At the stroke of the midnight hour today, when the rest of the world sleeps, India will awaken to its sixty first birthday. Words modified from that memorable speech that India's first Prime Minister, a dreamer, a romantic, above all, my political hero non pareil, Jawaharlal Nehru, gave as the new nation awoke to life and freedom.
This morning, in the several messages that come to me from friends I have known over the years, was a video clip from my good friend Harihara Sarma Sethunathan. Sethu and I have known each from the days we were fifteen, attending Pre University classes at Madras', Vivekananda College. It was a clip of Gandhi's favourite bhajan, a song composed by the sixteenth (or maybe seventeenth century, a matter of trivia) mystic, Narsi Mehta. The song which many who have seen the movie Gandhi would have heard, is Vaishnav Jana Tho, and essentially means
For he or she is the true believer
He or she
Who knows the pain of the other
For those of you who would like to hear it here is a YouTube link
http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=PGSf5SIWi1E
The clip is from the movie, Water, a movie, I think, banned in India. Some say that though it is truthful even Gandhi would have called it a 'sanitary inspector's report' like he described Katherine Mayo's book, Mother India.
Notwithstanding the merits of the movie, I have intentionally reproduced the clip, for it contains and captures the hope that Gandhi represented. Look at that scene, the child widow being carried in, the silent masses, and, the single, old man, sitting like the Buddha on the Dhamma Peetha (seat of wisdom) his head bowed in contemplation, and, the love with which he affectionately holds the child who garlands him...and in that there is a new consciousness that one becomes aware of...a consciousness that the Buddha was aware of when he said, "...for hate cannot be conquered by hate...love alone can conquer hate..."a consciousness that Gandhi brought into Satyagraha...
And a strange thought came to me...
In my college days I have read at great length debates in the Indian Constituent Assembly (pre-Independence Parliament) about whether Jana Gana Mana composed by Tagore or Bankim Chandra's Vande Mataram should be the national anthem. On the one hand we had the secularists and on the other, the upholders of a Hindu nationhood. The secularists won, thanks largely to my political hero's insistence that the last verses of the Vande Mataram were not representative of a multi cultural society (in fact several versions of the Vande Mataram do not carry those verses any more)...
Though Vande Mataram was popular in those days no one, even my political hero, did not think of making it the national anthem...wouldn't that have been such a tribute to what Gandhi had believed in...
So, the thought, which I know will get nowhere in the power politics of today, why not make Vaishnav Jan Tho the new national anthem ? Imagine the sight, President Bush or Putin of Russia lands in Delhi. Instead of the traditional jingoistic twenty one gun salute and inspection of the honour guard, they stand for two minutes in silence as the band plays the strains of
Vaishnav Jana Tho
tene kahiye
je peer parayi jaani re
and, an English version, or a Russian one, or a version in a language that those on the podium can understand...
Just a thought, it will perhaps go nowhere today...
However, I recall what Eckhart Tolle says in the opening pages of his recent book, The New Earth. When the first flower struggled its way through the cracks of a mountainside a few million years ago, it had no awareness that it was the start of a new consciousness, one that we associate with beauty, fragrance and peace, today...
And so, as we celebrate the sixty first birthday of India's Independence, a minute's silent meditation as we listen to and reflect on the words of this YouTube clip
http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=PGSf5SIWi1E
Thanks for the thought, Sethu...
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Banker to the Poor
As I caught sight of him in the foyer of the Grand Ballroom at Toronto's Royal York Hotel, it struck me how differently attired he was from those he was talking to. Muhammad Yunus, Banker to the Poor, Nobel Peace Prize winner, was in town today today to talk to Canada's Top100 employers. Dressed in a blue kurta and white pyjamas with a cotton waistcoat he looked so different from the blue suited gentry surrounding him. And, after I heard him, I realized that his approach to business was just as different from the majority of the audience as his attire.
He talked for about an hour without any intellectual pretensions, straight from the heart. "After the liberation of Bangladesh, I came back from the United States where I was teaching, to teach Economics at Dhaka University...then, in 1974, the famine struck in Bangladesh...I saw how people living around the University were dying...it occurred to me that instead of teaching elegant theories of economics I should do something as a human being to help the people around me..."
Talking and mingling with the people who lived around the University he realized how much they were in the grip of loan sharks. It shocked him further when a quick survey that he carried out revealed that the total debt carried by about 42 people in his sample was about $27. Paying interest rates that could reach 1000% these people were crippled by the burden of debt. So, his first attempt was to get the banks to loan money to these people.
As he tried to do this the truth of the adage that a successful banker is one who gives you an umbrella when there is no rain and takes it away when it rains, came home to him. None of the banks were willing to lend to these people, and, when he offered to co-sign documents for the small amounts they needed, they told him that he was kissing his money goodbye.
The rest is now history. Yunus' trust in his borrowers was fully borne out. He had 98% repayment. And all this, as he says, without a single lawyer on his team. He told us how a woman who was given a loan of $20 or so took the money with trembling hands. She had never seen that much money given to her on trust. Slowly the Grameen movement built up, and, they started giving student loans for children to study thus setting off social change. Interestingly a large number of Grameen's clientele are women.
What Yunus spoke of is a very different model of doing business, a very different language from profit maximization. It is deeply spiritual. He talked of how traditionally poverty has been fostered by what he calls "the Bonsai approach." You take the same seed as that of a tree that will grow well, confine it in a limited space and you have a stunted tree. "Cute to look at," he says, "but, not one that enables everyone reach their potential. " I think he used the words, 'cute to look at" intentionally, summarizing our approach to poverty, particularly the western world's approach to poverty in places like the Indian sub continent and Africa...
As he finished, the suited-booted audience rose to their feet and gave him a standing ovation. The language and the business model of Social Business Entrepreneurship (SBE) that he spoke of was different, like the clothes he wore. However, I think some in the corporate world are beginning to see the merit of what he is saying. Danone, has established Grameen Danone in Bangladesh to provide Yoghurt and help deal with malnutrition among children. Another French company is setting up plants to purify the water of arsenic. All based on models of SBE. He is now calling for a Social Stock Exchange where the effectiveness of companies will be measured by their contribution to long term social sustainability...
Yunus spoke of the interest free loans Grameen has been giving to beggars of Dhaka. These are interest free and he talked of how they have transformed the lives of the beggars. Now, while they still make the rounds for begging they also hawk vegetables and so on. When some of his colleagues get frustrated since they are still begging, Yunus tells them, with a touch of his humour, "They are restructuring their business model...give them time..."
I do not know how religious a man Muhammad Yunus is. Listening to him, I realized that he is giving a socially relevant twenty first century perspective to the Koranic injunction of not taking interest...one that is helping millions find meaning and will one day hopefully confine poverty to the museums, which is the only place where he wants to see it...
He talked for about an hour without any intellectual pretensions, straight from the heart. "After the liberation of Bangladesh, I came back from the United States where I was teaching, to teach Economics at Dhaka University...then, in 1974, the famine struck in Bangladesh...I saw how people living around the University were dying...it occurred to me that instead of teaching elegant theories of economics I should do something as a human being to help the people around me..."
Talking and mingling with the people who lived around the University he realized how much they were in the grip of loan sharks. It shocked him further when a quick survey that he carried out revealed that the total debt carried by about 42 people in his sample was about $27. Paying interest rates that could reach 1000% these people were crippled by the burden of debt. So, his first attempt was to get the banks to loan money to these people.
As he tried to do this the truth of the adage that a successful banker is one who gives you an umbrella when there is no rain and takes it away when it rains, came home to him. None of the banks were willing to lend to these people, and, when he offered to co-sign documents for the small amounts they needed, they told him that he was kissing his money goodbye.
The rest is now history. Yunus' trust in his borrowers was fully borne out. He had 98% repayment. And all this, as he says, without a single lawyer on his team. He told us how a woman who was given a loan of $20 or so took the money with trembling hands. She had never seen that much money given to her on trust. Slowly the Grameen movement built up, and, they started giving student loans for children to study thus setting off social change. Interestingly a large number of Grameen's clientele are women.
What Yunus spoke of is a very different model of doing business, a very different language from profit maximization. It is deeply spiritual. He talked of how traditionally poverty has been fostered by what he calls "the Bonsai approach." You take the same seed as that of a tree that will grow well, confine it in a limited space and you have a stunted tree. "Cute to look at," he says, "but, not one that enables everyone reach their potential. " I think he used the words, 'cute to look at" intentionally, summarizing our approach to poverty, particularly the western world's approach to poverty in places like the Indian sub continent and Africa...
As he finished, the suited-booted audience rose to their feet and gave him a standing ovation. The language and the business model of Social Business Entrepreneurship (SBE) that he spoke of was different, like the clothes he wore. However, I think some in the corporate world are beginning to see the merit of what he is saying. Danone, has established Grameen Danone in Bangladesh to provide Yoghurt and help deal with malnutrition among children. Another French company is setting up plants to purify the water of arsenic. All based on models of SBE. He is now calling for a Social Stock Exchange where the effectiveness of companies will be measured by their contribution to long term social sustainability...
Yunus spoke of the interest free loans Grameen has been giving to beggars of Dhaka. These are interest free and he talked of how they have transformed the lives of the beggars. Now, while they still make the rounds for begging they also hawk vegetables and so on. When some of his colleagues get frustrated since they are still begging, Yunus tells them, with a touch of his humour, "They are restructuring their business model...give them time..."
I do not know how religious a man Muhammad Yunus is. Listening to him, I realized that he is giving a socially relevant twenty first century perspective to the Koranic injunction of not taking interest...one that is helping millions find meaning and will one day hopefully confine poverty to the museums, which is the only place where he wants to see it...
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Flotsam and Jetsam
The sixties flower power poet Allan Ginsberg talks of his first experience of attending a meditation retreat in one of the Tibetan traditions. He had managed to smuggle in a sheet of paper and some pencils, and, as the teacher was going round at the start of the course, the teacher saw the contraband items. With a smile he walked up to Allan and asked him to hand them over. When Allan hesitated the teacher asked him, eyes brimming with compassion, as Allan says, "Why do you need them, my son ?" Allan replied, "To note down a beautiful thought that comes..." Pulling the pencils out of his hands and breaking them into two, the teacher said, "...and it is the flotsam and jetsam of these thoughts that will keep dragging you back into the whirlpool...just focus on your breath..."
So, as I sat this morning, the flotsam and jetsam of thoughts surfaced creating their frothy attractiveness...like the froth on the top of a cup of Madras coffee...attractive yet devoid of flavour or anything...
Thinking of Allan Ginsberg my mind went back to the senior citizen who had helped me at the library yesterday. I could imagine her at one of Allan's rock concerts of the mid '60s, perhaps with a flower garland around her neck...what struck me about her was that she had not coloured her hair, and, as I looked around the library which is staffed largely by women who are in their golden years, I noticed that none of them had coloured their hair. Made me wonder whether it was a conditon of employment...
Now, I have tremendous regard, bordering on reverence, for a woman who does not colour her hair. The male world is somewhat different, and, we guys can let it all hang out since there isn't much to show in any case. (Actually, men have different issues. The success of erectile dysfunction drugs on the pretext of creating a better quality of life should give you an indicator.) At one time I attended a course for hospice workers, and, one of our 'field trips' was to a funeral parlour where they showed us how bodies were 'dressed' up before a funeral. I remember one of my co-volunteers, a woman in her fifties saying, "I must make sure in my will to clearly state that they should colour my hair before the visitation..." That sort of indicates the criticality of hair colouring to women. So, when you see a woman somewhere around the sixty mark not colouring her hair you say, "Wow, that requires some courage...for what you see is what you get..."
And then the mind wandered further.
