Desicritics Section: Culture

Arkansaw/Arkansas

Blokesablogin — Tue, 6 Jan 2009 04:56:24 EST

"Arkansaw? I never knew anyone who went to Arkansaw!", was the most common response I got when I decided to visit my sister and family over the Christmas break. Equipped with a AAA travel book that included 30 pages of information on ALL cities and towns of any point of interest in this tiny state, right in the heart of America, I was quite excited about visiting the state of the Clintons, the only reference to Arkansas before my sister moved there.

While I did not bump into the Clintons as we did not go anywhere near Little Rock, we did get to explore parts of the Ozarks and Oachita "mountains". The state is called the "Natural State" as there is really nothing there but rocks and hills and some vegetation.

For a small state, it has many neighbors and we were able to cover 8 states and their capitals for the academic benefit of my 3rd grader. We flew into Tulsa, Oklahoma and were surprised to find a huge Indian population there that included Indian grocery stores and a decent Hindu temple (where we conducted ceremonies for my one year old nephew).

Parts of Arkansas and Oklahoma make up tracts of the Trail of Tears. Compulsory evictions of Native Americans in the mid 1800s from the East to the region West of the Mississippi led to mass migration of native people thrown out by a bunch of land grabbing whites- of course, the white ensured that it was all legal and "documented" as sales or as fair winnings. Otherwise, there would still be a border dispute like we have in so many parts of the world that were ex colonies of white colonists. We passed by Cherokee nation on our drive to Tulsa, Oklahoma, the land of the natives.

The freeways were "free" of traffic and I promised my 13 year old that I will send him to his aunt's house to learn driving! There was a laid back attitude in the air and for us super-charged (euphemism for super stressed) Californians, it was bizzare not to speed with no one around. American cars outnumbered their Japanese counterpart in these parts. There were mechanic sheds in the countryside that actually advertised that they repaired American and FOREIGN made cars! That sounded so much like a hoarding in some remote township in India!

People were content and not crazy about making MORE money. I met an artist who made stuff out of crystals (spatik) that are easily mined in the southwestern region of Arkansas. We even visited an open pit diamond mine- the only one of its kind in the world where you can get knee deep into fine clay with bits of gravel that just might turn up an odd diamond here and there- and take it home with you. I got a fine piece of Barite with a few chunks of crystal and 2 beautiful pieces of Jasper. If you enjoy getting slushy in fine clay and do not mind the occasional slide and fall into a quagmire, this is a must-see.

My sister who has taken up quilting since moving there, introduced me to the world of quilting. I spent many hours chopping up good material into small squares and rectangles and triangles. She sewed on her machine. Yet another American industry introduction.

Northern Arkansas has a network of underground caverns and aquifers that take you to an entirely different world, paataal. The cenotes of the Yucatan are very similar to these underground lakes. The artistry of nature that takes million years to grow a few feet of stalactites and stalagmites makes you feel so irrelevant on this planet. Of course, human mining of onyx from these mountains has destroyed many delicate formations and aquifers.

The spas in Hot Springs, relics from the past- closely related to the hot spring experiences of European spa traditions was a relaxing experience in a tub of hot mineral water. Thank you sis, for a warm treat.

Apart from Walmart, the largest employer in the area, there are not too many big businesses to keep everyone happily employed. However, there are crystal mines and whetstone mines that keep Arkansas economy honed.

Churches outnumbered residences, I think! I realized that I had officially entered a southern state, Virginia not withstanding. Small villages with less than 1000 people were the norm. The rural back roads hid many a junk pile in the thickets. Many a shack looked like their simple counterparts in India, but they all had a car parked in front!

For a big city girl, the rural experience was wonderful and relaxing. Of course spending time with my sister and her family could use a blog all of its own. But for public consumption, the city mouse visiting her country sister was an enlightening experience.

Poessay: Rosary 23: Musings

temporal — Mon, 5 Jan 2009 06:48:44 EST

Edge of precipice. Cliff?
Diving board. Looking down into water.
Water?

Of hope.
What hope? Mirage. Shimmer. Illusion. Belief in the unseen. Acceptance.
Acceptance? With conviction.
Conviction of what? Faith or reasoning?

Of reason.
Rationality. Two plus...Cause and...Things not...
Self-existential illusions. Illusions or hoaxes? Certifiable?

Of faith.
Belief of unfathomed power. Recognizant of the unrecognised.
Unresolved nothingness. Ensconced nothingness. Transference.

