Whose Culture is it, anyway ? Yours, Mine or Ours ?

(A repost)

As long as I remember, there has been a February 14th. (Someone in the family has a birthday on the 13th)...
 
But its only in the last 20 years or so, that I hear it being celebrated here, as Valentines Day. And its only the last 10 years or so that certain pockets of society, and politicians have been objecting to its celebration, with a lot of violence, destruction of shops selling valentines stuff, and shouting from the rooftops. This year has seen the Ram Sene getting into the act in a Mangalore pub, beating up boys and girls, who were supposed to be drinking etc, in direct contravention, of what this Ram Sene says is "Indian culture" .....

When I was a child, explicit socializing between boys and girls was non existent. Yes, we were aware that in certain more emancipated sections of society such as Christians, the armed forces, and a few Parsees, a western lifestyle that was followed, allowed the practice of such socializing. And while my parents were extremely broad minded about us mixing with boys as a part of your school,college, sports etc, it was understood, that any extra attention from anyone, secretive meetings, fibbing to parents etc was simply not on. And we never suffered from the Friday night syndrome.

Staying away at college, traveling abroad for grad school, etc gave us a very balanced view about the whole thing, which was generally suited to the way the world and India were developing at that time as a society. But I had friends who were not allowed to talk to boys, period. I once played mixed doubles in badminton with a fellow in college tournaments, and my mother heard about it, ( with special meaningful emphasis on the fellow) from someone else's mother, both of them 150 miles away ! It is another thing that everyone who told my mother about this got a large piece of her very angry mind , as she was already following my progress through my letters, and very pleased about my participation, mixed or not..

Indian culture is a strange thing. The country is so rich in it. But that isn't the culture these so called "custodians of culture" have understood. They deal with a different culture.

It is OK, if you cavort around trees in pouring rain , in transparent sarees, in fashions that are based on fabric-famine, and throw yourself at the hero, in a Hindi or even Southern movie. It is even more OK, if you perform the sort of body movements in movies, that would make Britney Spears a nobody. You buy a ticket, go see the movie. listen to the catcalls and whistles. But if you and your friend appear to be walking together a bit too often, the "custodians of Indian culture" attack.
I honestly wish they had met my grandmother.

Born at the dawn of the 20th centrury, she was married at 13, to my grandfather, much older than her, and a widower. She was one of 9 sisters, and 1 brother, and the sisters learned the basic three R's at home, while the son went on to be an engineer. She lived at a time, when, if you had to pass through a room in the house where your husband or father-in-law was sitting, you dared not look up, you covered your head, and talking to your own husband in front of even family was a complete no-no. You ate after the menfolk did. You didn't sit somewhere with your feet up munching peanuts in your free time. . And mothers-in-law usually lived up to their standard image of being tough. And , by tradition, daughter-in-laws were troubled by mother-in-laws.....

So, not surprisingly, women of her time dedicated themselves to a lot of religious observances, which was a great education as well as a nice way of spending what little free time you had. One of the things she followed, involved wearing of special "holy, anointed, pure, just-washed etc" sarees while worshipping and performing religious rituals. My grandmother stayed downstairs, and we had a free run of the whole place as children. Whenever my grandmother was wearing one of these special sarees, you couldn't touch her. Even if that saree was hanging somewhere to dry, you couldn't touch it. (In my language, Marathi, it was called "sowla" सोवळं ).

My cousins and I , always "accidentally" managed to touch her, more so , after we found out that the antidote was for her to have another bath. Things hanging to dry at a height, suddenly found us playing games, like jumping from a bed etc near it. When things became unbearable, my grandmother would complain bitterly to our mother, and we'd miss our nightly stories from her that day. By and by we grew up into womanhood, and I remember my mother telling us how lucky we were, not to have to follow certain customs during menstruating days. In her time, EVERYONE is the family knew , because you were made to sit isolated somewhere in the house, you ate by yourself, had baths elsewhere, you didn't wander anywhere near the gods or the kitchen (in fact sometimes you cooked your own food ), and you made sure you never touched grandma.
This was called "sitting out". (Used to make me laugh when I used to read in the papers in the US about "coming out "parties"..)My grandmother, uneducated as she was, and very firm in her religious and social beliefs, knew how to move with the times. It did not require a special effort. Just good observation. She never made me "sit out". She never made snide comments to my mother about me cycling at all hours to go for badminton practice, where , of course, you played in shorts, but wore a long skirt over it when you cycled. She enjoyed my frilled sleeveless frocks as much as my parkar-polkas (pictured on left), and she would tell her sisters with a great amount of smugness about how well we were doing at school, and speaking in English etc etc.

When I graduated and decided to go to the US for grad school, folks got into action, filling her ears, with, amazing pieces of knowledge, like, what a folly it was to send a girl of marriageable age to the US like this. Never once did she talk to my parents about this, though she knew enough to tell her sisters etc that I had been granted an assistantship, which was great and that it was an honor to go and study like this. She was fairly old then, mostly house bound, but was part of a huge busload of folks that came to see me off when i left. Maybe some thought they would not see me again.Maybe they secretly felt I would return wearing a frock, and with blonde hair or something. I am sure there was all kinds of alarming talk in the bus on the way back, spoken loud enough for my grandmother to hear....

That I returned basically unchanged (except for shorter hair), is another matter, but that was the time, my elder brother , who was working in the US, was considered a "catch", and we would get a lot or proposals from the various girls' parents. Due to some visa restrictions, an earlier 6 week trip of my brother's had to be postponed, and this got a whole bunch of relatives and interested folks chattering.They would come to her and tell her, "what if he married a "gori" (white woman) ? Maybe he had someone in mind and that's why he was postponing . What if she is not a Hindu ? What if he secretly married her and simply landed up ? "...... The possibilities were endless, once you decided he could do lots of undesirable things.

She was then staying with us in Mumbai and her sister came to visit. Much whispering and sudden silences when we were around. Then her sister thought she could have some fun. She loudly asked what my grandmother would do, if the next day, her grandson appeared at the door with a "gori" wife ?

