Driving to the dentist to have my wisdom tooth removed (‘Never knew you had any wisdom’ is the common remark friends made when I told them about the planned dental surgery) I switched to 99.1 the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation).
I was very pleasantly surprised to hear a very ‘dehati’ (Indian rustic) English accent very similar to that of Acharya Rajneesh, later known as Osho, the mystic who preached sex, love and enlightenment in the ‘60s. I perked up and started listening. It was the voice of Dr. Bindeshwar Pathak, this year’s winner of the prestigious Water Award.
To understand the enormity of what Bindeshwar-ji (ji is a term of respect in Hindi) is trying to do all you have to do is to take a rail journey anywhere in India around daybreak. You will find rows of men and women squatting near or slightly away from the tracks performing their morning defecatory act. Those of them who are privileged will have a can of water next to them to wash up afterwards. I shall not describe what those who are not so privileged do. It is a phenomenon that continues into the twenty first century, and, is degrading not to just those who have to see it, but, more so to those who have to squat that way. More horrendously so to the women who use the upper part of their sari to hide their face to avoid recognition.
Some writers have often criticized Gandhi for what they considered his enormous obsession with sanitation. (Nehru was the only person exempted from the toilet cleaning duties at his ashram…and Gandhi’s struggle with his wife to get her to clean the toilets is a potent scene in Attenborough’s movie on Gandhi) He believed that India could never really advance till it had dealt with the issue of sanitation. The dream that Gandhi had of a clean Indian countryside free of the degradation of untouchability, is what inspired Bindeshwar-ji.
By academic training, a Doctorate in Sociology, Bindeshwar-ji traces the story of human degradation through the emergence of night soil removers (people who, with their hands removed human excreta) before the arrival of septic tanks and flush systems. Though they performed the most sanitizing function of society, they were allotted the lowest rung of the social hierarchy, that of the untouchable. They lived in the filthiest part of the village and the upper castes very rarely allowed them access to anything, particularly water. Himself born an upper caste Brahmin, Bindeshwar-ji tells of how his grandmother made him go through a ritual purification at the age of twelve because he had touched one of the untouchables.
As he grew up he felt and realized the tremendous social disadvantage that would continue to exist unless there was a revolution in sanitation. While the western world had started using septic tanks and so on, in India the open latrine (toilet) still continued. Bindeshwar-ji realized that till this requirement for someone to manually clean and carry the excrement changed, society would have a need for the night soil carrier, and, the oppression would continue.
With a combination of indigenous technology he has developed a solid waste removal system that he is advocating (requires only two cups of water to flush) that will do away with the need for humans to be degraded as untouchables because they clear the untouchable waste of other humans. At a more urban level, visitors to India in the last ten years would have noticed the sprinkling of Sulabh public toilets in the urban centres which one can use (the MacDonalds Golden Arches have not spread enough in India to take a quick bio break when needed). The Sulabh toilet networks are Bindeshwar-ji’s contribution to the urban scenario.
Listening to Bindeshwar-ji explain how this is non violence in practice, I was impressed. “I am not asking for someone to kill or attack another human being because of a social injustice. All that I am trying to do is to change the technology so that the need for such work does not exist…” Believe me this is one of the most realistic applications of Gandhi’s dream that I have heard of. And the determined non violence comes through ever so clearly in the simple, precise way in which Bindeshwar-ji expresses himself. No rhetoric, just measured steps to change centuries of abuse without killing anyone…
He has backed this up with vocational training for the former night soil carriers who now do a variety of new trades. Some of them now sell vegetables and Bindeshwar-ji talked of how some upper caste people would not buy vegetables from them in the beginning because their hands had touched you know what…
Bindeshwar-ji talks of the day he took a group of former ‘untouchable’ women into the Maurya Sheraton, New Delhi’s super plush hotel, for a dinner. In days gone by they would have to announce their arrival by clanging an instrument so that the high caste Brahmins could move away and not be defiled by their shadow. The Hotel Manager was aghast when this crowd came in and tried to stop Bindeshwar-ji. But India was changing, and, the Hotel Manager knew that, by law, he could not stop Bindeshwar-ji bring them in. He just doubled the security and watched. When they finished and Bindeshwar-ji paid the bill, the Hotel Manager and others realized that in some way, Gandhi’s dream had come true…He admits there is a long way to go and the Maurya Sheraton incident is only symbolic…perhaps more potent that the Temple entry satyagrahas of the early twentieth century…
Born as an upper caste Brahmin, Bindeshwar-ji talks of the resistance he faced when he first undertook these projects. He was ostracized by all his close relatives, except by his wife, who, he says, remained silent (silently supportive, one presumes). Listening to this Brahmin talk of his mission to realize Gandhi’s dream I am reminded of the words of the Buddha defining a Brahmin, a word that could mean a spiritually evolved being
Na jatahi na gottena
na jacca hoti brahmano
yamhi saccanca dhammo ca
so suci so ca brahmano.
Not by reason of birth or by virtue of wearing matted locks (a manner of wearing one’s hair, common to 'God men' in India) is a person a Brahmin…
It is by reason of the actions that he performs that he can be called an evolved person, a Brahmin
Bindeshwar-ji, you were born a Brahmin, like many others. What is different is that, unlike many others, you have also proved by your actions to be one. That is rare. More power to you.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Tales of Kulasekharan: Meet Airawathi Devi and the first dialogue with the Maharishi
It was long past the time when bureaucrats went home on Fridays. Everybody else had left, including Airawathi Devi’s own PA. Airawathi was conscious of the time racing by. In any case she wanted to get out of the office by 8pm. Her daughter, Tara, was visiting her, and, it was the one evening that Tara had agreed to go out for dinner with her. While Airawathi Devi could say ‘No’ to the most powerful business magnates, her daughter Tara could twist her around her little trunk…she would not answer her text messages, and, would suddenly cancel dinners they would set up at Bamboo Hut where Airawathi had taken Tara as a child and which they still enjoyed going to…nobody other than Tara could do this to Airawathi Devi, IES (Indian Elephant Service), Cabinet Secretary to the Gods…
The dinner buffet at Bamboo Hut was one that both Airawathi Devi and Tara had always enjoyed…Large chunks of jaggery, tender shoots of bamboo, mounds of freshly cut sugar cane, iced sugar cane juice, apples, all the food that elephants loved to munch on…Mother and daughter, when daughter was in a good mood, would spend hours in their favourite corner of the restaurant as mother told daughter her childhood stories…
Of how Airawathi had topped the IES/EFS (Elephant Foreign Service) exams without studying…and why she decided to stay in the country working for the IES rather than join the EFS…”What do the EFS do, in any case ?” Airawathi Devi would say, “Just stand around in circles sipping iced sugar cane juice and making diplomatic small
talk ?”…Airawathi Devi quickly brought herself back to the more mundane world of the Elephant Civil Service (ECS)…
She had half an hour to go before leaving and she had just finished reading the proposal from one of her departments for a sanctuary for elephants wounded and/or rendered destitute in the fighting that had gone on in the neighbouring country. It was a heart rending story, of young elephants separated from their mothers, and, left to wander around the countryside, and, what particularly caught her attention was the story of Gajendran.
Gajendran, a male tusker in his fifties, had been working as a guard at a temple library, and, throughout the battle was always at this post, sharp at six in the mornings. He would always trumpet loudly if he saw anybody who looked suspicious coming up to the temple, and, once or twice ensured that a suicide bomber did not make it in, by deftly putting his trunk around what seemed to be a coconut and throwing it far away just as the grenade exploded.
One morning, coming to work as usual, Gajendran stepped on a land mine and it blew the ten thousand pounder to high heaven. He was found a few days later lying on the roadside, blinded and with his trunk severed. Airawathi wiped a tear as the memory of her own brother, wounded in another war, came to her mind. How she wished she could immediately sign off on the proposal so that the sanctuary could be established straightaway. However, that was easier said than done…
Over the years, as she rose to become Cabinet Secretary to the Gods, Airawathi had realized that, however good the proposal it would not pass muster unless the proper vote bank was pacified. Gajendran belonged to the twice born temple elephants, a dwindling race, that traced their origins to elephants who had served in temples over the years as opposed to elephants who had worked with contractors clearing forests to make roads. The twice born temple elephants were a dwindling community, and, also had come under attack for cornering all the privileged coconut groves that belonged to the temples. Today the votes were with the contractor elephants (who, btw, did not also practice family planning, and, whose numbers were increasing). With Gajendran at the centre of the proposal, no way this proposal would fly…
As she was thinking these thoughts, her eyes went to a palm leaf envelope that her PA had left on her desk just before going home. She opened the envelope and inside it was a palm leaf letter, “Sending the Maharaja of Jambalpur to you. He needs some help. Pls do what you can. Best wishes, BG…” It was from Big God her friend from days gone by when as an Elephant Collector posted in the districts she had met him.
Big God had a successful and roaring business when Airawathi Devi started her career in the IES. He was in the business of removing obstacles…no one could do anything without making an offering to Big God…Big God was also very ethical…once in a while when he realized there was an obstacle that he could not remove, he would tell the client to go somewhere else rather than lead the client on a wild goose chase…
Five years into her career Airawathi Devi had got money from the government to build a stable for ageing elephants abandoned by their children…though she did not believe in doing so, she went to Big God to get his blessings before starting the stable, at the insistence of her deputy…”Big God is all powerful” the man, her PA, had told her…”better to keep him happy”
Since the District Collector herself, the symbol of power and authority in the district, was coming to see Him, Big God kept himself free…he offered her a drumfull of iced sugarcane juice as they chatted…finally, as she was getting ready to go, she wanted to know how much it would cost to remove any potential obstacles…Big God snorted and said, “No. I will not take any offering for such a good project where elderly parent elephants will be looked after…go ahead and you can be sure nothing will happen…”
She was surprised as she returned to her office. Big God seemed a tough trunked businees elephant. Where did the softness come from “How did Big God make all this money if he was so kind hearted ?” Did not seem to fit in with the way she had seen elephants make money and thrive.
After this initial contact with Big God, Airawathi Devi kept an eye on him. His career seemed to be paralleling hers. As she moved up the ECS hierarchy, Big God also seemed to be making it up the social ladder. As the best remover of obstacles he was sought after by many political parties, including the Communists and Atheists, who, theoretically, did not believe in such things. At the same time, Big God was maintaining a somewhat unusual reputation of rectitude…no fiddle faddle…and still doing so well politically and socially.
On one of her business trips to Mumbai while she was Deputy Secretary, Airawathi Devi had some time free one morning. She had heard much about Andu Gundu Maharishi. More than anything else, Andu Gundu seemed to be very attractive to women twenty five years his junior. That was the age group that Airawathi Devi was in, and, she decided to go and see for herself whether Andu Gundu was the hottie that he was made out to be.
Andu Gundu used to hold his morning sessions facing the sea, in Mumbai. He once told someone that he had no need for any other place because ‘He had no solutions to offer and who would want to come to anyone who could not offer any solutions…” In any case, some ten or twenty came every morning to listen to Andu Gundu.
At Andu Gundu’s place if you wanted to talk to him, you sat in one of the three seats facing him, otherwise you sat at the back and listened to the conversations that went on between Andu Gundu and his disciples or the people who came to see him. Airawathi had no need to ask him any questions, she just wanted to see the guy, and, so she took a back seat and fanned herself as she waited for the Maharishi to come in.
As she waited, who would appear out of the blue ?
No other than Big God…Big God, slowly ambled in, trying to look anonymous…took a look around, recognized Airawathi, nodded to her in recognition, and, seated himself in the first seat that would be facing Andu Gundu.
This made Airawathi Devi sit up. Why would Big God land up at Andu Gundu’s place ? After all Big God had everything made for him. What did He need to talk to Andu Gundu about ? He was the remover of all obstacles. What could Andu Gundu tell him ? And, in any case, Andu Gundu always said that he had no solutions to offer.
At the appointed hour, Andu Gundu walked in. Now in his seventies, he still retained the physique of the body builder that he had been. Before seating himself, Andu Gundu bowed to all who had come, acknowledged a bouquet of flowers that someone had brought and then sat down. After a moment of silence, Andu Gundu looked at Big God, sitting in one of the seats in front of him…
“What brings you here, Sir ? What do you do for a living ?” Andu Gundu asked Big God.
“I remove obstacles for anyone who asks me to do so…that is what I do for a living…” Big God replied to Andu Gundu.
“That is a wonderful profession to be in. Sir, how did you acquire the skill to do that ?” Andu Gundu asked Big God.
“Actually I am a graduate of Leading School of Management in Western India for elephants…” Big God started…
Andu Gundu sat up. Leading School of Management in Western India for elephants was very well known. Graduates from the school were straightaway employed as elephant managers, bypassing all promotion procedures, managing large herds of elephants cutting down forests. The skills of these graduates was legendary…they knew of the most sophisticated techniques of cutting across mountain pathways…even Andu Gundu started wondering…Graduate of Leading School of Management in Western India ? The only place in Elephant Land where connections did not matter…Remover of obstacles ? Why is this person here ?
Big God stopped for a moment, then continued.
“However the skill to remove obstacles was not something I learnt at the Leading School…it was something my Father gave me…”
“Tell me more, Sir…” Andu Gundu asked…
“My father was the Big Dancer. Everyone was afraid of him and his Dance. The only person who was not afraid of him was my mother…she knew what He wanted, and, the Big Dancer always danced to her tunes…”
“One day, my mother had gone to sleep and asked me to stay on guard outside her room and let no one in…I was munching away when Dad comes along…I stopped Him and said ‘No entry. Mum is sleeping.’…Rules were rules…”
“Dad flew into a mad rage…being very young, I did not realize why Dad wanted to go into the room…and in any case, rules were rules…Mum would be upset if I bent a rule, even for Dad…”
“In a fit of fury…Dad pulled out a knife that he always carried and cut my head off…” Big God said that without much ado as if it were the everyday thing a father did to his son…
There was stunned silence in the room. This was the strangest story ever told at Andu Gundu’s place…and if the Speaker’s Dad had cut off his head…how was the Speaker still around ?…
“For the next few minutes I did not know what happened, since my head had been cut off,” Big God continued. “So I will have to rely on what mum told me later…my brother who had just returned from a world trip searching for fruits was also watching…he has been too traumatized to say anything…in any case he was always scared of Dad…”
“Mum came out and naturally she was shocked at what had happened…Dad was still dancing around in his anger…’What the hell have you done to my son ?’ she demanded of Dad…”
“Quietening down for a few seconds Dad said, ‘I cut his head off because he refused to let me into your room…”
“God what a man I married !! My dad had always warned me about you…a bloody freak Dad had called you…I was so angry when he did so…now I know how correct Dad was…You murdered your son just because he didn’t let you into the room…by God, I am dialling 911 this minute…Mum reached for the phone…”
“By now, my Dad, the Big Dancer had realized what he had done…killing his own son was just too much…he needed to resolve the matter…and resolve it fast…”
“Hold it, girl…Dad said to Mum…Let’s not talk about your Dad…we all know what happened when you went to your brother’s wedding against my advice…coming to the matter of our son…I can deal with it…I will give him a new head and bring him back to life…”
“Big talk, you pervert,’ Mum told Dad…after you fought with the Creator and the Preserver you think they are going to help you ? Let’s see you bring my son back to life…”
“Now, even for Dad this wasn’t going to be easy. To begin with, he would need the head of another young child. He knew that mothers fiercely protect their children, and, the only way he could bring me back to life was to find a mother-child combination where the mother had abandoned her child. If he brought any other child’s head, Mum would not accept it…”
“Dad shifted from foot to foot, trying to work up a Dance…as he did so, in the distance he saw an elephant that had wandered away to eat a particularly ripe clump of bananas, leaving its child alone…elephant mothers are always there next to their children for the first two years of the child’s life and this mother had moved…”
“Dad saw the opportunity…the child had been abandoned, even if it were for a few minutes by its mother…he quickly cut off that elephant child’s head and put it on mine, mouthing some words and as he did so, I woke up from what appeared to be a dream…”
“Okay…now are you happy ?” Dad asked Mum…”Your darling son has been brought back to life…let me go and have something to eat…”
Mum didn’t say anything…which everyone knows meant that she was not happy…
“Now what happened ?” Dad asked.
