There's a doctor I've known for a few years, though yesterday was the first time I went to him for a professional consultation. Here's why: I had a knee injury playing basketball several years ago, and while it has largely healed, it occasionally gives me a twinge on the tennis court. That happened the last time I played tennis, I think at the end of January. Since then, I've had a little pain -- discomfort, more like it -- the knee gets stiff, things like that every now and then.
Luckily the courts where I play are closed because they are being resurfaced, so I haven't felt too miserable about missing out playing, which I would have otherwise.
Usually, the knee feels fine soon enough, but this time it hasn't felt fully OK for nearly two months now. So I went to this orthopedist I mentioned, yesterday. He was very reassuring, prescribed exercises and an anti-inflammatory pill.
All of which is just a long-winded lead up to why I really wrote these lines. While he examined my knee, I remembered his other claim to growing fame. Take a look.
March 30, 2010
Roadrunner in the Deccan Herald
SA Karthik reviews my book, Roadrunner, in last Sunday's Deccan Herald, here.
Three previous reviews:
* Sumana Mukherjee found that my writing spoke of "an inquisitive intelligence that connects the dots with as much relish as a precocious child in search of the complete picture."
* For Sanjay Sipahimalani, it was an "overstuffed travelogue."
* Pramod Nayar suggests that with my book, "Indian travel writing ... comes of age."
Three previous reviews:
* Sumana Mukherjee found that my writing spoke of "an inquisitive intelligence that connects the dots with as much relish as a precocious child in search of the complete picture."
* For Sanjay Sipahimalani, it was an "overstuffed travelogue."
* Pramod Nayar suggests that with my book, "Indian travel writing ... comes of age."
March 25, 2010
17 years, going nowhere
Some of what's below has appeared in this space before. Because of what happened last February 20, I thought it worth repeating.
***
Remember Sanjay Dutt, the film star? If you do, you may also remember that in late 2006, he was found guilty under the Arms Act, the charge being possession of a deadly weapon. This was at the end of the trial of the accused in the bomb blasts of March 12 1993. Dutt was first arrested in April 1993, after investigations into the blasts had thrown up his name.
Consider three excerpts from news reports of the time about the investigations and Dutt's arrest:
* "Top stars, MLAs got arms from Dawood" (Afternoon Despatch & Courier, April 12 1993): "The Bombay Police have stumbled upon the names of several film personalities, MLAs and corporators, who owned illegal arms allegedly supplied by the underworld don, Dawood Ibrahim. The arms were either gifted by Dawood or sold to these persons at cheap rates. Interrogation of suspects in connection with the bomb blasts has thrown up names of film personalities such as Sanjay Dutt ... The suspects have also named Shiv Sena MLA Madhukar Sarpotdar among nine politicians who acquired arms from the D-gang or his henchmen. The arms were mainly sophisticated revolvers, valued at Rs 1.5 lakh each, according to police sources."
* "Sanjay Dutt arrested" (Indian Express, April 20 1993): [Chief Minister Sharad Pawar told the Maharashtra Legislative Council that] "the suspect who named Sanjay had during the interrogation revealed several other names including that of [Shiv Sena MLA] Madhukar Sarpotdar. But we have not pressed charges against all."
* "Sanjay Dutt held under TADA" (Times of India, April 20 1993): "Sanjay came under a cloud when his name cropped up during the interrogation of two film distributors. Samir Hingora and Hanif Lakdawalla … had reportedly indicated that one of the three AK-56 assault rifles they had procured had been sold to Sanjay. ... [They] earlier had mentioned various names, including that of Mr Madhukar Sarpotdar, Mr Pawar said [in the Legislative Council], but Mr Sarpotdar's house was also not searched."
So let's get this straight: Madhukar Sarpotdar was named in the same investigation that revealed Sanjay Dutt's name, by the same people who named Dutt, for the same act of buying arms from them. And this was announced in the state Assembly by none other than the then-Chief Minister of the state.
Despite this, Madhukar Sarpotdar was never charged for violating the Arms Act, as Sanjay Dutt was charged, tried and convicted in 2006.
Consider next what Sarpotdar was doing on the night of Monday January 11 1993, two months before the blasts. In their essay "A City at War With Itself" from the book When Bombay Burned, Clarence Fernandez and Naresh Fernandes wrote these lines:
* "[T]he Army detained the Shiv Sena MLA Madhukar Sarpotdar in the troubled suburb of Nirmal Nagar late on Monday night and searched his car to find two revolvers and several other weapons ... Travelling with Sarpotdar was his son Atul, carrying an unlicensed Spanish revolver. Though Sarpotdar had a license for his gun, he too was breaking the law by carrying it during the riots. Also in the car was one Anil Parab. [T]he police commissioner [refused] to indicate whether this man was the notorious gangster of the same name, the hitman of the Dawood gang."
So not only did Hingora and Lakdawalla say they had sold guns to Sarpotdar, but during the riots, Sarpotdar was actually detained by the Army while he was carrying guns about in a riot-hit area. Now because of the rioting, the entire city had been declared a "notified area" at the time. The mere possession of an unlicensed weapon in a notified area was an offence under Section 5 of the Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act, or TADA, then in force.
Despite this too, Sarpotdar was never charged for this either, whether under TADA or under the Arms Act.
But there's more. There are wheels and more wheels within, never doubt it. In November 2006, the Mumbai Sessions Court awarded life imprisonment to a man who, in 1984, had shot a witness dead in a court in Andheri. Two other bullets he fired left two policemen in the court injured, and he was also accused of other crimes, including the murder of his own wife.
Here's an excerpt from a report about his 2006 sentence:
* "Justice delayed, but delivered!" (Afternoon Despatch and & Courier, November 7 2006): "[I]n 1985 [he] got out on bail to gain in stature as a dreaded gangster whose name figured in many deadly crimes. He escaped to Dubai sometime in the late 80s and was heard of having become the mainstay of the Dawood gang. He was also seen on television with Dawood and Sharad Shetty. However, in late 1990, he fell apart with Dawood. ... [He was found] guilty of charges under Section 307 IPC read with Section 3, 25 (1-B) (a) of Indian Arms Act, sentencing him to life imprisonment."
Who was this man? Anil Parab. Yes, the same name the man the Army found with Sarpotdar in Nirmal Nagar on January 11 1993.
Both in 1996 and 1998, Sarpotdar ran for election to the Lok Sabha from the Mumbai Northwest constituency. Detained by the Army with arms he might have been, but a MP he became, winning both times. During his term, he testified before the Srikrishna Commission that was inquiring into the riots. One day in 1996, I was in the High Court listening to his testimony, growing steadily more sickened by his responses to the judge. At the lunch break, I couldn't help myself. I walked up and tapped Sarpotdar on the shoulder. "I am ashamed," I told him, "to have you as my MP."
Sarpotdar's face twisted in fury, as did those of several of his aides, who surrounded and harangued me. When he could speak again, Sarpotdar fired these words at me: "Just come outside, I'll see about you!"
