IT’S ALL GREEK TO ME, AND I WOULDN’T HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY!

I have always liked anything to do with Greece since I was very young. I've had a special fascination for Greek mythology and ancient architecture. So obviously, I have always wanted to go there and always wanted to see the Parthenon first hand, and always wanted to be at the Minoan palace in Crete…and finally, in 2009, those dreams, and many more, were realized and I feel somewhat fulfilled. Now I can dream other dreams...

In this edition, let me describe Athens, the capital. Athens is a modern city with a past that probably stretches further back into time than any other city on earth. Once an ancient Greek city state, Athens is a paradox in itself, an amazing blend of old and new, of modern character and ancient architecture.

Walking down a street in Athens one may find an ultramodern office building and an ancient Greek edifice side by side. The city is littered with some of the finest examples of pre-Roman and Roman architecture in the world.

Athens is one of the finest cities that I have visited in the sense that it has an incredible amount of sights and also a very sound public transport facility, mainly comprising of busses, electric busses (trams), and a very efficient metro system. It was very easy for us to get from point A to point B in a very small period of time and this is a very important quality for a city to possess.

Finally, we come to the sights of Athens. The sights…wow! Athens was like my paradise incarnate, with ancient architecture galore and a fantastic treasure waiting on every street corner. The Parthenon, Hadrian’s arch, the temple of Zeus, the many shrines in Monastraiki, the other monuments lining the road up the Acropolis; along with the more modern attractions like the stadium for the first modern Olympics, the stadium for the recent Athens Olympics, Syntagma square, the markets in Monastraiki and Plaka, Lycabatus hill and many more.

It boggles the mind that there can be so many things to see in one city, so many things to do in one locality. No amount of time seems anywhere close to enough but we only had a week, and a very short week it seemed indeed. Every day was a whirlwind of activity, one day spent at the Parthenon and on the Acropolis; two in Monastraiki; one in Syntagma and the temple of Zeus; one in Hadrian’s arch and in going up Lycabatus hill (the highest point in Athens, offering a breathtaking panorama of the city). Whew! It seems tiring just writing about it but the time seemed to go so fast.
The ancient Greek architecture is seriously one of the most beautiful things I will ever behold-- Tall, strong, yet delicate pillars; perfectly balanced arches; incredible finesse; lifelike, remarkably accurate sculpture; the amazingly astute engineering…all together a perfect blend of design, precision and style.

Staring at these works of art you wonder how, two thousand years ago, people had managed to build such projects, and whether, even today, we would be able to match their achievements. Their architecture was, is, their legacy, and the fact that I just had to add an ‘if’ is a testament to the engineering prowess of the ancient Greeks. Their architecture is how we define them as a civilization today; their architecture is what makes them one of the most advanced civilizations the world has ever seen. What a heritage the people of Greece are lucky to have! What an amazing legacy to leave behind!

One cannot help but imagine what we, as another civilization, will leave behind when we are gone. What structures of our own creation shall stand while our bones rot and remind our ancestors of our time on earth. Whatever the answer, we can merely hope that it may be half as breathtaking as what I saw in Athens.

Text and pictures: Arjan Banerjee

Rediscovery

The last 2 years have been strange. After years (decades!) of losing total touch, old school friends have been returning to my life in ones and twos. First there were a few drops, then a trickle and now that we're all on Facebook, there's a veritable deluge!

I'm glad. I like the women we've become, each one of us. As Indrani put it, "I like where I'm at right now." Anjali, Promita, Indrani, Nila, Anuradha, Minakshi, Gargi, Sucharita, Sunrita, Mousumi, Sayantani: meeting you all after all these years, I like where you're at and I'm happy we met again at a time when we're all comfortable with who we are and what we're becoming.

Sumedha, Sunita, Shyamashree, you who've grown with me over the years, we're ageing well, aren't we?
Rama, Smita, Sumita, Roma, Seema, Rupa...and all those I'm in touch with virtually but am yet to meet in real time: I'm really looking forward to getting to actually knowing you all once again.
I think we'll make better friends this time around.

Cheers to a formiddable group of women!

Purpling

A friend pointed me out to this fantastic poem that said..(and I excerpt):

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me...

...I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens . . .

. . .But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple


The other day I met people from years ago at an informal reunion of old school friends. The last time we'd seen each other, we were still in pigtails and uniforms and just months past the braces and giggles.

Indrani reminded us more than once of occasions that involved what she called my "brashness" and "spontaneity" but meant my erstwhile propensity to relentlessly and loudly stomp where no one had stumbled before. I used to have chronic foot-in-the-mouth disease in my tom-boy days!

And yet, as I have grown up, I have miraculously managed to make a career as a communication professional! I have to admit, though, that as I have grown more responsible, more correct, more political, more restrained, more stable, I have grown less honest to my "self."

Thanks for the inspiration, Jenny Joseph. You would've enjoyed the giggles if you'd seen the silliness at Cafe Coffee Day on Ballygunje Circular Road that afternoon.

The Wise Indian Chief Seattle Speaks

In 1854, when “the great White Chief in Washington” offered to buy the land from the Indians, Chief Seattle, leader of the Suquamish and other Indian tribes around Washington's Puget Sound, delivered what is considered to be one of the most beautiful and profound environmental statements ever made.

The city of Seattle is named for the chief, whose speech was in response to a proposed treaty under which the Indians were persuaded to sell two million acres of land for $150,000.

"How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us.
If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?

Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man.

The white man’s dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red man. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and man — all belong to the same family.

So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief sends word he will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children. So we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us.

This shining water moves in the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water’s murmur is the voice of my father’s father.

The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes, and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that the rivers are our brothers, and yours and you must henceforth give the kindness you would give any brother.

We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on.

He leaves his father’s graves behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children. His father’s grave and his children’s birthright are forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, the sky, as things to be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert.

I do not know. Our ways are different from your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand.

There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring, or the rustle of an insect’s wings. But perhaps it is because I am a savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night?

I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond, and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with the pinon pine.

The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath — the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench.

But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives the last sigh. And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred as a place where even the white man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow’s flowers.

So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept, I will make one condition.

The white man must treat the beasts of this land as his brothers.

I am a savage and I do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and I do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive.

What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts soon happens to man. All things are connected.

You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will respect the land. Tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.

This we know: The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth.
This we know: All things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected.

Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life: he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web he does to himself.

Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see.

One thing we know, which the white man may one day discover — our God is the same God. You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our land; but you cannot. He is the God of man, and His compassion is equal for the red man and the white. This earth is precious to Him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its Creator.

The white too shall pass; perhaps sooner than all other tribes. Contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.

