tranSviews

Erukalamma – (basket weaver)

2011-09-08T10:07:00.000-07:00

‘Ammagaru’, I heard a voice from outside. I went to see it was the woman who lives a few houses away from mine – with her bent torso, white hair, skinny figure, I keep wondering if she is about to fall. ‘I got you your basket’, she said holding out a mid sized basket – nice, well woven and strong – ‘you said you wanted some baskets for storing your seeds no?’ ‘Yes, but what about a lid?’ ‘in the western country, they used these to store seeds, you have to apply cow-dung paste on the outside to keep away the insects”…she rambled on. I don’t remember her name, though I spoke to her many times. She came once asking for green gram. ‘Can you give me some pesarlu?’ ‘You will have to pay for it, I said, unsure if she could pay or if she was expecting a freebee’. Though mostly I wouldn’t have bothered about giving away, my earlier experiences in the village, with people trying to cheat me at every step thinking I am a richie rich, kind of made me very adamant about certain issues. Not that I would lose much if I give away, but somehow, a bug was inside my head – to not dish out anything for free. ‘Yes, I will pay you’. A bit of bargaining ensued – ‘how much’, ‘I am selling at 90 rupees a kilo in the city’. ‘Oh, then I will take it from the potter’s uncle, he is selling at 60 only, but do give me some black gram’. ‘Okay. At the price I am selling may be you cannot afford, take half a kilo”. She took it and left.

I met her again sometime later at Jangaiah’s tea shop; she was sitting on the floor. ‘Will you have some tea?’ I asked her. ‘Yes’. Later many times she would repeat about my kindness for the offering of that tea. Each time I would pass by she would ask, ‘has your mother come?’ I would reply in the negative. ‘I asked her for an old sari, she said she would give me, I will make a ‘chinna butti’ (small basket) for you in exchange. I was embarrassed – any basket takes up a lot of work – splitting the bamboo sticks and then weaving the stiff strips into a basket is a lot of work – and to do that for an old sari! ‘Oh, that’s okay, not needed’. I told her. The next time, my mother was in the village, she arrived, shivering heavily, with a little basket in her hand. Mother called her in, and gave her the not so old sari. “Here, please keep this basket’. I asked her, “how much would such a basket be?’ ‘Whatever, don’t bother’. She replied. Mother refused to take it. I said, ‘No, keep it, she doesn’t want to beg’. I asked her, “What happened to you?” “I don’t know. I am not well.” she replied. On further probing and a consultation over phone with my doctor friend, a prescription was arrived at. “Can you give me money to buy the medicine?” she asked. I gave her, “have some tea and buy your medicines”. I could not give her tea, as we had no milk. I asked her husband a few days later about her, ‘Don’t know how she is. Soon after she went to her sister’s place’. Today, I saw her after that day, all bright and sparkling as she always was despite her bent torso. “How much should I pay for this one?’ I asked her. “I will say 100, but will you give me? Pay me 70, if you have money now. Or better still; give me some ‘pesarlu’ when you get the crop’. ‘I will bring you another basket, soon. But you must give me two kilos of Korralu (millets). It’s been a long time; we used to cook with milk and jaggery, when we were roaming in the western country”. So saying, she flashed her smile and left. I walked in, wondering about this barter system.

tranSviews: Unforgettable

2011-08-24T01:33:00.000-07:00

tranSviews: Unforgettable

Unforgettable

2011-08-24T00:34:00.000-07:00

It was after a hectic day full of activity in the sun...a walk in the sand enjoying the spray from the Bay of Bengal was a refreshing change, despite the sweaty clime that makes your clothes cling to you. I was busy looking at the sea, when I turned back to find him approach, Suren. It took him a little over ten minutes to crawl on his hands, the distance of fifty meters or less. I saw his face intent and interested to know about Suren, a certain foreign face, with his wrinkled white skin and grizzly beard and khadi clothes. I saw the boy and Suren trying to strike a conversation, it was certainly a moment to capture. My second photo was not as candid, as the boy became conscious of the camera in the distance. Giving up, I joined them. "Where did you go today?" he asked me, I mentioned the name of the village where we had gone for our anti-nuclear cycle rally. "I was there in the school that day, when you came," "Yes, you have a good school; your teachers are also very good". I replied. "Who is he?" he asked me pointing to Suren. "My grandfather." I replied. "He doesn't speak Telugu?" "No". "What does he do?" "He is a scientist". 'You said, nuclear is dangerous, but don't you think, it’s good for our electricity?" he asked. Then ensued, a long discussion on the merits and demerits of nuclear power. Soon, his friends joined him.

I thought later, it would have been a beautiful picture, just that I was too engrossed in the discussion to take a photo of Suren with the boys. I looked at the sand; it had black streaks and red streaks. "Is this Thorium by any chance?" I asked Suren, they are trying for a lot of beach sand mining in this district". "Could be, or it could be iron also". "I saw a film about Kanyakumari, the sand mining for Thorium has rendered many local people with genetic deformities. Could it be the case here also?" "Can't say." Suren replied. "Were you born like this or did you get this later on?" I asked the boy. "No, no, this is polio, I was okay until I was five, then I got this". "How many people are like this in your village?” "About ten of us, in the small hamlet and ten in the big hamlet, about half of us have been born with it and rest like me got it later", he replied. "This could be then a case of radiation impacts...isn't it: nearly ten in a population of less than 5,000?" "Hmm. possible, but someone has to do a study”, was Suren's reply. "If you get a nuclear plant here, there will be more people like you here", I told the boy. He nodded in comprehension. "Then we must stop it at all costs". "Tell him he can manage to walk with a Jaipur Foot", Suren said. I explained about the Jaipur foot to the boy. "Ha, yes, I know about it, but someone told my parents, I will die if I use that, so they didn't get me one!" "Speak to your parents, and call me, we'll get you a Jaipur foot, there are people in Hyderabad, who will sponsor for you". As we got up and turned to go, he called out, "Won't you say bye to me?" I could only smile and wave back to him. "Come again". He smiled back - one of the happiest smiles I have ever come across. No sign of any sense of remorse or regret.

Grey and Green

2011-04-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

04^th April 2011

Grey and Green

Airports: something about them is so impersonal yet there is this feeling of belonging somewhere; a strumming of activity as things go on smoothly and without a sound or with minimal sound. No one seems to talk to nobody. Some people busy on their phones, some with their laptops, each one looking, at a key pad, a mobile screen or a computer screen. Or perhaps, just sipping coffee or biting into a snack. Larger airports with less people give a feeling of space, and a sense of belonging, especially in a foreign country where you have to deal with the unknown once you are out. An odd sense of belonging even if only for a short while. Here, you have someone to depend on and someone to help you, that is, only if one has a valid ticket to somewhere. One cannot loiter around aimlessly without a valid ticket the way we can do on railway platforms with just a three rupee platform ticket, or sometimes, if you are lucky to hoodwink the TT, without one. One cannot boisterously, shout out at someone, or spit or rant rabidly the way we can do in our railway stations. Here, even the most unruly people seem to behave in a disciplined manner. Check-in, security, baggage claims, arrivals, departures, traveling by plane is always such a big story. But something is amiss, in the older hyderabadi airport, which was still the noisy, boisterous place, for every passenger traveling, there would be 20 people saying good byes. The way they do at train stations. But since this new swanky airport with all its big glass and chrome structure has come up some 40 kilometers outside the city, going all the way to see off relatives has become a big issue. People would still have come, but for the rules of not allowing visitors inside the premises. And then after paying through your nose for the travel to the airport shelling out a hundred each for just a few last looks inside the gate is just not a great idea in these days of skyrocketing cost of living. So, it is thus, that while people did their best to continue the tradition of saying their final good byes in big strong crowds, after a few hassled trips all the way and then burning a hole in ones’ pockets, people now just say their good byes at home, and let the taxi guy do the final bye-byes. So, sitting under the gigantic grey roof of the new airport, with its spick and span interiors and exteriors, one begins to wonder if indeed this is Hyderabad. The airport of Hyderabad was a landmark, bang in the centre of the city. With its ugly ramp and yellow government buildings, pan stains on the stairways, it had its draw backs, but then it seemed like Hyderabad, the city and its culture extended even inside the airport. The new airport is a different place, disconnected with the outside, dimembered from the city and looking like every other airport of the world, all grey, chrome and steel. As, I look at the grey granite flooring I wonder about the rocks of Hyderabad, that must have transformed from their ethereal characters into this nameless, faceless entity called flooring that looks as grey as the walls. The plants hanging from here and there, remind us of the “green” tag given to this place, but they also remain as vestiges of the lush green villages which were erased to make this concrete and steel monolith structure. A world of cockerel calls, cow bells and shepherds’ song now replaced by piped music and flight announcements from sound systems.

Perceptions

2010-11-29T09:43:00.000-08:00

At first it was an ideal, later there was self-doubt, but finally, I feel there is nothing else I would do. My decision to hang my boots and just sustain myself on farming, was not an easy one. It feels romantic, but its the toughest job on earth, especially in these days of paying through your nose for almost everything. But every challenge throws up new ideas. And that's the beauty.

Would I be able to break even? Will I be able to sustain? Can't say. Sustain I hope to, in a couple of years. Strange questions come up from friends and folks - "suppose if you invest one lakh how much can you make?" asked a cousin. Can't blame him, coming as he does from a banking background. Another question, "Will there be good future in this line?" He earns big money in the once-booming SW industry...another friend when he heard of my decision remarked, "yeah, agriculture is going to be the next booming industry"...or some such thing...strange - comparing farming to industry! But I suppose the GDP led world of today, can only speak in those terms - so, it seems a crazy idea to everyone...and even to me at times...Yet, when I sit and think about it, my body and mind refuse to do anything but working on the land. While all 'common sense' would have told me to continue to make films and get the pats on the back...I seemed to be 'rooted' so to speak to my land. Like this inexplicable love for India, for the earth and all things concerning the earth, which made me give up on a life of glam and glitter...would I regret that, at some time down the line? These thoughts come from time to time, but when I get out of my one room house and see mud and not marble flooring, and the moon and stars shining clear, in a silent sky, when the only din is from bird calls, nothing else matters...reminds me of a short poem I wrote some years ago, when I was sitting on the banks of Koyna river, on an inky black night with the stars shining down on a village that has never seen electricity...

Silence is speech,

Words are silent,

Wind whispers words.

No desire for speech,

No thoughts to crowd,

No necessities,

In twilight zone

In the land of Gandhi

2010-10-04T00:45:00.000-07:00

I was on my way to the land of Gandhi. The train was full of his countrymen or may be I should say women. The sounds of choo and che, filled the air with the gujju flavour: literally. Since the train moved until the time I got down, I was surrounded by the crunching sounds of khakras and murmura. The chaiwallahs too had a busy time. I was offered tea, but the plastic cup sort of deterred my intent to accept. They were very hospitable people, but looking at them closely, with their orange and red dots on their foreheads, I wondered, could these women have been among those who supported the rape and murder of other women from their home state, only because they were born in the "other" community? The ones sitting across me were old folks, there was a larger group of large women – most of them wearing kurtas, could be a generation younger than these red dot women, symbolizing the progressive gujju lady. I once met a lady from Gujarat way back in 2001 I think, in a bus somewhere in Maharashtra, who boasted of the empowered gujarati woman. She herself was running two businesses. Quite a few gujju ladies have made their mark in the world of large corporations too. But how can one forget the fact, that it was the well-heeled that looted and aided in the murder of the innocents during the gujerat progrom? I wanted to ask those sitting across me, what they thought of what happened in 2002, but could not bring myself to ask the question. Would they say, the other side deserved it for its past mistakes? How does one weigh someone’s guilt? And say, since you did this, this and this, you deserve this, this and that? Does any kind of guilt by a particular community deserve the innocents of the same community to be butchered, and raped and burnt in the most inhuman fashion by others? I don’t know, I cannot digest these things ever. There was a north eastern man sitting across by the side window. For some reason the police searched his bag soon after he got in the train. During the night I found the light being kept on, and one of the gujju ladies was sleeping on the floor by the side of her luggage, instead of the berth. I told her to switch off the lights, she said, “he (the NE man) was taken by the police for some time. God knows, what he is like. So we kept the lights on”. For a minute I was almost siding with her, and then I remembered the ways of the police in these days. Arresting and killing innocents as it suited them. I told her, don’t worry, it would be fine and switched off the lights. But once again my thoughts went back to 2002, when women like these must have been silent while other women were being killed as the police looked on. Does it ever occur to them? I don’t know. I was coming to Gujarat almost after 8 years. I was there just two months before the Gujarat carnage happened. I could sense the under currents back then, but didn’t realize it would result in the mayhem of March 2002. I was in Kutch, making short films. One day I went to Khawda, close to the Pakistani border, and was back in Bhuj by evening. There were curious questions from the locals, “how is it over there? Are the people good?” questions like these abounded. I was a bit taken aback since Khawda was at most a couple of hundred kilometers if not less. And people in Bhuj, felt as if I had visited an alien land. Strange it seemed at first. But I should have guessed. Post quake reconstruction; funds were used to expand the gap between the two communities. A village like Damadka, which was a mixed community village now split into two, the block printers of Damadka, mainly Muslims, were leaving the village to make their own village - Azrakpur. Their neighbours were saddened to see them go – since both communities work was interlinked. On my repeated questioning, no one gave me a straight forward answer as to why the block printers were leaving the village. A few weeks earlier to that, when I was researching for the films, I had to wait at the tea shop in Khawda, for my bus. While chatting with the local man, a big burly pathan, I talked about my work and said, I came to cover the work of an NGO that was helping the rural women market their handicrafts. “They are only helping their people, they don’t help us”. At that point, I thought he meant that the NGO was helping only those in their women’s groups. “Your women should join the groups I think”, I told him. “Nah. Even if our women go, they are not welcome”, was his reply. I wasn’t sure if he was being angry about people or if indeed there was a genuine grievance.

