A little good news

I love this song by Anne Murray, “A little good news”, I wont go ahead to recite it word by word, the inner meaning of this song in gist is she will be very happy to see one fine day that no newspaper has any thing sad to publish, or no TV channel has any thing sad to broadcast, in place of that they are broadcasting all the parties in the town. What a blessed day that will be! I know you are also agreeing with me.

I know it’s the duty of the media to show us the truth, but is it necessary that it would be shown in such a horrifying manner, unnecessarily? I don’t know how many of you will agree with me, but those of you who are sensitive and have respect for life will agree that it sends a chill down our spine and screws up a long portion of our day when we see on the front page or any page blood smeared lifeless bodies, its irrelevant whether it belongs to human or animals.

If the idea is to deliver the news, that can be done without these horrible displays, and if they want to spread some message against violence, that can be done by words instead of gory illustrations. It doesnot makes one detest violence, it makes one habituated with it.

Will I be too wrong if I assume that its done because we have ceased to care for life? So many time we are forced to pass by dying people on pavements not because we are heartless but because we are extremely busy with earning our own bread. The same mindset is reflected in media, all they concentrate on is catching attention, doing their job. I have seen my father reading newspaper while eating but I never touch the newspaper before bracing myself up, or switch on the tv news when I am having dinner or breakfast or enjoying myself.

I know truth is often harsh, but the question which arises in my mind, after getting almost daily dose of my shock, is it really necessary to present these in such a harsh manner? I don’t know why, but I somehow feel that it is disrespect to the departed soul and torment to us.

We, who already have enough friction and turbulence in our personal life to make us distressed. These open display of morbidity only changes that distress to gloominess.

In the end, I too really would love to see a day like Anne Murray when no news media will have any thing sad to show, all they will have to do is spread a little happy thoughts.

Children not so lucky

Every alternate day we are served the story of brutality against children employed in various jobs despite child labour being banned in our country.

These tiny ones are sent out by their famillies because they don’t have much choice, but the famillies which take them in as workers or servants have a choice, even though they are doing illegal thing, but that sin can be rinsed by treating them with kindness and affection. And if possible educate them a little.

I have never been able to gauge these people, because I have been brought up in a family where we did not had any child servants, but the adults were always treated with respect.

I have only once appointed a child maid, then it was not illegal. That girl was always treated with gentleness, she was spared from heavy work even after repeated insistence from her mother. She did not walked out of Hindi movies, she was just like any child, greedy of glittery things, she used to drain cold drinks from refrigerator and replace it with water, gobble up any thing which lured her child tongue. Used to nag my mother to watch Govinda’s movies. My mother used to stick to discovery channel, and they both used to complain to us after our return from office. She used to fill up her squirrel box (of course without our knowledge) with my artificial jewelleries and music cassettes. She has been caught at the act too many times but did not changed her ways.

When dinner was served she used to get the first plate. When my mother used to hand out delicacies, she was the one who used to get maximum in number, because rest of us have lost interest in those goodies with age. That girl was nothing exceptional she also used to lie, steal and do mischief, but was always treated with this thing in mind that she had to leave her parents at an age when our children see darkness if their parents go somewhere for an evening. She became so attached to us that in the later stages she used to weep when her mother used to come to take her, and cried a lot to accompany us when we shifted to Calcutta.

Even though child labour has been banned, appointing a child as servant is illegal, still people who do it, they can atleast treat these children properly. Give them a little affection and gentleness, so that the things which their poverty has deprived them from, we being fellow human beings, give back to them a little. As human being, we can atleast show this much conscience, treat these helpless, shelterless small things with some love and tenderness.

Whenever I read these news, which I am really ashamed to say too often, my heart fills up with anguish, the stories of battering of children in the hands of their employers. Are these people human being or some thing else? Mostly these are family people, educated people, who have their own children, grand children they dote upon. Then how can they treat another child, who is so unfortunate that he/ she has to leave his parents at such tender age and move out to face the world on their own so cruelly?

People say that a woman is a natural mother, these mothers pamper their own children to no end, whereas a child, who is usually of the same age is beaten up for small mischief or faults. These persons usually get away with their inhumanity because we Indians are a strange community. We join rallies against child labours then appoint children as servants back at home, because they eat less, cost less and bear most tortures mutely.

Children

Nine months full of dreams and anticipations… then they arrive, tiny bundles of joy. Every thing about them is just fabulous. Tiny feet, tiny hands, tiny toes.. they are just perfect!

Then what goes wrong? Why do parent start to give more importance to their career than the children themselves? I have often seen parents crazy about their children’s performance, hurting them, abusing them to no end. Making their life a nightmare.

They try to make their 3 year old memorise all the poems in the book because they have to prove that she is smart, she must know the answer to all the questions of her book and if possible some more. These small ones drag their days from school to tution and back home for some more studies.

Its true that in today’s competitive environment studying is important, but trying to make Einstein out of Master X is too much. And when Master X comes to know that he cant meet his parents ever increasing demands he starts to lie, to save himself, slowly it becomes habit. Some times this pressure makes the life of these children so miserable that they take wrong decisions like ending their life or run away, which often results ending up in the hand of traffickers.

