Unwrapping Memories

 The sun streaming in through the eastern window touched the golden wing of the dark angel atop the Christmas tree, and set it ablaze. The wall opposite trembled with this sudden rush of glitter flung upon it by the virtue of one rising day coming in contact with the gold-plated curve of the wings. Standing on the stairs, momentarily blinded by this  vision of light and reflections, I smiled as the angel's uplifted eyes met mine. It was beautiful, and the earnestness in its eyes as it held the dove in its outstretched hands bespoke of the desire to be recognised for what it was: a dark angel. Yes, not a blond, fair one, cut out in a Barbie shape, but a dark one, with black curly hair tied in a bun in the back. The light olive green ribbon running down its flowing cream dress read, "An angel to watch over you". I had named it Corrine, after my Afro-American art student, who, over the years, had also became a good friend...In fact, I bought it as a way to reaffirm my belief that racism was a dying institution in America... little did I know that two and a half years later, the great monster of Racism will rear its ugly head in the form of George Floyd, killed by a chokehold in a police encounter. 

And that beautiful glass ornament with hand-painted fire-weeds emblazoned on its surface, was bought at Women's Christmas Bazaar in UAF (University of Alaska, Fairbanks). My son got it for me from the money he used to earn as a guitar accompanist to the violin students, during their annual performances. He was only nine years old then, and very much in demand. For every practice and performance, he was paid $20! That was, at that time, more than twice the average minimum hourly  wage in the country. He got so loaded for his tiny self, he felt compelled to open a bank account with the good old Wells Fargo. 

Ah, and this one! This is older than my son...my sister gave it to us on the Christmas I was pregnant. It is a beautiful bell, made out of papier mâché, in Kari Kalamdani style, specific to Kashmiri region. She had bought it from the famous Cottage emporium in Delhi, when it was still tucked away on a tiny side lane off Janpath Road. Filled with several cozy comforts and beautiful handcrafted items, it had its quaint rationale vis-a-vis the layout, but for the regulars, not only did it make perfect sense, but also rendered it that much more exciting. The thrill of finding something, in a place where it is least expected, was like finding a rainbow  stretched out against a shimmering blue sky.

And, do you remember this one? "Yes, I do...my friend Gabe whittled it with his Swiss Army knife out of a spruce twig..." Dan's voice is already trailing off as he dips into nostalgia...I remember it too, so vividly. During the bash Gabe's parents had organised on the occasion of his tenth birthday, sadly he was the one who seemed the most out of place, and had quietly sneaked out, in a twenty below temperature, into the woods buried in snow. No one noticed his absence until it was time to cut the cake and the kids were getting impatient. They found him in the woods of course, his pockets bulging with kindlings whittled into miniature totems, wolves' tails, raven's eyes and what not. All the attendees received one of his masterpieces as a return gift. Ours, in the shape of a totem pole, flaunted bits of dried grass tied into a bow to fit snugly into one of its grooves. It makes a perfect ornament for our tree and has adorned it religiously for over a decade: a loyal reminder of a boy who could see shapes trapped inside shapeless kindlings and set them free  with the help of a Swiss Army knife.

This one, a Santa Claus hat streaming out some random Scrabble  tiles is from my friend Desirée. An expression not only  of our everlasting friendship, but also of our mutual love for board games, specially Scrabble...Desirée, a lawyer by profession had given up her career to homeschool her two sons. So, truly speaking, it was through her I learnt the ropes of homeschooling, which also included ways to manoeuvre the system in order to make the most of this available option. 

I hear Dan snickering, while readjusting the small naked angel with a cute bum...he would like the bum to be on the outside, in full view, for it is indeed very ample and innocent looking, and I get his point. Krysta, the first good friend I ever made in Albany gifted it to me during an exchange-ornament event at her place. Shy and humble, yet brilliantly competitive and confident, friends like Krysta are a rare find. She was always there for me whenever I needed her, always ready for a cuppa, for a stroll, for a good laugh, for a drive... always prepared to go that extra mile to help out, and even to indulge. We never had much in common, except our goodwill. And that took us a long way...

Should I go on, or should I leave some stories for another rainy day? For the ornaments in the trees are many, and the stories they summon from their recondite subliminal depths, many more...

"The Stool Pigeon's The Coming Race..."

 "As desired by Honourable Lt. Governor of Puducherry and respected Directorate General of Police, a dedicated BSNL CUG (a closed user group) number is slotted for Special Branch Unit, exclusively for gathering secret information from general public."

The above is part of a notice  issued by the SSP (Senior Superintendent of Police) Puducherry on Dec. 4, 2020,  circulated in the Whatsapp circle of which the Lt. Governor herself is a member of. Initially, it seemed like a hoax, or yet another fake news, which is fast becoming a prevalent force driving the Whatsapp herds in droves into hate-filled enclosures. However, a news item in the local edition of Indian Express, corroborated its authenticity, with the heading which read, "Police announces exclusive mobile number to get tip-offs from public in Puducherry". 

The notice encourages the public to stay alert and  not hesitate to report "movements of anti-social elements, activities of banned organisations, sale of drugs, smuggling of arms, ammunitions and explosives..." etc. etc... Surprisingly even 'controversial speeches' has found a reverential slot  in the above  list of potentially objectionable activities to be passed on as 'secret information' to the police. Incognito. Reminds one of Mao Zedong's China, where school children were given incentives, either in the form of points to add to their academic score, or in terms of promotion in CPC's (Communist Party of China's)  junior wing, to inform on contentious conversations and activities at home  which went  against the principles of  'New China'. The erstwhile USSR too flaunted a similar practice, where people remained wary of each other, thus effectuating a superficial socio-cultural order and lifestyle based on fear and mistrust.

 In America of the McCarthy era,  slipping information about one's kins and kiths, suspected of being  communist sympathizers, was lauded as the ultimate expression of patriotism. Neighbors told on neighbors, friends on friends, and even family members turned each other in, in the name of greater national security.

The official term used for this kind of tattletale behaviour is known as snitching. As life with Covid-19 gains acceptance, the culture of snitching becomes part and parcel of one's psyche.  It is a well-known fact that the hotlines provided by various governments across the globe, to inform on Coronavirus rule breakers, however well-intended, have  given rise to legalized snitching. Right from NYC to New South Wales,  officials are overwhelmed by the number of crank calls being made as a means to vent off one's personal vendetta against someone. In Singapore, the government had to urge the people to only tell them about things they had actually witnessed.  "People love this kind of stuff," says Nicolas Taylor, a third year medical student, adding quite candidly, "It presents an easy way to rat out a neighbour you don't like". 

True. And, I shudder to think of its implications in a country like ours. Moreover, this hotline number given out by the highest authority in the Union Territory of Puducherry, is not even for Covid rule breakers, but include a wide variety of activities which may-be-perceived- as -offences. It has a greater degree of subjectivity in terms of judging an action  and does therefore equate to walking on dangerously biased grounds.

In the post-Covid India, already fractured by growing communal tensions, a hotline, like the one 'desired' by the Lt. Governor of Puducherry could easily be misused. Against the onslaught of the digital era, where churning out fake news through sophisticated technology is a piece of cake, such a service,  could do more harm than good. 

Moreover, do we, as people, want to actively be part of and support the idea of an "ever-expanding police state where nothing we do or say is shielded from the eyes, ears, and punishing hand of  the Big Brother?" Are we ready to lose the freedom to express our views fearlessly, unafraid of being ratted out by snitches lurking in the shadows?

To conclude, what we must ask ourselves is this: how effective can a policy which encourages people to turn against one another really be? Especially now when the demand of our times begs community support and solidarity to see us through this trying period in history?

