Min. gla. lar. par Myanmar

By Aswathy Kumar

 

It had been four days since I landed in the city of Yangon, Myanmar. Well two if I leave out the number of days I lay passed out in my king sized bed in my hotel suite. And who could blame me? I had travelled over 8000 miles at a stretch for the very first time in my life. I was jet lagged and thoroughly exhausted. I knew that the travel enthusiast in me was more than eager to step out of the extravagant cocoon that I lay in; It's colorful decals, dark wooden paneled walls and printed silk upholstery hardly bearing any resemblance to the chaotic streets of Yangon that lay stretched out in front of me. Except for a brief rendezvous through the glass windows of my pretentious suite, she lay untouched, unexplored and mysterious.

But I knew it had to wait. I had no reason to worry. After all I was no tourist here and my visa wasn't going to expire after 28 days. This was to be home for the next three years and there was no rush. And if Yangon was anything like the grey tarnished buildings I saw through my bedroom window, menacingly symbolic of the turmoil in its past, I knew I needed all the energy I could muster. Understanding her wasn't going to be easy. I could tell.

So after 36 hours of sleep, I was ready to finally find out what the city of Yangon had to offer. I knew she wouldn't disappoint. I had already caught a glimpse of her warmth as I stepped out of the airport into our hotel taxi. There were seven sets of hands that had gathered around us to help load our luggage into the backseat. I had experienced the same eagerness to help, back home in India. But unlike in India, here even clad inappropriately in leopard printed tights and a laced top, I neither felt intruded, threatened nor violated. There was no expectation of a heavy tip, instead just a sheer joy in helping out a foreigner, entering into their undiscovered land.

My faith in the Myanmar people was further reiterated a few days later as I lay by the pool at The Traders Hotel. I was still jet lagged and my daughter insisted on spending the afternoon by the pool. She gleefully splashed around as I lay disinterested glancing through 'The lonely planet'. A few seconds later, I saw that one of the hotel staff had quickly gone to her side to make sure she wasn't alone. He sat beside the pool in his tangerine colored polo and rust-brown shorts. I could tell he couldn't be anything older than 22 and entertaining a six year old was far from his list of duties or priorities. But he was there, crouching right next to her, giving her free swim lessons, fetching the paddle board for the umpteenth number of time and tapping her back as she accidently gulped a handful of the chlorine water? If this was DC, it would have cost me a hefty $30 tip and if it was India, I would have worried if he was nothing less of a perve. But not here. Despite its turbulent history, a strange sense of positivity, faith and trust surrounded me. 

I knew nothing about this serene, raw and spectacular city. My knowledge of the Myanmar cuisine, limited to the salty monk fish balls or Khao swe, I had at a local restaurant; it's language to mere two words, Min ga lar par (hello) and  Kyeizu be (thank you) that I had picked up from a collegue; Of its people, to the smiling longyi (the traditional sarong worn by both men and women) clad, sparsely mustached cab driver at the airport, to the Burmese girl with the thanaka ( a paste made from ground bark to protect the skin from the heat) smeared face selling fried quail eggs outside the Bogyoke Market or the friendly pool assistant who cheered on my little one as she showed off a new dive she had mastered. 

My knowledge of Myanmar was limited, hardly any. But it was enough and I knew I was going to be fine. I was home...Well almost!

Stuck between a nightmare and a dream! Reliving the Nairobi terror

By Aswathy Kumar

I'm stuck in between a nightmare and a dream

I'm paralyzed, Lord, I can't get free

Asleep or awake I just can't walk away

From all of my favorite memories

I'm stuck in between a nightmare and a dream

- Kyle Park

It was like any other saturday morning. The elaborate breakfast on the dining table of bacon, eggs and pancakes proved so. We were rushing. There was a 12 'o clock movie we wanted to catch. And as usual we were running late. 

