71

Dear Readers,

                    Last weekend, I traveled to Bikaner for one last time to gather all my belongings and luggage. I had a few hours at my disposal to finish off my business. As soon as I alighted from the Bus, I found three of my colleagues (Dr. Chayal, Abhishekji and Prabhu ji) and the closest of my friends, all ready waiting to pick me up in their car. From there we came straight to my place where another 'marvel of a man to know and befriend', Dr. Anil ji Chhangani joined us. I owe a lot to this gentleman who hails from my home-town and has for ever shown an elder brother's affection towards me and my exuberance. 

                   The next few hours were spent in celebration, the first after the Jaipur results were out. For some time, we forgot everything professional and chit-chatted like adolescent boys meeting up after their boards exam get over. The next morning I woke up late and rushed through all the packing. I drove to my office and it was then that the nostalgia started gripping me. With heavy steps, I climbed the staircase of that beautiful building where I once started my first University job. A lonely and desolate cabin (for it was a Sunday) greeted me coldly. As I was emptying the drawers of  the office table, I foundered over my chair which gave the impression as if my office furniture was making one last attempt to hold me back.

                    Finally, I boarded the train bound to Jaipur. All these years that I spent in Bikaner, I always admired the incredible beauty of sand dunes and those mysterious orangy sun-sets in this part of the globe.  That evening, I believe, the entire environment was out there to see me off because as I was peeping out of the window of that speedy train, each and every atom of that orangy dusk were waving their hands in the air. I will always miss you Bikaner till my dying day. You have entered the privileged list of faces and landscapes that I will revise before I shut my eyes for good..... 

                       

70

Dear Readers,

                      I am elated to share with you the news that today I formally joined the University of Rajasthan, Jaipur as a faculty in its department of History and good Lord! what an assuring piece of news it is. Jaipur, the city of my dreams, the most romantic city of our country has taken me into its pinkish folds. As I lay inebriated in the glittering dusk of this enchanting city, all that occurs to my mind is the sheer desperation and passion I held within myself to consummate my love for this sheher.

                            The sight of the grand and gorgeous Birla temple on my way back home against the backdrop of the medieval fortress of Moti Dungri hurled me backwards into the throes of time reminding me of all those countless occasions when I would stare at these monuments and wish to be a citizen of this beautiful town. By the grace of All mighty, I have finally been accepted by this generous city. 

                               I aim at writing no sissy eulogy in praise of the beauty of this town. The overwhelming aesthetics of this place, however, fuels a strange creativity pang inside any thinking soul and it is this that wants me to belong to this place. It cannot be said for sure that will this belonging really affect my productivity but for the moment, the very fact that Jaipur has become my home is enough to send my mind racing.....

69

Dear Readers,

                     One of the latest stories running on air these days is the sensational possibility of unearthing a hidden treasure trove lying embedded under a medieval site near the modern city of Kanpur. I dont wish to participate or augment the debates raging on prime time which are rather ludicrous and sensationalist. What attracts my attention is the fact that how history has this mesmerising effect on the laity which if well-triggered can have an immense snow-ball run among the masses.

                     It seems that suddenly the whole nation is under the spell of this serendipitous antiquary. People want to have a one-night stand with this elegant lady called History about whose gravity none of them has even an iota of idea. History holds in its bosom, a range of human emotions and actions and this is what attracts entire galaxies into its black hole. Greed, legacy, exploitation, war, blood and gold- all are covered within its wing-span.

                       It is no surprise that everybody is abuzz with their new found fascination for the past (due to this "finding"). However, poets and admirers like me who have spent their lives staring at the beauty of this diva ( and still have no clue about her mood swings) can only smirk at the radiance of her charm on these less gifted souls full of themsselves....

68

Dear Readers,

                    Whats wrong with the climate? Its almost middle of October and even as late as now, rain is lashing across many parts of the Indian sub-continent leaving behind mixed reactions. This October has been unusual. The normal pleasant air of this month which starts blowing after the cooling up of land heated in the months of May and June is missing. The afternoon these days compels one to believe she is still stuck up in May. 

          Gujarat has received over-abundant showers this year with many places witnessing floods. The world-famous navratra fest has had to bear the brunt of this erratic monsoon. The night long revelry bouts of Garba and Dandiya have been cancelled on many occasions. A friend of mine from Ahmadabad told me that one Garba night was cancelled at CEPT and another started as late as 11 30 pm because of unexpected down-pour.     

             I wish to make a serious request to the almighty. Sir/Ma'm, please control the menace of climate change. Our society and civilisation gives an overbearing importance to fairs and festivals of our culture, most of which are closely entwined with the rhythms and cycles of nature. I say this in all earnest because no one can comprehend the pathos of such mistimed weather more than Garba enthusiasts like me and my beautiful friend..... 

67

Dear Readers, 

                     Daughters are such darlings! Paternal love is most affectionately and warmly reciprocated by the fairer sex and one is moved to notice tokens of such love scattered here and there. No matter how ordinary or minuscule they deceitfully appear to be in the first glance, on a closer look, one gets an idea of the unfathomable bottom of that expansive and mysterious ocean.

              A few days ago, I saw a picture of an old man on Facebook. I was awe-struck by the handsomeness and flair of that personality. The writer within was at once drawn by the history and imagination of that imposing persona and within a fraction of a second, stories started building up around him. That man was seated in a plush ambiance of a Golf Course Club lobby with a lot of wood and crispest neatness enveloping him. Later, I found out that the picture was taken by his youngest daughter. 

                      Only she could capture what I saw or rather, I could see all that love and beauty only through her eyes. I wanted to know this person's life and hear about the stories he has to tell which I imagine, would be nothing less than treasure troves of wisdom about living life as a bold provider of a happy family. Oh yes! but I would want one of his pretty daughters to sit beside him while he narrates them so that I can simultaneously see the shimmer of glint in her eyes for the man on whom she dotes truly....... 

                      

66

Dear Readers, 

                     Whosoever resides in India has some story or the other about his or hers history or origin. Last evening I was chilling out with a bunch of senior fellas. A group of studs who lead a full and adventurous life dedicated to travel and camping. It was such a feast to share their jokes, anecdotes and glory-tales. It was amidst such company that I got to know a person from Delhi. 

