"S." in the time of 3-day weekends....!

My household help, "S.", a hitherto greatly admired lady in the blog world (she knows I write about her), came in this morning, after what must have been a great 3 day weekend for her. She had been telling me much in advance about going away for three days at this time, so as to not inconvenience me , and so that I could mobilize for S-less days, and schedule my stuff accordingly.

S. is a great follower of the late Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar, and is a Buddhist. They have a community hall in their crowded locality, where she is an office holder of the local Buddhist Women's Association. Smart, "illiterate", sensible "S.", was earlier the treasurer, and would plan the community events with great care and attention. She probably did an excellent job, despite being unable to read numbers and alphabets , because she is now the President of the group.

Some local folks recently announced a bus trip over the 3 day weekend that just got over. Folks would be picked up, and would travel to the ancestral village of Dr Ambedkar , Ambavade, in the coastal Ratnagiri district of Maharashtra. After spending some time at the memorial there and visiting with his remnant family, they would then proceed to his first wife, Ramabai's ancestral village , about 50 kilometres away, at Wanand , in the Dapoli area of Ratnagiri District. The idea was to spend some time there visiting, learning about her, talking to folks, have a late tea/snacks session, and then drive and spend the night at a hill station , Mahabaleshwar, about 110 kilometres from there.

The drive,  although  not a big distance in kilometres, was through several small internal roads,  some through hilly areas, away from highways, and so quite timeconsuming.  

The amazing thing was, that her overall family budget decreed that two people could go, and her family urged S and her daughter to do this trip. They took along the eldest grandson (he went free), a very talkative,curious fellow , all of 5 years, who had started school. With a new grandson in the family and other small grandsons, this would give a break to those who stayed at home, and S told me she thought it might do the eldest fellow some good to see places around where so much history happened.

S cannot read or write, but her descriptions of the trip would make a great travelogue. Leaving at dawn in Mumbai, following the coastal highway to  Dr Ambedkar's native village , Ambavade, way inland from the coast, and they reached there at 1 pm. Visited the village center, met and spoke with a nephew (of the great man) who still lives there. A simple village lunch was organized for them. Then to visit the ancestral maternal village of Dr Ambedkar's wife, Ramabai Ambedkar, a small village called Wanand, more on the coastal part (Dapoli) of the same district.

The late Ramabai(1896-1935), was married to Dr Ambedkar when he was 17, and she was 9 , in 1906. While he left to study in England, she continued to slog and support her siblings in their ancestral village in very difficult situations. On  Dr. Ambedkar's return, she was a great support to him in his campaigns, and was with him till she died in 1935.

This trip, for S, was to see and meet people in places , she had just heard about till now. Ramabai Ambedkar is greatly revered by folks, and S wanted her grandson to also see, how the rest of the country outside Mumbai lived.

The trip wasn't all educational and serious, she said. From Wanand, they drove 110 kms, to Mahabaleshwar, a very popular hill station , in the mountainous Satara District, to spend the night there. The entire route , after the recent monsoon must have been a wonderful green.

A great day spent sightseeing, visiting river origins, the famous Venna Lake, strawberry farms and factories making delicious strawberry stuff, and it was time to return to Mumbai on the third day. (Mahabaleshwar is famous for its strawberries).

An amazing and nice change for S, where meals and lodging was taken care of,  and she could just enjoy the trip.

En route, they passed and stopped at Pratapgadh, a wonderful mountain fort, made famous by Chhatrapati Shivaji, a great Maratha warrior King revered in the state. Her young grandson was dizzy with all the mountain climbs and descents, complained of "chest pain" (if you will) , and forgot all about it the minute they spied the steps ascending to the top of the fort.

Naturally, there were a bunch of things for sale , and the fellow was hoping to buy a big toy sword and shield, costing 150 Rs much to S's chagrin.

"It's all this TV stuff. He thinks he can charge around battling with it, and its just an invitation to get into situations where someone will be hurt ", she told me. And so she convinced him that a set of binoculars was better, and he could watch the stuff from the bus, and see things like birds, and animals, and sceneries that others couldn't etc etc. He could even later see the Thane creek from the hilltop, after he got home, and show his brothers and uncles.

I was amazed at the firmness with which S dealt with this. I know kids who create a racket in toy shops till they get what they want. Regardless of price. Some parents just give up, and give in. Between the sales person's strategy, a possible new reputation as a  stingy parent, and unwillingness to become unpopular and be criticized, some attach great value to the ability to spend money easily, and substitute money for reasoned thought.

And here was S, convincing a chap to enjoy a binocular; much cheaper than the sword by all means, but certainly more useful, and shareable.

But what was amazing was what she got for my daughter, when she came in this morning. In this whole fast paced , event packed trip, she had bought a packet of strawberry chews from the strawberry factory in Mahabaleshwar ! The thrilled recipient of these goodies, took a photo of it for this blog, before it was opened , and  shared with the family and , of course , S !

All I can say is , "wow!"......

Reading the fine lines....

During my lifetime , I have seen technology advance from punched-card data processing, to wi-fi on laptops, black and white photos to biometric data capture including your eyes, cars that were pushed, to cars that spoke,  and tomatoes that were eaten, to those that were used to hit political opponents, and even used as projectiles in Tomatino festivals.

In the big urge to sit up there with the "advanced countries", we ran rough shod across many things, without understanding them. It was a climb with an abnormally steep slope,  and it involved jumping on to several bandwagons, aided greatly by an opened up economy, becoming an outsourcing capital, the onslaughts of IT hardware, cell phones, and miniaturized wonders from China.

Suddenly, the concept of what you thought "expensive" underwent a huge change. It was OK if clothes/makeup now cost half as much as a small flat, so long as they were authored by a European fashion house/designer.  Watches no longer remained something you got for graduating, but became  one of the several you wore and threw away. We appropriated Tomatino festivals because someone in Spain did it, and never mind that middle class housewives were in distress over the rising cost of tomatoes in a double digit inflation world.  We started the showing of commercials on TV, like abroad, without worrying about something advanced countries have : a "truth in advertising"  Act, and we showed  "cassettes and CD's"  and "soda"  being substituted as words for alcohol ads of well known hard liquor companies and no one in control, bothered.  We started showing dangerous things on TV,  with a a warning running below in an ant size font, spoken in an unintelligible manner by some guy in a huge hurry, because that was the way to protect yourself.  This applied to businesses too.  In the big hurry  to become world class, we simply skipped some things. The emphasis has been on external show, and unfortunately, what got ignored was the thinking inside, or as one might say, the anatomy inside.

