Ordinary throws, extraordinary significance....

Nadzeya Ostapchuk, Natalia Mikhnevich and Yanina Karolchyk-Pravalinskayа are a bit wary these days. Just in case you think I have won the Eastern European Spelling Bee, and am practicing, let me hasten and clarify that these are the gold, Silver and bronze medal holders in the Olympic Shot Put Event.

It appears that throwing stuff around has existed as a valid sporting activity. During the siege of Troy, the soldiers had stone throwing competitions when they got fed up of hiding in huge horses and killing when outside. (Homer mentions that in his Epic).

The 16th century British King Henry the VIII, was known for his competence and championship in Weight and Hammer throwing at his Court; the Weight stuff is believable looking at his size, and I suppose the Hammer could have been the probable cause of a few of his wives dying out of sheer fright .

Sometime in the 17th century, British soldiers had cannonball flinging competitions.

Naturally, it would then be centuries and years before an Independent India came into existence, and another 63 years before an environmentally sound shot put event could be displayed to the world. I mean we have all seen hefty folks, male and female, wearing what look like one shouldered baba suits and boots, lumbering on to the scene, desperately failing at doing a dainty pirouette, and then mightily flinging an iron ball around, as people with tapes run helter skelter for cover.

But this, is what the Shot Put is all about .



Socially Relevant Green Shot Put, with 33% reservation for women athletes, particularly fearless types belonging to the ruling party and NOT favouring one shouldered baba suits

This has happened in Bihar, where clay pottery items are a , currently dying traditional village industry. They have a wonderful custom of drinking their tea in Kulhads or small oven fired clay cups , and then throwing the cups in a stirring display of "Dust thou art, to dust returnest" and they save water, washing labor, soap, everything.

It is only fitting , that in a state classified as a BIMARU state, agonizingly the leading member of the actual acronym (B= BIHAR) and BIMARU = SICK, a lady legislator in a white cotton saree and red blouse (purity, sacrifice but not peace and communists), expressed her outrage with the ruling state party, by actually picking up hefty clay planters with plants, outside the Assembly premises, whirled them in the wrong direction is an astonishing display of strength, and flung them at the cameramen representing the Fourth Estate, who dispersed to save their knees and lenses.

Notice, the choice of material for the shot. She selected recyclable green material. Yes, she destroyed several plants. But legislators in Bihar probably get huge gardens, cows and fodder free (I may be in error), and since we hear no reaction from the High Command it is probably safe to assume, that these resources are a dime a dozen, and that they are not worried.

In the meanwhile , inside legislative chamber, the unimaginative male legislators, were using energy intensive expensive material as shots, and throwing around chairs, tables, microphones, at the speaker and the opposition. It was instructive to see, several folks being carried out , four Martials to one person, sitting position, feet stiffly out in front, astonishingly similar to the legs of the tables and chairs they had just broken and flung. Probably suggestive of a knowledge deficit where male legislators are concerned.

But the organizing committee of the impending Commonwealth Games, now has something else to excite them. Promising athletes. Promising events to introduce. And all they have to do is have lots of potted plants around. Jyoti Singh , the enterprising shot put lady, belongs to the same party as the CWG Chairman.

But we need to have science on our side.

A joint USOC-USATF study (High Performance Plan or HPP) of the shot put at Louisiana State University says,

Much research has been performed on the shot put. Typically these studies examined release velocity, release angle and release height. Unfortunately, these three parameters paint an unclear picture. They indicate what needs to happen but not what it takes to make it happen.
HPP research has indicated that for humans the release parameters are optimized when the angle of release is between 31° and 36°. This is considerably lower than the mathematically "optimal" range of 40° to 43° for elite throwers determined by using the projectile motion equation.

While it is impractical for coaches and athletes to aim for exact release angles, it is important to know that lower release angles are actually advantageous as long as they still permit elite-level throws-and that the mathematically optimal release angles will more than likely result in decreased throwing distances.

The throws by this legislator, Jyoti Singh, are clearly inspired Elite level throws.

Bihar Bhushan , anyone ?

The Call of the Fibres

The mind simply boggles at the immense possibilities.

Professor Yoel Fink and his associates at MIT's Research lab of Electronics, have just announced the possibility of manufacturing "acoustic" fibres with flat surfaces. While we may skim over the complicated processing that happens to make these fabrics just so, it is exciting to note that this means that these fabrics, when worn , will be able to act as sound sensors and detectors.

The fact that the swishing noise of blood flowing in your femoral artery (in the leg) can tell whether you have a clogged artery, brings to mind several scenarios where you wear "intelligent" pants; at some point in your life, they buzz - and you rush to get an angioplasty of whatever. Same goes for blood supply in the brain, though I suppose the sensors will be a bit different; but it would be very useful to get a warning of an impending stroke , say, through a hat or scarf.

While all these medical diagnostic things will happen in due course, it has occurred to me that we will shortly be bombarded with various mini amplifiers installable in such clothes. Sometimes without our knowledge, which should make things exciting. And of course, like the black box in airplanes, these things need to be destruction proof.


Wedding finery for brides, would now include 21 acoustic sarees with grade 1 amplifiers, as well as some salwar suits and jeans embedded with the same. For an extra payment, you could have microchips installed where the nada is, which store all the detected acoustics. Hardware miniaturization companies will get a new life. Brides being troubled by senseless rotten in-laws, will now have proof of their wrong doing. And courts will now have a proof when theyinvestigate dowry deaths.

Khadi clothes will take on a new hue. I am not sure the ministers will, though it is entirely possible that they will go red in the face, followed by an angry purple. It will be interesting, to say the least, to browse through the acoustic downloads from the ministers' khadi kurtas. I recall an erstwhile union home minister (later replaced), who continuously changed into different kurtas for different press conferences, during the Mumbai 26/11 carnage, and now I wonder !


It might reveal a lot about who comes to meet them, who promises what, who threatens what and who quietly gives in. Particularly before important events like the Budget.


Prisoners in jails will have special fibre embedded striped uniforms, with inverse wi-fi capability built in. (Don't ask me how). Authorities will be able to download conversations and stuff happening in jail rooms. This might even get a bit dicey for unscrupulous staff, and it will be difficult to deny things.

Installing this capability in Bollywood will be strangely resisted. Lies will be difficult to separate from what is being touted as the truth. Tweeting , of course will be then studied for its ability to provide supporting proof for what the person is actually up to, as opposed to what he is saying.

Will we have an IPL is those times ? Will Lalit Mody and the BCCI have specially treated acoustic outfits ? Will cricketers have to wear these fabrics on the field ? Will their swear words show up automatically on the huge screen which shows up the referrals today ?

The possibilities are endless. Just like we pass through metal detectors today, there will now be acoustic detectors, particularly for those in power, no matter how small. Police, ward officers, bureaucrats, even some journalists. The detectors will simply download whatever is stored in your outfits.

The problem , as always, will be in the implementation.


