gappa

Dark Optical Splendour....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 04:28:00 +0000

Audrey Hepburn is supposed to have said ," My look is attainable. Women can look like Audrey Hepburn by flipping out their hair, buying the large sunglasses, and the little sleeveless dresses ..."

Hmmm. Excuse me.

That's because she never met someone like my late mother-in-law.

There is nothing more impressive than a tall lady , with a shining translucent complexion, wearing a traditional earth colored kanjivaram saree, with a stubborn white cotton blouse, a long mangalsutra round her neck, diamonds in the ears, a decent size tikka on the forehead and a set of brown black mafia style (the type Karunanidhi wears) sunglasses properly set on her eyes. I have always loved these kind of sunglasses, and there was nothing more regal when she wore them, shortly after her cataract operation in her 70's , in the non-phaco-emulsification surgery days, when you emerged from the OT is sunglasses and kept them on for 10 days in hospital, while the stitches dried.

Perfect for hiding your eyes from visitors, one could simply take a nap, when faced with visitors you didn't like, and no one found out if you opened your eyes by mistake; you could be looking at the door and no one could see that you were not listening to them. These glasses really suit everyone, right from the three year old grandson who wants to try them on, to the daughter and daughter-in-law wanting to protect their contact lenses. The frames never went out of fashion, and will always keep coming back if they do.

And GKB opticals has these ! Model SUNDRIVE M-001 0 !

You can even use them after the cataract has healed . In alternate use, such glasses fit firmly behind, over the bun of your hair, and provide a firm basis for anchoring all the lovely jasmine gajras on special occasions.

Naturally, carrying them in dabbas that click shut is passé. Authentic heirloom white blouses, often had a pocket at the lower part of the blouse near your waist. (Very thoughtful, and something all current designers need to note , busy as they are deleting shoulders etc from blouses....). These glasses maybe smartly kept in these pockets, and pulled out at a moments notice to examine someone's new necklace or jari embroidery. Alternatively, they do set off a lovely Kanjeevaram when tucked in at the waist, say, next to a bunch of keys. Highly recommended especially for senior ladies, not obsessed or impressed with the current rimless mania.

While these may be fine for everyday wear, it is imperative to have a special pair for special occasions, like attending the afternoon bhishi of the colony ladies, Mrs. H's daughter's engagement celebration or, say, a special meeting . Mumbai being very dusty, thanks to the constant digging of roads, one must have adequate protection while zooming around in autos. You need sideways protection in glasses as the ricks are open on the sides.

What better than these OAKLEY FatCat 03-358 model glasses ! In a special wrap-around styling......

One has to change with the times . These glasses come, in what one may call, dainty ladies' colors. They provide amazing protection around the sides of the eyes, preventing you from taking a sideways look at, say, what Mrs so-and-so. next to you, was looking at in the jeweller's shop. It also keeps your eyes protected from all the dust coming in from the sides.

These glasses, when combined with mangalsutra style holders that attach to the frame on the side, ensure that even the biggest pothole faced by you in a rickshaw, will not damage and dislodge your glasses. They will simply slip down and rest on the leheriya border of your modern saree. You may of course, have chains in pure gold and tiny pearls anchored to your glasses for special occasions. Given our traditions in gems and jewellery, really, I mean the sky is the limit then for using these fine set of glasses .

These glasses have inbuilt decoration on the sides, which lends itself to further innovative applications . Since these are wrap-around glasses , it is natural that one may want to wear them around the neck, as a choker occasionally. For those with daughters approaching size zero, a la Kareena Kapur , the possibility of using these amazing glasses as a cummerbund in the next Lakme India Fashion Week, cannot be denied.

Of course, there are several other styles that would look good too. There is a lot of variety today in clothes and hairdo's . Sometimes, the entire hairstyle consists of leaving the hair open, like we did after a head bath on Sundays in our childhood 50 years ago !. In this fast life, all that flying hair, would really go well with Rayban aviator style glasses. You know, you may not fly, but your hair does, as you rush about. It always impresses the cops if they happen to catch you for going through a red signal. Makes you look kind of corporate and busy. And maybe Page 3.

And yet, I believe in the here and now . In being yourself, and not giving in to fashion diktats. And having multiple uses of things like sunglasses.

But I will let you in on a secret. What I really hanker after are those clip-on type attachments that one may wear on ordinary prescription glasses. My late father had one of those, and I've always wanted to kind of turn them up (like a cap visor) , say while checking a bill or something, then click them down, and then leave in dark eyed splendor for the next appointment.

What to do ! We old folks are, as they say these days, like that only!

This entry is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com brought to you by GKB Optical Sunglasses

Nothing changes ....or does it ?

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 04:57:00 +0000

Mumbai is having civic elections, and suddenly television is full, of various parties showing up what is wrong with Mumbai and blaming it on other parties. There are folks promising good water supply, green spaces, cheap housing , security for citizens, and all kinds of things , hitherto considered Utopian in Mumbai.   No one believes these lofty claims, and everyone has seen through the greed of the politicians.

At the ground level however, things remain the same and no one cares.

Over the last several years I have been doing the rounds of courts, as part of the handling of paperwork related to my late parents . A lot of my time is spent sourcing stamp papers of various denominations, and getting all kinds of documents prepared, and notarized.

I had blogged earlier about doing this in Pune, and the amazing experiences one had there, in unexpected places selling stamp papers , amidst building ruins,and bus-washing places. I thought Mumbai, being the state capital would be a bit different.

It was. :-)

At one of the courthouses in a western suburb which is a huge bus and train terminus, you get accosted by various black coated folks asking you what your work is. Some say they will do it for you, and quote atrocious fees. So you kind of flit around in the courtyard chock-a block with advocates, and settle on someone.

Then you get in line for the stamp paper. There are stamp papers which must bear your name, and stamp papers which needn't. Naturally , mine are the former, and i get in a queue, that snakes artistically below a high window. Advocates, can buy their stamp papers on grounds without much gradient. I reach the window, only after i climb on two large stones, and a huge cylindrical drum, only to learn that the denomination I want is not available/finished, and so I get the higher one.

A lot of typing, disappearing, xeroxing, climbing stairs, later, I get what I need. Actually I badly need a cup of tea.

I need to notarize stuff . Its on the 3rd floor. There is an elevator, but I am told it is only for judges. I wonder what happens to older people, those with handicaps and so on, and I am told, the elevator is unreliable, and it stops at random. I stay away.

Things are in place for higher levels, Us lower humans simply watch and listen.

Then someone told me about a courthouse , in the eastern suburb, where I could go. Last week I went there.

Broad roads, lots of trees, there didn't seem to be darting advocates anywhere. I reached at around 10:30, to see a bunch of cops, and someone who looked like a plainclothesman/detective, standing and chatting. Before I could feel good about the nice environment, I found out that they sold NO stamp papers at this courthouse. The guy who had the licence to do so, cheated, and had his licence confiscated. They hadn't yet found an honest replacement.

But every missing stamp paper thing has a silver lining. I was told by the staff of a Notary at court, that I could get stuff "franked" ; ie you typed up the stuff and some bank authorized to do so would"Frank" it for the amount of the stamp paper.

After a huge search, I found a bank at the bottom of the hill where I reside, and traipsed down there, by the side of the swank new 8 lane (or 10 lane; depends) road. The sidewalks have been given step motherly treatment, and most places you tangle with huge digging being done by the utilities. Someone has washed the courtyard outside the bank, and I land up inside with wet footwear and no entrance mat. The front office guy is very helpful, and I see a hope. He asks me to pay at the counter.

The cashier gives me a look reserved for those "guilty until proven innocent", fingers the currency notes, and returns one back saying "Give another one, this one has a tear".

I thought banks were supposed to replace soiled notes (so long as the pieces were connected naturally) . I request him .

"No. We do not replace notes. We are not the State Bank. Go there." And he glares.

I replace the note. Once again the suspicious look.

" OK. Take these receipts and you will have to wait for an hour! "

There has been no other customer except me, my documents for franking are with them, and I have no choice. I decide to sit and wait it out, reading noticeboards, messages on my phone about valentines deals and some such.

Ten minutes later the front office calls me , and has me sign for my franked copies.

I rush out on my way to the court, for notarizing the papers. I alternate between good and bad experiences. I've just had a good one. I wonder what bad one lies in store. I soon find out.

I need to dash through fast traffic, perpendicular to it, and cross across, through all kinds of construction debris under a flyover, to the other side to get a three wheeler to court. A few jumps and leaps later , and to the vast amusement of some folks, I find a vehicle to take me there.

The driver knows some shortcuts, and it costs me half as much to reach there today. I am thrilled. I rush in to get my stuff notarized at the fellow who did it earlier. Work done, fees paid, I need to get home fast, and I find a 3 wheeler after much effort.

It is noon. He needs to get back to school duty in 45 minutes but is willing to do this quick trip.

He has much to say.

" One day left for civic elections. This place is a madhouse today. People brought in from outside on payment, to walk in processions ad shout at meetings. All these fellows hold illegal meetings and block roads. The supporters are plied with food and alcohol, and they act rude. Why must I vote for these chaps who call themselves social workers on a dais and revert to being a goonda the day after elections ? I do this school transport work as my social contribution. What have they done?"

We are on the highway, and he speeds up.

" All the children of leaders are in the fray. None of them have worked a job from 9 to 5. How will they know the problems of people in Mumbai ? Do they know what it is to miss a daily wage that puts food on the table ? .....At first I thought I won't vote; but now I will. That's our only chance to throw the bad guys out...."

We reach my neighborhood, and I get off so he he can rush back in time for his school duty.

Its been a day of pluses and minuses changing by the hour. There are times when you feel encouraged, and then , possibly disgusted.

No one really worries about the ordinary person in Mumbai. Big projects are announced , started and presumably completed and whats most important, paid for.   So everyone gets their cut.

But there is some hope. Like the rickshawallah.

He waits for the red light to change, as he watches an election candidate jeep with flags, run through the light, and just miss someone taking a U-turn.

I turn around and walk back to my building, amidst a bunch of trucks, loading up on wood from so many trees that have been cut on campus. Why ? I don't know.

Like I said, the day has alternated between good and bad.

At my level, nothing has changed....

Life Algebras

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 05:00:00 +0000

The reason for this post is another post by a friend.

Till you learn algebra, you are always in a world of constants. Then you get introduced to "variables" , which are things that take on different values.

Life is a kind of algebra too. Some things in life are constant, some take on various values throughout their tenure, you build equations, look for solutions, add acquaintances, subtract bad experiences, multiply resources, and divide stuff with your near and dear ones. Sometimes you are calculating, and sometimes you exceed "limits".......

When I went to school , writing instruments were introduced and remained constant for fixed unchangeable periods. "Slate pencils" in kindergaarten. We used pencils to do classwork and homework, till class 6. I do not ever recall being flooded with pencil ads, sharpener ads or eraser ads. I cannot recall insisting on a particular pencil brand or color. There were these fixed pencils everyone always bought, and they were taken to class in a rattling metal box.

Somewhere in class 7, we started using precursors to the fountain pen. These were long reed things, with disposable nibs that you attached. Our school desks ( we each had one desk) , boasted an inkwell on the top right hand side. We spent 2-3 years, writing our lessons and homework with these nib-pens, and I distinctly remember the class monitor walking around with a giant ink bottle, filling everyone ink wells. Fountain pens were simply banned. And ball point pens were persona non grata.

The graduation to fountain pens was like an achievement, once we reached class 9. Or maybe , it was 10. Suddenly, the desks had no ink wells, We all thought we looked really smart with pens clipped on to the uniform down the front. Even then, we used the same fountain pen for years. Spare nibs were carried always. We even carried blotting papers. This being a girls' school, we possibly escaped the sport of shaking the pen and squirting ink drops on the back of some one's uniform frock.

By this time "compass boxes", later referred to by modern folks as "geometry boxes" were a part of the school bag. It was possible, traditional and expected, that once bought, we use the same compass box throughout our school years, and possibly even later. I remember using the same compass box, a green and orange tin affair, with possibly brass instruments inside, throughout school and college. And the banged up , color-scratched, slightly rusted , terribly aged look gave it a kind of seniority. For some reason we never lost set squares and protractors.

Watches were not "accessories". I remember my mother giving me her old simple watch to use as my own, in standard 9, because she thought I might get carried away answering a particular exam question, at the cost of all other questions. I proudly wore it, learnt how to allocate time to a question paper, and not be surprised or upset when there were only 10 minutes left. I used this watch right till my 2nd year in college. My parents then gave me a new watch, as a special reward for doing well academically, and I used this for years, till the early seventies after I started working in Mumbai after post graduation.

And then there were phones. We got our first telephone connection (and our first ceiling fan; don't ask what the connection was) , when I was in the 8th grade. We tended to shout over the telephone initially, since we had an idea where our friends lived. Our time on the phone was minutely monitored, and bills were scrutinized, not because we made spurious calls, but because folks were convinced that billing types made mistakes, that totals needed to be rechecked. Calls to other cities had to be booked, urgent life situations called for lightening calls that cost the earth, and we made a list of points to be spoken; no unnecessary niceties and comments; you paid through your nose.

Another constant in our lives was that of no pocket money. Our parents gave us whatever was required after a lot of thought. We asked , and were never really upset when we were denied things. For some reason, I always had whatever I wanted, and remember more of what I got than what I was denied. Till I went to college and lived in the hostel, I had never had reason to wilfully buy anything; and when I did, reasoning out with self and planning had become second nature.

Today, buying stuff in stationery shops has become like a hobby. Ball point pens, which were banned in school in our time, now come in versions, and technologies. Children in middle school use them and handwriting suffers. Everything that was a more or less constant in our time, is now a massively changing variable. The old style compass box is extinct, and we now have plastic boxes, with fancy implements. Every time a new style appears, the old ones are discarded. Watches are changed depending on outfits. The old rotary black phone is almost extinct, and every child now sports a cell phone, with ring tones from movies , the types of which were simply banned for us in our childhood. I don't really remember things like toy shops from my childhood, though I do remember cycle shops that sold ordinary utility style tricycles and bicycles which we extensively used in hand me down fashion. Language abilities today, are going for a toss, with the abbreviated messaging on phones and on things like Twitter. Friends , even good friends, now tend to be variables rather than constants.

I often wonder , if this tendency to live in variables is good. The ideal situation is where you have a nice mix of constants and variables, a lot of it having to do with concern and respect, and very little of it having to do with money. For that matter Facebook.

