UNHAPPY HORMONES

The stress caused by lockdowns and homebound existence has rekindled interest in the “Happiness Hormones”. WhatsApp groups and Social Media posts are suddenly informing us about Endorphins, Serotonin, Dopamine and Oxytocin and advising us how to generate them in our brains – by exercising, self-gratification, praise, love, dark chocolates and thankfulness. Heretofore a domain of doctors, psychiatrists and psychotherapists, the field of hormones has been laid bare for the common man to venture into and become an expert in his own right. Well, I guess no damage is done by treading the happiness path or by overdoing the dose of happiness. It should only beget more happiness.

What set me thinking, however, was a chord that while deep and extensive study has been done on happiness hormones, which positively affect humans, research that has empowered medical professionals to address depression, sadness and anxiety, no research has been done in the opposite direction. I am sure there are unhappy hormones which not only affect the individual, but society at large and organisations, commercial and non-profit, in many subtle and unexplained ways. I present some possibilities:

The Jealousy Hormone – This affects even happy people (does it?) and is a constant obstacle in the path of healthy growth of individuals and his surroundings. The jealousy hormone makes the jealous pull down the more successful, thwart good deeds, and create an environment of suspicion and distrust in the organisation and society. It makes the patient seethe inside over some amorphous flame, which churns the stomach and burns the heart thus incapacitating the person from doing any fruitful work.

The Revenge Hormone – Revenge is different than anger. The latter is scientifically understood and there are medicines and counsellors available to address it. Revenge is a low intensity, under-the-radar warfare that goes on unnoticed in afflicted minds and erupts out of hiding to cause sudden and massive damage. It can drive the patient to cunning and destructive thoughts, where the target of the devious scheme could be an individual, a department, the whole company, or even the country. Revenge, when it manifests itself after the low-heat simmering, can destroy people, reputations, organisations, and complete nations.

The Frustration Hormone – This hormone creates a constant feeling of inadequacy, of not-having-arrived, and of underachievement in the patient. No matter how high he rises, how much money he earns, or the recognition he gets, there will always be someone higher, richer, and more famous, or at least more loved. The frustration hormone causes sullenness and grumpiness and thereby depresses performance – thus causing further frustration. This hormone is a self-catalysing chemical; a small presence of it in the brain seeds more and more of it.

Cut-throat Hormone – This hormone often coexists with the jealousy hormone and is actually stimulated by the latter. The sufferer tends to harbour a deep-seated hatred for anyone around him who works harder, smarter and achieves more. The cut-throat hormone fuels the patient to sabotage the perceived competitor. No, it is not the Indian crab, who does the pulling-down rather openly and shamelessly. Cutting throat is an act of quietly sitting in ambush and bringing about deft destruction of the other person. It is generally on play between two persons, but if left untreated, becomes an organisational trait and epidemic.

I am sure you can think up of many more brain chemicals like this, such as the Red-Tape Hormone, the Constant-Bickering Hormone and possibly the Sycophancy Hormone. But all these Unhappy Hormones have two things in common – their impact is more widespread than the Happy ones and that they have not been studied as a neurochemical challenge. Indeed, organisational experts and management gurus have merely mentioned the manifest outcome of these chemicals as negative behaviour leading to organisational dysfunction, but never as a brain study.

Understandably doctors will not venture into organisational or social issues. The area belongs to managers and business leaders, even political advisors. Has a time come to join hands and set up an Unhappy Hormones Research Foundation? Maybe if we do so, we will have the pandemic to thank one thing for.

 

 

 

 

                                                  

हारेगा यह महाप्रलय

क्या प्रलय इसे ही कहते हैं?

प्रियजन अपनों को त्वरित छोड़ 

बिन बोले, मुँह को मूक मोड़ 

चल दिये अकेले बिन विदाई

इसके पहले कि व्यथा आई

सब स्वाहा सब कुछ भस्म हुआ

क्या नाश इसी को कहते हैं?

इसके पहले कि समझ सके

मानव थोड़ा कुछ सम्हल सके

कैसी विपदा कैसा संकट

कितना प्रचंड कैसा उत्कट

यह महाकाल का आना, क्या

विध्वंस इसी को कहते हैं?

