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Bitter-sweet memories August 9, 2017

Posted by globejam in Denmark, Uncategorized.
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cranberry juiceWhen Matt moved to Denmark, the thing he pined for most was his church. It had been the centre of his social life back in Madras and he missed the weekly sermons, the choir practice and the company of his friends. A devout catholic, he appeared to suffer from extreme withdrawal symptoms every Sunday.

After watching him fidget around for a couple of weeks, I suggested he find a local church he could attend instead. I also helpfully pointed to a church close to our house, observing how it was empty all the time and should provide him with all the peace and quiet he required. Matt however, was not looking for peace and quiet. He was not interested in just any old catholic church either. He wanted an Orthodox Syrian Catholic church, preferably filled with Orthodox Syrian Malayalees, or at least, a congregation that he could identify with.

My suggestion to look for a substitute church was, however, not entirely lost on him. So, over the next month or so, Matt left home Sunday mornings to check out churches around Copenhagen looking for people he could gel with. Thankfully for him, quite soon, he found a Russian Orthodox church which he felt was very similar to his church back home. He told me that he did not understand the sermon as it was mostly delivered in Russian or Danish, neither language he could understand, but nevertheless, he felt connected and that made him happy.

A new routine set in after that. Every Sunday, Matt would get up early, dress up in his finest and go to his church. He would return in the afternoon in time for lunch, most often with a fellow congregation member in tow. Over the next few months, I met a steady stream of colourful characters from all walks of life, whom I would never have crossed paths with if not for Matt. One such fine character was Mr Beraki who eventually became a regular visitor until one fateful day.

Mr Beraki was an Ethiopian. Unable to take the long and protracted civil war in his home country, he had somehow wound up in Denmark where he had been welcomed as a refugee and given asylum. At one of the transition camps, he had met and married a fellow refugee from Russia. At the time he first came to our house, they were waiting to get their permanent residence permit in Denmark. While that process was going on, Mr B made himself useful by teaching engineering drawing at a school nearby.

Most Sundays, he would accompany Matt to our house. Like Matt, he was also a man of few words and they would just sit together in companionable silence for a couple of hours before he said his goodbye and left. We would, of course, invite him to join us for lunch, but he always politely refused. Each time he came home, he would come with one of his children, every time a different one, and each one cuter than the previous. I lost count of how many children he had, but I am sure it was somewhere between quite a few and far too many. The typical, impolite, insensitive Indian that I was, I asked him once how they managed to afford looking after so many children given his meagre refugee support payments. He politely answered, in a disarmingly candid and surprisingly dignified way, that more children meant more allowance from the Danish Government and so having more children actually helped them! I wondered aloud how the Danish government felt about that point of view, to which he nodded sagely as though he was ready to consider their opinion too.

Since he became a regular fixture who consistently refrained from sharing our lunch, we made it a point to buy different fruit drinks and punches to serve him and such of his children old enough to drink them. Some of the juices we liked ourselves, but there were quite a few that were always too sweet for us. Having tasted rye bread  and gammel dansk, both unpalatable to the unaccustomed, we just decided there was no accounting for taste and left it at that. One drink that we found too sweet even by “Danish” standards was the cranberry juice. That tetra pack had languished in the fridge for a few days untouched after the first syrupy sip.

When Mr B came next with his eldest, a boy of about 12, Matt must have thought that was a good time to reopen the cranberry juice. He filled two tall glasses for them while the two of us had our lunch, all sitting around the table. Mr B took one sip and then did not touch his glass again, while his son smacked his lips and emptied the entire glass in one long slurp. Matt, the attentive host, refilled his glass with more juice which also disappeared just as quickly. In retrospect, I don’t quite know what was going on in Mr B’s mind, but after a while he obligingly nudged his full glass towards his son. Not requiring another invitation, the kid finished that drink too.

Only after the kid had polished off the last drop of his third full glass did Mr B casually remark that the pack had the word “Koncentret” written on it. Matt, despite not understanding a word of Danish, very dismissively responded, saying “That’s just Danish for juice. It says the same on the pack of orange juice I have for breakfast”. Not wanting to argue, Mr B nodded his head noncommittally and gently also pointed to the small print below and said “It also says here to mix one part of the concentrate with 5 parts of water”.

The import of that statement struck us simultaneously. No wonder the drink had been so cloyingly sweet! Matt burst out laughing while I turned to look at Mr B’s son who had finished nearly a liter of concentrated cranberry juice under the watchful gaze of his father. There he was, sitting rigidly upright, his eyes glassy and his lips smudged a bright scarlet. Combined with his porcelain skin and mop of black curly hair, he looked like a doll on which a child had liberally smeared lipstick.

Matt reined in his laughter quickly while I struggled to put on an expression of adequate remorse. Mr B’s expression, however, never changed. He got up languidly, bid us adieu, took hold of his son’s hand gently and left.

We never saw them again.

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No lady like her. February 5, 2017

Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.
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ravagedWhen my grandfather first met her, she had been, or so I’ve heard, luscious and wholesome, full of secrets yet craving to be explored, rich and giving, bursting with laughter and mischief, beautiful beyond belief and generous to a fault.

My grandfather, he was floored. It had been love at first sight! Never in his dreams had he imagined such a beauty would be his, so completely. She had not asked him of anything and gave him everything he asked for. Though he took all that he wanted greedily, he, nevertheless, had been grateful for the bounty and, when possible, had treated her kindly.

After his time, she passed on to my dad. He had grown watching his father partake of her largesse, and thus exploiting her came naturally to him. He was also used to her beauty and allure and did not think it was anything extraordinary. She still gave all that she had unstintingly and he took her for granted. He treated her with disdain, while continuing to exploit her generosity. Whatever she gave him appeared insufficient and he constantly went back to her asking for more and more. On her part, I guess she put on a brave face and continued to smile and be as loving and kind as possible.

In time, he too passed away and then she was mine. Her time with my father had divested her of her beauty. She had given her all till it hurt her and was still found wanting. All I saw was an old haggard woman, a beaten soul, maybe even a liability. Her ravaged body, I found distasteful. What did she have to give me, I wondered? Of course, that did not stop me from finding new ways of exploiting her. When I got bored I gave her to others and we all reveled in her distress. she was nothing but a whore well past her prime, used only because there was nothing else on offer.

I saw sepia toned pictures of her from her younger days and wondered if the one with laughter on her lips and mischief in her eyes was the same lifeless wreck in front of me. Seeing her from the glory days only made me feel cheated for she had so little to give now. The contrast was stark and I blamed her for it. Had she not promised us her bottomless benevolence? Did she not once behave as though she was rich beyond measure? Why had she become such an old hag, then?