But in your perishing you will shine brightly, fired by the strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over this land and over the red man.

That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when the wild buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires.

Where is the thicket? Gone.
Where is the eagle? Gone.
The end of living and the beginning of survival."

For more about Chief Seattle, click here

Image from: eaglewings.blog.ca/.../23/chief_seattle~2147461/

Turkey Travelogue: Cappadocia

At the end of our 2-week Turkey trip, we reached the beautiful central-Turkish area of Cappadocia. We took a late morning flight from Izmir to Nevsehir (more on Selcuk, Ephesus and Kusadasi later..). From Nevsehir we took a shuttle to Goreme which was about 80km away.

On the way we watched in amazement as the landscape changed from almost desert-flat to hilly and then finally to the famous fairy chimneys. They were like nothing I’d seen before. They were huge hollow rock-like huts made by volcanoes and wind erosion--ready-made rock witch's hat topped hollows that people could actually make their homes! I was amazed at their height. The fairy chimneys are Nature's own apartment buildings for hunter-gatherers!

The shuttle raced a hundred miles or so dropping people to other destinations before we reached our hotel which was called Anatolia Cave Pensions. The owner of our heritage cave palace was an ever-smiling man called Bekir Okur.

Our rooms were actually caves with entrances that we had to bend ourselves double to get into! This felt really strange--even more so, because our hotel room made of all modern amenities and comforts boasted of rocky, uneven walls and floors. The best thing about the cave room, however, was that it had natural air conditioning. The temperature outside was around 28-30 degrees, but in the room the temperature went down into the single digits and we had to use comforters. And all this without leaving a carbon imprint on the universe.

On our first day we visited the Goreme Open Air Museum. The Museum contains the finest rock-cut churches in the Cappadocia region with beautiful frescoes whose colours still retain their original freshness. The museum also has unique examples of rock hewn architecture. As everything else in Cappadocia, it was a memorable experience. The next day we went on a full day “green” tour which took us to Mustafapasa (an old Greek village in central Turkey), Cemil (a Greek-Orthodox Church), Kelsik Monastry, Soganli Valley (a 3km trek down a ravine and along a river-bank), Kaymakli Underground City and an Onyx Factory. All these places were exceptional and I enjoyed myself thoroughly, even though I was drained by the end of the day. My favorite places were of course the Underground City, the trek and the Kelsik Monastery.

The monastery was built in a chain of fairy chimneys. There weren’t any real steps, so we had to climb the whole way to the top. The journey was tiring, but when we got to the top, it was worth every sweat we broke. The view from the top was just breathtaking. The monastery was fascinating. There were intricate carvings on the rocks, which added to the beauty of the place.

The best part of the whole trip was the Underground City. Kaymakli Underground City is one of the many underground cities in Cappadocia, the biggest being Derinkuyu Underground City. These underground cities were originally built to hide from the attack of wild animals and hard winter conditions. Later though, the cities were enlarged to accommodate large numbers of Christians who were trying to escape persecution byRoman soldiers.

Kaymakli Underground City had 12 floors built underground, the first being a floor filled with stables. This was actually a very clever cover up since stables were generally built slightly underground in those days. Therefore, if any Roman happened to stumble across an opening to the city, all they would find was a stable, which was pretty normal. The underground city had everything ranging from a winery to a church to classrooms to a monastery and sleeping quarters.

They were well protected in the cities and could live underground for 6 months at a stretch. Endless, low and winding, maze-like tunnels went up and down the levels of the underground city. Sometimes, these tunnels would have rough steps hewn into them, sometimes not. Some of these tunnels were so tight and low that we had to almost crouch with our elbows and knees inwards and stay in that position as we crawled for minutes at a stretch. My old vertebrae were certainly not happy with me by the end of the tour!

Our last night in Cappadocia came too soon and to make it more special, we decided to go for the Turkish Night which was in a hotel in Ugrup, a half hour's drive from Goreme. The night began with a traditional, ritual ceremony by the famous Whirling Dervish. After that there were a number of native dances including a mock Turkish wedding with delicious all-we-could-eat-and-drink through the entire evening. The finale of the evening was an incredible belly-dancing performance. The night ended reluctantly with all of us dancing around a bonfire.
Turkey is an enchanting place filled with friendly and generous people and that made the trip even more enjoyable! My trip to Turkey has been one of the most memorable holidays of my life, and one I'll surely be writing more about in posts to come.

Text: Srishti Banerjee

Pictures: Arjan Banerjee

THREE DAYS IN MAMMALAPURAM

Once the decision is made, the excitement begins. We start poring over maps and books; we begin visiting travel sites on the net; we call travel agents and ask friends about places to stay; we wait impatiently for the 60-day countdown so we can book our train tickets. And finally, the bags are packed amidst much screaming and “helping” by the children. We double-check the taps, unplug everything, switch off and lock up. Already hyperactive, the children go into overdrive as soon as the infectious bustle of Howrah Station hits their senses...

So, we go "koo-chuk-chuk" on board the Coromandal Express with our two kids, age four and three! Once on the train, the tantrums, boredom and demands for endless activity come in tune with the rhythms of the train tracks. And all through the long chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk we:
Eat and cry
Sleep and play
Play and cry
Sleep and eat
Eat and drink
Fight and sing
Xmas songs in October
Until Chennai Central

DAY 1 -- LATE AFTERNOON
Heads still swaying to the rail-time beat, we haul our luggage on a trolley and push, push, push, fighting and sulking about who gets more pushes and who shoves who most. Arbitrating arbitrarily, we have barely time to register the organised efficiency and cleanliness of Chennai Central. We who are used to the chaos of Howrah Station are disoriented by the lined up trolleys and disciplined crowds. And where are the beggars, the filth, the rotting odours? I shake my head as we walk without mishap to the taxi stand.

Our resort is in Muttukadu, about 30 odd kilometers from Chennai on the road to Mammallapuram, a.k.a. Mahabalipuram. When we find it, we are pleasantly surprised at the charming, low-slung, palm-lined huts almost hugging the sea. Each palm tree has a number on it, but the numbers are neither logical not sequential. Tree 23, for instance, stands in a huddle with trees 46, 152 and 7. Immediately, Sanjib makes the kids run around the whole resort to hunt for trees with numbers he calls out.

It is not long, however, before the children lose interest in the tree game and begin hopping and whining to get into the wading pool immediately.

I want to go out too. I can’t wait to greet the sea!

Hello, Sea—
on my tongue
in my nose
on my skin
in my eyes
on my toes
my ankles,
my calves...

