Kaunsi Degree Hai ?

More than a year ago, my household help, "S." ( who has to-date been the subject of many blog posts ), came to me and requested me to write a letter for her.

Not that her family could not write. But she thought, that since it pertained to a facility on our campus,  I would be able to state the facts better in the application, and also introduce her and her family. 

She herself is classified as illiterate, but is one of the most naturally educated ladies I know.  With a Ph.D in Common Sense. Summa Cum Laude or whatever  they say in Latin.

She struggled and succeeded in educating her own kids, in municipal schools, singlehandedly , upto class X.   She has  a daughter in law who is a class XII graduate. The adults all work.  And she was now literally mobilising ideas and resources to educate her grand kids, 2 of whom stayed with her.

Resources, because the eldest grand kid was already in school, the family having taken a loan of 15 thousand, to pay for his admission, necessities, tuitions, et al. In the local English medium school.   Now it was time for the sibling to start school, and It was possible, that they could apply under RTE to our school on our campus, which was also an English medium school, but much cheaper. Both kids could apply there, and they would be set till Junior college.  

I wrote a letter for her, and they found out that they had just missed the deadline for admissions under RTE, for the local campus school, and would now have to apply after a year.

This year, I asked and reminded her about the RTE and the admissions. And was surprised to hear, that the family decided that the second kid would also go to the same school as the elder kid, expensive fees and all.

Which brings to light the sad uninspiring state of primary education in India.

The appointment of Smruti Irani as Minister for HRD has  so many baying from the rooftops about the absence of a degree in her CV.   Scratch a sleeping person and say the word "Education" and he will respond back on auto-reply  with the word "degree".

Yet, up to now, education has always meant more IIT's,  IIM's, and assorted colleges.  Assorted officially appointed highly qualified  folks with several degrees around their necks, officially disburse crores for education.  Schemes named  after politicians of yore are announced , and assorted ads show up on television.  Newspapers get into tangles reporting of profiles of students applying for premier institutes, and the cutoffs for various categories, of students as well as streams of learning.

In the meanwhile, spurious education institutes spring up out of nothing, with studied non-monitoring from those that should monitor.  They function out of single rooms, and basically sell qualifications.  The government, puts out  a list once in a while  listing these  institutes, but does nothing to shut them down. 

Education , is now a successful business proposition, thanks to the obsession of the public, and the demand , for "degrees" ...

Primary education, has always been about putting up buildings in rural areas,  without associated infrastructure, absence of maintenance,  lack of facilities , lack of teachers, and basically  no followup. Allocate the money , show it in the annual report, and your work is done.  You celebrate the girl child, but you cannot ensure sanitary set ups in schools for use by the girls, who often drop out as teenage approaches. Whatever success there has been so far, has been solely due to some dedicated folks who continue to slog in schools, despite the material shortcomings, transfers of school teachers due to ego clashes, and in the face of  political lack of will , electoral politics and so on.

Can this government put a moratorium for , say five years, on the creation of more engineering and medical colleges ?  Can this government study and analyse, why the government should be involved in things like fashion design ?  Can this government dedicate the next 5 years, to improving primary education in India, in a holistic way, where it extends beyond decrepit leaky unmaintained buildings with stolen plumbing and unsanitary surroundings ?  Can this government overhaul and decentralize the mid-day meal schemes to involve the mothers of children in the decision making process and the entire operating procedures? 

Maybe we have forgotten, that mothers never go to school or college to learn how to mother .  They learn on the job, with the help of family, and sometimes despite and without them. 

As it happened in the case of "S."  who was abandoned by her husband  and left to bring up 4 small kids , all by herself.  30 years down the line, she is still asked to provide the "caste" certificate of her non existent husband,  for being part of any government scheme, be it education, health or housing. That she has her own certificate, simply never counts. They do not accept it.  

I think Smruti Irani will be good for the post for which she is appointed. I have heard her talk.  She has mentioned  initiating an involvement of parents in the education process. It is now time to give a chance to someone who is unburdened by the weight of hefty degrees round her neck.

We are always so fond of spouting sayings like " Teach a fellow something , he will improve himself; but teach a mother something, and she will help bring up the family in the world....."

This is so true.

In reality, they will teach, the mother will learn, but at the end of the day, she will be asked , "Kaunsi degree hai ?"......

Time to change .   




  

 

 

Jab We Met .....

I've often felt, to the complete consternation of some folks who think I need a checkup, that, as a society beset with problems, there is a lot the human body can teach us ,  on how to handle them.

I also have a possibly outrageous notion, that all our body organs can think.  I know they say that there is a brain facility in the stomach/intestine system.  Maybe they will find the others later. 


A furious little boy, eyes full, coming home from school, kicking every stone in his path and whacking every tree within a stick length. 

He doesn't know what he is angry with. 

He has been teased . Told that he was found in the trash.

Because he is an adopted child.  

And those who teased him learned whatever they did from their own parents, who are the unfortunate manifestation,  of misuse , or actually , under utilization, of the so called evolved human cerebral cortex.   

Think of the human body.   A woman's body. And the Uterus.

It is a case of "Jab We Met" Or "When X met Y" .

An Ova with 23 chromosomes, meets up with  a Sperm with 23 chromosomes. They click. 

And the uterus, unconcerned with their origin, mobilizes to do what it is an expert at.  Namely providing intelligent housing for the embryo that results. Intelligent because it must interact with the mother's body as well as the baby's, and maintain a balance favouring the latter.