                  He was a well-read, well-traveled Jat man who hails from a place called Mongolpuri. He narrated several stories about his childhood and his experiences of growing in a Delhi that was much smaller than the current humongous metropolis it has become now. He told us that how many decades ago, the limits of Delhi's urban habitations was the Delhi darwaza and places like Munnirka, Chatarpur, Mehrauli, Mahipalpur etc were tiny villages dispersed across the countryside. Also, that he belonged to a sub-clan of Jats called Sikand which owes its name to a place called Shiv-khand in the Himalayas from where they migrated into the plains.
                      Later at night, the historical imaginations about Delhi of the past continued to frequent my mind. I remembered vaguely the fact that how Mongolpuri was itself inhabited by a colony of Mongols who were settled there by the Delhi Sultans to check the threat of Mongol invaders from the north-west. Imagine the season of November AD 1415,  one can see  Jats and Mongols of Mongolpuri marching steadily towards Tughlaqabad to enlist into the Imperial army of the Sultans. One among them happens to be the ancestor of my new friend......  

65

Dear Readers, 

                     It is so interesting at times to travel with people who are habitual conversationalists and are gifted with the art of talking for miles at length. Such people would never let a long unbroken spell of silence settle down between you and themselves at any cost. They are adept at weaving out one story from the other and by the time you adjust to the flow of thoughts, you are bombarded upon with the next volley of ideas, happenstances, events, opinions and the following train.

                        Though some people usually find this irritating and are prone to exhibit withdrawal symptoms on meeting such vociferous artists, I don't mind their company once in a blue moon. It has so occurred with me that my experiences with jabbering kings or queens have been rather illuminating. I have always treated such souls with utmost patience and care to the extent that I fish for new ideas and pioneering feats even in their hasty gibberish. 

                      For me, the fascination for them lies in their sponge like quality to get you thinking and talking in the direction in which they want. This is no less an art which calls for meticulous honing of ones skills. Quite often, while being led by such souls into intellectual foreplay, I have often come to terms with my own dormant thoughts and plans. I see these people's flirtatious insinuations as sowing of seeds of future research and activity in average minds like mine..... 

64

Dear Readers,

                    Reading history is like falling in love or like experiencing this tender feeling so romanticised in literature and entertainment. You have your own set of questions, your own set of 'expected' answers, the set of real answers, the dilemmas, the insecurities, the uncertainties and the strong chances of you figuring it all wrong just when it seems to you that ah! Finally, I got it right!

                      I was going through the travel account of one Pietro Della Valle, an Italian traveler who was a globe-trotter in the sixteenth century ( yes, he managed to do that even then!). He had visited places like Constantinople, Aleppo, Hormuz, Baghdad, Goa, Calicut and other such exotic locations. As I lay enveloped in the love of History, a question struck my mind, the one which does so quite often. Were we better off in the past or is the present age our best living so far?    

                 How charmingly delightful it would have been to explore such places in their pristine beauty and nature? Is it a greater sensuous pleasure to walk along the boulevard of sixteenth century Panjim after a luncheon with a Portuguese aristocrat than racing around in a luxury SUV in Vegas? These doubts are raised not against a solely Epicurean or aesthetic mind-frame but against a background of satiate living. Which way of living would bring us humans more satisfaction?...

                 

63

Dear Readers, 

                    Students Union elections were concluded recently (day before yesterday) across Colleges and Universities in the state of Rajasthan. The most disconcerting aspect of these over-estimated elections is the menace of student violence. I fail to understand that how does the run to a position of student representative assumes such deadly proportions? 

                   Caste calculations leave the society bruised asunder. Rajputs, Jats, Meenas, Gujars or whatever be the name, caste groups are made to think in isolationist trends and the only target is to manipulate caste configurations in such a way so that vote-banks secure 'victory'. This notion of 'victory' is in itself highly questionable. On being declared victorious, student representatives quickly turn into Don Quixotes in their own capacities when they are showered upon with the promised glory and greatness. Glory is mostly gory.

                    The senior netas who take avowed interest in these elections only after their student affiliate organisation 'sweeps' the polls are the culprits who encourage rowdy elements to politicise these events as much as they can. It is the scores of unemployed youth who participate full-fledgedly here that comprise the main work-force of the senior netas in Assembly polls or General elections. Thus, in a way, they train the youth in hooliganism, street-brawls and organised crime. 

                       The only hope lies in the fact that the teachers in Colleges and Universities should at least diffuse tensions between opposing groups. This is all that I can suggest out of personal experience.  We should tell our students in the classes that those who want to fight should join the army and not indulge in grisly bull-fights. The educational institutions should be first and foremost temples of learning.....

                   

62

Dear Readers, 

                     For all those who indulge in the art of writing in one form or the other, it is a fairly common situation that they suffer from minor writer's block now and then. One just sits dumb in front of his laptop staring at the blank microsoft word page or stares at the page of his/her opened note-book or diary. Thoughts stay afloat in the mind but it gets more and more difficult to communicate them in words. 

                      There is a remedy of sorts which I can suggest out of personal experience. What I did and how I did it, brought back a lot of expression to me. First of all, I decided to travel. Then, I chose to wait for a moment which triggered off a flight to the past, to my own personal history. In this case, it was the moment when I heard pouring rain on the leaves of trees and plants. Strangely and inexplicably, the registration of that moment brought back to the mind memories lying locked inside the dungeons of the dark heart. At that juncture, it was all feeling. I mean, all I did was to feel. There was no compulsion to write or give any form to those ideas and thoughts. 

                          Later, it was on a quiet late moonlit night, that I sat on my desk after a light dinner with a light dessert and took a deep breath. In the background was playing my favorite music- some exquisite masterpieces of thumri genre. There I recollected those lovely underpinnings and it all began to flow. If you still find a little difficulty, think about the one person to whom you have still a lot to say. Imagine she is sitting with her hair open, all ears to you, waiting for you to shed all your vapor like those dark saawan clouds. Soon you would see it getting condensed into lustrous words....

61

Dear Readers,

                    Last weekend, I was on holiday to the only hill station of our beautiful state, Mount Abu. The picturesque green on dark rocks draped in white clouds makes one forget the fact that a few kilometers descend lands one into the treacherous desert. While walking up and down the hills on the top, one can feel the water vapor on his face when he/she literally walks into the clouds.

                    Of all the varied places that I visited, the most magnificent was the Achalgarh fort due to the volumes of history that it encompasses. The lofty mountain fort was one of the nine foremost castles of ancient Maruwad or the land of death. The remnants of this place should be properly examined for they store invaluable information about the darker periods of our history.

