Desicritics Category: Culture: Rural

Book Review: In an Antique Land

Kim — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 17:02:09 EST

In an Antique Land was a unique book for me, as its two threads focus on a small town that I grew up in for the first 20+ years of my life and a Country that I have lived in for the last 3 years. So I had a unique connect with this book.

Not so surprisingly, the description of my hometown did not ring a bell as it focused mostly on the town as it existed 800+ years ago. The description of rural Egypt created a veritable clang in my head as I kept thinking to myself "How true" or "Yes, I know someone who would have reacted the exact same way"

This is a book of non fiction. Amitav Ghosh chanced upon a letter between Abraham Ben Yiju, a Jewish merchant living in Mangalore, India, and Khalaf ibn Ishaq from Egypt, written in 1132AD. Part of this narrative focuses on Ghosh's search for more documents relating to Ben Yiju and part of the narrative tries to imagine the world that Ben Yiju lived in.

The other narrative in the book, covers Ghosh's stay in rural Egypt (Mashawy and Lataifa) and it was this section that I found infinitely more interesting and hence hope to pick up his book of essays The Imam and the Indian which promise to shed more light on this phase of his life.

It is in this second narrative that Amitav's gift of story telling is showcased, while in the first narrative it feels stilted, focused on facts and doesn't flow as naturally. Blending history with a a current travelogue is an art perfected by William Dalrymple and sadly in comparison, Ghosh didn't match up.

While Ben Yiju did spend time in Egypt and his letters were written to people living there and most of the surviving documentation came from the Geniza Documents cache from the Ben Ezra Synagogue in the Coptic Cairo area of modern day Cairo and Fustat of Ancient Cairo, this is the only point at which the two narratives seem to meet. For the rest of the book, they just continue parallel to each other.

In the final chapters, when Ghosh heads out towards the tomb of a Jewish Saint in rural Egypt venerated by Muslims and Jews alike, I hoped it would bring about a meeting of the parallel stories, but unfortunately it didn't.

Both narratives on their own are great and very illuminating, I just didn't see the point of putting them together.

Its a great read for someone visiting the Fustat area or interested in observations/revelations from the Geniza Cache or life in Rural Egypt.

Memories of Medinapur

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 09:53:07 EDT

Medinapur made news recently when Inspector Attendranth Dutta was set loose by the Maoists in exchange for the tribal women the state had deemed Maoists. Medinapur means a lot to me. I grew up hearing tales about Medinapur - the simple village life, the abundance of animal life, the small golden fish in the ditches that snaked around the fields and the cool interiors of thatched cottages.

I remember asking my mom if I could go to Medinapur and my mom replied with an adamant -No. I was about five at the time and the person who told me magical tales about the village was our resident domestic help, a dimunitive woman who was a child widow and came to work with us when I was a newborn.

I grew up listening to Swarswati's tales; her longing to go back home and when she did go back home laden with bags wearing her colourful cotton saree she returned empty handed and in a white saree.

Every month letters from village came and my mother made me read the letters while Swarswati sat on the floor. I translated the letters that were written by the post man in perfect English. Stuff about snake bites, the destruction or success of crop and the need for money. The letters always asked for money and Swarswati asked mom to send her entire salary to them.

Mom was never for it. I remember mom telling me that once the money was over they wouldn't take care of Swarswati. Mom told her the money should be saved for her old age but for Swarswati the desperate need for money back home was more important than her advancing age.

The day Swarswati finally left for her village with little savings book which had all her savings and my mom with a sad smile told me that the day her money ran out so would her popularity with the relatives.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The next time I met Swarswati she was older, bent, tragic and in a white cotton saree that I so hated. She wanted to return to work but who would hire an old lady who could barely walk.

We talked for a long while. She lived with her brother and his family in Kolkata and he had gone through her savings. Nothing new there. Their land in Medinapur that had been bought with her money was sold by her brother and she never saw a penny of it.

The suppression had gone on but she didn't know any better. She missed the village. She spoke about the fake money I had given her when I was a kid (Monopoly money) that she had used to buy fish and vegetables with. It had been our inside joke.

When Medinapur made news, I remembered Swarswati and her years with us. Her rough hands, her gentle persona and her twinkling eyes when I bought her little trinkets with my pocket money.

Quacks & Gullible Folk

Suresh Naig — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 09:24:30 EDT

This happened in 2003. One of my colleagues had a pressing personal problem and it curtailed his work efficiency. Being a close knit organisation respecting human values, we seldom believed in hire and fire philosophy. As the most senior member in the organisation in age and hierarchy, I took the responsibility of counseling him.

