There was a time several decades ago, when people treated money , and what you did to earn it, with respect. Things were clearly defined. Good work, was rewarded well. When a farmer faced difficult situations, and the supply situation dwindled, veggies got expensive, but consumers made intelligent choices, had empathy for the grower, and by and by, over a year , things averaged out. Today, some bureaucrat sitting in a red building gets a list of veggie prices from some underling, and comes rushing out with an "index"...
In some circles, "inflation" is a fashionable topic to discuss. They say it means that there is a huge money supply floating around, and there isnt enough supply of stuff that you can buy with it. Most folks who go into raptures over a single decimal place enhancement in growth rate, and despair over the number of digits in the inflation percentages, are not the types who agonize over the price of tomatoes showing a four fold increase in one month. Why ? Because for most folks in that category, life is subsidized. Housing, food, transport, even their job activity.
Sometimes I feel the real inflation has happened in "thought". It means that there is a huge increase in the variety of thoughts an individual or more can think, but most of these go waste because they are useless and /or misdirected.
Think food. Considerations of giving godown and storage contracts for food , result in more attention to who gets the contract, and what is someone's cut, instead of whether the structure satisfies certain basic requirements , regarding protection, leakage, and supervision by humans. Currently, there is more supervision by rodents, and the government is fighting on whether the spoilt food must be distributed free , or for a price. Absolutely NO discussion about moving out all that stuff to a safer enclosure.
Think clothing. In my childhood, when you thought "cheap, durable" you thought cotton. Today cotton is very expensive, and just to rub it in, the government recently withdrew the 20% rebate on Khadi products that used to kick in every year in October for Gandhiji's birthday. Today textiles is all about shutting down textile mills, minting fortunes selling that land , passing import rules favourable to those manufacturing polyester, and amazingly, supporting something called Fashion Design Council of India, which encourages designers to create clothes which no ordinary citizen can wear; clothes which cost the equivalent of a years groceries for most families. Backless-frontless-only-sleeves-blouse and saree outfits modelled by strutting models in 5-star situations beats the hell out of handloom and handicraft artists, trying to sell their goods at discounts in proletarian exhibitions during festivals, when the aam admi decides to buy.
Think shelter. I guess the thought inflation is the biggest here. Your several generations can go into violent debt if you dream of a decently big house in the city for a family of , say 10, that lived in a sprawling set up, back in the village. Then to make ends meet, and pay installments, both parents work. The family balance is disturbed, and many times, children walk the wrong path. The ordinary man in Mumbai can probably afford a single wall. And people with political connections keep getting permission after permission from the authorities, to construct luxurious apartments , 45 stories high, with separate elevators for residents and "staff". All, of course , for a price, which keeps on, what else, inflating.
Think communication . The days of calling out from your balcony to your friends are over. While you "call", you must also be able to take photographs, listen to songs, pass on something someone else is saying in a message in bad english. Communication is now a fashion statement. Its meaning has acquired "width". And all this at a huge cost. You pay , sometimes, more than your monthly house grocery bill, for this contraption. Angry ? Ha! You just need to widen and inflate your thinking.
Think people. People we elect to represent us. In my childhood, these were dedicated people, who lived just like us, but had a knack of putting forth our problems to the government, which, in its earlier avatar, actually did something for us.
Today, the scope of an MP has expanded beyond anything you can think. He earns by simply being who he is; he never works for it; others slog. It doesnt matter that there are schools without bathrooms in his constituency, the public hospitals need new diagnostic machines, or a larger supply of medicines. While he agitates to triple his salary by selling his vote, his gardener is refused a raise, because times are "tough"....
People you elected to the Municipal Corporation, ignored the proper physical conditions necessary for the fogging treatment in mosquito ridden areas, with the result that the mosquitos have won, while the elected chaps were striking construction permissions here, a derservation of a green garden area into a construction zone there, and getting their visages on huge billboards, that block street signals.
This uncontrolled wild "inflation of thought" is what seems to feed the economic inflation.
Somewhere at the top, there is a loss of an ability, to walk the straight road, ensuring shady trees on the side, sources of water to assuage citizen thirst, and something that needs to give confidence to the citizenry , that the road leads somewhere useful, and that the condition of the ordinary Indian will improve when he reaches the end of the road.
Long years ago, they say we made a tryst with destiny. Given how things are today, if I were Lady Destiny, I would have thought twice before agreeing.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Agobaya ! Freedom to learn !
This is S., my household help for the last 25 years and counting. Has inspired many blog posts. And this entry on freedom for the Blogadda's Frames of Freedom contest....
Her first taste of freedom was when her aged parents brought her and her 4 children back from an abusive marriage.
Since then she has been helping herself to a special freedom, freedom to learn !
She recently called me one night , to ask me to go "wherever I go on the computer to find out stuff" (read Google) and verify some eclipse info for her; an expecting daughter-in-law made this important. ( I Blogged about it here).
She has seen me search online for medicine information for her.
She has "learned" Google; it doesn't matter who is typing.
Enjoys seeing photos of trips, and covered her head respectfully when I showed her some, of our visit to some famous Ganpati temples in Kokan.
Many photos which had her go ,"Agobaya !"
Illiteracy doesn't stop her from learning.
The keyboard doesn't matter, she can't read it anyway.
She knows how to select photos from the Thumbnails. And marvels at the photos.
The best kind of freedom ; Freedom to learn and enjoy the learning !
Her first taste of freedom was when her aged parents brought her and her 4 children back from an abusive marriage.
Since then she has been helping herself to a special freedom, freedom to learn !
She recently called me one night , to ask me to go "wherever I go on the computer to find out stuff" (read Google) and verify some eclipse info for her; an expecting daughter-in-law made this important. ( I Blogged about it here).She has seen me search online for medicine information for her.
She has "learned" Google; it doesn't matter who is typing.
Enjoys seeing photos of trips, and covered her head respectfully when I showed her some, of our visit to some famous Ganpati temples in Kokan.
Many photos which had her go ,"Agobaya !"
Illiteracy doesn't stop her from learning.
The keyboard doesn't matter, she can't read it anyway.
She knows how to select photos from the Thumbnails. And marvels at the photos.
The best kind of freedom ; Freedom to learn and enjoy the learning !
Friday, August 20, 2010
Pension Sarees and Security Blankets
For 2011 :
V. was my mother's friend.
A thin, frail lady, with a hugely strong mind, she was a teacher in government schools when I was a child, and spent almost all her working life, at postings in far out rural areas in the state. She had lost her husband early on in life, had a daughter, and both of them would set up house wherever she had a posting, and the young girl would attend the local school. Whenever such a school didn't exist, she would stay on with relatives in a place where there was a school, or travel big distances. Back in the 50's and 60's , society did not look upon favourably on 2 women saying alone in way out places, that ran mostly on the say of the local big chap, who invariably went into politics to further his clout. V was invariably transferred frequently, till at the fag end of her career she settled in Pune. Prudent savings and careful investments along with a sparse lifestyle allowed V to get her daughter married , and she too lived in Pune.
We were in school then, and many afternoons and evenings were spent in V's small flat, doing drawings, and learning different techniques, while she made delicious snacks for us to enjoy after the "class"; her daughter would always admire our work (regardless of how ordinary it was) , whenever she happened to drop by. V was always interested in our academic achievements, always had little prizes for us when young, and this attitude continued well into her old age, even after I got married and had children. (After which I was roundly ignored, naturally).
After a lifetime of being a government teacher , predominantly having worked in rural areas, V was given the run around before her pension kicked in. She spent 15 years chasing her pension papers, as various offices would throw up their hands and say the papers were at some other office, for some one's signature. It almost became a project for my mother and V, and there was this multi year effort, when they would go meet some official who looked like he understood the problem, promise to do stuff, and then nothing would happen. We stayed in Mumbai , and since it is the state capital, V came and stayed with us during her various visits, and my mother became an integral part of her Pension campaign.
Many people advised that things would move faster if money exchanged hands, but this angered V and my mother, who continued sending letters , reminders, copies of required certificates and stuff, to no avail. Well into her seventies, I once heard V laughingly tell my mother, that even if she was desperate enough to agree to "paying money" to get things moving, she didn't have a clue how one went about it ; what euphemisms did you use, how did the clerk understand, or did a frail lady in her 70's , developing a cataract, simply land up and the table of some clerk, and ask him out for a tea ?
The pathos was overwhelming. A woman, widowed early on, faithfully teaches entire generations of rural children in school, without complaining of the facilities, often non existent, cajoling parents to send their daughters to school, lives a very sparse and prudent life, and now finds humor in visions of herself trying to ask a clerk out for tea, so her papers will move .
Thanks to a relentless chasing up of papers through offices, her pension was finally operative, with arrears, and she celebrated by going out with my mother, her faithful ally through all this, and buying her a wonderful cotton saree, which was always referred by all of us as the Pension saree, and frequently worn by my mother. There was so much more in it besides cloth.
In the early 90's V passed away. Today both V and my mother are no more, but V's daughter , a mathematics professor, and I are in frequent touch, and spend many enjoyable moments remembering the older ladies and their friendship.
Why am I telling all this ?
Because that was what came to mind when I read the most shameful and preposterous news about the Members of the Indian Parliament voting themselves , a 3 fold raise ( in place of a-wished-for 5 fold raise), the government dilly dallying in view of possible public outrage, in a season when all the news is about corruption, and the entire ruling party and opposition MP's uniting as never before to see this thing through. After an initial hesitation, the High Command of the ruling party has spoken in favour of the raise, and the rest, as they say, will "meekly" fall in line.
The things that angers me the most is that any MP with a single 5 year term and nothing more, is entitled to a lifetime pension, with his spouse getting 50% after his death.
And what has the MP done ?
Being a political goonda(bully) is probably a prerequisite for being elected. The more scruples you lack, the more bright your future is. If you have a wife, son or daughter capable of supporting you in all your questionable endeavors, you are supremely qualified.
