For a brave lady........

Resplendent in her prime,
Green in anticipation,
Swaying the silk in her leaves,
The breeze turns her head,
Branches twist in agony,
Painful dangerous bends that
leave some memory on the soil

Time and again she tries
to feel full and green,
The storm subsides
leaving the hurt;
Rainswept fertile minds
and grasses,
under the weird gaze of the cloud

The cloud she thought her own,
in its blackness
Darkens an already fearful mind,
Diseased spots of doubt.
What if the leaves just fall,
And leave a rigid trunk,
A dry leafless life,
Stems withering in the sun
Tremors of Agony...

The rain comes blowing in,
clearing the cobwebs of her mind,
Washing the leaves clear,
As tears drip down the trunk....
To embed below;

The cloud smirks, it has lost
the trust and love of the greens;
Slapped by an angry wind,
it rushes beyond the hills,
Leaving a tired but hopeful tree,
tickled by the nudging blades of grass,
growing up,
holding out a hand,
to say, we'll face it together.....

A different Park

Manju's post got my somnolent neurons into a desperate Brownian motion of sorts.

Not that the timing is of any relevance, but a a month after I was born, the British Governor General left India . (Two independent events. No connection) . But we became a Republic, and have been constantly held up to the world as an example of a wonderful democracy, since then. It gives me the right to vote, to opine, to object, to suggest, and have an understanding that a mechanism to listen exists, on the part of the government....

Seeing the evolution of politics, politicians , people, information, and electronic devices over the last half century or so, leads one to surmise, that too much , most, or all, of this, has lead to an information glut, reduced attention spans, less thinking and more gut reactions among people, particularly in parts of the country where education is considered a business.

And so you hear more and more about various types of citizen rages that involve indiscriminate destruction of stuff that our taxes pay for, like trains, buses, hospitals, and so on. On a personal level, this ..

In the old days, specifically in the age the Ramayana happened, folks had a solution. Anyone who had a sudden angry rage, kind of retired to an Anger Chamber or Krodhaaghar. There you were on your worst behaviour, could curse, shout, throw yourself around, and depending on your avoirdupois, you did or didn't cause destruction. People who wanted to communicate with you, already expected you to be mad about things, and approached you accordingly with backup reinforcements or whatever . Basically, usage of the anger chamber implied that there would be less destruction outside.

In this day and age, entire populations get enraged, and anger rooms are impractical. What we need are what may be termed Temper Parks. While huge expanses of lands seem to be currently available for statue parks, the following is an attempt by an ordinary citizen to define requirements for a such a park.

1. Every suburb of a big city (like Mumbai) to have compulsory Temper Parks. Smaller cities to have such parks just outside city limits. Housing enclaves that build such temper parks for use of their residents, will get a 5 year tax break. High walls mandatory. Open 24 hours.

2. The government will subsidize setting up of Effigy Arts, a public sector organization. This set up will specialise in having ready basic skeleton effigies, which will be enhanced to resemble assorted required types, on request. This organization is expected to give employment to a large amount of artists, designers, combustion experts etc. Effigies will be available on 3 days notice, and quicker ones possible under the Tatkaal scheme.

3. A Hitting range will be mandatory. In peaceful times this may function as a rifle shooting practice range for our police and and shooters and archers. In times of crisis, preference will be given to shoe and chappal throwers. Throwing of eatables will not be encouraged. Enraged types are encouraged to do some initial warm ups before starting the throws. For a special fee , some effigies may be fixed as target, and shoe throwing exercises conducted at them. The BCCI and Tennis Associations have suggested that students may be given special catching practice/smash-returning practice here, and the government may agree, if helmets are worn. (We wont talk about who is manufacturing these).

4. There will also be a Shouting range. This will be a dome shaped Circular screen which will continuously show , in 3-D, various historical events , interspersed with pictures of police rushing in from somewhere. the bottom of the screen will constantly run various karaoke slogans and shouts , and folks will be encouraged to participate and shout slogans and march around to their hearts content. Pepsi and CocaCola are currently the lead bidders for providing free refreshment outside the Shouting range, the condition being that the drinks be served in earthen bottles, which can then be banged down and broken, in keeping with the spirit of "Tasting the Thunder"
.

5. Old junked cars, train bogeys, banged up buses, crumpled rickshaws, dented motorcycles and entangled bicycles found unclaimed across the city will be brought here and held in a special recessed enclosure, sponsored by The Bihar State Station Master's Association. Agitated railway action aficionados, can rush in here with burning rods and stuff and torch things . Accidents will be kept minimal by sound activated programmable water sprinklers at high pressure, which will respond to any sound of the type, "xxxx murdabad", where xxxx can be programmed to be anything but the ruling party.

6. The large scale increase in Engineering colleges across the country is supposed to be dedicated to setting up robots . These tested Robots will be installed nationwide in the Temper Parks. These robots will be dressed up differently on different days .Like Police on Monday, doctors on Tuesdays and Thursdays, suburban train motormen on Wednesdays, and ministers on all other days. Enraged citizens can vent their ire at these in a distributed fashion, picking and choosing their pet peeves.

