‘Pournami’ in Tamil is poornima, the full moon day. The full moon is supposed to be the largest on this day, and the most beautiful.
My parents, my brother Santhosh and I had gone on a trip to Kerala in April-May 2000. As part of the package, we were to spend a whole day on a houseboat that is ‘driven’ using long bamboo poles – the boat is literally pushed along the riverbed!
Kerala passed along on the banks of the backwaters, slowly and peacefully. Farmland almost up to the water – rolling fields forming a green carpet with coconut trees dotting the place occasionally. It was serene, peaceful. Not a sound but the water lapping against the boat, the rhythmic sounds of the oars hitting the water, an occasional shout from the people on the banks.
The afternoon was hot and still, with not a leaf moving. Evening started, and a cool breeze started, bringing with it the scent of salt and fish mingled with rice being cooked for the evening meal in the houses along the backwaters.
Sunset!!
It rained golden radiance.
The sun seemed to be bidding a fond adieu to the world he loved – he enveloped her in the most special of his rays and she smiled and simpered and looked her absolute best in return. Twilight always makes me romantic! The most beautiful part of the day indeed. We were totally taken by the sun, and we never noticed that out boat had swung into the estuary where the backwaters joined the sea. We watched with bated breath as the sun went down in a fiery ball into a line of coconut trees in the distance.
Then we turned.
We had not noticed that till now; so the moon shone with a vengeance. It took us some time to realize that the silver orb suspended (almost unrealistically) in the distance behind a coconut tree was actually the moon, in all its glory. We had coincidentally chosen the Chitra pournami day to be on the houseboat! We had totally lost count of days and dates once our tour started, and then we land up in a houseboat anchored in such a place.
WHAT a place.
From where we stood, 180 degrees was water – a vast expanse of water, grand, indescribable, almost intimidating. A line of greenery on the other half of the vision. And of course, the hero of the night (!!), the moon.
Everything was hued in silver and black. What a deadly combination! Stars aplenty, but nothing looked bright because they were completely overshadowed by the moon. A few clouds in the sky all outlined in a silvery sheen. The sea around us, wreathed in shimmering strands of silvery moonlight, mystic, wonderful; the backwater – leading away from the sea, with trees meeting overhead, looking tantalizing and needling and dark, spots of silver dotting the channel where there were gaps in the canopy.
It was unbelievable!!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Virtual Reality
“Shop for more than Rs. 2000/- and get two tickets for Pink Panther 2 absolutely free” screamed the guy in the centre of Bangalore Central mall. What the hell is he so excited about? It’s all a theoretical abstraction! Everything here is eminently un-buyable, bordering on ridiculous, not to mention priced for the product, its manufacturer and his whole family too! But I am one of the very few who think this way I guess – the whole of Bangalore seems have descended here in hordes, lined up in the escalators of the mall. Have you ever stood in a queue for an escalator? Ha! Unique honour, right? I have!
The morning breeze shook me awake as I poked my nose out of our tent. In front of me was the vast expanse of the Narmada river, curving gracefully around a bend to my left and disappearing in a rush to my right. I wondered if it was water or liquid gold flowing in front of me – each ripple was outlined in golden sunshine. Behind me, people were gathering for an NBA meeting. Children were beginning to sing, their voices soaring to the skies and raining down on me from above – “Ma Rewa, taro pani nirmal” (the energy when children sing is just unique). Then it hit me. What it means to call a river, a seemingly inanimate thing, “mother”. Because, indeed, she (no more it) was. Mother to all the thousands on her wide banks, embracing them, feeding them, feeding their crops, enriching their lives. She was not different from them, she was part of them, or rather, she was them (remember Aldo Leopold). It took two days for the reality to sink in for me. Two days of walking along her banks, talking to her children. Maybe more people should try it, then they will turn off lights and taps more often. (But a no TV while on the banks rule should be made. Please no TV).
