Another Laxmi Pujan.....

We are well into the various celebrations that are done during the four days of Diwali in Maharashtra, and the second celebration is that of Laxmi Pujan , or the worship and celebration of the Godess of Wealth, Laxmi.

This is called Lakshmi Pujan,  and in many families,  there is an elaborate laying out of jewellery and valuables, in honor of the Goddess, and a worship ritual is followed, with everyone in the family dressed in their Diwali best.   Different days of Diwali are celebrated by different families in varying degrees of importance, depending on what you have traditionally followed all along.

And then I came upon, what I thought, was a very unusual Laxmi Pujan , which, my household help S., (hitherto greatly blogged about and known to readers of this blog), was checking with me about.

This morning, she suddenly took out the traditional Indian calendar where it was hung on the kitchen wall, and brought it to me .  I know she doesn't really do a religious celebration of Diwali, but it is more of a social and family holiday event for her.  

" Can you check and tell me what the actual timings for Laxmi Pujan are, today (26th) ?"  she asked me .  The Indian calendar is moon based, and the moon calendar days can change during any time of our normal sun-calendar day. I checked and confirmed for her that the timings recommended for Laxmi Pujan were between roughly 6 pm to 8:30 pm.

And I was completely intrigued because S has never followed all these rituals in all the years that I have known her.

 
S had recently become a grandma for the 4th time, with the arrival of a grandson. The new mother and the baby were, as per tradition, at her maternal home, and would  return to S.'s  abode some time later after the naming ceremony and so on, most likely after a month or two.

" Today completes 12 days after the baby's birth.  It is Laxmi Pujan , a good auspicious day. I thought I would have a small celebration for the new mother(her daughter-in-law) and baby, invite 5 ladies, honor them, place the little fellow in their lap for blessings. She has enriched us with the new grandchild, and I thought this was a nice thing to do for the new mother during Laxmi Pujan".

And she went on to tell me about some new saree she had bought to present to the new mother, her youngest daughter-in-law, as well as a fancy bonnet for the baby boy. She discussed the refreshments she was planning to serve, and how her own daughter, who was a trained mehndi artist was planning to do a wonderful design for her youngest sister-in-law, on her hand, in honor of the occasion.

All this on the day of Laxmi Pujan, when you celebrated and worshipped the Goddess of Wealth.  

And i thought what a lovely thought this was about wealth and riches in a life.   Which did not necessarily mean money. And jewellery. And the like.

In a state where girls were being named "Nakoshi" (unwanted), because they happened instead of a son,  and where, having discovered several such instances, the government was  having a huge public renaming of these girls, here was "S.",  living in these amazing unimaginable conditions , secretly hankering after a granddaughter, but immensely pleased yet with the birth of the youngest grandchild, a male,   and celebrating with the new young mother, because she has enriched the family !

And yet again, I marveled at S.'s  thought processes,  and her ability to figure out what Diwali, the bright lights, the Goddess Laxmi, and her worship, was all about......

And how lucky I was to know her .

A womens' weekend

Highlighted on Oct 17, 2011 by

  

This has been a weekend for celebrating women.

    Contrary to my tendency of avoiding mass scale get-togethers (n > 10),  I found myself along with a blogging offspring (who had independently registered herself), at the Dove-Indiblogger Women Bloggers Meet held in mid-town Mumbai.  More than 90 women had registered, and converged there, from various corners of Mumbai, miles away; possibly some even came from other cities.

A wonderful welcome after the hassles of Mumbai travelling, cool drinks,  and a plethora of pampering offers of leg massage, hand massage and hairwashing/styling,
it was a morning of great companionship,  where we put faces to blogs, introduced ourselves , listened to the Dove folks extol the virtues of their new products, and old folks like me suppressed a smile seeing corporate looking Dove chaps  giving a speech and using the word "chipku" to define  oil slathered sticky hair. No one likes oily sticky hair, and Dove had come up with a non oily alternative. They had a lady with soft manageable wonderful hair give us a talk about how to use the stuff. And all the while it was interspersed with the Indiblogger MC person, having quick announcements and competitions which had really nice Gift certificates as prizes. A terrific lunch later, there was a team treasure hunt,  commenting on each others backs on huge white hanging paperboards, (notice how different it is from commenting behind each other's backs), and all the while various folks kept going into screened enclosures with bedraggled windswept hair, and returning with freshly washed, fragrant, blow dried and set hair, which was an event in itself.  The event ended with all the ladies being given amazing Dove hampers, and the much coveted Indiblogger tees.