Swami Chinmayananda was a religious teacher of some note in the '60s, '70s and '80s in India. The same attraction that would take me to watch the Washington Redskin cheerleaders took me to Swamiji's meetings in the '60s. I used to be fascinated by the attractive women who sang the invocatory prayers at his meetings. I remember Swamiji once opening a Bhagavad Gita class with the opening dhyana (invocatory) verse, "...parthaya prati bodhitaam bhagavatam narayanena swayam..." And then the chant would be taken up by this bevy of attractive women in white blouses and saris. There was a strange wild attraction that the ascetic Swamiji held for them that bordered on the erotic.
Anyway, in those days I had just been introduced to the thought or lack thereof of some atheists. And, in a free question and answer session, I decided to confront the Swamiji. "If all bodily and mental activity is caused by electrical impulses that emerges from the brain, and, death is defined as the cessation of such electrical activity, how can there be a life after death ?" I asked the question in one breath...Swamiji did not answer my question at that point...I was thrilled. I had scored a point...
As we were having lunch, Swamiji actually made his way to me. "What is your name ?" he asked, adding, "You asked a good question. I did not reply to you because I wanted to talk to you..." And then he sat down next to me and said, "Your question is very logical and perhaps correct. However, you cannot understand these matters with logic. It is a matter of experiencing it. When you were just a day old, all you could see was a mass of light with some sounds emerging from this mass of light. Then slowly some figures started becoming clear...one of those figures fed you, made you go to sleep and rocked you when you cried...and as your pupils started functioning better you gave a name and shape to that being...your mother...your brilliant logic is the all enveloping light that you see, nothing is clear...slowly, your pupils will start digesting all that light and clarity will emerge...let it be...someday the clarity that is not born of logic will emerge..." Swamiji did not wait for my response, he just continued on.
The clarity has not emerged, some forty years later. I still struggle with logic and purposiveness. Some years ago, I asked a Vipassana teacher, "If you say that nothing is permanent and that everything just arises and dissolves what is it that reincarnates, if there is no soul..." In the mould of Swami Chinmayananda she looked at me and said, "Just continue your practice. It will all become clear..."
And, as I struggle with maintaining my fledgling practice in the midst of all these non-issues that thought creates, the reality of what the teacher told Allan Ginsberg comes through loud and clear, "...and this is the flotsam and jetsam that will keep pulling you back into the whirlpool..." For, as Krishna says at the end of Chapter 10 in the Bhagavad Gita
athava bahunai tena
kim jnatena tav'a'rjuna
vishtabhyaham idam sarvam
ekam sena's stitho jagat
Of what use is all this (intellectual) knowledge to you Arjuna ? All you need to know is that in a fraction of Myself I sustain the whole Universe...
So, as I sat this morning, the flotsam and jetsam of thoughts surfaced creating their frothy attractiveness...like the froth on the top of a cup of Madras coffee...attractive yet devoid of flavour or anything...
Thinking of Allan Ginsberg my mind went back to the senior citizen who had helped me at the library yesterday. I could imagine her at one of Allan's rock concerts of the mid '60s, perhaps with a flower garland around her neck...what struck me about her was that she had not coloured her hair, and, as I looked around the library which is staffed largely by women who are in their golden years, I noticed that none of them had coloured their hair. Made me wonder whether it was a conditon of employment...
Now, I have tremendous regard, bordering on reverence, for a woman who does not colour her hair. The male world is somewhat different, and, we guys can let it all hang out since there isn't much to show in any case. (Actually, men have different issues. The success of erectile dysfunction drugs on the pretext of creating a better quality of life should give you an indicator.) At one time I attended a course for hospice workers, and, one of our 'field trips' was to a funeral parlour where they showed us how bodies were 'dressed' up before a funeral. I remember one of my co-volunteers, a woman in her fifties saying, "I must make sure in my will to clearly state that they should colour my hair before the visitation..." That sort of indicates the criticality of hair colouring to women. So, when you see a woman somewhere around the sixty mark not colouring her hair you say, "Wow, that requires some courage...for what you see is what you get..."
And then the mind wandered further.
Swami Chinmayananda was a religious teacher of some note in the '60s, '70s and '80s in India. The same attraction that would take me to watch the Washington Redskin cheerleaders took me to Swamiji's meetings in the '60s. I used to be fascinated by the attractive women who sang the invocatory prayers at his meetings. I remember Swamiji once opening a Bhagavad Gita class with the opening dhyana (invocatory) verse, "...parthaya prati bodhitaam bhagavatam narayanena swayam..." And then the chant would be taken up by this bevy of attractive women in white blouses and saris. There was a strange wild attraction that the ascetic Swamiji held for them that bordered on the erotic.
Anyway, in those days I had just been introduced to the thought or lack thereof of some atheists. And, in a free question and answer session, I decided to confront the Swamiji. "If all bodily and mental activity is caused by electrical impulses that emerges from the brain, and, death is defined as the cessation of such electrical activity, how can there be a life after death ?" I asked the question in one breath...Swamiji did not answer my question at that point...I was thrilled. I had scored a point...
As we were having lunch, Swamiji actually made his way to me. "What is your name ?" he asked, adding, "You asked a good question. I did not reply to you because I wanted to talk to you..." And then he sat down next to me and said, "Your question is very logical and perhaps correct. However, you cannot understand these matters with logic. It is a matter of experiencing it. When you were just a day old, all you could see was a mass of light with some sounds emerging from this mass of light. Then slowly some figures started becoming clear...one of those figures fed you, made you go to sleep and rocked you when you cried...and as your pupils started functioning better you gave a name and shape to that being...your mother...your brilliant logic is the all enveloping light that you see, nothing is clear...slowly, your pupils will start digesting all that light and clarity will emerge...let it be...someday the clarity that is not born of logic will emerge..." Swamiji did not wait for my response, he just continued on.
The clarity has not emerged, some forty years later. I still struggle with logic and purposiveness. Some years ago, I asked a Vipassana teacher, "If you say that nothing is permanent and that everything just arises and dissolves what is it that reincarnates, if there is no soul..." In the mould of Swami Chinmayananda she looked at me and said, "Just continue your practice. It will all become clear..."
And, as I struggle with maintaining my fledgling practice in the midst of all these non-issues that thought creates, the reality of what the teacher told Allan Ginsberg comes through loud and clear, "...and this is the flotsam and jetsam that will keep pulling you back into the whirlpool..." For, as Krishna says at the end of Chapter 10 in the Bhagavad Gita
athava bahunai tena
kim jnatena tav'a'rjuna
vishtabhyaham idam sarvam
ekam sena's stitho jagat
Of what use is all this (intellectual) knowledge to you Arjuna ? All you need to know is that in a fraction of Myself I sustain the whole Universe...
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Happy Mother's Day
When my mother was born, in India, it was before birth records were maintained. Somewhere in 1949 or so when she had to make her first trip outside India, they needed to get her a passport, and, so the question of assigning her a date of birth came up. My grandfather was consulted on this important question and after some head scratching he came up with the memory that the Great War (World War I) broke out about two weeks after she was born. So, June 22, 1914, was assigned as her date of birth.
I mention this story about her date of birth because when I was little, she instituted the practice that my birthday would be celebrated twice every year, once as per the Gregorian calendar and once as per the Hindu calendar. Since I was growing up in England, she thought that would be a good way of ensuring that I stayed in touch with ‘our traditions.’ So, till the age of eight, I had cake and Jello on my birthday as per the English calendar and payasam (calling payasam rice pudding would be a bit of a travesty, however, it belongs to the genre of rice puddings) on my ‘star’ or Hindu calendar birthday. Needless to add, I also got two sets of birthday presents. This practice, I regret to state, was discontinued soon after we returned to India, in 1958. My mother did not see the need for me to keep in touch with practices, ‘back home, in Old Blightey…’
A mother is the huggable, soft being who has shielded you from imaginary ghosts as thunder crashes and lights streaks across the Indian monsoon sky. Notwithstanding her own fears she will deal with the ugly cockroach that comes out of the washroom as her eighteen year old son shrieks in terror. Though she is now gone for nearly twenty five years I still remember the warm feeling as a three or four year old, hugging her and going to sleep.
Motherhood is fiercely protective. See soccer moms arguing with the coach and the way a mother goose bursts into a fierce shriek when you approach the little goslings, and, you will know what that means.
Interestingly, the Buddha recognized this quality in his Metta Sutta. Defining the quality of Metta, or loving kindness he said,
mata yata niyam puttam
ayusa eka puttam anurakke
evam pi sabba buthesu
manasam bhavaye apparimanam
Just as a mother protects her child,
Her only son,
So should we protect all beings…
Such is the quality of loving kindness, fiercely protective, fiercely protective of the whole Universe, not, just one’s biological children...
Today, with diaper changing tables as common in men’s washrooms as in those for women, the quality of being a mother in some way goes beyond gender. This morning as Lakshmi and I went biking we saw a young man in his late twenties, teaching an eight year old to ride a bike on the trail while holding a second child his arms as the infant finished its bottle feed. Multi tasking which twenty years ago only a female mom would have been able to do.
And so, to all those who nurture and protect, this beautiful rendering of India’s national song, Vande Mataram, (Homage to Mother) rendered by one of the best Indian classical singers still alive, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OviaeN38F_0&feature=related
I mention this story about her date of birth because when I was little, she instituted the practice that my birthday would be celebrated twice every year, once as per the Gregorian calendar and once as per the Hindu calendar. Since I was growing up in England, she thought that would be a good way of ensuring that I stayed in touch with ‘our traditions.’ So, till the age of eight, I had cake and Jello on my birthday as per the English calendar and payasam (calling payasam rice pudding would be a bit of a travesty, however, it belongs to the genre of rice puddings) on my ‘star’ or Hindu calendar birthday. Needless to add, I also got two sets of birthday presents. This practice, I regret to state, was discontinued soon after we returned to India, in 1958. My mother did not see the need for me to keep in touch with practices, ‘back home, in Old Blightey…’
A mother is the huggable, soft being who has shielded you from imaginary ghosts as thunder crashes and lights streaks across the Indian monsoon sky. Notwithstanding her own fears she will deal with the ugly cockroach that comes out of the washroom as her eighteen year old son shrieks in terror. Though she is now gone for nearly twenty five years I still remember the warm feeling as a three or four year old, hugging her and going to sleep.
Motherhood is fiercely protective. See soccer moms arguing with the coach and the way a mother goose bursts into a fierce shriek when you approach the little goslings, and, you will know what that means.
Interestingly, the Buddha recognized this quality in his Metta Sutta. Defining the quality of Metta, or loving kindness he said,
mata yata niyam puttam
ayusa eka puttam anurakke
evam pi sabba buthesu
manasam bhavaye apparimanam
Just as a mother protects her child,
Her only son,
So should we protect all beings…
Such is the quality of loving kindness, fiercely protective, fiercely protective of the whole Universe, not, just one’s biological children...
Today, with diaper changing tables as common in men’s washrooms as in those for women, the quality of being a mother in some way goes beyond gender. This morning as Lakshmi and I went biking we saw a young man in his late twenties, teaching an eight year old to ride a bike on the trail while holding a second child his arms as the infant finished its bottle feed. Multi tasking which twenty years ago only a female mom would have been able to do.
And so, to all those who nurture and protect, this beautiful rendering of India’s national song, Vande Mataram, (Homage to Mother) rendered by one of the best Indian classical singers still alive, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OviaeN38F_0&feature=related
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Politically incorrect thoughts at an unearthly hour
It is five thirty in the morning on a Saturday and I am up and chirpy. Tried to wake up the bharya priyaa,bp,sr, and beti priyaa,bp,jr, to ask them out for a walk, and, never realized that tam-brahm women could swear so well. They booted me out of the bedroom and asked me to make myself scarce (said in much more colourful language).
