Desicritics Category: Culture: City Life

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.

Chick Lit

IdeaSmith — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 10:21:51 EST

My new literary obsession is Chick Lit. Helen Fielding, Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes keep me in chocolate-box mood while Meera Syal and Advaita Kala add the desi tadka. Why, even fellow-blogger/'I-know-this-girl-friend-acquaintance' Compulsive Confessor flashes her characteristic grin at me from my bedside bookstack.

I found this rather interesting piece on the internet, describing Chick Lit:

"Chick lit" is a term used to denote genre fiction written for and marketed to young women, especially single, working women in their twenties and thirties.

Now, I know I'm doing an about-face, especially after such rabid commmentary. I'm coming to this acceptance with much prior reluctance. I still have trouble accepting the term 'chick' to describe me or any woman I know. It's degrading. However, I'm willing to lay down my shackles and admit that I've been reading (and enjoying) the genre called Chick Lit.

Chick Lit is the new Romance Novel. And it isn't. As a genre it certainly is finding as much favour and spawning as many writers (and books) as the ubiquitous M&Bs. On the other hand, one may argue that romantic fiction was a genre built on common women's fantasies while Chick Lit inter-twines what we consider our ideal life along with the proverbial gang-cribbing that each of us indulges in with our galpals over men, weight loss problems, career concerns and PMS.

Chick Lit, as most of the definitions state, is usually about twenty-something women, career-minded or not, married or not, successful or not. One thing they all are, is discontent with their lot. The careerwoman struggles with loneliness and jerky boyfriends, the beauty queen is slapped around and paraded as a sex toy/trophy partner and the housewife is wistful about missed opportunities. The Chick Lit heroine is Superwoman who survives on a steady dose of gal/pal advice, gay friends, alcohol-and-career swings and roller-coaster relationships. Friends are family, chocolate is the manna for all evils and the root of all evils can be summed up into one word - MEN.

Bosses, colleagues, friends, lovers, ex-boyfriends, flings, husbands of friends, partner's buddies, friends' partners, gardeners, milkmen, grumpy old men, uncles, teachers, fathers, cheery grocers, lecherous neighbors....men in every possible shape, size and relationship are examined back and forth. It is the Chick Lit'ter's favorite hobby - Men.

If the Indian versions are different, it is only in that they're usually set in Mumbai/Delhi instead of London/New York. The protagonists gorge on chicken tikkas and grab their capuccinos from Barista instead of M&S or Starbucks. Their mothers want to see them 'well-settled' instead of 'settled down'. The men are just as committment-phobic, the careers just as unsatisfying, their bosses are just as demanding, their married neighbors consider them just as flighty and sluttish and their credit card bills are equally long.

Why do I like the genre so much? Simple. Because it is about me. That's my life, my friends, my mistakes and my victories that are getting written about. Every page brings a, "Don't I know it!", an "Aha! You got 'im there, girl!" and a "Bullshit, I heard the same thing from my second boyfriend when he was cheating on me." It's almost like having a new set of friends with every book.

You might even say it's the modern, literary woman's Soap Opera in a book format. If the women of yore wanted fantasy to keep them entertained, at least this I can say for my generation - we're thriving on reality...or some warped version of it. Who needs a perfect fairytale when our own messed-up, vodka-spiked, overstressed lives are so much more interesting?

Chick Lit is empowering in a very strange way. It tells me that other women are having a hell of it too. That having a zero social life at twenty, in favour of slogging away at work was not a mistake. That getting married at twenty-three would not have spelt 'happily ever after' either. That my smug married, whiz-in-the-kitchen housewife friend acts superior to me but also thinks I'm living the glamourous, carefree life she only reads about in magazines.

It tells me that it's okay to not feel diva-like at all times, to nurse worries over weight gain and cellulite. That it's even okay to worry more about these than a missed deadline. That bad temper, unreasonableness and pukey-head-feeling are permissible once a month.

Chick Lit tells me life isn't perfect (yes, I know someone said that long ago but catch me listening?). I mean look at the titles - The Undomestic Goddess, Life isn't all Hahaheehee, Shopaholic, Almost Single. It also tells me that each of us is figuring out a new way of perfect. And who knows? Maybe Perfect will be the way I do it - My perfect!