It provides a safe house for the singe cell , which has the amazing ability to subdivide and make copies of itself.  The nucleus of the cell has the coded instructions in protein strings  on what is to be done. And so it develops an outer  set of the cells, an inner set of cells and an intermediate set of cells  in the first 5 days of the grand positive meeting of the Ova and the Sperm.  The outer set of cells becomes the placenta which is the communication centre of the mother and child, the uterus and the mother's body, through which nutrition and messages flow.

Through all this wondrous development in the formation of a child , with all the requisite organs developing in a preplanned manner,  the Uterus performs to the best of its ability, constructively cooperating with the foetus and taking excellent care.

It does not speculate on the origin or circumstances  of either the Sperm or the Ova. 

It does not speculate on the morality or  social classification of the  donators of the sperm and ova. 

It is simply none of its business. 

It simply does what it is supposed to do.  Protect the foetus.  Monitor and manage resources for the foetus via the placenta .  And run its self-monitoring system for the foetus as it grows .     

It is a tough job.  The casing of the uterus, the human body, is not still. It is an active machine, that exercises, runs, stands, sits, shudders, bends, overdoes things, becomes despondent at times, unleashing a slew of hormones. There are other parts of the human body that have their own idiosyncrasies and behaviours.  The Uterus must understand and deal with all, screening the foetus the best way it can , from possible problems.

And yet, it reaches  its peak period of 208 days  , and introduces a new member to this world.  This one comes with its own properties, based on the dominance or recessive traits  that result, when the 23 Chromosome Ova  meets with the 23 Chromosome Sperm.  At no time, has the foetus (now child) been discriminated for the circumstances of when X met Y.

Unfortunately, our society never learns from these organs. Children are abandoned, mistreated and ignored, and the lucky ones manage to reach some institute , where they get a life.  Some lucky ones, also end up getting parents.

I wish our society would learn from the Uterus.  Honor the child.  Don't humiliate it based on what you think is its origin.  Teach your children to respect the human body.

Yes, there are traits in every child  that arise out of dominant genes of each of the parents.  It is also known that if it is a male child , it stands to inherit certain physiological  tendencies from the father  .  The female child never does.   And despite knowing this, the human uterus does an unbiased nurturing of the foetus, whether it is male or female.     

And yes. The Uterus mobilizes for use again and again.  To the best of its ability, till many years later, it fatigues, kind of retires, and sits away quietly, shorn of all its energy and vitality.  A life spent doing excellently what it is supposed to do, actually producing fruits,  which it must give up, and a final fading into the cavities so to speak.  Like the heart,  another organ that follows the philosophy of the Bhagwad Geeta , pertaining to working without consideration of the fruits of your labour.

Do we learn from this ?  NO.

Does our so called education teach us this ? NO.

We are a society where children learn from parents that blood has only 2 groups. Our blood , and Their blood.  And how it is different.  And how Ours is always superior.   And Theirs,  is mired in trash.  ( I have actually heard such a comment. From an ex-adoptive parent, who simply, returned the child, and then remained childless and what else, superior .....)

I hope that furious little boy who came home upset and confused, grows up into a fine, sensitive, and respectful young man, and honors the folks who gave him a family and a life. 

I hope he is wildly successful in whatever he wants, works hard for it, never losing the empathy he has for those not as fortunate as him.  

I hope he meets someone with similar thinking, and they bring up their own children differently, than what he experienced amidst  classmates, in his childhood.
 
I hope he respects the human body and its capabilities and learns never to abuse it.

There is much to learn from it. 

We have a cerebral cortex which allows us to do that.

They say it has evolved.

For some folks, err....  "superior" folks ....  , it clearly has not.     

    

Just saying ......

Just imagine.

He never played gully cricket, where the gully was actually a common narrow balcony for 10 flatlets, studded with extra furniture.

He never shuddered nervously at having broken some one's window pane with a misdirected shot, because someone else paid for the damage.

He never traipsed back from school, dragging sticks and stuff, walking together with his friends, and never had to suddenly break into a run on sighting a strange guy making dirty noises and actions.

He probably never got rapped on the knuckles with a metal ruler in school. Or stood outside IIIA holding his toes.

He never travelled in lumbering tilted red Double Decker buses or suburban trains with a population blooming out of its doors, and never ever struggled to extricate his school bag when he disembarked at his destination.

He never suffered the ignominy of having his PE white uniform splattered with mud as a fancy car sped by through a puddle while he waited to cross a road.

He never queued up. Period.

For admission to college, in pouring rain, in knee deep water, clutching close his certificates , only to have some doors close for lunch.

For tickets to outstation places in the holidays.

For paying exam fees, and getting hall tickets. Movie tickets (in the days before the Net).

For using machines and computers in labs at college , in the early days before laptops and desktops, when  talk was rich and resources were not. For copies of library books, where the text book was outrageously expensive. 

For lunch in a college canteen/cafeteria and heard "khatam ho gaya" when he asked for saambar..

He never worried about a job interview.  Or where he might have to stay. Or whether he could afford house payments. And even a first class quarterly train pass with a starters salary.

Potholes filled themselves when he travelled across them.  He never had to worry, or even think about the price of petrol, gas cylinders, electricty, telephones et al.