                   The most beautiful story that unfolded before my eyes there was the story of the lost glory of the Maharajas. One after the other, I visited huge summer palaces, kothis and bungalows built by the earstwhile Indian princes, thakurs, arsitocrats and nobility- signs of colonial influence and power at its peak. Whether be it the Jaipur house located atop a lofty cliff overlooking the Nakki lake, or the sprawling Alwar house which has been converted into a school, the rotten Leemdi house or the dilapidated Uniara house- one after the other, one sees remains of majestic buildings which once were abodes of power, gaiety and luxury. They appear to be standing numb as if in resentment to the ugly face of modern architecture and development.....

60

Dear Readers, 

                     These days, as I lay engrossed in writing a paper about ancient horse cultures and other aspects related to Hippology, there is a lot to read and write about the history of Central Asia. Just now I chanced upon a beautiful picture of the Mongolian steppes which showed a lonesome rider on his steed set against the backdrop of grasslands stretching far into the horizon like the never ever detectable edge of an infinity swimming-pool. 

                    The beauty of ecological zones lies in the ease with which they transcend national boundaries. It is an impressive sight to see these grand grasslands on a map, stretching from one end of Europe to the other end of the Asian mainland running all across the Eurasian land mass. This place is home to many ancient civilisations and also to the most celebrated animal on the planet, the horse. These grasslands are the abode of this gorgeous and strong animal which has had a significant impact on the evolution of mankind and its history. 

              There is something about flat barren grasslands that they remain so attractive to me. No amounts of research will give me any hint of what mystery do they behold. Such a deep secret can be known only and only by the winds that blow over them.... 

              

59

Dear Readers,

                    The Indian farmer is a phenomenon in himself\herself and like so many experts opine about the 'miraculous feats' they achieve, it is truly a remarkable experience to know them close at hand. Last Monday, I got a phone call from a cousin of mine (who was in Udaipur for some social obligation) asking me to drive up to his farm and fetch something important. I was a but reluctant initially but later on agreed imagining the drive through those slender country roads. 

                    When I reached the farm, heat and humidity were almost choking my party to death. We were all in the mood to dash back to the town but just as we were about to leave, I viewed the sky with a deep seated lust and desire for a satiating shower. We could see dark thundering clouds in one direction looking very promising and full some. However, while in a desert, you can never be certain whether such clouds would head in your direction and whether you would witness any rain? We were unable to speculate and decide about staying back or not.

                   Kailash, the farmer of those fields advised us to hang on.There was a peculiar glint in his eyes staring at the horizon. He raised his arm in a slightly different direction and said that after about an hour, there will be a heavy downpour from that end.  He explained a strange science of wind blowing from one direction and ascending up which would ultimately force those dark clouds to shed all that voluminous vapour. I had serious doubts about this calculation and belittled him due to the confidence of this fact in my sub-conscious that I have read more Geography than him. Yet I gave him a chance and finally stayed back for the evening.  

                 After an hour, it rained heavily and in the exact manner, he had prophesied. I was impressed and what I learned then was that those who claim to be climate change experts and masters of the sciences of Ecology and Environment  have a lot to learn from those who dwell in the soil........

58

Dear Readers,

                     It so happens these days that during most of my 'leisure' time, I am immersed in the reading of the book Jinnah authored by Jaswant Singh ji and pondering on the thought of Hindu-Muslim unity and problems thereof. It is fascinating to learn how communalism developed only as a bi-product of colonial malevolence and even during the twentieth century, Muslims and Hindus were as close to each other as on the eve of the Mutiny.

                     It is such a sight to visualise Hindus and Muslims fight the Britishers together in 1857 and 1905. Even as late as 1920, these two communities were assertively exhibiting their brotherhood when Gandhiji gave the call to the Indian National Congress to fully back the Khilafat agitation. Chants of 'Hindu-Muslim bhai-bhai' reverberated in the atmosphere and masjids and mandirs echoed with "Om Shanti Ameen". What more can I say but point at that historical moment when Swami Shraddhananda ascended to the pulpit of Jama Masjid to address a gathering of thirty thousand Muslims who sat there in rapt attention. 

                       While I was thinking and rethinking about all these issues, there was a storm in the Bikaner sky and just as I went to my terrace to gauge the weather, a heavy downpour was bestowed upon us from above. I bathed in the monsoon showers of the desert for a good span of time. After that, I returned to my room, dried myself up and had a quick change of clothes. It was then that I understood that spirituality is like how you feel when after getting drenched in rain, you sense deep cleansing of each pore of your body. It is something over and above religion and theological institutions. For millennia to come, there will be spiritual men guiding us to paths of such pore-cleansing and men who under the garb of religious extremism, make murders sound respectable......

57

Dear Readers, 

                     There is so much to learn about the idea of India when we take into account the rise and spread of Islam in the sub-continent. The rich historiography offers a broad spectrum of views and opinions that range from appalling to those which stimulate serious deliberations. By understanding what the scholars try to argue, we are able to locate sources and foundations of their contentions among our very immediate environs.

             To give an example and cut the jargon off, think about the issue of an Indo-Islamic language, our very own beloved, Urdu. Beginning as a camp language, this zubaan grew in popularity and usage engulfing huge parts of India. This language saw its ebbs and tides with the corresponding changes in time, polity and society. Once a language of the elite, today all that is left of this language are a few rusting newspaper publications and a rickety department in an antiquated University or two. 

                Yet, it can not be simply written off. This is the reason why I believe a lot can be gathered about the idea of India or the idea of Hindustan by studying this enigma of a language called Urdu. It is no wonder that even till date, songs of Hindi cinema which evoke strong passion and sophisticated emotions are exquisite piece of poetry writing in Urdu. 

     Woh afsana jise anjam tak laana na ho mumkin, 

use ek khoobsurat mod deke chodna aacha,

chalo ek bar fir se ajnabi ban jaayein hum dono...

56

Dear Readers, 

                     After a gruesome stay in Bikaner during the peak summer season, I scooted off down south to witness a bountiful monsoon in the western ghats and if this was not enough to make life seem beautiful, there came another gift out of the blue. Recently, on a visit to Delhi, I found history in all its charming regalia showering its affection on me. 