Back to hope, reason, faith. Nothing.
What if nothing is the vacuum cementing life to death.

Oh death? The final dot. -30- Kaput. Kapitsh. End.

End, another beginning. Movement towards another dot. To other
unresolved queries. To other needs and desires. To know or to give
in.

Again.
Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree
Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages
Poessay: Rosary 19 - Word Whirlpool - BhaNwur LafzouN Ka
Poessay: Rosary 20 - Thanksgiving I Poessay:
Rosary 21: KhamOshi - Wordless Poessay:
Rosary 22 - A Simple Poem

Colour

IdeaSmith — Fri, 2 Jan 2009 10:44:02 EST

(Based on my fortnight-long tour of Europe in October 2008)

I buy a bottle of sandalwood scented sunscreen lotion. Yes, yes, I hate the fairness-driven notion of beauty as any self-respecting Indian should. But I don't particularly want splotchy multi-coloured skin either.

Along with my lotion, sits my spray-on foundation. No.5 is closest to my skin tone, according the salesman. I wondered how he can tell since all three (identical-looking) shades he selects for me, turn up reddish patches from being rubbed vigorously into my arm. Hooray, my blood is still red and turns up under the dermis to say hello!

~o~o~o~I go shopping on Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning, nights after work and weekends to prepare for a fourteen-day (and night) journey. Among my purchases are a grey vest with red lining on the neck. To be worn with black cotton track pants with a red lining down the sides. For deck wear, for nightwear, for 'I'm so sporty-I'm so cool' wear, never mind the fact that I've never seen the inside of a gym.

The next day, dad decides to play homemaker with the laundry. I pull the clothes out of the washing machine and in horror, exclaim,

What happened to my grey vest????!!!

It is now very pink with a red lining. Pink and Red! Ghastly, ghastly, ghastly!! And I don't have matching trackpants to wear it with! Dad looks quite contrite and then asks, rather timidly,

You don't like the pink colour?

~o~o~o~

At the airport, I discover that my flight has been delayed 4 hours. A discreet door tucked away at the far end looks interesting. Entry only for travellers who have a Gold Card. At 4 a.m. as I walk out, stomach full with delectable cutlets, sandwiches, hot soup and fine tea, I conclude that life in plastic, is fantastic indeed. And Gold continues to open doors.

~o~o~o~The breakfast shift is packed. I spot an empty table, the plates of its previous occupants bearing mute testimony to their appetites. I sit down.

Five minutes later I stand up so I can see over the bar and beckon to the servers. In vain.

Then I approach a tall, blond steward standing at the bar and wait for him to finish whatever he is doing and turn around. He does but his gaze glides smoothly over my head to a distant table.

Can I have someone take my breakfast order, please?

He fixes steely eyes on me and mouths,

Sit down and keep waiting.

Twenty minutes later, I flag down a Filipina waitress who smiles sunnily and brings me my breakfast immediately.

-------------

The next morning, I arrive early and have the satisfaction of bagging a prime seat with a view of the deck as well as the serving staff. I can be patient today, I decide, ignoring my growling stomach. At the table in front of me, the blond steward is charming two Americans. He dashes off and swishes back with the menus, in a smooth move and a pleasant,

And what may I bring you lovely ladies today?

I wait for him to finish. Waving now would be rude but I'm sure he can see that I've been staring steadfastedly in his direction. He finishes, snaps the menu shut and looks up and away.

Another group of girls approach. I've noticed them the last evening. Youngish, mini-skirted, very made-up. They never seem to leave the ship and a video camera follows them around everywhere. Models for a cruise brochure, I guess. One is blonde, another looks like a teenage Catherine Zeta-Jones and their friends are various versions of Christina Aguilera. They sit down, chattering and fluttering. The steward materializes from nowhere and a gaggle of giggles break out. And a few minutes later he brings them their breakfasts - yoghurt as white as the young Zeta-Jones and fruit.

I'm still hungry.

-----------

The next evening I join two couples for dinner. We select the biggest table. Ten minutes later, in good cheer, we move to another (equally big) table on the other side of the room where we decide the serving staff is hovering. But we don't seem to be able to catch the steward's eye.

As he swings by us for the fifth time, one of my group calls out,

Could you please taken our order?

He spits out with breaking his step,

It is not your turn. Keep waiting.

