The Coast on the Other Side.

(7 Oct ’12)

            As one born and brought up on the west coast, it’s quite a treat to see the sun rising from the waves. More interesting was to compare Pondicherry, another colonized (once, by the French) union territory, with Goa.

First about Chennai’s beaches: the Marina has no equivalent in Goa. It’s one of the longest beaches in the world. Alongside it runs a main road, like the Marine Drive in Mumbai. Again, Goa has no road that sweeps so beautifully along a bay. (To me, the road that almost touches the Mandovi at Ribander, is amongst the most fascinating I’ve ever seen or read of). The Portuguese didn’t build a road parallel to the sea and there’s no way our government will have the artistic sense to build one. The people won’t allow it either. As a result, a large section of the population is actually kept away from the lovely coastline here. There, thousands of locals and tourists alike perambulate through the evening, from sunset to late night, allowing the gentle eastern coast breeze to cool them down. At the much smaller Besant Beach, there are bungalows facing the sea, like at the Worli Sea Face, again in Mumbai, and children skating, joggers shedding calories, couples building appetites, teenagers building stamina, and lots of people eating ice-creams. What I liked is that there is a road running right next to the beach, unobstructed by private property, dividing the sandy stretch from the fancy homes. Wish we had just one like that in Goa. Like Goa, the east coast also has a nice mix of religions and conservative people with rigid but differing beliefs live alongside sharing the same language, food and attire.

            Pondicherry. No one seems to consider the Pondicherian different from the Tamilian. There are border issues (with Karnataka) elsewhere, but none here. Like in Goa, many foreigners have made this their home and their art, their language, their food have made a mark amongst the locals. Number-plates on cars mingle: TN, PY, even DL. The single beach stretch doesn’t allow traffic when people need to visit it. Not even a scooter. On Palolem and Miramar beaches, I’ve seen people manouvre their four-wheel drive vehicles through the sand. We could walk at our own pace without having to dodge anything. Quite leisurely. Considering the number of people, it was cleaner than expected. I repeat, considering the numbers.

            Transport in these two places was better organized. No, not the autos: they’re just as bad, charging whatever they felt like, without any logic or reason. The buses were bigger, not as crowded (as far as I could see), numbered, labelled and not racing. The reason for not racing could be because the people there don’t know their left from their right, nor do they have any clue which way they may turn in the next thirty seconds. If traffic in most of India is bad, in Chennai it’s horrid. Therefore the buses sort of glide slowly, very slowly through the marutis, fords, skodas, audis, mercedes, scooters, scooters, scooters and (believe me) ambassadors. We may say ‘Chennai’s a metro, so the bus service is good’, but to some extent ours is a city-state or rural urbania and there’s much we can learn from others. Perhaps we’ll never have a metro rail or traffic jams… I still have hope that we’ll improve our public transport system.

            It’s better to take a taxi in Chennai than an auto. The prices are fixed, there’s a home pick up, the drivers reliable. All transactions are done on the phone and through a legitimate office. Makes life very easy for an outsider. And for Chennaites as well.

            The one area in which Goa scores is communication. In Chennai, most people know only Tamil. I mean at the worker level. No Hindi is understood or spoken. I hope we Goans stick to our Konkani-marathi-hindi-english-portuguese-kannada-gujerati combo. Anywhere in Goa, someone in the vicinity will be able to speak any one of the above.  It’s a big advantage in a place that earns a living through tourism.

            For a state that has a high pure vegetarian population, it’s not surprising that the idli-dosa places dot every corner. But there are international cuisines from Korean to KFC all over the city.

            The Dakshinchitra, the Cholamandala Village, the Crocodile and Snake Farms, the deer at Guindy and the magnificent banyan tree at the Theosophical Society grounds were my favourites. The ride to Auroville was too short to see much. All in all, I do see why the west coast has done better in tourism. We seem to love our guests more.

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Whatever It Is, I’m Against It.

(24 Sept 2012)

            If you want foreign FDI, I’m against it. Had you not wanted it, I’d have asked why. It doesn’t matter which government’s occupying The Chair. I know my rights: cribbing is one of them. I don’t know my responsibilities and don’t want to know either. That’s the attitude of the average Indian today.

 I’m fazed by the news shows on television. I don’t know whose side to take when hysterical shouting bombards my senses. Ever since I quit working at a job and bought a television, I’ve learned about what’s happening in India (and other places on the planet) through on-screen yelling. Regarding FDI: not a single channel has shown an objective debate with sane voices stating pros and cons in tones/voices and vocabulary that I can comprehend and accept. I consider myself ‘common’ (as in ‘common (wo)man’, a very Indlish term) and assume that whatever decision is taken will subsequently somehow affect my tightly budgeted housewifely duties. That’s why I’m keenly watching/listening to all the opinions coming my way.