Where is The Line?

The Shiva — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 23:22:39 EST

OK, let me rephrase. Is there even a line. How should you react to these ghastly incidents that scar not only your psyche but also drive down that a deep hatred which seems to erupt in anonymity? What happened in Mumbai not only leaves us with questions about the relevance of Pakistan in our lives (as Indians) but also the relevance of the normal day Pakistani that you might bump into on the street. Why is there a shadow version of ourselves that tends to bring out the worst in us when hidden in a mob or a group, but as individuals we tend to think differently. I'm sure there must have been a million social experiments done to study this, but why is there no perfect solution to deal with this problem?

I've read and reread many articles on how to hurt Pakistan into waking up to reality without actually firing a single shot, the sort of Cold-War tactics used by the US to hurt a country where it really matters, economically, culturally or even psychologically. But the thing that's different with the Pakis is this deep rooted feeling of brotherhood some of us Indians feel in times of relative peace with our neighbor. I don't think its a religion thing, its more to do with us wanting to take a higher moral stand, of always wanting to be in peace even during times of pain, of utmost restraint, the same restraint that our Government keeps reminding us, the same restraint the Western World urges us to show. But is the price of restraint worth it?

These questions are meant to be asked because for some of us who arent in the crowd, the anger or restraint we show happens more at a personal level. I've had all these questions running through my mind, because as an Indian in the US, I feel the anger and yet I feel anonymous to the cause. How should I react? Should I even react? The day after the happenings in Mumbai, I was in a cab driven by yes, a Paki. I was with my colleagues, each one with their own immigrant stories but I couldnt expect them to understand how it made me feel sitting in that cab. I sat next to the driver, while he started talking to me about Bollywood and how Abhishek Bachchan and Aishwarya Rai were in his cab when they visited the city. I just smiled and said nothing, when inside me, all I could feel was the rage of being there. I knew my anger had nothing to do with him as a person, he was just a guy like me, trying to find his way through life. But all I could think of were the dollars I was going to pay him, which would in turn find its way to Pakistan maybe as a family remittance, and who knows might end up in the hands of the same group that sent people to destroy my brethren. After all they are all charities right? Maybe I was being simplistic about the whole thing, or maybe I wasn't.

These thoughts made my head spin that I had to ask my colleague for an aspirin in the car. She didn't have one, and so what happens next, yes you must have guessed it, Mr. Cabbie hands over a couple of aspirins and asks me to have it. I didnt know whether to feel relieved or even angrier. I just took the escapist route and fell asleep. The next day I left the hotel room, prepared for my presentation and guess what, my client was a Pakistani. I again, didn't know what to do. I had to be professional obviously, so I just kept it that way. No small talk, but we could feel the tension. What made the equation a bit skewed was us being three Indians to him being one. I couldn't find that surprising though, there are after all a billion of us in this world.

Though I always wonder what goes on inside the head of a Pakistani soon after these incidents. ( they do happen pretty often) there is one thing I have realized though with my countless experiences with my neighbors. One-on-One they are probably the nicest people in the world. Its when they become bigger than a group of 20, that you start hearing the commentary. In any case we went out for lunch which was more or less in silence except for one colleague of mine who was Chinese and couldn't help himself from talking. Though at some point, my Pakistani client did mention that his wife was from India. I again didnt know what to say. I just said, Great.

Great? Who says that.

Some of these questions do have answers. Like the way my friends decided not to go to a Pakistani owned theatre or a restaurant. Maybe it doesn't matter to the business, but it did matter as a set of principles for them. Like the way, my friend decided against buying a pair of gloves though they were perfect, just because they were made in Pakistan. Would it ever add up, I asked them. They said, they didn't care. Its the same petro-dollar argument new energy advocates use here. Less money for the Saudis, less money to blow us up.

They say you cant generalize. Not everyone belongs to the same mob. But isnt the reason we got to this point because we never had a coherent policy on what we should do. We need not hate, but do we need to love? Why shoot ourselves in the foot when almost 100,000 Indian soldiers have died in the Kashmir conflict and yet Atif Aslam signs record deals with Indian music companies. Yes, he didn't kill anyone and yes the soldiers may not have been killed by Pakistanis ( Afghans and Kashmiris also fought in that insurgency) but isn't it better to solve the leakage through one hole before opening up more taps? And note that I haven't even started talking about the religion aspect of this entire conflict.

