I have posed this question to her as well jokingly many a times before. I’m a very private person. But in her words, a “bloody f****** self obsessed freak”. Fine. If that’s it, that’s ME. And if that’s true, I don’t want to be a chapter in her book. I’d prefer a book on myself. An entire book.

Do I have the right to talk about “us” to others — what we do or what we did? She posed me the question today. And I have been not too happy after that. A little muddle-headed. Some by the after affects of Maxgalin (Pregabalin) prescribed for my back ache, and some by the question she posed to me. Probably, I don’t as she said, it involves her and I should seek her permission before telling anything to the world. Exactly, I have been posing this question to her — does she have the right to share “our” relationship with others, with Season and Someone sounding like Legal, but not Legal. I don’t know on what premise is the name kept as there’s no such word in the Hindi dictionary. Anyway, so she’s been telling Season and but not Legal, the intricacies of our relationship and get some queer ideas of a seasoned person.

What’s right and what’s wrong. I really don’t know. Only time will tell. Sometimes I wish I had never owned up my love for her. Wish, I had continued with my “state of denial.” Whether I have the right or does she have the right, I don’t know. But the ultimate TRUTH is that it’s going nowhere. TIll then, let me also go nowhere and close those minds which ask do I have the right and does she have the right. Ultimately it is going Nowhere.

An afterthought: Do I have the right to write all this too?

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यह बारकोड, कोड‍ १२८ में है, और अँग्रेज़ी मे् है। काफी कोशिश की, कि हिन्दी में बनाया जाये, किन्तु कोई भी औनलाईन वेबसाईट सॉफ्टवेयर, यूनीकोड को स्वीकार करने के लिये तैयार नहीं था।

बारकोड के आविष्कारक नौरमन वुडलैंड व बर्नार्ड सिल्वर ने अक्तूबर १९४९ में पहली बार बारकोड के एकस्व के लिए आवेदन किया, जो कि अक्तूबर ७, १९५२ में स्वीकार हुआ।

बारकोड एक प्रक्रिया या जिससे उपभोक्ता वस्तुओं की गुणवत्ता व उसके मूल्य, डिब्बाबन्दी की तिथी व अन्य जानकारी को मशिन द्वारा पढ़ा जा सकता है।

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मेरी छोटी भगिनी, यानी कि चाचाजी की पुत्री और चीड़ा की तस्वीरें

दादी, मेरे चाचा की माताजी, ने कहा, “अगर घर आ गया है तो चीड़े का पूजन तुम ही करो।”

मेरे लिये यह पहला अनुभव था। पता नहीं था कि क्या करना है। तो दादी ने समझाया और हो गया झटपट चीड़ा पूजन।

चीड़ा एक मिट्टी का गोल ढेला है जो कि अश्विन मास की सन्क्राती से १५ दिन पहले घर के आगे सुसज्जित कर दिया जाता है। उसके चारों तरफ जौ यानी कि जई बो दी जाती है और ढेले पर एक पत्थर की सिल रख कर उस पर अग्नि प्रजवल्लित कर दी जाती है।

भाद्रपद को काला मास माना जाता है। अतः मानयता है कि यह रौशनी देवताओं व पित्रों को राह दिखाने के लिए की जाती है। इन पन्द्रह दिनों में जौ काफी उग आते हैं। अश्विन मास की शुक्ल पक्ष की प्रतिपदा को इस चीड़े का पुनः पूजन किया जाता है।

जिस दिन चीड़ा लगाया जाता है उस दिन ग्राम व अन्य देवताओं का जागरा अथवा जगराता किया जाता है।

पूजन में नेऊज़ यानि की पूरी एवं फल फूल चढ़ाए जाते हैं। एवं पुनः सिल पर आग जला कर व धूप दिखा कर रौशन की जाती है। अगली सुबह चीड़े को गिरा दिया जाता है।