One recently had the opportunity to function as a caretaker for someone who had some cardiac emergency procedures done in what is touted as a world class, XXXX credited hospital. Everything was very well organized, spic and span, constantly being monitored and cleaned, moved like clockwork, the technology worked seamlessly, the medical expertise and communication was excellent. Of course, the proclivity of us Indians to arrive in droves, full family in tow, to see patients, had the security folks at their  wits end, one felt they needed some PR lessons in communication,  but one let them be.   This hospital has rules displayed all over the place, and they simply pointed out the rules.

Before we were discharged and left to go home, we had to fill in several feedback forms. One of the questions pertained to we being shown the "patients' charter of rights" . Well, we were not shown any such thing, so I was about to tick "No", when they hurried to present one sheet to me. I read through it, didn't think there was anything to crib about in that, and ticked "yes". Didn't want someone up there to chew out some dedicated nurse who was doing an excellent job of her nursing.

This morning, I returned to the hospital to ask for some detailed report ,  indicated by our office  as a  "reimbursement" requirement. Mind you the data  was all there in their system. The menu to generate that report  existed, and the front office fellow who could do that was yet to arrive . Fair enough.

The guy at the counter looks at me.

" We cannot give you a copy. We will email it to your section office." He fiddles with the mouse.

" Maybe you can email a copy to me ? " Me. Thinking it to be a routine thing.  

" No Ma'am. We cannot email it to you . We always send it directly to the office in question."  He gets a call and stops to answer it.

" Can I speak to your PRO, or even your Director ?  I insist. This is data pertaining to medical procedures we underwent, what we paid for,  our name is there, I have an ID in your system, and how can you refuse us this ? "   Things are happening in a familiar way. I foresee a battle.

"Ma'am, they wont be here till an hour from now. But our superior should be here in 15 minutes, if you care to wait. "   I park myself firmly at the counter.  In a lifetime of standing in queues, and battling queue-jumpers, leaving a place at the top of the yet unformed queue, seems a bad idea.

There are a whole bunch of framed notices on the counter. One pertains to the aforementioned "patients' charter of rights".  I read through the whole sheet, as I alternate between leaning from one foot to another.  They urge me to sit.

But I have seen  the charter of rights, item no 16, and I have seen the light.  I stop leaning from one foot to another.

The adrenaline  flows. There are wheels within wheels churning.

The guy finally arrives, a decent smiling chap. He has a look at my request. I repeat it.  I need to mention the patients charter of rights. Item no 16, says, I have a right to my own clinical data.  I straighten up, a few notches taller.....

"You see , you guys are refusing me something that is guaranteed to me by the patients charter of rights.  My clinical data. By emailing it to someone else ( even if it is the concerned  office )  without my permission, you are actually trespassing on the patient data confidentiality aspect ." ( I wasn't sure of this but said it anyway. Most of the time the other side doesn't understand anyway).

The fellow looks up. "Ma'am , let me see. "

"No.  I insist on a hard copy first. You may email it later to the office with my express permission, with a copy to me , so i can check the version.  Else , I am writing to your board, about violation of my rights as a patient. Whats more, I am approaching the consumers court about this, and will not hesitate to file a query under RTI. "   (I wasn't sure what I was going to ask under RTI, but said it anyway. I could think about that later. In this day and age, RTI was the magic word....)

The fellow went in with the paper. Another guy comes out and asks me to wait for 5-10 minutes. The stuff is being processed.

I get my report in the next 5 minutes !

What a complete waste of time and words.  The hospital has not trained its fellows at the front office in the patients' charter of rights; what is an acceptable request and what is not.  Displaying stuff in pretty fonts all over the place in transparent frames, is considered enough.  It impresses.   That is what all world class hospitals do.  It simply isn't enough to train people on the various systems.  They must be cognizant with whatever information is displayed on the counter. 

And I wondered what would have happened if it was someone not familiar with reading these framed notices.  He/she would have got overawed with all the presumed sophistication,    would have never known who the clinical data was being sent to, what was sent , despite the fact that one paid through one's nose for the entire hospital stuff.

Sometimes, folks just keep quiet, thinking that  whatever the counter types are saying is the gospel truth.  Some may think it is better to just shut up and let them do whatever they say, because they don't want to be seen having an argument, regardless of the fact that they are being wronged.    They would have made several trips between the hospital and the reimbursing authority, and been , maybe, but hopefully not, taken for a ride.

Is it too much to ask, that there be no doubt when I ask for access to data pertaining to myself /us ?  When it is an individual filing in an office for reimbursement of the hospital expenses as per rules, ,  doesn't it make sense to have all the hospital papers routed through the applying person ?  On what basis did the guys refuse at first ? 

I admit I threw in the RTI bit just to see the effect.  It did no harm. Like they say these days when they present some new thing, no trees were killed in the process, no pollution was caused, no flora and fauna was destroyed,  etc etc  

I foresee several guys rushing inside or suddenly occupying themselves otherwise when they sight me approaching the counter next.

Never mind.

I just hope I don't have to go to any hospital soon, anytime in the near future.......













     

His Mother's Son.....reloaded

One has had occasion, over the last half a century, to observe sons, at various levels.  One has also had occasion to observe the level of "education " in the mothers, and wonder about the various attitudes they displayed.

Only to come to the conclusion, that education, as we know it today,  has nothing to do with anything.

Three true stories.

T was born in the very early part of the 20th century, and married off at 13 to a widower, whose children were almost her age. She later had 2 children.  This was the time, many educated folks retired and came to settle down in Pune around the time India got her independence.  Her family and another family who they were friends with, thought it was a good idea to link to the two with a matrimonial alliance, and her son was married off to the friend's daughter, who was, unusual for those days, a graduate, and even more unusual, quite independent minded. Grandchildren happened and T lived for many years after her husband passed away, in a huge house with both her sons and their families, in separate households, respecting each others religious and other sentiments.  When her eldest grandson went abroad to do his post graduation, naturally he became a prized catch in the eyes of folks with eligible daughters, a few years later.   

Mind you, T was someone who still followed some very old customs. She was totally untouchable when she was wearing a "sowla" or her puja/worship clothes. You could do what you wanted in your own house, but in her house, you didn't participate in anything on what were considered monthly impure days.  However, she, with hardly any education, a restrictive controlled married life, and an early life where she was neither seen nor heard,  was quick to see how girls were getting a great benefit from school, sports, and participation in many activities , and never stopped her grandchildren from anything. Many years later, when someone ribbed her about whether her grandson in the US would possibly return with a "white"  (read golden hair and wearing a frock)  bride,  she told them she had complete confidence in her grandson and the values he had imbibed from his mother and father, and she would welcome , such a wife, if needed, with an aarti, and present her with a typical wedding silk sari. I blogged about it here in a post that questioned culture and moral policing.  Hardly any education, very very conservative behaviour patterns in her husband's house,  and she still learned, how to move judiciously with the times.

