आख़िरी ख़त

किसी  खामोश रात में जब एक अनजाना सा भय;
कोई अनजानी सी सिहरन दे जाता है,

तो कही से उस  धुँधलाते चाँद में
तुम्हारा वही, प्यार भरा , मुस्कुरता चेहरा नज़र आ जाता है.……।
दूर, कुछ दूर , शायद बहुत दूर
अनवरत मुझसे होता दूर.....

कही कोई अदृश्य डोर सी हैं ,
जिसे तुमने जाने-अनजाने, अब तलक़ थाम  रखा है ;
और मैंने, शायद कस के जकड रखा है,
गोया की डोर छूटी, और.……

इस डोर को मैंने देखा है, जाना है , बहुत करीब से,
कोई ज़्यादा पुरानी बात नहीं;
किसी सर्द सुबह की धुप में,
जब तुमने एक प्याली चाय बनाई थी
और, मैंने एक सिगरेट सुलगाई थी।
हाँ, याद है तुम्हे, तुमने कहा था,
की तुम्हे सिगरेट का धुआं बहुत पसंद है,
उस धुऐ में तुम्हारी आँखे और भी नशीली  हो जाती थी,
और, धीमे से झुकती पलके न जाने कब चंचल हो जाती थी,
मैंने शायद एक तस्वीर भी ली थी तुम्हारी ...........

फिर तुमने हौले से छुआ था मुझे, की जैसे एक डोर बस बंध ……… सी गयी थी।
वह डोर हीथ्रो तक मेरे साथ थी,
उस खौफनाक तन्हाई में, रात दो बजे, मैंने तुम्हे ही तो पुकारा था.……
वह डोर तो इथिका में भी थी.……।

फिर न जाने,
कब वह ओझल सी हो गयी.…
कुछ ठीक से याद नहीं आता,
मै  नहीं जनता, वह जाने कहाँ  खो गयी.…… पर उस डोर के सहारे अक्सर तुम्हे ढूंढता हूँ।
न जाने कहाँ-कहाँ,
मेरी अपनी बेरुखी और रुस्वाई में,
इस सर्द रात के अनजाने अँधेरे में,
रिश्तो की खौफनाक भीड़ में........
सोचता हूँ की डोर है या  नहीं,
या
मैं खुद, महज़ तुम्हारा ख्याल तो नहीं ?

मैंने खुद को देखा था, तुम्हारी आँखों से,
अब भी सोचता हूँ की तुम चांदनी बनकर आ जाओ तो कुछ रौशनी हो जाये।

गर, धुँए  में तुम्हारा गुमां हो जाये,
तो जीने को चंद साँसे और मिल जाये













हो सके तो लौट आओ.…………………………………………।

Jodhpur Dairies

I generally avoid travelling by buses in India, even though it’s a great window to know India, after Indian railways. Day before yesterday, I had to return from Jodhpur to my hometown Udaipur for Ashtami celebrations.  Ashtami happens to be on the eighth day of Navratri, the festival of power in which the entire nation delves into the worship of Goddess Durga, who sits on the tiger, and her sisters like Shailputri, Kalika, Kalratri etc. All of them have interesting forms, attires and favorite vehicles which even includes a flying donkey. It’s a day to worship power. The human search for power has often taken the shape of myriad religions. What is the real power? Is it absolute freedom i.e. the freedom from even the desire of power? If this is the truth then all the worship and esoteric meditative practices in Navratra become a religious pursuit in circle. By the way, this Navratra definitely marked the onset of India’s power in international politics. Prime Minister Modi went on 100 hour visit to United States where he conducted 50 meetings. He was on a complete fast to please Goddess Durga and in the official dinner with President Obama he just sipped water. It seems that Goddess Durga had actually showered India and Mr. Modi with her power!! The visit reminded me of dear friend Ambassador Muley who visited Cornell University at the request of International Affairs Forum in 2013 and delivered a terrific and enlightening lecture on India’s soft power and economic growth. The visit of Ambassador Muley, in many ways marked the beginning of the trends initiated by the honorable Prime Minister in his recent visit to US like giving an importance to public diplomacy and emphasis on India’s great soft power traditions of Yoga.

Coming back to my departure from Jodhpur, I would like to mention that I bought a bus ticket of a Volvo bus from Jodhpur to Udaipur. I paid $7.50 for a journey of 187.5 miles and about six hours. Officially, the Volvo buses are the most luxurious and the costliest buses of India and previously, they were known to be mostly used by the foreign visitors. But the bus which I hopped on was full of the great Indian middle class, explicitly showing the impact of 10 percent growth rates that India witnessed in the last decade.

The bus was not just a numerical congregation of the great Indian middle class but, more than that it was a complete kaleidoscope of the people’s values, ethos, beliefs, culture and a story of a nation’s ,rather Hindu civilization’s evolution in the last 2000 years.

The topics of discussions spanned diversity of space and time.  Mr. Mishra and Mr. Badamiya were arguing over number of Brahmins that should be fed on one’s parents’ shraaddha[1] . I was amazed at the strength and longevity of the belief in the unseen spirits of the father and mother. The practice was Shraaddha is as important to 21^st century India’s digital/software men as it was to the Vedic tribal men who migrated to the sub-continent from Central Asia in 1500 BC.

“Prime Minister Modi has supernatural powers. He will make India the supremely powerful nation through his mystic yogic powers”, uttered Swami Ajodhanand Ji Maharaj to his team. He further roared, “India will force the world community to worship all the holy cows of the world and abstain from alcoholism. The European girls will girls will start wearing saree”. Everyone touched his feet at his victory speech. However, after a while he was challenged in a debate by Mr. Mathur who was a member of rationalist society.  “India has been the country of migrants and Hinduism must be accommodative in every respect. Hinduism should learn from west and adopt scientific temper. We must stop worshipping cows, snakes and dogs. “, remarked Mr. Mathur.  He was about to be thrashed at his revolutionary ideas but was saved by the bus driver.

I got to meet Mr. Raju who serves as a revenue inspector in Udaipur. Mr. Raju was a very humble, good hearted, simple and a family man. He says that he besides the salary of $400 per month, he is able to manage about $1000 from ‘unmentionable sources’ every month. He seemed quite happy with that. He comes from a very poor family of Jharkhand. Previously, he appeared for Indian Civil Services exam about seven times, but he was rejected in the interview. Thereafter, he worked as a monitoring consultant in the immunization program of UNICEF in Jharkhand. In that journey he encountered extreme poverty and countless deaths due to government negligence, corruption. 

