Sitting on the corner of D-Block Market of Sector 27, Noida is a mender of soles. Since the days of Julius Caesar, and before, people have called a person in that profession, a cobbler. Yesterday when I went to him for a minor repair work, I saw a half rusted last that had apparently not been put to much use in the last many years. A torn hundred-rupee note lay half dead next to the last.
At long last
The adhesive he was using to revive ‘Gandhiji’ was the same as the one he uses to repair the soles for people. He calls it ‘solution’.
I wished his ‘solution’ could repair the souls of the country’s people, and the economy, too.
He took nearly fifteen minutes to do my work and demanded Rs 10/-. I took out my wallet to pay him when I saw his children playing in his ‘shop’ which measured not more than four feet by four––a girl in school uniform, and a boy.
I felt a lump even as I paid the man Rs 20/- and told him to keep back the change.
One would be miserable if one were to take such things to heart. With a little deliberate effort, I managed to erase that memory for there were other things on my mind. A day to go, I was still waitlisted on the train to Bhopal; I was eagerly looking forward to being with my folks. I had not yet received the RC Book of my new car; I was praying to get an odd number. Why ‘odd’? Elementary, my dear Watson!
Television news and the Whatsapp messages were full of rage, discussing the recent rapes and murders. There was a deluge of solutions––hang them; chop their arms; improve policing; treat everyone equal; fast track the process…. I switched off the set.
No uniform; no school
I slept soundly, but certainly, not peacefully. Was I becoming immune to what was happening around me?
This morning I had to get some photos printed. I was back in the same market. The lab attendant at Anjalis was busy so I took a walk to while away the time.
As luck could have it, I crossed the same cobbler again. He looked at me with an expression that said, “So you’re here again?” I exchanged half a smile and was about to pass on when I saw his children playing like the previous day. Without actually wanting to get an answer, I asked him, “Kids, haven’t gone to school?”
“Sir, only my daughter goes to school. She has one set of uniform. She has not gone to school because it has been washed. She’ll go tomorrow.”
“How much does a uniform cost? You must ensure that your child does not miss school….” I knew, those questions and sermons were meaningless.
He shed a tear when I placed a currency note on his palm, ‘requesting’ him to get another set of uniform for his child.
I had found a way to spend the extra penny I make by writing.
Who knows: “A child going to school today might be a criminal less in the street tomorrow.”
The iToon in today’s (Monday, December 2, 2019) Times of India struck a chord.
Tongue Twisters of Sorts
For many years, I was hesitant ordering food in restaurants. I owed that behaviour to my inability to pronounce the exotic names of some of the equally exotic dishes. To me their names were tongue twisters. They still are.
I am reminded of Mr Jagjit Singh, our French Professor at the School of Foreign Languages (SFL); he retired two years ago. A true teacher to the core, he had an agenda beyond teaching us how to read, speak and write––he wanted us to learn how to ‘communicate’. A near hundred per cent daily attendance, and a high degree of punctuality through the year was a tribute to his ability to elicit interest.
One Tuesday morning after exchanging the usual niceties, he posed a simple question to the class: “Est-ce mardi? (Is it Tuesday?).”
He turned to Amit Mittal (name changed) for an answer. Amit was a young engineer about to join a French power tools company, was at the SFL to learn the language, which would stand him in good stead later in his career. The young man scratched his beard, which he had started sporting to look like the French novelist, Émile Zola. Not to talk of the round lenses of his specs––equally French. Forget the looks, words evaded his lips.
As if to throw a hint, a smiling Jagjit Singh, looked at the calendar hanging from a nail on the wall and repeated the question: “Est-ce mardi?” There was an extra effort to pronounce the letter ‘r’ in ‘mardi’, the way French pronounce it.
Murmuring grew in the class because almost everyone knew the ‘expected’ answer: “Oui, c’est mardi.” (Yes, it is Tuesday). The names of the days of the week and the months of the year were taught to us three days ago––most of us knew them by heart. Therefore, the question was a no-brainer.
When he couldn’t bear the whispering around him anymore, he nodded in a universally accepted gesture that conveys: “Y-E-S.”
The class exploded into laughter. Prof Jagjit Singh waited for us to calm down. And when the class became quiet, he asked us the reason for the laughter. A girl sitting in the front row, still giggling said, “The answer is: ‘Oui, c’est mardi’.”
Prof Jagjit Singh: “What did Mr Amit say?”
The girl: “He just nodded.”
Jagjit Singh, a little seriously, “What do you think that meant?”
The girl replied rather reluctantly and grudgingly, “Of course, it meant ‘Y-E-S’… but he didn’t say the full sentence: “Oui, c’est mardi.”
Without ado, Jagjit Singh explained the importance of learning a language. He said it is to communicate with people: “The aim of learning a language is to share ideas. For a communication to be effective, the receiver (of the communication) must understand the intention of the initiator of the communication and give a feedback to that effect; and act accordingly, if possible. In this case, I asked a question; all of you, including Mr Amit Mittal understood my question; and all of us understood what he conveyed by nodding his head.”
Then smiling again at Amit and addressing the entire class he said, “Notwithstanding your ability to share thoughts with gestures and pictures, it is always advantageous to know the right words and expressions. That enhances your ability to communicate.” Through his small monologue he impressed upon us that most important purpose of learning a language (i.e., to communicate) must remain uppermost in the minds as people go along building a vocabulary and learning the grammar.
That pearl of wisdom from Prof Jagjit Singh is a valued possession of all his students.
To the chagrin of the language purist similar realisation is dawning on people. In the latest instance, the ‘Apostrophe Protection Society’ has eased its grip on the use of the APOSTROPHE, the little thing that hovers above the letters and hides at the end of words and keeps confusing people. As per Duncan Kennedy (of the BBC), John Richards, the 96-year chairman of the Society––having agonised over the issue for two decades––has given up the struggle to revive this endangered species of punctuation marks.
The apostrophe catastrophe is a gimme, to say the least. The lingua franca of sms, Twitter and WhatsApp will ensure it and take more toll of spoken and written language. The changes that are causing ripples will turn into big waves some day, if not, tidal waves or tsunamis. To nod (due to ignorance) and watch, would not be a good choice.
The sooner one picks up the jargon and the grammar of the emerging language(s), the better of one would be in the New World.
