“One evening at 7:30 pm, I was walking back home on the footpath of busy Convent Road in Bangalore where I live. Two men on a two-wheeler wanted to beat the traffic by using the footpath and yelled at me to get off. When I refused, the motorists tried to run over me by revving up the engine. When I still refused to be cowed, he verbally abused me, got off and pushed me against the wall. The pillion rider, in turn, kicked me when I hit back. Despite the road long traffic-jam and a crowd of onlookers none intervened leaving me to my poor fate. Except for a few shouts of protests, nobody wanted to get involved. After filing an FIR and case of violation under law and order, the two riders were arrested; they were found to be engineers with MBA degrees, and working for Wipro”.
This is the sordid tale of Ayesha as she narrated in our Rotary club.
Rotary club of Mylapore had organized a series of seminars for its members on woman’s day and we had invited Ayesha as one of the speakers. We had gathered at Park Sheraton and the sea breeze brought relief from the raging scorched sun. Amidst the stiffness of the decorative conference room this note of poignancy created a strange chill over 50 people gathered. A cell phone rang and everyone turned in that direction and gave the person the looks.
Ayesha continued as we heard her in rapt attention: “It is true that most urban women face harassment on the street everyday but few are prepared to tackle it head-on. What you need is to get over the “it’ll will never happen to me” attitude and be ready to face any eventuality.
Then she threw the floor open for a brainstorming session as to how a woman can protect herself in a hostile situation.
Suggestions flew thick and fast and we agreed on the following:
- Be aware of the surrounding whether you are walking in a deserted lane or crowd. Be alert as to who is approaching you instead of being absorbed in a I-pod or cell phone.
- Carry a pepper spray; even a bunch of car keys or sharp nails can come in handy when your personal space is encroached.
- When someone physically threatens you, “Scream” your lungs out. The molester is the one to be ashamed off and not you.
- If possible, learn a few self-defensive martial arts movements.
Ayesha is now busy sensitizing women on “harassment” and she is busy visiting schools and colleges promoting the cause. She has many volunteers in all the major cities and an active website where legal and police counsel is freely dished out.
She says,” I was just an ordinary housewife and that evening in Bangalore made me aware of a danger I never knew before. It is only after this the crimes against women reported in papers began to make sense.”
Her organization has come to aid of many women in similar plight. Isn’t it amazing that a victim has so much courage as to take the system on?
When queried as to why men from decent families indulge in such hooliganism, she says,” Blame bollywood”.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
129) The Cook
After my wife’s death, I felt deserted given that my son had chosen in live in another part of the world. Here I am not yet sixty and still a long way to go to the grave.
For an old man, Madras is a paradise. The evenings can be filled with concerts, morning we always have the Marina beach for a walk and where we oldies congregate for the day’s gossip. Having a long day in front and with nothing to do, the newspaper becomes another activity for the idle mind. But the biggest source of annoyance is those bills: credit card ones, electricity, water charges, mobile bills, milk, and the shopping for vegetable daily. In my entire life I have never attended domestic chores – bless my wife for that- and now these were driving me crazy.
On friends’ suggestion, I appointed a cook. Pushpa, a tall, lean woman in mid 40s was a picture of efficiency right from the start. Her terms were that I keep the rice and dhal on the cooker and she would come in like an expert and prepare sambhar, rasam, curry besides 4 chappatis for the day.
In the first two months we hardly conversed for she seemed always in a hurry. Slowly we got talking.
She said,” I start the day at 7 in the morning cooking for a software couple on 30th cross. From there I work in the temple secretary’s house and yours is the third. I only reach home at 11’o clock and then start my own cooking for my husband and son”.
She was interested in finding a job for her son and asked for my assistance. I asked her imp to meet me for my assessment before I can conjure up something.
Balaji was gawky and angular. He looked a straight line than any flesh in the body. I browsed through the badly written resume and then started chatting with him.
He said,” Uncle, I have graduated from political science and please help me get any job. I hate to see my mother struggle so hard and I wish to bring some money to the house”.
This warmed my heart instantly. I queried,” What does your father do?”
Balaji cussed under his breath and said,” he is really good for nothing and can do better than drink and beat my mother. One of these days, I am going to give him a thrashing”.
The story did not stop there as Balaji got emotional,” he married my mother on a lie. He was already married with two daughters and yet lied to get married again just for another dowry. My poor mother has stuck it out despite his wastrel ways just because she believes in tradition. This rogue takes away all her money, beats her every other alternate day and yet she stands by him. She will even tolerate my criticism”.
I could only say,” She is old fashioned though a woman of great virtue”.
The lad said,” I don’t understand”.
I got the boy a job in Blue Star as an account assistant and as to Pushpa, I said,” I feel sad for you and if there is anything I can do for you, I shall surely do it. Self-sacrificing souls like you are a rarity in today’s world”.
She answered,” I am just doing my dharma,” before cleaning the vessels and keeping it on the stove for another day at work.
For an old man, Madras is a paradise. The evenings can be filled with concerts, morning we always have the Marina beach for a walk and where we oldies congregate for the day’s gossip. Having a long day in front and with nothing to do, the newspaper becomes another activity for the idle mind. But the biggest source of annoyance is those bills: credit card ones, electricity, water charges, mobile bills, milk, and the shopping for vegetable daily. In my entire life I have never attended domestic chores – bless my wife for that- and now these were driving me crazy.
On friends’ suggestion, I appointed a cook. Pushpa, a tall, lean woman in mid 40s was a picture of efficiency right from the start. Her terms were that I keep the rice and dhal on the cooker and she would come in like an expert and prepare sambhar, rasam, curry besides 4 chappatis for the day.
In the first two months we hardly conversed for she seemed always in a hurry. Slowly we got talking.
She said,” I start the day at 7 in the morning cooking for a software couple on 30th cross. From there I work in the temple secretary’s house and yours is the third. I only reach home at 11’o clock and then start my own cooking for my husband and son”.
She was interested in finding a job for her son and asked for my assistance. I asked her imp to meet me for my assessment before I can conjure up something.
Balaji was gawky and angular. He looked a straight line than any flesh in the body. I browsed through the badly written resume and then started chatting with him.
He said,” Uncle, I have graduated from political science and please help me get any job. I hate to see my mother struggle so hard and I wish to bring some money to the house”.
This warmed my heart instantly. I queried,” What does your father do?”
Balaji cussed under his breath and said,” he is really good for nothing and can do better than drink and beat my mother. One of these days, I am going to give him a thrashing”.
The story did not stop there as Balaji got emotional,” he married my mother on a lie. He was already married with two daughters and yet lied to get married again just for another dowry. My poor mother has stuck it out despite his wastrel ways just because she believes in tradition. This rogue takes away all her money, beats her every other alternate day and yet she stands by him. She will even tolerate my criticism”.
I could only say,” She is old fashioned though a woman of great virtue”.
The lad said,” I don’t understand”.
I got the boy a job in Blue Star as an account assistant and as to Pushpa, I said,” I feel sad for you and if there is anything I can do for you, I shall surely do it. Self-sacrificing souls like you are a rarity in today’s world”.
She answered,” I am just doing my dharma,” before cleaning the vessels and keeping it on the stove for another day at work.
128) The Chartered Accountant
Petchi first heard this while in school, as her teacher addressed the class, “If you can stand next to a CA, consider it a blessing”. This girl from the hamlet raised her hand for clarification and to which the teacher replied,” It is an extremely tough course to clear”.
Petchi Thyagarajan grew in Madurai and her parents were vegetable vendors. It is as tough a vocation as any, come rain or summer her father would make rounds in the neighbourhood on his tricycle shouting his wares. An extremely vulnerable likelihood and if you don’t sell for the day, you go hungry the next.
This girl is now 27 and a chartered accountant with Deloitte. She explains,” Whenever anyone says something is tough, I have to crack it. Otherwise I can’t sleep well”. She pulled out a copy of a magazine that showed her receiving a prize at the annual chartered accountant’s conference. Only last year, she attended the conference for the first time and listened to all the big guns in the profession. She was determined to present a paper for the next conference and there was a hitch; her grasp on English was poor.
At the next conference, her paper,” How to audit under computerized environment” won the prize for the best paper. So, when she says,” I can crack anything you describe tough”, then it’s worth a listen.
She reminiscences; at school her elder brother dropped out and he alternatively bullied and coaxed her to study. Her father was none too concerned about her studies but her amma’s last words were,” never give up on your studies”. I see her getting a bit emotional as she narrates as how her mother grappled with cancer and passed away even she was in her XII standard.
The next hurdle was to get admission into a college. Petchi had all the marks for admission but the principal dilly dallied. He was not convinced about whether they could afford the course as each semester would cost over Rs.10,000. Her brother and father went the Principal’s room and assured, “We will suffer, but we’ll pay her fees”.
The day after her B.Com exams, she reported to a local audit firm and started her preparations for CA exams. Her tutor Mr. Seshadri was so impressed with her grasping prowess that he took free classes. He then recommended her to his friend’s firm in Chennai which had better coaching facilities.
Petchi spent three years in the big city and those were times when she worked during the day at office and prepared for her exams in the night. She would prop the mattress against the wall so that she wouldn’t drop into it after a tiring day. She battled typhoid in a new city and no one to comfort her.
Those were days of struggle and they have paid off.
Petchi says, “I have not heard of Deloitte when I came to Madras. In fact I couldn’t even pronounce it right”. Today her calling card reads: Assistant Manager, Taxation, Deloitte.
Petchi advises in her won characteristic style,” CA is not difficult. One has to keep telling oneself that they can do it. I am more scared of T. nagar traffic”, she adds jovially.
Petchi Thyagarajan grew in Madurai and her parents were vegetable vendors. It is as tough a vocation as any, come rain or summer her father would make rounds in the neighbourhood on his tricycle shouting his wares. An extremely vulnerable likelihood and if you don’t sell for the day, you go hungry the next.
This girl is now 27 and a chartered accountant with Deloitte. She explains,” Whenever anyone says something is tough, I have to crack it. Otherwise I can’t sleep well”. She pulled out a copy of a magazine that showed her receiving a prize at the annual chartered accountant’s conference. Only last year, she attended the conference for the first time and listened to all the big guns in the profession. She was determined to present a paper for the next conference and there was a hitch; her grasp on English was poor.
At the next conference, her paper,” How to audit under computerized environment” won the prize for the best paper. So, when she says,” I can crack anything you describe tough”, then it’s worth a listen.
She reminiscences; at school her elder brother dropped out and he alternatively bullied and coaxed her to study. Her father was none too concerned about her studies but her amma’s last words were,” never give up on your studies”. I see her getting a bit emotional as she narrates as how her mother grappled with cancer and passed away even she was in her XII standard.
The next hurdle was to get admission into a college. Petchi had all the marks for admission but the principal dilly dallied. He was not convinced about whether they could afford the course as each semester would cost over Rs.10,000. Her brother and father went the Principal’s room and assured, “We will suffer, but we’ll pay her fees”.
The day after her B.Com exams, she reported to a local audit firm and started her preparations for CA exams. Her tutor Mr. Seshadri was so impressed with her grasping prowess that he took free classes. He then recommended her to his friend’s firm in Chennai which had better coaching facilities.
Petchi spent three years in the big city and those were times when she worked during the day at office and prepared for her exams in the night. She would prop the mattress against the wall so that she wouldn’t drop into it after a tiring day. She battled typhoid in a new city and no one to comfort her.
Those were days of struggle and they have paid off.
Petchi says, “I have not heard of Deloitte when I came to Madras. In fact I couldn’t even pronounce it right”. Today her calling card reads: Assistant Manager, Taxation, Deloitte.
Petchi advises in her won characteristic style,” CA is not difficult. One has to keep telling oneself that they can do it. I am more scared of T. nagar traffic”, she adds jovially.
127) On Bridavan Express
On Tuesday, the 18th December, I found myself on Brindavan express for a one day trip to Bangalore. I reached Central in a recently introduced AC bus by Pallavan and it looked international as the conductor slipped in a printed ticket from a hand held gadget.
As I sat on the train, I noticed a rather spry old man and he introduced himself,” I am so and so and retired from Hindustan Motors”. At the other end of the coach, two people got tangled into a fight over where to place the baggage and that was turning physical as each swore in the choicest words unmindful of other’s presence. The din was grating the nerves and I shouted: go out and fight and spare others the trouble. That quietened down a bit.
In walked a very loquacious woman; looked in her 50s, wore a large diamond ear stud, and dressed in a polyester saree. She was shouting like a fisherwoman who has lost her wits as she alternately directed and commanded as to where to place the luggage. She carried 3 people’s luggage on her; one plastic bucket, another rice bag, and lot of small parcels mostly wrapped in plastic covers. She irritated me and the Hindustan fellow to no end as they kept their pieces all over. He was rattled and shouted to match hers,” Don’t keep it below the seat for where would I keep my feet”. I too joined in the verbal melee dissuading her from making too much noise. I said,” Over 100 people have boarded this coach and no one has made such a commotion”.
She smiled saying,” Only when I shout will my son obey me”.
I instantly took a liking as I watched her direct her son on where the place the luggage pieces. Though she was making a ruckus, somehow I did not feel the strain.
At last all the pieces are arranged to her satisfaction as if solving a jigsaw puzzle and everyone heaved a sigh of relief as the train departed.
She was my neighbour and proved an engaging co-traveler. She said,” my husband is a good for nothing fellow. He earns to gamble on horses and I have driven him from the house. That fellow cannot see life beyond drinks and horses and none can straighten him,” she said with contempt.
“Three years back, I got my eldest son married and he left the house within a year. I have written him off too and don’t bother whether he is alive or dead”.
I said,” Please don’t say that and especially coming from a mother bodes that fellow no good”. This seems to remind me of my own situation in the house.
She said,” Anyone not useful to the house has no place in it”, with a finality that brooked no stopping.
Thereafter she spoke about what serials she watches on the TV, how her son drives a car for a living earning Rs.7,000 a month and how she manages her house. I asked,” why are going to Bangalore and that too with a truckful of baggage?”
She answered,” For my married daughter there and I have made a lot of pappads and vadams. In addition, the usual pickles. Look, cooking oil is Rs.60 a kg here in Madras while it costs Rs.70 there. In addition, she wants Nellore rice and all that adds up”.
“My son-in-law has is own car and he too drives for a living”.
The Hindustan Motors fellow also warmed up and so much that they were soon playing pranks on one another. He said,” This train will only go up to Kuppam and from there you will have to take a bus to B'lore because of sudden floods”.
She was smart and sharp enough to see the humour.
The lady opened her chappatis breakfast from home and she even drank water from his mineral water bottle without his permission as he had shifted to a vacant seat in front. When he found his bottle half empty he was really shocked. She said,” there are a lot of rats in the train and they might have been thirsty”.
This woman was obviously unlettered but life had taught her a lot of worldly wisdom. I found a deadly commonsense about her and that made me respect her more.
As I helped her get down with all those baggage at Krishnarajapuram, she thanked me profusely besides blessing me, ” Sir, you are a good person and you will do well in life”. I cherished that compliment. Here we were without even sharing our names but had a good rapport.
As the train meandered its way to Cantonment, I thought: these people are really at the bottom of the economic ladder and yet their faces had cheer and confidence written all over. I thanked destiny for the lesson it taught through this earth woman.
As I sat on the train, I noticed a rather spry old man and he introduced himself,” I am so and so and retired from Hindustan Motors”. At the other end of the coach, two people got tangled into a fight over where to place the baggage and that was turning physical as each swore in the choicest words unmindful of other’s presence. The din was grating the nerves and I shouted: go out and fight and spare others the trouble. That quietened down a bit.
In walked a very loquacious woman; looked in her 50s, wore a large diamond ear stud, and dressed in a polyester saree. She was shouting like a fisherwoman who has lost her wits as she alternately directed and commanded as to where to place the luggage. She carried 3 people’s luggage on her; one plastic bucket, another rice bag, and lot of small parcels mostly wrapped in plastic covers. She irritated me and the Hindustan fellow to no end as they kept their pieces all over. He was rattled and shouted to match hers,” Don’t keep it below the seat for where would I keep my feet”. I too joined in the verbal melee dissuading her from making too much noise. I said,” Over 100 people have boarded this coach and no one has made such a commotion”.
She smiled saying,” Only when I shout will my son obey me”.
I instantly took a liking as I watched her direct her son on where the place the luggage pieces. Though she was making a ruckus, somehow I did not feel the strain.
At last all the pieces are arranged to her satisfaction as if solving a jigsaw puzzle and everyone heaved a sigh of relief as the train departed.
She was my neighbour and proved an engaging co-traveler. She said,” my husband is a good for nothing fellow. He earns to gamble on horses and I have driven him from the house. That fellow cannot see life beyond drinks and horses and none can straighten him,” she said with contempt.
“Three years back, I got my eldest son married and he left the house within a year. I have written him off too and don’t bother whether he is alive or dead”.
I said,” Please don’t say that and especially coming from a mother bodes that fellow no good”. This seems to remind me of my own situation in the house.
She said,” Anyone not useful to the house has no place in it”, with a finality that brooked no stopping.
Thereafter she spoke about what serials she watches on the TV, how her son drives a car for a living earning Rs.7,000 a month and how she manages her house. I asked,” why are going to Bangalore and that too with a truckful of baggage?”
She answered,” For my married daughter there and I have made a lot of pappads and vadams. In addition, the usual pickles. Look, cooking oil is Rs.60 a kg here in Madras while it costs Rs.70 there. In addition, she wants Nellore rice and all that adds up”.
“My son-in-law has is own car and he too drives for a living”.
The Hindustan Motors fellow also warmed up and so much that they were soon playing pranks on one another. He said,” This train will only go up to Kuppam and from there you will have to take a bus to B'lore because of sudden floods”.
She was smart and sharp enough to see the humour.
The lady opened her chappatis breakfast from home and she even drank water from his mineral water bottle without his permission as he had shifted to a vacant seat in front. When he found his bottle half empty he was really shocked. She said,” there are a lot of rats in the train and they might have been thirsty”.
This woman was obviously unlettered but life had taught her a lot of worldly wisdom. I found a deadly commonsense about her and that made me respect her more.
