My 10-year-old nephew's essay

 

The autobiography of a pencil

Hi. I am a pencil. I was born in a factory. We pencils have only one thing to do throughout our lives. That one thing is writing and we love to do it. The best part is we're born with the talent of writing. Before I was put in my box and sent to a shop, my father told me I have to go through painful sharpenings but they are for my own good and for me to write better and now I have realized how true that is. I live in a pencil box with a sharpner, an eraser, a ruler and a pen. By now, you will be wondering what I write on. You guessed it! I write on paper and in books. The pencil box I live and all these books are put in a bag and we are taken to a place called school. The thing about pencils is as we grow older, we shrink. I change pencil boxes every now and then. There are many types of pencil boxes that come in different colours. Looks like I'm shifting so I guess this is goodbye for now. See you next time.

 

The Buffalo Soldier law

In a move that has created a controversy of epic proportions, the Indian government today changed the national animal from tiger to buffalo through a backdoor ordinance that was not sent to the houses for a vote. Dubbed the “Buffalo Soldier” law, the ordinance takes immediate effect. Utter chaos prevailed on the streets of every major city and town as the bewildered new national animals were paraded by their owners in celebratory processions. Stampedes were reported from at least 13 places in which 10 buffaloes and twice the number of people have lost their lives. The topic is trending on Twitter.

It all began when 7 buffaloes belonging to a minister staged a walkout from the minister’s well guarded farm. They were protesting the maltreatment of human beings in the minister’s hometown. The buffaloes belong to a group called AETP (Animals for the Ethical Treatment of People). The animals were traced and brought back after a massive manhunt by PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). The grateful minister has sworn to ban AETP as a “rogue outlaw oufit.” It is reliably learnt that the AETP responded to the news by releasing unprecedented amounts of methane into the atmosphere. In the national capital, the Chief Minister’s brooms are finally being put to use. When asked whether the AETP could not be enlisted to help trace dozens of missing children in his hometown, the minister dead-panned, “What children?”

Meanwhile, a relatively unknown tiger group called ISH (I’m Still Here) has petitioned the President against the “grave injustice and racial discrimination” and has threatened to take to the streets to have the ordinance reversed. Tiger activists are reportedly excited and hope to finally stop fudging their figures as the opportunity presents itself for a transparent census. When asked to comment, the Prime Minister was typically sagacious, “In a democracy, all voices must be heard,” he intoned. “Be thankful we haven’t gone to the dogs,” he added demurely.

The hills are alive...(and so am I)

After driving through some of the most spectacular hairpin bends in the Western Ghats (nine in all), we realized our resort in Waynad, didn’t want to be found. It was buried almost 10 km in the deep forests hundreds of meters up in the mountains. We overshot it the first time around because there’s no board to announce it as you’re coming in. We kept driving because the driver belonged to the male of the species and it was a blow to his ego to ask someone if we were lost though I kept gently (by my definition) suggesting to him that it did look like we were lost. By the time he made up his mind to swallow his pride and pop the question, we had driven to what seemed like the ends of the earth. When he stopped finally and asked “Which way to Kannampatta?” the guy answered with a question: “Kannampattay-yo? Why have you come HERE?” Believe me, that’s the last thing you want to hear. If we knew the answer to that question, we wouldn’t ask him. Then he said, “It’s all the way back there.” A sweeping wave of his hand suggested it could be anywhere in Asia (or Africa). “Do we have to turn back?” I asked the driver and it took every ounce of effort not to say “I told you so.” “Just for a bit,” he muttered under his breath and I’m sure it took every ounce of his effort not to say “Now, shut up and sit back till I get you seriously lost again.” He drove for what seemed to be forever before he spotted the board announcing the resort had been found – I’ve never seen a happier man. But that’s because he didn’t know what lay in store. Unknown to the unsuspecting driver, it would be another 10 km after it was found that the resort would actually be found.

We entered the forests through a road that seemed two fingerbreadths wide – it was the narrowest path I’ve ever seen anywhere. It looked like it could accommodate nothing more than one horse. Thick woods, mud hills, rocks on one side and sheer drops on the other. This was the only entrance into the resort and - like we found out to our horror, later – the only exit as well. We were driving on what might as well have been a rope and hoping an ant wouldn’t approach. If a walker came from the other side, we had four choices: a) He could climb over our car and keep walking. b) We could reverse 5 km with him riding on our hood or roof, to deposit him outside the trail. c) He could walk backwards 5 km because there wasn’t enough space for him to turn around. d) Or we could do the easiest thing: run over him – in which case he would literally and metaphorically pass over to the other side. If a car came from the other side, we had one choice: head butt it off the cliff. I made a mental note to tell the resort that they must ferry their guests either on mules or horses, but if the horse were to meet a fellow horse coming from the opposite direction, we were done for; one of them would have to jump over the other or walk backwards all the way. I finally understood why Tarzan was a happy man.

The driver sighed and giggled alternately and sometimes emitted a sound between a sigh and a giggle that meant “I’d love to simply stop the car right here, get down, and run away, you nut jobs.” And then it happened. To our collective horror, there was a car headed straight for us, from the opposite direction – apparently leaving the resort. “This is a new car. This is my first trip in the new car,” the driver whimpered. It was directed at God. Then he turned to us. “This is a new car,” he told us. “Congratulations!” I said brightly and sensed immediately it was the worst possible thing to say. I couldn’t read his face. Let’s just say he wasn’t happy. (Let’s also say if looks could kill, you would be reading my obituary now instead.) When the other car got close enough, our driver put his head out and yelled, “This is a new car,” “Oh,” the other fellow said, his face registering impending doom, “can you go closer on your side?” “Can I? Yes, I can if I can drive up the mountains vertically, otherwise I can’t,” our driver snapped testily. “This is a new car” he said to no one in particular. “Well, the only way I can go any closer on MY side is if I plunged off the mountain,” the other driver murmured thoughtfully. We waited with bated breath but he changed his mind.

