Sleeping with Enemy

Characters:

Place: Eisenach, a city in Germany

Mr. Khemka: An Indian businessman aged about sixty on a business visit to buy used machinery

Mr. Jagtar Singh Randhawa aged about fifty, a resident of Frankfurt, our friend and guide in Germany

Hilda: A bar tender, aged about thirty five, a former communist party spy

Heidi: Deceased elder sister of Hilda, a talented gymnast

“Good night Frau Hilda”.

Mr. Khemka got up and winked at me to carry on.

His Frankfurt based friend Jagtar reluctantly dismounted the tall stool; he didn’t seem ready to leave the tastefully decorated bar after only two drinks.

Mr. Khemka prevailed and he had to bid a reluctant good bye. I knew they were exhausted and immediately left for their room. Mr. Khemka was not eager to listen to my mundane talk with Hilda, the vivacious bar tender. But the lively Jagtar didn’t seem to mind and was curious about my questions. The day has seen grueling long drives, a dreary visit to a ghosted plant and concluding in a business meeting extending late in to evening. The Germans were hard negotiators and wanted a better offer, matching the crafty Chinese.

A smiling Hilda handed me a drink looking amusingly at my departing friends. She loved to practice conversing in English and was seriously taking language lessons as so many others there. She had son from her failed second marriage, and was worried about him as any single mother would be. Our stay in the modest hotel has been about two weeks long and I managed to develop an admiration for her and wanted to know more about her life during communist rule in East Germany. A worried Sardar Jagtar has warmed me not to ask political questions or I am destined to get a suitable thrashing from hurt and angry Germans.

I found myself alone facing Hilda at the bar. The guests have preferred to watch and participate in a fashion show in next door.

“Do you find my English better than before?” She asked less haltingly.

“Yes you have improved a lot in last few days.” I said admiringly.

 “Are you sure?”

“Damn sure I am Hilda.” I was assuring her, as she did look suitably disposed to tell me about her past. A very tricky venture, as she was also prone to relapse in her own thoughts and ignore my attempts to seek her story.  The sad eyes did betray a hard life led under repressive communist rule. Or I thought that was my own biased presumption, as she might have been happy leading a team of welders in a now closed big automobile factory.

“You have been to Frankfurt many times; do you think I will find work there?”

It was an innocent question but difficult to answer.  Being a foreigner and totally clueless about the employment scenario there. But knew a positive reply would certainly edge me nearer to my own selfish motive.

“What work do you think I could find?” Hilda seemed eager to know my answer, displaying a childlike curiosity.

“A bar girl as you are now.”

“I don’t like it, I want to do some thing else.”

“As a welder perhaps, that was your job in factory here. Wasn’t it?” I reminded her.

“No. Not that. What else can I do there?”

I was again speechless as the repertoire of her skills was not yet disclosed.

“I wish Heidi was there to help me.” She suddenly had moist eyes and voice betrayed suppressed emotions.

I decided to keep my silence, as she wiped away her tears.

“Heidi was a talented gymnast. Every one thought she will win a gold medal for us at Olympics.” 

“She was my elder sister, three years older and I used to feel very secure when she was around. Now I feel so lost and insecure with no one to guide me.”

“She died last year.”

Hilda was silent for some time, thinking with her elbows resting on counter, face held by her slender hands.

“Do you want to know why and how she died?”

I didn’t know how to say yes in such a situation. I was tense and did want to let her unburden herself. She looked at me to judge my interest in story of her diseased sister, and must have read my morbid interest oozing out shamefully.

“Ok. Let me be relieved in few minutes, than we can sit down and talk.”

On eve of two holidays, I could afford to retire late, with out a phone call and rebuke by my friends.

………..To be continued

********************

Sleeping with Enemy

(Part 2)

“That man in turban wants to sleep with me, doesn’t he?”

              I was taken aback by her question and speechless. Being silent was to confirm her; a denial would have lead to many more questions.

              “Who wouldn’t?” My own question seemed natural. She laughed heartily and then fell silent for a long time.

Mission Accomplished

Implementing an Order-Indian Style

The Back Ground:

It happened few years down the line.

There was a call from elders in my locality who commanded I must accompany them to meet the chief minister.

They perhaps needed to have few younger faces in the entourage to meet the big man. It so happened that a big gang of tough looking guys had audacity to forcibly occupied a big piece of prime public land. They come with gunmen, masons, truck loads of building material and bulldozers.  The piece of prime land was allotted for a much needed park and a play ground. They chose to strike on eve of rare consecutive three holidays in a row including 15^th August, a second Saturday and one restricted holiday or some thing of that sort.