The Recycling Man Brings Back Memories From Long Ago

We saw him pushing his rickety bicycle jammed with bags of all sizes, bursting to seams with the recyclable waste he had collected from the residential areas. Everything from empty beer cans, and bottles, to cardboard boxes and magazines had found a rightful place in their respective bags.  The only thing which did not fit into the ensemble was a basket filled with onions and tomatoes. Or so we thought.

This 60-year-old entrepreneur of sorts, named Kannan has been buying people's waste in exchange for tomatoes and onions for the last eighteen years. These two commodities are bought  at low cost from the local farmers, and doled out to his customers according to the weight of the waste they are ready to part with! 

We bring out our stack of old magazines, some wine bottles, a few Kingfisher cans, Amazon boxes. And in return we get a pound of onions and two pounds of tomatoes! Feels like s deal, almost as though we have just won a lottery! Veggies for our waste! What an idea. 

It is the first time Kannan has ventured into our neighborhood. We ask him if he can include us in his regular rounds so we can avail of his precious services. He doesn't fully commit. And when we want him to pose for a photograph, he definitely looks cross. He needs to move on; he still has much territory to cover. 

Unfortunately, people like Kannan have become a novelty in modern India. Yet, there was a time when these small-time traders flocked the erstwhile quiet streets of urban neighbourhoods. I remember the rural women going from house to house, carrying an array of shiny plastic wares, right from mugs and jugs, to buckets and containers. These were not for sale, but were meant to be exchanged for old clothes, bedsheets, bedcovers and sarees. We will bring out our heap of unwanted, unused clothings and linens, which these women would assess and offer us some of their goodies in return. A fair share of haggling would be  followed by a satisfactory settlement for both the parties. A wreath of smiles and promises to return would be thrown in for free as a farewell gift. 

The raddiwala, translated roughly as a scrap dealer, came once a month. He would weigh our stack of old newspapers and magazines, and give us some amount of money in return, according to the total weight of our throwaways. 

When the winds changed, the gypsy women, clad in colorful dresses, and  silver jewelry knocked at our doors, offering to glean out the unwanted tidbits off the big sack of wheat before it was taken to the local mill to be ground into flour. This much-in-demand service came in exchange for some elemental food supplies. 

The blacksmith who sharpened the knife, the qalaiwalla who shined old brass and copper utensils, the Kashmiri carpet vendors, they all passed through our neighborhood at least a couple of times a year. And everytime they came, it felt like a celebration. 

However,  all this changed in the nineties. With the beginning of insurgency in Kashmir and an increasing number of bomb blasts in buses and markets in metropolises across India, the urban-scapes in the country were soon reeling under the spell of fear and  insecurity. Almost overnight, the government appartment complex we lived in, had turned into a gated community with a fleet of watchmen to guard the place 24/7. The small-time traders suddenly became a potential terror threat and were no longer allowed in. A whole way of life was  brought to a halt. Surprisingly, this phase happened to coincide with the period India opened up to the global competition and invited multinationals to give a new impetus to the Indian economy. Go figure.

The Day After...

An endless night

Trapped inside

Columns of winds

And pillars of rains,

At last broke free,

Slipping behind 

The gray horizon

Supporting the spuming back

Of the billowing ocean,

it pushed  forth 

With its remaining might

a capsized dawn.

And lo, the joy 

That burst forth

Across the gloom

As the flutter of wings

Set the world astir

With the possibility

Of renewed life;

They dived and swooped

And soared up in the air

To swerve and swirl,

Cruise and tumble

Riding on invisible currents

Happy to be alive,

Happy to just be...

Being a witness to this expressive display of relief from the  avian world, the morning after Cyclone Niwar hit the coastal  Bay of Bengal,  the natural course of thought landed me in utter fascination of the survival skills of these winged creatures. While we spent the whole of Tuesday trying to foolproof our home against the threat of the impending cyclone, what pro-active measures did the birds in our backyard take?

"Mom, how do birds protect themselves during a storm?" As a little child, I remember asking my mother.

"They hide in their nests", she answered. Of course, the certainty with which she had spoken  made me believe her.

However, my recent google search provided more satisfying answers to the simple question I had posed years ago.

Our neighborhood is home to variety of sunbirds, which are tiny with long beaks to draw nectar from the flowers, much like the hummingbirds of the Americas. Winds may steal hats and claim umbrellas, but may still not be able to reach these teenie meenie birds hiding in the leeside of trees or deep inside dense hedges.  Here, overlapping branches laden with leaves come together to form a roof shingle, thus creating a perfect protection from high winds and driving rainstorm. As long as these small birds decide to stay put, they can stay dry and unperturbed by the weather conditions.

However, this also means they cannot forage for food either. If you are a bird enthusiast, you might have noticed several birds indulging in a bout of gluttony just before a storm. This is because more fat translates into better energy reserves, and resultantly greater chances of survival during severe weather conditions. 

Apparantly some bigger birds are capable of sensing the onset of bad weather, and attempt to move on earlier to safer havens. Attempt doesn't mean they always succeed, since they too can easily fall prey to a phenomenon called “fallout". 

Fallout in this case means birds finding themselves in places far  out of their habitat— seabirds on shore, shorebirds far inland, tropical birds way out of their range. So, how do fallouts happen?  Hurricanes, with their high winds and ocean tracks, can act like roller coasters for birds. Those caught in them get whipped around, with many dying of exhaustion. But some make it, through sheer stroke of luck, by finding their way into the  eye of the cyclone. Needless to say, this implies that they would be landing somewhere far from their home habitats. 

Interestingly all birds have an in-built mechanism to waterproof their wings. The process known as preening the feathers is nothing more than applying a coat of wax/oil extracted from the uropygial gland, commonly known as the oil gland, located at the base of their tail. This water-resistant plumage is instrumental in keeping them dry even during torrential rains. 

So the next time, after a storm has rolled in and out of your area, and the birds are out and about, scaling the heights, diving the depths, happy to have survived the sound and fury of a potentially dangerous weather system, rejoice with them! 

A Space For Cynicism

 The slim victory afforded to Joe Biden over Donald Trump, to Democrats over Republicans, can scarcely be a cause for celebration. In fact, it should make us wary of the way the nation stands divided. For despite all the theatrics, lies, malignancy hurled at whomever, the fact that the sitting incumbent only lost marginally, goes on to tell something about the Democratic candidate himself and his charisma, or lack of it.

Yet the sigh of relief, accompanied by the rhetoric that anyone is better than Trump provides little solace against the crisis faced by the American people, reeling under the pandemic, economic slowdown, and unprecedented racial and civil unrest. Moreover, it is to be hoped that the euphoria unleashed amongst the Democrats on  the ousting of Trump does not let the public consciousness slip into oblivion vis-a-vis the deeply disturbing, dangerous reforms  pushed by Biden in the eighties and nineties that have made the criminal justice system not only more lethal but also bigger.

It might be okay to refer to Joe Biden as the lesser evil, or even as a sort of affable uncle, but consider for a moment the downsides of Biden’s career: In 1989, at the height of punitive anti-drug and mass incarceration politics, from Biden came  the most vociferous  criticism of President George H.W. Bush's war on drugs ."Quite frankly," Biden said, "the president’s plan is not tough enough, bold enough, or imaginative enough to meet the crisis at hand."

He called for harsher punishments for drug dealers, as well as to “hold every drug user accountable.”  According to Biden, the then head of Senate Judiciary Committee, Bush's plan didn't  include enough police officers to catch the violent thugs, nor enough prosecutors to convict them, nor enough judges to sentence them, and not enough prison cells to put them away behind bars. All in all, it was a call for more incarceration, which resulted in him putting in place several laws designed to bring about a punitive criminal justice system, with measures that enacted  tougher prison sentences for drug offences, particularly crack cocaine.