My MP.
Now I don't mean to suggest that Sarpotdar did not face the long arm of the law. He did. He was charged, under Section 153A of the IPC, with inciting violence during the riots. On July 9 2008, a city court found him guilty as charged and sentenced him to a year in prison.
But within days, he had secured bail. He never served that one-year sentence. In Hinduja hospital on February 20, 2010, Madhukar Sarpotdar died.
The wheels of Indian justice. Seventeen years, going nowhere.
Remember Sanjay Dutt, the film star? If you do, you may also remember that in late 2006, he was found guilty under the Arms Act, the charge being possession of a deadly weapon. This was at the end of the trial of the accused in the bomb blasts of March 12 1993. Dutt was first arrested in April 1993, after investigations into the blasts had thrown up his name.
Consider three excerpts from news reports of the time about the investigations and Dutt's arrest:
* "Top stars, MLAs got arms from Dawood" (Afternoon Despatch & Courier, April 12 1993): "The Bombay Police have stumbled upon the names of several film personalities, MLAs and corporators, who owned illegal arms allegedly supplied by the underworld don, Dawood Ibrahim. The arms were either gifted by Dawood or sold to these persons at cheap rates. Interrogation of suspects in connection with the bomb blasts has thrown up names of film personalities such as Sanjay Dutt ... The suspects have also named Shiv Sena MLA Madhukar Sarpotdar among nine politicians who acquired arms from the D-gang or his henchmen. The arms were mainly sophisticated revolvers, valued at Rs 1.5 lakh each, according to police sources."
* "Sanjay Dutt arrested" (Indian Express, April 20 1993): [Chief Minister Sharad Pawar told the Maharashtra Legislative Council that] "the suspect who named Sanjay had during the interrogation revealed several other names including that of [Shiv Sena MLA] Madhukar Sarpotdar. But we have not pressed charges against all."
* "Sanjay Dutt held under TADA" (Times of India, April 20 1993): "Sanjay came under a cloud when his name cropped up during the interrogation of two film distributors. Samir Hingora and Hanif Lakdawalla … had reportedly indicated that one of the three AK-56 assault rifles they had procured had been sold to Sanjay. ... [They] earlier had mentioned various names, including that of Mr Madhukar Sarpotdar, Mr Pawar said [in the Legislative Council], but Mr Sarpotdar's house was also not searched."
So let's get this straight: Madhukar Sarpotdar was named in the same investigation that revealed Sanjay Dutt's name, by the same people who named Dutt, for the same act of buying arms from them. And this was announced in the state Assembly by none other than the then-Chief Minister of the state.
Despite this, Madhukar Sarpotdar was never charged for violating the Arms Act, as Sanjay Dutt was charged, tried and convicted in 2006.
Consider next what Sarpotdar was doing on the night of Monday January 11 1993, two months before the blasts. In their essay "A City at War With Itself" from the book When Bombay Burned, Clarence Fernandez and Naresh Fernandes wrote these lines:
* "[T]he Army detained the Shiv Sena MLA Madhukar Sarpotdar in the troubled suburb of Nirmal Nagar late on Monday night and searched his car to find two revolvers and several other weapons ... Travelling with Sarpotdar was his son Atul, carrying an unlicensed Spanish revolver. Though Sarpotdar had a license for his gun, he too was breaking the law by carrying it during the riots. Also in the car was one Anil Parab. [T]he police commissioner [refused] to indicate whether this man was the notorious gangster of the same name, the hitman of the Dawood gang."
So not only did Hingora and Lakdawalla say they had sold guns to Sarpotdar, but during the riots, Sarpotdar was actually detained by the Army while he was carrying guns about in a riot-hit area. Now because of the rioting, the entire city had been declared a "notified area" at the time. The mere possession of an unlicensed weapon in a notified area was an offence under Section 5 of the Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act, or TADA, then in force.
Despite this too, Sarpotdar was never charged for this either, whether under TADA or under the Arms Act.
But there's more. There are wheels and more wheels within, never doubt it. In November 2006, the Mumbai Sessions Court awarded life imprisonment to a man who, in 1984, had shot a witness dead in a court in Andheri. Two other bullets he fired left two policemen in the court injured, and he was also accused of other crimes, including the murder of his own wife.
Here's an excerpt from a report about his 2006 sentence:
* "Justice delayed, but delivered!" (Afternoon Despatch and & Courier, November 7 2006): "[I]n 1985 [he] got out on bail to gain in stature as a dreaded gangster whose name figured in many deadly crimes. He escaped to Dubai sometime in the late 80s and was heard of having become the mainstay of the Dawood gang. He was also seen on television with Dawood and Sharad Shetty. However, in late 1990, he fell apart with Dawood. ... [He was found] guilty of charges under Section 307 IPC read with Section 3, 25 (1-B) (a) of Indian Arms Act, sentencing him to life imprisonment."
Who was this man? Anil Parab. Yes, the same name the man the Army found with Sarpotdar in Nirmal Nagar on January 11 1993.
Both in 1996 and 1998, Sarpotdar ran for election to the Lok Sabha from the Mumbai Northwest constituency. Detained by the Army with arms he might have been, but a MP he became, winning both times. During his term, he testified before the Srikrishna Commission that was inquiring into the riots. One day in 1996, I was in the High Court listening to his testimony, growing steadily more sickened by his responses to the judge. At the lunch break, I couldn't help myself. I walked up and tapped Sarpotdar on the shoulder. "I am ashamed," I told him, "to have you as my MP."
Sarpotdar's face twisted in fury, as did those of several of his aides, who surrounded and harangued me. When he could speak again, Sarpotdar fired these words at me: "Just come outside, I'll see about you!"
My MP.
Now I don't mean to suggest that Sarpotdar did not face the long arm of the law. He did. He was charged, under Section 153A of the IPC, with inciting violence during the riots. On July 9 2008, a city court found him guilty as charged and sentenced him to a year in prison.
But within days, he had secured bail. He never served that one-year sentence. In Hinduja hospital on February 20, 2010, Madhukar Sarpotdar died.
The wheels of Indian justice. Seventeen years, going nowhere.
March 22, 2010
Afro/Afra
"I, Afranio Joao De Deus Manuel Batista Cupertino Sagrado Coracao Do Espirito Santo Fernandes R/o [an address in Goa], has changed my name from Afronio Joao Manuel Baptisto Cupertino Fernandes to Afranio Joao De Deus Manuel Batista Cupertino Sagrado Coracao Do Espirito Santo Fernandes. Hereinafter in all my dealings and documents I will be known by name of Afranio Joao De Deus Manuel Batista Cupertino Sagrado Coracao Do Espirito Santo Fernandes."
from the classifieds in the Times of India, Panjim, Goa, March 20 2010.
(Which reminds me of Felix and Decaccia and their blogged colleagues here).
from the classifieds in the Times of India, Panjim, Goa, March 20 2010.
(Which reminds me of Felix and Decaccia and their blogged colleagues here).
