Tête-à-tête with Gupta Ji

One gets a call in the morning, “Namaste, Sir! Gupta speaking, Sir!” Or, “Sir, Sharma here.” 

Now there are a million Guptas and half a million Sharmas around. I know a few thousand of them each. But, I don’t have the heart to ask the caller, “Gupta who?” Or, “Kaun Sharma, bhai?” Sometimes they are more specific, “Sir, AK Gupta here” or PK Sharma speaking, Sir!” That doesn’t give me a clue either since I probably know at least two dozen AK Guptas and a dozen PK Sharmas. 

The caller is so warm in his introduction and expects that I place him immediately in the galaxy of Guptas and Sharmas that I play along, “Yes, yes, Gupta! How are you doing?” Now, this is a pit I have dug for myself. The guys is elated for having reignited the old aquaintance and I, on the other hand, cannot retrace my steps anytime now and ask, “But, Gupta who?” So, I converse away tentatively, trying all the while, to exactly pinpoint which Gupta I am speaking with. This is how it goes.

Gupta says, “Sir, it is great to see you going places.” I am not sure whether Gupta is speaking about my transfers or my promotions.

I reply, “Yes thank you, Gupta. Where have you been all these years?” I ask a probing question and expect to identify the guy from his chain of transfers. After all there can’t be too many Guptas going through Gorakhpur, Hubli, Bilaspur and Bikaner in that sequence. Or, some similar transfer-travel by the person could trigger the Sherlock Holmes in me. 

Unfortunately, Gupta says, “ Where will I go, Sir? I am in Lucknow only.” The adjective “only” specifies a non-transferable Gupta. Now, I know at least half-a-dozen Guptas in Lucknow. Sherlock Holmes gets no clues.

Finally we hang up after enquiring about the whereabouts, family and children and where we plan to settle down after retirement. Guess where Gupta will settle down. Lucknow only. Gupta tells me that he has built a house in Gomtinagar, “Next to Sharma’s house, Sir. You know Sharma’s house, don’t you?”

I have now been invited by Gupta to visit him. At least I know the city now. I can tell the rickshaw wallah in Lucknow to take me to Gupta Ji, who lives next to Sharma Ji. Do you think I will reach him?

                       —-ooo—-

बड़े बाबू और प्रोसीजर

मैं ही हूँ प्रोसीजर बाबू
नहीं किसी के आया क़ाबू
जनता हो या हो सरकार
न्यायपालिका या अख़बार
चाहे जितना ज़ोर लगा लें
क़लम चला लें या तलवार
मेरे आगे सब लाचार

बड़े सचिव ने फ़ाईल चलाई
उत्तम थे उनके सुविचार
लगने हैं उद्योग, कि खोलें
देश में नूतन कारोबार
नौकरियॉं फिर ख़ूब बढ़ेंगी
देश में ख़ुशहाली फैलेगी
रेलगाड़ी, बस और जहाज़
उपग्रह, रॉकेट, खेत, अनाज

पर मैंने जब नोटिंग डाली
ऑब्जेक्शन की स्याही काली
फ़ाईल भेज दें वित्त विभाग
उनकी फिर अनुमति के बाद
पर्यावरण विभाग से पूछें
कहीं नहीं हो कोई विवाद
फिर क़ानून विभाग का ठप्पा
सचिवालय का चप्पा-चप्पा
जब तक ना छानें, सरकार!
मेरी राय यही है, सर जी!
आगे बढ़ने में है रार

वैसे मैं हूँ अदना बाबू
लेकिन सिस्टम है बेक़ाबू
आप बड़े साहब हैं मेरे
पर पग-पग चक्कर बहुतेरे
मैं ना चाहूँ आप फँसें, सर!
प्रोसीजर ना भंग करें, सर!
और कैरियर अच्छा होगा
कहीं फँसे तो गच्चा होगा

