Medical Tourism and Such...

We have friends visiting India from the US, for dental work. Apparently, it costs their insurance company less to fly them over to India, and take care of their fillings, root canals, etc. than to do the same in the US. Having stayed for over a decade in the US, I can personally vouch that the dentists in India are much better. So my sympathies are entirely with my friends-they rather see a dentist here-it is cheaper, better. However, there is always a further story to tell.

Bangalore, like all the other fast developing metros in India, is seeing a rapid rise in promoting, read- selling, human resources as a primary commodity to the markets of hard currency developed nations-service oriented businesses flourish catering to the lifestyles of folks from the wealthy world. BPO centers to provide services at the touch of a button, western model health care facilities and well being centers to cope with stress of too much money, too many goodies, too much self indulgence, abuse of the self. Apparently, a cataract surgery that costs about 300USD, for both eyes, in India, costs as much as 2000USD per eye, in USA. So, you see, the incentives for the foreign patients, or their insurance companies, is very large. It is easy, now, to combine a serious surgery with a recuperating holiday in the Kerela backwaters- massages, beaches, entertainment, shopping all thrown in. All of this is well and fine-some people need money, others need services-good barter for both.But, what is bothersome, in case of outsourcing medical care is that the same, or even a smallest fraction of these facilities, are not available to most of the society. Between all the doctors or medical workers still leaving the country for better opportunities abroad and an increasing in-home competition for the higher paying foreign markets, the system is highly strapped in meeting the health requirements for most of its own people. Rural health care is no longer an attractive choice for the budding generation of doctors that graduate each year. A government that subsidizes, to a very large extent, all higher education within the country, leaves consumers to decide what happens to the end product of its social investments. And thats precisely because the government itself is running around-selling itself short, selling itself fast, selling land, water, energy, food, basic necessities as rapidly as it can to large corporations, either from home or abroad. The strength of our nation is now gauged in terms of buying power of its burgeoning middle class, rather than the percentage that are fed, educated, healthy. Throwing away the rights of the common man, our largest pool, has assured us respect with WTO, GAT, and other MNC controlled global policy makers. Besides cheap, displacable labor, and a corruptible vote bank in our so called democratic system, the poor amount to little else with the schemers at the top. And this is what sets the tone for a national conscience, or a lack of it.

What we have to ask, is whether an inclusive, equitable society of equal opportunities is not the more beneficial for our nationhood, our lifestyles, even our economics. Do we really gain by keeping a majority of our population non-accounted in our plans, future goals, directions?Is it in our best interest to entirely marginalise a majority and then complain at the violence it breeds, hatred it nurtures -generation upon generation. Is seeking global economic prosperity making us blind to the filth we generate in our backyards-humans whose hopelessness will hit us harder than any terrorism seen so far.

So what is a solution? As a friend wisely said, enforce conscriptions in army for all, and make a country hesitant in waging war-or in this case, make all of society contribute towards upliftment of its weaker sections, in-kind, for the benefits it receives. This will go towards meeting the basic needs of the majority, to ensure long term stability of a society and also go a long way in sensitizing our privileged young to a path of right action-where more than just economic success govern life goals.

Scattered Through Time-Some Lines,Some Colours

Most events are inexpressible, taking place in a realm which no word has ever entered--Rainer Maria Rilke

And such are the limitations of experiencing journeys-distant and inner. When voice does not suffice, heart breaks into wordless songs; what photographs cannot capture, hands shape into expressions of heart-for no human experience is devoid of the personal-and all expressions are singular proclamations of the non-replicable inner.

My journey through time, ages, has thus naturally led me to silent spaces which express themselves outside the "realm of words"-where often the seven musical notes form the pallate to express that transitory space. At other times, a need to give me physical form, leads to lines on paper, sometimes monochromatic, at other times coloured by the moment. This scattering of myself is "virtually" captured at

http://picasaweb.google.com/aratichokshi/Art

Lost and Found Me

Today,I woke up,
and found I'd lost me-
so, went searching
for an identity.

Did a google search,
& found fragments
of previous births;
shreds of me
I'd thrown away,
shards of identities
scattered along the way.

I gathered my broom
and swept them till
they piled neatly
in my trash bin,
and pressed with glee
the delete forever? sign
and made this non-identity
permanently mine.

Fleeting Moments-Captured Moods

For every whirling dervish that resides in one's inside-madly swirling to life songs, life sorrows-there is a quiet epicenter, an observer, a recounter of escaping instances, anchoring that movement, holding it tight-tightly escaping. While the ecstasies of abandon, sema swirls, paint the worlds in color and passion, the center remains silent, clear, transparent, recording bit by bit, the lived fleeting moments, capturing moods in brief jewel words-the Haikus. Masterpieces of japanese soul, they record the now, present and alive, for all eternity in melodic rythm of syllables, five, seven, and five- and thus briefly, leave a lived moment of picture, smell and song-for posterity.

Born of the Zen buddhist tradition, these brief moment-poems,the Haikus, capture its meditative spirit, in contemplation of nature, the fleeting season cycles, and a approach that emphasises an acute awareness of the present, of now, of conscious and alive. Completely opposed to the sufi way of losing the self, in the divine beloved, the haikus were a vehicle to record the inner instance, and its response to the outer ,natural world. Thus Matsuo Basho wrote:

Such stillness-
the cries of the cicadas
sink into the rocks.

or again, by Issa:

A lovely thing to see;
through the paper window holes
the Galaxy.

