On nursery rhymes and morbidity

All of us have some discussions left incomplete, questions left unanswered that resurface every now and then. Untill you don't bring closure to these thoughts / questions, they come back to haunt you one way or another. One such question in my mind has been - why nursery rhymes have morbid undertones. A college mate and i had discussed this for the first time about 10 years ago. Last month it surfaced again on reading this post 'on struggling with poems language and culture' and then yet again when someone mused about why did the engine come and break piggies bones? I had to get to the bottom of this issue.

Those were never mean to be nursery rhymes in the first place

An excerpt from the secret history of nursery rhymes states that....

Many of the origins of the humble nursery rhyme reflect actual events in history! The secret meanings of the Nursery Rhyme have been lost in the passing of time. A nursery rhyme was often used to parody the royal and political events and people of the day. The humble Rhyme was used as a seemingly innocent vehicle to quickly spread subversive messages! A rhyme is often short and easy to remember and this was a critical element when many people were unable to read or write and a rhyme was verbally passed from generation to generation - it was also a vital element when commoners wanted to comment on the events of the day! It must be remembered that direct criticism or dissent would often have been punishable by death!

So while Jack (of the jack and jill fame) was Louis the XVI, jill who came tumbling after him was the queen Marie Antoinette and humpty-dumpty was not this over-weight cute thing we had imagined. Infact he was not even human, it was a cannon that protect a church in the city of colchester. And ring-a-ring of roses, made a reference to a deadly plague that gripped england in the 1300's that left a rosy red rash in the form of a ring, and killed many - which is why - they all fall down !

How rhymes of yore (and gore) become nursery rhymes....

After 200 or so years of narrating rhymes - people got a little weary of them. Their vocal chords needed rest. So around the middle of the 1500s, they started printing little booklets with these rhymes, also supported by cute illustrations. Thus we see the birth of comics - called Chapbooks.

Chapbook is "a small book or pamphlet containing poems, ballads, stories, or religious tracts". More people during this time were learning to read but the chapbooks were also popular with people who could not read as they contained pictures, in the printed form of crude wood engravings - A Middle Ages equivalent of a Children's comic!

Though it has not been mentioned explicitly, one can infer that, since these chapbooks were amongst the first forms of printed literature available, people learning how to read used these and would have probably set a precedent there in including these rhymes in any toddler's coursework. Besides these rhymes had some elements in their structure and language that made it easy for people to remember them - the alliteration in hickory dickory dock or phonetic words like baa baa in the one with the blacksheep - which could have aided their continued presence in the pre-school syllabus.

Why do children still recite these gruesome ballads?

One reason is that these rhymes have become sacred cows in their own right. Attempts at revising these rhymes have not met with much success - a) people believe that these rhymes have been part of our childhood for generations and revising them would be losing some of that legacy and b) that some sources state "that such rhymes allow children to imaginatively deal with violence and anger and revising them would mean that we are poorer as a society because of the lost opportunities to discuss obsolete values"

I don't completely agree with either - my mother and grandmother did not grow up reciting these rhymes. They had rhymes of their own and i'll come to that in a bit. So culturally it would be safe to assume that at the most 2 generations (mine and the one before) are familiar with these since our lineage does not take us back to 17th century England. And the second reason i partially agree with - yes these could act as starting points to stir up discussions on racial or religious hatred but i suppose 5 or 6 would not be the right age to broach such subjects...don't you agree? It would be more appropriate fodder for grown-up discussions.

Which brings me to reason # 3 - that its too tedious to change the syllabus (getting new books printed and all that) and where would we find new nursery rhymes for kids - so lets just conclude we are a lazy lot who'd rather have kids wondering why most of their nursery rhyme characters are falling, hurting and having their crowns and bones broken.

Did my mother sing Goosey Goosey Gander?

On one of my recent trips home, i heard my 3 yr old niece recite hindi rhymes (machli jal ki rani hai...jeevan uska paani hai and bandar mama...pehan pyjama) taught to her by my mother. Some I had heard before, some were new to me - but none of them were the text book rhymes i was familiar with. I did a quick search to see if i these rhymes were popular with others too or whether i could find more of them. I found a whole host of pages dedicated to them. Indian Nursery Rhymes has poems in many indian languages...thanks to which i heard yere yere pausa (marathi for - a child calling the rain). Karadi Rhymes has two cds full of indigenous compositions like 'my name is madhavi...I'm from allepey'. Hopefully we'll see more such inclusions to what kids are taught in kinder garden and we wont have an instance where some child asks his mother ' but mama why did they not pick up humpty dumpty when he fell down,' with the mama saying...'beta i don't have the answers to your questions...just learn it up or how will you do well in your school admission interview'

And here is a really cute one i found on this site

utho beta aankhein kholo
bister choro or moonh dholo
itna sona theek nahi hai
waqt ka khona theek nahi hai
sooraj nikla taare bhaage
dunya waale saare jaage
tum bhi utho bahir jao
achay waqt ka lutf uthao

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An excellent resource on the history of rhymes here and here

Nursery Rhymes,History of Nursery Rhymes,Indian Rhymes,

Crack

Mahino porane crack aaj phir nazar aane lage hain
Shayad cement achhe quality ka nahin tha
Chalo chodein in poorani baaton ko
Kyon na bazaar se aaj kuch naye rishtein le ayein?

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Cracks from the past have started resurfacing once again
Maybe we did not use a good quality sealant
No point trying to mend something so old
Why not go and get ourselves some new relationships today




PS - i always find it difficult when i think in one language to translate it to another. These were just 4 lines so i dared to attempt. suggestions on the hindi - english translation are welcome :)

Of user-generated content, ego trips and responsible journalism

I was sent a link to this article this morning which talks about how the web is creating online ego monsters indulging in solipsism. At the first glance it made some sense.

Yes, the anonymity of the web does lend itself to (some) people making exaggerated claims about their achievements or compensating for possibly real world limitations by indulging in virtual world fantasies. But the article took an extremely one sided stance about the issue.

''There is something about the web that brings out the ego monster in everybody… Even in their quieter modes, denizens of the web seem to lug around huge egos and deeply questionable assumptions about how interesting they and their lives might be to others.''

There are blogs out there which bring forth social, political issues people are facing forgotten parts of the world which people would otherwise have not noticed or bothered about. Collaborative blogs that have offered critical and timely help in times of crisis. Blogs discussing art, poetry, literature, business and what have you. There are blogs functioning as online help lines – yes there is only so much one can help through an online medium but it at least offers people a platform to vent their feelings and know that many others in the world go through the same issues. But Mr. Kinsley decided to leave aside ALL of these areas and talk about sites that are only host content that is personal in nature. Fair enough! Nothing wrong with that…Except – please tell me how does some one posting about his life making him an ego monster?

The web has provided a platform for people to share their experience as they go through life. So many people post pictures, videos and write about their daily life on public sites. It’s an effective way for them to reach out to their families and friends, all at once rather than sending multiple emails loaded with pics and cluttering up everybody’s mailboxes.

What I consider most important is – that people’s opinions and thoughts expressed on the web through blogs and sites have brought about some objectivity to issues. When earlier we lapped up content dished out by main stream media and other so-called authoritative sources, now there is greater choice available to the reader. User generated content offers the much needed reality check. Just read through the comments at the end of Mr. Kinsley’s article and you’ll know what I am talking about.

Sites like MySpace help people connect with others, much like Orkut or Friendster or online chat rooms of yesteryears. People go there looking for fun, companionship, titillation or an ego trip. People also build serious interest groups and learn from each other. You just get what you are looking for and Mr. Kinsley’s post is a case in point!

Signed
Ego Monster!

