"Where we are going, will I get batta (rice)?" the three-year-old asked.

Kashmiri Pandits love their rice.

They also love their homeland as much as their fellow Kashmiri Muslims who have gone through crushing oppression over the past two decades.

Raka went back to Kashmir recently for the first time, spending a week in Srinagar. She wrote me an account.

"This the story of my life..story of a home coming..YES..after nearly twenty years..

I belong to Kashmir..was born and brought up there..as destiny would have it, I was kicked out of my nest – with just one threat call..left my home within one hour..not knowing where for..

Now after twenty years, I got an opportunity to "visit" my homeland..I am using the word visit – because that's what I have been reduced to being a 'visitor'.

The moment I touched the ground..I knew I was 'home' in the true sense of the word. Wading through a series of security checks, I managed to reach my locality – the place where I was born and brought up..Due to unavoidable circumstances, we had to sell our house..and here I was in front of the gate..didnt know if I would be a welcome..nevetheless decided to march ahead.

The warmth was still there. "Leela Cottage" as we had named it – was still the same..nothing had changed..

Fortunately, the lady remembered my family and I was ushered into the house with a hug..I was speechless with tears flowing down my cheeks.. I don't know why I was crying..crying because of being forced to leave my house..or because of seeing it again after so many years or because I knew that it was just a short visit and the moment I step out..it will be over..

I climbed the stairs and there I was, a small five-year-old girl running up the stairs and then stumbling and falling ... a few cries and my grandmom running to help me and there -- my granddad coming out of the room to save his little one..guess what..these were all memories…all this had happened 23 years back..

Came out to the garden..and there I was running and playing in mud, playing..all in my thoughts…not to forget – I was helping my granddad clear up the driveway to help him park his car..all in my memories..which I had nurtured all these years and they will always be fresh in my mind..

And then, it was time to leave..yet again..I could not even relive my old days in entirety.

I wept and wept on the way back. Just could not stop myself.

The driver looked me in the rear view mirror, paused and then said: "Sorry, we made a mistake".

It is not only me who has suffered... its them as well (the Muslims)... I could see that in the eyes of my driver who was a local. Nothing will erase the pain. But this remark made me believe that there is some hope for my birth place and some day we will live in harmony again."

हूजी, सूजी और इमोशनल पत्रकार

हिंदुस्तान का एक सरफिरा पत्रकार, मेरा दोस्त रवीश कुमार, हूजी और सूजी को पढ़ कर कुछ यूं कहता है:

"दोस्त,

टीवी बीमार हो गया है। इसका एक ही काम है दिल्ली में रोज़गार गारंटी योजना के तहत कुछ बेरोज़गारों को पत्रकार कार्ड देना।

ल्यूटियन ने नई दिल्ली वायसरायों के लिए बनाई लेकिन आजादी के बाद नेताओं और पत्रकारों ने कब्जा कर लिया। नेताओं को घर मिला और पत्रकारों को नहीं। लिहाज़ा पत्रकारों ने ल्यूटियन दिल्ली में घूमते रहने का फैसला किया। इसी ज़ोन की पत्रकारिता करने वाले दिल्ली स्थित राष्ट्रीय मीडिया में संपादक हुए।

ज़्यादा हो गए तो एक मेन संपादक बना दूसरा राजनीतिक संपादक।

इसी में एक दूसरा वर्ग है जो आगे चलकर इंवेस्टिगटिव संपादक बनता है। यह ल्यूटियन पत्रकारिता का बचा खुचा अंश है। आंतकवादी घटनाओं के प्रसार लेकिन सूचनाओं के केंद्रीकरण के कारण ऐसे पत्रकारों की अहमियत बढ़ी। फीचर वालों को ल्यूटियन ज़ोन में कुछ नहीं मिला तो गांवों का रूख ar गए।

स्माल टाउन की अवधारणा पत्रकारों की इसी जमात की देन है।

मैं कई बार कहता हूं अशोक रोड( बीजेपी दफ्तर) और अकबर रोड(कांग्रेस दफ्तर) से दो बाइट लेकर विजय चौक के बीच में खड़े होकर पीटूसी कर दीजिए, स्टोरी बन जाएगी। बयानधर्मी स्टोरी जनकल्याण के लिए ही तो होती है।बहरहाल संघीय ढांचे और गठबंधन की मजबूरी के कारण गृहमंत्रालय की भूमिका कम हुई है। लिहाज़ा इसके अफसर सूत्र बन गए हैं। इनके संपर्क में आए पत्रकार हूजी सूजी का हलवा बनाने लगे।

सबसे पहले यही खबर देते हैं कि धमाके में आर डी एक्स का इस्तमाल हुआ। शिवकाशी से लाया गया बारूद नहीं था। फटे हुए और बचे हुए बम के भीतर अणु से लेकर परमाणु तक की जानकारी यही पत्रकार देते हैं।

आप अखबार वाले इनसे जलते हैं। इस श्रेणी के पत्रकार आपके भीतर भी हैं। जब आप मुख्य पृष्ठ पर द्विखंडीत यानी टू-पीस बिकनी वाली लड़की का फोटो छाप देते हैं तब कुछ नहीं।

ख़ैर मीडिया को लेकर पत्रकारों को इमोशनल नहीं होना चाहिए। सूत्र पत्रकारिता प्रिंट की देन है। प्रिंट से आए लोगों ने जब टीवी में इसके लिए धक्का मुक्की की तब से यह सूत्र के नाम पर गुप्तचर विभाग की रिपोर्ट आम होने लगी है।

वैसे आइये हम सब मिल कर घोर निराशा के इस दौर में तमाम सूत्रों के प्रति सम्मान व्यक्त करें जिनके भरोसे लोकतंत्र का चौथा खंभा खड़ा हुआ है।

सूत्र तुम बढ़े चलो। वीर तुम बढ़े चलो!

