बुनती ज़िंदगी

अज़ब डिजाइन का मेरा स्वेटर 

बुनती ज़िंदगी

हरेक सीधे के बाद दो फंदे उल्टे 

बुनती ज़िंदगी

देखती रहती है ! जो कहा नहीं वह 

सुनती ज़िंदगी 

मुझमें खामिया हज़ार मुझे कब इनकार

काश उधेड़ कर मुझे फिर से 

बुनती ज़िंदगी    

व्यंग्य: बोल राधा बोल

 

राजकपूर दि ग्रेटेस्ट शो मैन ने एक फिल्म बनाई थी जो सन् 1964 में रिलीज़ हुई थी और एक बेहद सफल फिल्म रही थी। उसमें एक गीत जो राजकपूर महोदय ने खुद पेड़ पर चढ़ कर गाया है: 

तेरे मन की गंगा मेरे मन की जमुना का बोल राधा बोल संगम होगा कि नहीं

यह सीधे सीधे ‘लव जिहाद’ का मामला है। जिस पर हमारी नज़र ही नहीं गई बल्कि हमारी नज़र उधर से जबरन हटाई गई। लेकिन अब उस पर पड़ी धूल हटाई जा रही है। भले इसमें वक़्त लग गया।

 

अब देखिये नायिका जो शुरू में ही स्पष्ट मना कर देती है कि उसकी नायक के प्रस्ताव में तनिक भी रुचि नहीं है। वह ऐलानिया ‘नहीं... नहीं... नहीं ...’ कह उसे दुत्कार देती है। किन्तु यह जिहादी तो एक पूरा अजेंडा बोलो, मिशन बोलो, लेकर निकला है। वह हर हाल में अपने मिशन को सफल करना चाहता है। उसके ‘नहीं .... नहीं ’ कहने से उसका अपना अजेंडा पूरा करने का मंसूबा और मजबूत हो जाता है।  वह जारी रहता है। वह हिंदुस्तान की गंगा-जमुनी तहज़ीब की, परंपरा की याद दिलाता है। वह अपने मिशन को किसी भी हालत में कमजोर होते नहीं देखना चाहता। वह तरह-तरह की उपमा देता है यथा 'तेरे मन की गंगा मेरे मन की जमुना...' क्या आपको अब भी कोई संदेह है कि यह लव जिहाद का मामला नहीं है। अब अगली पंक्ति देखें:

'कितनी सदियाँ बीत गईं हाय तुझे समझाने में‘

 नायक यहाँ सल्तनत काल और मुग़ल काल से चली आ रही जबरन कनवर्जन की ओर संकेत कर रहा है। वह कह रहा है कि मैं जबर्दस्ती करूँ क्यों न उससे पहले ही तुम हाँ कर दो। इस पर पुनः नायिका उसे जा...जा कह भगा देती है। किन्तु नायक बरगलाने से बाज नहीं आता। वह सब्जबाग दिखाता है और उसे झूठे सपने दिखाता है:

क्यों न जहाँ दो दिल मिलते हैं, स्वर्ग वहाँ बस जाता है

 और तरह-तरह के उपक्रम कर नायिका को मजबूर करता है। वह इनडाइरेक्टली धमकाने से भी नहीं चूकता:

'पत्थर पिघले दिल तेरा नम होगा कि नहीं’

वह बता रहा है कि वह हिंसा का हामी नहीं। नहीं तो एसिड अटैक जो पत्थर को पिघला देता है और दिल को एकदम नम कर देगा सुलभ है। और नहीं तो सीधे- सीधे स्टैबिंग की चेतावनी दे रहा है। यह सुन नायिका घबरा जाती है आखिर वह संस्कारी भारतीय नारी है। उसका भयभीत होना व्यावहारिक है। अतः कोई और चारा न देख, न किसी कोने से सहायता आती देख वह मजबूरन:

 'जाओ न क्यूँ सताते हो होगा... होगा... होगा...’

