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

 

              

Spirituality and Matters of the Flesh.

          After a lovely pre-dawn, two-hour drive we reached the Mallikarjun Devasthan, Canacona, before the sun rose thirty degrees above the horizon. We entered the Sristhal industrial area in which this old and revered temple stands. The vibes, those in the know tell me, in temples are perfect. I’ve don’t know what that means; the traffic-obstructing temple near the Campal grounds gives me the heebie-jeebies because I don’t know whether a growling motorcycle lurking behind it might lunge and cause an accident.

The Mallikarjun temple, like other such institutions, has been modernized. There’s a tiled hall constructed near it. A dormitory/hotel/dharmala is rising along another side. There’s some gravelly space kept for parking cars. Steps old and new lead to all the buildings from there. There is no ramp/lift for those with restricted mobility. A sticker told us why. It said, Devak kaalljee (in translation: ‘God will worry’ about those). Limp away, painful joint-holder, I told myself, let the guiding spirit lead the way.

          I was there to attend a wedding. The plastic chairs stacked by the windows, all undusted and some cracked, were arranged in rows for the damp-with-sweat, decked-in-silk guests. Each arrival first visited the temple, bowed graciously before the deity and then waddled into the hall. From the way they held the prasad, one knew it was precious. Fingers curled around the sticky sweet nestled in the palm.

          Afterwards, tissues that were distributed to wipe the stickiness were crushed and tossed in a small, frayed cardboard carton kept in a corner for the purpose. I was happy someone had thought of keeping it. It displayed similar, overflowing garbage of a previous party. Regularly cleared dustbins apparently have something against spirituality. Or vice-versa.

After a while, because I’ve seen cleaner taps and surroundings in the heart of Dharavi and Moradabad, which anyone might vote are amongst the dirtiest places in India, possibly the world, I avoided the leaky, slime-covered PWD provision and opted to drink from another, bottled source. Perhaps similar pathogens inhabited it, but thirst threw caution aside and I drank with a prayer on my lips, imploring Mallikarjun to keep me safe from tummy-related infections/ailments.

In between, the manglashtaka was sung, the var-malas exchanged and the saat phere’s walked. The couple was now officially woman and husband – these days I believe no one pronounces a twosome man and wife lest some television channel have a debate on its political correctness. Perhaps person and spouse would be better, devs/devis willing.

Once the toe-touching and envelope-handing-over was done, Nature called (me). Some were half way through their lunch, some awaiting it, when I asked where the loo was. Blank looks came my way. Bathroom, I said. Toilet. Restroom. Washroom. I used colloquial vocabulary, explained my predicament. A common embarrassed expression was passed around from face to face. A mere mortal was referring to unmentionable things in the house of god. My physiological needs overruled spiritual stuff. Blasphemy.

A finger directed me towards the rooms dedicated to ‘bride’s side’ and ‘groom’s side’. The former, in which sat many women, inexplicably had only a gents’ version. So I went across to the grooms’ room, which logically would have the female loo in it. That room was occupied by only men. Tradition says, segregate the gender, practicality be damned. No board or sign indicated where the toilet was. I pushed aside a pile of cloths and found a camouflaged door. I thanked whichever god was helping me at the moment and stepped in. Only to discover that unless I stood like a flamingo, with one knee bent towards a corner, I couldn’t fit inside. I’m not fat, just plump, after being wrapped in six yards of sari. I’m now convinced other women pray harder than I do… else, how do they fit in a space so small with or without doing contorting callisthenics? It has to be something miraculous. For them, faith works. In my case, dependable safety-pins and daily yogasana doses for suppleness.

The apparatus was a white, less-than-a-foot long ceramic plate cemented into the floor. I tried to guess where and how any liquid that splashed on it would flow. Gravity has its limitations. Only God’s will would work, I was convinced.

I’ve seen worse temple toilets: a memorable one at Shantadurga’s Kavlem residence, where I thought I might sink through the floor. Crushed, stained tiles, daylight diffusing in through a cobweb-curtained window…  the stuff that oozed over and across the floor seemed to be more than just mud and plaster. I might have fainted at the sight, but the stench of urine fresh and stale kept my senses alert. God works in mysterious ways: I was able to ‘hold’ that day right until I reached home.

Mind over matter works. Visits to temples have taught me that.

Heights of spirituality can be achieved by 1) fasting --control over thirst and hunger, and 2) having no toilets—control over the nether end orifices.   

An acquaintance was once troubled with something lovingly called ‘motions’. You can’t pray your way out of that, even the super-religious agree. This chap visits a particular temple every Monday, come Bhadrapad or Falgun. When generosity strikes, he gifts it silverware. His wife donates expensive saris (only silk and with blouse-piece attached, otherwise the god/dess doesn’t approve) which are later auctioned to other women devotees. He told me that he had sponsored tiling of the temple premises. Twice. Know what? Each time, the tiles came out. That god/dess just wasn’t willing to get the temple tiled. Strangely, no one thought of asking the contractor why the work was shabby/sub-standard.