Need fingernail wash
About to strip off for my shower in a bathroom at someone's home in Goa a few days ago, I noticed:
* Next to the sink, a container of Palmolive Naturals Milk and Olive Handwash.
* On a small shelf next to the shower, a container of Khadi Herbal Sandalwood and Honey Face and Body Wash.
* Next to the previous on the same shelf, a container of Fabindia Shampoo with Seabuckthorn.
I sampled all three. I could discern no difference between the three liquids -- whether in texture, aroma or cleaning efficacy.
Ah, I think. I must have arrived in the nirvana of soap marketers: the consumer who willingly gives up buying one soap in order to buy three separate soaps. And if the same soap marketers tell their manufacturers to produce a Ginger and Snake Oil Foot Wash, or an Aubergine and Horseradish Left Hand Last But One Fingernail Wash, no doubt such consumers will willingly buy those too. Till the point that the bathroom will be so full of soap containers labelled "Wash", that anybody larger than a cricket ball will need to take a shower elsewhere.
Elsewhere in the same bathroom, I found a container of Dove Breakage Therapy Conditioner Repairing Serum.
Marketing at work, of course. Sell a guy a soap that is supposed to do nice things to his hair and call it shampoo. Then persuade him that it also does horrible things to his hair, and sell him a Conditioner to fix the horrible things.
There is an opportunity here, you heard it here first, to produce Breakage Therapy Conditioner Repairing Serums for sundry other body hair parts. Such as Right Nostril Hair.
Mine breaks all the time.
(All of which reminds me of a previous encounter with shampoo).
* Next to the sink, a container of Palmolive Naturals Milk and Olive Handwash.
* On a small shelf next to the shower, a container of Khadi Herbal Sandalwood and Honey Face and Body Wash.
* Next to the previous on the same shelf, a container of Fabindia Shampoo with Seabuckthorn.
I sampled all three. I could discern no difference between the three liquids -- whether in texture, aroma or cleaning efficacy.
Ah, I think. I must have arrived in the nirvana of soap marketers: the consumer who willingly gives up buying one soap in order to buy three separate soaps. And if the same soap marketers tell their manufacturers to produce a Ginger and Snake Oil Foot Wash, or an Aubergine and Horseradish Left Hand Last But One Fingernail Wash, no doubt such consumers will willingly buy those too. Till the point that the bathroom will be so full of soap containers labelled "Wash", that anybody larger than a cricket ball will need to take a shower elsewhere.
Elsewhere in the same bathroom, I found a container of Dove Breakage Therapy Conditioner Repairing Serum.
Marketing at work, of course. Sell a guy a soap that is supposed to do nice things to his hair and call it shampoo. Then persuade him that it also does horrible things to his hair, and sell him a Conditioner to fix the horrible things.
There is an opportunity here, you heard it here first, to produce Breakage Therapy Conditioner Repairing Serums for sundry other body hair parts. Such as Right Nostril Hair.
Mine breaks all the time.
(All of which reminds me of a previous encounter with shampoo).
March 20, 2010
Conversations, #4
Here's the 4th installment in my ongoing email exchange with the Pakistani journalist Beena Sarwar: It's about time.
Your thoughts welcome.
Earlier installments: #1, #2, #3.
Your thoughts welcome.
Earlier installments: #1, #2, #3.
March 18, 2010
Key to it all
So I'm spending a couple of nights at the guest house of a well-known institution. Return to the place after an evening meeting some folks, and there's nobody at the reception desk, nor is my key on the desk waiting to be picked up as it usually is.
I go hunting for the guy who's normally there. Find him in the kitchen. He says the key should have been on the desk. Comes up with me, confirms it isn't, then looks through the lone drawer. It isn't there either. Looks around on the floor, on a bare shelf, and there's nowhere else to look. No key.
He tells me to wait in the conference room off the reception area while he searches or tries to get a duplicate. I wait there about 20 minutes, while he tries to call people, searches the desk some more, periodically signals his lack of success to me. I'm getting more and more frazzled, I'm sweaty, I'm longing for a shower.
Suddenly I see him running towards me with a smile, waving the key. Found it. Where? Lying on the table in another guest's room.
Here's what happened. The guest picked up both his key and mine. Used his key to open his door and then stuck it in the slot that turns on the power in the room. My key, he set down on the table. When the reception guy went in there to get him some water, he saw my key lying there. "Whose key is this?" he asks the guest. "Mine", says the guest. "No it isn't", says the reception guy, and brings it out to me.
I'm unable to fathom this. Did this guest think he might slip quietly into my room and steal my surge protector while I was away? Did he seriously think my key was his, as he claimed? If so, what did he think he had used to open the door and switch on the power? Did he just make an honest mistake? If so, why didn't he consider returning the key to the front desk and saving another guest substantial bother?
I go hunting for the guy who's normally there. Find him in the kitchen. He says the key should have been on the desk. Comes up with me, confirms it isn't, then looks through the lone drawer. It isn't there either. Looks around on the floor, on a bare shelf, and there's nowhere else to look. No key.
He tells me to wait in the conference room off the reception area while he searches or tries to get a duplicate. I wait there about 20 minutes, while he tries to call people, searches the desk some more, periodically signals his lack of success to me. I'm getting more and more frazzled, I'm sweaty, I'm longing for a shower.
Suddenly I see him running towards me with a smile, waving the key. Found it. Where? Lying on the table in another guest's room.
Here's what happened. The guest picked up both his key and mine. Used his key to open his door and then stuck it in the slot that turns on the power in the room. My key, he set down on the table. When the reception guy went in there to get him some water, he saw my key lying there. "Whose key is this?" he asks the guest. "Mine", says the guest. "No it isn't", says the reception guy, and brings it out to me.
I'm unable to fathom this. Did this guest think he might slip quietly into my room and steal my surge protector while I was away? Did he seriously think my key was his, as he claimed? If so, what did he think he had used to open the door and switch on the power? Did he just make an honest mistake? If so, why didn't he consider returning the key to the front desk and saving another guest substantial bother?
Roadrunner in Goa
If it's Saturday, it must be Goa. Something like that. See below for the e-invite that the bookstore Literati in Calangute is sending out. So if you're in the vicinity on Saturday evening, please be there.
What the hell, please be there even if you're nowhere in the vicinity on Saturday evening.
***
Literati invites you to journey through DILIP D'SOUZA's book ROADRUNNER. SUDEEP CHAKRAVARTI (author of Red Sun) will preside over the journey which explores small town America from the Indian view point. Please join us on 20th March 2010 at 7 p.m.
Literati Bookshop and Cafe,
E/1-282 Gaura Vaddo,
Calangute, Bardez, Goa- 403516
(in the lane opposite Tarcar Ice Factory, next to ABC farms and La Fenice)
Tel: (0832) 22 777 40
You can find a map to consult on the Literati site.
