The world without me ...

Will not see the deviation, for I never was, what all it stood for

Will not feel the twinge, for I couldn’t even pluck a single chord

Will not miss the 99 lbs, for I failed dismally to make an impact

Will not pause to lament, for I couldn’t follow its sense of tact

Will continue to churn out the unfit (Darwin’s) & clear its mess

Will settle for more harmony for there’ll be a grating note less

Will have enough up on its sleeves to replace me with another

Will be what it used to be, so shouldn’t I cease to exist rather???

at the 'Sangam'

‘Someone there?’ I knocked at the door, hoping against hope that someone opens it. It was 2 am in the night and I knew I would have to sleep on the bench of the now deserted Allahabad railway station if the house keeper refused to let me in. After few minutes a short skinny & sleepy soul emerged from behind the doors. ‘My train got delayed. I have my exam tomorrow. I need a room just for a day. Please. I’ll leave tomorrow’, I blurted out.

He looked up at me like a patronizing father and I found myself shifting to stand straight with heads down acknowledging that it is not safe for girls to be out at this time of night. He then turned back, waving with his hands to signal, ‘Come in’. I eased a bit. ‘Phew!’ It was nothing less than an exam.

Next day, my actual exam got over at 5 in the evening. And then, I was free. I felt like celebrating this freedom. So what if I was alone? I’m a woman of 21^st century! I immediately I hailed an auto for the ‘Sangam’, confluence of Ganga Yamuna and the mythical & mysterious Saraswati.  

In around twenty, the auto reached near the river bank. After some bitter haggling for the fare, I managed to save ten rupees and patted myself secretly for it. I’m not sure, but I think he signaled to someone sitting at the river bank coz no sooner than I had taken a few steps towards the banks, a boatman approached me ‘Sir, want to visit the sangam?’ I nodded & began to follow him towards his boat. Not many people were there. The few I saw were returning back. I felt a bit odd. Is it the wrong time to be here? Even the sun is about to set. Am I entering the rivers at the wrong time?

Not wanting to show my nervousness, I began a casual chat with the boat men. ‘How long will it take to complete the trip?’ ‘Little more than an hour. Come get in.’ He waved. I swallowed the lump in my throat and jumped in.

As the boat left the Ghats, another set of thoughts or rather sights occupied me. Some pleasant ones! Ignoring the fact that there wasn’t any other boat in the river except ours I watched the sun go down. The sky, until now a mélange of honey and mustard turned to silvery blue with few bright stars. All of which, the river mirrored inexplicably. The sounds of the huge temple bells drifted by the damp wind reached my ears intermittently.

I closed my eyes for some time turning away from the boatmen to soak in the serenity. But the moment I opened them I realized my blunder. He had oared me to what seemed to be a floating altar in the middle of the river. Few more boats were anchored around it with pundits sitting in them in their characteristic saffron gowns and turbans.

‘Where have you taken me?’ I choked out of fear as I tried to speak out shifting few inches back in the boat. He definitely knew those people before. They exchanged ugly smirks and sneers, deciding whose turn it was next. Even the chilly December winds could not control the sweat that had begun to appear on my forehead. Despite trembling like a rock cutter, I tried to keep my brain working ‘What could be their plan? What do they want to do to me? Am I in the middle of some black magic or worse, am I their ... gosh no?’

I looked around for help only to blame myself further. Being full moon, the waves were now getting bigger. The boatman was constantly trying to keep the boat up on the water. I was scared to death. ‘Why on earth did I decide to take a boat ride after sunset? Even in my wildest dreams I had never imagined myself in such a situation. They will definitely sacrifice me at this confluence and no one will ever get to know what happened. What a glorious finish to this inglorious life!’ 

My tirade against myself subsided when the boatmen finally whispered in my ears. ‘Madamji, this is the sangam, you must pray here. It is a very sacred place on earth. These pundits will pray for you, your family and your ancestors. All your wishes will be fulfilled’  

I wanted to tell him that I only wish to get away from here right now. But I did what he told me hoping it would save my life. As soon as I nodded in a yes, the pundits flung in to action with incense sticks, flowers, vermilion and even ash. All of them chanted in something in a language that was not even Sanskrit. They gave me a garland to wear, put a vermilion paste on the forehead and sprinkled lots of things on me. It must have lasted for around twenty minutes, but every cell in my body prayed that day to give me another chance with life.