Then began the finest demonstration of negotiations I’ve ever witnessed - these guys ought to be our diplomats in Pakistan, they’d do a fantastic job. With great politeness they directed each other where to turn, how to reverse, what to avoid and after what can only be described as 15 minutes of death dance, two cars miraculously passed on the bicycle track. I’m sure the road must’ve expanded – there’s NO WAY the cars would’ve passed otherwise. By now, our driver was perspiring freely in the chilly hillside forest. But he was a happy man. At least for a while. After we’d gone about 300 meters, out of nowhere a calf darted out. It saw the car and began prancing around trying to climb up the steep slope, sliding back, hopping around (I think on two legs) and generally acting cute and confused. “This is a new car,” our driver told the prancing calf and turned off the engine and leaned on the horn. The sound drove the calf crazy and it began darting about wildly like its tail was on fire. “Don’t jump on my car,” the driver begged the calf. “This is a new car.” “He will if you keep up with the honking,” I told him cheerfully and he quickly got off the God awful sound. And just like that, out of thin air, a man materialized with a lasso and began chasing the calf. It was a wild goose chase for the longest time as the man crouched, lunged, and sprinted trying to lasso the calf which kept bleating like a lamb as it ducked and dodged him expertly. After a while everyone forgot who was chasing whom. I think the calf forgot too and that’s how he got caught. The man folded himself and the calf and they stuffed themselves into the woods so we could pass and so it came to pass that nature, man, beast, a new car and a harassed driver delivered us into the lovely mountains of Waynad.

The flavour of the season: Mango!

I had sworn I wouldn’t write on politics ever again on my blog but I’m thrilled to eat my words now that Aam Admi Party has given both the major political parties a licking they’re unlikely to forget as long as they live, in the Delhi Assembly polls. And just when you thought it couldn’t get more bizarre, we now have all 3 parties holding the door open for one another to form the government. If all that the AAP has managed to do is to civilize the Congress and BJP whose high-pitched snarling has made this pre-poll season one of the dirtiest ever in living memory, it’s worth it. Serendipity couldn’t be sweeter. The BJP and Congress are now referring to each other as (get this!) “friends”, “my good friend”, “my colleague who I hold in high esteem” (insert joke here) and other such wonderful sobriquets. On television channels: the same television channels, the same anchors (who used every ounce of their own lung power to keep the two parties straining on their leashes, in their corners), the same TV audience whose dinner was ruined night after night by these same “friends” who behaved like they’d forgotten to take their anti-psychotic medication before coming out in public.

The most curious outcome of AAP’s win is this new found romance that is amusing the hell out of news anchors and viewers alike. From being a warring couple who couldn’t agree on anything, the two parties now can’t seem to disagree on anything. And they’ve teamed up to try and rush the Lokpal Bill through as well. All this is rip-roaringly funny of course. But the funniest of all is the position that the “mango men” find themselves in; when you make your bed, you have to lie in it. They remind me of a stunned guy with the deer-caught-in-headlights look, suddenly pushed out on stage from behind the curtain before the actual play starts. And the newly married couple (Congress and BJP) are like the real actors who can’t go out there and pull him back. But they can’t come out on stage and begin their play either. The guy who is on stage has gone into deep freeze. The spotlight is on him. The audience is cheering wildly. But the audience is equally confused and scratching its collective head (“Tell me again, what exactly is the guy doing?”) So, nobody knows what to do. Everyone is waiting to see who blinks first. There has been an election but nobody wants to rule, everyone wants to sit on the bench, so there’s no one in the driver’s seat.

This has to be the best make-it-up-as-you-go story.

Excerpt from Chapter 10 of Home with God by Neale Donald Walsch

Why do we have to reach out to you before you reach out to us? If you really are an all-knowing God, then you must know when we need help. If you really are an all-merciful God, then you must be willing to offer that help – without our asking. If we are already on our knees, bent over in utter defeat, why must we grovel even more and plead with you to rescue us? If you are an all-loving God, why don’t you love us enough to help us without us having to beg you?

And while we’re at it, what do you say to those who would tell you, “I have called out to you, and you have not been there! Do you think I have not asked for God’s help? For God sake, why do you think I’m so desperate! I’m so desperate because it seems like God has let me down! I’m utterly deserted here. And I want none of it anymore. I’m done. Finished. Through.”

What do you say to that person, huh?

                I say...

                I want you to consider now the possibility of a miracle. There is a reason why you have not experienced receiving a solution from me, but that reason is not important in this moment. What is important in this moment is for you to consider the possibility that now, right now in front of you, there is an answer. Open your eyes and you will see it. Open your mind and you will know it. Open your heart and you will feel that it is there.

                I say...

                Only if you call out to me in absolute knowing will you be aware that your answer has been given you. Because it is what YOU know, what YOU feel, and what YOU declare that will be true in your experience. If you call out to me in hopelessness, I will be there, but your despair may blind you, and block you from seeing me.

                I say...

                Nothing you have done is so horrible, nothing you have had happen to you is so beyond repair, that it cannot be healed. I can and shall make you whole again.

                Yet you must stop judging yourself. The one making the strongest judgment is you. Others may judge you from the outside looking in, but they do not know you, they do not see you, and so their judgments are not valid. Do not make them valid by taking them on as your own. They have no meaning.

                Do not wait for others to see you as you really are, for they see you through the eyes of their own pain. Know, instead, that I see you now, in wonder and in truth, and that what I see of you is Perfect. As I look upon you I have but one thought: “This is my beloved, in whom I am well pleased.”

                I say...

                Forgiveness is not necessary in the Kingdom of God. God cannot be offended or damaged in any way. There is only one question of importance in the entire universe, and it has nothing to do with your guilt or innocence. It has to do with your identity. Do you know who you really are? When you do, all thoughts of loneliness disappear; all ideas of unworthiness evaporate, all contemplations of hopelessness transmute into the wondrous awareness of the miracle that is your life. And of the miracle that is you.

                And finally, my beloved, I say...

                You are surrounded in this very moment by a hundred thousand angels. Accept, now, their ministrations. And then, pass their gifts on to others. For it is in giving that you shall receive, and it is in healing that you shall be healed. The miracle for which you have been waiting has been waiting for you. You will know this when you become the miracle that another awaits.

                Go then and perform your miracles, and allow your death to be the moment of your greatest glory, not an announcement of your greatest sorrow. Use death as a tool with which to create, not with which to destroy, with which to move forward, not with which to go back. In this choice will you have honoured Life Itself, and allowed Life to bring you your own grandest dream, even while you are living with your physical body: peace within your soul at last.

