Snapshots from the Bachelor days in Indian Oil

 

An infectious smile and simplicity make my friend, Saurav Seth, stand out in a crowd. Seth is a highly acclaimed Chemical Engineer for his operational expertise on Fluidized Catalytic Cracking (FCC) Unit. Recently, we had invited him to Guwahati Refinery to share his expertise with our Guwahati Refinery Engineers. 

So in the evening, six old friends Saurav Seth, Lalan Paul, Basav Teli, Saurav Gupta, Vikash Badan and I, met after a long time over a small get-together. After joining Indian Oil, all of us underwent training together along-with a group of diverse Chemical Engineers at different locations. Years have rolled by and some of them have left Indian Oil; but the bond of friendship with most of them has remained impervious. The evening with friends brought back memories of our carefree time of togetherness in Baroda and Dehradun.

Kharag was a fascinating character in our batch. He did his B.Tech from IIT, Kharagpur and that’s how he earned his name Kharag Singh. Another friend was terribly fond of eggs and his insatiable craving for eggs earned him the coveted title of “Andaman (eggman)”. There were few more such immensely talented engineers and they all were suitably bestowed upon with such befitting titles.

 

Alkapuri in Baroda was one of our favourite hunting grounds and like wolves, we used to hunt in a pack. That evening, I was about to walk down to the Officers’ chummery after dropping down from the last bus to the Refinery Township from the City. Suddenly, I could spot my friends Ranjeet Prasad and Saurav Gupta sitting on the railing of the dimly lit bus stop.

“Where are you going at this hour ?”

“Off to Bombay. We are going to buy Chess Board for Gupta” 

In those days, Saurav Gupta was obsessive with Chess and wanted to buy a particular type of Chessboard found only in one shop in Mumbai. As per Saurav, a small scene of a Bollywood blockbuster was also shot in that shop. His high expectation about the sports shop owned by Kiran More in Baroda was watered down by the dismal quality . So, there, they were waiting to board the last bus returning to the City to catch the night train to Mumbai. 

“Halt the bus till I come back from my room. I am going with you to Bombay”. The decision was made immediately and I started running to my room to pick up some cash and toiletry kit.

“What about your Rail ticket?” Saurav was concerned.

“We will manage” I shouted back while running.

 

So, we three could board the second class non AC compartment at the nick of time for an overnight train journey from Baroda to Mumbai. I happened to be in the bathroom while the TT came for the rounds. The night passed off peacefully without any more arrival of the TT as I shared the berth with Ranjeet. Next day morning, the first person, who came to greet me at the Victoria Terminal Platform, was a Railway ticket checker. The Indian Oil card somehow helped me to avoid further ordeal. I paid the fine.

Roaming around Mumbai, we soon got tired by the evening. By then, Saurav had bought four or five sets of chessboard for playing different boards at different time of the day! We had a late night train back to Baroda and required some rest to freshen up after a heavy lunch. There was an AC movie hall near the restaurant playing an awful Hindi movie. “Jaani Dushmani”  was perfect for us for an evening siesta. 

Memories of that wonderful trip to Mumbai from Baroda without a train ticket still lingers. Whenever, we three meet, invariably, we remember those days. Till Ranjeet left Digboi, his was the closest family to us. The thought of sumptuous sweets and food, his mother used to prepare, still tinker my taste buds.

 

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Once a very senior HR  officer from Head Quarter came to visit the trainees at Baroda to personally oversee the training program, we were undergoing. Over a training session, he enquired whether we were comfortable with our stay and food.

 

 “Treat me as your own brother and don’t hesitate to share your concerns even if it is personal” 

We told him we were comfortable and had no such issues. But like a gracious Santa, he kept on declaring his intention to resolve any issues we had, if any !

“ I have an issue” Kharag raised his hand. “ Sir, I am unable to find a girl friend here in Baroda.”

While the entire class broke into an uncontrolled frenzy of laughter and our “good Santa” expressed his inability to help, Kharag maintained his composure with a grim face. His stoical face meant business!