Then IHM , who had invited  entries for the Tejaswee Rao Bloggers Awards, and had been flooded with entries in 39 categories , all related to Women, announced by Sunday evening,  that the first set of results would be announced the next day. All reflecting, the Woman of India, the trauma and celebrations at her birth, her growing up, her place in the family, society and the world, her ambitions,her disappointments, and thrills,  what she has to put up with as a sibling, daughter, daughter-in-law,wife,employee, and even as a boss; all this across the spectrum from have-nots to the extra-haves. And one looked forward to a huge library of articles to be enjoyed with a decent cuppa , at one's leisure....

Sometime during the Indiblogger event, I got a call on my cell phone. The number looked vague, I wasn't expecting any call, and I cut the call as we proceeded to the lunch area. The phone rang again. I picked it up.

It was my household help,"S.", a much blogged about lady. Since we were leaving for this event fairly early in the morning, she was going to come and cook a simple hot  lunch at noon, for the non-blogger at home, and she was calling to say, that she had cooked some extra stuff , as she wouldn't be coming in the evening, since she was off to hospital, having just become a grandma for the 4th time.  She, 3 sons, 3 daughters-in-law, 3 grandsons, and 1  daughter lived in 1.5 rooms, and she had just acquired a 4th grandson !  Much excitement and celebration, and I congratulated her and told her I would see her the next day. I was amazed that she remembered to call me in all the excitement. 

She came in this morning, with a big smile on her face. The entire family had been to the hospital the previous day, and the new mother would be coming home in a couple of days. She made some tea for both of us, brought me mine, and  I asked after her daughter-in-law, how the other little grandsons reacted to the new arrival and so on.

Her face wreathed in smiles, she  told me  everything. Then looked a bit wistful .

Finished her tea, collected both our cups, and stood up to go to the kitchen.

"You know, four grandsons; I'm happy.  But I was dearly hoping for a granddaughter !  I suppose I'll just have to wait...."

And I thought about all those super qualified moneyed folks who go do ultrasonic exams to determine the sex of the foetus in their daughter-in-law's womb,  and the radiologists who defy laws and reveal the sex of the foetus, so  some family members with mercenary minds can  arrange to end a tiny life, simply because it was to be a girl.

I hope S gets her wish in the future. She is aware of limiting the family size. Her eldest has two sons, and the parents have had the family planning  surgery done.   She has 2 other sons, and one unmarried daughter (who might shortly get married). So there may yet be a granddaughter for S !

A little girl in the family, who would enjoy and thrive being nurtured by a grandma like S.

Maybe, sometime, in the near forseable future,  the offspring blogger in my family , who has a photoblog, will take her pictures and blog about her, like I do about her grandma.


And maybe, just maybe, S and I, on a wonderful, prefestival weekend,  ( like  the one that just happened ) , sometime in the future, will look at stuff on a screen, take sips of some wonderful tea, look at each other, and smile, maybe, our toothless smiles ....:-)

Lessons in reservations

Reservation today is a loaded word. In India. Means different things to different folks.

It takes me back to a monsoon evening 2 years ago. My daughter and I were returning home, unfortunately, during the evening rush hour. The bus route was one that spanned from the city's coastal west to the industrial innards on the city's east, and , thanks to surging crowds, we had made an involuntary automatic entry into the bus , while waiting for the bus, at some point in the middle of the route.

For some years now, the bus and train systems of the city, have thrown small beneficial crumbs at the ladies, in terms of a few seats reserved for ladies in the front of the bus, and two Ladies Special Ttrains, during the morning and evening rush hour. While men making surreptitious entries into these trains has not been reported, the "ladies seats" in buses have been the cause of innumerable fights in buses.

The thing to do once you get a foothold in the bus, is to use your purses, umbrellas, sideways movements and whatever else, to squeeze ahead through the packed aisle, and land up next to the already occupied "ladies seats". The sitting ladies are very cooperative and they always gesture and tell you which lady may be getting off next.

