Thursday, September 28, 2006

NAXALISM: (H) At Dantewada

Posing for the Press: Bunty, Self, Chhabin

For the first time since the Congress defeat in the winter of 2003, I return to Papa’s Waterloo: Bastar. The visit is not premeditated. Late last afternoon, LK suggested paying obeisance before the primordial goddess Dantesvari in the township named after her, Dantewada; having nothing better to do, I agreed. The road isn’t what it used to be three years ago: potholes mar its increasingly moon-like surface; it becomes virtually nonexistent during the climb to Keshkal; and the construction of the bridge across the river Eeb, which was to have become operational in March 2004, shows no signs of being completed in the near future. The eighty-kilometer Jagdalpur-Geedam stretch is much worse, so we are advised to leave no later than 4 a.m. in order to make it in time for the 6 a.m. aarti. On the way, I see pilgrims by the hundreds walk on either side of the road; some of them are running.

At the temple-complex, Mr. Mahendra Karma’s two sons, Bunty and Chhabin, meet me. Bunty is the Chairman of the local municipality and Chhabin is the District Panchayat Chairman. We perform aarti together. Later, Bunty invites me to his house, which is adjacent to the temple. It overlooks the confluence of the Shankani and Dankani rivers. The names of both rivers are a part of almost all tantric mantras (incantations). Bunty’s house is called Hawa Mahal because it occupies the highest point (altitude) in Dantewada. I am told that it used to be the residence of the Prime Minister of the Maharaja of Jagdalpur. To my eyes, it looks like an idyllic colonial resort. The most obvious reminder of where I am- at the mouth of central India’s bloodiest war zone- comes from the fact that like everything else here, it is heavily guarded.

The Press has come to talk to me. Over cups of excellent ginger-tea, I tell them that both Mr. Karma and my father share a common goal: betterment of tribals, and the development of Chhattisgarh. As far as Bastar is concerned, both these objectives can be accomplished by following a Five-point program: (1) returning the ownership of the forests to the tribals by passage of the Tribal Bill (pending now before Parliament); (2) resumption of the Bodhghat Hydel Power project; (3) operationalization of the Raoghat iron ore mines; (4) construction of the Dondi-Lohara- Jagdalpur- Dantewada railway line; and (5) the setting up of steel plants (NMDC, Tata, Essar) after ensuring that tribals are given due compensation and a stake, in the form of company shares, in their common Fate. As far as Salwa Judum is concerned, I believe that while the thinking behind this effort is indeed creditable, the fact is that the Raman Singh Government has failed to protect the lives and property of tribals, who have been forcibly evicted from lands they have lived on for thousands of years and packed into makeshift camps, where they continue to live in inhuman conditions. I end by saying that both leaders might have certain differences of opinions, which are only natural, but they remain firmly united under the leadership of Mrs. Sonia Gandhi.
With Bunty Karma: Comrades-in-arms.

Before returning to Jagdalpur (where I have lunch with the erstwhile Royal Family at their Palace), I pose with Mr. Karma’s two sons. The press photographers are only too pleased. I promise them that I will return soon.

A friend- S.- I had hoped to spend time with hasn’t quite woken up, even at 4 p.m. Next time perhaps?

AJ Read More (आगे और पढ़ें)......

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Photo Feature: At Tushar's Studio

This evening Anuj Sharma, Amit Tiwari, Vijay Nijhawan, and this blogger dropped by Tushar Waghela's studio in Durg. While Tushar was still grappling with his Adam- the Cave hasn't left the poor creature yet- we decided to do "a portrait of an artist (Tushar) at his studio". This is what we managed to come up with.

"A Portrait of An Artist at his Studio", c. 2006. Oil on canvas by Anuj Sharma, Amit Tiwari, Vijay Nijhawan, Amit Aishwarya Jogi

The Artists Pose with their Work

AJ Read More (आगे और पढ़ें)......

Saturday, September 16, 2006

CHHATTISGARH: Has The Opposition Failed?

The silence of the Congress- most notably, its charismatic SJ leader- is deafening: there is a widespread feeling not only among the general public, but also Congress workers, that the Opposition in the state has been, for lack of a better word, 'bought'. It is not entirely unmerited. I was reading the text of Mr. Karma's speech in the Vidhan Sabha: concluding the debate to a motion condemning this government's failure to protect tribal lives at its 'base-camp' at Errabore, the LoP said that "this is a mere political stunt...but I must demand your (CM's) resignation." That speech, which ought to have been highlighted more in the media, was less of an attack, and more of an apology.

