The Aam Goan

(21 Sep ’08)

            We were waiting in a queue at an SBI branch one misty, moisty, monsoon morning in Panaji. Alongside came a perky old woman to ask for an account opening form for the PPF.  I wondered, at her age, what more did she need to provide for…it was a bit late in years for earning and putting away cash to save on tax. The clerk handed her the paper and mentioned that she needed to enter a nominee’s name. Don’t want to, she said firmly. Ma’am, you can nominate anyone, could be a family member, could be a cousin, friend. No, she said, raising her voice. She was the last of her siblings, she had no children, she wasn’t going to nominate cousins or nephews or nieces, NO. But, counseled the clerk, after you, the money must go to someone. You take it, said the lady. Can’t, said the clerk. Let the Bank take it, she said. Can’t, said another clerk. Now I got involved. Why not nominate a favourite charity? No way, she said, no nominee, that’s it. No charity, no human being, no nobody. It’s my money, I’m going to put it in the PPF, and no one’s getting it. She was sent to talk to the Manager and we could hear no more of her opinions. About an hour later, I returned to the branch to collect my passbook and saw through the glass wall that she was still with the Manager, waving her hands about. The man was visibly tired, and obviously could do nothing about her being there. Wonder what happened eventually.

            Next incident happened at the old GMC building near Kala Academy. We were amongst the last visitors one evening, at Mario’s cartoon-book-biography exhibition. I realized I’d left my specs/case/pen behind only after we reached home. We debated, would I get them back? My specs, sure, I thought. The pen? It’s an expensive one with my name engraved on it, gifted by someone for a job well done (when there is no payment, sometimes the gifts are good, sometimes not, ah well). The thief wouldn’t care about the name, and I would’ve lost something I valued. First thing next morning, at the ‘opening time’, we went there. It wasn’t early, closer to 1100 hrs, but to some Goans that’s dawn. The cleaners were doing their job. I walked in, took a look around, didn’t see any of my things and was about to go when one of them suggested I see the office table. There were my specs and the case. No pen. Felt bad, but not disappointed, and went away. Later in the day, I returned to the hall, to try my luck again. And guess what, a skinny boy with the long hair sweetly told me that it was kept carefully because it looked precious. Had I looked in the drawer, I would’ve found it, he said. I could’ve taken it and spared myself this trip. He encourages a stark stranger who has been silly enough to not look after her belongings, to rummage through the unlocked drawer where he kept ‘valuables’. More: in front of me, leaving that same drawer still unlocked, he walked across out of the room. Trusting or stupid? I dunno, but at least he cared.

            The third example was narrated to me by a Mumbaikar who’s made Goa his home for a couple of decades now. In his colony, there are several erstwhile middle-Easterners or those who’ve sold off their family property to buy a flat. Many of them don’t own vehicles, or if they do, they aren’t four-wheelers anyway. A decision had to be taken about who will pay how much for parking. The logical thing would be to charge for each space, right? Here, though, a reverse fight took place. Someone turned on the Mumbaikar, said, “you have three cars, that’s why you’re suggesting you’ll pay more? Who do you think you are? You think just because you have more money you can pay more rent? You think we are fools?....” uh, duh, you can’t win all arguments, certainly not with an aam Goan who’s in the mood for debate.

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My Moment of Glory.

(31 Aug ’08)

            I was on the dais with a member of the Rajya Sabha, Supriya Sule. Google her and you’ll discover that she’s one of India’s richest, as well as Sharad Pawar’s daughter. She spoke like a person learned and who had done her homework well. Didn’t expect that. Another was Sharada Dwivedi, famous historian and author who owns Eminence Designs, the publishing company that has brought out ‘my’ latest book, Ward Number Five, KEM. ‘My’ is thus written because it is Marathi-English translation and therefore not entirely mine. The others were famous doctors: Praful Desai (onco-surgeon), Prakash Kothari (sexologist), Chetan Kantharia (surgeon) and Manu Kothari (brilliant orator…I’d pay to hear him talk!!). I thought an evening of speeches wasn’t going to be any fun, but I was wrong. Other than one, each spoke well, in control, and interestingly. Other than one, none exceeded the given time.

