I dislike Sudan because it is so unlike India. That society is corrupt to the core. Let me recount a voting experience of my Sudanese friend.
He, along with three of his friends, once drove down to some dusty town next to Khartoum to vote in a regional election. Each of them were paid 60 pounds each (something like INR 1,000) to vote for the ruling party. They were also given a food packet each - just in case they were hungry after the long drive, and 180 ml of rum - just in case they had to wash the food down. So my lucky friend and his friends voted, booked a room at a star hotel and enjoyed a quiet (He said it was quiet, and I trust him.) evening before driving back early next day.
That much to purchase a vote? No wonder the elected ones become corrupt. They have to earn a decent ROI, correct?
That's why I like India. Our elections are free, fair, and focused. The intuitive Indian voter, armed with the principles of democracy, carefully analyzes the issues at hand, and decides on the right choice of leaders to guide our society into the future. We HAVE to protect that tradition.
When Anna Hazare said that booze and money buys votes, that was a slap on the average Indian voter. Thankfully the major political parties displayed the much needed righteous indignation. People’s Democracy (PD), the mouthpiece of the CPM in India, said: Hazare’s utter disdain for the voter and contempt for parliamentary democracy is indeed disturbing. True. What I find even more disturbing is that Hazare said Indians vote under the influence of Rs 100 or a bottle of liquor. Even if it were true, that places us way below the going rate of what happens in some African countries - and that's just not done.
A visionary leader also slammed Hazare's depoliticization moves by making a mockery of politics. That was just so cool!!! I really liked the way he slammed the depoliticisation moves by making a mockery of politics. He and his kind should slam more often for the benefit of a society that may go astray with all this wikileaks inspired madness. Yes - India needs honest politicians like we have at present to show you your place Hazare - lest the world think we are some corrupt African country like Sudan.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Khartoum - Cost of Death
This happened somewhere in Khartoum last week.
It rained like hell for hours starting early afternoon one day. The gutters overflowed as they are wont to, by evening. It rained well into the night. Transformers performed the customary fireworks and soon all was dark. Generators in most apartment complexes worked overtime, before shutting down, due to fatigue and lack of fuel.
The roads were flooded and muddy water seeped into basements and water storage facilities.
People in an apartment complex called for help to clear up the ma/udness in their underground water tank. To make the long story short, the plumber who arrived in the night got himself drowned in the muddy sump while trying to fix things. Unfortunate - very.
The panic stricken residents who ran to cops had a good debate on jurisdiction limits late into the night. The body was brought back from the hospital in the morning and there it lay in the basement on a metal bed. Some sort of grim reminder to everyone in the locality.
Next day, the residents paid 200k as a goodwill gesture to the poor fellow's family. Everyone wants to move on from that unfortunate rainy night.
But it looks like it rained pretty heavy for someone that night.
The cops - they wanted a 100k to feed themselves. Why?
Just like that. Apparently some arcane rule says that you cannot do repair work in the night. So ya know, we can cover this one up for you - if you pay up. Bull shit.
Negotiations were on to reduce the amount.
Imagine a cop going home and telling his son: Here's a cycle for you Bobby. Thankfully some fool drowned himself last night.
No wonder unrest is increasing in North Africa.
First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out ....Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.
-Niemöller
It rained like hell for hours starting early afternoon one day. The gutters overflowed as they are wont to, by evening. It rained well into the night. Transformers performed the customary fireworks and soon all was dark. Generators in most apartment complexes worked overtime, before shutting down, due to fatigue and lack of fuel.
The roads were flooded and muddy water seeped into basements and water storage facilities.
People in an apartment complex called for help to clear up the ma/udness in their underground water tank. To make the long story short, the plumber who arrived in the night got himself drowned in the muddy sump while trying to fix things. Unfortunate - very.
The panic stricken residents who ran to cops had a good debate on jurisdiction limits late into the night. The body was brought back from the hospital in the morning and there it lay in the basement on a metal bed. Some sort of grim reminder to everyone in the locality.
Next day, the residents paid 200k as a goodwill gesture to the poor fellow's family. Everyone wants to move on from that unfortunate rainy night.
But it looks like it rained pretty heavy for someone that night.
The cops - they wanted a 100k to feed themselves. Why?
Just like that. Apparently some arcane rule says that you cannot do repair work in the night. So ya know, we can cover this one up for you - if you pay up. Bull shit.
Negotiations were on to reduce the amount.
Imagine a cop going home and telling his son: Here's a cycle for you Bobby. Thankfully some fool drowned himself last night.
No wonder unrest is increasing in North Africa.
First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out ....Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.
-Niemöller
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Satopanth Tal Trek - Day 2
The beginning.