B,  someone closer to my age, who came from an upwardly mobile, hardworking, educated  family,  was himself encouraged to attend high school in the US for a year on an exchange program and made many lifelong friends.  He returned to help his father expand their business,  acquired a doctorate, had an arranged marriage with a very nice , well educated girl from the same community, and they had a son.  Naturally, he paid great attention to is son's education (like his father before him), and his son too went overseas , and excelled at his given field of study, with a doctorate and returned home.  He started working outside to acquire some actual expertise  and met a very nice girl, and decided to marry her.  The problem was that she was of another caste, although a Hindu.  The parents were fairly upset. This wasn't about just the bride and groom, but two families being linked. The father poured his heart out to his great friend in the US ( an American who had lived in India) , because he had to talk to someone he considered close.  Email after email.

But they never lost communication with their son. One fine day, they sat him down , told him their misgivings and feelings about his intended   bride, and asked him to think it over seriously for a few days, and  get back to them.  The son respected their wishes. All conversations and discussions happened , with no acrimony, accusations, whatever.  A few days later, he got back to them. He understood where they were coming from, he respected their thinking, but he was very very firm about who he would marry, and it was the girl he worked with.

What happened next was amazing. The parents had come to a conclusion after weeks of agonizing. They implicitly trusted their son and he respected them.  On hearing his decision, his parents looked at each other, and his mother got up to say, that , "OK. We welcome a new daughter into our house !"   .....The wedding took place with great celebration and fanfare a few years ago.

R, someone I know,  has a daughter of marriageable age.  As is the custom in a society, where systems for social interactions like dating etc are yet to become customary,  most folks become a data entry point in a portal where  eligible girls and boys with all the relevant family career et al details are mentioned.    There isn't anything that you could point fingers at, in R's daughter's case;  except that she is an adopted child, and most folks who intellectually applaud that, simply runaway when personally faced with it.

One fine day, she (R's daughter) , gets a message on a social networking site from someone who has searched her on a portal, and taken the trouble to contact her because he found her interesting.  They communicate, they exchange numbers, Skype each other. There appeared to be a lot of laughter, which R thought was an encouraging sign.

Then one day he mentioned about a horoscope. R's daughter doesn't have one , because her birth time isn't known for obvious reasons, and she tells him so. For some reason he asks her blood group. Turns out they both have the same.  He continues to call and talk about his future plans, his family and so on and   so forth. Then one day he asks to speak to R.  He says he will be showing R's daughter's profile to his folks, and they would get back to him.  R has a decent conversation with him, is impressed . 

One night, R is watching some music program on TV, when her daughter comes in, wildly gesticulating saying she is wanted on the phone.   Intrigued, R goes in to answer the phone. It's the guy.  He is very polite, very civil, calls her aunty and everything, and says he has just heard from his folks, and his mother objects because, believe it or not, these two, R's daughter and this fellow have the same blood group !  He apologizes, and asks he if and the  daughter can still be friends. R says its up to her daughter.

A travesty of education, this.  The mother rules the roost in his house. Either all of them are completely confused about blood groups , or they think R is stupid.  A family which prides itself on well educated sons, an educated father, possibly a not so educated mother.  The mother decrees what is clearly a fake reason, and the son, a science student, in an analytical well paying job,  blindly, gutlessly passes it on, without thinking.

Similar blood groups are never a problem. Rh factors being different sometimes cause problems at the time of childbearing, for which medical solutions exist.  But who cares.  The matriarch has decreed in the year 2011, that "matching blood groups is a no-no and the devoted son , stands to attention, and passes on the message.

R  counts till 10.  Idiomatically.  Takes a deep breath, and tells the guy, "Thank you for informing us. Appreciate that you took the time to call.  But you know what, we people are guided by our blood groups too. My daughter and I are both B +ve.   And we follow that tenet. We always tell each other, "Be positive"......Interesting na ?"

There is no reply.

So many sons of so many  mothers. Through the ages.  The older ones  never went to school, but imbibed and absorbed "education", as their sons went out into the world.  And then this mother is 2011. And a son, who, despite his degrees, and stuff,  makes a mockery of the word, "education", preferring to propagate untruths.

To people, who he thinks are as "uneducated" as he is.

And incidentally, to hell, with a young girl's mind.... 

And then I sit down and wonder, whether we as a society are actually improving .....

Dabbling in Commerce in my old age

Many years ago, 45 to be precise, my mother and I climbed up the stairs to the hallowed precincts of the Directorate of Technical Education of our State, a stately Victorian edifice standing in great eminence, next to some other similarly blessed buildings in South Mumbai. I had just finished high school, and would be starting college, and everyone in those days did not think beyond Arts/Sciences,Engineering/Medicine, and what is still called "Commerce".

They (the DTE), offered a vocational aptitude test, my folks thought someone needed to check my real aptitude, as I had too many clashing interests, and so I did the test the same day, those being happier days without waiting lists, and with officials who had all the time in the world for you. I was called the next day, my results analysed, and was told that I could probably handle Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine, Arts was a remote possibility, but Commerce was a complete disaster as far as I was concerned.

It so happened that I chose Science in College. Then IT when I worked. Retirement threw me into the Humanities/Arts as blogging happened. Medicine has always lurked in the background as my blog readers suspect.

And so, I was amazed when I suddenly got an email from Harish of Blogadda saying that a blogpost of mine was selected to appear in "Kaizen", the annual magazine of the Commerce Society of the Hindu College, of Delhi University. And they wanted my permission to use a specific post.

("I am pleased to inform you that your post http://kaimhanta.blogspot.com/2011/02/work-and-life-in-21st-century.html is among the 5 posts we have selected for HIndu College - Department of Commerce, yearly magazine. Your name and your blog URL will be mentioned along with the article. We need your permission before we send in your entry latest by 5 pm. Do let me know ASAP. )


Two days ago, a courier fellow suddenly landed up with a certificate and two copies of , Juvenilia , the Hindu College Commerce Society magazine.

I've just looked through it, and am delighted to see my stuff in a Commerce College magazine.

They also sent me a certificate , just in case all those guys who predicted disaster for me 45 years ago , in Commerce , were still around.


Today, the distinctions between fields have blurred. Scientists are getting arty, Artistic folks are getting geeky, Geeky folks are getting poetic, and so on. Today's children have more choices in college, and in subjects for graduation.

I've tried dabbling in most other subjects, sometimes even surreptitiously, under pseudonyms.

Thanks to Blogadda, (and I haven't the foggiest idea on why my post was chosen to appear in a commerce college magazine), my education is now well rounded once again .

(I can see some secretly guffawing and saying it's me , and not my education that's well rounded).

Never mind.

Good Over Bad : It works !

