Mee Asheech Mee Tasheech

Mee Khari Mee Khoti
Mee Asheech Mee Tasheech

-Read the complete poem here...

Enraged and tired, Borivali commuters finally protest

Angry commuters at Borivali station in Mumbai have blocked all trains on the station for more than four hours now. Harried rush from one platform to the other due to last minute diversion of local trains had already irked them no bounds and a sudden cancellation of a local at 9.10 am on Wednesday was a trigger. They demand more trains and better management. (A report)

Their fury was piling up, after gross mismanagement and discomfort when extra train platforms were added. As the news goes, their trouble started in August. This article, Railway woes for Borivali residents, throws light on what is behind the impromptu fury.

From what angry protestors say and the TOI report, this is what enrages the Mumbai commuter:

1) The railways needed more platforms to run more trains from Borivali

2) With no space available, they extended the platform number 1

3) Platform number 7 and 8 were introduced.

4) There is no exit point on platform no 8

5) So, Commuters who get off at platform 8 have to walk for at least 10 minutes to get out on the road.

6) Trains schedules are frequently and suddenly changed

7) Commuters complain that often a train supposed to come at platform number 1 is suddenly diverted to platform 8, they have to walk a good kilometre

8) Crowd of more than one or two trains gathers at platforms, making the walk slow and tedious.

9) Many miss their trains thus.

The fact that railways wanted to increase trains and so introduced new platforms is a silver lining. It is possible for a system as massive as the Indian railways to come across some glitches— after all, local trains do their bit in accomplishing the 'Six Sigma' services of Mumbai dabbawalas, as with being the chosen mode of transport for millions of Mumbai residents. But if inconvenience becomes the order of the day, a protest as this, is a natural consequence.

***

I remember reading somewhere on a blog, a writing so emotional and candid, about an incident on a Mumbai local. I don't even remember if it was a post or a comment, but someone had talked about a girl who sold rubber bands and earrings in the local . With an infant tucked to her, she was negotiating the crowd to sell her stuff.

Someone was haggling a lot and she, otherwise quiet and aloof, suddenly ran up a temper. "Saala do rupiye ke liye chik chik karta hai, mat khareedo."

The blogger apparently asked her something and she replied, 'Maa mar gayee, ab se ise leke aana padega".

And then I have heard there are women who have their kitty parties, haldi-kunkoo on the train. Who cut vegetables for the evening meal on the train. Who get up at four in the morning to cook for the family before boarding a train at six. I always linked Mumbai with its crazy fast life and local trains. This news somehow brought all these unrelated things I have heard or read about the trains.

The first time I was to board a local, I was quite scared. My cousin was like, "Gauritai, don't worry, you simply have to be there and ensure there's a crowd behind you. The mob will push you in and the mob will push you out."

The shoeflower that blossomed two days too late

I wanted this flower to blossom before parents left for Mumbai. But like the innumerable things I want that evade me, this was not to be. It bloomed today, exactly two days later than it was supposed to.

Supposed to? Anyways... It would have been really nice if it had blossomed two days before, so that I would have proved that I do indeed water my plants and the nurserywala does not manage to cheat me each single time.

Coming to think of it, Shoe flower is such an inapt name for a flower as lovely as this. Anyone knows why is it called so?


Mummy's lovebird birds now have three chicks. When I told someone this, he said I make the birds sound like mammals. The new female lovebird I got is as crazy as she can get. She has her seeds swinging upside down from the jhula. She pecks the male innumerable times when he silently eats his food and works up a frenzy when he chooses to ignore her. She bit me real hard when I was putting her in the cage and thank God for the napkin I use to handle the birds. The earlier pair, whom I miss so often, would lie as quiet as babies just out of shower, and open their mouths at the sight of the dropper to take their vitamin.

A rose by any other name

What if I were born in a suburban Mumbai family of someone called Vilalat Khan? Would my life have been the same if I had grown up as Zaheera? In today's 'MNS' times, I am afraid, if it were so, I might as well have been called to prove my allegiance to the nation I was born in, worse, to the city I grew up in and loved as my own. Far-fetched scenarios. Far-fetched-- but plausible and scary.

The latest bit of bossing from the MNS brigade has led to the change of name of a sweet-shop in Mumbai. From Karachi, it has now morphed to Jai Shri Krishna.

What's in a name?

In a name, is the right to sound as you want to, to reflect what you have chosen to associate with, and with that choice, many thoughts, many ideas are linked. When you are asked to change this, you are asked to give up your right to identity. The owner may have buckled down under pressure, and made a conscious, personal choice. But as a person sitting miles away, this change sounds yet another horror-tale of limited democracy, limited choice and a life that is dictated by fear and politics.

