Astronomer's delight.

They say there is a star, a Christmas star. It is filled with light. It brings a message of hope. It inspires those it touches to be more than they dream. It draws, like tide, the inner courage to do more than they dare.

I know it as a myth. There is no such star. We have searched galaxies, the scientists and I, and never found it. We have scoured books and histories and never caught an echo.

Still, Christmas is around the corner and it's time to sing.

So I went to a Christmas concert at a retirement home, to watch my friend lead a choir of eighty- and ninety-year-olds. I watched her coax them into performing solos, words and melodies painstakingly memorised, into giving it their all, and they did.

I know her voice well enough to be able to hear her sing along with them. Hers is a beautiful powerful voice that could fill a hall on its own strength, but not tonight. Tonight she sang gently and softly, just loud enough to guide and support them, as they put on the show.

I watched them sing. They sang about that star, the one that does not exist. The one that disobeys the laws of physics, and follows donkeys on desert nights.

I have the facts. I could have turned aside with a smirk, but I looked at my friend instead. I watched her touch, inspire and love them.

I looked at her face, and I found the Christmas star there.

Still single? No parroblaame.

Besides, it turns out that sex is a disease. Well, a diseases, to be precise. In fact, it appears that suffering from one of these diseases could very well lead you down a dark and very diseased road.

I am fortunate indeed to have escaped at least some of these diseases - I think. I may have bleahed foully a few times, but I'm pretty sure I've never had Pilsh, at least not with patches.

At my current age, though, I'm concerned I am now a high-risk candidate for Late Marraige. I wonder if oll this is a result of my many years of Improper Menstruction.

Thankfully, I have at least a few hundred rupees stashed away for just such medical emergencies, and as long as that van stays parked where it is, I have nothing to worry about.


P.S. If anybody knows what the symptoms of Paesent Nabje Chaek are, please let me know.

Because housework can get depressing.

Move over Huck and Tom, here comes Satan.

Like most people, I just thought Mark Twain wrote about Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. Just seeing those names now, in my mind’s eye I can still spy Huck wading through weeds and water, still watch Tom painting that fence. Can't you?

Mostly, I thought Mark Twain lived a charmed life, travelling around the world, or ruminating on steamers and thinking up funny things to say. More recently, I realised that not everything he thought up was funny, and that much of what he thought – and said – and then wrote – was serious. 

Perhaps even then, people had already labelled him the funny guy, or perhaps he was just being cautious, and wanted to ensure his continued survival in a tribe
where applauding sycophants can easily turn into hostile executioners when
they feel their idea of the world has been threatened.

From what I have come across so far, all of Mark Twain’s writing on deathly important
matters is cotton-wrapped in humour, tied with a pretty little bow of satire, knotted firmly
with sarcasm. In the past few months I have come across several.

His War Prayer wrenched my heart, and you can watch a short film made of it here.

But it was Twain’s Letters From The Earth that really wowed me. Setting aside
his writing or cleverness, what wowed me most is that until a week ago, I never knew
that Letters From The Earth existed, or that it was Twain's last piece of work.
It’s a very clever and funny piece of fiction. Why, when the world was introducing me
to Huck and Tom, did it leave this out?

That’s a rhetorical question. I fancy I already know the answer. The hero of this story

is Satan, and the story itself is told to his fellow angels Michael and Gabriel, through
a series of letters in which he describes what he sees on a visit to our planet. It’s a probably
painful dig at traditional beliefs of who we are and where we come from.

But isn’t pain a part of life, an important part that leads to growth or escape from danger?

And aren’t we encouraged in schools and universities to study, explore, think for ourselves,
question, search, learn, grow, challenge and be open to different perspectives?

Letters From The Earth is a good piece of writing that one may see as a pleasant fiction

or an awful challenge or even a blasphemous piece of shit. My point in writing here
about it, is that somewhere, somewhen, someone did us wrong by shoving it
on the topmost shelf of the furthest bookcase of the library of human writing. I share
the information that this piece of writing exists, so that more people may have
the opportunity to know that it was here all along, and perhaps read it themselves.
I feel fuller for having read it, and don’t I say that this blog is about the things
that save my life?


