India 2025 : Looking into the crystal ball

Pawas Bisht 

Everything is hazy ...everything surrounded by dense swirling mists. Franz Kafka's words float out of nowhere....

"Our job is to complete the negative; the positive has already been given to us." 

The words whisper and fade away. Some pictures rise into view ...snapshots ....of the unseen, of the unknown, of the awaited, perhaps, the dreaded, future. 

A surreal screen divided into four and on all of them a wobbly man is seen lighting lamps, cutting ribbons, and making speeches....the same man, at different places, and all the images carry a prominent 'live feed' icon in the corner. A pretty face appears in the fore ground , manages a pleasant half smile and an outlandish accent, " The 3D image projection technology has made life a whole lot easier for our premier. As you just witnessed, he can now honour all his conflicting commitments. All four images were 3D projections, which are absolutely life-like. Reportedly, the organizers of these functions are actually happier with the images. The reasons are quite simple, the image is a whole lot less wobbly than the original, has a clearer intonation and is not prone to fall into minutes long pauses in mid sentence. Apparently the arrangement suits the PM too, who is on one of his rural retreats, it gives him more time for poetry. He has reportedly sought advice from constitutional experts whether he can let his image replace him in the parliament sessions too." 

She fades away and the background morphs again into four. A saffron turban....trishul rants, an elegant black sherwani...refined curtsies. The same man. The same balancing act. 

Next, a newspaper headline floats in to sight, 

Clone sues Salman, claims compensation for "Prejudices harboured..." 

Mumbai, December 28 

Salman Khan's clone, Sal, filed a compensation suit against Salman, in Mumbai on Friday, for the "prejudices" that he has to suffer from, due to the notorious past actions of his 'father'. Apparently he has been thrown out of the big budget movie, Hum Apke Hain Clone? ,because Aishwarya Rai's clone has refused to work with him . Her apparent cause of discomfort is the violent and disastrous relationship that their 'donors' had. Sal is very disturbed by the fact that his character is being imputed all the ills of his predecessor and that he's not being judged for his own self. 

"I am...a mild mannered man, compassionate and ...yes...passionate about wild life !", he shouted at the press conference, pulling up his sleeves and pumping his fist violently in the air to, in an apparent effort to drive home his point. As he left in a huff, his publicity manager, added almost as an afterthought, sounding as anguished as his charge, "And he doesn't even know how to drive ...!" 

Thats what we were afraid of. 

A busy intersection floats in to focus. 

A red light. Digital Signals. Spotless roads. World class sedans, the sun gleaming off their flashy exteriors, reflecting a more prosperous , healthier India. Something moves into the frame, spoiling the composition and confounding the pleasant reflections .Something out of the history's grime, something hat doesn't quite fit .A small boy of about six or seven, clad in a blue shirt missing all the buttons but one, dutifully closed to prevent the shirt from falling off, patched khaki trousers torn at the knee, clutching an old rag in one hand. He gently approaches, a silvery grey Mercedes, with small determined steps, an unblemished smile of hope on his face and begins cleaning the window glasses. The lady inside, a new age woman, flaunting a palmtop and the attitude, takes little notice of his industrious doings .From time to time he glances up expectantly at the lady. His job finished he taps lightly at her window, she is busy in a conversation over the phone, the boy hesitatingly taps again. She keeps the phone down, and with a look of annoyance points to a wiper that he had not pushed back properly. The boy runs to do it . She reaches for her purse. Her hand approaches the button to lower down the windows. The boy waits with baited breath, the smile of expectant hope firmly in place .The signals change. The car zips off. The boy climbs onto the pavement to avoid the uncaring traffic. Behind him, towering huge over his head, a digital cutout, carrying the logo of a leading software institute, proclaims, every few seconds in bright red letters, "We Change Lives". 

He fades away in the haze, a solitary tear of bitterness burning its way down his cheek...  

Everything the same. The picture glossier, the grime and the crack lines easier to spot. Bigger , grander, but essentially the same, still an illusion. The passage of time reflected in the distance added between the twin realities that define India. This ball gazing business isn't very pleasant... 

A sudden warm glow fills the ball...the haze lifts suddenly... 

The warm orange of the sun going down amidst the sand dunes, the night breeze just beginning to pick up, the bells jingling on the necks of the camels being ridden back home, a small border village in Rajasthan. A bunch of about a dozen circular mud huts with thatched roofs, and small rectangular windows of bright light, piercing the growing gloom. The silvery solar panels, sticking out against the ochre roofs, making sure that little electric suns, light up each home as the real one drops off. The sound of splashing water comes from the centre of the village, a bunch of gay village girls, playfully splash water on each other, as they take home the last pitchers of water for the day. The gurgling water rushing through the tap has a strange music to it. More alien notes waft out of the only pucca building in the village. Inside, a bunch of men, women and children are sitting on the floor. On their rapt faces dance different shades of colour according to the glow of the computer screen in front of them. They are watching the latest Bollywood songs. Some little girls dance trying to imitate the actress on the screen. 

"Will you lower the sound ?", shouts an old lady standing in a corner, talking over the phone to her son in the city.... 

The colour and the sound fades out.... 

Now thats a dream worth reaching out for...

The one liberty that dreams allow you is to soar, without the fear of falling, but then you always have to remember to wake up, to make them come alive in your hands.

Kafka's words float into focus again...only they seemed changed, 

“Our job is to complete the positive, we’ve always had…”. 

The Hindustan Times National Essay Competition-2003 (Second Prize)