                  I met a wonderful soul who was as gorgeous from within as from the outside. Together we unraveled the deep ties of the mysterious bond that kept us together since time immemorial but which only recently could be realised. We both had a historical narrative to offer to each other which included tales of the land from where we came and of change and of continuity. While all this mutual exploration was on, we chanced upon a masterpiece cinema that left us both suspended in the vacuum of historical imagination and aesthetics. 

                    All I can divulge at this point of time is the name of the movie, which happened to be 'Lootera'. The rich classy look of the movie matched with the poise of each and every character, which facilitated an easy transport to past. In my opinion the flick offered just the right blend of descriptions and insinuations and appeared to fit the period mould perfectly as performances and story line never really transgressed the boundaries of drama to slip down into the territory of over-presentation. Yet, the most captivating part was played by the poetic company I had with whom, for once,  I could share my 'sense of history'.....

55

Dear Readers,

                    I am writing after a long hiatus and the reason for this is the insatiable desire inside me to travel and experience new vistas of this journey called life. Since the past few days, I was travelling down south in Goa and Karnataka and the sheer pleasure of immersing oneself in the monsoon drizzle kept me at a distance from all modes of technology and communication. 

                    It would be futile to attempt at drawing a sketch of the scenic splendour that my eyes were greeted with  this time because the vast range of spectacles that I saw have befuddled me. From the roaring coastline to the lush green thickets of the Western Ghats, so many colors were splashed on the canvass of my mind that to paint an exact copy seems improbable. 

                      As of now, all I can say is that the feeling of coming home after a wonderful holiday envelops my soul at this very moment. On one hand, I am cozy in my room basking in the warmth of home-coming after days of vagabond bohemian peregrination but on the other hand, I lament the end of a dream wherein I had become habitually indigenous to a different landscape and cultural setting. My heart makes frantic calls to the part of my soul left behind on the western coasts of Mother India which is still getting soaked in the saawan downpours......

54

Dear Readers, 

                    Some old people talk as if they are thick volumes of books speaking out to you. On my recent visits to Ajmer, that great historical city referred to some as the 'Gibraltar of the East', I met one such aged scholar and what a meeting it was. Thanks to a dear old friend of mine for taking me to his place. This old gentleman happens to be a historian and is a scholar of repute. His erudition was getting reflected in his neatly    cropped sentences showering names of famous works and authors. 

                  In a brief spell, he painted such a vivid canvass of memory and temporality that all of us his listeners were lost in wonderland. He told us qissas of upright bureaucrats of the Raj and acquainted us with some really old and rare buildings built by the Turks, the Mughals and the Britishers in that wonderful city which served as the provincial capital of Rajputana for more than a millennium.    

                      He drew a vivid oral sketch of Frazer road, one of the most glamorous streets of  Ajmer town during the times of the Raj. A street which was ornamented with huge trees giving ample shade and was well frequented by frivolous memsahibs dressed in white linen and hiding from the Sun under white umbrellas. He told us about a former principal of Government School, Ajmer ( the building of this school was designed by none other than Edwin Lutyens) who was so principled and bold that when the AGG of Rajputana started frequently using a road passing through the school premises, he wrote him a letter informing that this road is not a thorough fare! 

                   Dear Sir! Cheers to your health and this city of mountain gale.....May the two of you live till eternity and until we meet next...Khamma!....

53

Dear Readers, 

                   Every town has its peculiar whiff and it cant get stronger than the one emanating out of your home-town. I went for a jog today in the evening in the sprawling campus of the University of Jodhpur right opposite my house and on my way back realised that I was caught in the tangles of my early childhood. The summer months, when we matched the wildness of the wilderness around us, brought some memories back. 

                 The two months of May and June which are witnesses to worst weather of the year, coincidentally are also the months of a long vacation at schools and other educational institutions. This was the time when our wits would be tested by the excruciating heat of summers and yet we were under the compulsion to make the best out of this time as were off from our mundane routines. We would find ourselves stuck in a perplexed situation each time when we had to make a choice between venturing out in the smoldering heat or to cave in to the pressures exerted by elders to stay indoors. Quite often but not, we chose the former rebellious option. 

                      And so we would dart out in the open caring a damn about burns or whatever! On our way back, we would be exhausted to the core but would feel something inside the bones which would make us assume that we have bolstered our immunity and strength against the odds of the clime. As the streaming sweat down our temples would evaporate by the hot loo winds blowing till late evening, a unique odor would  fill our nostrils. An odor made out of the mix of every droplet of moisture evaporating into the thin hot air as if water was being sucked out from our surroundings only to be replenished during those bountiful months of showers. An odor coming out of slabs of stone and rock overheated during the day, an odor of the suppressing waves of low air pressure as also an odor of Sun-rays at their malevolent worse..... 

52

Dear Readers, 

            One of the concurrent topics of research in the field of Social Science is Migration and demographics. It includes a vast array of subjects like diasporic studies, systems of exchange in antiquity, trade, making and unmaking of states etc. and is highly interesting because of its sheer holistic coverage. It gives ample scope for unraveling the deep connections between ecology and human evolution in the sense that it assigns optimum recognition to environmental factors as 'the most' important factor.

                     From a layman's point of view, it can be said that the appeal of this area of study lies in imagining that how interesting it would be to understand why and how we are where we are. Irrespective of what caste, creed, community or region to which we belong, we all have a story of how we arrived where we stay today. While a Rajput of Central India might narrate how his family migrated from the Thar to the Vindhyas six centuries ago, a bania family from Rajasthan might have a clear version of how they moved from Calcutta to Rangoon and then to the Carribean within a span of hundred years or yet still, a Baluch might know how just in his last generation, they moved from Karachi to London.

                           Movement of people is one of the most fascinating accounts, and also,  more correctly put, events, that have shaped human evolution since millennia. Aryans moved from the Caucasus to  the Sapt-Sindhu region and gave rise to the Vedic age and the Mughuls moved from Farghana to Kabul.                           Putting these grandiloquent meta-narratives aside, migrations of lesser communities and sometimes individuals also have had a bearing on human history. A family of Kashmiri Pandits residing near a canal or Neher had migrated to Delhi in the eighteenth century which played a prominent role in Indian politics throughout the twentieth century. A man named Mohundas had migrated to South Africa where he started his satyagraha.

                       History flows underneath the current of our movement. While we flow as sediments in a large stream of unfathomable gravity, the silt sticking to the river-bed is our story. Much of this story or history is lost to the deep oceans. We come to make attempts at knowing our past with whatever silt is left on the banks......