In the end, I think, all of us are just trying to find our way out for ourselves. So that we need not be the ones making that crucial decision whether to cut the umbilical cord or not. In essence though, I think Pakistan has already done so, a long time ago.

That Saturday night, I ended up thinking what my friends said, on my long drive home through the rainy streets of San Jose. Each one made a passionate argument, not on how to deal with this situation, but how they would deal with a normal day Pakistani. To me, it sounded idealistic, because of my own recent interactions. But they made their case and said they would stand by it. I though could only see two sets of images in front of my eyes. One of the chaos on the streets of the city I would swear by any day and the other of me walking away from the cab, the minute I found out. The problem though, was, one happened and the other didn't.

Poetry: Matte Finish

IdeaSmith — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 10:45:15 EST

Skin powdered to smooth perfection
Lipstick patted dry to a subtle, near non-erasable hue
Eyes smoky and heavy-lidded
Colours muted enough to be classy

The voice pitched a tad above inaudible, just below husky
And her movements just the right side of languid,
Never erring into lethargic,
Shying clear of boistrous

And yet, through the night
She is, as a beacon
Moths or fireflies perhaps,
Flocking to her banked flames

Later, much later, early in the a.m.
She washes her face
Patting it gently dry as the beauty manuals advocate
But the shining in her eyes stays until she shuts her eyes

Gilt may turn to gold and back,
But tears and pearls can never be changed.

Missing InSomnia

Chaitanya S — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 11:14:20 EST

“We are having a blast at the Taj tonight…remember to bring your camera along…it is going to be an all nighter”.

As I sat glued to CNN, I realized what words like “Taj”, “tonight”, “blast”, “camera” and “all night” meant to me. As I sat through the night watching the footage, the brain screamed of fatigue but the eyes remained wide. My roommate passed by at 5:00 am and sniggered, “Still up? Are you suffering from insomnia tonight?”. “No. InSomnia is suffering tonight”.

I knew InSomnia had shut down a year or so ago. But all my best memories (only memories?) of the Taj revolved round that night club. We’d make it a point to party there whenever possible. For us living in the suburbs, the 30 minute drive to reach our destination was more than worth the effort. The slow moving traffic gave us an opportunity to actually “talk” and catch up with each others' lives. The moment we’d cross Worli, the traffic would give way and the road was there for the taking. Marine Drive, was where I’d roll down the windows. The cool sea breeze hitting our faces added to the thrill of going to party. The screams of “put the windows up, you idiot, it’s ruining our hair” couldn’t dampen our ecstasy.

On 26/11, the absence of cars round the Taj was an antithesis to my experience. I recollect the plush automobiles snaking round the grand building. I remember being caught up in that long queue for valet parking on every occasion. On such occasions, comments from my beloved backseat drivers ranged from, “this is taking us longer than our drive” to “I told you to leave early, numbskull”.

I’ve frequented all the best nightclubs in Mumbai city. Anyone would tend to do that if they’d party at least twice at week. But InSomnia always had an X factor to it which I could never actually put my finger on. Maybe it was the architectural splendor of the Taj on entry. Or maybe it was the element of mystery I felt as I approached the club for the first time. It was through a narrow corridor which was flanked by designer stores on either side. All the shops were closed by the time we’d go to the club, but it was my secret ambition to shop there someday. I no longer nurse that ambition, but you tend to have crazy aspirations when you are younger. I remember entering the darkness of the club down a flight of stairs and immersing myself into the loud music and flashing lights.

Back then, the only shots inside were either at the bar or through my camera. The blasts were our youthful emotions exploding on the dance floor. Every ounce of fatigue which had accumulated due to the 60 hour work week went up in smoke. We made sure to uphold Mumbai’s reputation as “the city which never sleeps”.

On the way home, I remember the “nakabanis” or roadblocks at which I’d stop at. Police would speak in their stern but polite Marathi and screen the car. Far from being a nuisance, it would be reiterate the fact that I was safe in my beloved city. The police were just making sure that we citizens drove home safely.