Actually I lied when I said it is five thirty in the morning and I am up and chirpy…I have been up and chirpy for the last two hours…You see these days very often, bp,sr, and I spend the weekend at bp,jr’s place. So, we landed up here last night. bp,sr and bp,jr went to the roof top of bp,jr’s condo for a roof top barbecue, and, I watched the comedy channel for ten minutes and was blissfully asleep by 8.00pm The net result of that early blissful sleep was that I was up and chirping around at 3.30am, much like a swallow that has returned early from Florida in mid winter and finds that everyone else does not share her enthusiastic world view.
So, I sat and meditated for an hour. As I finished I opened my eyes and saw the Rosedale Valley enveloped in a beautiful fog, a fog that did not cover everything, a fog that just left you remembering the beautiful colours of gold, red and orange as the valley sank into autumn a few months ago, and, the beautiful sunlight that will soon pierce through the fog and bring everything back into clarity.
Coming back to this mundane world, I realized that there was no milk for my morning cuppa, and, so I put on my jacket (still a tad cold out here in TO) and strode out into the streets of downtown TO to find a 7/11 shop for some milk.
The best time to get to know the downtown part of any metro is before it wakes up. Actually, cities like Toronto, Mumbai and London never go to sleep so that is not correct. What I mean are those wee hours of the morning when the ‘bhadralok’ (gentry in Bengali) have finished their merry making for the night and the denizens of the dark have come out to clear up.
Walk around any metro at this time and you will be able to get a clear picture of the social order of things. In Toronto, at that hour you will very rarely see a ‘mainstream’ Canadian (politically correct expression for ‘white’, though in Toronto it may not be statistically correct to classify ‘white’ as mainstream anymore…) out and about earning a livelihood. Every single person, awake and working, that I ran into was an immigrant, fresh off the boat as they would say. Even the one male hooker who offered his services to me sounded from Eastern Europe (audible minority, referring to their unfamiliarity with English, as opposed to brownies, from the former British colonies, like me who are the visible minority). The girls working the back shift at Tim Hortons were Filipina; the taxi drivers were ophthalmologists, cardiac surgeons and paediatricians from India, Pakistan and the sub contintent; the street cleaners were, I think, Mexican or Cuban. The next time an Indian tells me that he or she left India to get away from the caste system, I will wake him or her up and make them walk along Bloor Street at 4.00am in the morning, and, say, ‘…kya hai bachhu, idhar ka caste system dekha ?...’ “So, man do you see the caste system of this world ?”
I am not a social scientist who can analyze the phenomenon of immigrants doing the back shift. However, one thing seems to be sure, if you can make the 9 to 5 shift at work, that seems to be one sign that you have arrived.
My early morning search for milk was not without its brighter side, and, that came in the form of King Palace restaurant just behind the Metro Toronto Reference Library. There used to be a dingy looking Coffee Time there, and, I was a little surprised to see a very brightly lit restaurant which looked as if it had been transported out of Bombay’s Bhendi Bazar in the middle of Id. I have often walked down Mohamad Ali Road (btw, is it still known as Mohamad Ali Road ?) and Bhindi Bazar in the wee hours of the morning, during Ramzan, with Muslim friends as they enjoyed their repast of ‘bheja fry’ (fried brains of pigeon, I think) before embarking on the next day’s fast. Being a conditioned vegetarian I could not enjoy the food, but, like my friend Siddharta Gautama taught, practised ‘mudhita’ or the enjoyment of happiness through the happiness of others.
Coming back to King Palace restaurant, I first admired the place from outside. For a homesick Indian it is manna from heaven…they offer around the clock a choice of Indian favourites, Channa Masala (chick peas cooked in spices), Butter Chicken, Bhindi Masala (okra, sautéed with spices) et al…but, what was authentic was the bright lights with the TV showing a buxom Indian Bollywood star gyrating her voluptuous hips to good Hindi phillum mujic…I wasn’t ready at 4.30am to try any of their offerings, but, walked in, and, struck up a conversation with the owner…he is from Lahore, and, like all sub continenters who meet outside of the sub-continent, we got to talking of cricket…though he realized I wasn’t buying anything, he offered me a cup of chai…”Assalam walai’kum, dost” “Peace to you, my friend” we said to each other as I continued my search for milk at 4am…
Actually I lied when I said it is five thirty in the morning and I am up and chirpy…I have been up and chirpy for the last two hours…You see these days very often, bp,sr, and I spend the weekend at bp,jr’s place. So, we landed up here last night. bp,sr and bp,jr went to the roof top of bp,jr’s condo for a roof top barbecue, and, I watched the comedy channel for ten minutes and was blissfully asleep by 8.00pm The net result of that early blissful sleep was that I was up and chirping around at 3.30am, much like a swallow that has returned early from Florida in mid winter and finds that everyone else does not share her enthusiastic world view.
So, I sat and meditated for an hour. As I finished I opened my eyes and saw the Rosedale Valley enveloped in a beautiful fog, a fog that did not cover everything, a fog that just left you remembering the beautiful colours of gold, red and orange as the valley sank into autumn a few months ago, and, the beautiful sunlight that will soon pierce through the fog and bring everything back into clarity.
Coming back to this mundane world, I realized that there was no milk for my morning cuppa, and, so I put on my jacket (still a tad cold out here in TO) and strode out into the streets of downtown TO to find a 7/11 shop for some milk.
The best time to get to know the downtown part of any metro is before it wakes up. Actually, cities like Toronto, Mumbai and London never go to sleep so that is not correct. What I mean are those wee hours of the morning when the ‘bhadralok’ (gentry in Bengali) have finished their merry making for the night and the denizens of the dark have come out to clear up.
Walk around any metro at this time and you will be able to get a clear picture of the social order of things. In Toronto, at that hour you will very rarely see a ‘mainstream’ Canadian (politically correct expression for ‘white’, though in Toronto it may not be statistically correct to classify ‘white’ as mainstream anymore…) out and about earning a livelihood. Every single person, awake and working, that I ran into was an immigrant, fresh off the boat as they would say. Even the one male hooker who offered his services to me sounded from Eastern Europe (audible minority, referring to their unfamiliarity with English, as opposed to brownies, from the former British colonies, like me who are the visible minority). The girls working the back shift at Tim Hortons were Filipina; the taxi drivers were ophthalmologists, cardiac surgeons and paediatricians from India, Pakistan and the sub contintent; the street cleaners were, I think, Mexican or Cuban. The next time an Indian tells me that he or she left India to get away from the caste system, I will wake him or her up and make them walk along Bloor Street at 4.00am in the morning, and, say, ‘…kya hai bachhu, idhar ka caste system dekha ?...’ “So, man do you see the caste system of this world ?”
I am not a social scientist who can analyze the phenomenon of immigrants doing the back shift. However, one thing seems to be sure, if you can make the 9 to 5 shift at work, that seems to be one sign that you have arrived.
My early morning search for milk was not without its brighter side, and, that came in the form of King Palace restaurant just behind the Metro Toronto Reference Library. There used to be a dingy looking Coffee Time there, and, I was a little surprised to see a very brightly lit restaurant which looked as if it had been transported out of Bombay’s Bhendi Bazar in the middle of Id. I have often walked down Mohamad Ali Road (btw, is it still known as Mohamad Ali Road ?) and Bhindi Bazar in the wee hours of the morning, during Ramzan, with Muslim friends as they enjoyed their repast of ‘bheja fry’ (fried brains of pigeon, I think) before embarking on the next day’s fast. Being a conditioned vegetarian I could not enjoy the food, but, like my friend Siddharta Gautama taught, practised ‘mudhita’ or the enjoyment of happiness through the happiness of others.
Coming back to King Palace restaurant, I first admired the place from outside. For a homesick Indian it is manna from heaven…they offer around the clock a choice of Indian favourites, Channa Masala (chick peas cooked in spices), Butter Chicken, Bhindi Masala (okra, sautéed with spices) et al…but, what was authentic was the bright lights with the TV showing a buxom Indian Bollywood star gyrating her voluptuous hips to good Hindi phillum mujic…I wasn’t ready at 4.30am to try any of their offerings, but, walked in, and, struck up a conversation with the owner…he is from Lahore, and, like all sub continenters who meet outside of the sub-continent, we got to talking of cricket…though he realized I wasn’t buying anything, he offered me a cup of chai…”Assalam walai’kum, dost” “Peace to you, my friend” we said to each other as I continued my search for milk at 4am…
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Saturday afternoon musings
After my recent sojourn in India, weekends have been somewhat sacrosanct. There has been much happening at work, and, by the time I reach Friday, I am fairly burnt out. So, to get me stirred into action on a Saturday morning, even with a promise of idlis and vadas requires some minor earth shaking activity. This came in the form of a news item that floated across me that
Dr Avul Pakeer Jainelabdin Abdul Kalam, till last year the President of India, aka the Missile Man, the father of India’s missile program, would be presiding over the annual Thyagaraja aradhana in Toronto.
The Thyagaraja aradhana that is held early spring in Toronto is an attempt to recreate the annual Thyagaraja aradhana that takes place in Tiruvaiyyaru, Thanjavur, every year on Bahula Panchami day. At Tiruvaiyyaru on that day thousands of Carnatic musicians sing the Pancharatna kritis in honour of Saint Thyagaraja (circa 1767 to 1847), one of the founders, if one may use that word in this context, of Carnatic music. Thyagaraja has somewhat divine status in the tam-brahm psyche, thanks to his composition of several hundred songs in praise of Lord Rama.
In the Toronto version of the aradhana, local musicians sing the Pancharatna kritis which are said to be the best of Thyagaraja’s compositions and there is a festive occasion, with good, South Indian food served (a sine qua non for the success of any tam-brahm activity). Since Bahula Panchami falls in January, and, Toronto is snow bound at that time, Torontonians observe Thyagaraja Aradhana day early in spring.
The motivation to hear and see the Missile Man was sufficiently strong enough for me to invest a hundred and fifty dollars, Canadian, (this emphasis on the word Canadian for the benefit of my friends living south of the 49th parallel) , in renewing my membership of the Bharati Kala Manram, and, early Saturday morning I was there to experience this man.
The Missile Man has intrigued me. A true pan-Indian in the tradition of “…Ishwar Allah tero naam…sabko sanmati de Bhagvan…” (a line from a favourite hymn of Gandhi which means, 'May God, whose name is both Ishwar and Allah, bless all) he is said to be equally at home with the Bhagavad Gita and the Koran. He plays the veena himself, and, is a bachelor, reportedly celibate and a vegetarian. I have not read much of what he has written. However, one piece I recall reading was how the power of nature astounded him at a very early age. In his early teens he witnessed a powerful December cyclone (a somewhat common occurrence along the East Coast of India) wipe away an entire hamlet (Dhanushkodi, maybe ?) near his hometown of Rameswaram, and, that is supposed have left an indelible mark on him. An apparent man of peace in terms of his habits and inclinations, his sponsorship of India’s missile program has always left me wondering. Strong enough motivation for me to break the lazy peace of a Saturday morning.
Somewhat appropriately, Dr Abdul Kalam came in just as the musicians were singing Thyagaraja’s ‘Endharo Mahanubavalu…’ a song in praise of All those who are Realized Souls, All is the magic word, just not the one’s chosen by one’s faith.
I am told that the composition is a favourite of Dr Kalam’s, and, he was ushered in with much fanfare and the musicians had to stop their singing. I am not so sure that the nadaswaram and mridangam that accompanied Dr Kalam’s entry was in keeping with the tribute to Thyagaraja which is what Thyagaraja aradhana is all about. Left to himself, I suspect the Missile Man would have liked to come in unannounced and sit listening to the musicians sing his favourite Pancharatna Kriti. Such are the perils of celebrity-dom.