कह चैप्टर बंद कर देती है और इस तरह एक और हिन्दू कन्या लव जिहाद का शिकार हो जाती है। पंगु समाज मूक दर्शक बना देखता रह जाता है। 

अब हम आ गए हैं। हम ऐसा हरगिज़ न होने देंगे। आप तो बस हमें वोट दीजिये फिर देखिये हम कैसे इन सब लव जिहादियों को ऐसा सबक सिखाएँगे कि आप देखना हम 'रिवर्स लव जिहाद' कर इनको ही कन्वर्ट कर लेंगे। याद रखिएगा यह नया भारत है। हम विश्वगुरु हैं। कोई शक़ ?

काला जादू

तुझ से पहले यकीं न था दुनिया में अब भी होता है काला जादू 

लाख संभाला नागिन-जुल्फ कर गई मुझ पर काला जादू

मैं एहतियातन तमाम टोने - टोटके कर मिलने आया हूँ तुझ से 

जानता हूँ नज़र मिलेगी और जीत  जाएगा तेरा काला जादू

भूला खुद को, खुदाई को, याद है तो बस तू और तेरा काला जादू

जुल्फ काली, भवें काली, कजरारी आँखों की पलक काली

खुदबखुद चला आता हूँ ढूँढता मैं अपने हिस्से का काला जादू

satire: Call Bell -a colonial relic

 

According to a recent report, Hon’ble Netaji has issued a decree. The office call bell should be removed from the officers’ chamber. Reason? the bell is a symbol of colonial past. We are living in a democracy. So now while you may have your peon/MTS   you may call him on his cell-phone and request what you want. This will be the last nail in the coffin of colonialism. Did you know death of colonialism was so easy, by just removing call bell from office. How easy you have made its death sir.

 

The domestic grinding mill of grains/spices etc. In household lingo it is called Ghar-Ghanti. So now next item on Netaji's ‘TO DO’ list is call-bell of your chamber.  

 

It is said that Mughal emperor Jahangir had put a bell in his palace and the end of the rope was hung to enable aggrieved person to ring the bell to attract the attention of the emperor seeking his audience. But now the grievance cannot be heard. How will you listen? even if you want to. Office and its files are inseparable. Who will carry files from one desk to another if there is no bell. As far as cell phones are concerned, that also will ring a bell only. 

 

When all the data was digitized in an office, a grand computer section for its maintenance was inaugurated by Netaji with great fanfare and explained how now all the record will be available with a click of a mouse. But he forgot his own staff has doubled their rate of facilitation fee (bribe) reason-- "Earlier it was in our hands, now everything is in the computer room, where the entry is highly restricted. Even the guys working there can only get in after removing their shoes.

 

Instead of removing call-bell better would have been to make seating arrangement of the peon inside along with Saheb. That would have been real socialism. The only hazard is visitors would have mistakenly taken peon to be the Saheb and vice-versa. This would have been a great motivational positive stroke to peon.   

 

It could have been better if a Jahangir type bell was placed in the chamber of senior executives, rope hanging out from the window, so that the complainant could ring the bell. I have given you the idea, you may suggest it as your ‘own suggestion’   in your next Monday meeting of Kayakalp (transformation) group.

  

By the way, rarely peons are found in their seat. How many times have I seen officers making their own tea/coffee. One peon's bell is seldom heeded by another peon. Not only does his seniority come in way, but the officer who is ringing the bell! His seniority also counts. In fact, a peon's hearing ability is programmed to listen to the frequency/wavelength of his Saab’s bell only. 

