My Little Messiah

What do you take away from your tryst with nature? Perhaps, the experience of a lush green forest or a gently lapping lake. Holidaying in the hills is just perfect to snuggle cozily beside the fire place and watch the soft white mist gently veil the distant peaks. To see the mist roll down its white carpet until it swirls around your feet. And before you know it, the landscape is a white haze of silence. The very thought of spending my holiday in one such idyllic retreat filled my soul with ecstasy. Or maybe what you take away is a refreshing point of view to life

Perfect! I had not had a vacation since past couple of years; life had become so mundane, humdrum and monotonous. Well I was to board the train today, my railway tickets for Delhi were booked and from there I would be heading towards Mcleodganj.

The clock had already struck 12 though it did not seem as if it was noon, the weather seemed pleasant, a white layer of clouds had concealed the scorching sun. and yes, I realized I was running short of time, but that’s me, always behind schedule, just like Bhartiya rail. I hurriedly packed up my rucksack and gorped up my lunch like a wild glutton.

Fortunately the traffic was all smooth, no jams. Zoom, a black Honda city went past my taxi. We had hardly traveled a few kilometers that all traffic came to a sudden halt. Though I could figure out a traffic light at some distance but the signal glared green not red, nor could I see any traffic policeman standing, yet the tempest rush of Pune came to a stop on its own? Strange? Taxicabs, private cars, tempos, motorists, lorries, trucks covered the whole breadth of the road, rushing to the kerbs and ultimately all traffic lurched precariously. Though the traffic had come to a halt but the hula boo continued for some time. The truck driver nearby stood clenching his red teeth (due to beetle chewing) but moments later, the driver, headloaders, vendors, foothpathers beggars all stood frozen as if they had seen some ghost. Dumbstruck they watched the proceeding across the road. Even my inquisitiveness rose, I tried asking the driver nearby but he was all traumatized to speak so I got out of the car to witness what on earth had had stopped the bizarre traffic of Pune.

With small faltering feet, lay on the road a small naked child in a pool of blood. I shut my eyes, it was too scary a sight. I reopened my eyes, looked at the sky, the sun came into picture again, sun rays piercing the heart of clouds and spreading across the sky as if they have freed themselves from the captivity of the murky layer of clouds. Despite of the sun blazing, you could hardly feel the heat. It seemed as if the sun had come out just to witness the affair, the rays didn’t appear to carry fire but were spread to envelop the surrounding with some kind of enchanting luminosity. There was something strange in the air I was breathing, I was inhaling and exhaling it but I felt so week at the knees, as if somebody was stifling my mouth. I gazed down across the road again and noticed the black Honda City that had driven past our taxi, sitting in the drivers seat a teenager, son of a moneyed man. Lay in front of the car was the son of the beggar woman, gasping for air. Faltering and wavering he managed to stand up, looked at the people around and the teenager in the car and walked past them without uttering a word but his face spoke volumes. Surely. Surely, he was the Messiah of Pune. By his spell he had stopped the pandemonium of Pune’s traffic and the sun, the clouds, the sky stand witness to this.

As death looms large on either hand, my Messiah goes tottering on, remaining oblivious of the stricken cries, not for him but the drivers gnashing their teeth. But no belly-aching on my part, I had found my little messiah, had breath the same air as he, shared the same place as he. I lost all spirit to go on the trip, all I wanted is to run away, escape- escape from the traffic, from people around me, from myself, from my hazy state of mind.

Is this a peculiar Pragati thing??... Or does everyone dances to the tune of these super foolish behaviors?

Okay, I didn’t want them to become my habit, but what’s so sinful if I indulge in these slightly neurotic or obsessive or just plain foolish behaviors every now and then… at the end of the day that’s quintessential me yet they end up making me feel guilty most of the times. Guilty?? Guilty about what?? Well, that’s something even I’m yet to figure but I am guilty nonetheless. Here is how I question my most neurotic behaviors and try giving a justification for the same

 Why do I refuse to wear the expensive shoes I bought almost two years ago anywhere beyond the carpet in my own room?? Why lord why??….Well maybe because, they’ll be so ruined if they touch actual ground?