My husband was in the shower and I could hear my nanny fussing over my daughter as she tried to tame her curls with innumerable butterfly clips. I was busy stuffing my bag with all the baby essentials.

Juice in case she gets thirsty

Biscuits in case she gets hungry

A jacket in case she gets cold

And a colouring book in case she gets bored

The day was going to be the usual. I could tell. First a movie at our favourite cinema hall, an extensive South Indian meal at Haandi Udipi, our favorite restaurant at the food court, a few hours of callously lounging around at the book store, sipping Java coffee and a quick stop at Nakumatt, the supermarket before leaving, to stock up on our weekly groceries.

As always the mall was packed. 'Now this is why I hate coming to this place. Parking is such a nightmare,' my husband complained as he made way between jam packed cars. I could not understand what he was stressing about. We came here every saturday and it was the same old story and we loved it anyway, with all it's chaos and charm.

  

For a change, we parked across the street, instead of our usual parking spot on the top level. There was something going on. I could see white tents adorned with colourful balloons and massive crowds gathered around. 'Must be something for kids,' I thought. I better not let my daughter see it cos she would want to spend the whole day there and I wasn't going to miss my movie.

Though I managed to steer clear of the tents, it was impossible to keep her away from the mini musical carousels that aligned one end of the food court. She had been here way too many times and very well knew where her favourite spots were. My husband made a face. The noisy rides that ate away all his stocked up coins annoyed him. 'We are going to miss the movie,' he warned me.

I knew I had to let her on the carousel. It was her favourite and not doing so would be criminal. 'Fine, I said but just one okay, while I go get the tickets,' I kissed her and my husband.

As I slowly walked away, I could see how ecstatic she was. My husband was loving it too, enjoying their little alone time together. Amidst the loud Katy Perry song that resounded in the background, I could hear the little tune the carousel made as it began to move up and down.I could see she was laughing now. Her tummy must be feeling ticklish and my husband sure must be adding to the fun by tickling it a little more.

That was the last thing I saw. Because then came darkness, a loud noise followed by a deafening silence.

I woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat. And for the first time in two years, I felt glad that I woke up in my cold apartment in DC, rather than my cosy house back in Nairobi that till date, I had called my home. Both my husband and my daughter lay peacefully right beside me. There was no noise except their silent breaths and the sound of the cicada coming from outside. 

It was three days since I had first read about the terror that broke out at Nairobi's Westgate mall. All our friends back in Nairobi were safe and I was miles and miles away from the horror. Yet I couldn't sleep and the nightmares wouldn't stop. I didn't know why? But I felt like a victim, felt I was right there in the midst of it all.

               

                    (The mini musical play area at Westgate)

When I had declared my feelings to a friend, she had rebuffed my fears, saying these things could happen anywhere and that the world had seen even bigger tragedies. And yes it sure has. But then what was it about this particular incident that traumatized me so much? I wondered. 

Was it the fact that I knew each and every corner of this particular mall? That each corner be it the movie theatre, home goods store or book shop, held a special place in my heart. Was it because it was at this mall, I first saw my daughter jump on a trampoline, the first time I ever gambled at a casino, the first time I entered a ball pit and the place where I bought my very first piece of kazuri jewelry. 

Westage was the first mall we visited after we moved to Nairobi and I still remember the strange sense of relief I felt as I walked into the upscale glittery complex. I still remember the joy I felt as I saw a couple of Gujarati women clad in saris pass by me, how I felt when I heard them whisper in Hindi. The happiness I felt when I saw an American at the next table in the food court being served a massive paper masala dosa or the poster of my favourite Bollywood actor plastered across the walls of the fancy cinema hall. I was miles away from my home in India and yet I felt as though I had a little piece of it, right there with me. 

    (The food court that housed one of our favourite eating joints in Nairobi)

Maybe it was all these memories. The number of gossips and laughs shared with my darling friends Lubna and Zara, innumerable casino nights with Santosh and Gayatri or movie sessions with Lini and Biju. Maybe it was because a little piece of me was still left behind, stuck somewhere in between.

