ON THE EVE OF THE VERDICT

December 6, 1992: I remember I was cycling in the neighbourhood in the afternoon when the news came trickling in Babri Masjid had been demolished. As a school student, the words like Babri Masjid, karsevaks, Viswa Hindu Parishad were alien to me. I read them in newspaper. The same had taught me a little about Ram Mandir movement. But at that age it did not touch me. Later on the television we all watched those visuals of karsevaks hammering an old mosque getting on top of it. The riot followed. Bandhs crippled our life, examinations were postponed and there was Hinduttva bashing everywhere. I remember it took over a week to normalize the ‘bandh’ like situation.

18 years later, today we are all apprehensive of the reaction the Ayodhya title suit verdict will elicit from the Indian people. There is no doubt that the nation which is keeping its fingers crossed are carrying the baggage of the 1992 and, keeping that in mind, we are trying to diffuse our inner tension by saying the nation has moved forward, the young generation is not inclined to react violently, appealing to the people for peace and calm and there is scope of appealing before the apex court if one party is not satisfied with the judgment. We are reacting in the manner for the reason that the situation seems like the lull before the storm. As the actors involved in the 1992 incident and the resultant riots are all silent, not disclosing their cards on how they will ignite the people.

Amidst all these apprehension the big puzzle remains if, after almost two decades, the people will react in 1992-way after the jury is out, in whosever way the verdict goes. Many vouch for the ‘progressive young India’, who would apparently be not swayed away by the religious and communal sentiments, rather restrict themselves on social networking sites, blogs, and chatrooms voicing their opinions (remember the government has banned ‘bulk SMS’!) Still there are worries why the administration is not taking any chance. First, to my understanding, there is a latent inherent communal feeling among all of us and no one can deny this fact even if someone proclaims to be secular or atheist. Second, there are actors in the religious and political community which may try to incite the people to the benefit of their interest; thereby polarizing the nation once again. If both are exploited by any section of any religious communities, we are heading for a bad time.

Fortunately in 2010 there is no face of the politico-religious movement either from the Hindus or from the Muslims, unlike in those days of Babri demolition when LK Advani was leading Rathayatra, Ashok Singhal or Praveen Togadias of VHP/RSS were organizing Ram janmabhoomi movement. It is positive but has negative impact as well. It doesn’t require only a leader or a movement to turn people violent in such situation. It can go uncontrollable even if there is any leader (as the BJP claims what happened in Ayodhya in 1992 was not under the control of the leadership).

At the end of the day, it will be a test case for the Indian nation, how the political and religious leaders go beyond their petty interest and how the young India reacts to the Temple-Mosque issue after the verdict is pronounced. The fear is still the worst riot of the decade happens in Left-ruled Bengal’s Deganga, a small bloc in North 24 Parganas district!

THE FIR

To


The Officer-in-charge

Salboni Police Station

West Midnapore

West Bengal 03-09-‘10





Sir,

At around 2:40pm on 03-09-’10 (Friday), we, Pranab Mandal and Amit Dutta of The Telegraph, Sambit Pal and Suraj Pandey of Times Now, Arnab Mukhopadhyaya, Sudip Guchhait and Amitava Ratha of Star Ananda, were proceeding towards Chandra from Pirakata in two cars (WB 20G 8864/Innova and WB 04D 4650/Scorpio) bearing stickers of Star Ananda and Times Now respectively, being driven by Subodh Roy and Mahesh Burman. As we reached near the Pirakata joint forces’ camp, we were checked at the check post and allowed to proceed after we identified ourselves.

As we moved about 2 kilometers from the joint forces’ camp on the same road, we were suddenly intercepted by a group of 15-20 persons who were armed with small arms tucked under their shirts/t-shirts, bamboo sticks, sticks and iron rods. They were in jeans –shirt, lungi, t-shirts, kurta, etc. one of them covered his face with ‘gamchha’ and wearing black t-shirt. They opened the doors of the cars and asked why we have come here. Before we could say anything they started threshing us, snatched our cameras and mobile phones. Despite telling them repeatedly that we were from media houses, they didn’t listen to us. Immediately started hitting us with iron rods, bamboo sticks and sticks. They smashed the cars’ wind screens, window glasses and backlights. They badly damaged our cars.