 Why do I go through lifestyle or city without reading the newspaper???..... News is not for everyone after all.


 Why do I refuse to throw away clothes I haven’t worn in over three years from my ‘thin cupboard’ …. Because I’m sure I will be that size again or the fashions going to return soon- hello, I have already started brisk walking and yoga


 Why do I always find similarities between my life and that of Meredith Grey, Ted Mosby and all the other lovable, emotional ‘fools’? The only difference between them and me is that I don’t always have the perfect soundtrack handy

 Why am I always swinging around on my mood swings? Despite the umpteen attempts at getting them under control, somehow it’s been IMPOSSIBLE…. As if I give a tiny rat’s ass to it, people if u can’t handle my mood swings that’s your problem not mine.. And waise bhi variety is the spice of life


 Why do I always cry every time I watch Jack slip away into the unforgiving sea,… Perhaps he always takes with him the hope that he (aka true love) would never return :’(

 Why do I always cry every time I see Raj pull Simran into the train or for that matter the climax of every Bollywood movie (the happy ending and the ‘they lived happily ever after’ tag attached to it)…. Perhaps he always reassures me that true love does exist. And how badly do I want this assurance to be REAL


 Why am I always sooo confused with every little thing in life? For example: Haven’t known exactly why I want to cry but wanting sympathy nonetheless. And God help those who try blaming a sudden outburst on ‘that time of the month’

 Why do I always make myself believe that if I can’t see things, it doesn’t exist—the mess in my room stands testimony for it. Just don’t let anyone open the cupboard etc etc


 Why do I always plan every detail of my wedding (esp after returning home from someone’s wedding) as if I were getting married in a month, even when there isn’t a boyfriend (let alone a fiancé) on the horizon

 Why do I end up fighting with my friends in the morning just because they said the wrong thing in my dream

 Why do I shout out to the guy on TV who doesn’t know how big a mistake he is making by breaking up with the girl who is best for him--- Hello, being judgmental is not always bad.

Literature Live at Lavasa

‘Calm is all nature as a resting wheel…’ Willaim Wordsworth

No wonder writers and artists find their muse in Nature, no wonder ones creativity comes to its full expression in the lap of nature and no wonder one of the best Literary events of the year ‘Literature Live’ attended by the who’s who in the field of Literature was held at no other place but Lavasa.
The event which celebrated the power of the written word was definitely going to be attended by me. I wouldn’t boast about myself being a critic or someone who understands art and literature but definitely I enjoy and love it more than anybody else. So there I was at Literature Live, amidst Bachi Karkaria, Anubhav Pal, Chetan Bhagat and Sorab Wadia.




“All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts…”

While writing this, Shakespeare definitely had not thought that one man can actually play seven different roles/ parts in a span of not more than 50 minutes. But then yes, Sorab Wadia became a one man army and devised a stage performance in which he single handedly enacted 7 different characters and covered one third of The Kite Runner in just 50 minutes. This enthralling performance by the son of Mumbai in collaboration with Chris Snock inaugurated Literature Live. This was followed by the discussion of the performance which expectedly led to the discussion about the book.
I had always thought that that books can only be adapted into movies (which most of the times prove a miserable attempt) but something like this opened me to a altogether new perspective of adapting a book not into some shoddy movie but an engrossing way nonetheless.