As I helped her get down with all those baggage at Krishnarajapuram, she thanked me profusely besides blessing me, ” Sir, you are a good person and you will do well in life”. I cherished that compliment. Here we were without even sharing our names but had a good rapport.
As the train meandered its way to Cantonment, I thought: these people are really at the bottom of the economic ladder and yet their faces had cheer and confidence written all over. I thanked destiny for the lesson it taught through this earth woman.
126) A teacher's passion
Meet Ms. Banu Reka, a school principal in Keezharippalayam in Erode district in Tamilnadu. One to those real backward areas, Banu heads a school with just 60 children. Just one room serves as the school and she has an additional teacher to help out.
These 60 odd students assemble there right at the stroke of noon. Their main attraction is the free midday meal and so driven more by poverty than attempt at study. These boys and girls hail from construction worker families, and so poverty stricken that just to be alive is some sort of an achievement. In addition itinerant too, sleeping on the roads or on the construction site in hopeless squalour.
Ms. Banu, when she took up her assignment was initially petrified at the task on hand. The school just had one room and it had to house these kids whose age range from to 5 to 15. Her assistant was an untrained teacher, sound at heart and willing to learn. These two women did not know where to start before they divided their responsibilities: Banu looked after children above 8 while Sumathi attended to the toddlers.
The midday meal was one attraction that drove these kids to school. To discipline them, she made it clear that they need to attend a class at least for an hour to be eligible for that meal. Slowly, in fits and starts these women brought in a degree of order and it took more than a year for the school to operate for at least 3 hours a day.
Last year, Banu organized the school’s “annual day” and the whole village was agog with excitement. Soon a philanthropist donated two cup boards besides toilets. Now the kids could keep their notebooks secure.
Banu and Sumathi’s main task were to make these kids believe in a better future. They needed lessons in hygiene besides attending to their ailments. Banu had trained for a first aid course before coming here and that proved to be invaluable as soon the kids and parents began to consult her on fevers and other niggles.
In a couple of years, Banu’s influence in the community was enormous, so much so that she was awarded the “Broad Outlook Learner-Teacher” BOLT award instituted by Air India and given a free holiday to Singapore.
Imagine a teacher from a dusty interior embarked on an international flight. Going to the airport for the first time is excitement enough while immigration and security checks an adventure. When she boarded the flight, she felt her heart thud as she exclaimed,” what glitter and opulence”. As the bird climbed into its altitude, she craned her neck out of the window for a view. Never had she been so happy and thrilled.
That experience proved invaluable to Banu. She saw at first hand the Singapore’s fastidious drive for cleanliness and soon her school too adapted some of them.
Today, her school has a no-plastic zone, children are initiated in rainwater harvesting, wildlife protection, and being environment conscious. She and Sumathi take these children out on treks regularly ensuring that they remain excited. Banu runs tapes of her Singapore visit to point as to how much each child can contribute to keep the village neat.
In the five years, Banu and Sumathi have wrought a miracle. Today the school is active and some of the students have reached a stage as to even take state board exams. A lot needs to be done and District Collector has promised a bigger school.
I have known Banu for quite sometime now. She always has that friendly cheer and the eyes have not lost that childlike sparkle. She said,” Actually, when I went to Singapore I was only teacher from Tamilnadu. I couldn’t interact much with the others since I am not familiar with either English or Hindi. Now I am going to learn both”.
No wonder she won the best teacher award!!!
These 60 odd students assemble there right at the stroke of noon. Their main attraction is the free midday meal and so driven more by poverty than attempt at study. These boys and girls hail from construction worker families, and so poverty stricken that just to be alive is some sort of an achievement. In addition itinerant too, sleeping on the roads or on the construction site in hopeless squalour.
Ms. Banu, when she took up her assignment was initially petrified at the task on hand. The school just had one room and it had to house these kids whose age range from to 5 to 15. Her assistant was an untrained teacher, sound at heart and willing to learn. These two women did not know where to start before they divided their responsibilities: Banu looked after children above 8 while Sumathi attended to the toddlers.
The midday meal was one attraction that drove these kids to school. To discipline them, she made it clear that they need to attend a class at least for an hour to be eligible for that meal. Slowly, in fits and starts these women brought in a degree of order and it took more than a year for the school to operate for at least 3 hours a day.
Last year, Banu organized the school’s “annual day” and the whole village was agog with excitement. Soon a philanthropist donated two cup boards besides toilets. Now the kids could keep their notebooks secure.
Banu and Sumathi’s main task were to make these kids believe in a better future. They needed lessons in hygiene besides attending to their ailments. Banu had trained for a first aid course before coming here and that proved to be invaluable as soon the kids and parents began to consult her on fevers and other niggles.
In a couple of years, Banu’s influence in the community was enormous, so much so that she was awarded the “Broad Outlook Learner-Teacher” BOLT award instituted by Air India and given a free holiday to Singapore.
Imagine a teacher from a dusty interior embarked on an international flight. Going to the airport for the first time is excitement enough while immigration and security checks an adventure. When she boarded the flight, she felt her heart thud as she exclaimed,” what glitter and opulence”. As the bird climbed into its altitude, she craned her neck out of the window for a view. Never had she been so happy and thrilled.
That experience proved invaluable to Banu. She saw at first hand the Singapore’s fastidious drive for cleanliness and soon her school too adapted some of them.
Today, her school has a no-plastic zone, children are initiated in rainwater harvesting, wildlife protection, and being environment conscious. She and Sumathi take these children out on treks regularly ensuring that they remain excited. Banu runs tapes of her Singapore visit to point as to how much each child can contribute to keep the village neat.
In the five years, Banu and Sumathi have wrought a miracle. Today the school is active and some of the students have reached a stage as to even take state board exams. A lot needs to be done and District Collector has promised a bigger school.
I have known Banu for quite sometime now. She always has that friendly cheer and the eyes have not lost that childlike sparkle. She said,” Actually, when I went to Singapore I was only teacher from Tamilnadu. I couldn’t interact much with the others since I am not familiar with either English or Hindi. Now I am going to learn both”.
No wonder she won the best teacher award!!!
125) Rehabilitating Prisoners
If Kiran Bedi brought Vipasana to Tihar inmates, then the 3 R’s were brought by Ms. Ramena to Kerala prisons.
In a state with 100% literacy, Ramena assumed an overwhelming percentage of jail inmates who could write and read in Malayalam. As state prison’s DGP, she was keen to introducing a small measure of computer literacy to the inmates; a step in making them independent, post their release. Getting employment outside would be next to impossible for prisoners for a jail stigma is a strong impediment and deterrent.
So as DGP, she was keen on some kind of rehabilitation; a failure to re-join the mainstream would result in more crimes. Rehana just wanted to equip these people in computer skills that could come in handy for internet jobs.
This was the insight behind starting the computer drive in prisons in Kochi, Trivandrum, and Palghat.
Ramena first discovered that that over 80% of inmates were plain illiterates. This threw a spanner in the works and a greater challenge; first get them to have a working knowledge in the language and then progress them on to computer studies. This project was scoffed at initially, everyone called her “courageous”!!!
Slowly Ramena got primary school study material for the inmates. She sought local schools for support both by way of “teachers” and “study material”, which basically meant text books and notebooks. There was an intrinsic goodness about the project and principals did not discard her project straightway. These schools were in any way involved in sending their wards for social service to prisons on national days and on festivals like raksha bandan and holi. So, they did have inkling as to what to expect of prisons and prisoners.
Slowly assistance started to trickle in and prisoners needed to be goaded too for participation. The inmates come from an age group as varied from 20 to 60 and different in their attitude to studying. Ramena got a few classes started and paired a literate prisoner with an unlettered one in the cells.
That actually started the transformation; one can teach and another to learn and both found a great deal of satisfaction. Slowly, the literacy campaign gained momentum and the jail was abuzz with excitement of learning.
Soon, the illiterate inmates started to learn the alphabets, then words and soon enough progressed to sentence construction. Their joy knew no bounds when they started to write letters to their wives and children. A man over 70 remarked, “I have seen so many things in life and most of them sordid but never a committed soul like Ramena. She believed in us so much that we had no choice but to believe in ourselves”.
In a state with 100% literacy, Ramena assumed an overwhelming percentage of jail inmates who could write and read in Malayalam. As state prison’s DGP, she was keen to introducing a small measure of computer literacy to the inmates; a step in making them independent, post their release. Getting employment outside would be next to impossible for prisoners for a jail stigma is a strong impediment and deterrent.
So as DGP, she was keen on some kind of rehabilitation; a failure to re-join the mainstream would result in more crimes. Rehana just wanted to equip these people in computer skills that could come in handy for internet jobs.
This was the insight behind starting the computer drive in prisons in Kochi, Trivandrum, and Palghat.
Ramena first discovered that that over 80% of inmates were plain illiterates. This threw a spanner in the works and a greater challenge; first get them to have a working knowledge in the language and then progress them on to computer studies. This project was scoffed at initially, everyone called her “courageous”!!!
Slowly Ramena got primary school study material for the inmates. She sought local schools for support both by way of “teachers” and “study material”, which basically meant text books and notebooks. There was an intrinsic goodness about the project and principals did not discard her project straightway. These schools were in any way involved in sending their wards for social service to prisons on national days and on festivals like raksha bandan and holi. So, they did have inkling as to what to expect of prisons and prisoners.
Slowly assistance started to trickle in and prisoners needed to be goaded too for participation. The inmates come from an age group as varied from 20 to 60 and different in their attitude to studying. Ramena got a few classes started and paired a literate prisoner with an unlettered one in the cells.
That actually started the transformation; one can teach and another to learn and both found a great deal of satisfaction. Slowly, the literacy campaign gained momentum and the jail was abuzz with excitement of learning.
Soon, the illiterate inmates started to learn the alphabets, then words and soon enough progressed to sentence construction. Their joy knew no bounds when they started to write letters to their wives and children. A man over 70 remarked, “I have seen so many things in life and most of them sordid but never a committed soul like Ramena. She believed in us so much that we had no choice but to believe in ourselves”.
124) The Cook
Meera is an ordinary cook but an extraordinary character. I learnt it only yesterday.
First things first, Meera has me in my employ for 6 months now and she has proved handy. For a bachelor working on Internet jobs, I have little or no human company. I gotten into a habit of exchanging a few words and air my grouses with the world. As a cook, she wasn’t bad but just about sufficed.
I used to eat out of hotels before it became to take a toll on my health. I scouted in the neighbourhood and was referred to Meera when I queried the neighbourhood temple. I was looking for a “Brahmin” cook; neat and hygienic and on that score Meera fitted the bill. Once she joined then I had to go buy groceries and vegetables on a daily basis. A much needed activity from the stupour I had fallen to.
A home-made food is a million times better than a hotel one and slowly both my mood and health began to improve.
I would keep the rice and dhal in the steam cooker and she would come in like an expert and make my sambhar and curry. Once she started making chappatis on a daily basis, I knew she had more than earned her pay.
I would gossip about the issues at work, bitch about my relatives, and she would listen patiently. She appreciated my keeping the rice ready as it would help her finish cooking in less than 40 minutes. She would always refer to her son with fondness,” He had done Vedic parayanam for over a decade and at 17, he is a bright kid. He has already started earning and so affectionate at home”.
Since my grandparents too were traditional Brahmins, I related to this aspect better.
Moreover, I grew up listening to the sounds of vedic chants and not some bollywood number.
Yesterday, I was talking to her about my recent brawl at work and that I felt that it would be better off if I quit that assignment. Meera would patiently listen and that kind of listening is quite invaluable.
She got into talking as the rasam was boiling on the stove. She said,” my mother stays with us”.
This got me interested. I said,” normally parents are supposed to stay in the son’s place. Does your brother give any money for mother’s keep?”
She smiled,” No, my mother can’t stand the son’s place and so I keep her”.
It is hard to imagine the earnings of a cook. She makes Rs.1500 at my place and she works in two other places and so her monthly earnings can’t exceed Rs.5,000. Plus of course what the son and husband bring in.
I asked,” You rarely talk about your husband. What does he do? Does he earn enough?”
She demurred and said,” I have seen my husband for the last 12 years. He just borrowed a lot of money and simply vanished leaving me and my then five year old son”.
I was shocked and no one expected this to happen to such a decent and upright person.
She continued,” Sathya, normally I don’t ever mention this to outsiders. But you are a decent soul and I know that men can nasty at times. A lone woman is particularly vulnerable.
I have really suffered so much. For a decade, I was working in the house of a Brigadier like a dog. My son was put up in a residential vedic school for I had no money on schools. In addition, I had no home too”.
As she cleaned the vessels, she brightened up,” What is the use of worrying about troubles? God, I brought my son wonderfully well and I have survived the dark years. Today, I can support my mother as well. What can be more wonderful than that?”
I would always crib about her cooking but since that day I don’t. If I can summon an ounce of that fortitude then I could thrive as well.
First things first, Meera has me in my employ for 6 months now and she has proved handy. For a bachelor working on Internet jobs, I have little or no human company. I gotten into a habit of exchanging a few words and air my grouses with the world. As a cook, she wasn’t bad but just about sufficed.
I used to eat out of hotels before it became to take a toll on my health. I scouted in the neighbourhood and was referred to Meera when I queried the neighbourhood temple. I was looking for a “Brahmin” cook; neat and hygienic and on that score Meera fitted the bill. Once she joined then I had to go buy groceries and vegetables on a daily basis. A much needed activity from the stupour I had fallen to.
A home-made food is a million times better than a hotel one and slowly both my mood and health began to improve.
I would keep the rice and dhal in the steam cooker and she would come in like an expert and make my sambhar and curry. Once she started making chappatis on a daily basis, I knew she had more than earned her pay.
I would gossip about the issues at work, bitch about my relatives, and she would listen patiently. She appreciated my keeping the rice ready as it would help her finish cooking in less than 40 minutes. She would always refer to her son with fondness,” He had done Vedic parayanam for over a decade and at 17, he is a bright kid. He has already started earning and so affectionate at home”.
Since my grandparents too were traditional Brahmins, I related to this aspect better.
Moreover, I grew up listening to the sounds of vedic chants and not some bollywood number.
Yesterday, I was talking to her about my recent brawl at work and that I felt that it would be better off if I quit that assignment. Meera would patiently listen and that kind of listening is quite invaluable.
She got into talking as the rasam was boiling on the stove. She said,” my mother stays with us”.
This got me interested. I said,” normally parents are supposed to stay in the son’s place. Does your brother give any money for mother’s keep?”
She smiled,” No, my mother can’t stand the son’s place and so I keep her”.
It is hard to imagine the earnings of a cook. She makes Rs.1500 at my place and she works in two other places and so her monthly earnings can’t exceed Rs.5,000. Plus of course what the son and husband bring in.
I asked,” You rarely talk about your husband. What does he do? Does he earn enough?”
She demurred and said,” I have seen my husband for the last 12 years. He just borrowed a lot of money and simply vanished leaving me and my then five year old son”.
I was shocked and no one expected this to happen to such a decent and upright person.
She continued,” Sathya, normally I don’t ever mention this to outsiders. But you are a decent soul and I know that men can nasty at times. A lone woman is particularly vulnerable.
I have really suffered so much. For a decade, I was working in the house of a Brigadier like a dog. My son was put up in a residential vedic school for I had no money on schools. In addition, I had no home too”.
As she cleaned the vessels, she brightened up,” What is the use of worrying about troubles? God, I brought my son wonderfully well and I have survived the dark years. Today, I can support my mother as well. What can be more wonderful than that?”
I would always crib about her cooking but since that day I don’t. If I can summon an ounce of that fortitude then I could thrive as well.
123) The Dutiful daughter
I get up later at 7:30 and routinely chastened by mother,” Sona, is it impossible to get up to watch at least one sunrise in your life? You keep browsing and blogging all night and get up like Kumbakarna”.
I don’t blame mother at all. At 75, she is from the old school where the woman must be an early riser and have a bath before entering the kitchen. But look how tough my own life is.
At 8, I rush to the gym in Indranagar and it is a 15 minute drive in my Logan. This was my second car after a Santro and I feel so proud. My father was just a trader and an awful one at that. Our house barely kept neck out of water; we were always making errands to the pawn broker and getting fed 3 squares a day was almost onerous.
I still remember those days when I was shunned by everyone; my school uniform were the oldest and though full of stitches never held long to prevent another tear. Though I was good in athletics, I shied away from participation for fear that my dress would give way.
My uncle supported me through graduation and he showered his affection; a person I am eternally grateful for.
The best thing that happened in my life was a scholarship from Tata’s for a post graduate programme in Psychology. For the first time I was in a metro and my attire improved from the monthly reimbursement I was getting.
Now after a decade of working in OXFAM, I drive my own car, own a flat, and travel to all parts of the world. My mother cannot even book a railway ticket or go on her own to the mandi for vegetables. She will not venture out on the roads after dark while only last year; I spent a month in America. I explored the country on my own sometimes traveling on trains and reaching destinations in unearthly hours.
Even I was scared when there was a storm warning and I reached New York station at 2 in the morning to an empty station. I panicked and sought assistance from a cop. I boarded a cab only after the cop assured me of my safety. That was a close shave.
At work, I am in charge of 3 programmes: Learning Programme for kids in Salem District, handling a disaster management team in Bihar and another for rehabilitating street children in Annanagar. I supervise over 20 team members who report to me in addition being in touch with over hundreds of field people.
The day is full of reports, interacting with government officials, ensuring supplies to Bihar team, presentation, project appraisal and over thousand chores in a day. I log in no less than 10 to 12 hours at work in addition to at least outstation travel for 10 days a month. It is only by 9 or 10 that I reach home.
The work has been so hectic of late that I don’t even have time for my piano classes.
I sleep late into the night and only get up at 8 in the morning.
Am I justified?
Today, I have to take mother for check up with the dentist and she is already on a tuberculosis treatment. Dad fell from a chair and suffered a bleeding on the neck. At 83, he is still as stubborn as ever and refused a doctor.
My weekends go in caring for their medical supervision.
Who says that being a modern woman is easy? We have responsibilities both at home and office.