It is an emotional, spiritual, ritual, religious moment; a re-joining of a fundamental umbilical cord; an epiphany of sorts each time I meet the sea. I wade and wallow and soothe my city-sore eyes. I rock myself to the rhythm of the waves and commune with my ultimate mother. The communing stops when “Baba” can’t hold the children away from me anymore.

After quick cold showers we have dinner on a wooden terrace-restaurant that hangs over the beach with the sea practically lapping white phosphorescent froth under us. It smells so fresh up there with the stiff, sea- breeze whipping through our hair. As we wait for the food to come, I teach the kids to hold out their tongues to the breeze until they can taste the salt. We must’ve looked rude to the other diners, but I didn’t care and the kids loved it!

DAY 2—MORNING

The kids are digging sand and scavenging shells with the intensity and fervour of conducting important research. I suddenly find my daughter poking at a frightened sand crab who is trying desperately to scuttle horizontally away from her into his hole. I rush to save him and tell the kids a story about a shy little crab who got hurt by a child. I know my son the serious, sensitive crusader will never let his sister poke another crab now. Satisfied, I return to the waves that beckon me.

The children make a big mess as they wash the sand off the shells and sand the bathroom in the process. Finally, after the children, the shells, the clothes and the bathroom are cleaned, my husband is too exhausted to do anything but laze at the pool.
…..

We brunch with the blues—
above, a clear turquoise
lower, a band of soft, fluffed up powder
lower still, an indigo horizon,
then miles of rich Prussian coming towards us before turning into a muddy, sandy, marshy almost-green the last few yards.
From the horizon, on the Prussian, little white wave-heads play, bobbing up and down, turning little cartwheels as they swim to the shore holding hands, putting their heads together as they rush in—“and we all fall down.”

Sunkissed, sun-lazed, my children take a short power-nap as the air-conditioner drones. I want to read a book but my eyes mutiny.

DAY 2—LATE MORNING

We drive down the road towards Mammallapuram to a board that reads Dolphin Park. We stop curiously only to hear that three dolphins were killed just six months after they were imported many years ago because they couldn’t adjust to the temperatures. My temperature is rising to boiling anger as we are told that they now have sea lions who put up an hour long show at Rs 150 a head, and the video camera would be Rs 200 extra. My husband tugs me away before I can do the hapless employee any bodily harm. We drive away on the straight road by the sea to Mammalla-Mahabali-puram.

In almost no time, we’re at a World Heritage Site: the Shore Temple and rock carvings at the erstwhile Mahabalipuram, away from the bustle of Mamallapuram—a typical small town Indian village that now caters to tourists. The village was built between the 8th and 10th century AD and was a major sea-port of the great Pallava kings.

Here, in Mamallapuram, it is easy to see the various forms the South Indian temple took before it evolved from the early cave temples to the more elaborate style of gopurams, courtyards and thousand pillared halls.

A lighthouse balances on an exquisitely carved platform that is perched on a rocky elevation. Here, fires were lit to guide the ships safely to port.

Six temples grow from under the sea, one thousand three hundred years old, their tops showing at low tide. The seventh was dug out from under centuries of sand by the British. A ten-foot tall Vishnu lies on his side, facing the sea-breeze. A cave temple on the sea rocks, waves curling at its feet in supplication. Forgotten architectural wonders, our heritage, discovered by Colonial Indologists and now preserved by the Archeological Survey of India. It is an ongoing “dig” and more of the poetry on stone continues to be uncovered slowly.

The best known of the rock carvings is huge—all of 27 metres long and 9 metres in width—and sculpted from a single rock. The bas relief tells the story of the descent of the river Ganga to Earth. A natural fissure in the rock makes the river, and the withered wise man Bhagiratha is pictured standing on one foot, while all of creation witnesses the falling of the Ganga.

We’re back to Muttukadu at night, hunting tree number 31, 27 and 56, drawn again to the sea, blacker than the sky which is lit up by Orion and a crescent moon.

DAY 3--DAWN

Just before dawn, the children still fast asleep (but not for long, I know, because my daughter has an internal radar system that alerts her when I am more than 5 metres away!) my spouse and I steal away for a walk on the beach. We kick off our flip-flops, hold hands “before-like” and snatch our 15 minutes of romance.

It is the day we leave the sea and I am suddenly tearful. It is always like this—every time I have to leave the sea to go back inland, a visceral part of me reacts to the umbilical separation. Perhaps that is why I am inspired to write the first Haiku of my life as night turns into day on the beach in Muttukadu:

Molten gold tear-drops
Swell the bosom of the sea
Black waves beat the shore.


DAY 3—MID MORNING

A leisurely brunch later, we’re packed and ready to move on. As we leave our little cottage, the eighteen-armed Tree # 1 waves a furious farewell. And the sea, she sends out from behind us, a salty breeze-kiss and ruffles our hair.

We spend the day shopping for South cottons and Kanchivarams and sightseeing in Chennai. After a sumptuous dinner, our driver Koela Rajan drives us to Chennai Central. We walk to Platform#3 where our trusted steed stands waiting, charts in place, to take us to Kodaikanal Road.

Pictures courtesy:
indumol.livejournal.com/
e-incredibleindia.com
www.chennai-hotels.com/mamallapuram.htm

SPIRIT-MUSIC

It has been heard from time immemorial in every culture, every nation, every corner of the world.

Call it what you will—
Om.
The music of the spheres.
The harmony of the universes.
The rhythms that make the stars burn and the planets turn.
The tunes that make nature dance.
The primal vibrations that guide the indomitable life-force in the flowing of rivers, in the salmon swimming against the currents; in the great migrations of the wildebeest in the Serengeti.

To be born. To mate. To create life. To transcend the living.

The music connects all life, communicates effortlessly with all life, is comprehensible to all life. It links mind to mind, body to body, heart to heart, soul to soul.

Its notes contain us, envelop us, enable us to enter the divine within us.

TEACHERS AAJ-KAL: ARJAN'S VERSION

OK, Vipul, taking a page from your blog, here!

While I was writing my post, my son who just turned 16 was writing his own version, just for fun. Now that the contest is over, I present his thoughts on the subject.

I must emphatically add that this is pure, unadulterated Arjan Banerjee--not a word has been changed; not a punctuation mark has been altered; not a thought has been injected or edited.

I am immensely proud of what Arjan has produced. The maturity of thought he's exhibited is way beyond his age!

Forgive me if I sound repetitive, but just let us wonder….in how many ways do we take our teachers for granted???

Before we delve any further in this topic, we should ask ourselves…what makes a teacher?? What miraculous component of characteristic alchemically transforms a normal human being into a teacher? And I would like to note, here, that I am talking about true teachers, teachers who really care; whose primal desire is their students’ success. These teachers take their students’ failures as their own; and when their students do well, they revel in their success. These teachers, I think, are composed of a blend of great knowledge in one or more fields, wondrous compassion and natural talent and love of teaching. These teachers are very rare and it is them that I will be referring to when I say ‘teacher.’