हूजी, सूजी और थोड़ा नमक मिर्च

ये है मेरी दो क्षण की दो मैगी नूडल टिप्पणियां.

नम्बर एक. मुझे लगता है रक्षा व सुरक्षा मामलों को कवर कर रहे सारे पत्रकारों को गुप्तचर बन जाना चाहिए.
नम्बर दो. मुझे लगता है कि सारे गुप्तचर ब्यूरो वगैरह के मित्रों को पत्रकार बन जाना चाहिए.
जैसा कि रिसर्च एंड अनालिसिस विंग के एक प्रमुख ने एक बार चलते चलते मुझसे कहा था -- "मैं और आप सच कहूँ तो एक ही काम करते हैं. बस मुझे अपने काम करने के कई तरीकों पर गर्व नहीं है."
कुछ पत्रकार साथियों की अदभुत प्रतिभा को मैं अक्सर देखता हूँ. भगवान न करे कोई आतंकी घटना हो जाए, चाहे सुबह के सात बजे हों, झट से पतलून पहन कर माइक के पीछे लपक कर खड़े हो जाएंगे, और घटना के दस मिनट के अन्दर अपना फ़ैसला सुना देंगे. बम्बई हो या दिल्ली या अजमेर या जम्मू या जयपुर. गहरी नींद में अब ये शब्द कह सकते हैं वो.
"इसमें लश्कर का हाथ है! इसमें सिमी का हाथ है! इसमें हूजी का हाथ है!"
(मेरे मन में बचपन का सुना माँ की झुंझलाहट गूँज गई: " बेटा दरवाज़े पे देखो कौन है, हमारा सूजी का हाथ है!"

हाथ हूजी का हो या सूजी का, हलवा वही पकना है. पत्रकार साथी आज कल नींद में भी अपना पी-टू-सी (यही कहते हैं न?) या समाचार विश्लेषण कर सकते हैं. इस पर हूजी कि छाप है. कोई नया मॉड्यूल है हिजबुल मुजाहिदीन का. महिला आतंकवादी. अमा मियां कोई ऐसी वैसी बात है क्या? सूत्रों ने बताया है. कश्मीर में घुसपैठ बढ़ रही है. पाकिस्तान के खतरनाक मनसूबे हैं. इन्टेलीजेन्स फेलियर है.

हो सकता है कि ये सब सही हो. लेकिन सुरक्षा मामलो को कवर कर रहे अधिकांश साथी इन सुरक्षा अधिकारियों के प्रवक्ता क्यों बन गए हैं? क्यों पहला धमाका होते ही ये प्रहसन शुरू हो जाता है? आपको धमाका होते ही दस मिनट में कैसे पता चल जाता है कि इसमें हूजी का हाथ है या लश्कर का?
दर्शक उल्लू है क्या?
हर तीसरे दिन आप सुनेंगे, कश्मीर में घुसपैठ बढ़ गयी है या घट गयी है. क्या आपको पता है कि कश्मीर का ये सीमा रेखा का सेंसेक्स कैसे चलता है? दिल्ली के नार्थ ब्लाक में एक मेज़ के चारों ओर बैठ कर छः सात अधिकारी "इन्टेलीजेंट गेस" (बुद्धिमत्ता पूर्ण अटकलें) लगाते हैं. और थोडी मोल भाव होती है. फिर फ़ैसला हो जाता है. फिर ब्रेकिंग न्यूज़ हो जाती है. इस साल बहत्तर नहीं, सतत्तर घुसपैठी कश्मीर में चोरी से आए. साथीगन हांफ हांफ के बताने लग जाते हैं लाइव न्यूज़ पर.

अरे नार्थ ब्लाक में गणित कर रहे सज्जनों! इत्ता पता है तो पकड़ क्यों नहीं लेते भइया? बेकार में इत्ता टी वी देखना पड़ता है ...

Hope and a Little Dynamite

My parents could not sleep yesterday. There were blasts all day and night a few hundred metres from their home.

They do not live in Jammu, where a new terror attack killed civilians, security forces and militants. They live in Lucknow, where officials mounted a warlike operation to destroy a sports stadium and a huge and beautifully built guest house -- with dynamite.

That was quite apt -- in a state where the mafia is given government protection, where crime has long been the highest in India (do not believe what Mr. Amitabh Bachhan tells you), it is quite apt that state power will be used somewhere -- after all they have to do their duty. So on a Sunday, officials showed amazing efficiency and blasted out a sports facility for children and youth, watched by helpless sportsmen and women. India will surely win a gold medal in bad governance -- if not sport.

Why on a Sunday? Because the Supreme Court had been told that the petitioner who had opposed the destruction of the sports complex had "withdrawn" his petition in faraway Allahabad. So the Supreme Court said: "Oh, that simplifies things -- why don't you go ahead and blast the damn thing?"

The Supreme Court can be so innocently child-like sometimes. I hope in the coming years, politicians do not fancy the land where the Taj Mahal is located -- and borrow gunpowder from MLAs to blow it up. OOps -- did I just give them an idea?

In a state where few things surprise anyone anymore, I am pretty sure that several people would have had tears in their eyes yesterday watching the monstrous misuse of power. My mother certainly did. She was driving past the complex, watching the guest house -- where I had also had my wedding reception -- being razed to the ground.

It is hard not to be a citizen of U.P. and not feel pained every single day.

After the current government came to power, I had sent an SMS to one of Chief Minister Mayawati's top aides, congratulating him and saying that I hoped governance would see a change.

I take back that SMS.

Letter for Tenzin

Dear Tenzin,

I felt miserable after reading your letter. I really apologise that my harsh words caused you personal anguish, and I in no way meant to do that to anyone. I wrote that post on a really angry afternoon and should not have used some of the tough words I used there. I am not a bigot or xenophobe; I apologise, again. It was very uncharacteristic of me and thanks for writing in with such eloquence. I have, you will notice, edited my post to try and make it less offensive.

