THIS & THAT

Courtesy - http://www.dotheknowledge.com/

There is a very famous anecdote about Sri Ramanujacharya, the greatest Srivaishnava Guru. ‘Om Namo Narayanaya’ is a sacred 8-syllable mantra that is considered very powerful. Ramanujacharya sought initiation from another great guru called Nambi in order to do this japa. It is said that Nambi denied initiation for 18 times, testing the resolve of the young Ramanuja. Finally, having initiated Ramanuja into the japa, Nambi warned him to be very discrete in revealing the mantra, otherwise he would face harsh karmic punishment.

Having learnt the mantra, Ramanuja promptly scaled a temple gopura and yelled the mantra over and over again – so that each and every person passing by heard it and learnt it. His logic was simple – since the mantra is so powerful, surely it will benefit mankind. So why keep it a secret? Even if he has to face dire consequences, so be it – if millions find salvation, it is indeed worth a journey to hell! This probably took place somewhere between 1037 and 1047 AD.

Cut to 2010. An acquaintance paid a tidy sum of money for initiation into a certain meditation course. I thought of Ramanujacharya and smiled wryly. I wonder what he would say if he saw the religious corporations of today. The benefits of this meditation is accessible only to people with money, and not to the average man-woman on the street. The ‘CEOs’ of these religious corporations move around in luxury cars, jets and helicopters. Once again, I thought of the young Ramanuja. He walked between Srirangam (his base) and Thirukottiyur (Nambi’s base) 18 times, just to receive that initiation. In today's infrastructure, I think the distance is about 78-80Kms one way! He only had to nod: he would have had hundreds of disciples vying to carry him around in a palanquin! I bet he considered such an egoistic vanity a sin.

But coming back to the gurus of today; it looks like you can’t throw a stone on the road without hitting a couple of them. In the eighties, I had only heard of the one guru – the one who snatched wrist watches, rings, vibhuti out of thin air. Now, almost every family has a ‘family’ swamiji and a personal ‘mutt’.

While the alvaars and gurus such as Ramanujacharya, Shankaracharya, Madvacharya led ascetic lives – the glamour and opulence of today’s rockstar swamijis is mind-boggling. Golden thrones, marble ashrams, foreign real estate, and not to mention wealth that is equivalent to the GDP of a small country.

Last year, I was urged to attend one such swamiji’s meet. I was told (unsolicited) ‘all my problems will be solved’. While I did not (and don’t) have any problems – at least none that I cannot solve by myself; I was amused by this reason to go to a swamiji.

How and why on earth should I believe that a man clad in silken robes; a man who has no idea what it is to live from pay check to pay check; a man who does not have to lift a finger to do any chore – be it fetching a glass of water for himself or cooking a meal; indeed a man who does not have to worry about where his next meal is coming from; a man who lives in a palatial mansion and does not have to worry about a crack in the wall or a chip in the tile; a man who travels in a car that most can never own even if they worked their entire life; a man who hobnobs with the rich and famous and powerful – that such a man will ‘solve’ any of my problems? Or indeed what makes his prayer better than mine – so much so his prayers will accelerate and ensure a speedy response from god?

The attendees of the meet descended in a sea of silk and expensive perfumes, transported in all kinds of sedans. Diamond rings and solitaires winked and sparkled as they were greeted with refreshing fruit juices. Pedestal fans whirred and state-of-art speakers were tuned. The swamiji came. I’ve never heard of him, never seen him before. He is that particular family’s swamiji I was told. Yup, just like a family doctor – a family swamiji. A young man, no more than forty.

He sat on the dais, on a red velvet chair with gilt fittings. His silk saffron robe shimmered in the afternoon sun. He started his discourse, and I dozed off internally. He knew exactly what the crowd wanted to hear, and he gave it to them. I clucked my tongue – we need the likes of him in our actual corporates, I thought. Glib tongue, suave, sense of humour – what a dynamite for a CEO role. He told the crowd about how stressed they were because of their materialistic needs. ‘You are not happy with a Maruthi 800; you apply for loan to buy a Honda City, you work even more hard to repay the loan,’ he surmised as everyone nodded and smiled at his wise words. It was funny – had no one noticed the swamiji came in a shiny Audi? He continued with some more gyaan about greed, even as he drank saffron-laced, cold badam milk served in a silver tumbler on a silver tray – while across the road, rag-picking children rummaged dust bins for an evening meal. I left.

And then there was this episode where this gentleman berated another ‘Guru’, who is now no more. The guru was known for his shocking views on sex and spirituality – his discourses criticise the notion of marriage and the notion of ‘suffering is required for spiritual upliftment’. More importantly, the guru never claimed to be a celibate; he spoke of sex in the spiritual context drawing from his own experiences. ‘Such fraud fellows bring a bad name to Hinduism,’ the gentleman continued angrily – he himself being a follower of the ring-dispensing guru.

I bit my tongue. I wanted to remind this gentleman of our revered Adi Shankaracharya and his famous philosophical debate with the famed Mandana Misra. When it looked like Misra would be defeated, his supremely intelligent and scholarly wife Bharati stepped in and challenged Shankara. Amongst various topics, she asked the sanyasi questions on the sexual relationship between a man and a woman. Being a true celibate and having no knowledge, Shankara requested for some time. It is said that through his yogic powers, he separated his physical body from his consciousness; and kind of ‘possessed’ the body of a deceased king. He briefly enjoyed conjugal happiness through the ‘now alive’ king and gained knowledge. One might scoff at the episode, but the importance here is the essence - that sexuality and sexual well-being was never demonised, never considered as a sin in Hinduism. Perhaps the repeated invasions of less liberal, less tolerant faiths; and the repeated misinterpretations of our texts led to such a narrow frame of mind.

Today, psychology grudgingly talks about altered states of consciousness. We’ve often heard of meditative states described as ‘inner bliss’ or ‘ecstasy’ – an indescribable state of happiness that has nothing to do with the physical world; a state of weightlessness; a state of extreme awareness beyond the body (and hence the term ‘heightened state of consciousness') . This state can be ‘reached’ by various ways – psychedelic drugs, intense meditation or even sex; and in this case, sex has nothing to do with the physical act itself – it is more of reaching that heightened state of bliss where one literally floats free. Of all the ways, I suppose many find the act of love-making the easiest and fastest way to reach that state.

But then, anything dependent on the physical body is not sustainable; and pleasure (even if it is mental) gained through physical means such as sex and ingestion of drugs is addictive and debilitating in the long run. Hence a person seeking that super normal state of consciousness prefers to take the harder journey through meditation. It’s like scaling Everest. You can either take the hard route and climb up; or you can take a chopper and land on the peak – which do you think will empower you, strengthen you and give you a sense of achievement?

Coming back the gentleman – his tirade made me understand why the godman business is so lucrative. We’ve reached a stage where we have stopped questioning, introspecting, learning and unlearning. Our minds are shut, and we absorb ‘knowledge’ that only pleases our ego and conforms to set prejudices and notions. We value gimmicks more than a meaningful message. We have reached a state where we need an agent even for our personal, spiritual interaction with god. There is a belief that these agents can ‘influence’ god in our favour; just as we can bribe an officer to speed up our file in a government office. By keeping these agents pleased, we believe we will be showered with ‘blessings’ – that elusive promotion, winning of that court case, winning a lottery and so on.

How utterly tragic! There was a time when we believed there is no greater Guru than the four principle Vedas. Our ancient Masters spent life times condensing the abstract, metaphysical science of the Vedas into something more vernacular, more understandable by householders like you and I. But that apart, as far as I am concerned, there is no greater Guru than one’s own conscience, one’s own life and experiences. There is no truer prayer, than a prayer uttered from one’s own lips, formed in one’s own heart. Most of the ‘gurus’ of today are of a pop genre, and seem to run profit centres thanks to our dumb stupidity and misguided, egoistic, lazy notion of god and faith.

The spiritual journey is a solitary one, and a mental marathon. This is a journey that requires a Guru; and I believe once you’ve evolved to that state, a true Guru will seek you out! Until then, I recommend running marathons for charities – it will not only keep you mentally and physically fit, but also instead of funding marble tiles for some swamiji’s sea-side ashram in amreeka, your money will actually go for a good cause.

Courtesy - http://nitrousburnout.blogspot.co.uk/

There’s a thrill in reading pure science books IF there is no exam looming over your head! Indeed, all my quantum physics and cellular biology PLEASURE reading was done after I graduated.

Needless to say, I followed with avid interest the developments in Cern lab. A quest to understand how our universe was formed has been an eternal one. Perhaps we have taken a step closer towards the Truth. And this is where science and spirituality close in.

It is also a fascinating journey to compare notes between modern physics and Vedic physics. It is a strange feeling – to catch the explanation for a second; to experience that split second level of clarity – only for that clarity to be clouded by yet another question! And that is how we have marched on – question by question.

Since I am free, I can’t see any reason why I should not inflict physics upon you, you poor, hapless reader! But I’ll try and keep it as non-technical as possible. Let’s start off!

Before we understand the hoopla around the boson, we should revisit basic definitions.

Key to understanding quantum physics is the notion of ‘mass’. In colloquial terms, when we use the term ‘mass’ with reference to a body, we more often than not mean ‘weight’. In physics ‘mass’ simply means the energy held in a body. So from now on, whenever you see the word ‘mass’ think energy. Here is a visual explanation given by Newton baba. It’s his second law of motion. Let’s say you want to move a body. You exert force. But because of the mass (energy) resident in the object it resists your force – it won’t budge. You increase your force. At some threshold, the force you exert becomes greater than the energy possessed by the body – so it moves. Quite like tug-of-war isn’t it?

I am sure whenever I spoke of a ‘body’ or ‘object’, you imagined something solid – you know with a volume and density – a presence so to speak. Time to expand (or should I say contract) your imagination. Let’s look at the micro world of the atoms.

Imagine you are looking at an atom. It has no defined boundary as such – no circular outline. It’s all woozy. First you’ll see electrons acting crazy – going around in random orbits. Then, if you see past the electrons, you’ll find some sort of a core – we all call it the ‘nucleus’. The nucleus too has no defined boundary as such. It’s a collection of protons and neutrons huddled together. The protons have a positive charge. The neutrons have no charge. The outer electrons have a negative charge. Thus, the electrons are attracted to the positively charged protons. It is this attraction, called as the electromagnetic force, that keeps the electrons spinning around the nucleus.

Okay, so we understand why the electrons hover around. But what about the atomic nucleus itself – with the protons and the neutrons?

Ah! Protons and neutrons are not ‘whole’ bodies by themselves. They are once again a conglomerate of other smaller particles! I know...I know...it’s like a Matryoshka doll...but, we’re getting there. Protons and neutrons in turn are made up of quarks. Phew! Quarks are the most fundamental building blocks so to speak. But they are so miniscule, that they cannot exist independently – so they group to form larger particles. There are six different types or ‘flavours’of quarks. The most stable types are ‘up’ and ‘down’.

So two ‘up’ and one ‘down’ combine to form one proton. Whereas two ‘down’ and one ‘up’ combine to form one neutron! Can someone write a limerick on this please? The other funny thing about quarks is that they have fractional charge. So an ‘up’ quark carries a charge +2/3 of an electron charge (e) (i.e. its charge is two-thirds of the charge of an electron). A ‘down’ quark carries a charge of -1/3e. So now, if you add the charges, you’ll know why a proton is positively charged ( 2/3+2/3+(-1/3) = 1e), while a neutron has no charge (-1/3+(-1/3) + 2/3) = 0). Thus a proton with a positive 1e charge perfectly balances a negatively charged electron.

That brings us to a fundamental question. Shouldn’t the protons be on the periphery, hanging around with electrons, what with the opposite charge attraction and all that? Why are they crowded in the centre so to speak, with no-charge neutrons? Shouldn’t the protons kind of repel each other and move away? The fact that they are ‘held’ together means there is some other external force ...err...forcing them to stay put. This is called as the Strong Nuclear Force – or simply Strong force.

But what really ‘causes’ this force? Where does this force come from? Enter Bosons. Mind you, bosons have been around for a while. We’ll come to the hoopla around the Higgs boson in a minute. But let’s look at bosons themselves. Bosons are some kind of ‘force carriers’. In the case of nuclear force, a boson named ‘gluon’ ‘imparts’ the force. I won’t go into the technical aspects – but here is an example that can illustrate a force-carrying boson. On a carom board, you have the striker and the pawns. The striker is responsible for moving the pawns in a particular direction. In other words, the moving striker ‘gives away’ some of its kinetic energy to the stationary pawn, and the pawn moves with this new found energy. A gluon or any force carrying Boson is similar to the striker. By interacting with the protons and neutrons, it manages to exert enough force to hold them together.

So our next question is from where do these bosons get their mass (energy) in the first place? In the example of the carom board, your fingers give the necessary energy to the striker. This is where Higgs field comes into picture. Higgs field is...well...another kind of field just as we have the electromagnetic field. Crudely put, the fundamental particle of an electromagnetic field is the photon. In the case of Higgs field, it is the Higgs boson. Also note that in quantum physics, ‘particle’ is not really a tiny body – but it is the minimum possible excitation.

The Higgs field is this mysterious field that envelops our universe so to speak. This field is responsible for imparting ‘mass’ or energy to any particle that interacts with it. In my mind, I imagine the Higgs field as an invisible entity – gently bobbing and thrumming with an intrinsic ‘energy’. We’ve not understood the ‘source’ of this energy. But the most fundamental ‘unit’ of this field – the Higgs boson - ‘imparts’ mass (energy) into any particle that interacts with it.

And thus, the journey of the universe begins. The tiny quarks that interact with the bosons are held together to form protons and neutrons. In turn the electrons spin around this nucleus. And voila – you have the atom of a fundamental chemical element! And you have your universe with the oxygen and hydrogen and water and metals and....You. I can never get my head around this...and I marvel at this beauty. Perhaps I marvelled too much...that’s why my marks in school and college were so poor!

But hold on, I am not done yet. All the above are 20th century physics. But let’s take a look at what happened in 2B.C. in India. Atomic physics (or should I say philosophy?) was explained by a revered philosopher (and scientist?) Kanada. There are several books that explain this Vaishehika school of thought on atomism, but for the sake of this blog, I found a simple white paper by Roopa Narayan (you can read the white paper here) titled ‘Space, Time and Anu in Vaisheshika’. Section 5.3 on Initial motion of Anu in this white paper explains that the ‘first initial motion’ of the Anu when the universe began was caused by ‘adristam’ or the unseen. On reading this, I could not help drawing a comaprison with the mysterious, invisble Higgs field. Further reading on the Vaisheshika sutras are enriching and humbling. Kanada has explained the matrix of time, space and motion IN RELATION to the points of reference. Perhaps the difference is that while Kanada’s texts are more metaphysical, philosophical in nature, modern physics has given unshakeable mathematical proofs to the phenomena around us. The phenomena has never changed - only our understanding and interpretation has changed over time!

But lets go back even more in time – when the Upanishads came into being. We’ve often stumbled upon words such as ‘Brahman’ and ‘ether’. It has been explained that ‘all matter originate from the Brahman, and all matter shall (eventually) go to rest within this Brahman’. The Brahman is described as ‘NirAkAra’ (without shape i.e. no boundaries) and ‘Nirguna’ (that is without characteristics). Indeed, we all meditate on this invisible Brahman, we manifest the Brahman in many shapes and call It ‘God’. Other religions have similar notions – some call it the Universal Spirit. Everyone believes that this Spirit, this Entity envelopes the universe. We believe that this Brahman/Spirit is responsible for creation - for that first atom with its protons and neutrons and electrons – which then went on to combine and react to form the stars and planets and galactic systems. And eventually living beings.

No wonder the Higgs Boson is called ‘God’s particle’ – the one which sets creation in motion, quite literally. Perhaps many years down the line, as the Higg’s field is validated with theories and equations – we might have really taken a mathematical step closer to Brahman/God/Creator/Spirit. Oh! We do live in interesting times!

Courtesy - http://en.wikipedia.org/

I’ve always been a bit wary about foreign authors writing about India. I know it is a hopeless prejudice – but I kind of believe they have nothing new to say; apart from spirituality, yoga, gurus, Himalayas, curry, and yes, slums, poverty, corruption.

I’d heard about Shantaram but never got a chance to pick it up. A couple of weeks ago, during a regular pilgrimage to the library, I found a copy. I grinned. At 900 odd pages, the book looked sumptuous. Hell, if the book turned out to be a bore, I could always do a couple of bicep curls instead!

A part-autobiographical account written by Gregory David Roberts, the book left me breathless. The protagonist – Lin- grabbed me by the collar right in the first page when he said, “So it begins, this story, like everything else – with a woman, and a city, and a little bit of luck.” I clung to him as he dragged me into the very belly of Mumbai – made me take in the sweat, the smell, the blood and the love of Mumbai streets – and we settled eternally in Leopold’s. I succumbed to his story as he ripped out his heart and laid it bare without shame or embarrassment – smeared my mind with his deepest and at times profound, at times exasperating thoughts – the narration in parts languid like the flow of honey, and in parts stinging, burning like acid.

Perhaps what makes this book an outstanding India experience is that the firang protagonist is not merely an observer – but a participant of Mumbai street life. He lives in the slums, does his ablutions under the sky like all the slum dwellers, works in the slum as a doctor, wipes vomit and excrement during an episode of cholera, cleans drains in preparation for the monsoon - and when he absolutely runs out of money now and then, he acts as a mediator connecting tourists to the best hashish and fake passport dealers.

