Umbrellas under the sky

The umbrellas are out, and the city weather is such that they only serve as accoutrement. Mumbai rains are more about tarpaulin sheets as awnings; water collected in little pools is muddy, dirty. Yet, there is something uplifting about grey skies and a downpour. I know this is a luxury only those who have homes and windows can afford. I know that newspaper pictures showing slum kids enjoying the rains are really about the water they rarely get to see. I know.

Back in the days, it was the mother of one such kid who sheltered me from sudden showers. I was walking to school, and had conveniently ‘forgotten’ to carry an umbrella. While raincoats were bad enough, umbrellas too conveyed a need for playing safe that my new teenage mind was naturally not inclined to. I stood beneath a tree as the downpour continued. She worked as a sweeper at the school. Hesitant at first (we are a casteist society), she finally asked, “Aaogi (will you come)?” Of course! In the seven-minute walk, she took care to cover me even as her sari was getting drenched. I still remember her face.

A painting by Leonid Afremov

I like faces under umbrellas – they look vulnerable, especially if the brolly is a foldable one. These became fashionable accessories, the two-fold and later the three-fold. Unfurling they looked as though a camel was getting up. Occasionally, they caused embarrassment when they refused to open up or the button got stuck.

My uncle once gifted me a fuschia-coloured one. It was a regular ‘ladies umbrella’, and it always seemed as though one was blushing. The flush of youth, the carefree gait as though one owned the damp roads that reflected light.

A scene from 'Shri 420'

Romance and umbrellas have a history. Two people sharing an umbrella signals proximity, and also the whole drama of wetness, hair dripping, faces aglow, and the low hum. This scene from ‘Shri 420’ epitomises it. Raj Kapoor and Nargis singing, “Pyaar hua iqrar hua, pyaar se phir kyon darta hai dil…(There is love, and an admission of it, yet why is the heart so afraid of it)” Perhaps because like the showers, there is no “manzil” (destination)?

Chaplin used the umbrella for other reasons

The large black umbrella is ubiquitous in the streets. They may come in different varieties, but the sturdy one with the curved handle stands for the person who has nothing to gain and nothing to lose. It was there is R.K.Laxman’s cartoons of the common man. And it is there in Chaplin, the tramp, the guy who does not think about winning or losing, and bumbles his way through life that is often slippery. And slip he does, rain or no rain. It also acts as a crutch, something to hold on to when things go a little wrong or one’s own resolve is a bit shaky.

The black stands out against the mélange of colours, not only of other umbrellas but also of the shades that dot the Indian landscape, from paan spit to dead flowers, to neon clothes, to kitschy posters.

Umbrella tree - street art

This piece of street art is not Indian, but such a fine tribute to the umbrellas that have been a part of my monsoons. Some were lost or got stolen as they stood propped up outside stores or in buckets…and some just closed themselves on me.

© Farzana Versey

"My life is rolling on..."

They weren't really the mop-tops, the rubber lips, another brick in the wall; they didn't just call to say hello or get into orgasmic ecstasy over love to love you baby. And yet, 40 years later music lovers are celebrating the start of their journey.

I had written my reminiscences, mainly about Donna Summer, here. ABBA was mentioned, yet it is most of their songs I recall. I mucked up the lyrics, but they filled up pauses in my sentences. Or even explained what I was too shy to state...”Mother said I began to sing long before I could talk...”...or a note of hope... “Chiquitita, you and I cry/But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you”... or just to express angst...“Where is the spring and the summer/That once was yours and mine?”... And of course “gimme, gimme, gimme” for things one did not even want.

The best fun was the “ahan” after ‘Voulez-vous’. Such permutations were discovered!

Then there was ‘Chiquitita’... “Now I see you've broken a feather/I hope we can patch it up together...”

And, to end, these words that do not end:

“Even if we had to lose, there’s no regret. If I had to do the same again, I would my friend...”

Sunday ka Funda

"Nothing ever goes away until it teaches us what we need to know."

— Pema Chodron

There are some words with religious connotations that go way beyond a particular faith. They become exclamations, pauses; they hold a meaning specific only to an individual. "Good heavens", "Hey Bhagwan", "Ya Allah", "Jesus" can hardly be confined to theology, especially if you hear them ever so often in casual conversation.

I was at a store the other day and the salesperson, upon being ticked off, immediately, and it appeared unthinkingly, let out a "Hai Allah". I did not know her faith, but I am aware of a couple of Hindu friends who use the term, just as Bhagwan, Jesus are used to pepper conversation. They have become like punctuation marks.

The resonance of "Om" is real. It might seem like autosuggestion, but when you meditate the hum in the pit of the stomach that finally reaches the temples can be heady.

My relationship with "Bismillah" is different. I don't use it often, and when I do it indicates a beginning. From the religious perspective it is uttered before every surah. The letters 786 denote the numeric value. I recall how, nervous before an exam way back in school, a relative told me to scrawl the letters on the answer sheet before starting. I tsk-tskd. On reaching the hall and faced with the ominous blank paper, I used my finger to draw out the letters. I do not remember what subject it was and the outcome, but this small act has stayed in memory. Because it became mine. A personal take. And a secret.