Winner of the Blogadda "Good over Bad" Contest : Nov 12, 2010




Two score and ten years ago. A cool Shravan evening in Pune, at the foothills of the Parvati temple. Shravan (in August) , the 5th month of the Indian calendar is home to a time of festivities.

There would be a fair like atmosphere on the steps leading to the temple on the hill top. And we always accompanied our folks there, given that there were so many things to enjoy. And sometimes ache for ....Temporary tattoos on arms, paintings on the forehead, colorful bangles, tiklis, dolls, marbles, shell necklaces, roasted channa, ..... There was even a guy selling homemade (from tree branches) slings for boys. Many folks came in from the surrounding areas to do quick business with merchandise, home arts, toys, etc.

That evening , there was a commotion, and we suddenly saw a man bearing down on a child, about to thrash him. The boy had some one's footwear in his hand, and was trying to move away with it. (There is an old temple at the foot of the hill, and one left one's footwear outside while worshipping. ).

Madhu was the little boy. His mother sold flowers on the steps of the hill, a younger child lying in her lap. This fellow played around every day, and had got into bad company, and stealing footwear was the new attraction. There was a commotion as people gathered, and his mother, came tearing in, to face the angry man. She then proceeded to thrash the son herself.

My mother stopped her. A calm hand on the shoulder does wonders for the ebbing of anger, and she returned to her flower stall, which her neighbor chap was minding in the meanwhile.

Turned out that Madhu's father was bedridden and sick. They had moved from their village to Pune looking for work, and the mother had found this flower selling thing to start with. Madhu gallivanted around till it was time to go home.

I could see my mother having a talk with Madhu. First he was wary, then suspicious, and then he took a relieved breath and smiled. She wasn't going to turn him in. But there were conditions. Every evening he was going to sit outside the temple, and look after people's footwear for 1-2 paisa . ( In those days 2 paisa could get you a lot of stuff, such as a half serving of delicious bhel , a popular snack). But he was to turn over his daily earnings to his mother. While he sat, he would wipe the pairs with a some cloths that my mother would give him every week. My mother was a regular hill temple goer for almost 4o years, and he would see her everyday, in those days. Occasionally, my mother would stop by at his mother's flower stall. For those of us who had relatively safe , secure, uneventful childhoods, this was a Life Lesson.

At first his friends made fun of him. But he had a very enlightened mother. who could see why this was a good thing. By and by , the festival season got over, crowds reduced, but Madhu became a fixture at the foothill temple. A few years later, my parents helped him go to school, and paid for his books and fees, provided , of course, that he showed them his report card. Things were so different then, education was not an "industry" (unlike now), schools and teachers were simple , sincere, and strict. If the child was straying, they came home to discuss it with the parents. Somewhere in between , his father passed away, and Madhu grew up and became the man of the house overnight.

Today, he works in a printing press, where he joined as an apprentice soon after school. He learned to save as a child, and never forgot that. He and his family and his mother still live at the foothills, where they now have a small pucca 2 room place, thanks to the real estate development in their area using their small piece of land.

Long after we all grew up and went our ways, he and his mother would occasionally drop in to see my mother, in her seventies. The flower shop was no longer there, but his mother prepared tiffins on order now. Something she could do from home. But she would always bring wonderful flowers for my mother, which my mother would offer to the family Gods.

Today, my parents and Madhu's are no more. Geographical distances do not allow us frequent trips. Madhu himself is in his fifties now.

But this story remains etched in my mind. Of how something bad, needs to be addressed, looked at in empathy, and an innovative mind applied to it. No one is bad, but circumstances make them so. Shakespeare had a fancy way of saying that.

I like to think, that many times, something bad has to happen for something good to emerge from it.

And we need to get involved, whenever possible. Not because the festival says so, not because we are celebrating a special week, and not because it looks nice on your CV. Sorry to sound cynical , but that has happened.

We often think the world is binary.

Its all about being 0=bad and 1=good.

But what's real, is the difficult but dedicated trudge along those dicey fractions that convert a zero to a one.



Submitted for the Good Over Bad Contest at BlogAdda.com

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Nothing Giga about it.....

One way or the other, its all about the top. Or tops.

First they had the desktop. All that bending over table tops and staring up at screens gave way to the age of laptops. You sat with this thing on your lap, and while you convinced yourself that you were changing the destiny of the nation with whatever work you were doing, your poor tired thigh muscles would get an automatic heat wrap. In a fantastic inadvertent display reminiscent of old style gurus imparting knowledge to their disciples while conducting classes under trees , people in suits starting sitting with wi-fi laptops under trees , on benches, spread out on the lawn, and sometimes, actually in classrooms. By and by , I hear that something called palmtop made an appearance. Now of course, people have cell phones with Internet, and it has almost become a "fingertop", and of course, the desperate need to read your email, (as you travel in a crowded bus, 6 people at a helpless tilt across your shoulder, Julio Iglesias soundlessly hitting your ears, and torrential rain outside trickling in through the slit near your feet), cannot be denied.


The education minister of Maharashtra, recently made a startling announcement. All class 9 students (18.00.000) , across the state would be getting a free laptop. And it is a sorry comment on the integrity of the government, when the first thought that comes to mind on hearing this announcement, has to do with wondering, which industrial house is doing a deal with the ruling party, which manufacturer is about to get the windfall order, and how come a government that doesn't have money to provide the Mumbai Police with adequate facilities, municipal schools with repairs, school and college teachers with timely salaries , and so on, suddenly finds itself awash in funds.

Just like that. Like no one was asking or agitating for it. You never saw any debates on television or newspapers about this. No one formed human chains and stood in the searing midday sun with banners saying , "Give us this day our daily email", or whatever. And the choice of class 9 was puzzling. Most class nine students today, spend almost all their time going for special tuitions in subjects, slogging for tests in school, travelling to school in what resembles an obstacle race . That is, when they are not busy playing games on their cell phones, talking to some real and other surreptitious folks, sending and forwarding entertaining messages with double meanings, taking pictures of unknown interesting folks on their camera phones, posting on social networking sites, and listening to FM radio on the side. They are stuffed up to there, with physical sciences, biological sciences, algebra, geometry, 3 different languages, most of it learned by rote. The minister says that making the family "computer literate" was another side benefit.

I wish the powers that be clarify what prompted this largesse. And whether computer literacy is all about zipping through MSWord, Powerpoint, and surfing the Internet.

And if at all someone has studied how little children learn, and how to tickle their active minds into a questioning learning mode, using a laptop.