The Big Man:

He was and still is a highly respected and affable grand old man of Indian politics.

Who even with little formal education, could hold forth on complex social and political issues.

A moderate self learned politician with an uncanny gift of making friends out of arch enemies.

The Spirited Entourage:

A friendly retired IAS, a greedy but skilled doctor, a dashing  retired Colonel,  a doughty lawyer, a canny political fixer, a not so social- rich social worker and few fat ambitious businessmen.

Few others like me on fringe to add weight to the team and make it big enough to convey immediate mission of a large social concern. They were aware of big man’s penchant for meeting large groups.

The sequence of events:

6.00 AM

We started of in 4 cars, dot on time. The pushy colonel made sure we did.

I sat with my friend, an architect who thought very badly of such an incident in the locality with so many professionals and well connected.

6.20 AM

We parked the cars and arrived at the imposing gate of the chief ministers sprawling official residence.

The political fixer knew the guards and our entry were easy to the hallowed premises.

We walked like a really motivated-possessed team out to make a difference and teach the scoundrels a befitting lesson.

The front of the team was carefully chosen- the IAS, the lawyer, the Colonel, the female social worker in full makeup and of course the fixer.

CM was famous for ignoring the leaders of the groups and talk to any one he might fancy.

We all were tutored all details and expected answers.

In event of a goof up the IAS, the lawyer, the Colonel and the social worker would take over.

6.30 AM

We were ushered in the hushed environment of an ante room.

The private secretary knew the IAS and promised to materialize the meeting as soon as possible.

But politely informed that “Saab” was feeling little indisposed and might see his doctor waiting in next room.

A delegation of villagers was with him and it was expected to take some time.

6.50 AM

With thumping expectant hearts we entered the drawing hall.

The big man in his wisdom had decided to meet us in midst of a group of still present little angry villagers.

They were out to make the old man help them in some irrigation related crisis.

The he looked fresh supporting a trade marked white dhoti and kurta with a matching brown jacket.

 The wide sofa he occupied could accommodate three more person to confide privately even in midst of a crowded hall.

The alert fixer managed to catch his eyes and rushed to touch his feet. Immediately offered the bundle of Paan to the CM and received a pat on the back, he immediately disclosed purpose of the visit, before the leader of villagers could restart his monologue.

On the cue, the IAS introduced him self, the mission of the team and the grave incident involving dreaded land mafia.

The CM knew the IAS and looked suitably concerned with the incident in the state capital.

CM:  What you expect me to do? When such a senior officer like you could have done a lot?

The hushed silence was broken by the doughty lawyer explaining the efforts made in spite of the police inaction.

CM: Did you talk to the Collector?

IAS: Sir, we could not, he was out.

An annoyed CM instructed the PA to call the Collector.

CM: How such a thing could happen with you all people residing there?

All were seemingly flabbergasted but the dashing Colonel took over.

Colonel: Sir they did their criminal deeds at night under barrel of guns. I too have a licensed gun, but would not take law in my hands.

The big man nodded agreeably. The call to locate the illusive Collector was still in progress,

The group of wide eyed villagers was sipping tea and seemed to be enjoying the unfolding drama.

They looked quite uncomfortable managing the cutlery. Most were sipping the piping hot tea from saucer holding thin bone china cup in other hand.

CM: Now you tell me, what should I do?

 Our leaders seemed utterly confused by the loaded question.

CM: Should I solve problems of well to do city people or of these poor villagers from faraway border area? They have traveled for days for this meeting and you have landed here in few minutes.

Our leaders looked beaten and confused, weighing various possible answers. The canny political fixer proved to be an asset.

Fixer: Sir, we all are equal before your wisdom and power.

The CM didn’t look at us but seemed to like the dialogue as a faint smile broke on his wizened face.

The collector was at last located and CM talked to him loudly.

CM: “Yeh kya ho raha hai shahar main collector saab? Aap log kya dekhten hain? I am sending these people to you. Do some thing and report the progress.”

Mean while the tea has been served to our group.

The patient leader of the villagers has found the needed gap. He reinitiated his polite but firm dialogue with the CM. All seem to nod in agreement and listened with rapt attention. The force of simply dressed, diminutive villager must have shattered the myopic vision we the city dwellers had about uneducated village leaders.

8.05 AM

The spirited entourage arrived at the Collector’s residence.

