Wednesday 11 July 2012

Houghton Street musings


Student no. 200620078:
I must have been one of the first ones to apply. To be precise I must have been the 8th to apply for 2006 /07. My LSE student number reads 2006-2007-8 …. It is an easy number to remember. I was registered with LSE as a successful applicant holding an unconditional offer, was way back in January 2006. What they saw in my career and academic profile, I still cannot understand !!!

Studies was not really my cup of tea … not really after 13 years since I last gave an Exam. I should say I was driven by desperation and circumstances.

I have a bookworm for a husband who at that time was pursuing his executive MBA from London business school. He (owing to his study and work overload…I am told) never took notice that a wife existed at home, except when the toilet paper ran out in the loo.

Routine work was getting on my nerves and with no personal life whatsoever; I was not sure where my life was taking me. I knew I wanted to get out the rut of clearing 1000s of emails pouring into the bottom less pit called the inbox over weekdays as well as weekends.

Hubby dear suggested I study for a part time CIPD certification to keep myself ‘occupied’. I was surfing the internet for CIPD certification and related courses when I chanced upon this dual degree being offered at the London school of Economics. It promised a CIPD and a Master’s degree in an year’s time.

LSE seemed too posh for my ambitions and I was sure I wasn’t going to get an admission there. I did not even speak about it to anyone fearing they would mock at me aspiring to study at my age, and that too at the London School of Economics. I submitted the application very discretely and could not believe myself when I actually got an admission letter within a month.

I was about to turn down my admission when I saw there was a chance to defer it by another year. I applied for the deferral citing monetary reasons and sure enough they granted me the deferral. By then, I had another year to think it over, except that I had to pay up £500 as the deferral amount. I waited till the last day to actually pay up the amount, as I had not decided if I really wanted to do go in for higher studies. For one I felt I was too old and two I was not sure if this was what I wanted to do …

I chanced to meet up with Anita, a long time friend and ex-colleague who was taking a career break at that time. She was thinking of pursuing higher studies and said she was thinking of applying to LSE and King’s. It was almost June of 2006 by then and she was not sure if she stood a chance for that academic year.
I let her know that I had got my admission at LSE ( and if I could, it should not be difficult for her at all) and was thinking of deferring it by a year. She applied at LSE as well as King’s and got admission offers from both, chose LSE for obvious reasons and joined the HRM program in 20062007.

I was still undecided, at least now I had someone whom I knew, who would take the road before I was going to take it. I was still caught up in the rut of meaningless work, but the fact that there was an exit at the end of a definite period was a big consolation.

The first few weeks at LSE:
LSE is an embodiment of certainty. It has seen thousands of students each year, year after year. The processes are very streamlined, the yearly routine is very predictable so much so that its timetables to the exact dates are published till 2012. Even the London 2012 Olympics may not be able to boast of such certainty…

You get your LSE student ID cards standing in with about 1000 others who have been allotted that slot based on their surnames. Your e-mail id gets activated and you get a pamphlet during your induction telling you how to activate it … you have to be too much of an idiot or an illiterate to have missed out on any procedures.

The induction happens in a huge theatre with Howard Davies the Director of LSE welcoming everyone with his wise cracks and British humour and this routine gets repeated for three sessions in exactly the same manner. I am not sure if he cracks the same jokes about the French in every session. (Can someone check that out for me please…) Coming to the point, if you have missed one induction session at the peacock theatre, you do not have to fret and fume, you can attend another … if you haven’t attended any of them doesn’t matter... listen to the pod cast at http://www.lse.ac.uk/.

If you thought LSE existed at Houghton Street, London WC2A 2AE, then you would be wrong.
LSE exists at http://www.lse.ac.uk/.


Houghton Street, London WC2A 2AE just happens to be a quaint old set of buildings on the banks of the Thames and besides the BBC which gets the greenest university award when there are hardly any trees anywhere in the vicinity.

I did not stay in the halls. Maybe I missed out on London night life and the student life, as much as the others did.

Student’s union and the ‘Societies’ at the LSE:
LSE Student’s union representatives are far more active than anyone else at LSE. They take an year off once they get elected and get paid for that sabbatical year. All year they keep themselves busy with student union activity. Any 21 year old with political ambition aspires to be a SU member. (Benazir Bhutto, started her political career as the first elected general secretary of the Oxford University Student union.)

Student union are into everything, ranging from taking a stand about the occupation of Israel by the Palestine to organizing free pedicure and manicure during exam times, they have all sorts of activities. More about the friendly SU, later on...

They also organize the fresher’s fair.

At the fresher’s fair one gets bombarded and introduced to countless ‘societies’ ranging from Anti-bush, anti American society to Humus eating society.

There are many that can attract your attention and get you interested especially with the chocolates, bags and other freebies that they offer . But one needs to be careful about one’s interest. One way to make sure you do not get carried away is by not carrying enough change with you. Especially not the one pound coins. There is a one pound joining fees that you cough up before you officially sign up for a society.
It is not the one pound joining fees that you need to cough up to register yourself with the society, but the barrage of e-mails that you suffer from over enthusiastic society members throughout the year that you need to be careful before you sign up for a society.

I had always wanted to learn SALSA and so I signed up for the LSESU dance society, Only to discover that SALSA society was exclusive and distinct from the rest of the hip-hop, belly dancing, ball room dancing, bollywood dancing and other dancing fraternity. They would not give me my one pound back and would not stop sending me mails about change of venue for belly dancing and ball room dancing classes. I paid up another one pound and joined the SALSA Society later on… I have now managed to learn a few decent steps in SALSA without stepping on my partner ‘s toes …

And then there was WIB, a society of which I continue to be an inactive member, whose e-mails I trash promptly as they arrive every weekend. I joined them because they were giving away a free red ladies umbrella for every member who paid a pound to join. It was a rainy day, I was not carrying an umbrella and I thought that was good value for money, only to discover that evening standard, were giving away free umbrellas that evening if one brought their newspaper for 50 p.

Women in banking (WIB) society, consists of very smart and ambitious 19-20-21 year old undergraduates who are all poised to become the future CEOs of Goldman Sachs, Credit Suisse and Lehman brothers when men start getting pregnant.

I attended their AGM. It was interesting. I walked in when two young Economics and management students were making their election speeches for the post of general secretary or treasurer that was being contested. The contest was getting too hot, as much as the room was getting crowded by what seemed like a few young good looking men who I suspected had walked into the wrong meeting. By then the speeches had been made and the contestants were being asked questions by the audience. It was then time for the voting. The voting was by show of hands by all those present at the AGM and were presumably the ones who had paid a pound to join WIB society. The lady who won the hotly contested post of general secretary hands down, that afternoon at the AGM had about 90% of the men in the room who voted for her by show of hands. That is when one learns that behind every successful woman there are indeed several men. (No pun intended)

Freebies, Freebies and more Freebies:
To this day, the WIB umbrella continues to occupy space in my handbag and has been my saviour in the rainy days. That was the first of freebies at LSE.

Just about all the big employers dole out freebies at Houghton Street on almost every weekday as part of ‘employer branding’. Financial Times (FT) gave out free newspapers on Mondays; Deloitte had a free smoothie drop on Tuesdays and so on.
I don’t think I ever paid a penny for any of my stationery requirements as a student.
HSBC gave highlighters for freebies at a career fair, Standard chartered went one up and gave a three in one highlighter in the same career fair. Cadbury Schweppes had the most attentive audience at the career fair, no marks for guessing what they gave out as freebies.
Folders, marker pens, free sandwiches, krispy crème donuts, smoothies, sling bags, free wines, jelly beans and even free condomns.

