A Letter to Pedestrians from an Open Manhole

Fact: Five people in India die daily by falling into open pits/manholes.

*Source: NCRB

Dear Pedestrians,

Remember me, that open manhole you walked past by, only a few days ago? Let me jog your memory.

Remember you were walking along and almost fell into me?

Remember you cursed me under your breath, and then just walked away?

Remember you threw an empty packet of chips into me and looked around to see if anyone caught you doing that? Well, I did, but I guess you didn't notice me.

Remember when it rained and I overflowed on to the streets? People didn't know that my lid was open and they fell into me.

Remember when you were walking again by my street, oblivious to my existence and suddenly found yourself falling into me, a world of filth that existed beneath the pavement?

Remember the crowd that gathered around me? Around you? Remember how embarrassed you were? How guilty was I. Remember how you had to be pulled out, a stench surrounding you that reeked more of helplessness than of anything else?

How you all flung expletives at me. How you all shook your heads in disbelief and blamed the system for yet another accident.

And how you all walked away. And yet you are here again, walking on my street, being cautious of your step. Reminiscing about how nothing ever changes around here. If only you had walked on another street. If only someone had covered me. If only someone had seen me.

If only someone had done something.

Yours failingly,

An Open Manhole.

I regret buying a big car

I would have never thought that the car I was so looking forward to buying would finally become the bane of my existence. I was looking forward to buying this car, what with all the hours of hard work I put in to be able to afford it - but of course, the traffic jams of my city had other plans in store for me.

The day I purchased the car was possibly the only time when I was genuinely happy. Yet every day since then, I have been cursing myself. And why? I am not able to shift past the first gear. Perennially stuck in a jam, I am always late. Both ways, while going to office or while returning home.

The other day, I was stuck in a jam, as usual. I could hear the faint sirens of an ambulance. I sighed, knowing that there was no way the ambulance was going to make its way out of the long procession that was the bumper-to-bumper traffic jam. I checked my rear view mirrors and miraculously, I saw the ambulance inch forward. I honked loudly to signal the vehicles in front of me to make way. However, there was no space for them to go. I waited anxiously as the ambulance drove ahead and halted to my left. I peered into the ambulance and could see the worried faces of the family members inside, helpless and desperate.

I cursed, this time, not for me, but for the ones battling life and death in the ambulance. After what seemed like an eternity, the cars began to move ahead at a slow pace. As the ambulance snaked its way out of the jam, some people followed its trail, as is always the case on Indian roads.

I shudder to think what would happen to me, if I were to be in the same situation?

Why are we stuck in a rut?

It’s only because we are in ‘let’s just adjust and adapt’ mode, this menace endures. Good civic sense is the hallmark of any proud city. Our streets can be safer and peaceful only when we break out of the ‘adjust and adapt’ mode and start being responsible. Do we have to wait for a complete breakdown of the infrastructure of our cities?

Alarm Bajne Se Pehle Jaago Re!

We love to litter

The other day I was on a ferry in Mumbai, and I saw a family eating a bag of chips. Afterwards, the mother threw the wrapper into the sea. The children followed her example. Everybody just looked away. It was after all ‘picnic time’. Who will bother to look for a garbage can, that too on holiday?

What is this inherent need to not throw garbage where it belongs, you ask? Well, when was the last time you saw a garbage bin in your area that wasn’t overflowing?

Or the last time that the garbage bin has been duly emptied? How is a civilian supposed to act civil if the facilities don’t prompt that behaviour?

I remember when I was walking to a shop the other day, a man threw a banana peel at the garbage dump on the road. The peel of course, never actually landed in the bin and fell in the pile that was accumulating on the roadside. Next thing we know, a bike skids on the peel and the rider falls off. Who would have thought, right? Who’s to blame here now, the man who threw the peel and littered on the street, the rider who didn’t see where he was going, or the system that did not attend to the matter at hand?

If we won't clean up India, who will?

Hygiene and sanitation concerns have led to grave diseases and deaths. This has remained an issue for a very long time. We have been complaining about it relentlessly.