"Indian travel writing, never a large or a particularly vibrant genre, comes of age in Dilip D'Souza's Roadrunner." DNA Sunday, February 28, 2010
"Over the course of three long, looping drives through the South, the Mid-West and the West, D'Souza takes the back roads, goes into the small towns, and looks into the real, everyday America, and the real, everyday Americans who inhabit it. He is a sort of Indian Bill Bryson among the proverbial fat girls in Des Moines.
In the process, he does many of the things I wish I could have done myself. He goes, for example, to the world's biggest annual gathering of Harley Davidson enthusiasts, in South Dakota, and hangs out with a group of black-leather-and-denim-clad "Bikers for Christ", who spread the word of God among the hard-drinking, hard-sinning congregation, patiently distributing their literature ("Wanted: Drug addicts, alcoholics, satanists, topless dancers, liars, adulterers, homosexuals, racists by Jesus Christ") and engaging random bikers in conversations about how Darwin was dead wrong.
He visits the Civil War cemetery at Shiloh, Tennessee, where nearly 20,000 young American soldiers lie buried, and discovers just how jagged was the divide that ran through the heart of the country: from the list of regiments that fought here, for example, he learns that one part of the 1st Missouri Regiment fought for the Union, while another part of the 1st Missouri fought for the Confederacy, comrade gunning down comrade.
He wanders down the historic Route 66 (immortalised by Nat King Cole's old song), which once took migrants from the Dust Bowl of the 1930s to the promised land of California, and he talks to people from the slowly dying communities along the Route today who are bravely trying to cope with the marginalisation that has followed its de-linking from the US highway system in the 1980s.
D'Souza is a sensitive and thoughtful man, and therefore Roadrunner is more than just the usual travel book; it has a collection of insights and observations about India, triggered off by parallel experiences in the US. For example, a conversation with Carl, his "Biker for Christ" friend is, for him, like looking into a mirror at the entire "Is desh mein rehna hoga, Toh Vande Mataram kehna hoga" issue. Driving through Alabama, listening to bad country music on the car radio sets off a speculation about why today's low-brow Bollywood mega-hits have connected with the Indian listener in a way that the great music of the O.P.Nayyar-Sahir-Naushad era could have never done. A visit to an Arizona aerospace museum leads to a reflection on the purpose of India's Republic Day Parade (via a comment on the behaviour of gazelles being chased by lions). The book is filled with philosophical cut-aways like these." The Hindu Sunday, Feb 21, 2010
What the hell, please be there even if you're nowhere in the vicinity on Saturday evening.
Literati invites you to journey through DILIP D'SOUZA's book ROADRUNNER. SUDEEP CHAKRAVARTI (author of Red Sun) will preside over the journey which explores small town America from the Indian view point. Please join us on 20th March 2010 at 7 p.m.
Literati Bookshop and Cafe,
E/1-282 Gaura Vaddo,
Calangute, Bardez, Goa- 403516
(in the lane opposite Tarcar Ice Factory, next to ABC farms and La Fenice)
Tel: (0832) 22 777 40
You can find a map to consult on the Literati site.
"Indian travel writing, never a large or a particularly vibrant genre, comes of age in Dilip D'Souza's Roadrunner." DNA Sunday, February 28, 2010
"Over the course of three long, looping drives through the South, the Mid-West and the West, D'Souza takes the back roads, goes into the small towns, and looks into the real, everyday America, and the real, everyday Americans who inhabit it. He is a sort of Indian Bill Bryson among the proverbial fat girls in Des Moines.
In the process, he does many of the things I wish I could have done myself. He goes, for example, to the world's biggest annual gathering of Harley Davidson enthusiasts, in South Dakota, and hangs out with a group of black-leather-and-denim-clad "Bikers for Christ", who spread the word of God among the hard-drinking, hard-sinning congregation, patiently distributing their literature ("Wanted: Drug addicts, alcoholics, satanists, topless dancers, liars, adulterers, homosexuals, racists by Jesus Christ") and engaging random bikers in conversations about how Darwin was dead wrong.
He visits the Civil War cemetery at Shiloh, Tennessee, where nearly 20,000 young American soldiers lie buried, and discovers just how jagged was the divide that ran through the heart of the country: from the list of regiments that fought here, for example, he learns that one part of the 1st Missouri Regiment fought for the Union, while another part of the 1st Missouri fought for the Confederacy, comrade gunning down comrade.
He wanders down the historic Route 66 (immortalised by Nat King Cole's old song), which once took migrants from the Dust Bowl of the 1930s to the promised land of California, and he talks to people from the slowly dying communities along the Route today who are bravely trying to cope with the marginalisation that has followed its de-linking from the US highway system in the 1980s.
D'Souza is a sensitive and thoughtful man, and therefore Roadrunner is more than just the usual travel book; it has a collection of insights and observations about India, triggered off by parallel experiences in the US. For example, a conversation with Carl, his "Biker for Christ" friend is, for him, like looking into a mirror at the entire "Is desh mein rehna hoga, Toh Vande Mataram kehna hoga" issue. Driving through Alabama, listening to bad country music on the car radio sets off a speculation about why today's low-brow Bollywood mega-hits have connected with the Indian listener in a way that the great music of the O.P.Nayyar-Sahir-Naushad era could have never done. A visit to an Arizona aerospace museum leads to a reflection on the purpose of India's Republic Day Parade (via a comment on the behaviour of gazelles being chased by lions). The book is filled with philosophical cut-aways like these." The Hindu Sunday, Feb 21, 2010
March 16, 2010
Biker warning: Sturgis ahead
The March 2010 issue of FlyLite, JetLite's inflight magazine, has this essay I wrote about Sturgis in South Dakota.
Any comments welcome, as always.
***
For miles, the signs have been overtaking me in my little Korean car. Gleaming low-slung bikes with fat tires and riders settled in the seats, sometimes a pillion person too. The riders' legs stuck out in front so they're nearly parallel to the outstretched arms operating the controls, booted feet pointed at the sky -- they rush past on the highway and eat up the miles, these bikes and their leather-clad bikers, their engines throbbing throatily, agreeably. Through the South Dakota plains that give way to low rolling hills as I head west, along straight roads ribboned over the hills, the riders stream past. More and more of them as the day wears on. The ones that have just passed me jockey for position as they ease back into my lane. The ones that get far ahead are like ants in the haze through my windscreen.
Sometimes I'll creep through a tiny town and a gas station will have a sudden collection of chromed bikes, parked in parallel with front wheels tilted just so, their riders exchanging notes or walking across the street and through a door with a sign that says "Budweiser".
By the time I get to Sturgis, I've seen several hundred of these guys. But that's nothing, for this is Sturgis, where every August several hundred thousand bikers congregate for the world's largest biker meet. This year, the 68th of these events. Some years, up to three-quarters of a million bikers. So for that week in August, Sturgis is the largest town in South Dakota, more populous than the rest of the state put together.