 He never had to travel where he entered a bus through a window, because the door was jammed with people.  He never sat in a three seater train bench, and had someone come and ask him to shift a bit, "jara sarkoon ghyaa".....   .  He probably was never shocked at french beans going for Rs 40  for 250 gms, simply because he never had to actually buy them or even cook them.   

He never worried about his job profile, because a non existent job means a non existent profile.  He was his own profile.

 He never had a deadline because no one set him one. He never tangled with managing cleaning, cooking, supervising kids, entertaining guests, finishing submissions for work.  All in the course of one evening.

No one ever pointed fingers at him, because a sentence was misplaced somewhere in the report.  No one threatened him with a memo, because they did not like his answer to something.  And no one brought the house down because numbers didn't tally at reconciliation .  The reason was always someone else.

He was never a convenient scapegoat because the management thought the customer was always right.  And he never, ever , spent an entire night righting something which someone else had messed up. 

He never ever had to think of increments.  Or bonuses. Strangely, loans, per se, might have been of interest.

He could say anything to anyone, regardless of age, experience of the latter, and his mother never said a word, in situations, where one would have received a public parental rebuke. 

He never worried about breaking rules, because the rules themselves bent themselves all over the place around him.


He never had an appraisal, because, they couldn't find anything to appraise.  And those who tried, gave up less than half way there. As "better" sense prevailed.

And one day, when people actually wanted to point fingers for something they thought he was responsible for,  a bunch of folks rushed to crush those fingers into closed fists, saying  he did nothing wrong,  the responsibility was of those around him and him together, and begged him to continue to do, actually, nothing. 

.
.
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I wonder how the HR types would advertise for a job that fits the above.
.
.


Stupid me.  I am now suddenly interested in concepts like karma, last birth, prarabdh et al.

  

Bank Stories .....

A flaming, burning  hot, typical   May afternoon ,  15 years ago, in Pune.  An 82 year old grandma, mobilizing to travel to the US to attend her first grandson's graduation from college, and , with her son who has come to escort her  to the US, she visits a branch of one of the nationalized banks (with headquarters in Pune), for her foreign exchange requirements. 

After standing around unattended for sometime, she is given a form, and told to submit xeroxes of stuff she has already presented to them , like the ticket, visa etc. They enquire about a copying machine on the premises, are rudely told it is for official work, and asked to go out and get the copies done. 

Up and down stairs, no lifts , no ramps, crossing the unruly-traffic-infested Pune roads, and a search for a xerox place in the burning blazing afternoon.

Eventually the work is done,  the travellers cheques are given as if it is a great favor although the lady has paid for them. But not before her son, has met someone senior  in the bank , and suggested that they needed to be more user friendly, consider the needs of senior citizens , and offer simple things like xerox facilities on payment;  after all, writing out vouchers for payments needed for giving bank statements etc is a routine task, and no one is asked to go to different windows and make cash payments then. 


In the meanwhile , at the turn of the century or a bit later, computers have taken over, something called core-banking  is now on,  and in the process, the leaps in technology, hardware and software, have also caused a few hurried bypasses  in understanding of systems , sometimes at management levels.  Humanware, lagging behind software and hardware.

What has remained unchanged is the fact, that banks  come into being because ordinary people  deposit their savings there, and banks pay them interest for "using" that money.  That's what she has learnt as a child. 

That the banks later on treat the money as their own, and disrespect the small depositors, is an attitude that has permeated  everywhere in society, including the top echelons of the powers-that-be.    

 Today the old lady is no more.  

Her daughter now tangles periodically with the same bank. Has ended up visiting head offices and their computer rooms to solve her problems, when the management has been clueless.  And nothing much has changed.

Why does all this come to mind ? 

Because , the same daughter recently had occasion to deal with another nationalized bank branch, in a bigger city, while requesting a bank statement  , for an account that was just closed.  

A manager of the bank hesitantly approached.  Thanks to earlier experiences.  She waits to see a if a head will nod in the negative.

The statement required is for a longer period in a year by year format.

There are no frowns, no expressions of "how can you ask for a statement like that " ,  just a  request for a letter outlining the requirements, the reason,  and the details of the account where charges  may be debited.  A sense of pride at being able to satisfy a request from a customer.

An earlier experience at this bank, related to xeroxing as well. A copy of a bank voucher was to be enclosed . She said she would drive over to a xerox place and return in minutes. The manager looked a bit surprised, and said it was not necessary to go to all this trouble for for a single copy of a single piece of paper.  He faxes something to himself, and a copy appears.

 She is impressed. Not by the technology. But the thought behind its usage.    

She is asked to come the next day, a Saturday.  Turns out that there is some urgent meeting happening, and the manager, expresses his regrets and promises to have it ready on Monday, even taking down her contact number in case there is a change.

She visits the bank on Monday after calling them, and is asked to wait as the statement is generated, by the manager himself. 

She sees the printer jamming.  The manager gets up, opens up the printer sections, like he knows what he is doing, and frees the paper, and reinserts the cartridge.  The printing resumes.  He staples the year by year stuff himself. Collates it. Checks it.  Regenerates what he thinks is missing information. Then proceeds to put his official stamp and signature on each page.  So many ink stamps to be put and she offers to do it, so he needs to simply sign. To save him the repetitive effort.  He thanks her, but says it is no big deal.

In her earlier avatar as her mother's daughter at the earlier bank, she has heard reproachful comments and seen disapproving stares, treating her like a time waster. 