Day 1
Day 2
We woke up by around 7 in the morning. Breakfast was a bit unappetizing. There’s only so much of roti or bread that you can wash down at an altitude. Anyone making an extended trip up here (or anywhere at some altitude) is best advised to let the guide know their food preferences in advance. Our guide, Mannu, had told me the food itinerary over the phone a few weeks back, but I was so caught up with the trip fever then, and was like whatever, Mannu, whatever. Anyway, Satopanth Tal was still kilometers away, and we would either camp at old base camp of Mt. Neelkanth or the new base camp further up, if we can make it. From there, Satopanth can be reached on Day 4.
The two of us set off after breakfast. Mannu and others promised to catch us somewhere up there soon after packing up the belongings. Rough directions exist on these treks because of cairns (small heaps of rocks) made by people who have been there before us. You stop at one of these cairns and look around and pretty much you can spot the next one at a distance.
The initial part of the way just boulder hopping as demonstrated below. Your legs start to ache like crazy, after thirty minutes or so. But we kept moving on, with 2-5 minute breaks after 10 minutes of walk.
Our support crew caught up with us just before Vang Lung glacier, seen below. This glacier burst some time in 2007 or 2008 and brought much misery with rocks and dirt flowing all the way down to Mana village. It even destroyed the bridge across the river at Mana. Mannu gestured with his hands “itne mote mote pathar the”, his hands indicating that the rocks were far far bigger than the hand motion that he was making.
Immediately after the glacier is Lakshmi Van (this is where apparently Draupadi fell to her doom, on the way to heaven). A mini collection of trees. I wish we had the energy to walk the previous day and camp here overlooking Lakshmi Van.
It's one of those places that you go with high expectations, and you end up feeling that your high expectations are in no way a match to the splendor that unfolds in front. Himalayas, by their sheer scale, can do that to you.
Bhagirath Kharak Glacier. Vulture's beak?
Somewhere after Lakshmi Van, the situation became punishing. No wonder Draupadi decided to fall before this – women keep a nostril open for trouble ahead. Ice, my love, ice - had plans for us. Sometimes packed, sometimes shaky, sometimes cracked, most of the times dirty. First we crossed a long field, and then rested for some time, and then decided to go vertical.
Here's another waterfall that could never quite reach the ground, for reasons other than the wind.
They call this the THUMB for obvious reasons. They can call this other things too, but then, hey, this is a politically correct blog.
Majestic sight! Oddly, my mind for a fleeting second did go to Majestic in Bangalore.
After lunch that did not feel much like lunch, we started climbing uphill again through glacial ice. Slipped on a few occasions, but steadied without damage. The shot below shows the source of Alaknanda river - a.k.a Alkapuri. It has the Satopanth glacier on one side (seen here) and the Bhagirath Kharak glacier on the other. Actually the term glacier, meant to me a vast flowing field of ice. Over here, there is a flowing ice field, but it's covered with rock, dirt, gravel and all.
You have to keep moving to stay where you are.
This is Sahasradhara – the spot of a thousand waterfalls. Apparently we came at the wrong time, because all of those springs had frozen up.
Next up was the vertebra. Here's a close up of the vertebra, carefully crafted by the forces of nature. I had half a mind to stop the trek and get back to civilization. The views were just too good, mind you. But I was tired. Shylendran was in better shape. But, frankly I just wanted to stop the trek for the day, and just idle near Sahasradhara.
By this time, I was crying out to Mannu to stop this madness and camp somewhere. He said we have to reach the old base camp of Mt. Neelkanth, which was apparently very close. I learned not to believe mountain goats like him in the next two painful hours. :-) Finally, after a lot of boulder hopping (and, as usual, our entourage leaving early, to set up the camp) we reached. We could see the camp from a distance.
Shylendran went ahead full speed and I was surprised at his energy while I huffed and did puff. I found the reason for his enthusiasm after I reached. (Sorry Shylu. Couldn't let this opportunity go:-)
I had tea and biscuits, and roamed around (within a 100m radius mind you) to take some snaps. Sexy camping ground!
We had dinner, and went to sleep in some time. It was a tough day, but the altitude we gained, the wild terrain, the old base camp location with our personal stream in front and the gigantic massif of Mt. Neelkanth towering above us – all of this more than made up for the fatigue. I was thinking about my family as I went to sleep. My son was 5 months old, and must have been wondering where that tall fellow was. Would I be able to explain to him, why I did this, even if it was for a few days, leaving him, and his mom who was not in the best of health? Of course, my in-laws were there, but then again. Hmmmm. I had a troubled sleep that night, troubled not by fatigue. Fatigue had vanished from my list of worries.
Now, as I write this after about 2 years, I don't think I will have to explain why.
He should be able to find out.
The final part can be found here.
Day 1
Day 2
We woke up by around 7 in the morning. Breakfast was a bit unappetizing. There’s only so much of roti or bread that you can wash down at an altitude. Anyone making an extended trip up here (or anywhere at some altitude) is best advised to let the guide know their food preferences in advance. Our guide, Mannu, had told me the food itinerary over the phone a few weeks back, but I was so caught up with the trip fever then, and was like whatever, Mannu, whatever. Anyway, Satopanth Tal was still kilometers away, and we would either camp at old base camp of Mt. Neelkanth or the new base camp further up, if we can make it. From there, Satopanth can be reached on Day 4.
