RAAZ 3: A REVIEW

 

She wears all the costumes of modernity but carries a streak of attitude that shoves her back into dark medieval age. To her, do you know the best way to grind a rival into dust? Hard work? No. perseverance? No. staying at it? Don’t be naïve. All that is for losers. The foolproof way to make sure you stay on the top is, cue appropriate ghostly sound effects, kaala jaadu.
               Or at least that’s what the desperate Shanaya( Basu) believes, when new heroine-on-the-block Sanjana(Gupta) starts to get ahead. Nothing that friend and lover and director of her films Aditya(Hashmi) can do is enogh to console her.Shanya wants Sanjana out of her way at any cost. And she finds an answer in black magic.
                      Bhatt is an old hand at horror, going back and forth in time, doing victrian and contemporary, and, on occasion, medieval. Here, he sticks to the here and now,making bollywoo the backdrop: the film industry,going by scores of unpublished, ear-scorching accounts, is the place where anything can happen. So we are quite prepared o believe that Shanaya’s bitterness and envy has caused her to come unhinged, and her passes at the guy who hands her the tools for sanjana’s destruction, lead to a couple of shivery moments in the first half.
    The second half goes just the way so many fils do: down the chute. Or, in the instance of raaz 3, in that ‘in between place which are inhabited by prêt-aatmas. Right there, the little bit of frisson that the film managed to garner vanishes,maybe in that self-same place. Out come all the sadhus and babas with their mantras, and the bhagwan ki murti, and it all boils down to the same old battle against good and evil, borrowing from older horror topes from here and there.
                      Not only are the lines unintentionally hilarious, the characters are too. Especially the supporting cast, which ranges from a psychiatrist; a sorcerer with knowledge of kaalu jaadu whose pupil meets with a nasty ends, a murderous aatma who has the hots for a live woman, and so on. Excuse me while I choke.
           As to the main leads, Bipasha being bad should have led to something. But neither she nor the relative newbie Esha Gupta, who teeters between getting somewhere with saying her lines and flubbing them, are anything but gym-toned clothes-horses. Poor Hashmi pendulums between both, and tries hard to look all serious and buttoned down. But hold, may be he is not so por at all as he gets to smooch not one but two lovelies. And that, dear readers is not a raaz at all.
                                                                         Vashistha Ray.

MY PRIMARY TEACHER------A REMINISCENCE

It seemed as if the room had inherited a tawny darkness from the time immemorial and had decorated itself eternal with its immaculate essence. Even the long stretch of corridor leading to that room was always filled with darkness.  An uncanny silence all around would make the place more spooky and mysterious.

The old dilapidated railway-quarters stood under a giant banyan tree. It was really hard to say which of the two----the quarters or the tree---- came up the first. They had the concomitant existence, it seemed, and after accompanying each other for a very long time, they might conk out anytime at a tardigrade blow of wind. The prickly sun could hardly make its way through the dense cover of the tree. The natural phenomenon of day and night had only a limited impact in diluting or adding to the dose of darkness which the occupier of the house Miss Rachna Mam was fond of and had fixed-up for herself.

                    We had no idea why Rachna mam was so fond of darkness, and we never bothered to ask her the reason. It always proved to be a bugbear for all of us who were the sole visitors of mam in her lonely room. We were more frequent in summer than in any other season.

             In summer, we had the morning classes from 8 A.M. and by 12 P.M.,the classes were used to be over. The long quiet afternoon gave us ample time to play as well as finish our homework. Even after taking a nap, we were left with copious amount of time. This used to set us towards our beloved mam’s residence. I hazily remember the serene afternoon when I used to sneak out of my home surreptitiously amid a loud noise of snort clearly heard from my adjoining room.

            I seldom saw Rachna mam lying on her bed. She stretched out herself in a big arm-chair made of some polished wooden cane. She would sit in front of television and appear as torpid as the lonely afternoon itself. The mam had the strange habit of watching television in mute mode. This was perhaps to avoid the jarring noise which this mechanical instrument was capable of making. The mam never welcomed us or resented our arrival. We had the group of six or seven children who loved to drop in there almost regularly.

             On entering her dark room, we would silently sit on the floor in a raw with our back relaxed on a stiff wall behind. The mam would hardly talk to us during those hours. We also followed the rule and used to remain hushed-off. Our meditative silence during those hours was surprisingly in contrast with the behaviour of children of our age. We were barely five or six years old then. Generally, at this age, children are noisy, boisterous and unmanageable. We were also so and, in fact, even more, but mam’s serene composure had a contagious magical effect on all of us. We really used to enjoy the calm atmosphere of her stygian accommodation. We had developed a tacit understanding with Rachna mam who rarely needed to dictate terms to us. we were like some angles who descended there to lessen the encumbrance, anguish and twinge of her loneliness, though she never acknowledged this----- either verbally or through her gesture.