In all cultures around the world, a teacher holds a place of great respect and importance in a person’s life. In English, ‘teacher’ is listed as synonymous with ‘mentor’ and ‘guide.’ In Indian culture, a ‘teacher’ is (or at any rate was) a ‘guru,’ possibly the most important figure in a person’s life. A teacher is a person who can show one the way to, not only get by, but do well in this tough world. A teacher imparted to his or her students the knowledge that he or she has painstakingly and assiduously gained, through great trial and sacrifice, for little or nothing in return.

Down the ages, the role of a teacher and indeed what a teacher is has definitely undergone a complete metamorphosis. In the ancient days, in India, teachers were exclusively highly educated Brahmins who were well versed in practically all subjects. They taught their pupils the scriptures and martial strategy, yoga and archery, hymns and swordsmanship… they were indeed all rounded teachers, fervently revered almost as deities. The role of the teacher in a person’s life was possibly of greater significance than anybody else. He was indeed a mentor and guide.

In today’s world, true teachers are nigh impossible to find but when found, there can be nobody who can shape and mould a person into an infinitely better human being. In the world as it is now, we are in desperate need of true teachers who will have not only academically but also morally superior students. The lucky people who are taught by these teachers will also have a higher regard for nature and exist at a higher state of awareness about nature’s present plight.
In the future, true teachers shall become even more necessary than they are now. If we continue as we are, the world will certainly be in dire straits… threatened both by the threat to nature and by humankind’s foolish animosity towards one another, at all levels of society:- individual, inter-family, between social strata, state wise, nation wise, between different religious factions, and finally maybe even on an international level. We need true teachers to spread the message of peace, harmony, coexistence, toleration and mutual understanding. It is only true teachers who can actually teach us to think in perspective, to think beyond ourselves, to put ourselves in others’ shoes. Teachers teach us that unity is far stronger a structure than those that are divided; to have unity in diversity.

To return, finally, to the question I put forward in the first line of this essay: - in how many ways do we take our teachers for granted??? In my opinion is that the best example to show this is the fact that we have a teachers’ day in the first place. We take teachers for granted to such an extent that we have to remind ourselves, annually, not to???? The idea itself is ridiculous.

Frankly, I think that the concept of teachers’ day is an insult to the hard work that teachers put in day in, day out.

Thank you for reading this.

Teachers: Aaj Kal

This post has been published by me on the occasion of the Teachers' Day as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 2; the second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Kal, aaj or kal, I take great pride in my “noble” profession as an educationist.
“Noble?” you ask.

Well, there’s noble and there’s noble.

You can be noble because of excellence of quality or character or mind
And you can be noble by rank.

Noble can mean dignified, elevated, eminent, exalted, generous, illustrious, superior, worthy and excellent.

Noble can also mean aristocratic, high-born, grand, lofty, stately, lordly, masterly..

I can think of several professions that fit the bill of noble on either one parameter or the other.

But kal, aaj or kal, mine is a profession that is all of the above: dignified, worthy, excellent and also grand and stately!

Kal, aaj or kal: Yes, by god, we teachers are noble!

We even have a day in the calendar set aside to celebrate our profession and designated as Teacher’s Day just in case you missed how important we are.
So if you can’t see that halo around my head, at least you’ll see a crown.

When we were in school, there was this song we sang on Teacher’s Day: She’s got the whole world in her hands. And it’s true, isn’t it?

The French have a saying: “cherchez la femme.” I’m going to modify that to “cherchez la teacher.” Examine your selves, your characters, your likes and dislikes, your fears and ambitions, your confidence and insecurities…I promise that if you look closely, behind every one of your perceptions, every one of your ambitions, every success or failure, like or dislike you have, you’ll probably see a teacher’s hand.

I can speak for myself. If I still get nightmares about giant geometry instruments, I know who’s responsible.

If I’m still obsessed with tiny and regular hem-stitches, I know who’s responsible.

If my students have to draw neat margins on both sides of their exam papers, I know who’s responsible.

If I have an aversion to missed apostrophes, I know who’s responsible.

If I can stand up and speak confidently in front of a 1000 people, I know who’s responsible.

If I have grown into a competent, well-rounded human being, I know who’s responsible.

Kal, aaj or kal, can you imagine the power we exert? It’s not an accident that we’re called “masters” and “mistresses.”

We have so much control over so many lives that it’s scary—we have a captive audience every day of our lives. When we speak, you have to listen. We wield the sword of success and failure over your heads. We can reward and punish and banish at whim.

And have you ever tried to tell a child that the way their teacher pronounces a word is wrong? Have you ever tried to get a child to do a sum differently from how their teacher has taught it?

And kal, aaj or kal, if you considered for a minute the kind of work we do for the meager pay we get, you wouldn’t doubt it for a moment!

We teachers are noble!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton are Vipul, Rajalakshmi, Dhiman, Ranee[1], [2], [3] , Avada, Indian Pundit, Sojo, Aneet, Pramathesh, Aativas, Sid, Pra, Ajinkya, Lakshmi, Govind, Shilpa, Bharathi, Shankar, Mytuppence, Azad, Pawan, Pankaja, Saimanohar, Guria, Shruti, Vishnu,Nasrajan and Richa. Click on their respective names to read their posts on Teachers : Aaj Kal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

On Independence and Other Things

Biji, my grandmother, like a lot of our grandparents, was a very political being.

Growing up in those heady days when young people agitated not for their own small freedoms, but for the big “Independence” for their country, Biji joined Bapu in satyagraha and non-cooperation, took her 4 year old son to shoo Simon away and cried bitterly as two pieces of her heart were ripped away from her by the Partition. She wore nothing but white khadi since the age of 22 and talked about the country’s leaders as if she knew them all intimately. Some, she did.

My dad was not yet 10 when Nehru delivered his midnight speech that held the nation spellbound. By the time my grandmother was 42, I had been born and when she was my age she already had 5 grandchildren.

Politics was daily breakfast fare in our household and the state of the country was of direct and immediate concern to Biji, who subscribed to 13 newspapers and magazines in 4 languages and devoured them all.

The flag, the anthem, Vande Mataram held more emotional value for her than the symbols of her religion. Each and every little landmark date on the way to 1947 was celebrated or mourned with religious fervour other families associate with id or diwali.

Between her generation and mine, there was still the direct touch of a body full of first-hand memories of life in an India not yet free. I saw it in her soft, white “dhoti”, I heard it in her night-time stories, I felt it in her hot, naked feet that walked the roads without slippers and were soaked in a tub of cold water upon her return.

