Walking towards Laitumkhrah in Shillong this dark evening, we hear singing. A good friend had told us, before we left Bombay, to listen to church music in Shillong. Here's our chance. This is the Cathedral of Mary Help of Christians, and there's a large crowd gathered and still gathering here. Many Shillong residents, many dressed in their Sunday best. And singing in at least three-part harmony that I can detect. Three female voices, and a male undertone that might be just the congregation joining in.
I can't say it is beautiful singing, but it does soar into the night. It is interrupted by a few readings, and then a sermon by a green-robed priest speaking in a curiously Kerala accent. He uses a parable from Luke to talk about not putting people down, whatever their sins that we might find objectionable.
We walk on till I start feeling a little sore from the day's exertions. We walk back on the other side of the road from the Cathedral of Mary, the priest still speaking, fragrance of raat-rani sharp in the crisp air. Directly across from the Cathedral is what looks like a large chapel under construction, mostly beams and poles, but with images of Christ and Mary already in place. Below them are dozens of lit candles, so many that we can smell the wax. The small gate is open, so we enter and walk in, up a few stairs to the chapel.
It's when we are nearly there that we notice a lone shape on the floor, silhouetted by the candles. Someone is huddled there, praying. It's too dark to tell if it's a man or a woman, but we can hear a soft murmuring voice. And as we do, we realize the person is weeping. Steadily, wrenchingly.
As quietly as we can, we withdraw.
October 31, 2010
October 29, 2010
About sedition
What is sedition, anyway? Here's how the New Oxford American Dictionary defines it: "conduct or speech inciting people to rebel against the authority of a state or monarch." Here's the preferred tool of the Web era, Wikipedia: "overt conduct, such as speech … that is deemed by the legal authority to tend toward insurrection against the established order. Sedition often includes subversion of a constitution and incitement of discontent (or resistance) to lawful authority. [It does not] consist, in more representative democracies, of peaceful protest against a government."
So am I going to get into a discussion of whether Arundhati Roy's words fit these definitions? Not on your life. Because it matters not a jot. Those who dislike the lady and what she says will believe she has been seditious. Others will not. Getting into the middle of that only detracts from the issue, which really should be what sedition means to us. (There are other issues too, but I'll stick to this one for now).
(Aside: I will, however, draw attention to that last sentence: peaceful protest against a government is not sedition. Even Ms Roy's greatest detractors will be hard put to suggest that, in what she did that has so upset them, she was violent and destructive. End Aside).
There is no country without dissent. This applies if you had two people in a country, it applies a billion times over if you have a billion people in a country. This is not, despite all you may have been led to believe, an esoteric liberal or leftist thing to say. Instead, it is just the way human beings are. You'll have an impossible time getting two people to agree on everything around them; with a billion, there's no way to even make sense of such an attempt. A country, by definition, is crammed with every shade of opinion. A country, by definition, is crammed with opinions you (and/or I) won't like.
Put it another way: a country where you agree with everyone around you is not a country. I'm hard put to even imagine such a place: perhaps some lala noddy land filled with inanimate toys might qualify.
Therefore the thing about living in this country is this: you have to get used to the fact that fellow-citizens have dramatically different points of view.
For example, I have to get used to the idea that some of my fellow-citizens actually believe the 1000+ Indians slaughtered across Gujarat in 2002 "had it coming" to them, that they "had to be taught a lesson". I hate it that people have such nauseating beliefs, but it is undeniable that many do.
For example, I have to get used to the idea that some people have spent over a quarter-century snuffing out any attempt to punish those who massacred 3000 Indians in Delhi in 1984. It burns me up that there are people as dedicated to destroying justice as this, but it is undeniable that they are out there.
For example, I have to get used to the idea that some people actually are afraid enough of words in a novel that they want it banned. It is simultaneously laughable and tragic that they are this insecure, but they too are out there. As are those who bow and scrape before them.
So I urge you too to get used to the idea that there are people who disagree profoundly with things you believe and hold dear.
Yes, that includes Kashmir. Get used to it.
And that there exist those differing views, that they are expressed, does not by any means equate to sedition. It is instead the definition of being Indian. Get used to that too.
So am I going to get into a discussion of whether Arundhati Roy's words fit these definitions? Not on your life. Because it matters not a jot. Those who dislike the lady and what she says will believe she has been seditious. Others will not. Getting into the middle of that only detracts from the issue, which really should be what sedition means to us. (There are other issues too, but I'll stick to this one for now).
(Aside: I will, however, draw attention to that last sentence: peaceful protest against a government is not sedition. Even Ms Roy's greatest detractors will be hard put to suggest that, in what she did that has so upset them, she was violent and destructive. End Aside).
There is no country without dissent. This applies if you had two people in a country, it applies a billion times over if you have a billion people in a country. This is not, despite all you may have been led to believe, an esoteric liberal or leftist thing to say. Instead, it is just the way human beings are. You'll have an impossible time getting two people to agree on everything around them; with a billion, there's no way to even make sense of such an attempt. A country, by definition, is crammed with every shade of opinion. A country, by definition, is crammed with opinions you (and/or I) won't like.
Put it another way: a country where you agree with everyone around you is not a country. I'm hard put to even imagine such a place: perhaps some lala noddy land filled with inanimate toys might qualify.
Therefore the thing about living in this country is this: you have to get used to the fact that fellow-citizens have dramatically different points of view.
For example, I have to get used to the idea that some of my fellow-citizens actually believe the 1000+ Indians slaughtered across Gujarat in 2002 "had it coming" to them, that they "had to be taught a lesson". I hate it that people have such nauseating beliefs, but it is undeniable that many do.
For example, I have to get used to the idea that some people have spent over a quarter-century snuffing out any attempt to punish those who massacred 3000 Indians in Delhi in 1984. It burns me up that there are people as dedicated to destroying justice as this, but it is undeniable that they are out there.
For example, I have to get used to the idea that some people actually are afraid enough of words in a novel that they want it banned. It is simultaneously laughable and tragic that they are this insecure, but they too are out there. As are those who bow and scrape before them.
So I urge you too to get used to the idea that there are people who disagree profoundly with things you believe and hold dear.
Yes, that includes Kashmir. Get used to it.
And that there exist those differing views, that they are expressed, does not by any means equate to sedition. It is instead the definition of being Indian. Get used to that too.
This game's for the birds
The November 2010 issue of Caravan has an article I thoroughly enjoyed writing: it's about following Ranji, birds and Vinoo Mankad in Jamnagar.
Take a look, here. All comments welcome.
Take a look, here. All comments welcome.
The lady on Hughes
Stood at a bus stop on Hughes ("Hyoo-jis") Road yesterday afternoon, waiting to catch a bus back home. It's an extremely busy thoroughfare most times, but as we stood there it seemed to gradually become quieter and freer of traffic. And suddenly there was none. Some cops to my right, traffic stopped in the distance. A tow-truck to my left, blocking traffic from under the Kemp's Corner flyover, which itself had none.
We waited. Cop to the right advanced menacingly on a car on a side street that had stopped too close to Hughes Road. He motioned it angrily backward till it disappeared from sight.
We waited some more. 15 minutes. Two police vehicles rolled down the flyover, voice from inside one of them exhorting all of us to do something unintelligible. 5 more minutes. Three more police vehicles rolled down, another voice this time. Another several minutes and now a police vehicle by itself, the officer in the front seat motioning to the few walkers around to stop walking.
