Of weddings

All those who have married in the traditional Hindu way, tell me what is the meaning of marriage that you gathered when you sat opposite the fire and repeated the mantras one after the other.

After witnessing two-three weddings, including my own, I have come to a conclusion that traditional, ritualistic weddings offer a wholly unsatisfactory insight and guidance to starting a new life.

Wedding ceremonies are simply an expensive social obligation that each man and woman is made to tolerate. You basically wed for your parents, parents of parents, and the 'society' rather than to understand what scriptures say about what a marriage means.

I have no problems with the celebrations per say. Anything that brings joy and people together is justified and a marriage tends to do both. What irks me are the elaborate rituals that boil up to be an aimless, half-baked, commercial and socially obligatory formality. I find in rituals a certain disregard, manipulation and highhandedness in imparting information and insight.

Many of the ‘Whys’ remain unanswered for weddings or poojas are timed in accordance with hall bookings, catering services and other logistics. It seems that the modern day harried ritual ceremonies are for nothing but a placebo effect- to simply give us a moral conviction of having done things the right way than anything else.

On the other hand, if I were to be explained everything in detail, it would take almost a week. I would rather get my hands on some book and read it on my own and get my husband to read it.

The sweaty boredom of sitting beside the so-called holy fire and listening to mantras in a completely alien tongue (Sanskrit is alien, admit it) is not exactly what you call a pleasant experience. They say that the rituals, if performed with the right ingredients and attitude, can invoke the presence of Gods. Never once in my life, can I digest that Gods can actually concede a descent from heaven in the chaos and hullaboo of a few hundred friends of friends and relatives of relatives to make their way through the stuffiness of expensive silk sarees to bless the couple.

An ideal wedding would be under a tree, with a hand-picked few individuals who are close not by relation, but by bonding and understanding. To do the ritualistic honours should be just about any respectful person whose wisdom we are certain of and who can guide us to a new beginning, who can tell what exactly the Vedas mean by a wedding as crisply as he can. And please, no fire and ghee and all that stuff. Or to the minimum- I am sure we have done enough sins in thought and kind to actually expect Gods coming over to say a hello, so better chuck the formality altogether.

Talking about ideal weddings- my mama mami actually tied the knot under a tree somewhere in the USA while studying there. And so they have the privilege and moral right to stiffly admonish the unnecessary extravaganza that has become synonymous to traditional weddings. I had a very clear idea of what kind of a wedding I wanted but my family dismissed my preference as 'impractical'. (I wanted an extremely small ceremony in my own house in the presence of a few hand-picked people followed by a grand ‘free for all’ reception outside)

I believe that a marriage essentially boils up to be a commitment that you make with each other. Rituals and the presence (and approval) of others is a social adage that developed over a period of time.

Tagged

Life Ten Years Ago-Demanded a few things from me that I didn't realise I should deliver. Wish I was more sensitive, more attentive and a little less self-engrossed. People slipped right before my eyes and the doom struck me too late... But yes, life ten years ago was also pure bliss- we stayed far away from civilisation, enjoyed the sight of sprawling fields. Heaven, when it rained...

Life Five Years Ago- Was the best of the best times of my life. College was one storm of blissful abandon that came and went in the blink of an eye. God has been very kind. Touchwood.

Life Tomorrow- I hope, takes the same beautiful turns that it has taken so far. Yes, agreed some shocks I could have done better without, but wiser? I am not sure. I sincerely hope life tomorrow is the one that I can look back fondly the day after...

Five Locations I'd love to run away to-
Ahmedabad, any time...

Somewhere in Himachal / Uttaranchal with a good camping group... I am not sure if I can walk that much, but still...

Beyt Dwarka and Mount Abu, ideally on a moonless night..

The small villages that come on the way up to Darjeeling have caught my fascination. I have wanted to run away and stay in those small homes packed with large dahlia and chrysanthemum blossoms ever since...


Five Bad Habits I have-

Too much of brooding. Gets on my nerves and my skin.

Carelessness. Irritates me more than it does my husband, though he doesn't quite believe me when I say this...

That I stop taking medicines once I feel a little better. Just can't help it...

Too much of sleep...

Anger and what all I say when I am angry...

Five Things I'll Never Wear-

Stilettoes. I get awe-struck everytime I see a friend wearing a pair.. Sadly, not for me...

Anything drastic is not on my list...

Something to achieve by next year-

A goal, a purpose. That degree I want so much and a satisfying job.
Something that impacted me last year-

Hmm... cannot pinpoint anything specific... Few books lasted long though- To Kill a Mocking Bird, The Alchemist, 1984... Also, the dinner and lunch I used to take in that small house in Pune. That family humbled me.

What will I miss about 2007-

I never ever thought I would. But yes, I miss being in Pune a lot and will continue to do so for time to come...

Five things I want to do before i die-

Tough!

Let's see, has to be some land and a nice house. Children. Travel and see the places I read about. And a sense of living a good life. I guess that sums up everything inclusive, no?

Thanks Pranay for tagging me... Please carry the tag on, all of you who are up to it...

How Marathi is Marathi?

How Marathi is Marathi?
How Migrant is Migrant?

I safely landed in Mumbai and zoomed to the house thanks to a very traffic free road left unventured by a scared / cautious public. Mumbai was on fire once again thanks to the ancient 'Marathi manoos vs. others' debate.

All thru my drive home, I met with different opinions, different theories and none seemed to convince me enough. It might be a virtue of having grown up in an environment very indifferent to politics but I, for one, try not to digest any set of theory readily, however logical it may sound, if it has a political tinge of thought process behind it. I take my own sweet little time and exert a lot more caution. Be it the very left, or the very right pattern of thinking, as fate would have it, my origin and my residence, both is so strategic that off late I find myself humouring away the diverse set of clear and crisp ideologies that relatives on each side adhere to.