A bush warbler comes-
and starts to wipe his muddy feet
among the blossoming plums.

In its eye
the far-off hills are mirrored-
dragonfly!

A particularly well known one by Ryokan,

The thief left it behind:
the moon
at my window.

captures both the poets mirth at the transitory materialism and the essence of his own spirituality.

Last Night-A Student Suicide

1. A suicide-
a young life
lost
to all generations
her pain
branding shame
on society
that does not care
give a damn
or share-
leaving us with
jagged lives
our maybes, and whys
just to forget
this sorrow
by tomorrow.

2. Shame

A corpse was wandering
an almost corpse
still breathing,
fighting,calling,
beseeching for help
imploring,
in a silent voice.

No luck anywhere,
hospitals cant accept
an almost corpse
a police case,paperwork
a duty, easy to shirk.

Finally,
the almost corpse
finds a resting place,
hands that agree to help-
strip her bare,
of jewelery and cash,
strip her of all
that could be sold
-maybe even her soul!

When it was a corpse,
they robbed her still,
demanding cash
from crying relatives,
to let her go,
whom they would not
accept before,
to a last journey
back home
and bid goodbye,
her spirit free
to roam.

Music of the Masai

Its been about a year since Kenya. Like most memories, what I now carry with me are blurred pictures, erased details, softer impressions. Red earth, vast grey tumbling skies, umbrella acacias dotting the plains, groups of mud homes circled with fences of twigs, branches; an occasional zebra, a lost wildbeest-birds of prey circling the skies, cities of weaver birds on a single scraggly tree, mud ponds-the color of thick milky tea, and walking these plains- the lonely, proud, ebony stick figures in crimson-the Masai.And then, all memories sharpen, zoom into clarity, of chiselled faces, long muscular bodies, leaning on their spears, or walking that easy gait with a stick thrown across their shoulders-fearless, coal eyes, open stares,daunting, intimidating, till a rolling guttural sound captures you- the hypnotic music of the Masai. Their song is more rythemic than melodic,a chorus deep, primeval, resonating to earth's heartbeat, drumming to cycles of birth and death-continual, everlasting. Bodies heave forward, backward, in a serpentine lines, filmed with sweat, metal black, wrapped in blood, connected to earth, while their sound rises high-with their spirit-breaking loose.

A Concert Last Night

It is night. The world is bereft of all light. Darkness has poured into its void, leaving just a few pinpoints of escaping rays that anchor hope on the coming morrow. All the without has disappeared and the world is now focussed inwards- into the interiors of its dark realm. A time for the first haunting notes of Raag Poorya-a background drone of the tanpura deepens this darkness. An exploration of loss, nuances of pain; a slow drowning into depths of what shall never be again-lost love, disappeared youth. Eyes are shut to the outer world-to the musicians, audience, ones self slouched on a chair-shutting off all outside to break one's heart, to Poorya-over all night.

Transparent Days, Transparent Heart

Bangalore is blessed with a climate, temperate, cool, green, central in the dusty, bouldered, searing, tropical, deccan plateau, in southern India. And then even amongst our normally sylvan days, there are times that really stand out. Autumn days have suddenly descended amongst us, cold, clear, transparent, bathed in pure light-illuminating our world with radiance, our lives with an unexplained joy. Fresh out of the delayed monsoons, our green world is now internally lit, in pockets of jade and emerald,sparkley and clear, to wipe away the cobwebs, unexplained, unnecessary, to soothe tumultuous hearts, to quieten our days, to let our spirits breathe in deep-the cold, clear air, humming to gentle melodies, of calm and quietude. Time to retire, to rejuvinate, and learn to live, again.

Advertising Grief

I belong to a human rights' group in India, that posts me regularly of violations to human life, freedom, voice. Often these mails are accompanied with a "please respond" request on the subject line-a shaming, but necessary request. With all the mails filling up our Inboxes, we are liable to ignore, or read and ignore. The request creates a pause, attention to possible action, or atleast an urgent need to reaction.

On the other hand, the large colorful advertisements of consumer products, on our radios, computers, TVs, billboards, newspapers, magazines, T-shirts walking by, buses, pamphlets handed to us, stuck in our post boxes-often warrant more attention; especially if they carry key words like "Sale", "Prices Slashed","50% off". Then we queue up, to take advantage of these special offers,to save money, to spend money and to make more money.

What is it about accumulating "stuff" that draws us more than lost lives, wrongful deaths, suppressed childhoods, violated women, the right of all to be free, equal. How should we advertise grief thats all around? on colorful bill boards? with a buy one, get one free? Or does our consumerism not extend to accepting responsibilty for the ones that bear burdens of our bought happiness?

Truth of Chance

Illusions of choice or self determination have seduced thinkers, philosophers, romantics through ages-action to tip the scale, in favor of a lover, a society, a political idealogy. That there is a preset and a definitive path of consequences, leading to the desired results-the idea of control, or atleast the possibility of control. Yes, a choice exists at every awake moment, a choice to breathe, think, act-but the consequences of this choice are, many a times, up in the air-spinning out of control, volleying at escape velocity, beyond gravity, and lost to self.

