A NEW CHILDHOOD

It was a typical Sunday morning that my mother, despite violent protest on my part, bundled me into a taxi to take me to an Ashram. The ashram is a facility where being taught meditation rehabilitates women and girls and other skills that help them overcome trauma. My mother was welcomed there with hugs, which she happily returned. I was not yet ready to be as open and loving as her. Bored, I looked around and saw three girls huddled in a corner, terrified. The oldest couldn't’t have been a day over 10. I then noticed a drunken man staggering, yelling profanities, and trying to forcibly take the girls away. The children shrieked in terror. My mother intervened. “They’re my brother’s children. Who are you to interfere?” yelled the man. The girls clung to my mother. I found myself rushing to them. I took them in my arms, leaving my mother to handle the uncouth man. The words ‘police’ and ‘jail’ were used. This sobered him down considerably and, within minutes, he was quite willing to part with his nieces for a few thousand rupees. My mother made him sign a bond surrendering his rights over the children to the ashram and told him in no uncertain terms where he would end up if was ever seen in the vicinity again.

As the afternoon progressed, I learned that the girls had seen their parents murdered in front of their eyes. Their uncle used to force them to do odd jobs and drank away the money they earned. This would have continued had the ashram not discovered them. On the drive back, I was pensive. Even in my wildest imagination I could not have conceived of such things happening to children of my age. My life was a complete contrast to theirs. Many lives were affected that day. Now, I go back to the ashram every Sunday and see the girls growing up. I also see my own life in a completely different light. I feel grateful for my childhood and the fact that I was allowed to have one. And I feel grateful if I can help gift something as precious as that to even one other child.   

LOST IN TRANSLATION

Lage Raho Munnabhai serves its purpose well if you see it for what Bollywood films are made i.e., for their entertainment value. However, it would be a pity if after seeing the film youth were to believe that Gandhian methods can bring quick results. In fact, the very emphasis on results is contrary to the true spirit of Gandhian values. As far as Gandhi was concerned, truth and non-violence were worthy ideals to be pursued irrespective of their outcome. One, therefore, hopes that the film would inspire people to look beyond Gandhigiri and delve deeper into Gandhian thought. This gives us an opportunity to examine the word Gandhigiri, which has caught the fancy of many and has been objected to by others. In the film the term has been used for the practice of Gandhian methods. However, strictly speaking, in Hindi the suffix girl has a pejorative connotation. Thus, you have chamchagiri (sycophancy), dadagiri (bullying), uthaigiri (stealing) etc.

To a Hindi-speaking person, therefore, the word Gandhigiri does not sound complimentary to the Mahatma. However, Bollywood Hindi is hardly known for its purity. Its more a khichri, whose main ingredient may be proper Hindi but which is richly flavored with other languages. In Gujarati for instances, the suffix girl is used both in a pejorative and non-pejorative and non-pejorative sense. For example, Gujarati word Kaamgiri simply means work or performance. That the term Gandhigiri has been coined by Abhijat Joshi, the dialogue and screenplay writer of the film who has lived in Ahmedabad, shows that the Gujarati influence has something to do with the coining of the new term. One person who would certainly have been cool to the term Gandhigiri is the Mahatma himself. For, in the very first paragraph of the Hindi translation of his autobiography, My Experiments with Truth, he used the word diwangiri to describe the profession of his ancestors. The word was perfectly in order in the original version of the book, which Gandhi wrote in Gujarati. The word has been retained in the Hindi translation even though its correct rendering in Hindi should have been diwani. That no one has objected to it shows that the translator meant well. And so it seems did Abhijat Joshi.

THE UNCOMMON CROW

It was a strange pecking order. An order that shattered long held notion about gentle pigeons, noisy crows and their countenance in general. Having had no opportunity earlier to watch pigeons closely, I was fascinated by their sheer numbers when they descended on my balcony in Mumbai one morning. Their cooing and chattering amused me as stood in front of the kitchen window. Hoping they would come back the next moring and every day after that, i began to put out loads of rice- leftovers that my dog made available. The crows came too – noisy as ever and often scolding me on days when i would delay putting out their meal. They waited at strategic points on the parapet, ready to swoop down on the bowl. I wasn’t sure if they were early risers or had just got into the habit of grabbing a quick bite before the dominating pigeons landed. As the messengers of love arrived with their domineering swagger, the crows obligingly stepped aside to let them have their fill.

And while the pigeons stepped aside to let them have their fill, lumps of rice onto the ground, the crows would shift and slide, making way for one latecomer among them- a single legged fellow. Though he was half a wing short, he was the only one who had the courage to goad the pigeons to make way. It was probably a similar act of bravery that cost him his looks. I saw in him what cartoonist R K Laxman had noted decades ago – a spark of intelligence and a strong survival instinct in his jet-black eyes. Eyes that reflected a quiet confidence in other creatures as well. Something that made him stand out in the murder of crows that surrounded me and my dog every day. And then one day my dog died. The bowl lay in the balcony as usual, but the winged friends didn’t turn up. Much later, the brave one put in an appearance and sat there in silence – for a long, long time. To me, it was as if he had come as a representative of the two warring parties, to bid farewell to his benefactor, before leaving for good.