These days songs use such words, and they neither glorify nor demean them. They merely link the chain of events, from one to another. That's what life is about. The new. Afresh. Bismillah:

Sunday ka Funda

Do not quench your inspiration and your imagination; do not become the slave of your model.

- Vincent Van Gogh

Inspiration, of course, can mean different things. I was inspired today to post this song because the film I so love has been ‘remade'. I shall reserve opinion until I can manage to tear myself away from thoughts of the original. It just so happens that the original too has released on the same day in a digitalised version; I don't want to watch that. There is something about moments that you just want left untouched. One may not feel the same about them anymore, but yet...

In a way I am glad that the picturised song is not available. Just the voices of Yesudas and Haimanti Shukla are enough for this from Chashme Baddoor:

Sunday ka Funda

"The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant."

- Salvador Dali

Sunday ka Funda

I did not learn to cook from her. I did not learn to embroider like her. I did not learn how to keep things in place like her.

She would pack my school tiffin every day with as much care as a gift. She embroidered my ordinary bags and even sandals to make them look different. And, she kept things in place. She still knows where I will find what I have lost. I lose a lot. Have lost quite a bit.

And, yes, there are quite a few errors I make. Quite a few years we were in another city, sitting in the lawn of the hotel, and bumped into one of my old acquaintances. We asked him to join us. He was already with a glass of wine. I ordered a Pina Colada much to her displeasure and within minutes I was blabbering, giving away too much. Without saying a word, she gestured that I pass the drink to her, and she gulped it down. For someone who did not drink, she remained sober!

As I’ve said often, music binds us. Our voices are different, but when we sing together they coalesce in the air. The song I will post today is not an uplifting one. There is a special reason for it. Whenever she sang it, and she had learned it all from Radio Ceylon, as a child I would start crying. Nanima would reprimand her, “Kyon rulaa diya isko (why did you reduce her to tears)?” It is a song where the woman is asking god, “Kya mil gaya Bhagwan mere dil ko dukha ke, armaanon ki nagri mein meri aag laga ke (What did you get by hurting me and turning my land of dreams to ashes)?”

Things are different. Now, when I sing such songs, there are tears in her eyes, especially that couplet from one of my favourite ghazals: "Ghamoun ne baant diya hai yoon aapas mein, ke jaise main koi loota hua khazana tha (Sorrows have distributed me amongst themselves as though I were a booty they had snatched)"

Songs of pathos always convey more than just that. It isn’t about sadness. It is about understanding that there is more than sadness…it is the music of the soul when it has a lump in its throat.

Film: Anmol Ghadi

Singer: Noorjehan

Music: Naushad

- - -

And to show another aspect, here is an old post: Conversations with my mother

History Through Her Lens

Homai Vyarawalla was always described as the “first lady photographer”, and the thought of someone tiptoeing with a little camera, gently clicking flowers and princesses came to mind. But, when we place her in those historical times, then being a lady was about being many things. And she was.

There is a lot written about her, her photographs of leaders. It is like tracing a period without the need for any other crutch.

These two pictures of Jawaharlal Nehru exemplify this.

1. There is deadpan humour in this one, going where you are not supposed to go. Was there a political message?

2. Here, the image is reminiscent of Michaelangelo. Nehru is releasing the pigeon, but the sky is overcast. One does not know whether Nehru is letting go or wanting to hold on to it, or perhaps reach the sky. It comes across as a pensive, yet optimistic portrait. I’d say it captures the persona of the man and the politician.

And of course among the many others; this is how an Independence Day dance used to be like:

My fascination is with the way she treated her subjects. There is warmth and yet no obsequiousness. She seemed to be part of what was happening, but as a spectator. The black and white images, unfailingly adding a mystique, gave away quite a bit. It seems like a contradiction. It is not. The enigma was in the telling.

- - -

Check out more images curated by NGMA

Character Assassination

Due to the untimely demise of one of my characters, I was in mourning and could therefore not submit the story on time.

This is a real note I sent years ago. A colleague had entered my name for a short story competition by the British Council. I was not terribly enthusiastic about such events, but since it required imagining, it was par for the course. I thought nothing about it and since I was not accustomed to writing for a reason, I wove the words at a leisurely pace.

A tap on my shoulder and a thick envelope served as reminders that I paid no attention to. The date of submission was gone. I folded the sheets of paper and put them in the envelope – the address and stamps were ready. My friends were still enthusiastic. I quickly grabbed a page from my diary and wrote down the note:

“Due to the untimely demise of one of my characters I was in mourning and could therefore not submit the story on time.”

What else could I say? I am not good with formal letters. Besides, it was succinct and happened to be the truth. The cat in the story had died. Obviously, I had killed it. Yet, its death was a departure, a turning point.