Well it was not DUREX, but the LGBT society that gave out free condomns at Houghton street when they were celebrating the AIDS awareness week or some such thing. LGBT for the uninitiated stands for the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Society which is adequately funded (even in times of sub-prime crisis) by many employers including KPMG as a part of their commitment to promote and attract a diverse workforce and to be an ‘equal opportunity’ employer.

‘If you wanna have a shag, then make sure you take this bag’ … shouted the most enthusiastic salesman that I have ever met. He was trying to sell free condomns to every embarrased student who was trying to walk past him at Houghton street. You see, in a highly competitive environment like LSE, that is a very good work experience to put on one’s CV.

Houghton Street was like the Gaza strip… you could not pass by Houghton Street on a weekday without a freebie being pushed across your face. Even a hardcore sucker for freebies was spoilt for choice. There are times I chucked the jelly beans from Accenture for a smoothie from Evening standard.

It was the best of times … and then came the worst of times …

One Monday morning, WIB society sent out an apologetic mail saying that due to unavoidable circumstances, the Citigroup chocolate tasting session was postponed until further notice. That was fine with me, I was anyway putting on too much weight.

I did not see it coming. Some intelligent finance, management and economics undergraduates who actually read those free FTs saw it coming. And true to their predictions, from then on Houghton Street only got quieter as the term progressed.

Just like the foot and mouth disease or the bird flu that one hears of but never really gets to see, there was too much of a talk about this thing called the ‘sub-prime’ crisis that seemed to be rampant in some other continent.

The free FTs were full of them. And then it stopped. The free FTs, if you get what I mean.

Sub-prime affected Houghton Street for sure. As the next term came by, the freebies at Houghton Street stopped.

Intrigued by why it was called ‘sub-prime’, I looked up the internet to upgrade my general knowledge and more importantly sound like an intelligent post graduate from the London school of economics. I gathered it had something to do with housing mortgages and bankrupt Americans not able to pay up their mortgages, but how it came to be called ‘sub-prime’ and why it should affect Houghton street freebies is still beyond my comprehension.

There were opinion polls and wise men (and women) from LSE and the financial district across the Thames was making news with their predictions about the woes of those sub-prime fellows.

One nice employer that used to distribute stress balls before the exams at Houghton Street as an innovative exercise of ‘employer branding’ stopped it this year. I am told all the stress balls got consumed by the employees before it reached LSE.


To be continued … I am curently stressed with my disseration deadlines...

Forbidden Fruit


Forbidden Fruit

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Yesterday at the Friday market they were selling Strawberries , Raspberries, Avocados and many other exotic fruits that I have never heard of or seen before.

But this one fruit caught my attention … I think I have seen it before … and tasted it ... that is now how long ago ?... mmm... 1978 or was it 79 ... 
We lived in Pune . In those days it was ok to call it Poona… We lived near five-O-nine area in a place called Tingre nagar. For those who know Pune , this is on your way to Viman nagar .. .or the pune airport. Indian Air-force has a base there.

A good part of my childhood, the most memorable ones were spent there.

Me and my sister walked about 3-4 kms to school and it used to be fun. There was a matador which picked up children from 2 kms away but it did not make economic sense to take it.
Those were not the days of traffic and pollution . And it was relatively safe for children to walk to school. A lot of children went with us to the same school.

If you know what sibling rivalry is you will understand this. My sis and I never acknowledged each other when at school or with school friends. Not that we were enemies or anything, but were embarassed to acknowledge that we were from the same family. She took a different route home with a set of her friends and I went with mine. She usually reached home a little earlier than I .

It was vast empty lands with not many buildings around and we used to stay on the first floor . So my mother had atleast a one km view from the balcony of my way back home.

I would meander around, pick up flat stones for Tipri( I think they call it hop skotch in English and pandi in Tamil ) and round marble stones for five stones game that we played with other girls in the evening. There were wild flowers, and butterflies all round to catch as well. But the most interesting part was a couple of Jamun trees on the way. Jamun – not as in the guava fruit as the delhiites call it. It is a dark violet coloured fruit which when eaten in excess causes sore throat. They call it nagapazham in Tamil.

Girls and boys would throw stones on the jamun tree , collect the ripest ones , dust the mud off them and then eat them on the way.

A little ahead was another jamun tree but was in the backyard of Bhagat Ram's Grocery store.
( Till about six -seven years ago Bhagat Ram's existed there ...dunno if it is still there. )

None of us quite ventured near it coz’ Bhagat Ram Seth was a not a very children friendly Seth and was busy running his grocery shop with his two sons and a helper man who had pock marks on his face like the ones you see on Om Puri's face.

There was a tap adjacent to the compound wall of Bhagat Ram seth’s backyard which we discovered we could put to good use by washing mud off the soiled jamuns. Many of the ripe ones would get badly bruised because of stone throwing and when they fell, they would be heavily soiled.

It was not long before a whole lot of us started using Bhagat Ram Seth’s tap for washing jamuns . Seth would instruct the pock marked helper man to shoo us off. The pock marked Helper man was a meek, middle-aged fellow, had a Sachin Tendulkar like voice , always looked lost and was probably a little slow at the uptake. Seth would relentlessly order him around. I guess that is how it is with all Seth log and their servants.


Me and my then best friend ( don’t remember now whether her name was Vandana or Kiran or Rajni ) once were persistent and were pleading with the pock marked Helper man to just get this one bunch of jamuns washed over in his tap. We used that charm that only little girls can use ( they assume a different meaning when you grow up) to plead with him while putting our case forward.

We got friendly with him thus. We continued using his tap. On days when the Seth had gone home for siesta or out to the city market he would invite us to partake some jamuns that he had picked from the tree inside the compound. He would offer us some violet jamuns from his tree .
It was when we became good friends he once introduced us to the tender, sweet red looking fruit that grew in the backyard .

Flash forward 2004 – High street – Guildford – England :
Straw berries… Raspberries for one pound ‘… calls out the man selling fruits on the friday fruits market in a clipped British accent.

I give him a one pound coin and pick up a plastic bowl full of the tender, sweet red looking fruit …mmm… they taste just the same … Oh ... so RASPBERRIES is what they are called …never knew it then … we were introduced to it as ‘lal jamun’… 
Flash back 1979 – Five O Nine Area - Pune – India : 
We got invited almost every other day to the backyard by the pock marked helper man.

Even when the Seth was'nt having his Siesta. Afternoons were the time you would hardly expect many to drop into a grocery shop ...so i guess it was off-peak hours and the Seth let the pock marked helper man retire to this backyard once in a while.

The backyard was one of those quaint –cozy ones which little girls typically take a liking to.
A room opened out to the backyard and if you peeped in you saw it had a big trunk box, a old rusted frame with a photograph of Shiva and Parvati and a calendar poster of Goddess Durga on a lion with an agarbatti stand beneath it. The bed covered with a colourful quilt made of left over cloth from some tailor’s shop.

The room smelt of ... can't say what ... that is how grocery shops smell. A little damp , a little smell of wheat sacks stacked beneath the bed mixed with the smell of detergent bars and phenyl . The door on the other side directly led to the grocery store. He shared the room with sacks of wheat and other grocery items which Bhagat Ram Seth stocked along with the pock marked helper man in the back room.