It is this duality in the protagonist’s character that fascinates you and nails you. On one hand his kindness brings tears to your eyes – and just when you want to reach out and pat his back – he’s out there smoking a hashish chillums and sitting with the most fearsome underworld dons.

And the Mumbai don – Khaderbhai – well, all I can say is Don Corleone seems like a kindergarten kid in front of our Mumbai bhai! Khaderbhai’s conversations on metaphysics are fascinating. But then, a criminal is a criminal...is a criminal. Under all that intelligence, Khaderbhai is nothing more than a thief, a dacoit, and a murderer. And yet, our Lin finds a father-figure in him.

No other author, Indian or otherwise, has captured the Indianness as superbly as Roberts has done - right to the tone, the curses, the Hindi, the Marathi, the love for bollywood, the mannerisms, the kindness, the pettiness, the generosity, the stares, the vulnerability, the tenacity, the apathy, the philosophy, the idea of love – it is a rollercoaster all the way! The conversations make your laugh out loud, the relationships leave you hurting and tender, the violence – brutal and horrific, leaves you panting.

Shantaram is a book of mammoth quotes. It is a book which forces you to take a marker and underline lines and paragraphs.

When Lin’s exotic, enigmatic and neurotic love-interest Karla says, “Sometimes you break your heart in the right way...You learn something or you feel something completely new, when you break your heart that way. Something that only you can know or feel in that way...” you don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, and yet, she makes perfect sense because - haven't we all broken our hearts in some way, and came out feeling stronger, better, more alive?

I howled with laughter when the guileless, ever-smiling, angelic Prabhakar – Lin’s friend, philosopher and guide gives lessons on underwear in India -

“In India, the men are wearing this over-underpants, under their clothes, at all times, and in all situations. Even if they are wearing under-underpants, still they are wearing over-underpants over their unders. You see?” Indeed he explains to the bewildered Lin, “Nobody is ever naked in India. And especially, nobody is naked without clothes.”

I chewed for a long time on Lin’s observation – “The truth is that, no matter what kind of game you find yourself in, no matter how good or bad the luck, you can change your life completely with a simple thought or a single act of love.”

I understand people like the protagonist – they fascinate me. Have you come across people who are warm-hearted, genuinely affectionate, ever smiling? They are kind, and even if they don’t know you, they are the first ones to help you in time of need. They are so giving and embrace you unconditionally in their friendship. Yet, these are the ones who go through life with a cloak of loneliness...not solitude mind you, but loneliness. You can see this cloak in their eyes, their words, their action, their contemplative frowns. They can be surrounded by people who reciprocate their friendship with whole-hearted love – but it is never enough. For some reason, there is a black hole in their core and not all the love in the world is enough to fill up that hole.

They go stumbling about life, arms perpetually outstretched, collecting love in all its forms – be it a smile, an embrace, a handshake, a kiss – they grab it with both hands, fold this love, pack it tightly and hide it in that black-hole core. In return, they give you everything they’ve got. And this makes them less discerning – makes them blind to the unscrupulous ones who exploit their naivety – the hurt wounds them terribly. But yet, even the pseudo-love they receive is packed and stored and relished – and they go on unchanged. Nothing can make these adult-children of the universe cynical, suspecting, bitter.

The life of Roberts, even if part of it is reflected in the book, is the wonderous, thunderous and at times ridiculous drama on Eastman colour – an intersection of Sholay and Godfather. Compared to his life, it looks like most of us have been sleepwalking so far!

And yes, even if you have lived in Mumbai all your life – you will never know Mumbai till you’ve read this book.

Courtesy - http://www.rajeshkhanna.net/

There was some excitement in the air. I saw Amma and Savitha aunty talk in gasps and giggles. Some plan was made for Sunday evening.

“Ennango!” Amma called out to Appa, and said something about some aradhana on Sunday. I thought it would be some boring pooje and decided to plot with my friends to boycott. But I was in for a surprise.

Doordarshan was airing Aradhana on Sunday evening. All the houses in our vatara kept dosa batter ready. No one would waste time cooking when such an iconic movie was on T.V. By that time, the excitement had got to us kids too. Parents getting excited about a movie was a new sensation. We finished homework really early, and were on our best behaviour for the entire day. Yes, even the mandatory glass of milk was gulped without climbing windows and attics.

Evening saw us in my neighbour’s house. Vidya was my beshtesht friend. They had a colour T.V. – Dyanora – with shutters, mind you. Straw mats were spread on the floor as seating arrangements. A couple of foldable chairs were available for the Appas to sit.

The Ammas – all industrious as ever – would not waste the 4 hours (one hour would go in half-way news cast, adverts and so on). Bags of avrekayi was brought out to be shelled. Soppu was laid out to be chopped. Loose jasmine and kanakambri was heaped to be tied into strands. And thus, we were ready to welcome Rajesh Khanna into our homes.

The only exposure to Bollywood for us kids was Vivdhbharati’s ‘Aap ki farmaish’. We knew the popular songs – but had not grasped the lyrics yet. We could hum a mean tune though.

On that evening, the group of us kids sat cross legged on the straw mat as Rajesh Khanna exploded into ‘Mere sapno ki’. We did not know the words but we knew he says ‘geethu geethu geethu’. And we joined in excitedly. We also belted out the guitar chords, so as Kishore Kumar said ‘phool si khil ke’, we joined in with ‘tanntana tanntana’!

Sharmila Tagore (we did not know the correct pronunciation, so we called her Sharmila Tiger...in a way it was correct ;)) took our breath away. We laughed and clapped as she threw the bucket of water on Rajesh Khanna just as he enters her house. “Amma! Amma!” I pestered, “Why is her hair like that?”

“She keeps a coconut underneath her hair,” Amma answered without batting an eyelid – she knew better than to shush me. Her answer convinced me even though all the other aunties guffawed.

We kids were thrilled when Rajesh Khanna opened his arms, gave his Khanna wink and crooned, ‘Kora kagaz tha yeh mann mera’. We knew what to do next – we had heard the song a zillion times on vivdhbharati – so we joined in the echo – ‘mera...mera...meraa.aaaa’ and ‘tera....tera..teraaaa’. 'Roop tera mastana' was considered too risque so we kids were sent out to buy kothambri soppu.

And thus, thanks to Rajesh Khanna, the small world of Ammas had that one pleasant excitement. Rajesh Khanna was also responsible for the many, many dosa Sundays. It became a routine of sorts – if Rajesh Khanna, then dosa. When Khanna said, ‘Mat ro Pushpa, I ha...aa..ate tears’, many saree pallus touched glistening eyes. When Khanna died in Anand the tears would not stop. Appas cleared their throats loudly, but the Ammas cried uninhibitedly. But Khanna was resurrected again and again in many more movies.

Probably the only Rajesh Khanna movie I did not like was Ittefaq. Of course, now, I consider it as a classic of sorts. Those young days – che! No song in the movie, I did not like Nanda and they made poor Rajesh Khanna suffer so much.

It was on one fine Sunday morning that I had a clear revelation. Amma was in the kitchen, grinding dosa batter in the oraLukallu. We were preparing for Kati Patang that evening. “Did you finish your homework?” Amma asked in between gasps as she rolled the grinding stone.

“Hmm. Amma when I grow up I will marry Rajesh Khanna,” I declared. I swear, I’ve never been so serious in my life.

“By the time you grow up, he will be very old. What about the sums on Simple Interest? Did you do them?”

“I will marry him. Yes I did the sums.”

“He already has three wives. Have you written all the steps correctly?”

And thus, I encountered my first obstacle in love, and in mathematics. I asked Amma who his wives were.

“I don’t know. Now he has married Bobby. Did you finish your geometry homework? You have bisected the line correctly?” Yes, those days people remembered actors based on their character names! And yes, Amma was very matter-of-fact in her conversations.

I thought long and hard. Bobby was the girl in the ‘hum tum ek kamre mein bandh ho’ fillum. Humph! I was still convinced that if Rajesh Khanna met me, he would marry me in a heartbeat. Little did I know that the movies telecast on DD were already 10-15 years old. And no, I had not bisected the line correctly - another cause for worry.

But while waiting in Nagaratna’s Clinic, I read my first movie magazine. I think it was Stardust. It had Rajesh Khanna on the cover, with a Warren Beatty hair. I read about how thousands of girls waited for a glimpse of this star outside his bungalow. I read about girls slitting their wrists and signing his name in blood. Indeed, Bollywood had never seen anything like this. No wonder he was called The Phenomenon. I sighed. I had toooo much competition. On top of that it would take another decade for me to get a degree. Oh yes. Amma had said I could marry Rajesh Khanna as soon as I get my degree.

But Khanna did stay close to me all those years – through Kishore’s voice. The lyrics of all his songs was written lovingly in my diary, and now, he resides in my IPOD. As I write this blog, I can see his charming face mouthing -

‘Haste gaate jahaan se guzar

Duniya ki tu parwaah na kar

Muskuraate hue din bitaana

Yahaan kal kya ho kisne jaana.’

But like the sun – everything has to set after reaching a peak. Rajesh Khanna too receded to the background, leaving a wonderful afterglow.

In a recent book that I read – Shantaram – which is set in the 80s - the protagonist notes that Indian movie stars shouted with their eyes. True. If Bachchan’s eyes shouted all the pain and anger - Rajesh Khanna made love with his eyes. There are many who say he was not a great actor. I don’t care. To me, he will be the man who set many hearts aflutter and lit many dreams. He will always be the man who brought a smile in our small, innocent world of school, homework and Doordarshan weekends. Oh yes, I've seen enough bitterness so I know how precious smiles are - and I never forget those who made me smile.

There never was, there never will be another phenomenon like him. RIP Khanna saab.

I leave you with my favourite Khanna song :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql1-jjEPErw

Courtesy - http://www.brynmawr.edu/

I’ve been working furiously on a screenplay for Ekta Kapoor. She does not know it yet, though – but I’m sure she will be bowled over. I’ve titled it as ‘Bade Kachche Lagte Hai’. Here is the story so far.

Cut to Canada. There is a young Videshi Deshi – let’s call him V.D. (Did you think of a particular disease? Good.) Now, V.D. has the Sooraj Barjatya upbringing – devoted to parents and all. I mean the devotion borders on psychotic disorder. Ah! Here is a twist. See secretly-secretly no, V.D. hates his parents. In movies they show parents as doting ...going on saying ‘mera laadla’ and all that no – V.D.’s parents are like that only – only thing is they are more manipulative than all the psychopaths of the world put together.

One day, V.D. is sleeping, you know – chilling out so to speak. When he wakes up after that refreshing nap – his Ma hands over the chai. V.D. is still groggy when his Pa comes over and says ‘Mubarak ho beta, teri shaadi pakki ho gayi – hum zubaan de chuke hai.’ (Congrats, son! Your wedding has been fixed, we’ve given our word ). So V.D. kind of slurps the chai and thinks WTF but does not say anything.

Months later, he’s still groggy and he’s still thinking WTF WTF WTF WTF even as he flies down to India, takes the saath pheres and is officially, legally married. He flies home alone – you know his wife does not have a visa.

After he reaches home, the grogginess leaves him. He is now alert. WTF he thinks. ‘How on earth did I land up married to whatshername?’ he ponders. Six months down the line, he’s still not processed the visa for his wife. He does not love her. He does not want her. But he does not tell her. He keeps her waiting. His parents are coaxing him to apply for the visa for bahurani. Manipulative satans – how dare they force him to apply visa for his wife? How dare they expect him to live with his wife?

So he does the dilly dally act. He hopes his wife will take the hint and leave him – but she is surprisingly dense. He then tells the wife about how evil his parents are – and how her life will be ruined if she comes to Canada – how his mother will ill-treat her and how she will have to live in a basement flat which is being specially, luxuriously done up for the new couple. Surely, she will then get cold feet and ask for divorce. Then it won’t be his fault at all – wife will run away from him, and his parents also will feel sorry for him – who will not feel sorry for a guy whose wife left him? But here is another twist. The wife shrugs her shoulders and thinks it is okay to go ahead – she wants to start living her married life, and face all problems along with her husband, shoulder to shoulder. WTF V.D. thinks. How dare his wife says she wants to live with him? Chi! Typical desi upbringing – all needy and clingy.

So he hatches a plot. If his parents force him too much, and his wife also insists on staying with him – he will run away. Yes, cut off all contacts – he can’t take this pressure. I mean the audience can see his plight right – poor V.D. Manipulative parents and a wife who is willing to support him and stand by him. So clingy no?

I am yet to write the ending for this. But you know, this is based on true events – you can read about this case here and here.

As I read through this V.D.’s account, the brow creased and the tongue issued some choice expletives. But when I saw the words ‘typical desi– needy and clingy’ – OUCH. I took it personally.

You see, I am a desi. And I’ve had a desi upbringing. As desi as it can get. My parents are desis. My grandparents are desis. Hell everyone in my family is a desi. And there is nothing wrong with my upbringing, thank you very much.

You see at the core of my desi upbringing is the essence of independence. Independence of thought, word and action. I was certainly advised but ultimately – it was always MY decision in all matters relating to MY life. I was taught to take responsibility for my actions and decisions, and face consequences, good or bad, with dignity.

My desi upbringing also emphasised on education. The extent of my education was limited by my own interest, and not by my gender.

My desi upbringing taught me the importance of relationships. It taught me the importance of retaining individuality while in a relationship. It taught me the importance of respecting another person’s individuality while in a relationship. It taught me to deal with conflicting emotions rationally. It taught me never to lose sight of my self-respect and dignity – no matter how important the relationship was.

My desi upbringing allowed me to fall in love, break my heart, pick up the pieces, fall in love again and marry the man I love.

My desi upbringing taught me the difference between being respectful and being servile.

My desi upbringing taught me when to sacrifice, when to compromise, when to hold on, when to let go.

My desi upbringing taught me when to shut up and when to speak up.

My desi upbringing taught me when to kiss and when to kick ass.

Above all, my desi upbringing made me a complete individual.

And this is true of all my friends – who’ve all had such ‘Desi upbringing’.

So why does ‘desi’ conjure up such negative images? Weak, whiny women and chauvinistic men? You see we have reached a sad state of affairs where ‘desi’ has become a synonym to ‘patriarchy’. Patriarchy is a societal system where a male holds authority. The male figurehead controls money, property, the family members and their lives. Ancestral inheritance always goes to male offsprings. Under patriarchy women have regressive roles, and are never seen as individuals in their own right. Quite naturally, children (be it boys or girls) with patriarchal upbringing grow up to be insecure, incomplete adults with skewed views on gender roles.

At the end of the day, there are only two kinds of parenting really – the good and the bad. Good parenting allows the child to grow into a responsible adult, with moderate – liberal tolerance to diversity, strong sense of independence and self respect, ability to change opinions based on new experiences, and a very ethical, moral sense of judgement.

Bad parenting does the opposite. The children grow up to be intolerant adults. They have very closed views on just about everything. They are highly insecure, afraid to speak their minds, jump into negative judgements about others, cannot handle conflicting opinions elegantly and always seek to palm off responsibility. They have no sense of individual boundary – and cannot distinguish between their roles as offspring, spouse, parent etc. They also have a very weak moral compass.

The ‘causes’ of good parenting is always the same all over the world – sensible parents who respect children as individuals. Good parenting is not dependent on nationality, economic status or educational qualification of the parents.

Bad parenting on the other hand, has many contributing factors. Substance abuse, emotionally unstable parents – and yes; patriarchy or matriarchy or any family/feudal/societal system that focuses more on control than on individual rights.

In the ridiculous drama that you read at the beginning of this blog, V.D., despicable as he is; is the product of bad patriarchal parenting – where control has taken the centre stage. If what he says is true, his parents are so blind in their need to control that they’ve not realized the abuse their son has endured all through his life. He has now become an adult incapable of controlling his life, taking his own decisions and living with honour. His wife too is the product of patriarchy. Her life is even more pathetic because she is considered as piece of furniture – who was first ‘maintained’ in the parents’ house – and who will now be shifted to the husband’s house for his use.

When someone with ‘desi upbringing’ such as mine, enters into a relationship with a person with a patriarchal outlook – quite naturally the relationship is doomed from the start. The strong sense of independence is interpreted as arrogance and ‘inability to adjust’ ...in other words, the frustration starts when the patriarchal person cannot gain control of you and your life.

From now on, whenever you see a fellow Indian with all the negative traits – gaslighting, aggressive on account of gender, submissive on account of gender, has no sense of personal space or freedom – please don’t call it ‘desi upbringing’. Call it patriarchal upbringing for that is what it is. Using the phrase ‘desi upbringing’ when you actually mean screwed up patriarchal upbringing, is actually an insult to the many desi parents who have done a spectacular job of raising level-headed, well-adjusted children.

In other words, I am no different from an american, a brit, a german, a Japanese etc. who is the result of good upbringing such as mine. My desi-ness is in my day-to-day life – in my religious beliefs and practices, clothes, food, music and movies. This desi-ness gives me a cultural identity, while my upbringing makes me a good human being.

Hell, I’m proud of my desi upbringing. Question is – can you deal with it? If not, it is a problem with YOUR upbringing, not mine!

Courtesy - 'Wadala slums - Mumbai' by Swaminathan
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wadala_slums_-_Mumbai.jpg

There is much anguish over Oprah’s episodes on India shot during her Jaipur Lit fest visit. Here is a caustic review of the episode. Before I went all ballistic, I checked if the videos are available in order to get a personal perspective. Because more often than not, while no malice is intended, ignorance comes across as arrogance, and before you know it, everyone is yelling about insult to our culture. Unfortunately, the videos are not available where I reside. So I read the review a couple of times to distil the reviewer’s anger from the details of the show itself.

