.....As if Women Mattered....

Straddling , as I do,  the  middle of the last century and the  the "glorious"  advent of the 21st century, one has been witness to wide lifestyle changes in the lives of Indian women.

I was confused and curious as a child when I would observe the lady of the house sit apart  from everyone, be given her food from a distance, and a child who wanted to sit in her lap was told not to touch her.  No one bothered to explain the reason for something that looked like a punishment. Then a few days later, the same lady would be back to her routine activities. Strangely,  things were a bit lax when erstwhile resident grandmothers were away.

By and by , one learnt the reason and the biology. And today, we are so "progressive(?)  that we sit in front of our TV's , with family, watching  the merits and demerits of various sanitary pads on the screen (shown as experiments in absorbtion of blue liquids), as thin models in pastel clothes leap around . And assorted multinationals vie  to advertise their product with hugely inflated ad budgets and pretend to do a favor to the women of India..  

Like most items foisted on Indian women by multinationals,  these do not come cheap. And are even out of reach of the urban lower middle class.  

Franklin Templeton Investments partnered the TEDxGateway Mumbai in December 2012.  

And I just heard , in the video below, a  gentleman called Arunachalam Muruganantham speak at TEDx.  About his efforts to come up with a decent, lowcost, swadeshi, sanitary pad, which would improve the health, dignity, and even, the ability to contribute to the family income ,  for the Indian woman.  His application of mind, single minded  goal, eventual success, being recognized and awarded by the powers that be, and the fact, that business schools now listen to him, as a respected visiting  academician, despite his so called basic education, is greatly inspiring. 

I have known about Arunachalam Muruganantham for sometime. And I admired his zeal, his questioning of certain customs followed by the women of his house, and his very open research at finding solutions and answers.

 The video simply confirmed my belief  that it needed a guy like him, unconventional in level of education, his attitude towards women, guts, and fearless in the face of an ostracizing rural society, to  design something,  as if women mattered....

His typical basic ignorance, his curiousity, the social rural family ethos, the female hierarchy, his out of the box thinking, he being persona-non-grata , and the final success that had him design a manufacturing setup that would make low cost sanitary pads, (Rs 3 per),   and his decision to sell these to womens' self help groups in villages, including some in the remote Himalayan regions, is an amazing saga.   

But behind all this, is a story of rural India waiting to be told.  A story which has a direct bearing on the education , dignity and health  of rural women.And it needs to be taken forward........

Ladies of Muruganantham's family had it better than most.

According to a study done by WaterAid, an international NGO that works at  improving access to safe water, improved hygiene and sanitation , particularly in rural areas, half our Indian population, which is female, menstruates a total of 2100 hours in their lifetimes. Barely 3% have access to,or  have heard of  or use sanitary pads.
    
Research done by Maria Fernandes of Wateraid indicated  that rural girls dropped out of school, once they reached menarche, simply because of lack of needed sanitation facilities, like decent bathrooms, sufficient water, and disposal methods. A prominent reason was also being the butt of teasing by boys, who suspected what was happening.  Where the women work in fields and tribal areas, it is even worse. Women from the Saharia tribe of Sheopur actually get locked up in a cowshed during their days, forcing them to use any material around like rags, straw, mud, ash, paper  and so on. Infections abound. A teenager in MP's Dindori district got infected by an insect that came along with the straw she used, and she ended up having her uterus removed. And it is not uncommon, for women to share the "cloths" washing them again and again, not to mention drying them in closed places out of shame, causing them to remain damp.

 In the face of the immense power wielded by multinationals, what Muruganantham has done , stands like a beacon of hope. 

But it is not enough to make sanitary pads available cheaply. Something else must happen to complement Murugananthanam's immense effort.

Our government has made the Right to Education a fundamental right, and education for women is free upto a certain level.   However, education is not about bricks and mortar alone. We have rural schools, where teachers do not go, because basic amenities are missing.  We have rural schools, where the money never reaches where it is intended. And why rural, even certain municipal schools in Mumbai have insufficient and inadequate sanitation facilities for girls, with almost zero maintainance for those that exist.

We need to think innovatively like Muruguananthanam did. Involve women in planning the educational facilities at the village level.  Local NGO's might be able to do a women census. There may be green construction methods that might be used to build schools, with as much emphasis on physical well being of girls , as mental. Maybe, instead of the usual channels whereby construction happens with shortcuts , and no supervision, and checking, corporates can be roped in to participate as part of their CSR.  It is not enough to put out ads on television, and announce schemes.

And instead of launching nationwide schemes , politically named , with no vigilance and followup, maybe a trial scheme can be launched, say across 3-4 districts of , say, Maharashtra.  The government can do its bit by making this attractive for corporates by giving  them tax concessions and the like. Get feedback from those for whom the schools are meant.  Involve the women of the area in self help groups that work on Murugunanathanams product.  Make it attractive for girls to come enjoy schooling and learn, like their brothers.

Then have someone from the corporate side come and evaluate after a few years and report. Make improvements. And then maybe, replicate  it in some more ditsricts, armed with the practical knowledge.

Like Murugananthanam, there will be a lot of experimenting, a lot of what he calls T and E methods.  Like in his case, there will be traditional opposition, folks will suspect your motives. So called political leaders will get into the act.

 Like Murugananthanam, there will need to be sustained efforts and no giving up.

However, unlike Muruganathanam , I am not sure the corporate types will get invited on TEDx. 

But I for one, will certainly look forward to some interesting stuff on television,  which will NOT be  about fair girls in fairer clothes, talking about changing mindsets , so one multinational product can be replaced with another.

It will be wonderful film, showing how some girls now enjoy going to school in a remote corner of the state, learning and interacting, with thoughtfully planned schools and facilities and   mothers urging them not to miss school. How their health situations have improved, and how their family income has possibly improved because someone somewhere works at a Muruganathanam-inspired self help group manufacturing the pads........ and how one of the intangible side effects has been a kind of sensitization of the males  of the village.....   something we badly need even in our urban areas today.