During the Durga Puja Holidays, some of us in Dehradun decided for a trip to Shimla  and Manali. Initially, I hesitated to join as I preferred to do the pending project job of designing an azetropic distillation column for separation of Ethanol. Ranjeet finally convinced me that project could wait, but not such a trip.  We reached Shimla late and went straight to the Mall Road without confirming any Hotel for the night stay. The October weather was fabulous in Shimla and the Mall was electrifying with many young people strolling in the road. 

Suddenly at some corner, our Kharag could see a poster of a movie titled “ Kama”. The weather was cold and Kharag decided it was a must see in the late evening show. So, Kharag, Andaman (Eggman) and another friend (I am unable recollect) left their luggage with us to go straight to the movie.

The hotel, we zeroed upon, was a cheap one. We had to carry our luggage atop the hillock as the entrance lane was too narrow for our Tata Sumo. Huffing and puffing, I kept on cursing Kharag and his troupe for leaving us with their luggage to carry. 

At hotel, I called Nikhil Gandhi ( Working at Shell Global now) to my room to perfect a plan I hatched to teach Kharag a lesson. When Kharag and his gang returned to Hotel, over dinner, I informed I was not going to Manali with the group. 

In the evening, after Kharag left us, I told, we befriended with a group of girls from Chandigarh University at the Mall. I was invited by the one with the blue jacket to join them in their car to Manali next morning and I readily accepted the offer.  Nikhil enthusiastically proclaimed to be the witness to my new hobnobbing. I required to pinch Nikhil a few times to remind him not to overact to raise suspicion of the prank we were playing.

Kharag and Anda were crestfallen.  Kharag cursed his fate for deciding on the movie which yielded nothing! Tragedy is contagious and a pall of gloom was also perceptible in the face of Andaman as both of them starting exchanging words for deciding on such a bad investment in the movie.  

  

After food, Kharag pleaded to take him with me in the car with the University girls. It was just not fair for me being already engaged to someone. He reminded me how I kept others waiting for hours in the only PCO at IIP, Dehradun Hostel while chatting with my fiancée.

“Don’t you remember her face  ...You idiot.” 

Next day morning, it was time to move to Manali. Kharag was happy not because I was accompanying him with other IOCL friends, but because I wasn’t in the other car to Manali with the girl wearing that blue jacket

 

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We were merrily playing Antakshri on the way to Manali when a Policeman sporting a star in his uniform asked us to stop. The car , we were travelling, had a nameplate of some Ahmed , a minister from Uttarakhand. The Policeman demanded to see the taxi permit which our driver failed to produce. 

“All of you get down. You will no more  travel in this car” he ordered.

Immediately our negotiation specialist Santosh got down to have a discussion with the Policeman. But the Police remained unmoved by all the emotional torture of Santosh. 

To prove that the car, we were driving was not a taxi but a personal car of the Minister, someone went a step further. “ Minister Saab ka beta bhi ayah hein hamare saath” (Minister’s son is also with us).

The medicine seemed to work instantly as voice of the Policeman mellowed down.

“Kaha hain Minister Saab ka Beta ?” (Where is the Minister’s son?)

So Abhinandan Jain, who was a little away from the scene, was pointed out as the Minister’s son. 

With all humility, the Policeman asked Abhinandan “ Aapka Subhnaam ?” ( What’s your good name ?”

 

“ Abhinandan Jain” Pat came the answer.

“ Ahmed ka beta Jain.... B..C....M....C  ###88&&” . Now he was a raging inferno.

In the ensuing melee, someone pushed a hundred rupee note inside his pocket and all of a sudden, the policeman’s anger melted down like an ice-cream.

Finally that evening, we reached Manali.

 

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Childhood Diaries – Poppins saved the day

In a letter to his friend in 1887, Lord Acton wrote - "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely."

There’s no shade of doubt that Lord Acton was entirely spot on with his observation. As a 5^th standard student at Hajo H.S School, I had the taste of power and it did corrupt my young mind too. I was elected as the Class Captain with an overwhelming majority. The election procedure was almost a replica of the General Election, someone had to propose a candidate’s name followed by another supporting the move and there you went to the election fray. Election date was finalized with a day or two spared for the candidates to realign voters in his or her favor. Perhaps our Class Teacher took all those pain to expose us to Indian Electoral system.