Recently, an Indian media house gave an award to a novel and the jury used a curious phrase for its choice: one of the reasons was “for its non-judgmental attitude to the characters”. How does a writer not judge a character when s/he has created it? This is not immaculate conception. You sweat over it, love it and get suffused in it, for however brief a time. The judgement lies in the nature of the relationship. The writer is the initiator and woos the character. It is possible that the character might mirror the writer. Introspection is also judgement. You are pronouncing a verdict on your thoughts and feelings.

Any objectivity would be forced. The character is because you are.

Back to my old story, I had written it for myself. In those days, there was no audience I was seeking or speaking to.

A few days later, rather uncharacteristically, I got a note from the British Council. It said, and I will rely on memory and promise not to exaggerate, that indeed I had missed the date of submission and rules would not permit my work for consideration. However, my accompanying note was rather interesting and caused much amusement and they could not but let me know that although the story would not be included in the competition, it was noticed.

I wondered whether dead cats could lick the cream.

Like a prayer...

With cucumber pads on my eyes, my head uncovered, nothing to indicate that I was doing ibaadat, I lay down to pray. I do not know many prayers. I depend on memory.

Yesterday was the 27th roza. Except for recollection of days when food was sent to the poor who observe the Ramzan fast, I have nothing to fall back on. It is also a practice to complete the reading of the Quran. For many years someone would read it and the finale would be the last few verses, followed by a fateha. Most of those who read were not supposed to demand money; they got it anyway. One day, I discussed about the purpose it served. The person would be reading by rote, trying to meet a deadline. Even as symbolism this seemed superficial.

It is believed that prayers offered on this day have the efficacy of a thousand prayers. I respect the sentiments of those who believe it because I believe in dreams and illusions.

So when I lay down, I knew it was the right time. Maghrib is special. Dusk comes everyday, but when dusk has a purpose the sun does not just disappear. It leaves a glow.

I had spoken earlier in the day with a friend. She is fasting. She is not religious. As conversation went on, she said, "You know, after a few days of roza you reach a dream-like state, something like sex."

What did I discover?

Cucumber pads on the eyes are soothing.

Lying down and just uttering certain words can produce a sense of numbness – some call it calm.

I smiled when I thought about the conversation with my friend. Did it interrupt the prayer or add to it? Isn’t smiling good?

Hundred was the number I set for myself. I am bad at math.

After completing it, I decided to become corrupt and bribe god. I started in English and then it just sounded better in Urdu/Hindi. I could not decide, so I stuck to the Bollywood ‘Jab We Met’ filmi style. And thought about Kareena Kapoor’s character, who says when you really, actually want something, then you get it.

There are some things I have that I never wanted. Since they had appeared, I tried to make the best of it and gave whatever I could to them. Holding back nothing – not my anger, not my affection, not my cyncism, not my idealism, not myself. After a while, these fossilised and ‘became’ mine. Some people call extra baggage a bonus.

There was a time when I would say to nothing in particular, “May everyone’s wishes come true.” This is stupid. One person’s wish may be to cut the thread and the other may want to sew something. Each removed from the other. So, should we wish for islands?

I don’t know. If there is the sea and a few trees, I suppose this is good enough. I shall write on sand and know that it is not meant to hold my words whether or not the waters lash against it and wash them away.

The clouds write out new scriptures in the skies everyday and every breath exhaled is a prayer…

Sunday ka Funda

“Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear”

- William Shakespeare

There are times when you may not praise overtly, but the person or event stays.

Actor Shammi Kapoor is no more. Known for his energetic and completely non-choreographed dances, I somehow preferred his mellower moments when his voice dipped into a whisper. The words of this song could be for him...whenever you listeh to my songs, you will hum along, so how can you forget me...

jab kabhi bhi sunoge geet mere
sang sang tum bhi gungunaoge
haan tum mujhe yun bhulaa na paaoge

Of Bananas and Annas

The banana revolt has been silent. For years it lived as a vegetable, although it is classified as herbaceous and would probably be snogging with basil and thyme. But when the land of the bananas was destroyed this time round in a thunderstorm, they decided that enough is enough. They marched into the legislative assembly and addressed the house.

“If grapes have been appeased, then why not us?”

The hall was silent. Indeed, grapes that had been classified as vegetables were put on a pedestal. Was it the wine lobby that pushed for it? This was elitism. The bananas had begun to rot. Farmers suffered. Even in good times, the journey from farm to market could be perilous. You can squash bananas even when they are fully clothed.

The Indian Railways provides special rakes for perishable fruits. The banana has not only succeeded in this revolt but will be given special space. It’s probably a great leap forward. It is officially a fruit now in at least one state in India.

How does one react? I always thought it was a fruit. Should we celebrate that the replenishment has now got a new feather in its cap? Will people still indulge in slapstick comedy about falling on banana peels and perhaps less decorous insinuations?

The office stretches on most Mumbai streets have carts selling what they too thought was a fruit and invariably lunchtime would see someone peeling a banana and biting into it. The banana is rarely sliced, unlike the watermelon, or garnished with salt and chilli powder like the guava. It is rare to get ecstatic over a banana’s taste. But there are banana connoisseurs – they hold it up, prod it to check on firmness and even smell it. There is some magnificent secret about the spots on it that I have not been able to figure out.