I'M Irony

We see each other everyday
You and I…
Close enough to share
the same few inches of space
yet…distanced by the silence
that has filled the space for years
You ‘away’ in your world
And me ‘busy’ in mine

*IM - Instant Messaging

Life is a voyage that is homeward bound

Living away from one's country of birth can be the fulfilment of a childhood dream, the end of a quest for a better life, a compulsion, and sometimes a decisions that you spend your life trying to reverse. For me it has meant many things...it was definitely not the realization of any dream. While growing up I never harboured the secret desire to 'go west'. It started off as being just a transition into a post married life. I did not like the experience of living in cold places, being away from friends and family, without a job, of not having the comfort of familiar sights and smells. Not then...and not now though its been six years. Fortunately, I have not been in a situation where i've had to dig my heels deep into a place. Through the last six years, on many occasions I have travelled back to India and lived there. Such transitions put you in a 'constant comparison mode' - while you are in one place you are longing for life in another and vice-versa. But these moments of transition also give you a chance to reflect on what is it that really matters to you, what do you value, how do you want to live your life and more importantly where?

There are pros and cons to every decision. I have often heard people say - that outside india - the systems work & the air is clean and there is no filth on the streets and no potholes on the road and the standard of living is higher and there is respect for personal time and space and people don't cheat you and everybody is so literate and polite and courteous and its ok to see on celluloid - shahrukh khan go to the village & try to create electricity but ground realities in india are different!

My point is - yes - if you buy what you just told me and are happy living like that, if you chose to lead a systematic and ordered life and a materially comfortable life, please go ahead and live it. My choice is different. I chose the chaos, the colour, the noise, the warmth, the feeling of belonging, the rootedness, the comfort of familiarity, the pollution, the potholes, corruption, inefficiencies, faith, the sound of my language, sunshine, crowds, sweat, curious inquisitive people and everything that comes along with a life in India. I feel an inexplicable sense of peace and calm when i am there.The reassuring feeling that one experiences after returning home from a luxurious holiday. The home that may be a far cry from the comforts of the hotel you stayed in - but warts and all -it still is your home! I know so many people who have lived abroad for so so long that leaving everything behind and returning is a next to impossible situation - because of a feeling that their kids may not be able to live in india, they may not find work that suits their credentials, they may not be able to adapt themselves to the work culture of this country - but still yearn for life back home as it were. My point is know what you want and make that choice! Don't spend a lifetime yearning for one thing, doing the other and regretting your decisions when you look back. And for god sake don't travel on a road so far, so fast that you forget your way back home.

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I had this conversation with my mom (whose family had to leave their home town during partition & moving to another country was not a decision - but an unfortunate play of fate) a few days back who asked me

Mom: mujhe to samaj nahin aata ki basa basaya ghar, basi basayee zingadi ko ujaadkar log kahin aur jaakar kyon rehna chatein hain?
I dont know why people would want to uproot themselves from where they have been living and go and try and settle down somewhere else.

Me: (not very interested in the conversation) Paisa...mom...money!

Mom:Kitna paisa...kya karoge paise ka...humne to jitna mila otne mein zindagi guzar li...aur achhi hi guzari
How much money...what will you do with it...in our time, we learn to make do with what we had...and i think we led a good life

Some days back i was listening to the song from the movie naam (chithi aai hai)- that describes a father's plea to his son who goes abroad to earn money & before he knows it gets sucked into the situation so badly that is unable to get out ...and these lines stuck in my head...

Tune paisa bohot kamaya, is paise nein des chudaya...Aaja umar bohot hai choti...apne ghar mein bhi hai roti...

You have earned a lot, tis the money that made you leave your homeland. Come back - life is too short...we have enough at home to afford our meals.

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As I sit today and reflect on my choices, my conversation with my mom and the song i heard some days back...and though I think i can still trace my way back home, just in case i falter these thoughts will act as a beacon of light that will help me find my way on my road ahead. And I hope you find your way back home, too !

Home,india,living away from home,

When Boredom Strikes..

Its quarter past eight
When boredom strikes
3 rounds to the kitchen I make
But nothing appetizing insight
Why oh why
Do I suffer this plight
When inertia takes over
…The psyche
Then the fly on the wall
And I are alike
Not an inch we feel moving like
What does one do?
When boredom strikes
When staring at the TV
Becomes a rite
Or writing up verses like these…
So trite!

Vidya's story - Part 3 - Her questions to the universe...

If you'd like to read about Vidya you could read it here (part 1) and here (part2)

She gazed out of the window as houses, trees and people ran countercurrent. Beads of water trickled from one curve to another on the corroded window grill. Hanging with resolve for a while before they would ultimately give in and fall below to the next level and then the next… until there was no trace left of them. Where would they all ultimately go, she asked her self? Some droplets flew right at her along with the cool breeze that gently slapped her face. It had stopped raining only minutes back. Unusual for the time of the year that otherwise had incessant rain washing away the fringes of life that existed alongside railway tracks. Vidya, though was oblivious of the starting and stopping of the rain. Her eyes focused on the rain droplets that fell into a rhythm, pulling her thoughts inwards. I watched her closely sitting at the diagonally opposite end.

There was an unusual silence in the compartment. No sound of women clamoring for seats…no bunch of giddy college girls breaking into a raucous laugher at a drop of a hat. This silence created a song of its own. The cadence of the metal handles atop swaying from side to side and the near empty compartment lilting to that tempo. Her still…calm face veiled the battle of thoughts in her mind. Her small voice throwing at her - a dozen questions a minute...it did not wait to even get an answer to one question before there were a barrage of others…Vidya knew that any answer she would give to herself would only open a chain of new thoughts…new questions. Years of conditioning and advice from elders about ‘learning to accept’ her situation had quietened her senses.

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Vidya was amongst the brightest of her 8 siblings, a trait that won her disproportionate affection and encouragement from dada. Amma of course was quick to express her displeasure. ‘Don’t encourage her so much that her expectations take her soaring into the sky. One cannot fly high on pure hope alone. It is not in our means to let our girls study forever. After her matriculation, we must find a suitable house for Vidya. That’s it. Then our duty is over. Then she has to comply with what her in laws wish for her. You don’t fuel her desire to study further. She cannot think of herself and her life only when she has 5 younger sisters in the waiting’

Rukmini Devi (amma as we know her) was a woman of few words. Most of her time and energy were consumed by the domestic duties. In a marriage defined by traditional roles she did not find it her prerogative to voice her opinion. But Vidya was coming of age and amma knew that if her dreams were allowed to rise unfettered…the fall from those heights would be equally excruciating.

They were coming to see her. Her pleas were met with silence. This is the first time she had seen her father’s stone grey eyes filled with helplessness instead of hope for her.

His silence infuriated her even more. She paced up and down vigorously. Amma circled around her, holding the bright pink saree in her hand trying to calm vidya’s nerves. All the while that she was made to sit in front of her prospective in-laws she did not utter a word…nor did her eyes move away from her toes. Her face brushed with a crimson hue stuffed with anger that she could not express. If the fate of her life was to be decided without any consultation, she saw no sense in offering her approval or the lack of it. She married Shaym not knowing what he even looked like. That was her first and perhaps biggest lesson in ‘acceptance’.

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Over the course of her life….she learnt to accept….an early marriage, a sudden loss of support and encouragement from her father, an almost overnight change in status from a girl-without-a-care to a woman responsible for a family of five…an acerbic mother-in-law…loss of dreams…loss of freedom…loss of personal time and space…being treated like a guest in the house she grew up in…that every night she would have to sleep with a man for whom she was always less beautiful than the cover girls on cine magazines…less attractive than the characters from the prurient literature that he indulged in….that nobody would ask her even once how she felt or what she wanted…constant fatigue…that holidays only meant more work at home…that children who she devoted herself to would grow up and get a life where she was not going to fit in…that when she fell ill people in her house got irritated until she dragged herself out of bed and started cooking again…that her life was all about give…give…give…that no matter how hard she tried she would never be good enough for them!