And how this has happened in a small hamlet (not big enough to be a village, 20 houses, 200 people) called Khairat, near Mumbai, thanks to the OLPC (One Laptop Per Child) project. Nothing Giga about it. These are small educational laptops, with certain bells and whistles, and a one room elementary school, and a single enthusiastic teacher. The cost is about 100-150$, and these are distributed through a worldwide project under the guidance of Prof Nicholas Negroponte and Prof Calestous Juma of The Harvard Kennedy School. Its not just teaching, but ensuring that the parents feel motivated to send the children to school, and arranging to bring those who have to walk 6 kilometres to do so. Its about igniting the light of discovery in the minds of the little ones, who go home to a dark house at night, because electricity has not reached them. And getting them to enjoy their learning so that they yearn for more, because it is fun.

It's all about parents feeling interested enough to take time off from their daily earning activities in the fields, and coming to watch their children learn, and discuss how they could help, with the teacher. It's about a child wanting to learn more. And doing it in a way that jells well without disturbing the lifestyle of the family.

Learning about the Sun as energy, and how it empowers your laptop, actually convinces those who have been worshipping the Sun all along, every morning, because your parents taught you that. Using a magical drawing program to write your Marathi alphabet, and do things to it. A recording facility that lets you hear your own voice, and wonder about it. And an inbuilt camera that allows you to take pictures, of the dog who sits on the schoolroom steps, as well as yourself singing . And sometimes the Internet shows you so many real pictures about festivals, sun, moon, rivers, great personalities, actors, songs , and so many interesting things. You can create virtual toys on the machine, and all you need is creativity. And so sometimes you create a toy cow based on Paru, your own household cow, and inadvertently give something called Barbie a run for her money.

An excellent report about this here..... A must read.

I hope and wish the minister reads this. And does something for the younger children . So that their learning is not a chore. So that it is fun. So that their young brains are excited, and the various learning mappings develop as they should by the age of 9.

At the end of the day, its all about Tops. Not Desks, Laps, or Palms.

But your own. Your Brain, up there at the Top.

Green and leafy memories ......

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Sagunabai in the time of IT.....आयटीच्या युगात सगुणाबाई .......

One of the interesting things about living in, say, Mumbai, is that it brings you in almost daily contact with a lot of folks, you would ordinarily never meet. Right from dawn, when newspapermen and milkmen, cycle around delivering their wares to customers getting organized for a Mumbai morning, to the flower and garland lady who comes around in a whiff of jasmine each evening, delivering our leaf wrapped garlands and flowers for daily worship of the deities, everything happens in a flurry of activity as washing ladies, cleaning ladies, cooking ladies, and in some houses, massage ladies , do their rounds.

While the last is a new and latest addition to services offered , and I see several of these ladies in our building, I have never had the guts to call any one of them for myself; I had called one of them when my late mother visited us , and their wonderful ability at massage was very soothing for 82 year old tired limbs which had hitherto trudged up and down railway station stairs , hurrying to meet the grandchildren....

A side effect of staying put in one community (as on a campus) for several decades means, that you grow old with your daily help. When I first came here, there was an elderly lady called Sagunabai who came to work as my household help. This was the time 35 years ago, when jeans wasn't something newly married women wore. Neither did they charge around on two wheelers, studded with assorted bags full of vegetables , fruits and what have you. While several disapproving glances were cast , noticeably by "high status" folks, Sagunabai thought thought this was really cool.

She was in her 50's then , and her entire family almost had a fit when one evening it was late and I dropped her home, she riding pillion on my two wheeler; she wore a nine yard saree which i consider the actual precursor to the pantsuit, and thus did not sit "side-saddle" like most "respectable" women did; sitting behind me, clutching me around my stomach for dear life, she really enjoyed the trip.

By and by, her eyes started bothering her, and her daughter came to work for me. Sagunabai managed her home, and attended to the various grandchildren who trooped in throughout the day, to eat, study, and generally play while their parents went about their work. Her husband was no more , but he had been an employee of the maintenance department on campus, and his children had enjoyed free education at the school on campus. Sagunabai learned the importance of education , and worked in several house to ensure that even after her husband's death, all her grandchildren too went to school.

Several years passed. I kind of lost touch with her, although I used to get news about her from her daughter. The many grandchildren she mentored (in an age where so many people had no time for their children as they avidly made efforts to double their income), had now grown up, and some of them had learned computers. No degrees or anything but some honest to goodness useful computer skills, and a nodding acquaintance with the fun things you could do.

This included, very unusually, a granddaughter. When time came to arrange her marriage within their community, someone from a good , educated ,family, who had an IT job was most delighted to marry her, and when he went on a posting to Columbus, Ohio, in the US, she went along. (Her family may not be able to name some cities within India, but the entire extended family is now aware of Columbus, Ohio.)

Sagunabai's daughter who helped me in the house would entertain me with updates, and there came a day when the entire extended family of 55 people hired vehicles (they had none of their own), to go to the airport. The grandaughter in the US was pregnant and close to her delivery date. As per tradition, her mother would attend the delivery and help out the first few months, and then return. The family went to see off their maiden voyager to the New World. Speeches, photographs, garlands, bouquets , at the airport, and the overwhelmed lady, not knowing a word of English, except Please,Thank you, and Sorry, took off.

A month later, Sagunabai lands up.

She had aged, and now wore glasses with thick lenses. She wanted to know if my computer had what she called a "She-dee". Apparently one of her grandsons who had a PC at home was away, and no one knew how to use the PC, and she needed my help. She asked if she could come with some members of her family one afternoon/evening .

I was intrigued. A day was decided upon.

On the appointed day, her extended family trooped in, mostly ladies with children, everyone dressed in their formal best, jabbering away in excitement. Her daughter made tea and snacks for everyone, as Sagunabai took out a large envelope from the blue cloth bag she carried everywhere with her.

"Here's the "she-dee", she said , gingerly placing it in my hands.

I placed it in the drive, as she shush-ed the chattering children and ladies. I had screen saver of a beautiful sunset on the screen, and everyone oohed and aahed as it appeared thinking this was the place where her granddaughter lived. I didn't bother to explain.

The drive activated, and the room went quiet. It was a VCD of some stuff taken on a Handicam , after her daughter reached the US. It was all everyday stuff, the initial part where the pregnant daughter, almost at end-of-term, was being fussed over by her Mom, and then the coming home from hospital with the baby, the new grandmother receiving them at the door with traditional lamps.

There were whoops and "Aaah" and "Aaiya" and "Aggobaya" as the film unfolded in front. The naming ceremony of the baby. The new grandmother organizing the eats with the help of her daughter's American friends , all dressed up in sarees and causing a lot of mirth amongst the audience in my house as the whole thing appeared a bit difficult to handle while carrying plates and stuff. Occasionally the baby thought all this was too much and did some indulgent crying, lapsing away into a dreamy sleep a few minutes later. Traditional songs were sung, the name was whispered into the baby's ear as she lay , eyes wide open in her crib, wondering what all the fuss was all about.