The two of us set off after breakfast. Mannu and others promised to catch us somewhere up there soon after packing up the belongings. Rough directions exist on these treks because of cairns (small heaps of rocks) made by people who have been there before us. You stop at one of these cairns and look around and pretty much you can spot the next one at a distance.
The initial part of the way just boulder hopping as demonstrated below. Your legs start to ache like crazy, after thirty minutes or so. But we kept moving on, with 2-5 minute breaks after 10 minutes of walk.
Our support crew caught up with us just before Vang Lung glacier, seen below. This glacier burst some time in 2007 or 2008 and brought much misery with rocks and dirt flowing all the way down to Mana village. It even destroyed the bridge across the river at Mana. Mannu gestured with his hands “itne mote mote pathar the”, his hands indicating that the rocks were far far bigger than the hand motion that he was making.
Immediately after the glacier is Lakshmi Van (this is where apparently Draupadi fell to her doom, on the way to heaven). A mini collection of trees. I wish we had the energy to walk the previous day and camp here overlooking Lakshmi Van.
It's one of those places that you go with high expectations, and you end up feeling that your high expectations are in no way a match to the splendor that unfolds in front. Himalayas, by their sheer scale, can do that to you.
Bhagirath Kharak Glacier. Vulture's beak?
Somewhere after Lakshmi Van, the situation became punishing. No wonder Draupadi decided to fall before this – women keep a nostril open for trouble ahead. Ice, my love, ice - had plans for us. Sometimes packed, sometimes shaky, sometimes cracked, most of the times dirty. First we crossed a long field, and then rested for some time, and then decided to go vertical.
Here's another waterfall that could never quite reach the ground, for reasons other than the wind.
They call this the THUMB for obvious reasons. They can call this other things too, but then, hey, this is a politically correct blog.
Majestic sight! Oddly, my mind for a fleeting second did go to Majestic in Bangalore.
After lunch that did not feel much like lunch, we started climbing uphill again through glacial ice. Slipped on a few occasions, but steadied without damage. The shot below shows the source of Alaknanda river - a.k.a Alkapuri. It has the Satopanth glacier on one side (seen here) and the Bhagirath Kharak glacier on the other. Actually the term glacier, meant to me a vast flowing field of ice. Over here, there is a flowing ice field, but it's covered with rock, dirt, gravel and all.
You have to keep moving to stay where you are.
This is Sahasradhara – the spot of a thousand waterfalls. Apparently we came at the wrong time, because all of those springs had frozen up.
Next up was the vertebra. Here's a close up of the vertebra, carefully crafted by the forces of nature. I had half a mind to stop the trek and get back to civilization. The views were just too good, mind you. But I was tired. Shylendran was in better shape. But, frankly I just wanted to stop the trek for the day, and just idle near Sahasradhara.
By this time, I was crying out to Mannu to stop this madness and camp somewhere. He said we have to reach the old base camp of Mt. Neelkanth, which was apparently very close. I learned not to believe mountain goats like him in the next two painful hours. :-) Finally, after a lot of boulder hopping (and, as usual, our entourage leaving early, to set up the camp) we reached. We could see the camp from a distance.
Shylendran went ahead full speed and I was surprised at his energy while I huffed and did puff. I found the reason for his enthusiasm after I reached. (Sorry Shylu. Couldn't let this opportunity go:-)
I had tea and biscuits, and roamed around (within a 100m radius mind you) to take some snaps. Sexy camping ground!
We had dinner, and went to sleep in some time. It was a tough day, but the altitude we gained, the wild terrain, the old base camp location with our personal stream in front and the gigantic massif of Mt. Neelkanth towering above us – all of this more than made up for the fatigue. I was thinking about my family as I went to sleep. My son was 5 months old, and must have been wondering where that tall fellow was. Would I be able to explain to him, why I did this, even if it was for a few days, leaving him, and his mom who was not in the best of health? Of course, my in-laws were there, but then again. Hmmmm. I had a troubled sleep that night, troubled not by fatigue. Fatigue had vanished from my list of worries.
Now, as I write this after about 2 years, I don't think I will have to explain why.
He should be able to find out.
The final part can be found here.Sunday, February 6, 2011
Satopanth Tal Trek - Day 1
Days zero, minus 1, and minus 2 can be found here. That page is not whetted, but then again this isn't either.
Day 1
We were ready by around 8 in the morning. Mannu Rawat, our guide, came with our two porters (Bhuvan and Kuldeep). Bhuvan, a sturdy looking lad, is from Nepal. Kuldeep would be our porter-cum-cook for the next five days. We had our breakfast and started soon enough. We went over Bhim Pul and crossed the makeshift bridge over Alaknanda river. Mannu rushed back to the village to vote, while we moved on from Keshav Prayag, the confluence of River Saraswati and Alaknanda. The national elections were going on, and this was the final round of polling. Alaknanda is on the left in the pic below. We will trace her to her source and move further on to Satopnath Tal, if everything went well over the next few days.