Gets elected, by fudging qualifications, cheating on educational qualifications, possibly age, and declaring his assets which seem to all be in his wife's name. Funded by vested interests who cash in their IOU's once this guy is elected.
He then spends time in the Capital, fighting for more and more luxurious accommodation, asking pointed questions in Parliament often for a consideration, participates in junkets to foreign countries basically to learn nothing but enjoying the high life. His time in the august chambers of Parliament is spent nodding and chitchatting on some back bench, that is, when he is not staging a walkout along with his party leaders.
Occasionally, he feels he needs a change from all that sedentary life, and he gets up and runs down to the well of the House to shout slogans at the speaker, along with several of his party colleagues. Some even stage a sleep-in on the floor, and given their considerable weight, need several marshals to carry them out.
The more enterprising folks rip out microphones, and fling them at the opposition, unconcerned about their aim. In life as well as in Parliament.
In the meanwhile, some (read Laloo), are shameless enough to oppose the 33% Womens' Reservation Bill, and use that as an excuse to canvass for enhanced Pension (no doubt a result of enhanced salary and perks) , because now their places will be occupied by women if the Bill is passed. They openly trade their votes for power and money, and no one gets caught, simply because no one is chased.
Five years of doing this, living at subsidized rates, devaluing the country , and the guy is rewarded with a lifetime pension. We wont get into benefits for spouses on the death of the MP. Sometimes there are more than one. I mean spouses, not benefits. Shhhh.
And so I remembered V and my mother, and that fight to get her rightful pension, after a lifetime of educating the nation's children in rural areas.
When my mother passed away, the Pension saree had reached a state of wonderful softness, often seen in greatly loved cotton sarees, which are worn often and bring a great sense of comfort to both the mind and body. On winter visits to Pune, we would often use her old soft cotton sarees to line the winter blankets from inside.
Today, there are not too many winter visits, because there is no one to visit. The Pension saree is one of my prized possessions today, both for the memories it carries, as well as the softness of its protection.
Its not just a piece of cloth.
It gives me a sense of hope, that at some point, things in this country will change. People with some scruples and principles will be respected. There will be the greatest concern for the common man or woman. There will come a time when I will, hopefully look UP in respect, to the people who purport to rule us.
Its almost like my Security Blanket.
V. was my mother's friend.
A thin, frail lady, with a hugely strong mind, she was a teacher in government schools when I was a child, and spent almost all her working life, at postings in far out rural areas in the state. She had lost her husband early on in life, had a daughter, and both of them would set up house wherever she had a posting, and the young girl would attend the local school. Whenever such a school didn't exist, she would stay on with relatives in a place where there was a school, or travel big distances. Back in the 50's and 60's , society did not look upon favourably on 2 women saying alone in way out places, that ran mostly on the say of the local big chap, who invariably went into politics to further his clout. V was invariably transferred frequently, till at the fag end of her career she settled in Pune. Prudent savings and careful investments along with a sparse lifestyle allowed V to get her daughter married , and she too lived in Pune.
We were in school then, and many afternoons and evenings were spent in V's small flat, doing drawings, and learning different techniques, while she made delicious snacks for us to enjoy after the "class"; her daughter would always admire our work (regardless of how ordinary it was) , whenever she happened to drop by. V was always interested in our academic achievements, always had little prizes for us when young, and this attitude continued well into her old age, even after I got married and had children. (After which I was roundly ignored, naturally).
After a lifetime of being a government teacher , predominantly having worked in rural areas, V was given the run around before her pension kicked in. She spent 15 years chasing her pension papers, as various offices would throw up their hands and say the papers were at some other office, for some one's signature. It almost became a project for my mother and V, and there was this multi year effort, when they would go meet some official who looked like he understood the problem, promise to do stuff, and then nothing would happen. We stayed in Mumbai , and since it is the state capital, V came and stayed with us during her various visits, and my mother became an integral part of her Pension campaign.
Many people advised that things would move faster if money exchanged hands, but this angered V and my mother, who continued sending letters , reminders, copies of required certificates and stuff, to no avail. Well into her seventies, I once heard V laughingly tell my mother, that even if she was desperate enough to agree to "paying money" to get things moving, she didn't have a clue how one went about it ; what euphemisms did you use, how did the clerk understand, or did a frail lady in her 70's , developing a cataract, simply land up and the table of some clerk, and ask him out for a tea ?
The pathos was overwhelming. A woman, widowed early on, faithfully teaches entire generations of rural children in school, without complaining of the facilities, often non existent, cajoling parents to send their daughters to school, lives a very sparse and prudent life, and now finds humor in visions of herself trying to ask a clerk out for tea, so her papers will move .
Thanks to a relentless chasing up of papers through offices, her pension was finally operative, with arrears, and she celebrated by going out with my mother, her faithful ally through all this, and buying her a wonderful cotton saree, which was always referred by all of us as the Pension saree, and frequently worn by my mother. There was so much more in it besides cloth.
In the early 90's V passed away. Today both V and my mother are no more, but V's daughter , a mathematics professor, and I are in frequent touch, and spend many enjoyable moments remembering the older ladies and their friendship.
Why am I telling all this ?
Because that was what came to mind when I read the most shameful and preposterous news about the Members of the Indian Parliament voting themselves , a 3 fold raise ( in place of a-wished-for 5 fold raise), the government dilly dallying in view of possible public outrage, in a season when all the news is about corruption, and the entire ruling party and opposition MP's uniting as never before to see this thing through. After an initial hesitation, the High Command of the ruling party has spoken in favour of the raise, and the rest, as they say, will "meekly" fall in line.
The things that angers me the most is that any MP with a single 5 year term and nothing more, is entitled to a lifetime pension, with his spouse getting 50% after his death.
And what has the MP done ?
Being a political goonda(bully) is probably a prerequisite for being elected. The more scruples you lack, the more bright your future is. If you have a wife, son or daughter capable of supporting you in all your questionable endeavors, you are supremely qualified.
Gets elected, by fudging qualifications, cheating on educational qualifications, possibly age, and declaring his assets which seem to all be in his wife's name. Funded by vested interests who cash in their IOU's once this guy is elected.
He then spends time in the Capital, fighting for more and more luxurious accommodation, asking pointed questions in Parliament often for a consideration, participates in junkets to foreign countries basically to learn nothing but enjoying the high life. His time in the august chambers of Parliament is spent nodding and chitchatting on some back bench, that is, when he is not staging a walkout along with his party leaders.
Occasionally, he feels he needs a change from all that sedentary life, and he gets up and runs down to the well of the House to shout slogans at the speaker, along with several of his party colleagues. Some even stage a sleep-in on the floor, and given their considerable weight, need several marshals to carry them out.
The more enterprising folks rip out microphones, and fling them at the opposition, unconcerned about their aim. In life as well as in Parliament.
In the meanwhile, some (read Laloo), are shameless enough to oppose the 33% Womens' Reservation Bill, and use that as an excuse to canvass for enhanced Pension (no doubt a result of enhanced salary and perks) , because now their places will be occupied by women if the Bill is passed. They openly trade their votes for power and money, and no one gets caught, simply because no one is chased.
Five years of doing this, living at subsidized rates, devaluing the country , and the guy is rewarded with a lifetime pension. We wont get into benefits for spouses on the death of the MP. Sometimes there are more than one. I mean spouses, not benefits. Shhhh.
And so I remembered V and my mother, and that fight to get her rightful pension, after a lifetime of educating the nation's children in rural areas.
When my mother passed away, the Pension saree had reached a state of wonderful softness, often seen in greatly loved cotton sarees, which are worn often and bring a great sense of comfort to both the mind and body. On winter visits to Pune, we would often use her old soft cotton sarees to line the winter blankets from inside.
Today, there are not too many winter visits, because there is no one to visit. The Pension saree is one of my prized possessions today, both for the memories it carries, as well as the softness of its protection.
Its not just a piece of cloth.
It gives me a sense of hope, that at some point, things in this country will change. People with some scruples and principles will be respected. There will be the greatest concern for the common man or woman. There will come a time when I will, hopefully look UP in respect, to the people who purport to rule us.
Its almost like my Security Blanket.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Viral attack....
The Lancet has stirred up a hornets nest. The British have now named a bacteria/virus after Delhi, NDM-1 , and the powers that be are up in arms. I mean why not George, or Vladimir, or Sarah, or even Suresh ? New Delhi metallo-beta-lactamase doesn't at all sound impressive, and why the "-1" ? Is there a "-2" in the pipeline ?
While folks are upset over pointing fingers, and are showing references to plenty of hospital infections like MRSA (methillin resistant staph aureous) that were and are prominent in the US now and UK 10 years ago, it must be said that we did not rush in and name that infection in honor of New York, Washington D. C. or even Atlanta. Even when AIDS got people into a dither in the US, we were still welcoming folks from the US , UK, and Europe, and we let the scientific name remain.
We , of course will let medicine and science take its course, particularly where Pharma companies are concerned. Some of them funded this aforementioned study (NDM-1) , and it goes without saying that they will soon announce an antibiotic, or vaccine for the problem. There will be a lot of serious research, stuff will be proved and disproved, linkages of prominent folks in the US and UK governments with pharma companies will possibly be revealed, pandemics, and recommendations by WHO and UN will happen....
But why look outside ? Like they say, people in viral houses should not crib about virii. We need to look in our own back yards. Or maybe front yards. But probably, mostly in New Delhi.
NDM-3 : The New Delhi Municipality bacteria-3. This one is bitumen based. It causes, human hands to mix mud and sand in wrong quantities, to dilute mixtures for filling potholes. Reports indicate that one hand does the mixing, while the other goes deep into side pockets of the pants and overalls . Sometimes the hand also extends upwards at folks sitting in AC offices. Lest you think AC stands for "air conditioned", I must hasten to educate everyone : AC = Aur Chahiye (="want more")....