“Often Tribal girls are molested and raped by the forest officials, landlords. The vaccines supplied by UNICEF are sold by corrupt doctors. Most of the people do not even get two-square meals. They wear absolutely nothing. Even if they get to eat something, it is watery soup of lentils and course rice. Such conditions have given rise to Naxalism i.e. left wing radicalism. Naxals do not want any official interference, be it development or infrastructure. Government has lost faith in this belt. But the Naxals are nice to common people. Non-official visitors are not harmed by Naxals”,  said Mr. Raju with slightly philosophical and helpless smile on his face as if the solution to this misery lies, only in Nirwana.

Besides, the aforementioned colors of Indian society there are a couple of mother things worth mentioning. After my conversation with Mr. Raju, aroma of oily and spicy potato curry and parathas invaded my nose. In the middle of dense forest the heavenly smell of the parathas was a real delight. Having home-cooked meals in buses and trains is the most treasured pleasure for a middle-class Indian. However, soon after, there was an unpleasant invasion of spicy farts. The farts reflected a refined mixture of all oriental spices and some oriental philosophy (which could inspire one to realize the futility of this dirty human body and begin a spiritual quest).

By the time, I reached Udaipur I needed a dosage of pain-killer and some fresh air as the old-fashioned AC, its occasional fumes and smelly, spicy farts produced a strange combination of lethal aromas which could almost kill a human baby!!!

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[1] A Hindu practice dating back to Rigvedic times, which has sustained itself as an important part of Hindu identity through the last 3500 years

Yorditri and Riwa

                        

It was a 7:30 on a pleasant October evening of Delhi and Shunya was waiting at the university bus stop for a bus headed towards central secretariat. Soon, Shunya saw a girl coming in an overcoat, like Audrey Hepburn coming from New York City of 1950s. Except that girl, her silence, intense eyes, and sensual aura, the day had been pretty uneventful for Shunya. She was one of Shunya’s classmates in his Master’s program and they were going to an event of a book-launch at Max Mueller House. The book titled ‘Cosmic Sensuality and a Post-Modern Woman’, written by one of their socialite professors viz. Sushmita Roy, was supposed to be launched, and release lots of wine, lust, passion and philosophy.

In the sprawling lawns of Max Muller House, after a series of lousy lectures by Indian bureaucrats and academicians, the audience was set free to get back to their own universes. Shunya’s universe was wine, women, fresh cannabis and at that moment, the pretty professor. Shunya was back into his own universe, pretty much comfortable with semi-dry white wine, kohl-lined eyes of the Sushmita and a small, light kiss which he showered on Sushmita’s cheeks like a ghost appearing from nowhere to congratulate her on the book release. Soon, the prospects of the further exploration of the ‘abstract’ curves of Sushmita and deep alleys of her mind-body phenomenon seemed obscure with the arrival of Andre, the German cultural consul, and the successful explorer cum adventurer of the ‘abstract curves and deep alleys’.

Generally, Delhi for most part of the year remains either extremely hot or extremely cold. But that evening was one of the rare pleasant evenings of Delhi. After a few drinks of a cool, semi-dry and peppery white wine, and the uncertainty of the curves and sweet Bengali lips, Shunya went out for a dose of cannabis and the cool breeze of the lawns. Shunya was not yet stoned, still he was figuring out some illusions. It seemed as if Maria Schneider with her pouty red lips and mystical eyes had suddenly appeared from the ‘Last Tango in Paris’ and was gazing into his eyes through the haze of cannabis.

Shunya found himself amidst the smokescreens of cannabis, dim yellow lights of the colonial chandeliers, the red-burning end of his cigarette, musk and sandalwood like rain-soaked wild smell of the cannabis and head feeling blessed with the semi-dry Gewurztraminer.  Random thoughts were coming like a dancing wave of lust, and from a distant corner, someone with dangerously deep blue and sleepy eyes, nicely sculptured bosoms and intense pouty red lips was piercing through his existential and semi-mystic being. He felt as if he was going to be possessed. He had never felt this stillness and silence in his wildly restless mind. He had never felt so captivated, so mesmerized and so completely drawn into an abyss of ‘haze’, red pouty lips, musky cannabis and a warp of random thoughts ranging from transcendence to passionate lust.

“I am Yorditri Chatterjee and I guess you are Shunya”, a melodious voice reminding of a sweet, juicy rosogullahs filled the ears of Shunya. Shunya, speechless, stoned, intoxicated and ‘blank’ simply felt like a passive yogi experiencing bright colors and sounds appearing in a meditative trance. Yorditri was an exchange student in linguistics department in Shunya’s graduate school, from the Pantheon-Sorbonne University of Paris. Shunya had often seen the uptown French girl, in the café of St. Stephen’s College in Delhi. But he never felt any curiosity about the ‘silent French mystery’, except for the fact that she always reminded him of ‘Last Tango in Paris’. For him and other Stephanians of his generation, the exchange students were no match to the kurta-styled left-wing Stephanian intellectuals. They were at the most seen as cannabis and rum buddies who could be flaunted while going to Auliya sahib’s dargah and JNU campus.

Yorditri took a deep breath inhaling the fresh cannabis, and smiled in the eyes and ears of Shunya, like a ghost. She stepped away and tip-toed back to the ball room keeping the same rhythm and pace as the breeze and chandeliers kept. Shunya followed her inside the ball room. He asked her to dance and both got locked into an intense and sensual tango for the next one hour. The glasses of wine followed and with that, became passionate the embrace of tango. At about 10, the guests had begun to leave, but Shunya and Yorditri were feeling as if they were locked into each other for centuries. Soon Shunya and Yorditri found themselves in Yorditri’s Opel Corsa, and on a long road towards Jaipur. Shunya lit a cigarette and blew some wine soaked smoke into Yorditri’s face. Yorditri kissed Shunya with her ‘pouty red lips’ and the kiss almost became as deep as death and almost metaphysical by the end of it. Shunya was startled to find his instincts and nature escaping him. Instead of a carnal, lusty soul, he felt an urge to have a cup of tea at roadside dhaba with a stoned French beauty. The kiss had made a connection of soul out of lips, lust, cannabis and wine.

Shunya’s exploration or enlightenment, whatever it was, but he found himself having cup of roadside over boiled and milky ginger tea with a girl, who came from a culture almost unknown to Shunya in his traditional, small town-hindu upbringing. The girl, who was, to begin with, no more than red pouty lips and a passionate invitation to quench his lust, was felt…….., as if that connection transcending space and time had existed for centuries.

