Once upon a time, there was no waste...

In the era which defined us,  we were all Greta Thunburg, environmental warriors. Except that we did not know it. The way of life, adopted by our  family of nine people with my dad being the sole bread earner, did not leave room for much, except the very basics. Moreover, guided by  Indira Gandhi's famous phrase, " A nation's strength ultimately consists in what it can do on its own, and not in what it can borrow from others", we strove to translate the idiom on the family level, resultantly, living within our means in a culturally empowering environment. 

It helped that in the pre-consumerist period, our repertoire of needs was indeed small, and of spoken and unspoken desires, even smaller. 

The groceries came either in brown paper bags, or those made out of old newspapers, and were straight away poured into their designated containers. The brown paper bags were carefully cut, stretched, and pressed under a pile of books to flatten out evenly, and later used to cover our notebooks. On the other hand, the newspaper bags were read thoroughly word by word, by my bookworm dad, and if anything interesting was found, it was assured an honorary place in one of his many scrapbook journals. Vegetables were always bought  from local vendors, who came calling out aloud the names of the goodies they carried on the thela, in their sing-song voice. My dad,  aware of the nutritious value of the rind, forbid peeling any vegetable, or fruit (except bananas, of course!).

 Even though the ubiquitous biscuits, like every Indian household,  were always part of our morning tea ritual,  they did not emerge wrapped in a waterproof, glossy packaging, but, from a big tin container with a lid! Yes, we used to haul the wheat flour, sugar, and butter to the local bakery and have our monthly supply of biscuits made at one go.

The milk in glass bottles with striped silver foil caps, was left at our doorstep, every morning. After having licked the cream clean from the inside of the caps, we would wash them, hammer them  flat, and then, mould them into bowls, plates, cups and saucers for our doll-house parties. 

On the fashion front, our mom stitched most of our clothes, and on special occasions, a tailor was called home to do the honors. Our mom also knitted all our winter wears, sometimes even dying the wool at home in order to take into account the colour preferences of each of her seven children.

Yes, we grew up in a zero-waste environment. In fact, the word, 'waste' did not even figure in our vocabulary.  Undoubtedly, those were hard times, but, who would have thought that four decades later, we would be looking back fondly,  reminiscing the 'good old days',  when we drank water from a hand pump, took our grains to the mill to be ground into flour, ran  bare-footed on the green grass of public parks... leaving no carbon footprints behind...

Of dangling mangoes, and strutting peacocks...

• The guest house opposite our place has been closed since the Coronavirus lockdown. And, I can't help but eye the succulent mangoes dangling from the  tree in its parking lot. I could easily climb over the gate and fulfill the destiny of these once-a-year irresistable booties, or beauties; anyway you look at it, they are fit to bag both the titles.  But, at this stage of my life, I have no proclivity to excel in yet another profession. So, I let them be. Also, the legend has it that the mango-laden trees, together with the mellifluous songs of the koël  invoke the rains. And, we need rains badly. The deadly combination of heat and humidity is beginning to affect us all, as we spend the afternoons, lying on the cool floor of the living room, squishing innocent ants, as they go about their business.

One morning, I wake up to find four peacocks happily swaggering around under the very same tree, completely at home. One of the males, trying its best to attract the female, by fanning out its iridescent plumage, breaks into a graceful dance.  But, the peahen just can't bring herself to taking an active interest in his gorgeous courtship. Another attempt is made, and then, in a fraction of a second, the whole trove of treasure, studded with gems, precious stones and gold is stowed away to be displayed at a more appropriate moment.

My mom says sightings of peacocks is an auspicious sign... rains might descend upon us, after all.  Even the neem trees are beginning to bear fruits...an old Rajasthani folk song related the maturing of neem fruits to the arrival of monsoons, which, in turn, heralded the departure of the young bride to her maternal home...the lyrics are simple, capturing an uncomplicated time, when everything was interlinked. But, I have often wondered, why the rainy season, considered the most romantic time of the year, should have been picked to keep the young couple apart.  "The reason", says my  wise mom, "was to impel them to yearn for each other with all their heart, body, and soul"...Makes sense. 

Today,  at 7 a.m., I heard the mating cry of a peacock, and rushed outside to find instead the peahen strutting fervently on the narrow parapet, which runs all along the terrace of the empty guest house. And, a few moments later, an eager cry arose from the adjacent coconut grove, answering her call. The light blue of the early morning sky shimmered, and split open to reveal the glorious feathers of the patient solicitor as it landed next to her. 