The argument people put here is simple. That the migrant population is an undue, uninvited burden and hardworking though they may, the immigrants by the thousands fill up local trains, erect slums and flourishing ghettos in no time. The infrastructure of this city (Mumbai) is getting burdened and may collapse pretty soon if the inflow of people is not checked. More, the parent states have 'failed' (and so are to be blamed) for their people need to leave their states in such large numbers to earn their livelihood.

There are a few basic things that come to my mind to counter the above logic:

1) Can anyone in this country decide who can come in their state or city and who can't? Such a notion / decision / belief is unconstitutional, even if we may stretch our imagination to accomodate it as logical.

2) How Marathi is Marathi? I might be a disaster case, for one.

3) How Migrant is Migrant? There must be people, who have accepted this city as their home since more than five or six decades. Will they still be outsiders or migrants? And how illogical is it to expect that a person staying in your city should have a cultural makeover overnight? Is culture such a simplistic thing that can be accepted / modified suddenly? And is abiding by your culture, rituals and language a show of disrespect to the other?

I am a Maharashtrian, born of a Gujarati mother, grown up in Ahmedabad. My grandparents and their parents also stayed in Gujarat for a long time. Aaji can speak, read and write Gujarati as well as she can communicate in Marathi. It would be now close to sixty years or more, that we are based in Gujarat and I have a huge soft corner for Ahmedabad. And yet, it would be a painful and illogical dilemma if I am asked to pick one of my two origins and shun the other completely.

The uproar that arose in Mumbai recently raised a very simplistic and genuine sense of empathy with all those who were bullied and beaten on camera. The question is, how you will measure the marathi quotient of a marathi manoos. And how will you decide how migrant is migrant?

Actually no. The more important question is who, in the first place, gave you the right to sit and judge and sieve out people based on their origin, caste and language in the largest democracy of the world?

Mass Media mush, News & Saas-bahu saga- The quest to find a connection...

We are being injected with millions of sharp little needles every single second we see television, read newspapers, listen to the radio or surf online. Without an 'aah' or 'ouch' even, in fact, so much so that we all happily get ourselves pierced again and again with generous dozes of thoughts, ideas, aspirations and longings.

That's what the Hypodermic Needle Theory, or The Magic Bullet Theory, or the Almacht van de media-theorie is expected to do to us: to directly influence the masses via the mass media.

Just like a doze of injection pierces under your skin and in no time reaches the recesses of your tissue and cells, a doze of media, however small or big it may be, is potent enough to remain in your psyche and influence to levels even you yourself cannot imagine.

Today, the audience is assumed to be far more active in churning out meaning and symbols out of the creative products thrust on its face. And though new research coupled with aggressive market surveys says that the audience is not as dumb as thought to be earlier, I feel the Hypodermic theory still has a huge fan following. In fact, the needle theory seems to be the underlying driving principle of any mass media campaign, be it advertising, politics or PR.

What is it, but the conviction of the media barons that the audience is so dumb, and so much of a puppet, that it will gulp down anything, absolutely anything that is coaxed down their throats? And we, as an audience, have proved their boardroom theories right time and again with a maniacal reverence.

Take immortal Saas-Bahu sagas for example. Though generations after generations face scandals of different social complexities and varieties of extra-marital affairs, these Saas-bahu dramas still have an ardent fan following.

In case of pure entertainment, given films and serials, even these statistics could be implemented straightaway to churn out profit and get high TRP. For entertainment wears no masks of reality or morality in most cases. At worst, even if it were downright vulgar, the audience knows what to expect and makes a conscious choice when he chooses to see serial X instead of serial Y.

The real problem is with the pollution of the media that disseminate news. There's a horrible, and very dangerous mix of 'reports' and features' in the current media fashion.

A report is meant to state what happened, as verbatim as possible, without any leading verbs, adverbs or adjectives that may lend the reporter's personal stance on the matter. A feature, on the other hand, is that powerful tool of the same reporter where he is free to pen his opinions as harshly as he may want and associate those opinions with his byline.

A news reader today does not have the privilege, least of all an opportunity, to make opinions of his own based on a news report. This is because the 'report' that reaches his hands has already been doctored, consciously or unconsciously, by opinions and leading language. Such a carefully toned piece of information hits the psyche so effectively and so stealthily, that it rules out any remote possibility of an unbiased, objective decoding of information.

Newspaper articles today are laced with preconceived moral, ethical and political stances than ever before. This brutal penmanship, in effect, kills the right of the reader to chaff out information from opinion, just as it denies the reader to form an opinion based on unbiased information.

The unfortunate thing is, media today, especially the traditional print and broadcast media, have achieved a God-man status and a large majority still looks up to the media to validate any piece of information. We are influenced by the media more than we may want to acknowledge.

We are still injected with opinions and ideals, we are still driven to think what the media or political conglomerates want us to think, and we are still slaves to the Hypodermic Needle Theory...

-Gauri Gharpure

Read about the Hypodermic Needle Theory

Alert bloggers

I was just checking the Technorati authority of my blog and came across this link...

This blog: http://tatanano.sempros.net seems to be brewing some trouble... I saw a whole long compilation of articles in reference to the Tata Nano car, but the credits go haywire.

I, for one, have not been credited, and someone else, infact two people, are said to have written an interesting post: Do we need one car each? (and so on) which I posted on this blog merely two days back...

As in, at one place it says : "Bob Holland wrote an interesting post today on.....'Do we need one car each? (and so on) and at the other, it goes like this: "Jalopnik: Obsessed With The Cult Of Cars wrote an interesting post today on... Do we need one car each? (and so on) A monologue with the government, or those in power
(This link leads to the article on orato.com and also the link, Read here, but who are Bob Holland and Jalopnik???)

After the on, there's no mention of any website, or any link.

I expect it should be Gauri Gharpure instead of Bob Holland or Jalopnik, is my name that difficult to spell? There seems to be a whole lot of jhol not just with my post, but with many other compilations which deal with any kind of reference to the Tata Nano car in this blog...