I was brought up on bananas. A bunch would rest in a large fruit plate and as in some shrine one plucked it out with reverence. I have seen offerings of bananas in temples and the leaves of banana trees are an important part of Parsi weddings, where fish is wrapped in it, braised with herbs, tied with a thread and then cooked. The leaves are also used as plates in traditional South Indian functions and it is a marvel that none of the liquid falls off.

The school tiffin could not accommodate the banana, but much to my chagrin it would be placed inside the handle with instructions to the dabbawalli (the lady who carted several tiffins) to “be careful” as though it were something precious.

In our house, we also had a caramelised banana with dried coconut, not as dessert or a snack, but as part of the main meal to be eaten with – and you may screw your nose – chapatti. We have the temerity to call it keley ka saalan (banana curry)! And guess what? I love it, especially when it is slightly burnt. The flavour is sweet-smokey.

There are other bananas that lend themselves to ‘real’ food, but we have never gone there. And now that it has been recognised as a fruit, I can say that I have always been part of the movement that made it a banana republic.

- - -

You want India corruption-free? Ho-hum. Anna Hazare’s team is now pushing it. SMSes are being sent. The government wants 25 crore people to support the Jan Lokpal Bill, so Kiran Bedi has given a number. You call from your mobile. It will disconnect after one ring and your number will be registered. This is weird and as unscrupulous as any establishment buying votes. Business houses will be happy to lend a hand because they now have to get some ‘moral’ spine and shine. There are enough fancy Gandhi topis who did the rounds the first time and will sponsor such utterly ridiculous ideas.

And for those forwarding the messages from their smartphones lounging on their sofas while watching The Simpsons, just stop simpering about fighting corruption by buying people’s support in this manner. It is no different from paying the peon a few bucks to get to the bada saab in a government office.

I repeat what I have stated earlier in The Pitfalls of Populism: Anna Hazare cannot speak on behalf of the Indian population. We can throw out the government; we cannot throw out such people/groups. If they want to get public support for a legal bill, then they have to contest elections. No other way

Joy Maharashtra

Imagine had it not been for today 51 years ago, Maharashtra would have been playing footsie with Modi's Gujarat. On May 1, the separation of the two states took place bifurcating the old Bombay state.

The success of Maharashtra is that the Gujaratis have been such an intrinsic part of it and not just financially, although that is a factor. Mumbai is undoubtedly the fulcrum. It isn't the heart of the state; it is the pair of legs - toned, sleek, long but with calves that curve with mischievous intent, and as the legs cross you get a peek into what it has always wallowed in. Basic instinct.

Of course, Maharashtra is more, and I can think of so many memories.

My Puneri sarees bought from a small shop in Lakshmi Road, often the local nine-yard one that I'd use to get extra pleats as well as add to the choli blouse, buying bhakarvadi, riding the Deccan Queen, eating at Dorabjee's, picking up Shrewsburry and ginger biscuits from Kayani's Bakery and watching 'Ghashiram Kotwal' on its last legs with the original cast as a guest of Dr. Mohan Agashe, who just minutes before he was to perform the lead role of Nana Phadnavis was sitting at the ticket counter.

There was the Osho Ashram and long before I went in, I had watched a man in saffron robes meditating with open eyes at the park- limpid eyes that could be meditated upon. I was called back and returned to the real world of Maganlal chikki saved from Lonavla.

There was the village in Mahad where I had gone with some NGO, and we sat in this huge room on a frayed chatai with men in white topis discussing important matters. We spent the night at a nearby guest house and heard dogs barking. In the village there was a beauty parlour and many young women wore sunglasses; their hair was braided and tied with colourful ribbons. I saw the puppet makers, the dancers, the women who cooked in the light from gas lamps.

There was me hitching a ride on a truck because there was no public transport beyond Uran to get to the rehab place in the interiors where I wanted to pay a surprise visit.

There was the meal of thick chapattis with dry dal and garlic chutney, sitting on the floor with women who were once sex workers.

There was the government circuit house that smelled of old jasmine strings worn by the women who had danced for our fat cats the night before. And then there was fried eggs with soggy toast at 6 PM overlooking the lush greenery that only the privileged can afford.

There was a cinema hall in a small town where we could sit anywhere. No popcorn here but hot batata vadas and chaha (tea).

Tea. Cutting chai that is cooked till it looks mean and dark and is then offered in a saucer, the better if it is chipped.

There was Satish at Ganeshpuri who trapped aliens from Mumbai at the bus stand but introduced me to the cheapest and most delicious thali. There was me ordering poha, palak, roti and puranpoli and shrikhand along with 'rice plate' only to realise that rice plate had almost everything. At night he lustily danced to religious music. His plea was to get him a chance in Bollywood because he could shake his pelvis like Mithun Chakraborthy. He was stuck on Disco Dancer.