Yes, they stopped people from walking. I am not making this up.
Many more minutes still, and the sound of sirens presaged a convoy. I counted: 30 vehicles, including several buses and an ambulance and any number of black-glassed cars and several more police vehicles. Include the six that went before, makes a total of 36 vehicles.
After they disappeared around the turn heading for Babulnath, it was another 5 minutes before the police finally let traffic move again. The pleasantly empty road in front of me was quickly filled with traffic from both sides, a huge pent-up mass of cars and buses and scooters and mobikes and cycles. In the hottest part of an October day in Bombay, thousands had had to wait over half an hour in their various vehicles. You can imagine the pile-up, and probably the frustration. We had to wait another half-hour for our bus, and once we got on, it crawled through traffic for at least another 45 minutes before the snarl eased.
I did not myself see who this Extremely Important Person was who warranted such a convoy and such disruption and a halt to pedestrians. The guy next to me, however, said two words and he didn't sound pleased saying them: "Pratibha Patil."
I cannot imagine a single person on that stretch of road yesterday who felt kindly toward our President.
We waited. Cop to the right advanced menacingly on a car on a side street that had stopped too close to Hughes Road. He motioned it angrily backward till it disappeared from sight.
We waited some more. 15 minutes. Two police vehicles rolled down the flyover, voice from inside one of them exhorting all of us to do something unintelligible. 5 more minutes. Three more police vehicles rolled down, another voice this time. Another several minutes and now a police vehicle by itself, the officer in the front seat motioning to the few walkers around to stop walking.
Yes, they stopped people from walking. I am not making this up.
Many more minutes still, and the sound of sirens presaged a convoy. I counted: 30 vehicles, including several buses and an ambulance and any number of black-glassed cars and several more police vehicles. Include the six that went before, makes a total of 36 vehicles.
After they disappeared around the turn heading for Babulnath, it was another 5 minutes before the police finally let traffic move again. The pleasantly empty road in front of me was quickly filled with traffic from both sides, a huge pent-up mass of cars and buses and scooters and mobikes and cycles. In the hottest part of an October day in Bombay, thousands had had to wait over half an hour in their various vehicles. You can imagine the pile-up, and probably the frustration. We had to wait another half-hour for our bus, and once we got on, it crawled through traffic for at least another 45 minutes before the snarl eased.
I did not myself see who this Extremely Important Person was who warranted such a convoy and such disruption and a halt to pedestrians. The guy next to me, however, said two words and he didn't sound pleased saying them: "Pratibha Patil."
I cannot imagine a single person on that stretch of road yesterday who felt kindly toward our President.
October 27, 2010
Evolutionary trail
When my brother, a doctor, worked in rural Orissa several years ago, he had an attack of malaria. While it lasted, it was a frightening episode. He had very high fever and a bout of convulsions. Just as frightening was that the malaria did not respond to treatment with the drug chloroquine -- a standard prescription for malaria. When he realized this, he switched to two other drugs -- sulfadoxine and pyrimethamine -- and recovered.
But for me, his experience was a revealing glimpse into the constant battle modern medicine must fight to control disease. Why was his malaria resistant to chloroquine?
To answer that, we have to go all the way back to Charles Darwin and his
theory of evolution, or natural selection. In essence, the theory says that as species evolve over time, they retain and develop those characteristics which promote their survival and reproduction. This means that evolution also suppresses the characteristics that retard survival and reproduction. Only the individuals who survive can reproduce. Their descendants tend to retain their capacity to survive, and pass them on in their turn. At the same time and in the same way, whatever characteristics acted against survival tend to vanish.
So what happened with malaria and chloroquine? In India, malaria comes in two main strains, caused by two different microscopic parasites carried by mosquitos: vivax and falciparum. The falciparum strain of malaria can affect the brain: when that happens it is called cerebral malaria. This is what my brother suffered in Orissa.
Chloroquine was an effective treatment, used heavily and widely, against falciparum. But today, in certain parts of the country, and precisely because chloroquine was used heavily in those parts, falciparum has become resistant to chloroquine.
When it was first used, chloroquine killed falciparum parasites -- it prevented their survival in our bodies. True to Darwin's theory, falciparum, in an evolutionary sense, recognized the threat chloroquine posed to its survival. In each succeeding generation, only those falciparum individuals that were somehow able to survive the chloroquine onslaught managed to reproduce. Doing so, they passed on to their descendants the characteristics that helped them to survive. Over several generations, these characteristics got strengthened -- selected for, in other words -- and a greater and greater proportion of the falciparum population had them. Eventually, a strain of falciparum appeared that was totally resistant to chloroquine.
There's evolution for you.
What happened to falciparum is a perfectly natural process, simple and with an inexorable logic. It happens to every species on the planet. Humans included. For example, archaeological evidence shows that we are today a taller, stronger race than we were at the dawn of our history. Why has this happened?
You might look at it this way: In each generation, across the whole human population, it was generally the taller and stronger people who had the best chance to reproduce. Thus these were favoured characteristics that were passed on and strengthened; they were selected for. Each generation was just that much sturdier than its predecessor. So today, many generations later, we would seem like giants to our ancestors. "Goliaths!" they might call us in derision. (Of course, we could always shoot back: "Lilliputs!")
But we were discussing falciparum, remember? Natural selection applies in exactly the same way to humans and to falciparum parasites. There is one crucial difference, however, and that takes us to the heart of the tussle between disease and medicine.
In humans, evolution is a slow, measured process. Over a few thousand years, we are only a few inches taller, on average, than our ancestors were. It takes several generations for evolutionary changes to be noticed, and among us, that means hundreds of years. We procreate some twenty or thirty years after we are born. That is how long it takes for a desirable characteristic -- height, for example -- to be passed on.
In contrast, falciparum lives and breeds at a rate measurable in hours and minutes. All micro-organisms do. Those that cause the plague, for example, live for just half an hour. Generation follows generation at breakneck speed. Naturally, evolution also proceeds at breakneck speed, not at the stately human pace. Traits that contribute to survival -- here, the resistance to chloroquine -- are passed on and reinforced swiftly. In some cases, it is just a few weeks before resistance begins to appear.
Evolution, you see, has turned around to bite us -- and in the case of malaria and mosquitos, quite literally so. Whenever a new drug to treat a disease is discovered, it is only a matter of time before the disease, inevitably, stops responding to it. Natural selection ensures that, just as it ensures that our descendants will be generally taller than we are.
Medicine, therefore, is on a perennial treadmill. To date, it has managed to stay one step ahead of disease by the constant discovery of new drugs. But it is a precarious tightrope we walk. Who knows when we will lose the advantage of being that small step ahead?
Which is why, in the long run, prevention and precaution are better bets than cures and treatments. That means good health, exercise, regular
habits, cleanliness in our homes and outside: simple, basic ideas that hold the key to our survival.
Now, if only they get passed on to our descendants as well.
But for me, his experience was a revealing glimpse into the constant battle modern medicine must fight to control disease. Why was his malaria resistant to chloroquine?
To answer that, we have to go all the way back to Charles Darwin and his
theory of evolution, or natural selection. In essence, the theory says that as species evolve over time, they retain and develop those characteristics which promote their survival and reproduction. This means that evolution also suppresses the characteristics that retard survival and reproduction. Only the individuals who survive can reproduce. Their descendants tend to retain their capacity to survive, and pass them on in their turn. At the same time and in the same way, whatever characteristics acted against survival tend to vanish.
