THINKING OF HAAUU !

November is here and brings along chilly mornings and cold evenings.The woolens are still not out in their entirety, but a thin shawl is the order of the day.Getting out of the cosiness of the bed in the mornings is becoming an increasingly difficult exercise.Day's first cup of tea loses its heat fast and I have to settle for a second one in quick succession ! I sit cosily wrapped in the warmth of my shawl, fingers clasped firmly around the tea mug and as I look out into the view from my cosy little balcony, the mind wanders off to winter mornings decades ago when I was a schoolgirl in Jammu.

Suddenly Haauu comes back to life in my vision in the flashback. Haauu was a thin, small woman, around fifty years of age.She was our domestic help.Years of hard work and toil had wrinkled her face, although her hair was still jet black, not a single grey strand there.She came originally from Bilaspur, miles and miles away from Jammu.Her husband had left her and their three sons for another woman years ago.
Devastated and left alone to fend for herself and her children, Haauu left the shame and poverty of her village one fine day and came looking for better prospects in Jammu, where many of her village folk did small and menial jobs.

Ours was many of the households that Haauu did domestic chores in.Early morning tea with us after finishing her work was almost a daily ritual.And many a winter mornings, she would regale me with stories about her ' des ' (village) in a strange sort of dialect which I didn't understand much.Neither did she understand my language much, yet, quite strangely, everything got communicated and understood. To everything that I said, she would nod her head and with a big smile, say 'haauu' (yes !). That was how we started calling her Haauu ! Her original name was Phoolbai.

Haauu told me stories about the river ' Mahanandi '(Mahanadi) flowing by her village and menacing tales of the river's fury during the rainy season. She told me stories about her husband and his family. Her poor parents had married her off when she was a little girl.And as she would drift off in her mind to those blissful early days of her wedded life, her eyes would gleam and the smile on her face would widen a hundred miles.Haauu's husband was a much older man,yet she loved and served him wholeheartedly till he dumped her for another much younger woman.The glint in her eyes would now get clouded by the shadows of sorrow and mouthing choicest abuses against her husband, she would bravely fight her tears back.

Haauu always wore a thin saree tied a few inches above the ankles and wrapped just a torn shawl around her slender shoulders even in the harshest of winter months.She wore no socks, or rather, could not afford a new pair.I did once give her an old pair of mine, but she never wore them herself. Ever the sacrificing, suffering Indian woman, she gave them to her youngest son.She wanted him to study and become a babu when he grew up.She kept him away from the sweat and toil that she and her other two sons endlessly went through.She had high hopes from the youngest and was terribly heartbroken when she discovered that her 'bitwa' had fallen in bad company and had taken to excessive smoking.

I saw her last during one of my trips back home.She had grown further old and I could see a few silver strands also in her hair , but her smile was as charming and disarming as ever.Bitwa was a fully grown man now and yes, he could not become a babu.

Very recently, I went to Chhattisgarh for a pre-election opinion poll and as our flight hovered above the jungles and villages of the young state, I thought about Haauu and her village and the fury of Mahanadi.

SALGIRAH MUBARAK HO DEV SAAB

Let me begin the post by wishing a very, very happy birthday to that star of stars, that evergreen, romantic hero of all times, the dashing, suave and debonair Dev Anand. Yes, it is my all time favourite star's eighty fifth birthday today and like his millions of fans across the globe, I wish him health, happiness and more and more films.

The admiration for Dev Saab dates back to my childhood days and it runs deep in my family. All the women in my family, including my mother and my late maternal grandmother have been diehard and devoted fans of Dev Anand. We have all smiled, laughed, sung, wept and cried with the evergreen and ever youthful charmer. We absolutely loved his carefree, casual and very chic style. He always looked so natural and convincing in all the characters that he played. My favourite being his army officer act in the 60s classic Hum Dono, the suave Delhi architect bit in his home production Tere Ghar Ke Saamne and the hippie act in the 70s blockbuster Hare Rama Hare Krishna. He has always looked strikingly handsome, yet very, very real and believable. I think his appeal lied in his easy and modern style. Dev Saab never relied on unnecessary melodrama, because of which his charisma and appeal cuts across all age groups.

And that energy and zest for life and most importantly, for his craft of filmmaking is so infectious and inspiring. He continues to make films without a break Even today, at eighty five, a new project excites him as much as it used to when he was a rank newcomer way back in the nineteen forties. Dev Anand doesn't like to rest on past laurels. He never looks back. In his own words, "The need to keep learning and keep moving, is the need to live."

He also happens to be an incorrigible romantic. Here's another quote from the romantic star," I think life should be romantic, not necessarily in terms of lovemaking, or a love affair but if you are reading or writing a beautiful line, it is romantic, if you are wearing a beautiful neck tie, it is romantic, your speaking is romantic."

Such beautiful words. I have often drunk in and taken inspiration from these words.

Let me share with you a very interesting anecdote. Five years back, sometime in 2003, I was anchoring an early morning show with a fellow anchor. The show carried a story on Dev Anand who had been conferred some award. Seeing the story, I cribbed to my colleague that inspite of being one of Bollywood's greatest stars and a living legend, it was highly regretful and sad that Dev Saab had yet not been awarded Indian Film Industry's greatest honor, the Dadasaheb Phalke Award. There was anger and hurt in my voice as I wondered aloud to my colleague as to whether the authorities concerned had turned blind to the fact that the living legend was the most deserving candidate for the prestigious award. Later that night, as I was preparing to hit the sack, I got a call from my colleague and what ensued henceforth was simply unbelievable.

"Sheetal, did you hear the announcement on TV?"
"Which announcement?"
"Arre bhai, it has just been announced that Dev Anand will be awarded this year's Dadasaheb Phalke Award.Tumhari shikayat door kar di gayi hai ", she joked.

