Times Change

248. A visit to "BoShanKo": Part 3: Old Kolkata

2026-04-22T10:31:22.898+05:30

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

Finally, our stay in Bolpur came to an end and we started towards Kolkata. This journey was by train. We went to a railway station called “Prantik.” A small station. Just three or four platforms.

Prantik Railway Station

There was hardly any crowd. While looking for the meaning of the name “Prantik,” I realized that it is the title of one of Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry collections. For those coming by train, Prantik is close to Shantiniketan. In a way, it is like a gateway to Shantiniketan.

These days trains are often late, and ours was about two hours late as well. In Bolpur, with so many food options around, I had somehow missed eating jhalmuri. I wasn’t even hungry, but just for the sake of it, I finally had jhalmuri on the train.

A short visit

Debahuti had come to receive us at Howrah station. What I really liked about the station was that at some platforms, cars can come right up to the platform. Seeing a wide road between two platforms was quite interesting.

Howrah Junction

We stepped out of the station. Instead of going home directly, we decided to take a short round. Very soon, the usual traffic of a big city (like any other large city) became visible. We went towards the Hooghly river. We spent some quiet time at the ghat. The wide stretch of water in front, the gentle movement of the waves, and behind it the grand Hooghly bridge. From a little distance, we could also see the famous Howrah Bridge, and it somehow confirmed that we had truly arrived in Kolkata.

the Famous Howrah Bridge

A local train thundered past on the tracks right next to the ghat. We all stopped talking and watched it like children.

There were some large idols floating in the river. When I asked about them, I learned for the first time about Saraswati Puja here. For me, Bengal was always associated with Durga Puja. I didn’t know much about Saraswati Puja. On the day of Vasant Panchami, Saraswati is worshipped in homes as well as publicly. For children, it is considered the beginning of their education—the day they learn their first letters. In schools and colleges too, books are worshipped. The public idols are large and kept in big pandals. It feels like both Durga and Saraswati traditions come together in Bengal’s culture.

While returning from the ghat, we could see the Vidhan Bhavan and the Akashvani building in the distance. We ended this short outing by eating Kolkata’s famous roll—hot, spicy, and very tasty.

Old Kolkata

Kolkata—a city with a rich cultural and historical tradition. Even if you stay for a month, there will still be many things left to see. I had only two days. It is possible to see many places quickly, but that kind of rushed tourism does not make sense to me. Before coming here, I had long discussions with Debahuti and Anasua. Based on that, we decided to spend half a day in old Kolkata (North Kolkata).

Subirda was our driver. He had worked in a mill in Solapur for three years, so he happily tried speaking to us in broken Marathi. When I first heard the guide’s name, I couldn’t understand it—“Jogobondho.” Then I realized it was “Jagabandhu.” Within the first ten minutes itself, it became clear that the two had very different ideological leanings—especially from their discussion on a sensitive topic like SIR (Special Intensive Revision). Also, one supported Mohun Bagan and the other East Bengal football club.

While moving around Kolkata, we passed by roads near many stadiums—Eden Gardens, Salt Lake Stadium, Netaji Stadium. Kolkata’s love for sports is a separate subject altogether.

Our first stop in old Kolkata was Swami Vivekananda’s house.

Swami Vivekananda's home

Swamiji was born here on 12 January 1863. This house had fallen into disrepair, but in 1962 the Ramakrishna Mission took it over and restored it. Now it has a museum, a research centre, a language centre, and a computer training centre. Since we reached early, we couldn’t visit the museum. In an open space, three children were practicing dance under the guidance of two adults.

In a small lane near Vivekananda’s house is the home of the famous singer Manna Dey.

At the entrance of the lane

Visiters cannot enter the house, but when the current resident came to know that we were from Maharashtra, he opened a large window of one room for us. Inside, there was a photograph of Manna Dey and his awards and memorabilia, neatly kept. Jagabandhu also told us that Mirza Ghalib had lived for a year in a building in this area.

Many houses in this locality have small temples of Kali and Jagannath (Puri). These have been preserved by families for generations. During festivals like Kali Puja and Rath Yatra, these small temples become very important. Jagabandhu mentioned that one Kali idol here was originally made for Dakshineswar temple but was not liked by Rani Rashmoni, and so it is now in a household temple here. However, I could not find any reference to this later. This area is also known for its sweet shops, but we did not stop there. So much history in just one locality!

While walking here, I finally saw the Kolkata tram.

Kolkata Tram

Started in 1873, it is the oldest tram system in Asia. Initially, trams were pulled by horses. They became electric in 1902. I remembered travelling by this tram during my Kolkata visit in 1984–85. Because of slow speed, traffic issues, and newer transport options, trams are now fewer. Earlier they ran on more than fifty routes; now only about three routes remain.

Kolkata Metro, started in 1984, is the oldest metro in India. The earlier metro was underground. Now the network has expanded to five lines and around sixty stations. There are both underground and elevated routes. Some station names were confusing for me. For example, Ritwik Ghatak, Kavi Subhash, Geetanjali, Satyajit Ray. These names are undoubtedly great, but for a newcomer, it becomes difficult to understand exactly which part of the city one is in.

Kolkata has many transport options. Some old ones are still in use, and that was interesting to see.

Later, on College Street, saw it with passengers!

This part of Kolkata still retains its old character—and that is what makes it feel alive. Narrow streets, old buildings, people leaving their slippers aside to pray on the roadside, men bathing at public taps, fresh vegetables and bargaining customers, posters of the upcoming assembly elections, people of all ages walking or cycling, others carrying bags and walking slowly…

Jorasanko Thakur Bari

“Jora” means pair, “sanko” means a bamboo bridge. It is believed that there were two parallel bamboo bridges over a stream here, hence the name Jorasanko. Others say there were two Shiva temples here. “Bari” means house—so this is the Tagore family house in Jorasanko.

This is the ancestral home of the Tagore family, built in 1784 by Nilmoni Tagore. It is not just a house—it is a huge mansion.

Entrance of Thakur Bari

Dwarkanath Tagore expanded it. Rabindranath Tagore was born here on 7 May 1861. He spent his childhood in this building. He wrote many poems here. He also passed away here on 7 August 1941.

Since 1961, one part of this building houses the 'Rabindra Bharati Museum'. There are more than fifty galleries. One gallery presents the history of the Tagore family—important phases in the lives of Dwarkanath and Debendranath Tagore, their work, and documents from that time. It gives a glimpse of how an influential, educated, and wealthy family in 19th-century Bengal lived.

Another gallery is about Rabindranath’s life. It displays his clothes, caps, pens, spectacles, watch, footwear, and many such objects. There are handwritten copies of his famous poems and songs. The words he struck out and the drawings he made from them are interesting. There is correspondence with Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Einstein, and other global figures. There are also his paintings and a replica of the Nobel Prize he received in 1913.

What I liked the most was the “map of Rabindranath’s world travels.” At that time, he had travelled to more than thirty countries. The map shows his travel routes and timelines. Along with it, there are objects he used during his travels, his passport, and rare photographs with global leaders. It helps understand how Tagore saw himself as a “citizen of the world” and how that connects with the idea of Visva-Bharati.

As we came out, we saw a long queue in the courtyard. On asking, we were told it was for SIR.

Boi Para

“Boi” means book and “para” means locality. Boi Para—the locality of/for books. Its official name is College Street. This is not just India’s but Asia’s largest book market. You get college textbooks as well as rare books here.

In 1817, Hindu College (now Presidency University) was established here by Raja Rammohan Roy, David Hare, and others. The book market seems to have started around that time. Boi Para is about one and a half kilometres long, with hundreds of small and big bookshops. Wherever you look, there are books. Except Sunday, the market runs the whole day.

