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Taal Se Taal Mila

There is music wherever there is a rhythm, as there is life wherever there beats a pulse

Igor Stravinsky

It all began nine years ago with a phone call by the offspring’s music teacher from school. Until then, I (a self- confessed ignoramus when it came to the vast world of music) had reveled in her participation in the annual school functions like the Parent’s Day where she occupied a small space in the orchestra pit with a pair of cymbals, a triangle neatly by her side, changing dexterously between the two, keeping up with the rhythm.

Like a typical mother, I only kept my ears open to the ominous sound of silence, which normally meant some mischief in the offing. Her singing was slightly off-key according to the neighborhood music teacher and seeing her reluctance to give throat to any song, I, in search of greener pastures had withdrawn her altogether. Therefore, this call had importance. She had an innate sense of rhythm, the music teacher patiently explained, and it would be put to good use in the world of percussion. Thus, began her (and by default, my) tryst with the Tabla. Six-and-a-half years of training, three exams and a dozen performances later, she has learnt to march to the beat of her own drums, as I now look on from the sidelines.

In the midst of all this, she did get an opportunity, barely six months into her training to attend the live performance of the individual whose name and identity were synonymous with the Tabla….Ustad Zakir Hussain.

 I remember gawking at his television persona as a wide-eyed child of the eighties. Back then, only dear old Doordarshan graced our narrow screen television sets with their flimsy antennae. His performance in the song ‘Baje Sargam Har Taraf Se, Goonje Bankar Desh Raag’ was as famous for his shock of curly hair as the dexterity with which his fingers flew over the Tabla. In a firmament which was lined by the brightest of Indian musicians, he managed to carve out his own niche, thanks perhaps to the avid enjoyment which was apparent in his playing.

Brooke Bond also cashed in its chips early, when it recognized the potential of getting him to advertise its most famous brand of tea…Taj Mahal. “Pehle meri Taj, baaki sab uske baad” and “Arre huzoor, wah Taj boliye” became household lines and everyone queued up to get a taste of the beverage which added so much zest to this famous musician’s percussion.

Cue to February 2016 and it was precisely with this in mind, that I managed to book three tickets (the spouse being a last- minute addition after the usual shilly-shallying and pulling many sad faces about being left to his own devices since the offspring and I refused to budge about attending) and we found ourselves ensconced in the tenth row of the Kashinath Ghanekar Auditorium. The offspring’s Guru had played his role in exhorting us to not miss this performance by ‘Zakhir Bhai’ as he called him. The performance itself was a joint one, between the sitarist, Pandit Niladri Kumar and Usatdji.

When the lights dimmed and the curtains went up though, it was only Pandit Niladri Kumar on stage. The offspring offered a disgruntled little pout. She was only nine and the thought of listening to another classical instrument did not sit very well in her scheme of things. The spouse and I, having once been students of the sitar in the hoary past, were thrilled though and a lot of shushing and telling the offspring to listen followed. Pandit Niladri Kumar, a wonderful exponent of the sitar and the pioneer who invented the Zitar, an electric version of the sitar was almost ascetic in his demeanor. Telling the audience not to applaud too loudly, he began to play. It was easy to see that he had entered a different plane of existence and was communing with the deity of music. It was ethereal and unworldly, and lesser beings like us were soon left far behind.

Mid way though, the lights brightened, because another figure sidled onto the stage. Trademark shock of curly dark hair, a blue salwar-kurta and a grey shawl draped over his shoulders. But what caught everyone’s attention was not just the familiar face, but the twinkle in the eyes, and the child-like innocence. Putting a finger to his lips to avoid disturbing his co-artist, he quietly settled into a corner. Perhaps the Gods of music sensed his presence, and warned him because Pandit Niladri Kumar reached a crescendo, returned to earth, opened his eyes, and touched the feet of the figure. Ustadji had arrived.

The offspring perked up immediately and waved her feelers around. A heartfelt apology for his tardiness (thanks to the horrendous Mumbai traffic, what else?) later, Ustadji began to tune his Tabla. After satisfying himself, he knocked himself on the head a couple of times (without the hammer, luckily) and declared happily that he had tuned himself as well. And then what unfolded was something which was even beyond magic. The Tabla started to talk. Through the beats and the rhythm, it gradually told us its own story. About why it was initially like the damru and the pakhawaj and then bifurcated into the ‘Dayan’ and the ‘Bayan’ and how two instruments could so perfectly complement each other that they were considered whole only if they were together and how they lost their individual identity without each other. I sneaked a quick peek at the offspring, who only a couple of minutes before, had been yawning and rubbing her eyes sleepily (back then, 10.30 in the night was bed-time for her) only to see her sitting bolt upright in her seat, mouth slightly agape, her stubby little fingers tapping on the edge of her seat-rest. A picture imprinted in my mind for years to come.

Those dexterous fingers of Ustad Zakir Hussain have been stilled forever now. Obituaries have poured in, memorial services have been held all over the world and everyone who can, has recounted their close encounters with him. His qualities, his dedication to his art, his musical journey, anecdotes of him and his father and family, co-artists, and the kind of person he was have been laid bare over and over.

For me, as someone who has only read about him and attended only a single live concert, only two stories stand out. One recounted by the acclaimed singer, Manik Varma, who spoke about how the crying child was gently disciplined by his illustrious father who made him begin his Riyaaz at 4 am in the bitter winters of North India and the other which I luckily witnessed, of how more than fifty years later, he kept a sleepy child of nine awake till well past midnight on a not-so- chill night in a Thane auditorium because when he entered a different plane of existence, he had the power to take us all along.

His greatness lies in the power of complete ‘Samarpan’ which he probably imbibed from the ‘Dayan’ and ‘Bayan’ tabla. The courage to lose the ‘you’ in yourself so that the whole identifies itself with you. So, the next time you hear a thunderstorm, or the rain beating down on a tiled roof, try to hear the echoes of Ustad Zakir Hussain’s tabla, playing an eternal rhythm.

And if the beat falters, causing you to say

‘Dil ye bechain ve,

Raste pe nain ve

Jindi behaal hai

Sur hai na taal hai’

Who knows, Ustadji might reply, saying ‘Taal se taal mila’

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Yayati’s Youth

Aging is an extraordinary process where you become the person you always should have been

David Bowie

Scratch the surface, and you will find an extraordinary commonality between the seemingly diverse stories of Raja Yayati in The Shrimad Bhagvatam, Tennyson’s poem Tithonus, based on the Greek myths and the first book of the Harry Potter series: The Philosopher’s Stone. All of them talk about an endless search which humans have persisted in for millennia, thanks to the seeming horror which most of us have for the passage of time which takes away that which we think is most precious: the search for everlasting youth and vitality.

Tithonus, according to the Greeks was a Trojan prince, who caught the eye of an immortal: Eos, the goddess of dawn. While catching the eye of an immortal might seem like a dream come true for many (for what could go wrong in the heavens), this one did go south when she asked Zeus, the king of the Gods to confer on him the gift of immortality, but forgot to ask for everlasting youth! Tithonus thus found himself so ancient and decrepit that he was literally covered in moss and lichen, until Eos in her mercy (or perhaps it was just horror at his appearance, you never can trust the Greek pantheon if you have read the mythology), turned him into a grasshopper, of all creatures, probably because of his wizened appearance!

As far as Potter world went, there was nothing very philosophical about the Philosopher’s Stone, except its name. It was an invention of a wizard named Nicolas Flamel which produced an elixir, which when drunk, conferred eternal youth and life to the drinker.

Yayati, of course is a different story, literally, because it serves more as a warning about the cost breaking a promise, of hedonism, constant gratification of the senses and the inevitability of aging, better suited to the modern age where apparently educated doctors either by commission or omission forget not just the reality of shortened telomeres and coin the stupid term ‘reverse aging’ (which seriously raises my hackles so much that I confess to trying to bean the next person who uses it with whatever comes to hand) but the commonsense of at least pretending to act only slightly less mature than their age. If my recent experiences are to be believed, I have met so many fifty-going -on five people, that I have started throwing tantrums like a two- year- old. But again, I digress, or perhaps ramble as is suited for my age.