And at the campground a little way out of town where I pitch my tent, I'm surrounded by bikes and bikers, more arriving by the hour and pitching their own tents. How glad I am that I made it in time to get one of the last few shaded spots. It's from under that tree that I gaze out at a vista of black tees, black jackets, black leggings worn over blue jeans, and all these folks usually burly and bearded (though not the women), their bikes almost always Harleys and usually black as well.
For avowed lovers of individualism and freedom and nonconformism, serious bikers look and ride and strut remarkably like all the other serious bikers do. As many before me have noted.
But there's a certain allure as well, in these folks.
I say that despite the warning that rang in my ears only a couple of weeks before I went to Sturgis. Indian friend of a friend, perfectly nice bloke who lives in the States, heard I was going to the biker rally in South Dakota and leaned over in a Bandra cafe. "Those," he advised in a low voice, "are not the kind of guys you want to hang around with."
I gulped. But after getting to Sturgis, I'm not so sure.
After setting up my tent, I plan to head for the town itself, to take in whatever the biker horde has to offer. Just a quick wash and I'll be ready. Three bikers nearby will beat me to the horde, judging by their own state of readiness. I watch in wonder as, in almost-practised unison, they put on shades, adjust their boots, shrug on identical black leather jackets, swing their legs over their saddles, start their engines and rumble out of the campground in a line. Like an elaborately choreographed ballet.
Bandra warnings notwithstanding, I think I'll hang around with these guys.
Speaking of rumbling. In Sturgis, the dominant sensation is the constant deep-throated rumbling of bikes by the hundreds, and I mean constant. Nonstop. Loud. Not one bike present, it seems, emits a less-than-ear-splitting sound. These things are designed to make noise and be heard. And then there's Dennis Kirk's Performance Tuning Center, a large gleaming black truck trailer with a ramp at one end, positioned at the start of the Sturgis drag. As far as I can tell, and judging from the delectable sounds that erupt from there every few seconds, this is what happens: You drive your bike up the ramp, and they do something to it inside that produces twice as much noise as anything it could produce earlier, than anything already on the street -- and bear in mind the steady stream of extremely noisy machines on the street -- and you drive out again, ready to make your extra-noisy mark at the bike rally.
That's "performance tuning" for you. I love this place.
A week in Sturgis, and I get intimately acquainted with Main Street, where most of the biker action happens. Both sides of this drag are lined with parked bikes. Without exception, they face into the street -- must be some unwritten biker rule. Two rows go down the middle too. This leaves one narrow lane in each direction for traffic. This means traffic moves very slowly, if noisily.
One evening, I stop outside a tattoo shop for a half hour to people-watch, to bike-watch. This confirms a suspicion that's been lurking in my mind. A lot of bikers simply drive up and down, round and round, over and over. That is, they are indulging in that age-old ritual of the teenager or twenty-something: cruise the main drag. Something I can see most nights on Carter Road in Bandra. Yet these are not teenagers or twenty-somethings, for the most past. The great majority is easily into their 50s and 60s.
Which raises the question: why would middle-aged and older men and women travel across the country to relive teen rites?
I mean, joining me one night for dinner is Ed, who has ridden his bike to Sturgis all the way from Kansas. Had a rough trip, was pelted with lots of hail. It's his 14th trip to Sturgis, he tells me, and I gasp. 14! "Yeah, been ridin' since 1938. And I'll be 80 on Thursday."
80 years old, and he has driven a thousand miles through plenty of hail. But wait, he's come here with his older brother -- older than 80! -- who rode his own bike, and who has cancer. Also along on the trip are Ed's eldest son, a wiry greying man with a ready smile, and two other friends, also greying. Ed's grandson and great-grandson had also planned to come, but the grandson broke a bone in his hand and they opted out.
The younger generation couldn't make it, but five senior citizens rode from Kansas. Why?
"Been ridin' all my life, that's all," says Ed. "My brother and me've biked everywhere together. We did the four corners too" -- touched the four corners of the continental US in one trip -- "and took just ten days."
Key West in Florida to somewhere in Maine to somewhere in Washington state to San Diego and back to Kansas. A lot of driving for ten days, Ed! "Yeah, we should've taken it slower. We saw plenty of white lines, don't 'member much else! But our names're up on the wall in an airport in LA. There's a plaque there, you can go read our names."
My head's already reeling with Ed's tales. But why an airport, why in LA?
"Damned if I know! But they're there all right!"
And speaking of brothers. In a bike accessory store near Dennis Kirk, a poster of a smirking young man on a sleek bike has these words: "You Drink. You Drive. You Crash. You Die. Your brother-in-law gets your bike. Bummer."
The message sinks home. Back from Sturgis, I'm decided. I don't want to hang around with my assorted brothers-in-law.
Any comments welcome, as always.
For miles, the signs have been overtaking me in my little Korean car. Gleaming low-slung bikes with fat tires and riders settled in the seats, sometimes a pillion person too. The riders' legs stuck out in front so they're nearly parallel to the outstretched arms operating the controls, booted feet pointed at the sky -- they rush past on the highway and eat up the miles, these bikes and their leather-clad bikers, their engines throbbing throatily, agreeably. Through the South Dakota plains that give way to low rolling hills as I head west, along straight roads ribboned over the hills, the riders stream past. More and more of them as the day wears on. The ones that have just passed me jockey for position as they ease back into my lane. The ones that get far ahead are like ants in the haze through my windscreen.
Sometimes I'll creep through a tiny town and a gas station will have a sudden collection of chromed bikes, parked in parallel with front wheels tilted just so, their riders exchanging notes or walking across the street and through a door with a sign that says "Budweiser".
By the time I get to Sturgis, I've seen several hundred of these guys. But that's nothing, for this is Sturgis, where every August several hundred thousand bikers congregate for the world's largest biker meet. This year, the 68th of these events. Some years, up to three-quarters of a million bikers. So for that week in August, Sturgis is the largest town in South Dakota, more populous than the rest of the state put together.
And at the campground a little way out of town where I pitch my tent, I'm surrounded by bikes and bikers, more arriving by the hour and pitching their own tents. How glad I am that I made it in time to get one of the last few shaded spots. It's from under that tree that I gaze out at a vista of black tees, black jackets, black leggings worn over blue jeans, and all these folks usually burly and bearded (though not the women), their bikes almost always Harleys and usually black as well.
For avowed lovers of individualism and freedom and nonconformism, serious bikers look and ride and strut remarkably like all the other serious bikers do. As many before me have noted.
But there's a certain allure as well, in these folks.
I say that despite the warning that rang in my ears only a couple of weeks before I went to Sturgis. Indian friend of a friend, perfectly nice bloke who lives in the States, heard I was going to the biker rally in South Dakota and leaned over in a Bandra cafe. "Those," he advised in a low voice, "are not the kind of guys you want to hang around with."
I gulped. But after getting to Sturgis, I'm not so sure.
