Gandhi - 'da UltiMate Coder'

Gandhi - da UltiMate Coder

A man is born free, but his freedom is short-lived. A man without a name is a free creature in true sense, with no bias attached to him. He is stripped off of his freedom at a certain day after his birth - when he gets a name and enters into the cruel world of discrimination. His name, henceforth, will indicate his religion, his ethnicity, his nationality, his culture and the prejudices attached to them. Different days of a week will treat him differently, according to his name. If the name is John, Sunday are for Worshiping, and if it's Abdul, Fridays are sacred. Seafood will be his favorite, if the name is Sudipto or he will be a complete vegetarian if the name ends with Sharma. These names even provide general information about physical appearance. How often you come across a Yoshi, who is six feet tall, or a Sunil who is white? It won't be difficult to guess that a Turner likes baseball but a Surendra is a die hard fan of cricket. These prejudices come free with the name and stay attached to the person forever.

He was also born free, but got his set of bias on the sixth day. Unfortunately, he got a worse lot, as he was named, Gandhi Gupta. It was a weird name at the very first place. Technically speaking, not even a name in true sense, but a combination of two common surnames. Being Gupta was not a problem, but the problem was with his first name, Gandhi. The day he got admission in school, the registrar cross-checked his name twice.

His school days were not easy. His name attracted everyone's attention. No matter how average he performed, his teachers always knew him. His name was even discussed at length in his absence. But that was not a problem, the problem was to face all mundane questions followed by his introduction. 'What? can you repeat your name?', 'Who gave you this name?', 'Isn't Gandhi your surname?', were usually the first reactions. He learned to answer them patiently. Unfortunately, it was not the end of his troubles either. His classmates wished him on October 2nd, and mimicked a gun-firing on January 30th. He was rumored to be bald, just like the Gandhi printed on indian currency. He was asked to carry a stick. 'Slap on one cheek and he will offer you the other', was another common joke that he had to listen several times a day. On many occasions, he was asked to wear only Dhoti and not the western outfit. He often returned home with a dull face. His mother used to assure him, 'With time, everything will be fine.'

He survived the trauma of the primary schooling, and with time, got used to it. The second phase of torment began soon afterwards, and surprisingly at his own home. He was always asked to live up to his name. His lies were not tolerated, he was supposed to control his anger and behave like the real Gandhi, the father of nation. A person that was loved by the entire nation, but hated by Gandhi Gupta. All the time, he wished for another name.

He joined an engineering college and aspired to become a software engineer. The college, unlike his school, was a better place. The ragging was a mere repetition of his early school days, but he was well-prepared. Soon the ragging days were over, and he got new friends and a new name. He created his facebook profile in the name of 'da UltiMate Coder', to show his inclination towards software and obviously to get rid of the Gandhi attached to him. Apart from the occasional teasing from his old friends, he had successfully freed himself from the Gandhi, ironically this freedom was also achieved without any violence.

His inclination towards software stayed with him for long time. He mastered the art of programming and grasped the intricate concepts of Computer Science. His friends sought his help for all kinds of programming assignments. He was really good at living up to his name. Fortunately, this time he was not forced to do so.

It was no surprise that he grabbed the best job the very first day of the campus placement. The interview panel was impressed with his programming skills and in depth knowledge of his field

When everyone around him secured a job, the college became an entirely different place, at least for Gandhi aka 'da UltiMate Coder'. He had been spending most of his time in computer labs for the last couple of years. After a job in hand, and a cheerful environment around, he was relaxed just like his friends.

One day his friends arranged a party, and he was offered a cigarette.

'Cigarette! But I don't smoke', Gandhi exclaimed.

'Abbe! Kar le... why gandhi-giri all of a sudden?', one of his friend insisted.

'Even Gandhi-ji had his share of fun in South Africa...', the other one winked.

And there was Gandhi, smoking his first cigarette. It was tough, apart from the nausea from inhaling large intake of smoke, there was something else that was troubling him. He realized that the Gandhi in his name had never actually left him. It was a scary thought, all pranks and jokes regarding Gandhi, that he had faced earlier came alive. It was a spine-chilling thought. His conscience was forcing him to follow the same person he had hated all his life. His freedom was at the stake. He had to overcome his feelings. His determination gave him extra strength, and in-spite of initial coughing, he finished his first cigarette. What a fun that was! It was followed by another round of smoking and multiple rounds of drinking alcohol.

The night lasted for long time, and the next day was even longer. He had severe head-up. Although he was well aware of all sorts of potential malfunctioning in a computer, he was new to hang-over. He was also feeling guilty about the last night, and in his pain, he started reading about his namesake. So far, his only association with the father of the nation was to share the name, carry currency with half-naked but smiling Gandhi on it and be butt of the every joke originally targeted at the real Gandhi. His hatred made him skip the history pages where the cursed name was mentioned. He seldom participated in events at August 15th and January 26th. He often bunked the school on October 2nd. Unlike the real Gandhi, he never had the courage to face his enemy.