Right, so back to Yayati and his (Y) antics. This venerable ancestor of Shri Krishna, himself no less, was smitten by Devyani, the only beauteous daughter of the asura guru, Shukracharya. You would have thought that he would have had more sense than messing with a demon Dad and daughter duo, but then again love is blind, deaf, and most importantly, dumb (yes, I meant both literally and figuratively) and all he could do was nod meekly in mute agreement when exhorted by Shukracharya to never betray his beloved (if slightly shrewish) daughter and take another spouse. So far, so good.

But here lay the nub, for along with Devyani came her sweet natured maid-cum-companion, the asura princess, Sharmishtha (how she became a maid is a story for another day). Yayati miscalculated his youth and its misadventures and not only married the maid but also fathered two sons! Enter one furious wife, followed by an even more furious demonic dad who uttered the curse of doom: Yayati would lose his youth in his prime! You would have thought that this particular cloud would not have any silver lining, but it did. The curse could be lifted if one of Yayati’s sons willingly gave up his youth and accepted his father’s age instead. Now, Yayati had no dearth of sons. Five, three of Devyani’s and two of Sharmishtha’s to be precise, but upon hearing what their father had to say, four of them scattered immediately, leaving Puru, the youngest, old before his time. Yayati, now, young as ever ruled for another thousand years, (or maybe they just seemed a thousand to the long-suffering Puru) but he knew that every moment of it was borrowed time. Finally seeing the light, he realized the folly of not only chasing after youth, but misusing it, and handing his ill- gotten gain back to its rightful owner, his son, he gladly departed this world for higher realms.

This obscure little tale resonates as well in the Kali-Yug as it did in Dwapar. Perhaps, even more so when society in its bid for progress marches towards a cosmetic youth which leaves one neither here nor there. Yes, sailing the unchartered waters of age might seem all eddies and whirlpools, but that itself is ironically a way of staying young: exploring the newer horizons which the passing years lay before you.

Plastic surgery, cosmetic gynecology, Botox, revitalizing drugs, sera, and creams apart, no procedure or elixir has yet been invented for smoothening the wrinkles of the mind. And these true wrinkles of age neither know nor care about your chronological one. For every Nachiketa and Markandeya who realize the Universal truth during teenage and become the realized ones, we have a Jarasandha and Dhritarashtra clinging to the lost power of youth at age one hundred and eighty. And thus, on the one hand while we talk casually about age being just a number, we are ready to shell out the necessary rupees, dollars, pounds, or yen to companies who sell bottled dreams in the form of creams so that the mirror on the wall still proclaims us the ‘fairest one of all’

Under the clever guise of necessity and keeping up with the times, we are ready to put ourselves under the knife, if necessary, to stay tightened, brightened, and whitened in all the right places so that the laws of attraction call it a day on encountering us. Glossed over under the cover of ‘moving with the world’ does not make it any less puerile or futile since it is only a question of time before that which is ‘done’ comes ‘undone’.

Acceptance of anything new is not something which comes easily to us, modern humans. And age, and the limitations which come with it are perhaps the most frightening of all. Though it is not easy, a glimpse of the terrified toddler on its reluctant way to school can also be seen in the eyes of a middle-aged matron slapping on the war-paint with unexpected vigor or the gentleman of genteel years trying to tuck in the tummy with a belt cinched just a bit too tightly.

Worm holes and time travel portals notwithstanding, the years march on only in the forward direction for human-kind. Realizing that there is nothing to be afraid of since we are part of a great universal cycle would be a good place to accept aging gracefully. Keeping yourself healthy, fit, and as young as maturity and commonsense allow you is a great leap forward to live life to the fullest, no matter what season of life you may be in. The day we acknowledge that fifty-four- year- olds are not youth leaders and that maturity and dignity also lead a grace to life will be day we truly live young and free for we will have cast of the enticing snare with which youth tries to enslave us.

When we gain the confidence of accepting everything as it comes, will we truly have learned the lesson of Yayati’s youth.

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A Hindu comes home

None of us are home until all of us are home

I recently read a report in Nikkei Asia (a news weekly) which pointed to India as a bright spot in the real estate market. The causes, to my simple mind stuck out like sore thumbs: a humongous population, difficult to fit in, since land obviously refuses to grow apace with it. The second and more ominous was illegal occupation, what we call squatting.

 Living in a metro makes you inured to such stuff: The stairwell of your apartment block suddenly fills up with a cupboard, bed and bicycle thanks to a neighbor who cannot ‘keep to the limits,’ a car-next-door escapes its boundaries without a care to fill up half of your parking spot, a thriving market springs up on what used to be your jogging track till the day before yesterday, thanks to some mean political muscle on the vendor’s part, shanties mushroom during the monsoons and are decked out with a ‘pucca’ roof and all appliances by the time Diwali rolls in. By and large, we tend to give in to the innate Indian trait and ‘adjust’ until we are in neck- deep, with the hot water still rising.

But just how much the land we call Bharat is coveted by aliens is clear when we check our historical records for the umpteen squatters who have turned up unbidden at our borders, largely with overt or covert nefarious designs, and then proceeded to make themselves so much at home, that we, indigenous Indians, rendered homeless, begin to doubt our right to our homeland. While the parable of the kind hearted Arab being driven out into the chill of the desert night merely because he allowed the head of his shivering camel to shelter in his tent may hold true in Arabia, we Indians have our home-grown version of it when WE were driven from our lands by the Arabs, Turks and their camels and donkeys, beginning around a thousand odd years ago. And not just the common population. To our eternal misfortune, the greatest emperor this land has seen, one whose name is revered in almost all of Asia ranging from Cambodia to Korea and Thailand to Indonesia was forced into unspeakable make-shift accommodation in his own city, thanks to being disowned by His people. Shri Ram of Ayodhya.

Luckily, he is on his way home now. In the original Ramayana of the Treta Yug, His exile lasted for fourteen years. Perhaps because depravity was not as all pervasive as it is now. The advent of Kali though, made things so much worse. And thus, His second and unnecessary exile lasted for the better part of five centuries when it should not have happened at all, thanks to power vested in the hands of brutes who could sell their souls for much less than thirty shekels of silver, to say nothing of their God.

While the historical aspects of the Ram-Janma-Bhoomi temple have been recorded since the time of Brihadbala (a descendent of Ram himself, who in Dwapar Yug sided with the Kauravas in the Kurukshetra war), the last time He was displaced was due to the notorious Mir Baqi, a general of the Mughal, Babur, who destroyed His temple and raised what was called the Babri Mosque in its place. There have been several first- person accounts from neutral third parties like European travelers as early as the seventeenth century that Hindus always worshipped at the courtyard of the Babri mosque. Several convoluted centuries and cases later, well- watered by the blood of devout Hindus, the land has finally been restored to whom it belonged all along: Ram Lalla Virajman, or the infant Shri Ram.

A matter of great satisfaction and pride for most of us is that after years of listening to lofty rhetoric from politicians and lowly jokes from standup comedians involving the Lord buying a 2BHK apartment on the Ayodhya-Faizabad highway, a temple is again coming up where a temple once stood. There is little else being discussed other than the grand consecration ceremony. A religious fervour has gripped the nation. Most people are celebrating the idea of a historical wrong being corrected. Better late than never. It is the best example of putting paid to encroachment once and for all.

 But, what all squatters fear is eviction and are always looking out for ways and means to prevent it. Our squatters were the original cancel-culturists who thought that denying a Hindu deity his space was an easy way of cancelling centuries of heritage and history. And as it has already been pointed out before, years of pandering to the whims of a special minority has led them to automatically believe in their infallible supremacy. With the rug suddenly pulled from under their feet, they find themselves literally without a leg to stand on. And who in this era of the land-grabber would give up such a prime piece of real estate without a fight? And thus, we see calls from (dis)respected members of Parliament, no less, giving an open call to the youth of the minority to destroy the temple at the first available chance.