काम का क्या है? होता होगा
यही देश ने अब तक भोगा
चाहे कोई करे ना कुछ, पर
पहनें सब सच का ही चोगा
सर आपके तीस बरस हैं
मंत्री जी के केवल पॉंच
ऑर्डर सरकारी हो कुछ भी
आप फूँककर पीवें छाछ

मंत्री आते जाते रहते
जनता के भी सपने बनते
आप तो सर ख़ुद बच के चलिये
फ़ाईल-पत्र पर कुछ मत लिखिये
मैंने अब तक के सचिवों को
यही ज्ञान बाँटा श्रीमान्
बेदाग़ सब हुए रिटायर
पेंशन पाया और सम्मान

साहब सुन कर मेरी राय
हुए बड़े भयभीत
सोचे, फिर कुछ गुन कर बोले
अगर यही है रीत
मैं काहे को जान फँसाऊँ
क्यों निष्ठा बेकार दिखाऊँ
आप, बड़े बाबू! हैं मेरे
असली तारणहार
ऐन वक़्त पर मुझे आपने
सही दिखाया द्वार

बड़े बाबू, इन पत्रों को अब
लगा ठिकाने घर चलें
ये सारे प्रस्ताव भी फाड़ें
कूड़ेदान के अंदर डालें
अब क्या करना
क्यूँकर डरना
तनखा को तो है ही आना
बस घर-दफ़्तर आना जाना
काम करें या बैठे ठाले
रूई कान में ठूँस के डालें
मेरा क्या कोई करे बिगाड़
मैं तो हूँ नियमों की आड़
मेरी नौकरी मेरी जान
कुर्सी से मेरी पहचान
जनता जाये चूल्हे भाड़।
 —-ooo—-

Cephalgia = Headache

When an ailing person goes to a doctor, he expresses his ailment in his own language. The doctor understands and treats him accordingly. He doesn’t ask the patient to present his problem in the language of medical text books, such as xerostomiath for dry mouth. The doctor even writes a prescription that the patient and the pharmacist, both understand. At no stage during his treatment is the patient required to hire a medical licensee to speak with the doctor, the hospital or the pharmacist.

The same is true of other specialised professions too. A client can speak with and express his needs in plain language to an architect or a designer. These professional understand the customer well without asking him to write down mathematical equations or a treatise in strength and properties of material. Yet they deliver exactly what was intended.

But, when an aggrieved person goes to a court of law, he needs the assistance of a lawyer even to write down his grievance. The judge wouldn’t read any document written in plain language; the legal system insists on a document that the poor petitioner doesn’t even understand. It is written in cryptic English, with huge dollops of Latin thrown in. The legal system has woven such a web of mystery and complexity around itself that it is impossible for the common man to find his way through the maze. He necessarily needs an expensive guide. What is worse, the guide speaks a language and takes a path that the litigant finds intractable too. 

In a case that I had filed in a District Consumer Forum, the judge asked me, “Where is your lawyer?” I asked the judge if it was mandatory to have a lawyer and that I could not afford one anyway. I told him that I was standing in the court and that I would present the case myself. The lordship had no option but to shut up. During one of the subsequent hearings (there were too many of them; I finally had to withdraw and settle out of court) the judge came to the court and promptly “retired to his chamber” saying that he wouldn’t hear any case that day. All the other lawyers present in the court started cursing him behind his back for wasting their day. Not knowing the ways of the court, I went to the judge’s “chamber” and asked him why he wouldn’t hear my case. I told him that I had come from a great distance and had spent big money on travel. I requested that that he must hear me out. The lordship was shaken out his smug stupor and came back to the court. The lawyers were very surprised and impressed with me for the feat of having brought back the judge sahib to do his duty! Sometimes it pays to be ignorant.