We live in a web of interconnected interactions, where individual action effects all, and all combined actions influence consequences of our single lived moment. Heisenberg's uncertainity principal is true, most so in life-proclaiming against all deterministic certainities. Individual destiny is just another chance, or probability of an event happening-a quantum mechanics of being and non being-influenced by particle or wave, real or imagined, guiding future like unseen hands- the hands of God.

Can the only truth be this chance, decipherable,and maybe even quantifyable, that anything possible or imagined, also has a finite chance of occurence.Is uncertainity the only reality? Or wait-maybe there is a loophole-all ends are real.i.e. all beginnings must finish in an end, all births in deaths- of life, stars, universe. Or is this also uncertain-nature, universe, recycles. What was once a star, is now born into me, or it could still be wandering in space, or have a finite chance to another stellar birth-a possibility of zillion different reincarnations, in infinite cycle of possible universes, of philosophies, cosmolgies, that seek to escape end-in repetative, non-deterministic births.

Ecstasy of Abandon-The Sufi Way

Look! This is Love-to fly toward the heavens,
to tear a hundred veils in every wink....

so sang Rumi, whirling in ecstasy, to his love Shamsuddin of Tabriz. And he sang thus many thousand times and over many million moments, inspired, drunken, whirling, dancing, surrendering and abandoning, lost to himself and to the world, lost in his beloved

I am filled with you.
Skin,blood,bone,brain,and soul...

or, again,

Don't hand me another glass of wine.
Pour it in my mouth.
I've lost the way to my mouth.

What insanity, what madness drives a poet to pour such words, jewels that he leaves behind, that continue to inspire many centuries later? Such is the way of the Sufis, and their songs and dance of abandon- seeking the true love, the divine presence residing in ones heart, a seeking which requires abandoning the self.

On Festivals and the Faithless

It has always felt that faith is for the fortunate-any sort of faith. It keeps things simple, questions fewer, answers easier. India survives on an abudance of faith, Gods, and karma-destiny, where the big and small destinations in a life's journey are pre-programmed based on the fine balance between deeds and mis-deeds, actions accumulated over eons of previous births. A majority of people subscribe to some sort of faith- details vary-but prescriptions are clear about right versus wrong, moral versus evil. Gods are favoured over demons and faith dictates that Gods always win. It is this faith that keeps the people going, through natural, national or personal disasters, sees them through worst crises, uncomprehending and yet accepting their lot-with their faith even more entrenched.

I belong to a deprived minority -the faithless. So all events are usually followed by uncomfortable questioning. The festival season is just over, and a variety of battles have been fought successfully by Gods against demons. Were these battles and festivals designed to demarcate and perpetuate the established order of the strong few against the weak many? a non-equitable and grossly unfair society based on caste system? As my partner once remarked, it is surprising that India functions at all, that there is not more anarchy, that overall, man is still good and attempting right-i.e.accepting his poorer lot in life. Is this a consequence of the continuous festivals -a constant reminders of divine battles where good and the just always win? What is good-and for whom? and who decides this? A victory of a few gods cannot be good for the many demons-and which side gets to be divine?

Were our ancestors thinking of keeping such demons, outside, at bay? Or, just reminding us to be wary of the demons within? Even through the celebrations of these current set of festivals, I have been aware of the lurking presences inside, clamoring to overthrow good intentions, responsibility, stability for the escape into excitement of freedom, discovery of the unknown, the realm of the possibile impossibilities. The battle is over, the Gods have won- but who were the Gods?

Diwali - Confusion and More Stories

A friend once said that the day he got bored of India, he would leave. He is still here almost 20 years later. India never ceases to astonish, surprise, and spin yarns for you. After all these years, over Diwali sweets with friends, I discovered that there are reasons and reasons for celebrating Diwali-the day remains the same, but the reasons differ. Till yesterday I only knew the story of Ram - the prince of Ayodhya.

Today, I was told that in Tamilnadu (South India), Ravana, the evil demon adversary of Ram, is the true hero-the guy that Ram kills before his return to Ayodhya - so, here, Diwali is a celebration of Krishna's killing Nakasura-yet another demon, who with his dying breath, asks for a boon, to be remembered on Earth-hence, the Diwali celebration. Keeping in mind that both Ram and Krishna are different Vishnu avatars makes the picture more confusing. There are others who maintain that Diwali is "Nombu" a vrata day for women-certain austeries are performed to request boons from the Gods-blessings for family, husband, but never for one self. In some quarters, this day is used to remember the dead.

In Western India, Diwali is the day to worship Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, and spouse of Vishnu. In East India, however, this is Kali Puja. Kali, Parvati, Durga are all different forms of Shiva's wife, and the daughter of Earth. When humanity was being harassed by the demons of the underworld, they ran to Durga and asked for help. Durga then took the destructive, ferocious form of Kali-naked, dark blue, with hair flowing to her waist, and armed to kill. She started killing the demons and wore their heads in a garland around her neck-she was blood thirsty, destructive, unstoppable till finally people approached her husband Lord Shiva for help. So as Kali was doing her war dance, Shiva came and lay on her path. When Kali stepped on her Lord, she realised her great error and stuck her tongue out in horror. This is how she is worshipped today, stepping on Shiva, dripping blood and sticking her tongue out!