If a user is keeping an eye on the net and noting any reference to this blog- Tata Nano on wordpress, whether for some organization or for personal inclinations, The introduction should be "XYZ submitted this interesting post by another XYZ"... Also, the link should be clearly specified as also what is the sense behind these compilations...

Fellow readers, if you have the time and inclination please help and advise as to what exactly this blog is up to. At least, if you are possessive of your work, get a bit more cautious with this little bizzare business...

-Gauri Gharpure

Have you heard the sound of earth?

Happy Republic Day, to begin with.

From January 26, 2001 on, the significance of Republic day has changed for me, and perhaps, for all of Gujarat. A much destructive earthquake chose to happen on a date one cannot possibly ignore even by choice.

It was 9 AM in the morning and as usual, I was sleeping. I had slept off the previous night urging everyone to wake me before the republic day parade began at any cost, for I wanted to see an uncle who was going to lead a battalion.

I heard the shouts of my aaji and my sister, but that was normal when they wanted me to wake up, so I ignored the faint, far away to and fro of instructions. I was in deep slumber and felt I was shaking all over, in fact, that the entire bed was. In that dreamy, semi conscious state of mind, I assumed it was my sister gone real nuts and innovative in trying to wake me up. Seriously, that's what I thought. And then, the entire bed started shaking too furiously for me to ignore it anymore. Almost preceding this tremendous rattle by a split second was the most ominous sound of my life: the sound of earth. The sound of a furious, fearsome earth.

It started out as a mild, concentrated groan and increased exponentially. In the next second, the circular drumming sound was throbbing right through the bed, and all over me. It was not scary. It was sinister. In a second, I was wide awake, and in the next I had jumped out of the bed. I don't know how I had realized that it was an earthquake, but so I had and had instantly started galloping out.

My aaji was more worried about putting off the fan switches and ordering Indi to switch off the gas before they both proceeded out. I was more interested in shoving aaji ahead of me and seeing that she got out. We have three small steps in between the dining hall and the sitting hall; it was a bit difficult to find a footing. But we were out in decent time, so were all the neighbours. Our ailing neighbourhood grandpa was bedridden and father presently came carrying him out as well.

Let me tell you, we were not scared at that moment. The tremors had stopped completely and our houses were intact. We were all laughing and sharing who was doing what when they realized that it was an earthquake. Indi was boiling milk and when the vessel began to shake, she just thought the milk had come to boil. Aaji was doing the pooja and when she noticed the washing machine was shaking a bit too hard, she just screamed at Indi for having done something wrong with it. Sis, where was she? She must have been around and she was definitely not asleep. Baba was reading the newspaper and it is he who shouted, “It’s an earthquake, get out!” I complain till this date that no one actually came to wake me up and that everyone was already running out when I joined them.

The telephone lines and electricity had conked off immediately and so we just spent more time in animated talks. We were saying that finally, now it's here. Bhavnagar, a city nearby, was in the news for a long time before this major earthquake for experiencing constant tremors of small magnitude on the Richter scale. There were already speculations going on, as to if and when will Ahmedabad experience a tremor, and how strong it would be. We used to joke and fantasize about it, the adventure of experiencing an earthquake and living later on to talk about it. And then it happened...

In about half an hour or even earlier, the electricity and the telephones were revived. News then started pouring in. Sanjana said the building which stood two minutes down the St. Xavier's lane had collapsed and people were stuck inside. Relatives called up with news of damage to different localities. Someone told Mansi Towers has collapsed. We realized something of a very serious and destructive nature had just happened in that mere minute. The string of doom was not to be stopped. It took some time for the worse news to start pouring in.

I decided to sleep with my shoes on after reading that after-shocks were possible and sis made fun of me, accompanied with giggles and pinches. But around four the next morning, there was indeed a sudden, solid jerk that pushed me to one side of the bed. Everyone was again out in an assembly of animated discussion and I chimed in to boast of my decision to wear shoes at night. Aunty organized a reading of Sunderkand in the family the next day.

I couldn't imagine, and still can't, how in those very seconds, less than a minute, lives had turned topsy turvy for so many people of the city and all over the state. Entire buildings had collapsed; people were dead or alive under heights of concrete and construction.

Bhachau was flat, Kutchch was miserable. Trucks of food and medicines were dispatched and people were urging for band aids and medicines and ration. In the neighbourhood, two families had arrived with their bags and baggage to take shelter and so, there was an addition of two young girls and two young boys to our highly talkative gang.

The girls stayed just beside Mansi towers that had collapsed. They had seen some gory sights they wished not to discuss and their flat, though still standing, had suffered considerable damage. In any case, flat dwellers were too scared to go back and live in flats. I and sis were to be found there for the better part of the day.

In fact, as I am writing this, I am surprised at how pleased I am looking back at those few hours that we children spent in the sunshine chatting away under the doom of something scary and sad, merely a few hours after the earthquake, not fully aware of how serious and how massive the destruction was. The elders sat inside, men talked over cups of tea, the women cried and cooked and consoled each other for a better part along with serving us something to bite on in between.

Was it February 28th? I am not sure, but I remember a day when the better part of Gujarat Samachar was full of paid obituaries. The broadsheet looked like a systematic collage of passport size photos that day. It was nerve-wracking to look at the photos with the constant fear that some acquaintance may just flash back at you from the newspaper.

I stared at the obituaries for a long time, gaping at the dead passport photos. Some were beautiful and young, some seemed familiar and endearing. Aaji and baba were looking if someone they knew was in it. I was also looking for the same reason. We told each other how familiar a face looked and then we all racked brains to remember where we could have met or talked with them. A few days later, I went to my cousin's house in the city. She took me out on a bike and in less than ten minutes, we had seen half a dozen flats fallen in different levels of destruction. One housed her favourite professor who had lost both his daughters and his wife. He was in the college for the flag salutation.

