Teacher Full-Moon Day.

          It just doesn’t sound the same when I translate Guru Paurnima into English. Can’t call it Teachers’ Day, because that’s in September, on ex-late President Radhakrishnan’s birthday. Guru, included in the English lexicon of Indian origin, means more than teacher. Lovers of old-old tradition and ancient Vedic stuff might be pleased to note that irreligious, irreverent people, too, value this day.

          My first namaskar on that day last week was to my maternal-looking, grey-haired, soft-cotton sari-clad kindergarten teacher who taught me to sit in one place, clap rhythmically and repeat after her words I didn’t understand like ‘ellemen-o-pee-cyu’ when I was learning the English alphabet. She was a widow who needed the income.

Next to my primary teachers, who had strange-sounding (to my middle-class Hindu ears) names like MizGonzalviss and MizGrayshuss. They had short hair, wore skirts, were prim, and insisted that our pinafores were ironed, shoes were polished and handwriting was neat. Five decades later, I’m still punctual and tidy thanks to them. (At this point, Shri Husband grunted and his lips grimaced … that’s his closest-to-a-smile look.)

In the evenings of my schooldays, I went to the very different world of a Vyaayaam Shaala in my neighbourhood, where I discovered that Kamat-bai and Kulkarni-sir who taught children to play kabaddi and kho-kho, spoke no English and barked orders, but were strict and caring. From them, from the Sane Guruji Kathamala and the plays staged by Ratnakar Matkari and Sudha Karmarkar came my love for Marathi. Hindi came into my life much later, when Mr Sharma forced higher-level stuff down my and my classmates’ throats. Hated it then, grateful now that I can enjoy books/poetry/songs/movies… and cuisine of regions outside my home state. I didn’t learn French/Portuguese. My loss.

Neighbours, Dada-Maushi, guided me through my troubled teenage years. Though communists and atheists, they taught me to recite from memory various shlokas and stotras, told me stories from the rich repertoire of Indian mythology and allowed me to judge for myself what I must accept and what reject from organized religion.

They coerced me into learning Sanskrit, an extra-curricular activity that my school knew nothing about. I took an elementary-level exam in the language from a reputed institution that did the unthinkable: it sent the certificate to my propah, leftover-from-the-Raj school principal. My name was called out after Assembly and I stumbled embarrassed and furiously blushing to the stage. I owe to Dada-Maushi the principal’s words, etched in my memory: ‘we are proud of you’. Neighbours are teachers, too.

Secondary school. My classmates were my teachers. Dirty jokes, day-mares of broken romances, heartbreaks involving poor marks… and struggles through formulae, calculations, diagrams, essays, exams. Whoever invented studies should be killed was a common thought. Don’t want to live through those years again; but those now invisible (many in the Celestial School up there, hopefully resting in peace), unsung Ma’ams and Sirs who made our lives                                                                                                             miserable laid the foundation for future success. Thanks, Ma’ams and Sirs.

In college we behaved like there was no tomorrow. Music programs, parties, late nights, hikes, hours and hours in the canteen. Then frantic scrambling to complete journals, make notes, revise the syllabus… we fumbled and stumbled, chose and followed our careers.

On the day before an important graduation exam, I phoned my lecturer: I was blank, mind was blocked. I couldn’t do it, wouldn’t go through it, life wasn’t worth living. Her response: to tell (her) about how (I) fared later, after submitting the paper. Give it blank, but give it, she said. Subsequently, she told me the worst that could have happened: had I failed, I would have graduated at twenty-one instead of twenty, not a big deal. I passed. Thank you, Ma’am.

Surgeons who teach registrars, physicians who coach interns, matrons who keep an eye on junior nurses, instructors who train pilot-pupils one sortie at a time, lawyers who groom youngsters, editors, grocers (hands-on practitioners of commerce), managers, hoteliers, actors, technicians, therapists, chefs, hair-stylists, cobblers, why even politicians… all have a role to play in transfer of knowledge. More than money, it’s skill that must be given in charity if we are to improve the lot of coming generations. It’s the passion for achieving excellence, of doing error-free work that gains the respect of one’s peers. (Oh-- cars, too, and phones and designer footwear and jewellery.)