After the Pancharatna Krithis were over, the Missile Man spoke, and, his speech left me fascinated at the depth of that mind. He talked of music as an integrating force (that statement was not rocket science), and, then came the beauty. He spoke of those who are differently abled (disabled in common parlance) and the impact music has on them. He asked the musicians to go out and sing to those who are differently abled and those in prisons. He talked of the rhythm of nature (and science) and how everything in the Universe dances to a rhythm. Understanding that rhythm was no different, whether it is science or music he said. As he talked an old Sanskrit verse came to mind
‘…vajra’d’api katorani, mridu’ni kusum’d’api
loko’ttaranam chetamsi vignya’tum arha’ti ko’pi…’
Harder than the diamond, softer than the flower,
Is the mind of the person of wisdom
Such wisdom is difficult to comprehend for the ordinary soul…
And so, the beauty of music and the burning, destroying power of the Agni missile co exist peacefully…just another rhythm of the Universe…
Once his speech to the grown ups was over, he spoke to children, and, this was where his heart came through. Himeslf a consummate teacher, he spoke to them of his teacher, Sivasubramania Iyer, who in grade five or so took the class to the beach and showed them birds flying and taught them the first principles of aerodynamics. This must be what must have prompted Dr Kalam to take up aeronautical engineering in his post graduate days. He talked of his music teacher, Kalyani, who introduced him to the work of Thyagaraja. He asked the children questions (try this one, ‘If the earth makes a single orbit around the sun every year, and, I am in the seventy seventh orbit of my life, how many years old am I ?’ Much to what will be my mathematics teacher's surprise I got that one correct.) It was fascinating to see him talk and respond to children without any air of superiority, and, utterly, completely from the heart. Such openness and genuineness is a mark of greatness and is so rare
As I left the hall the words of Thyagaraja’s Pancharatna Krithi kept ringing in my ears,
“Endharo mahanubhavulu, andharikki maa vandanamuna…”
My homage to ALL the Realized Souls
Or, the same, in the opening words of the Buddhist prayer of refuge,
“Namo tassa bhagavatho arahato sammasam budhhasa..>”
“…my homage to all realized souls…”
Dr Avul Pakeer Jainelabdin Abdul Kalam, till last year the President of India, aka the Missile Man, the father of India’s missile program, would be presiding over the annual Thyagaraja aradhana in Toronto.
The Thyagaraja aradhana that is held early spring in Toronto is an attempt to recreate the annual Thyagaraja aradhana that takes place in Tiruvaiyyaru, Thanjavur, every year on Bahula Panchami day. At Tiruvaiyyaru on that day thousands of Carnatic musicians sing the Pancharatna kritis in honour of Saint Thyagaraja (circa 1767 to 1847), one of the founders, if one may use that word in this context, of Carnatic music. Thyagaraja has somewhat divine status in the tam-brahm psyche, thanks to his composition of several hundred songs in praise of Lord Rama.
In the Toronto version of the aradhana, local musicians sing the Pancharatna kritis which are said to be the best of Thyagaraja’s compositions and there is a festive occasion, with good, South Indian food served (a sine qua non for the success of any tam-brahm activity). Since Bahula Panchami falls in January, and, Toronto is snow bound at that time, Torontonians observe Thyagaraja Aradhana day early in spring.
The motivation to hear and see the Missile Man was sufficiently strong enough for me to invest a hundred and fifty dollars, Canadian, (this emphasis on the word Canadian for the benefit of my friends living south of the 49th parallel) , in renewing my membership of the Bharati Kala Manram, and, early Saturday morning I was there to experience this man.
The Missile Man has intrigued me. A true pan-Indian in the tradition of “…Ishwar Allah tero naam…sabko sanmati de Bhagvan…” (a line from a favourite hymn of Gandhi which means, 'May God, whose name is both Ishwar and Allah, bless all) he is said to be equally at home with the Bhagavad Gita and the Koran. He plays the veena himself, and, is a bachelor, reportedly celibate and a vegetarian. I have not read much of what he has written. However, one piece I recall reading was how the power of nature astounded him at a very early age. In his early teens he witnessed a powerful December cyclone (a somewhat common occurrence along the East Coast of India) wipe away an entire hamlet (Dhanushkodi, maybe ?) near his hometown of Rameswaram, and, that is supposed have left an indelible mark on him. An apparent man of peace in terms of his habits and inclinations, his sponsorship of India’s missile program has always left me wondering. Strong enough motivation for me to break the lazy peace of a Saturday morning.
Somewhat appropriately, Dr Abdul Kalam came in just as the musicians were singing Thyagaraja’s ‘Endharo Mahanubavalu…’ a song in praise of All those who are Realized Souls, All is the magic word, just not the one’s chosen by one’s faith.
I am told that the composition is a favourite of Dr Kalam’s, and, he was ushered in with much fanfare and the musicians had to stop their singing. I am not so sure that the nadaswaram and mridangam that accompanied Dr Kalam’s entry was in keeping with the tribute to Thyagaraja which is what Thyagaraja aradhana is all about. Left to himself, I suspect the Missile Man would have liked to come in unannounced and sit listening to the musicians sing his favourite Pancharatna Kriti. Such are the perils of celebrity-dom.
After the Pancharatna Krithis were over, the Missile Man spoke, and, his speech left me fascinated at the depth of that mind. He talked of music as an integrating force (that statement was not rocket science), and, then came the beauty. He spoke of those who are differently abled (disabled in common parlance) and the impact music has on them. He asked the musicians to go out and sing to those who are differently abled and those in prisons. He talked of the rhythm of nature (and science) and how everything in the Universe dances to a rhythm. Understanding that rhythm was no different, whether it is science or music he said. As he talked an old Sanskrit verse came to mind
‘…vajra’d’api katorani, mridu’ni kusum’d’api
loko’ttaranam chetamsi vignya’tum arha’ti ko’pi…’
Harder than the diamond, softer than the flower,
Is the mind of the person of wisdom
Such wisdom is difficult to comprehend for the ordinary soul…
And so, the beauty of music and the burning, destroying power of the Agni missile co exist peacefully…just another rhythm of the Universe…
Once his speech to the grown ups was over, he spoke to children, and, this was where his heart came through. Himeslf a consummate teacher, he spoke to them of his teacher, Sivasubramania Iyer, who in grade five or so took the class to the beach and showed them birds flying and taught them the first principles of aerodynamics. This must be what must have prompted Dr Kalam to take up aeronautical engineering in his post graduate days. He talked of his music teacher, Kalyani, who introduced him to the work of Thyagaraja. He asked the children questions (try this one, ‘If the earth makes a single orbit around the sun every year, and, I am in the seventy seventh orbit of my life, how many years old am I ?’ Much to what will be my mathematics teacher's surprise I got that one correct.) It was fascinating to see him talk and respond to children without any air of superiority, and, utterly, completely from the heart. Such openness and genuineness is a mark of greatness and is so rare
As I left the hall the words of Thyagaraja’s Pancharatna Krithi kept ringing in my ears,
“Endharo mahanubhavulu, andharikki maa vandanamuna…”
My homage to ALL the Realized Souls
Or, the same, in the opening words of the Buddhist prayer of refuge,
“Namo tassa bhagavatho arahato sammasam budhhasa..>”
“…my homage to all realized souls…”
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Day one, in Mumbai
My good friend Krish Krishnan, in response to my quoting the Sami sisters song of the '60s, Come to Bombay, added these lines from the song:
"If you want to marry me darling, do not come at one!
For Pappa will be waiting with his dabal barrell gun!
Bum, bum, bum, bum... Hey! Bumbye meri hai!
Come, come, come, come... Hey! Bumbye meri hai!"
And so, I spent day one in Mumbai yesterday. Waiting for the traffic lights to change at one busy intersection, sitting in a non air-conditioned taxi (again) I watched the medley of humans, old Premier Padminis, the occasional Ambassador, the trucks and the more modern Japanese Hondas and Toyotas trying to make it across the intersection before the lights changed to red. They were all in a mad rush like a bunch of MBAs at placement time. In the midst of all this crazy crunch was a bullock cart pulling a cart of kerosene and ambling along with no care for the mad rush all around it. That is the beauty of apna Bharat Mahan, you can either be in the crazy race or amble along in a bullock cart without a care for all the rush.
Mumbai's infra structure crashed about two decades ago, and, the traffic snarls of Mumbai are no different from those of the other bigger cities of the world caught up in all the growth, human and otherwise...Sitting in the black and yellow cab sweating away waiting for the lights to change maybe preferable in some ways to stomping in the minus 20 Centigrade cold waiting for yet another delayed GO Train at Oakville, Ontario...
There is much economic booming and one hears it in the theatres as people read text messages and take calls during a film...yet, the nagging thought, how long will it all take to seep down to the people still on below subsistence wages, if that at all...everything is so frightfully costly, and, even with the Canadian dollar supreme I am a bit wary of paying those prices...and, much to the contrary from the reports, I am not sure that much of India has the money to pay those prices, either...
Made me almost feel guilty as I came out of Mani's Lunch Home in Matunga which, my elder brother says, is the only place where you can get food cooked the way our mother did...in Palghat Iyer style, for Rs30 a plate and Rs13 for the mandatory Bisleri water...lovely avial, koottu, kari and pappadam...
Topped off the evening watching the new blockbuster movie, Akbar-Jodhaa, the story of the supposed romance between the Moghul Emperor Akbar and Jodha-bai, his Queen, or, more precisely, the mother of his son, Prince Salim, who went on to be known as Jehangir. The movie is a good mix of history, half-fact, legend and more than anything else, Aishwarya Rai...There are some good scenes in the movie, and, more than anything else the movie reminds you that love is beyond thought and beliefs...I had the benefit of my historian brother who helped me sort my way through the tangle of history and myth...our verdict, Akbar had a woman in his life, one of the many Rajput princesses he married...she gave him his heir, Prince Salim...and the rest is the fantasy of Akbar-Jodhaa....Watch it, but, don't kill yourself if you don't get to...
The movie was interesting sedgue into today's trip out to Jodhpur where there will be more of the Rajputana that I saw in Akbar-Jodhaa...
To sign off, a little footnote that I credit to my Hindi teacher from University days...no way of verifying its veracity...the word 'sala' in Hindi is a derivative of the Sanskrit 'syala' which means the groom of one's sister, a brother-in-law, in modern day English...as everyone who has rudimentary acquaintance with Hindi knows, the word 'sala' is one of the most commonly used abuses in Hindi, almost as common as the f*** word in English...the roots of this abusive usage come from the days when Rajput kings gave their daughters in marriage to Akbar for whatever reasons, political or otherwise...and those who did not used to refer to those who had, as 'sala' that useless, degenerate who gave his sister in marriage to Akbar and became a 'sala', brother-in-law of the Mughal emperor...
Onward and upwards, on to Jodhpur
"If you want to marry me darling, do not come at one!
For Pappa will be waiting with his dabal barrell gun!
Bum, bum, bum, bum... Hey! Bumbye meri hai!
Come, come, come, come... Hey! Bumbye meri hai!"
And so, I spent day one in Mumbai yesterday. Waiting for the traffic lights to change at one busy intersection, sitting in a non air-conditioned taxi (again) I watched the medley of humans, old Premier Padminis, the occasional Ambassador, the trucks and the more modern Japanese Hondas and Toyotas trying to make it across the intersection before the lights changed to red. They were all in a mad rush like a bunch of MBAs at placement time. In the midst of all this crazy crunch was a bullock cart pulling a cart of kerosene and ambling along with no care for the mad rush all around it. That is the beauty of apna Bharat Mahan, you can either be in the crazy race or amble along in a bullock cart without a care for all the rush.
Mumbai's infra structure crashed about two decades ago, and, the traffic snarls of Mumbai are no different from those of the other bigger cities of the world caught up in all the growth, human and otherwise...Sitting in the black and yellow cab sweating away waiting for the lights to change maybe preferable in some ways to stomping in the minus 20 Centigrade cold waiting for yet another delayed GO Train at Oakville, Ontario...