We were dragged out of the cars, thrashed to the ground, brutally beaten up. Pranab Mandal of Telegraph suffered fracture on his left arm (the fracture was detected later through X-ray in Midnapore town) and his arm started bleeding at the spot, Sambit Pal suffered injury on his left arm and fingers which are swollen. Amitava Ratha suffered injury on his left hand and there is suspected hairline fracture. Amitava Ratha also suffered injury on his lower right leg. Star Ananda cameraperson Sudip Guchhait also suffered injury on his left hand and neck. Suraj Pandey got hit by bamboo sticks on his back, Telegraph photographer Amit Dutta got hurt on his arms and neck. All of us suffered injuries while they were beating us up at the same spot.



These armed goons identified themselves as CPIM cadres. There were CPIM red flags all over the area, on trees, little shops, huts, etc. These CPIM goons while beating us abused us and kept saying in Bengali,

“ki re tora harmad der camp dekhte esechhis? Dekh, toder ki dekhai!”


“tora kothay chili jokhon amader kormira gramchhara chhilo? Jokhon amader meyeder darshon kora holo, tokhon asis ni ekhon amader camp dekhte esechhis?”


“ke toder pathiyeche? Mamata na shuvendu?”


“dekhachhi toder sob.”


“ nam siggiri gari theke. Ekhane keno esechhis?”


“toder hat kete fele rekhe debo.” “toder ekhane asar ki jogyota ache?”



After a while, they forced us to go back but halted our cars agains to force it back to the same sport. We were threaten that we would be killed and our bodies would be buried there itself. We were asked to sit in front of a little shop there. At that time two CPIM leaders named Madhusudan Mahato, (aprox age 50), Local Committee Secretary, Pirakata, CPIM, Jagannath Mahato (Aprox age 55-60), a local CPIM senior leader of Salboni area reached the spot and told us in threatening voice, “ekhane ki korte esechhen aapnara? Ekhane keu ase? Joutha bahinir camp theki ba apnader edike ke aste dilo? Mar khaben e. edike ki camp khujte esechhilen? Jak ekhon ja bolbo tai karun. Jemon bhabe bolbo temon bhabe jaben. Ekhan theke jaben na. mar khawai toh swabhabik.beshi barabari korben na. ekdom chupchap bosun.”

Then these two leaders called a cadre and told him to take our cars towards Satpati. As we requested them to allow us to go through the road we came from by the Pirakata camp of joint forces/ they prevented us and said, “ja bolchhi kor, noyto punte rekhe debo.” We were silenced. We requested them to return our cameras and mobile phones. After repeated requests, they have returned some mobile phones but seized three mobile phones (the numbers are 9433447231, 9830996089 and 9433096809)

They’ve returned the cameras abut one camera’s view finder was damaged. Then we were instructed to get into the cars and follow the motorbikes two of the CPIM cadres were riding. As we followed them through a ‘moram’ road, we saw a CPIM camp with CPIM flags all over , in a building which was equipped with a generator and bunkers. As we reached the main road (Pirakata to Bhadutala road) near Satpati, we were freed to go and they asked us not to stop anywhere.

Before we left the spot, we were offered money as compensation and bribe as Madhusudan Mahato and Jagannath Mahato threatened us ,”takata nin. Kichhu jeno ei niye lekhalikhi korben na.” we refused to take the money and left the place. We came directly to the Midnapore Medical College and Hospital to see the doctor at the emergency ward. After medical check up we came straight to lodge the complaint.



We are herby lodging the complaint with you to take legal action applying appropriate sections of law and by initiating a case against the above mentioned miscreants.