The day started as usual today…nothing out of the ordinary…except it was one of those mornings when repressed emotions and rebellious thoughts refused to listen and stay contained with the bounds of the self where they would not been seen or heard by anyone else. One of those mornings when on waking up you get the feeling that someone or something has died and you silently mourn the death of a part of you! One such days Vidya would lose herself in introspection…trying to draw strength from her thoughts. As she wound up her morning chores her eyes were tearful - a result of the acrid smell of onions which she chopped deftly. She thought – that she chopped onions everyday – they why today did she feel a pain in her heart while her eyes shed water?

The storm caused by such an upsurge in emotions did not take more than a couple of hours to settle down. The cacophony of noises of women laughing and joking in the train drowned out the feeble voice of her conscience throwing questions at her. Except today when Vidya was alone…well almost…there were only two others besides her…me and a woman standing at the door holding up the fluttering end of her saree in an attempt to dry it. Vidya had involuntarily fixed her gaze at the speeding train that she could see sitting by the window. She thought about the length of time ahead of her…all the days…months ahead that she would have to live. She wondered whether it was it possible for her to remain stoic, unemotional…undisturbed by her life? Was it possible for her to hold back her reactions, remain unaffected by their constant barbs? She had learnt to accept no doubt, but had continued to be affected by it all. Then in a flash, a thought nudged her out of her trance like gaze.

If the soul is the seat of all that one senses and the body only a vehicle to facilitate this experience, she questioned - whether it was possible for her to allow her soul to die a premature death and leave her body to lead its mortal existence on this earth?

Her thoughts escaped her being. She looked expectant. As though she had posed her question to the universe and was waiting an answer. As the train approached the shadowy domes of the tungsten lit VT station, the universe answered…‘The train arrived on platform 1 is slow local for Thane…’

Vidya slid her bag on her shoulders and walked away into the distance. My eyes followed her as I saw people from the opposite side, almost walking into her and moving away just in time…giving her strange looks. She seemed oblivious of her surroundings…as though her soul had just escaped her.

The sun and his twin

The sun has a twin
Who looks at him through the day
Like it’s shadow…
He rises alongside every morning
And at dusk…merges with the sea

The twin - whispers to the sun
Though I’ve always been with you
How come you don’t know me?
If I can see you
Then why cant thee?

Is it possible then?
Like this sun
I have a twin too
Oblivious of its existence today
I will discover it someday

Standing face to face
Will I hear him - telling me…
Though I’ve been with you
Since you’re first heart beat
You have looked for me
Sometimes in stones and rocks
At other times in temples…and around trees

1947

Sometime back I got to meet a few people who shared with me their first hand experiences around the partition (1947). Even after so much time has passed, the disillusionment and tears in their eyes - as they recalled incidents with horror and grief - were very real. A few thoughts that remained with me post those interviews – I guess I will never forget.

I cannot even begin to imagine / understand how it would have felt to be leaving one’s land…one’s home knowing (but perhaps not consciously accepting) that one would never return. They had not known of life anywhere else. Some were made to believe, while others held on to the belief that they would return someday. That the transition was temporary till the riots settle down. As the thought sank in - that their life in a new strange land was a reality they had to live with – many lived and died in the pure hope that some day they would be able to return – to just see what they had left behind.

I imagined what it would be like to visit one of the many abandoned, desolate homes there. It is possible to oust people out of their cities, their dwellings – however in the nooks and corners of such houses the spirit and the memories of the people who inhabited those continue to live.

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Chaukhat ke ek kone mein
Dekha…
makdi jhalar boon rahi thi
Oopar haath tatola
Dekha…
Killi ab tak wahin padi thi

Darwaze par lagi dhul ko
Ponchkar, dastak di
Andar jhanke dekha…
Angan mein to koi nahin tha
Par rassi pe jhul rahe kapde the…
Ab bhi taaze
Shaayad koi yahin kahin tha

Mitti ab bhi taazi geeli
Pairon pe woh chipak rahi thi
Jis par
Maachis ke dibbon mein kankar wali gaadi
…Khamosh khadi thi
Aur sannate ki awazein
Kaano mein kuch goonj rahi thi

Door farsh par…chat se aati
sooraj ki kirne chamkati –
maile peele zevar the woh
Jo ek ched se taank rahe the
aadhe andar aadhe bahar gade pade the
chukar dekha – parat ab tak sili hui thi
mano pehen ke abhi ootare
Aur rakhe the

Rasoi ghar se kisi cheez ke
jalne ka ehsaas hua jo
Chuleh tak jaakar dekha to
Thandi bhuri raakh padi thi
Thandi aag mein chehre dekhe
Kuch jaane the kuch anjane
Cheheron mein aankhein thi…
Jaise gehri peeli
Aahein ab tak sulagh rahin thi

Warm friendly homes…a rare breed.

Childhood memories brings to mind some strong and vivid associations

Sunday movies on DD when everyone stayed at home and religiously watched the one movie that was dished out on TV. Those times were also about the ‘family’ – we were too young to crib about family vacations being boring. Relatives often came calling un-announced…I guess since very few houses then even had a telephone! I remember that the practice of dropping-in uninvited continued even when the telephone had become ubiquitous. One seldom called a relative to find out whether one could drop in or not – unless relatives stayed so far away that finding a door locked at the end of a 3 hour journey was a possibility one did not want to face. Even on calling one seldom heard a NO…don’t come…we are busy today…kind of response.

No matter what time of the day one called in…I remember people mostly greeted each other with oodles of warmth, an honest excitement and loads of good food made with love. Well mostly...here we exclude the temperamental aunts and uncles...since they were not truly representative of those times. Houses were relatively smaller (perhaps that’s what lent a cozy welcoming air to them), some times unkempt, most often with un-coordinated upholstery. Bed rooms (and that time there were no separate guest bedrooms) were open for kids to go and jump onto the beds…beds that often doubled up as surrogate dinning tables on which people sat with folded legs around durries that protected the sheets underneath from curry spills. No one cared about paint chipping off from surrounding walls which sometimes had leaky patches too, or about clothes, toys and books strewn around since nobody bothered to look around and evaluate the room or its décor with a sense of judgment. What caught and engaged one’s attention instead - were the people and the atmosphere charged with a sense of belonging. It was a home and homes (at least then) were not supposed to look clinically clean and color co-coordinated. The chaos in the surroundings lent it that homely character.

These days homes with such character and the people who inhabited them are becoming extinct. Now-a-days houses appear well kept but un-inviting, formal…distant. People make an effort to do up their houses and their smiles meticulously – but somehow it shows…things look so made up!

Breaking the silence and breaking a knee

I never intended this blog to be just a chronicle of events I go through in life and so I have consciously refrained from making posts that are purely personal. This one is an exception since the last month has been one which offered one of those ‘first time experiences’….difficult to forget. That…and somewhere I am feeling very guilty about the silence on the blog for over a month.

Aug 2006…most part of the month was spent limping around the streets of Bangalore (thanks to a bad knee)…begging auto drivers to take me back to my house…which is located in an area that is clearly not amongst one of their favorites. Finding an auto from home is even worse. I can never spot one close to home and ironically whenever I spot one at a distance craning my neck and waving my hands desperately trying to catch his attention…people mysteriously appear around me making their way towards that same lone auto…with me limping in the background…muttering under my breath. ‘Heartless creature…just because you can walk faster than me… does not give you any right to steal the auto that I spotted first’

What can be worse than a painfully stiff knee? I don’t have to think much about that answer. Its is a painfully stiff knee PLUS not knowing what caused it to happen. Have spent the last 3 weeks trying to conjure up possible reasons for its occurrence, asking doctors who have - paraphrased my questions and thrown those back at me, explaining to people that I honestly don’t know how it happened and getting strange looks from them in return and then there are people who know me really well…who nod their head in resignment as though to suggest ‘such things can only happen to you…why am I not surprised?’