I was at a rehabilitation camp for dam refugees when this happened. Landlords (with their families) who owned 400 acres of land put into a small tin shed hardly enough for two people. Still they had the grace to give us all sweet tea – they apologized saying they could not afford milk. If I had been in their place, I don’t know if I would have been so courteous to a group of school kids! All the tall claims (and cheating) by the government – two or three families given the same land, not given alternate jobs, taken away from their river. One man took us to the center of a water expanse, stopped the boat, and told us, “my house used to be here. Under the water. My children used to play near that ‘tree’”. The stump I could see then was once a tree, with people under it? It almost broke my heart. Then a chilling realization struck me. This was one dam. One village of people affected by one dam. Which was fortunate to have Medha-di and the NBA to help them have a voice. What about all the other dams? ‘X’ number of acres under water – do those architects who made the dam(ned) plans know, even remotely realize what that means? Other ‘urban development project’ refugees? What about their children?
Children… Slumdog millionaire. Ya, Oscar winning, blah blah… But the image I am left with is of the slums, not the Oscars or Jamal Mallik and Anil Kapoor in that gaudily lit stage. The slums. How many displaced millions? The squalor, the indignity of living a life that you did not determine, and looking every day at the ‘haves’ – the slums next to Chatrapati Shivaji terminal is classic. You take off from Bombay you see high rise buildings lined with slums on all sides. Just an aside – during that movie, I wonder if even one person in the (rich) cast and crew even had the thought to do something for those kids? They picked kids off the slums and paid them like Rs. 50 a day, right? Then what? Won’t something humane inside you get up, slap you in the face, and say, “Wake up and do something for them”? I wonder… or is it just the Oscars, the fame, the money, the publicity… I guess that’s why they took those kids and gave them their 10 minutes of fame on Oscar stage. I wonder if those rich Britishers (and Indians) even think about those kids today. Or were they and their apathy ‘instruments’ for an Oscar?
How many of these slum people’s ancestors had land that got submerged to supply power and irrigation water to ‘taxpayers’? Taxpayers, ha. I just heard from mom yesterday that doctors (mind you, doctors) from my place usually lie about the number of beds they have and the number of patients they have to pay lesser tax. Hold on, that’s not it. When the municipality (finally) brought in biomedical waste treatment as a rule, doctors haggled about paying Rs. 1. 50 per kg waste for the municipal workers to come collect waste from their hospital. They wanted to pay Re. 1 only. My mom went and signed the agreement 4 years ago and said she is ready to pay Rs. 1. 50. But till date, no one has come to collect waste from my hospital because it is 17 km from the main town. Sigh. I don’t have anything to say.
And looking at the typical Indian – what does he feel when someone says ‘India’? Cricket? Bollywood (or whichever tinsel town is most popular in that area)? The kind of adulation people in these fields excite is something scary. I am wondering if I should add IT in that list, but stopped, what with the recession and people losing their jobs. I will try to look sad. But what about the absolute crying poverty in our backyard? Does anyone give it a thought? Does anyone say “I want to do something for my country”? even if they do, does it translate into action? Or is it just more convenient to put away that thought in a corner of the mind that one does not look at too frequently?
So what among all this is reality? All these images are from 23 years of one person’s life, a person who does not even actively follow news. I guess if P. Sainath starts off with some images he can write about a 100 pages and still keep going. I live in my small little world (as my blog subtitle says) and I am happy here. Wait a minute. Am I? Where does this little world of mine end? Who defines the boundary? If everyone thinks that slums and ‘development’ refugees (for eg) are outside their world, who will do anything for them?
I have had these thoughts many times before.
I have always stopped at this point, because I am too scared to go on. Because the next question will be, what have I done? And I don’t have the guts to answer it. Because, let me face it, much as I care about all this my reality as of now is my PhD. Comprehensive exam, proposal… butterfly metapopulation dynamics. Interesting to my ears. But at the end of such a series of images, hollow. But it is my current reality! And I convince myself I am doing ok and get back into my small little world, my comfort zone, my virtual reality.
