Being Vocal about Local...

When I walked into The Ornamentry, carrying a cardboard carton full of christmassy stuff I had created during my first winter in Alaska, the place resembled a household, poised for a big move. Crates of all sizes lay haphazardly: some leaning against the wall, some sprawled on an empty table, and some jutting out of the semi-opened cabinets. Judy Grahek, the 70-year-old owner of the shop, examined the few things I had brought in: painted tiles with stands, birch bark cards, paperweight pebbles depicting Alaskan scenes, candle votives, with motifs of ravens and wolves, she nodded, "nice work", and handed me a form to fill. No questions asked. A form, an inventory...and a hug. That's all was needed to join a fleet of 80 some artists, artisans, and crafters who showcased their work at The Ornamentry, Fairbanks, Alaska.

Once  the shop opened for the season, it was hard to imagine that this was  the same chaotic place I had walked in a week earlier with my stuff, and filled up a form. Soft music in the background, meandered from room to room, through its maze-like structure. It was as though, everything, by a sudden touch of the magic wand, had found its rightful place.  Gift items of all shapes and sizes looked snug in their new surroundings. From the ornaments hanging from the chandeliers, to the beautiful, handwoven tapestries on the wall,  to handmade gift baskets, to musk-ox wool knitted into mitts and scarves, to pottery, jewlery, peanut brittles, dill pickles, and preserves: everything  looked exquisitely jubilant and unique.

However, tucked away  in a quiet alley in downtown Fairbanks,  it was easy  for a newcomer or a tourist, to miss The Ornamentry while strolling past. But, if your horse sense pulled you in to its festive interiors, you would want to come back to this one-of-a-kind gift shop again and again. But, you couldn't. For, The Ornamentry used to open only twice a year: once before the thaw from mid-March to mid-April, and once in the dead of winter from November to the third week of December. Even though seasonal, Judy had over the years, built up a strong following of 1500 some customers, and that too without ever advertising. She did nevertheless send out a notification to everyone on her mailing list, reminding them of the dates and timings The Ornamentry would remain open. 

Store overheads were low since Judy, the brainchild behind The Ornamentry owned the property, and was thus saved the cost of leasing/renting a place. "So, three months of sales a year is enough to go for a vacation somewhere, and be able to spend the rest of my time with family and friends," was  Judy's simple rationale. Fair enough. 

So, for those who wanted to avoid "made in China" souvenirs, sold in Walmart, The Ornamentry was the perfect place to shop. Moreover, it was the only outlet in the city which gave the local artists and artisans from around the state an opportunity to display and sell their  work. Dedicated to promoting 'buy local', Judy took a meager 20 percent cut from the sales. "I believe, it doesn't matter what the economy is, people come here  not only to buy something exclusive, and 'made in Alaska',  but also because they know that the money is circulating locally", Judy told the Daily Miner in an interview. And the success of The Ornamentry was proof enough to uphold her belief. 

Great lesson here for all of us. When you are shopping for gifts this holiday season, or just wanting to buy something special for yourself or your home, buy local, and support the local economy. A product made by people who bring their personal experiences, skills, and imagination to  give it that rare edge is bound to have more character than the one which catapults out of an assembly line into a  big box-store.  Right? And, as I  like to say, going off the beaten track, looking for that small-time vendor, sitting in the corner shop, and rummaging through his/her trove of treasure, is always more fun!

"Blood Group: Tea Positive.."

Tea is much like poetry. And, I think, from all poetic forms, it is the humble seventeen-syllabled haiku which comes closest to capturing the essence of a cuppa tea. Both, simple in form, yet complex in content, impart unto us a hint of immortality, caught in the net of time.

Who would have thought that one inadvertent act of letting a handful of leaves steep in water, could pave way, not only for some quiet contemplation and meditation, but also for explorative voyages, and revolutions? Different teas, according to the colour, aroma, oxidation, and the mouthfeel, give rise to a multitude of  moods. They take us places within us we did not know existed. "Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage", Catherine Douzel once wrote.

Having a perfect cup of tea is pure happiness: it satisfies all the senses: visual, taste, olfactory, even auditory. Is it a wonder then that since the beginning of civilization, tea, much like spices, has been instrumental in bringing people together? Friendships are formed over a cup of tea, people fall in love over a cup of tea...secrets are shared through a cup of tea, fortunes are revealed by reading the dregs at the bottom of a cup of tea.

Following are a few of my own tea haikus, to commemorate the international tea day, which was actually yesterday...

1. smudged skies, blotted views,

     my hands wrapped around a cup

     of tea: ah, perfect!

2. give me a cup of tea,

     a birdsong, a shard of sky

      to call my own.

3. the sky dances, the

    river sings, the kettle on 

    the stove hums along.

4. drowning in a cup of tea,

    a thousand memories:

     i fish them out.

5. at the lotus feet of Buddha

     I sit and enjoy

      a cup of tea.

7. a kettle whistles,

         scattering the huddled silence

          of the morning.

8. with such zeal she brews

     a cup of tea,

     so much love in her eyes

      when she serves.

9. each cup of tea

     refreshes the memory

     of an absent moment.

10.  a cricket singing,

        one last sip of tea,

        then, i shall watch the sunset.

11. temple bells from yonder hills:

       time for my evening tea

       and daifuku.*

*rice buns stuffed with bean paste.

Steeped in the memory of many a cup of tea we have indulged in, and companionship we have brewed together,  I wish all my family and friends a stirring international tea day. 

Celebrating Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving came and went. The thought of making a special pancake, home-fries and scrambled egg breakfast, with some French Press coffee, did briefly grace my mindscreen, which is otherwise set on an auto-change mode. But, I decided against it, realising the futility of tabling the  spirit of Thanksgiving in the tropics, especially when it has been pouring non-stop for three days!

My memory however, did bring back flashes of those myriad Thanksgivings, which mainly revolved around binging on mouthwatering ensemble of beans and mushroom casseroles, apple pies, pumpkin soup, corn breads with cranberry sauce, roasted potatoes with Rosemary, sweet potatoes topped with maple syrup, pecans, and cinnamon, and last but not the least, turkey stuffing (being a vegetarian, I didn't care for the centrepiece of the dining table).  Despite the fact that it was a much sought after holiday, and we all partook in the feast, and decked the walls of the house up with drawings of Pilgrims and Mayflower our son had drawn as a kid, I couldn't help but be reminded of the lost faces of the native Americans, the  Cherokees, Sioux, Dakotas, Mohawks, and 560 some federally recognised brave tribes of original inhabitants of the continent, made homeless in their own country, strangers in their own homeland. Many a news items flashed through my mind,  highlighting the alienation syndrome, several youngsters in the reservations faced,  shedding light on discrimination meted out to those few who tried to mingle with the mainstream America. In fact, the growing number of suicides in reservations across America and Canada, has, in recent years, reached an alarming rate.  Disenfranchised by a system, they are reduced to mere statistics vis-à-vis poverty, homelessness, substance abuse, and unemployment, caused by their geographical and cultural isolation. Straddled between two worlds, theirs, which is grounded in deep respect for the rhythms of Nature, and our own consumerist one,  based on the constantly changing tides of capitalism, they find it hard to strike a balance.