शय्या पर लेट साँस रुकती

पर आँखें दूर-पास तकतीं

कोई भी निकट नहीं दिखता

ऐसे में जीवन क्यों टिकता

आँखों की बेबस है पुतली

ग्रीवा में है नली डली

हिचकी भी नहीं निकल पाती

अब हिलती है जीवन-बाती

बिन बोले क्या होगा प्रयाण

क्या आन पड़ा मृत्यु प्रमाण

ना शब्द विदा के निकल सके

क्यों दूर खड़े हैं विकल सगे

दो गज ज़मीन तो तय थी पर

दो गज की दूरी बहुत हुई

अर्थी को कंधा नहीं मिला

क्या इस जीवन का यही सिला

धू-धू कर जलती अग्नि है

पर निकट न भ्राता-भगिनी है

सर्वनाश संबंधों का

क्या प्रलय इसे ही कहते हैं

यह कैसा प्रबल बवंडर है

यह भय जो सबके अंदर है

क्या होगा कैसे होगा कब

यह अंधियारा जायेगा कब

क्या नष्ट हुआ मानव जीवन

टूटी सभ्यता की सीवन

क्या प्रलय इसी को कहते हैं

पर कभी तो सूरज जागेगा

यह तमस कभी तो भागेगा

मानव सहता आया प्रहार

झेले हैं इसने कई कुठार

इस बार विजय फिर से होगी

विपदा ख़त्म निश्चय होगी

बस थोड़ा धीरज और करो

प्रत्यंचा कस, बाण धरो

यह कीट चतुर है पातक है

पर शौर्य हमारा घातक है

विजय हमारी है निश्चय

हारेगा तय है महाप्रलय

हारेगा तय है महाप्रलय

श्रीमतीजी की मुस्कान

श्रीमतीजी महीनों से मुँह फुलाये बैठी हैं। लॉकडाउन कोई मैंने तो लगाया नहीं, मोदीजी ने लगाया था, फिर सारा ग़ुस्सा मुझपर क्यों? मैंने कहा कि भागवान दो हजार चौबीस आया ही चाहता है - इस बार  मोदी जी को हरा कर ही छोड़ना। पर वो तो मुझे ही मोदी मानकर झुँझलाहट निकाल रही हैं। फिर सोचा कहीं से एक ईवीएम का जुगाड़ करके घर में ही एक मॉक वोटिंग करवा कर श्रीमती जी को इस घरेलू मोदी को हराने का संतोष प्राप्त करवाया जाये। सुना है कि कुछ लोग जीपों में ईवीएम मशीन लेकर घूम रहे हैं और इसी प्रकार के उपक्रम के लिये किराये पर दे रहे हैं। उनका फ़ोन नंबर हो तो भेजियेगा।

फिर सोचा कि दीवारों पर एशियन या नेरोलैक पेंट करवा लिया जाये। इससे दो फ़ायदे होंगे। पहला तो यह कि दीवारें बोल उठेंगी और श्रीमती जी को गप-शप करने के लिये कंपनी मिल जायेगी। दूसरा यह कि बच्चे कागज-कॉपी छोड़कर दीवारों पर आड़े-तिरछे चित्र बनाने लगेंगे, टोमेटो केचप और अचार का तेल पोतने लगेंगे। टीवी की मॉडल-माता की तरह श्रीमतीजी के चेहरे पर मुस्कान फूट पड़ेगी, और वह फ़ौरन साबुन पानी से दीवारों को साफ़ करने को लपक लेंगी और मातृत्व के सच्चे सुख में डूब जाएँगी। यहॉं तौलिया ज़रा तिरछा टाँगने पर अपने को घंटों जीवन की शिक्षा और पूर्वजों तक को उपदेश दे डाला जाता है, वहाँ बच्चे दीवार पर चाहे गोबर लेप डालें, उनपर ननिहाल से मिले गुणों का प्रमाणपत्र वार दिया जाता है। फ़र्क़ नेरोलैक पेंट का ही लगता है।

