For God's Sake! The North- East IS part of India!!!

      Imagine a hypothetical situation in which you are expecting a close friend or relative at your place, and the next thing you are aware of is that he just lost his life when he asked somebody for the directions. Nido Taniam, 19, from Arunachal Pradesh was on his way to his relative’s place in the National Capital, New Delhi. He stopped by at a shop to ask for directions. The men at the shop taunted him for the blonde shade of hair that he flaunted. It was not long before the scuffle took a racial turn. He was called a “Chinky,” and when he showed his displeasure, was beaten ruthlessly with sticks, which led to his death.

     The best part of being a student of Delhi University is that I get to meet people from every corner of the country. Many of my closest friends belong to North- East India. Delhi, being the Capital of our country has quite a substantial number of people who belong to the North- East. By no means are they a rare sight here, yet all my North- East friends have been victims of racial discrimination in some degree. Through the snide comments passed, the eve- teasing, the strange suspicious looks, the whistling and sniggering, and being called “Chinky,” “Chowmein,” and “Chilly Chicken” by random strangers, they are made to feel like intruders and foreigners in their own country.

     We take pride in the fact that we are a vibrant nation, tolerant to all religions, languages and cultures. Text books of little children scream “Unity in Diversity” but we fail to recognize the members of the North- East as rightful citizens of India. In every other corner of the nation, they are assumed to be Nepali, Chinese… everything but Indian.

     They are treated as lesser beings and here are some of the reasons why:

     They treat their women better than any other Indian community. Equality between the sexes is not a mere theoretical farce with them.

     They are simply great with everything related to music.

     Their skills in English speaking are quite admirable, inspite of the fact that they have their own mother- tongues. Most of my North- Eastern friends speak better Hindi than me, a South Indian.

     The North- East, being in the lap of nature, is one of the most beautiful places of India, with untapped tourism potential.

    North- East cuisine is worth dying for.

    They form  one of India’s most stylish communities.

     They are the home of public figures who have made our nation proud like Irom Sharmila, Mary Kom, Baichung Bhutia, Armstrong Pame etc… Of course we would have had many more such figures if the Government did more to improve the region’s infrastructure.

     Their geographical location is of utmost strategic importance to India as it links our country with China, Bangladesh, Bhutan and Myanmar. Their importance has only grown after the Government of India adopted the Look- East Policy.

     They are a peace- loving and chilled out bunch of people who mind their own business.

     It’s tragic and ironic, that while Indians portray themselves to be victims of racial discrimination wherever they go, the reality is that they are the most racist bunch of people ever. When our nation was born in 1947, the Makers of India intended us to be equal and to be one. But when are we ever going to realize that?

Armstrong Pame: A tribute

 I read about Armstrong Pame a few months ago in the news-paper, and ever since, I’ve been quite a fan. There’s always a photo of his in my phone and laptop, and if by any chance it gets deleted, I make it a point to download one as soon as I possibly can. No, this is not hero worship of any sort. It’s just that he is a huge source of inspiration for me.

 Armstrong is from the state of Manipur, though he belongs to the Zeme tribe of Nagaland. He says that it was always his dream to join the prestigious Indian Administrative Service. An IAS Officer, with his power, influence and position as a Government Official, has immense potential to work for the good of his society, but unfortunately, this post is often misused by corrupt officials. He majored in Physics for his Bachelor’s degree from St. Stephen’s College, Delhi, where he did pretty well. He was chosen to pursue his Masters from the prestigious IIT, which would have ensured a lucrative career and a comfortable life thereafter. Yet, he turned that down to pursue his dreams of becoming an IAS Officer.

 Getting into the Administrative Service is by no means a cake- walk. Cracking the exam requires months, sometimes years, of rigorous hard work, and with a selection rate of 0.01%, it is the toughest exam in the world.

 Armstrong did not make it in his first attempt. He says that when he failed the first time, he was greatly discouraged by the naysayers all around, but found immense strength in the love of Jesus Christ. He failed in his second attempt too, and finally made it in his third attempt. He was an average student and it was nothing but hard work that saw him through.

 During the interview, the panel placed before him a copy of the Holy Bible, and that of the Indian constitution and asked him to choose one. He chose the Constitution, saying that his upbringing ensured that he was well-versed with his Holy Book. The panellist concluded that by choosing the Constitution, he was rejecting the Bible; to which Armstrong replied that if by choosing one, he’d have to totally let go of the other, then he had much rather not choose either of them.

