Honeymoon at Vrindaban

Does anyone go to Vrindaban for honeymoon? Aditi and I did, last week.

My high-flying friends who honeymooned at Zurich, California’s Napa Valley or Singapore were aghast. The lesser journos who did it in Manali, Goa or Munnar tried their best to dissuade us, while friends from the workplace shrugged, meaning, “Oh, Atanu always wants to be in a place from where he can easily dash back in case of a major news break.” It wasn't true, news rundown was the last thing in my mind when we undertook the 3-hour drive via Faridabad, Palwal and Kosi. The choice of Vrindaban was by default. The chief of Ramakrishna Mission Vrindaban centre requested us to spend a few days in Brajabhumi just after the marriage.

The decision turned out to be just right.

My wife Aditi, though a Vaishnavite by lineage, had never visited Vrindaban, and she thoroughly enjoyed the stint. From roaming around the serpentine lanes of Vrindaban humming Krishna kirtans, eating Rabri and Rasagullas at Brajbasi, to doing more than a few shakes during the high-pitch evening prayer at the Iskcon Temple, Aditi soaked Vrindaban with her body and heart. Meanwhile, to make the ambience more agreeable, migratory cranes, pelicans, ducks and wagtails have started swamping the marshlands around Vrindaban; the journey to Barsana and Nandgaon was memorable.

A piece of interesting news for Vrindaban lovers. The Uttar Pradesh government has sanctioned Rs 250 crore for the improvement of infrastructure at Vrindaban, and the work has already begun. The link road between Vrindaban and Mathura is now smooth and clean, the Krishna Janmabhumi temple area clear of hawkers and vehicles, relaying work of Parikrama Marg is in full swing, and restoration of old temples is on.

Of course, avoid looking at the high-rise residential flats coming up near the Iskcon Temple, and the hawkers selling boiled eggs beside the Vrindaban gate.

The Castle of Music

Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur is not just an imposing stone structure, with carved facades and exquisite filigree work, well-maintained museums, a bevy of heavy canons, and a continuous stream of foreign tourists. It’s also about music and nostalgia. In fact, during my recent visit, I found a lot of musical elements have been added to it lately.

At the first turn after the ticket booth, you will now find a young Rajasthani lad playing Ravanhattha (a simple string instrument looking like Sarangi). Nothing new, you would say, such amateurs are seen tenner-a-dozen all over Jodhpur. But what makes him unique is the patronage of a young security guard. As I slowed down to hear the Sarangi player, the guard started narrating in his hard-to-follow English the grand heritage of Jodhpur, its musical tradition and why I should part some money with him and the musician. Finding me unfazed, he joined the musician and started singing a Rajasthani song at the top of his voice. While I was impressed by the thought that they had mistaken me to be a foreigner, the vocal torture drove me away. I have heard the story of late Ustad Fayyaz Khan once taking up the challenge of singing all the seven notes wrong. These two didn’t need any wager in doing that.

Another pair of new musicians I found near the souvenir shops…a young boy playing Ravanhattha and his 14-year old sister singing a Rajasthani folk song. The boy’s chapakan needed mending and an immediate wash, while the girl’s Salwar-Kurta must have come from Nai Sarak flea market. About the music, lesser said the better.

Another interesting pair positioned themselves near the Kali Mata temple at the annexe. As the narrow stone alley neared the temple, I saw a lady in her sixties singing, “Darshan de mata sherawali…” Though it was a temple dedicated to Goddess Kali, but in northern India Sherwali Mata always attracts more alms. However, in this case, people’s interest (mainly of men), was going more towards the young lady who was lying on the ground nearby, sometimes offering falsetto to the senior singer’s tune. Her yellow Saree was tucked near the knees, and her breasts were popping out of the blouse. As I reached nearby, the elderly lady suddenly stopped singing, and hissed, “Chiri.” The young lady bolted up and ran behind the nearby wall, her saree trailing behind. A prospect must have arrived.

While leaving the fort, I stopped at the Loha Pol. I like this place. Immediately to the left are the handprints (sati marks) of the queens who in 1843 immolated themselves on the funeral pyre of their husband, Maharaja Man Singh. In a small recess beside the gate sat Amar, Birj and Sultan, who play the Sarangi, Algoza and Nagara respectively. They smiled at me (the last time I met them was two years ago), and said, “Kaise ho sahab? Ohi bajaun? (How are you, sir? Should we play the same tune?)” I nodded and sat on the opposite side of the lane, lent on the red stone, spread my weary legs and closed my eyes. The trio started giving their rendition of raga Darbari.

In dream, I went back to a cool December afternoon two years ago.

The Man under the Sky

You come down from the Mehrangarh fort, follow the main road, leave the Girls Secondary School at your left, reach the crossing and turn left. You are at the outskirts of the Jodhpur city. This road will go to Mandore Gardens, but that is still four kilometres away. Instead of waiting for the bus or a tempo, you decide to keep walking. And soon at the left you see an island of workers - men, women and children – their heads bent, weaving the brooms, containers and dividers made of bamboo sticks.

There are about 30 people working, and the elders would tell you they belong to one family – an extended family. You see the nimble fingers of the 8-10 year olds moving fast in stitching the bamboo partitions, creating exquisite patterns. You ask their names, and take pictures so that you can claim later that you met some ‘child labourers’. The children would happily pose for you.