I was mildly irritated with Oprah’s ‘eating with your hands’ query – at best it was daft, at worst it was pathetic. Most westerners I know perfectly understand that eating styles are dependent on the food, and using forks, knives and spoons is not an indication of ‘advanced civilization’ or economic prowess.

I was not so angered by her ‘you still live with your parents’ questions. I’ve been asked this question many times – and there is only genuine curiosity behind it. After all, we Indians exhibit the same level of curiosity and prejudice at their concept of relationships, be it parental or marital. Since I’ve not watched Oprah’s episode, I will give her this benefit of doubt, and hope that she was not mocking the concept of living with parents, but was merely trying to understand how it works. Besides, her ‘exposure’ thus far to India, Indianisms and Indians is through the super rich, who represent only a small, miniscule dimension of India.

There is another reason for my tanda reaction. A couple of years ago, I had seen a British documentary set in the slums (can’t remember if it was BBC or ITV). The documentary was not about poverty, but about parenting. The show focussed on how, despite tough circumstances, the Indian parents did all they could to bring up children in a responsible, loving way. It was more of a harsh criticism of a section of British benefit-mongering parents – the ones who whine about ‘tough times’ despite the government giving them free housing, free schools, and money to spend. The host of this documentary stayed in the slum. In one episode he was invited to an upscale party, and one of the Page 3 bimbos asked him where he was ‘put up’. The host informed her about the documentary and that he was staying in the slum. Ah! How the painted lips parted and how the fake eyelashes fluttered. ‘Oh you have too much guts!’ she tittered, ‘Make sure you don’t catch an infection!’ This Indian did not even attempt to feign any sympathy towards the sad state of some of her own fellow countrymen. So, yes, I cannot work up the rage that the writer of the article directs towards a clueless American.

But I was angered and saddened by the slum tourism; I agree it was in very poor taste.

I am reminded of my maid Gauri in India – and I believe she is representative of the ‘economically weaker’ section of India. Gauri is probably 15 years elder to me. She was an efficient worker, quiet and punctual. It did not take long for us to become good friends.

Gauri’s husband was an off and on alcoholic, never holding down to a steady job. She had two grown up daughters. The elder one had eloped with a mechanic, and had two kids. Soon, she became a victim of domestic violence and she left her husband. At 25, she was a single mother, working as a maid, and then as an ayah in a local school.The younger daughter was more settled – she worked in a garment factory where they gave her PF, medical benefits and so on. She worked in gruelling shifts, the heat of the automated sewing machines giving her boils and rashes. A son was living elsewhere. Another son had committed suicide.

On some days, Gauri would shed silent tears, thinking of her dead son – having seen him hanging from the hook meant for a ceiling fan. Her baby, her child, her son – for whom she had a lot of dreams, whom she had nurtured for 16 years – gone in a gruesome way. And her poverty prevented her from grieving – she had to get on with life; there was no taking time off. Hunger knows no grief.

But on most days, she was very cheerful, chatting about many things that affected both our lives – expensive Bangalore, traffic, government and so on. Once in six months, she would go to some place near Hosur where a special puja for Shakti was held. It was a women’s only event apparently, and it required some strict practices such as fasting and so on. She would return from the place, with a specially packed prasada for my home. She would smear kumkum on my forehead, and pray for me. What she prayed, I don’t know – but it gave me immense comfort. This stranger, who had so many problems in her own life – had a place in her heart to pray for people who are outside her family. It was, and still is, very humbling.

When I had to leave the country, Gauri invited me to her home for the traditional thamboola. It was the first time that I visited her place. It was two miles away from mine. It was in a small compound that housed at least four other houses. There was a common toilet situated towards the edge of the compound – so everyone in that enclosure shared it.

Gauri’s house was two small windowless rooms – each not more than 5X5. All their possessions were in trunks. One such trunk also acted as a kitchen counter – while the cooking took place on a kerosene stove kept on the floor.

When you see poverty of that kind, you physically shrink. You feel ashamed of everything about yourself – your clothes, your watch, your slippers, your combed hair – everything. The poverty is not your fault, yet, the guilt is deadening. What did Gauri feel when she came to work in our homes? How did she feel when saw our comfortable beds, our clothes, the abundant water supply, the money we spend on provisions and luxuries?

Gauri’s second daughter (the garment factory worker), who was recently married and expecting, greeted me warmly. Her husband too was there – he had decided to shift base to Bangalore since the opportunities were better. He had done his market research – drivers were in high demand and the salary was good. He had a clean record, and he was confident of finding a job. His priority was to shift this family to a better place, he informed me. He spoke politely and articulately.

Gauri showed me her dead son’s photo and wiped her eyes. We chatted about their future plans – their eyes burned with pride, hunger and passion for a break. There was no doubt this family would make it – if not in this generation – in the next they definitely would.

Gauris of India are nonexistent as far as the government is concerned. Gauri’s situation won’t change no matter what political party comes to power. Gauri’s situation can only be changed by her own hard work, her own savings and strategy.

Bangalore may be a place of unlimited opportunities, but it is also a place where cost of living is ridiculously high. Even if all of Gauri’s family members earn money, they won’t be able to buy a plot of land or build a home. Even if they have to move to a bigger, rented place with a toilet inside the house – the rent will eat into their earnings significantly. Like all families, Gauri’s family too has debts. The difference is that these are hand-loans, given out at exorbitant interest rates. No banks give people like Gauri loans. After all, they can’t furnish any collateral and neither can they show proof of a steady employment. Thus, the earnings go towards paying the interest for the hand-loans for years together. So for a Rs.10000 loan, one could end up paying more than treble or quadruple the principle amount as interest before ‘settling’ the dues.

Those of us who have Gauris at home know this well. And we all exist in a complex ecosystem and relationship that no one in the world can understand. None of us – my neighbours or myself - formed any kind of ‘Gauri upliftment committee’. It was an unspoken agreement and we did everything in our power to enable Gauri and her family members grab opportunities. We took care of their clothes, provisions, children’s education, medical care – freeing up their liquid cash to take care of the savings and debt payments.

Before I left their home, Gauri and her daughter gave me the thamboola. I know how expensive it would have been for Gauri to buy a coconut. I know what a rare delicacy a coconut is in her family. I felt very small as a human being as I accepted it – from the pregnant girl who had no access to a private toilet, who had no access to a warm bed during those difficult months. Yet she stood there, radiant in her smile, with her blessed child inside her. The coconut was more than a traditional symbol. It contained all of Gauri’s dignity and self-respect. It contained all of her love and affection that she showered liberally on me – a stranger - whose house she cleaned and dusted – as if I were her own family member.

The cruellest thing one can do to someone like Gauri is to throw her poverty at her face. Point out the small dimensions of her house and the wretchedness of her existence. Indeed, had I told Gauri that I will pay her money, buy her clothes and provisions, and in return, I want to make a video of her pathetic living conditions – she would have agreed. Because when it comes to a battle between self respect and hunger, hunger inflicts a crushing defeat on the former. Oprah’s ‘marvelling’ at the cramped space, the lack of storage, the lack of ‘shower’ in the bathroom – is just as distasteful.

No matter how good your intentions are, there is something very crude, very base, very shameful, very nauseating if you walk into someone’s home and highlight their poverty. I would be humiliated if a person living in a 20 bedroom mansion came to my home, enjoyed my hospitality and then commented (very kindly) about the smallness of my home, and made me cry about my inability to earn more. Why should it be any different for a family living in the slum? Is the self respect I have any different from the self respect a man in the slum is entitled to?

Very poor judgement, Oprah. Having seen the worst of life, you should have known better.

Courtesy - http://www.popgunchaos.com

Nothing thrills me more than mulling over an unsolved mystery. Years and years ago, when I saw ‘Picnic to Hanging Rock’, the open-ending had me gnawing my wrist with frustration. God that was great horror! Not the horror of evil spirits or zombies – but the horror of not-knowing. That movie distracted me no end for days together. “What happened to those girls?” I thought over and over again as I tried to understand Venn diagrams.

So imagine an unsolved real-life mystery. I had heard about one particular incident long time ago – but the memory revived when I saw a rather over-sensationalised documentary on the History channel. It is called the Dyatlov Pass Incident. If you do a Google search, you can find tonnes of articles. Possibly a factual account is in the archives of The StPetersburg Times.

Anyway, here is a summary. In January 1959, ten experienced skiers set off on an expedition to the remote Otorten mountain in northern Urals. (Yeah, jog your geography. Urals is the ribbon of mountain range that cuts across Russia longitudinally – from the Arctic coast right down to Kazakhstan.) One of the team members falls ill and returns. The remaining nine continue on their expedition led by Igor Dyatlov. The route is arduous to say the least.

As they commence their ascent, the weather deteriorates, and visibility gets poorer. They veer off their planned course as a result. Besides, twilight is spreading wings, so they decide to halt for the night. They set up their tent on the exposed face of a mountain slope. There is a pine forest 1.5 kms downhill from the spot where they had set up camp. The fact that Igor did not see it necessary to retrace steps into the safety of the forest, makes me presume the weather had cleared by then. He being an experienced skier, just as the others, did not see any imminent danger on the mountain side, or in the weather. So they have dinner, and call it a day.

But something happens in the course of the night. Something extremely terrifying. So terrifying that the sleeping hikers have no time to wear their warm clothes, gloves and even shoes. They have no time to even open the flap of their tent. They just rip the tent and tumble out into the dark, cold night. They somehow run towards the shelter of the forest. And they die.

Ten days later, around the second week of February 1959, a search party comes looking for them. Two of the bodies are found at the edge of the pine forest, naked, save for their underwear. They find the remains of a fire under a pine tree. Some branches of the pine tree high up are broken, indicating one of the skiers had tried to climb the tree. Three more bodies are found – in the snow, on the slope towards the camp. The positions of the bodies indicate that these three were trying to go back towards the camp. The remaining four campers are not found at this point in time. Post-mortem does not reveal anything abnormal, barring for a non-fatal bruise in the skull of one of the skiers. Hypothermia is recorded as the possible cause of death.

Three months later, in May, there is an uproar. The remaining four bodies are found in a ravine, under four feet (some websites report it as 12 feet) of snow. Autopsy reveals these bodies have extensive internal injuries. One of them has such severe internal injuries that the coroner rules out the possibility of a human inflicting them. Only something severe and swift such as a car crash could cause such crushing injuries, he opines. But the most ‘chilling’ discovery is the woman’s body. Early reports suggested that her tongue was missing, and that her clothes showed a low level of radiation.

More than fifty years down the line – this is still a mystery. Many theories have been put forward to explain their deaths. Aliens, UFOs, secret weapons test, experimentation by the Russian army, attack by some kind of Big Foot type creature, attack by Mansi tribe and even ghosts. I trawled through many articles to distil fact from fiction, to eliminate the hysteria. For example, some articles state that the lady’s ‘tongue was pulled out from the root’. Some others say it was a bloody mass. Some yet talk about ‘a time-traveller in the group’. Each hypothesis more fantastic than the other.

There were reports of ‘orange orbs of light’ spotted in the sky on that night. This was reported by skiers in another base camp, and this fuelled the UFO/alien angle.

Some articles claim the bodies had an orange colouration, and the army helicopters refused to carry the bodies.

Like me, there are thousands out there trying to come up with a plausible explanation. Here is what I think happened that night.

Imagine the cold, bleak mountain slope. The temperature is -30 deg celsius. The nine campers are warm in their tent. Some laugh and chat, some write their journals. They plan for the next day’s journey. They have their dinner, and settle down to sleep. Obviously, they undress – they remove their shoes, coats, gloves – and I am assuming they went to bed in warm thermals. It’s been a long day, and they’ve trekked for many hours. The cold is not comforting either. They are out like a light.

Suddenly, they hear a sound that is terrifying. Being experienced mountaineers, at least one of them recognises the unearthly sound. An avalanche. It is said that an avalanche sounds like a freight train. So imagine jerking out of your sleep to a terrifying roar that echoes between the mountain ranges, magnified by the silence of the night and the hollow of the ridges between the mountains. There is no way to know if the avalanche is heading towards them, or if it is occurring on a nearby slope.

But the roar is loud enough to sound near enough. There is absolute panic. They grab at whatever they can while someone rips open the tent with a knife. They pour out of the tent, into the icy hell. They can still hear the roar. It is but natural to run downhill. One of them points to the forest and all of them head that way. The forest is about 1.5 kilometres away.

On the slope, if the snow offered a little luminous light, the forest is absolutely dark. Besides, in the howling dark night, there is no way to ascertain if the avalanche is indeed heading towards them. They continue to hear the roar, though.

They reach the forest and huddle around. Someone starts the fire. The adrenalin has dropped. They now realize they are dressed in their night clothes sans shoes and gloves. Perhaps they realise they are not in any danger from an avalanche. However, their immediate danger is the -30 deg Celsius.

They wait around the fire for some time discussing their situation.It is clear their position is very vulnerable. Igor decides to act. Perhaps he picks up the best skiers/mountaineers in his team and decides to go back to the tent to bring down provisions and warm clothes. Of course, they all know the odds of surviving; in that cold, it takes less than 15 minutes for hypothermia to set in. But it is human instinct to do everything possible to survive. The three of them set off.

Inhuman cold, darkness, possibly howling arctic wind and nothing to provide their bodies warmth. Hypothermia rapidly sets in. First comes the uncontrollable shivering, then, as the body shuts down all non-vital functions to retain heat for the core organs, movement becomes un-coordinated, the mind becomes stupefied, and eventually, they fall to the cold snow one by one. In all probability, they were completely comatose when the heart shut down, and eventually the brain switched off.

Back in the pine forest, the situation is no different. The remaining six are huddled near the dying fire. One of the skiers climbs the pine tree to see if he can get a view of Igor and the two others. He can't see a thing. They wait and watch.

The minutes crawl by and hypothermia sets in slowly, stage by stage. It hits two of the men first. One of the effects of hypothermia is that the patient becomes very combative and aggressive. So these two men become delusional and aggressive, even as the others try to calm them down. They probably throw a couple of punches.

Then, sadly the final stage sets in. In this stage, a strange physiological reaction occurs were the person suddenly feels hot. Clouded by stupor, coupled with the sudden increase in body temperature the patient begins to strip. This is called ‘paradoxical undressing’. This leads to fatal exposure to the cold. Eventually, these two men die.

Realizing the futility of their situation; the remaining four head deeper into the forest. They hope to find some shelter to pass the night. Mind you, it is still a few hours past midnight, so it is still dark inside the forest. The four are exhausted – both mentally and physically. Death looms and they are desperate to find some place safe. They reach a spot where the snow is deceptively loose. All the four of them go hurtling down into the ravine. One of them sustains broken ribs, one sustains a fractured skull. One of them possibly falls in such a way that he triggers some more snow to slide – the impact of being buried under tonnes of packed snow can be crushing. No wonder he sustains extensive internal damage, while there is no external tissue damage. One of them, a lady, is probably buried under snow too. But she is alive for sometime. Her shivering is uncontrollable and severe – and she bites down her tongue in involuntary spasms, and finally it turns into a bloody pulp.

As far as the ‘orange orbs of lights’ go – could it just be aurora borealis? Remember the location is close to the Arctic circle. As far as ‘orange’ pigmentation of the skin – I believe it is the effect of extreme cold. The internet throws up discussion board links where white Caucasians have observed orange spots on their skins when exposed to cold.

Much as I would LOVE to – the reasons why I’ve not pursued any other paranormal theories is because nothing holds water. There was no sign of struggle, none of them had any wounds that would suggest the usage of a weapon. Above all, there were no other footprints, animal or otherwise. Some do suggest an army cover-up – but no motive or theory is strong enough to support this angle.

The only two facts that nibble at my brain constantly –

- The two men who succumbed near the pine tree – the ones who underwent paradoxical undressing – what happened to the clothes they discarded?

- The authorities rubbished reports that said ‘high level of radiation’ was found on one of the lady’s coats (the one without the tongue). They said it was a negligible amount. But the fact that they decided to sweep her for radiation itself puzzles me.

But one website (I'll put up the link as soon as I stumble on it again) had a very interesting, and very plausible theory. It said that perhaps there was some kind of an arms experiment being conducted by the Russian army. These could be infrasonic weapons - that is, they blasted infrasonic signals. Experiments of infrasonic signals on humans have interesting results. Apart from inducing fear and anxiety, they are also responsible for 'ghost' sightings. So it could be that some kind of a kick ass infrasonic weapon was being fired - which could have caused such terror in the camp.

But of course – all MY postulation is based on my avalanche theory, assuming that the Russian army was nowhere in sight. If geological records and data suggest NO avalanche occurred anywhere in that region on that night, and the Russian army were not conducting any such experiments – then my horror at this event boils over. I cannot imagine any normal source of this terror – it has to be something paranormal.

And the poor souls – may you all rest in peace.

Courtesy - http://www.london2012.com

I am quite tired of reading and hearing the lines ‘1.2 Bn and we can’t produce medals’. Really. Every newspaper has comments of this nature. And I bet most of it is from people who are not fit enough to walk even 1 km without wheezing.

So let me start this blog by standing up and applauding each and every athlete of the Indian Olympic contingent. I don’t care if they’ve ‘crashed’ out of qualification rounds, or came last in the races. Compare them to their counterparts from around the world. It does not take a trained eye to see that our team is at a disadvantage when it comes to world-class training facilities, healthcare, access to sports science and technology, continuous training – and not to mention the non-existent social support, either from the media or from the general public. And despite such disadvantages, the fact that they are STILL able to stand in the middle of world stage by sheer dint of personal passion, determination and mental strength – well, surely, they deserve respect instead of derision.