As the Captain, my responsibility was to maintain order, cleanliness and ensuring a spotless blackboard with chalk and duster neatly kept aside the table. Also before summer vacation, all the classes used to collect contribution from the students and arranged a tea party with teachers and students. From decoration of the classroom to the menu was decided by the Captain and his team which also sometimes culminated in fight over unequal distribution of sweets and others (in Junior classes). But the most authoritative right of the Captain was to note down the indiscipline acts of the students and report to the Class teacher.

During that time, my sister received all the praise from my parents and Grand Parents for her good mannerism and keeping them informed on my activities. While I was a “Dagabaj” for the Grand Father, his tone immediately mellowed down to call sister.  Perhaps, more of adulation for my sister made the child in me felt a little rebellious towards the girls. The girls were my sworn enemy and it was them with few of the boys, not in my good book, who were asked to carry out all the cleaning activities. Yet, a slender allusion of defiance to my authority was enough to report their names to the Class teacher for some fabricated acts of indiscipline. As things turned out, in one rainy day, when we boys were far outnumbered by the girls, I had a narrow escape from the irate scales the girls were carrying!.

After a few months, opposition to my captaincy grew in numbers with a group of boys too joining the other group and they pressed hard with our class teacher, Sri Bijoy Kumar Das,  for changing the captain.  After a few days, Sir relented and a date was decided. The sudden turn of events made me edgy as losing the election meant, I were sure to experience all those which I was inflicting on others. We were about 18 boys and 15 girls in the section and out of the 18 boys, more than 5-6 were opposing me.

Intuition told me that the group of girls would be very hard to split. But the small dissatisfied splinter group of boys held the key and they alongwith all other boys except few stick-in-the-mud ones, were the most vulnerable to swing on either side.  

In those days, my mother still used the dressing table her father gifted on her wedding. The dressing glass was fitted to a drawer with a lock and key arrangement where mother used to store mundane staff and also sometimes small cash. For more valuable & secretive ones, the drawer had another closet inside. While keeping cash changes, she used to push small notes from outside without opening the lock of the cabinet through the gap between two planks. That day, the sight of a ten rupee note couldn’t miss my probing eyes getting stuck up a little.   I could pull out it after some effort with a safety pin.

I knew the best utility of the ten Rupee note. Poppins candies used to be 50 paisa a roll and I bought 21 of them while going to school on the day of election. The kind shop keeper gave me an extra as my B’day gift. Eventually to avoid any undue alarm, I lied to him that it was my B’day and mother had asked to throw Poppins treat to all my friends in the class.

Things thereafter moved on faster. Candy rolls were displayed to my friends and declared that a party would follow my win . Boys will be always boys ! Those avaricious tongues soon forgot all animosity and voted in block for me and the girls again lost it in a thin margin of 2 or 3 votes.

The guilt of stealing money however kept on haunting me for a long time. I wanted to bare all to my parents, but couldn’t out of fear of getting reprimanded. My father, in particular, held me at high esteem and believed his elder son could do no wrong though mother was often suspicious as ever and kept a policing eye on me. Of course, the guilt feeling kept on reminding me to become a better Captain for the remaining part of the year.

The guilt feel was also a stark reminder that I was no good material for a future Politician. Years after, when opportunities knocked my door, I was fortunate to hear the inner call to ignore the knock.

As time moved on and a few years rolled by, bizarre changes kept on happening to me. The girls whose presence, I could hardly stand suddenly looked irresistible and more so during the occasions like Saraswati Puja in their immaculate dress up. Didn’t know that youth had finally crept into me!

From that time onwards, life was full of endless possibilities till “Mr. Bell rang the bell of alarm”  and my Parents awoke up ! The feral horse was finally domesticated.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Five Minutes of Living in Two Different Worlds

I awoke up to extreme discomfort and took a minute or two to shed off the drowsiness to make out that something was utterly wrong with me. I was breathing heavily. The discomfort emanated right from the side where the most precious part of human body works, the beautiful and mischievous heart. I was sweating profusely and hurriedly reached to the AC remote to set the temperature to Hi Cool mode. In a feat of nervousness, remembered an article, I read a few days ago, which said that young people normally suffers massive heart attack, fatal in most cases. I looked at the wall clock. It was 4:15 AM and almost the same time I was born into this world on 21^st Feb, 1975.

