Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  गिर गई , गिर गई ! Ah, the melodramatic alarm bells of my life. I tend to get over worried about things which can go wrong. Besides being a painful husband and father, my propensity to worry about things is spoiling my health and peace of mind. My overthinking brain is always on high alert, scanning the horizon for zippers, buttons, and precariously tied dhotis that are seconds away from catastrophe. Take, for example, I am seeing a teenager walking by, with his trousers precariously perched on his hips. There I am, laser-focused, mentally calculating the trajectory of those pants if gravity decides to do its thing. My inner voice yells, " गिर गई , गिर गई !" The kid, blissfully unaware, is busy jamming to music. I can’t focus on anything else. Should I alert him? Maybe a polite, “Beta, thoda oopar kheench lo!” But alas, social decorum holds me back. Instead, I spend ten full minutes watching this human cliffhanger until, he disappeared. I heaved a sigh of relief...

Warning -Tragic and sad. Escapists can avoid reading I am freezing.   I can't reach the bell or shout for help. Can’t they see my dripping nose. Oh God, I am in such a helpless state. " Ankle ji ko marna hai? Kitna thanda kiya hua hai. (You want to kill Uncle ji? The Air conditioner has been put on high cooling.)," I hear the Malayali nurse shouting. Simultaneously she reduces the intensity of the cooling. She wraps a blanket on me and asks the ward boy to clean my nose. The warmth of the blanket feels comforting. Women have a way of knowing how others feel. I remember my mother, wife and daughter. Women truly are a gift to mankind. " Pata nahin kahan jaan atki hui ha i(I don’t know why he is not dead). It has been more than a month that this buddha is in intensive care," mumbles the ward boy as he wipes my nose with full force. It feels as if he is rubbing a sand paper.  His words and actions hurt, but I can’t complain. Perhaps he turned up the cooling high, ho...

  “ Jai Hanuman Gyan Gun Sagar… ” chanting would start on loud speaker from our Mandir across the Bazar around four in the morning, and five minutes later, I'd hear the familiar rickety noise of the hand pump as my grandmother, Beji, started her day. No matter how hard you tried to bury your ears under the pillow, that sound would find a way in. And as soon as the Hanuman Chalisa wrapped up, the Sukhmani Sahib would begin at the Gurudwara. Fifteen minutes later, Beji would enter with a steaming cup of tea, announcing, “Utho, padh lo!” (wake up and study). Arguing with Beji was futile—she had a sixth sense when it came to getting you out of bed. So, with a sigh, I'd sit up, groggily sip the tea, and wonder why mornings were so relentless. As soon as I heard the gate close behind her, signaling her departure for the Gurudwara, I’d dive back under the quilt. But my subconscious mind? It still kept tabs on the ongoing Gurudwara activities, ensuring that I was holding a book in...

  “Yaar, the new Commanding Officer(CO) is top-notch—he’s whipped the unit admin into shape in just three months!” the Havildar remarked to his buddy, a Naik, as they sat on a bench at the Jammu Railway Station. Their suitcases covered with camouflage pattern cover, marked with their ranks and names, caught my eye.   I found myself wondering if soldiers ever exchanged similar reviews of my command. “Yes ustad, but the pichla (previous) CO was better although I was always on my toes. During his command the unit killed twelve terrorists. It felt like I was really contributing to something important.” “I don’t know about the previous CO as I was out of the unit. But, You? Making a difference? Aren’t you just the CO’s photographer? What kind of sense of achievement can you get from clicking pictures?” “I feel I had a major contribution in getting the twelve terrorists killed and also ensuring the operational efficiency of the unit.” “You are talking as if you were the ad...

  "Yeh kadam ka ped agar maan hota yamuna teere……." These lines by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan come to mind as I pass the kadam tree, sheltering the statue of Brahmastra from sun and rain. The tree's yellow pom-pom blossoms often go unnoticed by those who bow their heads to the towering tricolour nearby. As I move on, the sight of the café and the cinema hall comes into view. The hall feels like sitting inside a tunnel; it’s also the place of my first public pretense as a child. I had come to watch an English movie with friends, but not knowing "chikni angreji," I simply laughed whenever they did. Ahead, I spot the dilapidated building of my old school, peeking through tall elephant grass. I’m reminded of the countless punishments I faced for being a poor student, but the sight of a crab and a tortoise crushed under a truck’s wheels the night before reminds me that, at least, I survived. Just a few meters away, a newly built path has started caving in. I wo...