life's a kick

He was asked to report at 3, but he came at 4.20. Upon enquiry, he said he mistook my name for a Mr Solanki! He sounded apologetic over phone, but I was miffed. He couldn’t have chosen a worse waiting spot, for I had to go ankle deep in puddle to reach his car. I was ready to give him a piece of my mind when he turned to me. Instinctively, I smiled. And decided to like him. He reminded me of my grandmother (all old people do). Only, he’d be a decade younger than her. Aaji is 94. Let’s call him Oliver, a kind of portmanteau for Old Driver. In his prim blue suit and cap, dear Oliver looked rather cute. His driving, though, was a complete disaster. He held the steering with unsure, fidgety hands, peering ahead with blinking eyes. The machine, least to say, was as old as the man himself. Every part of the Santro shuddered; it had the talent of sputtering to a total halt in most difficult traffic situation. Every time that happened, dear Oliver took a good one minute to restart the...

As the swanky white car came around the bend of the porch, I narrowed my eyes to search its occupant. I had been waiting for ten minutes, and it was a dry, drab, professional wait. More to help himself, the person standing behind me offered an explanation for the white wonder. “It’s my car, you know,” he said with undisguised heroic. “I prefer BMWs”, he added to complete the kill. I wonder the range of reactions I could have given him. I enjoyed thinking it up: (with big suggestive eyes) “Oh yah? If I sit in your car looooong enough, will you give me one of your cars that you DON’T prefer?” (the complete baby look) “But what is the full form of BMW, sir?” (the naughty-you look) “And so do the brats who mow down street dwellers” I have a feeling he would have loved the above reaction. (flatly) “What’s the big deal? I’ve done it in a Hummer.” (bluntly) “I still prefer my office peon.” (laughing) “You bet I sleep better in my chartered bus!”  (matter-of-factly) “I pr...

A conference room turned studio. A young girl and a coroporate-ish looking man are laughing self consciously, feeling silly and witty respectively. The set is ready, and on they go: Girl: Mr Pyarelaal, thanks for joining us…. Pyare (interrupting): call me Pyare, please Girl (unprepared for this intrusion, racing her mind to pick up script lines): Oh! Umm…sure…umm…Pyare ji, thanks for joining us on this show Pyare gives her a smile that would have appeared hilariously constipated to anyone on the road, but in the corporate world, it is read as a grateful gesture. Girl: so Pyare, you’ve been elevated to the post of Director (Pyaar). This is unprecedented in the history of any corporate. What made this possible? Pyare: Gifts. Girl (flabbergasted): What? The anchor is surprised. Even she knew the truth, but didn’t expect this uncharacteristic candour from Pyarelaal. She didn’t know he was prepared. Pyare (with the air of a sanyaasi): You see, life is a gift. Our birth ...

Two decades after the Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci first scored the Perfect 10 in 1976 Montreal Olympics, a girl was born in Bokaro General Hospital, who would go on to score a Perfect 10 in her Class X Board exams years later. Meet Nupur Singh, a darling of her teachers, a student of Bokaro Ispat KalyanVidyalaya (BIKV) from Class sixth to tenth, and a topper throughout. The Topper Singh It takes Nupur some time to get settled in our conversation. She admits she is a little shy; has been from her earliest memories. But when she does open up, what an insight she allows in her world of struggle, uncertainty and achievement! Born to a contractual worker Mr Niwas Singh and a home-maker mother Ms Gauri Devi, Nupur speaks of her lack of resources in a very matter-of-fact manner, not once blemished by self-pity. “I feel a wee-bit out of place when children of my age discuss their i-pods, i-pads and other gadgets, but I ignore these conversations and get on with my work”, she adds w...

“You guessed it right, it’s a baby girl; a girl, who has no idea whether she’ll go to live or not…” As she recites lines from a poem called ‘Why is a girl never wanted’, Devjani’s cheeks get inflamed with passion, her brows furrowed and eyes darting, hands moving to enunciate her point. The fiery delivery leaves her audience with a lump in their throats which doesn’t melt for a long time. Maybe this is why she won the first prize for this poem in a pan-Bhilai poetry recitation competition. Devjani Chaudhary, 9, daughter of contract labour Jyotirmay Chaudhary, fluent orator in Hindi and English, is one of the 295 other first generation learners of Bhilai Ispat Kalyan Vidyalaya (BIKV), an English-medium school catering exclusively to children coming from below poverty line (BPL) families. With an intention to alleviate families living in abject poverty by providing education to their children, BIKV was started by SAIL Bhilai Steel Plant in 2007. Every year, a new batch ...

There are some moments that sink in our minds through the chinks of time. Some words, some lessons that make way through the labyrinths of our sub-conscious, and lie embedded deep somewhere. It is only when we are shaken from our day-to-day reveries, by a long-forgotten fragrance...or a nostalgic song...or a blurred sense of déjà-vu that we get to sneak a peek into our own minds. One such occasion for me was visiting the steel plants of Bokaro and Durgapur, years after I first saw them.   I was among the five new Junior Managers (Communication) who landed in Durgapur way back in 2006. Even before we had officially joined the company, we jested about our choice of joining SAIL. Usually, in the career graphs of people, an ascent is marked by migration to a more developed place. And there we were – five fresh graduates from the Indian Institute of Mass Communication in Delhi, with ambitious plans and high dreams, travelling from the mega capital of India to some place people lear...

He: So we start with discussing the weather? He asks with utter impunity, their eyes meet, and both laugh helplessly like childhood friends. There is an uncharacteristic candour in the way they meet. Definitely not how people meet after years. They talk, picking up strands of conversation, as if they left it there minutes ago, and came back after a loo break or so. She smiles bashfully, eyes downcast, now looking up at him, shaking her head in the same ‘oh! You never change’ expression. He: In fact, I’d much rather talk about Whether. Whether I can kiss you, whether I should hold your hand and… She (almost jumping in): you really have to stop. Remember our treaty? He: High time you stopped me baby. In an uncanny way, she predicts most of his replies even before completing her sentence. As usual, he crosses the line. As usual, she disciplines herself to ignore. They’re meeting. She’s happy. He’s ecstatic. They’re euphoric. And that’s all that...