Stunned and shocked, I turned on the TV only to find that the news was actually true!

There was more to come in the next few days. In town to receive the award, I actually got a chance to interview my childhood and adulthood crush. I interviewed the superstar in one of capital's swanky hotels. I was nervous before the shoot and Dev Saab made me feel completely at ease as soon as he entered the lobby.

"Hello, Sheetal. That's a lovely, vibrant colour that you are wearing," he remarked in his inimitable style with a broad smile and a warm handshake.

This opening remark from the century's greatest star relaxed me completely and I opened up instantly. Of the many things that he said during the course of the interview, the one that I remember very clearly was the stress and importance that he laid on having one's own, distinct style.

"I like to wear things that none else has. Everything that I have on me, this watch, or this muffler, or even these loose pants should speak of my individual taste and choice. The way I walk, or speak, or react, is my individual, original style. It is very important to be original. Being one's own self is being original. You become a role model only if you have originality in your style."

So, that was the master's mantra straight from his mouth.

Signing off with these lines from a very famous song from Dev Anand's film Hum Dono, which sums up his personality and has provided inspiration to many -

"Main Zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya,
Har fiqr ki dhuyein mein udata chala gaya,"

P.S. - Many thanks to Sagarji for the link to his site and to Yunus Sahab for Kabban Mirza's pictures.

SING, SING A SONG

I was sitting in the make-up room getting ready for my show. My eyes were closed as I tried to soak in the beautiful melody of that dreamy composition from the Hindi film ,Razia Sultan. AAYI ZANJEER KI JHANKAAR KHUDA KHAIR KARE, DIL HUA KISKA GIRAFTAAR KHUDA KHAIR KARE. The song was courtesy our hairstylist, who has a fantastic collection of music on his cell phone and often entertains us with some number or the other. Kabban Mirza’s unique voice, Jan Nissar Akhtar’s soulful poetry and Khaiyyam’s exemplary music were creating a magical sort of aura in the room and we all hummed and sang along. It was a moment of sheer bliss and harmony.

The trance like state, however, was soon shattered by Piya’s voice. ‘ Sheetal, what is wrong with you? What crap are you listening ? And what a weird voice ! Is that some twelfth century song or what? ‘ I was horrified and shocked. How could somebody be not knowing the famous Khaiyyam composition and most importantly, how could one be so insensitive to a musical masterpiece? But then, one couldn’t really blame Piya , for this vivacious, young colleague of mine probably must have been in her diapers when Khaiyyam composed the famous song. ‘ Piya, that’s a very, very famous composition by one of Indian film industry’s best known music directors. Ask your mother. I am sure, she would have heard it,’ I tried reasoning it out with her.

‘ C’mon, give me a break. My mother doesn’t listen to such behenji stuff. Her choice is very hip.’ ‘ Hip, as in? Rock, Pop, hip hop, etc. ? ’ ‘ Of course, She listens to Beatles, Boney-M and all those 70s and 80s bands .’ ‘ And so do I. But, I also love my Khaiyyams and Mehdi Hassans and C.Ramchandras.’ ‘ Now, who are all these folks ? ’

Our conversation ended there, as I had to rush for my show. But it set me thinking . It was actually very unsettling for me that someone could be so discriminating of music, a language which is so pure and universal. Atleast I have grown up believing that. I have always been fascinated, charged, touched, stirred, encouraged and thrilled by music. It is something that gives an instant boost to the energy levels. My love for music of all kinds dates back to the days when I was just a toddler. My parents tell me that I used to try singing the famous song of the late 70s , KABHI KABHI MERE DIL MEIN KHYAAL AATA HAI in my baby voice. We grew up listening to the wonderful collection of music that my parents had, which ranged from Jagjit–Chitra ghazals to the 60s and 70s English bands of Beatles and Carpenters to the 50s Geeta Dutt and Hemant Kumar melodies, among others.

We never discriminated one form or genre of music from another. The sitar and guitar fusion of the Beatles’ NORWEGIAN WOODS stirred me as much as the soft, lilting Talat Mehmood song MAIN DIL HOON IK ARMAAN BHARA,TU AAKE MUJHE PEHCHAAN ZARA. The famous American rocker Neil Diamonds’ KENTUCKY WOMAN, BROOKLYN ROADS and PLAY ME touched my soul as much as Shahenshah–e-Ghazal Mehdi Hassan’s AAYE KUCHH ABR KUCHH SHARAAB AAYE and DUNIYA KISI KE PYAAR MEIN JANNAT SE KAM NAHIN. The lively Mohammad Rafi composition of MAIN ZINDAGI KA SAATH NIBHATA CHALA GAYA inspired me as much as the carefree Frank Sinatra melody of MY WAY. Beatles, Eagles, Carpenters, Jim Reeves, Frank Sinatra, ABBA and Marc Anthony were as much the norm of the day as Lata Mangeshkar, Talat Mehmood, Mohammad Rafi, Bhupendra, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Mehdi Hassan and Chitra (the famous South Indian singer).

