Let me do it my way..!

The state of the house spoke volumes. The inside roof across the rooms looked threatening with stone slabs resting on termite-infested wooden beams. With plenty of seepages in the walls, everything smelled musty. Once could inhale the dampness all the time.

Flaking speckles of whitewash often peeled off and, mixed with dust, lined the damaged floors. Disused furniture rotted. A couple of rooms had curtains, actually old bedsheets or ragged sarees, hanging limp and moth-eaten. The outside roof was green with moss and threatened to cave in at many places.

The structures didn’t have a feel of a house because rooms were not separate. There were too many entrances and exists. It was, effectively, one huge hall with haphazardly erected walls creating living spaces and makeshift windows and doors, some never opened and others never closed, hardly serving any purpose.

At one point, the house didn’t look that bad. The courtyard had plenty of trees and plants. The old structures had their old charm. Furniture were beautifully designed. Doors looked majestic. But things began to change when she, about a decade into her marriage, began taking control and tried to turn the bulky, ancestral house into her esthetically pleasing dream house, where birds would chirp, plants would blossom, separate entrances and exists for men, women and outsiders would mean complete privacy.

The deadly combination of dwindling resources, financial constraints and her never-dieing zeal to “turn the house around” meant construction would often have to halt midway. The next time it began the basic plans were completely changed. Her imagination had taken a fresh set of wings, undoing what had been done till then and making room for further mess.

The kitchen was shifted more than a dozen times. It was almost a routine to see some windows being closed with a layer of bricks shutting the outside view out. At other times, workers would break into a wall to create a new window, letting the much-awaited sunlight filter in. Nobody was really surprised to see a bedroom being turned into the bathroom.

I could never solve the mystery of handpumps. The numbers kept swelling. Maybe, it was because of her love for water. Or her madness for cleanliness. The handpumps, strategically located, outnumbered the occupants of the house
And, sometimes, the visitors too.

(We don't extend such wishes. We never have.
But since she perhaps cannot read it, let me say: "Happy mother's day!")

याद लखनऊ

एक य़े भी मकान है, एक वो भी मकान था.

वो घर से भी प्यारा था कई मायनों में... (वो शहर भी तो कुछ ख़ास था)

य़े मकान तो कितना बड़ा है, वो तो बस एक कमरा भर था.

उसी में वो आतंक मचाते थे, दिन भर, नींद ख़राब होती थी

मगर मुझे जागते देख उनका सहमा हुआ चेहरा...

कई बार सोते रहने का नाटक किया... (उनकी शैतानियाँ भी तो कुछ ख़ास थी)

वो पैर घसीट के आना, वो कांपती प्लेटें,

छलकती चाय, सब्जियों से भीगते पराठे.

यहाँ कोई करता नहीं शोर-गुल. नींद फिर भी जोरो से आती नहीं

रेंट तो तब भी दिया था, बस किरायेदार अब ही बना हूँ.

More than just a walkway

Who says a leisurely walk in a bustling city is too much to ask for? Hazratganj has given you just that and much more and, in the process, gone back in time.

I never was a beat ka pakka reporter but spent time walking down that famous street.

Mostly alone.

Amid chaos.

All my kaam ki cheejein were there: the offices of NE and NR, DM's and Commissioner's offices, plus some more. I discovered (and now miss) several exotic food joints.

When I came to the city first, I was put up at the Halwasia guesthouse. I stayed there for months. The caretaker, who would wake me (and the office thought I was on the beat!) in the afternoon after bringing kulchhe from downstairs, still gives me buzz. He himself was once a small-time reporter and almost bored me to death with his stories. (This is true with all journalists. Why blame him?)

I never saw the old Hazratganj (how could I?) but it’s nice to know it’s changed for the better; that even cities such as Noida are thinking on those lines of makeover. (don’t miss reports on the sector 18 market plans here!)

When the makeover had barely begun I was in Lucknow. The commissioner’s office was one of my beats. He, along with many other officers, and the media played a crucial role in restoring Hazratganj to its pristine glory. From ensuring uniform facades of all multi-storey buildings to removal of hoardings and encroachments — beautification of the historically famous lane remained a top priority for many.

For months.

We even brought out a special edition dedicated to Hazratganj. The commissioner was never press friendly. (all commissioner office reporters also covered the DM’s office and, thus, manage information) I was suddenly told to interview him. Surprisingly, he agreed to speak and spoke at length.

We saw hoardings being removed (these were Anupam’s dear copies), power and data cables shifted underground, benches set up. Facades were resorted and painted uniformly. Traders agreed on a uniform colour code and size of signages.

I was particularly attached to the three-storey building housing the Northern Railway DRM (Lucknow) headquarters. Also being a railway correspondent, I often ventured into this one of the several architectural masterpieces in Hazratganj. Incorporating the best of British and Mughal styles, it harmonises with the architecture unique to structures of the Nawabi era.

