Category: Articles

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neighborhood music teacher and seeing her reluctance to give throat to any song, I, in search of greener pastures had withdrawn her altogether.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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Lifestyle Article

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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Articles

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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Articles

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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The Mother Goddess, Marketing, And Me!

Post author By Dr Sumedha
Post date October 29, 2023
2 Comments on 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

Post author By Dr Sumedha
Post date October 14, 2023
3 Comments on 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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Jaane kya toone Kahi

Listening is an art that requires attention over talent, spirit over ego and others over self
Dean Jackson

When you earn your bread and butter (and some cheese too perhaps) through making sure that people can hear what you say, you are probably a comrade- in-arms: an ENT surgeon or an audiologist. Thanks to the new- fangled habit of ears sprouting ‘buds’ of all kinds (no, not the growing kind luckily, though the ear can be home to funny varieties of fungus thanks to it being a cool, calm, and peaceful cul-de-sac) the number of people who are actually or pretend to be hard of hearing is on the rise. If the S bend of the girls’ toilet can safely house a rather weepy ghost like Moaning Myrtle in Harry Potter world, the external ear canal can house more than its fair share of baddies, including foreign bodies, wax, and the a forementioned fungus.

It is a rather a strange organ, the ear. Home to the smallest bone and the smallest skeletal muscle, situated deep inside a bone with little space for tricky maneuvers (usual story of the body), strange bony protuberances, snail like coils, a good bit of something resembling a bristle brush masquerading as a sense organ, and of course its proximity to the brain. By the time you get to grips with this convoluted anatomy, you can be forgiven for the strange lightheadedness you feel, sans the ‘happy juice’ that is. And thanks to all this paraphernalia packed away, it is sensationally responsible for two sensations: hearing and balance. So next time, you get the spins sans any reason, pay attention to the ear. It is entirely up to you to listen to what it says, whether you hear it or not.

And that, my friends, brings us to the difference between mere hearing and the finer art of hearing between the lines, called what else? Listening of course! Ask any much- married couple and the complaint of “He/She NEVER listens to me” is a universal one. Unfortunately, what was once the shield of an uncomplaining spouse against the frequent tirades of the other, the disease of not listening seems to be catching. And thus, you have this complaint of parent against child, child against parent, teacher against student, X against Y, a social malaise you can call it.

Blame it on most people ‘living in their heads,’ but an inability to listen is at the root of the deafening silence which often stretches between people who seem very well connected socially. A walk down the street is lonely, with only your air pods plugged into a podcast for company. Silence reigns where one was hailed by a dozen different people within the span of a hundred feet once upon a time, not so long ago.

The conundrum arising from such a fraught situation is that everyone often goes out of their way to be heard. And thus, we have several (and largely unsolicited) opinion pieces, vociferous and vituperative debates on every media channel you turn to and everyone under the sun lending a voice to the voiceless wearing the blissful cloak of mystery and anonymity on social media. Voices and hackles are raised and language becomes far riper than needed just so that one maybe listened to. There is ‘Janta ki Awaz’, ‘Voice of the People’, ‘Meri Awaz Suno’ and ‘The Nation wants to Know’ galore but nobody to listen to the uproar. Methinks the PM can save his breath because very few people are hearkening to his inner voice on ‘Man ki Baat’.

Only a few decades ago, people had not just developed but perfected the art of listening. A simple inflection or change of tone was enough for the discerning listener to correctly gauge the speaker’s feelings. Most people were men of few words for they knew that a few succinct sentences were suffice to convey the deepest feelings and the profoundest of thoughts. When someone said ‘Lend me your ears,’ people did so without a second thought and with a touching sincerity. Orators great and tall, or even the gossips large and small were listened to with devotion and the hidden meaning gleaned without obvious strain or effort. It was a pleasure to listen to the other’s view point, a display of class and good manners. People who inadvertently or purposely monopolized conversations largely fell into two categories: classless or politicians.

The importance of the ability to listen was generally honed by baby steps from childhood itself, when mothers listened to lisping baby-talk with such deep attention, that the child was automatically conferred with the security of ‘being heard’ by the people who mattered the most in its tiny world. And thus, the ability of listening was automatically inculcated. In fact, ‘companiable silence’ was as common back then as ‘unheard cacophony’ is in today’s world. The ability to listen well was perhaps slightly more prized than the ability to speak. It was perhaps because people valued the sanctity of silence so much that they had an almost innate ability to choose words carefully to convey deep meanings. True believers in ‘actions speaking louder than words,’ listening strangely was through the eyes and with the heart as much as through the ears. No one was so busy in the pursuit of busyness that they did not have the time to listen.