 The panellist had also asked him what he would do if he, a North- Easterner, was posted in the Southern state of Tamil Nadu. He replied, that his intention in joining the Administrative Service, was to serve the Indian Nation, and the region didn’t matter at all, because in all those regions, the need of the people were the same.

 He was posted in Tamenglong District, Manipur, which is one of the most backward districits od the country. Usually, what most officers do when posted in such districts is just warm their seats waiting to be promoted to more lucrative positions. The first thing Armstrong did was to visit the people of his district on foot and ask them what they wanted him to do. They asked him to build a road. Most people of the district grow oranges, but reaching the capital to sell these oranges is quite a task, since there is no road. On foot they must cross the hills to reach the highway, and when they finally reach their destination, two whole days are passed, and most of their oranges have begun to rot.

 Armstrong readily agreed to their request and filed a petition to the Government for funds to sponsor the project. The government rejected the proposal and cited paucity of funds as the reason for the rejection. But Armstrong, seeing how urgently the district needed a road, was not to give up so fast. He created a page on facebook, asking the public to fund his project. He himself gave about 5 lakh Rupees. His brother, an Assistant Professor in Delhi University donated one lakh Rupees, while his mother gave Rs. 5000 from her pension. Together he managed to collect about 48 lakh Rupees, but ofcourse, that is hardly enough to build a public road. So, Armstrong Pame, IAS convinced the suppliers of the raw material to supply it, free of cost. Touched by his dedication to the project, the villagers came forward to provide the labour force, and they were willing to provide their labour free of cost.

And that’s how the People’s Road came into existence.A hundred kilometre road, it connects the district of Tamenglong to the State of Assam, and through Assam, ofcourse, to the rest of the country. Armstrong himself is not sure whether he will ever initiate such a mammoth task again. The locals, however, repeat again and again that Armstrong was the answer to their prayers.

God bless you, Armstrong Pame.

May you keep working for the good of the people.

Jai Hind.

Flower Power!

#nature's beauties  #flowers #fullbloom

These pictures were clicked in #TamilNadu, #India

Thoughts...

THOUGHTS…

I look out of the window,

My future so bleak.

Nothing I know,

I feel so weak.

They say life is a struggle,

Well, I’m in a muddle.

Lord, what do I do?

I have no clue!

Everyone’s so busy

Achieving their goal.

That puts me in a tizzy.

For I’m not done yet

With my stroll.

About my life,

I’m undecided.

But I know in every strife,

In You my God, I’ve trusted.

This #poem was written in my mid #teens about a #confused, #anxious yet #Godfearing teen who believes in #providence

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for; the conviction of things not seen

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

   I stared with utter disbelief at the computer screen. I couldn’t believe that my performance in the entrance exam wasn’t good enough to secure a seat in my dream college. God! I realized that all the dreams I dreamt for the past few years… all those rosy images I had created in my mind of being a student of that college were all suddenly slipping away so fast. I walked across my room uncertainly. Uncertain, because I had imagined this scene a hundred times before… But I imagined myself jumping with joy… screaming in ecstasy! Running downstairs to give my parents the good news. “Mom! Dad! I made it!!! I made it to LSR! The best college in India!!!”

       Alas! When the moment finally arrived, I reacted in a totally different manner. Gosh! This is worse than a nightmare! Because this IS reality! I will not be a student there. I will not be selected. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me! It was at this horribly devastating moment that my eyes fell on a poster I made 5 years ago. It said, “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen!” How ironic to be reading such a verse when one’s dreams have been shattered… Faith! 

    I walked towards that poster which was once so precious to me.I decided to tear that silly verse out of my sight and out of my mind.And as I gave that unfortunate poster a last parting glance, my thoughts went back to that evening 5 years ago.

 5 years ago:

     I watched as the sun set once again in India.From my window I saw many students returning home from their respective colleges. In India, my country, a LOT  of importance is given to academics. Every kid was told about the importance of education, the benefits of studying hard and getting great grades… Education is more than a way of life here. It is life. If someone doesn’t score well and get into a good college, he’s considered a loser. I was holding my Bible, and was in deep meditation. The verse, ” Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” had caught my attention so much. How romantic it sounded!It was not long before this became my favourite verse. I made a poster too, so I’d always remember those golden words. Jesus became my hero. My faith in Him only grew stronger.

