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Between Magic And Mania

‘Once you sign on to be a mother, 24/7 is the only shift they offer’

Jodi Picoult.

If I dig deep enough into the precious memorabilia I have from my glory days of yore, (read childhood and the happy time when the offspring was a little bundle of preciousness, who, try as she might, could not move much) I am confident of unearthing two photographs. One was taken when I was about five or six, featuring my Great-grandmother, Granny, Mom and me. Our expressions varied greatly, Great-granny had a look of slight disbelief, Granny complacent, Mom happy enough, though her smile looked just the tiniest bit forced and I, blithe and carefree as they come, my mind already planning the next devilment.

Fast forward to two and a half decades later. A repeat of the same picture, but with a slight change in the players: Granny, Mom, me and the offspring (Great -Granny had since journeyed to the hereafter), the same expressions, although the offspring was too young to execute any of the devilments which she might have planned. It was then that I realized the mystery behind the expressions. The Marathi sayeth which roughly translates as ‘you do not get a glimpse of heaven unless you die first’ was true after all. Great-Granny looked disbelieving because she could actually wash her hands off her offspring and Granny was complacent about a well-raised offspring, who perhaps contrary to her expectations, accepted responsibility for a hundred things.

It was Mom’s slightly forced smile which was the most intriguing. It was probably because she had probably been gradually realizing that her 24/7 shift was not even going to change to a 12/6 one for the next decade and a half at least, that she, to quote Robert Frost had miles to go before even a peaceful afternoon nap was in sight. Well, by the time I realized and repented for all my little and not so little foibles, they had caught up with me and can be summarized by something interesting which I read just the other day, ‘My kid is turning out to be just like me. Well played Karma, well played.’

 Fast forwarding yet again, if you take a good look at me these days, my smile is not so much forced, as a downright grimace. I had solemnly vowed to never say ‘Yeh Aaj kal ke bacche!’, having heard this litany continuously while growing up, leaving me wondering whether I had grown hooves, horns, a forked tail or all of the above. But the famous James Bond movie sums it up rather well, ‘Never Say Never Again’. In a futile attempt to keep my vow, I make sure to never say the ‘Yeh Aaj’ etc etc aloud, but chant it in my mind, a never- ending mantra, which will perhaps lead me on the path to enlightenment. Now that the offspring is a full-fledged teen, it is par for the course for her to be on the offensive about a million things and more, and she does it with customary aplomb, leaving me to put up a rather feeble defense. I constantly glance over my shoulder hoping for reinforcements in the form of Mom perhaps? (the spouse not being of much use) But, no such luck. Mom is too busy grinning and pointing at her beloved grand-offspring with pride from the side-lines, and egging her on if anything! I am seriously considering getting a puppy, so that at least someone in the house is pleased to see me!

Having been a mom for more than a third of my life now, I have suddenly developed not just a bond, but a kindred spirit of deep sympathy for the rest of my ilk, especially those of my generation. Harried women, most of them teetering on the tightrope of holding on and letting go, ‘upgrading’ themselves at speed, to become the latest 6 or 7G versions of themselves, lest they become ‘slow’ in this era of virtual reality. In these times of cut-throat competition, it is hardly implausible that mothers without warning can morph from normal moms to ‘momsters’ in the blink of an eye. It is the fear of their children being left behind that drives them to be the ones with the best dressed, best fed, best behaved, topper kids who play three musical instruments, four varsity sports, have developed half a dozen apps and written at least two books by the time they are twelve and are fending off talent scouts from all eight of the Ivy League Institutes by the time they are fifteen. Anything less is considered a failure. Of course, there are the rest of us who think that there exists a very fine line between ‘Supermoms’ and sanity.

In the meantime, kids make merry. Each generation thinks that the successive ones are insufferable know-it-alls. This is especially true for most of us, for we spent our childhood in the pre-internet era, gained an insight into it at the beginning of our college/ working lives (mainly those lucky ones who are in I.T. The rest of us, me included, only heard about its existence) and gradually allowed it to transform how we looked at things only since a decade and a half. With the children submerged in the internet since early childhood, it seems the most natural thing to them to become self- proclaimed masters, navigating the tangled web with frightening ease and efficiency before mommy dearest can say ‘tarantula’ (the giant spider, I meant, not the latest version of some game or operating system).

I like to think that we are keeping pace with the changing times. Mr. Suraj Barjatya, with his penchant for playing happy families with a Magna Mater ruling the roost and ensuring that she is the last word on manners and morals which the rest of the clan obsequiously follows and whose children hang on to her every word like so many bats in a cave has been firmly relegated to the past, getting an outing only when we feel the need to be drenched in nostalgia. The rest of the time, we keep it real, ala` Sridevi, in her fabulous come back film, ‘English Vinglish’, where she deals with an impertinent offspring with flair, in her inimitable way. It is not as if the offspring are bad at all. It is just the impatience of youth, trying to prove itself, to make sure that it reaches the goals we set in the first place.

It is with these encouraging (God knows I need them twenty times a day) thoughts that I gird myself for some more skirmishes with the offspring which are sure to come my way unexpectedly. In the course of an ordinary day, it begins with the ideal time to wake up (with the sun according to me and the stars according to her), the menu for BLD(breakfast, lunch and dinner), the clothes, the nails, the hair, the books, the time wasted watching OTT (according to me of course!), the choice of music (mine wails and hers sounds like nails on a chalk board), midnight snacks and a million other things which all moms the world over would agree on. But, at the same time, I would not change a single thing. These little battles are the stuff of family legends.

There are tears and laughter and rule-making and breaking. Times when I am deemed judgmental, or other times when the rolling eyes describe me as simply ‘mental’. Times when I don’t know enough and times when I know too much. When I am too preachy and times when I don’t give enough advice like other well-meaning people. When I am not assertive at all, or so assertive that she has to remind me that it’s her life! And those memorable times when I can be counted on to embarrass her with either my misplaced sense of style (or lack thereof) or misplaced sense of humor. It is a constant rollercoaster ride which I wouldn’t miss for the world.

And of course, every time I seek some respite, to write this screed for example, she, by some strange form of extra sensory perception,knows that I am putting my feet up, leading me to discover a new law, The Offspring Law, as I call it. “The moment you find something interesting or important to do is the very moment when the offspring will need something, and yell for you. The more you ignore, the longer the duration, and higher the pitch and the frequency”. This is especially true in case of multiple offspring, where you are trained with great zeal in the many tasks which peace keeping forces are expected to do.

What brought on this piece on parenting you ask? Mother’s Day of course, though if truth be told, I would say that every day is Mother’s Day, at least as far as keeping the wheels of the daily grind tickinggoes.I would like to wish all mothers out there, for having been there and done that. Because being a mom is not easy. If it were, dads would do it too! So, irrespective of your style of parenting or the type of mom you are, a tiger, a dolphin, an elephant, a helicopter, or any other, take heart for you are doing better than your best and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!

Sticky fingers, runny noses, fevered brows, scraped knees, forgotten homework and projects, exams by the dozen, sports, music and everything else in between, a mom’s world is never dull, long after the kids have flown the nest. Because they are the living memories which we make, little bits of ourselves, which we hope to leave behind for posterity. That is what motherhood is, the eternal walk between mania and magic.

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Clever Cockroach And Cancel Culture

I wake up with a start. There is a creepy sense of being stalked and a not-so-nice feeling of sharing space with someone I did not intend to. In the half-gloom of dawn (it is only 4.30am), I see a pair of waving antennae and suppress a scream. A cockroach is taking a merry morning stroll across the head board and will perhaps stop somewhere near my feet in hopes of an early breakfast! Before you think of jeering at my abysmal house-keeping skills, let me remind you of an obscure lesson I suddenly recall from my Grade Eleven biology class. Cockroaches abound in tropical climes in the months of March and September because it is breeding season for these critters and their exponentially swollen numbers result in household havoc.

