Millions of proposals made, billions of roses plucked, hearts broken, negotiations with the past bruises made and all these in a span of few hours. Valentine’s Day is perhaps the only movement in the world that brings global change of such great magnitude. As I sit alone in front of a sufficiently opened window I wonder what is it that pulls in people across the world to celebrate this day. May be the addiction of coming together with the opposite sex, or may be the age-old habit to flaunt a well-earned relationship.
Pretty looking girls in their best attire and handsome hunks carefully dressed to suit the occasion. And what is the occasion? Don’t you know today is Valentine’s Day. It is the day when we run into each other and pour out our emotions, it is the day when we find ourselves giggling despite hundreds of woes waiting in the backyard and this is that very auspicious day when we gain that extra wing of chivalry to woo our lady love.
Dark chocolates, Ferrero Rocher, Jovan White Musk, Fahrenheit, tapping heels, little blush and never-ceasing stares – all the elements of a pot-boiling evening with your desired ones. Tiresome long wait for your partner’s arrival, sense of disgust at the spiralling traffic and compromise over the choice of delicacies to be served during the dinner do take away the apparent charm of the ceremony.
Wait. It does not end here. Tables are set, candles are lit, discussions are embarked upon and lies are being told. Promises are made and promiscuity hinted. Time sounds alert – tomorrow is Monday. Selected words exchanged, food gulped in a hurry and the diamond finds a new owner. Nothing else changes. The world revolves the same, the stories are spun in the same manner, hearts remain insatiate as they used to and what passes away in the midst of all these is few hours, some flowers, loads of gifts and endless release of dopamine into the brain. Happiness catches you unaware and little stupid talks here and there. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Each of us is a Mujahid. A struggler. Terrorism and trouble across the boundaries may have covered the maximum space of the canvas but some corners are also left unsettled. If we look at life as an onlooker and zero in on the micro events of our lives we find bits and pieces of struggle lying everywhere around us.
We are justice fighters. We fight for the extra dose of blessings from the hundreds of spiritual babas, we fight to catch the first metro to office and we fight the uncertainty of future. It is in our instincts to fight, to move on with the little baggage called struggle.
The struggle for a man to shave off the acre of stubble hiding in a remote corner of his chin, the struggle for a bowler to pitch the ball in the right place and the recurring struggle of an old man to recollect the memories that bring smile to his face can never be gauged.
It is no less a struggle for us to bring smile in a mourner’s face and to grow up with an insensible heart. A student’s struggle to complete an equation in a hurry and a newly wed bride’s struggle to please her partner are all obnoxiously difficult. The desperate attempt of a deer to not to become a leopard’s prey and the constant effort of a thirsty crow to get his beaks closer to the water in a long vessel are more than sheer struggle.
Is n’t it horrific to see a dumb struggling to cry or a dog walking with three legs? How horrific it is to see a drowning man raising his hands for the last time and how grievous it is to find a young boy watching a cricket match sitting on a wheelchair.
Everybody is a freedom-fighter. If a baby struggles to free himself from the monotony of milk and diaper others fight to free themselves from the ugly looking curse called poverty. The craving of an orphan to find a refuge when thunder strikes, the frantic search of a father to arrange blood for his child lying in a critical condition are more poignant missions than the terror-mongers. We notice the horror of getting killed in a terror attack but never read the lines that come from a deserted wife or a person soon to meet his death.
The old man’s attempt to get his pension running even after decades of his retirement is just another piece of struggle. Fear of losing one’s much waited first child and the forceful submission of a soldier before a fanatic general are no less terrifying. Do we give a stare of concern to the school boy who hurts himself while boarding an overcrowded bus? Do you fathom the terror of the family members who have not received any news of their sole bread winner for months?
Open your eyes and hearts, purge your ears and beckon your power of introspection before you can mull over this omnipresent struggle. You really need to be a struggle fighter for it.