For our shoot, I hired a vehicle to take the crew around. Our driver, (I think his name was Yusuf), told me that I reminded him of singer Phalguni Pathak. His boss was also with us on the first day. It was the time of Ramzaan, I asked the boss (forget his name), “Aren’t you going to give us shir khorma?” “Of course”, he replied. On the day when we were leaving he brought a huge carrier of food. His sister was with him. As she walked in, I could see the sense of shock on her face. And then she burst out laughing. I didn’t understand. “They told me that their client was Falguni Pathak and I was expecting to see her. I am a huge, huge fan of hers!” she continued. We chatted for a while and they left. During my stay there one day, Yousuf was late and we got delayed for our shoot. I lost my cool. Later, while it was time for us to go, I apologized to him, “that’s’ okay madam, it was my fault.” Other than that, the four days shooting trip was a most enjoyable and memorable one for me, with Yusuf filling us with stories about Kutch on our long drives through the beautiful arid land.

Two months later, while news flashed on TV about Godhra and the riots that followed, and my friends in Mumbai were saying that it was about time to teach a lesson to “them”, and that it was “well-deserved” I wondered what happened to my friend Yusuf, his boss and his sister. I wonder if they are still alive and if so, are they able to survive? I don’t know and can’t find out, since, it’s been a long time, and I don’t have their address either to find out.

Like those many years ago, as I landed in Surat, today too, things just seemed to be “normal”. “In Surat, its okay, but in Ahmedabad and Kutch the situation (of hate) is the same if not worse”, Suren my friend said on my enquiry. He had adopted two boys who lost their parents during the rioting in 2002. The boys seem normal, but, no amount of healing could make them accept Suren and Uma as their first family. They were old enough (6 and 9) at that time not to forget the past. I wonder what the kids must have gone through, seeing what they did at that age. However, when I saw one of them, active and smiling, living and learning work at Suren’s Sampoorna Kranti (school of total revolution), it gave a bit of hope. Only, time can tell.

tranSviews: Yesterday...

2010-06-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

tranSviews: Yesterday...

Yesterday...

2010-06-17T07:13:00.000-07:00

Years after having left the neighbourhood, once again I was walking these streets. Not that I had not visited this place in all these years. Somehow, in the hullabaloo of a rushing life, pausing to stop and look never happened. Or perhaps, it was a fear that one might become nostalgic. But the impulse to see - what remained of the place as it was years ago, struck me. It was the most well planned colony in the entire city, with bungalows, big trees, and roads criss crossing perpendicular to each other, and actually had street numbers. Quite unheard of in Hyderabad. But then this wasn't Hyderabad. It was a city in a city - and had its snob value - perhaps because it was once the residence of the British. And within this twin city, this colony had a greater snob value. You were somebody if you were living there.

Evenings were quiet and perfect to walk in the tree lined streets. Sometimes it was to the water tank in front of St.Anns and some times to Sangeet cinema: a treat never to be missed. For cinema at Sangeet meant sandwiches and cold drinks - an added bonus! Going to Sangeet itself was snob value - it showed only English movies! Night fell soon - by 8pm the streets were deserted, no one ventured except for the monkeys, which were in plenty. The State Bank training centre housed in Cricketer Jaisimha's old family home, was a constant for the monkeys - since the Canteen had an open verandah - so food was tasted by them before the guests. Our house with the mango tree branches hanging onto the balcony, was a constant hide out too. Each time we went out, we had to check whether the coast was clear or not. And if they smelled bananas in the house, that's it! Chasing a monkey out without getting scratched can be quite an experience!

The Mrityunjaya temple was a regular hangout for folks - with its breezy peepal trees, old stone walls and rough cut stone floor. Shiv ratri was special with full day rituals - and everyone spent the entire day at the temple. Then, there was the little circulating library on street no: 8, with its "rare" collection of Enid Blytons and Archie's comics and Sydney Sheldons, that was a hit with kids and teenagers.

There was a typical flavour here - of early morning coffee, smells of dosa and smabhar, and chants of muruga and shiva shiva at the temple. Like most places in the twin cities, this place too had its own specific culture. The way, Kacheguda was full of Maharashtrians, and Zeera Gujratis, Marredpally was quintessential Tamil. Name plates would read Janakiraman, Ranganthan, Mudaliar...etc...etc...with zari sareed maamis with jasmine flowered hairdos, flocking the temple early mornings. And then of course there were also people like the corner house Anglo-Indian auntie with her short skirt and shorter hair, a cigarette flashing from her hand, mouthing abuses to the milk man, which was our daily morning alarm. And then people like us, migrants, fresh from a small town in Telengana, finding all this absolutely strange, though we did live in Hyderabad before. But then that was a different Hyderabad. With its Telugu culture and Ganesh pandals, Chikkadpally was way different from Marredpally - as far apart as a C is from M.

But now, there may not be that much difference. The trees that lined the streets are gone, even the big banyan tree in front of St.John's church which marked the entry to the erstwhile Secunderabad Cantonment is now ousted - to make way for a dead politicians bust. At one time, the only busy traffic signal would be near Chikkadpally, but now even Marredpally is full of honking cars and traffic jams. Janakiraman our neighbour's house is now an apartment, though his name plate is still existent, as are many more houses. Yet, some die-hard romantics have retained their old homes. As has Dr.Raghunathan and his small garage clinic - quiet an odd thing in today's corporate hospital culture. The SBH training centre with its huge garden and old mansion has become State Bank Abode - ten storeyed multiple complexes - the beautiful garden that was tended with love and care by Balaiah the garderner, is gone completely. While Sangeet Cinema, a landmark for Secunderabad has finally succumbed to the pressures of commerce - it will soon have a new avatar as a Multiplex.

And what about my house? The little rented upstairs of Mudaliar House? As I walked past Dr. Raghu's clinic, I could see it from behind - it was still a two storeyed place and nicely white washed as well. With a sigh of relief, I turned the corner - "Green Trends" Family Saloon, the board read. On closer examination, I understood it was part of a multi-city chain store. Gone was the mango tree and in its place stood an extended glass front. The compound too was tiled with no soil to be seen. A lone watchman stood guard at the door. I enquired about the owners..."I don't know madam". "We used to live in this house", I told him, unable to hold back my nostalgia. "Oh! they didn't change the house only made some modifications". "Yes, true". "Only there was a mango tree here. Its gone now".

As have the monkeys, I noticed as I sat down on the black granite steps of the Mrityunjaya temple. Here too there have been changes - the entire old stone floor from centuries ago has been removed to make way for polished tiles. The mandapams have been painted blue and orange - they used to be totally white earlier. The navagrahas were sitting under the peepal as usual - only its top was gone - just the big fat trunk remained. Wonder if the devas are worried about the lack of shelter from rain and sun.

"Muruga, Muruga", an old lady in orange silk, was muttering next to me. She was far less bedecked than she would have been some time ago, but her mutterings and the familiar voice of MS Subbalakshmi from the loudspeaker, some how reassured me - may be all is not lost - not yet!

From the land of Khudai Khidmatgars

2010-03-27T22:01:00.001-07:00

It was heartening to see the cheerful and determined faces of the young girls who were all set to "kick the ball" so to speak, in their first ever international football tournament. For many, coming out of the veil and the imposed constrictions of the Talib regime was such a welcome relief that one can see it in their shining eyes. Their coach tells them to cover their heads in front of the Television crews. And some oblige, some don't. A friendly match with a group of women from the "blessers" (as Aziz put it) was a preamble to the upcoming tournament in Islamabad. The girls win, however, their parents are afraid to send them to the tournament if they are going by road, for fear of a backlash by the Taliban. Finally, the coach manages to get some funding for their flight tickets. That the girls came only runners up is not the matter. But what strikes is the number of women football clubs in Pakistan. Ultimately one of the clubs in Pakistan won the tournament. For the afghan girls, its a disappointment, but their folks tell them, its a great feat that they managed to come thus far. Indeed, it seems so, when one sees the archival footage of the Taliban beating up women in Burquas, with their eyes hardly visible and the execution of a woman by Taliban in the same football ground where now the girls practice their game. "Afghan girls can kick", seems like a very "liberating film" as Jai Chandiram put it. Sure, but some thing was disturbing me - the film simply skims the "occupation" part. It doesn't show the "real reason" for the girls to get a blessing from their "occupants". It surely wasn't meant to kick the Taliban out. Interestingly, Azizullah calls them "Blessers".

However, he too had many reservations about the film - "The only image that people think about afghanistan is that of the Taliban. It is not that we became an open society only after 2001. Afghanistan was a very open society even prior to 1996. The Taliban was an accident in History. Yet, the only image shown in media is of Afghanistan a.k.a. Taliban". As I talked to him later, I had one major question, "What do you feel about the American occupation? Don't you see it as unfair that the Americans who created the Taliban in the first place are bombing your country now?' "We are happy to breathe easy. But its not that the Americans created Taliban. You see during the Russian occupation, a totally "godless society" was created. Taliban was a reaction to that other extremist ideology. The Americans saw an opportunity in this and helped the Taliban by supplying arms to them. So, its not totally black and white. But then, we don't like the integration of the Taliban into our society. We want to be away from them." "Is it happening now?" "Yes, since 2001, the process has been started".

"You see you all are living a free life here, but over there, ever 200 meters we see a Tank, sometimes destroyed. That is the state. You can never imagine what it is like. So you all are fortunate that you have so much freedom. But I feel upset with the way everyone associates Afghan people with the Taliban. We are not that. We are peaceful people. But we suffer because of that tag. Why here, we wanted to get a house on rent. We signed the agreement and just when we were about to move in, our landlord said, "sorry, we can't give you for rent". "Where was this?" "In Secunderabad, Tarnaka...its very difficult, the moment they know we are from Afghanistan, they shut the doors on us. Even in shops, they are very cold to us, when they hear that we are from Afghanistan, so when they ask us, where we are from, we end up saying that we are from central Asia - Uzbekistan or Tajikistan". "That's sad, its not just you, I used to see African students being denied places for rent, just because they are black", I added. "That's not their fault isn't it? God made them black. What can they do?" Aziz asked. "How are you treated in the Old City?" "Oh. There it is easier. People say, oh from Afghanistan, Muslim...etc. So the acceptance level is better", Aziz smiled.

"Before the Taliban how was it?" "It was a free society". "But that was during the communist rule, what about it before that?" "We had a democratic society, it was under our king. We had many women leaders who were at the forefront of our freedom struggle." I remembered the story of the Khudai Khidmatgars - Pathans from North West Frontier Province and Afghanistan, who under the influence of Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Gaffar Khan, took to non-violent struggle against the British. That a warrior community has taken to non-violence, is one of the marvels of Indian history that is not truly mentioned in mainstream India.

Paradox

2010-03-16T15:57:00.000-07:00

He came up to talk to me at the photo exhibition on rural India, or should I say, the fast disappearing rural India. 'I am an amateur photographer, I had been taking photos for some time now. But I like the way you were able to get these candid pictures'. I thanked him. 'You know if this was done by a white skinned person, there would have been a lot more applause. You skin colour doesn't fit'. He gave me an understanding smile and continued, 'I was in Switzerland once, and was clicking away to glory, when the man sitting next to me asked me,where I was from. I said, my face should let you know - I am from India. He said, 'then why are you taking photos here, go to your country, you have a treasure out there'.

My new acquaintance continued. 'Just see this, the depth. That is his life - his food, his necessities, and that's the rest...he said, pointing to one of the pictures where a Santhal family was busy cooking their feast for the annual puja. 'Yes, that's true, but all that is going away, getting displaced'. I remarked. He didn't reply, "I really like your pictures, I would like to gift you a couple of my own photos". 'Thank you, what do you do by the way?" I asked him. "I am an energy specialist. I was into Nuclear Energy earlier, was working with the Atomic Energy Department, now I am into Hydro".

"Oh, that's interesting, we are on the opposite sides then", I replied. "You see, actually, Nuclear Industry in India is really very safe. I can explain to you", he said with some consideration. "Definitely, we should discuss, may be some other time, it can be a long discussion." I replied. He gave me his phone number. His name was not common...it was the name of an ancient sage of India...the guru of the Devatas.

He continued looking around, "That one, the natural light is damn good. Look at the way they are all sitting around". "That is a village that will be submerged by the Polavaram Dam. You should know it better, since you are into Hydro electric power", I asked. He didn't respond.

