The Writer's Choice

As the moon rose higher into the night sky his hide-out started to get cooler until he was cocooned by a blanket of cold frosty air.  The night shimmered with snow drops that floated through the air and gently fell everywhere.

His teeth started to chatter and despite himself his body was shivering uncontrollably.  The tiny hairs on his body were standing upright and his skin felt cold.  He had to be silent else the noise would give him away and he knew they were looking for him.  To have stayed behind would have meant imprisonment and torture and forced denunciation of his ideals.  This was not something new; his friend had been caught and convicted for writing a poem in his native dialect.  The charges laid were of “inciting secession” and he was deprived of his political rights for five years.  Some considered him lucky as his family at least knew his whereabouts, the Xichuan labour camp, instead of an unknown fate.

Then some years ago he heard about 'Lhakar'.  It was a strange choice of word for a protest movement.  It didn't mean 'freedom' or 'activism' or any other 'ism'.  It just stood for a day of the week - the ‘White Wednesday’ - a reference to the Dalai Lama’s soul day.  It's a day where special prayers are offered for his Holiness's long life.  They would use this day now to assert their cultural identity.   It would be a day for making a political statement by wearing traditional clothes, speaking in the Tibetan language, eating in Tibetan restaurants, reciting Tibetan prayers and buying from Tibetan-owned businesses.  This was their way of saying that while you may own our lands, you do not own our souls.  Our language will not die, our customs not stale and our will not enslaved.

This was his day of expression and he wrote as if possessed by the spirit of the epic king Gesar who fought against the enemies of dharma.  Gesar who rode his miraculous steed Kyang Go Karkar, and waged military campaigns, together with 30 companions, against the frontier countries that represent evil.  He never took the country's name because it was abundantly clear which evil empire existed in his world.  His readers awaited the little leaflets churned out in his clandestine press.  He printed text from the Bardo Thodol for his readers.  The Tibetan Book of the Dead is not about death as such. Thodol means "liberation through understanding." Bardo means a "between state," an interval or transition between two mental states, whether experienced in life or after death.  Or as he pointed out in his essay, a state between freedom and oppression.

When he found out from his contacts that he had been handed a sixteen year prison sentence for “inciting separatism” and “subversion of state power” he invoked the ancient warrior spirits known as drabla (dgra-lha).  From them he gathered up courage to escape and carry on the fight from exile.

So it was that he found himself on a bus from Lhasa to Shegatse, a total of thirty people travelling together.  From Shegatse the group was joined by four guides who would take them on a trek to freedom.  They started walking at night and the trek would twelve days before they reached the border.  Human greed knows no race or creed and after eight days of walking the guides left them and disappeared.   With no guides to take them further the group was further divided in three groups of ten people each.  Each group was to follow a different path in its quest for freedom.  There was a family of five seeking a better life, four monks fuelled by search for spirituality and him.  The youngest child fell ill and the family decided to turn back.  It was him and the monks.  They encountered a group of nomads who gave them directions.  They had to cross two big lakes before they came to the Snow Mountains. 

It was late in the evening when the snipers ambushed them.  He saw the young monk who was leading them fall to his feet.  He saw the blood red colour seeping from the forehead of the young man and gradually spread on the white snow.  He turned and ran as the gunshots echoed in the mountains.  There was a narrow crack in the mountainside, not a cave but just a little space to seek shelter.  There was a snow covered rock in front of the crack, just big enough to obscure its view.  He huddled behind a rock and waited.

There he was now three hours later.  The bright moon hanging high in the sky over the mountain gave enough light to see around him.  But he knew now what he had to do.  He reached inside his rucksack and bought out a diary and a pen.  He opened it and with trembling hands started to write.

"Writing, to me, is a way of keeping my culture alive.  Growing up the first thing we learn about our culture is that it faces a threat like no other.  Tibetan culture is like a fragile flower: beautiful to look at but incapable of defending itself.  With my words I seek ways to nourish it.  Writing gives me a voice to reach people that I would never meet.  It is the life breath of our people.  It is the 'prajna', the wisdom of the heart that sustains our life."

And the pen slipped out of his fingers as he slid down on the snow covered ground.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Reach out to the largest community of Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Viral Signs

The day after the video of Sam K's antics went viral on the Internet; he was lying in his bedroom with the curtains drawn trying to keep his eyes shut tightly as possible. The throbbing pain in his head was a vigorous reminder of the many shots of tequila drowned at the office party the night before, not that he remembered anything else that may have happened.

Sam K - aka Samir Kapadia - big time nerd and small time everything else. Not a great communicator unless you spoke Java/C#/C++ and a few other programming languages that he was fluent in. OK, yes, no and head wag sufficed for anything else. Not the ideal candidate for hogging news headlines by any stretch of imagination.

Before the YouTube incident, Sam's career path had progressed to the point where he was assigned the role of a Project Architect for the first time. It was a prestigious project for a major health services provider. The work was challenging and it was the opportunity that he had been waiting. If done correctly it would demonstrate that he was capable of handling such projects and be the stepping stone on the pathway of success.

Sam had considered himself to be fortunate that the project timeline was for three months. His belief was that "This is a three month project and we're going to achieve success in 3 months. We're going to see the system in production in 3 months."

Initially the project had been progressing smoothly but then a month into the project timeline the changes started to happen and they were the dreaded bugbear of imprecise or changing business requirements.