Thanking you,

Yours truly,



Sd/- Sambit Pal

Arnab Mukherjee

Suraj Pandey

Amitava Rath

Pranab Mandal

Amit Dutta

Sudip Guchhait

HANGING

As I watched the blanket coverage of the Qasab sentencing, glued to the TV set since morning, I was reminded of an early morning scene outside Kolkata’s Central Correctional Home or, to be precise, Alipore Central Jail. About six years back, hundreds of journalists accompanied by hundreds more curious onlookers had gathered outside the jail overnight to hear the news: Dhananjoy has been hanged. Dhanajoy Chatterjee who was sentenced to death after being convicted of rape and killing of a young girl, Hetal Parekh, created much uproar in the civil society if capital punishment should be banned in India. As I interacted with many of Hetal's  neighbours, friends, classmates and teachers goning deep into the old case as the nation was preparing to hang him, I had a feeling at that time, like many others, that he SHOULD be hanged to death.

But I was shocked at my own strange emotional outburst on that fateful day in that early morning. We all knew Dhananjoy was hanged at around 4 o’clock. I was among those who waited on the western side of the road for Dhananjoy’s body to be taken out of the prison  At around 7 am, a mortuary van came out of the jail; I prepared to do my stand up. As the van carrying the corpse covered in a glass chamber passed by me, I could see only Dhananjoy's bare feet while the rest of the body was covered in a white sheet of cloth; I didn’t know what happened to my journalistic objectivity at that moment! I cried out on camera saying ‘this was the person who spent over 14 years inside the jail for committing a crime, rather killing a young girl, and today that very person is coming out of the confinement one last time, but not alive. His dead body is being taken out in full public glare’. It appeared to me, at that moment, the State here acted as a killer. With my emotion overflowing (later my cameraperson told me I was shivering while doing the walk about keeping Dhananjoy’s body at the background) I felt the capital punishment should be abolished. The State can not be a killer.

Today as I watched the Qasab coverage with my colleagues who like many others on and off air, were strongly advocating for a death sentence for the Pakistani terrorist, I was really confused to take a strong stand either for or against capital punishment. From the tones of the callers as well as the guests on live national television, it seemed as if crores of Indians are thrusting their anger on a terrorist to kill him and taste blood.

There were many arguments, apart from the legal ones, flying in the air heavily loaded with hate, anger and grudge. I could not deny the sentiment of a father of a deceased NSG soldier, Capt Unnikrishnan, who termed the death sentence as a symbolic one. He wanted something harsher than this, if the law provided. After all he lost his son. Mr Unnikrishnan probably echoed the desire of the kins of those 160 odd who were murdered in Mumbai’s most horrific terror attack better known as 26/11. If any caller talked against the death sentence, everybody supporting the punishment jumped on to their feet to stop and abuse that person, known or unknown with a lot of hatred. They said, “If it would have been your daughter, son, brother, sister or your parents, you would also want to kill the killer.” Perhaps they were true.

The question that disturbed me was if it was an occasion to celebrate as we saw pictures of fire crackers and jubilant people on the street, on live television after the quantum of punishment was declared. Yes we had to punish the man who came with a mission of mass killing. We could get hold of the only living terrorist and we needed to show the world we could bring justice to the victims of terrorist act and at the same time we could be strict when it came to any terrorist. We did. We were.

The question still remains in my mind. Where will this death punishment take us to? Our leaders will play a game of dialogue with  Pakistan from where these terrorists including Qasab had come well nurtured. The main conspirators of 26/11 will move freely in a rouge country called Pakistan, they say have fallen prey to terrorism or Talibanism. Many more terrorists will be produced to take on the civilized society on a wrong mission of jihad.

And most importantly, this death sentence and the public frenzy over it will boost up the ‘killer’ instinct among the people. I believe 99 per cent of those who were vociferous in supporting the death punishment, did so with a subdued ‘animal’ instinct.