In 1987, the publication I worked for acquired a computer. It was kept in an air-conditioned room. In those days, offices weren’t cooled the way even shoe-shops are these days. We had to remove our footwear to step into the sanctum sanctorum to see what that very expensive equipment looked like. All of us were afraid of it because whispers echoed around that Computers Would Replace Human Beings and People Would Lose Jobs By the Thousands. Time went by and Sam Pitroda was proved right: the arrival of the computer, and later the internet and the mobile phones, changed how we functioned. My middle-class world altered rapidly, much of it for the better. I don’t shed romantic tears over the extinct letter-writing era.

I’ve found that technology benefited many like me. Did it take my countrymen out of poverty? No.  But it still did transform a very large number of lives.

Back to the FDI: Will the grocer who has served my family for two generations survive its arrival? Which elements of culture and commerce will go? 

In 1978, good quality rice was used only when we had guests. Regular rice was full of stones. Mustard or jeera seeds had to be rinsed to get rid of grit. My children haven’t a clue that once milk and sugar were rationed. Biotechnology zindabad. We moan the loss of several ethnic foods/seeds/genetic strains. We must protect them, but alongside, accept that genetically modified seeds are necessary, too.

Just a few years ago, it took long to get a domestic gas connection.  Today, in our village here in Goa, the only ones who don’t use gas are those who’ve come in from other states as daily wage earners.

Times and lives change with policies. (And technology: stem-cell treatment, which until last year sounded like mumbo-jumbo, has already benefited patients in some medical areas).

I see Goa as a part of India. The pride I take in my culture is exactly like the pride a Malayali, Haryanvi or Assamese takes in his.

Goa has several advantages over some other states: like a higher level of literacy and better healthcare facilities.

What choice will Goa make regarding the FDI? Will we agitate like we’ve done for roads going through our villages, the airport at Mopa, against selling land to outsiders, the mining lobby?

Suppose the government gave us perennial potable water in our taps, would we stop selling bottled water? That would reduce the garbage. Could we ban manufacture or import of plastic bags? That would reduce the garbage, too. Could we acquire the discipline to handle the garbage we (in every home, hotel or factory) generate? At least segregate it and pay for its disposal? We need better organized, affordable public transport, which means we need better, broader roads, too. Complaints pour in, but few practical, commercially viable alternatives to what we have now are given.

We blame others for our ills. We want to straddle both sides of the fence: we want to move with the times, yet are fiercely clinging to our past. The FDI might change some of the latter (our past, our habits, our traditions). Will we, won’t we allow it? Will we, won’t we benefit? Or will we be against it just because we can’t bear to change the ‘real’ Goa, whatever that is? I’m curious.

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A Week at GMC

(9 Sept ’12)

            An aunt was admitted into the general ward with an ailment that had made her non-ambulatory. I expected a dirtier ward. The person doing the sweeping did her job when she had to and, on being told where and how to reach the crevices, didn’t mind being told. That was one of the many pleasant surprises.

            The bathrooms were not as yucky as many I’ve seen in Goa. In spite of patients and visitors going in and out several times each quarter of an hour. What is it that makes everyone go in there so often? Is this the frequency one follows at home? Having little else to do after reading my own and a borrowed newspaper three times each, I kept a log of entries and exits to the loo. Also noted that for some reason we Indians love to make loos wet, that sprinkling white sweet-smelling fluid all over is considered ‘cleaning’ and that the overflowing garbage should be strictly segregated: this is a good place to educate the public. But: it was cleaner than some loos I’ve seen in people’s homes. The staff is taking some effort, for sure.

            The nurses were monitoring who was taking what medication. In private hospitals in Goa, the ‘nurses’ are unqualified girls in discoloured ex-white dresses. Here, they were behaving like the professionals they were.

The problem lay with bed-ridden patients who didn’t have relatives to help with bed-pans (for example when a son-in-law was ‘on duty’ or a brother-in-law). I agree that relatives must help with chores and be responsible companions, but the hospital must have quick help at hand when Nature calls. Once a sheet and clothes are spoiled/soiled, it takes a lot of time, effort and discomfort (for the patient as well as the carers) to change the linen/clothes. The lowliest of jobs are also the most essential. If there were staff on duty to give the pans, they weren’t to be found. This was a women’s ward, and there was a male staff posted there to give pans. Not ideal.

            On a floor below was the transplant wing. I wonder how many Goans take pride in it. It takes a highly skilled team to carry out a transplant. It’s not about the surgeon alone. There is the nephrologist who must balance the medicines, the anaesthetists who must monitor what’s happening when the recipient is under his/her care whilst ‘sleeping’ in the Operation Theatre, the nurses who must be very, very careful about infection control, the dieticians who must ensure that the patient is careful about nutrition, the technicians and laboratory staff who must generate error-free reports. My salaams to the transplant people. Specially the donors. Am waiting for Goa to start a cadaver program.