I will always feel safe in Mumbai. It is my home. I know I am being protected. Fear will not give me sleepless nights. Now even InSomnia can’t give me sleepless nights in Mumbai. I really do miss InSomnia.

Terrorism - What's Under The Surface?

Uma Ranganathan — Fri, 5 Dec 2008 01:45:43 EST

There is a good and a bad side to almost everything, when you think about it. Maybe this is part of life’s complexity, it occurs to me, especially in times of adversity. However, given the incalculable loss in human lives, destruction of property, and other resources could there be anything good about the fiesta of destruction on which ten young men from across the seas recently embarked, in which over 200 lives were lost and so much havoc was caused?

I look at this way. These are events, no matter how horrible, which give the rest of us a chance to think things over, to start life afresh, to wake up to changes that are crying out to be made. When you look at it in this light, at least you get the feeling that the lives which were snuffed out were not lost in vain. That the people who died, did so in order to give the survivors a chance to live differently, to improve their circumstances. One wishes there could have been another, less painful way but since we are so slow and so unwilling to open our eyes to reality perhaps this is the only way left to jolt us into waking up.

So what is it we really need to wake up to? Is it to the need to subject our already restricted lives to even more control? More policing? A huge announcement by one of our daily papers asks us to serve as the “eyes and ears of the nation” by reporting suspicious happenings wherever we go, pertaining not only to terrorist activities but to any “ills that plague society”. Just think of some of the possible repercussions if such a movement were to come into effect! Should we emulate countries like Israel (whose young visitors to India are so unpopular on account of their aggressive and crass behavior) - or the U.S. which so many of our fellow citizens have been citing as a prime example of a country which has fended off terrorist attacks since 9/11? Really? We should invade and destroy countries which we have convinced ourselves are the source of our problems and even risk the danger of nuclear war to make a point? Do we really think that military might or that turning India into a quasi police state is going to ensure us the health, wealth, safety and happiness we are all looking for?

Or could it be that events like the one we’ve recently witnessed are a call for us to wake up to, and address the gross inequalities in the world. Is not the violence which we are subjected to so often, ranging from city murders to wars, to acts of terrorism, inviting us desperately to redress the injustice and crazy distribution of wealth and the fact that there is a serious breakdown of values wherever we look, a dissolving of whatever it is that holds the community of human beings together? The horror which is unfolding before us everywhere, is it not begging us, among other things, to give back to the people who are slogging their ass off for the country, at a very concrete level, their dignity? Among others, our farmers, without whom we would not survive more than a few weeks at the most, the workers who put up our buildings, bridges and other constructions, or the coal miners who risk their lives to keep our electrical circuits running?

The lone terrorist to be caught alive following the recent onslaught – Mohammed Ajmal Kasab - according to newspaper reports, comes from a poor family in Pakistan. There are two reasons that seem to have motivated him to become a terrorist. One is, that his best friend Fayaz Ahmad who he believed was innocent, was killed in an encounter three years ago, by the Jammu and Kashmir Police. The other is that his father persuaded him to join the LeT in return for money, in order that the family back home might survive.

As long as there are people starving in the world, as long as a large number of deprived human beings continues to be not only confronted with existential problems but is simultaneously forced to watch crass indulgence by sections of the population, who ignore the basic needs of the poor, we can be sure of by being plagued by rebellion in various destructive forms since that is the only way apparently, in which the poor can make themselves heard. It is not enough to blame the criminal minds making use of the poor – be they slimy, mealy mouthed, manipulative politicians or hate filled, power hungry maniacs who brainwash and train frustrated youngsters to blow up public facilities and kill large numbers of people wherever it may be, leaving a trail of blood and gore behind them.

As far back as 1972 the disastrous consequences of our consumerist attitude and crazy way of life, was documented in a book called “Limits to growth”, published by the Club of Rome. Sadly, over thirty years later, when wars are actually being fought over oil, over water, and other natural resources in short supply, when the effects of the lopsided growth around the world is known to be leading to violence and destruction, we are still thinking in terms of the sort of growth which can only lead to further destruction and are hardly giving a thought to measures we need to take to save our resources and to use them in a way that benefits the maximum number of human beings in the world.