But then, to question is to follow the way of the flesh. Spirituality has its own logic, I thought as we drove back from Mallikarjun.

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The Coconut is a Grass

        The real name of the coconut you grind for your curries is Cocos nucifera. It’s a member of the family Arecaceae, a relative of the supari. Wikipedia tells me the palm and its nut get the ‘coco’ part of their name from the Portuguese/Spanish word for a person’s head. Apparently, the three scars on its ‘face’ make it resemble a human skull. “You didn’t know that, did you?” I asked Shri Husband.

He grunted. Once. Which meant he was actually paying attention, but pretending not to. Does that often.

        I took the opportunity of his not saying anything and went on: “It’s not really a tree, you know.”

“Not a tree?” queried Shri Husband. “How so?”

“Our Chief Minister said so.”

“When? Context? Reason?” Abba, I thought, here starts the why-session. 

But I was prepared. I said, “At a state cabinet meeting chaired by him last Friday. It seems, since it (the Cocos nucifera not the state cabinet) has no branches, it can’t be classified as a tree.”

“Well, it’s a palm; but, tell me, did he not have any other important things to discuss with his colleagues? Could he not leave nomenclature to scientists?”

How would I know, I’m only a poorly-informed housewife, I thought, but kept quiet, as is my wont. Then I told him: “Now, if you want to cut a coconut tree you don’t need to take permission from the forest department.”

“I don’t want to cut any… array, you just called it a tree,” he corrected me. “Call it a palm. And the coco-fruit is a drupe, not a nut,” he went on.
        Huh? I thought. I’m ok with calling it a palm. But coco-drupe? coco-fruit? My curries won’t taste the same with these names. (Once, long ago, he’d told me that the cashew wasn’t a nut either, that was also a drupe. Later he added that names stick, never mind botanical definitions.)

I ignored that and informed him: "The government has approved the amendment to the Goa Daman and Diu Preservation of Trees Act, 1984. So now the coco-palm isn’t a tree.”

“After its productive years are over, a coconut tree is inevitably cut. So, does the amendment seeks to omit coconut tree from the definition of a tree as in Section 1-A?”

I agreed: “That’s right.” Then, not wanting to miss a chance to correct him, pointed out: “You also called it a tree. Say ‘palm’.”  

Both of us stepped out to see the lanky, towering Cocos nuciferas in our neighbourhood. It was hard to believe, though we know it to be true, that such a glorious crown so high above us stood on a foundation of a root system known as fibrous or adventitious, a characteristic of the grass species. Only a few of the roots penetrate deep into the soil for stability. Other types of large trees produce a single downward-growing tap root with a number of feeder roots growing from it.  Cocos nucifera continues to produce roots from the base of the stem throughout its life. The number of roots produced depends on the age of the tree and the environment.

I said: “A tree that's 60 to 70 years old, could have more than 3,600 roots.”

Shri Husband commented: “Who’s counted?”

Me: “Does that matter? Facts are facts, no?”

He nodded in agreement. He’s reasonable, sometimes.

He said: “The earliest description of the coconut palm was given by Cosmos of Alexandria in his ‘Topographia Christiana’ written about 545 AD.” I wondered of what use such information was to me.

Before his began his tirade on the goodness, etc., of the coco-drupe or whatever the Cocos nucifera fruit actually is, I was beginning to wonder whether this change of name would affect the prices of our ‘nustya-ros’, ‘alsande-sukey’ and ‘xacuti’.

We don’t have to grow our own coco-palms in Goa, I thought. After we’ve cut ours to widen roads and build still more houses, we could always import coco-drupes from neighbouring states, like we do vegetables, milk, pulses, sugar, even rice.

Shri Husband seems to read my mind. Can you believe, he interrupted my thoughts. He said: “I guess fish is the only food left we can call our ‘own’.” I ignored that and returned to my thoughts.

I’m not concerned with the builder lobby, nor do I side with the environmentalists, I’m only apprehensive about how to put food on the table. If I’m told to spell banana as ‘c-h-i-k-o-o’, I will do so, provided I don’t have to pay more for it.

“And,” said Shri Husband before he walked out of the room, “Invest in a good solar-cooker. After all the natural, shady greenery is gone, you can save on the cost of the LPG whose subsidy the government’s taking away.”

After he left, I thought to myself, how strange, that the coconut tree as I know it has something in common with grass. Can’t imagine ‘a cow eats grass’ being re-written as ‘a cow eats coco-palm’s cousin’. Just doesn’t sound right. But ‘aamche goem, harit goem’ might honestly become ‘brown Goa’, sooner rather than later. I don’t know how, but I think maybe it’s somehow linked to the official category-change of our dear, beloved Cocos nucifera.