Yet others appear miffed and refuse the invitation to the consecration ceremony touting the jaded excuse of ‘secularism’ which forms the basis of the Indian state. Never mind that they will attend all religious ceremonies of ANY other religion with unholy glee. Some members of the public, sporting beards and a towel thrown over the shoulders, have given themselves the right to compose dubious ‘shayari’ advising people to understand Ram in the modern sense leaving the ‘ek tha raja, ek thi rani’ story behind, before they house Him in his temple and ‘divide’ him up! Apparently wearing a white Kurta, a la son of the soil, and sporting a dark gothic background is enough for anyone to call himself ‘Psychoshayar’ and morph into a modern- day philosopher with all the right to tell common devotees how foolish their chant of ‘Jai Shree Ram’ is because it apparently contains everything except the essence of ‘Ram’! Yet others opine that the temple is an unnecessary attempt at chest-thumping and jingoism and how a hospital would have served the people better instead.

When I think of all the hue and cry which several Hindus themselves are raising over the temple, I am strongly reminded of the protagonist, Professor Henry Higgins from the classic ‘My Fair Lady,’ with his perpetual lament about the English not teaching their children the proper nuances of their own mother tongue. Stretching his point, we can see that several modern Hindus are no different, rather worse, because they shy away from teaching their children their own culture, garbed under the hazily vague cloak of modernity. It is unfortunate that such short-sighted people fail to see the fervour and pride which the temple has raised. It is further unfortunate that this misplaced modernity has blindfolded the gullible who fail to see the importance of a claiming of their history by the Hindus in India. What makes it saddest is the happiness with which the conversion of the Hagia Sophia, a historical church and later museum, to a mosque in recent times was greeted with gusto by these very same people. Is it by duplicity or design, one tends to wonder, especially when venerable seers of the Hindu religion jump into the political cauldron and proceed to create controversies where none were needed.

 But then, one tends to take heart when you see the Suryavanshi Rajputs of Ayodhya put on leather footwear and tie ceremonial Safas because they have succeeded in redeeming the pledge they made to their ‘Raja Ram’: that they would shame themselves by going barefoot because they were unable to withstand the onslaught of barbarians and protect their king. I like to think that all these nay-sayers are just a minor dark lining to the large silver cloud that is the common Hindu, who is rejoicing unabashedly. The very air is crackling with excitement as households all over the country await the holy invitation, a gesture of weaving them into the tapestry of a common happiness which unites us all. And it perhaps holds true for the Hindu diaspora the world over, as they watch with hopeful eyes a homecoming which has been centuries in the making.

Home, they say, is where the heart is. With the un-mangled version of ‘Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram’ with its lyrics of ‘Sundar Vigraha Megha Shyam, Ganga Tulsi Shaligram’ finally seeing the light of day and with Ayodhya being restored as the beating heart Hindu heritage and pride, the Hindu after being an eternal exile is finally home!

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The Strait And The Narrow

“As birds are made to fly and rivers to run, so the soul to follow duty”

Emperors and conquerors abound in the pages of history. They were born, conquered, flourished, and died. Some were confined to local tales. A few travelled the world on the wings of victory. Others on the wings of notoriety. Quite a few have survived the ravages of the relentless march of time. But few have captured the imagination like a King who ruled a land which is now so different from its former Avatar, as to be unrecognizable. A God who lived the life of man or perhaps a man so great, that he aspired to Godhood. Whose life has captured the imagination of millions through the millennia. Who is inextricably woven into the fabric of Asia and who has hundreds of versions written about his life. A life which was distinguished neither by glorious success in every aspect nor by infallibility, but by an unflagging pursuance of duty. Ram of Ayodhya.

If Helen of Troy was responsible for the launching of a thousand ships during the Trojan war, Ram is responsible for launching the collective conscience of a people. His story, immortalized in The Ramayana, has floated down the river of time itself, disdainful and mocking of the changes which have tried to pull it off course by eddies and swirls caused by invasions, conversions and a thousand other types of destruction. It has been at the core of every Indian home, everchanging yet never changing. And it has been the ideal that millions aspire to.

His story has launched a revivalist movement of sorts, catapulted a change of regime and has been at center of several controversies and court cases which have run the whole gamut, questioning everything even remotely connected to Him, including his very existence. The slogan invoking him, ‘Jai Shree Ram’ has stirred not just minds and hearts but also unnecessary communal pots. It has awakened not only a spirit of brotherhood in some, but has been touted as ‘terrifying’ and ‘enraging,’ particularly in the waspish mind of a motherly, benevolent dictator (if Ram can be a myth, why not this mythical creature too?) who now rules, in reverse gear, what was once the beating heart of intellectual India. Tell us Indians to NOT do something and we WILL do it with unholy glee and thus the considerate dictator has been followed by mobs chanting Jai Shree Ram, until she has sought medical help for ringing ears. Not that it seems to have worked. Indiscriminate violence is sometimes the only answer when one’s ego is provoked, well depicted in The Ramayana itself and this easterly state has seen the same during Ram Navami celebrations.

If seen through the modern lens of unabashedly aspirational life, where ‘getting ahead’ whatever the cost is the only thing which counts, virtues be damned, you tend to agree with a famous Marathi music director when he describes The Ramayana as the greatest tragedy ever told. A series of disasters brought on by abysmal choices. Modernity may mock Ram’s obdurate stance on his unwavering sense of duty, which left him sadly lacking on the worldly front. He has always fought uphill battles whether against a foreign foe or against the enemy within.

Again, with times a-changing, black, and white has been imperceptibly merging to create a sordid grey mist which blankets everything moral in its suffocating tendrils. And thus, we see role reversals happening even in such a timeless classic. It has become the fashion, the ‘in thing’ to do. We have an entire cult of Ravan worshippers who tout Ravan as the aggrieved party, a righteous brother, provoked to action because of the criminal treatment meted out to his beloved sister (never mind sister’s shenanigans to deserve the punishment in the first place). In fact, there are those who justify the fact that he carried a woman away against her will because he ‘merely imprisoned’ her instead of ‘having his way’! Call it an open and shut case of a provoked ego and you have trolls coming at you waving pitchforks, clubs, nasty tweets (where is Elon Musk when you need him?) and unleashing the entirely new ‘Social-media-troll-Astra,’ a boon which had apparently been conferred on Ravan only now, not by the ancient Gods, but by the modern people, hell bent on playing God themselves.

Thus, the battle between Ram and Ravan remains one of inequality, of opposites. Of self- control versus recklessness, of ego versus altruism, of order versus disorder, harmony versus dissonance and put it very simply, of good versus evil. It is a battle which is as old as time itself and one which cannot be simply decided once and for all. Because, how can you separate the reverse and obverse of a single coin where one has no meaning without the other?

If struggle forms the basis of Ram’s life, it is heartening for us who live in modern times, to see it continuing. It is perhaps the one part of His life which we are still witness to, even if He is long gone. The Ram Janma Bhoomi case which dragged on for years and the Setu- Samudram project where His existence itself was the object of scrutiny are two of the latest examples. Jesus, denied thrice, by his disciple Peter is now a story in the Bible, teaching us human frailty and how redemption is possible with repentance. We can only wait for the several thousands of Indian Peters to have their epiphany on the way to Ayodhya. So far, however, it looks as if Italy still rules the ‘woke’ and everyone, a modern-day dynasty included seem to be travelling over the hills and far away to Rome, rather than the much closer Hindi hinterland which houses Ayodhya. Perhaps, their legacy is more Roman than Indian.

Whatever the case maybe, love Him, hate Him or be in denial, one cannot ignore or whitewash His presence from the Indian consciousness. Perhaps because His story remains relevant. Because truth, devotion, responsibility, and duty are universal tenets which makes us human. And thus, He continues to inspire, accepting all, rejecting none. Teaching us to stand up for what is right, even it means walking alone, whether on a strait or through the narrow.

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Fashion Forward!

When you don’t dress like everybody else, you don’t have to think like everybody else

Iris Apfel

The season is back! And I don’t mean the one of watery eyes, runny noses and hacking coughs (though that is back too, having broken the confines of the Delhi Municipal Corporation). Safe under a warm duvet, I am peering blearily at the ‘fashion season.’ Bewildered at the bits and baubles on display. And slightly unhinged by the necessary appendage, the phone, awash with advertisements. I mean, when you are trying to pay the humongous bill of Mahanagar Gas Limited (MGL) and are suddenly flooded with pictures of flimsy net dupattas, three for the price of two, you tend to wonder whether the good folk of MGL, are riled enough to want you to go up in flames! But no, nothing personal about it. MGL folk are still out and about in their trusty blue and white kit to take a meter- reading, or in bright yellow if they are the hazard response team. This is their limit of high fashion.