Within a short walking distance, there are many colleges and universities—Calcutta University, Hare School, Hindu School, Sanskrit College - to name a few. Institutions like the Bengal Theosophical Society and the Mahabodhi Society’s headquarters in India are also here. We also noticed the humour of students.

On a yellow paper at the top on the right side of the viewer, there was a complaint about canteen food written in a funny way: “Don’t make canteen food too oily, USA might invade our campus.”

When you visit Boi Para, going to the Indian Coffee House is almost a tradition. You can't escape visiting it.

This place is a historic centre of Bengali culture, politics, and literature. Since 1876, this space was known as Albert Hall. It was the main centre of the “Bharat Sabha” established by Surendranath Banerjee. In 1883, the first All India National Conference was held here. Many political meetings of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose took place here. Writers, artists, and thinkers used to gather here for discussions. Personalities like Rabindranath Tagore, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, Satyajit Ray, and Mrinal Sen were regular visitors. Kolkata’s famous “adda” culture developed here.

In 1942, the Coffee Board took this hall on rent and started a coffee house—this is the Indian Coffee House.

While climbing the stairs, we saw paintings on the walls. Inside, there were high ceilings, old fans, and waiters in white uniforms. There are photographs of many such personalities inside. Luckily, it was not very crowded when we went, but we could not sit for long. We had coffee and left.

In this area, it felt like there is still space for organisations and people working on civil rights issues. We even saw preparations for a protest—complete with police vehicles—before the crowd had gathered.

Victoria Memorial

This is a very famous and grand monument in Kolkata. It was built between 1906 and 1921 in memory of Queen Victoria during British rule. The building is made of white marble, and its design shows a blend of British and Indian architecture. There is a large museum inside. I would have liked to visit it, but we did not have enough time, so we just walked around outside.

The memorial stands in a campus of about sixty-four acres. Around the main building, there are gardens, pathways, and water bodies. Walking near the water in the afternoon sun felt pleasant.

Often guides give us information, but it needs to be verified. Here, the guide told us two things. One—that water from the Ganga (Hooghly river) is directly brought into these water bodies through a system built by the British. Second—that even today the British government contributes to the maintenance cost of this monument.

When I checked both these points later, they turned out to be incorrect. There are six water bodies in the memorial area. The Hooghly river is about three kilometres away, and there is no system to bring river water directly here. The water bodies are mainly maintained through groundwater and rainwater recharge. After independence, this monument is fully under the Government of India’s Ministry of Culture. It is managed by an autonomous trust under the Governor of West Bengal. The British government does not provide any funds for its maintenance now.

I don’t know why the guide gave such incorrect information. Once I realised this, I found it difficult to trust the rest of what he said. Exaggeration is quite common in our society.

Next time, I will definitely visit the museum inside.

St. Paul’s Cathedral

This is an important church built in the 19th century. Completed in 1847, it was the first Anglican cathedral in Asia. Since Kolkata was the capital during British rule, such a grand church must have been necessary.

This is an Indo-Gothic style building. In simple terms, Indo-Gothic means a mix of European architectural style and Indian needs. So the building looks tall, with pointed arches, large windows, and an impressive structure—features that come from Europe. But while building it in India, changes are made for the local climate—better ventilation, thicker walls, and a design that keeps the interior cool. So it looks foreign but functions locally—that is Indo-Gothic in simple words.

Inside, there are memorial plaques and information about some people from the British period. Some plaques mentioned other cathedrals, but I could not understand why. There was no one to ask. Photography was not allowed, so I could not even take pictures to check later. Since mobile phones are not allowed, the atmosphere inside is very quiet. Of course, this did not last long, as several busloads of school children arrived. So we left.

Kolkata Book Festival

The Kolkata Book Festival was very crowded. I got separated from my friends. Still, I walked alone through around twenty stalls. The enthusiasm of the sellers was impressive (very noticeable compared to the Pune Book Festival). There were a huge number of Bengali books; Hindi books were almost absent. The moment you picked up a book, a seller would come and start explaining it. Since my Bengali vocabulary is limited, I would wait for them to pause and say, “Ami Bangla jani na.” Then the conversation would continue in broken Hindi-English. They would show me English books. Despite saying no, I ended up buying some books—one in Bengali as well.

Interviews of writers and poets are fine at a book festival. But if there were no dance, music, speeches, and especially food stalls, the crowd would be less. And book lovers could browse in peace—that is what I felt once again. As usual, I know I am in the minority.

When I think about this one and a half days, it was not just about “seeing places.” It felt like a beginning of understanding Kolkata a little. On one side, there was the journey from Prantik to Howrah, the Hooghly ghat, and the experience of Saraswati Puja. On the other side, there were the lanes of old Kolkata, its houses, the legacy of thinkers, and the intellectual buzz of book streets. Everything seemed interconnected.

Here, history is not locked inside museums—it is alive in daily life, in festivals, and in people’s behaviour. Because of lack of time, many things were left out, some were only partially understood, and some raised new questions. Perhaps that itself is the real character of Kolkata.

247. A Visit to “BoShanKo”: Part 2 – Santiniketan

2026-02-24T18:04:00.003+05:30

( ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

The moment one hears the name Santiniketan, the name Rabindranath Tagore immediately comes to mind. Open classrooms without walls, children sitting under trees, Gurudev, Visva-Bharati — a familiar picture appears before our eyes. We know this place as an educational and cultural pilgrimage centre, where education is not about examinations but about experience, and art is not something confined within rigid frames. A beautiful — and perhaps somewhat idealised — image of Santiniketan lives in our minds. At the same time, a quiet curiosity arises: does all this still exist as it once did, or has it changed?

If one visits Santiniketan merely as a tourist, a single day is enough for an ordinary person like me. Tagore’s house, a museum, the handicrafts market, a souvenir picked up from the weekly haat — and then it’s time to leave. While the identity of Santiniketan as a calm and beautiful place is true, it is also incomplete. Because Santiniketan is not a place that can be “finished” in one visit. Even today, it remains, in a way, a space that invites introspection.

Santiniketan is not merely a memory of Tagore; it is a vision and a philosophy he nurtured. His attempt to erase the boundaries between human beings, nature, education, art, and society can still be felt here. I was fortunate not to be in a hurry to see and leave like a tourist. I was able to stay with local people and, following their recommendations, do one carefully chosen activity each day. As I explored Santiniketan slowly, its many layers began to reveal themselves. Of course, I did not see everything, nor did I understand everything. But my introduction to Santiniketan had begun.

History

In 1863, Rabindranath Tagore’s father, Debendranath Tagore, established a small ashram on this open, arid land near Bolpur. Santiniketan — meaning “the abode of peace.” Debendranath purchased twenty acres of land from a landlord named Sinha. He chose this land as an ideal space for meditation, contemplation, and a peaceful life close to nature. The purpose of this purchase was to take the spiritual and social education of the Brahmo Samaj beyond conventional boundaries — to engage in dialogue with nature and to begin a “study of life” that lay outside the rigid frameworks of material education.

At that time, no one could have imagined that this quiet, somewhat isolated place would one day become a centre of global thought.

Rabindranath Tagore did not see this space merely as an ashram, but as a laboratory of education. In 1901, he established the Brahmacharya Ashram school here. The decision to move classrooms out from enclosed walls into the shade of trees was not merely educational — it was also political and cultural. It was an attempt to offer an alternative to colonial education, and to create a dialogue between Indian traditions and global ideas. Here, observation was valued over rote learning, coexistence over competition, and understanding over examinations.

In 1921, Visva-Bharati was established. “Yatra visvam bhavatyekanidam” — where the whole world becomes one nest — was not just its motto, but the guiding principle of life here. Students, artists, and thinkers from India and abroad began arriving. Santiniketan ceased to be one individual’s dream and became an intellectual and cultural movement built through collective effort.

Seeing the entire world as one home meant that education here was never limited to classroom knowledge alone. Seasons, festivals, art, nature, and human relationships — all became part of the learning process. Today, UNESCO has recognised Santiniketan as a World Heritage Site, but for local residents and students, it continues to be a place that “teaches one how to live.”

Today, Santiniketan is recognised as a distinct campus that forms the heart of Visva-Bharati University.

Viswa Bharati Campus Map

Santiniketan and Sriniketan together make up the vast campus of Visva-Bharati. Santiniketan houses departments of art, music, languages, and the humanities, while Sriniketan is known for experiments in rural reconstruction, agriculture, and social development. In that sense, Santiniketan is not merely a geographical space, but a way of life — and Visva-Bharati is its formal, institutional expression.

Heritage Walk

The Santiniketan Ashram Heritage Walk is conducted only on Sundays. Since we reached Bolpur on Saturday night, the Heritage Walk became our first activity.

Heritage Walk is little costly

According to the information leaflet, the walk includes Chhatimtala, Santiniketan Griha, Upasana Griha, Taladhwaj, Nutan Bari, Dehali, Santoshālaya, Ghantatala, Purba Toran, Paschim Toran, Singha Sadan, Patha Bhavana, Dinantika, Cheena Bhavana, and Hindi Bhavana. Except for one or two places, we managed to see almost all of them.

Anasua had already gone ahead and collected the tickets. Guides were available in three languages — Bengali, English, and Hindi. We joined another group and began the walk with a Hindi-speaking guide.

The tree known in Bengali as Chhatim refers to the Alstonia scholaris (devil tree). It was under two such trees that Debendranath Tagore meditated during his first visit in 1862 — which gives this place its significance. These trees could only be viewed from a distance, from beyond a fence. In fact, many places could only be observed from afar. Considering society’s obsession with selfies and the habit of carving one’s name on walls, this distance between tourists and heritage structures seems necessary.

Open classroom

Classes from the primary level onwards are conducted within the ashram campus. At many places, one sees large circular stone platforms around trees. These are vartulas — circular seating arrangements where students sit. One portion of the circle is slightly elevated; that is where the teacher sits. Even today, classes are held under the open sky, without walls.

Built in 1919 in the Buddhist architectural style, Ghantatala is still in daily use.

Path Bhavan

This is the office building of Patha Bhavana. Established in 1901 with just five students, Patha Bhavana continues to provide primary and secondary education. The wall-less classrooms mentioned earlier are part of Patha Bhavana. The old building now functions as an office. I particularly liked the colour of this building, as well as its architectural style. Santiniketan reflects a fusion of many styles — whether in architecture or painting. There is a sense of simplicity combined with an extraordinary beauty that one still feels here. At first glance, it seems that Santiniketan has mastered the art of preserving what is good from the past while embracing the new.

There is an old banyan tree in the area. Lingering around it felt calming. A couple of small children were swinging on its aerial roots. On a nearby platform, boys and girls from Patha Bhavana were rehearsing a dance to the song “Ekla Cholo Re.” They were completely absorbed in their practice, utterly unconcerned about tourists watching them.

Nutan Bari (called Natun Bari in Bengali) was built in 1902 after the death of Mrinalini Devi, Rabindranath Tagore’s wife. Mahatma Gandhi and Kasturba Gandhi stayed here for some time. Santiniketan Griha is the oldest house in the campus; Mahatma Gandhi also stayed there. Rabindranath wrote many of his later-famous poems in this house — though I don’t know exactly which ones. In one of the buildings, I was able to see paintings by Nandalal Bose on the walls and ceiling. That was such a wonderful experience. The paintings felt so fresh and alive! I cannot put into words what I felt upon seeing them.

After wandering around the campus for two hours, we stepped outside, where there was a huge crowd. Amidst it, two musicians were completely immersed in their performance. Listening to them was also deeply pleasant.

Musicians

Republic Day Programme and Art Exhibitions

On the morning of January 26, we returned to the Visva-Bharati campus for the Republic Day programme. We arrived a bit late, so I could not figure out who the chief guest was. But that guest did not utter the words “Constitution” or “Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar” even once. This reminded me of the young father I had met on the train (my co-passenger), mentioned in an earlier post. There wasn’t a very large crowd at the programme either, and most of those present seemed to be schoolchildren.

On the way back, we stopped at a place for alu chop and tea. The earthen stove there was lovely.

Earthern Chulha

At this small square, there were three or four tea stalls. On one side, I noticed a statue of Dr. Ambedkar and went closer to admire it. A man from New Delhi had donated the statue in memory of his father. It felt good to see it.

Statue of Dr. Ambedkar

One day, we visited Rabindra Bhavana, built in 1942 after Rabindranath’s death. It is also known as the Tagore Museum. The museum is called Bichitra — meaning astonishing, diverse, beautiful, and more. It was established in 1961, during Rabindranath’s birth centenary. The museum houses a replica of Tagore’s Nobel Prize, his correspondence with figures like Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, and Romain Rolland, and more than fifteen hundred of his paintings. Photography is not permitted inside.

As I walked through the museum, I noticed people from all social classes — poor, middle-class, and wealthy — observing the exhibits with devotion and engaging in thoughtful discussion. One repeatedly senses that Rabindranath Tagore remains a point of pride, identity, and deep emotional connection for Bengal even today.

Uttarayan consists of five houses — Konark, Shyamali, Udayan, Punashcha, and Udichi — each with a beautiful name. Rabindranath lived in these houses at different periods of his life. Shyamali is an earthen house.

"Udichi"

I was amazed by the various architectural experiments in these houses.

I had heard that small reproductions of Tagore’s paintings were available for purchase at the sales counter, but I found nothing. The familiar “government office” attitude was evident. The staff were inattentive, and my enthusiasm for buying anything faded away.

We visited an exhibition of Ajanta Mural Tracings by Ganesh Haloi.

Exhibition Poster

There was no one else there besides us. The lighting was so poor that the tracings were not clearly visible. The security guards, however, were enthusiastic and shared a lot of information. I later learned that Ganesh Haloi had worked in Ajanta for six years. His tracings are beautiful. I wondered how he managed to create them, but did not seek out the answer. I later learned that he has published a book on this subject — perhaps the details lie there, or must be sought elsewhere.

Most of us are familiar with Rabindranath Tagore’s name. But alongside him, three other painters played a crucial role in Santiniketan: Nandalal Bose, Ramkinkar Baij, and Benode Behari Mukherjee. An exhibition of works by Baij and Mukherjee was held in another gallery. Those paintings were also extraordinary — intensely alive. Benode Behari was blind in one eye and had limited vision in the other, yet his paintings are remarkably realistic. I kept wondering how he managed to paint this way. As the exhibition time was coming to an end, we had to leave. But the paintings alone were reason enough to return to Santiniketan.

On another morning, we visited a photo exhibition on the life and work of Ritwik Ghatak. It struck me then how few of his films I had actually seen. In another gallery, there was an exhibition of works by Krishna Reddy. I encountered a new form called “printmaker painting.” A young student from Santiniketan (who had also come to see the exhibition) tried to explain it to me in simple language, but most of it went over my head. The paintings, of course, were beautiful.

While viewing all these exhibitions in Santiniketan–Bolpur, I felt an overwhelming sadness at how little I understood about art. For someone like me, illiterate in the language of visual art, this was an entirely new universe — at once wondrous and deeply pleasing, yet also distant, maintaining a certain reserve.

Learning to understand the language of art is necessary. It is not merely a new script, but a new way of thinking, a new form of dialogue — opening up countless possibilities.