Biji died of nothing, suddenly, at the ripe old age of 57 leaving behind her a full family of 2 sons, 2 daughters in law, 8 grandchildren and countless unknown faces she had benefitted in various ways that we only came to know after her death. I was then 15.

My reactions to Republic Day, Independence Day, the anthem, the flag are still hugely emotional because of my childhood associations with them through Biji. My daughter is now almost 15 and though she knows to respect the symbols of her country, Indian Independence is something she studies in her history books and takes exams on.

Independence Day doesn't mean as much to gen-next as it did to us; just as it didn't mean as much to us as it did to our grandparents. But that’s how it should be, I think. In many ways it is right and fitting that the past stops being overwhelmingly meaningful to the future.

The future will have its own challenges, its own revolutions, its own battles to fight.

Enroute to Kruger National Park

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 8

May 24:

It is morning before we know it and we are up and away from the invitingly warm covers too soon. We shower and change as Anthony comes in and makes breakfast. There is another man with him this time. Sydney is the spare driver and a member of the Sotho tribe.

We leave around 8.15 through much snarled roads and pick up an old gentleman, Mr Alan “Call me Fred” Poole, at the posh hotel just next to the Wanderers club. We also have to go through more congested traffic to pick up an American couple from the Airport Grand before we can head out towards Kruger. This couple is nowhere to be found and we waste 10 minutes looking for them, Anthony pleasant and agreeable as usual. By the time we can leave the Johannesburg area, it is past 10am.

Thus begins a day that’s dedicated to the road!

Everything here is so far and takes far too long to get to. People are punctual, yes, but not punctiliously so. Time-wise, things seem flexible and people seem to take delays in their stride.

The first part of the ride is uneventful and takes us through flat corn-fields, gold-mines and coal mines. There are several thermal power plants. We stop for a toilet break in about one hour. The next part of the drive is more undulating terrain and the vegetation changes a bit. The landscape is more interesting, though not very different from what we’ve seen in the open areas of Zambia or from the planes we’ve been on. We stop for lunch at about 12.45 at Dulstroom, the highest town in South Africa, if Anthony is to be believed, at 2100 metres elevation. We eat at Charlie Cs—chicken burgers for the kids and toasted sandwiches for us.

Another Viva Safaris van and driver are here in Dulstroom to take us the rest of the way. We change vans and Anthony leaves us here after he’s had his lunch. Sydney and a young Shangaan man called Nellie take us the rest of the way.

Sanjib has to change enough of his USDs to ZARs and we were supposed to stop at a bank in Dulstroom. To help things along, Sanjib walks to the bank a few blocks away so that we can pick him up when we’re done. We go to pick him up only to see that the lady at the bank tellers window is at lunch and wouldn’t be back before 2pm. Sydney says we’ll stop at the next town and we go on.

The “next town” is Lydenberg and here we stop at the Standard Bank for what we think is a short stop. Well, we’re still there at our corner 45 minutes later, waiting for my man to come back.

The time is spent talking to our Sotho and Shangaan warriors about things sociological—the rampant polygamy, the family hierarchy, how things work in villages, their system of redressing disputes; the kings, chiefs, mayors in their villages and provinces, a structure far removed from the governance of the cities and much like our own panchayati raj.

Men are supposed to pay bride price for wives, the opposite of our dowry system—the more qualified the bride, the more the bride price. Rich men show their status by marrying several wives and having many children “but the computer recognizes only one.”

Sydney tells me a story about a man who married his half-sister, because nowadays, if a man has 10 wives in 10 different places, who can know all his siblings? So this man married his half-sister and finally had to divorce her out of family embarrassment. Stories like this continue. Sydney thinks one wife will be enough. Nellie disagrees. His father married 5 times, and so will he.

Where Nellie grew up, women and children were not allowed to have eggs—only the men could eat eggs. In Sydney’s village, it was kidneys that only the elder men ate—women and children could not eat them. The Americans show interest in the conversation, seeking clarifications now and then. Alan "Fred" Poole stays mum.

We still wait for Sanjib to emerge from the bank. I keep the Americans engaged with stories about the elusive tiger, whom we have hunted for many a vacation, through the Sunderbans and Sariska and Corbett, without being able to actually sight. The Americans have their own story to tell about their elusive wolf, whom they have been tracking through Alaska and Yellowstone without success. The conversation moves to the Black Mamba and Sanjib’s mortal fear of snakes. Still no Sanjib and still, Alan Poole stays mum.

I finally feel forced to go in search of my errant husband. It is now that Alan Poole comes down from the van with me and very gently offers to take ZARs out of his ATM in exchange for Sanjib’s dollars “if he’s having trouble.” I nod shamefacedly and cross the road to go to the bank to see what is holding my man up. I find him at the counter waiting as 2 tellers count out his cash over and over again, pinning every 10 100ZAR notes as they go along. They put it all, finally satisfied, in a bag and Sanjib and I run back to the van bag in hand. Sanjib apologizes to the crowd. The crowd kids him about snakes and the journey continues.

A few more hours cross. There’s more conversation now, thanks to that interlude at Lydenberg. Quiet Sydney has opened up now and refuses to stop. The Americans—Bill and Ellen from Wisconsin—are loud and friendly and even Alan/Fred has started talking a bit now and then.

tribal images courtesy:

http://www.south-africa-tours-and-travel.com/

http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/

http://www.encounter.co.za/

A KAUR BY ANY OTHER NAME...

I beg to differ with you this time, Mr. Shakespeare! What’s in a name? Ask an Indian student with a name other than Christian, who has been to study abroad in the Western World (and especially in the US of A.)

(cartoon courtesy http://www.toonpool.com/)

After they’ve “so not got your name” and asked you to spell it (and still mispronounced it), commented on your colour (“like, you’ve got gold under your skin!”), remarked on your wonderfully “inneresting costume” and wondered at your remarkable mastery over the English language (“and that quaint accent”) they’ll probably want you to tell them your name again.
Your name’s the simplest thing in the world—5 letters, 2 syllables—yet you’ll have to get used to answering to all its mutilated permutations of pronunciation (Renee, Runee, Rainy…)

You don’t know it but you become invisible as soon as you enter a foreign country to work or study. Oh, it takes you a while to realize the fact because physically, you stick out like a sore thumb. Everybody makes much ado about everything you say or do (Oh, wow! Really! That’s so cool!). There are so many questions about your culture, your family, your self. You’ve never had so much attention just because of how you look and what you wear and who you are and you just enjoy it so much.