I fretted and fumed and cursed her for her short-comings. I began to hate her and tried to take as much as I could out of her, even if I did not want anything. It was spite, I am afraid. But I could not control myself. She cried, but I was hard-hearted. “I never loved you”, I shouted at her. “You are just a worthless whore”, I screamed as I beat her black and blue. She bore it all stoically which made me hate her even more. If she had begged me and pleaded with me I may have relented. If she had stared back at me or had lifted her hand, even for self-protection, I may have hesitated, for she was still powerful enough to take me on easily. But she didn’t. And as I aged, I only became less caring, of her and for myself. What was the point of it all?

Of late though, I have begun to loathe myself. I can’t help but think that she had been beautiful once and if only I and my father and his father before him had been kind and caring she would still be just as resplendent as she had been then. But alas, our greed and short-sightedness had robbed her and in the process pushed us to penury. And for what, for another fix, another temporary high, just for a lark. I have now come to realize my own true nature. I am just a common pimp, an exploiter of the innocent, a rapist, and a cruel self-destructive psychopath.

Now my days are numbered too, my son and it is time I hand her over to you. I confess, she is in worse shape than when I received her. The scabs and the festering wounds, I gave her those. Some wrinkles she already had, but the warts and and the deeper grooves, all my handiwork. The white hair, the diminished vision, the anemia, the emaciation, the grey pallor, all my doing.

After my time, if you are anything like me, you might just think that the bitch is holding out on you despite having more to give. You will surely be revolted by her unrelenting ugliness and the stench emanating from her. You too may want to take her for every penny she has until she becomes completely incapable of providing for you.

But desist, my son, desist. Don’t judge her too harshly. Let me tell you, as my death approaches, as I look back at my life, I can see that the fault has been all mine and never hers. Under that loathsome exterior that we have given her, still beats a young heart. The comely, voluptuous, buxom lass is still there, bruised and molested maybe but with zest undiminished.

Treat her with kindness, give her back a little, give her some time and I am sure she will be back to her splendorous best. Be gentle with her, and in doing so, redeem us all.

And if you have it in your heart, forgive me. Please forgive me.

A little late May 17, 2016

Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.
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She was three days late.

Normally, Mala would not have been worried about it too much. At 54, she knew all there was to know about delayed periods and the associated feelings of anxiety, worry and hope. But this time, it was different. After a long time, she had had unprotected sex, and that too with someone other than her husband.

***
Several months ago, on a whim, she had sent a paper to the commonwealth association of primary school teachers on new ways of engaging children in schools in developing countries. She had not thought much of the paper herself and had forgotten all about it when she had received intimation that the paper had been accepted and she was required to come and present it at the next summit of primary school teachers to be held in London. She had also been pleasantly surprised to learn that it would be an all expenses paid trip, under some UNICEF scheme.

Delighted at the opportunity, she had made all the preparations and had left for London on a high fifteen days earlier. The conference had been a wonderful experience and she had thoroughly enjoyed her week in London. There had been well over 300 teachers from all parts of the commonwealth including 3 from India – herself, another lady from Mumbai and Abhay from Chandigarh – all first-time travellers abroad. They had stuck together and had hit it off well with Abhay being kind, generous and witty. Her paper had been very well received with especially loud applause and cheering from the tiny Indian contingent.

There had been time to see a bit of London as well and the three of them had managed to take a half-day tour on the open top bus and spend some time inside St. Paul’s cathedral as well. It has been a long time since she had been so happy.

The conference had thrown a large formal dinner on the last evening with caviar, wine and the works and she and Abhay had found themselves seated next to each other. The witty conversation, the excitement of the week gone by, and the wine had all made for a heady experience. Well after midnight, after the dinner, Abhay and she had walked back to their hotel two blocks away, holding hands and giggling like teenagers. Their rooms were on the same floor and they finally parted in front of her room, albeit a little reluctantly.

Back in her room, Mala had run a bath, hoping to have one last luxuriating bath before reverting to the bucket and mug that awaited her back home. She added the bath salts into the water and soaked in the warm water for a long time. Feeling refreshed, she had played with herself, the first time since she did not know when, and had ended up dozing in the bath in a dreamy post-climactic stupor. A little later, the water had turned cold and she had forced herself out of the bath, changed into her night clothes and surrendered to her warm and fluffy bed.

The next day, she had woken up fully refreshed, but with a heavy heart, for she knew that she had to catch the flight back home later that day. The week had flown past so fast and she was already feeling like she did not remember most of the things that she had seen and been part of over the last few days. With the bus to take her to the airport still a few hours away, and not wanting to get depressed, she had decided to make the most of the remaining time.

She had then had a quick shower and got ready to leave the room for a walk around the area. Wanting her morning cup of coffee, she had turned the kettle on, only to find it was not working. She had then gone over to Abhay’s room to borrow his kettle. She had knocked on his door a few times but there had been no response and finally just as she had been about to turn around and go back, he had opened the door, all wet from having rushed out of the bath, with just his towel wrapped around him. His hair had been all pasted to his forehead and he had had a large frown on his face. She had found that funny and had playfully tugged at his towel and he, in turn, had pulled her in to the room and before they knew what was happening, they were in his bed having sex. Both having been out of practice, it had been clumsy and rather quick but entirely enjoyable.

After a while, she had left him to get dressed and had gone to her room to re-apply her make-up and get ready for her journey back home, the coffee completely forgotten.

Back in the room, she had felt a little twinge of guilt for having cheated on her husband. But she had brushed it aside, glad for the experience, and flown back home.

***
And now she was three days late.

She decided that she wouldn’t worry much just yet. It might very well be the onset of menopause. After all, she was 54 years old. However, at the back of her mind, she could not help but feel maybe she was getting punished for her indiscretion. Yes, she had cheated on her husband Vikram, but it was not as though their marriage was a functioning one or that they cared much about each other anymore, she thought to herself, to assuage her guilt.

***

Vikram and Mala had been neighbours and friends before their marriage. When both families had started looking for spouses for their wards, the marriage broker had brought their horoscopes together. When their families had suggested the alliance to them, both had agreed readily.

Mala had always liked the sarcastic wit of Vikram and Vikram had always been happy to have someone laugh at his jokes, and though neither of them had actually imagined such an outcome, they were both quite happy at the prospect of being together for the rest of their lives. When people asked them how they had met, he would always say “Ours was a love marriage. Our families loved each other and got us married”.

Things had gone on well in the beginning. He worked for the railways and she taught at a school and though neither of them earned much, they were both content with their lives. The only issue was that there were no issues even after a couple of years. Mala had gone to the doctor and got herself checked and the doctor had been unable to find any reason why she should not conceive.