We climbed a little bit and reached Mata Murthy Temple. Every place in Uttarakhand has a legend attached to it, and legend has it that Mata Murthy is the mother of Lord Badrinath.
There are potato fields at these heights. Mannu owns a small farm here. His mother had brought a small sack of potatoes to be used on our trek.
There are native potato storage systems for the winter. The farmers store potatoes in holes dug in the ground before winter. Once the winter ice cover melts, the hole is opened up and the seeds used for farming the next year. Here's a hole that held last year's seeds.
There's very little of a trail on the way. The first few kilometers of walk was through grasslands. I despised the treacherous nature of grass, unknowing what lay ahead.
We could have moved on the other side of the river, which had a clear paved trail, however the crossover would have been difficult. What is called Dhaanu glacier by the locals is the usual crossover point. This year the glacier was very thin, as noted by Mannu in his reconnaissance effort a few days back. We had to settle for the treacherous terrain.
Grubs on the way:
Me, Mannu, Bhuvan, Kuldip in that order, from left:
On the way, we found this waterfall that could never truly fall, thanks to the wind.
And here's the video:
Dhaanu glacier was awaiting us, and we had to cross it. The boulder hopping started with our guide leaving the way.
Boulder hopping:
For people who live closer to the equator, snow and ice have a distinct warm place in their hearts. It is all fine, as long the exposure is limited to a couple of hours of fresh snowfall when you can take some photos and show it off back home. This is real treacherous ice. The photo looked good, but the effort to climb halfway and cross over to the other side made my brain scream "tent" "sleep" "rest." This is a nontechnical trek, so no ice axes or anything to keep you from losing your footing - not even a fine pair of shoes. A day before, a Tibetan lady sold me the shoes I was trekking in, and promised us it was the best. I cursed her in invented Tibetan. (Actually I cursed myself for going on a trek like this without well-worn shoes.)Here's the ice flow that created the glacier:
The glacier seen from above:
One of the many rest stops on the way:
A lot of pilgrims come to visit Vasudhara Falls on the other side of the river. Here's Vasudhara viewed from our side:
For all the exertion, the scenery on all sides was compelling.
The bad part about mountain scenarios is that the distances could deceive you. You can see your camping destination for the night upfront, but to reach it you have to cross a few hillocks or ups and downs. Once you cross a few of them you tend to think that beyond the next "up" is your destination. But like some prescription medicine, the next few "ups" present themselves with consummate ease that only nature can bestow. Any way after some time we were relieved to see the camp all set up in Chamtholi Bugyal. By the time we dragged our haggard bodies in, Mannu and his help had gone ahead and set up everything.
After we settled down, I got some folk wisdom from Mannu "yeah trekking route toh sab bakriwaalon ka den hai" meaning that all these trekking routes are gifts from the goat herders. As soon as the punishing Himalayan winters retreat, goat herders come in and let their herds lose on these pastures. They live in the caves (like the one shown below) and make their flock sturdy and go back to the valleys before the onslaught of the next cold wave.
Here’s Shylendran, my trekking buddy:
The day had gone by and we had not made as much progress as we could possibly have. Kuldip was making dinner which smelled pretty good. But alas, when the time came for eating, my non-veg turrets acted up and could not eat much of the aloo/gobi gang.
I went to sleep with no one except the few of us in 5 kilometers on one side, and possible no one except us for hundreds of kilometers on the other. The mobile strength indicators had died a meek death the moment we started walking on grass during the day.
I had a swell time with Mannu, thanks to Bermuda XXX. But, other than that, I'm sure, Mannu must have gone to sleep thinking how he ended up guiding a bunch of sissies up the mountain, that too when the trekking season hasn't even begun. And I had this sinking feeling that this wouldn't be the last night he would sleep thinking like that.
The next part: Day 2
Day 1
We were ready by around 8 in the morning. Mannu Rawat, our guide, came with our two porters (Bhuvan and Kuldeep). Bhuvan, a sturdy looking lad, is from Nepal. Kuldeep would be our porter-cum-cook for the next five days. We had our breakfast and started soon enough. We went over Bhim Pul and crossed the makeshift bridge over Alaknanda river. Mannu rushed back to the village to vote, while we moved on from Keshav Prayag, the confluence of River Saraswati and Alaknanda. The national elections were going on, and this was the final round of polling. Alaknanda is on the left in the pic below. We will trace her to her source and move further on to Satopnath Tal, if everything went well over the next few days.
We climbed a little bit and reached Mata Murthy Temple. Every place in Uttarakhand has a legend attached to it, and legend has it that Mata Murthy is the mother of Lord Badrinath.
There are potato fields at these heights. Mannu owns a small farm here. His mother had brought a small sack of potatoes to be used on our trek.