"I like that "go dhuli" (evening, cattle coming home) so typical of Indian villages, those two kids with that little bit of orange makes the difference in that picture..." our man continued. This time I didn't try to bring his focus back - that the "safe" Nuclear energy and his current bread provider - Hydro electric projects are destroying the lives of those very people, whom he was all praise for, or at least, whose life style he adored...or may be it was just a good subject for his photography...can't say.

Interesting that this Dev-guru is actually involved in an industry that is destroying the "Dev Bhumi" - the land of gods: Himalayas - ripping them apart to produce electricity. Electricity which I was using extensively at that time, to bring his focus to such issues, inside a plush art gallery. Electricity, which is needed for our "growth", so that we too may be considered as equals by the "white skinned" people.

Of human bondage

2010-03-08T22:05:00.000-08:00

It was in the Gamla Stan, the old town of Stockholm; the realisation has not really hit me yet. I had lost all my belongings- my luggage was at the hotel, but my purse was lost – all of it gone! Just like that – my money, travellers cheques, passport, insurance papers, credit card, debit card, Eurail pass. I was inside a little curio shop on my last leg of travel in Stockholm city. In an hour, I should be off to catch the ship back to Finland. And when I decided to pay the shop guy for the little statue of the Viking, I suddenly realised something was a miss. I had my little purse inside my pockets, which had about 20 euros and 60 kroners. But the rest of my money and papers were in a bigger purse, which I had been carrying in my hand. It was not to be seen. I thought that may be I left it around on the counter or somewhere in the shop and started looking for it. It was not there. I could not believe it, this couldn’t have happened to me! (How stupid, of course, it happens to so many people every day, just that we don’t imagine ourselves in such situations ever). I still thought I would find it in a few minutes, like many other times when you just misplace things, besides this is Sweden, and one doesn’t expect pick pockets here. The shop keeper looked around, but could not find it anywhere. He just shrugged and asked, “was there any money in it?’ I nodded a yes. “Gone, someone must have stolen it.’ He replied non-chalantly.

I had to do something. I could not be stranded like this, without money or passport. I was more worried about having lost my passport. It was then I decided to do a bit of hysterical act. I had to. This is no Indian town where people might offer you shelter, if you are stranded. This is a white man’s country, where no one bothers about your misfortune, except for offering sympathy may be. I shouted out, “I have to call the police!” I didn’t have much hope in that action, except that if the fellow who stole the purse was in the shop, he might just give it up out of fear. The shop keeper, a Cyrian guy, seemed to hesitate on that. Just then someone walked into the shop and saw the commotion. He began to look for the number of Police and then spoke to me, “Where did you lose it?” “Must have been in the shop, because I had it with me at the time I entered this place! I have to go back to Finland, my ship leaves at 7pm, and I have no passport with me!” My Good Samaritan said, “Where is your baggage?” “At the hotel.” “Please come with me, we will pick up your baggage and then see that you catch your ship”. I was not sure if I should go with this stranger, but I had no other hope. As we sat in the car, the Good Samaritan asked me, “where do you come from?’ I said India. He said, ‘I am Nadeem and this is Asad, my colleague, we come from Pakistan’. My first reaction was, “Oh no, may be I should not trust this person. He could be connected to some racketeer or some such thing”. But since I had not other option, I just got into his car. While driving out he said, “I have a friend in the Swedish police, we can take his help”. At this I felt a bit reassured that our man was a genuine citizen. When we called up the friend, he advised that I make a formal report at the station. I asked him, “Should we look around in the Old town?” Nadeem replied, “No, there is no chance of finding it.’ I was perplexed and could not stop cursing myself for being so careless. “Don’t feel bad about this. These things happen. I had lost my passport and bags in London. And it happened not once, but twice. But in no time, I could get myself a duplicate passport. The first thing is to reach the Viking Line (the shipping company)”. Nadeem reassured me as he helped with my baggage at the hotel. On reaching the Viking Line’s office, I was told that I cannot travel without my passport.

But, the lady at the counter told me she can postpone my ticket without extra charges until I could get my passport and gave me the 24 hour helpline number of the Indian embassy. The official of the embassy said that they could give me an emergency certificate for 140 kroners or a duplicate passport for 1290 kroners, but it had to wait till Monday, since it was Saturday and the embassy did not work during weekends. I thought that may be the embassy official would help fix my problems, waive the fees or at least find out if I need some place to stay till Monday. Nothing of the sort happened. “Just bring your passport photocopy with you along with the police report and you can get a duplicate immediately.” But I had no photocopy of my Passport. “Okay! Bring four photographs and your police report; we will trace your passport with the date of issue”. I nodded a yes, but, I had no money. Worse, my return flight from Helsinki to Frankfurt was scheduled for Monday. What a mess! The Viking Line officer changed my ticket to Monday night, without any charges. That was a blessing. I still had to change my flight tickets from Monday to a later date, which would cost me 50 euros and then my stay for the two nights, and of course my passport expenses. It would cost me quite a bit. Nadeem said, “I will pay for you, don’t worry!’ I said I would ask my friend in Finland to send him the money by transfer and asked him if I could use his phone to call my friend Kirsi. She offered to transfer the money to Nadeem’s account right away and asked me his account number. Nadeem said, “we’ll see later’. Kirsi was worried, “Where will you stay, I hope you are not going to be sleeping on the streets”. I told her that Nadeem offered to find a place for me to stay until I leave Stockholm.

I had to reconcile to the fact that I could not be on my ship back to Finland. I was to stop over in Germany for a few days and then return to Hyderabad. I will now have to cancel my German trip and head back home. Not that I had much appetite for any more holiday after all that muddle. On our way back from the Viking Line, Nadeem said, “I am sorry, but we will have to take a detour to my friends place. I had to make some deliveries to him. I run a printing company. Also, you could stay at his house for the time being. He lives there with his daughter. And though it is a bit out of town, you will be comfortable. I could take you to my house, but, my house is full of relatives who arrived for the Ramadan”. At his friend’s place, I sat in the car, while some talk went on between the two friends. Then Nadeem took me to the Police Station. “You please lodge your complaint here, while I go and attend my errands. It will take you some time. Once you finish your work, take the tube from Radhuset station to Sundbybergs. Once you reach there give me a call, I shall come and pick you up”. He asked me if I had any money with me, I had a few kroners left. I wanted to keep the euros for my bus fare from Turku to Tampere in Finland. Nadeem gave me some money and left. Though I was feeling a bit lost, I walked into the police station.

I took my queue number and waited my turn. It took some time. By the time I finished it was past ten thirty. The police man James asked me for a telephone number, just in case, they find my things. I gave my friend Kirsi’s number and also Nadeem’s. I could not help remark to the policeman, “You know, the world calls us die-hard enemies. But here is a Pakistani guy helping an Indian. May be its not so black and white”. The Policeman could not help smiling either. I took my police report copies and then walked towards the Radhuset station. There was an African man behind the ticket counter. As he issued me the tickets, he asked me suddenly, “are you from India?’ I nodded. “Which place?’ “Hyderabad”, I replied. “How wonderful, I am so glad to meet someone from Hyderabad”, the man beamed. He told me he was from Somalia and had been to college in Hyderabad. He was Heibe Hussain. He asked me about my trip, I told him the story of my lost passport. Heibe said, “But I am sure you can reclaim your travellers’ cheques. Let me find out for you. I have a friend who works in a bank”. As we talked, there were other passengers waiting in the queue. Heibe offered a chair inside the ticket counter. After dispatching his customers, he called his friend, who said he would return the call and asked us to wait. I asked Heibe if I could use the phone. “Use my mobile, because here these are official phones”. I informed Nadeem that Heibe was trying to help me and will be leaving in half hour. “Just give me a call as you are about to leave, so that I can be there at the station”, after giving me directions on which way to get out of the station, he hung up. Heibe’s friend called and gave the Nordea Banks’ number. But it being a Saturday, there had been no response. “Never mind Heibe, I will call them tomorrow or on Monday, I don’t wish to get any more delayed”. Heibe gave his phone once again to inform Nadeem about my arrival. “The next train is in six minutes, you take that and you will reach in ten minutes after that. Wish you good luck and if you need any help, do let me know, I am here”. Thanking him, I rushed to catch the train. I was at Sundbyberg station and got out as directed by Nadeem. It was past midnight. I looked around there weren’t many people around. A couple of men who looked fishy were hanging out at the parking area outside the station. I thought, “No sign of Nadeem. Guess he decided he didn’t wish to have unwanted botheration”. Just then, I heard a car horn. It was standing on the roadside just outside the station parking. It was Nadeem with his daughter.

Before we started out, he asked his daughter to pray. “Would you mind staying at my office, it is not very comfortable, but it is safe. My friend is staying alone in his place, and I don’t wish to leave you there. I could take you to my home, but I have a lot of relatives at home from London, who have come down for the Ramadan”. I thanked him, “As long as I have a place to stay indoors and it is safe, it is fine. It is very kind of you to take so much trouble and offer to help me”. He took me to a small store and asked me to buy whatever food I like.

His office was close to the subway station and the office itself was inside the basement of a building. It was a slightly dingy place, since it was a printing press. Nadeem made his living printing T-Shirts. There was a little room they used for making coffee and snacks. That was to be my place of stay for the time being. “I will come tomorrow and we could go to the airport to change your tickets”. If you need anything call me up. So saying, he left. It was a bit odd, to be inside a huge basement all by myself. I of course could not sleep for a long, long time. The events of the evening kept coming back to haunt me. And I still could not believe it has happened; cursing fate, and God and myself too, ranting for half the night, some where I fell asleep. I woke up and didn’t know what time of the day it was. Since I never had the habit of wearing a watch and I didn’t carry my mobile. I had to get out of the basement, climb two stairs up and look outside the main door…it was light but there was nobody on the streets. I guessed it must be some 7 in the morning. I went back downstairs and slept again. This time I got up and got ready ate a bit of cold sandwich from the fridge and went outside to the store opposite the building. It was called Seven eleven. I could browse the net and have coffee. I called up Nadeem, there was no response. After a second call, he responded, ‘Would you be coming here?’ “No, I can’t come today; I have to attend to folks at home’. I couldn’t tell him that he promised to take me to help me change my tickets. I counted my money; I had about 100 kroners from the money Nadeem gave me the previous night. At the police station he said he would give me some more money, but later in the night he forgot about it and I couldn’t mention it either. I had to go to the airport to change my tickets from Helsinki to Frankfurt. Since my flight was scheduled for the Monday night. And even if I do get my papers on time, I will still not reach Finland until Tuesday morning. I had to change my tickets on that day, and didn’t know what to do and called up Kirsi. She told me to ask the Airlines to charge her account. And so with that confidence, I walked into the Tube station and as I was going to take the tickets, I asked the girl behind the counter, the total cost of my travel to and from the Airport, and directions on how to get there, since it being a Sunday, the Airlines office at the Airport was the only one open. As she gave me directions she asked me if I was from India. I said yes and she smiled. Meena I think her name was, said her parents came from Madras and were settled in Malaysia. She had come to Sweden looking for work and has been there for sometime. I was asking her about the tickets to the Airport and return – in Stockholm public transport one could change any number of trains or buses within one hour on a single ticket of Ten kroners. Meena said, “It will take you at least an hour and a half to get to the Airport. It is 12 noon now, I will issue the ticket with 12.30 on it. So that will give you enough time to get you to the Airport on time”. I thanked her for her kindness and changing two trains and one bus I reached the Stockholm Airport which was some 40 miles out of the city. At the airport finding the Lufthansa counter was easy enough. I told the man at the counter my problem and showed him the Police Report. He said, “I will change your tickets, and say it on the ticket, that you pay the change fee 50 euros, before boarding the flight at Helsinki”. He asked me if I didn’t wish to stop over in Germany. I said, no, I had no stomach for anymore travel. Taking my changed ticket copy, I walked around the airport listlessly. There was no point in going back immediately, what was I going to do anyways. I was hungry, but when I counted the money, I only had some 90 kroners. I would need about 10 kroners to go back to Sundbybergs and then some 20 to 30 kroners for my photos, not knowing whether Nadeem would keep his promise of help or not, I spoke to the man at the Indian Embassy and told him that my friend Kirsi will transfer the money to the Embassy account from Finland. To which he had agreed. So, I could not afford to spend too much money on things like food. I wished that Nadeem had given a little more money. Feeling indebted already, I could not ask him for more the previous night. Besides, he had said, he would come with me to the Airport for changing my tickets, so I didn’t really imagine I would need much.