The doctor had then suggested timing their sex to coincide with her fertile period and she had shared this with Vikram. They tried this for a couple of months, but Vikram found it very difficult to perform when things were planned like this. He would sarcastically announce to visitors “I am like the fortnightly Guwahati express trundling into central station on time everytime”, leaving them wondering what he was talking about while Mala cringed in embarrassment and hoped that they did not get what he was saying.

A few months later, she had gently suggested that Vikram get himself tested. This had not gone down well with him and he had refused to go to the doctor. Finally, with no options, the doctor has suggested they try an in-vitro procedure. Vikram had reluctantly agreed and provided his sperms on request for around 6 months or so, all to no avail.

By then, for whatever reason, he had begun to feel that everyone, especially Mala, thought he was somehow defective and started to distance himself from everyone. One fine day, he had announced that he no longer found the plastic cups in the fertility clinics attractive and had refused to have anything to do with them again. From then, they had also stopped having sex totally.

In all other respects, they appeared a normal, typical, dysfunctional Indian family. Except that they lived more like siblings, always slightly annoyed with each other, but reconciled to living together, as pleasantly as possible, for the rest of their lives. They had, neither of them, ever been much interested or keen on anything and hence they motored along most amicably for the rest of their lives. As years went by Vikram became more sarcastic and Mala found it less and less funny, but none of it had ever led to any great deal of friction ever.

Of course, Mala secretly held Vikram responsible for their lack of children, though once in a while, she would concede that just maybe, her body was to blame for it.

***
After so many years of yearning to get pregnant, now she was three days late and hoping that she wasn’t.

Not wanting to go to the doctor just yet, she decided to go and get herself a home pregnancy test kit. As the pharmacists near her house knew her well, she was not too keen to go to any of the nearby pharmacies. Nor did she want to go to any of those near her school, lest one of her colleagues or, worse, one of the students saw her buying one!

She finally settled for some pharmacy half-way to school. Next thing that worried her was how to ask for it. If she went and asked for a pregnancy kit, would the pharmacist enquire as to who was going to use it? Would he ask “is it for you?”. What would she say then, she wondered. Would he look at her knowingly? Would he think she was a slut for having had sex at her age?. The questions jostled in her head like a bunch of boisterous children shouting “me, me, me!” vying to get the teacher’s attention. Two more days went by while she worked up her courage to face the unknown pharmacist.

Finally, she decided to go in and ask for 10 boxes. That way, no one would think it was for herself. And if anyone asked about whose name to put on the bill, she could just ask them to bill it in the name of Thirumala school of nursing, or something like that. That way they would think she was buying for an institution, she thought, pleased with her deception.

That settled, the next day on the way back from school, she got down mid-way and entered into the nearest pharmacy. The pharmacist, sitting back with his legs on the table, was deeply engrossed in some magazine. Luckily no one else was around. She cleared her throat to get his attention and, in a quiet voice, asked for a home pregnancy kit. He walked to the back shelf and while still keeping his eyes fixed on the magazine, felt around and took one box out. Emboldened by his lack of interest, she requested for one more kit. He fumbled around the shelf some more and then took one more box and plonked them both down on the counter and asked for hundred and fifty rupees. He had still not glanced at her once. Thrilled with the lackadaisical service, She gave him the money, and without bothering to ask for the bill, shoved the two boxes into her purse and left as quickly as possible. She was home about half an hour later than usual, but Vikram, who had also returned from the office by then neither seemed to notice nor care.

She went straight into the bathroom with her purse and opened up one of the boxes to find out how to use it. Unfortunately, the writing on the usage guide inside the box turned out to be too small for her to read. She put on her glasses and strained her eyes, but the letters only swarmed around like miniature ants. At her wits end, she then took her phone out and clicked photos of each side of the slip carefully and then enlarged them to see if they were in focus enough for her to read the instructions clearly. Thankfully they were and she put the box back into her purse and slipped out to her room to switch on the bright light and read them comfortably.

To be used first thing in the morning, the instructions stated. She would have to wait one more day! “That will make it six days late”, she thought, with the tension building up. “Wish I had someone to lean on”, she cried out silently in her mind.

Next morning, she feigned a headache and stayed at home. Vikram left at 8 AM as usual and immediately afterwards she took the kit and used it. There was only one line and not two. What a relief! She was not pregnant after all. Nevertheless, she decided to check again the next day.

Another day, another kit and the same result. “Two kits can’t be wrong”, she thought with relief, before promptly fixing an appointment with the doctor, just to be sure. Despite assurances that the kits were quite accurate and she should not be worried and that it is in all probability the onset of menopause, Mala had insisted on further tests and so, for everyone’s peace of mind, the doctor had suggested a blood test, which, she promised, was definitive.

Wanting to get over all this quickly, Mala went straight to the lab and gave her blood and paid for the test. She no longer cared what the nurse might think. She looked the nurse in the eye while giving her the doctor’s prescription and defiantly thought, ” Yes. I am 54 and I had sex and it was good. So what?”. The nurse on her part appeared as disinterested as the pharmacist.

The next day on the way back from school, she dropped into the lab and picked up the report and took it home. She stepped past Vikram with a “hi” and he acknowledged her with a grunt. She took the report and went into her room and read it. It was clear. She was definitely not pregnant. All the pent up tension evaporated instantly and the long held back tears gushed out. Then she heard Vikram moving about, and not wanting him to see her in that state, she quickly wiped her tears and came out of her room.

That’s when it suddenly struck her. She could never know motherhood in this lifetime. Though she had long reconciled to her fate, the finality of it all smacked her hard and a wracking sob escaped her and the tears started flowing again. Vikram said “What now?” with an exasperated look.

“I have hit menopause”, she blurted out, hoping he would say something kind.

“Great. I don’t have to buy condoms anymore”, he said, “We will be saving tonnes of money from now”.

Day 2 – To Legazpi March 18, 2016

Posted by globejam in Philippines, Uncategorized.
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Part II.  Read part I here.

legaspi_airport_panorama

Legazpi Airport.  Photo: Bhaskar Dattatri.

Philippines, surprisingly, is not on the tourist map. After having been there and back, for the life of me, I cannot imagine why.

When we first told friends that we were going to the Philippines, it was like playing a word association game. One set of friends raised their eyebrows quizzically when they heard about our plans as though to ask “what’s there in the Philippines that is not there in Phuket or Pattaya?”. The ones that regularly traveled on business scrunched up their noses and said “Traffic Jams”. The tourist-y kind nodded knowingly and enquired rhetorically “Boracay uh?”, as though that was the only option. Was that all there was to the Philippines, we wondered.

When we searched the net, again there were only 3 destinations that cropped up regularly – the terraced rice fields at Banaue, the beaches at Boracay and the island of Palawan, apart from Manila, of course. We dug a little deeper and found Donsol where one could swim with the whale sharks. The rest of the Philippines, if we were to believe what was, or was not, on the net, might as have been unexplored territory! So we rolled up our sleeves and went where no one ever goes – beyond page 10 of the google search results. That’s when we discovered Bicol.