One of the biggest reforms that the judiciary can bring about is to enable the common man, with reasonable education, to be able to present his case in simple language and argue his side in a court of law. A good lawyer in a higher court charges upwards of ten lakh Rupees for each appearance. Some good ones may earn more in a day than the judge earns in the whole year. This expensive private club must be disbanded. Arguments that it requires a licensed lawyer to present precedents and bring forth mention of similar cases and judgements before the court are hollow. A person of average intelligence can find such references on the Internet without expert help. Besides, such arguments also applies to a doctor treating a patient. He too bases his advice and prescription on past cases and experience, but does that himself without asking the patient to do it for him. A good judge should be able to help the litigant present his case properly and also protect him from the legalese-attack if the other party decides to field an experienced lawyer. It requires a change in the mindset of our judges, who must transform into service providers rather than sitting stiff as uptight dispensers of punishments, reliefs, compensations or mercies. A doctor, who is an arbiter between the patient and his illness does it every time.

Since the judiciary repulses all external efforts to reform the system, it has to do it all by itself. Will such a day come?

The Original Sardar vs. The Englishman

With Freedom of India imminent it was clear that whoever became the president of the Congress in 1946 would also become the first prime minister of India. The Congress Working Committee (CWC) was to elect the president out of the nominations sent by the PCCs of states.

The CWC met on 29 April 1946 to consider the nominations sent by the PCCs. 12 of the 15 (80%) PCCs nominated Sardar Patel; and 3 PCCs out of the 15 (20%) did not nominate anyone. It therefore turned out to be a non-contest. Sardar Patel was the only choice, and an undisputed choice, with not a single opposition.

Looking to the unexpected (unexpected by Gandhi) development, Gandhi prodded Kripalani to convince a few CWC members to propose Nehru’s name for the party president. Kripalani promptly and unquestioningly complied: He got a few to propose Nehru’s name. Finding this queer development, Sardar Patel enquired with Gandhi, and sought his advice. Gandhi counselled him to withdraw his name. Patel complied promptly, and didn’t raise any question. That cleared the way for Nehru. 

Acharya Kripalani had told Durga Das: “All the P.C.C.s sent in the name of Patel by a majority and one or two proposed the names of Rajen Babu in addition, but none that of Jawaharlal. I knew Gandhi wanted Jawaharlal to be President for a year, and I made a proposal myself [at Gandhi’s prodding] saying ‘some Delhi fellows want Jawaharlal’s name’. I circulated it to the members of the Working Committee to get their endorsement. I played this mischief. I am to blame.

Durga Das recounted the following: “I asked Gandhi… He [Gandhi] readily agreed that Patel would have proved a better negotiator and organiser as Congress President, but he felt Nehru should head the Government. When I asked him how he reconciled this with his assessment of Patel’s qualities as a leader, he laughed and said: “Jawaharlal is the only Englishman in my camp…”

Englishman?

Sardar was far better academically, and far wiser than Nehru. Like Nehru, Sardar Patel too had studied in England. But, while Nehru’s father financed all his education, Sardar financed his own education in England, through his own earnings! While Nehru could manage to scrape through in only a poor lower second-division in England, Sardar Patel topped in the first division! Professionally too, Sardar was a successful lawyer, while Nehru was a failure. Sardar had a roaring practice, and was the highest paid lawyer in Ahmedabad, before he left it all on a call by Gandhi; while Nehru was dependent upon his father for his own upkeep, and that of his family.

(Extract from “Nehru’s 97 Major Blunders” by Rajnikant Puranik)

#MeToo and Everyone Else

#MeToo and Everyone Else

It would seem that suers and accusers are coming out of the woodwork in hordes and blaming politicians, actors, judges and sportsmen for deeds done decades ago. Well, these victim complainants were not really hiding all these years. Many of them did make noises, but they were so feeble that they went unheard or were easy to drown in the overall cacophony. It seems that either the victim has to become powerful or the molester must become big for the grievance to be heard all over again with some seriousness.

It would be unlikely that all women victims would become strong enough in course of time to be able to raise their once again with a bigger force. But, the violator, who was a middling arrival in society - an actor, a politician, a fashion designer, a dance-music guru or a professional - on his path to higher achievements is more likely to reach levels, where he can be scrutinised once again. It is these men, though there must be a sizeable number of women too, who, inebriated with new-found power on the opposite sex thought that it was normal to seduce and rape, touch, push and grope their charge. 

