Today, I want to talk about my mom. Again. Because she is just so amazing. Its based on some random recollections. Have taken care to ensure it reads straight but if any gushing sounds emanate from the narration, kindly pardon.

My mother sometimes visits this garden which is frequented by an assorted variety of women -- mothers bringing kids to play, old ladies accompanied by nurses, middle-aged women out for a breath of fresh air and so on.
For most of them, my mother's entry changes things, subtly. Some of them stop talking mid-way and grin at her, others look up with delight, another bunch want to get down to talking matters of the nation rightaway.
On the few occasions I went with her, the garden throng complained that they had to stop gossiping when my mother arrived. "She hears us out but without interest and then gently tells us that if we can't say anything good about anybody, we should not discuss that person at all. She dislikes any bitching," that is derisively passed off as an old woman's passion.
One amazing 88-year-old lady, who was a school principal and lives alone, loves to discuss politics with mom and tells her, "You are so clued in about everything, it's good to talk with you."
Another lady loves to talk spirituality. "Your mother is a fount of knowledge. She knows so much. I love listening to her," she says.
Even as we enter the garden, people ask after her health. My mom's reply is standard: fine. She won't talk about her recent fall, her aching back and knees, the stab of pain she feels on shifting positions, the fact that she cannot climb at all, the fact that she feels weak and a host of problems that make living so confining for her.
Throughout my life, everybody including friends have told me how my mom is different. Her writings have continually been a source of pride for her fans and friends. Her abridged version of an extremely evolved Jain text, which most dont dream of attempting to understand, has had scholars raving.
Recently, one lady whom I barely know, told me, "I have been watching your mom for years and had told my mother that she is something else."
Another admirer known for her spiritualness tells me every time I meet, "Tumhare to ghar mein ganga hain."
How does all this move my mother? She frowns, wonders whom these people are talking about and walks on non-chalantly. "What is the fuss all about?" she says. Anybody can do it, she insists.
Recently, I was psyched out of my wits when I got an SMS from her cell phone: "Hi, what are you doing?"
I thought my sister may have typed it out for her. Next, she says, "Why r u not replying?" Curious about the ghost-writer, I called her. She said my sister had just shown her once how to sms and she was trying it out. Once? "Ya," she says simply. Since then, she has been checking on my welfare through sms.
When I told her nobody her age could sms, she was indifferent. "Of course not. Everybody can." So I asked her to check with her friends. To date, she has not. But we know the answer.

Mom's lifestyle is so spartan it's not funny. She is not interested in the simple indulgences of life that we live for. She has little love for food, clothes, or movies; doesnt watch television but ensures she catches up on every bit of news locally, nationally and internationally.
Her diet remains the same, day after day, and has been for at least three decades. And so do her sarees. I mean, they have been around for that long as well. Not for her listening to the radio for movie songs, or trying to impress someone with her beauty or brains or wealth.

Give her a stimulating book anyday. Increasingly, it is to do with spirituality, rather than religion.

I am grateful I was born to you, Mum. Hope I can do it again.

The media sickens.

The Congress flag is flying at half-mast at the party headquarters because of the accidental death of the Andhra CM. So, the Star News anchor wants to know from his all-knowing reporter colleague, "Tell us, when does the flag fly half-mast?" I flipped, and flicked the remote before getting a sermon on the circumstances under which a flag should fly low.

Ajit Doval, formerly of IB, has said that media aggravated the Kandahar crisis. Had it not been for us, it could have been managed better.

Air India's voice, Jitendra Bhargava, has only one grouse with the world: the media. "If only they would listen," he complains to anyone who cares to listen.

The biggest villains of the 26/11 terror attack was not Pakistani terrorists but the media channels showing the entire combat operation live second by second and causing the needless deaths of several of our securitymen at the hand of the mercenaries clued in because of TV. No lessons learnt. CNN-IBN's Rajdeep Sardesai and some others began some exercise of self-control which has petered out in five seconds.

Today, the cameras were zooming in on the grieving faces of the Andhra CM's family and partymen shamelessly. They even showed one lady, struggling with her tears, asking them to vamoose. Of course, they didn't. The image was live, straight from the spot, and was replayed hundred times over through the day. How much more real can you get? What would you and I have done without these penetrative insights into a family's sense of loss?

As you see, the singular culprit is TV. The print media is far more sane and responsible even today. Notwithstanding its craving to compete with TV, it's a huge consolation that we have not reached there yet, not even with our dumbing down of news, bombardment of celeb circus and semi-porn.

Thank God.

I have been ODing on Hollywood movies these days. And practically, each one has so many swear words it is not funny. Many of these movies are downright idiotic, some are limp, some others are tacky and some more are spaced out.

There are good ones too but I squirmed through so many of them I marvelled how their societies survive. Our much-condemned Hindi movies of the old, if you dilute their exaggerated emotions, exaggerated drama and supernoisy background score, qualify better as entertainers. The reason we wont say so is that we wont go against dude west. Or, should we say dud west here?

They score big time on individuality. There is far greater emphasis on personal freedoms, personal goals, personal successes, and individual beliefs than there is here. And they beat us hollow on self-assurance, one virtue we have lost sight of for the past few centuries. A country of one billion that won't stand up and be counted. A country that would be happy to chant 'Dhammam Sharanam Gachami' because it comes from of-all-places Burma (even if it originated here) but wont say 'Om Namah Shivaya' without feeling retrograde.