Bicol had everything we wanted, from smaller cities, villages, lakes, forests and bird sanctuaries to beaches, scuba diving and whale shark watching. And volcanoes. Not one, but two. Not dormant, but active. Not just active, but gurgling and spewing. Mt. Bulusan, in the heart of Bicol region had last erupted on 23rd of Feb 2016, just about 10 days before our trip. Its gentle cough had sent up a plume of smoke and ash to a height of over 500 meters! A Filipino blogger called Bicol a hidden gem, and we were smitten.

The early morning CebuPacific flight from Manila to Legaspi city was uneventful. The flight, which was the second for the day in that sector, was full and we were among the few foreigners. No food was served, but the air hostesses sported genuine smiles. They also had a nice trick up their sleeve. Instead of informing us about all the sectors CebuPacific covered (as part of their marketing spiel), they conducted a short quiz with prizes for passengers who could name 4 foreign destinations of CebuPacific or 3 local destinations, etc. I thought it was a considerate and engaging way of disseminating marketing information.

Legaspi airport turned out to be scenic, tiny, bright and airy, and well maintained with an unhindered view of Mt. Mayon. Our 12-seater Nissan UrVan  was there waiting for us, with June at the wheels. We piled in and drove around looking for a hotel to stay in. After a couple of false stops we finally found a decent place with clean rooms in the heart of the city. The hotel, Villa Amada, was right above the 1st Colonial Grill famous for its Sili ice cream. Unfortunately, we missed having it. Very silly of us, I must admit.

legaspi_porkIt was past noon by then so we checked in and immediately went to a mall for lunch. Some of us went to a Chinese restaurant while the rest raided a pizza joint looking for vegetarian fare. The pork and broccoli dish was delectable. In the spirit of adventure and experimentation, I had a San Miguel apple flavoured beer for the first and last time.

legaspi_cagsawaAfter lunch we went to the Cagsawa ruins, the remnants of an 18th century Fanciscan church surrounded by paddy fields with Mt. Mayon as a backdrop. Mt Mayon, like most volcanoes, loomed over an otherwise flat landscape with just its tip hidden behind a tiny wisp of clouds. Very scenic and peaceful despite a number of fellow tourists, mostly Filipinos, milling around. We had buko juice (coconut water), bought and ate honey coated pilinuts, a local delicacy (melted in our mouth) and waited as the ladies browsed through each of the 20-odd almost identical shops with identical merchandise.  While waiting, a large group of friendly Filipinos wanted me to take some photos of them using 4-5 of their phones.  I obliged and answered their questions on where I was from.  One of them, a sailor, was thrilled to hear that I was from Chennai, India.  Apparently he had a lot of colleagues from Chennai.  He taught the others to greet me in Tamil and they all shouted “Vanakkam” in unison before departing.

From there we went to Ligñon hill which afforded a wonderful view of the city of Legaspi on one side and Mt. Mayon on the other. From the viewpoint we noticed a small airfield and wondered why such a small city had an airport and an airfield before we realized that the tiny airfield was the airport we had landed on earlier in the day. We also spotted a few birds including what we thought was a Philippine Bulbul, which sent our Filipina relatives into fits of uncontrollable giggling. Apparently, bulbul was Tagalog slang for a female body part. There was just so much to learn.

It got dark pretty early, by around 5:30 PM, and so the rest of the evening we spent walking around Legaspi city. We bought some fruits at the open market, ogled at the colourful jeepnies and scouted around for a place to have dinner. We were again surprised to note that we were among the few foreigners in the city that day. There were quite a number of money changers in the city which we initially thought was suggestive of sizable tourist traffic. However, we noticed that most of those transacting there were locals, so we guessed that these exchanges were mostly catering to locals to help them convert the foreign exchange coming from their expat relatives.

This was another observation that brought home the fact that Filipinos were unfailingly cheerful, courteous and kind not because the tourism trade demanded it, but because that is their true nature. That’s just the way they are.

How can one not fall in love with people like that?!

Dance and some drama February 27, 2016

Posted by globejam in Scepticism, Uncategorized.
7 comments

It was already dark when we reached the wonderfully quaint auditorium. Nestled inside a 15-acre verdant campus, the thatched building exuded peace and serenity. The outside was tastefully decorated. The path from the gate was festooned with streamers made from palm fronds and the floor was covered with traditional Kolams. My wife and I, we held hands, happy to be back at a place with so many shared memories.

We could hear the singing emanating from the inside and it looked as though the program had already started, though we could discern no lights from within the auditorium. We hurried inside, felt our way through the dark aisles and found two vacant seats in the last row. As though on cue, the stage lights turned on and the first set of dancers came on to the stage.

The program we had come to watch, titled Rama Vanagamanam, was a dance drama enacting an episode from the Ramayana – from Dasaratha Rama_etalannouncing the imminent coronation of his eldest son Rama, through the machinations of Manthara and the cashing in of the 2 boons by Kaikeyi till the departure of Rama, Sita and Lakshmana into exile for 14 years.

The stage was decorated simply but elegantly with Kalamkari cloth as backdrop. The setting was minimal with a small stool at one corner leaving the rest of the stage available for the dancers. The first act began with eight girls on stage, wearing bright earth colors, dancing a brisk yet light sequence depicting Ayodhya’s joyful celebrations on the eve of Rama’s coronation.

dasaratha2Notwithstanding the bright start, the story turned dark and gloomy fairly quickly. The second act started with the scene where Manthara brainwashes a hitherto happy Kaikeyi into stopping Rama’s coronation followed by a distraught Dasaratha informing Rama about the boons he had given to Kaikeyi and her current two demands, one to banish Rama from the kingdom, and the other, to anoint Bharatha as the king, and his inability to renege on those demands.

rama sita_2This was followed by act III which has Rama telling Sita that he is leaving her to go to the forest and that she should remain in Ayodhya. Sita of course refuses, produces copious amount of tears along with lengthy arguments for why her rightful place is next to Rama. After some desultory resistance Rama acquiesces. Subsequently Lakshmana volunteers to accompany them, but nobody seemed to care much about that, neither then nor now.

The program ended with Rama, Sita and Lakshmana, dressed in bark leaving Ayodhya to enter the forests, leaving the people of Ayodhya and much of the audience in tears.

Through out the performance, the audience sat in rapt attention except when some of the scenes touched a chord leading to many kerchiefs being taken out and many noses blown noisily. I may be wrong here but it appeared that most of the sympathy was directed towards Rama, some towards Sita while poor Lakshmana drew a blank. My wife was weeping with the best of them and clutching my hands for support.  I held her hand and returned the pressure, thinking how romantic the evening was turning out to be.