This was a expressway road under construction, with plenty of potholes, and thanks to the rain, there was a huge traffic jam. The driver had a tough time advancing . He was stopping for large periods of time every few minutes, and this prompted one of the seated ladies to get off, as walking would be faster for her now that her home was near. Before we could organize to occupy the vacated seat, we were preempted in the act, by a yuppie style gent, with a briefcase and cell phone adorning his neck, who simply plonked himself there in a tearing hurry.

We personally follow a certain code of ethics while occupying "ladies seats" in buses. The rule allows us , to evict whoever is wrongly occupying the seat. But we never disturb, elderly couples, men with small children, injured types, rural folks transiting between construction sites, children on hips. Prosperous looking young yuppie types, with ties, busy on their cell phones, are requested with great alacrity, to get up, and most do.

This gent settled into the seat defiantly. His co-occupant on the two seater gave him a disgusted look, and the lady behind him, gestured to me to ask the fellow to get up.

"Excuse me, but this is a ladies seat " He pretends he has not heard. There is a cacophony of traffic outside, rain is constant, the traffic jam means that the bus moves ahead in jerks, and its huge size prevents it from making quick darts in the traffic here and there to create a path for itself. He pretends to adjust his glasses and peer through the windshield (some distance from him), at the chaos.

This time we tap his shoulder till he responds.

" Ladies seat? But only at the bus route starting point. " He says, and sinks further into the seat.

We point to the painted rule on the bus wall, and the indication on the seat, declaring it as a seat for ladies, exclusively. He is adamant.

"How can this be ? They get to occupy our general seats freely. In addition , now they have reserved seats. Not fair. Not fair at all . Why should I get up ?"

We try again .

"The rule says so. Read. There, on your left. No mention of starting points and stuff. You cannot make up your own rules ." Some ladies around vociferously agree.

He decides to make an issue of it.

"Did they ask me when they made a rule ? No. I have been standing as long as you have. I have a right to sit. These women are having it really good. Reserved seats. Hmm. "....

Most audiences in ordinary public transport in Mumbai, are suckers for discussions. The more the crowd the better the discussion. Topics vary from cricket, taxes, corruption, police, to someone getting advantages that folks feel they shouldn't. Everyone enjoys a good argument. Everyone pipes in. A sympathetic chap from the back booms , in his support to this guy. Someone on the right, nodding and talking through the gaps in the tightly packed aisle, makes some supportive remark, giving the ladies a look and a stare. The ladies stare right back. The decibel level is increasing.

Suddenly there is a lady standing in the aisle, who has something to say.

"You want to be equal ? For these seats ? Then be equal everywhere. Do a day's full time job, come home through a crowd like this, and immediately start cooking your family's evening meals. Ever done that ? All you know is to get ready made tea and sit with your feet up ...."

Things are getting uncontrollable. The conductor tries to subdue the loud discussions and the din. Outside the rain has increased, rivulets run down the glass windows, a few leaking into the bus, which continues to be packed with standees in the aisle. No fan, no AC. The traffic jam is getting worse. The driver is getting impatient, and every now and then you here the roar of a stationary acceleration of the bus.

Suddenly, we notice a middle aged lady from another side of the bus , get up, leave her bag on her seat (asking a standee to guard her seat), and struggle to make her way up to the driver. They have a discussion, and she returns. Her seat has been respectfully guarded by a total unknown and returned to her.

There is a biggish acceleration of the stationary bus, the engine makes a sneezing noise and the ignition is switched off. The driver jumps over the engine block and emerges in the passenger area, near the offending chap.

" Sir, you are an educated chap. And you behave like someone who cannot read. "

The man bristled in his seat. Held his briefcase with more determination.

" The rule says that this seat must be given to a lady on demand. Its none of my concern whether you agree with the rule or not. If you don't like the rule, write to the authorities, go to court, do whatever, but at the moment, get up and vacate the seat. "

The seated man pooh poohed the whole thing. Whoever got threatened by conductors and drivers ?

"Fine. Please read the fine writing on the bus wall . 'If anyone complains about this to the driver of the bus, the driver may request the occupant to get up and leave the bus, and failure to follow this request will incur fines/imprisonment under section xxxx.xxx..' ."

"I am asking you to get out of the bus, as the elderly lady on the other side has complained about you. "

The fellow was aghast. He looked around him. His so called vocal supporters, were busy, looking at their newspapers, the rain, their cell phones, the traffic; everything, but him. He slowly got up.

