This is a story of advice and friendship.
We have been good friends with a couple, for many years. About four years ago, the husband called me and asked if he could talk over an issue that he was going through, to get a second opinion, another point of view. I agreed readily, since I liked him very much.
Vibhu, as I shall call him, is a suave chap, very prim and proper, educated in an olde world British school. After an MBA, he built a career in a large organisation in the sales function. I will mention here that the industry he was working in, is Mumbai-centric – most companies have their Head Offices there and branches in the large metros. Well, Vibhu’s performance at work was excellent and he rose to a level which was about the peak for the organisation’s office in Bangalore – if he needed to climb the ladder any more, he’d have to move to Mumbai, something that no self-respecting Bangalorean will consider, if he has his senses about him. Shortly after his promotion in this company, he quit and joined a competitor at a slightly higher level, reporting to the Branch Head. The salary and responsibilities were higher, though there would still be the inevitable Mumbai-move sometime in the future.
It was a bad decision. Vibhu’s gut (and a couple of colleagues) had warned him against the culture of the competitor, one that encouraged snake-oil salesmen and rewarded short term thinking. To top his discomfort, he had a particularly bad boss, who was as insecure as he was rude and who often alluded to Vibhu’s previous organisation with derision, something that got him particularly incensed.
As we sat down to talk, beer in hand, Vibhu told me that he wanted to quit this company immediately. He had no idea of what he wished to do, yet the stress of working here was taking his toll. His boss in the earlier organisation, on knowing of his discomfort, had sent feelers to him, asking him to come back to the same job he had held earlier, yet……..
“Why don’t you go back?” I asked.
The answer was long-winded. I sensed that he had set high standards of growth for himself and this would reek of failure. He was, in addition, concerned about how others in the old organisation would see him. This was where I had a point or two. “Vibhu, I have done just this. I left CDC in the late ‘90s to join a software product company as a domain specialist, realised that it wasn’t what I wanted and approached my boss in CDC within a month, before he had recruited a replacement. I felt the same way as you do now, but for a few days. My colleagues went out of their way to welcome me back. Don’t worry – our fears are in our heads.” I concluded.
“What about my growth?” he queried.
There was little to offer here, of course. He could choose to continue in the new organisation (“No, no, not a chance”), join his old organisation back (“Not sure of this, Gopa”) or just sit at home and hope for a job (which was most unlikely to come by).
“Here’s what I suggest, Vibhu,” I added, “There are often times when you have to go back to move forward. Go back to your old organisation, bide your time and look to change the industry you work in, moving to one where senior management positions exist in Bangalore.” I went back to my story. “Vibhu, quitting a job at this stage of your career without a Plan B, is not advised. I can tell you with confidence that, if you left a company with mutual goodwill, they’d be happy to have you back. Besides, your old Boss has sent the feeler first, hasn’t he? But don’t stay at home, its very depressing to be doing nothing.” Perhaps, in retrospect, I was being forceful, when I should have been gentle.
As the conversation progressed, he became quieter. We left after a couple of hours, some beer time included, and shook hands, while I wished him the best for the future.
It can’t be hard for you to guess the decision he took. He quit the new organisation, did not join the old one and, instead, spent a couple of exacting years at home, till a new, average job came his way. The impact on our friendship was rather hard as well; Vibhu stayed away, though his wife kept in touch with us. I have only once met him since that meeting and that was on a sidewalk. He has aged a decade, with his hair now vastly peppered, a cigarette in hand and some excess weight and when I reflect on the person I knew earlier it is cause for some despondency. It has made me wonder on the human tendency to self-destruct and, as you can see, how people see themselves has a big role to play in this process of emaciation.
I trust I learnt some lessons here, the prime among them being to not get passionate about solving other people’s problems.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Religion does not tolerate diversity
I escorted my mother into the restaurant. “The Higher Taste” the sign above door stated in style. ‘Aptly named’, I thought, for we were on Hare Krishna Hill, within the premises of the temple complex run by Iskcon in Bangalore and an eatery in such a place should have a name befitting its neighbouring building, the temple.
The food at the restaurant was good. Not outstanding, but good. There was an abundance of food colour in the souffle and a paucity of walnut in the walnut subji biryani, but one can live with these things. The décor and general upkeep of the place was befitting a luxury hotel, as indeed was the tariff for the food.
Now, the one thing I tend to be particular about is to call people by their name and not by their occupation (how I acquired this value concerns a ‘mali’ who brought me up without my ever knowing his name, but that’s another story). I gestured to the waiter who stood by the buffett counter to get me water and, when he came up to my table, had a look at the name tag pinned to his shirt. ‘Lakshman’, it said.
Something wasn’t quite right; the fellow was clearly from the North East, where Lakshman is a most unusual name. As I looked around, I found most of the waiters to be from the North East, as is common today in most restaurants in the city. Yet, their names were most discordant: Padmanabha, Ranganatha, Aniruddha and so on.
While helping myself to the souffle-and-cream, I spoke with ‘Lakshman’.
“Where are you from?”
“From Darjeeling, Sir.”
“Where exactly in Darjeeling?”
“Kalimpong, Sir.” I knew of Kalimpong, of course.
“So, what’s your real name?”
“Chiling, Sir.”
“Are you Buddhist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am a big fan of the Dalai Lama.” I said, seeking to keep the conversation going, for I wished to know more.
“I am part Tibetan, Sir,” he said proudly. “And my father works for the Indo-Tibetan Border Police along the border with China.”
“Do you like being called Lakshman?” I asked, though it really was none of my business.
“It’s a nice name.” he replied politely.
Over the course of the meal, I mulled over my little exchange with Chiling. Why did he need to be rechristened to serve at this restaurant? Chiling is a beautiful name, with a lovely ring to it and in the Tibetan language it could have profound meaning.
The answer, perhaps, has to do with the way every temple (or any sacred place, for that matter) works; there is no room for diversity in the interpretation of religion. Chiling may change his name willingly, for he comes from a part of India that is rotting away, that has no opportunity, and he needs a job. Yet, to transplant a ‘suitable’ name onto such a person is, I think, exploitation, for a name is the vocalisation of identity and self-respect.
I wonder how the Restaurant Manager interviewed him: “Well, Chiling, the job’s yours, except for a small matter: can we call you Lakshman, because Chiling is, well, is not, actually, suitable to our audience.”
or,
“You know, Chiling, we want you to work for us, and we need high customer sat scores, so can we call you Lakshman ?”
When we finished our meal, I looked into the mirror in the rest room and saw one customer who was not quite satisfied. Perhaps they don’t quite care.
The food at the restaurant was good. Not outstanding, but good. There was an abundance of food colour in the souffle and a paucity of walnut in the walnut subji biryani, but one can live with these things. The décor and general upkeep of the place was befitting a luxury hotel, as indeed was the tariff for the food.
Now, the one thing I tend to be particular about is to call people by their name and not by their occupation (how I acquired this value concerns a ‘mali’ who brought me up without my ever knowing his name, but that’s another story). I gestured to the waiter who stood by the buffett counter to get me water and, when he came up to my table, had a look at the name tag pinned to his shirt. ‘Lakshman’, it said.
Something wasn’t quite right; the fellow was clearly from the North East, where Lakshman is a most unusual name. As I looked around, I found most of the waiters to be from the North East, as is common today in most restaurants in the city. Yet, their names were most discordant: Padmanabha, Ranganatha, Aniruddha and so on.
While helping myself to the souffle-and-cream, I spoke with ‘Lakshman’.
“Where are you from?”
“From Darjeeling, Sir.”
“Where exactly in Darjeeling?”
“Kalimpong, Sir.” I knew of Kalimpong, of course.
“So, what’s your real name?”
“Chiling, Sir.”
“Are you Buddhist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am a big fan of the Dalai Lama.” I said, seeking to keep the conversation going, for I wished to know more.
“I am part Tibetan, Sir,” he said proudly. “And my father works for the Indo-Tibetan Border Police along the border with China.”
“Do you like being called Lakshman?” I asked, though it really was none of my business.
“It’s a nice name.” he replied politely.
Over the course of the meal, I mulled over my little exchange with Chiling. Why did he need to be rechristened to serve at this restaurant? Chiling is a beautiful name, with a lovely ring to it and in the Tibetan language it could have profound meaning.
The answer, perhaps, has to do with the way every temple (or any sacred place, for that matter) works; there is no room for diversity in the interpretation of religion. Chiling may change his name willingly, for he comes from a part of India that is rotting away, that has no opportunity, and he needs a job. Yet, to transplant a ‘suitable’ name onto such a person is, I think, exploitation, for a name is the vocalisation of identity and self-respect.
I wonder how the Restaurant Manager interviewed him: “Well, Chiling, the job’s yours, except for a small matter: can we call you Lakshman, because Chiling is, well, is not, actually, suitable to our audience.”
or,
“You know, Chiling, we want you to work for us, and we need high customer sat scores, so can we call you Lakshman ?”
When we finished our meal, I looked into the mirror in the rest room and saw one customer who was not quite satisfied. Perhaps they don’t quite care.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Rotting Food and a Rotten Minister
The thing I like about agriculture economics is that most of it is common sense and hence in critical short supply. Listen to the best brains around – Sainath, Devender Sharma, Suman Sahai, MS Swaminathan, even, occasionally, Swaminathan Aiyer – and you would wonder in bewilderment at the absence of common sense and simplicity in the entire Government system around agriculture.
Take the issue – now fading in public memory since it hit the headlines earlier this year – of rotting food. When a conscientious activist filed an RTI application in January 2010 asking for information on just how much food was rotting or damaged in the godowns of the Food Corporation of India, the answer stunned the nation: 10,688 lakh tonnes. Lets put this down numerically: 10,688,00,000,000 kgs.
When I contrast the insistence in most middle class families that the food on the table – mere grams of rice, or an extra roti - not be left over or thrown away, with this wanton, egregious, almost criminal waste, our value system seems terribly pointless. I spent some time reading articles on just why such large quantities of food lay rotting away. Let me give you some of the reasons :
1. Godowns available, but
a. leased out to the food companies such as Pepsi and ITC, who pay higher rents than FCI (I am referring to godowns owned or operated by State Governments, not by private players, so their touching refrain on a godown’s profitability is most unbelievable)
b. used to stock liquor, because of its ‘value-add’.
c. no labour to move material into it. Hence, food kept out in the open, under plastic sheets, while the godown lies semi-occupied. Dampness in the air in the monsoons encourages toxic fungal growth.
d. administrative apathy: no one sees the point in loading bags into a godown and out, when it will not rain (of course, it rains immediately).
2. Food in godown not taken out (in Haryana) before flooding, despite five days notice given on possible need for evacuation.
3. Bags of grain stocked one on top of another in colossal piles, which means that the grain at the bottom is damaged. In this technology age, no State Government has created grain silos, an obvious solution.
4. In instances, lack of availability of space in food godowns.
In other words, a large part of this wastage is hugely avoidable.
So much for supply. Lets talk of the need for grain. The National Sample Survey consumer expenditure data tells that 74.5 per cent of rural persons could not reach the recommended level of 2400 calories of daily intake in 1993 to 1994. By 2004-05, the percentage had reached an unprecedented high of 87 per cent. As importantly, the quality of food they eat is deteriorating as well.
