MOBILE SAGA

It is an occasion for the hostel boarders to come together. Most of them are out in the steps, some in the common rooms and some in the corridors cursing loudly. One of the seniors is singing loudly in his deep baritone that is music to his ears only. Others gather around and begin a heated discussion.

The topic of discussion is the same: “What happened to the mobile network?”

Our story starts some two-three years ago when mobile phone companies started their services in the region. Earlier, owning a mobile phone was a privilege that was confined to a select few. As more companies arrived, the number of mobile phone users increased exponentially in direct proportion to the decrease in call rates and services.

The first casualty as a result of this boom was the hostel landline phone. No more tring-tring, only melodies of superhit songs. Our bridge of yesteryears to the outside world, our homes, our families and our girlfriends had fallen silent. No more shouts of “O ______ Dada, Phone ahise” rending throughout the hostel; no more of engrossed lovers who would have earlier been ready to live their whole day in front of the telephone. All of it became history when a landmark decision was reached in the monthly meeting: the landline phone would be cut off. The only legacy it left behind was the telephone bill which is kept as a national treasure for use in case of new mobile connections when it is desperately needed.

There is a saying in Hindi: ‘jahan chah, wahan raah’ – ‘where there is a will, there is a way’. Mobile phones paved the way for lovers to stay connected. At a given point of time, at least three to five persons would be in the hostel verandah and the garden occupying certain positions and moving around that particular place. This gave rise to a new word in hostel terminology – ‘Brownian Motion’ (inspired from the science textbooks). Thus, if a person is spending too much time on the phone while walking around in public view, he is said to be ‘Brownian di ase’.

My friend, who is an intern, is very happy. There is no way he can be traced when he has to attend his ward calls unless a person is sent for that specific purpose. The network ensures that he remains ‘out of range’ or ‘switched off’ even though he is within walking distance of the ward.

One of the mobile companies has launched such outrageously cheap schemes that people have grown spoilt while talking on the phone. One such scheme was the free scheme by Reliance. Reliance to Reliance free. This led to such a heavy congestion of Reliance users that calling a reliance number takes, on an average, half an hour. Add to that problems like inability to hear on one side, spontaneous cut-offs and a host of other problems. Yesterday, I received a rather funny message regarding this situation. “ Dhirubhai Ambani calls son Mukesh from heaven. ‘Beta, Reliance telecom kaisa chal raha hai?’ Mukesh replies ‘Sunai nahi de raha hai. Aap mere Airtel number me phone kijiye’”

On a serious note, though, mobile phones have changed the way we live – for better or worse- I don’t know. Its now the medium for asking about class schedules, for conversing with next door neighbours, for wooing girls (and maybe vice versa). Its something people cant live without. Its something…. Hey wait! Whats that shout of hurrah? Oh, the network is back. Well, gotta go now. May finish this piece when the network goes off again……

TEARS

Its been a long time since I cried. The last time I cried was probably 5 years ago when I cried due to some trivial reason. I cried today again. Why? I don’t know. But I did.

Maybe those were tears of disappointment or sorrow or maybe happiness, as people say. I don’t know. Because I can’t describe that feeling that came upon me. What I am conscious of, what I know is my lacrimal glands opening up their floodgates all of a sudden. Maybe I can guess the reason. Maybe I know, deep inside. I have been friendless for far too long. Nobody’s a friend. Nobody gives a damn for me, for what I feel and for what I am. Everyone is busy with their lives. My room-mate is busy talking to his girlfriend. Another of my study partners is out watching a movie with his girlfriend. There’s no one for me. Who gives a damn what I think? Who fucking cares for what I am, for what I feel? Fucking nobody.

And me? Trudging along, trying to sort out life. Nobody to look up to, nobody to consult.

Maybe I am being too selfish. No, I AM being selfish. Because others do have a life. Others do have work to do. They have their own lifestyle. They have got their beloved ones- boyfriend, girlfriend or others. Who has got time for a muddled up young fellow, who doesn’t know what he wants of life,who loves reading Harry Potter books rather than preparing for his pg entrance exams and likes to go quizzing to faraway places just for the heck of it (no, not the heck of it. The prize money is important!!!).

I am to blame for the situation I am in. No one else. I am in no position to blame anybody. But my tears? Who are they to blame? Well, they should come out once in a while, I say to myself, ignoring my inner self. And then, quite mechanically, I turn around and stretch my hand for the nearest book. Life will go on. Life has to go on. With me or without me.

AN UNUSUAL LOVE LETTER

Dear _________

It has been quite a long time since we met. I wonder what happened to you. Why have you changed so much? Have I lost my appeal or have you got lost in the eyes of your new wife?