7. Anyone who still has destructive energy left over after burning effigies, throwing stuff, fighting hand to hand, and shouting, can rest for a while, in chambers sponsored by Kingfisher, listening to a remixed version of "Emotional Atyachar" or Julio Iglesias singing "Light my fire". Those interested in scientific relaxation will have a jogging track around the circumference of the entire park set up.

A slow jog, besides slowly relaxing your body, thinking about families , the small but cosy house, young children waiting at home , worried parents, and troubled wife, was guaranteed to flash visions of reality in front of some, as they exited the Temper Park, tired from all the histrionics and physical effort.

A short walk down the road and there would be a traffic intersection. There would be police all over. Cars with red beacons, motorcycle escorts, guys running beside slow moving cars, and the temper Park champions would gape with mouths open, as they saw the man who instigated them to protest and agitate , drive by with his supposed enemy in politics/government, smiling and nodding through the evening gloom reflected in the tinted window panes......


P. S. As expected , the state government has ordered the installation of unbreakable, non-stealable, video monitoring systems, to record the usage the usage of these parks. In times of low Temper Park usage, they plan to show live sessions of the State Legislative Assemblies and occasionally the National Parliament.

Green and leafy memories ......

The papers are full of percentages. A rise in some indicates progress. A fall in some also indicates progress. These days the key word is inflation. Double digits of it, is supposed to be bad, and a drop in inflation of .01% is ecstatically reported by the government.

To normal, run-of-the-mill middle class folk, economy is all about the price of a bunch of coriander , at the local guy selling green leafy vegetables. In my not inconsiderable lifetime , I have seen the price of a bunch go up from Rs 3 a bunch to Rs 12 a bunch.

And it has been additionally interesting to see the life and times of Shyamsunder, our local leafy green veggie chap.

A late entrant, into what passes for a need based vegetable market, that simply established itself outside our area many years ago, he started out, establishing his stall (a big metal sheet , covered with plastic, balanced on a bunch of empty drums), for selling green leafy vegetables. The only available area was right next to the fish ladies, an entire mafia of tough looking, hefty ladies, who cleaned, cut and sold fresh fish, sitting, with a sharp meat knife at the ready, competing for customers. Shyamsunder, a vegetarian, soon learned to tolerate the fish smells, as many customers gravitated to his stall to purchase the coriander, chillies, ginger and assorted greens that were part of the makings of a great fish curry....

I would go several times a week with my young son, and get my supply of greens, sifting and searching for fresh looking bunches, as my son looked on with great morbid interest at the poor fish being hacked and murdered into pieces, by the fish ladies nearby. One day, I saw a lady working with Shyamsunder. A slightly built girl-woman, head covered, her nose ring prominently gracing her very innocent face, she was bending over the set up, organizing the day's veggies, shaking moisture out of some, throwing out those she thought had reached their use-by-date. Shyamsunder sat , enjoying a little glass of tea, something that came around in a steaming six-glass system, thanks to another smart entrepreneur, who moved around on a bicycle, and sold tea to the vendors and fish ladies.

Before I could ask, he held up some greens and called out, waving them at me....

"Behenji, (behen = sister), today's, fenugreek (methi) leaves are excellent. For you , 6 rupees. How many bunches should I pack ? "....and then (seeing me smiling at the lady) , he added as an afterthought ," Oh! her ? She's my wife. Came yesterday from our village, with my uncle who was travelling this way."

The lady smiled shyly, covering her head a bit more . She was from his village, and had done roughly, the first two years of school, before she was pulled out to help in a crowded house. Her greatest achievement, was that she could read and write and sign her name; Shyamsunder couldn't. But he was still considered an excellent "catch" by her family as he had a "business" in. Mumbai.

Anyone who migrated to Mumbai and could sustain life there, was looked upon highly in the village.

Shyamsunder's stall was doing quite well, given his knack of being customer friendly. He knew all his customers, their young children, and had figured out who worked and who were stay-at-home-ladies. He remembered that some people cooked and required lots of ginger-garlic frequently, he also remembered that South Indians amongst his customers needed lots of curry leaves in their cuisine, and was conversant with special seasonal dishes made in Mumbai with Colocassia leaves, which he stocked and sold.

One day I saw his wife at the stall. No sign of Shyamsunder. One of the fish ladies was helping out his wife with the customers. Turns out that his father was gravely ill, and he had urgently left to go back. By now he had 2 children, who were very young, and they couldn't afford the train fare back and forth for the whole family, so he had gone alone.

A fortnight later he was back. Head shaven. His father had passed away, and he had performed the last rites as a son should. We condoled with him, asking about his old mother and family. Life continued.

And one day, when there wasn't much rush at his shop, he asked me something. He wanted to open a bank account. Did I have an account, and would I help him get one ? One of the senior fish ladies had an account, and she had told him. What did one have to do ? And was there a fee ?