A big part of India’s agricultural and food crisis, including this horrendous wastage, can be attributed to one man: our Honourable Agriculture-cum-Food-cum-Consumer Affairs Minister, of whom it can be safely said that, in the last seven years that he has held these portfolios, he has done virtually nothing to address India’s food security and long term agricultural balance. His decisions (including ones regarding the export of grain when there is a deficit) are bizarre; indeed never has he let reason or wisdom come in the way of a decision (or, indeed, in the absence of a decision). Add to this a rather outsized ego: when asked about the impact of food inflation on the poor, for instance, he said that if the poor could afford to buy soft drinks, then they could surely afford food essentials. His star moments are when he indulges in the politics of cricket with abandon,
Then, why does the Prime Minister put up with this?
The answer: the Hon Minister in question has considerable nuisance value and is an astute trouble maker, fishing with characteristic elan in troubled waters. The late US President Lyndon Johnson once said of a powerful, but troublesome colleague, “It is better to have him inside the tent pissing out, rather than outside the tent pissing in.”
It’s a heavy price to pay for India’s rotting food.
Take the issue – now fading in public memory since it hit the headlines earlier this year – of rotting food. When a conscientious activist filed an RTI application in January 2010 asking for information on just how much food was rotting or damaged in the godowns of the Food Corporation of India, the answer stunned the nation: 10,688 lakh tonnes. Lets put this down numerically: 10,688,00,000,000 kgs.
When I contrast the insistence in most middle class families that the food on the table – mere grams of rice, or an extra roti - not be left over or thrown away, with this wanton, egregious, almost criminal waste, our value system seems terribly pointless. I spent some time reading articles on just why such large quantities of food lay rotting away. Let me give you some of the reasons :
1. Godowns available, but
a. leased out to the food companies such as Pepsi and ITC, who pay higher rents than FCI (I am referring to godowns owned or operated by State Governments, not by private players, so their touching refrain on a godown’s profitability is most unbelievable)
b. used to stock liquor, because of its ‘value-add’.
c. no labour to move material into it. Hence, food kept out in the open, under plastic sheets, while the godown lies semi-occupied. Dampness in the air in the monsoons encourages toxic fungal growth.
d. administrative apathy: no one sees the point in loading bags into a godown and out, when it will not rain (of course, it rains immediately).
2. Food in godown not taken out (in Haryana) before flooding, despite five days notice given on possible need for evacuation.
3. Bags of grain stocked one on top of another in colossal piles, which means that the grain at the bottom is damaged. In this technology age, no State Government has created grain silos, an obvious solution.
4. In instances, lack of availability of space in food godowns.
In other words, a large part of this wastage is hugely avoidable.
So much for supply. Lets talk of the need for grain. The National Sample Survey consumer expenditure data tells that 74.5 per cent of rural persons could not reach the recommended level of 2400 calories of daily intake in 1993 to 1994. By 2004-05, the percentage had reached an unprecedented high of 87 per cent. As importantly, the quality of food they eat is deteriorating as well.
A big part of India’s agricultural and food crisis, including this horrendous wastage, can be attributed to one man: our Honourable Agriculture-cum-Food-cum-Consumer Affairs Minister, of whom it can be safely said that, in the last seven years that he has held these portfolios, he has done virtually nothing to address India’s food security and long term agricultural balance. His decisions (including ones regarding the export of grain when there is a deficit) are bizarre; indeed never has he let reason or wisdom come in the way of a decision (or, indeed, in the absence of a decision). Add to this a rather outsized ego: when asked about the impact of food inflation on the poor, for instance, he said that if the poor could afford to buy soft drinks, then they could surely afford food essentials. His star moments are when he indulges in the politics of cricket with abandon,
Then, why does the Prime Minister put up with this?
The answer: the Hon Minister in question has considerable nuisance value and is an astute trouble maker, fishing with characteristic elan in troubled waters. The late US President Lyndon Johnson once said of a powerful, but troublesome colleague, “It is better to have him inside the tent pissing out, rather than outside the tent pissing in.”