Silence from Mum…she started clearing the clothes in the room and walked away…
“Okay…I understand…this child does not have the face your child was born with…isn’t that your problem ?”
Mum continued to remain silent…Dad, as always, wanted to move on and get down to having his evening chillum…
“Let me do this, girl. This child of yours who has a new head will have the unique ability to remove all obstacles that may come in the way of any activity…all that one has to do is to ask him…He will be the only being who can ensure success…. “ Dad proclaimed and said something in a strange language that I did not understand whilst touching my head…
“Having said this Dad walked away to smoke his chillum…Mum remained quiet for several days thereafter…”
There was a hushed silence at Andu Gundu’s place…while there had been the strangest stories told of wine, weed and women in the past this one beat them all…even Andu Gundu himself had fallen silent…nothing to say
“And all my life,” Big God continued, “I have lived off my patrimony, off what my Dad gave me just to keep mum quiet…I went to the Leading Institute of Management, and, have never been able to use the knowledge I acquired there…I am now nearing fifty and remain my father’s son…nothing more”
The time was running out…Andu Gundu always ended his sessions promptly on the hour…he signalled to his disciple who came forward with an iPod and linked it to the speakers…the voice of MS Subbulakshmi singing a bhajan composed by the blind mystic Surdas…
‘….akhiyaan Hari darshan ki pyaasi…” My eyes keeping searching desperately for Hari (God)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4G9Mzs7XOw
Interesting that one who was born blind talked of eyes and eyesight…
That morning, as Subbulakshmi’s voice came through over the iPod speakers there was a strange silence at Andu Gundu’s morning session…
So Big God, the all powerful remover of obstacles, had his own issues…what about mortals ? Would things be allright if everyone caught the eye of Hari ? Would that resolve everything ? Was that why Surdas went blind ? Is it that he caught the eyes of God ?
The dinner buffet at Bamboo Hut was one that both Airawathi Devi and Tara had always enjoyed…Large chunks of jaggery, tender shoots of bamboo, mounds of freshly cut sugar cane, iced sugar cane juice, apples, all the food that elephants loved to munch on…Mother and daughter, when daughter was in a good mood, would spend hours in their favourite corner of the restaurant as mother told daughter her childhood stories…
Of how Airawathi had topped the IES/EFS (Elephant Foreign Service) exams without studying…and why she decided to stay in the country working for the IES rather than join the EFS…”What do the EFS do, in any case ?” Airawathi Devi would say, “Just stand around in circles sipping iced sugar cane juice and making diplomatic small
talk ?”…Airawathi Devi quickly brought herself back to the more mundane world of the Elephant Civil Service (ECS)…
She had half an hour to go before leaving and she had just finished reading the proposal from one of her departments for a sanctuary for elephants wounded and/or rendered destitute in the fighting that had gone on in the neighbouring country. It was a heart rending story, of young elephants separated from their mothers, and, left to wander around the countryside, and, what particularly caught her attention was the story of Gajendran.
Gajendran, a male tusker in his fifties, had been working as a guard at a temple library, and, throughout the battle was always at this post, sharp at six in the mornings. He would always trumpet loudly if he saw anybody who looked suspicious coming up to the temple, and, once or twice ensured that a suicide bomber did not make it in, by deftly putting his trunk around what seemed to be a coconut and throwing it far away just as the grenade exploded.
One morning, coming to work as usual, Gajendran stepped on a land mine and it blew the ten thousand pounder to high heaven. He was found a few days later lying on the roadside, blinded and with his trunk severed. Airawathi wiped a tear as the memory of her own brother, wounded in another war, came to her mind. How she wished she could immediately sign off on the proposal so that the sanctuary could be established straightaway. However, that was easier said than done…
Over the years, as she rose to become Cabinet Secretary to the Gods, Airawathi had realized that, however good the proposal it would not pass muster unless the proper vote bank was pacified. Gajendran belonged to the twice born temple elephants, a dwindling race, that traced their origins to elephants who had served in temples over the years as opposed to elephants who had worked with contractors clearing forests to make roads. The twice born temple elephants were a dwindling community, and, also had come under attack for cornering all the privileged coconut groves that belonged to the temples. Today the votes were with the contractor elephants (who, btw, did not also practice family planning, and, whose numbers were increasing). With Gajendran at the centre of the proposal, no way this proposal would fly…
As she was thinking these thoughts, her eyes went to a palm leaf envelope that her PA had left on her desk just before going home. She opened the envelope and inside it was a palm leaf letter, “Sending the Maharaja of Jambalpur to you. He needs some help. Pls do what you can. Best wishes, BG…” It was from Big God her friend from days gone by when as an Elephant Collector posted in the districts she had met him.
Big God had a successful and roaring business when Airawathi Devi started her career in the IES. He was in the business of removing obstacles…no one could do anything without making an offering to Big God…Big God was also very ethical…once in a while when he realized there was an obstacle that he could not remove, he would tell the client to go somewhere else rather than lead the client on a wild goose chase…
Five years into her career Airawathi Devi had got money from the government to build a stable for ageing elephants abandoned by their children…though she did not believe in doing so, she went to Big God to get his blessings before starting the stable, at the insistence of her deputy…”Big God is all powerful” the man, her PA, had told her…”better to keep him happy”
Since the District Collector herself, the symbol of power and authority in the district, was coming to see Him, Big God kept himself free…he offered her a drumfull of iced sugarcane juice as they chatted…finally, as she was getting ready to go, she wanted to know how much it would cost to remove any potential obstacles…Big God snorted and said, “No. I will not take any offering for such a good project where elderly parent elephants will be looked after…go ahead and you can be sure nothing will happen…”
She was surprised as she returned to her office. Big God seemed a tough trunked businees elephant. Where did the softness come from “How did Big God make all this money if he was so kind hearted ?” Did not seem to fit in with the way she had seen elephants make money and thrive.
After this initial contact with Big God, Airawathi Devi kept an eye on him. His career seemed to be paralleling hers. As she moved up the ECS hierarchy, Big God also seemed to be making it up the social ladder. As the best remover of obstacles he was sought after by many political parties, including the Communists and Atheists, who, theoretically, did not believe in such things. At the same time, Big God was maintaining a somewhat unusual reputation of rectitude…no fiddle faddle…and still doing so well politically and socially.
On one of her business trips to Mumbai while she was Deputy Secretary, Airawathi Devi had some time free one morning. She had heard much about Andu Gundu Maharishi. More than anything else, Andu Gundu seemed to be very attractive to women twenty five years his junior. That was the age group that Airawathi Devi was in, and, she decided to go and see for herself whether Andu Gundu was the hottie that he was made out to be.
Andu Gundu used to hold his morning sessions facing the sea, in Mumbai. He once told someone that he had no need for any other place because ‘He had no solutions to offer and who would want to come to anyone who could not offer any solutions…” In any case, some ten or twenty came every morning to listen to Andu Gundu.
At Andu Gundu’s place if you wanted to talk to him, you sat in one of the three seats facing him, otherwise you sat at the back and listened to the conversations that went on between Andu Gundu and his disciples or the people who came to see him. Airawathi had no need to ask him any questions, she just wanted to see the guy, and, so she took a back seat and fanned herself as she waited for the Maharishi to come in.
As she waited, who would appear out of the blue ?
No other than Big God…Big God, slowly ambled in, trying to look anonymous…took a look around, recognized Airawathi, nodded to her in recognition, and, seated himself in the first seat that would be facing Andu Gundu.
This made Airawathi Devi sit up. Why would Big God land up at Andu Gundu’s place ? After all Big God had everything made for him. What did He need to talk to Andu Gundu about ? He was the remover of all obstacles. What could Andu Gundu tell him ? And, in any case, Andu Gundu always said that he had no solutions to offer.
At the appointed hour, Andu Gundu walked in. Now in his seventies, he still retained the physique of the body builder that he had been. Before seating himself, Andu Gundu bowed to all who had come, acknowledged a bouquet of flowers that someone had brought and then sat down. After a moment of silence, Andu Gundu looked at Big God, sitting in one of the seats in front of him…
“What brings you here, Sir ? What do you do for a living ?” Andu Gundu asked Big God.
“I remove obstacles for anyone who asks me to do so…that is what I do for a living…” Big God replied to Andu Gundu.
“That is a wonderful profession to be in. Sir, how did you acquire the skill to do that ?” Andu Gundu asked Big God.
“Actually I am a graduate of Leading School of Management in Western India for elephants…” Big God started…
Andu Gundu sat up. Leading School of Management in Western India for elephants was very well known. Graduates from the school were straightaway employed as elephant managers, bypassing all promotion procedures, managing large herds of elephants cutting down forests. The skills of these graduates was legendary…they knew of the most sophisticated techniques of cutting across mountain pathways…even Andu Gundu started wondering…Graduate of Leading School of Management in Western India ? The only place in Elephant Land where connections did not matter…Remover of obstacles ? Why is this person here ?
Big God stopped for a moment, then continued.
“However the skill to remove obstacles was not something I learnt at the Leading School…it was something my Father gave me…”
“Tell me more, Sir…” Andu Gundu asked…
“My father was the Big Dancer. Everyone was afraid of him and his Dance. The only person who was not afraid of him was my mother…she knew what He wanted, and, the Big Dancer always danced to her tunes…”
“One day, my mother had gone to sleep and asked me to stay on guard outside her room and let no one in…I was munching away when Dad comes along…I stopped Him and said ‘No entry. Mum is sleeping.’…Rules were rules…”
“Dad flew into a mad rage…being very young, I did not realize why Dad wanted to go into the room…and in any case, rules were rules…Mum would be upset if I bent a rule, even for Dad…”
“In a fit of fury…Dad pulled out a knife that he always carried and cut my head off…” Big God said that without much ado as if it were the everyday thing a father did to his son…
There was stunned silence in the room. This was the strangest story ever told at Andu Gundu’s place…and if the Speaker’s Dad had cut off his head…how was the Speaker still around ?…
“For the next few minutes I did not know what happened, since my head had been cut off,” Big God continued. “So I will have to rely on what mum told me later…my brother who had just returned from a world trip searching for fruits was also watching…he has been too traumatized to say anything…in any case he was always scared of Dad…”
“Mum came out and naturally she was shocked at what had happened…Dad was still dancing around in his anger…’What the hell have you done to my son ?’ she demanded of Dad…”
“Quietening down for a few seconds Dad said, ‘I cut his head off because he refused to let me into your room…”
“God what a man I married !! My dad had always warned me about you…a bloody freak Dad had called you…I was so angry when he did so…now I know how correct Dad was…You murdered your son just because he didn’t let you into the room…by God, I am dialling 911 this minute…Mum reached for the phone…”
“By now, my Dad, the Big Dancer had realized what he had done…killing his own son was just too much…he needed to resolve the matter…and resolve it fast…”
“Hold it, girl…Dad said to Mum…Let’s not talk about your Dad…we all know what happened when you went to your brother’s wedding against my advice…coming to the matter of our son…I can deal with it…I will give him a new head and bring him back to life…”
“Big talk, you pervert,’ Mum told Dad…after you fought with the Creator and the Preserver you think they are going to help you ? Let’s see you bring my son back to life…”
“Now, even for Dad this wasn’t going to be easy. To begin with, he would need the head of another young child. He knew that mothers fiercely protect their children, and, the only way he could bring me back to life was to find a mother-child combination where the mother had abandoned her child. If he brought any other child’s head, Mum would not accept it…”
“Dad shifted from foot to foot, trying to work up a Dance…as he did so, in the distance he saw an elephant that had wandered away to eat a particularly ripe clump of bananas, leaving its child alone…elephant mothers are always there next to their children for the first two years of the child’s life and this mother had moved…”
“Dad saw the opportunity…the child had been abandoned, even if it were for a few minutes by its mother…he quickly cut off that elephant child’s head and put it on mine, mouthing some words and as he did so, I woke up from what appeared to be a dream…”
“Okay…now are you happy ?” Dad asked Mum…”Your darling son has been brought back to life…let me go and have something to eat…”
Mum didn’t say anything…which everyone knows meant that she was not happy…
“Now what happened ?” Dad asked.
Silence from Mum…she started clearing the clothes in the room and walked away…
“Okay…I understand…this child does not have the face your child was born with…isn’t that your problem ?”
Mum continued to remain silent…Dad, as always, wanted to move on and get down to having his evening chillum…
“Let me do this, girl. This child of yours who has a new head will have the unique ability to remove all obstacles that may come in the way of any activity…all that one has to do is to ask him…He will be the only being who can ensure success…. “ Dad proclaimed and said something in a strange language that I did not understand whilst touching my head…
“Having said this Dad walked away to smoke his chillum…Mum remained quiet for several days thereafter…”
There was a hushed silence at Andu Gundu’s place…while there had been the strangest stories told of wine, weed and women in the past this one beat them all…even Andu Gundu himself had fallen silent…nothing to say
“And all my life,” Big God continued, “I have lived off my patrimony, off what my Dad gave me just to keep mum quiet…I went to the Leading Institute of Management, and, have never been able to use the knowledge I acquired there…I am now nearing fifty and remain my father’s son…nothing more”
The time was running out…Andu Gundu always ended his sessions promptly on the hour…he signalled to his disciple who came forward with an iPod and linked it to the speakers…the voice of MS Subbulakshmi singing a bhajan composed by the blind mystic Surdas…
‘….akhiyaan Hari darshan ki pyaasi…” My eyes keeping searching desperately for Hari (God)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4G9Mzs7XOw
Interesting that one who was born blind talked of eyes and eyesight…
That morning, as Subbulakshmi’s voice came through over the iPod speakers there was a strange silence at Andu Gundu’s morning session…
So Big God, the all powerful remover of obstacles, had his own issues…what about mortals ? Would things be allright if everyone caught the eye of Hari ? Would that resolve everything ? Was that why Surdas went blind ? Is it that he caught the eyes of God ?
Tales of Kulasekharan: the brightest elephant in the Bamboo Grove School
Pillayar Chaturthi was four days away and Kulasekharan’s (Kulu) parents were busy that evening at the Bamboo Grove temple preparing the temple for the big festival. They were bringing cartloads of sugar cane, jaggery and drawing large drumfulls of water for all the elephant folk who would be visiting the bamboo grove temple for the biggest festival in elephant-land.