The man at the ticket counter told me that I could get my pictures done with the automatic machines. I went looking for one, but I found out that it didn’t accept coins, only asked for credit card. My credit card too was in the lost purse! It was lunch time; I looked around at the shops in the airport. There was so much there, but I could not afford to buy anything. After walking around listlessly, one of the workers at the airport told me I could go to the nearby police station and they would take photographs on request. I went there taking the free airport shuttle bus. It took a lot of effort to climb the stairs to the first floor. When my turn came about, the policewoman behind the desk told me that they can pictures only for Swedish Nationals. I told them the situation and looking at my pathetic face, the woman took my picture. It looked awful as most polaroids do. But nevertheless I did have a photo in hand. I offered to pay for it and she waved it off, saying no need. Walking out of the police station, I went back to the bus stop to wait for the bus. The shuttle took me to the main train station. Once again I had to be back at Sundbybergs within the two hour time. I breathed a sigh of relief as the bus pulled into the train station just in time to catch the metro back to Stockholm. But the interim train took some time to come. My heart beat fast, if I don’t catch this train in the next ten minutes, I will have to shell out another 10 kroner. Luckily the train pulled in and just a couple of minutes before my two hours could expire, I walked out of Sundbybergs. It was nearly 5pm. My stomach rumbled and I didn’t feel like going back to my dungeon. On seeing 7/11 with its advertisement for hot pasta, my mouth watered. Since I saved the money from the photos, I can afford to eat some hot food. So, I went in and asked that guy for the 10 kroner pasta. He said, “You can take more if you like”. “No, just give me that offer of yours - pasta for 10 kroner”. “You can take as much as you want”. That man told me in broken English. Sensing that he didn’t get my point, “I can’t buy more, because I don’t have any money on me. I lost my things yesterday and so I have to make do with this little money until I get my emergency certificate and go back to Finland”.

He gave me my pasta and as I sat down to eat, he brought me some coffee and a jam filled bun as well. I was taking out the money to pay him, he patted my shoulder, “don’t worry, you don’t have to pay. Even I was in your situation once before”. I didn’t know what to say to his kindness. Though I felt so famished, I could not eat all of it. So, I just packed the half eaten food and put it in my bag. As I walked out, I thanked him, “Where do you come from?” “From Iran”, he replied.

I just walked down the streets and nearly an hour later, I found the street with Indian restaurants around. There was one hotel which said, Taj Mahal, feeling homesick; I just walked in, hoping to talk to someone. The owners were Bangladeshis. I think that gentleman’s name was Mr. Ali. I chatted with him and his daughters for a while, when they asked about me, I just poured out my story. It felt much better. I was able to come to terms with the facts. It was the month of Ramadan and it was time for them to break their fast. So I asked if I could sit down and read the paper. As I sat down reading papers his daughter brought me a plate of snacks. It made my heart sink; I wondered if Mr. Ali thought I came to ask for food. That was the time, when I felt literally like a beggar. I declined the food, but they insisted. His daughter also brought me some tea. As I sat down sipping the tea and filling my already full stomach, I saw a couple of African people on the next table. I think they came from Ivory Coast or somewhere in West Africa. The sister Susie was married to a local Swedish man. She said she was almost on the verge of a divorce. I chatted with them for a while. And Susie asked me if she can do anything to help me. “I just need a watch to see the time, so that I can wake up and go to the Embassy in time”. Susie told me, “I have an alarm clock at home, why don’t you just come down and I shall give you one”. So I walked back to her place along with her brother and got myself the alarm clock. I told her that I will return it to Mr. Ali and she can take it back from him. To which she agreed and told her brother to drop me back home. I was back at the seven eleven and since it was only ten in the night, asked the guy if I could check my mails. In that time of isolation, the email was the only solace to a disturbed soul. Feeling more confident and light hearted, now that I have a ticket and with an assurance that I can get my Emergency Certificate from the embassy, I slept off well that night. I woke up early even before the alarm went off, got ready and walked out to the Seven Eleven for some coffee, and started to call up Nadeem. There was no answer. I was upset. I started to figure out how to get my photos done and go to the embassy, as I walked out of the shop, when suddenly, I head someone call me, “saraswati”. It was Nadeem. “Oh, I was trying to figure how I would leave the keys for you and go to embassy,” He said, “You don’t have to go to the embassy, they have found your papers!’ I didn’t believe my ears, “What?” “Yes, the Police called me, they got your purse in the post and your papers are there. You can go to the police headquarters and pick it up!’ “How did they find it?’ “They got it in the post. You see here if someone finds something, they can just drop it in a post box from which the items will be delivered to the police”. “Okay, I will go now”. “Did you eat breakfast?” Nadeem asked me. “No, I just had no stomach for food actually”. “Then come, have some breakfast, I will order something for you. What will you eat? Some pitta bread with vegetables and cheese?”

Soon after I was at the police station and found that all my papers were intact, the 100 euro cash was lost as were some four hundred euro travellers’ cheques. I presumed, that who ever stole my purse took the money and in his hurry assumed the travellers cheques to be money as well. As I counted the money and the lady at the desk asked, “Is everything in order?” “Yes, just the money is lost, if you can mention that in the report”. “Oh I am sorry, but it is good that you got your purse back”. “Yes, indeed, it means I am a free person and can go back home, I am very lucky”, I replied. “Do you think anyone has tampered with my passport?’ that was the biggest worry for me. She checked it out and said, “No, it is fine”. I took my report, signed on the receipt and went back to Sundbybergs. I almost danced my way back to Nadeem’s office. I saw people back in the streets and the whole place looked so different, like a party atmosphere, although all that they did was walk up and down the street, going to the shops and into offices etc. I went back to Seven Eleven to celebrate with some hot chocolate and sweets. I thanked the man at the counter. I couldn’t find my Iranian friend, “Please say my heartfelt thanks to your colleague and also inform him that I found my papers and am going back home”. The man seemed uninterested in my banter, but I went on nevertheless. My enquiry at Nordik bank told me that I must check with American Express, and so I walked down to Nadeem’s basement, hoping to call American Express. He dialled the number for me, and after nearly an hour’s interview over the phone, American Express gave me an address in Stockholm close to the harbour, from where they said, I could pick up my missing travellers cheques. Since it was almost 3 o clock, Nadeem told me to hurry, since I had to board the ship by 6pm. I thanked him and his friend and got ready to leave. “Here, please take these as a memory from Stockholm”, Nadeem gifted me two t-shirts with Stockholm printed on them. ‘These are from our print shop, and you can remember us when you use them!” ‘I will never be able to forget you or your help.” “Okay go back home safely”. As I walked out of that little ‘dungeon”, I packed with me a whole lot of memories, and reached Forex to get my TCs. They gave them to me in a yellow purse, which I use ever since to carry valuables while travelling. The bag is a bit torn now, but I still carry it and along with it, memories of two days which taught me a thing or two about the unseen bond that connects us.

As I ate my veggie Falafel at the seaside, watching the seagulls, I thought I understood the word, Free Bird.

tranSviews: Jayappa

2010-02-06T10:10:00.000-08:00

tranSviews: Jayappa

Jayappa

2010-02-06T09:18:00.001-08:00

I have never met him. Only spoke over phone once in June last year asking about some seeds, and once again in mid December wanting to pick up some seeds from his seed bank. The first time, I never went to take the seeds, since my farming effort never took off. The second time, I was visiting Shailu's farm and thought of picking up some millets to take back to another farmer in my village. It being a Sunday, his seed bank was closed. Thus, I couldn't meet him. In January, for Sankranti, my friend Harish wanted to go to Shailu's farm near Zaheerabad. There were four of them - Harish, one German guy and two British girls. During our last visit it was decided that they will go back to Shailu's farm for Sankranti.Unfortunately, until the day they were leaving they could not inform Shailaja. Shailaja's phone works only between 7pm-9pm since she uses a mechanical charger as they have no electricity. On hearing that she is not aware of their arrival, I called her up around 8pm that day, to announce the arrival of her four guests. "Oh,no, it is impossible for me to pick them up at this time in the night, it's raining heavily, and I can't trudge through the forest at this hour". Now, I had a dilemma, I didn't know where these four fellows will stay back in the night. And with two women and that too foreigners, I was even more worried about their safety. Shailu asked me to tell Harish & Co. to stay at the Green School in Machnur village. I could not get through to the care taker at the School. I called up Jayappa, asking him if he can send word to them. "I think they should be there, since the bullock carts are all getting ready for the seed festival tomorrow". "Jayappa, these people are totally new to the place. They may get lost what with the darkness and the rains. Can you arrange for them to stay at the DDS office? (that's the NGO where he works). Its enough if they can find a shelter for the night. They won't need anything." To which he replied, "Ask them to come to Pastapur (a village that comes before Machnur) and ask for DDS colony and tell my name, I will make arrangements for them". After ten minutes he called up, "Will they be okay to eat Jowari Roti or, shall I get some rice with vegetables for them?" "Whatever you like, just don't bother if its too much. But if you don't mind please arrange an autorickshaw to take them to Shailu's farm. They might get lost in the forest". Not only did he host them at his house that night, four strangers whom he has never seen, on request from another stranger whom he has only spoken twice before, he escorted them all the way to my friend's farm. On their day of return, when I was not able to get through to Harish, I called Jayappa, "Did he pick up the millets from you Jayappa?" "Yes, he did, I just put your friends in the auto to Zaheerabad. Soon they should be taking their bus to the city".

On my next trip to Shailu's farm too I couldn't meet him, he was away attending a wedding. I was planning to leave that afternoon, he wasn't coming back until evening. "Ayyo, we couldn't meet. Please if you are staying back come and stay at my house". I had to leave the same afternoon, but I hope I can meet him on my next trip.

Body and Mind

2010-01-02T03:20:00.001-08:00

We were on a visit to a friend's farm. It was unlike anything else. Shailu and Usha bought the only land they could afford to buy. It happens to be on the edge of a forest area. For a couple of miles on all sides there isn't a soul to be seen. Nilgiri plantations flock on three sides while on the fourth end is the farm of their neighbour Narsanna, who sold them this land. In all these years of visiting, I never once met Narsanna. And so it was just these two - who build a home: piece by piece, using bamboo and thatch. Friends dropped by to help with the construction and mud plastering, making tools and helping in the farm work. A solar cooker, wood fired stove, a bicycle and a dog are the other inhabitants. Solar lamps give light at night, while a mechanically charged mobile phone keeps them in touch with the outside world. Mulching and composting a harsh barren land, without a water source the two women brought it to life in seven years. Narsanna shares some water from his borewell. But his assistant forgets to release the water time and again. And so it happened that on one of our visits there wasn't much water. We had to make do with whatever little was there. We went there to help them with some of their work. Not that it helped much. As we swept and heaped the fallen leaves in the forest to be used as mulch, my back hurt. By half past two, after just three hours of sweeping, sorting and carrying the sacks of leaves to the farm, the three of us, city bred women, were nearly exhausted and famished, when Usha's niece announced lunch. The sight of the meal of rice, beans, lentils and pickles, made us all the more hungry. As we ate, with good banter, my friend slurped on the food, "Ummm. This is so wonderful." "I now realise how those who do daily labour, must relish their food. They truly deserve to eat". It reminded me of another friend who while once driving me home in the city, commented, "I see these construction labourers; they have nothing. And yet they are able to smile and laugh so much. I have everything, career, money, car, a beautiful house, and yet I am not able to laugh like them!" She started seeking to find her happiness and peace in meditation courses and art of happiness classes, paying a ransom to new-age gurus.

Closed In

2010-01-02T02:15:00.001-08:00

The steel and glass elevators took to the 25th floor.There were others, but like zombies, we keep quiet. Once out of the elevator, silence. It was light, but a bright yellow light contrasting the white light of the outside. I walked through the doors next to the elevator. The door opened into a corridor with rows of doors on either side. Every door had a number done in steel. The electronic key system too was in metal. There wasn't a trace of human presence anywhere. A Housekeeper's Vaccum Cleaner parked in front of one of the doors, suggested that this place could have some human lurking some where. Or, perhaps it was a robotic machine that didn't need a human to operate it. Unknown faces of hundreds of widows of quarry workers seemed to mask the Pink Granite flooring. The dust from beating down the rock takes lives away before they touch 40. This could have been a jail, albeit a modern one. An hour later exiting from the central air-conditioning, to sit by the false water fall for lunch, was freedom at last. But only short lived. My drowsy eyes ensure that I go back to my cell. Reminds me of the song, "Hotel California". You can only get in, but never get out.

(as felt on 27/10/09)

Tehzeeb

2009-12-25T05:29:00.000-08:00

The royals were fast asleep in their famous resting places, while we tried to recapture the magic of Hyderabadi Tehzeeb. Gaddis, rose petals, the aura of the half moon, cool breeze, rustling silks, dakhni khana and the resonating voices of the Warsi brothers. Amir Khusro and Bullehshah came alive in raag and taal, while the audience full off "wah, wah's", presented their Nazraana to the wondrous singers. In this day and age of strobe lights and fast paced music, gathering a bit of the past in the present, gave us a sneak peek into the world bygone. It may not have been a world perfect, nor is it now. Some culture continues, like the class divide - the servant can never sit for a meal with the master; while some aspects were lost - like the grace, beauty and sense of peace. Can 1000 megawatts of power packed performances ever stir the soul as the Sufiana of the Qawals could do? The Warsi's weren't in full form as they would have been some time ago. But in times of dish tv, perhaps staying alive itself must be tough, and to take time out for Riyaaz...hmmm...