There are native potato storage systems for the winter. The farmers store potatoes in holes dug in the ground before winter. Once the winter ice cover melts, the hole is opened up and the seeds used for farming the next year. Here's a hole that held last year's seeds.
There's very little of a trail on the way. The first few kilometers of walk was through grasslands. I despised the treacherous nature of grass, unknowing what lay ahead.
We could have moved on the other side of the river, which had a clear paved trail, however the crossover would have been difficult. What is called Dhaanu glacier by the locals is the usual crossover point. This year the glacier was very thin, as noted by Mannu in his reconnaissance effort a few days back. We had to settle for the treacherous terrain.
Grubs on the way:
Me, Mannu, Bhuvan, Kuldip in that order, from left:
On the way, we found this waterfall that could never truly fall, thanks to the wind.
And here's the video:
Dhaanu glacier was awaiting us, and we had to cross it. The boulder hopping started with our guide leaving the way.
Boulder hopping:
For people who live closer to the equator, snow and ice have a distinct warm place in their hearts. It is all fine, as long the exposure is limited to a couple of hours of fresh snowfall when you can take some photos and show it off back home. This is real treacherous ice. The photo looked good, but the effort to climb halfway and cross over to the other side made my brain scream "tent" "sleep" "rest." This is a nontechnical trek, so no ice axes or anything to keep you from losing your footing - not even a fine pair of shoes. A day before, a Tibetan lady sold me the shoes I was trekking in, and promised us it was the best. I cursed her in invented Tibetan. (Actually I cursed myself for going on a trek like this without well-worn shoes.)Here's the ice flow that created the glacier:
The glacier seen from above:
One of the many rest stops on the way:
A lot of pilgrims come to visit Vasudhara Falls on the other side of the river. Here's Vasudhara viewed from our side:
For all the exertion, the scenery on all sides was compelling.
The bad part about mountain scenarios is that the distances could deceive you. You can see your camping destination for the night upfront, but to reach it you have to cross a few hillocks or ups and downs. Once you cross a few of them you tend to think that beyond the next "up" is your destination. But like some prescription medicine, the next few "ups" present themselves with consummate ease that only nature can bestow. Any way after some time we were relieved to see the camp all set up in Chamtholi Bugyal. By the time we dragged our haggard bodies in, Mannu and his help had gone ahead and set up everything.
After we settled down, I got some folk wisdom from Mannu "yeah trekking route toh sab bakriwaalon ka den hai" meaning that all these trekking routes are gifts from the goat herders. As soon as the punishing Himalayan winters retreat, goat herders come in and let their herds lose on these pastures. They live in the caves (like the one shown below) and make their flock sturdy and go back to the valleys before the onslaught of the next cold wave.
Here’s Shylendran, my trekking buddy:
The day had gone by and we had not made as much progress as we could possibly have. Kuldip was making dinner which smelled pretty good. But alas, when the time came for eating, my non-veg turrets acted up and could not eat much of the aloo/gobi gang.
I went to sleep with no one except the few of us in 5 kilometers on one side, and possible no one except us for hundreds of kilometers on the other. The mobile strength indicators had died a meek death the moment we started walking on grass during the day.
I had a swell time with Mannu, thanks to Bermuda XXX. But, other than that, I'm sure, Mannu must have gone to sleep thinking how he ended up guiding a bunch of sissies up the mountain, that too when the trekking season hasn't even begun. And I had this sinking feeling that this wouldn't be the last night he would sleep thinking like that.
The next part: Day 2
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Hunger 101
I never knew hunger for the first 15 years of my life. I could not comprehend it, as food was available all the time. My first personal taste of it came in college, when some times I wouldn't even eat when I had the money, preferring to spent it on delights more fluid in nature.
Of course I had seen beggars on the street and stuff like that, but the brush with real hunger waited for a few more years before it presented itself. It was one of those evenings in Masjid Bandar in Mumbai. I was walking to my office for the evening shift editing content for a metal industry news portal. Some parts of India's commercial capital could also be the shanty capitals of the world, giving the Brazilian favelas a run for their money (or the lack of it). Masjid Bandar isn't that shanty, but you get the paan stained, jostling, noisy dirty street, vada paav, street seller, thick autorickshaw fumes idea.
I stopped at an open-air Chinese food outlet, which serves dishes, some of which the Chinese may not have ever dreamt about. I picked chicken fried rice, and started shoving it down my hungry oesophagus in a hurry. Someone prodded me from behind, and I turned around to see this guy, possibly 14 or 15 years old, wearing a pair of torn trousers, no shirt on, unkempt hair, and the works.
Using the hand-to-mouth action, he indicated that he could really use some food. He looked hungry to me (and he wasn't asking for money - I hate that.)and I ordered a half-plate fried rice for him. The person manning the food joint just placed the rice on a big dry leaf and gave it to the fellow. Normal people too get it on the dry leaf, but there's a plate placed underneath. Hmmm, I was in no mood to fight discrimination.