There is Bollywood. Nothing comes close and nothing can be further from it. Like Dharavi, it has a little of everything and everyone. It lives on other people's dreams. It lives for the day but will outlast the years without growing old.

I open the cupboard and spot the green and maroon saree and can feel the jostling of people in Dadar where I bought it from and the taste of dahi misal I had eaten later at TT Circle still lingering in my mouth . I touch the soft cotton fabric and it has my history woven in it. The history of a day that doesn't fade.

There's no cricket in my soup

Forget the hype about extra local trains, offices working half a day. And let us please try to forget some itsy-bitsy model who wants to strip if we win the World Cup. She says, “I’m a cricket fanatic and I’m a diehard supporter of my nation. India needs a lot of support and this is my way of supporting the team…and I’m doing this to excite our boys to play better.”

What a fruitcake. If she wants to do her bit, she can just get atop a table and gyrate at some of those lounge bars where other ‘fanatics’ are watching the game. They are more likely to get excited. It is insulting to India, Indians and our cricket team that some female who is “confident” of her body can have the temerity to announce that Indians will perform better just thinking of her stripping. I wonder what her exposure has been. These guys have seen many women doing much more, as sportspersons are accustomed to special attention. They'd be more excited if their captain threw off his shirt, as Saurav Ganguly had done some years ago.

Captain Courageous: Ganguly rose to the occasion

Since this model has posed for the Kingfisher calendar, perhaps she should try her stunts at Vijay Mallya’s IPL team innings, whenever that happens, as one of the pom-pom girls.

I also wish people realised that today’s game is not the final. Catching bits on TV has not excited me enough, despite the fennel and cheese crackers. The run-up in newspapers has been asking actors and Page 3 types about their favourite teams. The answer is pretty standard: “I luuuveee India.” And one more thing. I wish people knew that most Sidhuisms (what former cricketer and now commentator says) are quotations. They aren’t original, except that he mauls them. But then, more people know Sidhu than they know Shelley.

And I am tired of watching ‘celebrities’ I don’t know. And just for your information, the street below my building is buzzing; not everyone is cooped up inside.

File photo: Dawood Ibrahim and actor Anil Kapoor
Who wants to be a millionaire?

One more thing. The person who is not there is probably all there. How I miss those scenes from the Sharjah matches where the cameras would zoom into don Dawood Ibrahim in the company of Bollywood stars. Later, even those caught hugging him, denied it. Body doubles? Some said they were forced to be there. Possible. Although, rather surprisingly, he did not seem interested in Pakistani celebrities. Anyway, our stars have moved on. But has he?

Now for the finals at Wankhede, we all know how much money has been spent on the special lights and how Mukesh Ambani has bought three VIP boxes.

I don’t know how much things have changed, besides the cosmetic ones. But sometime in the mid-90s, I watched my first and only live cricket match at the same stadium and even the posh set was excited about Jeetendra in all white, including his shoes.

Let me reproduce a snapshot of those memories, kind of strip mentally:

Ms. Gucci arrived, flashing her gold trophy – a thick Cartier bracelet. Loud ‘whoas’ and ‘shiiiiit mans’ rent the air. But we could not feel the air. We were seated in the member’s enclosure, the one sealed with glass on three sides/

The talk among our august group, and I am sure of those in the private little cubicles flanking us, was about office, the party in the evening or the latest gossip about the other Ms. Gucci and Mr. Hugo Boss. Yet, when the umpire flailed his hands about indicating a boundary, these cats would meow a little prayer and figurines and taweezes would appear from nowhere to make life easier for Indians.

I had stepped outside for a feel of the real action and there was more lust here than that room with a view could ever manage. Our ‘boys’ were the toy boys and totems not because they were necessarily better than whoever they were playing against, but because every bead of sweat, open mouth and heartbeat was paying obeisance to them.

Today, the masses have been sidelined and it is all about the who’s who and what they are wearing.

Incidentally, I am dressed in green! But it isn’t that kind of green; it is the green of sage.

- - -

Update:

- India won by 29 runs. Great. But how does it become "creating history"?

- Pakistani captain Shahid Afridi apologised to his country for losing. If he has to do that then they and not his team are a bunch of losers.

- Two cutouts were in the audience. Wait. They were the two leaders Manmohan Singh and Yousuf Raza Gilani.

- Heard several commentators say we need to win the finals and the cup for Tendulkar. Anyone heard of India?

Sabarimala: A Test of faith?

Pilgrims on the way

Every year, in some part of the world, in some pilgrim sites, people die. Tents burned, landslides, stampedes. Yet, year after year people continue to visit these places. As a non-practising anything, I can only tell myself that we don’t stop flying because of air crashes or driving because of road rage or indulging in risk-filled activities and eating the wrong foods knowing they are wrong for us.

However, where anything religious is concerned, both believers and non-believers alike start analysing faith: If there is a god, then why put the devotees through such things? We must understand that these are totally besotted people and they want to see miracles happen because they trust in them, blindly. They are not challenging the superpower; they are submitting to it.