My days would begin and end with music। They still do. Only the list of favourites has expanded further. It now also includes the likes of Natalie Imbruglia, Celine Dion, John Mayer, James Blunt, Shreya Ghoshal, Mohit Chauhan, Sona Mohapatra, Rabbi Shergill, Shafqat Amanat Ali, Shantanu Moitra and the trio of Shankar, Ehsaan and Loy. I sometimes feel I am a little biased towards music. I may not exactlylove every second melody that I hear, but somehow, I can never bring myself to criticise a composition outrightly. I like to embrace music in all its forms, hues and genres. And wherever I travel, within oroutside the country, a large chunk of my shopping includes the music of the place! To me, music is the essence of life, the strongest driving as well as calming force. It is sacred, it isplayful and it is meditative. And therefore, I would like to sign off with the famous Carpenters’melody which is my musical anthem for all times – Sing, sing a song

Sing out loud, sing out strong
Sing of good things, not bad
Sing of happy, not sad
Sing, sing a song
Make it simple to last your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not good enough
For anyone else to hear
Just sing, sing a song

BLASTS IN DELHI AND THE LAST LEAR

I am stunned, I am speechless and I am totally and completely wonderstruck. I am also deeply troubled and distressed at the same time.The Delhi serial blasts, inspite of weeks and months of warning by intelligence agencies trigger off the last two sentiments and an out an out exceptional performance by that living legend of Indian film industry, Amitabh Bachchan inspires the previous three emotions. It was my day off and I was in the throes of a deeply intellectual and artistic high as I sat watching Rituparno Ghosh's much talked about English film, THE LAST LEAR in one of NCR's plush cineplexes when a friend informed me of the serial blasts that had rocked the national capital. The news was tremendously unsettling, not shocking though, for everyone knew that Delhi was next on target after Bangalore and Ahmedabad. The security agencies had already warned of the notorious Indian Mujahideen's Operation BAD(Bangalore ,Ahmedabad and Delhi) and seeing and knowing the inability of the state machinery to prevent such attacks so far, one feared secretly all this while for Delhi. I wanted to get out of the hall immediately to get the latest brief on the tragedy, but something stopped me from doing so. Was it resilience, stoicism or worse still, plain indifference towards a happening, which has fast become a rule than an exception in this country? Or was it anger and a sense of acute helplessness at the nation being hit again that I was stubbornly trying not to acknowledge? I tried to escape the unease and starkness of the harsh reality of the moment by deciding to carry on with the show. It wasn't long before my troubled thought process began taking refuge in the warmth of another awe inspiring performance by the genius called Amitabh Bachchan..I was now all focus and concentration on Bachchan's exceptional portrayal of the insanely obsessisve and idiosyncratic mannerism of the theatre loving and cinema despising protagonist of the film, Harish Mishra, who as an aging stage actor showed
little respect or tolerance for anyone not acquainted with the literary genius of William Shakespeare. And as I watched with absolute wonder that extremely theatrical moment in the film when Amitabh's character breaks into a Prospero soliloquy from theShakespearean play " The Tempest", I couldn't but stop myself from marvelling at the cinematic genius of the master. There was a stubbornness in his tone and tenor, a resolve not to falter and always be perfect, the best.This incidentally is the same streak of stubbornness that the actor has displayed in his personal life as well by making a conscious and adamant effort to not give in to the temptation of falsely holding on to his superhero onscreen persona in real life. And one can't but empathise and sympathise with the man's need and fierce attempt to lead a normal, ordinary life, outside the arc lights. .After having been constantly and unsparingly dogged and courted by controversy, he now refuses to retaliate or react. He apologises for no fault of his, maintains stoic silence over the meanest of provocations and inspite of the mental trauma and pressure of constant public, political and media censure, consistently and constantly delivers one powerhouse performance after another. His devotion to his art is undying and his mastery over his craft is unquestionable. He lives, breathes and embodies cinema . And that is perhaps where all that strength and resolve to live a common man's life comes from. Tell me how many superstars have the courage to bear criticism for not standing up and giving in to the tomfooleries of a wannabe politician hell bent on using the famous name to further his political interests ? No one but Amitabh Bachchan . And this refusal to stand up against provocation is not because of cowardice. It is a desperate attempt by a man to separate reel from real, to keep the actor and the person apart.He doesn't believe in false proclamations of strength. And that is not to say that he is meek. It is just that like any other citizen of this country, very much like you and me, he seems to have acquired a certain indifference and resilience to circumstantial adversity. Life has given him everything, name, acclaim, money and stupendous success. What it has denied him is the freedom of being an ordinary man.And that is what he desperately and adamantly wants to and attempts to hold on to.His detractors may deny him the liberation of living an ordinary life, but Amitabh Bachchan just like his character of Harish Mishra in THE LAST LEAR is an exceptional man, insanely obsessive and possessive of his conviction, belief and vision. And no amount of provocation or pressurising would deter him from that.
After two hours of the show, I was back once againto the naked reality of death and devastation that had hit the capital.And even as news channels splashed pictures of the blast sites and the victims of the tragedy, there was business as usual on the roads.Was it resilience, stoicism, helplessness or plain indifference, the troubling question invaded my mind again. Only that there was no Last Lear to take refuge in this time.

MUSHARRAF'S PAKISTAN AND THE CLAY BUDDHA

The pen was quiet and the mind was numb for a while. It is coming back to life, slowly though. I was wondering whether I should continue with Musharraf's name in my series
on Pakistan .I thought a good deal over it and finally decided to continue with it, for although closed now, Musharraf remains a powerful and for reasons both good and bad, an unforgettable chapter in Pakistan's political history. Another reason being that all my trips to that country were made during the former President's tenure.

The past few months have been extremely trying and turbulent for both India and Pakistan. The tremors of political
uncertainity continue to afflict Pakistan, with frequent incidents of terror attacks adding to the turmoil . And in India, in the wake of the devastating floods in Bihar , one can hardly heave a sigh of relief or rejoice over the final settlement of Amarnath land dispute in Jammu and Kashmir and the normalising of situation there.But alongside the suffering and misery , goes the festivity and celebration of the holy month of Ramzan and the pious days of Ganeshotsava . And as thousands and thousands of devotees on both sides of the border surrender to the power of the almighty and pray for peace and happiness, I am reminded of that extremely spiritual experience that I had during one of my trips to Pakistan.