Trying to keep a lid on the whole situation, I stealthily crawl to the small cupboard where I store my trusty can of ‘LAAL HIT’, (guaranteed one hundred percent to rid your home of all varieties of creepy-crawlies) and return at speed, holding the can like a shield. I point the nozzle and exult in the thrill of being on the verge of reclaiming my prized space, evicting the unnerving vermin, when the cockroach stares beadily at me and a cacophony of tinny voices echo, “Privileged Human, we deplore your infringement of cockroach rights. You have prov(w)oked the woke! You will know the ignominy of cancel and call-out culture.”

I have been given a talking to by talking insects! Before I know it, all manners of creatures are spreading my misdemeanors far and wide. Slumping in defeat, I capitulate by crawling away to a crevice (read the sofa) where I spend a sleepless hour, thinking black thoughts, about my independence being imperiled by an invertebrate. Defeated before even beginning to defend what was rightfully mine! All because of a ‘call-out’ by a cockroach at the crack of dawn, fueling that innate fear which lurks in most humans, the fear of being singled out in the tribe!

This rather unsettling episode has woken me to the woke (yes, I know, but I am a fan of ghastly puns). A new fever which has gripped the world, which involves involving oneself with a cause, fighting for a disregard of the rights of the downtrodden by anyone more powerful, the establishment, the government or simply a majority of the general populace. A higher purpose, which deserves a no-holds-barred support from the human race. And this must have held true in the initial days of this movement, which, to all intents and purposes began as a struggle for equality, against exploitation in general.

Unfortunately, there exists something called too much of a good thing. Much in the manner of the demon Bhasmasur trying to devour Lord Shiva who had granted him his special status in the first place, wokeism, which began as a quest for the greater good is now being looked at with skepticism, especially by those who have fallen prey to its twin minions of cancel culture and call out culture. Because, thanks to it, anyone can vociferously (read in a shrill rant) seek attention on anything which they perceive to be wrong, their actual and factual knowledge of the situation be damned!

Where there was one trial and one system of justice (whether the verdict was right or wrong is again a totally different story), there now exist two. The second, or rather the first trial which any misdemeanor warrants, is a media trial, and it is much swifter, and many a times much more vindictive than the first. It bases itself on the popular perception of any issue and thus can be far removed from facts. It involves setting the tone of how a situation is perceived by the general public, irrespective of the actual on-ground situation and literally travels like wildfire. A battle of ‘my truth is right and yours wrong, even if you are an expert in the field concerned’. And this is where all cockroaches cry out, for they have their spot of the limelight.

Calling out mistakes, especially if they are blatant and carried out with a misplaced sense of hubris or entitlement can help as a reality check at the time, but digging out those mistakes of the distant past, from where the person concerned has moved on, and/or is trying to better is simply a case of flogging the dead horse and serves no purpose! In addition, calling out something just to be seen as being with ‘it’ is simply wrong. It merely indicates a mob mentality and a need to be validated. Forwarding an opinion on an opinion on an opinion given by someone famous might seem very important, but sadly carries little value. On the contrary, if done irresponsibly, especially on matters of say, for example state policy, without understanding the finer nuances can be more of a hindrance than help. But alas, the wheels of social media run on the grease of the constantly churning opinion mill which, in turn is fed by the cat-calls of calling out!
Everyone likes to strike a blow for a cause and what better when it can be done safely cloaked under the blanket of ‘mass opinion’? Because, most of the times this is what the calling out culture is reduced to. Retweeting popular tweets, forwarding posts without verifying their substance, without trying to hear out the other side, without the formation of a balanced opinion in which the crime merits the punishment. It sadly finds itself in the quagmire of vicious name-calling, mud-slinging and personal attacks, defeating its own purpose. Cancel culture involves blanking out those people who do not share your opinion on any given subject. If ever there was a sworn enemy of a civilized discussion, this is it! Since people now lead socially active lives more on social media rather than actual society, this can serve as the proper tool to school those fools who do not toe your line.

The less said about the shifting goal posts for these social media marauders, the better. When you try to pin them down for a discussion or make the fool hardy mistake of questioning their motives (which were dubious in the first place), you are called out again for being an oppressor, for siding with the powers that be, who on occasion just might be right. We Indians, see this happening on a daily basis. It hits us in the eyeballs and in the gut whenever we switch on any of the news channel sponsored debates, leaving us with ringing ears and spinning heads.

In this day of instant opinions, where a hundred celebrities are made and marred at the drop of a hat, a fight for what is right has become a mere means to get ahead. It will do us good to remember to plumb any issue, whether social, political, or environmental (that’s another hot topic these days, literally, what with global warming and things) a little deeply, before jumping onto the bandwagon just because everyone else is doing it. Wokeism, cancel culture and calling out may have started out with the best of intentions but unless they serve their purpose honestly, they will be looked at with cynicism, which might turn into down- right revulsion. Because, pushed to the wall, people might choose to cancel calling out and cancel- culture itself!

Pretty much like me, who did not waste much time in rearming myself with my Laal Hit canister and did NOT call out before silently cancelling clever cockroach and other critters to reclaim what was rightfully mine!

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Mayhem In Medical Mohalla

“Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity”

—–Hippocrates

I am feeling beleaguered at the moment. Not just beleaguered but put upon, picked on, brow-beaten, but most of all, haunted. All by virtue of my profession. Rather ironic because I chose the noble profession of healing. If I had had any inkling that I, myself, would sicken in my pursuit of health for others, I perhaps would not have chosen to be what I am. But paradoxically, I would not be myself! Never has being a doctor been so much of a teetering precariously on a knife edge as it is today. And never before has our profession been so sullied and reviled.

What was once one of the most respected vocations (I won’t even call it a profession) in society has some- how degenerated into a moral morass, rife with suspicion and mistrust. And where exactly did the rot begin? Perhaps with the inclusion of health-care in the ‘services’ falling under the ambit of the Consumer Protection Act, where the patient morphed into a ‘consumer’ and the health care provider into just another ‘service provider’, perhaps placed slightly higher than wholesale and retail businesses or mechanics, plumbers or electricians. Don’t get me wrong, it is in no way my intention to deride these service providers, they play a sterling role in improving the quality of life. I just want to say that qualified doctors are very different because they save that very life, more often than not.

Since times immemorial, the cornerstone of the doctor- patient relation has been trust. Because taking the responsibility of another human-being’s health is much more than just a service. It is not something which ends with the termination of the contract, which in this case is the patient either being restored to health, leaving in search of greener pastures (read better doctors) or unfortunately succumbing to the condition. It would not be unfair to say that any doctor who treats (and believe me almost all of us do so with the utmost care), puts a part of himself in the form of his expertise, experience and time into the patient. In fact, many ancient cultures would say that this forms a bond for life. I am pretty sure that most of us have had the happy experience of being suddenly accosted out of the blue by a patient whom we have helped pull through, and about whom we have forgotten, who then proceeds to sing peans about us to anyone who cares to listen. I doubt whether such treatment is reserved for the other ‘service providers’ whom the patient has needed from time to time.

Until all of us become realized souls who identify ourselves with nothing other than our animating energy, the body remains our sole identity, while providing an identity for our souls (pun totally intended). And it is no mean task to take charge of putting right whatever has gone wrong in such a precious object. There of course, is also the small matter of the fact that the final blueprint of what you are trying to (for want of a better word) repair is not available at the click of a button.

There is no ‘single gold standard’ in this vast realm. The permutations and combinations which on occurring, can cause diseases or complications are so numerous, that they are enough to give keep several mathematicians simultaneously busy for several lifetimes. I really have no idea who put us on this pedestal of divinity and demanded that we have a solution to all the problems which human health can face, and not just any old solution, but one which can restore and rejuvenate the patient to his prime, no matter even if he or she is in the final throes of a terminal disease.