The senior management at client site met Sam's account manager - Jason- to negotiate further contracts for the firm and casually gave a list of changes that they felt would make the system function better. Soon enough Jason contacted the project manager - Rob - and asked him to accommodate the changes in order to facilitate future business. All of that meant that the last minute changes in the business requirements were now making their way towards Sam.

From: Rob Morgan
Subject: Change to product requirements (mtt-01/3439)
To: sam.kapadia@busorg.com

Hey Sam,
The client's given us a few changes to look at. Jason has communicated his desire of pushing them in the next release, as he put it - 'If we make the client happy, they will look after us'. Apparently senior management is very keen for these changes to go through.

Cheers,
Rob

"Maybe we should give the client a massage. That will make them happy", grumbled Sam to himself. He was well aware that business was well within their rights to ask for changes. Well thought changes added that excitement to a project, but the down side was the hasty, unplanned change requests that added to a project's scope creep. This was definitely one of them and had to be shot down as soon as possible.

From: Sam Kapadia
Subject: RE: Change to product requirements (mtt-01/3439)
To: rob.morgan@busorg.com

Hi Rob,

What is this? I don't think that the business requirements are being clearly articulated; we need lot more information than a verbal request. Plus they do know that this will impact the project timelines, don't they? I don't see how we can roll these out in this release.

Cheers,
Sam

Damn this project, thought Sam, it was supposed to be his great big opportunity and just when he thought he had everything under control the enemy artillery aka major change request started firing. The increased working hours had meant that he was seeing a lot less of his girlfriend Anna than he wanted to. All work and no play were making Sam an extremely dull boy. Plus Anna was driving him crazy these days with her demands for communication. And communication for Anna meant that she had to talk to him face-to-face. E-mail, Sam had told her, is a wonderful invention and not just for receiving messages from Rev Peter Paul Thomas of Nigeria wanting to give you a million dollars. SMS is an option too, they are even rewriting Shakespeare using SMS text format. But emails and SMSs were not for Anna. She needed direct verbal communication with no other distractions. This meant no watching TV while she was talking. Work could be set aside while they had their time together, even when Sam had a deadline to meet. She might not have cared about design patterns in C Sharp or the beauty of object-oriented programming and unlike her Sam had no interest in literature, but they adored each other's company. Sam was reminded of what he had once read in an online relationship column 'diversity is an asset in relationships; you won't get bored with each other'.

From: Rob Morgan
Subject: Change to product requirements (mtt-01/3439)
To: sam.kapadia@busorg.com
CC: ruby.ross@busorg.com

Sam,
How many more resources would you need for this change to go through?
Ruby I need you to go through the HR's database for a list of additional developers.
Cheers,
Rob

Ruby Ross was responsible for finding the right resource for each project and Rob was intent on using her to increase the size of the team.

"Maybe I should tell him that we will work overtime", thought Sam, "Hey Rob, if people work more hours, they can get more work done in the same amount of calendar time. Overtime may be the best option if you’re close to the end of the project and just need a final push to get everything done on schedule. And probably sleep less if possible, just to get more hours in a day."

Sam's mobile vibrated, probably a message from Rob trying to contact him, but Sam decided to ignore it. He had a message of his own for Rob that needed to be sent.

From: Sam Kapadia
Subject: RE: Change to product requirements (mtt-01/3439)
To: rob.morgan@busorg.com

Hi Rob,
The biggest issue that we are facing is that the business requirements not being clearly articulated and agreed to at the outset of this project. We've had a number of discussions related to this and I am sure in the post project appraisal, the auditors are bound to bring it up. Now I hear you telling me to 'push changes' in the next release. How do we plan for this deviation in terms of schedule, cost, performance, or scope of work?

Regards,
Sam

"Now that", pondered Sam "will make him think, which will give me time to work without further interference". He quickly glanced at his mobile and was stunned to see a message from Anna. Her mobile was a gift from him, he had made her take it by explaining that while she did not have to use it every day, it would be handy if she had an emergency like the car breaking down when coming from work or if she ever ran out of coffee and needed him to get some. She never used it so it must be important that she was sending a message.

From Anna
To Sam: Sam r u coming home this wk? Or will it b like last wk? We need to talk.

Late nights working at this project meant that recently they hardly interacted nowadays. By the time he got home it was already way past dinner time. Anna would have eaten by then so he ate alone, sometimes he carried on working on his laptop and on some days he was so tired that he went to sleep straightaway.

From Sam
To Anna: Sorry wrking la8. Will make it up 2 u.

Before he had a chance to ponder on the significance of the message, there was another email from Jason to be looked at. The man was persistent if nothing else.

From: Jason Groot
Subject: Change to product requirements (mtt-01/3439)
To: sam.kapadia@busorg.com
CC: rob.morgan@busorg.com

Hi Sam,
Really appreciate the work you have been putting into this project. Can't say that you work has gone unnoticed. I need you to make a few changes to your design and push through the changes the client is asking for, we feel that they add value to the project.
Thanks,
Jason

So Jason was going through the underhand route now thought Sam. It was the kind of sneaky attempt that he had been expecting, throw in a few compliments and try to push in a few changes. There was no way that he was going to let this happen.

From: Sam Kapadia [sam.kapadia@busorg.com]
Subject: Re: Change to product requirements (mtt-01/3439)
To: jason.groot@busorg.com
CC: rob.morgan@busorg.com

Hi Jason,
Can you get them to put the change requests in and then we work through the change control procedure.
Cheers,
Sam

Change control had its uses thought Sam, especially in this organization where it was a process gleaned from books implemented by overpriced consultants to help streamline technology-related change. It could take days before anything tangible happened and that would give him enough time to do things the way he wanted them.

The rest of that day went on with a continuous stream of messages and meetings to attend. As usual he was the last to leave work, long after the cleaners had gone. But that night turned out a lot different from the others. When he reached home there was no one inside and all of Anna's belongings had been moved out of their apartment. It was as if he stayed alone in a bachelor's pad. Stuck to the fridge was a post-it note from Anna. He took it down and read it.

I am going away for a while Sam. I have been thinking about it a lot in the past month or so. The time I had alone allowed me to do that. Maybe it's not just about me or you or us. I have thought about the way we could have made this work and I was hoping and praying that it would never come to this. Nothing lasts forever, we make mistakes and lose people that we love but I never thought that would happen to us. Will I come back? That remains entirely up to you and your work commitment.

Sam dropped the note, he wasn't sure what to make of it. A part of him was hopeful but a gnawing feeling that told him that maybe it was all over. "I am so self absorbed," he thought, "that I could not see it coming. That I neglected her for so long, taking her presence for granted."

For all his intentions at attempting a reconciliation Sam's workload over the next few months ensured that he had no time away from work. Managing the client's expectation and fighting with the account managers to retain his team kept him on his toes. His email inbox once had an old Internet joke about customers who demand the universe gift-wrapped and delivered yesterday but this time instead of laughing he found himself nodding in agreement. The hard work by his team had ensured that they did not have to face deadline-imposed project fiascoes.

And so it happened that after managing different industrial awards and multiple industrial agreements they were able to deliver on time. It was finally time for a celebratory function for the team. Jason had organized drinks for the all people who had worked on the project as well as the team from the client side and the senior managers. The event was hosted at the restaurant where the company decided they would have dinner. To enliven things up the function was Wild West themed one, each person was handed over a huge cowboy hat as they walked in. There was a big bar in the restaurant moment where the very outgoing bartender, was greeting each person with a cold, strong drink of orange juice and vodka and there were soft drinks for those who did not imbibe. Immediately, the drinks started flowing and meeting each other in a lighter setting was making everyone relax. Suddenly Sam wished that Anna was with him. He took out his phone and texted her.

From Sam
To Anna: Need to talk 2 u. Can we meet?

Maybe she had forgiven him by now, maybe she was missing him too. His phone was beeping, there was a reply from Anna.

From Anna
To Sam: Not today Sam and maybe not ever.

He was stunned by the reply, the fact that that they would never meet had not occurred to him. To him it was another obstacle that he was sure he would overcome. Another trick bit of code that he would find a solution to because that's what he did - resolved tricky bits, no matter how long it took. Sam did not remember how many drinks he had after the reading the text but when the
Karaoke machine was setup with the live band and backing vocals, he found himself gravitating near the stage.
“Sam, Sam, we want Sam”, went the cry.
As far as musical abilities went he lacked the singing gene, his DNA was missing the genetic instructions for musical ability. It probably contained the DNA sequence for toneless intonations, yep it would be safe to say that Sam was not a singer. But in his mind right now he was the star. He stepped up, picked up the microphone and faced his audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen my girlfriend Anna has left me. But I love her and I want her back. So Anna I am singing this for you.“
And with that he sunk on one knee and started his rendition of the hit by KC and the Sunshine Band “Please don’t go”
“Babe, I love you so
I want you to know
that I'm going to miss your love
the minute you walk out that door

so please don't go…..”

He was awful. But incredibly some people stayed and watched, including those whose mobile phones were video recording the whole song. As a friend later told him “I’ve never heard anything that bad in my life. But you know while you might not make a fan out of every spectator, but there was something compelling to watch. It was like you were impossible to ignore onstage in a twisted, demented sort of way”.

It was around four in the morning when Samir staggered home and managed to collapse on his bed. How he had accomplished that was something that he was never able to figure out. But while he was sleeping at home, the love song of Samir Kapadia was already up on Youtube and gathering page hits. Social commentators have often wondered 'what is the numerical indicator of a YouTube hit'. While exact figure have not been agreed on there is a broad agreement on certain numbers. So 10 million hits, means that the video is probably worth looking at. At the 50 million hits count its on the way to becoming a phenomenon. But even with those numbers, it may be just a one-trick show pony.

If it gets 90 million hits, and has back-up videos made by fans that get millions of hits, it is a social phenomenon. Then something fundamental is going on. The challenge is to figure out what and then prove it. Good luck on that because how do you prove the attraction of a badly sung song by a semi-drunk love sick nerd? After all one of the top YouTube hits is A Man So Drunk In Restaurant That He Eats His Own Napkin.

But Sam had no idea of his growing online fame. He didn't know about his expanding fame in the twitterverse. Jimmy Kimmel was going to feature Sam's song on his show. Sam heard the noise of a door opening but it sounded like heavy metal band playing next to him. There was light streaming in his room causing him to wince and before he knew it someone had flung them self on him.
"Sam", said voice that sounded like Anna.
"Sam you crazy, crazy boy. Why didn't you tell me that you missed me so?"
The heavy metal drummer in Sam's head was pounding the crash cymbal but he did not care about the noise anymore. Life was about to get better again.