I was surprised by the enthusiasm shown by DRM JS Sondhi. He helped immensely in putting together an article on the building for the special issue. He lamented the majestic structure, like several others in the famous lane, lost parts of the glory and grandeur to mindless commercialisation over the years.

He can rest easy now.

Of Dada, dreams and a village boy

Fans are angry. They even burnt KKR's principal owner Shah Rukh Khan in effigy.

Why did Kolkata Knight Riders or the nine other IPL franchisees choose not to bid for Dada? Some term it a "political conspiracy.” Others say they will boycott KKR matches in Kolkata.

Reputation did not count.

Nor did emotions.

It’s plain business.

It’s all about money, honey.

It’s not only about his being too big for the team’s comfort. It’s not about his being not fit enough alone. Let’s not get into reasons, for once. When something of this sort happens, dreams are dashed too, much beyond the immediate surroundings.

Miles away from Kolkata, Sahara, a nondescript hamlet off the Agra-Fatehpur Sikri road, must also be disappointed. In 2009, it had suddenly found a new name — ‘Pawan Sharma Ka Gaon. This happened after a class IX dropout hopped on to a crowded general compartment of a train to Howrah to meet Ganguly.

In Agra for launch then, I went all the way to his house and met Pawan. I so wanted to know the story. He told me, “I hung out outside Dada’s residence in south Kolkata’s Behala locality for days. I finally spotted him in his car and called out his name. He got down to meet me.”

“After listening to me, he asked me to join the ongoing KKR camp at the Eden Gardens. He wanted to see me bowl at the nets,” Pawan said and added, “I troubled some of the best in domestic cricket. Dada kept a close watch and liked my bowling.”

Pawan was invited for the next camp to show his prowess.

He had hopes for a possible IPL ‘look-in.’

True to his name, Pawan clocked 140 kmph — a great achievement for a youth of his age. With milk and curd his favourite food items, he left a number of local batsmen battered and bruised with his raw pace.

While admitting to the fact his story is fascinatingly akin to the critically acclaimed Bollywood movie ‘Iqbal’, the 19-year-old lanky fast bowler said, while feeding cattle at his house, “For me cricket is the only reason to live. I have harboured just one dream — playing for the national side.”

Pawan’s spirit to conquer against odds and his flight towards destiny in cricket — inarguably the most idolized sport in India — got me a couple of good stories for the launch edition. I “commercialized” the fact his four brothers were all unemployed and his father worked in a Delhi factory. He had to drop out of school because of financial constraints.

I could not keep track of his progress. Last year, I called him up. He said would tell me first if “anything” happened. I never thought of him even once, till Dada went unsold for two days.

During our meeting, a shy Pawan said, “I was straightaway made a member of the Barisa Sporting Club and also given token money for encouragement.”

Though there was no word on guarantee, Pawan says Dada hinted hard work could get him into good teams, the KKR included.

Any regret? "I could not bowl to Dada. He was overseeing the ongoing pre-season camp.”

He never would.

A wait too long

So much has been written and spoken of this case, yet the curiosity never dies.

If people had begun getting the grotesque speculations off their heads, the closure report has once again enlivened the case in public domain.

Then working in Ahmedabad, I had come to meet a friend in Delhi when I first heard of the twin murders. I laughed at that annoyingly screaming TV reporter who was cursing the police for sending a team to Nepal while the servant’s body lay on the terrace.

Despite several claims to have “solved” the mystery “for the first time” with contrasting theories, we still have no clue as to WHO and WHY. Now friends in Noida tell me how the task of ensuring round-the-clock “live feeds” from “ground zero” meant “excitingly taxing” for dozens of journalists.

The madness was controlled a bit after a court gag.

The other day some officers were at my place for lunch. We could not help discussing the issue. They said they were never in doubt. But then there was no concrete evidence.

A local reporter, who managed stuff for the lunch, said his only wish in life was to “crack” the case before the police or any other agency could.

Now working in the same city, I have been around the locality, chiefly meant for retired naval and air force staff, several times. It does make you uneasy. You want to know WHO and WHY, partly because of the kind of people, who “may have been” involved in the case.

The sheer fact that the killer(s), who slit the throats "either like a butcher or a doctor", is roaming scot-free, possibly in the vicinity, is frightening.

A lot has happened during these two and a half years. The beating that the two agencies’ image has taken all this while has been one of the most pronounced developments.

The parents are free, but not cleared. The three helps have almost been cleared, but their life ruined, beyond repair. Their lawyers are now talking of defamation and compensation.

I have no hesitation in admitting to the fact that I am, unlike most people in the city, no expert on this case. Though it’s been written and said a million times, it’s actually ridiculous that officers suspected the “missing” help immediately and went on to announce a reward of Rs 20,000 for information on him while he lay dead on the terrace.

Precious hours were lost, sealing the case’s fate. Later, heads rolled. Helps, drivers became suspects one by one. Several scientific tests were conducted. All inconclusive. Their lives ruined, they have been cleared. The parents were, and still are, suspected.