I was in Islamabad to cover another round of peace talks between the two countries.After two days of hectic parleys, the talks had concluded successfully and we finally had some time for ourselves after the mad rush that covering Indo-Pak talks always is. We, in the Indian contingent decided to utilize the time in hand by making a trip to the ancient Indian, and now Pakistani city of Takshashila. Takshashila is located about 35 kms to the west of Islamabad. The locals pronounced the name quite funnily as Taxla (Tax as in income tax and La as in Lahore) and I couldn't stop myself from chuckling every time someone casually spoke of T-A-X-L-A ! We were supposed to leave in the afternoon and I chose to laze in my hotel room till then. I was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of visiting one of the most important Vedic and Buddhist centres of learning in ancient India.And over several cups of hot, steaming tea, I dreamt of the sights and sounds of the centre that once had Chanakya as one of its teachers.The chain of my thoughts transported me thousands of years back in history to the reign of the Mauryas and the great emperor Ashoka , during whose reign Takshashila became a great Buddhist centre of learning.

My reverie was soon broken by the ringing of the door bell. It was the housekeeping guy. He asked for my permission to bring something that he very earnestly wanted me to see. I was puzzled as to what was it that a stranger so desperately wanted to show me. Very reluctantly, I told him to get the stuff, or whatever that was. He reappeared shortly with a small object, about three and a half inches long wrapped very neatly in plain paper.He told me that a guest who had stayed in the same room as me about three years back, had forgotten it in one of the drawers of the cupboard. He found it while cleaning the room after the guest's departure . And since it was not of any use to him , he had kept it safely so that it could be given to the appropriate person. When I asked him as to how could he conclude that I was the right person, he just smiled and left.I stared and stared at the object as it lay wrapped in my hand. I was apprehensive and scared to open it. And after several minutes of tense thinking, I decided to unwrap it. What unfolded in front of me was something that stunned me completely. It was a small clay statue of Buddha. I was
too touched to even react or talk about it. Later in the day we went to Takshashila. The site of the renowned university was all ruins now, although the relics and remains of the golden era had been carefully preserved in a huge museum. It was a great spiritual and intellectual high for all of us and we returned with pleasant memories of a walk back into time. And yes, the clay Buddha travelled back to India with me.It today occupies the pride of place in my little temple at home.

IS THE KASHMIR MOVEMENT REALLY ABOUT KASHMIRIYAT?

What is the basis of any movement ? A shared sense of identity, the foundation of which could be cultural, regional, linguistic or traditional commonality. And if one talks of Jammu and Kashmir and Pakistan occupied Kashmir in that context, or the ' Kashmir Movement' as the separatists term it, one finds a lot of disinformation ,or rather, lack of information all around. The separatists in Kashmir ( and Kashmir means only Kashmir, it doesn't include the regions of Jammu and Ladakh , which constitute a large part of the state of Jammu and Kashmir) talk of Kashmiriyat and claim it to be the basis of their movement of azadi or freedom for Kashmir.

Before moving further, it is important to understand the meaning of Kashmiriyat. Kashmiriyat or Kashmiriness means the ethno – national and social consciousness and cultural values of the Kashmiri people. And who are the Kashmiri people? Contrary to what the separatists and the self-proclaimed saviours of Kashmiri people claim, it is a legacy shared only by the Hindus and Muslims of the Kashmir valley. The fact is that the entire regions of Jammu, Ladakh and Pakistan occupied Kashmir do not share any cultural similarity with the valley, and, therefore, by logic, do not conform to the ideals of Kashmiriyat.The truth is that Jammu and Kashmir is an amalgamation of diverse linguistic and cultural traditions, and Kashmiriyat is only a small section of its vast cultural heritage.

Very often, more so in recent times, one has heard a Mehbooba Mufti or some separatist leader call out threateningly for a march to Muzaffarabad , in other words, to the part of Kashmir across the border. The fact is that there is no cultural, ethnic or linguistic similarity between Kashmir on this side and on the other side. The majority of the predominantly Muslim population in Pakistan occupied Kashmir is culturally and ethnically related to the people of northern Punjab and Jammu, which include such tribes as the Abbasis, the Maliks, the Ansaris, the Mughals, the Gujjars, the Jats, the Rajputs,the Qureshis and the Pashtuns, among others. Most of these tribes found in POK incidentally also happen to be a regional characteristic of Jammu region and not Kashmir as is wrongly assumed .The official language of Pakistan occupied Kashmir is Urdu but it is spoken only by a minority. The dominant language spoken there is Pahari, which is not even remotely connected to Kashmiri spoken in the Kashmir valley in India. Pahari is actually very close in character to Dogri , Pahari and Gojri languages spoken in different parts of Jammu region.

The fact is that the only similarity between the Kashmirs on the two sides of the border is that of religion. Like its counterpart across the border, Kashmir on this side also happens to be predominantly Muslim. So then does it all boil down to that one factor of religion? And therefore, is the notion of Kashmiriyat that is so commonly and liberally used by those wanting freedom for Kashmir, a mere sugarcoating of what essentially happens to be a very communal movement? And if it isn't communal, then why aren't the nearly five lakh displaced Kashmiri Pandits a part of this perceived vision? For ironically , it is only they who happen to be culturally, ethnically and linguistically aligned to the ethos of Kashmiriyat.

LAST NIGHT I DREAMT OF RUSKIN BOND

Forgive me this interruption in LANES AND BYLANES…( I warned you of the unevevn ride).But today, I must write about Ruskin Bond, for I dreamt of him last night. In the dream, I was chasing him for a sound byte (blame it on my TV background) and Ruskin, being the gentleman that he is, did oblige me with one!