Six degrees of separation (or A toast to medical transcriptionists everywhere)

Imagine you’re an ill American patient. (Ok, imagine someone you don’t like – hereinafter referred to as ‘you’ – is an ill American patient.) You walk into a clinic/hospital, have your problem addressed, and leave (hopefully, not horizontally). You give no thought to who writes your report, what it contains, where it’s stored, how many people will look at it. You’re the patient, remember? You have enough troubles of your own. In the well-regulated American healthcare industry, you’re a crucial player. Your job is to fall sick and either stay sick or get well enough to fall sick all over again with great gusto. If you can’t fall sick, you can do other clever things like sawing off your thumb, getting shot in a drive-by shooting (formerly a crime, now a sport), dropping something heavy on your foot, dislocating your shoulder in a skiing accident…America is a land of infinite opportunities.

We’ve all heard how big the American healthcare industry is (12 billion US dollars at last count). Apart from you, the industry comprises medical facilities, doctors, non-doctor healthcare professionals, rehab facilities, pharmacies, insurance companies, and laws to govern everyone and everything. But you, dear sick patient, and all your fellow players, will collapse like a house of cards without me because I am the medical transcriptionist. I prepare your medical records and in that short time when I’m doing it, your life quite literally is in my hands. An accurate patient medical record is the link that connects all the dots in the healthcare industry and if there are only six degrees of separation, I’m the healthcare industry’s right arm.

As professions go, medical transcription must rank as one of the most intelligent and most demanding; it requires a wide range of premium skills such as research and logic/reasoning abilities, command over the English language, matchless typing skills, listening skills, medical knowledge in the areas of human anatomy, disease conditions, diagnostics, treatment, and pharmacology, and most of all a focused attention span of no less than a minimum of 7 hours – a minute’s distraction can literally prove fatal to a patient a continent away. Above all, it requires a commitment to lifelong learning. Transcriptionists not only must know almost as much medical language as a doctor, we must also be able to interpret the language of medicine accurately. We should be able to tell, for example, whether the patient needs a pill, a procedure, or a pastor by looking at his BNP. To prepare an accurate medical record and return it to its owner within its deadline, transcriptionists must synchronize all these skills perfectly every single minute on the job.

But despite our skills and technological advances, we still rely on a human voice talking to us from 10,000 miles away, to create a patient record – this is a transcriptionist’s greatest challenge. Though we’re service providers for the American healthcare industry, we actually service a global community of doctors who speak English in their own native tongues. Doctors not only come in different accents, they come in different moods, with varied dictation styles, dictating from you don’t want to know where. After a long tiring day spent listening to other people’s miseries, physicians are not exactly thrilled to dictate them into a recorder; they fumble, yawn, rasp, growl, whisper and sleepwalk their way through reports; regardless of how chaotic their dictations are, what they expect to sign is a well-researched, well-punctuated, grammatically sound medical document – a document that will be referred by their colleagues, filed for insurance claims, quoted by medical personnel, relied on by pharmacies, and hopefully never picked up by a lawyer.

Most times, we take our challenges in our stride and our skills for granted. The nature of our trade demands that we strive for perfection every single minute on the job, and we rise to the occasion more often than not. As medical transcriptionists, we’re acutely aware that our reports are not just about lines and deadlines – they are human stories, most of which are unfortunate and deeply disturbing. When we return quality work to our clients, we’re actually respecting the dignity of a faceless, sick patient. Sometimes, we forget what a vital role we play in patient healthcare and treatment planning and how much doctors depend on us to do their jobs well. What it takes to deliver a 99% accurate report is 110% of ourselves - that's what we bring to our profession every day. That's something we can be very proud of.

"Where's the patient, Ma'am?"

PART I - ADMISSION
"Where's the patient, Ma'am?" the girl behind the desk asked me politely.
"I'm the patient, Ma'am," I smiled.
"Oh...are you alone?" she asked looking around.
"Not if you count the other 10,542 patients you're housing right now in your hospital," I said smiling.
"But why have you come alone? Why didn't you bring someone with you?"
"Because I'm the only one I know who needs hospitalization at this point in time."
"Oh..." she said again uncertainly, "so you're admitting yourself?"
"Surprise, surprise..." I said cheerfully giving her my best grin.
"Are you ill?" She looked worried, like I could be dangerously ill and she wouldn't know.
"No," I said, "just blind...in this eye" I pointed to my right eye.
"Oh!" her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened in terror - like I had told her SHE was blind. "Why didn't you tell me, Ma'am?" she asked.
"I told you just now."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because you didn't ask me before."
"Madam," she said somewhat irritated at the witless exchange "I don't go around asking people 'Are you the patient and are you blind?' "
"Madam," I said "I don't go around telling people "I'm Aparna and I'm blind."

PART II - INPATIENT
"Where's the patient, Ma'am?" asked the nurse politely as she wheeled in the IV.
I pointed to myself, smiled and waved.
"Oh! Why are you walking around? Can you lie down? Why have you not changed into the hospital gown? Where is your attender?"
"Which question should I answer first?" I asked her.
"Madam, please change your clothes and lie down, I have to start the IV. Please tell your attender to come in. Doctor will come in now and he will want to speak with your attender."
"I'm the attender," I said.
She looked at me like I'd said I'm Mickey Mouse. "You said just now you're the patient," she said accusingly.
"I'm the patient and the attender," I said "Are we good now?"
"Who is with you?" she asked me and she was unnecessarily loud.
"You" I said very softly.
She gave me the I-want-to-hit-you-now look. "Where is your husband?" she demanded and I thanked my stars I didn't have one.
"I don't have one," I said.
"You're not married?" she asked incredulously "But your chart says you're 41!"
"How time flies," I said cheerfully.

PART III - MRI
"Sit in the wheelchair Ma'am, we're taking you to MRI," the bored wheelchair pusher yawned.
"I can walk, I don't need a wheelchair," I said and began walking.
"Sit in the wheelchair!!!" he said firmly, "you can't walk into the MRI room."
"Why not?" I asked perplexed.
He fixed me with a steely glare "Because you might not be able to walk back, you might be unsteady when you come out of the MRI machine."
"In that case, why don't YOU sit in the wheelchair and I'll push. We can swap on the return ride," I said smiling.
"Sister!!" he called "patient is refusing to sit in the wheelchair, sister," he whined.
"Patient is refusing to sit in the wheelchair sister," I mimicked in a soft sing-song under my breath and sat.
"Why would I be unsteady? We're not going on the Ferris wheel, are we? I know what an MRI is, okay?" I grumbled as he wheeled me whistling softly.