I do, of course, stand by my views.

Our personal experiences often shape our larger world view. That is perhaps true for both you and me on this issue. You told me of your grandfather; I also know of the pain of a young Kashmiri Pandit woman whose grandfather was brutally killed by people in Kashmir who are now public figures. Then she and her family had to leave their home at a few minutes' notice.

Truth has many faces, and they are often equally true in some measure for all of us. That is how the world works, and that is why people disagree. So even as I completely respect your angst and anguish, I feel the Tibetan community needs to engage and connect more with the people of the country that welcomed it. You say I do not know about the community -- and perhaps you are right -- but could the community have done more at its end to let an Indian citizen understand them better?

I also feel that India needs to get its convoluted policy on Tibet a bit more straightened out, and to look with greater empathy at displaced people within the country who are bearing the brunt of someone else's madnesses.

I was disappointed that you wrote that you are "as much Indian" as I am. You mentioned how you cheer for the cricket team etc. As an Indian citizen, I do not urge your loyalty to India. If you feel Indian, I am honoured that you do. But that is really not my business -- you don't have to prove anything to anybody. Loyalty is not my concern at all -- I am not one of those who will say that a Hindu is very sporting when he cheers for Pakistan but a Muslim is a traitor.

And I hope that the next time the Kashmiri Pandits or Gujarat riot survivors or SEZ victims protest their displacement, the Tibetan Youth Congress and the young generation of Tibetans will lend a chorus of support -- to others who have lost homes and homelands just like they have.

Letter from Tenzin

I got an anguished response last night from a reader to an angry post I had written last month on the Tibetan issue. I would like to reproduce what she wrote:

"Hi,

I am one of what you call "India's most ungrateful and arrogant refugees". Yes I am a Tibetan and I must say I experienced a lot of emotions while reading your blog - emotions ranging from anger to surprise and many in between. India is a free country and we all have freedom to speak our minds, something you and I would'nt have had had we been Chinese citizens. I agree with most of the things you said but I think your knowledge of the Tibetan refugees is very limited.

I can't talk on behalf on all Tibetans but I feel I must say some things. I agree most Tibetans have underpaid Indian help, at some places the shopkeepers would only talk to foreigners and yes, the Indian govt has been helping us since the time of my grandparents. But how many Tibetan places have you visited personally?

I am a Tibetan. I am not a hustler as you mentioned. I pay taxes to the Indian govt and I feel as much Indian as you do. I have raised my voice against the quota system and I cheer equally hard when India wins a cricket match. We Tibetans may not have contributed much to India but I am sure you know the total population of Tibetans in India.

I don't know if you know, but in the Bangladesh war, many Tibetans died fighting for India. Yes hundreds of these very ungrateful Tibetans died. My grandfather, like many, died making roads in India. My ungrateful grandfather! I think maybe one day we should sit and chat, if you have time.

Tenzin

(Images: Courtsey www.tibet.com and www.wikipedia.com)

Postcard from a shopping mall

I have a quick question: why can I not ask my wife for an external hard disk as a birthday gift?

(Actually I have three other questions: why do men have to stand embarassed outside women's bathrooms at shopping malls holding the wife's bags as other women pass by, smiling? And why do women's stores, where women love to spend half their lives, not have places for the husbands with swollen feet to sit? And WHY OH WHY can men not swear at bad drivers on the road who zigzag through the roads like impudent rats?)

Anyway, back to the first. I think birthdays are a very over-rated concept, Still, I bear it. So we were at this swank shopping mall in New Delhi today, where my wife Nidhi had hijacked me to buy me a birthday gift.

I am bad at choosing or suggesting gifts for myself, but I said yes, in the spirit of the birthday, and walked down the row of "stores" (seems they get insulted if you call them shops), like a fat model (do not laugh, they will soon be considered icons in anti-skinny France, and hence everywhere else).

Like the multiple choice questions I loved doing in my childhood exams, my wife paraded ideas: a new mobile phone? an Ipod Nano? A watch?

I ducked and swayed, somehow inventing a reason why every single one of those was not what I wanted. "The problem with you, my dear," I told her with some trepidation as we glided into a gizmo shop, "is that while I am trying to faithfully FIGURE OUT what I want, you seem to KNOW what I want."

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Wives made this decision centuries ago that they know what men want. We, of course, had to make and watch a Hollywood movie to try and figure out What Women Want.

Anyway, that is the EXACT moment when the idea hit me. Like Archimedes, I mentally jumped out of the bathtub, mentally shouting "Eureka! Eureka!" and physically rushed towards one counter (without the mental towel). The gift I wanted was right here.

It was a hard disk.

It was 160 GBs of external memory on which I could save the hundreds of pictures I take on trips, my scripts, and the books I download (legally).

"A HARD DISK?" my wife said in a loud, exasperated whisper. "That's what you want for your birthday, a hard disk?" She literally kept her elbow on the counter and held her head in frustration. It was as if I had asked for a broom for my birthday (not that I find that unreasonable in any way, to each his own).

For the next two hours, I pleaded with her as we sauntered around: "Why cann't I buy a hard disk? Isn't the birthday mine? Shouldn't the gift be something I want?"

As I understood it, her main fear was: when her best friends at NDTV would ask her what she bought her husband for his birthday, what would she say? "A HARD DISK!!!!!" What if I asked for a set of Crabtree switches or a cooking gas cylinder next year?

It was indeed a tough dilemma. I dropped her at her parents', and she has just informed me that a brand new mobile phone is on its way as my birthday gift.

I like her gesture. It was very sweet of her. But I intend to keep up the fight for the hard disk.