MANALI MAGIC

Its summer time and most of us will be heading for the hills in quest of fresh air and relaxation. But most north Indian hill stations are fraught with irritants, the worst of which are local touts who materialize in hordes at entry points with the single-minded aim to fleece you. More often than not taxi drivers cheat you as well. But during a recent trip to Manali, my friends and I were blown away with the excellent organization there. It’s no exaggeration to state that Manali is a case study on how to manage a hill station in order to provide the one thing that a tourist seeks above all else – hassle-free enjoyment. As we drove into the town we were stopped at a barrier and my first thought was, ‘Oh no, not another tollgate’. But we were surprised to find that while we were charged Rs 200 as entry tax for the car, this fee also provided us free parking for a week in most areas of the town. We were also given a pamphlet containing a guide map of Manali, essential local telephone numbers and taxi fares for sightseeing at neighboring places. No room for confusion, no scope for cheating, sees? We were then requested to contact the local hoteliers’ association, whose office was conveniently located on the Mall, in case we required assistance in getting suitable accommodation.

Manali has much to offer: Breathtaking sights of snow-capped peaks; the gushing Beas river; hot springs at Vashisht; Manu and Hadimba temples; and plenty of shopping. Manali is also the favorite haunt of many a foreign tourist, particularly Israelis, who’ve made it a second home. Hence lafa, shaksuka and other Israeli cuisine are advertised at every second hotel. There’s Italian, German and Japanese food available, too. I can go on – about the famous Roerich Art Gallery, the beautiful Solang Valley, and, of course, Rohtang Pass. At over 13,000 feet, it is surprisingly reachable thanks to a fairly good road and, once more, I’m compelled to mention the efficient organization along the route. Vehicles move in convoys that leave Manali at designated time so as to regulate the flow of traffic. Tourism is the life-blood of nearly every hill station in India. This is a truth that Manali has taken to heart; others would do well to follow her example.

HOLI REMINISCENCE

Hailing from a Garhwali village, where we still have our old family haveli, with a beautiful temple dedicated to Radha-Krishna, it was only natural that Holi was to be the festival of choice for the entire clan. At our grandparents’ home, preparations for the great day began weeks in advance. Colossal amounts of tesu flowers would arrive to be boiled in massive brass cauldrons for hours on end. The vermilion-colored water was used to play Holi. Of course gulal (dry color), in myriad hues would also be purchased to smear each other’s faces with, but made of wheat flour, it did no harm to the skin unlike the hazardous chemical stuff which is rife today. Armed with massive pichkaris and pails of colored water, we would patiently wait for an appropriate target. If a gentleman with a starched white kurta and dhoti passed by, our delight at besmirching his pristine attire, with a mélange of crimson and orange, knew no bounds. If he fumed and fulminated, brandishing his stick, our joy was multifold. We would scamper away at lightening speed to raucous screams of Holi hai! Complaints to our elders in the family would fall on deaf ears. Be a sport, the harried complainant would be told. Surely you can’t take umbrage at innocent little Bal-gopals, indulging in a bit of frolic and that too during the Holi season?

A few hours and several pails of colored water later, we would raid the kitchen for various sweets. Gujiyas, stuffed with khoya and an assortment of fried fruit were the perennial favorite. Washed sown with fragrant thandai, minus the bhang of course, it was the end of an idyllic afternoon. As for bhang, it was de rigueur for all the disparate reactions on different people. Some became wildly merry, yet otters turned philosophical, spouting forth pearls of wisdom. My uncle usually lapsed into a very deep sleep. Fifteen years down the line, Holi’s association with lumpen behaviors makes it our most dreaded festival. Refusing to hobnob with the bands of merrymakers, i lock myself at home, catch up on the latest blockbuster on the DVD and hope to goodness we are not disturbed.

YOUNG SHOPAHOLICS

Across the country, malls are changing retail landscapes and lifestyles. As marketers tell us, you don’t buy a product in a mall, you buy an experience. Combining shopping in air-conditioned comfort, entertainment, coffee bars, multiplexes, play areas for children, gaming and food courts, they have created a new breed: malls rats. They are also changing spending habits, consumption patterns and leisure time and laying the foundation for the organized retail industry to reach a projected Rs 1,00,000 crore from its current status as a Rs 35,000 crore industry. Thanks to the entertainment options available, mall crawling has become the favorite activity of well-heeled urbanites.

It hasn’t been all smooth sailing. Some malls have had to switch strategy, realizing that footfalls don’t necessarily translate into fortunes. Moreover, India is in an early stage of retail development. Organised retailing accounts for less than 5 percent of the market. High real-estate price mean that malls have to command heavy volumes or fat margins to break even. Yet, there is no denying that malls are taking over from traditional high streets as the places to shop-and also to be seen.

Malls are the new destination. In fact, the Great Indian Middle Class is now referred to as the Great Indian Mall Class.