A Power Cut in Delhi

The power cuts were more common than cellular network problems in those days, even in the heart of the capital city of India – New Delhi. I was eight or nine years old, and the only hobby I had (still have) is observing people and imagining things. I used to imagine a different world, filled with mountains and lakes whenever I watched the sky. I had this habit of cooking up strange stories and imagining them as they are real. I never wrote or spoke about my self cooked fables to anyone. I feel like keeping them to myself.

But he was different.

Though we had many similarities and we share hell lot of things, like our name. His name was Atul Sharma, and my name is Atul Khanna. I used to call him Atul bhaiya as he was six years elder to me, and he used to call Khanna sahib, no matter how younger I was to him. Apart from having the same name, we both love to cook stories and to imagine things. But the significant difference between us was, he knew how to make use of his stories. He was an ardent reader like me, but he wanted to be an actor.

While having another power cut, all my friends and some neighbors were gathered in the park of society. My friends invited me to that gossip session, but I was a bit late. When I reached there with a torch in my hand, I saw around twenty boys and girls from our society gathered around Atul bhaiya. He was bending a bit leftwards, with his right hand on his waist and a little twig between his teeth. He was delivering one of the famous dialogues of Mr Amitabh Bachchan in is own way.

"Aaj mere paas bangla hai, gaadhi hai, bank balance hai, tumhare paas kya hai khanna sahib, hain?" And everyone just clapped and looked at me.

I was just mesmerized by the way he delivered that dialogue. It was just amazing. His style, his way of delivering that dialogue was just out of this world. It looked like I was watching a professional actor acting in a play.

After coming out of the world of my thoughts, I replied – "Mere paas Maa hai." And everyone laughed.

That guy deserved to be an actor, a storyteller. Unlike me, he knew how to showcase his creativity.

As time flew, we both lost contact. Atul Bhaiya completed his diploma in mass communication but unable to find a job in that sector. He joined a BPO like many others, after shutting down his dreams in a secret room.  

At that time I was in college, pursuing my degree in commerce, and still figuring out what to do in my life.

So finally, like Atul bhaiya and many others, I also joined the swarm and started working in a BPO. I can't forget that late-night shifts and early morning cabs.

One day, around eleven in the night, I de-boarded the office shuttle near Atul Bhaiya's house. I was hell tired. I had a rough day. My manager scolded me and called me dumb in front of the whole team. Though it was a daily activity, it used to hurt me equally, both emotionally and mentally.

I saw Atul bhaiya standing in his balcony. I saw him and tried to smile. He waved at me and asked me how I was. I smiled and waved him back without saying anything. Honestly, I couldn't. I saw his eyes tired. Maybe he saw the same tiredness in my eyes.

After six months or so, we had to sell that house for various reasons, and we shifted to the other corner of the city. I had lost my job soon after that (again for multiple reasons) and started working as a freelancer. I translate books, monthly and annual magazines from English to Hindi and vice-versa.

Yesterday, I had to submit a physical copy of the Hindi translation of a self-published book by a self-acclaimed, best-selling author. His office was around a mile away from my old house, where I had spent my whole childhood. After submitting the copy and getting a cheque of thirty-two hundred bucks, I started my scooter and decided to visit my old society. I covered my mouth and nose with a mask because of this silly pandemic all around, and also, I didn't want my old neighbors to be able to recognize me.

I parked the scooter in front of the old departmental store. I bought a cigarette from there. The owner tried hard to recognize me but failed. I came outside and lit the cigarette after removing the mask. I was standing under the peepul tree near Atul bhaiya's house. My old house was visible from there.

"How are you, Khanna Sahib?" I recognized that voice. All the dialogues from the era of the 70's and 80's Hindi films were ringing in my head but in Atul bhaiya's voice. Those power cuts and long-lasting chit chat sessions, every memory of my childhood, was in front of my eyes.

I crushed the cigarette butt from my right shoe and turned around. Atul Bhaiya was standing in the balcony, wearing a white t-shirt, smiling at me. His hair was a bit less than shoulder length. His Bicep muscle was bulging out of his t-shirt when he waved at me. He was not looking a day older than when I saw him four years back.

"How are you, Atul Bhaiya?" I replied with a shivery voice.

He didn't reply. He just stood there, looking at me lovingly and smiling his heart out.

"Arey Atul, How are you, buddy?" I heard the voice from the other side of the street. It was Prakhar Raheja, my old friend from society. I waved at him, and he called me to the other side.

I turned back to see Atul Bhaiya, but he was not there.

