Masala Dosa, a State of Mind

Surfing through the web yesterday I came across a photo essay on Falafels, the way they are made and eaten in different parts of the world…which then lead my mind to wonder as to what would qualify for India’s national dish ? Of course, while one lives in India, that is Bharat, every region or street will lay claim to a special dish…thus, for the Bengali, Macher Jhol (fish curry would be a plebeian, non-Bengali way of describing Macher jhol); for the Gujerati, Undhia (cooked vegetables would be again a plebeian, non-Gujerati description); for the Keralite, Avial (vegetables cooked in a coconut gravy to the non-Keralite, God’s Nectar to the Keralite) and so on…

However, as we all know once we have crossed Kala Pani (Indian expression for crossing the oceans), for the outside world everyone is Indian, or, ‘Hindi’ as they call you, somewhat derisively in the Middle East. (I had a Tamilian friend who, like all proud Tamilians of the ‘60s, did not speak a work of Hindi, till, a taxi driver in Bahrain asked him, “kaisa Hindi hai tum ? Hindi nahin bolta hai…’ What sort of a ‘Hindi’ –Indian- are you that you do not speak Hindi…?) And so, for the outside world, which makes no distinction between Hindis and Pakis, what would emerge as the national or food of the subcontinent ?

Given current trends in the UK where, for two and hundred and fifty years of the Raj, Indians (and Bangladeshis, in the main) have now replaced roast beef and yorkshire pudding with chicken tikka as the national dish of Old Blightey, one would think that chicken tikka and/or chicken tandoori would be top of the list. Be that as it may, as we all know, apna Bharat mahan hai (India is great) and diverse. One significant element of this diversity is that there is a significant number of people from among the one billion plus subcontinenters who will not eat anything that walks…in fact, in the old Madras state (now Tamil Nadu) hotels for the vegetarians would be denoted as Civil Hotels, as opposed to the Military Hotels for the carnivores…the principle being that meat was served in the Army, hence Military Hotels as opposed to Civil, or vegetarian hotels…there used to be a further subdivision of Brahmin hotels among the Civil hotels...which I shall not go into for now...

And, if one were to take a look at what the Civil Hotels have to offer, the Dosa makes the top of the list…particularly when we look at Civil Hotels outside of India…

I have seen the dosa variously described by Civil Hotels outside of India trying to market their wares to the western clientele. The most common description is that of ‘crepe made of rice and lentils.’ More important than the dosa itself are its accompaniments, the coconut chutney, the sambar (a lentil based gravy), and, of course, the crowning glory, the milagai podi. Travelling in HongKong, I once saw milagai podi described as ‘chilli powder mixed with spices and garnished with oil…’ A much easier and more understandable way of describing milagai podi is simply, “Gunpowder” It takes some courage and fortitude for the average westerner not brought up on a wholesome diet of green and red chillies to make oral contact with “Gunpowder.”

There is a school of thought among some women who have moved to western climes from India that they will never eat Indian food outside of their homes, as they fancy themselves the best Indian chefs and that no one can make Indian food better. I shall not comment on that school of thought. What is more important is that on Saturday or Sunday morning when Indian Udipi style restaurants open their doors in Mississauga, Ontario or Sunnyvale, California, there is generally a line up of ex Besant Nagar, Ballygunge, Karol Bagh, Matunga (all Indian suburbs with predominantly South Indian populations) residents waiting outside to get a whiff of their favourite food.