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When the Dog Bites

          There was a time when a member or the other of my family or circle of friends was on a course of anti-rabies injections. We didn’t have monkeys, bats or other infected carriers in our neighbourhood, so the jabs were usually for dog-bites. (Shri Husband had to be the exception, naturally: in his case the teeth that bit were feline. He was trying to rescue a kitten from big-trucks and small scooters during rush-hour traffic. Kitten either didn’t like or was petrified of Shri Husband and reacted accordingly.)

Once, the bites came from a pack of pavement-dwelling dogs who believed entertainment comprised humans shrieking and throwing up their limbs and whatever they’d consumed at a previous meal when they were chased. This particular human (yours truly) fell, had her sari ripped, with bits of skin and flesh attached to the shreds. Once the dogs scampered away, tails wagging in triumph, l stirred, shaken but well, some years ago.

Shri Husband, sneakily reading what I was typing, growled: “Terrible stuff.” I wasn’t sure he meant the choice of topic or the quality of my work. So I kept quiet. No point having an argument when there’s a deadline to be met.

…so where was I?

Another time, it was Bai Goanna’s turn. The criminal was a pet being taken for its daily constitutional when it came across a pack of strays it particularly disliked. The latter reciprocated the sentiment and, finding the pet tightly leashed (safety precaution) and therefore handicapped (side-effect of safety precaution), decided to attack it. At the very moment the barking quarrel turned into a physical battle, Bai Goanna got drawn towards that hostile environment.

(‘Why,’ Shri Husband had asked at the time, ‘do you people get into such situations? Y’all are like magnets for trouble’. It’s a question/statement that mostly has no answer, but Shri Husband regularly asks/says it nevertheless.)

Anyway, in the noisy hullaballoo, the pet chewed off a mouthful of Bai Goanna’s leg-muscle. A shocked Bai Goanna was taken by the even more shocked owners to a medical centre. They offered to pay for the doctor’s fees, nurse’s charge, stitching paraphernalia, cleaning and irrigation of the wound, anti-bacterial lotions, anti-biotic potions, even chocolates and flowers.

Bai Goanna, her placidness unblemished by discomfort and pain, figured that ‘an accident’s an accident’ and accepted only the delicious food and nice new magazines they regularly sent to/for her whilst she was recuperating. Consequently, goodwill won. She and the pet’s owners have maintained ‘good relations’, as we say, over the years. Recalling the incident, she jokes and blames the stars, inauspicious time of day, poor alignment of planets, karma, naseeb, that the dog’s didn’t like her odour, etc., etc.

I have other friends, not unlike dear Bai Goanna, who even show off scars of canine encounters to anyone interested in the narration of ‘what happened’. Bee-stings aren’t as common (though just as impressive), otherwise I’d have a dozen more stories to add here. Like the time my rock-climbing companion was stung by a flock whilst we were hanging in mid-air, attached to a rope, with nil chance of escape. He spent a couple of days in the ICU dealing with allergy-causing toxins, and after a couple of weeks, went right back to climbing again. Modern medicine zindabad. Or the time a solitary wasp hit a target right in the centre of my son’s forehead, leaving him with a permanent ‘bindi’ perfectly placed between his brows.

          This dog-bite-bee-stings topic came to mind when I was recently watching the all-time favourite musical, 7-Oscars-winning ‘Sound of Music’. In the gentle World War II era (paradox!) film, the song, ‘My Favourite Things’ has a sentence that goes “… when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad… I simply remember my favourite things and then I don’t feel so-o bad.”

Immediately after the movie, I saw the news. Delhi was in deep trouble, with cops, lawyers and students all behaving badly. Haryana was burning over the reservation issue. Jagdalpur and Hyderabad were in the news for unpleasant reasons. Young lives combating terrorists were snuffed out in Kashmir.

This is a dog-bite moment in my country’s life, I thought.

I recalled the lyrics of the above song and wondered whether simply remembering my favourite things was going to make me feel less sad. I follow the ideals the tricolour represents and believe that vigorous debate keeps a democracy healthy and vibrant, even though it will occasionally give rise to unpalatable criticism and rude comments.

Thinking about raindrops on roses, bright copper kettles, and brown-paper packages tied with string didn’t help. Seeing houses and vehicles in flames, soldiers in coffins, students being thwacked by lawyers in court and cops standing by allowing the ruckus to happen, television channels spewing more opinion than reportage… my sombre mood plummeted.

Surely, I thought, something nice must be happening somewhere in the country though some trouble-spots were getting rabid. There’s no cure for the disease, but inoculation works one hundred per cent. And then I saw that inoculation happening. Young students all over the country were speaking up, loud, strong and clear…that India will remain diverse no matter which government ruled.

Finally, on television, came some respite. Hilarious respite. Pictures of Amma’s 68^th birthday celebrations. If what the news-channels showed was true, I saw people tattooing Amma’s face on their arms. These days, even something that one sees with one’s ‘own eyes’ can trick one (eg: tapes ‘doctored’ to mislead/misinform).

I found those visuals funny in a sad way.

And I sang along with Bai Goanna words from another song in the same film, ‘…bless my homeland forever’.

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