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.