------------

The man who runs the ship restaurant offers a polite apology adding firmly that it has never been his policy to discriminate on the basis of nationality or race. He also tells us about his life in another country as an alien and promises us that he understands what we mean. An hour later, after many anecdotes about travel, belief and culture, he leaves us, charmed and smiling. I'm forced to conclude that Greeks are marvelous story-tellers...indiscriminate of their audience.

~o~o~o~Maybe it is windchill, maybe it's skin unaccustomed to clean air but my face has turned a funny shade of orange. It isn't tomato-red like the sunburnt Brits, not pink like the pretty Ukrainian stewardess, not chocolate like the African-American passenger in the neighboring cabin. It isn't even brown anymore.

My friend laughs at me and points to his sneaker lining to show me what orange looks like. I scowl and think to myself,

Orange-flavoured caramel, then.

~o~o~o~"A city like every other", I think to myself, remembering my own Island, home. The malls, the skyscrapers, the busy people, the money and the flash. Then I look at the gray pavements and the white kerb-stones, stainless and clean. It's Mumbai minus the paan-stains, I surmise.

~o~o~o~Everything in Europe is so expensive! I complain. I've gotten used to not converting to rupees in my head by now but even so the shops seem to be trying to palm off touristy junk to me for 10 or 11 euros apiece. I walk down the roads thinking of Colaba Causeway and I tell my companions,

Shopkeepers world-over do this!

I stare at the ocean and then I chance upon a man sprawled on the ground, next to an array of trinkets displayed on cloth. I can never resist these.

What's this?

I ask, holding up a curious black stone. He tell me that is from the ancient island of Delos, where he brought it over and carved it. I smile back and inform him that I was in Delos that morning and didn't see any black stones since they were all white pebbles and blocks.

He doesn't bat an eyelid as he says,

You, an Indian. I am Indian too. I won't cheat you. You also don't tell me what you say to Indian shopkeepers.

I shrug and say,

How much?

20 euros.

I sputter and tell him that all the stuff in the shops is 10 euros. He leers and says,

Okay you go back to India and buy there only.

The firang couple next to me bursts into loud laughter, apparently very amused. I toss it back and walk away.

I hope it turns their pink fingers green. And I hope that racist pig never shows his brown face back in the country that links him to me.

~o~o~o~The sea varies from turquoise to ink to cerulean, depending upon which island I'm on. Each time it has a personality of its own and each colour introduces itself to me in its signature style. Indigo, at the start of cruise looks at me through lidded eyes and tells me that I can take my time but I'll have to come to it, eventually. Blue, mornings, welcomes me with a bright cheery 'Hello!' and asks me to come out and play. Turquoise crooks its mischievous finger at me and commands me to follow it without a splash. And silver makes me bow my head in respect as it reminds me that water covers most of the planet that human beings haven't been able to conquer.

~o~o~o~Lunch alone since everyone is sleeping in. A friendly, American co-passenger waves to me as he passes but he declines my offer to eat with me telling me he's already eaten. He's on his wave to relieve his wife from her vigil on their sunning chairs on the top deck.

She arrives a few minutes later and sits down with her plate. We eat the unfamiliar casseroles and savor the fruits in companionable silence. Then we talk about what we've seen, where we are from and what we do for a living. She tells me that she works in a tanning salon. I listen, interested and then tell her that the concept is completely alien where I come from. She looks surprised and says,

But you are such a lovely colour!

~o~o~o~Over the bay, the water has turned steely-grey, like the sky. The wind is chilly too so I shut my book and prepare to move indoors. The tables next to mine are emptying too.

At least the night is the same colour over everyone.

poetry: january 1, 2009

temporal — Thu, 1 Jan 2009 15:39:29 EST

georgiou emptied the bins - coffee cups,
crushed cans, mickeys, wrappers, paper tissues
and sweeeping the Nathan Phillips Square
gathered frozen kisses, melting sighs,
discarded resolutions and shouted greetings
that had ushered in the first day of an uncertain year
as he went about methodically he knew he'd survive
- as would most in the west, relatively unscathed

the future is full of long shadows
for those in occupied Gaza, Somalia,
Darfur, FATA, Afghanistan, Iraq...
the world has shuttered the window
blinds drawn

wish you and those around you
health and peace for the coming months

having put in his hours in the chill
georgiou smiled pensively, took off work gloves
changed and went home

Pope Benedict XVI - Homo-Sensitive?

thedeskjockey — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 13:46:17 EST

In an age of mindless killing, misinterpreted religion and questionable politics comes an earth shattering revelation by the apostle of the Almighty Himself. According to the revered Pope Benedict XVI, one of the biggest threats to the Homo Sapiens kind on earth is well….being homo. It ain't the overstretched war or the mindless death of a sixty year old mother or the spread of a disease mostly due to apathy. No Siree Bob (who is also gay by the way)! The male lip-lock and old time girl-on-girl action makes the protectors of God’s creations cringe in as much horror as we would if we saw a character, God forbid, have an extra marital affair in a Sooraj Barjatya movie.