“What is Chatterjee doing with Yorditri?” asked Shunya. Yorditri, finding the strange gingery concoction a bit funny; smiled and said, “My father Rudranath Chatterjee was an Indologist and an archaeologist who came to Paris 25 years ago. He taught and researched on old Shakta and Shaivite traditions for years. Then he made love to his secretary Jeanne and I was born. They married on my 15^th birthday. My mom, already under influence of ancient Hindu epics and practices of Tantra, became Osho sanyasi and left us exactly a year after their marriage. My mother’s sanyaas was perceived as betrayal by my father. Since then, everything in my family became European. I saw my father smoking Cuban cigars, reflecting deep on the logical deduction and linguistics. He found a new secretary who soon graduated to the position of a girlfriend. I was left stuck in the vacuum. I had grown up with a French mother who recited Ramayana and stories of Krishna to me. I saw a traditional Bengali Brahmin turned into a beef eating atheist. Who was I? Why did I exist?  Such questions became the questions of life and death. Anxiety, anger and restlessness reigned supreme and once a doting father became as dry as treatises of Kant. With that, I got used to define myself with a daily dose of cocaine. With all those drugs and intoxicated lusty nights, I found myself more and more lost, and drawn into the abyss of depression, death and decay. The quest for my roots and the search for the cause of my existence became a torture. Then, one day I saw my dad talking to someone on a phone call for hours. In the night, I could hear some unfamiliar old Hindi songs. I went to his study and could see his tearful eyes. Next morning, when I went again to his study, I found the old man again in his dhoti and kurta which had gone into hibernation for years. He called me and told me about a secret which he was going to share with me. It was not just a secret. It was a story, a story of internal journey or rather evolution which comes at the cost of heavy sacrifices and separations. The previous night my, hitherto unknown grandmother had died in her centuries old house at Tankapur village of Jhansi. My father had not met her in last 30 years. The previous night his younger brother had called him after 12 years to inform of the old lady’s death.

I could feel a sense of deep loss and remorse in my usually cold and logical father. I saw him reciting the verses of Gita and Ramayana that night. After his recitals, he told me to sit down with him. He fetched me a similar cup of gingery tea, and in the sunny noon, he suddenly turned into a story-teller. It was the story of Chatterjees, their European connections and their timeless dramatic journeys across continents. It was the story of my identity. 

Taraknath Chatterjee, was born in Birbhum in an orthodox Brahmin family. He grew up studying ancient Sanskrit epics, Shad darshan[1] of Hindu philosophy and the laws books of Medhatithi and Manu. In his free time, he would often drown himself into the romanticism of Tagore. He grew up as a chaste Brahmin with firm belief in the vows of abstinence, vegetarianism and trikaal sandhya (Hindu ritual of praying three times or meditating three times in a day). At the age of 18 he was married to Nandini, a young beautiful Bengali Brahmin girl from the nearby village. Taraknath, then went to Calcutta for higher studies and finished his Masters in History. His father wanted him to become a Professor but his life had strange adventures in store for him. He soon joined revolutionary terrorists and started planning bank robberies. But the British government launched a crackdown on extremists after the Kakori train sabotage, and all the members of Hindustan Socialist Republican Association[2] were arrested. Luckily, he was not found guilty in any of the charges. By then a kind of opportunism had set in among the cadres of freedom movement. On top of it, the new bride of communism did not go well with his upbringing and religious values. So, he decided to say good bye to politics and returned to Calcutta. He was thinking of starting a publishing business, but soon he was approached by Badrinath Joshi.

Badrinath Joshi was a Peshwa[3] of the state of Jhansi. Badrinath Joshi, a dark skinned man with an upturned mustache was a shrewd, shy and mysterious Peshwa of Jhansi. He was impressed with the religious temperament, self-control and vision of Taraknath. He had found an appropriate successor in Taraknath. He offered him to serve as his ADC(Aide de Comp) in Jhansi.

By the end of 1930s, Taraknath had acquired the trust, prestige and manners of a nobleman. In the winters of 1940, the royal camp was stationed in the Tarain[4]. The king along with his two half-polish daughters had come on a hunting expedition. Taraknath, a non-violent Brahmin generally kept away from the violent pursuits. He was found more often in the tents of Badrinath Ji and both would often discuss the secrets of mystical monks of Nepal for hours in dark nights of Tarain. On one such silent and scary night, occasionally disturbed by thunderstorms, roaring man-eaters and drunken bouts of the princesses, Taraknath was deep into his thoughts of finding a true siddha[5] in Tarai. He went out for a stroll lost deep into his flights of supernatural siddhas. Suddenly, Taraknath was seeing a human form slithering like a 500 year old venomous cobra. The human form was wearing a big turban and moving fast towards the Badrinath Ji’s tent with his serpentine aura. He went closer and now he could see the dense, bushy mustaches, blood-red eyes, a black tika and a small iron case. Now he was sure that it was none other than Dilawar Khan, the head of the mystic bands of kali-worshipping thugs.

Although, the thugs had been officially wiped out from the sub-continent almost a century ago, but the sub continental culture and religion always had safe shelters for such esoteric regimes. This Indian subcontinent was like a magician, expert in interweaving myths and realities with such dexterity that any attempt to explore the truth was bound to disturb your neurons, unfold another metaphysical illusion and a journey into the unknown. The thugs of yesteryears could today be nagas or naths or Sufis or even man-eating tigers in imagination of the common people, who always lived an existence on the edge of illusion, transcendence and reality.

Taraknath was stunned to find this cold-blooded killer-cum-mystic in the tent of Badrinath Ji. He followed Dilawar Khan and tried to overhear the conversation between the two. Badrinath Ji was chanting ‘om namo bhagwate vasudevaya’[6]. He finished his chant and ushered Dilawar in. He told Dilawar that the place was not appropriate for the conversation so they should go out for a walk. Taraknath followed the two dark human instincts. He walked for a mile chasing them in the dead and dark night occasionally challenged by fire-flies and stick insects in its regime of blackness, stillness and fear.  After a mile, the ‘two dark instincts stopped’ and with them the narrow track also stopped at the mouth of deep valley below which icy Himalayan waters of Alaknanda were gushing forth with wild force. Dilawar khan handed a meter-long golden wrist-band whose priceless rubies, safires and diamonds were piercing through the dark night and giving an appearance of a divine light emanating from Himalayan holiness. It seemed as if they had produced a Jinnat[7] with its superhuman aura and radiance.

Dilawar Khan asked for a safe passage to king’s ancestral treasure which had the ancient statue of Goddess Kali. For a moment, Taraknath Ji could not make anything of the statue story. Then he remembered the legend of a certain statue being looted by the king’s great grandfather in one of his raids against the thugs, and continuous efforts of the Thugs to reclaim it as it was divine. However, the statue wasn’t just an object of religious devotion. It was an object of priceless gold, supernatural myths and the pride of the cult of thugs.