NDM-4 : The New Delhi Municipality bacteria-4. This one bores thousands of holes in the surface of flyovers recently constructed in New Delhi in honor of the Common Wealth Games. Ever since Rs 45 crores worth of pots and Rs 132 crores worth of plants were sourced to decorate the venues without checking with Delhi Police (who declared them a security risk , possibly after a legislator flung them around in a patriotic emotional outburst), the authorities re placing them under flyovers. The NDM-4, will enable drip irrigation of all these plants through the flyovers studded with holes, given that Delhi is getting a lot of extra rain these days.
CWG-1 : The CommonWealth Games virus-1 . There. UK and USA cannot name a virus/bacteria with the suffix " -1" now. ! Maybe they will give me a prize. But I don't know anyone in the organizing committee. I do know a few ex-students from a school named after the Chairman's father in a town thousands of miles away, but possibly it doesn't count, because too many folks will qualify that way. This virus, attacks a part of your brain that deals with numeric ability, and simply keeps adding zeros to the right of any number. Whenever your eyes alight on a "quoted" number the virus simply magnifies things so that what you realize is something else. This virus mutates in amazing ways, and is prominently found in state capitals.
CWG-2 : The CommonWealth Games virus-2. This virus has evolved after the question of bathroom usage came up. In our country, in many places, there are simply no bathrooms, and so naturally, there is no usage. Often called the elitist virus, this virus automatically shuts your eyelids over your eyes during certain visuals, such as women in slums wandering about with a can of water, in the early dawn hours ,seeking a place to relive themselves, before everyone gets up. Yet, given that athletes from several developed countries are likely to come for the CommonWealth Games, and despite the long jumps, high jumps, hurdles and throws, they cannot be expected to wander around with water. and so , it helps that the virus has a great affinity for paper ; both the smooth toilet type, as well as the crisp green type. Certain folks affected by this virus, have been known to have made a killing in the toilet paper field, so to speak.
ME2 : The Me Too virus. This virus actually attacks those who attend legislatures and parliaments. At one time this virus was considered dangerous for children, but concentrated efforts at eradication by the nation's mothers and a few teachers have brought things under control. However, the virus has now mutated into the ME2G virus, standing for (Mee Too Greedy). A perception or even a hint of someone in government benefiting out of a deal in a surreptitious manner, activates this virus, which then results in a series of committees and joint committees being set up to investigate things. The virus also in known to give people a totally false sense of power. Reports indicate, that the only antidote to this, is developing a sense of sharing, as well as a capacity for rejecting reports.
There are several virii and bacteria still in the formation stage. Some viruses have taken on human thought like activities, and cannot make up their mind.
But I am actually worried about the BR-1 virus. The Baton Relay virus.
I mean this virus has international ramifications. High Commissions are involved. The Baton Relay virus is actually resident in the UK. A few slightly virulent strains were noticed in the Games Committee, and they were dispatched to London. Those affected by this virus, sometimes suffer temporary blindness. They sanction bill payments in British pounds, thinking it is in Rupees, and mistake Buckingham Palace for RashtrapatiBhavan.
I mean, I am totally unaware of any possible Macular Degeneration in the British monarch, but one wonders, when one hears of three giant screens put up near the palace, to show on film, someone in shorts, running with a baton, and the fact that these virus affected types, paid for it. (I wonder who the screens are for; unless they cannot see from the palace balcony).
I hear the baton has since travelled through many countries, and is now somewhere in the south of India. I wonder if it is carrying the NDM-1 virus back from the UK, where it has created a sensation .
Maybe that's why, when it reaches Mumbai, no one will run, but it will be transported in a car across the city. The police force which will be completely occupied during the Ganesh festival, something which is attended by a huge amount of local and international tourists, cannot be spared to fuss over a stick arriving at the same time, NDM-1 or no NDM-1.
Maybe its fitting that the fuss over the stick is left to New Delhi. With so many existing and in-the-pipeline virii itching to attack, we will let folks do the running with the Queens baton (maybe with NDM-1) , across the flyovers, roundabouts, and leafy roads of New Delhi, into the stadii, pools and other venues.
With all the NDM-3, NDM-4, CWG-1, CWG-2, ME2 virii in attendance, the NDM-1 should feel right at home.
Now I know why the Queen isn't coming for the Common Wealth Games.
While folks are upset over pointing fingers, and are showing references to plenty of hospital infections like MRSA (methillin resistant staph aureous) that were and are prominent in the US now and UK 10 years ago, it must be said that we did not rush in and name that infection in honor of New York, Washington D. C. or even Atlanta. Even when AIDS got people into a dither in the US, we were still welcoming folks from the US , UK, and Europe, and we let the scientific name remain.
We , of course will let medicine and science take its course, particularly where Pharma companies are concerned. Some of them funded this aforementioned study (NDM-1) , and it goes without saying that they will soon announce an antibiotic, or vaccine for the problem. There will be a lot of serious research, stuff will be proved and disproved, linkages of prominent folks in the US and UK governments with pharma companies will possibly be revealed, pandemics, and recommendations by WHO and UN will happen....
But why look outside ? Like they say, people in viral houses should not crib about virii. We need to look in our own back yards. Or maybe front yards. But probably, mostly in New Delhi.
NDM-3 : The New Delhi Municipality bacteria-3. This one is bitumen based. It causes, human hands to mix mud and sand in wrong quantities, to dilute mixtures for filling potholes. Reports indicate that one hand does the mixing, while the other goes deep into side pockets of the pants and overalls . Sometimes the hand also extends upwards at folks sitting in AC offices. Lest you think AC stands for "air conditioned", I must hasten to educate everyone : AC = Aur Chahiye (="want more")....
NDM-4 : The New Delhi Municipality bacteria-4. This one bores thousands of holes in the surface of flyovers recently constructed in New Delhi in honor of the Common Wealth Games. Ever since Rs 45 crores worth of pots and Rs 132 crores worth of plants were sourced to decorate the venues without checking with Delhi Police (who declared them a security risk , possibly after a legislator flung them around in a patriotic emotional outburst), the authorities re placing them under flyovers. The NDM-4, will enable drip irrigation of all these plants through the flyovers studded with holes, given that Delhi is getting a lot of extra rain these days.
CWG-1 : The CommonWealth Games virus-1 . There. UK and USA cannot name a virus/bacteria with the suffix " -1" now. ! Maybe they will give me a prize. But I don't know anyone in the organizing committee. I do know a few ex-students from a school named after the Chairman's father in a town thousands of miles away, but possibly it doesn't count, because too many folks will qualify that way. This virus, attacks a part of your brain that deals with numeric ability, and simply keeps adding zeros to the right of any number. Whenever your eyes alight on a "quoted" number the virus simply magnifies things so that what you realize is something else. This virus mutates in amazing ways, and is prominently found in state capitals.
CWG-2 : The CommonWealth Games virus-2. This virus has evolved after the question of bathroom usage came up. In our country, in many places, there are simply no bathrooms, and so naturally, there is no usage. Often called the elitist virus, this virus automatically shuts your eyelids over your eyes during certain visuals, such as women in slums wandering about with a can of water, in the early dawn hours ,seeking a place to relive themselves, before everyone gets up. Yet, given that athletes from several developed countries are likely to come for the CommonWealth Games, and despite the long jumps, high jumps, hurdles and throws, they cannot be expected to wander around with water. and so , it helps that the virus has a great affinity for paper ; both the smooth toilet type, as well as the crisp green type. Certain folks affected by this virus, have been known to have made a killing in the toilet paper field, so to speak.
ME2 : The Me Too virus. This virus actually attacks those who attend legislatures and parliaments. At one time this virus was considered dangerous for children, but concentrated efforts at eradication by the nation's mothers and a few teachers have brought things under control. However, the virus has now mutated into the ME2G virus, standing for (Mee Too Greedy). A perception or even a hint of someone in government benefiting out of a deal in a surreptitious manner, activates this virus, which then results in a series of committees and joint committees being set up to investigate things. The virus also in known to give people a totally false sense of power. Reports indicate, that the only antidote to this, is developing a sense of sharing, as well as a capacity for rejecting reports.
There are several virii and bacteria still in the formation stage. Some viruses have taken on human thought like activities, and cannot make up their mind.
But I am actually worried about the BR-1 virus. The Baton Relay virus.
I mean this virus has international ramifications. High Commissions are involved. The Baton Relay virus is actually resident in the UK. A few slightly virulent strains were noticed in the Games Committee, and they were dispatched to London. Those affected by this virus, sometimes suffer temporary blindness. They sanction bill payments in British pounds, thinking it is in Rupees, and mistake Buckingham Palace for RashtrapatiBhavan.
I mean, I am totally unaware of any possible Macular Degeneration in the British monarch, but one wonders, when one hears of three giant screens put up near the palace, to show on film, someone in shorts, running with a baton, and the fact that these virus affected types, paid for it. (I wonder who the screens are for; unless they cannot see from the palace balcony).
I hear the baton has since travelled through many countries, and is now somewhere in the south of India. I wonder if it is carrying the NDM-1 virus back from the UK, where it has created a sensation .
Maybe that's why, when it reaches Mumbai, no one will run, but it will be transported in a car across the city. The police force which will be completely occupied during the Ganesh festival, something which is attended by a huge amount of local and international tourists, cannot be spared to fuss over a stick arriving at the same time, NDM-1 or no NDM-1.
Maybe its fitting that the fuss over the stick is left to New Delhi. With so many existing and in-the-pipeline virii itching to attack, we will let folks do the running with the Queens baton (maybe with NDM-1) , across the flyovers, roundabouts, and leafy roads of New Delhi, into the stadii, pools and other venues.
With all the NDM-3, NDM-4, CWG-1, CWG-2, ME2 virii in attendance, the NDM-1 should feel right at home.
Now I know why the Queen isn't coming for the Common Wealth Games.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Engines of the Mind
“The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.”Actually, Albert Einstein said that.
But I would have believed it , even if my household help, S., had said that.