I don’t blame mother at all. At 75, she is from the old school where the woman must be an early riser and have a bath before entering the kitchen. But look how tough my own life is.
At 8, I rush to the gym in Indranagar and it is a 15 minute drive in my Logan. This was my second car after a Santro and I feel so proud. My father was just a trader and an awful one at that. Our house barely kept neck out of water; we were always making errands to the pawn broker and getting fed 3 squares a day was almost onerous.
I still remember those days when I was shunned by everyone; my school uniform were the oldest and though full of stitches never held long to prevent another tear. Though I was good in athletics, I shied away from participation for fear that my dress would give way.
My uncle supported me through graduation and he showered his affection; a person I am eternally grateful for.
The best thing that happened in my life was a scholarship from Tata’s for a post graduate programme in Psychology. For the first time I was in a metro and my attire improved from the monthly reimbursement I was getting.
Now after a decade of working in OXFAM, I drive my own car, own a flat, and travel to all parts of the world. My mother cannot even book a railway ticket or go on her own to the mandi for vegetables. She will not venture out on the roads after dark while only last year; I spent a month in America. I explored the country on my own sometimes traveling on trains and reaching destinations in unearthly hours.
Even I was scared when there was a storm warning and I reached New York station at 2 in the morning to an empty station. I panicked and sought assistance from a cop. I boarded a cab only after the cop assured me of my safety. That was a close shave.
At work, I am in charge of 3 programmes: Learning Programme for kids in Salem District, handling a disaster management team in Bihar and another for rehabilitating street children in Annanagar. I supervise over 20 team members who report to me in addition being in touch with over hundreds of field people.
The day is full of reports, interacting with government officials, ensuring supplies to Bihar team, presentation, project appraisal and over thousand chores in a day. I log in no less than 10 to 12 hours at work in addition to at least outstation travel for 10 days a month. It is only by 9 or 10 that I reach home.
The work has been so hectic of late that I don’t even have time for my piano classes.
I sleep late into the night and only get up at 8 in the morning.
Am I justified?
Today, I have to take mother for check up with the dentist and she is already on a tuberculosis treatment. Dad fell from a chair and suffered a bleeding on the neck. At 83, he is still as stubborn as ever and refused a doctor.
My weekends go in caring for their medical supervision.
Who says that being a modern woman is easy? We have responsibilities both at home and office.
122) The Sound Engineer
There was a film shooting going on Eliot Beach. The usual sun reflectors, an umbrella shade for the leading actors, and hangers on everywhere. The battery van kept sputtering and purring and the wind was a bit too strong from the technicians. On the corner was the heroine in a shamelessly wrapped in a sea through while the hero was preened in white trouser and white shoes; some thing never change. Indians as a race can never tire out living their sexual fantasies from such clichéd set scenes.
My business on the sands of the beach was just to catch an old schoolmate after more a decade of drifting away. I went on do my Masters in Management while Priya when to IIFT at Pune for a degree in sound recording.
Earlier in the day, she called and said,” Buddy, I am in your city, in fact your locality. I have a film shooting at Eliots and care to join in. Never mind the noise and we can reminisce between shots”.
It looked good to me for it was a Sunday and who can refuse an old schoolmate dating back to over 2 decades.
I saw the jamboree with a supercilious air while Priya kept shouting instructions. Getting a high quality audio against the roar of waves and the incessant winds kept her on her toes. She just acknowledged my arrival with a nod and for hours was immersed in her chores: turning all those fancy knobs on a sound board and a hanging microphone perched atop the actors.
To busy myself I started talking to hangers on true to my Indian trait. The name of the Hindi film was “Ajnabee” and a total heroine oriented subject. Madhuri, the heroine becomes a widow after her husband’s “saheed” in Kargil and left with the onerous task of raising 3 kids. Predictably, they grow to positions of affluence but forget the mother who brought them there. She dies languishing in an old age home and the director was chuckling,” Never in the history of Bollywood was there a more emotionally surcharged movie. I am going to give free napkins along with the film tickets”.
I watched the heroine finished the song sequence in just one take.
Priya came back to her chair and apologized profusely.
“Srini, you have really put on weight. How is your wife? It is so nice to see you in ages?”
I commiserated on her divorce and noted,” You seem to be busy at work. What is this tasteless movie that you are doing?”
She laughed,” I am not here to judge imbecile scripts. I provide the best quality sound to these bird brains to manage those infernal EMIs”.
I guffawed,” Can’t believe that with time you have lost your fire of idealism?”
Priya brushed aside my astute observation and said,” Srini, this is a juvenile project and the movie may not last the first week. Look at me, I am 34 today and I have seen some troubles. My mother died when I was 8 years old and I had two younger sisters to take care off. I had to clean them up after toilets and as an elder ensure their safety at school. Regardless of whether I did my homework or not, I coached Meena and Shashi.
Dad never remarried and he was the best parent anyone can have. He couldn’t manage his office and 3 young children that he sent us to a hostel”.
I have never imagined a woman as frivolous as Priya – she was always clothes conscious and as movie freak – have so much depth. The visual of an elder one toilet cleaning her siblings shook me.
I said,” Please come home for dinner and I will give an intro to someone very real”.
She winked,” No matchmaking for me”
I introduced my cousin on that balmy night and after a year of hectic dating; those two are happily married and taken up diggings just a stone throw away.
My business on the sands of the beach was just to catch an old schoolmate after more a decade of drifting away. I went on do my Masters in Management while Priya when to IIFT at Pune for a degree in sound recording.
Earlier in the day, she called and said,” Buddy, I am in your city, in fact your locality. I have a film shooting at Eliots and care to join in. Never mind the noise and we can reminisce between shots”.
It looked good to me for it was a Sunday and who can refuse an old schoolmate dating back to over 2 decades.
I saw the jamboree with a supercilious air while Priya kept shouting instructions. Getting a high quality audio against the roar of waves and the incessant winds kept her on her toes. She just acknowledged my arrival with a nod and for hours was immersed in her chores: turning all those fancy knobs on a sound board and a hanging microphone perched atop the actors.
To busy myself I started talking to hangers on true to my Indian trait. The name of the Hindi film was “Ajnabee” and a total heroine oriented subject. Madhuri, the heroine becomes a widow after her husband’s “saheed” in Kargil and left with the onerous task of raising 3 kids. Predictably, they grow to positions of affluence but forget the mother who brought them there. She dies languishing in an old age home and the director was chuckling,” Never in the history of Bollywood was there a more emotionally surcharged movie. I am going to give free napkins along with the film tickets”.
I watched the heroine finished the song sequence in just one take.
Priya came back to her chair and apologized profusely.
“Srini, you have really put on weight. How is your wife? It is so nice to see you in ages?”
I commiserated on her divorce and noted,” You seem to be busy at work. What is this tasteless movie that you are doing?”
She laughed,” I am not here to judge imbecile scripts. I provide the best quality sound to these bird brains to manage those infernal EMIs”.
I guffawed,” Can’t believe that with time you have lost your fire of idealism?”
Priya brushed aside my astute observation and said,” Srini, this is a juvenile project and the movie may not last the first week. Look at me, I am 34 today and I have seen some troubles. My mother died when I was 8 years old and I had two younger sisters to take care off. I had to clean them up after toilets and as an elder ensure their safety at school. Regardless of whether I did my homework or not, I coached Meena and Shashi.
Dad never remarried and he was the best parent anyone can have. He couldn’t manage his office and 3 young children that he sent us to a hostel”.
I have never imagined a woman as frivolous as Priya – she was always clothes conscious and as movie freak – have so much depth. The visual of an elder one toilet cleaning her siblings shook me.
I said,” Please come home for dinner and I will give an intro to someone very real”.
She winked,” No matchmaking for me”
I introduced my cousin on that balmy night and after a year of hectic dating; those two are happily married and taken up diggings just a stone throw away.
121) Adoption Issues
I recently found an old diary from my teenage years, where I blithely wrote about my future, figuring I would get married around 28 and have children soon after. By the time I met the man of my dreams, however, I was 34 and had almost given up on the idea of a family; I'd convinced myself I could live a perfectly fulfilled life without children. But being with Sunil soon convinced me otherwise — I knew we were meant to raise a family together.
Again, life had other plans. I was 36 when we married, and instead of getting pregnant, I got breast cancer. Once I came safely (more or less) out on the other side of the treatment, I was nearing 40 and had little hope of becoming pregnant.
So we chose adoption. We went through three "failed matches" — adoptions that fell through at the last minute — and there were days when I literally curled up on the floor, threw things at the wall, and sobbed in despair, believing we'd never have a baby.
But then a beautiful young woman named Janaki chose us to be the parents of her daughter. I'll never forget the warm night when we first watched Anika wrapped in a bundle of cloth. As Sunil and I looked into her wide, alert blue eyes, we knew why we went through everything we did. And for Anika, we'd do it all again.
The journey to adoption doesn’t come without heartaches. And we all recognize that a lot of agony is also experienced by the birth parents, understand that just because they weren't able to raise their kids doesn't mean that they don't love them deeply. But even though growing our family has been a lot harder than I ever imagined, it was worth it. I still wouldn't change a single step on our path to parenthood — because each one led us to our daughter.
There's one reason above all others to make this choice: You should do it, say experts, because you want to be a parent and love a child. If a personal concern for less fortunate kids is part of your motivation, then that may affect how you adopt — but it shouldn't be your driving impulse; adoption is about creating a family, not "saving" a child.
"Infertility is a grief that's revisited many times throughout life — for instance, when you see the birth family and know your child looks like them, not you," says psychologist Mr. Chaurasia. "Can you handle that? You have to be able to accept that adoption isn't the same as having a child born to you." To get to that place, first understand that feeling ongoing pangs of loss over infertility doesn't mean you love your adopted child any less. Find support among parents who have adopted or are trying to — many have been down this path.
From "Did I grow in your tummy?" to "Who do I look like, Mom?" there will always be sticky issues that set you apart from other families. How will you discuss them with your children? "Very important — do you have a thick skin?" asks Chaurasia. "People will say stupid things to you sometimes, like, 'Aren't you afraid the real mother will take her away?' Do you know how to deal with them in a way that's healthy for your child?" Good adoption agencies offer classes, programs, and counseling that can help you navigate these answers.
Again, life had other plans. I was 36 when we married, and instead of getting pregnant, I got breast cancer. Once I came safely (more or less) out on the other side of the treatment, I was nearing 40 and had little hope of becoming pregnant.
So we chose adoption. We went through three "failed matches" — adoptions that fell through at the last minute — and there were days when I literally curled up on the floor, threw things at the wall, and sobbed in despair, believing we'd never have a baby.
But then a beautiful young woman named Janaki chose us to be the parents of her daughter. I'll never forget the warm night when we first watched Anika wrapped in a bundle of cloth. As Sunil and I looked into her wide, alert blue eyes, we knew why we went through everything we did. And for Anika, we'd do it all again.
The journey to adoption doesn’t come without heartaches. And we all recognize that a lot of agony is also experienced by the birth parents, understand that just because they weren't able to raise their kids doesn't mean that they don't love them deeply. But even though growing our family has been a lot harder than I ever imagined, it was worth it. I still wouldn't change a single step on our path to parenthood — because each one led us to our daughter.
There's one reason above all others to make this choice: You should do it, say experts, because you want to be a parent and love a child. If a personal concern for less fortunate kids is part of your motivation, then that may affect how you adopt — but it shouldn't be your driving impulse; adoption is about creating a family, not "saving" a child.
"Infertility is a grief that's revisited many times throughout life — for instance, when you see the birth family and know your child looks like them, not you," says psychologist Mr. Chaurasia. "Can you handle that? You have to be able to accept that adoption isn't the same as having a child born to you." To get to that place, first understand that feeling ongoing pangs of loss over infertility doesn't mean you love your adopted child any less. Find support among parents who have adopted or are trying to — many have been down this path.
From "Did I grow in your tummy?" to "Who do I look like, Mom?" there will always be sticky issues that set you apart from other families. How will you discuss them with your children? "Very important — do you have a thick skin?" asks Chaurasia. "People will say stupid things to you sometimes, like, 'Aren't you afraid the real mother will take her away?' Do you know how to deal with them in a way that's healthy for your child?" Good adoption agencies offer classes, programs, and counseling that can help you navigate these answers.
Friday, May 8, 2009
120) Living with Aids -5
The HIV project made me interact with the USAIDS team and meeting them was invariably a pleasurable one. Learning too
The other day, Govind the state head narrated a wonderful field experience.
Amidst tea and a gold flake, he said, “Naresh, each field visit gives hope. Last week I was in Uttar Pradesh and I saw a real transformation.
This is this woman Ramshila Singh, in her 30s and as typical as they come. These women cover these faces with saris and rarely leave their homes without company. Infact, they don’t even join in a conversation when the men folks are there.
We started a project on family population as UP as the highest birth rate over 2.4% and enlisted women volunteers for the project. Initially, it was really tough to even get to meet these women and the word family planning, a big taboo.
We hit pay dirt with Ramshila Singh; a very traditional and respected woman in the community. Our task was to have these volunteers invite couples to talk about family planning issues, educate them about birth spacing and distribute condoms.
Ramshila persuaded her husband and mother-in-law to allow her to become a volunteer, but like many of the volunteers, she initially didn't know much about contraception. She was so shy that she could hardly talk. But gradually she built relationships and was sought out by female clients to accompany them for reproductive and other health services.
Now Ramshila says she talks to everyone - even men - and they come to her home for advice. Sometimes they ask who will take on the risk and responsibility if their wives suffer complications due to family planning. "I will," she says.
Because of her reputation and her strong community relationships, Ramshila was elected Pradhan - chief - of her village, defeating even party candidates who had bought votes.
Her husband is proud of her. "I could never have won that election," he says.
Will she run again? "Why should I leave my job in the middle?" she asks
Govind winked at me and said,” Though you advertising guys make more money, we get more satisfaction”.
I nodded my head and gave him a hearty hand shake,” I know”.
The other day, Govind the state head narrated a wonderful field experience.
Amidst tea and a gold flake, he said, “Naresh, each field visit gives hope. Last week I was in Uttar Pradesh and I saw a real transformation.
This is this woman Ramshila Singh, in her 30s and as typical as they come. These women cover these faces with saris and rarely leave their homes without company. Infact, they don’t even join in a conversation when the men folks are there.
We started a project on family population as UP as the highest birth rate over 2.4% and enlisted women volunteers for the project. Initially, it was really tough to even get to meet these women and the word family planning, a big taboo.
We hit pay dirt with Ramshila Singh; a very traditional and respected woman in the community. Our task was to have these volunteers invite couples to talk about family planning issues, educate them about birth spacing and distribute condoms.
Ramshila persuaded her husband and mother-in-law to allow her to become a volunteer, but like many of the volunteers, she initially didn't know much about contraception. She was so shy that she could hardly talk. But gradually she built relationships and was sought out by female clients to accompany them for reproductive and other health services.
Now Ramshila says she talks to everyone - even men - and they come to her home for advice. Sometimes they ask who will take on the risk and responsibility if their wives suffer complications due to family planning. "I will," she says.
Because of her reputation and her strong community relationships, Ramshila was elected Pradhan - chief - of her village, defeating even party candidates who had bought votes.
Her husband is proud of her. "I could never have won that election," he says.
Will she run again? "Why should I leave my job in the middle?" she asks
Govind winked at me and said,” Though you advertising guys make more money, we get more satisfaction”.
I nodded my head and gave him a hearty hand shake,” I know”.
119) Living with Aids -4
JWT got the USAIDS account and my presentation at the pitch was much appreciated. They had an Rs.4 crores annual advertising budget for the state and in recession times, it was a bounty for us.
I still remember the first campaign Piyush Pandey had visualized. Out first campaign addressed “discrimination stigmas” where the celebrated adman used Shabana Azmi on a rocking TV commercial.
For a print out, we wanted a testimonial of a fashionable woman from the city and that search led us on Ms. Pooja Nanda. She was a model and as articulate and suave as can be.
Her tale of courage went beyond her makeup as we recorded her tale. Over to the tapes:
“I work as a model and TV artist. I discovered I was HIV-positive in 1998.
I went along to the hospital with a friend of mine who was very ill at the time.
A very badly trained nurse asked him to be tested for HIV.
So I said I would have the test too, just to offer him some moral support.
But his came out negative and mine came out positive. That's how I discovered I had the virus. Knowing that if you catch pneumonia you could die... that's what's bad, having that worry. Knowing that nobody wants to have a relationship with you because they could catch the same virus and they would be condemned to death too.
People started turning away from me.
One thing that would make me very happy would be to be loved, to be cherished, desired. To have a husband who loves me as I am...
I feel that I'm living with a bomb inside me and that the merest of movements might trigger it off.
I can't get caught in the rain because if I do, it could turn into a cold, and this could turn into pneumonia.
I'm an honest person and I have my dignity. I honour my duties, I don't harm anybody and I try to help people. But none of this has been enough to fulfil my needs.
I continue feeling the need to be loved.
My father committed suicide after finding out I was HIV positive, my first boyfriend died on my birthday and my mother - who had adopted me from a young age - died at the same time as my husband left me.
I was left very much alone. I even tried to kill myself with an overdose.
Our government does provide free anti-retroviral treatment, but providing the drugs alone is not enough.
It is true that Aids kills, but the prejudice, the discrimination and the mental sickness that comes with it are as damaging as the virus itself.
These 8 years has been dreadful and I yet I survive to tell the tale,” as a smile lit up on her beautiful face.
I am not demonstrative or given to displays of affection. I hugged her clasping her hands as we wound that session. I had a campaign to unfold next week and Pooja’s tale was a real guts n glory.
I still remember the first campaign Piyush Pandey had visualized. Out first campaign addressed “discrimination stigmas” where the celebrated adman used Shabana Azmi on a rocking TV commercial.
For a print out, we wanted a testimonial of a fashionable woman from the city and that search led us on Ms. Pooja Nanda. She was a model and as articulate and suave as can be.
Her tale of courage went beyond her makeup as we recorded her tale. Over to the tapes:
“I work as a model and TV artist. I discovered I was HIV-positive in 1998.
I went along to the hospital with a friend of mine who was very ill at the time.