            I overheard the “Diabetic Sister” (could she have a better name, please?) educating a neighbouring patient. Brilliant. We need more like her and in all departments.

            Dr Savita P was/is a good example of how doctors must communicate with patients. She explained the condition, the whys and hows of the medicines and the dosages carefully and simply. Youngsters, interns like Shane R (who was in such a foul mood when she came to collect blood that I wondered whether the tone and expression was in her genes or that she’d just had a bad morning) must learn how to be gentle as well as clever. Right from first MBBS future consultants must be taught good manners; they must know that they must respect patients if they are to be successful physicians.

            The security persons were firm but gentle. The people at that time in the general ward seemed to be a law-abiding lot, for there weren’t any quarrels over visitors’ presence outside the permitted hours. Perhaps at other times it isn’t so, my audit sample isn’t sufficient to comment.

            No doubt the GMC has a long way to go but it’s doing a good job. Struggling with the kind of logistics it is faced with, I’d say it’s amongst the better general, teaching hospitals in the country. Mr Parrikar, get the Health Minister to make it a good tertiary care centre. Let the primary and secondary care centres do their job and GMC be a catchment centre. Right now, it functions as an all-in-one. It’s time we gave it the respect it deserves. And a helping hand, too, where and when required… like to have clean, fresh linen, hygienic food in the cafeteria and most important of all, CORRECT DISPOSAL OF BIO-MEDICAL AND OTHER WASTE.

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The Ancestral Property

(26 Aug ’12)

Years ago, someone noticed an ornament I was wearing, and asked me whether it was ‘old gold’. I laughed and told her my ancestors were poverty-stricken, no old, no gold, the only money they had was spent on school or college fees. They believed the only legacy they could leave behind was something we could carry inside our heads, not around it.

Recently, what with so many ‘dears departed’ in our family, some cousins  thought it was time we divided whatever coconut trees our grandparents owned. And the land around them (the trees, not the grandparents). Apparently they owned some rice fields as well, but the records weren’t to be found. Pity. There went my portion of unboiled, unpolished, organically grown rice, I thought.

Ancestral property, even if it’s a 1BHK in a corner of Jhumritallayya, is a term that evokes awe and pride anywhere in India, but specially so in Goa, what with our Portuguese laws allowing everyone to have a square inch of stuff by birth, marriage, crook or purchase. Earlier the landlords had their headaches. Post Liberation, those (the headaches, not the landlords) were distributed amongst other classes/castes who were tenants. Made our lawyers richer than our doctors. Only the builders were richer. No, sorry, the politicians took that medal.

At the primary family meeting (not held in Goa since now only two families live here), many saw/met their blood relatives for the first time. The shared genes were expressed in the double-chins, crinkly noses, scanty hair, postures and voice-tones. Wonderful thing, that DNA, can be identified even four generations down the line: it showed in the temperaments, too. A cheery lot, I was pleased to note.

Make a family tree, said the lawyer. We did. Complicated it was, with us not knowing the surnames or addresses of several. Some had changed countries, some had quit the planet and with no information.

 You have to get their signatures on the NOCs, POAs, and other abbreviated legal documents, the lawyer said. Took us many months to do that, what with the living folk having no time or inclination. ‘Where are the death certificates of those ‘not here’?’. We clucked our tongues and shook our heads. Mercifully, the Portuguese were an organized people. A guess work of dates helped us track those down. If they had passed on in the year 2000, we could have handed over a couple of rupees and invented a date, someone remarked. Whilst the inventory of heirs was happening, we learned that our family had secrets. Who said what to whom, when, in what context, where… hushed whispers across a sofa progressed to emails flung across continents. I’ve saved some for my novel.

Then came the inventory of assets. When we went to the village for the first time, we enjoyed ourselves, ate plenty of fish, cracked jokes, exchanged memories; we were on a picnic. The next time we were more serious, walked around known and imagined boundaries helped by an old retainer (who was gruff because he wanted it known that he didn’t like our poking our noses into matters we didn’t know anything about.)

I know now how cases take as long as they do: sans wills, sans official records… same story in so many families in the State. Some plots are arbitrarily put on a son or nephew’s name without follow up on paper. A gift maybe? Who is to know? When the census guys did their surveys, many old widows who stayed alone in these villages marked plots against names that were different from those mentioned in the records. Thus there are cases where the same plot is held by two names in two different documents. Some parts were sold or mortgaged when a family member needed money. Most families have had an uncle who looked after ‘matters’ (whilst the brood earned their livelihoods in Mumbai, Dubai, wherever) and took decisions that now, decades later, the present generation can’t figure out why. Debates carry on as does the paperwork. More stuff for my novel.

At the end of the exercise, none of us is going to be rich. We are a large family and the assets aren’t. I take back my remark that all our wealth is in our heads. Actually, it’s in our health, as is said, and am glad to have inherited healthy genes, my most valuable ancestral ‘property’. Touch wood.

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