Variables also invariably lead to the concept of use and throw. So we have use and throw plates, use and throw bags, use and throw pens, use and throw electronic unrepairable cheap Chinese items.

I wonder if we are leading up now , to, use and throw friends, use and throw parents, use and throw employees, use and throw utensils, and for an avaricious government, use and throw voters.

Algebra was all about finding the value of an unknown, called X. Or Y . Or Z. And determining its value, a constant for the situation in question.

Far from it, we have ended up adding more unknowns in our lives. So much of giving in to peer pressure, working parents, the interchangeable status of money and time , one for the other, and such an overflow of unnecessary information, that at the end of the day, that at the end of the day, we tend to forget, if you excuse the expression, the ABC's of life ......

The Big C

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 13:13:00 +0000

The papers are full of cricketer Yuvraj Singh and his fight with the Big C. I have also known many folks who have battled the same scourge, and come out successful, because of the amazing specific treatments that are available today, across a range of impressive technologies and pharmaceuticals.

One of the reasons, that we have reached this stage, is because , we have a perfectly detailed map of how things are functioning inside our bodies . Not only that, but whenever , there have been new advances in the body maps, pharmaceutics, or even diagnostic tools, concerned people have made exhaustive documentation, and made it freely available.

It was not always so. (You can tell I am reading Emperor of Maladies.....).

Hippocrates, who postulated stuff around 400 BC, defined the human body to be composed of 4 humors or fluids. Blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm. In balance, they defined good health. Out of balance , you were sick. Claudius Galen, a Greek doctor (AD 160) who treated Romans, defined various illnesses specifically ; like inflammations were related to blood, pus stuff was related to phlegm, jaundice was related to yellow bile. Dr Galen specifically dedicated "trapped" black bile to define cancer, and depression, a perceptive combination. Till about 1533, cancer treatment was all about gory surgeries, hacking of infected body parts, deaths by infection and so on. Andreas Vesalius , a medical student ,came to Paris from Brussels to study anatomy in the steps of Galen, was aghast at the absence of a "body" map to guide those doctors performing these surgeries, and set about actually "mapping the human body, muscles, nerves, bones, blood vessels et al. He sourced bodies from graveyards, prisons, and such places, and exhaustively mapped and publish his detailed drawings of normal anatomy. More than 200 years later, Matthew Bailie in London, created a similar atlas of a diseased body. Somewhere between 1846 and 1875 anesthesia came into the picture, along with an ability to control wound infections (sepsis), and this formed a very sturdy base on which all kinds of cancer surgeries were done.

Today , amazing nano technologies and pharmaceutical treatment at the genetic marker level are at the forefront of cancer treatment, and many cancers, hitherto considered uncurable, are now treatable. At the root of all these advances, is clearly, the landmark mapping work done by people like Vesalius and Bailie. You no longer did approximate cuts and hacks. They laid down the rules of how you approached the body and the diseased section.

Our society today, is afflicted buy one of the biggest cancers one can think of.

Corruption.

It was not always so.

About 50 years ago, corruption, like cancer was not so common or prevalent; possibly , it existed, but was not recognized. Unlike cancer, it was never a matter of life and death, and so it progressed, step by shameless step, eating into minds weakened by lack of idols, lack of morals and lack of scruples, but dazzled by prospects, like cancer, of limitless expansion. Money and power was an excellent DNA.

There has never been an effort to seriously eradicate this cancer; simply because system maps created to handle this, always have left a loophole. There has been an effort at piecemeal eradication, like in a specific office or department or ministry or section. It's like concentrating only or eradicating , say breast cancer, without worrying about its possible spread elsewhere.

There has been no Hippocrates, no Dr Galen, no Andreas Vesalius, no Matthew Bailie. The anesthesia has been all about deadening and repressing the opinions of a discerning and angry public, under the guise of appointed committees. , whose reports are summarily dismissed. The sepsis continues unabated in society, infecting all sections. The cancers in society not only spread in numbers, but they have an uncanny ability to pull towards them, sections of society, at higher and higher levels.

We desperately need to have an overall map for handling this, and a set of surgeons and doctors, who will ruthlessly perform radical surgeries, unconcerned with the presumed importance of a particular organ in society.

Until then, welcome to a world where, society cancers puffed in their malignant selves, proudly move around, destroying a small brave muscle here, an unwilling-to-lie nerve there. Watch them, hoodwinking powers of "law" radiation, and countering the chemotherapy discomfort with some "anticipatory " arrangements.

Sometimes, the proverbial "shoe" thrown by fate, hits in the form of a temporary arrest in a jail. But this "arrest" of this cancer, is more in the nature of covering it up, malignancies and all, so as to hopefully fade from the public eye.

We keep hearing of candidates in elections having criminal antecedents. Parties have hundreds of such candidates.

If and when they get elected, can we ever expect them to make rules for the eradication of the Corruption Cancer ?

Can a surgeon with a diseased hand ever operate on a cancer and remove it ? Can money ever rain from the skies ? Will Mumbai ever be free of potholes, and flooded monsoon roads ? Will we ever get over our craze for fairness of skin ? Will money meant for child welfare ever reach those it is meant for ? Will we ever learn to provide for storage of grains, that currently rot in the rains, while the centre and states point their carcinomic fingers at each other ?

There are no answers. For the above. One may only hope.

....

But I am glad that real cancer research progresses by leaps and bounds; that we have excellent doctors who practice and translate that into individual therapy regimens for patients, and that folks like Yuvraj Singh and many other folks of various ages , can now have a good prognosis, and return to their active useful lives again ....

Birthdays and Biryanis

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 05:47:00 +0000

Sometimes I think Oprah should interview her. My household help, S, that is.

Hitherto the subject of many blog posts here, and who now actually has a kind of following.

For one thing, she is much more interesting. Than Aishwarya Rai or Parmeshwar Godrej.

Has tolerated a lot in her life, struggled a lot, found solutions on her own, kept her family together. Is greatly popular with her daughters-in-law, and she also supports her only daughter who returned home after a fraud marriage. In an area where every alternate house has someone addicted to drinking and beating, and fighting, she, by popular demand, is the president of the local womens' association. She is also the treasurer, despite being unable to read and write. She also knows about Google, and that it gives some answers to things, and often asks me to check out stuff for her, when someone tries to mislead her.

Last evening my daughter and I attended the first birthday party of one of her grandsons. We had attended that of her eldest grandson 5 years ago, and this was the 3rd grandson. He was born last year and I had blogged about it here.

S. kind of checks out her plans with me, whenever there is to be some kind of get together. Now that she, her 3 sons, her daughter and a daughter-in-law were working, time was at a premium, and the money situation was better. She said her sons had decided to order out for some Chicken Biryani from a local eatery. She knows I am a vegetarian, but she also knows the daughter eats everything, and loves chicken.

My daughter and S go along way back. S has been with us, since the last 25 years. When my daughter was learning baking as part of her vocational course. S was presented with an iced birthday cake baked by her, with her name on it, probably the first birthday cake of her life. She thought it was really special, took it home, her family was totally amused, and her aged mother was impressed.

Armed with a cartoon cake and a small cricket set, we landed up a bit early, since the daughter is obsessed with running these days, and would be going for that later. S. had put up lights outside the house. The birthday child's other grandparents had come in from Pune, and the main and only small room of the house was agog with folks, with the younger women bustling around and the sons organizing seating et al outside , while keeping an eye on the playing children. Every one , along with the kids and birthday boy, would gather at the Community Buddha Vihar later, pay their respects, and would enjoy the ordered special community meal.

We were introduced to all the daughters-in-law (I already knew the sons), aunts, uncles, and relatives. My daughter, who always moves around with her camera, took some family pictures, with S holding the birthday boy, amidst all. S's son also took a few pictures of us with the birthday boy. The kids kept "accidentally" gravitating towards the cake, since one of them found out it had a cartoon face. By popular demand, this cake was cut amidst the kids. The eldest grandkid, who is obsessed with history and swords, held the cake knife in a warrior pose and was slowly dissuaded to hand it to the birthday kid, who was helped by his parents, to cut it. No messing around, no smearing of faces with the icing , and S. had the daughters-in-law do the distribution, but not before, one of the restless grandkids, decided the stuff on the knife shouldn't be wasted and decided to lick it up.

Some more aunts appeared. S.'s own daughter returned from work, and the entire gaggle of kids ran to greet her outside. Some more photos, and then S. went inside her kitchen for a longish time. Her youngest daughter-in-law, quietly came out, opened an old almirah, and took out some white blouses and went in. When S. emerged, she had changed into a very conservative white saree with gentle embroidery, in preparation for their visit to the Buddha Vihar.

We had been there for an hour, not realizing how time flew. It was a delight to see everyone enjoying as well as helping out. S.'s youngest grandchild was all of 3 months, and was lying in the lap of his cousin's maternal grandma, being patted to sleep. There was this huge sense of unity despite the differences in generations and thinkng, and economic wellbeing.

It was time for us to leave, after enjoying the cake and some other stuff. S. offered us Frooti . And no, we didn't see any of the kids throwing a tantrum because they wanted a Cola or anything. They were just too busy climbing around and playing. S. walked with us to the corner. We bid her goodbye.

Late , around 9:30 pm or so, the doorbell rang. Mumbai is having an unusual winter, fewer people out on the roads, and we wondered who it could be.

It was "S". She was carrying a steel container. Their ceremony and celebrations at the Buddha Vihar were done, the food had arrived in time, and most of her guests, many who came from long distances , had left.

The stuff inside the container was hot. She handed me the stuff at the door, and left in a hurry, to attend to folks who were staying over at her small house.

It was my daughter's share of the Chicken Biryani :-). Straight from the giant container at the celebration.

The daughter often works late into the night, after running etc , when she has some assignment to complete. Sometimes she works in the living room so as to not disturb us with stuff that she keeps playing in the background on her laptop.

I think yesterday she was also busy with something else.

The steel container felt considerably lighter this morning.

Beg your pardon....?

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 04:55:00 +0000

The school I attended in Pune 50 years ago, had vast grounds, old buildings, lots of sports infrastructure, a residential section for boarders, and a busy neighborhood, consisting of the residential campus of a major medical college, and hundreds of government offices.

(Except for the medical college bit, replace "medical" by "engineering" , and this description might also apply to where I stay today).

When we then celebrated Republic Day, 3 students from the Girl Guides troupe were selected, and they practiced quietly, greatly and well, for the flag hoisting function, as per the guidance and commands of their strict PE teacher. The usual march past by the others, commands , salutes, and speeches were there, but I do not remember endless loud rehearsals and stuff, announcers going berserk on the PA system, or any of the neighbors complaining. And mind you, all we did was give commands to the marchers, and sing the National Anthem.

Today, living as I do between two large school grounds , used for everything but sports , the last 10 days, have been a cacophony, of teachers shouting at children, various very loud songs being played so the children could practice dances, someone trying to read the daily newspaper headlines in the morning assembly in a shouting manner on the PA system. As if this was not sufficient, hundreds of kids from both the schools, were made to march on the roads, as they shouted "left, left, left-right-left-right-left-right-left" at the top of their voices, for reasons that confuse me (the shouting, not the marching). Of course in all this, there was a single tone marching band continuously practicing loudly in the background.

There is also huge construction going on on the remaining two sides of my building, now offering the additional facility of an echo. And so much of my time is spent listening to concrete mixer trucks, that keep coming throughout the day, and keep going into reverse gear accompanied by some really unimaginative loud endless beeping sounds. That is, when I am not listening to sounds of metals being cut with some shivering sounds, and assorted banging on things. Not to mention noises of the mosquito fogging machine being used frequently, given the sudden influx of water, construction people, materials, and inadequate sanitation

All this was preceded by what is called a TechFest, an activity of much older college level students, where people gather around to see robots and remote control-built cars fighting; I have no problems with this, except when some kind of compere , continues to shout into the microphone ignoring its amplifying properties, for a full day; so much so, that even if I close my doors and windows, I still know who is winning. And I live way high up, not even anywhere close to the ground.

All this noise creation happens very close to the academic area where classes are held, and people work.

We presumably wait for someone to make a rule, as common sense is probably considered invalid.

We had annual days in our time, we had amazing founder's day calisthenics, flag hoistings on national days. But it was more folk dances of various regions of India, songs sung by the better singers of our school, and no one ever came and complained to the school. While today, dances are performed to the latest hit songs, from films, ignoring their meanings and a weird display of what can politely be called simple harmonic motion of certain body parts, everything gets played on a PA system, with a compromised amplifier.

I've never understood this. I mean , we had school, we had elections, we had festivals. We had public celebrations, but it was never as earsplitting as today.

We live amidst a philosophy of excesses.

Since we cannot show the results of our work , we need to shout from the rooftops that we are working. Publicity is deemed essential, and we have massive announcements happening , not because someone needs to know, but because it feels like we are doing something, finally. Its like how we have now hit upon the solution of putting up CCTV's everywhere, as a solution to Law and Order problems and crimes. And never mind that most of them will not work, because someone doesn't have the money to maintain them, or monitor visuals on a regular basis.

So we cannot have an election without some candidate's praises being sung over a loud PA system, with a road being blocked to construct a podium, which would have probably collapsed by itself in shame had it known the criminal antecedents of the candidate.

When one community calls the faithful to attend prayers using a daily PA system in the early hours, another community responds by broadcasting its prayers at high decibel levels. The authorities stay mute in the interests of communal harmony.

Cars have radios, which are now played very loud and within closed windows. Fellows who would have trouble getting up and walking to a land line, sit and continuously speak on cell phones in cars while driving, oblivious to pedestrians and signals. When there is a traffic jam, they can see there is no place to move, but they still insist on honking away endlessly to register their anger.

Then there are supermarkets where it is felt that latest hits need to be played to encourage better sales. These are played so loudly, that you cannot hear what the sales person is saying. I have once requested them to pipe down the volume because I couldn't hear, and was given strange looks.

There are several suburban train stations, where the announcer faithfully announces every train and/or the changes, but the loudspeakers are messed up and folks on the platform become experts in listening to approximate announcements. Super loud, noise-intensive, longer than usual announcements in 3 languages, means you observe the remaining passengers, and suddenly follow them in a huge rush, across staircases to different platforms where the train is now expected , because that's what the announcement was supposed to be about.Twenty years down the line if we suddenly started doing well in track events and hurdles, remember, the Railways had something to do with it.