All this conversation was going on, and Taraknath Ji was still trying to find his space-time coordinates in that night of legends, reality, secrets, greed and illusions. The very next moment the ‘pious’ Badrinath Ji whipped out a dagger with his nimble hands and stabbed Dilawar Khan who fell into the waters of Alak Nanda, like a mystic taking Jal Samadhi. Badrinath Ji, calm and composed turned around and saw another nimble and pious fellow. BadrinathJi shocked and scared, confessed the truth that he was himself an old thug and was masquerading as Peshwa to steal the statue. But the pleasures of the court spoiled his mind and he betrayed the cause of his cult. He was making a deal with Dilawar in which he promised the access to the statue in return of the cursed bracelet. The bracelet was given by Nana Sahab Peshwa[8] to one of his Pindari soldier Mangal Rai before he fled to the jungles of Nepal and became an ascetic. Since then, the king of Jhansi has been after that bracelet in very secret ways, but the thugs kept it as a treasured secret. Badrinath Ji confessed that he wanted to have the bracelet, statue, leadership of thugs and the peshwahood, which led him to murder Dilawar khan. The humble, pious and spiritual Taraknath Ji did not lose even a second in piercing Badrinath Ji with his dagger, and returned with the cursed bracelet.

Next morning, in the royal camp there was shock, surprise and suspicions. When the search parties returned without much success, it was assumed that the man-eaters of Tarain had a royal feast previous night. Raja Bhadra Bahadur Singh was already getting suspicious of the activities and linkages of Badrinath Ji Bhatt with the dreaded cult of thugi. Soon, Taraknath was appointed as Peshwa.

Now, Taraknath was at the pinnacle of his power. He had uncontrolled authority over the state, the trust of king, access to the cursed Kali statue and the priceless ancient bracelet. On top of this, he had a loving, loyal and a pious wife who had given birth to two healthy sons, Bhanudutt Chatterjee and Rudranath Chatterjee, and one daughter Ambika. Things were going perfectly fine at a slow meditative pace, and then one day after the New Year celebration with the British resident Ronald Brown, the king asked Taraknath Ji to escort Catherine, his Polish Queen to Tara Manzil, the palace built by the king in Roman architectural style for his Polish queen.

Catherine was born to a Polish dancer as a result of conspiracy plot hatched to round up a Russian noble. After the murder of the adulterous noble Polish spy-cum dancer Romana escaped with her illegitimate child Catherine, and ended up in France as a Belle dancer. In those days, Shambhu Nath Trivedi, a famous experimentalist in fusing the dances of the west and east was travelling Europe with his troupe. Catherine, an expert belle dancer joined his troupe and ended up in India. During one of the performances of the troupe, the king Bhadra Bahadur Singh was captivated by the sensual charms and conspiring eyes of the belle dancer and she became a queen. However, she had still kept her affiliations with Europe intact and was very European in her ways.

While seeing her off to Tara Manzil[9], Catherine smiled. The smile was unique as it emanated in the ‘conspiring eyes’ and went straight into the groins of Taraknath Ji. When he said goodbye to Catherine, he suddenly felt a grasp of maddening lips on his lips. For Taraknath Ji, this heavenly sport of lip gymnastics was completely unknown as, so far his lips were employed for chanting vedic mantras only. This bold, sensual and intoxicating European invasion turned the world of Taraknath Ji upside down.

From the next day Taraknath Ji’s religious vows became less and less rigorous. The orthodox Brahmin was now exploring the domains of natyashastra[10] and depth of ‘conspiring eyes’ which soon became the center of Taraknath Ji’s life and through him the state’s life. Then one day Catherine introduced, Karl Bernhardt, an Italian Jewish jeweler, and a genius who had lost his fortunes in gambling, wine and voluptuous royal ladies of Europe, to Taraknath Ji. Karl Bernhardt, was a man of 1000 secrets and endless ways of charming. The blue-eyed Italian was a man of several hats. He was a connoisseur of stones, a magician, musician, poet, painter and an artillery man. A smooth conservationist had all the skills and potential for becoming a conman. How he knew Catherine was a mystery which could never be resolved. Catherine got him appointed as artillery trainer in the court. With his smooth ways and charms, he took no time in conquering the hearts and trust of the two princesses, the king and Taraknath Ji. Taraknath Ji’s life was slowly getting deep into the vortex of Catherine and Karl. Finally, Karl could convince Taraknath Ji to open an armaments factory which would manufacture revolvers for the European nobility. Taraknath Ji’s wife had said a strict no to this proposal as it was against the Brahman dharma[11] but by then Taraknath Ji had remained Brahmin only in name. The European invasion of lips had changed the identity of several centuries. And, he also had to invest the hoard of treasure which he had found in Tarain.

Karl began to visit Taraknath Ji’s house and these visits became frequent with the passage of time. Business plans were discussed, contractors were hired and things were going at a rapid pace. Soon Taraknath Ji decided to resign from his Peshwahood and devote fully to the industrial venture. By then Karl had become a confidante of Taraknath Ji and there was no secret left to be shared between the two. It was the summer of 1934 when finally the site for the factory was spotted. It was in the outskirts of his village Tankapur, at about a mile from the banks of river Rewa. Taraknath Ji had chosen this place instead of big city because he had special attachment for river Rewa. He would always spend his evening meditating on the banks of river Rewa. In the morning he would go to the river to do his morning prayers and Surya Namaskar.  Rewa was the source of his eternal, spiritual and material prosperity. The evenings spent on the banks of Rewa sent him into reflective moods and strengthened his faith in his supremely powerful destiny and almighty.

Everything was in order but then one night he heard of the murder of the queen Catherine. Next morning, Karl was not to be found anywhere. With the queen something else was also missing. There was no Kali statue and the ancient bracelet. Completely shell-shocked and numb, Taraknath Ji went into maddening isolation for the next one month. His dreams had been shattered and, his firm, stable and composed mind was pierced mercilessly. When he came out, he resigned from the Peshwaship and boarded a ship to Europe with his daughter Ambika, who he was most attached to, to find Karl. He contacted his friends from British intelligence and on the basis of vague and distorted leads he travelled from one city to another city in Europe. His first station in Europe was Paris. He had heard that Karl had become a theatre artist so he started frequenting the theatre groups of Paris arts club. In a few months, he was himself acting in the post first world-war surrealist plays, and the Renaissance plays like Robert Garnier’s Brademante. He became a decently successful theatre artist and an occasional conqueror of red Parisian lips. His Brahmin ways and the life-style had been left far behind. There was no dhoti and no vows of abstinence. He was drinking Cabernet Sauvignon and Nepoleon Brandy. Ambika, growing up with him in the elitist Parisian artistic circle had become a creature who her mother would never be able to recognize.