There is much economic booming and one hears it in the theatres as people read text messages and take calls during a film...yet, the nagging thought, how long will it all take to seep down to the people still on below subsistence wages, if that at all...everything is so frightfully costly, and, even with the Canadian dollar supreme I am a bit wary of paying those prices...and, much to the contrary from the reports, I am not sure that much of India has the money to pay those prices, either...
Made me almost feel guilty as I came out of Mani's Lunch Home in Matunga which, my elder brother says, is the only place where you can get food cooked the way our mother did...in Palghat Iyer style, for Rs30 a plate and Rs13 for the mandatory Bisleri water...lovely avial, koottu, kari and pappadam...
Topped off the evening watching the new blockbuster movie, Akbar-Jodhaa, the story of the supposed romance between the Moghul Emperor Akbar and Jodha-bai, his Queen, or, more precisely, the mother of his son, Prince Salim, who went on to be known as Jehangir. The movie is a good mix of history, half-fact, legend and more than anything else, Aishwarya Rai...There are some good scenes in the movie, and, more than anything else the movie reminds you that love is beyond thought and beliefs...I had the benefit of my historian brother who helped me sort my way through the tangle of history and myth...our verdict, Akbar had a woman in his life, one of the many Rajput princesses he married...she gave him his heir, Prince Salim...and the rest is the fantasy of Akbar-Jodhaa....Watch it, but, don't kill yourself if you don't get to...
The movie was interesting sedgue into today's trip out to Jodhpur where there will be more of the Rajputana that I saw in Akbar-Jodhaa...
To sign off, a little footnote that I credit to my Hindi teacher from University days...no way of verifying its veracity...the word 'sala' in Hindi is a derivative of the Sanskrit 'syala' which means the groom of one's sister, a brother-in-law, in modern day English...as everyone who has rudimentary acquaintance with Hindi knows, the word 'sala' is one of the most commonly used abuses in Hindi, almost as common as the f*** word in English...the roots of this abusive usage come from the days when Rajput kings gave their daughters in marriage to Akbar for whatever reasons, political or otherwise...and those who did not used to refer to those who had, as 'sala' that useless, degenerate who gave his sister in marriage to Akbar and became a 'sala', brother-in-law of the Mughal emperor...
Onward and upwards, on to Jodhpur
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Return of the Prodigal
Coming in to land in Mumbai (forget it, I will still call it Bombay) for me these days produces feelings somewhere in between the teenage excitement of getting a girl of your dreams to come to a movie with just you and a pilgrimage.. .For the last three months I have been dreaming of this journey, trying to contain my excitement telling myself that a good Vipassana meditator should not be attached to such things...However, I am beginning to realize that I am not a good Vipassana meditator and took the easy way out by choosing to just observe the excitement.
Left snow bound Toronto on Thursday afternoon having braved myself to make the trip to the airport without my heavy duty parka and snow shoes. Told myself that it was only a brief run from the drop off point to the warmth of the heated Terminal I. Realized that it was not that short a run...Flight left on time and we were on the dot at every point, and, then spent an hour circling Mumbai as there was a stack up of planes coming in to land...
As I tried to focus on the lights below as the plane circled I could not make out much...At one stage I caught sight of a train snaking its way up the Western Railway line, and, I think I could identify one or two towers of South Bombay...and then, the thud of the landing gear lowering and we were into final approach...skimmed over the shanty town at the edge of the airport runway and landed firmly on the ground...everytime I have landed I have wondered at the skill of the pilots who are able to miss the shanty town that rings the airport runway...
Chatrapati Shivaji Airport (Sahar airport if the name is unfamiliar to you) is a much different place from the last time I was here...it looks cleaner and sleeker...there is much evidence of remodelling gone on...and I was out within 20 minutes, baggage, customs and all cleared...I remembered once during my early return trips to India from the Gulf waiting almost two hours...
Paid Rs230 for the pre-paid, non air-conditioned taxi from the airport to home in Sion and as I did so remembered the time when the minimum fare on the Bombay taxi was .55Paise (yes, sir, fifty five Paise). I used to spend this luxurious amount on the trip from my house to Sion station on the days I was late going to work. I guess in those days the cab fare must have been Rs15 or 20 to the airport from Sion.
Bombay, like New York or London never goes to sleep. And, so at midnight as my taxi whizzed past in a typical Bombay style, there was evidence of life all around. People coming out of 'Maya' Restaurant and Bar near the Andheri flyover, the late night activity at Dharavi and the traffic lights blinking red with no one caring to stop in any case...India is finally growing at an un Hindu rate of growth and no one can wait to stop for traffic lights...
And, so I am here, all excited and revved up unable to sleep because for my body it is 6.30pm in the evening when it is just nearing 5am here...the mind is racing as I get ready to once again experience that great city full of life and spice about which the Sami sisters sang
Come to Bombay, Come to Bombay
Bombay Meri Hai
The ladies are nice
The girls are full of spice
Come to Bombay, Come to Bombay
Bombay Meri Hai...
Left snow bound Toronto on Thursday afternoon having braved myself to make the trip to the airport without my heavy duty parka and snow shoes. Told myself that it was only a brief run from the drop off point to the warmth of the heated Terminal I. Realized that it was not that short a run...Flight left on time and we were on the dot at every point, and, then spent an hour circling Mumbai as there was a stack up of planes coming in to land...
As I tried to focus on the lights below as the plane circled I could not make out much...At one stage I caught sight of a train snaking its way up the Western Railway line, and, I think I could identify one or two towers of South Bombay...and then, the thud of the landing gear lowering and we were into final approach...skimmed over the shanty town at the edge of the airport runway and landed firmly on the ground...everytime I have landed I have wondered at the skill of the pilots who are able to miss the shanty town that rings the airport runway...
Chatrapati Shivaji Airport (Sahar airport if the name is unfamiliar to you) is a much different place from the last time I was here...it looks cleaner and sleeker...there is much evidence of remodelling gone on...and I was out within 20 minutes, baggage, customs and all cleared...I remembered once during my early return trips to India from the Gulf waiting almost two hours...
Paid Rs230 for the pre-paid, non air-conditioned taxi from the airport to home in Sion and as I did so remembered the time when the minimum fare on the Bombay taxi was .55Paise (yes, sir, fifty five Paise). I used to spend this luxurious amount on the trip from my house to Sion station on the days I was late going to work. I guess in those days the cab fare must have been Rs15 or 20 to the airport from Sion.
Bombay, like New York or London never goes to sleep. And, so at midnight as my taxi whizzed past in a typical Bombay style, there was evidence of life all around. People coming out of 'Maya' Restaurant and Bar near the Andheri flyover, the late night activity at Dharavi and the traffic lights blinking red with no one caring to stop in any case...India is finally growing at an un Hindu rate of growth and no one can wait to stop for traffic lights...
And, so I am here, all excited and revved up unable to sleep because for my body it is 6.30pm in the evening when it is just nearing 5am here...the mind is racing as I get ready to once again experience that great city full of life and spice about which the Sami sisters sang
Come to Bombay, Come to Bombay
Bombay Meri Hai
The ladies are nice
The girls are full of spice
Come to Bombay, Come to Bombay
Bombay Meri Hai...
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Of slow cookers, pots and pans
It was a few years ago that I first heard the expression, “slow cooker.” Since I had started cooking when I was well into my fifties, I thought the expression referred to someone like me, somewhat like a child who does not start speaking till age three. However, of late I have been hearing of the wonders of slow cookers, how bachelors have survived for months just putting in their meats or veggies and coming back home to a perfectly prepared meal. Sort of makes me wonder what the ideal tam-brahm bride would do, if she got married to a man who already had a slow cooker. To be brides from India, searching for a match on the internet, make sure that the man does not have a slow cooker. It may put to nought the skills that Amma has honed in you.
For those not fully familiar with the terminology or technology a slow cooker is aka crock pot. You put the raw food in, set it on low, go away, take a drive to Belleville or Niagara, depending on your preference, and, when you come back your food is done
Anyway, for a few months I have been eyeing different types of slow cookers. My daughter had one, and, on the few days she actually felt like cooking, would put some channa and masala and come up with a very tasty channa-masala. I had not ventured to acquire one of these slow cookers, though the thought had crossed my mind. So, this morning when my daughter’s friend called from Canadian Tire and said that slow cookers were on sale, 40% off, I said ‘Go for it…”
While I waited for the booty to be delivered I searched the internet, and, thanks to Google located a site giving slow cooker recipes for vegetarians. From there I selected a cauliflower-potato-lentil soup which is now being slow cooked as I write. This will be dinner for Lakshmi and I, tonight. Later in the night I plan to soak some chick peas, and, copy Geethu’s recipe for tomorrow’s meals.
These days when I go to the supermarket I go to the pots and pans section looking for cookware and other kitchen aids. The other day, as I bought an onion chopper, I remembered the first ‘mixie’ that my mother got, a Kenwood grinder. There is a bit of a family story behind that grinder.
My elder brother was very good at playing the football pools in England where I grew up as a child. Somewhere in 1953 or so he won Fifty Pounds (a princely sum of money in those days) and went and bought a Kenwood grinder for my mother. That evening when my father came home and my mother showed off the grinder to him, my father asked the pertinent question, “Where did he get the money from ?” When my mother told him that her darling son had won the money playing the football pools, my father was livid that his son was ‘living off the earnings of gambling’ and that my mother was encouraging it. Needless to add my mother had her way, and, notwithstanding the somewhat tainted funding of the Kenwood grinder it stayed to serve up many a delicious meal, full of ground coconut and masalas.
For many years my mother had a particular stainless steel vessel in which she cooked rice. Even after pressure cookers became common she would cook the rice in that particular vessel. For her there was an emotional attachment to it, something like the ‘akshaypatram’ (the vessel that cooked unlimited food) that the Pandavas used during their exile. She used to tell us that as long as the akshayapatram was there, there was no shortage of food in the house. When my father passed away and my mother closed down her kitchen the stainless steel vessel she cooked rice in, passed to my eldest sister-in-law.
When it came to food, my mother had several rules. The most important of them was that there should always be food in the house to serve an unannounced visitor. She taught her daughers-in-law never to cook to exact proportions. Her theory was that the Goddess Lakshmi (the Goddess of Wealth) often made her rounds unannounced and if there was no food for Her, the family would suffer. Needless to add, there is always enough and more food in the house, and, often during my college days, friends would come home with me, and, be surprised that there always was food available for a couple of ‘growing boys.’
These days, when I find that I have to retire a cooking vessel, I feel that I need to acknowledge the contribution it has made to our kitchen, in serving up food. So, I was very happy when my nephew and his wife wrote to tell me recently that the Sumeet grinder I had gifted them for their wedding seven years ago, had just retired (a dignified way of saying it had gone kaput…sounds more respectful).
Such and other are the thoughts that come to my mind as I wait for my new toy, the slow cooker to cook the cauliflower-potato-lentil concotion that I have placed in it.
For those not fully familiar with the terminology or technology a slow cooker is aka crock pot. You put the raw food in, set it on low, go away, take a drive to Belleville or Niagara, depending on your preference, and, when you come back your food is done
Anyway, for a few months I have been eyeing different types of slow cookers. My daughter had one, and, on the few days she actually felt like cooking, would put some channa and masala and come up with a very tasty channa-masala. I had not ventured to acquire one of these slow cookers, though the thought had crossed my mind. So, this morning when my daughter’s friend called from Canadian Tire and said that slow cookers were on sale, 40% off, I said ‘Go for it…”
While I waited for the booty to be delivered I searched the internet, and, thanks to Google located a site giving slow cooker recipes for vegetarians. From there I selected a cauliflower-potato-lentil soup which is now being slow cooked as I write. This will be dinner for Lakshmi and I, tonight. Later in the night I plan to soak some chick peas, and, copy Geethu’s recipe for tomorrow’s meals.