So, if the first Thanksgiving represented the symbiotic relationship between the natives and the pilgrims, where people of two cultures had come together to celebrate the bountiful harvest, the present one is a sad reminder of  the parasitic  nature of the colonists who rid the land of its indigenous people, and all but eradicated their culture. Is it a wonder then that across many reservations, this holiday is observed as the National Day of Mourning? Chief Joseph's tragic last words, who after being pursued by the American army in a 2,000 kms fighting retreat, and after months of fugitive resistance,  was coerced into surrendering, hang heavy  in the humid monsoon air:

"Hear me my chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more."

Chief Joseph and his band of 700 men, women, and children were just 60 kms from the Canadian border, just 60 kms from freedom...

Mindful of the struggles that the native communities have endured, and are still grappling with, we could take a humble attitude towards this holiday, and pay hommage to those millions of native people, who lost their lives fighting for their own freedom, in 'The Land of the Free and  Home of the Brave'.

A Bhakt's Dilemma...

The bhakt is in a dilemma. Which is the most lucrative/auspicious venue to invest in, in order to reap benefits in this life, and gain mileage in the next. The options are growing by leaps and bounds, as the planetary alignment is just right and the magnitude of interplay between the cosmic forces  and  us earthlings is at its fairest. 

Should one make a donation to the forthcoming Ram temple, which according to Mr Shah, the home minister, "is going to touch the sky", facilitating the communication between man and God?  Or to the "winter jackets for cows in Ayodhya"  drive, for haven't the Shastras stated that all the gods reside inside the generic cow, Kamdhenu? So, swathing a jacket (no leather, please!) around a cow, would imply saving all those thousands of gods from the cold winters of Ayodhya. Or, should the donations be directed to promote Swami Nithyananda's scientific research on how lions, cows, and monkeys, the three holiest creatures from the Indian Pantheon, can be taught Sanskrit and Tamil? Or, perhaps one can offer some much-needed dough in the coffers of Archeological Survey of India, which, nearly two years on, is still trying to crack the mystery behind the disappearance of thousands of gallons of milk poured over the giant statue of Lord Bahubali Gommateshwsra during the Mahamastakabhisheka in Vindhyagiri. Or, some die-hard devotees might like to make an offering to the Modi temple in Rajkot, or towards the construction of another one in U.P., also dedicated  to the prime minister. And, for the never-say-die followers of the Congress, there is always the famous Sonia Gandhi temple in Telangana, to contribute to. 

With such an array of exciting 'investment' choices at the bhakt's disposal, whereby, one may not only pave the way for a smoother ride, but also   receive tax reductions, a dip in the Ganga may no longer be the only means to find salvation. And, in case, the ride in this lifetime proves to be a little bumpy and uncomfortable because of pot-holed, puddle-infested roads, the promise  of cruising down the highway at full-throttle  in the next, seems more and more feasible. 

Once upon a time in Alaska...

I have always been fond of reading newspapers, a habit, I alone, from a brood of seven, inherited from my father. Yet, curiously, it was after leafing through my mother-in-law's collection of clippings of news items, neatly cut and glued onto scrapbooks, and chronologically marked as Vol-1, Vol-2 etc., that I too began to create my own potpourri of news stories which caught my interest. Since carrying tomes of journals was not conducive to our gypsy-like lifestyle, I used to cut the interesting bits and insert them inside a simple folder. Yet, everytime we moved, I culled out those I had outgrown, in order to feel just a bit lighter, and yes, uncluttered.

Over the years, and across many travels, only a few clippings have survived the tides of time, and upheavals of moving.

The other day, I chanced upon an  article from the Daily miner, the newspaper with the highest circulation in Fairbanks, Alaska. Dated Nov. 18, 2009 (exactly a decade ago, to date!), the headlines read, "Death of a raven".The article, with a boxed-in coloured photograph of  ravens, poised on  a cluster of black spruce, shed light on the curious mourning ceremony these legendary birds observe on the death of a fellow brethren. Not surprisingly, the crows in Pondicherry too, have been seen to mourn the death of their kins and kith, similar to the one described in the write-up. However, I must hasten to add that crows are crows, smart and efficient, while ravens are fabled creatures,  surrounded by myths and mystery... And the twain shall never meet. 

On flipping over, I found the weather report: sunrise: 9:36 a.m., sunset: 3:34p.m., maximum temperature: -20 F, minimum: -30 F. For my mom, who is always dwelling on the health and spiritual benefits of waking up  with the sun, and going to bed at sunset, that would translate into nearly six hours of waking hours. As for the bears on the north slope, it literally  means retiring to bed in late September, and crawling out of their den, sometimes between March and May! Ha, ha, ha! 

Now, ten years hence, living so close to the tropics, with endless sunlight and warmth, it is natural that I should want to ponder over the twilight period of  those six hours, when the lazy sun hovered just a few degrees above the horizon. And, mind you, this is dated Nov.18, implying we still had just over a month remaining for  December 21st, the shortest day of the year. Therefore, with a consistent decrease in the crepuscular interval, and dawn and dusk entertwined in a lovers' embrace, the winter solstice presented itself to us, wrapped in a tiny package of  three twilight hours!!! Yet, celebrate, we did. For, it also implied that from the following day, the sun would start climbing a few degrees higher every day! It would be the second week of February by the time the first dappled, amorphous patch of slithering sunshine would adorn the panelled walls of our cabin, and our hopeful heart would flutter,  knowing  that the end was in sight. "Not so soon," my friend Sharon, born and brought up in Alaska warned me during my first winter at the last frontier, squashing the beam of hope almost as soon as it had flashed upon my face. "Those things are deceiving. We still have three and a half months to go before the thaw, and the temperatures can still plummet to dangerous lows in the month of February and March". Of course, Sharon, an optimist to the core, said this with her usual laugh, and with the best of intentions. She wanted to protect my family and I, from sowing illusory seeds of hope in the first place, and then falling into the trap of disappointment, and maybe, depression. 

"Wait without hope"...It was a valuable piece of advice from my dear friend. Thence, we took each day as it came, not pausing to wonder how and when the warmth of a summer sun would light up the cabin, and rejuvenate our hearts. Instead, in the hallowed cavern of unending  winters, we set out to build our own sacred space to inspire creative incubation. We painted, played music, wrote long letters home, made extensive collages, using up boxful of old photographs, played board games...the kettle whistled softly, and the aroma of brewed tea mingled effortlessly with the earthy mellowness of crackling wood in the stove. And, it was thus that the temporal walls dissolved to make way for the immutable artistry of long winters and reveal unto us, the secrets of the stars woven within the streaming ribbons of aurora borealis.

An Escape from Politics

On the  political front, India has been busy making waves the world over, with its array of controversial decisions, which are dropped on the civilians like bombshells. Before one can recover from the aftermath of the explosion, another  gets dropped...and then, yet another... dividing the country at an alarming rate, while seeming to unite. For, there is one huge  chunk of the population, which revels in this tremorous atmosphere. To them, every move as connived by the centre, is bold and  a sheer stroke of genius, impelling the country forward to a new stratum of global recognition. To them, it is as though India has found its present-day Chandragupta-Chanakya duo, in the inimitable Modi-Shah team.