This was getting interesting. My grandma gave her sister a pitying look. Blew her nose. Shook her head to the side in a sort of defiant, determined way."Look" , she said, " You know, I know my grandson, and the values that his parents have given him. Should he come with a "gori" , I know she will have all the qualities that we look for in the eldest and first granddaughter-in-law of the family. She will have her religion , just like ours. But if my grandson has chosen her,she must be wonderful, I will welcome her with an "arti" , anoint her forehead with a red dot and grains of rice, and have her perform the house entering ritual (see above), at the door, that any new bride will perform ! She will be my first grand-daughter-in-law , I will present her with wedding silk sarees, and I will tell the world about it ! So. !

(We don't remember her sister's reaction).

It so happened that my brother came later on, and married a wonderful girl, from India, in India, and I could almost see my grandmother preening in the wedding whenever her sisters were around. She lived to see two of her grandchildren get married, but did not live long enough to see the great grandchildren.

She outlived her husband almost by 30 years. Saw a lot of changes in social attitudes, clothes, emancipation of women issues. She lived her own life exactly the way she wanted. But was very happy to be part of a society that was , maybe, following rules, that were a bit different.

30 years later today, I see the benefit of her attitudes , her courage, and her observations about how we need to change with society, tempered by the values that have come down to us.

I wonder what her take on Valentines day would have been.

And I honestly wish the "custodians of India's culture" could see her and talk to her about it.

Maybe there is something to be learnt....

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Smart Solutions from the heart ....

At 75, she looked back at her life with a lot of satisfaction. At a time when norms of behaviour for a new bride in her in-law's house were fairly conservative, she was lucky to travel and set up house with her husband who worked in another town, away from home. Living with people from all over the country who came to work there, this was her introduction to the customs from different communities, that make up he mosaic that is India. Nucleisation of family life sometimes brings a different kind of freedom to a family. There is less minding of overbearing P's and Q's, and more open thinking. But she always remembered her family back home, and ensured that the children spent some fun times at their grandparents' home during the summer holidays.

Today was her little grandson's birthday. The first one after she lost her husband, ten months ago. The little boy's maternal grandparents had traveled over for the event, from out of town, and the house was all hustle and bustle with the boy's mother organizing the eats and games for the evening. The cake was home made , iced according the wishes of the little boy.

She remembered the last birthday, when her husband had distributed the prizes to all the little ones who won in the games, with the birthday boy holding his hand, jumping in excitement as his friends rushed up to get their prize. Late that night, after everyone had left, the little boy had sat with his grandfather, and opened all his fancy presents, both of them admiring the stuff, as the ladies were organizing the left over food and the mess in the living room, that remains after some boisterous 7 years olds have finished with it.

Traditionally , every birthday, an aarti was done for the little boy. He sat on a "paat" , east-west facing always; and every year, the two grandmothers, his mother, any aunts who happened to be there, as well as the household help lady who was like a family member did the aarti. His face would gleam in the light of the oil lamp, as he beamed at the ladies, and they would apply some vermilion and turmeric and rice grains on his forehead.

She sat to the side today, and watched the hustle and bustle of the preparations. She never ever sat idle and her hands were always busy with something like shelling the cardamom, or peeling cucumbers or boiled potatoes , or whatever was the requirement of that time.

The boys mother did the aarti. Then his maternal grandmother , who was nearby , did her turn, and she looked around for the other grandma. She was watching them all, an indulgent look on her face, some old memories bringing an occasional old thought into her eyes, and she smiled at the little boy.

"Aji, come, its your turn !" and he looked expectantly at her.

"I need to just get done with this for your mother", she said, " You all carry on "....

The boy's other younger grandmother understood, but didn't agree with what was happening.

Widowhood was a new factor now, and at 75 years of age, all the old customs came back to the elder grandma.She wouldn't do aarti for the little boy. It wasn't auspicious. Her heart didn't agree at all. But her head was in the grips of age old tradition.

"Tai, come , its your turn now. Its OK, we will do the cardamoms later. " the younger grandma said, trying to act casual. The little boy was not to know why his older grandma was hesitating.

She went to the older lady and spent some moments cajoling her into doing the aarti.

"No, No. Its OK. You carry on. My mind is not in it." she said. The older lady , acutely aware of her widowhood, was trying to exclude herself, thinking her participation would be unlucky.

Her daughter-in-law went over. She and her mother insisted that the older grandma participate.

"You know, Aji has to do aarti for her grandson. Its your blessing, and see, he is waiting. How can the birthday be properly celebrated otherwise ?" . And saying so, the younger grandma held the hand of the elder one, and escorted her to where the little boy sat.

Aji looked very gratefully at the ladies, her face a fleeting mixture of sorrow and joy, and slowly took charge of the aarti plate , and shielded the lamp with one hand. She bent down to apply vermilion and turmeric and rice to the little boy, and did the aarti.

The little fellow had a smile on his face, eyes twinkling, and he seemed to be holding something half hidden in the folds of his shirt, which was not tucked in yet. Sometime during the time that the ladies were busy convincing the elder grandma, that no taboo or tradition, irrespective of marital status, could stop a grandma from doing aarti to her grandson, he had quietly got up, grabbed his grandpa's photo from the side table, and was clutching it tight in his hands. The family was complete ......

She straightened up from the aarti, passed the paraphernalia to her daughter-in-law, so the lamp could be kept in front of the Gods, and looked at the younger grandma who was standing beside her. They both had tears flooding their eyes. They had no words, and none were needed. They suddenly decided there was some stuff that needed their attention in the kitchen /balcony etc and slowly made their way there.

For the little boy, something had changed. He was a big boy now. He knew that God had taken away his grandpa almost a year ago. He suspected that his grandma was missing him on this day. So he did the obvious. Grandpa watched , as grandma did the aarti, and the little boy was pleased.

His grandpa would be watching the entire birthday, from the frame on the side table .

The little boy's mother thought she noticed an extra smile playing on face in the photograph.

The two grandmas were at peace in their minds.

They couldnt get over the amazing solution offered by their little grandson. ....

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Beautifully Happy ? or Happily Beautiful ?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I know.

If only the left brain stayed out of the beholding.

And one man's beauty may be another man's irritation.

Or so it seems.....

She comes home all excited.

