A thought for Mumbai

I did not want to write anything about the blasts. Sitting comfortably in my home, the terror, horror and fear I feel is not even the faintest fraction of what the people of Mumbai must have. And I certainly have no right to make statements about it, or sympathise, or make speeches against terrorism. This time around several people questioned whether the indomitable spirit of mumbai, is in fact merely an underlying helplessness. People HAVE TO go to work, don’t they? And blaming the government? If it were any other government in power, would that have changed anything? Life goes on. Thats the only truth…. especially for the mumbaikar. And now the political blame game. All that really doesn’t affect me. To me it is far more important to relate with the shock and outrage rather than take interest in sacking ministers and giving proofs to our neighbouring country. But after so many days, I received an email containing the following pics…and I felt I had to at least show them to the world.

Happy Independence Day!

Happy Independence Day!!

Definitions of Freedom may change and adapt according to present situations, but the basic feeling and essence of it remains the same.

Freedom has a high price, as high as that of slavery; the only difference is that you pay with pleasure and a smile, even when that smile is dimmed by tears.

Found this video on youtube. I am sure many of us have fond memories connected to this song

Finger paints and crayons

A poem I had read in one of the editions of the chicken soup. Feel like sharing it with everyone. I don’t know if I am violating any copyrights here, but it is what I felt I should share, in response to the violence we are seeing around us recently.

Finger paints and crayons.

By Cheryl Costello-Forshey

With chalk in hand she wrote her name across a board once bare,
And then she sat behind her desk without a single care
And for fifteen minutes she did not make a sound
Until the final student had finally settled down
Then she stood before them, and told them all her name
And then politely asked, each student to do the same
Then without hesitation, she took papers from a sack
And placed them in two piles, one white, the other black
And deliberately, quite slowly, with a mischievous smile
She began handing out the papers, up and down each aisle
And once each student had a piece; she continued within their sight
To gather two piles of crayons, one black, the other white
And then she took a painting from behind her walnut desk
Then placed a painters smock, overtop her navy dress
And to no one in particular, she spoke in peaceful tones
“I have been working on this painting, for years in my own home.”
She stood staring at the painting, its brilliant colors mixed as one
Upon the vast horizon, the presence of a sun
It was indeed not a Rembrandt, a Picasso, a Michelangelo to say the least
But it nonetheless was beautiful; its presence spoke of peace
And no doubt that lovely painting, had taken so much time
For every color known to man seemed to intertwine
And so it came with wonder, what they witnessed with surprise
The act that took them all off guard, done right before their eyes
With finger paints now gathered, and opened on her desk
She smeared the colors upon her hands, in an entangles awful mess
And then as though she had lost her mind, she smeared her hands across
The painting once so beautiful….now a total loss
It did not make a bit of sense, they did not understand
As they sat and watched their teacher wipe the paints off her hands
And then she took the crayons, and went up and down the rows
And handed to each student, the colors that she chose
“Now”, she told the students, “I want you to create
A picture filled with beauty, devoid of any hate.”
Mouths dropped open widely, mumbles filled the room
and students looked to one another, as unasked questions seemed to loom
For the students with white paper, were given crayons the same shade
And the students with black crayons, had been given a raven colored page
And how could one create splendor, with no colors to mix and match
The students were quite certain, their teacher had left out most of the facts
“Teacher”, a student’s voice was heard, “I am not so sure I can”
Staring at the white crayon and white paper in her hand
Silence overtook the room, it eerily crept about
Causing the teacher’s gentle voice to erupt into a shout
“You each share the same problem, you each possess the power to resolve
But only the students with open minds, will have the ability to solve.”
Minutes ticked away, the class was nearing to an end
And not a single student knew quite how to begin
And when the bell rang out, and they hurried to their feet
Their teacher told them commandingly, to return back to their seat
“Before you leave this classroom, I think you each should know
For this assignment, you receive a failing grade, for you have no work to show
And tomorrow, and the next day, your assignment shall be the same
And those who fail my class will have only themselves to blame.”
The next day, and the following, the students weren’t quite sure what to do
Until at last, a solution, began to surface through
When one student with his crayon, and paper both in black
Turned to the student behind him and asked, “May i borrow that?”
The student hesitated, but then gave up his crayon made of white
And ultimately the assignment, no longer seemed a plight
For students all throughout the class switched crayons, up and down the aisles
And certain they had found the solution, their faces lit with smiles
And just as every student began to draw, across an empty page
The teacher whom they had all began, to see as certainly quite strange
Collected all the pages and crayons, without a single mark
And then spoke aloud, “Thank you for bringing hope into my heart
You see, I wanted you to realize that in order to create
A picture filled with beauty, devoid of any hate
You needed first to recognize that a problem did exist
And that a practical solution could be found, within your midst
And that racism is a problem each of us must face
Working ll as one, before it is much too late
And with open eyes and open hearts, we must see the person, not the color of their skin
And come to the understanding that racism has to end
For together, we are a family, we cry tears, we all feel pain
And thought we may not look the part, that’s exactly what we do
For crayons are just colors, that’s all our skin is too.”
Students looked about the room, a variety of colors on their skin
As the point she was trying to make began to settle in
The looks upon their faces readily explained
That they each were trying to contemplate; that indeed, they were the same
A nervous shuffling of papers and coughs throughout the room
Portraying the vital image, that fighting over crayons was a stupid thing to do
It was then each student realized, the purpose of crayons and papers the same shade
Was to prove that they needed to other color, to help fill their empty page