 3 years ago :

  I was 15. The rigorous academic schedule was so demanding. Studies was always  mingled with peer- pressure and unhealthy competition. Yes, I was never an outstanding student. But the way some teachers treated me was so humiliating. They treated me like a pathetic loser… I was always crying. Always depressed. Always feeling empty. At these trying times, I always turned to the Bible for courage. And God was always there for me. I developed such a beautiful bond with Him. Jesus was my best friend. My comfort. My hope.My strength. And He didn’t let me down. High school in India ends witht the 10th grade. And I passed with flying colours. I did well than most of my peers. Those days were beautiful.Glorious. Indeed, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

 2 years ago:

  The new found confidence made me rejoin my school for the Junior College level. I so wanted to become the headgirl in 12th grade. And I took a very challenging course which included Math, Accountancy, Economics etc. I had decided that I wanted to do Economics for my graduation from the best college in the country! Little did I know, my troubles were only beginning then. Studies soon became so pressurising. To add to it, I took part in a lot of other activities which only helped reduce my already low grades. My teachers treated me like a loser. And worst of all, I began to believe them. I cried all the time. I felt so lonely. I don’t know why I behaved so sensitively. I should have been stronger. I should have been more focussed. Headgirl dreams, however, were strangely still alive. Yes. By then, I had lost total faith in myself… But I had absolute confidence in Jesus still.

 1 year ago:

  Everyone were stunned when the election results were announced. I did become the Headgirl. God be praised. Being the Headgirl was great. Not only did it improve my leadership skills, but I was also treated like a mini-celebrity. But I still had my personal battles to fight. I am a teenager afterall! I had my various thoughts and tendencies and desires to curb! And the depression lingered on like the screams of a nagging wife. I tried hard to study. And by the end of the year, I was happy with my effort. I knew I’d do well in the public exams.

 1 month ago:

  I scored 82% when I was dreaming for a 93% I was so broken! Most of my classmates scored better! Much better.I was the laughing stock of the crowd. I knew I definitely deserved more. But I knew God had a plan. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen,” I always reminded myself. But I realized Economics was not the subject for me….It was English.

  15 days ago:

  I had finally written the entrance exam which would give me the ticket to my dream college. I knew I’d make it… Couldn’t wait for the moment to finally arrive! The moment when I’d be selected to LSR!!

 1 hour ago:

   I stared with utter disbelief at the computer screen… I couldn’t accept the fact that I wouldn’t make it! I suddenly became aware of that sore lump in my throat… Not long after did I feel my eyes turn moist. My dreams are shattered. Just before destroying that poster, I knew that THIS WAS THE MOMENT to put what I believed in for so long, to practice. I knew Christ demanded Faith in him… so that His will takes place. It would be so unfair to curse and question the God who provided you with everything,when the going gets tough! I decided I would give that verse another chance to work its magic on me.I decided I would have unshakeable faith in God during these anxious moments… For I am confident that everything is happening for my good and for His glory.

 Jesus, I have no idea where my life is headed… This was not the way I wanted it to be. But I will have faith in your utter love for me. And I know you will not let me down.I believe in you. You will not let me down. May your will be done. Amen.

  Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

 Reblog

#bibleverse #brokendreams #faith #providence #Jesus #God #belief

Train Journey

TRAIN JOURNEY

     It’s funny how a word or picture or anything or nothing at all can all of a sudden bring back a rush of memories that were, just moments ago, hidden deep in the corners of the mind. I don’t know what threw my mind to a year ago, but I could vividly see myself in my dark-blue kurti  and jeans, rushing down the endless stairs of the Hazrat Nizamuddin Station in New Delhi. I could feel the wait of my luggage, the heat of the noon-time and the anxiety crowding my mind. I was returning home for the semester break. It was the first time I was travelling alone.

     The AC coach was such a blessing. I spotted my seat (a window seat! Hurray!), shoved the luggage underneath, rushed out and bought some magazines and some food to nourish my exhausted self. I returned to my seat, and before settling down, said a quick prayer for a safe and hassle-free journey. My anxiety couldn’t last long, for I knew instantly enough, that my prayer was heard. And granted. And due to the countless pleasant childhood memories that were connected to the times spent in numerous train journeys, I was soon secure.

     I studied my fellow passengers. An aging couple. A mother and her 12 year old son – evidently mamma’s boy and another guy, about 25, who had the air of a bachelor.

     Average height. Average build. Average complexion. Average facial features with a good nose and nice eyes. “None of my business,” I told myself sternly. I was a “Proper Girl” and knew just how to behave. And so I picked up one of the magazines and browsed through it.