I went for my math tuitions two-three days after the quake. After the tuition, I inquired about my friend who was not present. Someone told me her parents had died. I was thankful that baba was around and he drove me home saying some beautiful things he always manages to say when the need arises. We reached home and I called Fr. the first thing and blurted out the news more looking for comfort than to let him know. I don't know why and how it occurred to me that I should talk to him, but there's a scheme for everything.

Then I called her. I don't remember now how I got the number of her relatives or how I got the address. I am blank. I just remember driving in Paldi from one small by lane to the other in search of her house. And there she was, sitting in the window waiting for me. She shouted, waved and beamed a smile. She put me at ease, the way she caught my attention.

I was ushered in her room and the first thing she did was to apologize for the mess her room was in. The room was spic and span, the bed sheets were freshly made and yet she was not satisfied. Said not much cleaning was possible for so many guests kept coming over and everyone was busy. I was amazed at how life never stopped its routine and how easily she had accepted the loss and was now playing that perfect host, that charming friend who paid attention to things as routine as a clean bed or a hot tea.

She was getting ready for the flag salutation in school and her father was pressing her uniform. Her brother had already left for school. When the quake happened, her father had stayed behind to lock up the house. She had reached out with her mother to safety, but when the building started collapsing, her father was just about coming out. Her mother rushed back in to bring him. And then the building collapsed taking both of them under it, perhaps before her eyes.

I have been lucky to have met immensely brave people from whom I take strength from time to time. She is one such person. Never once, have I seen her dull. Never once have I seen the reverence and enthusiasm for life diminish in her. She always looks forward to all occasions good, be it a movie, a function in a school, a friend falling in love, her wedding, or off late, some good news from the married friend. Never once have I seen her epitomize sorrow. She's this petite maiden who will surprise many a people with her sheer sense of life and living...

The earthquake, for me, begins with that chaotic humour in our house before we finally got out and ends with the news of the death of my friend's parents. The news, the statistics, the lengthy newspaper articles stopped making sense sometime later.

I have always believed, and still do, that death is a very personal thing. Till it doesn't affect your select group of people, you don't feel the pang in the emotional and physical sense of it. There's some invisible shell around each human body which attempts to save him from all that grief that may be counter productive to his future. And it’s precisely for this invisible shell that protects us from grief, that we get the strength to move on and take loss in our stride. Being strong doesn’t mean you are cold. It just means you want to concentrate on what is left and how you could make it better.

After the earthquake, followed endless examples of the strength of the human mind to move on. For me, it was my friend. For others, the inspiration would be someone else. I heard the sound of earth that day a good seven years ago and the smell of death soon followed. And yet life’s still as beautiful as it should be.

-Gauri Gharpure,

January 26, 2008

Do we need one car each? ( and so on...)

A monologue with the Government, or those in power...

There's good news. And I have already started taking my driving lessons. (It was highly incidental, but what a coincidence!) The newspaper reports say (and so gulp them with a pinch of salt) that the 'Nano'- the cheapest car in the world, will be priced around INR One lakh...

So while I was thinking to save up my money and go for a second hand dabba car within one lakh range sometime in six months, I now might as well wait another few months and add another few thousand and get a brand new Nano. Makes perfect economic sense, nai? So it will, for many others like me... And so in a year from now, we all will be happily hopping to TATA showrooms like we now hop to Big Bazaar and get ourselves a car each for a change instead of a t-shirt or a jeans or steel vessel. I am thrilled, I am swooning in disbelief...

Utopia rings bells of alarms, doesn't it? What's wrong here? What's the catch? Let's rack our brains and think a bit.

Kudos to the Tatas to make a car within the reach of the 'common man'. Kudos to the very communist government for putting a step forward to usher in 'development' and 'industrialization'.

Okay, hold on. I am going to explain the quote-unquote thing.

Common man. Whom are you talking about? Surely not he, who spends most of his time traveling in a bus or a metro, not he, who gets fascinated and starry eyes on being offered a credit card. Surely not he, who sweats each day on his way to office, sweats back all his way, and then haggles over the price of tomatoes somewhere in between. Surely not he, who is still in doubts whether he can afford the maintenance and petrol costs if he buys a scooter.

Development. What are you talking about? I have been walking fairly enough in the city and hopping on many a crowded buses. I am yet to come across a decent bus stand, which has seats where people can sit and wait, and which tells which buses go from that route and where. I have moved around in nearby 'remote places' merely hundred kilometers from Calcutta proper, where the most popular of transport is still the three-tyred cycle rickshaw, where there are far more saree shops than proper medicine shops, where basic medical aid seems non-existent. Take snake-bite for example. Many deaths in the villages occur due to snake bites. And naturally so, Bengal is a haven for most snakes poisonous, including the King Cobra. Can't you make that damned snake anti-venom available at medical stores? No. It cannot be retailed and you need to get it only from big government hospitals, provided the doctors are available. Perhaps such things require legislation and consultation. Development is something that happens spontaneously, isn't it?

Industrialization? What are you talking about? O, do you mean industrialization as that situation wherein you confiscate a piece of fertile land and gift it to any XYZ company. The company will grow, so will the smoke, so will the population density in that area, and so will sprout a few measly tea stalls and bun stalls in a futile attempt. And when the roadside stalls sprout and when a few youths are employed as peons and a few young women are degraded to being sweepers and cleaners from being free-willed maidens who picked up green peas in their fields before the SEZ nightmare happened, of course, you will point your fingers wisely and say: "See, we told you, SEZs generate employment..."

Stop kidding me. I know who will get the icing on the SEZ cake. You want to know? KFC, McDonald's, Burger King and Sify Broadband cafes. Sorry to the bun maska and the kerosene stove tea. Saab log don't eat at down market places and nor do such stalls suit the chic and plush corporate glamour. So please, shove off, you villagers, make way. So what if we now stand on what was once your land...