Samuel Lanhorne Clemens (a.k.a. Mark Twain) 
30 November 1885 - 21 April 1910

Happy Independence Day!

I love this drawing I found in my friend's daughter's Hindi language
notebook. I'm not sure which daughter (she has several,
and most of the time I can't tell them apart! They're triplets.)

I love the fact that in Hindi class, you are actually encouraged
to draw in your notebooks. I love the way she tries out different
stars and finally settles on the Star of David. And I love
her interpretation of Gandhiji in his dhoti.

At first, I thought she had drawn him larger than life, towering
over the trees, until I took a closer look while she explained that
those were hands waving up at him. So I was only half wrong,
about the trees, not about the "larger than life". She turned him
into a rock star, with his fans reaching up to him. I can easily
imagine little disposable lighters in those hands! And she's
absolutely right:  Gandhiji rocks.

Tentative toes.

I sketched this gentleman's feet one long morning in
the opthalmologist's waiting room. He was, I think,
aware that I was doing this, but as he said nothing,
I continued. I think he was embarrassed and unsure
about what he could do in this situation, because
I feel I've captured that awkward uncertainty
that went all the way down to his toes!

Better than the Beatles.

Every day I sing out loud to Beatles' songs while doing my daily
exercise. A few days ago, I came across a hugely offensive song,
and along with it, came to the sad realisation that my heroes
could buy into the patriarchal bullshit as easily as anyone else
(although fortunately John Lennon redeemed himself by
growing up:  he later said it was his least favourite Beatles song,
and the one he most regretted writing).

It's got a great beat, and a great tune, and what else - oh yes,
it totally glorifies an abusive relationship. I mean, seriously.
In real life, if anyone says these words to you, you  need
to make sure they're thrown in jail, or at least referred to
a psychiatrist, and if not that, then just get the hell away
from them, as far as you can go. And take the kids and pets with you.

Run For Your Life - by the Beatles
(click above to listen)

Verse 1:
Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl

Than to be with another man
You better keep your head, little girl
Or I won't know where I am

Chorus:
You better run for your life if you can, little girl

Hide your head in the sand little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end'a little girl

Verse 2:
Well you know that I'm a wicked guy

And I was born with a jealous mind
And I can't spend my whole life
Trying just to make you toe the line

(Chorus ..)

Verse 3:
Let this be a sermon

I mean everything I've said
Baby, I'm determined
And I'd rather see you dead

(Chorus ..)

Naturally, I couldn't sing these horrendous lyrics, so I decided
to make some of my own. Changing the genders around was
no good, because that just sends it from misogyny to misandry.
But I finally put together a version I liked, inspired by
the ringleader of the infamous Delhi rape case, who was
a juvenile (17 years old) when he committed his crimes, and
so has to be judged under juvenile law, in spite of all the public
outrage, and his own family asking for him to be hanged.

They're not the world's best lyrics, but I think they're a slight
improvement on Run For Your Life. They can be sung cheerfully
by anyone, regardless of one's views on capital punishment. Here they are:

Stay in Jail - by me 

Verse 1:

Well, they’d rather see you dead, little boy

Than to see you out on bail

You better just stay put, little boy,

You’ll be safer in that jail.

Chorus:

You better stay in jail if you can, little boy,

Hide your head in the sand little boy

Catch you on the streets again

That’s the end’a, little boy.

Verse 2:

Everyone knows you’re a wicked boy

And you’ve got such a twisted mind

The country’s got better things to do

Than to make sure you toe the line

(Chorus..)

Let this be a warning,

You might wish you’d been hanged instead

The whole nation’s determined

And they’d rather see you dead.

(Chorus..)

I shall be testing it out in about half an hour when I go for
my walk. Feel free to sing along, wherever you are.

Isabel Allende says ..

 

I keep seeing quotations shared on Facebook, mostly done up

on the computer, with fonts and photographs. But there's nothing 

like ink! (Except pencil). 

"I want to live."