Similarly, a close examination of Kamala Harris's records  reveals glaring contradictions. On one hand, she pushed for programs that helped people find jobs instead of shutting them in prisons; on the other she fought to keep people in prison even after they were proven innocent. While she refused to pursue the death penalty against a man charged with killing a police officer, she openly defended California’s death penalty system in court. She implemented training programs to address police officers’ racial biases, yet in other instances, she resisted calls to get her office to investigate controversial police shootings.

With Harris gaining national prominence,  it was not her legacy of progressive prosecutor that was thrown into limelight, but her career as an anti-reform attorney general. 

The objective of this article is not to downplay the Democrats' victory, however small, but to ensure that the media does not present the duo as the Saviours that America desperately needed to rid itself of Demon Trump. With a fair share of their own baggage to carry, the Biden-Harris team can take the country only so far. The real responsibility lies with the people, who through judicious political vigilantism, could take it further.

As the author James Bovard points out, "Winning politicians often enjoy a honeymoon after Election Day, but neither Donald Trump nor Joe Biden deserve any honeymoon from cynicism. 'Think well of your masters' will be the death of democracy".

Constructive cynicism can often serve as an effective tool towards political damage control. Timely doubts freely expressed can stop leaders 'blindingly driving a nation over a cliff or into a foreign quagmire'.

Forever Young

 "You are never too old to set another goal, or to dream a new dream."

                                          C.S. Lewis

There she sat crocheting a scarf, a rich burgandy ball of wool hung limply from one side. "That's really beautiful," I remarked almost instinctively, stopping  to admire her handiwork.

"You like it? I'm making them for the senior center, to be given away as Christmas presents," she sounded excited,  her mind beginning to loop around the festive patterns she could experiment with.

"May I?" I asked, pointing to the empty chair next to hers, a big mug of macha with coconut milk in my hand.

"You don't have to ask, " the gray haired lady smiled, peering over her glasses. 

" When did you learn to crochet?" The embarassed undertone was palpable in my voice. For god only knows how many times, how many peoples'  patience I had tried, in attempting to learn the fine art of crocheting, but with little success. 

"Now, would you believe it, I just learnt it three months ago! Joined the capital region's crochet club and  started from scratch", triumph rang clear from every pore of her being, as she admitted to her hidden genius. 

We sipped and chatted, in the hallowed space of Short and Stout, the new tea shop in our neighborhood, which along with serving an array of tea and snacks, also offered the local artists a forum to showcase their work. The walls flaunting a fine gradation of warm colours, held 25 of my artwork, in watercolors and acrylics. 

I was soon to learn that this vivacious lady radiating enthusiasm was a 65-year-old retired teacher, and had the most musical name: Corrine, with the rs rolled deliciously, the way it is in authentic French. "Do you know I have been to India once, to attend one of my students' wedding? It was a real experience. I even bought myself some gorgeous silk sarees." She paused deliberately, and then added, "But wrapping it around, now that's one thing I couldn't learn". I let out a sigh of relief, secretly glad that I had scored a point there.

Every Tuesdays, Corrine hosted a local book club at the tea shop. On Fridays, she took a cab to NYC, some 160 miles south of Albany to attend a weekly class on ikebana. And, thrice a week, she volunteered  at a downtown literary center. She was a busy retired teacher, considering that she was also helping a PhD student, pass a basic French test, a requisite towards acquiring the degree. 

"What do you do?" She asked me, as I looked up at the clock to see the time. "I am an artist." 

"What do you think of all these fine paintings on the walls? I specifically like the one with the rose...Perhaps, I am partial to it because my middle name is Rose..."

"Those are my artwork," I mumbled under my breath, while she burst into  guffaws of laughter. "Really my dear?"

"Yeah!"

Now, you might think I am telling stories. But, I have always admired people who could paint, especially in watercolour. A few years ago, I bought myself a whole set of paints, brushes, and watercolor paper, with the aim to indulge myself, or find someone to indulge me. But, I just never got down to it. You think you could give me some lessons?"

And thus a teacher became a dedicated student, arriving always on time, armed with her supplies. With an unparalleled combination of jazz in the background, and a steaming kettle of tea in the foreground, together we set out to tempt the Muse. 

I thought her eyes became a bit more sparkly every time she found her hands obeying instructions, learning different kinds of strokes to create small works of art she had only once dreamt of. And she laughed a little more heartily, when I praised her progress. "Do you really think I am getting the hang of it?" She would ask, thrilled by the realisation.

We painted, listened to music, discussed our favourite movies...and over many cuppas  we shared, Corrine poured me many a memorable stories...sweetened with her unyielding zest for life. 

A Love Story

As slumber gradually tightened its grip over him,  he loosened his over me...And then it happened! His dulled, soporific fingers let go, and I found myself plunging headlong towards the concrete floor.  

And that is where I stayed in a state of shock, sandwiched in the tiny space, between the back of the couch and the blank wall. Day after day...night after night, I lay wondering if he was missing me at all, looking for me, thinking about me... Patiently, I waited for that happy moment of reunion, for the palpitation which comes from feeling desired again, and wanted...

One day it seemed that someone did finally find me. My heart gave a leap as I felt a slight tickle, and a shiver went up my spine. Ah, it was Mr. Daddy Long Legs, the Spider. A curious thing for sure. Armed with spinnerets, it crawled all over, inspecting even my dog-ears with utmost care,  hoping to find a nice nook to make its web. And then finally, using me as a convenient buttress, it wove a dandy  home for itself...or, a cache, shall we say!

As  the monotonous ticking of the clock imprinted itself  on the chiaroscuroed interiors of the house, and winter gave way to spring, the layer of dust grew thicker, and weighed upon me in the most unpleasant way. By now, I had almost coerced myself to forget about him, who had once held me so lovingly in his hands. 

And, then it came: tiny, beady-eyed, and quite cute...from the very start it fell for me headlong, couldn't keep its hands off me for a second... Bursting with passion, it wanted to dig into my very core, maybe even devour my heart. Its appetite was insatiable.  As I lay there, caught in the gossamer thread of loneliness,  I said to myself, 'why not?'. Yes, why not enjoy the passions of this little critter...if this is love, isn't this what I want? 

And, that is when, in my own selfish way, I accepted the advances of that teenie meenie bookworm. 

  

The Old Man and the Hills...

 During our tireless travels for the last twenty years, hopping continents, countries, adapting to new cultures, learning other languages, oft and again, I was reminded of the old man who owned a little tea shop at the outskirts of Dehradun in U.P., India. A sudden cloudburst followed by torrential rains is what had sent us scurrying for shelter into his shop, and right into the wafting aroma of home. We had been on the road for only two days, and were already beginning to miss it. Sparks from the embers smouldering in the earthern stove flew across the cosy little room nonchalantly. A blackened aluminum  kettle sat atop whistling, adding its own trilling notes to the orchestra. It was a perfect weather for some steaming masala tea and biscuits, and the old man seeing us hunched because of the sudden nippiness which had descended over the hills, got down to making it with a sense of urgency.  

Silently sipping hot tea, and munching biscuits which came from a small glass jar, we sat in the tiny room, the sound of  rain on the tin roof drowning every possibility of conversation. 

The rains dissipated with the same vigor and abruptness they had poured down a minute ago, and a patch of blue sky, washed clean, stretched outside, as though hung there to dry. We took the old man's leave, and thanked him profusely for the delicious tea and biscuits. "Come and visit us sometime in Delhi," my father said with a smile, extending him an invitation to his side of the world.