In today’s world, it is almost as if the machines have taken over the ‘listening-and thinking’ process. Lost in a haze of importance and artifice, most people are hearkening to their inner voice on WhatsApp, X and LinkedIn. Listening to an actual voice is a rare gift only to be bestowed on the great and the important. It is sometimes misused as sycophancy. You listen to your boss or your business partner with undivided attention, but the friend who talks on the phone for a minute more than necessary, or a family member, who repeats the same thing twice becomes a ‘bore’ who must be adroitly avoided the next time round.

That listening with deep attention can make a person feel valued and important is a medically acknowledged fact with enough research to show that it is one of the best and simplest ways to make a person feel appreciated. The ‘keep them talking’ rule in most suicide helplines is not a mere ploy to triangulate the location of the caller but also a proven way to make the victims feel wanted. Just the thought that someone out in the void takes the time to listen to their thoughts can help them off the ‘edge’ on which they are poised.

In a world largely centered more and more on itself, being a good listener is one of the easiest ways in which we can make a small difference. Besides, God forbid, what seems like the incessant babble of today may die away into the haunting silence of tomorrow, laced with nothing but regret for there will be no one to listen to us! So, the next time you get a chance to listen to anything, from bird-song, to a hesitant teenager’s idea to the oft repeated reminisces of a septuagenarian, hear with your ears, and listen with your heart for it can be the echo of the Divine.

Once we stop merely hearing and start listening, it can result in the unravelling of the knottiest of problems characterized in the song,

‘Jaane kya toone kahi

Jaane kya maine suni

Baat kuch ban hi gayi!’

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Heropanti!

Let the world say what it chooses, I shall tread the path of duty—know this to be the line of action for a hero
Swami Vivekanand

A few years ago, in the unhappier times of the raging pandemic, the offspring emerged from her online schooling session with a long face which had a far deeper cause than mere hunger. A project in Marathi (which was her second language in school) had just been announced. If you are under the impression that said project should have been right up her street, just because Marathi happens to be our mother tongue, gentle reader, you can think again. And the topic was ‘Five great Maharashtrian Industrialists/ Businessmen.’ Not something which even the rest of the family was familiar with. What followed were few hellish days filled to the brim with howls of outrage, tears, sleepless nights for yours truly followed by feverish in- depth research, and much writing until the project was turned in. But with it came the unhappy realization that we (the offspring and I), did not know as much about the quiet builders of the state’s economy as we did the ‘pop stars,’ the actors, singers, and the politicians!

Cue to present times, when I came across an insightful write-up on Facebook with pictures of popular actor Ranveer Singh and Wing Commander Rakesh Sharma side by side questioning the comparative popularity of the two and why our leap into space was a long overdue leap of faith. The reason was simple. Not only did the ‘hero’ command more face value, but his films marched to the tune of far bigger budgets than what the good folk at ISRO were sanctioned. Also, Wing Commander Sharma led a life hidden behind his helmet, dressed in a regulation space suit unlike our pied piper of Bollywood who loved to flaunt his outlandish shirts, his wife’s skirts and if occasion warranted, his skin. Mind you, had Wing Commander Sharma chosen to dress himself in garish tiger-print or peacock feather print space suits, he would have been easily spotted whirling away by Mrs. Gandhi, the then PM, who would have pointed to him with pride!

These two episodes of stepping out of the ‘pop culture’ zone got me thinking. Why was the limelight (itself a term borrowed from English theatre) often stolen by figures who did little other than prance, dance, stir up controversies or generally create a nuisance to some section of society? Were these venerated figures worth the adulations heaped on them or were they milking the ‘there is nothing like bad publicity’ truth to the hilt? And what did it say about the society of today who seemingly chose these wonderfully weird role models with wide open eyes? Why was the bilgewater which constantly dripped down from the lives of these ‘larger than life’ beings the holy grail to many?

The answer, being the naked truth, was not very pleasant. In fact, it traced its origins to the days when the glory of the Roman empire was on the wane. The satirical Roman poet Juvenal penned the Latin term ‘Panem et Circenses’ which roughly translates as ‘bread and circuses.’ The concept being that people could be pacified by food and entertainment when they should be rallying to their prescribed civic duties. And that was the reason why entertainment and entertainers (could range from acting, dancing, singing to even sports) often ‘hogged’ a far larger space than needed in the lives of common people. It was the escapism at its best. An escape from the travails of everyday life into something far more glamorous, where everything was as it should be rather than the way it was.