Amidst the chattering and excited jumping around of kids, I watched Sagunabai, as she peered intently at the screen, nodding happily to herself, then slowly lifted her glasses, as she brought up her saree end , to wipe a few tears that threatened to cascade.

"But what name did they give the baby ?" asked one of the ladies.

Sagunabai was overcome. I asked the ladies to watch the screen. I had seen a board with a name on it in a corner of the room, and it was yet to come up in the event. After a bunch of songs, two young girls from the neighbors who attended, picked up the board, and held it up for everyone to see, the name written in English and in Marathi(my mother tongue).

Sagunabai, could neither read nor write, never having gone to school herself. So she couldn't read the name. It was only when the children shouted out the name that she smiled, a wide toothless smile, that lit up her eyes, and she came up to me at the PC, and patted my back as if I had something to do with it all.


"Asha Vidya, that's a wonderful name. They couldn't agree on a single name so they gave her two!" She nodded at the assembled ladies. Everyone fell quiet. Saturated with the event, thousands of miles away.

Sagunabai sat down next to the PC, crosslegged , on the floor. And then there was a sharp earthy voice, crooning.

Crooning a lullaby to the baby asleep in its crib on the screen. There is something called "Palna" that is a lullaby cum sort of song-of-honor, sung by the immediate relatives for the baby. The song was well known one, and no one had a dry eye, as Sagunabai, in her thick lenses, a tear cascading down one cheek, proceeded to the last stanza. The child was 12,000 miles away and this was all not happening in real time, but to everyone in the room it was real. Virtually real.

Sagunabai suddenly snapped out of it, reminded the children that there were plates and cups to be picked up, and taken inside before they left, and came to me as I removed the "she-dee" to give it back to her, and congratulated her on her wonderful great granddaughter.



"So how did you like the name " she asked.


I had no words. I gave her a small statue of Saraswati, the Hindu Goddess of Knowledge, and wished her well.


Hope (Asha) and Knowledge(VIdya) was what her effort in life, was all about , post her husband's death. The illiterate but strong minded lady, had seen her own family through tough times, and her children's children went to school and did so well, she was proud of them. They were her Hope, and she hoped, that along with this new addition, the new generation would strive to learn more and more at the hands of the Knowledge Goddess.


If she had taken a look at the statue , she would have probably seen a smile on the face of the statue. Sagunabai had ALL the right knowledge , and she was doing a fine job teaching her family about it.

Fruits of life.......कधी फळांची पारख , कधी माणसांची ...

I grew up in Pune, and have always considered myself a Puneite regardless of life stage and current domicile. My parental abode is in Pune, and I still go back there, a few times a year, sometimes for some family paperwork, sometimes for a social occasion and sometimes, because it draws me there, even though my parents are no more.

Right in the heart of the city, is what is called the Mandai, or the main organized vegetable market, a heritage structure, from the days of the British in India.

My earliest childhood memories are of accompanying my mother to this place , for the weekly shopping. Another of my childhood memories has to do with the very different take my mother had on food and diet, compared, to say, my friends' families. Thanks to an exposure and a degree (child development and nutrition) from Columbia University , back in the fifties, I was an avid guinea pig available to my mother, for trying out, what worked and what didn't.

Suryanamaskars on waking, skipping and then a glass of milk. Get organized for school. Bread, which was hitherto becoming popular then as a breakfast item, was tolerated occasionally only as a veggie sandwich, loaded with vegetables and chutneys. Sugary jams were frowned upon. Our breakfast was some fragrant and fresh moong dal khichdi with a spoon of homemade ghee, lemon pickle, with poha papad(made from pressed unpolished rice flakes).

Accompanied by freshly manually squeezed orange juice. ( Nobody had juicers and blenders then).

And it is for these oranges, that we made these trips with our mother to the Mandai or central market.

In those days, my parents had a Hillman car, of a colour you wouldn't be seen in today. What made the car more unusual is the fact that my mother drove it everywhere. Few folks had cars, ladies did not go around driving cars all over town, they were driven. The horn was freely used, sometimes for the people on the road, sometimes for moral support to yourself, sometimes just for comfort, but it was a working system. People used to look on in complete awe as my mother changed gears, went back and forth, parked the car, and emerged from it, adjusting a sari, along with us in tow.

There used to be people available , who you could hire , for carrying the stuff that you would buy, and in our house, we children would vie with each other to carry the stuff in the market. (Ever since then , I have an inexplicable aversion to situations where you walk ahead in the market, followed, a few respectable steps behind, by a helper lady, who carries your shopping load. This is a practice still followed by many, and is supposed to be sign of coming up in the world, prosperity, the rise in your status etc etc. Today, I insist on carrying all my stuff, even at the cost of becoming clavically disbaled, so to speak. Of course, the children help when they are around).

We used to go with our mother to the market to get oranges (actually big tangerines , which are called oranges here), from the wholesale market, and they came in a wooden crate, which is where the children came in.

Those were the days when the merchants were simple farmer folk, who knew you by name, recognized your children by sight, and talked with you about their children, your children, their joys and worries , as well as yours. A particular vendor , hailing from the outskirts of Pune , was a favourite orange supplier, and whenever we were present we always got an extra pomegranate or something, as a special thing from him. My mother was great friends with this person, and would always enquire after his children and wife, and fields. He in turn had this great admiration for the "gadiwali bai" (Lady with the car), and he often admired my mother's judgement and selection of fruit.

Years passed. During the eighties, my children often accompanied their grandmother, and by this time the old man knew our complete family history, of which child was where, doing what, how many children and so on and so forth. Both my mother and he were now old. His grandson was now managing the stall, and he would sit around for old times sake. Very particular about how you behaved with the customers, he trained his grandson very well, and was so proud of him, and would tell my mother about all the progress. My mother was , for a while, one of the trustees (the first woman trustee) of one of our famous ancient temples in Pune, , and this man was really proud of the fact that she was selected to help in what he called "God's work".

A couple of years ago, my mother was no more, my father was very sick, and I went with my daughter to the market to look for some good fruit for him, which could be juiced. I wandered in to the old familiar area, looking at the recent changes, and some new smart-alecky vendors on the scene. Memories flooded back, and I was looking around for a straw of memory to clutch, when I heard someone calling out my mother's name.

It was the old man. His vision was not what is was. But he saw a resemblance somewhere. He thought I was who he thought I was, but wanted to confirm, and so he asked his grandson to call out.

For a while , none of us could speak. My daughter wondered how her mother, to whom bargaining was second nature , was so quiet. He asked after my folks and when he heard why I was there, he took it upon himself to select the best fruit, often replacing stuff his grandson had casually selected. All the while talking about my mother, and asking about where the rest of the family was. He even knew that my siblings were in "Amerika", and recalled seeing their children with my mother, at the market, on one of their visits. When he heard that my son too was pursuing a doctorate , he thought it was in the fitness of things. He didn't really go to school himself, but had a great respect for learning and anyone who did serious studying. His grandson had finished school on his insistence, and only then come along to learn the business.