It’s a heavy price to pay for India’s rotting food.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Temple temper
A few months ago, I visited a famous temple off the Bangalore - Mangalore road. It must have once been a simple and beautiful structure, built by those who believed in their work. Over the last couple of decades, though, structure after structure had been built to milk the anxious devotee, until the temple’s own beauty, its ethereal charm, its sense of tranquility had all been drowned by the human mass atop an enterprise. Now, the main thoroughfare in front of the temple has become shamelessly commercial, cheap Chinese toys are sold everywhere and the dirty heaps of plastic carry bags – used everyday in their thousands to carry offerings into the temple and then thrown away - are an environmentalist’s nightmare. It’s hard to focus on The Conversation with the Higher One, under such circumstances.
We – my wife, son and I – nevertheless got into the queue of those seeking that audience of a split second with Him - a priceless second to thank, complain, ask (actually, plead), negotiate, cajole, promise, promise to keep the promise, weep and, at times, berate. It was a long queue that got noisier as we approached the Sanctum, with many craning their necks or hoisting their little ones onto their shoulders, often inflicting, in the process, some collateral damage, as I believe the term is, on those behind.
I have never been a ‘religious’ person (indeed, I truly don’t understand the definition. What makes a person religious or irreverent ?), nor am I comfortable with crowds. I had a tight hold on my son, and spent my time looking at the others in the queue.
Above all of us was a large signboard which stated, rather rudely I thought, that photography, including mobile-phone photography, was banned in the premises. While I tried to think of just why this signboard was necessary, I wouldn’t think of breaking this rule. One accepts what one has to.
…and then someone had to do it. A fellow near me – a middle aged, respectable looking chap – cupped his mobile camera in his hand in anticipation and, in that split second when he had a clear view, he clicked the picture and pocketed his camera with a smug look of intent achieved.
It took about five seconds for a pujari to catch him and then, to use a most inappropriate term when referring to the location, all hell broke loose. Two other robust looking men accosted the photographer and tried to snatch the camera away, while he pretended that he had done no wrong, all the while holding on to his mobile phone for dear life. The argument turned louder and nastier, primarily due to the fellow’s incapacity to accept his mistake and his unwillingness, when confronted with evidence, to delete the picture. Others joined in, of course, as will always happen anywhere in India and there were opinions both ways.
The bedlam around this incident and the crowd jostling for space were just a bit too much for me to bear, for I have no recollection of my moment with The Higher One. I was out of the inner Sanctum in a trice, and took in fresh air with vigour, happy to get away from the argument, but feeling quite irritated at the whole thing. I wonder just how devotees experience true inner bliss amidst such chaos.
On the way out of the temple, I was thinking of this little incident and mulling on just how unneccessary and dissatisfying it was for all concerned. I will never understand why our friend, the renegade photographer, visited the temple. Did he want to Converse, or was he chasing a momento, a screen saver that he could consult everytime he cut ethical corners in his daily living ?
I will also never understand why the pujari – The Representative, one would imagine – made a scene, used force and abused this man. Surely, his time is better spent at a higher level of engagement.
At a broader level, of course, the reality is that the vast majority of ‘devotees’ visit temples as a part of a running contract with The Higher Power, where money is their quid pro quo for the many favours asked, including the assuaging of guilt. In these temples of commerce, priests are the management team (with high performance bonuses) and the products – laddus, flowers, pujas - are profit centres.
I would opt, any day, for the friendly village temple with a part-time priest, who works in the fields for a living and spends his mornings and evenings at the shrine. He may be a bit fuzzy with the specifics of Sanskrit and the nuances of ritual, but his heart is generally in the right place. May his tribe increase.
We – my wife, son and I – nevertheless got into the queue of those seeking that audience of a split second with Him - a priceless second to thank, complain, ask (actually, plead), negotiate, cajole, promise, promise to keep the promise, weep and, at times, berate. It was a long queue that got noisier as we approached the Sanctum, with many craning their necks or hoisting their little ones onto their shoulders, often inflicting, in the process, some collateral damage, as I believe the term is, on those behind.