Questions like “why now” will be asked and sometimes corrrectly as well. After all, didn’t these women have the option of giving a hard slap to the advancing pest or just to walk away? Was a career in the chosen path the only one available, was there unemployment and starvation staring at them, was the charm of the glitzy life too good to resist? Was it the norm to succumb, was it the shortcut to success and whether it was, after all, a small price to pay since every other girl was doing so anyways? The answer to all these may be a yes. But, it is not the right answer. A wrong answer does not become the right one by a majority vote. Whereas there may be a million wrong answers, there is only one right one. Don’t we all know that from our school examination papers?

One may even argue that social mores change and they can change quickly, for the better, with modern interactive society that speaks, demonstrates and broadcasts at the speed of light. News, good and bad, travel faster than ever and people come together for a cause even without the mandatory candles and the city square squatting. Why hold a perfectly respectable achiever guilty for something he did decades ago, when it was normal to indulge in mild flirtation and maybe a couch act and weren’t there ever conceding women ready to do the bidding? The society suddenly wakes up, fired by social media, everyone’s own TV channel called the YouTube, everyone’s personal newspaper, the Facebook and everyone’s personal loudspeakers, the WhatsApp and Twitter. The society then calls to question these past masters of exploitation and demands that they at least apologise, if not face the law. But, kicking and screaming, these guys deny bluntly and fight back as if it was they who are being wronged. 

So, whereas this recent spurt in bringing out old cases may or may not lead to catharsis, it exposes the reality that the woodwork was held together only by the thin layer of glossy paint; everything within had been eaten up by termites long ago. Big names are falling like ninepins for what they did when they wielded power on the vulnerable.

मैंने Kea, आपने किया क्या? (Or, the Idea Called Ikea)

The Ikea Store in Hyderabad is an essential pilgrimage destination for a visitor. I was expecting massive milling crowds, parking hassles, serpentine queues and drooling shoppers from the opening day news that I had read. But, nothing like that was to be seen, though the arrogance of being Ikea was visible aplenty in the shop. The modern day “spire” with IKEA painted on it made you feel oh-so-welcome until you reach the portals.

Your car goes to the drop off point as signages lead you to. The glass doors are locked. You are curtly told to get off and walk a flight of stairs down to enter through what looks like the back door. The back-door entrance, however, is a labyrinthine walkway partitioned by posts and ribbons like the security-line of a busy airport. There is even a hall-full of shopping trolleys in numbers that can shame the Walmart, the JFK and all the Dubai Malls put together. You are made to walk half a mile of empty maze even though there is no queue in sight. The entrance was designed by the Ikea guys, or their marketing consultants, hoping that they would have a Kumbh Mela like throng everyday. Alas, after the first day, it seems, it was more like a blood donation queue. But, the exercise does burn up an ounce of blood and builds an excitement like that of a ten-year old waiting for a ride in the Disney Park.

The haughtiness of the opening days can’t be corrected since it is all cast in concrete and a confusing snake-ladder like arrangement of escalators, probably bought in a discount sale in China. There are staircases and staircases, escalators and elevators, inside and outside and numerous docks for delivery trucks designed to sell furniture meant to terraform a planet - all empty.

It was a weekday, I must confess. But, there is nothing in the store that I would call Swedish. All the stuff was made in China, nothing that is not available in a Home Centre or any other furniture or hardware shop in the city. Of course, if the Ikea, oops the idea was to build a walk-through catalogue of all that is Chinese, it is a good job done, indeed. There is also enough concrete to build an airport and steel to build a cosmodrome. But, it sells cheap plastic and tinpots and not too well at that.