I called my wife sleeping with our younger son. Siddhant was down with a bout of viral fever and my wife slept in a separate room with him so that, in the morning I remain fresh at office. I told her to get me admitted to GNRC Hospital immediately as bringing me to our Refinery Hospital may result in loss of precious time.

It had to be the dreaded stroke. It’s a curse of the increasingly sedentary lifestyle and the surrounding looked blurred to me. As my wife stood rooted in shock, confusion and nervousness, memories of the yesteryear’s struggle and aspirations for materialistic pursuit flickered at my mind. Yearning for fast track promotion at my job, meticulous financial planning for future and all these were about to go for a toss. Suddenly I realized, I have not lived life the way I should have for all these years. If only, I would have spent some more time with my children, did go to the evening gym instead of remaining hooked to the phone and restrained my ostentatious eating habit, I would not have seen this day. The thought of wife and the two small kids plunging into turmoil was even more unbearable.

Then all of a sudden, I remembered, Bhupen Hazarika was performing at a Bihu function when he suffered the first stroke. He didn’t make out the  confusion as he failed to sing the songs one after another, he was singing for so many years with gusto.  I remembered, I was worst in Sanskrit and used to get rebuked by Dr Srikanta Sarma Sir at our school.

 नैनं छिन्दन्ति शस्त्राणि नैनं दहति पावकः। न चैनं क्लेदयन्त्यापो न शोषयति मारुतः।।

अच्छेद्योऽयमदाह्योऽयमक्लेद्योऽशोष्य ऐव च। नित्यः सर्वगतः स्थाणुरचलोऽयं सनातनः।।

Weapons can’t pierce, Fire Can’t burn,  
Neither water can wet nor the air can dry

Soul can’t be cut, burnt, decayed or dried
The forces of nature can do no harm

Soul (aatma) is permanent – Bhagavat Gita )

It seemed to be quite OK. I remembered all the words.

I asked my wife to hear me recite another one

केयूरा  न  विभूषयन्ति पुरुषं हारा न  चन्द्रोज्ज्वला

न  स्नानं  न  विलेपनं  न  कुसुमं  नाSलंकृता  मूर्धजा

वाण्येका  समलंकरोति  पुरुषं  या  संस्कृता धार्यते

क्षीयन्ते  खलु  भूषणानि  सततं वाग्भूषणं  भूषणं

(Neither ornaments like Keyura, nor garlands glittering like the moon, neither bathing, nor cosmetics, perfumed oil nor flower embellishes a person. It’s only his cultured tongue, a person adopts, decorates  him. All ornaments wear out, yet the ornament of cultured speech stays forever)

I remember word by word. No, it can never be a Stroke!

But my recitation at the wee hours failed to enthuse my wife.

 “ At this hour, you want me to hear all this ! Don’t you know when you were riding the train at bed, I was awake with the feverish boy. I was about to fall asleep and you called me to hear your Goddamn recitation.  You are crazy…..you need to see a shrink immediately. All along, I have been saying, you are never… never …. a normal human being” 

My wife says I snore like an old train running on steam.

I reached for the Aluminum and Magnesium Hydroxide gel which all of us familiar as Diegene. Gulped a few bottle caps in a hurry. Remembered, previous evening,  I couldn’t open my snacks as flurry of visitors swarmed my office room till Dinner time.

Grh….grh…grh…..grh…….

A big burp followed by one after another two way air outflows and I was feeling better and better.

I said to my wife “ I feel OK now. You may catch some sleep. I need to make a power point presentation for the Departmental review”

All the day’s planning flickered through my mind. The subjects which seemed trivial a few minutes ago with the prospect of a stroke, once more started looking important - Power Point Presentation, choice of colors for the walls of my apartment, planning for upgrading to a Villa, getting the Reliance Jio sim and many more.

And life goes on and on.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Ismail Hossein and visit to Barpeta Satra

It was Student Union Election time in Assam Engineering College (AEC) and I was off on a hectic canvassing schedule. In one of the classroom campaigns, replying to a query, I spoke about Ismail Hossein. Till then, I didn’t know him personally though he was made a celebrity by Homen Borgohain’s article on him and his poem – Bigyapan (Advertisement). Incidentally, Ismail Hossein was himself present in that class.