ये महिलाएं भाजपा महिला मोर्चा की सदस्या हैं। सामने बैठे हैं शिमला के विधायक व भाजपा के सदस्य श्री सुरेश भारद्वाज।

ये महिलाएं क्या कर रही हैं?
गाना गा रही हैं।

कौनसा गाना?
ऐ मालिक तेरे बन्दे हम, ऐसे हो हमारे करम।।।।

अब ये सोचने वाली बात है कि जिस तरह का माहौल बना है और जिस स्थिति में ये महिलाएं खड़ी हैं, उस से तो यही प्रतीत होता है कि ये भारद्वाज जी मालिक हैं, और उन्ही से ये गुहार लगा रही हैं कि उनके कर्मों पर अपनी रहमो करम नज़र बनाए रखें।

वैसे ये अवसर एक वृक्षारोपण का है। वृक्षारोपण कराया संत ज़विएर स्कूल, संजौली, शिमला, के छात्र-छात्राओं ने, और वाह वाही लूटी भाजपा की महिला मोर्चा ने। खैर ये सुअवसर देखने का मौका मिला, क्यूंकि ये वनमहोत्सव बिलकुल मेरे घर की बगल में मनाया गया। मैंने अपना कैमरा निकला और जुट गया काम पे। मोर्चा की महिलाओं ने समझा कि मैं किसी अखबार का छाया संवाददाता हूँ, तो हो गयी गुजारिश शुरू, “आप हमारा फोटू लीजिये, अखबार में हमारा फोटू भी आना चाहिए। आप उनका भी फोटू लीजिये।”

और स्कूली बच्चे?

उन्हें कौन पूछे। वे तो वहाँ ताली बजाने आये थे। खैर किसी को याद आया कि बच्चों ने अपने साथ नए पौधों पर लगाने के लिए नाम पटिका ला राखी हैं, तो उन्हें भी कुछ पौधे थमा दिए गए। और जो बिचारे नहीं लगा पाए, उन्हें काम सौंपा गया – पौधों को पानी देने का।

वैसे नेताजी ने अच्छा भाषण दिया, पर अफ़सोस यह कि भाषण सुनने के लिए केवल भाजपा महिला मोर्चा ही थी। बच्चों को वा[पिस कक्षाओं में पहले ही भेज दिया गया था।

नेताजी – भारद्वाजजी – ने देवदार के पेड़ों का महत्त्व समझाया और कहा कि ये बेमौसमी बरसात व साल-दर-साल कम होती बर्फ, पेड़ों के कम होने का नतीजा है। काश ये सब सुनने के लिए स्कूल के बच्चे होते, क्यूंकि, महिला मोर्चा का उद्देश्य तो केवल अखबार के पृष्ठ पर आना था, और भारद्वाज जी को अपना मालिक बताकर उन्हें प्रसन्न करने की चेष्टा थी।

इस वन महोत्सव का एक फायदा यह भी हुआ कि मेरे घर के पास काफी सफाई हो गयी। पर अफ़सोस, मंत्रीजी के पीठ पलटते ही, नाम पटिकाएं गायब हो गयी, और पौधों की तरफ किसी ने भी मुड़ कर नहीं देखा, कि वे जिंदा हैं, या उन्हें पानी की आवश्यकता है या नहीं। न ही स्कूली बच्चों में उन पेड़ों के प्रती कोई भावना जागृत की गयी।

वापिस फ़ोन घुमाया तो मालूम हुआ कि मेरी बड़ी नानी अपनी अंतिम साँसे गिन रही हैं। रात होते  होते खबर आई कि वे चल बसीं हैं। अब कल सुबह दोबारा गाँव जाऊंगा। वे नानाजी कि प्रथम पत्नी थीं। उनके अपने कोई संतान न होने के कारण नानाजी ने दूसरा विवाह किया था। मेरी माता व मातुल सभी छोटी नानी की संतान हैं। परन्तु उन्हें पाला पोसा बड़ी नानी ने ही था।  दोनों सौतनों में इतना अगाड़ प्रेम शायद ही किसी सौतनों में देखने को मिले। दोनों एक दूसरे के बिना शायद ही कभी रही हूँ। वे बहनें तो न थी पर प्रेम बहनों से बड़कर। कारण शायद यह भी हो सकता है कि १२ – १३ वर्ष कि आयु में वे ब्याह कर इस घर में आ गयी थी, और शुरू से ही बहनों कि तरह रह रही थीं। 