Silence seized the moment, as one student raised his open hand
And then spoke in hesitation, “I just don’t understand…
Why your took your painting, the one you seemed to enjoy so very much
Gathered up your finger paints, to destroy it in a touch.”

Sadness filled her face, as a tear trailed upon her cheek
And in slow and heartfelt words, she began to speak
“To show you each that colors can be beautiful, but they also can destroy
Everything we love and work for, everything we each enjoy
And the destruction of something that i loved, was to make a point to you
That racism destroys the beauty in us all,
And that fighting over colors, is a destructive thing to do.”

Of dusty towns and sleepy villages

I wonder where those phrases come from. I never find lonely deserted towns to be dusty. I never find villages sleepy. Instead I find them a lot more vibrant and fresh than any of the cities we live in. Going down a road that is used by cars, buses, trucks, bullock-carts and people alike, I found myself feeling things that I would never feel otherwise. I think traveling does this to most of us. There is a certain clarity of thoughts. I think that is one of the reasons why most Paulo Coelho books say that travel plays an important role in discovering oneself. The road to Santiago may or may not be a reality, but it is a dream journey.

Acres and acres of green fields stretch out on both sides of the road that keeps twisting and turning through valleys. We travel alongside rivers that are meandering their way through the path of least resistance. Come to think of it, the river has carved out the very valley we are traveling in, it has that power, but yet it chooses to lengthen its journey, to sweep along the the valley like a sparkling snake, taking its time, savouring the extra twists and turns. Do you believe in omens? I do, I believe anything, and object, any incident can be interpreted to become some sign that relates to your life.

The occasional doggie, crossing the road completely brown in colour because of the monsoon. Where the population is dense enough, ( a cluster of houses), a couple of chickens scurrying along the side of the road. We passed many bullocks standing tall, tethered to their carts, at full height even taller than our car. Feels so weird, seeing there powerful creatures being tamed by humans who are plainly a lot weaker. Maybe it is a matter of convenience, you scratch my back, I scratch yours. You ensure I live a secure life, and I will serve you with all that I have.

And then comes the most pleasantly surprising sight. A group of at least 20 girls, dressed in the most funny uniform that I have seen, but nevertheless, obviously on their way to school. 20 girls! That must be the entire girl population of the village, all traipsing along the road, that doesn’t have a building in sight for at least 4-5 Kilometers. What does education mean to these people? Only one of these girls will probably see any city, or live a life that does not involve her village. Then why do you need an education? I realized with a shock how difficult it must be for the Government to plan out the education of a country where on one hand, you have students murdering other students with guns stolen from their parents, and on the other hand there are these 20 girls, walking up and down two hills and valleys to get to their school. What does a good education mean to me? It means I can call myself an Engineer, that I can apply my talents and hopefully enrich my lifestyle, and my standards of behavior and living, along with doing my bit for the society. It also means another obvious thing – A means of making money; of making a place for myself in the rat race, or rather, developing a career. But what does it means to these people. It is here that education takes its true meaning – Progress. They need to know how to handle a bank account, about how the world functions, about what rights they lawfully have. They need to know how to handle transactions. They are not thinking of careers, they are thinking of adapting and progressing.

