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.