हृदय को सुकून है कि मैं उन से परसों मिला था। और काफी देर तक बातें की। उन्हें अन्य कुछ हितैशियों की तरह मेरे विवाह की चिंता थी।

खैर… मुझे करीब ८ वर्ष पूर्व का दृश्य स्मरण हो रहा है, जब मेरी दादी कि मृत्यु हुयी थी। कल वही दृश्य मेरे ननिहाल में दोहराया जायेगा। ८ वर्ष पूर्व मैंने जाना कि पहाड़ों में संगीत मृत्यु में भी रचा बसा है।

गाँव के किसी व्यक्ति को जिम्मेवारी सौंप दी जाती है कि दिवंगत व्यक्ति के परिजनों को फ़ोन या तार  द्वारा व्यक्ति के सिधारने की खबर पहुंचाई जाये। तत्पश्चात गाँव के गाँव उस गाँव चल देते हैं जहाँ का स्वर्ग सिधारने वाला व्यक्ति हो। जहां पर हमरे पहाड़ी वस्त्र कला लुप्त होती जा रही है, वह आज भी मृत्य में जीवंत हैं। यह पहाड़ी वस्त्र कला आज शादी विवाह वगैरा में भी शायद ही देखने को मिलें।

जहाँ पुरुष अपनी हिमाचली टोपियाँ अलमारियों से नकाल देंगे, वहीँ स्त्रियाँ भी डाठू, चपकन एवं गाची में मिलेंगी। व्यक्ती का पार्थिव शरीर आँगन में रख दिया जाता है। मेरी दादी, किसी गाँव कि अगर बुआ (बूबी) लगती थी तो किसी गाँव की मौसी। तो किसी की भान्जी तो किसी की पुत्री (दादी के मायके वाले)। अब ये सभी लोग टोली बना कर आये हैं। पुरुष और स्त्रियों की अलग टोलियाँ हैं।

ये टोलियाँ शोक प्रकट करने के लिए अपनी बारी का इंतज़ार कर रही हैं। हो सकता है की इन टोलियों में कोई व्यक्ती आपस में हंसी ठट्ठा भी कर रहे हों, परंतु अपनी बारी आते ही, शोकाकुल हो जाते हैं या शोकाकुल होने का प्रयत्न करते हैं।

इन चार-पांच पुरुषों की मेरी दादी बुआ लगती थी। अब वे मृत्यु शय्या के पास जा कर, अपने मस्तक पर हाथ रखते हुए या आँसू बहाने की चेष्टा करते हुए चिल्ला रहे हैं, “बूबिये बापे, केहे डे तू, मुको नाहीं दिशदे।” यानी कि बुआ और बाप में कोई फरक नहीं होता, मेरी बाप सामान बुआ, तुम कहाँ चली गयी हो, मुझे तुम दिखाई नहीं दे रही हो। वे करीब २ मिनट तक इसी तरह अपना शोक प्रकट करते हैं। ये सब गा कर बोला गया है। इसमें भी संगीत छुपा है।

अब दूसरी टोली की बारी है। पहली टोली शय्या के सामने से उठ कर अपने स्थान पर बैठ गई। दूसरी टोली आगे आ कर आवाज़ लगाती है, “माये, मौसिये ।।।” इस टोली की वे मौसी लगती थीं, वे मौसे को माँ का दर्जा देते हुए, उनके पृथ्वी त्यागने का शोक प्रकट करती हैं।