Then, there is the other side: the dwindling socialists, who have resigned themselves to the situation, calling it 'the inevitable downside of the spiral'. Their voices are too faint against the sloganeering roar of nationalism, rising from every nook and cranny of the country, beleaguered by crony capitalism. For them, it is an exercise in futility to try to mull over a thousand issues, heaped upon one another. 

Since I tend to lean towards the latter, I too have, at least temporarily, decided to go on sabbatical vis-à-vis talking/ writing/discussing politics, in order to restore my senses and above all, peace of mind. Moreover, the genre of politics, as practised today, lies beyond my cerebral grasp, and, as age advances, I find it harder and harder to wrap my brains around it. 

Anyway, it is after all mid-October, and having called myself an upstate New Yorker for several years, I naturally think of fall,  the cool change,  long solitary walks... 'the daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship' as the cackling geese head south. I remember myself bending down, overwhelmed by the pageantry of scattered leaves, wanting to pick each one of them...Those were innocent days, when I was happy to be part of this extraordinary vicissitude of Nature... when the silouhette of a red-winged blackbird swinging on  cattails  could give rise to a haiku, and the sight of a hawk perched high on the steeple of a faraway church, could bespeak 'redemption'...

Orange Peel: Catching the sunset

Sitting in the tea-shop, sweating under the droning fan, suffering the company of a mosquito repellent plugged to the power point, I can't help but wonder why...why, nearly two months on, and this little tea-shop, cute as a bug, has not been able to attract a few die-hard tea-lovers. With its unique atmosphere, hand-me-down furniture, and art-studded walls, it really is the perfect place to be: calm and quiet, alive with the aroma of freshly-brewed tea. Sure, we are a bit out of the way, but most beautiful places are. Remember Robert Frost's 'The Road not Taken'?

Sure, we only serve teas and simple snacks, but that is our USP, unique selling proposition. Not wanting to be just another chai-stand, serving the omnipresent, diabetes-inducing chai and cholesterol-laden deep-fried pakodas, we have chosen to be different, in sync with the health pulse of the universal consciousness. 

If anyone wishes to enjoy the magic of this place, while sipping some very unique combinations of teas, and munching on tasty snacks, the best time is at sunset. Very seldom in India, does one have the fortuity and the leisure to be part of such a sprawl of nature,  paired with a serene stretch of sky. So, at the end of the day, even if nobody turns up, I am happy to have the fellowship of a whole kettle of tea, steeped in the tranquility of the twilight hour.

From Dandi March to Plogging: A Revolution in Progress

"PM Modi praises the plogging efforts of Ripudaman," read the headlines. The name immediately struck a chord...Yes, Ripudaman, "the undeclared, yet unanimously accepted leader of the group"... hadn't I thus referred to him in my last blog? 

Apparently, the PM mentioned him and his plogging efforts in his monthly address,  'man ki baat', and since I am not too fond of his endless monologues, I had missed the bouquet of praises  he showered upon this young plogger and his team. So inspired was the PM and his entourage that the sports ministry decided to hold a 'Fit India Plogging Run' event in the capital city to commemorate  the150th birth anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi. And indeed, it's a befitting  tribute to  a leader, who, throughout his life, championed  the cause of hygiene and cleanliness.

For  my mom and every one else in the family, who had recently enjoyed the opportunity to briefly host Ripudaman, and his team, it felt almost surreal to see him hit the headlines.

While the idea of plogging emerged from Sweden a while back, Ripudaman is credited with making it popular in India, and highlighting the need to do something in a hurry in the wake of the mounting litter problem. "I do not wish to be a preacher," he says, adding, "I can only lead by example". And, that he does. In the restaurant, he requests the waiter to remove the tissue box from our table, since it is not needed. He doesn't even want a typed out  bill, for that's a waste of paper too. "Just let me know the damage," he tells the manager. And,  by doing that he is not only saving paper and ink, but also ridding the humanity of its inherent vice of mistrustulness.  

Nicknamed the plog-man of India, on meeting Ripudaman, you realise that this young man doesn't just aspire to make headlines, he is eager to make headway into solving the impending garbage problem the planet faces. 

When the going gets tough, the tough gets going...

"Our PM Narendra Modi extends his  sincere support towards your efforts to clean up the water channel," Ms Bedi concluded. On camera, she spoke  like a true politician. 

"Usually, people come asking me to solve their many problems!  But here you are, not only with a solution to your problem, but, being the solution," she added later, and offered a phone number reachable any time of the day and night. " Call me if you need anything," she added, off-camera, acting like the legendary Kiran Bedi we had heard of when we were kids. Fearless and sincere.

My brother was accompanying three 'ploggers' from Delhi  to the governor's mansion, and had taken this opportunity to talk about our neighborhood's initiative to clean up the water catchment in the vicinity.

Yes, you read it right: ploggers. I am certain the word has already entered the hallowed corpora of the Oxford dictionary, and many a lexicographers and editors have been itching to announce  this Swedish-origin expression as the word of the year. Against a scenario, where economy is down, and unemployment  up,  the vigor and optimism of the youth has given way to a growing sense of disillusionment. With nowhere to turn to, but to their own conscience,  a small group of these young people have taken to voluntary  plogging. Plogging, a combination of the Swedish word, 'plocka', which means 'to pick' and 'jogging', the word literally translates into 'to pick while jogging' (the implied noun, in this case, is 'litter'). As simple as that, but, "It is not as easy as it sounds," cautions Ripudaman, the undeclared, but unanimously accepted leader of the group. He shows us the techniques of picking up garbage on the move. "You have to be careful not to hurt your back," explains Sanjay, another young plogger from Kumaon, who   happens to be a freelance journalist as well.  Sidharth from Madhya Pradesh, is the quiet one. "He's a great runner",  his companions tell us,  adding "and also a photojournalist by profession". The team's aim is to plog  through 50 major cities in India, and inspire locals along with them. While in Coimbatore, they were supported by a whole team of marathoners, in Pondicherry, the presence of just one runner to accompany them at short notice, was enough to raise their spirits.

 As they move from one destination to another, they are deeply conscious not to produce any unnecessary waste, and thus refrain from using paper napkins/toilet paper, etc.: conveniences, which could make their long distance travels a dash easier. Indulging in any kind of pre-packed food is also frowned upon: no chocolates or biscuits, we are told.

The dining table explodes with stories, passionate discussions, and laughter, as we  share a meal with this new species of humans, called ploggers. All in their early or late twenties, they seem easy-going by temperament, but it is their youthful idealism and unflinching determination which gives them that extra edge, and courage to do what they are doing. 

Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. (Christopher Robin to Pooh )

'Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness'...

The following article was written in 2015. Recently, when I chanced upon it, I realised that at the time of writing, little did I know that it was going to be my last fling with 'Fall', in many years to come. Reading it after almost four years, it brought back beautiful memories, of umpteen drives, and walks, and of hot apple cider flavored with cinnamon.  Hope you would enjoy reading it, as much as I have enjoyed living it.