Maybe it was just the fear of 'what if' or 'what could have been' that haunted me. Maybe it was the fact that every time I saw a photo of the ongoing terror, I searched for familiar faces. No one looked familiar, yet I felt like I knew them. The man in the light blue uniform could have been the one who billed me at Nakumatt; the little girl holding the shopping bag could have been the one who smiled at my daughter, the first time she nervously entered the ball pit; the lady in the red apron coud have been the one who served me my very first cappuccino when I first arrived in the city. 

This was my home, my people and always will be.  

I don't know why but I feel like I cannot breathe

I feel so paralyzed, 

As though I am stuck somewhere between a nightmare and a dream...

 (A stop at  Nakumatt, the supermarket and a cup of java coffee to go was always a must before exiting the mall)

Beyond the verses

<<I confirm the subscription of this blog to the Paperblog service under the usernameaswathykumar>>.

By Aswathy Kumar

I recently started volunteering at an NGO that educates and promotes the culture and heritage of Azerbaijan. I knew nothing aboutAzerbaijan and honestly when  I saw the job posting on the internet, I had to literally go online and find out its exact location. Okay! I agree, I am not proud of my ignorance especially since I consider myself to be among the intelligent group of women who literally dozes off in the company of those who can't think beyond their hair and nails. But this time I was guilty. Except for the fact that it was an Islamic country near Turkey, I knew nothing about this place.

So why did I apply? I must confess that the whole reason why I was online looking for opportunities was because I wanted to get out of my house. I was done being a housewife and it was time to get to work. And since I had to wait at least six months for a work permit, volunteering was the only option I had.

'So why Karabakh Foundation?' The director of the foundation sat across me asking me the reason I was there. I had the answer planned in my head. After all, I had rehearsed it a couple of times before my interview. I would brag about my journalistic experiences and the fact that I am a traveler who loves exploring new countries. I would talk about my experiences in Turkey and how it had fascinated me. I would show how desperately I wanted to know about this exotic country, I knew nothing about. But the only answer that I managed to utter was, 'I am fascinated with Islam?' My answer seemed to surprise me more that it seemed to have surprised the director.

As I walked back home, I kept replaying what I had said in my mind. 'I was fascinated with Islam?'  What did I mean?

The following week, I started working. I loved knowing about this new country. I learned about its rich cultural history. I learned all about the great works of Nasimi and Fuzuli. I learned about the Russo-Persian Wars. I learned about Shamakhi dancers depicted in Gagarin's paintings and how he compared these gypsy dancers from Shamakhi to the Indian Devdasis, who used dance as a sign of worship. I learnt all about the interesting Azeri cuisine which I felt had a lot in common with our Indian cuisine. I learnt how Azeris too use several spices like fennel, bay leaf and cinnamon used extensively in Indian cooking. Like Indians, dishes were cooked in earthen pots and copper ware. And both Indians and Azeris marinated their meats in yogurt, lemon and spices. The only difference however was that they did so for different reasons. While the Azerbaijanis believed that doing so would reduce the fat content in their food, for the Indians it was just to add extra flavor (let's admit it...we don't really care about our health now do we?)

In short, I was loving my new job. I was real excited when we had a big event at the foundation where we were welcoming the Ambassador of Azerbaijan to the United States, Elin Suleymanov. I felt happy to be in a work environment and stand with a notepad and a pen taking down notes. I met several interesting people that day and many had questioned my reason for joining the foundation. After all I was the only Indian there.  And every time anybody asked me,the only reason I could give them was that I was fascinated with Islam? I said it over and over again. But this time I could give them my reasons.

Celebrating Eid in Nairobi (2009)

It's true my book shelf was filled with books in the likes of 'The blood of flowers', 'writing on my forehead', 'almond', 'thousand splendid sons' amongst many other similar Muslim stories but there was something else that had drawn me towards it.