The Lost Star

He slid into my cab, on a still summer night looking hot and sweaty when I picked him past midnight in Brunswick Street, from the old pub that’s opposite the Den adult shop. At least he wasn’t drunk and reeking of alcohol. It was the start of my cab driving shift on Friday night. It was that time when the weekend starts and the city parties hard while the cabbies turn into diplomats ferrying passengers who are more talkative, wittier (so they think) than other days. They are also more violent and throw up more than other days, but for part timers like me the weekend is a good time to work and a lot better than staying in cramped shared digs.

“Finally a cab” he said “I got so tired of waiting at the Tivoli for a cab that I decided to walk from Costin Street to Brunswick Street. It’s so hot tonight that I am totally drenched in sweat.”

“So where do you want go to sir?” I asked.

He looked at me and switched from a glance to a stare. “Oye! You Indian?”

That was a remarkable bit of deduction from someone who was indisputably my fellow countryman. Should I give an Indian head waggle to confirm Sherlock’s deduction? Though there was something about that voice that sounded vaguely familiar. That lanky frame and that face, I couldn’t put a finger on it. But I had no time to waste on sleuthing, it was better to find out my man’s destination.

“That’s right sir I am from India. Now where can I take you?”

“Which part of India?”

“I am from Delhi sir. Can I please have the address?”

“Oye bhootni dey,behn-day-takke you are my brother from Dilli”. It was probably the first time I had been sworn at in Hindi, in a cab in Brisbane, but this was more of the affectionate kind of swearing. The swearing without rancour, the type that mates indulge in, the swearing without malice where the uglier the swearword the more love being expressed. It’s a boy thing, though to fair the women who get into my cab on the weekend probably outdo the men now.

“Thank you praji, ab bata to do kahan jana hai” as I lapsed in Hindi seeking the destination.

“I am hungry yaar, this bloody city of yours doesn’t have a place where I can eat late at night. I can drink all I want but I need khana – food.”

“There are actually few spots that are open late if you want a bite. All the cabbies stop at the takeaway on Petrie Terrace. Or we can go to New York pizza on Edward Street in the city. But tell me, once you have eaten, where do you want to go to?”

He still didn’t tell me the address but carried on talking in a nostalgic tone, as if lost in the memory of an old favourite. “You know what I miss about Delhi? It’s those dhabas yaar. Those bloody roadside stalls have chefs with magic in their hands. A kebab doesn’t have the same flavour unless cooked over a clay tandoor by a chef with dirt under his fingernails”.

I knew what he meant for I remembered those times too, when as young revellers, my friends and I used to seek out our old favourites. The vendors and their carts lined up in a lane, piled high with deep-fried offerings of savoury parcels filled with green peas and hot chapattis or spicy chaat all conjured up on a smoky wok on those old kerosene burning primus stoves.

“I miss those places too but shall we go to the Pizza place?” that was my suggestion for I just had a hankering for a greasy slice of pizza.

And he agreed with me, “OK then take me to Pizza dhaba my good man.”

Finally this cab was going somewhere. I drove down the Brunswick Street marvelling at how crowded the streets were on weekends after midnight. I still remember the first time when I drove past it on a Saturday night. I was on my way from the Airport to drop a passenger to Kenmore and seeing crowds of young people on Ann Street while driving past the Valley Mall. I had never seen so many young people partying in groups in all my time in Brisbane. While I had seen plenty of men urinating on the streets back home, never before had I seen rowdy young men openly urinating on the roads in a Western country.

“Don’t you have any music in this chariot of yours my good man?”

“I’ll put on the radio”, I said fiddling with the knobs on the dashboard, as the music from B105 filled the cab.

“Angrezi music? My brother don’t you listen to Hindi stuff? Not even when you are alone?”

“Anything for the customer”, I grinned as I switched over to Radio Brisvani, the 24 hour Indian radio station that I always put on while waiting for customers on the graveyard shift. The song that came on was from a major hit from a few years back. And that’s when I realized where I had heard that deep resonant voice, I was so excited that I nearly ran through the red light on Upper Edward Street.

“Oye! Easy does it buddy I am not so hungry” said that voice behind me.

It had to be him. As strange as it seemed I was sure that I knew who he was. It was just a matter of time before I got my chance to ask him. But first I needed to stop for the food and at one am at night it is not too hard getting a parking spot on Edward Street, which I did as I pulled up next to the New York Pizza place.

“We are here? Great, now I am not going to eat alone, so come along and have a bite with me. Don’t worry about your cab charge my biradar, I’ll pay the waiting charges, or the surcharge, flag fall, squeeze the passenger’s wallet or whatever you guys call it.”

I was OK with that, heck I would have paid out of my own pocket to talk with-who-I-think-I-was-going-to-talk-with. We ordered the food, pulled up a seat to sit in the no-frills eating area.

“There is something about you,” I boldly said, “that is very familiar. I have heard your voice before. I am sure I have seen you somewhere before.”

“You must have probably picked me up in your cab before. I must have been too drunk to remember. Hota hai yaar, it happens.”