     


Submitted as an entry for the Indiblogger-Franklin Templeton Investments "The Idea Caravan"  Contest.   

Vidi, Didici, Docui.....

She was one of those God fearing but rational  folks, who remained always grounded.

It meant she walked the talk.

Like when she volunteered to work for the consumer guidance society.

That was like forty years ago.  The fancy kirana shop at the choice location in one of Mumbai's poshest localities was reputed to be duping folks in the weights.  She was never one to sit in symposiums. And so one day I accompanied her with some of her assistants, as she went in to buy some stuff. When it came to weighing the stuff, she demanded to see the standard markings on the weights and the weighing machine. Notwithstanding  horrifying who-does-she-think-she-is looks from hi-fi-ladies, the manager trying to smile politely while seething inside, and signalling someone to disappear with the weights,  she just looked at her assistants, who  quickly took charge, checked the weights (which were counterfeit), and also the balance which was loaded  in the bottom, much in favor of the kirana shop.

They didn't have cellphones with cameras then, and she had to painstakingly make a report, collect the exhibits, and submit it for follow-up .  And she did that, sitting in that very hostile environment. I noticed much whispering between some hi-fi ladies, shaking of heads in sympathy with the shop owner.

And I learned that it isn't easy in life if you want to do good. Belief in what you are doing, is paramount, and you must do it within the frame work of rules.  Flying of at an emotional tangent is a  bad start for any good work.

Much later , in her old age , she was one of the trustees of a very important old set of temples in Pune. The  only woman trustee .  Not because she sat sedately in meetings, and prayed in her kanjeevarams, but because she had been an active devotee for more than 25 years, was environmentally conscious, fiscally prudent, and something they realized later, that she never hesitated to teach by example.

Like when amidst signs requesting folks to keep the courtyard clean, she once noticed a trainee priest returning back to some rooms with stuff after a pooja,  and he casually turned, and spat to one side.  She sent word to the head priest, that they should send someone with a small pail of water, soap, and  brush-mop. And then called for the careless trainee chap.  She then told the chap that we had no business putting up signs we could not follow ourselves, and that he should take the paraphernalia and clean up the area where he spat. Godliness required cleanliness. Both of mind and body.   She stood there while it was done. Thanked the chap , and we went on our way.  I am sure the chap cursed her. It was OK. It wasn't as if folks were queuing up to give her a prize anyway  :-)

 Old timer devotees, the new younger lot, and so many noticed this. And realised that she wasn't there to become popular and meant business.     

Of course, not all appreciated this. Some smirked , secure in their ivory towers. But she taught by action, how to stand tall, for your beliefs, of which honesty was a big part.  Your job was to do it well, and be grateful for what followed.  There was something to be learned from reverses.

Not far from being a senior citizen herself, she nursed her elderly mother-in-law with a terminal stomach ailment and  in her last days in a hospital. A trained nutritionist, who was quite strict with her own kids, she didn't blink an eye when the patient expressed a desire to eat soup and batata vadas. She checked with the doc, who knew the sad situation and advised her to comply. Hot homemade soup , and lightly spiced  vadas  duly appeared and were relished . And it was all about realizing that old age is another childhood, and it was important not to be a bystander and wash your hands off things, but to participate  in an informed manner on consultation with other folks like doctors. Sometimes it was ok for the heart to rule the head, but it was nice to be careful.

It was all about how you were inside;  your perception of your responsibilities , and how you went about doing them. Even if it was not the popular thing to do.

Many years later, her daughter and her husband were returning on their 2-wheeler from work, and barely missed an oil spill on the road. It was lunch time and the road would soon be crowded with school kids and elder folk.  The two got off, spent about 15 minutes, lugging sand by the handful from an adjoining construction heap, and covering the oil spill , so people would avoid it , or at least not slip.  This, as several folks whizzed past in a hurry. They had learned  from someone, and believed in what they had to do.

(Someone else noticed too. And they received an unsigned letter from someone who had been around,  a few days later, appreciating what they did. The irony made them smile. Good stuff remained secret. Bad stuff was publicised. But such are the ways of the world. And they saw and they  learned . And hopefully, in turn, taught....)

Vidi. Didici. As they would say in Latin. मैंने देखा, मैंने सीखा, as we would say in Hindi, मी पाहिले, मी शिकले in Marathi,   अहं अपश्यम्  | अहं ज्ञातवती अभवम्  | in Sanskrit....


She always said,  that quality and quantity are two attributes that most things have.  And one must strive for quality.

Quantity was all about Schools. Food. Art. Clothes.  Followers. Friends. Enemies. Even Money.

Quality was more elusive , more tough, more mindful, even unpopular at times.

"Quantity",  was like throwing money and buying a ready made decorative plant.

And the other, "Quality",  was like getting your hands dirty, to dig in the mud, water, and help  a drooping plant, help it grow up as a responsible member of the green, and feel good that it has taught you something. .

One has never forgotten that. And one tries to pass it on and teach it.

Vidi, didici, docui...



I am sharing what 'I Saw and I Learnt' at BlogAdda.com in association with DoRight.in

Deep Potholes, Deeper Thought.........

(Bumping along, tilting, splashing mud, and rattling your bones, you often go into a rhythmic stupor as you travel on the Mumbai roads in the monsoon. If you are in a bus, you even pick up "break" dancing.  A sudden smooth patch, and sometimes those grey cells start whirring.....)

In a near perfect world, you think out of the box. 

In a perfectly imperfect world, with crumbling and fudged edges, you need to think out of the hole.

Like in Mumbai.  In the monsoons.