These days when I go to the supermarket I go to the pots and pans section looking for cookware and other kitchen aids. The other day, as I bought an onion chopper, I remembered the first ‘mixie’ that my mother got, a Kenwood grinder. There is a bit of a family story behind that grinder.
My elder brother was very good at playing the football pools in England where I grew up as a child. Somewhere in 1953 or so he won Fifty Pounds (a princely sum of money in those days) and went and bought a Kenwood grinder for my mother. That evening when my father came home and my mother showed off the grinder to him, my father asked the pertinent question, “Where did he get the money from ?” When my mother told him that her darling son had won the money playing the football pools, my father was livid that his son was ‘living off the earnings of gambling’ and that my mother was encouraging it. Needless to add my mother had her way, and, notwithstanding the somewhat tainted funding of the Kenwood grinder it stayed to serve up many a delicious meal, full of ground coconut and masalas.
For many years my mother had a particular stainless steel vessel in which she cooked rice. Even after pressure cookers became common she would cook the rice in that particular vessel. For her there was an emotional attachment to it, something like the ‘akshaypatram’ (the vessel that cooked unlimited food) that the Pandavas used during their exile. She used to tell us that as long as the akshayapatram was there, there was no shortage of food in the house. When my father passed away and my mother closed down her kitchen the stainless steel vessel she cooked rice in, passed to my eldest sister-in-law.
When it came to food, my mother had several rules. The most important of them was that there should always be food in the house to serve an unannounced visitor. She taught her daughers-in-law never to cook to exact proportions. Her theory was that the Goddess Lakshmi (the Goddess of Wealth) often made her rounds unannounced and if there was no food for Her, the family would suffer. Needless to add, there is always enough and more food in the house, and, often during my college days, friends would come home with me, and, be surprised that there always was food available for a couple of ‘growing boys.’
These days, when I find that I have to retire a cooking vessel, I feel that I need to acknowledge the contribution it has made to our kitchen, in serving up food. So, I was very happy when my nephew and his wife wrote to tell me recently that the Sumeet grinder I had gifted them for their wedding seven years ago, had just retired (a dignified way of saying it had gone kaput…sounds more respectful).
Such and other are the thoughts that come to my mind as I wait for my new toy, the slow cooker to cook the cauliflower-potato-lentil concotion that I have placed in it.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Halla Bol and the life of empty nesters
Walking down to the parking lot on Friday evening, I met one of my colleagues who asked me, ‘Any plans for the weekend ?’ I started replying by saying, ‘Now that my son has left for grad school we are truly empty nesters…’ Before I could finish my sentence she said, ‘So what do you do now that it is just the two of you ? Frolic around naked the whole day ?’
My dear colleague has some illusions about sensuosness thirty five years into a marriage. For most of the weekend, Lakshmi is upstairs working her way through some tax journal, as the North American tax season approaches, and, I am doing YouTube searches for carnatic music on my computer in the study. This morning I cooked and before I did so bharya priyaa reminded me that there were only the two of us around, and, I should adjust portions accordingly. The rest of the day is taken up with her asking me to do something or the other which I heartily resist.
Of course, thanks to MSN and Yahoo we spend quite a bit of time video chatting with my son, who has some interesting theories about girls at his grad school. Given the supply-demand ratio, heavily weighted in favour of the girls, he feels that they are ‘over priced.’ Two hours spent in the company of girls in Canada would fetch better returns than with those at grad school, he says. My wife is happy at this economic model her son has developed…
Anyway, dear colleague, just wanted you to know that empty nesters do not spend the whole day frolicking around naked…by the time you reach empty nester stage, you have no desire to see any family member naked…
So, us empty nesters decided to watch a Hindi movie, ‘Halla Bol’ yesterday. The Indian lady at the Indian store where we buy our groceries and pick up movies had strongly recommended this movie as one that ‘your missus’ will like. My normal attention span for any movie, Hollywood, Bollywood or Kollywood is about 15 minutes before the snores take over…I sat through this movie, full three hours, and that is one indicator of how it impacted me…
Then, as I slept last night, fears buried deep in the sub conscious surfaced in my dreams. I remembered driving through Mumbai’s Eastern Express Highway some twenty five years ago, at 3am in the morning to be in the office before a bandh started, and, the fear that one would be stopped by marauding bandh protagonists and beaten up…the deep fear that memory churned up in the pit of the stomach is still there…similarly the deep fear that almost resulted in voiding one's self (aka shitting in the pants) as one walked through twenty deep picket lines of factory workers on strike, shouting and jeering at you, 'Management', not knowing whether a bulb of acid would hit me in the face...even today I check my pants when the memory surfaces...
Halla Bol as the name and its sound signify is all about protest and violence of this stomach churning, bowel loosening variety…the story captures the traumatic struggle of Sameer Khan, nee Ashfaque Khan, first as he struggles to reach the top rungs of success in the film world, then his alienation from the human world around him, and, then his trauma as he fights to reconcile his success with his human world…
There are several current Indian real life incidents of today’s news stories that find their reflection in the story…however, the violence that is captured is not restricted to India…that is the same violence that recently took the life of an innocent bystander as he walked down Yonge Street in Toronto last week…in the wrong place at the wrong time…and the same violence that I saw as I ducked one night sitting at New York’s Penn Station when suddenly shots rang out…could have been me in the wrong place at the wrong time...and the fear that grips me every time I get into the tube in London on a Saturday afternoon and see a bunch of soccer fans making their way into the same compartment...
Pankaj Kapoor in the role of Sidhu, the reformed dacoit performs best. There is a real life tinge to his reformation, as in the scene where he wields the sword once again, and, then takes his victims to the hospital…
Ajay Devgun is good…he is able to bring realism to his anger…and the scene that stays in my mind…full of anger and violence of the most potent kind…when he urinates on the Persian rug of a big time political bigwig’s house as the bigwig goes to fetch him Scotch…’yeh desi daar hai, Ganpatrao’ he says. Difficult to translate that statement into English except that to say that it is a play on Scotch and potent country liquor. However it fills one with disgust and that is what the filmmaker wants to accomplish…
The film makes us conscious of the violence we live in, such an integral part of our lives…not just in India…but, essentially everywhere in the world…something we cannot wish away with all the piousness…no mantra will help you control your bowels as you walk through picket lines for your bread...and as I became aware of it, the deeply buried fears of my own from days gone by surfaced…watch the movie and see what surfaces for you…
My dear colleague has some illusions about sensuosness thirty five years into a marriage. For most of the weekend, Lakshmi is upstairs working her way through some tax journal, as the North American tax season approaches, and, I am doing YouTube searches for carnatic music on my computer in the study. This morning I cooked and before I did so bharya priyaa reminded me that there were only the two of us around, and, I should adjust portions accordingly. The rest of the day is taken up with her asking me to do something or the other which I heartily resist.
Of course, thanks to MSN and Yahoo we spend quite a bit of time video chatting with my son, who has some interesting theories about girls at his grad school. Given the supply-demand ratio, heavily weighted in favour of the girls, he feels that they are ‘over priced.’ Two hours spent in the company of girls in Canada would fetch better returns than with those at grad school, he says. My wife is happy at this economic model her son has developed…
Anyway, dear colleague, just wanted you to know that empty nesters do not spend the whole day frolicking around naked…by the time you reach empty nester stage, you have no desire to see any family member naked…
So, us empty nesters decided to watch a Hindi movie, ‘Halla Bol’ yesterday. The Indian lady at the Indian store where we buy our groceries and pick up movies had strongly recommended this movie as one that ‘your missus’ will like. My normal attention span for any movie, Hollywood, Bollywood or Kollywood is about 15 minutes before the snores take over…I sat through this movie, full three hours, and that is one indicator of how it impacted me…
Then, as I slept last night, fears buried deep in the sub conscious surfaced in my dreams. I remembered driving through Mumbai’s Eastern Express Highway some twenty five years ago, at 3am in the morning to be in the office before a bandh started, and, the fear that one would be stopped by marauding bandh protagonists and beaten up…the deep fear that memory churned up in the pit of the stomach is still there…similarly the deep fear that almost resulted in voiding one's self (aka shitting in the pants) as one walked through twenty deep picket lines of factory workers on strike, shouting and jeering at you, 'Management', not knowing whether a bulb of acid would hit me in the face...even today I check my pants when the memory surfaces...
Halla Bol as the name and its sound signify is all about protest and violence of this stomach churning, bowel loosening variety…the story captures the traumatic struggle of Sameer Khan, nee Ashfaque Khan, first as he struggles to reach the top rungs of success in the film world, then his alienation from the human world around him, and, then his trauma as he fights to reconcile his success with his human world…
There are several current Indian real life incidents of today’s news stories that find their reflection in the story…however, the violence that is captured is not restricted to India…that is the same violence that recently took the life of an innocent bystander as he walked down Yonge Street in Toronto last week…in the wrong place at the wrong time…and the same violence that I saw as I ducked one night sitting at New York’s Penn Station when suddenly shots rang out…could have been me in the wrong place at the wrong time...and the fear that grips me every time I get into the tube in London on a Saturday afternoon and see a bunch of soccer fans making their way into the same compartment...
Pankaj Kapoor in the role of Sidhu, the reformed dacoit performs best. There is a real life tinge to his reformation, as in the scene where he wields the sword once again, and, then takes his victims to the hospital…
Ajay Devgun is good…he is able to bring realism to his anger…and the scene that stays in my mind…full of anger and violence of the most potent kind…when he urinates on the Persian rug of a big time political bigwig’s house as the bigwig goes to fetch him Scotch…’yeh desi daar hai, Ganpatrao’ he says. Difficult to translate that statement into English except that to say that it is a play on Scotch and potent country liquor. However it fills one with disgust and that is what the filmmaker wants to accomplish…
The film makes us conscious of the violence we live in, such an integral part of our lives…not just in India…but, essentially everywhere in the world…something we cannot wish away with all the piousness…no mantra will help you control your bowels as you walk through picket lines for your bread...and as I became aware of it, the deeply buried fears of my own from days gone by surfaced…watch the movie and see what surfaces for you…
Sunday, January 13, 2008
'...par dil hai Hindustani...'
My visa for travel to India came through last week, in what is a somewhat involved, but, efficiently administered process. On account of very understandable security reasons the Indian consulate wants you to mail the application instead of personally visiting the consulate office to get your visa. I was a bit concerned about sending my Canadian passport by mail, and, invested $35 in special courier processing. Since I had followed the well drafted check list attached to the application, my visa came through fast, and, I was very pleasantly surprised when two days later I checked on the internet and found that the special courier was trying to deliver the package at the time I was checking.
Rushed home that evening, worried that the courier may have left the package outside my house and the wind may have blown it away. Everything was fine, and, the package was resting like a well behaved toddler in my mail box. Opened it, and, saw the Republic of India stamp, authorizing me to enter India, that is Bharat, my country of birth, multiple times during the next six months. Reminded me of my eldest brother’s response when I told him some twelve years ago that I had sworn allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen and her successors at the time I became a Canadian citizen. “You have undone all that the Mahatma fought for…” was his somewhat wry response. One of these days I shall take on the more onerous checklist of filing for Overseas Citizenship of India. I guess I would then have to swear back allegiance to the Indian Constitution. Does that make me a bigamist ?
In the last six or seven years, traveling back to India for those brief sojourns when one forgets all the office politics and caste rivalries that made one leave the country in the first place, is an event that is filled with tremendous promise. This time, as on the immediate past occasion, the provocation to visit India comes from an alumni reunion of the Class of ’71, those who graduated (‘passed out’ is the Indian expression, means something different in North America…though passed out may connote what exactly happened to some of us at IIMA) from IIMA in the year 1971.
The Class of ’71 has, over the thirty seven years since it got born as the Class of ’71, produced a few captains of Indian industry and academia, and, several able seamen (and women) who have tended the decks well. However, the seminal event in the history of this class is when two of the classmates started an e-group, in 2000, at a time, when e-groups were just being formed.