 

If you think, these little superficial steps would make you immortal in the annals of Ministry’s history, you are sadly mistaken. However, you can console yourself that since 1853 none of your predecessors ever thought of it. Why? Because this herculean feat was to be done by you. Generations to come would not believe that there was a Minister who had such an eye for detail and could bring about a bell-less ‘silent’ revolution. Revolutions do not take place without sacrifice. In this case it was you who first removed his own call-bell. You have set the benchmark. Others are sulking as to what to do to be in your good books. What to remove? To be great, immortal and written about in red letters in Administrative History. Few are mulling whether to remove carpet or chair-table or sofa or all of these colonial symbols of slavery. These are tools of Western luxury. Public servants should lead a simple life coupled with high thoughts.

 

Now it may also mean no call-bells, only costly branded attire clad Liaison agents with hi-fi English accent. You know? They do not need call-bells rather the mandarins, however, high & Mighty they may be are at the beck and call of the Principal Employers of these Liaison Agents.

 

satire: Flower-Judge-Gym and police

  

Recently a delightful little headline popped up: a certain Me Lord has made life so difficult for his local police station staff that they were practically doing squats under the weight of complimentary services being provided to Me Lord.  

 

Not long ago, another headline had hit the collective national conscience -recovery of half burnt currency from the outhouse. The dignitary promptly declared ‘That’s outhouse, not my ‘house’ how could a man be held responsible for what happens in an outhouse? Fair enough! Years ago in Vadodara, a spurious liquor distillery was raided in a senior officer’s outhouse. The senior officer gave a similar ‘innocent’ explanation: first, I don’t drink —this is common knowledge in the entire city. Second, how on earth was he supposed to know what was brewing (literally) in the outhouse? And if he didn’t know, how could he possibly be responsible?

 

In the same spirit of creative logic, the local police quietly took it lying down. Apparently, it all begun with a harmless chunk of flowers for daily Pooja (prayer) by the family of a certain Me Lord in Delhi. Flowers was not much of an issue. Then came another summon: Me Lord wanted Membership of the swanky Gym of the area. Fair enough! Problem occurred when Me Lord wanted local police station to bear the expenses. He went to the gym; but the policemen were getting thinner paying the bill, their wallet lost all the weight.

 

I’m not sure what noble defense Judge Sahib planned to offer, but I can imagine. He could argue that in almost every case that comes before him, the local police are involved in some capacity either complainant or witness or investigator or just hanging around for ambience. The old saying goes, a healthy mind resides in a healthy body Therefore, for justice to be served promptly and flawlessly, it is essential for the police to ensure Me Lord remains in pink of health. A stressed-out judge! -God knows what might happen in his court. Thinking of all the consequences which may occur the policemen kept paying as part of due process of Judicial modus operandi  —because in case Me Lord wished, he had a million other ways to roast them day in day out.

 

I had once witnessed in the courtroom even before touching the case file, the judge tore into a policeman for not wearing his uniform. The policeman politely explained he was from the intelligence unit and allowed to be in mufti. That only provoked Round Two: “What is this loose paper you’re waving? Ever heard of a file cover? Is this any way to present documents?” and so on. The police have, in fact, stated that humiliating them in court was one of Me Lord’s daily warm-up exercises.

 

But that’s not all. According to the police, fresh flowers were sent every morning to Me Lord’s residence for his daily puja routine. Prayers were offered by him, but the monthly flower bill was paid by the police station. A rather unfair arrangement—after all, the poor policemen were not receiving any spiritual credit. How was the deity supposed to know that daily supply of fresh flowers offered, are financed by the nearest SHO and his team? And let’s not even start about the cost—three thousand rupees a month for flowers alone!

 

Once the gym had toned up Me Lord’s physique and sharpened his imagination, he asked for more; why not add cricket to the fitness routine? Pat came the order and duly conveyed to the police station: henceforth, Me Lord would play cricket beginning from Net Practice. Therefore, cricket bats, pads, balls, cap, guard & gloves be procured of the reputed international brand. The bill? A modest couple of lakhs! This was the precise moment the police found itself in Net. They decided enough was enough.  Entire Police station rose in unison and complained.