She died this morning, the young woman who was gang-raped
earlier this month. She died.

Sometimes I forget that I too have been a victim of rape. As
Nilanjana Roy said so beautifully in her blog earlier today,
"There is only so much darkness you can swallow."

(Click here to read Ms. Roy's post, For Anonymous)

I'm not a victim any more. I am a survivor. That girl, in the two
weeks she lived after her rape, she was a survivor too. But I can't
compare myself to her. With her insides ripped to pieces, with
all that had been done to her, in the raw freshness of her pain,
she still said to her mother, "I want to live."

I don't know if I could have that kind of courage. But I too,
wanted to live, and I have been able to. So her message IS
my message, although it took me many years to say it. It's
the message of so many millions around the world - generation
upon generation of women, girls and boys - who have taken
the worst kind of pain, brutality, betrayal, fear and humiliation,
but somehow manage to say, in one way or another, these four words:

"I want to live."

This is the message I'm taking forward with me tonight, into
tomorrow. Not a rant for beheading, hanging or castration.
I don't want my tomorrow to be a day where I respond to violence
with still more violence.

Tonight I lit a candle, in awe of her courage, and in grief for
her unanswered wish and her death, and in grief for everyone
who has known that pain, and for everyone who lives in fear,
and for the little child who still lives within me.

It's not easy to rein in rage, to say yes to justice without saying yes
to violence. To look at a man, any man, and not wonder if he has
the potential to rape. It's not easy, but it's possible. And I think
it's important for my humanity. So tonight, I lit a candle, and
tomorrow, I want to live. With dignity, and non-violence.

That's more like it.

Although yesterday's post has it's value, I much prefer this auto-rickshaw's message to the world.

For those of you who don't understand Urdu or Hindi, that says:

God willing
we will meet again
May God keep you in his care
My fellow traveller

Nice to know that someone feels that way. I'm always on the look-out
for interesting "Auto Backsides"; some get very creative.

For some reason, however, most auto drivers seem to like
decorating their, er, backside, with a dagger dripping blood.
I can only assume it's a silent plea for help and compassion.
It must be hell driving around in that bumpy three-wheeler
all day. I'm pretty sure there's a correlation between the frequency
of dripping-dagger-decorated auto backsides and the vast amount
of Piles & Fistula Clinic signs I see all over the city.

Beware.

Was fortunate enough to catch this public service announcement
on the back of an auto-rickshaw the other night, after dropping
a friend off at the Indira Nagar bus stand.

Social awareness activist and his moving media

The Dr. Ambedkar Blues (an unfinished symphony).

Every time I go to Nanjappa Circle, I'm bugged by this
 mysterious figurine wrapped in blue plastic. Its contours echo
those of a smaller statue just behind it, which has been painted gold.

All I knew was that these were statues of "Ambedkar". They've
been there forever (well, a year at least). So I turned to my
personal guru and said, "Oh Google! Tell me! Who is this man?
And why has he been blue for so long?" And this is what she told me.

• Dr B.R. Ambedkar was born into a caste that was considered "untouchable".
• He was the first "untouchable" student at Bombay's Elphinstone High School and Elphinstone College.
• He not only got past social and financial obstacles to get a college education in India, but went on to earn post-graduate degrees and doctorates from Columbia University and the London School of Economics. And took his Bar exams too!
• He lost his book collection when the ship it was on got torpedoed and sunk by a German submarine in World War I (As a book lover, I deem this a significant tragedy, worthy of mention. The good news is, I read that by the time World War II rolled around, he had built up another book collection of over 50,000 books).
• He was Professor of Political Economy at Sydenham College, Bombay, where other professors didn't like him touching the same jug of water that they used.
• He was the Chairman of the Drafting Committee of our Constitution.
• He developed Type 2 Diabetes in his middle age.
• He campaigned against social discrimination and the caste system and spoke out frankly on many topics that were important to him.
• He ruffled a huge amount of religious and political feathers.
• He accomplished a massive workload in his lifetime. 
• He was a very busy guy from start to finish.
• He had guts.
• He sounds very interesting, and though I'm not sure I'd agree with everything in them, I think his essays and books would make for some good reading.