I shall still submit that I had been and am utterly perplexed to take a strong stand over capital punishment today. My emotion suggests let the law take its course and legally punish Qasab as he deserves. Let it be the capital punishment, but let’s not celebrate the death sentence. Let us be more sensible citizens who would be more alert in our public life and help the administration in taking pre-emptive action to resist any such repeat of 26/11. We should demand that our politicians don’t just play around the rhetoric but take up the matter with our neighbours to bring the real culprits to book, make our intelligence agencies stronger, raise our police force in a manner capable of fighting the modern-day terrorists.

To me, we will pay our tribute to the souls of hundreds of martyrs who had to sacrifice their lives in terrorist act, by preventing any further terrorist activities on our soil.

People like Qasab had come here to die and he will be hanged to death. The terrorists would celebrate their hero’s jannat yatra. Let us not celebrate this fact please. Otherwise it will remain mere ‘symbolic’ on the face of the threat called terrorism.

BANGALIYANA OVERFLOWED

There are certain occasions on the calendar when the Bengalis want to be portrayed Bangali, wherever on earth they are. If Durga Puja tops the list, Poila Baishakh (the first day of the Bengali New Year) is certainly the close second on the list. So far I didn’t have to ‘expose’ my Bangali identity to the world as I have been born, brought up and growing up in the heart of Bengal till date. To me these occasions are celebrated in a natural way. As a child, Poila Baishakh has always been a day to wear new cloths, ranging from kurta to fatua to t-shirts, and visiting a small fair in our locality with friends and close ones. In later stage, exchanging New Year greetings cards in Bengali turned out to be a fashion. Yes Durga Puja gave me and some of my friends an opportunity to wear dhoti and kurta, which I still love to wear given any opportunity, especially on ashtami day (the second day of worshipping deity Durga). It was also because, our school used to organize Durga Puja, being a private centre following the ideals of Ramakrishna Mission, and we thought it wise to wear dhoti-kurta while being part of the festival in school, rather than wearing the awkward school uniform, black shorts and half-sleeved white shirt. We opted for the same on the public function days in our school.

Despite all these facts, this time a unique urge to be a Bangali flared up in my mind. It was partly because of my half-Bengali NRB wife (she may kill me for calling her so) and partly because of my taste bud. My colleague knows how pathetic I am when my taste buds declare something and I need to hunt for that particular food. I don’t rest until I find the item. This Poila Baishakh despite an ill health, the spark came in my mind to enjoy the dinner with Bangali food in a Bangali restaurant. Hesitantly my wife agreed to give it a try. In her effort to fulfill my wish, she didn’t want to leave any flaw. The girl who never dares to wear saree (thrice she did it: on the day of our marriage registry, the social marriage and the reception. Oh no she did once more, again on a Poila Baishakh day but just for a snap), brought out a new one from the almirah. This is for the first time she wore it on her own and managed it well, I must say. (Later my mother, being enlightened about our Bangaliyana adventure, asked her if she sported sindoor to give a finak touch to her Bangali bou self. She did. She used sindoor as bindi as she didn’t have any at her disposal.) Needless to say I took out a pair of kurta-payjama to celebrate the occasion.

Everything was right until then. We called up one posh restaurant in south Kolkata to know the exact location. We took a taxi and reached bang on the spot. Things started turning around from there. We realized we decided too late. About 20-25 people were jostling there in front of the restaurant. As I approached the security guard, drenched in his own sweats, I was told we would have to wait for about an hour or more to get an entry. I listed my name. The sick pale face of mine, just struggling to get out an attack of a viral fever, started getting paler, especially in front of my wife, who was not very keen to have Bengali food tonight. But as I said, my taste buds had declared something and I felt it to be my duty to satisfy myself! Sweat drops started to appear on my forehead as I looked at the man at the entrance who was having a hard time controlling the starved Bangalis. As I looked around, I saw two couples engrossed in appreciating their own thoughts but keeping a sharp eye and ear at the gate, a group of five friends calculating when they came and when they expect an entry, half of a family of seven was squatting at the pavement, many are gheraoing the guard as if to put pressure to announce their names. Soon the friends got a call to get inside. They sounded relived. A little later a young man came talking over his cell phone, to our astonishment, before the guard could stop him, his friends came out from the restaurant to take him inside! The lucky friend indeed! Then came a family in a procession, the girl in the family in a proud voice announced they had a booking. Seconds later, the glowing faces defused, as the manager came out to inform ‘Bookings are not being allowed today. All cancelled.’ The father of the family shouted at others for harassing him like this. “Oh we had our table booked! See now what happens to your Bangali khana”, he said mockingly with enough grudge inside.