In the College(s) of Crime, Mallya and Co must be having their own shishya following. Gurus come in all shapes and attires. Some lead from the back, sending pupils to face bullets whilst they monitor from the stands. Or caves or houses of worship, or neighbouring countries, wherever. All students must be grateful for knowledge gained, especially on Guru Paurnima.

I remember a young paanwala touching the toes of an elderly one on this day. “Aashirwaad doh,” he had requested. Ah, tradition!

In my list of those to thank, I can’t forget Googledevi, can I? Human beings apart, there’s so much I’ve learnt from and through technology. Deep salaams to it.

Then there’s Nature. Gives me lessons everyday on how reptiles kill frogs, birds kill insects, animals kill birds, earthquakes, floods, violence everywhere. I also witness tender buds breaking through hard rock walls, hard rock then crumbling under constantly dripping raindrops, micro-organisms causing disease, ruining the fruit we try so hard to grow. No thank you, Nature.

People, whether on crowded railway platforms or remote villages are ever a source of infotainment. And fodder for stories/articles/column. I unlearn from them what I’d learnt in childhood: to break queues, get ahead by elbowing others out, sneak in someplace illegally without being noticed, bargain hard, opine without expertise, trample on whoever can get trampled upon, outshout, outrun, out-bribe, out-eat, spit, complain,... so much to unlearn. Teachers, teachers everywhere, India’s one big schoolroom, methinks this Guru-Paurnima.

An unusual day, where one is thankful to neither god nor family for contributing to the making of oneself.

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Mid-Monsoon Musings

          Daily downpours and the lack of sun have encouraged colourful mould and fungi to take over walls/windows/shelves/bags and footwear. In the bathroom towels and undergarments, in the kitchen pulses, onions and dried fish, also colonized.

          The road that divides the neighbourhood into plots is like God:  can’t be seen (submerged under water), but those in the know, tell us it’s there, has always been reliable. Outsiders have to rely on belief and faith when they are driving/walking on it.

          Trees known and strange have sprouted leaves. Creepers are adventurous. They climb up high teak trunks, wrap themselves around branches and twigs, hug other creepers along the way and knit canopies above canopies, fashioning dismal gloom below.

          One night, a guest gets her car-wheel stuck in a spot of soft mud. The revving sinks the wheel to bumper level. It’s nearing midnight. We phone the crane-service who, spotting opportunity, charges unreasonably. A neighbour sees what’s happening. There’s a puja going on in his house. “Cancel the crane,” he tells us. After the puja, we’ll help you.” We wait for an hour till the chanting is over, then, in minutes, young strong hands, legs, torsos, push it out safely.

          Villagers always help where Nature is habitually cruel. I’ve seen that in remote places in Rajasthan (blinding sand-storms), Uttar Pradesh (crazy creepy-crawlies and erratic electrical supply), Andhra Pradesh (drought), Tamil Nadu (more drought), and Kashmir...

          Kashmir.

Srinagar was my home for three years long ago. Right now in the news for sad reasons. In this season, in the rented house where my son toddled, the roses must be in bloom, pink and fragrant. I have no idea where the landlord’s (what a grand title; it means in this case the owner of a little house) family is, whether they’ve been since the 1980s. Whilst it rained in the rest of the country, in Kashmir, locals cut, strung on thin ropes and dried in the mellow sun, brinjals, white gourd and whatever else grew in their compounds.  Housewives must still be doing that today. The soil was/is so fertile, people said if you stood long enough in one place, your feet would sprout roots. Weaving carpets, carving on walnut wood, growing almonds and embroidering fabric were ‘industries’. Today, the headlines about Kashmir tell about spilt blood, of young men wielding guns, abandoning studies, professions, families. Some people I know are accusing the government for not having done enough, others are accusing the government for having done too much damage. I don’t know what the outcome of this mayhem will be. I watch/read about what’s happening in a detached way, distance blurring reality. My grandchildren will learn about it in their history textbooks. Quoting words said by Steve Jobs: ““You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards…” (I’ve taken just a part of the full quote.)