I was about to leave. I wished him well, did namaskar (an Indian way of greeting, with palms touching each other), when he stopped me.

"You know, your mother had a very good judgement of "excellence in fruit". She selected so well. It was something intrinsic to her. As a farmer and a fruit vendor it was a joy to do business with her. I think you have picked up some of it. Good to see that.....but you will get better with practice....." . Saying so, he handed a mango to my delighted daughter, and the the old , simple, formally uneducated man, closed his eyes, and proceeded to quote a verse from the compositions of one of Maharashtra(our state)'s most revered saints, Tukaram. It had something to do with the effort and ability to judge good fruit, and good fruit of good deeds, and with all the so called "education" that I have had, it wouldn't have occurred to me to associate all these things together....

I swallowed, totally humbled.

Nodded to him and left. My daughter and I came home with the fruit

My father enjoyed the juice .

I like to think, that besides, the taste, and the color and the pulp, there was a little something more in that fruit, that made my father happy that day.

Praising the dark, and looking for light, sportingly..... मना तुझा रंग कसा ?

At first they lived in an old house by the lake. Just four flats. Lots of places to explore, chasing cows bent on destroying the garden,and monkeys on trees, hissing at her with teeth bared. But, careening down the two-wheeler entry ramp to the building, wearing shorts, and a blue chaddar representing a superman cape, was then the supreme activity of choice.

There was a sloping entry into the lake close by, which was restricted by a bunch of bars, designed to stop cars , unwittingly left in neutral gear, from quietly sliding into the lake. When she was 4, she was convinced that the bars were actually her personal preserve , for doing tumbles and turns across the top horizontal bar. Folks out for a walk in the evening would stop by and have serious conversations with her, as she swung , feet up and head down; some would occasionally offer to give the quick short shove required to turn across the bar, applaud , and carry on.

Cycling was another trial. The road there , was reasonably clear of traffic, but had an alarming unpredictable bovine population that would emerge in dark lumbering glory , from the woods, on to the paved road. And so she learned to cycle , always at a hurried speed, with one shoulder raised, as a result of trying to look for emerging cows from the corner of her eye.

By and by, they shifted to a semi high rise ; well, semi by today's standards. 6 floors. When she was little, she would dash up the stairs to see if she could defeat her parents coming up in the elevator. Her school shared a wall with the building, and the admired thing was to enter the school by the wall, instead of the school gate.

She joined dance classes, and karate, and her folks delighted in seeing the karate class doing their fitness practice on the school grounds. Early morning table tennis classes introduced her to the concept of warm-ups. Her persistent cough , earlier attributed to imbibing secret quantities of tamarinds and ice creams , miraculously went away.

Then she joined swimming. Today, 13 years later, has remained with it. Lots of workouts, several competitions, moderate successes, moderate disappointments, but behind it all is the great enjoyment she gets out of the training of swimming.

Many times, it is a case of either or both parents being in that sport. In her case, although both her parents were in sports when young, it was never swimming, but more like racket and bat sports.

There are two ways people take interest in sports. Serious sports.

They simply love the sport.

Or its a cool calculated move a la BCCI , designed to optimize returns of more types than one.

Some parents have unlimited resources. Some have unlimited imagination. Some more, are highly resourceful in an unlimited way. Some parents have unlimited time. Some make , unlimited time for their child, when it is a question of training.

And so we have Bindra who had it all laid out for him, but he did his part 200%. Then there is Sania, who has reached great heights, with dedicated help from both her parents and assorted sponsorships. Leander Paes and Mahesh Bhupathi had fathers who pointed them into the path, and stayed to guide them through. Saina Nehwal, who showed a lot of spunk, and Anjali Bhagwat whose folks gave them so much support . Then there are the Bhiwani Boxers.

There are so many, whose parents had nothing to give but mental support. Difficult travel, unsatisfactory arrangements, irregular scheduling, lack of sponsorships, lack of a semblance of support from associations purporting to support their particular sport. An alarming amount of officials, who miraculously appear at international meets, and disappear into babudom later. Selection systems based on criteria that have nothing to do with the sport.

This cannot go on....

Our communities are not sensitized to sports. The Times of India on its sports page will desist from giving news about a local state level swimming meet, or a schools table-tennis tournament; but the pride of place will be given to the questionable exploits of the girlfriend of one of UK's professional footballers, complete with photos in missing clothes. It is there every single day .

Captains of industry, who open up their profit laden treasuries to support something like Mood Indigo, hesitate, when requested to consider sponsoring a sports meet at the same educational institute, for a fraction of the cost. They want visibility for their brand, but not while the hard work is in progress. Like all those who hanker after power, they want it easy......

And the strange thing is, as the aforementioned girl realized, that status and/or education really has nothing to do with people's attitudes. Towards sports, and the practice of it.

Late one summer evening, she is back from swimming practice, full of beans, trailing her paraphernalia, running ahead of her mother , to stop the elevator which is about to take off.

There is a couple inside . Both doctorates. Middle aged. 2 kids. With each child more academically brilliant than the other. They move and make place for the girl and her mother. Smile indulgently. (Some folks think "patronizingly" is the word that really fits). At the girl, who is busy fixing the sipper bottle that has just fallen out of her bag; swimming paraphernalia, speedos, and the like are very expensive, and this nice automatically-closing-sipper-bottle has been sent by an indulgent uncle from the land of Michael Phelps.

They look up at the girl's mother. And bring forth the question which they have been wanting to ask all along, ever since they started noticing this girl doing her swimming , since several years.

"Why do you send your daughter for swimming ? Ap ko nahi lagta ki wo kali ho jayegi? (Dont you realize that she will turn black/dark ?)"

Speechlessly, I rested my case then.

I helplessly, rest my case now.

And you really wanted to know why we have only ******one individual medal at the Olympics in the last so many years ? 

****** Attaboy Vijendar,  prove me wrong....(august 21, 12:50 pm)

Going nowhere, very fast ? इतकी धावपळ ?

My parents got our first telephone (early sixties), when I was in class 8. The typical Tring-tring of the black rotary phone threw my friends and me into technologically superior raptures. Mahmud of Ghazni, East India Company, Crops in Africa, Shakespeare's Tempest, Scientific reasons, short notes, long notes, theorems etc were discussed endlessly over it, till an unseen hand (I actually know whose hand it was), came and pressed some buttons to disconnect us, following that up with a disapproving stare, some angry words, and a hint that someone else would soon be home.