After setting up my tent, I plan to head for the town itself, to take in whatever the biker horde has to offer. Just a quick wash and I'll be ready. Three bikers nearby will beat me to the horde, judging by their own state of readiness. I watch in wonder as, in almost-practised unison, they put on shades, adjust their boots, shrug on identical black leather jackets, swing their legs over their saddles, start their engines and rumble out of the campground in a line. Like an elaborately choreographed ballet.
Bandra warnings notwithstanding, I think I'll hang around with these guys.
Speaking of rumbling. In Sturgis, the dominant sensation is the constant deep-throated rumbling of bikes by the hundreds, and I mean constant. Nonstop. Loud. Not one bike present, it seems, emits a less-than-ear-splitting sound. These things are designed to make noise and be heard. And then there's Dennis Kirk's Performance Tuning Center, a large gleaming black truck trailer with a ramp at one end, positioned at the start of the Sturgis drag. As far as I can tell, and judging from the delectable sounds that erupt from there every few seconds, this is what happens: You drive your bike up the ramp, and they do something to it inside that produces twice as much noise as anything it could produce earlier, than anything already on the street -- and bear in mind the steady stream of extremely noisy machines on the street -- and you drive out again, ready to make your extra-noisy mark at the bike rally.
That's "performance tuning" for you. I love this place.
A week in Sturgis, and I get intimately acquainted with Main Street, where most of the biker action happens. Both sides of this drag are lined with parked bikes. Without exception, they face into the street -- must be some unwritten biker rule. Two rows go down the middle too. This leaves one narrow lane in each direction for traffic. This means traffic moves very slowly, if noisily.
One evening, I stop outside a tattoo shop for a half hour to people-watch, to bike-watch. This confirms a suspicion that's been lurking in my mind. A lot of bikers simply drive up and down, round and round, over and over. That is, they are indulging in that age-old ritual of the teenager or twenty-something: cruise the main drag. Something I can see most nights on Carter Road in Bandra. Yet these are not teenagers or twenty-somethings, for the most past. The great majority is easily into their 50s and 60s.
Which raises the question: why would middle-aged and older men and women travel across the country to relive teen rites?
I mean, joining me one night for dinner is Ed, who has ridden his bike to Sturgis all the way from Kansas. Had a rough trip, was pelted with lots of hail. It's his 14th trip to Sturgis, he tells me, and I gasp. 14! "Yeah, been ridin' since 1938. And I'll be 80 on Thursday."
80 years old, and he has driven a thousand miles through plenty of hail. But wait, he's come here with his older brother -- older than 80! -- who rode his own bike, and who has cancer. Also along on the trip are Ed's eldest son, a wiry greying man with a ready smile, and two other friends, also greying. Ed's grandson and great-grandson had also planned to come, but the grandson broke a bone in his hand and they opted out.
The younger generation couldn't make it, but five senior citizens rode from Kansas. Why?
"Been ridin' all my life, that's all," says Ed. "My brother and me've biked everywhere together. We did the four corners too" -- touched the four corners of the continental US in one trip -- "and took just ten days."
Key West in Florida to somewhere in Maine to somewhere in Washington state to San Diego and back to Kansas. A lot of driving for ten days, Ed! "Yeah, we should've taken it slower. We saw plenty of white lines, don't 'member much else! But our names're up on the wall in an airport in LA. There's a plaque there, you can go read our names."
My head's already reeling with Ed's tales. But why an airport, why in LA?
"Damned if I know! But they're there all right!"
And speaking of brothers. In a bike accessory store near Dennis Kirk, a poster of a smirking young man on a sleek bike has these words: "You Drink. You Drive. You Crash. You Die. Your brother-in-law gets your bike. Bummer."
The message sinks home. Back from Sturgis, I'm decided. I don't want to hang around with my assorted brothers-in-law.
#22, saved
In Ganiyari, Chhatisgarh, you will find Jan Swasthya Sahyog (People's Health Support Group; that website will soon be revamped) housed in a series of modest one-storey buildings that run parallel to the road. When I get there last week, my first impression is almost as if there is a marriage on: people milling around all over the campus.
They are, of course, waiting. Waiting for treatment. JSS runs a low-cost health programme that caters to nearly 500 villages around Ganiyari. There are other doctors and hospitals in Bilaspur, some 20km away. But JSS has built a reputation that patients mention again and again. "I heard that my illness would be cured here … I heard that the doctors are good here … I heard that medicines are available cheaper here … I heard that I would at least be seen here" -- such are the things they say to me. Drawn by that reputation, patients come from 80km, 25km, 8km 120km away, I hear all these numbers. More than one family has trekked from Ambikapur, nearly 250km north of here.
It's as if, sitting here in Bombay and feeling ill, I journey halfway to Goa to get treatment.
But if the distances are one kind of number that tells stories about health care here, several instances of another kind are painted on the low wall that surrounds the OPD clinic. The wall is topped with black granite, and regular white strips spaced every couple of feet mark out places in a queue to get into the OPD clinic, held every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And each of these places has a number painted on it.
JSS's team of doctors works hard, but they simply cannot keep up with the crowds that stream through their gates every day. So when I get there on a Monday afternoon and start getting to know the place, I quickly find this out: people here are laying claim -- with bags and bundles of clothes and other paraphernalia -- to the numbered spots on the granite wall to form the queue for Wednesday's OPD clinic.
Not just that. So great is the press of patients that some of these folks won't make it into Wednesday's OPD either. So they are here on Monday and will wait till Friday to see a doctor.
In Bombay, I have been known to be impatient at having to wait half an hour in the OPD section of the nearby hospital.
I walk along the wall, stopping to chat occasionally with patients and their families. Two sights strike me.
One, while bags or people mark most of the spots in the queue, several are saved with bundles of firewood. Many patients' families have brought these along to cook meals while they wait for treatment.
Two, one of the spots is saved with an unexpected object. Decorated with multicoloured strips of cloth, lying unattended across #22, is a lone crutch.
They are, of course, waiting. Waiting for treatment. JSS runs a low-cost health programme that caters to nearly 500 villages around Ganiyari. There are other doctors and hospitals in Bilaspur, some 20km away. But JSS has built a reputation that patients mention again and again. "I heard that my illness would be cured here … I heard that the doctors are good here … I heard that medicines are available cheaper here … I heard that I would at least be seen here" -- such are the things they say to me. Drawn by that reputation, patients come from 80km, 25km, 8km 120km away, I hear all these numbers. More than one family has trekked from Ambikapur, nearly 250km north of here.
It's as if, sitting here in Bombay and feeling ill, I journey halfway to Goa to get treatment.
But if the distances are one kind of number that tells stories about health care here, several instances of another kind are painted on the low wall that surrounds the OPD clinic. The wall is topped with black granite, and regular white strips spaced every couple of feet mark out places in a queue to get into the OPD clinic, held every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And each of these places has a number painted on it.
JSS's team of doctors works hard, but they simply cannot keep up with the crowds that stream through their gates every day. So when I get there on a Monday afternoon and start getting to know the place, I quickly find this out: people here are laying claim -- with bags and bundles of clothes and other paraphernalia -- to the numbered spots on the granite wall to form the queue for Wednesday's OPD clinic.