If politicians today have reduced patriotism to such a simplistic notion, if patriotism could be so superficially proven, lord save India.

Here are the two reports on the basis of which this post was developed:

MNS goes after 'Pak' sigh boards

Karachi Sweets to turn Jai Shri Krishna

Is your life now governed by fear of goons who vandalise store and maim people who they declare 'outsiders'? Is fear and prejudice that you want to give your children in legacy? Has the judicial mechanism of this country gone so feeble that people who voice such separatist ideas roam free and have the audacity to make such demands time and again?

Happy Republic Day...

Orphanage death in Baruipur near Kolkata

A government-run orphanage has made it to the headlines after a child died of malnutrition. Four others have a long road to recovery, after being diagnosed of severe malnutrition. A child had already lost eyesight in one eye because of this and the vision in his right eye is unlikely to be restored, fear doctors.

When this news first came, we were shocked and angry. After these two emotions, we didn't quite know what to do.

Imagining the children huddled by in a filthy room, hungry and unkempt, smelling and itching, craving for bit of food that they were denied at a place they had taken shelter. And even after this unforgiveable happening, though the state social welfare minister Biswanath Chowdhury admit "lapses on our part," he didn't find time to visit the home.

As reported here, the welfare home stank of filth, and the kids themselves were in an abominable condition, many with severe skin infections and rashes.

"When I asked for a soap, I was thrashed," said Sharif Jani Wassa.

And there was no food.

"Many of us would go to bed hungry as the food we got was too little. The ones who protested were beaten up by home superintendent Nirapad Poila," said Raju Rajik, another inmate. (Excerpts from this report)

After all this, what will happen? A probe? Of course, that's the easiest thing bureaucrats can promise to do. They will check what went wrong after it has irrevocably gone wrong.

And this may not be the first or the only such death, hints this report in The Telegraph.

After a time, your soul gets tired of the number of deaths that crave for attention each single day in a newspaper. It begs you to leave it free from such alien misery. But such horrible deaths come back to haunt you in nightmares and take you unawares. I imagine a home shrouded in mystery and secluded, inside which children crawl about in hunger and pain, and finally shrivel and die. And with a shudder, I get back to work. Another newborn has been left in a garbage vat, a child has been strangled after medical expenses began to spiral, another death is waiting to be subbed.

Kaapyo chhe

I don't remember the last time I had a super-duper-fabulous Uttrayan.. So much has been left behind ever since I left Ahmedabad. I miss that city that is so full of colours, it makes you go heady with happiness at times. Uttrayan was always my favourite. Seeing the sky dotted with thousands and thousands of kites, with the sun setting in the backdrop almost takes you close to nirvana. When the sun set on 15th, Vasi Uttrayan, a very selfish gloom would pass over me.

Did you fly kites? Wishing you a happy makar sankranti. As they say in marathi, speak sweet. :)

Laughter doesn't cost a paisa

Arnold is coming up with some really witty stuff these days. You might want to have a good laugh. Have a look.

:)

What font are you?

An interesting quiz.

I turned out to be Helvetica:

'Industry standard. Classis, reliable. So what if a tad boring, I have plenty of friends who think I am the best'

Also, read the piece by Nino's mom. She talks how a font can say a lot about what you have written and mar or make it.

Poster Campaign

I made these posters for the 'Another India is Possible Poster Campaign'.

I was thrilled to start doing something, for this sounded a lot like the good old school and college festival days. Only difference, trying my hand at Coral instead of Camlin.

The entries will be accepted till Jan 31.

Here are more details:


www.binayaksen.net and www.tasveerghar.net call upon netizens and all those interested anywhere to make posters on the theme of 'Another India is Possible'. The idea is to encourage artists and others to think afresh of what a positive vision of a future India could be like- in an imaginative, constructive but provocative way.

The posters could be digitally produced or hand-made but they need to be available in soft copy form to be put up on a specially created website for this purpose. Some of the suggested topics are: (a) Democracy (b) Justice (c) Dignity (d) Human Rights (e) Children (f) Indigenous People (g) Gender (h) Access to Health (i) Safe Environment (j) Social Harmony.

The campaign will culminate on 31st January 2009 and the best 50 posters will be compiled into a 'Visual Election Manifesto' to be presented to all the political parties prior to the next national general elections. A panel of eminent artists and social activists will vet the posters and special prizes will be announced during the campaign for the best poster (s) in different categories.

CONTACT: saeed.yousuf@gmail.com or satyasagar@gmail.com

I got to know about this from Baruk, here.

Gauri Gharpure asserts her copyright over all the drawings and matter published on her blogs, unless otherwise referenced. Understandably, she discourages the use of these in any other media. In case you feel you want to make use of any of the written and/or drawn matter published on her blogs, you must reach her by email for prior permission.