            Ward Number Five KEM is actually the biography of Dr. Ravi Bapat, a surgeon who has taught at the famous hospital for many decades.  The book covers the history of Parel-Naigaon, the mill areas of Mumbai, their lifestyles, and all through the history of the patients this surgeon treated. It introduces the reader to Marathi Theatre through the actors and their ailments, the politicians and the criminals, too. It educates the lay reader about common and uncommon ailments, the dilemmas doctors face and the questions patients must ask. Most importantly, it gives a wonderful description of a doctor-patient relationship and the condition of healthcare in India today. It has 360 pages book.

            None of my previous three books got this kind of a ‘launch’. I now believe it helps, because the first day that I went to work after the weekend, at least six people asked me whether I was the same person who’d written it. Word of mouth worked ! So quickly, too! Should anyone in Goa read it, do write in the criticism. Would love that.

            Enough about me.

            Like all Indians, I was thrilled to bits by the gold our Olympians brought back. Also the bronzes. I can’t imagine the level of concentration and the ‘can do’ spirit it requires. Talent and spirit have to be nurtured by money and I hope other parents take the cue from the Bindras. Really remarkable for the boxer and wrestler to have come up literally from rags to stand tall on that podium. Now that the jinx has been broken, will we gather more medals at London, or will we have another gap of three decades?  We have to train ‘em young, consistently and for long years, otherwise the latter will be true and freak incidents rather than planned harvest will be the norm.

            It was good to read an email sent by Arjun Halarnkar of the ICG. The International Centre and the Taleigao Chess Academy organized a one-day workshop on Career in Sports (Self Employment Opportunities in Sports) at the Mushtifund High School, Panaji. Good idea. In my school days, Goan Catholics and Anglo-Indians always took away the cups and trophies on sports’ days. Why the others didn’t I really don’t know, because I don’t believe sports are community-specific. But whether I’m right or wrong, I’d be happy to see Goa encourage sports. And if one can earn money in the bargain, cheers !!!

            “Teachers also expressed their views on how difficult it becomes to support a talented student who cannot afford to continue training in a particular sport.” This is what Arjun wrote. It’s time we picked up all sparks and nurtured them to become future leaders. We have NGOs supporting those with disabilities, we now need support for the exceptionally gifted. They must be motivated and their abilities trained and honed so that our country’s future (and therefore the future of you and I), is in safe hands.  They could be smart in academics, music, sports or something else. A pharmacologist friend of mine was doing part time voluntary work for children with low IQs because she believed she ought to give back to society. My point was, she could contribute even more by teaching chemistry to talented students who didn’t have the access to her kind of learning. She must pass on her experience and knowledge. For example, if a surgeon doesn’t pass on his skills to the next generation, if instead he decides to teach second standard children their maths tables…it would be a waste. Contribution to society has to be done at all levels.

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Dancing On Stage

(14 Aug ’08)

            By the time you read this, the program would have got over. Our dance is going to last three minutes. For which we have practiced for over six weeks. Back to the beginning: we have one of Sandip Soparrkar’s instructors coming in to teach us basic steps of salsa, cha-cha, rumba, waltz, etc, once a week, at the hospital where I work. We’re pretty serious about it because it’s the only exercise some of us get. We’re all over forty. Our first teacher was a college student aspiring to become an air-hostess. Our second was a physiotherapist who did this as a lark. It was she who took the trouble over the choreography both for our Annual Day dance as well as this one. I didn’t know about choreography glitches and the finer points of arranging people on stage until I got involved in this. Just as we were getting the hang of the order of the steps, she got a Fellowship to the US and flew off. The next teacher was…is.. a dietician who’s taken to full time dance work. This sort of ‘second occupation” is common in Mumbai. Actually it’s not uncommon in Goa, either, for I know many entertainers at five star hotels who hold day jobs, too.

            She took over from the physiotherapist girl and we began serious practice under her. Since we all have hectic and overlapping schedules, getting together was a problem. Sometimes we stayed after office hours, sometimes during the lunch break we met where we could. The conference hall was seldom available, so we made use of the corridors and on one occasion, even the parking area in the compound, watched on by amused/bored drivers/hangers-on. It was important to know the steps by heart, and so we did them over and over again. Whilst the problems of space and time could be overcome, egos couldn’t. “If he thinks his time is important, so’s mine.” “If she’s going to sulk like this, let her drop out. Or I will.” Extra-curricular activities help in discovering the true nature of people.  And nothing like them to develop teamwork.