A lot of irresponsible comments have been made by the police, the press and the public.

Not getting to the motive is very disturbing.

I actually shudder to think the killer(s) is amongst us, either smoking a “bidi” or driving a car.

I miss you...

Blogs are supposed to be your being honest about thoughts and emotions. At times, it’s difficult to keep the promise. Reliving the pain of loss is not easy.

Exactly three months after I left Lucknow for Noida, I was back in town for sometime early this month. The purpose was to attend the wedding of a friend’s sister and visit the family where I stayed as a tenant for so long.

Pankaj, my landlord, an ever-smiling man, died barely two weeks after I left Lucknow. So shocked, I could not call the family up. I just did not know what to say. I was in a state of disbelief for long. I would call him Bhaiya, but he was more of a friend. Extremely close to me, he was a very important person in my life.

Pankaj was the kind of a husband many women dream about. He easily gave in during arguments with wife, loved taking the family out, ensure peace when wife and mother fought, did shopping, managed household repairs and, more importantly, always smiled. Despite serious temptations, he would keep resisting liquor or non-veg food, saying, “Wife would find out and beat me.” This is not to say she actually did. It’s just that he took care not to annoy her.

It was tough for me walk to the place again.

They had provided me a small portion of the house. It was like being a paying guest. His two kids – Dhroov and Mishti – used to bring food, trouble me and play around. I would lovingly call them “twin terror.” They would always form parts of my daily discussions with friends. So much so that some of my friends began loving them without actually meeting them.

The two liked my room, maybe because of the laptop, stacks of newspapers, my unusually long conversations on the phone and also because of the random chocolates they would get. Bhabhi, a pleasant lady and a great cook, would not talk much but took a great care of me like your own family does. I could not prepare myself enough on how to face them.

It was tough.

Very tough.

Loss of husband changes a woman’s life. There is no sanity in the transition. The house looks topsy-turvy. But you do sense a numbing calm. She knows life will never be joyful again. Dhroov was running fever. There was no one to take him to hospital. I promised to do so. I was carrying chocolates for him and his sister. I handed the packet over there was no excitement. Time and patience are the best advice I could give. “He would not return. But think of the kids’ future. Stay strong for them. They will lessen the pain, give some joy,” I said.

The wedding was in the same locality.

Everyone was busy.

Happy.

I asked if she would attend. “I don’t want to spoil the mood there. No one wants to see a crying woman. What will a widow do there?,” she asked.

While at hospital, memories came rushing back. When the schoolbus developed some snag, I used to take her there on my bike and bring the kids home. The kids liked my company, but would never speak much. The way she prepared food and fed me was out of this world. I had never thought I would savour the kinds of delicacies I actually did.

But that’s gone now.

Forever, almost.

She had never expected – no one does -- her husband would die. “A lot of people get electric shocks. They don’t all die. His father worked for the electricity department. Even he ran his canteen in Shakti Bhawan (the department’s building in Lucknow),” she said, aimlessly staring at Pankaj’s garlanded photograph kept in the drawing room.

It’s tough to learn how to cope on her own after many years of sharing life’s chores. She does not have the help of grown children or friends. (Pankaj had no brother. His father died years ago.) The emotional adjustment takes a lot of doing. “We shared so much, went to weddings together and the stuff. Now, every such occasion is a constant reminder of his absence,” she said.

She looked paralysed.

While serving tea, she cried.

And the society never lets a widow get even close to normal. People make her feel guilt even if she is even remotely awake to a moment of joy. It’s a huge loss, but why remain bitter for the rest of the life. “His sisters say I’m not sad enough, not that affected. I only know what I have lost. My world is gone,” she sobbed.

The couple spent eight years together. She is yet to come to terms with the loss. She remembers everything. “You went to Noida. We were all sad. The kids will miss you a lot. He never had dinner before texting to know if you were eating alright. The day you left, Mishti went to your room and cried. Seventeen days after you left, my world came crashing down,” she said, no control over tears.

And the loss is not only personal. One sister has taken over the running of the canteen. The (life) insurance amount has also been hijacked. When Pankaj bought the plot for construction of the house, one of his sisters paid Rs 50,000 – half the price paid for the land. Today, the land cost has gone up ten times. Plus, he constructed a reasonably well house. Now, the sister wants half of the house for her. No one is sparing a thought for the widow, the two little kids and their future under the danger of being no as bright as it would have been but for the loss.

Fortunately, she has recognised the value of keeping busy and pursuing her interests. She always loved teaching. She has joined a private school in Barabanki as a teacher. The salary is not much, but that’s keeping her busy. A school cab picks and drops her.

The room where I stayed remained vacant for sometime. “You were, and still are, part of our family. I did not like the idea of letting someone else in. But security was a concern. Plus we needed money for sustenance too. Two boys have taken that portion on rent,” she said.

But the kids don’t go there anymore.