I said I would be very happy to help. We fixed a time to meet at the bank. He came by, wearing his one good shirt over his lungi (men's warp-around, traditional to south India but worn by most Indians), accompanied by his wife, wearing what appeared to be her Sunday best, head covered demurely, eyes suitably downcast. My arriving on a two wheeler with a faulty silencer was a bit of a contrast, but never mind.

The manager gave us some forms, and I was asked to fill in the details. They had brought the requisite photographs that were needed.

I looked up at Shyamsunder to ask the details for full name etc.

"I want this account to be in my wife's name", he said. "She can read and sign".

I was impressed. Here was a guy slogging 24 x 7, in the roughest kind of life, and wanted all his earnings to be in his wife's name. I explained to him the idea of adding his own name as the second name. And how no account should be held on a single name like this. It didn't matter that he could neither read or write. He could give a thumb impression.

I signed , entering their details on the form, and introducing them to the bank. In those days you needed to keep a minimum balance of 100 Rs. I made a gift of those , saying that , that was for his children, and the account got its initial deposit, as his wife looked on, trying to study how one went about depositing money. They were the proud owners of a passbook , which they had to carry at all times.

I would often run into Shyamsunder and his wife at the bank. He looked happy with his life. He enjoyed accompanying his wife to the bank. Proudly looked on as she signed. They were not minting a fortune. But their thinking was worth millions.

Today, 10 years have passed. Shyamsunder still has his stall, except it has moved across the road, thanks to the road widening. His children go to school, and he proudly tells me that his daughter sings very well. His wife doesn't attend the stall now, she has a lot to do at home. They keep getting visitors from their village, and she is kept busy.

While waiting at his stall for a friend to arrive, I once asked him why he insisted on having the bank account in his wife's name .

He shook his head, looked into the distance, and said, "My mother couldn't read or write. After my father's death, the relatives asked her to put her thumb impression on documents, under the guise of organizing her life for her."

She was systematically robbed of whatever she had by scheming relatives, and he was torn between wanting to go there to help, and being unable to stay away from work for indefinite periods ....

" My wife can read and write. So can my children . Whatever I have is theirs. And my wife should have first claim on that. I want to see her enjoy now, what little I earn in my lifetime. I don't want history to repeat. No relatives should cheat her after me. She is more educated than me. That's why I decided to have my wife's name as the main name on the account. "


I know of well qualified , super educated families, where the wife's earnings are handed over each month to the head of the household, simply because "that's how we do it in our family".

I also know of comfortably placed men, who discourage their wives from finding out about their businesses, and deliberately keep them ignorant of banking procedures.

His name may not appear in the papers, he may not have a certificate to frame and hang on the semi crumbling walls of his humble abode, and his children may have to make do with simple meals for months on end thanks to the extra expenditure incurred on their visitors from their village (who cannot be refused a place), but I am convinced , that come the next International Women's Day, if someone asks me to recommend a name for an award, it will have to be Shyamsunder, our modern, right-thinking, green leafy veggie seller.

(And he will promptly hand the envelope to his wife who will deposit it , expertly, into the aforesaid bank account, as Shyamsunder indulgently looks on....)

Someone's "Stepping out".....

A little shrub, facing up,
All alone, amidst the seasons,
They came and went, and then
One day it took root
Reaching up to the sky
Gurgling in its growth ....

The sky is closer,
The sun is a friend,
The moon winks in confidence,
As the arms turn to branches,
Laden with growth,
Green and blooming....



A thing of beauty,
Some say, and it smiles,
Happy in its greenness,
Held close by the brown trunk;
Narrow waisted,
flowering into a canopy of Comfort....

The time for fruiting is near,
The wind and clouds hold hands,
As the rains drizzle in agreement,
There is growth once again,
A coming out into the world,
Reaching out to the sky,
Basking in the Sun...
And the warmth in life....

(Written for someone, just coming into her own. I wrote the poem first and actually found the graphic later. Looks like it was meant to be....a girl-tree reaching out to the world......)

What your orthopedic doctor won't tell you :-)

He was about 78 then.

An avid practitioner of Yoga since his teenage years, he was finding it difficult to come to terms with the fact that despite a weight-under-control, and blood tests with values, which would qualify for a special framing , there was this pain in his back that refused to go away. A very exercise conscious, enthusiastic walker, and admirer of all things Ayurvedic, he sometimes handled things on will power alone, and managed to succeed.

Something his children observed , again and again, as he traipsed through his geriatric years.

In their own childhood, his children often practiced their own version of yoga alongside him, trying to copy him, as he did his deep breathing and Pranayam, often exhaling in a certain audible tone, (which was how the exercise was actually supposed to be done); and his children would sit, performimg alongside and suddenly "up" the volume of their moans, as they pretended to follow, till out of the corner of their half open eyes, they saw their mother approaching them , reproach in her eyes, shaking her head, and signalling them to vamoose from there if they couldn't behave. Headstands were an opportunity to test how books balanced themselves on his upturned feet, till the children themselves grew up and realized the merits of trying to walk with books balanced on their heads.......