Reliable sources indicate that a high power municipal committee has been appointed to decide on the actual definition of "road"  in the 21st century. 

While several political leaders appear on the committee, it is reported that there is a suggestion that some heritage conservationists also be included, so that they may offer their expertise of concreteless, tarless roads, bumpy roads  that were traversed by great personages, sometimes in bullock carts  and horse carriages, in the history of the nation.

While the current computerized PMS, (or Pothole Management System) has enriched several folks with taxpayer financed fancy laptops,  the interface between  the system and the actual road surface  has malfunctioned.  While several 'contract' virus actions are suspected to be the cause, a high power technical committee has been constituted  to look into this.

Some city fathers have suggested naming of roads after powerful political types, as a solution, and naturally their own party leaders are the names of choice.  This would work well, as no one would dare tweet and say , "Desh ka Neta so-and-so is terrible and full of potholes" or "Avoid Padmabhushan so and so for a few days...".

The high power Municipal committee, hearafter referred to as HPMC, and completely unrelated to the Himachal Pradesh Market Committee,  has finally completed its deliberations,  and its recommendations are to be presented to the MCGM,MMRDA, and any likely Mumbai acronymed agencies who may be deemed to be interested.

Drastic changes in the environment require a drastic change in how we view things.

As per the committee, "road" will henceforth NOT refer to miles of smooth tarred or concreted surfaces.  By executive decree, "road" will be the name given to a collection of creative potholes connected by a few strips of concrete or tar here and there. 

In one felling swoop, the brilliant committee has solved the problem of roads, potholes, repairs and naming of all or one or more of the aforementioned.

From now on there will be no potholes. Nothing to repair in those pesky tarred strips braving it out smoothly , monsoon after monsoon. The entire PMS system is now obsolete, because there are no potholes to manage, and you cannot convert it to a  Tarred-strip Management System (TMS), as too much constant layering will insert a speed breaking perturbation into the whole system.

Bye-Bye Motors and Hanuman Motors dealers are rubbing their hands in glee envisioning a run on their shockabsorbers and suspensions, which were earlier reduced to being sold as buy-1-get-1-free .  Papollo Tyres have announced the plan to hire 200 new people as they forsee a great market .

A government spokesman, when  asked about this, mentioned that the government would now be following this Mumbai model all across the country.  A special agency called the   National Pothole Authority of India would be created by decree or ordinance, and its aim would be to create potholes all over the country, by using innovative and cheap road mixtures.When asked about how poor pedestrians, cyclists and other two wheeler types  would manage,  a senior minister of the government is supposed to have said that this entire project would  be  a game changer.

Stupid me.  I should have known.

Games and potholes.  And Fixing..... ?

What Fixing ?





 

Review of "My Stroke of Luck - Alphabet to Author"

I received the book "My Stroke of Luck - Alphabet to Author" by Vijay Santhanam, published by Hay House (2013) as part of the Blogadda Bookreviews program.

I have been fascinated by the workings the human brain, ever since I had the honor of caring for my father in his last days, and was intrigued  by it, as I observed him slow down, lose recognition of some people, then confuse events in time, and yet remember something with great accuracy and relevance, connected to all of the above.  One of my aunts in her eighties , a couple of years ago,  suffered a stroke followed by a coma for a week, and then emerged mentally totally unscathed  but paralysed below the hips.  So observing these folks, and their battles with their amazing brains  was a huge learning opportunity . And I wrote this.  My tribute to the Brain.

Vijay Santhanam  had this stroke when he was 41.  And the book is about his fight to recover, his realization about the level of his abilities vis-a-vis the earlier days,  his efforts to  build up some of his abilities even from scratch,  and most of all, his never-say-die attitude and the urge to try and return to what he was before.

He writes about his initial symptoms, his mental confusion, and about his being "dextracardia with situs inversus" (about having organs in his body,  transposed , that is, those on the left , appearing in his body , actually on the right and so on). When his stroke leaves him with his left brain affected, he wonders if his left is really, the left.  Turns out that , as brains go, he is like any other person. Left brain for mathematical, analytical, detail  stuff,  and right brain for intuitive, overall picture, design stuff.

While he must start learning language expression again, mentally and in the manner of enunciation and pronouncing, perception of numbers is also affected. His family, friends, doctors and therapists at the hospital in Singapore help him through the steps and encourage him at each step. This is a story of how having a perceptive, understanding doctor helps, and how every patient is different.  Learning to write is difficult but using a laptop was easier. Vijay Santhanam, a marketing manager, in a senior position with BP , had to learn to sign with his left hand all over gain, because  a troubled left brain meant his right hand was affected by the stroke .

A very dedicated cricket and Sachin Tendulkar enthusiast, he managed to push his recovery so much so, that he was able to visit India four months later to watch Sachin play at Mohali.   His great interest in chess, in cricket , and always an optimistic outlook that shouted " Yes, I can " , had him collaborating books, being the sole author of some like this one,  playing and following International chess, and even driving his car .

All this was very hard work, where he was required to be very sensitized to even slight abnormal manifestations and symptoms in his physical being.  Sometimes, the body indicates its fatigue and displeasure with a tantrum and you suffer from a seizure.  So you learn to recognize the signs, and take medication in time.

This is the story of a man, with a huge love of life, and a matching huge respect for what we call the human brain .  His descriptions of Broca's area ( expression of language) and Wernicke's area(comprehension of what is being sensed as language) , both members of the left brain community, are wonderful. His observations on how the brain keeps information in a brilliant "distributed" way , are something , that I have always suspected but never confirmed. Not being able to recite something, but being completely informed of its meaning. Not being able to differentiate between visual representation of numbers 2 and 3, but being able to conduct and understand  math operations. His ability to start learning Hindi all over again, and his observation, that language ability , without constant therapy slips to a threshold level,  after which it is difficult to recoup it, is enlightening.

