Sardar Patel stands tall

Question is how many of us go to the Statue of Liberty to remember the French revolution and the handful of american soldiers who helped the establishment of ” Liberty Equality Fraternity” in the Old World, even as they were struggling in the new—one. No we go because the Statue is there, an incidentally read the plaque. For that matter how many of us need to go to Wardha to remember Gandhi. The good that men do lives after them—no matter statues.

However, whether it is Wardha or Liberty, the intent was pure, to honour sacrifice for a cause—the idea was not polluted by overtones of self interest—however the Patel statue has at its core the agrandisement of a political party—and intent has been diluted!!! without doubt.

Hence it cannot be a PPP—but the promotion of a man to counter the Nehru Gandhi name that that particular party feels has been foisted on the nation–and so it chooses to spend 200 crores to foist another??

No Gandhi doesn’t need to be hoisted in bronze 200 feet high because he lives in our hearts, and any old charkha will do to remind us of him–No we don’t need to perpetuate Gandhi because what he did is enough to perpetuate him.

But the moot question is do we need a 200 crore statue to perpetuate the Sardar?

Fascism in India

Mark Tully says on Rajya Sabha TV that Fascism is a word that is out of place in the Indian political context at the moment–and no indications that we will be a fascist state—though elements of lunacy prevail in all religious communities–but they are simply the hate mongers–and if they were to be in a vegetarian society they would end up hating the raddish eaters or the gobhi eaters—hate has no discrimination–anything will do


A Writer’s Retreat

Short and bittersweet, this story will set you thinking whether it is indeed the heart that makes the best choices!

The Retreat

“What does the brain matter compared with the heart?” (from Mrs.Dalloway, Virginia Woolf).

“What does the brain matter compared with the heart?” she muttered sobbing at the dining table as she waited for the taxi that was to take her to the airport.

She was 36. He was 31. They had met at a Writer’s Retreat where his showmanship had impressed everyone but her. Immediately she had thought, he is going to be left behind in this race for name and fame because…because of just this. His love and need for attention and adulation. The more she scoffed at him secretly, the more he began to pay attention to her. She could see him watch her from the corner of his eyes as she helped herself at the breakfast buffet, before they started their writing day in solace, to meet only in the evening, at dinner where again his eyes would follow her.

From a secret scoffing, she began to feel secretly flattered, and the slowly to notice him at his daily yoga, his evening run in a fashionable singlet and shorts, the nape of his neck, the short curls of his hair.

She was falling in love. The three months passed and their intimacy grew, until the day before yesterday.

She was the youngest of the seven of them there, a poet from Turin, who read out her verse on red Riding Hood, with metaphorical allusions and convoluted symbolism and then , as her blonde long hair shone in the evening lamplight of the salon, she went about explicating the poem with graphic detail.

She saw him, clearly she did, the same elongated glance that told her he was now watching someone else. Yes, he was entranced by the young Italian poet’s language and intricate mind. Her turn of phrase fascinated him, and the recitation was followed by a long intense conversation in which the two of them were absorbed long after the rest had retired into their rooms.

At 2 a.m she couldn’t help herself. She was 36, he was 31. She tiptoes to his room.

The taxi drew up at the door, and honked. She dragged her suitcase out and got in, shutting the door of the Writer’s Retreat after her. She had told him she was leaving at 6. It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t exactly say 6 p.m, but she had implied it.

He would still be in his bed, alone or…not.

As the car whisked her away into the awakening morning, she was happy that it was another day, and that she would be going home. She would beam when her husband came to receive her, his balding head visible tall from the waiting crowd at the airport pews. She wouldn’t mind that he ran his petrol pump anymore, instead she would mutter to herself, “What does the brain matter compared with the heart?”


Old Wine New Bottles

I thought PM Modi was bringing about a revolutionary change, and certainly those who want good for Aam Admi would welcome it, but the names popping up on the tv screen as potential ministers are leaving me with a strange sense of deja vu. Been there, done that. Like old wine in new bottles.

We need a Naya Daur, and Congress’s inability to have the aam janta believe that this is what Rahul would actually do, cost it the 2014 electoral vote.

Will Modi ji’s nemesis too come soon if he cannot find the right men to carry out his vision. The time for histrionics is over–let’s see some incorruptible faces, some real Gandhigiri instead of just high drama in the form of visits to his Rajghat.

You have come with high hopes—the voter who voted saffron should not be let down. Desh Bhakti zindabad. Adjustments ko bhooliye, committment to the cause hum dekhna chahte hain.