Like any other day, I woke up early and got down to my routine; brushed, and made myself a cup of tea. I felt a pleasant nip in the air when I opened the door to fetch the newspaper. Soon it’d be winter. There was no breeze; a thick layer of dust had settled on the leaves. People like robots had started walking the street in front of our house––the safaiwallahs, the housekeeping staff and the sleepy guards trudging or riding rickety bicycles enthusiastically to handover charge and go home. A dog yawned, another peed on the revered Tulsi plant from which, thanks to Baba Ramdev, passers-by have been plucking leaves to ward off many known and unknown diseases; some others barked, exercising their lungs. A bird chased by a dog, chirped and hopped from a branch to another as it mocked its canine adversary.
Champagne in his elements
It was like any
other day.
Then came Champagne, running. He licked my hand as I bent down to pick up the newspaper. He was all over me, wagging his tail. He calmed down and sat by my side only when I gave him a caress that he considers his birth right. Champagne is an affectionate stray who stakes claim (with authority) on the membership of our family.
Chhaya, all smiles,
walked in as I settled down to read the newspaper. “Good morning dear,” she
said as she gave me a warmer-than-usual
hug. “Happy birthday! Many happy returns of the day….” She was lavish with her
wishes. “So, now you are a senior citizen…. Unh!” She added with a meaningful,
yet guileless smile. With that, not only did she make my day but also triggered
a chain of serious thoughts.
Now, I was 60. I had
heard a lot about the woes of the elderly. Most of them related to issues
concerning health and relationships. A major concern was finding a suitable job
to remain ‘occupied’.
I realised, I had
been happy blogging, reading, writing odd articles, and editing books. A
lecture here, a seminar there, or a talk to students/ young officers once in a
while had been keeping me occupied. Since it is fashionable to be working after
retirement, I have broken my vow (of not picking up a nine-to-five job) and have consented to being an adjunct faculty in
a College––to share my life’s experiences with students, twice (emphasis added
on ‘twice’) a week. Period.
Inspired by my
late nonagenarian father’s zeal to learn, and motivated by my niece Swati, I am
also planning to enrol into a ceramic art class. I wonder if I’ll be left with
time to do more things concurrently.
Sharpening the brain?
Everything looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.
As if the thought
of being a Senior Citizen came to me
to stay, and nag––a news item in The Times of India that day read: “For sharp
memory in old age play a lot of board games.” “Why board games?” I question
that finding as I do so many others. I vie with Chhaya to grab the newspaper
and solve Sudoku, Kakuro, Hitori, Spellathon and Jumble. We solve them not because
researchers say solving puzzles sharpens the brain, but because we enjoy both––haggling
for the newspaper supplement, and then solving the puzzles. Besides, for
several years now, Lumosity, a set of online brain games has been keeping our
grey matter in good condition. Another habit––playing rummy and a few other card games before hitting the sack, keeps our
minds active.
A set of stretching exercises, as I listen to the BBC News podcast, is the next ritual of the morning. Incidentally, a news item on my birthday had to do with the life and woe of a senior citizen. A burglar who had made a forced entry into an 82-year lone woman’s house was thrashed and clobbered by the lady after she blinded him with hand wash until the cops arrived. Bravo! I am inspired!
Family and extended family apart, friends don’t look for reasons to get together––we meet fairly regularly. An occasional cup of thoughtfully brewed green tea with my NDA coursemate, JK Kaushik in the afternoons is another ritual I look forward to. Arun and Prashant both of whom I had met during a train journey (1993) are best of friends, a phone call away. Akhilesh Mishra, whom I met at the reception of CLOVE Dental Centre, is another friend I just added to my list.
Blissful on railway platform
In the last few days, I have come across children who have nudged me to think. Last month I saw two children (about six years of age) lying on a sheet on a platform of Nizamuddin Station, glued to the screen of a mobile phone. Their mother was breast-feeding a third one. I pitied them. Then, more recently, at the Wedding Asia Exhibition, I came across children playing video games on mobile phones; their ‘educated’ parents were engrossed in appreciating flashy haute couture presented by reputed designers. At least one of those children wore glasses with thick cylindrical lenses. Need I elaborate?
Engrossed
In another instance, in different circumstances, a wretched boy, barely ten, nose running, sitting in a roadside puncture repair shop where I was getting a flat tyre repaired, drew my attention. Vidhyanshu’s school had been closed due to heavy air pollution in the area. I felt sad for him. I certainly did not expect him to think about making up the loss of studies sitting at home or in that shop. I got into a conversation with him and, while at it, I made a paper ‘bird’ (origami) that could flap its wings. I do it quite often. Happiness was writ large on his face when I gave him the bird for keeps. Then I gave him a pen to write his name on a piece of paper, which he did fairly legibly. I was trying to relive one of my childhood memories when I appreciated his handwriting, and told him to keep the pen. I could read on his cheerful face, he was thinking of more possibilities with paper (origami). He displayed a great sense of pride in getting a pen as a reward for writing his name legibly. Nose still running, his unadulterated smile was a big reward for me. The incident gave me a purpose in life––60th birthday was but a catalyst that helped me crystallise my thoughts.
A precious smile
Post that
incident, Chhaya and I decided to skip my birthday bash; and share some time
cheering the underprivileged students of a school run by an NGO. Some origami,
an odd magic trick, some eatables and a hamper of items of stationery, is what
we have in mind.
That much on ‘stumbling
upon a purpose on my 60th birthday’.
An epilogue of sorts…
A reward
We had a quiet
dinner on my birthday––just the two of us. Chhaya presented me with an
automatic car. “I hope now you’ll have no excuse to skip a game of golf due to
your joint pain?” She had said slyly eluding to the excuses I make to skip
golf. She believes that driving an automatic will help relieve my joint pain.
My day started with
physical training, as usual. BBC News podcast was playing on my mobile phone by
my side. The reporter was all praise for a remote village of the Indian State
of Haryana where the male-female ratio had improved greatly in favour of females.
The issue was being talked about as a matter of great achievement for a state
that had, for years been rated low on issues concerning women.
A chirpy old
woman talked of Goddess Lakshmi being
born (and being ‘welcomed’) in their family. I appreciated her joy, although I
have reservations about that welcome to Lakshmi,
the Goddess of wealth. I very rarely hear of a new-born being welcomed as Goddess
Saraswati or Durga. My prejudice apart, the women who were spoken to, gave
credit to Prime Minister, Narendra Modi’s initiative: “Beti Bachao; Beti Padhao.”
It’s a pleasant change, yet there’s a long way to go.