A few days later I sat in  an Indian friend's car trying to explain the reasons for my interest. But in just a matter of few seconds of mentioning, I was bombarded or should I say bullied with cliched terms like male dominance, women oppression, dogmas and religious intolerance.

Agreed there are a lot of things about this religion I dont understand, relate to or even agree with. But that goes the same for Hinduism or Christianity as far as I am concerned. When I say Islam fascinates me, it does not mean I agree that a man should be allowed to bring in another wife or I agree that a woman should not be given the freedom to show her face in public. No!

 What many don't understand or realize is that the religious aspect and the dogmas are  just a part of any religion.  But there  is a whole cultural part that many completely tend to ignore. After all isn't this the very same religion that has produced some of the greatest poets of all times like Rumi, Firdawsi and Hafiz. Isn't this the very same religion that has given us some of the most amazing architectural wonders...be it the Istiqlal Mosque in Jakarta or our very own Taj Mahal. Forget history and poetry...isn't this the very same religion that has given us the best of musicians, artists and painters our country has every known.

I am not a muslim and definitely no expert on Islam. And I do agree that there are many aspects about it that I don't approve. But that goes with any religion. I am a Hindu and proud of it. But that does not mean I agree with the whole concept of literally bribing god every time we want something done. Isn't that what happens in the famous temples in our country where offerings are made even in gold so that we get what we want.

Diwali 2011: With Zara and Lubna

For me when I think about Islam, all I can think of is my ever smiling burkha clad Zara back in Nairobi. A mother of three, a Somali yet with a child like innocence I had never seen before. When I think of Islam, I think about my Lubna, scrolling through the beaches of Mombasa clad in her Dolce Gabbana Mini skirt...full of energy, full of life. For all those who use synonyms like hatred and intolerance...let me tell you this...It is these women who taught me the meaning of love, courage, strength and friendship.

The truth about fiction

When novels become more than mere sheets of paper

By Aswathy Kumar

For a very long time I was never into books. Though I did read all the latest novels, I never understood what it was about a book that particularly appealed to a reader. For me they were mere pages with a few flowery words imprinted in them.

I tried my best to like books and made it a point to buy all the best sellers. Be it The Da Vinci Code, Paul Cohelo’s Alchemist or The Lord of the Rings series. But for some reason, I just couldn’t set my heart into any of it. I felt desperate! Was there something wrong with me? Was I stupid?  I knew I had to find what the problem was.

It was only much later that I realized that it was time I stopped listening to others and found out what it was that truly appealed to me. It was time to stop listening to my dad, my friends and my teachers and find out what it was, I really wanted.

I moved to Nairobi and received an opportunity to meet many interesting women from very different backgrounds and social upbringings. From Muslim women in Hijabs to struggling single working mothers, I interacted with the exploited labour class women in Nairobi and Somalian women who were victims of female circumcision. I met mothers fighting court cases for child support against abandoned fathers and women married to abusive husbands.

After listening to their hard hitting stories, I realized that it was time I came out from the fantasy world of super cops, goblins and make believe characters and delved into reality. I realized it was time I knew more about women and what they went through across the globe.

On one of my visits to the book shop, I picked out the book The Thousand Splendid Suns. It was about the lives of two Muslim women and I felt it was exactly what I was looking for. It will help me relive their suffering and help me understand their lives better. I couldn’t put it down, quite a refreshing change for someone who took months to finish a book.

In just a matter of few pages, the two main characters Mariam and Laila became a part of me. I felt for them, cried for them, prayed for them and felt the need to protect them. Every time Mariam experienced a blow from her husband, I felt it too, deep within my skin.  Every time Laila saw a hope to freedom, I hoped with her.

It’s after reading The Thousand Splendid Suns and other women interest’s fiction like Anita Amirrezvani’s The Blood Of Flowers, Malika Oufkir’s La Prissonniere, Thrity Umrigar’s The Space Between Us and many others that I realized that as a reader I wanted to read about the lives of other women in different parts of the world.