'Happy endings happen only in fairy tales', time and again, the incorrigible cynic in me, is given to lean on such time-worn clichés. Yet, every fall my faith in this euphemism is vitiated as I am drawn out of my little pessimistic circle to partake in this grand finale: a farewell at its best. The end of a journey and the beginning of another; a pageantry of colors, we mortals like to call `fall’, when in fact, the whole of Nature is rising to the occasion. Death descends upon us not only with its meditative serenity, but also with all its fury and passion: so life could continue…

Fall is that sacrificial fire from the ashes of which, Phoenix rises… it is the time to contemplate, to go for walks, to glean the warmth of a receding sun, to press colorful leaves in the dictionary (or as an expert once confided in me, telephone directories are better)...time also to catch the last lingering notes of the songbirds as sure enough, soon they would take wings, looking for greener pastures, newer melodies. Mockingbird’s daily travesty would  slowly fade away as the naked trees bring it into plain sight, cardinal’s belligerent jingles give way to more poetic, melancholic harmonies, and blue jay’s bizarre reprimandings too subside. And Eastern bluebird? I don’t even know what it sounds like. This spring, it was the first time ever, that I chanced upon a pair, and even managed to trace its nesting site. But, I, yet have to hear one sing…or scold…or say something.

Ravens, hawks and crows are seen perched on high branches of poplars and elms, aloof as usual, penetrating with their keen posture the blueness of the autumn skies. 

Squirrels, on the other hand, are hard at work: running around, gathering acorns, digging up the earth, hiding them, to guarantee that their hunger is well-satisfied during the long winter days. There is also the task of reinforcing their shabby-looking nests and ensure that they are properly  insulated and cozy. Field mice are busy too. In fact, just a few days ago, I found a bag of puffed sorghum, bitten into and raided from my own kitchen: I am confident that the culprits are field mice. Roguish, thieving, miserable little creatures! I haven’t yet been able to detect their entry passage or their exit strategy. But, they always leave some clue behind, just to hammer into my puny self that `the break-in was successful’. Yet, at some level, I can’t help but sympathize with them. This year alone some five majestic trees were chopped and hewn with power-saws and hydrowedges, from our apartment complex and thousands of critters were thus rendered homeless overnight. Of course, this never made the headlines. And, if it weren’t enough, these mighty oaks, elderberries, and elms were thrown into shredders, with great efficiency, and reduced to a coarse powder we like to call `saw-dust’ by high-power grinders. Ironically, in today’s polished corporate lingo, they label this `a zero waste environment’ for the sawdust would be turned into designer furniture for homes or given away to aggrieved artists who would diligently use it to re-create the impression of a tree and display it in museums and galleries. All this happened before the fall: before the trees could once again burst into colors, once again, express their recondite turmoils, frustrations and aspirations… before each leaf could indulge itself in the fun task of going and looking for the mysterious co-ordinates, upon which it was ordained to fall.

Despite all the hewing and chopping and raiding, I cannot help but bask in the glory of this season. Even though for some, it is a depressing period of the year since it harbingers the beginning of yet another winter, for me, it is a blessing bestowed upon us... an indulgence we can all afford.

Making Waves...

Running an NGO for the last eight years, having cleaned over ninety water bodies across India, we were expecting the founder and the CEO of EFI (Environmentalist Foundation of India) to be a suave, swanky, corporate style executive, complete with tie and boots. But, what we discovered in 33-year-old Arun Krishnamurthy, was a shy, hazel-eyed, sun-tanned guy, in shorts and t-shirt, sitting under the shade of a peepal tree in the village square, studying the topography of the area, where his current project had lead him to.

In seeing us approach, he came to greet us, and touched my mother's feet, in a spontaneous gesture of respect. "You must have a lot of projects going on simultaneously, how do you manage?" I was curious. "Oh, yes, along with this water catchment, our team is also working to dredge six ponds and two lakes in Chidambaram...but, this one, in Chinna Mudaliyar Chavadi, is a very important project. It is not only the visible part of the water channel which needs to be taken into consideration, but also the one which has been cemented, to make way for development. You see that dip behind the Kali temple, it once held a pond. And, similarly, there's yet another pond at a higher level which needs to be revived, and connected to the canyon, so the rainwater can take its natural course." 

Armed with a degree and know-how in water management from the University of Netherlands, Arun is on his turf as he explains the complexity of the project in a layman's language. And suddenly, he is not shy any more. We ask him about Bhutan, where he had gone to study and understand the watershed spring system. "Bhutan is a world apart," he says dreamily. The people of Bhutan have a different value system, and a more inclusive approach to life. They consider themselves part of the planet, and not just citizens of Bhutan". The famous phrase,  Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam (the entire world is a clan) comes to mind and I can't help but wonder how, while a Buddhist country has so earnestly embraced a Vedic concept, why we, the people of the land which gave birth to such lofty thoughts, have failed to manifest it in our lives. 

On asked whether roadsides littered with plastic bags and glass bottles is a common sight in Thimpu, as it is in our big cities, his reply is in negative. " Why, us Indians can't get our act together?  Are we inherently dirty?" is the next question pounced on this young environmentalist, itching to get back to work. "I think, development came too late, and too fast at our doorstep, and we didn't know how to cope with it. As for me, not taking pride in our environment directly translates into a lack of self-respect".  A long, inadvertent sigh escapes him, as he adds,  "There are instances, when almost as soon as we have cleaned up a waterway, people just come and start dumping again."

We are dumbfounded. "Really? Don't you get discouraged?" My mom asks.

"Yes, I used to. I used to even get depressed...But, what is the point of getting depressed? There's so much work to be done, so one has to get moving, do one's best, and hope for the best. "

Arun's spirited disposition is not only contagious but gives us hope as well. 

A shadow of patient impatience flits across his face, as he points to the black Mahindra Balero parked right beside us, "Duty calls. Sorry guys, I think I should return to the office." Tapping his metal companion affectionately, he laughs, "This has been my home, my office, and my loyal friend for some time now."

 We invite him for lunch, but he has already brought a packed tiffin-box along, and doesn't want it to go waste. "For, 'waste' is what's killing this planet", are his last words to us, as we bid farewell. Indeed.

Taking Charge...

Raveesh Kumar, on receiving the Magsaysay award for excellence in journalism, spoke at length on citizen journalism, the essence of which is, when the system fails the public, the public takes matter in its own hand. Of course, in Raveesh's specific case, the system directly translates into 'mainstream media', which stands at a deplorable low, serving mainly as a concubine to the government,  easy to tempt, and easier to please.

With a mobile in/at hand, while some citizens are performing the duel role of being both the cameramen and reporters, others are doing their bit to fill in the gap for the amnesia of the administrative authorities. For example, some have turned into environmental activists, trying to save their own backyard from the heaps of amassed garbage, and rampant dumping, cleaning up neighbourhood waterways and gullys, in an effort to prevent the pollutants from seeping into the ground water supply.

Rajendra Singh, the famous Waterman of India, in as far back as 1975, founded an NGO, called, Tarun Bharat Sangh, with the sole objective of solving the intensifying water shortage problem in his state of Rajasthan. Over the years, his organisation has been credited with building over 8,600 johads and other water conservation structures to harvest rainwater.