Bollywood nugget: The Hindu on lyricists

"He doesn’t mind reading out his creation on the phone। He comes from a small town but prefers receiving the melody on e-mail. Poetry is not his full-time occupation. He can write about romance while covering militancy."


Anuj Kumar of The Hindu has written a story today on me and my fellow Bollywood lyric writers. You can read it here.

नक्सलवाद की कहानियाँ लिखते पत्रकारों के नाम

"क्या आप ज़रा मेरी तनख्वाह बढ़वाने की बात कर सकते हैं सर? मैं इस साल भी अपनी बेटी को ठीक स्कूल में दाखिल नहीं करवा पाया. आठ सौ रुपये लग जाते."

मैं झारखण्ड में घाटशिला नाम के कसबे में था, और एक हिन्दी समाचार पत्र के स्थानीय साथी मेरे मित्र, अपने बॉस, से बेहतर पगार का निवेदन कर रहे थे.

घाटशिला के पत्रकारों की कहानी नक्सलवाद से सारे इलाकों की कहानी है. नक्सलवाद कवर करना कश्मीर जैसा चमक धमक भरा सेक्सी काम नहीं है. कम-ज़्यादा खतरे दोनों जगह हैं, लेकिन नक्सल क्षेत्र का रिपोर्टर कश्मीर के पत्रकार की तरह टनाटन कॅरिअर नहीं बना पाएगा, बड़ा मकान नहीं बना पाएगा, कार नहीं ले पाएगा, किस्मत ने साथ भी दिया तो डॉलर नहीं कमा पाएगा, और अमरीकी लहजे में बात करने वाले दोस्त नहीं बना पाएगा.

ये तो गरीब का विद्रोह है.

ये तो गरीब रिपोर्टर की कहानी है।

घाटशिला में मेरे स्थानीय साथी का दफ्तर भयानक गरम था, जैसे कमरे के अन्दर ही लू चल रही थी. सिर्फ़ एक पंखा था, धीमी रफ्तार में चलता हुआ. रौशनी कम थी. चाय की दूकान बंद थी. उनके अपने अदम्य उत्साह और मक्खी मारने के प्लास्टिक के यन्त्र के अलावा यहाँ उनके जोश को जिंदा रखने के लिए था ही क्या यहाँ.

नक्सल क्षेत्रों में काम कर रहे ये साथी इन्हीं अंधेरे कमरों से इस विद्रोह के समाचार दुनिया को देते हैं. जब गुमनाम नक्सल प्रवक्ताओं के फ़ोन आते हैं, या खूबसूरत लेखनी में लिखी प्रेस रिलीज़ कोई दे कर जाता है, ऑपरेशन के बारे में बताने के लिए. नई मौतें, नए आक्रमण, नया पुलिसिया आक्रोश.
वो मेरे साथी तब भी बिना थके चलते रहते हैं जब पुलिस उन पर नक्सली जासूस होने का आरोप लगाती है, जब उनके फ़ोन टेप होते हैं.

वो चलते रहते हैं, इसलिए नहीं की कोई तनख्वाह में बढोत्तरी या बॉस से तारीफ की ईमेल उनका इंतज़ार कर रही है. वो चलते रहते हैं क्यूंकि वो जानते हैं कि कहीं न कहीं वो भी कहानी का हिस्सा बन गए हैं. अपमानजनक गरीबी में रह रहे लोगों कि जिंदगियों से इतने जुड़ गए हैं कि अब पीठ दिखा कर कहीं जा भी नहीं सकते.

वो भारत के असली पत्रकार हैं. बरसों बरसों इन्हीं कच्चे रास्तों पर चलने के बाद भी, वही कहानियाँ बार बार लिखने के बाद भी, उनकी आँखें तब भी नम हो जाएंगीं जब वो सुनेंगे उस बूढी औरत कि कहानी जो एक रात बुरी तरह जल कर मर गयी -- क्यूँकि ओढ़ने को कम्बल नहीं था और आग के ज़्यादा पास सो गयी थी.

वो कभी कोई पत्रकारिता का पुरस्कार नहीं जीतेंगे, मोबाइल फ़ोन के नए मॉडल नहीं खरीद पायेंगे, प्रधान सम्पादक जी से तारीफ के दो शब्द नहीं सुन पायेंगे, और टीवी स्टूडियो में बैठ कर अपनी बात कहने के लिए नहीं बुलाए जाएंगे.

और जो ये सब कर पाए हैं, उनसे ये मेरे साथी कभी रंज नहीं करेंगे.

सलाम करता हूँ उन्हें.

पाठकों में अगर कोई प्रधान संपादकगण भी हों, तो कृपा कर के मेरे दोस्तों को तारीफ भरा एक फ़ोन कर दें, एक कूलर दिला दें, और थोडी सी तनख्वाह बढ़ा दें -- ताकि इस बार नए सेशन में एक साथी पत्रकार अपनी बेटी को किसी ठीक ठाक स्कूल में भरती करा पाये.

नीलेश

Saluting the small town reporter in Naxal land

"Can you help me get a raise? I could not send my daughter to a decent school this year as well. It would have cost Rs. 800," the stocky reporter in Ghatsila town asked my friend, his boss from Jamshedpur.

Covering the Naxal story is not a sexy assignment. It is not lucrative either -- unlike Kashmir, it won't make careers, help people buy big homes, big cars, earn dollars, and American-accented friends. This is the poor man's insurgency. This is a poor reporter's story.

The office was steaming hot, with just one fan whirring, the lights dim, and little to egg them on except their enthusiasm and fly swatters. From this dark hole, the reporters cover the Naxal insugency. They put out news reports when unnamed Naxalites call them and give them reports of ambushes and landmine attacks; or when neatly handwritten Naxal statements come in the post.