I have never been a ‘religious’ person (indeed, I truly don’t understand the definition. What makes a person religious or irreverent ?), nor am I comfortable with crowds. I had a tight hold on my son, and spent my time looking at the others in the queue.
Above all of us was a large signboard which stated, rather rudely I thought, that photography, including mobile-phone photography, was banned in the premises. While I tried to think of just why this signboard was necessary, I wouldn’t think of breaking this rule. One accepts what one has to.
…and then someone had to do it. A fellow near me – a middle aged, respectable looking chap – cupped his mobile camera in his hand in anticipation and, in that split second when he had a clear view, he clicked the picture and pocketed his camera with a smug look of intent achieved.
It took about five seconds for a pujari to catch him and then, to use a most inappropriate term when referring to the location, all hell broke loose. Two other robust looking men accosted the photographer and tried to snatch the camera away, while he pretended that he had done no wrong, all the while holding on to his mobile phone for dear life. The argument turned louder and nastier, primarily due to the fellow’s incapacity to accept his mistake and his unwillingness, when confronted with evidence, to delete the picture. Others joined in, of course, as will always happen anywhere in India and there were opinions both ways.
The bedlam around this incident and the crowd jostling for space were just a bit too much for me to bear, for I have no recollection of my moment with The Higher One. I was out of the inner Sanctum in a trice, and took in fresh air with vigour, happy to get away from the argument, but feeling quite irritated at the whole thing. I wonder just how devotees experience true inner bliss amidst such chaos.
On the way out of the temple, I was thinking of this little incident and mulling on just how unneccessary and dissatisfying it was for all concerned. I will never understand why our friend, the renegade photographer, visited the temple. Did he want to Converse, or was he chasing a momento, a screen saver that he could consult everytime he cut ethical corners in his daily living ?
I will also never understand why the pujari – The Representative, one would imagine – made a scene, used force and abused this man. Surely, his time is better spent at a higher level of engagement.
At a broader level, of course, the reality is that the vast majority of ‘devotees’ visit temples as a part of a running contract with The Higher Power, where money is their quid pro quo for the many favours asked, including the assuaging of guilt. In these temples of commerce, priests are the management team (with high performance bonuses) and the products – laddus, flowers, pujas - are profit centres.
I would opt, any day, for the friendly village temple with a part-time priest, who works in the fields for a living and spends his mornings and evenings at the shrine. He may be a bit fuzzy with the specifics of Sanskrit and the nuances of ritual, but his heart is generally in the right place. May his tribe increase.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Akash Mallige
This is the season of the Akash Mallige. Next to the laburnum, about which I have written earlier in Spring, the Akash Mallige is my tree of choice. If you happen to go on a walk and smell a divine, mild scent, at times inhibited by the smoke from vehicular traffic, but otherwise ethereal, look down at the semi-carpet of white flowers and then at the gorgeous tree that reaches for the sky, its flowers bunched downwards, much like a fashionable set of ear-rings. The fragrance always makes me grateful to the social forestry men of Bangalore who, with much perspicacity, planted many of these trees all around the city – indeed five tall ones stand majestically on the pavement in front of my home.
The Akash Mallige flowers twice a year, the monsoon being its piece de resistance. The flowering begins modestly enough and soon the tree is in bloom. Everything about the flower is delicate, its white with a streak of pink, the fragrance of course, the long stem and the almost entreating countenance it wears as you pick it up from the ground. Much to the amusement of passers-by, I select a few fresh flowers for use as an air freshener. If you do this as well, look into the flower before taking it away and you will often see an ant at work on the nectar within. The gentle thing to do then is to leave the flower alone, for food comes before fragrance.
The thing that I wonder about is how Nature can reproduce millions of these flowers with the same amount of fragrance and nectar. Just what kind of quality control is inherent in this system ? I hope we never know the answer, for Mystery adds to divinity.