No, that had not happened. Not in my cab, not here in Brisbane, I just had to press ahead. “You know you have such a very deep and distinctive baritone; it’s the kind of voice that stays with you. The kind of voice that would be an asset to, oh say, maybe an actor?”

There it was, out in the open now. Not very direct question but a hinting at - I think I know who you are – kind of challenge.

He looked up sharply and then his expression changed as he grinned.

“Are you doing a TAFE course from Southbank for becoming a detective? DET101?”

“Surely you must have had people come up to you and comment on your resemblance to Archit Kumar?”, I said boldly.

“Archit Kumar!” he said in a mocking tone, “to be Archit or not to be, that is the question; Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous cabbies. You want to know who I am but you haven’t told me your name yet. Why don’t we start with your name then I’ll tell you mine.”

I could do that, heck I could even recite my family tree if he was going to confirm my suspicion. 

“Well that’s fair enough. My name is Sachin Khosla, I am from New Delhi, and I am doing my Masters in Information Technology from University of Queensland. I stay in shared digs in Toowong and my Aussie mates rib me by calling me Tendulkar. And I drive a cab on the weekends. I could tell you more but I don’t think my life is that exciting.”

“I am going to have another slice of pizza, what about you?”

I really couldn’t eat now, the sheer excitement of getting an answer was getting to me and I declined the offer.

“No more for me thanks.”

“Well I am getting some more” he said and he walked away to the counter. So that was the end of the conversation then. What was that word that Larry used – ‘Bummer’. Bummer indeed! I had made a fool of myself chasing an ex-Bollywood star in Brisbane. Then I smiled to myself thinking how much more my friends now knew about India’s movie industry after getting acquainted with me. Going out to learn Bollywood Dancing in the Metro Arts Building in Edward Street, picking up DVDs of Hindi movies from Geeta down at the McWhirter’s in the valley and watching the Hindi movies that were now being shown not just at Regents in Queen Street Mall but also at the Garden City. Funny I never really watched too many Hindi movies in Delhi but here in Brisbane I had a craving for them just like I sometimes craved a spicy vindaloo. The kind that hits you with the spices and you know the moment you start that you’ve got to control yourself from overeating it but you can’t stop yourself from doing so. And now maybe I was in the presence of my favourite actor from the silver screen.

“So now you want to know who I am?” he was back with another slice of pizza. The funny part is that he seemed to get livelier as the night went on.

“My name is Nikhil Tokas, I come from the Rangpuri village in Delhi”, he looked at me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

There went my Bollywood theory, wait hang on, wasn’t Archit Kumar’s real name Nikhil. And wasn’t he discovered by the famous director Subhash Bhai in the men’s room in the Taj hotel, as the story goes. Well you know, he didn’t actually go looking for actors in the men’s room, just happened to be there at the same time and the rest is a piss of history. Under Subhash Bhai ‘s supervision Nikhil Tokas was transformed into a star Archit Kumar.

“It’s you”, I said really excited now, “It really is you. The star, that vanished into thin air, without a leaving a trace behind. It was the biggest news story of the year. You walked away from a glittering film career, leaving a brief statement with your Secretary that you had opted out of the movies, the glamour and were joining an ashram. I remember how there was media frenzy around various ashrams whenever there was a rumoured sighting. Then they got tired of waiting and the memory of presence just faded away. Why did you get away from it all?”

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Because I could”.

“But why would you do it? Do you mean to say that you walked away from all that fame as a Bollywood star to becoming an unknown entity in Australia on a whim? Do the people you know here have any idea of who you are? Do they even know that you had won three national awards for acting in your short film career? Do they know that your movie, Zulm aur Zalim, is still the biggest box-office hit of all time in India? That you won the MTV-India, and the MTV-Asia award for the best recording artiste. That your duet with Beyonce was nominated for the Grammy.” And I raved like an obsessed fan, which I was, reeling off highlights from the brief but bright career of Archit Kumar.

He smiled again. “Sachin have you ever been to the Ekka?”

“I have” I said wondering what the link was, “Well only once actually. There was this girl I knew who said it was the best thing to happen in Brisbane. She wanted to go to the Ekka and I just wanted to go with her, but what’s your point?”

“I absolutely love it”.

I raised an eyebrow quizzically, this was a man who had partied hard with the best of them at the best night spots in the world and now he wanted to tell me how he loved the annual show of Queensland, which was still organised by the Royal National Agricultural and Industrial Association of Queensland.

He must have seen the expression on my face as he hastened to add, “Really I do. Tell me this, would you not agree that you never see crowds of that nature anytime during the year out here in Brisbane?”
I was thinking more about the crowd at Cannes but I reluctantly agreed, “Yeeaas. I think they had around 700000 people for this year.”

“Ding! That’s correct my statistically minded young friend. You win the prize for the correct answer. You know the very first time I went to the Ekka, it was an unbelievable experience for me and not just because of the Strawberry Ice creams. It was probably the first time in years that I could walk in a crowd and no one knew who I was. Think I could ever do that in Mumbai?”

“I guess in Mumbai you would probably spark a mini stampede if people found out that you were in the crowd. So is that why you left? You couldn’t go anywhere without being recognised and felt a need to run away?”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Tell me about my last movie. What was the story? Where was it set? You should know it, being such a fan, refresh my memory”.

