A Young Man in Hospital

         By the time this goes to press, Lance Naik Hanumantappa’s fate would be known. He and nine of his colleagues were buried under an avalanche in Siachen. Those who’ve lived in the harsh winters of Canada or Russia WITHOUT ELECTRICITY OR SHELTER will understand how traumatic that is. Add to that the cruel, biting winds at Himalayan heights where, at the best of times, it’s difficult even to breathe.

All ten were medically, physically and psychologically fit young men, in that horrible place, doing their duty to the country. Nine died. Hanumantappa was found alive after six days.

This man’s courage and tenacity is more a miracle than anything any religious wo/man can conjure up.

I try and imagine what he must have gone through: his shallow breathing through his painfully frozen nose, the limited oxygen in a pocket of air keeping him barely functioning, total darkness and the silence of outer space around him. Not for a couple of minutes or hours. He was not able to move a millimetre, drifting in and out of consciousness, not knowing whether it was day or night, whether he was alive or dead… for six days. Did he think? Was he able to think? What could he have thought about? No food, no water. Extremities burnt with the extreme cold. This man’s been through hell.

Young Hanumantappa’s wife, with their one-year-old daughter, lives in Tamil Nadu. The only ‘baraf’ she and her barely-literate lower-middle-class family might know about is the ice-cube tray inside her small fridge’s freezer.

At -50 deg C, after six days, when he was found, Hanumanthappa didn’t look human. He was a frozen, grey-black hard block.  

At the time of writing this, someone who feels his courage urges him: “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light”. The person who has posted this on his Facebook wall doesn’t know him, hasn’t shared any memory with him, yet feels so strongly for him, wants him very much to live. That impresses me.

Then I read something written by a doctor who was present when the soldier was dug out. (Pardon the sms spellings, this is a quote).

“A humbling lifetime experience today...Got opportunity today to go to Siachen (for 1st time) frm Leh wid 2 pilots in heptr to evacuate d lone survivor of Siachen avalanche Hanumantappa frm d site of avalanche to Nubra airport where patient moved to air ambulance n handed over to my counterpart in Nubra n AF doctors fr onward journey to AHRR. Since my detailment (yday late night) fr task wid 2 pilots fr initial evac frm site of incident lot of mixed feelings hv been there.. but noteworthy things-
Hats off to d:
1) RMO (Resident Medical Officer) fr keeping d survivor alive overnight at d site
2) Rescue teams to work at an altitude of 19600 ft fr so many days n recover him
3) Pilots fr daring to fly in d middle of snow blizzard through narrow mountain features inching fwds despite all d turbulence of aircraft wid extremely poor visibility (at top barely 60-70m initially) n finally making a successful landing at d makeshift helipad which was just a lil bigger than d heptr wid white out all around (top, ground n all 4 directions)
4) The men of his unit who must hv dug n gone deeper n deeper in ice wid hope to find every comrade of theirs as survivor but getting disappointed everytime n yet gathering courage to look fr next one till they found him.
5) N last but not d least d man in question Hanumantappa who survived fr 6 days buried deep under ice in place wid temp less than -50°C n strong chilly blizzards n cudnt b recognised initially as human but fr d hope, reassurance n bright spark in his eyes wen i saw him fr first time after being put in heptr there..as we took off fr Nubra airport (where air ambulance was waiting wid other med team fr onward journey to my alma mater AHRR) crossing highest inhabitable snowclad n obscured peaks wid extremely low temperatures the eyes of the man (Hanumantappa)in front of me, whom we all were meant to rescue, personified d triumph (hopefully longlasting coz he is still critical) of indomitable spirit of human resilience against all odds (including d mighty nature) n desire of man (An Indian Army Man) to never give up come wat may n realisation of hope dat at least his own fellow men in uniform wud not leave n forget him--- no doubt d fighting spirit for survival in him n the rescue teams was far far far taller than those snowclad tallest scary n dominating mountain peaks in glacier..
Salute to u and God bless my colleague in uniform - May u come out a survivor in ur next battle fr life as well wid d bright spark of hope, faith, immense courage n reassurance intact in ur eyes besides d pride of being "An Indian Soldier" .

I tell Shri Husband about this. As always, he goes on a tangent. He asks: “Do you know what a Lance Naik is?”

I do. He’s surprised, and shows some appreciation. Then he adds: “Regarding Hanumantappa, survival doesn’t mean recovery is easy. The doctors will have to slog to get him out of ICU. Frost-bite will take its toll. The ill-effects of such accidents can be crippling. Many of our soldiers suffer grievous injuries, often of the spine, disabling them when they’re barely in their twenties.  Victims of blasted mines… how they manage, how they still retain their spirit…their stories are inspiring, of heroism and bravery…”

I know he’s in lecture-baazi mode. For once, I’m all ears. Yet, a part of my mind somersaults to Hanumanthappa.

And Siachen.

We’ve lost many, many lives there. I hope this young man’s story will lead to peace. Somehow. And soon.

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Village Life in Goa.