     By dinner-time the passengers aren’t normally as stiff as when the journey began. Dinner-time is when they actually begin warming up to each other. I was conversing with the mother of the boy about my course and my college. The elderly couple were listening. The old man had just finished narrating his experiences as a practising lawyer.

     The bachelor was partly listening and partly playing with the boy. And when he answered the retired lawyer, I remember observing that he was a decent, well- mannered chap. While saying something witty, and while everyone were in splits, he suddenly looked at me, as if to include me in the conversation. No sooner did he look, than I nodded curtly with a flat formal smile and looked away. Why was I so cold? Well, ask a “proper” girl who knows how to behave in public and she’ll tell you why.

     I woke up at six the next day and found everyone fast asleep. I enjoyed the sunrise, while I listened to the chattering sound of the train upon the tracks, as it sped by. As I witnessed life awaken in the villages outside, I heard a slight movement somewhere.

     Oh no! He had woken up and was presently coming down. I nodded a nod of recognition or whatever and he went away to freshen up. I immediately caught hold of a magazine, so when he returned I seemed to be busy reading. After many minutes passed, I realized that I had been staring at the same line. He was just sitting with nothing much to do. The others slept on.

     Curious person as I am, I realized I wanted to know more of him. Why was I bent on being so rigid? I looked up and asked, “ Aap kahaan se ho? Where are you from?” 

He looked up. “ Varanasi. Do you know the place?”

     Sincere. Straightforward. Shy. Sweet.

“Ofcourse. It’s a major pilgrimage spot.”

“Well, that’s my ancestral place. I grew up in Lucknow. But I’ve been staying in Delhi for a year now.”

    We were both pleased to have broken the ice and we enjoyed the conversation with each other. We agreed upon how staying away from home wasn’t easy and a lot of other things. Before long, the retired lawyer awoke and joined the conversation. The arrival of breakfast awoke everyone else who were still asleep. I was happy.

     A few hours later, he got busy all of a sudden and started gathering his things. That’s when it struck me that he wouldn’t  stay on for the entire journey, but was to alight at Nagpur Station, five minutes away. Bits of our conversation where he mentioned that he’d be in that city for five days to attend a meeting flooded back to my mind. Before I knew it, the train chugged to a halt.

     “ Okay beta, All the best.” The lawyer shook hands with him, while the women showered him with affectionate blessings and wishes.The twelve year old boy called out, “Bye Aashish bhaiyya!”

     So his name was Aashish. Oh. Okay. A glance and a nod and he was gone.

     It’s been a year now. Ofcourse, I never saw him again. But whenever someone mentions Nagpur, I think of him. A few years more, and he will perhaps be erased from my memory. Perhaps not.

     It’s funny how our paths met for a day, never to meet again. It’s funny how I could feel at home with some people, only to never see them again. It’s funny how life is so steeped in irony. We don’t have answers for a great many things. I confided this to a friend. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “Well, that’s life.” She’s right.

     But it wouldn’t have been half so exciting and fun, if there was a reason, an explanation, an answer to everything. I think I like life just as it is.

#trainjourney #conversation between #strangers #India #life #philosophy

Memories of long ago...

The view outside looked just as it did all those years ago. For hours all I saw were the dry fields of the Deccan Plateau, scorched by the merciless summer sun of the Tropics. The railway tracks were lined by those wild, thorny bushes that are so common in the area- it’s prickly branches shooting out in every possible direction, like the hair of some murderous monster. The fields were lined by a few stunted palm trees. Occasionally, a scraggy shepherd could be spotted- wrinkled dry, clad in a dhoti and a turban, with a stick in hand, leading a few emaciated sheep. As I child I always wondered where he’d find good, nourishing grass for his flock, for in summer, all the greens were dried to death. Perhaps things were better during other seasons, but I never could witness that, for it was only during the summer holidays that we visited our relatives in Kerala.

                                                  When the oppressive heat became unbearable, Amma would soak her dupatta in water and hang it on the bars of the moving train’s window. That really made a difference. Not that I really minded the heat. A boisterous and careless girl of six didn’t care whether the heat made her dark or whatever. Especially when she had her sister and cousins about, always on the lookout for mischief.

