An Alchemist's Blog

Three Cups of Tea - a personal review

 Greg Mortenson and David Relin have written a most amazing book - 'Three Cups of Tea'. Not only is it a most incredible story of how one man's obsession built 55, yes, not 1 not 10 or 20, but 55 schools, in the most inhospitable parts of the world - the highest reaches of Pakistan and Afghanistan. These are places the only ones from the outside world who see are mountaineers. It is purely for recreation that these people go there, with no more sense of commitment than i have towards improving the quality of life of a mall attendant, however dubious that may sound. Mortenson lost his way in the mountains only to find his way in life. Sounds like a cliche - read it yourself to find out. 

I think Mortenson is a most earnest man who takes himself way too seriously and God Bless him for that. He made a promise to go back to a Pakistani village that showed him no more than their customary kindness and he started to feel the need to repay them. Saying he would, he left and went back to his life in America. That was the begining of the new begining. How a shy non-starter of a man made it possible to raise the first 20,000 dollars needed and every dollar after that is a story in perseverance and finally getting plain lucky. It is also a commentary on faith and a man's belief that he can make a difference. He never once thought anything could stop his mission. He did not stop trying because he thought the fundamentalists or the government or the corruption would road-block him. He just thought in terms of the basic building blocks: money, his own ability to deliver and the peoples' willingness to help him in the actual task of building. That's all he considered to be part of the equation, on one side of which were a cold and neglected uneducated mass of villagers and on the other side of which stood an empowered community "for generations" to come, whose women had received the magic of letters and numbers. Never unsure of the last two variables of his equation, he packed his bags as soon as he had the first and left for rural, mountain-bound, unfriendly, brutally cold, dangerous Pakistan. Even as i read, i thought, 'Does this bloke really think that's all it takes?' If i didn't know the way it was going to end, i may have tossed the book aside as idealistic castle building in the air. 'Does he think he's God?' is likely to cross the mind of many a lay-thinker of which i was one.

Either the book is extremely well written where it does not labour over every small detail and delay that Mortenson may have encountered or he had the eyes and ears of God as he made his plans that ensured all his road-blocks were cleared before he got to them. Either way, it is a charmed story.

But it is more than a fairy tale about building community schools, for that could read like an NGO annual report. It is about breaking stero-types as much as anything else. He shows the Muslim world as consisting of people, not just fanatics and hard-liners as we all have begun to assume. They have women and children there, you know. The religious leaders are fair-minded. Shariat is a law that can be just. And infidel is not necessarily a derogatory term - just a word for a non-Muslim. It opened my eyes to a religion and people as never before. I saw the point of view of those in POK affected by the Kargil conflict of 1999. They had to turn refugee when Indian missiles rained down on them. Without taking sides ever, Mortenson reported facts like he saw them from the line itself. And he did not care about his audience - they never mattered - only the victims did. That is why he inspired me - an Indian to donate to his cause - to build schools in Pakistan - POK at that - and Afghanistan. For to me, an education is basic - why should it matter who is being educated. Here is a man doing it in a frugal and cost effective manner - he's deserve my money - more than any government does at most times. I believe Mortenson when he says the world will be a safer, less terrorised place when people are educated and make choices about their lives rather than falling into the hands of terror outfits like ripe fruits off the branches of ignorance. I donated to the peace of the times my children will grow up in.

I must end by saying i liked Khalid Hosseni's writing about Afghanistan and the Taliban and other such stories, but those stories are bleak, sad, hopeless. Mortenson's on the other hand, is not a story, it is fact and reality which is bright, hopeful and positive. The fairytale is real.

The Zoo-zoo phenomenon

With this year's IPL came a much more amusing and fulfilling event - the advent of the zoo-zoo. At least for me it was the highlight of each match. Which zoo-zoo ad would be playing? We'd all crowd around and wait to see; then laugh and clap at each one. My son calls me in each time the ad comes on, for he knows how tickled i'll be. Not when a wicket falls or a six is struck, just every time the ad runs.

The zoo-zoo is my man of the IPL match, no doubt. And the reason is, the zoo-zoo brings out the child in me. I think there is a zoo-zoo trapped inside each of us, maybe even several zoo-zoos all at once. The movements, the chatter, the behaviour of the zoo-zoo releases a child-like empathy in each of us that is both endearing and delightful.