Any way, the fellow took the food, kept it on the pavement, and sat there. I went back to the process of shoving my share down, thoughts shifting back to work that's to be completed. I was shocked back to the real world in a second as something wrapped around my legs real tight. Looking down, I saw that the hungry fellow was hugging both my legs in one huge grasp, looking up and crying.
I almost kicked his hands away, kept or threw the plate, gave the cash - all in a matter of a few seconds. And ran..literally ran to my office. Upset was not the word. In some time, however, the rational stuff kicked in. He looked haggard, but ok. Why can't he find a job, any freaking job? Why should he beg? etc. etc.
But the question remains to this day - what level of hunger can drive a man to the feet of another to express his gratitude for food?
Of course I had seen beggars on the street and stuff like that, but the brush with real hunger waited for a few more years before it presented itself. It was one of those evenings in Masjid Bandar in Mumbai. I was walking to my office for the evening shift editing content for a metal industry news portal. Some parts of India's commercial capital could also be the shanty capitals of the world, giving the Brazilian favelas a run for their money (or the lack of it). Masjid Bandar isn't that shanty, but you get the paan stained, jostling, noisy dirty street, vada paav, street seller, thick autorickshaw fumes idea.
I stopped at an open-air Chinese food outlet, which serves dishes, some of which the Chinese may not have ever dreamt about. I picked chicken fried rice, and started shoving it down my hungry oesophagus in a hurry. Someone prodded me from behind, and I turned around to see this guy, possibly 14 or 15 years old, wearing a pair of torn trousers, no shirt on, unkempt hair, and the works.
Using the hand-to-mouth action, he indicated that he could really use some food. He looked hungry to me (and he wasn't asking for money - I hate that.)and I ordered a half-plate fried rice for him. The person manning the food joint just placed the rice on a big dry leaf and gave it to the fellow. Normal people too get it on the dry leaf, but there's a plate placed underneath. Hmmm, I was in no mood to fight discrimination.
Any way, the fellow took the food, kept it on the pavement, and sat there. I went back to the process of shoving my share down, thoughts shifting back to work that's to be completed. I was shocked back to the real world in a second as something wrapped around my legs real tight. Looking down, I saw that the hungry fellow was hugging both my legs in one huge grasp, looking up and crying.
I almost kicked his hands away, kept or threw the plate, gave the cash - all in a matter of a few seconds. And ran..literally ran to my office. Upset was not the word. In some time, however, the rational stuff kicked in. He looked haggard, but ok. Why can't he find a job, any freaking job? Why should he beg? etc. etc.
But the question remains to this day - what level of hunger can drive a man to the feet of another to express his gratitude for food?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Octopus Society - Parts 3, 4
For those who missed parts 1 and 2, there are no parts 1 and 2 that have been uploaded. Teeeheehheee
Third & Fourth Estates: Businessmen & Media. Yeah we know, they are not all that pristine. Jr. Ambani was barred from capital markets recently, and it’s not big news. I checked just now, and there's just 329 news articles on google news, after 5 days! When Harshad Mehta was hunted down, it made big news 15 years ago. And after he was arrested, or something like that, he alleged that he gave one crore to the then PM, PVNR. Dismissing the bug bull’s claims, the late, K. Karunakaran, then the CM of my state, said something to this effect “At the state-level 1 crore means something. At the central-level, what is 1 crore?” And we laughed it off as a society. Like, we ignore the banning of one of the richest men in the country now from the watering hole of capitalism – the stock market.
Even before the Radia tapes, I hated media. Not the jealous type of hate. I hated the high falutin stance of the new media breed. On any issue, they had taken the role of the jury, the lawyers, and the guillotine man in one sweep. And I hate that much power vested in one leg of our Octopus society.
I for one, wanted to be a journalist, years ago, when I was getting stifled by steam tables, gas dynamics, and Laplace transformations – during my engineering.
Sometime later, I applied for a Certificate Course in Electronic Journalism. The day of the interview to short list candidates was a shocker. There were 40 or 50 aspirants, and they had to filter it down to 25 people. I knew I would sail through, when I heard two people discussing things around me.
Guy1: In this course, I heard, they teach you to go to the Internet and find relevant information.
Guy 2: Really, I have used e-mail before, but this will be so cool.
I was like “get a life fellows, the world has moved on” and walked into this auditorium where 5 or 6 doyens of the press were gonna interview me. They sat on an elevated platform where politicians sit for press conferences. They asked me to read two news articles, journo style, one in English and one in Malayalam. Did those in a pretty suave fashion. And then they asked a few questions, and I answered them well (Yeah I did). Then they asked me if I had any questions. And I asked something like (smacks head now), in televised press conferences, I see some relatively arrogant comments from politicians, and I see the people from the press laugh. How do you explain this, considering it’s your duty to grill them to get meaningful information to your audience?