He got talking to us and we probably rattled out the history of our entire khandaan to him.
We told him which class we were studying, where our fathers were working and where we went during our summer holidays all the while eating away the Raspberries.

Although we did not ask him , he told us about his daughters back home in Rajasthan who were now married . Bhagat Ram Seth was a rich relative of his and had got him to Pune to help him around to run the stores. I felt that he was sorely missing his family .

It became an everyday routine to peep into the backyard of Bhagat Ram Seth’s dukaan to see if the pock marked helper man would invite us for jamuns. Sure enough he kept some of the red ones for us at the backyard. We would eat them, chat up with him and then head homewards.

My then best friend’s ( was It vandana or kiran or Rajni .. I still cannot remember … ) family shifted out to another quarters and soon I did not have her company for my trip back home from school. It was in a way good because the quota of lal jamuns was all mine and did not have to be shared from then onwards. The Lal jamuns and the pock marked helper man would remain a secret with me.

I developed a taste for the Lal jamuns while the usual violet jamun was discarded from my wish list. As long as my pock marked helper man supplied me with Lal jamuns it was not necessary for me to slog it out by throwing stones on the other tree only to share the booty with others, especially those rough boys from 4th standard who bullied and teased the 2nd standard girls and thought no end to themselves. They would never get to experience the Lal jamuns anyway ???

And so the pock marked helper man at Bhagat Ram seth’s dukaan continued to treat me as his preferred vendor for jamuns. He would repeatedly tell me that I looked exactly like what his younger daughter was when she was my age . He would get overwhlemed and keep repeating that the resemblance was stark.

He would kiss me goodbye before I would take leave and insist I return his kiss .

In the kind of family that I grew up, Physical display of affection ceases at about 2-3 years of age. Amma or Appa never really kissed or hugged the children when they went to bed or when we were leaving for school unlike in my best friend’s home ( Vandana or kiran or Rajni I don’t remember) . Her mummy kissed her on both her cheeks before she left for school. I know it because I would wait for her at the door and her mummy would hurriedly peck the kisses on her cheek after zipping off the lunch box in her bag.

It was kind of embarrasing and awkward when the pock marked helper man kissed me .
But he was a kind man … for you do not see too many of them offering some nice red jamuns to little girls everyday . So I got used to it and returned his favours with a quick peek on his cheek and leave homewards.

And thus I continued have my share of Raspberries for many months to come.
*************
On a different track … Raspberries in Pune !!! in the late 1970’s …

This was long before MAPRO commercialised Strawberry and Raspberry cultivation in Mahabaleshwar. These days , you can see strawberries selling in super market stores and traffic signals in Mumbai for exotic prices. But in the late seventies when emergency was at its peak and licence raj ruled , Strawberries and Raspberries were unheard of by the Common Indian .

Well it was one more of those imprints that the British left in India ...I guess. It must be worth researching.

We lived in 509 area. It was pronounced as five O nine area- just like the way in London they say O ( as in oh!) instead on zero. It was an air-force camp for the british before independence. I guess a lot of British Air-force personnel lived there before independence.

Pune or Poona as it then was called is a place with a pleasant and gloomy Englnd-like weather for most part of the year, which is probably why the English took a liking to the city in the early 1900’s and set up base.

I suspect, a home-sick Englishman’s wife must have experimented with Raspberry seeds with the fruits that she got from England and had sown it in her backyard. (William Dalrymple ... may find this a worthwhile lead to write another bestseller after the White Mughals)

About 30 - 40 years later after the English left India, I was probably reaping the fruits of the seed sown by a homesick English man’s wife at the backyard of Bhagat Ram’s grocery stores. Thanks to the generosity of the pock marked helper man.

*************
As they say , all good things must come to an end. And so it was with my pock marked helper man and his supply of raspberries.

It was I who left him .

One day after school , my mother noticed stains on my white school uniform shirt and asked me what they were. I told her they were from the lal jaamun that I ate at Bhagat ram's backyard … I told her about the pock marked helper man and his supply of raspberries in exchange of a kiss everyday on the way back from school.

She was angry ... a little more than angry , I felt .
For what though I could not make out.

It was not unusual for me to dirty my school uniforms , she would mildly reprimand me but never had she got so angry . Her face was red . As red as the Raspberry stain on my white school uniform.
I remember she whacked me and said I better come back from school without any stop overs anywhere. My sister was instructed to accompany me to ensure that I was back home from school in the shortest possible time.

Taking any favours ( or fruits for that matter ) from strangers, kind or otherwise was strictly forbidden ... she declared .

That put an end to my Raspberries and my stop-overs at Bhagat Ram's Backyard . I would accompany my sister on a shorter route back home.

Our family continued shopping at the Bhagat Ram’s for our monthly groceries. The pock marked helper man would smile at me and I would look away from him . If Amma was not looking , I would then quickly return his smile.
Don’t know why ... but I felt a faint tinge of guilt in doing so.

I noticed Amma would get very stern, straight faced and unkind with him when he would indulge in small talk while measuring out our groceries. On our way out, she muttered 'porukki ' (loosely translated for non tamil readers - 'Porukki ' - loafer / eve-teaser / womanizer in varying degrees depending on the context) .
Porukki ' - that was the first bad word in tamil that me and sis learnt. We were not sure of its exact meaning , but began to use it generously in our fights against each other.

She behaved like that for many months after the stained white uniform incident… I did not like the way she was being unkind to him.

The stain on the white uniform went away ... thanks to surf or rin or ariel ( no could not have been ariel... they did not sell ariel in those days ) that Amma used to wash the clothes.

So what was she still angry for ?

It was the stain in her mind I suppose that remained …

That was long long ago... so much water has flown under the bridge since then ...
She was a young mother with two daughters ... probably younger than what I am today.
Am not sure if I would behave any different today if I had a daughter , that age ...


7.42 Nerul Local and other musings


7.42 Nerul Local and other musings

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

7.42 Nerul Local and other musings

Sleep was eluding her and the alarm on the alarm clock had’nt yet gone off …It was probably 4.30 in the morning. She realised it was a bank holiday . It was a pleasant revelation . That meant her alarm would ring as usual at 5.30 … but she did not have to get up . On other days it was not so … The maximum was a ten minute snooze .. that she could allow herself… anything more and she would miss the 7.42 local.

She would make the b’fast , cook the lunch and the dinner, pack up the lunch boxes, wake up Rahul , bathe him, (he now says he has grown up and insists on taking his bath himself.) , get him ready and leave him at Rajni ben’s crèche that she runs from her flat in the next building. She should not forget to leave the packed lunch box in the husband’s office bag and wake him up before rushing off to catch the 7.42 Local. He is so forgetful you see.


The ladies compartment (the middle one ) on the 7.42 local transports her to a different world. It is here that she would catch up with her train friends.
They have been friends for about seven years now .
Seven years since she has been boarding this train.
Seven years since she and her husband brought this flat in the suburb with loans with just 4% interest from their respective offices. All her friends live in the same suburb and board the same ladies compartment (middle one) on the 7.42 local.