                                                   When we kids were sure Amma and Ilayamma (our aunt) were asleep, we’d run across the train’s compartments doing whatever our naughty heads told us to do- only to return to see Amma’s angry, anxious face, and face her wrath. Gosh! How different things were then! Even though we always refused our meals and had our ribs protruding out, we had an endless supply of energy. And now, as a college-going-young-adult, when my heavy eye-lids struggle to stay open to complete one more paragraph of my textbook, I can’t help but wonder where all that energy has vanished…

                                                      I distinctly remember how, at night, when all the passengers were lulled to sleep, my mind would drift back to that spot in Hyderabad Railway Station, where, just that afternoon, I watched Appa become smaller and smaller as the Sabari Express left the platform. His job never granted him the luxury of going on a long holiday.

                                                   And as I listened to the chugging of the train in the silence of the night, I’d remember Appa’s words as the Sabari slowly crept along, “ Call me when you reach. Have fun.” I was his little girl. I knew I’d miss him soon enough, and so, before we left home for the station, I’d run to his cupboard and steal one of his handkerchiefs. And that served as a memento for the next month or two. I would presently take out that handkerchief from my pocket and hold it close to my heart. Before long, I was lulled to sleep.

                                                   In all those trips, we ( my cousins, sister and I) always awoke when the train was at rest either in Salem or E-Road junction. We woke up to the cries of the newspaper boys and the coffee boys. Appa and Andhra Pradesh were left far behind and the Orange sun will have been rising over Tamil Nadu…

                                                   As soon as breakfast was thrust down our throats, we were ready to begin scampering again. But the elders would play spoilt sport by banning any kind of movement except trips to the loo.

                                                   The moment we spot hills in the far- off horizon, we become restless with excitement and can no longer sit still. Before long, we would be invaded by a magical whiff of fresh air only to look out and gaze in wide-eyed awe at the mighty Western Ghats. A newly painted board declares, “Welcome to Kerala State.”

                                                    Smiles are writ over the faces of everybody- the thin nurse-chechis, the highly eligible chetas and the old contented amoomas. People of every size and sort become one in their joy of arriving. Home… And though the rich greenery everywhere is proof enough that we’ve made it there, we kids press our faces against the window bars to spot what we’re looking for. And there it is. Amongst the green backdrop, the train hurries past the first station Wayanad… Malayalam script for the first time. No words could explain our joy.

                                                   With every passing station the train get emptier. We bid goodbye to our cousins at Aluva. Ours, ofcourse, was the last station, Ernakulam.  Our Grandfather was the one who always received us. There he’d be looking out for us, just like he did the previous year- tall, lean and balding, with  his trademark pencil thin  moustache and spectacles and smile. We called him Pappa because our mother and almost everyone in the family called him Pappa. The moment he saw me, he would ruffle my hair and bend down and say, “ There you are. Your Ammachi is waiting to see you.”

                                                              Even now, after all these years, the image that comes to my mind whenever I hear the word Kerala is my Granny’s home. She brought me up when I was a little infant, and the bond has remained strong ever since. As our Ambassador finally drove down the drive-way of our house, I’d stick my head out in excitement and expectation.

                                                               There she’d stand- as she stood the previous year- beaming near the entrance door. And when I’d run into her arms for a mighty hug, all I would be sensible of was that my cuddly little Granny smelt of Pears Soap and Cuticura powder, just like the previous year…

                                                               … And once again, as the Sabari Express heaved into Ernakulam Junction, my mind was crowded with a countless memories and emotions. I was returning home after quite a while. My cousins and sister have all become young men and women, living their lives in different corners of the world.

                                                                   It would certainly be absurd if a city-bred young lady of 20 carelessly pressed her face against the bars of the window. Yet as I looked out, it was with the same eagerness of the six year old I once was to spot Pappa. But this time it wasn’t Pappa, but an uncle who came to receive me. I was jolted back to the present times and to reality.

“Good to see you. Was the journey comfortable?”

                                                                  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I lapsed into silence. As we drove along, I looked at the endless coconut trees, the streams, the greenery everywhere… It all seemed the same. But my mind’s eye gazed at the old rustic cottage, perched upon a hillock and surrounded by   plantations- rubber, banana and spices. Where the dew-drops sparkled,  as it welcomed the sun-beams every morning. Where the air was fresh, the water sweet, and the earth, well, my own.  Where Amachi and Pappa lived years before.

                                                          As we approached Perappa’s house, I could see her smiling at the entrance. Greyed. Stout. Smiling. Innocent. And as I sank into her embrace, I once again caught the fragrance of Pears Soap and Cuticura Powder. Home.

#memories #grandma #family #love #childhood #trainjourney #kerala #sabariexpress #holidays #summer #cousins #malayali