On the days I travel, my wife takes care of my Yahoo mail since my employer’s internet policies do not allow access to web mail. On those days she is shocked, startled and surprised with the twenty or so emails everyday from this august group of Management graduates of yore. She is shocked with the low level intelligence and absolutely risqué humour that floats around. (How did you guys make it to IIMA, rated as the most difficult business school in the world, to get into) She is startled with the occasional bursts of genius. She is surprised with the camaraderie, or, as one of the group members put it recently, espirit de corps, that exists among this bunch of fast becoming senior citizens. (Most of the class hit the age of 60 this year, with some notable exceptions like the writer who has a few years to go…point needs to be made) My wife barely remembers her classmates since they are not in touch, and, I suspect, though she will never admit it, hides a tinge of jealousy at the closeness of this group.
Well, in now what is turning to be an annual affair, the Class of ’71, along with spices (singular, spouse) meets in some location in India. In 2004, it was in Bengaluru, where the first Makkal Koota (People’s Celebration) was celebrated. Then, in 2006, Aati kya Khandala ? was celebrated in the hills near Mumbai. And this, February, the Class of ’71 and spices will meet in the deserts of Rajasthan for three days, for the Grand Desert Milan, 2008, or, GDM2008. I am told that those who will not be accompanied by their spouse will be provided a camel, for company…whether they will have to share one camel or whether there will be enough camels to go around, I do not know...
What will transpire during these three days comes under the category, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ and so I cannot reveal full details. However, what I can tell you is that there will be a song in Bengali sung by the Evergreen Bong, a campfire replete with humour that cannot be published for family reading, and, much good food and drink. And, as GDM2008 winds down, there will be plans made for the next get together…
The rest of the five days in India will be spent, sampling the sulphurous air that hits one as we land in Mumbai, early morning walks to Rama Nayak’s for upma and idlis with the elder brother, a visit to the twenty first century living sage, Ramesh Balsekar, and, a day in Chennai. This, done in the style that the strong Canadian dollar permits one to, will refresh one enough to last till the next Milan of the Class of ’71…Thanks to my blog, I am connecting up some long lost friends from Chennai and am looking forward to meeting them, however brief that meeting may be…and, as I pack my bags Raj Kapoor's famous song comes back
'...mera joota hai japani
patloon inglistani
sar pe topi laal roosi
par dil hai hindustani...'
My clothes may be from foreign lands, yet
deep down, in my heart, I am an Indian...
Rushed home that evening, worried that the courier may have left the package outside my house and the wind may have blown it away. Everything was fine, and, the package was resting like a well behaved toddler in my mail box. Opened it, and, saw the Republic of India stamp, authorizing me to enter India, that is Bharat, my country of birth, multiple times during the next six months. Reminded me of my eldest brother’s response when I told him some twelve years ago that I had sworn allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen and her successors at the time I became a Canadian citizen. “You have undone all that the Mahatma fought for…” was his somewhat wry response. One of these days I shall take on the more onerous checklist of filing for Overseas Citizenship of India. I guess I would then have to swear back allegiance to the Indian Constitution. Does that make me a bigamist ?
In the last six or seven years, traveling back to India for those brief sojourns when one forgets all the office politics and caste rivalries that made one leave the country in the first place, is an event that is filled with tremendous promise. This time, as on the immediate past occasion, the provocation to visit India comes from an alumni reunion of the Class of ’71, those who graduated (‘passed out’ is the Indian expression, means something different in North America…though passed out may connote what exactly happened to some of us at IIMA) from IIMA in the year 1971.
The Class of ’71 has, over the thirty seven years since it got born as the Class of ’71, produced a few captains of Indian industry and academia, and, several able seamen (and women) who have tended the decks well. However, the seminal event in the history of this class is when two of the classmates started an e-group, in 2000, at a time, when e-groups were just being formed.
On the days I travel, my wife takes care of my Yahoo mail since my employer’s internet policies do not allow access to web mail. On those days she is shocked, startled and surprised with the twenty or so emails everyday from this august group of Management graduates of yore. She is shocked with the low level intelligence and absolutely risqué humour that floats around. (How did you guys make it to IIMA, rated as the most difficult business school in the world, to get into) She is startled with the occasional bursts of genius. She is surprised with the camaraderie, or, as one of the group members put it recently, espirit de corps, that exists among this bunch of fast becoming senior citizens. (Most of the class hit the age of 60 this year, with some notable exceptions like the writer who has a few years to go…point needs to be made) My wife barely remembers her classmates since they are not in touch, and, I suspect, though she will never admit it, hides a tinge of jealousy at the closeness of this group.
Well, in now what is turning to be an annual affair, the Class of ’71, along with spices (singular, spouse) meets in some location in India. In 2004, it was in Bengaluru, where the first Makkal Koota (People’s Celebration) was celebrated. Then, in 2006, Aati kya Khandala ? was celebrated in the hills near Mumbai. And this, February, the Class of ’71 and spices will meet in the deserts of Rajasthan for three days, for the Grand Desert Milan, 2008, or, GDM2008. I am told that those who will not be accompanied by their spouse will be provided a camel, for company…whether they will have to share one camel or whether there will be enough camels to go around, I do not know...
What will transpire during these three days comes under the category, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ and so I cannot reveal full details. However, what I can tell you is that there will be a song in Bengali sung by the Evergreen Bong, a campfire replete with humour that cannot be published for family reading, and, much good food and drink. And, as GDM2008 winds down, there will be plans made for the next get together…
The rest of the five days in India will be spent, sampling the sulphurous air that hits one as we land in Mumbai, early morning walks to Rama Nayak’s for upma and idlis with the elder brother, a visit to the twenty first century living sage, Ramesh Balsekar, and, a day in Chennai. This, done in the style that the strong Canadian dollar permits one to, will refresh one enough to last till the next Milan of the Class of ’71…Thanks to my blog, I am connecting up some long lost friends from Chennai and am looking forward to meeting them, however brief that meeting may be…and, as I pack my bags Raj Kapoor's famous song comes back
'...mera joota hai japani
patloon inglistani
sar pe topi laal roosi
par dil hai hindustani...'
My clothes may be from foreign lands, yet
deep down, in my heart, I am an Indian...
Friday, January 11, 2008
When mangoes will fly
My eldest brother, Dorai Anna, is twenty years older than me. In addition to the many other wonderful things that he is, he is one of the greatest story tellers. Yesterday I sent him a piece on Benazir Bhutto’s brush with Vipassana meditation, and, he responded with this story. The Vipassana story is blogged in a separate post on this blog.
Some years after Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s assassination by hanging, Benazir went to Bangladesh where she met a Pir (an Islamic mystic). She asked the Pir if her father’s murderer would ever be killed ? In other words, would she find, justice, as they say. The Pir closed his eyes and said, ‘Zia (General Zia ul Haq who ordered Zulfiqar Bhutto’s hanging) will die when the mangoes will fly…’ Like most statements of mystics and oracles this did not make sense to Benazir. However, no further explanations were forthcoming. In 1988, Zia was killed in a mysterious air crash. One theory about the air crash is that a box of mangoes was kept in the plane after all the security checks were done, and, that box contained a bomb…and when the bomb goes off, the mangoes fly…
It was a very interesting story, like the hundreds of stories my brother has told me…
As I was meditating this morning, the mind was doing its usual rounds of disturbing the awareness…the one thought that kept coming back is Benazir’s question to the Pir, ‘Will my father’s murderer ever be killed ?’ Having read Benazir’s autobiography the pain of that question comes through. In her autobiography she has talked of how she touched him for the last time through the bars of the death row cell he was held in, and, that sentence brings tears to my eyes as I write…the knowledge that her father would be gone in a few hours and all that meant…the search for a similar disposition to the person who brought about her father’s fate was only natural…
And then, another story came to my mind, which was still dancing around, disturbing the awareness. A story of another daughter whose father was assassinated, Priyanka Gandhi, the daughter of Rajiv Gandhi. Rajiv died somewhat similarly to Benazir, he was assassinated by a person who detonated a suicide bomb.
Some years after her father was assassinated, I am told, Priyanka sat a Vipassana course. Soon after she sat the course the question of sentencing one of her father’s killers who had survived the bomb explosion came up. I shall not be so naïve or presumptuous as to draw a connection between her sitting the course and the action that followed. However, both she and her mother appealed to the President of India that the killer should not be sentenced to death. “Just because I have lost a parent, it does not mean another child should lose a parent,” is what Priyanka is supposed to have said.
I cannot verify to the actuality of the course of events regarding Priyanka and the commutation of the death sentence just as I cannot verify to actuality of the story of Benazir and the Pir. As Goenkaji, one of the the principal teachers of Vipassana, would say, “A story is a story…that is all…”
What strikes me about these stories is our linear approach to life, which has its origins in Newtonian physics. Every action has a reaction that equal in nature and opposite in direction, or something to that effect, is the basis of most justice and human thought. It is also based on the linearity of time.
This was brought home to me once as I sat listening to another twenty first century sage, Ramesh Balsekar, in his house in Mumbai. Talking of Karma and reincarnation he once raised the interesting proposition, “You are saying that you are what you are today because of what you did yesterday…perhaps it is the other way around, what happened to you yesterday, is because of what you are doing today…”
That is the sort of statement that, on initial impact, makes one wonder whether the speaker is in full possession of his marbles…however, on reflection, it become crystal clear (at least to those just as insane) that our understanding of life is based on linearity, time goes ahead in a line. If one sees time as a circle which wraps around us it becomes so obvious…to take it further, take away time completely and there is no cause, no effect…any way all these are what Ramesh would himself dismiss as ‘concepts’.
The important issue is that as long as we look for cause and effect, right and wrong, we will continue to be trapped in the linear flow of life and energy. The same patterns will continue and history will continue to repeat itself.
If we want to step away from the constant mousetrap of action, reaction, we need to step back and stop, and, in that stopping, aka Noble Silence, new patterns will emerge…it is like the little touch you give a kaleidoscope and the broken glass rearranges itself in a new pattern…a new mental model will emerge…and an awareness of why mangoes will fly…nevertheless still a mental model and not reality...
Some years after Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s assassination by hanging, Benazir went to Bangladesh where she met a Pir (an Islamic mystic). She asked the Pir if her father’s murderer would ever be killed ? In other words, would she find, justice, as they say. The Pir closed his eyes and said, ‘Zia (General Zia ul Haq who ordered Zulfiqar Bhutto’s hanging) will die when the mangoes will fly…’ Like most statements of mystics and oracles this did not make sense to Benazir. However, no further explanations were forthcoming. In 1988, Zia was killed in a mysterious air crash. One theory about the air crash is that a box of mangoes was kept in the plane after all the security checks were done, and, that box contained a bomb…and when the bomb goes off, the mangoes fly…
It was a very interesting story, like the hundreds of stories my brother has told me…
As I was meditating this morning, the mind was doing its usual rounds of disturbing the awareness…the one thought that kept coming back is Benazir’s question to the Pir, ‘Will my father’s murderer ever be killed ?’ Having read Benazir’s autobiography the pain of that question comes through. In her autobiography she has talked of how she touched him for the last time through the bars of the death row cell he was held in, and, that sentence brings tears to my eyes as I write…the knowledge that her father would be gone in a few hours and all that meant…the search for a similar disposition to the person who brought about her father’s fate was only natural…
And then, another story came to my mind, which was still dancing around, disturbing the awareness. A story of another daughter whose father was assassinated, Priyanka Gandhi, the daughter of Rajiv Gandhi. Rajiv died somewhat similarly to Benazir, he was assassinated by a person who detonated a suicide bomb.