What is scarier than the terrorists is the fact that not enough people even now, seem likely to wake up to the urgent need for us to change the way we relate to each other in the world – politically, economically, and most significantly in the realm of personal relationships, which is where all transformation really begins. The fact that so many of us go through life like self satisfied zombies, indicates that by and large we are not leading happy lives, that we lack genuine fulfillment – because otherwise we would be longing to share our joy and to extend the sense of fulfillment to others – not to cut ourselves off from the world as we have done and to live in our own separate cocoons without caring about the rest.

Today I am wondering, who are the real terrorists? The people we think of as terrorists? Or is it all those who hold the world to ransom with their greed, their hunger for power, their exploitative attitudes? Are the real terrorists the men and women who have been seduced into joining criminal organizations in order to feed themselves or their families, or is it people who have unfairly amassed wealth and power and who now refuse to use it for the common good, to bring about a society which is peaceful and democratic in the true sense of the word?

Bazaar Walks: Today at Dadar

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 3 Dec 2008 07:46:05 EST

I went to Dadar today, to chalk out new routes for a Dadar Bazaar Walk. Here are impressions from today's walk, clicked on my Nokia E90.

At Phule covered market - crabs for sale
There were mussels, dried fish, bombil, and all sorts of other fishy treasures on sale. The fisherwomen as usual, had tongues as sharp as their curved fish knives. I was asked if I wanted to hold a live crab. My hurried refusal led to much merriment.

Resting after the morning's sale
See the green and maroon khun blouse? The fabric is probably soft and comfortable after repeated washes. Have you ever tried a khun? It is an absolutely beautiful brocade. Rich as silk, soft as satin, with the coolness and comfort of cotton - what more could a woman ask for! This is me, in case you're curious, in a glorious golden khun.

Outside the covered market - Goddess in Finery
Someone please, please tell me what's going on with the coconut + eyes + jewellery + new clothes thingy. I'm dying to know. Is this Lakshmi? Durga? Some other devi? I wrote about it earlier as well. I know this mystery woman is a goddess that the fisherfolk worship.

The Goddess obviously has a thing for bright skirts!
Lots and lots of women were buying things from these stalls. We asked them, but got incomprehensible answers. "It's for puja", they said. All I gathered was that there was a festival this month.

I call him The Yam Accountant.

She was concentrating on making a "veni" - flowers for the hair
The flowers come from the wholesale market nearby. If you want to see what the finished veni looks like, I have a photo here.

Plastic covers for computers and television sets
So it's not just Goddesses who like colour - see how the Indian love for colours transforms even these practical covers into a feast for the eyes! Near the plastic covers, green bangles (favoured by married women) are stacked in a basket in sets of twelve.

We stopped for lassi and snacks at a nearby restaurant. I had misal-pav, a brilliant Maharashtrian invention that doesn't get the press it deserves. Misal is a tangy spicy dish, eaten with bread. In my hurry to eat it, I forgot to click a photo, but if you want to see what misal is like, there's a great photo here. The most satisfying part of the misal is when you dunk the last of your chunky bread into the last of the gravy, and polish it all off with a final tasty mouthful. Sigh.

It is clear to me, people. I have inherited my mother's love of bazaars.

Children With Learning Problems - It's the Schools, not the Kids, Stupid!

Deepa Krishnan — Tue, 2 Dec 2008 08:24:25 EST

It's a problem fairly common in schools, but we don't know how big it is. It has solutions, but we don't know how to implement them. All we've done so far, is sit by, and let children blunder on.

I'm talking about kids with difficulties in reading, writing and math.

No one really knows how many children in India have learning disabilities (LD), but it looks like a staggering 20 to 50 million might be affected. And still, there are very few schools that have any mechanisms in place to identify children with LD, or offer remedial therapy. The real tragedy is that LD children are not "stupid" - some of the brightest minds of our time, from Einstein to Edison to Pasteur, have had LD.

This Saturday, I went to an LD conference at the Hyatt, a gathering of educators, teachers, researchers and parents. The conference was hosted by Tata Interactive Systems, as part of their CSR initiative. As several speakers presented their thoughts and experiences, I learnt a lot about LD.