The long ride to the operation theatre lying down i recall was quite a disorienting experience. All I could see was bright tube lights on the ceiling alternatively flashing at me and disappearing. Each time I tried to raise my neck up to see how far I had reached I heard a stern voice from behind me…madame…please lie down…I have half a mind to say ‘but why…why should I lie down - when I can sit enjoy the ride and smile at strangers along the way…its just my knee which is affected...the rest of me is fine.

As I entered a rather somber looking zone - ensconced within which lay the rooms where people like me would be operated…I wonder how people who opt for cosmetic surgical procedures are insane enough to willing put themselves through such an experience. I am made to wait in room where there are 4 others like me clothed in green and absolutely silent. The atmosphere is closest to one I have seen at airports…people on stretchers are made to queue up - like air planes on a tarmac waiting before take off. It’s as busy in there as well. 25 – 30 operations per days between the 2 operation theaters – I am told. The silence in the waiting area breaks by the sound of the 98.3 Radio FM jockey…which has been turned on at my request to compensate for my I-Pod which has been taken away despite my doctors promise that I would be allowed to carry it with me inside. The song cannot be more opportune…sunidhi chauhan crooning…marne se pehle jeena… seekh le. By this time, tired of lying down, I have defied the orders and am sitting up straight on my wheelie bed following the grim faced, green masked denizens as they pace up and down with surgical instruments in hand. A rather chirpy doctor – anesthetist pair wave out at me from the other end of the waiting room before coming close and realizing that I am not the patient they are supposed to operate on. We break into a giggle and while I am still gazing in amazement at their high spirits – distinctly out of place - with the rest of the ambience…in a split second I am made to lie down and am taken in.

I have lost my vantage point and all I can see now is bright lights atop with pale blue tiles on the surround walls and about 6 – 7 men / women – some bespectacled – asking me a rapid fire of questions…

Right knee or left knee?
Are you allergic to any medications?
Is this your first surgery? ….

Post a spinal anesthesia - I am given some drug that has me partially sedated. The music player is perched on one corner of the room and I continue to listen to a mélange of doctor speak and FM radio. I shiver…not out of fear but due to the spine chilling room temperature. My teeth chatter and in my partially sedated state I try to recollect when the anesthetist asked me the night before whether I have any lose teeth – is this what he meant? I have only a semi conscious recollection of what transpires during the next 1.5 hours. More FM radio, conversations that ranged from my profession…to my interest in how surgery is performed under hypnosis…to my stay in Ireland…to Guinness beer. Of course I also see the entire arthroscopic surgery on the TV screen which at the time seemed like I was just watching a science video.

It all ends with my surgeon asking me – so what do you like better…Ireland or our operation theatre…and my reply…I don’t think I enjoyed my stay in Ireland as much as I enjoyed my experience here. After exchanging the thank you(s) and goodbyes - my surgeon and anesthetist leave.

Out of the operation theatre once again I crane my neck out to look up at the world outside and I see a bee line of eager smiling strangers looking back at me.

The journey in and out of that operation theatre - on the wheelie bed has changed my perspective about operations…hospitals…doctors – forever! Of course…if I could just get over my fear of the MRI scan machine…and stop thinking that if I look straight ahead at it…it will suck me in…I’d say…I’ve done it!!!

Ignite the Change?

I came across this petition here. I read it. I signed it. A strong voice in me said...not much is going to come out of this...Such efforts would perhaps get some media attention...mumbai would perhaps see a visit by the prime minister....may be a committee / task force would be set up - give it a few days / weeks / months and everybody would forget about it. Till the next city is bombed...till more lives are lost!

It said....

Dear Mr. Prime Minister, Mumbai is tired, impatient and very angry. It doesn’t want the praise. It wants its dues. For too long have we received only empty accolades. Now it’s payback time…

Those words....they reflect, what i would safely assume, most of us feel about not only the city...but also the country we live in. I admit i am guilty of not having a positive attitude to change...i haven't seen evidence that would prove me wrong.

People of the older generation say...Change is a slow process...India is changing...Things have improved. Look at the roads, the flyovers zipping across the country...privatization of airlines, telecom...foreign investment...satellite television...McDonalds...Pringles...Malls...a better quality of life...did you think 15 years ago that you'd have all this in India?

No I say...I did not...but 15 years back...also you had told me that things would change...I had then imagined less people to die of starvation...more people to have access to clean water....children who should've been reading, playing, learning - would not have to sell balloons, flowers, pirated books on the road to earn themselves a living...i had though that in 15 years there would be less fear, more security, fewer people living on the streets...fewer farmers committing suicide since it did not rain in a given year...more people of my generation staying back in the country...a stronger sense of national pride...we'd see tax money to better use...some use...less corrupt politicians...a more efficient judicial system...a greater sense of justice...a greater respect for ordinary life...!

If change is a slow process - then is 15 years not long enough to create a situation where we see a basic respect for human life in this country, where people don't struggle, beg, steal, sell themselves to meet their basic needs - where people don’t flee the country at the first available opportunity...how much time would it take then...25....50 years...more?

Dear Mr. Prime Minister,

This is not the first time there is a citizen's petition. Not the first time that people have signed it. Not the first time that all this could come to naught.

As I clicked the submit button...i kept repeating to myself...
Oh God...this time...just this one time...I wish I am wrong!

Go sign the petition here for whatever its worth!

petition for mumbai ,bombay,mumbai,

A city and a love affair

When I look back I cannot put my finger on the moment when I fell in love with you but I know how it felt. It happened as I was growing up and maturing and becoming aware of my feelings. I would feel a sense of contentment just spending time with you. There were days when I did not do anything in particular and did not want to either. I was happy just walking through the streets, by the sea side - taking in the smell of the sea air and the sunset – knowing that I was with you. Did I ever tell you how beautiful you looked against the backdrop of the setting sun? At the end of a long weary day when amber & saffron hues touched your skin your face would glow up in that radiance…hiding in that light some of those lines which were a reminder of the dark times you had seen. Each unfortunate incident etched upon your tender skin had left an indelible impression – each line had a story to tell. Together they all lent a jaded character to your appearance. But I could see past those lines and see the beauty in you. Always! Even when you looked your worst I found you looking beautiful. I guess that’s what they call being in love. When one is able to look past the shortcomings of another and revel in all that is positive and good about that being.

A few years passed and I moved on in life and to another city. Even with the move, your thoughts did remain somewhere in my consciousness though I did not miss your presence sorely. I was after all captivated by all that was new and exciting. With the passage of time yours thoughts faded like a distant memory…untill someone would mention you in the conversation and then my heart would involuntarily leap out and take me to those days we had spent together. After a few minutes spent reminiscing I would get back to the humdrum of the day. It was only when I caught sight of you that morning in January that I felt an upsurge of all the emotions I had once felt for you. I still remember that morning. I had flown in from Bangalore just the previous night. I woke up early the following day and made my way to an early meeting. It was dark…the sun was not out yet. Then somewhere on my drive from Andheri to Nariman Point I witnessed the break of day and with it caught the most beautiful sight of you I had seen. Your fresh, clean, pure self filled my senses…It reminded me once again how much I had missed being with you. I had a beaming smile across my face that day since I knew I was back with you again. I did not stay with you longer even though I wanted to but that image that I saw of you that morning stayed with me ever since. That day I realized how much I love you. That was also the day I realized that despite all the love that I have for you in my heart I would not have been able to stay there with you. I moved on. As I walked away from you I never looked back…not even once. After that day we came face to face many a time, though you looked and felt different. Also, our exchanges acquired an air of formality. Not that I had stopped caring for you but there were just newer things, people and places that you were surrounded by. You had obviously moved on. I was happy to see that. Though occasionally I would also hear from others about the rough times that you had been through. These experiences that we go through change us as individuals, change the way we react and respond to things. For I remember how much you loved the rain once. Now I sense fear creep up in you as soon as it starts to pour. Staying away comes at a price. I could only sense that fear as an outsider. I could not feel inside me what you would have gone through – last year as the rains lashed out at you in fury.