The other day, while doing yoga, i had my first 'out of body' experience. By this i do not mean it was some esoteric, near death blah-blah that we read and hear about. Mine was quite different. While in a posture, i had a feeling that the zoo-zoo inside had escaped and stood beside me, contorting and watching me from outside. My zoo-zoo looked at my inverted face, reddened in a grueling forward bend, then laughed, poked and bumped me. It giggled. It shouted. It followed my every move and never left my side. It helped me in and out of postures. It was compassionate, but firm. It pushed me to go deeper, slower. It applauded me, scratched it's head when i was lost. It was there for me. And when i did shava-asana or the deep-sleep posture, it retreated within me. It went back to nothingness, apparently where it had come from. I felt as if my zoo-zoo was my very soul - the core of my being. Settled there inside me, i felt it's calmness, it's happiness and it's simplicity and i was touched by myself. For the first time i was truly in touch.

All is forgiven, Mumbai. India saved you.

Swept away with the euphoria of having a strong brand new government, I'm even finding it within me to forgive Mumbai her callousness at the polls. The country, at least, was more sensible and vocal and united. A strong government is the best we could all dare to dream of. For this to become such a solid reality has been like waking up in a dream.

It was amusing to watch the channels on TV last Saturday, as the results came in, speak of their predictions coming true. Rajdeep Sardesai was uncontrollable as he patted his channel on it's back for their clairvoyance. Funny, I missed that. All i'd read and heard in the weeks up to the elections, polling, and before the results were declared, was how it was going to be a fractured government, consisting of a motley flea-infested coalition, fielding a weak PM, and even a prediction from a small-time fortune-teller was given coloumn-inches when he foresaw a man from the 'eastern part of India come to power as the PM of the country, with his government collapsing in 2 years time.' What may i ask came of all those news articles and sound-bytes that the media doomsdayers were happily churning out for a hapless and depressed public to read and digest. What utter crap. I wish they'd now own up to their own follies, instead of jumping on the bandwagon of the election success, which truly belongs only to, and is of and for the Indian public.

But then nothing succeeds like success. Look at Rahul baba. Where dinner party circuits in Mumbai were earlier carrying tales about the scion which went like this: 'He spends 2 days in Badohi in a jhopri and  goes to Paris to recover for 2 weeks,' today they are calling him the most charming, the most eligible bachelor and the ablest strategist of them all. Just like that. No questions asked. The stories have all turned in their heads as soon as that dimpled face smiled on TV last Saturday night and spoke to newsmen rather humbly about his party's success. And five years later, all is forgiven for the Mother. She now embodies Indianness of the highest order and all thoughts of foreigness have taken wing.

Pakistan is almost let off the hook over 26th Nov. Who remembers what is happening on that front. With changes in ministries and portfolios, our memories, too, will be shuffled and it may just get lost in the corridors of babudom and such. Like the 2006 Mumbai train blasts that get mentioned now and then, but always in passing. And considering Obama is yet to call our new PM, one week later, to congratulate him on his unequivocal success, what can we say about that great western power we put so much store by.

What makes India tick, most definitely is it's short memory. All that is past, soon passes. We live life in the present, rarely even planning for the future. Since this is what enlightened masters tell us to do, we should all be happy blissful beings. We probably are. Someone tell the news channels.

Unquotable quote

What i hate more than not having a book to read, is having a book that i hate but feel i must read.

To all Mothers

In response to what she read about my mother, a friend sent me this poem she wrote about hers. I'm re-producing, with her kind permission, Sarbani's poem:

'The Wintry mountains

 

 

So stand the Swiss mountains behind me

Stripped of the leaves, left with tall bare trees

The mountains stand tall, proud with the snow

White crests defying the sunny glow

 

Shorn of the green life but death defying

The weary evergreens, the horizon defining

Skeletons: witness to the weather changing

The deep sap within, all withstanding.

 

Who says the wintry mountains are not beautiful?

Who says spring is not far behind?

 

So stood my mother with her crest of silver grey

All flesh and muscle shorn off her withered frame

Her slight figure brave, straight and strong

Defying the overtures of her age.

 

Reminiscent of the proud ancestry in her veins

Refusing to bow before the forceful years

Stripped of all the brawn; energy, vitality still standing tall

No dent in her pride, none at all

 

Her brow raised in a perfect line

Creasing her forehead marking the time

Wrinkles adding grace to her personality

So stands my mother solid behind me.

 

Who says the wintry years are not beautiful?

Who says spring is not far behind?'

 

 

I specially find the  line, 'All flesh and muscle shorn off her whithered frame,' very poignant and chilling at the same time. I don't know why, but this line made me feel as if something had physically been stripped from my body.

I salute all the wonderful women in the silvery generation this mother's day: mothers, mothers-in-law, aunts, grannies, wise ladies of every shape and size. You are the greatest ever!