Diwali Dazzle-A Festival of Lights

Its said that when Ram, the crown prince of Ayodhya, returned after fourteen long years in exile, the people welcomed him joyously, decorating their homes, streets, with lamps-Deep- hence Deepavali or Diwali. People exchanged sweets to share their happiness, and dressed in new clothes. After all, Ram-vanquisher of evil, a Vishnu incarnate, saviour of the world, was finally returning home.

In India, memories run long and deep- of even mythological events. Diwali is again upon us-and a sense of excitement fills the air. Weeks before, fabrics are bought, tailors are visited, bothered, spring cleaning begins at home. As the week approaches, special Diwali sweets are planned, and cooking begins-days of cooking snacks and sweets to be put away for the festival days. Children's hands reaching into jars are tapped off, husbands scolded lightly for dipping into goodies. Coloured paper streamers hung across doorways, thresholds decorated with coloured rangoli.

The actual festivities begin two days before Diwali. First day is Dhanteras-a day to invite Lakshmi-the goddess of wealth home. Lamps are lit outside doorways before dawn, swastiks are marked for auspiciousness, and footsteps in red marked leading into the home-just to make sure she finds and enters the threshold. People throng to the silver shops and buy silver as a token of peace and prosperity.

The next day is Kalichaudas; a day when women are granted their share of beauty for the year. Early morning ritual bath with sandalwood, cream, turmeric,is followed by dressing up in fineries. Traditional Indian dressing is an evolved art form, where the eyes are kohled, forheads painted in a kum-kum red dot, hair braided, coiled, sarees draped. Flowers for the hair, and jewellery for the rest of the body. Silver payals around the ankles, and silver toe rings. Silver belts to adorn narrow waists; gold bangles for the wrists, rings for the fingers, and arm bands;necklaces of gold and gems, and also earrings, noserings. For a daring few, gold tika on the forehead. Finally the women and girls are ready to welcome their prince.

Diwali day sees a stream of visitors in and out of homes, and children dressed in fineries taking trays laden with holiday delicacies to neighbours. At night, lamps line thresholds, windows, balconies, oil lamps that cast their golden glow on sparkly homes, smiley people, excited children. Finally there are the fireworks-coloured sparklers in hands of children,"flowerpots" that throw out light,sparkley volcanoes of fire, fire wheels spinning furiously on land, or in hand, and rockets carefully poised in empty bottles taking off for the stars in brilliance of red and green.The prince has finally arrived!

A Farm of Weeds

I live on a farm called "Bhoomi"-or land. I called it Bhoomi because thats all it was-dry, barren, gravelly, rocky, piece of earth-hard,uncompromising, and hostile to supporting life forms-all life forms-or almost all life forms, brown without a touch of green.


I now live on a farm that grows weeds-well, mostly weeds. These are the most important, useful, profuse, and beautiful occupants of this land.They are also entirely non-demanding, non-fussy, friendly, and social. It is only this season that I have come to really appreciate their invaluable role on the ecology and the habitat at Bhoomi-which now supports a thriving residential population of butterflies, dragonflies, beetles, ants, spiders, daddylonglegs, grasshoppers, bees,termites,ladybugs and many other kinds of bugs that I dont know names of, and ofcourse scorpions,snakes,frogs,all kinds of pedes-milipedes, centipedes, and a zillion singing cicadas, orchestra of birds galore-little dazzling sunbirds in inky blue black, flashy kingfishers, busy woodpeckers, long tailed drongos, hooting owls, bright green bee-catchers, and several birds of prey that shriek out at night to startle the wits out of a person. And then there are more rewards in a farm of weeds-under the weeds the soil is darker, softer. There are earth worms- lots of them everywhere you dig-a subtarranean population, working away, and thriving.


The field of weeds is now also a meadow of flowers-all weed flowers-or wild flowers-I guess the same thing! Its also a field of food-I just have to recognise the edible weeds-flavorful, nutritious and entirely organic! So far I have learnt to recognise six.


With the late rains of this season, I have been busy- very busy, digging pits, expanding my fledgling orchard, and clearing weeds! I work long hours of a labourer,digging, cutting, clearing-clearing the "touch-me-nots" is rough- these guys mean business-they cut you up real mean, deep-a reasonable price to pay for interfering with nature's way.

It is with amusement that I realise the enormous effort required to plan food sustainablity for a single family of humans-and the ease with which nature provides and sustains all the rest.

Ladakh- Changing Humanscape

Ladakh-beautiful, bejewelled-of crytsal lakes, agate hills,and silence pure and deep.Its peopled sparsely by a robust race-people of abiding faith,peace,ready laughter-mongoloid features, creasy smiles, bad teeth-and chang breaths. People of endurance, patience, fortitude - in dark robes of deep maroon-to-mauve, turquoise beads, stringy braids-bobbing their heads to "Jule,Jule",a friendly greeting as they herd their yaks across barren, stunning hills and valleys.


They have plenty of time, a long pause to check out a stranger, sit in quiet rolling their prayer wheels, or counting their beads, and gossip in groups in front of a village gompa. They work in calm leisure, changing water patterns in their interconnected and complex irrigation systems, work their soil of gravel and rock, or churning yak butter for the salty tea that they enjoy. They seem to take the natural wonders around them, for granted - one sees incomprehension when one talks of the beauty of their land, unmeaningful ways of the big cities, savagery of the advanced and the urban. Are'nt the roads bigger, more cars, water on tap everywhere-they ask. Are'nt there big movie halls? electricity all times? big TVs in homes? True, true- but our skies are grey with dirt, our water non-potable, our soil killed by chemicals. They accept that the grace of Buddha is with them-but times are also changing.