But slowly, it sinks in. Every time they are surprised, every time you answer the incessant questions, every time you’re patted on the back for understanding a local colloquialism or even just getting the punch line of a joke, you lose a bit of yourself—who you are— without quite knowing it.

Then comes the day you begin to expect the attention and to pre-empt the questions. You’ve worked out the answers the way they’d comprehend them. When they ask you your name, you don’t even bother to just say it—“Let me spell it for you. It’s Ranee as in ‘Ronnie’ and Kaur as in the apple.”

That day, they learn how to pronounce your name correctly but you become Ronnie Core. The rose is no longer a rose.

Your name—you never really think about it until you’ve lived abroad for a fair stretch of time. You’ve never thought about how it relates to you and who you are. It’s just your name. Back home, it works like that little tag you find in your clothes: “Size M, 30% polyester, 70% cotton. Machine wash warm; Tumble-dry low. Made in India.” The moment you tell someone your name it instantly transmits to them the entire surface of your identity: the etymology of the name, the region of your origin, your mother tongue(s), your religion, caste, creed and perhaps even the family you belong to and its standing in your community/society. Your name takes care of all the preliminaries of your identity. It takes care of all the introductions. The moment you’ve pronounced it, it has told everybody who you basically are.

So when your name loses its signifying power, you become invisible. You have to start groping for other ways to define yourself. Your name doesn’t define your givens: ergo, there are no givens. You now have to decide for yourself what is really given you and what you have to give to your universe. Your name does not automatically tie you down to a country a region a religion a family so you are free to decide what you want to be identified with, if anything.

Suddenly, you’re not defined at all. You’re not rooted. You’re just you, whoever you are. Step One: you panic. You cling to your Indian-ness—whatever that means—and overdo it. You rent Hindi movies every weekend. You listen only to Indian music in your car. You have your surrogate “Indian” families you “potluck” with regularly. You wear your interesting costumes more than you ever did back home. In short, you aren’t really being “yourself” at all. You’re just conforming violently to the “western” notion of being “exotic” and “eastern.”

Some people get stuck there and there they stay. Others take the opportunity of looking beyond names (or “tags”) and into people. They surrender themselves to the glorious confusion about who they are and begin the process of “becoming” somebody they really want to be. They become a mass of kaleidoscopic, shifting identities rather than one with a fixed center, focus and pattern. They learn to appreciate each little fragmented brilliantly coloured piece of all those diverse things that make them who they are. They keep collecting more identities from all over the globe. The individual shards of their multiplying identities are quite separate and distinct. They never leak or melt. They never merge and make a new composite. Sometimes they even clash with each other. But the possibilities of their “becoming” are so infinitely rich and endless!

So now you can potentially be Ranee and Renee and Runee and Ronnie and Rainy and every other permutation. You can be at home everywhere, but you become effectively homeless because you see, your home isn’t really home anymore because it excludes all those other homes you’ve known. It becomes harder for you to separate “us” from “them.” You can no longer validate those boundaries of religion or colour—your world cannot be black or white.

All that can happen at the sound of your name on foreign tongues. A rose by another name is no longer a rose. It is another flower in the becoming.

Oh and Mr. Shakespeare, about the second half of that line? Nix that too, would you? What smells “sweet” to you may seem like an olfactory attack to another nose. Let me tell you about the time I cooked my first Indian dinner in a small apartment I shared with American roommates…

Livingstone - Johannesburg

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 7
May 23

The morning is relaxed and after breakfast, we putter around and pack and see the Victoria Falls spray from the jetty for the last time—today it is rainbow coloured and for a long while, we watch the fascinating drama of the top of the spray breaking away into clouds and then nothingness.

Then it is time for Paul to come for us at 11.15 and we are off to the quaint little airport again after picking up a few people along the way.

“International departures” has a nice lounge where we go after immigration, but the flight is delayed by an hour and a half and we have many hours to kill. We realize after a while—my husband asks the authorities where he can go to have a smoke—that immigration is not quite a one-way street. A person can walk out with his boarding pass and a wave at the lady behind the counter, have a beer, smoke a cigarette outside the airport and walk back in without being security-checked or questioned. This kind of relaxed, trusting atmosphere points to another, gentler time in the past and is not quite here and now.

As we sit in the lounge, we observe some of our fellow travelers. There is a Gunther Grass look-alike with a “jhola" like bag. This guy manages to get to the gate without putting his bag through the scanner. He’s a man in a hurry to go, but obviously, there is nowhere he can go. So he goes to the gate.

There is another Gujarati family. They have their main meal sitting in the lounge. Out come their little bags of food from a big bag of food. Out come the khakras and theplas and Bhujiyas and other farsan. The food is displayed on the floor of the lounge, paper plates are filled and handed out by the women who sit on the floor to do this. Then the family eats with gusto!

All of this makes the wait go faster and finally our plane arrives from JNB, unloads its passengers and luggage as CE202, loads our paraphernalia and us as CE203 and we walk a few yards from the gate to board it, Gunther Grass leading the way.

The flight back is just as frenetic in service as the flight in. The added treat is a superb aerial view of the Victoria Falls that gives us another perspective of the totality of Mosi-O-Tunya.

We reach Oliver Tambo two hours beyond our arrival time and rush through immigration only to idle a long while for our baggage to arrive and finally emerge to find Anthony waiting good-naturedly.

We spend some more time at arrivals going through the Dollar exchange rates—what we get ranges from 6.26 to 6.38, nowhere near the 7 we want—and going away with our money unchanged. It is about 5pm before we leave, but this time the traffic is not too bad and we are at Anthony’s before 6pm.

Jo’burg is still very uncomfortably cold and we are still under-dressed. In the evening there is much to do. We pack for Kruger, wash 2 loads and hang them out to dry and cook and eat dinner. By the time we go to sleep it is past 1am and far colder than my feet can stand. I toss and turn all night, trying to get my feet to warm up enough so that the rest of my body can sleep.

The Cream and Scum of Blogging

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 1, the first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Scum and cream both surface, slimily climbing the fluid staircase of their liquid wombs, sucking life from the amniotic juice that gives them their existence.

Gaining texture, growing layer by layer, both rise to the top, smothering their mother-solution, draining it of all its properties.

Both appear only when the emulsion that gives them life becomes stagnant and complacent.

Yet one is glorified and the other reviled.

Time for us to reflect a bit on value judgments, my friends—one man’s cream may be another’s scum and vice versa!

Scum may feed and sustain while cream clogs arteries and becomes the cause of death.

I’ve always been wary about making decisions on worthiness.

I believe all forms of being, however nanoscopic,--bacteria, virus, algae and all—are whole and universal in themselves and that they are all integral, organic parts of the cells that make up the universes.