S., went to the school of hard knocks. The hardness would have knocked someones teeth out, but she just gritted them together, applied her mind and carried on. I have written about her from time to time (searching this blog site for "household help" will point to the relevant posts), and for those unaware of her, she is a single mother of 4 grown up children, and grandmother of 2. They all live in a one and a half room place in an area you would hesitate to visit. She never went to school, got married off very early to a fellow who was totally useless, and then walked out with the children encouraged by her parents; all this almost 25 years ago.
She educated her sons , some till 12th, some till 1oth, and the daughter studied till 7th grade. The daughter was married, found out she was cheated, and returned home. S. herself has a bank account, which she operates by using her thumb impression, instead of a signature. because she never went to school, and cant read and write......
S. isn't impressed by Utopian scenarios. She knows, that the daughter will mostly have to look out for herself once she is no more. And so one day, she came to ask for my help, in adding the daughter's name as second name on her bank account. She isn't overburdened by the number of zeros after numbers in her account, but now that the sons too contribute into the house kitty, she has savings. And she wishes that they unequivocally go to her daughter, without hassles.
There is a women's group, that meets at the local Buddha Vihar (=community hall) in their locality. They help celebrate events for the local children, organize self-help type talks , sometimes by doctor types and nurses, often organize the catering for the celebrations and festivities that involve their entire locality. The so called illiterate and uneducated S., is the treasurer. And the supposedly numerically disabled S., even gets a group of ladies to go to the whole sale grain market miles away by bus, so they can save on expenses for these functions. She figures out transport and other costs and how left overs can be shared. Need based maths. Learned all by herself.
She cannot tell you the names of the medicines , but she has a gut feeling for when someone is taking her for a ride, medically speaking. She once approached me for help regarding a daughter-in-law who was advised some meds and was having problems conceiving. I am happy to say, that intervention by a gynaecologist friend, and good sensible advice regarding nutrition, has resulted in some great news about an impending arrival in the family.
S has a great sense of observation, and she processes what she observes in a very good way. For someone who never entered the portals of a single school in her entire life, she has an amazing sense of psychology, societal transactions, tradition, improving health scenarios, innovative new contraptions, and a great pride in her children and grandchildren.
A few weeks ago, my cell phone rang at 9 pm. It was her son's number. I wondered what the problem was, as she never called like this. Maybe it was an emergency. Maybe she had to go somewhere. I picked up the call.
"Hallo ! Bai ? ("=Ma'am?"), is your computer on ?" S was on the line.
"Yes. Its working. Why do you ask ?" Me. Flummoxed. This a new field for her.
" Just go wherever you go on the computer, when I ask you about something, and tell me about when the eclipse is ..." (I didn't even know there was an eclipse) . Maybe some neighbor told her. But she wanted scientific information, not hearsay.
Of course I went to Google, checked about the eclipse, and called her back. Expectant women don't go out during an eclipse according to tradition. This particular eclipse was not being seen in India, and was supposed to happen at some unearthly hour at night, over 2 hours. I also told her that the Indian calendar did not list this particular eclipse as significant.
Her mind now satisfied, she discussed and told me about the younger expectant daughter-in-law, and that she would just advise the couple not to go out anywhere that night.
I was totally impressed that someone like her, who cannot read a single alphabet, noticed that whenever someone has a question and wants info, I go to a particular thing on the screen, after which a page comes, and then she gets her answer. More impressed because she simply called to confirm what was till then, hearsay, with all kinds of wrong time estimates.
And then I see women, who live in upmarket abodes, don't lift a finger to do any housework, get their thrills from every additional zero appearing in their monthly expenditure , and proudly claim, that they know nothing about any bank related and financial transactions, because, their husbands take care of it all. They just sign wherever, whenever, and life goes on. Haan ji !
Designer lives, designer houses, designer clothes, designer cars, probably an improbable designer education, with stupendous fees and 3 types of yearly uniforms. Probably designer cell phones, on which they message and tweet typical shortened murdered English stuff .
I somehow doubt if they ask their husbands, daughters and sons to find out information on Google. Or some other search engine.
For that, like S., you have to have a Search Engine in your mind....
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Ruminations of a cracked egg....
Winner of the Blogadda "Friends Forever" contest on Aug 6, 2010
(Submitted for the Blogadda "Friends Forever" contest)
I have always wondered how it would feel to be a millionaire.And I have even pondered over whether a millionaire would ever want to be me .....
You see, we are both rich. In different ways.
He lives with more zeros than he can count.
I live with more heroes than I can count.
....All my friends, who have been my heroes and heroines, right from the time, I needed to be lifted on to the school bus, till now, when I lift myself into a bus through the front senior citizen entrance....
Like my childhood best friend, daughter of one of Marathi literature's most well known novelists and magazine editor....we would gaze with great longing on the reams of blank A4 size sheets in the storeroom, which were used for the manuscripts , when the great man dictated his novels. One busy week, we created our own magazine, complete with a dicey fashionable cover, serious sounding name, articles, poems, ads, letters to the editor, editorials, warnings and what have you. Stuck it in a big envelope, wrote Book Post on top and mailed it for a review, to Yeshwantrao Chavan, then CM, and a patron of Marathi literature. When the Post Office returned the envelope with a fine required (Book Post was for Printed matter), we faced her angry father who didn't know whether to laugh or get wild, and my brave friend stood in front and took it all.
Like my friend and room mate of 4 years in the college hostel, who seized upon one of my blouses (we wore old style skirts and blouses), wore it for an exam, did well, and then wore the same , unwashed, ink-stained (in an embarrassing spot) blouse, throughout, with different skirts, because she thought it lucky.....
Like my group of friends from college, who suddenly figured they needed me after graduation, and would come visit my folks in Mumbai, even after I went to the US for grad school; ostensibly because you could see a great sunset from the balcony, but actually because they enjoyed the Sabudana Khichadi my mother made....
Like some friends who confided in me about their intentions regarding some other friends in our group, , and bid me keep it a secret.....
Like my first roommate in the University apartments in grad school, whose introduction to me was through a few sudden tadka sneezes, as mustard seeds popped in the kitchen , who took upon herself to educate me in the non scholastic features of American life, whose marriage I attended, with her mother behaving exactly like an Indian mother-of-the-bride would, who has since then had lot of mountains to climb in life, but kept in touch and reached out during some trying times, and very recently drove a round trip of 1000 kms with her sisters to come meet me on my recent US trip....
Like my other roommates, some of who are very famous today, don't really keep contact, but got worried and emailed me when 26/11 happened, knowing I was in Mumbai....
Like some classmates , who'd never had an Indian girl with a red dot on the forehead in their class,, wearing strange clothes , back in the 60's, but took great care of her , even including her in the annual department Christmas Play, and one of them today, is a leading light in his field of optics and motorcycles, and 37 years later, spent an entire day with my family when we visited him....
Like some classmates, who traced my whereabouts, when I relocated after marriage, and everytime we meet or talk on the phone, it is as if we were never away....we still call each other by names given in college, with a healthy disregard for married last-names, to the consternation of chaps with no imagination :-)
Like some of my friends where I worked until a few years ago. The road was different, the terrain was daunting, and some stood, like shady trees you could lean on, maybe sip on a glass of understanding, and carry on again, impervious to the potholes.....
Like an older friend, who, sensing my false sense of bravado during a crisis, wordlessly offered a shoulder and a pallu to wipe the eyes; another, who on her own, checked up on the children, when circumstances decreed that I attend , on an extended basis , to someone under medical care; and also some friends, who realising that a foot was being put wrong somewhere, had the guts to stand up and tell me off, knowing they would be heard and understood.
But some, are golden folks, who don't normally get classified as friends. They are actually more than that. Sometimes they are what you call life colleagues, like my household help of 25 years. When duties called, post a sudden death in my family, and the children were left alone at home, she came and found the food uneaten by two bereft kids; took charge, got them together, prepared a new fresh simple hot meal, and stayed with them, talking , cajoling them to eat, till I got home. Like a best friend would have...
And then there are some relatives, who are actually more wonderful friends. Being the sole caretaker , for years, of an aged and ailing parent in a huge house, a day came when one learnt what being alone was all about. When the flurry of visits , condolences and paperwork subsided, it was time for me to return to my life as it existed before, and I worked at closing up a house I had always called , since childhood, as my own. I packed , and was winding up some matters when there was a bell at the door. It was a favourite sister-in-law, much older to me, but with whom I had never needed words. She had simply come, she said, so my last night in my late parents' house would not be spent alone sunk in my memories, so my departure the next day wouldn't be solitary and traumatic, and there would be someone I could wave goodbye to; someone who would say , "I am here, come back and see us soon.... you are not alone !"... I still need no words with her.
Like I said, I don't wonder about millionaires anymore. Zeros don't count. Particularly next to dicey numbers.
Heroes do. Real or Virtual.
And they fill all the blanks in my life. Scoring 10/10.
I am rich, totally, obscenely, people-rich.
No amount of money in secret banks, appearances on Forbe's lists, or any other stupid manifestation of wealth, can match the rich feeling of being blessed with wonderful friends throughout life.
Nothing fancy, nothing posh , but just some great old friends, joyfully sharing life with me through all its ups ad downs, with the smooth and the rough , through good times and bad.
They probably laugh at this concept of having and celebrating a Day for us. None of us are perfect, and we rib each other all the time, despite the furrows and wrinkles slowly appearing on the scene.......
Sometimes I think the Master Card fellows stole my idea for their commercial, about calling things Priceless ..
My friends are priceless....
And between you and me, they all probably think I am a good egg, though possibly a bit cracked.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Ordinary throws, extraordinary significance....
Nadzeya Ostapchuk, Natalia Mikhnevich and Yanina Karolchyk-Pravalinskayа are a bit wary these days. Just in case you think I have won the Eastern European Spelling Bee, and am practicing, let me hasten and clarify that these are the gold, Silver and bronze medal holders in the Olympic Shot Put Event.