This ‘Great Escape’ is now one of the fundamental truths of life. Thanks to the tapeworm like growth of social media, we have added those happy souls who call themselves ‘influencers’ to the list of the doubtful rather than the redoubtable in our lives. Truth be told, most of the times the ways in which they ‘influence’ as questionable as their influence if not more! But then again, if an emperor can parade around town in invisible new clothes, people can certainly worship those who have no other talent than stuttering out dialogue, baying at the moon with arms spread out or gyrating to questionable lyrics with other actors half their age (I am sure you get the hint about a certain ‘young’ actor staging a self-acclaimed comeback with an eponymous recently released movie)

Popularity plays an important role in the human psyche and believes in the ‘catch-‘em-young’ adage. We are all familiar with the two inadvertent groups we come across in school: the popular kids and everyone else. Unsurprisingly, everyone wants to jump onto the popular bandwagon as we all want to belong, be seen and feted. Never mind the quiet achievements of the rest whether it is being a good classical singer, an artist or simply being the kindest person around. In the race to be the sun, the fireflies have lost even before they begin. In addition, some achievements require one to work harder and this of course forms a major impediment to the ‘quick fame dream.’

As a matter of course, this is naturally carried forward into adulthood where everyone can name the ‘Heropanti’ of the five popular actors, three cricketeers, six social media influencers and ten rabble rousers of the day, but think long and hard when asked about five heroes of the Kargil war or the names of five scientists who worked on the development of the Covid vaccines, before shrugging insouciantly and saying ‘who cares?’ Thus does a Dr. Dilip Mahalanabis (I am sure even most of my medical brethren do not know him well either, so to quote our erstwhile professors, please READ up) lose out to Dilip Kumar, S Somanath to Shahrukh Khan and Jaswant Singh Rawat to Dhruv Rathee and Kunal Kamra. While the latter three ‘greats’ might have their own rags-to-riches stories and may have undeniably worked hard to get where they are today and may deserve their place in the sun, what irks is the unnecessary adulation they command, thanks to a larger-than-life image which again, they do not lift a finger to rectify. And thus, we have them endorsing poisonous chemicals (saying bolo zubaan kesari), sugary drinks, salty snacks and the like, which they would not touch with a barge pole themselves, which of course the public laps up. It is cash for conscience at its worst, laced with a frighteningly callous attitude towards social responsibility.

Another aspect which sticks in the craw is the way in which the general public accepts the tripe dished out in the form of popular cinema as the gospel truth, just because of a big- name actor who plays the role of a saviour of the masses, conveniently portraying the rest of society as a morass of misdeeds. And thus, they spout nonsense with regularity, questioning authority with impunity and offering an unsolicited opinion about anything under the sun, about which they have no knowledge to begin with. The debate between actor Swara Bhaskar and TV host Rubika Liaquat where the utter ignorance of the former on the CAA NRC was laid bare before the world by the latter being a case in point. Well researched films are easily labelled ‘divisive’ or ‘communal’ all to further a well-set agenda. All I can say is people must have sold the family tomatoes to buy multiplex tickets to watch the medical miracle of an actor on the wrong side of fifty being labelled ‘Jawan.’

Maybe we need to rethink our goals and transform into the ‘thinking kinds,’ where we correctly learn to identify who our real heroes are. An egalitarian society will be possible only when we learn to separate the chaff from the grain and recognise all those who works towards the betterment of the world. Correctly identifying and idolizing those who choose NOT to be larger than life although their contributions speak for themselves is a measure of our maturity.

Perhaps, picking the right heroes is the real Heropanti!

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The Dark Side Of The Moon

The wise see knowledge and action as one; They see truly and go beyond death
Brihadaranyaka Upanishad

Now that the South Pole of the moon bears not just the imprint of the Indian Emblem and the Vikram Lander in sleep mode, not to speak of the Indian Flag, it is time to set our sights on newer horizons to conquer. We have perhaps been the first civilization to know that the ‘Brahmand’ as we call it, is in a way limitless and in a way limited to the smallest sub-atomic particle. Though we embraced modernity in the space race, the tolling of ancient bells somewhere in the subconscious has given us an edge in what we seek in the heavens.

It seems strange, but you may try to take Indians out of science, but you cannot take the science out of Indians. This has been proved time and again. The Indian Institute of Science was set up in the face of tremendous odds, a brain child of such visionaries like Swami Vivekananda and Sir J.N.Tata, which was finally brought to living, breathing life by the hard work and generosity of Sister Nivedita and Maharani Kempananjammani Devi, the regent of the kingdom of Mysore. It is not strange therefore that a stalwart like Homi Jehangir Bhabha decided to make a fledgling nation an independent nuclear power, while Dr. Vikram Sarabhai set his sights on launching the nation into space much to the horror of the ‘Big Brothers’ of the world, the powers of the West, the biggest of whom of course, was uncle Sam. ‘Precocious’ was the only way to describe this new kid and it was certainly unbecoming.