The proverbial ‘Bhagwan ka Roop’ (while saving lives) gives way to ‘Doctor ya Kasai’, in the blink of an eye, should anything go wrong. This scenario is becoming commoner these days, much to the detriment of all parties concerned. While it is to be agreed that the illness or unfortunate demise of a loved one is a cause of deep anxiety, sorrow and stress, it is by no means an excuse to make the treating doctor a punching-bag to relieve it. All that it leads to is a stressed- out, defensive doctor who can no longer look ahead to provide the best possible care since he is too busy looking over his shoulder for any brick-bat coming his way, ducking and weaving to avoid the same. While there is the instantaneous pleasure of having ‘scored one over the know-it-all doctor’, the long- term effect will only be detrimental to the patient, because the doctor will no longer be as deeply invested in health care, preferring instead to pay more attention to finding out how he can best work out his defense, should anything untoward happen.

A marked difference in the attitude of the public at large to the people offering intellectual services in general and doctors in particular has been noted in the recent past. Several factors contribute to this. With a mere two percent of the GDP being spent on public health, the ‘strapped for everything’ government machinery can hardly be expected to provide costly services for peanuts, leading to an increasing burden on private services. Here again, what patients and their kith and kin fail to realize that many hospitals, especially those that offer tertiary care are corporatized and it is NOT the doctor who is responsible for the humungous bill which they may have to foot. In a personal aside, I think that we as a society, still suffer from a socialistic hangover in which certain professions which exist merely to serve the people while eking out a penurious existence, subsisting on the tremendous ‘good karma’ that they generate, medicine being a prime example have no right to seek a good living. In addition, I also believe that many Indians live in such perpetual dread of ill health, that they would rather believe in the ‘Great Indian Jugaad’ or temporary quick fixes got from all kinds of charlatans who run a thriving parallel health care industry so as to form a minor branch of the economy all by themselves. They only think of when things get out of hand, turning up at the qualified professional’s doorstep after exhausting all their resources, and then expect miracles like a complete cure. It is difficult to convince them that the doctor is not a magician and cannot pull the rabbit of complete recovery from his bag of tricks!

Add to this several unscrupulous denizens out to make a fast buck, like the friendly local strong men (most often with political leanings and protection), ready to swing into muscle- might mode at the drop of a hat or shall we say, imagined malpractice by a doctor. About the great Indian fourth estate, I shall only say that hyenas in the wild have been known to be more merciful than these fearless individuals who conduct media trials so vituperative and vicious so that several generations of the concerned doctor’s family are scarred for life. To add some more spice to this already zingy mix, there exist many movers and shakers of society, ranging from social media influencers to popular actors who are only too keen to jump onto the bandwagon keen on indulging in their favorite sport of good old ‘doctor bashing’, which they are then quick to justify, saying that doctors indulge in large scale malpractice and fool the gullible public and thus asked for their just desserts!

At the end of the day, we doctors are human. We try to tend to superhuman feats, if the sheer efforts that we put in from early teenage, just to make it into medical school are to be believed. We forgo a lot, from the simple pleasures of life like indulgent evenings off with friends and family, to working through our own ill-health without a break. We may not be incarnations of the divine, but neither are we the devil incarnate. We are fallible and fragile human beings, seeking to do our jobs the best we can, many a times carrying responsibility above and beyond our job descriptions. We do not wish to be put on unnecessary pedestals, feted, cosseted and have every whim indulged. But, at the same time, we do not wish to be singled out for unfair blame, victimized, threatened or harmed either.

It is time society gave a serious thought to what fruit the seeds of mistrust which are being sowed will bear, for constantly faced with threat to life, limb and property, forget the best and the brightest, but even the below average will think not just thrice, but a trillion times before choosing to study medicine, and then again, only by circumstance, and not choice. The consequences of giving oneself into the care of such reluctant healers will be the ultimate price paid for turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the pleas of a profession, which works for the benefit of humanity.

In the wake of a highly qualified, competent doctor, driven to suicide for no fault of hers, after being slapped with attempt to murder charges at the behest of an unholy nexus, it is time for us doctors to decide whether we choose to stand united, or fall divided. It is time to form a clique rather than compete, and make sure our demands for an immediate ceasing of unnecessary witch-hunts and strict enforcement of the many laws which have been passed ostentatiously for our benefit, are met promptly by indifferent authorities and lay populace alike. For, it is only when we have healthy and safe work environments that we will be able to ensure the optimum outcome in our efforts of ensuring a healthy nation.

To my fellow medical brethren, I would like to say that though it is our duty to care for our patients, it is time that we cared for ourselves as a fraternity too, deciding and dictating that there will be no more mayhem in Medical Mohalla….

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Travel Article

On A Wheel And A Prayer

Learn to trust the journey even when you don’t understand it
–Lolly Daskal

By the mid- eighties, I was a tweenager. Such things didn’t carry much weight back then as they do now, when children are the most opinionated people in the household. But things had changed. The first was the advent of television in the small towns, leading to the “Small town Girl” aspiring to bigger things, especially after ‘Looking Beyond’ with an irrepressible couple called Hugh and Coleen Gantzer who were the pioneers of travel shows on Doordarshan, the national and only available channel. Next came the revolution in how India travelled. The cars of the earlier era were heavy and tank-like. They roared along, churning enough dust and belching enough smoke to leave a hazy trail, much in the manner of the Death Eaters leaving the dark-mark in the wake of their nefarious activities. In addition, they, in the manner of politicians (guzzling moolah) through the ages, guzzled fuel like it was going out of style and were moody at the best of times, taking offence and overheating given the smallest chance. The only excuse you could perhaps make for them was that they initially started out as gentle, kindly machines, but the roads made them the monsters that they were, jolting and jerking them beyond recognition!

All this was set to change however, with the advent of the Maruti Suzuki, the common man’s car. This was no less than the Second Coming. The Japanese were here to change the way India traveled and they ushered in A(utomobile) Revolution which had far- reaching consequences. Bitten by the travel bug, thanks perhaps to my incessant whining on wanting to go on a PROPER holiday, my father jumped on the band wagon to become the proud owner of a Maruti Suzuki Omni in the late eighties and we began our tryst with a few states, instead of just two.

Dad now had his eyes on the distant horizon. Perhaps he had always seen himself as an adventurer, an explorer (he had undertaken a couple of distant and daring trips during his youth and had quite a few adventures including a session of eating whole chilies in Andhra Pradesh) and he decided that we were going to reprise the route. Now that he saw himself in the role of explorer- in-chief, Dad with the air of Christopher Columbus, out to scout new lands, put us to work. The trusty Omni was the Nina, the Maria and the Pinta all rolled into one, and better stocked with necessities than all of them put together.

Back then, most things had to be done the hard way. The road was indeed less travelled, a mystery which revealed itself only to those who ventured along it. The best one could come up with was the road map, which infuriatingly refused to be a tattle tale and gave up information grudgingly, if at all. Hotels, circuit houses, traveler’s bungalows, local sights, shopping et al were things to be discovered by serendipity. This was thanks to the fact that the only mouse we knew was the one we chased away with a stick and not one which revealed information at a click! Suffice to say that OYO was met with a resounding “AIYYO!” Prebooking involved lots of trunk calls and money orders and was a process so tedious that it made most give up the idea of travelling.

Since Google itself was a distant dream, Google maps was even more so. The only thing we knew about satellites were of course the moon, the maddening picture of Aryabhatta, the first artificial Indian satellite which we had to draw in school at random intervals and Indira Gandhi, the then PM talking to Rakesh Sharma on his maiden flight to outer space asking him “Aapko Bharat kaise dikh raha hai?” and his reply “Saare Jahan se accha!” (What was the poor fellow to say? Stop asking silly questions woman, I have no time for this while I am spinning like a top?). But I digress. The point to be conveyed here is with no satellites, there was no GPS, that guiding and guardian angel of the modern traveler. We traveled, singing “we three kings of Orient are” hoping that the star would appear over the horizon for us as it had done for the kings, guiding us safely to wherever we wanted to go! Crossing into another state was like crossing the heliopause, the sphere of your linguistic achievements no longer exerted its much- needed influence and with the air of Voyager 2 proceeding into deep space with a wistful backward glance, you proceeded into the deep unknown on your wheels and a prayer.