          Our family doctor in Panaji once said to me that he was a ‘metro-man’, who wouldn’t enjoy village life. As a person with multiple interests, he can’t afford to spare time from a busy practice to commute. Like him, there are many Goans who prefer urban amenities to rural living. We, who chose to make a village our home, find that we don’t miss the city, bless good connectivity. In fact, just a few days ago, our neighbourhood got a new mall, housing grocery stores, fashionable boutiques, fancy restaurants and cinema theatres. 

          “Never mind the traffic snarls outside it,” Shri Husband growled, grumbling above my shoulder as I type.

          Petrol pumps, shoe stores, white goods’ outlets, paint and hardware shops have brought the world to our panchayat borders.

          Some things haven’t changed. The poder’s honk, the fisherwoman’s cry, the bulls that are dragged to the field pre-dawn, women teaming up with sisters-in-law and friends to harvest alsandey… these ancient routines continue unchanged. So also the religious rituals, Hindu and Catholic, carried out by rote.

          Some things have. In corners where old (and now clogged) nalas meet tarred roads, drunks and druggies snuggle in the night. The cops might not know their secret hideouts, locals do. No one discusses where/how petty crime is born. They say cities are breeding grounds for crime. Really? Check out the backgrounds of the ISIS recruits.

Viva village life. Illegalities flourish. 95% of the housing isn’t approved by TCP: haphazard and with the quiet ok of the panchayat. Expensive gated communities attract reporters, make headlines, but pukka huts where laundry/ carpentry/ welding are done are as environmentally unfriendly. No activists talk about water-guzzling, mess-causing, noise-polluting ‘essential’ services that have stealthily taken over productive fields. Launderers and welders, carpenters and others live and litter where once stretched patches of alsanday/ tambdi bhaji. Apparently, I was told by a lawyer who provides free advice hereabouts, if someone complains to the panchayat about illegal constructions/activities, the culprits go to a higher authority and from court to court the matter proceeds draining everyone of time, energy, money, for a couple of generations.

          “Nothing new,” sniggered the ever-cynical Shri Husband over my shoulder. “Happens all the time, all over India, has been happening and will continue unless the people and the government both want a change.” Took me a couple of seconds to understand that statement. “Yeah,” I echoed. “Both people and the government.” Rare to have them (plus Shri Husband and me) on the same page, I guess.

          Villagers’ aspirations are interesting. I overheard a primary-school-aged boy tell another, ‘let’s play bus-bus’. He wanted to be the conductor so he could shout to passers-by ‘Mapsa-Ponnje-Mapsa-Ponnje’. Another person, long past childhood, was thrilled to get a bit of ancestral land so he could open a shack and ‘make money’. Professions: as waiters, maybe, or hotel housekeeping help. Vocations: as taxi-drivers. Occupations: preferably to play football/ carom/ do nothing at all. Selling well-water for swimming-pool consumption or opening yet another grocery store are ‘ideas’ that make their way into village homes.

          Ah, the charm of fishing after sunset: catching frogs (illegally again), romancing under the moon and mango branches… a perspective that slithers away when one discovers that squabbling neighbours had got together and twisted a newcomer’s arm to ‘donate’ a path/ lamp-post for them.  

          “Later,” Shri Husband said, “the same neighbours un-teamed themselves and went their own quarrelsome ways, right?” I agreed. Humans don’t change, whether in waddos, housing societies or continents. Some are friendly, some otherwise.

One experience: it took me some cajoling and chit-chatting with neighbours to discover where exactly the water-connection junction was buried when the ‘line’ was to be brought to my home. The assistant engineer at the PWD office couldn’t find his drawings (I wasn’t paying for his effort to trace them) and the plumber in-charge had selective amnesia (I wasn’t paying to revive his memory either) regarding this particular location. Eventually, it was a housewife who had her own pipeline fixed (illegally again) who disclosed the secret.

Come morning, the birds readying themselves for the day, the glowing bunch of coconuts ready to be plucked, the boy who eagerly aims and tosses the rolled newspaper over my gate, the stray dog that adoringly looks at me… remind me that life here is good. And then, I see the growing slum that’s causing as much damage (by comparative scale) as the def-expo and ask myself whether its dwellers/promoters pay taxes. The cars they own aren’t lower end. Don’t IT officials pay visits here?

          “Living in utopia or what?” Bai Goanna said when Shri Husband told her what I was writing.

          Over territory, over water, when panchs (pronounced ‘punches’) don’t get along, the fights are worthy of ticket-sale. “The history of the world is the magnified history of a village,” I said loftily.

          “Not your original quote,” quipped Shri Husband.

          “Apt nevertheless,” I retorted.       

          We can’t have a world cultural festival here, but we do have our own bhajan-mandali which advertises its talents through posters and leaflets. They say people come from afar to witness the events held in the temple close by. And eat the free prasad distributed subsequently.

          The villagers are happy. Real estate dealers are going around telling prospective customers ‘our village nicest’. Someone’s making money, no one’s grumbling, the garbage piles increase. The garishly-coloured flats/ apartments/ blocks/ complexes have come up fast: proof that the dealers are believed and doing a good job. Commission economy zindabad.

          The other day, someone asked me whether I missed city life. No. My answer was instant. Plucking self-grown, sun-ripened fruit and watching the antics of mongoose babies gives a high that city-life doesn’t. In spite of flaws, village life rocks.

          “Add…” Shri Husband said and I did: “…Our family doctor doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

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ATMs and Bank Loans.

         

A recent news item about thefts from a nearby ATM prompted a conversation in my house.

Ever since I saw on television news the close-circuit camera-footage of a woman inside an ATM cubicle beaten to death by a thief (in Bangalore, some years ago), when I go to withdraw cash I carry with me a sturdy kitchen cleaver, wear pointed metal knuckles on my fingers and mentally revise Vasco’s Mahesh Kamat’s tips on self-defence for women. I look suspiciously at every passer-by and extra carefully at the watchman lest he want a sudden, quick-n-easy ‘loan’.

Actually, I envy watchmen their jobs. If I were one, I would sit with a book the whole day, preferably in the shade. And in the night shift there’d always be a bright light on in case one hasn’t finished the read. A watchman’s job description is a mix between guarding property, taking messages, giving tokens (in some banks these days), being a mobile helpdesk, assisting people park their cars—a jack of customer service.

When I stand in an ATM queue, with little else to do, I watch the watchman. I’m surprised no feminist group has protested that no women are employed as watchwomen. If women can be employed to fight wars, they can sit on stools outside ATMs on ‘watch’ duty, can they not?

As a good rule-abiding citizen, I change the password frequently. Partly because I choose easy-to-forget numbers and partly because the bank manager says it’s safer that way.

Shri Husband says: “Any hacker tracking your transactions will get a nervous breakdown trying to figure out which four-digit combination’s the latest. More importantly, after seeing the balance in your account, s/he’s more likely to feel sorry for you and put some money into it.” Meanie.

The newspaper said the hacker that stole money from the ATM used sneaky technological tricks to flout the system. I wonder why banks don’t employ these smarties as and when they’re caught. They could help the IT guys with the security loopholes. They might make good watchmen, too, since they know very well how criminal minds work.

“Seven lakhs they stole from one branch and five from another,” Bai Goanna read, putting her palm across her mouth. “Thirteen lakhs is a lot of money.”

“From several persons, so the per capita loss was distributed,” I said, sounding wise. Or so I thought.

“Twice in a couple of days,” she said, slapping her forehead this time, squinting at the fine newspaper print. She read on: “Not to worry, this particular incident is the bank’s responsibility and the customers will be paid what they lost.” She sighed in relief as if the money had gone from her account. She added, fanning her face with an open palm: “Now the banks will have to figure out a way to outsmart the hacker-thief.”

All this while, Shri Husband sat without saying a word. Ominous, that silence.

Suddenly he grunted: “Who takes responsibility for bank loans not paid back?”

Where did this come from, Bai Goanna and I wondered, silently communicating with each other via raised eyebrows and twisted mouths.

As if reading our minds he said: “Not saying the ATM hacker shouldn’t be tracked and punished. But there are big headlines and loud discussions and everyone’s chasing a petty thief for stealing a minor amount.”

“Thirteen lakhs in less than a week. Is that a paltry amount?” Bai Goanna and I chorused.

“It is, compared to unpaid bank loans,” he said. “If a person borrows a couple of thousands and doesn’t return it, he’s considered a criminal.”

True that, I thought. If someone doesn’t return a loan, he should be in jail.

“If a person borrows many lakhs, even crores from a bank and defaults, he gets a seat in Parliament. He pleads in Court how bad business is/was, how our laws must be changed, how he can’t afford to pay his staff salaries,” Shri Husband took a breath, “…and then off he goes to recover from the trauma, to his extravagant bungalow by the seaside or upon a mountain ridge or a super-delux yacht anchored in a foreign marina.” Lecture-baazi shuru, I thought.

Contemplating on what Shri Husband had just said, I supposed what the good swamis on television say: the defaulter’s karmas will catch up with him, if not in this life, then in the next. I said so aloud.

“Let the defaulters karma catch up with them whilst they’re in jail,” Shri Husband addressed me in a highly offending tone, as if I was responsible for the banks’ losses. I sniffed and responded: “I’m not concerned with loan defaulters. I’m worried that a hacker might hack my account.”

“You should be concerned about loan defaulters,” Shri Husband said, his voice-volume rising by several decibels. “Because it’s your money that’s involved. If the bank doesn’t get it back with interest, it’s your money that will suffer. Tomorrow if you want to take a loan, you’ll have to pay higher interest because the defaulter chap was irresponsible.” He sounded like one of those experts on television.

I looked at Bai Goanna trying to work out the math mentally. She nodded, agreeing with him.

I decided to ignore both of them and, for a change, I walked out of the room. I picked up my purse on the way out, opened the front door and hurried straight to the nearest ATM to withdraw all I had so no hacker would benefit. At least not from my account. This time I carried with me a magnifying glass, too, to locate, if any, equipment that could replicate/photograph the details on my ATM card. One has to be cleverer than and a step ahead of the hackers, no?

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Bargaining, Bargainers, Bargains.