By and by, the grandchildren happened. Trips to visit him were always fun for them, as there were numerous visits to parks and hills near their homes, where interesting snacks like peanuts and cucumbers were carried alongside, and imbibed by sweating, red-faced kids, as they looked forward to a visit to the sugarcane juice person on the hill temple, who was so old, he had even served the juice to their parents.....

There would be yoga exercises after returning, and recitation of prayers, and lots of giggling over some young cousins' drastic mispronunciation of Sanskrit.

This time his back started hurting really badly. To the point that he couldn't sit on a chair at all. He could stand, or lie down, and nothing in between.He would lie on his stomach and his wife would help him with the tray of food, as he occasionally winced in pain. He would come up with these amazing Ayurvedic herbal wraps he wanted his wife to prepare. This were things which were grated,cooked, mixed, applied and smeared on his back. His wife was an angina patient, almost his age, and apart from the varied preparation at odd hours, she was not able to help him turn, which involved a bit of lifting, which was contraindicated for her.

His married daughter was visiting then and his wife conspired to get him to go see an orthopaedic surgeon nearby. The daughter and son-in-law would assist with the lifting etc. Of course, sitting in a wheelchair was out.He simply refused to hear that.

His wife had earlier briefed the young orthopaedic doctor on this possibly difficult patient. In the community, she knew most of the doctor's aunts and uncles, and as such, the doctors were always respectful of age, as they dealt with wilful folks. She had rejoiced with their parents when , as youngsters, they got admission into med school, and given them gifts when they came by; almost always to bend an touch the feet of elders, as they distributed sweets to celebrate the success.....

They were called in as soon as they arrived. The old man assumed the demeanor of someone actually doing a huge favour to the doctor by appearing there.

He winced as he lay down. Looked at the doctor with skepticism as he listened to talk about X-rays, MRI's and even surgeries. Shook his head.

"I wont do any X-ray or MRI. If you want you can look at my last years stuff. its just a way of enhancing the cost to the patient.....And why do you talk about surgery ? So much expense, people believe you, and then things continue , as they have been before. Hmm. What a rip off ......"

His daughter looked down. She knew where all this was leading. She quickly brought up the topic of pain relief . The doctor prescribed a bunch of stuff, carefully explaining what each medicine did. NSAID's, antacid/enzymes to ease the stomach after ingesting the meds, and so on.

"Are you sure you are NOT giving antibiotics ? Because I will not take them ", and he glared at the doctor and his daughter.

You normally didn't glare at your son-in-law.

They came home. That night, lying down horizontal, he argued with his daughter for an hour about taking the pain reliever.

She was the only one, who never gave up. Probably got it from him.

With a great celebration of relief the prescribed pain reliever was taken, along with the various wraps and stuff that were a nightly program.

Next morning, when the daughter woke up, she saw her father, miraculously , sitting at the dining table, having his breakfast, with her mother. She knew it was the NSAID, which had brought temporary relief, and thereby a little enhancement in quality of life. And here was her father, waxing eloquent on the use of herbal wraps, how the stuff had worked for him, how the doctor was actually useless, and how this was a victory for Ayurveda. Sometime during the day, when the pain looked like it was returning, he quietly took another pill.

What he did after that was amazing.

His was a case of severe disc herniation. Age was a big cause. He used the relief from the NSAID's to go visit a yoga-orthopaedic clinic run by an orthopaedic surgeon who adapted yoga for his use. They taught him exercises , mild ones, to be done, in the house, using some kind of thickish rope, and the dining table surface. Some exercises were done with pillows.

He religiously did these exercises every single day. He visited the clinic once a fortnight where they evaluated his progress, and advised some alternate exercises. Soon he was up and about. They had a problematic car sitting in the garage, he didn't like it at all, and he always walked to the clinic.

He would walk past the original orthopaedic doctor's office, and kind of give the place a smug look, hoping that the young doctor would look out of the window and see him saunter by.

His daughter came by for a visit during her children's vactions. He was back to his activities with the children. Visiting parks, the hill. Their car had been, in the meanwhile, repaired , much to his chagrin, but it worked for driving short distances when the children were there, the cousins joined in, and taking the car was a good management alternative.

He was out with the children once and going through a rather biggish pothole, the car battery left its moorings, and tumbled down on the starter, where the spilling acid, burned up stuff and there was a loud noise and smoke. The children thought this was super exciting, he had an "I told you so" , look on his face, and that was the end of the car. He preferred to walk...

Into his eighties, he continued his yoga and his walking and the special exercises. Niggling health issues were summarily dismissed, as were some doctors. After the death of his wife, his daughter took upon herself the mantle of consulting suitable doctors, as age related medical situations arose. There was always a separate visit by her to the doctors, which was required before he agreed to see them. This was so she could alert them about his convictions and apologize in advance for any fearless drastic telling-off that he might do.