No Park, No Walk.

When it comes to exercise, i try and do my duty towards my body. But try suggesting a gym and the reaction is usually a negative shake of the head and an emphatic Uh-Uh. To think i could have been going to the gym all these years, with one of those delectable trainers and flaunting a hot bod to boot (sigh). However, we are where we are, and it is only a stroll in the outdoors that issues a sufficiently powerful call to the laziness in me. The writer within endorses the idea, too, for where else would i...

...regularly see the three generation ensembles of the kind one sees in family photos. Where grandmother, freshly minted mother and teeny weeny baby, all dressed up with no where to go except the park, come for a much awaited outing?

...know that little girls are out of their Barbies and into their Hannah Montanas?

...know what kids wear on their t-shirts? 'Been there, Wrecked that' continues as my favourite.

...see the peepul's leaves turn from albino white to deep green via rosy red.

...know that the latest in maid's fashionwear is, oddly, animal prints.

...hear the latest names kids are carrying around? Aryan..Shlok..Ansh..Arth...

...observe that when two siblings race to a mother and ask expectantly who came first, she always says 'both'.

...watch children swing with their eyes closed.

...admit that a father at a park's edge is always greeted more enthusiastically than a mother

...know that everyone talks to themselves; the children to imaginary friends, the old people to imaginary enemies and those inbetween to both. (albeit on their hands-frees.)

...discover that yesteryear beauties still have a glow lurking in their puffy faces and they search your face to know if you have seen it.

...know that old ladies only walk from one bench to the next.

...understand that one day i may be like them.

...see and hear the click-flash-whirr of the parent papparazzi, capturing their children expend those Kodak moments.

...realise that when both grandparents come to the park it is as much to celebrate their love by walking hand in hand, as to watch their grandchildren.

...note that sand, swing, slide, water bottle, snack box and their mother close-by is practically the whole world to a child.

...know it is Sunday when there is a surplus of daddies

...observe men chat in tight circles, their middle age comfortably settled around their bellies.

...see red-rimmed eyes spill in-law-tales into attentive ears.

...know it is time to go home unless i see the glow of cell-phones reflected against cheeks in the descending dusk.

...realise that people, even if they are strangers, not shiny-new gym equipment, mean the whole world to a jaded writer who rarely leaves her desk otherwise.

Shame on you, Mumbai

I am really upset with you, Bombay. It's official - the low voter turnout, further lowered by some recalculation. You probably will report the lowest in the country, by the looks of it. How could you? As your biggest fan, I must hang my head in shame.

After all the biggest film stars exhorting you to vote, after the sms cascades, the e-mails from citizen groups, the rallies and marches this is what you turned in. A dismal report card of your collective conscience, to say the least. A four-day weekend was enough to bribe you away from your duty, your right? How are you any better than the babus you complain about? The heat shrivelled your resolve? The queues discouraged you? Well, guess what? The weather was no different than when you go out to work everyday. So do you stop going to work? It has to be taken with the same seriousness. And if you had bothered to check you would have noticed there was no queue either.

A whole host of issues have been thrown up as the reasons for the dismal turnout - names missing and all that usual nonsense. But, i promise you, not more than 10 or even 15% of the electorate who wanted to vote may fall into this category of those who went upto the booth and were turned away - and i'm being very generous in assigning that high benefit-of-the-doubt percentage. In an educated city like Bombay turnout should be high - high - as much as 80%. Why not? I don't care about statistics and previous elections and all that hog-wash. I want to know why? Why does a person living in a city not care to vote. Why do the illiterate villagers go out and do it and you can't. I just think you are spoilt and pampered and probably deserve what you're getting.

Everything else i put up with - roads in a perpetual state of disrepair, corruption, a single bridge being constructed at a leisurely pace spread over 10 years, pollution, dirt, filth, stench, heat, humidity, slum-like living conditions in most parts of the city other than the square footage one calls home. All that i become thick-skinned about, thinking it is beyond our control, how can you blame the city for all of this. But now I blame you, Bombay, for you are the people of this city and you did not care enough to want to do something. You have lost respect in my eyes, Bombay. I may even start calling you Mumbai now. Just to spite you with that awful name.