A very badly trained nurse asked him to be tested for HIV.
So I said I would have the test too, just to offer him some moral support.
But his came out negative and mine came out positive. That's how I discovered I had the virus. Knowing that if you catch pneumonia you could die... that's what's bad, having that worry. Knowing that nobody wants to have a relationship with you because they could catch the same virus and they would be condemned to death too.
People started turning away from me.
One thing that would make me very happy would be to be loved, to be cherished, desired. To have a husband who loves me as I am...
I feel that I'm living with a bomb inside me and that the merest of movements might trigger it off.
I can't get caught in the rain because if I do, it could turn into a cold, and this could turn into pneumonia.
I'm an honest person and I have my dignity. I honour my duties, I don't harm anybody and I try to help people. But none of this has been enough to fulfil my needs.
I continue feeling the need to be loved.
My father committed suicide after finding out I was HIV positive, my first boyfriend died on my birthday and my mother - who had adopted me from a young age - died at the same time as my husband left me.
I was left very much alone. I even tried to kill myself with an overdose.
Our government does provide free anti-retroviral treatment, but providing the drugs alone is not enough.
It is true that Aids kills, but the prejudice, the discrimination and the mental sickness that comes with it are as damaging as the virus itself.
These 8 years has been dreadful and I yet I survive to tell the tale,” as a smile lit up on her beautiful face.
I am not demonstrative or given to displays of affection. I hugged her clasping her hands as we wound that session. I had a campaign to unfold next week and Pooja’s tale was a real guts n glory.
118) Living with Aids -3
Pradeep once said,” You must meet Chandra and she is really special”.
I said,” Sure, why not?”
Pradeep explained,” She is from the much maligned truckers community and as you are aware a HIV high risk group”.
We invited Chandra for a small talk before Madras Metropolitan Round table gathering and this was what she said:
Ever since contracting HIV my whole life has changed. I was married in 1997 to Velan. It was arranged by my parents. My life was very happy for the first six months. My son was born in 1998 and my husband busy looking after his lorry business.
But in 2001, my husband started to get fevers at frequent intervals. I did not know anything about HIV at the time but by 2002 he was bedridden and that was when he tested positive for the virus.
He used to go off in his truck. He could have gone somewhere and caught it that way, I suppose. Then I went for tests and discovered I had it too. I am not able to say how I feel about him. This only happened to me because I got married. It is our fate that this should happen and it's not going to change.
When I was diagnosed I was advised to see local doctors and get help. I saw many doctors. All of them said that I should boil the water and drink and eat lots of greens.
No doctor explained anything. They talked to us in a raised voice. I felt that they spoke without any respect.
Chandra died in July 2002 and I was driven out by my mother-in-law, with my son. Fortunately my parents were kind enough to allow me to live with them again.
I began to realize that I should work and earn a proper living... that I had an illness and that I also had a family to consider, and that I would need a certain strength of mind to protect both myself and my family.
I joined a computer class and joined an organization that works to create awareness about HIV.
No person living with HIV should die because of lack of information, like my husband.
I now feel confident enough within myself to be able to counsel many other people”.
They were about 60 of us gathered at Park Sheraton and we gave her a standing ovation. Later next week, we collected over Rs.3 lacs for a condom vending machine for a district headquarter in TN.
I said,” Sure, why not?”
Pradeep explained,” She is from the much maligned truckers community and as you are aware a HIV high risk group”.
We invited Chandra for a small talk before Madras Metropolitan Round table gathering and this was what she said:
Ever since contracting HIV my whole life has changed. I was married in 1997 to Velan. It was arranged by my parents. My life was very happy for the first six months. My son was born in 1998 and my husband busy looking after his lorry business.
But in 2001, my husband started to get fevers at frequent intervals. I did not know anything about HIV at the time but by 2002 he was bedridden and that was when he tested positive for the virus.
He used to go off in his truck. He could have gone somewhere and caught it that way, I suppose. Then I went for tests and discovered I had it too. I am not able to say how I feel about him. This only happened to me because I got married. It is our fate that this should happen and it's not going to change.
When I was diagnosed I was advised to see local doctors and get help. I saw many doctors. All of them said that I should boil the water and drink and eat lots of greens.
No doctor explained anything. They talked to us in a raised voice. I felt that they spoke without any respect.
Chandra died in July 2002 and I was driven out by my mother-in-law, with my son. Fortunately my parents were kind enough to allow me to live with them again.
I began to realize that I should work and earn a proper living... that I had an illness and that I also had a family to consider, and that I would need a certain strength of mind to protect both myself and my family.
I joined a computer class and joined an organization that works to create awareness about HIV.
No person living with HIV should die because of lack of information, like my husband.
I now feel confident enough within myself to be able to counsel many other people”.
They were about 60 of us gathered at Park Sheraton and we gave her a standing ovation. Later next week, we collected over Rs.3 lacs for a condom vending machine for a district headquarter in TN.
117) Living with Aids -2
After meeting the doctors at the institute, I asked to meet some volunteers; any first hand experience on the field is much more real than piercing through thousands of reports.
The doctor, Mrs. Vardarajan directed me to meet Pradeep Benerjee in the evening.
The institute was close to my house and after a snack, I drove to the place and saw a large gathering standing in a queue; it was time for medicine disbursal as the man at the counter had to assemble all the drugs from the prescription with an assistant to pack it up and another small boy to get the signatures.
The queue was moving at a snail place and that’s when Pradeep came rushing in to greet me.
“The doc said that you were here in the morning and you were looking for me”.
For an introduction, I gave a brief rundown of my profession and reason for being there.
He said,” I am glad that you are here to understand. We need more people to come forward and know more about this ailment”.
I asked him,” What is the cause of your motivation for HIV?”
Pradeep simply said, “Because I am afflicted”.
There was no tone of regret or humiliation except an air of poignancy.
He broke the silence as he narrated his story:
“At age 11, I found out I was HIV-positive.
Actually, I was initially told I had Aids.
Though it was 1987, I knew what Aids was... a deadly medical condition. The media constantly ran stories on the growing epidemic and even kids like me were scared of it.
I assumed I'd never have to deal with it since I already had a medical condition called haemophilia.
Blood-screening measures to prevent HIV weren't in order until the late 1980s, which is one of the reasons why so many people with haemophilia were infected.
For 10 years I remained silent on the topic of HIV, hoping that if I didn't think about it, that somehow the virus would just die inside me from boredom.
At age 20, I had a sudden revelation that I could help prevent the spread of sexually transmitted infections by speaking out about HIV/Aids.
That decision ultimately led me to the love of my life, Nandita.
After attending a programme at her women's society in college, Nandita became interested in HIV prevention. She immediately recognised the importance of educating people in sexual health.
For the past five years we've been educating together by being open about our own relationship.
We've been together for seven years and she has remained HIV-negative. It's important for us to show young people who have been desensitised by Aids, that this is preventable and that those who are living with HIV/Aids are just like them”.
I invited the couple to a dinner at my place and I do contribute to their programmes by way of donations and also find myself speaking at Rotary clubs on the subject.
The doctor, Mrs. Vardarajan directed me to meet Pradeep Benerjee in the evening.
The institute was close to my house and after a snack, I drove to the place and saw a large gathering standing in a queue; it was time for medicine disbursal as the man at the counter had to assemble all the drugs from the prescription with an assistant to pack it up and another small boy to get the signatures.
The queue was moving at a snail place and that’s when Pradeep came rushing in to greet me.
“The doc said that you were here in the morning and you were looking for me”.
For an introduction, I gave a brief rundown of my profession and reason for being there.
He said,” I am glad that you are here to understand. We need more people to come forward and know more about this ailment”.
I asked him,” What is the cause of your motivation for HIV?”
Pradeep simply said, “Because I am afflicted”.
There was no tone of regret or humiliation except an air of poignancy.
He broke the silence as he narrated his story:
“At age 11, I found out I was HIV-positive.
Actually, I was initially told I had Aids.
Though it was 1987, I knew what Aids was... a deadly medical condition. The media constantly ran stories on the growing epidemic and even kids like me were scared of it.
I assumed I'd never have to deal with it since I already had a medical condition called haemophilia.
Blood-screening measures to prevent HIV weren't in order until the late 1980s, which is one of the reasons why so many people with haemophilia were infected.
For 10 years I remained silent on the topic of HIV, hoping that if I didn't think about it, that somehow the virus would just die inside me from boredom.
At age 20, I had a sudden revelation that I could help prevent the spread of sexually transmitted infections by speaking out about HIV/Aids.
That decision ultimately led me to the love of my life, Nandita.
After attending a programme at her women's society in college, Nandita became interested in HIV prevention. She immediately recognised the importance of educating people in sexual health.
For the past five years we've been educating together by being open about our own relationship.
We've been together for seven years and she has remained HIV-negative. It's important for us to show young people who have been desensitised by Aids, that this is preventable and that those who are living with HIV/Aids are just like them”.
I invited the couple to a dinner at my place and I do contribute to their programmes by way of donations and also find myself speaking at Rotary clubs on the subject.
116) Living with Aids -1
I was working for JWT long time ago and was once involved in a pitch for the USAIDS account as an account planner. After exhausting all the write-ups of HIV/AIDS and many forays on the net, I was ready to meet doctors and patients for a first hand experience.
I took the cab to RG Gaitonde Institute and asked to speak to the doctors there. While waiting at the reception, I met this woman, in her early 30s and slowly her story unfolded.
“I found out about my HIV status in October 2000.
When I got the results I could not believe it. Why me, young and beautiful as I was?
I thought I could not get infected and what was more, I thought I was not of the class to be infected.
I lived in denial. I even tried to commit suicide in July 2001. I was in a coma for three days.
My life was in turmoil, until September 2003, when I saw an advert in a local newspaper for a secretary in a local support group. They wanted someone, preferably, with HIV or Aids.
I went for the interview and got the job.
Now I am living positively with the virus in my body. By that I mean I have accepted my HIV status.
I have changed my behaviour. I used to work in a call centre and did have multiple relationships without insisting on condoms but I don't do that now. Whenever I feel sick I always consult with my doctor.
I always communicate with my virus and it knows that I am in control. It knows that whenever I die, it also dies, so it better behave. I have named my virus Bunty, after my late dog. He was a favourite and a joy of my childhood.
Life is hard and I have to be on the antiviral drugs for the last 6 years and it is tough swallowing over a hundred tablets a month but then I have no choice.
You know something? This fear of death has made me indulge in your hobbies more and I am releasing a collection of poems next month,” said Jasmine even as I ushered in to meet the doctor.
What was supposed to be a cold trip to collect data turned out to be such a heartwarming and humbling exercise?
As I left the premises, Jasmine flashed a 1000 watt smile that could have done a Madhuri proud
I took the cab to RG Gaitonde Institute and asked to speak to the doctors there. While waiting at the reception, I met this woman, in her early 30s and slowly her story unfolded.
“I found out about my HIV status in October 2000.
When I got the results I could not believe it. Why me, young and beautiful as I was?
I thought I could not get infected and what was more, I thought I was not of the class to be infected.
I lived in denial. I even tried to commit suicide in July 2001. I was in a coma for three days.
My life was in turmoil, until September 2003, when I saw an advert in a local newspaper for a secretary in a local support group. They wanted someone, preferably, with HIV or Aids.
I went for the interview and got the job.
Now I am living positively with the virus in my body. By that I mean I have accepted my HIV status.
I have changed my behaviour. I used to work in a call centre and did have multiple relationships without insisting on condoms but I don't do that now. Whenever I feel sick I always consult with my doctor.
I always communicate with my virus and it knows that I am in control. It knows that whenever I die, it also dies, so it better behave. I have named my virus Bunty, after my late dog. He was a favourite and a joy of my childhood.
Life is hard and I have to be on the antiviral drugs for the last 6 years and it is tough swallowing over a hundred tablets a month but then I have no choice.
You know something? This fear of death has made me indulge in your hobbies more and I am releasing a collection of poems next month,” said Jasmine even as I ushered in to meet the doctor.
What was supposed to be a cold trip to collect data turned out to be such a heartwarming and humbling exercise?
As I left the premises, Jasmine flashed a 1000 watt smile that could have done a Madhuri proud
115) The Deepavali Spirit
Sowmya’s husband works as a sales executive in a private company; the pay is poor and hours long. But you cannot crib as he was not even a graduate. The poor fellow has to generate a sale of at least Rs.4 lacs selling those wretched banner stands to earn a measly Rs.5,000.
They had two children and both old enough to understand that destiny had given them a raw deal; they were in a government school as they see the corrupt in glitzy cars. Sowmya, worked as a cook in a couple of houses to scrap every month’s expenses. Though poor, they did not deny the children the pleasure of festivals no matter how squeezed their purse strings were.
Their celebration of Deepavali shows what “believe” can do.
Sowmya’s husband was particular that the children not be denied the festive spirits. He was yet to get his bonus and feels that clothes or sweets or crackers don’t necessarily make a Deepavali special; it is the spirit. It is an occasion for all the family members to congregate and celebrate together.
Sivakumar's eldest brother insists that all his seven siblings meet at his house on Deepavali day and have lunch there. Later, all the children burst crackers together. "For us, it is very important to take our elders' blessings. So we go there with whatever we have prepared. Deepavali is the only day the entire family eats together. It is a wonderful experience," Sowmya says.
In the evening, the younger sister visits them with her family bringing with her sweets, crackers and clothes for the children and importantly smiles and affection.
Sivakumar gets roughly Rs 1500-2000 as bonus, which they spend on the festival. The wife believes nobody should forget their roots, follow all the traditions associated with Deepavali. "We just do it according to our means," she says.
Tradition dictates that Deepavalli is celebrated by making sweets and savories at home, so she makes Mysorepak and ribbon pakoda. They do buy new clothes, but opt for the cheaper variety available at T Nagar. They also buy crackers worth Rs 150-Rs 200; that's what they can afford but they like making that symbolic gesture. Even the children insist the family does spend not much on crackers.
"It is our tradition that we burst crackers early in the morning before and after we have our oil bath. So we buy crackers for that purpose only," says Sowmya.
Bharadwaj, the son admits he was never fond of bursting crackers, so he never felt bad when his friends in school and college spent a lot of money on crackers. "I got enough crackers to burst at my uncle's place as I am the only boy in our extended family. But I don't like spending too much on this. What I enjoy most about the festival is celebrating it with my uncles, aunts and cousins from my mother's and father's side."
Priyanka, the daughter confesses that she doesn't ask for anything, not even new dress, for Deepavali. "Even if I ask for crackers, I ask for very little; only what my parents can afford. Besides, we are at our uncle's place till evening and we burst a lot of crackers there. What I like about Deepavali is that all of us celebrate the festival together. It makes me very happy."
Sowmya explains the spirit of Deepavali in a beautiful way. "On this day, we forget all our worries and enjoy with our family. More than the money we spend, more than anything else, it is the happiness that we get out of the togetherness -- and the blessings that we get from our elders -- that is special to us. This is what we want to inculcate in our children."
She works for a house where the woman is a middle level executive in Wipro and the man a software engineer for Dell. These couple gross more than Rs.1.5 lacs a month and yet their appreciation of Deepavalli was much less.
How do I know?
The man went on an overseas trip a week before the festival and the woman went on a retail therapy.
They had two children and both old enough to understand that destiny had given them a raw deal; they were in a government school as they see the corrupt in glitzy cars. Sowmya, worked as a cook in a couple of houses to scrap every month’s expenses. Though poor, they did not deny the children the pleasure of festivals no matter how squeezed their purse strings were.
Their celebration of Deepavali shows what “believe” can do.
Sowmya’s husband was particular that the children not be denied the festive spirits. He was yet to get his bonus and feels that clothes or sweets or crackers don’t necessarily make a Deepavali special; it is the spirit. It is an occasion for all the family members to congregate and celebrate together.
Sivakumar's eldest brother insists that all his seven siblings meet at his house on Deepavali day and have lunch there. Later, all the children burst crackers together. "For us, it is very important to take our elders' blessings. So we go there with whatever we have prepared. Deepavali is the only day the entire family eats together. It is a wonderful experience," Sowmya says.
In the evening, the younger sister visits them with her family bringing with her sweets, crackers and clothes for the children and importantly smiles and affection.
Sivakumar gets roughly Rs 1500-2000 as bonus, which they spend on the festival. The wife believes nobody should forget their roots, follow all the traditions associated with Deepavali. "We just do it according to our means," she says.
Tradition dictates that Deepavalli is celebrated by making sweets and savories at home, so she makes Mysorepak and ribbon pakoda. They do buy new clothes, but opt for the cheaper variety available at T Nagar. They also buy crackers worth Rs 150-Rs 200; that's what they can afford but they like making that symbolic gesture. Even the children insist the family does spend not much on crackers.
"It is our tradition that we burst crackers early in the morning before and after we have our oil bath. So we buy crackers for that purpose only," says Sowmya.
Bharadwaj, the son admits he was never fond of bursting crackers, so he never felt bad when his friends in school and college spent a lot of money on crackers. "I got enough crackers to burst at my uncle's place as I am the only boy in our extended family. But I don't like spending too much on this. What I enjoy most about the festival is celebrating it with my uncles, aunts and cousins from my mother's and father's side."
Priyanka, the daughter confesses that she doesn't ask for anything, not even new dress, for Deepavali. "Even if I ask for crackers, I ask for very little; only what my parents can afford. Besides, we are at our uncle's place till evening and we burst a lot of crackers there. What I like about Deepavali is that all of us celebrate the festival together. It makes me very happy."
Sowmya explains the spirit of Deepavali in a beautiful way. "On this day, we forget all our worries and enjoy with our family. More than the money we spend, more than anything else, it is the happiness that we get out of the togetherness -- and the blessings that we get from our elders -- that is special to us. This is what we want to inculcate in our children."
She works for a house where the woman is a middle level executive in Wipro and the man a software engineer for Dell. These couple gross more than Rs.1.5 lacs a month and yet their appreciation of Deepavalli was much less.
How do I know?
The man went on an overseas trip a week before the festival and the woman went on a retail therapy.
114) SEZ Imbroglio
What sort of a father am I? I ask myself everyday when I see my wife and children suffer.