His problem was centred on his younger sibling, a girl in her 2nd year BE, who started behaving weird. She was very bright all along scoring above 80% aggregate and was a pride of the family. Suddenly people noticed some strange behaviour in her. Initially her problem was sleeplessness and the people in the household noticed that she started mumbling incoherently during many nights. At times she used to shriek hysterically disturbing the still night. Though it occurred sporadically in the initial stages, slowly it had become a common occurrence and her strange behaviour detrimentally showed in day time too. Many of her peers avoided her in the college and she was compelled to be absent from the college for the same reasons. The family members picked up few shreds from her mumblings and they could decipher it to be the name of one of her male classmates.

It was enough for the simple folks of the household to impose a hushed silence in the house and they started to avoid all kinds of social interactions. My colleague's father confided his misery to one of his close confidants and colleagues, who had suggested him to take the girl to a mystic healer in Shivaji Nagar. Shivaji Nagar in Bangalore is famous for this kind of traditional and occult practitioners, who have been practising this for many generations. When my colleague narrated these things to me, I could piece it together to identify - though not precisely the jargon, some psychological problem the girl was suffering from.

My immediate impulse was to dissuade his father from taking the girl to the quacks, for I was sure they would complicate a simple inadequacy to a major catastrophe. But I decided against it for the benefit of the girl. I told my colleague who was young and educated to accompany the girl to Shivaji Nagar along with his father. From the tales I heard from many village folks, I could predict what would happen at the hands of the occult practitioner.

I told my younger colleague, 'The mystic healer would say that someone from your relatives circle is jealous of your growing prosperity and they have invoked a bad spirit on your sister. To prove his point he would make your sister vomit and he would show you a black hairy object which was puked. He would say that you people have come in the right time, otherwise this object would have grown like a tennis ball in the stomach, threatening the life of the girl.'

I could sense the disbelief in the eyes of my colleague, for my narration was so weird and unbelievable. My intention was not to instil fear into the mind of my colleague, a smart man in his late twenties, but to forewarn him about quackery in the name of traditional healing. Two days later, my colleague met me and narrated the happenings at Shivaji Nagar. But for a slight change in story line, where the quack had replaced a jealous relative to a possessive classmate, everything else happened precisely the way I had predicted. I could see the relief on the face of my colleague, who was able to convince his father on the unreliability of the healer in Shivaji Nagar based on my inputs.

As per my suggestion the young girl was taken to a competent lady psychiatrist and she diagnosed the girl was schizophrenic. She had prescribed a host of drugs and warned the parents that the medicines should not be discontinued at the apparent well being of the patient. She had prescribed a schedule for two years with regular consultations and counseling. Today the girl is like any other normal girl, completed her graduation, found a job, married and divorced.

Notes From a Wretched Old Fellow's Diary

Jayant Chakravarti — Sun, 7 Jun 2009 06:06:41 EDT

It has been a while since I last ate. Of late my tummy has been feeling a bit low, which I suspect is not because of the rapid senile decay, which had deliberately been branded as the sole cause of every ailment I’ve had over the past decade. I have experienced more troublesome stomach upsets in my younger years, which invariably rose out of infrequent meals, given I had to man deserted check posts with no hygienic dhabas around. Those were the days when trekking across thirty mile mud roads weren’t considered big achievements. I knew some fellow constables who had to travel on foot when posted to some chowki in the neighboring provinces. Anyway, the past is past. I have been accused of blabbering about the ‘useless’ old times quite a few times by acquaintances many years younger to me, and the constant shunning has led me to be more constrained with my thoughts, even when talking to myself.

Today isn’t much of an eventful day, though I believe there must be something new happening to the town. I woke up at 5 in the morning as usual, only to find my grandson sitting besides my khaat, waiting expectantly for me to rise. I went through my initial prayers and the measly provision of dahlias and some bread pieces before I could get back to him and inquire if he really had anything to ask from me, speaking of which, he didn’t for the past few years if I could remember clearly.

‘Dadu, how did you meet Dadiji for the first time?’

It wasn’t a question that hadn’t been asked before, and I had perfectly mastered the art of replying to the same, having done that ever since I took my retirement from the constabulary. I have noticed certain amazement about the romantic inclinations of us older men, and how we went about the seduction process during ‘those times’, as if we were being referred to in the same breath as the ancient civilizations who went down to natural calamities without having enough opportunities of leaving a list of their daily activities behind. So I went ahead.

‘Beta, I never knew your Dadi until I was twenty four years old. I was already a constable, and partition had just taken place….’

‘Offo Dadu…. I don’t want all those details. Tell me how you met her.’

‘I met her only after our marriage had been fixed. My father had visited their town, and saw the girl. Incidentally, there was just one family in entire Khatipur that matched our caste, and your Dadiji’s father was fortunately an erstwhile talukdar. So the marriage had been fixed in just a couple of weeks after I gave the nod.’

‘How unromantic. Did you meet her in private?’