I crossed the street, absentmindedly. Prakhar hugged me and invited me to his house. I politely denied, so we decided to sit on two random parked bikes and have a thoughtful conversation. He asked about my parents, my wife, and why I didn't invite him to my marriage.

The conversation shifted to some childhood incidents and those power cuts and long-lasting gossip sessions with friends.

And then we talked about Atul Bhaiya and his golden Bachchan's Dialogues.

"Man, He was just amazing in his craft," I said.

"Yes, brother, and more than that, he was the gem of a person. I miss those days. And I miss him." He replied.

"Yeah, man, I just saw him standing in the balcony like half an hour back. He still looks the same, Muscular, Happy, and ever-smiling." I said.

Suddenly I saw Prakhar's facial expressions changed all of a sudden. It looked like His eyes were about to come out of their sockets. I smelled something fishy there.

"Atul, wait a minute." He gestured me to sit on the bike.

"Atul Bhaiya committed suicide two years back. The reason is still mysterious and unclear. And I believe that you know this very well."

I saw darkness took me over as I fainted. But the last thing I saw before closing my eyes was Atul bhaiya smiling at me.

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Dear Sushant, I'm Sorry...

My Dear Friends

I’m writing this letter not to talk about some spiritual, Psychological or a fictional stuff. I’m not going to talk about five simple ways to do this or to do that. I’m writing this letter to just put all my emotions into this space and express myself as honestly I can.

On 14^th of June, 2020, A well known Hindi film actor, Sushant Singh Rajput found dead in his flat . Now people might say that everyday a dozen of people commit suicide, so why am I talking about him only, if I’m going to talk about suicide? Well, Let’s read on to discover.

Whenever I see that guy’s interview, I don’t see a superstar. I see myself. I see a guy who is working hard to make his place in an industry where a few families are ruling since generations. I see that vulnerability which I find in the eyes of the people like you and me. A person who believes that hard work is the key. A guy, who tries to fit in a place where he never belonged to. I see a common man, who loves to express himself, his creativity to the mass.

I understand that stardom is the part of this field, I’m not denying it, but why is it so that it is enjoyed by only a handful of people? Why is it so that the reward of all your hardwork is measured by the idiotic and scripted awards? Why is it so that the level of your creativity is measured by your six-pack abs or the kind of sensual scenes one is performing on the screen? Why is it so that one’s fame is measured by how many chat shows he or she is attending, sitting around a coffee table and uttering nonsense?

What I believe is, films are nothing but a larger medium to tell your stories, nothing more and nothing less. Just like other mediums of story telling, one has a capability to connect with one’s audience. But everything, in film making is done at a much larger level.

The question arises here, that how and why the hell all this nonsense stuff enter into this industry? If I may answer this question, I’ll suggest you to stand up and walk towards the mirror and you’ll see the person who is actually responsible for all this. Yes, you are responsible. I’m responsible. We all are responsible. As an audience, we failed in understanding the genuine creativity and talent. You and me are responsible for a person’s death. Just because, as slaves, we are serving a handful of people, generation after generation. We are responsible for his death because we demanded item numbers instead of good stories. We ran behind those so called celebrities the privildged ones for autographs and photographs. We ardently watch those idiotic stories in the form of television serials whose name begins with letter “k”. Or some of the movies with repetitive stuff, where the protagonist removes his shirt, showing off his bulging muscles and beating up the antagonist.

Who is demanding all this? Who is enjoying all this? You and me.

Who has made these star kids great? You and me?

We need to understand that in the face of giving a story a commercial angle, they are controlling our minds and ruining our lives.

And in all this, who is suffering the most? The people who are climbing up the ladder of the hierarchy with all their hard work and in return what they are getting? Criticism from the people who are far less creative, but more privilidged. Not only that, those handful of people are trying to boycott his cinema and keeping him under their knees.

See, It is you and me who have created these common people celebrities. Yes, that’s the bad news. But the good news is, You and me together can genuinely take that fame and that feeling of a celebrity from some one in couple on months. That will be the true answer to the people who have controlled our mind, our thought process from so long.

Everytime I close my eyes, I see his face, His vulnerable face.

This time Sushant has lost his life, Next time there can be someone else.

This time it was film industry, next time may be it will happen in some other industry.

This will not stop unless we get back to our senses and start appericiating the deserving one not the one who came from the back door.

At Last, as an audience, I deeply apologize to Sushant. I failed as an audience to see and appereciate your talent.

I’ll see you at some other realm, some other time, watching you play some more characters. And in that story, there will be a happy ending.

Om Shanti: