Dear Postmen and Courierwalas

         I was expecting a speed-posted letter. What with Chovoth, the weekend and Eid following each other, I had a clue it wouldn’t reach me within the stipulated three days. (Once upon a time it was meant to be express-delivered within 24 hours within cities, but things change.)

A neighbour kindly enquired on my behalf at the one-chair sub-post-office in our village panchayat building whether it had arrived. Any such query becomes the property of the locality. Every Tome, Babush and Hari wanted to know more about it. Who sent it, from where, when, why do you get letters at all, and more.

Multiple queries later, Dear Neighbour fetched it for me and told me that the postman had no intention of delivering it at home.

“I think,” declared Shri Husband, “There’s a disconnect between what our neighbour has understood and what the postman told him. The postman cannot not deliver.”

I don’t interrupt Shri Husband in his “I think” mood, but I guessed my benefactor believed the postman wouldn’t deliver it in the expected time. Besides thinking, we do a lot of guessing between the three of us, Shri Husband, Bai Goanna and I.

After our old postman died and his replacement got transferred out, we began to share this new youngster with folks in surrounding vaadaas, bhaats and colonies. The distances and condition of the roads made it inconvenient for him to walk/cycle so he made his rounds on a motorized two-wheeler. Still, ‘vaaz yeta’, the postman confessed to my neighbour, to deliver to all homes, specially those at the end of narrow lanes. The density of population where I stay, by postal and gas-cylinder delivery standards, is low. The gas-guys come in a gang, atop a truck, shouting in chorus, enjoying themselves somewhat. The postman comes alone, departs unsung, because he meets not his customer but the little pipe tied to the gate.

Once upon a time, the postman was a phantom who slipped envelopes, cards or letters under our door or in the box outside and turned up at the time of every festival for tips which we daren’t refuse for fear that some of our subsequent mail might mysteriously disappear.

In my short stay near Avantipur, Kashmir, immediately after the Paki PM Bhutto died (1979), we were camping just above the small hamlet which had the nearest post office - a ramshackle tin-hut.

The elderly, solitary postman there was, like the school master in Goldsmith’s poem, a respected man. He knew everyone’s name and address, could read Hindi, Urdu and English. He knew, the villagers thought, was all there was to know about the unfamiliar cities and towns beyond the scenic mountains that surrounded them. Those were innocent times.

A majority of the villagers were illiterate (unlike in Goa). The postman read and wrote all their letters, knew about their personal lives. Few could keep a secret from him. He therefore supposed that it was his right to know what I, a city-girl with temporary domicile, was reading. He’d politely hold his burning curiosity back till I’d finished my letter. Then he’d demand: “Whose?”

In the well-modulated tones that one saves for elders/superiors I’d tell him.

He could count in rupees, coins and stamps (!) he told me. His old khakhi uniform was never dirty or crumpled and worn with pride. His shoes had a millimeter of sole left, for wheels were useless on those steep slopes.

I used to perch myself on a rock, eagerly awaiting him.  Whenever he had letter for me, he’d hold it in his hand and wave to me before commencing the tiring climb to the tent. I offered to go down and collect my mail, but he brusquely waved that suggestion aside, saying that the slopes were nothing, that he was used to it, that it was his job, etc.

Our postmen and courier-walas need to be told these ‘inspirational’ stories.

He’d plant himself beside the flapping canvass, light a bidi and watch me as I ripped the envelope and rushed through its contents, silently scrutinizing the changing expressions on my face. He could not digest the fact that letters could be written without including the news of a marriage/death, birth or job or scandal. To entertain him and myself, imaginary cousins, grandparents and aunts have been married, killed and ruined respectively. That gave him an opportunity to rejoice with or comfort me.

On the day of our departure, I went down to the tin-hut that housed his office with the intention of handing him a well-deserved tip. His wrinkled face showed wounded pride.

“I was doing my job. The sarkar pays me for it,” he said. Rare chap.

Our postman here/today is a busier man. His load is heavier—magazines, annual reports of companies weigh more these days, their thicker, glossier paper wrapped in garbage-increasing plastic. More people to deliver to and no-one invites him for a chat or offers him the respect his predecessors got. With the advent of the internet, many have forgotten that he exists.

The courier-wala, who connects with customers via cellular-phone, is better known.