"Sahib, in pahadiyon ko chod kar kahan jayenge", meaning, "Sir, where would I go leaving these hills behind?". 

Even after two decades, I am haunted by his words.  Poignant in their simplicity,  they encapsulate the spirit of a man who was as much a part of his ambient, as it was of him. And for as long as he could remember, he had lived in the comfort of its laps, contented. It was the music descending from  those undulating hills which had lulled him to sleep, night after night...and touched him awake at dawn. There was no parting for him from his beloved hills...

While I was busy circumventing the world, gleaning a few moments here and there, and leaving enormous carbon footprints in the process, the old chaiwala innately understood the beauty of treading softly, the world in his backyard, and eternity at his disposal.

We are all guilty of silence.....

 "While Yogi Adityanath, the Chief Minister of U.P., is striving to usher in Ram Rajya,  the opposition will go to any length to demoralise him and frustrate his plans", claim the supporters of the head priest-turned-politician, a celibate like his idol PM Modi.  "Diverting the media attention from  all the progressive steps being taken in his state, to the rape cases, is how low the opposition parties have fallen," they harp, aggressive in their defence of the guy, whose debasing opinion of women is expressed in the following quote, "women are like energy. If they are not controlled, they can be destructive and worthless". 

The Hathras rape case of the 19-year-old Dalit-woman Manisha, by four upper caste men, has once again brought into glaring limelight the deep-rooted and  pernicious side of our culture.

What is heart-wrenching is the detached, callous attitude of the news channels where even the dead, mutilated victim is being presented as a pawn in the filthy game of political chess. For example,  one leading national daily, while referring to the Congress leaders' visit to the victim's family, says, "The visit seems to have immediate as well as long term political goals. From projecting the Congress as a serious player in U.P., ahead of the 2022 Assembly polls to portraying the ruling BJP as anti-Dalit just before the Bihar election, the party seems to have a clear strategy."

 

For our honorable leaders, no matter which party they belong to, the strategy remains predictable: instead of eradicating the social evils, to get  maximum mileage out of them. Unfortunately, even the media is content to turn their time-bound political objectives into its prime focus, thus letting the real issues wriggle out of the national consciousness.

And so, against the highly complex cultural and social fabric of the nation,  the common person is coerced to live in fear, suffering the repercussions of the pervert savageness of a sexually oppressed society, caste system, and the lowly status of women. India and its Hindu population may pride itself in regarding all women as goddesses, but one look around is enough to underscore the hypocrisy of such a belief. For it is a well-known fact, reiterated again and again  in several travel  guides,  that hardly any girl/woman here is spared  from men's lecherous stares, leering, and inappropriate touching in crowded places...

Does it come as a surprise then, that while India is proud to flaunt its supreme status in terms of having the tallest statue, the longest highway tunnel, the most expensive wedding, it also tops the list in the number of rape cases reported per annum? With an average of 87 rape cases recorded on daily basis, India is determined to live up to its name as the rape capital of the world.

What I ask myself is who was Manisha, besides being a young Dalit woman? What did she like? As a little girl that she once was, did she harbour big dreams? Would she have liked  to attend a college, had her parents, their financial situation, and the upper caste people of her village allowed?  Who was Manisha? Can someone tell me?

The ruling party,  bent upon proving that the whole episode is being inflated by the media and the opposition parties, Manisha becomes an unnecessary encumbrance in India's trailblazing journey to superpowerhood.

"How do you like them apples, hon?"

 It is that time of the year again, when I slip into a nostalgic spell as friends from North-Atlantic America begin posting photos of their leaf peeping excursions... the rich reds and oranges of maple leaves, the  glossy browns of oaks, and the lickety lemony yellows of elms... The sense of familiarity lends itself to some solace arising from having been there and done that, and sadness from not being there now to experience the magic one more time.  To be a witness to these colorful leaves completing the last  leg of their journey, and writing their own epitaph with such flair, is a liberating experience in itself.

For us, and for many New Yorkers, the leaf peeping drives went hand in hand with visiting apple orchards to pick bagfuls of our own fruits right off the trees. Having filled our bags to capacity with the 'forbidden' booty, we would lag  them along to the in-house coffee-snack-and-gift shop to join the party of merry pickers feasting on hot apple cider spiced with cinnamon and clove. And for accompaniment, one could dig into anything from  apple pies, cobblers, and pandowdies to crumbles or  warm cider donuts!

Yes, visiting the neighborhood orchards was a sought-after activity by most families, much as driving to countryside farms to find that perfect pumpkin which would adorn their porch to welcome the trick-or-treaters during Halloween. Come to think of it, it was a wonderful way to get in touch with the ground realities of life, as well as to build a rapport with one's own farming community. Needless to say, this little seasonal exchange also gave impetus to the local economy. 

It is in fact remarkable that  despite  this  innocent apple being maligned since  biblical times, because of its association with  the disgraceful fall of mankind, it has continued to enjoy the ranks of the worthy. Mothers, for examples, still call their offsprings, 'apple of my eye', most endearingly, while grannies like to harp on  its medicinal properties, predictably concluding with, 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away'. 

What's more, it had to be an apple falling from the tree, which inspired the concept of gravity and revolutionized modern science. 

Is it a chance that the recording company launched by The Beatles, the  legendary Rock and Roll band, was called Apple Corps? It is said that it was  Yoko Ono's piece called 'APPLE', which consisted of a green Granny Smith apple atop a plexiglass stand, as part of an avant-garde exhibition in London, which caught John Lennon's attention. To Yoko's horror, he picked up the apple, and bit into it, thus committing the primeval sin: relenting to the temptation presented by Eve. The rest of course is history.

To add yet another feather to the controversial, yet consistent high and mighty reputation of apples, today, one of the most innovative and profitable corporation dealing with consumer electronics, founded by late Steve Jobs, is also called Apple Inc. So, what more is there to say? Except that, despite much scheming,  Satan could not succeed in making the apple fall from grace. He did however manage to entice us enough to steer our steps towards the apple orchards every fall, and succomb to temptation, year after year. 

Did you know that New York, the Big Apple state boasts of 24 varieties of apples? Right from Empire, McIntosh, Gala, Fiji, Honeycrisp, to Cortland, Red Delicious, Granny Smith and , Ginger Gold, to name a few that I can still remember.

From Raging Over Garbage to Making Garbage All the Rage...

 Even though Satya likes to sum up the journey from collecting plastic trash from the local beaches, to turning it into veritable pieces of art, with a simple abracadabra, it is really his optimism speaking. For actually, it hasn't been that easy for the sixty some members of zerowaste, most of whom are young backpackers from around  the world, stranded in Auroville, after that fateful lockdown in March, in the wake of Covid-19.

"Sure, we did have our own set of trials and errors, but, it  always felt as though we were moving in the right direction", Satya confides with his usual smile. Agrees Jorge, an Ecuadorian, who has been living in India for the last fifteen years, and is 

now the chief engineer for zerowaste's   plastic recycling program, being carried out in Auroville.

Livya and Bea, the two twenty year old Brazilian students are thrilled to be part of such an initiative, even though it means cycling several kilometers everyday. Recently, Livya also made an online presentation for her colleagues in the University of Sao Paulo, in which she spoke about the zerowaste group and its plastic recycling project. "The reception from the student body and the faculty was very encouraging," says a gratified Livya.

"Our objective is not only to clean up the beaches, but also create general awareness on its importance," says Satya, adding, "Do you know more 

than 650,000 marine animals  including dolphins, whales, seals and turtles, are killed or injured in discarded fishing nets each year?"