The middle eighties heralded the advent of TV in our house. Black and white. 1 channel. And "surfing" was something you saw in Hollywood movies.. We got our first color TV in the early nineties. Cable television in late nineties. Cell phones entered our life about 3 years ago. With the advent of IT, desktops and laptops started being a "required" item for anyone being "educated".

It has occurred to me that this excessive technicalization, and ability to communicate with machines, has actually been a setback, and instead of evolving our brains to a version 2.1, we have probably regressed back to something like version 0.5.

Why else have we regressed from parents who knew "mathematical tables" of 0.5. 1.5. , 0.75. all the way up to 30, to my generation that considers it an achievement to know the tables up to 16, and the new IT generation that doesn't know tables, but starts tapping away on their keyboards or cellphones , at the slightest hint of an imminent two digit multiplication or division ?

Why else have we given up on writing letters as a means of communication, while some of us still preserve , even in tatters , old letters written by those longer there, because reading them makes us feel that they are around us ; and today's communicators excel in speaking in abbreviations and emoticons, (despite the fact that electrons are free ), all the while missing out on an actual wink from someone, a secret smile, a ringing laugh, and a quiet hand on someones shoulder, saying "don't worry".... all this being available for the asking, if we only took the trouble.

Bus travel is no longer fun. Smiling at your neighbor in the next seat is a suspicious activity. As soon as you get in the bus, out comes the cell phone, and everyone starts tapping the keypad, either to play asinine games , or to read messages about earning fortunes by answering pachvi-pass questions. Some like to make calls continuously indicating their whereabouts along the bus route, even if they are 20 miles away, giving updates every now and then in so detailed a manner that it would teach the various pilot cars of political dignitaries , a lesson or two.

Sometimes you learn a lesson or two you don't need to learn. Such as , two college girls , standing beside our seat in a crowded bus , talking to folks back home saying they were busy in extra practicals , at their college, actually fifteen miles back westwards. Or a gentleman who mistook his cellphone for a loudspeaker, and publicly spoke across the bus about how he was fibbing to someone about some price.

So, while a mother calling out to a teenage son in the house may get no immediate response, verbally or non verbally, thanks to the earpiece of the cellphone sticking into his ear, various typed out responses continue to emanate forth from his cellphone, relating to random questions regarding hollywood,bollywood, cricket, one lakh in prizes , who is your ideal soul mate, what your name means etc etc.

Notice the unwillingness of today's teenager to attend a social function in the same space-time as his parents. Notice how most teenagers who emerge out of their rooms to meet family guests, have really nothing much to say, completely enamoured as they are of all the language killing communication vocabulary prevalent on wireless contraptions today. Bus stops are not for awaiting buses, or noticing new interesting people waiting for the same bus as you. Bus stops are for staring into your cell phones, tapping away to chase some snake on the screen into some imaginary hole, or a ball away from some imaginary bat. Bus stops are also for sending messages to your friend standing 10 feet away from you , in what is sometimes called, the bus-queue. (What stops them from shouting a full blooded hello is beyond me).

It amazes me no end to recall, that we never had any of these contraptions in our childhood, but were never at a loss for anything to entertain us. Hide and seek , chor-police, land-and-sea, there were so many games just waiting to be played. Sports classes to be attended, music to be learnt, birthdays to be celebrated. We even attended social functions with the family, and made unembarrassed decent conversation with folks we met, related or otherwise.

So, it is very strange that in an effort to go higher, faster, quicker ( and I am not referring to the Olympics), we keep acquiring so called smarter hardware, which is, all the while, making us dumber and dumber. Unless I have a TV that shows Wimbledon, the World cup and the Asia cup finals in the same screen, I am not getting anywhere in life. And it is now easier to shout and shake your head,hands etc at Dhoni, Sehwag, Venus,Serena, not to forget Nadal and Federer, than it is to have a decent conversation with your neighbour. And I deliberately don't mention the football types.

Stupid , technologically disabled me. I still use the old telephone. It still rings with the old tring. I don't need Enrico Iglesias and Himesh Reshammiya singing to tell me I have reached someone on the phone. As if the excessive attention to cricket is not enough, some people even have a sample cricket commentary , (complete with stadium erupting in joy etc). playing when you call them.

And I have never understood the need to combine the camera with the phone . You never see a reputed photographer, with a camera that rings and you never see him talking into his camera . So why this combination ? If you are soaking wet in the rain and trying to squeeze your clothes to get the water out, someone can click you from a moving bus on a camera phone and you might just see yourself in the pages of a local tabloid the next day, under an article saying "Soaking wet woman trying to squeeze out water next to Mumbai's second largest pothole".

Are we accelerating too fast in our surge towards becoming what is defined as a "developed nation"? Everyone in a big hurry to get nowhere. A Google search taking seconds makes you restless, because on some other machine it takes milliseconds. Downloading speeds of several thousand bytes per second are stone age speeds, and BSNL, our desi service provider has commercials on TV with geeky types dancing to celebrate 2 Mbps "super" speeds on offer.

Personal computers become obsolete much before your stored yearly supply of rice gets over, and someone like me who sticks to an ancient P3 while blogging is considered a misinformed dud. But. The heart still beats at the same speed, trees and flowers still follow the seasons, a full term pregnancy is still 280 days, and you still stir the milk at a slow speed on your way to making a kheer. Our minds have a fixed bandwidth. With so much information trying to force itself in at such fast speeds, essentially attention spans have reduced. Television has abused eyes into becoming a sort of viewing brain. You see and react. Thinking be damned. Takes too much time.

Nevertheless, succumbing to the "caller tune" lobby, as it were, I once downloaded an old Marathi devotional ****song (click to play), that implores the Lord to accept the singer as a someone looking for a key to the "treasury of devotion" and asks Him to open the door to the treasure chest . A wonderful old Marathi classic, and my daughter , completely freaked out on calling me. Why blame her, so do many other people. "Such a slow song !" and "How many times must we listen to someone going on and on, imploring God to open the doors ?"

But the crowning episode was when once, on my way home, i spotted the son of some acquaintances, walking with his head down ahead of me. On the campus where I stay, the people density is low. Suddenly he shook his head and laughed. Touched his ear. On going closer, he appeared to be having an animated conversation with himself. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but this kind of behaviour , was hitherto considered by me to be prerogative of geniuses immersed in their own world. Since this discovery, I have seen various individuals ,regardless of age,sex or economic strata, behaving similarly.

I just wonder, if this rush to basically go nowhere fast, is to hide away from the real problems that face us. Overpopulation, lack of meaningful education methods, lack of primary education emphasis , dwindling infrastructure, pollution..... the list is endless.

Maybe we seriously need to slow down, a bit, and start thinking about Brain version 2.1 ?

****देहाची तिजोरी , भक्तीचाच ठेवा , उघड दार देवा आता, उघड दार देवा ......
(Click to listen to the song )