Once again a couple of days back people have attempted to hurt you, break your spirit. Once again you have had to see trying times. As I looked through pictures of what happened a silent tear ran across from the corner of my eye down my cheek. I know there is not much that I can do sitting here. I also know that when I see you next this incident would have changed you forever. Changed you a bit more and increased the space and the silence between us by a few more inches. This will be one more incident that I would know about, that I would have read about but not been there with you to feel the pain of.

sunset picture courtsey flickr

Mumbai Blasts ,bombay,mumbai,Mumbai Rains,

No place like home

In the last 5 years I have moved in and out of 7 houses,5 cities and 3 countries. No place seems strange and no place seems familiar.

I often ask myself – where is home?

Is home the city I was born in and spent the first 25 years of my life? It has taken only 5 to rob me of my feeling of comfort…my friends, my family. Today I feel like a stranger in my own city. Places & people are – just poor shadows of their former selves.

Could home be the city I spent the last 2 years where I worked and lived, acquired new friends and a place to stay ? Where I plan to live for many years in the future - even though I don't live there right now. I feel tempted to call it home. Then something holds me back. When I walk through the streets I don’t see any memories from my past lurking around its corners. Cutting through the din of the passing traffic I don’t hear the sound of my friends’ cackling, breaking out into a spontaneous joke. My eyes see just buildings - brick and mortar structures. Inside - my heart is silent.

Hey isn’t this the building that once housed Gazebo where we’d come often from college…pooling in our pocket money to buy us a single pizza.

And there – when you go down that road – there is an old cloth market where I remember going with ma as a child. Wading through those gallis and stopping at to refuel at Kamat’s .

No such stories around them come to the fore! How can a place devoid of memories be considered home? Some day – when I collect enough memories around this place – may be I’d call it home – but not just yet.

When I speak about this to friends, I realize I am not the only one who feels this way. For many of us, the one thing in life that is constant is this act of moving from place to place. Unnerving it is for a while but at the end of the day one learns to accept this lifestyle. This new way of living – I guess warrants a new definition of what one would call home. For me ‘A Home’ today has become – (not a place….but) a person I return to!

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October 4, 2006 - Update

1. A couple of more perspectives here and here
2. The count has now increased to - 8 houses, 6 cities and 4 countries....and is likely to change once again next month !

Canvas

When I looked closely
At a large un-spoilt canvas
Colors began to appear…
As moments came alive
Imaginary Lines
That appeared dispersed at first
Converged with the force of sound
Before I could even realize
Emotions had seeped through
The pores of the canvas
And a home had come to life!

Traveling by the big bird and other stories

I cannot put my finger on what it is...but something about being at an international airport makes me nervous. The ones in India...I could walk through them in my sleep and still find myself on the right flight. The sheer magnitude of the place is daunting. There are signposts each step of the way. But we still lose our way! If only we would stop watching the planes - take off and land and follow the directions instead, may be, we would not land up at wrong terminals.

I find myself at the check in desk half an hour before it could even open. Yet I'm antsy. I see a man - in his 40's, mostly bald except the few strands of thin hair running from side to side. Beads of sweat magnify his thin tresses. He reaches the counter & finds no one there and panics. He finds out that check in for the flight has shifted to Zone G. He panics more and tells me to recheck. I re-check and turn around to tell him that we need to indeed shift to Zone G but by this time I find him running with his trolley towards zone G. I find myself running behind him. The adult in me chides me for running panic struck when there are 3.5 hours to board. My irrational self pays no heed, craning my neck trying not to lose sight of man running amok with his trolley. Half bald nervous man has suddenly become my official guide.

At the check in counter I feel a sinking feeling. The same that one feels when one is stopped at the railway platform and asked for a ticket which has suddenly decided to disappear in the deepest darkest corner of one's bag. Why people don’t make bags with a small light fitting in them is a different story. I examine my options. Should I go to the firang or settle for the Indian instead. Firangs derive their sense of power from the system - they hold their rules and regulations dear to their heart. Where as an Indian man feels his sense of power at being able to bend the system and its rules beyond recognition If I am excess on my baggage allowance there is a higher possibility that the Indian would bail me out. I try not to look nervous reminding myself that like dogs, even airport officials can smell it on you. It works, I am allowed to pass without paying

Inside the flight no sooner that they have got to their seats, I see people starting the barter for seats. 'If you let me take this one...then you can have the window there at the end where my wife is sitting' Nervous half bald man looks visibly less nervous though still restless to strike a good deal for his choice of seat. The strong blower in the aircraft has sucked away his beads of sweat and the edge of his hair is starting to fan up at the sides.

At 11 p.m. I am woken up by middle aged woman in red saree and asked...would you like to have your khaana beta'...I nod and am served. I like the mummy like hostess rather than a cold white ghost speaking to me with a twang. I have a new found love in my heart for Air India.

Bombay has a shinning new arrival lounge. The marble stair-case that once adorned the entrance with water falling from the top - has disappeared. The smell however is unmissable. Gregory David Robertson has an entire para dedicated to it in his book. Very well described. I am feeling less poetic though. To me it’s just a mix of some strong, cheap phenyl and un-serviced, musty old air conditioners. The cop at the exit gate stops me and utters the word 'pauti' (Marathi for receipt). I hand over my immigration slip and walk out. I know I’m home!

Air Travel,Air India,bombay,mumbai,

Loss - Where small is big

There are some moments in our life that we never forget. Stories recalled long after these incidents happen. These are usually the - first of times…day at school, graduation. But this post is not about such times. There is something else that we remember, recall, narrate and even regret long after it has happened. There are some in my personal memory bank

The time when I was 7 – 8 and we were all going to a movie. At that time there was the excitement about taking munchies to the movie hall from home - which we had excitedly packed in a large white plastic bag. We got into an auto rickshaw…kept the bag behind the seat in the storage area and got out leaving our bag of goodies behind. Needless to say we did not enjoy the movie that day and never leave anything behind the seat in a rickshaw ever since.

Then the other time when we were going for a wedding…all dressed up and on the way to the function someone stole my father’s wallet and we returned home with the memory of the lost wallet that is narrated till today – years after the incident

When we lose things…many a times these are small things…often replaceable …could be a bus pass or a pen…not worth much – it troubles us. We try to trace our route back in the hope of finding what we’ve lost…ask people around if they have seen it…agonize over it for days…sometimes more.

But then …

We lose our best of friends….to silence…friends who part ways without knowing what went wrong

We lose our health…to chips and fries and candy and coke

We lose our time….sometimes sitting in front of the TV…at other times doing things we do not enjoy

We lose love…to a false sense of pride…or pleasure…and we lose chances to tell people who matter, how much we love them.

And do not even realize!

Bombay...meri jaan!

Of bhel puri and juhu chowpaty
To Irani ki chai…bun maska and kheema patty

From Kasa kai bara hai…kai chaal lai?
To Circuit, Maamu and Munna bhai

From the fish fry that hangs upside down at Sion koliwada
To Sri Krishna’s garama garam bata vada

Of Cusrow Baug & Freny Todiwallah
And of food delivery men…the dabbawallas

Of cuffe parade and sassoon docks
To bade miyah ke lazeez kabab

Of lazy afternoons at Leopolds and Mondegar
To firangs on causeway leching…smoking cigar

When Sandra and Robert need to meet chori chori
Would it be at Church pakadi or khotachi wadi?