She leaves the place, totally impressed by the hands-on manager, her requirements satisfied, with the statement copy in hand. She profusely thanks the manager, apologizing for troubling him with her last minute request.   He brushes it all aside, saying there are rules and requirements everywhere, one needs to understand and respect them,   and he is happy he was able to help.

It occurs to her, that  an organization learns from its people at the top.  Hopefully. 

She has, till date, been a great one for writing complaint letters,  particularly to banks, like the earlier one.  Head offices and all.

She will now write another one. This time, of appreciation and thanks. Mentioning the people involved.  To Head Offices and all.

Have times changed ? She doesn't know, but hopes so.

She thinks the old lady would have greatly approved .......

Review of "The Child of Misfortune"

I received this book, "The Child of Misfortune" by Soumitra Singh, (Bennett Coleman and Co, 2014)  as part of the Blogadda Book reviews Program.

As it says on the back cover, it is a story about Amar and Jonah,  who played chess in childhood, before a series of events ripped their friendship apart.  The chess playing continues throughout their adult lives, with very high stakes, involving much more than they themselves, as they travel all across the world.

I know this is a work of fiction. And I read a lot of such books. But even then I found it  hard to imagine.

Three people Amar, Jonah and Mansi, all public school types.  Amar is the son of a minister in the government, Jonah, someone who is his classmate, but whose background is to be imagined, and not much is known about Mansi .  There isn't anything known about their sources of income , Mansi seems to work for Times of India ,  but they travel widely and  on an impulse, across Kashmir, Leh  and the capital. 

There are Tibetan monks, monasteries,  swords of great importance, killings,  and the chess game happening in the minister's house. There are terrorists, local youths, drug runners, and every time Amar is in trouble, there is someone in a yellow robe who simply descends upon everyone, kills off chaps, injures others and saves the day.   It is a bit difficult to believe that with all the security arrangements described in Kashmir, nobody is able to see a chap in yellow robes charging around.

The scene moves to Seoul, Korea, where the computers and viruses take over. For two chaps who were not any great shakes in school, Amar and Jonah seem to be all over the world, without a worry of where their livelihood will come from.  Amar pours money into someone named Kang, who has this expertise of breaking through into any systems at will, and seeing real time pictures  of opponents. All these exercises are undertaken by Amar to find what Jonah is up to .  There are viruses, Apps,  passwords being cracked, and predictably , in every country,  some beating up  of characters.

In the finest tradition of someone who has no worries about money etc at all, Kang and Amar now move to the UK, where drugs enter the picture. Jonah is found as the co owner of a hedge fund, and  after lots of travels by Amar , Kang and company, just when Jonah is found, he gets shot at in a cemetery, by a bunch of people who owe allegiance to a very rich society lady.  Police investigations, truth serums, and explanations later, ever body except Jonah is back.  There are codenamed drug carriers, abandoned factories, old girlfriends,  Mansi, all together in London for the grand finale.

This book doesn't capture my attention.  There is too much clichéd stuff, happening too frequently.   Nothing looks true to life, and you don't feel a connect with any character.

 It is the sort of story which will probably be good as a Salman Khan movie, and will probably rock the box office with a couple of songs and dances thrown in.

Some books capture your attention, and you read them well into the night. They are un-put-downable.....

This is not one of them.

I laboured to pick it up and finish it, when Blogadda sent me a reminder email .  



I have learned that the author has a website dedicated to this book.  While the above is my personal review regarding the book, you may read other reviews at the author's media site, here. 

This review is a part of the biggest Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

Seeking Miss DeSouza

Back in the days when I was  in class 2,   which is like more than 50 years ago, we had a class teacher called Miss DeSouza.  

She was a no nonsense, exemplary strict teacher, very much looked up to by various parents.  Good teaching, great homeworks,  attentive corrections,  and there was nothing that a tough rap of a ruler on her desk couldn't achieve.  Lots of naughty people in class, but they all fell in line when it was necessary .   Being made to stand outside her class was a shameful thing,  and nobody dared talk there through the sides of their mouth.  

She was amazing in the way she taught us subtraction-with-carry, something I had a natural aversion for, but ended up learning well.  There was so much excellent poetry she taught us, and she actually instilled a confidence in us, that allowed us to stand up and attempt an answer in class, without getting whispered help from the back.  She taught us to recite poems, read out stuff loudly to the class,  and we learned  to say Thank you and Sorry,  like we meant it, and not because it was in fashion.  Physical Ed classes were fun, and we played tough. 

The one thing we feared , was being rapped with a wooden foot ruler on the open palm of our hands, for making a noise in class, not doing homework without adequate explanation as to why , using bad words,  telling lies,  and so on.  Some folks who used words I never understood and could never repeat, had to wash their mouths with soap.

And the parents loved her.

Why do I remember her ?

Because I think she is sorely needed today. 

We have several so called leaders, who make outrageous comments insulting the womenfolk of this country.  We have so many leaders who think campaigning for an election is a series of gunda style threats being constantly enunciated in bad language, as their flunkies stand by.

We have so many so called leaders who blatantly lie in public  while bargaining for enhancement of individual worth in private, and totally mess up their additions and subtractions.

And so many , who appear daily on television,  in teams, where they cannot and d not follow simple rules and manners required of participants in debates.  They accuse, outshout, drown out their so called opponents, ignore the anchor person requesting them to speak one by one, barge in whenever they want with defensive talk, and personally run the other people down.