We could of course, always stop and ask for instructions, but the only common language we had with the locals was the sign language and it literally did not take us very far. Questions like “Where is the temple?” were answered by long tirades which could mean anything, much grunting and hand whirling or the one phrase we picked up in Kerala, “Nera Poekuka”, which means straight ahead, the length of the ‘ne’ syllable indicating the distance of said destination from where we happened to be. To add to our woes, the milestones and the signs were painted in the local script, which meant no amount of squinting at them gave you a single clue as to your whereabouts. Akin to Columbus, you could have set out for Kochi and found yourself in Kanchi or Karachi.

Under such circumstances, the car was much more than a mode of transport. It was a little slice of home which carried us to our destination. It was a tiny restaurant, a hardware cum clothing cum haberdasher store. It was the mother ship, a safe haven in the unlikeliest of circumstances and it was stocked likewise. Ask any Indian about the most important content in their baggage and apart from money, the answer will definitely be food. And so, the car was stocked with tins of food which could keep well for at least a week, theplas and masala pooris, mathris and chaklis, sev and namkeen, all found a place in the boot, topped off by a large jar of pickle. In addition, there were random odds and ends including a bucket, coils of string, soap, washing powder, screw drivers, a large hold all with bedding and the like, with our clothes stuffed in like an after- thought. A place of pride was reserved for the large trusty Eagle water cooler and the first thing we did at any halt was to top it up with ice if possible.

Our first and most memorable trip took us all the way along the west coast, beginning with where else? Goa of course! And ending at Kanyakumari. The only advantage of any road which called itself a national highway back then was that one could expect its surface to be covered by a thin veneer of tar and respectability and not shrapnel and susceptibility. Two cars if small enough could travel abreast in the up and down lanes, but if you chanced upon a larger vehicle, the smaller vehicle had to descend onto the shoulder (nothing but a fancy name given to the ditch by the side of the road from which one had to extricate oneself with a lot of scraping and grinding of gears and perhaps a punctured tire). Since this was the time of the old regime, plans for new roads remained what they should be, just plans by the planning commission. Why the unnecessary and unseemly haste seen these days? Life was slow and majestic and roads developed at glacial pace, if at all with said glaciers made of molasses for good measure.

When I try to recall that trip, memories flash in and out. The scenic drive, (since most of NH 17 hugs the west coast), fresh sea food, wonderful circuit houses which readily housed us, even though we had nothing to do with the government, majestic temples at Udupi, Guruvayur and Thrissur, Kalady, the birth place of Shankaracharya, the Padmanabhaswamy temple of Thiruvananthapuram (no, I did not get a chance to visit the famous vaults which remained firmly shut then, probably because people were busy leading their lives instead of meddling in affair which did not concern them) the musical pillars at Suchindram, capped by the famous rock memorial and the calm visage of the Goddess, eternally waiting at the cape.
It was not just a pilgrimage, a la Goa, and Raja Ravi Varma beckoned with his startling artistry as did the Chinese fishing nets of Kochi. Golden mounds of banana chips which had us hovering over them sniffing an all- pervading smell of fresh spices and coconut. Thekkady, with its tea gardens and the Periyar national park is memorable for a scrape with a few demanding monkeys (what is it with me and monkeys?) who did not see why they should not get equal shares in the packet of Bourbon biscuits which I (who they, rightly according to Dad and wrongly according to me, mistook to be close kin) happened to be devouring at the time, and an early morning boat ride which almost saw a rather well- proportioned woman take an unplanned morning dip in the Periyar lake after missing her footing.

There were mellow sunsets and waving palms (trees, not hands, what did you think?), a spectacular sunrise at the cape and miles of golden beaches, though Kovalam was awash with huge waves bent on wreaking mayhem, ambling elephants and backwaters, synagogues and science museums, coconuts and coir factories, kathakali dancers and karimeen and pepper and endless rice paddies. There was the warm hospitality of some family friends who lived in Kochi, Thiruvananthapuram and Nagercoil. Above all, there were the ever- expanding horizons and the feeling that nothing was impossible.

An epic fourteen- hour drive from Calicut to Belgaum was the befitting conclusion to this trip which reminds me why Kerala is still called God’s own country, it was the first of many memorable holidays in a car named adventure, looking beyond and discovering a life beyond the mundane. It made me a life-time fan of road trips. Because sometimes the journey is a destination by itself….

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The Keepers Of Kashyap

“Cruelty must be whitewashed by a moral excuse and a pretense of reluctance”

— George Bernard Shaw

The colors of Holi intend to stick this year. The appeal of the pristine white of purity is fast fading. For, behind its seemingly innocent façade hides the hideous color of ‘willful concealment’. Like the bond with color, we Indians have a bond with cinema too, a colorful appeal to our colorful selves. But you know something is far wrong when the so called proponents of the freedom of expression and cinematic liberty target a single film which deviates from the ‘official version’ and attempt to sabotage it by all means available in the arsenal of social media.
A ‘propaganda film’ has at least brought an uncomfortable truth out into the open, made us think of what lies beneath (pun unintended). The emerging picture is dirtier than imagination permits (pun again unintended). A veritable night of the walking dead, if you will. For there was a night in the history of modern India when even the dead had to walk, carrying the burden of their souls on their broken shoulders, through the ruins of their lives, rendered invisible and mute by the powers that were. And they stayed that way for more than three decades.
I am, of course talking about ‘The Kashmir Files’ by maverick director Vivek Ranjan Agnihotri. A film which you can either hate or love, but cannot ignore. A film like this, which cocks a snook at the established narrative and tries to find an alternative and inconvenient one is of course, asking for trouble. Like they say, there is your truth and there is my truth. The universal truth does not exist.

‘The Kashmir Files’ was released under an adult certificate. I will not comment much on the acting and the cinematography and the screenplay. There are people who are much better qualified to talk on such things. At the risk of sounding cliched, what struck me was the unapologetic belligerent rawness with which the film has been handled. There is nothing soft and soppy about it. The picturesque visuals of Kashmir clad in pristine snow exist purely because the story demands it.

The reason why I chose to watch it because I was genuinely curious about the Kashmir issue. Conveniently blanketed by childhood when the Pandits were driven from their homes, there was not much to know except that Kashmir had become a hot bed of terrorism. The makers themselves claim that it is a work of fiction, but also emphasize that the story was written AFTER interviewing several (700+ to be precise) displaced Pandit families, still haunted by the trauma after a couple of generations. As far as the community, on whom unthinkable atrocities were perpetrated by the Muslim Jihadis, (some home-grown and some in Pakistan) is concerned, the film is the turning of a corner. They are no longer numbers but real people with stories which have at least been acknowledged.

Of course, one cannot talk about such a sensitive subject and not stir up the controversy pot. I watched an analysis by a senior journalist formerly associated with a leading vernacular daily who claimed the film to be a mere smoke screen, cleverly spread by the ruling dispensation to hide their true nefarious designs of selling the country, your personal property and you (not necessarily in that order) for personal gains after causing heightened communal tensions and a ‘charged’ atmosphere. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so miffed at his low opinion of the intelligence of the average Indian. The film has been running to nearly full houses for a week now and as far as I know, all is quiet on the communal front. Yes, people seethe quietly or vocally when they leave the theatre, but if there are any communal mobs running amok anywhere with swords and scythes, I have yet to see or hear of them. All that I would like to say to Mr. Senior Journalist is that going by your logic, ethnic Germans should have been wiped out wherever and whenever ‘Schindler’s List’ was screened and to please stop comparing our brains with his!

Perhaps this is where the film really wins, by exposing the contempt with which we, the common citizens are treated by the so called ‘masters of narrative’, for make no mistake, as the lead character says in the film itself, ‘Knowledge is Power’. Don’t we have a right to know the facts? A right to interpret them and analyze for ourselves? Or are we to remain little more than sheep forever? Incapable of independent thought? The film in no way absolves Pakistan of its role in the occurrences, it even highlights Benazir Bhutto’s incendiary speech. In fact, it even acknowledges those moderate Muslims who sheltered their neighbors against horrendous odds and were put to the sword themselves. And shows the spinelessness of the rulers in great detail, from the local police to the home-minister of India. I hope the detractors are listening.