We offered the seat to another older lady who had been standing in the aisle behind us. For the gent, leaving the bus in torrential rain made no sense, now that there was a traffic jam and it was getting dark. He looked at the driver . Who shrugged and left to get back to his perch in the bus.

"He can stand and take whichever other general seat falls vacant. He needn't leave the bus in this terrible rain." one of the ladies said.

His supporters slunk further into their seats. The driver was busy honking at the 3 wheeler which was trying to cut in from the left. There was an exchange of words from the window. Disgusted looks. The bus gave off a whiff of exhaust in desperation, as the driver accelerated in place, and clanged into gear at noticing a slight movement ahead of him.

There are no reservations in traffic. Its a free for all.

Like our Parliament. Where the introduction of the Women's Reservation Bill results in shouting, gesturing, and running and charging down the aisles to the Speaker , where the esteemed members make a display of their bad manners and destructive attitudes. Whats more this gets shown on television daily.

The driver of our bus got more respect than the Speaker of the House, whose papers were snatched, torn and microphone yanked out of its base. The House asked the members to leave, they refused, and were finally carried out by Marshall's who outnumbered them 16 to 1.

The troublesome passenger was allowed to stay on the bus by his co passengers. The violent House members who should have been rusticated, were taken back within a day.

And so there are reservations and reservations. Some bring out the best in people, some display the worst.

And the terrible part is, that ones who are the worst are the ones we elected.

A dog's life.

Read this. And then this . Then marvel at the availability of Rs 1600 crores (1 crore = 10 million) available for the mollycoddling (The Bandra Worli Sea link) of the automobile lobby. And the pseudo-urgency of erecting statues in the ocean (at a similar cost), in honour of a king , who would have been aghast at the skewed priorities of the Powers-that-be today. When so many other things cry out for help.



Some are dogs,
Some live that life,
Both watched by those,
Drunk on Power...

Some led by chains,
Promenading,
Inhaling, as the ozone
masks the evicted,
undigested, documented
droppings.
Stiff rules now,
Drop and Pick up,
And the chained ones,
wag their coiffured tails,
and smile,
wondering about
The Powerful,
The Shameless Ones.

Far elsewhere,
chained by the have-nots
but chased by life,
She ventures in the dark
of an eerie dawn,
others alongside,
tumbler in hand,
seeking a place;
Eyes darting,
Seeking relief somewhere,
Not
an airy promenade,
but wild growth,
Fear creeping around,
beside a station wall.

Yet,
again and again
drunk with power,
They provide for actual dogs,
and ignore
those unfortunate ones,
treated as some...

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....)

"Train"ing for Travel....

Years and years of travelling in Mumbai's public transport gives you a certain attitude. It is not cultivated as such. But you get it by default. Maybe its a feeling of "battling" to literally get a foot hold, a feeling of mobilizing for, what in polite terms, can be deemed an "assault".

5-10 pm , at any of the train terminii in Mumbai, is not a good time to catch a train. There is about 5000 people milling around on various platforms; some almost at the edge of one, peering at an arriving train ; some trying to act nonchalant, supremely confident of their last minute leap into a semi running train to give them their choice seat, and then , some folks like me, with children, saree end tucked in at the waist, purse firmly hung and held by one hand, while the other clutches that of the children, who think a big fuss is being made anyway. The train comes to a stop, There are platforms on both sides at the terminii sometimes, and you are then part of like, 500 people trying to enter through a 6 feet wide door, about 15 inches above the platform floor, all in one minute, followed by college going students, tired working women, a few senior citizens, teenagers, and , say, children wailing for a window seat, and giving certain posh looking ladies, already at the window, dirty looks.

You kind of squeeze into the sitting area, where each long seat holds 3, as per rules; or actually 4 , as per the Prinicples of "Zarasarkoonghyaa". (Loosely translatable as "Move-a-bit-will-you"). You glance at the lady near the window, who seems to be busy gesticulating to a friend outside, then the older woman next to her, who has just pulled out a water bottle wrapped in plastic, and the young student , closest to you, points to the window, shrugs her shoulders, and moves, maybe a couple of inches, giving you a place to rest your L4-L5 vertebrae in a precarious manner. Adjusting is the name of the game, as a small child squeezes in through a bunch of ladies to stand near the window, nose against the railings, with his approving mother standing in the aisle. The train starts with an introductory jerk, the child gets his mouth precariously close to the bars, secretly probably wondering if he should test the reach of his tongue, when the lady at the window seat, no one of his , shakes her head, and wags a finger saying no-no; there are smiles all around.