All in all, I see nothing dusty or sleepy about villages. All I see, is a source a peace and calm, and a certain fresh approach to living. Is this what they call waking up and smelling the roses?

Foreigners in Goa

Disclaimer: I am not writing this post to make any sort of judgment over the death of Scarlett Keeling. What happened to her was wrong, but who was to blame will never be certain.

I have seen four kinds of foreigners in Goa.

The ones that look like they have been staying here for a while. These are people who look extremely comfortable with wearing what everyone around them is wearing, you have to look at them twice to really see that they don’t come from around here. They are spotted more in art exhibitions and music shows rather than on the beaches. They carry diaries and journals rather than cameras and bottled water. These are usually people with genuine interest in Goa and its culture. Many of them stay in Goa to learn some kind of art; some form of music (i think an extraordinarily large number are fascinated with the sitar). Be it a way to get away from the bland lifestyle of the west or way to start a new life, they are really interested in staying here for a while. They also know the ways of the land they are living in. They make sure they don’t leave their 15 year old daughters alone on the beach full of rowdy drunk men after dinner time, or that they don’t attend late night shows without arranging for transport.

The other type is the hippies. Everyone knows of Goa’s reputation as the haven of drug users and rave parties. These parties are often misunderstood for what they are not, but it is true, that it is a dangerous affair in all. These ear, nose (and god knows what else)-pierced people roam the beach strip on enfeild bullets and bikes. Most of them appear harmless to someone as gullible(giggle) as me, but frankly I know as much about them as I know about Goas nightlife. (which is to say I know nothing at all), so i’d better shut my mouth right here.

The third kind are the ones that roam the streets of panjim wearing shorts and cotton kurtas, looking not quite so comfortable in their Indian clothes, but willing to try and blend in, in order to observe Goa and its lifestyle more closely. To my imaginative (and modest ) brain, they are the journalists, they will probably go back home and publish a book or showcase a documentary on Goa and its culture.

The last kind are the tourists. The lost expressions show they have not done their homework. The revealing bikinis that they wear while walking on the busy(or not so busy after all) streets of our cities, show how negligent they are of the fact that they are standing out. Their bright red tans show they are here to enjoy to their utmost. These people don’t really care about being polite or clean or anything else, they are here to have a good time and go back to their land with tans to show off the tropical country that they visited.

To wind up, a few pointers:

• Goa is and always will be the most peaceful and calm place that I have seen.
• Tourists: (especially Indian) Do dive in and frolic in the water on your first few days here, then try sitting calmly by the beach and sipping coconut water.
• Foreigners: Come here to find yourself, not some fantasy land.
• Media: The things because of which you label Goa unsafe happen out on the streets in your metro cities too. It is unfair that they dont make headlines then.
• Goa needs the tourists for revenue, the tourists need Goa to have the best time in their lives. It is symbiosis. Both sides are to blame for anything that goes wrong, and both will be affected equally.
• To the culprits: Think before you cut off the hand that feeds you.
• To the visitors: This is a place where you will get some of the most pleasant and hospitable people. It is a statistical fact that the tourists and visitors produce more garbage and human waste in Goa than the residents do. Th least you visitors can do is take care of yourself and this beautiful land around you.

TRPs

I watched MTV Roadies Season 4 with a lot of interest. I hated Bani for all her gimmicks. But is that not what got the attention of all the young people watching the show? Was that not the very reason I kept watching. To watch in hope that she will be kicked out? On the other hand, the other half of the youth was watching to root for her, hoping she would win. The point here is we were all watching. The point is they got a lot of TRP. (You can see what TRP actually is here )

Whether I like to admit it or not, I was hooked to the show, and so I will be to the 5th season too. It is shocking, yes, horrifying, yes, but it is entertaining. The politics and scandalous behaviour, are of course only one part of the show, the tasks and the locations are on the other hand wonderful. And I guess the team behind the show will be working very hard to make it more and more interesting. Ultimately how much of these self proclaimed reality shows is real is very much uncertain…(we have the Rakhee Sawant fiasco with nach baliye to prove that)  which only helps in the rumour mills and suspense building, which in turn again increases the TRP. No wonder one the of the contestants wrote on her form… Whether it is negative of positive, I like attention and I can make sure your TRP stays high if I get chosen…. surprisingly, she was not chosen.