Little Inbasekharan (Inba), seven years old, had come down with a cold and so they had asked his eighteen year old brother, Kulu, to be at home to make sure that Inba did not go out to play in the rain and worsen his cold. The parents wanted to be sure that both their children would be in good shape for the big day. Kulu had incentive to be there, at the temple, his classmate Swarna (Swarnamukhi) would be there all decked with her new anklets with bells on them. However, Inba was turning out to be a little different, and, the parents wanted to be sure that they offered prayers to the Big God to make sure that Inba turned out allright…
For Kulu, this unexpected development of having to stay at home because of Inba’s cold had thrown a spanner in his works. While leaving school he had planned with Swarna that they would meet at the Coconut Grove, far away from the Bamboo Grove temple where her parents would also be. He was wondering how to deal with this, perhaps give Inba a strong dose (three barrels) of cough syrup so that he would go to sleep ? Just when he was thinking such thoughts, Kulu’s cell phone buzzed with a text message,
‘r u coming to get gold ?’ Yes, that was Swarna, Kulu knew…Gold was the code word they used so that their parents would not find out…
Kulu did not know what to do…While this Gold girl always responded to him, she was a little moody…if he were to say ‘No’ she would throw a pachyderm sized tantrum…even at seventeen a she elephant tantrum is difficult for a growing tusker to handle…once Kulu had to study and when he refused to go to the Coconut Grove, Swarna told him that she was going there with Narayanan, the bull elephant who had left school and opened a security business providing elephants to various temples, and, who was always texting Swarna…
As these thoughts were crossing Kulu’s agitated mind a second text came ‘gold cannot come because little gold has cold…’ This was Swarna, hundred percent…she would first wait for Kulu to say something so that she could attract attention by throwing a fit and then come up with her own excuse…Kulu, breathed deeply through his trunk trying to observe his breath as his friend Bharadwaj had taught him after attending a meditation course…women elephants were all the same…
‘gold and little gold can come here…’ Kulu texted back…’and do what ?’ Gold texted back…
’love (code name for Inba) is not well and I will tell a story…’ Kulu texted back…he knew that was sure fire…Gold loved his stories and he could see her large eyes grow in excitement as he told his stories from history…he would throw in his own additions like the time he told the story of the Cheraman Juma Masjid, the world's second oldest mosque, where the worshippers worshipped a light lit from an old wick lamp, and, how the elephant hero Majid Sultan protected the light from extinguishing in the middle of the monsoon rain…Kulu added a bit of a sexy scene to this story by saying that Majid cuddled up to a she elephant and that is how they protected the light from extinguishing by keeping it in the space under their bodies…these flourishes only got Swarna excited and the seventeen year she elephant old would often think of sitting trunk to trunk with Kulu at the temple protecting the light…
In fifteen minutes the tinkle of anklets was heard nearing Kulu’s house…Swarna and her little sister Gajalakshmi were coming…Kulu, quickly went, sprayed a little BOSS perfume on himself, and, both Swarna and he touched trunks as they came in…Gaja, known in text language as ‘little gold’ was too sleepy and Inba had no time for girls…soon, the two littler elephants were asleep…
‘Did you see that news item about Maharani Pooja Devi, the Maharani of Jambalpur, dying ?’ Kulu said…’Of course, I did…she was one of the ten most beautiful women in the world according to Vogue, wasn’t she ?’ Swarna replied, swishing her trunk to adjust a hair on her forehead…
’Yes. But that was before you were born…’ Kulu threw in, and, knew he had hit home…’These dialogues…’ Gold smiled and let Kulu touch her trunk playfully…
‘The Jambalpur Royal family had a huge collection of priceless jewels…each one costlier than the other…so many that no one really knew how much they were worth…’
‘Bloody bourgeois’ Swarna chimed in…Narayanan had been telling her all about the class revolution that the elephant philosopher Kiril Marakkayan had foretold, and, she had been reading a lot of left literature herself…btw, Narayanan had also given her a bamboo stem with a sweet smelling weed attached to it…burn the weed and eat he had said…she had felt giddy and somewhat light after doing so…she did not tell Kulu about this…he would have thrown a tusker size fit…
‘Be that as it may,” Kulu continued…’since no one knew how much jewellery the Jambalpur royal family had and had no way of accounting for something that maybe stolen, they needed really trustworthy people to guard them…as we all know, no human being is that trustworthy…’
so the Maharaja of Jambalpur spent many days offering Pooja to the Big God at Bamboo Grove temple…
one night, after many days of the Maharaja's pooja, when it was very heavily raining, the Big God stirred from his seat…the Maharaja had brought in several cartloads of jaggery and sweet modakas waiting for this day…when he saw the Big God moving,
the Maharaja moved out of the way, and, stood behind a bamboo bush…the Big God moved towards the cartloads of jaggery and sweet modakas…it was ages since he had a good feed, had been too busy meditating…after all this was cooking from the king’s kitchen…he sat down…and started eating…the jaggery was a good appetizer and the sweet modakas were laced with apples…a secret that only the king’s cook knew…the Big God was feeling happy…this meditation stuff was difficult, no food in the evenings…didn't know how his Dad, the Big Dancer, had done this meditation stuff for aeons...
All this talk of food, even if it was in the story, was making Kulu hungry…so he quickly nipped into the kitchen, pulled out a barrel of apples and brought them to the living room so that Gold and he could munch on them…he did not bring two barrels because this way he could touch her trunk as she reached for the apples in the single barrel, as she listened to the story…
Once Big God had finished eating He felt thirsty and walked towards the temple tank to drink water…as He did so, the King slowly came out of the bamboo bush…the Big God, like all Gods, Big or Small know, knew exactly what the King was upto…but let the King do the talking…
‘Was the food good, Big God ?’ the King asked…’Yes. It was good…I know no King does anything for free…what is all this about ? Let’s get down to business quick…”
“You see Big God, I have a lot of jewels…”
“All acquired because you have taxed the poor farmer,” Big God said. Kulu threw that piece in, not part of the original script, knowing that the Kiril Marakkayan touch would work with Gold.
“…and I do not trust any human being to guard them, because no human being is trustworthy enough particularly since I don’t know how many precious jewels I have…”
“Very true,” replied Big God…recalling the time the priest had taken the gold necklace put on his neck by a woman praying for her daughter’s marriage…”that is humankind…can never be trusted with anything or anyone…they will do anything for Gold…” that last piece of dialogue was from Kulu to get Gold’s attention which it did…she smiled and playfully nipped him with her trunk…
“So, I thought of coming to you and asking for your help, Big God” the King said. “Elephants are very trustworthy, they remember well and can remember every jewel. So, I thought some of your community could help me guard these jewels…”
“Very true,” said Big God, again…
”Very true” seemed to be becoming Big God’s refrain…
Big God continued ”However, since I started meditating I do not have any followers anymore…since I cannot give them anything and only ask them to watch their breath...go to the Elephant King, Airawat, who is with the King of the Gods, Indra, and Airawat will help…”
"Can you text him please ?" the King asked, quick to cash in on this referral...
"Sorry. I do not bring my cellphone or Blackberry to the meditation place..." Big God replied..."Will write a note to Airawat..."
Big God quickly scribbled a letter of introduction of to Airawat on a palm leaf, gave it to the King, ambled off for a drink of water and then back to his meditation…
(May be continued)
Little Inbasekharan (Inba), seven years old, had come down with a cold and so they had asked his eighteen year old brother, Kulu, to be at home to make sure that Inba did not go out to play in the rain and worsen his cold. The parents wanted to be sure that both their children would be in good shape for the big day. Kulu had incentive to be there, at the temple, his classmate Swarna (Swarnamukhi) would be there all decked with her new anklets with bells on them. However, Inba was turning out to be a little different, and, the parents wanted to be sure that they offered prayers to the Big God to make sure that Inba turned out allright…
For Kulu, this unexpected development of having to stay at home because of Inba’s cold had thrown a spanner in his works. While leaving school he had planned with Swarna that they would meet at the Coconut Grove, far away from the Bamboo Grove temple where her parents would also be. He was wondering how to deal with this, perhaps give Inba a strong dose (three barrels) of cough syrup so that he would go to sleep ? Just when he was thinking such thoughts, Kulu’s cell phone buzzed with a text message,
‘r u coming to get gold ?’ Yes, that was Swarna, Kulu knew…Gold was the code word they used so that their parents would not find out…
Kulu did not know what to do…While this Gold girl always responded to him, she was a little moody…if he were to say ‘No’ she would throw a pachyderm sized tantrum…even at seventeen a she elephant tantrum is difficult for a growing tusker to handle…once Kulu had to study and when he refused to go to the Coconut Grove, Swarna told him that she was going there with Narayanan, the bull elephant who had left school and opened a security business providing elephants to various temples, and, who was always texting Swarna…
As these thoughts were crossing Kulu’s agitated mind a second text came ‘gold cannot come because little gold has cold…’ This was Swarna, hundred percent…she would first wait for Kulu to say something so that she could attract attention by throwing a fit and then come up with her own excuse…Kulu, breathed deeply through his trunk trying to observe his breath as his friend Bharadwaj had taught him after attending a meditation course…women elephants were all the same…
‘gold and little gold can come here…’ Kulu texted back…’and do what ?’ Gold texted back…
’love (code name for Inba) is not well and I will tell a story…’ Kulu texted back…he knew that was sure fire…Gold loved his stories and he could see her large eyes grow in excitement as he told his stories from history…he would throw in his own additions like the time he told the story of the Cheraman Juma Masjid, the world's second oldest mosque, where the worshippers worshipped a light lit from an old wick lamp, and, how the elephant hero Majid Sultan protected the light from extinguishing in the middle of the monsoon rain…Kulu added a bit of a sexy scene to this story by saying that Majid cuddled up to a she elephant and that is how they protected the light from extinguishing by keeping it in the space under their bodies…these flourishes only got Swarna excited and the seventeen year she elephant old would often think of sitting trunk to trunk with Kulu at the temple protecting the light…
In fifteen minutes the tinkle of anklets was heard nearing Kulu’s house…Swarna and her little sister Gajalakshmi were coming…Kulu, quickly went, sprayed a little BOSS perfume on himself, and, both Swarna and he touched trunks as they came in…Gaja, known in text language as ‘little gold’ was too sleepy and Inba had no time for girls…soon, the two littler elephants were asleep…
‘Did you see that news item about Maharani Pooja Devi, the Maharani of Jambalpur, dying ?’ Kulu said…’Of course, I did…she was one of the ten most beautiful women in the world according to Vogue, wasn’t she ?’ Swarna replied, swishing her trunk to adjust a hair on her forehead…
’Yes. But that was before you were born…’ Kulu threw in, and, knew he had hit home…’These dialogues…’ Gold smiled and let Kulu touch her trunk playfully…
‘The Jambalpur Royal family had a huge collection of priceless jewels…each one costlier than the other…so many that no one really knew how much they were worth…’
‘Bloody bourgeois’ Swarna chimed in…Narayanan had been telling her all about the class revolution that the elephant philosopher Kiril Marakkayan had foretold, and, she had been reading a lot of left literature herself…btw, Narayanan had also given her a bamboo stem with a sweet smelling weed attached to it…burn the weed and eat he had said…she had felt giddy and somewhat light after doing so…she did not tell Kulu about this…he would have thrown a tusker size fit…
‘Be that as it may,” Kulu continued…’since no one knew how much jewellery the Jambalpur royal family had and had no way of accounting for something that maybe stolen, they needed really trustworthy people to guard them…as we all know, no human being is that trustworthy…’
so the Maharaja of Jambalpur spent many days offering Pooja to the Big God at Bamboo Grove temple…
one night, after many days of the Maharaja's pooja, when it was very heavily raining, the Big God stirred from his seat…the Maharaja had brought in several cartloads of jaggery and sweet modakas waiting for this day…when he saw the Big God moving,
the Maharaja moved out of the way, and, stood behind a bamboo bush…the Big God moved towards the cartloads of jaggery and sweet modakas…it was ages since he had a good feed, had been too busy meditating…after all this was cooking from the king’s kitchen…he sat down…and started eating…the jaggery was a good appetizer and the sweet modakas were laced with apples…a secret that only the king’s cook knew…the Big God was feeling happy…this meditation stuff was difficult, no food in the evenings…didn't know how his Dad, the Big Dancer, had done this meditation stuff for aeons...
All this talk of food, even if it was in the story, was making Kulu hungry…so he quickly nipped into the kitchen, pulled out a barrel of apples and brought them to the living room so that Gold and he could munch on them…he did not bring two barrels because this way he could touch her trunk as she reached for the apples in the single barrel, as she listened to the story…
Once Big God had finished eating He felt thirsty and walked towards the temple tank to drink water…as He did so, the King slowly came out of the bamboo bush…the Big God, like all Gods, Big or Small know, knew exactly what the King was upto…but let the King do the talking…
‘Was the food good, Big God ?’ the King asked…’Yes. It was good…I know no King does anything for free…what is all this about ? Let’s get down to business quick…”
“You see Big God, I have a lot of jewels…”
“All acquired because you have taxed the poor farmer,” Big God said. Kulu threw that piece in, not part of the original script, knowing that the Kiril Marakkayan touch would work with Gold.
“…and I do not trust any human being to guard them, because no human being is trustworthy enough particularly since I don’t know how many precious jewels I have…”
“Very true,” replied Big God…recalling the time the priest had taken the gold necklace put on his neck by a woman praying for her daughter’s marriage…”that is humankind…can never be trusted with anything or anyone…they will do anything for Gold…” that last piece of dialogue was from Kulu to get Gold’s attention which it did…she smiled and playfully nipped him with her trunk…
“So, I thought of coming to you and asking for your help, Big God” the King said. “Elephants are very trustworthy, they remember well and can remember every jewel. So, I thought some of your community could help me guard these jewels…”
“Very true,” said Big God, again…
”Very true” seemed to be becoming Big God’s refrain…
Big God continued ”However, since I started meditating I do not have any followers anymore…since I cannot give them anything and only ask them to watch their breath...go to the Elephant King, Airawat, who is with the King of the Gods, Indra, and Airawat will help…”
"Can you text him please ?" the King asked, quick to cash in on this referral...
"Sorry. I do not bring my cellphone or Blackberry to the meditation place..." Big God replied..."Will write a note to Airawat..."
Big God quickly scribbled a letter of introduction of to Airawat on a palm leaf, gave it to the King, ambled off for a drink of water and then back to his meditation…
(May be continued)
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A new toy for an old boy
I grew up as a child in London, England, and, two or three times a year mum would take me shopping to buy a toy. This would happen at birthday time, Diwali and as part of mum’s diversity at home program, Christmas.
At Christmas, the shopping expedition would take me to Oxford Street where mum liked to see the shop decorations and window shop. I distinctly remember one such expedition at age seven that took me to Selfridges.
We landed at Selfridges and I was allowed the run of the toy department under mum’s watchful eye. To understand how this worked, you need to understand mum’s purchase policy. Whenever mum had to take a difficult decision that involved her having to say ‘No’ or lay down the law, she invoked the alpha authority of dad. ‘Dad will not agree…’ would be her answer. Poor man, never knew about half the things he was saying no to.
When it came to toys, the application of this policy involved the purchase procedure that anything above 10 shillings (20 shillings made a pound in those days) required Dad’s approval, and, she made it out that getting his approval in such matters was impossible (I notice that my boss uses the same ruse invoking the CEOs name when I ask for toys at work…)
So, off I went, with the budget of 10 shillings…after much searching and price verification (good exercise for a kindergarten kid learning how to count) I identified a toy pistol that operated on a battery with green, red and yellow lights…price 9 shillings, 9 pence, 3 pence under the limit.