The more innovative, will purposely say things , get recorded and get other folks into trouble. Entrepreneurs will come up with acoustic jammers, which they will install in offices, clothes, shawls, scarves etc. Guys from Bulgaria or someplace will excel at creating viruses, that attack these installed devices, and mess up the data, and generate raucous laughs and messages like "Kya Fool hai hum ?" (="What a fool am I") on screen, when important people gather to peruse messages.

Dhobis and Laundrys will suddenly become important people. There will be fellows who will provide special dhobi attachments, where dhobis can download stuff from important peoples' clothes. It will basically be a spyers market .....

It is really a question of who is how techno centric . For every electronic thing, there is something designed to either bypass it or garble it.

But this will probably lead to a reduction in talk. People will not indulge in useless talk, unless they verify it and have proof. Maybe sign language will be popular. Folks will practice gestures. Kathakali experts will hold classes for the general public. Smiling and frowning will be popular.

.....And somewhere, amidst verdant green fields, thousands of miles away, a farmer , after a days hard work, will return to his modest home, ensure that his cows are comfortable, will wash up and settle down to a simple meal, lean back, and wonder , about how he is going to provide for his second daughters marriage.....the monsoon was so unpredictable....

They still had to find out a magical contraption to listen to what the monsoon was thinking.....to be or not to be...

How green was the valley....(edited to add sound effects )

The Presumptuousness of the Privileged.

The idea that one can demand and supply must happen. Here and now. That Time, is Money. That you can scream and abuse if things do not happen immediately. That your life and the neighbor's, run on parallel lines, never to meet. And if you get ahead, to the hell with the slower ones, and your win is all that matters.

I live in an environment, where we constantly look at our watches, or, today, our phones. If the traffic signal turns green and the car ahead has not moved, we honk continuously. The crowd at one end of the road gets restless before the pedestrian sign comes on, and we push ahead , unwilling to wait. And the default look at the neighboring car is a glare, except when you are busy with a phone , solving the nations woes. With no idea about the nation, or woes , or both.

I saw a different world recently.

My father's family hails from a part on South Konkan (Western Coastal part of India), but comparatively inland. The oldest memories of visiting here , that I have, , are almost 52 years ago, when I vaguely remember traversing through some verdant green fields in a valley, accompanying my folks to the local school, wearing a black parkar polka.

Konkan has a very rich history and culture, native to my state (Maharashtra), and this was to be a car trip, which would pass through various famous temples on beaches, one (Velneshwar), particularly being the root place, of folks, bearing my maiden name, and another 2 which were important and much loved temples of Ganesha on two famous Konkan beaches.

We avoided big highways whenever we could, and took the back roads, which were literally roads with a 1.5 car width, and this being the monsoon, the roads were occasionally slushy and muddy, but by and large, tarred and good, as they meandered for miles on end, going up and down heavily forested mountains, and across tablelands studded with mango plantations, occasional signs of some upcoming factory , in the middle of nowhere, maybe a board announcing a proposed educational institute, and sometimes, a small temple, standing by itself, across centuries, in solitary splendour, like a beacon, for the new traveller...

A sudden opening up down an incline and you could sight the gushing backwaters of rivers straining to reach the sea, turbulent in the monsoon, and you stopped on the bridge across that river to wonder at the strength of nature....before carrying on to another mountain and another carpet of gren...

Time and again, we would see canopies after canopies of green, completely dwarfing the mountains, with young children in uniforms, walking miles and miles to school, sometimes coming down sharply inclined mountain steps, jumping back with alarm, on noticing an unfamiliar car. There would be long uninhabited stretches of road, on a high plateau, with high winds and rains, and there would be suddenly be a group of people waiting for a bus at some intersection. There was no sense of urgency, tension, injustice, or anger. The bus would come. You would reach your destination. And if you were late , they would understand. We asked directions, and got detailed instructions, although sometimes convoluted, but the sense of pride in their land shone through. Amazing number of girls going to school. And six hours of electric load shedding in all these areas daily, but I hardly heard a crib; they worked and studied despite it.

My ancestral place, way down in South Konkan, where no one stays anymore, is far inland, and away from the coast and main roads, in a hamlet of , maybe 10 houses, mainly tilling land. The houses are situated down the side of a very hilly area, and a single state transport bus appears on the main road at the top of the hill daily. You can entirely miss that hamlet as you drive by, so well is it placed amidst the stupendous green and slivers of brown in the forest.


I have written earlier about "D" who came to our family as a help, 64 years ago. D hailed from the same village, and now his brother's family stayed there. A windy, rainy, slushy noon saw us approach the specified turning, to see an old gentleman sitting at the bus stop.

He was D's brother, and he had been there for 3 hours, simply waiting. We wished him, introduced ourselves and the children, and accompanied him. Low tiled houses, made of the traditional Konkan red stone ("chira") . Lots of wood had been used, but the environment never looked like it had been denuded ravaged, or grabbed and made poor. We went through all kinds of slushy field paths, and flowing water, to reach , what was my father's ancestral house since almost a century. The roof had gone, wooden fixtures were in disarray, but railings in iron were unaffected. It looked like a house from a movie.

Many years ago, when it looked like everyone was busy with life in the city and beyond, and not likely to return, my father had donated the house to the local primary school, and they had classes there. Many years later, the school expanded, was granted newer and better premises by the side of the main outside road, and it became a high school. Leaving the house abandoned once again, to the onslaught of a yearly wild monsoon, a very fertile soil, and a slow rotting of historic wood...


Right in front of the house was the samadhi (memorial resting place) of my ancestor, eight generations before me, who was a "vaidya" or Indian medcine doctor of his time. We cleared the place and lit a lamp in a little alcove at the samadhi, and paid our respects. The whole place looked across a vast expanse of green fields, where rice was being cultivated, with a coconut tree copse in the distance, mountains all around, different shades of green blending with each other. People in the small houses we passed would come out and ask about us, smile broadly on hearing my father's name, comment on my resemblance to my mother. The women would shyly smile from the door.

And I wondered, how, in the days before roads were made, could folks have travelled across the difficult , untouched, almost virgin terrain we so blithely covered in a car. What gave them the strength to make the trip to big coastal cities, against all such natural odds ? Did they not fear animals ? How did they carry food? Did their mother worry about seeing them again ? How many months did it take them to get to a big city like Mumbai ? Walking, occasionally getting a bullock car ride, sleeping under trees ? Did they meet dangerous folks ? Thieves ? Did they worry about and miss their people back at home in the hamlet ? How many years was it till they saw their homes again ? (And shame on us for cribbing that the seat in front doesn't recline more ....)

D's brother insisted we eat lunch at his place, a small traditional house, with a place for the two head of cattle. Some sons and daughters worked in the fields. The younger children were at school, near the main road. The old man proudly told us about their school which now had classes up to 12th grade. There were 3 sons, 3 daughters in law , and a total of 9 grandchildren there, staying in that little house, with D's brother and his wife. One daughter-in-law worked at a government centre in the neighboring village, which could be anywhere up to 10 kms away. She wasn't there that day. But the children came running home running down the hilly slope, just as we were leaving. And they again ran right back up the slope with us, as we walked back to our car, in the drizzle.