          I’m terrible at bargaining. It’s the one thing Shri Husband and I have in common. The other is that we (agree to) disagree about everything. Whilst on errands, he suffers from tunnel-vision. If he has to buy a certain soap and if he finds any change in it, the tirade begins: ‘is this really ‘x’ brand, when did they change the packaging, why’s the wrapper of a different colour, is it spurious, show me the expiry date/MRP, seal/address of manufacturer, has it been sold to another company, where’s the ISI mark’…you get the drift? If there are multiple products of the same brand or look-alikes nearby, the sales-guys usually report sick afterwards, with tension-related, Shri-Husband-caused migraines.

Nevertheless, as I said earlier, he pays without grumbling whatever the company/sales-person says he should. I do, too. MRP zindabad. 

Though shopping-challenged, I enjoy customer-watching, like some people like window-shopping. Same occupation, different focus.

People bargain to reduce the price of a fistful of small fish as if their lives depended on it, from Rs 50 to Rs 45, but not flinch at being overcharged for footwear. Whilst our food is hawked by the sewage-gutters at the edges of pavements and roads, our shoes/chappals are vended in posh air-conditioned ‘show-rooms’. (An aside: I’ve no idea when shops became show-rooms. Perhaps around the time that flats became ‘apartments’, houses became ‘villas’ and vannya-dukaans turned from grocery or general stores to ‘super-markets’, though I’ve yet to figure out just what is super about them.)

Even if there’s bargaining involved in a footwear shop, the percentage reduction in price of a pair of shoes is less than for any raw food item. Anyone good at math? Please check out my theory. I haven’t noticed anyone bargaining in malls for clothes, accessories, underwear, sports’ goods, but for some reason suitcases are always ‘seconds’ or on sale. Wonder why. Also, does ‘seconds’ mean pre-owned or flawed whilst manufacturing? No one wants to know, for a bargain’s a bargain, quality be damned. There are also permanently located ‘export surplus (= rejects)’ stalls where bargaining is allowed/expected on already ‘discounted’ stuff.

Those who complain about how taxis/autos/pilots take people for a ride, literally and metaphorically (and I agree strongly with them), meekly submit to the increase in airfares over a long weekend. I haven’t seen too many letters to the editor about those fares being unreasonable or cheating tourists or causing hardships to locals, nothing. No one bargains with airlines over tickets, not since online booking made fare-comparisons from home possible.

One place where pay-for-one and get-another-free happens is in doctors’ clinics. A patient goes inside the room with her mother or sister-in-law and when she’s finished telling the doctor her story of pain and nausea, she encourages her companion to narrate what happened to that distant cousin. Doctor, then, is supposed to do remote-diagnosis and treat an anonymous patient, free of cost. I guess gynaecs and dentists are exempt from such OPD ‘bargains’.

Such tactics don’t work in beauty-parlours. At least I’ve not heard of anyone reducing cost after hair is cut/waxed off.

Try bargaining with a plumber/electrician/carpenter/painter. You could invest what you save in a DYI (Do It Yourself) course for future repair work. I see around me boards advertising housekeeping services, with phone numbers and scope of work prominently mentioned. Clearly, make in India skills include dusting/ mopping/cleaning wells /washing cars; perhaps NaMo could consider exporting those skills along with digging roads, laying cables, digging roads again, laying pipes, digging roads and putting up lamp-posts, digging roads to increase width of existing ones, digging roads… calculate the Indian fee for the expertise at dollars per hour… quite a bargain in many parts of the world.

Walk along Candolim/Calangute and you’ll see ‘fixed price’ notices for getting tattoos done, buying ‘false’ jewellery and renting apartments. Tourism has its own dynamics. Two days ago, in the north Goa beach belt, I chatted with a beggar woman holding a toddler on her hips. “Why don’t you work?” I asked her. She replied, “I do, on days when I don’t get enough alms.” (“Jab bheek kum milti hai toh kaam karti hoon, bartan manjneka, jhaadu laganeka, gaadi pochhneka.”). From her I learnt that charity-receivers bargain, too. A packet of biscuits for her child and Rs 10 for her wasn’t good enough. She could convert currency rates in her mind and she asked for ‘just one’ euro! Illiterate certainly doesn’t mean unintelligent. She looked healthy, she was young and I wondered whether someone like her could/would ever fall in a taxable bracket. Another thought: could finding loopholes in the law be considered a form of ‘bargaining’ with the government?

We bargain with god, in temples, on auspicious days in particular, promising deities coconuts/ saris/ pujas if we get jobs/ children/ married. If it worked, with devotee-queues as long as they are, our places of worship would look like wholesale coconut/ sari bazars and the priestly profession would be in great demand.

The best way to bargain, I’ve learned from the Haryanvi Jats, is to set fire to vehicles, break every glass sheet in sight, thrash fellow humans, stall railway trains, shut down offices, don’t let anyone or anything divert your attention until you get what you want. Parliament and ministers, MLAs, activists and the media are never eyes and ears if you sit at Jantar Mantar quietly, holding placards and issuing press releases to bring attention to what is rightfully yours. Did our retired soldiers not learn that the hard way? The aam junta has understood instinctively, what works is a battering of the senses, starting with noise… check out use of car-horns (bargaining for right of way) today.

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Of Numbers, Meditation and Other Boggling Stuff.

          Shri Husband and I are not talking to each other again. The silence is cold, not cool, not at all suited for a Sunday approaching summer. The quarrel has nothing to do with either of us, but is related to an event that took place in faraway Delhi last week, the World Culture Festival.

It began when I asked just how much 35 lakh is. “Rupees? Grains of rice? What?” was Shri Husband’s back-question.

“People,” I said.

“Why do you want to know that?” was the counter-question. Shri Husband dislikes answering in the first go.

“Those many people are to gather in one place in or near Delhi,” I informed him, “for a world culture festival.”

“Culture,” Shri Husband said, going directly into lecture-baazi mode, “Includes what you eat, wear and talk, how you sit, stand and behave with elders/ strangers, the rituals you follow, the geography and history of where you live, where your ancestors have lived… so what’s a world culture?”

I thought to myself, he loves the sound of his voice.

“Culture,” he droned on, “varies from neighbourhood to communities. Every profession has its own culture, see? Bankers dress, talk and behave differently from soldiers. Doctors and architects, auditors and plumbers have a few cultural similarities. A few. Hotel managers, a-c technicians, train-drivers, cameramen, window-dressers, sports’ coaches, all have their individual cultures. See? Take cities: Delhi, Chennai, Mumbai, all have distinct cultures. See?”

Actually I didn’t, but when I don’t, I pretend to agree anyway to keep arguments brief. I nodded a ‘yes’.

Changing approach, I added: “Environmental experts are saying there will be damage to the flood plains of the river which is the venue because of 35 lakh people being there.”

Shri Husband supposed that any place that had 35 lakh people in one place would cause damage of some sort. Maybe. But, he said, further changing the approach I had changed, that he was more worried about the cows in his own neighbourhood eating polythene bags instead of grass and we drinking the milk they provided. “I’m worried about the air I breathe and the water I drink right here, not so much about what’s happening thousands of kilometres away.”

Returning to my original question, I asked: “How much is 35 lakhs?”

“Considering your maths-challenged status, as reflected in your school report cards year after year, don’t bother to figure that out.” Something in those words sounded impertinent; I have a tendency to bash on regardless when somebody talks about my disability to count.

“Tell me, tell, tell,” I urged, “how much is it?”

Slowly, Shri Husband said, “Thirty-five. One more zero, three hundred and fifty. Another zero, three thousand five hundred, another zero, thirty-five thousand…”

That’s when the quarrel really warmed up. Or the cold-silence period began. Because I got a feeling he was being sarcastic and said so. He admitted that he was and pleased that I detected it.

“Control your anger,” he said. “Try meditating. Deep breathing. Staying still. Thinking positive thoughts. Dispelling negativity.”

Look who’s talking, I thought to myself.

Bai Goanna witnessed what was happening and said it was a very big deal to have so many people singing and dancing and the spectators also came from different places.

“Thirty-five lakh different places?” I asked. Naively, actually, but that made things worse. Shri Husband barked: “Don’t be silly.” At times he says I won’t learn unless I ask questions. If I do ask a question, it’s silly. Why do I always have to be the loser?

Bai Goanna figured something wasn’t ok between us, so she advised us to meditate. She’s got a certificate to teach how to change oneself, one’s attitude to situations, how to handle what destiny dishes out, etc. “Take deep breaths, one count inhale, two counts out, then two counts inhale, hold for one count, exhale, sit straight, cross-legged, hands up, elbows out, put your fingers on your nostrils, not those fingers, hum like a bee, loudly-loudly, recite the name of your favourite god a hundred and so many times...”

Her lessons on meditation make me wonder why/how people pay her to de-stress. To me, it’s quite bewildering. “Calm down, smile from the inside, think of nice things, feel the cheer flowing through you, look into the eyes of the person next to you, tell him/her your deepest secrets…” not my scene, but to each their own. I prefer a hearty laugh at a stupid joke, a sweaty slog at gardening or practicing a recipe to sitting cross-legged in loose clothes with a bunch of like-minded persons chanting/singing together in the outer room of someone’s house. I don’t mind the post-satsang snacks and gossip. Once she said: “It’s ok if you drink liquor/smoke cigarettes, but better if you don’t.” Strangely worded advice. It’s like saying it’s ok if you don’t pay taxes, but better if you do. I confess, my philosophy-comprehension quotient is low. Bai Goanna’s better equipped to talk about things vague.

“When we meditate or pray together,” she pontificated, “the vibrations, the energy, causes miraculous things to happen.”

“If,” I asked, truly curious, “if 35 lakh people exhaled together, say in one gigantic sneeze, would it cause abnormal air currents?”

“I don’t know” would have been a decent and proper reply. Instead, Shri Husband – who wasn’t even part of this bit of the conversation-- went off on a tangent and talked about the scale of traffic to be handled, the deployment of cops to prevent and handle crime, the disposal of the garbage generated. Now my mind wandered, thinking about just how many people were required to cause traffic jams.

With 35 lakh people, how many taxi-owners, bottled-water distributors, anti-headache-tablet sellers, chai-samosa-walas would have benefited is something I for one can’t calculate. I’m dwelling on that boggling thought whilst there’s uneasy peace in the house.

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Cross-pollination

          It took us two days from Srinagar to Jammu via Udhampur by bus and five from Jammu to Tambaram near Chennai by train. There were no halts, though we changed trains. A toddler and a dog were part of our entourage, adding to our troubles and excitement. From Bareilly to Goa in a ‘sixties’ vintage Fiat also took five days; nights were spent in homes of friends in towns along the way. Hotels were rare and unaffordable, as was air-travel. Shri Husband and I lived an adventurous life; these are two of the several long journeys we’ve undertaken across the sub-continent in the days before television, bottled water, the internet and mobile phones came into our lives. A ‘hold-all’ carried our mattresses, linen and shoes, and trunks carried our clothes and valuables. Food hampers were stuffed with non-perishable snacks. Water? We got off at platforms and drank it from the taps, never giving a thought to infections. Made us hardy.

The problem was language. As we crossed geographical boundaries, from the desert to the mountains to the coasts, the features of the people (and landscapes) changed rapidly, as did the food they ate, the clothes they wore, the crafts they made. Travel wasn’t possible on Discovery or National Geographic channels, nor through packaged tours.

(“I could,” I said to Shri Husband, “actually, write a best-seller on the experiences, you know, and make a lot of money.” His answer: “Ha.”)

          Today, travel is different and the change visible.

The mekhlas-chadors of the north-east, the lungis of UP, dhotis of Maharashtra and the runda-mundoos of Kerala are converted into salwar-kameezes. The Punjabi-suit (that’s what we called it in my childhood), is known as ‘dress’ in the land of its origin today. All the brilliant weaves that made gorgeous saris in erstwhile eras are now re-designed to make ‘suits’, something that is no longer what only men wear. (To anyone who moans how the elegant sari is getting extinct, I say, Indian men long ago discarded the airy dhoti-lungi for the restrictive but practical pant-shirt. Now it’s the women’s turn to get comfortable.)

Like Bollywood, this fusion-fashion has united the country imperceptibly. In most urban and semi-urban areas, clothes no longer indicate caste or region. Besides cable-television and mobile-phones, the other things connecting this vast country are the lokotsavs.

          At the recently concluded one in Panaji, I found Goans flocking to gobble dal-kachoris from the Gujeratis and Rajasthanis. They (the local customers, not the Gujeratis/Rajasthanis) expertly tackled its sticky, heavy, utterly delicious sweet variation, too.  Embroidered linen, crochet-laced children’s-wear, hand-made leather footwear, preserves, masalas, people were no longer unfamiliar with the wares on sale. An acquaintance spotted the fine difference between a brown cane-basket and a boiled-cane green-hued one. I saw a couple purposefully striding towards a Ferozabad stall that had metal-studded glass pendants on sale. “The only other place I can get similar things is in Italy,” I overheard. One upper-middle-class woman, on my asking multiple questions, admitted that she came from a long distance away to spend several hours each day at the utsav to search for artsy bargains: “I buy a year’s stock of gifts.”

          Birthday return-presents, Diwali-Christmas decorations, wedding reminders /takeaways are no longer necessarily locally made. That’s true the world over. Fridge magnet mementoes showing (Goan?) coconut trees, caps with pictures of churches printed on them, checked chuddies with drawstrings… are all made in Thailand.

          Now that most states in India have ‘labour’ from ‘outside’ because ‘no-one (here) wants to work anymore’, an undocumented change is happening. Businessmen from Andhra starting eateries in Goa are hiring cooks from Manipal and waiters from Karnataka to serve customers from anywhere in the world. The cuisine stretches from Schezuan samosas to wine-flavoured rasagullas to prawn-filled puris dipped in vodka-pani.

          The resultant cross-pollination of cultures in best reflected in language. In the pure form of Konkanni/ Marathi that I learned in my growing years, a ‘polka’ was worn under the loose ‘padar’ end of a sari to cover the chest, and a ‘parkar’ beneath the waist/pleats. The sari has long been relegated to wedding-wear, hence these words are out-of-use in my home. The other day, I mentioned them to my house-help who wears the traditional attire day in and out. She stared at me blankly, uncomprehendingly. I brought out my old clothes and pointed out to her what I was referring to. She giggled and corrected me: “Say ‘blouse’ and ‘petticoat’. Don’t talk to me in English, I don’t understand it.” She has adopted the words ‘blouse’ (pronounced ‘billa-ooss’) and ‘petticoat’ as her own.

          I always pay attention to the views of regular travellers and I don’t mean airline crew.

          I asked one of the stall-keepers, who’s been criss-crossing the country doing lokotsav business for the past many years, which his/her favourite state was/is. “Goa,” s/he said, “And Chennai”. S/he may have said the first to please me, I surmised, but why Chennai? S/he replied, “We don’t get drunks and louts bothering us in these two places.” Whoever says that Goa’s a place for drinking should meet this person. I was then informed me that the one thing  common everywhere was the hera-feri that happened during allotment of stall locations. “Paisa,” she said, “works wonders.”