A modern mum of the twenty first century would have put her foot down at such a choice, keeping in mind all the latent violence that such a purchase could invoke in a kindergarten boy’s emerging psyche. My mum had no such worries, perhaps she felt that using a gun might help me defend myself at some stage in life (a thought that Sarah Palin would heartily embrace). It was within the price range, and, that was all that mattered…
However, mum had another rule. No toy could be unwrapped till reaching home. I was all agog to start shooting away with my new toy pistol at all and sundry on Oxford Street. But, as we all know, mums mean business (dad’s are for fun) and I spent the next few hours with a sullen look and all emotionally cramped up at (subject for a possible Ph.d. thesis) at not being able to unwrap my new toy as mum went window shopping all over Oxford Street, Regent Street, and, that day decided to go to Knightsbridge to see what Harrods had to offer…finally when I did get to fire my gun, well, I shall let you imagine what it felt like…boys among the readers will be able to relate…if you are a girl, ask a boy to whom you can ask such questions…
For the last few months, I have been having the GPS bug in me. It started when I went looking for a new car. The price range I was looking for, barely provided for a steering and four wheels, so, when I asked the sales person to throw in a GPS, he laughed…swallowing my pride, I have been looking at GPS systems like a child looking at ice cream displays…the wife was not supportive of this new toy, but, surprise , surprise, did not oppose it…I think because it would help her navigate without my help…
My efforts to enlist my son to help in the search were fruitless…he was dismissive, said it was a toy I did not need, and, told me he had better things to do…
So, I pulled rank and got my young work colleague to help…she had just returned from Maternity Leave, and, this was one of the first projects assigned to her, to be done at ‘lunch time’…
One thing about the younger generation is that they are good and thorough at what they do…she drew up a selection criteria list which included an assessment of my technological skills…I am glad to report that she assessed me ‘Medium’ instead of ‘Luddite’
When the younger generation of today shops they do not walk down Oxford Street, they get Oxford Street to come to them. My colleague did all the shopping she needed to ‘virtually’ and finally identified what she thought was the ideal toy for a male in the throes of menopause.
Go for it, girl, I told her as I gave her my credit card to order. In three minutes she told me that it would available for pickup at the store nearest to our postal code in twenty four hours’ time.
The next twenty four hours were spent in excruciating excitement…
Twenty three hours and forty minutes into the wait, I set off to the appointed store. Several thoughts assaulted me. What if the GPS had not arrived ? It had rained yesterday, and, the truck may have been held up…what if it was out of stock ? Would I have to suffer another twenty four hour wait ?
The tension only mounted as the country cousin from India with his Indian accent still fob (fresh off the boat) (Note to reader: all new younger generation Indians work at electronic stores, in Canada, on a commission basis while waiting for proper jobs) looked up my order confirmation number…after a long wait he said, ‘Let me go in and check…’ he said, adding to my torture…finally, he emerged from the back of the store holding a box which I was sure was my new toy…
As he scanned it out I had another worry…some of these electronic gadgets need to have their batteries ‘charged’ for twelve hours before they can be used…so I asked country cousin…’No, it’s ready to go…just plug it into your car’s cigarette light charger and take off’ he said... wow! that worry got taken care of…
Walking to the car my mind went back fifty five years in time when I was sitting in the bus from Knightsbridge, London to Finchley Road, London, holding on to my pistol that mum would not let me play with till I got home…no mum around this time…so as soon as I got into the car I unpacked the toy and it was all there gleaming and ready to go just as young country cousin had said…
I connected the battery in and the screen said, ‘Wait a few seconds as the system connects to the satellite…’ Without a sound this little toy lying in my car was connecting to a satellite orbiting somewhere around in the earth telling the satellite that here was this old boy sitting in the car park at Sherway Garden playing with his new toy…
My young friend who researched the GPS had told me that she had chosen the male voice prompts over the female on her GPS…when I thought she had done so because she found the voice prompt of the man husky and reassuring she promptly dismissed such thoughts…having just come back from Maternity Leave her mind is elsewhere…”I did so because the man gives the instructions in kilometres and not miles, no other reason…’
Of course, my motivations were different. I chose the female voice because I would not be able to bear a man sitting next to me and giving instructions…she has been merrily doing so for the last twenty four hours telling me to turn here, stay right or left or so…
There was a storm yesterday in Toronto and trains were delayed…the wifey took a bus and called me saying, “Can you fetch me from Mississauga ?” (a suburb about fifteen kilometres away )…normally at seven thirty in the evening when I am just settling in to watch Corner Gas (a Canadian comedy show) this would have been reason for an outburst from me…yesterday wifey had a shock when I said, “Of course dear, you will be on the GO (Government of Ontario) bus, isn’t it ?” She said, “Yes” and I hung up without any further questions. She called back, “How will you find the main GO bus terminal ?” “Leave that to me,” I said mysteriously.
So, I went to Jenn (the voice on the GPS) and punched in “Mississauga, GO Bus terminal” “Calculating” she responded, and, in a flash of second she started, “Turn right after 90 metres” and in ten minutes, just as Jenn had calculated, I was holding the door open for a surprised wifey trying to figure out how I had found the main bus GO bus terminal in Mississauga without her telling me…
Coming in to work this morning, I switched on Jenn, who calculated the distance to work and said I would be there in twenty six minutes. Just to test Jenn, I started weaving between the Express and Collector lanes…silence…like mum saying, “What are you doing ?” then somewhat testily, “Recalculating”…after a few minutes, “In one hundred metres, keep left”…I listened to her and suppressed the thought to do differently…maybe if I didn’t follow her instructions, like mum, she would just give me a tight slap across the face saying, “Now behave yourself…”
At Christmas, the shopping expedition would take me to Oxford Street where mum liked to see the shop decorations and window shop. I distinctly remember one such expedition at age seven that took me to Selfridges.
We landed at Selfridges and I was allowed the run of the toy department under mum’s watchful eye. To understand how this worked, you need to understand mum’s purchase policy. Whenever mum had to take a difficult decision that involved her having to say ‘No’ or lay down the law, she invoked the alpha authority of dad. ‘Dad will not agree…’ would be her answer. Poor man, never knew about half the things he was saying no to.
When it came to toys, the application of this policy involved the purchase procedure that anything above 10 shillings (20 shillings made a pound in those days) required Dad’s approval, and, she made it out that getting his approval in such matters was impossible (I notice that my boss uses the same ruse invoking the CEOs name when I ask for toys at work…)
So, off I went, with the budget of 10 shillings…after much searching and price verification (good exercise for a kindergarten kid learning how to count) I identified a toy pistol that operated on a battery with green, red and yellow lights…price 9 shillings, 9 pence, 3 pence under the limit.
A modern mum of the twenty first century would have put her foot down at such a choice, keeping in mind all the latent violence that such a purchase could invoke in a kindergarten boy’s emerging psyche. My mum had no such worries, perhaps she felt that using a gun might help me defend myself at some stage in life (a thought that Sarah Palin would heartily embrace). It was within the price range, and, that was all that mattered…
However, mum had another rule. No toy could be unwrapped till reaching home. I was all agog to start shooting away with my new toy pistol at all and sundry on Oxford Street. But, as we all know, mums mean business (dad’s are for fun) and I spent the next few hours with a sullen look and all emotionally cramped up at (subject for a possible Ph.d. thesis) at not being able to unwrap my new toy as mum went window shopping all over Oxford Street, Regent Street, and, that day decided to go to Knightsbridge to see what Harrods had to offer…finally when I did get to fire my gun, well, I shall let you imagine what it felt like…boys among the readers will be able to relate…if you are a girl, ask a boy to whom you can ask such questions…
For the last few months, I have been having the GPS bug in me. It started when I went looking for a new car. The price range I was looking for, barely provided for a steering and four wheels, so, when I asked the sales person to throw in a GPS, he laughed…swallowing my pride, I have been looking at GPS systems like a child looking at ice cream displays…the wife was not supportive of this new toy, but, surprise , surprise, did not oppose it…I think because it would help her navigate without my help…
My efforts to enlist my son to help in the search were fruitless…he was dismissive, said it was a toy I did not need, and, told me he had better things to do…
So, I pulled rank and got my young work colleague to help…she had just returned from Maternity Leave, and, this was one of the first projects assigned to her, to be done at ‘lunch time’…
One thing about the younger generation is that they are good and thorough at what they do…she drew up a selection criteria list which included an assessment of my technological skills…I am glad to report that she assessed me ‘Medium’ instead of ‘Luddite’
When the younger generation of today shops they do not walk down Oxford Street, they get Oxford Street to come to them. My colleague did all the shopping she needed to ‘virtually’ and finally identified what she thought was the ideal toy for a male in the throes of menopause.
Go for it, girl, I told her as I gave her my credit card to order. In three minutes she told me that it would available for pickup at the store nearest to our postal code in twenty four hours’ time.
The next twenty four hours were spent in excruciating excitement…
Twenty three hours and forty minutes into the wait, I set off to the appointed store. Several thoughts assaulted me. What if the GPS had not arrived ? It had rained yesterday, and, the truck may have been held up…what if it was out of stock ? Would I have to suffer another twenty four hour wait ?
The tension only mounted as the country cousin from India with his Indian accent still fob (fresh off the boat) (Note to reader: all new younger generation Indians work at electronic stores, in Canada, on a commission basis while waiting for proper jobs) looked up my order confirmation number…after a long wait he said, ‘Let me go in and check…’ he said, adding to my torture…finally, he emerged from the back of the store holding a box which I was sure was my new toy…
As he scanned it out I had another worry…some of these electronic gadgets need to have their batteries ‘charged’ for twelve hours before they can be used…so I asked country cousin…’No, it’s ready to go…just plug it into your car’s cigarette light charger and take off’ he said... wow! that worry got taken care of…
Walking to the car my mind went back fifty five years in time when I was sitting in the bus from Knightsbridge, London to Finchley Road, London, holding on to my pistol that mum would not let me play with till I got home…no mum around this time…so as soon as I got into the car I unpacked the toy and it was all there gleaming and ready to go just as young country cousin had said…
I connected the battery in and the screen said, ‘Wait a few seconds as the system connects to the satellite…’ Without a sound this little toy lying in my car was connecting to a satellite orbiting somewhere around in the earth telling the satellite that here was this old boy sitting in the car park at Sherway Garden playing with his new toy…
My young friend who researched the GPS had told me that she had chosen the male voice prompts over the female on her GPS…when I thought she had done so because she found the voice prompt of the man husky and reassuring she promptly dismissed such thoughts…having just come back from Maternity Leave her mind is elsewhere…”I did so because the man gives the instructions in kilometres and not miles, no other reason…’
Of course, my motivations were different. I chose the female voice because I would not be able to bear a man sitting next to me and giving instructions…she has been merrily doing so for the last twenty four hours telling me to turn here, stay right or left or so…
There was a storm yesterday in Toronto and trains were delayed…the wifey took a bus and called me saying, “Can you fetch me from Mississauga ?” (a suburb about fifteen kilometres away )…normally at seven thirty in the evening when I am just settling in to watch Corner Gas (a Canadian comedy show) this would have been reason for an outburst from me…yesterday wifey had a shock when I said, “Of course dear, you will be on the GO (Government of Ontario) bus, isn’t it ?” She said, “Yes” and I hung up without any further questions. She called back, “How will you find the main GO bus terminal ?” “Leave that to me,” I said mysteriously.
So, I went to Jenn (the voice on the GPS) and punched in “Mississauga, GO Bus terminal” “Calculating” she responded, and, in a flash of second she started, “Turn right after 90 metres” and in ten minutes, just as Jenn had calculated, I was holding the door open for a surprised wifey trying to figure out how I had found the main bus GO bus terminal in Mississauga without her telling me…
Coming in to work this morning, I switched on Jenn, who calculated the distance to work and said I would be there in twenty six minutes. Just to test Jenn, I started weaving between the Express and Collector lanes…silence…like mum saying, “What are you doing ?” then somewhat testily, “Recalculating”…after a few minutes, “In one hundred metres, keep left”…I listened to her and suppressed the thought to do differently…maybe if I didn’t follow her instructions, like mum, she would just give me a tight slap across the face saying, “Now behave yourself…”
Saturday, August 1, 2009
A Princess Remembered
A Princess Remembered
(Gayatri Devi's book on her life written along with Santha Rama Rau was titled, A Princess Remembers)
Reflecting on the course of history, I have always wondered why the British held on to India well after it had ceased to be their principal cash cow…reading of the news of the death yesterday, of Her Highness Maharani Gayatri Devi Sahiba, the former Maharani of Jaipur, known to her close circle as Ayesha, it all came to me in a moment of epiphany…the glittering glamour of it all held them fascinated till the efforts of a ‘half naked fakir walking up the steps of Buckingham Palace to parley on equal terms with the King Emperor’ prised the jewel away…
Maharani Gayatri Devi, was to begin with, the beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother. Her mother, the then Princess Indira Raje was a stunning beauty herself, and, in true Raj style, Gayatri Devi was born in London. Her education included Tagore’s Shantinekatan (don’t know if she was there at the same time as her bete noire, Indira Gandhi), a finishing school in Switzerland, and, interestingly, a stint at the London School of Secretaries. In 1939, Gayatri Devi married His Highness Lieutenant General Saramad-i-Rajahai Hindustan Raj Rajendra Sri Maharajadhiraj Sir (all his titles, amounting to Super King of Kings) Sawai Man Singh Bahadur, the then Maharaja of Jaipur, subsequently first Rajpramukh (Governor) of Rajasthan in free India, Indian Ambassador to Spain, and, perhaps best known for his prowess at polo.
Maharani Gayatri Devi’s life, till India became independent, for the most was about chiffon, crystals, champagne and caviar. When her co-wife (is that a correct term ?) known to her as ‘didi’ (elder sister) Manudhar Kanwar, the then elder Maharani gave birth to Bhawani Singh, the royal fountains at the palace in Jaipur flowed with champagne, giving the child the nickname that has stayed, Bubbles. The wealth of the royal house of Jaipur is beyond legendary. There is a reputedly a cave in a hill in Jaipur guarded by a tribe fiercely loyal to the royals that contains a portion of the wealth of the Jaipur royal family. Every Maharaja is allowed, at the start of his career, to visit the cave once and pick a priceless jewel of his choice. This is the sort of wealth that no 649 lottery (a Canadian lottery) can conjure up.
But, as they say, everything changes…in fact, change is the only permanent thing in life…
Pandrah August, or, 15th August, 1947, changed all that. In theory, the people of India took over on that day. Starting from then, the Maharajas who claimed descent from the Sun and other such Gods have had to move out, to give way to Maharajas with less divine ancestry, the politicians of the new India.
Gayatri Devi got caught in the middle of all this social revolution. With the thunder of loss of privilege rolling in the air, Gayatri Devi joined hands with C. Rajagopalachari, the former Governor General, himself smarting from being denied the first Presidentship of the Indian Republic and others, to form the right wing Swatantra Party in 1959. Needless to add, with the prevailing socialist wind blowing, the party fared miserably in the 1962 election. The only saving grace for the Swatantra Party in the 1962 elections was Gayatri Devi herself. She went around the villages of her constituency (till recently her fiefdom) clad in her chiffon saris asking, commanding her loyal subject to vote for her. Her subjects, many of whom may not have known of the changed situation, post-1947, listened to her. 192,909of the 246,516 ballots cast in the Jaipur City constituency were in her favour. Guinness Book of Records used to record this at one time as the biggest landslide election victory. Don't know if it still holds good...
Of course, the clash of the titans was reserved for her fights with the real Maharani of India, Indira Gandhi. Reportedly because Gayatri Devi refused Indira Gandhi access to the cave where the Jaipur wealth was stored away, Indira Gandhi foisted an Income Tax case on her. This was followed by a five month stint for Gayatri Devi at Delhi’s notorious Tihar jail. The two continued to snarl at each other, till Indira Gandhi was assassinated in 1984.
In recent years, the Maharani had retired to a less active political life, though about ten years ago the Trinamool Congress was thinking of nominating her for a election contest. I think she gracefully refused, and, continued sipping champagne in the comfort of her many homes around the world. Whatever she may have or not been, she was the ultimate portrait of traditional regal beauty and grace.