And these changing times are starkly, ominously visible all over Leh. Leh has finally made it - its on the tourist map-firmly entrenched, exotic, mysterious, beautiful. Leh is now developed, prosperous, available-not an unreachable outpost for the most obstinate, but ready for bus loads,car loads, truck loads, flights full of tourists,and commodities-a supply of plastic mineral water bottles, biscuits, potato chips, Maggi noodles, tea, coffee, provision, catering facility, shopping diversity from Kashmir handicrafts to Rajasthan cottons to southern bronzes and brass. Restraunts, cafes, tea stalls, -chinese, punjabi, south indian, tibetan, kashmiri cuisines, pizza, pasta, western foods, bakeries-these are all ready to feed the ever hungry and large tourist population. There are hostels, homestays, hotels, resorts to cater to every budget. And then an exhaustive number of souvinier shops to carry the memories home. A drive out of Leh now shows garbage dumps on pristine pastures, near sparkling streams. Yes, Leh is now certainly prosperous - its youth cater to the foriegn tourists, available to provide anything-drugs, themselves. There is unemployment-old ways are no longer desirable, acceptable-there are euroes to be had, dollars to be earned-to buy a new wardrobe,flash a new vehicle. There is also conflict-between those of the plains and the people of the hills-most new businesses and licenses are given to those we come to Leh just for the tourist season and leave dumping their garbage behind. There is often a sentiment that the locals are losing out-on the lucrative trading, of their land, their culture and their ways.


And this development,progress is spreading. Will the silence remain? and the smiles? will Buddha always grace this land?

A message in my Inbox

Its another case of rape.
Skip over, ignore!
yoga stretches, swim session
pancake for breakfast
an hour of riyaz.

Its another case of rape.
Silent screams
mute voices
no human outrage
no social shame.....
shopping, mall hopping
cocktail party
dress with care
god knows who'll be there!

Its another case of rape.
brutality, horrible savagery,
violence, aggression,
mutiliation and destruction
of dignity,liberty....
gin n' tonic, chicken kebabs,
bright laughter, clever talk.

Its another case of rape-by police.
state sanctioned autrocities
a licensed violation of human rights...
so when you cant sleep,
darling, take a Restil-tonight.
--------------------------

According to the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB)-India,

1 woman is murdered about every hour for dowry
1 woman is raped every half hour
1 woman is sexually harrassed every 12 minutes
1 woman faces domestic violence every 9 minutes
---------------------------

Check out the latest autrocity thats come to light at

//merinews.com/catFull.jsp?articleID=127237

Scattered Through Time: Some Poems

I battle within,
fight an irresistable urge
to
shake-
break-
make
a life arise
from ruins of mediocrity
of habits deep
comfort and charm
of medium happiness
to recreate and watch
a universe unfold,
germinate
from my self
deep.
----------------------------------

On Bus

My soul is lecherous
for him in yellow shirt
dark skin and kohl eyes
curve of the biceps that steer the bus
power of youth, and
that reckless smile,
my soul is lecherous
with memory of that age,
when I desired such desires.
----------------------------------

Aman

My son
his head in clouds
wings bearing him
heavenwards
till star sparks
twinkle from his eyes
raining on us mortals
glimpses of his land.

----------------------------------
Avani

My daughter
gentlest sweet flower
earth born,earth cared
carries in her womb
earth plight,earth pain
reponsibilities
larger than her small frame
can contain.

----------------------------------

Speed

Dawn
Another day of persecution,
excecution of
progress,
development,
ghettos on wheels,
transporting to fate
bleak,
despairing,
hopeless,
resigned,
Mumbai's suburban trains.
----------------------------------

Yesterday
a meteor missed me
cyclone changed its course
earth quaked another ground
a Tsunami spared me.

So, I could log on
and sell
me,my people,my land,
in bits and pieces
to the multinationals
and thus
contribute
to global development
and world economy.
----------------------------------

They said
aim high,
for the skies,
hone your skills
in a colonial language
fashion your clothes,
'cos appearances matter-
aim high for those
imperial controllers of our lives
so they may buy you
a car, bunglow,sushi,wine
while,you piss
on faces of those
that hold you,
aloft,high,
laying roads for your cars,
building your homes ,
growing your crops,
constructing
english medium schools,
so your priviledged progeny
may enjoy your priviledges.
----------------------------------

Moods of Ragas

I have often been sold on the idea of man as a natural animal-to live in stark simplicity, in balance with and provided by nature, where music is the rustle of breeze, gurgling of streams, paintings are grandly enormous and real landscapes. And then, all it takes is a single evening of a really good classical concert and I am transported-- to an intense awareness of the richness of human genius in artistic endevours through ages; where the sensual pleasure in sound is capable of levitating one to a higher plane of existence, and joy is this journey with the artist riding high on waves and crashing into troughs of spells created by the sound spectrum-the moods of ragas.