51

Dear Readers, 

                    My O my! what a pleasure to be back to Dilli time and again. First of all let me tell you that as I write this latest post, I am inhaling the pious and scholastic air of the Teen Murti library. After a long hiatus, I am back to this cave of knowledge and wisdom located in proximity to the palatial Teen Murti Bhawan. After a long time, I am breathing this peculiar air containing mixed odors of conditioned air, wooden stacks, new hardbound copies of latest International arrivals and seductive perfumes of ladies wearing cotton saris. 

                  A day in Dilli after long intervals of braving intense heat and solitude of Bikaner sands is generally a happy day. It is a pleasure to drive on the roads with the 95 FM station playing numbers which you would die for to listen to in your college days. What a lucky day it is for me today that as I took the right turn for the race course road, the station started playing Coldplay's 'Yellow' and later, one of my all-time favorites- Springesteen. The state of ecstasy was escalated to the level of mysticism when Dido's 'sand in my shoes' was played. 

                  There is a reason for this. When I was a student, I heard Dido for the first time on my friend's I-Pod. I did not have enough money then to buy a 40 GB wonder gadget and was so thrilled to have at my finger-tips most of the titles of world music. That night I kept on listening to her as she engulfed me in her caressing voice. Years after that fateful night, I heard the songs again (this time too on somebody else' I-Pod), but the venue was Palolem beach. A strange affinity exists between Dido and the sea-shore and I grasped this fact in the truest spirit at that time when the sounds of crashing waves in the song matched the rhythm of waves wetting my feet.  

                   Since quite some time now, I have this intense longing to travel to Goa and drench my soul in those mysterious waves. I have been there many times, all alone. This time I seek a companion. I have my own set of demands. Although I am not as demanding as you would imagine me to be but at times you have no option but to covet what exactly you want for it has been denied to you since the beginning. I want my partner (not to sound like Dido!) to possess a sense of loss like the gravity of a jump off the cliff and a desire for love like the beating of waves on the shore which always sends them back to the deep. 

50

Dear Readers,

                     While reading Descartes, I learned that 'pursuit of science should be dispassionate'. This one sentence made me feel nebbish in spite of years of research in my field. Profound thinkers have such power of reorienting your entire system of thought with their classical masterpieces or at least, ask fresh questions to your accomplished conclusions.  

                    All this while I used to hold that the story of unfolding of human civilisation has a very important premise on man's nature or his immediate environment. It is his interaction with the surrounding that shapes and in turn is shaped by evolution of the specie. It is not this strand which seems to be problematised.  I was basing my research on the Thar desert. What unnerves me is the humble acceptance of the fact that at times, I drift away from the scientific line of inquiry due to my strong filial sentiments with the land. This infests  my arguments with prejudice, at times. 

                  I resolve to overcome this emotional shortcoming. A probable solution can be to pick up an alternative field area. This would free my mind from any predilections and I can focus on the peculiarities of that specific geographical zone although the whole exercise would entail considerable effort and vigor. The second option which is more enticing, exciting and challenging would be to continue with a cautious distancing from bias and imposing a Spartan spirit of disciplining upon my thinking mind. Who knows, a Thermopylae ambush waits around the corner....!   

49

Dear Readers,

                    Oh! what a world it is of the script-writing and cinema stories. You must have heard oft the phrase 'food for thought' but, here I am, gorging on some delicious and mouth-watering 'food for soul'. It seems that I am on the threshold of what awaited me all these years. A heady mix of dreaming, visualising, story-telling and narration ornamented by the glitzy and sublime form and structure designed by stalwarts of the profession.

                       These days I am reading lovely scripts of block buster movies authored by canonical scri ptwriters that have earned renown for their remarkable use of language and imagination. Woody Allen's Annie Hall  and David Franzoni's Gladiator (the first original draft, not the adapted one) are being taken to task at present. What makes the entire exercise interesting is the scene by scene dissection of the movie. eg. for all this while, whenever I would watch the Germania battle scene from the opening of Gladiator, I would swell with emotions (typical response to exquisite Veer Ras literature) and have goose-bumps over my body. Now, when I see the same scene over and over again, I take into account the details worked out by the pen that were actualised by the production. What a job these people do?

                         The art lies in a thorough presentation and documentation of what you see and later, with the aid of your representation, would want others to see as well. It takes story-telling to an all-together different plane in the sense that you are holding a mirror to the audience. The writer assumes the role of the director. This would be a thrilling experience for any novice to the art of writing. In anticipation to several such orgasmic high-points, I retire to reading these pieces and hope to learn how to paint a picture with words....... 

48

Dear Readers, 

                     Such is the charm of leisure that one feels that he is on top of the world. Those careless times when we are immersed in our thoughts and tend to forget every iota of our shiploads of worries and tensions.  We learn to relish the minute pleasures that life has to offer. Be it the quite times spent in moonlit nights, a crisp walk on a fresh morning, a sensuous sun-set on a sea-shore or watching an IPL match with friends and a crate of beer.

                   This last of the 'minute pleasures' that I enlisted in my doze of gyan is supreme. There are thousands of lessons learnt and imagine the heights of utility, all of them while relishing the pace of time (in other words while you while away time). One sees the wonders of the phenomenon called life. It is learnt that in order to maximise pleasure, one has to detach himself from affection(to enjoy uninterrupted bliss of beer and snacks, one should raise himself above cheering for one specific team). One should draw happiness from the smiles of the multitudes of fans and smile like Buddha at every show of athleticism. 

                     My fellow brethren, all I want to point out is that watching an IPL match after a hard day at work is an experience that can lead you closer to moksha provided you acquaint yourself with the 'art of watching'. Take a dip in the deep sea of mysterious and inviting amusement. More on this in the upcoming posts. Till then, indulge in cricketing coquetry......   

47

Dear Readers, 

                     After waking up from a long slumber stretched over a fortnight(a consequence of lethargy that engulfs one after being awarded a doctorate), I suddenly spurted into action today and decided to start working on a film script. I called a cousin of mine who is an actor at Mumbai to ask for some directions. He suggested some important do's and don'ts and gave an impressive reading list.

                    Syd Field is one big name when it comes to learning the art of script writing albeit, the American way. I found that his work is a lot about form and structure and does not really inspire you to create. Nonetheless, there are some strong points to coach oneself in the art. He gives you a base to start plotting. Yet, every now and then you detect short comings which accrue out of the western idiosyncrasies and challenges offered in weaving out an 'Indian' story. 