तभी सर्फ़ एक्सेल के दाग अच्छे हैं वाला संदेश याद आया। छोरा स्कूल से आते समय धूल उड़ाता, कीचड़ में लोटता, और साइकिल की चेन के काले ग्रीज़ को आस्तीन पर पोंछता घर में दाखिल हुआ नहीं कि माँ की ख़ुशी की सीमा नहीं रहती।अब सर्फ़ एक्सेल के दस रुपये के पैक के पैसे वसूल, नहीं तो डबल-रोटर और ट्रिपल फ़ंक्शन वाला वाशिंग मशीन तो है ही। माता का वात्सल्य उमड़ पड़ता है, “ऐ मेरे लाल, तूने इन चीकट कपड़ों का जो सुख मुझे दिया है वो तेरे पापा की साफ़ क़मीज़ क्या ख़ाक देगी!” कभी-कभी सोचता हूँ ये स्कूलवाले आख़िरी घंटी कपड़े गंदे करने के लिये रिज़र्व कर लें और बच्चों को तरह-तरह के कचरानुमा दाग लगाने की ट्रेनिंग दें तो गृहणियों का जीवन सफल हो जाये और दांपत्य जीवन में ख़ुशियों की बहार आ जाये।

लगता है कि मैंने श्रीमती जी के स्थाई सुख की तरकीब ढूँढ ली है, बस अमल करना बाक़ी है। लेकिन बच्चे बड़े हो गये हैं।अब दीवारों पर चित्रकारी नहीं करते, ना ही कपड़े गंदे करते हैं। अब घर सैनिटाईज़ हो गया है, और उदास भी।

Ashoka University? Where is That?

Resignation of a certain Pratap Bhanu Mehta and another certain Arvind Subramaniam from a fledgling University, named grandiosely after the great Emperor Ashok, is supposed to have shaken the very foundations of freedom and liberal thought in the country. M/S Mehta and Subramaniam may well be great academicians as fellow intellectuals certify, but I fail to understand the arrogation of the role of the “seat of liberal thought and abode of free minds” by the Ashoka (with an extra A) University and lamentations on its subsequent fall from the high tower of our moral radar.

Set up in 2014, the Ashoka University is acclaimed to have become the very font of liberal expression in the country. Duh, really! In just six years? And, acclaimed by whom? This self-important pompous self-award of the title of “wielder of moral compass of the nation” by an infant university, as lifespans of universities go, is jarring at best and cocky grandiosity at worst. Not more than a couple of batches of students may have passed out from its portals and they have yet to leave a mark on the society they are expected to lead to great heights. Classifying such a university as a great thought leader just on the basis of a beautiful building and a clutch of liberal arts professors cobbled up from afar, is  unacedemic and unappetising.

It claims to run on free and unencumbered donations and on American level of exorbitant tuition fees, which will attract only the privileged and the elite and yet will propound theories of egalitarian social order. It cannot claim nor can it be thrust upon with the greatness of an Oxford (set up in 1096), a Cambridge (1209), or even an Al Azhar (970). The protestor gang writing copiously in English media to defend M/S Mehta and Subramanian also imply that a great seat of learning has been toppled and the free society in India is gasping for air. Well, Gentlemen and Ladies! Great seats of learning are built after centuries of honing and burnishing, unrelenting pursuit of excellence of scholarship and pedagogy. Even in the new world, the great universities of Harvard (1636) and Princeton(1746) took the long path, not the one beaten by media and cronies. Yale University, the epitome of liberal thought and dissent, a JNU to the world, was setup in 1701 and did not achieve its stardom in six years, fifty years or even a hundred.

Being new is not a disqualification by any means. In India private institutions as new as the Shiv Nadar University (set up in 2011), the Amity University (2010) and the SRM University among many others have served the society well, not only in liberal arts but also in science and technology. Even the Lovely Professional University of Jalandhar is a privately funded institution, has a far bigger campus, more beautiful buildings and larger faculty and massive student populations. But none of them claim to be leading lights of humanity. I really wonder how the Ashoka University has assumed such pompous grandiosity in just six years!