His role in securing land for the Essar and Tata projects is even less ambiguous: together with the local Collector, Mr. Karma has been instrumental in directly getting gram-sabhas to give their lands for the setting up of these industries. Not that there is much need for gram-sabhas: if he has his way, all villages in the area will be automatically evacuated, as the villagers will be herded into 'base-camps'. Indeed, that seems to be the more effective way of securing lands for the mega-industries.

While on the subject of SJ, a film-crew recently filmed a so-called people's rally. Mr. Karma, wearing a blue t-shirt and cargo pants, is telling the camera just how much the people love him: "look- from how far they have come to see me!" On either side of the road, tribals walked in rows. Armed personnel were escorting them. At the site of the rally itself, tribals are packed in a barbed wires-and-wood enclosure- a human sheep-pen, really- before a makeshift stage. Of course, they are subjected to a rigorous security-check, metal detectors and all, before being let in. The people's leader takes the stage. He takes out a piece of paper from his shirt-pocket, and begins to read names of people from a list. For a while I think he is acknowledging the prominent persons of that area, as is customary. Then suddenly his tone changes: "I know these persons are here," he warns in Gondi, "and you are all protecting them." Now he is positively fuming: "if you don't hand them over to us, we will..." Well, you get the drift. His armed friends certainly do: rifles are suddenly pointed at the crowd. I can think of no other Congress leader- ostensibly emulating Gandhi's satyagraha- get away with this.

Anyone who dares to speak out against this Terreur is considered a Naxalite, and therefore, fair game for the SPOs (the official name for Mr. K's private army). Not surprisingly, not many people do: after all, not all of them have the comfort of a Z-plus security cover. A CRPF officer posted in Jagdalpur had this to say about our local officers: "they don't give a damn about Naxalites or the tribals as long as the money keeps pouring in." Money that is being siphoned-off by the sack-full in the name of keeping 60,000 tribes in SJ 'base-camps'. What possible right has the government got to keep them there when it cannot even protect their lives?

Talking to them, I get the feeling that they are a page out of Conrad: modern day Marlows who have come in search of the megalomaniac-merchant Kurtz in what is our version of 'the heart of darkness'. The greatest risk in waging war- of any kind- is that more often than not, we turn out to be like our enemies.

I happened to come across two BJP MLAs recently. They were both from Bastar. Like Mr Karma, they weren't subtle: "no one listens to us, not even our own government". I asked them why. They look at me as if I've just landed from Mars. "Karma," they said, "is the CM of Bastar." This is quite plausible, and in keeping with the CM's feudal style of governing: as overlord, he has parceled off parts of his kingdom between his notable feudatories. For all facts and purposes, his writ prevails only in Kawardha (his home district). During a recent visit to see the flood-relief work, the local Minister Mr Kedar Kashyap was hounded by an angry mob at a village in Konta block. Mr Karma heroically jumped to his defense. While departing, the crowds hurled stones at his helicopter. It is the duty of the CM to come to defend his ministers. Mr. Karma seems to think that the principle of collective responsibility includes the LoP as well.

During the last Vidhan Sabha session, when his own deputy cornered the Finance Minister on the allotment of Raoghat iron-ore mines to certain private parties, the LoP was moved to tell him to 'shut up'. Instances of the entire Opposition staging walkouts, minus its Leader, are too many to be recounted here. More recently, when a tribal woman lost two of her children- aged 5 and 3- to starvation within a day of each other, the LoP didn't say a word. I would like to think of all this as Mr. Karma's large-heartedness, even statesmanship: after all, what's the point in opposing everything? However, the fact that under his leadership, the Opposition has failed to bring even one no-confidence motion in the House so far points to one of the two things: one, the Government has been exemplary in all respects; or two, the Opposition - and its leader- have failed.