They are now doing some full fledged projects at her animation school. Each one has to select a category, and has to, according to some prespecified size norms, create things like posters, hoardings, visiting cards, letterheads, banners, PR gift items etc...after choosing a subject.

She has some in mind, and she rushes home from a very early morning class. She needs to discuss this with someone at home. Toss ideas around. A few lobs and drops and maybe one or more smashing ideas will make it across to those waiting to see.

"Social" or "socially relevant" is a nice broad category. And she wants to make a project to promote adoption , as a social cause. That will be her term project.

She isn't one of those perennially social aware , theoretically highly enabled, verbalizing types. But she herself is adopted, and has seen life on both sides . The early life, which she hardly remembers. And her life within a family where she is always a star. She knows she is adopted, has been aware of it since the "traumatic teens", except her trauma was more to do with weight issues. Today, she is at peace with herself, thrilled with her weight loss, and tickled with compliments on her choice of clothes :-)

Every festival season, she, along with her family, makes a visit to an orphanage where they distribute sweets, gifts, and play with the children. At the end of the visit, she reluctantly says goodbye to the children. She enjoys organizing games for them, talking to them, indulging them, and playing with them a bit, too. And the little ones there, from a crawling baby to a young 3 year old pretending to play cricket using a broken doll as a ball, then get back to their life, as she returns to hers.

She has come up with a wonderful poster with faces of little children all over in the background, some male-female signage hazily drifting there, and amidst various information on institutions handling adoption, a wonderful well known poem , that places the child , not in a womb, but just above, in the heart/below it.

A child, not "expected", but "selected".

Her family watches. Amazed. She suddenly gets a new idea. Google to the rescue. A drag here. A Click there. A critical look. A hint of a smile.

Late into the night, she is done.

She rushes in to class the next morning. The teacher needs to see what she has come up with . The various items may be required to be redesigned. He will comment and suggest. She is supposed to implement.

They say some colors are to be avoided , depending on the subject. Red is considered a "danger" color. You never have that in a place where you convey something childlike and peaceful. Blues, Greens, pale yellows, some pink. So she has heard.......

Her instructor looks at the prepared stuff. Shakes his head. Looks at her, then back at the monitor again. She needs to listen carefully. He will be the one grading her. And he acts tough with those that don't follow .

"The children in your poster, look too happy. It can't be. They almost look beautiful. Change that. You know street children ? Well, that's how the children should look. They are in an orphanage , remember ? How on earth can they be and look so happy and smart ?"

He looks up, and adjusts his tie. Shakes his head. Looks at her to ask if she has understood. He is already late, and must check out 3 more students.

She quietly looks down. Closes her file, Extracts her CD. Packs up her paraphernalia. Wordlessly nods, with apparent respect, something she has learned in the existing schooling system.

All the way home in the bus, she keeps wondering, her thoughts careening through highs and lows, in sync with the potholes on the road.

Was something wrong with her vision ? Was she missing something ? And why was her instructor putting street children in an unhappy slot ?

Street children had parents. Parents who were worried , but helpless; and so the children grew up before their time. Became street smart. She has seen street children in trains. They were tough, but full of empathy for those in a similar boat.

The children at the orphanage where she visited, were simple children who enjoyed the security of a wonderful roof and a feeling of innocent friendship with those around them. They enjoyed decent clothes, meals, careful attention , festival sweets and learned to listen to those older to them.

And they were happy. She should know....

And so she is on the horns of a dilemma.

Should she sit and explain to the instructor, that what he was suggesting was simply not true? She had her unique experience. She had been there, done that. Happy children on the poster would draw potential adoptive parents to the place. What he was suggesting, besides not being true, would keep people away......

He was the sole instructor responsible for the grade, and thence the certificate. Was her ability to clarify and explain things going to be useful ? To a person, who, in an effort to hide his ignorance about the topic, was blithely giving , authoritatively, just plain wrong advice ? Would he be honest enough to credit her with using her actual experience, even though it was completely opposite of what he was advising ?

So she came home that day. Quietly searched again. Dragged, clicked, moved, and placed things. Automatically. She had other subjects to study. She'd submit the project like he wanted, take his grades, and finish, and get her certificate. And she would be alert and careful, if she ended up having to take another software topic with the same instructor later.

She'd finish off her assignments, submit and get her grades. She'd acquire her qualification, and leave.

One thing to learn was the software. The other thing you learned was how much importance to attribute to what someone said, whether it was right, and how much time to spend in rebuttal, particularly in a closed system.

She kept the old poster.

Made another one. The sad variety.

Then very quietly, she deleted her name which she had signed at the bottom right corner.

He might think this poster was beautiful. He beheld. It was his eyes.

She did not. She kept the old poster with her, with the happy children, and her signature at the bottom.

She thought that was wonderful. She too beheld. With her own eyes. And would continue to do so.

They say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Sometimes, though, one wonders if the eyes are open............. 

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Dark and Lovely....

If you play the word association game with the words "dark and lovely", specifically amongst folks from India (possibly my age, though I am unsure about the newer IT generation), I am willing to wager anything, that nine out of ten folks will quote the poem by Robert Frost, that every Indian knows was the late PM Jawaharlal Nehru's favourite :

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

If the game participants were to be international, the associations would be drastically different. Besides the woods, there are lots of other things that are dark and lovely. People. Women. Etc.

But for some companies , the phrase is almost persona non grata.

"Fair and lovely" is a complexion cream marketed by Unilever in the Indian market. The ads show various girls turning lighter, around several shades in , say 7 days, and going on to become air hostesses, actresses and so on, teaching a lesson to folks who initially rejected them.

Another facial bleach cream shows a darkish lady sitting in economy class in a plane , whereupon, the oxygen mask falls only in front of her. (her face is dark, the bleach has oxygen and she turns fair on applying the bleach. Voila ! No oxygen mask, and her neighbor smiles at her........)

Notwithstanding the crass stupidity in these ads, it is very clear, that the majority of the Indians have an obsession with fairness. As in complexion. (And we wont say anything about matrimonial ads. Everyone looks for "fair and homely".... as if "dark and homely" are mutually exclusive)

This then, doesn't remain "fair" at all , to those, who are, are melanin empowered, so to speak.