Traffic signals bypassed…railway tracks we cross
We hang with our lives from the doors of the virar fast

From the pious steps of Mahalaxmi,
To the morning sight of the Haji ali

Bombay or Mumbhai whichever way you see
Thoda spicy…thoda cool…hai yeh city

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There are so many more things quintessentially bombay....feel free to add your verses.

poetry, bombay,mumbai,

Sounds of Silence

A silence screams out
Wrestling with the inner walls
In an attempt to tear those open
An attempt….but in vain

Those walls which look so tender
Trap the sound inside
For those have been sealed by the
Deafening noises from the world outside

They let the sounds from the outside….in
But none can getaway from within

Sounds that have reverberated through the ages
They all lay there buried…confined to those cages
Struggling to find a way…to escape
Perhaps in the soul…they’ll find an aide

poetry, silence,

What's so special about IKEA?

My first memory of IKEA is - picking up the catalogue on a pavement in Bombay for 10 bucks and drooling over the pictures. That catalogue was like the Bible for students of interior design.

I never had seen or visited an IKEA store until recently and that first visit was an absolute delight. I am a very hard-to-please shopper. For me to like something – it should be of good quality and certainly follow the VFM (value for money) rule. What started out as an exploratory visit to the store has culminated in a fascination with the brand.

From the time I set foot in that store…it almost felt like Disneyland. One can spend an entire day in that large blue and yellow warehouse which doubles up as their retail outlet. Mock ups of rooms displaying actual merchandise lend a context to the purchase. They make it easy for you to imagine where and how you’d utilize what you buy. Where most furniture stores keep their display merchandise off limits …they actually encourage you to sleep on their beds…sit on their couches...the last time I was there I saw a couple sitting in one of their made-up living rooms, watching the tele. These are small details that create a feel good factor and nudge the customer a little more towards making that final purchase.

I have seen similar outlets in India…and what comes to mind is Style Spa which has to go a long way before their products can become competitive on price…and let’s not even talk about their designs.

What is their strategy then to deliver what has been referred to as ‘Scandinavian Designs at Asian Prices’?

“We start by deciding on a price. Then we hand over to our team of designers, product developers and purchasers for them to come up with the goods’ …mentions their 2006 catalogue – which according to an estimate has seen a print run of 160 million copies!

Business week has a very detailed write up on the subject.

To achieve that goal, the company's 12 full-time designers at Almhult, Sweden, along with 80 freelancers, work hand in hand with in-house production teams to identify the appropriate materials and least costly suppliers, a trial-and-error process that can take as long as three years

Innovation does not stop at product development…on their new store opening in the US; they encouraged customers to send e-post cards to acquaintances in return for a price off. Their cult status with consumers only helped their marketing effort. Some other off beat things they have done is – announce a prize of close to 4000$ for their first customer at a given outlet. Die hard IKEA fans have spent sometimes about 3 days in their warehouse, while others camp in caravans outside waiting for the grand store opening – creating the buzz and drawing more into their tribe.

And if you haven’t heard enough from me about their home furnishing, there is one more reason to visit IKEA…their restaurant. While I was reading about this brand – I came across the blog of this couple in Malaysia who asked their 2 year old daughter where she’d like to go for dinner and pat came the reply…IKEA! Maybe they would some day announce a contest to find their youngest fan…

For the more IKEA hungry readers…there is a theme blog started by fans or should i say fanatics !

IKEA, positive customer experience,

On Blogs, Indexing solutions and Metaphors

Some days back, I obsessed about finding a way of indexing / categorizing posts on the blog, without having to switch my blogging platform. Not that I did not contemplate the adulterous act of flirting with another service provider. I did…but something made me stay back…partly it was my fondness for this platform, partly the laziness of having to migrate content and in many ways it was that invincible annoying thought that ‘I would not take the easy way out and jump platforms…I shall stay here and look for alternatives’. Would you say…too much energy and thought invested into something so trivial…I would say maybe…but then it is my means to express myself. Don’t people invest time and money in pursuing photography or art…are those higher or better forms of self expression warranting that time and attention? Let’s leave that debate for another occasion.

So coming back to the point about indexing, I thought content on a blog is ‘dead’ if one does not have a way of indexing it. Whenever I would think about content on my blog that was un-indexed, I would feel like I have walked into a library that has books all jumbled up arranged in no particular order. Not a pretty picture in my mind. I tried a fitting in a couple of codes into the blogger template (not reducing the effort those guys have put in – in writing those hacks) – none of the ones I tried were fool proof. The fact that they can only index recent posts is known and acknowledged. But some did not even pick up the recent ones correctly.

I found an alternative in ‘tag clouds’ – though they don’t do the same job as what ‘categories’ do – tag clouds work like a surrogate for categories. It leaves you the hassle of pre-defining categories and I call it a hassle since I found it so difficult to ‘force-fit’ my posts into categories that the category called ‘miscellaneous / trivia / un-filed’ was burgeoning out of proportions. Tag clouds pick up key words from your posts and here again the method is not fool proof – but at least one can delete unwanted key words and add wanted ones and approximate how categories would work albeit with some effort.

There is no easy way to indexing posts. But I am beginning to wonder whether it’s all worth it after all – not that my love for my blog has become any less over time…not yet at least but am beginning to wonder whether the metaphor of a library for blogs is in itself passé.

Is the ‘watering hole’ metaphor then part of the dominant code around blogs? Don’t blogs today resemble ‘coffee houses’ of yesteryears? The coffee houses that dominated Europe in the mid 1600s functioned as information exchanges, centers for political or social debate and over time even acquired the reputation of specializing in a particular fields drawing clientele interested in particular subjects…says ‘The Economist’ when it talks about ‘Internet in a Cup’ (paid subscription required)

If blogs are emerging to acquire the character of coffee houses as they were or even modern day pubs, then the activity surrounding blogs would change. There would be a greater orientation to partake in recent conversations / posts rather than visiting a blog and reading on a topic of interest.

Depending on the metaphor you identify with, will influence whether you use it to ‘express’ or ‘exchange’ opinions and views; the frequency with which you post; the content that you post (topical v/s analytical); your response time to comments etc and depending on which of these metaphors become the dominant code around blogs will have a bearing on the features that publishing platforms in the future will be forced to offer.

I know I won’t be obsessing about indexing any more :)

blogs, blog metaphor, dominant code,

Straddling two worlds

On one step I hear a prayer…a chant
On the other…a blaring declaration…halleluiah…it’s raining men
A car zooms past – and a bunch of girls scream

One step reminds me of the smell of the earth in my country
On the other, an overpowering whiff from the local take-away

On the next step my feet do an involuntary jiggle
My heart leaps
And on the next – I control them and regularize my pace

With one step I see a burst of color…music…vibrancy
With the other I look ahead to see a grey…placid land

With one step I see an empty box of mangoes thrown away on the street
With the other I realize its summer time in India

On my first step I am on Cow Bridge Road East
On my next…I’m in someplace I have never been
Yet it looks very familiar…I am in my country

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Some days back I went for a long walk by myself. The I-Pod kept me company. The walk was an absolute medley of experiences. Its was like being present in two worlds at the same time. My attention would oscillate between the physical world that I was part of and the mental world I created for myself as a listened to the soundtrack of Rang De Basanti. Strange feeling!

poem, rang de basanti

Did her dreams stop? - The (not so) short story

Taking of from where we left

It was a little beyond 6 of the morning hour. A warm start to the day in March though things were about to heat up. For Vidya…was rummaging through her things - It was time for her to leave for school but she could not find her pen. Anger was building up inside her - she knew it had to be someone. It was too important a thing for her to have misplaced carelessly. The pen was a gift from her father when she entered class 5 – the threshold to higher secondary and today was the day of her exam. How could she have lost it when she had even preserved the slim cardboard box that came along with it? It lay ensconced wrapped in the cellophane. She had touched it only once careful not to leave any finger prints on its shinny gold exterior.