          “Good to know,” quipped Shri Husband cynically, “that in this world, where terrorists’ bullets and the rise/fall of the dollar are unpredictable, some things remain unchanging.”

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Moving House.

          Shri Husband and I used to, years ago, shift house by carrying our luggage on a motorized two-wheeler. Actually that should read ‘houses’ because we’ve done it many, many times. What we owned fitted into a couple of cardboard cartons tied up with coir rope. Duct-tapes were a luxury… actually I don’t know whether they existed then. Later, as we accumulated linen to wrap precious crockery in, we bought ourselves tin trunks. Which could be locked. One odd trunk was relegated to a corner of the new home’s living area, blankets were folded to fit its top dimensions, the newest of the above-mentioned linen was used to cover it and voila, we called it ‘sofa’. A couple of small trunks standing shoulder to shoulder in three lines with a sheet-covered mattress on them became a bed.

The kitchen got operational immediately, for eating out wasn’t possible in the remote areas we lived in. In some places, even bread was unheard of. The only vegetables were seasonal, regional and available at a weekly bazar, unless you grew them yourself. I’ve no idea whether the bought ones contained DDT or some other poison. Ignorance was bliss.  

Running water was available only as and when electricity ran through the knotted and sparking tangle of overhead wires. It went without warning and came unexpectedly. Kept us alert through all our waking hours. One of the first things most newly-weds invested in was a ‘mosquito-net’. We did so, too. It provided security for the photo-frames that joined us in our transfers. Bubble-wrap plastic-sheets were a figment of some scientist’s imagination then.

          Until we got a gas-connection, a wick-stove ruled our lives. A beer bottleful of kerosene sufficed for a meal for 3-4 people. The pressure-cooker could be converted into an oven by removing the weight/whistle and rubber gasket from the lid, and putting sand in place of water to uniformly distribute the dry heat for baking. Not surprisingly, the contents of our kitchen, including half-a-dozen plates with matching tumblers, serving implements and spoons, fitted into a single trunk.

          Moving house became complicated after we bought a fridge. After packing its shelves and dividers separately, its insides were stuffed with old clothes and the spare spaces with books, shoes and curios. The outside was covered with thin mattresses, firmly tied in place. The whole rigmarole of shoving it into a crate and loading it onto a tempo has given me sturdy knees, elbows and shoulders. Gymnasiums—or gyms as they’re better known nowadays—were for gymnasts, in schools, colleges and some other institutions, not for the common junta like us. From two-wheeler transportation, we graduated to hiring tempos and making lists. Losing luggage, or its late arrival was a matter of great concern in the days before mobile phones and websites could track its movement.

          Every transfer brought new adventures. Moving house by train involved carrying winter/summer foods along. And attire according to the temperatures to be encountered. Coolers and heaters, unknown here in Goa, were additions to our ever-growing ‘saamaan’. Came the Asian Games 1982, and a television was added as companion to our smuggled two-in-one (these 2-in1s are now never heard of, like the record-players; but they brought music into our homes, quite a revolutionary thing at the time). We learned to never discard cartons. Toasters, OTGs, non-stick-ware, mixers, glass stuff… were safest in their original packaging. 

          A big advantage of frequent moves is that one throws away what one doesn’t need. Cracked and repaired garden pipes, faded buckets, outgrown shoes, hated nighties, rusty tins, greeting cards, silly gifts that one didn’t want but didn’t know what to do with, and sundry other stuff was thrown away. We lived feng shui and vastu philosophy without being believers. There was heartbreak involved when it came to parting with plants and books.

          Each home had its own quirks. Memories include leaking external pipes that made walls damp; these gave mild electrical shocks when touched because the wiring wasn’t safely ensconced either. We entertained ourselves by ‘giving current’ to ourselves (silly youthful behaviour). Inconvenient doors, no place to dry clothes, shortage of shelves, bathrooms so big one could convert them into a Mumbai-sized flat, kitchens so tiny that one had to enter sideways and stand on one foot to fit in (ok, here I’m exaggerating), taps that sang/groaned when water flowed through them, neighbours who disliked the afore-mentioned groaning/singing taps, etc.

          Until my parents’ generation, one could live a lifetime in the same rented house. The 11-month lease was unknown. With the law taking the tenants’ side and horror-stories of them un-vacating premises, house-owners nowadays seldom permit long occupation. Therefore frequent moving house(s) is not restricted to those with transferable jobs. 

          A sense of no-rootedness gives one a feeling of belonging to the planet, not a particular neighbourhood. The words ‘Vasudaiva kutumbakam’ make sense: one treats the world as family.

          With ‘no time’ to spare these days, the packing, like many other services, is outsourced to professionals. The hand-crushed balls of old newspapers that buffered fragile items against inevitable rough handling have been replaced by shredded stuff, rolls of brown, corrugated sheets of paper           and bubble-wrap. Strange fingers handle familiar utensils. Discarding isn’t easily done, yet the trash-can overflows. How do people accumulate so much stuff, I wonder aloud. Bai Goanna says: “Over the years, no, naturally.”