It appears that throwing stuff around has existed as a valid sporting activity. During the siege of Troy, the soldiers had stone throwing competitions when they got fed up of hiding in huge horses and killing when outside. (Homer mentions that in his Epic).
The 16th century British King Henry the VIII, was known for his competence and championship in Weight and Hammer throwing at his Court; the Weight stuff is believable looking at his size, and I suppose the Hammer could have been the probable cause of a few of his wives dying out of sheer fright .
Sometime in the 17th century, British soldiers had cannonball flinging competitions.
Naturally, it would then be centuries and years before an Independent India came into existence, and another 63 years before an environmentally sound shot put event could be displayed to the world. I mean we have all seen hefty folks, male and female, wearing what look like one shouldered baba suits and boots, lumbering on to the scene, desperately failing at doing a dainty pirouette, and then mightily flinging an iron ball around, as people with tapes run helter skelter for cover.
But this, is what the Shot Put is all about .
Socially Relevant Green Shot Put, with 33% reservation for women athletes, particularly fearless types belonging to the ruling party and NOT favouring one shouldered baba suits
This has happened in Bihar, where clay pottery items are a , currently dying traditional village industry. They have a wonderful custom of drinking their tea in Kulhads or small oven fired clay cups , and then throwing the cups in a stirring display of "Dust thou art, to dust returnest" and they save water, washing labor, soap, everything.
It is only fitting , that in a state classified as a BIMARU state, agonizingly the leading member of the actual acronym (B= BIHAR) and BIMARU = SICK, a lady legislator in a white cotton saree and red blouse (purity, sacrifice but not peace and communists), expressed her outrage with the ruling state party, by actually picking up hefty clay planters with plants, outside the Assembly premises, whirled them in the wrong direction is an astonishing display of strength, and flung them at the cameramen representing the Fourth Estate, who dispersed to save their knees and lenses.
Notice, the choice of material for the shot. She selected recyclable green material. Yes, she destroyed several plants. But legislators in Bihar probably get huge gardens, cows and fodder free (I may be in error), and since we hear no reaction from the High Command it is probably safe to assume, that these resources are a dime a dozen, and that they are not worried.
In the meanwhile , inside legislative chamber, the unimaginative male legislators, were using energy intensive expensive material as shots, and throwing around chairs, tables, microphones, at the speaker and the opposition. It was instructive to see, several folks being carried out , four Martials to one person, sitting position, feet stiffly out in front, astonishingly similar to the legs of the tables and chairs they had just broken and flung. Probably suggestive of a knowledge deficit where male legislators are concerned.
But the organizing committee of the impending Commonwealth Games, now has something else to excite them. Promising athletes. Promising events to introduce. And all they have to do is have lots of potted plants around. Jyoti Singh , the enterprising shot put lady, belongs to the same party as the CWG Chairman.
But we need to have science on our side.
A joint USOC-USATF study (High Performance Plan or HPP) of the shot put at Louisiana State University says,
Much research has been performed on the shot put. Typically these studies examined release velocity, release angle and release height. Unfortunately, these three parameters paint an unclear picture. They indicate what needs to happen but not what it takes to make it happen.
HPP research has indicated that for humans the release parameters are optimized when the angle of release is between 31° and 36°. This is considerably lower than the mathematically "optimal" range of 40° to 43° for elite throwers determined by using the projectile motion equation.
While it is impractical for coaches and athletes to aim for exact release angles, it is important to know that lower release angles are actually advantageous as long as they still permit elite-level throws-and that the mathematically optimal release angles will more than likely result in decreased throwing distances.
The throws by this legislator, Jyoti Singh, are clearly inspired Elite level throws.
Bihar Bhushan , anyone ?
It appears that throwing stuff around has existed as a valid sporting activity. During the siege of Troy, the soldiers had stone throwing competitions when they got fed up of hiding in huge horses and killing when outside. (Homer mentions that in his Epic).
The 16th century British King Henry the VIII, was known for his competence and championship in Weight and Hammer throwing at his Court; the Weight stuff is believable looking at his size, and I suppose the Hammer could have been the probable cause of a few of his wives dying out of sheer fright .
Sometime in the 17th century, British soldiers had cannonball flinging competitions.
Naturally, it would then be centuries and years before an Independent India came into existence, and another 63 years before an environmentally sound shot put event could be displayed to the world. I mean we have all seen hefty folks, male and female, wearing what look like one shouldered baba suits and boots, lumbering on to the scene, desperately failing at doing a dainty pirouette, and then mightily flinging an iron ball around, as people with tapes run helter skelter for cover.
But this, is what the Shot Put is all about .
Socially Relevant Green Shot Put, with 33% reservation for women athletes, particularly fearless types belonging to the ruling party and NOT favouring one shouldered baba suits
This has happened in Bihar, where clay pottery items are a , currently dying traditional village industry. They have a wonderful custom of drinking their tea in Kulhads or small oven fired clay cups , and then throwing the cups in a stirring display of "Dust thou art, to dust returnest" and they save water, washing labor, soap, everything.
It is only fitting , that in a state classified as a BIMARU state, agonizingly the leading member of the actual acronym (B= BIHAR) and BIMARU = SICK, a lady legislator in a white cotton saree and red blouse (purity, sacrifice but not peace and communists), expressed her outrage with the ruling state party, by actually picking up hefty clay planters with plants, outside the Assembly premises, whirled them in the wrong direction is an astonishing display of strength, and flung them at the cameramen representing the Fourth Estate, who dispersed to save their knees and lenses.
Notice, the choice of material for the shot. She selected recyclable green material. Yes, she destroyed several plants. But legislators in Bihar probably get huge gardens, cows and fodder free (I may be in error), and since we hear no reaction from the High Command it is probably safe to assume, that these resources are a dime a dozen, and that they are not worried.
In the meanwhile , inside legislative chamber, the unimaginative male legislators, were using energy intensive expensive material as shots, and throwing around chairs, tables, microphones, at the speaker and the opposition. It was instructive to see, several folks being carried out , four Martials to one person, sitting position, feet stiffly out in front, astonishingly similar to the legs of the tables and chairs they had just broken and flung. Probably suggestive of a knowledge deficit where male legislators are concerned.
But the organizing committee of the impending Commonwealth Games, now has something else to excite them. Promising athletes. Promising events to introduce. And all they have to do is have lots of potted plants around. Jyoti Singh , the enterprising shot put lady, belongs to the same party as the CWG Chairman.
But we need to have science on our side.
A joint USOC-USATF study (High Performance Plan or HPP) of the shot put at Louisiana State University says,
Much research has been performed on the shot put. Typically these studies examined release velocity, release angle and release height. Unfortunately, these three parameters paint an unclear picture. They indicate what needs to happen but not what it takes to make it happen.
HPP research has indicated that for humans the release parameters are optimized when the angle of release is between 31° and 36°. This is considerably lower than the mathematically "optimal" range of 40° to 43° for elite throwers determined by using the projectile motion equation.
While it is impractical for coaches and athletes to aim for exact release angles, it is important to know that lower release angles are actually advantageous as long as they still permit elite-level throws-and that the mathematically optimal release angles will more than likely result in decreased throwing distances.
The throws by this legislator, Jyoti Singh, are clearly inspired Elite level throws.
Bihar Bhushan , anyone ?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Call of the Fibres
The mind simply boggles at the immense possibilities.
Professor Yoel Fink and his associates at MIT's Research lab of Electronics, have just announced the possibility of manufacturing "acoustic" fibres with flat surfaces. While we may skim over the complicated processing that happens to make these fabrics just so, it is exciting to note that this means that these fabrics, when worn , will be able to act as sound sensors and detectors.
The fact that the swishing noise of blood flowing in your femoral artery (in the leg) can tell whether you have a clogged artery, brings to mind several scenarios where you wear "intelligent" pants; at some point in your life, they buzz - and you rush to get an angioplasty of whatever. Same goes for blood supply in the brain, though I suppose the sensors will be a bit different; but it would be very useful to get a warning of an impending stroke , say, through a hat or scarf.
While all these medical diagnostic things will happen in due course, it has occurred to me that we will shortly be bombarded with various mini amplifiers installable in such clothes. Sometimes without our knowledge, which should make things exciting. And of course, like the black box in airplanes, these things need to be destruction proof.
Wedding finery for brides, would now include 21 acoustic sarees with grade 1 amplifiers, as well as some salwar suits and jeans embedded with the same. For an extra payment, you could have microchips installed where the nada is, which store all the detected acoustics. Hardware miniaturization companies will get a new life. Brides being troubled by senseless rotten in-laws, will now have proof of their wrong doing. And courts will now have a proof when theyinvestigate dowry deaths.
Khadi clothes will take on a new hue. I am not sure the ministers will, though it is entirely possible that they will go red in the face, followed by an angry purple. It will be interesting, to say the least, to browse through the acoustic downloads from the ministers' khadi kurtas. I recall an erstwhile union home minister (later replaced), who continuously changed into different kurtas for different press conferences, during the Mumbai 26/11 carnage, and now I wonder !
It might reveal a lot about who comes to meet them, who promises what, who threatens what and who quietly gives in. Particularly before important events like the Budget.
Prisoners in jails will have special fibre embedded striped uniforms, with inverse wi-fi capability built in. (Don't ask me how). Authorities will be able to download conversations and stuff happening in jail rooms. This might even get a bit dicey for unscrupulous staff, and it will be difficult to deny things.
Installing this capability in Bollywood will be strangely resisted. Lies will be difficult to separate from what is being touted as the truth. Tweeting , of course will be then studied for its ability to provide supporting proof for what the person is actually up to, as opposed to what he is saying.
Will we have an IPL is those times ? Will Lalit Mody and the BCCI have specially treated acoustic outfits ? Will cricketers have to wear these fabrics on the field ? Will their swear words show up automatically on the huge screen which shows up the referrals today ?