All the development that is happening is happening to you and me, who have the luxury to type away idle thoughts on the brand new keyboard and who are discussing which next laptop to buy. Development, the real one, out of sarcastic quotes, should ideally happen to those who are sweating day in and day out to and back from bus and trains and who haggle the price of tomatoes. Development should happen to those dark and dusty village children who walk miles to the lone primary school years in vain hope till truth dawns upon them and they give up. Education is still a joke in majority of remote India and development should happen to that sad and different species of human race altogether who live and die each day in an ignored existence. The talks of 'development' and 'industrialization' are mere candy floss.

When I see flocks of villagers marching kilometers, the red flag swinging behind them to come to the city and attend this or that political meeting with religious reverence, I feel extremely sad and pained. Here is one state, and here is one people, who have unquestionable faith in their leaders, or let's say, the communist ideology. Here is a people who believe that their government is indeed for the sickle and the labourer. They might be right. But they might be wrong too...

It seems to me that the communism today, or for that matter any political ideology, is nothing but degenerated and misinterpreted set of basically skewed up ideals. Today, communism seems simply standing up for the poor while keeping them as poor as they are, while enveloping their scope of vision with so many like them that they feel they are happy and satisfied and one of the lot.

Was the communist ideal always like this? Wasn't it always an excellent piece of theory which can never ever be implemented in practice. Like the Heisenberg's principle of uncertainty- it is a fascinating truth, but it cannot be proved experimentally. Isn't communism that perfect synonym of utopia? For when have we, in the course of history from Marx to this date, witnessed the successful evolution of a classless society, where all evolved together and ultimately all were equals?

Why cant there be a sensible development? Why can't there be more public means of transport, more realistic prices of goods and lesser loans and credits? Professor Pinto once thundered in the class in his trademark style: "All this is lobbying. There's this dreadful nexus of car manufacturers and banks and builders and so on. Why don't they increase the number of municipal buses? They won't do that, for then, how will cars and scooters sell by hundreds each day?"

Though the quote may not be verbatim, I hope this is the essence he wanted to convey. For after that lecture, I brooded on and on, and could never shake of this logic.

Think of it. A bus can easily hold 50 people at a time. Why don't you increase the number of buses? Why don't you clean the buses more often and spend some on the interiors of the buses? Why don't you make the mode of transport popular and start brand image advertisements to clean up that snobbish 'O , so down market thingy to travel in a sweaty bus' attitude. Why don't you make the public transport system so chic and so plush, that everyone feels a relief using it and prefers it to driving down the chaos of jam and pollution each day? If you plan it well enough, a state transport system is a winning formula which satiates all the wants- economy, convenience and environment.

Case in point, the famous Neeta Volvo versus the Maharashtra State Buses that ply between Pune and Mumbai. Neeta Volvo (and Konduskar and such alike) reek of monopoly and cheating- the way they hike their tickets on weekends and the way sometimes dump passengers on the worst seats possible in spite of advance bookings. State buses offer the same facilities but at a far cheaper rate. But the State Bus ticket counters are dilapidated, easily ignored, tin-roof structures nearby a urinal and Neeta operates from a plush office. Only a lot of asking will ever, if at all, tell you which are the stops all over the city (Mumbai and Pune) where the State buses stop enroute to pick up the tourists.

As we are talking about the government downplaying their facilities, let me provide you with another example:

The postal letter drop box. I still write a lot of inland letters and postcards, and so I know how difficult it is to convince yourself before dropping that letter thru the flap of the box that this mode of communication is still not defunct. The letter drop box always seems to stand so unceremoniously at some busy corner, with so much of dust sleeping on it, and with so many cobwebs swinging by, I always ask three different strangers to ascertain if this is 'still in use' or is past its expiry date. When you do deliver the postcards and the inland letters in good time, why don't you just make an effort to make the service well known? Why don't you tell the public you offer cheap services and direct them to the letter boxes? Why don't you just colour that damn thing bright red once a year at the least??? Might as well go to some ad agency, get them make some hip direction banners and post them prominently on top of all the letter drop boxes?

So the thing is, all this talk of development and industrialization is sheer humour. You are game for development? Then start sacking teachers from municipality schools this second on. Start some serious re-thinking of what kind of teachers you want to teach at pre-school and primary levels all over the villages of the country. Get some management graduates tell you what product marketing is so that the state transport and postal services and all that stuff you let rot away in oblivion is used by the common man. And for God's sake, hire some dumb advertising agency make some yellow and black billboards to signal the bus pick up points, and the letter boxes.

We want to grow richer and drive that Nano, but we don't want to do so kicking the stomach of someone thin and lean and who sleeps hungry. We want to grow, but we also want those strangers who sweat each day to see a better tomorrow than their disappointing today. We also don't need one car each and we need you to know what development really is.

-Gauri Gharpure

The Politics of Food

We are treading on controversial grounds. Yes. I announce so and throw my hands up right before starting to write this piece. But write I will, however controversial (or obvious) though it may sound...

For the Bangla community, lunch is an occasion in itself. Never before have I seen being served course after course of veg and non-veg items with that typical laid back attitude. You will be served bhaat* in huge quantity along with a generous serving of dal and other vegetables, only to be reprimanded later if you don't eat enough of maachh , mangsho and chicken in the next serving accompanied by another generous handful of rice. Then there's the chutney to round up the meal and finally a mishti. Delicious. Nothing controversial here. So let's proceed.

Now imagine there's a widow in the group. Generally, there are at least two or three widows in a party, however big or small it may be, and that's a personal observation. So what happens? Just when the tables and chairs are being pulled for the lunch, someone starts calling, "Niramish? Who's niramish? How many? O, three. Fine, we will set the tables here".

For a moment, at least for me, there's a sudden thud in the festive mood. I have been pondering about this niramish business ever since I was a notun bau, even perplexed at times, at this accepted, sometimes even seemingly advocated practice of niramish for the widows...

What's niramish? For the uninitiated, it's vegetarian food, ideally even without onions and garlic. A person may be even vegetarian by choice, by the virtue of growing up in a certain environment or values. But the niramish that I am discussing here is not that sort of vegetarianism. You know, a woman becomes a hardcore vegetarian overnight in these parts of the country. Even today.