The Akash Mallige flowers twice a year, the monsoon being its piece de resistance. The flowering begins modestly enough and soon the tree is in bloom. Everything about the flower is delicate, its white with a streak of pink, the fragrance of course, the long stem and the almost entreating countenance it wears as you pick it up from the ground. Much to the amusement of passers-by, I select a few fresh flowers for use as an air freshener. If you do this as well, look into the flower before taking it away and you will often see an ant at work on the nectar within. The gentle thing to do then is to leave the flower alone, for food comes before fragrance.
The thing that I wonder about is how Nature can reproduce millions of these flowers with the same amount of fragrance and nectar. Just what kind of quality control is inherent in this system ? I hope we never know the answer, for Mystery adds to divinity.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Success means.......
“Success means never having to wear a suit” is the quote on my favourite T-shirt. I believe in it.
Over the years when I have worn it outside home, the comments from friends, colleagues and strangers have been most noteworthy. At the Goa airport, for instance, a foreigner stared at it for a while, walked up to me and said simply, “I agree completely with that statement. I hope you do as well.”
Read the quote again and do reflect on it. I would be glad to hear your thoughts.
Over the years when I have worn it outside home, the comments from friends, colleagues and strangers have been most noteworthy. At the Goa airport, for instance, a foreigner stared at it for a while, walked up to me and said simply, “I agree completely with that statement. I hope you do as well.”
Read the quote again and do reflect on it. I would be glad to hear your thoughts.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Unintended Consequences
Four years ago, in June 2006, the Government of Tamil Nadu announced that twenty kilos of rice would be available to each family that had a ration card, at a token price of Rs. 2. The Government did it to win votes and the battle against hunger and malnutrition. Lets look at the unintended consequences instead, that are now making themselves apparent.
Listening to Mariappa, my farmer in Javalagiri, is most illuminating. “Sir, “ he says with a mischievous smirk, “there is more money in each home now available for liquor and that is why men support this move to subsidise rice.” And are the full stomachs resulting in more incomes? “No sir, actually farm labour has become far less willing to work. Do you know, Sir, that subsidised rice is the reason for less milk being produced in our area?”
Unable to understand the connection, I look at him in bewilderment. “We don’t get farm labour to take the cows out to graze as we used to (this job is generally done by older farm workers, who are no longer capable of slogging in the field). Since they get their staple at virtually no cost now, and some occasional income, no one’s interested. And milk prices rarely rise, so we all make a loss on cattle. As a result, everyone’s selling off their cows. I see a milk shortage around the corner.”
Lets summarise : More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk.
…and what has cheaper rice done to nutrition?
Most of the villages in Krishnagiri and many other districts of Tamil Nadu have, for centuries, had millets as their staple food. Millets are healthier & wholesome, and have far more fibre, which means that the carbohydrate in them is released slowly, giving the body time to absorb it well. Rice is primarily carb, and white rice has a high glycemic index (in other words, it breaks down quickly during digestion, releasing glucose into the bloodstream, increasing the pressure on the pancreas to do their job). The consequences of shifting a staple diet based on local millets to one based on rice boggles the mind. Since farming is hard work, farmers eat a lot, lot more than you or I do. When most of this food is carb, the net result we will see manisfest in this decade is rural obesity (and obesity-linked diseases) – a most unexpected phenomenon resulting from the best of intentions. Among the younger men in villages – those in their 20s and 30s - there is little love lost for farming and they get far less exercise than their parents, yet they eat the same amount as their parents do, so they are likely to be even worse off.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health.
In 2009-10, Tamil Nadu doled out 38 lakh tonnes at Rs. 2 per kilo. That’s 38,00,000,000 kilos. With such numbers, can you smell a scam ? If you are wondering just how dhabas and street food in Bangalore is so cheap, you have the answer – the rice is being smuggled in. Stand by and watch the menfolk eat their lunch by the construction site nearest to you – the plate has a dour, nutrition-less mix of salt, loads of rice and rasam, the last-named a euphimism for water coloured with spice (and, at times, the odd piece of non-veg of uncertain origin).