He came to AEC on an UN scholarship for the Degree course on Electronics and Telecommunication Engineering. We soon became good friends though I was much junior to him by age and senior by one year in Engineering. Countless hours, we spent at his residence conversing on myriad of topics and I don’t remember even a single day coming back without his wife entertaining us with sumptuous snacks and tea.

Like all of us, Ismail Hossein has also flaws here and there. I found him to have pre-conceived notion on some issues and at times being judgmental. Most of the time, he is too straight like an arrow and defies the thin line of diplomacy. In those days, he was extremely perturbed for use of obscene themes and wordings by Nilim Kumar. In a series of articles, he came very heavy on Kumar. I had a faintly different perception to the entire episode and published my views in an article in the Sadin, an Assamese weekly . Hossein, perhaps expected me to be little more inconsiderate and didn’t seem to be enthusiastic with my mellowed approach though for an Engineering undergraduate, an article in a popular weekly was something like an important milestone.

For many of our intellectuals, secularism is like the hen laying golden eggs. But, Ismail Hossein has undergone struggle and pain in his life to uphold the values of secularism. Needless to say, I will be the last person to believe him to be communal trying to fragment our society by commenting on Barpeta Satra as some of the so called society guardians are proclaiming today. Hossein continuously face the wrath of the Islamic conservatives as well for his stubbornness on what he believes.  He has been entangled in many controversies and I have never said anything in support or against him. Yet, I know, I shall not do justice to the time I spent with him and his family, if I don’t speak out about the person when his intent on secularism and Assamese society is questioned.

A few months back, I visited Barpeta Satra with my family on the way to Bongaigaon. The visit reminded me to a humorous act I took part in School, conceptualized and directed by me. I played the role of the conservative Satradhikar, in my Grandfather’s Dhoti and Kurta, speaking some outrageous logic for barring entry of  woman inside the Kirtan Ghor. The year was 1989 and a group of woman activists were forcefully stopped from entering inside the Satra. Visiting Barpeta in 2016, I was shocked that Barpeta has refused to change from what it was in 1989. The same medieval attitude persisted when my wife and mother were reminded not to enter inside the Kirtan Ghor. For a moment, I prayed silently from the  main entrance. Pride prevented my wife to peep through the holes in the walls to have glance inside the Kirtan Ghor, as suggested by someone. Inside, It was all pervading darkness trying to encircle the simmering light of the Guru's seat.

However, my mother prayed with all the sincerity to seek forgiveness for the audacity of her son and Daughter in law.

Sankardev, the Noblest and the Greatest son of Assam, must be very miffed at the meanness of some of his idiotic followers who speak against women inside the Satra. Through all His teachings, he spoke about breaking the barrier of ignorance, caste, religion and sectarianism. He defied the traditional wisdom of accepting pre-eminence of someone as his birth right.  

I am sure, Sankardev himself would have no issue in allowing Ismail Hossein or a Christian inside the Barpeta Satra either.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

FB errupts over a Poet and a poem

It’s been like a volcanic eruption with outburst directed at full throttle. I was not able to get head or tail what was going wrong until I went through a post by my FB friend Zakir. I came to know that the outpour was caused by a mere post on poetry by Sri Nilim Kumar, the noted or controversial Assamese Poet.

In a way, I felt happy that we have still some serious and enthusiastic followers of Assamese Poetry .  We were in Engineering College (92-96)  when Sri Kumar first started writing poems with unfamiliar themes. I remember Sadin (Weekly Magazine) publishing my article on contemporary Assamese Poetry where I wrote for gracious use of symbolism in modern poetry. While I was suave on Sri Kumar, Ismail Hossein’s article was head on and hard hitting.

If my memory doesn't fail me, Bireswar Barua, in an article in an issue of Asam Bani in 1996, compared Nilim Kumar to the American Beat generation. Those who are not familiar with the Beat generation of American Poetry, It was a group of Poets who became extremely popular post World War-II. The generation rode of publicity rage with their work on obscure sexism and bisexual themes.  

I still can’t accept few of the Nilim Kumar’s Poems as decent and digestible. Certainly some Gupta's inner garments has nothing to do to create unprecedented trouble  if it doesn't get dry. (One of the controversial poems of Nilim Kumar). But when he says expressing oneself is not poetry, I am not  totally averse to what he says. Rather, I would like to reshape his words to fit to my belief as- expressing oneself in the form of poetry may not always translate to good poetry.

