According to the press, televisions, the CPM has 'taken over completely" the Nandigram, the troubled place where the villagers are resisting a forced land acquisition.Still we hear the killings, deaths, evictions, cries...
Now this is going to be happened many places in India: the so-called developments supported by the state governments projects with the private enterprises, say, mainly with the Real Estate Giants. Oh, Giants they are, the hungry they exhibit is as vast as our villages, underdeveloped, less literate, less informative, compare to the cities we love to exhibit to the world : a growing economy, ready to take over the world as another superpower in making.
Are we are threatened by a 'forced democracy' entertained by the powerful political parties and their supporters? Is that the very question of development is alienated from the very question of development which a place, a country looks for? Nothing been taken care off : the system allows you to speak, to protest, but the very system broke you, in all means, too. Is that the situation our 'huge democracy' is marching forward? This could be noted as a world phenomina, speaking a language of globalism. However, through a 'party', through a government, when the likes of a 'few' is get implemented, then a 'lot' is deserves an unanswerable situation. Democracy allows one to question, but it can deny the answer.
Nandigram has given a clear picture : the development is on. You want or not is less important. But the development needs.
The "PARTY IS OVER'.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
HE WAS NOT ALONE, BUT HE WAS.
When Gandhiji was speaking everybody was hearing him.His words were celebrated as those were having a divine sense of catching the voice. I, too, heard his voices from old radios and from new televisions. Ben Kigsley reminded me that Gadhiji had a voice of bit feminine.He was always accompanied to his public place with women who liked his company.That was nice to see.
My father came to our house once drunk. A polished man, never visited a toddy shop nearby, used to get his drinks from outside. A man will come and will stand at our gate in the dark evenings..My father knows from his movements where to get and how to pay him. My mother used to pass hard looks at him when she sees those dances in the evenings. That day, it was festival day of ours, and i saw my father, facing the wall and lying with an open mouth which poured with a smelly fluid. He was sleeping.I found him alone in his Words,those he uttered in his sleep. Nothing clear or nothing to remember, but still I stood there a few seconds to hear what he says.
I went with our dog to out. It was night.
My father came to our house once drunk. A polished man, never visited a toddy shop nearby, used to get his drinks from outside. A man will come and will stand at our gate in the dark evenings..My father knows from his movements where to get and how to pay him. My mother used to pass hard looks at him when she sees those dances in the evenings. That day, it was festival day of ours, and i saw my father, facing the wall and lying with an open mouth which poured with a smelly fluid. He was sleeping.I found him alone in his Words,those he uttered in his sleep. Nothing clear or nothing to remember, but still I stood there a few seconds to hear what he says.
I went with our dog to out. It was night.
Monday, 8 October 2007
DO WE MISS THE WORDS?
We miss the words, of course, when it is not pronounced.
But, there are words which we miss when they uttered or stored in the wilderness of forgetfullness. I have a lot like. But one I remember well : the departure i paid to my father in his death, a cold death of two days, he kept well himself in ICECOLD to receive all of us, his children, to come from where they live. I didn't cry, or didn't say anything to me, but there were words pouring....
The other day i remembered something very rare i heard from him - he used to collect us, the children of his at 4,5,6,7 years old,around his chair and use to sing for us - Ragupathi Raghava Rajaram.... You must have heard of it many times; We, the Indians very much. Gandhiji used to sing this song during his prayers - the pre-indpendence period of India, a country then divided in every aspects..
He, Gandhiji, was a strong beleiver in Words. My father was not. He used to lie to us, when he was not having money to feed or school us, he will tell us that he will be coming soon with the money, books... He won't come. My mother used to curse him...But when he comes he brings us the mood of a man just visited a festival place near...The words, Gandhi uttered all we missed during his time itself. Nevermind. The words always have place in forgetfullness, the grand memory of our own history. We, Indians, still remember HIM.
My father was a Congressman, as always : We had a photo of Gandhi at home, very big....
Slowly they all disappeared, the Photo of Gandhi, My father, we have a photo of his in our family wall...When I stood near to the dead body of my father, I wanted to say that you have lied a lot to us to dream the truth. But I could not. Because, I just cought in touch with his feets, with the dead cold, which is very much align to me...
When I visited last to my home, in India, I took my father's chair which he used to put under a tree in our house's forefront and read his favourite Politics. The tree is still there, as the chair. And, I put the chair there and sat.
My mother looked at me and smiled. She did not say any WORDS, too.
But, there are words which we miss when they uttered or stored in the wilderness of forgetfullness. I have a lot like. But one I remember well : the departure i paid to my father in his death, a cold death of two days, he kept well himself in ICECOLD to receive all of us, his children, to come from where they live. I didn't cry, or didn't say anything to me, but there were words pouring....
The other day i remembered something very rare i heard from him - he used to collect us, the children of his at 4,5,6,7 years old,around his chair and use to sing for us - Ragupathi Raghava Rajaram.... You must have heard of it many times; We, the Indians very much. Gandhiji used to sing this song during his prayers - the pre-indpendence period of India, a country then divided in every aspects..
He, Gandhiji, was a strong beleiver in Words. My father was not. He used to lie to us, when he was not having money to feed or school us, he will tell us that he will be coming soon with the money, books... He won't come. My mother used to curse him...But when he comes he brings us the mood of a man just visited a festival place near...The words, Gandhi uttered all we missed during his time itself. Nevermind. The words always have place in forgetfullness, the grand memory of our own history. We, Indians, still remember HIM.
My father was a Congressman, as always : We had a photo of Gandhi at home, very big....
Slowly they all disappeared, the Photo of Gandhi, My father, we have a photo of his in our family wall...When I stood near to the dead body of my father, I wanted to say that you have lied a lot to us to dream the truth. But I could not. Because, I just cought in touch with his feets, with the dead cold, which is very much align to me...
When I visited last to my home, in India, I took my father's chair which he used to put under a tree in our house's forefront and read his favourite Politics. The tree is still there, as the chair. And, I put the chair there and sat.
My mother looked at me and smiled. She did not say any WORDS, too.
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