Then, in
between the exercises, I did something which I had stopped doing after I read ‘Deep Work’ by Cal Newport (I very
strongly recommend this book to one who wants to cram more hours in one’s day;
and to get better control of one’s activities.). I clicked open the Whatsapp application
a second time before noon. And, lo and behold, I saw a video that had gone
viral. A lady officer of the Indo-Tibetan Border Police (ITBP) had resigned
from ITBP as a deputy commandant (several months ago). The video of her
interview to a media-person had gone viral. She was complaining of (sexual)
harassment. She seemed to have taken up cudgels on behalf all women in uniform.
She wanted to stop the rot and overhaul the system.
Enraged, I was.
The emotion lasted a long minute. Then it withered away. Thoughts of similar (‘similar’ as different from ‘identical’) cases flashed past my mind
wherein the accused were proved innocent. Much against my impulse to believe
the lady officer, I forced myself to take a neutral view and moved on with my
morning chores.
ITBP in the service of the nation
Then, with a
sense of déjà vu, I saw a post in the newspaper, obviously sponsored by the
ITBP: “ITBP Salutes the Nation on its 58th Raising Day.”
“Forget the
glorious past,” I thought, “It would be a mammoth task for ITBP to undo the
damage caused by the lady officer’s video gone viral.” Besides, whatever might be
the outcome of the inquiry in this case (I wonder if it has already been done,
and matter ‘closed’), the incident (the viral video) will have far-reaching
effect on the intake and treatment of women in the military and the
paramilitary forces. On that count, I foresee knee-jerk reactions all over––within
the forces, men will start maintaining an
arm’s distance from women. I am already hearing people saying, “Who will
send their daughters to join the armed forces now?” People are passing
judgement and verdict without trial, “Such men must be castrated! They must be
made specimen of.” “The laws must be made more stringent.” “We have the laws
but implementation is poor….”
There’s an opinions galore, most of which suggests enactment and enforcement of stricter and more nuanced laws and deterrence by way of severer punishment as remedy for the ailment. To my mind, all these suggestions are excellent suggestions, but in some ways they recommend locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. In any case, the government and the judiciary will take care of that aspect.
If only stringent laws, severe punishments and forceful implementation could lower crime rate the world would have been a much safer place ‘as of yesterday’. On the contrary, the crime rate of all sorts, including those against women, is on the rise. More important than good laws and severe punishments is the need of change in the mind-set––more of men, than of women. Sermonising and education can influence people and bring about positive behavioural changes in them but a more effective thing would be if the changes come about from within.
Adrenaline comes to #MeToo
Just when I was wondering: “What could be the way,” I received a message on the Whatsapp––it was a joke. It read: “In a competition, the challenge was to express peacefulness, happiness and calmness in a single sentence. The winning entry was: ‘My wife is sleeping.’”
Had I received
the same joke (say) a month ago, I would have laughed and shared it with my
contacts (including women friends) on Whatsapp. It didn’t happen this time. I
didn’t share it; deleted it. I had decided to make a conscious effort to
prevent the spread of material that makes fun of, or demeans, women even if, in
the smallest of ways. That would be a very small step in the positive
direction; it’s not too late in (my) life. Sharing material, which shows them
in positive light, as persons in
control of their lives and the environment around, could happen simultaneously.
I am not alone in this awakening at a late stage in life (I’ll turn 60 next month). I read today, that Asterix has been inspired likewise. For the first time in its 60-year history––thanks to the duo of Jean-Yves Ferri and Didier Conrad––the magazine has got its first female hero, Adrenaline.
Adrenaline coming to #MeToo is good news.
More are welcome to jump on the slow, but steadily moving bandwagon!
In the forenoon,
Gurinder and Pammi had finalised the deal for the two-bedroom flat overlooking
the Yamuna in the Supernova Towers right next to the Okhla Bird Sanctuary Metro
Station. Their ears had made a ‘chitchat’
sound when they had come out of the lift on the breezy 67th floor.
Oops! It was like taking a small hop flight in an aircraft. The balcony
provided an awesome view of Delhi. The meandering Yamuna with its green banks;
metro, resembling a toy train; the Delhi-Noida-Delhi Expressway, the miniature
cars; the Lotus Temple and what have you––an enlarged Google map. Only two flats per floor meant sufficient
privacy. Their offices in Sector-127 would literally be at a handshake
distance––no more pulling hairs in the unruly traffic. They had reasons to be
euphoric about the deal. It was a-dream-come-true.
It called for a
celebration.
So very relaxed,
they spent the evening whiling away their time in the DLF Mall of India. At 8
pm, they were at L’affaire. From the
open-air restaurant on the seventh floor of the newly commissioned hotel in
Sector 18, they would be able to see their soon-to-be Sweet Home.
With a gloved hand
placed neatly and deliberately on his red cummerbund, the magnificently
accoutred burly durbaan, bent at his
waist to welcome the two. He opened the door gracefully to usher them in with a
smile that looked absolutely out of place on his rugged face with thick black
eyebrows and sideburns, and a handlebar moustache.
A smartly
dressed floor manager smiled at them from behind the counter near the entrance;
he was busy talking on his mobile phone. Despite his smile, he was visibly
hassled. Only five tables were occupied by customers; there wasn’t much rush. Subdued
light and Kenny G’s Songbird playing
softly in the background were providing the perfect ambience for a candlelight
dinner they had fantasised through the afternoon.
They had barely
settled in their chairs in the far end of the restaurant when a young man in
whites, in his early twenties, came running to their table. Although
dishevelled, he wore a smile, and a genuine one in that. He had a small
crystal-glass flower vase in one hand and an ornate candle stand in the other.
His greeting––“Good evening Ma’am, good evening Sir”––turned out to be an
exercise in apology as he almost stumbled and placed nay, slammed his wares on
the table. Mumbling an apology, he made a couple of clumsy attempts to light
the candle. And before one could say, Jack
Robinson, he was gone.
Gurinder and Pammi looked at each other. “Did we bargain for this sort of service when we chose to dine her?” They seemed to say. And before they could exchange any words, the man returned. With two glasses filled with water on a tray. He was still in some kind of hurry––he managed to spill some water on the table.
Another genuine
“S-O-R-R-Y.” But Pammi was furious. Her lips quivered as if to spew some harsh
advisory. But he had vanished again before she could vent her anger. Gurinder
took charge and signalled her to calm down. “Let’s not spoil our evening. We’ll
not tip this guy and will never return to this joint,” he said.