On belonging

2009-12-20T08:52:00.001-08:00

Suddenly, identity became a question. Where does one belong. For me, I never belonged, always the washerman's dog...a stranger in every place and every space. A friend and yet not one, a relative and yet not one. Belonging never happened, not with friends, nor with family. Perhaps, that is why, becoming chameleon like and adapting to every culture and custom and being the Roman in Rome was so easy. Empathising with all too became easy, since there was never a sense of identity, for there was none. Human was all that I was to myself and human is all that others were to me. Suddenly, loyalties are being questioned, and then comes the question, where do I belong? How can I say, when I have felt at home in every place and every space. But have become a stranger to people nevertheless.

Wali under the Tree

2009-10-25T03:08:00.000-07:00

(Summer 2007)

One of the best Dosas I ever ate was in Wali’s tea shop, perched under a Neem tree. It was at the entrance to the little village of Tummala, in the midst of the hills of Anantpur. There was a four poster shack covered in thatch, with a mud plastered platform where he kept his stove with the Dosa pan on it. Another little stove was used to make tea. A few benches besides the platform, fresh air from the hills, and the silence of a road less travelled completes the picture.

Wali was a lean dark man with a white lungi tied up to his knees, a white half-sleeved banian and bright black eyes. He got busy with the Dosas while his wife made the tea. Wali only sold Dosas served with the groundnut chutney that was a specialty of that area. Between us, I and my two friends downed fourteen dosas (which is quite a number considering that normally one can only eat one or two max); followed by tea.

Wali refused to take money at first, “You are visiting our village. You are my guest; I cannot take money from you”. On my insistence, he told me the amount. When I heard it, I had a shock, “Twenty eight rupees for the dosas and three rupees for the tea, totally thirty one” For a single Dosa in a mid level udipi hotel anywhere in the state, we have to shell out at least twenty rupees, and in Hyderabad it will be not less than thirty or forty rupees. And even in remote villages nowadays they sold tea for nothing less than three to five rupees. As I gave the money, he got angry seeing me give thirty and one. He returned me the one rupee, “What? You want to give me this one rupee also?”, as if it was an insult. I didn’t know what to say, and took back the coin.

The next time I visited the village, it was past the dosa time. So we just contended with tea. This time it was six teas. Wali refused to take money. “I cannot take money from you. Even last time, you insisted, so I had to take. Can’t I even offer you tea or what?” How much money this man must be able to make with his two rupee dosas and one rupee tea? “If you go on offering free food and tea to all those who come from outside, how will you survive?” I asked him. He just smiled, “I am comfortable, don’t worry”.

I couldn’t go to that village after that but I often wonder about Wali and his unforgettable dosas.

Class and Country

2009-10-25T02:59:00.000-07:00

25/08/09

The moment I walked in I felt like a stranger. It was the first time I travelled by first class. I had to, since there was no other ticket available and I had to get to Bangalore the following morning. I did receive some strange looks; it was my half-length yoga tracks and worn out kurta that did it. Even worse was the state of my trolley bag, whose handles didn’t function. Not your typical first class traveler I suppose.

Nevertheless the valet offered to carry my light weight bag. Normally, I would have lugged it around on my own. Every care was taken to make me feel comfortable. The head of the staff asked me twice if I needed extra helpings at dinner. Someone else was to share my coupe. The valet came and informed, “I allotted another coupe to that gentleman, and you can rest peacefully”. I was grateful for his thoughtful gesture. But the chill of the compartment wouldn’t get me any sleep. I asked for extra blankets and was supplied promptly. But in the middle of the night the air-conditioning ensured I did not get a wink. Finally, as I was to get on with some sleep, the service staff woke me up asking for morning tea. I was truly in a bad mood. Because I did mention that I didn’t need one the previous night when the Head of the staff came for the tips. They never ask for it, simply bring a tray offering saunf, with some ten and twenty rupee notes already on it. Their expectations are understood. Normally, one wouldn’t give tips to the service staff in a sleeper or even in a three or two tier AC compartment. But this was first class, so no choice. Anyways, feeling pampered, I gave a fifty. As I got down at Bangalore station, the Valet offered to take my bags down. I did not decline, feeling too tired. I saw my friends standing out and was about to leave when the valet asked, “Ma’am, my tips?” “I gave last night; I thought it was for all of you”. “No, they are different, we don’t share”. I searched and couldn’t find any change; I asked my friend and gave a ten rupee note to the valet. “That is all? I even gave you extra blankets!” “I don’t have any more change”, at that he let me off, but not before a slight scowl on his face. That reminded me of the previous afternoon, when I was eating a meal in a small way side hotel near a village. It was pouring heavily and I stopped to eat at a place run by an old man and his wife. The meal of chappatis and vegetable cost some fifteen rupees. He came twice offering extra helping of the vegetable and chutney, “Do you want some more bujji?” he asked. One normally uses "bujji" to call children. Somehow the way he said it stayed with me. The special tea of four rupees was definitely one of the best I have ever tasted with its fragrance of herbs; while the warm smile was for free.

Haggle

2009-10-16T04:39:00.000-07:00

04/10/09

She mustn’t be more than 15 or 16. With a florescent green band in her long hair, a ring on her dusky nose, glass lacquer bangles, long silver earrings, silver anklets, dressed in deep blue skirt and pavadai, she presented a very attractive picture. “Where do you come from?” I asked the girl. “From Mancheryal in Andhra, we travel back and forth between there and Nagpur”. “Are you Lambadas?’ “No we are from Rajasthan, but living in Andhra”.

Carrying handmade rolling pins, wood hammers, churners, inside a large nylon shoulder bag, a heavy stone chappati board on her head, she walked up and down the moving train, not once losing her balance. “Sixty rupees”, she said. “Fifteen” asked the lady passenger who seemed to be a teacher and a well-fed one too. "Take two for ninety”. “Fifteen each” ‘Please” the girl looked at her. The lady turned her head in the negative. “Sixty” “Give me two for Thirty five” “Please increase at least five rupees”. ”I increased no? I said thirty five for two”. “Please”… The lady’s head turned in negative, as the light from the window fell on her face, highlighting her sharp nose.

Finally, the deal was struck, one rolling pin and one wooden hammer for forty rupees. A cup of watery tea comes for five rupees. The lady must have consumed at least a few cups during her journey; and a few packs of chips, which could cost at least twenty rupees or more for each pack. A handcrafted tool, for which some one must have walked to the forest, cut the wood and crafted it taking a few hours, is not worth a packet of chips; since it is not being sold by Nestle or Kellogs, but by a dusty girl who trudges across a few hundred miles, climbing in and out of trains, with an imminent threat from unknown men hanging over her head.

If a film star were to sell the same, it would be sold for a ransom! But that’s another story.

Memories of Marble Soda

2009-07-23T05:55:00.000-07:00

It was like a bribe, given each time one was asked to do boring jobs like accompanying mother to the local vegetable market. Hanging around carrying loaded bags, while she searched the whole market for the best veggies and haggled with the vendors, was the most dreaded once a week affair. But the end was always interesting, there at the exit, after the lugging around, sweating in the hot sun, (since veg shopping was always an afternoon affair after eating lunch and before cooking dinner); it was time for a treat of the "marble soda" or "goli soda" as one calls it: the only cold drink one had in small towns in those "cola starved" days prior to liberalisation.

As the man punched the marble that was placed right at the neck of the bottle, one always wondered how someone could place a marble inside the slender bottle neck! And this was one bottleneck one didn't mind, since it ensured that what we drank was fresh! The bottles were kept cool inside little carts that had little cubby spaces for each bottle, covered with gunny sacks and sprinkled with water from time to time, to keep them cool. And if one could pay a few paise extra, we could get the prized Nimbu Soda. After that thirst quenching drink, a ride in the cycle rickshaw completed the day out.

But with the onset of the colas since the early 90's, the goli soda is not seen much, at least not in Hyderabad. And is fast disappearing from the small towns and villages as well. It is easier to find Coke or Sprite than ofcourse even water in many villages. So, one can imagine what could have happened to the poor cousin goli soda, with the advent of the hi-fi "cultured" fellas like Coca-cola. These days, if you ask for soda, one can be sure to get one but it will be a Bisleri or some such branded produce, which can never match the goli soda's taste.

So, today while I walked out of the railway station at Nellore town, it was the most pleasant site to see my good old Goli soda man at the exit. The cart has undergone some changes, there is an ice box to keep the bottles cool and he was mixing the soda,lemon juice and salt in a glass, instead of adding the flavourings to the bottled soda as they did earlier. As I gulped one glass after another,without even a single burp,and its cool freshness revived my tired senses after a long, tiring day in the sun; I realised how this drink doesn't seem to harm my stomach as the colas do. And once again, memories of marble soda came rushing back...

Silence of the Lambs

2009-07-16T12:01:00.000-07:00

“What can we do? We are voiceless people”. These were the words of not an illiterate villager but a well-educated, professor of engineering, who might soon become the head of a prestigious engineering institution in the state of AP; that was his reaction after seeing the film on the grotesque results of Genetic Engineering and the sort of Frankenstein future it holds for all of us.

I am beginning to wonder why are we living, if we do not want to think about our food say five years from now? Every one is an armchair patriot and opinion speaker in this country. For hours together we spend time (or rather we used to spend time, before the invasion of popcorn journalism) on trains, in cafeterias, in living rooms, lamenting on the issues raging the nation. But when it comes to at least voice these concerns directly, to the establishment and the powers that be, we chicken out. The regular voice one hears in Hyderabad is, “Why don’t you do something about it?” the question was asked by a typical upper class citizen who is being invaded by some project that might jeopardize his future; they expect an eighty year old man, who has been fighting on environmental issues for the last twenty years, to fight on their behalf. The problem is they do not wish to dirty their hands; most of the times these people are at least a few decades younger than the eighty year old pioneer.

For the people in the city as in the other parts of the country, it doesn’t matter if a toxic ship carrying radio-active waste is dumped on our shores. It doesn’t matter if a couple of uranium mining projects are cleared. (I remember when we were campaigning on the issue of uranium mining near Nalgonda, one well-heeled lady said, “You know our art of living ashram is going to come up very close to that place. So, please do something to stop it”. Had I asked her to join us in a protest march, it would have been blasphemy, since how can you expect her to be caught walking the streets? Credit must be given that she signed the petition to the Chief Minister “to do her bit, to make a difference”.

So, everyone cries out privately about nuclear deals, about radiation issues…but no one goes further than that. I am beginning to think that our forefathers just wasted their time, energy and their precious lives in bringing us freedom. We do not deserve such a sacrifice. I wish that they too at that time thought, well, why should I dirty my hands? Why shouldn’t I just toe the line and live a life of “purchased peace”, even if the British go on killing innocent fellow men and plundering our land.

We the people, who today take pride in becoming Hi-tech coolies for the Software Merchants, we, who would rather allow the killing of our fellow country men in the name of various projects, and future generations in the name of Nuclear Energy in order for us to pursue in the lines of the Usurper, shamelessly calling ourselves “backward” because we have not reached the same level of madness as the “developed” world; we deserved to be subjects of the “mighty” empire, for we are after all lambs that follow the herd meekly, without questioning, without having the guts to admit and stand up to what we know is the truth; for we are afraid of our creature comforts being taken away and our “promotions” being stopped and such other things. We are more worried about the stoppage of H-1 visas, than the signing of a nuclear deal.

I don’t think human beings need much to survive and live on this earth. And when we were all just poor impoverished peasants, working shoulder to shoulder; it stopped even the British. 50,000 British were able to control 300 million Indians, who for a long time behaved like the meek lambs. The day, they became unafraid to look in the eye, and speak the truth, and decided they did not wish to be “dependent” on the phirangis for their security; we managed to get our freedom. But in these days of a “liberalization of the senses”, the mind has lost control. We rather are happy to continue having our ‘i-pods’, home theatres, Mercedes, than our “true freedom”. For these sakes, we need our money, and so we do not wish to upset the proverbial apple cart. Even if the apples are genetically modified. Amen.

Dichotomy

2009-06-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

She was all of 12 years maybe. It has been more than a year since I had seen her at the children's play area downstairs. So, it came as a surprise when I suddenly saw her. "It is my vacation time". She replied as she swung to and fro on the swing beside mine. "So where did you go?" I asked her. "I went to my village, Nandampudi and it was so nice out there". I remarked that she had not been seen around for sometime now. "Yes, I am busy, I leave at 8 in the morning and come home around 9.30pm". "What do you do so long?" "I have special coaching for IIT" She replied.She is attending one of the neo corporate schools that have become popular due to the rigorous trainings they adopted to get your child an entry into the prestigious (normally called premier) Engineering Institutes of India. "We have classes from morning till evening. And in evening our IIT coaching starts." "Do you get to play any games? No, we have yoga a couple of times in a week, but each one of has our own computers in class. And we play games on them during free time, mostly during lunch hour or watch cartoons from DVDs." And what do you do when you come back?" "I eat dinner while watching TV. And go to bed. Earlier it was nicer, I could be back by 8.30. Now it gets to be 9.30 and I feel so hungry by the time I am back." "Do you like your school?" "Yes, it is very good, I love my teachers, they take special care of us."