Heck…
The morning breeze shook me awake as I poked my nose out of our tent. In front of me was the vast expanse of the Narmada river, curving gracefully around a bend to my left and disappearing in a rush to my right. I wondered if it was water or liquid gold flowing in front of me – each ripple was outlined in golden sunshine. Behind me, people were gathering for an NBA meeting. Children were beginning to sing, their voices soaring to the skies and raining down on me from above – “Ma Rewa, taro pani nirmal” (the energy when children sing is just unique). Then it hit me. What it means to call a river, a seemingly inanimate thing, “mother”. Because, indeed, she (no more it) was. Mother to all the thousands on her wide banks, embracing them, feeding them, feeding their crops, enriching their lives. She was not different from them, she was part of them, or rather, she was them (remember Aldo Leopold). It took two days for the reality to sink in for me. Two days of walking along her banks, talking to her children. Maybe more people should try it, then they will turn off lights and taps more often. (But a no TV while on the banks rule should be made. Please no TV).
I was at a rehabilitation camp for dam refugees when this happened. Landlords (with their families) who owned 400 acres of land put into a small tin shed hardly enough for two people. Still they had the grace to give us all sweet tea – they apologized saying they could not afford milk. If I had been in their place, I don’t know if I would have been so courteous to a group of school kids! All the tall claims (and cheating) by the government – two or three families given the same land, not given alternate jobs, taken away from their river. One man took us to the center of a water expanse, stopped the boat, and told us, “my house used to be here. Under the water. My children used to play near that ‘tree’”. The stump I could see then was once a tree, with people under it? It almost broke my heart. Then a chilling realization struck me. This was one dam. One village of people affected by one dam. Which was fortunate to have Medha-di and the NBA to help them have a voice. What about all the other dams? ‘X’ number of acres under water – do those architects who made the dam(ned) plans know, even remotely realize what that means? Other ‘urban development project’ refugees? What about their children?
Children… Slumdog millionaire. Ya, Oscar winning, blah blah… But the image I am left with is of the slums, not the Oscars or Jamal Mallik and Anil Kapoor in that gaudily lit stage. The slums. How many displaced millions? The squalor, the indignity of living a life that you did not determine, and looking every day at the ‘haves’ – the slums next to Chatrapati Shivaji terminal is classic. You take off from Bombay you see high rise buildings lined with slums on all sides. Just an aside – during that movie, I wonder if even one person in the (rich) cast and crew even had the thought to do something for those kids? They picked kids off the slums and paid them like Rs. 50 a day, right? Then what? Won’t something humane inside you get up, slap you in the face, and say, “Wake up and do something for them”? I wonder… or is it just the Oscars, the fame, the money, the publicity… I guess that’s why they took those kids and gave them their 10 minutes of fame on Oscar stage. I wonder if those rich Britishers (and Indians) even think about those kids today. Or were they and their apathy ‘instruments’ for an Oscar?
How many of these slum people’s ancestors had land that got submerged to supply power and irrigation water to ‘taxpayers’? Taxpayers, ha. I just heard from mom yesterday that doctors (mind you, doctors) from my place usually lie about the number of beds they have and the number of patients they have to pay lesser tax. Hold on, that’s not it. When the municipality (finally) brought in biomedical waste treatment as a rule, doctors haggled about paying Rs. 1. 50 per kg waste for the municipal workers to come collect waste from their hospital. They wanted to pay Re. 1 only. My mom went and signed the agreement 4 years ago and said she is ready to pay Rs. 1. 50. But till date, no one has come to collect waste from my hospital because it is 17 km from the main town. Sigh. I don’t have anything to say.
And looking at the typical Indian – what does he feel when someone says ‘India’? Cricket? Bollywood (or whichever tinsel town is most popular in that area)? The kind of adulation people in these fields excite is something scary. I am wondering if I should add IT in that list, but stopped, what with the recession and people losing their jobs. I will try to look sad. But what about the absolute crying poverty in our backyard? Does anyone give it a thought? Does anyone say “I want to do something for my country”? even if they do, does it translate into action? Or is it just more convenient to put away that thought in a corner of the mind that one does not look at too frequently?
So what among all this is reality? All these images are from 23 years of one person’s life, a person who does not even actively follow news. I guess if P. Sainath starts off with some images he can write about a 100 pages and still keep going. I live in my small little world (as my blog subtitle says) and I am happy here. Wait a minute. Am I? Where does this little world of mine end? Who defines the boundary? If everyone thinks that slums and ‘development’ refugees (for eg) are outside their world, who will do anything for them?