My reply, to my grandson’s disappointment, was obviously in the negative. I realized that every subsequent answer I gave frustrated him even more. I knew I solved no purpose of his or mine by answering in such details, but it did feel reassuring that my grandson had come to me and was, so I believe, genuinely interested in my life. I remember once when I was a child, I had to take dictation from my grandfather about a lesson in Hindi on Shivaji, solely because none of my parents were at home, and I had to fill the slate before it grew dark. Dadaji was a perfectionist, and I had lost count on how many times my right ear was pulled sore because of unintended spelling errors. I had been subjected to even more accusations later in the day because I had annoyed Dadaji, a profound crime in those days. Holy me, even I am falling into the trap of these young men of calling my youthful days as ‘those’. I wish the passage of time hadn’t been taken so seriously. I still fail to understand how I was primitive when I did not know what mobile phones or computers were. In fact, I am still clueless as to how the new TV- like machines helps one to survive. I am still confident our printing press at Dholpur helped us more than these very expensive sets. This reminds me of a Sunday in the previous month when my grandson took great delight in playing some old songs for me from his computer. So far, in my view, that has been the only constructive purpose the new computer has solved.

So getting back to my grandfather, he was the only Munim in our village during his younger days. His work frequently took him to the Courts, because of which he possessed unrivalled knowledge about the Sahibs. He knew them very well, and had been gifted several furniture items that we treasured for several generations until my son had to sell them off because of incessant transfers in his job and accommodations in Bambai. After his retirement, Dadaji never stayed idle, and acted as negotiator in possibly all major disputes in the village, that raised his stature a lot and made him a member of the local Panchayat. He was very serious, and I dreaded the prospect of being taught by him. And today my grandson comes running to me requesting to be informed of my ‘supposedly’ pre marital flings with his Dadi! We grandfathers have surely undergone a change in our profiles over the generations, probably to the extent of currently being ‘cool’, as my grandson says.

Well, I completely forgot about my tummy. The grandson episode early in the morning was too absorbing to think about mere stomachaches. The breakfast consisting of Dahlias and bread was all I had during the day. I did walk a few streets across to the Vaidhji whom I have known for quite a few years, and he told me the ache was contributed to by longer than usual walks that I took yesterday, coupled with some anti- allergen being fed to me by my daughter- in- law just because I had coughed a couple of times late into the previous night. I think I should be more careful of the medicines I take from now on, considering my advancing years.

It is about 5PM now I believe, and Sunil, my son, should be home in around half an hour. I will have to talk to him about talking me to the office tomorrow morning to collect my pension, and then to meet an old colleague whose son has recently shifted in to the city. I wish my legs could carry me to the local station, but the Vaidhji was quite stern with his advice this morning. I think I should go and rest now, considering the strenuous traveling I will have to do tomorrow.

Contrary to my expectations, the day was very exhaustive and stressful. I did reach the pension office on time, but there were already a lot of people queuing up for their salaries. Sunil was getting late for work, so he gave me some money so I could visit Vaidhji and my old friend from Bareli on my way home after collecting my pension. The process was very long and painful, as the crowd kept growing at the office as time went by, and I had to stand in a long line, being squeezed from all sides until I finally made it to the counter.

After collecting my pension, I went straight to visit my old friend Ghanshyam at Bandra. He had written to me from Bareli earlier this month, and had given me the new address where he will spend the rest of his life. The bus journey was a little comforting, as I was promptly given a seat, being old and frail, and because the traffic was light, I made it to his house by 12. Ghanshyam has grown quite old, so I gathered, and Bhabhiji also used a walking stick. They are really nice people, and forced me to take lunch at their place. Ghanshyam lost his brother recently, and since his brother and his son-in-law used to do all the farming, their lands had to be sold and so they shifted to Bombay. His son works in an insurance company now, and has two children. The daughter-in- law is teaching in a nearby school. So we concluded that our stories were nearly the same, collecting monthly pensions and living alone with our dreams all day in the ghostly house. I saw Bhabhiji talking to Ghanshyam all the time, comforting him and giving him medicines, and I just wished if Sunil’s mother had been with me now in my hour of need. My son has no time for me, and his wife stays out of town half of the time attending to her parents in Pune.

Vaidhji was furious today when I told him about my exertions. He did admonish me for having travelled so much today, but also sympathized with me for my lack of support. He has given me a few pills to be taken after every meal for the next three days, and has advised me a complete rest for a week. He said the pain of traveling will soon cripple my body, and I will have to guard against further exertions until I feel fully fit again. Having worked in the police for over thirty years, I have a natural appetite for traveling and exertions, and the same mindset still prevails today. The ten- kilometer walk every evening has still kept me somewhat fit, but I believe my body has started yielding a bit. For a eighty- four year old, this sure is food for thought.