                          There is a long way ahead as I have to go through writings of Woody Allen or Tarantino or some other giant like Billy Wilder or some yet another genius. The question that comes to mind at this point is that who are the prolific writers of Hindi cinema and more importantly, how is their work obtainable? Until and unless one does not get closer to the roots, any attempt at writing a story with a soul would turn out to be abortive......  

46

Dear Readers, 

                     Long time back, a friend of mine shared a link on facebook of an online comic series called PHD that mocks each and every intricate nuance experienced while writing down one's thesis. I am an online subscriber of that hilarious piece of creativity which leaves a scholar fresh each time he logs in. It is a specimen  of intelligent sarcasm or 'dry' humor at its best. 

                      Well! what reminds me of this is the fact that recently, I have been awarded my doctoral degree. This brings to an end a long drawn out process of accomplishing an arduous task of becoming a doctor of letters. A whole cycle of events beginning with registration and including allotment of superviser, finalization of research topic, synopsis construction, synopsis presentation, archival research, field research, thesis compilation, submission has come to a halt with the final event- the viva-voce examination. phewwwww!!!!

                        It feels that finally I have given birth to a baby after a gestation period of four years. I feel tired, exhausted and spent out after the excruciating experience, yet a smile comes to face each time the bound thesis is placed next to me like a carefully wrapped new born. I stare at the title like a mother does,  looking at her child's forehead in anticipation of his/her future (while the mother imagines when her child will start to walk, in this case, a scholar imagines when will the thesis get published!). I am thankful to many without whom this work would not have been possible but my heart also goes out to the monograph itself    for it brought me closer to my effeminate self.....

45

Dear Readers,

                     The touring is on across the length and breadth of Bikaner sub-division and with each passing day, I set my eyes upon beautiful landscape hitherto untrodden by me and get to learn about mysterious and interesting phenomenon. One of the recent visits to places like Bajju and Sri Kolayat was an enchanting experience. Sri Kolayat is a great place of antiquary significance. It is an oases, at the banks of which, the famous sage Kapil propounded his philosophical and epistemological doctrines.

                  The area around Sri Kolayat is mineral rich and accommodates various mines. Metals such as Gypsum and China clay are excavated out of these mines, some of which are so huge that an individual might get lost in them while negotiating his way out. It is an altogether different story that these mines are posing a grave threat to the eco-system of this location. The point I would like to make here is related to Geology.

                    Rocks unearthed from the different levels of the mines are a storehouse of information on the story of how our planet evolved into its present shape. Some of the specimen that we studied(all the credit goes to the gifted scholarship of my colleagues) were fossilized remains of sea mollusks dating back to millions of years. These fossils prove the existence of Tethys sea around this area about 200 million years ago. 

             After inhaling a deep breath, when one glances across the vast desert landscape around this point, he/she can imagine himself(without much difficulty) stranded in the middle of a terrifying, huge and roaring ocean. Such are the ripples of history which can transcend all set notions and compartments of time and space and pierce right into our soul even through these opaque obstructions. What a wonderful feeling it is to hold time in your hands...... 

44

Dear Readers, 

                     One of the most ludicrous and yet deadly professional spats that plagues our nation is the one between bureaucrats and academicians. There are countless incidents daily when both try full-heartedly to downplay each other. While the bureaucrats are dubbed as haughty "babus" who are soaked in corruption and power-games by the professors(much of this discrediting of the 'steel frame of the nation' is caused by their obstinate delay in extending the retirement age of faculties all over!), the administrators mock the teachers as 'good for nothing' idle gossip mongers.  

                       Worst affected is the society at large. Streamlining professional inter-relationships would help in better policy making and later, most importantly, in better implementation. The bureaucracy should realize that rather than expecting teachers( primary, secondary school, college and university teachers) as an extended army of clerks to work tirelessly collecting 'data' for government schemes, they should be utilized in  more productive ways. One of the suggested fields can be evaluation. By this is not meant a report card of the executive but a critical appraisal. 

                        There is much to be blamed on the fraternity of teachers. The bureaucrats are doing a better job than us, that goes without saying because they are made to work while we hardly work! Most government teachers(at all levels) are (excuse me my blokes for saying this) rejected candidates of the PSC's. Those who get into sarkari jobs after not making into IAS or state services try to make up for the lost opportunity by assuming as much power-airs as possible. This is achieved by keeping at stake our primary job, teaching in classes, and indulging in profligate politics. The absence of genuine research in Uni's produce ill-equipped lecturers. What ability of teaching would one have if he is not humble? 

                       This topic is endless and has an unfathomable abyss. To put things in place, suffice is to say that teachers should focus on teaching and prioritize students. They should influence public opinion and/or policy making but not act as de-jure implementers. As for the 'sahibs', little can I say lest I evoke your condescending disapproval but one reasonable request is to think of us a little more useful!!      

43

Dear Readers, 

                   I return to doing what I do best- sing eulogies to the desert! The months of March and April is the time when exams are held in all colleges and universities across India. In our university system, this time also brings with it hectic touring all around the Bikaner sub-division inspecting colleges that are affiliated to us. So, we go up north to the colonized settlements of IGNP canal or west to colleges bordering Pakistan or  east to the horrifying desert of Churu(the place which records the highest and the lowest temperatures in north India). While travelling so, we encounter ebullient views that leave us spell-bound.

                    The other day, we were on our way to a place called Gharsana which lies on the ancient Bikaner-Pugal road a further way up ahead. After a drive of about a few minutes, we found ourselves traversing a grand desert which looked quite intimidating. Not a soul to be seen for miles and no hamlets or villages. We went past a village called Sattasar and started running parallel to the great Indira Gandhi canal(said to be one of the world's greatest irrigation projects). Right then, after a hair pin bend to the right, I saw lofty sand dunes standing on the banks of the canal looking down onto it with the grandiloquence of foresighted visionaries. I could not resist the kiddish temptation of climbing atop the faces of those grandfatherly figures in spite of chiding discouragement from my senior colleagues. 