            This function is like another Annual Day. All of Sandip Soparrkar’s (do a google on him and find out how this Indian is dancing with and teaching dance to Hollywood stars) classes are presenting short items on a single evening. The tickets were sold out the day the show was announced!! So much so that we performers will not get a chance to watch as spectators unless we’d bought a ticket at the time. There will be dancers from banks, colleges, the corporate companies, the world of housewives… and at the end of the show, tv celebrities. Whether all of this is world class, I will never know. But the enthusiasm it has generated amongst the participants is infectious.

            I don’t know how we juggled our timings and went shopping for the cloths/tailors/accessories. We had to practice in those shiny stilettos (most of us normally wear sensible, strappy flats) so that we got used to them. The men met their tailor at a naakaa, a major crossroad, in the middle of traffic, to get their shirts!! Talk about co-ordination.

            Through the Ganapati season, we’ve had the words of ‘sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey’ rumbling through our heads. As one of my mates commented: We’re sozzled with dance. Standing on the pavement one evening, I instinctively began to try out the steps until my husband, first puzzled and then irritated, stopped me from walking strangely in short circles and swaying from side to side…I was practicing a step that I’d found a bit complicated to a beat that was coming from the music system of a passing car. It was, as I said, instinctive.

            We’ve marked out our places, measuring the distances between us, practiced our expressions, overcome our mistakes and are ready for the Big Day.

            Before I end, I’d like to share a story about a positive attitude. A lady I know had her anal sphincter ruined over two decades ago by a surgeon’s scalpel. A mistake. For years she’s had a problem holding back her stool. She suffers from ulcerative colitis, a bad medical condition. I’ve never heard her complain even ONCE about what she was going through. Always took her ‘potty problems’ as she called them, with humour. Last year, she had to undergo a hernia surgery. On the table, whilst she was under anaesthesia, a severe and difficult decision had to be taken. The surgeon found that her colon was riddled with perforations and that would have put her life in danger. Hence it had to be removed, and unknown to her, she regained consciousness with a stoma-bag attached to her abdomen. For the rest of her life, her faeces would be excreted through that bag, not via the normal route. This year, on the ‘anniversary’ of that surgery, she told me quite cheerfully about how she and her colon had ‘parted ways’. Her attitude has kept her family life happy and secure. More importantly, she’s lived as healthily as is possibly under the circumstances. When she learnt about our dance program, she said she’d be there. “Know what,” she said, “Now I don’t have to worry about rushing to the toilet or soiling my clothes. I can go out at leisure and empty out that bag.” Humbles me.

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Seven Days in Goa

(3 Aug ’08)

            “It’s no better than U. P. or Bihar now,” friends told me. “Nothing moves, nothing works.”

            Had Goa changed that much in a year? I had a week to complete several tasks, and was hoping that would be enough.

            The first trip was to collect a duplicate electricity bill from the office at Porvorim. It took me ten minutes. The pace of the clerks was unhurried, but not lazy. The impression was good. A notice said I could pay the amount at one of several banks in the neighbourhood. It didn’t say I needed to have an account in them. Small detail, could have been provided. The counter near the A. I. R. colony was quiet easily found and that, too, was efficient.

            The second trip was to pay the tax at the panchayat at Sangolda. Again, the staff was unhurried, but helpful. They chatted amicably whilst they took out the registers, filled in the details, handed back the change. Do U.P. and Bihar work like this? Why do we run down everything that the government does? Daily, through the week, this thought came to my mind.

            I had to renew my licence at the R. T. O. To avoid the crowd I went early in the morning. The staff was punctual and organized. As the licence had expired sometime back, and since I had changed my address, I was asked to produce certain documents. Yes, I had to make an additional trip to provide those, but the process was smooth and I walked out with the new smart card. When I showed it to a friend who is involved with several heritage-saving projects and NGOs and committees, she nearly ridiculed the police department: “What’s the point doing all this? Can we provide smart-cards to so many crores of people? Will it stop terrorism?” Sad, that we run down any good that any government department does, without knowing the thought processes behind them. We seem to see only the negatives. The cops had asked me for relevant documents. Routine stuff the world over. Just because terrorists get away with crimes, should ordinary citizens not be asked for them? Smart cards will reduce paperwork, and if properly used, traffic offices can be marked on them, they don’t fray and spoil, are difficult to duplicate and easier to track than the older ones. I could feel the same resistance many had to computerization of banks a few years ago.

            The discussion then went on to the monstrosities that are being built all over the state, destroying the loveliness of nature. The same friend asked, who gave those licenses, who allowed such awful things to come up? Whilst I agree whole heartedly that those buildings really are ugly to behold, there are buyers who believe they aren’t. That’s why those flats are being sold at exorbitant rates, no matter how they look. Who will dictate which tastes are refined, what is aesthetic? The buyers know that water, sewage, traffic, electricity are going to be problems, but they don’t seem to mind. Are they morons? Unlikely, considering the kind of money they’ve earned for themselves, if that is a measure of intelligence.

            “You know, it’s the N. G. O.s and the activists that are making the right things happen,” I was informed. Sure we need citizens to be active watchdogs. We also need citizens to support any good the government may be doing. We need volunteers who will strictly monitor traffic (let’s trust that they won’t be open to taking bribes for they won’t be part of the government), who will help clean the garbage (citizens must participate in municipal activities, right?), who will help catch and thrash all criminals in the neighbourhood. Why is it that the good always fear the bad and turn to the policemen in times of trouble if they don’t trust the policemen in the first place? Why don’t they form really tough neighbourhood/village teams that can flush out criminals and deal with them at their level? “It’s the cop’s job”, some might say. True, but it’s nothing works better than alert and active citizenry. 

            The week’s gone by, I’ve got several jobs done quite speedily. Am returning pleased that Goans are participating in governance. I have noted that there are lot of ordinary government workers who are doing their jobs sincerely. Am not sure about their counterparts in U. P. or Bihar. I will tell my friends that.

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Candlelit Dinners and Retired Soldiers.

(21 May ‘08)

            There’s a rumour that the monsoons are going to be ‘very cold’. Last December, Goa had a real ‘winter’. Goenkars claimed even their didn’t work in such conditions, and as for their efficiency (the staff’s, not the watches’), floods, rains, earthquakes have never stopped them from cooking their xeet kodi, but a temperature drop? That was something else. Goenkars are a warm lot. Anything less than twenty degrees decreases their ability to think, and motivates them to do anything but work. You need to sweat to work here, not the other way around. 

            Colleagues tell me last winter the lowest temperature was ‘eight point five degrees Celsius’; that takes me back to Srinagar. Every evening, we lit a candle at dinner time. The voltage, whenever we had electricity, made every 100 watt bulb look like it’d come from the hinterlands of Bihar or U. P., looking for rozgaar. Gloomy and cheerless. The coal-heater, known as a bukhari, if you didn’t feed and nurture it well, simple killed you off with odourless, colourless carbon monoxide. The coal that had to be used came in the form of a single large lump of rock weighing some fifteen kilos (government ration stuff) which had to be dragged half a kilometer from the main road where the bus dropped my husband off. We’d sit together, me cooking on our solitary kerosene wick-stove and keeping an eye on the toddler, the husband systematically breaking to manageable bits the lump that would be used as fuel to warm us. Much of those lumps crumbled to powder that, when the bukhari belched out the smoke, added a daily layer of soot to the already very black walls. The ceiling was low, the windows didn’t seal, and small clouds of angry mosquitoes would attack us. Once their bellies were full, they’d go to the ceiling to rest before the next sortie. That’s when we could smack them dead with a chappal. Over the season, there were plenty of footprints up on the sooty ceiling.

           

            My Goan blood never got used to winders. “Banihal bandh hai” meant the markets were empty. Our gracious landlady gave us a portion of her stored vegetables. Like we dry bombils, bangda and shark for the monsoon months, the Kashmiris dry slices of brinjals, gourds and other vegetables, and stock them in ‘garlands’ for the lean season. 

             The worst days were when the minimum and maximum hovered around zero, and the snow turned to gooey slush. One had to allow the tap to drip a bit through the night so that the water in the pipes wouldn’t freeze. Otherwise the expansion caused by the solidifying liquid burst them.

            We lived in Punjab through its curfew years. The cheery sight of stretches of golden mustard fields did nothing to dispel the ache in the bones. I remember the washing lying out at night, stiff and white with frost next morning; the husband removing his helmet to reveal specks of tiny icicles on the brows and lashes.  

