Month: April 2019

Saga of drivers across the world!




We are spoilt lot! Specially the middle class in India; we are not rich, but we have the comfort of a paramilitary army of helpers! We have the maids, the nannies, the drivers, the milkman, the newspaper boy, the gardener…. The list goes on. I would not have appreciated them if I had not gone abroad for a couple of years and learnt how difficult it was to get house help, leave alone the expenses involved.

Years back when the children were very young, we were privileged to have a life with a company provided car and driver, from then on till now the drivers have played an important part in my learning-about-life process.

The first time we had a non-Indian driver was when we were in Egypt. They are astoundingly different from ours. Other than being excellent drivers- manoeuvring the huge cars in small spaces and going through choc-a-bloc traffic like a hot knife in butter, they were a part of the family. They looked after our children like they were their own. They bargained for us at the vegetable market as if they were saving their own money. They cared for us when we were ill and celebrated our joy with the same enthusiasm that we did. I always forgot that they were from a different religion and  had different rituals!

How were they different from our erstwhile drivers? Except for a couple of drivers (We went through at least ten in ten years), specially the Mumbai ones, the drivers we have had were always out to swindle us; it could be overtime, or telling that the traffic police had caught them, or demanding holidays (we Indians have thirteen festivals in twelve months!). the question of them caring for us or vice-versa was almost next to nil. There was always a wall of suspicion between us!


The next type was the European one. We had a driver to take us through Italy and its beautiful countryside. He was of course different from either the Indians or the Egyptians. Extremely elegant, he was like an exalted guide; educated, articulate and informative. He neither gave us any information about himself nor asked us for any. Never did he follow us when we went sightseeing or advise us where to eat or what to buy. In the car however, he was a part of our family; friendly and humorous. But he had his lines which neither he nor we crossed!

Recently we had the opportunity of experiencing another set of drivers in the heavenly kingdom of Bhutan. The driver who was with us throughout the day was also our unofficial guide. He advised us about meals, regaled us with stories of this land of Buddha and took care of us in every possible way. Welcomed us with a smile (however early it was) and bade goodnight with the same smile (however late it might have been). He drove us to the base of the Tiger’s nest and climbed all the way up (believe me it is a torturous climb!) and came down insisting on carrying our backpack and then drove us back to the hotel! He knew I was in pain and never missed a chance to enquire about my wellbeing! By the time we left we were friends. What I realised was, they were not too well off in terms of money, but they were always filled with happiness; they were satisfied with their lives and grateful for what destiny had given them.  

Even the Taxi drivers had a smile on their face when they ferry you unlike the Uber drivers in the USA who think they are much superior to you!

We took a small break in Guwahati before braving the noise and crowd of Mumbai, here fortunately we had a good driver but being Indian they have their own barricades.

Landing in Mumbai, it was a cultural shock to be harassed by the Uber drivers! They neither have a smile nor an apology when they are late. In fact they will state their delay in such a way that you feel guilty that you asked them for a ride!

Could be the stress and pressure they go through make them this way (I am trying to empathise!) However it would be wonderful if they could learn that being happy in spite of adversity is not a crime; that a smile does not cost them a penny; responding to a thank you with a “Welcome” rather than grunt would not hurt either.

Believe me they earn triple the amount that a Bhutanese or an Egyptian driver does! Can you blame us for not having a full time driver in Mumbai?

Conceptual Writing- Storytelling


Sometimes profound words come from the mouth of babies! Yesterday I was whiling away my time watching an award show for movies (trying to have a chilled out weekend). The young actress who won the award said a few words that made me think. I cannot reproduce her exact speech but the gist was “I am a good actress not only because I work hard at my art but because I have a team of directors, producers and writers who frame my character in the movie” she ended by saying, “I give the highest honour to the writer, as it is he who is the creator of everything. Everyone else does whatever they do  to give life to his creation, but it is his thought and imagination which is the seed of a brave new world”.

All forms of art indulge in the process of creation. Whether it is cinema, painting, sculptor or any media form, they all strive to put before us a reality that may or may not mimic the world as we know it. While most of them have their limitations: Cinema by its budget and practicality; painting by the physical use of canvas or paints; sculptor with the medium it uses, but writing, it lets your imagination take wings and soar into the wild unknown, beyond the plausibility of facts and data; sometimes even beyond the edge of the world.

I think God himself is a writer, he takes the trouble to chart out a plot for each of us and then lets us bumble our way through life. Sometimes he erases all that he had written and rewrites our progress!