All of which made him, to me, fascinating. I wanted to find out
more about the man hidden behind the blue plastic wraps. And
it struck me - find about the blue plastic wraps themselves.
Back to my guru I went, this time to learn not about the man,
but about the statue/s up at Nanjappa Circle.

On March 29th, 2010, newspapers reported that Dr Ambedkar's
statue at Nanjappa Circle had been toppled over, outraging
the Dalit community. (Back then there was only one statue,
made of plaster-of-paris, since stood back up and painted gold).
This statue of his now stands in the shadow of the new
blue-wrapped one. It shall never be toppled again. It now
has his feet firmly encased in cement up to his ankles for protection.

This statue-toppling is the sort of senseless act that normally
leads to communal violence, but fortunately, there was none
(that I know of). The municipal (BBMP) elections were being
held that day, and though there doesn't seem to be any logic to it,
I can only assume that someone intended to benefit from this act
and the feelings it would arouse.

Who did this? We may never know for sure, but the papers
assured us that they were MISCREANTS! A very popular noun
in Bangalore newspapers, another word for "rowdy elements"
or "mischief-mongers"). Or perhaps political party supporters,
as I believe all the major political parties accused their
opponents' supporters - Miscreants! Oh, you Naughty Miscreants, you! -
of being behind this HEINOUS act of GOONDA-ISM (two other
popular words in a crime reporter's vocabulary).

Conclusion: Mischief-mongering miscreants' heinous act of rowdy
goonda-ism was something to do with votes and politics. Nothing
new there.Or perhaps something to do with religion. Nothing new
there either.

Anyhoo. In time, a second statue appeared. The BBMP approved
two Work Orders. One for the construction of a new statue
at the cost of six lakh rupees (Rs 600,00/-), and one for
the construction of a pedestal and ornamental grill at four lakh
rupees (Rs 400,000/-). I looked up their impressive-sounding
"Global Project Management System With Remote Eye Monitoring System" page,
but beyond the Estimated and Approved Cost and the name
of the Chief Engineer, every other entry just reads "0". (That's
a zero, not an oh. Although an oh would work there too, with
either an exclamation or a question mark, as the situation requires).

So no clues as to whether they consider the work finished,
or if they ran out of funds, or anything.

Well, the new statue is up, at any rate. Standing high on its
four-lakh pedestal (and the ornamental grills, let's not forget those.
They could do with some painting, by the way). It might be
a bronze statue, we do not know yet. Those plastic blue wraps
have been firmly affixed to withstand both monsoon and miscreant,
and what lies underneath is yet to be unveiled, nearly two years
after the first statue was toppled.

Dr Ambedkar's death anniversary is coming up on December 6th.
I'm hoping that the long-awaited unveiling will be held then,
a symbolic rebirth. If not, we can pin our hopes on next April 14th,
the day of his birth. And if not then, well, let's just wait for the next
election day to roll around.

Any day now, people. But don't hold your breath. Instead, gaze upon
my really bad photography and read my little poem to pass the time:

*

Dr Ambedkar, why so blue?

If I was in your place, I guess I'd be too,

Waiting a whole year under wrap

Held in suspense for someone else's crap.

Drs Ambedkar, (for there's not one but two)

I'm sad when I gaze upon both of you.

One year and ten lakhs have gone by so fast.

I'd like to see more of the man who fought caste.

*

Children's Day.

"To honour children globally."

"To protect children working long hours in dangerous circumstances and allow all children access to an education."

"To promote mutual exchange and understanding among children."

"To initiate action to benefit and promote the welfare of the world's children."

"To let students have fun. "

"To consider those conditions in society which affect the lives and future of our children."

"To strengthen children's rights."

"To focus on the practice of sharing, loving and caring as well as honouring our children."

"To emphasise the importance of children in society."

"To give children the opportunity to have fun."

"To create awareness about the significant role of children towards the development of the country."

"To observe the rights of children."