So what happened with malaria and chloroquine? In India, malaria comes in two main strains, caused by two different microscopic parasites carried by mosquitos: vivax and falciparum. The falciparum strain of malaria can affect the brain: when that happens it is called cerebral malaria. This is what my brother suffered in Orissa.
Chloroquine was an effective treatment, used heavily and widely, against falciparum. But today, in certain parts of the country, and precisely because chloroquine was used heavily in those parts, falciparum has become resistant to chloroquine.
When it was first used, chloroquine killed falciparum parasites -- it prevented their survival in our bodies. True to Darwin's theory, falciparum, in an evolutionary sense, recognized the threat chloroquine posed to its survival. In each succeeding generation, only those falciparum individuals that were somehow able to survive the chloroquine onslaught managed to reproduce. Doing so, they passed on to their descendants the characteristics that helped them to survive. Over several generations, these characteristics got strengthened -- selected for, in other words -- and a greater and greater proportion of the falciparum population had them. Eventually, a strain of falciparum appeared that was totally resistant to chloroquine.
There's evolution for you.
What happened to falciparum is a perfectly natural process, simple and with an inexorable logic. It happens to every species on the planet. Humans included. For example, archaeological evidence shows that we are today a taller, stronger race than we were at the dawn of our history. Why has this happened?
You might look at it this way: In each generation, across the whole human population, it was generally the taller and stronger people who had the best chance to reproduce. Thus these were favoured characteristics that were passed on and strengthened; they were selected for. Each generation was just that much sturdier than its predecessor. So today, many generations later, we would seem like giants to our ancestors. "Goliaths!" they might call us in derision. (Of course, we could always shoot back: "Lilliputs!")
But we were discussing falciparum, remember? Natural selection applies in exactly the same way to humans and to falciparum parasites. There is one crucial difference, however, and that takes us to the heart of the tussle between disease and medicine.
In humans, evolution is a slow, measured process. Over a few thousand years, we are only a few inches taller, on average, than our ancestors were. It takes several generations for evolutionary changes to be noticed, and among us, that means hundreds of years. We procreate some twenty or thirty years after we are born. That is how long it takes for a desirable characteristic -- height, for example -- to be passed on.
In contrast, falciparum lives and breeds at a rate measurable in hours and minutes. All micro-organisms do. Those that cause the plague, for example, live for just half an hour. Generation follows generation at breakneck speed. Naturally, evolution also proceeds at breakneck speed, not at the stately human pace. Traits that contribute to survival -- here, the resistance to chloroquine -- are passed on and reinforced swiftly. In some cases, it is just a few weeks before resistance begins to appear.
Evolution, you see, has turned around to bite us -- and in the case of malaria and mosquitos, quite literally so. Whenever a new drug to treat a disease is discovered, it is only a matter of time before the disease, inevitably, stops responding to it. Natural selection ensures that, just as it ensures that our descendants will be generally taller than we are.
Medicine, therefore, is on a perennial treadmill. To date, it has managed to stay one step ahead of disease by the constant discovery of new drugs. But it is a precarious tightrope we walk. Who knows when we will lose the advantage of being that small step ahead?
Which is why, in the long run, prevention and precaution are better bets than cures and treatments. That means good health, exercise, regular
habits, cleanliness in our homes and outside: simple, basic ideas that hold the key to our survival.
Now, if only they get passed on to our descendants as well.
October 26, 2010
Roadrunner: SPAN
In the September/October 2010 issue of SPAN, the magazine that the American Embassy in India has published for half a century, Laurinda Keys Long has a feature about my Roadrunner. To her, the book "shows that the intelligent, open-eyed and open-eared traveler gains even greater understanding of his home country and people as he journeys abroad."
She also writes that I have: "the ability to observe detail and describe it in an original way, to make connections and comparisons intelligibly, to write wittily, and within a few pages engage the reader in the life and story of a character. That is because D'Souza is brave enough to not only backpack alone in Africa for three months but to roll into a string of campgrounds, roadside cafes and small towns across America and strike up a conversation with ... well, just anyone. It's the trait of a true journalist, though D'Souza's background is in computer science."
She's far too kind, but thank you nevertheless Ms Long! You can read all she says here: A Roadrunner's US Odyssey.
She also writes that I have: "the ability to observe detail and describe it in an original way, to make connections and comparisons intelligibly, to write wittily, and within a few pages engage the reader in the life and story of a character. That is because D'Souza is brave enough to not only backpack alone in Africa for three months but to roll into a string of campgrounds, roadside cafes and small towns across America and strike up a conversation with ... well, just anyone. It's the trait of a true journalist, though D'Souza's background is in computer science."
She's far too kind, but thank you nevertheless Ms Long! You can read all she says here: A Roadrunner's US Odyssey.
Roadrunner: India Currents
Writing about my book Roadrunner in the October 2010 issue of India Currents, Rajesh Oza mentions me in the same sentence as William Least Heat-Moon (and says it "is not a stretch"). Our respective books about travelling in the US, he says, "shine the further they move away from the headlines, dining at out-of-the-way cafes rather than fast food chains, and meeting ordinary Americans rather than the rich and famous." Oza says I "tease the reader with a magnificently rendered exposition of race in America during the time of Obama."
He says other stuff too, some of it critical, and you can read it all here: On the Road Again, and Again, and Again.
And you can leave your comments here. You must. Again, and again, and again.
He says other stuff too, some of it critical, and you can read it all here: On the Road Again, and Again, and Again.
And you can leave your comments here. You must. Again, and again, and again.
Form factor
Two hour wait at Amsterdam's Schiphol airport for my Bombay flight last week, the gate area began to fill up with Indians heading home. I was about to go looking for some last minute gifts in the always overpriced dutyfree shops when an airport official arrived and advised us all to get into line for passport and security checks. So we did, a long straggly line in which I was about 40 people from the front. Longish wait, I knew, but there was plenty of time and I was in no hurry.
Strangely though, it must have been about 70 people who went before me. Because with almost every step I took, folks from behind sidled past and ahead of me, and further ahead still. Some simply walked past the line, offered their passports and walked in.
Same story repeated in the line for security. Same story repeated in the line to board.
One man who had wormed past like this in the first line ended up in the seat next to mine. I wasn't particularly kindly disposed toward him, as you can imagine. Still, it wasn't for that reason that I dozed off as we rose into the air, and when I woke an hour later I opened my book and began reading, knowing I had a long dull flight ahead.
Then the airhostess came through handing out Indian immigration/customs forms. I filled mine, stuck it in my pocket and reopened my book. But the man beside me had been watching me at work. Now he waved his form under my nose, asking me in broken Hindi to fill it for him. I did. Then he produced his wife's form, she sitting next to him. I filled that one. Then he produced her sister's form, she sitting next to the wife. I filled that one too.
Word of my expertise at filling these customs forms had apparently spread far and wide through the plane, because after a few minutes the woman in the row in front turned back and passed her form through the gap between the seats. Then her husband's. Then the woman across the aisle from me waved her form at me. Then her husband sitting in the window seat beyond her. Then a guy appeared at my shoulder with another form. Then he came again and yet again with more forms, at least one of which was a form I had already filled earlier and he (a little too aggressively, I thought) asked me why I had ticked certain boxes, or had written certain things.
So no, it actually wasn't such a dull flight after all. My book, though, it stayed unread.