As had been advised by Vaidhji, I cooked some rice for myself and had it with plain daal and some achar. It felt good to have steamy rice after a long week, as somebody had advised me not to have much rice, as it caused digestion problems sometimes. The afternoon siesta was very relaxing, more so as I had to rest after the early morning rush. I do sound like a hypochondriac, but it would be better if I take care of myself rather than leaving it to Sunil, who kept me admitted to the local Civil hospital for five days after I suffered from a chronic indigestion last summer. The hospital was crowded and dirty, and the food was appalling, which aggravated my ailment. Finally, it was at my brother’s home in Vasai that I could recuperate and had a month’s rest before I traveled back home. I won’t blame it on Sunil, though. The poor boy has to work for twelve hours a day and then picks up his son from school, and does all the shopping everyday. Even when he is forced to take leaves for social obligations, he has to work overtime during the rest of the week to cover up the time lost. Same is the case with Ghanshyam’s son. These days working people do not have time for anything. I remember how traumatic it was for Sunil in March when he had to go to office everyday amid high fever.

It was around 4, when my grandson returned from school. Sunil dropped him home before leaving for office again.

‘Hi Dadu.’
‘Kaisa hai beta?’
‘Theek hu’ he said, resigned to the fact that he had to answer the same question everyday. He took his late lunch, got dressed in half pant and a tee shirt, and rushed out to play football in the nearby school ground.

Kavita, my daughter-in-law returned home at 6, after participating in the Colony’s ladies club meet. She looked terribly tired, and since I had nothing to do, I boiled a cup of tea for her. Apart from teaching in a school, she takes tuitions and also acts as a member to some clubs. A maid comes in every evening who cooks the dinner and the next morning’s breakfast before stuffing them in the fridge. When I was newly married, I remember I got posted the very next year to Bilaspur, which was far away. But I had to leave alone with my belongings, as my wife had to stay back to cook and to take care of my parents. Those three years in Bilaspur were quite lonely and painful, but at least my parents were being taken care of was a consolation. I expect a lot from my son and the rest of the family in those lines. Sunil says the fact that he is able to buy a place for himself in Bombay and to afford to run his family and father is a big achievement in itself. He must be right. The new flat where we are staying currently in cost him some fifteen lakhs two years back. He says the price has gone up to 22 lakhs these days. All these high prices scare me a lot, as we knew how to manage an entire month with salaries no more than two hundred rupees in the 1950s. My walking stick cost me Rs. 250 in the market, and nearly took away a quarter of my pension allowance for the month. I never intended to buy it, but my grandson said I looked good with it. He also suggested that I should buy the new designer sunglasses that would look ‘really cool’ on my face. I am not much used to wearing glasses, but in this month of June, it’s getting warmer every day. Maybe I might buy it next month or so.

My grandson says I can type diary accounts in the computer. He says he can ‘save’ whatever is written there, and that it will never get lost or damaged. He says I need not spend on pens and new diaries every month, as the computer can easily store thousands of pages in itself without the risks of the pages being torn or lost in the process. He says it is very easy and he could teach me the same in a very short time. I wonder if what he says is correct, because the computer hardly covers his study table, and I don’t see any paper being put in it, like in a typewriter. So where does the whole thing get typed out is still a puzzle for me. I think I am really comfortable with my ball pen and diary, but will soon clear my curiosity about the computer. The other day, my grandson was playing a game in his computer in which I saw there was a big gun which was shooting at approaching people. When I protested, Kavita and Pranay, my grandson, roared with laughter. I wonder what kind of a monster the computer is. I think I should better stay away unless these people force me to shoot people just like that some day.

I think its time for dinner now. The smell of the chapattis here is so different from our chakki atta in village. The rotis are very thin, and ghee is really expensive, so I have lost interest in eating these days. Anyways, I don’t have much of a choice.

The Magic of 'Pata Chitra'

Tanay Behera — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 04:02:46 EDT

Come to think of it, the winter season is famous for something, which is the biggest form of celebration in an Indian family, the marriage function. I do not understand the nitty gritty about why only this part of the year, but know for a fact that from May to July and again from November to February of the calendar, is the season for marriage functions in India. All I know is that these months are considered auspicious for the event.

A couple of months back my elder brother got married and like a similar function in any part of India, it was marked by a riot of colors, get-together of relatives and friends from within the country and abroad, gossip among the guests, sumptuous food, glittery jewelery, shimmering attires, and lots of naach, gaana dancing to the tunes of the latest Bollywood hits.

But to add a paaka desi-flavor to all these, to showcase something that is authentic and to patronize a dying art form, my maa had her own charter. She had planned for miniature paintings to be done on few walls of the house. She had contacted the artists and made the entire blueprint for her project from planning to its execution.