She has never visited them at their homes and neither have they visited hers.
Their families have’nt met either.
For Sundays are the days to spend at home.
The one's who come visiting are unwanted relatives or husband's friends.
Considerate friends , especially train friends , know better than to come visiting on Sundays or bank holidays.
And then a one hour fifteen minute journey to work, every working day was enough time to catch up on the daily happenings in each others lives. Coming to think of it , they all spent more quality time with each other , than they did with their families.

Daisy’s son is getting his SSC results today. She has been so tensed since yesterday .

Lakshmi is on leave . Her mom-in-law has gone to kerala to attend a wedding and her 11 month old daughter would’nt remain in a day –care.

Today is Sheela’s birthday. She would board at the next station - Sanpada. The train stops at Sanpada and Sheela gets in .
Sheela is wearing a blue saree with matching earrings.
A chorus bursts out singing loudly , ‘Happy birthday to you ‘… Sheela covers her mouth and pretends to be a little embarrassed but you could not miss the happiness replacing the melancholy on her face. You could notice there are some ‘nearly dried’ tears drops beneath Sheela’s eyes .

No…don’t confuse them with the tears that come , when you are overwhelmed or are taken in by a pleasant surprise. Something like when an athlete realises she has won a gold medal.

For one... Sheela is not surprised . 

Sheela has been wished like this on her birthday for the last 4-5 years . Her eyes are red and are swollen. Looks like she has been crying all night. A fresh scar has made its appearance near the cheek bone. Knowing Sheela , it would not be long , not even until the Vashi bridge and we would hear her narrate the history of the origins of that latest scar on her face . Once she has offloaded , she would be back with her wisecracks and thunderous laughter.
Right now she pulls out the choclate cake that she has baked and has got for all of us.
Sheela baked a choclate cake last year too . It is Sheela’s core competence and it tastes yummy .

Sadhana was pregnant last year and was battling out with her morning sickness and sweet cravings. Sadhana had loved the choclate cake that Sheela had got last year and they all donated a little extra for her from their share for the mother-to-be . Sadhana's absence was felt.
Sheela got enquiring about Sadhana.

Sadhana has just got back to work after her maternity leave. She has had a baby boy . Sadhana gets very late these days so they do not get to see Sadhana on the 7.42.

Sadhana works in the same office as her. She met her yesterday.

In the afternoon She had gone to the toilet. The toilet doors were locked, apparently being used by someone for a long time. The wait was getting unbearable and she could not hold herself . It has been like that since she was pregnant with Rahul. She expected it to be OK after the delivery , but the c-sec made it worse instead .

She knocked again. After a while , Sadhana came out with a pouch in her hand. Lifted up the pouch and said ‘Such are the joys of motherhood ’ and sighed … could see the wet patches on her kurta which Sadhana was covering with her Dupatta.

Unlike Sadhana , She was glad she got a 6 month LWP after her ML . By the time she rejoined office , Rahul was weaned and she had her mom-in-law at home to look after Rahul. All that she missed out was her promotion. And that’s the least a working woman can sacrifice for her child, she consoled herself. She had her job atleast . 
Seema resigned her job after the delivery. Seema's mom-in-law conveyed in no uncertain terms that every mother ought to look after her own children. It would have been awkward to put the baby in the creche when your Mom-in-law was living with you. So she resigned her job and is now a full time mom. They gave her a farewell party on the 7.42 local. They got puran poli and maharashtrian style bhindi ki bhaji to party on the train because that was her favorite.
The other day she boarded the 7.42 with her little daughter to tell them all something. She was expecting the second one. Her face was glowing and she had put on a little weight. But the relief and happiness on her face was not be missed. 'Good decision - you took -right in the beginning ' said Daisy, who was battling with the teenage tantrums of her thirteen year old.
These days it is different. Lot of competition from these foreign companies. Low margins, high costs, cost cutting and all sort of things… They are asking women on LWP to resign.

So Sadhana had to join back after 2.5 months of delivery .
The Boss says , ‘when these girls start out they are so efficient, then comes marriage leave, maternity leave , LWP , sick mom-in law , sick children and then they begin to leave office at 5.45 p.m . Too many of these f****ing NPAs… ‘

In the reception sofa , some young pretty girls are waiting for interviews . Lot of recruitment these days sigh’s boss’s secretary . 

******************

She did not get her promotion the year after Rahul’s delivery …and then the following year. Despite the fact that she worked a lot of overtime that year.
That was when her mom-in-law went back and Amma came down to take care of Rahul . She could now afford to stay late in office and was determined to catch up that year.

Everything looked OK and then came Rahul’s malaria. His RBC count dropped to dangerous levels and he had to be hospitalized . It broke her heart to leave him alone. Moreover Amma was suffering from arthritis, there was only so much she could do.
The Husband had his clients coming down from the US. 
*************
She is glad today is a bank holiday. The fridge needs to be cleaned, the showcase needs to be dusted, Rahul’s tricycle which he no longer uses needs to be dumped in the attic and the lime needs to be pickled . She bought 25 for Rs. 5 yesterday from the girl who sells them in the train. They were juicy big ones. Good bargain she had thought to herself .

So much for a bank holiday . What is the use lying on the bed .. when sleep would elude you … there is so much work to catch up … mmm … she was tired but could not sleep …She felt she was getting older…

When she was young … and that was not very long ago … she would catch up on her Sunday afternoon naps … what bliss they were … even Karen Lurel’s Liril bath in a waterfall cannot match up the freshness that comes after a Sunday afternoon nap.

Sunday afternoon naps were her favourite. When a company that came interviewing on campus asked her what her hobbies were… she really did not have one that she could tell them … she said she had none …They pressed on , rephrased the question and asked her what she was passionate about … and she said it was the Sunday afternoon naps … God knows what they saw in her but she got the job.

Sundays were special . She would sleep soon after a sumptuous lunch, and get up by around 4.00 in the afternoon. Switch on the radio where Latha Mangeshkar would be crooning away melodies at the request of the famous couple from Jhumritalaiya . She would lazily get up to make herself a cup of tea with an extra dash of crushed ginger in it . ‘Fauji Bhaiyon ke liye’ … a dusky voice on All India radio would announce…
*************
Sleep still eluded her… it was 7.30 a.m… what is the use of day dreaming when there is so much ‘productive’ work to be done … she thought and finally got up.

She walked up to the hall… the show case was cluttered… too many things .

Atleast a dozen versions of lord Krishna and ganapathy idols which were received as wedding gifts from nameless friends, relatives and acquaintances fought for space with three sets of dinner sets . People need to get creative when giving wedding gifts she thought to herself.

The music system that her brother had gifted for the wedding had an inch of dust over it.
No one had the time for music now. Rahul was busy with the cartoon network and all their waking time was taken up by the noise from the Television.

The cassette stand was no different. The Hariprasad chaurasia, the M S Subbalakshmi and the Jagjit singh ‘s that she had so passionately collected were now gathering dust.

Just seven years and so much of clutter …they weren’t meant to be that way .
They were all well meaning investments , purchases and gifts.

Somewhere the pace of life caught up with her and she could never enjoy the purpose for which they were acquired.

Take the ‘la-opala’ tea set… it must have cost Amma a fortune to buy that seven years back for the wedding. But then it looked an ‘expensive and elegant’ piece to keep for ‘seer varisai’ … ( loosely translated for non –tamil speaking readers … Seer –Varisai ‘a display of house hold items that are given in dowry by parents to their daughter during marriage… )

The only time they used it was when her sis –in –law came down from the US on a trip to India. That was when her husband accidentally broke one of the cups. That was six years back. Sometime after the first wedding anniversary.