I am sure most of you have heard of Ruskin Bond. And for those who have not, here is a brief introduction of the much acclaimed and loved author. British by birth and an Indian by choice, Ruskin Bond has dedicated all his life to the written word. He writes from his hill abode of Mussoorie in Garhwal Himalayas and has been living there for more than forty five years now. I was first introduced to his writings in school.He has written a lot for children, stories, short stories and novellas and many of his stories are a part of curriculum in schools across the country. As a schoolgirl, I always found his stories delightful and fascinating, but what really converted me into a diehard fan of his was a non fiction work of his, a collection of diary extracts and personal essays, titled RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS. I got hold of a copy of this absolutely fantastic piece of work in my first year of college and was instantly bowled over by the heart-warming simplicity and down to earth beauty of his prose. He spoke of the trees, the mountains, the valleys and of ordinary people, very simple things, but things that struck an immediate and intense chord with the reader. And something within me changed dramatically. RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS taught me how to appreciate the simple joys and pleasures of life. It revealed to me the extraordinariness of the ordinary and the relevance of the mundane. I read that gripping piece of work again and again and again. It provided wings to my imagination and I promised myself that I would also write like him some day.

Such has been the powerful impact of Ruskin Bond's writing. But the gentle and unassuming author is too modest to accept that. Here's what he himself says about his writing , ' Amongst writers, I am not one of the big guns. I am not even a little gun. I prefer to see myself as just a small pebble lying on the beach. But I would like to think that I am a smooth, round, colourful pebble, and that someone will pick me up, derive a little pleasure from holding me, and possibly, even put me in his or her pocket. And if one tires of me, one can always throw me back into the sea. Perhaps a kindly wave will wash me ashore again, and someone else will pick me up.' (extract from the book, RUSKIN, OUR ENDURING BOND)

My first and only meeting with Ruskin Bond was quite dramatic. Exactly ten years ago, I made a quick trip to Mussoorie with some friends. It was the month of July and the rains had just set in. The hills wore a magnificent look and as Ruskin writes, ' one could watch from the window trees dripping and the mist climbing the valley ' (quote from the book, RUSKIN, OUR ENDURING BOND). The setting was just perfect for me to meet the biggest inspiration of my life. But how? That was the big question. I didn't know anything about his whereabouts in Mussoorie, neither did I know anyone who could get me the required information, for I was only a student then. The world of television was still a year away. I had read in RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS that he lived in a rented accommodation called Ivy Cottage. But the book was written a few years ago. Ruskin could well have moved from there. Since there was no other clue, I trusted my instinct and dragging my friends along, set out on Mission Ruskin that rainy afternoon! Taking cues from the locals, we hurried up the hilly tracks to Ivy Cottage as rain drenched us to the bone. I didn't mind the rain at all, but my friends hated me for the torture.I could read it on their faces. Once we reached Ivy Cottage, they refused to accompany me upstairs, where Ruskin Bond lived with his adopted family. Leaving them down, and with tremendous apprehension, I knocked at the door. What if he didn't live there any more and worse, what if he didn't like my visiting uninvited? I was very nervous. One of Ruskin's grandsons opened the door. I told him the purpose of my visit. He told me to wait and went back . Few minutes later, Ruskin Bond appeared at the door.Yes, it was him, in flesh and blood standing right there in front of me. I was speechless and kept staring at him. Sensing my nervousness, Ruskin broke the silence, This is how the conversation went –

'Yes, young lady?'

'Sir, I am a huge fan of your writings. I came all the way from Delhi to meet you. I hope , I didn't disturb you.'

'Well, I was having my lunch! You came all by yourself?'

'No Sir, with a few friends.'

'Where are they?'

'They're waiting downstairs. They were too scared to come up.'

'What? You left them outside in the rain. Call them up.'

Soon all my friends joined me and we had a brief but very enriching conversation with the great wordsmith. And my respect and reverence for Ruskin Bond grew manifold.

Coming back to last night's dream. When I woke up in the morning, I got a pleasant surprise from my brother. He had brought me a Ruskin Bond book. And hold your breath, it had been autographed by and had a personal message for me from none other than…Ruskin Bond himself ! Actually, a famous bookstore in Delhi had organised an interaction with the author, just the other day. My brother who happened to be passing by the store, caught the sight of the famous author sitting inside and autographing books for his fans. Knowing very well my craziness for his works, he too got one autographed for me. And believe me, I haven't stopped smiling ever since I have caught hold of it.

To conclude, in Ruskin's own words, 'Life has not exactly been a bed of roses, yet, quite often, I have had roses out of season.'( from the book, RUSKIN, OUR ENDURING BOND)

MUSHARRAF AND HIS NINE LIVES

Pervez Musharraf, the invincible dictator, the ever scheming, plotting former General is history now. A thing unimaginable and seemingly out of question only about a year and half back is the fact and reality of today.

But what actually brought about his nemesis? Analysts say it was a combination of several factors, several issues that he got entangled in all at the same time. The first and the most powerful nail in the coffin proved to be his crackdown on the judiciary in Pakistan. On Musharraf's part, this was an attempt to crush the first ever serious voice of dissent within his own country against his autocratic rule. Used completely to having his own way always, Pervez Musharraf underestimated the power of a popular resurgence, which the lawyers' movement eventually became.

His next folly was his crackdown on the national media, the media which he himself allowed to flourish. It is an accepted fact in Pakistan that it was in Musharraf's regime that Pakistani media, TV industry in particular, grew by leaps and bounds. Musharraf's liberal policy towards the media, particularly in the last few years of his regime infused new life into an institution that had largely remained suppressed throughout the six decades of Pakistan's political, or rather, military history. Here again the clever General faltered badly. He failed to gauge the strength of an empowered media. The infamous ransacking of the Geo TV studios in Islamabad was broadcast live by the news channel and viewers throughout the country saw the spectacle of the forceful suppression of their right to freedom of information. This one act and the subsequent curbs on media alienated him from the thinking section of his population.