The possibilities are endless. Just like we pass through metal detectors today, there will now be acoustic detectors, particularly for those in power, no matter how small. Police, ward officers, bureaucrats, even some journalists. The detectors will simply download whatever is stored in your outfits.
The problem , as always, will be in the implementation.
The more innovative, will purposely say things , get recorded and get other folks into trouble. Entrepreneurs will come up with acoustic jammers, which they will install in offices, clothes, shawls, scarves etc. Guys from Bulgaria or someplace will excel at creating viruses, that attack these installed devices, and mess up the data, and generate raucous laughs and messages like "Kya Fool hai hum ?" (="What a fool am I") on screen, when important people gather to peruse messages.
Dhobis and Laundrys will suddenly become important people. There will be fellows who will provide special dhobi attachments, where dhobis can download stuff from important peoples' clothes. It will basically be a spyers market .....
It is really a question of who is how techno centric . For every electronic thing, there is something designed to either bypass it or garble it.
But this will probably lead to a reduction in talk. People will not indulge in useless talk, unless they verify it and have proof. Maybe sign language will be popular. Folks will practice gestures. Kathakali experts will hold classes for the general public. Smiling and frowning will be popular.
.....And somewhere, amidst verdant green fields, thousands of miles away, a farmer , after a days hard work, will return to his modest home, ensure that his cows are comfortable, will wash up and settle down to a simple meal, lean back, and wonder , about how he is going to provide for his second daughters marriage.....the monsoon was so unpredictable....
They still had to find out a magical contraption to listen to what the monsoon was thinking.....to be or not to be...
Professor Yoel Fink and his associates at MIT's Research lab of Electronics, have just announced the possibility of manufacturing "acoustic" fibres with flat surfaces. While we may skim over the complicated processing that happens to make these fabrics just so, it is exciting to note that this means that these fabrics, when worn , will be able to act as sound sensors and detectors.The fact that the swishing noise of blood flowing in your femoral artery (in the leg) can tell whether you have a clogged artery, brings to mind several scenarios where you wear "intelligent" pants; at some point in your life, they buzz - and you rush to get an angioplasty of whatever. Same goes for blood supply in the brain, though I suppose the sensors will be a bit different; but it would be very useful to get a warning of an impending stroke , say, through a hat or scarf.
While all these medical diagnostic things will happen in due course, it has occurred to me that we will shortly be bombarded with various mini amplifiers installable in such clothes. Sometimes without our knowledge, which should make things exciting. And of course, like the black box in airplanes, these things need to be destruction proof.
Wedding finery for brides, would now include 21 acoustic sarees with grade 1 amplifiers, as well as some salwar suits and jeans embedded with the same. For an extra payment, you could have microchips installed where the nada is, which store all the detected acoustics. Hardware miniaturization companies will get a new life. Brides being troubled by senseless rotten in-laws, will now have proof of their wrong doing. And courts will now have a proof when theyinvestigate dowry deaths.
Khadi clothes will take on a new hue. I am not sure the ministers will, though it is entirely possible that they will go red in the face, followed by an angry purple. It will be interesting, to say the least, to browse through the acoustic downloads from the ministers' khadi kurtas. I recall an erstwhile union home minister (later replaced), who continuously changed into different kurtas for different press conferences, during the Mumbai 26/11 carnage, and now I wonder !
It might reveal a lot about who comes to meet them, who promises what, who threatens what and who quietly gives in. Particularly before important events like the Budget.
Prisoners in jails will have special fibre embedded striped uniforms, with inverse wi-fi capability built in. (Don't ask me how). Authorities will be able to download conversations and stuff happening in jail rooms. This might even get a bit dicey for unscrupulous staff, and it will be difficult to deny things.
Installing this capability in Bollywood will be strangely resisted. Lies will be difficult to separate from what is being touted as the truth. Tweeting , of course will be then studied for its ability to provide supporting proof for what the person is actually up to, as opposed to what he is saying.
Will we have an IPL is those times ? Will Lalit Mody and the BCCI have specially treated acoustic outfits ? Will cricketers have to wear these fabrics on the field ? Will their swear words show up automatically on the huge screen which shows up the referrals today ?
The possibilities are endless. Just like we pass through metal detectors today, there will now be acoustic detectors, particularly for those in power, no matter how small. Police, ward officers, bureaucrats, even some journalists. The detectors will simply download whatever is stored in your outfits.
The problem , as always, will be in the implementation.
The more innovative, will purposely say things , get recorded and get other folks into trouble. Entrepreneurs will come up with acoustic jammers, which they will install in offices, clothes, shawls, scarves etc. Guys from Bulgaria or someplace will excel at creating viruses, that attack these installed devices, and mess up the data, and generate raucous laughs and messages like "Kya Fool hai hum ?" (="What a fool am I") on screen, when important people gather to peruse messages.
Dhobis and Laundrys will suddenly become important people. There will be fellows who will provide special dhobi attachments, where dhobis can download stuff from important peoples' clothes. It will basically be a spyers market .....
It is really a question of who is how techno centric . For every electronic thing, there is something designed to either bypass it or garble it.
But this will probably lead to a reduction in talk. People will not indulge in useless talk, unless they verify it and have proof. Maybe sign language will be popular. Folks will practice gestures. Kathakali experts will hold classes for the general public. Smiling and frowning will be popular.
.....And somewhere, amidst verdant green fields, thousands of miles away, a farmer , after a days hard work, will return to his modest home, ensure that his cows are comfortable, will wash up and settle down to a simple meal, lean back, and wonder , about how he is going to provide for his second daughters marriage.....the monsoon was so unpredictable....
They still had to find out a magical contraption to listen to what the monsoon was thinking.....to be or not to be...
Saturday, July 10, 2010
How green was the valley....(edited to add sound effects )
The Presumptuousness of the Privileged.
The idea that one can demand and supply must happen. Here and now. That Time, is Money. That you can scream and abuse if things do not happen immediately. That your life and the neighbor's, run on parallel lines, never to meet. And if you get ahead, to the hell with the slower ones, and your win is all that matters.
I live in an environment, where we constantly look at our watches, or, today, our phones. If the traffic signal turns green and the car ahead has not moved, we honk continuously. The crowd at one end of the road gets restless before the pedestrian sign comes on, and we push ahead , unwilling to wait. And the default look at the neighboring car is a glare, except when you are busy with a phone , solving the nations woes. With no idea about the nation, or woes , or both.
I saw a different world recently.
My father's family hails from a part on South Konkan (Western Coastal part of India), but comparatively inland. The oldest memories of visiting here , that I have, , are almost 52 years ago, when I vaguely remember traversing through some verdant green fields in a valley, accompanying my folks to the local school, wearing a black parkar polka.
Konkan has a very rich history and culture, native to my state (Maharashtra), and this was to be a car trip, which would pass through various famous temples on beaches, one (Velneshwar), particularly being the root place, of folks, bearing my maiden name, and another 2 which were important and much loved temples of Ganesha on two famous Konkan beaches.
We avoided big highways whenever we could, and took the back roads, which were literally roads with a 1.5 car width, and this being the monsoon, the roads were occasionally slushy and muddy, but by and large, tarred and good, as they meandered for miles on end, going up and down heavily forested mountains, and across tablelands studded with mango plantations, occasional signs of some upcoming factory , in the middle of nowhere, maybe a board announcing a proposed educational institute, and sometimes, a small temple, standing by itself, across centuries, in solitary splendour, like a beacon, for the new traveller...
A sudden opening up down an incline and you could sight the gushing backwaters of rivers straining to reach the sea, turbulent in the monsoon, and you stopped on the bridge across that river to wonder at the strength of nature....before carrying on to another mountain and another carpet of gren...
Time and again, we would see canopies after canopies of green, completely dwarfing the mountains, with young children in uniforms, walking miles and miles to school, sometimes coming down sharply inclined mountain steps, jumping back with alarm, on noticing an unfamiliar car. There would be long uninhabited stretches of road, on a high plateau, with high winds and rains, and there would be suddenly be a group of people waiting for a bus at some intersection. There was no sense of urgency, tension, injustice, or anger. The bus would come. You would reach your destination. And if you were late , they would understand. We asked directions, and got detailed instructions, although sometimes convoluted, but the sense of pride in their land shone through. Amazing number of girls going to school. And six hours of electric load shedding in all these areas daily, but I hardly heard a crib; they worked and studied despite it.
My ancestral place, way down in South Konkan, where no one stays anymore, is far inland, and away from the coast and main roads, in a hamlet of , maybe 10 houses, mainly tilling land. The houses are situated down the side of a very hilly area, and a single state transport bus appears on the main road at the top of the hill daily. You can entirely miss that hamlet as you drive by, so well is it placed amidst the stupendous green and slivers of brown in the forest.
I have written earlier about "D" who came to our family as a help, 64 years ago. D hailed from the same village, and now his brother's family stayed there. A windy, rainy, slushy noon saw us approach the specified turning, to see an old gentleman sitting at the bus stop.
He was D's brother, and he had been there for 3 hours, simply waiting. We wished him, introduced ourselves and the children, and accompanied him. Low tiled houses, made of the traditional Konkan red stone ("chira") . Lots of wood had been used, but the environment never looked like it had been denuded ravaged, or grabbed and made poor. We went through all kinds of slushy field paths, and flowing water, to reach , what was my father's ancestral house since almost a century. The roof had gone, wooden fixtures were in disarray, but railings in iron were unaffected. It looked like a house from a movie.
Many years ago, when it looked like everyone was busy with life in the city and beyond, and not likely to return, my father had donated the house to the local primary school, and they had classes there. Many years later, the school expanded, was granted newer and better premises by the side of the main outside road, and it became a high school. Leaving the house abandoned once again, to the onslaught of a yearly wild monsoon, a very fertile soil, and a slow rotting of historic wood...
