Small Change, Big Fish

A middle-class suburb.

7:30 a.m.

77 degrees and cloudy.

A young lad was waiting out on the grass. Waiting for change. Adjusting his glasses, fidgeting on his cellphone, hoping for the sun to not break out of the clouds soon & wishing that the clouds did not get too happy pwning the sun and over-did the favor by raining down on him – and, waiting for change.

People were slowly trickling into the center, as the morning slowly sobered up from the frigid one-eyed yawn into a mumbling Pearl Jam song.

The lad was oblivious to all this. His mind had wandered off. This was his second opportunity at letting the wheel of democracy creak and set in motion prospects of a better future. And he was feeling like a speck of dust on the wheel of change. More alone than ever.

But was he alone, really? Could he, but for those fleeting moments before the act, not feel a thousand voices coaxing him on? Could he, but for his Gears of War & NFS skills, not isolate every single voice in that melee? Yes, he could. And all of them were with him – wishing for change.

Vote an Idea, Sirjee!

The man who lost his job because he did not support Hu Jintao as his Chairman was with him. 

The guy who had been kicked out of his house because ‘The Party’ needed it for a local office was with him.

The mother whose kid had been devoured alive by dogs in the outdoor ward of a government hospital was with him. 

The young lad who had lost his right to a job, because of being deprived of English as a language in school till Class VI, was with him.

The labourers and clerks who lost their jobs because they refused to go on hartal with the CITU against the 'capitalist' American owners  were with him.

The lady whose B.Tech degree went a-begging because ‘The Party’ didn’t allow computers to be used in offices in the state was with him.

The farmers at Nandigram who were butchered by the State police because they “did not get with the program, bitchezz”, were with him.

The journalist caned out of Singur for portraying the establishment in a frank light was with him.

The gentleman who had been clobbered beyond reckoning because the cadres were not paid their due ‘chanda & pujo maalkori’ was with him.

The autowallahs, bus drivers, rickshaw pullers and truck drivers who had been unofficially taxed to the last penny by ‘sympathetic’ Comrades were with him.  

The ‘budhhijibis’ and ‘biddojons’, who had been slandered, abused and taken potshots at because they protested against the ‘socialist, pro-people’ agenda, were with him. 

The young 'Catering' entrepreneur who had been given the boot in subsidies for not entertaining the 10,000+ Brigade-goers was with him.

The son who lost his father because no ambulance reached his doorstep as a ‘bandh’/‘(strike)’ had been called for the larger good, was with him.  

No he was not alone. 22 million people were with him. Wishing for change.

Admitted, the change might be small. After all, power only changes hands – and more often than not, the hands retain the hunger for it, along with a wry, disdainful disregard for any moral or ethical accountability to the electorate. But even a small change can unsettle the big fish.

And the lad has had a good premonition that the Bong electorate might fry a lot of fish this time. Big, small and the others. 

A middle-class suburb.

7:45 a.m.

77 degrees and cloudy.

A young lad is walking out on the grass. Waiting for change.

He knows it is not long now…..

Get Off Your High Horse Lady….

“Lava . Lava flowing down the streets.. No one can survive that dude!”

What.The.Fuck? I was laughing at these retards sitting in a hurdle, hollering at each other over issues. Issues that ranged from lighting a half-smoked beedi to the Triple Knockout Punch to Japan from Mother Nature.

I was travelling in a local train back home from a colleague’s wedding, in a compartment that had triple the number of people it could carry. And it seemed that the epicenter of everything stupid – from being oblivious of the “Smoking Prohibited” sign in the train compartments to the fact that Tsunamis involve water and not lava (Looking back, this might not be their fault after all. This is what you get when you watch too much of NDTV & Sagarika Ghose). 

A sudden comment from a well-dressed lady that questioned the parentage of the men broke all hell loose. A fight broke out. Not a fistfight. Bengalis never wield fists. Their tongues are better at the art than their maach-bhaat muscles. Two ladies had objected to the loud hollering and the beedi-jalayile-fog in the compartment. Hence the commotion.

Yo dawwg! Local train iz da thang yo!!

Correction – the local trains in Bengal do not carry ladies. Ladies who like chocolate and like their bunnies close by while asleep or ladies who smiley-SMS their boyfriends 10 times/second that is. The women (most of them, I apologize to generalize) here are Mamata-fangirls. And therefore, to say that the ladies have the upper hand in a tongue-wagging, fist-swirling, eye-rolling debate here is a massive under-statement. 

And caught in the crossfire was me. I knew that taking sides was meaningless, as both parties were wrong. Men – to smoke beedis, and the ladies – to use words that would make Army jawans wet their pants.

I was desperately trying to lose myself in my iPod, but to no avail. I started cursing myself for taking a train back home, at a time when offishers and claarks ruled the locomotive routes.

After my initial struggle, I gave in and switched the gadget off. And just stood there. The fight had receded. The ladies were still grumbling. And the jokes kept being pounded on each other till kingdom come.

But there was a subtle difference. Some of the jokes and the meaningless, crude leg-pulling actually were making me laugh, now that I was paying more attention (though forced). And laughing with me were passengers who belonged to every damn class that India held in its bold but scarred economy. The laborers, the hawkers, the peons, the clerks, the office assistants, the team-leaders, the assistant managers, et al. If BJP would have been in my place, “India Shining” would have been baptized “India Smirking” for sure.

And then they came. Random, unexpected incidents. Two guys who had been swearing the most and who I had labeled ‘pigs’ for the first half-hour of travel, gave up their seats to two elderly ladies – and were the most modest, loving examples of men you could imagine. A guy who had smuggled beedis into the compartment gave away his lunch to 2 little kids at a station. An impromptu donation campaign was worked up inside the compartment for a co-passenger some barely knew – who had confessed to his kids’ school fees going unpaid because of fat medical bills back home.

Did they feel Jesus-y for a day? Maybe. Was it just an off day for Satan? Maybe.

I am not justifying the wrongs. All I want to say is – You need to get off your high horse, lady, to appreciate what is good around you.

For I was wrenched off the high pedestal I had placed myself on, by the collar, by these very men who I thought were repulsive and sick. Sure they still were, but that didn’t stop them from having shades of good too, innit?

It only took me an hour’s train ride to realize it. What will it take of you?