This is a story,  of not just the triumph of the human spirit over such life threatening calamities.

It is the story of a system , so well designed, with so many checks, balances, redundancies, automatic backups,real time repair possibilities, and a built-in expert system for learning from effort and experience, that there can be, in my eyes, only One System Designer.  Above.

It may play chess with Kasparov, but no computer OS/hardware/software comes anywhere close to our Human Brain.. 

My  congratulations to Vijay Santhanam on an amazing, inspiring  book. 

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

Of tokens, banks and weddings.....

Sometimes, you get new ideas in the most unexpected ways.  And this one was triggered by a phone call from the bank.

One afternoon , there was a call from a different branch of my bank.  They wanted to know details of a transaction done through them 7 years ago.  And they were asking this, of someone, who could not remember where she kept the pickle bottle yesterday.

Someone was then, scheduled to send conference fees to China, and these had to be sent using some specific SWIFT code. Since we hadn't dealt with such stuff earlier, we went to our bank, only to be told that yes, they did have this facility, but the person responsible had fractured his hand, was on leave,  no one else could do this(!), and we should go to another branch some kilometres away and do the needful.  With great reluctance they agreed to call someone there before we went.

A massively crowded branch on a main eastern thoroughfare, in the industrial commercial belt, and we spent 2 hours there , in an elevated area , getting our work done and watching the milling crowds on the lower level.

This was the branch that had now called and wanted to verify our antecedents.

But seven years later  ?

While I refused to answer an unknown voice asking questions,  told them to verify our transaction details with our branch and troubled some lady who was only doing what she was told (she said that to me),  other details about that bank branch, came back to me vividly. 

At a time when our branch was still dodging snaking lines opposite various tellers based on account numbers, these folks had graduated to token numbers, and the huge number of customers, sat facing the tellers, in chairs placed in lines, in what I call "wedding-reception style" .

Which actually gave me some ideas.

 How many times, have you attended weddings, and stood in a long line that moved at snail's speed as folks went up to wish the bridal couple , and got clicked for posterity in their kanjeevarams ?  How many times, have you felt like sitting down for a while on the set on empty chairs , all facing the stage  ?  And how many times have you decided to eat first hoping most folks would have done the wishing line by then ?

Here is where we learn from banks.

 Every one at entry, at any wedding, along with haldi, kumkum, pedha, rose, perfume and rosewater spray , must also get a token number (one per family).  You go in, find yourself a nice seat , say, next to friends or whatever, and enjoy some innovative cool drinks being circulated.

Way up amidst the floral Ganpati, blinking lights, and bouquets stuck at an angle in the background on stage, there would be  an electronic board , that would display, say , 4  token numbers at a time, updating as and how each was "used up". Folks with those token numbers, would amble up to the stage, carefully climb up, and do their stuff, wishing the couple, gifting, folks touching their feet , so on and so forth,  As soon as their feet step off the exit ramp , a sensor would remove their number from the board and the next in line would automatically come up.

Voila!

Think. You conserve your energy. You drink. You notice the in-law side folks sitting way up in front.  Suitably separate. You notice who is wearing what as they arrive on stage. You have detailed conversations with interested folks on the possible cost of the 25 kilo outfit worn by the  bride.  Then other people get to do the same when its your turn to go up, and you get a closeup of the folks on stage, and the 25 kilo outfit, and the beads of perspiration as a result of all that weight.

Such a civilized method.  No need for hundreds to lean on one foot and then the other, in their uncomfortable mandatory finery, while sudden VIP's are ushered on to the stage.

Of course, like all systems , this one will also have hiccups. There will be unconcerned folks who dash up to the stage the wrong way, to relay a message , triggering a confused response from the sensor.  There are kids who might climb up directly on to the stage, enamoured by the throne like chairs in red velvet with gold embroidery. There may even be a perfectly valid tokened guest, in the habit of skipping steps, who simply misses the step with the sensor that senses exits, causing the numbers to stall ...

There may be people who enter without a token number. You cannot send them home like the Passport Seva Kendra does.  So you club them with a family already having a token.  Of course, the possibility of this facility being grossly abused cannot be denied.  There will be unreturned tokens, lost tokens, found tokens.

You can of course link your cell phone number to the token number, and design a system that sends you a message two numbers before yours.

Depending on the total number of guests expected over a finite number of hours, folks can decide on he optimum quantity  of token numbers on display at any given time above the dais.

Wedding planners will have various types of Apps they will offer for streamlining the "Meet the couple" token system.

As an example of what limits one may go to, chips can be embedded in the grooms mojris or shoes, that simply turn the token-no display completely off, once he , along with the bride, descends the stage , via the exit ramp, to finally go home. 

I mean, the sky is the limit. 

But then, I look at the people in my bank branch today, sitting with tokens and troubled expressions, in chairs arranged wedding-reception style, waiting for hours, because the number of open windows are not enough. And sometimes, the person that you wish to meet, suddenly gets up, and goes away,  the minute you reach the window. 

No bank has folks going around offering cold drinks to clients, or even nice chilled water. Some banks do that for "preferred" customers, but we are talking about those who check their passbooks again and again, out of habit.

Maybe ,as a quid pro quid,  they, the banks,  can learn something from weddings as they are held today, .

Have round glass tables for people to sit and wait at. Keep Bisleri bottles at the centre.  Along with some decent glasses.   And small counters on each table that display the current token number being processed.  Instead of folks going around with cold drinks, have bank assistants going around asking folks what work they have come for, and guide them to the appropriate person, in or outside the window.

The possibilities are endless.  The sky is the limit, for services. 

But somehow, I think the weddings are winning, and the banks are coming a poor second.

Unlike weddings, it isn't very pleasant being welcomed by a tough looking fellow in a uniform, and holding a gun.  Just saying....