While I myself am unaffected by the sexual preference of people around me, I am very aware of coming from a country which has been distinctly homophobic for a long time. Even Bollywood which, according to Madhur Bhandarkar, is filled to the brim with consenting adults of the same-sex/bisexual variety, seems to be leaden footed in maturely portraying a gay relationship. While the incredibly moronic Girlfriend carried the message that all lesbians are pouty, crazy bitches, Tarun Mansukhani had us believing in Dostana that the difference between gay and straight men is that the former look or talk like extended cousins of Bobby Darling (ironic, considering Tarun is Karan Johar’s protégé).

So what is it that causes homosexuality to stand out like a beacon to an 81 year old among all the ills afflicting the world? To put this post in context, here is the excerpt from his speech to the Vatican staff that’s causing all the heartburn (the type that cannot be cured by Eno/Pudin Hara).

“It is not out-of-date metaphysics to speak of human nature as 'man' or woman'. It comes from the language of creation, despising which would mean self-destruction for humans. […] Gender theories lead to man's "auto-emancipation" from creation and Creator. […] Rain forests deserve, yes, our protection but the human being... does not deserve it less”

The Pope actually denouncing it is not a surprise. Almost all religious texts soundly condemn it and any sexual acts around it. However, as much as the moral police would like us to believe that there is a line in the sand, people suffer from that uncontrollable ill that plagues, at least, the civilized world; as Morgan Freeman playing God tells Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty, the one of “free will” or “choice”. Now choice comes with its own baggage. Is homosexuality something you are born with or is it something you turned to because your last 3 heterosexual relationships were with alcoholic biker dudes/supremely boring bimbettes with IQs of a teacup? And do we really have the right to begrudge you a committed loving relationship even if it was with someone within your gender? Are gays never people of God or vice-versa? If the Pope were to be believed, the moment you step over the line, the sin committed is on par with greedy destruction of Mother Nature’s delicate balance. And therein precisely lies the problem of the message – where you decry racism, apartheid, caste systems, religious killing and slavery on one hand, but willing to outcast people because of their sexual preference on the other.

Perhaps we have let our moral compasses become too blurred to see the big picture…perhaps we prefer to see the goodness in people outside of what they do behind closed doors….or perhaps, just perhaps when we send our prayers upwards, we hope that God showers His blessings without discrimination.

Poessay: I'm Not Dev Das and You're Not Anarkali

temporal — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:20:07 EST

painting - Gulgee

Permanence is a Utopian illusion. It is nurtured by groups that ferment a vested interest - popes, padres, rabbis, maulvis, pundits, financiers - purveyors of permanence.

Insomniac Dream Sellers of
Truth, Beauty, Wisdom, Courage, Love, Anger, Hatred

Sea
and Mountain
Enslaved and encircled with smile.

Then the smile melted
His?
Her's?
His smile melted her? Her smile melted him?
0r like the shivering polar ice
Melting under the rape of environment
Euphemism for global warming

Sea - the mother of transmogrification
-clouds, snow, rain, lakes, rivers
And completing the circle - sea

The circular reverberation
Womb - grave - womb
Is the tale of drops
spermatozoa
"Read, read in the names of thy Lord..."

***

for believers it is Him
for others some grand design
that would finally still
                           the drop
the last meltdown
when neither love
                           nor hate
will deter, defer, persuade or play
                         when the smile
will last for ever sans flesh

we, who indulge in super hate
we, who miss not an opportunity
to throw barbs, grenades
and uranium tipped mines and bombs
we, who excel at malevolence
- when will love conquer us?

yaadOn ka guldasta thamay*
sar-saratay sukoon maiN ghar'q
jub saa'yay hum aa ghosh hotay haiN
tou mudhoshi ki devi bhee
khud hee muskurati hogi
hosh apnay kho bethti hogi

ab tou yaad ki baiRiyouN maiN qaid
dabay qadmON t'ra tasawwur
youN chala aata hay kay
khood faraibi ka shaiba
bhee choo ker nahiN guzarta
choti ki is joostujoo maiN
khaai maiN girnay ka ehsaas kisay

said the bluebird to the bulbul
the simpleton is unaware
and the curmudgeon unconcerned
love has been cremated
in hiroshima

Man shorn of humanity is hurting and hurtling down the precipice, brakes worn, singling gaily, oblivious of the rushing winds of time, aware but not cognizant of the abyss.