I love many things Indian probably because I am too used to it. I love the food, the festivals, the family bonding, qualities of humility and caring for others, hospitality, cleanliness (I dont agree that we are unclean; I dont know how that one came about), consideration, spirit of sacrifice for family, friends and society at large, and our sense of ease with our surroundings whatever they be (that has kept us together).

But there are some things I seriously don't understand: our hypocrisy, our lack of self-pride and attitude of servility, or shall we call it feudal mentality. Even today, submissive is mistaken to be sweet. More than the big, bad west, there is far greater emphasis on staying sweet, never questioning the boss, never putting across your point of view if it's contrary or contentious. In case you do, you are branded a rebel.

Trust me, I have seen this at several places. Each time I wish to voice my thoughts on something disagreeble, I am stopped by a well-meaning colleague or greeted with alarm. Fortunately for me, my professional culture has made it easier for me to speak straight, even with the editors. And my editors, barring a couple of seriously inept ones, have been amazingly open-minded.

But that's my good luck. Most others falter easily and are misunderstood badly. And that's when I worry why we are such suckers. It shouldn't be disrespectful to air your grievances or opinions. The only thing to watch for is how you do it. Do it without shouting or snapping but logically. If your boss is fair-minded, he will come around and explain why your thinking is wrong, or agree that it's right, or appreciate that you think differently.

It's worked for me, and for a few others like me.

I know, I know. Its totally not on. I cant simply hope to resurrect myself in your esteem by materialising on this blog every few years.

Unforgiveable.

I couldnt agree more. But all I ask is your forgiveness and I'm sure you will forgive me. Let's look at it this way. Between each post, I'm evolving and growing. And that helps me give you additional value with each post. Ok, I'm going to stop here before I sound like those dreadful marketing guys. (No, not you, Bob, Harry, or whoever reading this is in marketing, I mean everyone else who is not. Come to think of it, I don't know anyone reading my blog who is into marketing. That could be a value addition in itself. Alright.. I stop!)

I don't see the point of an education that teaches you obscure stuff like a(sq) + b(sq) = c(sq), but not basic lessons on community living. Like? Like when you throw junk out of a moving train, it lands in the hands of a poor sweeper whose original job is not to clean the place of YOUR trash but ends up doing so because he is uneducated or semi-educated and therefore expected to pick up your trash, by some quirky logic.

I don't see the point of an education that grooms you to wear the tightest tees and skinniest pants but not give you the understanding that when you sit with your shoes on the seat opposite you on the train, it soils the seat and renders it unfit for anyone else to sit on. There is something called dirt and germs that deposit themselves in parts on that seat and unless your co-commuter is an extremely cynical person, she is most likely not to see it and plonk herself right on it. In the process, she would have gotten her clothing soiled. If anybody thinks this is nitpicking, please put yourself in that co-commuter's shoes and please tell me how you relished the experience of sitting on that soiled seat. I wouldnt know because I fall in the category of 'extremely cynical person' who sniffs and peers around before I park myself on a seat.

While we are on train manners, I find it extremely annoying to be poked (not tapped) by someone on the shoulder and then to be subjected to an offensive finger pointing in your direction. This is not actually an accusatory gesture but an over-simplified way of asking you where you will get down. The seeker of this knowledge will not take the trouble to mouth the words herself but will expect you to take the trouble to speak out your destination. If you are getting off much later, you are in danger of being publicly snubbed as she grimaces, turns a cold shoulder and proceeds to poke your neighbour.

I have now mastered the art of being equally brusque and mannerless (not ill-mannered; that would be too grammatically correct and in this day and age, it is politically incorrect to be correct in any way). So, I look up, coldly point a finger with equally minimal effort to the first person standing nearby and look away. In case you havent understood, I simply suggest by another oversimplified method of communication copyrighted by me that my seat has been claimed by someone else.

For the benefit of non-Mumbaikars, let me explain this claim. In a Mumbai train, if you get in at a station other than the starting point, there is no hope of bagging a seat. So, people getting in from other stations conduct this poking and grimacing exercise to determine if any seated commuter would be getting up soon enough for her to claim that seat.

The booking of the said seat is achieved by the means of another gesture, that is slightly more effortful (I know, I know, but refer to last explanation on grammar, please). On finding that the seat is available after a few stations, the seeker seals the deal by pointing the same finger in the direction of the subject of her last poke and then another hasty swipe in her own direction. Message conveyed, the seekers then proceeds to the footboard with her sweaty and exposed underarms to continue listening to her FM radio blaring on her headset.

I am tempted to ask one of these seekers a simple question but never had the guts to. Is there a law against opening your mouth? Can't one of them tap gently, ask pleasantly, 'Where are you getting off?' (ok, dont add 'please', if that gets long) and then resolve not to make a face if the destination doesn't help her cause? What the heck were you doing in school all these years, ma'am?

As I always say, education has done no good to anybody. It has merely bred bloated egos and contributed to environmental, scientific, social, ethical and economic pollution all over. I'll explain that some day if you are seriously interested.