Their minds
were on a different trip when the waiter returned with the menu. They ordered
food half-heartedly. They observed that there were only two waiters serving all
the guests in the restaurant. They were like butterflies fluttering from table
to table, taking orders and serving. This made Gurinder and Pammi feel deprived
of their rightful services.
It happened so
gradually….
The flickering
flame of the candle consumed the dreams the two had woven through the day. Like
the black smoke of the candle burning silently between them, their aspirations
got lost in the thin air. The silhouette of Supernova Towers, which was looking
so charming when they had arrived on the terrace, lost appeal. The switch over
from their discussion on their dream house to the subject of deteriorating
quality of food and services in restaurants happened quite naturally. Kenny G too, lost its charm.
At the end of the dinner when the waiter suggested a layout of desserts, Gurinder declined rudely and gestured for the bill to be produced. In a huff he pulled out his wallet and even took out his credit card and waited impatiently to make the payment.
The waiter
didn’t return; instead came the Floor Manager.
With hands
joined in a namaste and a disarming
smile he approached the table. “Sir, today four of our staff have been injured
in a road accident. They have been taken to the hospital; nothing serious but
they will take some time to be fit and join duty. Since we could not provide
you with proper service, as we would have wanted to, the food is on us. You
needn’t pay the bill.” Then with a pause he added, “In fact Sir, the wife of
the waiter who was serving you is also indisposed; he was on leave. But he
surrendered his leave to help us tide over the crisis. He is a very sincere
guy; full of initiative. I hope he looked after you well? Thank you for
visiting us. We hope to see you again! Good night Ma’am, good night Sir!”
(Author’s Note: This story is inspired by the Forum conducted by Landmark Education where they teach: “Actions are actions (they are meaningless); ‘we’ attach meaning to them.”)
Lately, Chhaya,
my better half and I have started travelling by Delhi Metro wherever and
whenever possible. And honestly, the reason for choosing to travel by Metro
Rail rather than by our own car has less to do with our concern for the
environment (although it is always uppermost in our minds). The main reason for
that choice is to avoid the pain of driving in heavy traffic because of which
the time one takes to travel from a place A to a place B is uncertain. I recall
an occasion when I even failed to convey a friend from Amity University, Noida
to Hazrat Nizamuddin Railway Station in time. A journey, which takes about
twenty minutes, took more than an hour and a half that day, and he missed his
train. In addition to that ‘harassed’ feeling on the road, there is the problem
of finding a parking slot in most places.
Travelling by
Metro hasn’t been an experience to write home about either. The stations are
crowded. In the peak hours, the trains are so packed with commuters that people
have to take turns to breathe. That said, we still find it a good option, at
least in the lean hours. There’s relatively less rush and we are sure of
reaching our destination in time. To think of it, it is a conscious effort to
avoid road rage too. I often recall an instance when a youth, half my age
wanted to enter into a physical fight with me. It
is a different matter that when we finally parted, he wanted to stitch a lounge
suit for me; he was a fashion designer.
So when we
boarded the Metro at Okhla Bird Sanctuary last Saturday, it was just another
day. We had to travel to Nehru Place––a 17-minute journey with seven stops en
route. At 7:30 pm, although there wasn’t a big rush, there were no vacant seats
either. We were prepared to go standing.
Good Samaritan
Just then, a
lean and rather fragile looking man, with a bag in hand stood up and offered
his seat to Chhaya. Chhaya politely declined because looking at his health, she
felt that he needed the seat more than her. Besides, he was travelling to
Vasant Vihar; sixteen stops and double the time away. But he insisted and
prevailed. So without further ado, Chhaya accepted the offer and thanked him.
Even before the import of that kind gesture could sink in, another young man stood up and offered his seat to me. I was a bit embarrassed because standing ramrod straight, I maintain that in appearance I still do not look like a senior citizen. This gentleman who was to travel to Palam Vihar (20 stops and 42 minutes away) was even more insistent. Left with little choice, I succumbed to his request.
While all this
was happening, there was a rapt audience watching us with smiles on their faces––a
bit amused by the transaction. Why?
A Generation that C-A-R-E-S
Perhaps because such a behaviour in public, is still not-a-norm in India. In fact, momentarily even I was taken aback because somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind there was a somewhat colonial thought, which declared chivalry as the fiefdom of the armed forces. In the end, I wasn’t so surprised. The emotion that we carried when we got out of the train was one of deep satisfaction; the generation next is one that C-A-R-E-S.
Two reasons have prompted me to share my thoughts on this apparently trivial issue. Firstly, not really expecting them to behave the way they did, the gesture of those young people has touched our hearts. Secondly, there was an urge to share that feeling of appreciation.
सैर कर दुनिया की ग़ाफ़िल, ज़िन्दगानी फिर कहाँ? ज़िन्दगानी ग़र रही, तो नौजवानी फिर कहाँ?
This couplet in Urdu––please do not mind the
spellings––nudges one to travel around the world while one is (still) alive,
for life would mean less (nothing) in old age.
Although I do not go out of my way visiting places, I try to live up to the spirit expressed by the poet and try to make the best of the opportunities that come my way. And, I love to travel by rail rather than by air. Time spent travelling in the train is fun. Sometimes it is more memorable (and enjoyable) than arrival at the destination. The same is true about life too––the struggle and toil that one goes through in life, is as enjoyable, if not more than the achievement of the goal. A journey is a period of time, it is dynamic. The achievement of goal is, but a stationary point. Talking of train journeys––two of my best friends are the people I met during one such memorable journey more than a quarter of a century ago. Arun! Prashant! Are you listening?
I always carry a book when I travel. But lately, the opportunities to flip pages have become rare. There are enough books to read in the faces of people around you. Thanks to the media (social media, included) people are so opinionated and so articulate these days that it is difficult to concentrate and read a line because of the cacophony that surrounds you. When an issue is debated, it becomes difficult to stay neutral. People nudge and tip you to one side of the fence even if you don’t have the knowledge, let alone an opinion, on a subject.
In those regards, my last train journey from Nizamuddin to Ujjain to visit my nonagenarian mother was no less memorable; I carried back a life’s lesson from it. My co-passengers were three men and four women––a balanced crowd, devoid of gender bias. The ages of the men are not all that important; the women were ‘going to be’ senior citizens in a year or two. This revelation came when the conductor made a round and it was revealed that they had availed the concession, which is due to senior citizens (women aged 58 years or more).