                                    After spending a couple of hours together without speaking anything, mam would suddenly jump off the chair and slip into her kitchen to prepare tea. She would come with tea and mudhi, distribute among us and sat with us on the floor with a cup of tea in her hand. This gave us a sense of belonging and a sense of Rachna mam being our own. While watering mignonette surrounding her balcony in the evening, she would always tell,” beta in paudho me bhi jaan hote hai, ye bhi humari hi tarah hote hai”. Her words sounded more philosophical and less scientific.

Rachna mam was really a sensible lady. She was in her late 30’s. she was tall, plump and voguish. She had a rare dexterity of adorning herself with the most fashionable attire and expensive cosmetics. Togged out in her silk saree with matching earrings, armlet, nail-polish and high-heeled slipper, Rachna mam looked elegant, pretty, luscious and gracious. I vividly remember her going out in sun holding a small colourful floral umbrella with a big-sized sunglass over her face and a strand of lanky hair dangling over her forehead.

    Gossip had it that the mam was so much educated, beautiful and demanding that she never found her match and decided to stay unmarried. People used to say that she hails from a very rich and cultured family but no one ever saw any of her family members paying visit to her. Nor would she ever stationed-out in a vacation. Rachna mam was the talk of that small town. People talked about her family, her way of living, her dresses, her beauty and every possible meaningful or meaningless thing related to her. Mam hardly talked to anyone. Whatever was spoken of her were merely conjectures as people simply loved to talk of her. They were highly imaginative and the mam was mysteriously enigmatic.

               Mam was at her best while conducting her elementary classes. She had been assigned the task of teaching Hindi alphabets to newcomers. She never looked gaunt, pensive and uninterested in the classroom. She always sounded vibrant, energetic and enthusiastic. She would attend every pupil of the classroom and never sat on the hard wooden chair meant for her.

                                 We recited Hindi alphabets almost everyday in the classroom even without caring how they appeared in written form. She would say a….and the whole class would resound with a, she would say aa, I , ee, u ,oo  and the whole class would resonate with these magical sounds of alphabets. This used to reinvigorate her.

                   Rachna mam had a very impersonal style of teaching. Although she paid individual attention to every pupil, she would give her gentle touch to none. She never coaxed or cajoled us or gave any false hopes to win over. I hardly remember her loosing her equanimity and issuing any threat to any of us. we were completely in her control. She had a telling gesticulation which she used to teach the novice how to hold a pencil and scribble it meaningfully on their rectangular slate.

        After imbibing alphabets and barah khadi( ka kaa ki kee ku koo,etc.) when we started giving them the established shape, it became more than easier. Mam believed and said that before forming any letter if the name of the letter was rehearsed loudly and continuously, a mental shape of that letter originated in our mind which helped us to recreate it easily on our slate. We remained ignorant of her psychological approach to teaching us but she could successfully replicate the theory into practice.

                               On a winter morning when the feeble rays of the sun were trying slowly to break into the heavy cloud of mist, people began to swarm towards mam’s residence. A large number of people had thronged there. News was that Miss Rachna Tripathy(sorry mam to call u by your name), the primary teacher of M.T.P. Railway school, Birmitrapur (Orissa) had hanged herself to death with her ceiling fan…………….

                                      I was eight years old then and was studying in class three. I had never stopped visiting her during those three years. I was prevented visiting her that morning when she breathed her last. I was told wahan itne log hai, aaj tumhara kaam nahi hai. I scantly  knew the true meaning of death. I just wanted to see my beloved mam when everybody else had gathered there to see her……….

                      Rumours went ripe that miss Tripathy ended her life for love. People were saying that she had been in love with a man who betrayed her and married another woman almost five years back. When she could not tolerate the pain which have accumulated over the years, she ended her life. Police came and searched her room for any suicide-note if she left. They found none except her personal diary in which she had written many poems.

                              Miss Rachna mam had vanished in a bizarre darkness which we call death but her story still circulates around my small town. Just a few days after her untimely demise, the banyan tree fell off the ground crushing the quarters in which our mam resided.

                     We are truly grateful to Rachna mam who made us across the meaning and importance of silence in life. she not only taught us how to write and decipher the alphabets, but also the intellectual, philosophical and emotional connotation of each letters of the alphabets on which the entire edifice of life rests.

                           Thank you mam for being there when we needed you the most.