The display of arrogance is complete if you see the philosophy behind it all. Ikea surely thought that all Indians desperately needed to replace their table lamps with European sockets and plugs. Their consultants must have also advised them that all Indians have empty garages that needed to be stuffed with DIY tools and hardware. Of course, their plastic jars would seem imported from Venus to all housewives, who haven’t seen an airtight container in their kitchens ever. Item tags have names written in some alien tongue. The whole marketing plan looks driven by the dated Sylvania Laxman tagline - पूरे घर के बदल डालूँगा। Sales at any scale lower than this would have Ikea licking its wounds in a few years. There is only so far that plastic, particle boards and gaudy timepieces can take you. Empty checkout counters stand testimony to that. 

The humongous shop is built like an airport hangar with bare concrete roofs, hanging steel struts and exposed air-conditioning ducts and open steel-shelved warehouse, all designed to look “functional” and to cleverly give an impression that the shop is a no-frills establishment so that you get low-priced and economical stuff. But, the price tags suggest otherwise.

The restaurant is a favourite corner, where the guard rudely points you to use the other entrance as if you would be stampeded if you used the nearest one, which is totally free of traffic. But, one can eat insipid meatballs, which they insist on advertising and selling, only a few times. You buy and then carry your food in your own personal trolley and feel like an interning waiter.

The staff all over was probably recruited by the UPSC. At least their attitude suggested that. The restaurant staff was particularly ill-behaved and dismissive suggesting that they were not a rank lower than Joint Secretaries.

So friends, go and splurge. Buy Chinese at British prices and feel blessed. I have shown the path. It is for you to venture forward.

Are We a Secular Country? (Is demographic change for real?)

Are We a Secular Country?
(Is demographic change for real?)

Politicians of Nagaland have objected to immersion of ex-PM Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s ashes in a river in Nagaland. They have gone on to say that immersion of ashes of the Indian Prime Minister is an insult to “our ways of life” because Nagaland is Christian-majority state. OUR WAYS OF LIFE?

https://www.thehindu.com/news/national/other-states/immersion-of-vajpayee-ashes-bjp-criticised-for-imposing-alien-culture-on-nagaland/article24781410.ece

Is immersion of ashes of a Hindu in a river is alien culture to Nagaland? Is it just because it is a Christian-majority state? Does being Christian-majority make a State, or a region, non-Indian? Is religion everything that defines culture? What happened to the calls of composite Indian culture and our unity in diversity?

Cremation of the dead is a holy ritual of the Hindus. If the cremation is done by the bank of a river, which is normally the case, ashes are invariably immersed in that river. In many cases, relatives carry the ashes of the departed one to holy places like Haridwar, Prayag or Varanasi to perform the ritual. Pt. Nehru’s ashes were immersed in many rivers and seas in India and sprinkled on the Himalayas. So were Rajiv Gandhi’s and Indira Gandhi’s. This rite is as Indian and collectively belongs to us as much as the practice of burying the dead or leaving them atop towers of silence for carrion birds to feed upon. Likewise, Hindu festivals and pilgrimages are as much part of our culture as the Eid, the Christmas, the Gurpurab or the Haj.

In 2008, Mr. Omar Abdullah, who was then a member of the Lok Sabha, had said in the house: “We will not give an inch of our land to the (Shri Amarnath) Shrine Board. Kashmiris have never demolished or desecrated temples. OUR LAND? Whose land is the land of Kashmir? Of the people of Jammu and Kashmir, or of Kashmiri Muslims alone?

http://hillpost.in/2012/08/jammu-kashmir-again-lock-horns-over-amarnath-yatra/49372/

There have been demands and quick acquiescence of the state government to ban or restrict Durga Puja festivities in areas of West Bengal that have large populations of Muslims, though not yet a majority. Are non-Hindus saying that as and when a state or a region (the Kashmir Valley is just a region of the J&K state) become Muslim-majority or Christian-majority, Hindus must abandon their culture and way of life or else Muslims and Christians may get offended and even insulted?