I think such queries are too rational to understand religious faith or the god-mechanism. In fact, there is rarely rational explanation even for air crashes, because it is not always engine failure. It could be a bird hit. I mean a bird in the sky, that pretty feathered creature, can bring down a whole airplane. Turbulent weather can do so. These cannot be factored in by science. So, how can disasters at pilgrim sites?

The miracle light

On Friday, the 14th, 106 people were killed and several injured near the Sabarimala temple in Kerala. There were 200,000 people gathered there at one time. The shrine where the Makara Jyoti (celestial light) appears on its own thrice a year is a sight that every worshipper wishes to behold. There is talk of mismanagement, about how vehicles that are prohibited at the last stretch managed to get in, how there were few cops to man the area, how people had no choice but to push because parts of the rubble were falling on them.

A liquor baron had donated Rs. 18 crore to get the roof of the sanctum gold-plated. This sort of thing is done regularly by the rich in India, but no one bothers about basic infrastructure and, more importantly, management.

The state government has paid Rs. 5 lakh compensation and the Centre has chipped in with Rs. 1 lakh each for the families of the dead and there is money for the injured. This is done when there is large-scale calamity of this kind, but never when an individual is killed in a road accident due to the terrible condition of the roads. And who will take action against the cops who were not there? What about the vehicles when the drivers too are dead? What accountability can there be when there are no accounts?

I am beginning to appreciate these virtual rituals now. I think devotees should follow the rites they wish to and just watch the light or the idol on the internet or on television. And during Haj they can stone the devil in this manner, too, with some sort of interactive software. I know this sounds blasphemous, but I am sure the gods can take care of themselves; it is people who need to be protected.

And let us try and ‘unbrainswash’ them from believing that all this is because god is testing them. Given the way some of our lives go, even the atheists among us must then count as the greatest believers.

- - -

I do have some memories of Sabarimala on my frequent visits to South India during a certain period of my life.

As we’d drive from the Kerala side to Tamil Nadu there would be people walking, often barefoot, in saffron robes mostly to meet Lord Ayyappa, the reigning deity. Women of a fertile age are not permitted in the sanctum because the sage was celibate.

One day I had to return urgently to Mumbai and since there was no night flight, I drove past midnight to reach Thiruvananthapuram airport before dawn to catch the hopping flight at 6.30 AM. There were two drivers, both Tamilians, to ensure that should one feel sleepy the other would be ready to take over. The guy at the counter said the flight was delayed and I could not purchase the ticket since it was not certain what time it would arrive or even if it would make the scheduled stop.

My two escorts, accustomed to an early breakfast, asked if I was hungry. No, I said. Realising that they were, I told them to go ahead. “Madam, you come also,” they said. We went to a small eatery and all eyes turned. I had just worn a loose T-shirt over tights and my lids were heavy from lack of sleep. There were only men in here. Once we settled in, no one cast a glance at all. A banana leaf was placed before us, that was to act as a plate, and all kinds of chutneys were dumped on it, arranged rather neatly though in corners and then arrived my paper dosa, crisp and golden. The two men had ordered half a dozen things. The coffee came in a steel tumbler with an extra one that it had to be poured into from a height with the arm at a right angle. I stopped trying this jugglery but watched with fascination. This cools the beverage and adds froth. The contents of my cup remained in repose.

I could hear the others murmur, if it is possible at all to murmur in Malayalam which is a language that requires one to make groaning and gargling sounds …but there was softness in their demeanour, and I am not romanticising. They had just returned from Sabarimala. Their long fast was over and they were headed back home. They had made it safely, feet calloused, but worth the walk.

I did not take the flight and returned. This time I slept on the drive back. It was fate. Or faith?

Why did my momma not warn me about the spirit?

I went to a regular school, although not regularly. It was a proper convent where the day started with hymns that were later made more 'secular' and we did not have to assemble in the hall anymore, what with the installation of speakers, and smell coconut oil in hair and post breakfast smells still on lips. Oh, one was obedient, if you ignore the short uniform that was ripped open at the hemline on inspection day and the nails forcibly trimmed. I did not chuck the chalk at the blackboard, did not know the dates in history texts by rote - I just happened to like history. I wished the nuns and the teachers in the corridors 'Good morning, Good evening". If I did something wrong, it was not to be a nuisance or to go against authority. I did not think anyone was authority. They were just given that position and one day we would all grow up and get some position somewhere, it could be in the kitchen, it could be in the boardroom, it could be in some underground movement, it could be as queen bee. Anything. I was certain about that.

I do not recall being told that the system would break my spirit. I did not even know it was a system. It was school and I knew I had to be there for a limited amount of time and then I'd be out to find anything I sought.

No system has swallowed me. I have done pretty much what I wished to and when I did make adjustments it was when I wanted to because I wanted to. My spirit is still soaring.

Therefore, Julian Assange's mommy's quote about not sending little Julian to school because his spirit would be broken is a bit of romanticising, and it works because his stock is currently high.