Right in front of the house was the samadhi (memorial resting place) of my ancestor, eight generations before me, who was a "vaidya" or Indian medcine doctor of his time. We cleared the place and lit a lamp in a little alcove at the samadhi, and paid our respects. The whole place looked across a vast expanse of green fields, where rice was being cultivated, with a coconut tree copse in the distance, mountains all around, different shades of green blending with each other. People in the small houses we passed would come out and ask about us, smile broadly on hearing my father's name, comment on my resemblance to my mother. The women would shyly smile from the door.
And I wondered, how, in the days before roads were made, could folks have travelled across the difficult , untouched, almost virgin terrain we so blithely covered in a car. What gave them the strength to make the trip to big coastal cities, against all such natural odds ? Did they not fear animals ? How did they carry food? Did their mother worry about seeing them again ? How many months did it take them to get to a big city like Mumbai ? Walking, occasionally getting a bullock car ride, sleeping under trees ? Did they meet dangerous folks ? Thieves ? Did they worry about and miss their people back at home in the hamlet ? How many years was it till they saw their homes again ? (And shame on us for cribbing that the seat in front doesn't recline more ....)
D's brother insisted we eat lunch at his place, a small traditional house, with a place for the two head of cattle. Some sons and daughters worked in the fields. The younger children were at school, near the main road. The old man proudly told us about their school which now had classes up to 12th grade. There were 3 sons, 3 daughters in law , and a total of 9 grandchildren there, staying in that little house, with D's brother and his wife. One daughter-in-law worked at a government centre in the neighboring village, which could be anywhere up to 10 kms away. She wasn't there that day. But the children came running home running down the hilly slope, just as we were leaving. And they again ran right back up the slope with us, as we walked back to our car, in the drizzle.
Technology had made inroads there. Electricity had happened. But there was load shedding , 3 hours at a time, twice a day. Cable television had come. But the old man, D's brother, had decreed that it be kept off, as the children were neglecting school because of it. And everyone listened. Cell phones had arrived. I was trying to call D in Pune, and was amazed to hear from the old man's son, that if I had Vodafone, I would not get a network signal, and that I could use his phone which was a Tata Indicom network, which showed "two sticks" network, as a minimum, at any given time ! (There were no shops around, no banners, no buy-one-get-one-free, and nobody was standing around with a cell phone glued to their ears, or fooling around with screens and keyboards, as folks in AC cars and sneezing buses lumbered around making a mess of the road.....)
A lot of people go delirious over the scenic coastal routes in Konkan, the wild monsoon sea, the angry crashing waves, looming laden clouds, and mists sailing in at mountain tops, already scrumptiously covered with greens. Commerce has inched closer to temple outskirts, and life is very organized when there is quick money to be made. And folks prefer AC rooms at resorts on the seaside, that serve non native food, and zoom around in cars with 2500 cc engines, roaring around the place, drizzling hydrocarbons.
But this visit to the hamlet, was an eyeopener . It was the story of how the real India lives. The spirit and the simplicity, and belief in solid things like working hard, sharing your rewards, respecting elders, being curious about and encouraging education, and way back there, in the back of beyond, encouraging your granddaughters to attend school, and your daughters-in-law to work, while the sons worked the fields to put simple food on the family table. The daughter-in-law who was not there that day , had a previous social commitment with her colleagues, and nobody pressured her to stay home, as the rest of the family mobilized for our amazing visit.
It had started to drizzle, the sky was overcast, and at the end of the day, this was the heart of Konkan, where the monsoon was NOT the time to visit, as the rains were torrential. We had a steep climb on to the plains to Kolhapur, through mountains with narrow roads and possible rock slides, and it was prudent to try and cross that in daylight.
We did. Passing through many villages with many schools, children in uniforms, women working at transplanting rice in verdant fields, occasionally someone flaunting a mechanized tiller which the government made available on rent by the hour. (It is not economical to buy something so expensive for such limited time usage (as for rice), and so the local goverment authority buys it and rents it out to those who can afford it. ) Small medical clinics managed by doctors, who grew up, graduated, and came back to their villages to practice. Yes, such people existed.
As we were unloading our stuff in Kolhapur, the phone rang. It was one of the daughters-in-law from D's house in the village. Wanted to know if we had reached safely and in time. Soon there was a call from D himself in Pune. He had been worried about the monsoon rains, and was relieved to know we had reached well in time.
We were back to gas stations, honking, cars with flags and sirens, rich farmers with richer farmhouses, and gas guzzling cars, people going the wrong way on one way roads, and glaring at you. Occasionally giving voice to their rage, and asking, "Kya, ye aap ke bap ka raasta hai ?(= does this road belong to your father ?)....."
Makes you speechless.
I had just returned from a place where you created roads by walking on a road, again and again, together.
Here's something else to get you speechless : Play both together :-)
The idea that one can demand and supply must happen. Here and now. That Time, is Money. That you can scream and abuse if things do not happen immediately. That your life and the neighbor's, run on parallel lines, never to meet. And if you get ahead, to the hell with the slower ones, and your win is all that matters.
I live in an environment, where we constantly look at our watches, or, today, our phones. If the traffic signal turns green and the car ahead has not moved, we honk continuously. The crowd at one end of the road gets restless before the pedestrian sign comes on, and we push ahead , unwilling to wait. And the default look at the neighboring car is a glare, except when you are busy with a phone , solving the nations woes. With no idea about the nation, or woes , or both.
I saw a different world recently.
My father's family hails from a part on South Konkan (Western Coastal part of India), but comparatively inland. The oldest memories of visiting here , that I have, , are almost 52 years ago, when I vaguely remember traversing through some verdant green fields in a valley, accompanying my folks to the local school, wearing a black parkar polka.
Konkan has a very rich history and culture, native to my state (Maharashtra), and this was to be a car trip, which would pass through various famous temples on beaches, one (Velneshwar), particularly being the root place, of folks, bearing my maiden name, and another 2 which were important and much loved temples of Ganesha on two famous Konkan beaches.
We avoided big highways whenever we could, and took the back roads, which were literally roads with a 1.5 car width, and this being the monsoon, the roads were occasionally slushy and muddy, but by and large, tarred and good, as they meandered for miles on end, going up and down heavily forested mountains, and across tablelands studded with mango plantations, occasional signs of some upcoming factory , in the middle of nowhere, maybe a board announcing a proposed educational institute, and sometimes, a small temple, standing by itself, across centuries, in solitary splendour, like a beacon, for the new traveller...
A sudden opening up down an incline and you could sight the gushing backwaters of rivers straining to reach the sea, turbulent in the monsoon, and you stopped on the bridge across that river to wonder at the strength of nature....before carrying on to another mountain and another carpet of gren...
Time and again, we would see canopies after canopies of green, completely dwarfing the mountains, with young children in uniforms, walking miles and miles to school, sometimes coming down sharply inclined mountain steps, jumping back with alarm, on noticing an unfamiliar car. There would be long uninhabited stretches of road, on a high plateau, with high winds and rains, and there would be suddenly be a group of people waiting for a bus at some intersection. There was no sense of urgency, tension, injustice, or anger. The bus would come. You would reach your destination. And if you were late , they would understand. We asked directions, and got detailed instructions, although sometimes convoluted, but the sense of pride in their land shone through. Amazing number of girls going to school. And six hours of electric load shedding in all these areas daily, but I hardly heard a crib; they worked and studied despite it.
My ancestral place, way down in South Konkan, where no one stays anymore, is far inland, and away from the coast and main roads, in a hamlet of , maybe 10 houses, mainly tilling land. The houses are situated down the side of a very hilly area, and a single state transport bus appears on the main road at the top of the hill daily. You can entirely miss that hamlet as you drive by, so well is it placed amidst the stupendous green and slivers of brown in the forest.
I have written earlier about "D" who came to our family as a help, 64 years ago. D hailed from the same village, and now his brother's family stayed there. A windy, rainy, slushy noon saw us approach the specified turning, to see an old gentleman sitting at the bus stop.
He was D's brother, and he had been there for 3 hours, simply waiting. We wished him, introduced ourselves and the children, and accompanied him. Low tiled houses, made of the traditional Konkan red stone ("chira") . Lots of wood had been used, but the environment never looked like it had been denuded ravaged, or grabbed and made poor. We went through all kinds of slushy field paths, and flowing water, to reach , what was my father's ancestral house since almost a century. The roof had gone, wooden fixtures were in disarray, but railings in iron were unaffected. It looked like a house from a movie.
Many years ago, when it looked like everyone was busy with life in the city and beyond, and not likely to return, my father had donated the house to the local primary school, and they had classes there. Many years later, the school expanded, was granted newer and better premises by the side of the main outside road, and it became a high school. Leaving the house abandoned once again, to the onslaught of a yearly wild monsoon, a very fertile soil, and a slow rotting of historic wood...
Right in front of the house was the samadhi (memorial resting place) of my ancestor, eight generations before me, who was a "vaidya" or Indian medcine doctor of his time. We cleared the place and lit a lamp in a little alcove at the samadhi, and paid our respects. The whole place looked across a vast expanse of green fields, where rice was being cultivated, with a coconut tree copse in the distance, mountains all around, different shades of green blending with each other. People in the small houses we passed would come out and ask about us, smile broadly on hearing my father's name, comment on my resemblance to my mother. The women would shyly smile from the door.
And I wondered, how, in the days before roads were made, could folks have travelled across the difficult , untouched, almost virgin terrain we so blithely covered in a car. What gave them the strength to make the trip to big coastal cities, against all such natural odds ? Did they not fear animals ? How did they carry food? Did their mother worry about seeing them again ? How many months did it take them to get to a big city like Mumbai ? Walking, occasionally getting a bullock car ride, sleeping under trees ? Did they meet dangerous folks ? Thieves ? Did they worry about and miss their people back at home in the hamlet ? How many years was it till they saw their homes again ? (And shame on us for cribbing that the seat in front doesn't recline more ....)