Ah! It seems such a long time ago. Do you remember our first meeting? One of your friends introduced me to you at his party. I still remember the look you gave me. But due introductions were made and soon (in a period of a few days), despite warnings from the so-called well-wishers; our relationship blossomed from one of suspicion and distrust into what one may term as full blown love. Though you made claims that for you, I was a mere passing fancy, I knew I had you in my vice.

And so our romance blossomed. Hidden from your teachers and your family, we met as many times as was possible. Oh! I shall never forget those moments. The feeling of your lips on mine always ignited a fire within me. I don’t know exactly about your feelings but the look of satisfaction and pleasure in your face was worth watching.

I’ll always take pride in the fact that I stood by you throughout while you stressed out during the exams. What relief my proximity brought to you! Gone were the fears, the tension, and the sleep. And when the results were to be declared, it was to me you came for support- and I was there. And of course, I was there at your graduation party too.

Day after day, time passed. Our meetings increased. You became comfortable with me in public too, though not in presence of family members. Occasionally, you seemed to try and get away from me, but every time you tried, you had to come back to me

And then came the news that shook me. You were getting married! And I knew well the effect that wives have on husbands. You were truthful to her and told everything about me. And horror of horrors! You promised her that you’ll get rid of me.


Oh! How heartbroken I felt. Is this the reward one gets for being so faithful and loyal? Certainly, I didn’t deserve that!

But I know, someday later, you will come back to me. When burdens of family and other problems drift you from your dreamland, when life becomes cruel again, when your wife will no longer be beautiful to you, you will come back to me.

After all, it was you, who said, “When my children learn the alphabet, I’ll teach them: A for Apple, B for Boy and C for Cigarette.” I’ll be waiting, keeping the ‘fire’ of ardent love burning till the day I feel the sweet touch of your lips. That day I’ll burn myself into ashes in memory of our wonderful past and in celebration of our union.

Till then, I’ll wait.

Forever yours,

C for ________

(Inspired from a story written by my uncle Mr. D B Upadhyay)

AMBITION

It is 2 AM in the morning. Outside, it is silent. Most of the boarders of the hostel are in deep slumber (except the examinees, of course). In the distance, I can hear laughing and shouting. Somebody’s party perhaps. “You are not partying and you’ve got a job to do”- I remind myself. Jerking out of my reverie, stifling a yawn and stretching my limbs at the same time, I turn back to my computer screen.

I’ve been sitting like this for three hours now. My computer screen is blank. My media player is playing the no. 23 song on the enqueued list in winamp. The lusty voice of a singer long dead fills the room.

I want to be a writer- a good writer. Maybe I can prove to the world that I am no ordinary being. But I have doubts. My friends who are into writing tell me that you need to fulfill certain criteria to write. One of them even took the trouble to write them down for me. I look at the crumpled sheet of paper, on which he wrote them down, for the nth time and thought about each criteria vis a vis my capabilities. This is what I found out:


1. Heredity: Kiran Desai, this year’s Booker Prize winner and author of ‘The Inheritance of Loss’ inherits her talents from her mother Anita Desai. Vikram Seth, they say, is the son of India’s first woman judge of the High Court. Well, my mother is too old to write a book now or to be the first woman judge of the High Court. Seems, I’ll have to search if the other criteria match.

2. Background: It is said that people coming from difficult circumstances go on to become great writers. J K Rowling used to survive on the Government support while writing the first Harry Potter book. I can’t emulate her because of two reasons: a) there is no such support system in India and b) Harry Potter has already been created. What do I create? Har Pic?

3. Personal Experiences: My knowledgeable friends (whom I consider to be writers) often tell me that most of their stories are based on personal experiences. They have been spewing out volumes on a single topic- love. Ah! This is probably one topic I’ll be able to write upon. It so happens that for the last five years, I’ve constantly been in love, probably with every fifth girl I saw. It would be quite difficult though just to pick out which love story to write about. One thing would have been common though- similar endings- a broken heart, an unsuccessful quest.

4. Plagiarism: Ever since Kaavya Viswanathan was accused of Plagiarism in her book ‘How Opal Mehta got Kissed, got Wild and got a Life’ (that’s what I think the title was. Anyway, it was probably lifted from three other titles), I have been giving serious thought to this. So what if her book was pulled off the shelves? She got a name for herself, whatever editions were on the shelves were sold out and her second novel is already awaited with much expectation.

5. Inspiration: No, no. It is not the intake of air. I recently read a book where the author implies that God himself (or herself, I’m not sure) gives him the inspiration, rather tells him the whole story and even provides contacts for the story. But there’s a catch. That was the author’s second book and his first book about three guys in IIT was a bestseller. It seems even God needs a bestselling author to carry out his (or her) task! So, no hope here too. I have never ever written a story, let alone a bestselling novel.