In the same vein, 33-year-old Arun Krishnamurthy, with the help of his colleagues from Environmentalist Foundation of India, an NGO, he founded in 2011,  has spearheaded the clean up of 39 lakes across the country, and several backyards. 

The classic example of Dashrath Manjhi, (made famous by the movie, 'Manjhi'), comes to mind, who, on losing his pregnant wife to a pathless mountain, single-handedly,  armed with  nothing but a hammer and a chisel, drilled through the mountain to build a road in his village. This road, which took him 22 years to complete, shortened the distance from his hometown to the nearest hospital by forty kilometres.

 Over the years, Manjhi has come to encapsulate the invincible determination of one man,  fighting against a system riddled with corruption and apathy towards the woes of the poor. 

Fast forward thirty six years, to 2018. In a small village in Bihar's Banka district, a group of women decided to build a road since the government failed to do so despite their persistent demand. After 10 years of waiting,130 women working from sunrise to sunset, completed the 2km-long stretch in three days, connecting, in the process, the village to the nearby hospital, which was their main objective. 

Examples abound.  Mumbai's notoriously dirty Versova beach,  covered in three feet of waste, was returned to its pristine state by the initiative of Arfoz Shah, a young lawyer,  and his 84-year-old friend Harbansh Mathur. 

Yes, it always needs just one individual to skip the pebble across the ocean of possibilities. So, in a country like ours, with 1.2 billion people, imagine the kind of storms we could be brewing!

'Power of the people, for the people, and by the people' is the cornerstone of every workable democracy. Yet, why do I get the feeling that while the citizens work and pay taxes, the centre 'rules'. While citizens raise money for projects to ensure continuity of life itself,  some million dollar companies declare bankruptcy, while citizens donate money to organisations so that another child could get decent education, someone along the way  embezzles the money assigned for midday meal scheme and children  die of malnutrition... Now, the question is why should we, the citizens of this country, who could be labelled illigal overnight, carry the additional burden of having a government, whose many an official flaunt expensive foreign cars while  advocating  'Make in India' products to its citizens;  sponsor their many trips abroad, while being advised to champion home-grown tourism;  pay for their fine fleet of security personnel, while they ask us to trudge on bravely, and bite the bullet?

The Tailor's Son

Vella Murugan was the tailor’s third offspring. The center of his forehead flaunted a vermilion sun, against a neatly painted patch of sandalwood paste. If there were glory written clearly on someone’s forehead, it would surely have been on Murugan’s. Yet, the tailor was not happy with him. Unlike his older brother and sister, Murugan, tiny in size, was naughty, disrespectful and disobedient. Three vices packed in one small body: how was that possible?

Murugan, along with his older siblings went to a public school and to after-school tutorials. He left home at 8a.m. and returned at 8p.m., and he was only eight years old. “Poor Murugan,” one might think, “being robbed of his childhood.” No sir, not Murugan. Instead of going to school, he preferred playing marbles and looking for kites stuck in trees from the previous evenings. He was apt at fetching them and repairing them in order to fly them again, at some point. But, most of all, Murugan liked climbing trees. Many a time, frustrated neighbors would deliver him to his apologetic father, holding him by the ear, complaining that they had found him dangling from their mango tree, stealing fruits. If it wasn’t the mango tree, then it was the guava or the sapota . Murugan could even climb coconut trees, but, he did not enjoy the tediousness involved in consuming a coconut fruit. “Why don’t you teach him to cut and stitch and sow buttons,” I would ask the tailor. But, no, he had envisaged a better future for his children: he wanted them to grow up and find nine to five jobs in offices, wear suits and ties and Cuban heels. He wanted them on a leash.

“Good afternoon, how are you?” I chirped the first day he came to my after-school English class.

“Good afternoon,” he repeated lazily, his eyes fixed outside the window, following a crow’s flight. Thereafter, he skipped to his desk and sat down. He took out some tattered books and notebooks and a dirty, orange-colored pencil-box and arranged them on the desk. “How was school today?” I asked. He drew a blank stare as though I were talking to the wall. Not one to give up easily, I posed the question again. “Was school today,” he tried to repeat. His older brother Kumar, 11, and apple of the tailor’s eye, snickered. He then went on to translate it for Murugan in Tamil. Murugan’s face lit up as neurons kicked in. “Nalla,” he answered.

“Say good,” I goaded, encouraging him to at least pick up the three most easy words of the English language, `yes, no and good’.

But, “say good,” he repeated like some parrot in a cage.

At first I was annoyed. And then, it hit me. I realized that this is what they do, in a lot of public schools in India. The teacher says something aloud and the entire class is expected to repeat after the teacher, even if the kids have no idea whatsoever as to what it all means. This was going to be a challenge, teaching Murugan the basics of English. I gathered a few objects around me: pen, notebook, eraser, notebooks, bottle…I even picked up Murugan’s pencil-box and Kumar’s bicycle key to put in the assortment, to make it more interesting and personal.

While I was busy making this nice ensemble of everyday things, so we could build up the basic vocabulary, I saw Murugan cautiously get up and grab his pencil-box from my table. Once, he had it safe in his hands, he ventured to open and then, deciding against it, slid it under the stack of ragged books and notebooks he had taken out earlier. The stack wavered a little. While some kids enjoy their things being used as class-room tools, perhaps, it did not amuse Murugan, I concluded. “Sorry Murugan, may I please borrow your pencil-box for the lesson purposes today,” I asked, apologetic for my bad behavior. But, to my surprise, Murugan did not relent. He clung on to his pencil-box, as a drowning ant clings to a drifting leaf. I sighed. At long last, Murugan withdrew the squirmish pencil box from its hiding place, opened it halfway, swept up a `handful’ of something and shoved it in his mouth with lightening speed. The box was duly returned to its assigned place.

“What are you eating?” I asked, curious.

“What is are edding?” Murugan echoed, still happily chewing.

Exercising my rights as a teacher, carefully, I picked up the stack of books and notebooks, which lay so precariously on top of the pencil-box and looked in. Sharing the space with a gray, burnt-out eraser and a two-inch long pencil, were at least fifty green gooseberries, freshly plucked. Tempting, to say the least. I now understood why Murugan’s eyes sparkled so much and why he couldn’t concentrate in the class. His mind was on better things.

The Zen Art of Peeling an Orange

Some people might think I am getting over-ambitious running a humble tea shop from a keet-roofed structure. I might suddenly be perceived as a potential political threat:  a future aspirant  for the coveted post of prime ministership, following in the footsteps of the success story of PM Modi himself. Even the simple name 'Orange Peel' of the tea shop could don on strategic implications. The suspicion of such speculators  is bound to grow deeper, as everything, by a sudden sequence of logic,  would start falling in place. 'Orange Peel', hmmm... it does ring of patriotism, and of  Hindutva.