Take for example Irfan Kolothum Thodi. In the Men’s 20 km Race Walk, he stood 10th. But look at the parameters closely. His timing was 1:20 :21. The winner – Ding Chen (China) set an Olympic record at 1:18:46. The world record stands at 1:17:16. By the way, Irfan set a new national record with his time – and I am not sure how many mainstream newspapers devoted at least a feature to him. In the world of athletics, yes, even seconds matter and a time difference of 2 minutes seems significant. But let also not forget that it means his training is going in the right direction and he is in touching distance of equalling the Olympic record in the near future.

Another example is Sudha Singh – our 3000m steeplechase athlete. Sudha stood 13th with a time of 9:48:86. The winning time was 9:24:91. The difference is a blink-of-an-eye 23:95 seconds. And yet, between Sudha and the winner Gesa, there were 12 others packed in this interval! Any true athlete will tell you that shaving off seconds from your best time takes tremendous changes in strategy, diet, fitness, regimen and relentless hours of training. Also consider the age factor. Sudha is 26 years. Gesa is 20 years. And at the end of the day – we are not just talking about running, we are talking about running AND clearing obstacles for a 3 km stretch. Look me in the eye and tell me you want to make fun of this national record holder because of her 13th place.

There are many who keep citing China’s medal factory as an example. Well, there is no polite way to say this...just shut up. The sacrifice that goes behind every Chinese medal is not just blood and tears – but entire childhoods. The sacrifice that the State demands is mindboggling. Depending on the potential, athletes are picked up young...as young as 7 - 10 years and put into almost military-style sports schools. The training schedule is relentless and punishing – not to mention the children are allowed extremely limited contact with family members lest they get distracted. There is something very unnerving when the State literally owns an individual and dictates the person’s life. So just stop taking China as an example.

But there are other things we have to learn from China. Their focus on sports, and the way they have turned sports into a soft-power Chinese brand is formidable. They know their strengths and weaknesses. They know they cannot scale up in athletics – competing with the Kenyans, Ethiopians and Jamaicans has become a near impossible task. But their strength lies in their innate sense of precision and grace. They are superb when it comes to aquatics and gymnastics and that’s where they’ve had their gold rush.

More than anything, it was interesting to see that ALL coaches in the Chinese team were ...well, Chinese. At least so far, I’ve not spotted any foreigner. This gives us a glimpse of the Chinese sporting machinery. Clearly, their investment into sports has been significant. From ensuring their coaches are world-class, to the cutting edge training facilities – and eventually their investment into research and development is paying rich dividends. Above all, the State seems to hold an iron-grip on every aspect. This means the accountability of a win or a loss is high – someone has to answer for the results.

But in India, on paper every possible provision has been made to ensure we develop best-in-class athletes. But red-tape, politics, lack of accountability and corruption effectively prevents our athletes from realizing their full potential. Moreover, at the governance level, matters of national pride, prestige and image are non-negotiable in China. In India – the less said, the better.

Unlike China, we have an autonomous system of developing athletes. While the Sports Authority of India is responsible for the governance aspects; it is really the independent National Sports Federation setups that take care of the operational aspects – the coaching of athletes, hiring good coaches, drawing up training and competition schedules and so on. In this setup, autonomy if applied well can produce stellar results; but it also means reduced accountability. Not to mention, it gives rise to power politics. The focus on the athlete is lost.

There are a total of 62 sports federations in India, and each of them run on their own budget – grants given by the government, and perhaps private sponsors. So to answer the question ‘Why we have limited medal winners’ – you must read the document ‘Scheme for Preparation of Indian Team for Commonwealth Games 2010’. This was drafted in 2009.

The existing problems of Indian athletes illustrated in this document are tragically fundamental in nature. For example –

• No continuous training available; so athletes cannot benchmark and improve on their personal bests.

• Lack of dietary supplements – this is so essential!

• Lack of skilled coaches

• ...and many other extremely basic necessities required to enable an athlete are not in place.

So you can imagine...even as recently as 2010, we are talking about fundamental requirements to be put into place. Is it lack of funds? Not at all. For example, in order to encourage potential athletes at grass-root level, the Government has a scheme called Panchayat Yuva Kreeda aur Khel Abhiyan (PYKKA). Under this scheme, as the name suggests, every recognised village panchayat and block panchayat is given sports infrastructure grants. This is disbursed through the state governments. Take a look at the funds -

2011-2012 – Rs.165 crores.

2010-2011 – Rs.260 crores

2009-2010 – Rs.105 crores

2008-2009 – Rs.84 crores

So between 2008 and 2012, i.e in 4 years the funds released towards infrastructure grants at the village level is Rs.614 crores. Considering the fact that government schools in many villages don’t even have basic facilities such as furniture, toilets, libraries – it is anybody’s guess how much of this money is actually going towards building playgrounds or sports complexes for young athletes. In fact, what percentage of this money is reaching the intended hands will remain a mystery.

In 2008-2009, the budget allotted to Sports was Rs.3315.67 crores, and in 2009-2010, thanks to CWG, the budget allocation was Rs.3670.13 crores. In 2010-2011, the budget allocation was Rs.1121 crores. So in a matter of 4 years, a sum of Rs 8106 crores has been set aside only for Sports and related departments. So funds are not an issue.

But where is all this money going? Even if we assume some percentage is being diverted to personal wallets, I believe a significant amount is just stuck - because of bureaucracy, because of projects never taking off and above all because of an inefficient, lazy babudom that couldn’t care less.

But to give the Government credit – possibly encouraged by a surprise shower of medals in Beijing, a sum of around Rs. 10-11 crores was set aside for the training of potential medal winners, in preparation for London Olympics. In the past one year, most of them have indeed travelled abroad and received training under international experts. But in my opinion, while this is great, it is a case of too little too late. The training these athletes have received in this past one year should continue more as a routine, than as a ‘top-up’ afterthought. Also, this haphazard releasing of funds is not a good strategy. If we need to look at a good medal haul for 2016 and 2020 Olympics, we have to start training potential performers as young as 10-11 starting now.

Above all, the government can only do so much. In order to become a world class athlete, one has to sacrifice normal life and start young. Many international athletes who are groomed young do not undergo traditional schooling. Their schedules are gruelling to say the least. Moreover athletic career is short-lived; although the glory is great. We need to ask ourselves if we are willing to make that choice for our children. How many parents will give up the BE, MBBS, IAS, MBA dream and allow their child to focus only on a sport that is not even remotely connected to cricket? The answer is very, very, very few.

So let’s just put our hands together for those who chose differently, boldly. And stop whining.

Courtesy - http://en.wikipedia.org

Childhood memories of Independence Day celebrations are not pleasant. Don’t get me wrong, I am just referring to the packaging of the entire event.

August 15th meant getting up really, really early and heading to school for the parade. But this had a lot of other preparations. New white ribbons had to be bought – because the ones bought at the start of the year would have become yellow. The sports shoes – white keds – had to be washed and ‘polished’. This was before they mercifully introduced ‘karate’ shoes that had a blue canvas. The sports uniform had to be starched and ironed.

The white ribbons had to be bought from a bangle store on Malleswaram 8th cross. I usually realized my ribbons have taken on the colour of tadka daal around August 14th 8:00 PM. With much chiding, face distorted with deep frowns, teeth gnashing and grating, Amma would drag me along to the shop, which closed by 8:30 PM.

The ribbon came in a roll. Amma had to then measure appropriately according to the length of my hair (two short plaits reaching my shoulders...for some years) and cut two equal ribbon pieces. Then I had to ‘treat’ the ribbon. The cut ends would have trailing threads – enough to get me ‘bad marks’ during the school assembly inspection. So the ends had to be singed over a candle flame.

But the worst was the sports uniform. Before the introduction of light-iron tericot, we had pure cotton skirts and shirts. The skirt had a million pleats. The only way to ensure wrinkle-less skirts was to starch the damn thing. Thankfully, after Robin liquid bloooooo, they came out with Robin starch, and life for Amma was a tad easier. Once sun-dried, the skirt looked like a cardboard heap. Ironing this garment was not possible for amateurs and weak-hearted. There was only one man who could do this – our istriwallah two streets away, near the Malleswaram Swimming Pool extension Raghavendra Swami temple. The istriwallah was a Christian – always had a kind word and a smile. But whenever he saw the skirt, he became Damien from Omen.

He usually took 45 minutes to iron the monster, and charged a whopping Rs.2.50. Amma called it daylight robbery. Anyway I would hand over the skirt to him and wander away to pester Raghavendra Swami in the temple. On some days, they would give kosumbari as prasada along with the kallu sakre. Of course protocol meant I had to pray, and I would pray listlessly for academic success ‘Please let me get just 45 marks in Arithmetic’ (45 was the pass mark in our tests). But my greed for kosumbari ensured I would be punished in the said Arithmetic paper.

On the day of the parade, I would be ready with red-rimmed eyes. Startling white ribbons snaking between my rat-tail plaits that were well oiled with Amma’s home-made oil ...an oil that carried the smell and thickness of an industrial lubricant. The ironed skirt and shirt would have taken on the stiffness of tin. The dazzling white shoes with the knee length socks completed the ridiculous get up. On such mornings I would usually have mosaranna for breakfast – that was the only thing that kept my childhood bulimia at bay.

But I did look forward to competitions lined up for the Independence Day celebrations. On one such Independence Day, there was a ‘patriotic group song’ competition. I don’t know how or why I was a part of the group. Some of my friends are terrific singers. Perhaps I was selected for the infrasonic bass effect.

And then came the ‘fancy dress’ competition for kindergarten and primary school kids. Poor things – all dressed up as erstwhile politicians. I remember a two-foot Indira Gandhi who came on the dais, waved a small flag, picked her nose, rolled on the floor and bawled. The dwarf Mahatma Gandhis with cardboard specs were the cutest. One such Gandhi started off with a spirited 'Vande Mataram'. Then 'Gandhi' lost interest and examined the walking stick...decided she is tired of patriotism and changed tracks. That was the first and last time I heard 'Gandhi' break into 'Ding dong bell'. Then there was the sullen Nehru who threw the cap and ate the rose pinned to the 'kurta'. Oh! It was a hoot!

Most enjoyed competition though was the ‘Painting competition’. Usually the topic would be 'scenic beauty' (also known as ‘seenry’ according to many of us). Although the world felt otherwise, I always held my painting skills in very high esteem. (Check my post Art Of The Matter) For me 'scenic beauty' was a standard template. Two mountains with razor sharp peaks like a giant alphabet ‘M’. A humungous, perfectly circular sun bobbing between the peaks. The sun would be a sickening doomsday orange, followed by yellow rays that shoot out in straight lines. Two to three crows – black smudges really – on an alarmingly blue sky. At the ‘foothills’ a ribbon of a blue stream, that strangely does not reflect the bleeding sun. Cows that resembled extra-terrestrial monsters, kind of jumping over the stream. A house made of rectangles and squares, with a tunnel-like opening for a door, sits a distance away from the stream. The house is disproportionate – if one stood on the roof of the house, one could hang clothes on the mountain peak. Or if one climbed the chimney, one could be launched into orbit. And of course, the mandatory, deformed coconut trees at the foreground. I would be crushed when I never won a prize for painting.

There was one ritual I most certainly dreaded though. Watching T.V. on Independence Day. But it being a holiday, it would be sacrilege not to watch T.V. August 15th meant the fatal combination of Manoj Kumar and Mahendra Kapoor. It meant listening to ‘mere desh ki dharti..eeeeeEEEeeeEEEeeeh.’ It meant watching poor, shrivelled freedom fighters being feted by smarmy netas. It meant watching netas struggle to bend and lay the wreath at Raj Ghat. And as the years passed, it meant watching ‘Gandhi’. It meant watching movies that had beefy, bulked up guys acting as soldiers, yelling obscenities at our neighbouring countries as a show of patriotism. Or Nana Patekar yelling his lungs out as a vein throbs on his forehead. Really why is patriotism such an angry emotion in bollywood?

As an adult, without the parades and flag hoisting, August 15th became just another holiday. A lot of newspapers carry articles of the same genre – they’ve done it for years – all asking ‘Are you a proud Indian?’ ‘What does freedom mean to you?’ ‘Reflect on our Independence’.

I usually find such articles pompous, jingoistic and preachy. But in truth, I don’t have answers to those questions. Because I suppose, we are STILL struggling for freedom. Freedom from corruption and oppression. Freedom from poverty and starvation. Freedom from fear and indignity. Freedom from ignorance and hatred.

So let me not say ‘Happy Independence Day’. Instead let me wish that all of us gain Independence in the truest sense. Independence of thought, word and action.

Indeed, the day you are able to live life the way YOU deem fit;

The day you are recognised by your merit, and not by your caste, religion or gender;

They day criminals can’t run for elections...and get elected;

The day you can walk into any politician’s office and demand information ...and it is given promptly;

The day violence against men and women is condemned and not condoned;

The day women are able to go about their lives as freely as men;

The day there is no death due to starvation ...because excess food grains lay rotting;

The day no farmer commits suicide because of failed crops and burgeoning debts;

The day each and every citizen has three square meals a day, no matter what;

The day every child is well-nourished and goes to school and has a fair shot at a good future;

The day every citizen has access to a clean toilet within the house;
The day you have freedom to choose your life partner because you love him/her, without fear of social repercussions;

The day the God you worship is just a personal choice, and not a political agenda;

The day every citizen can live with dignity within their means;

That day ...let us hail ‘Happy Independence Day’.

Till then - I wish you all the strength and all the spirit in your freedom struggle. 'May the force be with you'.

The Great War on Facades by Rene Magritte
Courtesy - http://drunkenmusings.blogspot.com

The past weekend was too frenzied for my liking. At my energetic best I manage to potter around, but usually, remaining in a python-like state is the norm. This particular weekend however was thrown out-of-gear by an email from my editor.

She wanted my photo along with a short bio for their catalogue. There’s really nothing much to say about myself, so the short bio was not a problem. But the photo is an insurmountable problem. I did ask her if I can send a Pink Panther picture – but there was no response from her. I guess she is the silent, sombre type and finds such emails extremely frivolous.

Anyway, I knew this could not be a ‘passport’ type photo as my friend terms it. It had to be more classy, as befits an author, even if the said author is below average. So I looked up some author photos to get an idea. My heart sank. Each author looked more exotic than the next.

Some looked into the camera: wide-eyed innocence; chiselled chin; arched eyebrows; an alluring movement caught in the ringlets of the well styled hair. Some others looked away – staring at an unseen object in the distance – a thinker’s face with that well-practised frown, the painted, parted lips, the sheen of velvet hair tucked behind solitaire-bejewelled ears. Some others stood leaning against a wall – a nonchalant bored look, what I call as the blowing-at-the-smoking-gun-after-a-shoot-out cowboy look. They’ve all had awards under their belts – I’ve neither heard of the authors (my problem), nor the awards (again, my problem). They’ve all written serious books with clever, clever titles that don’t give away the genre of the book – you know, titles that go ‘Mangoes, Jackfruits and Pineapples’ and such like.

Oh well, I thought I’ll give it my best shot. I mean if one aims for the stars, at least one can land on the tree-top right? Why this fuss you ask? It’s just a photo, isn’t it? Well, I have a strange affliction. When my photos are clicked unexpectedly, my face is ‘normal’. The minute I have to ‘pose’ strange things happen. A frown appears, I get what Amma used to call as ‘floating’ eyes, and the ‘say cheese’ moment comes out as a grimace. Innumerable photos have been wasted because of these facial distortions.

There was only one photographer who had some kind of a magic wand. He would act with lightning speed and click the photos before the contortions started. He was an old man who had a quirky studio in Malleswaram Sampige Road. As far as I know, he’d been around for ages. His ‘Vikas Studio’ was there even way back in the late sixties and early seventies I suppose, because Appa’s and Amma’s photos before and after their wedding was taken in his studio. It was in his studio that The Sister and I had the mandatory ‘moggina jade’ photos taken.

‘Vikas Studio’ stood diagonally opposite to Shankar ‘circulating library’ if I remember correctly. The entrance to this studio was really a hole in the wall. As soon as you put your head inside the dark crevice of an opening, you’d see a questionable spiral staircase, as tightly coiled as a DNA strand, circling its way up to the first floor where the studio operated.

I somehow used to find the studio cheerful and serene in a strange, timeless way. The ‘reception’ area was just a table where photos bundled in rubber-bands were piled up. The walls were decorated with photos of chubby babies. I also remember Hema Malini and Vijayanathi Mala posters. The photographer was a middle-aged gent, with a kind face and kinder voice. He was disabled and it was humbling to watch him go about his business with such finesse. When there were no clients, he would sit on a foldable aluminium chair in the balcony overlooking the Sampige Road, and just watch the world go by.

The studio was separated by the ‘reception’ area by a plywood wall, covered with a thick indigo-hued curtain. A stout stool in the centre of the studio was the place for us to sit. Behind the chair were several rolled up ‘screens’. For kids dressed as Krishna, a screen with the picture of ambling, happy cows and the Govardhana mountain was rolled out. For honeymoon couples, it was always the Taj Mahal. For ‘eligible’ bachelor photos – the boys stood in front of a disproportionate Eiffel Tower. But they also had a physical prop – an ornate pedestal made of plaster of paris. The boys leaned against the pedestal in Dr. Rajkumar and Shankar Nag poses for maximum effect. If required, they could also don a 'suit' coat and 'cooling glasses' freely available in the studio. The single ladies however, sat on the stool with peacocks flying in the background screen.