We have watched several films glorifying terrorism without batting an eyelid or degenerating into a sordid mess. Not just watched, but also heaped all parties concerned with awards and what-not. ‘Haider’ being a prime example. But, make a film too close to reality for comfort and suddenly everyone is personally involved, as if they are the ones who lost family, homes and a way of life. It surely begs the question why this particular film is to be dissed when you have guzzled enough codswallop to last you several lifetimes before this?

I think what has irked several establishments the most is that sinking feeling which comes with a weakening of the grip on power. When you have carefully crafted your life on being the ONLY version of events and thus controlling the emotions of a billion people, the specter of people escaping your clutches and feeling what THEY want to is definitely going to haunt you for a long time to come. For propagating freedom comes easy. Actually giving it to people? Not so easy! Perhaps it is because the director makes no bones about digging up all that is rotten in many of the premier institutions of the country. And laying it out in its full stinking glory for all to see.

And that is what I, personally found most disturbing, the gory scenes notwithstanding. The casual ease with which those, trusted by parents like you and me to mold the minds of our children who are on the cusp of adulthood, abuse this trust. A rather ponderous dialogue “Toote hue log bolte nahin, unhe suna jaata hai” has been touted as a watershed one. But what gave me the goosebumps was quite another, “Unke ke paas power hai to kya hua? System to hamare paas hai na? We will never allow Kashmir to be an integral part of India, chahe uske liye humein desh me aag kyon na lagani pade!” casually mouthed by a pre-eminent college professor, no less.

And then can retribution be far behind? We have already seen social media flooded with the usual questions on why this film is a blatant attempt at polarizing communities, references to the Sikh massacres and Gujarat riots and several RTIs showing that the number of Pandits actually killed were only a hundred and sixty- nine as compared to the thousands of Muslims who have been victimized. What people who raise such non sequiturs fail to realize is that NOBODY is condoning the Sikh massacres or the Gujarat riots. But these events have been acknowledged, investigated, at least brought before a court of law and have several cinematic versions made on them, ranging from ill-informed to downright tripe. What happened in Kashmir, while perfectly planned and executed down to the last gory detail, has not been granted this privilege. As far as the polarization comments go, well if you are that easily influenced, then you need to send the rest of your life in isolation, preferably in a padded cell.

What really shocks, is the brutality with which the organized massacres were carried out by Jihadis hand-in-glove with a covetous and complicit Pakistan. And thus, we have Justice Neelkanth Ganjoo and Pandit Tikalal Taploo murdered in broad daylight and Girija Tickoo, gang raped and sawn in two while still alive, reduced to a mere statistic in a dusty file moldering in a government office somewhere. And then, we have Yasin Malik, who after confessing to murdering several innocents finally ‘sees the light and embraces peace’ shaking hands with Dr. Manmohan Singh, the then Prime Minister of India and addressing the India Today conclave as a peace icon and messiah of the poor misguided Kashmiris! Irony just died a very painful death.

It has taken courage, a couple of fatwas and thirty- two unending years for us to merely acknowledge the Kashmir Genocide. I am not even dwelling on the innumerable number of security personnel whom we have lost to the place once called heaven on earth, all because of a way of life built on greed and terror. And this is where it hits those outraged Indian citizens, that there are those who believing themselves to be above the law, carve their own narrative and force it down our throats, which we are then expected to swallow without demur, even though the stomach maybe heaving.

We, who shout ourselves hoarse at brutality perpetrated in the far corners of world (yes, that is wrong too, without doubt) should now get to grips with the pain of our own. It is time to ‘take the knee’ for all those innocents who wanted nothing more than to live in harmony in their little patch of heaven. At the moment, ‘The Kashmir Files’ has sparked outrage among common citizens and is riding high on its swelling wave, bucking the establishment. How long the magic lasts however, remains to be seen, cursed as we are with notoriously short memories, minds straying ahead in search for the next piece of salaciousness, undermined by the subversive narrative which the truly divisive will start putting together in a short matter of time. It is only when the Kashmiri Pandits find peace, satisfaction with government actions and closure, will justice truly be done and the movie will have served its purpose.

I am optimistic about my fellow Indians though, who will see the crimson peeping through the whitewash and will teach the ruling dispensation to never ‘underestimate the power of the common man’ in the memory of the thousands of victims of massacre, the real ‘Keepers of Kashyap’.

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It’s Just One Of Those Days

“Do you remember what day is it, today?”, when voiced in a sweet feminine voice, this seemingly innocuous question has many a red-blooded male leaping to his feet as if scalded, the blood draining from his face, the fear of God in his suddenly-thumping-in-terror heart. No, I do not take sadistic pleasure in unnecessarily needling the opposite sex. All that I am trying to do is drive home the fact that far too many days of the year have been awarded ‘special status’ these days. It is as if diplomatic passports have been handed out en masse to everyone who got lucky, despite them having nothing to do with an Indian Foreign Service (IFS) qualification.
When people of my generation were younger, we did not have to tax our memories very much. Important days of the year glared out at you from the calendar, proud of their ‘red letter’ status in a uniform sea of black, which marked the other days of the week, except Sundays of course. At the start of the year, there was a special joy in turning the pages of the calendar to check these ‘red letter days’, (mainly important festivals of all religions which made India, India) because they spelt holidays. Imagine the pleasure that we, as school children felt when we saw them adjoining the much- awaited Sundays! Other important days were of course birthdays (which were mostly low-key affairs) and the beginning of the vacations. Adults seemed to take unholy glee in the days devoted to exams and results, much to our chagrin. Of course, Granny had her own calendar for various festivals, rituals and the like, but life flowed around them, uninterrupted, except that we made it a point to seek special blessings and feasted on special dishes. Everything had a quiet elegance, easy grace and a personal touch. Commercialization was not even thought of, let alone present.
Times changed and with a cabal of ‘global citizens’ sprouting in every nook and cranny, many new days sneaked into the calendar. What was an innocuous trickle at first gradually grew into a stream and suddenly became a full- fledged deluge. While they were ignored or branded ‘elitist’ initially, they set up a persistent clamor which gradually got the attention it sought. Added to this Molotov cocktail was the spreading of the world wide web which lived up to its name in more than one way, encircling the globe before you could say ‘Tarantula’. You made friends with people abroad at the drop of a hat or should I say the click of a mouse, went on exchange programs, collaborated on projects and of course, exchanged culture in the form of food and festivities.

Now, there were days specifically designated to people, Mothers’ Day, Father’s Day, Son’s Day, Daughter’s Day, Grandparent’s Day, Women’s Day, Men’s Day, the mother-of -them -all literally, (excuse the pun), Valentine’s Day, Jab-We- Met Day, Anniversaries ranging from a month to a year, Every-Dog-Has- His-Day, etcetera, if you get the general drift. Just to confuse your already befuddled mind some more, there were national days for women and the International Women’s Day and woe betide you if you forgot any of them. Besides, some blessed days like Fathers’ and Mothers’ Days were celebrated on the second or third or last Sundays of certain months like May and July and September, all the better to improve your failing memory, my dear!

And some days, not satisfied with being, well, days decided to claim the whole week for themselves. Perhaps this is where Vladimir Putin came up with his brilliant plan of claiming all of the Ukraine as his own (if Valentine can do it, so can Vladimir being his take on the matter and who can blame him?), but as usual, I digress. What I set out to mean was, the recently concluded Valentine’s Day had now spilled into Valentine’ week with a Rose Day, Chocolate Day, Hug Day, Teddy Day(really?), Silly Day, Crazy Day and the Lord-alone -knew- what- Day. Being a singularly undemonstrative person (and the spouse being one too, thankfully), all that we could say was ‘Rehne De, Jaane De, Chod De and have you recently read Shobhaa De?’ I can already hear the teeth gnashing and the knives being whetted in anticipation of drawing my blood, but I stand firm.
Celebrations are to human life what spices are to food. They bring out the sublime flavor and zest and make all that is seemingly bland and boring so much more palatable. In other words, they are necessary so that we are lifted out of the rut that we sometimes find ourselves during the course of day-to -day living. But there is something called too much of a good thing. Just like spices are merely meant to enhance the taste of food and not replace it, celebrations derive meaning because they are a one off. There of course, is the very valid school of thought that every day ought to be a celebration, but it should be a celebration of YOU, an inherent joy in day- to-day life, which does not require any external prop.