As I watched the story unfold, the inveterate cynic in me could not but wonder who among all the characters were making the larger sacrifices and who deserved my sympathy. If tears needed to be shed at all, who should have been the deserving recipient?

Dasaratha seemed inconsolable.  Portrayed by a stalwart, a few gestures were enough to give full expression to the anguish and turmoil he was suffering.  The pathos touched the audience deeply.  Yet, was it not his fault?  A crafty king should know better than to make open ended promises. When even Gods suffered after granting ill-considered boons, what right did a mere mortal have, king though he may be, to dish out such boons? If I had any sympathy for Dasaratha at all, it was solely due to the powerful performance of an artiste par excellence.

Rama, with his straight spine and stiff upper lip was the cynosure of all eyes. His was ostensibly the biggest sacrifice, for he was giving up his rightful place at the helm of his kingdom. In my mind, however, no self-respecting kshatriya would have allowed himself to get into such a situation in the first place. To begin with, despite not being her son, he was still apparently much loved by Kaikeyi and it was Manthara’s constant needling and the threat of dire consequences that forced her to try and banish Rama from Ayodhya. Rama, I felt, if he had been shrewd could have taken Manthara out of the equation and cajoled Kaikeyi into retracting her requests. Failing that, being a great favourite of the people of Ayodhya, he could have very easily fomented unrest among the people and orchestrated a lynch mob to take care of Manthara, and if needed Kaikeyi and anybody else who got in the way, without getting his own hands dirty. Or he could have tried several other ruses that many before him and still more subsequently have used to usurp or retain power. Yet he did not even try any of this. Instead, he agreed readily to bear the cross and proceeded to make preparations for his vanavas with barely concealed smugness.

I continued in the same vein, thinking that for a self-righteous prude such as Rama, this must have spelt a once in a lifetime opportunity to embrace martyrdom for all to see. To put on a long face, to relinquish everything that was rightlfully his, to earn the pity of an entire population, to appear stoic in the face of great loss, all of it could very well have given a holier-than-thou Rama immense pleasure. In retrospect, that one act has given him immortality, promotion to God status, and legions of red-eyed sniffling sympathizers over eons. Couldn’t have worked out better for him!

Surely, he did not deserve the kind of sympathy that was being bestowed on him by the audience. At least, definitely not my sympathy.

Any lingering doubts I might have had were banished by the way he handled Sita. That did not seem to be something to be proud of either. In one scene, he comes into Sita’s room and informs her that he has decided to go into exile for 14 years. He doesn’t give her an option. A fair person, I felt, would have first fought in that situation, if not for himself, at least for the sake of his newly married princess who had assumed, in good faith, that she would be queen shortly. Having acceded to the conditions laid by his father the king, the least he could have done was consult Sita about what she would like to do instead of announcing his decision. He could have said “Listen, given the situation, I doubt whether it is safe for you to be here in Ayodhya. You could come into the forests with me and we could face all the dangers there together or you could move back to your father’s kingdom where you can be safe till my return. Any which way, staying in Ayodhya is out of the question. I would recommend that you go back to your father. I will then go into the forest and see if I can locate a place of safety and then if we both want it, you can move in with me, at least once in a while“. That would have been nice. Instead he just tells her to stay back in Ayodhya and then conveniently allows her to convince him to let her accompany him. I am sure that all along he was banking on Sita insisting on accompanying him. After all, he wouldn’t have wanted to be separated from his young, beautiful wife. Besides, I am sure he wondered, if she did not come along, then who would do all the cooking and washing for both him and his brother!

Sita, I must admit did appear to deserve a lot of sympathy. She was a grand princess from a fairly rich kingdom and would have been looking forward to ruling Ayodhya alongside Rama when, and not if, he ascended the throne. She must have been used to the comforts afforded to royalty and would have expected at least the same levels of comforts, respect and deference when she became queen. To be suddenly stripped of her status as queen-apparent, and shorn of all her jewelry, and even her clothes and unceremoniously sent off to the forest must have been troubling to say the least. In addition, the prospect of having to cook and care for not one, but two grown men must have been so much insult on injury.

lakshmana_hanumanLakshmana did not get any sympathy from anyone primarily because he volunteered to accompany Rama. I am sure there were sensible reasons for that, but nevertheless it was not something he was forced or coerced into doing. So it was quite logical that he did not make much of a mark with the audience. On my part, I did sympathize with him a little bit, only because despite not being made up heavily or relying on prosthesis, he did look surprisingly like Hanuman, so much so that I heard quite a few other people in the audience wondering how Hanuman had entered the scene so early in the story!

After the show, we walked back home, hand in hand. While my wife dried her eyes,  I expounded on some of my earlier thoughts. Its amazing how quickly an evening can turn. I guess I must have pressed the wrong nerve because I have  never known her to resort to name calling.

She started by calling me an idiot and pointing out that my entire knowledge of Indian Mythology was limited to what I had learnt from Amar Chitra Katha and the odd dance drama. This being entirely accurate, I had no choice but to nod dumbly in agreement. Then she said that the Sanskrit original, which an illiterate such as myself could not possibly read, leave alone understand and appreciate, was quite nuanced and there were wheels within wheels and mitigating circumstances for even the seemingly bad behaviour exhibited by some of the characters. A corny argument at best, but the illiteracy bit hit home and I had to concede another point. Finally, she argued that I was merely foisting my own thoughts and attitudes on Rama and that it was I who was a sanctimonious prig and not Rama. I think she used the word prig and not another similar sounding one, but she was riled up and under such circumstances one never can tell.

I conceded that I could be a sanctimonious hypocrite sometimes but that was exactly why I could be right in my assessment of Rama.

After all, it takes one to know one.

Brahms February 8, 2016

Posted by globejam in Childhood, Uncategorized.
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clothTiedToTree2 Brahms couldn’t possibly be his real name, though that was how he was universally known.  When asked about the origin of his name, he would insist that Brahms was his given name – “This is how my parents named me and this is who I am” he would aver.  This was generally considered bunkum because he was an Indian from an orthodox brahmin family, living in India and Brahms was obviously a western name.  However, no amount of prodding or even threatening would make him change his story and this resulted in a lot of speculation among his friends.

His uncle Seshu knew the actual story behind the name of course and at every opportunity he would be pestered to divulge the details.  Usually, Seshu would just respond ambiguously with ” I don’t know…. Why don’t you ask him yourself?  I am sure he can explain better than I”.

But one rainy day, when we were all huddled up in his house drinking piping hot tea and bajjis, he seemed to be in a loquacious mood and upon mild encouragement and a brief nod from Brahms himself, he gave us his version.  This is what he had to say.