Are we living in a secular country, or is secularism limited only to Hindu majority areas? Doesn’t our Constitution give freedom to Indian citizens to travel and live anywhere in the country? If such incidences continue to happen, possibilities of demographic change will continue to be discussed as a threat to the Indian Way of Life.

Do Trees Reduce Pollution? NO.

I am going to be lambasted for saying this, but say I must. Trees do not reduce pollution. They may bring about a general feeling of wellness due to their green foliage. But, contrary to general belief trees do not eliminate polluting gases or particulates. On the other hand, trees on the sides of a crowded street actually concentrate these pollutants by impeding free flow of air. 

People are up in arms in a Delhi against cutting of trees for widening of roads. Traffic jams or crawling traffic creates a lot more pollution that trees lining the roads are imagined to reduce. We need free flow of traffic to cut down pollution.

Trees absorb carbon dioxide, the greenhouse gas. But CO2 is not a pollutant, nor is it a health hazard. Besides, CO2 is a global phenomenon as it quickly disperses in the air. Sulphur and nitrogen oxides and particulates are pollutants and pose a risk to our health. They do so by immediate impact on our bodies before wind moves them out. They get washed down by rain and pollute water bodies and soil. Too many trees by the roadside actually trap these in the crowded streets and aggravate the problem. Besides, trees do not absorb sulphurous and nitrous gases since their metabolism has no use of these gases.

Here are scientific papers that establish that trees in urban landscapes actually aggravate Pollution:

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1618866716303740

http://theconversation.com/do-trees-really-help-clear-the-air-in-our-cities-48202

This is not to say that all trees should be cut down to aid free flow of air, but not to blindly believe whatever is presented to us by activists, media, NGT or Courts. Trees should be planned and planted to a plan, aesthetics being a contributing factor . Trees provide cool shade, they soothe our eyes and bring about a feel good emotion. They must be planted so that traffic flows freely, sight of motorists and pedestrians is not obstructed. Reduction in pollution should certainly not be an objective.

Meanwhile let those roads be widened. Widening cuts down pollution, reduces accidents and eliminates pedestrians’ deaths.

http://www.iflscience.com/environment/greener-not-cleaner-how-trees-can-worsen-urban-air-pollution/

My First Encounter with Technology

Back in my childhood days the most technologically advanced gadget we had was a mechanical alarm clock. One could set the time one wanted to wake up and it would unfailingly ring the most infernal tone to make sure you did not miss your deadlines. The better and more expensive ones even had a snooze button that would allow you to steal a few more winks in bed. The black bakelite phone was a matter of pride in the neighbourhood. You could have one in your home only if your father was a government officer, or else there was a wait of five to ten years to get one; bribes or political connections could quicken the acquisition process to under a year. The wrist watch was a hand wound spring driven ornament that had to be attended to every morning by charging it, which meant twirling its tiny knob with some dexterity. The computer was a topic of childhood fantasies, an unseen device that could do your homework if only you could lay your hands on one.  

In those days of bliss, there came a technological disruption on my school campus. One of the teachers, known as Vasudevan Ji, got a digital watch for himself. Such watches were not available in India. Maybe he got one as a gift from a relative abroad, or just decided to squander away his three months’ salary in the grey market. But he did get one and what a sensation it caused in my boarding school campus of Netarhat, a faraway place in itself! The watch, as the whispers told us cost a whopping two thousand Rupees. Typical salary of a teacher would have been less than a thousand Rupees a month. But, Vasudevan Ji was clearly a gadget-lover of the times, or a nerd as one would describe such a person today. My wife doesn’t understand that my love for the latest iPad was schooled into me in childhood by such forward looking teachers; and it costs me just two weeks’ salary. Besides, an iPad also keeps time and sets alarms, same as Vasudevan Ji’s geeky watch. 