(Pic: A child in a village in the Saranda forest, Jharkhand)

They plod on even when police office accuse them of having links with the rebels or tap their telephones; or, in flamboyant conversations with the rare New Delhi journalist, accuse most local reporters of being "on their payroll".

They plod on not because there is a raise or congratulatory e-mail waiting for them. They do it because they know that somewhere they have become part of the story -- so deeply inter-twined with the lives of the people living in humiliating poverty that they cannot walk away from it.

They are India's true reporters. Even after years of travelling the beaten track, they will still get tears lining their eyes when they hear of the woman who died of third degree burns because she had nothing to cover herself on the winter night and slept too close top the fire.

They will never win any journalism awards or buy new cell phones or get a call and kindwords from the editor-in-chief or sit and give their views in a television channel's studio.
And they will never grudge others who do.

I salute them.

नाई से अपौइंटमेंट

बड़े दिनों के तकल्लुफ़ और शिष्ट टिप्पणियों के बाद आज पत्नी ने बेहद उकता कर कह ही डाला: "तुम एकदम भयानक लग रहे हो, आख़िर इतने दिन से बाल क्यों नहीं कटवा रहे हो?"

उनकी बात ठीक थी, लेकिन मेरी भी अपनी मजबूरियां थीं.

छोटे शहर का आदमी हूँ. दिल्ली में पन्द्रह साल बीत गए, लेकिन माफ़ कीजियेगा, कुछ चीजों से अभी भी एडजस्ट नहीं कर पाया हूँ. मसलन: बाल कटवाने के एक सौ सत्तर रुपये? और तीस रुपये की टिप? मियां सोने का उस्तरा है क्या और हीरे जड़ी कैंची?

और उसके ऊपर से आज गया तो कमबख्त मेज़ के पीछे बैठा एक आदमी बोला, "सर अपौइंटमेंट है क्या?" अमां तुम क्या समझ रहे हो, किसी बेईमान अधिकारी के चपरासी हो क्या? मन किया की ... खैर छोडिये.

बात की जड़ में ये मामला है. मैं दिल्ली के जिस मोहल्ले (कैलाश कालोनी) में रहता हूँ, वहां बाज़ार में सिर्फ़ एक अदद बाल कटाने का इम्पोरियम है. जी हाँ, इम्पोरियम. देखिये नाई की दूकान तो उसे मैं कह नहीं सकता, वो लोग बुरा मान जाएंगे. दो मंजिला मामला है, ऊपर महिलाएं संवारती हैं, नीचे मर्द संवारते हैं. पहली बार गया था तो घबरा गया. लगा किसी पुरूष-प्रेमी शहेंशाह के मरदाना हरम् में आ गया.

कोई मर्द बेशर्मी से जांघ तक पतलून उठाए बैठा था, पानी के टब में मदमस्त हाथी के अंदाज़ में टांगें हिलाता हुआ. कोई बेसुध लेटा था पानी में अपने बाल डुबोए हुए. कोई अपने नाखून कटवा रहा था. कोई अपने हाथ किसी कारीगर के हाथ में दे के अदा से बैठा था, जैसे बस मेंहदी अब लगी, तब लगी.

मुझे घबराहट हुई. मैंने किसी तरह सर झुका कर नाई भाईसाहब से वही चार शब्द कहे जो बचपन से कहता आया हूँ: "भइया, छोटे कर दीजिये!". भइया ने कैंची उस्तरा फिरा तो दिया, लेकिन जब पैसे देने का वक्त आया तो बोले एक सौ सत्तर रुपये. भइया एक सौ सत्तर में तो कॉलेज के दिनों तक लखनऊ से काठगोदाम का रेल का सेकंड क्लास टिकेट आता था.

ऊपर से इस जगह का नाम भी बड़ा पुरूष विरोधी था. Madonna!

उस दिन से मैंने सोचा, की मैं यहाँ अब नहीं आऊँगा. लेकिन बालों के खुदा ने साथ न दिया. बहुत ढूँढा, कहीं भी कोई और बाल काटने का इम्पोरियम या खोमचा न मिला.

इस बीच लखनऊ जाने का कोई मुहूर्त बना. सोचा लखनऊ तो जा ही रहे हैं, गोमती नगर में घर के पीछे जीवन प्लाजा में बाल कटवा लेंगे तीस रुपैय्या में. न हो सका. आलस अधिक था.

दिल्ली चले आए. फिर वही जद्दोजहद. बाल हैं की रोज़ बढ़ते ही जाएं मंहगाई की तरह.
इन्ही हालात में पत्नी ने जो रही सही कसर थी, वो भी पूरी कर दी.

तो मैं आज सुबह खुंदक में आ गया. गाड़ी ले कर निकला. पूरे इलाके का चक्कर मार डाला. नहीं मिला नाई. आखिरकार पत्नी के छोटे भाई को फ़ोन लगाया. नितिन भाई से मेरी इस मुद्दे पर पहले भी बात हो चुकी थी. उन्होंने एक नाई का पता बताया. दूकान का नाम सरल था: The Barber's Shop".

वो आधे घंटे मेरे इस महीने के सबसे सुंदर आधे घंटों में से थे. बाहर निकलते ही जीवन का एक बड़ा फ़ैसला किया.

Madonna बहेन, अब अपोइंटमेंट तुम को माँगना होगा, मैं तो आने से रहा ...

चित्र साभार (Photos courtsey): http://www.gutenberg.org/ व http://www.brocknroll.wordpress.com/

Bollywood nugget: Shah Rukh's show

"आसमां में खजाने गडे हैं

और हम सीढ़ी ले के खड़े हैं"

शाह रुख खान के नए टीवी कार्यक्रम "क्या आप पांचवी पास से तेज़ हैं?" का शीर्षक गीत मैंने लिखा है, जिसे शंकर-एहसान-लॉय ने संगीतबद्ध किया है.