Technology had made inroads there. Electricity had happened. But there was load shedding , 3 hours at a time, twice a day. Cable television had come. But the old man, D's brother, had decreed that it be kept off, as the children were neglecting school because of it. And everyone listened. Cell phones had arrived. I was trying to call D in Pune, and was amazed to hear from the old man's son, that if I had Vodafone, I would not get a network signal, and that I could use his phone which was a Tata Indicom network, which showed "two sticks" network, as a minimum, at any given time ! (There were no shops around, no banners, no buy-one-get-one-free, and nobody was standing around with a cell phone glued to their ears, or fooling around with screens and keyboards, as folks in AC cars and sneezing buses lumbered around making a mess of the road.....)

A lot of people go delirious over the scenic coastal routes in Konkan, the wild monsoon sea, the angry crashing waves, looming laden clouds, and mists sailing in at mountain tops, already scrumptiously covered with greens. Commerce has inched closer to temple outskirts, and life is very organized when there is quick money to be made. And folks prefer AC rooms at resorts on the seaside, that serve non native food, and zoom around in cars with 2500 cc engines, roaring around the place, drizzling hydrocarbons.

But this visit to the hamlet, was an eyeopener . It was the story of how the real India lives. The spirit and the simplicity, and belief in solid things like working hard, sharing your rewards, respecting elders, being curious about and encouraging education, and way back there, in the back of beyond, encouraging your granddaughters to attend school, and your daughters-in-law to work, while the sons worked the fields to put simple food on the family table. The daughter-in-law who was not there that day , had a previous social commitment with her colleagues, and nobody pressured her to stay home, as the rest of the family mobilized for our amazing visit.

It had started to drizzle, the sky was overcast, and at the end of the day, this was the heart of Konkan, where the monsoon was NOT the time to visit, as the rains were torrential. We had a steep climb on to the plains to Kolhapur, through mountains with narrow roads and possible rock slides, and it was prudent to try and cross that in daylight.

We did. Passing through many villages with many schools, children in uniforms, women working at transplanting rice in verdant fields, occasionally someone flaunting a mechanized tiller which the government made available on rent by the hour. (It is not economical to buy something so expensive for such limited time usage (as for rice), and so the local goverment authority buys it and rents it out to those who can afford it. ) Small medical clinics managed by doctors, who grew up, graduated, and came back to their villages to practice. Yes, such people existed.

As we were unloading our stuff in Kolhapur, the phone rang. It was one of the daughters-in-law from D's house in the village. Wanted to know if we had reached safely and in time. Soon there was a call from D himself in Pune. He had been worried about the monsoon rains, and was relieved to know we had reached well in time.

We were back to gas stations, honking, cars with flags and sirens, rich farmers with richer farmhouses, and gas guzzling cars, people going the wrong way on one way roads, and glaring at you. Occasionally giving voice to their rage, and asking, "Kya, ye aap ke bap ka raasta hai ?(= does this road belong to your father ?)....."

Makes you speechless.

I had just returned from a place where you created roads by walking on a road, again and again, together.

Here's something else to get you speechless : Play both together :-)

Lunching under the stars.....

We lunched under the stars. (It's possible).

With a star .

I think bloggers get a 7 month itch. They have to meet. And eat. Last time it was December. And this time we beat the Bharat Bandh (recently announced opposition sponsored nationwide total strike) by 2 days. Which is good, because we had folks coming in all the way from Indore and Pune, and they need to get back home safely.

We've never met in such an upmarket place before.

I started out early, with visions of rain, bad roads, traffic, and water logging, none of which had happened by then, and I ended up reaching much before time.

There was this beeping entrance thing through which you walk and they check if you are carrying dangerous things. My stupidity or patriotism must have shone brightly on my face, because as I ventured to pass through the contraption, two guys hurriedly signalled that I needn't, and that I could simply make a normal entrance. I found myself sitting in solitary splendour in the deserted lobby of this four star hotel, half and hour early, with fellows in suits and ladies in chic sarees giving me looks as they bustled around. The only excitement was provided by a young girl who looked she just stepped out of Femina, with a really short denim miniskirt, silver gladiator sandals, carefully arranged tousled hair, a fancy phone and a desperate expression on her face as she paced back and forth .

Couldnt be a blogger ....

I had this book about Zebras and Ulcers , some ongoing reading, that I had brought along just in case I had to wait, but it didn't fit in with the overall ethos of an impending lunch, and I gave up. Made some calls to bloggers. And settled down to wait for folks.

Like the retired one who suggested this place.


Followed by someone who normally used to come with luggage to catch a bus later to places 200 kms away, except this time he was staying.

The professorin, and the lady lawyer, all slim and svelte , arrived shortly.

Followed by our marathon person. I always watch with interest when folks arrive with heavily laden bags.

The 2 out of towners arrived next.

One of our group , was not going to make it this time. But we would call her between the salad and the dessert .

There were to be three new people this time. Two young ladies, who had heard about these meets and were delighted to join, and a young chap, who probably reads more blogs per week, than all the rest of the bloggers combined, and also has a blog of his own, besides twittering.

The young chap soon arrived, and was immediately put to a test of figuring out who was who. He knew a couple of us, and it was fun watching him mistakenly identifying folks as someone else.

In the meanwhile, the rains had started in earnest, and we worried about the whereabouts of the two new young ladies who were coming from some distance away, almost as if from another town. Took some time off to call our blogger friend who had been unable to come, and everyone spoke to her.

When so many blogger types converge around a buffet, filling plates with single minded devotion in between dedicating themselves to Pani Puri and Amiri Khaman, the other customers just stay away for a while. You never know when someone with Chilly Paneer may turn around and collide with you and crush the Farmers Pie in your plate, or spill some Dal Fry.

We kept looking at everyone who entered the place. This seems to be a permanent feature of all our blog lunches. Some people get lost and arrive later.

We were finally rewarded with the sight of two new members, none of whom we had met before. (a few folks had.) And with them came the littlest surprise member of the blog lunch, like a fresh ray of early sunlight in a dull and rainy cloudy day.

He was promptly established at the head of the table, and he proved to be a role model to certain gluttonous folks, by having a lunch of tomato slices, cucumber slices, carrots, a bit of rice, watermelon pieces, and would you believe, just a pinch (and what a small pinch of a small hand it was) of chocolate pastry , exhaustively licked off his own index finger!

A large group means there are conversation pockets. Everyone cannot talk to everyone all the time. But there's technology to the rescue.

Because, secretly unknown to us, the outside world was slowly being informed of things happening in the bloggers lunch. (I must hasten to add that we dont know Shashi Tharoor or Sweat Equity. All we know is Khana Zaroor and Net Activity)

In a terribly hi tech way, by a phone as follows :


"The blockers meet ! "

"I mean...the bloggers meet..."