Of course writing per se was preceded by the oral tradition of storytelling, so what I am actually trying to say is, more than writing, it is giving birth to a story with its myriad colours of thought and action is the point of relevance. Some writers painstakingly go through the correct procedure of creation. First the plot is imagined-the foundation is laid; then the main character is conceived-preferably a round character with its strengths and weaknesses, after which the narrative goes from introduction to weaving words and creating a new world and the final denouement which will unveil a new chronicle of events. There is also another set of writers who just sit down and decide to unleash their creativity in words, on the spur of the moment. They write a story and then go into the nitty gritty of polishing and sharpening their offerings. You could belong to either group but what is important here is that both group use their skill and art to form an immortal saga which will touch many, if not all hearts that have the perused it.

Why are stories so important to us? The modern world which is steeped in scientific theory has the audacity to lay down a data grid and expect us to understand every nuance of existence via this. Obviously, this fails time and again! This is when we go back to the art of storytelling to explain the shades that exist. Two plus two is four is the universal truth as long as the parameters are physical objects. What happens when there is a fluid expression of dissent to the universal truth? Can your data grid succeed in explaining the anomalies that is always a part of life? Here is when tales, fables and stories come into the fray. They are those fluid expressions which adapt and encompass all our existential woes in such a way that they are the universal truth without vindication and validation.

How easy it is to teach a child through a story rather than putting facts and figures on a platter before him. Every talk show, everything connected with education and every form of entertainment refers to some story or the other. In order to understand or empathise a situation, we need to identify and relive the circumstances. Stories play a stellar role in infusing healthy mental growth and development within and without the confines of society.

As an erstwhile teacher I have always resorted to the unlimited bag of stories to teach, motivate and create s group of individuals who are independent, unique and outstanding in their own rights.

Does this answer the question of why ‘stories’ and connected to  it ‘writing’ is important to this world? Does this give the responsibility of moulding and building a character out of nothing a greater stress? Does this also fill each and every writer with questions of their ability to turn around someone’s life from nothing to a path filled with excitement and happiness?

Status-“Pending Verification”



I remember my twenty first birthday vaguely. A couple of my friends had a small celebration of my coming of age. It was no big deal; I still think adulthood is a lot of hogwash! Other than bringing with it burden and pain, it stresses that you are now responsible for yourself. Of course we Indians as compared to the rest of the world are a spoilt lot. Our parents continue to take care of us till we are either married or working, whatever the age of the child- I could be thirty five, but because I am unmarried, I live with my parents!
Going back to my twenty first, I remember we discussed a lot about being able to vote. Most of my friends and I came from families who moved every three years, it was the norm rather than a novelty. There was no Aadhar card (UID Card) so we never had any ID with a permanent address. The privileged few who had a passport those days were really not bothered about voting. To be honest -as my Face Book page will inform all-, I was apolitical. I had this idea that politics was meant for uneducated and corrupt people of the country. Only criminals and goons played in the political arena . I admit I was wrong! But at that age your attitude is “I am RIGHT about everything”.  If I cast my mind back, what resurfaces is I loved taking all the privileges that I had and ignored the ones that I did not. Its better to walk on clean roads rather than clean the sewers that run underneath them was my motto!
Well, the sewers got murkier! All the dust was swept under the carpet of governance. Like many of my contemporaries, I continued to grumble about the state of affairs. It was in fact a good conversation piece like “the weather”, at parties and get togethers. Fortunately we are in a democratic country where we have the freedom of speech. I must be honest here that many and not all were like me. We had a host of student leaders who tried to bring in changes (debatable whether they were good and positive!) But in their own way they tried, that is more than can be said of me!
I did move out of parents house soon after and started my own family. But I continued to be a nomad. This trickled down to the fact that I did have proof of my permanent address but unfortunately, I was never there when the elections were held. I have to confess now that I have never voted in my life. Once or twice I tried enrolling in the voters list of the then residential place, but the ‘red tape’ was so tortuous that I would give up mid-way!
Life went on; busy life if I may say so! Managing a house, bringing up children, handling the work front, indulging in hobbies socializing… the list is endless. I never really missed not voting. What could any government do that would change my life? The corruption would continue, so would the fleecing of the common people and violence and murder would be meted out to any protestor who dared to question the atrocities! I wanted to be safe , I wanted my family to be safe, so I stayed as far away as possible from any kind of politics.