Some of the doctors looked upon him with awe. Many times he would surprise them, with his energy and blood values, not to mention, his firm conviction that they were wrong. :-)

Diagnosed with an abdominal aneurysm beyond the danger size, he was soon uncomfortable with the exercise restrictions the doctor suggested, and threw away the medications that the doctor said would not worsen things. Whats more, he called up the doctor and told him that. (His daughter was distraught. The doctor told her that a simple fall could burst the aneurysm, and it would be instantly fatal. )

His organs were tiring out, his legs didn't support him anymore, and he actually used a "chair with small luggage-type wheels" rather than a wheel chair, around the house.

Sometime during his last days, a doctor /surgeon friend of his daughter, who came to visit, was alarmed at how blithely we treated the abdominal area (whenever we had to move him), where the aneurysm could now be visually noticed, thanks to his minimal fat.

Then, on examination, he found out , something nobody had realized. The dangerous, shaky walled aneurysm , hitherto considered a danger thing, had actually calcified, and was actually not a threat anymore.

A few months before he passed away, he once sat in the balcony, having a herbal tea with his daughter , and told her, how more than anything else, a mental attitude, that said "I will overcome this" , repeated to yourself frequently, actually helped you heal faster.

She had a distinct suspicion, Someone Up There had been listening to him all along.....

Weather : Nothing official about it....

One way of classifying countries is the way they treat "weather".....

Till I left the shores of India in 1970 (for a few years), I had never realized that it could be a topic for conversation. I mean, it was fine in cases where rain flooded the entire first floor of your house, and someone else was talking about boating in their garden, but smiling and nodding at rank strangers and saying ,"Wonderful day, isn't it?", when nothing alarmingly exciting was happening, used to feel a bit pseudo, if you get what I mean.

And then I realized, that watching news on television and paying great attention to the weatherman/woman forecasting the next days situation, , was something folks took seriously. People cancelled weekend camping if rain was forecast. And, no surprise, it always rained when they said it would. People packed a few more warm clothes when temperatures were scheduled to dip in winter, and there was no chance that you would be suddenly sweating instead.

They took weather seriously. And so , it was discussed, not suffered.

Way back, when I was in middle school, weather was not such a hot topic. I mean you had seasons, which more or less stuck to their schedule, and weather forecasts in newspapers (there was no TV then), mainly consisted , of showing, a bunch of maximum and minimum temperatures here and there, mainly to fill up columns. There was great attention paid to "accurately" describing possible rainfall in terms like , "scattered rain likely in parts of south central Maharashtra"; which really said nothing you didn't know.

Then TV happened. And you always got the impression that the weather part of the news was there to fill in a few minutes, while the main anchor had a much needed drink of water. The weatherperson , always announced things in a way, that implied that he/she had some extra secret information , and they always showed us some INSAT-1B satellite pictures to create a high-tech impression. And never mind that it indicated the then current weather and nobody knew what would happen the next day......

Nothing has changed, except the dresses worn by the weather anchor.

So it was not surprising at all, that we were suddenly inundated yesterday, regarding news , about a cyclone hitting West Bengal, and Kolkatta, as the innocent populace there, went about their daily grind.

This has been the pattern of weather prediction.

A few days ago, there was a news report, about some bureaucratic scholarly meteorologist talking about a "depression" in the Bay of Bengal. While people concentrated on using big words, and getting their name spellings correct in newspapers, this Depression moved around, and possibly grew and spread. A Department of meteorology should have been able to give early warnings about possible havoc in relevant parts of the country. Cyclone movements are eminently traceable.

But , as it happens every year, the meteorological department has such a hang up, about predicting the onset of the Southwest Monsoon, and whether it will rain in Mumbai 10 days after it reaches Kerala (in the southern tip of the country), that folks in Kolkatta were caught totally unawares, by the sudden darkness at noon , followed by massive winds and rain. Flights were disrupted, trees were uprooted in the cities, causing serious destruction , human and non human, huge amount of flooding in other parts of West Bengal ravaged the countryside, leading to horrendous damage, and loss of life.

And amidst reports in the press of the ensuing havoc, a smug announcement from the weather-types, saying. "We can confirm that the the monsoon has set in, in Kerala". (So would thousands of citizens , who have learned by trialo and error to anticipate the monsoon)......

The government grant for Plan Budget outlays to IMD for the 8th, 9th and 10th Five Year Plans were Rupees 130 crores, Rupees 254 crores and Rupees 309 crores respectively. (This from an answer given in Parliament by the concerned minister). I crore Rs = 10,000,000 Rs = 210,228.04 USD at today's conversion rate.

A few questions.

Like in education, do we have our priorities wrong ? While , for some reason , we seem to be concentrating on being no 1 in ownership of cell phones in the world, and planning for bullet trains, someone needs to pay attention, to some kind of cost benefit analysis, regarding the functioning of the Meteorological department, and its interface with other administrative and operations related urban/rural set ups.

Disaster Action Committees set lofty aims, and are crammed with politicians. Mumbai has had several traumatic monsoon events, since 2005, but other than "meeting ", minuting and publicizing, no one has bothered to check if the plans are being adhered to, if deviations from it are being rectified, and whether the quality of the "completed" work stands up to strict scrutiny. And while some completely IT-disabled, politically-enabled folks acquire official laptops as part of the "handouts", no one bothers to show them how they can see the progress of the cyclone on a map on the Internet.