"Desserts sink in with no trace !"

"In the midst of blogger babble and excitement! "

"The best things in life are edible."

And then after sufficient eating ......

"Bill payment ! Time flies.."

"The blogger meet ends.. Just about !"

"Do you have extra fifties please ? Small change comes in big time handy ! "

"Photo sessions done !"

"Bloggers meet disperses"

"Wonderful conversations in the bloggers meet. Can't believe this was the 5th meet !"

And I thought this person was a bit quiet and looking down at his phone, as a way of surreptiously guarding a big bag carrying several great containers of marathon-special payasam, kept under the table at his feet.......

One of the young ladies got a call from family folks coming to pick her up, and she came around with some wonderful packets of teekha sev for us, a speciality of the place she lives in; and this had been carefully carried around from place to place as she travelled the entire previous week across two states and several cities.

The tangy and spicy was followed by the sweet and creamy, and we were all suddenly recipients of wonderful containers of payasam, prepared for us and carried to the lunch by the marathon man, of course, inspired by his wife.


Several photographs were taken, some of which would probably delight toothpaste companies as wonderful ads for teeth. The staff at the place was so impressed that they took some photos for us.

A wonderful curved staircase , like in the movies, had some of us posing holding the banisters, while the others congregated on various steps. Most other hotel guests had long since given up on us, though I thought we were being greatly courteous allowing them to pass down the stairs.




Fortified by some totally unnecessary trips to the buffet, and with a sense of wellbeing , imagining a rainy afternoon with tekha sev and payasam, to be followed, in our imagination by adrak/ginger tea, we relaxed, leaning a bit back in our chairs, and were rewarded with the sight of a dark sky studded with stars, on the ceiling.

Some clever lighting , that.

Outside, the rain was pouring down. Forays into traffic beckoned. Waterlogged roads, Splashing. Folks going in the same direction decided to travel together, and so many of us got rides home from those going to those areas. It was almost peak traffic time, with folks driving in a frenzy, avoiding potholes, cursing darting ricksahws and pedestrians suddenly trying to cross the road, and pizza delivery chaps taking inverse U-turns.

It didn't really matter.

We had met after a long time....We had had a wonderful Bloggers lunch.

A great afternoon , with lots of laughs, ribbing,food and friends.....

Under the stars.

And with a young star.

Possibly a future blogger learning the ropes .

And he is just two years old !!!!


P. S. One of the new lunch members burst into verse on gmail later.....:-)

Jo kal tak bas ek naam the, unhe chehre ki aaj pehchaan mil gayi

Khayalon se hum jud gaye is tarah, ek anokhi si dosti ki shuruwat ho gayi

Wah ! Wah ! Wah !

The XX-XY Games ....

There is this really innovative tag doing the rounds.

IHM started it. Then I find that Starry has tagged me.

It's about listing at least "ten things you have ever wanted or done which your gender is not supposed to.".....

Thinking about this has been a revelation of sorts. My parents never, ever, stopped me from attempting anything because I was a girl. So a lot of things that are considered traditionally attemptable predominantly by boys , were done by me as a matter of fact, and sometimes even encouraged by my folks. And so I have to search and search in my mental archives way back into the 1950's, and onwards till now.

1. I have often played the driver's role, fairly well, during family crisis situations; almost always when I was unmarried and often after marriage. Driving folks to and fro from hospitals (patients and visitors), reaching folks on trains (jumping in to catch places for them) etc etc. Although certain folks being typical gender stereotypes may disagree snidely, folks will tell you that I have perfected the art of driving in Pune (including the older parts), Mumbai (including crowded traditional south Mumbai places), and at one time , California.

Both are diametrically opposite modes of driving. Abroad it's a science , here it's an art. And here, I do all the stuff like glaring at taxi drivers, gesticulating saying "Kya kar rahe ho/Kya hai ! (=what do you think you are doing?)", "Oye !"... etc...

2. I have lived in the college hostel in my undergraduate years, and no, I was not given a set of do's and dont's by overly concerned types. I discovered them myself.


3. I excel at pushing cars which are stuck in the wet mud and even otherwise. Particularly Fiats, and specifically in torrential rains. I also know how to deactivate a stuck Bendix wheel.

4. Regularly washed my parents' old Ambassador car, because I enjoyed doing so. I have done this while staying in a hi-fi locality , when of a marriageable age, and desperate well meaning ladies had called my mother advising her not to have me doing such things :-) (She told them I was doing it of my own accord. My daughter has "inherited" this DNA)..:-)

5. I have tasted all kinds of alcohol out of sheer curiosity , and formed my own opinion which I follow. While wine sometimes tastes like chilled Drakshaasav, and is okay , the rest of the stuff, beer, hard liqueurs and stuff, tastes like medicine (without the benefits) and is to be avoided like H1N1. The family spent a year in Germany in the early 90's with me only imbibing fruit juices and soft drinks - in a land where I wouldn't be surprised if they bathed in beer....

6. I am amazed at and enjoy my own abilities to cook certain things, and the motivation for the same. The expertise was never a given.

7. As young teenagers, my brother and I were encouraged to learn to change punctured car wheels, and my favourite position was lying under the car, looking for a place to fix the jack.

8. I have climbed on to the back of a truck, and supervised the loading of my parents stuff, when my father retired and they shifted to a new town (given that the loaders were paying scant attention to light and heavy stuff and glass stuff. We didn't have professional packers and loaders back then. (There was me :-)....)

9.If you give me a thousand rupees and a choice between clothes and books, the latter win hands down, everytime.. ...

10. And since we are talking about gender stereotypes, I was honored to be my parents sole caretaker in their old age and last days. They probably knew that, and prepared me for it....

I would like to tag, Kavi, G, Nu, Sucharita, Vivek, Manju, Harish, Neha, and Hiphop GrandMom......

You must write about ten things you have ever wanted or done which your gender is not supposed to.".....and then, in turn, tag some more folks....

Let the XX-XY Games begin......

The inexplicable inability to appoint.....

A building complex of stone structures with wide corridors and pillars. A middle class ambiance with impressive old British Raj architecture. Unlandscaped open spaces, with old sensible trees, that have been growing there, possibly before any construction commenced. Wide graceful staircases, with steps, that show no chipping over, maybe , the last 100 years .

Arbitrarily angled bicycle stands, willfully made unplanned extensions of single room cottage structures under the shades of trees, with windows cut out and kept open at impractical heights for clients of lawyers, outsiders to communicate, and a single official photocopying set up, available to thousands of folks who throng there everyday, to set right some wrongs, take permissions, ratify life events, and listen to someone pronounce a punishment.

Circumstances and the need to follow certain rules regarding papers pertaining to one's late parents, often necessitate trips to what is called the City Civil Court in my hometown.