The art form that was followed is from the school of 'Pata Chitra'. 'Pata' in Sanskrit means piece of cloth and 'Chitra' means painting or picture. This art form is defined by its use of rich colors made out of vegetables and mineral extracts, its portrayal of pure and simple themes, depicting a combination of folk and classical elements and is not limited to religious themes.

In the picture below, the theme is that of a marriage and it is painted in the style of an oleograph on the wall. But as you can see, there is deviation from the basics here, synthetic paints are used, unlike the colors made out of vegetables and mineral extracts.

The digression from the fundamentals was done because the base for the painting was not a piece of cloth but a concrete wall.

The colors are bright and possess a peculiar charm, very distinct and a remarkably original art form. As I was writing this post, it also reminded me of an excellent project work that one of my friends had done, while he was a Product Design student at National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad. He had spent close to one and a half months in a village, Raghurajpur where artisans create sheer poetry on pieces of treated cloth or dried palm leaves or paper and learnt the fine nuances of this art form. More about Raghurajpur here.

The 'kolam' on the floor of the marriage 'mandap'(platform) was also done by the same artists who did the work on walls.

Do not miss a very interesting article by Raji on 'The Kolam Festival' at the Mylapore festival.

But what is hurting is that these timeless art forms are loosing their value with the advent of modernity. To cite an example, take the case of 'Pata Chitra', the entire process starting from the design to the final output is managed manually by artisans. It's the creation of their deft fingers and immeasurable imagination, an art form whose intricacies are passed from one generation to another. But duplicates of such paintings are made these days using modern printing capabilities. So the artists feel their authentic creations do not have as big an audience as for faux products. Many artisans leave the villages to find menial jobs in cities and towns to make a living. Sad but true.

Now, I know why my maa wanted those paintings, it was to showcase the creativity of the bunch of smart artisans, who need support. Don't you endorse, her thinking?

Check the pics here, they look better against a black background.

India's Post-Independence Fight For Freedom

Aditi Nadkarni — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 00:55:37 EST

Let me cut right to the chase here. This is unacceptable. Let me say it again for emphasis. It is not just bothersome or even upsetting. It is unacceptable. In the 21st century, in a democratic, secular nation, what has been going on, festering like a recurrent lesion, sprouting in every part of India, is just, simply unacceptable and will not do.

In case you are wondering who it is that's going to stand up to it: we are. We will not allow our freedom to be violated and we will make sure we protect the independence we fought long and hard to get the first time around. We have come a long way. We have seen the change and been the change. So who better than our pioneering, hot-blooded breed to stand up to the revolting and shockingly regressive acts of a few who feel threatened by progress.

They are just acting out of fear. It is obvious, isn't it? They attack in packs, afraid to be the lone ones incriminated. They target women and assault safely from behind the vague curtains of culture. But we all know that it isn't their culture that is in grave danger. Their position, their power and the extent of their bullying is in great peril. The places where they once ruled the roost are now turning into big, bustling cities making them feel like small, insignificant fish in a big sea.

Institutions and companies have transported the educated, smart crowd into the vacuum in which these bullies once enjoyed unfettered omnipotence. Now, in place of the void, there is a young, vivacious bunch of professionals, men and women who work hard and party hard and do so shoulder to shoulder. These people are harder to manipulate. This crowd has not just taken over, they threaten to pull into their growing ilk, the younger ones too. Business are bending over backwards to accommodate the needs of this new species and everything that once belonged to the bullies is now up for grabs. So they are retaliating. They are like petulant little children who couldn't have all that they demanded, hated sharing and so now are acting up. Therefore it is up to us, the educated class to teach these spoiled little brats to grow up and stop reacting so bizarrely to change. We must do it in a manner that is as different from theirs as is humanly possible.

So now comes the big question: how do we do it? How do we make our presence known? The answer may seem too simplistic because it sits smack in front of our faces. Think about it: we travel through these cities like one stream of blood, flowing steadily, keeping the city alive, stuffed in trains, piled into buses, walking along the teeming streets. Even partying and a trip to the movie theater is all the more fun with a group. We work in teams and are all the more effective for that. We discuss films, fashion, clothes, the economy, the job market and even our health problems. Yet this fear of walking out on the streets of a free country seems like a personal problem, like we were alone in that walk, like when a bully arrived with his little gang and punched us in the face, we would be all by ourselves and the world around us would just suddenly go blind. What we forget is that in this lonely fear too, we are still together. In this anger against the unfairness of the situation, we are together. We can if we decided, be together in the one resolute determination of not letting a handful of insecure men undo all that we have put into making our cities. So the answer is simple. Whatever it is we do, we do it together.