I could see the gentleman’s mood reflecting on my otherwise sweet wife’s face who so far tolerated my wish with much reluctance. My heart was still bubbling with the idea of relishing the dinner with ilish paturi, chingri malaikari, chitol machher muithya, mochar ghonto, sona mung dal and so on. My foodie self was still salivating more so when the restaurant door opened a little and the manager was trying to gauge the situation as we looked at him expectantly, when the fortunate lot coming out chewing paan after their hearty grub. Looking at my wife’s face disgusted with hunger and my madness over Bengali cuisine, I started feeling feverish again. After a while, when our own conversation fell into our own deaf ears overshadowed by indifferent and intolerable looks beyond our eyes, we realized no one was promising us a dinner in this particular restaurant as there was dearth of seats for ‘two’ especially on a busy day like Poila Baishakh. The hungry-me gave up. Putting an end to the adventure past ten o’clock in the evening, nowhere to go haunting Bengali cuisine, I surrendered to my beloved catching a taxi, being driven away from the Bangaliyana show, resting my head on the back of the seat. I told her to do whatever she wanted. My temperature was rising, so was the blood in the head of the saree-clad woman sitting next to me.

Dear friends, we were not left unfed that night. After trying three more multi-cuisine restaurants and hating to see the bee line of the hungry Kolkatans, we ultimately ended up with Thai cuisines in front of us. Trying to find a connection between Thailand and Bengal, we gulped the food little close to midnight. (We got a seat there after a brief 10-minute wait).

CONFINEMENT

The itchy feeling is all over there in the body and in the brain too. If I look at the brain and the body separately it becomes easier to confront them. In any kind of isolation due to the physical limitation, it is essential to consider the brain and the body as separate entities to survive the sudden attack of pain. It is necessary to stop the vain carrying the painful trauma before it can hit the thinking pad. But now it is itching all over my body and the brain. Looking at it closely makes it clear that the limbs are getting tired; the pain vain is paving its way up through the spine, little above the nose and in between the eyebrows through the left side of the face.

Many ideas, to be specific many lines came in the mind, the untouchable subject inside the body or the brain (to me the heart and the mind live side by side under the chest; symbolically so). But interpreting those lines for the mortals like me is the toughest task. I am no thinker, neither a good writer that it would be a cakewalk for me. Though they would suggest nothing is impossible so efforts should be made to transcript those thoughts or the lines.

Being detached from the outside world has its advantage, even in the middle of growing insecurity and inhabitation, of introspection. I am crowded. Crowded with many lines, printed and otherwise, here and there, crowded with the passers by, the lady evening walkers, the kids learning to cycle, the teens refusing to carry the friends for it would be risky due to the consumption of alcohol, the construction workers reminding me of the matuas cooking their food at the end of the day in the little garden they used to stay. There are plenty. The hanging mangoes in the trees around, the bird reconstructing its nest after the storm --- all become the neighbours in need.

The bell rings thrice since morning. And that is it. The known faces surround the existence. Then there is the most beloved. The touch is missed everyday. Still stealing the moments of happiness carries a new element of bondage. We live for the others. We make our life for thee. Like the perfume in the air, the caring heart is touched too often even though the distance remains. Then nothing continues for long. The routinised life bores one. Sometimes the self turns out to be bigger than the love. The soothing comfort tells the tale of agony. The blood shoots up again.

Is not it the beginning of a new chapter? The provocation of a new life draws one out of solitude which is a precious gift. Explaining the same thing, the same pain and the same remedy is the reason why the silence should prevail. The silence should beget the new beginning gradually taking the cue from within and moving forward with new hope.