The postman has to come home whether or not he wants/likes to because the Government that we love to hate makes sure duty is done. No matter which Party rules, the Postal Service works. Mostly well.

The courier-wala, on the other hand, takes a different route. Metaphorically. My parcels get accepted at distant places with the promise of point-to-point delivery. When they arrive in Goa, the courier-company’s office discovers that the address is located in a rural area. That the location is a few metres from the edge of town doesn’t matter. That it’s a crowded, well-connected locality also doesn’t matter. It’s rural, therefore out of bounds.

A phone-call tells me I have to collect it from the office. Point-to-point shown on a globe (in the advertisement) with a graphic arrow covering the page/screen isn’t the whole truth.

Even in 2016 viva postman, I say.

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Candle Light Vigils

         “Yet another carton of candles? And one more packet of matches!” Shri Husband and Bai Goanna spoke in unison.

I have no privacy in my house. Whatever I order online, whatever gets delivered at home, whatever I buy, is inspected and commented upon.  Hai mera naseeb. I’m going to complain to the television news channels regarding violation of my rights. There should be a law against women being spied upon in their homes. These channels have the ear of Parliament.

         “Candles are useful,” I whimpered. “Keeping a stock.”

         Both turned to me and snapped: “What’s this nonsense?”

         “It’s not,” I thought to myself. “Nonsense.”

         As if they read my mind, they chorused again: “It’s crazy.”  

“We don’t have those many power-cuts. Why does she need so many candles?” Shri Husband wanted to know the answer from me, but addressed the question to Bai Goanna. None of his business, but he must poke his nose into it.

         “She’s going for a vigil,” Bai Goanna told him sombrely, “In memory of the poor innocent souls who died in …”

“…Kashmir? Bihar? The USA, France, Germany, Turkey?” Shri Husband interrupted her, forcing her to leave the sentence halfway.

Bai Goanna knew my secret-- I’ve become a member of a Vigil Club-- but Shri Husband didn’t, until she told him there and then.

“A Vigil Club?” Shri Husband, who can out-advise me on topics like military strategies, the Railway Budget and the best way to fry fish, confessed ignorance when it came to my latest involvement.

Feeling superior that I knew something about which he had nil knowledge, I said “Yes” confidently and loudly.

“Why…” that famous question-word to which I usually have no answer. “…have you joined a Vigil Club?” 

I wasn’t stumped. This time I was prepared. I knew the answer by heart. I uttered the vision statement of my Vigil Club: “To back a cause, in memory of a massacre, to draw attention to injustice, to show support to families who have lost their loved ones or whose kids have gone missing in any kind of disaster, to remember brave individuals…”

“How…” Shri Husband butted in with his second favourite question-word, “...do you plan to do that?”|

My co-members are MBAs, they have trained me well to tackle such ‘attacks’ from non-believers in vigil-keeping.

I knew the answer, pat: “By putting up fliers all around the neighbourhood, printing an advertisement or press release in the newspaper, through social media and by word of mouth.”

“What,” Bai Goanna was feeling left out, I guess, so she asked this one, “will you achieve?”

“It’s the best way,” I said, “to mourn for loss, raise awareness about something and motivate people to bring about change.”

“Have you,” Shri Husband wanted to know, “included leptospirosis, tuberculosis, malaria, dengue and polio in the list of topics for awareness? I mean, people die of them, you know. Rabies, too.”

He’s always difficult, Shri Husband is. These topics weren’t covered in our Vigil Club meeting. I told him that.

“People lose lives, families lose children, loved ones suffer because of these diseases, and you haven’t included them in your agenda?” Shri Husband didn’t sound like he was serious. “These are grave national issues and you’ve skipped them? |What’s the matter with you?” He didn’t sound like he was joking, either.

Unsure of what to say, I quietly began to open the parcels and comment on the quality of wax and the price of matches.

“You should use wax figurines,” Bai Goanna said.

Shri Husband agreed with her: “Wax-grenades, wax-bombs, wax faces with masks, wax broken-limbs.”

“Mean you are,” I said, almost in tears. Almost. I wasn’t giving up so easily. I said: “Slender candles, flickering flames at dusk or under the stars, hundreds, even thousands, of people prayfully holding them in silence and peace are powerful symbols of change.”