My land has been taken away by the officials and they told me some big company is coming up. This was two years back and till date no compensation has been awarded to me. I don't want the compensation. I want my land back.
We were self sufficient until two years back. What ever little we used to cultivate was enough to feed us. But now, I don't see anything good happening to us? I have two sons, who are with me trying to get our land back.
The mukhiya (village headman) told me that if the company comes up then it will be good for the village. But what good is he talking about when the people of the village have no food to eat? I am not the only one with this problem. There are several others and we are a part of one group.
The officials in the village say that there is no hope of us getting our land back and we have to be content with the compensation. However, we do not want that. How long will that money last? For generations the land that we lost was the only source of income for the family. Now all of a sudden it is just taken away. We were not told about it and it seems as though it happened overnight.
I will starve myself, but I will not give up. The land is rightfully mine and no other person should have it. I am ready to work on my land for a living, but I am not ready to give it up and beg others to feed me. I have a lot of faith in this Janadesh Yatra. We will get our land back through non-violent methods. If we are not successful, I am even ready to fast to death. The land is all we have; please give it back to us.
'I don't want compensation, I want my land back'
Reliance Industries had acquired thousands of acres of farm land for a new petrochemical industry. They contend that it would create thousands of jobs.
The farmers ask: after we are all dead
My land has been taken away by the officials and they told me some big company is coming up. This was two years back and till date no compensation has been awarded to me. I don't want the compensation. I want my land back.
We were self sufficient until two years back. What ever little we used to cultivate was enough to feed us. But now, I don't see anything good happening to us? I have two sons, who are with me trying to get our land back.
The mukhiya (village headman) told me that if the company comes up then it will be good for the village. But what good is he talking about when the people of the village have no food to eat? I am not the only one with this problem. There are several others and we are a part of one group.
The officials in the village say that there is no hope of us getting our land back and we have to be content with the compensation. However, we do not want that. How long will that money last? For generations the land that we lost was the only source of income for the family. Now all of a sudden it is just taken away. We were not told about it and it seems as though it happened overnight.
I will starve myself, but I will not give up. The land is rightfully mine and no other person should have it. I am ready to work on my land for a living, but I am not ready to give it up and beg others to feed me. I have a lot of faith in this Janadesh Yatra. We will get our land back through non-violent methods. If we are not successful, I am even ready to fast to death. The land is all we have; please give it back to us.
'I don't want compensation, I want my land back'
Reliance Industries had acquired thousands of acres of farm land for a new petrochemical industry. They contend that it would create thousands of jobs.
The farmers ask: after we are all dead
113) The fate of voiceless
There can no sin greater than the one displacing people from their homes. When you take away a habitat of an animal or grab land from tribal to hand it over to a MNC just because they offered you a plum bribe, then watch out: instant karma will get you faster!!!
Let us listen to what Velan has to say:
“They said our presence in the forest was endangering wildlife and chased us away. Now my family and I are living in a village, with no land and no other source of livelihood. I do odd jobs in the fields of some rich person, but what I earn is barely enough to support my wife. I have a 20-year-old son, who accompanies me on work and earns whatever little he can. How long can we go on like this?
For generations we Adivasis have been living in the forest. How can the forest department clear us out saying that we are causing problems for the protection of wildlife? All these years, we are used to living in the jungles and feeding ourselves. We are not accustomed to the life in the villages.
How can I, at this age, start all over again? It is not as though we have been given an alternate source of livelihood. My wife too goes from house to house in the villages begging for food or seeking work. How long can she do this?
The forests were better protected when the Adivasis lived there. The forest is our home, the trees our Gods and the wildlife our family. We were not allowed to touch the fruit of many trees in the forest. The officers told us that we are ruining the forest cover with our presence. How can they do this to us? We have planted those trees, taken care of them and now we are not allowed to go near them.
'The forest is our home, the trees our Gods' and now they have taken those away from us.
I don't know why they are doing this. We go to the officers and beg and plead with them, but they are not interested in listening to us. This rally was my only hope. I would rather die on the roads than go back and lead a pointless life which involves searching for a new job every morning or thinking of what I will feed my family today”.
When I heard him, I realized that our politicians are not inefficient at all. They are experts in self aggrandizement and gondas in a democratic garb. For a country that cannot go beyond SRK’s 6 pack abs, I wish to become a citizen of a country with a conscience.
To see such injustices and not react is enfeebling and life in India enervates in every direction. But to see Velan put up a fight gives hope; is still a hope that honesty is not yet completely dead in Bharatland.
Let us listen to what Velan has to say:
“They said our presence in the forest was endangering wildlife and chased us away. Now my family and I are living in a village, with no land and no other source of livelihood. I do odd jobs in the fields of some rich person, but what I earn is barely enough to support my wife. I have a 20-year-old son, who accompanies me on work and earns whatever little he can. How long can we go on like this?
For generations we Adivasis have been living in the forest. How can the forest department clear us out saying that we are causing problems for the protection of wildlife? All these years, we are used to living in the jungles and feeding ourselves. We are not accustomed to the life in the villages.
How can I, at this age, start all over again? It is not as though we have been given an alternate source of livelihood. My wife too goes from house to house in the villages begging for food or seeking work. How long can she do this?
The forests were better protected when the Adivasis lived there. The forest is our home, the trees our Gods and the wildlife our family. We were not allowed to touch the fruit of many trees in the forest. The officers told us that we are ruining the forest cover with our presence. How can they do this to us? We have planted those trees, taken care of them and now we are not allowed to go near them.
'The forest is our home, the trees our Gods' and now they have taken those away from us.
I don't know why they are doing this. We go to the officers and beg and plead with them, but they are not interested in listening to us. This rally was my only hope. I would rather die on the roads than go back and lead a pointless life which involves searching for a new job every morning or thinking of what I will feed my family today”.
When I heard him, I realized that our politicians are not inefficient at all. They are experts in self aggrandizement and gondas in a democratic garb. For a country that cannot go beyond SRK’s 6 pack abs, I wish to become a citizen of a country with a conscience.
To see such injustices and not react is enfeebling and life in India enervates in every direction. But to see Velan put up a fight gives hope; is still a hope that honesty is not yet completely dead in Bharatland.
112) Land grab
“I have stopped believing in God. For the past 20 years, all I have been doing is going to the collector's office and waiting for something to happen. The officers are too scared to do anything to help me.
My husband and I had three acres of land in Behranya village. By force we were evicted by a private person and he now uses our land as though it is his.
Two decades have passed since this incident, but not one person is able to help us out. I don't have enough money to feed myself, where can I arrange for a bribe to give the officers. We have tried talking to the leaders, the head of the village and everyone possible, but they feel it is a very small issue for them. All we get is assurance and the next thing we know, we are back at the offices fighting for our right.
I have two daughters and one has to be married. Who will give me the money for her marriage? We have a right over the land which we lost?
I am not begging for some grant and neither do I want to be enrolled under the Below Poverty Line scheme. Why should I, when I have my own land through which I can earn a living? I have decided that I will fight for this till the very end. Even if I do not get to enjoy it, the next generation should not suffer.
I cannot count the number of times, when the entire family has gone hungry for days. For the Janadesh rally, I was determined. I worked in the fields of other people, earned some money and purchased grain, so that I could sustain myself during this fight. I am not going to give up”.
Said Mythili, a household servant and doing odd chores for a living on her predicament.
I scanned the “The Times of India” and read that Mukesh Ambani had become the world’s richest person. What it did not conveniently report was how the vulnerable were crushed systematically with the help of complaisant people. This time, land grab in the name of SEZ.
God, what crimes are committed in the name of development.
My husband and I had three acres of land in Behranya village. By force we were evicted by a private person and he now uses our land as though it is his.
Two decades have passed since this incident, but not one person is able to help us out. I don't have enough money to feed myself, where can I arrange for a bribe to give the officers. We have tried talking to the leaders, the head of the village and everyone possible, but they feel it is a very small issue for them. All we get is assurance and the next thing we know, we are back at the offices fighting for our right.
I have two daughters and one has to be married. Who will give me the money for her marriage? We have a right over the land which we lost?
I am not begging for some grant and neither do I want to be enrolled under the Below Poverty Line scheme. Why should I, when I have my own land through which I can earn a living? I have decided that I will fight for this till the very end. Even if I do not get to enjoy it, the next generation should not suffer.
I cannot count the number of times, when the entire family has gone hungry for days. For the Janadesh rally, I was determined. I worked in the fields of other people, earned some money and purchased grain, so that I could sustain myself during this fight. I am not going to give up”.
Said Mythili, a household servant and doing odd chores for a living on her predicament.
I scanned the “The Times of India” and read that Mukesh Ambani had become the world’s richest person. What it did not conveniently report was how the vulnerable were crushed systematically with the help of complaisant people. This time, land grab in the name of SEZ.
God, what crimes are committed in the name of development.
111) A Farmer's plight
At the time when there is debate of retail revolutions and malls springing up like nobody’s business, I thought of taking the “other India” view.
I first met Asha, still in her 30s but already haggard and her hair is turning grey and wrinkles starting to mar the face. Her story:
“I have a son and two daughters to take care of. My husband goes from village to village in search of work and hardly earns Rs 200 a month. My plight has been reduced to that of a beggar. Why should we go through this hell?
We have the title for two acres of land, but there is no land in reality. Five years back the government had decided to give us two acres of land in Ladda village (SANGRUR) for cultivation. But till date, we do not have possession of the land.
We were ready to toil and cultivate the land. It is not for any profit, but just to feed ourselves. Every day, I go to the mukhiya (head of the village) and beg and plead with him to do something so that we get our land. He just chases us away and threatens us. He gets angry and irritated whenever he sees me.
I had dreamt of educating my children, but now it is even difficult to feed them. I have been fighting for the past five years, but there is no respite.
There have been many nights when our entire family has gone hungry to bed. I do not want to beg on the roads to support my children. We are not demanding for anything illegal. I am only asking for my right. The local representative only makes promises, but the moment he is out of sight he forgets about it.
Tell me what am I supposed to do? Where do I go? This Janadesh rally was my last resort. I came all by myself for this rally. My husband is back at the village, taking care of the children. There is no way that both of us could have come for the rally. Our children would have starved to death. But now I am determined and won't give up until our problem is solved.
In a faraway Mumbai, Amitabh Bachchan called in his lawyer and was checking out of the legality of his land procured when his friends were in power.
There is one India which sweats and toils and another to enjoy its fruits. Who said feudalism is dead?
One lingering thought as the brave woman bids good bye: 'My plight has been reduced to that of a beggar'.
Now tell me, who is the real hero? A celluloid one mouthing inspiring dialogues on screen or the one bearing the scorching sun and fighting hard to live another day?
I first met Asha, still in her 30s but already haggard and her hair is turning grey and wrinkles starting to mar the face. Her story:
“I have a son and two daughters to take care of. My husband goes from village to village in search of work and hardly earns Rs 200 a month. My plight has been reduced to that of a beggar. Why should we go through this hell?
We have the title for two acres of land, but there is no land in reality. Five years back the government had decided to give us two acres of land in Ladda village (SANGRUR) for cultivation. But till date, we do not have possession of the land.
We were ready to toil and cultivate the land. It is not for any profit, but just to feed ourselves. Every day, I go to the mukhiya (head of the village) and beg and plead with him to do something so that we get our land. He just chases us away and threatens us. He gets angry and irritated whenever he sees me.
I had dreamt of educating my children, but now it is even difficult to feed them. I have been fighting for the past five years, but there is no respite.
There have been many nights when our entire family has gone hungry to bed. I do not want to beg on the roads to support my children. We are not demanding for anything illegal. I am only asking for my right. The local representative only makes promises, but the moment he is out of sight he forgets about it.
Tell me what am I supposed to do? Where do I go? This Janadesh rally was my last resort. I came all by myself for this rally. My husband is back at the village, taking care of the children. There is no way that both of us could have come for the rally. Our children would have starved to death. But now I am determined and won't give up until our problem is solved.
In a faraway Mumbai, Amitabh Bachchan called in his lawyer and was checking out of the legality of his land procured when his friends were in power.
There is one India which sweats and toils and another to enjoy its fruits. Who said feudalism is dead?
One lingering thought as the brave woman bids good bye: 'My plight has been reduced to that of a beggar'.
Now tell me, who is the real hero? A celluloid one mouthing inspiring dialogues on screen or the one bearing the scorching sun and fighting hard to live another day?
110) The Ungrateful son
She is just another non descript person – pale skinned, dry eyes and a misty glance. Poornima was over 60 and limped as she walked. She was a regular to the morning arathi at the temple and would join in for the bhajans that followed.
I did not know her any better except that she was a widow and running errands for an invalid son until yesterday.
We had a discourse by the great Sundarakumar and he was discussing the Bhagavatham for our benefit. There was a particular stanza where there is query as to why Devaki was put through the sorrow of losing too many babies at the hands of Kamsa. There is no sorrow greater than losing one’s offspring and why should that venerable woman go through such depths and pangs of suffering. That led us to the concept of ‘punya’ and ‘papa” and that’s when I turned around to see Ms. Poornima flooded in tears. Something had stirred in her and so great was her discomfit that the discourse was stopped and water fetched before she regained some normality. And only after that did the talk trundle along.
She was greatly embarrassed and I accompanied her to her residence to ensure there were no more panic attacks.
I sat on those giant sandal sofas and the house was very neatly made. The drawing room was painted in light colours and that reflected the abundant sunlight. The shelf was displayed with artifacts and for a lone woman managing the house, it looked somber and even classy. Filter coffee arrived despite my protest and we sat down for a chat.
I asked,” What did your husband do for a living?”
She answered, “He was an engineer with BHEL before he passed away”. Slowly her tears started to gather strength at the memory.
Poornima said,” It was all our bad Karma. I have just one son and he was so selfish that in the end we lost it all; money, my husband, and peace of mind.
My husband put Shirish in the best of the schools and he was a bright kid. He got admitted into IISc at Bangalore and had the pick of job offers. He joined CISCO at Seatle and he was such a good boy. He would remit his entire earnings to our account in India and then we would transfer some of it back for his monthly expenses. He was that straight.
We found a bride for him and she was from hell. I hate to badmouth a woman but this one disrupted a family and has brought it to the streets.
My husband having retired had a part job and there was some trouble there. He was falsely accused of embezzling funds and that stuck him to the root. He was too self respecting and suffered a heart attack against the constant persecution.
By then Shirish had become totally domesticated and after marriage would remit $25 a month. His explanation: I have a son now and I have to save for his education in Harvard. Here we were fighting bad health and fattening lawyers and this fellow sends $25. His wife Vanaja had worked on him so much that he was now an agent of the devil and one who saw parents as having run out of utility. We would return that with the contempt it deserved.
My husband died for we did not have enough for a byepass surgery and believe it or not, within a year my great foolish son suffered a car accident in the US.
The bitch daughter-in-law instead of looking after her husband filed for divorce and custody of the child. I did not contest either and instead brought my semi comatose son back home.
I now look after him and really have no love or affection either. I know he was the cause of his father’s broken heart and death and yet I cannot run away from my responsibility. Otherwise they would be no difference between him and us.
I had a loving husband and brought this house with a lot of love and culture. And now I have nothing to show for it in the evening of my life.”
As I heard the story, I was moved by the poignancy of the tale. I thought: she indeed is a heroine in my eyes.
I did not know her any better except that she was a widow and running errands for an invalid son until yesterday.
We had a discourse by the great Sundarakumar and he was discussing the Bhagavatham for our benefit. There was a particular stanza where there is query as to why Devaki was put through the sorrow of losing too many babies at the hands of Kamsa. There is no sorrow greater than losing one’s offspring and why should that venerable woman go through such depths and pangs of suffering. That led us to the concept of ‘punya’ and ‘papa” and that’s when I turned around to see Ms. Poornima flooded in tears. Something had stirred in her and so great was her discomfit that the discourse was stopped and water fetched before she regained some normality. And only after that did the talk trundle along.
She was greatly embarrassed and I accompanied her to her residence to ensure there were no more panic attacks.
I sat on those giant sandal sofas and the house was very neatly made. The drawing room was painted in light colours and that reflected the abundant sunlight. The shelf was displayed with artifacts and for a lone woman managing the house, it looked somber and even classy. Filter coffee arrived despite my protest and we sat down for a chat.
I asked,” What did your husband do for a living?”
She answered, “He was an engineer with BHEL before he passed away”. Slowly her tears started to gather strength at the memory.
Poornima said,” It was all our bad Karma. I have just one son and he was so selfish that in the end we lost it all; money, my husband, and peace of mind.
My husband put Shirish in the best of the schools and he was a bright kid. He got admitted into IISc at Bangalore and had the pick of job offers. He joined CISCO at Seatle and he was such a good boy. He would remit his entire earnings to our account in India and then we would transfer some of it back for his monthly expenses. He was that straight.
We found a bride for him and she was from hell. I hate to badmouth a woman but this one disrupted a family and has brought it to the streets.
My husband having retired had a part job and there was some trouble there. He was falsely accused of embezzling funds and that stuck him to the root. He was too self respecting and suffered a heart attack against the constant persecution.
By then Shirish had become totally domesticated and after marriage would remit $25 a month. His explanation: I have a son now and I have to save for his education in Harvard. Here we were fighting bad health and fattening lawyers and this fellow sends $25. His wife Vanaja had worked on him so much that he was now an agent of the devil and one who saw parents as having run out of utility. We would return that with the contempt it deserved.
My husband died for we did not have enough for a byepass surgery and believe it or not, within a year my great foolish son suffered a car accident in the US.
The bitch daughter-in-law instead of looking after her husband filed for divorce and custody of the child. I did not contest either and instead brought my semi comatose son back home.
I now look after him and really have no love or affection either. I know he was the cause of his father’s broken heart and death and yet I cannot run away from my responsibility. Otherwise they would be no difference between him and us.
I had a loving husband and brought this house with a lot of love and culture. And now I have nothing to show for it in the evening of my life.”
As I heard the story, I was moved by the poignancy of the tale. I thought: she indeed is a heroine in my eyes.