While some artists expressed interest in all the glass bottles that had been collected, and some others in the bottle caps, no one seemed to have any use for all the other plastic and net bits, which had begun to accumulate. "...This is where Jorge stepped in. Jorge's family has been  running a functional plastic recycling plant in Ecuador for years, and so naturally, he was thrilled to be involved with a similar project in India. 

And thence emerged a small unit on experimental scale. With zero investment,  and plenty of good will and determination of volunteers from all walks of life, the project was set in motion. Different kinds of plastics were identified and segregated accordingly, and rinsed thoroughly in big tubs. This heap of cleaned trash, was then left to dry, and be shredded. "It was hard work...trying to cut all that plastic manually, with pairs of scissors," Satya remembers with a laugh. "Some days, ten volunteers turned up to help, including two toddlers, who tagged along with their parents...and on other days, it was just a couple of us..."

A fully functional oven was built out of some leftover bricks by Venkat and Adhavan, two young engineers from Auroville. While a friend lent  a compressor, some volunteers brought in discarded pots and pans, bowls and cups, from their home, to be used as moulds. And thus began the process of melting the plastic,  pouring  it into moulds, and compressing, to produce beautiful bowls, cutting boards, coasters, wall hangings, chess boards, and several objects, with swirls of melted plastic imprinted on them. "It was truly exciting to see one's hardwork and vision come to fruition, " exclaims Satya, adding, "Imagine, had we just sat around, waiting for funds, we would still be writing proposals, and still waiting..." 

And this is not all. With the group aiming to use a 3-d printer to create everyday objects out of the amassed recyclable plastic bits,  sky is the limit. 

Zerowaste team is delighted that a few local youths have got inspired to help them in their endeavour. "Today, we had a new member join our team: Shyamkumar. He is only sixteen, and has been cleaning up the Kanagan lake in Pondicherry for the last two years," says Satya, a sense of awe clearly audible in his voice. For, to him it only translates into one thing: Hope for the future!

 

Break, Break, Break...

 The two fishermen pushed the boat into the frothing sea,  challenging the sudden rise of ambitious waves, as well as us, a bunch of  urbanites, novices in the art of befriending the elements, and embracing the wild. It had begun to drizzle, and the winds were picking up. 'There is a storm warning", one of them casually uttered, to no one in particular. I immediately fetched some homeopathic pills  out of my bag and passed them around to our party of five. "Just two pills under your tongue, folks, and it should do the trick!", The wanna-be-expert in me chirped, trying to sound ridiculously professional. Bryonia, as these pills are called, were  meant to help us cope with sea-sickness, in case we were to fall prey to it. 

Cresting the waves in a small trawler,  we were an excited lot, albeit a bit cold, in the middle of September. Tasting the  brackishness of the spuming spray on my lower lip, and the nectarine sweetness of the rains on my upper, my intoxication mounted as we left the shores far behind. The fearful amassment of paranoia, isolation, confinement, and depression I had been harbouring during nearly five months of lockdown, just deconstructed itself and dissolved into the vast expanse which surrounded us. No more a 'mere mortal', threatened by the pandemic, but a part of this rolling, rumbling, exuberant infinity...

This is it....This is what I had purposefully let slip into oblivion: my age-old camaraderie with the ocean. Images of myself jogging on, and on, in the lashing rain, by the tumultuous sea and its stud of crashing waves,  galloped past me, with a sweet fury. 

I was in my element then, as I was in it now...Being rocked by the turbulent sea, the  anchored boat kept us entwined in some sort of daydream. We gazed at a colony of gulls as they drifted on invisible  thermals, now, hugging the misty air, and now...skimming over the wrinkled face of the ocean:  fish slithering in their pale yellow beaks. The resounding crash of the distant surf sought to drown out the shrill wailing and squawking of these animated birds.  "I think I am gonna puke," Bella's strained voice broke the spell, woven by the violent yet rhythmic movement of the heaving waters. I attempted to offer her a couple of more sugar pills from my supply, but she refused. "I just wanna go ashore," she insisted. So, with a few quick movements the anchor was retrieved and stowed away. The motor rumbled to a start, and we took off...A fleet of fishing boats passed by, and we waved at them. They returned our wave with a stoic stare. To them perhaps, we were just a bunch of pampered picnickers. While they had a long day ahead, with hours of arduous work, we had a netful of memories to feast upon, and share them with our friends on Instagram, blog, whatsapp... twitter, and what not!

An Ode to Lao Tzu

 In response to my constant whining about feeling trapped in the daily rigmorale of things, which, in the final analysis, translated into the "great futility of it all", my good friend, Joe, once wrote:

All the things of the world are, as the Taoist would say, this and that. Expecting more seems to be just a "great futility of it all."  Sometimes I stand still and and think, "this is it?" And I realise, yeah, it is! And that won't change. But in that moment, I can also realise the possibility to love what is.  Even from a logical and contemplative standpoint, what else is really left? My body is always going to be doing something, there is really no true value to any particular thing beyond doing it in love now? My Grandmother seemed to be at peace with washing the dishes; I don't think she ever was a spiritually contemplative person; but without knowing it, she taught me that doing the dishes was as meaningful as saving the world from whatever; it was the world, period.  

"Being a Taoist seems a bit of an escape to me", I flung back. "When we fail to grapple with ourselves, with our surroundings, and with the world at large, the best thing is to accept. But, what then of human strife, of what good is the infinite pain borne by great Prometheus, bound to chains, and condemned to eternal damnation? Had he simply reveled in his titanic might, and vied with the gods, we would still be in the caves, chasing the illusion of light", was my answer to Joe. For, to me, a Taoist's 'this and that' was an over-simplification of the complex layers, the sandwiched Life likes to present itself in.

But, then came Covid-19. And, there in a jiffy, Life, as we know it, was stripped off its layers, and was presented to us in its crudest form, paranthesed within asleep and awake, and three meals in between. Acceptance was our only redemption, and our only escape from insanity. I wrote to Joe, saying perhaps we were all Taoists now, in our universal acceptance of the new paradigm.

Only last week however, it was through a chanced glimpse of a goatherd, sitting in my backyard, that I gained an understanding  of what Joe meant when he spoke of his grandma doing the dishes, and its relation to the great philosophy as propounded by Lao Tzu. What follows is a free verse I composed to capture that moment of epiphany.

The old goatherd

sits in the gathering

shade of  a neem tree. 

what goes through your

mind, old man?

what stray thoughts, 

impressions do you glean

while your six goats graze...

...and bleat.

there are no crossroads here,

in these wild, heirless fields

for my  vain quest

to meet the patience

of his crow-feet eyes.

he just sits and watches,

being the moment,

and the time that flows,

the ancient eyes

catch a hint of blue

and green

Fall-ing and Berry-ing in Alaska

 In the last week of August, like every die-hard sourdough*, we went berry picking in Skiland, Fairbanks. It was not only a sought-after fall ritual, but also a requisite winter survival activity. Skiland, which rose high above the ridge, was a vast expanse of undulating mountains, quilted with berries! From the silky and translucent purple low-bush blueberries, and intensely bright cranberries, to deceivingly juicy crow-berries, and bursting with flavours plump raspberries, they made the short Alaskan autumn even more precious. Wherever we stepped, inadvertently we were quashing berries, squashing our own winter dreams.  