_________________________________________________
* translation:

clutching the bouquet of memories
and drowned in the whispering quiet
as the shadows embrace
the goddess of intoxication
would smile at herself
while letting go of sobriety

bounded in memory-chains
your thoughts tiptoe
swirling and cascading
around whims and doubts

in the strive to conquer the peak
who thinks of a fall into the abyss

Manjit Bawa Passes Away

Amitabh Mitra — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:28:27 EST

And colors fell silent today

A sun struck with

Anecdotes and animals

Screamed somewhere

Narrow yellows merged in

Thick orb of orange

Streets were blown

In a dupatta of white

A smile tinged in a ravishing

Blue suddenly looked back

I had seen them all at Garhi

In the seventies

The eye had then staged

Plays of a turntable

Time

Twice even thrice

In a single day

Violence was the afternoon

Manjit drew in rude

Delhi summers

Riding words of a chiasma

Violence is the afternoon

We saw him in flames

Of years and layers

Untold by a dark

Violence he left

Is you and me

And a coherence of

Irrefutable days

He chose to give

Away.

Manjit Bawa passed away today at his home in Delhi. He had been in a coma for three years. One of the first painters to break out of the dominant grays and browns of the western art and opt for more Indian colours like red and violet, the maestro was influenced by nature, Sufi mysticism and Indian mythology. Renowned Poet Pritish Nandy who had given shows of his poetry and art with him was one of his closest friends.

A Different World Part II: Zina ul Haq's Debauchery

temporal — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 03:27:51 EST

(Continued from A Different World Part I : A Travelogue of Sorts)

The irony is this: people on both side of the frontiers were predominantly Punjabis. Only fifty plus years back they spoke the same language, looked the same, shared similar culture and passions, but today they are different...not physically different...but in their mindset and attitude.

Zina-ul-Haq (Zina means rape: Haq is Truth – my coinage for the erstwhile dictator) induced religious stupor had flamed the latent fundamentalism and created such a wide gulf of intolerance and divide that most Pakistanis today accept segregation as the norm. Some even elevate it with piety. He unleashed his version of Islam that has polarized Pakistanis, increased the chasm not only between Sunnis and Shias but also between Sunnis themselves as well as fanning parochial differences between residents of all provinces.

The denial of one's roots and ersatz emphasis on a culture that was and is almost alien led to an influx of mental and sexual depravity. The orthodox misinterpreters of religion (read Islam) twist and bend the religious injunctions to satisfy their limited understanding and fetishes. This increase in provincialism, parochialism and ethnic diversity played well in the hands of manipulative politicians and the occupying army. Divide and Rule!

And it has also led to the killing of Pakistanis by other Pakistanis in the name of the same Allah.

Today's West Punjab and indeed Pakistan is set on a different course. Not the one envisioned by any of her founders or detractors in their wildest hallucination.

Off the intersection of Aram Bagh Road and Bunder Road, now M. A Jinnah Road, the Pakistani equivalent of Indian cities' Gandhi Margs, there is a side street. To the south is Dow Medical College and to the north is Pakistan Chowk. At the end of this side street there is a gurdwara, I was told. I had dragged M through the traffic, dirt and pollution but all we could see was the walls. The side street was a furniture market and unless you knew there was a gurdwara once there you would miss it.

In Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif I had written about visiting some of the mandirs in Karachi:

Karachi has lots of mandirs. And there are a few functioning ones too that I visited. There is one in Clifton, one across from the KMC building on M A Jinnah Road, one near the old Native Jetty Bridge, two in Soldier Bazaar and one in Amil Colony # 2 near the Islamia College. And there is a crumbling one on the beach in Manora that ravages of time has turned into a crumbling structure.