                                          May your innocent soul rests in peace!

                                                 with a tearful eyes and a heavy heart

                                                              Vashistha Ray.

MERI DUNIYA-----AN INITIATIVE.

मेरी दुनिया 
यह एक शुरुआत है. यह एक कोशिश है; उन बच्चो को पढ़ाने की, शिक्षित बनाने की जो स्कूली शिक्षा से वंचित है. आर्थिक रूप से दबे-कुचले इन बच्चो को स्कुलो की चौखट तक पहुंचाने की जो आज अपने दिनों की शुरुआत किताबो के साथ नहीं बल्कि ऐसे कामो से करते है जो क़ानूनी रूप से उनके लिए प्रतिबंधित है. वे ऐसा मात्र अपने और अपने परिवारों के दैनिक जरूरतों को पूरा करने के लिए करते है.
नई दुनिया की शुरुआत एक ऐसी झुग्गी बस्ती से होती है जहाँ ज्यादातर बिहार एवं उत्तर-प्रदेश पलायन किये हुए गरीब मजदुर अपने परिवार के साथ रहते है. इनका मुख्य पेशा कबाड़ी चुनना एवं उन्हें बेचना है और इस काम में उनका साथ उनके बच्चे देते है जिनकी उम्र ४ साल से लेकर १० साल तक है. बात करने पर इन बच्चो ने बताया की वे सुबह नौ बजे कुछ खाकर घर से निकल जाते है और जगह-जगह से कबाड़ी एकत्र करते है. दोपहर का भोजन उन्हें खुद ही इंतजाम करना होता है . शाम को लौट कर ये बच्चे अपने बस्ती में खेलते है एवं कुछ समय के बाद रात का भोजन कर सो जाते है .
गरीबी एवं अभाव में पलने वाले गन्दी बस्ती के इन बच्चो ने काफी उत्साह दिखाया जब मैंने इन बच्चो के बीच पाठ्य-सामग्री का वितरण किया. इन बच्चो की तार्किक एवं बौद्धिक क्षमता अन्य सभी बच्चो की तरह ही सुदृढ़ एवं विकसित दिखा, फर्क सिर्फ इतना है की ये बच्चे अभाव में जीते है और स्कूल की जगह काम पे जाते है .
मेरी कोशिश है इनको सभ्य नागरिक बनाने की. इसके लिए मैंने अपना कदम आगे बढाया है और इन बच्चो को शाम के समय इनके बस्ती में प्रारंभिक शिक्षा के लिए पाठशाला का आयोजन किया है. यदि आपको मेरा प्रयास सही लगा तो आप भी अपना योगदान दे सकते है मेरी दुनिया से जुड़कर. आपके द्वारा किया गया प्रयास इन बच्चो के भविष्य को उज्जवल बना सकता है .

Vashistha Ray
9211364624

MISSING LINK

Horror stories abound these days. Men barely out of their teens kidnap and bump off people so that they can buy gifts for their girlfriends with the ransom money.poor children are employed as bonded labour in middle-class homes with nary a peep of protest from neighbours or peers. Animals are abused,resources are brually exploited, laws are flouted,merit is bypassed, corruption is accepted as the price for effeciency.Only candle-lit vigils,Anna Hazare rants and Munnabhai-esque Gandhigiri gestures offer very picturesque yet ineffectual protest.
                  I am not surprised. Just a few days ago, I requested a teacher friend to ask his class 12th standard students in one of Delhi's best known schools the difference between good and bad,right and wrong. Not one teenager had an answer or even an anecdote to explain his or her understanding of these basic cncepts that should be the moral and ethical compass for any self-respecting civilization.If they grow up in an atmoshephereof moral ambivalence-where it is okay or even necessary to coerce,bribe or cheat-such concept will indeed seem irrelevant and annoying.
                          Ranking single-minded progress above cognitive instinct instead of making them complementary is what causes this amazing inability to see nuances and crucial forks in life's pathways. The fundamental deficiency lies in the fact that children are coached to jump through a thousand scholastic hoops, yet by far the most important decisions they will make are about whom to marry and who to befriend, what to love and what to despise, and how to control impulses. on these matters, they are almost entirely on their own. No theories come to help them.
                             Lofty isssues of morality and ethics have engaged enlightened minds down the millennia, but ordinary people like us used to grasp at least the rudiments from grandma's cautionary tales,tedious moral scince classes, even Amar chitra katha comics as kids, and later on from peer groups and the like. Those students in my friend's class could have at least quoted a tale if not a modern day allegory, but those pit stops for value addition are given the go-by in our mad race to crack examinations and land jobs as success is measured in starting salaries not eventual achievements.
At a neighburhood restaurant located at V3S mall, Laxmi Nagar, a young couple walked in with a toddler and a tribal maid who could not have been older than 10. They, like all the other diners , ate and enjoyed themselves as the child looked after the infant, her face devoid of either curiousity or joy- the two hallmarks of the wonder years.