I once got into a rickshaw where the driver was probably proud of his new music system, set to play only item number disco songs. Imagine driving in rush hour traffic, me sitting in the back seat, unable to hear any ringing of a phone etc, and we zoom up to a red light with a loud song playing with the woofer on, the driver sitting with a red handkerchief tied around his collar , kind of nodding to the beat, pressing the accelerator every now ad then. At every change of traffic lights, he would accelerate wildly, as if participating in a race, weave in and out of traffic, all the while the music playing, all this, enjoyed amidst smiles, by the helmeted bikers alongside. I had to finally tell the guy that I was not in a race to go somewhere, coming last was fine with me, and while his music system was wonderful, he needed to just cut it off for a while, to allow me to give him the directions to where I wanted to go. Notice, how the element of "offering a public transport service" or "a oldish passenger being embarrassed by this filmy mode of travel" is not important. I could always get off if I didn't like it.

I reach home, and press the elevator button. Its an ancient elevator. Someone has forgotten to close the doors properly on some other upper floor. And there is a continuous beep emanating loudly from the elevator, beseeching folks to close the door, so that the elevator can answer the summons.

But doors are closed. No one has heard the loud beep.

Inside homes, TV's are on, blaring the latest cricket test match, and in an amazing temporary display of Darwinian evolution, every one's ears are closed.

I lug my bags, turn around , and proceed up the stairs. Somewhere , as I am catching my breath at the 5th floor, convinced that I should get my blood lipids tests done, there is a loud roar.

A wicket has fallen somewhere. The commentators are shouting themselves hoarse.

I can hear this clearly through all the closed doors.

My wicket is about to fall out of sheer fatigue as I ring the doorbell. It rings a bit longer than usual, thanks to my delayed and tired reflexes.

Footsteps. The door opens. And a voice goes ," Why did you have to ring the bell so loudly ?".....

:-))

Kolaveri C (or is it A/B/See?)

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 06:08:00 +0000

When I started working in the mid seventies (for, may I add, one of today's leading IT blue chip companies; then, less blue and more chip (of the old block)....), it was customary for a company to extend its grudging admiration, to you and your aptitude (for work), to sponsor you for some kind of week long program somewhere, the more residential the better, and I was surprised to be selected to attend an executive development program, at a leading local industrial engineering training institute.

Contrary to what you may think, you don't have to be an engineer to attend these. Its more about learning to seek an enhanced solution to a perceived problem, through some good analyses, brainstorming with colleagues, using all your on-the-job experiences and observations.

One of the concepts that has stayed with me since then , is something they used to call ABC Analysis earlier. It might possibly be called by some posher name today, given the tendency of managerial folks to wallow in convoluted jargon, to the eternal confusion of the hoi-polloi.

It was all about assigning priorities and values to things you stocked, based on the possible loss to you, if suddenly, those things were not there. The actual cost price of the thing, was not the only thing that decided whether you would stock the item. For example, in a big hospital, a life saving drug may cost a huge amount, but you don't begrudge locking up your money in that because not stocking the drug would cost in terms of reputation and success, and loss of more future patients. Or some key chemical , in a factory, which costs a lot, even for a small quantity, but absence of which will hold up production. Such items were called "A" class items, and you remained very alert to these items in your inventory control. "B" class items, were slightly less important, maybe alternatives existed, but nevertheless you defined the importance. "C" class items, were those that remained. Likes various nuts and bolts, stationery items, commonly available chemicals, spares, and so on. It wasn't worth it to spend inordinate amounts of time and money dealing with policies for these.

Living the industrial and corporate life, according to ABC classification was the key to success and profitability.

Unknowingly, in the early 60's and 70's , people applied this philosophy to their lives. Education was considered greatly essential, show was not; and so parents invested greatly in education of their children. That was "A" class. Inordinate spending on "show" stuff was properly frowned upon, even in weddings and so on. These things were B-class. Maybe even tending to "C".

Today, as a society and a nation, we have completely corrupted this concept. Priorities have gone for a toss. We ignore the real important things , and spend inordinate amounts of time and money discussing trivialities.

This entire week, the biggest crisis is what should be taken as the Army Chief's birth date . Ministries, Courts, and political commentators endlessly speculate, who is right. It's all about 1 year. Instead of this year, maybe he will retire next year. So we go to court, file PIL's, bring up army civilian confrontation, speculate on armed forces morale , why the PM is silent and so on.

Please. Birth certificates are required on those born after 1989, when it became mandatory to register births. Until then it was all about random affidavits, some one's thinking and remembrance and possibly school certificates. The army chief is in the latter category. Where the age mentioned was likely to be approximate anyway. Why not find a via media, allow the army chief to complete six months into the disputed year and then retire ? It will encourage people to clarify their data much prior to last minute retirement days, and the army chief can get on with what he is meant to do. Does the nation not have any other issues to spend time and money on ?    Why this sudden "A" class treatment ?

Then there is this thing about elephants. The UP Chief Minister built several parks with huge statues of herself, party heads, and hundreds of replicas of their party symbol, the elephants. While this was commented on by the authorities, but not acted upon, as a willful "C" class thing, despite costing inordinate number of crores, come election time, and the thing is suddenly transformed into an "A" class consideration. The election commission , suddenly justified and ordered the state purchase of pink plastic worth crores and possible employment of sudden hundreds, to cover all these elephants, presumably as they would bias the public. The elephants were the same, the public was the same, what changed ? And has the public been fooled as yet by the coverings ? (I wondered, why pink; but gosh, that's such a C class question....)

Has the EC done a countrywide study of how party symbols are being abused /not abused by various parties ? Why has no one suggested the radical step of allocating a random election symbol to a party only after elections are announced ? If symbols are only to guide the illiterate in the voting process,   the party can always announce the new symbol each time they fight elections.

We catch/file court cases on traffic constables because they are seen accepting 100 Rs bribes. "A" class bribes in crores ,taken by elected representatives, allow them years of freedom before a case is filed. "A" class attention to "C" class folks, and vice versa.

Mumbai's roads really need "A" class planning and attention. The development of a city like Mumbai depends on excellent working infrastructure. But we give it "C" class treatment persisting with corrupt road contractors and unsupervised repairs. We demote the roads in importance. Because "A" class priorities are extended to giving unauthorized land grabbing the shuteye, in the interest of vote bank generation.

Over the years, those in power have been applying the ABC classification thing more on a knee-jerk basis that actual analysis.

Priorities are set depending on election time and voters. Rest of the time, we the ordinary citizens, plod on with our "C" class lives, watching the inflation soar, things disappear from the market because they are suddenly declared "A" class , thanks to another misdirected government policy. While investing in food storage facilities should have been an "A" class investment, we let the grains rot in the rain, as the "A" class folks somewhere take "C" class decisions.

ABC classification was based on cost and importance. That assumed money was important and scarce, and not there for throwing around.

Today, money per se, itself, is the only "A" class thing. Money buys money.

Things like education, values, loyalty, gratitude, altruism, earlier all super "A " class items, are now, simply, things money can buy.

For everything else, you can always sing "Why this Kolaveri Kolaveri C ".......

Modern Chaos and the need for planned roundabouts....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 14:51:00 +0000

One often doesn't realize the value of things one has, until they are taken away from you, or when you start experience the effects of that loss.....

I have suddenly developed a huge respect for traffic roundabouts. You would too, if you daily encounter what I do.

Picture yourself daily, in the centre of this mess. Sometimes , I am the purple line exiting the main gate, and sometimes I am the red line trying to enter in. And mind you, these lines above are indicative of vehicular movements. What introduces randomly infinite degrees of freedom in this are the pedestrians trying to cross across the newly widened arterial road, before someone runs over them .

While folks travelling east west and vice versa are always given priority on this road, an effort has been made to keep things as difficult as possible for those originating at right angles to that. School buses, construction material trucks, cement mixer trucks, family cars, ambulances emerging and trying to enter/leave the main gate, often have to face simultaneous on coming traffic from 3 directions; as if this is not enough, some kind of diagonal traffic from the south west is suddenly given the go ahead to get on the east west road towards the northeastern direction, , by a partly visible policeman somewhere.

There is of course an entire police chowky nearby as shown in the diagram, set in the sylvan surroundings amongst fruit,vegetable, stalls, pastry shops, cobblers, and chat stalls. Not to mention some political party offices. One often sees cops in 2's and 3's , not in this square, but further along the east west road in both directions, all geared to waving in, motorcycle chaps, questionably loaded trucks and sometimes, actually someone who went through a light.

Motorcycles, congregate at the red traffic light in the east west direction, ahead of all the other traffic, intruding into pedestrian crossing space , and literally stand revving up their engines, straining at the leash, so to speak. It is quite common to see the entire straining-at-the-leash-traffic simply burst forth even before the traffic signal says it can, catching some unfortunate pedestrian or family car in its path. Of course there are also sedans that cruise past through red lights, oblivious to crossing pedestrians, who have now taken to hitting such cars with whatever is available at hand, as it barely misses their foot.

A complaint about this to the police sometimes results in corrective action, cops at the intersection, whistles activated, and hands barring traffic movement, for about 30 minutes. maximum. And then it stops. Sometimes I think this must be a reward or prize posting for cops.

So what is the solution ? The area at the crossroads in certainly not big enough for a large roundabout, but what stops the vehicular department/police from having a small (6-8 feet diameter) circle with a raised central covered piece on which a traffic police can stand ?   Similar to what you still see in smaller towns. You could even find some industry types to sponsor some plants and their maintenance within that circle. Besides making someone visible to all the traffic, it would define a central point , to the left of which everyone would need to keep while doing the north south cross. At least half the random collisions, road rages and injuries would be prevented.

I've had extensive personal traumatic experience of daily pedestrian crossings, daily car crossings, altercations with motorcycles being driven wildly at 6 am threatening students on cycles trying to cross, and even road crossings by ambulance in emergency medical situations.

I once asked a cop, why the time for pedestrian crossing was so little as to make old people and very young children panic wile walking . I was told that any increase in that time, would cause untold traffic jams at some junction 2 kilometres away, and would have a cascade effect.

And so all this forces me to ask, who all this "progress" is for ? Motor vehicles ? Undisciplined 3 wheeler rickshaws who flout traffic rules with impunity under the cops' noses ? Bikes flouting traffic, pollution, and safety rules ?

I hear that the Municipal budget for Ward “S” ( where one resides) which is spread over 64 sq. kilometres with a population of 7 Lakhs for last year was approx 300 crore rupees.

What do we have to show for it ? Potholes ? Where has all that money gone ? Or has it been allowed to lapse , as it usually happens ?

Do we need someone to represent us , who is apolitical , but socially aware , honest, experienced and educated?

I hear Municipal elections are about to happen.

Promises will be made, heads will be bowed, banners erected. Without any concern for blocking the view of traffic signals.

I just thought this was a good time to put forth some problems faced in this area on a daily basis.

Like I thought, old style traffic roundabouts were an excellent invention, and a great idea.

Some other stuff like old style honesty, and old style dedication to work, is also something I think will be useful.

The armed forces and I....:-)

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 06:30:00 +0000

Me and the Armed Forces. We go back a long way.

Unlike the police with whom I've tangled a bit because of their fairly arbitrary application of traffic rules (where I was concerned) and certain exchanges of valuable papers (between them and fellows on motorbikes) observed by me from a distance, my interaction with the armed forces has been something that I only have praise for.

My earliest experience was as a child in Ahmednagar, a town near Pune. My father, part of the civil service, was posted in Ahmednagar, and we spent our vacations there, while schooling in Pune. We had been put up in quarters at the Circuit House, since they were still trying to allocate goverment accomodation. This was in some kind of Civil Lines area outside the main city. And there was some kind of military range nearby.

Summer meant hot dry air, and sarees and stuff was always hung out to dry on a line in the big gardens. My brother and I must have been in single digit ages, when one day , there was a mother of a windstorm, and before we knew what happened, my mother's drying saree had suddenly risen up into the air like a parachute, and was literally flying in a vague direction. There were these sudden cries, and my young brother and I took off, running behind it, going around hedges, crossing roads, and out over the fields. We finally ended up retreiving it in what appeared to be a firing range, with an entire line of fellows lying in a line on the ground, looking through, what looked like rifles.

Their supervisor /leader called out and gestured to us, and asked after us. They had seen the saree drama in the distance. Naturally we asked about the shooting , was it real bullets , and so on. And of course, shamelessly asked if we could hold the gun for a bit. Amazingly, the teacher agreed. He showed us how to lie prone, look through the viewfinder, allowed us to touch the trigger and we came back from this trip totally zapped.

The next time was when many years, college, marriage, etc later, we were on a trip south by car, landed in Ooty, and I remembered that I had a cousin whose husband was posted at Wellington. I only knew her married name. Not her husband's designation or anything, and neither did I know army hierarchy stuff. I arbitrarily decided he was a Major, and we drove around asking for Major K. My cousin was someone who was culinarily highly enabled, and did classes and stuff, and we'd ask about her too.

Did an entire round driving, and even landed up at something called Flagstaff House , which was very impressive, and the guard, probably flabbergasted at seeing an ancient Fiat merrily and a bit noisily trundling up, politely advised us to turn back. :-) . While we had a lovely drive, stopping intermittently to ask about Major K (and sometimes his wife), there were so many folks on the road who stopped to guide us, sometimes in detail. The biggest reward was knocking on a door, and seeing my cousin's flabbergasted face, as she saw us on her doorstep, as she opened the door. It turned out that her husband was a Major (as I suspected), and he was about to leave for some stuff, and she was bustling around with some of his uniform stuff.    This whole thing was nothing short of miraculous.

Many years later, my knowledge about designations had marginally improved. I was working in an educational institution of great repute, my immediate superior was called away in an emergency, and in an age when mainframe computers, punchcards, and "computer runs" were the order of the day, I was left managing access/bookings of users to these. We had several folks from the armed forces who joined to work for a post graduate degree and were sponsored by the government, and they stood out in their very disciplined way of conducting conversations, peppered with Sir and Ma'am, and I had occasion to observe a Captain, a Major, and a Squadron Leader.

One day, one of our oldest respected employees, L., who expertly punched cards, that held every user's programs, came up to me with a complaint. It was submission time, there was a crowd, and folks were being asked to form a queue to get their stuff punched, at several punching machines. Mostly students, some staff, and some folks were getting upset . Suddenly, this one guy , the Captain, starts cribbing, and abusing the setup and the people, arguing. Maybe he had submission tensions, maybe he was running late, but so were many others, and L was taking folks in a proper queue. When he made improper remarks about her favouring folks, she was hurt, and came up to me to complain, saying that never in her 25 years of work had this happened, and that she was so pained, she had to complain.