We are, in, what is termed a "ladies" compartment. The mechanics of undesirable contact sports, while trying to travel through a jam packed general compartment, has served to convince women in Mumbai, that, if you have to push,shove,pinch,elbow and shout, you have better success in the women's compartment with less collateral damage. So after a tumultously brave and complicated entry, some ladies settle down to napping, some read, some gossip, some bring out their knitting, and some laboriously work on their crocheting and embroidery projects, for which they carry a special bag everyday. Designs are admired, applauded, rank strangers freely give all kinds of advice which is accepted with a smile; Some women who travel from areas having wonderful local vegetable markets, buy their stuff on the way home, and it is not unusual to see ladies shelling peas , and doing the beans , on a big newspaper spread across 3 laps. By the time their 1 hour commute ends, they've done 30% of the evening'skitchenwork in the train itself.

One of the outstanding (though some may disagree), features of these crowded compartments is the various vendors who come to sell things. Handkerchiefs, clips, pins (picture on the right), decorative jewelery, children's ABC coloring books, bangles,earrings (picture on the right), ribbons, placemats, kitchen items, are just a few things. Then there are the ladies who come with garlands of fresh jasmines for your hair( on the left), fresh oranges, chikkoos, custard apples and guavas in season. These are invariably cheaper than the market rates. Of course , vendors of homemade potato chips, crisps, and banana snacks also do their rounds.

At fixed times of the day, one may be subject to smells of fish, as the ladies who congregate at the docks to buy the fresh catch, are often lugging it home, to their area markets, and everyone gets a whiff of the fishy smell as they move around with their big circular baskets . Ladies taking huge stocks of veggies and fish in the trains are a militant lot. They expect crowds to part as they make their way in and out. Occasionally there will be a very well turned out lady, with the latest outfit, amazingly made up , with all her hair immaculately in place, wearing improbable heels, posing (out of habit), and standing in the aisle. The fish ladies , very practical and no-nonsense types in their nine-yard sarees, take a dim view of all this.

One such vision, blocking the door, and becoming a problem for exiting fish ladies, was addressed colloquially, in what can only be translated as "Oye, Cleopatra, Move it !"..... , causing those who heard it to crack up.

Imagine hundreds of women standing all around you, some leaning on you involuntarily, some trying to keep safe, the tomatoes (bought wonderfully cheap), they are carrying, and a constant stream of women, coming in and going towards the door. Each station is a 15 second stop. Thankfully, the doors of these trains are always open. As you go closer to your destination, you get up at least 3 stations before yours. Someone is always eyeing your seat. Most of the ladies make it their business to know who is traveling up to where, and they plan their seat acquisition with a finesse that would defeat any political party in India. You clutch your purse and child close, and literally squeeze your way, slowly towards the door, taking care not to stand in the centre. Waves of ladies get on and get off at stations. You don't want to get off ,involuntarily, at the wrong one. The cohesive crowd sways as one, as the train picks up speed and accelerates towards the next station. Occasionally another train passes by in the opposite direction at touching distance. You inch towards the door, or if you are way back somewhere, you inch towards the crowd in the centre of the entrance aisle. The crowd surges forward. Shuffling, children muffled in yards and yards of sarees crowding about them. The train stops. And you literally move and get thrown out. Evicted is a strong word, and has unpleasant connotations, but this action is really , physically, an eviction.


Once again you are in fresh air, with ladies around you attending to their disheveled sarees and upset kids. Some regulars wave to their train friends. Occasionally, someone will get off who isn't feeling well. Stories abound of pregnant migrant ladies from the outskirts of the city, traveling to Mumbai's free public hospitals at the last minute. The husband is in the general compartment, after having seated his wife in the ladies. Suddenly the labour pains start. First the woman is frightened. Then she tells someone in the
compartment who notices her discomfort, and her pain. Someone starts asking around if there is a doctor /nurse person there. A few ladies pull the alarm chain that will stop the train. Some get on the phone to alert the authorities. Scarves and cloth pieces,scissors in purses, etc are inventoried. The lady embroidering the tablecloth, sacrifices it as a spread on the floor.Frequently, the ladies will create space for the poor woman on the floor, give her privacy by standing around her , while someone attends to her till the station comes. All the water bottles are out, there is someone comforting the woman, asking her where her husband is sitting. There is a small window into the adjoining men's compartment, and someone passes a message. The hunt for the father is on. Somehow he gets the message. The station arrives, and the lady is bundled out along with her assistants from the compartment. The railway police women constables may now be there to assist. Many times,the delivery is very quick, as the train women organize themselves and their duties, trying to protect the woman's modesty, giving her reassurance, offering their help as needed, some looking for her husband to inform him. A child is coming into this world. Nothing else is important. The ambulance arrives, the family is now augmented by one and together again, and they go off to the nearest hospital where more traditional care will be forthcoming.