Yes, during our very first year in interior Alaska, we were to learn and appreciate the importance of foraging and freezing summer's natural bounty. For, just a dash of these rich colours was needed to break the monotony of endless snowy scapes...and long winter months. A few berries in the buttermilk pancakes, topped with birch syrup could so easily draw one out from a spell of cabin fever. A scoop of freshly fallen snow, a hint of birch or maple syrup, and a scatter of these berries made the best natural slush and reminded us of that last sip of dappled sunshine, when we stood shoulder to shoulder with black bears and grizzlies, each desperately trying to lay claim to what was rightfully his/hers...each trying to gorge on these red and purple and black fruits, rich in antioxidants, and richer as a luxurious bite of the lingering summer days.

Such expeditions to Skiland were invariably accompanied by friends and their families, a picnic basket, and a long lunch break by the shady spot where the mountain jutted out a bit. Along with tubs to store the booty in, we also carried a pepper spray just in case we had a surprised encounter with the ursos arctos.  

I remember lying on a downy soft  mountainside after we had done picking for the day, under the intense blue sky, shimmering with the gold hues of a fall day. A  sudden rush of wind made me open my eyes just in time to catch the tail-end of  of a raven flying overhead.  Letting the migratory guests, such as the tundra swans, sandhill cranes, and Canadian geese take the centre stage,  the ravens quietly retreat beneath the returning foliage, for most of summer. So, sighting one now, was a sure sign of the changing season.   

Everything seems so far away now, so wild, unfettered and old...like a piece of treasure, folded in between fragrant tissue wraps  and stored away...or, more like a bunch of accumulated memories within the fissuring surface of a remote past, jostling to make themselves heard... even as their voices grow dimmer and dimmer.

*Old-time Alaskan

The Conch Shell Solution

 The deafening sound of the conch shells, being blown from Ayodhya by the adherents, is proof enough that the victory is in sight. We would have avenged not only the oppressive rule of the Muslim invaders which lasted for almost three quarters of a millenium, but also won the battle against Covid-19. The certainty with which the latter was being flaunted was visible in the mask-less appearance of the  several VIPs who graced the occasion of the Bhumi Poojan for the Ram temple.  One of the attendees was euphoric as he mouthed his complete faith in our honorable PM Modi, under whose auspices Bharatmata was finally going to regain its spiritual balance and be restored to its former Vedic glory. With free speech being one of the main tenets of every functional democracy, he had all the right to express his opinion, which he did admirably. 

Yet, the 32-year-old student activist Natasha Narwal was denied the same right earlier this year. Charged with inciting the crowds with her speeches, she was jailed in the deadliest of prisons in the country.   According to Natasha's father, Mahavir Narwal, the government is moving India closer to authoritarianism by demonizing anybody who questions its policies. Agrees Minakshi Ganguli, South Asian Director for Human Rights Watch, "Indian authorities are using draconian counterterrorism laws against activists simply for criticizing the government or raising their voices against injustice.”

But, let's not go into bad news. For there's too much of it. Let the distressed farmers cry their crocodile tears, whose crops are either wasting away in the fields, or are receiving such low prices that the paltry financial returns don't justify the back-breaking work. As the soyabean farmer Souratmal,  from Madhya Pradesh says, "we had to dump truckloads of our crop. For the cost of transporting them to the market was too high to break even, let alone make any profit". 

Let the doctors vent out their frustrations as they battle the rising number of Covid-19  cases, against a collapsed health system and deplorable conditions. Let the monsoons rage and 870,000 affected people of Assam scurry to save their Aadhar-voter-id cards to prove their nationality lest they be rendered illigal overnight! Let 200 million people go hungry to bed, their rumbling bellies having grown  accustomed  to such ghrelin (hormones which stimulate hunger) theatrics.

Let the conch shells blow...for, according to an article published in speakingtree.com, the vibration caused by their sound works at a microbial level, purifying the  air, ridding the mind of vices, and killing diseases. Imagine, had our team of experts heading the efforts towards curbing the onslaught of Covid-19 known this, by now we could have liberated ourselves of this deadly monster of a virus, through simply resorting to the wisdom of  this ancient knowledge. 

 So, on the eve of India's independence day, let all patriotic  Indians express their love for Mother India by blowing on conch shells. Let the unemployed youth find a new mission. Let the sound of  this newfound victory resound across the Red Fort! 

And myself, what shall I do when that happens?

I think I might as well go in the earplug business.  

 

 Happy Independence Day to all my compatriots. Following is a poem by Rabindranath Tagore, which comes to my mind oft and again. I am certain that  many of you would know it by heart. Yet, I feel today's  occasion calls on us to reflect over it.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

"Every feline is a masterpiece"

 As she sat facing the artist, her back to the panoramic view outside the window,  she could feel the mist gathering behind her, shrouding the tall cypresses, which encircled the lake...in her mind's eye, she could still see the path, leading to the bridge, and she itched to bounce off  the chair and flee. "Take the adventure, heed the call, ere the irrevocable moment passes," hadn't she heard the artist read it out aloud to her from his favourite book, in a billowing voice?  Yet, today, he had begged her to muzzle her instincts, and stay still, until he was done with, what he considered to be, his chef-dœuvre.

The artist had been kind and loving. He had brought her home, one stormy night. A stray like her, drenched, hungry, and abandoned. He had fed her, offered her a warm place to sleep, and given her the space she needed. She came and went as she wished. And, she owed him this. In a moment of reciprocation, she tried to calm herself, focus the blue slit of her eyes on the long brush dripping with paint...it was impossible. 

She should not have succumbed to the temptation of  a paltry portion of stilton, and a few affectionate caresses...that was not a very feline behaviour on her part and she regretted it now...

 

The window groaned from the weight of the settling mist. And, a gentle touch of breeze on her whiskers, carrying the whiff of freedom, made her leap towards the door.  

"Mona Lisa!" The artist pleaded after her.

"Meow," she answered and bolted out.

The portrait could wait  for another day. 

 

(A belated Happy  International Cat's Day to us  ailurophiles ( cat people), which happened to be  the day before yesterday, on 8th of August!)

"One must have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing star..."??

My dad, by virtue of being a scientist, was an extremely organized person. Everything had a place, and everything would  be in its place, had it not been for us army of kids, always wanting to rummage through his drawers, his tool bag, his first aid box...we were curious, and his scientific mind embraced our insatiable curiosity as a genealogical trait, even though it meant never finding anything in its rightful place. Fortunately, for that, he had our mom. 

Our mom, on account of being a mother of seven, did not have much room for organization. How workable could such an idea be, anyway? She was not running a boot camp, but a household full of adorable kids. Fortunately, most moms come equipped with a  binary package of instincts and uncanny intuition. They are experts in gauging the workings of a child's mind, and follow the trajectory of their seemingly unreasonable reasonings. Owing to these wondrous characteristics, my mom  could find practically anything and everything that had gone missing. And, that too in the strangest of places: not only under racks,  or beneath a load of mattresses and pillows, but also in between the mounting pile of newspapers,  or tucked deep inside old boots, and in the pockets of stowed away winter jackets...our house was small, but with immense possibilities to lose things...or hide them.

"Sometimes, a disorganised mind can latch on better to new possibilities/concepts/ideas, which fall outside the orbit of logical thinking patterns".  

This is the conclusion which I recently formulated from my childhood observation. Not ground-breaking in its essence,  such a conclusion did however, impart a new perspective into the potential a messy person might harbour. Of course, the exercise itself stemmed from the fact that my son happens to be rather woolly-headed  and cluttered, when it comes to keeping his room, bookshelf, desk, and cabinets clean and tidy. He likes his mess. It is part of his individualism. "I know how to find my stuff, as long as you don't try to tidy it up," he often declares. Fair enough. I have to repose my faith in  his latent potential to detect patterns in chaos, and in his capacity to stretch the tentacled imagination to nooks and corners where  an orderly person might not dare to venture into. As Einstein once quipped, "If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?" While this was obviously meant to be a jocular way to justify his own lack of organisation, rather than some kind of a serious observation into the human psyche, there's a quantifiable amount of truth to it. 

