Closure

He is fine now...he is much much more than alive. Thank you everybody. For being there.

I am back to my blissful state of petty insecurities, fights and quarrels. We are fighting at this very moment.

He still might collapse any day and neither one of us nurses dreams of "Happily Ever After"...but I got what I wished for. Another day of glorious sunshine.

India and tennis.

25th May 2009 was an important day for us. And the Indian democracy. On this day, The Supreme Court of India granted bail to a frail looking man of 52...clean shaven, ailing, held under the "Chhattisgarh Special Public Security Act 2005 (CSPSA)"...you could scarcely believe him to be a terrorist, waging war against the state, conspiring against the union. But then, what do I know?

A gold medallist from The Christian Medical College, Vellore, he chose to work amidst the squalor and penury that is the tribal belt of Chattisgarh. In an area where half of the population is malnourished, where thousands of children never live to see their fifth birthday, he was a beacon of hope, insanely popular. Laurels were heaped on him...for both his medical and humanitarian work.
And then, Santoshpur happened.
On the 31st of March 2007, several tribals were killed by the state police under the guise of an encounter...A Human Rights tussle ensued. He was arrested by the state police under charges of sedition in May.

I am not much of a patriot. At least not as much as those who are now crying themselves hoarse...screaming profanities at Australia. It seems though that my "Greatest Country in the World" doesn't care much for dissenting voices. Through the entire ordeal, not one party spoke up for the good doctor. 22 Nobel prize Laureates did.
We all are so caught up in celebrating our democracy that we refuse to see the darker side. The side that suppresses journalistic freedom...that throttles protests armed with a draconian law...where, even the highest court in the land dismisses a bail petition with a single line decree...where politics of vendetta is the only kind of politics on the planet. The Salwa Judum, created by the state to fight Naxals is today an alternate militia trapping the tribals in between...and anybody who raises a voice is deemed a Naxal.

I will not pretend I care for them; for the past half hour, I have been more interested in Nadal losing than him. However, I refuse to drag myself into the " Aussie KAMINEY ki aulad" campaign. Probably., a little sight inward wouldn't be out of place before we shout at others... for my patriot friends,therefore, who feign to care, just two words. Binayak Sen.

Of being alive.

It is the second night. Which will lead on the third morning. Of agony, frantic prayers, tears, tension and above all, fear. Fear that the third morning will never lead to a third night. I tremble at the thought.

It is annoying being cryptic, but the person in question desires the secrecy. I can't name him. He hasn't even told his mum what is going on. Or his best friend. Or his love.

That Saturday morning, as I sat quietly relishing the glory of a joyous Mamata Banerjee, the phone rang...him wheezing on the other side of the line; all an age ago. Time then has past in one whirlwind of tormented emotions, fingers painfully crossed and praying as hard as you could possibly be. And above all, fear. Overwhelming, dark, despondent, macabre fear that threatens to engulf all.

As I sit in the comfort of my home, its half past midnight and the world sleeps...perhaps I will too, in a few hours. And will wake up to the all-paralysing fear, the agonizing wait for a call, his voice.
"Its no use lying to you...I'm bleeding and the doctors are not hopeful this time...".I never knew I could pray this hard or get this afraid. Or this anxious. Everything seems petty now. My conversation with friends is either cosmetic or distant. My concerns are dwarfed by my fears.Death takes you away and never returns... its irreversible.
The first night, he made me promise to tell someone he loved her. To look after her. I hated her. I hate him for telling me to do this if, as he put it, he isn't around. He could barely speak. He told me to not visit him. He couldn't bear it.
I never realized love was this strong a bond. I bet he didn't either. I know nothing will happen to him... He fights as I type. He promised me. He will come back to me.
He can't die. He won't. He is just sick, that is all.

Untitled

I am sick of being sad...I am mad at myself for letting me be so melancholy for so long. Saw a setting sun the size of the millennium ball yesterday;shored up my mood considerably. Examinations underway, I have decided to not be sad. Its just not worth it.

The elections are underway here in Bengal and its huge fun. I like it almost as much as music. Mamata Bannerjee, me on my bed with Pakeezah plugged into my ears. Wouldn't have it any other way.

Channels have cried themselves hoarse over the past three days at how strife torn Nondigram registered a 88% turnout and Delhi clocked a placid 45%...the awakening of the masses, as they put it.
A man of seventy woke up at seven after a tiring day in the field the previous day. Tired but determined to register his franchise, he walked to the polling booth in the oppressive heat that characterises rural Bengal nowadays...walked back home only to find out his home gutted by fire,"accidentally" set on fire by "alleged" political goons. He stands outside his home with not a straw in the world to call his own. He cries, buries his face in his hands and you zoom into his now dead face to listen to his hollow, unsteady, almost suicidal voice while you ask him,"So, did you vote for the CPI(M)?"
From the comfort of my bed, I watch them. I have the luxury to contemplate. They don't. They are far too busy seeing their lives go up in smoke. Or like the distraught lady in Asansol who kept asking every passer-by,"Ami Ghashphool-e vote dilam bole eta holo?"..."Did this happen cuz I voted for the flower?". She is too busy crying, you see, to take part in our hoopla over the success of elections in Nondigram.
2009 has seen violence erupt in several parts of normally peaceful Bengal,with scores of people dead, houses gutted, lives shattered.People too scared to step on the village road cuz they're sure to be shot in the open. Or, as the Election Commission puts it,"Isolated little incidents of violence".
My friend consoles me, says the local committee of a certain party will disburse money to these people once the elections are over. He says it will never come out in the open...so its alright I guess.It shouldn't matter.
My largest democracy in the world marches on. As Lata Mangeshkar puts it," Yeh chiraag bujh rahe hai, mere saathe jalte jalte..."
I am feeling really cheery today.