I notice that some newspapers are calling her death, “The death of the last queen of India…” I think they are somewhat correct. With her, the princely India that claimed descent from the Sun and other Gods is gone…don’t know if the newly emerging royalty that is not able to claim divine ancestry can match the antics of the one just taking its curtain call…
(Gayatri Devi's book on her life written along with Santha Rama Rau was titled, A Princess Remembers)
Reflecting on the course of history, I have always wondered why the British held on to India well after it had ceased to be their principal cash cow…reading of the news of the death yesterday, of Her Highness Maharani Gayatri Devi Sahiba, the former Maharani of Jaipur, known to her close circle as Ayesha, it all came to me in a moment of epiphany…the glittering glamour of it all held them fascinated till the efforts of a ‘half naked fakir walking up the steps of Buckingham Palace to parley on equal terms with the King Emperor’ prised the jewel away…
Maharani Gayatri Devi, was to begin with, the beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother. Her mother, the then Princess Indira Raje was a stunning beauty herself, and, in true Raj style, Gayatri Devi was born in London. Her education included Tagore’s Shantinekatan (don’t know if she was there at the same time as her bete noire, Indira Gandhi), a finishing school in Switzerland, and, interestingly, a stint at the London School of Secretaries. In 1939, Gayatri Devi married His Highness Lieutenant General Saramad-i-Rajahai Hindustan Raj Rajendra Sri Maharajadhiraj Sir (all his titles, amounting to Super King of Kings) Sawai Man Singh Bahadur, the then Maharaja of Jaipur, subsequently first Rajpramukh (Governor) of Rajasthan in free India, Indian Ambassador to Spain, and, perhaps best known for his prowess at polo.
Maharani Gayatri Devi’s life, till India became independent, for the most was about chiffon, crystals, champagne and caviar. When her co-wife (is that a correct term ?) known to her as ‘didi’ (elder sister) Manudhar Kanwar, the then elder Maharani gave birth to Bhawani Singh, the royal fountains at the palace in Jaipur flowed with champagne, giving the child the nickname that has stayed, Bubbles. The wealth of the royal house of Jaipur is beyond legendary. There is a reputedly a cave in a hill in Jaipur guarded by a tribe fiercely loyal to the royals that contains a portion of the wealth of the Jaipur royal family. Every Maharaja is allowed, at the start of his career, to visit the cave once and pick a priceless jewel of his choice. This is the sort of wealth that no 649 lottery (a Canadian lottery) can conjure up.
But, as they say, everything changes…in fact, change is the only permanent thing in life…
Pandrah August, or, 15th August, 1947, changed all that. In theory, the people of India took over on that day. Starting from then, the Maharajas who claimed descent from the Sun and other such Gods have had to move out, to give way to Maharajas with less divine ancestry, the politicians of the new India.
Gayatri Devi got caught in the middle of all this social revolution. With the thunder of loss of privilege rolling in the air, Gayatri Devi joined hands with C. Rajagopalachari, the former Governor General, himself smarting from being denied the first Presidentship of the Indian Republic and others, to form the right wing Swatantra Party in 1959. Needless to add, with the prevailing socialist wind blowing, the party fared miserably in the 1962 election. The only saving grace for the Swatantra Party in the 1962 elections was Gayatri Devi herself. She went around the villages of her constituency (till recently her fiefdom) clad in her chiffon saris asking, commanding her loyal subject to vote for her. Her subjects, many of whom may not have known of the changed situation, post-1947, listened to her. 192,909of the 246,516 ballots cast in the Jaipur City constituency were in her favour. Guinness Book of Records used to record this at one time as the biggest landslide election victory. Don't know if it still holds good...
Of course, the clash of the titans was reserved for her fights with the real Maharani of India, Indira Gandhi. Reportedly because Gayatri Devi refused Indira Gandhi access to the cave where the Jaipur wealth was stored away, Indira Gandhi foisted an Income Tax case on her. This was followed by a five month stint for Gayatri Devi at Delhi’s notorious Tihar jail. The two continued to snarl at each other, till Indira Gandhi was assassinated in 1984.
In recent years, the Maharani had retired to a less active political life, though about ten years ago the Trinamool Congress was thinking of nominating her for a election contest. I think she gracefully refused, and, continued sipping champagne in the comfort of her many homes around the world. Whatever she may have or not been, she was the ultimate portrait of traditional regal beauty and grace.
I notice that some newspapers are calling her death, “The death of the last queen of India…” I think they are somewhat correct. With her, the princely India that claimed descent from the Sun and other Gods is gone…don’t know if the newly emerging royalty that is not able to claim divine ancestry can match the antics of the one just taking its curtain call…
Saturday, May 16, 2009
To Prem, with Love
Friday afternoons, more so the ones before a long weekend, have a tendency to introduce sleep. Yesterday, I was just heading down to get a coffee from the cafeteria around 2pm when an email from Judy Lendvay-Zwickl, the Director of Research at the Conference Board of Canada, made me sit up with shock...the message line said, 'Sad news about Prem' Intuitively, I guessed its contents. My friend, Prem Benimadhu had kept his last appointment in life...
Over the last few years I had been privileged to get to know this wonderful human being. Vice President at the very respected think-tank, the Conference Board of Canada, he was best known for his in-depth and brilliantly delivered forecast of the Canadian Human Resources scene every year. The annual 'ceremony' (yes. I call it a ceremony because Prem's presence made it one) in October where he unveiled his forecast of what salary growths etc. one could expect in the Canadian economy reminded me of similar occasions in the sixties when India's most prominent lawyer Nani Palkhivala used to analyze the budget every year on March 1, the day after it was delivered in Parliament, to an audience of economists and financial experts on the lawns of the colonial Cricket Club of India. It was an occasion to wait for and experience. The numbers one could always read off a presentation, the way Prem delivered them was what made the difference.
As a new Canadian and member of a visible minority I felt proud that one of my 'country cousins' (I intentionally use that word) had this oracle-like status, and, would puff up with pride as he answered questions with a gentleness that spoke of his deep wisdom. Born in Mauritius, Prem was totally fluent in French, and, God did I love the way he could intersperse his English comments with French, like a full-blooded True Norther...I could fall in love with the man just for that...
Very early in life I learnt that the best way to learn was not to enter into arguments with the wise, but, to just listen to them. So, I was content to let Prem do the talking while I sat back and listened, and, let his wisdom sink in. Once I suggested to him that we go out for lunch after the meeting. Somewhat gingerly I asked him if he like Indian food (don't know about these desis who have been outside for long). His eyes lit up and said a definite, "Yes." And that meal set the foundation for a friendship that I value.
Thereafter we went out for lunch a couple of times (it always was Indian food) and on one such occasion after I had got to know Prem and could foist my humour on him, I told him that we were country cousins. He corrected me and said, "No, we are not country cousins...we are bhaiyyas..." ('bhaiyyas' literally means 'brothers' in Hindi...however, the word "bhaiyya" is also a somewhat derogatory reference to the intellectual capabilities of the residents of the North Eastern states of India, UP and Bihar, made by their supposedly more intelligent South Indian counterparts...Prem's ancestors were from North Eastern India, and, I am from the South)
Working out at a gym some years ago, I saw Prem on TV being interviewed on an Asian channel and he was talking, yes, Hindi...Ever since then I have always ribbed him about the Hindi interview...he told me that he was surprised into speaking Hindi by the anchor...she hadn't told him that he would have to answer her questions in Hindi...btw, his Hindi was good and grammatical, not the Bambayya I spoke...
I told Prem once about the book I had co-authored, 'the Itinerant Indian',and, sent him a copy. I had actually told him that I would not autograph it, but, send it with a thumb impression as that was the way the colonials taught illiterate Indians to sign documents. Prem actually read the book, and, told me he liked my nostalgic account of the Indian Railways. Thereafter I have noticed that he used to introduce me as a published author. Once I added, "Yes, of a book that is competing with the Bible for the largest number of copies given away free..."
Whenever we met we talked, not of Labour Economics (in any case what I know of Labour Economics can be written on the back of a postage stamp with space to spare), but, of Indian weddings, food and strict parents. The last time we met I introduced him to South Indian cuisine and we talked about the menu I was planning for my daughter's upcoming wedding. He asked me 'How many guests ?' I said, 'About three hundred..." and, he said, "That is a small wedding by Indian standards..."
On that occasion, Prem took a fascination for the South Indian sambar (a tangy gravy made with tamarind) and I had promised to call him home and make it for him. Looks like you will have to take a rain check on that, Prem...
Wish you and yours much peace as you make this transition...
++++++
For those who have not met this wonderful person here is a link to the Conference Board's site
http://www.conferenceboard.ca/about-cboc/et/prembenimadhu.aspx
Over the last few years I had been privileged to get to know this wonderful human being. Vice President at the very respected think-tank, the Conference Board of Canada, he was best known for his in-depth and brilliantly delivered forecast of the Canadian Human Resources scene every year. The annual 'ceremony' (yes. I call it a ceremony because Prem's presence made it one) in October where he unveiled his forecast of what salary growths etc. one could expect in the Canadian economy reminded me of similar occasions in the sixties when India's most prominent lawyer Nani Palkhivala used to analyze the budget every year on March 1, the day after it was delivered in Parliament, to an audience of economists and financial experts on the lawns of the colonial Cricket Club of India. It was an occasion to wait for and experience. The numbers one could always read off a presentation, the way Prem delivered them was what made the difference.
As a new Canadian and member of a visible minority I felt proud that one of my 'country cousins' (I intentionally use that word) had this oracle-like status, and, would puff up with pride as he answered questions with a gentleness that spoke of his deep wisdom. Born in Mauritius, Prem was totally fluent in French, and, God did I love the way he could intersperse his English comments with French, like a full-blooded True Norther...I could fall in love with the man just for that...
Very early in life I learnt that the best way to learn was not to enter into arguments with the wise, but, to just listen to them. So, I was content to let Prem do the talking while I sat back and listened, and, let his wisdom sink in. Once I suggested to him that we go out for lunch after the meeting. Somewhat gingerly I asked him if he like Indian food (don't know about these desis who have been outside for long). His eyes lit up and said a definite, "Yes." And that meal set the foundation for a friendship that I value.
Thereafter we went out for lunch a couple of times (it always was Indian food) and on one such occasion after I had got to know Prem and could foist my humour on him, I told him that we were country cousins. He corrected me and said, "No, we are not country cousins...we are bhaiyyas..." ('bhaiyyas' literally means 'brothers' in Hindi...however, the word "bhaiyya" is also a somewhat derogatory reference to the intellectual capabilities of the residents of the North Eastern states of India, UP and Bihar, made by their supposedly more intelligent South Indian counterparts...Prem's ancestors were from North Eastern India, and, I am from the South)
Working out at a gym some years ago, I saw Prem on TV being interviewed on an Asian channel and he was talking, yes, Hindi...Ever since then I have always ribbed him about the Hindi interview...he told me that he was surprised into speaking Hindi by the anchor...she hadn't told him that he would have to answer her questions in Hindi...btw, his Hindi was good and grammatical, not the Bambayya I spoke...
I told Prem once about the book I had co-authored, 'the Itinerant Indian',and, sent him a copy. I had actually told him that I would not autograph it, but, send it with a thumb impression as that was the way the colonials taught illiterate Indians to sign documents. Prem actually read the book, and, told me he liked my nostalgic account of the Indian Railways. Thereafter I have noticed that he used to introduce me as a published author. Once I added, "Yes, of a book that is competing with the Bible for the largest number of copies given away free..."
Whenever we met we talked, not of Labour Economics (in any case what I know of Labour Economics can be written on the back of a postage stamp with space to spare), but, of Indian weddings, food and strict parents. The last time we met I introduced him to South Indian cuisine and we talked about the menu I was planning for my daughter's upcoming wedding. He asked me 'How many guests ?' I said, 'About three hundred..." and, he said, "That is a small wedding by Indian standards..."
On that occasion, Prem took a fascination for the South Indian sambar (a tangy gravy made with tamarind) and I had promised to call him home and make it for him. Looks like you will have to take a rain check on that, Prem...
Wish you and yours much peace as you make this transition...
++++++
For those who have not met this wonderful person here is a link to the Conference Board's site
http://www.conferenceboard.ca/about-cboc/et/prembenimadhu.aspx
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Dhanyoham asmi (I am thankful)
Some four years ago I had accompanied a close friend to the local police station when she had to file a complaint of marital harassment. As we sat in the parking lot I made a statement that could have been considered insensitive, "Everything we get, good or bad, is what we have desired for..." Most surprisingly, my friend looked at me and said, "That is so true...whatever has come my way is what I have worked to get into my life..."
My friend is by no means a psychotic. On the face of it she did not desire the marital harassment she had faced for over ten years. So, why was she agreeing with me instead of asking me to get out of the car and walk home for making rude and insensitive statements...
Over the last few weeks as I have faced some of the strongest work related pressures I have known, once again something has opened a vein within me. In 1995, for the first time in my life I lost a job. At that time, Deepak Chopra's books came into my life, and, also simultaneously the work of Ramana. In 2006, I had work related pressures pounding at my career and the work of my good friend Srikumar Rao in the form of 'Are you ready to succeed ?' came my way. This time, the Secret...In fact, a lot of what the Secret says is material that Srikumar has said in language understandable to those brought up in the Hindu/Buddhist cultures...I was going to ask Srikumar about the similarity, when I remember Srikumar's opening remarks at the seminars he holds, "If you have anything to argue about the ideas I am going to present, please remember that none of these ideas are mine. They have come from beings who have evolved themselves to a much higher stage of awareness...so really there is no quarrel you have to pick with me..." Generally this leads to much better discussion, and, the Secret opens in the same vein.
The principle is very simple, everything is out there in the stream of consciousness, like a magnet you attract to yourself to where you position yourself. This is fairly simple and obvious for the good stuff you attract to yourself, the wealth, the name, the fame etc.
Very difficult to see how you attract the bad stuff, the failures, the illnesses and all the stuff you don't want. Brought up with the theories of Karma it is easy for the believer in reincarnation to putting down your stomach ulcer to the fish you baited with fish hooks a few lives ago (an elder relative's explanation of his stomach ulcer to me...)
I have been a very reluctant believer in linear reincarnation, for the simple reason that there is nothing permanent to reincarnate. The theory of there being a flowing stream of consciousness which attracts things like a magnet is a more acceptable theory (emphasis on theory) to me.
Coming back to the Secret it seems to open up very clearly why we attract the 'bad' things that we do to ourselves. It is what we are scared of and constantly think about...the illnesses, the pains, the aches. In 1985 when I was living by myself in Bahrain, I remember reading a survey that in 8 cases out of 10 individuals who go through a major prolonged family separation come down with some major illness. Pronto, by end 1985 I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. Of course, the diabetes was also brought on by genetic factors and 35 years of eating starchy foods...what was important was that the news item triggered it off...for years I have known that reading that news item almost literally switched on the diabetes switch...I can talk of several such switches going on in my life, and, one that I recently switched off...
I could go on. I don't plan to. Is there an antidote to all this assuming that one needs an antidote ? Ramana (Maharishi) may not have needed an antidote and I remember talking to my wife about this...these pleasures of the bodily world made no attraction to the Ramanas...it was like having a plate of Hyderabadi lamb biryani cooked and kept on the table...would never attract me because I was not on that frequency...no reflection at all on the lamb biryani, it is just as beautiful a creation as any in God's world...Ramana was on a different frequency, and, like the Hyderabadi lamb biryani holds no attraction to me, the pleasures and otherwise of the world held no fascination for Ramana which was why he could stare ahead with equanimity...I leave it to you to decide if his state was an evolved state...