Behind the dark cloud, there is always a silver lining. The dawn will follow the dusk. The morning has to be merrier than the night.

CONSPIRACY

On a Sunday afternoon when the sun was setting in, I was crying like a mad sitting on the bed in our room. Everyone was consoling me to stop me from going crazy. I put my face in the pillow trying hard to cope with the pain of India’s defeat to Pakistan in Sharjah (also for the embarrassment of crying for a silly cricket match). No, the agony of not-even-a-10-year-old didn’t reach the Shastris, the Gavaskars, the Kapils or the Azhars, but that moment perhaps represented thousands and lakhs of cricket lovers of our country of that time (I don’t exactly remember the day or the year; but it must be late 80s). That was the passion called cricket which I learned to understand when I was five or six.

Now I believe Cricket is nothing but conspiracy. I have been sticking to this belief for last two decades and whenever getting a scope, propagating it too. My friends hate me for looking down at the game (or an entertainment show?) called cricket. I can’t help it. Things, for me, changed probably during the period of match fixing scandal that rocked the cricketing world. Even now it appears to me that everything is pre arranged in this game. My interest in the sport has come to such a state now that I can’t tell the names of the 11 players of the Indian cricket team. I don’t repent. These recent talks about match fixing in the IPL 2 doesn’t bother me for the same reason.

Money, to be precise big money has spoilt the gentleman’s game in and out. Those days of white shirt and trouser, white gloves with red marks on the fingers, the red duce ball, and the wooden coloured wickets are all gone. The days of five slips and fast (not medium fast) bowlers are things of the past. I may sound orthodox and conservative talking like an old man, but I still romanticize cricket with those days in mind. I looked at it as a sport. Now I look at the game as entertainment as it has changed its colour over the years becoming popular but losing character.

Still, to tell the truth, I was getting back some sort of interest in cricket these days for a man called Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. Keeping aside all the cynicism about the game, I love, like crores of cricket lovers, to watch Sachin play. I watch him with awe. The determination, dedication and discipline in a player are rare. He comes to the field with all of that and turns out to be an icon in everyone’s life everyday, irrespective of his cricketing virtues.

Today I was hurt to see none discussed about his dedication for the game instead we all discussed when Lalit Modi, one of the living symbols of degeneration of cricket, would be show caused by the self-proclaimed moral bosses of Indian cricket. The man with six stitches on his hand came out in the field, led the team (though they lost) not for money, but for the game itself out of a passion. But LM was more important than ST. Don’t blame media for this, rather blame the cricket administrators who have turned the game so murky!

Today once again I was relieved to be reassured of my own theory ‘cricket is nothing but conspiracy’.

Ps: You are free to interpret the word ‘conspiracy’.

VISITORS...ONCE AGAIN

Hey I didn’t meet them for a long time. My friends in sleep have started visiting me again. They are hilarious, they are funny and at times they are scary too. Last night they had come in. I don’t know why I was staying in that big house with a complex architecture. My friend Himadri and Amitava had come calling. Himadri was there by evening. So we had a proper dinner and went into sleep chatting. We discovered in the morning that Amitava had come in the middle of the night and found his way in a couch left in the balcony. He slept there until we came out in the morning. An old man who goes to pick up flowers from the neighbourhood every morning alerted us.