I have had these thoughts many times before.
I have always stopped at this point, because I am too scared to go on. Because the next question will be, what have I done? And I don’t have the guts to answer it. Because, let me face it, much as I care about all this my reality as of now is my PhD. Comprehensive exam, proposal… butterfly metapopulation dynamics. Interesting to my ears. But at the end of such a series of images, hollow. But it is my current reality! And I convince myself I am doing ok and get back into my small little world, my comfort zone, my virtual reality.
Heck…
Friday, March 20, 2009
Memory
Memory is this strange thing indeed.. There are things about it that are mystifying.
I am not talking about by-rote memory, I am talking about memories of our experiences.. Those shadows of thought that linger on.. And surface at the most unexpected times, in such a way as to shock you!
The way you look a particular day, the way you have spread what you are going to wear on your bed, a certain smell - all these are small day to day things that spark off a hyperlink somewhere in your head.. Until that point you would not even be aware of such an association! There are more 'normal' things that spark off memory - places (restaurants, coffee shops, an item on the menu), dates, things..
So what forms such hyperlinks? Strong feeling? Attraction to someone? Is there any logic to it at all? Or is it just a sea of unformed thoughts, of things that have not been consciously put into perspective but still exist, wallowing in the deep recesses of the mind?
Sigh.. Strange indeed is memory.. I dont understand it.. I dont even know if I want to understand it.. Beats me!
I am not talking about by-rote memory, I am talking about memories of our experiences.. Those shadows of thought that linger on.. And surface at the most unexpected times, in such a way as to shock you!
The way you look a particular day, the way you have spread what you are going to wear on your bed, a certain smell - all these are small day to day things that spark off a hyperlink somewhere in your head.. Until that point you would not even be aware of such an association! There are more 'normal' things that spark off memory - places (restaurants, coffee shops, an item on the menu), dates, things..
So what forms such hyperlinks? Strong feeling? Attraction to someone? Is there any logic to it at all? Or is it just a sea of unformed thoughts, of things that have not been consciously put into perspective but still exist, wallowing in the deep recesses of the mind?
Sigh.. Strange indeed is memory.. I dont understand it.. I dont even know if I want to understand it.. Beats me!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
CRAAASHHH...
I know that my nose is big, but this dew drop was overestimating it! It of course had to fall! I smiled, taking in the fresh air and not able to take in the entire panaroma around me. Mountains always inspire awe in me – row after row of sheer majesty, tinged in colours from dull brown to quiescent blue to wild green – all wearing gauzy veils of fluffy clouds and engulfing mist… mysterious, elusive, tanalising – like ladders that dare you to climb up them, all the way to the sky and back!
I closed my eyes involuntarily and laughed with sheer joy. My mom turned and smiled at me, and as I was looking at her, I heard the driver curse – and immediately got a lungful of musty seat cover as I fell on the front seat.
The jeep seemed to have a mind of its own – branches reached out to it from all sides, trying to hold it back, but only managed to give it a few scratches; my eyes refused to shut, their gaze refused to budge from the sight of green and brown vegetation roughly pushed aside by the jeep; the wind wuthered in my ears, blowing faster and faster; the tyres screeched over every twig and pebble on the forest floor, and each individual part of the jeep cracked and squeaked and cackled with joy as it broke loose of all shackles; and the birds flew shrieking out of the bushes as the jeep ran past.
Over all this, I could hear my heart beat painfully loudly; blood seemed to be wanting to ooze from every pore in my body; like a prelude, my eyes watered painfully because I could not shut them in spite of the rushing wind, my nose forgot to breathe, my hands clenching the door handle ceased to have any feeling, my throat dried up completely and my tongue fastened on the roof of my mouth.
My mind was flung into a swirling confusion of images – picture postcards of various stages of my life came and lined themselves up. My grandpa’s death, my first talk after I stopped stammering, my dog Lizzy’s death, the day I left Bombay, my field site in Kodaikanal… and then came an emptiness of thought that left me watching the progress of the jeep with a kind of horrid fascination, leaning forward on my seat.
