The Philosophy of "Purushkaar" (Award-ism)
Every award deserves a salute... or does it?
The very word Purushkaar (award) echoes like a triumphant war-cry of masculinity. The moment you hear it, it feels like someone just pinned the badge of patriarchy on their chest. No wonder some women have now started whispering — “Why always Purush-kaar? Can we get a Mahila-kaar too, please?”
Frankly speaking, for many litterateurs, the moment they bite into the sweet slice of an award, their inner "literary masculinity" comes roaring out!
Have you ever seen the state of an award-less writer? It's like watching a patient suffering from literary impotence, wandering from Kashi to Kolkata to Karachi — desperately sniffing through every Chandasi, Desi, or pseudo-Ayurvedic literary clinic for a cure. And lo! Nowadays, this incurable affliction is being shamelessly treated with a sprinkle of "Purushkaar chutney". Award-stalls have popped up like roadside Bhandaras, and literary quacks are distributing cures with dubious credibility.
The moment someone whispers, “That XYZ Trust is giving out awards again...” — you can almost hear pens start foaming with excitement. It's like a hidden STD that you must keep under wraps, yet the longing simmers inside. As the old saying goes — "Ek anaar, sau bimar", one award, a thousand desperate contenders. The moment your name is spotted in the race, others start elbowing you off the track — and you, in turn, are forced to do the same. To carve space for your name, sometimes you must scratch out a few others — subtly of course, with civility and literary grace.
And then one day, as if the award-givers developed telepathy, they somehow sniff out your desperation.
"Garg Sahib, just look at you — writing day and night and what for? Why not take something for all that pain? Listen, I’m thinking of recommending your name to our colony’s literary award committee this year. You donate every year anyway — about time you got something back! Your book is out too, right? We'll hand it over in its name. Just don't tell anyone. You know how many people are hounding us with recommendations. Even that police officer — he once wrote a poem in childhood — has submitted it!"
"But don’t worry," he assures me, "We’ve doubled the number of awards this year!"
So finally, the award arrives. There it sits, decorated in my showcase. I secretly dust it off daily when the wife isn’t looking — gazing at it like it’s the Mona Lisa of my suffering. The entire idea of aesthetic appreciation has changed now. This award — which fell into my lap like an uninvited guest — immediately raised suspicions. Not of myself, but the world! No one’s going to believe it just landed there — they’ll all assume I pulled some 'literary jugaad'.
Enter Babbann Chacha, the nosy neighbor. He comes to “congratulate” me, but his tone could curdle milk:
"Oho! Where did you pull this off from, eh?"
That look! As if I didn’t win an award but snuck back from Rashtrapati Bhavan with a stolen Padma Shri.
And truth be told — even I find it hard to digest. Awards these days are like adulterated ghee — not easy on the literary stomach. I don’t even know how to receive congratulations properly. My face fails to fake the shameless grace required. Try as I may, my face keeps leaking awkward giggles.
But do you know the real reason I avoid awards?
It’s the Thank You Speech.
Who to thank? Who to not thank? What if I forget someone important? I end up glancing nervously between the award in my hand and the long list of names in my pocket. The whole thing feels like living Shakespeare’s "There are many slips between the cup and the lips."
So yes, now that the award is home, we’ve had to prep accordingly. The wife’s been instructed — "Keep the milk in the freezer, bring out the sugar jar and the teacups... and yes, get Baba’s kheermohan ready too. Visitors will be coming."
God knows whether they’re here to congratulate me or to check on my condition — “How are you feeling now?” they ask, as if I’ve just undergone bypass surgery. “Did it help? Was it costly? Where did you get it from?”
And then comes the killer question: “Why did you even get into this writing disease, Doc?”
Well, now that I've caught it, I must keep taking the medicine — which, of course, is this Award-Therapy that everyone insists upon. Who else will run the cottage industry of ‘Purushkari Dispensaries’ if not we, the chronically afflicted?
"You should’ve told me, Doc!" they say. "We could’ve gotten you treated somewhere better — guaranteed cure — and cheaper too!"
Now I’m torn. Should I hide the disease... or the cure?