Go forward a few steps, and you will find a young Rajasthani belle, wearing a red Salwar-Kurta, a veil covering her head and face, weaving a large broom. While her left hand is holding the broomstick, her right hand is moving in clockwise fashion to neatly pack fallen twigs, and tie them together. You haven’t seen her face but you can feel that she is young, very young. A rugged, old man standing at your left says, “Aasma. She is Aasma. Take her picture.” You kneel down on the road, focus your camera on her face, and pray to God, “Let the veil go off for a while.”

And it does. Three kids surround her, hold her neck, rest on her back, and in the commotion her veil indeed goes off. You feel she must be under 20. The old man mutters, as if to himself, “Her children.” An adolescent mother! But then you are busy clicking the photos. Aasma doesn’t stop her work. You stand up, switch your digital camera to ‘Display’ mode and show her the photo on the LCD screen. Still working on the broom, she sees it, and then, for a fleeting moment, casts a sharp, witty glance at you. As if to thank you.

You turn to go, ignoring the old ladies who are yelling, “Our photo, saab, our photo.”

You look at the thin, bearded man, who must be well over his sixties, and ask, “You also work here?”

“No, I don’t work. She does. Aasma is my wife,” he says proudly.

Paradise Lost for a Medal

Don’t get me wrong. I am extremely proud about Sushil Kumar getting a Bronze Medal in the Beijing Olympics, but couldn’t he hail from some other place in Delhi than Baparola village!

For the last five months, we (me and my fiancée) considered the link loads from Najafgarh to Rohtak Road, crossing villages like Neel Bal, Dichau, Hiran Kudna and Baparola to be our exclusive property. I have been driving in and around Delhi for the last 23 years, but hardly have seen such scenic roads before. The flat, black, bitumen roads stretch miles in front of your eyes, beyond the single layer of bordering trees lie acres of green, cultivated land, small lakes pass by, and you see another car crossing yours may be after 10 minutes. Paroquets and pigeons form dense shapes against the dark, cumulus cloud; sky meets the green in the horizon without any dot of the concrete.

Often did we see the thundering rains sprinting towards us over the fields, the maize and wheat plants bending on the ground as storm raged by…we stopped the car on the roadside and looked out in awe as the white blanket of rains enveloped us, almost caressed us.

On the sunny days, we spilled out from our car, scooped out fresh radishes from the field, spoke to the Haryanvi belles carrying baleful of maize plants on their heads, their whole body swaying on an even rhythm. We had tea with the Jat families in their sparse, grim outer rooms, while their children played with huge cows and buffaloes near the door.

Only we knew that such exotic places existed in Delhi, just 6-7 kilometres from Metro-marred Nagloi, four kilometres from the dirty congestion of Najafgarh and the planned monstrosity called Dwarka.

Over the last two days, at least 30 friends and colleagues have asked me where is Baparola. And I can imagine the future…Sardars and Sardarnis in their Hyundai Santro, Rajasthani upstarts in their Honda Civic and middle-class Bengalis in their vintage Premier Padminis (maximum speed 20 kmph, horns welcome) making a beeline on the Hiran Kudna Road, having loud picnics on the small oases in the wayside, re-discovering the sprawling, modern temple complex near Neel Bal.

And me and my fiancee searching for another place to get farther from the madding crowd.

All because of a piece of bronze.

Last Tango in Life

Last weekend I watched an excellent movie: Carlos Saura’s Tango. Mario Suarez is a forty-something tango artist, whose wife Laura has left him. He leaves his apartment and starts preparing a film about tango. Things become complicated when Mario falls in love with Elena, a beautiful and talented young dancer who is the girlfriend of the powerful and dangerous Angelo Larroca, an investor in the picture. I’ll write a detailed review of the film later. Meanwhile, let me share a portion of the movie, where Mario (Miguel Ángel Solá) goes out in a date with Elena (Mía Maestro) for the first time. He talks about his feelings, his frustrations, and it seems as if I am hearing to my own heart.

Here is the script:

Elena Flores: We’re splitting up

Mario Suarez: Why, may I ask?

We don’t get along. I’m hard to live with. Living with someone is awful. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve ended up in a mess.

I’m a special case. I’m a solitary animal… one of those old lions who roam in the African Savannah aimlessly. Lionesses are different. They gather, unite, hunt, whelp, nurse, protect their defenceless cubs. They have a concrete mission in life.

Nurse, protect, mate…that’s a woman’s mission in life?

I didn’t mean that. I respect women too much. Maybe that was a bad analogy. Men have been raised to hunt and fight for thousands of years. Now he hunts in his own way. Say he goes haywire for a little power…or a medal or money… a form of power. It would be shame for a woman to follow man in his folly. That’s what I mean.

All I ask of men is to respect me, listen to me, and not treat me like a nut, sprouting nonsense. Why is it so hard for man to admit that a beautiful woman can also be intelligent?

That’s not what I think. How can I put this? You wake up one day, look at a mirror, and say, “I’ve aged.” You go outside and the young call you Mister. To them, you’ve gone over the hill, you’re an old fart. Time goes by...your hairs start to fall out, and then the rest falls apart. You like good food, you get fat…you get lazy, stop going out. Still, despite the physical decay, you feel as energetic as a boy. So what do you do? Why is it so unseemly for a man to act like a boy? I can’t enjoy a girl of 18, because I’m an older man. How old are you anyway?

Twenty-three.

You seem younger. Let’s see if I can complete this. On that day you wonder, “What life have I had? What’s happened to me? Where are my youthful illusions, my dreams?”