 We protest indignantly the cases of racism in Australia. Yet, when we see around us that a young mother feels nothing for someones's child, a friend thinks nothing of killing a classmate to fund a holiday and so-called educated people commit or condone horrific injustices all around us, we behave like ostriches. What does that say for our culture and civilization? Clearly, India has also reached that stage of development where we are good at teaching technical skills,  but when it comes to the most important things, like character, we have almost noting to say.       Vashistha Ray.

RAGINI MMS: A REVIEW

What we know as a “world” is composed of so many small and varied clusters of people. These clusters exist, survive and flourish with certain peculiarities which make them unique and a world in itself. One such small world consist young, educated and extrovert people who live and work in metros, away from their parents and enjoy their life to the fullest.

                                     Like thousands of people representing this ultra-modern community, Uday and Ragini also happen to live and work in Mumbai. They are young, dreamy and ambitious. They like love, sex, money and freedom to roam about like a bird. Uday and Ragini apparently love each other. They hug, kiss and cuddle each other without inhibition, like any other modern young couples living in metros. Even the idea of weekend enjoyment is not alien to them.

                        On one such weekend once, they set out for a strange destination together with some hopes and desires. Ragini has In her mind, the jolly company of Uday and lots of enjoyment throughout the way and on reaching the destination. Uday, on the other hand, has some other sinister plan in his mind, which her girl-friend Ragini is not aware of.  Zipping past the long trail of landscape, they experience all sorts of enjoyments: Music, ice- cream and long sequel of lip-locked kisses in the car. When they reach their final destination, it already becomes dark. Uday takes Ragini to an isolated deserted house. Desperate to make love, they reach upstairs. Passionately kissing each other sleeping side-by-side on a swanky bed, they got disturbed by a loud knock at the door. Their common friend Priya and her boyfriend Vishal drops in unannounced. Uday resents their arrivals but bears their presence for some time. He gets solace when they depart following a misunderstanding between them. Left alone once again, Uday and Ragini restart making love, though this time in a very different way. High on fantasy, Uday handcuffs Ragini with bed and starts kissing all over. But, soon some weird events begin to unfold before them. As the night trickles by, they become sure of being trapped under some evil spirits. Their plan goes astray as they jostle hard to come out of that spectral doom. In the process, Ragini comes to witness some cameras kept hidden at various spots of the room where they were making love sleeping on a large bed. She comes to understand about Uday’s ulterior motives of filming her sex video.  She yells and throws abuses at him but soon calms down as she has another danger looming large before her to fight out with.

                            Welcome to the adult world of ‘RAGINI MMS’, a film inspired by a true story. Produced by Ekta Kpoor and Sobha kapoor, the film depicts a bold but sad story of a girl Ragini who gets trapped in dual difficulties. She loves a boy who courts compromises for filming her sex video and secure a place in film-industry. With this motive, he takes her to an undisclosed place where some cameras were already installed. One more invisible thing which comes to pester her is the presence of an evil spirit in the house. How Ragini fights the dual tragedy? How she survives the heartbreaks? The film captures the events very naturally. The first half an hour of the film zeroes in on lives of the ultra-modern unmarried couple living in metros.  The director of the movie, parvan kirpalani, has brilliantly documented the carefree and bindass attitudes of the x-generation. Cuss words and the gutter language used by them in the movie take it to a certain degree of realism. It also looks unorthodox in depicting the character of a modern girl who enjoys her freedom without any tinge of traditional compunction. The main characters of the movie Uday(Raj Kumar Yadav) and Ragini (Kainaz Motivala) seem real and like any other pair of lovers in our sight and knowledge. Ragini looks cute, calm and beautiful. Even though Uday bosses her round, she tolerates and trusts him. Both of them have successfully skinned the characters. Without any previous meaningful triumph in their kitty and popular faces around them, they have managed to attract the attention of a huge crowd.