Reminds me of fights in maidans amidst kids, from different gangs, all trying to occupy the same grounds for the same game.

We have come to a point as a society, that we are cynical about so many things that are announced. Every time a new rule or regulation or requirement is announced,  the predominant feeling is that "here is one more thing someone will cheat and get done by paying someone" while I stand everlastingly in line, listening to someone say "Come tomorrow".   So many folks in power, lie so much, that we find it difficult to believe when some truly honest person makes some public promises.

And yet, we continue, election after election, to vote in folks, so many of whom think nothing of changing colors at will.  We are told this is democracy at work in the worlds largest democracy, we pat ourselves on the back, look up, and trudge over to the voting booth on election day, only to find that lakhs of names, hitherto likely to vote intelligently,  have been summarily removed from the elections rolls.

How I wish there was a Miss Desouza  who would straighten out these erring leaders making outrageous comments about womenfolk, with a rap of her deadly ruler on their greasy palms.

How I wish there was a Miss Desouza, who simply threw out and disqualified chaps and ladies, treating debates like an akhada without rules  .

I revel in visions of fellows quaking in their boots every time she rapped her table with the ruler and asked for quiet . I long for scenarios where these unworthies would stand outside, fingers on lips,  while the public passed by noticing that they were punished , and since it was by Miss DeSouza, they must have done grievous wrong.  And I look forward to the possibility of seeing several folks being forced to wash their mouths with soap.

And yes, for those who were thoughtful, civil, and followers of rules, Miss DeSouza would be a great guide, teacher and supporter.

I keep looking for her. I don't seem to find her.

Maybe we need to all have a  Miss Desouza within us ?

It is a tough call. And one can always hope.

But would be nice if our politicians and candidates had alwys, a Miss DeSouza within them...... 
  

  

Mystery of the Shrinking Telomeres.........

It is uncanny, how things at a cellular level actually tell us what is happening to our society.

Just came across this link, that says that Social Stress takes a toll on our chromosomes , and this makes us age faster.  

We humans are created and function as a result of cell divisions.

A baby  is actually a single cell inside a mother's body, which gets replicated millions of times, in a knowledgeable and precoded fashion to form a human being.  There are cells that have different specializations, like heart cells, muscle cells, cells in our finger nails, cells on our tongue and so on. Throughout the process of living, cells get destroyed and new cells are needed, all this in predecided ways,  and hence the need for replicating a cell. 

Each cell has a nucleus , inside which there are chromosomes that define who we are and what we have inherited . Within the chromosomes are genes  and DNA strings. These are what are actually replicated when cells divide .  Each DNA string has a buffer zone at the end of the string, which is called as a telomere, and it plays an important role when  the DNA string is replicated, by ensuring that ends of the valid information bearing string  don't get chopped off, or corrupted in the process.

Whenever this terrible misfortune happens, cells replicate in abnormal ways, and the human is then subject to unpredictable maladies like certain syndromes and cancers. 

Many times certain external virii (viruses ?) which are nothing but a nucleus themselves, manage to penetrate the human cell nucleus and cause havoc  in the replication process. 

 The telomeres clearly try their best in view of all these dangerous events, often losing part of themselves and shortening dangerously in the process, resulting , in what scientific folks call faster aging, or sometimes, some irreversible syndromes..   

Recent research says stressed people have shorter telomeres.  

I think shorter telomeres cause stressed humans. 

Think.

Thousands of moons ago, our society was family centric.  Generations came and went, some family knowledge got copied and propagated, some did not, but it all happened amidst a decent supervision by immediate and extended family.


Singularities and possible aberrations in behaviour etc were noted, and acted upon in a reasonably corrective fashion in real time.  Those subjected to generational changes, knew that there was a buffer zone, sometimes of parents, sometimes of extended family, sometimes even made up of dedicated friends and neighbors, that would kick in during crises in life.  

Life had natural telomeres. 

Today, partially due to economic and  population related reasons, this telomeric buffer has shortened. 

Young folks have moved away from the nucleus, with successive generations  moving notionally further and further away from the roots.   It hasn't helped that in this immensely overpowering Information Age, they are continually clobbered by floods of information, both good and bad, reliable and unreliable,  objective and non objective. (I once wrote a post on this, entitled Perils of Mental Obesity).

And so , with a missing buffer, when we undergo a change, we now have knee jerk, short term, thoughtless decision making, where organizing for a future is concerned.  Very short to non existent life buffers to guide you in real time, means you are ill advised, you perpetrate mistakes, and then go in for , perhaps, what might be  late counselling....

Reactions to a perceived failure, an insult,  inability to manage a loss, whether it is a loss of a person, future, or a confidence,  today result in violent reactions which were unheard of in the old days.   In a complete  mismanagement of information, and misuse of broadcasting resources,  things are highlighted as breaking news when there is nothing sudden about them, leading to people misjudging things, and then consequently reacting.  Impaired ability to judge, and lack of patience , gets endemic.

Like throwing acid, killing, shooting, burning, disfiguring, abusing in the worst way possible.  All in the name of short term solutions. 

This is clearly, a type of cancer in society. Happening due to a severe shortening of telomeric support.

Watch what is happening in the elections.  So called politicians, and custodians of whatever, making preposterous statements to incite communal tensions,  candidates  being subject to hits of tomatoes, slippers, stones, shoes, and  slaps.  Anything the candidates mention is news.