Once your husband is dead, consider your taste buds dead too. And make no fuss about it. You are expected to be that ideal wife forever and 'prove' just what a control-freak eve you can be in the absence of your dear husband.

So when, after growing up as a hardcore non-vegetarian (yes- I read somewhere that 95% of the people in Kolkata prefer non-veg food) for a good forty fifty years of your life, could be more, or could be unfortunately even less, once you are a widow- you are expected to give up on the kind of food you grew up eating. Maach, Mangsho and Murgi. Let's not forget eggs and seafood and such alike. The Bengalis seem to eat anything and everything with gusto, but for the women, unfortunately, there could be a sudden fullstop.

Do taste-buds die with the death of the husband? Is it essential to give up on good food to prove you are a good widow? What is behind this tradition of Niramish in Eastern India? Are we really a progressive nation or we prefer to ignore things right under our nose? Am I biased or common sense just doesn't hold true these days?

It's matter of choice and assertion then. I have seen at least two widows who prefer not to follow the seemingly idiosyncratic flow of thought and ideals. And this time, I also heard a gutsy lady ask another rhetorically, "Hey, they served the chicken pakoras first and then the vegetable chop, both cooked in the same kadhai. Now don't tell me they changed the oil"...

I guess that sums it all. I could go on and on about this, but then, it's a matter as simple as that of choice- unduly complicated by the burden of age-old practices and a politics of discriminatory behaviour.

I have written what I have witnessed; understood and argued relying on some very basic common sense- just like the one the lady demonstrated above. There are other important issues of personal choice, preference and the right to enjoy life to the full- as an individual and not as someone's wife, mother or daughter-in-law.

What's important is to speak up, perhaps more importantly, at least let others speak up and stand for themselves if you yourself don't have the gumption... In matters like these, it seems sometimes that a woman is a woman's worst enemy.

What do you think? Bangla bhayro and bonro, a special invitation to you to comment...

*Bhaat= RiceDal= A thin lentil preparation
Maach= Fish
Mangsho= Any kind of meat, referred to mutton in particularMishti= Any sweet dish
Niramish- Vegetarian food, ideally without onions and garlicNotun bau- Newly wed daughter- in law
Pakoras= An Indian deep-fried snack
Kadhai= A deep vessel, normally used to cook food or for deep-frying
Bhayra and Bonra= Brothers and sisters (information courtesy- constant political rallies :)

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Blogging

I started off writing this blog with a non-committal frame of mind.

I started by promising myself that I will blog only as a reaction to the daily happenings I read about in newspapers; or at the most- pen down poems in their abstract beauty and not about what I had for dinner this day and what dress I wore the other. I promised no interpretations. I loved the mystery.

But today, I feel a change taking over. Things have changed before i realised.

Through this blog, I have met innumerable facades of people. People, who work by the day and dream by the night. Who may lie by the day but swear by nothing by the truth on the faceless e-world. People who blog, not just as a process of words, but as an exercise of thinking aloud. It's beautiful and it's encouraging.

I now feel that the promise I made to myself, about 'not getting involved' in the blog was contrary to the basics of just about anything. Perhaps, you just put a little bit of your soul in each thing you do. And even if you don't want to, you end up leaving bits and pieces of your being here or there. That's what I have realised I am doing in the course of writing this blog.

After reading some wonderful blogs, it seems like writing a blog is essentially a spiritual exercise. A blog seems like a subtle confession box. It's a place where we make promises we dare not announce in the brutal real world, where we dream at leisure and where we think of bringing a change without being bogged down by immaculate reason. It's a place where creativity is to be pampered, explored, haunted and hoisted. It's a secret cocoon, which is not so secret after all. And that's the beauty of it.

I rush to meet myself every time I blog.

-Gauri Gharpure

Tagged

My first tag comes from Gaurav...Thanks a lot Gaurav :)...

I am supposed to write down ten things I miss. Also, a list of other ten things I would like to happen to me in the next ten years...

I miss

Ahmedabad in general

College, the tekri and LR 12 in particular.

I also miss my zoology professors- Momim, Robin and Sharad Sir- and the two peons who helped during the practicals- Piyushbhai and ... :( cant recall the name now...

I miss the college gang. Heck.. I am getting sore over the winter days in college...

I miss my home- Not much the family (for we talk almost every other day) but the bungalow. I mean, my house, the garden, the hall and the bedroom where I slept beside aaji...

I miss being irresponsible with elan.
(I am still irresponsible, but I am now accountable. I hate that. I miss the inborn clumsiness which I and everyone took granted for. )

Missing a few incomplete pieces from the past.

What I look fwd to / want in the next ten years...

A piece of land, a good bungalow, a dog or two, a flock or hens, a huge enclosure for my budgies and a well-designed aquarium in the garden. 1991-92 Paramdham revisited, in short.

For the above to happen, I will get some kick-ass professional position.

Go abroad for a short educational stint.

I want to visit Romania via Istanbul. And a Euro tour...

Perhaps, just about, go the mommy way.

The tag goes to the bum, phish, dip, necropolis.... Also baruk, gaizabonts and all those people whose blogs I love to read...
If you think ten is a big list, like I thought initially, you can stick to five...

Sparrows

Mobile phones blamed for sparrow deaths

Where have all the sparrows gone?

Death of sparrows in city

Bobo

Bobo, the puppy kept by a street-side hawker near Golpark crossing... I saw him from a bus and walked back to capture his pic.
Here's a Happy New Year from Bobo...And me... :)

Tare Zameen Par

The movie sends across a good message. I hope the message is well-received given this film brings across charming performances, that of Ishaan's perplexed mother and loving, yet ambitious father. Ishaan has managed to steal the show with his blank day-dreaming phases.

Ishaan comes back home with his white school shirt turned a messy dirty brown after his adventures in the puddles outside his school. He candidly announces: "The letters are dancing" when asked to read a sentence in class.