And so we come to the story of a girl, who was destined to be part of a family, where her only sibling was very fair. (Actually, fair here is being used as an attitudinal description; it is beside the point that he was also very fair complexioned; that most of India would see it as a "white", is a given).

When she was little, she oozed confidence. Least bothered with eye-crossed visitors who tried to figure out the complexion difference in siblings, she simply thrived and enjoyed being at home, playing, school,friends, grandparents, eating, teasing, being teased, fighting..exploring.... everything.

School was a bit different. For one thing her brother went there. She was an adopted child, and some of the teachers, to the consternation of her folks, actually came up them, in a pssst kind of way, to complain about something , and ended up saying, "after all, her culture is different from her brother's....! Some worldly smart(!) types even asked her parents why they didnt "get" a fairer child !
In this narrow and unenlightened environment it wasn't long before nosey classmates and other girls queried her about her inborn inability to match her brother in complexion, no doubt after hearing some elders talk.

Her melanin empowered skin was building up resistance power in more ways than one. Tormentors were labelled yellow and green by a little girl who refused to give up. She swam a lot. And suffered the least trauma , amidst a bevy of girls, who went into a depression over a 10% change ,in their complexion,for the darker, over the summer in the pool.

Teenage happened. Days of doubts. Obsessions with various types of organic facials made from fruits and grains. Awareness of pseudo utopian images in leading Indian women's magazines , that existed only for advertisers. By and by , all that swimming, good diet and those homemade natural cleansing agents, started showing results.

She didn't become "fair" in the Indian sense, but her skin and hair had a great glow, and she became a confident young woman, comfortable in her own skin.

Such is the obsession with fairness in India, that her parents were cautioned, by highly educated (!) neighbors, about sending her for swimming "lest she turned "black""......and television now had a daily serial where a bunch of sisters, one very fair and one dark, went through life, the fair one sailing through everything and the dark one having to fight....

Family and well meaning folks had been telling her, since she was a child, that darkness was a state of mind, not a complexion. There were plenty of "fair" folks with very dark minds. And vice versa. And as she grew up, she started believing that.

And so she doesn't really worry about her color any more.

She has grown up, in more ways, besides calendar years....

She is learning graphic design and animation now as she completes her college graduation on the side. They are learning some Adobe Software and she often has assignments.

Yesterday I saw her fooling around with Photoshop, and I heard her chortling away.

I went to investigate.

"You know, you can change people's complexion in Photoshop".

"Watch."

And she did some choosing of tools from a menu, and swishing around of the mouse, as her own childhood photo got modified into a "fair version". Everytime she created, a still fairer version, she would crack up, into peals of laughter....

The whole thing was so entertaining to her. She changed complexions till she would have probably given a Punjabi Kudi or Marilyn Monroe a complex.

Then she changed things back.

Looked up at me. Wrinkled her nose.

Nodded approvingly, and said " I think I like it as is , the original is the best....... don't you think so ?"
That's what called, Being Digitally Dark and Lovely.

Being strong and mature enough, to keep yourself digitally unchanged.

I bet Adobe chaps never thought of this psychological use of Photoshop. Maturing by Photoshop.

And Dark and Lovely isn't about Robert Frost, and folks trudging through woods , counting their miles before they sleep.

Its about this Dark and Lovely girl, going from strength to strength....

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

Calling 1-800-GRANDMAS

It is possibly a truth universally acknowledged, that the offspring of a youngest child on one side,  and  middle child (only child resident in India)  on the other, would be subject to greatly indulgent and torrential doses of grand parental attention. 

A grandchild in the family after a long break, and he could do no wrong. 


 Birthdays were celebrated with great planning, kindergaarten annual days were attended by grandparents travelling in from other cities,  and there came a time when he graduated from tricycles to bicycles. Living as I do, in something that resembles a park, he soon learnt to ride the bicycle thanks to either parent desperately  running behind him, and other folks on the road making way for him, seeing the expressions on his parent's faces. 

His maternal grandma, the younger of his two grandmas, lived in Pune, climbed the Parvati Hill temple everyday, and took him with her when he visited. She played badminton with him on her  terrace. He treated her like an equal; or maybe she did. I dont know.

 When she visited  him in  Mumbai, he often visited the Devi Temple on campus , with her, and he wanted to ride his bicycle there now. He discovered that grandma had ridden a bike when she was younger, and so he convinced her to ride his mother's bike, and they both went off. At high noon. 

On the way back, he had a brilliant idea. Of exchanging the bikes. The only thing was  his bike was an Easy Rider style fancy thing with high handles.

But grandma agreed. :-)

And so they rode, amidst the trees, and amidst stunned folks who saw a little chap riding ahead , on a bike where his feet didn't reach the pedals, turning back, calling out to someone,  and an old lady in a saree , with great effort, riding a terribly hip bicycle (totally flummoxed with the odd design) and pushing on nonetheless. 

Till her chappal broke. 


They stopped. Things were examined. The road was too hot, and her feet would get burned. So he removed his shoes, took out his socks, and right there on the road, made his grandma wear them. The shoes would be a bit small, but socks were manageable. So he wore the shoes, she wore his socks with the one working chappal.

 A whole bunch of people known to his parents were witness to all this drama, and by and by, they returned, he, a few paces ahead, pedalling , seat less, on his mother's old style bike with a high level seat, and his grandma, wearing his socks, chappals in the basket, desperately trying to manage the low-seat Easy Rider style bike.  Both returned, red in the sun,  and his grandma a bit breathless, because she wasn't used to such fancy bikes. 

He didn't think anything unusual was happening. That's how grandmothers were. And she probably agreed. 


Several years later , his other older grandma who was staying with them  after he lost his grandpa, had an amazing experience tangling with third standard history.

His parents both worked, and came home for lunch. School got over at 1:30 pm , and his mother would check the day's lessons, give him some quizzes for the afternoon, and then leave.

After some rest, and chitchat, he would attend to homework/quizzes et al, with his grandma's help , and one day, he was a bit preoccupied.  The fellow was doing some "filling in the blanks", and he suddenly looked up , caught her arm and said ,"Aji, you are lucky, it is now, and not Raja Ram Mohun Roy's time. ".