For the record, my father too isn't exactly in favour of ensuring that Bastar goes on being a glorified 'human-zoo' indefinitely. Development is an inevitability. However it is also true that so far the tribal experience with development has been dismal: it has made them more vulnerable, led to their displacement, not just physical but also cultural, and increased their exploitation. The rally- led by Mr. Manish Kunjam, the only leader there who has been vociferous in his opposition to Essar, in which over 20,000 tribals participated, but which for some reason didn't make it to the morning newspapers- demanding that displaced tribals be allotted a stake in the company instead of merely compensation and benefits, deserves our fullest support. In fact this demand should have been part of the original MoUs between the state government and the two companies. Why these documents have not been made public, is beyond me. Why Mr. Karma hasn't demanded that they be made public is even more perplexing.

The only saving grace is this: in a candid admission, the CM has said that there isn't room for any more steel-plants: these MoUs have in effect established corporate monopolies over the mineral resources of the state; monopolies in which neither the state nor its people will have any say.

Given all this, the fate of Chhattisgarh-tribals seems doomed: they will meet their ends, through displacement, apathy, starvation or the bullet. And in the case of Dantewada tribes, all of the above. We can only make noises. But is anyone listening?

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Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Feasting, Fasting: The Deaths of Photo Bai's Children

This article was translated into Hindi and published in the 'Haribhoomi' newspaper (18.9.2006) and Lokmaya magazine (September, 2006)

It would be wrong to call Baloda a tribal village: cable television dish antennas perched atop multistoried rooftops signify a habitation on the threshold of urbanity. Perhaps, the strongest evidence of its relatively recent rural antecedence comes from the communal nomenclature still in use to identify its various localities: upon turning left from the Gandhi chowk, one enters the ‘Soni basti’. As the name suggests, this is where people from the ‘sunaar’ (lit: goldsmith) community live. Continue to walk on the narrow concrete pathway, and one is in the ‘Mussalman mohalla’. Cement-houses interspersed every now and then by a grocery shop line up either side of the pathway.

Outside one such house, I pass by a group of youngsters. One of them wishes ‘Good evening, bhaiya.’ Pleasantly surprised at hearing the Queen’s tongue spoken in the Chhattisgarhi heartland, I stop to talk with them. They are second-year B.Com. students, returning from the local private college. ‘The biggest problem in Baloda,’ they tell me, ‘is the daily ten-hour long power-cut at 6 p.m. sharp.’ One of the girls adds rather poignantly: ‘we miss all our favorite television shows.’ After offering my sympathies, I ask them how much farther is Photo bai’s house. ‘Oh,’ a boy replies pointing his hand further down the pathway, ‘it’s right over there.’

And so it is: at the edge of Baloda, next to a little greenish pond, beyond which lie fields of paddy and the jungle. It isn’t really a house: just a two-room mud hut. The roof is made of used jute sacks with a heavy topping of what I imagine is hay. Photo bai’s brother-in-law’s family occupies one of the rooms. The other is home to Photo bai and her four surviving children. The rest- Amrit, a boy aged five, and Ahilya, his three year old sister- died last week. To be more precise: they died within three days of each other. It has been alleged that they died of starvation. At my father’s behest, I have come to offer my condolences. More importantly, I have come to investigate.

It’s obvious that Photo bai, squatting next to her mother-in-law (who lives with her son in the next room), is uneasy: the blinding flash of cameras, the crowds, the incessant chattering, the persistent drizzle of perspiration from bodies packed above paradoxically make her even more withdrawn. Cocooned in a hard-to-penetrate steely silence. I squat beside her.

Her face is draped in a thin-cotton dupatta. I steal a sideways-glimpse: her eye-sockets are hollow. Directly beneath her skin is bone. I tell her that I can empathize with her loss: after all, I too have lost a sister. I don’t know if she understands any of it. In an effort to make her feel less uncomfortable, I ask a few women workers accompanying me to talk to her on my behalf. I also keep a tape-recorder on, so that I can listen to what she has to say later, when the din is over.

From the ensuing discussion conducted over the din, I learn that last ‘asadh’ (July), after she gave birth to her youngest son Ganesh- who sits in her lap, plucking at my shirt-buttons with wiry fingers- her husband left her. She doesn’t know where he went, but it is easy to guess that any talk of her husband makes her angry. She makes a living by going to the forest to collect wood. She calls it ‘majdoori’ (lit: labor). A pile of wood sells for anything between Rs.15-20. That’s how much she makes in a day. Or at least on those days when there’s no rain. Unfortunately, for her, it rained all of last week. Food soon ran out. Amrit was the first to go. Then two days later, the three-year-old Ahilya followed. Neither was taken to the local primary healthcare centre.