I felt bad for her, and was wondering how to handle this, given that I had no real authority, and I was just standing in for my superior . I suddenly had an idea. I sent word to the Squadron Leader, a very impressive Sardar.

Confided in him, and told him that this episode had simply shaken the impression I had about the armed forces, and the way they conducted themselves, particularly vis-vis ladies, in a professional environment. The lady in question was someone with more than 25 years dedicated work experience, working for many years with many people, and if she was hurt, then something was wrong. Told him I didnt know where a Squadron Leader of the air force stood vis-a-vis a Captain, but we needed his help to communicate something to the guy, and this was a question of the prestige of the armed forces. He understood, agreed, and said he would act.

That same afternoon, L., came up to my office, waited till we were alone, and then asked me, what I had done. Turns out that the Captain in question, had come down to her and apologized. Profusely. And said he would see to it that this wouldn't repeat. She had never seen such a thing (quick response, action etc) in all her years of work, and had come to ask me. She was totally amused with the Squadron leader story, and to this day, we have a laugh over it.

I later learned that the Squadron Leader had had "words" with the Captain. And I had a great time, imagining the folks at attention, the clipped responses of "Sir!" accompanied by feet stamping, twirling moustaches, angry and possibly pseudo-repentant looks, hurt egos , and many other things.

There is something to be said for technology that included people as an integral part.

Today, the mainframes have gone, the punching machines were actually transported away in a junk truck, and the big hall where the machines lumbered, are now a bustling lab with 103 PC's, and folks fidlling away , day and night, keying in stuff, doing assignments and so on. Today it's all about you and your machine. When the machine is a laptop, you could even be working under a tree, making it all , even more exclusive.

But you learn less about people. And how to work in a hierarchy.

And then someone tells you to take a course in management, organizational behavior, managing human resources and so on.

I think I had much more fun learning it the hard way.

And made many more friends.

One person even thanked me in the preface of his degree project report.   And no, it wasn't the Captain :-)

Review of " Gujarati Kitchen: Family Recipes for the Global Palate "

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 05:13:00 +0000

I received this book, " Gujarati Kitchen: Family Recipes for the Global Palate " as part of the Blogadda Book Reviews Program.

Bhanu Hajratwalla, is a descendant of those Gujaratis who migrated to Fiji, and herself has lived in Fiji, New Zealand and the US. The book is written with an immense knowledge of these countries, their cultures, and their agriculture. The initial preamble deals with Bhanu's life in Fiji, her marriage, cooking customs, and her subsequent travels across the world , wherever her husband's job took them.

We in India, are lucky to have a huge variety of agriculture, weather, and native customs, and even within Gujarat, it is clear , that many dishes and methods of preparation are based on the staple foods grown there, occupation of the local people and even the seasons. The various rotis/rotlas/breads based on the many types of grains available, traditional rustic recipes like Undhiyo cooked using local produce, in fields, in inverted Matkas, under coal fire, and Chuundo, taking advantage of the strong dry summer days in parts of Gujarat, and sweets made out of milk, dals and so on, are some of the dishes I have associated with Gujarat. Some of the dishes like Khandvi are made also in Maharashtra with minor local variations.

The book has some very useful tables , before starting out with the recipes. One of the most useful that I found was a comparative display of metric and non metric measures of size and weight. Not to mention cooking temperatures. The correspondence between ounces, grams and cups,tablespoons and so on as been very thoughtfully included.

Bhanu also defines a few basic masalas, that are often used in Gujarati cooking, and indicates their application in the various recipes in the various sections.

But what was a huge revelation to me, was the fact that there actually existed Gujaratis who traditionally cooked non-vegetarian meals. To me , Gujaratis have always been vegetarian, and the Jains even more so, with their several seasonal diet rules. I have many friends who are Gujaratis, but all vegetarian. So this was a learning experience, to read about some traditional seafood and mutton recipes, that have been followed by Gujarati Kshatriyas , all the way in Fiji and around the world.

I am a vegetarian, and so these pages went by very fast. But I am sure that they would interest young folks today, who are more adventurous in their cuisine at home.

I suspect Bhanu is my age. I identify with living on campus in the US, in the last few decades of the last century, not having any Indian stores nearby, and having to make do with , say, Schilling spices available in the supermarket, and limited veggie variety.

And I completely identify with Bhanu's sense of outrage, when some fancy caterer at some place selected , due to some rules, for her son's wedding reception, declared that yes , he would make Shrikhand, and garnish it with coriander......Yikes !

A childhood spent in a traditional Gujarati family in a New World, stir in some amazing knowledge from mothers, sautee these mixtures in different countries with available ingredients, spice it up with various family and social events, and garnish it with a lifetime of cooking knowledge.

The book is a very interesting read, and because of her personal observations, wonderfully succeeds in being more kitchen than chemistry......

A book you should have on your shelves....

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Mindware

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 13:13:00 +0000

I just read something a FB and blogger friend posted.

A must read ; please read this.

Today is the last day of the year. Some, looking back, thinking, and some, looking ahead, hoping, wishing.

And then it occurs to you that for some, there may not be a next year.

And so you try and think of what you and they have enjoyed together. When time wasn't an issue. And whether , now, so many years later, you can recreate that. And it really never has anything to do with the physical capabilities of the person, or for that matter, yours.

L was in his late eighties. A whimsical determined person, who was very fit till a year ago, and had doctors begging him to get off the treadmill during a stress test, which he thought was a complete lark. At some point age simply caught up , and he was now bedridden . His mind sometimes played games, and he would notice people but not recognize them. Except those he saw daily. He had tons of what he called walking friends, but not, say, a key close friend. And these were the ones he missed , along with the walking. Something he indulged in daily , in the nearby park. And he would look longingly at the park when they put him in a wheelchair and took him to the balcony, to enjoy the flowers and fresh air.

So one Diwali, when more family was around, they hired a stronger wheelchair, capable of handling rough pebbled roads. He had to be lifted from his bed , onto a chair-with-wheels, and then carried down the stairs two floors, to the waiting new wheelchair. The cycle-repair man outside the gate offered to help in the lifting. And before you knew, he was settled into the chair, a monkey cap on his head, assorted bags, and catheters hidden behind a warm shawl that was wrapped around him. The sky was getting overcast. And they wheeled him down the road to the park, much to the delight of the old fruit seller outside , and some of the neighbors. The former came over with apples, the latter smiled and waved. Some joined in.

A few minutes later he was in the park. He didn't recognize some friends, but there was a great deal of smiling and handshaking, and nodding . There was a kind of smile on his face that you show when you smell something wonderful. Maybe it was the flowers, the trees, the children. And suddenly there were a few raindrops. He came out of his dream in panic. Wanted to rush home. And one of the neighbor's kids rushed over with a huge umbrella, and held it over him. He was safe. So many old neighbors came out to meet him, knowing that he may not recognize them. One of them was his doctor. But it was time to go home. The raindrops , went away like they came. But the umbrella remained, and the kids. And so they reached home, and carried him upstairs. He rested, happy , but tired. And for the first time in many days, slept well that night.

And then , a few years later, there was T., a career and family woman, unmarried, herself in her 80's, paralyzed waist down after a massive stroke, who had friends ranging in age from 30 to 75. Who would all come to see her and chat. Sometimes, she would get confused, and speak something repetitive. Other times, she would make a comment that would stun someone in her field of expertise, which was medicine. What she really enjoyed in her fitter days, was going to one of Pune's best "hangouts" and enjoying excellent South Indian breakfast and coffee with her friends. This was something we did without fail when we met her on our trips to Pune.

And so a day was quietly fixed when her family members would be there, particularly the young grandkids, and a whole bunch of us went over to the hangout place which made and packed everything piping hot and fresh for us. She was known to them, and I like to think the food had an additional special ingredient that day. Her family was kept in the loop, and they organized the table ware. We landed up in her room, and she greatly enjoyed her repast, amidst the younger kids tucking in , like idlis were going out of fashion, and the others doing a more sedate job, between unobtrusively trying to help her with a shaking spoon, and blaming it all on the size of the wada. She lay back on her raised bed, tired, but happy at the scenario. A niece-in-law came in with coffee for everyone. T just had water. She was really full. In body as well as mind. The kids showed their photos and artwork, she beamed. There was a lot of ribbing happening. It isn't clear if she understood the references, but she listened, and looked at peace.

Life went on. And one day, both L and T were no more. Their respective families mourned and continue to mourn.

But what is remembered is not their sickness, inabilities, and troubles, but the smile that played on their faces, their sense of belonging and fulfillment of mind and small wishes, and the joy, that they continued to be a part of all of us.

I recently posted about a family friend in her 90's, who lies in a virtual coma, tubes through her nose , a prayer bead necklace clutched in her hand. Her son -in-law, regularly recites , at her bedside, some Sanskrit prayers that are her favourites. Nobody knows if she can hear. (She never responds when called). But the minute he starts the prayers, her fingers move across the prayer beads!

And so it seems, that along with the anatomy Hardware and the memory-managing Software that defines us, there is also something called Mindware.

Maybe all living beings have that.

This is the amazing thing that fires up and functions, extra well, in one's last days, regardless of the analysed-to-bits anatomical and physical systems.

Something that lights up the eyes, of someone , who may not see another year.

And creates wonderful comforting memories, for those who will

Mindware. It was always there.

Like the coming New year. 2012.

Greetings !

Counselling in the time of Stitching .......

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 05:52:00 +0000

There is a certain character Pune City has, or should I say, had, when it was still a city with so many Peths (historical city sections) , all with their own special attitudes, based on the type of residents, with small lanes and ancient stone wadas , and assorted old small temples at various sudden corners, with what can only be called , shocking , obstinately given friendly names implying a sort of backslapping familiarity with the Gods. Like Patrya Maruti , Khunya (Murderer) Murlidhar, Chimnya (Tiny ) Ganpati, Jilbya (Jilebi lover) Maruti, etc.

There was something like a never-give-up, keep-trying, ignore-your-actual-imitations attitude in the residents, and everyone lived in the active knowledge of whatever was happening with the neighbors. There was an attitude of bravado in how life was lived, religiously, in the vicinity of the abovementioned friendly Gods, aware of family and social responsibilities, despite lack of space, and assorted conveniences. But a deep ancestral belief , in the historical friendly Gods.

There were a lot of old Mom-and-Pop hole-in-the-wall type establishments that existed in the pre modernization days, which suddenly reaped a harvest of extra square-footage in the new city development windfall.

DD Tailors was a men's tailor's shop, that suddenly saw an expansion in those days. From a small place in a leafy lane presided over by a middle-of-the-road Shiva temple at the base of a massively spread banyan tree, it was now situated in a new building that happened, when roads around the temple were widened for the ever increasing traffic and new buildings came up in place of the old. Tailoring was what the old man owner knew, but he ensured that his children were educated well, and one of them ended up doing software in the US. He himself, continued to stitch what can be called standard, conservative style , traditional clothes for men.

And thereby hangs a tale. And was told to me by AJ.

About 3 years ago, AJ who lives in the US, and was visiting Pune , was recommended this shop for getting some traditional Indian stuff stitched, and paid this place a visit. As it often happens, there was a lot of family chitchat between discussions of measurements, yardage quality, shrinkage, how things had changed , old Pune , etc etc. And the old man was intrigued to know that AJ lived in the same area as his son , who was working in the US. When AJ went to pick up the ready clothes, the man sat him down for a cup of tea, and poured out his worries.

His son had recently had an arranged marriage. The wife was with him in the US. But some new alarming facts were emerging. She had married him under false pretences, and was actually interested in someone else. An ambitious type, she looked upon this as gateway to her future, and was whiling away her time till the "someone else" got there. Of course, her being resident in the US, would enable her to arrange his visit.
The son was torn between this girl he had liked on an arranged first acquaintance, followed by more meetings and a marriage. His family liked her. And now this. After a year of trying to find a middle path between expecting her to change, managing his own career and life pressures, and worrying about family being shocked, he told his parents about this. In the sort of milieu in which he grew up, the D word was never an option. The interesting thing was, that the son had offered to divorce , but the girl would refuse, because she needed to stabilize before getting her friend over. The girl's parents simply washed their hands off, and also cut off relations with their daughter.

The old man, looked troubled, and seeing that AJ was in his early 60's and a longtime resident abroad and lived nearby to the son, poured out this story . He then asked if he (AJ) could generally call the couple up, speak to them, give the lady a "talking to" , and help in this situation. In the age old Indian tradition, of elder community ombudsmen playing peacemakers/problem solvers, he agreed. The worst that could happen was that he would be asked to stay out and shut up. But there was no harm trying.

AJ himself had excellent negotiating skills, was known for them, and although he was intrigued by this assignment, his born-and-brought-up-in-the-US college going kids were totally aghast. You simply didn't call folks up and question them like this. But AJ had promised the tailor, and he would call, once. He would see how they responded.

In any case, the call did take place. He had a nice introductory chat, introduced himself as a long time resident in the US since his twenties, with familiar references to the area of Pune where he grew and they grew up. Mentioned knowing the father. Spoke to both. Looked like they thought he knew about US laws, rules and stuff. He first tried to play peacemaker and help them get things back on track. The lady demurred. He then kind of picturized a bleak and tough future for the lady if she blatantly continued messing around with other's lives under false pretences, and suggested she do what she wanted, but on her own, independently and unshackled, and be responsible for the legal consequences.

That was the first and last call. They were adults, and would figure out things. This was a gentle shove in what everyone thought was the right direction.

Cut to the early dawn hours in the US, 2 weeks ago. AJ's pone rang at 5 am. It was someone who didn't realize that the time difference now was 13.5 hours, and not 12.5 hours. It was the old tailor. Calling after 3 years. AJ was scheduled to visit Pune, wanted to get some stuff stitched, had called the place, the old man was out, but AJ had left a message for him. And the old man was calling back.

He was calling to say that , yes, he would certainly be doing the stitching in the short time AJ would be there, discussed the fabric etc, and then changed the subject. In a style typical of folks who grew up before the telephone calls abroad became routine,
he spoke fairly loudly in "announcement style, and in a hurry (lest the call suddenly end).