You complain about families littering and polluting our streets. Do you do anything about it, except watching from the sidelines?

Why wait for bits and pieces of waste to turn into a monstrous eternal pile of junk?

‘Itna problem hai, toh solution ban jao’.

Watch out for warning signs. Wake up before the alarm bell rings.

Alarm Bajne Se Pehle Jaago Re!

Open Letter from a Barren Farm

Dear India,

In songs of beauty, of abundance, of prosperity, I was once the main hero. You used to sing about my lush green pastures as you watered the soil, where rice, maize and corn grew. Cattle grazed, I was full of life. A symbol of prosperity to animals, birds, crops and people.

Now, it's a different story. I am infertile. I'm no longer of use to you. The songs are all a thing of the past. I am abandoned and I'm lonely.

No one writes songs about those that they wronged. I am the field that you wronged by diverting water to the cities.

No one writes songs about those who they malnourished. I am the field that you used too much pesticide on.

No one writes songs about the ones that hold them back. I am the field that got in the way of your 'city dreams'.

No one writes songs about the one that they abuse. I am the field that was used to grow your cash crops.

You think I've forgotten how it used to be before, when fields were lush, green and fertile - that I've forgotten how I used to be? You think I want to be this infertile field, now that you are begging me to grow something… anything! You think I want to be the desolate piece of land of your funeral pyre? Remember you abandoned me. I waited and hoped.

Today you look at me with fallen eyes as the ones who toil upon me are about to take their own lives. You call out to the nation, to the masses, to the media. No one seems to care."No one is coming to save our crops, to rescue our lives, and our lands."

Only when we're down to the last crop in the country, down to the last surviving farmer, perhaps only then the country will finally wake up. Only when it's a little too late, will we all will decide to finally awake.

Yours barren and infertile,
The Farmland.

A thousand more farmers may commit suicide this year, & I can't do anything about it.

The lady who cooks for me is married to a farmer. She tells me how difficult each passing day gets on the farm. She also used to be a farmer, helping her husband. But she says female farmers aren’t really given any regard due to their gender.

She tells me that she came to the city to lend a helping hand with the finances. She misses being with her family, but life had other plans for her. She works at 8 houses, wakes up at the crack of dawn and sleeps late into the night. Every day is even more tiring than the previous - but she toils house to house because she doesn’t want her husband to meet the fate of the 1000s like him.

I cannot imagine living like this - having to earn a living from a profession that’s entirely at the mercy of unpredictable weather. I thought my job was thankless, until I met my cook.

She’s told me about some absurd, ridiculous practices – there was a point in time when farmers were marrying multiple times so that there’s someone to fetch water!

Ours is said to be the last generation of farmers. The next generation of farmers will apparently ‘cease to exist’. Either they will migrate to cities, be stripped off their lands, or will take the direst route – suicide.

Our apathy is contributing to more farmers committing suicide

Farmers and their families live in constant stress. They are unable to sustain themselves due to natural calamities, lack of resources and administrative apathy.

Are we waiting to lose an entire generation of farmers before we finally wake up and react to this dire situation? Are we going to sit up and take notice only when it's too late? Wake up, before the last farmer gives up.

Alarm Bajne Se Pehle Jaago Re!

Open Letter From A High Voltage Wire

Dear Human,

Ever felt like you've hung around somewhere for so long that you begin slipping into the woodworks? I've been feeling that way for a while now.

You only notice me during the monsoons. If I suddenly have some amount of voltage, it's of a major concern. I get that me, being a wire, and a live one at that... cannot be exposed to water. But it's not like I am not functional during the rest of the year - you get what I'm saying?

I have been here for years - and it's beginning to feel pretty cramped up here. You would think that after all these decades of hanging around, I would get a neat makeover - but noooo. If being shoved carelessly around poles hasn't been boring enough, you've gone ahead and added a few more wires and now, you've just turned me into a nest of wires.

