I should like to remind Indians that Indian relevance is not reflected in the Nobel Prize. Indians, through centuries, have partaken, at individual levels, in herculean endeavours that are beyond ability of human understanding; and thus we have lived for untold centuries. The Nobel Prize Committee (God Bless its Collective Notions), in its warm, gilded, tail-coated splendour lives in an era whence it must equate Hinduism and Islam by the way of example in Divergent India and little criminal Pakistan; as if the bestowal of the Nobel Prize to a brave Pakistani girl does favour to Islam, or the other half of the prize, to a Hindu Indian, means anything at all to anyone, except the Indian Media. In all the basking glory and the learned dissertations, the coffee table bullshit and the outpourings from drawing room encyclopediae, has anyone pondered upon and asked as to what manner of monumentally irrelevant arrogance makes the Nobel Committee connect the Indian mandate and Pakistani reality in one breath?
Children are the future. We hold our world in trust for our children who are inheritors of tomorrow. Those that believe in this proposition will work by any means possible in preserving the glories of this world for our children, who will be men and women of tomorrow. They will do so without and in spite of Nobel Committees or the Nobel Prize; or Presidential Medals, Bharat Ratnas and Padma Bhushans of the world; without Freedom of Cities and inane interviews by a media which seems to have supplanted the advertising agency as a repository for the largest collection of deranged drunken morons that society would otherwise chuck out as impenetrable refuse. To those such as you of such persuasions, then, I raise a toast; I mean, a well toasted turd for all your efforts and effusions.
India is a nation. India’s only mandate has been in living in peace; as a land for all – of divergent religious persuasions and passions; of myriad languages, speeches, thoughts, dreams and aspirations. The Indian nation is rooted in that noble and eternal philosophy which grants equality to all as a natural state of being, and not as a charter dressed up with expensive signatures and bond paper – all preserved in a museum – an artefact which exists, in itself, as nothing more than a signature of man’s monumental social, moral and political ego. The world does not fear India’s rise. The world fears China’s advent and the world hates even the mention of Pakistan. Unity in the world is not achieved by yoking a horse together with a feral hyena; and this wisdom is obviously lost in a social club that finds continued relevance in the world by making a brand of a prize funded by the invention of the dynamite, and bestowed upon the so called “deserving”, just like Barak Obama, so as to remain oh, so, fucking relevant.
Let us awaken? Please? Let us not behave like emancipated niggers? Pretty-please? For where there is third party drawing room emancipation, the African or the Indian will never be known by their achievements, but merely as Niggers. Does the media and the intelligentsia understand this hypothesis? Is it understood by the so called pillars of our increasingly corporatised society, whose so called leaders hold positions that indicate no positive value, but solely the reflection of their corporation’s social-climb-calendars; and a sordid career line of “I-lick-yours-and-you-chew-mine”?
To be free is to be something so as to turn our environment into a heaven of equity. Freedom does not entail the right to do whatever the hell you want; in other words, freedom is not to be free without, but to be free to touch skies within. Yet, we persist in dredging depths as though treasure is to be found in the meanest and basest lowest common denominator; and such is the tragedy. The climb towards excellence is present in every individual human, whatever be his or her station. Yet, human institutions live not by excellence, but by the base, mean, and prejudiced perpetuation of the idea of excellence. The time for change is past. It is now the hour of action. And one would be grateful for tiny, tender mercies, if such actions also took seed in the core of such institutes like the Nobel Committee.
The first friend I made in Greenlaws School Worli was a boy who had a proclivity for red-striped white, baggy PT shorts. He was nut brown and possessed prominent eyebrows which did nothing to hide his penetrative look and quickness in the uptake. He was matured beyond his years; this maturity was especially prominent betwixt his ears. He often invited me during our lunch break to partake of contents off his stainless steel tiffin box, in which fresh and hot food would arrive daily from his home. And never have I tasted pulses more wholesome; or white pumpkin, cooked in coconut gravy – more delicious. Whoever the cook was, is entitled to my eternal gratitude; the food seemed to get better with the passage of time. Perhaps the cook had an inkling that I was waiting, unseen, in school, ravenously, to attack Ravindra Bhat’s tiffin, while he looked on with amusement. In the meanwhile, and in time away from invading Ravi’s victuals, I was introduced to Rajesh Lala.
On the face of it, “Lala”, as we called him, could take a bus apart with his bare hands by the time he was a toddler. Like me, Lala was built big. Unlike me, he was sharp and popular; the generosity of spirit that illustrated Lala’s existence then is firmly intact in present times, and growing; though he, thankfully, has stopped growing taller – and I reserve my comments on the aspects that define a “broader” growth. His laugh remains as loud as it was then – though in school his voice was not yet cracked by adult tragedies; and a slap on the back from Lala could turn anyone inside out – if that makes any sense. His sense of fun was and remains perfectly gorgeous. And if his sense of fun emanates from the heights of spirit, then, surely, his voice rumbles up from the depths of the abyss. Lala once walked into a silent classroom, and boomed – “SANNATA…” The classroom thereafter was silent no more; for we had either jumped out of our skins or fallen off our chairs; or, as in my own case – gone cleanly off my rocker; Lala’s voice is frequently registered in seismographs located in caves in Southern Peru. Many earthquakes that have shaken Japan have had their genesis in Lala’s vocal chords. We could point Lala in any direction and ask him to holler. And upon investigation, we would find many a fine city ground to dust purely by the power of sound that he is still capable of producing; it is a blessing from Providence that both superpowers, during the cold war, did not know of Lala’s existence. Lala in a restaurant implies clear and present danger; for he has that sterling ability to distract all patrons into helpless laughter; and even nullify hard feelings of slaughter that cooked chicken must bear for the human consumer. And as for the ubiquitous vegetable – I am ever present. Hidden in this large portion of humanity named Lala is a sensitive and deeply spiritual soul that has been tempered by many tragedies and sorrows; of many disappointments, rejections and on occasion, by existential crisis. But Lala is a high spirit and a great soul who brings the best out of others and be a friend to all without stint. He remains one of my very best friends; and I profit pricelessly from his companionship, guidance and kindness. Lala has no enemy. He conquers everyone and overcomes all. In ancient times, and in Greece, his name, surely, would be “Theophile” – for it means “Beloved of the Gods”.