This evening's concert started with a recital on Rudra veena - supposedly the oldest Indian string instrument, the sacred instrument of Saraswati-the goddess of arts and learning. The style of recital was in Dhrupad -again the oldest surviving musical form within the Indian classical system, predating a north-south divide into Hindustani and Carnatic music respectively. The Raga of choice was Marwa, an early evening Raga-serious, sombre, introspective, reflective, meditative, with a touch of sorrow on realisation- all is Maya-illusion. This followed a tragic Sohini- a raga of separation, loss before ending with Miya Malhar - a monsoon raga of Miya Tansen -the court musician during Akbar's reign - who added his signature of sweetness and longing to the majestic Megh Malhar of rolling thunder, crackling lightening and monsoon downpours. The tabla accompanyment was primal, echoing the beats of a dancing Shiva - mad, innocent, destructive - destroying carefully structured worlds,notions, fortress.

The next artist was a vocalist of enormous proficiency, brilliance. Her voice was molten, golden, honey, pouring in, gliding into innermost recesses, leading into a journey of her world, her creativity. She set about changing the course of our evening/night with a very slow, langorous Bhimpalas- a raga for the afternoon-plaintively calling out on 'viraha' or parting - till her longing became our exquisite pain. And, just when one could take no more, she moved to a faster, lighter composition on being 'coloured by melodies of love'. Her next composition was in raga Behag-asking the lover to 'love slowly, slowly' and finally a piece which requested the lover to 'fix her hair-'cos her hands were henna covered'- no coyness in Behag, no coyness in the singer- just a playful assurance, energy, verve -was it the singer, or her music-were both the same?

Modi Maddness Revealed

For those of you who still had doubts about Narendra Modi's orchestration of communal violence in Gujarat, check out the following Tehelka probe:

www.khabrein.info/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=7626&Itemid=88

Small Island Lure-Neil Island

I am partial to small islands-particularly tiny ones. The smallest island I've visited was a miniscule flotsam a few hundred meters across in the Maldives.One could take a leisurely stroll around this island in under 15 minutes. The island's smallness was neither confining nor imprisoning- infact, the experience was deeply liberating afloat on that tiny land on an infinite blue green ocean-akin to experiencing earth's journey through space.

This trip to Maldives was extravagant in all respects -beauty, costs, lifestyle. It was therfore also unreal, artificial, superficial.

I have since found the island of my dreams in the Andamans-a "real" island, where communities live, work, sustain generations, cultures. I discovered Neil Island in search for food options outside of the fish and rice culture practiced over most of Andamans. A guide book described Neil island as the food-bowl for the northern Andamans-a place that was supported by agriculture economy and exported fruits and vegetables to other islands. Being vegetarians, it was with relish that we looked forward to visiting Neil Island.

Our approach by ferry from Port Blair showed white sandy beaches,tall timber trees of emerald, transparent turquoise to jade waters deepening to ink blue and a picture perfect jetty-with a quickening heart I realised that this was the one-the one I had dreamt about!

Neil island is still small by most standards-7km by a couple km across. I never managed to circumnavigate the whole island in my month's stay there. I was too busy swimming, loitering, eating. That summer, the trees were overladen with ripe mangoes, jackfruits-that we climbed, plucked, gorged on, coconuts waiting to be enjoyed, and gardens brimming with vegetables and greens that were cooked for us in bengali and tamil preparations in tiny home restraunts around the island.

The paradise was perfect with a small but well stocked library, an energetic government school, a grassy football field,and friendly families eager to make friends with those from the distant 'mainland'. We spent hours learning to make crafts from coconut shells-polished to a shiny marbled finish in coffee, burnt yellow, cream. Kids rowed on the open sea in tiny dingy, standing, perfectly poised-a sense of peace filled my heart-nothing left to ask for-nothing left to desire.

A Bus Ride To Vardhenahalli

There are ways and ways of experiencing "the world go by". Some of you have probably romanticised about outdoor cafes in pleasant European cities, say Paris, Florence, with affluent,and beautiful people walking by while you sip on your expresso. And then, there is a bus ride one can take to Vardhenhalli-at the other end of the experiential spectrum. This ride is neither for the romantic, nor for the faint hearted.

Vardhenahalli lies on Magadi road that leads only to Magadi- a small, bustling, inconsequential town. The route from Bangalore gets increasingly provincial to rural-as in mud roads, mud homes, increasingly pleasant and untouched landscapes-fewer vehicles, higher hills,curvy roads, dams, bridges,boulders and the great Savandurga dominating the landscape-like a sleeping elephant.

This is the road a bus takes. And in this bus one encounters a different world-more tangible,cacophonous,garrish,entirely human-too much so-too much physical, emotional. A seat that can take two is occupied by three adults, two children, luggage-never mind whose children, whose luggage. If then one makes the mistake of meeting a gaze, there's always that sweet, entreating smile with "Solpa Adjust Madi" (some,adjust,make)-i.e.make space for a little more. A request thats difficult to refuse. And then, when you are sure that the bus can hold no more, it still makes a stop for a large pedalled sewing machine, a diesel generator, a couple carrying bundled, sqwaking hens like some upside down bouquets, and many more passengers.Its also perfectly normal for passengers to reach over people, stick their heads out of the window, to spit, throw up, and dispose of various bodily and other non-wantables.

On such a bus, a smallest disagreement leads to open warfare-to the enthusiastic, and encouraging support from spectators.The winner is always the one who can garner most support-never mind who is right. And all this happens as the bus hurtles at a neck breaking speed, clanging through potholes, speed breakers, near misses of cows, goats, pedestrians, road side market stalls, taking U-turns, slippery downhills, to finally volley you out -dazed, giddy, with your luggage at your destination-Vardhenahalli. And all this, only for twelve rupees??