Does our everyday life contain both simplicity and beauty? How do we truly look at nature? Can we see what artists see? Do we have the commitment to art that its practice demands? Do we adequately understand what — and whom — we are truly connected to in this world?

Many such questions kept arising in my mind during this wandering. Santiniketan has certainly given me a new way of seeing. How long its spell will stay with me — only time will tell.

******

To North Kolkata in the next post.

246. A Visit to “BoShanKo”: Part 1

2026-02-09T17:01:00.002+05:30

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

You are probably reading the word “BoShanKo” in the title for the first time.

You might also be wondering who this “BoShanKo” is—a person, perhaps?

But “BoShanKo” is not the name of any person. In fact, I myself had never heard or read this word before. I have coined it today. It is a word formed by taking the first two letters from the first and third place and four letters from the second place. Sounds complicated?

Bolpur–Shantiniketan–Kolkata: I have just returned from these places. These are notes from that journey. Notes of “BoShanKo.” Or rather, the “BoShanKo” that I saw and experienced. (Note. Shantiniketan is in fact Santiniketan, S is pronounced as Sh here. But for non-Bengali readers, I am keeping Sh and not using just S.)

This series will have four articles. The first article is about experiences of an earthen house and food in Bolpur. The second article is about Shantiniketan. The third article is about wandering through old Kolkata. The fourth and final article will have my observations from a visit to Dakshineswar and a drama that I watched.

Towards Kolkata

I travelled from Pune to Kolkata by the Azad Hind Express. A journey expected to take thirty-four hours stretched to forty-two hours because the train was delayed. Such a journey is not just about kilometres; it is also about getting to know co-passengers. On such long journeys, one inevitably encounters both pleasant and unpleasant experiences with fellow travellers.

Somewhere around Manmad or Bhusawal, a large group boarded our coach late at night. In the darkness, berth numbers are not easy to see, so a bit of confusion was understandable. Also, being mindful that others are asleep is not exactly a common habit. But even after half an hour, their noise did not subside. When I asked them to lower their voices, they got angry, and their volume only increased.

The next day, while chatting with a few of them, I learnt that they were a spiritual group travelling to Gangasagar. There were forty people in the group, including twenty-five men. Some of these men had been allotted lower berths. Which meant that the previous night, they had been quarrelling with other male passengers to get lower berths for the women in their group—an act of sheer selfishness. They could easily have arranged lower berths for the women within their own group. But expecting benefits from others without giving up one’s own comfort seems to be a common habit of our society (or at least of its majority).

There was another man who spread his bedding and went to sleep as soon as the train left Pune. He would wake up occasionally to talk on the phone or eat something. But till we got down on the morning of the third day, he seemed to be sleeping. I once asked him if he was unwell. He said he was just resting.

A middle-aged woman boarded at Nagpur. She too was travelling to Kolkata. Her brother was unwell, and she seemed a bit distracted. When we offered her something to eat while we were eating, we ended up talking a little more. Her next question was—where are you headed?

That was a difficult question. Because I was going to stay at the home of my niece Anujna’s friends, people I had not met before. Staying or eating at the homes of people I do not know is quite normal for me. But this often does not fit into other people’s definitions of what is acceptable. So I vaguely replied, “I’m going to see Shantiniketan,” and changed the topic.

There was also a young co-passenger. He was a wholesale garment trader. Because of the delay, he was sorting out disruptions to his onward flight travel. At one point, he received a call from home. I could hear the entire conversation clearly. His daughter, who was in third grade, had to give a speech at school on the occasion of Republic Day, and he was discussing this with his wife. When he realised that the girl wouldn’t be able to read the speech and would have to memorise it, he paused to think. Then he said to his wife, “Don’t worry. Just tell her to remember three words—India, the Constitution, and Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar. Even if she says just these three words, it will be good.” I felt a deep respect for him. We spoke a little more after that.

On such journeys, a vast canvas of people, perspectives, and realities keeps unfolding.

Bolpur

When the train reached Howrah Junction, Debahuti had come to receive us. After having something to eat, we set off towards Bolpur. As a “senior citizen,” I was given the front seat in the car, and it remained reserved for me throughout the journey 😊

The distance from Kolkata to Bolpur is about 150 kilometres. Within the first ten or fifteen minutes, it became clear that people here are used to honking a lot and driving fast.

The Hihgway outside Kolkata city

For those of us from outside West Bengal, Shantiniketan is a familiar name, but Bolpur is not. One could say that Bolpur’s primary identity is that Shantiniketan is located within it. But Bolpur has a history and an identity that predate Shantiniketan.

Paddy fields in Bolpur

Bolpur is in the Birbhum district. To be honest, I did not see Bolpur the way tourists usually do. What I saw while travelling to and from Shantiniketan and on the way to the railway station felt pleasant. Paddy transplantation was in progress in the fields (rice is cultivated three times a year here, and for the third crop, a lot of groundwater is extracted). Women and men were working in almost equal numbers. The red soil was visible. The roads are narrow, but there are not too many vehicles. Many women and men were seen cycling. It can still be called a “city of bicycles.” There were quite a few hotels and homestays, which suggests that tourists arrive here in large numbers.

The Earthen House

By the time we reached Bolpur, it was dark. But the moment we entered the house from outside, the cold disappeared and it felt instantly warm. I had arrived at Anasua’s home—a two-storeyed house made of earth. The architect who built this earthen house is Anujna. Another architect, Pratiksha, assisted her.

Anasua’s house is not just a second home meant for holidays; it is her primary home. She lives here permanently. Building an earthen house and living in it permanently in 2024–25 is not about going backward, but about looking ahead. Against the backdrop of climate change, rising temperatures, unpredictable monsoons, and excessive use of electricity, an earthen house is a meaningful response. Earth keeps the house cool in summer, warm in winter, and reconnects humans with nature. Instead of the noise of air-conditioners, fans, and heaters, one senses the quiet breathing of the walls. Living in such a house was a deeply restful experience. And because the house was built by Anujna, it felt even closer to me.

Anasua's house as seen from a distance

An earthen house is not only environmentally friendly; it is also a social and cultural statement. A house built with local soil, local artisans, and local knowledge creates employment in the village. It keeps alive traditions of skill and craftsmanship. An earthen house challenges conventional definitions of prestige and prosperity. It tells us that a relationship with nature itself is prosperity. Standing amid concrete jungles, such a house reminds us that we are not here to rule over nature, but to live alongside it.

Ducks at leisure

Anasua’s house is spacious and airy. Gentle winds flow around it, accompanied by the sounds of birds. The sky and birds are easily visible from the windows. The easy movement of dogs, chickens, and ducks in and around the house was delightful.

Siesta PC: A friend

There is a pond in the courtyard.

The house as seen from the courtyard waith a traditional paddy grannary on the side.

Watching the ducks walk in a line and dive one after another into the pond was a joy. There is a vegetable garden. There is a paddy field. And one more thing—the house is full of books. One can sit anywhere comfortably, chat if one feels like it, or read quietly, sipping black coffee or black tea while listening to Bengali songs. The atmosphere is such that one almost does not feel the need to step outside the house for anything.

After watching one of Anujna’s Facebook Lives, Anasua felt that this was the architect who could build the kind of house she wanted. Two strangers spoke to each other, and the work began. Even after the work was completed, the bond between them remained. Through them, I too became connected. This is a living example of the positive impact of technology—and also an example of why we should question the repeated warnings that tell us never to trust strangers.

If you wish to know more about earthen houses, do visit the Matimol Facebook page.

Food

Strictly speaking, I do not belong to the category of food lovers. I always taste local dishes, but I don’t have rigid preferences of wanting some things and rejecting others. If someone asks me which vegetable or sweet I like the most, I can hardly give a clear answer. However, first at Anasua’s home in Bolpur and then at Debahuti’s home in Kolkata, I developed a distinct awareness around food.