           In my Goan sanctuary, surrounded by croaking frogs, barking mongrels, birds eagerly chasing lizards, insects running for their lives to avoid being eaten, I’m more concerned about the old fallen wall that needs to be repaired. Or the pot-holes that are causing traffic-jams in Porvorim. Or that Karwari fisherfolk are selling fish on my turf. My levels of stress, the triggers, are different from those experienced by parents in Kerala, where the rains are even heavier, where teenagers have been missing, and television guesswork says they’re turning to radicalism.  On the map Kerala might be closer to home, but it’s another world, no? Such things don’t happen here. Goa’s my comfort zone; Goa’s different. Ignorance is bliss, no?

          Washed clothes just don’t dry in this humidity. I squeeze the fibres till they wear out; finally I decide organic/cotton stuff is impractical and unaffordable for me. I also switch over to plastic, glass, synthetic containers. Steel? That, too, is made in a polluting industry and is hard to dispose of, no?

I once believed that I and members of my species were destroying the planet. Watching the rain, I change my opinion. Because ‘dry and comfortable’ = synthetic raincoats/ gumboots plus air-conditioners/driers. I think, the planet will outlive steel, cement, aeroplanes, refrigerators, GMOs. What can I do to destroy something so big and powerful? How arrogant of me to believe anything I did would give Earth even an itch. I get philosophical when the water table rises and rises and I’m confined to looking out of the window with little else to do but watch and “listen to the rhythm  of the pouring rain telling me just what a fool I’ve bin”… (love that song, sung by The Cascades in 1962, especially in this weather). Primal surroundings turn my thoughts topsy-turvy.

I pluck alloo, tero and some other leaves that I cook immediately to be eaten with hot-hot bhakryo. I ooh and aah over century-old, unchanged traditions—it’s shravan and my neighbours chant some prayers before lunch. I switch on a wonderful Miya ki Malhar on the flute. Sounds so good. But I also enjoy a trip to the new mall and take a ride on its escalators. Technology rocks.

It’s afternoon as I type this. The pair of bulls with the sharp, straight horns is returning from the fields. When they go there in the morning, they are reluctant. On their way back, they skip (ok, that’s an exaggeration, but they do walk faster). The fields have been ploughed, the seeds scattered, fodder collected, waste composted and the rain-gods are being kind.

One rainy season in north India, the post-horrible-summer parched soil became mushy with the first few drops and I observed a strange phenomenon. It came alive. The mud began to jump and dance. I saw it under a magnifying glass (no mobile-phones nor cameras then to document it). A scientist told me: “This desert was once part of the sea. The ova of certain marine life stay inert until conditions are wet and conducive to them being ‘reborn’.”

Fascinating, the monsoons are.

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My Wish List for Any Law-Maker/Executor.

          “I’m apolitical,” I said to Shri Husband this morning.

“More likely indifferent and ignorant of what’s happening the games ministers/bureaucrats play. Good for you,” he replied. I like it when I think he’s paying me a compliment, though it always sounds backhanded. (People have told me he sometimes smiles, behind my back of course, and even says nice things about me, but I have no proof.)

We were listening to the news on television and what we were witnessing wasn’t connected to politics, but our conversation veered that way. Someone on-screen was complaining about corporate hospitals fleecing patients with unnecessary tests, yet another was cribbing about poor public transport facilities. A third, who was fighting for all primary schools to teach in the mother-tongue, was bemoaning the fact that private schools were money-minded (this term, like ‘doing the needful’ or ‘prepone’ are Indianisms that accurately describe what one means/wants to express. Love ‘em.).

I said: “While half the world is discussing why Salman used the word ‘raped’ when he should have used ‘tired’, and the other half is wondering why the governor of the RBI didn’t continue longer and another half is aghast about the latest restaurant-killing in the neighbourhood…”

Interruption. Shri Husband informed me that ‘there can be only two halves, not three or more’ and that ‘halves are equal, otherwise you have to call them parts’. He always does this when I’m saying something worthwhile. As it is, because I’m a low-IQ-type, too much mathematics makes me lose my train of thought.