ऊपर लिखे शब्द वहीं से लिए हैं. आप शीर्षक गीत यहाँ सुन सकते हैं. शंकर ने यहाँ गीत का ज़िक्र किया है.

I have written the title song for the new Shah Rukh Khan television show "Kya Aap Panchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?" ... Shankar-Ehsan-Loy have composed the music.

You can listen to the title track here, and Shankar's comments on it here.

(The show is on Star Plus. Pictures courtsey http://www.indya.com/)

Here comes the Olympic shame

The Olympic shame – oops, flame -- passed through New Delhi today like a pampered head of state, watched by more than 20,000 men-in-arms, forcing thousands of homes and offices to keep their windows closed lest they be harbouring a sharpshooter, shutting down the heart of the city and inconveniencing tens of thousands of people to prevent Tibetan protesters from lunging at the torch headed for Beijing. India had pulled its colonial finery out of the closet.

Bravo. It is a display of slavery that even the Chinese would not have expected.

Clearly, India has lost its sense of proportion. We are a democracy, of course – people can come last.
What happened in New Delhi during the passing of the Olympic torch was yet another piece of the jigsaw of India’s farce over the Tibet issue. Since 1959, India has pampered Tibetan refugees, even as it cruelly ignored its own internal displaced – everyone from Kashmiri Pandits to those displaced by infrastructure projects, and even those seeking a homeland in Kashmir and northeast just like the Tibetans. And then, India kneeled down to Chinese concerns to ensnare New Delhi with security paraphernalia that a U.S. president would be jealous of.
So here is the big picture: India will do nothing to prevent its workers from being put out of jobs by a deluge of cheap and substandard Chinese goods, leaving hundreds of thousands of its citizens – from carpenters to memento artisans to toy makers to electronics goods makers – struggling and out of jobs. India will also do nothing to prevent incursions by the Chinese into what New Delhi claims is its territory. But it will go out of the way to clamp down on its capital city to snuff out fury of the Tibetan refugees against the Chinese government.
This is what that means: due to an internal Chinese issue, Indian people cannot go to work, to job interviews, to hospitals, to pick up people at the railway station.
Ah, that brings me to the refugees. India has spent more than Rs 20 crores in recent times to help Tibetan refugees. That, of course, does not include the costs in diplomacy, or real estate -- go to any hill station in India, and you will find that authorities have provided land in the best of locations for "Tibetan refugee markets". This largesse is at the expense of the local unemployed youth, of course, but then the young jobless in Nainital or Darjeeling or Dadri don’t have a sexy cause to back them, do they?
And try finding the refugees at these markets. At most of these shops, you will find, have underpaid Indian servants of the Tibetan refugees. The new generation of the Tibetan in India is not a victim.

The Dalai Lama is a decent man. It is his opponents, the Chinese, and his followers, the Tibetan youth, that I have a problem with. And more than that, I have a problem with how India has dealt with these two protagonists in the Tibet story.
What is the contribution that Tibetan refugees have made to the Indian nation, society and people over the past fifty years? What is their level of involvement and engagement with this country? When Indian refugees or migrants go abroad they make small and big, but always important, contributions to their society. They have a sense of belonging. They drive forward economies.

At a very basic level, the Tibetan story, for me, is about losing one’s home. It is a tragedy I completely empathise with. But it is a tragedy that is resonating far more eloquently in India for Indians – and I am keen to know what India is willing to do for the Kashmiri Pandits who have become a big yawn for the government; for the Kashmiri Muslims and people in many areas in the Northeast who also have an aspiration like the Tibetans for a homeland; and for hundreds of thousands of people displaced by the so-called New India.

India’s warlike exercise to prevent a little flame from being snuffed out has only highlighted the shameful and hypocritical state of denial about the other fires of discontent raging across this nation.

Photos courtsey: PTI, top, and Gautam Singh (AP)

एक कमबख्त छोटे से शहर से एक ख़त

बात-बेबात पे अपनी ही बात कहता है,
मेरे अन्दर मेरा छोटा सा शहर रहता है
ये पंक्तियाँ मैंने कई साल पहले लिखी थीं। कभी पूरी नहीं की। गीत बस वहीं का वहीं रह गया, बड़े शहर में क़ैद. कई बार सोचा, क्या छोटा शहर मेरे अन्दर किसी गहरी, बरसों लम्बी नींद में सो गया? या फिर कोई खूबसूरत मौत मर गया?
पिछले दिनों एक फ़िल्म के गीतों के लिए बम्बई में एक निर्देशक के साथ बैठक चल रही थी, कि उनकी फ़िल्म की कहानी सुन कर अनायास मुंह से निकल गया ... "मेरे अन्दर मेरा छोटा सा शहर रहता है" ... उनको इतना पसंद आया की अब आदेश हुआ है की मैं ये गीत पूरा करूं. पर गीत तो खामोश बैठा है, नाराज़ दादाजी की तरह. आगे कुछ कहता ही नहीं.
हम सभी तो इसी छोटे शहर की यादों की खाते हैं ... जब बड़े शहर ने परेशां किया, इस की बाहों में दुबक जाते हैं। बनारस का वो घाट याद है? पटना का रेलवे स्टेशन देखे हो? यार ये चांदनी चौक तो एकदम जैसे लखनऊ का अमीनाबाद है ... अमां तरबूज़ खा कर तो लल्लन की दूकान की याद आ गई ...
अपने ब्लॉग पर भी बड़ी शान से लिखा, "Hidden inside me, a small town guy" (छुपा है मेरे अन्दर, छोटे से शहर का एक आदमी)। लेकिन कभी कभी सोचता हूँ, कहाँ रहता है ये कमबख्त छोटा सा शहर? क्या पहनता है ये? कौन से गाने पे नाच रहा है ये नचनिया? हट! ये तो बहाना है बस। कहीं ये खूबसूरत छोटा सा शहर हमारे शातिर, कल्पनाशील दिमागों की ईजाद भर तो नहीं? एक ऐसी मरीचिका जहाँ सभी अच्छा था, ज़िंदगी खूबसूरत थी, मधुबाला की तस्वीर की तरह ...
फिर दो पंक्तियाँ याद आयीं, कॉलेज में एक नाटक के लिए लिखीं थीं उस पानी से भरे शहर नैनीताल में ...