Popular culture and peer pressure, that double-edged blade of course plays a significant role in what can well be described as the blatant commercialization of certain roles which were sacrosanct until not so long ago. Caring? Yes, Sharing? Definitely. Making someone feel appreciated and special is important, but do it as a mundane chore or because everyone else is doing it, and the very sanctity of the feeling is washed away, leaving behind very little meaning. It is better to do what little you can, perhaps on any old, ‘nothing special’ day and see the sparkle in the eyes of those to whom you matter.

It only takes a glance at all the advertising campaigns which form the run up to these ‘Days’ to know that it these merchants of dreams who are laughing all the way to the bank. They know the act of subtle manipulation and play on the most important emotion of all, guilt. What was structured as a cohesive family unit, scattered in the country, but still managing to keep meeting in person until not so long ago has been suddenly cast adrift with the members blown to the far corners of the world like chaff in the wind. Add the double whammy of the recent pandemic, and you are left with lonely people struggling in their own little isolated pockets. And where there is loneliness, can the clink of money being spent be far behind? In the race to assuage the guilt of the time which cannot be spent with loved ones, a gift of remembrance on a specially created ‘day’ seems the only worthier option.

I personally have nothing against gaining from any culture. Being blinkered to the good which anything, (irrespective whether it is foreign or not) has to offer is one of the worst prejudices one can harbor. What I have a problem with is the one upmanship which comes with it. The “Oh, you don’t celebrate this and this!”, accompanied by the slight snigger and smirk is what makes my blood boil. In addition, I think dissing your own traditions to follow something alien just because it is ‘the’ thing to do talks of a distressing herd mentality, which needs to be combated.
Perhaps it is time to introspect on what special days tell us about ourselves and those who are special to us. If we practice equality every day, we can do away with gender specific days. And if we make our loved ones feel special always, NO ONE will remember or remind anyone else of specific day, because each day will be a celebration…


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Aisi Bhi Batein Hoti Hai

‘Music is what feelings sound like’

Sound can mean many things. It perceives depth and measures the shallows. It imparts security and warmth. It soothes and it torments, it laughs and cries and it lives and dies. If the universe itself was born in sound, there is hardly room to escape it, because it pervades every being either consciously or subconsciously. Some familiar sounds are so much a part of life that they tend to be taken largely for granted until silenced, at which point, they turn haunting by their very absence.

On the morning of Sunday, the sixth of February, India was literally stunned into silence because the much- loved sound of a much- loved voice, which was part of the collective humming of the nation had been muted forever. It had everything to do with a diminutive figure all of five feet and one inch, emblazoned in the collective conscience as normally clad in a white saree with a large colorful border, an endearingly chubby face and eyes which not only sparkled with intelligence, but also a wry humor. This lark in human form held sway over a billion people. A voice which literally meant the sound of music to four generations of Indians.
When the right tunes meet the right lyrics and emerge from the right throat, magic is created. We were lucky to hear this happen. Lucky enough to be born in an era when recording was possible. The way in which the recordings were conveyed to the masses of course varied with the times, starting with the gramophone followed by the radio, portable transistor, cassette player, music system, CD player, I-pods and topped by Spotify in recent times. But the silken voice remained the same, everchanging yet never changing, momentary but eternal. It had the power to make to make some weep with joy, while others swayed to the same tune, some quietly hummed, others warbled and yet others shouted from the roof-tops.
While a good bit of credit can be given to the superb lyrics and innovative music which was the norm in the heyday of this voice, it had that inherent quality which can only be a blessing: the ability to become what the listener wanted to hear. For many, the memories of the songs remain deeply personal. You could be a trained vocalist or a bathroom singer, unable to carry a tune beyond ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, when you crooned along with the voice, for just a few glorious moments, you shed the rest of your persona, the lyrics and the music seemed to be written for you alone. You became what your heart said you were…a mother, a bride, a lover, a devotee, a patriot.

There were those songs which identified themselves because of the voice and yet others which remained obscure, like the unknown vein of diamonds in a secret mine, waiting for the right person to come along, find and appreciate them. If ‘Aayega Aanewala’ was a haunting song from a film about the haunted, ‘Bol ri Kathputli Dori’ was an easy way to talk about the philosophy of the bonds of human life. ‘Bachpan ke Din Bhula na dena’ carried one back to the largely innocent world of childhood and ‘Duniya Mein Hum Aaye Hain to Jeena hi Padega’ talked of the loss of this very innocence and the hardships of the underprivileged. There were moments never to be forgotten in ‘Do Ghadi Woh jo Paas aa Baithe’ and forgotten moments in ‘Mohe bhool Gaye Sawariya’.

On and on the voice flowed, much in the manner of Tennyson’s poem, ‘The Brook’, for men came and went, but the voice went on forever. It knew no barrier of caste and creed, nor of religion and race. It just did what it was meant to do and made the world a better place. It embraced several languages, even composed its own tunes under a pseudonym, ‘The Cloud of Happiness’ and lived up to the name. The message of the saints from Tukaram to Dnyaneshwar and Tulsidas to Meera sounded that much truer when conveyed by it. From ‘Sundar te Dhyana’ to ‘Khel Mandiyela Valavanti’ and ‘Shree Ramchandra Krupalu bhaja Mana’ to ‘Mhara re Giridhar Gopal’ it not only touched divinity, but also made avid listeners understand divinity that much better.

While it gained fame through its renditions mainly in Hindi, about forty other languages were rendered with the same care. Marathi perhaps ran a close second to Hindi, it being the mother tongue of this golden voice. Ranging from ‘Ghanashayam Sundara’, the eternal morning song which made at least two generations of the Marathi Manoos leave his comfort zone in search of expanding horizons, to ‘Airanichya Deva Tula’ that anthem of laborers everywhere to ‘Latpat Latpat Tuzha Chalna’ to a rather bold and feminist song ‘Mi Raat Takali, mi Kaat Takali”, it further embellished an already rich language. It drove in certain home truths in the rather philosophical rendition ‘Jan Pal Bhar Mhantil Haaya Haaya’ and spoke of a deeply personal story in ‘Kalpavriksha Kanye Sathi’, which made it tremble with its own underlying pathos. It captured angst, castigation and ultimately resignation perfectly in ‘Maj Sang Lakshmana’ in G.D.Madgulkar and Sudhir Phadke’s timeless classic Geet Ramayan.
The secret to its timelessness lay in its adaptability, diction and emotive capability. For every girl who frolicked to ‘Ja Ja Ja Mere Bachpan’, there existed a woman with a crushed dream shedding quiet tears to ‘Yun Hasaraton ke Daag’. For every woman who found the night a reflection of a thousand stars and romance in ‘Yeh Raat Bheegi Bheegi’, someone somewhere lamented to ‘Tumhe Yaad Karte Karte Jayegi Rain Saari’ or ‘Raina beeti Jaaye’. And so ‘Jo Vaada Kiya Woh Nibhana Padega’ melted into ‘Piya Bina Piya Bina’. Dawn turned to dusk with ‘Bhor Bhaye Panghat Pe’ and ‘Jaago Mohan Pyaare’ to ‘Mora Gora Ang Laile’ and ‘Woh Chand Khila’.