We were all on vacation, so there was no hurry. For breakfast and meals, Tunididi would lovingly prepare different dishes every day. No meal ever began in haste. In the Bengali tradition, meals are eaten in a particular sequence. Rice is the main food, but only a small portion is served at a time. The meal begins with shukto or some mild (or mildly bitter) vegetable. The first portion of rice is finished with that. Then more rice is taken, accompanied by dal (masoor or moong). Next come vegetables like aloo posto and lau ghonto. Then fish—different kinds at every meal. Initially, I enthusiastically asked for names, but gradually gave up worrying about them. After that came chicken or mutton. Potatoes are a must in meals, but I noticed that for each vegetable, the potatoes were cut differently.

There was a procession of dishes, but no chaos. I used to think Bengali food was all about fish, but that isn’t true. There is immense variety even in vegetarian dishes. Each flavour has its own place, its own time. Eating felt like a journey—not a direct leap to the main dish, but a gradual progression. After eating, one felt full, but the head did not feel heavy—that is the strength of this sequence.

The meal always ended on a sweet and gentle note—payesh, chhena sandesh, rosogolla, or sometimes mishti doi.

Pati-Shapta stuffed with jaggery and coconut filling

A dessert that softly bids farewell to all the flavours eaten before. All the sweets were made with 'nolen gur'. 'Nolen gur' is the special marker of a Bengali winter. This jaggery is made from sap collected at dawn from date palm trees and is available only for a few months. When the sap is slowly reduced in the cold air, it loses the sharp sweetness of sugar and develops a smoky, soft, slightly earthy flavour. That is why nolen gur is not just sweetness, but a sign of the season. Its unavailability throughout the year is what makes it special. The use of jaggery and coconut enhanced the flavours of the dishes. During those eight or ten days, I strongly felt that in Bengali food culture, eating is neither a ritual sacrifice nor mere sustenance—it is a calm, unhurried journey to be savoured.

While living leisurely in the earthen house, we had of course not forgotten Shantiniketan. Over the next three days, we wandered through the Shantiniketan–Visva-Bharati campus for different reasons. Let us learn more about that in the next article.

245. Thiruvanantpuram (Trivandrum)

2026-01-22T14:27:00.005+05:30

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

While planning my trip to Kanyakumari, I had already decided to stay in Thiruvananthapuram for two days. I had an assumption (I don’t really know why) that there would be plenty of buses from Kanyakumari to Trivandrum and that they would be frequent. In reality, there are almost no such direct buses. I was told that I would get a bus to Trivandrum from Vadassery bus stand in Nagercoil. So I went to Nagercoil. While boarding the bus to Nagercoil, I had actually asked the conductor, “This bus goes to Vadassery, right? I need to go further to Trivandrum…” and boarded it accordingly.

After getting down at Nagercoil, when I started asking other passengers, “Which bus goes to Trivandrum?”, I realised that I had arrived at Anna Bus Stand. Everyone kept telling me (in broken English), “You will get the Trivandrum bus from Vadassery,” but how was I supposed to get to Vadassery? Once again, I felt how difficult it is to even have a simple conversation with people from our own country when we don’t know the language.

Even though I didn’t know the language, people were extremely eager to help. I could see a mini-conference of five or six passengers forming around my serious question. One middle-aged woman held my hand and took me to a bus. She said something to the conductor. The conductor gestured for me to get into the bus and told me three times, “No Trivandrum, Vadassery.” At least this much I understood—that this bus would drop me at the Vadassery bus stand in Nagercoil.

From Anna Bus Stand to Vadassery, I did not have to buy a ticket. I was told that travel up to thirty kilometres is free for women. However, for the twenty-two kilometre journey from Kanyakumari to Nagercoil, I had bought a ticket. (Both Kanyakumari and Nagercoil are in Tamil Nadu.) So I couldn’t quite understand what the exact scheme was. Perhaps there is a difference between local buses and long-distance buses. Or maybe there is a difference between Tamil Nadu buses and Kerala buses. I have nothing to say about having to buy a ticket; I only mean to say that I didn’t clearly understand the scheme.

The woman sitting next to me on the bus spoke Tamil. She started talking enthusiastically. My Tamil begins with “Vanakkam” (hello) and ends with “Tamil theriyad” (I don’t know Tamil). But the funny thing is that we kept talking for nearly one and a half hours until her stop arrived. Once again, I realised that if people really want to communicate, language does not become a barrier. And perhaps that is why we don’t feel the urge to learn other Indian languages with much effort. Things somehow work out. People help. People talk with a smile. People open their lunchboxes and insist that you have tea or snacks with them.

This was not my first visit to Trivandrum. I have some old memories connected to this place as well. Once, I had come to Kanyakumari with a group of boys and girls from Maharashtra for a youth camp. Our train reached Chennai late, and because of that we missed the next train to Trivandrum. After talking to the station superintendent at Chennai, arrangements were made for us in another train. That train reached Trivandrum sometime in the middle of the night. Along with thirty boys and girls, I slept on the platform at Trivandrum station—it was a memorable experience.

Later, during a two-week training programme, I had stayed near Kovalam Beach and used to go to the beach morning and evening. While I was in Delhi, I had also visited villages around Trivandrum for a project; those days were pleasant too. As the capital of Kerala, this city has always felt to me not just like an administrative centre, but a beautiful blend of history, culture, architecture, and humanity. All my earlier visits were work-related; this visit was relaxed—that was the big difference this time.

“Tiru” is an honorific prefix, somewhat like “Shri” in Sanskrit. Tiruchirappalli, Tirupati, Tiruvalluvar—many place names have “Tiru” in them. “Ananth” is a name for God, but here it refers to Ananta, the serpent. “Puram” means residence or city. A city associated with Vishnu reclining on the serpent. Even the name of the city is so meaningful and distinctive.

This city has its own rhythm. The roads are compact and winding. Even while watching traffic, this rhythm is noticeable. Although the number of two-wheelers is large, almost everyone wears a helmet—men, women, young, old—both riders and pillion riders wear helmets.

This does not feel like mere compliance with the law; it feels like a collective consciousness about safety. Traffic appears relatively less aggressive, more disciplined, and calmer—as if that is the very nature of the city.

Home-stay

While deciding where to stay in Thiruvananthapuram, I came across a home-stay on Booking.com—Chaithritha Ladies Homestay. It was exclusively for women, and the reviews were good. Payment was to be made only after reaching there, so even if the trip got cancelled for some reason, money wouldn’t be wasted. I immediately decided to stay there.

About a month before I left for Kanyakumari, the people from this home-stay had already started communicating with me via WhatsApp. Where I was coming from, how I would reach, whether I needed pick-up from the station or bus stand, what I wanted to see in Trivandrum, whether any arrangements were needed, and so on. This communication continued until I reached their home in Trivandrum. In fact, even after I returned safely to Pune, I informed them that I had reached home—just the way one would inform close acquaintances.

I did not know who exactly was the person communicating with me and making all the arrangements. When I reached Trivandrum and met Bindu madam, I learnt that all my queries were handled by her son Lihin (yes, that is his name). He was in Delhi, I was in Pune, and the arrangements were in Trivandrum—all made possible easily because of technology. He helps his mother with everything while living in Delhi. (I will not, of course, write much personal information.)

Lihin asked me whether I would come from Kanyakumari to Trivandrum by bus or train. Until then, I hadn’t thought much about that journey. While going to Kanyakumari, I was planning to travel from Trivandrum to Kanyakumari by train. So for a change, I decided to return by bus. “There are buses of both Tamil Nadu and Kerala states, but please come by a Kerala state bus,” Lihin insisted. I found it amusing. It made me realise that we in Maharashtra are not so particular about our state buses.