“Hundreds—or any number of people holding inflammable material, together in a single place, would be a suicide bomber’s delight, a nightmare for the police to handle if something should go wrong,” Shri Husband said. In some convoluted way, he always throws hard-headed pragmatism at me. “Hope,” he added, “you keep the fire-brigade informed when you have these get-togethers.”

“Don’t call it a get-together,” I said, a trifle irritably.

“Ok, meetings,” he said.

“Vigils,” I corrected him.

Bai Goanna decided to throw ice on the beginnings of a heated argument. She said: “How about touching topics that are a danger to our daily lives?  Wax-buses and wax-trains stuffed with passengers? Melted wax in glasses to represent contaminated water? Wax-casts of craters in roads? Wax-helmets and seatbelts?”

“How about wax-gutka packets with pictures of cancerous oral-ulcers?”

“Don’t jest,” I said, my voice quivering.

“Not jesting,” both replied shaking their heads from side to side.

“You could have wax-bins to encourage the Swatchha Bharat campaign,” giggled Bai Goanna.

“Or one that looks like RaGa for those that support him,” added Shri Husband.

“Or those that don’t,” I said, trying to be fair. My apolitical family and friends crib against or defend all parties/leaders great and small, depending on the mood and headlines of the day.

“Aha, changing the topic, are we?” said Bai Goanna, examining one of the candle packets. “Tell me, don’t these things add to pollution in some way? What if one of the participants is asthmatic?”

“Do you,” Shri Husband typically butted into our conversation. “Have a vigil for asthmatics? For keeping pollution under control? For adding to climate change with all the smoke generated by these candles?”

“I’m going to ask my Vigil Club friends about this one,” I promised.

“Whilst you’re at it, do some homework on sponsored/ sponsoring vigils. You could have banners on hired buses taking you to and from the venue. You could have candle-makers subsidizing chai-nashta. That would encourage small businesses. You could have people sponsoring candles and matches, too,” spurted Bai Goanna. “That’ll save you money.”

“And,” Shri Husband added, “pay Bai Goanna for her unusual ideas.”

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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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A Visit to a Casino

            I wanted to visit a casino in Goa. This is just a beginning, I told myself, I’ve still to experience tombola, matka and lottery. Then I told Shri Husband and Goanna about my wish.

“You don’t have the gambler’s instinct,” Shri Husband cribbed. “Even when you cross a road through traffic you don’t take a chance.” Agreed, there have been times when I’ve started a jam by freezing in the middle of two opposing car-lanes, but to accuse me of not having a gambler’s instinct wasn’t fair.

“She married you,” sniggered Bai Goanna. “Some gamble that.”

Shri Husband smilingly said: “Lucky her.” I realized what a nuisance Fate could be about luck and stuff after their dialogue.

Nevertheless, we went to visit a casino near Panaji. No matter what time of day or night, there’s always a parking problem. It (casino, not parking problem) was bigger than I expected. The seats were red, the curtains were red, the walls were red, carpets ditto. The uniforms on the staff glittered. And there were mirrors on walls; I saw my reflection in all directions and each time I saw multiple images inside the frame. I felt I was inside a circus ring, with me being both clown and spectator.

A security team greeted us at the metal-detecting frame. “Why are four guards doing the job of one?” I asked Shri Husband. “Good way to generate employment,” he replied. “Besides, not every paying customer is law-abiding, so they’re a need in this industry.” I recalled aloud seeing guards at malls, theatres, restaurants, even clothes’ shops these days: did it mean many industries have this need? Did so many guards around mean we need less cops? “You’re forever asking questions that have no answers,” Bai Goanna whispered fiercely in my ear. I fell quiet.

I wasn’t carrying a purse into the casino, which made me a suspect of sorts. Apparently men and women go there with bulging bags and pockets. Or credit cards. They (guards and bouncers not people with bulging bags and pockets or credit cards) glared at my non-purse status, were stumped for a bit, then they stamped some glowing radioactive-looking green-yellow stuff on the back of my hand. It had the name and logo of the casino on it.