There we waited for more than half an hour. The collector was busy holding important meeting with his deputies.

He looked greatly concerned to hear about the criminal incident, involving some known hoodlums.

The tall aristocratic man from Jodhpur was gracious enough to serve us some much needed snacks as we poured our plight to him.

Our interaction was frequently disrupted by hurried parleys his deputies held with him.

His residence looked and functioned like an office; as various telephones ringing in next room and busy looking red eyed staff rushing in and out with wireless handsets.

He would listen, demand details, convey displeasure, decisions and concern with firm conviction.

We all were impressed and sat transfixed, seeing the state machinery working over time to administer the complex network of the state capital:

The road accidents, traffic blocks, brewing political agitation, arrivals and departures of VIPs, movement of CM, red alerts, terrorist threats, power cuts, water shortage, demolition drives, traders delegations, student agitation, antique smuggler’s arrest, drug addicts death, triple murder-crime of passions, bank robbery, escape of dreaded prisoners from jail, literary seminars and large religious discourse, governmental permissions and refusals.

The ritual seeking an explanation was repeated by the collector.

He asked to be connected to the superintendent of police immediately.

Collector: SP saab yeh kya ho raha hai shahar main? Goondo ki mann manni chal rahi hai.

I am sending these people to you, do some thing fast and report. I have to inform the CM by evening.

Salon ko band kar deejeeye aaj.

We were assured that strict action would be taken against the miscreants.

For that the SP must be told by us about the event in details.

As we emerged from the collector’s bungalow, two businessmen excused them selves.

Meeting the CM and collector was important addition; some thing to brag about.

But naming the hoodlums to SP was some thing they didn’t like to be a part of.

They told the IAS, lawyer and social worker their fears of reprisals from the dreaded ruffians.

9.10 AM

The SP was expected to arrive at his bungalow any moment and we were told to wait.

The presence of retired IAS made thing easy and chairs were pulled out for us.

The dashing SP arrived waving a badminton racket and instantly recognized the IAS.

Tea arrived immediately and he excused himself to get ready for the hard day ahead.

He emerged dressed in police fineries and regally sat down to listen to us.

Instructions were given to get DSP on phone immediately.

SP: Ab kya kiya jaye aap log jaante hai kya politics chal rahi hai yahan. It’s all off the records please. Kaheen quote mat kar dena ji.

Social Worker: Kuch hoga ya naheen yeh batlayiye aap.

SP: Why not, the action will be taken today itself.

Lawyer:  Our complaint was not taken seriously at the police station. They did nothing at all.

SP: I don’t deny some black sheep in police as elsewhere. But this is no excuse I agree.

The DSP a deeply religious man was found to be engaged in pooja and would only be available at 10.30

SP: Oh it’s Tuesday and Sharmaji will take time, it’s well known to us. Sorry, please be patient and be     here.

I will ask you to come to my office when I have full information with me.

He stood up and got in his car; leaving us dangling between hopes and despairs.

But we the fighters decided to hold on and see to it that the mission was accomplished, come what may.

10.00 AM

The now fatigued elders with age related ailments remembered the troubled families and medicines.

The Old IAS too decided to depart and promised to be available on phone to make things easy for us.

With the pillar departed we felt hollow and incapable to take on the fight ahead.

The doughty lawyer, social worker and colonel assured us of able leadership qualities and contacts they have.

The political fixer was busy talking to few policemen on duty.

 We looked at him with immense hope for his trouble shooting skills, contacts and felt safe for the battle ahead.

11.10 AM

We were asked go to the SP office situated amidst busy market.

The lawyer and social worker were angry and told us to proceed ahead.

They were getting late for their important appointments.

We four the colonel, the architect, the political fixer and I decided to move ahead with still present but a waning zeal.

11.50 AM

SP told us about his brief to DSP, who would help us in our endeavor.

The DSP will be able to meet us at about 12.00 in his office.

 But he might get late, busy supervising a demolishing drive in other part of city.

12.20 PM

We arrive at DSP office. He was expected any moment.

1.20 PM

No sign of DSP yet. We go out and drink some juice to carry on. Political fixer stayed back to keep an eye on arrival of DSP.

1.50 PM

We are immensely relieved to a pot bellied; paan chewing police man walking up the corridor and enter the DSP chamber.

Few policemen followed with bulk of files and the door was closed.

We were curtly told to wait.

2.30 PM

An amused DSP heard us and made few phone calls. We were told to relax and go home.