Subcontinenters living outside of the subcontinent reconnect to their roots in different ways. For some it is the music they grew up on, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammad Rafi, Mukesh et al…For some it is the religion they grew up with…Living overseas I have always been impressed with the number of tam-brahm houses that arrange for the chanting of the Vishnu Sahasranama (an ancient chant giving the thousand names of Vishnu) outside of India…For those like me with less artistic or spiritual leanings, it is the food…

Walk into any Indian restaurant and you can see the regulars…for them, the food is their raison d’etre, the reason for being…I have seen some of them go away on business trips, only to be separated from their favourite food, be it chicken tikka masala or masala dosa, and, stumble into their favourite food haunt a few weeks later with a zombie like look on their face…once the body has received the nourishment it was deprived of while living off bagels and salads, and, the masalas start doing their trick once again, the person can start talking rocket science once again…

My son spent last year in France, studying at a global business school…when he was coming home after six months in France we asked him what he wanted, expecting him to ask for some exotic French cuisine to be served with red wine…Dosa with sambar was the instant chat line reply…and boy, for the next six weeks he lived off dosas…

Which then, makes me wonder is the Masala Dosa (or chicken tikka) a food, or, a state of mind ?

Dear Shashi (written a few months ago)

Background note to readers:
The Indian Minister of State for External Affairs, the former Under Secretary General of the United Nations, is in some hot water, first, for having stayed at Delhi’s plush Taj Mahal hotel (admittedly at his own expense since there is no gym at the Kerala Bhavan where he should have stayed, eating avial and kalan) while waiting for his official residence to be vacated by the previous resident. Also, in response to a diktat that all ministers travel economy class, he is supposed to have used, in a tweet, the expressions cattle class and holy cows…the people of India, I am told, are not pleased and the General Secretary of the ruling Congress Party, in addition to others, has apologized to them…

This is a friendly letter written to The Hon Mr Shashi Tharoor, former Manhattan resident and current Indian Minister of State for External Affairs…sharing some thoughts from a current Toronto resident…

Dear Shashi,

While I am not one of the 169,096 people who is following you on Twitter, I have been following the story about your tweets and thought I could share some thoughts with you.

In the first place I don’t think it is appropriate for the Honourable Minister of State for External Affairs of Bharat that is India, to go around tweeting. It is going to give the world the impression that in India we have become so westernized that Ministers, even if they are Ministers of State, do not have important matters to attend to and have all the time in the world to tweet around. It is all fine and dandy for President Obama to carry his own Blackberry and reply to the select group of people who have his email address, not a minister of the Bharat Sarkar. Indian ministers have weightier things to do than tweet away to 169,096 people.

The correct procedure in these matters as your staff may have already advised you is to entrust your Blackberry to your third assistant Principal Secretary. At periodic intervals the third assistant Principal Secretary will ask the fourth assistant Principal Secretary to print out all emails received in your name, review them, and, forward them up the chain of Secretaries, Assistant, Deputy, Principal and Chief to be left in your in tray.

At each stage of the process the appropriate Secretary will add their remarks. You will then peruse the aforesaid document and add your own thoughts, which will work its way down the hierarchy. Should any of the Secretaries require a translation of the comments since you may not be familiar with the national language, Hindi, in view of your having lived out of the country for so long, it will be sent to the Translations Directorate.

Finally, in the fullness of time, the document will reach the fourth assistant Principal Secretary who will call the Principal Stenographer (provided he or she is not on Casual, Sick or other leave) and dictate the reply. The Principal Stenographer will type out the reply and give it to the Information Technology department who will send the message out.

Now, having lived in the infamous West for so long you maybe tempted to say “Why do I need a Blackberry for doing this ?” Dear Shashi, that is because like all those who have lived in the West for so long you have no understanding of time…you think if something is not done on time, there is no point in doing it…let me try and explain this to you from the Indian perspective…

Years ago, much before computers took over the Indian Railways and you could check ‘online’ where every train is at a given moment, every station had a printed timetable which gave the arrival and departure timings of the trains. Needless to add the actual time when the trains came and left had little bearing on the timetable displayed.

An irate passenger once marched up to the Station Master and said, “What is the use of this timetable ? The trains are always late…why do you display it all ?”

The Station Master who had been schooled in the timeless philosophies of the Vedas and the Upanishads looked at the customer and said, “Agreed the trains are late. However, if there was no timetable how would you know that the train was late ?”

