Liverpool Hope Days- Distant Past in a Fourth DImension

Liverpool Hope

Days full of young and old life,
Friends- casual and intimate enough to hold hands,
Cold sunshine and a habit of mentioning it every time,
Chips and beans and a can of coke as breakfast,
Chips and beans and a cup of coffee for lunch,
Black, white, extra-milky coffee
In refractory every noon,
Except when the roof collapsed, and,
We were kept out for a month.

The six to nine evening literary lectures,
Coffee at seven thirty and the only chance
To talk to the tutors and the group.
Waiting for bus no. 78 to go home,
Spent an eternity at that slimy green bus stop
every day and at nights.
Made mates there as well there,
Some that got off never to meet again,
Some that got on well to stick thus far.

Summer came and emptied the campus,
Those with homes went for the summers,
We camped idly on the side of football pitches,
Ate in the pantry, studied under a tree outside the library,
Made love with thoughts of a glorious future
Wearing a sharp suit running for the London tube- some day.

Liverpool gave love, music, solitude and dread
And ya,football in blue and red.
The pints were dear and cold was freezing,
Birds with the shortest skirts rode the same bus as we,
And we knew the tenner is all we have,
The walk back home would need some dough

Back To Basics: India Again

Well then, I am back to blogging on this blog after 4 years of absence. Actually I have come full circle back to where I started- India. Touching base has been strange. What could have been had I not moved back from UK to India? This has been a perpetual question buzzing the brains of a lot of well-wishers. Not me. I knew exactly what I was doing when me and my wife arrived on this decision to come and live with our family in India.

Of course the standard of life in a developed nation is far better than toiling in our Bharat mahaan. But it was an airconditioned solitude devoid of love. I loved it when I drove that Audi on the Welsh roads by the Irish sea. Nobody except me seemed to care much. Everthing was heavenly except one little omission- nobody from our family could be seen around anywhere. The paradise was full of thin-lipped strangers.

Now when I am back in the hunt in my old playground, everyone who is concerned (falsely or otherwise) asks if my pockets are full. I am shocked and pained not because I have little currency to flaunt, but by the disgust and surprise they display after knowing the truth about my monetary worthlessness.


I have only one thing to say: I was happier even then, when I was leading a life on my own terms and those with fuller pockets now were slogging away their days and nights to fill their coffers with minimum wages. I am happy now when I have come back to my own country as a man and those 'rich' slaves are still serving those unknown people in a foreign nation.

My exile has ended. I wish luck to those still on a run!

Hersh

The Saturday morning scuffle!

'Please'..., Please..., did you say please?, he taunted.
'Yeah I did... 'twice''.
Only then did the driver open the door to let me out of the bus.
I understand there has been a wave of uncertain doubts and scepticism against the asian minority(anyone who's brown) during last couple of days. And I so seriously blame those brain-dead terrorits doing all that in the name of religion.
But to a common non-english, brown-skinned asian, it means that even a petty bus-driver won't think twice about humiliating infront of a bus full of peeple. All it meant was a morning ruined, fundamental questions about 'why I am in this country' and 'what have i done to expect this all'. And a grave pain all bearing alone!

Hope things are better for you out there!

Hersh
11Aug06

Raise the Voice!

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.'
Martin Luther King Jr.

Walking down a street with tall houses on both sides and civilisation peeking out from big windows, he realised that he is alone on a long early morning street.
Although its still a bit too lonely but atleast its day time and safer. But that presumption was soon wronged by a gang of youth, boys and girls, emerging from one of those previously snoring houses. While waiting for the bus to go to his work-place on that fine sunday morning, when most of people were still cuddled in their duvets,
he was subjected to an unprovoked physical attack from the gang. He was punched on the face by atleast7-8 yobs.
It isn't unusual.Neither the dent in self-esteem.Neither the lack of support from the society who produces such people. Only because he was a foreigner.Because he was not one of them. Because he would never be allowed to be one of them. Because he is, and thus indicated, will always be a vulnerable foreigner.

This is not one isolated incident. Most people just chose to tolerate and learn to keep queit.Not anymore!

Do you always have to think twice before entering a pub for the reasons that they'll stare with how-come-he/she-here-aye looks? Do you have to confine yourself in the saftey
of house after dark only because you are a minority? Do you have to keep looking over your shoulder while walking on a lone street for you have been kicked in tha back before? Do you have to keep mimicking their accent for the fear that they'll laugh at you? After all, Do you have to feel alone and isolated only because you live away from your people?

Why should people from ethnic minorities have to live in constant fear- fear of physical assault, fear of verbal assault, discrimination at work place and public places, raised eyebrows, fake smiles, isolated neighbourhoods, and illogical generalisations about our clan?

I have chose not to sit quiet. And would catalyse you people to come and join this community by sharing your personal experience of discrimination leading to recurring mental anguish. Please add your voice to mine. May be a collective voice would be loud enough to be heard.

From Gladiators to.....

Imagine a scenario: A few thousand people packed in to watch a spectacle, which would cheer them the stadia is abuzz with thundering noise of people waiting for it to happen. The organisers;some of the most influential and rich people who control the stately activities from inside and out.They are sitting on a high-up confined pedastials watching the mass going crazy from top. The participants are waiting in their cabins and sweating with nervousness; their overall existence is at stake. They have the overall responsibilities of going out and fighting for their masters, who provide them with their bread and butter.
The dreaded gates open; participants emerge one by one; the mass going absolutely berserk marvelling at the sight of their macho heroes. And the race for survival begins! The masses going crazy with every move, every run and challenge and tackle and even at every drop of blood spilling on ground. Some fall on ground and cry in agony with their sighs lost amidst the jubilation for winning partcipiants. And so the event comes to an end with a slury of down and lost participants uncertain about their next moves, and some winning ones who are only relishing untill the next event, because they never know next time it can be they on the ground.

The masses go home, eat, sleep, get to work next morning and the morning after and after untill the next event, which would again put a check on their worries and give them moments of happiness and mute the want to complain and oppose the injustices. The potion of sweet poison continues to stir their blood with tolerance and mutability;something all rulers in the world dream of!

Now, if you thought the above description was about a bloody battle of gladiators, then you are partly right. But why can't I apply each word of the lines to our very own game of gladiator:FOOTBALL? Yes, the masses are the crowd, the organisers are club owners and investors
, their confined cabins their executive-boxes, the dreaded gate is the tunnel from which player emerge, players fall on ground get injured blood spills and crwod cheer and enjoy every minute.

What do you guys thik have we come far from those days we called dark ages?