In spite of the distraction, I decided to get back to what I was saying before I talked about Salman Khan and the Dhaka deaths: “I think…”

Interruption two: “Please don’t think, it’s an effort for you.” Another interruption. Sad, my life, I tell you.

With some effort, I carried on: “I know how thinks… sorry, things… can be improved.” I wanted to get back to the common topics in the news: the state of buses/trains /schools/universities /hospitals, etc. But there was another interruption, number three, in as many seconds.

“You’ve graduated from thinking to knowing? Good, good.” That touch of sarcasm was uncalled for, so I ignored it.

“There should be a law or at least a rule that anyone who is part of the government, minister, secretary, peon, party president… because party presidents matter to the government… member of opposition, anyone at all remotely connected to or aspiring to be the tiniest part of governing or opposing, must go to work by public transport.”

“Grow up, wake up, that’s impractical,” said Bai Goanna. “Do you know it takes almost two hours to reach Ponda from Panaji if you take a bus? By car it’s half the time and in an official vehicle with red light and pilots, a fraction of even that. Important, busy people don’t have time to spare. Discomfort aside.”

This is a conspiracy. Bai Goanna starts talking like Shri Husband and sometimes takes his side whenever there’s a debate. I had to disregard her, too.

“That’s the only way the VIPs will share the experiences of the (wo)man in the street,” I said. “That’s one way of making sure the buses/airlines run by the government are kept in non-rattling condition and are punctual. Recently, a VIP’s flight was delayed because the pilot was late because of a traffic jam caused by potholes/poor discipline/ too many vehicles clogging the narrow roads... See how the dot gets connected?”

“Oh?” said Shri Husband. “You mean dots get connected.” Whatever. Interruption four meant he was listening. I was sounding impressive, even to myself.

Mood elevated, I raised the volume of my voice: “If they want to hold office or get promotions, VIPs should declare that they, spouses, in-laws, relatives, class-mates, neighbours, Facebook friends, should go to only public/general hospitals for medical treatment. Private medical bills should never be reimbursed.”

“That’s asking for too much,” Shri Husband said. “Extended family and acquaintances might not share the person’s philosophy, sins or booty.” But he quietly agreed with the suggestion that ‘they’ who are part of the government in any way, should go to general hospitals. He said that in Mumbai, in the years gone by, and in Delhi, KEM and AIIMS were the hospitals of choice for CMs and heads of institutions like the Municipality. That way, he added, the hospital administrations were kept well-oiled, and the public was assured that the treatments there were proper… ‘if s/he can go there, must be good’ would be the logic.

Happy that we were now on the same page, I bashed on: “How about schools. No one should be allowed to stand for elections unless they have studied in a government or government-aided school.”

“Impractical,” Shri Husband and Bai Goanna chorused. “Perhaps there can be a clause that their children should study in such schools. But that would infringe on personal freedom of choice, no? Can be shot down in Court.”

“That,” I said triumphantly, “is why there should be a rule/law to make it compulsory.”

“Trouble is,” Shri Husband mumbled to no one in particular, “Everyone is an expert, with opinions. What law to make, what rule to make… without knowledge, without consideration, just…”

Bai Goanna got into the fray, on my side. ‘Yea,’ she said, agreeing with me, followed by a ‘na-na’ to Shri Husband. Then added, going at a tangent, her own illustration: “Anyone who feels cows should be cared for must compulsorily keep at home at least four adopted strays. Netas must lead by example.”

Happy that I had her on my side, I said: “We must write to the PMO. It doesn’t matter who’s sitting in the seat, the law and rule must apply to all. As concerned citizens, we must DO something no? Let’s start by giving advice.”

Interruption five. “Substitute the word ‘advice’ with ‘suggestions’,” said Shri Husband. Last seen, he was shaking his head from side to side with a scowl on his face, hitting palm on forehead.

I don’t know why.

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I Sold My Soul to a Corporate Goal.

HR put up this notice:

The following will go for a training session, department-wise, to the Nilgiris.

A break from tension, stressful work, a time to bond, said they.

Make use of this opportunity, an all-fees-paid holiday.

We bought ourselves sweaters, walking shoes: things no townie owns.

We spend our money on eating out, trips to Dubai and mobile phones.