It is no secret that ‘bullying’ is a traditional welcome offered to most new kids, whether on the block, on the street, or in school and if the kid happens to be rather down- at -heel with a torn satchel, second-hand books, dressed in hand-me-down clothes and is brown to boot, well, your imagination can fill in the blanks. And this was precisely the unsubtle ‘cancellation’ which the Indian Nuclear and its offshoot, the Space Program faced since its inception. It always faced the shadow, rather than the light of the moon.

The withholding of technology and the sanctions applied were all par for the course, but the real price India paid was the loss of scientific talent. With a seriously flawed education policy already in place, the stage had been set for a rapid brain drain. But this was compounded by death, which stalked the ranks of those scientists who remained, carelessly culling the best and the brightest with scant regard for age or knowledge. And not just any old death, but the planned and pre-mediated kind.

Beginning with the death of Dr. Bhabha himself, in a tragic air-crash in the snow-laden heights of the Alps in 1966, an incident which was never given the gravitas and investigation warranted (not least because it followed the death of the then PM Lal Bahadur Shastri by less than two weeks), the toll grew and grew like an unstoppable dirge, swelling well into the second decade of the new millennium, further besmirched by a spying case in the last decade of the nineties. A popular media house was somehow roused from its apathetic state of semi- somnolence to publish a piece on ‘The Case of the Missing Indian Scientists,’ but there was none of the hue and cry which would have been caused if there had been a few missing politicians (who certainly did nothing extraordinary other than rabble-rousing) or a few missing ‘popular actors’!

The sudden death of Dr. Vikram Sarabhai, a non-smoker and teetotaler with no known history of cardiac disease, the founder and first director of what began as INCOSPAR and what we now know as the much- feted ISRO, due to sudden cardiac arrest in a hotel room in Thiruvanantapuram on 30^th December 1971 and the subsequent refusal by the family to carry out a post-mortem, led to more than just niggling doubts which have never quite been silenced. Of course, the statement of the great man himself that he was being watched by both the Americans and the Russians did not help matters. Conspiracy theories aside, the loss of two top scientists in a span of five years was a setback which took a long time to overcome.

Now popularized by the film ‘Rocketry,’ which recently won the national award, the story of aerospace engineer and scientist S Nambi Narayanan, which mercifully does not end in murder and mayhem is no less sinister, not least because it spotlights the depths to which foreign powers can penetrate the best of our institutions and achieve their ends by ruthlessly mowing down all who stand in their path. His arrest and the subsequent spurious espionage charges made India not only lose out on cryogenic tech, but also a large chunk in the space economy, which was the ulterior motive all along.

What strikes one as truly devastating is that the price for which PEOPLE can be bought or sold is significantly less than the thirty pieces of silver for which Judas betrayed Jesus Christ! A distinctly unhappy scenario. When the ruling powers at the center, state, and the intelligence bureau all act in collusion and a certain person involved later becomes the Union defense minister, one can only wonder about what else is being sold in the open (black) market. Of course, when the IB officer involved in the arrest also joins politics later, one can assume that what smells fishy is much more than the fresh ‘Karimeen’ caught off the Kerala coast.

But there is worse. Between 2009 and 2013, eleven Indian nuclear scientists died unnatural deaths. It was bizarre because they were found dead on railway tracks or simply vanished while out on morning walks, only to be found dead in forests. According to a PIL filed by RTI activist Chetan Kothari in 2011, around 684 deaths had been reported in a fifteen- year period at various nuclear and space centers around the country. With most deaths being attributed to ambiguous causes with insufficient or downright shoddy investigations, it hard to prove or disprove the real reasons behind them.

A series of interviews with a former CIA operative, Robert Crowley by journalist Gregory Douglas has been published as a book ‘Conversations with the Crow’ where Crowley without mincing words talks about Dr. Bhabha ‘being a dangerous one’ who was bent on ‘stirring up trouble.’ Reading between the lines it is easy to see that crossing scientific swords with the powers that be is perhaps the most dangerous of all and the people who show the gumption to walk this path are marked men. Although Douglas has often been lampooned for being a ‘conspiracy theorist,’ some coincidences are one too many to ignore.

With the recent laurels in the crown of the Indian Space program, it is perhaps better late than never that so many of our ‘back-street boys and gals’ who slave away in labs and tech centers, unknown to most of us have been pulled into the limelight they deserve. Accolades aside, they are not only more deserving of the traditional ‘Lal -batti-ki- gadi’ than some of the scum who have nothing more to their names other than being born in the right cot, but deserve a safe and long life like (m)any other Indian citizens.

With the successful launch of the Aditya L1, the first Indian solar mission, let us hope that Indian scientists find their safe place in the sun without being haunted by the dark side of the moon!

( This article is the concluding part of the series ‘Dreaming by Moonlight’)

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