After their deaths, a local official visited Photo bai. He gave her a 3-rupee card, which entitles her to below poverty line (BPL) benefits. He also left a bag of rice. For some curious reason, this bag lies unopened. The PCC President, who visited her a day before, gave her two pillows and a mattress (also unused). The local MLA, who is also a parliamentary secretary in the present government, gave her Rs. 350. The PCC President gave her Rs. 10,000. I too request everyone present to contribute. We collect about Rs. 13,500, which I hand over to her. The cameras flash. The crowd, fighting to get into the lenses’ frame, claps. It doesn’t make any difference to her.

While leaving, I decide to chat with her son Ashish, who is sitting alone in the dark room. I ask him what he’s had for lunch. He is more forthcoming than his mother. He tells me that the only meal he has everyday is at school as part of the mid-day meal scheme; sometimes he manages to bring some food for his elder sister Kusum, who doesn’t attend school. I ask him why? ‘Someone has to stay back,’ he explains in a tone that suggests that I’ve asked a very stupid question, ‘to do domestic chores.’ When I get up to go, I notice that Ashish isn’t alone. Ganesh, the infant who was plucking at my shirt-buttons, is now fast asleep.

I then stop by the brother-in-law’s room. His wife is also there. It is as bare as Photo bai’s, and without the pillows. There is a little bulb dangling outside the door. He has a 6-rupee ration card. He asks me for money.

At a crossroad, there is a cemented chowpal with a mike. People, mostly women, are sitting on the ground in front of it. Youngsters stand in the back. This is the tribal-harijan basti. The women want to tell me something. One of the women comes forward. She points to a desi sharaab bhatti (country liquor brewery) to my left. ‘That bhatti,’ she complains, ‘is ruining our lives.’ I also receive applications. They can be broadly sorted into two categories: requests to be included as recipients of old age widow pensions, and BPL ration-cards.

When I reach the Gandhi chowk, I come across a group of five women. They are from Jumni, a village that is two-hours’ walking distance from Baloda. Next to them, lie five bundles of wood. They’ve had no buyers today. It’s already 5:30 p.m. If they leave now, they will get home only after sunset.

At the rest house, where party-workers have gathered, Mr. Siyaram Kaushik from Bilha, one of the 6 MLAs who I accompanied, says that ‘Photo bai ké bacchon ki maut né is sarkar ki photo kheech di hai’ (lit: the death of Photo bai’s children has taken a photo of this government). He is visibly agitated. Thakur Balram Singh, the MLA from Takhatpur, warns that unless my father’s demand that Photo bai be given a compensation of Rs. 500,000, a house and a government job is met, they will not allow the Vidhan Sabha to work.

I also say my piece, citing Yudhisthr’s encounter with the lake-yaksha from the Mahabharat. The yaksha of the lake tells Yudhisthtr that unless he answers his question, he will not be allowed to draw water. Yudhisthr agrees. ‘What is the greatest sadness in the world,’ asks the yaksha. Yudhistr replies, ‘the death of a young child while the parents are alive.’ Yudhishtr is permitted to not only take water for his ailing mother Kunti, but also manages to restore his four other Pandava-brothers, who have all been turned to stone, to life. If only the diety of the pond next to Photo bai's hut could do the same?

I go on to quote a Kabir couplet, my father’s favorite: “nirbal ko na sataiye jaaki moti aah, maré chaam ki aah se lauh bhasm ho jaaye.” It translates as ‘don’t trouble the weak for their cry is powerful, even iron melts from the fire of a blow-pipe made of dead skin.’ Photo bai’s children didn’t die, I tell them. They were killed because of this government’s abject apathy towards the poor and the downtrodden: the greater sin is not that this government let Photo bai’s children die of starvation but that it continues to deny the cause of those deaths.