Strangely though, it must have been about 70 people who went before me. Because with almost every step I took, folks from behind sidled past and ahead of me, and further ahead still. Some simply walked past the line, offered their passports and walked in.
Same story repeated in the line for security. Same story repeated in the line to board.
One man who had wormed past like this in the first line ended up in the seat next to mine. I wasn't particularly kindly disposed toward him, as you can imagine. Still, it wasn't for that reason that I dozed off as we rose into the air, and when I woke an hour later I opened my book and began reading, knowing I had a long dull flight ahead.
Then the airhostess came through handing out Indian immigration/customs forms. I filled mine, stuck it in my pocket and reopened my book. But the man beside me had been watching me at work. Now he waved his form under my nose, asking me in broken Hindi to fill it for him. I did. Then he produced his wife's form, she sitting next to him. I filled that one. Then he produced her sister's form, she sitting next to the wife. I filled that one too.
Word of my expertise at filling these customs forms had apparently spread far and wide through the plane, because after a few minutes the woman in the row in front turned back and passed her form through the gap between the seats. Then her husband's. Then the woman across the aisle from me waved her form at me. Then her husband sitting in the window seat beyond her. Then a guy appeared at my shoulder with another form. Then he came again and yet again with more forms, at least one of which was a form I had already filled earlier and he (a little too aggressively, I thought) asked me why I had ticked certain boxes, or had written certain things.
So no, it actually wasn't such a dull flight after all. My book, though, it stayed unread.
October 14, 2010
Roadrunner in California
The Roadrunner bandwagon rolls on. There will be a discussion around my book in California's Bay area, this Sunday October 17, 4-6pm. I'll be there, discussing the book with Viggy Mokkarala.
Details and RSVP info here.
Please come if you're in the neighbourhood, and even if you're not. (Especially if you're not).
Details and RSVP info here.
Please come if you're in the neighbourhood, and even if you're not. (Especially if you're not).
October 13, 2010
Geese at my fingertips
Amazingly pleasant weather here in Detroit: sunny days with just a slight nip in the mornings, cool nights. I've been hitting the nearby tennis court most mornings. Here's the issue though: I have nobody to play with. In fact in all these days I have not seen anyone on that court.
So I've been practicing my serve. I set myself a target of 100 serves over the net for each session. (Getting 100 serves into the box is the next target). Good thing: I've never been able to practice serving in such a sustained fashion. It's a good workout too: my shoulder aches and I feel pleasantly tired by the end. And I think my serve is improving. Flat goes reasonably well, and I suspect I'm getting something of the hang of imparting topspin too.
Big lesson: the toss is everything. This is the thing that's the slowest to improve. Getting the right direction, the right height, is hard work.
Another lesson: the more I think about aspects I need to work on, the more the serve as a whole breaks down. It works best when I don't think and just let knees and hips and shoulders and arm and racket do their work.
And this leaves me wondering how I will fix my tendency to footfault. Check this clip of the fag-end of one session, when I'm tired and achy as well. Suggestions on beating the footfault monster are welcome.
But here's the nicest part of these sessions. Next to the court is a pond surrounded by a large area of grass. At least these days, this area is home to a number of squawking Canada geese. Periodically one or two more will fly in, squawking all the time, to join their comrades; or a few will run a bit and take off, flapping slowly and heavily to gain height, then smoothly away over the trees, wheeling around and into the distance.
Every now and then I'll go into my service motion, looking up at the ball and the sky beyond, and I'll see a few of these long-necked birds flapping past seemingly just above my fingertips; once about a dozen of them, formed into a wiggly "V".
The serve goes to hell, but I don't mind.
So I've been practicing my serve. I set myself a target of 100 serves over the net for each session. (Getting 100 serves into the box is the next target). Good thing: I've never been able to practice serving in such a sustained fashion. It's a good workout too: my shoulder aches and I feel pleasantly tired by the end. And I think my serve is improving. Flat goes reasonably well, and I suspect I'm getting something of the hang of imparting topspin too.
Big lesson: the toss is everything. This is the thing that's the slowest to improve. Getting the right direction, the right height, is hard work.
Another lesson: the more I think about aspects I need to work on, the more the serve as a whole breaks down. It works best when I don't think and just let knees and hips and shoulders and arm and racket do their work.
And this leaves me wondering how I will fix my tendency to footfault. Check this clip of the fag-end of one session, when I'm tired and achy as well. Suggestions on beating the footfault monster are welcome.
But here's the nicest part of these sessions. Next to the court is a pond surrounded by a large area of grass. At least these days, this area is home to a number of squawking Canada geese. Periodically one or two more will fly in, squawking all the time, to join their comrades; or a few will run a bit and take off, flapping slowly and heavily to gain height, then smoothly away over the trees, wheeling around and into the distance.
Every now and then I'll go into my service motion, looking up at the ball and the sky beyond, and I'll see a few of these long-necked birds flapping past seemingly just above my fingertips; once about a dozen of them, formed into a wiggly "V".
The serve goes to hell, but I don't mind.
October 11, 2010
De ides of demarches
A radio talk show host in New Zealand is out of a job, because he made fun of Sheila Dixit's name. Two Australian cops are suspended, because of email they sent out that's offensive to Indians. In each case, India's foreign office protested "strongly" to authorities in those countries over the actions of these men, issuing "demarches" to their High Commissioners in India. Comments I've seen on any number of news reports about all this are full of righteous invective from Indians against Aussies and NZers. e.g. One of 410 (!) comments here asserts that "the Australian way of life as it is now, is disgraceful and not an honorable way."
Yes, that's "disgraceful and not honorable" -- prompted by email between cops.
I'm not sure how to react to all this.
At one level, I have little sympathy for guys who make what they think are jokes in this vein.
At a second level, I'm reminded of our own star cricketer Harbhajan Singh. One day in Sydney, he didn't call Andrew Symonds "monkey". But he did say "teri maa ki…" to Symonds. And when Symonds thought he said "monkey" and got riled and it turned into a disciplinary hearing, Harbhajan's teammates and the cricket board and most Indians actually and vociferously defended Harbhajan's use of an epithet that most of them would have found offensive anyway. Because it wasn't "racist" as "monkey" would have been. No matter, it was still offensive, wasn't it? (Please don't try to argue this Harbhajan case if you don't agree with me about it, I'm not interested).
At a third level, at least one Indian media personality chose to make remarks that ended up offending another country too. No word on whether s/he is out of a job.
But at a fourth level, why this extreme sensitivity about names and stupid remarks anyway?
Doesn't everyone make fun of names? For one example consider the anonymous playing around with "lund" that happened here. For another, how many times have you heard the tired puns that involve "Bush"? Should the people responsible for these lose their jobs?
And consider the travel contest entry I once ran across that had this to say about some fellow bus travellers: "[they were] low income African Americans. Their size and perpetual scowls can be quite intimidating." Did this person lose their job?
I'm sure you have more examples. My point: should India really have been so officially offended by the incidents in Australia and NZ? Should you? Are you?
Yes, that's "disgraceful and not honorable" -- prompted by email between cops.
I'm not sure how to react to all this.
At one level, I have little sympathy for guys who make what they think are jokes in this vein.