I've done okay fighting the demons, and sometimes becoming one. But, hey, no one is going to bail me out. So, it is Julian who is now a part of the system that his ma protected him from.

Blaring isn't quite tony

Muaah, I am a yankee poodle

Tony Blair is the sort of guy you would take home to your pet orangutan provided your pet orangutan is upto it. Yes, of course, I refer to the former British prime minister’s confession to being an animal in bed. One marvels at his ability to keep 10 Going Down Street in fine fettle, and we shall refer to his beastly instincts in a bit.

First, his memoirs are called ‘A Journey’, and without reading it I have formed a fair opinion since it has been publicised a good deal.

It has, like most books these days, to do with publicity. In fact, he has written a six-page introduction for his transatlantic readers that says:

“The book, in many ways, is a story about America as well as, evidently, a history of my time as British PM.”

This reveals how he seems to have meshed the roles of PM with that of keeper of America’s political policies. He even audaciously writes about the US:

“Mere mortals are still inspired by a certain awe.”

I understand awe; people do admire characteristics of nations and societies and even some leaders. But, what does being mere mortals have to do with it? Are the US and its leadership god, whatever is the herd or individual definition of such a god? It is ironical, then, that the qualities he admires are based entirely on practical considerations:

“These Americans can be smart – really, really clever. Homely, folksy, in certain aspects disarmingly simple: but don’t let any of that fool you. Underneath all the pop culture, old-fashioned courtesy, Disney, McDonald’s and the rest of it, there beats a brain.”

Pop culture and the rest arise from a canny mental ability as does consumerism. You don’t get apple pie only because your heart beats for it.

“I have come to love America and what it stands for. The essential values it embodies are so much more fundamental to our fortune than even Americans themselves may appreciate. America is great for a reason. It is looked up to, despite all the criticism, for a reason. There is a nobility in the American character that has been developed over the centuries.”

Fine. If he is talking about values embodied in the Constitution; if he is talking about the everyday American. But can character be generalised? What have the British learned from the Americans? What nobility is he talking about and what centuries? It would seem he is talking about some ancient civilisation that has fought off several conquests by outside forces.

It is clear that he is not referring to the America of the people but of the politicians.

On George Bush: “The stupidest misconception was that he was stupid…He also had – has – great intuition.”

On Barack Obama: “The personal character is clear: this is a man with steel in every part of him.”


On Bill Clinton: “an extraordinary mixture of easygoing charm and ferocious intellectual capacity. Probably . . . he is the most formidable politician I ever met.”

Blair comes up with an smart analysis of the Monica Lewinsky affair. As stated in a report:

He says Mr Clinton had a curiosity in people. With men, this would result in friendship, he says, while with women there was a sexual dimension. “In this, I doubt that he is so very different from most of the male population.”

Right. This ignores the fact that the curious men are with women who might be curious themselves. They do not get the same respect in society or by the likes of Blair. He justifies Clinton’s lies as “not wanting to embarrass his family”.

Do families not understand curiosity? And it is precious that while he accepts with equanimity the affair of his minister Blunkett, he dismisses the scandal to his choice of the “wrong woman”. She was married. A woman’s marriage is a problem with this curiosity business, it would seem.

Tony Blair has had a rather interesting recollection of when he tried to rid himself of anxiety when faced with a leadership battle. I don’t know whether it is wife Cherie or his opponent Gordon Brown who can take credit for this!

“That night she cradled me in her arms and soothed me; told me what I needed to be told; strengthened me; made me feel that what I was about to do was right... On that night of the 12th May, 1994, I needed that love Cherie gave me, selfishly.

“I devoured it to give me strength, I was an animal following my instinct, knowing I would need every of emotional power and resilience to cope with what lay ahead. I was exhilarated, afraid and determined in roughly equal quantities.”

If there is a potent connection between sex and politics, then this is it. More importantly, Blair has done it with tremendous delicacy. Selfishness and instinct are married rather well. It is also a great analogy for the survival need that regresses to evolve to withering heights.

Staying Alive

She looks at her husband everyday with his never-changing smile, holding a bottle of bubbly. Some might think she is weird, but Maria Challis of Cheshire has found a way to keep Paul’s memory alive.

Among the familiar sofas, chairs, tables, toys, knick-knacks, stands the even more familiar life-size cardboard cutout of the man she loved and who died at 38, leaving her with her two kids. The photograph was blown up into a 2-D version for the funeral, but it stayed and even attended his own last rites.

As she said, “When you lose someone you love, you worry you’ll forget them and this is our way of remembering Paul. The children even dressed him up as Santa at Christmas and as Dracula on Halloween. He was due to go to a friend’s wedding some weeks after he died. He didn’t make it but his cut-out did. Some people might raise eyebrows but who is anyone to say what is the right and wrong way to deal with grief?”

True. Who is to say? Some find solace in prayer, some in tears, some in activities to divert themselves. The problem with pre-knowledge of mortality is that is never does lessen the pain.