He was inviting AJ to a family lunch in his house. Turned out that the son was visiting his folks. Post that famous phone call, things had been shaken up a bit, moved, possibly in the right direction, the lady had agreed to a divorce. By and by, it happened. She had moved on. No one wanted to know where. The son was now happily married to someone else , the couple was visiting Pune and would be in town when AJ came. The old man was overcome, and wanted AJ to come have lunch with them.

AJ is expected in Mumbai in a few days. He will in Pune for a short time, with his wife. I know he will not have time for , maybe a lunch. But I think they will have an impromptu small party when he goes to pickup his stuff, the entire tailor family will be present in their silks and finery, there will be sweets, and savouries, and possibly, Mrs Tailor might insist of presenting Mrs AJ with a fancy silk sari, with the son and his wife doing all the namskarams and feet touching amidst the tinkle of her green and gold bangles.

Just a little bit of Divali, a little bit of Christmas, and some good times, before everyone gets back to the work at hand , in the year 2012 .......

Life Phantoms

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 15:14:00 +0000

Have been reading about Phantom Pains. Nothing to do with a hurt Phantom, squinting painfully through his purple mask in the old comics.

But these are supposed to be pains arising out of something that simply isn't there. In your body that is.

Typically experienced by someone, say, who has lost a limb traumatically, and it has been amputated. And he still continues to feel all kinds of heat and unbearable pain in it, as if the limb is there.

Think of someone who , say, skidded , going very fast on a motorcycle in the rain, was thrown by the impact, but to complicate matters, his jacket got stuck on the handle bar etc, making his shoulder and arm muscles bear the brunt of the push and pull. The arm got badly dislocated, and the nerve connections between the upper arm and spine simply got yanked out. (No, I am not making this up, but this is a true story.). This resulted in the entire hand withering away, becoming useless, when reattached back at the shoulder, and the man kept having unbearable pain, continuously in his bad arm, which was , for all purposes , nerve dead.

Turns out that our nervous system functions in a convenient type hierarchy. While the decision making properties of the Brain are supreme, some of the instant decisions are left to what are called "nociceptive" neurons in the spinal column.

Remember how you sense the heat and instantly pull your hand away above a hot griddle , or refrain from touching it? Remember how you instinctively duck as you sense something useless being thrown at you ? What happens, is, that in such cases, the nerve sensation travels up through the arm nerve-bunch (brachial plexus), and reaches the spinal neurons through further connections called ganglia. These nociceptive neurons do some processing of the sensation, and act automatically, before relaying the pain message to the Brain . And they keep doing this all the time, whether we are aware of it or no. Like when we shift positions in a chair to enable circulation, or relieve strain on a particular muscle etc. We call this a reflex action.

The nociceptive neurons in the spinal cord, continue to be busy relaying pain messages to the brain, pretending they are activating reflex actions in the limbs, even when the nervous infrastructure is completely bashed up as in the case of the fellow above. This is the pain the brain processes, and the injured person feels. The culprits are the nociceptive neurons, or should I say, now deceptive neurons , which have become slaves to habit, as such.

It has occurred to me that life around us is much similar to this.

We have a Head supreme person at the top , like a PM. He has all these levels of subordinates under him, all of whom, need to report to him, and sometimes they take decisions by themselves. These could be bureaucrats, elected folks, regional heads, rural officers etc . Even when there is sometimes no appreciable work, these guys pretend to be busy, creating a impression of work, simultaneously cheating the public in the process, by creating obstacles . The public suffers, and the Head or the PM, continues to suffer under the misconception that his subordinates are doing truthful meaningful work. Phantom problems (where there need to be none) are created for the public, complicated by introduction of corrupt practices.

The question arises as to why the brain cannot take all the decisions and avoid the pesky nociceptive neurons. The same as asking why everything cannot be handled by the PM or Head.

This will lead to long approach lines, or in the case of the body, long nerve fibres all creating chaos, connecting individually to the brain. Leaving a decision to the spinal neurons, without consulting the brain, would possibly be those few life saving seconds you needed....

And so we have a hierarchy. Its the price we pay for evolution. For democracy.

Unfortunately, we have no value for it.

Like middle managers pretending to the CEO of a company , to be busy with work, when there is none, the spinal neurons pass so many wrong,confused, and noise type signals to the CEO Brain, that the mind perceives this as a continuous constant pain in a limb , which has no sensory supply , because it is simply not there.

And so we are, as a people, getting used to the mess created by corrupt phantoms , that complicate our lives, our law ad order and our safety. Because democracy gives us freedom and we badly and irresponsibly abuse it.

Is there a solution ?

In medicine, there is. Neurosurgeons use cryosurgery or thermal surgery to kill off the spinal neurons left over from the accident. It's a very delicate surgery , done with a lot of care and finesse. Else there may be untold effects like paralysis or loss of one or more senses.

In life, we need to seek a solution, by proper investigation, honest decision makers, stiff punishments, and at all times, honest democracy.

Watching what is happening in our supreme legislatures, I sometimes wonder , whether this will be a sensitive careful surgery, or a random hit , hoping that magically , something improves.

If we only learned from our bodies....

Cars,Rats and Tobacco.....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 17:09:00 +0000

This might be a strange post from someone who did a post on Life of the Death Stick, approximately 4 years and 9 months ago, and got two very abusive comments, which were left there, because of the tenor of the comments, and a wish expressed therein that "You are a @#**#@* , in need of a thrashing.......".

Reading those comments (by the same person) was psychologically and sociologically educative.

But I then realized, that the basic plant, the tobacco plant, cannot be blamed if some over evolved, misdirected, deaf, folks, decide to use it in such a way , so as to mess up their lungs and blood vessels big time. Once the tobacco leaves packed in a narrow cylinder play with fire , so to speak, the game is over. Particularly, for a fool, at the other end of the cylinder.

There is nothing bad about the tobacco plant , per se.

Back in the old days , half a century ago, I remember old clothes cupboards where I often came upon small sachets of some powder, which , it turned out, was tobacco powder. Contrary to what you might be thinking, no one in the house secretly smoked. Apparently, dried tobacco powder used so, was a way of keeping clothes insects and moths away.

In recent days, one has had a dramatic demonstration of constructive tobacco use. Particularly in the week that just went by.

The ground floor of our building is for parking. And the building is nestled amidst lots of greenery, old trees, other dilapidated structures, and a lot of construction materials, strewn around , thanks to the urge to modernize . All these years, our 38 year old Fiat stood in senior splendor, exhibiting all her wear and tear amidst her creaking steering wheel, gears and groaning cylinders and pistons. (Ye gads, I just described myself ! Never mind ....)

The old car is now retired since the last two years, and gone to the native place , and its place has been taken , by a bigger modern Indian-make car. No problems since arrival, and I always touched wood, when such thoughts cruised through my mind. Maybe it's a statement about the environment, maybe I touched insufficient wood, but a few days ago, rushing for some errands in anticipation of a flood of house guests, I dashed to the car to go someplace, and was shocked to see, that a full gas tank suddenly showed up at zero. The ignition key turned and made the requisite noises, but something refused to fire. It still showed zero gas.

Lots of phone calls, messages, and SOS's later two guys , mechanics, on a two wheeler drove in, and looked in all the parts of the car, front, back and below , shaking their heads. Asked us if we had rats around the place. They then yanked the entire back seat from its moorings, and their eyes lit up. There was a wire junction type thing, nicely chewed up wires on one side, some of which were hanging lose. Some circuit had been broken, and had affected the working of the gas gauge. Contrary to what I thought, no one had stolen the gas.

Maybe rats in technological institutions have a Chewable Car Priority List, headed by , say, Korean, Japanese, and American cars, Indian cars coming last. No wonder they refused to have anything to do with the 38 year old Fiat , even when we once forgot to put one of the windows up. Now that there was a new Indian car, it kind of appeared at its place in the list. And it took the rats 2 years to actually run through the list and reach us !

They (the mechanics, not the rats), decided to remove the part, rewire it, do a nice strong insulation around it all and reconnect the chewed up stuff. The manufacturer would have had us replace an entire unit extending to the front and back. And I wanted to know what we could do, to keep our car off the rat's Favourite Hangout list. I wasn't looking forward to any more last minute surprises in the car, and didn't want this to happen again elsewhere.

Turns out that the solution was to keep small plastic pouches of tobacco powder (available at the local paanwalla) strategically stuffed and strewn at key places in the innards of the car. They didn't have the tobacco with them , but would get our car started, and asked us to come to their nearby garage, where they would do this 10-minute job for us.

Naturally, I had visions of something lighting up and bursting into flames inside the engine etc. But this doesn't happen if the pouches are intelligently placed . The rats hate the smell of tobacco, and amazingly, the amount that we humans imbibe against good advice, is fatal for rats, simply because of their small size. The rats sense the tobacco and stay away .

So we now have a modern car, with automatic windows, power this and that, decent pickup, and a body studded with tobacco pouches inside.

Driving in Mumbai often involves, sudden illogical braking, random stops, and pushing the engine to make it through an abnormally short traffic light, and kind of abusing the gear in which you are driving.

Yesterday, returning from a full day outing with house guests, we did all of the above while returning, very close to home, and as we drove in, there was a smell. A familiar smell.

At other times, there would have been comments on woman drivers, not changing gears as required, driving with the foot on the clutch, knocking of the engine, pushing it too hard etc etc.

This time, as I unbelted from the seat and got out, I took a deep breath, walked around the car, sniffed again, and said, "Ah! Must be the tobacco pouches roasting ! ".... and there were heads nodding in agreement all around.

:-)

Insourcing , Outsourcing....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 18:05:00 +0000

I am just back from visiting an old lady, J., aged 90, who was a family neighbor once. A very spirited lady, it was shocking to see her lying, so frail now, at half her normal weight, in a Fowler's bed, a tube running through her nose, eyes closed. I had run into her daughter and got this news, and it was difficult to believe that someone with so much spirit would see such a day.

J and her husband had no children. Early on, her own married sister, offered her own second born child at birth, a daughter, to J and her husband, to bring up as their own daughter. When the little girl was in her teens , J lost her husband, and ended up becoming both father and mother to this girl. By and by , the little girl grew up, became a teacher, and got married to a wonderful person. There were mother-in-law problems and the young couple was asked to leave, strangely, the husband's house. J opened her house and heart to them. Grandchildren happened, grew up , even got married themselves, and J continued making a great fuss over everyone. Today J, tired after a full life, doted upon by every family member, lay oblivious to the world, in her own dreamtime. Her daughter had called and told us, and this is how we saw her.

I wonder how her life would have been if her own sister had not made this most precious gift of a daughter for her. No announcements, no declarations, just a quiet, thoughtful, determined action.

And then I thought of someone else closer to me in age. Possibly quite younger, but no longer in the flush of, what we call, youth. After many years of seeing just the couple, one was delighted to see them over the last few years, tending to a baby , enjoying its progress, milestones, and now fussing over the school annual day stuff, and running behind a little kid, trying to ride a bicycle. Much like a similar case like J's, except, here the man's brother helped. Offered his newborn second child. With his wife's complete co-operation. And life for this couple, changed.

Such events were fairly common in the old days.

Solutions to life's questions were found in extended family situations. This philosophy had much to do with the ethos of life then. Today , that ethos is missing. There is a lot of stress on the individual by himself/herself, as opposed to an individual as part of family group. Consequently, the ability to see some one's success as a bit of your own, and vice-versa does not happen. The common question that arises is "why should I....?". and never "What can we do ?"...

For a long time , I didn't know, that there was a word called "outsourcing". And when I learned about it, it took me a while to understand what it meant. While it follows that one must know about the concept of "sourcing" before starting to look for "outsourcing", one didn't do so explicitly, because, it was assumed , that you would , naturally be doing/involved in /performing your own work. If you were unable to do it, bad luck. And it probably wasn't for you. Or maybe you tried it at some other point in time, when your capability and the time was different. Sourcing as a word really wasn't in my colloquial dictionary. You just got on with whatever you had to do.

Throughout my childhood, in the 50's and early 60's, unless it involved hundreds of folks visiting you at one time (like for weddings etc), I simply don't remember anyone "ordering" out for things. Aunts, family members, friends pitched in, others dropped in to sample stuff, but stuff got done, whether it was food, flowers or whatever . Clothes stitching , made to order by tailors was the only thing becoming popular, and even there I remember some folks who simply did their own stitching , frocks, blouses and all, even shirts, and we kind of looked upon them with awe.When someone was sick, or an elderly sick person came to recuperate or to get medical attention and stayed with you, everyone chipped in to help. Nothing really was readymade as such, and the combined ingenuity of the entire family worked wonders .

Today, almost everything can be ordered, or as I learnt, outsourced. On a casual family level, even meals. And I don't mean getting someone to come daily and cook. These are folks who come with utensils, food, serving chaps, do the dishes, and go back. There are people who will come and clean your house, without you secretly checking if this or that corner has been bypassed surreptitiously. While in some places you can traditionally outsource mourning to professionals, you still mourn , leaving the public manifestation to the "experts". The latest was the outsourcing of screaming delirious crowds to welcome Tom Cruise at the Mumbai airport, here to promote his film. Paid hourly. Handsomely too.

There are people available now for standing in line for you at various places where you get forms (night queuing extra). Unlike in my childhood, where appearing for exams was a given, folks kept an eye on you, those who cheated were not applauded, examiners caught and exposed them, and word about them got around very fast. Today, unlike the old days, there are all kinds of id-cards you need to have, but you still hear about someone who outsourced his exam-taking to someone else. Outsourcing is a very widely held tool for getting drivers licences, and it took an hour once, for my shocked, open, gaping mouth to close, when someone casually mentioned that they had "ordered" one, from some place up north for a price.

I thought there were fields where this outsourcing wouldn't work. Because I realise that you cannot outsource the taking of medicine in life . Pharmaceutical or otherwise. Giving someone else an electric shock, doesn't stop your heart from defibrillating, and you taking iron doesn't cure someone else's anaemia. Putting a plaster on a friend's ankle doesn't cure your fracture, someone else taking a deep breath doesn't expand your lungs.

But I was wrong. Outsourcing had now hit medical science in a way that would have Hippocrates confused.

I read the news item of actor Amir Khan and his wife announcing the arrival of their son. Through the services of a surrogate mother. And it hit me, that today, you could outsource birth of your child. Like in all outsourcings, India offered cheap services compared to the rest of the world.

I don't know what to think. This country has such a huge population, that it seems kind of silly to add to it by manipulated births. There are so many children in orphanages, looking for a set of loving parents and the security of a home.