 

Sensing the sensitivity of the matter, the judicial administration quietly transferred Me Lord to another court. No one knows what became of his puja —will the daily prayers turn flowerless?  What about the cricket? The gloves? Above all—what will happen to the ‘body’ of me Lord!

 

satire: Genies from the House of Sarma ji

 

There is a peculiar modern tradition: if someone in society starts slipping mentally, emotionally, or logically, we simply step aside and let gravity do its job. Let him fall, Who has the time and inclination thus, yet another life goes down on the slope of life, gets conveniently abandoned. 

 

Sharma ji was one such abandoned masterpiece. Officially he ‘worked’ in my office. Unofficially, he was our department’s Bermuda Triangle—he existed only in rumours. In my three years tenure, I never saw him. Guys in my office had a different folk tale about him. And with every version, my curiosity rose—what sort of rare species had accidentally been placed on our payroll?

 

He had been instructed to attend office many a times verbally as well as in writing. My predecessors attempted, failed, and eventually surrendered—leaving Sharma ji to operate in his own time zone, universe, and possibly dimension. Now you might ask, why would anyone disrespect such a dignified post—Deputy Chief Officer? Simple. Life had gifted Sharma ji an impressive collection of frustrations, and he responded by turning himself into a high-powered not terminator but generator of problems. A colleague all along thought ‘Trouble Shooter’ is the person who creates Troubles, he shoots the troubles everywhere for everyone around. He could not be convinced how a Trouble Shooter could be the one who rather kills or solves the trouble.

 

The peak episode appeared on a day when he(Sarma ji)  phoned the Head of one of our sister institutes. The poor man picked up the phone and instantly regretted every decision that had brought him to that moment.

 

“This is Sharma. I have been receiving serious complaints about your institute. I have been specially deputed to check your functioning. I am coming this afternoon. This cannot continue!”

 

By the time he hung up, the Director General was halfway through cardiac complications. Chaos erupted. Floors were scrubbed, files straightened, dust fearing for its life. If they could polish the air, they would have.

 

And then Sarma ji arrived—on time, for the first and last time in recorded history. He delivered a monologue that could make dictators proud. The DG sometimes suspected something was amiss, but unfortunately courage was not on that day’s menu. Sarma ji vanished abruptly after the performance, leaving behind a perspiring senior officer questioning his career choices. A quick check of the phone series revealed the call originated from my department. Naturally, I received the panic call, “Who the hell is this Sarma?!”

 

Ah yes. Our departmental legend. The man who climbed to the post of Deputy Chief Officer without troubling work, office, or logic. Somewhere along the journey, an internal wire seems to have come loose. He began speaking in bursts—English, Hindi, unknown languages, sometimes all at once. He muttered, chanted, babbled. The office developed a safety radius around him. No one went near him with files. Self-preservation is a powerful thing.

 

On some days he would suddenly declare: “In the known history of mankind fundamental rights have never been suppressed even in the dark continents of Africa the way they are being trampled in this office. I refuse to participate in such functioning!” all of it one breath. This was when we were discussing a leave application.

 

He eventually qualified for a ‘special medical examination’ —a polite way of saying, ‘Please go figure out what’s happening in your brain’ Whether he went or simply scared the hospital staff into early retirement, nobody knows. But after that, Sarma ji adopted ‘No work from home’ —meaning, he stayed at home and harassed everyone on phone. Years before the concept even existed. Truly a visionary.

 

His other full-time occupation was prayer. He prayed so much that even God probably started putting his calls on silent mode. Once, two unfortunate staff members waited hours outside his house for a simple signature. Sarma emerged holding a brass vessel like an exorcist on night duty. He sprinkled water everywhere. On seeing the staffers, he got offended—because how dare they interfere in his routine. He stormed inside, returned with half a lemon, chanted something that sounded like a cross between Sanskrit and Wi-Fi password, and hurled the lemon at them. Followed by another holy shower.

