In the last one week, I met two amazing individuals. Both have been known to me for over a decade, or close to two decades but this was the first time I had the opportunity to meet them at leisure for two hours.
One is a retired IPS officer, a thoroughly fine, refined  and gentle human being. The other is at the top echelons of the one of the country's foremost corporate group. Both are in their mid-sixties and settled in family duties. While one continues to work but in a way that work defines pleasure for him even after forty years, the other is gainfully pre-occupied with contractual obligations outside government and other intellectual pursuits.
What was so refreshing and reassuring about them was their outlook to life and their total lack of whine about it. I'm sure it gave them lots of complain about - like it does to everybody else. But they appreciated the beauty of life, took its challenges and pain in their stride and found interesting ways to resolve them.
The retired IPS officer was bed-ridden two years ago when he saw Baba Ramdev on television demonstrating exercises that could be done lying down. In two months, he cured himself of a terrible sciatica condition that had immobilised his right leg.
From then on, he has stuck to his daily regimen with a child-like enthusiasm which radiates on his face as well. He wakes up at 4, does his yoga, picked up from various schools after keen and careful observation, makes tea for him and his wife, and then gets on with his day just as he would have 40 years ago as a young officer on a field posting in rural Maharashtra.
He looks nothing of the archetypal burly cop. With kind and gentle eyes and a smile playing on his lips, his face sparkles with compassion and sweetness. Blessed with an intelligent sense of humour and impeccable manners that can make you nervous while dealing with him (if I wasn't thick-skinned enough, I with my journalistic brusqueness would have scrammed long ago), he appreciates the small and big things in life, is open to new ideas and thinking, and is generous to a fault.
He hardly talks about himself, but is a walking encyclopedia on policing and reads copiously. The Mantralaya mandarins havent been unkind to him but havent exactly venerated him either. Once, in a weak moment perhaps, I was complaining to him about how one suffers for having integrity, and he calmly said, "Seema, that's the price we have to pay." It occurred to me at that point that he too may have felt at some point that he deserved better but he slept on it.
Sure, he could have made his millions and got quoted in the press every second day, like some of his illustrious colleagues. But THAT thought must never have bothered him. What mattered to him was his peaceful sleep and a collected conscience.
To be fair to his political and policing bosses, he certainly got a good deal right till his retirement and was hugely respected. There was a time when he was given a huge responsibility and he was in the papers every day. He may have given in to the temptation of indulging the media every day but the fact was he simply had no such temptation. He did not once call me to ensure his name in the papers. In fact, whenever he did talk to me, it was always about information - he would devour information - and not about him.
A little bit of lobbying would have ensured him the topmost job that every police officer covets (quite without  reason actually because it is a ceremonial post and a boring one too. All it does is get you the salute of every policeman in the state). But he steered clear of nudging the men who mattered. Karmanye vaadhikaraste, maa phaleshu kadachana.
This brings me to the other protagonist of this piece, who quotes this line from the Gita as his guiding principle in life. The corporate bigwig is a simpleton at heart. A very savvy customer in the wheeling-dealing of his world, he however refused to be bogged down by the sinister manifestations of human nature around him. He looks as fit as he did a decade back, even though he is definitely putting on in years as the rest of us.
"What is past is gone, what is tomorrow is  not known. So why get into either?" is his simple but impossible-to -practise take on life. This would sound perfect coming from a saint but loses value in the thick of boardroom intrigues and colleagues pulling you down wherever possible. Sure, unlike my retired IPS officer friend who remained meticulously honest and clean all through his career, he must have pulled a few tricks of his own too. But none of his professional persona percolates to his core. With a friendly face, he remains pulsatingly positive about life and holds no grudges.Even today, he steps into the Byculla market to buy his weekly supply of fruit and when he gets to his 2500-sq feet home in his plush sedan, he is reassured that he will live. "If you can survive that market, you can survive everything, " he grins. He is a rare breed in his class who keeps a ear to the ground. He has made some (not much) sartorial concessions to his calling, but likes to stay grounded by roughing it out in small hotels and walks when necessary without much ado. "To keep in touch with the pulse of the people," he says. He knows he belongs to the 5 per cent of society that makes it easy for him to cut off from the rest of the world. But he wont. And to prove it, he has a hardy stomach that digests sugarcane juice off the street.

When I met him, the idea was generally to touch base with him as both of us had the time to spare.
I came back with the feeling that not life's imperfections nor mine mattered.

When the retired IPS officer, with his extremely likeable and lively wife, visited my place last week, I had looked forward to a nice, cosy meal with some intellectual stimulation  and warmth. What he and his wonderful wife left behind was a positivity and feeling of satiety that endures.



Most men cant handle retirement. Especially government officers who suddenly get stripped of their status, sheen and glory in one fell swoop. They end up living in the past. I have seen IAS and IPS officer who talk endlessly of all the milestones and  events in their career. They can be pardoned for being that way as it is tough.

Here are two individuals who have stayed strong, fair and fresh all through life's tugs and pulls, leading the Gita way by example.