                         The view was soul-stirring. I found myself at the top of a knuckle-head sand-dune which afforded a 360 degree view of golden landscape dotted with greens and whites and blues quite alike the kundan jewelery of Bikaner that has earned global renown. For as far as the eyes could see, sand and only sand resembling waves of the deep ocean was visible. And....And in the middle if it all, the serpentine canal, flowing with the might of a perennial Himalayan river, meandered its way down. I pray to God that one fine day in winters, I could return to the same spot, sit there all alone and meditate for hours......

42

Dear Readers, 

                     Today I wanted to write something about aesthetics as I usually do. Something about flowers or the sensuous breeze these days or some breathtaking views of the desert that I came across recently but none of these could become the subject of this post. I could not infuse romance once again because of the scenes that flashed before my eyes after I switched off my television. 

                       News channels reported the assassination of an honest and upright police official at a place called Kunda in UP. Irrespective of the different versions of the conspiracy theories, the scenes of a devastated and debilitated home were moving and destabilizing. After skipping a few other channels, I could divert my attention partially to the effect that what I saw appeared to be another killing or just another news far away from my immediate environment. 

                          Such incidents evoke varied responses but most of them end with a benign forgetfulness. When I was a student at DU, we heard of a brutal murder of an engineer named Satyendra Dubey in Bihar. He was a bright IITian who stood up against local organized road contract mafia. He influenced me a lot and inspired me to think differently. Back then I realized that a nation's character is built by its Satyendra's, its Zia-ul Haq's, its Vikram Batra's and many more such men and women. Let us salute the people who make this scorched hell a place worth living by sacrificing their lives just as a noble shepherd had done about two millennia ago.....

41

Dear Readers, 

                     last weekend, I was on a holiday at Sihara located in Jaisalmer, the paternal village of a close friend Mandhata Singh Bhati. Lush green farms in the middle of the desert, sumptuous meals, awesome 4x4 SUV drives  and visits to temples frequented during childhood like Ramdev Peer's(my favorite shrine in the whole of India) and Bhadariya Mata's left the soul smiling at the setting golden Sun of Basant ritu.

                     After bouts of merry making on Sunday night, I had to leave for Bikaner, the next morning. I had to wake up at 6 am in order to fetch a bus that left the village at 6 20. This daunting task worried me a little because as far as I can remember, the last time I woke up around that time was somewhere during the early nineties! JNU time-tables have luxuriantly mistimed my sleep-cycles. To my surprise, I woke up automatically sharp at 5 30 am on a chilly morning because of the bhajans that started playing in a nearby temple around the same time.

                       On my way back, I observed that road connectivity has improved in our countryside in the wake of the new flagship programme introduced during the last NDA Coalitional government at the center. After the bus leapt over a few sand-hills and climbed a few again, it halted at a station named Shekhasar. Alittle boy got on to it radiating with energy and vigor. He was on his way to school and was looking so fresh and alert. His eyes were brimming with confidence and that rare look of a winner sparkled in his eyes. I thought to myself that what if the same lad opted for a master's degree in our University and became my pupil twenty years down the line? Will I be worthwhile to ignite his voracious intellect? My only reason to worry at that time was the challenge as to how to protect such brilliance from being quartered at the hands of aptitude-insensitive, statusquoist and degenerating Government school education system of our nation.......

    

                    

40

Dear Readers,

                      A three-day workshop on translation organized by the Department of English at our University concluded today. It was supervised by Professor A K Singh of IGNOU. The speakers at the event were stalwarts in their respective fields and left us to ponder upon countless thoughts which ran deep into philosophy and varied themes of  linguistics.

                      One gentleman pointed out how translation has got more to do with comprehension rather than reproduction of the exact words in the target language. It is only after an intimate rendezvous with the content that leaves one with a strong sense of affiliation that one can translate meaningfully. Another one quoted that,"Poetry lies not in the words but in the silence between them". He later on added a simile of music to further drive home his 'silence' part of the argument.

                        I was one of the translators at the workshop. I thoroughly enjoyed my job and came out with an English rendition of a very interesting Rajasthani folk-tale titled, Umade Bhatiyani ri Vat or the tale of Umade Bhatiyani.  The job left me with a sense of inspiration. Long time back, when Rev. Valson Thampu ,the Principal of St. Stephen's College, started the Center for Translations there, I was all geared up to work a lot. All this while, however, not a word could be contributed for reasons which I myself cannot delineate. This workshop let me take the first step, no matter how minuscule to begin with. I sincerely hope to keep up the good work.....

39

Dear Readers, 

                   Last night I chanced upon a rare video series capturing the plight and pathos of the catastrophic Tsunami that hit the Indian Ocean in 2004. The video is called 'Tsunami in Camera' and is available on Youtube. It was horrifying to relate to the experiences of tourists who were on a delightful vacation and were caught unawares. The scenes that reeled before my eyes were so terrifying that I imagined finding myself in a similar situation when I was holidaying in Thailand or Philippines. 

                   After watching the video, my estimation of the effects of that disaster was completely dismantled. It shattered many myths and presuppositions. Before this, little did I have any idea about the fact that the actual havoc was played by the power and force of tidal energy. Secondly, I got to learn that at each site of the tragedy, two waves hit the beaches. The second wave was taller and mightier. Secondly, the receding wave had an equally devastating effect. It suck people and objects like vacuum cleaner into the abyss of the ocean. 

                            These days, I am spending a lot of time with my college senior Bhuvneshwar Singh Rathore(Bhamsa as we used to call him) who hails from Bikaner, is in the army, and is here on a leave. We discussed the above point today in the evening and he supplied his peculiar experience details. This army officer had successfully served at the world's highest battlefield, the Siachen glacier. He narrated an eye-witness account of  one of the most deadly of natural disasters- the Avalanche. The sight of an avalanche is one of the beateous visions one can have when he is perched high above  safely at a distance. However, god save you if you are in its way. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can survive it. More on it in the next post but to conclude, all that can be said is that our life is at the mercy of nature.

38

Dear Readers, 

                     Our department recently organized a symposium on Relevance and Contribution of one of the most iconic leaders of the National Movement, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. The keynote speech was delivered by a fellow colleague, Dr. Meghna Sharma who specializes in Modern Indian History. Being a Medievalist, I would admit my lack of knowledge in the field. I was thrilled to the core to learn so much from the erudite speeches that were delivered that day. I was the compere for the symposium and the mere regurgitation of highlights left me with abundant knowledge.