The fertile imagination of a child has been beautifully captured. The scenes are heart-warming. The children- giggling thru broken milk teeth, yawning, pushing and punching each other in the assembly line touch a chord. They bring to us face to face with the innocence we only lament as a loss and remember with nostalgia, or that we can only relive by being close to children again. By hugging and kissing (and getting pushed back when the burst of affection gets annoying to them)and getting boggled by their endless questions. There's no other way to go on a more spiritual journey than being close to children and seeing Taare Zameen Par seemed more of a silent, much needed reunion with lost childhood.

The film sends across an extremely important message but, talking about the movie in itself, may I say I was a trifle disappointed?

People often make the mistake of taking the message of a movie and the movie as a product as the same thing. Taare Zameen Par comes at a time when education indeed needs to be taken seriously. (Or ironically, shall we say, a little less seriously than it is being done now...) In any case, the movie had the potential to carry the same message in a much more organized, realistic and convincing fashion than the present product.

At three hours, an hour or half more than the average length of the movies we see these days, Amir Khan, the director, could have put across the message of the movie much more succinctly had the first half of the movie been tightened a bit. I felt that a few dialogues, a few scenes could have been butchered (yes, I use the word butchered for each second on the reel, in itself, was beautiful and well-shot) to put the point across in a more appealing fashion to ambitious parents, caught between love and insecurity with regards to their children.

The fantastic grooming undertook for Ishaan by Ram, the teacher, could have been dealt with in a more indepth fashion. While Ishaan's imagination to answer 3 into 9 equals 3 left me grinning from ear to ear, amazed and happy, I would have loved to see a few more shots of the beautiful way in which Ram spends time with Ishaan to teach him the alphabets and maths. Ishaan learns maths while hopping up and down the steps and alphabets he learns by scribbling on sand and dribbling in the paints. Beautiful, but short-lived on the reel.

One more thing that disappointed me in this film was Amir Khan. Why?

I feel, and so does my husband, that there was too much of Amir- the personality, in Ram, the teacher. Amir Khan has somehow failed to shed his baggage as an intellectual when he falls in the shoes of Ram Nikhumbh, the arts teacher. We expected more of acting, but it seemed it's Amir playing the thoughtful Amir Khan in the psuedonym of Ram Nikumbh. We would have loved to see Ram Nikhumb, the arts teacher in a more defined, more distinct and well-scripted out shade than an Amir Khan copied and pasted in the role of Ram Nikumbh. Case in point, you can't mistake Amir Khan, the host, welcoming his guests with a smirky confidence, firm handshakes and managing a crowd of more than 2000 children with elan. I felt any Ram Nikumbh, an arts teacher, would have had his nervous, sweat breaking moments on times like this than the confident stride and demeanour which was unrealistically projected in the film.

You getting what I am trying to say? I mean, the beauty of cinema is its surreal imagination and the extent of contrast between the actor and the character. The more the contrast, the more enticing the exercise of watching a film becomes. In this movie, Amir Khan seems to have remained Amir Khan. That was disappointing.

What about Darsheel Safary? He's charming, but perhaps a little older to be believed as a third standard student. I loved Ishaan. His mischievous glares when he was happy, his silent indignance after being buckled down in the hostel were endearing...

The end title sequence can move you to tears. This movie has captured the sheer innocence that children are.

We owe Amir Khan a lot for he brought to us this movie and though I would have loved to replace the credit to Ram Nikumbh in the sentence, I am afraid I can't. :)

-Gauri Gharpure

The end of an era

The oldest surviving Gharpure of our family died today afternoon. He was eighty-seven. This marks the end of an era. Well, just about. My aaji, at seventy-nine, is now the only one who represents the glorious past and remembers the family lores which colour, humble and hearten many a happy evenings...

Balmama, who died today of old age complications, was the eldest of three brothers. The second brother was my grandfather- Bhau.

Balmama has donated his entire body for medical research.

Tomato turns trash

I have some links with the 'farmer community'. Why some? Good enough! My mother comes from a farmer family. Add to this my father's obsession with sprawling fields, or the fiesty buffalos and graceful cows. So tales of 'how much milk this or that buffalo yields', 'how good or bad was the crop this year' or some such references fell upon my ears when I was growing up.

Back then, when we were merry little children, we were more in touch with the soil. Our trips to the native village are only fond remembrance now: how we used to roam about those farms of tobacco and cotton, and come across stray orchards of guava, banana or mango in between... Of how, with amazing skill, my brother could tell us whose farm we had crossed and whose farm we were now in...Such is the glory of owning land. Hmm, I am diverging from the topic.

Actually, the 'farmer connection', however faint or dis-functional it may be now, also makes me a bit more alert to the news of farmer suicides and yield and transport problems.

I read this trivia on Unfinished dream's blog the other day. The minuscule post led to some brainstorming at least between three or four of those who read the post. The trivia perhaps also led to this one on Baruk's blog. And while the 'trivia' had not entirely got scrubbed off my cognizance, I came across this article titled: 'At 10 paise, tomato turns trash'.

According to the article, farmers have dumped their tomato produce by the cartloads for the birds and beasts to feast on at the Hyderabad-Kurnool highway. Without proper transport or storage facilities, they cannot make any money out of the produce. Either sell at 10 paise, (which in any case is not getting any buyers) or leave them to rot. The bumper yield is now only a matter of concern instead of rejoice. Many farmers have tried to make pickles, and make-shift eateries selling tomato based dishes, but yet, there are not many takers for their innovation. They have now resorted to keeping baskets of tomatoes at temples and getting whatever the takers leave behind as a gift. Click here to read.

See the irony- just the other day, I was moved to write a post about disparity in India after seeing a man asking the price of one small tomato to the vegetable vendor outside my flat. He moved on without buying the tomato for two rupees.

***

I read in school that 'India is an agricultural country'.

***

-Gauri Gharpure

A quick recap...

Here are some of my favourite posts.
I somehow feel they haven't got their due reads, and so if you have the time and inclination, do read and comment...