109) The Guarantor
The feeling of community was very strong at Mambalam; it’s a typical middle class Brahmin community where neighbours helped one another and if there was a good dish made, it was shared and so was gossip. No one a stranger and this small group stood against the might of the municipalities and electricity board in one voice and usually got their demands met.
Rukmini was a 65 year old woman and retired teacher from a government school, she remained active attending the gita classes in the weekend, also learnt chanting besides taking free tuitions for kids in the colony. For some strange reason, she had remained a spinster and whispers had it that her father was too poor to search for a groom and those were the 50s and 60s when women were modest unlike today’s shameless actresses who do anything for money. Society had soberness and a set value system that had dissipated as the years gone by.
Rukmini was one to those who got up at 4:30 am and she would advise her students likewise. “Always gets up before the Brahma muhrtham. The fresh air before sunrise is so rich with ozone that it ennobles your mind”.
Then wait at the milk booth for the sachet and then enter the kitchen only after a bath. A
short puja and only then stove be lit for coffee. She chided today’s kids on “bed coffees” and contrasted it to a drunkard’s weak resolve. Point is, Rukmini was yesterday’s gold and a woman of great bearing and culture.
Last year she was served with a notice from the local bank asking her to persuade her friend to pay up on the loan. The story goes like that: her student’s father was a businessman and going through difficult times. He used her good name and influence with the bank officer to obtain a loan for Rs.15 lacs.
The bank officer said,” Your house is the security and I want the teacher to be the guarantor, for she is the soul of this community”.
The businessman begged and cringed and Rukmini felt repulsed to be dragged into this financial transaction. She signed the forms more out of buying immediate peace than later persecution.
This happened in 2004 and now after three years, the notice reminded her of her obligation. The businessman had defaulted the loan and even his security, a fraud. The house was joint property and he was not even a legal heir and now the bank moved in to liquidate Rukmini’s assets.
For a woman who had lived with honour and respect in a community for decades, this was a huge shock. Eighteen lacs was way beyond her reach for she was no actress or cricketer.
She had a lone one bedroom apartment and that wouldn’t gross more than 10 lacs. Her cash savings and jewels would gross no more than another 5 lacs.
The bank officer advised,” Ma’am, this is against my duty but I cannot help it. You can just sell the property and go absconding and we will make no efforts to trace you”.
She gave him such a ferocious look that he shut up,” And sacrifice my values. I might as well beg on these streets than being accounted for a cheat”.
She was penniless and she went back to work in a private school.
We in the neighbourhood had scruples seeing his divine lady suffer. We pooled together enough and presented her Rs.50,000 purse and another came forward to offer a spare room so that she remained amidst us and enrich our lives.
The best thing: was she bitter about her fate? I have never heard her mention this misfortune to anyone. And the mami still goes to her Gita classes and makes those filter coffees after a bath and puja.
Rukmini was a 65 year old woman and retired teacher from a government school, she remained active attending the gita classes in the weekend, also learnt chanting besides taking free tuitions for kids in the colony. For some strange reason, she had remained a spinster and whispers had it that her father was too poor to search for a groom and those were the 50s and 60s when women were modest unlike today’s shameless actresses who do anything for money. Society had soberness and a set value system that had dissipated as the years gone by.
Rukmini was one to those who got up at 4:30 am and she would advise her students likewise. “Always gets up before the Brahma muhrtham. The fresh air before sunrise is so rich with ozone that it ennobles your mind”.
Then wait at the milk booth for the sachet and then enter the kitchen only after a bath. A
short puja and only then stove be lit for coffee. She chided today’s kids on “bed coffees” and contrasted it to a drunkard’s weak resolve. Point is, Rukmini was yesterday’s gold and a woman of great bearing and culture.
Last year she was served with a notice from the local bank asking her to persuade her friend to pay up on the loan. The story goes like that: her student’s father was a businessman and going through difficult times. He used her good name and influence with the bank officer to obtain a loan for Rs.15 lacs.
The bank officer said,” Your house is the security and I want the teacher to be the guarantor, for she is the soul of this community”.
The businessman begged and cringed and Rukmini felt repulsed to be dragged into this financial transaction. She signed the forms more out of buying immediate peace than later persecution.
This happened in 2004 and now after three years, the notice reminded her of her obligation. The businessman had defaulted the loan and even his security, a fraud. The house was joint property and he was not even a legal heir and now the bank moved in to liquidate Rukmini’s assets.
For a woman who had lived with honour and respect in a community for decades, this was a huge shock. Eighteen lacs was way beyond her reach for she was no actress or cricketer.
She had a lone one bedroom apartment and that wouldn’t gross more than 10 lacs. Her cash savings and jewels would gross no more than another 5 lacs.
The bank officer advised,” Ma’am, this is against my duty but I cannot help it. You can just sell the property and go absconding and we will make no efforts to trace you”.
She gave him such a ferocious look that he shut up,” And sacrifice my values. I might as well beg on these streets than being accounted for a cheat”.
She was penniless and she went back to work in a private school.
We in the neighbourhood had scruples seeing his divine lady suffer. We pooled together enough and presented her Rs.50,000 purse and another came forward to offer a spare room so that she remained amidst us and enrich our lives.
The best thing: was she bitter about her fate? I have never heard her mention this misfortune to anyone. And the mami still goes to her Gita classes and makes those filter coffees after a bath and puja.
108) The receptionist
Tired after an eight hour bumpy road ride, I checked into this hotel at the city outskirts. That would help me avoid the incredibly voluminous morning traffic tomorrow – a big day for me. I will have to be at the TV studio by 9. 30 AM.
I turn on the hot water faucet and out jets a stream of biting chilly water!!!! Brrrrr…this is a cold place, and cold water isn’t too pleasant for a refreshing bath. I swore and stamped my feet in disgust and livid too.
I roar into the intercom at the reception counter and vent my steam.
“How could a hotel of this dimension not have 24 hour hot water”???
The lady receptionist tried to mollify my upset mood by offering a million excuses, none of which were either convincing or sane. My rage dissipated rapidly after the outburst with a steaming hot filter coffee.
I sat in the lounge flipping through the day’s newspapers and something made me feel sick inside. What could this poor lady managing the counter do? The maintenance department is to blame; the management was the culprit – she too, like me, worked for somebody – unfortunately on the frontline, always.
Trying to be pleasant, smiling, looking pretty all the time while hiding emotions to irate customers, raving drunks, nitpicking diners. Taking the rap from all and sundry, the lobby receptionist is a worst nightmare job.
I saw her picking up her things and leaving work. As she passed by, I stood up and said,
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper on you”.
She smiled radiantly, and I continued “I was really tired”.
The woman was graceful,” Never mind, it was our mistake. We should be apologizing sir, and not you”.
She was not around early morning as I left for the studio. I returned after four hours, relieved of the mental tension about the interview, as the interview in BBC went off better than I had anticipated.
I packed and wanted to leave as fast as I could, in eight hours be back home. I needed a home made supper and a good night’s sleep. I picked up a few things for my wife who hands me these “must have” lists for the kitchen.
I left the hotel and ambled around the busy marketplace. Shopping over, and laden with one thousand things I’m sure were actually redundant in the kitchen, I stood at the wayside waiting to wave down a auto-rickshaw. Walking on the sidewalk, with a little four year old kid daughter was the receptionist.
I nodded and said, ‘Holiday?’
Yes sir,
Your kid?
Yes, this is Nayana…
Nayana, you want an ice cream?
The child’s face lit up and she tugged her mum’s hand, which in unspoken kid lingo means, say yes mamma. We walked up to an ice cream parlor a few yards off and the kid slurped her chocobar with much relish and drool, as I and her mother talked. What she poured out disturbed me to no end.
This was a battered house wife. Her no good husband abused and bashed her every night. A sot, who reeked of alcohol – a leech who grabbed every rupee she earned- a wastrel who lazed all day and boozed all night. She went on, and on, hoping for better times. He was her husband, and she’d married him for love, she said. The prop of a mangalsutra and a man in the house (no matter if he be a beast of a man) was social security in this big bad city. So she goes about, smiling at strangers in the hotel by day, and getting shoved, hurt and bad-mouthed come night.
The other side of society, she told me of, also disconcerted. She came from a scheduled caste background, she whispered across the table. The hotel is owned by a Lingayat (Veerashaiva) baron, and if he comes to know who I am, I will lose my job too. The job pays well and she is allowed to lunch there and even has permission to pack a few items for her family.
Ice cream over, the mother - daughter duo trudge back into the road, back home. If one can call it one. The child, her cheeks still sticky and wet, says ‘tata, uncle’.
I return to the room, and in twenty five minutes westbound on the National Highway, heading home. All along the ride, my mind replays the conversation with the receptionist and recalls her pained face. The pathos and poignancy with which people play out their assigned roles in the drama of life. The script writer has goofed up.
Wish you well, working woman. I hope someday you find peace and happiness and may your daughter be your strength and succor.
I turn on the hot water faucet and out jets a stream of biting chilly water!!!! Brrrrr…this is a cold place, and cold water isn’t too pleasant for a refreshing bath. I swore and stamped my feet in disgust and livid too.
I roar into the intercom at the reception counter and vent my steam.
“How could a hotel of this dimension not have 24 hour hot water”???
The lady receptionist tried to mollify my upset mood by offering a million excuses, none of which were either convincing or sane. My rage dissipated rapidly after the outburst with a steaming hot filter coffee.
I sat in the lounge flipping through the day’s newspapers and something made me feel sick inside. What could this poor lady managing the counter do? The maintenance department is to blame; the management was the culprit – she too, like me, worked for somebody – unfortunately on the frontline, always.
Trying to be pleasant, smiling, looking pretty all the time while hiding emotions to irate customers, raving drunks, nitpicking diners. Taking the rap from all and sundry, the lobby receptionist is a worst nightmare job.
I saw her picking up her things and leaving work. As she passed by, I stood up and said,
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper on you”.
She smiled radiantly, and I continued “I was really tired”.
The woman was graceful,” Never mind, it was our mistake. We should be apologizing sir, and not you”.
She was not around early morning as I left for the studio. I returned after four hours, relieved of the mental tension about the interview, as the interview in BBC went off better than I had anticipated.
I packed and wanted to leave as fast as I could, in eight hours be back home. I needed a home made supper and a good night’s sleep. I picked up a few things for my wife who hands me these “must have” lists for the kitchen.
I left the hotel and ambled around the busy marketplace. Shopping over, and laden with one thousand things I’m sure were actually redundant in the kitchen, I stood at the wayside waiting to wave down a auto-rickshaw. Walking on the sidewalk, with a little four year old kid daughter was the receptionist.
I nodded and said, ‘Holiday?’
Yes sir,
Your kid?
Yes, this is Nayana…
Nayana, you want an ice cream?
The child’s face lit up and she tugged her mum’s hand, which in unspoken kid lingo means, say yes mamma. We walked up to an ice cream parlor a few yards off and the kid slurped her chocobar with much relish and drool, as I and her mother talked. What she poured out disturbed me to no end.
This was a battered house wife. Her no good husband abused and bashed her every night. A sot, who reeked of alcohol – a leech who grabbed every rupee she earned- a wastrel who lazed all day and boozed all night. She went on, and on, hoping for better times. He was her husband, and she’d married him for love, she said. The prop of a mangalsutra and a man in the house (no matter if he be a beast of a man) was social security in this big bad city. So she goes about, smiling at strangers in the hotel by day, and getting shoved, hurt and bad-mouthed come night.
The other side of society, she told me of, also disconcerted. She came from a scheduled caste background, she whispered across the table. The hotel is owned by a Lingayat (Veerashaiva) baron, and if he comes to know who I am, I will lose my job too. The job pays well and she is allowed to lunch there and even has permission to pack a few items for her family.
Ice cream over, the mother - daughter duo trudge back into the road, back home. If one can call it one. The child, her cheeks still sticky and wet, says ‘tata, uncle’.
I return to the room, and in twenty five minutes westbound on the National Highway, heading home. All along the ride, my mind replays the conversation with the receptionist and recalls her pained face. The pathos and poignancy with which people play out their assigned roles in the drama of life. The script writer has goofed up.
Wish you well, working woman. I hope someday you find peace and happiness and may your daughter be your strength and succor.
107) A gem at Central
After more than 30 hours in the train in the Coromandel, the train winding its way to the platform at Central to the cacophony of announcements. As usual the station was jostling with people each rushing to their trains while the hawkers shouted themselves hoarse plying their coffees, teas and biscuits.
As I got down the train, I was damn happy to breathe the Madras air. Even a week’s stay away leaves a void.
I saw a line of porters squatting on the platform four feet apart and they resembled a well drilled army. I saw a little girl dressed in that red uniform with a licensed “billa” and shouting attraction for her services.
Before I approached the girl – appeared just over 10 – she whisked my luggage to my annoyance. My morals won’t allow for child labour and I had no need for a porter but this girl was so determined that my vehement protests seemed to drown under an iron determination.
She found me an honest auto saying,” Pay me what you think is right?”
I gave her a tenner and flashing a smile, she said,” my father is in the hospital and we need to pull along” and shrugged her shoulder by way of an apology.
I am a Vice President in a MNC and my talks are popular in all those inane Rotary club meetings where besides a lot of self promotion, we also do some service to the poor. For once, I recommended this girl to the committee for sponsoring her education. Somehow I was attracted by the imp’s behaviour and spirit.
So one more dash to the Central, as I found this girl in the porter community. She was Jyothi as I asked to be taken to her parents.
I made her sit in my Toyota Innova and she blushed, “Sar, I have never sat in a car before”.
I met her parents in a small hamlet called Orupakkam, near Perumbar and offered to educate her child and in addition provide for health and food.
I said pompously,” I wish to educate this girl with the same intensity of what I would do to my own daughter. I want her to become a doctor or an engineer and live a better life”.
The parents were delighted and also requested that we sponsor her little brother as well.
Our Rotary connection got both these kids admission in Ramakrishna Mission schools in Chengalpet, 40 kms away from the city. We created a corpus fund of Rs3 lacs for these kids and the monthly interests would provide for their upkeep; monks at the mission were themselves the very soul of service and accommodated to all our pleas.
After having done my bit of humanity, I retired to my corporate jungle having an asshole boss to contend and Jyothi, another forgotten episode.
Yesterday, I went to Chengalpet for a darshan at the temple and you know what, the Vice Principal said,” The porter girl has got admission into IIT”.
They were all praise for the girl and I savoured her success. I saw her as she bent down to touch my feet and I said,” Tomorrow we shall celebrate Deepavalli at my residence and I will send a car to pick both of you”.
This is one sweet ending. Hope other issues also find pleasanter ends.
As I got down the train, I was damn happy to breathe the Madras air. Even a week’s stay away leaves a void.
I saw a line of porters squatting on the platform four feet apart and they resembled a well drilled army. I saw a little girl dressed in that red uniform with a licensed “billa” and shouting attraction for her services.
Before I approached the girl – appeared just over 10 – she whisked my luggage to my annoyance. My morals won’t allow for child labour and I had no need for a porter but this girl was so determined that my vehement protests seemed to drown under an iron determination.
She found me an honest auto saying,” Pay me what you think is right?”
I gave her a tenner and flashing a smile, she said,” my father is in the hospital and we need to pull along” and shrugged her shoulder by way of an apology.
I am a Vice President in a MNC and my talks are popular in all those inane Rotary club meetings where besides a lot of self promotion, we also do some service to the poor. For once, I recommended this girl to the committee for sponsoring her education. Somehow I was attracted by the imp’s behaviour and spirit.
So one more dash to the Central, as I found this girl in the porter community. She was Jyothi as I asked to be taken to her parents.
I made her sit in my Toyota Innova and she blushed, “Sar, I have never sat in a car before”.
I met her parents in a small hamlet called Orupakkam, near Perumbar and offered to educate her child and in addition provide for health and food.
I said pompously,” I wish to educate this girl with the same intensity of what I would do to my own daughter. I want her to become a doctor or an engineer and live a better life”.
The parents were delighted and also requested that we sponsor her little brother as well.
Our Rotary connection got both these kids admission in Ramakrishna Mission schools in Chengalpet, 40 kms away from the city. We created a corpus fund of Rs3 lacs for these kids and the monthly interests would provide for their upkeep; monks at the mission were themselves the very soul of service and accommodated to all our pleas.
After having done my bit of humanity, I retired to my corporate jungle having an asshole boss to contend and Jyothi, another forgotten episode.
Yesterday, I went to Chengalpet for a darshan at the temple and you know what, the Vice Principal said,” The porter girl has got admission into IIT”.
They were all praise for the girl and I savoured her success. I saw her as she bent down to touch my feet and I said,” Tomorrow we shall celebrate Deepavalli at my residence and I will send a car to pick both of you”.
This is one sweet ending. Hope other issues also find pleasanter ends.
106) Limping back
There is none quite like Vinitha and am so proud of her. Her tale puts all my sorrows in perspective and in a way, she’s has been an inspiration and a role model.
This happened about 5 years back in Ooty; her husband was the Vice Principal of a girls boarding school, so popular that one needed to be of royal lineage or a fat industrialists to get their wards admitted. Vinitha was the music teacher and she sometimes oversaw carpentry and environmental classes too. She had her own son, Vasisht to look after and since his birth had reduced her teaching duties.
Vinitha and her husband Vinod were regarded high as a pair and this marriage had gone through 2 decades without much of a scar to show. In fact both being educationist, some of the lessons they teach percolated inside and they conducted their affairs with more grace and panache than your immediate neighbour.
Then in the summer of 2002, the script went horribly wrong and so wrong that the shame could not even hidden all across town.
It happened like this: Vinitha had taken Vashist to her parent’s home in Coimbatore for a fortnight’s break. Her father was growing in years and loved to indulge the young child. In addition her younger sister had delivered a daughter last year and it seemed an opportune time to converge.
Everyone had a good time at Coimbatore and when she left, Vashist was howling, insisting that they stay. He had gotten used to better meals and more attention.
They arrived at Ooty in an Ambassador after suffering an 8 hours drive and found the door of their villa locked. It seemed funny particularly after Vinod was told last week that they were arriving. She called the cell and heard the prerecorded croon: this number no longer exists. For the last 3-4 days, she was getting this dead-end message leaving her wondering as to her hubby’s fate. Now waiting at the gate it sounded ominous as her blood raced to a panic.