I want to say much more, but I don’t. Instead I telephone Papa on the way back to Bilaspur, and give him a blow-by-blow account of what I saw and felt. I tell him that I am upset. Upset at the people of Baloda and at our society. In fact I am more than upset: I am positively angry. They- no, We- stood by in silence while Photo bai’s children died, one after the other. Even if the government had failed to do what it ought to have done, does that excuse society from its duty to look after those at its peripheries? Papa agrees: ‘when I was young, and even though we were poor,’ he says mournfully, ‘we didn’t allow anyone in our village to die of hunger.’ The BJP spokeswoman claims that the Congress’ allegation of Photo bai’s children’s starvation deaths is an attack on motherly-nature: a mother, she says, will die first before letting her children starve to death.

I can sense it: we are all of us ashamed. That is why it has been so painful for me to write about this. As Salman Rushdie says in his novel Shame: if we don’t talk about it, we are riddled with guilt; and when we do, we invite shame upon ourselves. Whichever way we look at it, there’s no denying it: the starvation deaths of Photo bai’s children are our collective shame.

September 11, 2006
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Thursday, September 07, 2006

SHOWCASE: The Art of Tushar Waghela- II

A lot of people have asked me about Tushar's previous works: apparently, they didn't buy my premise that he is a just-Fallen Adam! Well, in response to these requests, I am posting some of his earlier work- 23, to be precise- most of which are from the "Buddha Series". This time however, I will refrain from writing about them, and instead let the paintings speak for themselves. Also, Tushar's biodata appears at the bottom of these paintings.

Thank you all for your interest.

























Biodata: Tushar Waghela

Born: 6 Jan. 1975 , DURG, Chhattisgarh , India

Education :

Master of Arts in Philosophy ( UNIVERSITY: RSU Raipur, India. )

Solo Show:

Galerie Cupillard , Grenoble , France 2005

Jehangir Art Gallery , Mumbai 2002

Bajaj Art Gallery Mumbai 1999

Mahakaushal Art Gallery,Raipur 1997

Group Show:

Mahakaushal Art Gallery, Raipur.1997

Mahakaushal Art Gallery, Raipur.1998

Artist from M.P at Moksh Art Gallery,Bombay 1999

Birla Academy of Art and Culture,Bombay 1999

Mahakaushal Art Gallery, Raipur.1999

Art Stream Art Gallery,U.K 2000

Mahakaushal Art Gallery Raipur.2000

'Artist from Chhattisgarh',Raipur, Organized by Fine Art Society 2001

Sadhana - Shanti (India Festival, Germany ), Organized by Aorta Cultural Association, Germany - Stiff Wilhelm Lehmbruck Museum, Duisburg, 2001

- BBk Kunstforum , Dusseldorf

- Fraun Museum, Bonn

Kala Academy , Panaji, Goa,2002

Find Your Home Organized by Aorta Cultural Association, Germany , 2002

Pegsas Art Gallery , Hyderabad 2002, Organized by ' Reflection Of Another Day'


Town Hall, Raipur 2003

Shrishti Art Gallery , Hyderabad, 2006


Raza Award Exhibition 1997 Bhopal

All India Art Exhibition Mahakausal Kala Parisad

South Central Zone Art Exhibition 1999, 2000 Nagpur

'Madhya Pradesh Kala Prdarshani' Devlalikar Kala Vithika,Indore, organized by Madhya Pradesh Kala Parisad

'Artist from Chhattisgarh' Organized by Chhattisgarh Govt. Department of Culture , Chhattisgarh.



- Chhattisgarh Vidhan Sabha Bhavan, Raipur

- Chhattisgarh Mantralaya Bhavan, Raipur

- ACC Cement Plant , Jamul , Bhilai

- Ministry of Panchayat And Rural Devlopement , Chhattisgarh

- Jansampark Nirdeshalaya , Chhattisgarh

- Ministry of Culture

- Ghasidas Museam , Raipur

- Aort Kulture e. V., Duisburg , Germany

- India, Japan , USA , UK

Tushar Waghela ,

N - 1 , Adarsh Nagar , Durg , Chhattisgarh , 491001 India

Tel . Resi : 91 - 788 2324754 Mbl: 09827187897

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Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Film Recommendation: LAGÉ RAHO MUNNABHAI

Every once in a while, there comes a movie which makes you feel good about yourself: suddenly, the possibility that we can all be better human beings becomes all so real, if only for the next two days. And then, when the feeling seems to be getting stale- movies after all are make-believe- you go again and watch that film. Over and over again.