                                  The highpoint of the movie is its spooky description of larger part of the movie. A weird environment, dark shadow, unusual sounds, banging doors and shocking violence are scary enough to keep you at the edge of your seat. The horror sets your heart racing and you feel like screaming anytime. Still, you find yourself glued to the screen without blinking your eyes even once. The director deserves all the appreciation for his remarkable task. But, the long emphasis put on spectral scene seems to have overshadowed the real message behind the movie---- to warn girls the danger of filming their private moments. What looms large as a danger in the reel life may not be so for girls like Ragini in real life. The real threat to them would be the disclosure of any private videos filmed by their trusted boy-friend. The movie has miserably failed to highlight this heartbreaking shock experienced by Ragini in the movie and so many girls in real life. Shobha might have surely carried the warning bell for girls while producing the movie but she fails to generate the points on this count. The end also leaves so many questions unanswered.

                      The movie RAGINI MMS really deserves to be watched, especially by girls of x –generations. They can be sure of getting useful messages, though not highlighted In the movie, and decide their course of action with a logical mind. The movie is a brilliant exposition of how a romantic weekend started with excitement, hopes and desire could end up with a gruesome nightmare.

                                                VASHISTHA RAY.

                              

 

A DEADLY WAR FOR SURVIVAL

Never in the past had the city appeared as beautiful as it appeared to me that day. Standing out with one of my friends, I began to gaze its beauty. It was exactly same the way, a bridegroom, forgetting everything else, gawks at his beautiful bride standing coyly at his courtyard. It seemed that the city had also, like a bride, unveiled her face, covered all through the long ritual. It had no qualms standing nude in front of me. I was seduced by an erotic invitation. My lustful eyes fell on its naked beauty and began to scroll all around in order to devour its virginity. I was slow in my act, glancing at and enjoying each and every characteristics of this dormant city. I wished this would last for ever and was mesmerized by a sense of victory. I had seen crude and an untouched beauty of a city without any artificial ornamentation.

                  It was a beautiful evening in Rourkela. Gentle wind was blowing across the city, which abounds in green vegetation and trees all around it. The gush of the wind was causing leaves sway and generate music rhythmically. All the tress planted by the road-side appeared to be dancing in a perfect harmony. The birds were chirping with glee. Animals were on their way back to the farm. The shepherd was effortless and carefree. He was singing melodiously on his way behind a herd of cattle. The long green pasture and a serpentine flow of a big river had made a way into the city in a perfectly geometrical design. The city appeared to be put artistically surrounded by high hills and lush foliage on them. The sky scattered all over the hills appeared blue and clear. The sun had lately dropped down from its gigantic lap and lost somewhere far, behind the patchy hills. The warm breeze of the day had cooled down considerably.

                       People were coming out of their homes to enjoy the breezy evening. They were strolling all along the wide and clean road of the city. The women were draped in their saris. Their long and unbridled hair was dancing back and forth in the jet of wind. They were running their hands, now and then, past through lock of hair dangling and dancing on their foreheads. I was standing in the middle of a big circular green field, where some children were playing. They were happy and gay; running, jigging and bellowing. Oblivious of everything else, they were engrossed in their playful activities. The parents had indulged in gossips. The Sunday evening had given them an occasion to amble out with their children. They seemed relaxed, happy and cheerful.

                       “Have we declared a war on ourselves?” The unpleasant question of my friend standing beside me jerked me out of the magic charm I had fallen into. He was looking straight in my face with full knowledge about my sudden lure towards this city, I surmised. I blushed as though he had caught me red- handed cajoling and persuading my wife. As I turned my face towards him, I found him chuckling---indifferent to what he had asked. His scintillating eyes did not bear the brunt of a war-time situation. He was unruffled and undisturbed. The invisible transient wind was playing with his brown hair and he seemed to be enjoying the naughty behavior of an unseen companion. His facial-expression was nowhere near to suggest what he uttered a while ago. Without feeling any need to answer him, I drew my face back to its earlier position and tried to concentrate at things which had enthralled me magically and mysteriously. To my utter surprise, the charm and the beauty of the place had vanished. They were nowhere in sight. I made an effort to seek out the dazzling inveiglement I became a lucky prey of, but could not regain the lost heaven of love and beauty. It was only the disquieting outer layer of an immaculate beautiful world which my eyes could hold up. I was suddenly out of a something very sensual pleasure as though I had been ejaculated during a very brief period of intercourse with nature. I stood satisfied but demanding. The splendor of my beloved town had sneaked out of my glare, wrapping itself with its usual nasty cover, as soon as the act of proximity was over.