Sorry for having been away for so long.
Life was a maze. And yes, Pixie was a crucial part of it. How can it be otherwise. Without her, life's rather static, the same chores at home and work. Work, of course, has improved and I shouldnt complain. I had feared I would be back in journalism in a flash considering its symbiotic hold over me. But this time, I have persevered well, thanks to some angelic intervention.
It's been almost a year since I went off the media radar and I've loved every moment of it, all the while expecting to dread it. All it takes sometimes to get your life back is to steel yourself to make that one decision you run away from.
For those who came in late, I have branched into communications consultancy- a nascent field and a much-in-demand one too. As I realised the moment I quit my last job. Terrible as I am with peddling my skills, I didnt inform most contacts that I had quit. The issue came up in casual conversations with a few people and there I was, with work pouring in from all kinds of people.
Having become very picky about what I do, - blame it on middle age hormones - I chucked some work and took up some. Soon, I found I enjoyed what I did and as I worked with known people, the comfort level was high.
Apart from corporates, I work with NGOs too and that, is just so satisfying, even if not in terms of moolah. You feel you're contributing to society in some way.  It assuages my guilt for having neglected social work all my life in spite of being born in a family that knows no other way of living. 
Believe it or not, I have yet to print my business cards. I didnt even realise it myself until a friend's friend working with a well-known NGO called me to ask if I could send her my "portfolio". I grinned and said I had none. I listed out my clients and told her I have never needed to make a portfolio. I later realised that almost sounded unprofessional. If I am a consultant I should have my end covered. With business cards, profile,  references from clients, blah blah. But then I told myself, hey, I cant be bothered. I havent needed it yet. So why waste time?
Ciao for now. God bless.
 

Have thought of writing a million times but simply never get down to it. Not for want of ideas or issues or general chatter but the futility of it all.

All through my life, right from college, I have wondered at the worth of all our labours. The way we hold such store by our everyday activities -- brush, bathe, eat, dress, learn, talk, work and even sleep. Of these, many will count as daily chores that are required for the body, such as sleeping, eating, brushing, etc. And I shall therefore ignore them in today's dissertation!

What about studying? What about working? What about cooking those elaborate meals that seem to signify an evolved taste? (By the way, the level of processing of a food item such as pasta or cheese is, in an unintentional coincidence, directly correlated to the degree of evolution of a food item in the world of the upwardly mobile).

Is any of this really worth it? As so many philosophers have advised us since time immemorial (please dont squirm, I love that phrase!) to treat every day as our last. Alas! How many do? I certainly dont. I put off my must-dos, my patch-ups, my investments, my projects, my search for the Ultimate Reality (assuming there is one) -- all for tomorrow.  I spend each day pondering afresh over the value of my rigours.

Why blog when no one will read. (I rarely accept that people dont read because I dont blog and the rare fan [ok, reader, if you insist] or two clicks out my blog from her list of favourites after a year's patient wait!) ?

Why write about those murderous scandals when the dust will settle on them a day after my piece is published and nothing will come of it (assuming the editor sieves it through for want of any potential harm to the MD, the owner, the publisher, the advertisers, the general manager or him) ?
Why sweat over your health when all your workouts are only firmly pushing you towards your own grave? All the  fitness in the world cannot save you from a certain death?

Why crusade for a better governance or government when its results are at best ephemeral?

The bottomline of this refined discourse is that nothing lasts. Since our birth, as someone morbidly and mournfully discerned, we are inexorably hurtling towards our end. Nothing lasts. So what's the point of everything I do? After death, waits another birth, another endless rigmarole of chores, studies, jobs, kids, and what-have-you.

So far so good. I completely endorse every bit said above. That has never stopped me from giving my best to whatever I am doing, even though the thought at the back of my head springs to the front every now and then to make me question the worthwhileness of everything I do. The world is insensible. Think about it. 

Let me look at the same thread again to argue another point. The joys are futile and so are the sorrows. Dont cry but dont laugh either. On second thoughts, laughter makes you happy for a while, so why not? Tears are painful. So let's decide to only be happy, never sad.

Now, can we do that? If we agree that this seems to be the inference at the end of a process of logical deductions, we should as logical creatures, be ready to accept what it serves up as right. So, can we always promise to be happy come what may? And we are not talking to the saints here.

Moral of the story: Never believe in logic.

Hang on, there is more. Therefore, as logic doesnt quite get it, we can safely believe that all that defies logic doesnt necessarily not exist. Which means God, karma, rebirth and other surreal phenomena that we dismissively box into religion could possibly, perhaps, likely exist. The trouble is that all the illogical books on these esoteric issues (anything that is non-evidentiary ends up in the esoteric definition) cannot convince a dyed-in-the-wool logic-hater dying to believe in them. She is convinced there is more to the world than meets the eye but wants to know how to see some of that.

That's when the soul-churning begins. Is there one God or two or three or many? Is he formless? Is he the creator? Why should my soul pass out just when my body stops cooperating? Why doesnt it leave before or after? Who created the creator? How can space be infinite (this is one point where science and religion concur shamelessly)?  Why is education superior to religion (here, I mean Hindu religion, as other religions seem to co-exist with their learned followers.This is truly befuddling. Every Hindu who has studied beyond Grade IV believes religion to be rubbish and is mortified if ever found prostrating before an idol) ?

Here are some of my top-of-the-head logical extrapolations (all my own work, as Busybee would say)

If a mobile phone can catch invisible frequencies and give us crystal clear sounds, why not telepathy?

If the moon, at a distance 30 times the diameter of the earth (at 1000 kmph, we would take 24 hours multiplied by 16 to reach the moon), induces tempests in tides, why not the fluids inside our bodies, our moods and the people around us?

If the earth's magnetism, which we call gravity, can hold us steady all round its oval surface, why can't other spatial objects such as satellites or planets affect our movements and thinking?
Just as magnets are proven to have negative and positive powers of attraction, why can't the aura of your personalities draw certain types of people and repel certain other types?
And last but not the least, if we survive --and rather well - without any knowledge of the goings-on inside our bodies, why cant the world believe that what it doesnt know can exist?

Sigh!

P.S. This piece has smartly ambled from meaninglessness of everything to meaningfulness of the unexplained phenomena. I hate confessing it was inadvertent, but then the credit, like everything else, would be futile. As is the tectonic shift in my philosphical rumination. Godbless.

for a lark.. fun.


Free-IQTest.net - IQ Test For Free

This is Pixie, pretty as a picture!