“It doesn’t go for days,” Bai Goanna scared me. “If you decamp with goodies, they will find you. It glows in the dark, you can’t escape.” I had a mind to take one pretty paper napkin to gift my friend who makes decoupage and other craft, but changed my mind after hearing Bai Goanna’s words. I settled on a toothpick as souvenir. Easy to carry and they wouldn’t miss one of those, would they? Still, I felt like a thief: middle-class morality is the bane of this country, I thought. Why can’t we all learn to bash on regardless, to dominate, to lead, to bully instead of whining about losing our culture/religion? Instead of go-getting, we sit and mumble sour-somethings to each other. Bah.            

“Try the food,” Shri Husband advised. It was very good. He was right. As always.

“People don’t come here to eat,” hissed Bai Goanna, “we have to go where the action is.” I very reluctantly left that wonderful buffet. The entertainment was good, too: girls bowing and flinging around their limbs, dressed in a cross between a wedding-gown and a trapeze-costume, dancing to the latest Bollywood noise.

We sat an elementary level table to learn the ABCs of electronic gambling. Pictures of aces, clubs, spades and hearts flashed on and off on the screens in some way. There was also a real pack dealt out and handled by a real person to show us how the game worked. Reluctant to allow a machine to swallow hard-earned money, I pretended to make myself comfortable over and over again in my chair whilst watching others play.

I thought the name of the game was Under-Bar. It was after a couple of ‘sets’ that I realized it was nothing to do with drinking too much. The term was ‘andar-bahar’, Hindi for inside-outside.  

The staff and customers represent many Indian states, each with its own accent. Naturally, misunderstandings happen, they get laughed off, people take offence, then make up over chai samosa or something else… this sub-continent with all its madness and chaos… imagine casinos, of all places, uniting us?

On another floor sat more serious, ‘advanced’ players. Here the computer was programmed to permute a variety of wins and losses. Mainly losses. For the players. I was told some were regulars. They flew in from cities across India, booking their travel and lodging in advance, hoping to suddenly spike their income. Hope reigns eternally; they keep returning. Most were here for a long weekend. Goa has something Las Vegas doesn’t: casinos with children’s areas.

The concentration on wooing Lady Luck was akin to deep meditation. Total involvement in the present, the moment. A Zen thing, I thought. The silence was broken by the occasional electronic tinkle of a scheduled ‘win’, the clink of glasses and the crunch of potato-wafers. Here, you can’t call potato-wafers ‘chips’. You-know-why.

At a side table, a bejewelled woman tittered over a WhatsApp message.

“Tu-ell carode,” she said to her companion. “That badminton-girl got.”

The latter choked: “Tu-ell carode? You mean twelve crore?”

“Hahn, and the other wrestler-girl and the gymnast, they also got lots, coaches also.”

“Good idea to try for the Olympics, so much money.”

The first woman read out more, about practice sessions at 4 am, no biryanis/desserts/television, sweaty workouts and age.

Number Two comforted her: “If it’s written in your naseeb, you’ll get your money here.”

I turned from them and confessed to Shri Husband and Bai Goanna, “I can’t get myself to feed a machine with cash.”

“Not tempted to get-rich-quick?” both chorused.

“No. Maybe something’s wrong with me.”

“Amen,” they said smilingly as we exited the casino.

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9 11 and the Security Check

             It’s been fifteen years since the World Trade Centres were brought to their toes and the US discovered what we had known for many years: that The Terrible Terrorists have no religion, no nationality, no compassion or logic, nor fear of dying with those they kill. Like termites, they are hard to eradicate with regular pesticidal methods, turn up secretly, devastatingly, and are discovered with an element of surprise.

The outcomes of such attacks are that security measures are increased for normal/ordinary citizens (assuming that terrorists are extra-ordinary). Like me.

On the tenth anniversary of this date I stepped onto USA soil for the first time, on holiday, to be with an ailing member of my family.

I ‘had tension’ (love this Indlish term) from the time I left India. Mumbai airports’ security people confiscated my nail-cutter which had neither pen-knife/folding-scissors/nail-file attached to it. Quite obviously, I looked the kind that would hijack or crash the aircraft by nibbling off the Captain’s flesh millimetre by millimetre. At another stop, I looked threatening enough for the guards to take away the only tube of tooth-paste I had. It was used; I offered to eat some so they knew it wasn’t a dangerous chemical, but rules were rules and into the trash my personal hygiene product went.  