PART IV - POST-DISCHARGE
"Where's the patient, Ma'am?"
"I'm the patient, Ma'am" I was at the hospital pharmacy buying supplies for my infusion.
"Oh...so this IV is for you?"
"Bingo!"
"Do you know the infusion will take 4 hours? Why have you come alone?"
"Yes, I know the infusion will take 4 hours and that's exactly why I've come alone."
She looked a little miffed "We encourage patients to bring somebody with them; if something happens, we won't be responsible."
"Believe me, if something happens, you will be responsible and I will sue you," I said smiling.

MORAL OF STORY: Always wear a T-shirt that says "I'm the patient"....when you're going on the Ferris wheel.

Jog, incidentally

The four famous falls of Jog: Raja, Rocket, Roarer and Rani (in order - from left)

The swirling mist that rolls around the four falls

To understand the meaning of futility, you must try to describe in the written word, the beautiful fury of nearly 900-foot waterfalls plunging down in cascading roars – it’s absolutely futile. I’m sure there is a language sans words for everything not manmade – I just don’t know it. It’s not just Jog’s four famous falls but the whole spectacle – the sudden changes in landscape and climate as you near the falls, the sleet rain, the thick swirling mist that covers and uncovers the four falls in a dramatic “now you see me, now you don’t” playfulness that takes your breath away. But Jog is only the destination, incidental to the whole experience of the journey.
 

There’s no better season (and no better reason) to visit the Malenaad region than during the monsoon when nature is renewing herself, and as a side effect, stirring hope in the souls of her audience. The road to Jog gives you one of the most spectacular window-seat views of ever-changing terrain – a startling field of sunflowers dazzling in full bloom, the freshest green of just cultivated paddy fields, dark and broodingly ominous hills turning and running away out of the crosshairs of your camera lens. The scale and beauty of the terrain is enhanced a thousand fold by the silence. The silence touches you deeply – in some forgotten corner of your spirit - and the vastness of the silence stops you in your tracks. No beeps and clicks and horns and mindless chatter - the general jarring cacophony of daily life - nature has pulled the plug in one fell swoop. You don’t need to meditate. You’re part of nature’s meditation. It is in silence that she creates, sustains, regenerates, hopes, and yearns. Nature is constantly doing all of this – in stratospheric proportions: flaming dawns and mellow twilights, rainbows that span the horizon, entire forests in rebirth, brooks and streams that sustain and renew everything they touch for hundreds of miles, thousands of birds migrating a thousand miles uncannily guided by an internal GPS – and all of them perfectly quiet, their movement in their stillness, their grandeur in their subtlety, their imposing majesty in their humility.

In the countryside, nature seems to yawn at Life’s dramas. She simply couldn’t care a hang. “Okay –Lord of the Animal Kingdom - get over it and get on with it,” she seems to say “...and come to me when you’re done.” The thought makes me want to curl up and lick my wounds. It’s liberating to know that there are spheres where I simply don’t matter – in fact, from nature’s perspective, I’m completely irrelevant. A speck in the grand scheme of things. How’s that for a humbling weekend lesson?

At Inchara

Sunset at Chithritha

At Chithritha

So, sue me

In the rape capital of India, a young woman was gang-raped in a moving bus, beaten up, stripped, and thrown out of the bus.

That moving bus.....that's India
The woman who was raped, stripped, beaten up and thrown out.....that's us "We the People" of India
The rapists.....no prizes for guessing
The gang rape...well....in India, we call it governance

So, sue me

KONY 2012

Unforgettable Whitney

It was as a freshie on Freshers' Day in college 23 years ago that I first heard Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)." The foot tapping music had me hooked, less for the music itself and more because it matched so perfectly the electric atmosphere on that bright June morning.  And so it has been with Whitney - a career that created a perfect song for every phase in a woman's life with unfailing faithfulness that said "I'm Every Woman" and here's the perfect song for you, for now...Anyone could sing with Whitney, anytime, anywhere in the world. Every one of her songs was poignant and hopeful at the same time. Every one of her songs was a woman. When you listen to "Where Do Broken Hearts Go", "I Will Always Love You", or "The Greatest Love of All," you'll never know what you feel, but you will know that you have been touched in a way that you cannot possibly articulate into words.  They are deeply moving renditions of the human condition that linger and haunt long after the last note has been played and the last word has been sung - a hidden promise of something unspoken and something unknown.


It's difficult to think of Whitney as an "entertainer" though it was a treat to watch her sing. She sang with complete honesty - something no "entertainer" can afford to do. Her songs seemed to come from deep inside her soul bursting out of her being with a magnetic power that was startling in its effortlessness.  Her controlled, neat, minimalistic movements on stage were gracefully dignified but not delicate.   She showed up so completely in her songs that she seemed to live every human experience, every emotion in every song that she sang. As she stood still and sang with her entire being, the audacity of her naked vulnerability exuded a restrained power that was fascinating to watch.

A Diva with a monkey on her back. Thank you for the music, Whitney.

Rajasthan

 

Hawa Mahal

"So how was Rajasthan?" my friends ask and I find myself reaching for the next hyperbolic adjective. I've run out of them. There can never be an elevator pitch for Rajasthan because it's not a destination - it's an experience that you cannot quite get your head around completely when you're living it. It steals on you, gets under your skin, and quietly settles in your bones. Everyone who's visited Rajasthan told me "there's so much to see" and they were not wrong. The sights are spellbinding - majestic forts, royal palaces, vibrant colours, startling terrain. But it's not just the "seeing" - it's what the eye that beholds does to the senses. Rajasthan is a feast for the senses. All your senses are heightened in this land where the colours are brighter, the smells sharper, the flavours richer...and the sun definitely hotter. Rajasthan brings you alive in gently intense slow motion that is exhilarating. The bewitching beauty of ancient times is casually strewn around in happy coexistence with the unaesthetic necessary evils of modern India.