But then one must give folks the right of having a kid that carries their genes. And so those that feel strongly about this, go in for In vitro fertilization techniques, and hire a womb to see the pregnancy through. There are issues of ethics, morality , legality, and money involved and enough has been said about those.

But I just wonder, how a a foetus, implanted in the uterus of a rented womb, that gets its daily living nourishment from a totally unknown mother, can remain aloof from the environment. I mean, does a plant that grows inside, at the bottom of the river Ganga, remain completely unaffected and unchanged if you transplant it into the Yamuna or Bramhaputra ?

Nurture ( and not just nature) has been shown to matter majorly in the case of adopted children. It is mind boggling to wonder , if the foetus absorbs anything unique from its sudden new environment where it gets comfortable over the next 280 days.

And then I ask myself, whether folks like J's sister, and the person's brother, exist today. Whether that would be acceptable as a solution to a couple. Whether, parents/parents in law even thought of this as a solution. I also notice , that as a technique or solution-of-choice, outsourcing , as such, and the alacrity with which it is embraced, kind of exponentially reduces over the years .

And then I wonder whether there will be a further scientific advance like artificial external uterii.... , or whether we will again look inward . Maybe a Western country will come up with something like what J's sister did. And they will call it by fancy sociological name. Naturally, we will call it modern, and slavishly follow it, now that the West has approved of the idea,

I think I am still confused. Maybe they will call it Insourcing ?

Rs 585,000,00,000 ? ONLY ?

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 18:13:00 +0000

Money has always been money, with the same magnitude of importance. Whether you talk about it now, or say, 30 years ago. The concern was the same. All this holds true, if you belong to the unfortunate tribe classified as "general tax paying public".

When I started working, particularly in a government organization, 35 years ago, I was at one point introduced to the concept of "someone in audit, raising an objection ".

It's not as if millions in funds were being squandered here and there. I was simply directed to go attend an IT workshop at a place about 25 kilometres away for 4 days. This was not a residential program, and would involve daily commuting. While I was well versed in the science and art of creative bus and train travel thanks to my previous job in the city, I was advised by "experienced folks" to check out what my transport "entitlement" was . I was told that I was entitled to taxi fare. Wow !

I duly attended the aforementioned workshop, kept track of number plates of taxis , and jotted down the details, of those, the time, and the fare paid , faithfully. On return, in addition to doing a report for those who had recommended me for the workshop, I had to fill up some forms for conveyance expenses. And send them to what was referred to by everyone I know, as "admin".

I was duly called one day, and informed, that taxi fare was simply not for me, and I was being granted rickshaw fare . Granting me a closed vehicle with 4 wheels, for transport, would be objected under audit rules . And I was being given the expenses for an open three wheeler . Not that this made a dent in my meagre nonexistent fortune, but this was my introduction to a bunch of people called "Audit". The conscience keepers for expenses incurred and submitted for justification.

Towards the end of my career in the aforementioned job, I once noticed a discrepancy in salary, and checked up the rules in the book of service rules. My doubt was confirmed, and I approached the admin types with my doubts. The whole thing was pooh-poohed in the manner a brilliant scientist would pooh-pooh, say, me writing about subtraction-with-carry. I was told the various steps, that were followed ,before a decision was taken. How things went through "audit", before implementation.   And how they couldn't be wrong.

That same evening I ran into a friend from Audit in a wedding reception we attended , and between jeera rice and hare-bhare kababs, we chatted about this . Corporate types do the same stuff and call it networking. Just saying.

Something must have a rung a bell and my friend said she would check and get back to me. The next day, I heard from her. I was right, and admin was wrong. They owed me. Some. And when I asked her if I should write out an application with n copies for redressal , she told me, that things were in process, a note had been put up by audit, and I would be getting my dues, without raising my finger, pen or voice.

And so I ended up having immense respect for "audit", as someone who ensures money is being spent as per rules, points out anomalies and discrepancies, and defines how to right them.

Turns out, in some cases it is never so.

The Unique Identification Authority of India, initiated its UID card project under the experienced stewardship of Nandan Nilekani, who ventured into government after a very successful lifetime innings at Infosys.   We even ended up going for our biometric cards thing a few months ago, and I even blogged about that !

Today, I read in the papers, that after spending Rs 585,000,00,000 (give and take a couple of zeros here and there, I am sure), the Parliamentary Committee on something or the other has moved that this project be abandoned/stopped. The Home Ministry has problems with it, the Finance Ministry has problems with it. And so, because Parliament decrees so, the project will be stopped.   Just like that. And no one ever bothered about how much has already been spent on the project.

There have been loud whispers in the press about certain sections of government being unhappy with it . Simultaneously, there were also news items indicating how so many millions of people have now been covered under this, how anyone could open a bank account based on this single citizen identification, how folks get buy their grains from the public distribution system, using this , and so on and so forth.

Did someone, doing and auditing job for the government take cognisance of this ? No. Did so many auditing agencies of the government that operate at state and even lower levels think of looking into this? No. Did anyone ever get National audit types like Comptroller and Auditor General (CAG) into the picture as all this money was being spent ? No. Must we wait while all the money is completely wasted before some watchdog wakes up and demands a report on the costs and benefits?

Are wishes of Parliament subject to audit ? When doubts are being expressed , occasionally in the press and elsewhere about the veracity of information , and biometric security aspects of the UID, do we have a national auditing entity that says, "Wait. Lets look into this before we spend any more money"....?

They say the Rupee is losing its value.

Maybe in the eyes of the Reserve Bank, Ministries, and those who are , as I call them, zero-enabled (ie every additional zero enhances them). Maybe in the eyes of those to whom it is just a statistic. Maybe in the eyes of those , for whom everything in life is paid for.

To me , the rupee still has value.

It doesn't depend on the dollar. I keep track about what it buys for me. How much or how how little. I am careful about how I spend it. I pay my taxes, like so many others of my ilk. And I agonize when I get cheated. Because one has worked honestly and for long to earn it.

What is really sad, is when folks think of the magnitude of scams currently being investigated, and say, that this quantity Rs, 585,000,00,000 "isn't that much" !

Even half that would have built some bridges across rivers, where children have to wade through water to reach school, or built a hospital in an area where normal medical help is 24 hours and a mountain away.

What has really lost value, is not the currency, but those folks that purport to rule us, and represent us , and decide how to spend the money earned from the taxes that I pay.

I guess we stay tuned for the next. Scam, that is.

The Guava Crisis....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 17:12:00 +0000

Just came across this momentous piece of news.

Pakistani authorities have arrested a monkey that had strayed across the border from India.

Many things make news between India and Pakistan, ranging from buses, borders, trains, ministerial talks, to actors, actresses, singers, not to mention authors and writers, and yes cricketers.

But we do not "capture" these folks.

Yes, we run after them, applaud them, crowd them, interview them, make films with them, put them in TV shows, and so on. The only folks who get treated differently, are those who arrive with guns, mostly surreptitiously, and sometimes , not so surreptitiously.

While some events have necessitated guarding the borders in minute detail, preventing infiltration by illegals, and checking documents of those legal, through border posts, the concerned officials , are taking the entry of the monkey very seriously.

It seems the monkey entered through he Cholistan area of Bahawalpore in Pakistan.
Cholistan is a desert area adjacent to the Thar desert area in India. This would have roughly qualified as an extension of Rajasthan, had partition not happened in 1947, when we got our Independence, and Pakistan was created.

It is possible, that in this dry weather , the monkey may have ventured northwest in search of water. It is also possible, that the parents and grandparents of this monkey had not educated this fellow, about the Politics of Partition.

Locals in Bahawalpore saw it, unsuccessfully tried to capture it, and then called security. The poor monkey, designated as Bobby by the Paksitanis , is now in zoological custody .

How do you know the monkey is from India ? Did it carry any documents ? Did it have an Indian passport ? Did it speak with an Indian accent ? Did it ask , "Do you know who I am ?" Did it have an RFID ?

While officials in Bahawalpur are tight lipped about this, every effort is being made to ascertain whether the monkey was acting alone, or was it a part of a new infiltration scheme. Pakistan is using Google Earth to study the network of trees with big branches along the border, and plans are a foot to demand that these trees either be trimmed or removed, to prevent further Simian Swings. Unfortunately, the Google Earth pictures on the Indian side, hitherto clear , are currently fairly hazy .....

A committee of expert doctors in Pakistan have ascertained that the age of the monkey is 4 years, and he has currently been housed in the Bahwalpore Zoo, with another monkey, Raju, who is a Pakistani national.

A comprehensive Monkeyscan was conducted on the monkey, Bobby, to ascertain if he was carrying anything else besides his anatomy. The President has appointed an special investigation committee (SIC) and the Indian High Commissioner to Pakistan has been called for a meeting by their Foreign Office.

In the meanwhile, certain sections of the media in India have been reporting on a certain pigeon that had strayed into Indian airspace a few years ago and was captured, and how it was investigated by the authorities for being a carrier of messages. No one knows where that investigation report is....

Hardliners in both countries are insisting that the secretary level talks be kept in abeyance till the real facts behind the "arrested monkey" emerge. The Indian Parliament was once again adjourned as no one from the ruling party was able to give satisfactory answers on the Monkey episode, or MonkeyGate , as it is being called now.

Breaking news :

BNN-ICN is reporting that thanks to a cousin of Julian Assange who has a doctorate in Simian Communication Systems , the zoo authorities (where the monkey is in custody), were able to tap the conversation between the Indian Monkey Bobby and Pakistani Monkey Raju, over several days. Bobby is supposed to have confided to Raju, that he had learned that Bahawalpur was famous for Guavas, and thought this was a good time to generally take a tour of the region, and get his fill of the fruit. But alas, his greed ended up being his problem, he was caught and localised to this zoo.

The only thing is , now that Julian Assange is like persona-non-grata here, no one in the government wants to believe this.

I wonder what the world has come to when a small monkey hankering after a guava can trigger a crisis.

Sigh.

Disclaimer : Other than the real news of a monkey being arrested for trespassing, and stories about the pigeon long ago, everything else is the result of exercising the imagination, and any resemblance to anything in real life, is entirely coincidental, and plain magical .

Most of these observations are a result of the intense glossal movement in the mala or bucca. Those rolling the Occuli to Google for help.

Ambitions through the ages.....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 18:30:00 +0000

What one aspires to be, at various points in ones life, is often a function of the person's age, his environment, and as we grow older, the monetary benefits. It wouldn't be wrong to say, that in urban India, it really has very little to do with a person's aptitude, unless of course you happen to be some kind of genius, artist , or a person with, say, overpowering infrastructure systems (like some people who , as a family of four , actually slum it out in a 27 storey building, all for themselves.)

The best time to have ambitions is when you are a kid.

Like when you lie gurgling in a crib, amidst admiring family members , all pointing out how you resemble them, your real ambition, is to get that big toe into your mouth.

My ambition in kindergarten was to be like my teacher, an AngloIndian beautiful lady called Mrs Rowe, who wore lovely frocks, lipstick, high heels, and played the piano and sang nursery rhymes with us.    This advanced to simple things later, like being class monitor, where you jotted down names of those who didn't listen to you, you got to walk with the teacher importantly to the library to lug back stuff to class.

At one point, after a visit to the Sathe Biscuit and Chocolate (then a competitor to Cadbury in Pune) factory near Pune, and seeing a plateful of stuff for us , I thought it was the thing to be the owner of a chocolate factory. I mean you just opened drawers and everything lay before you, yours for the asking.

There was also an ambition to be a skater , after watching a Abbot and Costello film where a tottering Abbot on skates, simply fell down because a little skating girl, simply blew air at him.

By and by , reality kicked in, aptitude tests were done, advices taken, and one went to college to do pure sciences.

Many years later, in the middle eighties, a little boy who was learning to cycle and admired the home delivery grocery boys who came on their cycles everyday , declared his ambition to be a home delivery chap. I mean nothing was better than cycling around the whole day, particularly when you carried a load of biscuits and chips and stuff.   By and by, he went through all the phases of police, engine driver, cricketer and so on.

The trouble happens when you leave school.   I have seen hordes vying for engineering and medicine admissions, regardless of whether they were interested or had aptitude. Ambition was then simply about aiming to be an engineer or a doctor.

A few years later, business and commerce caught on, and everyone rushed to get a commerce degree, doing a chartered accountant course on the side. Business diplomas were the most popular. Throughout all this, computers reigned supreme, and the country reeled under an IT obsession dotted with .coms.....

Today, the field has widened. There is Mass media studies, event management, law, and all kinds of stuff where folks are rushing. An ordinary liberal Arts degree, sometimes suffices to get a BPO job. Pure sciences are treated like step siblings.

Basically the fun in having an ambition has gone.   Because of the sheer numbers you encounter. People, procedures, types of commuting, restrictions etc etc.

And then, I recently encountered a young man, who had organized a senior citizen card issuing program as part of his membership in a political organization.

Not that folks mistake me for being half my age :-), but it helps to flash a senior citizen card, while trying to enter from the front door of a bus, or advance to a shorter line in a queue meant for senior citizens, at various places. You also qualify for discounted rates for tickets .

He sat at a desk flanked by large portraits of leader types, standing in benevolent poses , two flunkies on each side (of him, not the portraits), lots of forms being filled, signed by him, and continuous calls on his several cell phones.

I wondered if there was something else besides an altruistic gene that caused this.

And then I found out. Stupid me. How dense could you get in your old age ?

The latest in ambitions was to become a politician , and even better still, an MP.

I mean where else, can you enhance your assets by 300% in 5 years ? Where else can you vote yourself three fold hikes in salary, plus full pensions after 5 years (even if you graced the Hall only for a total of 1 day ?

As an elected MP , you will receive an assured income of Rs 1.3 lakh (a salary of Rs 50,000 plus constituency allowance of Rs 40,000 and office or stationary allowance of Rs 40,000) a month. You are guaranteed , vehicle loans of 4 lakhs, at a very low rate of interest . Free petrol, free telephone, free housing, and free shut-eye when you make unallowed changes to the housing at government cost. Furniture, electricity also paid by the state. Free first class rail travel across the country, priority bookings, and 34 free air trips a year, for self and companion. Even the spouse has a special travel allowance , presumably to watch her husband, run to the well of the Parliament to protest about something.

Just for attending valid Parliament sessions , regardless of whether they are adjourned , wasted or whatever, the nation pays the MP 1000 Rs a day. Of course, it is not all serious work . You get to be members of junkets like MP's travelling to study the use of Hindi in Norway, ways of fixing CCTV's on the roads in London, public transport in places like California, where there are 4 cars in a 3 member family, and say, maintenance of statues in New York, maybe ?