"To remind ourselves that children are the future builders and developers of the country and the world.

"To enable parents and children to spend the day together, and work together to reconcile their problems."

"To celebrate childhood."


These are some of the reasons countries and organisations around the world have given, for celebrating Children's Day (source: Wikipedia)

How sad that we need a reminder to treat children this way.

Today, India celebrates Children's Day. November 14th was chosen because it was the birth date of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, India's first Prime Minister. He was known as Chacha Nehru (Uncle Nehru) by the children of his day. (He's also Rahul Gandhi's great-grandaddy.)

I wiki'ed Children's Day and discovered that various countries celebrate it, at various times of the year. Here are some other dates upon which people celebrate Children's Day around the world.

January 6th
March 17th, 21st and 25th
April 4th, 5th, 8th, 12th, 23rd, 24th and 30th.
May 5th, 10th, 17th and 27th
June 1st and 2nd
July 23rd and 24th
August 16th
September 9th and 10th
October 1st, 8th and 12th
November 11th, 14th, 15th and 20th
December 5th, 23rd and 25th

Make a note in your calender and celebrate them all.

I did my bit.

Yes I did.  It would have been rude of me not to. Went out and
 bought a packet of sparklers in order to contribute to the air pollution
levels last night. Got a lungful of sparkler smoke in the bargain.

 Okay, I confess. The real reason I bought those sparklers was
for that smile you see in the picture above. My mom's housekeeper couldn't
go home for this Diwali, so we didn't want her to miss out. She lit candles
at my mom's front door, and had a great time playing with the sparklers.
The cough I have this morning was totally worth it.

The Festival of Lights

It's Diwali! I liked this festival a lot more when I was younger and immune to the startle reaction of over-loud fireworks. I also liked it more last year, when I did not know that it's a bad idea to make a breakfast of the plateful of home-made sweets my neighbours bring over every Diwali morning.

A garland of marigold at my neighbour's front door (and yes, a leftover Christmas decoration from last year!)

 Diwali is by and large a Hindu festival, although I believe
that Sikhs, Buddhists and Jains also celebrate it (that's what
President Obama said so it must be right!) The Festival of Lights ..
and it is quite a sight. A lot of people will set off fireworks tonight
and tomorrow night - I love going up on my terrace to watch
the rockets being set off from all four directions. Even from
a distance, it's lovely to watch their beautiful explosions
of light and colour. Some are pretty complex (Made In China,
I've heard) and those are the most expensive and the most
ah-inspiring. Tonight, thousands if not lakhs (that's a hundred
thousand to non-Indian currency users) will go up in smoke.

What I don't love about Diwali is the noise created from strings
of little (or big!) red firecrackers or the ones packed tightly and
given appropriately lethal names like "Atom Bomb". These set off
car alarms, drive stray dogs into gutters and pet dogs into
anxiety disorders. They terrify babies and unsettle the elderly.
They make heart patients nervous, and PTSD sufferers nauseated.
And their tattered remains will decorate the streets tomorrow morning,
adding to the already nearly-at-breaking-point garbage problem
that sits soggy and stinking on practically every street corner.

As far as I know, this type of cracker has very little to do with
Diwali. It's the Festival of Lights, right? Not the Festival of Noise,
or the Festival of Make-Life-Hell-for-Everyone-Else. There are
some restrictions set down by the police and/or government,
but these are largely ignored or unenforceable, and fireworks
are sold freely like some seasonal vegetable in large open
courtyard markets set up around the city.

Over the past few years, fireworks sales have been going down,
though, largely due to greater public awareness of the
environmental damage and the nuisance factor. A few years ago,
Diwali morning would be grey and choked. I'm hoping tomorrow
won't be that bad, because as I write this, I don't hear a non-stop
string of explosions that lasts for several hours, as I did say,
five years ago.

I like to think that means more people are showing compassion
for their fellowmen/women/dogs/cats/cows/birds/etc. And showing
respect, not only for their city/nation/planet, but for the festival
itself:  for Diwali.

I read this today, and I thought it was a beautiful description
of what Diwali is meant to be.