Well, the wildfire on the plateau of Netarhat also told us that the battery of the now famous wrist watch cost fifty-five Rupees and that it needed annual replacements! One could buy a new wrist watch for such an amount every year that would last a lifetime each. I am sure Vasudevan Ji must have soon realised that the watch that drained its battery in a year was also an annual drain on his meagre salary. All salaries were meagre those days. That just a few years later such watches could be purchased on the streets for fifty Rupees apiece must have come as a bigger shock to him. But, that technology beats you every time and makes your once-great possessions worthless in no time is a realisation that has dawned on the mankind only recently. 

Well, there were more surprises in store for us. During the annual athletics contest of the school, where teachers were the timekeepers in races, Vasudevan Ji decided that he would not use the stop watch from the physics lab. His watch had a timer too and it was accurate to a hundredth of a second. So, in the hundred metres sprint, when other timekeepers gave times of 13.4 and 11.8 seconds, Vasudevan Ji took our breath away with the second place of decimal, 12.69 seconds!  

Then we were told that the magical device on his wrist even had a light that could illuminate the watch face in total darkness. In an evening function, such as a play or a presentation on the epidiascope (more about that device, later), one would be lucky to find a seat next to Vasudevan Ji. One would ask, “What time is it now, Shriman Ji?” and he would flick his wrist, press a special button and say, “Twenty thirty-five twenty-two.” Well, we then also learnt that hours on the watch went beyond twelve and right up to twenty-four. Shriman Ji (we addressed our teacher thus) would oblige every time one asked the time even though each flash of light cost him probably an hour of battery life and brought the prospect of spending fifty-five Rupees closer. 

The digital watch of the early seventies was a bigger cultural and technological leap for me and my friends that those regularly peddled by Apple, Samsung, Tesla or Sony. It was pathbreaking.

---ooo---

The CD's Swan Song

Best Buy, one of the most powerful sellers of music CDs, has decided to stop selling them from July this year. Target too has decided to exit the CD business. Sales are already down to a tenth of fifteen year old figures. In a year or so streaming and downloaded music will be the main fare, mostly in compressed formats.

What will the puritans do? What happened to the assiduous set ups of hi-fi in homes and studios? What will they play on those gold plated component stereos? MP3s? Such blasphemy! Such upardonable impiety!

They say that vinyl is being resurrected. So is the T-Rex. Well, the comeback vinyl will last another couple of years what with new turntables requiring you to break a bank. The new generation , the millennials, never lived. They neither ever heard the purest of hi-fi sounds nor did they have the time to sit and rock in their lounge sofas while the finest sopranos personally sang into their ears.

Hi-fi is lost to humanity with a 128 bps mp3 streaming through earplugs stuck into ones ears, while one walks a busy street or rides a crowded metro, noise cancellation notwithstanding.

Go on, guys and gals! Live your compromise and call it itunes, while I tune up my hi-fi for my dwindling and scratchy LPs.

http://uproxx.com/music/best-buy-stop-selling-cds-2018/

बचपन की मूँगफली

बचपन के दिनों में चिनियाबादाम खाने के सामूहिक उपक्रम की यादें पीछा नहीं छोड़तीं। गली से गुज़रते मूँगफली वाले की हरकारे जैसी आवाज़ मानों हमारे अंदर ऊर्जा का संचार कर देती थी। दौड़कर माँ के पास पहुँचते। तबतक मॉं भी मूँगफली वाले की आवाज़ सुन चुकी होती थी। फिर जैसे हमारे मन की आवाज़ सुनकर बोलती - चिनियाबादाम चाहिये? हम बच्चे कुछ ऊँ-ऊँ करते, तबतक मॉं बीस पैसे निकाल कर बोलती - जाओ छटाँक भर ले लो! छटाँक, यानि एक सेर का सोलहवॉं हिस्सा, लगभग साठ ग्राम।