The only question which arises in my mind is, is the career bigger than the child you have brought into the earth? You were so eagerly waiting for his or her arrival, dreaming, loving him or her before she came to the earth. Then when did the paper became more important than the live being God has placed in your hand as Her greatest gift, those tiny hands which reach out at you thinking you are next to God? If every one was Einstein, then no one would have remembered him. Just like that, every one does not have the capacity of becoming megastars. So, why don’t these parents treat their children as human beings and give them their best, instead of expecting the best from them?

Children are wonderful … they are universally wonderful. A child is never born bad, it’s the way he/she is brought up determines his life’s path. Fault lies in the parents, not in children.

I personally feel that people who have a child in their life, a child they can love, cherish and bring up are extremely lucky. So they should not waste this chance of showering their affection by chasing the golden deer, the golden deer of realizing their dreams through some one who might not have the capacities or inclination for realising that dream. Whenever they will think that their child is inferior than some prodigy, they should think about people who never had a child.

They should bring up these little angels with tenderness and affection. They should be shown the path which they are capable of following and handling, guided not goaded.

A ghost story

My ancestral home is in a remote village, where electricity has reached only a couple of years ago. My ancestors were jamindars of that village and a few adjoining villages. Our home is just beside Damodar river, its partially in ruins and a small portion, which was earlier the courtroom of my ancestors is still in good condition, where we used to go every durga puja and kali puja.

During durga puja the place is full of people, we take generators with us and the entire place is lighted up, but during the kali puja the place is exactly the opposite. There are very few people there, only a very limited no of villagers who have the energy of attending the full night affair and a couple of family member. At the max seven or eight people, including the family members stay there through out the night and another half a dozen who are indispensable part of the Puja.

There are two seats, one seat on either side of our main entrance, seats which play the role of musical chair during the puja, but were free for all now. One of the seat faces and the other had its back towards a bedi, where our ancestors have performed tantrik rituals and one of them even got siddhi. According to the villagers our ancestral home is safe for the people of our family, but outsiders often meet a lady dressed in white colured, red bordered saree, who disappears all of a sudden. She is seen especially if some one commits some mischief there. That is why the place is deserted at night.

That year I went there with my uncle and my brother. I attended the puja but when the animal sacrifice started I left the puja mandap. I had the idea of lying down on the verandah of our house, to give myself a break after fasting the entire day, it was almost 3 AM in the morning, I was lying there exhausted when all of a sudden I heard sounds coming from inside the locked room. As if some one was banging the furnitures with a stick or some thing like that, a chill ran down my spine and I bolted from there, I went outside to sit on that seat, which had its back to the bedi. Actually I was thinking of lying down, when all of a sudden I heard a sound like some one has dropped some thing, right behind my back, I slowly turned back and saw nothing. I was weak from fasting the entire day, it was almost 3:30 in the morning, and I prayed that I heard it wrong, but then it was repeated again, then I went to the seat of the opposite side facing the bedi, to know what’s going on before bolting again.

Then to my utter amusement and relief I saw that the people of Burdwan were celebrating the diwali, and the sound of their cracker was reaching our small village after crossing damodar and its sand bank like nothing is in between.

A lifetime experience

Six years earlier I was a small town resident, all who had her share of monsoon misery was getting wet on the road that too occasionally. Never had any other problem, because once after hitting home we knew we were warm and safe.

Things changed after shifting to kolkata, in 2005 I was in Khardaha, outer Calcutta. That year gave me first hint about kolkata’s rainy day blues. I was informed after a downpour of two days that the trainlines are submerged, all I did that took a leave for three days. Last year and this year showed me the hell people of some areas in Calcutta go through year after year. No, its not a single year story, when Calcutta has faced abnormal rainfall. Its their every year story, even when the monsoon is normal. They know that they will have to wake up in the middle of night to see that their rooms are filled up with water.

Let me share my own experience to give a little view about their suffering, we changed our accomodations in 2006, when we landed in that house, no body told us any thing about horrible water logging which is that area’s monsoon woe. The agent was only interested in his commission, and the landlady and her family were sweet talking devils, I am yet to see another family so cunning, so corrupted, yet so sweet talking. Hence they too did not bothered about giving us the least hint. One fine night I woke up at midnight for a glass of water and when I stepped in the passage I felt water touching my feet, I turned on the light to see atleast 4 inches of water. And my adjoining room where my brother sleeps was six inches under water. My room was spared because it’s a little higher.

Next year, water logging started with the very first spell. Every day when I went back from office I used to see the rooms filled up with water which I had to drain out with buckets, no cooperation from landlords, who simply pointed their finger at their invisible mother/mother in law, (who was at that time living in Khardaha with her sister, quite a coincidence but we never saw them before landing in their clutches).

Then when I used to wake up in the morning I used to get welcomed by the rooms which I have cleaned up the earlier night filled up with water. Lovely way of passing time after returning home working entire day, was not it? And that too after paying 3000 rupees per month as rent, which is quite high as per kolkata.

Added pleasure was my office area was also infamous for water logging. Now when I am in a proper house I look back at that time with a light heart, but at that time Phew!!!

In gist I used to come out of the office and walk kilometres to reach bus, in knee deep water, praying to God for my dear life. Then travel through a packed bus for almost two hours and again land in knee deep water wade another few hundred meters and voila!! A house under six inches water waiting for me.

This says how polite people are always abused. If it would have happened anywhere outside kolkata, it would have happened only once.. one year.