मैं पहले भी कई बार, कई व्यक्तियों कि अंतिम यात्रा में गया था, परन्तु वे सब शहर में थे। गाँव में किसी अंतिम यात्रा में जाने का पहला अवसर था, वह भी मेरी दादी का, अतः ये सभी रस्म रिवाज़ पहली बार देख पाया।

इसके बाद जब यह निश्चित कर दिया जाता है कि अब कोई टोली नहीं आने वाली और सभी निकट सम्बन्धी मौजूद हैं, शय्या को मरघट की ओर ले जाने के लिए उठाया जाता है। उस समय सभी लोग पुनः अपने अपने रिश्तों की दुहाई देते हुए आलाप करते हैं।

यह रात काफी कठिन है। मुझे नींद आना निश्चित नहीं है। अतः पुरानी स्मृतियों के वर्क खोल रहा हूँ। और यही दृश्य कल सुबह से ही देखने को मिल जायेगा। मम्मी-पापा जो दिल्ली से रात को शिमला के लिए चल पड़े हैं, उनके इंतज़ार में ये रात काटने के लिए ये सब लिख रहा हूँ।

मुझे याद है, कि गाँव में एक बूढी माता जी रहती थीं। उनहोंने मेरे समक्ष एक बार मेरी दादी से प्रार्थना की थी, कि उनके “मरने” पर वे सभी महिलायें जोर जोर से शोक आलाप करें। उन माताजी की मृत्यु के समय तो मैं गाँव में न था, और मुझे ज्ञात नहीं कि मेरी दादी ने अपने वचन को निभाया या नहीं, परन्तु मेरी दादी की मृत्यु के समय जो दृश्य था, उस से लगा, की अवश्य ही दादी ने अपना वचन निभाया होगा।

PUNCTUALITY REDEFINED

This picture was taken a year ago. The office (Oriental Insurance is just opposite Scandal Point, The Mall, Shimla).

The babus here, seem to be quite punctual and they’ll close shop exactly at 5:00 PM and other days exactly five minutes late. Has anybody tried their timings?

Anyway, to begin with, it was a June Sunday. Place: Delhi. Don’t remember well, if I’d cleared the college or was in the final year. But those were the days, when being a Theatre person was high on my agenda and was associated with Advait Theatrical Group – that thought of itself to be a revolutionary concept, with flying egos.

The Director-Founder of Advait was a dear friend in those days, and was four/five years my senior in college. We followed him, if not blindly, but followed him ardently and thought of ourselves as some philosophers who would change the literary world and the art world. Thank God we spared the society of that. Again why am I meandering? Because the story is all about meandering.

The pressure on me was though not too high to appear for the IAS exam but was certainly high on my friend. Let’s call him The Friend only. His parents were convinced that one day their son would leave his vagabond lifestyle and join the mainstream by being a high positioned bureaucrat in the Indian Civil Services. Had The Friend been serious, he would have certainly qualified. I never doubted his intellect, even still though his reckless life has made him sacrifice many friends. Yours truly being one. But that’s a problem with all artists I suppose, who are non-conformists.

On a Saturday night, we decided to stay at my place in RK Puram, as the centre of the exam – some Government School, near Sarai Rohilla Station (near Karol Bagh) – was closer to my home. I don’t remember if we boozed that night or not. But we did sleep late. By the time we woke up next morning, the Sunday, we knew that we were running late for the exam. We hired an auto-rickshaw for the centre and after every minute were looking at our watches. We had to find and trace out the centre too. We were exactly 20 minutes late. We found the classroom where we were supposed to be seated. The invigilator declared that he could have allowed leniency of 10 minutes only and 20 minutes was too much of a time as per the rules laid down by the UPSC (Union Public Service Commission – that conducts the civil services exams). While I was too happy to be late as that would have meant one chance lost – as I knew I had not prepared for the Preliminary exam and I stood no chance to clear it to go to the second round – The Mains. The Friend pleaded with excuses that we had come from Ghaziabad and the train was late to reach the Sarai Rohilla Station. The pleading fell on deaf ears. Later, The Friend told me, “I just wanted to quell my guilt feeling that I did not try.” He unlike me, was under pressure from his parents to appear for the exam.