With the festive season half way through and the wedding season taking its first steps of the year towards center stage, you know you are caught fast in the silky-but-super-strong strands of the fashion web. Sales, new trends, and the ‘must-haves’ peer from everywhere: glitzy and not-so-glitzy stores, mega-malls, and the depths of the internet. As I try to stroll along, clad in a comfy pair of jeans and a fleecy T-Shirt or a beautifully soft and worn salwar-kurta, I am accosted at every turn by bling and backless which threaten to leave my eyebrows permanently somewhere in the region of my hair and my mouth, sagging in wonder, somewhere at the level of my knees.

With a slightly ‘ignorant’ background, coupled with a real indifference to what is trending and hot, and what is not, I think I have earned my place as the fashionista’s nightmare. Luckily, the spouse is even more clueless. If I cannot tie a saree properly without the help of an army of minions and pins, then his clever and competent fingers which can deftly tie intricate knots deep in an abdominal cavity awash with blood suddenly tie themselves into knots when it comes to dealing with a tiresome neck-tie or pesky dhoti.  When I was growing up, through the eighties and the early nineties, small town India was where avant-garde came to meet oblivion and the oblivion had lasting impression. The textile industry featuring natural fibers like cotton and silk was on its last legs, thanks to the apathetic polity. Bhanu Athaiyya may well have won the Academy Award for Best Costume Design, but a decade would pass before we could lay our hands on similar fabrics.

Most people of my generation hate to be confronted by pictures of their school going- selves. The real reason is the ghastly clothes we were stuffed into by doting parents, for want of better ones. Nylon, shiny polyester, ruffles, and ‘frocks’ which would have fitted right in among the condemned of the Russian Revolution, or those bound for Nazi concentration camps. The less said about the ‘pedal -pushers,’ slacks, and shiny salwar -kameez a la Bhagyashree Patwardhan in an equally ghastly movie ‘Maine Pyar Kiya,’ the better. Everywhere you looked, there was a vast sea of gaudy glitz, puerile prints, ribbons, ricrac, and ruin. The more artificial, the better thanks to the up and coming ‘Only Vimal,’ the brain-child of Dhiru Bhai Ambani. I think his daughter-in-law, the current queen bee of Indian fashion, Nita Ambani, tries to disown those photographs which picture her clad in the material on which the family fortune was founded.

Besides, there was paucity of not just the material but also clothing styles. There was the frock, skirt, and salwar kameez for girls, with a seamless transition to the sari, no sooner matrimony was mentioned. The boys had even less of a choice, limited to short pants and long pants which then diversified into suits, long shirts, or bush-shirts. There was also something called the ‘safari suit’ in more than fifty shades of particularly shady grey, with the pants and shirt perfectly coordinated by the same material. Normally, the realm of the Sarkari Babu, or the bureaucracy, it meant fat contracts, with grey bridging the black and white money. Only traditional wear remained what it was, timeless, elegant, changing with the regions and crafted out of the memories and love of generations.

With the opening of the markets to global trade in the nineties brought in a whiff of fresh air into this jaded scene. With Ms. Sen and Ms. Rai becoming the faces of the Universe and the World respectively, the world was suddenly interested in what the well -dressed Indian was wearing. With the local bazaar now flooded with ‘imported’ or ‘export quality’ material and corresponding styles to match, the whiff of fresh air has taken on the proportions of a Cyclone Michaung and is blowing everything from Bhatinda to Bengaluru and Gandhinagar to Guwahati hither, tither, and yon before it, not just Chennai.

And this is what people like me stare at in unabashed, open-mouthed admiration. The effortless pairing of backless blouses with staid silk sarees, chiffony numbers which stop anywhere from mid- thigh to mid- pavement, skirts so tight that the people in them look like sausages ready for the grill, or so wide that three or four toddlers could be safely hidden in the capacious folds (a good dress for would-be kidnappers) or the good old kurta snipped and embellished into Alia, Kareena, Pakeezah, Sadhana, and God alone knows how many cuts and styles.

Visit any mall or even a good old-fashioned market and it is heaving with pretty young things carrying bags filled to overflowing with the best and the brightest. The fashion changes every few months (or is it weeks?) and is followed by a major overhaul of the wardrobe, whose shelves creak and doors refuse to close on all the wondrous goodies stuffed inside. Big- brands, flea markets and everything in between jostles for space to the universal slogan of “I have nothing to wear!”

But the best jaw-droppers in my book are the modern emperor’s and empress’s new clothes, made sans cloth! Ripped jeans top the list because I refuse to see the logic of buying an expensive pair of jeans, with the sole intention of taking a razor blade to them and cutting away the major part. I think it would be far simpler to exchange them with some unfortunate street dweller who would be more than happy to score some nice, new, and WHOLE clothes instead of HOLE clothes. The next off are those clothes which have unnecessary holes cut into them, masquerading as the dubious ‘design which the designer has on a clueless wearer. Blouses with holes in the back or an entire back swallowed by a hole, kurta and cholis which migrate south wards and look as if they are held up magically by invisible straps, gowns with disappearing sleeves or sleeves with disappearing gowns, and those dresses which are mostly slits and no substance. And those who roam the streets in ‘co-ord’ sets should be sent off to bed as they are nothing but hapless sleep walkers living in LaLa land.

The land of fashion is the garden of Eden to those happy souls who revel in the season’s best with unfailing regularity.  For others like yours truly, who are still followers of the ‘buy only if necessary’ and ‘buy two give away four’ schools of thought, it is a mine field which needs careful negotiation. But you know you are a true novice when your maid knows more about the latest colors and ‘matrials’ of the season than you ever will, and you secretly nickname her Naira Banu when she flaunts her latest ‘Naira Cut’ dress at work, age and figure be damned. Or when you spend more time staring in owlish fascination at what your class mates are wearing during a recent reunion, instead of out to sea, which should draw all you attention since said reunion is aboard a cruise!

With several textile parks mushrooming all around the country, Khadi and indigenous textiles being promoted like never before and the ‘Made in India’ brands literally zooming off the shelf to far-away foreign lands, we have never had it better when it comes to clothes. As I put a wobbly foot forward in Fashion land, while choosing the same tried and trusted outfits which I hope befit my age and all the saggy, baggy bits, and which do not have the family putting their hands over their eyes in horror, I decide I prefer Behenji to Bomb.

 Besides, I am supported by Coco Chanel, who famously said “I don’t do fashion, I AM fashion!”

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Tamasoma, Jyotir Gamayah!

Diwali was late in arriving the year I was to appear for my class twelve exams. Half of November had already gone by. The first nip of the approaching winter was evident only in the pre-dawn chill. The rest of the day was a mix of a weak but determined sun, drying leaves dropping from the branches and crackling underfoot, and a dry dustiness in the air which clouded the vision and clogged the nose, throat, and lungs. It heralded difficult times.

As far as I could remember, Muniya had always set up her little stall at the furthest end of the chowk, where the market petered out, giving way initially to the one-story tenements which huddled together like ducks at the water’s edge, and later to the towering multi-storied ‘Kothis,’ each wearing the cloak of its grandeur with such grace and dignity that ordinary folk hurrying by averted their eyes out of sheer respect. There was a method to Muniya’s madness. She thought that since the spot was the first on the road from the ‘Kothi end,’ everyone would stop by the stall, for her to make the briskest sales. Alas, the Seths of the Kothis had got where they were by a canny business sense. And no one worth their Innova, Corolla or Verna would even dream of buying anything, even as tiny as a mud Diya without wandering the whole market at least twice and bargaining to the hilt. As a result, Muniya only got those customers who had forgotten something and wanted a last- minute bargain. Of course, the Domino’s outlet opposite Muniya’s stall was blissfully unaware of its exalted status of being exempt from the bargain bustle as people straggled in and out thrusting wodges of cash, new shiny credit cards, or brandishing all kinds of UPI apps on their latest I-phones.