I guess I will have to take you back to the very early 60’s. Keshav Acharya, Brahms’ father, got married to his pretty wife Janaki -correct me if I am wrong, Brahms- in February 1961. Keshav, being the lone son among the 12 children in his family, the marriage was a very big function.  After all, Keshav was their only hope for the propagation of the Acharya lineage.

In those days, a typical wedding used to be 3 days long, but this being a special wedding, it stretched for nearly 5 days.  Friends and relatives came in hordes from all over the country, some of them it is said, from as far away as Rangoon.  A huge choultry was hired for the occasion and a team of 15 cooks were employed non-stop to provide feasts, 3 times a day.  The function is, I believe, still talked about among that generation.

There were great expectations among the people and even before the marriage was solemnized, Keshav’s relatives were heard speculating on the number of sons he would produce.  The anticipation for the first born son of Keshav was palpable – for would he not be the first born son of a first born son of a first born son?  Would such a son not bring glory to the Acharya clan?

And obviously everyone wanted in on it. Even before the marriage was solemnized, different factions started campaigning hard to ensure that their favourite forefather’s name would be chosen as the name for this as yet unborn, nay, as yet conceived son.  The virtues and exploits of the forefathers were bandied about and much heated discussions ensued.  By the third day of the wedding, things reached a head and there was open war among the various factions, punctuated only by feasting.

All this must have put serious pressure on Keshav and Janaki, the poor newly-marrieds.  On the last day of the ceremony, as the wedding couple were about to embark on the traditional 15-day pilgrimage to pay their respects to all the family deities, Keshav announced that he was disgusted with the behaviour of all the people present and hence had decided to postpone the planned birth of his first child by 2 years. And if they did not stop bickering immediately, he swore he would pray at every temple for the first born to be a girl! You should have been there to see the stunned silence that ensued.  Keshav’s father, even today attributes at least 3 heart-attacks among the people assembled there that day, to that incident.

After the couple departed, Keshav’s father was roundly admonished for having begotten an unruly, ill-mannered brat.  I am sure, had there been enough time, the mob would have thrashed the poor man. But there were trains and buses to be caught and hence the crowd dissipated quickly, leaving him to ponder over the future of his clan.

Keshav’s parents hoped and prayed that youth and libido would make him forget the threat soon.  But, Keshav seemed to be made of sterner stuff, as you shall soon see. Upon the newly weds’ return from the pilgrimage, the family allocated the young couple a large bedroom with an attached bathroom (not very common in those days mind you) and a lot of privacy in one corner of the sprawling house.  Everything appeared normal except that Keshav made a couple of visits to the Doctor’s.  On being queried, he brushed it off saying it was nothing, and since the Doctor was not the regular family Doctor, no one became any wiser.

However, from then on, every month, for about ten days, Keshav would sleep in the Verandah and not in his bedroom with his wife.  The first time, everyone assumed it was one of those tiffs between the couple and made it a point not to notice it.  When the same thing happened the next month and the next, Keshav’s parents cottoned on to the situation. Gentle prodding with “Why are you doing this, my son” was responded to with a gruff “you know why.  Don’t ask me”.  Much cajoling and crying took place, but to no avail and eventually the parents had to reconcile to the fact that their son was not going to be shaken in his resolve for the stipulated 2 years.

This went on for exactly 2 years, at the end of which Keshav quietly stopped sleeping in the verandah.  His parents breathed a collective sigh of relief and clandestinely [for who knew what Keshav would do if he were to find out] started praying for their much awaited grandson. Six months went by and there was no sign of any pregnancy despite strategically timed walk-bys by the parents confirming that there was frequent and feverish action behind closed doors.  While nobody was brave enough to question Keshav, his mother took Janaki aside and asked “Is everything going fine? why are you not in a state where you cannot have a head bath?” – a convoluted way of asking “why are you not pregnant yet?”.  Janaki, being unaware of such euphemisms, initially innocently responded with “why? why cannot I have a head bath?”.  Couple of more oblique tries to find out resulted in more confusion until, in exasperation, Keshav’s mother mustered up her courage and said “Despite all the noisy action at night, why are you not pregnant yet?”. Janaki apparently just turned beet red and shrugged her shoulders and not another word could be pried out of the shy lass’ mouth.

A year went by and other relatives started asking “yenna, oru puzhu, poochi kaanum?” – literally meaning “why is there no sign of any worms or insects” – again a euphemism for “Where’s the zygote?”.  By this time, Keshav and Janaki were also getting worried and you could see that on their faces.  Their nightly activities became more frenzied and noisier but the results remained unchanged.  Finally, Keshav suggested that they probably should see the Doctor.  So Janaki was promptly taken to the Doctor.  Keshav, of course, did not go, because in our chauvinistic society, there was no question of anything being wrong with the man. The Doctor took Janaki’s pulse and blood pressure and declared that there seemed nothing wrong with her and that they should continue to try and leave the rest to the almighty.  Janaki came back and conveyed the sage advice of the Doctor to Keshav and they went back to the bedroom with more vigour and resolve.

By now, it was nearly four years since their marriage and people started saying that it was all Keshav’s fault for having put silly conditions in the beginning and the only way out was to pray to their family deity for the boon of a bonny boy baby.  So started another four years of humping nights and prayerful days.  Keshav and Janaki visited the family deity regularly and when that did not bear fruit, no pun intended, they started casting their nets wider and started visiting other temples.  No Gods were spared – Ganesha, Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu in every avatar were prayed to, even bachelor Gods Anjaneya, and Aiyappa were not left out.  In exasperation, they even approached Buddha, Mahaveera and Sai baba.  All to no avail. In the meantime, the advice and antics of the people in the house became more and more ludicrous.  On the advice of elders and priests, they started tying pieces of cloth on all the Bodhi trees around the city as this was supposed to be a sure route to successful procreation.  When even that did not change the situation, they started tying pieces of gold embroidered silk on Banyan trees, peepal trees and even neem trees. By the end of the eighth year, they had visited over 300 temples and trees.

Finally, when everyone had all but given up, Janaki became pregnant.  There was much rejoicing and telegrams were sent back and forth and the house started taking on a festive atmosphere.  It was like a veil of gloom had been suddenly lifted in a flash.

While usually, the girl is sent back to her parents’ house till the delivery, in this case, they did not want to take any chances and kept her where she was.  She was treated like a queen and fed milk and ghee, fine fruits and even saffron, said to make the baby fair and beautiful, not that you could ever guess seeing him now.  Eventually, some 9 years after marriage, Janaki gave birth to our man here.

A son.  All the prayers and strange antics had finally produced the best of results. Now came the tough decision – What to name the baby?  All thoughts of naming him after one of his illustrious ancestors were thrown out of the window.  “Was this baby not a boon of the Gods?  Therefore he should be rightly named after a God”, declare Keshav’s father.  But wait, which God?  Of all the Gods and demigods prayed to, who finally granted the boon?  How to find out?