A recent study by scientists at the University of Minnesota found that those with messy desks had greater proclivity towards creative thinking than those who displayed an affinity to cleaner and more organised workplace. Moreover, while the former was more inclined to take risks and proffer  new approaches, the latter was better at following rules and schedules. "Disorderly environments seem to inspire breaking free of tradition, which can produce fresh insights," the research concluded. In yet another study, conducted around the same time,   two sets of college students were each accorded starkly different ambience: one messy, and the other neat to the point of being sterile, and asked to 'invent' as many new usages for a Ping-Pong ball as they could. And, as per the report, based on the results, which was published  in New York Times, the students in messy workspaces ended up proposing significantly more creative ideas than those in the neat offices. Needless to say, that such experiments are not conclusive in a way that translates into messy desks a genius make.

Yet, could it be purely coincidental that in terms of being cluttered, joining the ranks with Einstein,  are other geniuses, like Van Gogh, Albert Ryder, Mark Twain, Thomas Edison, and to come closer to our times, Steve Jobs? I hope so... for, I do pride myself in having taken after my beloved dad, in terms of being superbly organised: everything has a place, and everything in its place. As Adam Frank, the American physicist, referring to the universe's love affair with chaos, likes to point out, "Life is order and structure hammered out, for just a time, to give the blind universe its sight." I guess then, the onus falls on us tidy individuals of the world to keep the bulb burning...

The Haiku Pedlar

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck.." 

The young woman sang sweetly as she made her way through the bustling Central Park, on a sunny spring day. Other hawkers with their hot dogs, peanuts and popcorn stands were busy carrying out a brisk business. The ground lay blanketed with pale pink flowers and every waft of breeze brought with it yet another shower of soft, feathery petals. 

Gina sat alone on a bench in a little puddle of crisp sunshine, absent-mindedly nibbling on Planters' roasted sunflower seeds. Lining the east side of the Reservoir, for several hundred yards, cherry blossoms scattered their ethereal hue of pink and purple. 

Exactly twelve years had passed since that ominous phone call in the middle of the night. It was her older sister. "Dad is no more, Gina", a quiet contained voice had said from the other side of the static. Twelve years, and yet, she had not gotten used to his not 'being there', not finding his neatly-penned letters, brimming with infinite care,  in the mailbox, not hearing the smile in his voice when they spoke over the phone, not seeing him at the airport, waving at them, when they went home for holidays... 

Feed your soul,

haiku, a buck

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck...

The source of the song was surely headed her way. And, as its implications dawned on her, shaking off the onrush of dysphoria, she began to warm up to the idea of buying a haiku to commemorate her dad's life.  "Yes, it would be perfect," she told herself, remembering his love for poetry.  

 "I'd like to  buy one", she muttered  to the woman, whose dark brown hair framed a face which seemed to hold the universe, and a lazy eye. 

"I am glad you do. I think it's a perfect day for a haiku. By the way, name is Krystabella," saying she pulled out a spiralled journal from her bag, tore a page, and began scribbling:

"Cherry blossoms sing,

The robin  listens, silent

 melodies  weave magic

And, handing the paper to Gina, off she went...

"Feed your soul..."

Gina dashed after her, another dollar bill waving in her hand, shouting, " I'd like to buy one more, please...".

Krystabella smiled, ripping yet another page off her journal, and wrote:

Scatter far the seeds,

they've returned from a long

journey: these tired birds

"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I want to do." And, Gina took fistful of the sunflower seeds from the Planters' packet, dispersing them as far as she could. Within minutes she heard them: the  cackle and honking of a whole gaggle of geese, as they landed to feast on the seeds. She watched them, trapped in a bubble of enchantment, freed fleetingly from the burden of a daughter's sorrow.

On returning to the bench, where she sat a while ago, she found a small pebble resting on yet another scribbled-upon paper:

what shall 'I' become

when this body is gone? 

a cherry blossom

on its way to Fuji Yama?

or   a  sarus crane

flying over the great Kanchanjunga?

or a breath of

stillness 

abroad on the waters

of Muncho Lake?

who knows?

and, does it matter?

Far away, mingling with the fragrant sunshine of the spring day, happy like the quivering shadows, she heard the fading voice of Krystabella, for one last time:

"Feed your soul

haiku a buck..."

It, Which Knows...

As a storm brews ten kms south of here, electricity fails, internet service drops automatically, Brahmin ants scurry for protection in the grooves along the keyboard of the unsuspecting laptop...When one lives in the tropics, close to the ocean, along with all the poeticness and romance which  images of hammocks swinging between lanky coconut trees conjure up, the residents have to put up with the hazards of high humidity, under currents, over currents...and no current. 

For a low-tech individual like me, it is of little import whether I am well-connected to the cyberspace or not. But, for those who like to zoom up and down the internet highways, the day revolves around uploading/downloading, connecting/sharing,  putting out a slice of oneself out there for others to devour, and swallowing morsels of what others serve them... Unfortunately, an unforeseen hiatus in this insatiable exchange of appetites can often result in hyperventilation in some individuals.

For a great majority of the millennial generation, every time, the internet service drops, or the payment for the plan runs out, or most frequently, the automatic updation on the laptop laps up all the juice,  a sense of alienation sets in.  Social skills drop to negatives. Words falter, looking for a way out. It is as though, without all the hi-tech mobile devices,  life comes unplugged, severing itself from itself. Even one's palm suffers from the empty nest syndrome, devoid of its beloved smartphone, and fingers fidget aimlessly, eyes stare in the void, trying to find meaning beyond the screen.

It is unnerving to think that this one inanimate object called 'smartphone' has us on a leash. And while it gets smarter and smarter, we become dumber and dumber. Our dependence on it, not only in terms of communication and information, but also with regards to entertainment, commerce, banking, and education, have donned on monstrous proportions. Holding answers to all our queries, leading us into virtual libraries, giving us tours of famous museums, playing our favourite television serials,  it could literally be our very own, and personalized Alladin Lamp! 

There used to be a time when people knew by heart not only the phone numbers of close family and friends, but also their addresses, along with hundreds of poems, couplets, songs, multiplication tables... statistics,  countries and their capitals. And, despite having a head crammed with a thousand things, there was still  space and time left to try to figure out the meaning of life for oneself, invent explanations for notions one did not understand, unscrew any gadget to crack its circuit and components... And now? Now, we don't really care to learn. For we are in the possession of an omniscient device, nicknamed, 'It Which Knows'. Would I be exaggerating if I were to say that mobile technology, especially the smartphone, is not only turning us  into superficial thinkers, but also making us stupid? 

An expression of absolutism, the smartphone, has us all in its thrall. Like everything else, it is upto us to choose to be its masters, or its slaves, to use it as a tool, or as a weapon of self-destruction.

If the advent of television marked the beginning of a couch potato generation, the mobile technology could herald the age of walking zombies. God forbid, but if there were ever to be a meteoric EMP (Electro-Magnetic Pulse) interference,  wiping out all connections to our electronic gadgets, where would that leave us? Would we know, how to ignite the kindling, and start all over again? Our only chance of surviving a catastrophe of such enormity, would be to  re-learn  to hold on to precious moments and to each other, in lieu of a phone.