   

Understanding PMS : it's not what you think......

(The monsoons have set in properly in Mumbai, and one of the things that makes the otherwise lovely season troublesome and traumatic are the potholes that are a permanent feature of most roads, old and particularly new, and the flooding of roads thanks to the abysmal municipal services related to roads, trash collection and repairs every year. The attitude of the powers, the blatant ignoring of citizens, and the general ethos  of those that purport to rule and manage, and the politics of it all, sometimes gives you a different understanding and view...and just sometimes, a sense of black humor...) 
 
A couple of days ago, a rainy misty diesel and petrol laden evening in Mumbai, saw a massive traffic snarl or jam, on a major road  leading to a World Bank aided, East West arterial road of 10.6 kilometres in North Mumbai.  Vehicles that normally covered the distance from a suburb to this arterial road in 15 minutes , now stood stationery, and managed it in 1 hour and 15 minutes.  Those in open vehicles like 3 wheeler autos, and bikes,  ended up inhaling concentrated diesel fumes from trucks sneezing alongside.

 Turns out that a huge pothole had developed in front of a major club on this arterial road, it was filled with water and junk , which had spread across the road, and traffic had slowed down.  And even come to a standstill. 

 Did this pothole happen overnight ? No.  Did no one notice it earlier ? I guess folks just kept quiet.  Was anything done about this ? No.  Was it rocket science to cordon off the spot, and do some basic filling before things got out of hand ?  Probably. Because nothing was done.


Ah....PMS.

No. It isn't what you think.  I am way beyond that.  We are not talking of any syndromes and stuff.

But this is PMS or the Pothole Management System.

Which is not to say that potholes, and or their management  on the roads on Mumbai did not exist before.  On second thoughts, the potholes were always there, I am just not sure about the management.   But now that it is downright insulting in this day and age, in the 21st century, not to have computerized anything , the powers that be decided to computerize the pothole management. Hence the PMS.

Folks were supposed to upload pictures of potholes, and the authorities were supposed to rush and fill them. And maybe put up a picture of the filled pothole , I don't know. 

What no one realized was  the in-between steps.

Because there are many facets to this .  And stupid me, I simply wallowed in my monsoon ignorance.

First of all it was impossible to click pictures of the pothole, with the vehicles covering it, and the rest of them splashing muddy water  on whoever was clicking.

Whenever there is a calamity, and never mind the magnitude,  the management never rushes in , in a hurry.  That is done by the roadside folks, sometimes by some concerned cops, and sometimes by folks whose vehicles are stuck and stranded there.

You must identify the pothole place.  Then the municipal ward. You then figure out whether it is represented by a ruling party person or someone else, and decide your official attitude (OA).

The big bosses , sometimes also the leading lights , then decide to come on a fact finding mission.  Beaconed cars might be requisitioned.  Led by some police jeeps, and followed by police jeeps, a first aid vehicle in addition, in case one of the worthies twists a limb trying to step here and there. Traffic police cordon off areas with flimsy red and white ribbons, empty tar drums, and recently found manhole covers from some other place. Stationing a mini concrete mixer there is supposed to be the height of creativity.

 Of course there are also folks from friendly media , who take close ups of great folks looking suitably serious , traumatized, and  peering through windows as assistants point out the problems, even getting 2 square centimetres of their exalted footwear dirty near the aforesaid pothole, as they bravely step out of their special vehicles.  An entire gaggle of folks with hands clasped at the back, walk around pointing at things.

The plan of action is decided one day later.  Trusted contractors are contacted.  Someone who has clicked the pothole on this official trip quietly uploads it on the PMS.   Staff is yanked away from some other pothole filling site, and allocated to this one. There is a safari suited guy holding a diary amidst all the workers. Ensuring the "mix" of the filling. And he is constantly on the phone.

By and by the work is done.  Several municipal vehicles arrive every now and then  depositing fellows who come and have a look, speak on phones and nod.  The cordoning off is still on.  Various large vans act pushy wild in their 4-wheel attitude, as the road narrows, and scrape past little Nanos and Santros .

The following day sees a set of trucks and tempos arriving with bamboos, tarpaulins and rope. A pandal is to be erected.   A stage, a bunch of red velvet chairs. A couple of banners ; sorry several banners proclaiming the everlasting gratitude  of party functionaries towards the powerful satraps.

Folks in abnormal spotless white terribly at variance with what is perceived by the hoi polloi. Microphones, speeches, applause. Cutting of ribbons around the pothole.  Actually, some worthy will inaugurate the hopeful absence of something : a pothole.

Tea. Marie biscuits. Samosas.

It rains cats and dogs outside the pandal.  Someone takes a photograph of he pothole, only to realize that it isn't there. A patch of cement in closeup is clicked. Uploaded on PMS. No one will ever know.

By and by the power folks return to their life of eternal sanctioning of things in the office. The pandal is dismantled.  Next day, the traffic zooms across the said road, over the aforesaid pothole area,  kind of hurting the cement molecules.

For the pothole, the holiday is over.  It is time to face the music...err rain,junk,and screeching rubber tyres, heaving under the weight of trucks and cars.     

I am just curious about one thing.

This arterial road, widely praised and cursed at the same time, is still called the Link road defined by its origin and destination.    Strangely , one doesn't see a political tussle going on about naming this road.  After someone exalted .  After whom so many things are named in Mumbai.

Surprising. And kind of sad.

I was hoping they would have a grand naming ceremony . I would have tolerated all the cordoning of roads, pandals, and blinding banners . The powerful types would cut a ribbon and drive across the entire 10.6 kilometres  without any peaks and troughs.

Because someone, would have, by  then fixed ALL the potholes on this road , at least for this season.

And then I would drive home, on another rainy misty evening.  Turn on to the arterial road.  Enjoying the green that dots part of its landscape, and the blue of the water that happens later.

