Wisdom. For a change (but you could pay with notes as well)

The other day a friend and I were chatting about something and he mentioned that it is hard to stay positive (as in, a positive frame of mind, not the charge at one end of the battery cell).  As is usually the case when I disagree, I said nothing.
 
I am now about three generations old.  Back then in 1965, the average life expectancy in India – and this is, if anything, an overestimate – was forty-two and the odds of my surviving the first year if I had been born in a poor family in Bihar would have been around 60:40 (as it happened, it was a C-section birth in Ernakulam and the early delivery was, no doubt, God’s way of handing over the problem after doing his best at getting me to behave in socially acceptable ways).  But back to what the world was like then:  small pox was still around and fatal and polio was amongst a laundry list of diseases that could put someone out for good. India was a horrific basket case, having just got over a debilitating food crisis: we have no idea how many humans - emaciated, crippled, sickened and lost – perished.   
 
As for other species, forests were being rapidly cleared and hunting wasn’t just common, it was, in most parts of India, culturally mandated and wildlife was living a precarious extinction crisis across the world which we thought would be final.  And the world had just overcome the Cuban Missile crisis (for which, of course, I am not responsible, having not yet been born) which brought the planet as close to the edge as it can ever get. 
 
When I think back these years and of what could have been had the call of the dice been different, it is hard – impossible - to stay negative.  Life rocks.  Seriously.  I have thought of this every time I am by a stream or river waiting for an otter to show up (they never do, so it’s mutually exclusive), or when watching a herd of elephants, with a nervous, palpitating heart, or, as in October this year, a flock of snow pigeons at Darwa Pass, after a trek up that I thought would never end (like most of my posts on Facebook). 
 
We live in a world of astonishing charm in the company of the most remarkable species about which we are learning much more every day than was known earlier.  And keeping these species company is an utterly unpredictable, notably idiotic, understandably neurotic, visibly egotistic, extraordinarily chaotic, incredibly talented, generally idealistic, somewhat plurastic one that is, well…., us.  Years ago, I decided to not worry about what I cannot control when I am not at the steering, and instead to enjoy the ride (and to not read the newspapers).  All these species have stories to tell and writing those stories – to inflict on an unsuspecting audience that seeks Literature but is given Peanut Sauce - is the best part of the deal.  This is an astoundingly beautiful world and never has been better.  Truly.  
 
I am off to a river and the forest by it for a few days, hopefully to meet some of the Kuruchiyars I know, among the nicest, gentlest people you could find with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ecosystem.  And to have a cup of black tea twice a day with two delicious unniappams at the world’s finest tea stall.  An apology in advance if I do not reply to that birthday message, but let that not stop you….    

A Monograph on the Inner Psychology of a Bus Driver-cum-GDP Enhancer in God’s Own Country

 I returned to Bangalore from Ernakulam this morning and took the usual airport bus back home and there were times when I thought I was still in the aircraft because the landscape passed by in a blur.  But I did not complain. Here is the crunch: if you live in Bangalore and ever complain about the way drivers of BMTC go about their business of letting others know just who the boss is, I will know that the two places you haven’t visited are Kerala and Himachal.

A private bus driver in Kerala is generally a certified homicidal maniac.  He has a set, grim face and will not look at you (or me or any sub-species like us that are worthy of the deepest contempt).  He generally does not speak to commuters and will grunt or stare in expressive response that tells you that he is not, decidedly Not, Happy. He generally has three states of Being: Not Happy, Unhappy, Furious.  If he speaks a sentence at all - it is generally a whiplash and torrent in one - it means he is decidedly Unhappy (State 2).. If it is more than one sentence, he has moved to State 3.  If you are the subject of State 3, please transform into a boll worm and evaporate in Society’s larger interest.

His principal interest (other than population annihilation, which has been a lifelong passion) is to beat his earlier timing between two destination points. This goal he pursues with determined fervour of the take-no-prisoners variety, inspired by the great white shark of which he has a sticker next to his speedometer. This means driving at top speed on a two-lane road in the wrong lane, giving the oncoming traffic plenty of how-to-handle-the-steering-wheel-while-keeping-heart-beat-at -only-150 experience and providing just the right catalyst for premature ageing and religious belief - they all have pictures of gods, goddesses, crosses and symbols next to their speedometers, clutches, brakes, gear levers, seats, windows and fuel tanks to neutralise GWS (Great White S...).  When he brakes, he doesn’t just press the brake: he screeches, skids, swerves and swears to an inch of the vehicle ahead of him.  The back seat passenger in this vehicle will, in mortal, petrified, shrunken fear, never look back, thus enabling a Life lesson in philosophy that all those motivational videos about Looking-Forward can never teach.