Some guy admits he has a wife (hitherto denied all these years)  and millions comment. There are so many who have more than one wife, illegal in certain cases, and that is known but never mentioned.  Nobody bothers to ask the wives anyway. Some guy increases his assets 25 times within  a year without doing a day's honest work, and nothing happens, as people exert to find out a worse offender.  There is a dumbing of the mind of the general public.   

Candidates sulk,  clam shut,  accuse, defend,  cheat, lie,  and  as a face saving thing we now have a massive telomere in the form of the Election Commission, that tries to keep things in line.

A few years ago, I was visiting the city I grew up in, the city of my parents.  Walking down the old road near our house, I was stopped by a person in his sixties, who was presiding over his own tiny ironing shop, by the side of the road.

"Are you so-and-so's daughter ?"  he asked.

"Yes ! How did you know ? "  Me. Amazed. Because I didn't know him, and it was many years since my mother was no more.

"You know when she stood for the local election, when you were small kids?  I knew of her work during the Panshet Dam floods, and I used to be in the team with all of you when we did door to door campaigning !  You know, no loudspeakers, no shouting..."  he explained.

"I remember. She didn't win . "   Me. (She had successfully organized and headed the massive flood affected folks rehabilitation project initiated by Sakal, then not a politically connected paper, as it is today. )

" Yes. (Shook his head) The ability to call a spade a spade doesn't help in elections.  But we all joined to help her because we wanted someone honest and fearless. "

He went on to reminisce about the old days, his family, where everyone was, my family, where everyone was, what i did, and where I was based,  and then inevitably, the then  electoral scene, and how it was difficult to believe anyone.

We bid goodbye and went our ways. 

He, to iron some more clothes for folks, and create piles of folded stuff; and me,  lost in my old childhood memories.

Somewhere, I got the feeling that despite the desperate times in which we lived,  my telomeres were  in place,  decently long, alive and kicking.......

       

  

Olympics of the Mind.

The Mind is a strange thing.

It is all about being sporty. Or even Olympian. 

Sometimes, it's about competing against itself.  

Like mobilizing into a sensible start, and  taking a leap, high as you can, and sometimes, as far as you can, despite knowing that there is a wee chance that one might crash land.  And then reflecting about it, and doing it all over again.

Like sometimes, doing a restrained mindslog run,  observing stuff around, very self-aware , with new learnings;  and then , at some point, energized and suddenly getting excited , and pushing for something, giving it your all,  

Like getting hold of something unpleasant, and deciding it has no place in your life, and so you clutch it tight , whirl around at higher and higher speeds, and fling it as far as you can. It could be a ball of confusion, or a  loaded mind disc, it just needs to go as far as possible from the mind.

Sometimes, the mind is so focused, it knows where something needs to hurt someone.  And so it is about pointing the sharp edge of the word javelin, and ensuring the throw hurts whoever catches it. 

Sometimes though, it's something between opposing sides.

Like a mind persona whacked like a tennis ball, forehanded whips and backhanded compliments, and sharp vile smashes and insults lobbed away sky high, and occasionally dropped cunningly across doubtful nets.  And just when you pick up the pieces, and look skywards in supplication, you are whipped on to the other side, to devious applause.

And à propos the world we live in, this also comes in S, M and L.   The size having to do with the problem size.  Sometimes, a small quick slap and whip across a green table, a brittle mind cracking across helplessly . Sometimes, misled by a medium feathered thought, a slower wandering, and tumbling deviously across badminton nets.  Two minds, in a game of one upmanship, , unwilling to accept that there is only one winner.

There is destruction of belief, good sense, as ambition soars, and a killer instinct sharpens itself.  You come to a fork in the road and take the wrong one.  The way back isn't easy. Provided you wanted to come back, that is.

But sometimes, minds get touched by the ethereal.  There is a slow stretching to absorb and understand, a deep bending to pay respects, a gentle twirl to amuse the supporting earth, and sensing imminent achievement, then a sudden graceful leap of thought, flying high , drunk on the energy of potentials.  A dance of the mind, that has rehearsed and rehearsed the happy moves,  knowing full well, that those watching  share the wonder as well.

Today, the minds are all about the first type. getting kicks out of pointing and throwing. Or possibly the second type, where it it is all about the perceived returns.

Talking about multimind games  is pointless.  Too many  minds corrupt the thought.  Thoughts then  imbibe more quantity than quality. There is a verbal and physical bashing up of those perceived as a threat.  There is a politics of the mind.  And the sport  is a gone case.

Like all Olympics, these mind Olympics too have crises and problems. Too many misleading influencers.    

And yet, to its eternal credit, there are those minds, that  keep on the weather beaten track, still full of potholes of fear, doubt and loss, slogging one step after another, sometimes, limping along, sometimes on a run and sometimes in a weird walk; there are yet some minds, that firmly hold on to the age old handlebars, and get cracking with the floor exercises, which will one day help them fly high and delight those watching them, as they pirouette and jump and leap  in celebration , delighting the endorphinal orchestra...

There are no special, periodic , Opening and Closing ceremonies.

Just one ceremony when you are born, and one , closing it all, in the end.

But like the real Olympics,  the win is momentary.

What matters is how you played the game.    

 

IIMB

( Methylation, it’s a big word that you probably don’t think applies to you, however, read on because knowing about methylation could improve or save your life.  Methylation is the process of taking a single carbon and three hydrogens, known as a methyl group, and applying it to countless critical functions in your body such as: thinking, repairing DNA, turning on and off genes, fighting infections and getting rid of environmental toxins to name a few.)