For those of us for whom the pleasures still hold an attraction, self very much at the top of the line, the first step is to give thanks. Very difficult when the chips are all down. I remember the story that Rajneesh used to tell. An old Jain sadhvi who was travelling came to the outskirts of a city only to find that the gates of the city had shut for the night. As she settled down to spend the night alone by herself she could start hearing the jackals baying, fear set in and she could not fall asleep. Then, she caught sight of the full moon and she suddenly realized that she had never seen the full moon in all its glory. The cool, calm light of the full moon in autumn (sharad jyotsna shubram Sankara described it as and it also features in his verse 'drisha drageeyasa...) lulled her to sleep. She awoke in the morning with thankfulness. Dhanyoham asmi, I am thankful, is the expression Sankara often used. Look around and in the darkest night when the wolves bay you will always see a full moon...you just need to look for the full moon, not the wolves...
And finally, the words of my good friend and mentor, Baba, Dr Phadnis. In the tradition of Vipassana there is a practice called Adittana, where you sit a full hour without movement of any sort. In the words of Baba, "If at the end of an hour's adittana sit you feel that you have accomplished something, then the whole practice is lost..." There is nothing "I" achieve. It is just being in the dance of the Divine Leela, for, as Ramesh says, "everything that the mind conjures up is a concept..."
If all this makes no sense and sounds like the words of a confused mind needing help, just listen to this song. MS Subbulakshmi, the well known Indian classical singer used to almost always sing it as the last song in her concerts. Essentially it says, "I have no complaints...You have given me everything..."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKdHPCw3K9c&feature=related
One of my favourite visualizations is to exit life listening to this song. So, for those who maybe near and around at that time, try and have a copy of the song ready -:))
My friend is by no means a psychotic. On the face of it she did not desire the marital harassment she had faced for over ten years. So, why was she agreeing with me instead of asking me to get out of the car and walk home for making rude and insensitive statements...
Over the last few weeks as I have faced some of the strongest work related pressures I have known, once again something has opened a vein within me. In 1995, for the first time in my life I lost a job. At that time, Deepak Chopra's books came into my life, and, also simultaneously the work of Ramana. In 2006, I had work related pressures pounding at my career and the work of my good friend Srikumar Rao in the form of 'Are you ready to succeed ?' came my way. This time, the Secret...In fact, a lot of what the Secret says is material that Srikumar has said in language understandable to those brought up in the Hindu/Buddhist cultures...I was going to ask Srikumar about the similarity, when I remember Srikumar's opening remarks at the seminars he holds, "If you have anything to argue about the ideas I am going to present, please remember that none of these ideas are mine. They have come from beings who have evolved themselves to a much higher stage of awareness...so really there is no quarrel you have to pick with me..." Generally this leads to much better discussion, and, the Secret opens in the same vein.
The principle is very simple, everything is out there in the stream of consciousness, like a magnet you attract to yourself to where you position yourself. This is fairly simple and obvious for the good stuff you attract to yourself, the wealth, the name, the fame etc.
Very difficult to see how you attract the bad stuff, the failures, the illnesses and all the stuff you don't want. Brought up with the theories of Karma it is easy for the believer in reincarnation to putting down your stomach ulcer to the fish you baited with fish hooks a few lives ago (an elder relative's explanation of his stomach ulcer to me...)
I have been a very reluctant believer in linear reincarnation, for the simple reason that there is nothing permanent to reincarnate. The theory of there being a flowing stream of consciousness which attracts things like a magnet is a more acceptable theory (emphasis on theory) to me.
Coming back to the Secret it seems to open up very clearly why we attract the 'bad' things that we do to ourselves. It is what we are scared of and constantly think about...the illnesses, the pains, the aches. In 1985 when I was living by myself in Bahrain, I remember reading a survey that in 8 cases out of 10 individuals who go through a major prolonged family separation come down with some major illness. Pronto, by end 1985 I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. Of course, the diabetes was also brought on by genetic factors and 35 years of eating starchy foods...what was important was that the news item triggered it off...for years I have known that reading that news item almost literally switched on the diabetes switch...I can talk of several such switches going on in my life, and, one that I recently switched off...
I could go on. I don't plan to. Is there an antidote to all this assuming that one needs an antidote ? Ramana (Maharishi) may not have needed an antidote and I remember talking to my wife about this...these pleasures of the bodily world made no attraction to the Ramanas...it was like having a plate of Hyderabadi lamb biryani cooked and kept on the table...would never attract me because I was not on that frequency...no reflection at all on the lamb biryani, it is just as beautiful a creation as any in God's world...Ramana was on a different frequency, and, like the Hyderabadi lamb biryani holds no attraction to me, the pleasures and otherwise of the world held no fascination for Ramana which was why he could stare ahead with equanimity...I leave it to you to decide if his state was an evolved state...
For those of us for whom the pleasures still hold an attraction, self very much at the top of the line, the first step is to give thanks. Very difficult when the chips are all down. I remember the story that Rajneesh used to tell. An old Jain sadhvi who was travelling came to the outskirts of a city only to find that the gates of the city had shut for the night. As she settled down to spend the night alone by herself she could start hearing the jackals baying, fear set in and she could not fall asleep. Then, she caught sight of the full moon and she suddenly realized that she had never seen the full moon in all its glory. The cool, calm light of the full moon in autumn (sharad jyotsna shubram Sankara described it as and it also features in his verse 'drisha drageeyasa...) lulled her to sleep. She awoke in the morning with thankfulness. Dhanyoham asmi, I am thankful, is the expression Sankara often used. Look around and in the darkest night when the wolves bay you will always see a full moon...you just need to look for the full moon, not the wolves...
And finally, the words of my good friend and mentor, Baba, Dr Phadnis. In the tradition of Vipassana there is a practice called Adittana, where you sit a full hour without movement of any sort. In the words of Baba, "If at the end of an hour's adittana sit you feel that you have accomplished something, then the whole practice is lost..." There is nothing "I" achieve. It is just being in the dance of the Divine Leela, for, as Ramesh says, "everything that the mind conjures up is a concept..."
If all this makes no sense and sounds like the words of a confused mind needing help, just listen to this song. MS Subbulakshmi, the well known Indian classical singer used to almost always sing it as the last song in her concerts. Essentially it says, "I have no complaints...You have given me everything..."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKdHPCw3K9c&feature=related
One of my favourite visualizations is to exit life listening to this song. So, for those who maybe near and around at that time, try and have a copy of the song ready -:))
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire
Yes. Last night, thanks to my son, I finally got to see Slumdog Millionaire.
(My rating:***stars. However, it has won 8 Oscars and that is all that matters)
Bollywood has finally arrived, albeit through the hands of a Brit…I can assure you that if the name Danny Boyle had not been stamped all over the film, it would not have had the success it has had…like the fact that while writing a book on Gandhi may get you the Nobel Prize, Gandhi himself would have never won the Nobel Peace Prize…or, the reality that the well known Indian poet Tagore qualified for the Nobel Prize in Literature only after Yeats ‘discovered’ him…the success of Slumdog Millionaire is a reassurance to all my white friends that they still rule the world, and, the likes of Hindustan will always need their approval before they can make it big…God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the still Rudyard Kipling-esque world…
It is interesting that a Brit made the film…for I believe that while many white races ruled parts of India it is only the Brits who understood it well enough to really rule it and milk it thoroughly…much better than even the locally born politicians of today can…the film has that understanding stamped all over it…
The point here is that I cannot see an American making Slumdog Millionaire, a Canadian perhaps, yes, but, Canadians are more British than Americans are…and now, of course, there is a reverse colonialism of sorts for I read in a restaurant menu the other day, “Chikken Tikka Masala, the national dish of Britain…” as a close relative of mine once said, “The Indian restaurants on London’s Drummond Street are perhaps the best payback Britain is getting for two hundred and fifty years of the Raj…”
To those of my white friends who keep asking me, “Does Slumdog really show the true India ?” in the tone of someone wanting confirmation that the ghosts and ghouls in Shyamalan’s horror films really exist, the answer is Yes. That is India…
at the same time I can assure them that I can take them to parts of downtown Detroit or even Toronto that would qualify for similar status…
Also, for those of us Mumbaikars who have grown up in the city when it was Bombay, just remember the ‘sixties song that Uma and Usha, the daughters of the then Police Commissioner of Bombay sang:
Come from England, Come from Scotland, Come from Ayre-land
Come from Holland, Come from Poland, Come from any land
Come to Bombay, Come to Bombay, Bombay meri Hai
(Bombay meri Hai, Bombay is mine)
…..
The ladies are nice
The girls are full of spice
Bombay Meri Hai…
Yes, along with the cess pools like the one the young Jamal falls into, in his quest for Amitabh’s autograph, there is a spirit and spunk to Bombay that really makes us, Mumbaikars, say, Bombay Meri Hai, in the spirit of a mother hugging her child…
One more point, the movie is a testament to the Westminster-style liberalism that the Brits built up in India, fostered subsequently by the Nehrus of the world (more English than the English as several people in India maintain)… that a senior Indian diplomat, currently the Deputy High Commissioner in Pretoria, authored the book ‘Q&A’ on which the movie is based…I cannot think of many so-called bastions of western style freedom of speech, where a serving civil servant would not lose his job for writing such an expose of the underbelly…the President of India actually congratulated Vikas Swarup when Slumdog bagged all the Oscars that it did…and catch the Chinese allowing such a film on the cess pools of Shanghai !!...which I am sure exist…
I also believe that Slumdog won the awards that it has because it gives expression to the human belief that things will finally always change for the better, particularly in these recessionary days...like the other myth that good ultimately triumphs over evil…
Time and again we have heard of rags to riches stories, and, we always believe that one day each of us is destined to find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and life will change for the better thereafter.
There is a saying attributed to the Buddha that two mountains of gold will not be sufficient to satisfy the cravings of a single human, and, once the two mountains of gold come your way you will still want the third, and, the fourth…and the ending of Slumdog Millionaire and the finale fantasy dance of Jai Ho (may there be success) in between two trains on a Bombay suburban platform summarizes the human dream, fantasy or hope, choose the word you want to…
Jai Ho
PS--- Never again will I be able to listen to the bhajan ‘darshan do ghanshyam nath…’ without flinching…it is one of my favourites and Slumdog has put a new perspective on it…
PPS --- I had answers to all the questions including the Jeff Hobbs one. Does that get me the twenty million ?
(My rating:***stars. However, it has won 8 Oscars and that is all that matters)
Bollywood has finally arrived, albeit through the hands of a Brit…I can assure you that if the name Danny Boyle had not been stamped all over the film, it would not have had the success it has had…like the fact that while writing a book on Gandhi may get you the Nobel Prize, Gandhi himself would have never won the Nobel Peace Prize…or, the reality that the well known Indian poet Tagore qualified for the Nobel Prize in Literature only after Yeats ‘discovered’ him…the success of Slumdog Millionaire is a reassurance to all my white friends that they still rule the world, and, the likes of Hindustan will always need their approval before they can make it big…God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the still Rudyard Kipling-esque world…
It is interesting that a Brit made the film…for I believe that while many white races ruled parts of India it is only the Brits who understood it well enough to really rule it and milk it thoroughly…much better than even the locally born politicians of today can…the film has that understanding stamped all over it…
The point here is that I cannot see an American making Slumdog Millionaire, a Canadian perhaps, yes, but, Canadians are more British than Americans are…and now, of course, there is a reverse colonialism of sorts for I read in a restaurant menu the other day, “Chikken Tikka Masala, the national dish of Britain…” as a close relative of mine once said, “The Indian restaurants on London’s Drummond Street are perhaps the best payback Britain is getting for two hundred and fifty years of the Raj…”
To those of my white friends who keep asking me, “Does Slumdog really show the true India ?” in the tone of someone wanting confirmation that the ghosts and ghouls in Shyamalan’s horror films really exist, the answer is Yes. That is India…
at the same time I can assure them that I can take them to parts of downtown Detroit or even Toronto that would qualify for similar status…
Also, for those of us Mumbaikars who have grown up in the city when it was Bombay, just remember the ‘sixties song that Uma and Usha, the daughters of the then Police Commissioner of Bombay sang:
Come from England, Come from Scotland, Come from Ayre-land
Come from Holland, Come from Poland, Come from any land
Come to Bombay, Come to Bombay, Bombay meri Hai
(Bombay meri Hai, Bombay is mine)
…..
The ladies are nice
The girls are full of spice
Bombay Meri Hai…
Yes, along with the cess pools like the one the young Jamal falls into, in his quest for Amitabh’s autograph, there is a spirit and spunk to Bombay that really makes us, Mumbaikars, say, Bombay Meri Hai, in the spirit of a mother hugging her child…
One more point, the movie is a testament to the Westminster-style liberalism that the Brits built up in India, fostered subsequently by the Nehrus of the world (more English than the English as several people in India maintain)… that a senior Indian diplomat, currently the Deputy High Commissioner in Pretoria, authored the book ‘Q&A’ on which the movie is based…I cannot think of many so-called bastions of western style freedom of speech, where a serving civil servant would not lose his job for writing such an expose of the underbelly…the President of India actually congratulated Vikas Swarup when Slumdog bagged all the Oscars that it did…and catch the Chinese allowing such a film on the cess pools of Shanghai !!...which I am sure exist…
I also believe that Slumdog won the awards that it has because it gives expression to the human belief that things will finally always change for the better, particularly in these recessionary days...like the other myth that good ultimately triumphs over evil…
Time and again we have heard of rags to riches stories, and, we always believe that one day each of us is destined to find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and life will change for the better thereafter.
There is a saying attributed to the Buddha that two mountains of gold will not be sufficient to satisfy the cravings of a single human, and, once the two mountains of gold come your way you will still want the third, and, the fourth…and the ending of Slumdog Millionaire and the finale fantasy dance of Jai Ho (may there be success) in between two trains on a Bombay suburban platform summarizes the human dream, fantasy or hope, choose the word you want to…
Jai Ho
PS--- Never again will I be able to listen to the bhajan ‘darshan do ghanshyam nath…’ without flinching…it is one of my favourites and Slumdog has put a new perspective on it…
PPS --- I had answers to all the questions including the Jeff Hobbs one. Does that get me the twenty million ?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thanks, Dad
My first memory of him was of him standing on the pier at Southampton waving to us as the ssCarthage docked. He was wearing a light coloured jacket and had come to receive us as we joined him…that was my father…Dad to me, Mr KN Ramanathan, Anna and other terms to the rest of the world…
For the next thirty one years we were together…there were occasions when Dad and I did not see eye to eye…like the occasion, as an eighteen year old, I wrote an article supporting legalizing abortions and Khushwant Singh published it in the Illustrated Weekly under the bye line, KR Ramanathan…and somebody called Dad to congratulate him on his progressive viewpoint...Dad had nothing for or against legalizing abortions…the only thing was that he felt that it should not be mistaken that a retired General Manager of the Press Trust of India, a leading Theosophist and a much respected senior was talking about these apparently (to him) frivolous things…so he told me, “I have nothing against what you write…please use the name Raja Ramanathan when you write in future…so that people do not think it is me writing…”
I had the bug to write very early in life…brought on by all the articles that Dorai Anna was writing…so, at age five I once scribbled the alphabet or something like that, stole money from Akka’s wallet for the postage and posted it to "the Hindu" office in London…I also enclosed a one Pound note since I had heard that one had to pay the newspapers to publish your thoughts…whoever received the letter recognized the address and called up Anna, who was the seniormost Indian journalist in London then and asked him to come and collect the note (I think one Pound wasn’t enough for them...more may have done the trick...)…he came home that evening and asked me where I got the money from…I told him, a la George Washington of cherry tree fame and others, “from Akka’s wallet”…he laughed and told Akka, “…this child wants to write that is why he stole the money…I will help him…” from then on, I would write and he taught me how to type since he told me that all articles had to be typed and I would have submit them for his review…I could type much before I could write full sentences in long hand…he also wanted me to learn shorthand, and, paid my fees several times over to achieve this, which never came to pass…nothing ever got published, till Chandy and Annie took pity on me and put my articles in "the Itinerant Indian", but, it taught me much about how to deal with a child stealing money to do something he wanted to…
Throughout his life he never disciplined me (Dorai Anna may say, “Yes. That was the problem…”)…he would always make his point, sometime forcefully, and, then move on…yet, most importantly, if you made a mistake doing it the way you thought was good, he was there to bail you out…and that was another parenting lesson I learnt, “As long as I am alive, and, this house is there, you and your family have a meal here…” he was the ultimate safe haven, a place you could go to when there were storms raging and fires burning all around…
When we learnt that his old duodenal ulcer had turned into a carcinoma, I remember praying that he would pass away without having to suffer the pain of cancer or live the indignity of being connected to tubes…I am, given my limited perspective of life and pain, happy to report that prayer was answered…he died as they were strengthening his lungs prior to fixing a date for radical surgery…he did not have to live connected to tubes…
I remember the evening, February 28, twenty eight years ago, when he was already in a coma for about twelve hours…suddenly his body heaved and Akka who was by his side, realized what was happening…breaking into tears herself, she told me to recite the Universal Prayer, written by Dr Besant, his mentor, as the breaths started slowing down and Dad moved into the great beyond...