He specialises in sidelining any vehicles in his lane by racing neck-to-neck and then effecting a deft and subtle turn to the left sending the other driver into an advanced state of panic and providing hospitals revenue in their cardiac departments, hence contributing to national GDP (where the P does not stand for Panic). And, as you can see from the picture below, there are even buses named Good Luck that offer a rather dire warning to oncoming traffic.

On a journey in one of these starships, I was offered the sideseat right in front, facing the driver, but the conductor saw the terrified look in the eyes and then said, “Ok, you stand in the middle then and wait for a seat. Many older people find that seat uncomfortable.” I swallowed my pride of course with a “You have no idea. I have rock black hair, it’s just been dyed grey for today”. (No, actually I did not say that to him, no chance in hell, but fantasising never costs you anything). 

The astonishing thing about all of this is that the people in the bus don’t seem to mind.  But that is because they – like all Mallus the world over – are bloody smart: it’s better, they reason, to be inside than out.

The Woes of Vaz

Among the many unanswered questions on the planet is one that boggles the mind.  The question: How did Mrs. Vaz remain, well, normal? 

Normal, for this elevated purpose, is hereby defined as a condition in which a person is not transmogrified, by circumstances, into 

a) a weeping wreck

b) a furious furnace

c) a cowering catastrophe

d) a depressed decadent

e) all of the above and exhibiting delirious symptoms suggesting that there would be more to come.

Mrs. Vaz was the only lady in a small group of lecturers who taught our class in St. Josephs and she did so relentlessly for five years which suggests a resilience last seen in The Charge of the Light Brigade.  She was of medium height, always dressed in a sari with her hair tied in a neat bun, a quiet, demure lady with an impassive freckled face that wore an occasional slow, shy smile, and a reluctant walking style which was in significant evidence when she treaded the path to our classroom. 

Every year, much to her dismay, she would be alloted  subjects like Economic Geography, Political Science, Commerce and Business Administration, which were, to put it mildly, unteachably boring.  Let me emphasise this in case you missed it in a hurry to get to the end – the most tedious, dull, dreary, mind-numbing, lifeless, lacklustre, unexciting, routine, plebian, pedestrian, wearisome subjects were allotted to her, because no one else would touch them with a barge-pole tied to the end of a javelin.  Mrs Vaz was far too good-natured to argue with the clever Head of Department and, consequently, at the beginning of every year, she’d turn up when the bell rang, her face a picture of resignation, her posture defeated but holding a pretence of defiance. 

My class - I cannot emphasise this enough - tested her sorely.  As she took that hesitant step onto the wooden podium (that had once housed a stack of crackers under it) in front of about a hundred boys and girls, the vast majority would welcome her with a collective vacant look of vacuous, languid asininity (which was an independent function of time of day).  If she felt the need to return the compliment, she did not show it, for such was her bearing and sense of dignity.  Some of the girls attempted to smile in an effort at feminine bonding, but the boys just ignored her presence, and an odd fellow - Society's misanthrope - would shout, ‘Welcome Ma’am’ in the falsest of notes, while she would nod her head passively knowing perfectly well that he meant no such thing.

And, much as Dr. Seuss’s immortal Horton the Elephant sat on an egg past his bedtime (Horton Lays An Egg – don’t miss it), Mrs. Vaz laboured through every single class with commendable doggedness, reading out chapter after chapter, her voice a montonous refrain that triggered drowsiness on a warm afternoon.    

If Dr. Seuss were watching, he would present her case succintly:

“Let them ignore

Roar.

Snore.

Let them stare

Dare.

I don’t care.

I will for sure

conduct the tour.”

The large contingent of back-benchers who should have been serving time in solitary confinement for their disservice to civil society, would often stretch and yawn with a loud remonstrative groan, day-dream and express their creative, artistic expression on any available medium (including, once, the shirt of the person in front). Many caught up on their sleep.  Others simply did nothing: being part-time philosophers, they stared out of the window in meditative contemplation

Occasionally, though, a loud giggle would break out at the back.  Or even some laughter.  Or someone would visibly display somnolent behaviour that was calculated to test the patience of a certified saint. 