To visit some places in Trivandrum, Lihin had arranged a car with a driver. The driver was Lihin’s cousin. Vishwanath was a little shy. His cousin Meghan (that’s his name) was with him, and he was quite talkative. “My family wanted a girl child, but I was born—so my name is close to a girl’s name (Meghan),” he said jokingly. Both of them were engineering students. They too were visiting many of these places for the first time along with me. So my expectation of having a guide who would provide detailed information was not fulfilled. But I did get to know a lot about Kerala families and their relationships.

As soon as I entered the house, I was given the Wi-Fi password. The connection was excellent. Home-cooked breakfast and meals. A small, neat, and clean house. A window that made it feel like trees were within reach. A winding road and a cat playing on the railing of the building at the corner.

I felt as if I were a part of a painting—the surroundings were so calm. I really enjoyed it.

At the home-stay, I got to eat puttu–kadala curry, appam, and local fish. Puttu–kadala curry is a very popular and traditional breakfast dish in Kerala. When I first saw it on the plate, I thought it was chole–rice.

But the taste of freshly grated coconut in the puttu was delightful. Puttu is a steamed dish made from rice flour and grated coconut. It is steamed vertically in a special puttu mould, which makes it very soft. The accompanying kadala curry is made from black chickpeas. It contains coconut, roasted spices, and tempering with curry leaves. It is a thick, flavourful curry. The dish is not only tasty but also healthy. I could eat puttu–kadala curry any number of times without getting bored—provided it is readily available, of course.

I enjoyed chatting with the two young men who accompanied me throughout the day. At their insistence, I even tasted toddy with lunch. It is mildly sour in taste. At the eatery, people of all ages from families were seen enjoying toddy together. Even though it was a Wednesday (not a holiday), the place was full.

I, of course, had only a couple of sips.

Shri Padmanabhaswamy Temple

The most famous temple in Thiruvananthapuram—Shri Padmanabhaswamy Temple. There are special rules regarding dress here. Vishwanath and Bindu had already informed me about them. Men must keep the upper part of the body bare (remove their shirt) and wear a mundu or dhoti. Women are ideally expected to wear a saree. Nowadays, however, wearing a mundu over salwar-kameez (called mundu-neriyathu) is also accepted. Sarees or mundus are available on rent within the temple premises. Before leaving the home-stay, Bindu had given me a brand-new mundu from her own belongings to use. I wrapped it around my salwar while entering the temple. During the security check, a woman police officer noticed that the mundu was not properly tied and could come loose anytime. After the checking was over, she tied it properly for me.

The temple is very large. It is believed to be the richest temple in the country. People were standing quietly in queues. There were people who came regularly for darshan before going to office, and there were some tourists like me. In one part of the temple, collective chanting of Vishnu Sahasranama was going on. At one time, I had memorised it (someone had challenged me saying, “You can’t do it,” and I accepted the challenge and memorised it in a few hours—that’s another story). So the subsequent verses were echoing in my mind. I haven’t recited Vishnu Sahasranama for many years, but the mind works in strange ways.

As the name suggests, this is a Vishnu temple. One can see Vishnu in the Ananta Shayana posture here. The temple was built in the eighth century and renovated in the eighteenth century by Travancore king Marthanda Varma. The Travancore kings had an inseparable connection with this temple. In 1750, King Marthanda Varma made the historic declaration of “Thrippadidanam,” through which the entire kingdom of Travancore was dedicated to Lord Padmanabhaswamy. After that, the kings referred to themselves as “Shri Padmanabhadas” (servants of the Lord). It is said that they believed the kingdom belonged to God and the king was merely a servant.

The temple architecture is a blend of Kerala and Dravidian styles. I read that there are 12,008 shaligrams in the sanctum—but I did not see any. As in many temples, priests were pushing people, and there was a separate queue for those who paid more money. Once again, the usual question arose in my mind—how can so-called devotees create money-based inequality before God?

One special feature of this temple is that darshan happens through three doors. Through the first door, one can see Lord Vishnu’s face and chest; through the second, the midsection; and through the third, the feet. The reclining idol is eighteen feet long. The temple is calm and beautiful. My mind felt peaceful. I just wished I had received better information about the temple. Sometimes, when we don’t know what to look for, we fail to really see—and that happened here too.

Kuthiramalika Palace

Visiting Kuthiramalika Palace gave me a vivid glimpse of Kerala’s royal history. This palace belonged to the Travancore kings and is adjacent to the Padmanabhaswamy Temple. The entire palace is built of wood, and the carved horse motifs on the ceiling especially draw attention. The palace was built by Maharaja Swathi Thirunal—who was not just a king, but also a renowned musician and patron of the arts. Every hall in this palace bears testimony to the dynasty’s aesthetic sensibility, cultural awareness, and love for art.

The palace now houses a museum with various royal artefacts. We were guided by a woman guide who provided good information. Since photography is not allowed, people moved ahead quickly. One interesting thing I noticed was that people in the royal lineage did not have similar facial features. Then I realised that succession did not pass from father to eldest son, but to the sister’s sons. In other words, kingship was matrilineal. Therefore, royal names also appeared different. Of course, this is just my observation; I do not have complete information.

Napier Museum

This museum was established in 1855, and later, in 1880, the present grand building was constructed. The building was named after Lord Napier, the then Governor of the Madras Presidency. The museum preserves many rare artefacts related to Kerala’s history. These include ancient bronze and brass idols, ivory carvings, traditional Kerala musical instruments, weapons, and artefacts related to the Travancore royal family. We walked around leisurely here, and I took many photographs.

Laurie Baker’s Institutional Campus

“If you are going to Trivandrum, do visit Laurie Baker’s campus,” a friend who is an architect had insisted. The boys who were with me didn’t even know the name Laurie Baker. So we kept wandering while trying to locate the place. At one point, we reached an organisation run by a women’s self-help group. Seeing visitors arrive, the women workers left their meals aside and got up. Since we had already come there, we decided to see their work as well and gathered detailed information. They then told us how to reach Laurie Baker’s institutional campus.

There, we met a senior official named Anil Kumar. We learnt that redevelopment work is underway in the area where Laurie Baker had lived. There is also a training centre here.

Laurie Baker was a British–Indian architect. He was born in England and completed his education there. After the Second World War, he came to India. Using local materials (and thus reducing cost) and building environment-friendly structures was his hallmark. He built more than two thousand buildings—homes, schools, hospitals, churches, and more. By consciously rejecting extravagance, showiness, and excessive cost, he placed people, nature, and need at the centre of architecture. In 1990, the Government of India honoured him with the Padma Shri award.

I really liked the multi-storeyed brick library that we saw here.

There is no extravagance—but the natural light, airy structure, and use of bricks make the space feel very alive. We climbed three floors. On each floor, we stomped our feet hard on the wooden planks (as suggested by Anil Kumar) and realised how strong the building is. There is also one living room on each floor, where trainees stay. It felt good to have seen something new.

While leaving, Vishwanath and Meghan said, “Oh God, our aunt (or uncle) has installed glass panes everywhere in the new home-stay they’ve built—this kind of brick construction would have been so much better.” Hearing this made me happy. Actually making changes may not be in their hands right now, but it is important that they at least realise that there are good alternatives.

There had been a lot of walking throughout the day. We were all tired. Even so, it was already past four by the time we returned home.

Returning Home

Both Kanyakumari and Trivandrum gave me a wonderful time. I got a lot of calmness over the week. I spent time by the sea. I saw new things. I met new and old people. Some old chapters came to a close—which was necessary. Not just people, but places also shape us. I will always remain grateful to Kerala and Tamil Nadu for that.