You can’t say that. It’s unfair. You’ve done wonderful things.

Thank you. May be. But I feel I’ve wasted my time…that I only touched the surface of things. All I did was swimming frantically to avoid sinking into the muck. How does that sound to you? Pretentious, eh? But vivid, right? Anyway all that to say, I am a good boy, modest, simple, sensitive, hardworking, honest, unable to organize my life and deeply frustrated in love.

(Gives a gift to Elena)

It’s very nice. I have to leave, Mario.

Stay with me tonight.

I can’t.

Someone’s waiting. Sorry.

Convenient Morals

By Anju Makin

What's happening with people and morality nowadays? Seems to me, they spell it like c-o-n-v-e-n-i-e-n-c-e. The buzzword for bedding anyone now is ‘fondness’. You just need to be fond of the other person to make out. Toe-dipping into relationships is so “in”. In fact, relationship is a big word for these alliances that get made and broken with alarming convenience - that word again!

A sample scenario in a typical MNC runs like this: Mrs Mehta is involved with Mr. Pande who in turn is also eyeing the new joinee Mrs Bhatnagar, while Ms Mathur can be treated a likely prospect. However, the non-married (and some married ones also) people create just too much hassles hankering for love, commitment, marriage and God knows where they will stop. It’s much better to stick with the tried and tested Mrs. Mehta who doesn’t demand much, just as much as she gets.

Everything happens for a reason: let’s get closer; we were destined to meet… so on and so forth. Some of the cheesy pick-up lines are uttered with amazing poise. The problem is that this malaise is no longer restricted to the diseased nouveau riche sections of the society. It is now threatening to infect the ever fragile urban middle class which is a torchbearer in any social milieu.

Let’s not blame only the workplace scenarios and equal opportunity for women for this. I guess there were fragile marriages earlier as well, but now people who take advantage of the fissures in these marriages are more accessible and come packaged in neat clothes, mouthing niceties with alarming ease. Smooth is the word for them.

In the 2000-flat society that we stay in Gurgaon, 75% residents work in call centres that are mushrooming in this part of NCR. Of these, 70% are living-in together. In the flat opposite ours, a call centre executive stayed for two years. Over the two years, he lived with four girl-friends over various time periods. Finally, he got married to a girl from his hometown, arranged by his parents. We have been witness to his grieving girlfriends many times, except when his parents visited they were hushed under the carpet. After that, two girls came and stayed with two boys for six months. After this, we have lost count or interest. In fact, everyone now treats this as a common scenario. It might have shocked frumpy aunties earlier but with time things are getting acceptable. We all behave like pigeons. If it’s not happening in my home, I am not concerned. That’s the common mentality all over India.

Some time ago, New York Times ran a feature on ‘FWB’ (Friends with benefits) -alliances prevalent amongst university students, wherein you have an intimate relationship with friends with no strings attached as per each other’s convenience. The article was based on research done within the students’ community by a well-known and reputed research firm. The FWBs are here now.

India seems to be not only developing in economy but also in ethics degradation. Wonder where this will lead to? Is it about men and women? I don’t know. Why do women put up with people who are clearly not faithful? How can any self-respecting woman stay with someone they don’t love or who doesn’t love them but just wants to get closer? Don‘t they fall in love but practice nonchalance as they don’t want to risk losing their boyfriends, better to share them instead! I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. I hope someone out there does. If you do, let me know.

anjumakin@gmail.com

Single in a Hotel

Read Advaita Kala’s ‘Almost Single’ over the weekend. It is well written and can be called a page turner in the loosest sense of the word. But still, you would come away with an unfulfilled feeling, an incomplete experience, so to say.

First of all, the author needs to understand that writing under pseudonym on any industry is a no-no. You get caught in many ways. The way author has described the workings of a guest relation officer in a hotel industry leaves much to be desired.

She has rolled in jobs of receptionist, concierge, banquets, lobby manager and cash desk into an all-in-one guest relations executive (GRE) profile depending on her convenience. A GRE does not handle lobby activities in a five star hotel, a lobby manager does. Neither does she handle wedding preparations, however important the guest is. No self-respecting banquet manager would let a GRE step on his toes! Neither does she exchange money, even if it is for a prominent Pakistani cricketer. The hotel operators are definitely not termed ‘bitches on switches’, neither do they behave like ones. And eavesdropping on conversations will get them a pink slip in less than 5 minutes in any hotel. And these are just a few instances!

Apart from this, there are discrepancies in the lifestyle followed by the protagonist. One can’t afford regular Sunday brunches in hotels and frequent night outs in clubs on a GRE’s salary, however loose the purse strings of friends are! And there are just too many coincidences throwing the hero and heroine together, but I guess it is necessary to keep the story moving.

Advaita has given very interesting shades to her characters, more to add color to her book than for any other reason. Most hotel girls I know, and I know quite a few, don’t belong to the category she has created for them – smoking and boozing with abandon. Perhaps 2% girls would belong to this category. The rest are thorough professionals, trained for the job in the umpteen mushrooming hotel management institutes across India trying to earn an honest day’s living.

All in all, do read the book but please don’t get carried away by descriptions stereotyping the hotel industry and its women professionals. In the real world, they are not so.

The book review has been written by one my close buddies, Anju Makin. You can reach her at anjumakin@gmail.com.