But, seriously... Orange, ochre, saffron... perhaps, it's all the same to those for whom  the subtleties of life remain elusive.  For, while ochre is a natural clay-earth pigment, brownish yellow in colour, saffron is a flower-based, yellowish orange. While orange is orange, bright like the rising sun. And so is the logo of the tea shop. Now, there you are, your very first lesson in colours. As in art, so in life, a tad variance in shades can make all the difference.

Jokes and politics aside, the good news is there is now a brand new tea  shop  in the neighborhood, and everyone should rejoice, for the cooler, wetter spell is just around the corner. And there is nothing better than to wrap one's hands around a beautiful cup, sip some hot tea, crunch on munchies, while watching the sunset, through a pall of light rain. For, that's exactly what happened on the opening day of Orange Peel.  Later on, everyone, mainly friends and family who had come to support our venture, trooped up to the next level to watch the rainbow, arched across the sky. "This place is perfect," my friend Sofie exclaimed from the hammock, adding, "I think I am going to come here every day".

 It did not matter that because of some nervous, chaotic confusion in the kitchen, inherent in almost every first-day situation, I had hardly heard the rain tapping on the roof, had missed the rainbow, and had not even tasted my first brew of hibiscus orange tea, which turned out to be an all time favourite of most present...I was happy and relieved that we had finally made it through the evening.

"Come along inside. We will see if tea and buns can make the world a better place".

Developed or developing: does it matter?

According to American President Donald Trump, countries like India and China should be barred from the privileges endowed upon them under the banner of 'developing nations' . He said this to reiterate his belief that the two countries were taking advantage of the tag from the WTO. Calling India a 'tariff king', he criticized the country's trade policies for levying unrealistically high duties on U.S. products.

While this rather bizarre statement by Trump is doing the rounds in some WhatsApp circles, and people are ecstatic over the fact that India has finally emerged from the stigma of a third world country, one wonders why we are so preoccupied with such labels. Why some other nation's perception of us mattes more  than how we perceive ourselves. 

The notion of 'developed' and 'developing' countries, based on higher/lower GDP, are traps set by the western world, to turn  us also into unsuspecting prey to a failing model of capitalism. It is worth remembering, that whatever the west ever rejected, it was sly enough to repackage it and send it rolling our way. Right from DDT, and petroleum-based harmful pesticides and fertilizers, to plastic, genetically modified foods, high fructose corn syrup, techno, and now, this frenzy of a market economy!

In a country, where coercing people into shouting 'Bharat Mata ki jai' is the modern expression of patriotism;  lynching people on suspicion of eating beef, an attestation of religious righteousness; calling those who oppose the onslaught on the freedom of expression, 'bloody intellects', we need to pause and ask ourselves, not whether we are developed or developing, but are we, as a society, evolving or devolving. 

There's no gainsaying the fact that we produce the best software engineers, our space program is one of the most progressive in the world, and our military is regarded as elitist. But, we have failed in reaching out to the poor, the down-trodden, the outcast. We have one of the worst human rights records. In our country, little children still die of encephalitis, and the poor of starvation. Both, proper garbage disposal facilities and basic sanitation, are still in their nascent stage. Cast wars and communal clashes continue to divide the country and weaken the warp-and-weft of its multiculturalism.Women are regarded as goddesses, and yet, India continues to be the rape capital of the world.  A survey by the Thomson Reuters Foundation named India the most dangerous country in the world for women.

We can bask in the glory of the successful launch of Chandrayana 1 and 2, congratulate ourselves on  Indian professionals occupying top positions in multinational companies, feel proud that our PM travels in a state-of-the-art Airforce 1 style plane, while we still plough the overcrowded roads, along with buffaloes, street dogs, and cows! So, it doesn't matter if Trump calls us 'developed', even though to the rest of the world, we are still 'developing'. The need of the hour demands deep introspection, in terms of where we want to go from here, and what  we are prepared to sacrifice to reach there.

In the lingering hours of twilight...

"About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age."
_Gloria Pitzer_

Monday mornings kind of became more hectic once I began to babysit two 88-year-old silver-streakers in my neighborhood. Even though it was just an hour job, from 11a.m. to 12p.m., it consumed the whole morning. For, it entailed not only preparing coffee and  breakfast for our family of three and getting myself ready, but also coaxing my eleven-year-old home-schooler son to accompany me. I thought it would be a good way to expose him to the notion of community service.

In my quest for sharing some quality time with the ladies, I took along some magazines from my collection of Birds and Bloom, Reminisce, National Geographic and Smithsonian. I learnt on-the-job that reading aloud articles, while pausing at intervals to discuss and reflect on what had been read,  filled up the hour faster in an interactive way. And it also helped Marcia, who suffered from dementia, out of the same rigmorale in which she tended to fall into, and suck us in as well. Even though she loved making conversation, her ever shrinking repertoire of phrases, coherent sentences and Shakespeare’s poetry couldn’t get anyone of us anywhere.

“My mother was a concert pianist,” she would start, continuing, “then, the Depression came, so we had to tend to the horses ourselves. We were little, but, we did it.” And, “My first husband was killed in action. He was the first one in Belmar to be killed. And the next day, the war broke out. It was terrible…” Every time she narrated this incident, her face welled up with sorrow, which neither age, nor dementia had been able to erase.

Mentally not together, Marcia had however retained her physical fitness. She walked a couple of miles every day. A devout Catholic, she savored the name of the Lord and looked forward to Sunday masses. On the other hand, every day was a Sunday for her, which left her wondering why no one was taking her to the mass.

Lillian was frail and needed the support of a walker to sit, get up and walk around. She often had little control over her bladder movement. Moreover, getting up and hauling herself to the bathroom required stupendous effort. Lillian’s daughter was a Buddhist and well-travelled, and some of her influence had rubbed onto Lillian as well. She enjoyed when I talked about my childhood in India. Marcia, however, seemed curious about how I felt when I arrived to this land of great and free. Did I even understand the language, she wondered. She could never quite comprehend how most people in India were multilingual. “I only know English,” she would say, almost as a confession, looking sadly apologetic.

By and by, as one Monday heaped onto another, the range of topics we covered, widened. I tried to find books/articles, based on what my own receptacles had picked up during our discussions. Knowing Lillian’s interest in Buddhism, I once brought an article on Bhutan, published in Smithsonian. On another occasion, I asked my son, who was then studying the Chinese Art and Culture, to prepare a presentation on the ancient Chinese gardens and the importance of yin and yang in their lay out. Yet another time, it was a book on camels that I had borrowed from the library, that we read together. Now, how exactly did we land on camels, I don’t recall. But, I think it was when Marcia, once again, had started sinking into her “We had horses, and…” soliloquy, that I felt compelled to draw her out of it. “My mom and my uncle used to ride camels through the fields,” I interrupted her in mid-sentence, almost rudely. “I love camels. They are really beautiful, with long eyelashes and dandy legs,” I added. I went on to tell them the story about the time I had bought Paul, my German brother-in-law, a stuffed camel, decorated in traditional Indian patterns, with tussles hanging from its neck. It was a souvenir for him to take back to Germany. He seemed to like it, until, candidly, I let him know that I had bought this particular animal because it so reminded me of him. Of course, I had meant it as a compliment. To my surprise, he was rather offended. Back then, I didn’t know that in the west, camels are regarded as ugly and ungainly animals . In a few days, my sister and Paul returned to Germany, and the camel stayed back – with me. To this day, it adorns the window ledge of our living room.