Diwan-i-Khas (Sheesh Mahal)

Char Bag (overlooking Sheesh Mahal)



Passion and pathos immortalized in stories of love, betrayal, separation, death, and war have all found expression in beauty and grace in the halls of royal palaces and on the walls of gravity-defying forts. Rajasthan is a dramatic tapestry of designs, colours, and stories. The incredibly talented native Rajasthani keeps the tapestry alive - a living, breathing, moving thing of beauty with a mysterious smoke-and-mirrors playfulness that teases visitors. You're never sure in Rajasthan what era of history your moment inhabits. You're always in a revolving door wondering if Time took a wrong turn in Destiny's lane. Visitors will sense an unmistakable reluctance in the native Rajasthani to embrace modern India wholeheartedly. Largely rustic and inexorably steeped in tradition, the natives are quietly proud of their exotic Mughal and Marwar mix of ancestry - the beautiful fusion evident in customs, dress, architecture, language, and food. This subtle yet rich mix of two of India's most influential religions - Islam and Hinduism - is a symbol of centuries of hope and endurance.

Aravalli mountain range

You will not find the impatience of modern India in Rajasthan. A laidback, graceful, and unhurried culture, patience seems to be the hallmark of every undertaking - you only have to look at the intricate architecture to know: breath-taking filigree work, carved marble pillars, intricately painted ceilings, latticed windows, mirror and stained-glass wall panels - the architectural detail and delicacy and the weight of its history is overwhelming. There is no concept of Time in Rajasthan - only Timelessness and Eternity: a fort built in the 12th century over 16 generations, another that housed an entire city inside its confines (Jaisalmer) where people continue to live inside to this day, a temple built over 65 years, a lake constructed in the 14th century all stand in their state of grace smirking at modern India's crumbling misadventures in infrastructure. Which is why the local Rajasthani is not easily surprised or impressed. His character is shaped by reverence to his history, tradition, Royalty, and his land, so history is a not a one-night stand that he wears on his sleeve for a gawking visitor. Rather, it governs the way he lives, communicates, and interacts. He understands that the visitor will never comprehend the complexities of this rich culture by walking through its forts and riding on camel backs, and his response at best is a condescending shrug and an invitation to taste his delectable Rajasthani thaali.

 

But, as with most of India, there is always the danger of romanticism in a visitor's travelogue. The ironies are hard to miss in Rajasthan. Life is hard in the punishing terrain. Amidst the wealth of centuries, there is heartbreaking poverty. There are many working children, old beyond their years, their young shoulders weighed down early with the cares of life that shouldn't be their burden. 

The Jain Temple

In Jaipur, cycle rickshaw drivers will offer to transport you to your destination for five rupees - yes, a despairing FIVE rupees! Yet, you don't see them begging. Work is seasonal. Heavily dependent on tourism, the men leave their homes to work in other states or bigger cities when the tourists go away. The society is noticeably male-dominated. Walking seems to be the chief means of transport though the distances are spectacular in India's largest piece of territory. Except for in Udaipur which has many water bodies, water is a precious commodity and quite scarce in other parts of Rajasthan.

Yet, as a race, the Rajasthanis are more graceful than stoic. They are very invested in their legacy - they continue to build in the architectural style of centuries past, they nurture the joint family tradition, professions are still passed down from generation to generation. They live unapologetically in a time warp.

There are many places you would want to go back to as a traveller. Rajasthan is not one of them - for if you go back, you might break the charmed spell it cast on you the first time around.

Taming 5-year-old class bullies

If you followed the tenor of the Jan Lokpal bill debate between parliamentarians and representatives of civil society, you would've noticed that what got the "leaders" collective goat was the temerity of mere mortals to question authority. Many members of parliament were deeply offended that ordinary citizens were sitting across the table from them and demanding accountability. Their sense of entitlement was outraged. It didn't help that representatives of civil society were calling them very colourful names - evidently, a privilege reserved for the house in session. Textbook cliches were pulled up, dusted, and aired with tiring frequency: "any attack on members of parliament is an attack on parliament itself" "all politicians are not corrupt" "they should apologise" "Parliament is supreme" and (my personal favourite) "let them contest elections." Why should a citizen have to contest an election to participate in a democracy? Should we be denied a voice because we are not in the governing class? A demcoracy allows citizens to demand accountability from its elected representatives - they may be boxing in the ring, but we not only put money on them but bought tickets for a ringside view as well, and we have every right to demand our money's worth. We need not get into the ring.

There is nothing impressive or substantive about the "Sense of the House" resolution. Thumping tables is a brain-dead and almost disrespectful way to endorse a resolution. Besides, the resolution offers practically nothing. It's a tepid "whatever" response to a show that was getting out of hand and needed to be quickly brought under control. Thump the table, break up the party, pull the plug on the media frenzy, and it's business as usual the morning after.

But the resolution is impressive and important for another reason: an innocuous-looking starving 74-year-old ordinary Indian citizen brought the administration to its knees. It is no mean feat that an old man from the dusty backroads of rural India pulled up the administration by its scruff and gave it a shakedown that rattled its teeth. Nothing Gandhian about that. Not when you place it within the context of the Indian social structure with its fiercely rigid pecking order that forbids any questioning of authority. In a society where the outcome of every interaction is directed by the power equation, a negotiating table is virtually unnecessary. Obedience to established structures, norms, and authority is supreme. Cultivation and nurturing of placid, unquestioning minds is a task that the Indian education system accomplishes with ease and pride. Our education system is not designed to be participative - none of our institutions are. We are not allowed to build the institutions to which we belong. Which is why we rarely ever belong. We only inhabit them for what they can give to us. We exist to follow orders. Unquestioningly. Because our culture celebrates and rewards "tell-me-what-to-do" mediocrity. Most of our institutions in both the private and the public sector are feudal organizations housed in 21st century buildings because unfortunately, regressive mindsets cannot be changed with legislation. Power-crazed 5-year-old class monitors hover like mother hens clucking admonishingly over their wards. People in positions of authority routinely talk down to people under them but refuse to be accountable themselves. An ordinary bank clerk sitting behind a counter will talk down to his customer simply because he believes he can.

Anna Hazare's roadshow has changed all that. The stubborn but cheerful rabble-rouser has inspired the Indian citizen to thumb his nose at a system that demands subservience and embrace the more egalitarian principles of democracy. A bellicose administration that ran around in circles for months chasing its own tail has finally run into an unexpected brick wall - not the beanbag that they had hoped to pummel into submission.

That's the beauty of democracy - you can stay out of the ring and still knock your opponent's lights out.