What I found most frustrating was when I realised that the real problem is not with the kids. The real failure seems to be of school boards, administrators, and teachers. A survey of school teachers across CBSE, ICSE and SSC schools in Mumbai, conducted by the Bombay Teachers Training College, shows very low levels of real awareness amongst teachers ("Oh, I didn't realise, you mean like Taare Zamin Par?").

If those who are entrusted with teaching our children are themselves blind, then where do the rest of us go?

For the past 2 years, my mother has been tutoring a little girl from the slum nearby. Pranali has problems with the Marathi and the English alphabet. She's also bad with numbers and multiplication tables. But she's a very bright child, with twinkling eyes and winning ways, and can recite poetry and lessons beautifully. My mother's patience, her fair but firm handling, and her genuine love are making Pranali blossom. The child loves coming to our house, loves to write her squiggles, and is almost tragic in her eagerness to please. If my mother moves away to another room, the girl follows her. "Mi ithe basu ka?", she asks......"Can I sit here (near you)?" It is like a flower finding the warmth of the sun and wanting to bask in it forever. It is the first time the child has found love and understanding, instead of strict balwadi teachers with frowning faces.

Last year, she passed her second standard exams, and has now moved to the third standard. To help with her third standard Marathi lessons, my mom enrolled for Marathi language classes nearby. I am amazed at my mother's dedication. "I promised Pranali's mother", my mom said. "So I'm going to do the best I can."

When I compare this with the thousands of other children subject to the tyranny of indifferent balwadi and municipal teachers, I'm telling you, it's enough to make me cry.

There are some small glimmers of hope. The B.Ed curriculum just got modified to include lessons on learning disabilities (finally!). At Sion Hospital, Dr. Kulkarni is doing some outstanding work in testing, diagnosis and remedial therapy (that's her in the photo below, a small grey haired lady with an iron will). Parents in Bombay are increasingly driving change at schools. Some schools already have counsellors and special needs educators, and more schools are waking up to the need. Last month, the school I went to, SIES, appointed a counsellor and is going to have a Special Needs Teacher from the next academic year.

There is progress, yes, but it is frustratingly slow. Several questions remain unanswered - for example, is there lower dyslexia in studying Indian languages than in English? Are Devnagri graphemes easier for those with dysgraphia? Does living in joint families, where there are different speech cadences, make a difference to infants? Does losing traditional lullabies result in increased LD? Do Indian girls have more LD, given the potentially lower attention in childhood? How early can we diagnose LD in India, and through what mechanism? Does improving balwadi nutrition programmes offer high rewards in improving performance of children LD?

Many questions come rushing at me when I think of the social and cultural issues involved in something as complex and widespread as LD. Every one of these could make a significant research topic, if only the funds (and the academic will) were there! I am deeply grateful Tata Interactive is putting not just money, but also thoughtful and invovled effort behind this. More power to them.

Mumbai Limps Back To Life

IdeaSmith — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 12:51:14 EST

I traveled into town today, in the aftermath of the terror that Mumbai has lived in the past week. The reason was a Tweet-up/Peace walk/gathering at Colaba Causeway. Honestly? I stand in deep respect of the police force, the fire-fighters and the NSG who delivered us from the terror. And I'm going to wear white tomorrow to symbolize our mourning as well as a plea for peace. Yes, I will also light a candle and thank every police-person I see for the bravery of their comrades. But mostly I went out today for myself. To reassure myself that I still could. I needed to. If as a Mumbaikar, this city's spirit resides in me, then I speak for the city when I say I'm battered, I'm crawling, I am gasping for breath.

Traffic was light as it has been since Wednesday night, even for a Sunday afternoon/evening. Even so, the journey took us a half and hour either way. We passed shops that were open, people out for a stroll with their families, cars driving down...but there was an air of barely concealed tension. I had my camera out for the better part of the journey and I know I drew some curious (and not necessarily friendly) glances from the other cars. In case you're wondering what an atmosphere of terror looks like, come to Mumbai right now.

Here's the media jumping onto the sympathy-brand visibility bandwagon, over the Western Express flyover. DNA asks...

Spirit of Mumbai
FOR HOW LONG?