“Is a camel much like a horse,” Marcia's curiosity knew no bounds. 

I reminded her of three kings who came riding on camels when baby Jesus was born. That clicked. But, a few minutes later, she was on her questioning quest again, as she bombarded me with, “Are they dangerous? Do they bite? Do they eat people? What is their diet like? Can they run…like horses?” etc…etc..I thought it best to enlighten Marcia and enliven Lillian by bringing in some books on camels. So, a Monday later, there I was, with a whole collection of books from the children’s section, reading about these assiduous, hardy, smart ships of the desert. We learnt how they could shut both their nostrils in case of a desert storm. Their eyelashes are designed to keep the sand particles at bay. And what’s more, they can go without water for more than a week! After we had seen some great photographs and made ourselves a bit more acquainted with this amazing humped animal, we all looked gratified and awestruck. “I’ll never think of camels the same way again,” said a revivified Lillian.

“We had horses, and…,” began Marcia.

A Wrinkle in Time

Colonie Art League (CAL) in upstate New York consisted mainly of people who were in their sixties, and above. While a few  had been career-artists since their adult life, a few others had taken up painting/sketching as a parallel pursuit for decades.  There were also some, who, having engaged in it as a post-retirement activity, firmly battled on, armed with, "it's never too late to learn", kind of attitude. The League,  however,  univocally welcomed one and all: the beginners, professionals and amateurs.

I remember the buzz of excitement when Martha, one of the CAL members, brought in a thick manual  on retirement homes to our weekly get-together.  Pages after pages were devoted to  detailed reports, providing crucial information, such as monthly rent, facilities provided, and minimum waiting period. The write ups were accompanied by attractive coloured photographs of the premises and its surrounding. The buzz gave way to a lot of oohs and aahs, jotting down of notes, forwarding of emails, etc...etc... 

The pro-activeness of the capitalist model, has succeeded in endowing its followers with a mindset which accepts the assembly line regularity of life and plans  accordingly. While this is commendable, it also reflects the quasi macabre edge of such a disposition, brought about by a sense of unrealistic and repetitious certainty, defying the very principles of Life. 

Most of these over-priced complexes  prey on an individual's combined package of pension and social security, and try hard to make hay while the sun shines. However, not all Americans are blessed with a financial security which would allow them  an entry into one of these retirement havens, mentioned in the manual. So, naturally,  they have to seek other, cheaper alternatives.

The apartment building, where I spent a few years of my life, happened to be one  such  option. It was not only centrally  located, but also enjoyed the proximity to the bus-line. The biggest and the most coveted mall  of the area, was just a stone throw away, and so was the supermarket.  Last, but not the least, even Trader Joe's, the only one for hundreds of miles, was at a walking distance. So, for those silver streakers, who could not afford to live in  poche and expensive complexes, this one was the next best possible choice. Besides housing a gym, a boule court, a park, and a swimming pool, it also offered  yoga classes and special courses on aqua aerobics. Even 'meals on wheels' were supplied on request. When the German grocery chain Aldi opened a store in the vicinity, it was prompt to provide an online service, through which groceries could be delivered to your doorstep.

Yet, despite all the conveniences available to the seniors of the community, one could sense their longing for companionship, as they lounged in the common seating area, waiting for a little 'hello' from no one in particular, an escaped smile, an inadvertent lingering of the co-inhabitants. Always eager to indulge in a conversation,  be it about the weather, or about the ongoing sale at  Macy's, or about the greatness of America, they spent hours in the lobby, staring at the framed floral paintings, set against the pink walls.

On summer afternoons, they  could be seen by the window of their tidy apartments, vacant eyes, waiting... For whom? Unfortunately, some of them had themselves forgotten the answer to that question. But, not our eighty-year-old neighbour Lenny. Every Saturday, he would get ready in his finest suit and, with a child's enthusiasm, look forward  to his son drive him to Schenectady plane museum. The son never came.

The following two free verses are dedicated to the Lennys of the world, and are an attempt at capturing the lives of the aging population, caught between two universes.

1.

My words

search for their own meaning
as they come tumbling down
and slide into the receiver.
There is so little
to be really said,
Yet a need to emerge from
the diurnal silence
of these four walls,
to make a connection
with  someone

on the other side
of the window...
before  the incessant chirping
of the birds 

begins to make sense.

2.

Where I live
There are narrow corridors
Running endlessly,
With little red doors
On either side,
Behind which lonely people sit
On huge couches
And watch television
at full volume.

Where I live
There are lamps
Severed in half
Affixed to the wall,
Looking stuck like

 the old men and women
Who live behind these closed doors
Hoping that someone will call
That someone would take them
grocery shopping.

Where I live
You can hear the highway groan
As the cars zoom by
And you can see fragments  of sky,
Clouds, trees and an occasional
Flock of birds
Enliven the shiny vitreous surfaces
of closed windows.

Where I live
There is the eerie echo
Of unspoken silence
And wasted words
And vast spaces of isolation,
Sqeezed twixt
narrow hallways.

A Bridge of Possibilities

Building bridges is not only an engineering feat, but also an art. Is it a wonder then that while some bridges, like the one over river Meles in Izmir, Turkey, have withstood the test of time for almost three millennia, some like the one in Kolkata, collapsed even before completion?

  

A couple of weeks ago, in our community, we too decided to build a bridge: a metaphysical bridge between us and them. 'Us', being the  so-called educated, affluent concerned citizens, living inside a clean, lush, walled complex, and 'them' being the presumed simple, superstitious fisherman community, displaced by the great tsunami of Dec. 2004.  'Us' was battling for cleaning up the neighborhood water-catchment area, driving around to chase authorities, 'them' was indifferent; 'them' was part of the problem, guilty  of dumping waste in the aforementioned water-catchment. Or so we thought. We blamed them,  their supposed ignorance, and their utter disregard for the environment, for our inability to find a permanent solution to the problem.

Finally, a few brave souls from our walled community decided to reach out to the fishermen folks and see if they were ready to co-operate in cleaning the water-harvesting area of  plastic and other pollutants. 

To our surprise, they were very much aware of the situation, and more than willing to co-operate. The realisation that despite our superficial differences, we were all on the same page, and therefore united in our mission to restore the water-catchment to its pristine state, brought us closer together... building the first link in the construction of that invisible bridge. 

Having relied on the  municipal authorities to do the job for too long, with the new bigger and stronger team, we felt more confident to undertake the cleaning task ourselves. The next day being a weekend, it was decided that 6a.m would be a good time to start the work. And, at 6a.m., it did. At least 20 volunteers turned up from the tsunami quarters, mainly children and women. In the five and a half hours that ensued, the team had extracted and bagged at least one ton of garbage. The enthusiasm of the kids, some just seven years old, as they dug out the buried waste, was contagious. A few residents, who could not partake in this labour-intensive exercise, brought tea and snacks for the crew. At the end of the day, medals were awarded to a few children for their outstanding performance.

The work had begun.We were a team now, of crusaders, battling for clean water, our basic right.  