Respect Originality

A Quiet Beginning

It was 2003 I guess. I was on an island in the middle of nowhere. I had a mobile, but signal was a rarity. I was blissfully alone- there were not many with whom I was obliged to talk. The sky was studded with a million dazzling stars. It was a sight I have seen but once or twice. That was how I welcomed 2004. And 2005? That's a different story. Some other time. For now, I remember that peaceful start-studded night of Dec 31 '2003. Five years is a milestone. These five years have been soulful. God has been kind. I look forward to many nights of solitude when I have only stars for company.

Wishing you a happy new year...

Good read

This is what I have heard my Baba rant a thousand times over. Sara has put her angst against a certain (consumer driven?) lifestyle being propagated heavily through films in words that are powerful and straightforward. I am completely bowled over by this rare piece of frank, logical writing. Take time out to read what she has written.

Those who take the polio campaign forward

Amitabh Bachchan may be the face of the polio campaign, but it is the toil of thousands of common men and women that takes the fight forward. They have a gargantuan task before them: to eradicate polio from the India and for this, they keep no stone unturned.

Most of these health workers are engaged in fulltime activities, but whenever the polio campaign is announced, they take time off to volunteer. They are paid only Rs 50 per day for a shift from 9 am to 4 pm but this paltry sum does not affect their dedication.

Tapati Saha (56), the deputy chief municipal health officer, said of the 6,803 health workers involved in the polio programme, more than 4,000 are volunteers. They get Rs 225 for five days on an honorarium basis.

Sumana Nag (24) teaches swimming at the Southern Avenue Swimming club from 6 am to 9 am, but asks her employees to adjust for the five days of a polio programme. “I feel I am doing a noble deed by giving my time. I first volunteered when my cousin Ankita Dey (18) could not attend due to her exams,” she said from ward number 82 booth at the Gariahat mod. Ankita still volunteers at the Lake Girl’s High School booth in spite of her oncoming HS exams.

Arati Das (42) comes all the way from Kasba to Gariahat to volunteer. A housewife, she considers being a part of the polio campaign as ‘a small contribution to society’. In fact, Arati’s sister-in-law Shelly Das (37) also volunteers at the Chittaranjan High School booth in Kasba. “Ours is a big joint family, so whenever we volunteer, someone always manages the cooking and housework,” Arati said.

Rajiv Bhattacharya (36) is an electrician but volunteers for the house to house polio campaign in Tangra, ward no 59. “A team of two covers about 126 homes in a day. If a child is sleeping or is away, we go back again after sometime. When some parents appear reluctant, we try to convince them our vaccine and training is just as good. Volunteers are given an intensive training each time before the campaign,” he said.

Sandhya Bhattacharya (54) is one of the six supervisors of the Intensive Pulse Polio Immunization (IPPI) plan of ward no 59. After being associated with health work for the last 22 years, all she gets today is about Rs 2000 per month. “The pay is extremely less. We have been hearing it may increase since long. I am happy though, as I started off only with Rs. 200 per month,” she said.

“We feel that the compensation for these volunteers is very less in comparison to their efforts and the importance of the work. However, this pay scale has been fixed by the Centre so it is up to it to increase. It would definitely give a boost to health work if the pay is increased,” said Tapati.

***

***

This article got bunked for it was felt that people volunteering for such a measly sum is not a big deal. For people are in need of money anyways and will take up any job that gives assured money. Besides, the success of the polio campaign has come under scanner recently for various reasons-- like the type of vaccine used, the technical expertise of the volunteers. Both points agreed to.

But with an emotional attachment to the legwork and information that I gathered, I find no reason to not put it here. For something is being done, and something need be thus written to acknowledge it.

From what I gathered from talks with volunteers and the deputy chief municipal officer, is that all the volunteers are given training sessions before each campaign and provided with insulated ice-boxes so that the vaccine remains safe. Whatever may be the doubts or cynicism, here's a government motivated movement that is regularly carried out on a massive scale. As I said in the article before, at least 4,000 people work for as less as 225/- for five days to keep campaign going. The least that the Centre can do is to fix decent scales so that more people, who want money and are prepared to slog for it, get a worthy platform to do their bit.

-Gauri Gharpure

Yay

This one's from Nino's mom...



It goes to Phish

Pass it on...

My first blog award comes from The Indian Homemaker.

Peace is a very strong and responsibility laden word. Thanks!

I would like to pass on the appreciation to

To a youthful brigade who have their own way with words (and music) that I don't quite understand. But their zeal to see things their way and their urge to express is what is the key to any process, including peace...