Television channels are tut-tutting the bandh and sermonising about lodging a protest in other  (undisclosed) ways. Facebook has a string of comments from educated friends condemning the bandh call and making corny jokes on politicians in 'bandh' galas etc. As I have said in a previous post -- quite some time back now -- education makes us snooty and stupid and far far removed from reality. And that includes me, no doubt.

I can see the point they are making. Bandhs achieve no real purpose except to incovenience a whole lot of people and is just too downmarket a thing for a liberal, right-thinking (as opposed to right-wing-thinking) person to do. Sure, that makes sense. My heart goes out to the day labourers, and casual workers who depend on their day's income to get food. A bandh grievously handicaps them.

The worst victims of a bandh are patients who suffer in several ways. An ill person who cannot be taken to the hospital on time or operations get postponed or general negligence in treatment because of inadequate staff or inability of relatives to mobilise blood or medicines (we have faced this and know what it feels like) or the worst of all, inability to reach emergency treatment in time.

I totally feel for these two categories of people and would oppose bandhs if only for this reason.

But my moot point is, is there any other way to let a government know it is in the wrong? Dharnas and morchas and fasts no longer work,. We have become inured to them. And unless we go raiding the state armoury and create a shoot-at-sight anarchy, there is no way the government of the day -the incumbent one led by an especially thick-skinned Congress - is ever going to feel the pulse and fury of a people long brutalised in various ways, in this case, by monthly price hikes.

I am opposed to bandhs used as a tool for political oneupmanship. But while a bandh like the one we had today may have decided political overtones, it is necessary to propel the cause of the common man. The united show of opposition to the fuel price hike will most likely achieve at least one single purpose of keeping another hike at bay for a while.

A fuel price hike doesnt really affect the bhadralok who can afford to raise eyebrows at these political antics. But the aam janta around us - the domestic help, watchmen, liftman, gardener, driver, is badly beaten  by inflation and wouldnt mind a leg-up in whichever form.

If the bandh manages to stall yet another shameless spiral of inflation even if for a while, he/she will get a breather. While the patient's troubles are visible and tangible, those of the underprivileged lot remain unnoticed until a show of might pushes it to the foreground.

Time for pupdate! 

Pixie has learnt to shake hands. Hubby, who feeds her more often than me, has taught her to raise her right   paw which she gives readily. But contrary to her heightened animatedness, hers is a dead shake. The paw is held out limp, as if to tell the shaker she is not too interested but aap itni zid kar rahe ho to, here goes!
This morning, we were a little late in giving her her Cerelac breakfast (yes, the vet told us to give her that). For a kid who normally gives us hell while feeding her, she was waiting on the fringes of the parking lot, looking this way and that. She has learnt to sit on her two hind legs and  looks rather tiny when she does. Each time someone walked past, she darted back to her hiding place under the car, and then came right out for one more peek.
As usual, she raced towards us when she saw us, getting between and on our legs all the time, generally making it difficult to walk the few steps to her eating area. Once we did, she had no intention of settling down to eat. A few hungry laps and she was out, her two front paws in the air, preparing for a climb on hubby's legs.
These days, hubby's trousers sport dirt marks right from the morning, as Pixie gets a go at them first thing.
We have decided she is not a dog but a cross between a monkey and a mouse. Her expressions are that of a lost and mischievous mouse, while her movements are most positively learnt in some monkey's womb. No offence meant.
About the picture, we have managed another one - the first one was all shaken thanks to her inability to lie still - and hope to transfer to the comp soon.

 

Turns out Pixie is two months old.

Took her to the vet today who kept telling us, "She is very cute!"
Pixie lay frozen on the examination table- a glistening sheet of steel, too smooth for her to have any grip. More than the lack of a grip, the new surroundings scared her. She stood stiffly hanging on to the slippery floor by her long toenails for a good half hour. The vet looked at us sceptically when we told her how she scampers and climbs up people's legs all the time.
It certainly was a very different Pixie who stared blankly and fixedly into space while the vet went about opening her tiny mouth and checking her out in a hundred places.
Pixie weighs two kilos. The vet told us she will wean away soon enough and that it's time to feed her solids. We bought her some mineral cum vitamin supplements and puppy food. I'm hoping the vet knows her job because we are clueless about canine issues.
Now, about the focus of all the fuss, Pixie. Pixie got us worried with her behaviour.  Throughout the trip, she didn't move. When I lifted her to weigh her (they weigh me first and then weigh me with her!), I realised her heart was pounding. She was frozen in fear and trembling at the unfamiliar surroundings. So, I decided not to put her back on the steel floor. Instead, I cradled her and, caressing her back, cooed to her all the while. It took quite a while for this to work.
About ten minutes later, her heart beat was normal. On the way back in the car, she crawled under the seat as if to make herself  invisible. Only when I settled her on her home turf did the tail finally unfurl. It took a few more seconds for it to begin wagging.
And once she was sure, the frolicking began. She raced for my toes and then my salwar, then arched for a climb. When all these bites were sternly denied, she curled up, but only for one second. The next second she was up for another gig.
We finally have a picture and will post it soon.

Pixie update: 

Looking at Pixie is just so refreshing. It also makes me very philosophical.
The little thing doesnt care for who I am, what my status in life is, whether I am rich or poor, educated or illiterate, good human being or bad, ugly or pretty, popular or painful, smart or dull, intelligent or dumb. She simply likes me. Period.
Each time she sees me, she wags her tail fast and hard like a pendulum.  And she will continue to like me so long as I dont hurt her. It's that simple for animals. Especially dogs. She does not make cold calculations like human beings about whether I will be useful to her, whether she needs to be nice to me, whether she needs to be in my good books, or even whether she needs me. She has no ego and her love is there. Unquestioning and undemanding. Not like a mother as she did not create me. Not like a sibling as they are related and therefore open to the charge of selfish love. Not like a friend because friends can change. And Pixie doesnt.