The men sat silently; the women were chirpy––talking and cracking jokes. They were less mindful of the people around. Nonetheless in polite meaningless conversation, it emerged that they were a part of a larger ‘women only’ group (nearly a dozen or more travelling by the same train) visiting Ujjain and the nearby places of tourist interest. Their visit to the holy city had nothing to do with their religious beliefs. They were just going sightseeing.
More about them…
That rare species of genuinely happy humans
had got together and embarked on this excursion; they had been visiting places similarly
for several years now. They had been abroad in the yesteryears. They said that
they were through with their commitments in the sense most Indians look at
life. Their children were married and well settled in life with respectable
jobs. The husbands? Well, they too were happy doing what they were doing.
They appeared to be working ladies in Government jobs travelling on Leave Travel Concession (LTC). A little more familiarity led to a revelation. They were all working for MTNL/ BSNL. They were travelling at their own expense, not on LTC. They had not received their pay cheques for some months and to add to their woes, there was a move to lower their retirement age. There were some glitches with the Voluntary Retirement Scheme (VRS) too.
Surprisingly, there was no trace of grief
that one would normally associate with people in such a state––no pay for
months and uncertain future. Their only ray of hope was––the union leaders
being true to themselves and finding an amicable solution. If the union leaders
fell for any personal allurement by the management/ government, all of them
would face doom.
“Why were they, the MTNL/ BSNL, a one time Nav Ratna Company, in such dire straits?”
queried a curious listener.
“Sir, for years we (MTNL/BSNL) have been
getting a raw deal, a stepmotherly treatment. Successive governments have tried
to clip our wings. We were not allowed to partcipate (actually ‘forbidden’) when 4G
spectrum was auctioned. Now even though we give unlimited data, other private
companies are preferred because although they offer very little data, they
provide much higher speeds (4G). We have enviable assets, which are rotting. If
the government has decided to favour the private players over us, so be it. They
can go ahead and sell our assets and give us our pay.” With passion they
continued to talk in turns. “Now that we do not have 4G we’ll not be eligible
to go in for 5G although our R&D people are already working with some world
leaders on 7G technology.”
One of the ladies showed a video clip on her
mobile in which someone was trying passionately to elucidate how MTNL/BSNL were
unscrupulously marginalised.
Their arguments were Greek and Latin to us. And honestly, we didn’t care. We were satisfied with our Jio and Airtel connectivity. Without going into the depth of what those ladies were saying, we tended to believe that MTNL/BSNL were paying for their poor performance. Period!
Did they care what we thought about MTNL/
BSNL or about them? Or, what was in store for them? Not the least.
Women of Substance
Those exuberant women were joined by many others of their ilk when they disembarked at Ujjain Junction. None would have believed that they were going through a crisis of their lifetime with no end in sight. “We want to live life today and now,” said one of them. “Tomorrow when we retire, we’ll go and settle down in different parts of the country and might not get an opportunity to be together ever again.”
Never seen women of such substance, such grit. God was perhaps reading my lips when I picked up my bags to proceed homeward: “Oh God! Give them their due, and more.” I had prayed.
A week later, lost in the din of the UN Climate Summit and Howdy Modi, there are two news items.
One, a threat from a foreign vendor: “Won’t invest more if denied 5G permission, says Huawei.” Is it going to be another nail in the coffin of BSNL/MTNL?
Two, a relief to the deserving: “BSNL pays August salaries to staff: CMD.”
They had purchased old; second hand golf sets with assorted clubs with worn-out grips and dilapidated bags. They played with old balls, reserving the new, and the better ones only for the putting greens. They used the oldest ball in their bag, on the fifth tee for the fear of losing a good one in the water hazard. They had not been exposed to the wisdom of playing with a new ball.
They could strike a ball clean from the tee––not
muffing it––just about fifty per cent of the times. But only on half of those
contacts, the ball would take a decent flight and land in the fairway. A mini
celebration would ensue every time their approach shots from within a hundred yards
range landed on the green––that happened as rarely as the solar eclipses. They
took, on an average, not less than two and a half strokes on the putting green
to hole out. They played for honour; betting only once in a blue moon with breakfast
of eggs and toasted bread with jam and butter at stake. Ignorant of the rules,
they played with consensus until one of them picked up an old out-dated booklet
of golf rules from a street vendor, which they referred only when a dispute
remained unresolved for a few days.
Amit Ahluwalia (Alu), Anil Jain, Gopal Phanse
and Biswajeet Ghose had been bitten by the golf bug. If they had their way,
they would spend their entire lives on the greens. But wishes don’t have wings.
Gupta Law Associates (GLA) kept the four young lawyers tethered to their
workstations through the week. Nonetheless, their weekends were devoted to golf––it
was a ritual they never skipped. Winning or losing the game was less material;
they would do ‘anything’ to snatch an opportunity to play.
Anything!
It was far easier to plead and convince a
judge presiding over a criminal case than to persuade Harsh Gupta the seventy-nine
year old Chairman of Gupta Law Associates (GLA) to spare the young men for a few
hours on a workday even for their personal errands. Being spared to play golf––there
was no chance whatsoever. How Alu sold the idea to the old man is a guarded
secret. But suffice it to say that at the end of their seven-minute
interaction, Harsh Gupta had not only agreed to field a team to represent GLA
in the HH Maharaja Jayachamaraja Wadiyar Golf Championship at the JWGC, Mysore
but had also sanctioned all their expenses including a sleeve of golf balls and
a tee shirt each. The old man had possibly calculated the net gains that would accrue
to his law firm by way of publicity due to the presence of his emissaries in
Mysore amidst what he considered an elite crowd.
With a registered handicap of 18 and actual
performance no better than 24, none of them stood the remotest chance of making
the cut at the end of the first round. Winning a prize in the Stableford format
on the final day was out of the question. They knew their limitations well. Yet
their urge ‘just to play’ another round was rather strong.
In the first day’s fixtures their names appeared together in a four-ball. In that, Alu saw an opportunity and a ray of hope. He came up with a scheme. He suggested that they played exactly as they played on their parent golf course in Bangalore––changing the balls on the putting greens and conceding short (one grip length) putts. That would give them the advantage of a few strokes and a possible chance of making the cut. He also suggested a ‘rolling’ mulligan that could be availed discreetly on any hole. “I’ll ‘manage’ the caddies,” he added slyly.
“But that would be unfair to the other
golfers participating in the tournament,” protested Jain.