                    Jarring noise of the vehicles and their high-pitched honks started disturbing the serenity of the place. Some people sitting around looked peeved at the unpleasant buzz of the mobile phone, while others went on talking loudly over their phones. The filmy ring-tones of mobile phones had added to an already earsplitting noise. As more and more people started thronging in the field, some uninvited vendors brought their products right there at the service of their prospective customers. Soon, there grew some competition among them and they began to advertise their products vociferously in their highest possible pitch-cord. They all wanted to capture as many customers as possible for them. While dealing with and serving to one, they never drew their attention from other prospective customers. Some were clever and making children their easy target. Falling prey to their strategy, the children left playing and became persistent with their demand to have products of their choice. Parents were silently catering to their demands. Some other children had also gathered there without accompanying their parents. They were appearing less-privileged and poor. They had worn shabby and torn clothes and were looking disoriented, disheveled and unclean. Since they had no money with them, they were silently following vendors to the places where they would serve some family. They took to the corner at last when they failed to generate sympathy in people’s mind. The green field was soon littered with disposable glasses and carry-bags, which began to loiter around in the swift of wind. The aesthetic beauty of the place had soon evaporated into the heat of commercialization. My mind had hardly escaped the agonizing development when an obnoxious black plume of smoke started ascending and spreading the vast horizon of sky. The rapid industrialization in and around Rourkela had made it susceptible to high degree of pollution. Gone were the days when fresh air circumnavigated breadth and length of this small town and people got refreshed after every walk they undertook. Now, it was smoke all around the town they despised and loathed the most. Heavy blanket of smoke soon covered the sight and the beautiful panoramic view of this town was eclipsed into it.

                                  I had already experienced something more unsavory and unpleasant in Delhi--------------- over-crowed and filthy streets, dirty markets, unattended, stinky  mound of garbage, blocked drains, unplanned structures and poor sanitation. It is during my stay in Delhi that I saw roads packed with cars and pavements with vendors. Here vehicles honk loud and emit smokes. Traffics moves at a snail’s pace and road-rage are common. people have grown intolerant, unsympathetic and rude. Their behavior is hostile and inhospitable. They are materialistic and simply inhuman. They care more for profit than for anything else. Medical stores are full of spurious and expired drugs. Carcinogenic vegetables and fruits are sold with impunity. People sell and consume spurious wine. They run rackets of prostitution under the nose of administration and even take contract for eliminating rivals. All these activities are carried out just for the sake of profit. Carnal needs of people have overshadowed their  moral righteousness. They are the perpetrators as well as the victims of misdeed. They breed and commit one form of crime and fall victims of another form of crimes. Chemists sell expired drugs to patients and are bound to purchase cancer-producing vegetables and fruits. Shopkeepers earn profits by selling liquor and see their wives and daughters being molested and raped by drunkards. Officials take bribes and feel the pangs of separations from their beloved sons and daughters. People pollute the environment and become sick with fever and disease. The city has flourished with an ideology of commercialization, but seem to crumble and perish under its own immoral excessiveness. Its dwellers are making money and profits at the cost of something which cannot be compensated for. Are we striving to live or simply digging graves for our own burials?

                                  Junk food, late-night parties, a  contagious culture of wine,drugs and immoral sexual conduct have simply rendered people disease-stricken. Their physical strength is trimming down. Power of resistance is diminishing. They are losing their appetite, charm and beauty. They easily succumb to bacteria and virus and take long time to recuperate. Here people prefer late-marriage and freedom but take drugs and wine to cope up with psychological loneliness. Things come in pair here and life is strewn between contradictory practices. The unhealthy and unethical life-style of people in Delhi is eating into their happiness and well-being.

    As I have been living in Delhi for a quite long time now, any further influx into the city seems illogical, immoral, dangerous and even fatal. However, I stand helpless and see people in large number pouring in everyday. They will settle here and treat this city as their mistress. They will attempt to get much and more out of this city but add nothing to its health and beauty. This has been in practice for a long time and just like a prostitute its beauty is dwindling with the passage of time. I am not against migration towards big cities. What I am against is uncivilized behavior of people and their indifference towards nature and the city they live in. In the name of commercialization and development, human greed is playing a game full of revenge and vengeance and at stakes are the nature and its pristine beauty,which would boomerang on our survival. “Yes, we have declared a lethal war on ourselves,” I mouthed a rejoinder inadvertently.

                      As a very small town as compared to Delhi, Rourkela still promises healthy and peaceful life with lesser degree of environmental pollution and human wickedness. However, the heat of commercialization and lust for materialism seem to silently seeping into the town and settle there undesirably. I have just seen the impact, though of moderate quantum, and it should serve as a warning sign of a deadly future. If even the small towns get contaminated, people would have no other places to rusticate and rescind.

                                         VASHISTHA RAY.