Double jeopardy

For a month now, the Indian television audience has been forced to ride shotgun on the most ridiculous debacle to have hit the idiot box in recent times - idiots seems to be crawling out of the woodwork (and the box) and into our living rooms "24/7"; apparently, no television channel is idiot proof and worse, imbecility seems to be contagious. A word about hunger strikes/fasts unto death: in a country like ours, millions of people including infants are on imposed "fasts unto death" because their elected representatives have looted them and ensured they stay hungry without a choice - hungry for food, hungry for employment, hungry for education, hungry simply for the dignity of life. Remember, this is a country where farmers (who feed the nation) are killing themselves because they can't eat. So, really no one is impressed by a starving lunatic.

The visual media has become an addictive drug for every maverick running loose on our streets because it doesn't take much to get yourself on television and set off fiery newsroom debates that over-the-top anchors fuel rather than moderate. Inside the safe confines of a television studio, everyone is a self-styled vigilante. While it's true that in a democracy every crackpot has the right to free speech and free antics, rights are accompanied by duties and responsibilities. If it is my right to gather one lakh people in a public space and scream myself hoarse with self-righteous anger about corruption (or "graft" as it has suddenly become fashionable to call it), it is my responsibility to understand the consequences of that gathering being broken up by trigger-happy thugs in uniform.

A cross-dressing yoga guru is not a strong contender for logic or common sense, especially in a country whose national character is hysteria. Sound and fury are always more important than substance in India (proof: Bollywood); it doesn't matter what you say - it's only where, when, and how loudly you say it that counts. This pan hysteria ensures that every potentially great revolution ends up in the dustbin of tokenism in this country and therein lies the double jeopardy: Indians are used to being betrayed by our elected representatives; now, it's clear our community leaders are intellectually impoverished as well and cannot be expected to provide any semblance of leadership that can direct the citizens to engage in meaningfully powerful and positive ways with the system that we're all part of and wish to change.

Any debate about corruption, lawlessness, or administrative inefficiency cannot be solely about governance - it's equally about the governed. It is fashionable to intellectualize in television studios and living rooms about why our country has gone to hell. We haven't just gone to hell - from the debates, it's apparent we've actually refurnished hell's living room with the most outrageously ridiculous news channels starring the frenzied "I'm completely out of time" anchors who seem to genuinely believe they're saving India from Indians and can do it with aplomb within their allotted 30 to 60-minute daily prime time slots. We talk about how endemic corruption is, how it's seeped into every institution in the country; it's the one phenomenon which has not just trickled down to the masses but has virtually swept the masses on its high tide. It's a reflection of how utterly hypocritical we are as a nation.

Indian citizens are some of the most selfish citizenry in the world. Our blinkered existence doesn't stretch beyond ourselves and our immediate families. We demand that the government look after us, clean up after us, pick up after us, police us, penalize us, provide for us and our single point argument for these demands is that we pay taxes. All our duties towards our communities end with this one noble martyr-like act: we pay taxes. Paying tax allows the Indian citizen to litter at will, spit, and urinate in public spaces without the burden of cleaning up after himself, it allows him to flout traffic rules, to find loopholes in every law that is framed, use the loopholes to circumvent the law, and then preach about the ineffectiveness of implementation, to bribe public officials to curry favours, to cheat fellowmen with impunity and at will and then to pontificate on television about "the system" and "the politicians."

Look at our cities: they're constantly raped and criticised. That is the extent of our involvement with urban governance; urban citizens think it's their God-given right to pillage resources unconditionally, treat the city with contempt, disobey its rules, trample on its culture, and yet reserve the right to prosper at its cost while using all the utilities it provides: food, shelter, employment, entertainment. People who will not make the effort to take themselves to the polling booth on polling day offer the most well-formed arguments for how things should be and why; people who let their precocious 15-year-old devils drive on the roads endangering the lives of other road users and then boast to family and friends about their ward's accomplishment, offer solutions for how traffic should be managed in the city; people who enjoy an icecream and discard the holder carelessly right where they are, foam at the mouth about how our cities are huge open garbage pits and the government is not doing enough to clean them up; people who bribe contractors and city development officials to illegally encroach on more than their fair share of land, hysterically placard and picket at any attempt to enforce the law against these illegal activities. We're completely blind to ourselves.

This is where community leaders can help - in waking us up, handing us a mirror and maybe the now famous cup of tea. A community leader - whether he's a guru, a bishop, or an imam - can wield a very strongly positive influence on his followers if he commands respect within his community. It's irrelevant whether non-believers consider his causes and motivations suspect - the fact is he has influence over his believers which places a great responsibility on his shoulders. He can choose to remain non-committal and nonchalant thus encouraging his followers to do likewise or he can find ways to positively engage with the system in the path of least resistance again encouraging his followers to do likewise; obviously, the second approach is far more beneficial to society than the first but even the first is a whole lot better than the third which is to throw his hat into a circus ring encouraging tens of thousands to follow. Systems and laws cannot be changed with roadshows - they shouldn't be; an alternative that is more frightening than the status quo is not an alternative. Debates and protests are necessary in a democracy but if they're happening in front of cameras, they will never serve any purpose other than to further alienate an already alienated population who feels nothing more than a surreal disconnect from the ludicrous public slandering that passes for serious dialogue today. As long as dialogue continues to be "we the people" versus "they the government" we will never change the destiny of this nation. How many of us can honestly say that we haven't paid a single bribe in our lifetime? How then can we take up cudgels against the bribe taker? Failure to curb corruption is as much an indictment of the citizens as it is of the administration.

The concept and intent of the Jan Lokpal movement is undoubtedly noble and much needed. Public fury against corruption, however hypocritical, is real. The fury has to find legal sanction for redressal. Any vigilantism that can lead to anarchy will not only be justifiably squashed by law enforcement authorities but will also set a very dangerous precedent that may become difficult to control or regulate once set in motion. While unprovoked crackdowns on peaceful protests cannot find acceptance in a democracy, the fact remains that there are other more serious and less publicly intrusive ways of being heard apart from a show of strength on the streets. The Jan
Lokpal cause has traveled to many cities where city rallies have garnered huge public support - it has been already established beyond reasonable doubt that Indian citizens are livid with the menace of corruption and want to see laws enforced to curb it. Holding rallies and protests endlessly at different venues achieves little other than greatly inconveniencing the public making them suspect the motives of these organizers. Also, intermittent hijacking of the issue with individual agendas dilutes the larger issue of framing stricter laws and in the end nothing is achieved.