Classics Once More: Subarnarekha

In the early 1980s, when I was studying in the Uni, we used to go gaga about films made by three Bengali directors: Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen and Ritwik Ghatak. Satyajit was elite, and like his tall physique and rich baritone much different from an average Bengali, his films used to come as if with a Post-it tag: No criticism please. Much like the films of Fellini, Goddard or Antonioni. Mrinal Sen used to attract for his left leanings (I was an active member of SFI at that time), and Ghatak mesmerized us for his bohemian life, and the use of unusual imageries in his films. That was the time when we were starry eyed, and used to strive to find out newer ways and superlatives to describe these films.

Today, when revisited, most of Satyajit Ray’s films appear to be living room drama, shots predictable and clichéd, sets a tad artificial. Mrinal Sen’s political films (that means nearly 90 per cent of his films) feel like Russian propaganda movies and are extremely boring. Ritwik’s films, on the other hand, appear still meaningful, dialogues potent, and imageries fresh and startling.

Subarnarekha impressed me again. The storyline is complex, but predictable, and Ghatak has thrown in too many coincidences into two hours of celluloid. Ishwar (Abhi Bhattacharjee), an educated unemployed takes break from the fights for their colony, and goes to Chhatimpur on Subarnarekha river, after a college friend offers him a job as cashier in his iron foundry. Ishwar takes with him his kid sister Sita (Madhabi Mukherjee) and an orphan Abhiram (Satindra Bhattacharya). Sita and Abhiram fall in love while playing at the riverbanks and singing songs in the forest, and elope as Ishwar makes arrangements for her marriage. Abhiram sees her estranged, low-caste mother die on the platform, and in Calcutta struggles to make ends meet. A child is born but Abhiram dies in an accident. Meanwhile, Ishwar takes to drinking. One day drunk and without vision (the specs break while drinking), Ishwar visits Sita’s house in search of further pleasures. Sita commits suicide. Two years later, Iswar is released as it is proved that it was suicide rather than murder. At the end, he takes Sita’s child to Chhatimpur, promising him a new house.

‘Finding a new house’ has been the refrain of the movie—in the beginning we see the refugees trying to find a foothold, Sita comes with her brother to Chhatimpur in search of a new house, Abhiram searches his roots all his life, and the film ends with Sita’s son looking forward to a new house. But what I missed 25 years ago was the connection of this refrain with the title Subarnarekha.

Subarnarekha is the name of a river, and rivers cross unknown terrain on their way to find their ultimate home, the sea. While in spate, rivers wash away people’s abodes, pushing them to search for new dwellings; they also create new lands to help people settle. The name Subarnarekha (meaning golden thread or golden line) also denotes hope and prosperity that people look forward to in settled life.

The re-view of the film also made me think about Ritwik’s use of locale and imageries. Satyajit Roy used to be very fussy about the location of his films, and used to take a lot of time in searching them out. I remember an interesting story he once told. The shooting of Jalsaghar (The Music Room) was getting delayed as Satyajit was not being able to find out an old, dilapidated palace that would be appropriate for depicting the decadence in the movie. Finally, he found a huge mansion at Murshidabad, a little away from the river Ganges. Satyajit wrote to Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay (the writer of the story) about the house, requesting him to visit the palace once. Tarashankar wrote back, “But that is the palace on which my story is based on!”

However, Satyajit hardly strayed from his scripts, and avoided using new imageries and elements even if he found one in the location. That might be of the reasons of his films being so smooth, well-strung, and no-frills affair. Ritwik, befitting his Bohemian lifestyle, used the location to the hilt, and never thought twice before putting into new imageries and elements found in situ. Even if that needed making drastic changes in the script. And that gave a new dimension to his films.

While shooting Subarnarekha, Ritwik spent a lot of footage on the deserted World war II aerodrome that he found at the location. The abandoned airstrip became an integral part of Sita’s transition to womanhood, her affair with Abhiram, and her coming to terms with the dark side of life (facing a beggar dressed as Goddess Kali). In fact, the last imagery became the most talked about scene in the film. (In a recent film Sarisrip, Nabyendu Chattopadhyay also used the beggar dressing up as Kali incident, but the scene failed to give the goosebumps that Ghatak’s film gave.)

The narration of Subarnarekha has been too doctored at places: incidents fall into place like they never do in real life, and most characters talk in theatrical mode. In fact, that is why like most of Ghatak's films, Subarnarekha was totally rejected by the public. But I feel Subarnarekha is a classic and as an important landmark in the history of Indian Cinema. I would see the film again because the poignant passions that the characters portrayed, the exquisite imageries that Ghatak used, and as Sita in many occasions looks like my fiancé.

Director: Ritwik Ghatak. 1965. Black and White

Horizontal Slums, Vertical Slums

Deepa has come back from the Switzerland. Last week, I and Aditi went with her to check out her brother’s flat at Gurgaon. Bought for Rs 80 lakh, the flat has been lying vacant for nearly six months. As Deepa’s bro claims that his fridge always remains stocked with good eatables, we looked forward to an enjoyable day-out.

The flat was on the 12th floor, and a swanky lift took us to it in seconds. Deepa turned the key, opened the door and walked in; Aditi and I both stepped back hit by a punch of stinking smell. It’s not the humid odour of a long-locked house, but the stink of something rotting inside. We decided to probe.