Not just that. So great is the press of patients that some of these folks won't make it into Wednesday's OPD either. So they are here on Monday and will wait till Friday to see a doctor.
In Bombay, I have been known to be impatient at having to wait half an hour in the OPD section of the nearby hospital.
I walk along the wall, stopping to chat occasionally with patients and their families. Two sights strike me.
One, while bags or people mark most of the spots in the queue, several are saved with bundles of firewood. Many patients' families have brought these along to cook meals while they wait for treatment.
Two, one of the spots is saved with an unexpected object. Decorated with multicoloured strips of cloth, lying unattended across #22, is a lone crutch.
Roadrunner: Outlook Traveller and Organiser
A couple more reviews of my book Roadrunner: An Indian Quest in America:
* In the March 2010 issue of Outlook Traveller, Rimli Sengupta is critical.
* In a recent issue of Organiser (the RSS publication), Jayant Patel is, I think, appreciative. (Hard to tell because his review is really just a collection of excerpts from the blurb and the book itself).
***
Some earlier reviews:
* Pramod Nayar's praise.
* Sanjay Sipahimalani's criticism.
* Sumana Mukherjee said good things.
* In the March 2010 issue of Outlook Traveller, Rimli Sengupta is critical.
* In a recent issue of Organiser (the RSS publication), Jayant Patel is, I think, appreciative. (Hard to tell because his review is really just a collection of excerpts from the blurb and the book itself).
Some earlier reviews:
* Pramod Nayar's praise.
* Sanjay Sipahimalani's criticism.
* Sumana Mukherjee said good things.
March 15, 2010
Rakha, rekha and 62 years
Last October, I travelled to Amritsar and the Wagah border. This is why: Rakha, rekha and 62 years.
Your comments welcome.
Your comments welcome.
Conversations, #3
One day on the train
Selected notes from a recent Chennai-Bombay train journey, straight from my diary.
0933, Renigunta station: Bald man comes through, begging.
0935, Renigunta station: Thin old man comes through, begging. His left arm looks like a 6-inch segment between the shoulder and the elbow has been removed, and the rest of the arm re-attached. It is short and crooked.
1002: Oddly bent and gaping young man comes through, begging.
1044: Old woman comes through, begging.
1113: Thin blind boy, 20 or less, comes through, begging. His grubby shirt says "Elegant Design".
1217, just left Yerraguntla: Pregnant young woman comes through, begging. Behind her, a small child, indeterminate sex, tapping my knee and pointing to the small container of dahi on my lunch tray.
1223: Old woman comes through, begging. Orange sari, pink blouse, lined poker face. Her chappals are polka dotted.
1237: Bald old man with glasses comes through, begging.
1306: Slim woman comes through, begging. Her face has been burned, so she looks like her skin has been stretched over her skull. Behind her is a man with one arm, wearing a brown shirt and green checked dhoti.
1330: Woman comes through on her haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. She wears a pink sari, has a red band in her hair and has an oddly masculine face.
1459, Guntakal station: Old man comes through, begging. He has lost one leg and is on crutches.
1541: Young woman comes through on her haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. She has a thin, sad face.
1624: Old man comes through, begging. He has the arms and hands of a child, the hands where his elbows should be.
1646: Boy with curly hair comes through on his haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. He is bare-chested and covered with dust, and uses his shirt to clean the floor.
1802: Woman comes through, begging. She wears a dark blue sari, carries a baby in a sling and a baby bottle in her hand.
1833: Boy about 10 years old comes through on his haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. His upper body is thin and bare. He uses his shirt to clean the floor.
1949: Woman in a burkha comes through, begging. She has one kid sleeping on her shoulder, his bottom overflowing over her arm. Behind her trails another kid with a tear-lined face, crying softly.
0933, Renigunta station: Bald man comes through, begging.
0935, Renigunta station: Thin old man comes through, begging. His left arm looks like a 6-inch segment between the shoulder and the elbow has been removed, and the rest of the arm re-attached. It is short and crooked.
1002: Oddly bent and gaping young man comes through, begging.
1044: Old woman comes through, begging.
1113: Thin blind boy, 20 or less, comes through, begging. His grubby shirt says "Elegant Design".
1217, just left Yerraguntla: Pregnant young woman comes through, begging. Behind her, a small child, indeterminate sex, tapping my knee and pointing to the small container of dahi on my lunch tray.
1223: Old woman comes through, begging. Orange sari, pink blouse, lined poker face. Her chappals are polka dotted.
1237: Bald old man with glasses comes through, begging.
1306: Slim woman comes through, begging. Her face has been burned, so she looks like her skin has been stretched over her skull. Behind her is a man with one arm, wearing a brown shirt and green checked dhoti.
1330: Woman comes through on her haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. She wears a pink sari, has a red band in her hair and has an oddly masculine face.
1459, Guntakal station: Old man comes through, begging. He has lost one leg and is on crutches.
1541: Young woman comes through on her haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. She has a thin, sad face.
1624: Old man comes through, begging. He has the arms and hands of a child, the hands where his elbows should be.
1646: Boy with curly hair comes through on his haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. He is bare-chested and covered with dust, and uses his shirt to clean the floor.
1802: Woman comes through, begging. She wears a dark blue sari, carries a baby in a sling and a baby bottle in her hand.
1833: Boy about 10 years old comes through on his haunches, sweeping the floor and begging. His upper body is thin and bare. He uses his shirt to clean the floor.
1949: Woman in a burkha comes through, begging. She has one kid sleeping on her shoulder, his bottom overflowing over her arm. Behind her trails another kid with a tear-lined face, crying softly.
March 14, 2010
Reality in those eyes
I was especially struck by the man's eyes -- this photograph was taken by my friend Tom Pietrasik and features in his post about mining in Jharkhand.
Tom and I just got done spending several days in Chhatisgarh. Watch this space (and his, and maybe others) for some of what we learned about rural health.
March 12, 2010
Red stump
In the sleepy village of Semariya well north of Bilaspur in Chhatisgarh this morning, I wander away from an antenatal clinic I was observing, and into the grounds of a school establishment next door. This is the Balmitra Shaskiya Prathamik Shala, a collection of five or six one-storey and grubby buildings set around a large ground with a couple of large trees and a hand-pump.
The kids are out on their morning break, running around and playing and tossing paper planes about. One or two eye me curiously, and come past shyly, doing a namaste as they pass. Several cluster around the hand-pump, trying to operate it. A teacher strides out and says she will work the handle; with many giggles they stick plastic bottles under the streaming water and drink.
A dog or two stroll across the ground. Behind me somewhere, a lone cow moos, steadily, ominously. A breeze blows, almost lazily. Beyond the children at the hand-pump is a tall thin man. He is wearing grey pants and a bright orange checked shirt. His left arm ends in a stump just below the elbow, and the stump is wrapped in a bright red cloth. With that half-arm, he holds what looks like a book, or some folded papers, to his body. His other arm, he waves above his head, repeatedly, as if tossing a fishing line, or tugging at a kite string.