I knew Muniya, because the spot where she set up shop happened to be almost at the very gates of my school, which in keeping with the straggling growth of our town, had added ‘junior college’ to its title. What had started as Mrs. Swamy’s kindergarten and primary school was now the pompously named ‘Dnyansagar High School and Junior College,’ with students, buildings, and fees to match. It was the ‘go-to’ institute in our town for anyone who wanted an admission for ‘higher studies.’ I had called the place alma mater for the past thirteen years and was looking forward to escaping its’ increasingly stifling confines for good in June. Life here was too quiet for me.

Our town boasted ‘colleges’ as well, but they were mostly populated by those who were to follow in their forefathers’ illustrious but not-so-adventurous foot-steps. They were the ones who would inherit businesses, a couple of tile or perfume factories, seats in the state legislature, hectares upon hectares of scrubby farmland, and the like. The girls would inherit jewelry, household chores, and husbands and in-laws, who might or might not treat them right. Everything about the colleges in town was a gamble and I knew I was not cut out for the casinos. Of course, fate could always have the last laugh by bringing me back as a minion to someone who had gone to college here, but I at least had a fighting chance to make a clean break for good. And I determined to grab it with both hands. Besides, as the offspring of a demonstrator in the local science college, I knew I would not inherit the laboratory.

As far as inheritance went, it was a spirited tug-of-war at home. Maa ruled the household with an iron fist and the thought of my moving to a far-away city was still a major bone of contention for her. She wanted me to inherit Papa’s meekness and listen to her. He wanted me to inherit her obstinacy and move far away. So far, Maa’s traits and Papa’s wishes were winning hands down. Maa’s temper flared far more frequently than usual as the dates to fill out forms for the entrance exams neared. She made her displeasure known by nit-picking over the most minor expenses incurred by Papa and me. My last purchase of a new pen had been greeted with “Dadaji ne Khazana jo rakkha hai. Aur udao paise.” Pocket money was a fond distant memory and my occasional expense was being met by the grubby fifty, tenner or twenty surreptitiously slipped into my hand at great personal risk by Papa.

Preparations were doubly frenzied as November pulled on in its mechanical, melancholy way. While Maa busied herself with the cleaning, cooking and candle-stick making, Papa harangued me every day about when the CUET forms would be out and when was the best time to fill them. If I was to travel out of town to the best the Indian Universities had to offer, I first had to clear the CUET (Common University Entrance Test), a relatively new player in an arena dominated by such stalwarts like the JEE, NEET, BITS, and other heavy weights too onerous to pronounce. When the dates were finally announced, I thought Papa would burst a blood vessel due to all the excitement, and fervently hoped that the vermilion used for the Lakshmi Puja would be the usual Alta from Maa’s cupboard, not tainted by a few drops of Vishnu Sharma aka Papa’s blood.

But Ramji, Mata Lakshmi, Thakurji, and Dhanvantari had all had an ear out for us and heard our collectively fervent prayers. While the internet and the server and all the other paraphernalia required for the smooth filling of an online form did turn snooty and try to play spoilsport, they were finally coaxed into best behavior by much cursing, muttering, and finally earnest entreaties on Papa’s part. I could have sworn that the Diwali decorations swayed a little in the gust of the breeze caused by our collective sigh of relief. At least one hurdle had been crossed. While the exam itself loomed ahead, there was a jubilation in the air. My participation at least had been confirmed. Perhaps this was how the Indian contingent felt enroute to any major sports event, slightly bemused by the drama of it all.

Since I was feeling rather pleased with myself, I decided that I needed some time off. Maa however, had been lurking by the door, awaiting just such an opportunity. My plans of heading off to the ice-cream parlor at the corner to literally ‘chill’ with a couple of buddies were rudely disrupted when the rough coir bag was thrust abruptly into my hands, together with a crisp hundred rupee note and admonitions to fetch a dozen mud diyas, along with wicks, some oil, and a garland of marigold flowers for the pooja the next day. “Remember to bargain well. Go to three or four stalls at least,” Maa was still shouting instructions as I ambled off, desperate to get out of ear-shot.

Teenage rebellion always rears its head unexpectedly and I decided to rebel by deciding NOT to bargain. I would buy the supplies at the first stall I came across. Maa would seethe gently, but there was not much she could do about it. Smirking at the thought, I halted at the first stall which of course was Muniya’s. With her mud-brown lehenga and choli, she blended in perfectly with the background, as she sat surrounded by diyas of many types. There were the simple ones, cowering in their basket as if ashamed of their lowly status amongst the more embellished ones, with a floral twirl here, a leaf there, all adorned with gilt or garish colors. There were multi-tiered ones, some shaped like peacocks and others like swans. There were ‘jodis’ or pairs of elephants with upraised trunks. Light, in our town shone in myriad ways.

 Normally, the sight of a potential customer sent Muniya into transports of delight and everyone who paused at the entrance to the makeshift tent which was not just her stall but also her home for the few days of Diwali was treated to her hopeful smile and cheerful sales banter. But something was amiss today. She sat sadly amidst all the lights, the spark from her eyes replaced by a dull hopelessness. Kallu, her son slumped next to her, his books lying forgotten, fingers feverishly jabbing at the buttons of the ancient mobile phone in his hand.

He was a hard-working boy, Kallu. During Diwali, he helped his mother at the stall. The rest of the year, the mother-son duo sold roti and aloo-sabji at the railway station, Muniya setting up her chulha at the crack of dawn, to be joined by her son when he finished school in the afternoon. This continued till the last passenger train left at ten in the night, with Kallu often spotted sitting under the meagre flickering light of the station clock, rapt in his books. He had managed distinction in his class ten exams and it was plain that Muniya had high hopes for him. On the first of every month, Kallu meticulously paid his fees at the office of Bhaskar Vidyalay, a government sponsored initiative for subsidized education of the underprivileged.

Perhaps it was the enquiring look in my eyes, or perhaps the fact that I was the same age as Kallu, but before I could so much as pick up a diya, Muniya was standing before me, hands joined in supplication. “Kallu ka faaaram bharna hai, Babu,” she began. So, this was what it was all about. With the typical oblivion of the better placed, I had never imagined that Kallu had any educational aspirations beyond class twelve. Perhaps the snobbish part of my mind did not think him capable. But Muniya’s litany of woe told a different story. Thanks to a new scholarship scheme, Kallu stood a chance of getting into a polytechnic college. But he had been felled at the first hurdle. Today was the last day for online submission of the application forms, which had been available for a pitiful period of just a week. With his school closed for the Diwali vacations and everyone busy with the festivities, none of his teachers, or the big noises in the tehsil office, or even the station master had answered his increasingly frantic appeals for help. Desperation had made Muniya turn to each one of her customers, but they were too busy trying to light up their own lives, only stopping to bargain for a diya or two. The diya seller was fated to a dark Diwali.

When I made my way back home, it was past sun set. Oil-and-wick mud diyas were winking to life on verandahs and thresholds. A gentle glow permeated the narrow lane as I ducked into the courtyard of my home, only to confront Maa standing there, arms akimbo. Only the Sawari of the roaring tiger was missing in her tableau of the vengeful Goddess. Papa, as usual stood meekly in her shadow. Clearly too furious to speak, she merely thrust out her hand for the pooja paraphernalia she had ordered me to fetch.

As I quailingly placed a photocopy of the receipt of the cyber-café from where Kallu and I had finally succeeded in filling his form, beating the deadline by mere hours, I felt myself basking in the light of Maa’s radiant smile and glistening eyes. “Tumhara jeevan ujale se bhara rahe, beta,” she said as I bent to touch her feet and seek blessings on Diwali day, “Tamaso ma, jyotir gamayah! (lead me from darkness, towards the light).”

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Unseen

The season of the rains had passed

The forking paths, all lush and green

And somewhere in the undergrowth

A shy little flower bloomed unseen.

My feet walked those verdant trails

Seeking spots my weary self to lean

Uncaring of who or what approached,

The shy little flower bloomed unseen

I gazed in wonder at the lofty trees,

Wound with creepers, thick with mossy screen

But down near the forest floor,

The shy little flower bloomed unseen.