In a country, where every Tom, Dick and Harry can abuse the Prime Minister on live TV and rogue gangs of students profess breaking-up of the motherland in college campuses, I wonder what retributions challenged the conscience of M/S Mehta and Subramaniam and what stabbed the already bleeding hearts of English speaking upholders of societal values. Whatever may have ploughed these heartbreaking scars on them, the Ashoka University cannot claim to have achieved any stardom riding their backs.

I would like to suggest to the Ashoka University faculty and its backers to sit down at their tables, do some hard and gruelling academic work, publish some incisive research papers, study-documents and turn out students, year after year, who serve the humanity with humility, compassion and foresight. Mere conferences and patronages do not a great institution make. They should make a good beginning by rechristening the University the Ashok University (without the anglicising A) for that was the name of the great Emperor.

How Long a Life is Long Enough

Three scores and ten is the ideal lifespan as the Bible puts it. Indians bless others by wishing that they live a hundred years, “Shataayu bhav.” In Japan many are already living past hundred. So it would seem that as one moves Eastward the ideal lifespan increases. Well, except the interrupting geography of maybe Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, where a thirty year life expectancy would count as a blessing.

So, how long should one desire to live? Should it be five generations of automobile technology, fifty of mobile phones or five hundred security updates of Windows? On the conventional calendar should it be seventy years, or eighty, or a century? No matter what we do to prolong our lives - new generation medicines, detoxing regimen, health food, exercise and yoga - the human body slowly degenerates inside. Bones become weak, blood vessels clog up, heart muscles start to waste and neurons begin to die at an alarmingly increasing rate. Evolution has given us enough time to grow up in a society, learn speech and culture, science and philosophy, give birth to children to leave our genes behind and then prepare to die.

In the interregnum between birth and death we make friends, build relations, learn a vocation, acquire worldly things and pleasures all of which make our sojourn on the planet a fulfilling one. From the beginning of the recorded history, about three thousand years before Christ till today, we have had less than two hundred generations of humans. These two hundred have seen all the peace and wars, all the love and hate, all the diseases and misery, all the learning and all rise and fall of civilisations. Those yet to come will see more of the same, though at a much faster pace of social and technological transformations. 

Will we be happy to extend our lives while the frame continuously weakens and dependence on others gradually increases? Will a life with dentures, artificial knees, bypass arteries in our chests, transplanted kidneys and pacemakers be worth the enjoyment in the additional time that one’s wealth could buy? What if one extends one’s life using all the science and technology at hand, but the near and dear ones decide not to, or can’t afford to? Will such a lonely life be worth living?

I think that the appropriate, or the most desirable, time to depart is just when one’s children begin to grow old. Bringing them into this world, frolicking with them and raising them to be good humans and strong and independent individuals is the very fulfilment of life. But, seeing them go over the hill, grey at the temples and become even a little frail would be too painful. In the movie INTERSTELLAR the eagerly awaited, but tragic reunion of Murph, the daughter and Cooper, the father keeps haunting me. Cooper has returned after a long space-time travel and while he remains the same age, his daughter Murph, who was left behind, has aged to 99 and is on her deathbed. She breaks down on seeing her father, but tells him go away as “no parent should have to watch their own child die”. Seeing a child grow old and weak would be only a little less sad.

Of course dying is not in one’s hand and it must happen when the heavens call. But I see merit in the Sanyas Ashram prescribed in the Hindu way of life, which requires that in the last quartile of life one must move away from the world and its attachments to live a life of gratefulness, prayers and solitude. I guess Sanyas Ashram also lays down what to do when the end comes - how to welcome and embrace death. Let me read the scriptures and find out.