I am constantly judging her on multiple factors: she is looking cuter today; oh, her stomach is sticking out; she should have slightly bigger eyes; etc. I drool over her because she is so intelligent. She has figured I dont like being touched. So this smart kid who used to lunge at my feet previously now comes close, smells them and stops short of touching them till I give her the green signal -- if I dont protest, she licks gently and leaves it at that. If I protest slightly, she simply walks off, subsuming her innate playfulness in what I presume is a dominant concern for my likes and dislikes. [She is not as charitable with other passers-by. Buoyant and bubbling with mischief, she virtually climbs up every human leg she gets to see around her, probably in a bid to stave off her loneliness. :-(  ]

I find this sweetness in her extremely endearing. And then, I wonder, would I, on the other hand, have been as charmed if she had been different? If she had been a bit dumb or a bit dull? Or not half as cute? I am forever making inferences based on my perception of Pixie and my interactions with her. Whereas Pixie is absolutely non-judgmental. She accepts me as I am, warts and all. In fact, she doesnt even recognise them nor does she bother identifying them. Unlike human beings who spend every moment of their lives compulsively and instantaneously putting a value on everything and everyone we see or come in touch with.
Pixie is as happy with me now as she would be if I were the prime minister or had won the Nobel Prize for my pontifications. My worldly appearance or engagements make no difference to her. Her world view is moulded by a simply set of equations determined by one benchmark -- love.

Now look at us going about our ways in a pre-set, pre-determined fashion that is always, inevitably, unconditionally governed by a single principle of utility. Our family ties (often), friends (mostly), social networks, are chiefly dictated by our self-interest, and even when it is not, we are constantly playing the judging game. We like X because she writes well, we like Y because he looks good,  Z is good company.
There is always a 'takeaway'. There is some self-oriented  reason we like what we like and dislike what we dislike. Good looks give us pleasure, good writing brings us joy and so on.

We are rarely as fond of a person who looks ugly, is not demonstrably good at anything and also not remotely important in the complicated web of sansar we have woven around ourselves. Had this ugly good-for-nothing at least been a smart networker, he would have earned himself some respect.

Dealing with Pixie, in a sense, has been a spiritual experience for me, which makes all of life's worries, anxieties and selfishness appear just so so small and hollow. She embodies purity in a way we can never quite understand, let alone, appreciate.

Thank you, sweetie, for helping me touch base with what matters and bringing me closer to myself.





.

The latest on my pup is it is a girl! We were so frazzled by her sudden presence in our lives we didnt notice all this while! Now, our naming process has travelled from Thambi to Rajee to Rashee to Pixie. And Pixie it is right now. At least for now.


She is now in the parking lot with two other dogs for company. We had mistaken one she-dog there to be her mother because of her black patches. But we found another one just like Pixie and realised the other one was probably her 'masi', as Hubby says! A rather unfriendly aunt who doesnt much bother with her. So Pixie keeps to herself all day, mostly lying under the car and then wags her tail hysterically when we go with a bowl of milk. Never ever seeing the container, she tears out of the hiding place towards us. This point in our interaction always sets me off on a panic run as I dont like dogs touching me or licking my feet. Not even Pixie.

After this cat and mouse game, I manage to find my way back to the milk container, which always gets toppled over by Pixie in her exhilarated chase after me. Eventually, the realisation dawns and hunger takes over. I made good my escape in the mean time, before she has time to raise her head.


The rains scare her. She sits under the car, a proper frightened puppy. At times like these, I melt and feel like taking her inside the house. But then cold logic overrides and I limit my guilt feeling to just that. Eventually, she is back to her happy self, to my great relief.
 

This is the link to my piece on The Hoot. The story has been turned around a bit and for those who are interested, I have pasted my original story too.

http://thehoot.org/web/home/story.php?storyid=4631&mod=1&pg=1&sectionId=20&valid=true

It hit me in the pit of my stomach just when I was having lunch. A brief  Times of India report on an inside page talked of hundreds of farmers and farmer widows going hungry in protest at Pandharkawda in Yavatmal district in Nagpur on June 1.

Yavatmal is one of the worst affected districts of Vidarbha, also known as the suicide capital of the country. The farmers were protesting to highlight their critical fight for survival and the failure of the sundry government doles to provide relief.

Their twin demands were: probe into the failure of special relief packages and disbursal of fresh crop loans for the kharif season. They made a very reasonable demand: “sustainable crop alternative” and not high technology and high risk crops promoted by American MNCs.

The news had all the ingredients worthy of a perfect news story. It had a new development, human interest, pathos, controversy, largeness of scale: farmers going on a hunger strike to protest the unpalatable apathy of an administration and the failure of cosmetic relief packages from no less than the PMO; a Comptroller and Auditor General report that cites irregularities in the Prime Minister’s special Rs 3,720 crore relief package for the three million farmers of Vidarbha, hinting at massive corruption.

Yet, most newspapers gave it a miss or mentioned it in a way the reader would anyway miss it.

A few days later, a similar report grazed past the media in spite of being tailor-made for a newsbreak: On Environment Day (June 5), Vidarbha reported 213 human deaths due to the heat wave in ten days. This tragedy is interwoven with the larger problem of water scarcity in the region which in turn is the result of an enduring neglect of agriculture by the governments. 

Most rivers and reservoirs in Vidarbha are dry and groundwater table too is fast sinking.  Activist Kishore Tiwari says there is only three per cent water in Vidarbha dams and four per cent water in Marathwada dams, another water-scarce region neighbouring Vidarbha. A relentless plunder of the forests, skewed agricultural policies, inefficient cropping patterns, invasion of GM, etc. have all simultaneously led the charge on the miserable farmers.

