The Journey

There was a man way back in 1942, prisoned in the Ahmednagar jail. Submerged in the gloomy lonely atmosphere of the prison he decided to give words to a soil. He took upon his shoulders the enourmous responsibility of declaring the past and asserting the future, showing no sign of reluctance. With larger than life excitement to put INDIA on words Nehru decided the fate of what was to be identified as “The Discovery of India”. Remembering him with same consciousness, which had urged him 70 years earlier to indulge in deciding fates and declaring histories, I have provided myself with a fairly hesitant permission to discover the India once again.

What comes to my sudden conscience on everyday frequent encounters of this word “INDIA”? At times it is the image of a blue turban, sometimes it’s a tribal grumbling duh duh!!(Pronounced as dada), and sometimes it is a prehistoric guise of a white Bengali mammal. But Never the less and further younger each time is the refreshing vision of the Tricolour, the Tiranga(leaving aside palms and lotuses). I mean no harm to the sentiments of my readers, as I am neutral in this narration as deep as a mirror, merely reflecting the visions which fall on my retina. Moving further deep in this tricoloured cloud of everlasting optimism wherein people claim 5.3% growth rate as still growing efficiently just with some potholes on roads which they will soon get accustomed to (don’t expect they would be repaired and filled), I can see the valleys of Kashmir and the ditches of Jammu, the latter seems more deep. Do not get disheartened by the depth of valleys and ditches as coming up next equally giant is the mammoth Siachen the Glacier(no not the cricketer..) guarded by two groups of tiny green ants(one faded green other lively green) carrying forty seven AKs each and from either side. Not to forget the biggest cause of unrest for Siachen the Glacier is the deadly(no no not Headly, he comes later on, this one is more dangerous) blue Punjabi turban placed more than 900 miles away in Delhi, that always nods in a see-saw manner not to forget when faded greens commanded lively greens to surrender the GOW(Glacier of War) Siachen to them and the turban said “My pleasure Sir. How else may I help you Sir?”. No tint of slightest of Guilt in this turban(koi glani nahi….or perhaps koi nahi “Gilani”…lele yaara).

Floating on the optimism cloud and leaving Siachen the Glacier to chill out with ants I can feel a new type of chilliness in air. I have descended to the state of Uttar Pradesh and perhaps the chilliness is not ejected by the weather, but it is discharged by chillies, chillies in work, chillies in hearts, and chillies in minds of totally chilled out people, people enjoying chill-ums and pickling chillies, yes this is the staunch chilliness which flows in the air of this holy land, The land of Prince Rama and the gate to God, Hari-dwar.  But it seems in this land of Gods and chillies more domineering is the presence of cycles and mammoths(no no not GOW), it’s the more evolved form of the pre-historic beast, called the Elephant! Or more significantly “Haathi”. The entire place chills out with cycles speeding North South East and West while Haathis chasing equally furiously to separate the North from South and East from West(A chase seen never before). Equally appreciable in UtPrad are two things,
First- the restless efforts of riders(both cycles and haathis) to identify and make people realize their social status(in which India proudly accepts expertise in), dictating you are Muslim and you are pichwad or pichdaw(more often than not Dalit).
Secondly the ability of 24x7 chilling out people to fail in recognising the difference between an all time champion eater Safed (White) Haathi and a dalit bitiya(daughter of a ….. dalit). But I should not sideline The Cycles, who have managed to get gears (without clutches) and have surpassed the mammoths in their rat race of emptying the shit from the door to God, and have taken upon their handles and carriages the task of chilling(cooling) the tikha lal chilled out state from fuming crimson red to forever lush green, leaving aside their bad lucks to any vehicle(especially cars in range of Rs20 lakhs). This however guarantees the cycle speed of development.

But I would consider speeding away(like a car), towards west for this cloud of optimism has been growing thick with the thrill of smoke. Yes smoke bright jet grey, grey as Elephants, and grey as Pranab Mukherjee's bandhgala. Smoke that rises from mines, from blasts, smoke from Stone mines…the smoke that flows from west. Smoke that will kill anyone who dares to neutralise it with his or her nostrils. Just as it engulfs the lives of two stars(Sub-Insp.) every now and then. Courage at this place is a deadly genre. For this is the place of self-mind-made rules regulations laws notions and self-hand-made pottery puppets crafts and arts(Yes art of hand, “Haath ki kalakaari”). Here everything is an Art of hand, from dancing on broken glass to picking a needle with an eyelid(no no they are not Arts of leg nor eye, they are “Haath ki kalakaari”, mind the self made rules!).
You may question that this smoke rises in Dhanbad which is in East, but this is the same smoke  in all dimensions (which Dhanbad claims, thanks to filmmakers and butchers) except that the smoke here is as grey as bandhgalas running towards Rastrapati Bhawans, while the smoke there(in Dhanbad) is as black as Jamaicans running towards finish lines, for here the smoke is churned Stone while there it is crushed Coal and believe me the smoke here is equally dense but this place has no Manoj neither Anurag, all that this place has are Sons! Yes the Royal Sons! From the Royal Mothers, this place gives birth to “Shahi Putra”, born to rule on self-mind-made rules and regulations, the Raj Putra or The Rajput. Flying over Rajputaana or the So called States of Rajasthan and Gujarat(where the Rajputs are spread, not meant to contradict the logic that Gujarat broke out of Maharashtra), I can feel the Dryness, the sweat that has trenched me, for this place takes its pride two things,
One- on their Royal Soil, dry porous salty light and unparalleled mighty, and call themselves Sons of Soil(Maati ke put),
Second- on their Sons! Yes Sons, sad is the fact that this place has no respect and place for Daughters. Daughters are neglected and killed as they are born in this land of Shahi Soil, Smoke Stones and Sons. Leaving this place with its self-mind-made rules regulations laws manifestations interpretations of sons being mightier than daughters, Sons who can bring pride to the royal family while daughters are burden, Sons who engage themselves in mining coal and cultivate themselves to evolve into becoming mafias, Sons who refrain not even for a second to kill a person a police man a two star to death, being the mighty mafia of a self-governed lawed land, I end up here not to proceed further for I cannot stand more being neutral, barely reflecting my visions. The continuous narration of UtPrad and Rajputaana estate and the flaws in their working mechanism has aroused in me a deep desire to speak on those matters which are compelling and forcing me to get deviated from what I had started, as you must have felt. I end up here for I am not Nehru nor had I pledged in a prison to write the “Discovery of India part-II". I had already warned that I started with slight hesitance, for I knew my capacities. But let me have this opportunity to assert this statement that “capacities are infinite”. So go ahead with this narrative of Glaciers Mammoths Sons and Stones and continue to discover this unfathomable India with its Infinite forms, while I come back with more practical more required important everyday issues to be discussed upon right here. Concluding with my inaugural writing bid me rest as for now.

Thank you all for reading this!
Regards!