As we crossed the drawing room and opened the door of the first bedroom (it had three bedrooms), we saw water—a sea of water on the floor. The carpet was wet, furniture were standing on inch-deep water. Ditto with the next bedroom. By then we could hear the sound of water falling in the bathroom. The bathroom was small: it had a small basin, a commode and a bathtub from which water was spilling all over. I tiptoed to the bathtub over a slippery floor and tried to close the tap. But the flow wouldn’t stop. We understood that somebody had left the faulty tap open while there was no water in the tank. Perhaps that was the time when Deepa’s brother took possession of the flat. Later when water came to the overhead tank, the tub filled up.

We also realised that there was no drain in the bathroom. The tub, commode and the basin had their own outlet pipes, but the water spilling on the floor flooded the entire flat, day after day, month after month. Much like the sewage in the slums, that flows away into all directions, but not underground. Meanwhile, Aditi (after all, she has a Masters in Physics) found out a small local Sintex tank perched near the ceiling, from which water was coming to the bathtub, the toilet and the basin. I had to stand on the toilet seat to close the inlet valve of the tank. The flow stopped.

Mopping up the water was left to Deepa (after all, it’s her bro’s flat), and Aditi and I set out to find out the source of the stink, that refused to go away even after opening all the windows.

The smell grew stronger as we approached the kitchen. The spacious kitchen was neat and clean, with black marble top, rectangular chimney, waste-chute, and a wide window overlooking a slum nearby. Then we turned to the huge three-door fridge built into wall. And as I swung open the deep freezer, the mystery was solved. The fridge wasn’t working, and all stocked provisions—sausages, salami, beef steaks--have got rotten. But why wasn’t the fridge working, when the electricity was there. I saw a small locally made stabilizer lying beside the fridge, and gave it a nudge. It started and went off again. So, it needs a support to function. The driver of our car was hastily called. We told him to get rid of the provisions and bring up a brick. The driver refused: he won’t touch meat products and security wouldn’t allow him to carry a brick upstairs. Aditi came out with the idea of putting a thick book under the stabilizer (and it worked), and the provisions were put into a plastic bag.

Then, we helped Deepa finish mopping up the floor, and left the flat craving for a hot cup of tea. The guard informed us that the nearest Coffee shop would be at Iffco Chowk, five kilometres away. We decided to first dump the rotten provisions into the drain near the slum that we saw from the window. We did so and walked to the nearest hut and slumped into the charpoi lying outside the house. Some women and children gathered around us, and we asked, “Is there a tea shop around?”

“Have tea with us,” they said, and started narrating their problems in working in the high-rise flats.

But that’s another story.

Interesting Leave Letters

My friend Rohini Swamy from Bangalore has sent me a collection of interesting leave letters and applications. Let me share.

1. Infosys, Bangalore. An employee applied for leave. It is as follows:
“Since I have to go to my village to sell my land along with my wife, please sanction me one-week leave.”

2. This is from Oracle Bangalore. From an employee who was performing the "mundan" ceremony of his 10 year old son:
"as I want to shave my son's head, please leave me for two days.."

3. Another gem from CDAC. Leave-letter from an employee who was performing his daughter's wedding:
"as I am marrying my daughter, please grant a week's leave.."

4. From H.A.L. Administration Dept:
"As my mother-in-law has expired and I am only one responsible for it, please grant me 10 days leave."

5. Another employee applied for half-day leave. It is as follows:
"Since I've to go to the cremation ground at 10 o-clock and I may not return, please grant me half day casual leave"

6. An incident of a leave letter:
"I am suffering from fever, please declare one day holiday."

7. A leave letter to the headmaster:
"As I am studying in this school I am suffering from headache. I request you to leave me today"

8. Another leave letter written to the headmaster:
"As my headache is paining, please grant me leave for the day."

9. Covering note:
"I am enclosed herewith..."

10. Another one:
"Dear Sir: with reference to the above, please refer to my below..."

11. Actual letter written for application of leave:
"My wife is suffering from sickness and as I am her only husband at home I may be granted leave".

12. Letter writing:
"I am in well here and hope you are also in the same well."

13. A candidate's job application:
"This has reference to your advertisement calling for a ' Typist and an Accountant - Male or Female'... As I am both for the past several years and I can handle both with good experience, I am applying for the post.

Do Cellphones Cause Cancer?

What do brain surgeons know about cellphone safety that the rest of us don’t? New York Times has carried an article on June 3, in which experts have revived the debate over cellphones and cancer. Here is an excerpt from the article:

“Last week, three prominent neurosurgeons told the CNN interviewer Larry King that they did not hold cellphones next to their ears. “I think the safe practice,” said Dr. Keith Black, a surgeon at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, “is to use an earpiece so you keep the microwave antenna away from your brain.”

Dr. Vini Khurana, an associate professor of neurosurgery at the Australian National University who is an outspoken critic of cellphones, said: “I use it on the speaker-phone mode. I do not hold it to my ear.” And CNN’s chief medical correspondent, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, a neurosurgeon at Emory University Hospital, said that like Dr. Black he used an earpiece.

Along with Senator Edward M. Kennedy’s recent diagnosis of a glioma, a type of tumor that critics have long associated with cellphone use, the doctors’ remarks have helped reignite a long-simmering debate about cellphones and cancer.

Last year, The American Journal of Epidemiology published data from Israel finding a 58 percent higher risk of parotid gland tumors among heavy cellphone users. Also last year, a Swedish analysis of 16 studies in the journal Occupational and Environmental Medicine showed a doubling of risk for acoustic neuroma and glioma after 10 years of heavy cellphone use.
Some doctors say the real concern is not older cellphone users, who began using phones as adults, but children who are beginning to use phones today and face a lifetime of exposure.”