"Diwali or Deepavali is the Festival of Lights. On this day, 
Hindus decorate their homes with light, using candles, 
earthern lamps or electric lights.  Light symbolizes the removal 
of inner darkness, as well as the glow of knowledge that can lead 
mankind from illusion and ignorance to an understanding of truth. 
The essence of Diwali, very simply, is a prayer for an enlightened world."

That's from an article The Essence of Diwali by Mark Sharma; if you'd like to read the complete article, click here.

A clay diya with oil and a cotton wick, outside my neighbour's front door.

I think that is such a beautiful concept. What a pretty, simple
and sweet way to remind oneself of the importance and value
of this kind of light in our lives.

I'm not a Hindu, but tonight I am celebrating Diwali. I'm off now,
to place candles at my doorstep and on my balcony as a symbol
of inviting goodness and light into my home and heart, tonight and always.

A love lesson from Paulo Coelho.

"The heart decides, and that it decides is all that really matters ... Those who are truly enlightened, those whose souls are illuminated by love, have been able to overcome all the inhibitions and preconceptions of their era. ... They have been joyful - because those who love conquer the world and have no fear of loss. True love is an act of total surrender ... One doesn't love in order to do what is good to help or to protect someone. If we act that way, we are perceiving the other as a simple object, and we are seeing ourselves as wise and generous persons. This has nothing to do with love. To love is to be in communion with the other and to discover in that other the spark of God"

These quotes are from one of my favourite writers' books - By the River Piedra   I Sat Down and Wept. I am in awe of Paulo Coelho, and am quite certain that sometimes God breathes gently down upon him when he's writing.

I must confess when I first read this - more than ten years ago, I think - I thought it was purely about romantic love:  the mushy stuff.  And/or the sweaty stuff. Back then, that's what I thought love was. I suspect that I must have looked to these words for relationship tips, and then proceeded to be a perfect doormat for the most imperfect lovers.

As I read through these words today, they mean so much more. I look at these lines now and feel that he is talking about compassion and respect and acceptance. They are about that thing which will ultimately save the world. Without necessarily having to be mushy and/or sweaty.

So that's what love is! Good to know. At last.

It's time for me to take that book down off my bookshelf and read it once again, to find out if he meant what I felt. Because as far as I remember, it was a love story (the mushy kind, don't recall any sweaty stuff in there). But I doubt Mr Coelho could disappoint me. I'm sure it was all there and I just didn't have the awareness to notice it. When I read it this time, I'll see the other stuff. The stuff I missed first time around.

Disgusting treatment of the labour force.

I couldn't resist doing this! Now that I think of it, it serves as
a good example of how misleading the media can be, when
they don't show us the whole picture.

Actually, Mast Kalandar serves up food that's anything BUT gross.
It looks like a fast food restaurant but you get hot fresh delicious
North Indian food. My favourite is their chola batura, washed down
with some yummy lassi.

The next best thing to jet-propelled.

 Always keep my eye out for interesting hand-painted signs.
They mostly tend to be oddly spelt notices of the "Child Bear"
variety (that's chilled beer, in case you were wondering), but
I like to snap up a nice illustration every now and then, like
this four-winged aeroplane I found on an old truck the other day.

Road rage.

A New Year's Wish For You

 Walking down the road to my parents' house for New Year's 

lunch this afternoon, this water tanker caught my eye. While 

I was getting my camera set, that boy in blue happened to come 

into frame. It didn't bother me much, although I had intended 

to just get a close-up of the painting. And now, after having 

just read Lunar Hine's comment on my previous post, I'm thinking

 that maybe it's serendipity again. This is what she wrote: "I think 

that sometimes love is as simple as doing the washing up when 

 it's not your turn. These are the droplets which build the rainbow 

we call love."

And so, my New Year's wish for you is this:

The next time you're doing the washing up, out of turn, out of love .. 

may the gods not just smile upon you. May they - wide-eyed, 

with nostrils flaring and moustaches bristling with pride - stick out 

a joyful red tongue and lick the side of your face.