Or there would be a question asked by an otherwise disinterested superstar (who had spent the last few minutes combing his rapidly thinning hair), followed by much tittering around him and words of encouragement that were as hilarious as they were provocative.  In these not-so-unusual situations, her voice would rise, the rapid flow of words followed by a gesture to the main protagonist to exit the room and, as the offender quickly stood up to leave, others would offer to accompany him or offer loud advice, or say sorry on his behalf or even suggest substitution.  Most of this inflamed her anger greatly and her gentle face would become a noticeable red, testing her blood pressure sorely.  

On one or two occasions, she stormed out of the room, but that was playing right into everyone’s hands.  After a few seconds spent in silence, the mass of prospective Chartered Accountants, MBAs and businessmen would evacuate the classroom to the comfort of the college canteen. While I generally kept quiet when there was mayhem, there were times when it was difficult to not be swayed by the peer group and I joined in the collective merriment – not at her expense, but clearly not at her instance (is this an occasion to assuage a guilty conscience?).

It was a hopeless situation, utterly hopeless.  

My primary emotion, though, was one of compassion.  She was doing the best she could, for you can, after all, only play with the cards you are dealt and, when one of us did need help, she was always ready, her gentle nature acting as a balm.  Despite all those provocations, she never had a bone to pick.  I did well in her subjects and she treasured that - years later, she told me that she ‘knew’ I would do well in my career, an unforgettable compliment but happily untrue for I exited the career race early.

A few days ago, I learnt that she had left for a larger realm and, in the mind's fertile eye, I saw her climbing those stairs with grace, clutching a book or two, the hesitant, slow smile on a gentle countenance as the Maker looked on with empathy.  

If only He knew that one of those books was Economic Geography.....

Please take your seat (away)

I wrote a few days ago about a plane that Air India did not know that they owned, which seems in line with what they normally don't know about things.  These things happen in November usually- the most puzzling news item of November 2023 was that a passenger on Indigo found her seat cushion missing and made a noise about it; puzzling because this is hardly any news, if you ask me (which, of course, you did not).   

Generally, what happens at Indigo is this:  the guys who run it get together every Saturday and ask just one question: What else can we charge for that will make Humanity squirm?  Since, as per some outdated, antiquated, subversive, unconstitutional, superfluous, seditious, pleonastic laws in India, they cannot charge for seat cushions, they have decided to not provide them, which, if you ask me (you did not, I know, I know), is a very sensible decision. 

This means that when the plane lands, everyone - after sitting on a plastic surface which has little hills and valleys and biodiversity and leftover upma from the earlier flight, all of which are designed to leave deep psychological imprints on a part of the anatomy that I shall refuse to describe - will jump up and out of the plane, enabling their acclaimed fifteen-minute turnaround time for the next flight.

This faultless logic was cleverly designed by a BCG-Mckenzie-Bain kind of frenzied consultant with gel in his hair, who travels eight days a week giving people advice to end the world prematurely (when he travels on Indigo, he carries extra gel for the above mentioned part of human anatomy).

The last time I booked a ticket on Indigo, everything had to be paid for separately; this included a neighbour who snored at 104 decibels and only woke up to explore his right nostril in the hope of finding lithium + a tin of cashew that had been plucked just after Tendulkar made his Test debut (no, no, the tin of cashew was not up his nose.  Will you please read carefully).

But I cannot complain: at the counter, they decided that my height, body mass index and shoe size were free and not chargeable, which is why I am forever grateful. 

And, when I entered the aircraft, I actually had a seat cushion, which they had forgotten to take away.  So, I whooped with delight until I sat down to discover that it was made of Ultratech cement with a premium barbed-wire finish, and any semblance to a cushion was unintentional and deeply regretted.   The leg space was designed in the fond hope of transporting penguins, but they are now forced to take in people instead, particularly people with unrealistic and stupid expectations like seat cushions.

As I am generally a sort of chap who looks at the sunny side of life, I noted that the wings were still there and the pilots weren’t in their underclothes and chappals (at least not when they came out of the cockpit).  There were two of them too – pilots, not wings, you ignoramus – so one must stop counting seat cushions and count pilots, sorry blessings, instead. 

ps: there were two wings too.

A Tail, a wing and an occupied cockpit-cum-loo....

I don’t know if you follow the real news as carefully as I do – I mean real news, not stuff like wars and elections and other needless distractions – because the notable news last week was that Air India found a Boeing 737 that it never knew it owned.  This aircraft, if you will pardon an utterly condemnable, entirely avoidable pun, was hiding in plane sight. 