No definitive answers were forthcoming and so the priest was consulted and, being politically savvy and diplomatic, he suggested “Why don’t you name the boy after all of them you prayed to”. Of course, this was impractical because then the boy would have a name that was hundreds of words long!

Keshav being fairly orderly in nature, decided that he would start with the complete list and based on various criteria would eliminate names until a reasonably sized list of, say, 5 Gods was arrived at.   The original list was really over 100 names long.  Many of the names were of different avatars of the same god, but even after eliminating duplicates the list still had over 50 names.

First the lesser know ammans (Goddesses) such as Peeli amman and Mundakanni amman were eliminated, probably with a quick prayer beseeching them not to take it too personally.   Brahma, though one of the all-powerful trinity and creator of all we see, has never held sway over the minds of people and no stories of curses and retribution are associated with him, so without too many worries his name was struck off the list.   Laxmi and Saraswathi, the Goddess for wealth and learning respectively, being obviously names for girls, those names were also eased out.  Ganesha, the elephant headed God was a great favourite of the entire acharya clan, but poor chap, being too lovable and nice cost him his place in the top five.

After further deliberations and taking into account the vengeful or benign nature of various remaining Gods, the final list was arrived at.  The Gods that made it were

Balaji, an avatar of Vishnu, headquartered in Tirupathi, Rama, again an avatar of Vishnu, but hey, one couldn’t go wrong with that, Maheshwara, another name for Shiva, pretty much selected himself, for who can leave the great linga or phallus out of any list instrumental in the birth of a baby, Aiyappa, supposedly the son of two men, Vishnu and Shiva (according to one version) known to be generous with his boons and more importantly given to fits of rage, and finally, Hanuman, again a fiery character.

In the honourable mention section remained Sai baba of Shiridi, a man revered as God by both Hindus and Muslims, and Keshav did not have the heart to leave him out of the final list as he, above all, deserved a place in the list.

Thus the baby was named Balaji Rama Aiyappa Hanumana Maheshwara Sai.

Not only was a broad cross-section of the Gods appeased, but naming a child after one or more Gods had other benefits.  As you all know, it is considered very good for one’s future lives if one were to call out Gods name many times each day. So every time the boy was called, God’s name was automatically invoked resulting in the constant ticking of the punya counter.  Thus all the family members made it a point to call the child by his various names thereby ensuring that all the Gods were evenly addressed.  This caused a lot of confusion among neighbours and strangers, but our boy here seemed unperturbed.  Like a puppy, he responded to all names, I guess, by the tone of voice rather than the actual name!

It was very happy times then and everyone was in the best of spirits.  Our man here, though late in arriving, grew up fast.  By the time he was two, he had become the most mischievous and precocious child in the entire neighbourhood.  Soon he became quite a handful and there was always trouble wherever he went.  Precious vases were broken, plants were uprooted and general mayhem reigned at home.  No amount of shouting and scolding seemed to affect his behavior.  In fact, it seemed like the more they shouted, the more boisterous he became.  Soon, you could hear “Balaji you dog, come here”, “Sai, you rascal, how many times have I told you not to do that” and much worse.

Time went by, as it is wont to, and on his 4th birthday, it was decided to conduct the sacred thread ceremony for the boy and at that time, the family priest was again called for.  He came and was quite shocked by the name calling going on that day.  He called Keshav and his father aside and said “I know it is good to invoke the names of Gods regularly, like you all are doing.  I am also sure that our Gods are omniscient and understand when you are addressing them and when you are referring to the boy, but do you think it is prudent to constantly juxtapose the names of Gods with names of animals and body parts? After all, you know how vengeful some of our Gods can be sometimes – God forgive me for saying this”.  This had a profound effect on everyone and after much turmoil, hand wringing and nearly non-stop obeisance in front of the deities in question, it was decided that along with the thread ceremony, a new naming ceremony would also be conducted wherein the boy’s name would be shortened to contain only the first letter of each of his names. And thus he was named Brahms that day and he has been called only by that name from that day on. And that’s that, ended Uncle Seshu.

Brahms said “I told you all so” and left the room.

Democracy is not for everyone. December 9, 2015

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Crown-of-ThornsFor the most part, we have had two forms of Government in India.

For a long time, till the British arrived and took over India over 150 years ago, we were ruled by various monarchs. There were kingdoms and princely states, ruled variously by Emperors, Kings, Queens, Princes, Nawabs, and royal families. The monarchs ruled their kingdoms, owned pretty much everything in their kingdom, and based on their capabilities, governed well or badly. Their post was for life (or till a rival king took over) and power stayed in the family.

The British came in and united all these various kingdoms and princely states into one nation and when they left, nearly 70 years ago, we chose to remain a single nation and adopted democracy here in India. It was a new step for us and largely influenced by the British and the socialistic leanings of the thought-leaders then.

However, Democracy is not something that is “grokked” in India nor, it appears, wanted. Ask any Indian today how they think India can change for the better and most of them will tell you that what India needs today is a benevolent dictator. Deep down inside it seems that Indians want to be ruled by a king (or queen).

This is also quite apparent in the attitude of the current politicians and our behaviour towards them.

Prime example, the Nehru dynasty. They have been at the helm of the democratic congress party, and have had dynastic rule practically since its formation. Indira, Rajiv and Sonia Gandhi have come to power largely because they were related to Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India. Look at the various states inside India, right from the north to the south and you will find that most major state-level political parties, from Kashmir to Tamil Nadu, are family run.

The parties in power rule like they own the state. The politicians act and behave as though the laws of the land do not apply to them or their families. They expect and, more importantly, get royal treatment wherever they go. In many cases, the state-level ministers prostrate themselves in front of their leader, avoid eye contact, go to great lengths to spread their name and deify them.

The people for a large part also believe the rulers are above the law and cannot be questioned. Even when their successive tax returns, before and after coming to power, show inordinate increase in wealth and net worth, not a word is spoken. Some even go so far as to say, after all, to the kings go the spoils.

Obviously there is a clear difference in what we follow as a process and how we behave. We elect people to run the government for a specified term, but we behave as though these elected representatives are kings(or queens) and allow them to rule us. This is neither here nor there.

We should either have elected officials as public servents who run the government for the betterment of the entire population during their term, but are treated the same as everybody else or we should have kings(or queens) for life who rule the country/state.

Having kings or queens for 5 year terms is definitely not working.

Let’s face the truth. Democracy is not for us. Let’s just make these Chief Ministers kings (or queens) of their states and be done with it. That way, they won’t have to hoard/accumulate money to win their next election, because they will own everything outright.  They can also continue to pillage and plunder and lead a life of opulence and debauchery without worrying about adverse consequences.