Watch the Interstellar scene here.

https://youtu.be/ECjYsWLgy3I 

साहब ने सलाम भेजा है

मेरे कमरे का दरवाज़ा ज़रा सा खुला और एक बेधड़ के सिर ने अंदर झाँका और बेहद रहस्यमयी मुस्कान के साथ अनाउंस किया - साहब ने सलाम भेजा है।

मैंने नई नौकरी ज्वायन की थी और दफ़्तर के नियम-क़ायदों से वाक़िफ़ नहीं हुआ था। सोचा कि शायद बॉस सबको सुबह-सुबह सलाम भेजते होंगे मोटिवेट करने के लिये। लेकिन फिर मन में एक अपराध बोध-सा हुआ कि जूनियर तो मैं हूँ, सलाम मुझे भेजना चाहिये था। लेकिन मेरे पास साहब की तरह कोई चपरासी तो था नहीं जिसके माध्यम से मैं सलाम प्रेषित कर पाता। दफ़्तर में कुल जमा एक ही चपरासी था, और वो साहब के पास था।

मैंने अचकचा कर कहा, “साहब को कह दो मैंने भी सलाम भेजा है।” अब जबकि चपरासी आ ही गया था तो मैं रिटर्न हरकारे से बॉस की प्रतिष्ठा में सलामी भेजने का मौक़ा क्यों छोड़ता।

चपरासी की आँखें विस्फ़ारित हो गयीं और वह पूरा का पूरा मेरे कमरे में दाखिल हो गया। सफ़ेद अचकन, नीचे धोती और पतलून का कोई हाईब्रिड वस्त्र, तोंद पर कसी चमकते पीतल के बकलवाली  पेटी, लाल साफ़ा और सीने पर तिरछी सजी एक अनावश्यक-सी दिखने वाली लाल पट्टी जो सिर्फ़ मातहतों में शासन-तंत्र का ख़ौफ़ पैदा करने के लिये बनी थी - ऐसी काया को देखकर मेरा हाथ चपरासी को सलाम करने के लिये उठने ही वाला था, तभी वह ब्रिटिश साम्राज्य का छोड़ा हुआ कारिंदा बोल पड़ा, “हुज़ूर।”

मैंने झट से सलामी के लिये उठते हाथ से सर खुजाने का ढोंग किया और आत्मसम्मान की रक्षा का यथोचित प्रयास किया। पर उस अनुभवी चपरासी ने मेरी मनोस्थिति भाँप ली और सहानुभूतिपूर्वक बोला, “हुज़ूर, बड़े साहब ने आपको अपने कमरे में बुलाया है।” फिर गहरी मुस्कान के साथ बोला, “साहब कुछ रंज में दिखते हैं।”

अब मुझे समझ आया कि बॉस ने जो काम दे रखा था उसे पूरा करने की आख़िरी तारीख़ कल निकल चुकी थी, और शायद बॉस को आज उस काम के साथ मेरी भी याद आई होगी। मासूमियत की भी हद होती है। ख़ैर मैं बहानों की लिस्ट मन में तैयार करके बॉस के कमरे में दाखिल हुआ और तब दफ़्तर की कार्यप्रणाली का पहला महाज्ञान प्राप्त हुआ।

तमाम डाँट-डपट, भला-बुरा सुनने और अपने निकम्मेपन का सबूत इकट्ठा करने के बाद मैंने तय कर लिया कि अब सलामी का जवाब सलामी से नहीं दूँगा। वह दिन और आज का दिन - उसके बाद से मुशायरों और क़व्वाली के आयोजनों में भी यदि किसी ने सलाम किया तो मैं बिदक जाता हूँ और “ठीक है, ठीक है” बोल कर काम चला लेता हूँ। लोग अजीब- सी नज़रों से देखते हैं और “बेहद बत्तमीज़ नमूना है” के भाव से मुँह बिचका देते हैं।

“बड़े साहब ने याद किया है” वाले ख़तरनाक अनाउंसमेंट से भी मेरा साबका हो चुका है। उसके बारे में फिर कभी ... ...

Sparrow in My Home

Those were the days when we didn’t cover our windows and ventilators with wire mesh. In my childhood, we weren’t afraid of mosquitos and bugs. Humanity was yet to be afflicted by Dengue and Chikan Gunya. Malaria was rare in cities and a few rashes due to mosquito bites didn’t trouble us much. A ceiling fan or a mosquito net was all the protection we had and we were happy with those bounties.

One summer morning, mother switched off the ceiling fan to some discomfort to us young children, who were just about waking up. When I protested, she pointed out to a sparrow that was going in and out the window, briefly perching on the ventilator ledge between each trip. Mother told us that the sparrow was building a nest.