“You are right,” reflected Alu. “But that’s
our only hope to qualify and play another round. In any case, with our known
performances, none of us will win a prize tomorrow even if we were to qualify
today. A little manipulation will not harm other people’s chances of winning a
trophy.” Then, after a pause for effect, Alu continued, “Jain, if you avoid
being Satyawadi Harishchandra for a
change, all of us could enjoy another day of golf.” He looked at Ghose and
Phanse who extended tacit support. Unsure and reluctant, Jain also gave in.
To cut the long story short, at the end of
the first day’s play, all four of them stood somewhere on the leader board entitling
them to play the final round the next morning. That evening they enjoyed the
gala party hosted by the organisers. How they had made the cut was forgotten
soon enough.
Gimme!
For the final round they were put in different
four-balls. Everything changed––no mulligan, no ‘gimme’. It made no difference to them because they had achieved
their aim of playing another day. Scores didn’t matter anymore. In fact there
was nothing to write home about when they submitted their scorecards. They
wanted to set course back for Bangalore as soon as possible but then, as a mark
of respect for the organisers they decided to stay back for the prize
distribution.
They sat in the last row cracking occasional
jokes, eating plum cakes and sipping fresh fruit juices. The announcements
being made as a part of the prize distribution ceremony were falling on their
deaf ears so that when the name of the runner-up for the prize for the
Stableford Net Score (handicap 18 and under) was announced they didn’t monitor
it. Anil Jain’s name had to be called thrice before he could register and
respond to the call. He had to literally run to the podium to receive his trophy.
The sense of winning a prize dawned on him only a half hour later when, on their
drive back to Bangalore Alu demanded a treat for Anil’s ‘achievement’.
Next morning in the office: Harsh Gupta felicitated
Jain in the presence of the office staff. There was a high tea to commemorate
his win at the golf tournament. “It is GLA’s achievement,” said an elated
Gupta. There was a photo session with the trophy. And then…
And then came an exuberant Alu.
“Congratulations, Bro!” he said with a broad smile as they shook hands and
hugged. “Great game! You have been hitting well over the last few days. I knew
you would win a prize….” Despite Alu’s effort to be innocuous, Anil felt that
every word he uttered was loaded with meaning. “Am I imagining things,” he
wondered. A smirk on Alu’s face laid that doubt to rest––Alu was mocking him. Anil
also sensed indifference in the way Ghose and Phanse greeted him on his maiden
golfing success.
In the evening, when Anil returned home his
wife, Sheela wiped the already glittering trophy clean with one end of her dupatta and placed it proudly in the
glass showcase in the drawing room. Ideally, that should have been the end of a
not so pleasant chapter for Anil.
Not really….
That day onwards, whenever Anil looked at the
trophy, rather than getting a sense of fulfilment, it only depressed him. Golfing
with his buddies was not the same either––he began seeing meaning in whatever
the other three guys said. Carrying the burden of ‘that’ maiden golf trophy was
becoming increasingly difficult for Anil until one day it became absolutely
unbearable.
Sheela looked at the trophy and said, “Anil
this golf trophy is tarnished.” Then turning it over, she exclaimed, “Oh my
God, this is real silver. It must be 200 grams. This will require repeated
polishing…. I don’t mind you playing more often if you win trophies like this
one….” While she continued with her monologue, Anil was stuck with one word: “T-A-R-N-I-S-H-E-D.”
Anil couldn’t bear the guilt of unfair play
any longer. The next day he called the Secretary of the JWGC, Mysore and expressed
his desire to return the trophy. His lips quivered as he cited his reason for
returning the trophy. Mr Madhavan was, first, shell-shocked, and then, touched
by what he heard. Collecting himself he said it was fine so long as Anil regretted
his action; he didn’t have to return the trophy. After a little ado, he agreed
to take back the trophy and present it for fair play to a deserving player in
the next tournament.
At the prize distribution ceremony of the HH
Maharaja Jayachamaraja Wadiyar Golf Championship next year, Madhavan made a
surprise announcement; that of award of ‘Fair Play Trophy’. Without citing any
name he spoke about Anil’s confession and called some Dr Sanjay Dixit to
receive the trophy––Dixit had been selected by a panel of judges for the
honour.
Amid loud clapping, euphoria and standing
ovation, Dixit came to the podium and received the trophy. Then with all
humility, he returned it to the Chief Guest saying, “I thank the organisers for
finding me suitable for the ‘Fair Play Trophy’. But I would not like to take
home a ‘Tarnished Trophy’.
For a long minute, there was pin drop silence. And when people spoke again, the ‘Tarnished Trophy’ had become a talk of the town. After much thought the General Body of the JWGC decided to place the “Tarnished Trophy” in the foyer of the Club––with its brief history cited below it.
Now, the trophy inspires players with a conscience, to be loyal to the royal in them.
(Author’s Note: The resemblance of names of persons and places mentioned in this story to real persons and places is incidental).
Legend has it that after the Korean War the Americans didn’t want to
take that aircraft back to the US and offered it to India at a paltry Rs 5,000/-
an aircraft; some say, the aircraft were passed on for a mere USD each. A
number of them were certainly donated by the US, to address India’s dire need.
Does that matter now? Not really!
C-119 Fairchild Packet
Packet aircraft remained the mainstay of the IAF’s transport
aircraft fleet from the mid-1950s (around the time when its production stopped)
until the workhorse was finally given a place of honour in the Air Force Museum
at Palam (March 31, 1986). Whether it was to serve the UN in Congo or to
airlift relief supplies to Egypt and Hungary; whether it was to land guns and
men at Chushul (India-China War, 1962) or to paradrop troops over Tangail
(Liberation of Bangladesh, 1971); whether it was to ferry Prime Minister Nehru
on a state visit across the Iron Curtain to Moscow or to ship Lieutenant General
AAK Niazi from Dacca to Nagpur (1972)––Packet did it all, and did it in style
and with élan. The Packet fleet also undertook air maintenance task and
paratrooping training as a matter of routine.
Farewell to Packet
A look at that aircraft would make one marvel at its ability to defy
the laws of gravity and the Principles of Flight. In appearance it was quite un-aircraft-like––its designers called
it a Flying Boxcar. Others, less kind
in their treatment of the workhorse, gave it the epithet of Flying Coffin. One wonders, “With not-so-appealing (streamlined) features,
how a Packet aircraft used to (at all) get unstuck, let alone get airborne and
stay afloat?” Well! Packet aircraft had a wingspan of 110 feet. Its engines
were the most powerful engines ever built in piston engine era. They produced
3500 horsepower for a weight of 3350 pounds, that is, more than a horsepower per
pound of weight. With that brute power, the aircraft could land at Daulat Beg
Oldie, the highest airfield in the world. That was in the years 1962 to 1965––more
than half a century before the first C-130J Super Hercules landed there. The
great Indian Jugaad of installing a
jetpack atop the fuselage gave Packet aircraft the added power needed to
achieve marvellous feats. Interestingly, Packet was the only aircraft, which
had both, piston engines and a jet engine to provide thrust.
