Raising Decibel Levels: The YP Foundation's First Ever Fundraiser Concert!

The YP Foundation in New Delhi has, for the last 7 years, supported 5,000 young people directly; setting up over 200 projects in India, reaching out to over 3,00,000 youth in Delhi and to numerous youth across the country. Pilot projects have run from Mumbai, Pune and Chhattisgarh and we partner with a number of youth led organizations in Asia and the Pacific, as well as internationally. Now, we need your support!

On December 10, 2009, at the Ashoka Hotel Amphitheatre, we are hosting our first ever fundraiser, featuring British Folk Sensations Laura Marling (www.lauramarling.com) and Mumford and Sons (www.mumfordandsons.com), with East India Company’s Papon Angaraag Mahanta (www.papon.co.in). The concert will raise funds to support 6 of our projects, fuelling 42 workshops with 1000 young people participating, at 40 locations across the city, for the next 6 months. Date: 10th December, 2009 Time: 7:00 pm - 10:00 pm Venue: Amphitheatre, The Ashoka Hotel, B 50, Chanakyapuri, New Delhi Tickets are only Rs 200/- First Come First Served! Call us for details/Block your passes now:

Angarika Guha: 9910337160

Blog: http://theyouthparliament.blogspot.com
Email: theypfoundation@gmail.com

Our Partners:
Rosmerta Technologies Ltd
Sareen Estates Ltd.

Power Grid Corporation of India Limited

Venue Partners:
The Ashoka Hotel

Media Partners:
Hit95
Rolling Stone Magazine

What is it about the night?

That makes us long so

For things the day did not give us

For hopes dashed, promises unfulfilled

What is it about the moon’s last shadow?

As it falls upon the eye for the last time

That makes us long            

For things that lie beyond our grasp

As I lie in my bed

The stars blinking above

I reach out one last time

My fingers running swiftly from key to key

Forming the words before I can even think of them

Till there it lies before me

A message, a plea, a bid for redemption

In that moment a hundred thoughts fly through my head

Shall I send forth my creation?

Will it warrant reciprocated emotion?

Or will it bring only more pain?

And as I think I drift into slumber

Awaiting a response

That shall never come

- © Zafar Khurshid

31st night was a long one. After a long day of trying, but failing, to study and a nerve-wracking but finally fun Phase II meeting, I went over to Pattie's to say goodbye as she finished packing for her 4 day trip to Switzerland. As plagued as I was by the thought that she wasn't going to be here for our 1year Anniversary, I'm damn proud for getting herself chosen for such a great opportunity. By the time I actually got home, I was exhausted. Attempted to sleep that night but even that was a luxury I wasn't much afforded, which was perfect ofcourse because its not like I had to run 7.5 kms the next day or anything. Oh Wait, I DID!

7:30 on the dot I sprang from my bed, jumped in the shower and put on my dad's running shoes that I borrowed (and am yet to return ; p) and sped my way towards Ashoka Hotel. Much easier said than done. After I crossed Zakhir Hussain Marg, every road was blocked or cordoned off because of the marathon and the cops ofcourse were no help at all. Every turn I was told to take the next one, only to find it cordoned off too. I finally just gave up, parked my car next Parliament and took the shuttle service to Ashoka.
The run itself was quite a bit of fun. There were hordes of eager (and very loud) Delh-ites vehemently cheering for their respective companies and NGO's. There were elaborate costumes, gigantic banners, whistles, flags and even bright Pink wigs (Mary Kay). The novelty of it was fun at first, and I understand that they were all there just trying to promote their work or brand, but it got really annoyng after a while because they would just hold up the road and refuse to move at a decent pace. After the first 600 metres or so the road opened enough to beak into a comfortable jog. While the others from The YP Foundation decided they wanted to walk the 7.5 kms, me and Navroz decided we wanted to see how fast we could finish. Thus we decided to break away and hustle on. About 15 minutes later I realised something which I may have underestimated, I am really not in good shape! My lung capacity was shot to shit. Still, I'm proud of the fact that I still ran most of it, was upright and even chipper by the finish and managed to do it in 49 minutes. Not bad for someone who hasn't worked out in like 8 months.