Shorab’s performance was followed by the ‘Johnny’s Midnight Goggles: Stories on a Cello’ by Mathew Sharp. This truly was an engaging presentation where Mathew told Johnny’s story accompanied by music from his cello. The exceptional lighting on the stage added brilliantly to the performance. And Johnny aka Mathew’s performance stood testimony to the brilliance of the actor’s ease at handling the cello, yet at the same time bringing on stage the most engrossing show. This was the first time I had heard cello Live. Listening to Bach cello suite1 prelude has always been mesmerizing for me, but then there is no acting involved by the artiste in it. I wasn’t too sure how the Cello which is a bulky instrument to handle could be played simultaneously by the same artiste who was gonna act in Johnny’s Midnight Goggles, but hats off to Mathew Sharp for the brilliant performance. What was unfortunate and disheartening was the little appreciation shown by the insensitive naïve audience in the convention hall.

We all grew up reading (okay, I am not saying ‘understanding’ here) Bachi Karkaria’s columns. I remember the time where I tried to show off by a very very fake attempt at Laughing out loud while reading Bachi’s columns. How naïve was I to not realize that those canned laughs and loud guffaws must have made me a butt of ridicule for all those who had some understanding of Bachi’s humor. But for me I was lucky that these show off attempts were thankfully infront of my 8th std classmates. At literature Live I got my chance to share space with the queen of sophisticated humor and allusions Bachi Karkaria.Accompanying her was Anubhav Pal and the topic of discussion was ‘Humor is a Serious Business’. Well before this event, I didn’t know who this guy Anubhav Pal was, but then his wit and and gift of gab showcased at the event definitely left a mark. The first thing I did on reaching home after the event was to down load his movies from torrent.

The event concluded with one of India’s bestselling novelist and youth icon Chetan Bhagat ‘Speaking for Young India’. He was in conversation with Anuvab Pal about young India’s aspirations and fears. True to his nature, Chetan connected with the youth in a manner that few have. But somehow, Chetan has never impressed me as a writer. No doubt he is an amazing marketer and all but as a writer his books can at best be just breezy reads for me. Didn’t get a chance to raise my point, but to Chetan’s rant that “he doesn’t care what a few self imposed high fliers of literature say about him” I just wanted to respond that I don’t know what is there in those books of Woolfe, Rushdie or Amitav Ghosh but somehow they go deeper. They touch you at some level, one might not able to draw similarity between ones life and the characters life but somehow the emotions exhibited (and here emotions do not include the mere “I love u” said by Chetan’s characters) always strike a chord in you.



Overall, an amazing day. After ages did I spend my day watching, listening to things I really love.

Children of The Night

All that they know, they have learnt on the street. No magic carpet, no genie,no shoes on their feet. Will they wake up from this nightmare? A fear that chills them to their bone, they feel all alone. They are the children of the night. Though they won’t go down without a fight. If our voice is strong, their future is bright. But alas, thanks to what they have learnt from us, they have grown into “children of the night”. Left by their fathers with only a scar on their face, told by their mother that “no you were just a mistake”. They have tested their own hunger, told their body to survive. Yes, you have got me right, I am speaking about the rag picker children, children begging in the streets, children neglected by their parents, children victims of trafficking and children victims of various calamities.

Don’t get surprised if I tell you that there are about 5 lakh such children in Delhi alone who need care and protection. Out of these about 1 lakh are expected to be living on streets and railway platforms. Some of these children are those who run towards our cars on the traffic signal to sell their Bisleri bottles.

Sure the little angels surfaces may be scorched and bruised but we need to touch what’s inside after all they also have dreams to play with toys and want their childhood to be full of fun and laughter, just like your tiny tots. But life for them is different, it’s a test, but one thing I am sure of is, after the long test is over they are bound to go to heaven, for they will be through with their share of hell on earth.

Sitting in an ac room, watching the cricket match on the flat screen TV, waiting for the clock to strike 10 when we will get up to get into our sedan and drive to a restaurant to have our dinner. Still many of us fret about not having it “all”. But have we ever in our daily lives spared a thought about the children who have the blazing sun on their head, on the hottest day of the year, for whom cricket is something played by “baboo logon ke bete”, for whom dinner is a luxury which they can only have once in the blue moon, that too if they skip their lunch. These children whom I address as “children of the night” often get unnoticed by our eyes. All that they know they have learnt from the streets.