“A nest? Why inside the the house, why not in the trees?” Mother told us that sparrows liked to live with people and they looked for holes and burrows in walls to build nests. The small ledge on the ventilator was a perfect spot it found for the nest. A whirring ceiling fan would kill the poor bird that trusted us humans enough to let it live with us. So, there was no fan for us during mornings and evenings, when the sparrow was flitting in and out.

In a few days the sparrow laid eggs. I couldn’t see the eggs, but mother told us that they were lying in the nest since the mother sparrow would sit quietly for hours at a stretch incubating them. It was a clockwork routine. We could use the fan in the warm afternoons since the bird quietly lay in the nest. A few more days passed. Eggs hatched and chicks emerged. The sparrow’s short flights in and out through window bars resumed. Our fan stopped once again. We could always go to another room and use the fan there, but we preferred to watch the magic unfold. The mom-bird would flit out and come back in a few minutes holding tiny things in its beak - worms or seeds, we couldn’t tell. But the sweet incessant chirping of the chicks was what filled our home. A few more days passed and we could sight the upturned beaks of the chicks, permanently open, into which mom-bird would drop food, a little at a time. Chicks had grown quickly. I remember having counted at least three chicks, or maybe four.

Mother would wake up early morning before dawn and religiously switch off the fan for it was breakfast time for the nest-dwellers. Same routine was repeated in the evenings. I now marvel at the unspoken understanding between the two mothers. The chirping grew louder and noisier by the day and mom-bird was busy as ever. I could now see the chicks hop a little in the nest and would ask my mother what would happen if one of them fell down. Could we then keep it as a pet? Mother only smiled, a sad smile, but did not answer. Maybe she was struck by the grief she imagined such an event would bring to the mom-bird. No chick ever fell down.

We had to go out of town for a couple of weeks. Mother left a window open so that the mom-bird could feed its children unhindered. When we came back, I rushed to the bedroom to see if the chicks were alright. But, there was complete silence. I saw no activity, neither of the mom-bird nor of the chicks. They were all gone. The nest was deserted and silent. A few straws and twigs had fallen to the floor. I suddenly felt lonely and hollow. The birds, unknown to them, had become my friends. There were other rooms in the house, but the bird had decided to build its nest in our bedroom. They wanted our company as much as I came to like theirs. I was so happy to see them twitter and hop, and the mom-bird scoot in and out, that the discomfort of fanless mornings and evenings was almost welcome. But, it was all over.

Mother was sad too. But, she told me that the chicks had flown away to make their own nests. I wondered why they would make their own nests, when a nest was here already built for them. I now know why.

An Ode to Audit

Nearly fifteen years ago I was posted as the Addl. Divisional Railway Manager of Nagpur Division in the South East Central Railway. We had a huge narrow gauge network in the Division, the vastest in the world at 700 kilometres. The railway line passed through thick forest and connected many stations, which had no road connectivity. The narrow gauge trains were the only means of communication available to the poor villagers and tribals inhabiting these lands. The famous Satpura Express ran on this network between Balaghat and Jabalpur. The network has now been converted to Board Gauge and the romance of narrow gauge is gone for ever.

Nainpur was a major junction on the narrow gauge network and was frequented by Divisional officers for inspections. A night stay at Nainpur would help them inspect many segments during a single visit. Train journey from Nagpur to Nainpur would take eleven hours and was extremely tiresome and backbreaking what with sharp curves and lurching of the carriages, which were fifty to a hundred years old and had poor suspension. Even the villagers would not travel such long distances. They used the trains to connect with nearby villages or small towns. Students would go to school and vegetable growers would sell their produce in nearby consumption centres.

Railway Officers going to Nainpur or Seoni would travel by road. Roads were rather good and even though they traversed the same forests, it was possible to cut diagonally and reach Seoni or Nainpur in just three to four hours. So, one could leave early morning one day, do some useful work that day and the next day and come back the next evening. Going by train would have wasted too much time. This doesn’t mean that tracks on the rest of the network was not inspected or attended. That was done in short stretches over a number of days.