So what next? We already were feeling the Delhi June heat. We couldn’t go home. As we should have been giving the exam. There were about two-three papers on the day with a lunch break and it was supposed to end at 5 PM. We would have to while away that time out. Even though a friend stayed quite nearby, we didn’t want his parents to know that we’d bunked the IAS exam. So for the mutual love of books we decided to go to Daryaganj – the biggest of the Sunday Market for second-hand books. After a ride on one of the deadly Redline buses (that plied on Delhi roads during those days) we were in Daryaganj in half an hour. The market runs across an approximately 1-km stretch and the heat was unbearable. Still we managed to cover the entire market, with our hands full of, if I’m not wrong, with only James Patrick Donleavy’s The Ginger Man. It had been just over a three quarters of an hour, and the heat had already drained me out and my back and knees too seemed to have lost their lubricant.

The stretch managed, what next? It was just 11 or 11:30 PM. A brilliant idea struck us. Remember not too much money was in our pockets that we could go to some restaurant. It was decided that we’ll watch some movie on a Rs 20 per ticket at Regal in Cannaught Place. The 12:30 PM show. Just about 10 minutes were left for the show, and there was madness for the tickets at the ticket counter. Delhi didn’t have multiplexes or the hep kind of theatres during those days. Priya Cinema and Chanakya were the only decent places. Anyway, back to Regal. The movie that was about to start was – I don’t remember the name – the like of Jawaani Ki Aag, or Jawaani Ki Dushman or Jawaani ki Bhool or Something Something, if you know what I mean.

We weren’t interested in the movie but to escape the Delhi summer for at least two hours, Regal seemed to be a good idea. But the good idea wasn’t that good as the tickets were being sold at a flat rate of Rs 50. That was too much for us. May be we had about Rs 100 put together in our pockets but still Rs 100 for a C/D grade movie was too much for our egos and the artistic fellows who were born to change the way how art was looked upon. We were after all theatre people.

Should we try out any other theatre? The shows ran across Delhi had fixed timings unlike the present days when movie-halls or the multiplexes run shows every half hour.

So what next? A little bit of loitering around in Cannaught Place and 50 paise wala machine ka thanda paani, we found ourselves under the shadow of khajoor type trees in the Jantar Mantar arena. We lay beneath one of the khajoor type trees, hardly a leaf for shadow. I still wonder why there aren’t any shady trees there. We talked for a while and tried to have a wink or two. But the Delhi summer wouldn’t let Lady Sleep come nearby. After every five minutes of silence we looked at our watches. These minutes seemed to be as hours. We tried hard to not to look at our watches. But couldn’t resist the temptation. There were a few middle-aged loafers – like us – there too trying to sleep, or just whiling away time. The only difference was that they were not future bureaucrats in the making and not come out to give an IAS exam. Nor were they the theatrewallas with fine sensibility and refinery for art. May be that was their life. One, pulled out a newspaper from where I don’t remember, opened each sheet and laid them down nicely on the grass to lay upon.

The Friend and me, tried to talk, philosophise or what else? But the sun seemed to have caught itself in the mires and designs and dials of Jantar Mantar. By the way, we paid Rs 5 each for an entry into the Jantar Mantar complex. How the loafers had got in, I’m not sure. They were beggars, I suppose. The newspaper man, said to the other, “Chal lunch karke aate hain, Bangla Shaib (a popular Gurudwara in Delhi and near) pe.” The plan didn’t seem to have gone down well with the other man. The newspaper man then followed it up with all kinds of abuses to the Sikhs, and then turned to us, “Buraa mat maanana Sahab, main bhee Sardaar hoon.” Must be a cut-Sard (Sikhs who have cut their hair and don’t wear a head-gear – the turban). Anyway we were least interested in finding out his background, except that there was some amusement going on for us to get us through the day. Then the newspaper man tried to offer us some sheets of the newspaper, which we politely declined, hoping that he doesn’t start his rant with us. “Main toh ek rupaiya ka paper isiliye khareedta hoon taaki aaraam se so sakoon.”