In the Name of Kali

I have received an invitation to revisit Ghatbagar. I had been to this quaint, little village in Uttaranachal in December last to attend a fair dedicated to Goddess Kali. The tour was hectic, but the experience astounding. In fact, it was so shocking that I decided not to visit Ghatbagar again. At least not during the fair.

Nestled in the Kumaon hills, Ghatbagar is about 100 kilometres uphill from Ramnagar, well-known for the Corbett National Park. The narrow, steep road passes through Moulikhel, Marchula and Dodial. At each bend, the snow-capped peaks of Himalaya appear with all their grandeur and beauty. They seem so near that you can almost touch them.

I travelled with an office colleague who hails from Ghatbagar. We spent the night at his sister’s house at Shashikhal, some 20 kilometres away, and reached Ghatbagar in the morning. The Kalinka Devi temple, where the fair takes place every two years, is nine kilometres from there. The fair is famous for animal sacrifice, and attracts more than 50,000 people from surrounding villages. Though the fair starts only in the afternoon, we could already see a serpentine queue of people crossing the Lakhra Ghati river to reach the fair spot on time.

We joined them at 2 pm…crossing the shallow Lakhra river, leaving the Kulandeshwar Shiva temple on the right, rubbing shoulders with people pulling goats, sheep and buffalos on an uphill trek. Finally, as we approached the hill-top temple of the Goddess Kali (Kailnka Mandir, as people from the local Badheri tribe call it), the scene became clear. This was not a fair for merry-making, but one for sacrifice. Those who prayed to Goddess Kali two years ago, and their wish had been fulfilled, have now come back with an animal for sacrifice. The area around the small temple was packed with people, mostly women, and a special puja was going on in a walled, cordoned-off place. This was the Yagna (homage) for the sacrifice of the main sacred buffalo. On a pedestal nearby were kept the local deities and a long mast stood upright with a white flag fluttering on top. Hundreds of goats, sheep and buffalos were either tied to the stumps of trees on the slope, or were grazing in the open. As soon as the sacred buffalo gets sacrificed, the white flag on the mast would be lowered, and that would be the signal for the beginning of the mass slaughter, I was told. Meanwhile, the tension was palpable, and the silence ominous.

The death cry of the sacred buffalo came at around 5 pm, and was immediately drowned with the shout of “Kalinka Devi ki Jai’ (Hail Kalinka Devi) from everyone present there. Long swords came out, and the mass slaughtering began. Very few were professionals, most people were striking the bleeding animals on their neck, back or heads, somehow to kill them. For the sheep and goats, people severed their heads and legs to offer them to the temple, and carried the rest of the torso back home for a ceremonial feast. The buffalos were left dying, their throats slit or heads chopped off. Wild boars and vultures would clean them off over the next few days. The official figure of dead animals was 300 goats and sheep, and 200 buffalos. But according to our count, it was at least five times more than that. And it was all over in just half an hour.

Then, it was time to get back to Ghatbagar. A crimson sun, paler than the blood lying all around, was setting on the horizon. Some people had lighted fire on the river bank to roast the sacrificial meat, and whiffs of smoke were bellowing above the pine trees. The chill was in the air. We would drive down to Delhi next morning.

Who’s Afraid of Spamming?

I believe spamming is now the fastest growing industry. There are companies whose core competency is innovative spamming, whose chief’s designation is Chief Spamming Officer, and they must be enjoying annual retainership from more than 1,000 clients each.

One of my duties is to look after a website called indiarace.com. As the Chief Editor of this leading horse-racing site, I get about 300 e-mails everyday. And the most-hit key when using my e-mail program is ‘Del’.

Take the example of yesterday. In the morning when I opened my mailbox, there were 272 mails waiting-to-be-read-or-seen in the Inbox. Spammers clearly don’t take holidays.

Of the 272, 26 e-mails were from contributors and readers of the site. Of the rest, nearly 100 mails offered assured help in length and growth of a very private male organ. They asked, “Why do you fall weak and slow?” and suggested “Some extra seconds will help”. It was all about “Enhancing your desire, pleasure, and performance”.

There were about 20 mails promoting some porno sites. They all carried the same text: “Hello! I am tired this afternoon. I am nice girl that would like to chat with you. Email me at …. only, because I am using my friend's email to write this. I would like to share some of my pics.”

Pharma vendors offered their ware in about 80 mails. You can buy Viagra to medicines for controlling depression at 81% to 95% off (why not 80%, I wonder). Most of them were customised offers for the Editor of Indiarace!

In 15 mails, various organisations and individuals from Nigeria to Canada congratulated me for winning lotteries or grants. There were also some Russian, Latavian and Romanian ladies who have inherited millions of dollars, but needed my help to retrieve that money. Tthey all promised to share half the amount with me. I totalled and saw that in a day I have gained more than $4500,000,000!

I don’t have a PhD degree. So I was tempted when four organisations offered me an accredited PhD in 30 days! Another e-mail said: “No test, No class, buy yourself Bacheelor/MasteerMBA/Doctoraate dip1omas, VALID in all contries”.

Being an Editor, I need magazines. So, 10 companies offered free Cisco magazine, Oracle Magazine, Gardener to Good Housekeeping. It just needs filling up a form giving quite a few personal details.