The bridge was built: a bridge of possibilities.

Where do we go from here?

In the wee hours of  July 6th, 2019, three thefts worth lakhs in cash and kind took place in MMCT Rajkot-Mumbai Duronto Express, Train no. 12268. Yet, no newspaper reported it. When I ran a Google search on 'Duronto train theft', I was shocked to find that this is the second incident of robbery on Duronto Express  which has transpired  in the year 2019 alone; the first being in January on its Delhi-Jammu run. While the one in January was widely covered by different publications, the media has remained quiet over the recent one. I can't help but wonder why.  Is it the administration's and our own amnesia towards such acts of felony  that has  aided and abetted them to become  part of the mundane?

"My wife woke up in the middle of the night, to find her purse missing. She then shook me awake. We both looked around to see if it had fallen or something, but there was no trace of it anywhere" recounts a traumatized Ramachandran, an executive working in Gift City.   

Following the sounds of commotion in the next compartment, Ramachandran soon realised that they were not the sole victims. Two other thefts  had taken place that same night. The TC Sandip Chowdhary was contacted, who quickly sent out an SOS to Mumbai railway police.  In the meanwhile, the deputy TC took down the details of the thefts, which included, gold jewellery, cellphones, wads of money, and credit cards. A search operation was carried out which lead to the open doors of compartments G1 and G6, a clear indication that the miscreants had escaped in the dead of the night. Further investigation revealed that the thieves must have carried out their clandestine operation between 1:30 a.m. and 2:30 a.m., subsequently, pulled the emergency chain, and escaped. 

The husband of one of the victims succeeded in getting through to an officer on 1512, the IRCTC distress number. However, the officer-on-duty was apt to inform that even though as per the timings of the thefts, they must have occurred between Vadodara and Bharuch Stations, the FIRs could only be registered at Mumbai Central, which was the next stop. "In the meanwhile,  we managed to go online and register the theft of the ladies’ hand purses  with the Mumbai Central Railway Police Force (RPF)," recounts Ramachandran, disappointment still audible in his voice.

However, to the dismay of the  complainants, on reaching the station in person, they were informed that since the theft took place near Vadodara, the case falls under the jurisdiction of Vadodara Police station and should rightfully be followed up and examined by them. 

While one of the victims, who  was accompanying her husband to a wedding in Mumbai, was in tears for  her stolen hand purse contained cash, gold chain and gold rings, the second grief-stricken woman informed that hers too held gold earrings, and her husband's wallet with cash and phone. The third one had lost cash, credit/debit cards, Aadhar card, driving license and a mobile phone.

 Despite the fact that one of the stolen  cell phones, on being dialled, returned a ring, and could have easily been tracked, the RPF in Mumbai Central insisted that only  Vadodara police station was authorised to follow up with the procedure. "They had washed their hands off, leaving us  all in the lurch, and the pilferers at large, to play the chasing game," concluded Ramachandran, just beginning to come to terms with the way the system works in our country. "Until one actually comes face to face with a situation such as this, one lives in the Utopia of 'Mera Desh Mahaan'..." philosophises one of the victims.

It is unfortunate that a premium express service like Duronto, from being associated with hygiene, speed and punctuality, should now be paired with western-movie-style train robberies. Strangely, despite recurrent occurrences of such nature, the authorities have not stepped in to take action in terms of manning the trains with security personnel.  Call it a blind faith in humanity, indifference towards the safety of the passengers, or unwillingness to invest in a sector which does not offer tangible return, the complacency of the concerned authorities is nothing short of appalling. 

 However, it is to be hoped that  the new railway budget's ₹5,000 crore  slot  assigned solely to Railway passenger safety, will set in train appropriate measures to prevent such untoward incidents.

Summers at Sacandaga

where mountains faded

into the twilight sky

and the sky spilled itself

onto the lake, 

where the lake 

rushed towards the shore

and the shore

towards the crescendos of laughter..

amid the clinking of  glass,

towards the sputtering of fire

and the rising aroma of home food,

towards guitars strumming

over the whisper of voices,

and shuffling of cards...

towards the huddled fellowship

of ancient pines and rocks

soaked in starry nights...

where life spelt fun and peace

both at once,

where cooking and eating

were parallel pursuits,

where discussions on philosophy,

work and politics, 

all happened in the same breath...

where we gained a few inches

on the girth thru our own gourmandise, and a few in height

by pulling each other's legs

where, when summer over, 

Labor day party concluded,

the shore would recede,

leaving a treasure trove

of smooth, rounded pebbles,

and driftwoods for

die-hard camp-lovers, as they walked,

reminiscing the season,

their feet wobbly 

on the uneven terrain, 

autumn colours

strewn like a quilt over their face

the cold breeze 

beginning to sting the eye.

yes, this is where our kids grew up,

learning to gather kindling,

light a fire, roast marshmallows...

and, this is where we flocked,

summer after summer,

to feel young again, 

just one more time... 

Rage, rage against the dying of the light...

110 children died

attacked by encephalitis:

young martyrs...

would you ask for votes

in their names

when the next elections

come around?

In that case, 

Let me give them to you.

one was called, 'Kahani',

'Story',

and lo, how quickly

his story ended.

how sudden the end,

like an art movie

which leaves one hanging

between two parallel moments 

another called Samreen,

'Fruitful'

a born helper, 

evaporated in the heat

while gathering fruits...

little hands,

perfect for the job,

now, no more

Sanjeet, the Invincible,

he must have fought bravely,

to live up to his name...

him, who hardly knew life,

how could he have known

the cruelty

of death? 

Anisha,

'The One Beyond Despair',

i wonder what she dreamt

and hoped

as she plucked the fruits

what did she want to become

when she grew up

Raja Babu,

'The Little Prince',

the apple of his mother's eye!

yet, his hands already coarse

from the morning chores

now lie limp by his side, 

no more 

waking up early:

never again

Muskaan, 

with her 'Smile',

lighting the dimly-lit path

as she trudged to the orchards

in pre-dawn hour,

sleepy... a thousand

dreams still hovering

in her eyes mi-clos

Gudiya, the Doll,

loved by all,

snatched away

by a sudden squall...

and taken yonder

beyond the fangs of

poverty,

to rest in peace

Vikrant, the Brave,

always striding

ahead of everyone,

a real warrior

in the wee hours

of the morn:

bare-foot, determined,

tireless...

but, alas! his battle now over

and, how can

one forget, Khushi,

'Happiness':

it shone through his eyes,

through the uneven grin,

it was felt in the lightness

of his steps...

until he could walk no more

Shahnaz, the beauty queen,

'Royal and Stately',

like a peacock

she strutted,

like a lioness

she fended for her clan,

and like an eagle,

soared away. 

all these children

and 100 or so others like them died,

gathering lychees, 

(our oriental delicacy)

and devouring some,

for their own

empty stomachs rumbled 

and growled,

begging for the fleshy fruit

would you like

more names?

i could give you more.

but maybe it's wiser

to wait

until next elections...

for, who would remember them?

their families, and perhaps

the forgotten files

gathering dust on the desk 

of some wretched clerk