Soon after, two months to be precise, followed another event. On 10th of July, 2007, Pervez Musharraf ordered the storming of the Lal Masjid in Islamabad to flush out terrorists holed inside. The Lal Masjid episode was a desperate attempt by the former General to appease the powers in Washington who were increasingly getting uneasy and upset with the resurgence of Taliban and Al Qaeda in the areas bordering Afghanistan. Pervez Musharraf, who himself had overlooked and,. therefore, in a way, had allowed terrorist activities within and from Lal Masjid some years back felt intense pressure, and in a bid to prove his loyalty towards the war against terror, did the unimaginable.The act did win him the appreciation of Washington and the international community, but he got further alienated .Fundamentalist groups and factions, some of whom also happened to be his political allies, now became his sworn enemies.

All these factors combined with the changed political equation in Pakistan finally sounded the death knell for the former General who once very famously remarked that like the proverbial cat, he would survive nine lives .But, in his mad pursuit of power, what the former President of Pakistan completely forgot was that there is always a tenth life after the ninth!

LANES AND BY-LANES OF MUSHARRAF'S PAKISTAN– 1

As I sit writing this piece, news channels flash breaking news of a suicide attack in Lahore, amidst reports of Pervez Musharraf deciding to finally submit his resignation.And that reminds me of Sushant's comment in response to my previous post.You are right Sushant, there are grave and serious doubts about a Pakistan post-Musharraf.There is a big question mark there, as to whether Musharraf's exit would actually mean a genuine transition to democracy for Pakistan or would it just make the country a perfect playing ground for fundamentalist and jehadi forces.Our national security advisor has already expressed his concern about the same.We can only hope that whatever happens, happens for the good of the two countries and their people.

Anurag in a reply to my last post wanted me to write more about Pakistan, its people and my experiences there.It's impossible to write all of these in one post, for I have quite a number of them.Therefore, I have decided to write them one by one as and when they come to mind, not necessarily in a sequence.I hope you won't mind the uneven and bumpy ride!

Pakistan was a total mystery to me (in many ways it still is!) till the summer of 2003.Close on the heels of my action laden trip to the war zone in Iraq , came the opportunity to visit the hostile neighbouring country.After almost a year and a half of military standoff following the attack on the Indian Parliament in December 2001, relations between India and Pakistan were slowly beginning to get normal. And much to the relief of the natives of the two countries, new peace initiatives, or, as they say in diplomatic lingo, confidence building measures, were being announced left, right and centre. The two neighbours also announced to resume with much fanfare the stalled Delhi-Lahore bus service and journalists from both sides of the border were given a free ride aboard the much awaited Sada-e-sarhad (Call of the Frontier) ,as the service is officially called. As a part of the select group , I got the opportunity to savour the excitement and exhilaration of the historic moment firsthand. It took us eight hours to cover the 530 km long journey.

I remember the bus crossing Wagah border late in the evening amidst loud cheering and mad celebration. Emotions ran high as relatives from both sides hugged and cried and I felt a tug at heart.

Once in Lahore, we were literally mobbed by the local media, everyone wanting a sound byte or two and then there was the welcome party with garlands and flowers in their hands. The warmth of the locals was so overwhelming that we forgot our exhaustion completely.Those smiling, gleaming faces which looked so much like our own , the language and the mannerism so similar to ours took away all our inhibitions and we felt immediately at home.

A funny thing happened that night.Tired after the day's action, as I was preparing to retire in my hotel room, I got a call on the intercom. It was a local who introduced himself as a businessman.He wanted me to carry his message back home to the Indian Soap Queen, Ekta Kapoor that she should stop making those saas-bahu serials as they were becoming an obsession with Pakistani women.His lament was that his wife spent all her spare time watching the Ekta Kapoor soaps and doing so neglected him and the family completely.He also complained that all those devilish and crazy looking vamps in her soaps were a bad influence on Pakistani women and, consequently, the percentage of saas-bahu spats in their families had risen dramatically!! Assuring him that I would convey his message to Ms Kapoor, I hung up. Of course, the message was never conveyed and Ekta Kapoor continues to make those soaps to this day, not that she would have stopped spinning those crazy tales had I conveyed the message to her ! This funny little episode gave me an initial idea of the deep inroads that the Indian entertainment industry had made into the Pakistani society.More was to follow in the next few days.

My first trip to Lahore lasted only three days and I still remember the mad rush to squeeze as many stories as possible in that limited period. The trip was very, very restrictive and we could travel only with the Pakistani Information Ministry officials. Were we to venture out on our own, we had to be accompanied by an Information Ministry chosen local journalist who could keep a watch on the kind of stories that we were doing and ensure that we didn't do any negative stuff. The journo assigned to me was a family man in his forties and was extremely polished and sophisticated in manner.He often bad-mouthed Musharraf and his regime and said nasty things about the establishment and how it was not genuinely serious about improving relations with India.

I had a feeling that he said all those things just to instigate me to say more and reveal any negative intentions that I might be nursing as far as coverage was concerned. And I think, considering the long history of mistrust and hostility between the two countries, our suspicion of each other was but natural and pretty understandable. But not every journalist that I came across in Lahore had a motive or seemed to carry one. I had some truly wonderful experiences in that extremely warm and hospitable city. More of that later.

Pervez Musharraf and That Evening in Lahore

I know you are curious and thinking really hard.And though there is no direct link between the now impeachment facing Pakistani dictator and that lovely Lahore evening exactly a year and half ago, there is a powerful connection.Let me elaborate the story for you.