India wants a stranger, a full-proof outsider who is ignorant of all the constitutional complexities and legal laxities but at the same time vivacious enough to repel the negatives and bring in the positive vibe in the socio-political ring. Too many over-rated fighters battling among themselves to see the crown sitting on top of their heads, India needs a leader.
The country needs a teacher who has every right to scold the whining students and punish a truant child. She needs a teacher who can imbibe in pupils the not-so-pedantic values but simple ideas about attaining goodness. No compulsion to go through rigorous examination every year and waste time in pulling fellow students down just to emerge winner. Let the skill and talent win over other factors and leave no space for last minute manipulation by the lesser lot.
India invites a soldier who fights for right and not for the side, who takes care of his family’s welfare. The country will gain back the missing pieces of peace only if the gunman knows how to use his weapons with discretion. She is in dire need of a virtuoso who knows the world better and is driven by first-hand ideas.
Our motherland needs an interpreter – a middle-aged interpreter who has learnt all the dialects in the world. Half-truths, convoluted phrases and equivocal speeches must witness a painful death under his dictatorship. He will make sure they return to the dust safely. The nation wants a translator who knows exactly what the others mean, neither an inch more nor an inch less.
A doctor is a must for this frail health of the country, bogged down with too many ills. A sensitive practitioner must be in-charge of helping the country recuperate and not to bring out his theory book and prescribe a long list of pathological tests. It’s a doctor’s religion to diagnose the malady and treat it with the medicine that is in best of his knowledge. The patient must not die of wait. Remember, justice delayed is a ripping-apart pain.
It always helps to have an engineer on board. To say building India is a Herculean task is an understatement. We beckon the architect of tomorrow at our service, who is well aware about how past has gnawed upon us. Our foundation has been shaken time and again and this time we want to ensure that we will never see our dreams turning to rubble due to a mere intensity of 2.3 on the Richter scale. Make us shock absorbers.
This is a time when we find hundreds of piranhas nibbling off India’s skin and we see our nirvana in combating this gradual dissipation.
Restless mind, sleepless nights and sugarless coffee go down to one thing. You are not at peace with yourself. Your day starts with the smoked morning and ends when the lights have spent their most.
BJP fights for JPC probe and your struggle lies elsewhere. You have Dolly Bindra’s tantrums in your drawing room and food in the kitchen with a pinch of onion. The times are not changing it is only your hairline deciding to surrender. Age nudges you, lowering mileage hurts your savings and dearth of footage makes you go wild. You are trapped. Forget about the multi-million embezzlement, calculate your survival.
Kalmadi waves at you and Rathore with his mustachio throws a serpent smile. Every golden word of the scam lords come in ‘Breaking’ fonts and Dhoni invites you on his wedding. You return home with your backache and recurring sinus. Your grocery bill sets new benchmark every month and you stay glued on to Masterchef, insurance premium frets you and the pressure from younger ones compels you to have the Apple.
When inventory falls short, the inflation rate holds its head high. You repent the fact that gold is no more your choice of gift on the ‘much awaited’ anniversary. Credit cards grace your wallet and you know why they say ‘Customer is King’. You grow sympathetic towards the paupers.
When we all confine ourselves within the prism of isms, you look for an open space to repose. The diffused lights of your bedroom may make you numb but for somnolence to happen you need your anxiety to dilute. Targets, commitments, budget, shortage of time and arrangements come to you with a begging bowl and you can’t refuse.
News on deaths are more like common cold with only a few days of sneezing and voluminous coverage. The new arrives, opposition takes its position and the polity whistles off on the track that was traveled thousands times before.
Some of you are super talented. You think out of the satchel. You befriend hackers and snub neighbours. Your terror-model tempts many a young soul to goad their lives in the name of revolution. Stalwarts say “Yes We Can” and prepare a speech in defence of a rising unemployment. The lesser mortals sit back and count the hours of patience. Bilateral talks don’t break their in-house stalemate and parliament logjam does not put an end to their asthmatic life.