She was a bit bewildered. Yes, they were learning about the pre independence days,  but why Raja Ram Mohun Roy suddenly ?


"Aji, if you had lived around then, they would have made you do "sati" when Aba passed away !"  . He looked at her, with large eyes, bewildered at the prospect. His textbook had drastic pictures. I mean dinosaurs, phantom, superman, batman etc were manageable, but this stuff about making people sit on funeral pyres, on the death of a husband,  was just too  serious. 


She  was stunned. Went off to the kitchen, saying it was time to have his cocoa, and she would heat the milk, but really because she didn't want him to see her tears. Came back and explained to him how these were different times, things had changed, and there were laws. And such things didn't happen any more.

Little minds worked in complicated ways, and sometimes, imagination was frightening.

She recounted this story to us when we came home in the evening.


We all possibly studied the same history. But didn't live it. He learned to apply it to his environment and came to conclusions.

Like he did , when Ramayana was a hit on Sunday morning Doordarshan television, the only choice we had then.   Hanuman was a huge favourite because he flew around with entire mountains when he couldn't find a required medicinal tree .  His Pune grandpa had a birthday coming up, and he designed a card with Hanuman in full flow, flying through the clouds, holding aloft a chocolate cake (with lit candles)  with grandpa's name on it. It was framed and stood proudly in their living room, for almost 25 years.


 Albert Einstein , who talked about many things besides science, supposedly said, "You do not really understand something until you can explain it to your grandmother."  


Notice, how grandmothers always understand.  Notice how fathers and mothers kind of fade away into the wings, and are nowhere in the picture.


Today, the grandparents are no more, the little boy is not little any more,  but he observes,  he learns, he studies, analyzes. and when he needs to communicate and seriously explain things, he does something else. 


He blogs.  Here. :-)

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with imlee.com

'Fair' is just a four lettered word.....

They say , time is a dressmaker specializing in alterations.

And it has occurred to me after half a century of observing the alterations, that  we as insensitive, undisciplined people,  force these alterations, much against the  suggestions of the dressmaker. 

All people are different. In origin, language, physical, mental, and genetic traits. 

All people are curious , and question things.  But the answers differ.

There was something in life 40-50 years ago, when as a child, one understood why someone could have a dark complexion, but didn't have a public discourse on it.  There were things you paid great attention to at certain ages, and you didn't get obsessed with skin color as a child.  Of course as you grew up you noticed tendencies in society, but you were taught never to comment on physical characteristics of people.

Today, we are so blatant about this concept of "fairness" , that it gives "being fair" to someone a bad name, thanks to the unfortunate nomenclature.    

The concept of fairness.  Nothing to do with bending backwards to be fair to someone. But the  unending struggle to appear "fair" to the world. In complexion, and not in spirit.

-And so what do you say to a young girl, swimming her heart off, in a day long swimmathon, among the top so-many,  emerging to change clothes in the evening, and encountering mothers of other swimmers, who audibly and to-her-face remark on how "black" she has become, and hurry to rub their kids down with some expensive soap, destroying her joy at having done well....

-And what do you say about a huge group at a picnic, a couple has joined in with their newly adopted slightly wheatish complexioned daughter, and an acquaintance, boasting of amazing education levels in the family, looks at the child, then at the parents, smirks, and asks, "I didn't know you liked the color black !"  (The parent is known to have stared at he little girl, looked up, smiled , and said, "Black ? What black?"...)

-And what do you say of some "well meaning" neighbors, who advise someone NOT to send the daughter for water sports, because she will turn dark; this despite they having a non-sporting but  extremely intelligent , "fair"ly wheatish daughter....   

-and what do you say to prospective nosy ladies who blatantly discuss and describe a girl of marriageable age  'as  a wonderful person "except", that she is a bit on the wheatish side....'

Something has to change. It is time. 

For a start,  ban all fairness advertisements on television. For a television system that turns a blind eye to liquor ads  moonlighting as sodas, cds and casettes , and winking about it,  you need to be tough. 

Go to court against the multinationals .  Bring in scientists to define what decides a person's skin color, melanin levels , what is changeable , what is not , etc. 

 Despite having a ministry to deal with and control this, we do not seem to have a "truth in advertising" clause anywhere. 

And so  watch and learn, that you can get jobs after 7 days of slathering some cream, twice daily,   and forget all the examinations you slogged over and practicals you did in college, and placement interviews you did. 

And you also watch as someone endlessly dabs on some cream, and suddenly becomes a heroine instead of an "extra"....

And you watch in even more amazement , as a fellow  , earlier snubbed by the village belles,  polishes his face with some fairness cream, and gets mobbed on the stairs, exiting his house.   Whatever happened, to  slogging chaps working in fields, riding tractors, lifting loads and the like ?

Anybody can tell that resultant fair faces on TV are more a product of camera overexposure. This may actually be,  for want of a better word, another scam.

Ban these ads. Penalize them for misleading.   Investigate the ingredients, and confirm that banned items are not being used. 

Realize, that we as a people, were doing perfectly fine beauty wise, even before all the multinationals came in to the country , bringing in makeup items with atrocious costs, and ran ads to make you feel insecure about your looks, filling the coffers of women's magazines with their ads.

Realize , that  we as a people , didn't hanker after designer body parts earlier and didn't do too badly with what we had.   We were comfortable , more so in mind, and did not go through all the mental trauma, young folks obsessed with looks go through today. 

Teach your children, to enjoy a clean face and skin, whether dark or fair. Encourage the use of  authentically herbal age old  mixtures, that function as antiseptics as well as cleansing agents. 

Teach your child, never to make fun of some one's   physical characteristics, whether it is shape,size, or color.  

Teach your child, that there could be dark minds in fair faces, and fair minds in dark faces, and the latter was to be infinitely preferred.  We don't talk about the remaining two options, dark minds in dark faces and fair minds in fair faces, simply because this kind of thinking is the problem we face today. 

I've seen brilliant smiles on dark faces, heartfelt laughs on fair faces, and I have seen both intermingling happily.  Dark and Light are what we live with day in and day out. Each has its own equal beauty.

And so if you ask me, I think it is really time to change the meaning of "Fair"......  

Like I said earlier , time is a dressmaker specializing in alterations.