I look at my marked finger with despair. Was i stupid or naive to have voted or was it those who did not who are being stupid? Am i an idealist while they are the so-called realists, the cynics? Those who believe that nothing will change, no matter what? But i quickly realise, not moving your butt to do something is always worse than doing it and failing. I think of Mahatma Gandhi's words, 'Be the change you want to see around you.' And i am sure those of us with that ugly black mark on our middle fingers were not wrong. I also feel naive, but for a different reason. Just because i hounded my household to go vote, gave them time off, timed my activities so each of them had no excuse not to cast their vote, threatened them that they need not come to work tomorrow if they did not bear a certain incriminatory evidence on their fingers, i thought i'd see stunning statistics in the paper the next day. But obviously one household does not a city make. But every household does. And there were several who did not care. I feel naive that i thought each of us to be caring and concerned.

Mumbai, be clear, it is the politicians who have shown you the middle finger in this instance. Possibly even the terrorists and the corrupt officials and the wrong-doers who have won and who, indeed, can tell you to shove it up, for you did not do what was your duty.

First do your duty, then rue the outcome, if you must. Now, by not doing your duty, you have no right to expect anything to come of your inaction. Shame on you. Shame-shame Mumbai.

25 Random things about my mother

It is about 25 days since my mother came to visit and i'm just about getting around to wanting to write about it. Rather than sound like a story out of a Jhumpa Lahiri collection, I'm going to put down a few thougths - random thoughts - make that 25 random thoughts about my mother and me. (Jhumpa does not write about mother-daughter relationships, for some reason. Most of her stories that are all based on relationships, are between two people of the opposite sex. Like daughter-father, brother- sister, and of course the unrelated male-female.Now i wonder why and what my analyst friend would have to say about that ;-))

My mother is the most beautiful person in the world. She takes time to dress but when she does make the effort, it is to kill. She was 73 in Jan

She is passionate about her country and it's politics. A staunch rightist, she makes no bones about her beliefs that the country needs some stern management rather than constant appeasement. If you don't believe that you may as well go fly a kite rather than make her change her mind.

She loved to eat out once, but can't any more. Her constitution is delicate and needs care. She regrets indiscretions but it is usually after the eating. That sometimes causes problems.

She dances like no one's looking. When someone saw her this time they asked me who she was. 'My mother,' i replied. The lady said, 'My kind of girl.' with such pride in her eyes, i wondered who was the daugther, me or her. I was envious of that lady's appreciation of my mother.

She loves honey and told me, 'A spoonful every day eaten with almonds is good for health. I have that everyday.' As if i did not remember. She left the bottle behind for me. Looking at it makes me cry.

When i ask if she is having her tests done regularly she hurriedly confirms and says, 'My life is done. Are you having your tests done?'

Her smell was still in the room when i came back from the airport after dropping her. It was a combination of cold cream, insense, powder and her own smell. It stayed for a whole day. I know because i went in twice. The second time it had almost gone.

She still thinks perfume is only to be used for parties though she now owns a few different bottles - actually everytime i visit, she sniffs the air appreciatively and asks, what is that you're wearing? And i always leave the bottle behind. I have never bought her a bottle of perfume, just left a little of me for her, as she says.

She came with a walking stick saying she needs it now. When she left, she forgot it behind. When i was concerned as to how she'd manage without it at the airport, she said, 'I think i'll manage. I don't think i needed it really.'

She wears the most brilliant colours - pinks yellows blues greens and oranges - with ablomb.

She always calls every single holiday she has with us the best ever. 'Who else will spoil me and show me such a good time as you do,' she asks each time. 'But this one is the best ever,' she also adds.

She never feels hot. Hates air-conditioning. Loves fresh air.

Sometimes i feel she loves her mother more than she loves me. Unfair of me, but what do you expect when she talks of her all the time.

She got home and said it was great to be back

She thinks she may need a cataract operation soon and i know she's really scared about it.

She talks as if there is no tomorrow and there need not be anyone listening either.

Her suitcase had about 40 saris in it for a 10 day visit. Plus a torch, a transistor radio.

She had a pedicure with me for the first time in about three years. The last time, i had given her one myself.

She owns one bra, and she'd forgotten to bring that. She doesn't really wear one nowadays, but she thought she should wear one while she was with us. I bought her two. She never wore them.

I know she'll never read this because she is so tech non-savvy. But she will read my book when it is out and frankly it scares me.

I heard her say the F word. I still say fish in front of my kids. But she said it clearly and loudly as if she really meant it.

She went to see a movie the day after she got back and told me all about it on the phone.

She carries her prayer books and idols everywhere she goes and she set up her temporary shrine in the corner of the room, exactly where i thought she would. She prayed thrice a day and the whole house reverberated with her singing and praying. She said prayers at the dining table with all of us - a first for my kids.

I bought slippers for her. The pair she was wearing was absolutely appaling. She told me i had bought it for her the last time. But i told her that was about three years ago. She said it was alright, she liked my choice of slippers. They seemed to do her well.