Some years after her father was assassinated, I am told, Priyanka sat a Vipassana course. Soon after she sat the course the question of sentencing one of her father’s killers who had survived the bomb explosion came up. I shall not be so naïve or presumptuous as to draw a connection between her sitting the course and the action that followed. However, both she and her mother appealed to the President of India that the killer should not be sentenced to death. “Just because I have lost a parent, it does not mean another child should lose a parent,” is what Priyanka is supposed to have said.
I cannot verify to the actuality of the course of events regarding Priyanka and the commutation of the death sentence just as I cannot verify to actuality of the story of Benazir and the Pir. As Goenkaji, one of the the principal teachers of Vipassana, would say, “A story is a story…that is all…”
What strikes me about these stories is our linear approach to life, which has its origins in Newtonian physics. Every action has a reaction that equal in nature and opposite in direction, or something to that effect, is the basis of most justice and human thought. It is also based on the linearity of time.
This was brought home to me once as I sat listening to another twenty first century sage, Ramesh Balsekar, in his house in Mumbai. Talking of Karma and reincarnation he once raised the interesting proposition, “You are saying that you are what you are today because of what you did yesterday…perhaps it is the other way around, what happened to you yesterday, is because of what you are doing today…”
That is the sort of statement that, on initial impact, makes one wonder whether the speaker is in full possession of his marbles…however, on reflection, it become crystal clear (at least to those just as insane) that our understanding of life is based on linearity, time goes ahead in a line. If one sees time as a circle which wraps around us it becomes so obvious…to take it further, take away time completely and there is no cause, no effect…any way all these are what Ramesh would himself dismiss as ‘concepts’.
The important issue is that as long as we look for cause and effect, right and wrong, we will continue to be trapped in the linear flow of life and energy. The same patterns will continue and history will continue to repeat itself.
If we want to step away from the constant mousetrap of action, reaction, we need to step back and stop, and, in that stopping, aka Noble Silence, new patterns will emerge…it is like the little touch you give a kaleidoscope and the broken glass rearranges itself in a new pattern…a new mental model will emerge…and an awareness of why mangoes will fly…nevertheless still a mental model and not reality...
Benazir's brush with Vipassana
This news item was forwarded to me
Roop Jyoti
KATHMANDU: In 1994, during her official visit to Nepal, the then prime minister Benazir Bhutto’s wish to visit the Dharmashringa Vipassana Centre in Kathmandu could not be fulfilled because of her prior commitments.
Two years later, the foreign ministry contacted us again. Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba was going to Pakistan and there was a specific request from Bhutto to bring along a Vipassana teacher.
Our principal teacher Acharya Goenkaji asked me and Nani Maiya Manandhar to go with the delegation. On the last day of the state visit, Maiyaji and I were finally summoned at 3pm, after the rest of the delegation had flown off.
Bhutto had heard much about Vipassana and wanted to learn the technique. We told her it required a 10-day retreat. She did not have such time, and insisted to be taught right away. Acharya Goenkaji had foreseen such a response and had given permission to teach her the Anapana technique.
So, Nani Maiyaji taught her Anapana. Bhutto started practising right away and found it very calming. She said that she had not slept for days and after the session of Anapana, she wanted to take a nap because she felt so tranquil. After a few hours of sleep, she emerged looking refreshed and happy.
We explained to her the salient aspects of Vipassana: a means out of human suffering and misery; not a ritual of an organised religion but an art of living. Vipassana involves no conversion from one religion to another and is open to all and sundry. We also gave her books, tapes and videos. By this time, it was late in the evening and the last flight from Islamabad to Karachi was about to leave. We rushed to the airport.
Upon the prime minister’s order, two seats had been kept for us and the plane took off as soon as we boarded it.
When we landed at Karachi that night, we learnt that there had been a military coup and Benazir Bhutto had been deposed. We were the last visitors she met as prime minister.
Last week, as news of her assassination came in, I was filled with sadness, but took solace in the fact that she had learned Anapana, an important part of the Vipassana technique. May she be happy and peaceful in her heavenly abode.
Roop Jyoti
KATHMANDU: In 1994, during her official visit to Nepal, the then prime minister Benazir Bhutto’s wish to visit the Dharmashringa Vipassana Centre in Kathmandu could not be fulfilled because of her prior commitments.
Two years later, the foreign ministry contacted us again. Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba was going to Pakistan and there was a specific request from Bhutto to bring along a Vipassana teacher.
Our principal teacher Acharya Goenkaji asked me and Nani Maiya Manandhar to go with the delegation. On the last day of the state visit, Maiyaji and I were finally summoned at 3pm, after the rest of the delegation had flown off.
Bhutto had heard much about Vipassana and wanted to learn the technique. We told her it required a 10-day retreat. She did not have such time, and insisted to be taught right away. Acharya Goenkaji had foreseen such a response and had given permission to teach her the Anapana technique.
So, Nani Maiyaji taught her Anapana. Bhutto started practising right away and found it very calming. She said that she had not slept for days and after the session of Anapana, she wanted to take a nap because she felt so tranquil. After a few hours of sleep, she emerged looking refreshed and happy.
We explained to her the salient aspects of Vipassana: a means out of human suffering and misery; not a ritual of an organised religion but an art of living. Vipassana involves no conversion from one religion to another and is open to all and sundry. We also gave her books, tapes and videos. By this time, it was late in the evening and the last flight from Islamabad to Karachi was about to leave. We rushed to the airport.
Upon the prime minister’s order, two seats had been kept for us and the plane took off as soon as we boarded it.
When we landed at Karachi that night, we learnt that there had been a military coup and Benazir Bhutto had been deposed. We were the last visitors she met as prime minister.
Last week, as news of her assassination came in, I was filled with sadness, but took solace in the fact that she had learned Anapana, an important part of the Vipassana technique. May she be happy and peaceful in her heavenly abode.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Taare zamin par
Taare zameen par is not a movie just about dyslexia. Yes. It does talk about dyslexia, and, how those of us not affected by it see the world differently. More importantly it tells us how, whether as a dyslexic or not, all of us remain trapped in a world of our creation.
Dyslexia is most commonly characterized by difficulties with learning how to decode at the word level, to spell, and to read accurately and fluently.
What is important is that dyslexia does not result in low intelligence, and, this is the first point the movie makes. Albert Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci were dyslexic, and, in a very telling scene, the art teacher Nikumb (Aamir Khan) shows the children how the written word would have looked so different to Leonardo, by writing it in mirror version form and then holding up a mirror for them to read it. Such a beautiful way to teach...
Ishaan, the young eight year old protagonist of the film, is struggling his way through grade 3, for the second time, and, it looks like he will not make it to grade 4, once again. His elder brother, Yohan, is the parents’ dream, studious, focussed and topping every single exam.
The sheer Bombay middle classness of the lives of Mr and Mrs Awasthi, the parents of Ishaan and Yohan, is portrayed excellently by Vipin Sharma and Tisca Chopra. Caught in the social conditioning of competitiveness compounded by the ‘success’ of their elder child, they struggle to find a solution for Ishaan. The father reacts angrily when the school teacher tells him, ‘…some children are not so lucky…’ He says, ‘Is my child a retard ?’ and you have to grow up in middle class India to know what the import of that statement means. It means that somewhere as a parent, as a family you have failed…failed beyond hope and, or, redemption. Remember that this is a country where nearly 200,000 students take the annual Common Admission Test (like the GMAT) for admission to the 2,000 or so places at the country's business schools...no retards tolerated...
Convinced that it is the child’s ‘attitude’ Ishaan is packed off to a boarding school as his mother looks on, in middle class feminine helplessness.
The boarding school stands for all that is miserable about the way we educate children. On arrival, Ishaan and his parents are greeted by the teacher who tells them, ‘Don’t worry. We have tamed many wild horses here…’ Almost sounds like a Madam dealing with an unwilling entrant to her brothel, rather than a teacher. And what follows is brothel keeper like treatment by teachers who demand submission and reward any deviation from it with corporal punishment. As expected, Ishaan goes into almost catotonic state, extremely well portrayed by the young Darsheel Safary.
And into this horrific place known as a school, dances Nikumb Sir, the temporary art teacher, substituting for the art teacher who has left for New Zealand. Himself, a dyslexic, Nikumb Sir, recognizes what Ishaan is going through. With the experience born of knowing where the shoe pinches and compassion born of the desire to love, he coaxes the child out of the near-catatonic state into a free flowing expression of the world as Ishaan sees it, aka art.
Yes. The movie talks about dyslexia. More importantly it talks about how we do not see any choice but to accept the social definition of success as mirrored in grades, academic honours and accomplishment. There is a catatonia in our lives, a settting in of a pathological form of rigidity that refuses to let us see that the world can look different to anyone. And, when we let go of that rigidity we move away from the world of linear achievement to that of warmth, love and affection.
The punch line of the movie comes in the story Nikumb Sir (Aamir Khan) tells Mr. Awasthi of how the original inhabitants of the Solomon Islands kill a tree. Watch the movie to hear this story and how it reflects what we do to abilities that are different.
Dyslexia is most commonly characterized by difficulties with learning how to decode at the word level, to spell, and to read accurately and fluently.
What is important is that dyslexia does not result in low intelligence, and, this is the first point the movie makes. Albert Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci were dyslexic, and, in a very telling scene, the art teacher Nikumb (Aamir Khan) shows the children how the written word would have looked so different to Leonardo, by writing it in mirror version form and then holding up a mirror for them to read it. Such a beautiful way to teach...
Ishaan, the young eight year old protagonist of the film, is struggling his way through grade 3, for the second time, and, it looks like he will not make it to grade 4, once again. His elder brother, Yohan, is the parents’ dream, studious, focussed and topping every single exam.
The sheer Bombay middle classness of the lives of Mr and Mrs Awasthi, the parents of Ishaan and Yohan, is portrayed excellently by Vipin Sharma and Tisca Chopra. Caught in the social conditioning of competitiveness compounded by the ‘success’ of their elder child, they struggle to find a solution for Ishaan. The father reacts angrily when the school teacher tells him, ‘…some children are not so lucky…’ He says, ‘Is my child a retard ?’ and you have to grow up in middle class India to know what the import of that statement means. It means that somewhere as a parent, as a family you have failed…failed beyond hope and, or, redemption. Remember that this is a country where nearly 200,000 students take the annual Common Admission Test (like the GMAT) for admission to the 2,000 or so places at the country's business schools...no retards tolerated...
Convinced that it is the child’s ‘attitude’ Ishaan is packed off to a boarding school as his mother looks on, in middle class feminine helplessness.
The boarding school stands for all that is miserable about the way we educate children. On arrival, Ishaan and his parents are greeted by the teacher who tells them, ‘Don’t worry. We have tamed many wild horses here…’ Almost sounds like a Madam dealing with an unwilling entrant to her brothel, rather than a teacher. And what follows is brothel keeper like treatment by teachers who demand submission and reward any deviation from it with corporal punishment. As expected, Ishaan goes into almost catotonic state, extremely well portrayed by the young Darsheel Safary.
And into this horrific place known as a school, dances Nikumb Sir, the temporary art teacher, substituting for the art teacher who has left for New Zealand. Himself, a dyslexic, Nikumb Sir, recognizes what Ishaan is going through. With the experience born of knowing where the shoe pinches and compassion born of the desire to love, he coaxes the child out of the near-catatonic state into a free flowing expression of the world as Ishaan sees it, aka art.
Yes. The movie talks about dyslexia. More importantly it talks about how we do not see any choice but to accept the social definition of success as mirrored in grades, academic honours and accomplishment. There is a catatonia in our lives, a settting in of a pathological form of rigidity that refuses to let us see that the world can look different to anyone. And, when we let go of that rigidity we move away from the world of linear achievement to that of warmth, love and affection.
The punch line of the movie comes in the story Nikumb Sir (Aamir Khan) tells Mr. Awasthi of how the original inhabitants of the Solomon Islands kill a tree. Watch the movie to hear this story and how it reflects what we do to abilities that are different.
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