The post-marathon was by no means an ordeal any easier. Having parked my car near Central Secretariat me and Navroz went to take the Shuttle service back. It wasn't till we were on the bus that we were informed by a fellow passenger that the bus was going to The Hyatt, the other way essentially. So when we got till R.K.Puram I decided to get off and just take an auto home, coming back for my car after I got home and changed. Thus Navroz and I spent the next 10 minutes trying to get an auto to take us all the way to Jamia, and ofcourse none of the idiots who actually stopped (and they were amongst the minority) wanted to go that far. And we couldn't get dropped off somewhere half way because we had both, in our incredible genius, decided to leave our wallets in our bags (which were then with a friend who was going to drop them off at my place). It essentially got to the point that I was screaming obsenities on the road and walking backwards sticking my thumb out like in the movies (point to not: that doesn't work here). But glory be, after many failures we finally got an auto to stop and when we asked him "Bhaiya Jamia?" his response almost made me jump for joy "Kaha? Tikona Park tak?" So there we were, laughing at our situation, but finally headed back home. The rest was rather uneventful (other than my friend's two Choreo students showing up in an A4 to drop off my bag). I changed, dragged my driver out to drop me to my car, jumped in and gunned it back to office to make in 10 minutes early for my lunch meeting.

Sigh. You'd think at this point someone would go, "Man. What a day!" and put his feet up, not me it seems. Part II of the day is still to come. To be continued...

A place for everything and everything in its place
Everywhere I go I am marginalized, Compartmentalized, Categorized
I am judged, I am surveyed, I am estimated, I am measured.
I am put into a neat little corner of your mind, with all the others who look like me, dress like me.

It does not matter that I am no one thing.
I look different each year.
Dress differently when it suits me.
Talk differently when I feel like it.
Walk differently when I am happy, or I am sad.
My place has already been allotted.
My tag fixed. My category decided.

Why must we see people like life is some giant Record Store?
Every one of us existing in our little category, our own genre, our own classification.
Each artists and album arranged alphabetically in the shelf where they belong.
So tell me, am I Hard Rock? Am I Punk? Am I World Music?

I know what you’re all thinking to yourselves… The burgeoning question that is eating away at your mind, your very soul…

Why did he say Record Store? Who listens to records anymore?

- Zafar Khurshid (C)

She walked back from school swinging her sling bag as she skipped to the beat in her head. As she passed the old mill near the school her classmates pulled alongside to ask if she wanted to join a bunch of them down at the beach for the day. “No thanks,” she said as she continued walking, “think I’ll head home early today.” “Suit yourself!” the driver of the blue pick up yelled out as the car pulled off, its wide breadth tires kicking up a large cloud of dust.

The walk to the little cottage where she lived wasn’t very far from the local high school, especially if you took the shortcut through the forest. Which she loved to do. She was soon bouncing through the quaint white fence of the quaint white house up to the quaint white door. She went into the kitchen, kissed her mother on the cheek and told her she’d come right down to help with supper once she’d changed and put her school clothes away for the wash. “Sigh. What a nice girl she is,” her mother thought to herself, the moisture on her cheek still warm from the loving kiss it has received. Her father was in his study, reviewing some papers which she cared not ask about, but would have gladly listened and pretended to be interested in had he spotted her on her way up to her room and asked her in.

There was a spiral staircase that led to her little attic room. She used to call them the ghost stairs. Not because they were scary, or even creaky for that matter, but because they would wind upwards for a while and then disappear suddenly into the ceiling. “Vanish like ghosts”, she used to her her mother.

She threw her bag on her impeccably made bed, turned on the hot water in the shower and picked out some comfy sweats. As she took off her hairband at her vanity she opened one of the secret drawers and pulled out a collapsible mirror. As she opened it up she smiled, gazing menacingly at the tiny reflection of herself beating against the mirror from the other side.