The Lakshmi Narayan Mandir across from KMC building on M. A. Jinnah road is in a compound. When we visited it one afternoon, the mandir was closed and some boys were playing cricket nearby. One twelve year old asked us if we were Hindus. M smiled and said she is an insaan. The kid nodded wisely.
Tu Hindu banayga na Musalmaan banayga
Insaan ki aulad hay insaan banayga

Neither a Hindu nor Muslim will you be
A human you are, a human you shall be
Another day we visited one in Soldier Bazaar. One thing is imprinted on my mind from that visit. Inside the sanctum sanctorium on the far wall Mata was spelled in glittering Urdu lettering, about two feet high - meem-alif-tay-alif. Mata was written in multicolored glitter ribbons, the kind used in garlands and for decorating the bridal car. Mata: Meem, Alif, Tay, Alif

Karachi is perhaps in the top twenty cities of the world by population. It citizens are always on the go and unaware of its history and heritage. Less than one in twenty Karachite is aware of a fort in Karachi. It is a city of affluence and poverty - of palaces and mansions with high walls, private zoos, monitoring cameras and Kalshnikov carrying guards and jhuggis and huts. In a nation where prohibition is the law, more alcohol is consumed than can ever be imagined to the loss of the exchequer. The private bars of individuals would shame the sommelier of a seven star establishment.

In one evening friends spend more at the BarBQ Hut or Coppper Kettle than the average monthly salaries of their drivers and servants. The poor can be seen lining outside modest hotels in the evening, where the affluent drive by and pay up for the meals for 20 or 30 people.

The middle class wants to shrivel and disappear. It is despondent and despairing.

Lawlessness is rampant and its acceptance is annoying for the casual visitor. Almost everyone you meet has had their cellphones snatched or robbed at gun point at least once. Every acquaintance you meet has a home robbery tale for you.

My notes for the trip - names, places, times and photos stored on the Palm Treo were lost to a gun totting polite robber. "Uncle, please give me your cell phone." With the gun inches away from the stomach, there were few options available. The phone was replaced the next day but it took me a long time to get over the loss of those notes.

Action Sociology: Human Rights with Sanitation

Somik Raha — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 16:34:43 EST

Ever since independence (and from a long time before that), people in India have been appalled with the abuse of the caste system, especially the poor treatment meted out to "untouchables." As usual, well-meaning people think they can change attitudes by passing laws. And so, India has The Protection of Civil Rights Act, 1955, which punishes the preaching and practice of untouchability. Needless to say, the act made little difference on the ground in terms of changing people's attitudes.

There is no dearth of angry activism on this issue in India and outside, and as is the nature of all angry activism, the message is so loud that people close their ears and ignore it. Meanwhile, India's politicians are more interested in maintaining the status quo and milking caste divisions for votes instead of working for the welfare of the "untouchables." In this hopeless scenario, one man is running a silent revolution with a lot of success.

This is the story of Bindeshwar Pathak, whose life transformed as a young man in the 60s, when he was told by the General Secretary of a Gandhian organization that it was Gandhi's unfinished work to remove the profession of manual scavenging from India and liberate the untouchables. The General Secretary told the young Pathak that he had to finish Gandhi's mission and added, "I see light in you." The young man had no clue what this meant, but he read a few books published by the WHO on sanitation, and decided to live in a scavenger's colony for two months to understand them and their problems. People thought he was crazy. He survived, and came back with an understanding that was different from any social activist in this field.

He felt that the discrimination of the untouchables was due to technical reasons. The untouchables, or manual scavengers of toilets, were considered dirty as they dealt with human excreta while cleaning "bucket toilets." Human excreta would be pulled out of such toilets into buckets and then, scavengers would carry buckets on their heads to a location for disposal. If there could be an alternate toilet designed to be self-cleaning, then it would be cheaper for the consumer as they wouldn't need to hire people to clean it. It would also eliminate the need for the scavenging profession.

Pathak started "Sulabh" (which means "easy") to address this. He came up with the two-pit pour-flush toilet which would work in the Indian context. One pit would be in use at a time. Once the pit was full, it would would be closed and the other would be in operation. Over a year, the first pit's contents would turn into manure and could be used as fertilizer in the field. Thus, there would be no need to scavenge and clean these toilets. Sulabh's toilet product turned out to be a great hit, with over a million pieces already sold. Sulabh then channeled their profits toward retraining the untouchables to enter mainstream society - as cooks, beauticians, electricians, etc. Today, Sulabh has a whole array of toilet products to suit your budget.