All journalists, who have visited Pakistan at some point in their careers, Indians in particular, get a taste of the ways and whims of the Pakistani army, and its notorious and all pervasive intelligence wing, the ISI . And we were no exceptions ! The year was 2007, and the month, January. Pervez Musharraf was very much in command and completely at the helm of affairs in Pakistan. After all, it was the eighth consecutive year of his largely unchallenged and completely dictatorial Presidency and he was still months away from the landmark lawyers' agitation, which ultimately led to his downfall and the rise of new political equations in Pakistan. The uniform and the Pakistani army's unwavering loyalty were strongly and resolutely behind him .No word of criticism against the former General was entertained and talking against him in public was
still a fearful prospect.

I was part of a group of journalists who went to Islamabad to cover a crucial round of talks between the two countries.After the summit, while everyone else prepared to get back home, me and my cameraperson, who,incidentally, also happened to be a woman, decided to extend our visit by a day and visit Lahore. I had an interesting story in mind and also some friends in the city to meet. Just before leaving leaving for Lahore, we also made a visit to the Pakistan Army Headquarters in Rawalpindi to get an interview with Musharraf fixed.Musharraf was out of town and since we just had a day in hand, the plan could not materialise. Nevertheless, we packed our bags and hired a taxi to Lahore.It was early evening and the drive to Lahore via the Islamabad-Lahore expressway was 5-6 hours,we were told.The driver seemed to be a decent guy who spoke less but sensing that we were Indians, played latest Hindi movie songs on the car stereo.

It was a comfortable drive and as the cold winter breeze shivered me, I wondered whether this was the same country that I had made three previous trips to, during each of which, I felt heavily restricted as far as intercity travel ,or, movement within a particular city was concerned. Could this be because of the improved dialogue and the resulting bonhomie between the two countries ? Had the trust between the two finally begun to register itself ? I wondered.

Late in the night, we reached Lahore, checked into a guest house, without any obstruction and my sense of surprise rose again. A friend in Lahore, working for a prominent Pakistani TV Channel took us out for dinner to a swanky restaurant, which we were told was a brothel before partition! The restaurant,called Cuckoo's Den presented a spectacular view of the historic city of Lahore and the beautifully illuminated Badshahi mosque from its terrace.We chatted over several servings of Paranthas and large helpings of delicious Punjabi Saag and for a moment, I completely forgot that I was sitting in Lahore, several miles away from home, in a hostile neighbouring country.It all seemed perfectly normal, with no one apparently snooping on us or stalking us.

We had a flight in the afternoon the next day and so we decided to shoot an exclusive interview with Begum Nawazish Ali, aka Ali Saleem, Pakistan's hugely popular cross dressing TV host, early next morning.We chose to conduct the interview in a park in the centre of the city.We went strolling into the park, without anyone stopping us or asking our whereabouts.And I wondered a hundredth time!! But,hold! There was action in the offing.

As soon as I started my walking interview with Ali Saleem, I noticed first signs of intrusion. A tall, thin bearded man in plain clothes appeared suddenly from nowhere and started following us around the park.Now Ali Saleem, or, Begum Nawazish is known for his Musharraf bashing and every now and then, he would mouth something or the other against the General. This made our dear man with beard inch further closer to us. And soon a cat and mouse sort of race ensued between the four of us inside the park. It was funny in a way, but quite worrying too. Exasperated and deeply troubled, we wound up the interview fast and left the park. As we waited outside the park for our journalist friend , Rashid (name changed) to pick us up , our stalker kept hovering around.

Rashid's car was a huge sight of relief for us. We immediately got into his car and told him the entire story.The stalker was still around, closely following Rashid's car. Rashid drove us straight to his TV office and in between calls from somewhere, made us sit in his cabin. We still had about three hours for our flight and wanted to catch up with a bit of shopping.Rashid had earlier promised us that he would take us to the concerned stores, but strangely, now he asked us to make a list of stuff and deputed his help to get things for us. He looked very tense, and to hide his nervousness, babbled nonstop. It was crazy, funny and bizarre, all at the same time. He wouldn't just let us budge from our seats in his cabin and as the time for our flight drew close, arranged for us to be dropped at the airport. And yes, our stalker followed us still and saw to it that we got straight into the airport and went nowhere else. Back home, I got no message from Rashid for several months, who still seemed to be reeling under the fear of being too friendly with an Indian journalist.Later, we got to know that we were being chased right from the time we stepped out of Army Headquarters in Rawalpindi! Such was the terror of Pervez Musharraf and the Pakistani Army!

Today, as Musharraf faces the Nawaz Sharief-Zardari sponsored impeachment motion on charges of undermining democracy in Pakistan and misappropriating funds, a huge 700 million US dollars, I wonder whether this actually will be the political demise of the dictator, who once famously remarked that he was like the proverbial cat with nine lives.Will he survive this time ? What will be the Army's stance? Has it also given up on its former General or are their surprises in store, things on the lines of the infamous October 1999 coup? Analysts say it's the final nail in the coffin. But knowing Musharraf and his notorious stubbornness, and the fact that he still has the authority to dissolve the national assembly and dismiss the Prime Minister, it is impossible to predict the outcome in advance. Although chances of this also dim in the light of the fact that the decision of dismissal has to be approved by the Supreme Court of Pakistan, whose sharp disapproval of Musharraf's doings is too well known now.

This is it as of now… more when we meet next!!

Response to the Comments

It was heartening to see so many responses to my maiden post. Equally exhilarating was the warm welcome accorded by fellow bloggers. My individual thanks to each one of you! Now I know it's going to be a very eventful and enriching journey ... this journey of conversations!