I wanted to read about characters that I could empathize with, about women I could laugh with, cry with; about women I could admire and feel for. I wanted to read not only about women I could identify with like the rebellious Saira in The Writing On My Forehead by Nafisa Haji but I also wanted to read about women who could inspire me like the courageous Malika Oufkir.

What was amazing was that most of these books were not autobiographies (except for La Prisonnere) and were mostly fiction. But even then the characters felt as real to me as anybody I met on a daily basis. The servant girl Bhima reminded me of the old maid who worked for my family in Delhi, the notorious Zeliha of The Bastard of Istanbul was almost exactly like a close friend of mine back in Kerala. Their stories were as real to me as any biography or any story that appeared on the morning newspaper. And I knew I had found what I was looking for. 

In a child's world!

By Aswathy Kumar



I still remember what my professor once said. I was amongst the thirty students to have been selected for the Journalism course at a leading institute in the city. That day, I was attending one of my first sessions on ‘ Writing for print’. After an hour of lecture on ‘adopting the pyramid style in writing’ and the ‘ simple is beautiful’ concept, my professor said, “If your story is able to capture a child’s interest, then it’s a success and your work is done”.

The lecture got over and months later I was placed in one of the top media houses. However unlike my peers who took up hardcore reporting, covering issues related to crime, civic sense and health, I was placed under a special section that dealt with schools and education. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed as I too like my friends was looking forward to getting into the kurta- jhola attire and take up the ‘living on the edge’ way of life. That did not happen. My clientele were students from the age of seven to seventeen. My job was to talk to them, find out what they wanted and write stories they wished to read. The pay was good and the brand name was great. Yet I was disappointed. I felt that my job was a bit too easy and lacked the challenge that I was all this while waiting for. Little did I know then that in a couple of days, I was going to be proved completely wrong and realise that my so-called easy job for children was after all no child’s-play.

A mega inter- school quiz competition was held in the city that happened to be my first major reporting assignment. Over five thousand students from class III to XII had gathered to witness the mega show. Flying pom-poms high up in the air and yelling out slogans, “we’ll rock you” and “we are the best”, the students stormed the once-peaceful auditorium.

I felt great flaunting my press pass and being escorted to the seats reserved for the press invites. I felt at the top of the world as though I had just received my first few minutes of fame. The show began as I scribbled the course of events in my note pad. I told the organisers that I wished to speak to the winners and in just a couple of minutes they were brought in front of me. Like a parrot that had just learnt to say her first word; they shared their experience. (Probably told to them by their teacher or parents). ‘Oh it was a great opportunity to develop my inner skills’, ‘This success wouldn’t have been possible without my parents and teachers’, ‘ I can never forget this moment”, were amongst a few obvious reactions. The funny thing was that all the five winners seemed to have similar things to say. I came back to office and keyed in my story… that obviously turned out to be quite a disaster.

What went wrong I wondered? Were my questions not right? Were the students too tensed? Did my presence scare them? Or was I scared of it all ? A thousand doubts lingered in my mind. The story was rejected and I was asked to cover the finals to be held the following week. “This time don’t go there as a reporter, go there as a child”, my editor yelled out from her cabin.

What did she mean? I pondered. The following week I geared up to undertake the challenge once again. This time I knew I had to get it right. Flaunting my press card and occupying the seat for the press invites were no longer my concern. I decided to stand in line with the students as they were entering the auditorium.

