Travel diary 2

“ Less than three hours from Mumbai and its plutocrats and boasters, this was the India of the hut, the cow dung fire, the bean field, the buffalo, the ox cart and the bicycle of debt and drought and death..” Paul Theroux- Ghost train to Eastern Star

Each year, my summer vacation starts and ends in a retreat of sorts- spending almost 2 days ensconced in a metal capsule tearing through the fabric of India… the route has been different, the beauty of landscape- each unique from the other but what amazes me is that the India I know of and boast about is hardly the true India that I see …

Each year we are coaxed, cajoled and ultimately anointed with words and promises by our leaders- the so called people’s man who screams and shouts and paints a glorified India… and we bray and scream and shout in return in that reflected glory…  giving examples of how so and so NRI is now head of so and so company, how some other country’s parliament and senate is getting filled with Indians...  and we go to sleep… happy in our two bedroom with AC above a small garage with a small car home… happy that our leader has promised a better day tomorrow. So what that its only for me..  a small section of the people who make up India..  the rest...  well the rest is still walking…  mocking and defying this mad rush towards self-gratification that has begun to hypnotize and devour India. They are the ones who make my India great. They do not make you forget them… they are there... right at the horizon…  spread in tarpaulin covered hutments next to huge gated communities with manicured gardens looking like a high society candy wife.

Another sleepy station passes by… the platforms are empty under the high noon. A few wait on the cement benches under the asbestos shade. They have that posture of eternal wait… as if the bench itself was carved around them… their eyes vacant, lost in thought. It looks to me that they are born waiting… waiting for a better tomorrow. As if they have lost hope in today… and so it is to be chugged out like the train through a tunnel; trudged along so that tomorrow comes early. A few vendors have made it to the AC compartment selling juice and cold drinks. Each one has a unique voice … akin to the rainforest mating calls… juss le lo.. juss.. paani butol.. paani butol… isccee.. isscee… expectant and timid.

Evening creeps into the compartment. A junction… the train stops here for some time… a fellow passenger occupies the berth opposite me. There’s a briefcase which he diligently locks up with a chain and padlock. He looks up at me, dismisses at one glance and settles down with a newspaper. He is soon joined by another. The two work for a medical company in high post… soon a few young men come to say hello. The two middle aged persons ask for water, biscuits and chai. The young men are diffident. Their eyes tell me the same story of eternal wait- wait for a promotion… a good word… some inside tip to make the bosses happy to get that corner office; they are the living, breathing advertisements of that flashy… German silver kind of modern India.

From time to time, each one tries to gauge me, wondering whether I am  married …  do I have children… is my husband going to come… the surreptitious look at my fingers, neck and forehead tells me that. I do not have the black beaded chain or the vermillion or the ring to mark me as an already possessed property. I peek out of the window… the farmers are returning from the fields… herding the cattle. Each one’s cattle has a different colour as a mark to show whose property they are. The wife walks behind… with 3 huge jars of water on her head… above the vermillion marked forehead and beaded black chain. 

The two men are arguing—some news in the paper has upset one of them…I lose interest as it is again that story about reflected glory… whether demonetization has helped or not. One boasts how he has helped the driver… the other not to be outdone, talks about how the maids were given full salary even under constraint. Both optimistic that their huge sacrifices will bring in a stronger economy…but they fall silent soon and gaze out of the window lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly the silence is broken by a popular Hindi song… it’s the mobile phone of one man ringing. The wife has called to know whether he is comfortable and then some inane talk. I hear instructions of what to do with the five thousand left in the bedroom drawer… who gets what… no meat or eggs to be bought till he comes back. He ends the call and settles down to have his lunch made at home. Thus spoke the patriarch running his workers, home, providing for everyone… the old Zaminder like aura around him. The other strikes up a conversation with me… where am I going? From where? What about my dinner? He has a niece of my age working in Bangalore… the new tinsel town of middle class dreams… filled with PG accommodations of young men and women who more than the job, value their freedom to enjoy their youth away from the middle class prejudices and rules… the lure of sex, alcohol and freedom… a delusional life glorifying India. I smile. Then the inevitable… am I married? At my answer, the usual advice- marriage brings stability, there is someone to take care of me when sick etc. How his niece had to be brought home due to a sudden appendectomy… how the parents forced her not to return without marrying. This is again what I like about my India, advice and the territory of wisdom that inevitably comes with age… so I relent and make myself look interested to indulge him. He continues… working is good… every girl should work… what use is education if you cannot work. How he, the uncle has arranged a wonderful match for the said niece.  I ask timidly what she does now. A big smile… he shows me some photos in his mobile…the girl… with huge vermillion mark on the forehead holding a baby… and the same vacant look of expectation for a tomorrow. She delivered a healthy boy last week… all is good… she has a caring husband… there are two maids working for her. The husband has great prospect, he will leave for Germany at the year end.

