Strike at the Heart of the Matter

Today is a Bharat Bandh (nation-wide strike) called by most of the Opposition parties, to protest against the latest hike in petrol prices in the country. As a form of protest, this is something that has always managed to evade my understanding. Exactly how does inconveniencing the "common man", whose cause is apparently being espoused, in every possible fashion amount to protesting against the government?

Trains have been blocked by people sitting on the tracks, buses have been set on fire or had their windows smashed, taxis and autos won't leave their stands for fear of being damaged, private vehicles have been stopped from going anywhere by crowds, businesses have been forced shut, and daily wage earners have nothing to eat today. Doesn't sound like a very effective protest mechanism to me, unless it aims to weaken the spirit of the "common man".

Last night, my parents were coming back home from the airport in one of the airport shuttle buses. In the darkness, first one stone came flying from the right, and a minute later, another smashed through a window on the left. The driver sped ahead a bit before stopping to make sure every thing was alright. Except a lot of broken glass and a couple of small cuts, everything was actually okay. But is this what the protest has set out to achieve? Victimising people who have nothing to do with the price hike?

And about this price hike. I bought a petrol car less than two weeks ago. The price of the fuel went up by 10% two days later. I am not complaining. Not because I have bucketfuls of money to pour down my fuel tank, but because I understand that it is unreasonable to want subsidised luxury. But also, because I understand that 32% of the cost of petrol in this state, which has a BJP government, is tax levied by the state government. If the BJP has such a big problem with the price of petrol and cares so deeply about how it affects the "common man", then why won't states run by it reduce their own taxes to keep costs down? Hypocrites and opportunists who have no principals, that is how they come across. Nothing new, obviously. Just reinforcement.

Dreamer in a dead language

I could see the words coming out of my mouth, but instead of flying straight up in to the air and raining all around, they just fell to the ground without a sound, the thick mud absorbing them, serifs and all. I checked the colours, they were just the way they were meant to be. Bright pulsating red vowels, streaked with lavender, and the deep blue of the consonants, flickering the occasional green. Even the strings were shiny white, and I could see no reason why they would not hold the syllables together.

I looked as the last of the words dissolved in to the thick slush under my feet, never to be heard. How had I got here? How long had I been here? What was this place with this endless expanse of thick mud? And what are these tress that grow impossibly tall in this place? Where are Amulya and Drishti? Where is everyone? Why does no one else call out?

Looking up, I once again saw the canopy of the tree tops that blocked out all but a small jagged piece of the sky. And in that jagged piece, I saw a vision. They were dead, they were all dead. Somewhere in this marshy forest, everyone I have ever known lies dead and buried. But how can that be? I was with them only just now. Amulya had just been initiated as an elder, and there was the big feast in the village, and the whole tribe was there. Even old Mandal. And then, it was back to the hut with Drishti. Funny, I can’t recall if we had sex or not. What happened then? How did I get here? And what was that vision just now? Why won’t my words fly?

I don’t think I can make words any more. Or maybe I should give it one last try. Maybe someone will see them too and come looking. Oh no, why are the strings turning ashen? I don’t even have my medicine bag, else I could have tried healing these vowels that are now bleeding yellow. I guess this is the end for them. And for me too, the vision makes that clear. I might as well let them all out.

What is that? I didn’t have that word! Is that even a word? I can’t tell, I grow weak, sinking in to the mud. It is creeping in to my eyes and dying letters are all around me. Except those few in the sky, dark against that jagged sky. I must know what they are. R… I… P?