The moods of the voice were many. Playful, as in ‘Dhundo Dhundo re Saajna’ and ‘Mila hai Kisi ka Jhumka’, hopeful in ‘Do Sitaron ka Zameen par Hai Milan’ and ‘Aaj Phir Jeene Ki Tamanna’, plaintive in ‘Tumhi Mere Mandir’ and ‘Rula ke Gaya Sapna Mera’, entreating in ‘Tadap ye Din Raat ki’, full of joy in ‘Aaja Sanam Madhur Chandni me Hum’ and ‘Kuch Kehta Hai ye Sawan’ nostalgic in ‘Who Bhooli Dastaan lo Phir Yaad aa Gayi’ and laced with subtle sorrow in ‘Rahte the Kabhi Jinke Dil Mein’ and ‘Yaara Seeli Seeli’.

There were songs for every season, feeling, memory and age. The monsoon would not be the same without ‘O Sajna Barkha Bahar Aayi’ and ‘Sawan ka Mahina Pawan Kare Sor’ The actor on screen could have been sixteen or sixty, the voice adapted itself to them with an almost other -worldly ease. And so, we found it difficult to believe that ‘Maye ni Maye’, ‘Arre re Arre Yeh Kya Hua’ and Mehndi Laage ke Rakhna’ were rendered when the voice was more than twice the age of the actors on screen. The body shrunk and grew frailer, outings and live performances were rarer, but the play back as evidenced by these songs retained its youth and playfulness. It seemed as if the rest of the being had been consumed by the voice.

This voice remained true to its values from refusing to perform to cabaret numbers, ‘Aaaaaa Jane Jan’ being a notable exception, to becoming THE voice of patriotism in the performance of the haunting ‘Aye Mere Watan Ke Logon’, as well as the rousing ‘Jayostute Jayostute’ and ‘Ne Majh si Ne’ by the revolutionary freedom fighter and poet, V.D Savarkar.
The voice wanted to convey everything and nothing. Did it really have an idea about how much of a household name it had become and what power it imbibed? These questions will probably remain just questions. But people will pay heed to its entreaty, ‘Chupa lo Yun Dil Me Pyaar Mera ke Jaise Mandir me Lau Diye Ki’. Music will never be the same as India bids adieu to its most famous, revered and ethereal voice. To paraphrase Dr. Anand Ranganathan’s tweet, “She was not a queen or a president, yet she ruled the hearts and minds of a billion people. Don’t ever ask again what real power is”.

With Lata Mangeshkar’s golden voice silenced forever, it can be said,
“Tere bina zindagi bhi lekin zindagi toh nahi, zindagi nahi…” because as she herself said in one of her songs,

“Kuch Dil ne Kaha, Kuch bhi Nahi,
Aisi bhi Batein Hoti Hai,
Aisi bhi Batein Hoti Hai”

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Of Raj And Raisina

“You don’t become what you want. You become what you believe”

I have visited New Delhi only a couple of times and even then, only in transit. If my cousin is to be believed, visiting the inside of an airport does NOT count as visiting the city, which makes me rue living in this country for more than four decades but never visiting the national capital. There are several attractions with which it tries to lure me…from being the erstwhile capital of the Pandavas, to the food, the art and culture and of course the shopping. While in the final throes of MBBS, I was obsessed by the thought of AIIMS, the holy grail of all medical seekers, of which I was swiftly cured by my performance in the required entrance examination. But then I digress.

My real dream of visiting Delhi has always been to see Raj and Raisina. You may be forgiven for thinking that I have never watched the Kajol-Shahrukh Khan romance DDLJ which was a cult hit during my time and mixed up Simran with Raisina. I can assure you that I know my actors and characters well. The Raisina I talk of is Raisina Hill, housing the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Secretariat with the PMO and several other important ministries and thus the beating heart of the republic and Rajpath, the ceremonial boulevard leading up to it incorporating a Vijay in the merry mix in the form of Vijay Chowk.

Though the slow-mo clip of Raj and Simran running towards each other with the mustard fields of the Punjab in full bloom forming an enticing back-drop are the highlight of the popular film, in my book it is not a patch on the sight which has stirred the blood of millions of Indians: the full might of the Indian Armed Forces making their majestic way down Rajpath on Republic Day. Not to be outdone by anything which popular entertainment has to offer, the floats and performers which follow are sure to take your breath away. One may be lulled into the belief that the pomp and the pageantry are nothing but vestiges of a colonial past, but in the eyes of the common citizen like me, they are more. They are milestones on the long road to progress. A yearly stock-taking of how far we have come and how much further we have to go.

Irrespective of the seating arrangements, the chief guest (normally the leader of another nation) and the petty politics of the day, the parade down Raj to Raisina is a symbol of all the things that make me proud to be an Indian. It is a tribute to that unknown martyr who made sure that I go about my day unhindered. Above all, it is a common thread which unites me with my countrymen. Whether it is the lilt of ‘Kadam Kadam Badhaye Jaa’ or the familiar tune of ‘Sare Jahan se Accha’, it never fails to move me and many others of my generation. For this was the universal ‘mother of all shows’ which we grew up watching.

And this show of strength on becoming a republic carries great significance. It means the final casting away of the shackles of the British Raj, of choosing to govern ourselves the way WE want to be governed. It symbolizes the flight of confidence that we are India, a separate entity, a power in our own right. And hence the grandeur of the yearly spectacle, a reminder of who we are and who we are meant to be.
Things may have changed now. I hardly ever have the time to sit glued to the television for two hours straight as I used to do back in school and I hardly ever see the offspring (who is still in school) doing so either. It is perhaps a characteristic of this instant generation who would rather watch the parade in short reels on Instagram instead of going the whole hog. I like to think that they are stirred too. That just for some time, the individuality which is the hallmark of modern living takes a backseat for commonality as a country. That all of us respect the idea of a nation, personal, political, social and economic preferences notwithstanding.
Many things have changed over the years. Politics has become murkier than ever, more divisive as some like to say. In fact, if it were up to some, they would have us believe that everything our constitution stands for is in danger, that being a nationalist who puts the nation ahead of personal liberty is an epithet to be ashamed of. Wanting cohesion under a common banner and a common law and wanting to BE a common citizen is the depths of depravity in a society which is gradually fragmenting away into individualism, which wants to respect the individual choice, guaranteed under the rights granted to the Indian citizen, as we are constantly reminded.

How many of us have truly considered the reverse of this coin? That if we have rights, they are guaranteed on the presumption that we will carry out the duties attached? Call me old-fashioned in a world obsessed with jettisoning collective constraint in favor of individual liberty, but I would rather be happy in the belief that the nation is an example of a whole being larger than the sum of its individual parts. And thus, hitches and glitches apart, the need of the day remains cohesion. It is something which should be ingrained in us, rather than having to be enforced, for the progress of the collective also means that of the individual.

And thus, the symbols. Whether the fluttering flag or the marching contingents, the cavalcade, the salutes and the speeches. And almost a week of celebration drawing to a close with beating the retreat. To arouse a ‘we’ rather than ‘me’ feeling, to ‘wake’ us up rather make us ‘woke’. While individual liberty and equality definitely have their role in the betterment of society, it is time to realize that ‘First among Equals’ should remain the title of a popular novel and NOT become a populist theory. All should have an equal claim on resources, there IS no ‘first claim on resources’ for that will undermine the whole concept of equality. A long hard look at the ORIGINAL preamble of our constitution is very much needed, to remind us of the hopes and dreams of the founders of our nation.

Raj and Simran, in the film had their share of woes in the form of the larger -than-life, terror inspiring, controllaman, ‘Bauji’. For Raj and Raisina, the boogey men are many. They wield brooms and sickles, brandish saplings and lotuses, ride on elephants and bicycles, set off alarm clocks and shake hands(needlessly) and team up with bows and arrows and kites. Raj and Simran having achieved cult status Bauji notwithstanding, it is left to us, the citizens, to award the same to Raj and Raisina by making their inhabitants accountable, so that Netaji from his vantage point, from where Raj’s journey begins can see his dream gradually coming true….

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Go, Goa ………..Gone!