We celebrated Valentine's Day battling fear and took the threats in our stride defanging the demons with the pink disarming humor of our proud underwear. With the International Women's Day approaching, it is time to get serious. In our busy, routine lives we have underestimated the power of silent, non-violent protests. All it takes is for people to stand at a side-walk with banners to get word around. Some major struggles were won with this strategy and somewhere along the line we just shrugged and rolled our eyes at the quiet potential of public demonstrations and satyagrahas. Maybe we started taking our precious freedom for granted and needed to be reminded that we simply cannot. We have to earn it and when someone tries to snatch it, we fight for it.

It is important, I feel, in today's world to use media smartly. Instead of constantly criticizing media's inadequacies, we could use it as a tool. Find a niche and throw yourself into the swift current of this ever growing medium. Find a female leader in your area who is looking to make an arrival on the political scene. Do a little research. If one political party is making your life difficult for wearing jeans and celebrating Valentine's Day and there damn well must be another party that will fight for your votes, or can be persuaded to do so.

Find a celebrity who is willing to make your cause their own or give your movement their support and voice. Find a television network, a newspaper or a magazine that will run your story and provide your opinions with a voice. Find an artist who will put your thoughts into a slogan or a creative, riveting poster. Write to your city officials, your ministers and drown their offices in letters of your indignant protest. Just remember that one or two voices are easy to be ignored. If you are fuming over a coffee mug at your kitchen table, take that rage to a medium that will express it in the most noticeable manner possible.

Haven't we whined about a dysfunctional system for too long? When has this "system" ever worked? Maybe we just don't realize that we are one of the appendages of this faulty system. If the system is not working, we, as a group could propel in into motion. What will it take for us to get off our bums and make a placard with a strong message on it? This is not a women's liberation movement at all. Genders cannot be fighting alone in a battle such as this one. It could be your sister wearing jeans, coming home from work. It could be your teenage daughter walking back from school or college, the neighborhood aunty who brought you food when you were sick, a dear friend or your colleague. Most importantly, it is them today and it could be you next.

Let us review what the odds are of your being targeted next. You have a very high chance of being next on the hit-list if you answer 'Yes' for any of the following questions. Are you considered an "outsider" in Bangalore or a non-Maharashtrian in Maharashtra? Do you party? Do you meet up with friends at pubs? Do you wear jeans or clothing that may not be considered "Indian"? Do you eat pizza or meat? Do you drink alcoholic beverages? Does your religious persuasion always match that of the political party currently raging a mini-war in the nation you know of as secular? Do you send children to convent or English medium schools? Do you have a spouse of a different religious persuasion than yours? Do you have friends of the opposite sex? Are you married to the girl you are driving home from work or who you happen to be having dinner with? Are you non-conversant in Marathi in Mumbai or in Kannada in Bangalore? Are you a blogger or a journalist who expresses their opinions about politics, culture, media and religion? In spite of your qualifications and the six figure salary, do you have no clout with the local law enforcement or political activists? Before you fall asleep at night you should take a moment to wonder which one of these labels will be tagged onto your identity and turned into a vice or a disqualification; which one of these labels will plant nagging fear into your routine as you go about working to make a living, partying to rid your stress and walking on the streets of a country whose freedom you celebrate once a year on a public holiday. India did fight a freedom struggle years ago and it is high time that yet another quest for independence begins.

As a civilized society, we must remember that curbed freedom is a disease, an epidemic that does not spare a gender or a certain religion. It has uprooted saplings of modern, free thinking from Afghanistan and left it barren under the regime of the Taliban school of thought. This disease feeds on your fear and on the social inertia that has settled over our generation. An active, proud and independent public cannot let this inertia set in. Let it be known that this disease feeds most of all on the little disabling voice in your head which tells you that this is not your struggle, that it isn't your battle to fight. Sadly, this malady spreads, swallowing in its wake our hard-earned progress, until the feeble voice in your head is one day replaced with the grim realization that your own struggle has arrived. The assailant and his prejudice have changed form and you are the next prey. And there is nobody left to fight for you or with you.

I Heart Pink Chaddis

Sakshi Juneja — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 11:54:16 EST

Let's get one thing straight – Implementation of laws in 21st century India is practically non-existent. Especially in matters where we have political farts going around terrorizing the aam aadmi under the hoax of safeguarding religious and/or cultural sentiments. Mind you, no one asked them to take upon themselves this heavy responsibility par boss es competitive environment main footage ke liye haat laat marana toh zaroori hain na. And so we have the likes of Shiv Sena, Raj Thackeray and Pramod Muthalik who will stoop to the basest levels and propagate the most ridiculous of excuses to accomplish their self-centered political agendas.

The State and Central Governments as always verbally "condemn" such acts of extreme ideologies but fail to put their words in action. While our judicial system continues to work at a snail's pace; arrests are made for formality and later bails are handed out, just as easily.

The fact of the matter is that this political "goondagardi" is very much a part of our everyday reality along with inefficiency of those responsible for securing law & order. Your security lies in your own hands because the government..er…gives a rat' arse about it.