Incidentally, whatever water is available underground is unpotable and hazardous but the beleaguered villagers have no choice. On his part, Maharashtra chief minister Ashok Chavan has cited water scarcity in over 20,000 villages, clearly a conservative estimate.

These facts had all the trappings of a horror story. In fact, there are a string of horror stories in the villages to hold the attention of the reader but for some reason, the media is not willing to baulk. The story of the Indian rural masses that can yield ‘Breaking News’ for our byte-thirsty media cameras for days and years on end is mystifyingly told only in passing.

The Indian farmer’s only benefactor is the rain. We refuse to lend a helping hand even when he continues staring at the skies for years on end. By our sheer apathy to the man who gives us our daily bread, we have worn him out. He has been reduced to a nomad, disowned by his people and country.

The priorities of the media are very clear. The city alone matters, and that to the exclusion of the villages. As far as the media is concerned, Mahatma Gandhi’s precious villages can continue to rot and, like the state in the Marxian scheme of things, wither away.

The tragic irony of many urbanites toasting ourselves over increments and promotions and generally holidaying this season hits hard when large parts of the country that keep us going are weathering untold financial and psychological distress. For several years running.

The story of two Indias—one urban, savvy and upwardly mobile, and the other with its heart and mouth at the mercy of the rains – has been told. So it is nothing short of a miracle that both still manage to move together even if not so much in sync but certainly without crossing each other’s paths.

If the farmer has been kind to let us be, we have been cruel enough to let him be. There is an unsettling disconnect between him and us. We have simply not bothered with his worries, which have been growing over the years.

While urban India doesn’t care, the farmer -- even if consumed by his own misery -- is simple and unquestioning enough not to contest the gigantic pie-share claimed by his privileged urban cousin.

The aspirational chart of our farmers hangs low, reaching merely the bank gates in the fond hope that he will able to spare himself the prospect of suicide by repaying the few hundreds or thousands of rupees he borrowed to buy seeds and fertiliser.

Every day, he sees his countrymen in skinny jeans swishing past his field in a Skoda, glued to i-pods that bleat an unfamiliar beat. But even though he is geographically within touching distance, he knows that world is not within his reach. Not until the Skoda driver rolls down the window, pushes up his glares and takes a close, hard look at him.

This interaction can happen only if, one, the driver pauses to take in his surroundings, and two, he rolls down the glass. If he stays immersed in his happy lot, there is little chance he will ever know about the man wiping a silent tear every day on his fields. Similarly, even if he is keen to get a peek at the outside world, he cannot do so unless his window is open. That is, unless the media, which is the lay man’s window to the world, is sensitised to the farmer’s plight, it cannot really open the driver’s eyes to the sorrowful vista of a forlorn land and a forlorn land owner.

Any trip to the villages brings one a flood of stories crying to be told. One of them is that of a new generation which is disillusioned with farming and hooked to the television. The youth in the villages are increasingly taking to petty and serious crime to feed their homes. They have no faith in the supposedly democratic systems to deliver justice.

Another story is that of the high level of tolerance of the Indian farmer. An hour of load shedding has us urbanites cursing the government, the prime minister and the world at large but a 12-hour load-shedding gets hardly a whimper out of the farmer. He often has to be goaded to gripe and complain. And, when he does that, he does it blandly, devoid of emotion. He is resigned to his fate. All he wants is a leg-up at times when he cannot help himself.

It’s not so much the reporter as the media publishers who bear the large brunt of the blame for this shameful state of affairs. Most publishers find farmer stories dull, weepy and prefer racy, urban stories that their readers can instantly connect with. This means a large, stifling dose of Bollywood stories on meaty stuff such as which of the Khans is a chain smoker and who does what, or whom, on a Sunday.

News about the farmer, if ever written, lie buried in a corner of an inside page of a newspaper. The editor believes he has done his job and the reporter doesn’t know how to take it forward.

The need of the hour is for media houses to take up the matter on a war footing, flaunt such stories across the banner, scream five to ten questions at the government each day a la Indian Express during Emergency and generate mass awareness about the wanton crucifixion of the Indian farmer.

Gen Next is tuned in, all we need to do is play it for them.

Ends

Today, we sent the pup-- we have named him Thambi, (Tamil for small brother) typifying cute and small for us -- out in the open.
Yesterday, it rested all day peacefully and drank some milk after some effort. He would nibble at the plastic container assuming it's edible. And then, I would have to make his tongue somehow make contact with the milk to make him understand. After two tries, he figured it out.
Early morning today, -- I am a late riser but was curious to know how he was faring -- I peeped into his room. He was fit and fine, and had clearly claimed ownership of the room. He had peed under the chair and pooped a little away. I sighed. I didnt really want to be cleaning up doggie poop first thing in the morning but the place was stinking and my maid would most certainly refuse.
The little fellow was oblivious to the mess he had made. He sat right behind the door, an adorable ball of shiny black coat, with pinkish paws and nose. He was probably lonely and delighted to see me. Wagging his tiny tail vigorously, he toddled towards me, in the process landing his front paws in some of his own piss. I shooed him away firmly, not wanting those paws anywhere on me. He thought it's a game, and went on wagging and chasing me. After two or three stern reminders to stay away, he understood that I was no friend and dolefully sulked under the table.
Amidst all that frenetic activity in the background, I wound my hands in some more plastic bags, and mopped up his various discharges with tissues and raced to the loo to throw it all away. Then, I stood there shuddering for a while at the realisation of what I had just done.
After washing my hands, I gave him warm milk. He had to be drawn to the container, but this time, he lapped it up on his own without further prompting. Just when I thought I was now free to do something about my life, I saw with considerable exasperation that I would have to go through the cleaning ritual all over again. Thambi had peed and pooed all over again in new places this time! Milk probably does this to him.
I cleaned up again, washed my hands again, gave him some more milk again. And then, I decided to wake up the hubby to give me a break. Bursting with new-found health, Thambi joyfully played with him for a while and then, very easily let himself be lifted out of the house. He knew he was in safe hands.
Hubby drove him to his office canteen where there are two more dogs for company. Last heard, he was playfully running after visitors and angling up the canteen staff's ankles even though he can barely walk. I pray that he grows up well and stays fine.