She noticed that the blue and white crockery started looking a little pale in colour… do crockery sets age with time… like relationships… she was’nt sure.

She took up the three legged stool and looked up the attic. The attic was full. She needed to make space for the tricycle.

When they had just moved in to the house ( thanks to the house loan, she had to continue to keep her job to meet up the EMI payments) the attic was almost empty. In the initial days they stocked up the card board boxes and thermocol remains of the Samsung television, kenstar microwave, LG Refrigerator and numerous other appliances that they purchased with their home appliances loan that the office rolled out generously to both of them. Year after year , the appliances increased.
The card board boxes increased and took up attic space. Then there were the toys, the baby gifts , the cradle, and now the tricycle … god knows what more …

Rahul’s baby socks fell out of a box of old clothes from the attic… no she could’nt throw them away…the memories were precious.

When she was expecting, Daisy taught her knitting and all she managed was a pair of pink socks ( pink was meant for the baby girl that she was hoping for) and a sweater during her daily commute on the 7.42.

Can’t throw them away… sentimental values…would keep it for Rahul’s daughter she thought … and tucked them in.

They had decided not to have another child.
Rahul was taking up enough of her energy.
And then the promotion thing kept coming back … she thought she had reconciled long back . It did not hurt her as much until recently ..

She heard that Sujoy, her batch mate in campus who joined with her as her colleague was now two designations above her and posted at the Hong-kong office. Office grapevine had it that he was being transferred to Mumbai . She dreaded the day if ever when he would be her boss. Eight years ago, she was the college topper and he was such a loafer , that it was a miracle when he managed to graduate in the end .

She would resign her job if ever it came to that … she told herself. But then she knew she could not. The EMIs had to be payed and Rahul’s schooling was getting so expensive .

She could not think of applying elsewhere either. She would have to put in long working hours atleast initially and with Rajni ben’s day care closing by 7.30 p.m she would not be able to get back home so early from a new job. In all these years an unfathomable Inertia had engulfed her.

Moreover her CV had not been updated in all these years.

There was not much to update anyway except for the column on marital status and No. of children . And the change of maiden name of course .

She had retained her maiden name for a long time after marraige.

Did not feel like changing it . After all that was the identity that she grew up with. And it felt strange to call yourself Mrs . So and So when for a good part of your life you were Miss. So & so…

It was not until she decided to apply for her passport that it dawned on her that Marital status was an important piece of information for the President of India who had authorised the local issuing authority to issue her passport .

The form asked for Father’s name and Husband ‘s name ( strange they do not ask a man his wife’s name). She stuck to her Father’s name so that she would not have to go through the name change in every other place . the bank accounts, the e-mail ids, the office records, the Income tax returns , the driving licence, PAN card and what have you … But the passport issuing officer would not have anything of it and issued the passport on the hubby’s name . Thus she was now Mrs. So and So . 
****************

The dust made her sneeze. She got down from the three legged stool and came to the Hall sneezing . The husband had woken up . Apparently there was a cricket match today. The TV was blasting away the commercials before the match began.

She looked up the showcase to clear the clutter… it would be a good idea to start with the drawer by the time the sneezing subsides, she thought and sat down … the drawer was overflowing… the guarantee cards, the entry passes , the shopping receipts , the pink stubs of the tickets of the first movie that they saw together , the birthday cards, the ‘I am sorry’ cards that they had given each other ( Archies must have made a fortune in the days when they were courting ) … all came flooding down …

Pchh… said the irritated husband yawning on the sofa . You are blocking the TV view’ he shouted . He had missed to see who won the Toss. She moved away.,. sat down on the chair and took a long expressionless look at him and sighed …

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In every home, that has been set up for some years , there are always things in the attic, in the showcases and the drawers which have been of no use for years gone by and will be of no use for years to come. And yet they cannot be thrown away or put to use. They cause a lot of clutter, gather dust, could cause dust allergy and other ailments and over a period of time and can make you feel utterly claustrophobic…

By the way not all of them are necessarily stacked in the Attic, showcases , drawers or in the garage.

One such thing was lying here of front of her on the sofa fiddling around with the ...mmm…the unmentionable …

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P.S : Just to clarify … the unmentionable that she was mentioning was the remote control on the right hand …just in case you thought it was something else…




















RAVISHING WITH THE RAVENS @ TOWER OF LONDON


TUESDAY, 30 OCTOBER 2007

Ravinshing with the Ravens @ Tower of London












Sometime ago I had been to the Tower of London. This was no ‘Touristy’ trip.
It was an 'away' day organized by the dept at LSE.
Tower of London,, like many other heritage sites is now renting out its venue for corporate workshops and things like that. This one was being sponsored by British American Tobacco for LSE students. Ironically ‘BAT’ were talking about ‘Employer Branding’.

Among other group exercises and lectures there were breaks. Long breaks. The food was good (ah the pasta in the pesto sauce and of course the dessert).

After such heavy food, one deserves a bit of a bigger break. One such Long break, I utilized in visiting the Crown jewels. The crown jewels is a dazzling display of all the jewellery and the rest of the paraphrenialia of the royal family since 1500s .. or maybe even before. Like all Indians who flock there, my interest lay in the Kohinoor diamond. The Kohinoor is indeed safe and shining on the queen’s imperial Crown.

It was a bit of an anti-climax for me though. I had imagined Kohinoor as a big, grand dazzling stand alone diamond that was so preciously stolen or rather the politically correct word would be conquered.
The famous Kohinoor is actually a medium sized diamond on top of the queen’s crown. I could be prevcious, but amidst other diamonds, it fades in its grandeur compared to some other dazzling display of jewellery.

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Legend has it that if the Ravens at the Tower of London flew away, the Monarchy would fall and Britain would be conquered.

There have always been Ravens at the Tower of London since time immemorial.
Since time immemorial the have been breeding and feeding the Ravens at the Tower. (These ones are quite plump). And to keep them from flying away, they clip their wings. This makes them hop around the place and disables them from flying. They are probably on disability benefits sponsored by the tax payer for the sake of british monarchy.

David Cooper, has an interesting job. He is the HR director for the Tower of London.
He gets to eat good lunch, when he joins the corporate bigigies who come to tower of London for their ‘away’ day. The challenge in his job, is to keep his staff motivated. Well, it can be quite a demotiating task to be quadring the crown jewels in a beefeaters uniform when it is warm and sunny outside over the thames. But that is not all. There are seven Ravens whom he needs to keep motivated, for the good of the Monarchy and the Britain at large.

Before animal rights acivists get a whiff of the hopping ravens and their clipped wings, let me tell you what I have been told. They don’t actually clip their wings. They get them from the bird sanctuaries and choose the ones who are already wounded and cannot quite fly.

The Raven keeper at the tower of London, goes to the nearby smithkline market everyday and buys fresh meat for the Ravens and they feast on it. Not a bad life at all , being a Raven at the tower of London. Lucky ones, they do not have to feel guilty about putting on weight. Poor things, they cannot fly and they have to eat to survive and thrive for the sake of the British Monarchy. Long live the Ravens.
 

Rang Barse


Rang Barse

NAME: 
LOCATION: UNITED KINGDOM

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 03, 2004

RANG BARSE...

