Festival of Lights

From the sharp corners of the towering residence,
In perfect linear angles, the shadows slice the concrete path.
The blue party lights add ghostly vigour.
Brown hands toil, browned by rigour.

They dance around in rhythmic pandemonium
Through the murky cavities of the macabre residence.
Yet perfect silence prevails resolutely,
Stabbing vacuous corpses ruthlessly.

Through morning light they lie in deep slumber,
Fantasizing of animated times, now just tormenting rhymes.
And in the night, the foul feast begins again,
This is the festival of lights my dear men!

Addict

Strange addictions and even stranger responses,
I'm addicted to everything that i do not have
And in this moment i feel lost yet so sure,
It's too quiet i hate it, i want back all that jazz...

My CWG Report

What started of as one of the most unwelcome events in our ADPR class turned out to be one of the most fondly memorable events in most of our lives. The internship at the 19^th Commonwealth Games was filled not only with moments of excitement and leisure, but also with endless hours of hard work and dedication.

Like indisposed sheep being sent to the slaughterhouse that was CWG, we entered Pragati Maidan on the 8^th of September to discover at which venue each one of us would be posted. Some were over-the-moon about their venues, and some not so much. What followed was a week of presentations and briefs about accreditations, security, handling media, Games News Service, and the venues among others. While repeated questions about smoking areas at venues and pestering athletes to talk to the media set the tone for how amateurish some of the senior supervisors might turn out to be, most of us were also repulsed by the exorbitant prices of food at the sole eatery at Pragati Maidan.

On the 16^th of September we were finally deployed to our venues, mine being at Badminton in Siri Fort. As excited about the sport as about the athletes, I went with the purest of intentions to make full use of this opportunity. Neeza Anuranjani was my confidant and confederate for the next two weeks as we struggled to work and get work done at Siri Fort Complex. The atmosphere was tense with disagreement and frustration about the policies of most of the senior supervisors who seemed desperately insistent in making us sit without any work or purpose and discuss clothing, vegetables and philosophy. Some of the supervisors in sudden fits of wanting to work would send us to various work areas and ask us to sit there and blabber instead of the sub-zero temperatures of the media lounge. There was some respite with the Squash team that discussed news articles and made presentations every day and despite our repeated attempts at encouraging some sport related conversation occasionally, we were mostly just asked to sit around and do nothing. Yet Neeza and I, like crusaders continued to struggle to get work done in the tribune area which was my allocated work area. Talking to contractors from various companies who were working there, we realized that even for things like getting internet cabling installed in the tribune galleries, five different contractors were hired. It dawned upon us how this was a great way to make money while diffusing the responsibility of getting the work done. Therefore while installing cables through piping and setting up ports would be a couple of days’ work, this ended up taking almost ten days.

I furiously took down notes during our meetings with the competition manager and even day-to-day problems in the tribune galleries while some seemed to mock my dedication. Interesting as it was to try to report these problems and figure out solutions, it was equally frustrating to know that in every meeting of the senior officials for which I handed over my daily report, the dismal pace at which work was done was something I would just have to accept sooner or later. Trouble also came from other sides and my accreditation (much to my annoyance and others’ too pronounced accredation by several despite repeated attempts at correction) was incorrectly printed as that for MPC (Pragati Maidan) and not Siri Fort. Daily phone calls and mails to Ms. Shikha Ghai and Ms. Shelly went in vain as they kept procrastinating. Once we were told not to bring any food or water as the lockdown would begin and it turned out that food for ten people was given to our team of twenty. Since then most people got smarter and got their own food. When the catering actually began it was one of the most horrific experiences – having to eat rotten food. It was immediately disposed and we had to scavenge for other alternatives again.

Yet we persevered. I daily highlighted issues like delay in installation of power points in the tribune galleries, incomplete railings and steps leading to the mixed zone, hazardous height of the wooden paneling, excessive width of the tribune tables and cluttering of wires among others. Some were resolved by speaking to the contractors themselves while others took longer as the chain of command had to be followed. On the 29^th of September finally, just a stone’s throw away from the Games I being extremely anxious about the power points pestered one of the supervisors into taking immediate action. She suggested that we not follow the chain of command as the venue manager had said the problem was not being resolved through this method. As we tried to disregard rules we were sent back reprehensibly and asked to follow procedures. We informed our managers about their misplaced advice immediately.

On the 30^th of September, despite repeated attempts to get my accreditation corrected I was told like an orphan kicked out from the venue I was slowly getting attached to, that I could no longer come to Siri Fort as my accreditation would not give me entry once the card readers were functional. I spent my last day at Siri Fort regretting how I would not miss the opportunity to see the big players but rather miss the electric atmosphere of the matches and dealing with hyperactive media personnel in order to resolve their problems. Strangely, resolving problems is exhilarating.