I still ‘consult’ my grandma and speak to her photograph after all these years. It was only a while ago I realised it wasn’t even a real photograph; it was a picture of a portrait of her that was rather shabbily done after she left. I recall every bit of loose skin on her arm and the anger in her grey eyes, the scent of lavender talcum powder and the silver hair left open after a wash, her reading unmindful to the calls for lunch, her whacking me only once and my sulking for days. I did not need the photograph, but I talk to her, not to it.

Maria is 36 and this Paul is not the Paul she remembers; it is the Paul who is a reminder of a life lived together. She may move on, and that tall frame could well be kept away. Who is to judge? Right now, it is the person she loves…a present tense to what has become the past.

It isn’t a fantasy or a salve for loneliness but of being tethered to a sense of belonging.

- - -

It isn’t about Imaginary Lovers that I wrote about.

Filling Empty

There are times when you wonder whether you are right or someone is wrong. These are not the same. Your rightness does not denote another's wrongness.

Anyway, I recall a qawwali we heard often when we were young, "Bhar do jholi meri Ya Mohamed, laut kar main na jaaonga khali..." There was challenge in that 'prayer'. I liked that aspect. When I came across this other version, an almost complete departure, I did not know how to react. It was like the child in me was left to roam, lost in the woods even while sitting under the shade of a tree.

I am growing to like it, forming my own visuals. Filling the emptiness..."Khat'm kar de khaalipan"

Bhar de jholi - Rahat Fateh Ali Khan

Memory

I remember best when I am in a state of turmoil. Then why are scientists saying that stronger and more lasting memories are likely to be formed when a person is in repose and the memory-related neurons in the brain do a little tango with certain brain waves?

I differ here, even if it goes against all scientific logic. Synchronisation requires harmony and often the management of material. Now suppose you recall every little detail of a turbulent experience, how do you sort it out? If it is sorted out, then it ceases to be a memory. Or turbulent. It loses its character and transforms into a linear ‘wave’ in the mind.

What perhaps a relaxed mind can do is memorise. Memorisation is not about memories. Memories are intangible and nostalgia makes you ache for the jerky ride.

Memories are apples bitten into that have left teeth marks; they are ripped open gift packages where the satin is frayed; they are stains that won’t go away and scars that don't fade; they are losses that you don’t count because you could not count on them when they were gains; they are moments that left with the wind and dust that settled in its trail.

Scientists may optimise the state of the brain and believe that relaxation brings about new information and improves memory. But all new information will be memory.

Will they be able to ask us to relax and remember the times we wish to forget?

- - -

Memory – Barbra Streisand

Krishna and some innocence...

I can hear the drums. A bunch of young people will form a human pyramid and break a clay pot filled with curd and lots of money. Gods don’t come cheap anymore. The stakes are up. Because devotees are full of greed.

Today is Janmashtmi, the birth of Lord Krishna. As a young boy he survived attempts to kill him because of divine intervention. He was like most boys and was raised by a cowherd and his wife. That surrogate mother, in fact, was the principal influence on his life. Yashodha. He would rob the churned milk and return to her, his mouth speckled with white residue.

That made him human.

He was surrounded by gopis and would steal their clothes as they bathed in the river and demand more butter to return their garments. That butter did not add any cholesterol to his system nor lard to his girth. Krishna has always been pictorially depicted as lean, often playing the flute.

On Janmashtmi day, that human pyramid forming takes place. As a child I recall there used to be one right outside our building, in the lane. They used the window bars of an apartment to tie the rope from one end and the other end was secured in the building across. At the centre would be the pot. The fellows who climbed up were children of the labourers, tailors, maids, cooks, drivers in the locality. We would egg them on as they tripped. Finally, the smallest one would reach the top, break the handi and they’d share the money. It wasn’t much. Sometimes, they would come round offering us prasad (holy offerings). We took it without a care about how it was made and where.

Childhood hungers are different.

I would still look wide-eyed if everything had remained the same. But they don’t. Things change. We change. One transforming the other in a cycle that spins out of shape. Now those soiled and creased currency notes are replaced by money that can be in hundreds of thousands. The celebrations are held in designated areas sponsored by companies and attended by celebrities.

The pot is higher, many more tiers of people climbing and breaking limbs to reach it.

Yet, I keep my queries aside. For, it is only during these festivals that the poor become important. They are needed to fracture bones. To dance shamelessly in the streets. To stuff their faces with unhygienic colours. To get indelicately drunk. To snivel before the gods of today, Mammons in their limousines throwing big moolah to feel they have earned their place in heaven.

The gods have given up. Their myths that spoke of sagacity have been sold to the highest bidders. Their images come in forms that are ostentatious. Oh, I said, I would not raise a quizzical eyebrow, I said I won’t…

So, this morning I added an extra dollop of butter on toast in memory of the lord. The grease that stayed on my lips reflected a childhood I was born to lose.

- - -

Pop secularism?

Images:
Top - painting of Krishna and Mother by Raja Ravi Verma
Bottom - photograph in TOI