I wish to be like them. I wish I could inculcate even a fraction of their energy, values, steadfastness and indomitable willpower. I see them trotting on the road waiting for the light to turn red, a stick in their hand, determined to take them to the other side. They aren't fashion or brand conscious; instead, they're conscious about being good, doing good and sharing good. They're conscious of values and espouse these values to their children. They don't declare their love on social networking sites; its so evident in their eyes and actions, after all! There's an element of shyness in their expression of love for their spouse, devoid of shout and display in the public; yet, they celebrate jubilees of togetherness. They aren't literate with degrees in graduation, management or philosophy, yet they are EDUCATED. Parents. Few of them. All of them. Them. My parents. Our parents.

Law's just ice cold; it either melts under the lure of money, position and power, or succumbs to its own set of unreasonably weird and medieval set of rules! Tomorrow a brutal r***** will be set free on grounds of being "juvenile" with a support package to start a new life! A country that speaks of being a world power and vies for a seat on the UNSC, is unable to protect the rights of all those just. An elaborate set of laws, a well-oiled machinery and qualified and competent set of Govt reps; all HELPLESS. Irony. I hang my head in shame.

16 December 2012. Remembering Nirbhaya, even as the case drags on. The “juvenile” will walk free on 20 December with a support package announced for his "reform". What’s changed? The Government and the Opposition who mirror each other. Every thing else remains the same. Or even worse.

I am looking for a job. In Ahmedabad, though, I prefer to be based in Bombay, and commute aboard the Bullet train, daily. During monsoon, I will work from Home, since Bombay will become Chennai, and “Amdavad Fast, yard mein jaayegi". Ecocomically speaking, I feel the "Amdavad Fast" scores over about-to-crumble footover bridges, remarkably over-crowded-filled-to-the-brim compartments, leaking bogies, infested meals and accident-prone journeys. 4 elections, 18 announcements, and many “Bhoomi Khojan” later, the 7 metro routes in Bombay still remain on paper, since, “memorial” constructions are in-progress. Hence, I decided to make a job-change decision to please myself, Abe and Japan. Of course, a few billion-dollar questions linger: when will Nawaz become Sharif? When will Xi stop playing Pakistan’s Jinping? What is Vadra’s real estate of mind? Will Irani regain Smriti and come alive as Faketa Bharpoor’s “Bahu” after 5 years? What happens to Uddhav if Devendra becomes Narendra? Finally, the big question: will $15 billion still translate into Rs.98,000 crore given the rupee’s bullet train slide? Huh?

2002. There was no bakery at the alleged accident site. Toyota was still awaiting a nod from the authorities for Landcruiser’s official launch in India. Salman was pursuing black bucks in Jodhpur. Since it was a Hill Road, there couldn’t be a footpath. People slept on the roads, then. They sleep on the roads, now. Nobody died. Ravindra Patil was alive, then; he’d be dead if he were alive today. Vivek was Salman’s friend. Salman was far from evolving into Being Human. Abhishek knew who Aishwarya was. Aishwarya knew who the Big B was. Galaxy Apartments was a residential address. Modi was the CM of Godhra, er, Gujarat. He flew kites. Alone. Singh “sangh” Sonia’s song. 2002. Court premises were dating sites, then; they remain no more than a dating site, now.

Every time the 6.47 local is "scheduled to arrive late" on platform number 1 at Ghatkopar station, I look up the skies at the mind-Boeing 787. And the flights taking off from the airport nearby. And the passengers who must have entered through the departure terminal at Vile Parle, secured a boarding pass, cleared security checks before boarding the airport shuttle, which then must've navigated all the way to Andheri, before it returned to Vile Parle, prior to it’s final halt ...somewhere between Santa Cruz and Vile Parle. And then, the plane that became Airbus, moving from Vile Parle to Andheri to Vile Parle, prior to a 20-minute “Qatar” before it could be airborne from Santa Cruz. Thankfully, I am in one place; on the platform. The train arrives. I yell, shout and swear, hoping that at least 1 of the 8,000 passengers inside compartment number 8 will hear me. One obliges. The train chugs along, while a plane descends from heavens above. Hmm, what if the Indian Railways was run by the Ministry of Civil Deviation?

Rainy day. Citizens open their purses, homes and hearts with no bias towards religion, caste, gender or political-inclination. Life resumes. Once again, wading through waters for a livelihood. Relief package worth 1000-crore, announced. Like the one, last year. And all the years preceding last. Yet, Bombay repeats in Chennai in December. Yet, Chennai repeats in Bombay in July. August. September. Yet, for “Gods” who can’t play saviours, Chennai continues to seek “Her” aimlessly within the secured confines of Poes Garden or within elaborate temples erected in “Her” name, while Bombay swears by the frightening fortresses of Bandra’s Kala Nagar and commemorates a memorial for "Him" by the Sea. Bole toh, baarish ne “sher” ko bhi aisa hila daala, na amma thi na Bala, dono ke ghar pe tha taala, oopar dekha toh ghumrela tha helicopter mein dono, saala!

The image of India appears to be positive, abroad. Back Home, it would be even better no? With a positive photo-op in my mind, I set out for the nearby grocery store. The owner quoted 200 for dal and 60 for tomatoes. I reminded him about the positive image of the country abroad and requested a discount; he declined to negotiate. I exited the store cursing him, my salary and my fate; how I wished I was Aamir. Ouch! Anyway, I continued to take solace in the country’s positive i...mage abroad, and realized how a pothole-riddled road outside my Home has been under a tri-weekly maintenance for the last 5 years; atleast someone cares! I hailed an autorickshaw for a 3 km ride Home; he declined. But then, he, too, seemed to be buoyed by the country’s positive image abroad, and offered me a ride for a minimum 35 kms. I declined. He sped away. On CNG. Enroute, I visited a Ram temple (oh no!) to seek more information on image v/s reality. I attained nirvana: the image was my imagination of standing before God’s idol; the reality was the VVIP queue. Bole toh, ab ki baar dhoti sarkaar, kuch na mile toh positive image se hi pet bharle yaar!