The nicest part of this job, is that that , just like the Princes and Rajas of the pre independence days, you can train, manoeuvre and arrange for your offspring to follow in your footsteps in Parliament !

Should you stray , (and I don't mean away from the group during junkets) in a sudden criminal moment, you will only add to the 150 MP's who have criminal cases against them in court. Should you really be suspected of committing a well documented crime , you will then join the 73 MP's who are currently being investigated for serious criminal charges like rape and murder. Till you are convicted, you are always, assumed to be , what else, pure .

Of course, , out of the 543 MP's in Parliament today, 315, or 60% are millionaires, not all to the manor born. And so there is a good chance that you can intern with them follow them, and possibly be the 316th millionaire very soon.

Now who in his right mind, would want to spend years in college, commuting like cattle in the suburban trains, being laid off from a job because the company is going bankrupt, standing in queues for everything, learning the real meaning of "being taxed" , trudging through hip deep water in the monsoon, suffering power and water cuts at the height of summer, seeing fellows who never braved all this all their life, being hailed as the saviours of the nation, and being halted and troubled by avaricious police because you didn't see the light changing behind an inconveniently placed political banner ?

I don't blame the guy. I just hope I get my Senior Citizen card soon .....

Back to the Future ?

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 11:52:00 +0000

I often go back and read, something I wrote a few years ago on this blog, just to see how I feel today, about what I wrote then . Sometimes it still makes me laugh.

Am posting a link to something I wrote about what happens to one's blog after one dies .
Read Apres Moi- the blog or Back to the Future .

Learning....and how !

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 15:05:00 +0000

The two English newspapers ( also a Marathi one) that I get daily , in my house now , are still the same two papers, that we used to get in my childhood. There was no television, we didn't have individual radios, and I had never heard about earphones.

Reading the paper was something we were encouraged to do daily, simply to improve our general knowledge, our perception about our country, as well as familiarize ourselves and improve our practice of a language, that was not our mother tongue.

One of the biggest differences between then and now, is the amount of crime related and cheating related things that are reported now. Yes, it can always be attributed to the the wild uncontrolled population growth , and the ease with which information can travel today. Which it couldn't before. But that information (that never reached the papers) could not have been all bad.

Today, ordinary actions like going to school, work, or even hospital, have an element of perceived danger. You don't breathe easy till everyone who has gone out to work/study/socialize has returned home safe. Children and misled, stolen,kidnapped, women are molested, folks are cheated. It has reached a point,where we suspect almost everyone, and then we assume entire sections to be corrupt , thanks to some representative conniving types.

I wonder, as people, why we have turned out the way we are.Why we have learned that we need to be this way . To get ahead in life.

And as always, I turn to the human body, specifically the brain , because I often think life replicates the interactions in our anatomy.

Millions of neurons in our brain play the main part in learning. Different parts of the brain process different things like visuals, sounds, information, storage of memory etc. Neurons are all over the place, and they communicate with each other through created paths/dendrites, that intersect at what are called synapses, and pass on information.

So how does one "learn" ?

Suppose there is a lady walking towards you, and someone introduces her to you as Kamla. The image of the lady is processed by one part of the brain through the neurons there, while the details being told to you are absorbed and processed by another set of neurons. The two sets of neurons are said to have "fired" , in neurological parlance. (In neurological research it is actually possible to see specific parts of the brain light up in a representative way, on the experiment screen, showing a perturbation of those neurons. Hence the "fire" terminology.)

In addition, there is a linking that happens between the two separate sets of neurons. It's like , one set of neurons generate some type of paths called dendrites, that kind of grow and reach out to where the other set has reached out, and forge a link. Meeting Kamla again and again, kind of underscores this link, and this makes it more pucca. This "highlighting " of the link, activates all the concerned parts of the brain when you see Kamla next, and you are said to have "learned" . You can even enhance this learning , by, say, associating her voice , wherein you create additional relational links to the audio processing neuron circuits. Repetitive events that involve these neurons enhance the learning. You create and store these memories, for later use.

In the real world, as our population increased, resources were perceived as scarce. It was necessary to "learn", to stay ahead. Not the academic type, but the street fighter type.

And so, some folks, had something, that rung a bell in their heads when they saw an opportunity to grab easy money and power. Naturally, they recognized folks who showed up with links to the same money and power. They linked, highlighted and learned. Stored this . More and More.

And so , we have people who recognise a similarly corrupt person. Like the neurons, their ambitions fire, they forge links, which get stronger and stronger. eg Kanimozhi and A Raja. The learning happens, and they can recognize a compliant person when they see one. Forge links. Favours are exchanged over synapses, and financial , corporate and real estate dendrites are extended to each other. And so we have , scams happening all over the place. And it continues, drawing in more scammy human neurons, creating and potentiating more and more dendrite paths. But in the real world.

The old days , when the world seemed different and safer , are like our childhoods. We had started out with millions of neurons and then continued to evolve our skills and learning as children. Who we linked up with was then , a supervised affair. By family and parents and school teachers.

Today, our population has proliferated, just like the millions of neurons in our brain. It has become impossible to ascertain all the links that are getting built up in the real world, just like, a sometimes overburdened brain, coping with all the learning.

But there is a difference.

The brain has a finite size and is not infinitely expandable. As you create more and more learning and dendritic pathways connecting the often firing neurons, a time will come when we will exceed the available capacity, or will have to kill off the obsolete low-usage neurons to make way for the new ones.

There doesn't seem to be any such limit outside in the real world. The population increases by leaps and bounds, the variety and number of crimes that are being committed keep proliferating. Today's parents, like me , are clearly an extremely worried lot , say, compared to my parents, in their time.

Are the mindless killings, natural calamity deaths, careless deaths , and accidents that we see today, similar to the kind of adjustments made by the brain, to keep out and retire less important, low-use neurons ?

Is this evolution ? More important, is this how it should be ? And where does this all end ?

I wonder. And worry.

"Adjourning" Days are here again !

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 17:51:00 +0000

The esteemed Members of Parliament meet again.

For a 21 day session, and are supposed to process 31 bills , which when signed by the President, are supposed to become law.

I've never figured out how they decide the length of a Parliament session. Ideally, that should get clear once the work on processing the 31 bills starts off, so they get an idea of how much time it takes.

Today , Parliament was adjourned due to the condoling of the death of two members, and later due to the usual chaos , where the opposition was supposed to be hampering the work of Parliament. Maybe tomorrow, someone will run into the well of the house, and shout slogans, and they will adjourn the house again.

4 hours were lost, costing the tax payer one crore Rs.

What's a few crores here and there ? We are looking at scams running into hundreds of thousands of crores, the possibility of a private airline being showered with a bailout of thousands of crores, albeit through banks, almost all of them nationalized. Government still hesitates to announce the names of folks who have stashed such large fortunes in black money abroad, that recovery of these may even fund a metro railway system for some big city.

I doubt if anyone is seriously shaken up about Parliament sessions not happening and wasting crores.

I just have one suggestion. What is this about having "sessions" of Parliament ? Monsoon session, winter session, summer session ? Like the various "fashion weeks" ?

Presumably, the government needs preparation time before presenting the bills for discussion and voting.

Now that the preparation is done prior to the winter session, ( at least I hope so), I have a suggestion.

Why not keep Parliament is session, not for just for 21 days , but till all 31 bills are passed, no matter how long it takes. ?

(Reminds me of my school days, when the teacher would have us sit after school, and complete stuff which was due yesterday, and we couldn't go home till we finished. This was also used as a punishment for unruly behaviour by folks in my class. The whole class got punished for a few folks behaving stupidly. Just saying . )

There should be no concern about cost. MP's live in subsidized conditions. Food in Parliament is subsidized to such a level, I am not surprised that no one bothers about rising prices of food grains, in the life of the common man. Living quarters subsidized, communications and travel subsidized, laptops free, junkets free, publicity, free.

Let them attend Parliament without a break. They can always shout slogans and run up and down into the well of the house, to exercise their limbs. The Speaker can keep attendance through some buttons on the MP's desks. They can have a special 2 hour break after every passed bill.

Currently , they are objecting to the presence of a particular Minister in Parliament, because he is presumed guilty. Other people , ordinary ones, have been thrown into jail for less. And no one even stopped traffic for that, forget Parliament.

So get him into Parliament sessions on Skype. Those who don't want to see him can simply put their laptops (free) on standby or hibernate along with their laptops.

But, for a change, get started on the 31 bills. Debate them , discuss them , even fight, call each other names, apologize, whatever. Process the bills. Some will pass, some will fail, but the session will end definitively.

We cannot go into the next session of Parliament again with a backlog of bills.

Ordinary citizens having backlog of bill payments, are penalized, hounded, and humiliated.

This is but a small price to pay, for MP's.

Just think.

They continue doing this (adjourning and delaying) for 5 years, and by law, they can retire with a full decent pension with all kinds of assorted benefits, you and I can never hope to see in our lifetimes......

i-Rich x-Childhood vs Rich Childhood

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 17:33:00 +0000

Sometime ago we happened to be at a Mall, and I saw some great excitement happening over some great purchase, and two grown up chaps, kind of victoriously walked out with two biggish things in two bags. I was told by my daughter that they had bought something like Xbox related stuff. Then I recalled that she had once gone with some friends because one of them wanted to purchase a PlayStation something for a young nephew, all of 5 years.

To this day, I don't know what these things are. All I know is that these are setups that allow you to play interactive games on screen. And I am puzzled. I mean if I was a small child and was shown this stuff, I would certainly be attracted to it, and would probably get crazy about it , in time. But what prompts sensible well meaning adults, to buy such things for kids at an age when they should be playing outside with other kids ? is it a false sense of prestige, a halo that says "we are the IT generation" , or is it a desperation to keep up with the equally ignorant Joneses ?

As a child, we were never at a loss, for games to play. None of these needed special things like racquets. A ball was easily available everywhere. Gardens abounded, people had swings in houses, and we even had games that we invented that we could play on staircases. Weekend early mornings, we would take off to the Parvati Hill temple , with art stuff and eating stuff, pretend to draw sunrises, while polishing off some decent poha and lemon juice, and cucumbers sprinkled with salt and cayenne.

On cold winter evenings (Pune had and continues to have a terrific winter season), it got dark earlier and as children we would watch my father doing his yoga exercises. Much to everyone's chagrin, we would wait till he did Sheershaasan (headstand), and then climb on a stool to try and put books on his inverted feet, to see if he could balance them . (He could. ). We even tried out some stuff sitting alongside, trying to outdo his hum while he did Pranayam. And our hum always ended in a fit of giggles.

Thousands of moons later, when my children were small, they too had the run of the colony where we lived, climbing trees, collecting some strange beans , which they would religiously pound with serious intent, believing they were making cork balls, which they thought was what was inside cricket balls. Cycling was learned. There were tricycle and bicycle races, prizes, sandwiches and lemonade. There were bars to keep vehicles away from the lake (opposite which we lived then), and it was primarily used by my daughter to do various acrobatic somersaults, hanging by the feet and stuff, till one day she fell down in her great enthusiasm, and some folks brought her home, and she had some stitches done on her chin. The two wheeler ramp in the building (being near the lake, it was a bit raised) was used for running down the slope with blue underwear over full pants, and a blue bed sheet tied at the neck, trailing behind you, in what everybody was told, was superman, all this often watched by an ambling cow, with a disgusting snort.

Of course, cricket, football et al existed. BCCI had not yet become greedy about TV rights, so much of it was played between 2 buildings , with someone's car licence plate as the stumps.

The best was when we visited the grandparents in Pune. And the ultimate was when the cousins from the US were also there.

Mornings were dedicated to climbing hills, going to the Peshwe Park near which we lived. My father would carry and endless supply of peanuts, jaggery and cucumbers, carefully packed by my mother. These would be imbibed after everyone had had their fill of swings,slides, merrygorounds, see saws and the like. Sometimes there was a boat ride. Sometimes an elephant ride. Sometimes they simply ran behind the elephant as it majestically strode around with passengers. Back home, grubby and once all the baths took place, there was this story session with Amar Chitra Kathas. All of them would sit cheek by jowl on the sofa crushed against their grandfather, who told these stories with much expression and acting, and it was entertaining to see the kids' expressions change. There were favourite stories told again and again. They believed every single word of what was happening. They would even recite some of the smart sayings by someone , by heart.

When walking around to the park became difficult because of undisciplined traffic, my father would take the car. One time they were so taken in by the story of Hanuman tearing apart his chest to show Ram Sita and Laxman standing inside, smiling, that my father ended up driving them to an old temple in a crowded part of Pune, where an entire external wall depicted this event. In brilliant color. I can just imagine this whole group standing there gazing at all that, watched indulgently by old ladies in nine yard sarees who had come for a pravachan....

Back from their evening trips, my father would retire to do his yoga exercises, and all of them learnt quite a bit of them just observing him. They behaved much better than I did at their age, and did not try to balance books on by father's feet when he did Sheershasan.

There weren't any TV shows and stuff then, simply because my folks hadn't bought a TV but there was no lack of excitement. I don't ever remember playing with guns myself as a child.

I don't remember that my kids ever played with guns. But I do remember, that someone once presented my son with a small wooden sword and shield , and he used it to run after a cow that had crashed through our fence and was messing up , what passed for a garden then. I am sure the cow was not impressed at all with the weaponry, but probably played heed to the shouting. And left in a hurry. With a snort.

At one point the weather became hot, and my father decided to take the car. Some additional kids were visiting and the whole lot piled into the little Fiat. My father started the Fiat, and there was a huge noise, with smoke coming from the engine side. ( The previous evening they had taken the car through a huge pothole. By accident, but the children were thrilled no end with the bumps. Apparently the battery left its mooring and fell sideways inside the engine enclosure. They reached home, but the whole night, acid must have dripped all over inside. The next morning, the ignition switch was reason enough for something to cause a minor explosion inside. ). Nothing could have delighted the kids more. This was like the movies, which no one took them to see.

I remember all this, and then I wonder, about there being hardly any toy shops then.

Today, besides having a wide variety of toy shops, we have a dedicated populace that believes that life is all about sitting in front of a screen and playing, say, tennis, tabletennis, wars, chasing soldiers , or whatever. Many of these "games" are "battles" with "killing" and "revenge". The excuse given , is that there are very few green spaces in cities. Kids spend the entire day in studies and tuitions. Internet means you write stuff in SMS lingo on Facebook, and say things you wouldn't have the guts to say to someone's face.