By the end of three flights across three continents, I became an expert at removing and wearing my shoes/belt. Of the shallow, colourful plastic trays, I chose those with some distinguishable dirt-marks so that no-one would maro my foot-/waist-wear. Would be unfortunate to go barefoot and with slipping pants in a foreign country. As a tourist, I was representing India. Talking loudly, spitting and breaking queues are part of my culture; bad behaviour is my birth-right, but looking sloppy is not acceptable. Moreover, I’d bought those items exclusively for travelling abroad; no way was I giving up a chance for making paisa vasool.

At one transit airport, I was asked how I earned a living, how my husband earned his, my late father’s date of birth, my mother’s maiden name, the location of my hosts’ homes, their occupations, and whether their pets had worms in their stools (ok, this one I invented, sorry to have misled you). The person at the counter looked at me, then at something on his/her screen, at me again, then screen… so on and forth until satisfied that I was me and not a lookalike. Passport-visa inspection took a couple of seconds and I was waved off.

At the point of entry into the USA, I noticed there were lots of cops. Maybe they were always there, but it was the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and no one was taking any chances. Though why any killer-planner would choose an obvious date to be ‘naughty’ I don’t know.

A Stern Madam asked me how long it had taken me to pack my suitcase and whether any stranger had given me a packet to carry in my luggage. At the time I didn’t know whether this question was asked of everyone or whether she’d picked on me for a reason. When, at the metal-detecting gate I was stopped because the gold bangles on my wrist set an alarm off, I was certain I was being picked on. Off came the bangles. Stern Madam’s underling told me to ‘step back’ and ‘take everything out of (my) pockets including paper napkins’. I was worried. I had no pockets. I was more worried because the colourful plastic tray had reached the other side and if someone stole my brand new purse, I would lose the only foreign money I was carrying, plus the phone numbers and addresses of my hosts. It also contained complimentary snack-packs from the flight. Convinced that I didn’t have pockets, Stern Madam came across and asked me if I had any medical devices inside my limbs/ears or near my heart. No, I confessed. Then she patted every inch of me: a quick, impromptu, free spa-massage. Convinced that I was harmless, Stern Madam became suddenly kind and helpful, stamped a clearance on the tabs concerned and sent me on my way.

At one desk, in the confusion of that memory, I can’t remember whether it was before Stern Madam came into my life, where passengers from everywhere showed their documents, I was stopped again. “Are,” asked the expressionless man behind one counter, “You carrying any dairy products or seeds?” I couldn’t follow his accent, didn’t understand the question. He couldn’t understand my counter-question. We stared at each other exasperatedly for a couple of minutes. He asked again, I said ‘pardon?’ and ‘excuse me?’ one time each. When I subsequently deciphered what he had said, I shook my head in the negative, but couldn’t figure out why he was asking me this question. I am not, never was, did not intend to be even remotely connected to the field of agriculture, not even regarding smuggling of cows, cow-products, seeds, trees, roots, soil and was willing to sign any document to say so. In spite of the time this procedure took, it was a minor and easy one.

Nowhere else was I checked.

9/11 changed the way we looked at dates. 9/11 is month first, day next. In India, this date is 11/9, day followed by month. For example, the VT-station-Taj-Trident tragedy took place on 26/11 not 11/26 (2008). And the Mumbai floods were on 26/7 (2005). We have to mention the year, for ‘memorable’ events are quite common here. Tumbling trains, devastating earthquakes, horrible ambushes in Kashmir, regular killings in the North East, Maoist attacks... Years are important to us. We may copy the West, but up to a point.

Security guards at theatres, railway-stations and ‘exhibition-cum-sales’ make me believe I can outrun them. Handheld metal-detectors are waved around me superficially.  Someone peeps into my bag/purse with unseeing eyes. Cameras don’t ‘catch’ inefficiency.

There’s one thing we can learn from the West.

Professionalism.

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Goodbye, Mr Guns, Come Again Next Year.

          It bugged our uncles no end when we children, cousins all, called Him “Mr Guns”.

          “Show some respect,” they’d holler at us. “He’s God.”