जीवन में प्रेम हो, सद्भाव हो, समरसता हो
चावल सस्ता हो ...

यही तो है न हमारी ज़िंदगी में छोटे से शहर की ड्यूटी? एक ऐसी छतरी जिसके नीचे हम पट से भाग जाते हैं, जैसे ही वक्त की धूप थोड़ा सा तिरछी आंख दिखाती है ... ये छोटा सा बेईमान शहर बस हमारे दिल में ही तो रहता है भाई, एक टाइम मशीन की तरह। मुश्किल वक्त, कमांडो सख्त -- नाना पाटेकर ने बोला था न "प्रहार" में? -- बटन दबाया, अपने आप को दो मिनट के लिए छोटे से शहर में पाया.

मैं इस हफ्ते लखनऊ में था। बड़ा हुआ था यहीं। काफी वक्त सड़कों पे छोटे से शहर की राह देखता रहा। लेकिन वहां तो अब डोमिनोस पीत्ज़ा फ़ोन करने से मिलता है। वहां तो अब सिनेमा देखने के लिए गाँव के मास्टर की दस दिन की तनख्वाह खर्च करनी पड़ती है। वहां तो अब बिना नम्बर की मर्सिडीज़ दौड़ती है ...
भाई यहाँ तो अभी अभी किसी नेता ने अपनी ही प्रतिमा का अनावरण किया है, चमकीली बत्ती लगवा कर, लाखों रुपैय्या खर्च कर के परदा उठवाया है. ये छोटा सा शहर कहाँ है , ये तो एक भूतपूर्व और एक भावी प्रधानमंत्री का शहर है ...

मेरे छोटे से शहर पर तो कब का परदा गिर गया यारों ... अब तो बस एक किरदार है जो निभा रहा हूँ मैं।

और हाँ, आप भी.

Such a short journey: One classroom, fifty years

My father Dr. S.B.Misra (right, picture above) undertook an interesting journey this weekend, and I had the pleasure of accompaying him.
For the first time in more than fifty years, he went to his childhood school where he used to walk 12 kilometres from home every day, and to the home of his late, the legendary Sharda Baksh Singh who was feared and loved across Lucknow district in the early years of independence. The visit was part of my father's research for his upcoming book for Roli Books, "Story of an Ordinary Indian".
"This is where I used to sit," my father said, pointing to a classroom on the side at the school in Itaunja town. A jackfruit tree he had planted had disappeared -- so had a building on the far side, beyond the playground.
He looked around, confused, followed by four children who had taken a break from plucking berries from a tree in the school campus. Birds chirped loudly somewhere nearby.
"There used to be a building there," he said.
"No, there wasn't, there was no building," said the most talkitive among the kids.
"Offoh, I am talking about 50 years ago, kiddo -- when I was a little boy like you, this high," he said, smiling and gesturing.
At the home of the teacher (photo, right) in Singhamau village in the Lucknow district, he met Sharda Baksh Singh's talented and passionate writer son, Mr. Batukeshwar Dutt Singh (left, picture at top), who has renovated the entire house but left his father's two rooms untouched, with the walls, ceilings, books and furniture. Mr. Singh was getting ready to leave for the housewarming of his son's new home in Lucknow. But this occasion was more important for him.
He walked inside his father's old room and brought down a picture from the wall. It was a black and whilte image from decades ago, from the day when his father was retiring from the school in Itaunja town, sitting with a grimace and a garland.
Mr. Batukeshwar Singh, also a student of his father, told my father how his late father did not discriminate between him and other school children. He narrated old and forgotten stories. They laughed about old times. They both wiped the photo frame together.
There was dust on it -- the dust of time and forgetfulness in an age where teachers are harassed, insulted and almost never respected.

It was dust that an old and favourite student had come back to wipe clean.

In a chaotic world, lessons from Nicobar

Neelesh Misra

Life’s biggest lessons sometimes come at the most unexpected moments, don’t they? For me, one of them looked me in the face from a sheet of paper as I stood in a makeshift relief camp on Car Nicobar Island in the Andaman and Nicobar archipelago, less than two months after the December 2004 tsunami.
As officials asked survivors to list their losses, thousands of mainlanders who had come and settled there jotted down details of homes and motorcycles, cash and jewelry. But a man from the Nicobarese tribe, from the small island of Camorta, bereft of many of these things as well, just wrote a few words to list his loss: “Three pigs. One dog.” He didn’t care for anything apart from his beloved pets.

From a man who had witnessed the most crushing scenes of death, it was an eloquent statement on what matters in life, a spectacular way of dealing with loss. I came back wiser, a bit calmer, temporarily not worrying about my next raise or my next book, until chaotic New Delhi engulfed me again in its sharp-edged ways – and then I waited for another opportunity to go back to the Andamans to steal another small chunk of peace of mind.
Peace of mind. On that day in 2005, I thought that this rare commodity was all that the Nicobarese had, and used, to face the life-changing disaster that nature had brought to them.

To read the full version of this piece, which first appeared in the Span magazine, please go here.