Still, somewhere deep down inside, Taraknath Ji’s heart was stuck in Karl. He, then heard that Karl was running a painting workshop in Vienna for the royal ladies. He shifted to Vienna with Ambika. He lived there in poshest localities, befriended royal ladies, counts and the nobility. He spent large sums of money on countless parties, operas, painting schools, belle dances, in a hope to find Karl, but without success. Then in 1937 he moved to Dresden in Germany. He lived there for two years as he had heard that Karl had joined German communist movement. He made inroads into the intellectual clubs, secret societies, communist gatherings and communist groups in the universities of Berlin. Finally, he heard that Karl was attending a secret society in Leipzig University. He went there with Ambika, who was now 19 year old beautiful girl who could charm and kill anyone with her Bengali eyes and European mannerisms. In Leipzig, the meeting was raided by Gestapo, and with other communists Taraknath Ji was also caught. However, he was released after a few months when nothing was found against him.

During his stay in Germany, Ambika had fallen in love with a Bulgarian Communist and later a radical humanist, Apostolov. She eloped with Apostolov. It was rumored that she was masquerading as a drama artist in UK but in reality was spying for Germany, with her husband. After the German invasion on Russia, both of them escaped to Russia.

With no success and a loss of daughter, Taraknath Ji had become a sad and desolate man. He had ruined all his savings in Europe. After wandering aimlessly for few more years, he decided to go back to the ever-embracing arms of Rewa.

In 1949, when he returned to India, things had completely changed. Jhansi was full of protesters and Satyagrahis asking for the end of kingship. The ailing king Bhadra Bhadur Singh was suffering from acute liver cirrhosis, and there were rumors of revolt. The administration had virtually collapsed. In the royal circles, across the nation, the new home minister Sardar Vallabh Bhai Patel was a new threat. Some royalties accused the British of treachery as the power was being transferred to the democratically elected new government rather than the old kings. The new leadership of Patel and Nehru had faith in socialist ideas, and were an arch enemy of kings and princes. A faction of the Rajput principalities in Rajasthan was even dreaming of secession from India, and they had requested King Bhadra Bhadur Singh to join them. But Bhadra Bahadur Singh had lost the mental, moral and physical courage to participate in any kind of armed revolt. After the murder of Catherine, the two princesses were sent to Europe from where they never came back. With the resignation of Taraknath Ji, the administration collapsed gradually. The king had even lost the interest in the affairs of the state. He used to spend most of his time in religious pursuits but it was too late. The physical illness was getting severe with every passing day and he could visualize the waning moon of his life.

At home, Nandini, his wife now had a wrinkled face, fatigued eyes, countless white hair, and an aura of piety which comes, often with wisdom and renunciation at the dusk of a life lived in spiritual pursuits. Her two sons had finished their bachelors from Allahabad University. They were those young lads who were going to spend their youth in a free India, and hence they had passion, energy and determination. Nandini’s fatigued eyes gleamed once again on seeing Taraknath Ji. She once again felt young and romantic. Even the king and the other minsters felt that their savior had come, and Taraknath Ji will fix the problems of the administration. But, Taraknath Ji was a different man now. He was as dead as iron extracted from the Ruhr valley and as cold as steel. He was a man who felt that he had lost everything i.e. wealth, power, character, ambition and a loving daughter.  He had learned the vedic mantras in the traditional Brahmin families of Birbhum, history in Calcutta, treachery and politics from Badrinath Ji in Tarai, erotic sensuality in the bosoms of Catherine, intellectual sophistry in the creative circles of Paris and Vienna, and after this progressive evolution of his psychophysical being there was still something missing and that was detachment and renunciation. It took years of wanderings across the Indian subcontinent and the journey of 1000s of miles to the continent of Europe that taught him the true meaning of detachment.

He lived for another 30 years. In those years of fading energy, oblivion, isolation, he was often seen sitting on the banks of river Rewa. Sometimes he would cry, sometimes he would sing songs which ranged from folk Bengali songs to the compositions of Mozart and Beethoven. At times he was seen mediating near Rewa. He had become too old, weak and almost emaciated. No one could ever tell he was once a Diwan and a successful entrepreneur, No one could ever imagine on seeing that old dark bag of bones with unshaven, poorly grown white beard  had charmed and seduced classiest of the European royal ladies and belle dancers of Paris. People say that his wife had almost confined herself to her daily prayers, but she was with him until the end. For her, he was still the old, powerful, shrewd and handsome Diwan. His sons, after Allahabad never looked back. His daughter and Apostolov were last heard of as prisoners on the concentration camps of Siberia and his younger son had moved abroad for his higher studies.

Finally, it is said that one day he went as usual to Rewa and never returned back.

It was five in the morning and the outskirts of Delhi were getting colder signaling the arrival of spine-chilling winters. The Sun that morning was a rare phenomenon in the life of Shunya. He was having a glimpse of the wet and red morning son after years. In that wet and red morning sunrise, a cute French girl sipping tea and radiating fresh innocence through her eyes made Shunya feel like a living man. He felt as if he was getting energy shots and the last six years of his life were rolling like a film in front of him. He had spent those years in the opiated, illusory and false world of wine, lust, arrogance and Stephanian pseudo-intellectualism. Those six years of his dehumanization had taken life and the sharpness of perceptions out of him. The sun of hope, brought by a random encounter with a French exchange student had brought a focus, clarity of thoughts and a realization, a kind of enlightenment in Shunya’s life.

Shunya went back to his college. He lived in Mukarjee east residential hall of St. Stephens College. That day, he lived his life like a normal man, finishing his assignments and felling the difference of sunrise and sunset. Next morning he and Yorditri went to Tankapur in an old ambassador taxi. Instead of her grandfather’s house, she decided to visit the banks of Rewa. It was the dusk and sun was setting. She saw Rewa, as young and as happy as it was in the days of Taraknath Ji.

She could see a foreigner sitting on the banks of Rewa. She went closer and found the Osho Sanyasi Maa Jeanne smiling with the serenity of Rewa and trying to caress the soul of Rewa in the mystic silence of the cosmos.

---

[1] Six schools of Indian philosophy

[2] Chandra Shekhar Azad founded HSRA. They believed in socialist principles and wanted to expel British rulers through revolutionary terrorism.