Then there was a short pause of silence as we swung to and fro, when she started to talk again, "If I work hard now, I will be able to enjoy life later." "How will you do that?" "I will work hard now and when I grow big, I will earn lots of money, and I will be happy!" Then our conversation moved on to her recent vacation in her village. "In the village people are so nice, they are happy with simple things. Even if I just give one chocolate, the kids are so happy. In the cities it is not like that. I want to live in a village. So I will settle in a village, after my retirement,when I get to be 60 years." I looked at her - pretty, chubby face framed by dark curly hair- a picture perfect child, but for her eyes, that longed for that happy tomorrow.

"Will you come again tomorrow?" She asked me. "Yes." Then come here after 8pm. It is much nicer to swing in the night. Very beautiful. From Monday, I have to be back at school." "Fine".

Mountains and beaches

2009-05-08T08:25:00.000-07:00

Beach always has a feel of happiness, joy, fun etc etc, while the mountains make you solemn, philosophical in some sense, especially if they are Himalayas. Or for that matter any mountains, may be since we would have climbed uphill and when we look straight ahead we are staring at the sky. And when we look down, we are looking at our past life.
Well somehow though when one stares at the sea instead of playing/ swimming in the waters, once again we get that state of thoughtlessness…just like in the mountains. So perhaps there is this unity of purpose, which happens in nature. Why is it that we feel spiritual in those instances, why does the mind become so quiet and desireless? Many a times I question myself if there is a god or not. But each time I look out at the creation that surrounds me, I could not but think perhaps there is a supernatural force behind all this. If it is so, then where did that come from? What is the secret behind all this? In a nutshell, the day I find it out, I suppose I will be gone from this world, for if a being finds out the truth, then he should be evapourated, so that he/she doesn’t tell anyone else, for it is the Shrusti rahasya – the secret of the universe. If one being lets out the secret then may be the others will not be too interested to follow the quest to find out the truth. Then what happens? The cycle of life ends...
(06/01/2008)

City of Joy

2009-04-28T11:02:00.001-07:00

“Welcome to the City of Joy” the hoarding sponsored by Reliance Mobile, announces your arrival on the Howrah Bridge. The yellow taxi speeds on jolting, halting. Traffic is not quite like in Hyderabad; nevertheless a jam can happen anytime – lasting for a couple of hours. Add to that, the threat of a rally / strike or a roadblock either by the Mamta Brigade or the Buddha Comrades, agonizes an average Calcutta, oops, Kolkata nivasi’s every day existence. But people of the Bhadralok do not complain. Their love for Kolkata is complete. Exceptions like Ashok Ghoshal exist though, “Pollution we can export as much as you want from Calcutta” he said on seeing me cough minutes after I got off the train. But there is a positive side to Kolkata - despite the rundown buses (which are a nightmare), near obsolete trams, dirty buildings and people living scraping off the leftovers thrown by the roadside (a sight that turned my stomach which will be forever etched in my mind) – there indeed is a bright side to Calcutta – its people, the taxiwallahs are usually honest except near the Sealdah station.It says something about a city, if the taxiwallahs don't cheat you even when they know that you are a new comer. (Though most of the taxi drivers I have met were all Biharis). One man who actually charged me a 100 rupee fare for a 30 rupees trip, from sealdah to a nearby place, said he would take me to Howrah for another 100, (since the hotel i looke up was quite a dingy one, i decided instead to go to the Yatri Niwas at Howrah). When I realised he was cheating me and got off, he actually told me,"take the taxi from the opposite side, they will charge you according to the meter!" I didn't know whether to be angry or thank him. And ofcourse I forgot to notice if he was a bengali or a bihari.

A trip down history happened at the Belur Math. The house in which Vivekananda lived with its old world charm, antique furniture, 19th century architecture and disciples of the Math in dhotis and kurtas in typical Bengali hairstyles, gave a glimpse of the past glory of this once beautiful city that lingers in bits and parts – in places like the Hogg Market, the Esplanade and in the Old buildings of the Assembly, General Post Office and streets like the Shakespeare Sarani among others.

A general leisure is seen here, where the pace of other metro cities has not caught up – Calcuttans still derive pleasure from simple acts like a boat ride on the Hooghly crossing between Belur Math and Dakshineshwar. That ride in the dusk with blinking lights on the Howrah Bridge is itself worth a visit to Calcutta. Not to forget the Misti Dahi (pronounced “dohi”, a sweetened yogurt) and of course the famous Rosogollas.

Indeed going to Calcutta almost transported me back to times in Hyderabad before the invasion of the IT industry and its materialism. Or perhaps, it has to do with the Communist rule, (though infamous now for their acts in Nandigram and Singur), who have ensured to maintain the status quo as far as life in West Bengal goes. Yet, people seem to think that there is no alternative to the Comrades. My friends from Birbhum district thought so – “Communists are good, they give the poor what they want and the rich what they want” (you can make the inference). But a filmmaker friend from Calcutta once had said something to the likes of the CPI (M) being an omnipresent, omnipotent body whose eyes and ears are everywhere. So perhaps, people may actually be afraid to speak openly about their politicians’ ala erstwhile Russia like situation. Or, it could just be resignation and acceptance of things as ‘fate’ – which might be existing in private thought but not the public sphere of Comradeland. Despite these flawed situations, the genteelness of the folks makes you like Calcutta and in general West Bengal. I suppose all that sweetness in behaviour may have to do with an overdose of Misti. Though these have been my impressions, not everyone thinks so – especially the Bhutanese from the land of the Peaceful Dragon – quite a few I encountered there said that the Bengalis use you and throw you away. However, coming back to our subject, Calcutta is a place for inexpensive life – and so the teeming millions flock here. For some it is the remnant of the grandeur of the colonial past, like the man behind the desk at Lindsay Hotel – who is a bit regretful that the British had left, and for whom me darkie Indian was a non-entity, while my white American room mate was ahem almost received with a salaam! For some it is the city of survival – like the Bihari taxi drivers or the coolies at the Railway station, for some others it is the City of Joy – an eastern exotica where you find your soul among the struggling rickshaw pullers, who charge ten rupees for dragging up fat women weighing over 70 kilos over two kilometers; and yet do not think of robbing or stabbing someone for the injustice that life has meted out to them!

Don’t Remind Me

2009-04-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Don’t remind me –
Of the horrible stench
That surrounds the streets
The little rag picker digging,
Inside the murky bin
Don’t remind me –
Life’s ugly pictures
For now I have
To breathe in
Life’s goodies…
With my breath -
I hope to exhale
Positivity onto the earth
Don’t remind me –
To dirty my hands
In order to cleanse
The world’s filth –
Don’t remind me –
Life’s bare truths
As I sit in my solitude
And communion
Contemplating a bright life
For the less fortunate…

Living off the Golddust

2009-03-29T11:11:00.000-07:00

I had been to see B2Fays exhibition of her paintings. But someone I had been introduced to, was bothering me with his unstoppable chatter. I could not break away to actually concentrate on the artworks. I was introduced to him as someone who is politically active. I guess that got him interested. I asked him what he does and his reply, "Nothing much, I am trying to join politics". Wow, that is the usual path for normal good-for-nothings. I asked again, "I mean before you decided to join politics, what were you doing"...again same reply, "nothing really, i am joining politics, to see if I can save my properties"...I still could not believe that someone can actually "do nothing". On a third repetition, he said, "actually, I am the Nizam's grandson, you know Nizam, he was the Ruler of Hyderabad!', to which I nodded, but my knowledge said, that the Nizam's direct descendant was Prince Mukarram Jah". So, I asked him, "Are you related to Prince Mukarram Jah?" "He is my cousin", came the reply. (Oh! so this is a son or grandson of the Nizam's cousins or brothers or some such relation). The whole conversation started when one of the guests at the exhibition commented that the current chief minister would be back in power. to which i replied,in the negative, "my bet is that naidu will come back to power". Just then our Nawaabi cousin turned up and my friend introduced us mentioning what I thought about the election results.

Our ex-Nawaab remarked, 'Though I admire Mr.Naidu personally, I am at the moment more closer with the current CM you know..." he gave a sheepish smile, meaning, "I have put all my eggs in this basket". "Actually I had hosted the two recent weddings of the CM's family in my properties. So,in the exclusive guest list of 100, I had managed to get nearly 10 of my own guests. So the media is speculating, and have been writing that I am going to be offered a ticket...you know just sort of a tease, all Page 3 stuff..."

"So, where are you planning to contest elections?" "Oh, no, that is too far off...I am only hoping if I can curry favour, stay in politics, I might be able to save my properties, you never know when they will confiscate or tear up my property...it is always so uncertain. Mukarram Jah ran away, but the Scindias and others from erstwhile Royal Families joined politics and so they managed to save their properties. So even I am trying. Not that I will be offered a ticket, but if I stick around, you know, and do some "chamchagiri" i might be able to save my property"..."
"So, are you involved in politics too..?" "No, not really", I replied. "Do you have your card?" he asked me again. "No I don't have one, but you could leave me your number". "So, what do you do actually, he asked as I took down his number. "Nothing very important, I make documentaries concerning environment". After that reply, he left me in peace.

MEMORIES

2009-03-27T10:56:00.000-07:00

On misty mornings
People go to pray
A temple bell echoes
Slumbering peace transcends
Sharp mountain air
Assails the nose
Crisp fallen leaves
Crunch under the feet
A beautiful morning
A place in heaven
Now just a memory
Lost forever
Under the bulldozers
Of marching developers!

Stars and warriors

2009-03-27T09:59:00.000-07:00

It had been a surprise to see a plethora of stars - not the earthly ones, but the heavenly ones - but that is a great deal more difficult deed in these days of smoke filled cities. I was in a fishing village and as I sat on the beach and looked up at the sky -it was indeed a sight to remember - since it has been ages since I saw a clear sky in Hyderabad. The temple on the beach turned into a mini-theatre with the pillars of the verandah framing the Screen on which we screened a film on the plight awaiting the folks living in that village. The LCD projector and speakers turned the place into an open air theatre under that inky night sky. As the stars blinked, the folks smiled and cried along with their on screen contemporaries, sometimes jokingly acknowledging that what they saw on screen could be their fate very soon, when the bulldozers of the government machinery shall come to raze their lives to ground. What an irony that some of the bravest men on the face of earth who can battle the high seas and tsunamis...are feeling totally helpless against a pint sized government official, who roars and thunders in fake authority, that comes from a piece of paper.

What a shame that these children of the sea are now like fish out of water, a community with valour,now wallows in a corner, timid and afraid, waiting for the guns and tanks to crush them down.

(written after a trip to the fishing villages of andhra that are facing displacement in the name of "development")

The living dead

2009-03-19T11:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the mundane seems so much better. As when you have nothing to think about, nothing to look forward to and nothing to fathom, simply absorbed in a mechanical chore. No wonder then that someone has said, "ignorance is bliss". Perhaps too much of a thinking mind is harmful for oneself. As when one works with soil, planting, cutting the plants, there is nothing to think about - but for a peace and a happy state of mind. And so also other supposedly mundane routine jobs work as therapy. Therefore, someone must have added, 'work is an elixir'. At the end of a journey one begins to feel that "life" afterall is "much a do about nothing". And when that feeling sets in, when there really nothing one is interested in, then one seems to be existing and perhaps not living. So, in effect, the mind has for a long time left this mundane of the earth...leaving us with nothing but routine and chores. Thus, in effect, we become the living dead. And with the fear of becoming the living dead we try to look for a purpose in life - and once again get into the roulette chakra of thinking, hoping, wondering and wandering...

War Revisited

2008-11-27T09:00:00.000-08:00

(sometime in 2003/4)

If battles could be won
In the minds of men
The woman would not weep
The child would not cry
Its tears dry from howling
Unaware if alive or dead
A war would not happen
If battles could be won
In the minds of men
On the egos and pride
That burn and kill
On the greed and tyranny
That conquers and loots
All in the name of
God and Freedom!

On mindless and Violence

2008-11-27T08:43:00.000-08:00

So much violence and so many dead - November 26 2008 was remembered for just that. A friend has written that Indians and NRIs should wake up and do something regarding the violence that is being perpetuated around the country. There are many and will be many who will cry for blood...but is it an answer?

Something deeper is happening here and we fail to see it. How is winning at any cost, all's fair in trade and war, having Killer Instinct to Win Games, to gain Contracts, to Outsmart everyone else...any different from those who do the physical act of killing? Aren't we all, the rest of us too as a society responsible for what is happening around us? Are those few individuals in this wide world the only cause of trouble? When there was no concept of property or money - there was nothing to fight about. The longer we forget that at the end the only thing we need might be a six-foot space called Grave...the worse this gets. As long as we live in this, "forever" concept, this "ownership" concept...we will try to continue to "Gain hold" on all that we can - by hook or by crook...because we have made ourselves just that - slaves to the matter...and so we fight for ownership of land, resources, for hege"money"...but have we done anything to create this earth on which we claim Ownership and in turn Kill each other for that Ownership?

But what I say might be mindless...as long as people try to device ways to combat the violence outside. Nobody is trying to combat the Violence Inside - Inside each one of us.

Dream...