Maybe it was a biological or chemical change within me- as I approached mid life- I sat up and took stock of myself. From a very jaundiced outlook (I was at the same time diagnosed with a liver disorder!) I grew up to a pacifist frame of mind. I am a fatalist by nature, but I started questioning my beliefs and faith. From a “Know all” I progressed to “All I know”. With the internet boom I realised the limitations of my knowledge. I had always been a voracious reader, the internet made me learn so many new things; you would think I had become wiser than ever before! Yes, I was older, but was I wiser? was a question I would rather avoid answering.
But the General Elections were looming large. I decided I would ink my fingers for the first time in my life. The newspaper and all media sources were filled with easy ways of enrolling yourself as a voter. I had the time and inclination; there was still three months to go before the Elections. I went online, uploaded my photograph and my husband’s too. It took me a whole day to upload all the documents that were needed, onto the website. I felt satisfied and happy that I had done my bit. Now was the waiting period, when they would be verified. I knew it would take time, so I forgot about it for a month (I am a time freak! So you must understand how hard this was for me!)
After a month I checked  the website– the bubble now moved from “documents accepted” to “awaiting verification”. The status remained the same for the next month or so. When April began (the cruellest month according to T.S.Eliot!) I checked again. My status was status quo, but my husband’s status had changed to “rejected”! When I checked further it said that the problem was with his photograph, they also said that they had tried to contact him but had not been able to! I am at home every day, when did anyone come to check anything is the question! And what about me? Why is my status still “Pending Verification”?
The elections have begun, I have no hope that I shall ink my fingers in this one either. For the first time in my life I was trying to be proactive- to bring about a change but whether it was fate or the manipulative government (people say that all our chats and internet data are spied upon!)that has effectively barred me from exercising my right. But I hope my right to speech is not infringed upon and I shall continue to protest through my missiles (after all the pen can be mightier than the sword!)
The dance of Democracy continues to be performed by a bunch of monkeys and donkeys and the so called “intellectuals” sit back and watch the antics!

Of Poets and Poetry

The Oak Tree Speaks

Do you know how many ways there are to die in this city?

1. Speeding taxicab.

2. Open manhole cover.

3. The man breathing so heavy at the bus stop.

When I was a teenager, the boy I loved would pay a homeless

guy ten bucks to buy him the cheapest bottle in the liquor store. 

My love sucked the glass ‘til his teeth were marbles. Rolled

himself down the subway stairs, hopped into the tracks. Waited.

4. Jealous wife.

5. Brooklyn Bridge.

6. Fire escape.

Only once, he let it get so close I screamed. I had never made

that kind of sound before. He turned, his face a prayer wheel

atop his neck, a smile so foreign I could not speak its language.

Like water running in reverse, he spilled himself up to safety.

When the train hurricaned past, the fist of air rattled my branches.

7. Rooftops, all of them.

8. The barroom brawl.

9. The West Side Highway.

10. The wrong street corner.

In New York, when a tree dies, nobody mourns that

it was cut down in its prime. Nobody counts the rings,

notifies the loved ones. There are other trees.

We can always squeeze in one more. Mind the tourists.

It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t wanna live there.

11. Disgruntled coworker.

12. Central Park after dark.

13.  Backpack through the metal detector.

14.  

15.  

16.  

For years, we wouldn’t watch movies where they destroyed

New York. The aliens never take Kansas, we joked. They go straight

for the heart. Poor Kansas. All corn fields and skyworks. All apple

pie.  Nobody to notice if it’s missing. Just all that open space to grow

in.

Sarah Kay

I read this poem, first, on a torn piece of newspaper which was used to wrap flowers. The title had been torn off! So, my introduction was “Do you know how many ways there are to die in this city?” I read on thinking it was a statistical analysis of causes of death.

As I read through it, I realized it was far from that, intrigued I googled it and found this wonderful young poet. Having studied the classical and the neo classics during my college days, I had long since stopped being excited about modern poetry. I felt that the modern poet was turning into an exhibitionist. (The world now was fawning on the loud and show stopper kind of literature) the soul was missing! It did not make me sit up and want to know more.

I was actually introduced to Sarah by my daughter’s enthusiasm for her poems. I first heard her on You Tube and literally sat up to listen to her. But this was not a poem I had heard before.

The personification of the oak tree is what strikes you through the poem. The poem first talks of this boy “she loved” (the poet or the oak tree?) as the number of causes of death continues we are exposed to this boy who is trying to get himself killed, or is he just a tease? The calmness (his face a prayer wheel atop his neck) tells us, he is tempting fate.

I did not start writing this to give a critical analysis of this poem by a great young poet! What I am trying to say that poetry is not dead; it is not limited to the rap lyrics sung by wannabies. What I love about this poet is how she breathes life into her narrative rhythms. I love reading poetry aloud and I do so when I am alone at home. The harmony and peace that it gets me cannot be got by reading the motivational speeches that the market abounds in.

The starkness of her words, bereft of even a semblance of ornament, catches your gut; wrings it to dryness and then lets the phrases explode in your brain with multi-dimensional layers of meanings. The pleasure that it imparts to my parched soul is like water on the desert sand – it is never enough but it continually quenches the inner being.