[3] Prime Minister of a princely state

[4] Forests in the southern part of Nepal

[5] A mystical monk, endowed with spiritual and supernatural powers

[6] Chants for glory of Lord Vishnu

[7] Celestial creature mentioned in Quran

[8] Hero of the revolt of 1857 against the British

[9] Queen’s residence

[10] Science of drama written by one of the ancient sages of India viz. Bharat Muni

[11] Religious code of Brahmins i.e. the priestly class

Jodhpur Dairies-3

Mr. Jhandak's Holy Cow

House-hunt in a small, two-tier city of India like Jodhpur is an arduous challenge. There is no formal, organized market where one can go online and get fair deals. On top of it, people are highly suspicious of young bachelors and outsiders. If one tells about his return from United States then it’s more than enough to worsen his case. He is thought of as a kind of debauch, drunkard and a meat-eating foreigner who will defile the ‘holy soul’ of India. It is very difficult for meat-eaters to rent a house. Hence, my father introduced me to Mr. Jhandak (names have been changed) who helped me yesterday in the house hunt. I have been instructed to feign complete ignorance in the matters of meat and wine!!!

Mr. Jhandak is a local merchant who deals in mining explosives. He is quite a huge personality who is made distinct by his thick-dark complexion, spotless white kurta-pajama and a string of stones in his fingers which includes a precious Safire, diamond and an exotic ruby. He strongly believes that his wealth, power and prosperity emanates from his stones and values. Mr. Jhandak is a very humble, low profile, simple, family-oriented, religious and a vegetarian man. However, he is a shrewd businessman. He is also a prominent politician with the local Congress wing but he is a great supporter of the right-wing Hindu nationalist leader Mr. Narendra Modi who is the present prime minister of India. Despite his proclaimed secular credentials he is a great fan of Mr. Modi for his pro-hindutva views.

In my interaction with him, I discovered many interesting aspects of his life, views, routine and family which enable me to understand India even better. He took me to a construction site where he is building a complex in order to make money from the soaring property rates in Jodhpur. I met a group of workers at his construction site. All of them came from either lower castes or Muslim community. They are mostly migrant workers from Bihar, Bengal and Bangladesh. They get around $8.33 to $15 for 8-10 hours’ work in extremely hot and dangerous conditions. The main architect, which in India is totally different from the university-educated architects of the West, is Hamid Khan. He comes everyday with his father Mr. Salauddin Khan. They are from the caste of silawats who are experts in stone-work.

“Three to four centuries back we were from the Sompura(Hindu stone workers) community before conversion to Islam. We have served the Jodhpur royal family for last three to four centuries.”, said Salauddin Khan. Salauddin Khan sounds very ancient and regal in his tone. He asked his son to fetch Jodhpuri onion katchoris (Indian dumplings) for me, and with that also came a piping-hot over-boiled cup of tea. It tasted like sugar syrup, though it made a great combination with Katchoris.

I am told that Jodhpur has about 40% muslim population. Hindus and Muslims have developed a strong communal harmony and joint culture which is a strange matrix of common rituals, beliefs, business and crime. But Salauddin Khan, being a traditional Muslim is disturbed by the increasing radicalization among the younger generation of Muslims. He said that one can see umpteen numbers of teenage Muslims boys with green pagdis (headgears) going to deobandi madarasaas. He supports modern computer-based education for Muslims. Some recent developments have started affecting the age-old trust based on shared culture and traditions. Recently about 12 local muslim youngsters were arrested by the central intelligence agencies for conspiring to bomb tourist places in Jodhpur. All of them have been found to have links with Indian Mujahiddin which is kind of a feeder organization for Al-Quaida.

Mr. Jhandak informed me that the relations between the two communities have a history of tension and cordiality but after the devastating attack of 26/11 in Mumbai, and a series of blasts in Jaipur and Ahemdabaad a general distrust has emerged. “I stopped selling mining explosives to Muslim merchants after I was investigated by the police in a link-up with the Ammonium nitrate found in a couple of blasts”, says Mr. Jhandak. On top of this increasing friction, Hindu communalism is also on the rise after the victory of BJP in the recent elections.

After the visit to the construction site, he took me to his place. I met his obedient son who is getting married in February, next year. He seemed pretty excited about his marriage. But, Mr. Jhandak seemed concerned over one issue i.e. his daughter-in-law is highly educated. He fears that she will spoil the family values and traditions. He feels that girls should not receive high education as it disturbs the social peace, harmony and family values. He proudly talks about his daughter’s marriage into a super-wealthy family. He believes that his daughter got such a wealthy and nice family because of her family values and not because of the little education which she was lucky enough to get. He also told me that he gave $416,666 in a dowry to his daughter and spent around $900,000 in his daughter’s wedding. But he is not going to take dowry in his son’s wedding. “I want a decent daughter-in-law. I have already earned enough money”, said Mr. Jhandak.

He also told me about his back-breaking routine. He sleeps at 2:30 in the night after jotting down the religious word “Ram” in a notebook for about three hours. He gets up at six and leaves his house at 6:30 after a cup of tea. He survives on several cups of tea and tobacco/lime masala (a harmful and throat-cancer causing mixture, immensely popular in Jodhpur) until three in the afternoon when he has his lunch and at 11 in the night he has his dinner. He is 44 years old and is almost free of his family responsibilities.

“I have established good business, property worth millions of dollars, married a daughter and now getting a daughter-in-law. What more I want!!! My son is obedient and a shrewd businessman so I have now worries. I want to spend the rest of my life in religious and socio-political pursuits now”, told Mr. Jhandak.

Jodhpur Dairies

This is my fifth day in Jodhpur and I am missing Ithaca and Cornell even more. I realize that two years of my stay in US has changed something in me which might not be very visible, and existing only in my mental domains, but increasingly it makes me realize the futility of the nations/nationalism, national/regional and parochial identity. I feel a deep disconnect with the material and cultural ethos of the land where I have spent about 20 years of my life prior to visiting US. At times, I feel that my colleagues in my office, and the city itself treats me like an ancient traveler from Greece or China. Sometimes I enjoy it because I get a chance to look at India from a very neutral and objective stand point. The importance of this stand-point is well-realized when once comes across the confusion that India generates in a mind of a lay foreigner. Staying here, in this milieu, one forgets the fact that how confusing and mind boggling India can be with its religious, cultural, social and political practices.