A Decade of Decadence

Its been a decade since I made a honest living-or, for that matter, any living at all. I have been supported by my partner - in all respects, financially and otherwise-through adventures, mis-adventures, enterprise, endeavor, strife, frustrations and falls. Very soon into this 'retirment' I resolved not to 'earn' a living and thereby earn back a life - and the possibility of the 'unknown'.

Now, a decade later, I understand that the unexpected can only happen if allowed to happen, that the uncharted course is immensely fulfilling, and no goals is a reasonable choice for a life goal. The course is meandering, slowed and savouring-the choices more free, and momentuous, and the results more often surprising. I have learnt that this suits me - I like surprises.

Yet, a part of me still sometimes ponders - am I living off society? Definitely, even if I were earning, because I sit at the upper edge of a social pyramid where the contributions of the countless less financially abled to poor, sustain my lifestyle, my freedoms of choice, my consumption of more than my fair share of natural resources. My making a living has nothing to do with how I whittle away at all dwindling resources. I would probably "consume" much more had I earned a livelihood. So I swing wildly between attempts to practice a no-currency economy with ragi and saru, on my farm, to indulging in urban decadence, with gin-and-tonic and Japanese movies, in the city.

So while no-goal is still the goal, a desire to tread in balance remains-is that itself a goal? To tread, not just in balance, but to also tread lightly, carefully,
and consciously of my great priviledge - freedom to chart my own course.

Dancing to a Female God

This happens every year. Not just to me, but to all Gujaratis in the country and around the world. Monsoons end and we all get itchy feet. We carry around beats of garba-raas in our heads and try not to clap, leap, swirl in middle of a mundane conversation-we then know, Goddess is sure to arrive.With subdued excitement we get out our mirrored costumes and "dandiyas".Families play garba music and mothers train children in the ways to welcome the goddess-with lots of music, lots of dance.

Then follow, Navratri, "Nine nights" of dancing in circles, circles of many hundreds, thousand, one inside another all the way to the goddess herself, sitting on her tiger, and watching us with an indulgent smile. Clap, swirl, forward, backward, non-tiringly to an ever quickening beat till only the most proficient and hardy remain to a heady crescendo while most watch on in admiration and awe. And then, the dancing begins again, all over again, the Raas this time- a partner dance again in circles-the celestial dance of Krishna with Gopis-the same dance to welcome the daughter goddess home to her earthly abode. Hands hurt, legs ache, bare feet blister with the constant pounding on the earthern floors-yet the heart laughs and people shout "let the dancing continue".

Impressions: Ladakh Landscapes

Unlike most journeys that begin in one's head, Ladakh just stumbled into my path.A chance remark on a friend's upcoming trip and I impulsively decided to tag along.

This was my second trip to Ladakh.The earlier journey was by air with rapidly changing landscapes of dry, arid, snow clad ranges before a rapid descent into Leh. The entire trip had been breathtaking but short. I knew I would return again to this land of vast emptiness.

This journey to Ladakh took me on trains, buses,Jeeps, motorcycle and on foot-all at varying speeds and at ground level. Transitions unfolded slowly from the barren and bouldered countryside in the Deccan plateau, to the congested, bustling northern plains, into the green Kashmir valleys with alpine meadows, to an ever starker landscape of bleak craggy mountains with steep young valleys of gravel and stone. Palletes changed from the softer forested greens with gentle blue skies to slate green, deep maroons and mauves setoff against a lapis sky.

A land route into Ladakh imbued me with the spaciousness of the place. Vastness of earth-sky became one and the highest peaks were mere ripples in the grandeur of space time. Then, a quietness instilled into self with a slower breath, a softer beating of the heart and a more gentle coursing of life through veins.

Springtime had added dashes of color in the most unexpected places-bleak landscapes suddenly showed patches of gold or lavender which became a million flowers. Rose bushes littered gravelly slopes with a profusion of fragrant blossoms in pink,white and yellow. Streams gurgled, water dripped in crystal drops, life surged in this new awakening, a miraculous encounter with renewal, of nature, of self.Then Raag Basant swirled in my head and on my lips in Taranas that drummed to my heartbeat.

And to these layers of silence and songs were added the deep resonant chants from the buddhist gompas that dotted the landscape- miniscule jewels, perched on peaks, colorful, contained, mysterious, enchanting, treasure houses for the spirit, and repositories of faith. Colorful flags blew prayers to the wind, prayer wheels rolled to ones' devotion, and endless mani walls bore monuments to a people's faith "Om Mani Padme Hum".

Garbage,Glitter and Media

Its become a fashion these days for our dailies, weeklies and all manner of printed press to feature regular articles focussing on the glitter, the glitterarty and how the rich-and-famous live or should live. The printed material ranges from glossy centrefolds carrying full length articles on the latest upper class hang-out spots, to various looks you must sport with the 'must-have' wardrobes, shoes, makeup, jewellery, motorbikes, cars, cell phones and various accessories to be acceptable in these rarified zones. While most serious and mainstream newspapers attempt to sneak such material in to increase readership, others are directly catering to wannabe-rich phenomena or atleast a wannabe-rich look alike phenomena-forget news reporting, responsible journalism. Thus recently Outlook magazine offered a complimentary copy of a magazine called 'Envy' which focussed on those immensely out-of-reach objects of desire that could make an owner worthy of 'Envy' by a common man. Since when has it become cool to be 'envied'? or is promoting 'Envy' in line with keeping the corporate sponsorship happy and a frenzied consumersim booming? Yesterday 'Deccan Herald' an old Karnataka daily in English has come out with 'Hi-Life'- a free glossy supplement to show us what we are missing out on if we cannot afford 9 lakhs for a pen!!