At a second level, I'm reminded of our own star cricketer Harbhajan Singh. One day in Sydney, he didn't call Andrew Symonds "monkey". But he did say "teri maa ki…" to Symonds. And when Symonds thought he said "monkey" and got riled and it turned into a disciplinary hearing, Harbhajan's teammates and the cricket board and most Indians actually and vociferously defended Harbhajan's use of an epithet that most of them would have found offensive anyway. Because it wasn't "racist" as "monkey" would have been. No matter, it was still offensive, wasn't it? (Please don't try to argue this Harbhajan case if you don't agree with me about it, I'm not interested).
At a third level, at least one Indian media personality chose to make remarks that ended up offending another country too. No word on whether s/he is out of a job.
But at a fourth level, why this extreme sensitivity about names and stupid remarks anyway?
Doesn't everyone make fun of names? For one example consider the anonymous playing around with "lund" that happened here. For another, how many times have you heard the tired puns that involve "Bush"? Should the people responsible for these lose their jobs?
And consider the travel contest entry I once ran across that had this to say about some fellow bus travellers: "[they were] low income African Americans. Their size and perpetual scowls can be quite intimidating." Did this person lose their job?
I'm sure you have more examples. My point: should India really have been so officially offended by the incidents in Australia and NZ? Should you? Are you?
October 09, 2010
All the dead were dead
Whether the RSS is to be equated to SIMI or not, I'll leave others to figure out and make pronouncements on. It doesn't interest me much, really.
I do know a couple of things. One, in my experience, folks who feel the need to tell the world that they are "patriotic" usually don't quite believe it themselves. And two, it's in the reactions to pronouncements that you can usually find revealing nuggets.
Consider one reaction to Rahul Gandhi's pronouncement, taken at random: Rahul Gandhi should have known better. Nearing halfway through this otherwise innocuous editorial, there's this sentence:
It was the RSS that sent in its cadre to salvage the bodies of victims after two planes collided mid-air a short distance from Delhi: All the dead were Muslims.
I don't know when the defenders of the RSS will realize -- if they care, that is -- that it is exactly this kind of line that people like me find so disillusioning.
Because how do they know for certain that all the victims were Muslims? If they found out, why did they find out? There is something profoundly repugnant about going through a list of dead passengers, or digging through the clothes on a mutilated body, to find a name and then tick off that it is a Muslim name.
And why make this assertion anyway -- does the RSS expect applause because it chose to salvage bodies that turned out to be Muslim? I mean, I'm appreciative of what the RSS did after that crash not because the dead were Muslims, but purely because it was hard, stomach-turning work that still had to be done. It doesn't become more stellar (or less) because these were Muslims who died.
The truth is, that line is the revealing nugget in this essay. It says all I need to know about the thinking of whoever wrote it. And to me at any rate, it's not particularly edifying.
I do know a couple of things. One, in my experience, folks who feel the need to tell the world that they are "patriotic" usually don't quite believe it themselves. And two, it's in the reactions to pronouncements that you can usually find revealing nuggets.
Consider one reaction to Rahul Gandhi's pronouncement, taken at random: Rahul Gandhi should have known better. Nearing halfway through this otherwise innocuous editorial, there's this sentence:
It was the RSS that sent in its cadre to salvage the bodies of victims after two planes collided mid-air a short distance from Delhi: All the dead were Muslims.
I don't know when the defenders of the RSS will realize -- if they care, that is -- that it is exactly this kind of line that people like me find so disillusioning.
Because how do they know for certain that all the victims were Muslims? If they found out, why did they find out? There is something profoundly repugnant about going through a list of dead passengers, or digging through the clothes on a mutilated body, to find a name and then tick off that it is a Muslim name.
And why make this assertion anyway -- does the RSS expect applause because it chose to salvage bodies that turned out to be Muslim? I mean, I'm appreciative of what the RSS did after that crash not because the dead were Muslims, but purely because it was hard, stomach-turning work that still had to be done. It doesn't become more stellar (or less) because these were Muslims who died.
The truth is, that line is the revealing nugget in this essay. It says all I need to know about the thinking of whoever wrote it. And to me at any rate, it's not particularly edifying.
Yoga and commitment
The President of the Southern Baptist Seminary, one Albert Mohler, is in the news. This AP story is why.
And what's the fuss? In an article he wrote last month, Mohler asserts that there is a significant disconnect between Christianity and yoga. In fact, says Mohler, "When Christians practice yoga, they must either deny the reality of what yoga represents or fail to see the contradictions between their Christian commitments and their embrace of yoga."
The interesting thing about this Mohler essay is that he comes across as actually inquisitive and curious about yoga (and, I'll presume, other practices from other cultures). Read him to see what I mean. Yet I cannot understand his drawing of a line in the sand between yoga and Christianity.
Or perhaps what I mean is, I do understand it. Because all over again, this is precisely what I have always found so troubling about religions. The way they seek forever to delineate what is and what isn't part of their particular religious "commitments". The way religious leaders seek to put their flock into one strait-jacket or another. The way they all have their particular taboos, whether it is yoga or women menstruating or praying at anything but prescribed times.
I'm no theologian. But to me, it seems the only commitments a religion -- any religion -- asks for is that, one, you are a good human being, and two, you are good to your fellow human beings and others who share life with you on this planet.
And I simply cannot see how practicing yoga in any way interferes with those tenets. Maybe that's why I'm not a theologian.
And what's the fuss? In an article he wrote last month, Mohler asserts that there is a significant disconnect between Christianity and yoga. In fact, says Mohler, "When Christians practice yoga, they must either deny the reality of what yoga represents or fail to see the contradictions between their Christian commitments and their embrace of yoga."
The interesting thing about this Mohler essay is that he comes across as actually inquisitive and curious about yoga (and, I'll presume, other practices from other cultures). Read him to see what I mean. Yet I cannot understand his drawing of a line in the sand between yoga and Christianity.
Or perhaps what I mean is, I do understand it. Because all over again, this is precisely what I have always found so troubling about religions. The way they seek forever to delineate what is and what isn't part of their particular religious "commitments". The way religious leaders seek to put their flock into one strait-jacket or another. The way they all have their particular taboos, whether it is yoga or women menstruating or praying at anything but prescribed times.
I'm no theologian. But to me, it seems the only commitments a religion -- any religion -- asks for is that, one, you are a good human being, and two, you are good to your fellow human beings and others who share life with you on this planet.
And I simply cannot see how practicing yoga in any way interferes with those tenets. Maybe that's why I'm not a theologian.
October 07, 2010
Burning down the house
So here's a story: a home in Tennessee catches fire, the owner calls 911, the Fire Department doesn't respond, the fire spreads to the neighbour's home, the neighbour calls 911, the FD responds to him and puts out his fire, the firefighters will not do anything to put out the first fire, they stand around watching that house burn to the ground.
This is not something I made up. Last week, it really happened. (Oddly, three years ago I drove within a couple of miles of where it happened, on my way to a nearby spot that charmed me).
Why did it happen? Well, residents of that county must pay $75 every year to get firefighting services from the city of South Fulton. This homeowner, Gene Cranick, had not paid this fee this year. (Apparently he has paid it in the past, but forgot this year). So he was not entitled to the service. His neighbour had paid. So he was entitled.
This kind of fee is part of what's loosely called "opt-in government", which can make sense in thinly populated rural areas. I have no argument with the fee. To a degree, I have no argument with the FD not responding to Cranick: he had not paid the fee and had effectively "opted out". OK. But then these firefighters turned up at the spot anyway, with the equipment and the expertise to put out Cranick's fire. They put out his neighbour's fire. So why would they stand and watch Cranick's house burn down, and do nothing to stop it? This seems just bizarre and crazy to me.