Moral of the story, Shashi: Timetables and schedules are there only to tell you how late you are…throw that Blackberry away and stop tweeting…you will, if not anything else, give your staff some peace…whatever has to happen will happen whenever it has to happen as the Lord Krishna has said somewhere in some holy text…

Then, Shashi, I saw this picture of you sitting in the Economy class cabin of a domestic flight. While you appeared to be meditating, honestly, the look on your face reminded me of a child who had been forcibly made to swallow a large dollop of castor oil…I am not being critical…I know how bad travelling by Economy class is, having travelled Economy all my life…

Looking at that look on your face I realized how near I was to similar disaster when on one of my trips to India I was offered a job to head the HR department of a big Indian company, and, I very nearly accepted…and the story of your tweeting around only confirmed how some guardian angel sitting on my shoulder saved me from disaster…

Let me tell what may have happened had I accepted that job.

My first job, soon after I graduated was with a large Engineering Company in the Bombay region. Every year, the Management and Union would celebrate Satyanarayana Pooja where all those who had got married in the last twelve months would sit for the said pooja along with their spouse.

As you perhaps know by now, having lived in India for a few months, Satyanarayana Pooja is performed by newly weds to ensure that the God Satyanarayan bestows on the couple a male child…In the year I got married, my wife and I sat the Pooja and enjoyed the meal thereafter…all was well…we had a good time, and, six years later my daughter arrived…notwithstanding the fact that the God Satyanarayan had got the timing and gender of the product requisition all mixed up we had no complaints…this was what happened before I left India a quarter of a century ago…

Just imagine, the Canada returned HR Director dealing with the Satyanarayan Pooja request, had I accepted the job.

Union representative Blackberrys me: “We need to conduct Satyanarayana Pooja and provide a meal to all employees…”
Canada returned HR Director Blackberries back: “What is Satyanarayan Pooja ?”
Union representative: “Satyanarayan Pooja is prayer for newly married couples to be blessed with male child…”
Canada returned HR Director Blackberries back: “What does this Satyanarayan chap have to do with producing a child for our employees ? There are different and more pleasurable ways to producing a child…stop wasting time…get on with your work…”

The rest I leave to your imagination. A holy cow has been assaulted, if not killed…workers walk out, rioting, police come and all that which you maybe slowly getting to know…

Needless to add, the HR Director would have been on his way back to Canada, coach class, to collect his unemployment benefits. (btw, ‘coach class’, try and use that word next time. Having always travelled premium first in your days as Under Secretary General of the UN, you may not have heard of it. It is the same travel class as the prohibited c word that you used, and, is located at the back of the aircraft where you can get the wafting smell of the loos.)

Moral of the story, Shashi: In India things work differently from Manhattan or Toronto.

Now, very recently the lady at Pizza Hut seems to have decided that all of you must go coach class I am not questioning her wisdom, she knows all…However, hearing about this decision and that of the boy wonder travelling by the Shatabdi Express reminds me of an exchange involving the Father of the Nation who used to travel Third Class rail…

I am not sure if it was Lord Wavell or Lord Mountbatten (having written all those books you will know the story and should be able to correct me if I tell it wrong), but, one of them remarked to the Father of the Nation that it was so wonderful to see that in spite of the power he wielded he lived in such poverty. Sarojini Naidu, a woman not known to hide the truth, who was standing nearby, quipped, “It takes an awful lot of money to keep this old man,(referring to the Father of the Nation) in poverty…”

Moral of the story, Shashi: To be a successful Indian politician you don’t have to be poor, you just need to appear to be poor.

Thank you for all that you are doing. Come winter, when I shall be shovelling snow off my driveway, and, the thought comes up in mind, “I wish I had accepted that job in India…” I shall administer myself a strong, hardy slap on my cheek and perish that thought…

With much affection,

PS- I do apologize for having taken the liberty of addressing you by your first name…I should have said, “Dear and Respected Mantri-ji”…again a bloody Western habit, like women wearing jeans and going to pubs…I hope you are not calling your boss by his first name… “Manmohan, old boy” may get you into trouble again, just like that tweet did...

Being Brahmin, differently

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.

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 ?

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)

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…”

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…