A river warbled its eternal lilt to me

Gurgling aloud over pebbles smooth and clean

Safe in its hidden nook,

The shy little flower bloomed unseen

Bright with butterflies, and brilliant petals

Never did I behold such a woodland scene

Unheeding of its deep oblivion,

A shy little flower bloomed unseen

My soul held fast in a fragrant snare,

I looked closer for its source serene

Long did I forage amongst the herbs to find

A shy little flower blooming unseen.

My heart caught fast in its tendrils redolent

I wanted to proclaim the beauty I had seen

My clarion call cut off by the flower

Which wanted to spread its joy unseen!

Pensively I retraced my steps

From the frailest do we wisdom glean

A wispy woodland flower taught me how

To spread radiance yet remain unseen.

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The Dance Of The Firefly

The beginning of the brief spring in the Indian peninsula was generally heralded by a warming of the air and the dance of the fireflies. In recent times, the tourism industry had capitalized on it, and come the end of March, my hometown, a small hill-station in the western Ghats, was awash with city dwellers tired of peering through the dust, and the smog, and squinting against the garish lights which were guaranteed to turn night into day. They drove up from the tech hub in droves, eyes fixed thankfully on the dimness and the rolling hills, more brown than green with the approaching summer.

For them, the darkness was forgiving, hiding flaws, fallacies, and facades instead of highlighting them, so unlike the city lights, which sought them out for the world to jeer at. The darkness worked its own magic. It allowed itself to be rent apart by the fireflies’ dance, a glowing web of moving pinpricks of light cutting effortlessly through its all- encompassing self. Yes, even darkness served a higher purpose in these hills.

It seemed funny, but the fireflies were largely nondescript beetles by day, preferring to hide out in trees and bushes. If it were not for the darkness, they would have led their unassuming existence, busily going about their business, seldom seen, and almost never heard. It did not matter to them if they were called drab by daylight. Their cousins, the butterflies, and dragon flies got all the attention when the sun was high in the sky. But not one of the most garish butterflies could compete when it was time to fight the darkness. 

Devaki’s house at the edge of the town, was the best place to watch this night-time miracle because it was built on a knoll which gave way to a steep slope at the end of her humungous garden which spanned nearly three acres. Of course, a large part of it was an orchard, but having explored it for the past twelve years, I could safely say that I knew it better than the back of my hand. I knew where the gnarled roots of the old chickoo tree stuck out of the ground like an angry fist, I knew where the branch of the mango tree almost touched the ground and made a wonderful ‘saddle tree’ for Devaki and me to perch on, and I knew the hollow which turned into a muddy swamp in the rain, where frogs croaked and where the fly-catchers came to feast on the fruit flies.

Devaki and I had been ‘best friends’ ever since she had moved to the hills and joined my class when we were both five-year-old kindergarteners. Since I was the gregarious outgoing one who loved making new friends, I had been the first to offer to share my tiffin box with the newcomer who had stood shyly at the door of the class, clutching her mother’s hand, and staring around with huge, solemn eyes. Her father had recently bought ‘Hill View,’ the only other bungalow in our part of the town. We were neighbors in the broadest sense, separated by only a couple of acres of fruit trees.

Both our families boasted coffee plantations in the surrounding hamlets, though our acreage far outstripped theirs. Her father, having gathered enough through his high- flying finance-job to finance his dreams of leading the genteel life of a ‘country squire’ had left behind the bustle of the city for the quieter climes of the Western Ghats. And thus, the Mary Immaculate Convent had gained a new student, and I had a new friend.

I loved Hill View because it was old in the truest sense. Funny alcoves, dimly lit passages, sprawling rooms, diamond paned windows, and fireplaces, left over as reminders of British times. There were ‘servant quarters’ at the back and numerous sheds, a tennis court, and even a paddock which was forlorn and empty because the horses were long gone. Now, the carriage house housed the smart XUV which Karan Uncle, Devaki’s father, drove. In a smaller shed, her mother’s little Alto crouched like a mongrel puppy which knew that it was something of an imposter in a litter of pedigrees.

Karan Uncle and Nandita Auntie, Devaki’s parents were quite the odd couple. As I grew into my teens, this attraction of seemingly opposites seemed stranger and stranger to my eyes. Not that I could ever mention it to Devaki, but I gave tongue on the subject whenever I could be sure of finding an appreciative audience, which often happened to be my parents, who were among the oldest residents, and whose families had long ruled the echelons of social movers and shakers in the district. It was a close-knit clique which vetted you more thoroughly than prospective candidates for R&AW were. You were admitted into the choicest clubs, soirees, and socials only if you passed with flying colors on all fronts.

And the fronts were many. Blood lines and letters of introduction were the first hurdle at which many fell, but appearance, clothes, shoes, bags, and small-talk all counted. The final deciding factor was of course the depths of your pockets. It was a wonderful mix of the snobbery of the old American South and the superciliousness of the British Royal Court, indigenized in a way only Indians could.

Karan Uncle was the consummate sophisticate. A mixture of charm and rakishness. His handsome face and sharp dressing sense coupled with knowledge on diverse subjects, which made him a sought- after conversationalist, had the ladies swooning at his feet and the men hanging on to his words. He also had a slightly disdainful sense of sarcasm, which made everyone want to impress him. It helped that he had a reputation of having an excellent, almost sixth sense of the investment market. Everything he touched turned to gold and even the Rais, who were counted amongst the wealthiest in South Asia were often seen at Hill View to ‘consult’ him on matters of high finance. It was rumored that he was a close friend of the Finance Secretary to the Indian Government and had turned down an appointment as Special Advisor. His stock in society was certainly as high as it could get for a new comer, which in this corner of the world meant that you had lived here for a mere ten years, instead of ten generations.

Being married to this picture of perfection was certainly a daunting task. Nandita Auntie would have had her task cut out for her, even if she had been Femina Miss India Universe, which she certainly was not. Short, dark, and what kind people described as ‘pleasantly plump and matronly’ and unkind ones as ‘dumpy,’ she was the type of person who could easily melt into the crowd of hangers- on, who trailed the glittering movers and shakers like crows might an eagle. She could have certainly used a good stylist who could give her hints on how to make the most of the few assets she had: long dark hair, smooth skin, and large eyes. But she seemed as indifferent to the kindly busybodies who tried very hard to drop unsubtle hints on how a visit to Jayati’s Salon on Abbey Road or a session with Anjali Devalkar, the ‘go-to’ personal trainer and groomer, might make a vast difference in the picture she presented to the world, as the tuskers to the squawking birds which insisted on following them around, to peck at mites on their skin.

A better dressing sense in soft flowing dresses, well draped sarees or chic trousers and wrap tops, being a better talker, keeping up with the latest gossip, being a part of the various ‘kitty groups,’ or social committees would have certainly helped her to be an accepted member of the inner circle, but she remained stubbornly unheeding. Karan Uncle may have succeeded in raising the stocks of various businesses around the country, but his wife remained his only and obstinate failure. After repeatedly trying and failing to get her to pay the necessary obeisance to the queen bees of society, it was a unanimous decision to ostracize her as far as possible. Vicious rumor mills were rife as to how she was a calculative gold digger, who had somehow trapped Karan Uncle into a marriage which was barely legitimate in the eyes of all the other society matrons.

Nandita Auntie was not fazed in the least. I had never seen her irate or hassled when managing the workers of the large estate while Karan Uncle was away on ‘business’ which was at least a couple of weeks every month. She attended all the social ‘do’s she was required to and seemed perfectly happy by herself, nursing a glass of juice, listening intently to any conversation she might be included in or sitting upright in dignified silence if she was not.

 She was polite to a fault, and I had neither seen her cutting someone dead nor gushing over anyone else. She seemed to hearken to a different tune and marched to the beat of a different drummer, whom only she could hear. The rampant gossip and the few and far between invitations more out of obligation, were no secret to her. She knew that she was not the brightest star of the social firmament, but seemed not to care. The unperturbed acceptance of her lowly position on the social ladder was what stuck in everyone else’s craw. Many insiders and regulars in my mother’s circle would have loved to see her grovel her way in. But they had had no luck yet. She was stoicism personified.