I turned to look at mom.
Creak, creaakkk, whoooshshh..
Damn I really need to get this fan fixed.
I closed my eyes involuntarily and laughed with sheer joy. My mom turned and smiled at me, and as I was looking at her, I heard the driver curse – and immediately got a lungful of musty seat cover as I fell on the front seat.
The jeep seemed to have a mind of its own – branches reached out to it from all sides, trying to hold it back, but only managed to give it a few scratches; my eyes refused to shut, their gaze refused to budge from the sight of green and brown vegetation roughly pushed aside by the jeep; the wind wuthered in my ears, blowing faster and faster; the tyres screeched over every twig and pebble on the forest floor, and each individual part of the jeep cracked and squeaked and cackled with joy as it broke loose of all shackles; and the birds flew shrieking out of the bushes as the jeep ran past.
Over all this, I could hear my heart beat painfully loudly; blood seemed to be wanting to ooze from every pore in my body; like a prelude, my eyes watered painfully because I could not shut them in spite of the rushing wind, my nose forgot to breathe, my hands clenching the door handle ceased to have any feeling, my throat dried up completely and my tongue fastened on the roof of my mouth.
My mind was flung into a swirling confusion of images – picture postcards of various stages of my life came and lined themselves up. My grandpa’s death, my first talk after I stopped stammering, my dog Lizzy’s death, the day I left Bombay, my field site in Kodaikanal… and then came an emptiness of thought that left me watching the progress of the jeep with a kind of horrid fascination, leaning forward on my seat.
I turned to look at mom.
Creak, creaakkk, whoooshshh..
Damn I really need to get this fan fixed.
HURRY UP!
(I had to write an essay in English class once and I have hung on to it ever since because I loved it so much. I sound so young, so much innocence, very Enid Blyton-ish!)
Beep beep, beeppp beeeepppp… I hate alarms :(
Irritated, I turned it off and I was about to snuggle deeper into the covers. Who ever gets up at 5 AM anyway? Half asleep, I saw a face in my dreams – PING – I leapt out of bed, almost falling, and rushed through the tortuous process of getting ready. Why do things take longer when you have to finish them fast?
Mom was awake (she is not someone who snoozes) and looked at me with a smile like a soft white cloud, her eyes twinkling. She laughed as I did a jig and gulped breakfast down as fast as I could.
The train is not going to come any earlier if I hurry through all this; it will probably be late, knowing our very own Indian Railways! Our driver will not deign to arrive a minute before 6 AM, even if I tried a spot of telepathy. But still I hurried! Only one person understood exactly how I felt and mirrored all my excitement. Boris, my dog, had this uncanny knack of knowing exactly when dad would come home. He jumped around, barking at nothing in particular, and almost digging up the whole garden. He finally came and sat next to me and both of us waited for our ‘punctual’ driver, looking at my watch about two times every second, and getting more and more agitated.
His lordship (my driver!) finally turned up – not in a dirty lungi and even dirtier shirt, but clean pants and a new shirt! Seems dad had got that for him for Diwali. He had even combed his hair, and lit an incense stick in the taxi. I guess appa must be honoured with such immense preparations.
We miraculously set off in two minutes, both mom and me looking fabulous (but of course!). I started my whining asking mom whether we could take Boris – the usual NO came as the answer, but it was worth a try! My driver looked at me angrily – imaging a dog planting his dirty paws on his plush seat covers! Sheesh!
As we turned a corner I could see the tip of Boris’ nose stuck over the gate, and an air of anxiety which clearly said, “Oh, are you going away too, leaving me?” “We will soon be back with Appa” I yelled to him, as we went by, much to the amazement of the medical shop guy sleepily opening his shop. There was no human in sight!
As we drove through our village, I saw everyone surfacing sleepily – but to my eyes every face I saw seemed to smile in welcome and anticipation, every tree seemed to dance in merriment, every blade of grass seemed to move in time to the wind’s music. Everything was bursting with happiness, a merriment beyond description – all for Appa’s sake I was convinced!