Night has fallen outside. The train moves… wobbling and rolling like a toddler through the fields and vast expanse of rural India. Specks of light flashes by… a completely dark field passes by with silhouettes of hills… a large billboard with the advertisement about the latest programme of the government… all level crossings to be electronically operated across India at a huge expense with a happy couple from rural India smiling out towards the darkened fields and me.

I like the nights in the train… especially on full moon nights… a surreal and ethereal feeling of being one with the universe. But this time it is during the new moon phase… there is a tiny crescent moon at the horizon. It is amazing how some events make you see the everyday mundane things in new light. I have found out that I have started to dislike that crescent shape… too many memories and conjectures around it. This moon reminds me of the weak thread holding up India… a lofty ideal of solidarity and friendship that is proved to be as frail as the train I am travelling in. The rail roads of India is a legacy of British… many of the tracks are too old to carry the teeming growth of population. Each year we are promised everything better including state of the art rail service. It is the most coveted portfolio of the ministry just like the post of director in a little known company  in some far corner of India. It is all powerful cesspool of corruption. But we Indians are never short on praising nor are we short in giving advice. We are the modern day reminder of Gaelic people that Wordsworth spoke about. We are fascinating in our survival- an ancient culture with all its prejudices, myths, and superstitions in the face of the chugging metal mammoth of Modernity and Capitalist values.

As the lights dim and this tiny slice of India settles down for the night, I open the curtain and look up at the sky. Clouds have moved now, the sky is speckled with stars, smiling down. I know that if anyone would care to take my photo now, I too would have that look of expectation, dreams and of a tomorrow that is rose tinted. Till then lets rock and tumble and whistle through this fabric woven with dreams, tears and passion that I call my India.

Nationalism- Ver. 20.16

For the past few weeks, my Facebook page is flooded with all kinds of articles and news clips and quotes. I have shared a few as well, which I found appropriate. Being a Theory of Knowledge teacher, I could not but think what prompted me to select a few articles and share while leaving the rest to become ghosts in my own personal digital history?

The issues that are being considered from all fronts remain the same which have piqued the interest of philosophers- What is meant by nationalism, patriotism, democracy, secularism etc and above all the liberty of us in the supposedly largest democracy of the world

Needless to say, that the concept of every modern state rest on these ideals.However, the recent academic outrage and the common man’s divided opinion leads me to try to understand these ideals in relation to recent scenario unfolding in India.

In 1947, gaining independence seemed easy compared to the perils that the new nation faced- partition,  communal riots and massacre, a war at the front, death of a revered visionary leader and a government at the helm who had spent most of their pre-independence days in jail or under house arrest. Nevertheless, we had the plan laid out in front of us- with over 170 million poor the plan laid out depended heavily on industry instead of agriculture and irrigation. In the second five year plan, the focus shifted to industries with massive import. No doubt, the price rose by 30%. And then onward, it has been a careful tap dance by each successive government. The first government had already sworn its allegiance to certain group of people- the upcoming industrialists and a retinue of middlemen.