Cream and Scum—they are both valuable, both worthy in their own ways, both capable of good and bad effects, both essential in the tasks they are destined to perform.

When I write, or you write, or someone else writes a blog, that writing is an expression of a little part of the universes that are or will be or have the potential of being.

If scum I am meant to be, I aim to be the best scum it is possible for me to be!

The fellow Bloga-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton are Arjuna, Saimanohar, Dhiman, Vipul Grover, Avdi, Daisy Blue, Sid 'Ravan' Kabe, Shankar, Shilpa Garg, Bharathi, Ranee again and Pawan. Click on their respective names to read their posts on The Cream and Scum of Blogging. To be part of the next edition of this online marathon, visit and start following Bloga-Ton.

Victoria Falls : Mosi-O-Tunya!

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 6
May 22

Breakfast is buffet and quite basic—cereal, squash, toast, eggs, baked beans and bacon.

At 8.30, Paul is back with his white van, ready to escort and guide us to the Mosi-O-Tunya—The Smoke that Thunders—and there could be no name more appropriate!

We wear the same kind of disposable raincoats that we had been given at the Niagra Falls, only these are much-used and come from Paul’s van. We are warned that we’d get soaked to our thighs. Paul rolls up his trouser legs to his knees and changes into flip-flops. We trudge along in our sneakers.

Our first sight of the eastern cataract on the walk—a little look at the corner of the falls with a brilliant rainbow emanating from it and dancing skywards in the spray—already has us gasping. Then we walk away from the falls to look at the Zambezi in its last restless vastness, skipping over rocks in its way before it takes the plunge. Here there is a double rainbow and we get a tiny glimpse of the immense width of the river—and the imminent falls. Then on we walk again, this time up and down, winding to viewpoints that show us tantalizing bits of the colossal falls, piece by piece, hidden in a shroud of ever-changing spray.



We can never see into the gorge. A solid-seeming, gigantic white wall of water hits with such force that the spray obscures almost the entire ravine. As it moves up the canyon, the stiff breeze makes the spray rise into the sky—so high we can see the falls reversed!



Here, at eye level, the thick spray thins a bit and begins to dance—sometimes mist, sometimes dense fog, sometimes in rainbow colours but always there –ever-shifting, restive, agitated, impatient. It is extremely difficult to reconcile this constant shape-changing spray in perpetual movement with the still smoke we see from the hotel’s jetty.

The power, the energy, the stretch and the rumbling, resounding expanse of the Mosi-O-Tunya can never be imagined until you’ve stood there, facing it, feeling ant-like in strength, size and importance. You have to hear the echoing, bellowing, gushing roar; you have to feel the sting of the misty spray on your cold skin, you have to smell the vapour, taste the force that turns a river of water into cloud. Only with all your senses engaged can you even begin to grasp the enormity of the phenomenon before you.


This event that Nature throws up around an innocuous corner so carelessly is perhaps the most awe-inspiring wonder I have seen so far in our world.

After the falls—I cannot comprehend why anybody, however patriotic, would name this marvel in the name of his queen, when the natives have such an appropriate name for it already—we are all quietly pondering. The experience has not penetrated our skins yet. We have not yet absorbed the totality of what we have seen, smelt, tasted, felt and heard. It hasn’t quite sunk in. When it does “hit us,” we know it will be a whammy!


But now is not the time to wallow in what we have seen. There’s a craft market just outside the gates of the falls that lures us. The kids have been out with Paul for a while already as we make our way back slowly savouring the falls again on our way out. They have made contact with young Charles and seen his wares. We walk the entire market, “negotiating” prices and finally buy some trays that seem lacquered but are actually buffed with tan shoe polish from Philip’s stall and a stone hippo soap-dish and “tom-tom” from Charles, the kids’ newfound friend.

We like a lot of the carvings, but they are either too tall or too heavy for us to carry. And we figure that we have enough time and area to cover in the next few weeks so there’ll be enough opportunities to buy things we like as we go along. The damage at the crafts market is 150000 Kwacha at Philip’s and 25000 Kwacha at Charles’—175000 Kwacha equals a princely total of about $44 or 2000 Rupees.

These Zambians sure know how to be hospitable. On our way back, Paul offers us ice-cold coca colas and water from the cooler in his van. We are back at the Zambezi Waterfront by 11am.

The rest of the day is relaxed. There is no where else to go and we can’t walk out of the gated, armed-guarded hotel premises so we eat and rest and I write and put the photos and videos into the laptop, charge depleted batteries and just generally chill.

In the evening, we leave the kids in the room as we explore the hotel grounds and have a couple of before-dinner whiskeys at the bar at about 10000 Kwacha per 30 ml.

Wishful Thinking

Let me be an instrument that plays in harmony with the music of the Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

When I die, let me become the spectrum.

I will be black and absorb all colours
I will be white and reflect all colours
I will be red and glow with the energies that fuel the Universes
I will be blue in agreement between the oceans and the skies in all the Universes
I will be green as the tenderness and vulnerability of the birth of every new universe
I will be yellow and shed my warmth and light on every soul in every universe that is and that will be and that has the potential of becoming.

A Sermon

Assume Earth is the womb of an organism we have named “Universe.”

Each living, breathing creature, every natural phenomenon, then, is a cell within this organ of the larger organism that is our Universe.

Each cell, of every colour, shape, size, capacity and talent, has a very specific and vital part to play in the grand scheme of the birth of new generations of Universes.

When the cells perform their tasks in harmony, the Universe hums in contentment and new Universes are born, each perfect in its potential for being and becoming.

When the cells become hostile to each other, when they show aggression towards each other, when they assault each other and kill each other, a cancer is formed. Organs are affected. Systems are diseased. The womb is weakened. The potential foetus is damaged. The gene pool is diminished.

The Universe loses a child, a line, a possibility, a potential…

Cells beget cells. Creatures beget creatures. Life begets life. Worlds beget worlds. Universes beget universes.

There may be a tremendous difference of scale between cells and Universes, but a single defect in a single cell ripples in effects and consequences not only through the Universes that exist but also through those that have the potential to exist.

Every chirp, every bark, every rustle, every waterfall, every chant, every rhythm, every song, every tune participates in the vast, everlasting symphony of the spheres just as every soul of every being participates in the spirit of the Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

Every whimper, every groan, every cry, every slap, every voice raised in anger, every curse given in hate, every howl of pain, every uproar, every gunshot, every explosion, every detonation blasts a false note, a discord, a disagreement, a friction and participates in adding disharmony to the everlasting Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

I believe...(for now, at least!)

I have no fixed and codified self; no identity that has a permanent design.