What disturbs me is the kind of India these people portray.
Q. If you could cheat on your girlfriend/boyfriend and knew for sure you would not get caught, would you do it?
Q. If sleeping with your boss could get you promotion, would you do it?

That is outrageous! How many of Indian youth sitting at home watching the show even have a girlfriend/boyfriend? Why give the impression that it is a cool thing to indulge in infidelity or sex? And some nuts out there auditioning will actually say yes to the above questions, hoping that their answers have enough attitude to get them selected. Maybe the questions are there just to pick out who these nuts are and see if they are interesting enough to be on the show. Who knows? But it is horrifying all the same. But horrifying enough to keep me watching!! But the problem is maybe I think about it and laugh later, but there are many out there who idolize Bani. The same Bani, who by the end of the show was screaming out for her shrink. (thats a psychiatrist, for those who didnt know)

My mother gets angry too, she asks me why I have to watch shows that have to insert a beep every five minutes to what the contestants or sometimes even the judges are saying. My answer is…I really like the tasks, and the dynamic politics is interesting. What is it in saas  bahu sagas that interests aunties and grannys (not to mention quite a few uncles and grandpas)?? I would never understand. Similarly the elders would not understand whyI get horrified with the show and yet keep watching. At the end of the day it is about entertainment, TRPs and fame. Everyone is happy. Well almost everyone!

The Potpourri

NOTE:

1) No intentions of hurting an sentiments.
2) No intentions of generalizing or making judgments.
3) Based only on my experience, on the people I know and meet.

A few days ago when my exams were going on the door bell rang unexpectedly in the afternoon. I answered the door to find two tall boys not much older than me, appearing to be from well to do and respectable families. They asked if anyone was home; that they wanted to preach to us about the Bible. I said nobody was home other than me and closed the door. After closing the door, it struck me if I should have asked them what they would have said if I knocked on their door asking them to give me a chance to teach them the preachings of the Gita or tell them about the miracles from the Mahabharat. But then I thought about it…would I do that in the first place? Do I believe in my faith strongly enough to believe firmly that I would be doing good to others by telling them about my beliefs? Is it really about how strongly you believe in your faith?

One thing I really admire about all my Christian friends and acquaintances (or catholic? Really sorry for my ignorance, but I really dont understand the difference…I tried to find out, but was not really successful) is that they are always pleasant. They are always smiling. They are always charming. I really like that. No matter what their mood is, what the circumstances are, they always make sure their manner is pleasant. Its a thing worth admiring. It starts seeming a little too good to be true, a little fake after a while, but after spending some time with my friends, I have realised this is just one part of the values they have been taught about. That appearances matter. All their functions and ceremonies too, very much unlike most Hindu ceremonies that I have seen and experienced; are pleasant and soothing. Cheerful and calm, rather than pompous and noisy. But why the superiority? The firm belief that Jesus and the Bible will help you more than any other thing can.

I am Hindu. I am neither a critic nor a preacher of my religion. It might be dangerous to write something like this, but I do believe that our scriptures talk more of evil than good. Of treachery, of dirty politics, of manipulation. Of questioning the sanctity of women, asking them to prove their purity. Having said that I admire my religion for many things too. First of all I think we are the most pampered. No compulsion of visiting the temple on (say) Sundays or Fridays. I think hygiene and health are concepts well taught by my religion. The stress on bathing before going to a temple or taking shoes off before entering make scientific sense to me. ( The Ganga is too polluted now, but the concept still makes sense. Although I think we should just keep the kumbh mela out of this discussion).