Colonel: No problem, we will be here till some thing is really done.

DSP: You can stay here if you wish, but the bulldozers and men will take time to arrive.

They are busy 20 Km away and still not sure when will be free.

You know these machines take time to move, don’t you? There are few official formalities to be done too.

3.30 PM

DSP was enclosed with deputies, no info about arrival of the bulldozers and men.

4.30 PM

A stern looking rosy cheeked inspector notes down the sequence of events.

Still no info about machines and men as their location remains unknown.

Meanwhile we have gulped numerous cups of sugary tea at out side tea stalls.

Had no lunch to keep eye and put pressure by our continued presence.

Nothing seems to move an inch and we felt helpless.

5.30 PM

We went to DSP to remind him about CM’s interest and anger.

He looked amused and asks us to wait a little more.

5.45 PM

We got the good news that the bulldozers and men are on the way to the site.

Our sprits soured and rushed to catch up with the convoy.

The bull dozer and truck load of policemen were standing by road side.

The Bull dozer has developed fault.

We smelled rat and threaten to report to the chief minister and call the press right there.

They grumbled but after some time moved.

6.45 PM

The convoy rumbled to the sight.

The guards left by hoodlum ran away after shouting threats of severe reprisals.

Photographs of site were taken by the police photographer.

7.45 PM

The illegal structures made under shadow of guns and threats lay dismantled.

We felt happy and colonel immediately threw a party and invited all involved.

The canny political fixer called the DSP too.

The mission was accomplished at last.

This is possible only in India…

Mera Bharat Mahaan…

Jai Hind….

It was only a few months ago and took little space in newspapers; hidden in some corner surrounded by cheap commercial ads. A life lost, a human being crushed on roads with rampaging traffic, children orphaned is of little value; or it seems that inconsequential? When death toll cross half a dozen, a respectable space on front page is given, because it now a big news. TV cameras descent like swarm of locust, news hounds rush to be the first and announce their so called exclusive coverage with a childish glee.

We had stopped on the way back to city early morning at a Dhaba, famous for its spicy tea, strategically located at a sharp dangerous curve. They could have surely done a better job, but we all know how careless some of us can be with such an onerous responsibility.

A strange smell hung in the early morning crisp winter air; may be some open sever nearby.

 It was still early and visibility was poor. Savoring the hot concoction I noticed a pack of dogs furiously licking a portion of road. The pack will skillfully get back to let the thunderous overloaded trucks pass and rush back to engage in their urgent business. Dogs fought and would not let others to encroach upon their own invisible boundaries. The fighting was ferocious and what ever they devoured some thing special; I presumed. It was quite a large area they covered; the numbers of large and healthy dogs were impressive about a dozen. The poor, small and weak watched with hungry looks from a safe distance, as the stronger made their threats quite loud and clear. Few trespassers were dealt with loud barks and deadly attacks; making those foolish pups ran away from a severe mauling.

I though they were licking on some spilled mil or food left over.

But a casual enquiry with a waiter made me sick with nausea and horror. What the dogs were so eagerly devouring were remains of an unfortunate human being,  a speeding truck had crushed late last night. His departing cries must have been lost in thunder of hundreds of truck marching in line to deliver goods to the city. The mighty convey flattened his remains on road, reducing him to paste. Whatever blood that body had was splashed on the road and most of it gorged by the large wheels, making a visible line of crushed bones and flesh fragments to no where.

The scent of blood drew dogs and they devoured whatever was possible.

The lone baggage of the unknown departing soul was reportedly lifted by a resident scavenger.

Will his nears and dears ever know what happened to him and how he died?

File closed and buried in damp store house of unsolved common miseries.

A police post was nearby with sand bags and pot bellied policemen lounging around.

They did not hear and obviously did nothing, have they ever with few exceptional burst of duty?

With no clue left of that unfortunate man, policemen simply recorded a data: an unknown man crushed by unknown truck on such and such road under such and such police station.

One more anonymous death on road doesn’t make any difference to us; we are so many by the way.

Death is easy on Indian roads, notoriously undisciplined with marvels of shoddy workmanship.

Sharp unsafe radius and visual obstructions coupled with dangerous driving habits and media promoted irresponsible driving stunts.

Thousands of lives are lost and no one is bothered.

Doom II gets award for best stunts abroad, prompting stunt masters to conjure up new impossibly dangerous stunts for Rhitik, Rahrukh, Akshay and others.

More copy cat stunts more deaths on roads.