He stops this routine. Then he starts again.
He stops again. Then he unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. Unbuttons his trousers and steps out of them. Unwinds his red cloth. He is standing there now, a thin man in bright blue boxers, and he does that tossing thing with his right arm again.
He gets dressed. Carefully winds the red cloth on his stump, gathers up the papers, does the routine again.
I walk over, by which time he has sat down against the tree. He tells me his name is Nandram. He shows me the papers, which turn out to be a blue-bordered NTPC publicity brochure in English and Hindi, one page listing "Our Core Values". I ask him what happened to his arm. He gives me a long explanation in a voice so low that I cannot understand a word, despite asking him to repeat a couple of times.
I walk back to the clinic. Some time later, as I'm getting ready to leave Semariya, I look over at the ground.
Nandram is down to blue boxers again, doing the tossing routine with his right hand again.
The kids are out on their morning break, running around and playing and tossing paper planes about. One or two eye me curiously, and come past shyly, doing a namaste as they pass. Several cluster around the hand-pump, trying to operate it. A teacher strides out and says she will work the handle; with many giggles they stick plastic bottles under the streaming water and drink.
A dog or two stroll across the ground. Behind me somewhere, a lone cow moos, steadily, ominously. A breeze blows, almost lazily. Beyond the children at the hand-pump is a tall thin man. He is wearing grey pants and a bright orange checked shirt. His left arm ends in a stump just below the elbow, and the stump is wrapped in a bright red cloth. With that half-arm, he holds what looks like a book, or some folded papers, to his body. His other arm, he waves above his head, repeatedly, as if tossing a fishing line, or tugging at a kite string.
He stops this routine. Then he starts again.
He stops again. Then he unbuttons his shirt and takes it off. Unbuttons his trousers and steps out of them. Unwinds his red cloth. He is standing there now, a thin man in bright blue boxers, and he does that tossing thing with his right arm again.
He gets dressed. Carefully winds the red cloth on his stump, gathers up the papers, does the routine again.
I walk over, by which time he has sat down against the tree. He tells me his name is Nandram. He shows me the papers, which turn out to be a blue-bordered NTPC publicity brochure in English and Hindi, one page listing "Our Core Values". I ask him what happened to his arm. He gives me a long explanation in a voice so low that I cannot understand a word, despite asking him to repeat a couple of times.
I walk back to the clinic. Some time later, as I'm getting ready to leave Semariya, I look over at the ground.
Nandram is down to blue boxers again, doing the tossing routine with his right hand again.
March 10, 2010
Wrong but genuine
On a day when the country's lawmakers of the Rajya Sabha passed a bill reserving a third of Lok Sabha seats for women, here's something to ponder.
In 2004, Sushma Tiwari married a man named Prabhu Nochil. Seven months later, her brother Dilip Tiwari and a few colleagues murdered Prabhu, Prabhu's father and two children of Prabhu's family. Sushma, pregnant at the time, escaped the massacre only because she was out visiting somebody.
Why did Dilip Tiwari do this? Because the Tiwaris are a Brahmin family, and Prabhu is an Ezhava from Kerala, apparently a lower caste. (I say "apparently" because this is what I read in the news reports. One of the few things in my life I'm proud of is that I know nothing about what such caste names mean.)
The Bombay High Court awarded the death sentence to Dilip Tiwari and his colleagues. Last December, the Supreme Court of India -- the highest court in the land -- reduced this sentence to 25 years in jail. This was the reasoning of the honourable judges who reduced the sentence:
"It is a common experience that when the younger sister commits something unusual, and in this case it was an intercaste, intercommunity marriage out of a secret love affair, then in society it is the elder brother who justifiably or otherwise is held responsible for not stopping such an affair. ... If he became the victim of his wrong but genuine caste consideration, it would not justify the death sentence."
Sushma has challenged this, saying among much else that "Mass killings based on the concept of 'honour' must be viewed by this Honourable Court as murders which must be given the highest deterrent sentence."
(A good overview here.)
***
And some of our neighbours in Pakistan also appear to find honour in murder.
***
What I want to know is, when will we stop referring to this kind of murder as "honour killing"? There is no honour attached to it and that's it.
In 2004, Sushma Tiwari married a man named Prabhu Nochil. Seven months later, her brother Dilip Tiwari and a few colleagues murdered Prabhu, Prabhu's father and two children of Prabhu's family. Sushma, pregnant at the time, escaped the massacre only because she was out visiting somebody.
Why did Dilip Tiwari do this? Because the Tiwaris are a Brahmin family, and Prabhu is an Ezhava from Kerala, apparently a lower caste. (I say "apparently" because this is what I read in the news reports. One of the few things in my life I'm proud of is that I know nothing about what such caste names mean.)
The Bombay High Court awarded the death sentence to Dilip Tiwari and his colleagues. Last December, the Supreme Court of India -- the highest court in the land -- reduced this sentence to 25 years in jail. This was the reasoning of the honourable judges who reduced the sentence:
"It is a common experience that when the younger sister commits something unusual, and in this case it was an intercaste, intercommunity marriage out of a secret love affair, then in society it is the elder brother who justifiably or otherwise is held responsible for not stopping such an affair. ... If he became the victim of his wrong but genuine caste consideration, it would not justify the death sentence."
Sushma has challenged this, saying among much else that "Mass killings based on the concept of 'honour' must be viewed by this Honourable Court as murders which must be given the highest deterrent sentence."
(A good overview here.)
And some of our neighbours in Pakistan also appear to find honour in murder.
What I want to know is, when will we stop referring to this kind of murder as "honour killing"? There is no honour attached to it and that's it.
March 07, 2010
Conversations, #2
The second installment of my email exchange with Beena Sarwar is here.
Comments and thoughts welcome.
(Conversations, #1.)
Comments and thoughts welcome.
(Conversations, #1.)
March 06, 2010
Travel and blogging
In the last 12 months: Vikramgarh (Thane District), Kaziranga/Manas, Coorg, Malpe, Goa, Kihim, Dahanu, Delhi (three times), Amritsar, Wagah, Lucknow, Durgapur, Kolkata, Bangalore, Jamnagar, Porbandar, Hyderabad, Pilani, Pune, Chennai.
This is part of the explanation for my spotty blog posting record in that time.
In the next several weeks: Bilaspur (Chhatisgarh), Goa, probably Kolkata, Kumaon hills, probably Kodaikanal.
This is part of the reason my posting will likely stay spotty for a while. I wish it could be different. But for now, that's the story.
This is part of the explanation for my spotty blog posting record in that time.
In the next several weeks: Bilaspur (Chhatisgarh), Goa, probably Kolkata, Kumaon hills, probably Kodaikanal.
This is part of the reason my posting will likely stay spotty for a while. I wish it could be different. But for now, that's the story.
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