The next morning, I went to Trivandrum station and boarded the train to Pune. While bidding farewell to Trivandrum, I told myself—and Tamil Nadu and Kerala too—“I will come again” 😊 Whether I actually return or not, I am certain that the memories of these days will remain with me.

244. Wandering Around Kanyakumari

2025-10-05T23:00:00.001+05:30

(हा भाग मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.)

Part 2: Vivekanandapuram

Since I reached Kanyakumari in the afternoon, it didn’t make sense to rush to the "Rock" (Vivekananda Rock Memorial) right away. I could have gone, of course, but by the time I reached, there wouldn’t have been much time to linger. So I decided to spend the first day leisurely exploring Vivekanandapuram.

To my pleasant surprise, there was still hot water available for a bath even that afternoon. The next morning, however, the geyser refused to cooperate. When I went to the reception to leave my room key for repairs, I was told they didn’t keep keys. Carrying a room key while wandering all day always feels like a small burden to me — but so be it. The receptionist called the electrician, who promised to come “in five minutes.” But, as we all know, in India “five minutes” rarely means five minutes. After waiting for about fifteen, I gave up and boarded the bus heading towards the Rock.

While waiting for the bus, I met an elderly couple from Thrissur, Kerala. They told me they had been visiting Kanyakumari every year for the past several years. Over the next two days, we crossed paths a few more times — they were gentle, warm-hearted people. The lady was quiet; the gentleman, with a kind smile, would often let me move ahead in the queue or offer me coffee. My travels across the country have taught me one thing — whether in the north or south, east or west, Indian hospitality towards strangers remains genuine and alive.

Vivekanandapuram wasn’t particularly crowded. July is, after all, school and college season — not the peak of tourism. With that expectation, I went towards the Rock, only to discover how utterly wrong I was.

There were two separate queues — one for those who paid ₹100, and another for those who paid ₹300. The ticket included the ferry ride to and fro across the short stretch of sea. When I had come here in 2011, there was no such distinction. The entry fee was ₹50 then — the rise in prices is understandable, but two different lines?

At pilgrimage centers, temples, and tourist spots, it’s nothing new for the wealthy to pay extra for bypassing the queue. Yet, to encounter this sort of discrimination at memorials dedicated to Swami Vivekananda — who preached equality — and Thiruvalluvar — who spoke of the oneness of humankind — felt ironic, even disheartening. It said something about how deeply ingrained and normalized our social hypocrisy has become.

The ferry service is run by the Poompuhar Shipping Corporation, under the Tamil Nadu government. There’s also an online booking system, which I hadn’t known about earlier. Later, I found out that this dual-fee arrangement had only started recently — on 5 June 2025, to be exact. People love to save time, and many will pay extra to do so. Which means the ₹300 queue is here to stay.

Naturally, I joined the ₹100 line. If you ever wish to understand a country, stand for a while in one of its ordinary queues — they are windows into the nation’s soul. You see everything there — impatience, resourcefulness, small acts of kindness, and flashes of irritation. People were trying to move ahead even when the line didn’t; some slipped in extra family members midway. There were loud phone conversations, crying children, small quarrels, and a constant hum of noise. A miniature version of our overpopulated country, right there.

And yet, the moment the ferry started rocking on , all that external noise disappeared. The cool breeze on my face, the rhythm of the sea — there is something mesmerizing about being out on the water. The Rock is barely 500 meters from shore, so the ferry ride was brief but refreshing.

The history and significance of the Rock Memorial are well known and well documented, so I won’t dwell on them here.

At the Rock, the crowd was immense. Every corner was filled with people posing for selfies and group photos. This, of course, has become the new normal everywhere — nothing can be seen anymore without people standing in front of it. Tourism today seems to mean: take photos, post them instantly, and move on.

I remembered the days when cameras weren’t allowed at the Rock. You could truly take in the experience then — the architecture, the silence, the sea. Once everyone began carrying mobile phones, that rule lost its relevance. Still, after visiting the main hall and the meditation chamber, I found a quiet corner. Watching the changing colors of the waves, feeling the wind’s steady force — that still remains as enchanting as ever.

Next, I crossed to the Thiruvalluvar statue. The Vivekananda Rock Memorial was inaugurated on 2 September 1970. Almost thirty years later, on 1 January 2000, the towering statue of Thiruvalluvar was unveiled beside it. The Rock entry ticket costs ₹30; there’s no separate fee for visiting the statue. Not long ago, both required separate ferry trips, but now a glass bridge connects the two — yet another attraction for tourists.

Thiruvalluvar the great Tamil poet-saint, is honored fittingly by this monument. And yet, when viewed together, the proportion feels a bit off. The Vivekananda Mandapam rises about 55 feet, but next to it, the 133-foot Thiruvalluvar seems almost overpowering. Perhaps a slightly shorter figure would have preserved the balance — but our obsession with building “the tallest” remains unbroken. The height, they say, symbolizes the 133 chapters of Thirukkural, Thiruvalluvar’s timeless text.

Standing on the Rock, gazing at Thiruvalluvar’s statue — and then, from the statue, looking back at the Rock — was a very moving experience.

The return queue brought its own drama. A couple of people pushed their way in, sparking heated arguments. Behind me stood a group of Nepali schoolteachers who were visiting India during their holidays — they told me they had been to Maharashtra too. Ahead of me, a Telugu-speaking family from Solapur. We chatted lightly. Two hours in the queue went by almost unnoticed — the sea was company enough.

Later, I signed up for a half-day local tour organized by Ranade Tours & Travels. The fee was only ₹200.

The trip covered the Wax Museum, Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple, Sai Baba Temple, the Brahma–Vishnu–Shiva temple at Suchindram, the Musical Fountain, and the Sunset Point. It wasn’t a particularly meaningful tour, since there was no guide to explain anything — the driver would simply stop, say, “Be back in thirty minutes,” and move on. I was reminded, once again, why I avoid such tours. Still, it gave me a basic overview of the area.

Some of the wax figures were beautifully crafted — I especially liked the one of M.S. Subbulakshmi.

There was also an engaging section of “3D paintings” on the floor — if you stood in the right spot, it looked like a tiger was behind you, or an elephant was splashing you with water. A fun and clever display. The lady attendant mentioned that 3D painting is a traditional art form of Kerala.

The Tirupati Venkatachalapati Temple was grand and majestic, its architecture commanding. From its elevated platform, the view of the sea was breathtaking — I could have sat there for hours.

At the Sai Baba Temple, there was a long line. I noticed that most of the religious structures in this area stand on raised platforms. This temple too was clean and well-maintained. But, like many modern temples, it felt too shiny, too corporate — more like an office building than a spiritual space. Outside, a food court displayed menus in four languages, which felt inclusive and welcoming.

It reminded me how easily cultural pride dissolves when economic interest takes precedence.

The Suchindram temple — also called Shuchindram — is truly magnificent. I had visited it earlier, so I remembered a bit. Without a guide, it’s hard to grasp its mythology. The temple’s name, Sthanumalayan, combines Sthanu (Shiva), Mala (Vishnu), and Ayan (Brahma).

According to the Brahmavaivarta Purana and Padma Purana, Indra once deceived Sage Gautama by taking his form and approaching his wife Ahalya. Cursed by the sage, Indra sought redemption here by worshipping the Trimurti. After regaining purity, he built this temple — hence the name Shuchindram, the place where Indra was purified.

Inside are the famous musical pillars that resonate with notes when struck — sa, re, ga, ma… Photography is not allowed inside the temple, but even from outside, the temple’s grandeur is evident. Its large sacred tank too was clean.