Over the successive policies and systems and numerous plans in place, the state of the nation’s health remains same –Massive number of malnourished, hungry, uneducated, unskilled young population. The new government at the helm has already revamped and put forth 55 policies and schemes of entitlements or "yojona"- eager as a child to show how different and lovable they are from the old one.From the very beginning instead of listening to Gandhi whom the politicians conveniently called Bapu, the strengthening of clerical education continued with emphasis on Universities than primary schools. IITs were set up but not many primary schools opened. Hence the disparities grew- between rich and poor, between employed and unemployed, between marginalized and the mainstream upper castes. Scientific education was and still is limited to only a few. When resentment grew, politicians knew how to appease the masses because they had taken their lesson from history – from the best people actually- so divide and rule followed. Instead of secular policies, the various policies of appeasement was started and is still continuing. Where else on earth would you find a secular government paying money for the marriage of Muslim girls instead of paying for their education. This is the story of secularism in India.

The idea and the state sanctified version of nationalism is closely tied with this policy of deception followed even from Pre-independence days. Tokenism was the rule of the hour- so starting from Gandhi in South Africa- the Dalits , the Muslims were accepted as  a mere tool to gain power vis a vis independence.  In the entire history of Indian National Congress in its 130 years of existence, we find just a handful of Muslim and Dalit names. A country or a party evolves through experiences just like an individual. Hence Congress is always afraid of a rerun of events leading to Poona Pact. Thus, instead of eradicating this menace to civilization once and for all, it continues to treat the issue as a situational skirmish and individual resentments. And when the appeasement fails, comes the rhetoric that have made them almost the owner of Indian freedom struggle- the idea of patriotism and nationalism. So Bapu is called upon again and the ghost of the great statesman saves the sycophancy from total annihilation.

For a country like India, with 22 scheduled languages, diverse customs, a straight-jacketed idea of nationalism as that of Ireland or Italy or Germany would be difficult to fathom, let alone work. Our idea of nationalism is as diverse as the land we live in.

Borrowing from Tagore, here is one idea of nationalism- “Patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter; my refuge is humanity. I will not buy glass for the price of diamonds, and I will never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as I live. ”And at the other spectrum of the idea is the belief of Netaji Subhash Chandra- “Nationalism is inspired by the highest ideals of the human race, the truth, the God, the beautiful.”

The political nationalism of Netaji that is flaunted so much nowadays is a borrowed concept from the West; born of war, guilt and millions of death and destruction. Modern India is still a land as ancient as the civilizations of the world, born at a time when the West did not exist. The customs, the philosophy born from this ancient land is quite different. Here the society gives rise to kings and government and not the other way round. The idea itself is a failed concept that has already caused numerous fragmentation of the land on the basis of language, people of Telengana being the last victims.  The tribals, the marginalised people, the upper castes, the states with their languages- each has their own brand of nationalism where the loyalty and priority shifts with time and situation.

When it is convenient, go for regional autonomy, otherwise, talk about national unity. So whenever there is an exchange of fire at the border, suddenly we are reminded of our sacred duty to defend our land. At all other times, we are happy to see our caste, our language, our region prosper at the cost of social, secular interests of the country as a nation.

 It is so amazing that what Tagore said a hundred years ago still holds true-“Yes, this is the logic of the Nation. And it will never heed the voice of truth and goodness.It will go on in its ring-dance of moral corruption, linking steel unto steel, and machine unto machine; trampling under its tread all the sweet flowers of simple faith and the living ideals of man.” 

It is time that we upheld that simple faith and the living ideals of man and not this profound and all engulfing hatred called as Nationalism.

Celebrating Wrath and Death

Daily struggle

Sunderbans- if you google it, you will come across the words like mangrove and largest delta. These words however, hardly captures the essence of the place. Sunderban is 45 kms from Kolkata and in just 2 hours you can reach the outskirts. You will be greeted by people who look quite similar to you and me- wearing Bata sandals, jeans, salwar kameezes and going about their way of life. If you ask, they will tell you which shop sells authentic wild honey; which shop to go to for the Gur Patali. A wide bridge now connects the islands with Kolkata and you are happy still to be part of civilization. Mobile tower is there for you to stay connected. You will be told by the tour operators to wake up early; hot water will be given for your morning chores and then you can set off for a visit to the forest on a launch. Everything is as it should be. It is winter, as you can see, best time to visit Sunderban.