On my very first visit, I was totally disillusioned by the size of the courtroom, and the semi ruined furniture, although the cagey enclosure in which I stood and answered the judges polite questions was exactly like in the movies, and no, he didn't bang the gavel. On second thoughts, maybe His Honor did, after I left. I spent the whole day, reading and checking stuff, photocopying stuff, turning pages for court clerks, getting verifications done, and signing here and there, and agreeing to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

On my second visit, the city had a terrorist alert, the main gate was cordoned off, and everyone was being herded in through a side gate. This was manned by a posse of policemen and policewomen who were doing security checks. They were supremely intrigued by a whistle I carry in my purse (more about that here), and were examining it with considerable interest, till I blew on it, to possibly prove that it didn't self destruct along with the blowers etc, causing a bunch of folks to suddenly look in my direction. I have stopped explaining to the police why I carry a whistle. And they have stopped asking.

This was my last visit, after a year. I was to receive the final papers.

This time I was faced with a row of courtrooms with locked doors, unlike previous occasions when they were thronged with lawyers and clients, and court staff. I was to simply accompany the lawyer, sign somewhere and collect papers. The lady lawyer traipsed up and down the place trying to place where the clerk was, and when the latter finally appeared and unlocked the premises, I was shocked by what I saw.

The entire courtroom looked like nothing had occurred there for months. The floor was unclean and full of torn paper, there were heaps of case papers tied in the regulation red cloth waiting to be taken somewhere, the furniture where I had sat earlier awaiting my turn, looked like some one had been throwing it around, chairs had broken arms, and the entire wooden partition between the courtroom and its public office, was simply no more. Gone. This lady sat at old table, looking for my papers.

Turns out the old judge had been transferred on promotion to another city. All the old running cases of that judge, were now distributed and transferred in three different courtrooms with three different judges, in that many different buildings.

Just then , a lady, who appeared to be from a rural area came by, claiming she had to appear in court that day, but there wasn't any Court ! And she, who could probably just sign her name, and was greatly intimidated by anything officialese, was told, after some number checking, to go to another court , to another judge, to the Small Cause Court building. She would forget the name by the time she reached here, but there were no signs and directions for her.

I asked the lady clerk, why someone was not appointed to the existing Court, instead of lugging case papers to new judges in new courts, and troubling the clients so much, as they wandered around looking for places.

It seems the existing judge had been a senior judge. To appoint someone to his place, it would mean someone would need a promotion first. And for some ununderstandable reason, the judiciary couldn't do that. And so a huge amount of cases got delayed, possibly papers were searched again, and studied again for the nth time, by a new judge, case papers yellowed at the edges, and the old courtroom remained abandoned , desolate, unclean, and dismantled.

This is really the story of the backlog of judicial cases in courts in India.

The monied clients manage to fight, sue, appeal, and get judges to attend to their cases , all in one week. Murders of high society, well heeled, glamorous types, get immediate redressals. Two warring business brothers, get court dates at will, to adjudicate in a fight that shouldn't have happened in the first place. Even IPL cricket related cases are given priority consequent to someone earning a few more millions than someone else, and to hell with the game, anyway.

Today, ( as of Aug 16, 2009), there are 52,000 cases pending in the Supreme Court, 40,00,000 cases in the High Courts, and 20.7 million cases pending in trial courts across the land. The PM has, urged the Chief Justices to expedite cases, create a large number of special rural courts, and identified unfilled judge vacancies as the main cause. Almost 3000 posts of judges lie unfilled, because of recruitment delays.

The Chief Justice of the Delhi High Court has revealed in a report that it will take 466 years to clear the huge backlog of cases, despite racing through each case in an average time of 4 minutes and 55 seconds, and there are 600 cases that are at least 20 years old. India has 11 judges for every million people compared to the US having 110 judges for a million people. The Delhi High court has a sanctioned judge strength of 48, but only 32 are actually appointed. The Union Justice Ministry has asked for and increase of 50 more judges per million people by 2013, but the government is wondering how to pay for a massive overhaul like this. Amazingly the same government finds more than adequate money for statues, junkets, and the like, not to mention hikes in salaries of our esteemed legislators, who almost always have innovative "other" incomes.


Common folks have lost faith in getting any justice in reasonable time. Litigation is actively pursued as a valid time wasting and delaying technique, sometimes in cahoots with the powers that be.

While I agonize over the size of the dent on the country's planned/unplanned expenditure, if they give a promotion to, and appoint a judge , for the abandoned courtroom where I earlier appeared, no one seems to be , as they say in court, seized of the matter.

I guess things could really be worse.

Lal Bihari, a native of Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh, was suddenly declared "dead" by his cousins in 1976, because they wanted to usurp his land. Some official consequently probably made a killing and retired happily, but Lal Bihari started proceedings to declare that he himself, was alive. His village called him a ghost, and drove him out, after beating him. He then resorted to all kinds of stuff to prove he was alive and kicking. He abused a judge, assaulted a District magistrate and threw paper balls from the gallery into the State assembly, and even contested an election against some prominent politician. It took him 18 years, for the Court to notice and declare him alive. He is so fed up, he doesn't bother about reclaiming his land now, and is a petty vendor of sarees.

But in the best traditions of a never-say-die (and never was this truer) attitude, he now affixes a suffix "Mritak (Dead)" to his name (Lal Bihari, Mritak, sounds so tough vis -a-vis say Lal Bihari, Esq), and has started a All India Mritak (Dead Men's) Association. They have 1000 members, and it is known that in eastern Uttar Pradesh, every district has one such case, typically old widows .

But some are plain unlucky.

Paltan Yadav from the same district , in 1988, was once assaulted by his cousins while working in his fields. They attacked him calling him an impostor, and he ran to the village record office to find himself declared dead, and his land transferred to his cousins. He ran from pillar to post and court to court, unsuccessfully. He gave up in 1994, and became a sadhu.

Someone said "Crime takes but a moment but justice an eternity".....

We prove it so well.

Banking in the time of White Ants

I have always been suspicious of white ants.

Not that I have tangled much with them, but nothing that you read and learn about them can be considered inspiring.

I mean , the black ants variety is much like me, walking a straight path, industriously trudging about, organizing food, making folks think I am working, when actually gallivanting with large groups of friends, with uncontrollable diversions when sweet sugary food items are sighted. Occasionally all that moving of earthy stuff results in formations of ant hills; similar to what people living in Mumbai do, when they take group initiatives in forming innovative, default housing, which the powers then patronize at election time.

But the white variety, officially referred to as termites, are like politicians. They have leaders, workers, queens who send messages to some other functionaries who with tiny antennas decode these messages. In actions reminiscent of powerful types around us, they greedily seek, grab, and amass food, all the while gnawing the life out of solid wooden upright structures, and make important documents useless, by vandalizing them.

At this point I must add that my position as the sole family person handling paperwork post passing away of parents, sometimes snows me under with paper documents. One leaves things in a hurry in some desk or cupboard, and forgets to retrieve them for sometime.