May be Lady Sleep pitied us and we managed to get some uneasy sleep for about 15 minutes, when our newspaper man shot out, “Bhai sahab, bhai sahab, teen baj gaye kya?” Startled we woke up and looked at our watches and nodded our heads in affirmation, still fearing to open our mouths lest the man starts a rant with us. That didn’t resist him, and asked, “Poocho mujhe kaise pata?” We didn’t try and answer him neither in words nor through our body or any expressions. Still, he answered, “Yeh aurat dekh rahe ho? Ye r**** hai r****. Theek teen baje aati hai yahaan pe. Har roj. Ek baar mujhe kehti, ‘50 rupaiya de, tera l***a c******gee’. Maine kaha, ‘hat s****…” followed by some other words, which cannot be put down in asterisks as well.

The woman got into some small talk with other men around, and soon came to this newspaper man. He too engaged her in small talk, while he looked at us with a smile and an expression, which probably said – See, I had told you. We thought that it was time for us to move out from the place.

We got up, loitered around Jantar Mantar and marvelling the historic place built by His Highness Sawai Jai Singh, – that was more appropriate for us, The Theatrewallas - and left the place. Soon we found ourselves behind Janpath Lane, where some Kashmiri boys were playing cricket. They were, I suppose, the local shop-keepers or who else, I’m not sure. Not to forget that we must have smoked about three packets of Charms cigarettes by then since morning. We smoked Charms those days. Charms with its denim look pack was a cult amongst the theatre people and the rebellious. “Charms is the spirit of freedom, Charms is the way you are” was its positioning statement those days. We weren’t trained in marketing fundas, hence we called the positioning statement as a ‘slogan’ only. Some years later, Charms changed its statement to “You’ll like the taste my friend.” The motto for us was over and we shifted to some other brands.

But again this is not the story about Charms. We saw the Kashmiri boys playing cricket, while trying to decipher what they were talking in their dialect. Around 4:15 PM, we thought that it was too much to bear and we could go home and tell our respective parents that we had finished the paper early, by about 4 PM and had left the venue in an auto-rickshaw for home. Tired, we took our ways. The Friend left for Noida from Janpath and I for RK Puram, not in an auto-rickshaw but in a bus hoping that it’ll trudge slowly picking up passengers on the way and give me a leeway time for little explanation at home. So I boarded the No 615 bus plying between Minto Road and JNU (Jawaharlal Nehru University). But against my prayers, the driver wanted to speed – but true to the character and nature of the Redline buses. On the way, some students of JNU hopped on to the bus. They were on their way back to their hostels after appearing for the IAS exam. So a bleak light that well the exam could be finished by this time – except that my centre was way far than theirs. I tried to gather the threads of their conversation – the questions they were discussing. So armed with some questions that had been asked in the exam, I rang on the door bell at about 4:45 PM.

Nobody asked me, why I was early, except, “Kaisaa hua?”

“Theek hee ho gaya,” I said.

Nobody again asked me what kind of questions had been asked, still I was eager to tell them – the questions I’d eaves dropped upon from the discussion between the JNU students.

Any regrets for not giving the exam? Not as of now, till may be my boss throws me out for non- performance during the economic slowdown and inability to get stories. That was a Midsummer Day’s Dream. I could have entitled the story that but then why vulgarise the copyrights of The Bard, Shakespeare; particularly when we were at that point of time, besides Advait, bringing out a literary magazine called – The Bard. So my due respects for the greatest ever playwright. We had just made an Ass of ourselves. Nothing else.