There were also “Loan offer at a very cheap interest rate”, offer to “Buy, Sell, Rent or Invest in Dubai Real Estate”, and 270 popular software programs to be downloaded for free.

Now, you would say, most e-mail programs use good spam filters; so why not click on the “Delete all spam messages now” button?

I did. Two weeks ago. And that night, around 2 am, my international editor who was then covering Kentucky Derby at Louisville, USA, rang me up and shouted, “Why didn’t you put up the article I sent 11 hours ago?” I shot back that we didn’t receive any such mail. His mail was tucked in the Spam counter, which I deleted.

Some friends suggested using one of the commercially available anti-spam packages, like POP File, eXpurgate, SpamPal, MailWasher Pro, or Spamihilator. There you mention the spammers whom you want to block. But not only that’s a tedious exercise, but how will that stop spamming from ME.

Yesterday, I received 6 e-mails, where I offered to myself free magazines, low-interest loans and cheap Viagra. Spammers now use my e-mail address (possibly password too) and send me mails.

Innovative indeed.

Read this before You Travel to Arunachal Pradesh

Arunachal Pradesh has mostly been “The Forbidden State” for tourists. Now, the government plans to ease travel restrictions to this beautiful North-eastern state. However, if you want to move around freely in Arunachal, and enjoy your visit, strictly follow this advisory.

1. Every Indian resident needs an Inner Line Permit to enter Arunachal Pradesh; for foreigners, it’s a Protection Area Permit. The ILPs are issued by the issuing authorities of Government of Arunachal Pradesh with offices at Delhi, Kolkata, Tezpur, Guwahati, Shillong, Dibrugarh, Lakhimpur and Jorhat. You need to submit two passport-size photos, copy of residence proof and Rs 25. Foreigners can obtain the PAP from all Indian Missions abroad, all Foreigners Regional Registration Officers (FRRO) at Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Chief Immigration Officer, Chennai, Home Ministry, Govt. of India and Home Commissioner, Govt. of Arunachal Pradesh, Itanagar.

2. There is no rail service in Arunachal Pradesh, so be ready to spend a lot of time on the car (Arunachal is the largest of the North-eastern states). Hire a vehicle before entering Arunachal, and preferably get two drivers if you plan to cover much of the state. A Tata Sumo would cost Rs 1200 per day (plus fuel charge), a Bolero Rs 1800, and an Indica Rs 800. A 4-wheel drive Jeep is preferable for the Bhalukpong-Bomdila-Tawang-Dirang circuit,, since you have to cross mountain passes above 13,000 feet. Food and lodging of the driver/s is your responsibility.

3. There is a Helicopter service to the district headquarters/state capital. But it is a little irregular.

4. Carry chains or thick ropes to tie over the tyres, so that the vehicle doesn’t skid on hard ice at Sela Pass, Madhuri Lake or Indo-China border.

5. Carry emergency medicines for hypertension, stomach upset, fever and cold. If anyone feels altitude sickness, bring the person back immediately to the planes.

6. Fill up your tank and carry as much extra fuel as possible before entering Arunachal. Though petrol/diesel is cheaper in Arunachal, it is heavily adulterated with Kerosene oil in most of the pumps. If necessary, contact the Army or local PWD office to get clean fuel. Also, fuel is available only in major towns like Bomdila, Tawang, Zero, Daporijo, Along, Passighat, etc. No petrol pumps on the way.

7. Similarly, if your vehicle develops a snag, get it checked in a major town. You won’t get any repair shop on the way (which means a stretch of 150-200 km).

8. Try staying in Circuit Houses, PWD Inspection Bungalows and Forest Bungalows. Good hotels are available only at Bomdila, Dirang, Tawang, Passighat and Itanagar. Also, eat at Circuit Houses, because good restaurants are hard to come by.

9. Do your hotel/circuit house bookings much in advance. Send a fax giving details of dates, persons to stay and expected arrival time, even if you have received a confirmation over the phone. Book room/s also for the driver/s.

10. If you’re travelling in the winter, carry firewood. Some circuit houses have improvised fireplaces in the rooms, but no firewood. Room heaters are available only at Tawang.

11. Only BSNL provides mobile phone service in Arunachal, so your cellphone might remain dead during the entire journey. However, there are STD/ISD/PCO booths in all big towns. Cybercafes are available in Itanagar, Tawang, Bomdila and Along.

12. Ask the caretaker of the circuit house about local tourist attractions and taboos prevalent among the local tribes. Avoid going out of the hotel/circuit house at night.

13. Don’t try to whip up conversation or counter any person of the Nishi tribe. The situation may turn violent.

14. If you face any kind of trouble, contact the Deputy Commissioner’s office in the district headquarters.

Happy journey.

Was Carly Fiorina a Victim of Gender Bias?

The The NewYork Times today published a story about how the ex-CEO of Hewlett-Packard, Carly Fiorina, planned to buy a computer services company eight years ago. Now, HP’s acquisition of EDS $14 billion vindicates Fiorina.

I interviewed Carly Fiorina in 2000. The article was published in Smart Inc, the IT magazine from the India Today Group. But here is an answer that wasn’t published, as it didn’t have anything to do with technology. While going through the transcript today, I thought it would be worth sharing with the readers.

I asked Fiorina, “Why are there so few ladies in top management of big companies? Do you face a gender bias?”

Surprisingly, Fiorina was straightforward in her answer.