So while the IMD kept mum about a developing heavy rain cloud cover of 15 miles height, till it discharged itself horrendously over Mumbai on 26th July 2005, four years down the line, the big excitement is about when the rains will hit Mumbai.

The various city agencies have suitably incomplete road projects, all dug up, to ensure maximum flooding. They are also pointing guilty fingers at other municipal agencies, and someone has caught on to the fact that the tide is going to be the highest it has been in the last hundred years , on July 24, 2009. There is a planned effort to psyche people into staying home on that day. Pregnant ladies scheduled to deliver around that date are in tension about going in to hospital 4 days earlier. The authorities are recommending that schools declare holidays (on their own initiative), and the populace is being asked not to venture out unnecessarily. (No one who travels by public transport in the monsoon thinks it is a picnic. They go because, for many, their day's earning, and their family's food, depends on it )

In a world where cyclones are sedately named after women, the IMD even got that wrong.

The Kolkatta cyclone was named "Aila".....

While to western ears this may sound like a sweet feminine name, in my language, Marathi, which is widely spoken in Mumbai, it is an expletive, and had I uttered it in my family in my childhood or even later, a few palms would have made strong contact with my face, besides branding me uncouth.

Maybe its time we went back to natural methods of weather prediction, that farmers know. Like bird calls, appearances of certain insects, direction of the wind, appearances of certain clouds, behaviour of animals.....

Or maybe, we can outsource this to the US ? Mr Obama, are you listening?

Virtually Art.....

June Saville, of Northern Rivers NSW, Australia, did some innovative art work in MSPaint, and suggested that people try and design their own and send the output to her.

Well, some did, and she is having an exhibition.

The Virtual 70 Plus Art Exhibition, (the 70 plus part having to do with the name of her blog). is of course open to all.

She is serving wine and cheese.

If you don't like what you see, virtual tomatoes, eggs, and shoes are available.....though I would think that your triceps and biceps can be put to better use.

Can you think of a more wonderful thing to do on a weekend :-)

Go have a look.....

Dabbling and Doodling : ArtNews

I don't know about you but I have never done bungee jumping.

Not that an average , avoirdupois enabled, loud-voiced , approaching-60, blogger, routinely bungee-jumps (think of the bridge undergoing trauma), but that's how I feel when I am attempting something totally new, without any training, per se, and an entire family standing behind, mouths agape, hands covering their mouth, some even shaking their heads......you get the idea.



Art wasn't something the Lord remembered when he was distributing genes, in my case.

But a diet of persistent trying, fooling around with colors in the Windows Paint program, encouragement from some of my blogger friends, and an ability to have an opinion on everything, has allowed me to "methylate" the gene; that is, temporarily change settings in my genes blaming it on the environment. That's Epigenetics for you.

And so I am convinced that I need to have an ArtNews blog. In addition to this one.

Have a look at Reghotya

And in keeping with the latest mode of reacting and commenting, shoes, sandals, tomatoes and comments will be gratefully dodged........

Little minds, Big questions.....

                                                            For 2011 :

 

They lived on the shores of the lake. The house was actually ancient, and the unusually small size of the windows, and the tantalizingly non horizontal window ledges often gave you the feeling of staying on a ship. Right next door was a brand new, modernistic, official looking guest house of the Institute, with undulating lawns that swept a graceful curve down to the lake.

For the little boy who lived in the old house, it was the place that he could visit on his own, to play with his friends. No traffic , no roads to cross, no dark corners and eerily moving tree branches, and he would rush home as soon as it got dark. He lived on a wooded campus, and these buildings bordering the lake had a bit more natural light than the others.

His grandmother had moved in with them. Earlier, Both his grandfather and grandmother would come to stay. But sometime when he was in first grade, his grandfather fell sick. He would often bring his cars and other things and play with them in his grandfathers room, actually because everyone was always doing something there, but mostly because his grandfather liked to watch him play and chat with him. One day, he was taken to an aunts house after school, and when he returned home in the late evening, he found that his grandfather was no longer around, and his grandmother looked different.

"God has taken him to heaven" , they told him, "because he was so sick. He will be well there".

They told him the same thing when he lost his baby brother 2 years earlier. He himself was younger then, and believed what everyone was saying. And now his grandfather. This whole thing about God was getting a bit suspicious. No one explained just how God came and took the folks with him. Was he invisible, did he come at night, how come no one heard ? And this was broad daylight. How come no one noticed anything going on ? Heaven was somewhere up there . Birds flew, but you could still watch them......

By and by his grandmother came to live with them and they settled into a nice routine. His parents worked, but came home for lunch. His mother would glance through his school books in the afternoon, and give him some assignments to do if there was no homework. His grandmother would take a short nap while he played, and then would supervise his studies as she had her afternoon tea. He was two years older now, and they were learning stuff in History at school about which his grandmother knew things. Like the struggle for Independence. She had even seen some of the people for real, when she was a young girl . And he only had photos in his text books.