Such a thing happened when I recently collected these documents (FD's or fixed deposit receipts), for further processing at a bank. The heart missed a beat on seeing a fine powder of stuff spread around the various envelopes. Tachycardia almost happened when I opened the envelope to see two FD receipts with artistically eaten gaps , fine powder sitting at the envelope edges, and some minute white creatures resting in false poses of gluttonous somnolence, due to what some may call their sedentary lifestyle.

These were not even in my name. And the entire lot was in small pieces on the top part of each receipt with the lower part showing recent activity of renewed vigour from the creatures.

My first impulse was to clean out the entire cupboard, sort out the destroyed and semi destroyed stuff, and then conduct a massive anti termite treatment there and in the environs.

(The building where I live, is Institutional housing where anti termite stuff has been done at foundation time , and for 18 years I believed it, because I didn't see any termites around. Turns out that termites don't just climb upwards from the soil; they actually fly in organized hierarchical swarms, settle mostly in damp and hot conditions in places where they feel a killing can be made, drop their wings in a blink of an eye, and settle down for a life of gnawing the life out of innocent stuff, like cupboards. Reminds me of some folks whose name appears in newspapers, but never mind.)

I immediately kind of shoved the financial remnants into a Ziploc bag, and a few days ago, visited the bank in Pune where they were issued, Some erstwhile previous smart behaviour had resulted in a photocopy of one of the receipts.

I was a bit skeptical of the bank's official reaction, as there is a tradition of tangling with this bank over some years. Some folks there think I am bad news, some get alarmed when I land up , that too just once or twice a year. Some take their tea break when I go to see some official.

My late father was in the habit of minutely inspecting entries, was hard of hearing, and every time he berated them, it happened in a very loud voice ( as happens with hard of hearing geriatric folks in their 80's), and everyone in the bank , including other customers listened in. I've inherited some of that DNA in spirit, and some folks were looking in extra serious fashion at their screens /ledgers as I approached the desk.

Over the years, I suppose I have become more tolerant, particularly when its my fault :-)

The lady at the FD counter was dealing with a customer. I waited my turn.

"Yes ? What can I do for you ?" A brave smile.

" I have this really terrible problem ...." I hold up the plastic bag, with a a sheet inside.

"Oh ! What happened ? " Now the lady is really intrigued, and sympathetically geared.

"I have these two FD receipts, but the white ants have been eating them into pieces, and I am here with the pieces, as well as a xerox of one of the receipts which I just happen to have. " I opened the Ziploc and emptied the stuff onto a sheet on the counter.

Several staff suddenly left their screens and ledgers, to converge around the sheet. The lady clerk, placed it on her desk to investigate, then paced it right back on the counter, and asked me to talk to their Section Head. They had never seen anything like this, maybe in the history of the bank.

I put on my best stupid and troubled face and approached the Section Head. (Some folks think that is very natural).

He couldn't understand my language, Marathi, and asked me to explain in Hindi. He looked at all the ruins of the FD, and noticed some numbers that made his mouth twitch. He keyed them in to the system, and then looked up.

"Madam, can you take all this stuff away , and reconstruct what is left of each FD by sticking stuff on a sheet of paper , and submit it to me ? " He looks up.

Customer service in Indian banks does not include giving you papers and gum bottles. It is for "staff only". But unusual times ask for unusual risks.

"Sir, could I ask your office for two waste printer sheets, and an old bottle of gum ? The damp of the monsoon may further disintegrate the paper if I go out. " He agrees.

I sit at a central table meant for customers, and solve the FD jigsaw puzzle placing the fraying pieces this way and that , and finally come up with two sheets with FD receipts that look that they have emerged from a war. I am asked to write a covering letter . I approach the section head , watched by the very curious bank staff.

"Ma'am, these FD's have matured two moths ago, and have been auto renewed by our system. Had this not been so, you would have had to do a very complicated procedure getting notarized signatures of all the holders on indemnity bonds etc, for issuance of duplicate receipts. Please hand these to the clerk, and she will issue you the new receipts".

I couldn't believe my luck. The signatories were in a another country, and I had done this kind of long range processing before to know what a hassle it was. I had had my full share of affidavits and court stamps and standing in lines. Maybe the planets were behaving this time. The bank was actually helping . Hurrah!

"Ma'm, they said to give you this", and I handed over the stuff, to the earlier lady clerk. She accepted it and went through the pages, and notings by the section head. Whipped out some very thick ledgers, checked some stuff, and nodded. She asked me to wait. Be seated.

I just waited there. Everything was happening too fast. She made some entries on the screen. Checked some more stuff. Suddenly she scratched her arm and thighs, and looked up.

"Are you sure these white ants are not flying around ? I am suddenly itching. Maybe some stuff kind of descended on me from the FD's..." and she started brushing off imaginary stuff, with an alarmed look.

"Not to worry. I sprayed the stuff before I put it in the bag, which I also sprayed. The ones on the FD are dead , because this has been in the Ziploc for a fortnight and had they been alive they would have chewed up the stuff to smithereens by now." Me.

" I guess , may be it's a psychological thing." Scratch. Scratch. Brush . Brush. She stands up and shakes her kurta.

About fifteen minutes later,I have my new renewed receipts. I thank the lady and walk over to the Section Head to wish him and convey my gratitude.

" Ma'am, its interesting. But your white ants , while marauding through the FD, left untouched the one number that is the key number that allowed me to trace the FD details. They ate up the FD number, the issue date, part of the holders names, maturity date, and even the amounts. And of course, the fact that these FD's have matured , helped." He shakes his head and smiles.

I am in a daze, as I walk out, with the bank probably glad to see my back, and probably wondering what I will come up with next.

But I am wondering.

Do the termites have any secret intelligence ? Have they evolved over the years ? Is it the result of Global Warming, and the damp monsoon pollution in Mumbai ? Do termite brains thrive on hydrocarbons in the air ?

How did they know they couldn't eat through the numerical key pertaining to both the FD's ? Do they have a psychological problem with some inks and numbers, not to speak of certain alphabets ?

Is someone doing some research on the Secret Life of Termites ? Or is it the Secret Life of White Ants ?

Do they follow the 33% reservation for women while deciding which FD's to ignore ( and attack a bit more lightly), given that two holders of this FD were women ? How do they decide which documents to attack in a cupboard full of books, printouts, CD covers, posters and stuff ?

Should I initiate research and publish a paper on " Investigations into the methylation of the DNA of Zootermopsis angusticollis (wood dwelling termites to you non technical types), and the possible development of the termite brain in times of Global Warming in the 21st century.." .......

Will I find some Inconvenient Truth ?

Smile/Frown/Cry : Technology is watching you !

This is supposed to be old news, but computer scientists have developed software that can guess what you are thinking by looking at your face. They do this by mapping your face onto a mesh or grid, and "evaluating the angle" for, the curl of your lip, the arching of your eyebrow, and sucking in of your cheeks.