Years ago I got a shock of my life confronted with a clueless, unprofessional chief engineer, trying to bamboozle us, the concerned citizens about a dangerous turn at a right angle with no turning radius. We some how got the DC suitably concerned and he graciously made him self available for on the spot inspection.

The fat chief engineer justified the monstrosity because of the limitations and all those lame mumbo jumbo technicalities.

But he didn’t know that I come prepared to puncture his shameful deceit and ignorance.

He was transferred as the concerned DC got very angry with him.

But he will continue to be unprofessional and be deceitful where ever he will go.

Few more dangerous roads will devour more lives and he will retire to become Principal of one of many mushrooming engineering collages.

And he did....

It can happen only in India.

Mera Bharat Mahaan….

Jai Hind…

I do not understand these utterly fragile sensibilities of some of us or rather most of us, which seem to rattle so often.

Isn’t immature to expect fawning praise should only to be bestowed on so many of our great personalities?

Should there be any attempt allowed to write about their supposed short comings and bad judgments or not?

We seem to add new gods to be worshipped so eagerly and don’t want new questions, any critical appraisals, rightly or wrongly?

I am sorry to have reacted rather strongly, because to me it reeks of limited vision and lack of respect for divergent views.

He writes what thinks, and he is not a politician to bother about vote banks before picking up his pen.

The country and society which refuses to listen to severe criticism, right or wrong is not growing enough.

It is an area of darkness which is crying for a sun to expose some stinking garbage and decay.

Who are these people who have so brittle sensibilities?

Have a look a close look around and we will find an army of upstart small time political hanger-on’s  ready to pounce on any opportunities to create trouble; raveling in their own 20 seconds of fame on news hungry channels.

These are hoodlums on waiting for a political anointment and a life long career of deceit.

Whatever are the provocations, big or small they gang to show their muscle power and general disorder, discomfiture to public.

They stage bunds, road blocks, set public and private property on fire and watch gleefully as more or less their arrival is noticed by the media.

They may be supporting tilaks, beards or special head gears to announce their sect or religion, which they have made so fragile to be humbled by just any one, any incident small or big, any where in the world.

All this halla gulla compels media to hold lame debates and discussions and some of these worthies spew venom, threaten blood sheds.

We sit and watch on horror as grievously ill patents race to medical centre, meetings, interviews, jobs, engagements, functions and those rare outings go up in smoke.

Crafty businessmen and traders move goods from shops and warehouses fill in rags and pay criminals to set fire to their own establishments, they make millions.

It is established beyond any reasonable doubts that we are enraged by such and such statement, poster, and desecration hence some thing must be done.

Banishing of a book, stoning of a writer, tearing away those blasphemous paintings, preventing a movie release is instantly justified.

And the so called civil society has achieved one more mile stone by punishing freedom of speech.

However our sensibilities are not enraged by all around criminality, deceit, corruption, theft and misuse of public money.

The guardians of our sensibilities are not bothered to touch these long standing problems and they aim their guns only for items of high dramatic value and their own instant enhancements.

Mobile Aggressions

We got used to mobiles long back and these gadgets do provide increasing array of services.

Recent television advertisement of MOTOROLA MOBILE, called RAZR has aggressive display of violence.

It is nauseating and distasteful use of an instrument of immense utility as a lethal razor blade.

A nattily dressed girl in black is shown walking on a swanky railway platform.

Enters, an equally natty boy with menacing bearings, he takes his RAZR mobile out use it as a sharp edged weapon and slashes cloths of the girl.

The girl pays back to the aggressor by using her own RAZR on the boy.

They then are showed to indulge an acrobatic fight; ultimately the girl takes the boy down and rides him suggestively.

She gets up and runs to get in to swanky train, the doors are closed.

But the boy with designer cuts get up aims and throws the blade (RAZR), which pierces the steel exterior of the train and stuck there.

The message about the mobile are flashed.

My question is will any enlightened advertisement folks will care to answer the suitability and utility of use of violence in advertisement of such products or for that matter any products?

Or its other way round, when the creative juices dry up or are nonexistent; use gals, glamour, greed and guns to sell products?

I found this advertisement extremely distasteful and nauseating.

I am about to lodge my protests to the crazy people at MOTOROLA, who unleashed it on me.

I presume they will fight back valiantly to assert and sustain their freedom of creative aggression….

Any fallow passenger’s folks?

CREATIVITY & INNOVATION

The word innovation has been defined from varied perspectives and in today’s competitive work environment is being given due recognition and emphasis, though not enough.