Amma stood behind her holding the warm brass tumbler of milk with the edge of her duppatta. Common drink your milk and go to school…you will be late for your exam…I will find it and keep it for you when you are away

But amma…I want to write my paper with it. When dada gave it to me he blessed me and told me I would come first in class. Now how will I write my exam and come first. You don’t understand anything amma

She went from corner to corner in that little room which was no more than 10 steps whichever direction you walked. Moving frantically between the almirah… the side of the cot…and her school bag…her trail replicated the movements of an angry buzzing bee who has been disturbed on her hive…waiting to strike back. Sonia her twin watched her silently. Sonia was unusually quiet this morning. If this had been any other day, they would have by now left home bickering and pulling at each other’s plaits. Then as though in a flash of brilliance it struck Vidya.

Soni…bring down your bag from your shoulders…I know it’s in there
No didi… (Sonia called her didi since Vidya had come to the world 3 mins before she could arrive)…I promise I don’t have it

Then bring down your bag…by now Vidya hands were tugging at the shoulder strap testing its resolve to stay in place. Amma helplessly watched the two jostle…careful beta…you will spill the milk…it’s a bad omen…Vidya aren’t you my sensible one...aren't you

Vidya and Sonia would see amma speak in the background…her words filled the air surrounding them though none could permeate their consciousness. If not for the ink blot on Sonia’s bag, this fight would have continued unendingly.

Vidya gulped down her glass of milk…Sonia almost pulling her out of the door. Amma stood there watching the girls run…she stood until all she could see were a pair of plaits swinging in the distance.

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Mama…what are you thinking about…I have been asking you for the past 10 minute…have you seen my pen anywhere....i’m going to miss my bus again today…

Vidya had been standing there still…once again words filled the air….only this time they were her daughters words. Beta…where is the pen I had given you…

Mama…what are you saying…I am asking you about my pen…and you are talking about something else…

Beta… I hope you have not lost it…that pen is special… dada had …

Suhani interrupting…Oh God mama...you and your ancient thoughts and your ancient things…I am getting late…I have taken 20 rupees from your purse; I will buy a new one from jeevat chacha…

Vidya stood by the little window in the kitchen, stroking the money plant that grew out of the kissan jam bottle. 3 stories below, the sweeper created clouds of dust with his vigorous movements. Summer was at its peak, dry dust filled the air and even as early as 7 a.m. the sunlight was stinging! Vidya wondered…the summer was not so harsh two decades back. White sun lit rays raced through empty spaces in the wooden door that formed a shadow of criss cross patterns on the courtyard. Vidya and her sisters hopped on the shadows as Amma dressed the floor with a new coat of cow dung. Those shadows…and the shadows of the past were a cool…safe haven from the stinging sunlight of the day.

The clock played a familiar tune and Shyam yelled in the background….neither were music to her ears. It was 8 and Vidya was not her usual efficient self this morning. Shyam cursed her and left home without his packed lunch. Vidya already knew what to expect of the day ahead. The 8.09 local was definitely out of question. That meant she had to take the 8.19 fast instead….that is only if she was allowed to enter at Dadar…she had some chance of making it to work on time. Else, a late mark on the roster. She had already reached late last Monday since Suhani had to be dropped to school when she had woken up late and missed her school bus. Shyam had refused to drop though the school was a 5 minute walk from the bus stop where Shyam took the 332. Suhani, her brother, Shyam’s parents, the maid - chanda, the kitchen and the running of the house – were all Vidya’s responsibility. If Vidya wanted to work, she was to make sure that she would not fall short of any of his primary duties first.

Memories have a way of forcing themselves into the present. Memories did not realize that Vidya was already late. Like a stubborn child, they trudged along with her through the morning. Suhani losing her pen had resulted in Vidya losing herself and her morning to her past. I think somehow Vidya was allowing herself to get lost. These were the only comforts she could allow herself. Her home where she had spent most of her growing years was in the vicinity. She would pass by that plot of land which was now home to plaza theatre. It was prime property in the heart of dadar, one of the busiest suburbs in Bombay. Had the 17 families who once lived there owned that property, they would have been sitting on a pot of gold. But the houses had been leased to them for 20 years as part of the rehabilitation exercise for a paltry sum of 25 rupaiyahs. Though Vidya’s life had started 10 years before she arrived with her family at railway colony, Dadar, her years spent there were the most precious memories from her past. Life before that was a hazy vision of Larkana – her place of birth. Her 10 years there had been reduced to just two images in her mind – one of the thick iron chain bolting the door to their ancestral house and the second and the most vivid memory of the time when there was a black out on the train to Karachi.

But more about that another time…Vidya needs to try and make it to the 8.19 and she has just 3 mins to go…

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This story continues here

What is your payoff?

You have been blogging for some months or for the few it could be years...or even if you have joined the bandwagon only recently...you would know that blogging is hard work. You could much rather be sitting on your couch watching tele or experiencing life...outdoor...but instead you sit for hours, glued to your PC, writing...reading....commenting....revisiting. There is surely something that really keeps you going...something that makes you want to wake up and perhaps check your blog first thing in the morning even before you have brushed your teeth!

Do you blog to engage with words...or...ideas?
Or perhaps you like to blog to engage with People
Or Maybe Technology
Or for some of us - even ourselves....

So what is your payoff?

Alright...I know and by now I am sure you have realised too that all this talk was just to get you (in) terested...to hook you in...and ask you one simple question (ok I know i'm making my blog sound like a seedy smoked filled room where people enter and get duped but what the heck) and that is....

WHY DO YOU BLOG?

Tell me why you blog....common tell yourself that too...If I hadnt asked this would you have taken time out to think about this...perhaps not...so out of the sheer goodness of your heart and some consideration for my time...leave a comment or send in a mail. Anonymous comments are welcome too provided there are not asking me to visit a website that will earn me money....

And for the 2 and a half loyal visitors who I have...I know who you are...so dont you escape by just reading my posts and running away...

And whenever i make money using ad sense I promise to give the best commenter some of that booty. So common be a sport....

And if you have forgotten the purpose of this post by now - which I have - scroll up - I wrote it in caps for precisely these forgetfull moments :)

blogs, motivation to blog

Walls of Silence...A Short Story

Vidya was perhaps only 20 when she married Shyaam. They stood beside each other for a third of the day as people bee lined to greet them and hand them large parcels wrapped in blotchy pink and blue paper. Looking doe-eyed, sometimes she would steal a glance at him and see her life beyond. He…completely oblivious of her gesture….engaged his colleagues and friends in banter, asking them to feed themselves heartily before leaving. Their voices drowned in the backdrop of loud music played with the intention of evoking amorous feelings in the couple….sun saiba sun, pyaar ki dhun…maine tujhe chun liya…

They were the last to eat, she looked frail and weighed down with the garlands around her neck and her heavy pallu that pulled her head down with its weight. - When she had seen the saree her aunt had chosen for her nuptials, she could barely hold it and had complained about it to her mom. But the decision was overruled while she was politely explained how she would have to learn to bear the weight of much more in the days to come. Besides, a bride always needs to have her eyes to the ground and the heavy pallu over the head did a marvelous job of ensuring that. Brides who look straight up, are considered impudent remarked the aunt, teaching her the ways of the new adult world she was about to enter. - They were served food on a common dinner plate as shyaam’s sister giggled and rafiq the cameraman insisted on taking shots of them feeding each other. She could barely eat, partly out of excitement and partly fear. Lost in her thoughts she would gaze away at the morsels of food…waiting for her man to put down the spoon and before she knew it, he had put it down only that the morsels had vanished.