My first acquaintance with the aircraft was in February 1982 when I flew
for an air experience. And, before I
could get the real feel I had boarded the aircraft a second time, for my first
parachute descent. In the following 35 years, as a Parachute Jump Instructor
(PJI) I have jumped from nearly a dozen different types of transport aircraft
of the IAF––from the vintage Dakota and the Caribou to the state-of-the-art Special Operations aircraft, C-130J Super
Hercules. But the memory of the jumps made from Packet aircraft is indelible.
As the mind perambulates between now and those days, I recall that it was the magnificent men who flew that
machine that really made jumps and life so memorable. I feel that Packet used
to fly not because of its overly powered engines, but because of the willpower
of the men in blue. Volumes can be written about those memorable days and those
heroes. Today I’ll recall just one.
They called him Throttle Dutt.
As the name suggests, he was indeed throttle-happy––ever eager to
hop into the cockpit and fly off. Rex Raymond, his course-mate thought, that
nickname suited SK Dutt also because of his resemblance to the thin (read,
“slim”) shaft of the throttle of a Piper Cub aircraft, which they flew as
youngsters. We, the Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) knew that if there was an
airworthy aircraft on the tarmac and Throttle
was around, we’d get our fill of jumps––he would stop only after the task was
completed.
Throttle Dutt
Whenever Wing Commander SK Dutt dropped us, we would land in the
Drop Zone, evenly scattered on either side of the centre; his name spelt confidence.
He would often come to our crew room and, over a cup of tea discuss almost everything
under the sun. He was a voracious reader. No wonder, some of his buddies called
him Professor.
That day I was anxious about the jump; I had reasons to be in that
state of mind. It was my first outstation
jump as an independent spotter. Wing
Commander GJ Gomes, our Chief Instructor at the Paratroopers Training School
had detailed me to take charge of the Skydiving Demonstration at the ASC Centre
at Gaya. It meant that I would be required to work out the release point depending
on the prevailing winds and advise the pilot to drop the jumpers. To achieve
that, I would be required to lean out of the open door of the aircraft in
flight and advise the captain on the intercom to steer the desirable course,
with last minute corrections. Skill of the skydivers apart, a good understanding
between the pilot and the spotter was
the key to pinpoint drops.
I had lined up the skydivers on the tarmac at Gaya Airport and had
just completed the pre-jump briefing, when a smiling Throttle Dutt and Squadron Leader Venkiteswaran (the pilots)
arrived and signalled us to emplane. They wished me good luck and were about to
board the aircraft when Captain Anil Kumar, one of the jumpers walked up to Throttle Dutt and said, “Sir, Khajuraho will be on our way when we fly
back to Agra after the demonstration jump…” Then, with wickedness swirling in
his eyes, the young officer added, “How about flying a little low over the
temples. May be we’ll get a glimpse of the beautiful statues.” He laid extra stress
on ‘the beautiful statues’.
Throttle chuckled equally slyly and nudged him towards the aircraft ladder
as if to say, “Son, first go and do a good jump.”
The demonstration went off very well. All the skydivers landed in
the designated target area in front of the spectators. Wing Commander Gomes was
pleased; the crew complimented me when we reached the tarmac after a lavish
lunch and fanfare, which are synonymous with such demonstrations. Incidentally,
with that jump I completed another century of safe landings. Very soon we were
airborne again, heading for Agra. There would be a refuelling halt en route, at
Allahabad.
Partly the fatigue, and partly the odd beer or a gin and lime
cordial that people had downed at lunch, started taking its toll. Wickets fell
one after the other. Within minutes of our departure from Gaya, more than half
of us were asleep; the other half were fast asleep. None kept track of time.
The chit-chit in the ears caused due
to the aircraft’s descent and the mild thud associated with the landing, jostled
people from their deep slumbers. Rubbing the eyes and trying to get the
bearings right, someone asked, “Allahabad? How much time will we take to
refuel?” That question went unanswered as more and more people got up and started
looking out of the windows. Sleepiness and the fogging caused by their breaths
on the cold Perspex conspired to keep them from getting their dead reckoning.
It actually didn’t matter because: Throttle
Dutt would ensure our return home by dinner.
As was customary, people waited for the Captain of the aircraft to
come out of the cockpit and deplane first. Then, they would form a beeline to
the nearest rest room. The fastest would get relief first. “Guys!” Throttle
Dutt said as he clapped twice and drew the attention of the people still
shuffling restlessly in their seats. “I am giving you exactly one hour and
fifteen minutes,” he looked at his wristwatch and continued,” It is three now.
Be back by four fifteen. We are in Khajuraho;
the temples are not far. You can have a look as I get the aircraft refuelled.”
He exchanged a meaningful glance with the young officer who had made the
suggestion at Gaya Airport.
Throttle Dutt had chosen to refuel at Khajurao
instead of Allahabad––it was his way of keeping the morale of the people around
him high without, of course, compromising operations. Four thirty was the
closing time for that less used civil airport. For the next ninety minutes Throttle would have a tough time handling
the airport staff.
It took the greater part of a long minute for the import of Throttle’s communication to sink into
the heads of the jumpers. And when it did make sense, they got into action;
they couldn’t afford to waste another minute. It was precisely a three-minute,
all male striptease inside the aircraft, at the end of which men were in smart
casuals. They couldn’t have gone out in the streets in overalls and dungarees.
In the next few minutes two scores of crew cut men were out in the
narrow streets invading the sleepy little town of Khajuraho. They caught hold of any means they could––cycle
rickshaw, auto-rickshaw, tonga and
some even jogged to reach the tourist attractions.
Meanwhile at the airport…
A worried air traffic controller begged Throttle Dutt to clear the tarmac. He said there wasn’t enough
space to accommodate an Air India B 737 aircraft scheduled to land in a while. Throttle assured him that he would move his
aircraft further back and create enough space on the tarmac for the incoming B
737. Then, Throttle got into the
cockpit, started up the engines and used reverse
to create manoeuvring space for the B 737 in full view of a spellbound Airport
Staff. It was a sight, they had never seen––they had never seen any aircraft,
let alone a massive one of the size of Packet, moving backwards under its own
power.