Apparently, they are able to detect happiness, disgust, fear, anger, surprise and sadness, and that too with 85% accuracy. A computer vision expert in Amsterdam used software developed at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign to design emotion recognition technology.


It seems they were able to analyze the Mona Lisa, and decided that she was 83 percent happy, 9 percent disgusted, 6 percent fearful, and 2 percent angry. While one could feel fearful and angry based on who the painter is and how well connected he is, I cannot figure out why she would feel disgusted. Unless of course she was thinking of something else while doing that beatific smile. You wouldn't know all this staring at the stuff in the Louvre, but she certainly comes across now as a spirited type.

Of course , they even analysed President George W Bush, giving an Iraq speech, and detected surprise , fear and sadness, which could have been a surprise to the late Saddam Hussain, and maybe , Cheney.

Michael Jackson was analysed from his mugshot emerging from his trial, and turns out he has 33% fearful, and angry and disgusted. I wish there was someone in his home who worried about that. Maybe things would have been different for him later on.

This kind of technology is supposed to be very useful, in detecting, say, when a car driver is feeling sleepy, and the software , say, installed somewhere in the car would immediately ring and alarm that says, Wake up, Stop, "let your wife drive", or whatever.

I have been wondering how we could use this technology here. We already have a technology to detect if a person is lying. Maybe some IT image processing analysis research type could patch the two together. That would be so useful.

Imagine.

You could analyse the Paksitani government spokesperson when he says, they have no clue on the Mumbai terrorist organizers. Every look and dither of an eyebrow would be caught, a quivering moustache would spill the beans, and the angle of the chin to the shoulder would tell other secrets.

You could analyse the Mumbai Municipal corporators, and officials, when they give details about expenditures on road repairs and water supply. Possibly a detection of fear and fibbing amidst the visible bravado, given the various folks breathing down their necks, bent at a secret angle.

Police fellows and honchos, could be analysed when accompanying their Minister bosses and you would be able to possibly get the truth on who is pressured by whom, who is lying and who is disgusted.

The applications of this technology to New Delhi and Parliament are too numerous. I am not too sure if the MP's would go for it. Facial analysis during secret ballot voting might indicate guys who are more than 60% fearful. Those whose faces indicate 80% wild happiness and 20 % complacency are probably those benefitting most in the horse trading. An analysis of the PM's face , while listening to a street-fight-like speech from Laloo Yadav, would possible reveal secrets about Yadav himself, given the general propensity for deals.

The judge in the Mumbai terror trials, would have inside information on the stuff ticking in Ajmal Kasab's brain. Bosses in companies would be surprised to know what their immediate juniors are thinking about them, while appearing to be their confidantes. Lalit Modi, BCCI and all the connected political folks would be totally exposed, and if someone could do mass analysis of public faces, they would find 90% disgust being the dominant emotion, the remaining 10% trust attributable solely to Sachin Tendulkar's place in the scheme of things...

Of course, since we are so good at defying the existing rules, and creating and finding loopholes, we will soon have folks in power, who talk like robots, not betraying any emotion, lest their secrets be found out. Say, two actors who can't stand each other putting on an act of great friendship, won't be able to fool anyone. All the fun will go out of watching the so called hitherto entertaining speeches in Parliament, with people calling each other the vilest of names with the straightest face.

On a personal level, I doubt if this technology will ever be installable. Folks meeting each other for the first time would have an interesting time analysing what the contraption says, vis-a-vis their own take. I wonder how it would feel to know that someone who is smiling so wonderfully at you is actually disgusted, and even angry with you.

And it wont be long before someone cracks this technology, and publishes details on what facial expressions to assume to mislead the contraption. I can see webpages dedicated to this, TV programs detailing the various technology versions, Microsoft coming up with OS's with this feature built in, and issuing patches after patches after some guy from Bulgaria hacks, and folks swearing by Linux saying, "this tells it like it is, no hacking possible" .

At the back of all this , will possibly be some entrepreneur related to someone in power, who gets the contract for the stuff, markets the contraptions installed across the country to sense these analyses, who will mint a fortune, and probably need no facial analysis as he goes guffawing 100%, on his way to the bank.

It seems this emotion recognition technology is being encouraged by companies marketing things, because they want to know what the consumers are thinking when they set their eyes on the merchandise etc.

And so , we humans, with a wonderful brain, amazingly designed, not yet replicable anywhere by man, will slowly become programable robots, in the effort to fool this emotion recognition technology.

The circle will be complete. Humans ---> Thinking machines ---->Unthinking humans.

Maybe 20 years later , they will design something to bring back behaviour with emotions.

I wonder if they will have any algorithm to detect "trust" , "love" , and "innocent laughter" on a face.....?

SK goes to school .....

(Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan (SSA) is Government of India's flagship programme for achievement of Universalization of Elementary Education (UEE) in a time bound manner, as mandated by 86th amendment to the Constitution of India making free and compulsory Education to the Children of 6-14 years age group, a Fundamental Right)

"Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan" : roughly translatable as an "Education for Everyone" project. Shiksha in Hindi means education/educating. In my language , Marathi, Shiksha means "punishment" .

Sometimes I wonder which is true.

And so we go to the further chapters in the life of S. my household help....

She came yesterday, after a bout of fever that had her flat out for two days. Given that, she certainly looked cheerful and was smiling. Turns out that her older grandson had just started school !

She has two grandsons, and big dreams. The elder fellow is 4+. His parents, and S have been trying to get admission into a good school for him. There are several schools nearby, but with specific admission criteria. He doesn't fit into the Kendriya-Vidyalaya(Central Schools) criteria, another school only admits registered dependents of employees of a certain Institute. There are some private schools. One where people from all strata of society go, and another two that cater to those considered "upper class" .

S has been trying for his school admission since last year. She got the form late. So this year, the family pooled all their resources, gave up lots of other dreams, and took turns keeping their place in the admission queue , so they could pay a "donation" of Rs 15,000, and get admission for the child. They are now in for a monthly fee of 550 Rs, plus assorted uniforms, rain wear, books, stationery, etc.

School is in the mornings. And this little fellow SK, goes for tuitions (in junior kg) everyday from 5 pm to 7 pm ! That costs an additional Rs 200 p. m.

The only saving grace is that there are no transport costs, as the school is like within 10 minutes of walking distance, and his mother or the uncles walk him to school and back. When his little brother grows up, he gets to go to the same school with a sibling discount in the fee.

SK is a smart kid. Amazingly talkative, and observant. A year ago , he helped out as an actor, when someone was making a project assignment video on tobacco and chewing, and acted as the son of a father who frequented the paan shop for Gutka(=chewing tobacco), and took the son along every time. The idea was to show how the son picks up the bad habit, because he imitates his father, and thinks whatever he does is wonderful. SK acted as the little kid, and the project students rewarded him with a new fancy school bag, a ball and chocolates, which delighted him no end.