There are so many contraptions, fancy phones, cameras, music systems and so many parents rich enough, who have money to spare to buy these for the children, but not the time. For their children.

I just wonder who had a richer childhood .

Cutting Music .....

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 04:35:00 +0000

I have always been curious about medicine and its practice , right from the time I was a teenager. At one point in my late 20's I had an opportunity to observe a Cesarean section delivery. I stood some distance away, mask and all, behind a screen, in the OT and watched.

While I gaped in wonder at the proceedings, the cuts and use of various instruments, the emergence of the baby as it was lifted out, and the stitching up of things, I was marveling at how confidently the doctor went about the job. It was a bit disconcerting to realise that there was some endless chitchat happening between the surgeon and the anesthetist, and the assistant doctors. And this chitchat had nothing to do with the patient, the incision , the blood or whatever. The entire operation went off beautifully, and the surgeon and the anesthetist kept on a running discussion on some new Marathi musical play that had come, and their opinion on the actors, and the writer of the play, some various inside information someone had heard, and so on. This was in the 70's.

Today, the sound quality of music that is played has improved tremendously. Numerous genres of music are there, and music has become an important part of the environment. In its conservative piped in version, it is played in banks, malls, airports, lobbies, and so on. Recently , I had occasion to attend to someone in the ICCU of a hospital, and they even had music, for us to "wait by", as we stayed endlessly in the waiting area , day after day.

Music as therapy for the sick, has been researched and proved beneficial. There are surgeons , who listen to favourite music in the OT, and patients who need less anaesthesia, when they listen to music on headphones while going under. Possibly then, the music crescendos, and thrust-and-parry, of say, the late Bharat Ratna Pandit Bhimsen Joshi's "tanaas", would co-exist in the OT, in delicate contrast to the quiet, careful, studied , detailed, careful investigation into some one's innards, a cut here, a cauterisation there, a snip somewhere else, and a slapping of tools into some one's capable hands.

There is new research to show, that music also improves investigative capabilities of doctors.

I have just come across this . And I don't know whether to be amused or impressed.

As reported on Oct 31, 2011 , it says ,"Physicians who listen to Mozart while performing colonoscopy may increase their detection rates of precancerous polyps, according to the results of a new study unveiled at the American College of Gastroenterology's (ACG) 76th Annual Scientific meeting in Washington, DC."

Adenomas(tumorlike growths ) are precursors to getting colon cancer, so anything we can do to be able to detect more adenomas in the colon, during a given procedure, will save lives later on.

The above research suggests, in simple terms, that the mental ability of a surgeon looking for polyps in the colon reaches a peak when music is playing.

Whether it could be better enhanced by playing Beethoven, Handel, Yanni, Abba, Beatles, A. R. Rehman, Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle, Shankar Mahadevan or Lady Gaga is not clear.

That there is a connection between music and medicine has been known . Apollo, the Greek god of healing, was portrayed playing a lyre. In a survey done in UK, it revealed that 90% of the surgeons had their sound systems playing music while operating, half of those even preferred listening to high tempo rock music, and strangely plastic surgeons played the most music, and ENT surgeons the least !

However, while music and surgery seems to be a win-win thing most of the time, a study done in 2008 and published in a journal called Surgical Endoscopy revealed that novice surgeons performed less well, while music was on in the OT, because they actually thought it was a distraction. The prospect of trying to extract a shaky mass of something from someones abdomen while listening to , say, the loud leading bars of 2001 Space Odyssey , or even a fast paced Jai Ho ! might be a trifle disturbing.   Just saying.

But the question remains.

Why Mozart ? and why , only the colon ? And has anyone done any experiments , playing Mozart, looking for polyps in other places , like say, the nose, or small intestine ? Does the outcome of investigations improve when words are put to the music ?

Research can possibly come up with so many options, specifying anatomy-music combinations. Like colon-Mozart, colon-Beethoven, appendix-tabla-percussion, adenoids-shehnai, stomach- dholak/drums, gullet-flute, pancreas-harmonium and so on.

But the real fun would be when specific songs could be played for specific purposes .

Like a coronary artery Stenting being done to the very fitting tune of Bridge over troubled Waters by Simon and Garfunkel.

Like Bariatric (stomach stapling) surgery being conducted to the plaintive sounds of Let-it-Be by the Beatles.

Like a tumor being removed or excised,   as Killing me Softly , is sung soulfully by Roberta Flack.

Of course, the ideal song to be played during, say, Bypass Surgeries, Heart Transplants and so on would be My heart will go on, by Celine Dion.   To be followed shortly by My heart is beating from the film Julie.

Deviated Septum (crooked nose) surgeries would be done to the tune of Himesh Reshammiya songs, encouraging more powerful straightening of the septum.

What might be considered the most intriguing use of music in medicine can probably be attribute to consultant urologist Ben Challacombe, in Guys Hospital, London. He does delicate robotic kidney surgery. While extracting and removing a cancerous tumor from a kidney , there is a 30 minute window in which this must be accomplished. Normally , they have someone calling out the time. Which probably feels intimidating , so to speak. So what he does is that he has 6 , five minute music tracks playing in the OT , starting at the beginning of the window period.   The music goes along well with his surgery, and he knows at any given time where he is in that 30 minute window.

Of course there are older surgeon types, who even listen to opera while operating, though I wouldn't want to be around there while he makes cuts here and there, as some soprano really decides to belt out high pitched arias.
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There is a lot of music in the sidebar of this blog page. One of the most popular songs of Marathi Cinema currently, has to do with a lavni dancer doing her stuff, telling the hero, in a song that goes "mala Jaaoode na ghari, ata wajale ki bara " (= Let me go home, it's almost 12 now....).......and this song is there in the play list.

If I am ever a patient in a musical OT , I'd love to have this play as they wheel me out of surgery to the recovery room.

Book review : "The 7 Secrets of Vishnu

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 18:08:00 +0000

I received the book, "7 Secrets of Vishnu" by Devdutt Pattanaik, (Westland, 2011) for review, as part of the Blogadda Book reviews program.

I have read the author in his columns published on Sundays in newspapers, and have found his take on our Hindu Mythology quite intriguing. I liked his style of writing, and so I looked forward to reading "7 Secrets of Vishnu".

Basically this is about the seven avatars of Vishnu. These are Mohini, Matsya, Kurma, Trivikrama, Ram, Krishna , and Kalki, and the various stories that are associated with these in our Mythology. It is interesting to learn, that due to the variety of regions, societies, and cultures followed in our country, there are interesting variations on the basic stories; in the sense that stories that I heard in my childhood 50 years ago, are heard with a slight variation, by someone else , say in the deep south, and maybe eastern India.

The author looks at these avatars and the various stories, as something that teaches us values: Spiritual aspects and Material aspects; what is essential for our proper growth and development as a society and as human beings; and what happens when we do not follow things . There are many stories one may have heard earlier or read earlier about, but here the author goes to the trouble of explaining what it is trying to imply in the way we give importance to the development of our spiritual and material lives.

The number of different characters introduced in the initial chapters are large. It becomes a bit difficult to remember who is what. And one tends to turn back the pages to check things out. It becomes difficult to digest all the happenings. Then there are a few clarifications. One always thought that "Devas " were Gods who could do no wrong. The author explains that Devas and Asuras are brothers . Then again, Vishnu is defined as representing the material aspect of living, while Shiva represents the spiritual aspect . Laxmi , the consort of Vishnu (as known to us from childhood) has an intriguing role to play, that representing the materialistic aspects of life, while Saraswati , the other consort (I didn't know that; always thought she was by herself) emphasizes the spiritual facets of living. Both are needed, and excess of any has its own consequences.

One admires the author's ability to corelate our basic repetitive functions of farming, sowing and harvesting to births and deaths/killings, and rebirths.

A few questions on Lakshmi, and her flitting from the side of Indra, to the Asuras, and then to the side of Vishnu. Where one gets the impression, that she is smitten with Vishnu, but her being there or not is just fine with Vishnu. This treatment is a bit disturbing.

What is very new for me, is how the author describes the various Yugs, Krita Yug,Treta Yug, Dwapar Yug, and KaliYug, and shows a correspondence with the four stages of our lives on earth. It is also very interesting to learn of the earth/Prithvi, being looked upon as a cow, standing in different balance modes corresponding to the Yugas. The most balance on four legs, during KritaYug, and the least balance on a single leg during KaliYug.

The author, in the course of the various chapters also elaborates on how some names have come about, which is very interesting, eg. the name Prithvi for earth.

There is so much that one can write here, and so much the author has written. It is difficult to assimilate all this in one read. You need to refer to this book again and again. The book is illustrated with some amazingly marked intricate figures, where the author takes the trouble of explaining the specialities of the particular God in a particular pose or avatar.

The chapter I enjoyed the most , was that about Krishna, as an avatar of Vishnu. The childhood, the mischief, the humanness of Krishna, the maturing and departure for Mathura/Vrindavan, the firmness and stoicism about leaving his nurturers behind, the amazing mixture of tough philosophy, advice, and guidance given during the Kurukshetra war, his sense of justice at comforting Gandhari at her loss of 100 sons , and listening to her curse him. One can go on and on.

One gets a bit overcome with the sheer number of characters, human, half human and animal type in the book. One reading of this book is not enough. Going back and reading a particular part again, would possibly enhance one's understanding in a nonlinear way.

I think older folks will enjoy this book more, than say folks in their late 20's.

Its an amazing book. Though I dearly wish, they had provided an index at the back for quicker reference.

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"S." in the time of 3-day weekends....!

noreply@blogger.com (Ugich Konitari) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 17:18:00 +0000

My household help, "S.", a hitherto greatly admired lady in the blog world (she knows I write about her), came in this morning, after what must have been a great 3 day weekend for her. She had been telling me much in advance about going away for three days at this time, so as to not inconvenience me , and so that I could mobilize for S-less days, and schedule my stuff accordingly.

S. is a great follower of the late Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar, and is a Buddhist. They have a community hall in their crowded locality, where she is an office holder of the local Buddhist Women's Association. Smart, "illiterate", sensible "S.", was earlier the treasurer, and would plan the community events with great care and attention. She probably did an excellent job, despite being unable to read numbers and alphabets , because she is now the President of the group.

Some local folks recently announced a bus trip over the 3 day weekend that just got over. Folks would be picked up, and would travel to the ancestral village of Dr Ambedkar , Ambavade, in the coastal Ratnagiri district of Maharashtra. After spending some time at the memorial there and visiting with his remnant family, they would then proceed to his first wife, Ramabai's ancestral village , about 50 kilometres away, at Wanand , in the Dapoli area of Ratnagiri District. The idea was to spend some time there visiting, learning about her, talking to folks, have a late tea/snacks session, and then drive and spend the night at a hill station , Mahabaleshwar, about 110 kilometres from there.

The drive, although not a big distance in kilometres, was through several small internal roads, some through hilly areas, away from highways, and so quite timeconsuming.

The amazing thing was, that her overall family budget decreed that two people could go, and her family urged S and her daughter to do this trip. They took along the eldest grandson (he went free), a very talkative,curious fellow , all of 5 years, who had started school. With a new grandson in the family and other small grandsons, this would give a break to those who stayed at home, and S told me she thought it might do the eldest fellow some good to see places around where so much history happened.

S cannot read or write, but her descriptions of the trip would make a great travelogue. Leaving at dawn in Mumbai, following the coastal highway to Dr Ambedkar's native village , Ambavade, way inland from the coast, and they reached there at 1 pm. Visited the village center, met and spoke with a nephew (of the great man) who still lives there. A simple village lunch was organized for them. Then to visit the ancestral maternal village of Dr Ambedkar's wife, Ramabai Ambedkar, a small village called Wanand, more on the coastal part (Dapoli) of the same district.

The late Ramabai(1896-1935), was married to Dr Ambedkar when he was 17, and she was 9 , in 1906. While he left to study in England, she continued to slog and support her siblings in their ancestral village in very difficult situations. On Dr. Ambedkar's return, she was a great support to him in his campaigns, and was with him till she died in 1935.

This trip, for S, was to see and meet people in places , she had just heard about till now. Ramabai Ambedkar is greatly revered by folks, and S wanted her grandson to also see, how the rest of the country outside Mumbai lived.

The trip wasn't all educational and serious, she said. From Wanand, they drove 110 kms, to Mahabaleshwar, a very popular hill station , in the mountainous Satara District, to spend the night there. The entire route , after the recent monsoon must have been a wonderful green.

A great day spent sightseeing, visiting river origins, the famous Venna Lake, strawberry farms and factories making delicious strawberry stuff, and it was time to return to Mumbai on the third day. (Mahabaleshwar is famous for its strawberries).

An amazing and nice change for S, where meals and lodging was taken care of, and she could just enjoy the trip.

En route, they passed and stopped at Pratapgadh, a wonderful mountain fort, made famous by Chhatrapati Shivaji, a great Maratha warrior King revered in the state. Her young grandson was dizzy with all the mountain climbs and descents, complained of "chest pain" (if you will) , and forgot all about it the minute they spied the steps ascending to the top of the fort.

Naturally, there were a bunch of things for sale , and the fellow was hoping to buy a big toy sword and shield, costing 150 Rs much to S's chagrin.

"It's all this TV stuff. He thinks he can charge around battling with it, and its just an invitation to get into situations where someone will be hurt ", she told me. And so she convinced him that a set of binoculars was better, and he could watch the stuff from the bus, and see things like birds, and animals, and sceneries that others couldn't etc etc. He could even later see the Thane creek from the hilltop, after he got home, and show his brothers and uncles.

I was amazed at the firmness with which S dealt with this. I know kids who create a racket in toy shops till they get what they want. Regardless of price. Some parents just give up, and give in. Between the sales person's strategy, a possible new reputation as a stingy parent, and unwillingness to become unpopular and be criticized, some attach great value to the ability to spend money easily, and substitute money for reasoned thought.

And here was S, convincing a chap to enjoy a binocular; much cheaper than the sword by all means, but certainly more useful, and shareable.

But what was amazing was what she got for my daughter, when she came in this morning. In this whole fast paced , event packed trip, she had bought a packet of strawberry chews from the strawberry factory in Mahabaleshwar ! The thrilled recipient of these goodies, took a photo of it for this blog, before it was opened , and shared with the family and , of course , S !

All I can say is , "wow!"......