Food for thought



(Lessons and memories of humility- thru food)

A thin layer



(A poem, a thought)

A Bookmark



(Some memories of a page yellowed by time)

I forgot to light a candle



(This one's a more recent of the many sad tales of pressure and intervention in the marriage of two consenting adults...)

My Name is Red



(My fascination with Orhan Pamuk's acclaimed novel)

Death Teaches



(Of how death has one soul motive- to teach...)

-Gauri Gharpure

What next?

I want to post a photo of Bobo on the blog, but I just forget to do that everytime I go back home from office.

It was too difficult to resist the urge of typing something and so the 'What next' copy...

Let me decide and plan what I want to write about in the next posts on the blog. I feel I have been quite idle since last week and don't want to continue with that...

(Actually not exactly 'idle' on second thoughts! I wrote small, 'Short and Sweet' couplets on the new blog, but these lines just flow effortlessly and I immensely enjoy playing with letters. Am glad that haikutales gives me the plaform to scribble on)

Well anyway, here's what you can expect on the blog in the coming week:

1) Bobo- his photo and the related story

2) Baby budgies- Yeah, two females have laid eggs this time and as a result, I have 5 baby budgies in different stages of feathering- which leaves me just too excited each evening and I check on them the first thing on reaching home. You can expect a long piece about the darlings in due time.

3) ??? I guess that's it... :)

-Gauri Gharpure

My New Blog!

Logo designed by yours truly.
Copyrights retained.

Gurgaon Shootouts- A Wake-up Call...

Morning news confirmed the fears that lurked in my mind after the Virginia Tech shootings-'What if this happens in India?' and also snubbed off the happy assumption I immediately implied soon after that thought erupted: 'No, such a thing is still far away from India...'

Now, it has happened. And I take in the reality that India isn't afterall that immune. That children are growing up way too smart and way too hep before their time is ripe. That the time-span for which we can cuddle and scold and treat our kids as kids has drastically reduced. And that, this sudden transition from being a child to an adult is dangerous to say the least.

After seeing the news on CNN-IBN, I surfed the net to read more about it. I was shocked to find no visible mention of the shootout on the 'largest selling Indian English daily'. The first news was a glorified, happy report that Vikram Pandit, a man of Indian Origin, has been selected to head the Citigroup. I don't quite fathom the fancy we have of people of 'indian origin' achieving this and that and the other.

To be precise I found news about Amitabh Bachchan's relief after being given a clean chit by the High Court, PM's statement that spectrum allocation must ensure competitiveness and about Advani's is preparations for the Gujarat polls, but no outright mention of the Gurgaon shooutouts. Superb!

Let me not diverge into debates that are somewhat off the topic of this post. All I am saying is, I couldn't find a link to the Gurgaon School Shooting news on mainpage of The Times of India e-paper. Don't believe me? Go here and read the e-paper dated December 12, 2007.

Callous reporting or what? Or does the Times of India prioritise its front page on some cool style-book instructions that say 'Commerce and Politics and Entertainment friendly news only'. Fatal shootout in a school by 8th grade students, and that too, the first ever of its kind in India, can wait! We have Mr. Bachchan to cover...

According to the reports, there was some tension between the three students and the school authorities were even informed. The two accused, who have been sent to a juvenile home for 14 days, allege that Abhishek Tyagi repeatedly 'bullied' them. Whether the abuse was sexual in nature or not, the police is yet to confirm. Read the related article here and see the video here

Is bullying, sexual or not, a justified reason for killing? Definitely not, to sound politically correct. But life is not simple black and white...

When I was in Pune, I used to go to this cyber cafe. It was just below kaku's home where I had my lunch and dinner. Out of about 15 computers, merely two were used for regular surfing. Other were all occupied by children from the range of tweleve to thirteen to college going youths to play computer games. And what were the sort of computer games they played? Sheer violence, gory murders, machine guns, bombs and so on. What is this hate-culture all about? Does it merely remain restricted as a game, or it seeps into the pscyche?

There was a constant rattle of the sound-effects in that cafe and everytime I heard someone 'yay' a kill, a shiver went down my spine. Some readers may find this too funny or too exaggerated, but it's these small things that make up a mindset. These are the small beginnings that lead to something huge.

We need to raise some important questions and seek answers. How could so much of rage gather and ferment in the young minds? What is happening in schools and colleges these days? What are the teachers like and are they good enough? What is the value-system? (Or is there any?)

I believe each person deserves at least three great teachers in his or her life, say one teacher for a span of 3-4 years, then another guru takes over. I have been immensely lucky in this case. Teachers, if good enough, can leave a profound impact on the mind.

And for this, we don't just need good people at high school, graduation and post-graduation levels, but we need good people right at the grass-roots. At nursery and kindergarten and primary school levels. We need people who are patient and who care enough, who can mould and hand over a senstive student pool to other teachers at the higher academic levels. One thing that happened after seeing this news was to further strengthen, if not prepone, my desire to get into the teaching line.

I mused that Fr. Morondo would be sad and worried when he hears about the shootings. Fr. (my highschool teacher) who's recovering from some serious injuries after a bad fall off his blue kinetic, has given me lots of soulful tid-bits here and there in his merry voice to brood on for the rest of my life. Teachers can influence, teachers can prevent. It's just that we can't simply pinpoint that moment when someone's words make a path-changing effect on our lives, that we fail to reciprocate or acknowledge, or realise that we are good only because so and so said something simple and assuring in the past. Else, we would have gone astray.

About the accused. Perhaps, their teachers and parents, peers and well-wishers and you and me- as a society, have failed them. Or perhaps, the two accused just simply played a lot of such gory video games. Perhaps...

-Gauri Gharpure

If you have read the entire post, I urge you to leave a comment. I especially want to know the reactions of teenagers and youth. What do you think of the Gurgaon shootouts? Take ten minutes to compose your thoughts, perhaps talk to your collgeagues and friends, and then write a comment.