I am a kaleidoscope of multiple identities; a shifting composite of little, fragmented, brilliantly coloured pieces of all my experiences, all the cities I have inhabited; all the diverse lives I have lived.

I believe there is a precision intelligence behind and beyond the universe.

I believe all forms of being, however nanoscopic, are whole and universal in themselves and that they are all constantly caught in a continuous process of becoming.

I believe each becoming whole is an integral and organic part of some other, bigger and becoming whole and so on, past the becoming universe. Ergo, the universe is intelligent, living, expanding and forever becoming as are the stars, planets and we who inhabit them, bacteria, viruses, algae et al.

I believe it is our duty every moment to desire to find our changing roles in the changing universes and discharge those roles to the best of our capacity as long as they last.

If we are cancerous cells in the kidney of our universe and it is our role for this moment to cause renal failure in order that a nephritic cure might evolve for other universes, then we must fulfill that potential.

On Walking Behind Your Man

There is absolutely no denying or disputing the fact that our Indian society still wants women to follow their men.
The wife, by her very definition in our culture, plays supporting role to her husband who is the hero:
She is अर्धांगिनी (ardhangani), one half of her husband.
She is सहधर्मिणी (sahadharmini), an associate in the fulfillment of his human and divine goals;
She is सहकर्मिनी (sahakarmini), a co-worker in all his efforts
She is सहयोगिनी (sahayogini), a helper in all his ventures.

This has been true from the time of the Vedas:
“I will be the Saaman (music) and may you be the Rk (the Vedic text being cast into music).
Let me be the heavens (the upper world) and let you be the Bhumi or Mother Earth.
I will be the Sukla (life force) and may you be the bearer of that Sukla॥
Let me be the mind and let you be the speech.
May you follow me to conceive children and gain worldly as well as spiritual wealth."

It has been true through Manu’s description of the ideal female partner for a man—who, by the way, should be about one-third his age—
" karyeshu dasi, a slave/servant in her work
karaneshu mantri, with the administrative powers of a minister
bhojyeshu maatha, who can feed you like a mother
shayaneshu rambha, and please you like Rambha in bed
kshamaya dharitri" and who has the forbearance, the patience—the sahanshakti—of Earth

It has been true through Kalidas, who said:
“Women go the way of their husband as moonlight follows the moon or lightning the cloud”
And it is true as propagated by all our immensely popular television serials that begin with the letter 'K'.

Much more, it is still true as lived by millions of women all over India.

Therefore, let’s take that part for granted.
Society desires women to walk one step behind their men.

But does higher social approval come to the women who follow in their husband’s footsteps? Who do not deviate? Who never challenge the norm? Who do the done thing, so to speak?
Therein lies the rub.

Society may expect a woman to be one way, may prescribe a woman’s ideal, but it reserves its approval—its esteem, its appreciation, its recognition, its awards, its admiration, its praise, respect and acclaim—for those women who flout all the expectations and defy its prescriptions.

Think of any Indian woman who has had any impact through myth and legend and history:
Durga, Kali, Draupadi, Rani Lakhshmibai, Indira Gandhi, Mother Teresa

Think of any contemporary Indian woman who has achieved social recognition or appreciation—Rekha, Sushmita Sen, Arundhuti Roy, Mira Nair, Kiran Mazumdar Shaw, Sania Mirza,

You will find that they are all women who do not recognize any social limits on their beings. They are all women who stride way ahead, or go away, or create their own difficult road.

They are all women who do not follow the beaten path.

On the other hand, think of the women who did the done thing:
Sita did every single thing by the book. Did it get her her society’s approval?
Madri was the perfect wife who even committed sati with Pandu. But who gets all the attention? Kunti, a woman with a curious past and her own mind.
Krishna’s wives committed jauhar after him. Do we know their names? The names we associate with Krishna and celebrate and adore are of two of the most deviant women in their society—Radha and Meera.
Littérateurs like Kalidasa and Tulsidas became men of learning because of their wives. Do we know who they were?

It’s very simple, really.
When you follow behind, you remain unseen, unsung, unnoticed—taken for granted and therefore uncelebrated.
When you walk ahead, or walk away, you are seen, followed, recognized, validated.

So ladies:
By all means, walk a step behind your husbands.
Do it so you can support them and prop them up to give the world the illusion that they have a spine.
Don’t expect social approval for doing it.

Feel free to follow in your husband’s footsteps.
Do it so you can clean up his messes and do damage control.
Don’t expect society to validate your hard work and celebrate you for it.

Take the backseat when your husband drives.
Do it so you can drive him where you want to go.
Don’t do it for any respect or rewards from society.

Zambesi Sunset Cruise

RANEE'S SOUTH AFRICA DIARIES: JOURNAL 5

May 21:
After a little glitch with bus seats, we were off to go around the corner for all of 4 minutes to reach a jetty where a small platform vessel with a bar and tables and chairs would take us for a ride on the Zambezi for 2 hours between 4 and 6 pm so we could look for wild life on the shores and ogle the spectacular sunset on our way back.

The Zambezi was immense, wider than any river I have ever seen and reminiscent of the infiniteness of the Sunderbans waters as they make and re-make the delta. The river was segmented, with islands between its channels. Our two-hour journey took us the length of a 4km long island in one of the channels.




Like the Sunderbans landscape, the banks of the Zambezi were eroded, eating up land-pockets and creating curved marshes, swamps, tunnels around many rounded bends. Trees lay half-submerged and dying among reeds and water-ferns and creating a water-land, mystic, mysterious green-blue world that became the perfect habitat for wild-life.

We didn't really see much of that wild-life, just a couple of groups of hippos in the water and one humungous tusker that swam across a channel in front of us. From the shape of the shadow in the distance, we started off thinking it was a herd of elephants, given our mental impression of the girth of our own elephants. Then we modified our estimate to two when the shadow came closer and finally realized that it was just one animal! This was our first sighting of the huge African elephant and it was quite amazing.

Wild-life or lack thereof notwithstanding, the Sunset Cruise gave us more than value for our money. All drinks--no limits-- and delicious snacks are on the house (or the boat!) so the kids had their cokes and we continued with our beer and platters of mouthwatering appetizers kept coming our way.

Suitably satisfied, we watched the sunset! The sun was a gigantic red orb that just liquefied in seconds and left the world dark orange and red—breathtakingly Nat Geo!


At dinner we paid in dollars and got our change back in Kwacha and by then, we were quite adept at the exchange. 1$ was taken to be 4000 Kwacha. A typical lunch/dinner entrée was between 40000 and 60000 Kwacha and it was quite filling. Water was 4000 Kwacha a small bottle and Castle Lager was 7500 Kwacha. A small peg of was about 20000 Kwacha.