Maybe, we can , for once , ignore all those catalogues with folks in poses and clotheshorses in action, and listen to what the dressmaker, with its life long experience,  has to say......  

This goes as an entry to http://facebook.com/sftimetochange (time to change)....

Simple recipe, complicated taste.....:-)

 I've often felt that a lot of stuff like flax seeds , which are recommended in the diet, by modern nutritionists because of their amazing quantities of  the good Omega-3 fats, were actually part of our diets , say 50 years ago.  I distinctly remember, in my childhood,  seasonal variations in dry chutneys, vegetables, methods of preparation and so on. Unlike today, when everything is available all the time , on a shelf, in a shop which sells 200 other varieties.

My household help "S" (hitherto blogged and filmed about)  introduced me to a perfect flax seed chutney, amazing in its simplicity.  It was something that was part of her traditional diet when she lived and tilled fields, and they occasionally made it even now.  Most chutneys go overboard on coconut and sesame seeds, two things with their own fat content,  different from the beneficial omega-3 fats.   This was a simple combination of roasted flax seeds ground together with dried roasted kadhipatta leaves, garlic and red chillies. Salt added as per taste. Folks went crazy over it, adding it to things like toast, curd-rice,  salads , and some even used it to bring taste to vegetables they abhorred,  like doodhi,  by sprinkling it there in copious quantities.

I knew these seeds contained oil and wondered if one could use it in baking.  And I decided to use the delicious flax seed dry chutney which I had in large quantity.  


Many years ago,  baking was all about sweet stuff , birthday cakes  and home made pizzas,  while you pretended to ignore the amount of ghee in nankhatais.  With the icing-licking members  now much older and into more exciting pursuits and sports,  one has been trying some tried and tested recipes from friends  in the blogging world and Facebook, like Monika Manchanda and Sangeeta Khanna, with amazing results.

 And I was looking for something which would have very little added fat, minimal or no sugar, and something savoury, utilising some of the less experienced tastes (As opposed to the sweet). Another motivation was that people were continuously looking for something to snack and nibble on.  And there needed to be a brake on bad fats and sugar.....

  Using a  whole wheat cookie recipe, from Monika,  and Sangeeta's experience with flax seeds in baking, I experimented with a recipe using whole wheat, oats, flax seed chutney (I have tons of it), various dry fruits/nuts, and spices.  And I came up with these crunchy, savoury, cookies with a sudden sweet raisin sensation as you chewed. Folks dipped them in tea, coffee, yogurt, and some are planning to try it with chutney, sauce and even mustard.  I thought next time I would add methi leaves.

(Disclaimer : I am the type who measures with handfuls, fistfuls, dollops and so on. Every time I make stuff , we enjoy different tastes, based on what I added more. More of an eater than a cooking person,  I just do things with a different perspective.  )

Here is how it happened.



The blue bowl holds 250cc of water. One such bowlful of whole wheat atta.







Same amount of flax seed chutney to be added.








Two fistfuls of ajwain (carom) seeds. Also called Trachyspermum ammi. Not that you need to know, but I thought the name was amusing.    (You could try using saunf, shahajeera, jeera etc instead. ) 







 Half the blue bowl full, oats







Handfuls of whatever dry fruits and nuts you have.Coarsely crushed. I used, raisins, walnuts,almonds, apricots, and the last of the manookas.





 Add 4 teaspoons of oil, and use milk to make a  semi stiff dough, the kind you can make balls out of and press easily into flat rounds. (I didn't want to add the oil, but that was the old conservative me taking over; and 4 teaspoons would mean very little in each cookie. ( made 35 cookies). Ah well !

Arrange in a non stick pan . Bake in a preheated oven (OTG)  at roughly 180 degrees.  About 15-20 minutes. Till nicely browned, looking dryish, and test with a knife to see if cooked in the centre of the cookie.

Remove from oven, let cool .  These are not chewy, but quite dry. Get nice and crunchy as they cool. Taste a bit like bajra puris. Great with chilly pickle,  or burnt fresh green chillies, coarsely crushed and mixed  with dahi....:-)


Immediately store when cool, in an airtight  bottle/container.

Eat.

One Day in the Examination Centre....

It's not a good time to be a Mumbai Varsity student today.

 In fact it's been some time, since the situation has become undesirable.  Examination woes,  leaking papers, students being distributed papers of a totally unexpected subject, instead of the planned one,  careless crashing of servers that handle examination entry paraphernalia like hall-tickets, last minute exam venue changes disregarding  geographical truths, and  I keep praising the Lord for being a student when I was and escaping from all this chaos.

While I myself never had occasion to be certified by the University of Mumbai, my experiences  with it may be a lesson of some kind.

For a person, professionally qualified  through a Mumbai University affiliated college, working and subsequently doing a postgrad in the US,  the university there insisted that the real degree certificate be submitted before one could register for the second semester, and the provisional certificate , an insignificant looking paper wouldn't do.  An SOS came to me in Mumbai. The application for receiving the degree certificate by post was more than six months old, nothing had moved, and  one needed to go shake things up.

The first day I went to the examination section at the University, I went through a bunch of metal mazes outside, to face a window, where a voice told me that I had come on the wrong day. Different days for even and odd numbered graduation years. I returned home in a blowing monsoon to return on another day.

This time, there was no one at the window, and I waited. Finally, was given a scrap of paper with a name on it. And asked to show it to the guard at the elevated platform where the main entrance was. Predictably , the guard said that people were still trickling in to work, and I needed to wait. For some reason he was unwilling to let me in.

Just when I was about to crib in a raised voice (it often works) , a gent pointed to an officer type coming out of the main door, and told me to ask him, as he was the head of the entire examination set up. Naturally I went up, identified myself as a member of another (highly regarded) educational institution and narrated my woes, and told him that some one's entire educational expenses in the US would be wasted  unless I  got hold of the degree certificate, which should have actually come ages ago. The gentleman asked me to walk right in and  see a Mr A, in some section.

I spent the next hour chasing Mr A, as he flitted from section to section, missing me by seconds.  I also realised that the offices were constructed around a central panel used for storage of paper records, and that I was literally and figuratively going round in circles. It so happened that Mr A finally took notice, spoke to me,  took hold of the reference paper (with application details) I was carrying, and disappeared after requesting me to sit in an office , where folks were still walking in to work, cribbing about train delays, rain et al. No one seemed to be any hurry to start work.