Of late, we have a large pool of poets and their works hardly measure up to the expectation of the serious readers. To  a reader, bad Poetry is much worse than a bad novel  or a short story.

To me, there is a thin line that distinguishes good poetry from the bad one. First and foremost, it must be simple and vibrate the inner chord of the reader. Simplicity here doesn’t mean staleness. But reading and understanding poetry require some intellect to crack the outer hard shell which the poet creates purposefully to elevate the joy of the reader while relishing on the softer core.

The important matter is expressing oneself gives the divine high to the author and helps relive the relentless creative pain.  So why to worry what Mr. Nilim Kumar thinks about your poem. Let the words flow unhindered.

Coming back to Beat Generation, Sri Nilim Kumar should remember that some people like me still spontaneously quote  few lines from T S Elliot , the harbinger of modernism into English Poetry,  inspite of being unconventional at his time while   Allen Ginsberg,  from the Beat generation, rests peacefully in Google search.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Sleepless Night

Once more, a bout of acidity robbed my sleep off till morning. The only awful part of such long night is the call of office in the next morning with the siren about to be wailing at 7: 15 sharp.

My two sons were sleeping peacefully by my side. I kissed their soft cheeks and felt the warmth. The younger one slept with the toy car I had brought for him in the afternoon. The elder must have been dreaming on the book he went through in his kindle, a gift I gave him in his last B’day.

Suddenly, some part of my heart ached and shuddered wishing not to see a day when these two will not see eye to eye, forget about sharing a bed. Have seen many brothers turning bitter foes.

At 41, I can feel the feel of fleeting youth with tinges of white growing all the time in the hair, when the days of playing cricket all day in the scorching sun seems like a dream and of course when I am called a dear uncle so many times.

When I hum few lines of Borgeet in the morning, my wife says I am growing old. But its true, sometimes I feel  many dreams I am chasing everyday, have no real purpose in life.

Death is a truth and no one can defy it. Every pound of our heart  and we are closer to the grave.  Billions of people, higher and mightier had to bite the dust. “Grass covered them all”.

The more I read of Alexander, Napoleon or Adolph Hitler, I feel the helplessness to see them falter at the twist of destiny.

Perhaps I am an escapist! I am too weak to look around and see the reality.

I wished - let this moment, the feel be eternal and time stop for ever ! This life and the world around and our children  are so beautiful, I will not be tired of living a million years too.

Let the morning herald and sunshine drench my mind and body. Let the weakling thoughts go off.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Sow the seed of love and peace

The Dhaka incident has shocked the entire world. Its sad but not surprising.

Going to a reputed school doesn't make  a person secular. Seeds of secularism is sowed in an individual  at home by the  parents and the surrounding . Acceptance of diversity doesn't come on its own when  people grow up from childhood on religious overdose and hatred for others.

My faith and my belief , when I look back, has the roots on what I was taught at home. I  rarely observe the rituals and like father, do it sometimes not out of belief but as a couteous gesture. Does that make me a bad element for our society ? Acceptance on what I am is a sign of a matured society. Yes, with my parents, I learned to share sorrow with people irrespective of religion and caste. I didn't enjoy the firecrackers at my place as well the day Indira Gandhi was shot fatally ! I mourned with my family in silence.

People say no religion teaches you hatred. It is entirely wrong. The core of every religion is "follow me or else you go to hell". Religion never accepts pluralism. It teaches its superiority over others. Simply it can't be democratic and thats why too much of religion in every sphere  of our life is what causes fanaticism.

 

Mao Tse Tung said - religion is the poison for the masses. Yes, if not poison, it is certainly the opium for the masses. Opium may have medicinal values when taken in small doses for selective use; but  Overindulgence leads to intoxication and debars people becoming rational.   

That's the reason  You need to be selective with what you pick from your religion.  It happened in Bangladesh and may happen anywhere.

Terrorism is a Frankenstein. We lost two of our Prime Ministers to this dreaded virus. It  destroys  the very hands which nourished it once. It destroys its own people. Examples are all around.