“I can’t wait to see my school win, we have sent the best this time”, commented one of the kids. “ Hey we worked day and night to get our banner ready and we even practiced our cheerings and slogans”, said another. They were gripped by the excitement and didn’t seem to notice the stranger (that’s me) standing beside them making notes of what they were saying. The excitement grew on me too as I started asking them more about the preparations that went in making the evening, a memorable one. I learnt that, from practicing a victory dance to preparing their own cheering slogans, they were all set for the event. I captured their excitement, anxiety, fear, nervousness and restlessness. After a while even taking down points wasn’t necessary. I laughed with them, cheered with them and got tensed with them as the results were being announced. I had forgotton that I was working for one of the leading national dailies in the country. I forgot that I was a reporter. I was one among them.

As I went backstage to congratulate the winners, I felt their joy as they showed off their trophies. “Aditi is going to be so proud of me”, said one of the winners, referring to the cute girl in his class. “I guess this would change her mind”, he smiled sheepishly. “ I bet she would”, I said, giving him the thumps-up sign.

I went back to my office to do my story one more time, recalling each incident that happened and each moment I had captured. The story was great and went straight on page 6 (quite an achievement for a first timer). But my biggest achievement however came when a student called up to say that the article was great. Even the boy who had a crush on the cute-girl in the class rang up to say that she finally accepted his proposal and thanked me for making things easy for him.

As I sat back in my chair, basking in the joy of my big achievement, I remembered what my professor had once said, “If your story is able to capture a child’s interest, then it’s a success and your work is done”. I knew I had tasted my first dollop of success.

Agar yeh Dilli hota….

By Aswathy Kumar

When people ask me which part of the country I belong to, the first city that comes to my mind is Dilli. Okay I am a pure-bred hard core Malayali…no doubt about that. But I have always felt a strange connection to Delhi. I have lived there only seven years as compared to 18 years that I spent in my home town of Thiruvanathapuram, but still when I exit the Indira Gandhi International Airport and into the sea of aggressive taxi walas and honking cars I experience a strange feeling of welcome…that I am finally home.

A little bit of Delhi aggression is what the city of Nairobi need

Agreed… It’s not easy to love Delhi. I myself  was never a big fan of the scorching heat that always give you the feeling that you are down with a viral or the peak winters that pinch at your skin every time you step out of the house. The over-crowded DTC buses that with a vengeance refuse to stop at the swanky glittery bus-stops, the auto-rickshaws that never care two hoots about traffic rules, the street hawkers that swarm your car every time you halt at the red light and the similar looking houses that practically stick to each other are all things that you love to hate about Delhi. And working for a department where your main job is to report a stooping electricity pole, a potholed road, illegal parking and encroachments…loving Delhi was even more difficult for someone like me.

So you can imagine my excitement when my husband told me that we were moving to Nairobi. I was more than happy to bid adieu to our water-less house in Shivalik, the dingy kitchen that overlooked the wall of the next house and our sardar neighbor who happily parked one his five cars outside our gate every single day.

Life was going to be great…away from the madness, the pollution and the ever-so impatient Delhiites. Or so I thought?

Now what do I say about Nairobi? It’s picturesque, serene, great weather…a perfect blend of a quaint hill station and a metropolitan…a cosmo city surrounded by the rawness of the savannah. More than for its sheer beauty I was glad that I no longer had to run to the the Kooda wala every morning with the garbage bag or lie flat on the ground to see if water was filling up in my bore well (Yup! my landlord forgot to instill a direct-line tap and this was the only way to know when we got our share of municipal water).

In Nairobi I have a beautiful house, some good neighbors who never fail to show up at my doorstep with a plate of cupcakes or other mouth-watering African delicacies and most importantly some peace and quiet after a very long time.

But just a few days in this calm city and I realized that maybe it was not what I wanted after all. I missed Delhi, the arrogant rickshaw drivers outside Malviya Nagar, the ever-so annoying noise made by the subzi walas and mostly the streets of Delhi where everybody considered themselves to be somebody important. I missed the chaos, the noise and the madness.

Nairobi is great…The problem however for a crazy Delhiite like me starts when you leave the four walls of my apartments and into the city roads….These main roads of Nairobi, measuring just about 6mts in width are mostly single lane… Agar yeh Dilli hota (If this was Delhi), these so-called roads might have been rightly referred to as galis aka alleyways. But here…they are the main roads, the only ones leading you to you required destination.