Occasionally, train friends, will have celebrations. Birthdays are celebrated. Songs are sung. Homemade sweeta are thoroughly enjoyed. During the festival season, certain color sarees are worn on specific days, and so you often see a sea of yellow, pink, green, blue emerging from the ladies compartment, depending on the day, with whiffs of jasmine , and a bit of fake jewellery .(You don't want to wear the real stuff. It is dangerous.Too visible a display often attracts nimble fingers of unknown people.). A ride in a train is a place for pouring your heart out to your friend ; its a place to crib about your mother-in-law, your boss, the government, the increasing prices, and schools. Its a place for being comforted by friends, after a particularly bad day at the office, or simply when you don't feel too good. Stress relieving at its best.

Its crowded. its noisy. Someone always steps on your toes. Someone is always talking too loud and fighting with someone. Everything always doesn't smell like lavender. And no DEO on earth can negate the smell of oiled hair, strange perfumes, onions, garlic, and squished tomatoes, and of course, the sweat and tears so many people.

But so is life.

Regardless of where you go in the world, you never forget your train roots.

This was brought home to me, many years ago, in spades, when I had occasion to travel the Tube in London.

I forget which station it was on the Tube, but we were taking it to the outskirts of London, after a day spent with our 5 year old son , in the city. It was around 5.30 pm. There wasn't a crowd on the station by Mumbai standards, I could see no anxiety in any faces, and no one stopped conversations on seeing the train appear around the corner. Here I was, saree tucked, in, holding my purse as well as some shopping bags in such a way, that I had one hand free, even when the other was clutching my son's, mobilizing , as such, for ,"assault ....:-)" .

The train arrived, doors slid open, NO ONE rushed. I did my bit of rushing in with my paraphernalia, and stood inside, as there wasn't a seat I could see which was empty. By and by I got a place to sit. No one was eyeing any seats in an obvious manner, no one was getting hyper. Everyone was minding their own business, which is , I suppose possible if you are not forced to breathe into someones hair or ear, or hat. It was comparatively quiet.

Whenever stations came, people got off and on without any excitement. I had learnt. When time came for us to get off, I controlled myself from elbowing my way to the door and getting self evicted. My son and I sedately , and properly stepped out. The doors closed and the train moved away.

And that moment, my son raised an alarm and pointed to the train and let out that he forgot his book in the train. he'd been looking at the pictures when I suddenly bundled him up to disembark. Had this been Mumbai, I would have yelled through the window, pointed to where I was sitting, and asked a lady to throw it out onto the platform. Someone would have listened, a book would get passed from lap to lap, and someone would manage to throw it out ,maybe, just as the train passed the platform end. There would be hundreds of people, tea and snack vendors, boot polish chaps, cleaners, time-pass passengers, etc watching this, participating, and someone , somehow would get that book back to us.........

I know. Forget it. Nothing really of any of earthshattering importance.

But sometimes, it feels like progress cannot be all west centric. If progress was a fabric, it would feel infintely richer, with a few individualistic ,oriental sequins built in.....

Clinton , Obama, and Shekhawat(2)

Electronic Voting Machine and the election officers being transported on an elephant?!!!..( A desert border so remote that polling booths arrive by camel/elephant caravan. One jungle district so inaccessible that only three voters are registered....... )

One returns from a short visit to the US, with news about Hilary Clinton and Barrack Obama coming out of one's ears. Will she be nominated, wont she be nominated ? Is America ready for a Woman President ? Why does this question need to be asked ? Is it time for the US to set an example and nominate Obama , who has so many interesting qualifications, but is noticed, clearly, predominantly for his non-whiteness?

Politics is strange.