I am not making this up, pinky promise.  The Dumdum guys in Kolkata apparently told the Air India guys to remove their vehicle from the parking lot and the Air India guys said, Which car?  And the Dumdum guys said, The plane.  And the Air India guys said, We generally don’t park our planes in the carpark but our pilots sometimes get late for dinner at home, so let us get back to you.  And the Dumdum guys said, You ignoramuses, the plane, the plane!  The one that hasn’t flown for years.  And the Air India guys said, Well, on a philosophical note, Air India itself hasn’t flown for years.  (All Air India guys are part-time philosophers, with a PhD in Chaos Theory, which is a job requirement). 

And the Dumdum guys (who don’t understand the first fricking fi of philosophy unless Marx had pronounced it) said, You dumb, inert, half-witted, moribund asses, this is a Boeing 737-200 that once took Gopakumar to Pune in the 2001 monsoon through nerve-wracking turbulence and is now parked near the golguppa stall beside the Control Tower. And the Air India guys said, Which golguppa stall?  And who is Gopakumar?  And the Dumdum guys said, The golguppa stall that uses last year’s mustard oil and left-over aviation fuel (and they refused to answer the second question which dealt with an inconsequential human). 

And the Air India guys said, But we just counted all our planes using an Abacus and a scale and found a few missing engines and pilots and one plane with only one wing and one that had three because of an unfortunate exchange, but the planes are all there.  And the Dumdum guys were flummoxed and said, Why did you use the scale?  And the Air India guys said, Because we couldn’t find measuring tape.  And then everyone laughed though no one understood why (so, this sounded like the G20 Meet). 

And then the Dumdum guys said, To repeat, this is the 737-200, you decrepit, fossilised, amorphous, inanimate piece of jelly.  And the Air India guys – regretfully ignoring the compliment of being elevated to the same species salad as jelly - said, We have no 737-200s, we crashed all of them long ago.  And the Dumdum guys said, Look, here is a photo of the plane with the old Air India logo and everything else missing, so it has to be yours.  And the Air India guys said, Gosh, it’s ours!  There’s even a weeping Maharaja in the cockpit.  Or is that the loo?  No, it's the cockpit!  No, it's the cockpit-cum-loo (and here, another worthy chipped in by saying, that's why it was called the 200..., and he said it with sadistic glee)  And then someone else in the Air India office jumped up in joy and said, It’s got wings!  It’s got wings!  

And then they sold it. 

Grass, Patriarchy and the One Against

I am in the gorgeous valley of Sangamchetti in Garhwal, about an hour from Uttarkashi and walking to a village higher up in the hills.  Winter is coming: I hear her gentle footsteps echo in the snow up in the higher mountains and feel her breath in the morning air, see her shadow in the forest canopy and on the carpet of maple leaves on the ground.  

And, as I cross village after village on foot and hitchhike on a passing scooter or two, it is impossible to miss the sight of women hard at work and  I think of the many excursions that I have made to Garhwal and Kumaon at this time of year.  

All through these October days – while in a cab or walking the hillsides or sipping a sweet-milky tea by the road – I have seen small groups of women and girls on their haunches all day (do try that sometime) cut the grasses below chir pine trees or under broadleaved oaks with dexterity and fluid motion and then  carry back-bending loads of grass and firewood, trudging up slopes or picking their way gingerly down steep damp paths of stone and crumbly mud. 

These loads of grass will be hauled midway up poles and trees in their farms for storage.  The menfolk will help in this task, but cutting grass?  Cutting grass is a woman’s job.  

And then I think of another day

That day in October 2018, I had seen the silhouettes of women in a Kumaon community forest perched thirty feet up slender oak trees, lopping branches for fodder for goats and had marvelled and worried for them, for a wrong step – just one - and it would be all over.  I could barely see them up there, but could hear their banter across the valley and occasional laughter beneath which is dead serious intent:  when Winter removes her veil and enters these villages, there is hardship ahead - dull, bitterly cold, grey days of snow and frost – months of waiting that are now just weeks away.  The livestock must survive till the Melt in March as must humans.  The rivers that flow in these valleys are rivers of resilience.

Stocking up on food too is a woman’s job:  in those fields down in the valleys by the Pindar and Sarayu rivers that year were fields of native rice and, on this walk today in end-October 2025, I see women labouring up the valley slope with wine-red harvests of ramdana (amaranth), an extraordinary, nutritious grain that has the name of the diety and is treated with as much reverence.  