He was relieved to find out that his friends were right about Gandhi's younger days. 'da UltiMate Coder' felt much better after reading about incidents of Gandhi's smoking. The guilt vanished and a  treaty became effective. 'The real Gandhi was not a born saint. He had his share of fun, so could I',  he concluded.

The ceasefire lasted for couple of years. There was no room for cruel name-jokes in a professional life. He was known to his colleague only for his skills and not for his weird name. His moral also permitted him occasional boozing, as he once settled in the college. His mother was right about time. With time, he had learned to coexist with his worst enemy – his name. Ironically, it was the time, that gave him another set of worries.

He had a lucrative job, and a settled life. He was working with one of the software giants, his dream company. Everything was well organized. There was nothing much to challenge him. The tasks assigned to him were trivial. His days at office were long and boring. Despite of his regular activities at social networking sites, he had ample time to do nothing. He spent most of the spare time reading about  his namesake. His hidden curiosity to know more about the bias attached to his name was motivating him. He had started questioning his existence. He had done nothing significant in his life so far. He hadn't even used his voting right once. Never did he witness flag hoisting on national holidays. He was also aware of the fact that his treaty would expire any time in the future. Like young M.K. Gandhi, he had been having normal life so far, but for how long. The burden of greatness was waiting for him to accept responsibility.

He had several rounds of arguments with himself. 'Not all persons named Sachin, hit centuries. Neither do all Bhagat Singhs die for the country', his basic arguments never held enough water. Somewhere deep inside, he wanted to do something special. Maybe it was his old habit of living up to the name, he was craving for fame and meaning in his life. He once dreamt of having initiated a youth movement, against the government. It was a wonderful feeling, but it didn't last long. Soon, he felt over burdened and stopped thinking about it.

'Greatness doesn't come with a name. It's a pure need-based phenomena. There is a hero, because there is a devil and not because the hero is named a hero.', he once argued. 'We live in a free world, there is no foreign government to oppose to, no rules against Indians. We don't need a new Gandhi today', he concluded. His reasoning was valid for couple of days until he reflected over the news section. Blood shed over the demand of a new state, regular terrorist attacks, another hike in fuel prices, irregularities in public construction work, 'Man! A hero is never out of demand.', He couldn't deny existence of the true need.

No matter what was the need of the nation, he badly needed better reasoning against his conscience. His name, was trying to force him the heroism that he was not ready to accept. He needed an escape route. Another keen reading of M.K. Gandhi's life, and he came up with a new theory, a better one this time.

His namesake was born in a slave country. M. K. Gandhi witnessed the injustice for long time. Only when he was kicked out of a railway compartment, he got the vision for his life. It was all hazy in the beginning, but gradually shaped in the form of true Gandhism. 'Thus, greatness is a time-dependent phenomena. The vision gets better with time and one refines the theories after testing them over time...'

'That's it... I should wait for the real kick, the moment meant for my glory...Till then I am fine...' It was a soothing thought. He was relived again. He got convinced that his moment would come one day. 'I should probably go to Australia, and face cruel racism... I will resist, without violence, and set another example of Gandhism'. What a day dreamer Gandhi Gupta was!

The harmony lasted for sometime, and his latest reasonings were strongly defending the fort, until the day he heard about a rally against the nuclear liability bill. The Bhopal gas tragedy had been revived by  Media, there was social outcry against injustice. Some clauses in the newly proposed liability bill would provide more shielding to industry owners. A group of socially aware citizens organized a rally and called for participation. As soon as Gandhi read about the rally, he knew his moment had arrived. He would join the rally, and later the group. With the group, he would organize more rallies across the nation. He would be the front-runner of the protest - fighting on behalf of common men, fasting for a social cause, bearing resistance from the violent police. He knew that the government would yield one day, and would make necessary changes in the bill. The plan was simple. His greatness was in his reach.

The rally was supposed to start on Sunday morning around 7 am from a location far from Gandhi's apartment. He calculated that he would need around one hour to reach there and another 20-30 minutes to get ready. He planned to get-up around 5:30 in the morning, and set the alarm. He had the most peaceful sleep that saturday night. He was going to find the meaning of his life the very next day.

The morning came rather unceremoniously. He was half awake when he realized that the alarm was disturbing him. He looked at the time, and suddenly recalled about the rally. 'Maybe next time...', he decided and slept again. He was right, his time hadn't yet arrived.

Freedom

Ameya was preparing for his speech for the independence-day celebration. He had been exempted to attend last two class periods so that he could mug-up the typical my-country-is-great stuff. He had to sit away from his class-mates, in the practice sheds next to the school play ground. For that he had to walk across the school playground in scorching sun. Although the rainy season had hit Mumbai, yet some days were horribly humid. Those were few of those days.

Ameya never liked all this speech business, but it gave him a good excuse to bunk the boring classes. And these practice sessions were not that boring either. There were different groups of students preparing for different functions. One group of students was rehearsing for a short play on Jaliyawala-Bagh, other bunch was reciting Vande-Matram again and again, and there were bunch of kids dancing on different odd tunes, ranging from ‘Yeh Desh hai Veer Jawano Ka’  to ‘It happens only in India’. Music was generally not allowed in school, but on few of those occasions, exceptions were observed, and Ameya, like all other kids, waited for all those exceptions.

