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…..

Autos & the Great Class Divide

Prologue – By autos, I do not mean the swanky Volkswagen Jetta or the Lamborghini Gallardo. I mean this. So if you had any plans to read up an article on your dream ride, dream more about it, and then get back to coding software, this is NOT for you.

Ok, so – most of you who stayed, know how cool these rides are. And how lame city traffic would be without them. I mean which fancy car can fit in 7 guys AND the driver, and still do a decent 70? Right. Without autos, life for us low-lives would be Zilch. Naught. Jhiro.

Anyway, once upon a time in West Bengaul (that’s how Bongs pronounce it, so relax!), autos ruled the roads. They roared, callously did wheelies, paralyzed cyclists and honked dead people deaf. And more importantly, they were Black. Black – ala Samuel Jackson. And like Samuel fuckin’ Jackson, they didn’t fuckin’ care.

And the even-blacker drivers of these black panthers were in a league of their own. They would swivel 100 degrees towards oncoming traffic, exchange gutkha with their north-bound brothers and chew out any dissidents then and there. With 206 auto-unions (last I counted, it was actually 286) to back them, who could challenge thy manhood, Herr Jackson(s)?

However, many gutkha-covered-moons later, a great, great revolution swept the Bengaul plains, and the roads too!

A new breed of autos had emerged – Tadaa!! C.N.G.!!

And before you knew it, the Great Class Divide was born. Green was the new White. Black was the new… Err… Black.  

The green autos were swanky, had fresh coats of shiny paint and most importantly, were elegantly subtle while on the move. And they had a certain autocratic, cocky demeanor while being on the move.

And as was expected, it irritated the fuck out of the Blacks. They felt downright ostracized – and even more inferior than their rusted bolts could mirror. Outrage soon turned to Enrage-ment. And thus, the Never-ending Feud of the Auto-bots was born.

Now, Black autos would swivel 100 degrees towards oncoming traffic, only to exchange domestic-borne pleasantries with the north-bound Green rival, like “tor maa ke mere gutkha kore debo” (‘I will beat your mother into the gutkha’ – Trust me, it sounded much more menacing in the native language!) and likewise, 7 screaming passengers notwithstanding.    

Apparently, 7 screaming passengers is no mean deal, especially when they are all trained in Rabindra Sangeet – hence you can imagine the amount of pent up anger the Black autos had to vent. And vent they did. Every other day, Green autos fell prey to Blacks. Swathes of scraped-off paint, headlights & rear-view mirrors littered the streets of Bangla. And, obviously, all of the said collateral damage was for the Greens.

After all, what did the Blacks have to lose anyway?

Till this very day, the bloodthirst continues.

And to top it all, like in the Black Supremacy & the Black Panther Party era, caught in the feuds of the Blacks & Whites (or Greens) were the Asians. This class included the Black autos who got themselves painted Green to enjoy the luxuries of the Green life, and yet not get their rears slashed open by the Blacks. Turncoats you say? Wise guys, I insist!

And so everyday, while going to work, yours truly does a 28-minute ‘sashtanga pranaam’ before the Goddess Durga, and wears a Kuver Kunji & Dayal Baba’s kavach– wears war paint ala Geronimo and walks out to the mercy of the autos. For being one of the very few ones not trained in Rabindra Sangeet, death will be pretty silent. And boring. Yours truly certainly does not deserve that.

And off I go!

As I said, what would our life be without the Autos?!