And although that act of reversing the aircraft on that small
manoeuvring surface impressed the controller, it did not allay his anxiety. He
now urged the crew to get airborne by four thirty; that was when the watch
hours at Khajuraho Airport would cease. Throttle
assured them that we’d leave in time.
Back at the Temple site––they went; they saw; and they felt
conquered! How the jumpers felt after their visit to the Temples could be the
subject of another piece. Suffice it to say that they did not talk about it.
Perhaps, how Throttle Dutt made it
possible for the bunch of those curious men, and the effort it took to reach
the heritage site, was more interesting and memorable than the beauty and the
artwork people got to witness there. Period.
The
entire lot was back at the airport in time for the take off. They lined up and
got into the aircraft hurriedly. Throttle
Dutt gave an impish smile to a beaming Anil Kumar as he climbed the ladder
to take off for Agra.
बात अस्सी के दशक की है। टाइम्स आई रिसर्च फाउंडेशन के माध्यम से भारतीय डाक तार विभाग ने नेत्र दान विषय पर डाक टिकिट जारी करने के लिए एक प्रतियोगिता आयोजित की थी। इस तरह के सामाजिक अभियानों में मेरी आस्था ने मुझे इस पहल में शामिल होने के लिए प्रेरित किया। मेरी कल्पना ने एक उड़ान भरी और मैं डाक टिकिट के लिए एक नमूना बनाने जुट गया। जल्दी ही मैंने अपनी प्रविष्टि टाइम्स आई फाउंडेशन को भेज दी।
दो शब्द मेरी प्रविष्टि के बारे में…
नेत्र दान
एक तरफ मैंने एक मानवीय चेहरे का रेखाचित्र बनाया था जिसमें आँख की जगह रिक्त (सफ़ेद) स्थान छोड़ा था जो कि अंधापन दर्शा रहा था। दूसरी तरफ मैंने एक हथेली बनाई थी जिसकी मुद्रा भगवानों की तस्वीरों में आशीर्वाद देते हाथ की होती है। हथेली के मध्य में मैंने एक आँख बनाई थी जिससे निकलती प्रकाश की किरणे अंधे व्यक्ति पर पड़ रही थीं। मेरी कल्पना में हथेली में बनी आँख से निकल कर अंधे चेहरे पर पड़ती प्रकाश की किरणे दृष्टि (नेत्र) दान की द्योतक थीं। मेरे मित्रों ने मेरी कलाकृति की खूब प्रशंसा की थी। निश्चय ही मैं अपने प्रयास से संतुष्ट था। टाइम्स आई रिसर्च फाउंडेशन ने भी मेरी प्रविष्टि को स्वीकार कर लिया था। कुछ ही समय में मैं उस प्रतियोगिता को भूल सा गया था।
एक दिन, अचानक ही मेरी दृष्टि टाइम्स ऑफ़ इंडिया में भारतीय
डाक-तार विभाग द्वारा नेत्र दान पर जारी किये गए डाक टिकिट की तस्वीर पर पड़ी। वह तस्वीर
मेरी भेजी हुई प्रविष्टि से बहुत मिलती थी। पहली नज़र में तो मुझे वह मेरी ही भेजी
हुई कलाकृति लगी। गौर से देखने पर एक छोटी-सी, परन्तु अत्यंत ही अर्थपूर्ण भिन्नता
दिखाई दी जिसने जीवन के बारे में मेरे दृष्टिकोण को सदा के लिए बदल दिया।
नेत्रार्पण
डाक टिकिट के लिए चयनित एवं पुरस्कृत चित्र में एक की जगह
दो हथेलियां प्रदर्शित की गयीं थीं। दोनों का रुख आसमान की तरफ था। हाथों की मुद्रा
ऐसी थी मानो मंदिर में चढ़ावा दिया जा रहा हो। हथेलियों में एक आँख चित्रित थी जिसमें
से निकल कर प्रकाश की किरणे अंधे चेहरे पर पड़ रही थीं––मेरे बनाए चित्र की तरह। अंतर
केवल इतना था कि तस्वीर से एक भाव छलक रहा था जो मेरे बनाए चित्र से स्पष्ट रूप से
नदारद था –– ‘अर्पण’ करने का भाव। उस चित्र में दाता-याचक का समीकरण नहीं था अपितु
दृष्टि देने वाले की विनम्रता और दृष्टि पाने वाले की गरिमा छलक रही थी।
यद्यपि वह डाक टिकिट ‘नेत्र दान’ के लिये प्रेरणा देने के
लिए था, उस दिन मैंने ‘दान’ और ‘अर्पण’ शब्दों के अर्थ के अंतर को भली-भांति जाना था;
‘दान’ शब्द में निहित अहंकार को समझा था और ‘अर्पण’ की भावना का अनुभव कर पाया था।
सोचता हूँ, क्या नाम बदलने से लोगों की सोच में बदलाव आ सकता है? क्या लोग दान की भावना को छोड़ अर्पण की भावना को अपना सकते हैं? नेत्रार्पण; रक्तार्पण; देहार्पण?
इस विषय पर इतना लिख कर मैं अपनी कलम को अवकाश दे चुका था। परन्तु मेरी प्रिय बहन की एक टिप्पणी ने मुझे कुछ और शब्द लिखने के लिए उत्साहित किया है। मेरा लेख पढ़कर मेरी बहन ने हास्य-पूर्ण तरीके से मेरा ध्यान “कन्यादान” और “कन्यार्पण” की ओर आकर्षित किया है और मेरी प्रतिक्रिया जाननी चाही है। मैं समझता हूँ कि आज के भारत में इन दोनों के लिए कोई स्थान नहीं है। इनके बारे में सोचना भी पाप है।
नोट: मेरे इस लेख का उद्देश्य केवल और केवल “दान” और “अर्पण” की भावनाओं में जो अंतर मैंने समझा है उसको अपने पाठकों से साझा करना है। इस में प्रदर्शित डाक टिकिट की जो छवियाँ हैं, वे प्रतीकात्मक हैं। वास्तविक डाक टिकिट और मेरे द्वारा भेजी प्रविष्टि इस लेख में दिखाए गए चित्रों से भिन्न थीं। आशा करता हूँ कि भारतीय डाक विभाग और टाइम्स आई रिसर्च फाउंडेशन, दोनों ही इस मामले को कोई तूल न देंगे।
Road Much Travelled 