I cannot understand what this fuss is all about.

All this saffronising and de saffronising of education....

Education in my experience was always coloured in one form or the other depending on what and where your were pursuing your education.

Speaking for myself, I changed seven different schools out of the fourteen years of my schooling and went to two different institutions for higher education. Thanks to my father’s transferable job with a nationalized bank.

What I have seen and experienced is a hotch potch of ideologies and ‘isms’ covering all colours from Red (Leftist) to Saffron (Hindutva) to green (Environmental) to white (Christianity) to what have you…

All that colourful influence, at the end of the day makes me wonder if it had any real influence at all on me. What I am today is dictated by the geographical, social and economic conditions that have shaped me and my circumstances.

I earn a living by working for a profit making multinational company whose business it is to develop automated software that will render human effort as redundant and thus increase profitability for the capitalists. So the leftists have disowned me.

I never as much step into a temple or observe rituals and fasts on auspicious days, so the saffron brigade doesn’t care about me.

I do collect all my non-biodegradable waste in a separate trash-can and dispose it off so that the world is a greener and cleaner place to live in, if and when my children inherit it. But the fellow who comes to collect ‘Kachda’ in my building society does not care two hoots about the two different trash-cans that I leave for him in the night. One for the biodegradable and the other for non-biodegradable waste . One morning, when I got up early, I saw him mixing the two up in his large blue bucket when he emptied out the trash cans. I wish I had not got up early and seen this... I could at least have called myself an environmentalist.

Of all the Christian school education that I received, I remember some of the Christmas carols which I learnt in the school choir group. I now hum along when I hear them in the radio or television during Christmas time.

I cannot remember as much the Sanskrit Shlokas that my grandfather taught me when I was a kid.

On the census statistics data of the gazette of India, my Religion is recorded as Hindu.

How do my beliefs that I follow or the gods that I worship matter at all in the census statistics published in the gazette of India? I do not know.

It is quite a task to dissect all my influences.

I do not remember the religious orientation of my kindergarten schools. But my 1st, 2nd, 3rd standard schooling was in the ‘Air force school’ in Pune. They later renamed them as Kendriya Vidyalaya. The ‘Air force school’ was mainly meant for the wards of the service men serving the Indian Air force base in Pune. Due to its tricolour patriotic orientation, it was a 100% secular school. The only manmade divide there was between the children of ‘civilians’ and the children of ‘service men’. I belonged to the former.


My fourth and fifth standard was spent in a Christian school, which was quite cosmopolitan and middle class in nature. There used to be a Christian prayer during the morning assembly and that was all there was to religion.

My sixth standard schooling was in a small town called Katol , where I had a history teacher who took pride in calling himself a ‘Shiv Sainik’. Shiv Sena in those days was not yet tainted by the reports of the Sri Krishna commission. It’s party followers had not yet set foot into the legislative halls of the ‘Mantralaya’ in Mumbai. A L Antulay, a Muslim Congress leader was the Chief minister of Maharashtra and Congress stronghold Sharad Pawar was not yet at the peak of his political career.

Shiv Sena was a mere youth organisation known for hooliganism against non-marathi speaking population in Mumbai with no realistic chances of making it big time into politics.

Our History classes contained of Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj and his conquests over the lustful Mughals . ‘Wagle Sir ‘– our history techer, did not believe in History textbooks. He would recite stories about Shivaji Maharaj and his conquests to his wide eyed audience of 12 year olds.

Jijabai, Shivaji’s mother was the epitome of womanhood and motherhood. Like a true Maratha woman, she brought up her Son single handed. Her husband lived far away and worked for the Adilshah of Bijapur.

The Mughal emperors as we knew them, were lustful loathing men, who looted property of Maratha Jagirdars and set eyes on the Maratha women . According to ‘Wagle sir’ their weakness for women was what, made them set their eyes on the Maratha kingdom and its womenfolk. Jijabai , the brave mother, had pledged her only son to protect the Maratha kingdom and instilled in Shivaji the sense of duty to protecting the honour of Maratha womanhood from the lustful conquests of the Muslim rulers .

We also knew that Aurangazeb had killed Sambhaji, Shivaji’s son by sheer fraud.

But when Shivaji Killed Afzal khan, Aurangazeb’s trusted lieutenant, it was attributed to the Maratha bravery, wisdom and strength of Shivaji Maharaj.

Not all of this was written in the history textbook, prescribed by the Maharashtra State Council on Secondary School Education. This was all passed down by word of mouth since 1666 to all self –respecting Marathas of which he claimed himself to be one.

I have never visited the fort where Aurangazeb had treacherously imprisoned Shivaji and Sambhaji when they visited him in Agra. They escaped from this fort hiding themselves among a box of sweets , that were being sent out of the fort .

However If I ever do visit this fort, I am sure; Wagle sir’s visual description that has been handed over to me will exactly match the description of the fort. Nothing will surprise me.

I say this because I have experienced this first hand.

I visited Pratapgad fort 15 years after Wagle Sir’s narration of the famous Afzal khan , Shivaji meeting , where Shivaji killed Afzal khan out of his sheer wisdom and Physical Strength.

For those of you who have visited Panchgani, the hill station near Mahabaleshwar in Maharashtra, you will still find an impeccable marble tomb erected in the memory of Afzal khan with a green Muslim ( Pakistani ???) flag flying atop. Local grapevine has it that Dawood Ibrahim provides the sponsorship to maintain the tomb from the fortunes that he earns from … I do not know where.

Panchgani is full of Muslims who are supposed to be the descendants of Afzal khan.
Even today, 338 years after Afzal khan was killed by Shivaji, the tension between Marathas and Muslims is evident in Panchgani. Any untoward friendship or meeting between young girls and boys across the Muslims and Marathas is keenly watched over. Intercaste marriages are strictly forbidden and any violation could lead to the killing or maiming of the girl or boy or both in the name of honour of the Marathas as well as Muslims Respectively.

A classmate of mine who hailed from Panchgani sought asylum in faraway Delhi never ever to return to Panchgani after she announced to her family that she would be marrying her Hindu classmate. There were physical threats issued to both of them by the Muslim community of Panchgani .

History is not yet dead in Panchgani. And as a tourist to this picturesque hill station no one will tell you about all this.

When I visited the Pratapgarh fort in Panchgani, every bit of Pratapgarh fort felt familiar to me like the palm of my own hand.
The foot steps route which Shivaji did not take while coming down the fort to meet Afzal khan, the view of the villages down the fort from where he could secretly see and keep a watch on the mughal camp and the acoustics of the fort, were all familiar to me when the guide at Pratapgarh (again a modern day Shiv Sainik) described to the group. It was with the exact words, same passion and saffronised conviction of Wagle Sir that the guide explained this to the group of uninterested tourists from Mumbai and Pune who had come visiting Panchgani.


I have begun to strongly believe that Word of mouth is the most powerful and time tested medium, which influences people. It was probably for this reason that Story tellers were nurtured and respected throughout in history. Ramayana, Mahabharata, Panchatantra and Jataka tales have survived centuries of Christian and Muslim conquests of India. There was no world wide web to record such things on the cyber space till about 10 years ago . There was no paper to write them down for future generations to come 10 centuries ago.

Story telling skills and oratory capabilities is a much valued competence throughout history. Talking of its comtemporary importance that is what the BJP / RSS /VHP idelogists and party workers have been identifying and nurturing for all these decades. There was nothing new about it. Indian history has always nurtured and valued this competence.