No it didn’t start there. I had gone to my school to cover the recovery of explosives in the garden at the back of the junior high or senior basic school. It is the garden where we used to go to search for the ball after someone hit a sixer in our days of T-20 or T-10 and the caretaker Achchhalal with a long beard, red eyes, and dirty cloths holding a garland of key used to be after us. But today I was late. My cameraperson reached the spot much earlier and shot all the visuals. The moment I reached the spot, I saw the explosive experts coming out after, may be, a meeting with the management or the teachers of the school. The hard-news-TV-reporter habit prompted me to hold the mike in front of the ‘chief’ who gave me the exclusive and explosive byte slamming the school authority for lack of vigilance and safety. I jumped on my feet. I shouted at my cameraman to immediately feed it through the OB van (couldn’t find where exactly my OB van was parked in the school). I asked him to send the ‘chief’s byte’ only. But what was this going on? I was on one part of the big school ground and my cameraperson was on the other part shooting something. I called him loudly trying to tell him the urgency to break the news. Doesn’t he know we live on such one liner breaking news! He was reluctant to send the ‘byte’ only. After all he had put in his effort to shoot so much of visuals of the explosives. He thought of shooting more ‘establishing’ shots. But I was in a hurry to break my news. This was the same old confrontation. It was not to be like this between us though. Is it the ‘punishment’ for the reporter coming late in the spot? I called in my input desk and give them the chief’s reaction asking them to break it. I had the byte. ‘Please take it and call my cameraperson to feed it’ was my plea. Oh no it was a Saturday full of programmes on the channel. There was no immediate scope to take the byte on air. I was disheartened.

No it didn’t end there too. My sister came in with a story idea (Now I don’t remember the idea though; may be on the handloom workers). She spelt out the idea. I jumped on to it finding another story in it. She left the room. I followed her asking for more information to make my story. It seemed she was not eager to divulge more. Right! She might have thought I would steal her idea and do the story. Trust me it was not my intention.

Then came the moment of the sleep. Mamata Bannerjee came visiting me. This is for the first time she entered into my home. We were busy discussing some problem about some pilgrims somewhere (again I have lost the link). You know who could solve the problem. Forward Bloc’s Ashok Ghosh. She asked me to connect her to Ashokda. How could I tell her a ‘national’ reporter doesn’t keep the phone number of a regional political party handy! Who told you that you are a national reporter? Don’t you remember your boss telling you are a local reporter like any other stringers reporting out of the villages of Canning in South 24 Parganas! That didn’t make any difference so late in the evening as I was frantically looking for the telephone number of Forward Bloc office. At last he came in my help. A good old senior friend of mine, Rabida, (I don’t know how he appeared in the scene) took out his tiny phone book from his chest pocket and handed me the number. I dialed the same. Now a new trouble emerged. After keeping me on hold for a few minutes I was told Ashokda had gone to the room on the top floor and it is not possible to transfer the line to him! Aaare Didi is sitting here to talk to Ashokda and you are refusing it!!! No it can’t be connected. Didi left my house.

Many others followed. Now a football match is going on inside my head. Everyone is kicking the ball and the ball is hitting on the walls of my head. I opened my eyes and suddenly found that the first rays of twilight filtering through my windows. So many ideas are kicking inside trying to come out. The good news at the moment is they have started revisiting me.

THE NEW BEGINNING

You never know from where the inspiration comes in and motivates you to sit down in front of the laptop to revive an old habit. In the middle of so much of physical pain and tropical heat, nothing seems right. It becomes so difficult to do one thing at a moment and continue doing that till its logical end. Nothing --- browsing through the virtual pages to the real ones, surfing the channels on the idiot box, lying on the bed, listening to the radio ---- nothing seems peaceful enough. Irritation bugs the mind and the body. The isolation is nothing new to the soul. It happened earlier and it has come back once again. It is time to make best out of it. No work makes one more hungry?


But this time it has to be different. The old habit should be renewed with this old kind of ‘isolation’ creeping in. It should be nurtured and given a sweet home to stay in. The soul should be guided towards to goal. The goal has to be scored. The pain is moving up from the joint which was once described to be the source of all strength. The little insects moving here and there, even though the room is dark, are annoying. They can carry the bad virus out in the world.

It is a promise to come back and tread the path on regular basis. Take one step at a time and move up. You never know from where the inspiration comes. Go back to the story of Ekalavya. Did he also follow the same path? There are so many unknown faces around us or the know faces do not know what they are doing to a person they don’t know much. Here lies a wonderful mystery. This is high time to cherish this mysterious plan and move up and up. The goal has to be scored.