One of my closest friends is a Muslim. And this fact never really struck me as a glaring reality. It takes a Da Vinci Code to remind you that our neighbor with whom you share so many novels is a Christian. Similarly, it takes riots in Sanvordem to make you realize the guy sitting next to you is a Muslim, and he might be going through many many small things in his life everyday, to remind him of that; but it never really strikes the others. One thing I learned about his religion from him is the priorities they have. It is not compulsion, it is with full willingness and true faith that they fast rigorously for month, or pray five times a day whenever they can. It is just a way of life. I was too young back then to remember anything about the 92 Mumbai blasts, and I did not live in Mumbai when there were the train blasts last year. And so I might have a different way of looking at things, but i was talking to a friend of mine from Mumbai and she has lost some good friends in the blasts. She said every time a lady in a burkha enters the ladies compartment in the local trains, her heart skips a beat and she prays that she is innocent. She said : Not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims. That gave me such a shock!! It was so unfair!! First of all that is not entirely true. And the HOW can you generalize things in this way? How will you move on if you keep suspecting everyone? All i know is that i can take the liberty of saying I know my muslim friend extremely well and I JUST CANNOT think of him doing anything even minutely cruel. They why should he and his community be judged like that? Would that not push him even more into the corner and make him believe even more that he is different? You know what? I enjoy spending time with my friends and we have a jolly good time too. And the happiness we get and memories we share are too precious to be marred by something like this, to be influenced by the misunderstandings and cruelties of the past.

Finally I think we are lucky to be living in this potpourri of people. To be living in a society that is so rich with cultures and values. I thank God ( all forms of him/her) for giving us all this.

I will end by saying this. I believe in Ganapati, and not in Jesus or Allah because I was born in a family that prays to Ganapati. I think very very few of us have had the personal choice of choosing what to believe. Not that it has been forced upon us, but thats just one thing you cannot control…you cannot choose where you were born. I would almost be an atheist, but I do believe in that certain power. I believe in that higher authority out there, that just might be pulling some of the strings, if not all of them. I am friends with God. I believe he/she knows what is going on in my life, when I go to the temple, I go to seek peace and calm. I dont go to the temple only before the exams to ask for good marks. When I pray, I dont ask for anything. I just say I respect you and you know everything; just give me strength, and I will do the rest.

Shubha Deepavali

My valiant attempt at a decent rangoli. Here’s wishing everyone a happy, safe, and prosperous Diwali.

A Different Sunday

Went out roaming this Sunday. Did some of the exploring my beloved goa that I had mentioned earlier. First we went to some old deserted forts, some which even the locals living there don’t know about.How can people stay next to monuments which are so involved in making history, and don’t even know about it? Well we went to some forts built by the Portuguese in th 1700’s, so that other conquerers, mainly the Dutch and the neighboring maratha and mughal emperors could not invade their territory. One thing that I learned about forts is that most of them have sloping ramps instead of steps. It makes the construction a lot more complicated, but the ramps are needed to haul the heavy machinery needed to make gun-powder and of course the cannons themselves up into the fort. We were lucky to have two Central Government Archaeologists with us, so we even had access to some areas restricted to normal tourists when we visited some of the more popular forts. Here are some pics that I took: click on the pictures to see them.

(L to R- A wall of the fort around which a banyan tree had spread itself; the kind of paths that we walked on; a cave that we found)

(L to R- A lily that my father picked for me; view from the lighthouse on fort aguada; a friend holding up a flower called agnishikha. This flower’s petals turn a full 180 degrees when it’s completely open. Hence, you can see the pollen outside and the petals inside..he is holding it upside down to prove the point. The flower is used to induce labour pains during pregnancy. Here’s all the information about the flower that I could find)

This is the most special part of the day’s adventures. Aguada in Portuguese means water reservoir. That’s exactly what was special about this fort apart from it’s prison cells and lighthouse. This underground water “tank” (so to say) has the capacity to store 23,76,000 gallons, thats is one crore and 6 laks litres of natural rain water. Seems like that the invading Portuguese knew more about the importance of natural rain water harvesting that us. The hole on top through which light is flooding in is one of the many ways the rain water flows into the tank.

All in all, it was a very different Sunday for me.

Miramar again

Miramar

Boy do I love the land I live in!