‘Madamji, you donate Rs. 5000/- here, we will continue to pray for your ancestors everyday for a year.’ ‘But I have only Rs.2000/-’. Oki then you can give us that. We will try to manage.’ Anchored in the middle of the river at night with some seven strangers, I quietly emptied y wallet and waited to see what else was in store. Finally the boatman declared with a tinge of sarcasm, ‘Ok friends, this much is enough. I think our madam is feeling hungry.  Let us finish this. It’s getting late.’

‘Oh my GOD what did he say just now? ’That means they were not sacrificing me. This 21^st century woman could now go back home.’  Till today I cannot express those feelings in words. So much for those two thousand rupees. We began to sail back in silence. I was earnestly looking towards the banks, eager to get off the boat. But what lied before me was something I couldn’t have thought of at that moment. That the darkness had set in, only added to the mystique.

People were slowly gathering near the banks for the evening ‘aarti’. As a ritual, people began t float ‘diyas’ placed in cup made out of dry leaves. In about thirty minutes I was witness to a dazzling display of faith. Over a thousand little lights were now floating in water. Each one floated to fulfill a wish. I too floated a virtual ‘diya’ of mine to offer thanks to the God to bring me back safely.

the translators ..

Suddenly the candle was snuffed out by an unknown force! BAD omen!! VERY bad omen!!! We looked at each other and acknowledged but no one dared to utter the inevitable. Yes, someone has to depart. Someone will depart. But who? In less than an over it was answered.


Like a voice from the sky ‘Oh my God this can be dangerous, Mahendra Singh Dhoni wanting to play to the crowds has ended up in the hands of Luke Wright just on the boundary line. Another wicket for Bresnan and England … is back into the game. This is incredible!’


I took all of it without a twitch, coz I didn’t know how to react. My sixth sense was telling me that there is no point continuing. India has very little chances of winning. But my seventh sense wanted to give it another shot. So this time, I took out two chilies from the fridge and put it in front of the television. Oh this is nothing, my good friend Rashmi is on fast today, I reassured my bewildered cousins.


Well those chilies did get us few runs but that was quickly followed by few more wickets after which I lost interest in the match. But there was something else that caught my attention. The face behind that voice from the sky, the commentators! Specifically, the Hindi commentators. Or may be I should call them ‘the translators’ after I heard them closely last week.


Cricket being a game of the British origins (as proved by the movie Lagaan) has left a lot for our commentators to work upon. Every year few more terms added to the cricket vocabulary which leads to a frantic search for their Hindi counterparts. When cricket itself has a translation that runs into 60 second in Hindi, one can imagine what must be left of terms like silly mid on, short pitched balls and snickometer.  


But it doesn’t stop at the terminologies. Many English phrases are mercilessly morphed. So when they say ‘kakdi ki tarah thande hain baratiya kaptaan’, all they want to say is that ‘the Indian captain is as cool and chilled out as a cucumber’. And if they say ‘is baar nahin denge lagaan’ please empathize with them, they only mean that ‘India will not lose to England this time’. 


While I have been listening a lot about the edges of the bats and the pitches of the balls, this time I thought I was hearing poetry too, with a lot of rhyming words. Perched precariously on the tip of the bat and the bails on the stumps; ready to getting flicked off any moment; remember ‘Kaptaan’ & ‘Lagaan’!


But nothing matches up to those moments when you feel the world around you has stopped. It happened when England needed 2 runs to win from the last ball of the match. A billion hearts were pounding world over glued to their screens, while concentrating on their home made talismans & charms when un-apologetically, the voice from the sky offered, ‘kya lagta hai aapko Mr. Joshi, kaun jeetega?’ And to my utter amazement, Mr Joshi even replies, ‘kehna mushkil hai, koi bhi team ho sakti hai, lekin England mazboot stithi mein.’ Whatever happened to the ‘Kaptaan’ & his ‘Lagaan’!


I have always believed that commentators help you get into the mood of the game besides educating about the same from time to time and should be pardoned for being a little partial towards their home country. But such unsolicited compositions compel me to think over it again. Brooding over this confusion, I stood up at my place once again, hoping this stance would get us what the candle and chilly could not get. Rest is now history of course .....