Frank Capra did it with Mr Smith Goes To Washington and The Lost Horizon. Spielberg worked that magic by reviving the child in all of us with ET. More recently, there was As Good As It Gets. But that's Hollywood. In European cinema, Kieslowski's Three Colors trilogy stands out. Such films are rarer still in India, more so Bollywood. Hrishikesh Mukherjee's Anand was definitely one such film. Now, after a gap of over three decades comes Lage Raho Munnabhai.

I will not discuss the film here. But if you do not leave whatever it is you're doing and rush to the nearest cinema-hall near you, then you are really missing out on one helluva an experience.

Remember: don't walk. RUN!


Post Script:

For a full film review by this blogger, click HERE. Read More (आगे और पढ़ें)......

Friday, September 01, 2006


A young filmmaker recently asked me about adapting the Marquis de Sade to Indian cinema. This is what I wrote him.

Dear R.S.,

About the Marquis, I believe there is a film about him- Hollywood ishtyle, of course- with Geoffrey Rush: pitting him on head-on collision with the Holy Roman Catholic Church has the effect of accentuating his 'work'; in the end, he succeeds in posthumously transforming his would-be reformer into an acolyte of sorts. Personally, I didn't care much for the film, especially the necrophilia: how Hollywood loves to shock!

The cliché that 'there is a very fine line between pleasure and pain', in my opinion, best sums up de Sade's peculiar premise. Freud of course situates the 'de Sade meme' in his almost universal archaeology of stages of infantile development. I don't buy that either. A better explanation comes from the most famous occupant of Reading Gaol: 'variety is the spice of life,' he said, and went on to create the complex character of Dorian Gray. Here is a man at war with himself: every grain of right and wrong, every principle, every sense of aesthetic, every norm that has been 'constructed' into him. That's how I would personally like to see the Marquis, anyway: a child of dissent; the Robespierre of Sexual Politics.

We live in a post-modern age, but still tend to define ourselves using the 'modern' vocabulary, based on a very specific notion of Reason. Film, more than any other medium, has the potential of inventing- creating- a new language: Citizen Kane made a beginning; Fellini, with his 8 1/2, went even further. Remember the 'dream sequence' when the mother suddenly- shockingly- kisses Guido, only to be visually transformed into the wife in the next frame. Even Freud- the presiding deity of the Oedipal Complex- couldn't have communicated it better. Given your taste in cinema, I'm surprised to see- or rather not see- Warhol and Morrisey. Pasolini, the high-priest of 'neo-realism' (personally I've never been able to understand what that means), reached his creative-orgasm with 'Theorem'; after that its all been downhill: it is one thing to be eccentric, but to force those absurdities down an often-forgiving audience is simply not done: the same of course goes for Fellini and the rest of the post-war Italian noveau-wave. Should we watch a film just because it's 'Pasolini/Fellini/Godard'?

The greatest contribution of these filmmakers, as also those of the French avant-garde, is to restore the film to the auteur. Each misé-èn-scene is contrived to penetrate the human mind, like an arrow: most of the time, they do not since most of us have become 'immunized' against anomalies. But does that mean we- or rather, you- stop trying? No.

Non! I rather fancied an Indian de Sade. There are many, you know, but all neatly tucked away somewhere in the closet. Numerous references to 'apadh' (in extremis) in our venerable sastras vouch for their discreet existences. A former chief minister of Orissa had a thing for pre-pubescent boys, who kept disappearing mysteriously; after a while, their bodies were found, brutally mutilated: it was said at the time that they were 'sacrifices' to the goddess Kali. Of course, we may never really know. The last RSS sarsanghachalak once remarked when asked about Narendra Modi's marital status (separated, if you must know) that 'in India, everything is allowed; yet nothing is permitted.' Nobody has defined our ethos more succinctly. Or for that matter, more precisely.

The post-modern cinematic-auteur must endeavour to penetrate- expose, dismantle- this Ethos of Duplicities. What we will get, in the end, will be The Dance of the Seven Veils. Of course, with one difference: we as Salomes dancing- à la Madhubala in Mughal-é-Azam miming Naushad's Pyaar kiya to darnaa kya- in an endless Hall of Mirrors.

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CONTACT ME. मुझसे संपर्क करें

Amit Aishwarya Jogi
Anugrah, Civil Lines
Raipur- 492001
Chhattisgarh, INDIA
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