- Zafar Khurshid (C)

The amber moon on hallowed skies

Shines sweetly as a star

And lights the way for passers by

Travelling near and far

To lover and loner alike

She lights the path to the morrow

Each knowing the dawn will bring another day

Of joy as well as sorrow

The brilliant glow upon her face

Like a new born mother

Uniting black and white and brown

Under her sheen as brothers

She says not hello nor goodbye

Makes no promises, tells no lies

She watches quietly as trees do

Her reflection in the dreamer’s eye

I watch her quietly till she fades

Not once saying a word

I watch the amber moon above

As she watches the world

- Zafar Khurshid (C)

At a time of crisis
At a time like this
You feel like crying
You wish you wouldn’t
You feel like dying
You know you shouldn’t

I’m standing here
My lips are shaking
My legs are putty
Like the earth is quaking

I look to my mother
Her tears falling upon the dirt
I look to my father
Who stands strong, not saying a word

I hope you are happy now
Free of sickness and pain
An I hope one day
We will all be together as a family again

At a time of crisis
At a time like this
When death’s sweet lips
Have given you their final kiss

About 6 and a half year back I lost my elder sister. She was sick much of her life growing up and when I was in the 10th Grade she passed away, after a long time of fighting kidney failure. I regret every moment that I think of her that I never got to know her better. She was a rare and kind person, even if as a younger brother I couldn’t see that then. This poem, an amalgamation of the words I wrote then, and a reflection of what I remember now, are for her. My sister. Ayesha.

- Zafar Khurshid (C)

“See,” he said as he pulled out a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Golden Highs and lit it. “You don’t want this to be just another suspense novel” he said, pausing for a puff, “you want people to see this guy and not hate him right off, cause then you’ve lost em.” “So how do we do that?” his friend asked, typing away furiously on his tiny notebook sized laptop. “Well,” he pondered as he rubbed his goatee, “the first one has to be an accident. Some chick in some European country while he was on vacation. He got drunk in some tavern in… Scotland. Met some dumb busty blonde who thought his accent was amusing. They sneak off to some hut in the middle of the night. Fool around. She likes it kinky. Asks him to choke her. He plays along, hesitantly at first, but soon he finds he can’t stop himself. He feels her blood pumping through his fingers, squeezing the last of her life from her body.” He paused, taking another drag. “Afterwards he feels nothing,” he continued “none of the shame or guilt he’s supposed to. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the better he feels. More in control.”

“Okay,” the typer said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them to prevent his fingertips from numbing up, “what happens next?” “The next two are easy,” his friend replied “Two bit hookers in some back alley in the Red Light district.” “How does he do it? He has to evolve over the intermediary kills. Maybe piano wire? Or a rope?” the typer asked, reaching for the cigarette to take a drag. “No No!” the narrator protested, “I thought of that already. Too filmy. He has to use his bare hands. That way he feels every moment.” He paused suddenly, thinking about where the story went next. He pulled out a fresh cigarette, handing the stub to his mate. “The ending is gonna be important,” he said after a few minutes of puffing his fag silently. “He can’t just get caught or die in a shootout. He needs closure.” “So how do we give it to him?” his friend asked coughing from the disgusting taste of the last drag. “With a final kill. The important one.” “Who is she?” “The one that broke his heart. The one who started the entire cycle of pain and anger.”

He took a deep drag, sighing loudly as he exhaled. “She has long brown hair. Plump breasts. An ass that used to drive him crazy. He’ll take her out to dinner first. Pretend he wants to meet up and talk about old times. To catch up. This one’ll need a lot of detail, and don’t forget the eyes. The eyes are important.” “So where does she die?” his friend asked, trying to type fast enough to keep up with the narration, “What is she wearing? Does he fuck her?” “Don’t know yet” the narrator said as he stood up, crushing the cigarette butt under his all-stars, “I’m picking her up tonight.”

- Zafar Khurshid (C)

Yes sir when it comes right down to it, does any other food stuff show the potential, the adaptability, the tenacity or the innumerable value for money that bread does? I say nay! Within it’s simplicity and unassuming nature lie a million possibilities. You can put anything between two slices of bread and it automatically becomes a completely new food. I mean just imagine, all you are actually doing is taking two raw basic ingredients and turning them into an edible complete item of food, with the most minimal preparation. Often enough, you need no seasoning, no boiling, no flavoring, no frying, no cutting, no peeling. No muss, no fuss, no wait. Obviously one can do all those things. Make it a little more adventurous or complex. But all that is above and beyond. In its most basic and rudimentary form, the sandwich is just two slices of bread and something in the middle.

And let’s face it, nothing hits the spot as well or as fast in the middle of the night when you’re jonsing for some food because you have a particularly bad case of the munchies like two slices of white flour bread with soft milky cheese spread dolloped in between. Mmmmm…

- Zafar Khurshid (C)