We were the smart guys who’d sold our Souls

To competitive, challenging Corporate Goals.         

We went by train.

Swaying bus, over winding roads, nausea driving us insane.

The HR guy lied; nothing nice about living in a tent. Tell me,

What’s fun about feeling through packed haversacks for things you can’t find, can’t see?

About not being able to scratch where it itches, zipped in a sleeping bag?

Aching knees, smelly socks, blisters, annoying mates, sweaters that sag?

We were no longer the toughies who’d sold their Souls

To what seemed from here comfy Company Goals.

The sky was the colour of my computer screen when I switched Windows on.

My skin got wrinkled, hair entangled; in muscles and joints new aches were born.

The air smelt like Lonavala on a weekend morning many years back.

Reminded me of ferns, birds, and glow-worms on my haversack.

We upped at dawn, porters made chai, rotis were baked on a kerosene flame.

The loo was at the edge of a ridge, atop a hill without a name.

So far away were we, our Souls,

Detached from those clawing Corporate Goals.

The misty, moisty mornings, frozen dew, fogs that veiled.

Chorus of insects, silent clouds of butterflies that beside us sailed.

 Distant horizon, stretched the sky; no watch on wrist, stood still the time

Colleagues huffed, held hands to help, mem’ries sublime.

 We were hungry, thirsty, we sweated, moaned, and deeply slept.

We trod and stomped, consistent steps, at pushing ourselves we got adept.

 Was this the way to teach our Souls

To reach those distant Corporate Goals?

 We were no longer driven by reports, data, graphs.

The members of each tent, each team were bound by toil, by laughs.

Those smart/pushy in office, weren’t here quite so bright.

Reading maps, rappelling down rocks, battling fears of height.

 That breeze, on air-conditioned, sun-deprived skins,

Blew away fears of deadlines, targets, and documentations.

 Slowly but surely, our office-bred souls

Were yawning, awakening, to non-corporate goals.

Bruises and scratches were evidence of life beyond my virtual world.

Yet I clutched my return ticket when in my sleeping-bag I curled.

 I wore leggings warm, crampons sharp, then to swanky shoes, striped ties returned.

My journey I saved on floppies, blogs; (now on CDs and pen-drives burnt).

 Some joined me out of curiosity, to see what drew me so.

They saw for themselves, my passion, my ‘reality show’.

 Just one exposure and their souls

Discovered life beyond Corporate Goals.  

 I watched a mini-dragon, a long-tailed creature,

Raise its coloured, scaly crown; its most distinctive feature.

 Made friends with a goat, who licked from my sweat the salt.

I discovered he’d been cooked for dinner; I was shocked.

 Beyond the hillocks, below our tents, meandered on the curvy roads,

Trucks. Gliding, navigating, grinding, ferrying incredible loads.

 Something stirred within our Souls,

Edging out wretched Corporate Goals.

Hikes take o’er every weekend, am hooked by the outdoor green.

I dig into savings, visit Garhwal, where I have never been.

 The smell of pine. Giant trees, standing sentinel by the road.

Cameras freezing beckoning peaks, mules carrying edible load.

 Darkness expands, overwhelms, settles, quietly allows

The mountain breeze to whisper: “welcome to my house”.

 A non-quantifiable something touches my Soul.

I am no longer ruled by the Corporate Goal.

Stars within plucking distance, the throbbing river’s flow,

Moon caressing snow-lit peaks, dribbling hamlet lights below.

 Gentle warmth of the morning sun, paths bordered with flowers.

Billowing clouds, sun again, stinging wind, sudden showers.    

 Chill, cold, damp: into the bones it creeps.

This freshness, this freedom, I want it all. For keeps.

 Can’t believe how those Corporate Goals

Had once clutched tightly ourSouls.

On high altitudes, no baths for weeks, ‘cept on the way back, in some icy stream.

On high altitudes, one feels like a king, royal, unreal but not quite a dream.

 Skidding on ice, halting with axes, allowing the lungs to suck in breath.

Depending on ropes and team-mates that hold them, keeping one safe from certain death.