With age comes wisdom, they say. I don’t think I am really qualified to comment on this, but I know that age definitely brings nostalgia. Of late, with travel reduced to a bare minimum, I have found myself getting increasingly maudlin about the journeys of life, especially the ones undertaken in the past when I could safely ensconce myself on a comfortable lap or wedge myself into the narrowest of crannies by the window of a vehicle, all set for a road trip. Whether or not India has made vast strides in the tourism department in recent times, travel in the past was fun in a way difficult to describe. Although the destinations were few, stretching to the homes of various relatives, the journey itself created precious memories which had a flavor all their own.

I grew up in an India which if known for tourism was a mere backpacker’s destination, with the Taj Mahal being the first name which sprang to the mind of at least the well-heeled Western traveler. Needless to say, the roads were narrow, winding and lonely and many of them existed only in the minds of the map-maker, having disintegrated into a pot-holed morass many a weary kilometer from their destination. The vehicles used for said journey were of course in a class of their own, and of such unprecedented vintage that the original designers themselves had forgotten whether they had had a finger in the dubious pie of their manufacture. The denizens you met on the road were weird and wonderful and surprising, ranging from bullock carts to pedestrians, dancers to caravans of donkeys and everything in between ambling at their own paces and to their own sweet time. Rules of the road were non- existent. No wonder, my cousins visiting from the USA, that land of rarified road safety rules called our trysts with the roads in India an ‘adventure’ instead of just a pedestrian ‘drive’! The number of breakdowns the cars suffered enroute, and the way we packed ourselves into them like so many sardines in a tin make me wonder as to how we managed to reach our destination at all, without leaving any vital part of ourselves or our baggage behind!

The earliest memorable childhood journeys then include several road trips to Goa, Sawantwadi, Vengurla and the like in our vintage Ford 1947 model, accompanied by sundry family friends with wailing little kids, relatives of all shapes and sizes with personalities and voices to match and what stands out the most in my memory, a strange Shikari Shambhu kind of character carrying a large gun. I think I had found the answer before the popular question of today ‘Kahan se aate hain ye log?’ was dreamt of!
While half the population of India now seems to descend on Goa like a swarm of locusts with the advent of Christmas and New Year, we descended (literally, since it was only a descent of a mountain away) whenever we felt like it or when familial occasion demanded. Our trips to Goa were strictly in the pursuit of spiritual succor (the state popular for golden beaches, golden tans and golden drinks houses the many golden temples of our family deities, so termed because they have golden cupolas. Not to be confused with THE golden temple of Amritsar) and thus my association with this tiny haven remains quite puritan. Much later, I attended an award ceremony for the better half in Goa, replete with wine and song. Old memories die hard and the first thing which sprang to my mind when I heard the choice of the venue, was “how on earth are they going to party in a temple?”

Added to this was the fact that half my family IS from Goa, all possessed of a remarkably religious bent of mind and thus even though I cudgel my brain, all that comes to mind is days spent in the dark, humongous sancta sanctora of temples, clad in silk clothes trying to quieten a tummy wailing in hunger while it awaited the completion of various rituals, living in the rather scary rooms of the agrashala (temple choultries) with their moody taps, moodier mattresses, teeming with bugs of all kinds or the Goan style houses of various aunts and uncles.

The latter packed their own punch by way of large hall-like rooms, odd shaped staircases, heavy doors and windows and strange bathrooms located quite a distance away from the house, the path to be traversed to get to them teeming with reptiles of all sizes and shapes. However, nothing could beat the feeling of bonhomie with which our entourages were enthusiastically greeted, whatever the time of the day or night and delicious meals of fresh fish and rice were served up in a jiffy, making me wonder at the skills which these domestic goddesses possessed given the fact that their kitchens were manned the old fashioned way with wood fired stoves, mortars and pestles made of stone and other quaint equipment which might make modern pretenders swoon with ecstasy but must have been a nightmare to use in real life. The banter and insults traded by the large extended family was our way of bonding, of staying in touch in the only way we knew, bereft as we were of artificial intelligence like Whatsapp, Facebook, Snapchat and the like. Life like the roads on which we travelled was riddled with potholes, unvarnished and rough around the edges, but it was real.

One of my cousins married into a Goan family of great repute and the journey for her wedding was a free-for -all carnival of sorts with vehicles of all shapes and sizes in a strange kind of convoy, racing each other on the single lane tar track road which aiming at greater things, called itself National Highway 4A. The residents of the forests of Anmod and Londha must have been driven from their green beds due to us strange creatures who kicked up enough dust to give them the allergies of a lifetime.
The wedding in itself was pretty memorable, taking place as it did in the grand hall of the temple of our family deity, with family priests and other heavy weights in due attendance. All I remember is the post wedding dance performance, totally unsolicited and impromptu which a couple of cousins and I (all ranging in age from 3 years to 6 years) performed in front of the palanquin of the family deity when He was brought out of the temple in procession as was the custom every Monday. It was a performance which must have remained etched in and permanently scarred the collective memory of the temple for the rest of the time to come. The head priest must have lost a decade of his life and is probably still shaking his venerable head over the fact that the parents of the day had allowed young innocents to get high on the local brew which has given Goa its reputation (good or bad entirely depending on whether your glass is half empty of full) before dancing wildly before the Lord of Dance himself. If you are looking for someone to blame for the trend of wild dancing shenanigans which we see under the name of Sangeet now-a days, look no further! Mea Culpa!

Another trip which stands out is the annual ‘Maghi Poornima’ trip (somewhere in the months of January or February) to the temple. The annual temple fair and the ‘Rathotsav’ (carriage ceremony) took place in the wee hours during this time and the scenes of the long road lit only by the flickering glow of the headlights of the car on the mad midnight four hour dash to Goa still sends a delicious shiver down my spine. There is of course the time when we housed ourselves in the verandah of the local school with impunity, since everywhere else was chock-a-block with devotees and also the time when everyone fell over themselves (literally) to prostrate in front of the advancing palanquin of the Lord. There were visits to the beaches, but more in the fashion of something which had to be done as a formality, rather than the purpose of the visit which is what happens these days. The memories are too many to recount and though the visits may have dwindled over the year, the memories linger still, made all the more precious with the passage of time.

The recent visit however brought home the sweeping changes which have crept in since the days of my childhood. Dotted with resorts, beach shacks, adventure sports, plantation trails and everything else to lure the well- heeled traveler, Goa is now a universal destination. But old habits die hard and despite the better half’s busy schedule, we still managed to find our way to the familiar comfort of the temples for an hour if not for the entire day. Pricey resorts, exotic food and the cool formality of professionalism may have replaced the sylvan land of my childhood, but, despite its new avatar, Goa remains in my memory a golden land, a beacon of piety, spirituality and hospitality, a land of magic in that magical time called childhood!

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Travel Article

Bitten By The Bug!

Almost two years have fled past and travelling plans for most folk have unraveled at the seams, thanks to the little tyrant of a shape shifting virus lurking just beyond the safe confines of our respective front doors. While enjoying a peaceful holiday at home for the first time in many years was a novel experience for many, the dragging pandemic has left most of us bereft of one of the better experiences which enriches our lives, the bite of the travel bug.

All of us were nomads in the distant past and this atavistic trait still lingers in latent form. There must be very few who don’t feel a thrill of excitement at the mere whiff of an outing in the offing. Throwing all caution and better sense to the winds, most people have flocked to the great outdoors whenever the pandemic has showed the least sign of receding, like so many sheep let out of a barn. I don’t mean to sound judgmental or preachy, I have been one of them.

Joining this great migration got me thinking. Perhaps it was time to revisit those memorable journeys ranging all the way from childhood to the golden middle, and write a travelogue with a twist. Humor to bring back the bright shades of happiness that the pandemic has temporarily snatched away. I am being pompously presumptuous that wit can replace the want which makes us travel for there are those who live in foreign lands and have not been able to visit their near and dear ones for a couple of years now. But I hope that my bit of buffoonery can from the comfort of your armchair, at least rekindle fond memories of journeys past and make the wait for new journeys to begin again seem that much shorter. Ibn Batuta, the famous Arabian traveler must have foreseen what was to come for he rightly pointed out

“Traveling—it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a story teller”.

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