                     

         

DEY AND DAWOOD: A MURKY CONFLICT OF INTERESTS

Almost 40 years down the line after independence, the cloud of suspicion had thickened and a stygian climate of chicanery, cupidity and brutality had became so overbearing that the possibility of piety co-existing with the atrocious and ruthless behavior of mankind seemed almost unfeasible. The veil of secrecy covering the entire gamut of political and social deeds had cast a gloomy shadow on its horizon. People had become greedy and unhappy; rude and careless; infidel and demanding; materialistic and unfulfilled. There had been a minatory climate of loot, suppression, murder and felonious activities. The government and its machineries were fully hands-in-gloves with unscrupulous elements of society. The common people were helpless and hapless. There seemed to be no way out of anarchy and despondency. It was not a sudden crescendo of vice and depravity, but a culmination of a long and systematic apathy which had turned the place into an inferno infesting scoundrels and decadents prominently.

                       The period was early 90s and the place was Bombay. Two persons from dissimilar backgrounds were at the pinnacle of their respective careers. They were toiling day and night with a single-mind. They were resolute, focused and ambitious. They could have stopped then and there, as the name; fame and money they had created for themselves were enough to sustain them for a long period of time. But, there had always been something in their stomachs which never allowed them sit complacently. They went on relentlessly in pursuit of their dreams and objectives. A collision and confrontation of interests was imminent between them as both of them were working for a different and contradictory set of objectives. One was anti-social and criminal who was heading and sprawling a vast illegal empire based on money churned out of illicit business of extortion, contract killing, gambling and drug-trafficking. He was driven by the idea and dream of an illegal concentration of money and power at his hand. The other was an intrepid journalist who had vowed to vanquish the entire illegal empire of the underworld which was thriving and flourishing at the cost of development and peace in society. He was driven by his own conviction of truth, justice and munificence.

                           A one time petty criminal of Bombay had snowballed into an underworld don who wielded so much power that in the early 90s, it was rumored that around 75 politicians owed their entry to parliament to him. Indeed, Sheikh Dawood Ibrahim Kaskar had come a long, long way in a highly-globalized underworld. His rise as a don depicts a sad story of greed and fear; of state-patronization; of an impotent machinery and of an inactive and indifferent civil-society. He owes his success as a don to an entire obsolesce system which gave him an opportunity to be what he is now. He equally credits his success to servile, greedy and venal political and administrative machineries, which helped him, nurture his devil dreams and fulfill them with impunity.

                               Dawood Ibrahim never faced protests even at his home when he would commit petty crimes at his childhood. His home itself became a breeding-ground of criminal in him and his father, senior kaskar, who was a police havaldar, was instrumental in making Dawood and his brothers what they are today. Whenever there was a complaint, he would pretend to scold them, but would later pat them on their back. He himself would wait for visits from erstwhile smuggling kingpins Haji Mastan and Karim Lala, who would give him some money to keep them going. Later with Haji’s help, he opened an electronic shop for his son Dawood. The smuggled goods started coming in this shop and Haji delegated the responsibility of smuggled goods to Dawood. Those days were highly restrictive in terms of imports of even general goods which are found quite easily these days. This gave Dawood an impetus to enlarge his smuggling network and earn huge amount of money. He never looked back since then and kept scripting new stories in the world of crime. Smuggling, extortion, betting and drug-trafficking became his prime source of revenue. He invested in Bollywood and real estate and almost erected an empire by influencing, threatening bribing and killing officials and politicians. His rise was not meteoric but he hardly encountered any real difficulties on his way to become a Don.

                  It always interests common people to peep into a don’s life. How he lives, whom he believes and what his likes, dislikes and hobbies are. They are always curious to know how he operates his syndicates and eliminates his rivals. How he manages to evade police and how much he loves his girlfriend. The conjecture and stories revolving around a don’s life creates excitement among common people. Any number of Bollywood movies centered on underworld and its complex syndicate’s hits the roof with their releases. Company, Risk, Black Friday and Once Upon A Time In Mumbai are some of the latest Bollywood movies which have thrown some grimy insight into underworld and its invisible empire. But, have we ever thought how do such stories relating to underworld pour in public domain? Are these stories mere conjectures or based on some solid evidences? Are they the first-hand account of their lives or just journalistic babbles gathered around? How do they come to the surface and etched in peoples’ mind? Who are the men behind such stories?

                    Joytirmoy Dey, among others, was the man always behind such stories. He was fascinated by the world of crime. He would venture into a risky domain to snatch stories from there and serve them in readers’ platter. He would go to any length to understand the complex things with notorious world and his obsession with his area of work was so much pitched in his mind that he used to be considered as an expert on underworld. Joytirmoy Dey was a fearless crime-reporter who never danced at the tune of any underworld or became a puppet at their hands to blow their own songs of popularity. He was there for an entirely different reason----less out of curiosity, more out of necessity.