About the same time, I became friends with Prashant Ruia and Mahesh Rajgarhia.
Advanced RC Models Parked at Aamby Valley Airport
Passing back to Ravi Bhat, he was fascinated by my stories of aeromodelling. I was unable to indulge his fascination in those years. But as of now, and these times, I intend, very soon, to take him one day to the flying field, and spend a few hours of watching him watching airplanes with utter delight. The picture above is for him. I snapped it when formally covering the Aamby Valley Aeromodelling Show in 2011. Ravi quickly became my guide in school. Waiting in the wings were Prashant Ruia and Manesh Rajgarhia. Before I devote the next article to Manesh Rajgarhia, I shall first write on Prashant Ruia.
Prashant was the de-facto leader of class; he signified ancient Roman virtues, even at the age of 12, of pietas, gravitas et simplicitas. Prashant was a quiet listener. He was extremely sharp; and could catch out adults, advanced over him in age and experience, in any inconsistency. He was the epitome of common sense; and like an actor of genius ever on stage, he never made a meaningless gesture, or spoke any irrelevant word. It was quickly apparent to me that he was a champion sportsman; he represented school and state in the Intermediate Badminton Championships, and was possessed of a Carbon Fibre strung Yonex Badminton Racquet. I am told that the price of that racquet was a thousand rupees in Indian money; an air ticket to Calcutta, then, was eight hundred rupees under monopoly conditions of Indian Airlines. Prashant and I would have long conversations in the bus ride back home; these ranged through many subjects – though young, he was extremely well-read. We spoke often of aeromodelling wherein his descriptions of his aircraft, which were either in Madras or in Calcutta, would boggle my young mind; yes, Prashant has been one of those instrumental in planting in me the seed for model airplanes. On some days, his car would drop me off, which was a sky blue Premier Padmini, driven by a chauffeur in a khaki uniform. On other days, he would invite me upstairs into his home in Jeevan Jyot Building, Setalvad Lane; I remember lime juice being served, or the occasional Gold Spot to quench a day long thirst. On some Saturdays, I would walk down from my home to Jeevan Jyot, to see Manesh Rajgarhia already present with Prashant; and both friends engrossed in the deepest conversation. On a particular occasion, I found both Prashant and Manesh staring intently into a large JVC or Akai television that adorned Prashant’s living room, rewinding the same sequence on video, over and over again. It turned out that they had been watching a Western named “One Silver Dollar“, and watching, over and over, the shot of someone flicking a silver dollar and shooting a stray baddie with a Colt 45. I think, that in the movie, the baddie’s body remained intact; and I am surprised – for a Colt 45 with soft nosed bullets is so violently powerful, that it could kill a person shot in his thigh; and cleanly blow away upper limbs. To be shot in the torso with a 45 is catastrophic – it can result in an explosion of ripped flesh and blood; tissue and quantities of shredded intestines. Prashant once was afflicted by jaundice, and was absent from school for a number of days. I spoke to him on the telephone and he invited me over. I found him in his corner room, which was upholstered in very light blue – sitting on his carpet and deeply engrossed in a hundred piece jigsaw puzzle of a Porsche 911(was it?). I am afraid that bits and pieces of coloured cardboard failed to hold my interest for long; for I was more concerned with owning the real thing. But seen in perspective and in retrospect, perhaps I should have paid more attention to the jigsaw puzzle – for today, Prashant, if he turns his sights in that direction, can buy Porsche AG, while I can afford the puzzle (I think).
On another occasion, I was invited to a mid day dinner at Prashant’s home. It was a monsoon afternoon, and the winds boomed about the bay windows of Prashant’s living room. The ceaseless pitter and patter of rain accompanied our meal, which was composed of small and exquisitely turned out vegetable samosas served with varieties of chutneys, peas pilaf, dal, aloo-tamatar-ka-saag, chapatis, buttermilk and pudding; a sumptuous feast. I think Prashant’s aunt served us; I was struck because she addressed us children with the honorific “aap” instead of the “tum” that we usually expected. Manesh was with us; and while I listened, he carried on a lively conversation with everyone present. Such independence was not permitted to us from Bengal; and freedom – to be really free – has always held fascination for me.
Such were those delightful days, passed without worry and without need for extra hope; for life itself was a bouquet of so many hopes, joys and fulfilled expectations. Nowadays we bear the stigmata of adulthood and rapidly increasing years of age. Time, which once never seemed to pass, now passes as quickly as the wind; and so it become more important to enjoy ourselves, for it is greater than we think.
The Blog by a Blob 
You must be logged in to post a comment.