Hope of surviving

 When you are happily ensconced in the warmth of the morning tea and bath, women are already out and knee deep in the icy waters of the backwaters or the “Khari”. They will stay there till the sun is up and it gets little warm. Their feet is turned white for staying so long in the saline water everyday- they are collecting the meen- baby prawns. For every bucket they will get only 25 rupees. If they try to cheat, their contract will be taken away by the Bheri wallahs. Most men by now are far away from the shores catching fish. They have to come back and sell their produce at the whole sale market by 12 so that they reach Kolkata markets by evening so that you and I can buy them on the way returning from our offices.

Boards have been put up at many parts of the forest- It is now illegal to collect honey or timber from these areas. The government is taking all measures to protect the national animal. You will be entertained by the stories of women who have survived an attack by the tiger- how only with a sickle they fought back and took out an eye or a paw off from the tiger. How a tiger can cross a mouth of seven rivers locally called “Saptamukhi” and take away cattle. How a tiger tracks the honey collectors for several kilometeres to target the weakest among the men and wait for the opportunity to pounce on him.

In the meantime unknown to you, people are struggling to raise even one crop of paddy. Post Aila half of the soil has become saline. So the yield is low and unlike other areas where flood is a harbinger of productivity, here people have started to dread the floods as more flood mean more salinity. The fresh water ponds used to raise the fish have been destroyed by Aila so that livelihood is also snatched away.

It comes to you as a very exotic tribal ritual when the front of the launch is painted red and a few flowers and agarbatti offered everyday by the head “Majhi”. You take photos of this ritual to show how you have been part of this exotic ritual.. maybe even recite the “Bonbibipaaala” in your drawing room next Saturday.

However, if you can take one step back in time, you will see how relevant this legend still is. How and why it is an enduring tale still recited by the people of Sunderbans- How they relate to “Dukhi” – the epitome of sorrow and how miraculously he is saved by Bonbibi. You will see that people of sunderban need to believe in this story, more now than ever before because they all wish the same- survive in the face of fierce wrath of nature compounded by power hungry bureaucrats and “shohure- babu”- those city people who draw up the policies without visiting them even once.

Here is a glimpse of that play. One of the Majhis in the play had been a school master. He lost his job when the school was destroyed by Aila. Then he was given the job of a tourist guide. He took up the job happily believing that now he would have some security. Unfortunately, the policy makers decided that such people deserve a blue uniform and an Identity card- that’s all. Whatever money they earn from the day is for theirs to keep but not to expect any allowance or pension- very magnanimous indeed- they gave him a job.

We are called for dinner by the tour operators. It is the last night in Sunderban. Tomorrow by evening I shall be home. The Paala wallahs are picking up their little props and costumes and putting it back in a large tin trunk. The care with which they fold each garment is the only testimony of their plight- that one trunk is their hope of survival- soon the tourist season will be over. However cold the nights are, however far they are from their homes, they will trudge on reciting their " Bonbibi Paala" for us..They will survive another year. Only Bonbibi knows what will happen next year... she will take care of them. If not, then also it would be according to what is written already - their fate.                       

The Journey Itself is Home

It’s December. The last holiday of the year. This time instead of flying, I am going home by train. It is a 27 hours’ journey. I shall cross three states and five large rivers. Everybody wonders whether I am a fool when I say that I willingly submit to this sheer wastage of time.

But this journey is important to me. For 27 hours, I stay in a time capsule. Minimum contact with the outside world- the cocoon of steel and iron all around and the dull, monotonous sound of the wheels. It is almost like a retreat for me- a time forced to reflect, to introspect on a year gone by. Somehow, this solitude makes me closer to myself. I finish a book, listen to songs and go through the old photographs in my laptop….

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It is such a wonder to look at the world through the looking glass- farmers going about their everyday chores in the fields, children walking to schools, waving to strangers, watching the sleepy cities roll past the window; little homes decked in light to usher Son of God, a bright red star on the roof, ghost platforms and abandoned cabins and the far-off highway lights.  And when you lie down, the stars and the moon follows you like a companion to your soul.