The morning after, she woke up in a strange, different house amongst people who were now her family. That space with two and a half rooms housed 5 adults and the two children who were yet to come. Shyaam lived with his parents and his unmarried sister, kamla. For the next 38 years, although much changed in her life, many things remained the same. Each of those 13000 odd mornings she was the first to wake up and get the house in order before rushing off to catch the 8.09 local to VT. The train ride lasted a precious 45 mins. It was in these three quarters of an hour that she could laugh out loud and share her feelings, frustrations and the warm sheera that she had sneakily made for her ‘train friends’. It is here where she could catch a breath of fresh fishy air devoid of judgments and barbs before encountering the humdrum of the day. This morning dose of laugher and later her office ‘fruit club’ would fortify her to face her supervisor, shyaam, kamla and the rest. Evening rides were less fun since it was seldom possible for the friends to co-ordinate their train timings and at the end of a long hard day patience was a rare commodity. An innocent nudge or a push could spiral into the ugliest of catfights.

In the short span of 5 waking hours that she spent at home, shyaam managed to express displeasure about something new each day. If it was not about…why she had stored mangoes in the fridge, it was about the disfigured tooth paste tube! Vidya had learnt to live with this reality and the fact that shyaam drank and smoked at home each day – traits she detested but could do nothing about. What saved her sanity was that on many days she was too tired to feel any emotion. She served her full term at the railway office where she had begun as an intern after her matriculation. Her children, married before her retirement day which she looked forward to having fulfilled her duties as an employee, mother and a wife. Though there was that faint regret of not meeting her train friends and the outside world. Retirement day was big in her life since her colleagues handed her good wishes and an Electric Oven bought with the kitty which people had contributed to generously. The supervisor spoke kind words for a change and they all feasted on hot gulab jamuns and samosas which the peon had ran across the road to fetch just in time for the party.

Post retirement…life was different to say the least. 5 hours of vidya’s existence within the confines of the four walls had stretched to 24. She could only go out to buy veggies once in a few days since the 3 floor climb to her house was not something her aching knees could take more often. Since he would see her home more, Shyaam had found more reasons each day to express his anger and frustration. When he would take an afternoon nap after reading the filmy gossipy magazines he had subscribed to, she would lie there quietly, eyes wide open, asking herself the one question that she had asked herself repeatedly since 1968…she wondered what she was doing wrong, she wondered whether she could do anything that would make him happy? Shyaam blamed her for anything and everything that would wrong….the phone line going dead to the high phone bills owing to their daughter in law’s frequent calls to her mama who lived in Delhi. Vidya could not even ignore his rants. Without anything to distract her, they would ring in her ears all day. Then one day when she went on her regular visit to the vegetable market, she could not find her way back home. She was bewildered since the vegetable vendor was addressing her by some name that seemed unfamiliar to her. Mrs Khana from next door helped her reach home that night. Shyaam lashed out at her for gallivanting in the dark and said it was unbecoming of her to do that at her age. Sometimes she would forget names and faces of people she knew. ‘Have I seen you before…I don’t remember meeting you’ …she had told shyaam’s uncle who was visiting them. Shyaam had put restrictions on her movement out of the house after the incident when she had lost her way home. She grew very quiet and sometimes would call her sister and tell her that she was feeling strange inside but by the end of the call would not remember having such a conversation. Her daughter visited her for 3 days en route their trip to lonavala. That perked her up a bit. After many days, her cheeks looked flushed again. Post he daughters visit, Vidya seemed normal. Quieter than before but not lost. One afternoon while shyaam lay in bed, she opened the door and walked out of her house. She was last spotted by one of their neighbors at VT station. He had tried to talk to her but found that she would not respond. Perhaps that she created a silence around her that no one could penetrate!
alzheimers, story

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Update : Vidya's story does not end here...Did her dreams stop...I was asked...Here is what I had to say

Hypnosis...from 'Stage' to Surgery

A couple of days back, Channel 4, did a 2 hour program on Hypno-surgery. It involves using hypnosis to induce anesthesia instead of the usual way, while performing a surgery. The entire operation was telecast live on TV with a surgeon watching it and commenting about it in the backroom to take the audience through what was happening. The process was smooth, the person being operated upon did not feel any sense of discomfort and the most important thing being – this was for real! Not something staged, no camera tricks, no illusion, and no gimmicks.

This was not the first time that such a procedure was performed using hypnosis as a tool. As far back as the 1800s James Esdaile, a Scottish doctor working in india used it in surgery including amputations.

It has been used widely to help people deal with psychosomatic ailments, deal with behavior that is habitual – like smoking, to overcome phobias, as an aid to forensic investigation, as a motivational tool for sports people or anybody trying to achieve a goal, as a way of inducing a state of relaxation and even in the context of market research in understanding subconscious consumer behavior.

It is a completely safe and natural state to experience, that many of us have experienced involuntarily and unknowingly several times.

And yet when people think about hypnosis, all they can associate with it is stage hypnotism – the kind that involves the hypnotist taking control of his subject and making him behave like a frog or some such pointless application used purely for the purpose of entertainment. One of the reasons for such a strong association could be a lack of awareness about this discipline but another and a stronger reason I would attribute this to is, practitioners who can do so much more with the tool but put it to unethical use, motivated by money or propaganda.

It’s a shame and I hope in the future there is enough serious work done around this tool and written about by the media to make associations between hypnosis and stage entertainment a thing of the past.
hypnosis

Categories: Hypnosis_

Living on the web

Blogs have gained momentum. There are a million new ones out there being created each day and suddenly everyone seems to be blogging. It’s catching fire! In the last 10 days, I have heard blogs being mentioned at least on 4 different occasions on the morning news, the last one talking about a Blooker

So is blogging the next big trend on the world wide web that would stand the test of time and one day stop seeming like a novel activity much like chatting or emailing are today? Or is it a passing fad that eventually people will grow out of? Will blogs meet the same fate as home pages did?

Well, honestly I am no expert on blogging and have started blogging actively only in the recent past - so here I only hope to share my views and by no means speak with any sense of authority on the topic.

My concept of what a blog is has changed dramatically in the last 4 years. When I first heard the word 'blog' about 4 years ago, (at the risk of exposing my ignorance and sounding completely stupid here) I though it was a ‘weird new animal’, of course in my defense I had only heard the word and had no reference to it. Later somebody sat me and explained that it actually stood for web-log and from then until recently I though of it like an online journal – like some one’s journal / diary – only this one was available for viewing. Off late as I have started ‘visiting’ blogs and I like the language that has been created around blogs – I am beginning to feel – it is much more than just a journal.

We ‘visit’ blogs, we don’t just read them.

We leave notes and messages for people on their blogs – ‘hey I haven’t seen you in a while or i need to talk to you urgently, buzz me asap’

We tell people who visit us ‘thanks for stopping by’

If we do not intend to blog, we make our absence know – ‘I won’t be blogging for the next few days. Hope to see you soon’ since you would not want people turn up to your house and find the door locked (did I just say house – I meant site)

Then there are veterans who retire from blogging – much like when we are fed up of social interactions – we become reclusive. And some blogs do see the end of their life.

We even ‘celebrate blog birthdays’ and leave belated wishes when we miss these milestones

Are blogs here to stay? I guess we’ll all know in time but if I were to bet my money on that – I would say they’d stay. Since they have started to fulfill a fundamental human need – the need to connect!

I see life around them and life in them. (And I guess my initial idea of a blog as being something living was not too daft after all). There is one blog title that sums it all for me. It goes ‘I had a life before... now I only have a blog. It would be interesting to observe then, how long blogs live. Measuring blongevity…any takers?
web, blog, social blogging

Category: Blogs_