2008-11-06T09:01:00.000-08:00

a book to read
a tree to sleep under,
as cows mull over grasslands...
breeze brushing the sparrow feather,
swimming waters turn yellow pink red
as the sun gets to snooze...
a charpoy under the stars
eyes to the sky
light in the heart
sweet smelling nightqueens...
falling asleep with the moon.

Cosmos and Chaos

2008-10-28T17:11:00.000-07:00

(20-07-99 - Bramal Court, Salford, U.K.)
Today is one of those days, when I welcome solitude and wish to ponder. Perhaps I must have spent half my life wondering and wandering in solitude. Twenty years since I began the search and the answers never seem to come easily. They evade you forever it seems sometimes. As I get to the conclusion, that now I am a full human being and now I know what life is all about; I fall yet once again into an abyss of confusion and chaos. Trying to reach the light and looking for answers starting afresh.

Yet as I look back now, each time I fell it was for the same reason- I have not yet learnt to assimilate and absorb the answers I found. And each time I found the answers they seem to be new revelations; yet they are the same what I must have gathered the last time.

Perhaps it is somewhat like the moral one learns from the story of the Greek warrior who was cursed to push the rock up the mountain and place it on top. Yet each time it rolls back to the bottom. So does it mean that one can never be stable at the top? Perhaps what rises must fall and what falls must rise; like the tidal waves. Like every cycle in nature and in the universe. We fail to forget the cyclical existence of life and try to think laterally about permanence.

We try to think that what we achieve remains with us; but can it really remain forever with anyone? If it did then life would stop. The reason for our being human would stop. For, can we survive without achieving and progressing? So, the moment we think we reached a breakthrough, there we are faced with a different challenge. Different it may seem, but, if we look beneath the surface it is a similar threat or same risk in a different garb.
Thus the cycle of facing challenges and overcoming them continues until we learn to detach ourselves from these cycles and perform what we have to with clinical nonchalance.

The day we realize this we think we have found the truth and a new prophet appears on the horizon. But depending on his background he would use different words in different cultures. And those in varied cultures understand or rather misunderstand in different ways. Perhaps, it is the only one truth, yet said in so many different ways that nobody actually understands what it is all about: unless each soul tries to find its own answers.

Nothing can come so easily. If it did, we as human beings would have perished so long ago. More than food and water what matters most is occupation. If the mind is not working, then it will be dead. Can you imagine ever being still, doing nothing at all? Even when you sense you are doing nothing, your mind is doing the job of sensing!

So can we live without performing? If that happens this human existence would stop instantly. Therefore, how can we say we have found the answers? We may have, some of us more successfully. Yet all this confusion exists so that we keep ourselves occupied trying to find the answers, the ultimate truth. And the day we realize the truth, we cease to exist – because with detachment for everything a human society becomes unexciting. But at the same time we have the ultimate freedom- perhaps that is what the Karma philosophy teaches you. Yet when I read it I couldn’t absorb it into my life. Because as an individual I had to find the truth for myself, that is what my Karma destines me to do.

And though I may have understood the ultimate truth, I am not yet ready to practice it because I find this sensory world exciting. It might mean bondage to the worldly existence, yet that is what I crave for. My soul is not yet willing to be liberated. I have not yet lived my life to my hearts’ content. Perhaps I will never be content enough to get out of this “Maya”.

Tulips

2008-09-19T11:35:00.000-07:00

A set of five yellow, and orange shaded...red centers...float the wall. A litte grasshopper to cover the ugly patch...leaves resembling a sorghum plant - some modified Tulips these. A sun floating over them with signs of love- a reminder of the petite little hands that scrawled all over with their penchant for life. A big red heart with eyes of black floating in a frock, honest and open in its affection left behind its signature and scribble, as it's left to shores far away.

Sun, silence and smiles

2008-08-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

The day began with sun salutations on the green lawns of an unknown house in jubilee hills. felicia is a great teacher and i feel connected so well as we chant the bija mantras and invoke the sun to give us his energy.

a great morning spent with exchanging positive thoughts and energies...i could especially see the change coming over the English students, who were hitherto quite closed in. as we finished everyone became chatty and freindly. pity that it was towards the end of their trip as volunteers to hyderabad... do take it back with you, learn and do teach others - felicia was saying...indeed what a way to live - to give and to love...some might say, that when you are wise, you become silent, but perhaps it is better to share it with ten others than keeping it to yourself. and yet, perhaps it is also true that the masters are silent and just being around them inspires the others...

somethings are never told only transmitted through thought and through silence...

and saraswati, my namesake, and my teacher, took us through a full four hour session of connecting within and without...asking people to say nice things to each other from time to time...not a very easy thing to do, especially when you must make an eye contact and with strangers...

As I walked back conteded, looking for my quintessential automan, i lost my way, and when I inquired a well-heeled lady standing outside her big garden fence, seeking directions, she said, i lost my way, and offered to drop me off in her car until the closest spot to my destination. pleasant surprise that was. like saras says, perhaps when you are happy inside, positive things happen to you!

Being Natural

2008-05-06T11:23:00.000-07:00

Being in a state of mind, that which is placid and without ripples, a mind that smiles often and is content - is the natural state for a person to be. Atleast that is the state I feel connected with my innerself and as days go by I am further convinced of this.

Being natural in speech, in life, in what we do for a living, being close to the natural world is what gives the ultimate peace of mind and lasting happiness...

All else will disappear - it is this moment that is with you - neither the past nor the future - all else will disappear, as you realise when you are getting close to the grave. And then it is too late to catch the moment, for the moment is gone...

Of love and happiness

2008-04-07T01:32:00.000-07:00

The day got brighter with the first new year wish that came from my farmer friends in the village in Kadapa, that I got associated with since last year. While people in Hyderabad, friends since long time, sent SMS messages...these simpletons of the rural hinterland spent their precious rupees calling up long distance.

A few days earlier, a familiar number rang on my mobile, but it turned out to be some other voice, a curt male voice, instead of my friends' female tone, "My son's marriage is fixed for the 16th, you must come one day in advance", ordered Narsimloo, the head of the tribal village in Khammam, where I went shooting last year. No frills, no fancy cards, but a genuine wish to want to see you and share their happiness. Like the way Savitramma from Anantapur calls up and demands, "I feel like seeing you, when are you coming here?". I felt funny when I heard that so often from these rural folk who claim ownership on you as if you belong in their family.

One day, when we were walking in the forest for a picnic along with a few others Narsimloo remarked, "Your culture is sophisticated, but I think our culture is better isn't it? When we come to the city, no body asks if we need anything, but here there is no dearth of people who will look after you", I could only nod in agreement. But one doesn't know what happens in the near future. The village is seeing material opulance...now every house has a TV and if someone doesn't they are aspiring to buy. Our economists will be happy to see the increase in "purchasing power".

As we walked further into the forest, hundreds of acres of forest land was cut down to make way for new farms. "Why did you have to cut it down?" I asked. "I feel happy in my mud hut, it is cool like an air-conditioned room. But, what to do, my wife now wants a concrete house and a DVD player . Same with almost everyone in the village" Narsimloo replied.

A few days after that walk in the forest, I got the message that Narsimloo's elder son wanted to get seperated from his father. A thing not heard of in that village until then. Earlier, the people spent their evenings singing and dancing, now they sit in front of the TV and try to think of ways to earn money, (sometimes honest, sometimes not) to "buy" all that they see there.

Can't say how long before, we find that no one wants to feed a hungry stranger, as it is now in most "mainstream" villages. But for now there is still love. I am looking forward to Narsimloo's younger son's wedding. "I promise that the women will sing our traditional songs" Narsimloo said, trying to entice me to come over.

Magicians

2008-02-28T08:19:00.000-08:00

They came, stood and conquered. As unassuming as could be. No make-up, no fancy lights, no sms messages in support of them. Just a rickety stage inside a worn out auditorium and three mikes to let their voices float through the hall with its terrible accoustics. But that didn't matter. No checking of the notes, no clearing of the throats. Just a simple trot on the stage, a small intro announcing their names and the voices began their journey. Not a single note to read, not a single pause for breath. Three mid-sized, fifty-plus women with their knee length sarees, high-pitched voices, little drums, and string instrument, transported us to another world. When they were walking out, I followed them out, to congratulate them. A toothy smile on the face with its bright vermillion, "can you please give, everyone has given us (money), for our fares", one of them asked. I dished out a Hundred rupee note out of the two that I had in my purse, wishing that I had carried some more. 'How much did they get paid?' I asked my friend who organised the show. "Rs. 2,800", he replied. "They are the last ones left in this genre of folk tradition. Their children don't wish to follow them", he added. It is another story that their songs could be remixed by some enterprising Music Director, who might make millions...but can he ever match the artless, unsophisticated magicians?

Crossings

2008-02-22T05:42:00.001-08:00

Being at a crossroad seems a trifle confusing, especially when you are tempted to take every direction. What is more important, being creative or being socially conscious or being both, or being socially conscious creative person. What does that achieve then? Is someone being creative for making people think otherwise really making a difference? I don't know. For a long time for me, what needs to be done had been more important than what I might have wished to do? That my first desire was art, and the second to do what the coscience says. I tried to do both. And now the heart craves for a fulfilment of creative expression, which doesn't always happen. The way is there, but the mind is in conflict between the two. Can someone really make a difference say, making a film, writing a book or painting a picture? Especially in these tough times when there is a need for every hand to row the ship ashore? Perhaps creative expressions can bring about a change by their impressions, but perhaps there is far too little time, what is the use of a soul stirring music, when Rome is burning? At such times, a fireman would have been more useful than Nero. But then, a fireman would never have been remembered the way Nero has been...because a fireman is not a musician.

Angry Amjad

2008-02-16T09:24:00.000-08:00

Amjad Khan...(doesn't matter the name) is an angry man. He shows it in his driving..."bloody rascals...there is 75 acres land for APSRTC...they are leasing it out to the BSNL and some other company...bloody rascals...the employees are protesting". i was silent..."bloody fellows, they think it is their fathers' property to give away...with money which we all pay, they were given that land, now they are leasing it out...as if it is their fathers'...maaki...he continued with his gaalis in perfect Hyderabadi.
People should slipper these bloody politicians...but nobody bothers...did you see Inquilaab movie, Amitabh Bachchan's film, like that...this Naidu went on selling away our land...we should have revolution like in America! That shook me up..."Revolution? In America?" pardon me...i said, "the americans are worse than us...they is no revolution happening there. I told him. We are continuing to be ruled by the East India Company descendants...only sometimes they come in the form of Reliance Ambani. After a detailed discussion on how Ambani who was given a red carpet treatment to gobble all the gas from KG Basin was now not wishing to sell gas to AP. "if anything such people should get slippered i told him". and explained how this one man's hunger doesn't get satiated by kicking poor hawkers out of their livelihoods...
"these north indians have not yet come to fisticuffs with us Andhra people, the day it happens they are finished" Angry Amjad (or should I say Angry Amitabh) spoke ferociously. i said, "well those who come here in search of looking for work are like you, they are the disadvantaged, why must you target them? it is the same as when people from here go to dubai or saudi or even to america. if anything the Tatas and Ambanis of the world should get beaten black and blue. "yes, i know. my daughter too is working in saudi and one girl is in America. you are right we should hit out at these big players...we should stop buying their products...." amjad replied.
"nor should we invest in their shares", i added wondering at the non-violent solution he thought of after all that violent posturing..."see how they rob farmers, tribals and all the common people and make their golden palaces"...i added with my own brand of vehemence.."you are right. till where did you study?" he asked me, "PG" I replied. 'I too sent my daughters to study. i had vowed that i must educate them until Post graduation at least. my elder daughter studied MSc." replied the proud father of three. "I have agriculturaland in Ranga Reddy District...and i spent a lot of my money on their education and now they are settled in their jobs'. replied a proud father. I did not know Amjad's actual name, but from his language and mannerisms, I could say he was Muslim. When I got off at my destination, his autorickshaw meter read 52 rupees. It was not tampered...I knew it would not be. If the driver is a muslim, and a devout muslim, you could bet that it will be 100% accurate and untampered.

speek

2007-10-22T09:46:00.000-07:00

some can speak
some can seek
some can speek!

living free

2007-09-25T03:21:00.001-07:00

for some years, there was a need to be away. but not anymore. for some reason there is a great freedom in living here and now, in being able to give up - on ambition, hope, and any thought of future. for some time now, i feel a freedom in being able to give away - with no expectation, money, possession and all that is mine. there is freedom in living in the here and now and still not be here. for many years i searched that state of freedom, and finally it is falling into place. there is nothing more gratifying than giving away, all that you thought was yours.

de la luxe

2007-08-14T09:55:00.000-07:00

A white wicker chair,
just to laze and look,
endlessly, forever,
lost in the vastness...

The glint on bubbles
Red, grey, crimson...