And should one of your own careless kind cross my path, you have to write these shocking headlines about me in your tabloids, blaming my ugliness and every detail about me.

Do not even get me started on all the various carts of food, clothes and what-not you display at abandon below me. Some of you have the audacity to use me as a clothesline, for crying out loud. I mean, DO YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO?

Just, look at me. Think about me, have some consideration for the times that I haven't electrocuted you. And while you take the time to do that, I'll take your advice and just, hang in there...

Dangerously Yours,
High Voltage Wires.

Creating opportunities in all impossibilities: Nurturing hockey talent

Meet Shanmugham P, international hockey player who’s been coaching hockey to underprivileged children since 2001.

“I wanted to challenge the stereotypes surrounding the pursuit of sports that are ‘not so popular’”: Shanmugham P.

There’s a widespread belief that apart from cricket, others sports have no place in India. Several talented players from our country have withered away, with no support from both the government and society. Even with such challenging circumstances, Mr. Shanmugham P literally held his ground.

Against all odds: The rise of a hockey star

It was not an easy ride for Shanmugham P., who took on to hockey right from his childhood. The stereotypes that came with sports other than ‘cricket’ did not deter him. He pursued his passion with single-minded dedication, and his efforts slowly paid off.

He secured a position in his school team, then he made it to the state team, and eventually to the national team.

Even then he never had it easy. Pursuing BE from an evening college, he stayed focussed on his game. Eventually, politics in sports, and the limited reach of the game drove him to a point where he was about to quit.

That’s when an opportunity came his way and changed the direction of his life: the role of a Coach.

Creating opportunities where there are none: Coaching the young

He started his journey as a coach with the NGO, ‘Dream a Dream’, which promotes sport as a medium to help children from vulnerable backgrounds. The success of the programme inspired him.

“Hockey as a game excited me much more than before. Their performance at school also improved, I was overjoyed to see how hockey was helping them,” recalls Shanmugham.

Having coached the state team, other professional leagues for over a decade and also the Qatar national team, Shanmugham embarked on a whole new venture when he learnt about the Jude Felix Hockey Academy (JFHA). JFHA was the brainchild of Jude Felix, an Arjuna Awardee, Olympian and former captain of the Indian hockey team.

Founded by a group of national and international hockey players, the academy used sports as a medium to help underprivileged children.

“We’re able to show that sports is a miracle healer. We are happy that we were able to give back to the game and the society,” he says.

With support and encouragement, talent can flourish

“The academy wishes to see many kids play the sport. Although they are not expected to stick to the game, the children do. Our professional sports persons and veterans motivate the community to be a part of the sporting programs.”

Sports in India: Rough road ahead?

“Future for sports in India will only be good if the Government, corporates and schools develop our grassroot structures. Or else, even with all the professional leagues coming up, we will fail to produce champions at the International level.

Sporting infrastructure for a common man or even a family should be accessible, for them to play a sport of their choice.

There is nothing wrong with cricket garnering attention. A lot of groundwork has gone in, complemented by the structures created to promote the sport. Hockey, and other sports need such impetus too,” he emphasises.

Lamenting the absence of sport facilities in government schools and the non-implementation of sports policies, he feels that a professional approach to all games can change their visibility and image.

If he can break the status quo, why can’t we?

“Our academy is an example for what citizens can do.”

Despite the standards set, JFHA is now faced with the challenge of retaining its volunteers, for not all volunteers are players.

“Our oldest volunteer is a 69-year-old woman. If she can come and volunteer, teach, learn and play hockey with the children, what’s stopping others?”

Often times, we bicker at the poor support and infrastructure for the athletes in our country, but only after poor performance at a major sporting event crushes the hopes of our athletes. Before we lose our country’s talent to this grim reality, let’s act; let’s address all that stops young talent from reaching their full potential.

Alarm Bajne Se Pehle Jaago Re!

Open Letter from a Crumbling Flyover to the City

Dear Commuters,

You have been flying high with me, everyday and every night. When I first came into being, you were dumbstruck with awe. Then you soared with me, crossing over to the most inaccessible parts of the city with ease.