O Hidden Life vibrant in every atom
O Hidden Light shining in every creature
O Hidden Love embracing all in oneness
May each who knows himself as
One with thee
Know he is therefore
One with every other
And that is my last memory of him…
Thanks, Dad wherever you are
PS--- Goenkaji, I am slowly beginning to sense what you mean when you say, “The debt you owe to your parents can never be paid off, however many lives you live…”
For the next thirty one years we were together…there were occasions when Dad and I did not see eye to eye…like the occasion, as an eighteen year old, I wrote an article supporting legalizing abortions and Khushwant Singh published it in the Illustrated Weekly under the bye line, KR Ramanathan…and somebody called Dad to congratulate him on his progressive viewpoint...Dad had nothing for or against legalizing abortions…the only thing was that he felt that it should not be mistaken that a retired General Manager of the Press Trust of India, a leading Theosophist and a much respected senior was talking about these apparently (to him) frivolous things…so he told me, “I have nothing against what you write…please use the name Raja Ramanathan when you write in future…so that people do not think it is me writing…”
I had the bug to write very early in life…brought on by all the articles that Dorai Anna was writing…so, at age five I once scribbled the alphabet or something like that, stole money from Akka’s wallet for the postage and posted it to "the Hindu" office in London…I also enclosed a one Pound note since I had heard that one had to pay the newspapers to publish your thoughts…whoever received the letter recognized the address and called up Anna, who was the seniormost Indian journalist in London then and asked him to come and collect the note (I think one Pound wasn’t enough for them...more may have done the trick...)…he came home that evening and asked me where I got the money from…I told him, a la George Washington of cherry tree fame and others, “from Akka’s wallet”…he laughed and told Akka, “…this child wants to write that is why he stole the money…I will help him…” from then on, I would write and he taught me how to type since he told me that all articles had to be typed and I would have submit them for his review…I could type much before I could write full sentences in long hand…he also wanted me to learn shorthand, and, paid my fees several times over to achieve this, which never came to pass…nothing ever got published, till Chandy and Annie took pity on me and put my articles in "the Itinerant Indian", but, it taught me much about how to deal with a child stealing money to do something he wanted to…
Throughout his life he never disciplined me (Dorai Anna may say, “Yes. That was the problem…”)…he would always make his point, sometime forcefully, and, then move on…yet, most importantly, if you made a mistake doing it the way you thought was good, he was there to bail you out…and that was another parenting lesson I learnt, “As long as I am alive, and, this house is there, you and your family have a meal here…” he was the ultimate safe haven, a place you could go to when there were storms raging and fires burning all around…
When we learnt that his old duodenal ulcer had turned into a carcinoma, I remember praying that he would pass away without having to suffer the pain of cancer or live the indignity of being connected to tubes…I am, given my limited perspective of life and pain, happy to report that prayer was answered…he died as they were strengthening his lungs prior to fixing a date for radical surgery…he did not have to live connected to tubes…
I remember the evening, February 28, twenty eight years ago, when he was already in a coma for about twelve hours…suddenly his body heaved and Akka who was by his side, realized what was happening…breaking into tears herself, she told me to recite the Universal Prayer, written by Dr Besant, his mentor, as the breaths started slowing down and Dad moved into the great beyond...
O Hidden Life vibrant in every atom
O Hidden Light shining in every creature
O Hidden Love embracing all in oneness
May each who knows himself as
One with thee
Know he is therefore
One with every other
And that is my last memory of him…
Thanks, Dad wherever you are
PS--- Goenkaji, I am slowly beginning to sense what you mean when you say, “The debt you owe to your parents can never be paid off, however many lives you live…”
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Yours wistfully
Surfing aimlessly across the internet yesterday, I stumbled across a collection of official correspondence of Dr Rajendra Prasad, the first President of India…Most of the letters in the collection dated to 1959 and as I have heard of a 50-year archiving rule before they become public I think the letters must have just been released…
Rajen Babu as he was known, was, to begin with, a brilliant lawyer having topped several Calcutta (?) University exams before going on to get his Doctor of Laws…he subsequently became quite a renowned lawyer in Bhagalpur…till his skill at writing petitions on behalf of the indigo workers of Champaran brought him to the attention of Gandhi…and the rest, as they say, is history…
His official correspondence as President of India gives us a wonderful whiff at the simple and at the same time brilliant mind of this very great man…all the values of the Gandhian freedom fighters come through, and, the also the first hints of transition away…for example, there is a very interesting piece of correspondence between him and Nehru (hereinafter referred to as Panditji) about the size of the delegation, consisting of largely family members, that Rajen Babu took on a state visit to Ceylon…Nehru starts off by saying that we need to be sensitive to the strain these state visits put on the host country…and Rajen Babu, in the end, acknowledging that he would definitely keep this in mind for the future…
In the correspondence that I read, Sri Prakasa, then the Governor of Bombay, and, Govind Ballabh Pant, the then Home Minister come through as his closest friends…Sri Prakasa and he have exchanged letters on how Rajen Babu felt that Sri Prakasa should not take the Night Air Mail flight to Delhi (remember that institution of the ‘50s/ ‘60s, the planes coming from Bombay, Delhi, Madras and Calcutta to Nagpur, and, going back with the mail) because it would tire him…and Sri Prakasa saying how it would save money…catch any Governor of today caring for such things…
The gentle humanness of Rajen Babu is so transparent…Padmaja Naidu, the then Governor of West Bengal and Sarojini Naidu’s daughter is ill with a temperature and heading to Delhi for a Governors’ conference…Rajen Babu tells her, “Come and stay at Rashtrapati Bhavan so that I can have you properly looked after…”
The Gandhian in him comes through clearly in the numerous letters where he refuses invitations to serve on Committees or recommend friends from the past to jobs…”it would not be appropriate for me in my present role to do so. I hope you will understand…” he says time and again to friends he spent time in British jails with. The only occasion I see him express an interest is when the veteran Gandhian, G. Ramachandran asks him to join the Trust of the institution he is setting up in Gandhigram, near Madurai…”Let me talk to the Prime Minister about this,” Rajen Babu says…
The camaraderie of the freedom fighters is evident in every affectionate letter that he writes…whether it be on the death of a family member…a marriage he cannot attend…or just inquiring about their health…”Keep me informed of how you are recovering” he tells so many of his former jail mates and they do…and his affectionate notes to the families as his colleagues pass away…”It is inevitable, but that does not reduce the pain. I am with you…” is his constant refrain...
Some of the letters also very deeply reflect the strong chasm that existed between Rajen Babu and Panditji…Rajen Babu was definitely old school Gandhian…Panditji talked of the hydro electric dams being the temples of modern India…there is a twelve page letter he has written to Panditji on what he feels needs to be done to help the country…which includes introducing Gandhiji’s “Nayi Talim”, basic education, making Hindi the official language and providing incentives for Khandsari (home made jaggery) projects…wish I were a fly on the wall to see and hear Panditji’s responses to his suggestions…
Rajen Babu was not Panditji’s choice for President of India…Panditji would have preferred Rajaji…and that comes through in their world view…in one letter Panditji tells him that it would be preferable if he called him to discuss these different views rather than write about them…this is one place where Rajen Babu tells Panditji to go fly a kite…he feels it is his constitutional obligation to communicate his thoughts and he intends to do so the way he choses…
I would have loved to read the correspondence that must have been exchanged in 1955 between Panditji and Rajen Babu over the Hindu Code Bill…At one stage Rajen Babu who was opposed to the Bill had told Panditji that he would not sign it…Nehru bluntly told him that the President was a ceremonial role and that he had no option but to sign it…
Somewhat prophetic is also his letter to Panditji asking him to ensure that the coming budget (1960) provided enough money to defend the border with China…
Despite their differences they were old colleagues and there is an affectionate letter from Nehru inviting Rajen Babu to join him and the Cabinet for lunch on December 3, 1959, which was Rajen Babu’s seventy fifth birthday…and Rajen Babu’s acknowledgement of the invitation is equally touching…
There is an old world wistfulness that I experienced as I read these letters…a world where even politics was gentlemanly…it reminded me of the walk I took in Besant Nagar during this holiday one Saturday morning…after a few minutes it struck me that there was no fragrance of idlis and sambar cooking any more and no one played MS’ Suprabatham anymore, like they used to in the ‘70s…they are gone, and, so is the spirit of Rajen Babu and his letters…gone…
And then the realization...”Change,” they say is the only, “permanent thing…”
Rajen Babu as he was known, was, to begin with, a brilliant lawyer having topped several Calcutta (?) University exams before going on to get his Doctor of Laws…he subsequently became quite a renowned lawyer in Bhagalpur…till his skill at writing petitions on behalf of the indigo workers of Champaran brought him to the attention of Gandhi…and the rest, as they say, is history…
His official correspondence as President of India gives us a wonderful whiff at the simple and at the same time brilliant mind of this very great man…all the values of the Gandhian freedom fighters come through, and, the also the first hints of transition away…for example, there is a very interesting piece of correspondence between him and Nehru (hereinafter referred to as Panditji) about the size of the delegation, consisting of largely family members, that Rajen Babu took on a state visit to Ceylon…Nehru starts off by saying that we need to be sensitive to the strain these state visits put on the host country…and Rajen Babu, in the end, acknowledging that he would definitely keep this in mind for the future…
In the correspondence that I read, Sri Prakasa, then the Governor of Bombay, and, Govind Ballabh Pant, the then Home Minister come through as his closest friends…Sri Prakasa and he have exchanged letters on how Rajen Babu felt that Sri Prakasa should not take the Night Air Mail flight to Delhi (remember that institution of the ‘50s/ ‘60s, the planes coming from Bombay, Delhi, Madras and Calcutta to Nagpur, and, going back with the mail) because it would tire him…and Sri Prakasa saying how it would save money…catch any Governor of today caring for such things…
The gentle humanness of Rajen Babu is so transparent…Padmaja Naidu, the then Governor of West Bengal and Sarojini Naidu’s daughter is ill with a temperature and heading to Delhi for a Governors’ conference…Rajen Babu tells her, “Come and stay at Rashtrapati Bhavan so that I can have you properly looked after…”
The Gandhian in him comes through clearly in the numerous letters where he refuses invitations to serve on Committees or recommend friends from the past to jobs…”it would not be appropriate for me in my present role to do so. I hope you will understand…” he says time and again to friends he spent time in British jails with. The only occasion I see him express an interest is when the veteran Gandhian, G. Ramachandran asks him to join the Trust of the institution he is setting up in Gandhigram, near Madurai…”Let me talk to the Prime Minister about this,” Rajen Babu says…
The camaraderie of the freedom fighters is evident in every affectionate letter that he writes…whether it be on the death of a family member…a marriage he cannot attend…or just inquiring about their health…”Keep me informed of how you are recovering” he tells so many of his former jail mates and they do…and his affectionate notes to the families as his colleagues pass away…”It is inevitable, but that does not reduce the pain. I am with you…” is his constant refrain...
Some of the letters also very deeply reflect the strong chasm that existed between Rajen Babu and Panditji…Rajen Babu was definitely old school Gandhian…Panditji talked of the hydro electric dams being the temples of modern India…there is a twelve page letter he has written to Panditji on what he feels needs to be done to help the country…which includes introducing Gandhiji’s “Nayi Talim”, basic education, making Hindi the official language and providing incentives for Khandsari (home made jaggery) projects…wish I were a fly on the wall to see and hear Panditji’s responses to his suggestions…
Rajen Babu was not Panditji’s choice for President of India…Panditji would have preferred Rajaji…and that comes through in their world view…in one letter Panditji tells him that it would be preferable if he called him to discuss these different views rather than write about them…this is one place where Rajen Babu tells Panditji to go fly a kite…he feels it is his constitutional obligation to communicate his thoughts and he intends to do so the way he choses…
I would have loved to read the correspondence that must have been exchanged in 1955 between Panditji and Rajen Babu over the Hindu Code Bill…At one stage Rajen Babu who was opposed to the Bill had told Panditji that he would not sign it…Nehru bluntly told him that the President was a ceremonial role and that he had no option but to sign it…
Somewhat prophetic is also his letter to Panditji asking him to ensure that the coming budget (1960) provided enough money to defend the border with China…
Despite their differences they were old colleagues and there is an affectionate letter from Nehru inviting Rajen Babu to join him and the Cabinet for lunch on December 3, 1959, which was Rajen Babu’s seventy fifth birthday…and Rajen Babu’s acknowledgement of the invitation is equally touching…
There is an old world wistfulness that I experienced as I read these letters…a world where even politics was gentlemanly…it reminded me of the walk I took in Besant Nagar during this holiday one Saturday morning…after a few minutes it struck me that there was no fragrance of idlis and sambar cooking any more and no one played MS’ Suprabatham anymore, like they used to in the ‘70s…they are gone, and, so is the spirit of Rajen Babu and his letters…gone…
And then the realization...”Change,” they say is the only, “permanent thing…”
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The sage of Sindhula
It is now a week since we came back from India…the stomach is slowly settling back to the North American sterility…the glow of the warmth of the humanness that dominated the last four weeks alongside with the constantly upset stomach is beginning to become a memory…and the snow banks bring one back to the reality of the moment…the warmth was there, gone, the cold, snow is here, that is all that is real…the search for the next trip is the mind’s desire to re-enact enjoyable experiences and ignore the coldness of the snow…
As I sit back and look at the four weeks one experience stands out for me as going beyond words…and being the fool that I am, I shall try to put it in words…
Whenever in Bombay I have always tried to go and spend sometime in the presence of the sage of Sindhula (on Nowroji Gamadia Road), Ramesh Balsekar…this time, with my constantly upset stomach I was not sure that I would be able to do so…however, one morning, I think it was on Christmas Eve, I was able to manage to make it in between a breakfast date with my daughter and son-in-law at the Taj President and a shopping appointment…
After a quick breakfast at the Taj President I caught a taxi and got off about kilometre ahead of the correct intersection, more by mistake than design…as I walked through the early morning Bombay traffic I realized how out of shape I was, physically, and, mentally ?