And I only see women at work - old moms and young grandmothers, young moms and older girls - harvesting, stacking, hauling; in the walk in 2022 as I crossed a field, there was musical banter, a lilt of harmony and such light-heartedness in the air as they worked that I had stopped to listen, much to their amusement, but today I see a tired cohort walk past with a steady gait:  make no mistake, this is hard, rigorous, purposeful toil.  

The men folk help out too, those who did not migrate or returned in 2020, but it isn’t a partnership of equals……

And today, when I reach the beautiful village of Agoda up in the mountain, after a final back-breaking scooter ride, I think of my trek guide in October 2022....

On that day, we are walking up the hill  leading to Sunderdhunga and I ask Khullu Dhanu – of Rajput ancestry - what his full name is.  ‘Khilaf Dhanu’, he answers and laughs readily when I follow up by asking him exactly what he is Against: ‘Ask my parents, they named me!’ This guy, incredibly fit like true Pahadis, with a ready, winning smile and a generous nature, runs up and down four thousand feet of Himalayan hillside the way I stroll to the club.  He appreciates my interest in the local ecology, so we bond well and chat about things, the way men who have never grown up to understand modern day niceties do.

Along the way I ask him about his kids. 
‘Just two. Both are boys,’ he says and adds, ‘So, we didn’t need to have any more children.’ He laughs, with simple sincerity, this man whom I have grown to like so much.  

A week later that year, I am with Gagan, my old friend who lives in a village near Almora.  He grins at my observation on patriarchy and its flavours.  ‘My neighbour has just had a boy.  After five girls.’ he says shaking his head, ‘Now they will stop the production line!’  He tells me that he only employs women at his micro-enterprise; they are sincere and responsible and trustworthy.  
But not equal……

And that very same evening, I am at Shubham’s store, waiting for the rain - which has been relentless - to stop.  He is away, and his younger sister is a tall, thin girl with a fetching smile and friendly manner.  She has a year more of college in Nainital to finish and I have been told by Kiran and Renu, her neighbours, that she is assiduous, ambitious and motivated.  Perhaps she has no choice.

‘What will you do next?’ I ask.
‘I am preparing to write the Civil Services exam,’ she says, with the confidence and assertion that would win any heart, ‘English is tough, but Sociology and Hindi are fine.’ She thinks for a few seconds. ‘I think I can make it,’ she says with a shy smile.  

It is impossible – utterly bloody impossible – not to be touched.   
It isn’t just the rain that retreats soon after, Patriarchy does too for a moment. Optimism lives in a thousand homes like that little one in the hills.  May it win.

Two faces of hope.....

You Can Choose Any Colour As Long As It's Black

 

Among the many birds with a fetching songo
There is none as versatile as the black drongo
A shapely lissome bird with a dark svelte figure
Which, even when eggnant with preggs, gets no bigger
 
(Aside:
Eggnant with preggs or pregnant with eggs?
Poetry these days is going to the dregs
Does any of your work (myself btw) make any sense?
Or is that an ode to poetic licence?)
 
She’s a staple on the wire, a strategic perch
And for food, she will skip the Swiggy search
(pardon the sly dig at this lazy human lurch)
A flying bug in sight and the hunt is on
The drongo takes off, insect woe begone!
With a pitch, a roll, yaw and pirouette
Aerobatic machine, dusky slender silouette.
 
The insect is history, it’ll soon be digestory
Yet Ma’am will not rest, her appetite is a mystery
The swerve, dip & twist: jaw-dropping to see
(And the buffett, unlike Swiggy, is delivered for free).
Yet, there are even more skills in her family tree.
 
She can imitate the calls of birds galore
(Her mate, of course, says, Yeh dil maange more)
She hasn’t revealed why she was given this skill
To be a Pied Piper (even to the
Rambunctious, cantakerous, cackling ol’ hornbill!).
She is territorial & combative, will dive bomb with gall
Result? in North India, she is often called Kotwal!
(And now she reminds me of a Didi in Bengal)
 
So, I will end this tribute that’s way too longo
By beckoning her ilk in Tambrahm style: Vango!
(I bet you thought I’d end with drongo)
And now you have just been proved all wrongo.
 
ps: In your Swiggy if you’d like insects for free
Please order a chicken biriyani.