And oh, the sun! We were driving east, and the sun rose in a golden splendor; the earth blossomed in the warmth of his rays, shaking the darkness away nonchalantly. The sky took on a beautiful orange hue, and birds began to chirp ‘welcome’ as I laughed aloud in glee. I looked around, feeling like a master surveying the preparations she had made to welcome back a dear one.
I wished the car would grow wings and land at the station at once, or better still, get teleported there immediately. But all journeys come to an end, and so did this one – an especially joyous end, as it was so long awaited. The train trundled in as we reached the platform. Wow, it was on time! I ran alongside my dad’s coach. I stood peering into one doorway, and suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder, and simultaneously a familiar, well-loved voice saying “Princess” – well, dad was home!
Beep beep, beeppp beeeepppp… I hate alarms :(
Irritated, I turned it off and I was about to snuggle deeper into the covers. Who ever gets up at 5 AM anyway? Half asleep, I saw a face in my dreams – PING – I leapt out of bed, almost falling, and rushed through the tortuous process of getting ready. Why do things take longer when you have to finish them fast?
Mom was awake (she is not someone who snoozes) and looked at me with a smile like a soft white cloud, her eyes twinkling. She laughed as I did a jig and gulped breakfast down as fast as I could.
The train is not going to come any earlier if I hurry through all this; it will probably be late, knowing our very own Indian Railways! Our driver will not deign to arrive a minute before 6 AM, even if I tried a spot of telepathy. But still I hurried! Only one person understood exactly how I felt and mirrored all my excitement. Boris, my dog, had this uncanny knack of knowing exactly when dad would come home. He jumped around, barking at nothing in particular, and almost digging up the whole garden. He finally came and sat next to me and both of us waited for our ‘punctual’ driver, looking at my watch about two times every second, and getting more and more agitated.
His lordship (my driver!) finally turned up – not in a dirty lungi and even dirtier shirt, but clean pants and a new shirt! Seems dad had got that for him for Diwali. He had even combed his hair, and lit an incense stick in the taxi. I guess appa must be honoured with such immense preparations.
We miraculously set off in two minutes, both mom and me looking fabulous (but of course!). I started my whining asking mom whether we could take Boris – the usual NO came as the answer, but it was worth a try! My driver looked at me angrily – imaging a dog planting his dirty paws on his plush seat covers! Sheesh!
As we turned a corner I could see the tip of Boris’ nose stuck over the gate, and an air of anxiety which clearly said, “Oh, are you going away too, leaving me?” “We will soon be back with Appa” I yelled to him, as we went by, much to the amazement of the medical shop guy sleepily opening his shop. There was no human in sight!
As we drove through our village, I saw everyone surfacing sleepily – but to my eyes every face I saw seemed to smile in welcome and anticipation, every tree seemed to dance in merriment, every blade of grass seemed to move in time to the wind’s music. Everything was bursting with happiness, a merriment beyond description – all for Appa’s sake I was convinced!
And oh, the sun! We were driving east, and the sun rose in a golden splendor; the earth blossomed in the warmth of his rays, shaking the darkness away nonchalantly. The sky took on a beautiful orange hue, and birds began to chirp ‘welcome’ as I laughed aloud in glee. I looked around, feeling like a master surveying the preparations she had made to welcome back a dear one.
I wished the car would grow wings and land at the station at once, or better still, get teleported there immediately. But all journeys come to an end, and so did this one – an especially joyous end, as it was so long awaited. The train trundled in as we reached the platform. Wow, it was on time! I ran alongside my dad’s coach. I stood peering into one doorway, and suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder, and simultaneously a familiar, well-loved voice saying “Princess” – well, dad was home!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Finally!
I scrawl a lot.. I mean, a looooottt...
I have always wanted to blog, but never got around to doing it. A lot more time in my hands these days; plus a lot of thoughts running amok in my head. And so i decided, its time to start putting it all down; atleast for me and a chosen few. I am actually imagining a much older me reading this and wondering where all these myriad thoughts came from!
Also, there is something about the written word na - it is so much more polished; well thought out, yet totally unique and individualistic.
Also, there is something about the written word na - it is so much more polished; well thought out, yet totally unique and individualistic.
So here goes, and welcome to my world :)
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