Isn't it just like the night to whisper

its secrets

when nobody is listening,

to plaster our dreams with absurdities,

when all we want is rest.

to squander on our beggared world its  measureless riches 

and set it afire,

and to laugh its screeching laugh

as we scramble

and stumble to seize and snatch, filling our tattered 

soul with crumbs from eternity

Isn't it just like the night to draw us into its embryonic poise,

only to be hurled across

cavernous chasms

skirting the back wall of reality,

where its army of demons,

and pack of angels

in patience await

to bounce us around 

against the flailing walls

of our hardened self.

And, isn't it just like the night to steer us away from 

the littleness

we grow so wont to...

and launch us onto the wild 

wild sea: sans compass, sans captain,

not even the Vesper in sight;

just us and the ocean,

with all its billowy music.

...and a day slowly rising.

What's in a name?...More than we choose to believe

What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

The above aphorism might hold water in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet,  but when it comes to naming one's infant, the dynamics change.

Think about it, had naming a newborn not been of importance, we would not have had books on beautiful/spiritual/unique baby names hitting the stands, and becoming best sellers year after year. In India, amongst the Hindus, we would not have an auspicious day for the naming ceremony,  with the beginning letter of the name being determined by the position of the celestial bodies during the time of the birth. 

Yes, believe it or not, naming one's child is regarded as the biggest decision parents will make for their little one. In fact, many  couples are said to suffer sleepless nights, and several discussions, trying to come up with that one perfect name which would reflect their own beliefs, and aspirations, with the hope that the child will osmose into it.

In my case, I was named Seema, meaning 'limit', by my mom, in order to put a period to the long succeession of daughters. Whether, it was the power of my name, or the determination of my grandma who sought guidance from her guru to endow a son upon my aggrieved mother, one could either surmise or speculate. But, while eventually my mother was blessed with two adorable baby boys, I got stuck with my name and a soppy story. 

Then, a few years ago, I met a ferryman at the ghats of the Ganga. He was named 'Soukha', meaning 'dry', for he was born in the year of the drought. So there, Mr. Soukha and I had something in common: our unceremonious names!

Now, if Soukha and I were born into a Sioux Nation, in the Dakota country, we would have to go hunting for our own name. For, amongst the Sioux, while the child was given a temporary name at its birth, on reaching puberty he/s was expected to go into the wilderness alone on a quest to find one's spiritual name. Sometimes, this young adolescent could be out there for days together, before in a moment of sudden awakening, a vision would be granted. On his/her return, the Shaman of the tribe would interpret the vision, and communicate his/her new name. And on the name would also depend the secret potion to be administered during the time of war, and the medicine to be given, if ill, or injured. 

This coming of age ritual not only tested one's survival skills, but also the ability to hold communion with Nature, and the Great Universal Spirit, in order to receive guidance and light towards fulfilling  one's Life's purpose. And, the finding of one's name was a crucial step towards that journey. For, one's name in native American tradition was not only a way to classify an individual within a social forum, and differentiate him/her from others, but a direct metaphor for the life-path the individual is expected to pursue. From this beautiful tradition, emerged names like Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, Walking Buffalo, Eagle Wing, Shoreless River...

The black population of twentieth century America, encumbered by the culture their ancestors were forced to inherit by their white Christian owners, also sought out new names to assert their distinctive identity. Malcolm X, for example, inspired by Eliza Mohammad and his call to his fellow brethren to go back to their African roots, and reconnect with the time before their forefathers were shipped to America as slaves, converted to Islam, changing his name to el-Hajj Malik el Shabazz. And so did, the iconic Cassius Clay,  better known to the world,  as the boxing legend Mohammad Ali. 

On the other hand, many of the Blues artist of the fifties, sought 'out-of-the-blue' names to reverberate with their individual musical style. A few names that some of them adopted at the start of their recording careers, would become epical in the world of music, such as, Muddy Waters, Taj Mahal, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Guitar Slim, Harmonica Shah, Buddy Guy...Howlin' Wolf, T-Bone Walker, etc., etc. 

Some famous authors and poets too chose to have a nom de plume, or pseudonym. Mark Twain's actual name, for example,  was Samuel  L. Clemens  and George Orwell's,  Eric Arthur Blair. Sometimes, having a nom de plume, provided the writers with more literary freedom, by keeping their real identity hidden. Did you know Samuel Clemens enjoyed several pseudonyms? One can just imagine the kick he would have gotten out of writing under the most bombastic and  bizarre name of W. Epaminondas Adrastus Blab! 

So,what's in a name?

Here is what our old friend Anne of Green Gables has to say:

"I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage".

 Ditto!

An Unforgettable Lesson

It was our ninth grade creative writing teacher, who made us realise that each one of us was unique, with our singular way of looking at life and the world, if only we cared to observe ourselves in a moment of quiet contemplation. One of the first assignments we were given was a three-part study:

1. What people think of me

2. What I want people to think of me

3. Who I really am

On the surface, it sounded simple. But more than the writing skills, objectivity, utter honesty and sincerity were three requisites needed to dive into ourselves and fish out the answers to complete the essay.  

Such an exercise exposed us to our own self, and its many onion-like layerings.   The first two parts highlighted our role as interactive individuals within a socio-cultural context,  eager  to express ourselves truthfully as well as anxious to impress others. This unambiguous analysis of the multi-levelled self helped us gain an insight into our own being: the timid deeper one vs. the projected one. While the former remained inherently ours in essence,  and therefore steadfast, the latter was the result of constant chiselling, and thus, in  a continuous process of change.

Having gained a better understanding of  ourselves, we were now prepared to set out on a journey of self-discovery, where we would learn to identify and listen to our own voice, thoughts, emotions, and the wisdom latent to every individual, instead of penning down what was expected of us, or even worse, what sounded 'pretty'. 

I was reminded of this exercise recently, when asked to send a photograph of myself to accompany the write-ups, to be published by a burgeoning website, which believes in empowering its audience through in-depth articles, mainly related to health, spirituality, and nature. Unfortunately, I am a near nincompoop when it comes to posing in front of a camera: I don't know which way to look, how to smile, what to think...resultantly, the confusion reigns supreme in my entire persona. The tug-of-war between trying to be simply myself, and having to say, 'cheese' and pose, is apparent in virtually everyone of my photos. 

However, owing to the confession I just made, I usually like to steer clear off  viewfinders, lenses, and clicks. To cut a long story short, since the editor insisted that I send my photo to accompany the articles, I embarked on a 'selfie' mode, clicking away from different angles, while trying to visualise happy situations and places to give my smile the semblance of genuineness. I experimented with  indoor/outdoor lightings, and all the in-built editing options to finally come up with something I liked being associated with.  Here, as I was to  realise soon,  I had consciously committed myself to the second part of my school days' assignment: What I want people to think of me.

Even though I sent the photo to the editor, I was angry, both with myself, and with the publication for subjecting me to such a terrible ordeal. Why was it so important for me to make an impression on others? Just as, why do many of us stand in front of the mirrors and see which smile suits our face best? Like trying out a dress in a showroom! Why are there dentistries promising the customer 'that perfect smile'? Smile is not something which is perfected by polishing one's teeth and exercising the right muscles, but a spontaneous manifestation of the inner joy, or joie de vivre. A real smile simply unleashes itself from the depths of one's soul, and doesn't require a launchpad of even, ultra-bright teeth.

Why was it, I wondered, that a mere preojection of myself through a lens  had taken up such disproportional significance in my  mind. instead of being comfortable with who I was, I ventured out to be someone others would be comfortable with.  Is it, that the search which had begun in a creative class so many years ago, was still on, and will continue to be so? Being and becoming will coexist in over-lapping veneers?  Perhaps,  gregarious beings as we are, we will learn to concur  with all our different epiphanies, even revel in them... as long as we don't lose track of our real Self.