Bizarre or not, this episode has touched off a small storm among libertarians, the guys who make the case for small and limited government. Daniel Foster of the National Review ("I’m a conservative with fairly libertarian leanings") said he was OK with opt-in government, but then asked: "What moral theory allows these firefighters (admittedly acting under orders) to watch this house burn to the ground?"
His colleague at the magazine, Kevin Williamson, responded: "Dan, you're 100 percent wrong … The world is full of jerks, freeloaders, and ingrates — and the problems they create for themselves are their own."
There was more. One thinker said that letting this house burn "will probably save more houses in the long haul". Another drew a line between "sogginess" and "crunchiness", saying conservatives need to "stand up for crunchiness" and "for the fire department to have extinguished the Cranicks’ fire would have been soggy." Right. What should we call watching a family's life go up in smoke then? (Links and comment available here).
And all this reminded me that I haven't heard of or from Indian libertarians in a long time. They referred to themselves as a cartel a few years ago. Has the cartel disbanded? Dispersed? Do they now call themselves the term some scorned, "liberal"? I've seen some evidence of that in recent times. (Besides, somebody informed me last year that "I am libertarian and hitting back at Muslims and teaching them a lesson is fundamental to our philosophy" -- I assume this guy is a crank).
How does the cartel see this firefighting case in Tennessee?
***
I am reminded of this image by Joel Sternfeld, one of my favourite photographers.
This is not something I made up. Last week, it really happened. (Oddly, three years ago I drove within a couple of miles of where it happened, on my way to a nearby spot that charmed me).
Why did it happen? Well, residents of that county must pay $75 every year to get firefighting services from the city of South Fulton. This homeowner, Gene Cranick, had not paid this fee this year. (Apparently he has paid it in the past, but forgot this year). So he was not entitled to the service. His neighbour had paid. So he was entitled.
This kind of fee is part of what's loosely called "opt-in government", which can make sense in thinly populated rural areas. I have no argument with the fee. To a degree, I have no argument with the FD not responding to Cranick: he had not paid the fee and had effectively "opted out". OK. But then these firefighters turned up at the spot anyway, with the equipment and the expertise to put out Cranick's fire. They put out his neighbour's fire. So why would they stand and watch Cranick's house burn down, and do nothing to stop it? This seems just bizarre and crazy to me.
Bizarre or not, this episode has touched off a small storm among libertarians, the guys who make the case for small and limited government. Daniel Foster of the National Review ("I’m a conservative with fairly libertarian leanings") said he was OK with opt-in government, but then asked: "What moral theory allows these firefighters (admittedly acting under orders) to watch this house burn to the ground?"
His colleague at the magazine, Kevin Williamson, responded: "Dan, you're 100 percent wrong … The world is full of jerks, freeloaders, and ingrates — and the problems they create for themselves are their own."
There was more. One thinker said that letting this house burn "will probably save more houses in the long haul". Another drew a line between "sogginess" and "crunchiness", saying conservatives need to "stand up for crunchiness" and "for the fire department to have extinguished the Cranicks’ fire would have been soggy." Right. What should we call watching a family's life go up in smoke then? (Links and comment available here).
And all this reminded me that I haven't heard of or from Indian libertarians in a long time. They referred to themselves as a cartel a few years ago. Has the cartel disbanded? Dispersed? Do they now call themselves the term some scorned, "liberal"? I've seen some evidence of that in recent times. (Besides, somebody informed me last year that "I am libertarian and hitting back at Muslims and teaching them a lesson is fundamental to our philosophy" -- I assume this guy is a crank).
How does the cartel see this firefighting case in Tennessee?
I am reminded of this image by Joel Sternfeld, one of my favourite photographers.
Following Fish: a review
In the famed Anantashram restaurant in Khotachiwadi in Bombay, Samanth Subramanian is savouring the delights of his bangda meal. He overhears a conversation "so diverting" that he actually forgets what he is supposed to be doing there -- ingesting gastronomic material for this book -- and tunes in to the two men.
After the initial pleasantries, one says to the other: "In some time, anyway, we will all be naked."
After a suitable pause for this information to sink in, the other replies: "What?"
I'll leave you to discover the rest of this surreal exchange that so charmed Samanth in Anantashram. But when I read it, it struck me as being, in some ways, his book in miniature. You're following fish (and well, your book's called that after all). You stop somewhere to taste what some local eatery has done with the stuff, and it is usually an excellent meal. But you have your eyes and ears open too, in addition to your mouth. (Though sometimes your eyes are open because they are watering with all the mouth-watering spices that are stuffed or rubbed or marinated into the fish … I'll leave that there too). And since they are open, you see and hear and absorb plenty of everything that surrounds the consumption of fish, and later you write about all that too. And it's a good thing: It would be a dull book indeed that was filled to the gills (no I did not intend that pun) only with descriptions of tasty meals.
And this is not a dull book. Though it has those descriptions all right.
Samanth has a felicity with words and language that, simply put, I can only envy. Time and again, he finds the simile that brings to life whatever he is telling you about, or the phrase that makes you question assumptions, or maybe just the word or two that makes you laugh out loud. Sometimes one or more of those at the same time.
In Goa, he finds the Sinquerim jetty "thrumming with jet-skis and powerboats". But Samanth also knows that this is early in the season; at the peak, he imagines there would be far more thrumming, with vessels "scudding through like hordes of angry water beetles." Spot on with the image, and you can't help a smile at the image of irate insects scuttling about like … well, like boats.
In Chennai, he opens a gifted tub of dried mackerel podi, that charming Tamil word for a mixed spice. "Tasted raw," says Samanth, "it races to the back of your throat and proceeds to set your tonsils on fire, but with rice and a liberal spoon of ghee, it settles down and thereafter only singes your mouth with occasional bursts of playful fieriness." I mean, I've tasted podi like that. Asked to describe it, about all I ever managed was a gasped "It's hot!" Never thought of attributing speed and playfulness to them. Yet Samanth's words make you feel like the stuff is being its playful self on your virgin tongue, tapping out its eye-watering rhythm on those unsuspecting tastebuds.
But of course the book is about more than fish and tastes. It's through that lens that Samanth tells us about churches and Marathi chauvinism and markets and boat-building and plenty of other things that make this such a fascinating country. For just one example, listen -- and I mean listen -- to him as he unfolds the Howrah fish market early one morning: "the sotto scrape of crates being dragged, the fortissimo yodel of fish prices, the cymbal-crashes of balance pans, the persistent notes of conversation … like second or third violins, and the occasional tuba-like burst of the horn of a truck."
Did you hear it? I've finished the book, and even so I imagine the Howrah Market Concerto #1, conductor Samanth Subramanian, playing on in my head as I muddle through the day.
So do I have a complaint? Yes, and it's to do with what I've mentioned above. There were times when I felt the similes coming at me just a little too fast, like a series of monsoon waves crashing on one of the beaches Samanth wanders. (There, he's got me doing it too). They make things vivid, sure, but sometimes you want the description straight up, no frills, just the facts ma'am. Because sometimes straight up is more vivid than any simile. Sometimes no frills makes the next simile jump even more energetically from the page.
For that reason, I wish Samanth had left some of his experiences unadorned.