I usually went to Vikas studio for ‘passport size’ photos. The kind man would shuffle around and ask me to sit on the stool. He would adjust his strobe lights and tell me, ‘Can you look at the red bulb above the door? Hmmm? I will just study the angles hmmm?’ And so I would smile and nod my head and look at the bulb. Click! Before I realized the photo would be taken. And that was the trick! He was such a genius. He knew most people became hopelessly self-conscious when they looked at a camera. So he would catch them off-guard – make them look elsewhere – an angle he’d probably studied well in advance. I don’t know if Vikas studio survived the onslaught of G.K. Vale and other digital villains. How I wished I could walk into the studio for an ‘author shot’.

But I did the next best thing. I shot off a message to a photographer friend for some tips. She asked me to make use of the ambient light and a table lamp covered with a white cloth for my primary light sources. I read up some articles on portrait photography. But I faced a bigger challenge. The photographer had to be The Husband.

The Husband is a man who understands profit and loss; revenue and expense. Angles and Shadows – he cared not. But I had to try. I explained what my friend had instructed. The Husband nodded sagely.

Then we walked around our small flat to find a good spot where the light can be flattering. We do have table lamps and floor lamps. But they had been placed with precision by the landlady’s interior decorators. I had to pop out from behind the bed when he said ‘say cheese’. Or I had to crouch between the sofa and the floor lamp. After some acrobatics, I decided standing next to a window is good enough. Then I could do post production work - give it a black and white effect to make me look intelligent.

I stood next to a window. Should I lean and rest my head against the window? Give a ‘far away’ look? No! No! That would be too Meena Kumari tragic look. I had to be charming and cool. So I finally assumed a pose.

‘Why are you standing like Swami Vivekananda?’ The Husband asked. ‘Just relax.’

That’s the problem. What do you do with the hands? The 101 tutorials said ‘a model relaxes with a prop.’ Maybe I should pretend reading a book. Or how about smelling a rose? Arrrghh! Too daft.

By then, the ambient light had started fading. I quickly assumed another pose. The Husband agreed it was ‘cool’ – but I had my suspicions – his smirk was a dead giveaway. Once he took the photo I checked it out. OH NO!! FLOATING EYES! Of course...I should have expected it. I had hardly slept the previous night – Jo Nesbo’s Headhunters had gripped me. And I had missed my afternoon siesta. Taking a photo was now out of question. The floating eyes would go only if I had a healthy doze of sleep – but that would mean I would be attacked by the Puffy Eyes.

But I had foreseen this possibility. I had a reasonably ‘normal’ photo taken a couple of years ago – only problem was because of the ‘yellow’ overhead lights, it looked like I had carotenemia. My friend had Photoshop – she said she could ‘correct’ the colour. And she did a great job. I mean I’ve never had such glowing skin – a skin I possessed only as a 2 month baby I suppose. I told her she had put me in a ‘dharmasankata’ – a moral dilemma. Should I share this ‘false’ one...with the well-combed hair and rosy cheeks? Or another one that is a more honest depiction? One where the nose stands out like a prehistoric monolithic pillar and the hair is Masai Mara lion-like?

It’s too tiresome to decide, especially when my choice is neither. My choice really is to remain faceless. Why should anyone know what I look like to enjoy (or curse) what I write? If they insist, perhaps I will modify The Great War on Facades by Rene Magritte. Yeah...that's a good idea.

Courtesy - http://en.wikipedia.org

Vacations are all about ‘faces of interest’ rather than ‘places of interest’ for me. Watching faces and guessing stories behind those eyes must the world’s best pass-time. And of course - clutching at moments that float across like psychedelic soap bubbles - moments that burst into oblivion in the memory; moments that have to be savoured real-time.

The deck of the lake ‘cruise’ boat was nice and warm, and I sat like an ancient Egyptian facing the sun: the warmth too seductive, the rolling motion of the boat too hypnotic – I went into a trance. Suddenly something tugged at my leg and I opened one eye. ‘Oops! Sorry!’ a shrill voice called out. The owner of the voice was about two and a half feet tall. Tiny fingers clutched at my jeans as she tried to haul herself up – little legs clad in little pink boots flaying about. I pulled her up and she let out a ‘poof’ of exhaustion. She looked up at me and mouthed a shy ‘thank you’. She had apples for cheeks and the summer sky for eyes. Her hair was a golden mess.

“Mu..uu...uum!” She called out to her slow poke Mum, followed by Dad and an elder brother. “He..eereee!”

The family settled down and were soon absorbed in their own world. Dad was busy explaining How The Boat Works to the son. Mum took out a paperback. The Little Girl looked around listlessly. Hmm. Boats are not so much of a fun now, are they? She wiggled around and tried to stand up. “You’ll fall Lisa,” Mum warned, “Do you want to play with Mary Ann?”

Lisa did not bother to reply. She tried to pull out her boots. Mum meanwhile had excavated Mary Ann from a vast bag. Mary Ann was a doll, quite like our little Lisa. “No Mum!” Lisa said sternly. “I’m not talking to Mary Ann.”

“Why not?” Mum asked flipping a page.

“Mary Ann has been naughty. She is a bad, bad girl.”

“Hmmm mmm.”

Clearly Mum was not interested in Mary Ann’s naughtiness. So Lisa took out a paper napkin from the pocket of her jacket. Perhaps a few hours ago, the paper had been a boat or an aeroplane. Lisa now opened the paper, folded it again and patted it with chubby fingers. Once it was patted to her satisfaction, she used me as a ladder to climb down.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Lisa dragged her Dad towards the railing of the boat. “Smi...ee Daddy! Smi..eee!” Lisa held up her paper camera and looked at her Dad through one eye. Dad gave poses as a little palm waved at him ‘adjusting’ his position. And when she thought it was perfect she yelled, “Say cheeeeeese!” Followed by “C...ICK!” Of course Dad looked at the ‘camera’ and oohed and aahed. But I never took my eyes off Lisa. That moment of unadulterated, absolute and complete ecstasy on the child’s face – it was like looking at god in the eye. The truth, the moksha, the nirvana – call it what you will. The moment of bliss that is seemingly so unattainable – so easily at grasp for a child.

The boat docked and Lisa walked away. I thanked her in my mind – for that sliver of untainted happiness. By the way, she had ‘made up’ with Mary Ann and the ‘camera’ was now in the garbage bin.

I looked forward to more such ‘moments’ and I was not disappointed. On a spectacularly sunny afternoon in Grasmere, The Husband and I ambled into a near-empty inn for a leisurely lunch. I settled down in a warm, cosy corner and looked around expectantly. Sooner or later, some story should unfold – it always does. One only needs special eyes and overactive imagination to notice the story-in-progress.

My eyes rested on a middle-aged gent sitting at a table adjacent to mine. Actually he is one of those people who look middle-aged throughout their lives. Receding hairline, thinning hair, pasty complexion, shiny nose and wire-framed specs. Half-sleeve cotton shirt with blue squares prints – the sleeves reaching down to his elbows. Two pens peeking out of the breast pocket, a third pen in his left hand busy hovering over the cryptic cross-word. No ring on finger. Not even a mark on the skin. A steaming pot of tea stood next to the newspaper, and a leather-bound, really, really thick book was placed precisely in line with the edge of the table. I was dying to see the title of the book – but I was not wearing my specs – could just make out a blurred title – embossed in gold in a calligraphic script. Probably classic prose or poetry.

I watched him as he intently worked on the cross-word. The pressed thin lips suppressing a triumphant smile when he cracked a particularly nasty clue. Unmarried, and most probably unattached, I thought, alone but not lonely. Possibly in academia; or at a job that’s very routine and predictable. Probably been in the job for decades. Because that’s what he is – predictable, reliable, loyal. Well read, witty, intelligent, articulate. But not many get a chance to know him because he’s withdrawn, shy and not many would get his self-deprecating sense of humour. Oh no...they would think it is lack of confidence. Guess his name too would be unpretentious – John or Thomas or Jack. His surname would be vintage British in a P.G.Wodehouse kind of way. His home would be neat and tidy, and it would smell of books and tea. And if someone did get through to him, and got to know him really well – it would be hard not to love this man. Oh and one really had to work hard to earn his love. He’s no frivolous spender of that emotion – because when he does love, he does so with every cell in his body.

Ah! But the real story was unfolding now. I bade goodbye to John as my attention wavered. The bartender was what the locals would call as a ‘strapping young lad’. Not a day over 18-19 I guess. His eyes regularly flitted to a corner as he cleaned the table top. I followed his gaze. Ah ha! Two pretty, pretty girls. Now which one has caught our Romeo’s fancy? The girls were absorbed in an intense conversation – their voices were a mere buzz compared to the boisterous group sitting at the patio.

I looked at Romeo again and smiled. His was not a mere fleeting glance of admiration – it was a look of helpless adoration - he was absolutely smitten. Oh this boy was in trouble. He was heading towards Heartbreak Avenue at full speed. The girls were most definitely tourists. They’d just dropped by for the long weekend I suppose. Perhaps visited this inn a couple of times – and one of them had caught our Romeo’s eyes and his heart had slid out of his mouth.

When Romeo was busy with a customer, the two girls walked into the restroom. After the customer was seated, Romeo’s eyes fell on the empty chairs. A frown marred those fine brows and the eyes darted everywhere. I wanted to stand up and shout, ‘They’re in the restroom!’...for such was his anxiety. He came out around the bar and seemed to be debating – should I take a peep outside? He walked resolutely towards the door and stepped outside.

Meanwhile, the two girls came out of the restroom. Girl 1 was chatting animatedly. Girl 2 was quiet, she was nodding and smiling. Which one? Which one? I thought as I stared at them 'Come on give me a sign...’ BINGO! Girl 2. The one in the paisley dress and an unfussy bob. Her hands repeatedly tucked her hair behind her ears as her eyes searched frantically for him – oh yes – they rested on the empty bar area and then all around the inn. I doubt if she was even listening to her gibbering friend. Her hands fell to her side, her face withdrew the smile and she walked behind her friend towards the door.

The door opened and Romeo stepped in. He could not help breaking into an extraordinary smile when he saw the girls – he held the door open, and his eyes would not leave her. They thanked him and walked out. He stood for a moment and walked out behind them. He came back moments later – and he had the ‘I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD’ look. I smiled widely. Yes! He had a date! I celebrated his triumph in my mind.

Sigh! If I were a character in a book, I would have followed little Lisa. Would she become a surly teenager? Would she become a photographer or a hairdresser? Would she worry about her weight? Would she preserve Mary Ann as a memory? Would she remember the boat trip and tell it to her children?

I would have held John's hand. I would have sat next to him quietly, on his many, many solitary evenings as he worried over the cross-word or remained absorbed in Dostoevsky. I would watch him clean his specs with a neat handkerchief. I would watch the tears drip slowly down his cheeks on long, cold nights when loneliness squeezed his heart. I would watch him fall in love awkwardly, unsurely, helplessly, hopelessly.

I would walk behind Romeo and his Juliet as they tried to work out a long-distance relationship. Those long walks next to unexplored lakes; those passionate kisses amidst the pine trees; the tender love-making on freshly mown grass; those fights and angry tears and tender embraces.

Sigh! My lunch was done. I was back to earth. The time had fled by. And these are the moments – irrespective of race and colour – that defines all our lives and makes the world go around. It's the same love, longing, loneliness, anguish, smiles, tears, joy and laughter.Yes my life is theirs and theirs... mine.

Amit has accused me of writing inspiring blogs...and has even given me this award. At first I thought he was being cheeky. Then I realized he was not...he actually meant it. But I tell you I wash my hands off all responsibility – if you have issues with this award, please catch hold of Amit. Amit – you naive one...thanks for the award. I feel humbled and....oh darn it! I grabbed the award with an evil grin and did a hop and a skip. I’m bloody flattered out of my socks.

So now, just grabbing the award is not enough I believe. I have to inflict further suffering on you, poor readers. I am supposed to tell you 7 things about myself. And then, I am supposed to accuse someone else of being inspiring. Let’s get started shall we?

Slurrrrrp!
Courtesy - http://saffrontrail.blogspot.com

1) I’m a coffee addict. I neighed like a horse and shrieked like banshee when some twat of a minister wanted to make tea the ‘national drink’. I mean really? That sludge that needs to be boiled and boiled? That damn slush that half the population can’t prepare decently? They over-boil the milk and serve scalding liquid with a film of sickly cream covering the surface? That slosh which cannot get a taste unless you add cardamoms and cloves and ginger and what have you? Seriously? Now look at our south Indian filter coffee. I’ve not tasted anything like it anywhere in the world. And the aroma while roasting the coffee beans ...unbeatable. Can tea do that? Can it? huh?

2) The above rant must have given you a clue about my next characteristic. Schizophrenic ranting. I’ll be a charm as I grow older for sure. They’ll probably put me in solitary confinement.

3) I am deeply suspicious of government, lawyers, cops, doctors, realtors and smiling bankers. And even more deeply, deeply suspicious of overly religious people.

4) I believe in aliens.

5) I’m more of a mountain and valley person...and not so thrilled about beach and sand and sea. Maybe because I visualise the sea/ocean as a heaving, breathing organism with a mind of its own. Treacherous, shape-shifting buggery thing.

Woman with a flower - Picasso
Courtesy - http://euroclubsschools.co.uk

6) Picasso’s paintings give me the creeps. I’m sorry but I find calling it ‘art’ a load of bull. I mean check out this painting titled 'Woman with a flower'. Seriously WTF? Dali too has the same effect on me. When it comes to literature, I don’t understand Kafka either. And I hate self-help preachy books about winning and monks and cars and habits and all the collective How To Be Successful shit.

7) I hope to meet Stephen King someday and give him a guru dakshina. No other modern day writer can match his imagination or his power of narration. His insight into human mind is simply astounding.

And now that you’ve wasted a good couple of minutes of your life that you’ll never get back, I’ll pass on the baton to two really interesting bloggers. Now THEY are inspiring.

Shail Mohan http://www.shailsnest.com/

Karthik LMS http://unalloyedwritingpleasure.blogspot.co.uk/

Courtesy - http://thefullwiki.org

I don’t know why but I remembered a wedding story that Appa always narrates and we end up cracking up hysterically.

Now this was 1977or thereabouts. I don’t remember the principal character. But let me use a generic Iyengar name – Seshadri. Seshadri was a dashing young man, all of 23-24. He worked along with Appa and my maternal uncle in Bangalore. With a B.A. degree and a job in a government undertaking, Seshadri was the most eligible bachelor in the Karnataka Iyengar community.

It looked like even in those days Seshadri had a rebellious streak. Seshadri might have had a body that resembled a beedi (according to Uncle), but he was extremely fastidious when it came to keeping up with current fashion trends. Bell-bottoms, shirts with huge geometric designs and collars that resembled the wings of a Boeing 777; and of course shoes with heels to make up for his short height. Seshadri had even tried to grow side-locks a la Elvis, but he had crossed the line this time as a Sri Vaishnava. His strict father and uncles had put their foot down made him ‘come back to line’ – absolutely no facial hair was the rule.

Anyway, Seshadri’s wedding was ‘settled’. The wedding was to take place in the bride’s hometown, Mysore. Seshadri was generally happy, but mildly angered by the fact that he won’t be allowed to wear ‘cooling glass’ during the ceremony – he wanted to look maadren on the most important day of his life. Apart from that skirmish, the wedding preparations had proceeded extremely well.

Appa travelled to Mysore on the varapooje day. The wedding hall was close to the bus station I believe – perhaps 15-20 minutes by tonga. It was a regular wedding hall – I mean it was just that. A big cement-tiled hall with two rooms – one for the bride, and one for the groom. Separate toilets for ‘ladies’ and ‘gents’ were situated at the rear of the property, outside the hall but within the compound. A huge cement thotti served as a water storage tank.

The varapooje itself was a success. Many elders had nodded with satisfaction – they had noted that the bride resembled a young B. Sarojadevi. Rumour had it that the bride also played the veena with aplomb. But more importantly, the bride’s family had given the groom a fat gold ring and a HMT watch.

The ceremony was done, and everyone settled down for the night after a hearty dinner. The bride of course slept in her own room accompanied by her mother and a few elderly ladies. The rest of the congregation slept on the massive jamkhaanas (a colourful cloth mat) spread in the hall. The muhurtha for the wedding was after 10 AM – so there was not much tension. Or so they thought.

The next day, there was a frantic movement of the elders hither and thither. My uncle, a man of action, caught hold of one such oscillating elder and wringed out the news. Seshadri was missing. Now, once Uncle got involved in anything, he usually took charge. “Don’t create panic here. Come out!” he commanded. So a group of elders congregated outside the wedding hall to discuss the harrowing situation.

Now, there had been an invasion of mosquitoes the previous night: the result was that everyone had red, itching spots. So the Case Of Missing Groom was dissected with some vigorous scratching of hands and legs. Ultimately Appa and Uncle, being close friends of Seshadri, were recruited for the role of offender profiling. So both of them thought, “If I were Seshadri, where would I go?” and set out for the search and retrieve mission.

Seshadri was a coffee addict so Appa and Uncle naturally stopped at the nearby hotels. Then they expanded the search to as far as Devraj Urs road, barging into every open hotel yelling, “Seshadri! Seshadri!”