Pathak also felt strongly about the problem of open defecation. Unlike those who faulted the "Indian civic sense," he recognized that the problem was that we didn't have enough public toilets. This is also a question of human dignity, especially for women, as they would suppress the call of nature the whole day and only go very early in the morning or in the night. Even so, such trips would make them a target of sexual predators, snakebites, diseases due to defecating in unhygienic environs, etc., not to speak of the health problems that come from suppressing the call of nature the entire day. Again, this was a technical problem waiting to be solved. So, he started the first public toilet in (hold your breath) Arrah, Bihar, a state where people would rather travel on top of trains than buy tickets. Pathak believed people would pay for a clean toilet experience, and he was proved right. The people of Bihar paid and sustained the public toilets. Today, Sulabh has built over 5000 public toilets all over India, including the largest toilet in the world at Shirdi for pilgrims.

Not only do these toilets generate local employment, they also collect raw material for Sulabh's energy innovation - bio-gas and electricity production. You have to see it with your own eyes - yes, your excreta can now be used to produce cooking gas and electricity.

Pathakji also understood that he needed to help the children of the scavengers get the same opportunity as others. Sulabh uses its profits to run a school where children of the scavengers get free education, books and uniforms. They also eat together with children of other communities, and learn Sanskrit, a language they were earlier denied access to. The children in this school are taught all religions so they can celebrate all of India's traditions.

And the story does not end here. Sulabh also has a toilet museum which is now on the tourist maps of New Delhi. They have expanded to eco-sanitation projects that help with pisciculture, among other things. Throughout these projects, Pathakji continued his education to go on for a Phd and a D.Litt, and has coined a new term, "Action Sociology," which he advocates as a way to solve social problems.

Behind all of these efforts is a deep-rooted spirituality. Pathakji's day begins with the entire Sulabh community praying (they sing a universal prayer) and filling their hearts with positive vibrations. When I interviewed him, not once did I sense anger against society for discrimination of the untouchables. At the same time, there was no acceptance of the injustice. Like Krishnammal and Sandhya, and in a completely unique manner, Pathakji has transcended anger and hatred to make a difference, a big difference, through social entrepreneurship. He is indeed a bright light in India who has illuminated our conscience and given us great hope for the future.

You can meet him by going to the Palam Vihar (New Delhi) office of Sulabh International Social Service Organization (although he travels often, he is generally accessible). You can also meet the other heroes of Sulabh and see their toilet museum and a demonstration of bio-gas and electricity from human excreta in the same complex. There are several volunteering and internship opportunities with this organization, if you have the time.

And if you can't visit them, here is a film I made on Sulabh in 2006. I recommend watching it in full-screen mode (press the TV icon) and using headphones.

In case the full screen feature does not work below, you can watch it directly on Blip TV.

Errata: the film says Sulabh has built over 500 toilets, when in fact, the number is ab

Moral Absolutes - A Concrete Illustration

K. M. — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 14:42:57 EST

My last post here on how the concept of justice requires the existence of moral absolutes was seen by some commenters as too abstract. So I was very happy to stumble upon a story (via NoodleFood) that serves as a perfect concrete follow up. Here is the story.

About four weeks ago, I was rushing around trying to get some last-minute shopping done. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the Christmas season right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the multi-story car park. I realised that I had lost the shop receipt, which I would need to get out of the car park without paying. So, mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the shopping centre entrance.

As I was searching the wet pavement, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about ten years old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He had only a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the evening chill. He was holding two fifty pound notes in his hand.

Thinking that he had got separated from his parents, I asked him what was wrong, and he told me his sad story. He came from a large family. His father had died when he was seven years old. His mother worked two full time jobs to make ends meet. Nevertheless, she had managed to scrimp and save two hundred pounds to buy her children Christmas presents. She had dropped him off at the shopping centre on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his brothers and sisters and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the shopping centre when an older boy grabbed two of his fifty pound notes and disappeared into the night.

"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked. The boy said, "I did!"

"And nobody came to help you?" The boy stared at the ground and sadly shook his head.

"How loud did you scream?" I enquired. The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"

I realised that absolutely no one could have heard that poor boy cry for help. So I grabbed his other two fifty pound notes and scarpered.

Here are some questions. What value does the main character in the story violate? (Hint: Is it justice?) Can the main character in the story be condemned without using moral absolutes? Are there some circumstances where his act could be considered good? Perhaps some coordinate on a time-space-situation axis, as suggested in comment #87 on my previous post?