Still, overall this is a little jewel of a book. Now I'm looking forward to visiting Toddy Shop #86 in Alleppey with it in hand, to reading passages from it there over toddy and karimeen, and to staggering out both drunk and stuffed to the gills (I didn't mean that pun either), but sated in the extreme.
And when that's done, I'll ask Samanth to tell me more, lots more, about lovely Shailaja with long hair tied into a bun who made him the best Mangalore fish curry in existence. And then I'll get on a bus or train or any damned transport from Alleppey to Mangalore and sit back, dreaming toddy-enhanced dreams of long hair and fish curry.
***
Full disclosure: I'm in Samanth's acknowledgements.
After the initial pleasantries, one says to the other: "In some time, anyway, we will all be naked."
After a suitable pause for this information to sink in, the other replies: "What?"
I'll leave you to discover the rest of this surreal exchange that so charmed Samanth in Anantashram. But when I read it, it struck me as being, in some ways, his book in miniature. You're following fish (and well, your book's called that after all). You stop somewhere to taste what some local eatery has done with the stuff, and it is usually an excellent meal. But you have your eyes and ears open too, in addition to your mouth. (Though sometimes your eyes are open because they are watering with all the mouth-watering spices that are stuffed or rubbed or marinated into the fish … I'll leave that there too). And since they are open, you see and hear and absorb plenty of everything that surrounds the consumption of fish, and later you write about all that too. And it's a good thing: It would be a dull book indeed that was filled to the gills (no I did not intend that pun) only with descriptions of tasty meals.
And this is not a dull book. Though it has those descriptions all right.
Samanth has a felicity with words and language that, simply put, I can only envy. Time and again, he finds the simile that brings to life whatever he is telling you about, or the phrase that makes you question assumptions, or maybe just the word or two that makes you laugh out loud. Sometimes one or more of those at the same time.
In Goa, he finds the Sinquerim jetty "thrumming with jet-skis and powerboats". But Samanth also knows that this is early in the season; at the peak, he imagines there would be far more thrumming, with vessels "scudding through like hordes of angry water beetles." Spot on with the image, and you can't help a smile at the image of irate insects scuttling about like … well, like boats.
In Chennai, he opens a gifted tub of dried mackerel podi, that charming Tamil word for a mixed spice. "Tasted raw," says Samanth, "it races to the back of your throat and proceeds to set your tonsils on fire, but with rice and a liberal spoon of ghee, it settles down and thereafter only singes your mouth with occasional bursts of playful fieriness." I mean, I've tasted podi like that. Asked to describe it, about all I ever managed was a gasped "It's hot!" Never thought of attributing speed and playfulness to them. Yet Samanth's words make you feel like the stuff is being its playful self on your virgin tongue, tapping out its eye-watering rhythm on those unsuspecting tastebuds.
But of course the book is about more than fish and tastes. It's through that lens that Samanth tells us about churches and Marathi chauvinism and markets and boat-building and plenty of other things that make this such a fascinating country. For just one example, listen -- and I mean listen -- to him as he unfolds the Howrah fish market early one morning: "the sotto scrape of crates being dragged, the fortissimo yodel of fish prices, the cymbal-crashes of balance pans, the persistent notes of conversation … like second or third violins, and the occasional tuba-like burst of the horn of a truck."
Did you hear it? I've finished the book, and even so I imagine the Howrah Market Concerto #1, conductor Samanth Subramanian, playing on in my head as I muddle through the day.
So do I have a complaint? Yes, and it's to do with what I've mentioned above. There were times when I felt the similes coming at me just a little too fast, like a series of monsoon waves crashing on one of the beaches Samanth wanders. (There, he's got me doing it too). They make things vivid, sure, but sometimes you want the description straight up, no frills, just the facts ma'am. Because sometimes straight up is more vivid than any simile. Sometimes no frills makes the next simile jump even more energetically from the page.
For that reason, I wish Samanth had left some of his experiences unadorned.
Still, overall this is a little jewel of a book. Now I'm looking forward to visiting Toddy Shop #86 in Alleppey with it in hand, to reading passages from it there over toddy and karimeen, and to staggering out both drunk and stuffed to the gills (I didn't mean that pun either), but sated in the extreme.
And when that's done, I'll ask Samanth to tell me more, lots more, about lovely Shailaja with long hair tied into a bun who made him the best Mangalore fish curry in existence. And then I'll get on a bus or train or any damned transport from Alleppey to Mangalore and sit back, dreaming toddy-enhanced dreams of long hair and fish curry.
Full disclosure: I'm in Samanth's acknowledgements.
October 05, 2010
Once upon
Here's something I've long felt: the guys who most loudly invoke the names of their gods are the guys to whom it means the least.
For me, Nazneen Tonse touches on exactly that sentiment with this little essay: Once upon 2.77 acres.
For me, Nazneen Tonse touches on exactly that sentiment with this little essay: Once upon 2.77 acres.
October 03, 2010
Brunching
In Hindustan Times Brunch today, I'm in the excellent company of Sadanand Dhume (My Friend the Fanatic) and Avirook Sen (Looking for America), merely for writing my Roadrunner.
Take a look: Brave New World.
Take a look: Brave New World.
Three times
As the Commonwealth Games are about to begin, there's news that its Organizing Committee estimates it will have an "overall economic impact of approximately $4,940 million on India over the period of 2008-12".
Now that should gladden every Indian heart. What a huge economic impact that is. I mean, allow me to convert to rupees by multiplying that number by 50 ... that's Rs 24,700 crore!
According to this news, what we spent to generate this huge economic impact is "over Rs 70,000 crore."
Our expenditure on the Games is nearly three times the "overall economic impact" of the Games. Sounds like a pretty fabulous return on investment to me.
Now that should gladden every Indian heart. What a huge economic impact that is. I mean, allow me to convert to rupees by multiplying that number by 50 ... that's Rs 24,700 crore!
According to this news, what we spent to generate this huge economic impact is "over Rs 70,000 crore."
Our expenditure on the Games is nearly three times the "overall economic impact" of the Games. Sounds like a pretty fabulous return on investment to me.
October 02, 2010
Pained, bad
Sheila Dikshit says "I feel pained, I feel bad" about Mani Shankar Aiyar leaving New Delhi during the Commonwealth Games.
She asks, "How are the Games disturbing anybody?"
I wonder, Ms Dikshit. Leading up to the Games, according to this report, your administration "demolished hundreds of homes" in the city you govern. Your authorities erected bamboo screens to "to hide slums from tourists" in the city you govern. Your government "kicked out over one lakh homeless" from the city you govern.
You tell me, Ms Dikshit. Are the Games "disturbing" these Indian citizens whose homes were hidden from view, or destroyed? Do you "feel pained, feel bad" about these Indian citizens who have left Delhi during the Games? (Though unlike Mani Shankar Aiyar, they probably did not leave willingly.)
She asks, "How are the Games disturbing anybody?"
I wonder, Ms Dikshit. Leading up to the Games, according to this report, your administration "demolished hundreds of homes" in the city you govern. Your authorities erected bamboo screens to "to hide slums from tourists" in the city you govern. Your government "kicked out over one lakh homeless" from the city you govern.
You tell me, Ms Dikshit. Are the Games "disturbing" these Indian citizens whose homes were hidden from view, or destroyed? Do you "feel pained, feel bad" about these Indian citizens who have left Delhi during the Games? (Though unlike Mani Shankar Aiyar, they probably did not leave willingly.)