P.S. Nandu, Thanks for your comment. Thambi is totally adorable and the thought of keeping him did cross my mind but I really dont have the energy to take care of the fellow. And the worst part (that I have faced too as a child) is when pets die. Its traumatic. I'm just happy he came into our lives for a brief while. He is not much far and we will certainly be keeping an eye on him though.

He entered our home in our hands.
This morning, my husband told me about a pup in our garden who was apparently yelping in pain all night. I saw him hunkered down in the one-foot-wide nullah in the garden. He was a cute, black foot-long fellow, with pinkish paws. He was shivering and sat immobile. Water was trickling into the nullah making him further wet. But the poor soul had no idea how to get himself out of the situation. The thought of climbing up to dryer zones had occurred to him but his tiny legs could not hoist him up.
It was deja vu time. We had gone through a similar -- much worse -- experience last or the previous monsoon when a she-dog (I refuse to call them bitches) got severely trapped in an overflowing gutter near the road outside our home. None of us had the inclination or guts to extract her from the filth until a kind man going to work decided to take matters in hand and did his good deed for the day. She limped a bit but was happy to be alive, dry, and free.
Getting this pup out wasnt going to be that difficult. The nullah is wide enough and clean. I wrapped my hands in plastic bags and lifted him out, placed him on the garden floor. Soon enough though, he found his way back into the nulla again while chasing a she-dog in hope of milk.
Wondering whether I was going to spend all day saving his life, I lifted him up again, soiling another pair of plastic bags and frowning slightly at the carbon footprint I was accumulating on my new job.
I brought him warm milk which he couldnt identify. Rather, he started nibbling at the plastic container until I somehow managed to give his tongue a taste of the liquid. He lapped it all up. That told me he couldnt be too unwell if he was eating.
He stayed up shivering for a while. I didnt know what to do until my mother told me to cover him with an old blanket. I used an old pillow cover which seemed to give him a lot of relief. Soon enough, he turned it into a mattress and dozed off.
The shivering though continued. And that caused us some concern, as he had spent the entire night out getting severely drenched in the rains. We also worried that any further rains would be damaging if he lay out in the open.
So, with some reluctance, I agreed to let him into the house for the night, all the while conjuring up images of me cleaning up after him. I kept hot water ready for a bath so that at least we didnt have to suffer his dirt, ticks and whatever else.
My husband carried him in, while he checked out his new surroundings looking all round. We decided not to bathe him in case he had fever and instead, scrubbed him well, an experience he enjoyed and cooperated with.
The first thing he did on getting cosy in his newly appointed corner was to empty his bowels on my freshly cleaned floor. The next thing he did was to pee on the pillow cover-cum-bedspread.
The upside was that though I'd called the vet, I realised that visit may not be necessary as the shivering had almost stopped.
Right now, he is in the farthest bedroom having a deep sleep that he missed last night. I hope he is fine by tomorrow morning. I worry for so many others like him who must get stuck like this all the time.
Life IS unfair.

I have finally begun believing in destiny. Why else would someone with an incredibly unclassy language like Shobha De (or is it Shobhaa De or Shoba De? Given her affection for numerology, one can never be too sure) survive in this day when India has so many good English writers?

Offering little of value, her ‘columns’ inevitably snap and sneer at people who cannot defend themselves. They read like hysterical diatribes and smack of a valiant effort to sound superior by employing the old-fashioned art of ridiculing others. In her column of June 5 in Deccan Chronicle, she chose Sri Sri Ravi Shankar to breathe venom on from her seemingly bottomless pit of self-replenishing ire.

It is not clear what aches De. Is it her frustration with happy people who are content to do yoga, meditate and reach out for a higher goal in life? Is it her vaulting ambition that has perhaps not found its object, notwithstanding her stupendous networking skills? She is happy to hobnob with Raj Thackeray, even admire him. He is after all powerful even if as a nuisance monger and therefore worthy.

Unlike the Raj Thackeray types, Sri Sri represents a class of people who preach a higher good and spends money collected transparently from rich AND poor not on himself or the organisation but on countless rural benefit programmes that have never been documented by the media and that would be too much trouble for someone like De to look up.

De’s credo involves living it up at parties, posing for pretty pictures with book publishers, beefing up egos of influential people who can promote her agenda and writing reams of super-unworthy columns. It’s a bit ridiculous for someone who clearly has low credibility and resides on a far inferior plane to be spouting gyan on a spiritual crusader with a global canvas.

Not for her reaching out to the poor and underprivileged like Sri Sri does, unless she gets the mileage for it. One cannot expect her to begin to understand what he does. So while she can be forgiven by charitable souls for lack of depth, the publisher certainly cant be. He is expected to exercise a sense of responsibility and cannot be condoned for rolling out her demented blather.

Her column give rise to an idle thought that is also a very compelling one. Would she have dared write so loosely about any other non-Hindu religious leader? If a bullet, God forbid, had landed in a suburban place of worship of any other religion and the head of that place was being grilled by TV channels ad nauseam, one suspects De and her ilk would drool with sympathy over his plight and, far from talking about his “bleating,” she would be shedding glycerine tears in solidarity for the man’s monumental suffering at the hands of the media and the assaulter.

Any discerning media person would have got disgusted with the way the channels kept on and on about how Sri Sri called it an attack when he clearly and repeatedly said that it was for the police to decide what it was. Far from getting antsy about the assault, Sri Sri clearly said he had forgiven the person, whoever he was. Even that drew criticism from the mighty De for some underhand reasons.