She said, “Atanu, it’s a man’s world. Beyond the middle management, very few women are allowed to rise. You can feel it your peers’ reactions, moves and comments. Women will continue to remain fewer in top posts, unless the attitude changes. And that’s quite unlikely.”

In January 2005, the HP Board of Directors questioned Fiorina's performance, and proposed a plan to shift her authority to HP division heads, which Fiorina resisted. She was dismissed next month.

Did gender bias have anything to do with that decision? We’ll never know.

Support Looms Large

How a simple, rectangular piece of wood brought smile to thousands of women at Arunachal Pradesh

It was first pointed out to me by Aditi, a researcher on the cultures and tradition of the north-eastern states in India. A post-graduate from Guwahati University, Aditi has also spent his childhood in Shillong, Meghalaya. Last month, while criss-crossing Arunachal Pradesh, and soaking in the beauty and cultural diversity of “the forbidden state”, we spent one afternoon at the Industrial Training Centre at Zero.

In the Weaving and Knitting Section, we found two ladies sitting in front of handloom machines. They were weaving Galles, the square piece of bordered cloth that most Arunachali women wear as a wrap-around long skirt flowing from their waist to the ankles. The two ladies were bringing in a dash of colour in the otherwise dirty and derelict building.

While I was more interested in the patterns and motifs that the weavers were creating, Aditi diverted my attention to the rectangular (about 6-inch by 18-inch) piece of wood that tied the women’s waist to the loom. On her request, one of the ladies unfastened the wooden piece and demonstrated how to wear it.

The process was simple. The piece of wood has holes in each corner through which the ropes bind the wood to the backstrap loom. To begin with, the weaver opens the rope from one side, slide in and reattach the rope. It looks almost like a belt or a backrest. The other side of the loom is attached to a stationary bamboo structure. Tension can be adjusted simply by leaning back.

Aditi explained that even five years ago, women used to hunch before the loom, attached on both the sides to a stationary frame, and weave for hours at a stretch. Weaving even a simple Galle takes about 5 days, with 10 hours of work every day. As a result, the weavers used to suffer from acute gynaecological problems, pelvic girdle disorders, spondylitis and other spinal ailments. They faced severe problems during and after childbirth.

Now with the backstrap in place, much of these sufferings are things of past. In fact, the use of the backstrap has become universal. May be not always a wooden piece, but a thick belt or a piece of cloth. We saw it not just in the government-run training centre in Zero, but every house of Apatani or Nishi villages, on the small balcony of houses on stilts in Kiming or Inqiang, or at the community centres of Along.

A simple innovation has changed the face of healthcare industry in Arunachal Pradesh.

Touch wood.

Do Men Also Menstruate?

I spent my schooldays in the biggest residential school in West Bengal, India. Every building within the 200-acre campus had its own kitchen and dining hall. When I was studying in Class IX, the person in charge of our kitchen was Gopal Thakur, a native of Orissa, huge, dark and pot-bellied. One morning, during a usual visit to the kitchen in search of some crumbs of extra food, I found Thakur taking out the daily quota of rice, cereals and vegetables for the lunch. Nothing new, but what surprised me was the quantity of the raw materials. They were much less than that of other days.
I asked Thakur the reason for this inconsistency.
Gopal Thakur told me, as if sharing a secret, “As far as food consumption goes, men follow a monthly cycle. For three weeks they eat the normal quantity of food, but during the fourth, they eat much less. So, if I prepare the normal quantity of food during the fourth week, there would be wastage. But if I continue to cook this much during the next week, there would be riot.”
Let’s talk about Abani, the husband of my friend, Lakshmi. During the early days of their marriage, Abani had a job. He was the senior sales executive in a computer accessories company in Delhi. However, since his childhood, Abani dreamt of getting into business, and floating his own company. So he claimed (and got) the money and jewellery Lakshmi had brought from her maternal home. He quit the job, and floated a shop with a friend, which went belly-up within a year. Abani came back home like a prodigal child, took to drinks, and started living off his wife’s income (Lakshmi had found a job in the accounts department of a training institute).
These days, Abani’s body clock has developed a cycle. Once in every two months, his urge for starting a new business reaches the crescendo. He asks for money to start a new business and Lakshmi says no, as a) she doesn’t have that much of money, b) she knows the family including two young children would starve if money is given to Abani; and c) Abani doesn’t have the ability of pull off any business venture. So, a dejected Abani takes further to drinks, beats Lakshmi up mercilessly, and crashes out. And wait for the next bout about two months away.
The inside walls of my home needs a fresh coat of paint. The cornices of the drawing room have got black patches with the seepage of water; and the walls of my son’s bedroom have so many relief maps that, he says, he doesn’t need an Atlas. So, I contacted a few painters, asked for a list of materials needed (which they promptly furnished) and promised to engage them “as soon as possible”.
It never happened. The spectre of moving all the furniture, taking down thousands of books from the floor-to-ceiling book cases, the thought of flying dust, the acrid smell of paint, the chaos make me sick. I have given it up.
But Nekram painter didn’t.
Nekram would ring me up on my mobile phone around 20th of every month, and ask, “Sir, I am Nekram painter. Did you decide? Is your son’s exam over? Can we start now?” I would scratch my head, and say, “Eh-uh…Nekram, some guests are coming from Calcutta…Why don’t you give me a ring, say, just after the summer gets over?”
Nekram would. Next month itself. Around 20th. He has been doing it for the last two years. Sometimes I wonder whether Nekram has synchronised his “men-struation” with his wife’s menstruation cycle!