I want to cross my fingers, but I cant, as I am driving.  Would have loved to touch wood too. A bit difficult inside the car.

Hmm. Figures. 
  

   



      

In Death : The Gift of Life

We are a strange people.

We are born with stuff,  our DNA, and the Almighty gives us.  Then we spend a lifetime, trying to improve upon the original, because someone somewhere keeps bombarding us with  methods of improvement , so we can fall in line with what someone else  decides , is the norm. So many go under the knife to change their God given attributes to man defined standards, with the least concern for the cutting, stitching and chemical treatments.

 It isn't that you couldn't breathe, but noses suddenly look straighter;  your hearty laugh is now augmented by a man-made dimple, and a worried forehead suddenly looks smoother, with the worries intact. And renovations below the neck are simply too many to enumerate.

It's all about taking in and grabbing for yourself. For someone that prefers to install all kinds of chemicals and structures in the body to enhance appearance, you make yourself scarce around blood donation events, even though they happen with the best facilities and most scientific methods and care, because who knows what is on the tip of the disposable needle?  Similar to the one they used to give you Botox ? Never mind. The sight of blood stuns you, and the idea of giving it to someone else impoverishes you. Someone tells you you need to take leave for 3 days after blood donations (to recoup your precious blood) and you believe that and excuse yourself, despite knowing someone who went to work directly from the blood donation camp. Never mind.

We continue this even in death, by abhorring and spreading myths about things like eye donations, and skin donations.

Yes, we are a strange people. Particularly my generation. Because we have too many facetious choices and we abuse them.

The older generation to mine, lived differently.  They accepted the way they were born and made the best of it. They were comfortable in their own skins. When society changed, they judiciously  partook of somethings that would benefit them, and would be useful for future generations. Unlike us,  they did not run after the herd. They had an ability to ignore superficial and facetious changes. The entire spectrum of societal change across which they lived their lives was mind boggling.  And they had an amazing ability to pick and choose that which would enable future generations.

Like my parents, who introduced us to the concept of blood donation as students. We knew and observed the various safeguards, and learned to donate at camps conducted under the most rigorous and safe conditions, without getting hyper about things.  Today , my children , donate blood, according to specified rules, in consultation with our family doctor, almost every year or more.  

Like an aunt of mine who recently passed away. Her husband was an educationist and professor who taught college for years in one of the smaller towns in Maharashtra. He passed away when her 3 daughters were very young, and she soon shifted to Pune to be amidst relatives and  ensure a good education and opportunities for the daughters. Her strength was her belief in her self and the values she had. She faced all kinds of calamities like the Pune floods in 1961 when the Panshet Dam burst, and water came rushing in torrents to her doorstep and inside. Except for the youngest, the other daughters were at school, and unable to reach home. She handled this all alone.  The daughters were all academically excellent, and she encouraged them in their postgraduate studies in the face of advice from some that told her that she was missing out on good marriage prospects for her daughters.  This was not easy in those days.  It so happened that all 3 of her daughters today excel in their chosen professions, and have found their own life partners. She was a proud mother in her old age, watching her daughters, one a gynaecologist, another a chartered accountant with her own practice and another who is a doctorate and works with a leading NGO. All happily encouraged by their respective husbands.

The older generation had a great sense of importance about giving.  You celebrated your own sense of well being and comfort by ensuring that you changed lives of a few by helping those in need. With medical help. With fees. With the cost of textbooks and implements they needed. With recommendations to others.

She was bedridden for a few months, mentally very active though physically not so good. Last week , one early morning, she quietly faded away, leaving 3 distraught girls.  In the midst of their sorrow, they remembered to do something their mother would have appreciated.

They donated her eyes to an Eye Bank, and skin portions to a Skin Bank. 

This post is being written, not just to applaud this, but to highlight and emphasize, to those that are interested, the technicalities.

There  is no disfigurement of the departed.  You must call the authorities within 6 hours of the death.  I have myself had this experience when we had occasion to donate he eyes of my late parents and in laws.

The personnel  come very respectfully with their implements and stuff in a bag. They work behind closed doors for a short time, and  walk out again, quietly, getting you to fill the donor's details on a form. When you see the departed person again,  there is no sign of any surgery etc.

I now understand that skin banks operate much the same way. The medical personnel arrive , and work behind closed doors.  Whatever skin excisions are done, are perfectly bandaged , and are often under areas covered normally by the clothes.

It isn't just enough to sign forms  in your lifetime to declare your intentions. You must sensitize your offspring regarding that.  So that , even in traumatic family times, these wishes are remembered.  If the donation happens in the premises of a very large general hospital as happened in my late mother's case, it is possible, that a needy person shortly gets the gift of sight.  (We were informed about this, by letter, a few days later, without breaking any confidentialities).

Eye banks have been around for a long time, but skin banks are a more recent phenomenon.  Dr Madhuri Gore, then Head of Surgery and specializing in burns treatments  at the LTMG Hospital in Mumbai, started the first Skin Bank . There is now another one in Pune at Surya Hospital.  So many lives of unfortunate women  burn victims, and accident victims have been saved because of the availability of skin banks.

Efforts are now on, so that families of the departed can now call a single number (instead of keeping track of separate agencies) and donate.                 

 I wish some corporates as part of their CSR,  arrange to show stuff on television, small clips about blood and organ donation, on a regular basis to educate and sensitize folks. 

I know it is difficult, in the face of Fair, Lovely, White, Straight, Soft , Silky, Good-smelling, fast driving, roaring  stuff, that we are bombarded with day in and day out.

But giving someone unfortunate a new useful life, would be the ultimate tribute to someone who has left you after teaching you so much ......    

         

iCALL, uTALK , weHELP.....

50 years ago, we had never heard of "counseling". 