Some senior fellow in the dais said something to the effect of you will know the pressure of it when the time comes. And it ended. I walked out feeling confident, and the coordinator told me he will get back to me.
When I went down, I saw an elated Guy1 (mentioned above) pumping his fist, because he had been selected. Guy 2, who went in after me (who could not even speak properly), and came out barely a few minutes later, also was selected. And that day, I got the essence of I will get back to you. In retrospect, I didn’t lose much. But, as a candidate, that was a depressing experience. Failure gets to me, even if it is (or is not) of my own making. T/F you – TVM press club.
Third & Fourth Estates: Businessmen & Media. Yeah we know, they are not all that pristine. Jr. Ambani was barred from capital markets recently, and it’s not big news. I checked just now, and there's just 329 news articles on google news, after 5 days! When Harshad Mehta was hunted down, it made big news 15 years ago. And after he was arrested, or something like that, he alleged that he gave one crore to the then PM, PVNR. Dismissing the bug bull’s claims, the late, K. Karunakaran, then the CM of my state, said something to this effect “At the state-level 1 crore means something. At the central-level, what is 1 crore?” And we laughed it off as a society. Like, we ignore the banning of one of the richest men in the country now from the watering hole of capitalism – the stock market.
Even before the Radia tapes, I hated media. Not the jealous type of hate. I hated the high falutin stance of the new media breed. On any issue, they had taken the role of the jury, the lawyers, and the guillotine man in one sweep. And I hate that much power vested in one leg of our Octopus society.
I for one, wanted to be a journalist, years ago, when I was getting stifled by steam tables, gas dynamics, and Laplace transformations – during my engineering.
Sometime later, I applied for a Certificate Course in Electronic Journalism. The day of the interview to short list candidates was a shocker. There were 40 or 50 aspirants, and they had to filter it down to 25 people. I knew I would sail through, when I heard two people discussing things around me.
Guy1: In this course, I heard, they teach you to go to the Internet and find relevant information.
Guy 2: Really, I have used e-mail before, but this will be so cool.
I was like “get a life fellows, the world has moved on” and walked into this auditorium where 5 or 6 doyens of the press were gonna interview me. They sat on an elevated platform where politicians sit for press conferences. They asked me to read two news articles, journo style, one in English and one in Malayalam. Did those in a pretty suave fashion. And then they asked a few questions, and I answered them well (Yeah I did). Then they asked me if I had any questions. And I asked something like (smacks head now), in televised press conferences, I see some relatively arrogant comments from politicians, and I see the people from the press laugh. How do you explain this, considering it’s your duty to grill them to get meaningful information to your audience?
Some senior fellow in the dais said something to the effect of you will know the pressure of it when the time comes. And it ended. I walked out feeling confident, and the coordinator told me he will get back to me.
When I went down, I saw an elated Guy1 (mentioned above) pumping his fist, because he had been selected. Guy 2, who went in after me (who could not even speak properly), and came out barely a few minutes later, also was selected. And that day, I got the essence of I will get back to you. In retrospect, I didn’t lose much. But, as a candidate, that was a depressing experience. Failure gets to me, even if it is (or is not) of my own making. T/F you – TVM press club.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Divine appointment @ Rs. 80 + service charges
About his pilgrimage experience to the Amarnath cave, Swami Vivekananda once said, "I thought the ice lingam was Shiva himself and there were no thievish Brahmins, no trade, nothing wrong. It was all worship. I have never seen anything so beautiful, so inspiring and enjoyed any religious place so much."
A lot of other big places of worship in India still reek of corruption at all levels, starting from special darshans to bribing officials, priests, and what not.
Recently, I'd been to the the temple of Kanya Kumari (Cape Comorin) that possibly is a few hundred meters from the rocky island on which Swami Vivekananda meditated. Vivekenanda rock, with waves of three major oceans/seas caressing its periphery, is still a charm. I first visited the rock some 20 odd years ago, and my memories from those days more or less matched my current experience. Pretty good.
The Kanya Kumari temple visit was a disaster. There was a long queue to start with. We saw that special darshan tickets were on offer at Rs. 50 or 100 per head. Though not a great fan of darshans, I thought, hmmm, let's get done with this quickly. As soon as we moved away from the main queue, a temple official approached us and told that special darshan tickets alone will take us only so far. We have to pay him 100 bucks extra, per head, so that things can move like a tsunami inside the temple. A cop was overhearing this conversation, and pretended that he was hearing nothing. (Yeah, slap me, for thinking a cop would...)
Disgusted, I told my dad, let's go with the main queue, which now looked like it was making some progress. My bad. After we got sucked into the main queue, it stopped. For half an hour. I was thinking this is impossible. But the solution soon presented itself. Agents appeared offering to rescue us from the hardship, if we paid the special fees and a discounted rate of 50 per head as dakshina ("sweat equity" for the lack of a better translation). Now this line is formed around the temple, with iron grills on one side and the wall on the other. I realized that we had become a captive audience -with no means of escape - for these fellows. We declined, as the line started moving again.