Aha! Movie trivia about my favourite star, this was such an easy question so I told him the answer. “I do indeed. It called ‘Premi - The Lovers’ and was a love story set in New York. It was the poor boy meets rich girl story with a twist. Except that it was not really shot in New York” I said with my voice tapering off.

“And you want to tell me where this New York was situated then?”

“It was shot here in Brisbane. The New York skyline was shot across the river from Southbank, the Story Bridge was palmed off as the Brooklyn Bridge and that park in New York where the lovers met was the New Farm Park.”

“Perfect”, he said with a grin, “Though you missed out on the Macy’s department store in Queen Street Mall, which the shoppers here call Myer.”

“Well you also shot it in parts of California that are in Gold Coast. But what does have to do with you leaving?” I said as I tried to figure out a connection.

“I met someone in Brisbane and who made me realise that it was time for me to be honest about myself and about who I was”.

Wow a scandal on my hand, this was even better than reading the New Idea. Imagine Britney talking to you, giving you the low down on Kevin, it was something like that for me. Man if I was a movie journalist in India this would have made my career right now. Bugger that, even a camera phone video would have done right now. Put it on record and then upload to YouTube.

“You found someone in Brisbane? Who was she? And how did the media not find out about this woman you left that actress for? Because you were engaged weren’t you? I was there in India when it happened. I remember how all the TV channels had nothing else on except ‘exclusive’ stories on your engagement. She was the ex Miss Universe who stole your heart. You did those interviews together and talked about the union of souls and love that comes once in a lifetime. After that came the three movie deal with Spielberg’s production house in India.”

“She knew what she was getting into. I never fooled her about my motives and nor was I in any doubt about hers,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

I watched his face as the words came out and then I knew then that his ‘relationship’ had been a publicity stunt but we, the gullible public, had taken it all in.

“So the engagement was nothing but a career enhancing move then? And then you came to Australia for a shoot, met this girl in Brisbane and didn’t want to live a lie anymore? But you didn’t have to make such a dramatic getaway?”

“True, but who said it was a girl.”

I gaped with my with my mouth open. Had this been a garden in a riverfront house in Fig Tree Pocket, my mouth would have been filled with midges and mozzies by now, in a fairly substantial number.

“But you were the poster boy for affairs before you got engaged. People lost count of the number of women you were linked with.”

“So do you really believe all that you read in the papers and magazines?” he asked in a sardonic tone.

“Oh alright, not everything I read. But you know what they say - no smoke without a fire. How did you go all those years without even a wisp of a scandal? And coming out now to a stranger like me. Aren’t you afraid I will go and blab it all out to some tabloid journalist?”

“I don’t really care,” he said “When I walked away I was confused about who I was. You know when I got an offer to act in the movies I was just a boy from a village near Delhi. Like every other star struck twenty year old, I dreamt of being in the movies. When this stranger came and offered me a role I thought he was kidding me. When I found out that he was serious, I grabbed the chance that I got to fly away from the family coop. To my family I was being foolish and vain. But to me it was an escape route from a stifling future in the family business. I had no desire sitting in a shop selling plumbing equipment.

There was grumbling about my decision. ‘Is he getting above himself that he doesn’t want to work in the family business anymore?’ I heard a lot of comments like that and some were quite hurtful. If it wasn’t a family member then it could be the employees gossiping amongst themselves. ‘What makes the boy think that he can be a star in an industry where millions of dreams get shattered daily?’

But I was adamant on going, and nothing they could say or do could budge me. I put in a lot of hard work in making that first movie. But hard work counts for nothing in this industry. How do you predict what makes one movie a hit and what makes another a flop? I was lucky to start with a hit on my hands. Having a hit spared me from being a victim to the casting couches. Yes you heard that right. It’s not just the women. Within the industry it’s no more a secret that there are gay celebrities. There are gay Indian actors who live an openly gay lifestyle but media still considers it a taboo to bring out this gay Bollywood parade of actors, models, producers, directors, etc to light. Haven’t you heard that that saying ‘Duniya ek mayajaal hai’ – ‘the world is an illusion’. The women you saw me with were just a diversion, a smoke screen, and because they were my friends they were happy to be photographed with me. Nothing comes for free in this world, being with me got them enough publicity to remain in the limelight.”

“And then you came to Brisbane for the movie shoot that changed your life.”

“You make it sound so dramatic, maybe you can write a script about it,” he grinned. “Maybe we can get a retired actor to work in it.”

“The movie was shot in Brisbane but we came very close to not shooting it. The original had the crew landing here a week before the cast and preparing for the shoot. The first thing that went wrong was at the ticketing end and actors landed here a week before the crew. You should have heard the oaths as Mohandas our producer could probably be heard swearing all the way to Mumbai. And then the equipment got misplaced in transit and we ended up with this two week delay before the movie could actually be shot. So we had all this free time to ourselves. If there were any engagements, then most of them involved invitations to the Indian restaurants in Brisbane, some good, some bad, with the obligatory photograph. They put us up in the Hilton. So I made the best use of my time by getting up early and exploring Brisbane. Walked to the Botanical Gardens in the morning, took a round, went and sat in QUT pretending to be a student. Or I would get out of the Hotel and go the other way down Albert Street, walk past King George Square and get on to Wickham Terrace and onto Roma Parklands.