There are sane and insane voices on both sides; however, if this debate is allowed to happen through the media rather than privately between representatives of society and administration, it can never rise above the ridiculous and in the process all it will achieve is to make the Indian citizen feel doubly forsaken - by the administration as well as by his own fellowmen with whom he identifies with a greater sense of kinship. Well-meaning citizens who participated in the Jan Lokpal cause in the hope of being part of a sustainable solution, will now feel disillusioned and frustrated. Having burnt their fingers once, their support for any future movements for public change cannot be guaranteed. We are now dangerously close to reinforcing the average Indian's stoic cynicism towards any hope for better governance, better laws, or a better tomorrow.

Beauty is usually quiet

The first thing I notice is the complete absence of noise – the jarring, corrosive sounds of everyday life – angry honking, mindless chatter, loud television and radio, a million inane things fighting for your attention noisily, aggressively. Not in the Park. The absence of noise quietens me from the inside, instantly. I look around. Blue sky. Fresh wet earth from last night’s shower. Flitting butterflies in startling colours and patterns, moving restlessly from flower to flower, spoilt for choice. I soak it all in. It’s Sunday morning in Cubbon Park and my weekly ritual is underway: I spend the morning in the Park doing absolutely nothing – I watch the world and in the process, I watch myself. I let my mind simply wander and rest on whatever it chooses and it behaves just like the flitting butterflies moving from thought to thought. I stay uninvolved watching my thoughts just like I’m watching the butterflies. It’s exhilarating, it’s peaceful, and it fills me with joy, for in the Park there’s only beauty and happiness. It’s untouched by the cares of the world, just a non-judgemental dignified bystander and when I’m in the Park I’m a mute spectator too. The Park simply is. And in simply being, it gives everyone whatever they seek from it – solitude, comfort, sunshine, beauty, silence, joy. Though I usually carry my reading or my writing to the Park, I rarely do either. There’s something to be said for doing absolutely nothing and doing it outdoors – in sunshine and amidst flowers. Sometimes, I walk in the Park – long winding walks to nowhere with only sudden crimsons, oranges, whites, purples and pinks for company as they spring on me from amidst thick greenery making me catch my breath at their beauty. I look forward to this morning of quiet and solitude each week; I feel scrubbed and washed after half a day in the Park. Now, I’m refreshed, rejuvenated, peaceful and ready to face the grind of the week.

"...so tell us something about yourself..."

Every mediocre job interview eventually comes around to: "....okay, so tell us something about yourself..."
I'd give my right arm to be able to say to them:
1. Oh, I'm an axe-murderer just out from a medically induced coma (very softly with a smile)
2. I'm a nun, a none, a none-nun....hehehehehe...that's N-O-N-E space N-U-N...of your business....hehehehe....whatever
3. I'm...uh...I'm....I'm sorry, what did I say my name was? (in wide-eyed panic)
4. I'm bored (yawning noisily)
5. I'm the Alpha and the Omega, I'm the Now and the Evermore, I'm Sin and Divinity, the All and the Nothing, the up and the down, the left and the right...err...should I go on? Or should I get down?
6. I'm hungry (jumping up and rummaging through drawers)
7. I'm your future boss. Say hello to me nicely (offering a handshake)
8. Ok. That's it! You'll hear from my lawyer (over my shoulder as I storm out)
9. I'm unarmed and dangerous...hehehehe....just kidding....hehehehe...I'm actually armed...hehehehe
10. I'm what somebody lost and you found....I'm serendipity (batting my eyelids)

Walk like an Egyptian

That could well be the anthem of change for a world that seems to be standing on its head. The Egyptian chant for change is a million-voice din that is begging to be heard above the din. Hosni Mubarak, the current Public Enemy No. 1, represents a malady that has overtaken our world today - a complete breakdown in listening. At every level and in every available space and forum, everyone is talking. Who's listening? It's not just in political systems; in institutions, in communities, even in families, listening is dead (long live listening). We hear but we don't listen. The highest form of respect you can afford to a fellowman is to listen. So the opposite is equally true. Sadly, today's leaders - and not just political leaders - listen only to themselves. Nothing can be more dangerous to institutions and societies than a leader who begins to believe that he is a leader by right and not by sanction. Leaders need the sanction of the people they lead, to exist. The Father of Taosim, Lao Tzu said "To lead the people, walk behind them." Leading from the front is fine, but sometimes you need to look back to check if anyone is following.

It's not just in "repressive regimes" that leaders stifle all voices but their own. This phenomenon is rampant in so-called democratic institutions. Indian institutions are peopled by feudal mindsets that demand obedience with a sense of entitlement rather than seek validation through enrollment. This refusal to listen has become accepted norm not just in politics but even in industry. There is one difference though - in industry, institutional heads simply want the job done without debate or dissent; in politics, leaders simply want the job NOT done without debate or dissent. How many Indian ministers, bureaucrats, even ordinary clerks in government offices will listen and consider carefully a dissenting viewpoint? In many institutions, the only value of an individual's existence is in relation to how much he/she can nod in agreement to a megalomaniac's mood swings. How many educational institutions allow their wards to dissent and still be respected? For that matter, how many workplaces allow healthy dissent? Institutional heads are very blase about the brazen erosion of respect for people (without whom the institution wouldn't exist) while they spend time preaching to the choir about democratic values. All of these "leaders" are creating pockets of disgruntled citizens - in places of learning, in places of work, in places of worship. Wherever dialogue is absent and dissension is discouraged, the seeds of revolution will take root. Institutions face exodus of good talent; administrative machineries stagnate and begin to rot from within because they house unhappy apathetic people who don't listen to citizens because no one listens to them; religious institutions incubate extremist offshoots; educational centers produce rebels without a cause. One fine day, this simmering discontent boils over on to the streets searching the landscape for a representative around whose neck it can hang the albatross. For now, it's found Mr. Mubarak's neck.

R.I.P. PRIVACY

It's official - thanks to TIME - the legacy of decade 2000 is reinvention of communication. Around the globe, people are "collecting" people, and how! You'd think homo sapiens is now an endangered species. In chatrooms, on cell phones and Blackberrys, on mailing lists and networking sites, people are talking to anyone who cares to listen, like never before. Celebrities are leading the yakking brigade. A plush sofa and a dolled-up talk show host are invitation enough for people to spill their guts on national and international television (the tissue industry has never had it so good).