                      Did you know that after Netaji's death in a plane crash, his ashes were taken to Japan. They were stored in the house of Mr. Rama Murti, a freedom fighter, who laid the foundations of India Independence League at Tokyo. According to the information provided in His Majesty's Opponent by Sugata Bose( grand nephew of Netaji and currently, Gardiner Professor of Oceanic History and Affairs, Harvard University) these last remains were brought back to India in 2006 at the behest of our present Prime Minister Manmohun Singhji. This fact, though a subject of intense debate and mystery, raises more questions than it answers.

                           Netaji's daughter, Anita B. Pfaff's recent book launch and her gift of the same to Honorable President Pranab Mukherjee has initiated a fresh debate on Netaji among the intelligentsia of our nation. In the same spirit, we had organized this symposium. Our democracy is far far away from entering its mature phase. Neither are the people accustomed to framing their opinion based upon rigorous debates in the realm of Higher Education. None the less, we should begin to research on the dark spots of our history. We should rebel against grand meta-narratives of political parties and examine details first hand- details about National leaders, events, riots, wars, demographic shifts etc. Only then, can we absolve ourselves and our civilization from being dubbed as ahistorical.......

37

Dear Readers, 

                    How little do we know about the things that we mostly take for granted? All these years, I was proud of the fact that I belong to Marwar, India's desert and am well-versed with its every nook and corner, its each dialect, its varied customs and demographic web. However, recently, I had to rectify my views when  I discovered an altogether new dimension to this glorious and beautiful landscape. 

                     On my visit to a tiny hamlet nestled in the middle of the Thar desert, Meghaniyon ki dhani, I saw something which bewildered me. I traveled through spectacular country covered with different colors sparkling under a warm and crispy winter Sun. The drive to the destination took me through interesting places: Korna, the famous medieval barony of Uhar Rathores( I was elated to see its kot or castle from a distance), Madli, Sarekhiya Purohitan and Patodi, famous villages en route. I was thrilled to drive along the famous Pathankot-Kandla Mega Highway, a smooth silky road promising loads of pleasure to bike enthusiasts.
                  The countryside is full of surprises and treats to the eyes. Sometimes, you come across lofty sand dunes which entice you to tread upon them. At other times, rocky outcrops give the impressions of miny mountain ranges. The natural depressions caused by rainwater flowing from these high lands are the most picturesque. The little water collected henceforth, results in the formation of oasis around which grow lush green fields of mustard,  wheat or Pearl millet. If you have any imagination, it would be an artistic pleasure to paint a picture in your mind of the intricate drainage pattern of Luni, that mighty river of our desert, which meets the Rann of Kutch..... South-west Thar! lets start a fresh love affair babes........

                     

36

Dear Readers,

                     I happened to be in Jaipur during the last weekend. The pink city was clad in tricolors. Not the tricolors of our national flag but those of the oldest political party of our India, the Indian National Congress. The entire stretch of road right from airport to Birla Auditorium was decked up with INC flags and huge portraits of the triumvirate. There were huge bill boards displaying images of Rahul Gandhi and thanking him for his visit to the state capital. In India, even a democracy sometimes lets you feel the majesty of monarchies. 

                  It is beyond contention that under the present circumstances, a certain degree of dynasticism has become a stark political reality of our nation. It is indeed a dangerous phenomenon which should be a cause of concern for those who wish well for our Constitution. However, this post talks about a somewhat different topic: the 'historic' speech delivered by the Yuvraj. I speak as an aware and highly skeptical citizen and not as a die-hard fan of Nehru-Gandhi family.

                 Rahul Gandhi speaks with a voice that sounds honest. Even during the speech delivered on the eve of the Nuclear Agreement, he was calmly trying to drive home his point in the face of rowdy hooting from the opposition. This time, he spoke with a candid outlook and his content was brisk and meaningful and most importantly, original. As a prospective national leader, he did not shy away from laying bare his inner fears. It would be whimsical to crown the Prince as an Emperor just at this trivial pretext of sounding basic. For this, he will have to tread upon vast lands from sea-shores to troublesome jungles of Central India, from the lost bastions of Gangetic valley to grain-baskets of the country. None the less, his charm lies in his simplicity and graceful conduct. It may be no surprise if his success comes out of an appreciation of this innate trait by the farmers and workers of our land.... .             

35

Dear Readers,

                   Bikaner is like a fairy tale full of palaces, colors, dust and camels. Like any fairy tale, it does get painfully slow, lazy and frustrating, some times. Well! 'sometimes' would be an under-statement. Actually, most of the times and here lies the challenge for rash dudes and jumping jacks. How to survive and not loose your nerves?

                 Every morning on my way to work, I face a similar situation. A tough situation if you hate history and think that it is a useless subject. I have to wade my way through camels and camel-carts. They bring your jeep to a grinding halt from a speed of over 60 kms an hour and then you have to wait till they finish their lethargic turns. It is they who decide the traffic rhythms and you are left with no other option but to enjoy the music on air. 

                   Today was a different day, however. While negotiating my way up to the Uni, for a change, I decided to mould myself according to the city-pace without complaining. I attempted to look at the people through the prism of historical observation. To my surprise, I saw so many things that amused me. Behind all the rickety and cumbersome chaos, there lay poetry. Fine sand  from across the border displayed mirage images of Bahawalpur, Multan and Kabul; Smiles of slender girls radiated the warmth of winter Sun; soothing farts of lazy afternoons sounded the happiness of Marwari banias relishing home-stay after years of struggle in Calcutta or Guwahati or Chennai..........A thousand lives will be less to live the magic of history and imagination........ 

"Kim dived into the happy Asiatic disorder which, if you will only allow time, will bring everything to you that a simple man needs", - Kim, Rudyard Kipling.

34

Dear Readers,

                    Watched two videos in the evening and wonder what they had in them that made me feel so superb about life. I believe there is some magic in art which touches our soul and then gives us that vital energy so much necessary for carrying on with life. Any form of creativity is just a mirror that shows us into the souls of people and quite often but not, into our very soul itself. 

                      There are songs and there are videos( from music albums) that hit us. They make us think of special persons in our lives; special moments and special feelings. Speaking certainly about my own experiences, I can  imagine how happy do I feel when even a remote association is made with the subject. The pangs of loneliness, the splurge of delight, smothered emotions being let out, bonds of trust and faith solidifying, love oozing out and being reciprocated and millions of such delicate feelings. All this flows out right at the time when the precise chord is struck just like when acupuncture needles trace origin of pain inside a patient's body.....