          I retort: “I think we should move house now. It’s a good exercise in getting rid of the junk we don’t use and hoard.”

          I’m not sure, but I think Shri Husband mumbled “amen” before he walked out.

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Post-Pathankot Chit-Chat in My House.

               Ever since I saw the attack on the airbase at Pathankot on television, I’ve been thinking.

               Whenever I think, I remember Shri Husband’s words: “Thinking tires you. Go and do something worthwhile instead.”

So I do my thinking secretly.

               First thought: I wonder how many of my village neighbours know where Pathankot is. Or Punjab, for that matter. Never mind them, they’re bumpkins; even some of my college-attended acquaintances won’t be able to point it out on a map. Fewer will know which Indian states share an international border with another country. Honestly, even I have difficulty in naming all our states, but I can do it (without googling), after some stumbling. Trouble is, Bai Goanna says, my mind is filled with names of the latest restaurants around, how to make money by selling plots/homes to those with cash to spare, which bike/car to buy with the money thus ‘earned’ and whether broken beer-bottles chucked along the road indicate prosperous tourism. Strangely enough, one or two persons I met were able to tell me the air-fares to and from Pathankot. Where interests go, to each his/her own, I say.  

               Second thought: after watching senior television-reporters hyper-ventilating questions beginning with ‘why’, people might believe that dealing with hidden terrorists’ bullets is like playing table-tennis. ‘Ping’ – that was my bullet, ‘pong’ that was yours, my turn now, and so on. In the absence of referees and rules, ethics and luck, death happens. Makes attractive headlines. Debilitating injuries, quite often a fate far worse than death both for survivors and their families, are never mentioned.

Third: how the infiltration into a military ‘camp’ happened was figured out by tweet-comments. The dissection and de-briefing was done through ‘the media’ (as we call our television network) and the government and public told who did what, when, where, why etc. Think of any family-murder covered by private national television-channels, and you’ll know what I mean. Culprits are interrogated, investigations made, loopholes found and judgements passed by tv-channel-staff, before cameras. (In between advertisements, of course, which sell insurance, toothpastes and packaged holidays.)The police, the courts and the elected representatives… all learn from The Screen what’s happening around them and in their midst. That’s how they find out what the nation wants to know.

I made the mistake of saying this aloud.

Shri Husband started off his lecture-baazi. His immediate reaction was: “I wonder whether any news-channel discusses neuro-surgeries through telephonic feedback and tells the medical team inside the operation theatre just what to do to the patient whilst s/he is under the scalpel, all anaesthetized. Or at least keep discussing her/his condition while the procedure is being done.” 

A moment punctured by inhaling a breath, and he carried on: “Reporters seem to learn in fifteen minutes what professionals take decades to get expertise in. Remarkable.”

Couldn’t make out whether he was serious. I’m obtuse at times.

Following his words, I tried to recall what I see/  hear on the news-channels. Or what I don’t. For instance, I haven’t heard anyone yell into a lapel-mike ‘the nation wants to know why Indians are using so much plastic and choking whatever sewage-disposal systems we have’ or ‘…why our students prefer to raise funds for building places of worship instead of demanding better schools/colleges’. Actually, I’ve never heard any channel ask the citizens of India what they do responsibly. Can you imagine the government saying that it wants to know how you’ve supported your local primary health centre or dealt with wastage of water? Can you imagine any television channel asking anyone at all ‘how did you help yourself’ instead of asking ‘what did the government do for you’?

I digress.

Closer home, I figured security is an important concern. I don’t want to die violently at the hands of a criminal. The guards at our malls/ shopping-centres/ supermarkets/ theatres/ banks are trained to open doors and help with heavy luggage. They even double-up as peons. (A peon is a professional no office can do without. Always male, this multi-purpose human being is keeper of secrets, carrier of files/ pen-drives, bearer of chai-nashta… more about him some other time.) Where was I? Ah, the security guards: they have uniforms and, sometimes, beepers. They let you in after asking you whether you’re carrying a water-bottle or anything to eat. If you say ‘yes’, they request you to keep the stuff on the table/floor near the door. After the program or your work is over, you can collect it. Remarkably, you will get your stuff back. I have. Always. The women-guards don’t touch you. If they do, like at the airports, it tickles.

Another word for a security guard, especially in gated communities, is ‘watchman’. Again, always male (feminists please note), always multi-tasking as gate-opener, message-keeper and deliveries receiver.

Shri Husband progressed to phase-2 of lecture-baazi: “Security also includes inoculations against tuberculosis, prevention of diseases like rabies, tackling fire-hazards like loose electricity wires above cotton-cloth wedding pandals, learning skills that will get one a job…”

Bai Goanna, brave woman, interrupted him mid-sentence with a loud ‘Abba!! Enough!’.

“We were talking about Pathankot and national security,” she said, bringing the conversation on-track.

Shri Husband hates to have the second last word. He re-interrupted: “Those guys at the border, in those horrid wintry conditions, at deadly altitudes, surviving cruel winds are facing bullets so we can sit here comfortably to crib about and analyse what we see on television.” And out he walked.

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usband H