Because it was an integral part of the way we lived.  Where not just the family but extended family  took interest in you and were available to give advice, when you asked.  Not as any kind of special thing, but as a part of life.  Deviations in behaviour , health changes, influences of friends, scholastic shortfalls,  et al were quietly noted, and solutions tried. A kind of seamless continuous counseling, without calling it that.

Today, things are expensive, there is competition in every sphere because the population outnumbers the resources.  Families have tended towards being nuclear, and unlike my childhood,  there are fewer people a child can turn to.  Tolerance has gone for a toss,  violence has increased in all spheres,  and education has almost become a business.  Women are at the forefront in many spheres, but  attitudes of society have not been able to keep up with the speed.  And so, when some worrisome change or shortfall is noted in a member of a family,  one approaches a "counselor".

Two stories.

The first concerns a young girl in eighth grade, who was an excellent swimmer, gregarious and fun loving, with lots of friends and a stable family;  but she took her time making new friends and basically opening up to anyone she didn't know. Her school announced the facility of a counselor visit on a regular basis, and for some reason, all the kids in the class, were scheduled for a one on one with the counselor lady.   A few days later, the girl's mother gets a note asking her to see the counselor.

Serious faces, looking at bulleted points on a paper, the mother was told, that the girl was averse to answering, she kept to herself, etc etc , and was showing signs of depression, and needed therapy.  The mother's jaw dropped. She disagreed completely with the lady.  If there was anyone who was opposite of depressed , it was her daughter. The daughter tended to be instinctive and open in her reactions to things, and tended not to go into a shell at all.  She probably didn't open up and feel comfortable with someone who was asking her questions which she thought were irrelevant.  The mother returned home, forgot all about the counselor lady , and the daughter has never had a depressed day in her life.  It is worth noting that the counselor lady , shortly thereafter, went on to register for  a doctorate in her subject.

The second story is about a mother who noticed  her daughter facing scholastic/learning problems in high school.   Things went from bad to worse, in a system, that was designed to make smart students smarter, and the rest of them be damned.  The mother went to meet the headmistress who was a very enlightened lady. The headmistress asked for a few days to look into this perceived problem, and to be able to get input from the various teachers.  Turned out that she had a problem with mathematics and physics etc.  The headmistress asked the mother if the family had any compulsion about making the child do maths. The mother said , no, they did not.  And they were then advised Open Schooling via the National Institute of Open Schooling (NIOS Board) which has been around for 25 years, as a Government Initiative. The daughter was evaluated, and she did her  matriculation/plus twos etc in an excellent manner, choosing liberal arts and commerce and computer  subjects. She has no problem with need based math,  and he went on to do a Bachelors in Arts and today works as an animator.         

And so today, one must differentiate between good and bad counseling.  Counseling is not something you go for,  for shoving your own responsibility on some one else. A certain degree in a certain subject does not make you a counselor. It has to be watered and strengthened , with lots of empathy, communication excellence, painstaking listening ability, and an understanding of the roots of the person who is coming for counseling.  Sometimes , it helps if someone anonymously listens to your problem, instead of face to face. And this is where helplines and call lines come into the picture.  Where folks are waiting to listen talk, and give you helpful information, guidance  and encouragement.

And this brings me to the latest ongoing field action project initiated  at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai, which is the first School of Social Work to have started in India, and even today, remains a center of excellence.  

 iCALL (initiating Concern for All)

 iCALL is a helpline set up   bearing in mind the the scarcity of mental health services and paucity of trained and supervised professionals which have been fundamental barriers in the progress of the spread of mental health services in India.

Given the fact that cell phones have reached today, where electricity, health care,drinking water and paved roads have not,  it makes sense to have immediate, anonymous, non-judgmental and confidential support available to someone who is troubled.   It is also possible that those seeking help could be guided to professional knowledge and service resources in their area.

 These helplines are handled by Masters qualified psychologists who work full time with iCall, and have undergone special training.

What kind of problems are these folks equipped to  handle ?  iCall's counselors are equipped to deal with a wide range of issues ranging from relationship issues, marital discord, domestic violence, sexual violence, exam related anxiety, substance abuse and deaddiction, phobias, depression, loneliness, suicidal ideation, stress at the workplace, LGBT issues etc.

Those wishing to contact,   iCALL can be reached at 022-25563291 from Monday to Saturday between 11AM and 10PM. They can also be reached on mail at icall@tiss.edu  

iCALL will soon be  24/7 accessible  and  will have a national access number.  

Someone I know, one of their star prize winning old students,  is leading this effort at his alma mater.  I wish this effort great success and may it bring a lot of succour to troubled minds.....

Review of "Shoes of the Dead" by Kota Neelima

I received this book for review as part of the Blogadda BookReviews Program. It is a hardcover book , first published in Rainlight by Rupa (2013).

The author, Kota Neelima, is basically a journalist working both as an editor with the Sunday Guardian and as a Research Fellow for South Asia Studies, at John Hopkins University in Washington DC.

She has handled a subject unique to our times. Farmer Suicides. Inaccurate weather forecasting, unpreparedness, bad monsoons, failed crops,  famines, have been a perennial worry.  Over the last several decades, migration of land tillers to cities, for jobs, to bring food to their families, has been a recurrent story.   But what makes these stories today even more shameless, is the politics of greed and power garnering that plays out in "places of plenty"  .

Sudhakar Bhadra, a farmer from the Gopur Village , commits suicide , leaving behind a widow and two small children. Sudhakar's brother, Gangiri, who has actually left the village earlier to work elsewhere, returns, and decides to fight for justice for his brother's family.

Why justice  ?

Because, the widow is supposed to get a compensation.  And whether she gets it or not, depends on how many people claim their real or virtual pound of flesh from it.