This post was inspired by this one .

We Indians, it turns out, actually have a particular gene. Or marker. Or whatever you might scientifically choose to call it.  It is always a dominant gene, and there are very few people  in whom this might actually be a recessive, if not a missing gene.

The gene goes by the acronym IIMB.

Stands for "It Is My Business "....

Sometime back in the last century,  the particular gene was observed to be behaving.

I mean, yes, the natural curiosity to know what was clearly NOT your business existed. But there was a decent amount of self regulation. 

You might have belonged to that strata of society that thought sleeveless blouses were the height of "forwardness", or wearing short divided skirts during tennis was an unparalleled act of bravery. But we let them be. There was a lady with red hair who was part of my parents group that played tennis (of sorts) in a neighboring house plot. Influenced by certain difficult to get comics that we poured over, we used to think admiringly that she was kind of half way blonde and getting there, and admire her bravado, till a maternal glare silenced us during a conversation to find out the real thing.

 It was Mehndi.       It was also none of our business. 

Years passed. Fashions changed. Tolerances changed. The IIMB gene too, began methylating.   Those who observed their own folks exhibiting the dominance of this gene, often took it upon themselves to practice its dominance. 

Sports was a big thing in our college,  I stayed at the hostel, which was considered a questionable and/or brave thing to do.  One was into badminton at a decent level of proficiency. There were tournaments, I was entered for singles, women's doubles and mixed doubles, and a Sardar classmate came to ask if my doubles partner would partner him in the mixed doubles.  There were no problems, she was a great player, and she agreed . The practices would be held daily, and certain people got unduly interested . These were daughters of families I had known since school, and erstwhile community folks. These folks would pass me by with what can only be called controlled smiles, accompanied by knowing looks.  These folks were also blessed (or cursed) with a highly dominant IIMB gene. 

Very soon, a signed letter reached my folks who were then living in another town about 150 miles away.  My "forward" behaviour was documented,  it mentioned my "moving around " with a Sardar friend, and the tone was entirely about a well wisher desperately alerting the family so I could be saved  before I went completely haywire or to the dogs.  The height of IIMB-ness.  The gene must have been shining out of their eyes and ears. 

That, my folks knew about the tournaments from my frequent letters,  that they knew about the fellows who were part of the teams, and were completely updated on the wins and losses  by me and my partners,  was unknown to these IIMB-well wishers.  The IIMB exponents received a stinging but polite letter  response, informing them that they, my folks, were completely informed and thrilled with my sports progress, my friends and my partners,  and did not need any extracurricular inaccurate and false information.

The practice of IIMB methylation continues.

 You get accosted in elevators where people tell you alternative solutions to Fair and Lovely, and rue the fact that you encourage your daughter to swim, which in turn "makes her dark".  You get asked if you don't feel ashamed about wearing a swimming costume at the pool, and you mentally crack up with visions of yourself floating in six yards of billowing fabric, trying to do the freestyle, coming out and challenging the typical Bollywood rain-and-wet-saree-outfit scene, as you emerge out of the pool. 33 years ago, I resigned from my job, which was considered a fairly stupid thing to do and quite unheard of, since I stayed withing walking distance.   The next day, as I emerged  with my son in his stroller , from our hospital where I had gone for some clearance certificates, some amazing exponents of IIMB stopped me to ask if I was leaving for the USA .  (That I started working again later, and subsequently retired honorably probably confuses them.  So be it. Exercises for the IIMB mind)

What analysis, what concentration, what interest, and what nonsense ....

Way then, into her late sixties, my late mother discovered hair dye. She tried it for a few years, then decided the chemicals were too dangerous, and I would occasionally observe her using plain kajal to touch up what she thought were excessively prominent white streaks.  Such was my  recessive IIMB status , that I never dared ask , forget question her about this.   I know folks who use mehndi, and get certain tinges in their hair.  But it's always clear that this is not and never likely to be a subject for advice and debate.  

On a personal level, one has tried these things. While suddenly showing up with jet black hair is not likely  to change people's opinion of you, it is too much trouble , trying to be what you are not.  Once in a while , in the manner of enjoying an exotic fruit, one treats oneself to such things. And like exotic fruit, these things are not mandatory.

So before a family wedding, while IIMB types plead with you to visit a hairdye place ("you need to get a facial too") , you indulge your daughter, who suddenly takes things in hand , literally, wraps a thing around your shoulders, and  proceeds to slather stuff on your hair. You enjoy the surprised looks on people's faces.  You also don't notice, how one month down the line, the white has started inching up.  You don't care either, as you revel in what your daughter did. :-)

But I am sure some IIMB lurker has.  

In the meanwhile, someone recently got married, and spent hours getting her mehndi done for the big day. Amidst the artful swirls and intricate mehndi designs,  there are two prominent tattoos that show up on the forearms.  One is of a butterfly, and one is of a Canon Camera.  These were done ages ago.

Tattoos , did you say ?

And I am waiting. 

For the IIMB types .

 To rush and advise with their interpretations.  Solutions. Emails. Letters.

Or does it mean that the dominance of IIMB is  receding?    



  

Different minds, different smells

Inhaling, is serious business. Sometimes, it is also an unpleasant business.

However.