If there was someone who looked aggrieved in this episode, it was Sri Sri and the Art of Living even as the media, predominantly CNN-IBN, distorted everything they said. Here’s a sample:

AOL version: “We didn’t see the shot, merely heard it.” 

Media version implying a cook-up : “Only Sri Sri’s close followers heard the shot.”

AOL version: “We realised it could be an assault only after we heard about the injury. The police took time reaching as they are about 45 minutes away."

Media version: “Sri Sri unhappy that the police came 45 minutes late.”

AOL version: “We don’t know if Guruji was the target. He could have been. That’s for the police to find out.”

Media version: “AOL says Guruji was certainly the target.”

AOL version: “Guruji had left the podium and was walking to his car slowly greeting devotees. He took five minutes to reach the car, and heard the shot as soon as he sat in the car.”

Media version implying he is lying: “Guruji had sat in the car five minutes before the shot was fired but he claims he was present.”

AOL version: “The police call it an incident. A shot has been fired. It’s not a mere incident.”

Media version: “AOL says it was an out and out attack on Guruji.” The AOL may not be aware of the definition of an incident in police lingo as opposed to an attack but the media should certainly have got its grounding on these basic terms.

AOL version: “We have forgiven the attacker.”

Media version: “How can he be so calm if the attack had actually happened so that he doesn’t mind forgiving?” Either way, you lose.

Chidambaram: It “may be, maybe,” a dispute between two disciples.

Media version: “Home minister says it was a dispute between two disciples.”

For a journalist like me, it was a challenge to watch a single channel without raising my eyebrows every minute. There was no application of mind that would have first and foremost called into question Chidambaram’s controversial statement. Every single channel and paper lapped it up unquestioningly and greedily. As did enterprising De, quick to believe the powerful once again, and brazenly distort this bit further in her column.

A mediocre journalist with basic integrity, and perhaps some intelligence, would have asked Chidambaram, “How the hell can you, a responsible figure, speculate like this without even a single clue or evidence? And if you want to hazard wild guesses, why not assume it “maybe, maybe” Osama bin laden?”

The media had a sound motive to sensationalise and generally defame the spiritual leader because one, he is unfortunately a Hindu guru; two, there is a unanimous reassurance that he would not call an all-out war on his detractors a la Raj Thackeray; three, he is not bothered about the media or acclaimed frauds like De or Da.

If De indeed had any discerning powers that she should ideally possess as a pulp writer and wannabe media appraiser (not critic), she would have questioned the coverage of the episode which was so transparently flawed and not bleated about her disgust with happy souls doing good work.

It is a tragedy of Indian media that every poorly projected news episode passes off unnoticed and uncontested while pathetic columnists write the first reckless thing on the top of their spongy heads that achieve the task of filling up the mandatory column space.

http://thehoot.org/web/home/story.php?storyid=4451&mod=1&pg=1&sectionId=19&valid=true

We put so many labels on people.. hot-tempered, cool, lazy, conformist, rebellious, smart, go-getter etc. The very first sight of a person immediately relays some signals to us, wittingly and unwittingly. The basic ones concern her appearance.

Then, when we exchange hellos, we make the secondary assessment. This, again, happens entirely unconsciously so much so that it is almost involuntary. As we get to know the person, we begin adding adjectives to that personality profile we have sketched up in our heads. It's a conditioning of decades. Pur entire perception of a person is based on the package presented by a person in terms of her appearance, outward personality, mannerisms, manners, behaviour, gestures, language, body language, opinions et al.

This is how we decide whom to like or dislike, whom to admire or respect. I get fascinated by the way we form such firm judgments and stick to them. It is out of this fascination that I often set out to shock or surprise. All my life, I have worn my hair short. One day, I decided to grow it. The simple act of tying up my hair in a ponytail came with attendant risks of altered perceptions.

Suddenly, I seemed to have become more conservative, more conformist and less assertive. The number of women who usually check me out in the train had suddenly shrunk. Even in the way I tied my ponytail --a little higher than most-- and the length to which I grew--never more than shoulder level -- seemed to say things about me. To some, that suggested strong opinions. To others, it was a business-like approach to things. As a friend explained, "It shows you dont care to be feminine by wearing your hair around your neck. You'd rather leave your neck comfortable."

The same look can be interpreted in different ways, depending on where you are coming from.
At a college where I taught, one boy with longish hair used to wear slip-ons and earrings in my class. He looked rather shabby to me and rugged to his cooing irl classmates. He would often make some interesting comments now and then about the subject under discussion but I would indulge him only as briefly as I could without being obvious. One day, he had a makeover. A short crop, and a mama's boy look and I suddenly warmed up to him. He seemed manageable!

So much hinges on the way we look and dress that I am often tempted to experiment -- not so much with appearance, given my rigid sensibilities in that respect -- with my behaviour patterns
just to see what response it gets. And here's my simple but profound and unshakeable conclusion: it may take years for you to get any respect but people will change their opinion about you in a flash with one wrong move, say or gesture on your part even if that there is nothing indecent, unfair or indictment-worthy in that behaviour.

Point two. People will be more ready to spread the bad word about you than the good. In other words, they are more keen to bitch about you than say something good.

Point three. When you're in the doghouse, all your good deeds are fast forgotten. They simply dont count. Period.

Confession:
These observations are based not so much on my personal 'experimentation' when the fancy catches me but mostly on my personal experiences including the way I react to people!!

After all, I'm made of the same substance you are.

You're welcome to say, Touche!

http://thehoot.org/web/home/story.php?storyid=4370&mod=1&pg=1&sectionId=1&valid=true

Revisiting an old post ...the sentiments being the same again :-)

We visited another world last week.