 I got a chance to meet a 75 year old handsome doctor Mr. Oza day before yesterday. Apparently, he seems to be engaged in the routine drudgery of a boring and mundane life of a traditional, feudal, hot and spicy Indian city. His day begins with the local Hindi newspaper called ‘Dainik Bhaskar’ and a spicy concoction of ginger, milk and tea leaves, which is popularly known as masala chay in India. And, the day thrives on the local mouth-watering foods that include katchori(Indian dumpling) and gatte ka saag (local curry made with cubes of gram flour). Finally, it ends with a boring, loud and sensational news story telecasted on ‘Aaj Tak’ (Indian news channel). However, after a conversation of five minutes I found this man to be the most interesting old patriarch in this city. Mr. Ojha in the prime of his youth, driven by the passion and a spirit, thirsty to explore the world, registered himself as a member of the team that was sent by Ministry of External Affairs to Iran at the request of the Shah of Iran.

Mr. Ojha went to Shah’s Iran as a newly married young doctor with his pretty wife. “We enjoyed the pleasantries of Europe in Shah’s Iran. The beautiful, lit roads, bridges and the night walks on the streets of Tehran and Kerman could make one feel as if he was in Europe. One could see pretty Iranian girls dressed in stunning European gowns, scarves, over-coats, hats and trousers on streets. The night life of Tehran was crazy”, says Mr. Oza. Mr. Oza recounts that one could see a distinct French influence in the dressing sense, intellectual circles and the upper elites of creative circles in Iran. I saw his eyes gleaming with youth and a little naughtiness while telling me the stories of pretty Iranian nurses in his hospital and his favorite Kababs.

Two of doctors of their team got married to Iranian Zoroastrian girls, who he calls as “Jardusthi” popularly known as Parsis in India. When Mr. Oza speaks in his fluent and chaste persian he reminds me of my Iranian friend Marjaneh from Cornell. In a picture of his youth he looks like Ahmad Zahir (famous Persian singer of Afghanistan) with his long sideburns and bell bots. He actually started humming ‘laili laili jaan, jaan and for a while he went back to 70s.

Mr. Oza then told me about the times of Khomeini. The spies of Khomeini were everywhere and people were scared even to talk about Shah and his golden days. The intelligence network of khomeni was superb. Everything changed. Night life came to a dead end and the Europeon outfits were replaced with hijabs and burqas. It was an era of fatwas. But still, our life was not interfered with. I was making beer in my house and organized lavish parties even in Khomeini’s times”, tells Mr. Oza. Finally he tells about the trial which he had to face because of his open support and praise of Shah’s Iran. He defended himself in chaste Persian in the courts, without any help from lawyers. After that episode, Mr. Oza came back to India. He wanted to continue his journey of exploring the world but the family circumstances confined him to Jodhpur and he never moved out. But, even now he talks to his old Iranian friends and is eager to know about the people who called him “Aghajaan-e-doctor”, “Azeez-e-Doctor”.  Recently, he went to the film festival and watched Iranian classic, “Children of heaven”.

First day in the Sands of Thar

9/18/14                     

3:40 PM

I am sitting in Jal Bhagirathi Foundation’s (JBF) office at Bijolai Palace of Jodhpur (India). JBF is an innovative and philanthropic initiative led by the king of Jodhpur, His Highness Maharaja Gaj Singh Ji. He has been the king for last 50 years after an untimely death of his father Maharaja Hanumant Singh in a mysterious plane crash near Sumerpur (Rajasthan). This is my first day in JBF as a Program Specialist for a EU funded project on water security and climate change. This project is in Thar deserts of Rajasthan, which is the world’s most populated desert. The region has a history of devastating famines releasing untold miseries for the common people. Life is full of hardships, and spotting women walking 10 to 12 kilometers for drinking water is a common sight. His Highness Gaj Singh Ji’s vision is to revive the traditional water conservation and harvesting systems, which have been more or less lost because of the official apathy and retrograde red-tapism.  The ground-breaking work which JBF is doing reflects a Maharaja who at his heart so much connected with the people and still revered by the local population with more or less a Godly status. He is known to have a mild, humble and quiet disposition. Besides, he is also famous for his class, elegance and charisma. He is equally comfortable with the nobility from Europe on one hand and poor sudra peasant from a small place like Bayatu.

I am here after spending two years in the world of NYC and Washington DC. Ithaca, where I was studying public policy at Cornell, had minimum temperatures of -25 degree Celsius in winters and about 15 to 22 degree Celsius in summers. Jodhpur temperatures in summer soar as high as about 49 degree Celsius.  It is a journey from the Frigidaire to frying pan.  Bijolai palace is located about 10 kms outside the main city of Jodhpur. On my way, I saw houses of red Jodhpur stone, which is a sign of royalty here. Cows can be seen partying on the roads in different moods. I see a big group of elderly cows discussing some strategic matter concerning either their owner or their herd !!!!.  There is a local raika(local herdsman) with almost a meter long mustache and a turban weighing at least two and half kgs grazing a herd of about 500 sheep.  He is herding them with a complete poise and state of absolute detachment, occupying the entire width of the road. The trucks, cars are honking or rather trumpeting like a mad elephant but he does not seem to bother. Alongside the trucks I also see a group of five elephant brothers with five sadhu mahauts riding them. I find a strange understanding or a symbiotic arrangement between the mankind and the animal kingdom over sharing of the state owned road infrastructure. These animals are using the roads with an elegance and understanding of a very high order.

At Bijolai palace, my office is surrounded by water, water-borne diseases and scorching sun and an assortment of various species of animals which include merchant like monkeys, venomous, shiny and black water-loving cobras, chameleons, wild boars, and the most beautiful and colorful grasshoppers. My project director asked to be mindful of my steps as there are a good number of cobras here. I am told that the monkeys are the biggest threat to internet connectivity here. A few days back the management had installed machines to scare away monkeys which produce strange sounds to scare them. But, the merchant-like monkeys finally understood the trick and smashed the machines. Today, the accounts officer was summoned to answer the monkey-machine fiasco.

I hope there is a lot more to explore in this new world and I believe I will surely have some sort of enlightenment staying in this wilderness with the cobras, chameleons, monkeys and most importantly the ‘WATER’.