Then Uncle got it into his head that Seshadri, the fashion freak, may have snuck into he-who-must- not-be-named’s salon. It was considered ill omen to even utter the word ‘barber’ just before a good occasion such as a wedding. This being the case, it was too radical even to think that someone would actually go for a hair cut on such an auspicious day. In fact Appa said, “I don’t think he will do something so drastic.” But Uncle sagely observed the stress of the wedding might have driven Seshadri overboard. “As it is, he is a madcap,” Uncle surmised thoughtfully. (I believe the exact Kannada phrase used was “heLi keLi thikkal nan maga avanu”).

By then it was nearing 8:30 in the morning and the two profilers decided to return to the wedding hall and seek reinforcements. They needed more people to go and check in the bus station and railway station. Much to their joy they saw the slippery groom saunter towards the wedding hall from the opposite direction. His gait was lazy and he waved at them cheerfully, completely unaware of the panic situation.

As soon as he entered the threshold, all the elders pounced on him like hyenas. “Where were you, you monkey-face?” his father thundered.

“The mosquitoes here were horrible,” replied our groom, scratching his back viciously. “It was like sleeping in swamp in Kakana Kote forest.” Poor Seshadri was so distraught because of the vampire mosquitoes that he rented a room in a lodge next door at 3:00AM.

There was stunned silence on hearing this. The risk this silly boy had taken...che! Stepping out of the wedding venue on the night before the wedding was a dangerous thing. Had Seshadri not heard about evil netherworld beings such as yakshas and yakshinis and even pishachies who go around specifically looking for fresh would-be grooms and brides? There was much berating of the young generation's lack of respect for our traditions and culture (sounds familiar?). Eventually, Seshadri went for his traditional oil bath.

Just when things had fallen into place, someone yelled the favourite Mysore Iyengar curse, “I’ll rip you apart and drape you across the doorway as a thorana!” (shiginj thornu kattudre paathkyo!)

As usual Appa and Uncle reached the scene of crime first. Seshadri’s father, who had been controlling his anger at his son’s lackadaisical attitude, had finally exploded. He had asked Seshadri to get ready quickly so that they can help wrap Seshadri’s panche in kachche style. But instead of combing his hair, Seshadri was caught scratching his legs with the comb, thus wasting precious time. Upon seeing this spectacle, Seshadri’s father nearly had a conniption. The soothing voice of Uncle eased things and Seshadri was literally gift-wrapped in the kachche.

As a final touch-up, the all important Sri Charanu (tilak) had to be drawn on Seshadri’s forehead. One of the elders was assigned this task. The Sri Charanu was to be drawn using a thin silver stick dipped in a kumkum solution. Now this silver stick had been gifted by the bride’s side and was as sharp as a needle.

“Stop squirming!” the bespectacled elder commanded Seshadri as the latter tried to reach an itchy spot on his back. “This is very sharp, if you shake this will become raktha tilaku instead of Sri Charanu.” But the gentleman’s thick glasses resulted in parallax error and apparently the tilaku started near Seshadri’s left eyebrow.

At once a Council Of Elders gathered to remedy the situation. The tilaku was erased – but the kumkum was some chemical combination and it would not go off very easily. So some castor oil was rubbed on Seshadri’s forehead. It now looked like he had a bruised forehead. But there was no time, the priest was already calling. So another elder attempted to draw out the Sri Charanu.

This gentleman was quick and steady I believe. But not many were happy with the starting point of the tilaku.

“It is very high on the forehead,” one of Council Of Elders observed critically, “it should start right at the bridge of the nose.”

“His nose is like a potato – he has no bridge,” the artist had taken offence.

“Just extend it a bit, it is his marriage, why the carelessness?” the first elder queried and this ensued an argument.

“I’ll do one thing!” yelled the artist, “I will draw the tilaku from his hotte (belly button)!”

“Why are you behaving like Durvaasa?”

And so on and so forth the fight went on, while Seshadri sat quietly scratching his back and stomach.

The priest was restless. He had to start the proceedings. “What is taking so long? Are you people drawing a naama on his forehead or a map?” he shouted. That brought an end to the fight in the Council Of Elders. Seshadri’s nose was indeed globe-like, and it was difficult to extend the starting point. But it was managed, albeit a bit crookedly. It now looked like Seshadri had a throbbing vein on his forehead.

But there was no choice. Poor Seshadri sat on the hasemaNe looking thunderous and the wedding went on smoothly.

I guess they lived happily ever after!

Courtesy - http://mediacircus2.blogspot.com

I’d just about started middle-school (meddle school as far as I was concerned). I guess it was mid-term holidays. We had loads of homework to keep up the ‘industrious momentum’. I had elaborate plans of keeping a slow momentum though, but they were thwarted by Amma’s x-ray mind-reading techniques.

On one such difficult morning, I was struggling with a Geography exercise. I had to label the locations for great deserts of the world. My Gobi was passable, though it had usurped half of Russia too. Sahara was bang on. Atacama – now was that a desert in South Africa? South America? Indonesia? Errr ...the moon? Amma had already checked on me twice to see how I was getting by. If she came around the third time, it would mean I’ll have to do one of her impromptu tests. Thank God she did not work for any education boards – we would have a lot less graduates. She always maintained our tests in school were not vigorous enough. Or worse, she would unleash Appa on me.

Now Appa always maintained our education system was not good, and if he had his way, we’d all pass out of high-school in mid-forties. Appa was big on ‘knowledge for knowledge’s sake’ and did not like the commercial approach we had in place. Anyway, Appa would mumble ‘Attacama, Attacama...’ and then disappear for a few minutes. He would bring out some pre-independence era book tucked away in his rusty iron trunk. He would dust it against his thigh and flip the pages. The book would smell of mothballs. The author would be some English explorer who’d have settled down in a remote shire after exploring caves and deserts and stumbling upon tribes. He’d have sold about two copies, one of which had found its way to an iron trunk in Malleswaram. Appa would then start reading this bloke’s adventures in the Attacama. All entertaining, but I would still be flummoxed as to where the hell the desert was. And Appa would forget he had to ‘teach’ me, and would eventually settle down for a quiet read till Amma came along and chastised both of us severely.

The Sister, meanwhile had finished writing all the alphabets in capital letters and small letters, and had even finished writing her three times table. She wanted to start on her copywriting, but Amma had gently reminded her to play; since copywriting could be done next week. This punctuality and orderliness in The Sister is a singular aberration in her character that remains to this day. I’ve warned her many times about this abnormality. I’ve even set examples on many occasions – showed her how to take things easy unless one is in mortal peril; even explained to her how this relaxed approach is beneficial for blood circulation...but to no avail. Tcha!

But that day, it was different. Amma came along the third time and said Appa would be taking us to the cinemas so I’d better finish the homework fast. I tell you dangerous spikes in excitement does wonders for the memory. In a flash the sedate brain surged in electricity and retrieved the answer with absolute clarity. Attacama was in South America. Now, it’s another matter that I put it on the wrong coast, and I had wiped out Uruguay, parts of Brazil and Argentina from the face of the earth. But at least I had got the continent right, so I was let off.

The movie was supposed to be a cartoon one in Sangam, Majestic. The place looked like a picnic spot by the time we reached. Balloon wallahs were making a killing. So did the cotton candy fellows. I was, however, too grown up for such frivolous pleasures; though I longed for the helium balloons. The Sister was too dignified to ask for anything that reminded her of her 1st standard status.

There was the news reel and Vicco Turmeric advertisement and the movie certificate. I perched on the seat and swung my legs excitedly – the lights had dimmed and the movie would start now. I guess all the parents were excited too. A sudden murmur rolled across the hall and some of the men even stood up. But they sat down. The movie had started.

First there was this spiral circular thing that moved across the screen to thunderous music. Inside the circle was the silhouette of a man walking purposefully. And then suddenly he turns and shoots. Red paint fills the screen and the circle oscillates and opens up to an aeroplane scene. Something happens and one aeroplane blows up. Then, an old man is speaking on a red phone in a room that has the richest leather sofa I’d ever seen. His room also has a leather door. My jaws dropped.

Then, there is a very handsome man in another aeroplane. He’s kissing a woman in a way no Hindi movie hero has ever done. Suddenly the girl pulls out a gun, and the pilot also starts fighting with the handsome man. The handsome man pushes the bad man out of the plane, and then the girl pushes the handsome man. Now both men are floating skilfully. The handsome man somehow floats faster and catches up with the bad man. He beats the bad man and steals his parachute. But he does not see the other bad man. This bad man has steel teeth. He tries to bite the handsome man in the ankles. But the handsome man escapes. I had not breathed – what a thrilling fight sequence. And the handsome man – I’d never seen eyes so blue.

And then, the screen darkened as the most seductive song started playing. The opening credits had shadows of wiggling naked ladies all over the screen. The handsome man said his name was Bond. James Bond. (And my heart has never been the same since.)

Parents shifted in their seats uneasily. This was no trailer. Yup – Sangam had done some mixup – that was the only explanation. No parents in their right mind would bring young children to watch James Bond. But everyone had spent nearly ten rupees for the tickets and snacks, not to mention bus charge – so walking out was not an option. Money does not grow on trees you know. So some parents resorted to taking the children out whenever there was a hint of lust. Some just commanded the children to close their eyes. My parents just allowed us to deal with it.

I was thoroughly entertained. I found everything so grand and beautiful. Oh those spectacular places, cars and clothes and those sleek, stylish women. I was captivated. I did find some scenes mysterious – especially the ones where Bond wrestled with naked women on the bed. The women seemed to enjoy it. I had a theory that this behaviour had something to do with babies. I also sensed it would be a bad idea to ask Appa and Amma. A discussion with friends revealed we all had the same theory – and later on, Harold Robbins, Irving Wallace and to a certain extent, James Hadley Chase confirmed the theory beyond a doubt.

The movie was Moonraker. Ever since, I’ve not missed a single Bond movie. Like all Bond fans, I was heartbroken when the franchise ran into problems – and in the decade where no Bond was forthcoming, I spent time watching re-runs in Rex and Plaza and learning Bond trivia. Goldeye is the name of Ian Fleming’s pad in Jamaica. And I think ‘The world is not enough’ finds mention in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. The phrase is supposed to be Bond’s family’s motto. ‘Quantum of Solace’ is a short story that has no bearing on the movie.

Perhaps no other Bond movie caused a sensation like Octopussy, at least in Malleswaram. Geetanjali theatre which predominantly screened Kannada movies made an exception. When the posters of Octopussy came up in Geetanjali, it was an event in the history of Malleswaram. Block tickets for entire neighbourhood had been booked – even elders who thought our good old Helen aunty was risqué had let their guard down – Bond in Benaras was too much to pass. Besides, no one as beautiful as Maud Adams has ever been wrapped in a Benaras silk

When GoldenEye was announced, I was beside myself with ecstasy. ‘Remington Steele’ was to be James Bond. Sometimes the heavens just shower on you. First day, first show in Plaza. It was heart-warming to see a lot of senior citizens turn up. Trust Bangalore to have a faithful following! I was thrilled to see ‘M’ was a woman. And Moneypenny was even more sassy.

The books themselves are not so kinetic as the movies. Fleming maintains a plodding pace for most part, revving up towards the end. But one can get up close and personal with Bond only through the books. No one else has cast a sociopath as a hero as successfully as Fleming.

There’s always a debate as to who the best Bond is. I think each actor has interpreted Bond in his own way. Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan were more of the charmers. Sean Connery had the best blend – of being cold, calculating and cruel while being the great seducer at the same time. Daniel Craig. Now there’s someone who knocked me off my socks. I was sceptical about him – but he just proved everyone wrong, didn’t he?

My best James Bond movie has to be On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Ironically, George Lazenby who essayed the role is probably the most forgettable Bond, next only to Timothy Dalton. But the entire movie was beautifully shot – it has the best action sequences and THE BEST theme and background score. It's a cult classic if you ask me.

My best opening sequence is from Casino Royale – mind-blowing creativity.

As usual I look forward to Skyfall. Perhaps the storyline of Bond movies have now become predictable. But I anticipate no other brand this way. Of seeing the ‘Broccoli presents’; of seeing that spiral circle encircling Bond; of the spectacular opening sequence; of the haunting title tracks; of Bond saying ‘The name’s Bond. James Bond.’; of M, Q and Moneypenny; of vodka martini; of slimy villains and their sidekicks; and of course of cheesy one-liners. In fact, when I’d heard Adele’s ‘Set fire to the rain’, I thought this chica’s voice is right there with Shirley Bassey ; they must make her sing for Bond. And voila! Who says thoughts don’t come true?! I quite love the Skyfall theme, it is reminiscent of Carly Simon’s Spy Who Loved Me track. I hope the movie reverts to vintage Bond and focuses more on the characters rather than gadgets and guns.

Many theories float around about this enduring Bond brand. Is it the guns? Girls? Cars? Locations? Well, as far as I’m concerned it’s something deeper. Bond represents everything that is anti-system. He’s the eternal bachelor, his excesses in sin and vice are extraordinary, he is godless, lives for the moment, has license to kill – and he does all this in a government job – so his pension is secured. Not a bad life at all :)

Here's to 50 more years of being shaken AND stirred.

Courtesy - http://www.earthsky.org

As the Pitru Paksha culminates in the Mahalaya Amavasya, I have sombre memories of elders in my family performing the tarpana. In fact, whether we celebrated festivals or not, any rituals that involved ancestors were never trifled with. I’m sure this was, and continues to be the practice in many households.

The practice fascinates me. There were ancient civilizations all over the world who ritualistically worshipped their ancestors. They called upon their ancestors for guidance and blessings during special occasions; and these occasions were usually in tandem with the seasons, and therefore harvests. In times of unforeseen difficulties, the ancestors were called upon to guard the race. Thousands and thousands of years later, even as we have made astounding progress in understanding the world around us, it is humbling to see that millions in India still follow this practice of remembering ancestors, seeking their blessings and guidance. Many consider this practice as superstition. I’m not going to convince otherwise, or try and present an argument – simply because I don’t understand these things well, and I’ve only begun my quest. But I can tell you what I believe in, what I’ve experienced.

Like I said earlier, I’ve grown up watching these rituals. I don’t understand the significance of using sesame seeds, the darbe grass or the specific seating positions of the brahmins performing the ritual. I don’t even understand the specific mantras that are recited. Yes there are several websites that give details, but they preach. They talk in the air, and I choose not to accept their preaching. However, the entire process of invoking the ancestor, giving the offerings, praying for their peace, and seeking blessings in return is so methodical, so orderly that I cannot just dismiss it as an empty ritual. Each and every substance used in the ritual, each and every syllable uttered, each and every nuance has a significance - it symbolically represents some aspect of our connection with our ancestors – not just through the genes, but also at a spiritual level. Perhaps today it has become a matter of routine; but I suspect it was not the case in the past.

I’m talking about the past that existed even before man learnt to discriminate against man (and woman). I’m talking about the past where man was superbly attuned to the nature around him; and he was nature, and nature was him. Where he understood the skies, the clouds, the earth and her yields. In such a synchronous harmony, I’m sure the tarpana rituals were even more powerful – they were not just words uttered, acts performed. I do believe that when such an equilibrium exists, perhaps a channel of communication is opened where one can communicate with the departed. I also believe that this channel exists even today...but we are unable to unlock it. Well, today, even with our five senses intact, we are unable to communicate – so forget opening a channel that does not depend on the physical props.

The Mahabharata gives a simplistic reason for this Pitru Paksha. It is said that when Karna went to heaven after he was killed in the battle; he found only gold and silver and no food. It was explained to him that while on earth, no doubt he did loads of charity – he gave away wealth. In consequence, that wealth was returned to him million-fold in heaven. But he had never given away food; so he did not find food in heaven. So Yama gives him 14 days grace period – to go back to earth and tie up this little detail. In this period, Karna visits earth and does all the anna daana he can. Of course as with everything in the Mahabharata, the meaning of this story is symbolic. One, there is no greater charity than the charity of food. Two – at the very basic level, the body wants food – and nothing, no luxury on earth can replace that. And thirdly – as you sow, so shall you reap.

Anyway, those 14 days of ‘grace period’ is deemed as the pitru paksha. During this period, while giving tarpana at least some charity in the form of anna daana takes place. It also forces us to remember those before us – to understand why we are what we are, and where we are.

The Mahalaya is associated with many other fatalistic things – exorcisms, tantric rituals, black magic, death. The dark skies unfurled by the Mahalaya strikes a strange fear in many hearts. At the end of the day, the Mahalaya is just the moon hiding in a shadow. And just like the moon, there are times our life too slips into the shadows. This is the real Mahalaya: this darkness is inescapable.

The darkness of this Mahalaya is not what it seems. You see we are always taught that it is the Light that reveals the truth. It is the Light that allows us to see and perceive. Ah! Such an enduring myth. No light, not even the Sun, can reveal the truth the way Darkness does. When it descends, switching off all vision, flight is the first instinct. You run blindly to get away from the Darkness – you do everything possible to bring back the light. But the Darkness is pre-destined, and it’s a law of nature. You have to go through it, there are no short-cuts, there are no escape routes. And the more you run, the more it sucks you.

Stand still. Allow the Darkness to flood you. It scalps you, strips you naked. You stand alone devoid of all the crutches you use in the Light – your masks, your conditioning, your prejudice, your support system. In that abject Darkness, you see yourself in a way Light can never reveal. You see your very hidden recesses of the mind, you see your strength which you did not know was there, you see your weakness and the shameful depths to which you can sink...and rise, you see what you are capable of – raw unadulterated emotions be it love or hatred, fury or patience – you see YOU in a way you’ve never seen. Because all the while, in the Light, you saw yourself in how others perceived you. And it is this Darkness that peels your relationships painfully, layer by layer. It is only in the Darkness that you can sift, distil, filter your life – you can see with unflattering clarity those who pollute your life and those who purify it. Yes, Darkness is terrifying simply because it clamps your eyelids open and throws the truth at your face. And when the Darkness lifts; and you walk into the Light – you are much wiser. Bruised, injured but stronger.