            In the uttar-most part of Uttar Pradesh, it’s the season of abundance. A strong memory is of a neighbour stopping our car, standing in the middle of the road, her arms laden with leafy vegetables, forcing us to accept them, whether or not we could consume them. “Give them to your favourite charity,” she said, “Mine doesn’t want any more of these. They’re happier with their dal-kaanji.” 

           

            Rajasthan is cruelly cold at night, but the daytimes are kind and pleasant. Nevertheless, the candle-lit dinners were a necessity, the reason being no electricity, not romance. Down south, the Tamilians lived simple lives because their climate allowed it, we thought. One could live on fewer clothes, lighter meals. We were wrong. The day we arrived in Wellington, near Ooty, (it’s something to do with my behaviour in my pichla janam, for wherever I go, I welcome the coldest season in forty years), the dew poured like it was rain, and the temperature was below eight point five.

            A recent tv show that I’d seen told me about the rough time the locals in the north eastern states have in winters. My sympathy stretched to the men in uniform, our soldiers at high altitude, in desperate conditions, fighting for their lives, for the country, for our freedom of speech and activity, … and as I write this article, for a fair deal in the VI Pay Commission…keeping themselves warm with whatever sub-standard equipment our politicians have doled out. Every candle-lit dinner that I have, I think of them, in that miserable cold, forgotten by an ungrateful country. Those who’ve retired after having served the nation are mostly living in the villages, dependent on their grandchildren, worrying about their pensions. Do we care? Do we know how many Goan soldiers are living thus? They have brought glory and honour to the state. We need to support them in their quest for a fair pension. This is a country-wide movement that’s happening. Let Goans take the lead in it. 

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Off Season Guests

(5 May ’08)

            By April, in hotels, the last of the charters and the first of the Indian guests mingle. British laundryman meets Indian rice dealer.

            In the swimming pool, early in the morning, the gorah is pretending to be a maharajah, soaking in luxury, after a cuppa, building up an appetite for that scrumptious ‘breakky’ buffet, readying himself to beat the heat of the afternoon. Beside him, at the tiled edge of the water, squats our pot-bellied brownie from UP or Rajasthan or Tamil Nadu, toothbrush in hand, ready to gargle, ogling at the white skin.

            The next you know, the foreigner is up in the lobby, without the towel, calling up Guest Relations, his charter rep, his travel agent, the Press, to complain bitterly about his fellow hotel occupant. This East meets West doesn’t seem to work smoothly, at least when off-season meets dollar-payer.

            Whilst the gent from Lent enjoys his balcao-with-a-view, his Jabalpuri neighbour, who is given a suppliers’-entrance-facing room, ruins it perfectly. He urinates on the very beach that Marketing has ‘sold’ as a tropical paradise. No shyness there!! However, we’re prudes when it comes to wearing swimming trunks; indeed, men jump into sophisticated pools in their pyjamas and rubber slippers; their wives follow, fully clad in petticoats, ‘nighties’, wearing bangles and with oiled hair. Yup, I’ve seen it all. Of course, most of the time, the wives aren’t there, for these are ‘conferences’, an all-male affair. These males, over a hundred of them at times, are received with the ridiculous aarti-tikka that makes the customer-service girl’s hand ache. Unlike the Finns and Germans who get hysterically excited over the stringy garlands, the dark-skin is more interested in the freebies like soaps and shampoos. Maybe napkins and candle-holders. Or even curtains. Actually, at the end of the stay, it isn’t worth maroing the curtains because they’ve been used for wiping oily hands after daroo and pakodas. Goa means daroo and girls from Baina. The homework is well done, they know exactly what’s available where. If they haven’t done it, no problem, there’s always a staff who will ‘oblige’ for a price.

            When I worked in a five star deluxe resort, I hated Indian guests. I wasn’t surprised when an ex-colleague remarked to me that she still does. We didn’t usually get the up-market Amitabh Bacchan kinds. They came during the season or went to very exclusive places which no ordinary mortal could afford. For the rock-bottom prices the normal Indian paid, they suffered: the hotel used to get renovated/painted through the afternoons.  Most of the restaurants were shut, half the staff was laid off, and even the weather was cruel. Either they suffered the sultry heat of summer, or the unrelenting downpours of the monsoons. Sightseeing was restricted: of course, our conferences’ idea of sightseeing was taking an unabashed look at the female of the Caucasian species. No churches, thank you, nor temples nor bitches…excuse, beaches.