D's brother insisted we eat lunch at his place, a small traditional house, with a place for the two head of cattle. Some sons and daughters worked in the fields. The younger children were at school, near the main road. The old man proudly told us about their school which now had classes up to 12th grade. There were 3 sons, 3 daughters in law , and a total of 9 grandchildren there, staying in that little house, with D's brother and his wife. One daughter-in-law worked at a government centre in the neighboring village, which could be anywhere up to 10 kms away. She wasn't there that day. But the children came running home running down the hilly slope, just as we were leaving. And they again ran right back up the slope with us, as we walked back to our car, in the drizzle.
Technology had made inroads there. Electricity had happened. But there was load shedding , 3 hours at a time, twice a day. Cable television had come. But the old man, D's brother, had decreed that it be kept off, as the children were neglecting school because of it. And everyone listened. Cell phones had arrived. I was trying to call D in Pune, and was amazed to hear from the old man's son, that if I had Vodafone, I would not get a network signal, and that I could use his phone which was a Tata Indicom network, which showed "two sticks" network, as a minimum, at any given time ! (There were no shops around, no banners, no buy-one-get-one-free, and nobody was standing around with a cell phone glued to their ears, or fooling around with screens and keyboards, as folks in AC cars and sneezing buses lumbered around making a mess of the road.....)
A lot of people go delirious over the scenic coastal routes in Konkan, the wild monsoon sea, the angry crashing waves, looming laden clouds, and mists sailing in at mountain tops, already scrumptiously covered with greens. Commerce has inched closer to temple outskirts, and life is very organized when there is quick money to be made. And folks prefer AC rooms at resorts on the seaside, that serve non native food, and zoom around in cars with 2500 cc engines, roaring around the place, drizzling hydrocarbons.
But this visit to the hamlet, was an eyeopener . It was the story of how the real India lives. The spirit and the simplicity, and belief in solid things like working hard, sharing your rewards, respecting elders, being curious about and encouraging education, and way back there, in the back of beyond, encouraging your granddaughters to attend school, and your daughters-in-law to work, while the sons worked the fields to put simple food on the family table. The daughter-in-law who was not there that day , had a previous social commitment with her colleagues, and nobody pressured her to stay home, as the rest of the family mobilized for our amazing visit.
It had started to drizzle, the sky was overcast, and at the end of the day, this was the heart of Konkan, where the monsoon was NOT the time to visit, as the rains were torrential. We had a steep climb on to the plains to Kolhapur, through mountains with narrow roads and possible rock slides, and it was prudent to try and cross that in daylight.
We did. Passing through many villages with many schools, children in uniforms, women working at transplanting rice in verdant fields, occasionally someone flaunting a mechanized tiller which the government made available on rent by the hour. (It is not economical to buy something so expensive for such limited time usage (as for rice), and so the local goverment authority buys it and rents it out to those who can afford it. ) Small medical clinics managed by doctors, who grew up, graduated, and came back to their villages to practice. Yes, such people existed.
As we were unloading our stuff in Kolhapur, the phone rang. It was one of the daughters-in-law from D's house in the village. Wanted to know if we had reached safely and in time. Soon there was a call from D himself in Pune. He had been worried about the monsoon rains, and was relieved to know we had reached well in time.
We were back to gas stations, honking, cars with flags and sirens, rich farmers with richer farmhouses, and gas guzzling cars, people going the wrong way on one way roads, and glaring at you. Occasionally giving voice to their rage, and asking, "Kya, ye aap ke bap ka raasta hai ?(= does this road belong to your father ?)....."
Makes you speechless.
I had just returned from a place where you created roads by walking on a road, again and again, together.
Here's something else to get you speechless : Play both together :-)
Saturday, July 03, 2010
Lunching under the stars.....
We lunched under the stars. (It's possible).With a star .
I think bloggers get a 7 month itch. They have to meet. And eat. Last time it was December. And this time we beat the Bharat Bandh (recently announced opposition sponsored nationwide total strike) by 2 days. Which is good, because we had folks coming in all the way from Indore and Pune, and they need to get back home safely.
We've never met in such an upmarket place before.
I started out early, with visions of rain, bad roads, traffic, and water logging, none of which had happened by then, and I ended up reaching much before time.
There was this beeping entrance thing through which you walk and they check if you are carrying dangerous things. My stupidity or patriotism must have shone brightly on my face, because as I ventured to pass through the contraption, two guys hurriedly signalled that I needn't, and that I could simply make a normal entrance. I found myself sitting in solitary splendour in the deserted lobby of this four star hotel, half and hour early, with fellows in suits and ladies in chic sarees giving me looks as they bustled around. The only excitement was provided by a young girl who looked she just stepped out of Femina, with a really short denim miniskirt, silver gladiator sandals, carefully arranged tousled hair, a fancy phone and a desperate expression on her face as she paced back and forth .
Couldnt be a blogger ....
I had this book about Zebras and Ulcers , some ongoing reading, that I had brought along just in case I had to wait, but it didn't fit in with the overall ethos of an impending lunch, and I gave up. Made some calls to bloggers. And settled down to wait for folks.
Like the retired one who suggested this place.
Followed by someone who normally used to come with luggage to catch a bus later to places 200 kms away, except this time he was staying.
The professorin, and the lady lawyer, all slim and svelte , arrived shortly.
Followed by our marathon person. I always watch with interest when folks arrive with heavily laden bags.
The 2 out of towners arrived next.
One of our group , was not going to make it this time. But we would call her between the salad and the dessert .
There were to be three new people this time. Two young ladies, who had heard about these meets and were delighted to join, and a young chap, who probably reads more blogs per week, than all the rest of the bloggers combined, and also has a blog of his own, besides twittering.
The young chap soon arrived, and was immediately put to a test of figuring out who was who. He knew a couple of us, and it was fun watching him mistakenly identifying folks as someone else.
In the meanwhile, the rains had started in earnest, and we worried about the whereabouts of the two new young ladies who were coming from some distance away, almost as if from another town. Took some time off to call our blogger friend who had been unable to come, and everyone spoke to her.
When so many blogger types converge around a buffet, filling plates with single minded devotion in between dedicating themselves to Pani Puri and Amiri Khaman, the other customers just stay away for a while. You never know when someone with Chilly Paneer may turn around and collide with you and crush the Farmers Pie in your plate, or spill some Dal Fry.We kept looking at everyone who entered the place. This seems to be a permanent feature of all our blog lunches. Some people get lost and arrive later.
We were finally rewarded with the sight of two new members, none of whom we had met before. (a few folks had.) And with them came the littlest surprise member of the blog lunch, like a fresh ray of early sunlight in a dull and rainy cloudy day.
He was promptly established at the head of the table, and he proved to be a role model to certain gluttonous folks, by having a lunch of tomato slices, cucumber slices, carrots, a bit of rice, watermelon pieces, and would you believe, just a pinch (and what a small pinch of a small hand it was) of chocolate pastry , exhaustively licked off his own index finger!
A large group means there are conversation pockets. Everyone cannot talk to everyone all the time. But there's technology to the rescue.
Because, secretly unknown to us, the outside world was slowly being informed of things happening in the bloggers lunch. (I must hasten to add that we dont know Shashi Tharoor or Sweat Equity. All we know is Khana Zaroor and Net Activity)
In a terribly hi tech way, by a phone as follows :
"The blockers meet ! "
"I mean...the bloggers meet..."
"Desserts sink in with no trace !"
"In the midst of blogger babble and excitement! "
"The best things in life are edible."
And then after sufficient eating ......
"Bill payment ! Time flies.."
"The blogger meet ends.. Just about !"
"Do you have extra fifties please ? Small change comes in big time handy ! "
"Photo sessions done !"
"Bloggers meet disperses"
"Wonderful conversations in the bloggers meet. Can't believe this was the 5th meet !"
And I thought this person was a bit quiet and looking down at his phone, as a way of surreptiously guarding a big bag carrying several great containers of marathon-special payasam, kept under the table at his feet.......
One of the young ladies got a call from family folks coming to pick her up, and she came around with some wonderful packets of teekha sev for us, a speciality of the place she lives in; and this had been carefully carried around from place to place as she travelled the entire previous week across two states and several cities.The tangy and spicy was followed by the sweet and creamy, and we were all suddenly recipients of wonderful containers of payasam, prepared for us and carried to the lunch by the marathon man, of course, inspired by his wife.
Several photographs were taken, some of which would probably delight toothpaste companies as wonderful ads for teeth. The staff at the place was so impressed that they took some photos for us.A wonderful curved staircase , like in the movies, had some of us posing holding the banisters, while the others congregated on various steps. Most other hotel guests had long since given up on us, though I thought we were being greatly courteous allowing them to pass down the stairs.
Fortified by some totally unnecessary trips to the buffet, and with a sense of wellbeing , imagining a rainy afternoon with tekha sev and payasam, to be followed, in our imagination by adrak/ginger tea, we relaxed, leaning a bit back in our chairs, and were rewarded with the sight of a dark sky studded with stars, on the ceiling.
Some clever lighting , that.
Outside, the rain was pouring down. Forays into traffic beckoned. Waterlogged roads, Splashing. Folks going in the same direction decided to travel together, and so many of us got rides home from those going to those areas. It was almost peak traffic time, with folks driving in a frenzy, avoiding potholes, cursing darting ricksahws and pedestrians suddenly trying to cross the road, and pizza delivery chaps taking inverse U-turns.
It didn't really matter.
We had met after a long time....We had had a wonderful Bloggers lunch.
A great afternoon , with lots of laughs, ribbing,food and friends.....
Under the stars.
And with a young star.
Possibly a future blogger learning the ropes .
And he is just two years old !!!!
P. S. One of the new lunch members burst into verse on gmail later.....:-)
Jo kal tak bas ek naam the, unhe chehre ki aaj pehchaan mil gayi
Khayalon se hum jud gaye is tarah, ek anokhi si dosti ki shuruwat ho gayi
Wah ! Wah ! Wah !
Wah ! Wah ! Wah !
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