It was on the fifth day of our stay in Brisbane. Unlike the rest of the crew I was up early and walking down Edward Street, as I reached the end of the street I decided to walk along Alice Street, instead of getting into the Botanical Gardens right away. If you get in from the main entrance off Alice Street you come across the Weeping Fig Avenue. It’s funny how calm and tranquil one can become when in the presence of a tree. I found myself being drawn inside. Just trees and patches of early morning sunlight, it is almost like being in the company of ancient and wise sages. At the end of the avenue of wise sages, to the right, was what looked to me like a large Peepul tree. I went towards it and found that I was correct in thinking so. It was indeed a Peepul tree, ‘highly regarded as the tree of wisdom in its native India’, as the Council written blurb went. I knew that and I also knew that the Bodhi tree is named so because Gautam Siddhartha meditated under it as he achieved bodhi or enlightenment, as he became the Buddha. Maybe I needed to be enlightened too, so I sat down under the tree assuming the padmasana, the lotus position. Can you imagine, me, Archit Kumar, meditating under a tree far away from the glare of an intrusive media. And when I opened my eyes there he was. Sitting opposite me looking at me with questioning eyes that sparkled with life.”

Here comes the scoop I thought, so I asked, “Was that the person, you left everything for?”

“I didn’t leave my past life because of any person”, he countered.

Now I was confused. Here I thought I was going to hear about how a Bollywood star chucked his career and left everything for his Australian love, but that wasn’t it?

“I thought you left your past life for someone you met.”

“No I left it because I met someone who asked me if I was honest with myself.”

“So what happened in the Botanical Gardens? Did you experience an epiphany, a spiritual flash that would change the way you viewed yourself?”

“When I opened my eyes after meditating I found this young man looking at me. ‘You looked really serene there,’ he told me, ‘I couldn’t help being drawn towards you.’

He was right for there was peacefulness within me that I hadn’t felt in a long while. ‘It is first time in years when I have had an opportunity to sit and meditate like this’ I told him.

‘Why haven’t you had the opportunity?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, been very busy with my career I guess’.

‘Is running after your career the most important object of your life?’

‘Isn’t that the case with every person making a career? Are we not judged by our success in our field of work?’

‘So out of the twenty four hours in a day you don’t have a spare moment for yourself?’

‘I have people who depend on what I do.’

‘And who do you depend upon?’

‘No one.’

‘Not even yourself?

‘I am who I am.’

‘I had gone to India,’ he told me ‘seeking out the meaning of my life. I spent it wandering from Ashram to Ashram, searching for a Guru. There I was, expending my energy in seeking peace that eluded me, until I came across the works of a very wise man.’

‘And who was that?’

‘Have you heard of a wise Guru by the name of Yogiraj?’

‘I have heard about him. He had followers in the Film Industry. But I never bothered to read him. So what did Yogiraj say that gave you peace?’

‘He wrote about living in the moment. I loved those words so much that they are part of me now. Shall I tell you what they are?’

‘Please do’

And then under the Bodhi Tree in Brisbane, I heard the words of a wise man from India, retold to me by an Aussie. These are the words he said.
You live life as it happens, just live naturally at each moment. If you do that the next moment will come out of it on its own. It’s how we grow in our journey of life, from childhood to old age – there is no need to plan for it, one simply becomes old; it is natural, it happens.
As a river flows and comes to the ocean – the same way – you flow and you come to the end, to the ocean. But one should remain natural, floating and in the moment.
You will lose the moment if you start thinking about the future and ambition and desire.
What is the future but the projection of the past; when you think of the past it is nothing but trying to plan for the future – they are together.
A voyager in the journey of life who lives in the moment now and here is not cluttered with the past and not cluttered with the future, he remains unburdened. He has no burden to carry, he moves without weight.

When he said that it hit me like a ton of bricks, I realised that I had been running away from myself for a long time. Immersing myself in work, taking on new projects, having my dates booked out for shooting had all been a part of that running away. Being busy meant that I did not have to face that I was living a lie by hiding my gay identity. That’s when I decided to walk away from it all.”

We sat there in silence for a while and then I said, “It’s a long way to run away leaving everyone behind.”

He replied with a smile, “You are right on that one. It’s a long way from Rangpuri village near Delhi to Brisbane in Australia. Actually it’s around 6332 miles or 10190 kilometres, if you are interested in that kind of trivia my statistical friend. That’s a long way to live on the other side of the hemisphere. But I had made up my mind and I had the money to achieve my objective. I may not have joined the family business when they expected me to, but I had the means to start a business of my own in Australia. Getting my loyal Secretary to issue a statement about joining an Ashram was enough to send the Media on a wild goose chase while Nikhil Tokas took the flight out to Brisbane.”

With that he got up and said “Well ‘Tendulkar’ maybe it’s time that you dropped me off to this address in Clayfield” as he handed me a business card.

“Any time you get stressed and overworked, give me a call. I might get you a booking in my Yoga retreat in the Gold Coast hinterland. It’s the least I can do for a fan.”