Come 5 o'clock, and his friends would land up , calling out to him in sing song voices, as they tried to grab his attention , as they jumped up and down outside his window, calling him to come out and play. They were all at an age, where normal modes of entries and exits into gardens and things were to be avoided. One entered through broken fences, slid down bansiters instead of descending stairs, and the bigger their mother's eyes became, the more they tried to do such things.

He'd be just about done, and he'd then rush out with his friends to play, sometimes in the garden and sometimes on the slopes of the guest house next to their house. His grandma had her own group of other grandmas who met on the lawns there. But they waited for their sons and daughters-in-law to get home at sundown. The day was a bit cooler then, and walking was more pleasant. The elderly ladies often sat there till dinner time. The little boy would be intermittently back home with his entire gaggle of friends to drink water, attend to freshly acquired wounds and scrapes, and sometimes, simply to show off some freshly acquired book or toy contraption . He and his grandmother shared a room and the boys would be all over the place with their grubby hands and feet. Around eightish, his mother would dispatch him once again next door to the guest house lawns, to escort his grandma home. She didn't see too well in the dark, and he would go meet her and escort her back , holding on to her hand, to the highly approving glances of her friends, whose grandchildren were older and so, otherwise busy.

Into this well set wonderful routine, his mother came home one day to find a strange expression on her mother -in-law's face. Her eyes were full, but there was no sadness. Just a sense of wonder.

That afternoon, they had sat down to do history. Talking about the new stuff he was learning.

"Aji (=grandma), just be grateful you didn't live around the time Raja Ram Mohan Roy lived", he said, his finger on some filling-in-the-blanks-assignment on a page of his book.

(Raja Ram Mohun Roy of Bengal was one of India's greatest social reformers in the 19th century, and many of these reforms were beneficial to women. He was opposed to the idea of, and worked for the abolition of the practice of "Sati" where widows burnt themselves on their husbands funeral pyre)

She was nonplussed.

What was wrong with Raja Ram Mohun Roy, and of all the people she could think of, why was this 7 year old chap against him ? Where did she come into all this talk of freedom fighters, great leaders of India, and the Independence movement etc ?

She looked at him questioningly, taking him very seriously, as only grandmothers can.

He looked at her, alarm in his eyes. Then he put out his arm, and placed his hand in her lap, as if to let her know, that, come what may, he was there...

"You know , if Aba (=grandpa) and you had lived during those times, people would have made you perform "Sati" after he died !".....

He probably had gory visions based on the terrible descriptions and graphics shown in various textbooks , and for a minute, he just held on tight to her hand.

She was stunned. His grandfather's death still played on his mind. When he studied the social reforms introduced by the Bengali gentleman in class, this must have occurred to him. For a child with a penchant for vivid imagination, this was just too traumatic. First they told him that God took his grandfather, and now Ram Mohun Roy and the terrible practice of Sati.

Then the humor just hit her. Which was as well, as the whole scenario was getting a bit serious. It was more than a century since the terrible custom was abolished. Even in her own childhood, she didn't wonder too much about these things; widow remarriage, even then, was being encouraged, education for girls was considered useful. And here was this 7 year old chap, totally trauma struck, with the concept of his grandpa's death, his grandma, and Sati.

"Not to worry. Your grandfather would not have permitted that. Those were the old days, and everything has changed now. Everyone's mother today is educated, and some , like your mother and aunts , even work. And all this is because Raja Ram Mohun Roy convinced the government then to make a law saying Sati was not allowed. "

She got up to make a cup of tea, and bring him his afternoon glass of milk; but really to wipe away her tears. She couldn't figure out whether they were of joy or sadness. Certainly more of the former than the latter. She and her grandson were 70 years apart. She had other, much older grandchildren, but this was the first one to get into a panic over an age old practice followed in the early 19th century, and worry about her .

He went off shortly to play with his friends and his grandma entertained her son and daughter-in-aw with this story when they returned.

He and his grandmother enjoyed each other's company for a few more years. She passed away one night in her sleep, when he was asleep . He was still a young child.

Wordlessly, stoically, chin up, after bending and touching his grandma's feet, he went off to his normal day at school , taken care of , by the neighbors, for the day. Young children are not part of the various formalities associated with funerals.

By then I think he had figured out what happens. When he came back with his friend's parents, late that evening after everyone reached home, he didn't ask any questions. There were a whole bunch of folks staying over. He kept fiddling with his books, pestering a cousin to sharpen his pencil just so. He went into the kitchen before bedtime, and poured himself a glass of milk, his hand unaccustomed to handling steel containers with about 2 litres of milk; mixed the cocoa into it, just like his grandma did for him, and came and sipped it, slowly, as he sat leaning next to his Dad. He wouldn't be sleeping in the room he shared with grandma for a long time after that.

This time there was no confusion about the mechanics of how one went away with God without anyone noticing.

Miraculously, he had learned the most difficult. He had learned to accept. Death.



(A true story....)

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The BIG three

What is it about women and the electoral process in India ?

More than 500 seats to be won, and every party trying to cobble together a coalition.