Another 50 meters of movement, and another painful halt. For 10, 20 minutes. We decided, enough was enough, and broke our chains of bondage, as soon as we saw an opening in the iron grills. Walked out like free men and women. While walking out, one of the agents we met earlier appeared again with a discounted fare of Rs. 20 dakshina per head plus special tickets. I was pissed at the whole affair, but it's a family affair, and one or two of us was against the idea of walking out of a temple totally. I went in.
Thanks to our guide, we sidestepped the 10 minute queue for special tickets, and procured those in 2 minutes. Normal - good service, I thought. Not bad for 20 bucks per head.
And then the queue for darshan remained, which may take another 15 minutes. Our guide pulled me back as I was walking towards it, and pointed in the opposite direction - toward the exit from the sanctum sanctorum or the garbhagriha.
I was like, dude we want to go in. And he was like, listen dude, I know a better way. Now the exit from the sanctum sanctorum at the Kanya Kumari temple is a small one. The door is too short. People kind of crouch to get out, and we could see a lot of them making their way out. Our guide jumps in, stops the flow, pushes us in, against the flow of temple traffic, and in 3 minutes me and my family are standing in front of the deity. I don't know what I prayed. I didn't think I did pray at all.
And in 3 or 4 minutes, we came out the same way we went in. Like food that goes in through the rectum and comes out the same way. Disgusting quick s#@$. And we purchased it for 80 bucks for the four of us adults and a kid + the special ticket fare.
Gods must have fled these places of worship a long time ago.
I think sometimes it's better to be an atheist who believes in god.
And his hands would plait the priest's entrails,
For want of a rope, to strangle kings.
-Denis Diderot
A lot of other big places of worship in India still reek of corruption at all levels, starting from special darshans to bribing officials, priests, and what not.
Recently, I'd been to the the temple of Kanya Kumari (Cape Comorin) that possibly is a few hundred meters from the rocky island on which Swami Vivekananda meditated. Vivekenanda rock, with waves of three major oceans/seas caressing its periphery, is still a charm. I first visited the rock some 20 odd years ago, and my memories from those days more or less matched my current experience. Pretty good.
The Kanya Kumari temple visit was a disaster. There was a long queue to start with. We saw that special darshan tickets were on offer at Rs. 50 or 100 per head. Though not a great fan of darshans, I thought, hmmm, let's get done with this quickly. As soon as we moved away from the main queue, a temple official approached us and told that special darshan tickets alone will take us only so far. We have to pay him 100 bucks extra, per head, so that things can move like a tsunami inside the temple. A cop was overhearing this conversation, and pretended that he was hearing nothing. (Yeah, slap me, for thinking a cop would...)
Disgusted, I told my dad, let's go with the main queue, which now looked like it was making some progress. My bad. After we got sucked into the main queue, it stopped. For half an hour. I was thinking this is impossible. But the solution soon presented itself. Agents appeared offering to rescue us from the hardship, if we paid the special fees and a discounted rate of 50 per head as dakshina ("sweat equity" for the lack of a better translation). Now this line is formed around the temple, with iron grills on one side and the wall on the other. I realized that we had become a captive audience -with no means of escape - for these fellows. We declined, as the line started moving again.
Another 50 meters of movement, and another painful halt. For 10, 20 minutes. We decided, enough was enough, and broke our chains of bondage, as soon as we saw an opening in the iron grills. Walked out like free men and women. While walking out, one of the agents we met earlier appeared again with a discounted fare of Rs. 20 dakshina per head plus special tickets. I was pissed at the whole affair, but it's a family affair, and one or two of us was against the idea of walking out of a temple totally. I went in.
Thanks to our guide, we sidestepped the 10 minute queue for special tickets, and procured those in 2 minutes. Normal - good service, I thought. Not bad for 20 bucks per head.
And then the queue for darshan remained, which may take another 15 minutes. Our guide pulled me back as I was walking towards it, and pointed in the opposite direction - toward the exit from the sanctum sanctorum or the garbhagriha.
I was like, dude we want to go in. And he was like, listen dude, I know a better way. Now the exit from the sanctum sanctorum at the Kanya Kumari temple is a small one. The door is too short. People kind of crouch to get out, and we could see a lot of them making their way out. Our guide jumps in, stops the flow, pushes us in, against the flow of temple traffic, and in 3 minutes me and my family are standing in front of the deity. I don't know what I prayed. I didn't think I did pray at all.
And in 3 or 4 minutes, we came out the same way we went in. Like food that goes in through the rectum and comes out the same way. Disgusting quick s#@$. And we purchased it for 80 bucks for the four of us adults and a kid + the special ticket fare.
Gods must have fled these places of worship a long time ago.
I think sometimes it's better to be an atheist who believes in god.
And his hands would plait the priest's entrails,
For want of a rope, to strangle kings.
-Denis Diderot
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