Rajesh, you are right in commenting that the force of religion is such that it blinds even the rational. But, as sensible and sensitive citizens of this country, we can, in our own miniscule and small way, spread the rationale of the hollowness and emptiness of religious one-upmanship. As I said in my earlier post, the idea is not to seek definitive answers or permanent solutions, the idea is to start honest, and agenda free conversations. I know it is easier said than done, for we all have our biases, religious or otherwise and individual preferences, but then that's the challenge and beauty of a forum like this. Isn't it?

Mihir, Hamida's story may be very ordinary, but it is a powerful indicator of the fact that the peace and religious tolerance were not an impossible entity in a state, which ironically today lacks both, thankfully in part to the agenda laden politics of regional and national politicians and in a large measure to the evil machinations of our friendly neighbor across the border. As a native of Jammu, I am aware of and am deeply sensitive to the Jammu psyche. That sentiment of being the overlooked and ignored lot against the ever and much appeased counterparts in Kashmir is known to me. There is no harm in voicing that, but tell me Mihir, what do we intend gaining by playing on the regional divide and religious sentiments? What difference would then remain between the separatists and the non separatists? Wouldn't this further strengthen the hands of the separatist forces who moot religious disparity as the core of the entire Kashmir movement?

And Rajiv and Sagar, I too wish our politicians were not so shameless and opportunistic. But what is the escape? After all, aren't we the ones who bring them to power from amongst ourselves only?

Lastly, Amit, thanks for appreciating the expression. That's what rain does to some people!

Shri Ganesh!!!

Why does one write a blog, or to be more precise, why have I decided to join the fraternity of blogs and bloggers? I mulled over this for quite some time and today against the backdrop of the incessant downpour, I seem to have gotten my answer. Rain is always a reason to rejoice, notwithstanding the water flooded streets, the open manholes, the traffic jams and the power cuts! A steady shower from the skies never fails to inspire the creative and cheer the ordinary. To the poet, the lyrical pitter patter on the roof and outside the window is a poem, to the musically inclined, it is a lilting melody and to the poor beggar sleeping out on the pavement under the open skies, it is another harsh moment in the endless train of miseries.

Good or bad, sweet or bitter, every downpour is a story in itself. And here I get my answer! Like the rain, I realise, I also have a story to say. The fact is that after almost a decade of chasing stories out in the big, wide world and trying to find answers within the TV studio, I still have a lot to say and seek answers for. There are stories and stories, of both personal and impersonal nature. Stories of people, of places, of events and of non events, and, I want to share these with likeminded or even differing souls. The purpose is not to reach conclusions or seek definitive answers. The purpose is to start a journey, a journey of conversations, honest, genuine, and agenda free conversations. And in the context of the current turmoil in my home state of J&K, the first story that comes to mind, is that of Hamida. Hamida is a distant memory today, but he will always be an unforgettable reminiscence of peaceful and much happier times in my beautiful state.

Many years ago, 1982 to be precise, I made my first trip to Kashmir. My father was posted in Srinagar and we were based in Jammu. I was a class one student and till that time had seen Kashmir only in Hindi films or in my father’s postcard collection. We decided to pay Papa a visit during the summer break. And although I was very young at that time, I still quite clearly remember shouting with joy as our bus entered the famous Eucalyptus tree lined stretch in Baramulla, a location so commonly used in Hindi films. My father lived in a pretty Kashmiri style government bungalow in Srinagar and Hamida, a young local Muslim boy was his domestic help.

Hamida was quite an endearing soul, who always had a big smile on his face. He made us delicious Kashmiri delicacies and hot steaming Kashmiri Kehwa at all hours. Whatever the time of the day, one just had to ask for something and Hamida would produce it right away. He was particularly kind to me and my little brother. Often we would shout….Hamidaaaaa, and he would rush to us with pockets full of goodies. Whenever we kids wanted some entertainment, Hamida would play us some music on the tape recorder. He was fond of singing and would sing often in the kitchen. And in those daily dreams like trips to the Mughal gardens of Kashmir, Hamida always accompanied us, telling us wonderful stories about the places. We found his stories about the famous Pari Mahal particularly enchanting. The tales of fairies visiting the abandoned fortress at night delighted us no end. On our treks to Shankaracharya, the famous Shiva temple, he would climb those never ending stairs holding our hands.

Our fascinating trip to Kashmir ended in ten days and we returned home to Jammu. Everything else was quickly forgotten in the hum drum of school life, but Hamida stayed fresh in memory. We made many subsequent trips to Kashmir, but never again met Hamida. Today when I see people in Jammu and Kashmir, the two regions of the state, create ruckus over the Amarnath Shrine Board land issue, I wonder what would be Hamida’s take on the issue? Would he still be as warm and friendly to us as he was then? Or would he look at us as enemies from Jammu? I wonder and I am not too sure.

As if the scourge of insurgency was not enough, the natives of the troubled state now also have to cope with the divisive politics of selfish politicians. Politicians, who are hell bent on fuelling hatred and animosity among the people of the two regions by inciting communal and regional sentiments. The motive is to widen beyond repair the already existing regional divide between Jammu and Kashmir. And the goal….petty electoral gains? Why else do you think would the issue be raked and blown out of proportion just a few months before the state goes to polls?

The government, both in the state and at centre, first allows the situation to worsen beyond return and now plans to hold all party meets to find an emergency solution. One wonders at such a delayed reaction to the deteriorated scenario. One can at best only hope that the current efforts are serious and that all parties across the political spectrum genuinely and earnestly work towards resolving the matter, rather than planning shrewdly on how to gain the most out of the volatile situation.

Heard a Kashmiri shopkeeper lament on national TV the other day… ‘ In siyasatdanon ne tabah kar diya iss riyasat ko’( these politicians have destroyed our state). This sadly is the bitter truth of Jammu and Kashmir today.