The reasons that people do not like Hilary Clinton, are probably the same reasons that are ignored in, say, Cheney; an ability to partcipate in business deals, and an even better ability to emerge from them, battering others , self unscathed.

In any other country, a woman lawyer, who has actually seriously worked as one, been on the right side of the White House fence for several years, travelled around a world that doesnt constantly contain Europe, been elected a Senator from New York, produced a book about her observations about travels across continents. also understands things like microfinance, and finally, an additional qualification , been and continues to be , a mother - she would be considered a great candidate to run for the highest office.

Politics is even stranger in other countries .

India, no novice at having strong women heads of state, real and /or virtual, is in the throes of decsion making, about nominating and getting the electoral college to elect its next President, Pratibha Patil Shekhawat, a woman. To confuse matters further, her main opponent is also named Shekhawat.

Actually, her being a woman is not an issue at all.

Pratibha Patil Shekhawat (she is married to a Mr Shekhawat), also studied to be a lawyer. It is not known if she ever practised s one. Active in the sort of typical rural politics practised in India, that majorly has to do with starting co-operative sugar factories and banks, with government subsidies and blessings, she was a minsiter in the state government, years ago. In the tradition of those who swear blind allegiance to the first family of politics, she was appointed Governer of a northern state, ruled by the opposition. Recently nominated by the ruling party as their candidate for President, her being a woman is a non-issue.

The rank and file of the party is busy applauding her choice since the choice is basically dictated by another woman, who no one dares contradict. (Vive la femme ?)

The fun part , is that her main opponent is also a Shekhawat; except he is currently the vice-president, he is 84, supremely marinated in politics as practised on the subcontinent. He has been chief minister of the state where his opponent recently resigned as Governor.

The incumbent President, who will not get another chance , thanks to his habit of being an independent thinker, is probably the popular choice of the common man. (The common man doesnt vote for President. The electoral college, consisting of folks voted in by John Public , votes for the President). A scientist, a scholar, a man with a deep appreciation of things, both nuclear, horticultural, and in between ; a man who excelled at communication with the younger generation, replied himself to emails from school children, and was well versed in the scriptures of the major religions that are important to India, and a man who was not afraid to ask questions , was probably what we needed .

What a contrast.

The US clobbers its citizenry with an information-overload regarding the possible presidential candiddates. Candidates visit the biggest industries, address the employees, answer questions. There are debates; the debates are analyzed; people get secretly depressed over a drop of so many percentage points in public approval. At the end of the day, if Hilary loses, it will be because she is a woman. If Obama loses it will be because he is partially nonwhite.

In India, the information is all secret. There are no debates, no analyses. There are only newspaper exposures and reports, presumably prompted by interested parties releasing what they consider bombshell new items. An ability to start an engineering college and treat it as a business opportunity for great profit makes you an education czar. An ability to extract government approval for starting a cooperative bank, grant loans (preferably to your relatives posing as you) and then write them off, is standard qualification today for aspiring to a political post. When all else fails (or doesnt have that much impact), the regional aspect is emphasized. An entire state is supposed to shake itself out of the monsoon stupor and be thrilled to bits about its "daughter" being nominated to the highest post in the land.

But look at the similarities.

Just like every American President has had a brother involved in things he shouldnt be involved in, the current leading Indian contender has a brother who is being sued by someone for murder.

Just like some US Presidents have invoked their special communication chanel to God, in an effort to justify their destructive actions somewhere in the world, we in India, hear about :

(1) a candidate's planets aligning themselves just so, starting a certain date, so that she has no option but to win the selection trials, so to speak; so speaks the family's loyal astrolger, and,

(2) A hitherto dead sage speaking to the presidential candidate through another living sage's body, and the possible future president lady commentating favourably and respectfully on it.

May be what we need is presidential debates here. Not shouting matches, as is the custom developed in Parliament, with microphones and furniture being flung around and others ducking the missiles, with a proficeincy which would amaze the best cricketers facing a bouncer. But some kind of impartial media person, highly trusted and respected by the citizenry , conducting an illuminating debate on issues.

And maybe we can make the US elections more fun, by exporting astrolgers, wise men, sages, flingable furniture, and before we forget, voting machines.

We in India, have successfully used them in several elections now, with a watch dog election commission monitoring its use, and if required, ordering revoting. (And whats more, doing that).

Is Florida listening ? (Or is that the next thing to be outsourced .....:-) ?