They are Sudhanshu, Darshan , Kaushik

To the Bum, who surprises me most of the times with his simple, down to earth thoughts

And to Void, who's presumably quite idle now and you never know, he could rake up some movement to make a huge difference :) if he stops being midly idle, i.e.

To Hans and the team who work ceaselessly each day to put up news of what's happening all over the globe.

To Baruk who gets angry, sad and frustrated about all that seems wrong and has an amazingly sharp eye to support, promote the causes he deems fit through his blog...

A much-used maroon sweater

Santa, who?

Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York's Sun, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial on
Sept. 21, 1897. The work of veteran newsman Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and other editorials, and on posters and stamps. The matter follows.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measure by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest man that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank GOD! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.



This post was sent by Pinto sir. Many thanks for sharing it...

Kind attention

Gauri Gharpure asserts her copyright over all the drawings and matter published on her blogs, unless otherwise referenced. Understandably, she discourages the use of these in any other media. In case you feel you want to make use of any of the written and/or drawn matter published on her blogs, you must reach her by email for prior permission.

Respect Originality

New Year and Christmas cards...

Wish you all have a joyous festive season...

To wish New Year and Christmas to friends and family through Anonymous Smiles, email the postal address to anonymous.smiles@gmail.com

Know more

How else can you help?

By telling your friends about Anonymous Smiles.

For this you can
a) Blogroll http://anonymoussmiles.blogspot.com
b) Tell your friends about it through email
c) Embed this logo on your blog. Copy the html code given below:

[a href="http://anonymoussmiles.blogspot.com"][img alt="Anonymous Smiles" width="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyn5wi0v13e5pqAdv4LkkpKF9mr4gqakPXKSlTzIA6VBxUWeY4W1fR61Or7OtlYp_N2PCbfP8652cPjcc3zDzS_Wxi_E_J18o1gUX-mP9s9z-qIRuMqM33CtielNyqxPxBlTjAbX1lRKLY/s400/LOGO5.jpg" height="157"/][/a]

[a href="http://anonymoussmiles.blogspot.com/"]Click to know more[/a]

Replace [ with < and
] with > in the above code before publishing.

Send a smile...

Know more

Whipping up a bittersweet story

What makes us alive in the physical sense of the word. And, what makes one dead.

Think about the dead. They were there, all fine and healthy and suddenly, in one moment the transgression happened. They became still and cold. Loved ones then became a body that must be immediately disposed.

Here's my theory:

We live as long as we are bodily connected with the surroundings. Each breath we take is an alien mix of life-matter being pumped in. Imagine how much of the environment have we actually devoured to be alive for 20 or 30 or 80 years? Your life is the aggragate of your interactions with your surrounding. Once you stop breathing, that connection is lost, and so, you are 'dead.' I thought of the human body as a cocoon that shelters us from the disappointments of the outside world. Till this thought breezed by. Since then, living has got a strange, better perspective.

I owe my life to a million and more interactions with my surroundings, to strangers who came close enough in crowds for me to share their life-breath, to dogs who greedily lapped up my face and even to rogues who molested me in jam-packed buses. Everyone, however sweet or crude he/she may be, has made a contribution. Made me happy or sad, better or worse, but pushed me ahead by the way of experience. I am grateful.

Like this road I pass by everyday, it breathes into me. From the comfort of my car, I have slowly come to know all the urchins and madmen who line both sides of that street. A cycle cart is always parked on the left side, close to the dargah and half a dozen children play about. The other day, an absolutely bald girl, must be four at max, had fallen in the cart face down. She was flapping her feet frantically up in the air. Her hands were in a desperate position to keep her from tumbling down. She was screaming and crying and whipping up the most humourous frenzy I had seen in days. All beggers, tea sellers and betel nut sellers seemed to stop for a moment to have a good laugh. My car went a little ahead and I saw that bald girl fleeing the spot and galloping in the traffic with utter relief and disbelief. Someone must have finally thought to help the naughty child.

Then there's the old mad woman. I see her anywhere from one end of the street to the other. But wherever I see her, whenever I see her, she is busy counting something in the air. Without a break, without a moment's rest, her hand is always up, her lips always muttering something. Standing up, or sitting down, she has to count. I wonder how tired she may be at the end of the day, after such a ceaseless exercise. Just as I was wondering the first day I saw her what I could do to 'help', a street urchin walked to her, pressed a few coins in her hands and left. A few days later, her head was clean-shaven. She was oblivious and still counting, and still scratching her bald out of old habit. Someone had decided to give her a haircut and rid her of the lice. Someone cared.

These people have made a connection, made me feel more alive. When I die, I am sure a few breaths will be accounted to them.