 Leafless gorges, gushing rivers, creeping glaciers, barren terrain,

Rubble, stubble, dicey weather, steep, sheer walls, treacherous moraine.

 Lessons learnt there toughen my Soul

To take on any Corporate Goal. 

When I slip/slide on a rock, my heart with terror fills.

I clutch a tuft, grasp a root, grab a stone. My belay holds me still.

 Trek after trek, I’m hooked. I search for companions to share journeys with.

A desire, a fire, a craving for Nature. Sky above, earth beneath.

 Off to the heights I go, to inhale that clean, green air.

Climb slowly, no hurry, no rush. Quiet everywhere.

 My Soul, far away from the rat race,

Has a different kind of Goal in place.           

 Friends ask, “Why d’ you do this?” I answer, “Just to be.”

“That’s vague,” they say. I can’t explain the reason satisfactorily.

 In camp, I don’t think of office, it creeps into my dreams.

In office my mind roams the hills, I’ve a split persona it seems.

 It’s a need. Like I need to earn, to use my degree

I need to be part of wilderness. I need, as I said, just to be.

 My corporate Soul has two parts distinct.

One follows the Goal, one’s led by instinct.

 Trekking’s a leisure activity, with joys, pleasures, adventures.

But the porters, they here earn their living. Some are ex-soldiers.

 Who’ve lived on cruel, Siachen heights in winters so bitterly cold.

That the breath in their lungs turned to ice particles. Miseries untold.

 Loyal and sturdy, hard-working and cheerful, of our travels they form the backbone.

My kind loves solitude; they don’t want to be alone.

 These are different worlds alright. My soul

They can’t fathom, nor its Corporate Goal.

 On them we depend for our sites, food and rescue.

They are conditioned to do things we cannot do.

 Super climbers most: they cover deadly steep ice-falls.

Off-season some are employed as guards in crowded city malls. 

 We bond out there, each life dependent on the other.

Troubled times bring out the synergy between a man and his leader.

 The outdoor life smoothens the edges of the Soul.

Readies it for the tumble, for that winning Corporate Goal.

Lashing winds, thrashing trees, rolling boulders, violent storms.

Breaking every regulation, every rule, every norm.

 Tumult, mayhem, chaos. Earth gets punished for her sins.

The real sinners sit safely, in office cabins.

 After all that excitement, Project Life anew is signed.

Parasites acquire debris, prove how frail is humankind. . 

 My Soul many lessons learns.

Then to the Corporate world returns.  

 Greedy builders, local leaders, sell land, dynamite employ,

Quarry hillsides, pile on cement, Nature’s balance they destroy.

 Noisy tourists come, plastic footprints leave behind.

Floods, landslides: havoc unsigned.

 Yet, a few kilometres away, untouched live forests old.

A slice of the planet as it was; Heaven’s threshold.

 It’s not the laws of Nature that rule today our Souls.

The roads of Commerce lead to glittering Corporate Goals.

Over years, the mountains’ enigma, I’ve carried within me.

 When stuck in traffic, I think of ‘em, my screen-saver flashes Nandadevi.

 My family understands. At least I can do my thing.

I’d perish if I were kept away from mountaineering.

 Souls like mine, bound nor strapped

Depending on their Goals, adapt.

I

 I’m restless in summer, if I haven’t an outing planned.

I’m not one who craves for the movies, nor five-star meals on sand.

 It takes a couple of days to get the city-speed out of me.

Muscles are taut and my batteries charged, fully.

 I get withdrawal symptoms, it isn’t easy to unwind.

The reverse is also true. I miss here matters of the mind.

 Back home, my energized, raring soul,

Chases a whimpering Corporate Goal.

A different perspective: that vast, wild world. Stamina of body and mind

Are tested. Exploring routes, climbing peaks; finance and systems get left behind.

 Earth’s presentation’s pointed and powerful, the imagination it does defy.

Avalanches and crevasses are buttons that can delete or modify.

 We bash on through sprains, colds, indigestion maybe.

Humble/proud to be part of the Universe that around us we see.

 I return to the monitor and keyboard, tuck my Soul well out of sight.

The Corporate Goal looms before me, I no longer fear its might.

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