अब दौड़कर बाहर निकले और पुकारा, ऐ चिनियाबादाम! यहॉं आइये। चिनियाबादाम वाला आता और अपनी कॉंख में दबा सींकों से बना स्टैंड, जिसे बाद में हमने इंजीनियरिंग कॉलेज में दोषहीन हाईपरबोला के उदाहरण के रूप में पढ़ा, ज़मीन पर रखता और उसपर अपने सिर वाली टोकरी जमाता। फिर अपनी लकड़ी के डंडे वाला स्वनिर्मित तराज़ू निकालकर दिखाता, मानों कह रहा हो - देख लो बबुआ लोग, डंडी बिल्कुल सीधी है। फिर पूछता - केतना चाहीं? हम उतावली से बोलते - एक छटाँक, मानों कोई महँगी ख़रीदारी कर रहे हों 

फिर शुरु होती थी विक्रय की प्रक्रिया। मूँगफली वाला एक पत्थर का टुकड़ा एक पलड़े पर रखता, और हमेशा की तरह हम पूछते - ई क्या है? वह भी हमेशा की तरह मुस्कुराकर बोलता - छटाँक का बाट है! फिर दूसरे पलड़े पर मूँगफलियाँ रखी जाती और तराज़ू के पलड़े ऊपर-नीचे झूलते। इसी दौरान हम दो चार चिनियाबादाम उसकी टोकरी से निकाल कर गपक लेते। मूँगफली वाला उदारतापूर्वक हमारी लूट को नज़रअंदाज़ कर देता था, क्योंकि इसका समायोजन उसके पत्थर के छटाँक वाली बाट में पहले से ही किया हुआ होता था। बीस पैसे देकर पुराने अख़बार के मुड़े-कुचैले टुकड़े में मूँगफलियों को सहेजकर पकड़ते, फिर नमक की एक और पुड़िया मुफ़्त लेकर घर आते। चिनियाबादाम वाले के मसालेदार नमक का फ़ॉर्मूला मिल जाए तो पेटेंट कराकर मालामाल हो जाऊँ।

घर में छटाँक भर मूँगफली के चार बराबर हिस्से होते, तीन भाइयों के और एक माँ का। फिर माँ बोलती - मेरा मन नहीं है, तुमलोग ले लो। बड़ी मुश्किल से वह एक दो फलियॉं लेने को राज़ी होती। फिर शुरु होता मूँगफलियाँ खाने का कार्यक्रम! अब सोचकर आश्चर्य होता है कि सिर्फ़ साठ ग्राम चिनियाबादाम, वह भी तीन-चार हिस्सों में बँटी, कैसे एक पूरी दुपहरी काटने का संबल बन जाती थी। शायद हम धीरे-धीरे खाते थे, या खाते कम और गप्प ज़्यादा करते थे। मूँगफलियों के छिलके भी उसी काग़ज़ के टुकड़े पर डाले जाते थे। अत: कार्यक्रम के मध्याह्न के बाद मूँगफली के छिलकों के बीच साबुत मूँगफली ढूँढ कर निकालना भी एक दक्षता का काम बन जाता था। अब छिलकों के लिये भी कोई अलग काग़ज़ रखता है क्या? जैसे-जैसे छिलकों की तादाद बढ़ती, साबुत मूँगफली खोजना एक ऐड्वेंचर स्पोर्ट का रूप लेता जाता था, ऐसा रोमांचकारी, जैसे आजकल क "ग्रैंड थेफ्ट ऑटो" या "असेसिन्स क्रीड" भी नहीं। कुछ समय बाद जब बहुत टटोलने पर भी मूंगफलियॉं मिलनी बंद हो जातीं तब इतिश्री मान लेते थे।

कल एक ठेलेवाले से पावभर मूँगफली ख़रीदी, यह सोचकर कि छटाँक भर से क्या होगा। पचीस रुपये पाव। बचपन में पावभर ख़रीदते तो फिजूलखर्च कहलाते। पर शायद मॉं कुछ और ले लेती, मेरा मन नहीं है का बहाना न बनाती। हम पति-पत्नी ने मन भर खाया, उकता गये खाते-खाते। बहुत सारी बची है। आप आएँगे तो परोसेंगे, पुरानी यादों के साथ।