Kitsch...and more...

I have known the immutable ungainliness of plastic flowers

loud and happy in colorful vases; 

overbearing insignificance of

side tables, with seated Buddhas,

ashtrays, and heart-shaped picture frames;

all the haplessness of boxes full of

old photographs, abandoned under

the squeaky bed in the guest room;

the sad redundancy of 3 gigabytes pendrives, 

lost in some pocket of an old wallet, long-rejected, and never missed;

the  habitual reticence

of knobless doors, shuttered windows, heavy curtains, and houses with rooftop antenna.

And, I have known also the  tireless uniformity

of apartment buildings: cold, gray, and  huddled under the quiet mornings;

and, the unwavering loneliness of old folks 

on rocking chairs

watching TV at loud volume; phone

ringing with an urgency, erstwhile unknown in an empty room:

unspoken words suspended in 

the air,

orphaned.

Sorry, Mr PM...

Today, in this hour of national crisis, my  deepest sympathy reaches out to our hodophilic  PM,  who, so accustomed to cruising around the world, is coerced to follow the rules of the lockdown, and stay confined, masked, and gloved in his home country. I wonder which natural remedy could be prescribed to ease the growing discomfort of his itchy feet. And, to make matters worse, imagine the disappointment, that the inevitable delay in delivering  the two new state-of-the-art B777-300ER, (equipped with anti-missile protection), specifically intended for Kovind-Naidu-Modi Trinity, is going to cause to our already disheartened PM. All because of Coronavirus!  Due in July of this year, at the cost of $1.2 billion (Rs 8,458 crore ),  it would have added yet another streak of glory, to Mr Modi's emerging image as the world leader. Or globe trotter... it's all the same really!

Did you know our honorable PM holds the record for having visited the maximum number of countries  in the post-independance prime ministerial history of India? In fact the amount he traveled in just five and a half years of his tenure, the former Prime minister Manmohan Singh could not equal it in ten years, nor could Indira Gandhi, in fifteen. 

I think he should make the most of this lockdown by penning down a travelogue, chronicling his voyages, and his many encounters with the big guns of the industry. He could call it The Travel Warrior! It is bound to receive more success than his previous effort at writing, "The Exam Warrior". For, this is something he can actually relate to,  first hand.

When Labour Power Becomes a Commodity...

A few years back, I remember buying an elegantly-packaged basket of apricots from the Christmas Tree Shop for just $4.99. On reading the label, I realised that the apricots were grown in Turkey, the basket was made in China, and it was being marketed by an American company. Even though the carbon footprints of those few  innocent  apricots were huge, it made good economic sense, because of  the availability of 'cheap labour' in Turkey and  China.

We too, in India, since the beginning of the liberalisation trend in the nineties,  tried to underscore the easy accessibility of cheap labour as the single most lucrative commodity we could offer, to attract the global markets. And, that is what we have remained, 'cheap labour'. And because of this label attached to our labour force from the very beginning, and because of the status of a 'commodity',  it inherited from the insentient policy of a government, eager to invite international investors, it has been sadly divorced from the very model of development that it has singularly helped build.

 It is ironic that those who shoulder the raw burden of our vast economy, work in the industries, at the construction sites, on railway tracks, and on laying down the roads, in this hour of global crisis, should find themselves homeless, directionless, and penniless, with no end in sight. Thankfully,  the  media has been sympathetic to their cause, bringing into the limelight their mounting despair, especially that of the migrant workers. Images of hapless people, caught in the lockdown, stranded in provisional camps, queueing up for food for hours, have gone viral. In fact, in some states, a whole squad of these relentless, brave labourers have  set out  on foot to cover hundreds of miles, just to be home. 

Today Covid-19 has provided us with an opportunity not only to pause awhile, and  push the re-start button, but also to rethink and redefine ourselves, and rechalk the direction we want to take. While the primary aim in this third phase of the nationwide lockdown should be to provide a safe passage home to these stranded workers, the ultimate objective should be to ensure that a means to earn one's livelihood  is provided by the village, either within its premises, or in its vicinity. For, the need of the hour calls for reinforcing and reinventing local economies, through vigorous introduction of more small-scale and cottage industries.

  

"India lives in villages," so goes the famous aphorism by Mahatma Gandhi. But, if villages continue to spill out on the urban scapes to form makeshift shanty towns squashed between the lengthening shadows of the metropolises, whatever will happen to India?