A Catty Story

Two disparate events happened in the past two days. Laurinda Keys, my former colleague at the Associated Press news agency (where both of us do not work any more) won Rs. 45 lakhs plus interest from the AP in a labour lawsuit that had dragged on for years.
In the evening, I thoroughly enjoyed writing a song for an upcoming film, a stunningly beautiful melody by Shankar-Ehsan-Loy.
But my thoughts this morning had nothing to do with either the lawsuit or the song. It had to do with two cats, and the profound effect they have had on people.
I thought of Simba, Laurinda's regal cat boy, and Gori, the cat girl that literally got into the elevator one day, walked into Ehsan Noorani's home, and has lived there since.
I haven't known much of Simba, apart from a fleeting hello when I visited Laurinda's home years ago. You could tell from that look: it was the look of a person who owned the room. He lazily curled up in a corner, let the guests enjoy and chat, not seeking undue attention. I remember Laurinda mentioning Simba first when she had just arrived in New Delhi from Singapore, new to the chaos of the subcontinent from the placid, often boring perfection of the island nation. I could see that her only emotional anchor in those early days was Simba.
Simba and I had no connection whatsoever until an evening a couple of months ago when I bumped into Ehsan at a shopping mall in Saket, where he and I were both patiently sauntering as his wife Madhu and my wife Nidhi were on their separate shopping trips.
Ehsan invited us to dinner at a friend's home in Delhi, and we then were introduced to Gori, the cat who has touched the lives of the couple in a profound way. I thought of Simba.
Here are some stories about Gori. She can tell tell a Sunday from other days, and that is the day she sleeps late, unlike the rest of the week. She saunters around their residential complex in Bandra and here is how she finds her way home: she waits for someone -- anyone -- to come, and then hops on to the elevator, and spends any possible time patiently, while the elevator goes up and down, up and down, until someone decides to go to the third floor where Ehsan and Madhu live.
She knows her floor; that is when she hops out too and struts right into her home.
She can tell when a person is ill -- as Ehsan unfortunately was a day after we met. She consoles the person, and Madhu believes she has healing abilities. I don't dispute.
So when word came in of Laurinda's lawsuit, and then as I wrote the lyrics to the song that Ehsan had helped compose, I wondered: what if Simba and Gori were out on a date at India Gate in Delhi or Bandstand in Bombay?

What would they talk about? Music, or the news?

The caste of medicine

Ravish Kumar is one of the funniest people I know. He is also one of the most most talented journalists I know.
He wrote a piece on his blog about how in Bihar, a chemist can "look at the prescription and tell the caste of the doctor" -- an irony-filled piece about how caste plays into the health sector there. What happened next -- including a death threat to a person quoted there -- is detailed here in this extract by Mr. Avinash Das in Mohalla, the most popular Hindi blog.
http://mohalla.blogspot.com/2008/04/blog-post_7805.html

A ceiling fan, a 36-year-old dream

My mother called today in excitement. For the first time ever, a fan had just started working in the remote village school my parents set up in 1972 in Uttar Pradesh.

The 36-year-old school, Bharatiya Gramin Vidyalaya, was my father, Dr. S.B. Misra's childhood dream. But it still has no electricity and barely any other facility, and solar panels just brought to life a luxury: a fan that will help some people sit through the excruciating heat this summer.
The fan is a small punctuation in a long story.
As a child, Dr. Misra walked 24 kilometres to and back from his school in remote Uttar Pradesh, with a dream to educate the children in his region so that they would not have to undertake that long walk every day.

He was a brilliant student. He worked through extreme hardship, worked his way through scholarships. From his village, he got an opportunity to get on a train for the first time, get on a plane for the first time, and travelled to Canada in the late 1960s to study geology.
Within months, he became a star when he discovered 565 million-years old fossils that were the oldest records of multicellular life on Earth.
But he still agonised over the long walk to school, that thousands of children were still making in his rural backyard.

Misra and nine of his friends used to sit in a coffee shop every Sunday, horrified at the stories of squalor emerging out of India, and keen to do something about it. He bought an expensive car. He lived a comfortable life. But four years later, on his way to a career of fame and fortune, he quit and returned to his village in 1971 -- to fulfill his dream and set up his school.
Before that could happen, marriage proposals were pouring in. This was the 70s, few people from UP ever went to the West -- and Misra suddenly was a very eligible bachelor. He humbly entertained all proposals -- but laid one condition. He would mary the woman who was equally passionate to set up a school in his village.
Nirmala Shukla was a city woman, a 1960s Lucknow brat. She had never been to a village -- she preferred to go to the movies and poke flirtatious men with safety pins when they tried to act funny with her group. She said: "What the heck, lets do this." They got married in May 1972. Within weeks, she was wading through waist-deep floodwaters in remote Uttar Pradesh, an adventure that sent the blood pressure of her strict father shooting.
This seemed much more than she had bargained for: all the god's creatures she was terrified of, from snakes to scorpions, were here. The couple went door to door, asking people for contributions to the school. They knew people did not have money, even to feed themselves -- so they asked for a fistful of grain, so that the people of the area -- mostly SCs and STs -- felt involved. The school was set up.
In an area where no girl had gone to school before, parents began sending daughters to study because there was a woman principal in Nirmala Misra.
But back in Canada, a deeper conspiracy had taken place. His credit as a discoverer of the extremely rare fossils had been snatched from him by Western scientists. His family launched a campaign to fight back, and finally won.
Last autumn, he received a rare honour from Canadian officials and scientists when one of those fossils was named after him.
Meanwhile, the school has touched and transformed thousands of lives in an area where most of the residents are from the Scheduled Castes, who earlier had no access to education. And for the time time, girls began to study with the opening of the school, and numerous have changed their lives with education. But the school has come through, and continues to face -- many challenges, and is an eloquent example of what is wrong, and what could be right, with India's education system.
And the school just got its first ceiling fan. A few people will not sit in the heat this summer.

(Pictures of the school in the 1970s and now; by Dr. S.B.Misra and Shailesh Misra respectively)

(Those who want to help the school can contact Dr. S.B.Misra at 91-94155-60309 or 91-522-4010 640)