6. Publicity: One important requirement to be a successful writer is to have some controversial subject matter. Take the example of Salman Rushdie. He became more famous for the death threat to him by fundamentalists than the novel which, in turn, boosted sales. He had the nerve to use the name of one of India’s PMs for a dog’s name in his book and got away. Now-a-days he can be seen in the august company of a great looking model/actress. I am at a loss to decide what to do first: a) search for a controversial subject that can entice someone to threaten me with death? b) Use the name of some famous person for the name of the cat in the story? Or c) try to be seen conspicuously at occasions with some beautiful creature by my side?

7. Setting: The setting for the story is a very important matter. This year, the Nobel Prize for Literature has been awarded to Orhan Pamuk for showcasing the social conditions in Turkey. To achieve similar results, I’ll probably have to emigrate to Turkey or recreate Turkish conditions here- both of which are improbable. Pity, I wasn’t born in Turkey.

After such a detailed introspection- from genetics to environment; from Booker to Nobel; from personal experiences to plagiarism, I can come to only one conclusion- I am not cut out to be a writer. Well, maybe I would have been, had circumstances been different but one can’t have everything in life.

With these thoughts, my mind wanders off once again. Maybe I should try something else- something that would still satisfy my hunger for acclaim. As the soft sounds of song no. 45 reach my ears, I am hit by a brainwave. Yes! This is it! You don’t require much qualification for this and it is the latest craze among television reality shows. I am going to be a singer, a good singer……

October, 2006.

ZIDANE

It is ironic how small acts in one’s life sometimes tend to change the whole image one has cultivated over a lifetime. One of such acts in recent times was the ‘head-butt’ that Zinedine Zidane unleashed on Materazzi in the World cup Finals leading to his expulsion from the field. It would be hard to think about Zidane without referring to that infamous incident that marked his last appearance in the arena and which occurred at the biggest level in front of millions of viewers.

That single act inspired many things- outrage, defence of his actions, public debates about refereeing decisions in the game and even sms jokes. One such joke goes:

Q: Zidane ne Materazzi ko dhakka kyon mara?
A: Kyonki Materazzi ne poocha tha: Hum Chlor-mint kyon khate hain?
(Referring to the chlor-mint ad on TV)

Few people probably know that this act by Zidane gave birth to a legend in AMC(Assam Medical College-the college where i studied) itself. The legend that we know by his nick-name of Zidane.

He is probably four feet in height. Muscular and stockily built, with his red gleaming eyes, dark skin and a very short temper, he comes across as a very ferocious being. And his actions match his image. On last count, his head-butts had accounted for three cases to be sent to the casualty. Fair-play is just not his cup of tea. The head-butts were what gave him the nick-name.

Slowly, his reputation has grown while his actions have become more and more violent. Many were the times when students, specially first and second years changed their paths on their way to classes, risking being late in class than crossing paths with Zidane. Even those who knew him tended to avoid him. Jokes made by the seniors on him were met with an angry glance and sometimes intended physical assault. Luckily, no one was hurt.

One night we decided that enough was enough. After all, we couldn’t spend our whole lives in terror. We decided on confrontation as being the best policy to deal with him. We drew chits to decide who would go on to confront him. Ultimately, the task fell on the shoulders of me and three others- Borkal, Havoc and Body (their nicknames).

Our search began from the hostel corridors. Armed with rods and sticks, should the need arise, we searched for him. Ultimately, we cornered him near the hostel gates. He seemed to be in a really foul mood that night. He stopped in his tracks and gave us that spine-chilling stare of his. I could feel Goosebumps all over my body. Judging by the looks, others weren’t in too good a condition either. Gathering his courage, Borkal called out to him. He formally asked him to leave the hostel and not to trouble us again. Zidane remained silent. Taking heart from this display all of us joined in and started berating him for his actions. It was only then that I realized that he was getting restless and impatient. Without saying a word, he conveyed what he thought. The only sound that came from his throat was a deep guttural sound.

Realizing that words were not enough, we positioned ourselves for action. Borkal moved for the kill swiftly and aimed a blow with his stick on Zidane’s midriff. This was followed by Havoc’s and Body’s blows that got him on the head. The others were smart enough to get back to safety quickly before I had even moved an inch. That left me alone with the devil. Humiliated and angry, he looked directly into my eyes, bowed his head and stamped his feet on the ground. I knew what was coming. I was going to be the fourth victim of the infamous head-butt to be admitted to the casualty. Luckily, for me the others had rallied and started throwing bricks on Zidane and exhorted me to run. And run I did. I think at that pace, I would have broken the college 100 m records. I stopped only after reaching the safety of the hostel corridors and my friends. We quickly retreated to our rooms and discussed the matter. We agreed on one thing- This had been an amazing adventure worthy of retelling our Grandchildren.

After all it is not everyday that you get to fight a big black mad bull in India!