Therefore keeping the above in mind, here's my plan of action :

Years ago, on my first day at junior college, my older brother gifted me a baseball bat. Not for the sport but for protection. I carried it in my car for almost two years. Did I ever use it? Well, let me just say it came handy in teaching some brothers a lesson in naari respect.

Today, since I am an active member of the "loose women" club, I bought myself a spanking red baseball bat. Along with six cans of Pepper Spray. At home I have urged my sister in law to enroll herself and my 4 year old niece for Karate lessons.

And I advise you to do the same. Set aside some money from your shopping budget, kitty party, weekend outing – instead invest it in a sturdy protection tool(s). You may think I am over reacting, and maybe I am. But don't they say, desperate times call for desperate measures?

* Important Announcement : Though I am not much of believer in ishq-mohabbat-pyaar, let alone the concept of Valentine's Day however this year I have decided to mend my cold ways. And to prove this, I am gifting not one but three Pink Chaddis to my dear Valentine, Sri Rama Sene president Pramod Muthalik.

Like me, if you too find Muthalik to be a hottie then do join the Pink Chaddi Campaign. Believe me you lurveeing can't get better than this, this Valentines.

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.

Maharashtra Shining? A Close Look at Rural Maharashtra

Gauri Warudi — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 08:58:29 EST

Is Maharashtra shining?

Well not entirely, but almost, you could say. Our wanderlust and my work (of making documentary films) has been taking us through a lot of rural areas and the experience has been amazingly educative in more ways than one.

Last year and the year before, it was a drive through a large part of coastal Maharashtra, namely Konkan. A roller-coastal ride, is how I had described my Konkan trip All through our Konkan trip, we noticed tiny hamlets/villages with neat houses, small clean courtyards and loved the Konkan hospitality. The towns however weren't very much to write home about.

This time we had a close look at interior Maharashtra-actually, just a slice of interior Maharashtra, to put it right. Our visit to Bhandardara (one of the prettiest hill stations I've been to, recently) took us close to Nature, in the folds of the Sahyadris and up close to Mt Kalsubai; though the regret of not scaling the imposing mountain, remains.

Coming back to our ride into the heartland of Ahmednagar district's, (Akole Taluka) lake villages(my term for those little hamlets)- one would've thought that being on the fringes of one of the largest lake- Arthur Lake- would mean zero water problems and a great pretty picture for these villagers, right? Wrong. All through our visit in these villages, we found, hardly any of them have water in their courtyards. Except for a few like Panjare, Samradphata and Udadawane, where we saw hand-pumps/tube-wells; all other villages have their women folk(and surprisingly, quite a few men folk too) walking a few kilometres to fetch water in pots precariously perched on their heads.
Talking to our guide, Sonawane, we realise that these villages have not developed uniformly. While many have primary and middle schools, toilet blocks and 'aanganwadis', when it comes to water- not much has been done to improve their lot. We question him as to why there were no waterlines to all villages. All he could offer in reply was that some villagers who could afford, had privately laid pipes for their farms, while others still had to trudge miles for this basic necessity.

Why just Akole taluka? Closer to Pune, in Zendewadi, too, while on a film shoot, I had noticed that despite a lot of prosperity resulting from horticulture yields and farm produce, water and sanitation were the biggest problems. None of the houses in this village has a toilet block!! While we were shooting here, we women crew members had a hard time! When asked, the womenfolk had nonchalantly replied that they all went to the fields to perform their morning ablutions!! Jeez and we think we have problems in the city. When I spoke to one of the more prosperous women there, she said, "If we have a toilet block, it'll need that much more water; when we have to fetch water on our heads, do you think we can cope with such huge water demands, as required to keep the toilet block clean?" Valid point, but then why aren't they too adopting the water conservation techniques followed by some other villages in Maharashtra? For that, she had no valid answer, except that their land was rocky and didn't allow for proper water conservation. I didn't buy that argument, cos there have been startling/shining examples of Ralegan Siddhi and Hiware Bazar(in Nagar district) as well as Gawadewadi(on which I have made a film) where people have helped themselves through sheer grit and persistence and made their villages self sufficient.

The government has been doing its bit for their upliftment, which is amply evident, through the motorable roads all along through the villages, sanitation measures (Hagindari mukt gram-meaning villages free from open air defecation)-yet the authorities have failed their rural responsibilities by not providing water, and electricity. Villages have 12 hour power cuts! It seemed that the basic needs have to be arranged for/struggled for by the people themselves; with or without the help of some willing NGOs.

On the positive side, we do see some move to install windmills, and assume it could be a stroke of luck for these poor villagers and that their wait for uninterrupted power will be over!!

We were certainly impressed by the cleanliness in most of the villages in the region we drove through. We could see children enthusiastically walking, running down from their homes to school, singing rhymes/poems and yes, schools had teachers too!