People have circulated the story of a 20 year old brave heart who refused to leave his friends during the Dhaka mayhem. The minute detail of his encounter with the perpetrators of violence is surely imaginary. But the very fact that people are circulating it, shows, people desire number of such noble souls to grow. There lies the hope.

The irony is such incidents break trust and faith. There are many Bangladeshi people who are saddened as much as we are. Read many of their posts expressing shock, disbelief and sometimes helplessness.

The crux of my post is sow the seed of love and peace in your child. Teach him that only diversity and coexistence have made this planet beautiful and you are the chosen one to hold this spirit and pass to the future.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Meeting a hero on the streets of Guwahati

I was driving home from office in a pensive mood and failed to timely notice the iron post at one sharp turn. As I whizzed past, the perpetual lover planted a kiss on the cheek of my car leaving behind marks of hard  love bite. While my car was out for touch up, I had to commute at the kindness of my neighbor and local autos.
 

That evening, I boarded into an auto with my wife from the market.  The driver was an elderly gentleman, neatly dressed, burly in stature with trimmed hair in commando fashion. On the way , he hardly talked and so did we as both us soon got engrossed to our smart phones. Reaching home,  he was courteous to immediately pick up the heavy bag my wife was carrying.

After he dropped the bag at its designated place, I thanked him and handed over the fare. He presumed us to be non-Assamese and seeing my nameplate at the gate, asked -

“ So you are Medhi….. where do you come from?

“ I am a native of Hajo. My parents are still staying there” I replied

He enquired if I was related to Late Bishnuram Medhi’s family. His last trip to Hajo for pilgrimage was wonderful.  As the conversation continued, I came to know that he was Singha from Chapar of Goalpara District.

I enquired whether he knew Bhaskar Medhi.

“ Bhaskar Medhi….. ha.. ha.. his father was a teacher too,  I suppose. Much younger to me, Bhaskar was a brilliant chap  and got into IIT” he replied.

Bhaskar Medhi is presently working as Dy General Manager at Indian Oil Refinery HQ. I was now sure that Mr. Singha was from Chapar.

As I complimented him for maintaining good health, I came to know that he retired from BSF as an Inspector. He had nothing much to do at home rather than killing time and so purchased the auto.

“ What about your children ?” I was now curious about Singha.

“ I have one son and a daughter . The boy passed out from NIT, Silchar in Civil Engineering and working for the State Government."
 
" What about your daughter?"

"Oh.. The girl is interested in going to academics. Did her BE in Electrical Engineering from Assam Engineering College. This year she has enrolled for  MTech”

Here is a man, who rides an auto after getting retired from BSF as an Inspector and both his children are Engineers from two reputed Government Engineering Colleges. When we are surrounded with so much of pessimism and crumbling work ethics,   Singha was indeed a ray of hope.

Finally before saying Good Bye, I asked if ever his children said him anything for the auto. Of course, I got the right answer from him for a wrong & irrelevant question

“ My children knows the dignity of labour and honesty”

Perhaps Singha drew inspiration from another Singha, a great son of Assam and his relation -  Sarat Chandra Singha. Once I met this ex Chief Minister of Assam on a crowded city bus and he refused to take the seat I was offering. It was not easy for me to remain seated  by the side of a standing Sarat Singha for long. Late Singha only agreed to occupy my seat as I got down in the next stoppage to avoid further discomfiture. And who can forget seeing Late Lakhyadhar Choudhury  , sporting a big smile, walking with his trademark umbrella !

Life of an aspiring middle class is not easy as aspiration often supersedes the achievements. Yet, if we have time to look around outside our periphery, there are innumerable inspiring, unsung heroes who make life livable.

Perhaps, people need frequent breakdown of their cars, to discover many more Singhas on the streets.

 

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Kolaguru Bishnu Prasad Rabha - the undying spirit

I am too small to assess a legend of the caliber of Kolaguru Bishnu Prasad Rabha. These are some of my unfussy thoughts and no way intended to demean the great man when I write, the most beautiful bud didn't blosom to its full promises.