Atal Behari is an old hat. Among the recent high profile ones ,
Uma Bharati , Sushma Swaraj & Pramod Mahajan are superb story tellers and excellent orators. I listened to Pramod Mahajan in a public rally and fell in love with him.

RSS, I believe tracked down Sushma Swaraj when she was not even in her teens.
She changed loyalties to BJP much later in life.

And good story tellers and orators cut across religious barriers. The oratory and story telling skills of A P J Abdul Kalam and George Fernandez can make a deep impression in you and leave you thinking if you have listened to them .

Ask an aging Taxi driver in Mumbai and he will talk as if George Fernandez was his best buddy in the good old days.

That not the kind of competence that Manmohan singh or I K Gujral possessed.

The Nehru - Gandhi clan had to cultivate it. Barring Nehru, the rest did not have the natural flair for oratory skills like those in the Saffron camp. Nehru, as well as his descendants by blood were blessed with a refined charisma , which endowed on them the mass appeal and thus the unofficial Dynasty status.

And that is also the reason why the Gandhi’s married into the family do not appeal so much to the masses, whereas the ones who have inherited that Nehruvian Charisma can change the country’s power equations by just a few public appearences.

What cannot be genetically inherited, needs to be cultivated and nurtured.
And that is what was silently happening when boys and girls with potential oratory skills and story telling capabilities were identified in local inter and intra school competitions and Ganeshotsav's and were being nurtured.

Wagle Sir must have been one of them.

What I heard in the history classes of Wagle Sir, probably was handed down to him not from any text book, but thru word of mouth for the last 350 years. Approximately 6-7 generations of Marathas before it was passed on to me.

That I would call was a hard core saffron influence in my education. I am talking about 1983-84 time frame. When Madam Gandhi (Sr.) had democratically unseated the Janata party and was firmly saddled in the seat of power.

In those days Saffron was a simply a powder that you used to colour your Sooji Halwa.

While congress ruled in the center and in the states, Saffronism was slowly spreading its roots at the grassroots. It was alive, kicking and thriving in the small towns and villages ever since and much before Nathuram Godse proclaimed the dream of Akhanda Bharat.

It reached a critical mass in the 1990’s and surfaced in the form ofAyodhya.

It is just that with power and money, saffronism is today trying to acquire an organized cult status similar to what Christianity has been enjoying for centuries all across the world.

Most children today study in schools and colleges funded by Saffron minded philanthropists. A few decades ago, the saffron brigade did not subscribe to that scale of Philanthropy and power. Except for Chinmaya mission or the Ramakrishna mission, there were not many reputed educational institutions even remotely affiliated to the saffron brigade.

Let’s face it …The ‘Convent’ education and ‘Christian school’ education does enjoy a better brand image even today. Take a look at the matrimonial classifieds on Sunday newspapers and you will know the preferences for ‘convent educated’ or simply ‘Convented’ girls for successful professional boys.

I have always believed that the matrimonial classifieds in newspapers truly reflect the ethos of a society. (That will be another blog another day).
Let me now get back to the point.

Most of us, who went to school or college until a decade ago, were at the mercy of Christian missionary institutions and therefore have been influenced by Christian education at some point or the other.

My mother, studied at St. Ebbas convent in Mylapore in Madras and had Christian Nuns for teachers. Even today, she does an ‘Amen’ when she passes by a church while travelling in the bus just as much as she does a ‘namaste’ when passing by a temple. And I think all of this is involuntary reflex action from her part. She has never serioulsy questioned herself on her religious loyalties. She has never probably thought that an ‘Amen’ to Mother Mary would offendMahalakshmi or vice versa. Neither Mother Mary nor Mahalakshmihave objected till date.

On the census statistics data of the gazette of India, her Religion is recorded as Hindu.
My cousins Indu and Janani studied at St. Kevin’s and Churchpark convent which are the most reputed Christian institutions in Chennai for girls. Notable among their alumni is one called Ms J Jayalalitha who among many other things is known for her deep faith in Hindu religion and her visits to temples hit national headlines for other reasons.

In the recent years, when the aging Mother Superior at St. Kevin’s retired, the next in line took over as the Principal of the institution. Among many other changes that the new Mother superior brought about , she banned students from wearing jasmine flowersbindi andKajal to school.

Indu and Janani came home to tell their mother, my aunt about the new changes.

Their mother was the first one who went and protested in the parent teacher meeting. She said that this was against the secular constitution of India. ( My aunt is one of those few thinking women I have known and admire. If you have watched the serial ‘Rajani’ potrayed by the late Priya Tendulkar in doordarshan you would know the kind of character I am talking about . )

My aunt had, over the years brought up her daughters to be professional Singers of Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam dancers . They learnt Thyagaraja Keertanas at home just as much as they sang Christmas Carols in the school choir.

Their mother argued that bindi, scientifically protected the vulnerable spot called the third eye and the Vermilion had medicinal properties which helped one maintain a balanced health. It ought not to have any religious connotation.

She challenged by asking, why there were jasmine flower sellers sitting outside of churches selling flowers if it was against the religion. She substatiated further by saying that every man , Christian or otherwise, came home with a bunch of Jasmine flowers for his wife every night. The fragrant Jasmine flowers are a perfume equivalent and represented freshness and vitality and probably had aphrodisiac properties in the southern parts of India where they grew in abundance.

She pleaded that the Jasmine flowers had nothing against Jesus Christ.

Her powerful argument, made Mother Superior of St. Kevin’s convent retract her decision against banning of Jasmine flowers to school. In St. Kevin’s school, Churchpark convent or for that matter Stella Maris College, girls, Chirstians and non-christians alike, deck themselves up with flowers and bindis and this has nothing to do with Christian ethos that the institution represents.

Coming back to my schooling influences - After a strong dose of Saffronised influence in sixth standard, I changed schools. Thanks to my father’s transferable nature of job.

We moved down south and I studied at Sri Akilandeshwari Vidyalaya in Tiruchy. We had bhajan classes every Friday afternoon where we were taught devotional songs and Meera Bhajans in that one hour session every Friday afternoon.

However it was my best friend’s father, whom I have hardly spoken to, who left a lasting impression on my colourless leanings. I would see him speaking to others when I visited my friends place. Occasionally he would come down to pick up his girls in his car when the school got over.

He was a professor of physics at a local College in Tiruchy and a hard core Rationalist, who believed in E V Ramaswamy Naicker’s philosophy of self respect for human beings and atheism. EVR Periyar as he was called, flared the passion of the thinking youth in the early 1900s, in Tamil Nadu. He brought about revolution against the wealthy Sanskritised Brahmins in South India. He believed and propagated education for women. The most unpopular among his ideals were the banning of idol worship and belief in Atheism. ‘Kadavulai nambubavan muttal’ (He who believes God is a fool) was the party’s bold tagline.


For a land known for its ancient temples and the economy revolving around them, here was a radicalist challenging that miniscule but powerful minority questioning their monopoly on the Gods, Vedasand Shastras. He pooh-poohed the value of Vedas and Shastras and called them non-sense.