As the independence-day was approaching, the practice sessions were becoming intense and rigorous. Ameya was not sure of his speech, but he had memorized dialogues of General Dyer by that time. A group of teachers were invigilating the efforts. One teacher approached Ameya and asked him to deliver his speech without looking into his sheet. Ameya went pale, it was like running in the scorching sun, running across the playground, his throat became sour and sweat flooded across his face. He wasn’t sure about his speech yet. There were many difficult words in that. Yet he started blabbering. He was half way through, and the school bell struck. The school bell came as a rescue signal, as it always appeared to him. He promised the teacher to learn the speech by heart the next day, and fled outside.

The school bell had rescued almost every other kid from one trouble or another. All were wildly happy and rushing outside. The silence of typical mid-day was being ransacked by excited kids; everyone else was just a mute spectator. The watchman, the teachers and the sun, the excitement of kids had shadowed everyone else. And then rung another bell, it was not as loud as the school bell, but it gave another wave of impulse to already excited children. It was the ice-cream vendor.

As it turned out, it was not the normal milk-ice-cream vendor, it was burf-ka-gola waala. Like all other kids, Baraf ka gola was Ameya’s all time favorite. He had a big sweet tooth for the crushed ice with different flavors of sweet as well as colorful sherbet. He always waited for local ice-cream vendor daily after school days. Few kids were already standing on the side-railing of the vendor's cart and staring at the ice-cream crushing zestfully while other kids were vigorously attempting to have a gaze of the whole procedure. The vendor, pleased with his enthusiastic audience, was performing the whole process with full devotion and concentration. He first broke an ice-bar into smaller chunks and started grinding a chunk with his crusher, a small manually operated machine that looked very similar to the one used for crushing sugar-canes. The kids were watching the entire procedure in awestruck admiration keeping an eye on colorful bottles of sherbet. Red one would be every one's favorite; hence there were generally two red bottles, one at each side of the crusher. Green and yellow were other sherbets. After shaping the crushed ice into a sphere on a thin piece of stick, the vendor poured colorful nectar, forming jig-jag shapes. Finally a pinch of spice or coconut powder consummated the process. Every kid would know these steps by heart and love to watch them again and again, reminding the vendor to put some extra red sherbet or coconut powder. Even Ameya would have done it, but that day Ameya just watched him. He was given strict instructions to avoid eating any cold stuff. He was asked to keep his throat perfect for his speech. He counted the remaining days and walked past the vendor.

The day finally arrived. The morning was the most colorful morning one could expect in a school, and Ameya’s school was not an exemption. It was decorated well. The chief guest was about to arrive. Kids, who were going to present exercise, were standing in queues. Every teacher was supervising the assigned tasks. From stage management to seating arrangement, everything was under control. Patriotic songs were being played on loud speaker. Kids, who were not performing in any function, were being seated and hushed again and again by the staff. The kids under the practice sheds were the most nervous. They were repeating their steps/roles. Ameya was still not sure about his speech. His speech was just after flag-hoisting.

The chief guest, a prominent political figure, arrived in time and delivered a fabulous speech after flag hoisting. He narrated the whole concept of nationality with such zeal and enthusiasm that a wave of patriotism went past everyone. Everyone felt proud of being Indian. He re-iterated sacrifices of freedom fighters. He narrated the dreams of our great leaders and envisaged the dreams of progressive nation. Everyone had already listened to these speeches many times in past, but every time the same words instigated a different vigor in them. The whole atmosphere became patriotic and the chief guest concluded his speech with a round of heavy applause.

Ameya’s speech was next. He almost had a panic attack once he reached the stage. He never expected every single student to turn up for the day. To make the matter worse, everyone was staring at him. He started anyways, and after a few blabbering, he gained his pace. He suddenly realized that he could have Burf-Ka-Gola, that day onwards. The thought itself amused him, and gave new life to his words. He recited every single word he learned earlier. The greatness of country, the dreams, the progress, the equality, the bond, the diversity, the unity… everything came out smoothly. The crowd enjoyed it and his burden of the much awaited moment was relieved from him. The overall celebration went fine and chocolates were distributed among children.

Ameya, was waiting for his ice-cream treat. He had waited for burf-ka-gola for last two weeks. That day he truly achieved freedom, like the nation. He felt happy and rushed outside. But there was no ice-cream vendor. Other kids were also waiting for him. All of them waited for their familiar ice-cream vendor for long time, but he never turned up.

Kids got disappointed for next couple of days. The ice-cream vendor had suddenly disappeared, disappointing his restless fan-following. Every single kid missed his presence.

It was later became known that the ice-cream vendor, a Sharma-ji from UP, was beaten up to death by the followers of the same politician who was the chief-guest of the function. According to the party policies, Mumbai belongs to local guys; there is no notation of nation, when it comes to working in Mumbai. Like other petty workers from other states, the ice-cream vendor faced the fury of politically disillusioned mob. He was penalized to work in his own country, unfortunately on the same day the country was celebrating its freedom.