His salwar-kameezed wife
Seated in nearly the last row of a large aircraft that landed in Detroit yesterday, I was thus nearly the last of its passengers to make it to immigration. A cheerful airline attendant stood there, directing US citizens further down the hall, and us non-Americans to the end of a long (and slow!) queue. Must have been 70 people ahead of me; I resigned myself to a long wait and joined the queue.
Without warning, a balding Indian man wearing an orange shirt and a moustache pushed between me and the woman immediately in front, making me stumble backwards, my arms windmilling to keep my balance, and buttonholed the airline attendant.
I didn't hear what he asked her, but when I heard her answer, I guessed. "Don't worry sir," she said. "We know you've got a close connection, we're going to try hard to get you on your flight. If you don't make it, we'll put you on the next flight." She pointed, indicating that he should return to his position in the queue. He brushed past me again, though this time I had warning and did not stumble, wriggled through my fellow-passengers to near the front. (Must have been sitting in a row much closer to the exit than I had been).
Minutes later, he reached the head of the line, and one of the immigration officers waved to him. He rushed to that counter, wife in salwar-kameez in his wake. I could see him start to explain something frantically to the officer, who simply put up a hand indicating he wasn't interested in anything but what he needed to find out.
For whatever reason, the couple took an inordinately long time with the officer. They were still there when I got to the front and then was myself called to offer my credentials to another officer.
I was with her for maybe three minutes, then I wandered over to the baggage carousel. My two battered bags were sliding past lazily. I lunged for them, put them on a trolley and headed for Customs, where there were actually four short queues and an officer directing us to join whichever was the shortest. I picked the one that -- naturally -- moved the slowest of the four.
Suddenly, the man and his salwar-kameezed wife rushed past behind me, pushing two trolleys laden with bags. They joined the queue to my left and then -- I could hardly believe my eyes -- pushed past the three or four people waiting there, to the head. Nor did they stop there. They ignored the line on the ground and the sign that said "Please wait behind the line", and headed unerringly towards the Customs officer there, who was busy with another passenger. Surprised, he looked up and said, "Sir, please wait behind the line."
No effect. The man waved his passport and papers insistently, frantically. The officer repeated, sterner this time, "Sir, you have to wait behind the line!" A second officer came over and said, "Sir, please go back behind the line! BACK BEHIND THE LINE, SIR!"
The shouting finally did the trick. The pair stepped back to the line, the man still waving passport and papers.
Then it was my turn to step up to the officer handling my queue. Minutes and a few questions later, he said "Welcome to the United States, sir" and directed me to the exit. I took two steps towards it and had to stop for a moment for a small procession that passed in front of me. Two Customs agents escorted the man and his salwar-kameezed wife to an enclosure on the right where several more officers stood waiting.
I suspect they did not make their close connection.
Without warning, a balding Indian man wearing an orange shirt and a moustache pushed between me and the woman immediately in front, making me stumble backwards, my arms windmilling to keep my balance, and buttonholed the airline attendant.
I didn't hear what he asked her, but when I heard her answer, I guessed. "Don't worry sir," she said. "We know you've got a close connection, we're going to try hard to get you on your flight. If you don't make it, we'll put you on the next flight." She pointed, indicating that he should return to his position in the queue. He brushed past me again, though this time I had warning and did not stumble, wriggled through my fellow-passengers to near the front. (Must have been sitting in a row much closer to the exit than I had been).
Minutes later, he reached the head of the line, and one of the immigration officers waved to him. He rushed to that counter, wife in salwar-kameez in his wake. I could see him start to explain something frantically to the officer, who simply put up a hand indicating he wasn't interested in anything but what he needed to find out.
For whatever reason, the couple took an inordinately long time with the officer. They were still there when I got to the front and then was myself called to offer my credentials to another officer.
I was with her for maybe three minutes, then I wandered over to the baggage carousel. My two battered bags were sliding past lazily. I lunged for them, put them on a trolley and headed for Customs, where there were actually four short queues and an officer directing us to join whichever was the shortest. I picked the one that -- naturally -- moved the slowest of the four.
Suddenly, the man and his salwar-kameezed wife rushed past behind me, pushing two trolleys laden with bags. They joined the queue to my left and then -- I could hardly believe my eyes -- pushed past the three or four people waiting there, to the head. Nor did they stop there. They ignored the line on the ground and the sign that said "Please wait behind the line", and headed unerringly towards the Customs officer there, who was busy with another passenger. Surprised, he looked up and said, "Sir, please wait behind the line."
No effect. The man waved his passport and papers insistently, frantically. The officer repeated, sterner this time, "Sir, you have to wait behind the line!" A second officer came over and said, "Sir, please go back behind the line! BACK BEHIND THE LINE, SIR!"
The shouting finally did the trick. The pair stepped back to the line, the man still waving passport and papers.
Then it was my turn to step up to the officer handling my queue. Minutes and a few questions later, he said "Welcome to the United States, sir" and directed me to the exit. I took two steps towards it and had to stop for a moment for a small procession that passed in front of me. Two Customs agents escorted the man and his salwar-kameezed wife to an enclosure on the right where several more officers stood waiting.
I suspect they did not make their close connection.
Flash flood blues, momma
The October 2010 issue of Caravan has my name on the cover. No, not indicating a centrespread featuring me, I assure you. Instead, it carries an essay on Ladakh that I wrote for the magazine.
Take a look: I've Got the Flash Flood Blues.
Comments welcome.
Take a look: I've Got the Flash Flood Blues.
Comments welcome.
Why it bothers me
All right, so I haven't read the Ayodhya judgement. Jetlagged as I am, on the other side of the world from my country, I have read mostly only headlines about it. And even so, I am bothered by it. I am bothered for this reason: the very people who destroyed a mosque and triggered weeks of killing across this land have been rewarded. And something about that is simply not right.
This has nothing to do with archaeological evidence and the like. Nor with Ram and exactly where he was born. Nor with exactly what Babar did in the early 16th Century. Nor with the observation that's been smugly pointed out to me a few times, that Ram is Indian and Babar is not. (What this is supposed to mean, especially when applied to figures from the mists of history, before "Indian" meant anything much, I don't know. Or maybe I do).
No, this has to do purely with how a country reacts to vandalism and terror, to the way a promise made to the highest Court in the land was broken without a thought, to how governments sworn to our Constitution chose to spit on it.
How do you decide disputes in court -- on religious sentiments? Or the rule of law?
Do you punish people who instigate, indulge and cheer on vandalism and terror, at the very least by denying them what they claim they want? Or do you reward their crimes by giving them what they claim they want?
This judgement does the latter. Which is why it bothers me.
This has nothing to do with archaeological evidence and the like. Nor with Ram and exactly where he was born. Nor with exactly what Babar did in the early 16th Century. Nor with the observation that's been smugly pointed out to me a few times, that Ram is Indian and Babar is not. (What this is supposed to mean, especially when applied to figures from the mists of history, before "Indian" meant anything much, I don't know. Or maybe I do).
No, this has to do purely with how a country reacts to vandalism and terror, to the way a promise made to the highest Court in the land was broken without a thought, to how governments sworn to our Constitution chose to spit on it.
How do you decide disputes in court -- on religious sentiments? Or the rule of law?
Do you punish people who instigate, indulge and cheer on vandalism and terror, at the very least by denying them what they claim they want? Or do you reward their crimes by giving them what they claim they want?
This judgement does the latter. Which is why it bothers me.
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