An unintended spin off of which was of course the ruthless neglect of ancient temples and Heritage sites, some of which were Hindu institutions of learning. The Brahmin landlords especially the absentee landlords were overthrown. The next generation of Brahmins, went to other faraway places to take up salaried employment in business houses, nationalised banks and institutions of higher learning. With growing political hatred against them, in their own homelands, they set up home elsewhere in other parts of the country and the world, never to return back to their roots.

E V R Periyar was long dead when I first heard of him.
He had founded the Dravida Kazahgam (DK) party which kept itself away from power and politics. It propagated the self respect movement and atheism.

The secondary offshoot of his political movement was the DMK (Dravida munnetra kazhagam) which believed in his self respect and atheist ideologies. A few years in power and then DMK was also overthrown.

ADMK, the tertiary offshoot of the DK party stated by the popular Actor
M G Ramachandran carried very little of the DK’s beliefs. It treaded carefully with the unpopular ones like atheism. Its charismatic leader never really made public his belief in God and treaded on safe grounds.

However his successor Ms. J Jayalalitha of whom we have talked about earlier in the blog, flaunted her deep faith in god and religious worship.

Politically Dravida Kazhagam (DK) was as good as dead .

However, there were a few thinking people , like my friend’s father, who believed in rationalism and scientific approach. He also believed in the liberation of women and women’s education. I was thirteen years of age and was pretty much influenced by his thinking.

I am not sure if it was only the thinking.
The handsome man emanated passion in his eyes.

Although he may not know it ever, I was in awe of him.
At thirteen I must admit I had my first crush on him.

Broad shoulders, deep voice and a six foot height appearence could make any woman swoon. And at thirteen years of age, he was a safe bet to have a secret crush on.
He was tall, dark and handsome. But it was his eyes that attracted me the most.
Whenever he looked at me, albeit with a daughterly feeling, it made my heart beat faster.

He was a Professor of physics at a local college in Tiruchy, before be migrated with the family to Illinois in Chicago to work for the University of Illinois. I saw him once after that as the father of the bride, when I went to attend my friend’s wedding in Tiruchy.
I was not a thirteen year old anymore and had seen enough men.
Looking back, it made me wonder, what was it that made me have a crush on him.
This time around, he looked and behaved in a very Americanised way, fussing around about safety and hygiene in India and things like that. I was disappointed.


Years later when Maniratnam potrayed Prakash Raj as Selvan aka Karunanidhi in the film ‘Iruvar’, he rekindled my memories of my friend’s father. The looks, the talk, the style and thinking were all so familiar. My crush now shifted to Prakash Raj.

I have followed Prakash Raj’s career and the movies since then. I love watching him especially his eyes. (If you promise not to go away from my blog click here to see a photograph of Prakash Raj who looked exactly like my friend’s father, my first crush at thirteen. There are not many photographs of his available on the web.
I am linking the best one available on the www… it is the guy on the left and not the right… isn’t he striking)

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It was not the Christian education, nor the saffronised influence ofWagle Sir or the Meera bhajans at Sri Akilandeswari Vidyalaya that left an influence on me.

It was a brief glimpses with a radical, rationalist at the age of 13, which imprinted a lasting impression and influenced my ‘religious’ ??? Orientation and thinking.

I would still like to believe, that I am a confirmed atheist.

Apart from being dragged along to a temple by friends and family for the sake of company,
I never been to any temple myself …except … for one …

And the one I am talking about is the Mahalakshmi temple in Mumbai.

**************

That morning when I left my hostel in a hurry , I picked up an envelope which had come in the mail for me. On my way to the station I opened the envelope. It was a job offer, similar to the other offer from campus which I had got a few weeks back . Everything was the same, the salary, the perks, the post except the place. This one was in Mumbai whereas the other company was offering me a job in their factory at Hosur.

I had to make a decision and communicate to the employer. Courtesy also demanded that I convey to the other employer with whom I would be declining the offer.

It was a confusing day throughout. I was mentally drained at the end of the day and had to make a decision. I went to the tea shop near the Mahalakshmi temple for a hot special tea with their signature kanda Bhaji. ( Fried onions in chick peas batter ) .

Any devotee to the Mahalakshmi temple will tell you that the visit is incomplete without the Kanda Bhaji at this tea shop. At that time I was more a devotee of the Kanda bhaji and special tea than of Goddess Mahalakshmi up there in the temple.

After my kanda bhaji and special tea I went up the stairs to visit the temple . I stood looking at the seaside where the restless waves were lashing out against the boulders. Facing the land, Mahalakshmi,Maha Saraswati and Mahakali stood there decked up in gold and diamond jewellery donated by their rich devotees.

Instinctively I made a decision. It was not the job content, or the saving potential that mattered to me. I wanted to be in Mumbai. I loved the city. I had decided that this was the city where I was going to spend a good part of my life.

There has never been a looking back. I have ventured out to Calcutta and Chennai for brief periods of time, but Mumbai has managed to pull me back.

Every time I got a promotion, a raise , a new job or when I brought my 2 BHK house in Mumbai, I visited the Mahalakshmi temple, to have kanda bhaji , to look at the waves lashing the seashore and to have a glimpse of MahaSaraswati , Mahalakshmi and Mahakalidecked in their gold and diamond jewellery in that order of importance.


Despite my occasional visits to the Mumbai Mahalakshmi temple, I would still like to believe that I am an atheist, who believes more in the power of human spirit than any spiritual being.
It was just coincidental that I was at the Mahalakshmi temple when I took a decision which changed my life. (Or was it really so?)

A deity of Mahalakshmi anywhere else or in any other context may not kindle in me the same sentiments and faith as the Mahalaskshmi, Mahasaraswati and the Mahakali deities combined together at theMahalakshmi temple in Mumbai. And not to forget the Kanda Bhajiand seashore ambience.

On the census statistics data of the gazette of India, my Religion is recorded as Hindu.
There isn’t a column for atheists. And so statistically I guess there are no atheists in India. 

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Ustad Amjad Ali khan –was once asked what he thought about his own musical talent.

In his typical humble style he replied,
Inshallah … yeh sab maa Saraswati kaa vardaan hai’
Allah willing … all this is a benevolent gift from Goddess Saraswati )
Goddess Saraswati is the Hindu goddess of learning.

On the census statistics data of the gazette of India, his Religion is recorded as Muslim.
There is an urgent need for Data clean up.

Don’t you think BJP, VHP, RSS, Muslim league, Lashkar e toiba, Bal Thackeray, Dawood Ibrahim and all others are all wasting their time and probably money based on such unreliable and faulty data...

This saffronising, de-saffronising business …what non sense ?
This country has played enough of Holi over the centuries.

Rang barse… bheege chunariwali … Rang barse …
P.S: Rang Barse… is a popular song sung during Holi. It was composed by the late Dr. Harivanshrai Bachchan and popularised in the1970’s by his son, the bollywood super star Amitabh Bachchan .

Loosely translated, it means ‘Let the Colours shower all around ‘

Holi is an Indian festival of colours. On this day, adults and children, Hindus and Muslims, men and women all get out on the streets and smear colour on each other. A day when jealousy, enmity, hierarchy and are all pardoned.

You can pull out your otherwise stiff collared bosses dressed in pyjamas out of their houses and drench them in water coloured with saffron, blue, pink, green and all available colours made from the natural dye of vegetables, fruits and Gulmohar flowers that flower in abundance just before Holi in the month of March before the onset of summer.

For more details on holi click here.
http://www.chyk.net/onlinemagazine/mar2003/articles/holi.htm