Another striking feature of this city which is almost undigestible for a Delhiite like me is how the cars here can stand in a line for hours and hours, patiently waiting for every single person in front to find an apt parking space or finish a call on his mobile or even chat with a fellow driver passing by.

Believe me here in Nairobi you might be rushing to a hospital emergency or a job interview that might determine what your future holds for you. But if the person in front of you decides to go at 20kmh…then all you do is simply follow. You don’t honk, show no sign of aggression but simply tag along. It’s these times when I get stuck behind some laid back driver moving at snail pace on a practically empty road that I wish that I was back in Delhi.

Kyun ki Agar yeh Dilli hota…firstly there wouldn’t have been the question of waiting…coz if this was Delhi, a flyover would have sprung up at every corner…so that you don’t get stuck behind morons who don’t even know the basics of driving…or secondly…if this was Delhi and you were driving like you have all the time in this world, the person behind you would have zoomed ahead and gotten down to teach you a few essentials of driving in his unique Dilli Ishtyle,…lessons you wouldn’t even dare forget.

I recently read somewhere that the best way to solve the traffic problem in Nairobi is to legalize road rage and I couldn’t agree more…A little bit of Dilli-agresssion is exactly what this city needs to help wake up from its slumber…

Litter-ally Speaking!

By Aswathy Kumar

I recently developed this new and rather sinful habit of munching every two hours…I would start snacking on a pack of crisps exactly two hours after my breakfast, a packet of chocolate cookies post lunch or a sandwich a few hrs after tea time and so on. A heavy meal, an uninteresting snack or the fear of bloating up just couldn't dissuade me from pursuing my new-found hobby.
The extent of munching would however aggravate post-work, when I would get into my car to head back home after a long hectic day. I stay in Malviya Nagar by the way and my daily route stretches from my office in ITO through India Gate, Shahjahan Road, Khan Market, Lodi Road, Def Col, South Extn, Hauz Khas and finally to my home sweet home in Shivalik, Malviya Nagar.
Coming back to my problem, the minute I touch the ITO red light I would tear upon a packet of crisps, biscuits or bite into an apple depending on what I had chosen to pack in my bag early morning…and start the munching act. Being a fast eater, the session usually comes to an end by the time I reach India Gate. And that's when the mind boggling question arises…Where to dump the litter? The most obvious choice would have been to fling it out on the road…
Now trust me when I tell you this…I am not the kind of person you will see dumping piles and piles of garbage inside my bag as I am so anti-littering on the roads. I am a good citizen. There is no doubt about that. But I am also a Delhiite and dumping garbage on the road is my birth right.
But however in this case I was pretty badly stuck. I just could not get myself to dirtying the posh and elite roads outside India Gate, Shahjahan Road or for that matter Lodi Road. It was as though a strange power had take over me, stopping me from doing what had almost become a habit for us Delhiites. But I just couldn't. I felt guilty and ashamed for even thinking that I could mess up the pristine surroundings of this beautiful part of our city.
What was even more strange was how this habit returned the minute I reached the crowded streets of Def Colony or South Exe. Believe it or not but I did not even feel a pang of guilt for throwing the wrapper right outside my colony gates in Malviya Nagar. In fact I was more than happy to have gotten rid of the garbage that I have holding onto since the time I reached the India Gate red light.
That's what got me thinking? What was the reason behind my strange behavior? What was that power that had stopped me from littering at the picturesque surroundings at India Gate? Was I scared that somebody must be watching or that I will be fined or something? Or was it that the little voice in my head made me realize that what I was doing was wrong? I understood that it was indeed my conscience that had prevented me from doing the shameful act. Nobody else had dumped garbage on the road, then why should I?

Oh my god, did I just find the solution to the major litter problem in our city?