Well, one fine day I got a letter from the Audit Officer questioning why officers were not travelling by train. After all they were railway officers and must travel by train. All written replies about the duration of journey and time being of essence was dismissed by him. I asked him in a meeting if a State Road Transport Corporation officer always traveled by bus, or did he sometimes travel by train and air too. But, he would have none of it.

Finally, when nothing seemed to work, I said in a tripartite meeting (the Executive, Railway Finance Officer and the Audit team) that all future tripartite meetings would be held in Nainpur and that all of us would travel by train. That was a meeting every month and would have taken three to four days of staying out in near wilderness,  not to speak of the bone-shattering journeys to and fro.

The Audit team was stunned. Said, “Sir, please write some justification once again. We will close the case. And, they did.

A New National Festival (दिल्ली की सर्दी)

Delhiites must think that they are God’s gift to Indians. They enjoy the best civic amenities in the country. Delhi has the best roads, pavements, parks, malls and schools. A Delhiwallah enjoys the  benefit of the best universities and colleges, and the best hospitals, both government and private. Delhiites have uninterrupted power, clean water, roads that are swept every night and drains that flow like smooth single malts in their collective oesophagus. An average citizen of Delhi thinks he has arrived in life what with rubbing shoulders with the mighty and the powerful.

Yet, the annual gripe and grouch on pollution by Delhiwallahs visits the whole nation with unfailing regularity. Come November and the city is agog with plaintiffs crying white death, “Oh, the air is filthy, smokey and we can’t breathe. Damn the farmers of Punjab, Haryana and UP.” Juxtaposed pictures of Delhi in June and November are flashed across newspapers and in social media to prove how the nation has failed its capital. Oh, how thankless and how uncouth the unwashed Indians elsewhere are! It is for them that the privileged elite can’t even have an easy breath while strolling in the lush green Lodhi Garden and Nehru Park and the Europe-like vistas of Chanakyapuri and Connaught Place. That the rest of India pays for the carpet grass and blossoms of these parks and yet can’t ever imagine a fraction of that in its towns and mofassils is not even a wispy thought in their minds.

Yet, the same Delhi residents, in spite of the spectacle they create on pollution heaped on them by the hoi polloi of the netherworld of India can’t get their act right on COVID-19. The most educated and aware single, contiguous lot of people, supported by the best healthcare system in the country, still throw up an ever increasing number of the infected, five times higher proportionately, than the rest of the country. Who is to blame for such carelessness, and who will bear the brunt when the high pressure cauldron of Coronavirus ultimately cracks open to inflict on the whole country yet another wave of the deadly virus? Surely not the farmers of Punjab and Haryana.

Show me a photo of Delhi in June and November of 1950s and I will show you the same contrast. Visibility impairment by fog is not a proof of pollution. Well, there is some smoke that creates a smog. The smog continues much after all the paraali is burnt and disposed of. The pollution is as bad, or worse in December and January. Surely There is no smoke coming from Punjab and Haryana then. It is from Delhiites’ own cars, buses and two-wheelers.

Yet, firecrackers are banned in Diwali. They are banned not only in Delhi, but in entire India just because someone in Delhi approaches the law and lawmakers and the Green Tribunals that Diwali is oh-so-polluting, and merriment of children in Patna, Bhopal, Lucknow and Mumbai; in Jaunpur, Hubli, Nanded and Midnapore is clamped down. This is an annual ritual and the whole country of one hundred and thirty crores is deprived of festival fun of a few hours in a year so that smoke of firecrackers doesn’t blow in the winds from Indore, Nagpur, Coimbatore, Kochi and Jaisalmer straight to Delhi. I have never heard of someone from a smaller city or a village ever seeking a ban on Diwali festivities.

The whole nation must collectively lament that Delhi has polluted air in the winters. We owe it to them. The entire media chokes and coughs like there is no other event they have to cover. Sino-Indian standoff takes a backseat, so do politics, COVID, Kashmir, article 370 and Masood Azhar; the country suddenly becomes a place of harmony and peace. Isn’t smog over Delhi the biggest apocalypse that has descended on the humanity?

So, friends and countrymen! Let’s celebrate the biggest festival of India - the Smoggy Winter of Delhi.