Balsekar’s satsangs used to start at 9.00am and the watchman would let us in by 8.50am. So, when I reached at 8.45am, I was a little surprised when he told me that the satsangs now started at 9.30am, and, I could go up at 9.20am. My North American efficiency was offended…why had they not changed the posting on the website ? I could have spent another half hour in air conditioned comfort at the Taj President ? Supposedly the anger of an organized mind…in reality the sputterings of one’s ego that is caught up in ideas…
I sat myself down on the steps of Sindhula building and watched the motley crowd of satsangis come…a white woman who looked like a relic of the hippie revolution…a forty something Indian woman who looked like a liberated lesbian from Lamington Road…men in shorts and a man trying to find place to park his Mercedes…and then, of course, Shirish who is Balsekar’s aide de camp…Shirish recognized me and we spoke…I didn’t see his wife Kalindi, didn’t ask him…maybe they are no longer together…
The watchman let us in at 9.10 and I used the somewhat rickety lift of Sindhula
Balsekar is now past ninety and has undergo surgeries…he is very frail and uses a walker to move around…so much has changed since I first met him in 2002…there is still fire in him, but, it burns differently, not with the crackle that was there in 2002…
These days Balsekar does not talk much…they play a video of one of his talks and he sometimes makes a comment or if someone asks a question responds to the question…
He came in, and, the Liberated Lesbian gave him a hug…he sat down, wiped his mouth with the clean hand towel he always has…looked around to survey the motely crowd in front of him…I was swinging away on the jhoola and somehow decided to be more respectful when he caught my eye and moved to a chair…
The video came on and a Balsekar of some ten years earlier was talking with a person who was a medical doctor…the difference between the sage and the common human is that the sage has no sense of personal doership…the sense of personal doership is what distinguishes the human from the sage and the animal…
JP Singh who records Balsekar’s talks had told me to jot down any questions and ask Balsekar towards the end…he gave me a book and I made furious notes…Why does the Source create a sense of personal doership as the sense of personal doership seems to the cause of all trouble ?
Waited, like back in the IIMA days to get the maximum impact for my question…my friend Ramki whom I met in Chennai with whom I appeared for the IIMA group discussion tells me that in 1969 I was adept at making a comment in a group discussion at the most advantageous moment…creating a stir and then going off to sleep…
And then, I caught the sage’s eye…went in front of him, sat down on the cushion, and, introduced myself as Dr Phadnis’ friend, uncle of Radha, Dr Phadnis’ daughter-in-law…unlike in the past, the sage nodded in recognition, not with much warmth…I was disappointed…I remember how happy I had been when once he told me that ‘Yes. I can see you are Radha’s uncle…she looks like you very much…’ the mind had been hoping for that sort of a stroke…the guru had a different message this time…
With all the deftness of the logic that years of academic learning has given me I logicked with Ramesh, like I had with Swami Chinmayananda forty years ago…”If the feeling of doership is the root cause of the problems, why does the Source, supposedly infinte in compassion give us that ?”…I asked the sage…
Diamond cuts diamond is what comes to my mind…but that is presumptuous for I am no diamond…the diamond of Balsekar’s mind honed with enlightenment and his own academic training at LSE bore down on me…
“What are you ? He raised his fingers, pointed at me, ‘you are just a three dimensional object’ How do you presume that with this limited, defined in space time and mind you will understand the infinite ? Just accept that it is part of the divine hypnosis, Leela and stop struggling…”
I bent down to do pranam and he accepted the bowed head…I was about to get up and go when I sensed that the sage was not done with me…
“What did you think of the video ? All the questions that the doctor kept asking ?”
I hesitated, not knowing what to say…”I think his search was deep and hence all the questions…” I uttered the words without really having something to say…
The sage looked at me deep…picked up his clean hand towel and wiped his mouth and swallowed…”You know when you ask a question, try and see why you ask a question…there has to be sincerity in asking a question…not the pride that goes with the assumption that you have the answers…the sense that I have to cross examine this man to get at the truth…the Guru does not work that way…when you come to me, keep yourself open, not full of your ideas…if you have too many ideas that keep surfacing you will never be able to hear what the Guru has to say…to hear the Guru you have to be humble, not cross examining with pride…”
The sage had nothing further to say…he once again wiped his mouth with the clean hand towel…beckoned to the next questioner…to me it sounds like the words of Krishna
Athava bahunai tena
kim gya’tena tava’rjuna
vishtabhyaham idam sarvam
ekam sena’stito jagat
Of what use is this knowledge to you Arjuna ?
All that you need to know is that in a fraction of myself I sustain the whole Universe
I am still not listening with emptiness…the mind is still showing off, dancing a jig to show how much I have read and now…when all that shit diarrheas out of the system then I will be ready for the sage…
----
As I sit back and look at the four weeks one experience stands out for me as going beyond words…and being the fool that I am, I shall try to put it in words…
Whenever in Bombay I have always tried to go and spend sometime in the presence of the sage of Sindhula (on Nowroji Gamadia Road), Ramesh Balsekar…this time, with my constantly upset stomach I was not sure that I would be able to do so…however, one morning, I think it was on Christmas Eve, I was able to manage to make it in between a breakfast date with my daughter and son-in-law at the Taj President and a shopping appointment…
After a quick breakfast at the Taj President I caught a taxi and got off about kilometre ahead of the correct intersection, more by mistake than design…as I walked through the early morning Bombay traffic I realized how out of shape I was, physically, and, mentally ?
Balsekar’s satsangs used to start at 9.00am and the watchman would let us in by 8.50am. So, when I reached at 8.45am, I was a little surprised when he told me that the satsangs now started at 9.30am, and, I could go up at 9.20am. My North American efficiency was offended…why had they not changed the posting on the website ? I could have spent another half hour in air conditioned comfort at the Taj President ? Supposedly the anger of an organized mind…in reality the sputterings of one’s ego that is caught up in ideas…
I sat myself down on the steps of Sindhula building and watched the motley crowd of satsangis come…a white woman who looked like a relic of the hippie revolution…a forty something Indian woman who looked like a liberated lesbian from Lamington Road…men in shorts and a man trying to find place to park his Mercedes…and then, of course, Shirish who is Balsekar’s aide de camp…Shirish recognized me and we spoke…I didn’t see his wife Kalindi, didn’t ask him…maybe they are no longer together…
The watchman let us in at 9.10 and I used the somewhat rickety lift of Sindhula
Balsekar is now past ninety and has undergo surgeries…he is very frail and uses a walker to move around…so much has changed since I first met him in 2002…there is still fire in him, but, it burns differently, not with the crackle that was there in 2002…
These days Balsekar does not talk much…they play a video of one of his talks and he sometimes makes a comment or if someone asks a question responds to the question…
He came in, and, the Liberated Lesbian gave him a hug…he sat down, wiped his mouth with the clean hand towel he always has…looked around to survey the motely crowd in front of him…I was swinging away on the jhoola and somehow decided to be more respectful when he caught my eye and moved to a chair…
The video came on and a Balsekar of some ten years earlier was talking with a person who was a medical doctor…the difference between the sage and the common human is that the sage has no sense of personal doership…the sense of personal doership is what distinguishes the human from the sage and the animal…
JP Singh who records Balsekar’s talks had told me to jot down any questions and ask Balsekar towards the end…he gave me a book and I made furious notes…Why does the Source create a sense of personal doership as the sense of personal doership seems to the cause of all trouble ?
Waited, like back in the IIMA days to get the maximum impact for my question…my friend Ramki whom I met in Chennai with whom I appeared for the IIMA group discussion tells me that in 1969 I was adept at making a comment in a group discussion at the most advantageous moment…creating a stir and then going off to sleep…
And then, I caught the sage’s eye…went in front of him, sat down on the cushion, and, introduced myself as Dr Phadnis’ friend, uncle of Radha, Dr Phadnis’ daughter-in-law…unlike in the past, the sage nodded in recognition, not with much warmth…I was disappointed…I remember how happy I had been when once he told me that ‘Yes. I can see you are Radha’s uncle…she looks like you very much…’ the mind had been hoping for that sort of a stroke…the guru had a different message this time…
With all the deftness of the logic that years of academic learning has given me I logicked with Ramesh, like I had with Swami Chinmayananda forty years ago…”If the feeling of doership is the root cause of the problems, why does the Source, supposedly infinte in compassion give us that ?”…I asked the sage…
Diamond cuts diamond is what comes to my mind…but that is presumptuous for I am no diamond…the diamond of Balsekar’s mind honed with enlightenment and his own academic training at LSE bore down on me…
“What are you ? He raised his fingers, pointed at me, ‘you are just a three dimensional object’ How do you presume that with this limited, defined in space time and mind you will understand the infinite ? Just accept that it is part of the divine hypnosis, Leela and stop struggling…”
I bent down to do pranam and he accepted the bowed head…I was about to get up and go when I sensed that the sage was not done with me…
“What did you think of the video ? All the questions that the doctor kept asking ?”
I hesitated, not knowing what to say…”I think his search was deep and hence all the questions…” I uttered the words without really having something to say…
The sage looked at me deep…picked up his clean hand towel and wiped his mouth and swallowed…”You know when you ask a question, try and see why you ask a question…there has to be sincerity in asking a question…not the pride that goes with the assumption that you have the answers…the sense that I have to cross examine this man to get at the truth…the Guru does not work that way…when you come to me, keep yourself open, not full of your ideas…if you have too many ideas that keep surfacing you will never be able to hear what the Guru has to say…to hear the Guru you have to be humble, not cross examining with pride…”
The sage had nothing further to say…he once again wiped his mouth with the clean hand towel…beckoned to the next questioner…to me it sounds like the words of Krishna
Athava bahunai tena
kim gya’tena tava’rjuna
vishtabhyaham idam sarvam
ekam sena’stito jagat
Of what use is this knowledge to you Arjuna ?
All that you need to know is that in a fraction of myself I sustain the whole Universe
I am still not listening with emptiness…the mind is still showing off, dancing a jig to show how much I have read and now…when all that shit diarrheas out of the system then I will be ready for the sage…
----
The White Tiger
The White Tiger, a review
Very rarely, in recent years, have I sat through and read a book from cover to cover, at one sitting...yesterday evening, around 5pm, I took up Aravind Adiga's "The White Tiger"...I had seen the book in India, read reviews and yesterday discovered that beti pyaari had picked up a copy...
Started reading it with the usual scepticism.. .however, as the pages passed, it gripped me...sat till around 10pm reading the book before I nodded off...given the fact that by 10pm I have generally been asleep for about two hours, this should give you an indicator of how I was absorbed...finished the 250+ pages of the book this afternoon...
The fact that I have just returned from India, and, this book is all about what is happening within India perhaps made it so immediately absorbing... and then, a lot of the book is set in Gurgaon and I had just been in Gurgaon, and, could relate to all that was being said...I could recognize the malls and the Buckingham and Windsor mansions...this book gives one dimension of the changing face of India...or, in reality, is there a change at all, or, have just the players and the stage changed ?
The irreverence of the book was what held my attention to begin with...the writer describes Krishna (of the Bhagavad Gita fame) as one more chauffeur... and the descriptions of the filth of the Ganges...the book ends with the same irreverence where the protagonist hopes to found a 'good' school where children will not have to learn about God and Gandhi...
For the last eight years, ever since the call center revolution I have been travelling to India once or so a year...I have also sat listening to my North American friends returning and telling me how India is booming...Diet Pepsi and Kit Kat being freely available being the yardstick of such prosperity.. .I have always felt a nagging feeling of discomfort.. .Aravind Adiga draws a clear picture of this discomfort through the letters that his protagonist, Balram Halwai writes to the Chinese Prime Minister...
There is a brutality to poverty that is difficult to accept...it is different from the pictures of westerners adopting chubby orphans through World Vision...that brutality comes through loud and clear in cockroach infested servants quarters of Buckingham Apartments that Balram lives in...it comes through in the 'ammonia' smell of parking lots where drivers have to wait and urinate as they wait for their masters and mistresses to come back from late night parties...and more than anything else the principle of the Rooster Coop that keeps the poor and poverty going...
In the '20s when Katherine Mayo came out with Mother India, Gandhi wrote of it, '... it is the report of a drain inspector sent out with the one purpose of opening and examining the drains of the country to be reported upon, or to give a graphic description of the stench exuded by the opened drains...' In a sense Aravind Adiga's book could also be described as a drain inspector's report...however, I say that in an entirely complimentary sense...it takes courage for someone to expose the underbelly of the call centre revolution.. .looks like many have not read the book yet in India, or there would have been outcry by now to have Aravind deported...
One thing that struck me at a very personal level was the Rumi quotation that Aravind keeps using,
Like a madman I kept searching for the key
And then I realized the door was open...
Read the book to see how Rumi helps a rooster escapes the Rooster Coop...be ready for much gore, dirt and crap...a tremendous read...there is no moral at the end of the story...as Mr Ashok would have said...sorry, let me not take the punch line away...read it to see what Mr Ashok would have said to Pinky Madam...
Very rarely, in recent years, have I sat through and read a book from cover to cover, at one sitting...yesterday evening, around 5pm, I took up Aravind Adiga's "The White Tiger"...I had seen the book in India, read reviews and yesterday discovered that beti pyaari had picked up a copy...
Started reading it with the usual scepticism.. .however, as the pages passed, it gripped me...sat till around 10pm reading the book before I nodded off...given the fact that by 10pm I have generally been asleep for about two hours, this should give you an indicator of how I was absorbed...finished the 250+ pages of the book this afternoon...
The fact that I have just returned from India, and, this book is all about what is happening within India perhaps made it so immediately absorbing... and then, a lot of the book is set in Gurgaon and I had just been in Gurgaon, and, could relate to all that was being said...I could recognize the malls and the Buckingham and Windsor mansions...this book gives one dimension of the changing face of India...or, in reality, is there a change at all, or, have just the players and the stage changed ?
The irreverence of the book was what held my attention to begin with...the writer describes Krishna (of the Bhagavad Gita fame) as one more chauffeur... and the descriptions of the filth of the Ganges...the book ends with the same irreverence where the protagonist hopes to found a 'good' school where children will not have to learn about God and Gandhi...
For the last eight years, ever since the call center revolution I have been travelling to India once or so a year...I have also sat listening to my North American friends returning and telling me how India is booming...Diet Pepsi and Kit Kat being freely available being the yardstick of such prosperity.. .I have always felt a nagging feeling of discomfort.. .Aravind Adiga draws a clear picture of this discomfort through the letters that his protagonist, Balram Halwai writes to the Chinese Prime Minister...
There is a brutality to poverty that is difficult to accept...it is different from the pictures of westerners adopting chubby orphans through World Vision...that brutality comes through loud and clear in cockroach infested servants quarters of Buckingham Apartments that Balram lives in...it comes through in the 'ammonia' smell of parking lots where drivers have to wait and urinate as they wait for their masters and mistresses to come back from late night parties...and more than anything else the principle of the Rooster Coop that keeps the poor and poverty going...
In the '20s when Katherine Mayo came out with Mother India, Gandhi wrote of it, '... it is the report of a drain inspector sent out with the one purpose of opening and examining the drains of the country to be reported upon, or to give a graphic description of the stench exuded by the opened drains...' In a sense Aravind Adiga's book could also be described as a drain inspector's report...however, I say that in an entirely complimentary sense...it takes courage for someone to expose the underbelly of the call centre revolution.. .looks like many have not read the book yet in India, or there would have been outcry by now to have Aravind deported...
One thing that struck me at a very personal level was the Rumi quotation that Aravind keeps using,
Like a madman I kept searching for the key
And then I realized the door was open...
Read the book to see how Rumi helps a rooster escapes the Rooster Coop...be ready for much gore, dirt and crap...a tremendous read...there is no moral at the end of the story...as Mr Ashok would have said...sorry, let me not take the punch line away...read it to see what Mr Ashok would have said to Pinky Madam...
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