So I reported at 11 am on the 1^st of September with Sugandh Swani to Ms. Shelly from HR who assigned me to the Photo Department. Here I met the very jovial and heart-warming photo team led by Mr. Saxena and Mr. Sinha. I was taken to the Photo Help Desk in the Main Lobby at MPC and here I built my home for the next sixteen days. It was a different world at MPC. Here we were encouraged to eat food on time and resolve problems immediately. The volunteers and interns and even the managers were young with energy and enthusiasm and not at all boastful of their non-existent accomplishments like the people at Siri Fort. Photographers kept coming to my help desk and I kept resolving their problems and it was truly exhilarating. The work was not difficult and my responsibilities were few, yet I would always go the extra mile to find out information that might be available at other help-desks so that I would not have to send an enquirer from one desk to another and could answer the query in my own capacity as well.

At the Photo Help Desk there were three main tasks to be done: issuing bibs and lockers to photojournalists, providing information about other photo services at MPC, and providing miscellaneous information to any other enquirers. Queries about directions to the washroom and convenience store and even about which Bollywood movies to watch were also pleasantly entertained. While there quite a few technical glitches like the photo bibs not arriving until the day of the Opening Ceremony and a restrictive locker policy not allowing storage overnight; the more interesting problems had a more human dimension. Also, these conflicts that I resolved did not particularly pertain to photographers but were just as rewarding to resolve. One particular case was with an Australian journalist who had brought back an Indian journalist’s bag from Opening Ceremony while carrying all his other heavy equipment as well. It was past 11 and he could not issue a locker for the night and he had no transport back to his hotel as the last bus had left at 10:50pm. With the help of a supervisor at MPC, I was able to get him a locker to keep his equipment and offer him our metro tickets so he could catch the last metro at 12 am.

Another case pertained to a journalist from Nauru, a wonderful lady who was the only journalist from her country and had missed her first event as she could not carry her camera inside since her accreditation was not of a photojournalist. Terribly upset by being sent from one desk to another she approached me and asked if anything could be done. Initially I informed her from my prior knowledge that the accreditation department had been having a lot of issues and so it was unlikely that her accreditation could be fixed. However I decided to call up one of the members in the team and ask if her issue could be resolved. When I received an encouraging response I happily approached the lady once again and informed her of the same. The expression on her face was one that deeply moved me and was one of the most gratifying moments of my life.

Finally, the most memorable moment was when I helped out one of the journalists from AAP who had run out of validity on the MTNL phone he had been issued. When I suggested that he get a new Aircel connection from the store within MPC itself he told me how his friend earlier in the day had lost several thousands of rupees as her phone connection had been terminated due to an account verification hitch. He was thus very adamant about not purchasing an Aircel connection, but he also knew of no place from where he could get an MTNL validity recharge. I did my own bit of research and found out that there was no facility to recharge online and the closest outlet was in ITPO. I immediately contacted a friend who worked there who was able to purchase a coupon and recharge the phone immediately. The AAP journalist was tremendously happy and said he was very grateful for me being one of the few people that really went out of the way to help him.

All these experiences taught me something very valuable: while many people cribbed about saving face for our country by praying that the Games would turn out well, for me, as an ordinary person, it was just about helping other people out. Journalists, I realized, live an extremely difficult life, traveling all day, lugging around heavy gear and barely getting paid enough. In these circumstances, if we could make their life a little easier by the small things we did, it was truly something valuable we did even though we weren’t working for advertising or PR agencies.

I am a Mass Murderer

He whispers softly those sweet words and I can almost feel the taste of my favourite scoop of Mother Dairy Chip Chocolate Ice-cream. I’m mesmerized and I pray with all my might for it to stretch on for an eternity. He whispers again.

But suddenly, like those ancient cassettes that get stuck on the music player, this scene and accompanying sensations wretchedly rewind and replay and rewind and replay and rewind and replay...In the folds of my pillow cover, a rather rude vibration raises my heartbeat. It’s the bloody cellular phone. Aah! I was dreaming, again!

It's 3:30 in the afternoon. Crap! I overslept...again. The oppressively bright light of the phone displays a message from Waka. That’s not his real name, off course. You can forget about me telling you his real name. Waka asks politely (a little too politely I must add), if I can spare a few minutes to discuss business. Business, yeah right! I wonder why I ever agreed to co-write his book. I don’t know how I’m going to manage academics, pleasing my parents, spending time with friends, doing an internship and pleasing my parents all the same time. Oh, and did I mention, I have to make sure that I please my parents as well.

Waka gets straight down to business. “I’m stuck- I don’t know how to make Adi jealous about Aparna flirting with Ashu”, he stutters hastily. “Alright, alright”, I grumpily announce and offer some clichéd plot ideas. He tells me he’s used the exact same ideas but he wants something different now. I’m amazed at our similarity of thought. Great minds do think alike. Goddamn ancient elders – they were always right. Curse them!

As we discuss other deadly plot twists and turns and hurls and burls, I remark, rather unreservedly- as he always insists I ought to, “I’ve never met anyone with such a brilliant vocabulary who has such terrible grammar”. He drifts off onto stories of childhood tortures and even mentions his part-time love affair with geology. The next thing I hear is talk of ants and snakes predicting when meteorites will fall to Earth. I’m baffled. “Ants can predict those tutte taare wale meteorites?”