The sheer topography, weather, and density of Mumbai, has widened  the mind, so much so, that the numerical variety of smells you have to deal with in daily life, seriously challenges the number of olfactory neurons sitting, aram se, amidst the cilia at the back of your nose.

It means , beginning your day with the smell of boiling , sometimes overflowing milk, mixing seamlessly with the smell of puja lamps, flowers and garlic tadkas from the neighbors kitchen, amidst whiffs of powder and deo's as assorted folks secure  their temporary body fragrances, exit through the door and permeate the elevators, in a clash of sandalwood,lavender and sometimes even pinewood, in city that is losing its green at an alarming rate..

Then there are various combinations, hitherto not thought off by fragrance folks in Paris.  The leading smell would be  a fine combination cow dung and diesel, often  imbibed by our pores, as we wait for Mumbai's lifeline, the BEST buses, which again open the doors to a world of different smells. Unwashed shirt smells  mixing with gleaming coconut oil smells as you fit yourself into a space  designed for someone half your size. Sudden whiffs of jasmines as a lady in a morning silk just out of mothballs, struggles to reach the exit door. Many times, a fellow will push past, reeking of alcohol, designed to make you throw up early in the morning.  We need to be grateful that phones don't smell; the bus would be a confused haven for fragrances, given the number of passengers busy staring at their phones and moving fingers.

The trains are a different world altogether. They ride roughshod over landscapes that reek.  Of an unsanitary city, that doesn't care for its women and children, of creeks that are treated like dirt , stuffed with trash,  the mangroves starved, so  that  shameless mercenary types can build .  So the smell of rotten fish mixes avidly with the smell of the fresh fish baskets carried in the trains by the fisher women ;  sometimes rotten fruit under some seats making their presence felt, all mixed with deos and  perfumes across the spectrum of price, mingling in Brownian motion in the ladies compartment.  Station smells, particularly when empty, a combination of rexin, metal, steam , fire and smoke, interspersed with bathroom smells.

There are some smells , a good decent hot water bath and scrub will get rid off. When the water is available, that is.  Since we realized the value of the Sun only after the West pointed it out,  the quickest way today, to get hot water is the instant geyser, which most of us use, in preference to the old style boilers and heaters that enhanced our electric bills wildly. 

And so a daily return home, followed by a quick hot shower gets the smells out and the squished muscles freed.

Hopefully.

There are however, some smells that have no easy solution, instantly Racoldian, or not. 

These are smells of money that came from cheating, corruption, lying and crime. Hot water of all the instantly angry geysers in the world, will not be enough to wipe out these smells.  You get these smells sometimes in temples as well, when you see certain worshippers performing complicated vidhis , beseeching God to turn a blind eye to their dubious activities .

But. Not all smells are smelly,  although they sometimes do have a Racoldian solution.

He was in his late eighties, a hitherto very active and fit person, coming to terms with the sudden effects of old age, which confined him to a bed. Most of his family was overseas, except one member who stayed with him off and on to take care of him, and work along with the nursing and home care.

It was a life where you triumphed if you were able to turn on your side on your own, or mouthed a silent victory whoop, if could lead a spoonful of soup into your mouth.  It went without saying that baths didn't happen, and sponging was the order of the day. The mind however was alert, and he looked forward to friends and relatives who dropped by.

There was attendant lady, Mangala,  who would manage his meals and cleaning when the family member was not there, or late.  And then one day, there was excitement. Some of the overseas family was about to arrive in a few days.  Mangalabai looked forward to these things in a world where people were so few and problems so many.

One morning she woke up his daughter , the local member, at 4 am. No, there was no problem. Just that after weeks of sponging and horizontal baths, she wanted to organize a proper bath/shower for the patient, and wanted to know if one could go ahead.  "So many visitors coming to see him and stay with us, and ma'am,  we cant have him smelling of ointments, food and stuff; help me ...... "

And so they both helped get him seated on a computer chair with wheels, and trundled over to the bath, where a bucket was filling with hot water from the  old Racold  geyser, mixing nicely with drops of Dettol. The daughter helped lift him up by holding him around his chest from behind him, and held him vertical , bent over backward herself, but supported by the wall, while fresh , hot and clean water streamed all across him, and he got lightly but carefully scrubbed, keeping in mind the instructions of the doctor. An early morning freshness rivalling that of the just emerging flowers in the garden.  A careful dry rub , a good dusting of medical powder, and  he was ready, smelling of health and old days, in some simple clean clothes, to meet another day.

No one bothered about the status of the computer chair. It probably dried somewhere on its own.  It too, had got a hot and fresh cleaning thanks to the hotwater treatment . Someone threw a fresh dry towel across it, he sat down on it, and they slowly trundled back to his bed, where he laboriously stretched out, helped by the two women.

Fresh, clean, and generating a fragrance which was a  strange mix of  antiseptics, care, comfort, lightness, cleanliness and concern. He felt tired, but hungry, thanks to the exertion amidst smells and hot geyser water           
 
And so , it seems, that smells are not always in the nose of the inhaler. Sometimes, they are in the eyes, sometimes  in the ears when you listen to unsaid wishes, and mostly in the mind. 

Possibly aided  by the instant hot water geyser. The old man approved. He always frowned on wasting of electricity by keeping on boilers carelessly the whole morning.

The circumstances of the bath were a bit odd,  but he felt good ; about the bath, the geyser, his family and staff.

Did you say "smells" ?

What smells ?