As with everything in life, you have the choice. You can continue running. Or you can stop, embrace the Darkness and look truth in the eye.

Wishing you a blessed Mahalaya and Dussera.

Courtesy - http://telegraph.co.uk

There are days when the mind refuses to stay still, like a fly beating against a glass pane. It’s tiresome having it buzz around so much, when all I want is some peace and quiet. I’ve never tried meditation: perhaps it is time to start it. Today is one such tiresome day. A malfunctioning throat is irritating to say the least. I took a medication last night, and only after I swallowed the foul pill did I realise that it has caffeine – so I was awake for a long, long time – mentally preparing for my assignments and experiments, thinking of growing old, thinking of the storm across the Atlantic, thinking of my running, thinking of new shoes, thinking of a friend I need to get in touch with, thinking of The Sister and The Niece...and finally thinking of those days with Amma.

Remembering those days always ropes the mind and yanks it to a rest. We had strange and funny and wonderful days together. On days such as this one – when a frog sat in the throat, I would sit in the sun for hours, chatting with Amma about nothing and everything. Just like our talks, the coffee would be never-ending. If the sister was bunking class, she would join in with her serious philosophies, and her child-like endearing notions about life. And then, Appa would return from work with kodubale and nippattu from Manglooru Stores – and we would yak some more, late into the night.

It was on one such spring afternoon, when the sun was just right to make sabbakkisandiges, that he sauntered in. A gaunt bag of bones that had been a handsome horse sometime in the past. His coat was mangy black – I’m sure in the prime of his health, it had been velvet. His tail was still luxurious though. Amma and I were watering the plants when he visited us. The water supply was on alternate days; and we stored water in an underground sump. So watering plants meant one of us had to draw the water from the sump using a bindige. That day, Amma was drawing the water and I went around rationing it, depending on the plant size.

Mr. Horse took us by surprise. We stood there for a full minute, staring at each other. The horse had sad, weary eyes. He walked towards the sump and looked in. The water was too deep for him to reach. Amma drew a pot of water and poured it in a plastic bucket. He put his head in the bucket and sucked the water in one giant sip. He looked up at Amma expectantly.

‘You think I have no better work, isn’t it?’ Amma scolded him and drew some more water. Each time he finished, he would look up at Amma – ‘fill it up’. He drank all of five buckets of water. We did not know what to feed him – I mean, we never expected horses to come around.

‘Do you think horses eat bananas?’ Amma asked as he sloshed and slurped. I had no clue. I remembered they liked sugar cubes – at least that’s what I’d read in all of Dick Francis novels. But it looked like he was done. He left as suddenly as he came, after giving a brief snort as a thank you.

And then there was Puttulakshmi, our neighbour’s cow. Every Sankranti, for the Kanu festival, we would pamper Puttulakshmi silly. She had a rich brown coat with a white diamond patch on her forehead. She would stand patiently, almost with a bored look as Amma did the puja to her. And then, she would moo excitedly when the real treat came out – all the sugarcanes and bananas and the rice cakes. It wouldn’t be enough for her, and she’d be sure we’ve hidden some more stuff behind the door. She would peep inside the house, standing at the door-step, tail flicking, ears twitching. Amma would hold up her empty hands and say, ‘It’s over. I don’t have anything hidden.’ But Puttulakshmi would look at her suspiciously. Yes it’s amazing how much animals talk with their eyes.

Her master would say, ‘Come away you greedy woman.’ But Puttulaksmi would just shush him down with a moo. ‘We have spoilt her,’ the chastised owner would tell me and The Sister. Only after much cajoling coupled with the lure of that extra bunch of bananas would Puttulakshmi budge. She was a tough one.

One year, the morning after the Kanu festival, we were having our morning coffee when we heard thumping footsteps and the doorway darkened with a shadow. Sure enough Puttlakshmi stood at the door, sniffing the air. ‘Hmm,’ she must have thought about the coffee aroma, ‘this does not smell like sugarcane.’

‘You want a treat today also?’ Amma laughed and walked up to her. Sure enough Puttulakshmi nudged Amma with her forehead. ‘Give me my treat, quick.’

By then my neighbour came running – Puttulakshmi had broken away from the small herd to pay us a visit apparently. From that day, we kept an extra bunch of bananas – just in case she visited us on a whimsy.

And then came Blackie. He was a street pup – who grew into a very dignified, handsome young fellow. He had a black and ocre-brown coat and beautiful eyes. Whenever it got too hot, he’d come and lie under our window. Or if Amma was sitting outside reading a book, he’d think it’s his birthright to lay his head on her lap. He was an attention-seeking little bugger. If Amma sat chatting with me and The Sister when he sauntered in, he would be so displeased. He’d wag his tail and make cute faces at Amma till she tickled his ears and patted him – and he’d look at me and The Sister with such smugness. And he’d always come home when Appa returned from office. He’d make a big deal of it and wouldn’t let Appa have his coffee in peace till he had received his quota of pats and ‘good boy’ and ‘handsome fellow’. For some reason, Blackie hated the ceiling fan and if it was switched on, he would bark himself silly jumping up and down and running around in circles. And when we switched it off, just to prevent premature deafness, he would look shame-faced and sulk.

We never knew where Blackie went during the rest of the day. But come morning, he’d be there, waiting for his bread soaked in milk. And at lunch time, Amma had to stand near the gate and call out to him a couple of times. Only then his majesty would come trotting up. It wouldn’t matter if he’d just eaten at a neighbour’s place. He had to eat what Amma gave him – otherwise he would whine and make such a pitiful fuss – crawling up to Amma and acting as if she had abandoned him. And so it came about that Amma would never eat till Blackie had eaten.

And then came the old man with the bow legs. His clothes were in tatters, his feet were bare and his face was leathery. ‘Give me food,’ he told Amma matter-of-factly. ‘I will weed your garden’.

Amma led him to the backyard. It was soon evident that mentally, the poor man was really no more than five in many ways. But he had enough integrity to earn his food. And that was a very big thing in Amma’s eyes.

We had very rudimentary garden equipment. The old man got to work. He spoke to the plants and the weeds. ‘Ah haha! Do you think you can escape my eyes?’ he scolded the weeds as he pulled them out. ‘You have worms,’ he clucked at the rose plant. ‘I have to tie you up to the compound wall,’ he told the jasmine creeper. The old man examined every leaf, every petal and every stem. Before long, the backyard was lush with the red soil purged off weeds.

Amma had prepared two large raagi balls for him, along with bele saaru. The old man’s face lit up when he saw his plate, especially when Amma poured ghee. He had not eaten for past three days. He sat facing the garden he had toiled upon and ate his food, still talking to the plants and to himself. When Amma tried to pay him, he refused to take the money. He said he had just wanted food. But Amma convinced him to take the money, and told him to come whenever he was hungry, and that there was no need to work for the food.

But he would come once or twice a week to maintain the plants. He always found work in our backyard that had escaped our attention. And so, on many days he was our company for lunch – his constant mumbling and plant-talk was always a comfort.

Every year, he would go for his village fair – where he danced and played the damte for Maramma. Appa would give him a new shirt he would ask every possible human being he encountered, ‘How do I look?’

Well, all good things come to an end. Puttulaksmi went away. Blackie went away. The old man went away. And finally Amma too went away. It was another time and another place. A time of sunshine, warm breeze, roses and jasmines, laughter and love and innocence. A part of me is stuck there like a feather caught in a mesh. Never whole, never again.

This was taken on a winter morning in Sundarbans

Raise your hand if you, like me, associate silence with sound. How many times have you noticed the silence in a room because you heard a clock ticking? Or because you heard your own breath – in, out; in, out?

My grandma’s home had one of those old pendulum clocks. It had a black frame with a round, cobalt blue dial if I remember correctly. The pendulum was metallic and had little flowers etched on the shiny circular bob. It gave out a basic ding ding every hour, and one note for the half hour. It had to be wound everyday – the key was kept on a small shelf provided near the dial.

When we cousins stayed at grandma’s for hols, my uncle made a big deal of the clock-winding. The clock was high up on the wall, and he’d stand on a foldable aluminium chair. We kids would gather around, looking up, mouth open, eyes like dinner plates. With every turn of the clock key, uncle would huff and puff and wipe his brow and tell us, ‘You need a lot of strength to do this. Now drink up your milk.’

The clock had an unusually loud tick-tock. On those summer afternoons, with lunch done, straw mats would be rolled out on the red-oxide floor, cotton-filled pillows in home-stitched covers would be thrown around and we’d settle down for siesta. Within a few minutes, the tick-tock would grow louder, louder. Folded news papers and bamboo fans (beesanige) would rustle and whisper as the elders fanned us and fanned themselves. Thumbs would find way into mouths, eyes would droop and the world would cease to exist.

On days when I missed school due to flu, the silence of the mornings was different. Although it is unimaginable now, those days our street rarely had traffic. We did have the occasional cyclist, or an auto rickshaw, or a bullock cart or even a tonga. But those were fleeting sounds – the clip-clop of a weary horse, or the janjan of jingles tied to the horns of the oxen. By ten in the morning, the sun would turn from golden to white and the road would lay deserted, the tar baking in silence - children at school, fathers at work and mothers going about their chores. There was no T.V. and the All India Radio morning programs ended by nine-thirty.

On such mornings as I lay burning up with a fever, I’d hear the silence caused by sparrows. In front of our verandah, Amma or Appa would throw a handful of rice and lentils. The sparrows would descend cheep-cheeping over the grains. Occasionally I would hear the roll of a neighbour’s grinding stone, as the dosa or idli batter was prepared. By eleven, there would be the whistle of pressure cookers, and the repeated clap of wet cloth against stone as someone somewhere washed their clothes. When I think about it now, except for the pressure cooker, all the other silence-makers are gone.

But these silences I so love are still found in the folds of India where the cancer of malls and supermarkets has not spread yet. Years ago, on a visit to Barrackpore near Kolkata, I had to accompany my family to Serampore. Serampore and Barrackpore lie on the opposite banks of the Hooghly.

We set off early in the morning, me in a severely starched cotton saree that stood like a tent, rustling like a plastic sheet. Our cycle rickshaw weaved through streets where the gulmohars stood lush and tall spotted in red and green, sprinkling the flaming flowers all over the road. I could hear mynahs and cuckoos and the clang of woks and ladles as street-side food vendors got ready to fry shingaras and jilebis.

We were taking a boat to Serampore – a row boat converted to a motorised one, with the capacity to take fifteen passengers across. The early passengers had squatted on a thin plank running along the perimeter of the boat, facing the late-comers who sat cross-legged in the middle. I was afraid of sitting on the plank, lest I forget I’m on a boat and do something stupid and tip over. So I sat cross-legged amidst the late-comers. The industrious women, resplendent with vermilion streaks on their hair parting and beautiful in their simple cotton sarees, knitted sweaters and stitched garlands from loose flowers; while the men poured over newspapers. They were all on their way to work in Serampore – the women mainly as house maids and cooks, the men factory employees, teachers, shopkeepers or accountants.

The engine droned and the boat inched ahead. The river was still orange, by noon it would be impossible to look at it without hurting one’s eyes. One of the men unpacked a harmonium and started singing one of Tagore’s poems. His voice was gruff, but he held a good tune, and his heart was in every word which made the song so poignant, and he was the silence-maker that morning.

We docked at Serampore and walked the rest of the way. The interior of this town is a grid of narrow lanes flanked by two or three storied houses with green doors and windows with painted wooden shutters, painted gates with intricate grill designs and moss growing on the outer walls. Bengali women are most vociferous while cooking and I could hear so many voices humming, singing,yelling, commanding as cleavers chopped meat and crushed garlic, mixers blended ginger paste or mustard paste and the pungent mustard oil hissed and sizzled as chopped onions danced in it. The aroma and the cooking noises completed the silence of those streets.

I came across the peak of silence, if there is any such thing, when I passed a cycle-rickshaw. The rickshaw wallah was dressed in the traditional dhoti and a vest, a towel tied around his head like a bandana. He was reclining on his rickshaw seat, legs jutting out, feet tapping rhythmically. His hands were crossed behind his head, his leathered face upturned to the unforgiving sun. A rusty transistor radio in a tattered leather jacket was hanging on the rickshaw handle by means of a frayed belt. A favourite song of mine – Rampur ka Lakshman’s ‘ghum hai kisi ke pyaar mein’ was playing - the sound was tinny, but in the humid silence, it sounded wonderful. The rickshaw wallah was far away behind his closed eyes, maybe in a cool monsoon-drenched place making love to his beloved. A squirrel chirped nearby as it tried to steal lentil cakes that were being sundried in someone’s patio. And perhaps that was the moment, as the music and the squirrel-talk rose and fell, I came about to associate the noon sun with silence.

Now, in this place I stay, the silence that is pressed down by steel-gray skies and trembling naked trees is completed by the unknown man who works for the supermarket next door. Come rain or sunshine, this man who comes in for the morning shift unloading deliveries to the warehouse, whistles a happy tune or two, bringing a cheerful twist to the sombre silence of stormy skies – and he is then accompanied by the chuck-chuck-chuck of the few remaining magpies.

But I also bought myself a couple of cheap wall-clocks and table clocks, their imperfect mechanisms ensure a loud tick-tock; and be it blue noons or a red night sky promising snow - those clocks make the silence for me :)

Courtesy: http://www.buzzle.com

Back in those tedious school years, December indeed heralded a season of merriment. Right after the Dussera break in October (usually), it would be a month of unit tests or even half-term exam. And after that, it would be time for the school plays, and the Christmas play...or even a film show if the heavens were kind. And then, it was winter vacation. For a month I could forget about my dismal performance in the exams – of how I had rearranged and relocated Mughal dynasties, or how I had come up with my own laws in Physics.

But the merriment was really about the school plays. They would usually start post lunch, and on such days, the morning classes seemed to go on forever. There would be a general restlessness in the classroom in anticipation for the afternoon hoopla. The teachers usually went easy on us on those mornings...I mean they would not even have the heart to punish me by asking me to face the wall or stand outside the classroom for this or that indiscipline.

I was extremely interested in participating in the school plays – but there were no auditions as such. It was a given that to ‘get selected’ for a school play you had to be brainy, or some kind of leader – like the house captain or class leader. Anyway by default the brainy ones became captains and leaders. Now apart from these qualifications, if one the leaders felt a girl could fit in a role, she would be summoned. Of course, I’m sure if I had asked them if I could participate, they would have tried me out politely. But I was too chickenshit for that – imagine talking to those house captains who checked our nails, ribbons, badges and ties every morning, and herded us in straight lines to our classrooms...brrrrr...the very thought made me quake. These were girls who were 3-4 years senior, who scored ridiculous marks like 98/100 and who won first prizes in almost all the events they took part in. I mean they represented the school in interschool quiz competitions and debates and won rolling shields; so for most of us, they were like celebrities.

The school plays would take place in the ‘Hall’. This was a huge ballroom type hall, with an elevated stage at one end. The walls were pastel cream (oil distemper for easy maintenance) and the floor was polished concrete slabs. Chairs were lined against the wall, meant for the teaching staff. We children sat cross-legged on the floor in neat rows.

The sight of the closed curtains thrilled me no end – what wonderful magic lay on the other side? When the curtains parted, the stage would reveal a living room, or a kitchen, or a park scene. The girls would be transformed into beautiful maidens or handsome boys. The costumes would be so spectacular, the dialogues so witty and the scenes so well laid-out that I would be in a daze for days together. Yes, the December break would go in finding solitary corners in the house, and ‘practising’ my roles. I would daydream about being summoned for a role. I would perform so well that the school would erupt in a thunderous applause and the judges would weep with happiness – they’d never seen such acting talent before.

Now it so happened that The Sister, who was then in the first grade or thereabouts, was selected for the Christmas play. It was a historical moment for the family as far as I was concerned. Before I get into the details of the role, I have to give you a background about The Sister.

The Sister always had a dignified, sombre bearing (as she has now) and she was as pink as cotton candy (as she is now). Now, The Sister was also blessed with hair as tough as steel wires, yet as soft as velvet. Every Sunday when Amma gave the mandatory castor oil and seegepudi bath – her hair would assume a volume of gigantic proportions as it dried. The castor oil acted as a conditioner, but the seegepudi would knot the hair strands. By the time Amma had tamed it into two plaits, The Sister’s face would look like beetroot with all the bawling. Such bawling could be heard from other houses too – Sunday was officially the oil-bath day.

Fed up of seeing her only quiet child go hysterical every Sunday, Amma decided to do away with the problem. The Sister got a ‘boy cut’.

And this ‘boy cut’ coupled with her inherent serious dignity landed her the role of one of the Magi – the three wise kings who came with gifts for infant Jesus. The Sister was to carry ‘gold’. It was a time of tumultuous excitement. The crown had to be designed and her costume had to be designed. We bought 'kg cardboard' and golden gift wrapping paper and Amma made the crown. Then I told Amma to put ‘precious gems’ on the crown. So the shiny red wrapping paper of Vasu Special agarbathi was used to make rubies.

Then we went to Malleswaram 8th cross to buy the bling. A king had to wear rings – so Amma asked the bangles shop fellow to show some rings.