          In spite of the dos (be spruced for the aartees) and don’ts (eating non-vegetarian food) involved, Guns Ganapathy remained a favourite god. Rama had the Rama-raksha prayer chanted to him every evening. Dear Dutta, our neighbours’ family deity, had Thursday’s fast dedicated to him, a fast which involved distribution of the yummiest pedhas. Our own Goan Manguesh frowned on fish/meat-consumption on Mondays, but was otherwise a liberal sort. It was only Ganapathy who visited our homes briefly at a dedicated time of the year and went away into the sea whilst we sang ourselves hoarse persuading him to come again the following year. The ditty went like this: Ganapathy Bappa Morya, pudhchya varshee lavkar yaa. Ganapathy gaylay gaavaalaa, chaieen padaynaa aamhaalaa. Loosely translated: Ganapathy, Father, also called Morya (short form of Moreshwar), next year, please come soon. Ganapathy has gone to his village, we aren’t liking that all.

          Every year’s statue had to be a coconut-palm-leaf-vein thicker than the previous year’s. Approximately 2 mms. Most statues in those days fitted in an adult palm. The decorations were made of things that were plucked, often home-grown. The word bio-degradable wasn’t found in the lexicon of my youth.

          I can’t say just when plastic, thermocole and flashing lights came to be part of the Ganesh festival, but I’m sure it coincided with the size-increase of the idols, when the raw material changed from mud to plaster-of-Paris.

          The immersions then involved clanging small cymbals and singing the goodbyes to Mr Guns with gusto. We all felt bad that the modaks weren’t going to be made for another twelve months. People didn’t eat festive foods when they felt like it. They didn’t go out and buy neuryo, chaklyo, kadbolyo either. Like the delicious moonga-shaak gravy, those snacks, too, were homemade and only when religious norms demanded them to be consumed. We’ve trashed that discipline long years ago. As we’ve been trashing Mr Guns’ statues.

          I remember the idols being carefully lowered into the waves of the sea, not tossed over Mandovi or some other bridge. I remember gathering little peaks of sand where our statue stood overnight, dissolving by the inch with every hour. Now we see broken limbs, crushed trunks, an eye here, a ear there, crabs scampering all over what was until a day before His Holiness. Smothered by plastic, dead weeds and other broken statues, it’s an ugly sight. All the singing of praises and praying can’t wish that rubbish away. Instead of ‘to dust returneth’, municipal trucks toss the leftovers of Mr Guns along with domestic and industrial garbage into smelly, maggot-filled pits.

          I remember my late uncles’ words: “Show respect, He’s God.”

          We no longer celebrate the Ganesh festival. The elders couldn’t cope with the traditions and the younger generation was too busy or not inclined to carry them forward.

I always wonder what the worshippers who bring Ganesh idols home annually think of the muck that lines the coast after the festivities are over. After any religious or political rally, pictures of leaders are ripped and trampled upon and no one minds when they are chucked into the gutters to rot in sewage. But in the case of Mr Guns, people fervently believe that he’s a living god who saves them when they’re in trouble, gives them extra marks to pass an exam, prompts interviewers to give them jobs, finds them great spouses, keeps illness away, brings prosperity, etc, etc. I wonder why/how they don’t mind his likenesses being treated so shabbily.

This is one festival that messes up our beaches/ rivers/ wells/ lakes big time. All underwater life, including edible fish, suffers. Ugliness rules. Whither sanctity? Whenever I think of this, I remember an episode: in Uttar Pradesh, away from the coast where this festival is important, in a not-so-wealthy Maharashtrian home, a pious housewife celebrated this festival with a supari, a betel-nut. Her daughter had decorated the little dried fruit with felt pens and some coloured threads to make it look like a little Ganesh. He sat on a match-box pedestal that was covered with golden paper, and the decorations were flowers and leaves from the pots on their sill, changed twice a day. No compromise on food or the singing of the hymns, no dilution of devotion. Came the day of immersion. With ceremonious fanfare, that family of four plus a handful of neighbours carefully carried Mr Guns on a tray and respectfully placed him inside a bucket of clean water. The next day, water and supari was poured into the roots of a favourite plant.

I have a feeling Mr Guns would have enjoyed His stay in their home more than in any that smoke him out with incense, and stifle him with plastic, Made In China decorations and gifts bought with black cash.

My late uncles would not have noticed, never mind commented on our ‘Mr Guns’ tag if they’d seen the mess after immersions that happens these days. They would have been so appalled, they would have been at a loss for words. A miracle, that.