Nandita Auntie had a secret lair in Hill View. The old glass house in one of the wings had been converted into a ‘work room’ of sorts for her and was generally kept locked. The window panes on the outside had also been covered by dark film, so that very little was visible. Ever imprudent, I often opined that she ran a secret witch’s coven from there. There was mysterious shelving, petri dishes, several microscopes, and bags of fertilizer in there, according to Devaki who was easily the best botanist in our school and walked away with the gardening prize every year. Why, I often wondered if she inherited her green fingers from her mother as she claimed, was the garden of Hill View a wild tangle of creepers, flowers, spice plants, and undergrowth? Why was the lawn straggly? Why was the garden furniture badly in need of a lick of paint? What about the overgrown lily pond? Most of the busybodies thought that she grew various dangerous plants in there, Henbane, hemlock, deadly nightshade, and the like. It was no surprise that the garden of Hill View was the only one left out of the summer fete list. Another incident which did not graze Nandita Auntie’s tranquility in the least.

The years rolled past with no light being shed on the mysterious attitude of the chatelaine of Hill View. Devaki and I grew up and parted ways when we left for college.

****************************

It was very hot summer when I was in the final year of my management course. I was very happy to be finishing because I could return home and take over the plantation. Coffee, especially the single source kind was the new rage and my parents and I looking forward to being the stars of the coffee export business. A megadeal was in the pipeline. Dad had a new Jaguar, Mom a specially commissioned neckpiece from Garrad’s, and an attitude to match. When the first clouds of the monsoons arrived, they were expected to shower a rain of prosperity.

But the gray clouds were here to stay and it was soon apparent that they had not arrived as much to give, as to snatch away. For the incessant drip, drip, drip of the rains trickled on into late September, the first cause of mild concern. When it continued into October, the tide turned. But when November drew in, the lights of Diwali were extinguished on by one. The beginnings of black rot, a stubborn disease of the coffee plants made inroads into a couple of plantations situated further downhill. The whole district sensed impending doom.

Social soirees, which were the hall mark of Diwali suddenly took on funereal tinges. While the cream of society had diversified business interests which would weather a small storm, black rot was known for its persistence which could mean a considerable dent in family fortunes. Besides, coffee was the foundation of their wealth for most of the old families. Any harm to the plantations was not just inauspicious, but akin to a curse to any wealth garnering activities beyond.

I arrived home to find it enveloped in gloom. Mom was half-heartedly supervising the decorations, while Dad had retired to his office with the estate manager, in frantic consultations with his accountants. Disgruntled plantation workers squatted on the lawn, deep creases furrowing their foreheads in response to the warnings by local politicians that they would be let go soon, with a pittance. Diwali bonuses were a distant dream. This scene was a recurring one in all the ‘old money’ estates. Black Rot had set in in minds and hearts, not just the coffee plants.

Amidst all this, a sudden and surprising invitation arrived from Hill View. Bile rose to the throat of every society matron. How could Nandita think of hosting a meeting? That she was a boor and a bore, was well known. But this was downright obnoxious. Was this her revenge for years of social spurning? Or was she rubbing their noses in the fact that her plantation was doing well? So, they decided to whet their knives and make sure she paid for her crassness. Oh, they would not refuse her invitation, but after they were finished with her, she would be forced to leave for the city, unable to call the  hill town home any longer.

When a reluctant crowd, dripping venom, gathered at Hill View, there was a frisson of surprise to see a few political big wigs in attendance. For once, the doors to Nandita Auntie’s lair were wide open and a few coffee plants occupied pride of place on some shelving. With everyone seated and a wave of grumbling threatening to build into a tsunami of anger, the local MLA heaved himself to his feet to introduce the head of the agricultural research office of the state. That gentleman was nearly booed off the make- shift raised platform, until he announced the development of a novel fungicide which had been perfected recently, after which he was almost hoisted on the shoulders of the stiff necks for a triumphant victory march.

Nandita Auntie’s meeting was the silver lining to the cloud of gloom and the knives which had been whetted and the brick bats which had been lined up were quietly put away. She was allowed to continue as before. A few reluctant smiles now came her way instead of the superciliously raised eyebrows and kind, cutting remarks.

One March, few years later, when the district had made its mark on the coffee map of the world a special reception at the District Collector’s Office confirmed that Dr Nandita Rao had been awarded the Life Time Achievement Award by the Indian Botanical Society for numerous contributions, the chief one being pathbreaking research in the fungus which caused Black Rot, which had almost destroyed plantations all over the Western Ghats.

It had taken the nondescript firefly years of dancing to its own tune to allow its glow to cut through the darkness of blindfolded minds…

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The Mother Goddess, Marketing, And Me!

The house feels quite empty. The Mother Goddess, who was a resident for the past ten days has left for home, leaving me quite bereft. I have no one to offer the daily jasmine garlands, the chrysanthemum wreaths, and lotuses to. Of course, my maid looks quite bereft for a related reason: she cannot call dibs on the flowers the next day, because the pooja is now a simple affair offered with a few hastily gathered marigolds, hibiscus, and the like. No more intricate weaving and decorating, no more impromptu gifts for the ‘Saubhagyavatis’ and no more Sheera to indulge on the next day.

Shardiya Navratri, which falls in the Hindu month of Ashwin (September-October) is quite a favorite of mine. First off, my family deity is the Goddess Shantadurga (a beneficent form of Goddess Durga), so this festival is the best excuse to pray to the Magna Mater of the clan, and try to inveigle myself into her good books for the rest of the year (not that She falls for it, like any good mother, She has eyes in the back of Her head and always knows exactly what I have been up to). A close second is that it spells the end of the rather gloomy ‘Pitru Paksh’ or ‘Forefather Fortnight,’ a time when the dearly departed ancestors are worshipped, as the time is ripe to commune with the spirit world since this is when it abuts the human world, according to Hindu lore. As I have a healthy respect for spirits, (the ethereal, not the drinking kind), I prefer not to cohabit with them. For me, if the Spirits are in their heaven, all is right with the world. Thirdly, all the fasting, and simple food, most of it without the heavy spices, onion, garlic, and non- vegetarian is a nostalgic trip to childhood and a natural way to detox (the offspring wanders around with a martyred air, but is given short shrift and not indulged, for once). Fourthly, it brings out the devout side of the spouse and keeps him safely out of mischief, and last but not the least, it enables me to witness the self-indulgent, vain side of people who otherwise profess to be paragons of all the virtues.

In addition, Diwali, that undoing of me, is still about three weeks away and as usual, I get to make resolutions to avoid sixty shades of shopping, cleaning, and cooking cock-ups. Every year is my attempt to be the ‘hostess with the mostest,’ which, looking at my abysmal track-record is wishful thinking at best and an exercise in futility at worst. But as usual, I digress. We are here to do justice to Navratri and I will get on with it.

That the festival of the nine nights is fast approaching is first heralded by the temperature which soars Northwards just as the sun begins its pronounced Southward course. ‘October Heat’ they call it. Thane, however is the place which winter seems to have crossed off its itinerary permanently, and there is no need to qualify something as ‘October Heat.’ It is just heat, barring fifteen days in January or February. The next is the offspring demanding different favorite foods every waking hour as compensation for the penance which she will soon be undergoing. But the confirmatory test is when the maid starts to harangue me with questions about the ‘colors’ for the nine days, the trees on my street start to sport random strings of fairy lights around their trunks and swinging from their branches and half of the already crowded streets get cordoned off to host various ‘Garba Pandals.’

While the latter has been a Navratri fixture for quite some time now, thanks to the large Gujrati populace and our general inclination to start dancing anywhere and everywhere, the former, regarding the famous ‘colors’ of Navratri is a very smart marketing gimmick. Up to 2003, there was a festival dedicated solely to colors, and that was Holi of course. Women did dress up in their finery during Navratri, but mostly in heirloom, traditional attire, or in case of Bengalis, new clothes for Durga Pooja, since it is THE most important festival of their calendar. The same went for the Garba of the Gujratis. So far, so genteel.