Jackson Heights, Sherry and Phafda Jalebi

                                                 Jackson Heights, Sherry and Phafda Jalebi
August 3rd, 2014

Its 8:30 in the evening and I am sitting in Jackson Heights, New York City. Its almost been two years in America and I feel pretty much at home. The way I got used to U.S., its motorways, rigorous traffic rules , ramps, complicated GPS systems, over-speeding tickets, central Manhattan district with its mish-mash of streets and avenues and take-away burgers, confounds me beyond imagination. There is  a reason behind this. I was always a person who was observed as introvert, abstract and a bit lost. I admit that this allegation or rather a description has some grain of truth. I spent several years in Delhi but still that city appears alien to me. I don't drive in Delhi  and neither I could develop strong familiarity with the routes of Delhi. I could not find the connection with the culture, lifestyle, politics and the parties of Delhi. But the connection with New York, Cornell and in general with US was immediate, spontaneous and natural. I feel that this connection goes back to my previous births. In fact I am reminded of the episode in Mahabharata, the text with which I have the most intimate connection and fascination, where Arjuna travels to Patala lok (land below the earth) with Lord Krishna. If we believe that there was any truth in that mythology that it definitely impels us to think that Arjuna went to Americas as it is right below India on the globe.

Jackson heights is the place where at one glance and in your first presence you feel that you have come to Ahmedabad or Bombay of 1990s. It is not just difficult but kind of impossible to find a white-skinned man. The weather is humid and I am taking a casual evening stroll. My evening stroll exposes me to heavy, screeching noise of the iron-wheels of city rail that runs right above my head. I am not very surprised to find traditional Indian Hindu females clad in salwaar-kameez and saree, traditional Bombay type muslims clad in kurta and pyjama which ended a little above their ankles. My next sight shows me young muslim girls coming out of their homes to end their Rozas(fasting in Ramadaan). They are wearing very bright and colorful (red and violet colors)salwaar-kameez and they have thick red lipstick and make-up. Some of them have beautiful patterns of henna on their palms and reaching their elbows.  They seem very happy , though a bit tired after a day of fasting. This quest of preserving their cultural and religious identity is sometimes disturbed by their curiosity to know about others boy-friends and the first experience of kissing. However, this curiosity is expressed with a little fear, unusual body-language and whispers.
But, Jackson heights is not just Ahmedabad or Mumbai. When I was watching the cheerful smile and pretty eyes of those traditional muslim girls, Jackson heights beautifully blends into Cancun, Mexico city or Canton. The blending was so subtle, so discreet and so elusive that I completely escaped it. The next encounter is of a loud, happening Mexican night club which was playing raunchy salsa music. I can see some young bearded lads smoking hashish and a stunningly pretty Mexican girl in a very short outfit trying to lure customers with her erotic and innocent gestures. I enter the club and I see guys high on cannabis or cocaine into an intense embrace with latino girls.
My next sight is a group of Chinese females playing poker after dinner as if it was Beijing. After a few blocks I see a group of Indian musicians playing Sikh bhajans and then a band of Bengali musicians. The whole sight reminds me of Canton city of 19th century when it had colonies of traders from across the world. Amitav Ghosh beautifully portrays the Canton of 19th century with its Parsi, Gujarati Armenian, Egyptian and English merchants. Jackson heights is truly a cosmopolitan, postmodern, diverse and a multicultural city. I am absolutely amazed at the capacity of United States to accommodate such diversity, contradiction and speed.
I begin my evening with fafda jalebi. Being a half gujarati, I have a special regard for fafda jalebi and Jethalaal in Tarak mehta ka ulta chashma ( a tv serial on sab tv) has revealed the divinity of fafda jalebi to me. There is something more this fafda jalebi. It is not just a stroke to quench your senses. Today it has become a strong symbol of Indo-US relations because of the strong presence of Gujaratis in the motel world of US. In fact there are myths like the entire chain of 7/11 is owned by a Gujju merchant. I have heard Americans soeaimg volumes about the wealth of Gujjus in US.
I am meeting Sherry at Dera. Dera is a Pakistani restaurant famous for its Nahari, biriyanis and paya shorba. Whenever it comes to good biriyani in a foreign land I always prefer to contribute to the GDP of Pakistan rather than India because no one can beat Lahoris in the world of biriyanis and Karhai. Sherry is a Chinese girl who has two pretty and small Chinese eyes and a sharp intellect. She is my junior in Cornell University and at present She is interning with Consulate General of India. She is trying to know South Asia and its confused mesh of politics, culture, religion, feudalism, diplomacy and little bit of economics growth. If she finds some space in her mind after this transcendental and slow journey of South Asia she tries to explore New York City. Like most of the Chinese students she is good in econometrics and accounting. She likes hotpot(Chinese cuisine), misses Beijing and its poker evenings. Today she is here with her mom who speaks in Chinese so I am trying to communicate with my hand gestures explaining what goat curry is and how it can be eaten in the absence of noodles. I have strong feeling that most of the Indian diplomats are also communicating with the sign language with their Chinese counterparts. On a casual note, Indian diplomats are really good at using sign language as it is the most effective weapon to create confusion and underlying philosophy of Indian diplomacy is the classic art of linguistic confusion which it derives from its ancient philosophical doctrines like 'syadvaad' (theory of manyness of reality) and kashnikvada(Buddhist doctrine of momentariness).
We are having a lavish dinner of goat karhai, nahari, surkh sheesh kabaab, paya shorba and mutton-do-pyaza, which is followed by imarati, gulab jamuns, kalakand and rasmalai. After a gap of about two years, I am relishing these Mughal delicacies. In Delhi, I was a regular visitor of Karim's which offers excellent Mughal delicacies. I feel that Indian government should launch postcards in the memory of Mughal bawarchis (Chefs) as today the cuisines invented by them, form a major part of India's soft power.foreign ministry.
While we are having dinner, I see a lean and lanky Indian gentleman sitting besides us. He is thin to the extent of looking malnourished. Sherry is keenly observing him with serene Buddha smile like perfect Chinese diplomat. I ask her the reason for that kind of concentration. She shows me something which is very peculiar. I see that the emaciated gentleman ordered karhai chicken, karhai goat, palak paneer, parathas dripping with clarified butter, naan, kadhi pakora and half a kg of sweets. I am not very surprised because I am used to my young, thin and 'sanskari' (cultured in a hypocritical sense)cousins eating like 40 chapatis in my village feasts. But Sherry finds it amusing, surprising and also disturbing. She is concerned with the fact that where is all this food going and how is India feeding its people if each individual is capable of making such a legendary contribution.  Immediately she makes a conclusion: "India is slow in its growth rate and work efficiency because you guys eat so much, after which you can't work, you sleep and also invite heart attacks, diabetes and other ailments."  I don't refute her analysis as even I feel like agreeing with what she discovers. Well I wish that this innocent Chinese observation does not reach their foreign ministry, otherwise the Chinese government will definately use this information for some kind of strategic planning.
I decide to call it a night as I have to get ready for tomorrow's meeting with Mr. Vijay Nambiar who is the special advisor to Secretary general of United Nations on Myanmar Affairs.