‘Rolled gold aa, Uma gold aa?’ he asked. Rolled gold was apparently the cheaper version of ‘artificial gold’. We bought ‘Uma gold’ – well...it was for a king after all. Then we bought a whole lot of glittery beads and a ball of silk thread – I would bead the necklaces for the ‘king’. Appa bought shiny velvet pants and matching shirt from T.D. Shah on Sampige road. Amma made golden bows with the gift wrapping paper and stuck it on to The Sister’s shoes. There. The King was almost ready.

I made The Sister practise her walk. I spent a long time explaining the importance of her character – she would be one of the first men to see baby Jesus. ‘A historic moment,’ I yelled. The Sister had a glassed out expression. I studied her posture as she walked about and gave tips till she threatened to pinch me.

Then we had the dress rehearsal at home, and Appa said the only thing missing was a robe. And so, Amma’s pink benaras silk saree was draped on The Sister and a king was born.

On the day of the play, a moustache was drawn on all the little kings and they were ready to go. They were supposed to walked through the length of the hall, amidst the seated students, climb the stairs that led to the stage and kneel before Jesus.

The stage was beautiful – blue plastic paper was wrapped on the tube lights to give a mellow effect. Potted plants from the staff room dotted the stage and the manger was a tent of sorts. Every year, a doll was used to depict baby Jesus, but this year, for the sake of originality, an LKG kid was playing the part. She was a wee little thing, chubby as a pumpkin. As the kings walked by slowly, I nudged my friends. The Sister had, after all, taken my tips. I was very proud of The Sister’s performance. Meanwhile, little Jesus had sat up, yawned and had started to pluck the leaves from the fern nearby. Mary and Joseph had to wrestle with a cackling Jesus and put ‘him’ back in the bamboo platter that served for hay in the manger before the kings arrived. It was all very dramatic if you ask me.

My own debut came years later, in middle school. My friend V and I were loitering near the classroom, exchanging lyrics of a popular Hindi song, when one of the teachers and a house captain summoned us. A series of skits had been planned for that afternoon as a precursor to the ‘drama competition’ between the houses. For one of the skits, two soldiers were required, and the ‘casting team’ was on the lookout for tall girls. All this had been a last minute addition, so they were quite desperate.

‘You are too thin child,’ the teacher eyeballed me while selecting V.

But then, there was no time so they took me along.

‘You don’t have dialogues,’ the house captain explained as V and I wore our costumes of black jeans and black shirts and draped red dupattas as robes. A cardboard sword was attached to the belt with Velcro.

‘You are supposed to stand in front of the stage as the king completes her soliloquy,’ the captain said. ‘Then the king will say “Soliders! Draw thy swords”. That’s when you just rip the Velcro and hold the sword upright okay? And then you will follow the king out.’

By now our plaits had been pinned up, and moustaches that curled in concentric circles on the cheek had been drawn with a kohl pencil. I listened with rapt attention.

‘In the second scene, you just have to act as if you are fencing with two other soldiers okay?’ The captain continued. ‘You are fighting for the king. That is only for one minute. You will get out as soon as the lights dim.’

I was thrilled. I had not watched the 36th Chamber of Shaolin for nothing – now was the time to show some moves as a soldier.

We went on stage. The king’s soliloquy had started. V and I stood at either ends of the stage. I sensed a twitching movement from the corner of my eye. I turned my neck slightly. It was V. Now V was a gentle soul, given to humming and singing. She was not used to being stared at by hundreds of pairs of eyes. And so, she had assumed her comfort pose - she was cracking her knuckles and swaying gently from side to side, no doubt humming a tune in her head.

Tcha! I wish I’d had time to instruct V about ‘getting into character’. Look at me. I stood with arms crossed, scowl and contempt on my face, looking down upon the vulgar commoners sitting cross-legged in front of the stage. I drew to my full height, hoping V would follow suit. But V was now tugging at her costume out of sheer nervousness.

In contrast, I was very sure the audience would remember my role forever. They would never have seen such a dignified soldier – why, I was like Alexander The Great. And in the next scene, I would fight fiercely, and even if the lights dimmed, I would keep up my sound effects to make it all real.

‘Draw thy soldiers, Swords!’ the king thundered.

V let out a giggle. But I had only heard ‘swords’ so I ripped the Velcro and held my sword in combat position, staring in a deranged manner at the audience. V did not get the urgency of the situation. The king has heard enemy footsteps, so she must get into position to protect him. Instead, she took her time to remove the Velcro, peeling it slowly, carefully...as if it were band-aid.

The king, having realized the enormous mistake in her dialogue delivery, now fidgeted with her cape nervously as V finally drew the sword.

The sword, being made of cardboard, vibrated like a Japanese fan in V’s hand. She turned around and looked at the king and giggled some more.

‘Get out,’ the house captain hissed from behind the curtain, at the side of the stage.

And we trooped out, V and the king giggling, me still in character - fierce expression, stealthy gait, upraised sword and all. The second scene was shelved, and the house captain merely announced the king had died on the battlefield. I was crushed.

That was the end of my acting career. But then...who knows? Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost ;)

Courtesy: http://www.fsc.yorku.ca

At my age, it is not good to have identity crisis. I thought I was done with that shit as a teenager. After that, somehow I settled down, and now I’ve been knocked over like bowling pins. I don’t know if I am Bharatiya Nari or an Indian Woman, the latter being a western version of Bharatiya.

When this gentleman spoke so authoritatively on these two distinct identities, I knew I had to immediately suspend all my activities and figure this out. How can one continue into middle-age without knowing what one is?

So I examine my childhood. I grew up in a house where we do puja to a Narasimhar saligrama. I also know some shlokas. So I must be Bharatiya. Even now, whenever I see a temple, and I’m passing by, I touch my eyes lightly with the fingertips of my right hand –first on one eyelid then the other – a couple of times. This is the prescribed way to do a symbolic namaskara. Or, if there is a puja on in someone’s house, and they call for arshna kumkuma, I go leaping and bounding. I smear the vermilion and turmeric on my mangalya and forehead – and if there is any prasada, I do the symbolic namaskara before gobbling it up. Yes, I must be Bharatiya. Or am I?

The Bhagvad Gita I have is an English version. And many times, I have done symbolic namaskara in jeans. I shudder. Some of those times, I may have applied liptstick and kohl too. Oh no...am I a painted and dented Indian? And even though I do attend arshna kumkuma – our conversation lapses to English. Worst of all, I have short hair that can’t be plaited, and whenever I wear bindis, I get an allergy on my forehead. Surely, I must be an Indian woman then. There are no traces of Bharatiya-ness.

I think about my days at work. It is solid okay...more than a decade. For all that time, I’ve paid substantial tax – I was proud of it also. And for a good measure, I invested only in our LIC. I considered ‘business formals’ as salwaar kameez. Of course it was convenient because a) the colours of salwaars are anyday more vibrant than formal trousers b)I cannot carry off trousers. So suffice to say I was Bharatiya right? Aiyooo. No. Same problem. So what if I wore salwaar kameez? I worked in a company where I had to speak English no?

And not just speak English – all the clients were pucca, 100% westerners only. Americans, British, Germans, French and so on. At that time, I felt good talking to them about India and our history. Why I remember...I even accompanied a couple of them to Belur and Halebeedu where they were blown away with the architecture. I remember speaking passionately about Vijayanagara and all that. Now I feel like a fool. I spoke about all things Indian, instead of all things Bharat which supposedly has a better, superior culture and history. And what can be expected from an English-speaking woman working for Indian-company-that-competes-in-global-market and paying very high tax?

But the worst thing I did, (I did not know about it then), was to enable Indian-ness instead of Bharatiya-ness in others. See my maid’s daughter wanted to admit her little boy to an English-medium school. She feels that is the way for a bright future for her son. I should have told her to put him in a government school with Kannada-medium – it would have been very Bharatiya. But I did not have the heart because the government school in her locality did not have toilets and tables and chairs and all classes for all standards were held simultaneously in one large room. Now he is on his way to becoming an Indian – who like me will grow up learning English, and his chances of getting into a professional course which is anyway taught only in English is higher. Like me, he will pay taxes in the future. But like me, he will no more be a Bharatiya.

But you know – there has been another deadly effect – I’ve become a traitor. You see I have lived, worked and travelled in these ‘western’ countries. I’ve travelled alone, dined in restaurants alone, watched movies alone, shopped alone at all odd hours. Not once was I groped, leered at or made to feel uncomfortable and unsafe. I was treated with respect by everyone at all times. Not because I was a woman, but because I was a fellow-human. My interaction with their government agencies has been a pleasant experience. I felt free – free from the hyper-vigilance that rears up the minute I am in India. So whenever everyone talks about western culture...I secretly wish we did have it – what we have going on is no western culture for sure. There. I am a traitor for wishing western culture.

What have I done? What have I done? I wring my hands. It hits me – I have multiple personality disorder. Sometimes I am an Indian, sometimes I am Bharatiya. Oh god. And worse...this is genetic. How else can I explain? See Amma may have worn a saree all her life and read Thiruppavvai – but she was the one who was insistent that I join a convent school for a better education. And Appa may have read Vishnu Sahasranama all his life, and may have done the sandhyavandane from the time he wore his sacred thread – but what is the use? He wears pants and shirts whenever he has to go outside. And he is the one who introduced me and The Sister to the world of English books – getting us Dickens and Hardy from the library. Those books may have shaped my character but at what cost? I have become Indian and lost my Bharatiya roots. It is very clear that my parents, and my uncles and aunts also suffered from multiple personality disorder.

Then I think of all my friends and their parents. Same issue. I think of the gentleman who came out with this Indian-Bharat theory. Oh. My. God. How he suffers – I thought he was in dhoti or veshti – but he is saying all this wearing Bermuda shorts. Now I know – this is an epidemic. I am sure it is China’s handiwork – they must’ve done some mass experiments on us centuries ago. Because it can’t be the British or the Americans. The British came very recently and the Americans never came. Chinese are a different story. Way back (I’m talking single-digit A.D.) they had their travellers coming through the silk route and loafing about in the subcontinent, writing accounts of what they saw. I am sure they must’ve done something.

Even now the government has not woken up to this emergency. The disorder has escalated like anything. One old man is so far gone that he no longer thinks he is human – he says he is a pachyderm.

My tireless running mates

I was a weakling of a kid: slender as a reed, a handkerchief pressed to my ever-running nose (lack of resistance, the doctor said) and to top it all, a fainting problem – I’d drop to the ground every other day at the morning assembly – my body, having burnt energy cycling to school, could not hold me upright any longer. So, it’s a no brainer that I was no athlete.

I did like to tear around during the games period. I loved to run aimlessly, breathlessly, the blood pounding at my temples as I flopped in the sand pit dug out for long-jump. But then, I was held up by my ears, scolded for being undisciplined and running around like a hooligan. If I had to run, I had to be a part of a team I was told. Run a race. I hated it. Why can’t I just run freely? Why must I be timed, shamed in competition against girls who could outrun a deer? Why could I not run just for the fun of it? Of course I did not have the guts to ask all these questions. I lowered my head and said I did not want to run. And so in the games period, I found myself loitering listlessly with the throw-ball team or the volleyball team – making myself as scarce as possible – terrified whenever the ball came flying towards me. I was tall so I was told to enlist for basketball. I was even more petrified – the girls had murder on their faces as they defended the ball, dribbled it and tricked it into the basket. It took only one session for the ‘games miss’ to say, ‘You’re useless child. Go back and sit in class.’

That was the end of my relationship with ‘sports’. The weekly P.T. sessions, held in blazing heat without proper nutrients increased my fainting spells; and I’d developed an eating disorder – vomiting promptly after breakfast. By then I detested any kind of physical training, and I had convinced myself that I was not built for such activities.

Now, with much kicking and screaming, I’m gliding towards a certain age when one gets folds at the corner of the eyes. Sure, some find it charming, endearing even – a proof that I smile often, they say. But I’ve come to mistrust age, the cunning bastard. Who knows what He’s up to inside you? Probably caking up the arteries or squeezing your heart increasing your BP. Or generally swirling around the hormones, screwing up many things from mood to memory. And so, while I sat writing a book, I also became a favourite candidate of central obesity, egged on by Age.

‘Perhaps I should give a shot at jogging,’ I thought. My body weakly demanded, in its own creaky way, some kind of an aerobic exercise. But the mind always pacified the body. ‘Yeah sure,’ it said smoothly, ‘we’ll do something next weekend. The weather is bad today.’ And thus, for many days, I did nothing but sit, and imagined myself jogging, twisting a knee, falling down. I heard the ‘games miss’ voice telling me I’m useless.

I bought books. Running for women. Running a marathon. Running this, running that. I read about what happens when you run. I read about eighty year olds who completed marathons. I read about men, who worked for six months, saved, and travelled the world running marathons for the next six months. I read about heart beats and pulse rates. I read about miles per minute. I read about breathing and oxygen intake. I read about feet and shoes and pronation. And all the while I was motionless.

After nearly three months of inaction, I finally hopped on to the treadmill. I knew the 5k beginners training plan by heart. It was a joke actually; so amusing that I laughed. Imagine me running for 5 kilometres. Bollocks, said the mind.

It took me two weeks to get to a point where I could jog continuously for a minute. A minute, mind you. 60 seconds. It took me a good two months to get to a point where I could jog for a mile without a break. Jog, not run. Even so, I was mildly surprised with myself. It was an achievement as far as I was concerned.

Those two months was a revelation about my inner-self. About how the mind is one’s biggest enemy. About how we are all slaves to our thoughts. Oh how wicked and heartless the mind is. Even though your body is screaming for help... all those poor, unused and abused muscles going stiff by the day, the mind says with silky seductiveness – ‘Oh sit down, see you’ve not finished this book. You can always jog today evening. Or tomorrow. Or over the weekend perhaps? And as you read the book, here, have some chevda and mixture – it will do well to munch as you read. Are you sure your legs are not aching? Hmm? How’s the back? Should you not rest against a stack of pillows? Yes, perhaps you should lie down and read the book, with the bowl of mixture within easy reach? Hmm?’ And thus, many days went with me succumbing to the mind’s goading.

Even with all that, the change in the body was instantaneous. As far as I’m concerned, no other cardio workout gives such immediate results as jogging and running. But the constant struggle with the mind was more tiring than running itself. The training plan demanded discipline, self-motivation and perseverance. It gave a timed run, and I timed myself; some days exhilarated by my pace, and some days completely deflated by the incremental progress. There were days when I’d stand in the running attire, shoes laced, sweat bands in place...all ready to hit the ground; but the mind would shut itself up rebelling completely – so much so even taking a step became a painful burden. I’d hang up on such days, mope around feeling depressed.

What on earth do I do with the mind? Finally we reached a compromise of sorts. I won’t time myself I said. I’ll just walk/jog without a goal. Without a target distance or pace. The mind gave in grudgingly. It stopped vehement protests. I did not concentrate on my pace, on the way my feet hit the ground, on the way my arms swung, or on my breath. I took the mind away on a walk, as the body did what it had to do. The mind, occupied by other pleasant things such as the plot and subplots of my latest manuscript, stopped bothering the body. It took me a year to sign up for my first 5K.

‘What if you faint?’ the mind asked as The Husband drove me to the venue. ‘What if you feel like throwing up? What if you twist your ankle?’ And then, something miraculous happened. When thousands of us set off, the mind became quiet. It became one with the body. The body was fatigued no doubt, but the mind fuelled it. I did not clock a spectacular time. I did not even run all the way – I jogged, walked and ran down slope. But I finished it. I did not faint, I did not fall, I did not throw up. I had done something that I had convinced myself I could never do...for years and years.

It’s going to be another six months or more before I can do a 10K. But I clock an average of a 15 mile run per week. I’ve not yet gotten into the phase where I can leap out of bed and run outside in rain and sleet. But I have a routine and I don’t compromise on that no matter what. So I’m at a stage where if I miss a run, I feel lousy. And no matter what time of the day or night it is, I finish the run.

Even now, with all the benefits of running, the monkey-mind acts up. Right up to the point where I tie my shoe laces the mind keeps throwing all the excuses to sit and relax. I switch on the treadmill and the mind points at 0.0 on the display and says, ‘See! It is ZERO. You have to run so far, far, far. After ZERO it is ZERO POINT ONE. Oh God. How will you ever get to 3.1?’ I allow it to ramble on. I get the legs moving. By half a mile, the mind quietens. By the second mile I’m thoughtless. It’s just the mechanical whup whup whup of the feet and my breathing. I become just another element in the scheme of things. Yes, I slow down to a walk at intervals. But not a peep out of the mind – by that time, the mind is intent on optimising. ‘Hey your legs are getting used to this pace. Let’s outwit it – increase your speed for a minute,’ it says, and I follow. We are one now – the mind, body and I.

I’ve read about runners and their addiction to run. I know about the runner’s high – but it will be a while before I can feel that first hand. What makes me run I think? I mean apart from the desire to die of natural causes and not from a choked artery. It’s not the endocrine cruising in the system making me happy. It’s not the glow that running gives. It’s not the spring in the step; it’s not the delight of finding the jeans loose. No...for me, it is the grim satisfaction of beating the mind into submission each and every time I run. Of bending it to work with me and not against me. Of making the mind realize that ‘I’ called the shots. Of having tamed the biggest beast there ever was.

The Business Of God

Boson and Brahman for the Bored

Shantaram

Growing Up With Rajesh Khanna

Being Desi

Stop Slum Tourism

Terror In Dyatlov Pass

Let The Games Begin...

'Into That Heaven Of Freedom...'

Faceless

Faces And Moments

7 Insignificant Things About A Highly Inconsequential Person

A Mysore Wedding

Bonded

Light Of The Mahalaya

Another Time, Another Place

The Silence Makers

A Christmas Debut

Identity Crisis

Taming The Beast