                              When the entire city had come under control of various mafias and they were busy over negotiation and cross-battle for their respective larger aresas of operations, Dey took an endeavor to expose them and nullify their fear in peoples’ mind. He was a challenge to the underworld as his narratives always proved as valuable tip-off for police to counter their activities. He wanted to provide a clean society---- a society free from the danger of underworld and mafia. His works began to prove fatal for their unlawful activities and this infuriated them. He never pointed out Dawood, his contemporary, in particular. His fight was against evil forces; so he never discriminated between Dawood and Rajan or any other mafias. He even challenged the encroachment of a zoological reserve area by the Maharashtra government. His report in this regard created a furor in the assembly.

                                His methods of working were unique but effective. He would never get photographed or highlighted for his reports. He avoided harping on stories he would work on. He was a man of a few words--------a complete no-nonsense person. He would roam around the city on his bike and maintain a low profile. What he carried in abundance were guts and determination which obviated any other possession required to work against these highly dangerous mafias. Even IPS and IAS officers with huge backing fail to deliver. Here lies the importance of an unarmed solitary journalist who had a mission to rout an illegal empire through his work. Joyirmoy Dey wrote two important books on underworld which unraveled some intricate mysteries surrounding the underworld and helped police to lay out strategies to crack on them.

                       Almost of an equal age of Dawod Ibrahim, Jyotirmoy’s mission came to an abrupt end when he was shot dead in broad-day light just a few days ago. He fought to the last ditch and had written a series of reports about oil mafia and underworld. This would have triggered them to eliminate him. The sad thing is that while the illegal empire of underworld and mafia keeps on flourishing leaps and bound, the voice of truth and justice got suppressed. How could this be possible without complicity of politicians, bureaucrats and law-enforcement agencies? His murder is a clear indication of a supine administration sold-off at the hands of mafia and underworld. It points out towards a society which worships money and power, glorifies wrong-doers and penalizes those in search of truth, justice and peace. Has the greed for money over-powered us to such an extent of ignominy? Has the lust for money rendered us impotent? Has the fear for our own life allowed us to witness mass-scale extermination? If this is so, I am ashamed to be a part of such society and would rather pursue the path Dey has discovered and illuminated for all of us.

                      The respective rise and fall of underworld and Dey are not sudden occurrences. It may have taken several decades of ineptitude, avariciousness and coyness for an empire to take birth, grow, rise and hit the summit. It may have equally taken several decades of indifference, thanklessness and viciousness for a valiant soul to crumble and perish. The society as a whole stands responsible for the malignant growth of underworld and its assuming power out of proportion. It is also responsible for the brutal murder of Dey and his ilk at the hands of mafia. And above all, our government and its machineries are responsible for all these circumstances. They took an oath of office to protect its people and prevail upon truth and justice. In practice, they just do the opposite----- protect and rally round criminals and persecute the upholder of truth and justice. Is this what we elect for our representatives to assemblies and parliament? Is it what we pay tax for? Is it what we expect of them? Is it what we repose our faith on them for? If answers to these questions are a simple NO, why are we silent then? Our silence, timidity and docility have emboldened them to act against common interests and serve for criminals and dons.

            Our ancient and medieval rulers were lovers of art, architecture and literature. They patronized and respected people related to these fields. We have a great number of classical examples of art, architecture and literature. They are incomparable, of magnificent class and marks of intellectual and pious creativity. We enjoy them all----- their beauty, wisdom, creativity and find solace----- only because our past rulers and people encouraged and supported artists and their works. We shame on our government and society that expels artists like M.F.Hussain and guard criminals like Iqbal Kaskar( Dawood’s brother). How can one then find examples of beauty and creativity? How can one boast of modern Indian art and literature, except a few only? But we can definitely brag about Indian criminals who have got their notoriety world-wide. We can definitely boast of their inhuman and destructive works of murder, rape, extortion and extermination. The coming generations are also bound to suffer for our present possessions and patronization.

              As the half-hearted investigation into the murder of Jyotirmoy Dey proceeds and India, without expecting any result, once again bombs Pakistan with most-wanted list of hardcore criminals, we have all the reasons to eschew the path of greed and fear. This will be highly ingratitude on our part if we simply sit on information furnished to us by some audacious journalists like Dey and boast of ourselves being knowledgeable. The genuine tribute to Jyotirmoy, who sacrificed his life in line of his noble duty, requires us to kindle and illuminate the space occupied by evil spooks and hound them out. This asks for guts and determination which Jyotirmoy Dey was a proud owner of.

                         VASHISTHA RAY.