Many decades have passed. I am tired of bearing your weight. Your vehicles are getting bigger by the day, growing both in size and in number. I have borne many accidents here. Many deaths. You zoomed over me, overcome by the thrill of speed.

But that was all in the past. Today I am in the last stage of my life. Years of accommodating you has taken its toll on me.

And now you have turned a blind eye towards me. I'm in complete disarray and I need repair. Numerous articles are written on me. I am now said to be a dangerous, crumbling flyover. We may not even have to wait for an earthquake, a blizzard or a cyclone and I will come crashing down on you and your neighbourhood establishments.

I guess then we'll have a real jam, won't we now?

Barely Standing,
The Crumbling Flyover.

An open letter from a dumpyard

Dear civilians,

Here's the deal. I know I am a garbage dump, but COME ON. You honestly need to stop dumping EVERYTHING into me, even when, clearly, I cannot take any more. It's like you see, but you choose to not acknowledge the fact that I.have.no.space.anymore.

And then, you don't even segregate your stuff - doesn't that help your environment or something? Why would you not sort me out by separating your garbage - it's not rocket science.

And here I am, just lying in filth, letting out a stench that reeks of hell. I don't even know where I begin and end anymore. I thought I was the only unfortunate one - but I was so mistaken. There are more like me, some so far beyond help that I don't even recognise them anymore. They are becoming like mini landfills within the city.

To add to this, some of us are even broken... literally broken! We are supposed to be the place that holds your waste, so it doesn't really help you when WE are broken. I mean, where are you going to throw us, into another garbage can?

Give us a break, man. There's only so much responsibility you can dump on us now, isn't there?

Sickeningly Yours,
The dumpyard

भारतीय महिलाओं के नाम एक खुला पत्र

आप भारत की निवासी हैं। आप अपने करों का भुगतान करती हैं। आप एक सुंदर घर चलाती हैं और आप अपने परिवार की देखभाल करती हैं।

आप, अपनी कपड़ों की अलमारी का खयाल रखती हैं, सुनिश्चित करती हैं कि सभी काम समय सीमा पर हो जाएं और अपने बच्‍चों को उत्कृष्ट बनने के हर संभव अवसर प्रदान करती हैं। आप हर छोटी जानकारी पर ध्‍यान देती हैं और सुनिश्चित करती है कि कुछ भी अनदेखा या उपेक्षित न रह जाए।

ठीक है, करीब-करीब।

एक बहुत ही महत्वपूर्ण विवरण अनदेखा रह गया। आप भूल गईं कि कुछ भी होने से पहले, आप एक शक्तिशाली महिला हैं। आप भूल गईं कि आपके पास यह फैसला लेने का अधिकार है कि आप जिस देश में रहती हैं उसके लिए नीतियां कौन बनाएं।

आपकी ही तरह, भारत में पंजीकृत 49% मतदाताओं के पास यही ताकत है। आपके और उन बाकियों के पास एक ऐसी सरकार के लिए मतदान करने की ताकत है जो आपके मुद्दों के प्रति ध्यान देगी। और क्यों एक सत्तासीन सरकार को ऐसा नहीं होना चाहिए?

सरकार को चुनने वालों में लगभग आधी महिलाएं हैं। उन नीतियों के निर्माण में संभावनाओं और परिवर्तन की कल्पना करें, जिन्हें आप केवल तभी प्रभावित कर सकती हैं यदि आप अपनी उस ताकत को इस्‍तेमाल करने का फैसला करती हैं जो आपको एक मूल अधिकार के रूप में मिली है। वोट करें ... और ऐसा करने के लिए हर उस औरत को भी प्रोत्साहित करें जिसे आप जानती हैं।

यह 49% की शक्ति से व्यवस्था को परिचित कराने का समय है।

कोई आंदोलन शुरू मत करो। बस एक में शामिल हो जाओ आप पहले से जिस- #49 की शक्ति का एक हिस्सा हैं!