The major parties, putting on a face of bravado. Various regional and state parties, playing hard to get in the face of their being avidly viewed as alliance partners, by any party trying to cobble up the required number of votes to form a coalition government.

There are big political names in the fray, veterans in politics and government, "career" minister types. There are professional doctors, economists, engineers, lawyers, artists, movie actors, cricketers, and even criminals , in the fray. (The trick is to have a lot of court cases, but delay them, so there are no convictions, thus allowing you to contest. ) .

There are even some children of ministers; by definition, they are all supposed to have inherited the election winning gene; but, I presume they have never heard of epigenetics, a field which investigates how our external environment, makes certain genetic characteristics "inoperative" , leaving the DNA unchanged.

As the election results day approaches, it is not unknown in recent days, for entire sets of elected party members of the smaller and regional parties, to be whisked off by their leaders to resorts and unknown places, so that they remain "occupied" and "unpoached " by the major parties. The papers are full of pictures of new MP's waving from luxury buses and planes, as they are being whisked off for all expenses and more type trips , till the additions and subtractions of government formation are finalised. As a lowly ex-employee who had to provide several documents to justify a Leave-Travel_Concession(LTC) by modes of travel specified by the government, I often wonder who pays for these pleasure jaunts of the MP's. Then I just read that a the country's leading industrial icons had just paid a visit to the big bosses of the incumbent government. Figures.

These are all small fry.

For some reason, national governance in India, has always had a lot to do with women.

The President of India, today is a lady, who was a former Parliamentarian. Its been a long time since the late Indira Gandhi was the PM, and there has been no woman PM since.

There are actually 3 women , whose every utterance and every action will be watched with great care in the next few days.

And who are the most important players in the whole thing?

Madam no 1. Sonia Gandhi.

A great example of how starting at the top of everything in life, works. She came as a bride into the PM's house, when the late Indira Gandhi was PM. Till to-date, she continues to enjoy the government's hospitality, residencewise, securitywise, and establishmentwise. Either she is very smart herself, or has some very smart advisers. I think the former is a more plausible alternative.

She has perfected the art of being the string puller. The puppets change. But they continue to dance as per her directions. She has also probably perfected the ability to forgive and forget, though one feels the former is done, and the latter is a function of electoral alliances for a possible coalition at the centre. And so she smilingly shares the dais with a person who is the lead supporter of the man who claims to have organized her husband's assassination.

Her son is being projected as the next saviour of the country. Once again starting at the top. Her daughter helps out, simultaneously declaring her distance from active politics, and gives her considered opinion that her brother, a novice, with no experience, would be an good PM.

Madam no 2. Mayawati.

A great example of starting from the rock bottom. Studied to be a lawyer. Met the right people at the right time, and took the "right" decisions. Very very creditable for someone who grew up in slums, experienced the male dominated society around her, opposed her father when he wanted to marry a second time for a son as his first yielded 3 daughters . Met her mentor is politics, learnt at his feet, and today, after fighting elections with all the associated unpleasant activities, controls a simple majority in her state, and hence a big chunk of possible electoral votes. Her state, the most populous, and backward, has the highest number of electoral votes assigned to it. Knows how to drive a hard bargain, will insist on the top spot, and so far has left all the political parties guessing on what she will do.

Has no qualms about erecting 18 statues to herself, 3 of which were dismantled because they were 3 feet shorter than she wanted. (She herself is 5 feet tall). Inaugurates her own statues, wears diamonds on her birthday with a 53 kg cake signifying the years she has walked the earth, and flies to Delhi the same day, in her own state aircraft, to have another celebration there. The current PM , on a trip to China, takes time out to call and wish her, and so does madam no 1 .

Madam no 3. Jayalalitha.

The south's contribution to the triumvirate that will actually decide, totally independently, who will be India's next PM. Started off as a heart-throb of millions in Tamil cinema, and made a wonderful pair with with the most popular actor there. This man fell out with another man (we will call him K), and started his own party, and dragged Jayalalitha with him. She remained, and has remained completely loyal to him, and heads the party now. Has a sort of following bordering on blind adoration . Her state TamilNadu, has been ruled alternately by her, and the aforementioned K, and both have tried their utmost best to humiliate the other while in power, in the very worst kind of physical way.

While her views about statues are not yet clear, she is great competition for Madam no 2, where massive, larger than life size cutouts are concerned. In actual life size, Madam no 3 is ahead of madam no 2. Madam no 3, controls a largish chunk of votes, which will do her bidding , if, as they say, the price is right.

As they say, these three ladies hold the key. Madams no 2 and 3 will drive a hard bargain. As they say, there are no permanent friends or enemies in politics.

But yes. I did read, that one of the statue-obsessed-Madams, has a special statue, her own, all organized and ready for installing , in its marble splendour, in Delhi, should the circumstances so indicate.

Stupid me.

I thought times were bad. Jobs were scarce. People were being fired. Salaries were being frozen. Fees were increasing. Infrastructure was crumbling. And affordable housing was becoming scarce.



But I guess all these folks use a different currency for money.......