As for us, the subjects, we can all be uniformly rich (or poor), have the same level of justice (or lack thereof) and live in hope that some day one of these kings will take pride in their kingdom and improve the lot of the people.

Just like now, but at least we will be true to our nature!

No dirge, this. December 5, 2015

Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.
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wilted roseDarrnak
A funeral procession
Death, deceased, destitute
Amidst floods
Depression, deluge, drenched
A noisy, jolly, group
Drums, drunk, dancing
Scattering roses on an already dirty street
Detritus, debris
Depriving dignity even in death. Dregs of society
Dandanak

 

Modern traditions November 28, 2015

Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.
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moderntitleAll around us and all through the year, we see a lot of traditional practices being followed. For Deepavali, we light lamps and burst crackers, for Bogi, we burn stuff, for a death we take out processions, for the tamil month of Aadi we hire loudspeakers and let Seergazhi and L R Eashwari belt out songs, and for New Year we drink and make merry.

The list of such practices is a long one. Though many of us believe that these are traditions that have been practiced for millennia, I am sure many of the detrimental aspects of these traditions are recent additions.

After all, were there carcinogenic fireworks 200 years ago? Did we have polluting tyres to burn 100 years ago? Were there peace-shattering loudspeakers readily available even 50 years ago? I think not. As with most things in India, traditions have adapted to the times and circumstances.

Asking people to revert to the cleaner versions is a non-starter. Every year, just before deepavali, facebook is full of pictures of children holding placards that read “Have a silent Deepavali. Say no to crackers”, with little effect.

So, for a change, instead of naively writing about how we can try and modify the behaviour of people, I would like to imagine a world where a set of earth-friendly new traditions take root.

In that spirit, here are a five new traditions that I would like to see.

1. Death and birth

When a person dies, the family and friends (and paid mourners) of the deceased take out a procession from the house to the crematorium with great fanfare, make a lot of noise, throw flowers along the way, disrupt traffic and generally make life difficult for others.

As a new tradition, when a child is born, why not have a procession from the hospital to the home where friends and family of the new parents walk in a single file on the pavement, carry brooms and garbage bins and silently clean the roads along the way?

2. Deepavali

On the day after, the roads are full of red and white shredded paper like so much blood and bone, plastic and cardboard boxes (from the packing) are piled up at corners and the air thick with acrid smoke.

As a new tradition, on the day after Deepavali, families could join together and clean their streets, so they quickly revert to their pre-deepavali splendour. In addition, they could refrain from using their cars and bikes for as many days as their families were involved in bursting crackers. That way, they can compensate for the pollution created.

3. Bogi.

The burning of old stuff is a symbolic way of doing away with the old and ringing in the new. That is why people traditionally burnt old stuff on Bogi, the day before Pongal -the harvest festival that stands for hope and all things new.

Given that many of the products and clothes people burn/discard these days are eminently usable by the less fortunate, why not create a new tradition of refurbishing products (instead of burning them) and donating them to those who may use the products for the purpose they were made, thereby extending their useful life.

4. The noisy month of Aadi

The Tamil month Aadi (the 4th month of the tamil calendar) is considered an inauspicious time for “good” events such as betrothals and weddings. However, it is a period when temple festivals are conducted with gusto and loudspeakers blare out religious fare from sunrise to well beyond sunset.

As a new tradition, why not have the next month (avani) as a silent month, when we will all refrain from using horns and loud speakers. Maybe even have deep discount sales on autorickshaw silencers! Ah! A month of peace and quiet will be nice. We may even hear the birds for a change.

5. Christmas and new year

At the end of the year, the retail industry goes into overdrive to feed our consumerist frenzy. We struggle to identify meaningful gifts for ourselves and our loved ones and eventually buy something (however useful or not) because ’tis the season and it demands it.

Instead, (or in addition to) how about going to orphanages, destitute homes and government schools where the poorer children are and help them make wishlists and fulfill those? That way we will surely end up buying gifts that are needed and are much appreciated.

Let the new traditions begin!

She had not always been like that October 17, 2015

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Indian-pond-heron-fishingHe stood poised, like a pond heron waiting for a fish, with a catheter (attached to a phlegm suction apparatus) for a beak, ready to pounce on the mucus that gurgled up her throat every so often and threatened to drown her.

That was his role on Sundays – Chief phlegm sucker and feeder.

Mix two scoops of the complete meal replacement powder with 60 ml of water, add the necessary medicine and administer it every hour on the hour. In between, stand ready to suction out the mucus that came up to the edge of her throat but no further and went into her lungs if not cleared.

On her part, she bore it all with complete stoicism, her glassy, unfocussed, new born baby eyes staring at some point above his right shoulder. He would talk to her, sing some song or kiss her forehead, but mostly he would just sit next to her and read a book. She would continue to stare, unblinkingly.

Did she know what was happening, he wondered. Most days she did not respond much, probably tired of being bed-ridden, tired from the constant near-drowning, tired of life. But just when he had convinced himself that she had left the building and he was only tending to her useless body, a snatch of a song sung in his raucous voice or a jig he would do to relieve the boredom would light a bulb somewhere deep behind her eyes and a joyful aaaah would escape her. Not for long. Just for 15 – 20 seconds, enough to know she was still around and aware at some level of what was happening. Enough to wrench his heart out.

Obviously, she had not always been like that. Her disease had slowly crept upon her, like a leopard stalking its prey, and pounced on her with such viciousness that she progressed from the first symptom to her current state in just about 6 months. First there were dizzy spells, then her balance went, then mobility and very quickly speech and even eye movement. Within a short span, the disease had robbed her of all motor skills including coughing and swallowing, leaving all muscles atrophied. Except for the diaphragm muscles, which chugged away in top condition, ensuring uninterrupted supply of oxygen and her continued existence. Probably someone’s idea for a cruel joke.

She had not always been like that. Before the illness, She had been a kind and gentle mother, with a ready laugh and mischief in her eyes. She had also been a feisty woman, full of an unquenchable thirst for life and deep rooted angst for all the lost opportunities because of being born a woman in the ’30s in rural India. A heady combination that made her search for new experiences, push the boundaries, rebel against discrimination at home and outside, both real and perceived, and fight every inch of the way. Which is probably what kept her holding on to life.

She had not always been like that. But five years was a long time and the other memories, involving the real her, were fading. Thinking of her, more and more, only brought up images of her shrivelled bum (having been examinated closely for potential bed sores, every time the diaper was changed), her reddened nostril (from the constant presence of the nasal feeding tube) and phlegm, always the phlegm, bubbling up and choking her.

She had not always been like that, he muttered under his breath. Like a mantra that had the power to keep the joyful memories alive.