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam.
And what about the impact on the Earth? Lets just take water as a resource. Rice, unlike most traditional millets, is water intensive; indeed rice and sugarcane are the two most water intensive crops. More water needed means more electricity required to pump it, more wastage, less water to go around.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam. Less water.
In September 2008, the Government of Tamil Nadu reduced the price to Re 1. One packet of gutka more per kilo. Twenty packets per month.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam. Less water. More gutka.
Now in July 2010, the Central Government has new norms. For the poorest of the poor, under a scheme called Antyodaya Anna Yojna, the quota of rice per card holder has gone upto 35 kg. For Tamil Nadu, it means about 6 lakh tonnes of rice more per year. At less price.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam. Less water. More gutka. Meanwhile, more rice at less price just came in.
Listening to Mariappa, my farmer in Javalagiri, is most illuminating. “Sir, “ he says with a mischievous smirk, “there is more money in each home now available for liquor and that is why men support this move to subsidise rice.” And are the full stomachs resulting in more incomes? “No sir, actually farm labour has become far less willing to work. Do you know, Sir, that subsidised rice is the reason for less milk being produced in our area?”
Unable to understand the connection, I look at him in bewilderment. “We don’t get farm labour to take the cows out to graze as we used to (this job is generally done by older farm workers, who are no longer capable of slogging in the field). Since they get their staple at virtually no cost now, and some occasional income, no one’s interested. And milk prices rarely rise, so we all make a loss on cattle. As a result, everyone’s selling off their cows. I see a milk shortage around the corner.”
Lets summarise : More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk.
…and what has cheaper rice done to nutrition?
Most of the villages in Krishnagiri and many other districts of Tamil Nadu have, for centuries, had millets as their staple food. Millets are healthier & wholesome, and have far more fibre, which means that the carbohydrate in them is released slowly, giving the body time to absorb it well. Rice is primarily carb, and white rice has a high glycemic index (in other words, it breaks down quickly during digestion, releasing glucose into the bloodstream, increasing the pressure on the pancreas to do their job). The consequences of shifting a staple diet based on local millets to one based on rice boggles the mind. Since farming is hard work, farmers eat a lot, lot more than you or I do. When most of this food is carb, the net result we will see manisfest in this decade is rural obesity (and obesity-linked diseases) – a most unexpected phenomenon resulting from the best of intentions. Among the younger men in villages – those in their 20s and 30s - there is little love lost for farming and they get far less exercise than their parents, yet they eat the same amount as their parents do, so they are likely to be even worse off.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health.
In 2009-10, Tamil Nadu doled out 38 lakh tonnes at Rs. 2 per kilo. That’s 38,00,000,000 kilos. With such numbers, can you smell a scam ? If you are wondering just how dhabas and street food in Bangalore is so cheap, you have the answer – the rice is being smuggled in. Stand by and watch the menfolk eat their lunch by the construction site nearest to you – the plate has a dour, nutrition-less mix of salt, loads of rice and rasam, the last-named a euphimism for water coloured with spice (and, at times, the odd piece of non-veg of uncertain origin).
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam.
And what about the impact on the Earth? Lets just take water as a resource. Rice, unlike most traditional millets, is water intensive; indeed rice and sugarcane are the two most water intensive crops. More water needed means more electricity required to pump it, more wastage, less water to go around.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam. Less water.
In September 2008, the Government of Tamil Nadu reduced the price to Re 1. One packet of gutka more per kilo. Twenty packets per month.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam. Less water. More gutka.
Now in July 2010, the Central Government has new norms. For the poorest of the poor, under a scheme called Antyodaya Anna Yojna, the quota of rice per card holder has gone upto 35 kg. For Tamil Nadu, it means about 6 lakh tonnes of rice more per year. At less price.
More rice at less price. More liquor. Less milk. More carb. Less health. More scam. Less water. More gutka. Meanwhile, more rice at less price just came in.
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