As the world approaches Environment Day, it occurs to me that the very sector to which our media caters is also the sector that consumes most, pollutes most, produces most non-recyclable garbage. There is an overall correlation between the ecofootprint and the wealth of a nation. A look around seems to confirm that the same trend probably applies within nations, neighbourhoods, communities.

So why is the media promoting acquisitiveness and selling consumersim as a recipe for happiness? What if we all desired, could afford, and accumulate all this stuff for envy. Is there room on Earth to keep it all-for a possess and perish syndrome?

Monsoon Magic in Goa

There is always magic in Goa. Its the lure of its unending white sand beaches,necklaced by swaying palms, clear blue skies swooping to meet chiffon green waves, its hushed dense forests hiding the majestic Dudh Sagar falls, inviting even the most self-possessed purist to strip, and dive in. Atleast these are its irresistable attractions for me. The food, vibrant markets, baroque churches, colorful architecture, its music, its people, are added charms that beckon even the most jaded traveller. Look a little harder, and one runs into a strong undercurrent of the bohemian, a sense of the hedonistic just below its surface that seduces and destabilises many enough that they never ever return to their old entrenched values and common place life styles; they return home transformed-and sometimes they never go home.

All this I knew. I always approached Goa with excited caution, desiring to falter-but wary of fall.



This monsoon, I stumbled into a Goa, so hidden, so secret that I might have suspected its existence had I not myself experienced it-an old lover revealing a new self- a prussian blue, Payne grey Goa of multitude layers, monsoon clouds overhanging excited, thrashing waves, endless beaches devoid of most except the most solitary-a dog, an abandoned jellyfish, me. The sands below me were polka dotted with raindrops and the water's edge a series of frothy, wavy lines. Sand pipers ran back and forth always keeping a few feet ahead of me, brahmi kites circled overhead. I sang Raag Ahir Bahirav and Todi during the morning hours, and invariably Raag Megh during the evenings that were rain drenched-in its air, liquid light, misty horizons, dripping trees-water all over, everywhere.

Now I know, Goa is here to stay, in me.

On the Wilder Side-in Bangalore

Last weekend, Aranyam, Bangalore, hosted a three day film festival with documentaries covering a host of topics ranging from global climate change,species extinction,wild life preservation efforts. It was an amazing effort pulled off by a group of young, energetic,motivated wild life enthusiasts from the city. The films unanimously sounded dire warnings about the rampant human domination over the natural world, current fraility of our entire eco system, threatening its very survival and consequently our own future at the top of the species pyramid.

I have come away from this three day 'necessary' shock treatment with a sense of foreboding, heavy heart and a need to attempt a more pro-active role-to don an environmental cap. Accompanied with these more obvious responses, there has been an under current of unease and discomfort that I am only now coming to acknowledge. It seemed that the burden of these 'unsavoury' human activities were by and large firmly deposited at the doors of the lesser priviledged, marginalised populations of habitants more directly dependent on natural resources for survival and also more threatened by their depletion. Is it really their burden- that they dont poach, fell trees, clear habitats to eke out a meagre subsistence? or are the larger forces that have marginalised them by laying roads, blasting mines, submerging entire valleys by dam-ing waterways, and depleting resources done more damage?

Who are the benifitters of these human developments?? If the poachers along the Indian waterways smuggle thousands of tons of river turtles to Asian markets, then its the economically priviledged that consume the turtles at the other end -who drive this trade. The man at the bottom of the ladder might only make enough to barely feed his family.So, how come the 'poor' get appointed to safekeep our natural heritage? And what is the burden of the priviledged, educated, urbanised, resource consuming?

Another Blogger is Born

My birth into this bloggers' world has been hesitant, wary and full of doubts. I was assailed with doubts which had rough parallels to my entry into parenthood-is one more existence really necessary? and if so why? Parenting doubts were easily and brilliantly swept aside when my partner said "Leaving behind a good human being might be the most meaningful contribution we can make" causing us to hold hands and jump off the precipice of careless, carefree freedoms into a world of tenacious biological bonds, juggling priorities and responsibilities. Parenthood became the primary committment in fashioning all aspects of our lives including the country we chose to live in, the food we ate, friends we kept, places we wandered to.

My birthing into this bloggers' world is an individual endevour- a decision to single parent. I am both the birther and the born- and so I have to attempt to answer for myself- why another me? I am reminded of my previous reservations and fear when I have got sucked into the mindless, mindful, creative, banal, conscious, comatic,crazy, connected morass of articulations,intersecting streams, flows, bogs, oceans of typed words,kicking frantically, coming up for air and later wondering- what does this world mean? Now my own typed words make me a bonafide member of this parallel realism. I accept now that the 'other me' was always there-talking to myself--I am just leading her to a playground, as I once led my son, to meet,play and share with other kindred spirits, share common concerns and by sharing chart a course somewhat different, more coherent, conscious than that charted before.