The 'aanganwadis' or play-schools, are another project that impressed me. While speaking to one of the aanganwadi volunteers, I was indeed touched to see how for a meagre honorarium of Rs 125/month, this lady (in her mid-50s)was doing her job with sincerity. She informed me that in her centre, women are attended to/advised from the first trimester of pregnancy and aided up until their deliveries. The child is then looked after until he/she turns 6 years of age. Women send their children here in the mornings and pick them up on their way to the fields. The teacher however rues that in spite of the school timing being up to 2 PM, mothers took their children away by 1130 AM or so. Well, something's better than nothing, I comment, to which she nods and adds that she teaches children to count from 1-10, recite poems, recognise shapes etc. There were bright posters put up on the walls with pictures of animals, places, people etc. (the aanganwadi was in a rather ramshackle, old room) and a toy horse and car were lying around on which a couple of children were still playing. It was an eye-opener, to say the least. Finding life's meaning in limited resources? Perhaps.

I come away in deep thought and stay that way for a long while as we drive to different spots; as we enjoy Nature's beauty in this part of the state, there are a thousand questions still playing on my mind, making me wonder when and how will we ever rise above all these basic necessities being fulfilled and truly become India Shining?? Beyond just slogans and jingoistic speeches, beyond vote seeking and exploitation in the name of growth.

*Disclaimer: This is just a personal observation and opinion-an ordinary Indian citizen's heartfelt thoughts-not some statistic laden paper!!

Saving India's Missing Girls

Somik Raha — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 14:10:15 EST

In the second piece of the Gems of the Planet series (the first was My Friend, the Landlord), we continue with the same criteria for our gems:

Feel the suffering of others as their own and cannot rest until they've done something to alleviate it
Have compassion for all, especially those they seek to transform

I found this gem in an unexpected place - a film screening at Stanford of India's Missing Girls, a documentary made by Ashok Prasad of the BBC. The documentary portrayed a grim picture and dispelled several myths:

Several women interviewed preferred male babies and would prefer to terminate female foetuses of their own accord.
Educated women too do this, especially in business families to ensure that the fortune remains in the family
In some cases, when the woman is unwilling, the family puts a lot of pressure, and sometimes forces the mother to abort
The director presented statistics after the film screening. The highest number of female abortions are done by Jains, followed by Sikhs, followed by either Buddhists or Hindus (I forget which). I remember being shocked by this statistic, because I expected Hindus to be at the top. Nothing can prepare one to accept that Jains are the #1 offender as Jain philosophy is the pinnacle of non-violence. I guess I am too naive to believe that people follow the philosophy they were born into.
The fact that women were electing to abort foetuses confounded the pro-choice people in the audience (should they say: we want women to have choice, but not that much choice?)

However, in the middle of all these depressing facts was a shining gem. The film revolves around a remarkable woman, Sandhya Puchalapalli, who founded the Arti Home in Cuddappah, to save female foetuses from abortion. Sandhya studied the circumstances that lead people to abort their female children, and she tackled several problems. First, she has a crib outside the nursing home that allows families to anonymously place babies whom they'd otherwise kill or abandon (with the same outcome). This takes care of the fear of legal repercussions, and saves the life of the baby who is then raised in the home in a loving environment with a focus on nutrition and education. Second, she keeps a strong connection with the community around her and knows who is pregnant. She then connects with them to talk about their aspirations for their baby. When they tell her that they will abort if it is a girl, she reasons with them in a remarkably non-judgmental way. I know many who'd hit the parents if they heard something like this. Not Sandhya. She goes back on a regular basis, explaining that a girl child is not useless and deserves a lot of love, the same as a boy child. The film follows the interaction with one couple and how the mother comes around from a position of fear to one of joy where she eagerly waits for her daughter and does not abort.

What makes Sandhya stand out from all the other activists I know is that, time after time in the film, she has only compassionate words for parents who decide to abort, particularly to avoid dowry. She says, "Just imagine what the parents must be going through to have come to this decision?" Even when she is face-to-face with the parents, she has no anger or hatred, but understanding and compassion. A poignant moment of the film is when Sandhya receives a baby who is born premature. After getting the baby medical help, Sandhya goes to the local temple to pray for the child's life. When the child does not make it, she is heartbroken. Even then, she has no harsh words for the parents who abandoned the baby.

Caring for unwanted children, feeling their pain and doing something to save their lives beyond yelling and criticizing in media platforms is rare. Generating compassion for the parents who feel compelled to abort their children and not seeing them as the "other" is rarer still. While one miracle is documented in the film (the change of heart of one family), I am sure she works many such miracles with her attitude. I sincerely hope I get to meet this remarkable lady in person.

If you are in Cuddappah and meet her, do share your stories with me. Arti Home is supported by the Vijay Foundation Trust.