The mother and child stood outside after disposing off the car on the verandah when their neighbour spotted them. He was an amiable gentleman and what he said caused a heart attack.
“Vinod has sold the house and all the valuables. He was in a desperate rush to liquidate and the house now is practically empty and he has even arranged for the dogs at Sumithra’s place. He just told us that you had breast cancer and hence needed all this money for treatment”.
Even then the wife did not lose composure. She thought that this strange behaviour must have a reason.
She went to the bank and the official there said,” Ma’am there is Rs.6 in the balance and you need to pay a penalty for not maintaining minimum balance”.
That’s when she broke down.
The credit cards ran a bill over Rs.1 lac and there has been a systematic attempt to swindle and wipe the plate clean.
Why? Why? The heart and mind wanted to know and that explanation came when a colleague said, “Vinita, I am sorry. But I never thought Vinod could be such a cad. He was married once before you came into his life and what I can fathom is that the previous one must have resurfaced and this fellow acts like a cheap common burglar”.
It is so difficult to rebuild life again? She had a 5 year old son and not a penny to survive.
The school arranged her quarters; her students each contributed a mattress, some a bed, another a used fridge, her neighbour gave them a used furniture. There were loans at the local grocery and that fellow again went easy on debt.
Her parents and brother were outraged but Vinod was absconding and what could they do. Her brother settled the credit card splurges and closed that plastic card menace for good.
At the school there were innuendoes and whispers: did she secretly have an affair or was she frigid? Each as absurd as the other and first six months after the desertion was a social hell.
That was five years back when her tree was uprooted.
Today, Vinitha is the Principal of the school, drives a Santro, have brought a piece of land near the Nilgiris mountain as she avers: my son will have better morals than his father.
This happened about 5 years back in Ooty; her husband was the Vice Principal of a girls boarding school, so popular that one needed to be of royal lineage or a fat industrialists to get their wards admitted. Vinitha was the music teacher and she sometimes oversaw carpentry and environmental classes too. She had her own son, Vasisht to look after and since his birth had reduced her teaching duties.
Vinitha and her husband Vinod were regarded high as a pair and this marriage had gone through 2 decades without much of a scar to show. In fact both being educationist, some of the lessons they teach percolated inside and they conducted their affairs with more grace and panache than your immediate neighbour.
Then in the summer of 2002, the script went horribly wrong and so wrong that the shame could not even hidden all across town.
It happened like this: Vinitha had taken Vashist to her parent’s home in Coimbatore for a fortnight’s break. Her father was growing in years and loved to indulge the young child. In addition her younger sister had delivered a daughter last year and it seemed an opportune time to converge.
Everyone had a good time at Coimbatore and when she left, Vashist was howling, insisting that they stay. He had gotten used to better meals and more attention.
They arrived at Ooty in an Ambassador after suffering an 8 hours drive and found the door of their villa locked. It seemed funny particularly after Vinod was told last week that they were arriving. She called the cell and heard the prerecorded croon: this number no longer exists. For the last 3-4 days, she was getting this dead-end message leaving her wondering as to her hubby’s fate. Now waiting at the gate it sounded ominous as her blood raced to a panic.
The mother and child stood outside after disposing off the car on the verandah when their neighbour spotted them. He was an amiable gentleman and what he said caused a heart attack.
“Vinod has sold the house and all the valuables. He was in a desperate rush to liquidate and the house now is practically empty and he has even arranged for the dogs at Sumithra’s place. He just told us that you had breast cancer and hence needed all this money for treatment”.
Even then the wife did not lose composure. She thought that this strange behaviour must have a reason.
She went to the bank and the official there said,” Ma’am there is Rs.6 in the balance and you need to pay a penalty for not maintaining minimum balance”.
That’s when she broke down.
The credit cards ran a bill over Rs.1 lac and there has been a systematic attempt to swindle and wipe the plate clean.
Why? Why? The heart and mind wanted to know and that explanation came when a colleague said, “Vinita, I am sorry. But I never thought Vinod could be such a cad. He was married once before you came into his life and what I can fathom is that the previous one must have resurfaced and this fellow acts like a cheap common burglar”.
It is so difficult to rebuild life again? She had a 5 year old son and not a penny to survive.
The school arranged her quarters; her students each contributed a mattress, some a bed, another a used fridge, her neighbour gave them a used furniture. There were loans at the local grocery and that fellow again went easy on debt.
Her parents and brother were outraged but Vinod was absconding and what could they do. Her brother settled the credit card splurges and closed that plastic card menace for good.
At the school there were innuendoes and whispers: did she secretly have an affair or was she frigid? Each as absurd as the other and first six months after the desertion was a social hell.
That was five years back when her tree was uprooted.
Today, Vinitha is the Principal of the school, drives a Santro, have brought a piece of land near the Nilgiris mountain as she avers: my son will have better morals than his father.
105) What courage is?
A memorial service was scheduled for Doris Anderson over the weekend. The 76-year-old disappeared into the Oregon Mountains two weeks ago, and though rescuers combed the area, they could find no trace of her.
Mourning turned to joy on a Thursday when sheriff's deputies found Anderson at the bottom of a canyon. "Hallelujah! It's just a living miracle," said her husband, Harold Anderson, 74.
At 76, Doris Anderson has astounded doctors by surviving nearly two weeks in the thick woods of Eastern Oregon's rugged Wallowa Mountains. Doctors opined that she was hours away from death when found on a Thursday, with a body temperature that had dropped to just 90 degrees.
Her family members were beginning to think they would never see her again.
"We had given her up for lost," said her brother-in-law Melvin Anderson. "We still don't believe how she could have survived that ordeal. I thought she was gone, but my wife thought otherwise. In the end, my wife was right."
Authorities too had given up hope. Doris had been lightly dressed in an area where temperatures kept dipping. About 70 volunteers a day had searched on land and in the air but to no avail, while her relatives lit candles and prayed.
Lost on a hunting trip, the grandmother of seven was lightly clothed and had no supplies or survival gear as overnight temperatures dropped into the 30s during the nights.
"I've never seen anything like it," said her emergency room doctor, Dr. Steve DeLashmutt. "For one being out in the mountains for a couple of weeks, she was in pretty good shape, infact amazingly so".
Anderson was listed in critical but stable condition soon after. She was extremely dehydrated, cold and incoherent when she arrived at St. Elizabeth Health Services.
Family members said that she had talked to them the next day but have revealed no details of her ordeal. "My mother is so much stronger than I ever thought she was," said one of her daughters, Barbara Moore.
A fortnight back, Doris and Harold were on an elk hunting trip in the mountains when their truck trailer got stuck. Harold broke his wrist trying to free the vehicles, and then the two got lost track of each other after hiking out to find help. Harold was found, but Doris disappeared. Since then rescue teams had been combing the mountainous area just south of the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area, but with little luck.
Baker County sheriff's deputy Travis Ash was looking for scavenger birds as the days rolled by instead it was a flock of ravens that led them to the woman.
Anderson is expected to remain hospitalized for a week, said the chief executive officer of St. Elizabeth Health Services in Baker City.
Meanwhile Doris credits her incredible survival to a healthy lifestyle and prayer. It won’t come as a surprise if a Hollywood producer scripts this tale on the celluloid. (487 words)
Mourning turned to joy on a Thursday when sheriff's deputies found Anderson at the bottom of a canyon. "Hallelujah! It's just a living miracle," said her husband, Harold Anderson, 74.
At 76, Doris Anderson has astounded doctors by surviving nearly two weeks in the thick woods of Eastern Oregon's rugged Wallowa Mountains. Doctors opined that she was hours away from death when found on a Thursday, with a body temperature that had dropped to just 90 degrees.
Her family members were beginning to think they would never see her again.
"We had given her up for lost," said her brother-in-law Melvin Anderson. "We still don't believe how she could have survived that ordeal. I thought she was gone, but my wife thought otherwise. In the end, my wife was right."
Authorities too had given up hope. Doris had been lightly dressed in an area where temperatures kept dipping. About 70 volunteers a day had searched on land and in the air but to no avail, while her relatives lit candles and prayed.
Lost on a hunting trip, the grandmother of seven was lightly clothed and had no supplies or survival gear as overnight temperatures dropped into the 30s during the nights.
"I've never seen anything like it," said her emergency room doctor, Dr. Steve DeLashmutt. "For one being out in the mountains for a couple of weeks, she was in pretty good shape, infact amazingly so".
Anderson was listed in critical but stable condition soon after. She was extremely dehydrated, cold and incoherent when she arrived at St. Elizabeth Health Services.
Family members said that she had talked to them the next day but have revealed no details of her ordeal. "My mother is so much stronger than I ever thought she was," said one of her daughters, Barbara Moore.
A fortnight back, Doris and Harold were on an elk hunting trip in the mountains when their truck trailer got stuck. Harold broke his wrist trying to free the vehicles, and then the two got lost track of each other after hiking out to find help. Harold was found, but Doris disappeared. Since then rescue teams had been combing the mountainous area just south of the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area, but with little luck.
Baker County sheriff's deputy Travis Ash was looking for scavenger birds as the days rolled by instead it was a flock of ravens that led them to the woman.
Anderson is expected to remain hospitalized for a week, said the chief executive officer of St. Elizabeth Health Services in Baker City.
Meanwhile Doris credits her incredible survival to a healthy lifestyle and prayer. It won’t come as a surprise if a Hollywood producer scripts this tale on the celluloid. (487 words)
103) Women with a mission
There was always something intriguing about her; she was full of cheer and positivity that others soaked in its comfort. Janaki Gupta was highly regarded both as an individual and an expert educationist; being the Technical Head for Education there were few issues that escaped her attention.
Janaki worked for a donor development agency and as the Head of the education programme in Madhya Pradesh, her job was to identify NGOs for a partnership. Her company would fund the activity as long as the NGO made a difference on the field. Even the course curriculums were provided and so were the teaching techniques.
Janaki, an expert observer and over the last five years in MP, had devised different teaching methodologies. In fact she knew which stories made a mark in a farmer’s girl or cobbler’s son and what language made them grasp. For example in an Adolescent programme, Maths was taught literally using vegetables and fruits from the market. First time learners in a family carried the diffidence of centuries.
The government has failed the rural hinterland spectacularly in health and education. But for committed people like Janaki, things would be a lot worse.
These NGOs too were not blind in offering the 3 Rs heedless of their social education. Of what use is the ability to read and write if one’s lot was to go to bed on an empty stomach? So these programmes were run in conjunction with rural employment schemes. Teaching these people the alphabets were easier a chore than getting them to fend for themselves economically. Poverty indeed can breed more ills than any other.
The role of Janaki at work was to devise training course materials for children from V standard to Xth and conduct workshops for the teachers. Once the NGOs are short listed and selected, the teaching aids and study materials for kids would be disbursed.
More than the job, Janaki had to travel at least 15 days a month covering over 20 odd districts, taluks, and villages in the state on roads that barely exist and any car journey
would shake one’s liver and kidney.
Janaki has been my colleague for two years and was once my project leader. What impressed us was her ability to size up any situation and come with a solution and as to her knowledge of the local conditions, simply phenomenal - she was a real expert on rural India; so abysmally neglected by the mainline media.
I was on her team when she headed the Tsunami disaster unit in Cuddalore. I was witness as she ran around for over 16 hours a day wondering as to where she got energy from. Be it assessing the situation, ordering supplies, ordering boats, or shouting instructions to our head office in Delhi. Those two months were the hardest for each member of that 7 member team. But we learnt what it takes to serve in a completely different region, and in a different language. Janaki would remind us: “Suffering doesn’t know any language and it is universal. These people have lost their all and yet displaying great resilience that it is a lesson for us”. When we left even the collector came to pay this compliments and respect.
This year, I volunteered to accompany her when there were floods in Bihar. I would have my heart in the mouth as Janaki visited the villages even before the waters had abated and insisted on traversing through boats. In addition, she would go to Patna from Muzzafarpur, our base camp and come late in the night after meeting the CMO or other state government authorities. Bihar is still notorious for kidnap and life after 6 in the evening comes to a standstill and we thought she was being foolhardy. I remember the collector with whom we were closely interacting mention, “Janaki is indeed an inspiration and for a woman, what courage”.
I have known her for over 5 years and we have had some memorable events on the field; she once rescued a child after the waters had washed away the house or enjoying her mom’s culinary. And yet, she never got personal. It used to be puzzle at the office that for one so beautiful and so much status and position, she was still a spinster past her 36th birthday.
This sort of became my bee in the bonnet as I tried to crack the puzzle. Once I got talking to her mom and it was then a bean spilled out. “ Janaki was abused a child by her father and she had directed her hurt into being useful to the society”.
Not bad for one to have done her Ph.D; at times studying on streetlights after the abusive father abandoned the family. No wonder she knows what pain is and can other relate to when others are in distress. (810 words)
Janaki worked for a donor development agency and as the Head of the education programme in Madhya Pradesh, her job was to identify NGOs for a partnership. Her company would fund the activity as long as the NGO made a difference on the field. Even the course curriculums were provided and so were the teaching techniques.
Janaki, an expert observer and over the last five years in MP, had devised different teaching methodologies. In fact she knew which stories made a mark in a farmer’s girl or cobbler’s son and what language made them grasp. For example in an Adolescent programme, Maths was taught literally using vegetables and fruits from the market. First time learners in a family carried the diffidence of centuries.
The government has failed the rural hinterland spectacularly in health and education. But for committed people like Janaki, things would be a lot worse.
These NGOs too were not blind in offering the 3 Rs heedless of their social education. Of what use is the ability to read and write if one’s lot was to go to bed on an empty stomach? So these programmes were run in conjunction with rural employment schemes. Teaching these people the alphabets were easier a chore than getting them to fend for themselves economically. Poverty indeed can breed more ills than any other.
The role of Janaki at work was to devise training course materials for children from V standard to Xth and conduct workshops for the teachers. Once the NGOs are short listed and selected, the teaching aids and study materials for kids would be disbursed.
More than the job, Janaki had to travel at least 15 days a month covering over 20 odd districts, taluks, and villages in the state on roads that barely exist and any car journey
would shake one’s liver and kidney.
Janaki has been my colleague for two years and was once my project leader. What impressed us was her ability to size up any situation and come with a solution and as to her knowledge of the local conditions, simply phenomenal - she was a real expert on rural India; so abysmally neglected by the mainline media.
I was on her team when she headed the Tsunami disaster unit in Cuddalore. I was witness as she ran around for over 16 hours a day wondering as to where she got energy from. Be it assessing the situation, ordering supplies, ordering boats, or shouting instructions to our head office in Delhi. Those two months were the hardest for each member of that 7 member team. But we learnt what it takes to serve in a completely different region, and in a different language. Janaki would remind us: “Suffering doesn’t know any language and it is universal. These people have lost their all and yet displaying great resilience that it is a lesson for us”. When we left even the collector came to pay this compliments and respect.
This year, I volunteered to accompany her when there were floods in Bihar. I would have my heart in the mouth as Janaki visited the villages even before the waters had abated and insisted on traversing through boats. In addition, she would go to Patna from Muzzafarpur, our base camp and come late in the night after meeting the CMO or other state government authorities. Bihar is still notorious for kidnap and life after 6 in the evening comes to a standstill and we thought she was being foolhardy. I remember the collector with whom we were closely interacting mention, “Janaki is indeed an inspiration and for a woman, what courage”.
I have known her for over 5 years and we have had some memorable events on the field; she once rescued a child after the waters had washed away the house or enjoying her mom’s culinary. And yet, she never got personal. It used to be puzzle at the office that for one so beautiful and so much status and position, she was still a spinster past her 36th birthday.
This sort of became my bee in the bonnet as I tried to crack the puzzle. Once I got talking to her mom and it was then a bean spilled out. “ Janaki was abused a child by her father and she had directed her hurt into being useful to the society”.
Not bad for one to have done her Ph.D; at times studying on streetlights after the abusive father abandoned the family. No wonder she knows what pain is and can other relate to when others are in distress. (810 words)
101) Swimming against the tide
The sun rose majestically from the Bay of Bengal and even before it made its appearance; the fishermen are out into the sea. For any daily walker to the beach, the sight of the sun against the background of the raging sea, blowing wind to the sound of roar as the fisherman sail in their wooden rafts with a sole pole to steer is a picture perfect timeless beauty.
Our story pertains to a woman in the nearby hamlet and hers is a tale of indomitable spirit. N Shanthakumari still retains her maiden initials even after marriage. If you thought that was a bold feminist stance then consider this: she is a Ph.d and she hails from the humble fisherman community.
Except an uncle who is a MA, no member of her family has gone beyond school; several drop outs even earlier. The plight of a girl whose family subsisted by living off the sea is hard to imagine, especially when they have to scrap together to meet both ends meet. Where one goes to bed on a hungry stomach on most days, education can never a priority.
She says,” Right from the beginning there were financial difficulties. Every term I had to pawn my mother’s jewels to pay tuition fees. It was so easy to stop but then I wanted to be someone in life. Poverty was just another hurdle. Convincing my skeptical parents was another. They feared that once I study higher, I would grow too big for my boots and marry out of caste. I agreed to marry a boy of their choice to mitigate their doubts”.
They parents selected a fisherman who was school dropout after V standard and Shantha agreed for matrimony on one condition,” I made it clear to my would-be husband and mother-in-law that I must be allowed to continue with my studies”.
With such grit and resolve, her studies progressed and there was no looking back. That’s when the tsunami struck the coast in 2004 and the lives of fisherman were turned upside down. In some villages, entire communities were washed into the sea while the loss of boats and nets were almost everywhere. The scale of the disaster was huge and many NGOs from round the world came to offer assistance.
Shanthakumari had, by now, a baby girl and a boy. Luckily in their hamlet, there was only loss to property and no loss of life. She moved into a temporary shelter, a local community centre, and helped other emotionally drained families. Losing boats and nets is loss of livelihood and to survive on doles did not do the pride or self respect any good.