A white wicker chair
To laze and look,
drowning in the view,
no word, no thought
A white wicker ch...

paradoxity

2007-08-08T12:27:00.001-07:00

the wheels were turning over. "Just chill, chill, just chill". "hi, i am ...this is your favourite channel radio mirchi....." "Excuse me, can you please turn it off?". Out went the sound, to be followed by others...a shrill honking, the rick went zig, zag zoom, to just about an inch from the moto coming in front zip, zap, zoom. Heart lurches a bit. "can you drive a bit sanely?" "what do you mean sane, if you must survive on these roads, that is how one must drive", he yells.the wheels moved on the newly constructed road, that was built one storey over the rest...so it may not mean much, except that it gives a peek-a-boo, into the windows that overlook the flyover... sure enough to fill voyeur's curious eyes. when you look out, the wheels and the feet, all go at different speeds...but speed they must. or else, something will be lost. what? wish they knew the answer....nighfall. once it meant silence. now it means lights...streams of them, now following each other, end to end, waiting for the Red to turn to Green. For eternity, it seems. the honks go, Bong! Bong! a few abuses here and a few abuses there...finally it is Green. and a lurch to rush only to stop five minutes later.'it is past midnight before the lines of lights reduce to half. Once these streets were empty soon after dusk. there was ample space for the feet to move freely. now there is none. may be in a few generations they might become vestigial organs. "Just chill, chill, just chill, Hi, this is...your favourite channel raido city....etc etc...the sun has risen. the line waits for the Green.

Rootless

2007-08-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

mind:to belong
somewhere, someplace, someone.
a wish not by logic
but thoughts
of grand - space, time and being.
time doesn't belong.
space doesn't exist.
people don't want - to be.
free floating...never knowing...
mind to belong -
yet moving, searching,
feeling no space, time or being.

The Grand 'Trunkz' Road

2007-07-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

It looked at them as they passed by. For some reason there seemed no creativity in the existence of a Marutie Van or a Tata Sumo. At the end of the day it was no more than an aluminium box, with a much arrogant look in the eyes that flashed too bright, whether you required it or not. They couldn't care much for other opinions. For now, they are the rajahs of the road...Also nicked - Road King...snatching the epithet from the Grand old Lorries that so far had been the unparalleled Raste ka Raja, with their "Blow OK Stop Horn" signs on their belows...going left right and center. After all, it would take just one sidekick to crumple the pithy Maruti into a heap of trash, with some Sweat and Blood thrown in.

But all that was passe ever since the new Rajahs began to dominate the scene. A red carpet...ahem a concrete carpet was being laid for them where ever they wish to go. No matter what stood in their way. It didn't happen so, during the time when the Road was ruled by the Grand Old Lorries and the sturdy Ambassador... It prefered the old times, the buzz was less, the honking was less. Now almost all times seem like race times. and then some...a jam on the highway! It was no longer like before, when the travellers stopped underneath the shade for a coconut drink or a fullmeals at the wayside shack. Now there is no space...and if they do stop, it is inside the air-conditioned restaurant, that was built recently. It became all that difficult to hear interesting conversations...

After some days, it stopped looking and stopped thinking too...it was lying by the wayside...uprooted to make space for the four lane highway...so that more boxes of aluminium can zip around.

winged word

2007-04-16T12:38:00.000-07:00

A winged word
flew to the Boundless Sky
caught the Wind and
entered the Heart

tanSviews

2007-02-26T10:41:00.000-08:00

I became the way we are, trying to check out if I became an overnightly famous blogger...just waiting for people to rain down their comments on my blog. Alas, that was not to be. Never mind, I just popped on to the search engine, and typed out, "Transviews", just to find if it featured out there - I had a surprise in waiting - Transviews turned out to be a website for Transvestites. I was a bit taken aback, but then, I guess it was not so off track...in anycase, most of us women nowadays are Transvestites..."When a man dresses in women's clothes, you call him a Transvestite, what the hell have you women been doing, for so many bloody years, you have been dressing in men's clothes", John Mac, my course leader at the University, exclaimed one day, when we were deciding on a subject for a documentary.
Ummm. Of course, both men and women dressed almost similarly back home here in India, at least in South. Jewellery and Long Hair was a near common phenomena. The men wore short dhotis and the women too wore short dhoti styled saris...and ofcourse, no blouses. A German friend while seeing a toddy tapper in my film commented, "His skirt is so short, I suppose he could wear a slightly longer one". May be, but then it would not facilitate climbing a palm tree, I replied to her. He could be wearing a trouser you know, she continued. I suppose it was this kind of shock and horror of the British at the nakedness of the Indians, that prompted us to wear a lot more than our climate would prescribe. My adivasi friend Nookaraju said once while I was on research, traversing inside the forests of Andhra, "it is so nice and convenient, when I walk in my loincloth, you know, the sweat just evaporates from the skin and there is no amount of discomfort. Besides, it is easier when we go on a hunt".What an irony that a land of nakedness, (check out our temples, if you want any proof) now tries to fight out the outside influences of New Found nakedness, while the fellows who sneered at the uncivilized, unclothed natives, are themselves disrobing in the name of modernity and liberty!

some think

2007-02-26T10:34:00.000-08:00

Some think,
Some shrug,
Some laugh,
Some crib,
Some just know…
When to put a stop!

Torn notes and troubled conscience

2007-02-14T09:43:00.000-08:00

06/02/2002 – 21st Century Café, Mumbai.

I walked into Khadi Bhandar of Andheri Station to buy some shampoo. The lady refused to accept the Rs.100 note I gave her. It was torn at the corner of the centre. Someone had given it to me earlier in the day and I had not noticed it. I gave her another one and she returned me Rs.40 in four ten rupee notes. I took the train to Dadar. I wanted to buy some fruit and gave the vendor one of the ten rupee notes. He returned it. It was a torn note. I fumed inside at the woman’s duplicity and my stupidity for not checking the notes in the shop. I took a taxi to Siddhi Vinayak temple from Dadar station. The fare was 22. I was taking out the torn Rs.10 note and passing it off covered with another. (Well, why shouldn’t I cheat if everyone else is doing it?) The taxi driver looked gullible enough anyway. But at the last minute I changed my mind and gave him fresh notes. Still it was extremely difficult to withstand temptations. It had always been that way. Sometimes I feel I am slipping away, but, somewhere deep down something holds me back. I wonder why I even bother to stand apart, while all I see is deceit everywhere. No, that is not true; I do find lots of incidents of rare generosity and spirit of humanism around me. Perhaps that is why the planet’s surviving!

existential gadgeterism

2007-02-13T11:17:00.000-08:00

A popular song is blaring out of my television set, which I rarely watch nowadays. Ironical, since I work in the very same media, though not in the same content and context. Thankfully. I suppose that is what life has become – your body and mind bequeathed to a plethora of gadgets –propped up by the scientific guys – who create things which may not really be adding anything to the life of yours if you are trying to make it meaningful; but surely will sub you into a thought process that is transcendental in nature in that – you are no longer owner of your own mind. The irony of it all, at least if science had become an obsession one can understand, but from being of service to mankind and catering to the needs of people, science now creates new needs and necessities, which are finely marketed to make you feel deprived and live in a constant state of uncertainty – which finally gives rise to the need of more products and more pockets to fill – be it in the name of science or markets. And a greater need to find GOD arises out of it. Quite anti-climatic for those of us who think we are scientific and rational and believe all this talk of God as an unscientific bull-shit.

KARMA

2007-02-13T11:01:00.000-08:00

You get only that you do not want. Yet, you see that what you want and what you get may not be the same as what you ultimately find. For what you desire is not necessarily the same as what you want. The desire, the seeking is perhaps an inner urge, but the wanting is more whimsical and conscious wishing.

It is true that sometimes in some lives we get what we never wanted or even that which we abhorred. For it is meant for us to seek and find something else. Perhaps this is a good way to explain things and be content with what we are dished out by destiny. It need not necessarily be an occasion for voluntary happiness. But when beggars cannot be choosers, the ideas of fate and contentment are like antibiotics against disgruntled and depressed states of mind.

I just noticed that I have written the word “But” too many times. Thus, life seems to be more ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ than certainties.

Observation

2007-02-11T05:47:00.000-08:00

Written somewhere on a train...03/2003

I have noticed that of late I am noticing. Observation as one calls it. Suddenly, one wonders the ethics behind observing others. I would feel uncomfortable if someone were to observe me. And disturbed by thinking about the thoughts that should go on in their heads. These days, I hate being observed by all and sundry. The mind can be very dangerous. It has this great power – visualization. I almost feel as if someone is watching me with CCTV. Only someone is having it all tucked away in their memories through the minds’ eye. Worse still, while a normal camera sees what is present before it, the mental television can see what ever it wants to see. That is unnerving. Have you ever felt it? I can say this for I myself possess such a dangerous trait.

Only now I realize its implications for others. Not that it should bother them as it shouldn’t bother me while others observe me. For as a subject of scrutiny one is blissfully unaware of the other mind’s visualization process, until you stop to realize your own potential in this matter and apply it to subjective as well as objective situations. Coming back to observations, I am once again on the train and at my favourite past time. I was about to comment mentally – about people’s eating habits. The people opposite started eating the moment they got in. Normally I felt it was okay to write or think like that. But with my new code of ethics, one wonders if you could mentally comment on others like that! Having ill thoughts is perhaps, as bad as causing hurt to others. Perhaps, more, since, the other party is so unaware of being laughed at by some unknown brain which hides behind a placid expressionless face.

Of goatherds and chaiwalahs

2007-02-10T23:27:00.000-08:00

The bus was to leave by 7.30am. I decided to reach the pick-up point by 7.15. When I reached the place by the side of a Tiffin Centre, there was no sign of the bus. I called my friends who were organising the trip, and found that they have not started out yet from their starting point. So I sat in the tiffin center and after a few minutes of contemplation whether to play safe and eat Idlis or heed to the cravings of the stomach and fill it up with Masala Dosa, I finally succumbed to common sense and decided on the longer lasting breakfast of Masala Dosas and ordered coffee from the roadside chaiwalah. Coffee was only Bru instant and not the regular south Indian FILTER coffee I sought. The man had a small wheel-cart on which he had his little stove and made some disgustingly sweet and strong andhra chai along with some Nescafe coffee and Bru instant. The choice was yours. Anything cost five rupees. Even if he sold hundred chais in a day, his earning would be around 500. His expenses could be around 200-300 rupees for the cost of milk, sugar, tea / coffee powders, some hafta and mamools for the police and municipality guys etc... At the least his profit for a day could be two hundred rupees, which means a monthly six thousand. That was an underestimate. Which is better than what an assistant director earns in the film industry minus his freedom, or a newly graduated engineer or doctor earns in a private firm or hospital. Mind you, they still have to take loads of shit from all and sundry.

I felt life is better as a chaiwalah sometimes than our glorified, stuffy jobs. It is no wonder then; a leading documentary cameraman from Delhi said that his greatest dream was to start a small idli center in a shack on one of the side streets of Connaught place or Carol Bagh or whatever fancy places they have in that stuffy place called DILLI (Delhi); once he retires.

I too have a dream. It came to me when I was travelling in a road transport bus from Mundra to Bhuj in Kutch district of Gujarat some years ago. The sun was setting and the Rann of Kutch was absolutely breathtaking in its ariddest beauty. There were a few shrubs here and there and the only trees were the occasional date palms. And while I looked at this barren landscape, I found my dream, there was this lone shepherd sleeping under the tree while his goats were grazing aimlessly seemingly nibbling the little bitsy grass...I thought, that is life, to be a shepherd and just take the goats out everyday to graze while I could be reading a book sleeping under the tree, my lunch tucked away inside a stainless steel tiffin box and water inside a not-so-plastic bottle. (That is if there will be such a commodity called water existent by the time I manage to retire to this blissful existence). My friend PPK said, "You may not think so much about goats if you really spend time with them". I asked him why. He said, "Just try, and no one will come near you for the stink of it". I said, "Well the idea was anyways to be with myself, so why bother". But secretly I began to wonder if I should think of becoming a shepherd instead of a goat herd. Perhaps sheep did not smell so much after all. Finally the bus arrived...

art an addiction

2007-02-10T23:06:00.000-08:00

Gambling is not an addiction, winning is. Confronting dangers is also the feeling of power – it is an addiction. That is why perhaps, adventure too is an addiction. Creativity or at least the urge to create is the ultimate addiction – because we all wish to possess that something which gives us a feeling of superiority over the lesser beings. A feeling of being the creator rather than the created, because truly speaking there has been only one original creation – that of this Universe and the nature that surrounds us. All else is only inspirational – inspired from the world around us – which certainly is not our creation. It is only a myth that we begin to think big about ourselves saying that we are the creative people. Why is that only some people are ‘creative” and others are not? Perhaps some people have the urge to compete with the creator than others? As far as I am concerned all original work in art has been done by the native peoples – look at our art, music, dance – most of it stems from those original first steps. And in 21st century there is very little that is original – or nothing at all. We are inspired by the toilet seats, the skyscrapers, the morbid world around us, which (our world) is actually our reaction to the original creation. And we begin to delude ourselves on being the superior ones as compared to the lesser beings, who go about their mundane lives without a brush with art and culture!

once upon a while

2007-02-10T23:00:00.000-08:00

A long while ago, a friend suggested that I must blog, since I write so much. It did take a long time, and seeing the blog of another friend to inspire me to start my blog.

Why transviews? May be life seems like a trance and transitory...a record of views that trans with time.