I was getting worried about losing my precious reference sheet detailing the earlier application for the degree certificate.  Someone suggested, that I go and come back. Maybe have a nice tea.  I sunk further in my folding metal chair .  In the meanwhile, a fellow with some flower garlands and a lit lamp came by,  left some wrapped stuff at the desk, distributed some tiny bits of coconut as prasad, and disappeared into the next office.

I was finally seeing some action. Somewhere. A young man pulled up a chair, removed his footwear,  and climbed on to the chair , just so he could reach out to some photos of Gods high up on one side of the office. He lit some incense sticks, garlanded the gods, moved the incense in circles in front , rotated around himself once on the chair, did namaskaar, and got down.

An hour later, Mr A  returned, and told me that he had managed to retrieve the details of my reference and yes, such an application for the degree certificate had been received, and nothing had been done. Would I like to go and return in a couple of hours, and collect it ?

I envisioned another tangle with the security at the gate, conversations with unseen voices at windows, and  sunk further into the chair telling them that I was sitting right there till I saw the degree certificate.  For two hours I saw folks opening thick registers, getting signatures, passing it to some desk , having someone carry it somewhere.

Suddenly a person came in with glasses of tea. There was a combined tea break. I was offered tea, which was gracefully refused.  There was a lot of extraneous conversation happening.  I joined in, playing my role as a minimally educated lady, overcome by the university portals, yet  fighting for some one's degree certificate, and pretended to be  unaware  but unduly impressed by  office procedures and pleased by the dedication to the divine in the room. (All this in the approved "old lady" manner)

Asked them if they celebrated the annual Ganpati festival for their section there; upon which , a superintendent type  smiled and gave me an indulgent  look similar to that given by a posh Mumbaikar, to a hilly billy provincial , say, from Kokan.  No, they didn't celebrate Ganpati in that section.  Then I made some calls, telling folks where I was, and my tentative arrival time at my next stop. Someone would suddenly come by and ask about the year of graduation, and the name , and I would repeat it again. I thought someone was doing calligraphy somewhere  on some preprinted  degree certificate template.

After a while, to my immense amazement, Mr A suddenly landed up, had me sign in some register, and showed me where the degree certificate was emerging slowly on a deskjet printer.  I was stumped. If the data was online, what stopped them from printing the certificate at some window right in the beginning, once they had the reference key ?   They could charge a fee, and do this in real time whenever anyone asked.  But no. The data was not online. If it was, they were not aware of it or linked to it.  They just had a simple degree certificate printing program, where you inputted the candidate details prior to the printing.

I had come in at 10 am. It was now 3 pm, and I  victoriously came out of the main entrance, clutching the aforesaid degree certificate,  to enjoy my first intake of fresh monsoon air, after a tension filled 5 hours.

Suffice to say that  this was my first, last, and final interaction with the University of Mumbai-examination section. 

But there is something that really has no explanation.

In my late in-law's house  there are assorted sepia photos on the wall , of serious looking gents in robes,collars and graduation headgear, holding a scroll of their degree certificate, looking in a dignified manner at the camera, and posing next to a small table with a flower pot and  curly legs.  This, in an age, with minimum mechanization, and big box cameras.But an age , where the University took pride in giving the degrees and certificates on time.

With there being such big gaps in applying for and acquiring the said degree certificate now,  there are no such photos in my house, of anyone celebrating their first life degree.

Another child attended another university in Mumbai, with a much similar experience; that is another story.

But we just do one University at a time on this blog..... :-)  

Oh My God !

Highlighted and translated by

One of Mumbai's temples, from the early part of the 19th century, in fact , consecrated in 1801.  Constructed by a contractor called Mr Patil, and financed completely by a rich Agri lady called Deobai. Such was the munificence of mind then that , although she herself, was,  and remained childless, she built this temple, because she was convinced that many other women would be granted their wish by the  Lord resident inside.  

A November night in 1975. It was then, from the outside, a very ordinary , managlore-tile-roofed  single storey set-up, situated in the heart, of what was then , solid middle-class-Mumbai,  on the main western thoroughfare of Mumbai that went from south to north.   Traffic was then  a delight , and it was still possible to make impromptu decisions to stop the car, park the car without tow-truck-trauma, and go visit the place .

There was one entrance, unguarded, but with a gate of sorts. You could walk right into the sanctum sanctorum, pray, acquire prasad , and leave leisurely after enjoying the ambiance.  Newly weds came there to pray, sometimes straight from a wedding reception, when the bride travelled to her new home with her newly acquired family. Folks came there with their newborn kids, to lay them at the feet of the deity, and the Lord always showered his blessings. Then there were the regulars, who came daily, some who came and recited stuff to one side, and some, who came to redeem a promise made to the lord.    

Times have changed.  For that matter, everything has changed.

The place is now a multistoreyed place, with offices et al, and priests travel up  and down in elevators to perform their assigned worship duties vis-a-vis the public.
There is a dome above all the floors, gold coated, that glistens far and wide on a sunny day.   The old entrance is now an exit. And in an adjoining road, named after one of India's greatest economists,  is a huge line of shops selling all kinds of things like flowers, sweets, souvenirs,  pooja items, and  some spurious services.

When we visited on a Saturday noon, we had to park at least 5 blocks away, and then walk through a road with police roadblocks,beeping doorways, folks in uniform peering into an xray machine, as your purses and bags tumbled by them on a conveyor belt, like at airports.  There were also some folks frisking visitors with some kind of probe.

There must have been at least 1000 visitors ahead of us as we continue walk towards what we thought was the end of the line. All the while, there were touts outside  the shops, offering to  store and look after your footwear,  advising you on specials deals by them which would allow you to skip the huge line, and or jump it. "VIP Darshan" as they called it was repeatedly on offer.  Then one enterprising guy took a look at the silver wisps of hair   predominant on our crowns, and  told us there was a special Senior Citizen's gate through which we could get in. Even accompanied by a junior citizen daughter. (I later looked for such a gate , but could not find it.)   All this while, our queue kept snaking ahead in the shape of a U, before we entered into what was a barricaded area, where you went up and down through  a maze.  At one end , we saw a gate festooned with official signs that announced priority entry for folks buying a 50Rs ticket, as well as thrilling entry facilities for folks choosing to buy a gold, or silver pass, like a season ticket.