That’s the price I’m or everybody else is paying for the development and for a better future. The road from Shimla to Rohru is being converted into four-lane, hence we’ll have to bear with it. And may be till then (estimated two years), we’ll have to junk our cars.

However, what I don’t understand is why the stretch between Chharabra and Kufri and Kufri and Fagu is not being metalled. The widening of this stretch was completed many years ago. Even though a staunch Congress supporter, I’d come open in praise of BJP for its obsession with roads. I thought that the previous Congress government neglected the road to Rohru. However, it’s been more than a year, since the BJP came to power in the state (Himachal Pradesh), but the road is as bad as it can get. Worsening day by day. And the stretch between Shimla and Theog and to Rampur is supposed to be a National Highway (No 22, for the uninitiated).

But how about the roads in Shimla city itself. Pathetic is the word – that comes to my mind. Take the route from Victory Tunnel to Lakkar Bazaar and Sanjauli, and you’ll feel that you are in a surgical theatre and being passed through surgery without anesthesia. Shimla is not only the state capital but one of the tourist destinations, that attracts tourists not only from India but from abroad. Is this the image we let the tourists carry back home.

I’d like to request the Himachal government to please do the needful at the eraliest. I’ve been approached by many BJP men to convert, and if they want me to really convert, they’d have to show some good work. Till then it’ll be a choice between the more evil and the less evil.

Also that I’d criticised the former Chief Minister, Virbhadra Singh, for making visits to his constituency (Rohru) though helicopter. He surely wouldn’t like to take a bumpy ride at this age. But all – from both BJP and Congress – took the ariel route and land up in Sawra (Saraswati Nagar), to woo the voters. The prominent culprits are Thakur kaul Singh and Mohsina Kidwai (both from the Congress) and Prof prem Kumar Dhumal (from the BJP).

Even though a Congress-supporter, I’m still happy that Rohit Thakur )of the Congress) was given a boot by the electorate. He rided on big ego and no work. His refrain would be “Jagdish (Dulta) Mama se poocho. Unko batao.” Well, people did not vote for his “Jagdish Mama” but him. I’m not sure, how much work and promises, the MLA from Jubbal-Kotkhai, Mr Narender Baragta would be able to fulfil at the end of his term, but one thing I’m sure is of that he is a genial person and approachable and at least has an ear to listen to the woes of the common man. He’s a permanent for sure for the next term(s). The Congress has let its fort succumb to the BJP. There’s none from the Congress that can give a fight to Baragta. The only solution for Congress would be to do the the improbable (though not impossible) to lure Baragta to Congress.

There’s been enough speculation that in the parliamentary elections, Baragta’s influence might get Virender Kashyap the seat to the Centre. He might swing some votes in Upper Shimla, however, Baragata has little influence in Lower Shimla. More so, parliamnetray elections are a different ball game altogether. Even though I rue the fact that all MPs from Shimla in the past have come as a dud, whether be it KD Sultanpuri or be it Col Dhani Ram Shandil. They’ve done no work for their constituency. I doubt if they raised any questions during their term. All I know of is personal works – like getting a gas connection or a telephone connection or getting a government accomodation out of turn from the MP-quota (during the days when it was difficult to get connections and there was a quota). Overall, their mass work has been nill. And still I’m a Congress supporter. Why? I’ve to ask myself. But I have seen Virender Kashyap too doing little in his public life. His name crops up only during elections and is famous for losing all. He hasn’t learnt any lessons all this while and has done little to up his public image during the term between elections. He could have voiced concerns, participated in public debates and done some social work to remain alive in the public memory.

All I can say at this point of time is may the best person wish. My opinion doesn’t count as I am a registered voter in Delhi and cannot cast my vote in Himachal. But don’t take that lightly. I can for sure swing votes. So I’d leave it to the parties to lure me.