The Hero of 71

The Hero of 71 was confused. There was a stranger sitting in his drawing room holding a cup of tea. Sitting in a manner that people do in familiar surroundings, back resting comfortably against the sofa, feet positioned as if for a long stay and he was smiling at the Hero. Another salesman, thought the Hero, wish they would go away. Though there was something very familiar about that face. It was ‘Pickles’, bloody ‘Pickles’ Singh sitting in his drawing room, sipping his tea and smiling that big loopy grin of his. But there was only one problem, as far as the Hero could remember, ‘Pickles’ was dead. Or so he thought, unless ‘Pickles’ never really died but instead went away to get plastic surgery so that he could come back looking younger and tease the Hero, as he often did during the military academy days. Then again tea was not something Pickles drank at four in the afternoon.
“So who are you?” the Hero heard himself say.
“Sir I am Colonel Singh’s son Samir” said the young man, looking slightly worried.
“Who is Colonel Singh?” asked the Hero, turning to his wife as she walked in to the room. “I don’t know any Colonel Singh.”
“Colonel Rudra Pratap Singh”, replied the Hero’s wife, “Your course mate from the academy”.
“Ah! Pickle’s son”, said the Hero, “So where is your father? Why hasn’t he come with you?”
“Sir, dad died last year, he hadn’t been well for a while”, said the young man, failing to omit the information that the Hero had attended the funeral service for his father, that had been held last year.
It was 10 pm on a Friday night at the officer’s club. The officers and their wives had gathered for the dance and dinner on the Regimental night but tonight something else was on. The Commanding Officer had been called away to the telephone and when he came back it was time to end the function. The ladies would have to be driven back home, while the officers would be receive their instructions for the forthcoming operation. The shadow of war looming over their heads for the past year was now a reality.
“Time to dance with the Pakis, eh Pickles?” said young major to his tall and brooding friend.
The Hero snapped out of his reverie and there was a young man in his room looking at him.
“Hello”, said the Hero, “I don’t think we have met before.”
“Sir I am Samir”, said the young man, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“And have you been here before? Do you stay close by?”
“I am Colonel Singh’s son sir, your next door neighbour”.
“Really?” beamed the Hero, “You must come over some time. So do you stay here or have you come from somewhere?”
“Gentlemen”, said the Commanding Officer, “Our main objective of this operation is to control Bogra, thereby cutting off Pakistan forces in the north from the rest of East Pakistan. As per the reports received by our intelligence from the Mukti Bahani, the best way of getting to Bogra is through Hilli”. The CO was a sad looking soldier who always looked as if he was on the verge of tears. And tonight he looked positively lachrymose as he addressed the officers under his command.
“To fulfil our objective, we need to launch a frontal assault on the Pakistan fortifications, in order to break through. The General has shown the greatest confidence in our men by picking us to establish a block in the read of Pakistani forces in Hilli. This will force the enemy to withdraw to the defence of Bogra.”
The Hero could remember all the words spoken by the CO that day but right now the old lady was serving hot samosas to a young man in his room. Was he one of her relatives or was he one of Amar’s friends?
“Are you here to meet Amar?” he asked “I am sorry we haven’t been introduced yet.”
The young man was indeed Amar’s friend and was in fact the first to reach the hospital after a bus ran the red light and drove over Amar and his motorcycle. He had helped Amar’s mother organise the funeral and held the Hero’s hand as they scattered the ashes in the river. But he couldn’t say all that to the Hero.
“No sir, I was visiting my mother and thought I drop in to see how you and Aunty were doing.”
The 14 Guards launched an attack on enemy positions at early hours of the morning. The Hero’s troops came under intense shelling and heavy small-arms fire, but led by him they pushed on regardless, and were soon engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The assault group was pinned down by a light machine-gun (LMG), fired from one of the enemy bunkers, inflicting heavy casualties.
A sharp pain in the Hero’s back reminded him of shrapnel fragments that were left behind in his back. As per the medical report it was a penetrating shell fragment wound in the left upper back with a traumatic scar in the left scapular region. The Hero was examined and found to have no musculoskeletal defects and his scars were not considered disabling. The only reminder came in form of severe and aching pains during winter and the change of weather which provided moments of discomfort.
“Are you here to sell me the insurance bonds?” said the Hero sternly to the young man in the room. “I said I was not interested on the phone, so why are you here?”
“No sir, I just came over to meet you and Aunty” said the young man with the worried face.
“Aunty? Which bloody Aunty is he talking about?” said the Hero to the woman sitting next to him.
Hero’s wife sighed inwardly. It was with much trepidation she had asked Samir to come and pay a visit. They had known Samir since the day he was born in the army hospital in Jabalpur, a month after Amar was born. Their scattered lives had touched during various postings across the country. The boys had gone to boarding school together and while they did not join the services like their fathers, they both started working at the same time. Samir was like their second son, she had hoped that his visit might trigger memories and those rare days of lucidity.
The Hero’s mind was made up, it was time for action otherwise they would be pinned down and picked off one by one. Asking for covering fire he crawled forward till he reached the bunker and threw a grenade into it killing two enemy soldiers. The MMG was still firing and had to be silenced.
“Are you waiting to meet someone?” asked the Hero to the young man who was sitting facing him. The Hero looked around his own house as if it was an unknown place. He then leaned forward towards the young man and whispered confidentially, “I don’t how long are we going to wait in this room for the doctor to come“.
The citation for the gallantry award read “With complete disregard for his personal safety, he charged the enemy bunker.” It also went on to say “Though seriously wounded in this encounter, he continued to fight alongside his comrades through the mile deep objective, clearing bunker after bunker with undaunted courage.”
There was a familiar face in the Hero’s drawing room.
“Samir!” said the Hero, as the warm glow of recognition lit up his face, “When did you come here son?”