I bring before you a poem I wrote when I was very young maybe eighteen or so. I wonder now what made me think of such things? Was it the adolescent mind with its chemical battles that make you look at things so deeply? Or is it just a tentative foray into the beautiful world of words and rhythm? Whatever it is, it gives you an insight into not only the poet’s mind but the universal truth that it encompasses. I wish we could go back to the times when reading poetry was a part and parcel of every get together not the incessant playing of Antakshari ( A game where Hindi film songs are sung beginning with the last sound of the song sung before) Poetry which touches your core with the least words and the strongest implications.

Destination

Dull throbbing of muted silence,

Opened up

Myriad options…

The mind took off on a flight to,

Unknown destination.

Multiple possibilities…

Body tittered, laughing anticipation,

Closed and shut

Various limits…

Omnipotent soul hesitated on the brink

Longing, desiring.

So many cycles to go…

Before the ultimate END.

Benita Patnaik

Autos, shopping and birthday discounts!

I decided not to take the car- it’s a pain when you are stuck in a traffic jam with San Francisco type of steep roads! I did not take the Uber either as it is double the price of the ever present Auto on Mumbai roads. I mean you just walk out of your apartment and there is someone to take you wherever you want to, as against booking an Uber on your App, then waiting for the driver to come and then paying for your last trip (I invariably forget to pay it immediately!).
 
So here I was sitting in the yellow and black tuk-tuk waiting for the traffic to move. I thanked God for not having taken the car! Only a Mumbaikar can understand what it is to be stuck in a traffic jam on a narrow steep road! The sun was beating down mercilessly on me, so I shifted to the middle of my seat. The school bus and the BEST bus were both trying to inch their way to the left of the road and the trail of Autos were snaking in and out like a rat amongst an Elephant herd- irritating but unavoidable!
After a minor surgery which had made me home-bound for two weeks, I was going out on a solo window shopping “shall pick up if I like something” kind of trip. The big boss was out on a conference and the children were living their own lives. I got a lot of “Have Fun” stickers from all three when I woke up in the morning! I knew I was going to beat my goal of ten thousand steps that day, so I dutifully did my stretching exercise before I started out on my adventure.
There is a lot of construction going on for the metro so after braving the elements on the very steep road, we were stuck again at another traffic jam.
 I admire the  new age Auto drivers! Most of them have their cell phones fixed on the steering wheel a la Uber drivers and they have earphones through which they are either listening to music or watching something on their phones. Most of them are not overweight (as were their erstwhile predecessors) and many, if not all, have some kind of uniform (Totally white or totally Khaki). But like their predecessors they have one leg tucked under them and the other foot is also bare; their sandals kept neatly by their side.

Making a living out of the noisy polluted life lines of the city without losing their cool is admirable! They have the patience to inch their way into gaps; they have the courage to go “where no man has gone before” and the talent to pass by huge buses within millimetres of getting crushed between two big ones! Very few lose their cool and they have a good word as they pass by their colleagues on the road. But they judge their passengers too. I have seen them take out two rupees and give it the poorer people, but they are always without change when they need to return anything to me! Its ok, they charge me half the price of an Uber so two rupees is okay.

I spent four hours at the Mall. The air conditioned precinct was a pleasure after being on the road for an hour, that too for a distance of less than four kilometres. I would have reached faster had I walked!
I had fun; trying out outlandish clothes; browsing all kinds of accessories; looking longingly at the slim mannequins with their bizarre but stylish dresses. I had the money but not the figure to carry them off! I thought I was being clever- buying only what I would wear (I almost picked up inappropriate clothes, but good sense prevailed, and I left them at the billing counter!) After doing the rounds of the designer clothing stores (I picked up quite a few bargains!), I decided to break for lunch (already seven thousand steps done!).

Guilty indulgence of coffee with burger and fries (Had decided to skip dinner anyway- so forgivable!) I tightened my girdle and started on the last leg of my adventure. Till now I had avoided the pitfall of being seduced at the offer of twenty percent off because its my birthday month!( Every store offers you a loyalty card and as this is my favourite hunting ground, everyone knows my birthday month!) With a full stomach, and no time or budget limit I entered the last of my arena. I did get a couple of things, but it added up to a measly two thousand rupees so not much of a discount. I decide I would not claim it but then I realised that to claim it I would have to shop again within that month, so catch twenty two situation. 

While I was dithering, I had come to the top of the line and the billing chap immediately said,“Ma’am this is your birthday month, why don’t you pick up something else? You will get flat twenty percent off.”

I confess to the whole wide world that at that moment my defences were down. I have another secret guilty pleasure- I love buying bed sheets and the store has a great collection (two of my cupboards are filled with bedsheets in the house!) the pleasure of sleeping on a crisp and clean bed linen is to die for (if I had the energy, I would change my sheets every day)

About turn and I spent a pleasurable fifteen minutes amongst the bedsheets and got my birthday discount.

I made three people happy- myself, the billing guy and much later the auto guy whom I tipped seven rupees as he did not have change and I was laden with the spoils of  the battle.