Even while the family was in such doldrums, our heroine never lost sight of her thesis project. Her chosen subject was “fisherman of Nagapattinam” with detailed analysis of their religious and social practices and how the tsunami affected their livelihood. The subject was closed to her heart and it was in a way, the story of her own community and her life. It was an odd sight to see a bright woman conducting interviews when the others were crest fallen and distraught, facing up to one of their greatest challenge. Shantha too was equally overwrought by the scale of havoc but channelized her time and energy to a productive pursuit.
That was in 2005 and now these days, she can be found teaching in AVC College, Mayiladuthurai. Her income quite nicely supplements her husband’s varying income from the sea.
She has created a nice small world for her family and her kids now go to the best schools in town. Even her seafaring husband says: “I want my children to take after my wife. It is better to make one’s mark on the world through one’s intelligence than be perched dangerously from a boat looking for fish”. (641 words).
Our story pertains to a woman in the nearby hamlet and hers is a tale of indomitable spirit. N Shanthakumari still retains her maiden initials even after marriage. If you thought that was a bold feminist stance then consider this: she is a Ph.d and she hails from the humble fisherman community.
Except an uncle who is a MA, no member of her family has gone beyond school; several drop outs even earlier. The plight of a girl whose family subsisted by living off the sea is hard to imagine, especially when they have to scrap together to meet both ends meet. Where one goes to bed on a hungry stomach on most days, education can never a priority.
She says,” Right from the beginning there were financial difficulties. Every term I had to pawn my mother’s jewels to pay tuition fees. It was so easy to stop but then I wanted to be someone in life. Poverty was just another hurdle. Convincing my skeptical parents was another. They feared that once I study higher, I would grow too big for my boots and marry out of caste. I agreed to marry a boy of their choice to mitigate their doubts”.
They parents selected a fisherman who was school dropout after V standard and Shantha agreed for matrimony on one condition,” I made it clear to my would-be husband and mother-in-law that I must be allowed to continue with my studies”.
With such grit and resolve, her studies progressed and there was no looking back. That’s when the tsunami struck the coast in 2004 and the lives of fisherman were turned upside down. In some villages, entire communities were washed into the sea while the loss of boats and nets were almost everywhere. The scale of the disaster was huge and many NGOs from round the world came to offer assistance.
Shanthakumari had, by now, a baby girl and a boy. Luckily in their hamlet, there was only loss to property and no loss of life. She moved into a temporary shelter, a local community centre, and helped other emotionally drained families. Losing boats and nets is loss of livelihood and to survive on doles did not do the pride or self respect any good.
Even while the family was in such doldrums, our heroine never lost sight of her thesis project. Her chosen subject was “fisherman of Nagapattinam” with detailed analysis of their religious and social practices and how the tsunami affected their livelihood. The subject was closed to her heart and it was in a way, the story of her own community and her life. It was an odd sight to see a bright woman conducting interviews when the others were crest fallen and distraught, facing up to one of their greatest challenge. Shantha too was equally overwrought by the scale of havoc but channelized her time and energy to a productive pursuit.
That was in 2005 and now these days, she can be found teaching in AVC College, Mayiladuthurai. Her income quite nicely supplements her husband’s varying income from the sea.
She has created a nice small world for her family and her kids now go to the best schools in town. Even her seafaring husband says: “I want my children to take after my wife. It is better to make one’s mark on the world through one’s intelligence than be perched dangerously from a boat looking for fish”. (641 words).
100) Forever an angel
It was the darkest phase of my life. My career was yet again sinking for no fault of mine except perhaps karmic. In the first decade of my work life, I had bizarre interruptions: a sudden heart surgery, work permits getting delayed due to gulf war, and now running into a manic manager.
I fell into the darkest depression possible and lie on the bed for over 20 hours a day and watching even the inane television too big a task.
I was so depressed that I locked myself in the bedroom for the second month running. The food tasted like saw dust and nothing held interest. I was determined to force the issue and just marking date and time for exit.
I used to have some friends on Orkut and one of them was a doctor. Dr. Manisha wrote a couple of mails and so I replied back more out of courtesy than any interest. My most comforting thought was hope of death and I was optimistic that it was only a matter of time.
She asked,” Ashok, you seem to give an eerie impression of wanting the quit the game of life midway. Is it true or is it the imagination of an overworked psychiatrist?”
This acuity saved my life as I bared my problems. The doctor in Delhi gave her number urging me to call. BTW, I am based at Chennai.
I called and spoke for an hour. I was determined that nothing positive would come in my life. Living was futile and a burden to others and I would probably pull the plug by the week.
Dr. Manisha said,” Ashok, that’s your illness speaking. Forcing death and life after death could be more unpleasant. Just hang around and have these drugs. They will cheer you in a fortnight and let’s take it from there.”
Her voice was encouraging and friendly beyond belief and her kindness and compassion immeasurable. I was insistent though, “Doctor, I have pills that will induce a brain seizure and I am determined to escape this pain”.
“Ashok, you shall do nothing of that sort. If you feel like popping those pills, call me anytime. Will you at least make that promise to me?”
I never found a better doctor and a friend. She would email me everyday and keep sending positive SMS messages. She would call me and speak for hours on end unmindful of cell charges between Delhi and Chennai.
Slowly, life started ebbing into the system. I even asked,” Didi (by now, Manisha gave way to Doctor and then finally settled to Didi) why do you care for a stranger like me?
You don’t even allow a man to die in peace”.
She got the humour, “I’ll spank you if you feel that way. Ashok, I am a doctor and I feel a human life is so important and I’ll go to any distance to save it”.
Dr. Manisha Kalyani runs free medical camps for the poor in psychiatry treatments and provide free counseling and free medicines in South Delhi. She is the very soul of service and her compassion for the downtrodden immeasurable
As for me, I see an angel and goddess in her. And if I were to die tomorrow, my last words would be “Manisha” for she showed more affection than all my family members and friends put together. She has been holding such camps for more than a decade now and many would echo similar sentiments.
It just takes one selfless woman to make life beautiful again for those in hell. (595 words)
I fell into the darkest depression possible and lie on the bed for over 20 hours a day and watching even the inane television too big a task.
I was so depressed that I locked myself in the bedroom for the second month running. The food tasted like saw dust and nothing held interest. I was determined to force the issue and just marking date and time for exit.
I used to have some friends on Orkut and one of them was a doctor. Dr. Manisha wrote a couple of mails and so I replied back more out of courtesy than any interest. My most comforting thought was hope of death and I was optimistic that it was only a matter of time.
She asked,” Ashok, you seem to give an eerie impression of wanting the quit the game of life midway. Is it true or is it the imagination of an overworked psychiatrist?”
This acuity saved my life as I bared my problems. The doctor in Delhi gave her number urging me to call. BTW, I am based at Chennai.
I called and spoke for an hour. I was determined that nothing positive would come in my life. Living was futile and a burden to others and I would probably pull the plug by the week.
Dr. Manisha said,” Ashok, that’s your illness speaking. Forcing death and life after death could be more unpleasant. Just hang around and have these drugs. They will cheer you in a fortnight and let’s take it from there.”
Her voice was encouraging and friendly beyond belief and her kindness and compassion immeasurable. I was insistent though, “Doctor, I have pills that will induce a brain seizure and I am determined to escape this pain”.
“Ashok, you shall do nothing of that sort. If you feel like popping those pills, call me anytime. Will you at least make that promise to me?”
I never found a better doctor and a friend. She would email me everyday and keep sending positive SMS messages. She would call me and speak for hours on end unmindful of cell charges between Delhi and Chennai.
Slowly, life started ebbing into the system. I even asked,” Didi (by now, Manisha gave way to Doctor and then finally settled to Didi) why do you care for a stranger like me?
You don’t even allow a man to die in peace”.
She got the humour, “I’ll spank you if you feel that way. Ashok, I am a doctor and I feel a human life is so important and I’ll go to any distance to save it”.
Dr. Manisha Kalyani runs free medical camps for the poor in psychiatry treatments and provide free counseling and free medicines in South Delhi. She is the very soul of service and her compassion for the downtrodden immeasurable
As for me, I see an angel and goddess in her. And if I were to die tomorrow, my last words would be “Manisha” for she showed more affection than all my family members and friends put together. She has been holding such camps for more than a decade now and many would echo similar sentiments.
It just takes one selfless woman to make life beautiful again for those in hell. (595 words)
99) The AOL trainer
Things couldn’t have been more content in the Sharma household. Tara was waiting for her daughter’s arrival from United States and it was more than four years since she last saw Bina since her marriage.
Ironically Tara’s son too was based in US, in Los Angles working for a software engineer at CISCO and so one could understand the excitement building up in Tara’s house as the old couple literally counted the days and when both the son’s and daughter’s families would land up at Meenambakkam.
Tara and her husband had settled very comfortably in Madras and they tried being in the US for sometime but never got the hang of it especially once the children went out to work. Loneliness gnawed at them and even the neighbours were miles away and there was no human interaction during the day. Even the traffic in those neighbourhoods did not cause uproar. If you are used to India then this silence is funereal and unacceptable.
Here everything comes with a noise attached: right from the paperboy and milk maid banging the bell, to the flow of traffic on the road, to neighbours who asked for your welfare and even assisted you in times of need.
They came back to good old Madras and decided that they December years would be there after they had gotten used to morning walks by the Marina and spiritual classes on weekends of Swamiji.
Both the daughter and son were full of stories and gifts: his wife was pregnant with their second child and Bina finishing her journalism course and her apprentice in ABC.
The old parents took them to temples, prepared their special dishes, called on friends and relatives and the cup of joy overflowing. Then tragedy stuck.
Their son-in-law, a devotee of Aurobindo had earmarked a visit to Pondicherry. The son also accompanied him and after the darshan and meditation sessions were bound back for Madras. They were in a Toyota Qualis and the driver seemed an old hand. They were on the ECR road when a bus suddenly swerved into them and it banged right in the rear were these two men were sitting.
Both were hospitalized and son-in-law was declared dead on arrival while the son battled on. But within a fortnight he too collapsed plunging the entire family to a kind of grief unimaginable.
The pregnant daughter-in-law stayed with them while Bina went back to US to pick up the pieces again.
This is the kind of sorrow that only lengthens with time and for more than a year, the old couple was housebound and walks or lectures or shopping did not make much sense and it was their daughter-in-law who saw them through this phase.
She forced Tara to an AOL class and it was only there some life got infused in the lady. Her daily practice of the Sundarshan Kriya had such a salutary effect that inside of a month a new vein of life began to flow through. She taught her husband the breathing schedules and he too showed some improvement.
Tara became a volunteer of the AOL movement and went house to house to enlist members to join the basic course. They were many takers since the entire neighbourhood had been witness to their epic tragedy and soon she was filling up these classrooms.
Krishnan, instructor upon noticing her zeal encouraged her to become a teacher for which she underwent training in Bangalore. Even Sri Sri spoke to her for a long time and her grace was apparent to one and all.
Now it’s been two years since she has been taking AOL classes in Adyar. Her reputation and sincerity makes people come from far and befriend her. She now has a new purpose in life and she is available to receive calls right through 24 hours for people in need.
Life gave her the cruelest blow and yet she has persevered through and retained her sanity. And each time I see her, I feel the triumph of the mind and a miracle this little woman had wrought. (680 words)
Ironically Tara’s son too was based in US, in Los Angles working for a software engineer at CISCO and so one could understand the excitement building up in Tara’s house as the old couple literally counted the days and when both the son’s and daughter’s families would land up at Meenambakkam.
Tara and her husband had settled very comfortably in Madras and they tried being in the US for sometime but never got the hang of it especially once the children went out to work. Loneliness gnawed at them and even the neighbours were miles away and there was no human interaction during the day. Even the traffic in those neighbourhoods did not cause uproar. If you are used to India then this silence is funereal and unacceptable.
Here everything comes with a noise attached: right from the paperboy and milk maid banging the bell, to the flow of traffic on the road, to neighbours who asked for your welfare and even assisted you in times of need.
They came back to good old Madras and decided that they December years would be there after they had gotten used to morning walks by the Marina and spiritual classes on weekends of Swamiji.
Both the daughter and son were full of stories and gifts: his wife was pregnant with their second child and Bina finishing her journalism course and her apprentice in ABC.
The old parents took them to temples, prepared their special dishes, called on friends and relatives and the cup of joy overflowing. Then tragedy stuck.
Their son-in-law, a devotee of Aurobindo had earmarked a visit to Pondicherry. The son also accompanied him and after the darshan and meditation sessions were bound back for Madras. They were in a Toyota Qualis and the driver seemed an old hand. They were on the ECR road when a bus suddenly swerved into them and it banged right in the rear were these two men were sitting.
Both were hospitalized and son-in-law was declared dead on arrival while the son battled on. But within a fortnight he too collapsed plunging the entire family to a kind of grief unimaginable.
The pregnant daughter-in-law stayed with them while Bina went back to US to pick up the pieces again.
This is the kind of sorrow that only lengthens with time and for more than a year, the old couple was housebound and walks or lectures or shopping did not make much sense and it was their daughter-in-law who saw them through this phase.
She forced Tara to an AOL class and it was only there some life got infused in the lady. Her daily practice of the Sundarshan Kriya had such a salutary effect that inside of a month a new vein of life began to flow through. She taught her husband the breathing schedules and he too showed some improvement.
Tara became a volunteer of the AOL movement and went house to house to enlist members to join the basic course. They were many takers since the entire neighbourhood had been witness to their epic tragedy and soon she was filling up these classrooms.
Krishnan, instructor upon noticing her zeal encouraged her to become a teacher for which she underwent training in Bangalore. Even Sri Sri spoke to her for a long time and her grace was apparent to one and all.
Now it’s been two years since she has been taking AOL classes in Adyar. Her reputation and sincerity makes people come from far and befriend her. She now has a new purpose in life and she is available to receive calls right through 24 hours for people in need.
Life gave her the cruelest blow and yet she has persevered through and retained her sanity. And each time I see her, I feel the triumph of the mind and a miracle this little woman had wrought. (680 words)
98) Living by oneself
This was straight from the pages of hell. My troubles came uninvited of course and out of the blue.
I was doing my Masters in Physics at the Central University in Hyderabad and having opted for a career in academics, I was making good progress and life was on a smooth road – dad had just retired and I was engaged to marry to an engineer.
It was then this pervert came into my life. Last year, I sold my Kinetic Honda to a Sardar- an amiable young chap - and we concluded the deal. I turned over the vehicle and registered papers even when he was still short of 2 grand.
During those days the Jessica Lal case was all over the papers and television channels milked all that they could from that story. I foolishly left a comment on ND TV website in my name and mail id.
God since then I had no end of troubles. This sick Sikh happened to do a google search and found my name and email id and it was like garland of flowers to a monkey.
I found my mails full of junk messages. First came the forwards and those silly jokes and got more and more amorous by the day. During those days – say 2000 – blocking mails was not an option or maybe, I was too disadvantaged technically to stop this flood of mails. This pervert seemed to follow me as I went to and fro to college as he would describe my dress the next day on mail.
I quite frankly lost my mind and was fast turning paranoid. Unlike now, where the cops have a cyber crime division, there was no such thing then.
I spoke to my lawyer cousin and he immediately came over and advised. He reasoned that it was weak police case for emails cannot be entertained as evidence and this clever pervert can get away by denying that it’s not his mail id. So, going to the cops was a waste of time.
He then advised something criminal but effective. You could invite him to a place, say a restaurant and then leave it me to handle him.
He even said,” There is nothing like a good bash to straighten this man with too much testosterone”.
I was firm as I acquiesced: Please no long term damage.
Likewise, a rendezvous was set up and young man ended up with more than a fracture to contend.
I wasn’t exactly happy taking law into my hands. We are decent people without a shadow of doubt- mind our business or hate to be cause of inconvenience to anyone. I come from a very conservative family and a woman can never afford any mud thrown at her dignity.
Since this incident, I am very careful. I don’t ever use my name on the internet nor be foolhardy enough to leave my mail id. I never forget those 4 months when a fellow went berserk and very nearly caused me a nervous breakdown. I learnt my lesson: One can never be too careful these days!!!!! (513 words)
I was doing my Masters in Physics at the Central University in Hyderabad and having opted for a career in academics, I was making good progress and life was on a smooth road – dad had just retired and I was engaged to marry to an engineer.
It was then this pervert came into my life. Last year, I sold my Kinetic Honda to a Sardar- an amiable young chap - and we concluded the deal. I turned over the vehicle and registered papers even when he was still short of 2 grand.
During those days the Jessica Lal case was all over the papers and television channels milked all that they could from that story. I foolishly left a comment on ND TV website in my name and mail id.
God since then I had no end of troubles. This sick Sikh happened to do a google search and found my name and email id and it was like garland of flowers to a monkey.
I found my mails full of junk messages. First came the forwards and those silly jokes and got more and more amorous by the day. During those days – say 2000 – blocking mails was not an option or maybe, I was too disadvantaged technically to stop this flood of mails. This pervert seemed to follow me as I went to and fro to college as he would describe my dress the next day on mail.
I quite frankly lost my mind and was fast turning paranoid. Unlike now, where the cops have a cyber crime division, there was no such thing then.
I spoke to my lawyer cousin and he immediately came over and advised. He reasoned that it was weak police case for emails cannot be entertained as evidence and this clever pervert can get away by denying that it’s not his mail id. So, going to the cops was a waste of time.
He then advised something criminal but effective. You could invite him to a place, say a restaurant and then leave it me to handle him.
He even said,” There is nothing like a good bash to straighten this man with too much testosterone”.
I was firm as I acquiesced: Please no long term damage.
Likewise, a rendezvous was set up and young man ended up with more than a fracture to contend.
I wasn’t exactly happy taking law into my hands. We are decent people without a shadow of doubt- mind our business or hate to be cause of inconvenience to anyone. I come from a very conservative family and a woman can never afford any mud thrown at her dignity.
Since this incident, I am very careful. I don’t ever use my name on the internet nor be foolhardy enough to leave my mail id. I never forget those 4 months when a fellow went berserk and very nearly caused me a nervous breakdown. I learnt my lesson: One can never be too careful these days!!!!! (513 words)
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