A Maharashtrian who had no business to meddle with people’s wardrobe came up with a sharp marketing strategy in 2003. Perhaps he was in cahoots with a saree merchant in Surat, perhaps he had been at the receiving end of a tirade from his wife about not buying her enough sarees, or perhaps, he was an artist at heart. Anyway, for reasons best left to conjecture, this gentleman who at the time was editor of the Maharashtra Times came up with a concept which was quite unique. Since the mobile phone with its ‘everyone is a photographer’ mantra was all the rage, he began listing out nine colors to be worn by women, each supposedly related to a particular form and attribute of the Goddess. He then asked the women to click pics and send them to his paper, with creative captions, and voila! a tradition touted to be hundreds of years old was born a mere twenty years ago. Given the abysmal level of knowledge most Hindus have about their own religion, everyone fell for it, hook, line, and sinker and rushed to complete their wardrobes with new or not so new attire in the required colors, all the better to flaunt it with my dear! 

While it is fact that each of the nine forms of the Goddess do have specific colors attributed to them, they remain constant EVERY year, irrespective of the day of the week. And thus, Maa Brahmacharini will wear white, even if the second day of Navratri, when she is worshipped, falls on a Friday, unlike the green which the meddlesome editor will dress her in. The colors will never veer wildly between peacock blue, peacock green, and sky blue, or pink, maroon and red. But then again, if not for this brilliant strategy, how will you get to replenish your wardrobe (already bursting at the seams) with the missing shade, without which the Goddess will haul you over the coals for your singular display of lack of devotion? (trust me, She regards all these shenanigans with the exasperated air of a Mother whose toddler always wants the one extra toy).

If marketing has done its bit, how can media be far behind? And thus, for another year my ritual Diwali cleaning starts with the cleaning of my inbox flooded with ‘mandatory’ clicks of guys and gals in coordinated clothes (you know something is far wrong when the hitherto color blind guys suddenly turn into nit picking dandies, giving the gals a run for their money with their fastidious opinions on shades of purple and maroon which they had lumped under ‘red’ until the day before yesterday), couples twinning or complementing (do they like angles, add up to ninety degrees?), entire departments of respectable professionals striking silly poses or dancing as if their lives depended on it. The less said the better about real looking reels, Gujrati ‘Gotillo’ songs (I initially though it was a Kannada song to match my mood, because Gottilla in Kannada means ‘I don’t know,’ which is my usual answer to the is question ‘What is the color today?’)

All the new- fangled traditions notwithstanding, Navratri will always be special. For a cynical stick- in- the- mud like me, it still means the eternal flame of the Nandadeep, the Pooja room awash in marigolds and chrysanthemums, the brightly burnished copper ‘Kalash’ with is coconut and mango leaves crowned with a fresh chrysanthemum wreath, the waiting in line to make an offering to the Goddess who protects the city at the century old temple at ‘Gaondevi’,  the beautiful ‘Golu’ display at a friend’s house, traditional bhondla songs, and fond memories of Durga Pooja feasts at my best friend’s place, all culminating in Dasara, the eternal triumph of good over evil.

Whether you dress yourself in nine colors or whether you send out selfies is inconsequential because the true power of the Mother Goddess is Her compassion for everyone, sans all the trappings, and it certainly needs no marketing!

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The (IN)Human Rights Of HAMAS

What if you walked into Maratha Mandir theatre and found that instead of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, Mughal-e-Azam was playing instead? One part of you would be happy that the droning on and on and on of the former had ended. But the other part would be horrified that an even older film, which you had hoped had shot its bolt for good was back with a vengeance. Perhaps Messrs. Putin and Zelensky experienced similar emotions because they were summarily replaced from center stage by some of the oldest players in the Old Testament, the Jews, and the Palestinians, aka the Philistines, in their new avatar.

 Nothing kills the weekend vibe faster than waking up feeling thankful that the sun has finally appeared, only to be confronted with the news of a terrorist attack which has killed more than a thousand people, albeit half way across the world. You absorb the general gloom by osmosis, which is swiftly made worse by gruesome images and videos which sneak their way into your smart phone. “You may run but cannot hide” pounds in your head until you are left with a jumble of emotions, guaranteed to bring on a pounding headache, with an accompanying nasty, queasy feeling. What makes you want to lie down in a darkened room with a cool cloth over your eyes is the realization that this loop of depravity at its worse is not going away any time soon. There will be retaliation, condemnations, and the worst of it all, endless debates on who is right and who is wrong.

I think it is strange how people are now ‘woke up’ instead of ‘woken up.’ Perhaps they are losing much more than a sense of grammar. They are in grave danger of losing ALL sense, the commonest of course being common sense! It is no wonder that the panda is the universal sign of the endangered. Me thinks it has been chosen for its black and white color scheme among other things. Because today’s world refuses to acknowledge these two unfortunate colors. They have been combined into a single grey leaving all of us in the eye of the storm.

I had never truly understood why the commonest adjective to describe grey was ‘murky’ or ‘stormy,’ until now. But after hearing people shouting themselves hoarse in defense of the indefensible, even the eye of the storm blinds with its crystal- clear clarity. Media of all kinds has left little to the imagination in the attack on civilian Jews by HAMAS, a radical Muslim organization in Palestine. If people sitting thousands of miles away can feel the outrage and anger caused by the massacre of babies, the supposed ‘Knee-Jerk’ reaction of the Israeli government in calling for a no-holds barred decimation of HAMAS is certainly not abnormal. Besides, as Golda Meir, the former prime minister of Israel poetically put it, the Jews have nowhere else to go, and thus, any attempt to rub them up the wrong way is a one- way ticket to the hereafter before you can say ‘blast.’

But perhaps the world never could be divided neatly into right and wrong. Somehow, the onus of the massacre of human rights has landed on the Jewish doorstep, trailing the entrails of the ‘woke’ who claim Israel to be a terrorist state which has encroached upon the land of the ‘poor Palestinians’ and converted Gaza into the world’s largest open- air prison. Making a peaceful community revolt against decades of suppression and usurpation. Calls for the rest of the Muslim world to stand in solidarity against Israel have already resulted in knifings in France, clashes in Canada, eruptions in England, grumbling in Germany and smoldering fires in Sweden.

Never mind that the original settlers of the land of Cannan were the Jews, who were hounded out by Arab conquerors whose greed for land was not satiated even after swallowing the Persians, the Mesopotamians, the Egyptians, and the Romans! Possession in this case was the ABSOLUTE law, not just nine tenths of it. Never mind that in recent history the Ottoman Turks were forced to cede this land and of course, never mind that Israel was provoked into fighting three wars, winning them all and adding to its territory.  Never mind that it restored the Sinai Peninsula to Egypt, which REFUSED to take over Gaza! Never mind that the rest of Israel’s neighbors covertly armed and funded the Palestinians, encouraging them to fight a proxy war on their behalf, putting paid to any negotiations for lasting peace.

Of course, HAMAS has human rights if they were to join the human race in the first place! Kidnapping the old and infirm, burning babies alive, parading naked dead bodies and indiscriminate killings need to be defended as if they were defensible crimes. And HAMAS has been smart. They are the eternal victims who are being defended by their champions who woke up very early, whether in Harvard, Yale, Turkey, good old God’s own country Kerala, the Aligarh Muslim University or the working committee of the grand old party of India.

There are those bleeding hearts who were proponents of peace between the powers that were in Gaza and Israel, who were kidnapped by HAMAS to use as hostages and were later disposed off like so many flies. But then again, it is the world of the woke or so they think. What terrorist organizations excel at is propaganda which is as insidious as low dose arsenic, which succeeds in endorsing its fake victim card before you can say Aadhar. While the true master minds bring their nefarious plans to fruition from far away safe havens, they have the advantage of the double whammy. By sacrificing dispensable front lines as cannon fodder, they portray the actual victims as the oppressors, making them fight two battles: of weapons and of morals. It is a win- win situation for them. For the world generally loves to fete the have-nots. We have heard and seen it in the classic beginning of most childhood tales, “There once was a kind poor man and a wicked rich man.” The Jews of Israel are still trying to live down the reputation foisted on them by William Shakespeare’s Shylock.

Perhaps, it is time for us Indians to turn to our ancient wisdom, where wrong and right were more clearly demarcated and punishment meted out accordingly, to angels and demons alike. For until the world wakes from its slumber of wokeism, HAMAS will continue to exercise its (in)human rights.

(This article is Part 1 of the series called Tentacles of Terror: Connecting Bharat, Israel and Persia)

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