I love such long journeys. It is a blessing that I can love my own company.  It teaches me about patience, anticipation and most importantly, enjoy the moments of the panorama called life.

El Dorado of Mexico soon becoming an Environment Holocaust site

There is a small town called Guerrero in Mexico. Nobody had heard of it until a few weeks ago. Now it is an epicentre of a war between environment, livelihoods of people, a sold out government and multinationals. The northern territories of Mexico is fast becoming the El Dorado due to its huge shale gas reserves.

 Back in December of 2013, the Pena Nieto government opened up auction of its oil and shale gas reserves and MNCs like Shell and ExxonMobil rushed in to make deals with the State owned PEMEX for drilling and extraction of these gas reserves.

The most common method to extract the gas is fracking which is filled with dangers of fire and even earthquakes. The process involves a mixture of water sand and chemicals pumped through the drilling wells at high pressure. This forces the natural gas to be forced out from the pores in the shale bed. The gas then turns to the surface via the wells.

(image courtesy- the Guardian)

Needless to say that the danger of contamination of ground water and soil is very high although oil companies vehemently deny it. The biggest enemy of environment is poverty. The towns in Mexico and the ranching villages are soon becoming deserted. The people are blackmailed or forced to either sell their land or become unwilling partners to the oil companies. Already stories of environmental degradation and damages are surfacing-

The oil spill in Tierra Blanca in Veracruz contaminated part of Hondo River, turning the water to blood red. This is no isolated event, just another one in the timeline after the Sonora oil spill and the 40,000 barrel San Juan oil spill. Since the northern Mexico towns were predominantly poor, people there hardly earn 300 to 400 pesos. The offer of one million pesos is too lucrative to them. The towns are thus bought off and turned to these fracking well monstrosity.

Mexico has a long history of organized crime. These northern territories come under the Zeta country- run by organised crime cartels. Pemex, the state owned Oil Corporation has already run into losses due to the theft of oil and gas from the pipelines by such cartels. The government has recently seen its worst crisis when 43 students were abducted and feared killed by such a crime organization. Although the engineers and workers of the MNCs are protected, there is hardly any protection offered by the weak police force to the villagers. In 2012, headless torsos of 43 men and women were found in the northern border town of Monterrey killed by the rival crime cartel of “El Chapo” Guzman who is recently in the news for escaping from a Mexican prison. Many have been forced to leave their land and move to the cities adding to the burgeoning water and land crisis there.  

Unless the government becomes strong both financially and politically, Mexico is soon going to face a “ Environmental holocaust.”

Blooms of Freedom

Away from the prying eyes,
At the turn of a road
I stand timidly, waiting.
freedom's breeze e'en then
seldom touches my flowers,
Plenty and yellow... yet sacrificial.
I stand alone, trying to defy.
One sultry evening
Benevolent sky broke
Born from  my timid wishes
They left me naked, left me bereft.

Now, after slumber days of mellow summer
I stand tall,ushering the unknown,
Dreams of my soul-
Nodding and welcoming, my yellow blossoms. 

My first word cloud

A new year is just around the corner. I take pride in being part of the community of dynamic movers and shakers, the unsung heroes of the world- the teaching fraternity. Last night, as I was looking back on what I had achieved this year, all I could see were a few faces- a shy one, a mischievous one, a sad one, a troubled one and so on. All these lives have meant something to me. They have transformed a bit of me.
I remember a girl who loves to read. she used to sneak a book inside her desk during the evening preparatory time. I often ignored her. I knew she was not good in many subjects but I never had a heart to tell her to close that wonderful imaginary world of dragons and start studying. Maybe, her grades have not improved. Still, she finished big, fat and thick books..
And then there was one student of mine who would not study at all unless he sat with me. And more often than not studying turned to chatting about dogs, turtles, snakes and rocks...
Here is my first word cloud that I learnt to make. The words in this cloud says all about what my students have achieved or are in the process of achieving, if not today then tomorrow surely.