 

The two men ran at speed previously recorded only in wildlife documentaries. After that, visiting Sarma’s house was an activity classified under ‘risk allowance not provided’ The Director General, upon hearing this saga, asked the most intelligent question of his career: “Why does he still have an office phone?” Fair point. But removing the phone required someone to physically approach Sarma ji. Everyone declined. Courage died that day. We finally deactivated the SIM. And the DG—who had just been trembling like a washing machine on spin mode—asked me for a written note authorizing the disconnection. Bureaucracy: where you need paperwork even to save your life.

 

Naturally, Sarma ji continued exactly as before. Departmental proceedings began. Since he had crossed 20 years of service, the committee concluded—politely—that he should be compulsorily retired. One senior officer refused to sign his VR order and protested, “Why are you making me do this sin?” As if allowing him to continue would be a virtuous thing. Before the matter reached closure, I got transferred.

 

Later, I heard that Sarma ji’s condition worsened. Eventually, the department retired him compulsorily. People said he was unmarried. His brother lived with him—another prayer enthusiast, who clocked 22 hours daily on the spiritual treadmill.

People don’t lose their mental balance overnight. They slowly slide… and without care, medication or support system, the slide becomes a freefall. Sarma was simply the final product of that neglected descent.

 

When news of his death reached me, I genuinely felt sad. A life had been thrown into a dustbin—first by circumstance, then by people, and finally by the system. And all we were left with was a ghost story no one knew how to stop.

 

 

satire: To Whomsoever It May Concern (Unfortunately)

 

 

 

Given the kind of chaos currently swirling through society, the day is not far when—much like court marriages—we’ll also need a formal ‘Show Cause Notice’ in our traditional weddings. Even before daring to fall in love or get married it would be made mandatory to publish it in two leading newspapers English and vernacular. So, in the larger interest of public harmony and emotional, law-and-order, I hereby issue this PMPA (pre-marital public announcement)

 

To all lovers, Romeos, young in age, young at heart, self-certified heartbreakers, self-styled Casanovas, dirty old men, park-bench poets, and other assorted patrons of modern romance—please be informed that after reviewing all evidences, considering my steadily advancing age, my parents’ last wish, and the relentless taunts of relatives who have made punching bag of my bachelorhood their full-time hobby, I have—of my own sound mind—decided that perhaps, just perhaps, it is time for me to get married.

 

I, Murkhanandan, son of Shri Riwaz Das, resident of Every-Gali, Every-Chauraha, Any City, solemnly declare that I am actively contemplating entering the sacred, risky, occasionally fatal institution known as marriage. In light of this, all lovers and claimants with any possible objections to my upcoming nuptials are invited to register their protests—verbally, in writing, or by personal appearance—within six weeks of publication of this notice in the newspaper.

 

To facilitate this noble democratic process, the house and office will be kept open even on holidays. Objections may be filed any time between 8 AM to 8 PM. Kindly attach any supporting documents—photographs, love letters, WhatsApp screenshots, Facebook albums, or any other relics of your romantic association. These will greatly assist in quick and amicable disposal of the matter.

 

Let it be clear: the advertiser harbours no desire to intrude upon anyone’s romance, sabotage any couple, or become the odd man out in someone’s emotional triangle. My only wish is to live the remainder of my life peacefully, without anxiety, and preferably without mysterious circumstances landing me in a blue plastic drum or at the bottom of a remote hillside gorge. I also have no particular interest in consuming accidental poison via milk, food, or sweets. Hence—before destiny, geography, or jealousy intervene—this public notice is being issued as a precautionary measure.

 

NB:

This is not the final call. In the unlikely event that after my wedding also in case, you develop an overwhelming realization that your true soulmate is indeed yours and your alone truly, please inform me in advance. Visit freely; no one will question you. As long as heads remain intact, turbans can always be found. After all, life comes before romance, and survival before ceremony. Consider this my version of an anticipatory bail for lovers everywhere.

 

With warm regards and a prayer for your happiness—

Yours Faithfully, Affectionately, and Cautiously