It was dense with tall, green trees, the earth was red and pebbled, the horses hawed and neighed and galloped all the time, and an army of monkeys walked along chirping continuously. The majesty of the mist-capped hills held us spellbound, the gentle nip in the air teased and titillated, the snowy sky dropped dew even as the moon slithered away with practised ease.

We came back to earth every few hours for replenishment. And the lavish Gujarati thali seemed to soften the blow.

Afternoons were spent on nowhere land as the peace and quiet within and without grew to lull us into a satiated slumber. A sharp zing of ginger in the tea, sipped on a swing, would equip us for another road of discovery. Each time we walked to an end, the visual tapestry unfolding before us would hit us anew. Mostly, it was the ridged terrain that compelled awe in our highly unyielding selves. Sometimes, it was a quaint, old dam that defined one side of the green waters framed by lush trees, or an ancient temple which was all yours for all the time you need.

I have been a virtual resident of this many-splendoured land in my childhood, when a week-long vacation was a must for the family every few months. We travelled first class, stayed in the best hotel in peak season, rode horses like maniacs till the horse tired of us, and, then, ran with their hooves till dusk broke to dawn.

When we did walk, we locked arms and blocked the road, chanting in sync, ``I left, I left, I left my wife and 48 children in the ....'' (for the penultimate step, you took a step backward, and psyched everyone around out of their wits.)

All the while, we would be bathed in the red dust that continually rose and settled on the stony paths all leading to some panoramic points. Echo Point, Monkey Point, Sunset Point, Sunrise Point, Charlotte Lake, Louisa Point, Rambaug Point, and some ten others-- each sharply rivalling the other in the regalty of the view it proffered.

As kids, we had to reckon with the monkeys hanging close to our rooms, waiting for a half-chance to swoop on the mangoes in the crate that inevitably accompanied us in the summers. Outside the hotel, they hopped around you, and, making a mockery of your self-belief, scratched and snatched that peanut packet you had held in a tight fist. I firmly believe that we have a huge hand in the continuation of this ancestral tribe.

Riding was a high that has never since been breached. Our loyal horseman would pick some thoroughbreds, who were either preparing for the Mahalaxmi race track or were done with it, and we'd set off for a wild run, winding up on at least one occasion each time with a heart-pounding gallop on the deserted race course of the place.

At times, the horses got moody and wanted to nick at you. Mine tried that once mid-trot, stopping right in middle of the bazaar and turning its long neck to have a go at my legs. Even as I tried reining him in, someone cut across the road and took charge of my wayward ward.

I am loathe to be back in this concrete hell even though I no longer sit on horses, or do I covet monkeys as much (I see enough of them in the city). What I do miss are the red soil, the imprints of hooves on it, and the smell of horse and horse shit in the air. I miss the easy ambience where nobody cares what you wear because it all looks red anyway. I miss the lazy walks and the tread along the edge of endless cliffs. Most of all, I miss watching the sunset without feeling guilty for doing so.

In case you still dont know which place I'm talking about, it's called Matheran.

Are we ever going to live down Vinita Kamte's book or Hasan Gafoor's alleged inefficiency or the mystery behind the three officers --Hemant Karkare, Ashok Kamte and Vijay Salaskar --taking off in one police car?

Vinita is an amazing lady. She made it a point to show everyone why exactly her husband went in the same car after having some seriously gross and unthinking people question her about it. I assume the book is based on facts as I know she worked hard on it. But one must remember she lost her husband. It is possible, and she is legitimately entitled to, that she sees things differently. She may be right about Rakesh Maria and, then, she may be wrong.

I would tend to give Maria the benefit of doubt. It was an unbelievably chaotic night and he was being hemmed in by calls from all directions. He directed Kamte allegedly to his death, according to Vinita, at a time nobody had a clear idea of the scale of the attacks. Rumours were floating in thick and fast, panic frenzy had set in even among the cops, and everybody wanted to find a way to checkmate those demons.

I would think we are complaining with the benefit of hindsight. Mistakes take place in an abnormal situation, particularly when the administration has completely dispensed with the crisis management plan. The state and the city of Mumbai have separate disaster management plans. But both lie in cold storage. No minister has ever bothered to keep it active by training officers and men and carrying out periodic mock drills. Had that been done, the police rank and file would have been better tuned in, would have responded better, with the command and control lines being clearly drawn.

This, according to me, is where Vilasrao Deshmukh failed. This is where the political machinery took our lives for granted and this is where the officers were betrayed. One needs to look at the larger picture.

Vinita's book is a worthwhile effort and must be read. What I am tired of this media projection of a battle. Each day, the papers go on and on about her charges, Maria's justifications, quotes from has-beens.

Sure, the channels and the print media have perfected the art of smelling a controversy out of nowhere, conjuring up clashes, and living off it for a week till it is well and truly spent. In the process, nobody goes beyond the given and the issue gets trivialised. The reader/viewer gets what he read/saw yesterday and the day before with a few tweaks here and there.

Ditto for Gafoor. Poor man. He was a simpleton who did not build his camp in the police force and paid for it by losing his job. I know he was not inefficient and he was made a scapegoat. Yes, he could have done better but then, so could have everybody else including us.

Why are we not talking about real culprits? Gafoor, Maria etc. are being blamed for what happened at the spot. Why are we not attacking those goons in white who kept security matters on the backburner for years? These guys laughed at coastal security, ignored the crying need to reform the police, neglected disaster management preparedness, and were busy filling their own coffers by inking large business deals and selling off coast to corporates for hefty haftas.

These politicians are the real crooks, guys. They need to be hanged.

Until we do that, we are merely nitpicking, completely mistaking the wood for the trees. And worse, there is no telling if we are safe from a second attack if they do nothing even NOW. Who's to make them?