The Secretary of The Democratic Party (DP) in Delhi, whose son, Keyur Kashinath, is an elected MP from the Mityala constituency that includes the Gopur village. The fact that there is a politically motivated district committee that is supposed to certify deaths as  suicides either due to farming shortfalls  or  individual vices.  The fact that local moneylenders have a vested interest in the widow being refused compensation, so they can then usurp her land.  The village, Panchayat head, who has political aspirations, and family ambitions, who wants some industries to happen in his area, for personal benefit. The MP, who is disturbed because so many farmer suicides being reported from his constituency, troubles the high command, and he must face the consequences.  The shameless way by which bank managers, and government hospital doctors are co-opted into the sham meetings, that do not certify these deaths as farming suicides.

Gangiri, decides to fight this. It is his luck, that he is aided in this by  a fearless Delhi journalist, and a  lady social science researcher in one of the capital's elite think tanks.  It is another story, that the lady researcher is married to an industrialist with interests in the region that Gangiri hails from.

It is a story of how power corrupts the mind; how so many in positions of power really need to learn how India lives in the hinterland;  a story of bossism , gundagiri and personal power in rural areas; a story of the real facts being hidden from those who come to investigate; the story of how Gangiri with his native intelligence, and knowledge about his village personages and professionals, is able to get the suicide committee to give more honest judgements.

And how, when it came to his own little nephew's health deterioration, he could run around, and  get the doctors to check, but had to beg for money for medicines he needed to buy. To the same folks he fought earlier.

The story comes full circle. 

The book is a story of what actually happens in rural areas. The insult, the trauma, the suffering, the helplessness of those directly affected, and the fearlessness, straight talk, telling-it-like-it-is-and-was  of the women who were left to pick up the pieces.

We've seen the Lutyen's part of the story, daily in newspapers. The MP visits, the news bytes, the press conferences in starched white kurtas, and starched whiter lies. The announcement of waivers of loans. Vote bank politics

This book tells us what really happens. The author has researched very well, and the results are shocking.

Politicians not only steal you blind in life, they also steal you blind in death.

A very good read.

    

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

Jodi of the Year : Lady Bat and Lord Ball...

 

Sometimes,  you get ridiculed for your cricket knowledge.  Sometimes, some think you don't even deserve an answer. Maybe just a glare ?

You think the place is now full of silly points,  and  guys slinking away into gullies to hide.  The expert commentaries fall silent.  Bumpers being bowled everyday on the News.  Some weakly defend. Some verbally slash. 

 Tests, one days, 50 overs, twenty overs, IPL;  that apparently is the new smart vocabulary.  The staid and proper game of cricket , with its glorious uncertainties, has now become a hoop-la Big Fat Indian Game, complete with dancers, lights, Page 3  turners , and  there is an entire set of folks who make money out of the statistics of certain certainties. 

The greats of the game, appear gagged by those for whom they speak and play.  Those that order special enquiries at the drop of the hat,  look the other way.  The public that pays in time and money for these  events feels foolish about holding their breath over a game whose outcome was known in the first place. 

I just wondered what the two main stars, the Bat and the Ball ,  actually thought.....

 

Born of a willowy mother
in the Kashmir valley,
she grew up
in the shade of
a veil of leaves,
descending down around her
as if to
protect her innocence
as she imbibed,
by observation
and practice
some tough grains of life.

Statuesque,
stately,
polished,
waxed protectively
at the ends,
and with facials by Linseed
she aged well
and became
an outstanding Bat of her times
with the aid of some
helpful handles,
and a firm grip on things.

He , born a Ball,
of Tehsil Cork,
in Meerut,
grew up
in the little alleys,
a disinterested flat fellow,
suddenly hammered into
a well rounded personality,
hung out to dry
and learned to face
the elements.

A protective
fine leather cover,
tailored just so,
skin hugging
above a tight wrapping
with affectionate wool rope
with the necessary 6 seams
running across
a blood red central midriff.

They would meet often
and
he and she would
actually indulge
in a fling.

Sometimes, she would
with a great sense of humor
reply in kind;
sometimes,
she would flick him away
and he would pretend
to race
to the boundaries
of his imagination;
sometimes ,
she would actually duck
and miss
allowing him
to spend some time
with the fellows
who always stood behind her;
and sometimes
she would gloat
as she saw him go sky high,
sometimes to get caught !

Proudly walking out
with the openers,
the entire stadium applauding,
and she would watch
in great anticipation,
as he twisted,
got scratched and spat on
and even oiled
as he pirouetted
in some magical fingers,
before taking off to meet her
in a magical arc

But alas.
Like in Bollywood,
there is a villain in the story.

Someone
who fills ideas
in the mind of Mr Ball....
saying
"Look!
She spends
so much time
with other fellows
in the Kit bag,
you need
to divert yourself
away from where she waits for you,
and doesn't matter
if she still scores.

No need to
always fall at her feet;
its OK to bounce up once in a while,
and never mind
if you get swept off
so long as you properly fall
into some one's hands".

Its difficult for Mr Ball
but he has no choice.
Some folks
simply cannot tolerate
the Pitch magic,
and the Howzzat band
that always plays,
when he and the Bat lady meet.

Life has become difficult.
Instead
of feeling secure
with the players paraphernalia,
and chit chats with
the pointy stumped fellows,
back in the pavilion,
they both get flung into a corner
as some folks immediately
get on their phones.

Folks don't realize
that Mr Ball and The Bat lady
both have ears,
and have some
sensational stuff in hand.

A lifetime
of being friends,
they want
to now spend their days together,
perhaps watching from the pavilion,
or even
being on the field
when
Rahul and Sachin play.

What do you do
when the villain
continues to misguide ?

Mr Ball, and the Bat lady,
watching
the field violence,
erroneous fingers up,
glares, bad mouthing,
towels used to signal
rather than clean....

Perhaps.
It is time
to return
to the Willow Woods
via Meerut..