My first introduction to  Kolaguru was at my maternal uncle’s house where three portraits used to adore the mud wall beside the uncle’s reading table. One amongst them was of Bishnu Prasad Rabha with Rupkonwar Jyotiprasad and Pandit Nehru being the other two. I was not more than 3 or 4 years old, as I still remember being sometimes in uncle’s short, hanging around my waist like a long skirt!  By the time, a compilation of Rabha’s works was brought home, many esoteric facets of life had started tingling my teenage wits. It was the age of innocent thoughts, mischief and fantasies. I was too young for Rabha’a compilation.

During the turbulent days of late nineties, celebration of Rabha Divas gained momentum in Assam. The Assamese are fond of action, fickle in attitude and their wish at times defies any logic. The idea of curving a sovereign Assam by armed struggle caught the fancy of some and Perhaps, celebration of Rabha Divas without understanding much of Rabha, was another way to show solidarity with the movement. Rabha was a revolutionary and a torchbearer of armed communist movement in Assam. Yet that was only a part of Rabha though and not Rabha in totality.

It is not irreverent to Rabha and his legacy when I say I don’t pursue Rabha’s ideology to uplift the downtroden, as I strongly believe the tenets of communism defies nature. In the history of world, many greats and fallen heroes from Che Guevara to Hugo Chevez, Fiedel Castro to Nicolae Ceaușescu, Stalin to Ho-Chi Minh rose like the glittering sun in the midst of adversities, yet their cherished goal remained a far cry leaving their people poorer, deprived and disadvantaged.

Standing at the end of the half circle of my life’s journey, once more I am going through the compilation of Rabha’s work. My mind has been inundated with the thoughts of two Russian authors and poet- Mayakovsky and Alexander Pushkin. Vladimirovich Mayakovsky was an extremely popular author during the Bolshevik days in Russia and his works proclaimed unstinted support to the Communist movement. Popularity of his books were astounding and during those days, not reading Mayakovsky was regarded as unpatriotic. It is another matter that latter on Mayakovsky became critical of Soviet Russia’s censorship on freedom of speech and many point fingers to this love hate relationship with communism to be the cause of his untimely demise.  Mayakovsky committed suicide in 1930 at the age of only 37.

Once, a group of young Russian students visited Lenin. Vladimir Lenin, himself , was a great statesman and wanted to know about the books and authors the students were fond of. The choice was obvious and It was Mayakovsky all the way. When asked why the students were not reading Alexander Pushkin, treated as one of the greatest romantic era authors from Russia, pat came the reply-

“Pushkin is a bourgeois”  

The greatness of Vladimir Lenin was to advise the students to read Pushkin and others as well. To him, knowledge was never to be masked by meanness of ideology.

Does anybody remember Vladimirovich Mayakovsky today even in Russia! Perhaps a few. But Alexander Pushkin has survived many generations and I was thrilled to see my son going through the Captain’s Daughter. One of Pushkin’s  poems I still remember -

And in the idle darkness comes the bite

Of all the burning serpents of remorse;

Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities

Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,

And Memory before my wakeful eyes

With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll

 (Remembrance, Pushkin)

Bishnu Rabha’s songs are few but priceless gems.  Perhaps it will not be an overstatement if I write after Shankar Dev, Rabha was the most gifted personality to have ever born in Assam- a great musician, lyricist, composer, writer, dramatist, actor, dancer, painter, academician, mass leader, researcher and linguist all rolled into one.  It is easy to fall in love with equality when you don’t have anything to lose. But Rabha was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, yet his life had been always a constant wrestle for the exploited mass. He lived life on what he preached.

But Rabha could have become much more than what he became and left behind. He could have become another Van Gogh, a Ludwig van Beethoven or a William Shakespeare. No one knew Assam and genesis of Assamese language better than Rabha.  

Once again remembering Mayakovsky and Pushkin, all I can say is “Biswar Chande Chande” or “ Xuror deulore” will pass the taste of time,  but  can’t foretell on the ones like “ bhang bhang bhang” 

Rabha’s revolutionary trait and impatience did come on the way of his creative pursuits. He had never someone to pacify, someone to mentor him through. Many of his valuable works got lost during his nomadic days. Bihnu Prasad Rabha, the noblest son of Assam, would have been far better off for Assam minus his days as an armed revolutionary. 

It’s a great loss to Assam and Assamese people that the most beautiful bud didn’t blossom to its promises.Yet whatever Rabha achieved, he will remain the lifeline of Assam till the Burha Luit flows.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com