“Yes, they can tell from the vibrations made by the meteorite entering the Earth’s atmosphere which pass on to the Earth’s crust. And they crawl out from under the ground whenever they sense danger.” I’m suddenly reminded of my own dilemma. Could Waka hold the key to ending my distressful days? How shall I tell you friends, what a dilemma indeed it has been?

Ants!

I lay out my heart before him- “Waka”, I cry, “These ants, the big black ones- they flood my room, especially after 8pm, everyday, by the clock, dot on time. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to kill them and hear that terrible crunching sound that makes me sick to my stomach. But if I don’t, they’ll climb on my bed and crawl on my arms or face or between my toes and bite me!”

“Bite you?”, he exclaims barely containing his laugh.

“Yes! They’re pure evil I tell you. They’ve even learned to adapt, those buggers, those ants!”

“Ants are also living things made by God”, he declares grandly. “They too will defend themselves like you defend yourself and learn to adapt. They know at what time Deepanshi sleeps and what time she talks on the phone and they will hide in the corners and observe you carefully. They will go and tell their bosses about your habits and at those particular times, the entire brigade will march on in your room and devour your cupboards, your clothes and any other palatable items.”

“For God’s sake Waka, you’ve scared the big Jesus out of me. These ants are like bloody stalkers. Now thanks to your goddamn stories, I’m going to be having nightmares for the next two days.”

He’s laughing his head off and I can hear him, and my blood is boiling. “You’re laughing, you idiot, it isn’t funny. I’m bloody scared now. These ants, these stalking ants”, I bellow.

Barely able to contain his laugh he manages to say, “A twenty-one year old girl, no, a lady, who is going to get married in three or four years, and she is afraid of ants crawling in her cupboard and is even more afraid of killing them.”

“Look Waka, you listen to me... Waka, I know it seems… Alright, I agree it sounds funny, but.. But this is outrageous! They could go to any other room in the house, any other room with more wood to chew on…and, and…. and, where they won’t be stomped upon by me everyday. It’s become a daily ritual you know! You won’t believe! It’s like a battlefield in those war movies. Ants massacred by a giant! Lying lifeless! I even leave them around so others can learn not to come around, but they just…they just won’t…absolutely won’t learn.

And you know what...earlier they were slow and I was able to stomp on all of them, then a couple of weeks back they started running really fast so I had to run after them around – slipped a couple of times, goddamn ants! And for the past few days, Waka... You know for the past few days, they even started climbing walls to run away from my giant stomping foot. What’s next – a bunch of-”

He interrupts me to add “Flying ants!”, still laughing mockingly. “Deepanshi, this just got funnier! A twenty-one year old lady who writes poems about the great mysteries of life and love, secretly runs around her little room after little scurrying ants trying to stomp on them but secretly squints every time she does. What a story this will make! Aah! What a story!”

“Evil, pure evil! That’s what you are – pure evil!”

“I know you’d pick me over the ants any day”, he says jokingly. “You’ll have to kill them dear. No option- nope! None at all. I think they’ve also decided that they’re not going to give up this war. It’s a matter of their ego now!”

“Absolute bollocks. I refuse to talk to someone who says such ridiculous shit!”

“Alright, alright! Try spraying kerosene on them. That might work”

“Kerosene?! You’ve really gone bonkers now, really you have! One tiny spark and my room will go up in flames!”

“No, child! It won't. Spray some on your floor and on the edges of your cupboard and they’ll die by the morning.”

“I don’t know. This sounds dodgy”

“Or try placing some naphthalene pellets under your bed and in the corners. Naphthalene can be used to keep away anything you don’t want.” I secretly wonder if that applies to live humans as well. I make a mental note to try it out on Lola (alias) later.

“Alright. Let me try out your suggestions today”, I say, eyeing the arms of the clock now showing the time to be forty minutes past eight. Dinner time!

"Are you having ants for dinner?" he asks tauntingly.

I solemnly state that this ant discussion ought to come to a well-deserved end.

“You must write a story about this…you must…you absolutely must!”

I declare decisively, “You’ve lost your brains now, for sure!”

“Think of it”, he says, “Just think of it! A story of ants and their murderer – a young erudite lady. If you don’t have ten comments on your story in the next few days I’ll…. I’ll chop of my nose…I’ll chop off--”

“Hold it! Hold it right there!”

“One thousand to twelve hundred words. A short story…and ten conversations like this and we can publish a book!”

“A book! Indeed! Ants and ant murderers…a book indeed!!”

“Oh, but I bet you’ll have so many comments on the story that…”

“I got it Waka! I got it!”

So here I am friends. Save this man some misery. Put down a few comments about my sad attempt at humour, for Waka’s sake! Or shall I call him Wacky?!


P.S. I know each one who reads this will find something unique that they take from this. Some will see it as a piece of dull rubbish and some will see complex socio-economic commentary in it (and you’re not a freak for seeing this). Firstly, I wish to state that I was inspired by the statement- “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” Secondly I wish to add – “Ants eat cockroaches and humans eat chocolate ants.” Thirdly, and finally, the reader has full freedom to decide independently whether I am daft or not!