India was rated the most garrulous nation in a recent poll. From decades of state-sponsored thought control to no-thought no-control, we've come a long way, baby. There are now 10,000 ways to connect to your neighbour who you can reach across and tap on the shoulder, but that's passe. Cell phones have unrecognizably altered the way people interact with one another. Privacy is now a bathroom break. It's perfectly acceptable for 6 people to sit at a table constantly texting or talking on their phones - to everyone except the people they're sitting with. It raises decibel levels but not eyebrows. You cannot sit in a restaurant or in a theater or even stroll down a street without overhearing some unwanted detail of a stranger's life. Run but you can't hide. (I even get calls from songs).

YouTube - where you can get your 15 minutes of fame in less than 15 seconds - is our passport to global citizenship. Simply monkeying around with a handycam will guarantee you eyeballs, a fan club, and instant stardom. If that's not enough, you can minute your life in hair-splitting detail (and atrocious spelling) on the worldwide web - and then supplement it with pictures. Because it's insanely easy to be seen and heard, nothing needs to be left unsaid or unseen anymore. And as Voltaire said, anything too stupid to be said, can be sung. And taped. And broadcast. Live! Bling is king. Silly season is here to stay. Everyone's invited.

I Pinched a Mannequin

This is a DIY manual on how to ruin a perfect Sunday evening.

1. Sneak up to your comatose spouse and announce in your best "bright idea" voice..."LET'S GO SHHOPPPIIINNNGGG!!!!"

2. Pick a mall that you're sure the world and its mother will be at.

3. Wailing ambulance behind you.

4. Slow down and pull over to let it pass.

5. Wonder why he's chasing you and not passing you.

6. Check rearview mirror. No ambulance. Your sleeping angel has woken up in the backseat.

7. Yell at spouse.

8. Get yelled back at.

9. Drive into mall parking lot and join 2658 cars in front of you.

10. Pick a store in the mall that's offering 50% off on everything from pin to plane to lost babies whose parents forgot to pick them up after last week's shopping.

11. Pick your weapon of mass destruction - your shopping cart.

12. Go berserk filling it. Look for sales people to assist you.

13. Excitedly share with spouse your discovery of anti-male/female pattern balding lotion.

14. ....while spouse quietly hemorrhages visualizing hair growing everywhere except on your head.

15. Lean over and breathe into spouse's ear: "It's okay, honey. I'll still love you when you look like a bear."

16. Notice you can't tell difference between mannequins and sales people.

17. Sneak up to a figure and cough suddenly; figure doesn't flinch. Phew! Mannequin.
18. Sidle up to another mannequin and pinch it. Shoot! Mannequin jumps and yelps - NOT mannequin.

19. Apologise and ask where the cereal section is.

20. Apologise again - NOT mannequin, NOT sales person.

21. Resume hunt for sales person.

22. Spot zombie with badge and approach.

23. Scratch head as zombie refuses to open mouth and points vaguely in a northwesterly direction.

24. Head for billing.

25. Pick line where guy in front of you has billed 10,000 bucks...

26. ....and is paying for it in coupons...

27. .....in denominations of 10s and 20s...

28. ....and he's reached 6000 and lost count and has started over....

29. .....for the 5th time.

30. Oh Shoot! Where's your baby?

31. Panic.

32. Tear around the store like your neighbour's Rottweiler is on your tail.

33. Pray you've lost your spouse as well.

34. Crash into shopping carts and body parts.

35. Find wailing baby in "50% off on Cereals!" section...

36. ....barcoded and price tagged.

37. Grab baby and head back to billing...

39. .....that now has 1629 people in front of you.

If you're a man, you get off here. Congratulations!! Your Sunday is now well and truly ruined. But what the hell...pop a beer can and tune into ESPN. WWF will seem like a picnic compared to what you've been through.

If you're a woman, read on. There's a lot of evening left to be ruined yet, so bring it on, baby!

40. Slam things around in your kitchen.

41. Yell at your maid.

42. Threaten your baby.

43. Burn the dinner.

44. If your spouse asks you what's wrong, say "nothing" and make it sound like a swear word.

Congratulations!!! NOW, your Sunday and your spouse's Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday are ruined!

And he hasn't even seen your shopping bill yet!

Forget the Bill, let's hear it for the dancers!

The idea of reservation itself is a backhanded compliment - it invokes pity, fractures self-respect, excuses and even celebrates mediocrity. It's as good as saying: "You have the brains of a cabbage, so here let me help you with a handicap." Reservation promotes divisive splinter groups that suddenly find legal sanction to placard and picket hysterically at the slightest hint of perceived injury to their new-found rights - exactly contrary to what it purports to do: promote inclusiveness.

Beyond all this, as a policy reservation has failed miserably - whether on class, caste, or religious lines. Till date there has not been a single well-researched data-proven study to show that reservation has benefited those it championed to benefit. There is ample evidence to the contrary - the policy of reservation has been abused by those who are in a position to manipulate the system (integrity is a burden in Indian politics). In the bargain, we've shortchanged the deserving and given merit a long unpaid vacation.

So why would reservation based on gender be any different? We have a penchant to scale failed policies, so we can fail even more spectacularly. The argument that we need more women in politics to address "women's issues" is ludicrous. Society's problems are gender neutral. Women and men are part of the same society. There are no "women's issues" and "men's issues" - they're simply issues because they affect everybody. Dowry deaths and exploitation and domestic abuse are society's problems, not women's. So are malnutrition, unemployment, and crime. We need academically qualified, ethically upright, and legally literate elected representatives - men and/or women - to address society's problems. It's counterproductive to label and compartmentalize society's ills because it sanctions some sections to throw up their hands and completely disengage from "your problem, not mine."

It could also set a dangerous precedent: Why stop with women's issues? Why not, say, beggars' rights? Or the rights of stand-up comics? Or jay walkers? Or dwarfs? Or door-to-door sales people? Are we going to allow each group to send a representative to the State Assembly or the Parliament? What has prevented the existing women parliamentarians
(who're shrilly out of control on national television at regular intervals) from framing sensible and sensitive policies for Indian citizens? If they couldn't or didn't all these years, what is going to change with this Bill?

The Bill is historic in one sense at least - though it's only got one foot in the door since the Lower House is yet to pass the Bill, it got the right (Ms. Swaraj and Co.) and the left (Ms. Karat and Co.) to hold hands and dance. Wow!...or whatever...