            There were some men, though, who actually struck up conversations with the foreigners. (Indian women don’t talk, apparently.) The topic was unvaryingly about income. ‘How-much-you-earn’ vs ‘what-you-do’. The brighter sparks ask “Why you came to India?”

            The times they are a-changing. A colleague from my present office in Mumbai said she was going to Goa for a weekend to read a book. She wasn’t interested in sight-seeing, partying, swimming. It mattered not to her whether she was by the sea or in an ex-mine. She wanted greenery and silence. She wanted solitude. She wanted to get a clean room, food on time in that room, and little else. She was going alone. No housework, no phone-calls, no tv, just to read and sleep. The little slaves that did the tasks invisibly were what she wanted to pay for. She could have done that in a Mumbai hotel, but that would have been expensive. So Goa really is turning into a getaway for a different kind of tourist.  Not five-stars, but the lesser hotels need to look at this kind of guest during the off-season, and keep them safe from the rice-and-hosiery dealer type of conferences.

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Celebrating Ram’s Birthday.

(20 Apr ’08)

            Husband looked shocked: almost like I was responsible for the Scarlett episode. “You want to go to Sandhurst Road, Dongri, for Ramnavami? These are synonyms for traffic jam.”  I said it was a part of Mumbai I’d not seen. (It houses a remand home and is famous for riots).

            We went, mainly because the late Lt. Nawang Kapadia, a descendent of the Gaitondes of Palolem, was amongst those being honoured at a function there. “Religious processions” generally mean gathering here, a diversion there, loudspeakers on carts hampering vehicles, men flailing arms and legs to booming drums, statues upon crawling trucks, garishly lit… in narrow, filthy lanes. I was prepared for it all. The photo-studded, glossy, multicultured invitation stated it was sponsored by a Muslim organization.

            It was crowded, dirty, rundown…the heart of India’s richest city. The narrow street was full of deaf people. You could blow your batteries down, no one would budge. In one maidan, a cricket match was happening to ‘pormote peace’. Much money was being spent on getting together Hindus and Muslims. The clogged gutters, the dilapidated chawls weren’t worthy of cleaning/repair. If you didn’t die in a communal clash, you’d die of an infectious disease or a building crash.

            The shamiana, bordered by glittering lights, set up in the space between two buildings, was made of new cloth. Our host, the Sriram Mitra Mandal, comprised residents of the Chinwala building which, one smart young volunteer told me, had 215 rooms. “I’ve spent my childhood here”, he said with the same pride that I’d heard a Maharaja say of his palace in Jodhpur. He (young man, not Maharaja) told me that the temple behind the building, the focus of their activities, was a result of their efforts.  

            I had insisted on being punctual, ignoring my family’s protests that ‘nothing starts on time’. We were the guests, I argued, we had to set an example. Other invitees came an hour late. To entertain us, the man on the mike spoke incessantly for the entire sixty minutes. He was reciting poems, verses, hymns, in Hindi and Marathi. His prominent lisp didn’t worry him. What confidence! What a memory! From under the flapping shamiana ‘walls’, little urchins’ heads kept popping in to see what was happening. Between the buildings, the ventury effect made the breeze strong and cool.

            Ram’s birthday was being celebrated by honouring young soldiers (and one policeman) who had sacrificed their lives for the country in the line of duty. The Mandal had done its homework: got the names from the ‘competent authority’, visited the families, made a cd of snippets on each young martyr. This Mandal chooses a theme each year: literature, sports, music. Whatever is left after spending on big, fancy banners advertising the occasion, pujas, etc, is diverted to these causes. The cause is represented by expensive mementoes that will tarnish in the weeks ahead. I should have come away happy with the effort the young people had made. Instead I wondered why so much was spent on useless things and so little on what’s of worth.   These Indians have the will, the energy, the heart to do so much, were brimming with ideas, and willing to execute them. Who will direct them to do what’s useful and correct? The local politicians? Who will guide them to buy shoes for the sportsmen, sponsor art material for painters, set up a trust for retired musicians? There is an urgent need to grow trees in the area. Certainly a need to spruce up the buildings. That would be money better spent.

            The modern gurus say on Aastha channel: look only at the positive side of things. I took their advice. On the way back, I decided not to take a look at the people sleeping on the pavements and to ignore the overpowering smell of sewage. Who was I to decide what’s right and wrong?

            Ram’s in heaven, all’s right with the country, say the believers. Amen.

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