She went into a fit of depression one day and it was difficult to communicate with her that day. She felt bad about it the next day, when she bounced back. For the first time, everyone had behaved as if nothing had been the matter and everything was just fine even when she was not feeling that good. We all dealt with it really well and i was happy. We just learnt to love her in whatever mood she was.

I listened to late seventies film music with her, of films we'd watched together. And i had to leave the room cause i could not hold back my tears. She just had her eyes closed, listening, and did not notice.

She had the best conversation with Mallika, she said, when i could not come to the table for lunch one day since i was having myself waxed upstairs in my room. It was just the two of them and Mallika told her all about her dancing.

She told me everyday that i had the nicest children and they were growing up very well.

She asked once about our summer plans. Not about whether we'd visit her. Just generally.

She was touched beyond words when Aditya put on the news channel for her without her asking

She wore one particular yellow salwar kameez for three days. 'I don't sweat,' she said (in Bombay!) 'Washing is extra work for your servants.'

She rubbed herself with mustard oil everyday. Said it was good for the muscles and joints.

She'd had her front teeth capped about 15 years ago and they have now disintegrated, leaving little stubs. She never had them replaced. I asked her if i could do something about them. She said it was fine. She was doing okay. She did not really need them to chew. Front teeth were mainly cosmetic and if she did not smile too wide, they did not really show. I saw her smile wide and laugh several times and her stubs did show. But i just smiled equally wide and laughed with her.

She promised to come back for Mallika's arangetram in November.

I wasn't counting obviously, just thinking about her and i've written much more than 25 things. But they hardly seem adequate. And i know there will be other opportunities to write more things. Many, many, many, many, many, many, many more.

March Mope

A flick of the wrist and it was gone. The page turned and February gave way to March. Yesterday, all over the house, calendars were adjusted. The last month of the first quarter had dawned. When had January and February sped off? Will it be tomorrow that March, too, will be lost to me and I will turn to April with fresh despair?

Class of '09

Slumdog is definitely the Class of '09. In a class-ridden country, it has trounced poverty-stricken class or below-the-poverty-line wallahs to become synonymous with the poorest of the poor. The term however has distinct urban overtones. You would not refer to a village dweller who earns Rs. 50 a day as a slumdog even if he lives further below the poverty line than his urban brethren do. Therefore, to rephrase, slumdog is now a class of Indian who lives below or near the (albeit urban) poverty line, in urban India. Essentially what the movie has done is recognise a class of poor who survive on the edge of large Indian cities. 

Attitude is important in this Indian. As all such movies have depicted, Salaam Bombay included, the poor child / man is happy-go-lucky and has acquired a certain street-smartness that enables him to survive. He's cheeky, but likable. Like the boy who comes to my car window at a particular signal near Mahim causeway and asks for money and when i don't oblige, offers me a Rs. 5 coin instead, suggesting with wide innocent eyes - 'Madam, would you like me to give this to you, then?'

At first i was affronted, but then saw the humour and smiled. He grinned back. He had some entertainment at least in his day, if no money. That's fine with me and if I'm aiding his survival in this crazy city by helping him not lose his mind, i'll live with it. 

The movie has made me think of these fellows. Every time a pirated book seller tries to thumb a lift from me at a signal, at least i think of where he lives. When he sits in the car and fills it with his smell, i don't hold my nose in disgust. When i see the same chap every other week, i heave a sigh of relief that he has not fallen victim to some slumlord scam. I don't do anything to prevent it, admittedly, but at least i'm privy to what could happen to him. That knowledge sits uneasily inside me while i go about my life as usual.

The Slumdog class has arrived. There may soon be a quota reserved for them. Some political party may espouse their cause. There may be self-immolations to uphold their rights. Where will it lead to, if anywhere? I'm asking myself this.

 For us city dwellers, we will encounter them every day, from the people who come into our homes to work, to those we see on the streets, and finally in a film here and there. Will it change anything for us? I'm not sure at the moment.

I will not suggest that a social revolution is under-foot as a result of the movie. That would be an exaggeration. But surely, surely, there will be one child there, or one youth somewhere, who will be watching this unreal spectacle unfold. Who will be affected by the trip to LA,Disneyland, stardom and beyond of an under-privileged slum-child and who will want to do something to break out of his or her own circle of existence. Surely for someone from the Class of '09, a dream will be born that will grow to become bigger than them, bigger than the slum, bigger than the whole city and then the country and the world. Surely this is not just stuff of movies and fiction.