The queue soon snaked around close to the road entrance from which folks were emerging after being frisked. Some folks develop selective vision at such points. They could not see the queue, and pretended to seamlessly merge with the queue, at a point, where at least 500 people were still in line.  The selective vision meant their feet moved surreptitiously while they looked at the temple in a dedicated manner. Fortunately, and much to their chagrin, some folks took the trouble of pointing out to them the end of the queue, and they went off trying to suppress a huff. Inching ahead, and we were soon inside, with the sanctum in sight, brilliantly lit up, profused with puja flowers and worship items.

Mumbai roads habituate us to adjusting suddenly from 6 lanes to 2, and something similar happened when it was suddenly a single line to the Lord.  True to reputation, folks simply pushed and changed lanes. I wondered what the Lord must have felt, day after day, month after month, year after year, this surge of humanity flowing in front. Several temple volunteers and folks in uniform, pleading with folks to keep moving, hold their children together, and after a quick darshan , we were out.  Collected our prasad at the exit gate, amidst assorted pushy folks, and proceeded on the final trudge home.

This particular deity, is known to grant wishes.  Its devotees are many, from all the religions.There are many stories on how people walk barefoot all night from far off places  to visit this deity, and ask for favours and blessings. I've even heard of someone who walked backward from a far flung suburb of Mumbai. Many prominent folks from the film fraternity, do this walk, followed by their security guards  and assorted cars  driving there to take them back . And millions of ordinary folks crowd there to see them. You see countless young folks in line, with families , friends, and many who make it a regular thing  as soon as examination time approaches.

I grew up in another town , where too, there are several extremely well known temples, as old as this temple, and even dedicated to the same deity, and unique  in the style and rarity of form of the deity.

As a child , I lived  on the road leading to one such temple, and was witness to several old devotees , who had their own methods of paying obeisance to the lord.  And old gentleman, would , without fail, go by at 5:30 am every single morning,  doing suryanamaskars  instead of walking all the way, reciting the concerned prayers. Regardless of season and weather.  And unaccompanied by caretakers. On reaching, he would sit inobtrusively, recoup his energy for a bit, recite his prayers, prostrate himself  before the deity (even from a distance) , collect the prasaad, and then leave,  like any other devotee, walking.

This deity also had its share of folks who got desperate as exams approached. Close to the date of the board exams, you could see young fellows doing 108 rounds around the inner sanctum, muttering their prayers earnestly.

Somewhere in the late 80's , my mother was amongst and  a member of the board trustees appointed by the government for temples such as this one and some others , like the Parvati Hill temple,  associated with this one. Then (and till to-date), the only woman amidst the board of trustees, she had been a daily visitor to these temples for several decades and was known to many.  A very god fearing, knowledgeable, fearless, and  terribly down-to-earth person, she once stopped one of these students  to ask about them spending hours doing these 108 rounds.  Turns out that they were totally depending on this deity to see them through an exam when they had not bothered to study for it.

For someone who thought studies and sports were to be pursued with equal dedication by students, and prayers and worship was part of a daily short routine
she thought, this business of throwing the onus of passing exams on the Lord was like cheating the lord.

She took them aside, and urged them to actually go back and concentrate on their studying.  Advised them that the Lord would help anyone who made an honest effort at the exams,after putting in preparatory efforts at the highest level, and that just doing 108 rounds of the inner sanctum without studying was not going to work. Of course, some listened, some did not. But she tried.  I like to think some lives changed in the way they thought about things.


I don't know if she would have succeeded today. Everyone wants quick answers and solutions.  Some folks also think that money can be earned by dubious means, and then you can redeem yourself by worshipping the lord with some huge gift  and a special family puja session with all the trimmings. Elections fought with unaccounted money power, and wins celebrated by documenting your very public gifts to some temple.   What those at the top do, the folks at subordinate levels, emulate.  Gold passes, silver passes, special entries to visit the lord, and shower him with gifts. I doubt if any crooks ever come there to apologize for their crooked sins.

Somewhere in all these folks, are the old faithful. Who have immense faith, but whose resources are not so full.  Those who worry about savings being depleted, and how they are going to manage someone's school fees. Visiting temples , for them, is like having food, a simple meal. A daily affair.


But it gets more and more difficult. Some feel I shouldn't even be complaining.

A news item in today's Times of india, refers to  the fact that the waiting time to see the idol at the famous Hill Temple at Tirupati, is 21 hours. With close to 65,000 pilgrims on weekdays, a view of the deity for  0.80 to 1.5 seconds amidst a lot of shoving and pushing by temple guards and Srivari volunteers is defined as adequate.
   
    A time-motion study found that 2,000-2,200 pilgrims are able to ‘finish’ the darshan of the Moola Virat (main deity) in one hour when they are pushed around. If temple volunteers exercise restraint, the numbers come down to 1,400-1,600 and further down to 1,000-1,200 if they only say ‘move move’ inside the garbha griha.
    

With Arjitha sevas and other rituals taking up 8 hours and VIP pilgrims allowed darshan for 3-4 hours, common pilgrims are left with only 10-12 hours.
   

 In the Maha Laghu darshan (100 feet away from the Lord), the line moves at lightning pace as some 5,000-6,000 pilgrims are accommodated in 60 minutes. “Even a glimpse of the Lord is difficult as pilgrims are dragged away like players in a kabaddi match,” a temple insider said. .....

Just wondering. Why things have reached such a stage ?  Should money be the deciding factor in defining classes of worship ?  Is this like bringing in "reservations" ?

Are we as a people sinning more ?  Has it reached such proportions that a disgusted  God is feared  and placated  with limitless resources ?  Does anyone think an entity like a God  can be bought, like some folks in the corridors of power ?  

 What happened to thinking of God as a kind of benevolent monitor in our daily life, where we put in a lot of thought before responding  to some underhand, illegal or plain cheating stuff ?


Is God now an industry ?