He now attends school. When all the junior KG kids cried in a crescendo the first day of school after the parents left, this fellow looked puzzled. Went home and told his grandma , " No one hit anyone, but they still started crying ! ..." ; he carries a tiffin box to school with chapati and sabji, and so far, has not yet demanded Maggi noodles, which seems to be the favourite of those who come in vehicles.

He comes back home and reports to his Mom and Grandmother on whatever he does at school that day. And then most of his time is spent in playing with his little brother and others, outside his 1.5 room small house, in an area across a wide gutter that runs down the slope. The little fellow listens to things and is a great observer.

Some learn to listen. He listens to learn.


S never tires of describing the grandsons escapades and remarks to me. SK and his little brother recently accompanied an aunt to visit another relative who lived down the road. That place had some interesting shops with toys, clothes, pencil-boxes, and assorted school type things. They were both describing things to folks back home, and the youngest one piped up saying how much fun it would have been , had they lived nearby there; everyday, a new pencil !

SK , gives a look, shakes his 4 year-old head, taps his younger brother, and says, " You cant stay there just like that. For that you need money, you know. "

And the entire family, is amazed and stunned at this 4 year old kid, who has understood needs and priorities so well, and thinks it is important to explain this to a younger sibling, who thinks coins are things you roll on the floor and play with, which you end up giving someone else.

And then I read this.

A Western country gives us funds meant solely for primary education, Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan, so that kids like SK and his parents do not have to pay an arm and a leg for him to go to primary school, and so that he gets the best facilities available in his school. The same country announces that it is now launching an investigation into reported widespread misuse of these funds, where officials have used them to feather their own nests, with material things. Much of the funds never reached who they were meant for.

And the ministry of HRD, that cannot decide simple things like grading systems in schools for months together , gives a statement the next day saying nothing has been misused. If the misuser and investigator agency even partially overlap, you get instant announcements.

Anybody believe that ?

There is no smoke without fire.

And so, S.'s family slogs and figures out how to educate the two youngest with their limited resources, possibly one kid on the way, and those in power go ballistic calculating the number of digits in the percent inflation, industrial growth rate, whether fashion designers are artists in the eyes of income-tax, IPL, whether convocation robes are a carryover from the British, whether or not Warren Andersen is a crook, and how the Ambani brothers are now talking.

I guess, Sarva Shisksha Abhiyan means never having to say sorry to kids like SK.

In praise of the Post Office.....

I have been forced to contemplate on communication.

Things are simple when the communication is oral. It can be embellished with a variety of looks, changing decibel levels, and aided by colorful gestures. When its a question of public messaging, we have come a long way from town criers (current record for shouting is 100 metres), guys running across miles with messages whispered into someones ears, whistling in code , smoke signals, lighting bonfires on hilltops, sometimes even messages carved on pillars.

The problems started when papyrus entered the scene. The choice was between messengers moving with messages, or the message itself moving. The Persians perfected this (522-486 BC), even inventing the Aramaic language and a Phoenician alphabet, that could be written on Papyrus and was recognized everywhere. While the 2nd - 11th century AD, saw wide use of horses being ridden by messengers in relays, it was only after this that Egyptians pioneered the use of pigeons for sending messages, based on the fact that pigeons basically tended to return home from wherever they were. This technology was used, albeit discriminately, right till the middle of the 20th century, where folks like Rothschild in London, got insider information about the war situation via pigeons originating from Europe, and made fortunes in banking.


In my lifetime, written communication has mostly been through the Post Office. We had postcards, inland letters, envelopes, express delivery, telegrams and so on, till we entered the age of Couriers. Even that was fine, till the Net happened, and courier companies jumped on the Netwagon.

Like the missed-call-in-the-cellphone-age, we in India specialize in creative misuse of stuff. This, based on the fact, that comparatively less number of folks check the status on the Net personally, and that anything, possibly , goes.

I was recently supposed to receive a package as a prize, and the company kept me informed by email till it handed over the thing to a courier company, and gave me a tracking number in the evening.

Next day , I stayed in the whole day, nothing arrived, and I checked the status on the Net. It said "Party not at home, package returned to nodal office" . While this resulted in me making angry calls, and being shunted around through sections by the courier people, it turns out, that when the delivery person, for some reason of his own, cannot make a delivery , such a entry on the company system, ensures, no questions are asked by their bosses. While fighting with folks is not a pleasurable way to spend an already busy day, they sent the package the next day, and had to call to get directions, clearly exposing their lie of having come earlier.

Waiting for an important document sent by another courier, does nothing for your stress levels. With fancy homepages,these guys get even more creative with their lying. When nothing arrived after the mandatory wait of 3 days, the status message indicated "Address not clearly mentioned, not found".


This was not the first time we were receiving these documents. Unfortunately for them, the shipment details on the screen also showed an accurate address. But once again, it resulted in having to tell the company PRO that they were casting aspersions on an address that had existed successfully for the post-office, and bill senders for the last 20 years, and no one seemed to have a problem. Besides the post office was 200 steps away , and the courier fellow could have asked their help .

And so I still depend on the ye olde Post Office.

They have a wonderful thing called Airmail speed post, where you can send things abroad with tracking and guaranteed delivery in 4 days. It doesn't cost an arm and a leg compared to couriers, and they only request that you show them what is inside (for security reasons) before closing the package.

It so happened in the summer (Indian summer ends in June) , that I was urgently couriering through them, one kilogram of cayenne pepper/red chilly powder in packets to someone in the US.

I thought I was being very efficient arriving with my package, complete with protective waterproof, enevlopes, scissors, tape, string, waterproof pens, labels.

They asked me to open the outside large envelope. I routinely opened, and they routinely peered in, to touch and confirm that I was sending what I said I was. Ceiling fans were on full blast, and one of the larger packets must have developed a small hole, because the guy checking it went into a bunch of alarming sneezes from the pungent hot aroma .

Everybody kind of suddenly focused on me, and I focused my eyes on my purse, till I saw the guy at the counter smile, pass me the package and asked me to pack it up , with special attention to the presumed hole. There were clear Post Office rules on what you couldn't send , but chilly powder was not on the list. I did the needful paperwork, and was given a tracking number.

I kept tracking it, as it left Customs in India, entered the US in new York, entered and left US Customs uneventfully, and left on an intra country flight to its destination on the West coast, and was delivered, in all its red hot pungent glory.


I had half expected to see an update on the Postal tracking page saying "rejected and destroyed by US customs due to dangerous smell and potential for harm" or something similar. But the entire trip was uneventful , of course, beyond the local Mumbai Post Office.

These days, they sometimes just ask me what I am sending, and gingerly feel the package from outside. The lady at the counter understands the place of red chilly powder in cooking, and importance of the home-made variety. They completely understand why I end up sending packages of wedding clothes, tiny silver God figurines which are worshiped, various prayer books , and sometimes even some specially made dry chutneys.


They must have decided I am a safe person to transact business with....

Why, I even got invited to an Annual Maha Satyanarayan Puja of the Post Office employees, and even partook of the wonderful prasaad....

Jai ho !