Siddhivinayak looks quite empty by its usual standards. To my god-fearing friend I asked,

So much security for bhagwan. What happens to the bhagwan ke bhakt who're getting blasted?

As we pulled into town, the Marine drive, a view I usually wait for since its so breath-taking and which causes me immediately to wince since its packed with people - the Marine drive was empty save for a few stragglers. On our way back though we did see a number of people carrying placards and signs of the 'Stand up and speak, Mumbai' variety. No photographs of that, I'm afraid. The light gave out and so did my spirit.

A number of places we passed had signboards and hoardings recalling the bravery of those who fell. Not Just Jazz By the Bay had a very simple white cloth banner with just their names. Nothing more required. Every Mumbaiker's heart speaks the same story right now. May our brave heroes rest in peace.

The Oberoi Trident, beamed into all our households as a backdrop to Barkha Dutt ("Oh, there goes another blast! I just heard more gunfire!") loomed in sight. It was strange how normal it felt. Just like any other day on the road, just another high-rise building to pass in town. It is indeed strange how quickly the mind wants to forget what it is horrified by. But I force myself to remember the hostages, the firing, the massacre, the blasts and the final shots of the survivors exiting. Mumbai must not forget this horror, this indignity.

And finally, the centerstage of the terror. Colaba Causeway was shut to incoming traffic so we walked in, passing Cafe Mondegar (an equally popular cafe as Leopold's) on the way. Now on any normal day, this photograph would not have been possible since there'd be traffic zooming right through where I stood. What's more, that shot wouldn't have appeared either, clogged as it usually is with the pub regulars.

Today though, whatever crowd there was, was concentrated up ahead. Leopold's Cafe, its owners said would open very quickly even if its customers took some time to start feeling safe enough to visit again. It turns out they did open this morning but had to shut shop because there was too much crowd. Mumbai, I'd say you amaze me, if I did have any emotion left to feel.

The TV crews were still parked outside and around Leopold's though mercifully we didn't see scores of reporters jostling for soundbytes. I guess even media-hounds need their rest and thank heaves for that.

And last of all, the Taj Mahal hotel. We couldn't get too close as it was cordoned off. Here's the closest I could get to it, relying on my camera's zoom. This was shot from Colaba Causeway, in the lane next to Leopold's.

Since we couldn't congregate at Leopold's as per the original plan, we went into Cafe Mondegar. Slowly, bitterly, unwilling as it may be, Mumbai limps back to life.

On our way back, we saw the Peace March begin, people walking with candles.

Obituary: Sabina Sehgal Saikia

Kim — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 14:27:34 EST

Sabina Sehgal Saikia was a food writer who had been with the Times of India group for over 17 years who at the time of her untimely demise had risen to Consulting Editor at the publication. She died in the Terror attacks in Mumbai where she was staying on the 6th floor. She was in Mumbai for the wedding of Bachi Karkaria's son next week.

Sabina could make or break a Delhi restaurant based on her reviews. She initially wrote an extremely popular column called "Main Course" for the Saturday Times, which later moved to the Delhi Times.

I was first introduced to her, when I picked up the Times of India Restaurant Guide for Delhi, 8 years ago. My next 2 years in Delhi were made tolerable by this handy book. I tried out restaurants based on her recommendations and agreed with her judgment over 80% of the time. She was honest and direct.

The Times of India Restaurant Guides to Hyderabad and Bombay could never match up to the standard that Sabina had set. She had spoiled me against other guides with her perfection and accuracy.

I subscribed to the Times of India in Delhi, just to read her column, although the Hindustan Times gave much better news coverage in Delhi.

An excellent cook herself, she soon visited me in my living room on NDTV cooks demonstrating an especially fiery looking Green Chilli Pickle.

I never met her face-to-face, but I felt like I knew a part of her. The part of her that loved good food and in Saif Ali Khan's words "acha khaana khane ke liye, hum kahin pe bhi chalenge" (to eat good food, we will travel anywhere) and in a wierd way, I identified with this part of her.

Sabina will be sorely missed in the food writers world. Our sympathies go out to her husband Shantanu and her two young children who will feel her absence much more than her millions of devoted readers.

Sabina you brought joy into the lives of food lovers: May your Soul, Rest in Peace.