I have seen the sunrise at Kanyakumari many times, but this was my first opportunity to view sunset from another beach. The beach was crowded, noisy, full of people shopping, snacking, and trying to capture the perfect view. The massive boulders and the enormous statue of Mary there took me by surprise. I told myself I must come back again, quietly, just to sit and watch.

All in all, the tour felt rather superficial. I realized that next time, I should plan better — and perhaps explore with a local guide. There is still so much left unseen.

Moving through these places, I felt anew that Kanyakumari is not just a pilgrimage site, nor just a place of nostalgic memories. It is a collage — of sculptures and wax figures, temples and seashores, meditation and music fountains. After the calm of Vivekanandapuram, the town revealed its vibrant, many-colored self.

Each visit, this old town shows me something new.

That is why I keep returning — not to see the same places again, nor to meet the same people, but to rediscover different versions of myself.

So even though I tell myself, “this is the last visit to Kanyakumari,” I know, deep down, that I might return once more.

The next and final part — soon.

243 Vivekanandapuram

2025-09-07T16:00:00.002+05:30

(Part 1: To Kanyakumari)

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

Kanyakumari railway station is, in its own way, a charming little station.

Yet this time, when I arrived, my first glimpse of it felt oddly depressing. Dust lay everywhere. Only when I stepped outside did I realize that repair work was going on. It struck me how easily our expect joy from smallest things, and how quickly they could get dashed. I didn’t even bother to take a photograph of the station. A day later, while walking towards the Gandhi Mandapam, I didn’t cast a glance in its direction.

The photo I share here is an old one—clicked back in 2011.

Outside, rickshaws stood waiting in line. The distance from the station to Vivekanandapuram is barely a kilometre and a half—walkable if you’re travelling light. With luggage, though, there’s no alternative. The driver quoted a hundred rupees, a standard rate by the look of it, usually shared by a few passengers. Without argument, I hopped in, and soon enough, I was at Vivekanandapuram.

Inside Vivekanandapuram

Spread across nearly a hundred acres, Vivekanandapuram is the headquarters of the Vivekananda Rock Memorial and the Vivekananda Kendra. The campus houses a training center and residential facilities for their workers. There are provisions for nearly a thousand visitors to stay at a time. There is a canteen, a library, a picture exhibition on Swami Vivekananda, a Ganapati temple, a freedom fighters’ memorial, a Ramayana exhibition, and even an environment awareness center. Within the grounds lie the memorial of Late Shri. Eknath Ranade—the Kendra’s founder—with an exhibition on his life. There is also a meditation hall, a school, groves of trees, peacocks roaming freely, and the private beach from where the sunrise is visible.

In the late afternoon, I made my way to the “Vivekananda Picture Exhibition.” It has long been one of my favorite spots. When I first visited in 1983, it was neat, inspiring, and offered me a new perspective. Today, it retains that timeless quality. At the entrance stands a striking full-length portrait of Swami Vivekananda.

The exhibition, which originally displayed around seventy illustrated panels, has now expanded to include panels detailing the Kendra’s work. I did not know the name of the artist, nor could I find it on the internet. I asked about it to a senior Vivekanada Kendra worker. She told me the name of the artist. The paintings, created by Raghunath Goswami of Kolkata, are vibrant and evocative. My personal favorite remains the depiction of Nachiketa, a story dear to me.

Captions are provided in English, Tamil, and Hindi, covering Indian history, the journey of young Narendranath Dutta into Swami Vivekananda, and his impact on India and the world. For anyone visiting, I would recommend setting aside ample time rather than skimming through it in half an hour, as most tourists do. I wonder whether the younger generation (used to Instagram and twitter) would read these posters.

A Disappointing View

Later, I went to the campus beach. The shoreline is protected by a wall; only during sunrise do they open a small gate for an hour, when a guard is on duty. From here, the Rock Memorial should appear majestic.

But to my disappointment, land reclamation work was underway. One reclaimed patch now lay directly between the Rock and the beach, blocking the view.

A morning view

An evening view

An Unexpected Encounter

That evening, apart from the guard, there was just one other person on the beach—a young man. After I answered a phone call, I heard him address me: “Didi, are you from Maharashtra?”

He was from Mewar, Rajasthan, on foot for the Char Dham and twelve Jyotirlinga pilgrimage. For a month, he had been staying at Vivekanandapuram.

At first, we exchanged pleasantries. But soon his words drifted—as such conversations often do—towards politics and religion. He spoke of “attacks” on non-Marathis in Maharashtra, the aggression of the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS), the mistakes of Uddhav Thackeray in joining hands with Congress party etc. I listened quietly, realizing quickly that he had no interest in dialogue—only in speaking. He was too predictable and hence it was boring to even listen to him. A typical aggression under the name of history, culture, tradition, patriotism etc.

When he began lamenting that nowadays /in this area girls while visiting temples are “half-dressed" (meaning - wear indecent clothes), my patience was over. “Brother,” I said firmly, “let girls wear what they want. Who are you to decide? And why are you staring at them in temples instead of focusing on God? Don’t be such a hypocrite in the name of God. Change your ways, man!”

He looked embarrassed, then shifted to criticizing Non Resident Indians (NRIs). They, he said, abandon parents at home while enjoying life abroad. I reminded him gently: “Aren’t you too away from your parents for months on pilgrimage? How different is that?”

He faltered again, then made me laugh outright: “Didi, I promise I will remain unmarried and serve my parents all my life.”

I couldn’t help smiling at the irony. I had travelled thousands of miles seeking solitude, and here, on an almost empty beach, the only tourist I met was him. The world, I thought, is always the same—people good and bad, kind and selfish, naïve and wise. Some use lofty spiritual language; others don’t. That is the only difference.

Suddenly rain swept in. I had no umbrella. He ran. I lingered—soaked, listening to the waves, chatting briefly with the guard, and then walking back slowly, content.

Old Places, New Reflections

Over the next few days, I wandered across the campus. At one place, I was the only visitor at that time. The person in charge was listening to radio. I spend about forty minutes there and that person completely ignored me. I thought you can't train people into passion, it has to come from within.

At the Ramayana exhibition, with 108 paintings by Bhaskar Das of Chennai, I found the art monotonous, though respectful of the artist’s effort. As I very well know the Ramayana story, I did not spend much time in reading all the text on the panels. On the second floor there are more images and statues. Next to it is a digital exhibition on “Sustainable Living,” However, I could not understand anything. Only later when another senior karyakarta took me through that exhibition, it became clear to me. This exhibition building is beautiful.

What I liked most about this building is it is powered by solar energy and it also harvests rainwater. I guess this building could be a good confluence of religious education and application of science and technology - both aim to improve human life, isn't it!

I also met a few old acquaintances, exchanged names and memories, and spent quiet mornings by the samadhi of Eknathjee Ranade.

One morning at sunrise, I sat long after the crowd dispersed.

The waves roared, The gentle breeze touched time and again. I could see the rock memorial at a distance. No humans around. Birds chirping. An Indian Roller danced in the air for a long while. Two peacocks strolled by and made their calls. It felt like as if everything was foe me, I belonged there. Such a blessing.

Traces of the Past

Back then, we had lively debates about what is the relationship of Vivekananda Kendra with the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). We had even some innocent colleagues who asked, "What is this RSS you are talking about?" I had some basic knowledge because during a process of forming an organization, we had an introduction to different existing ideaologies in India. It was pretty basic. (Only the other day I met a friend and we laughed at our innocence - of not knowing much about RSS). Today, there is no such debate required—the signs of the Kendra-RSS relationship are everywhere, plain to see.

For me, though, this visit was not about politics or institutions. It was about returning, looking at the memories. The memories were not only about outside, they were about me too. I can see that those strong bonds exist no more. Acknowledging what has vanished was not difficult. That is the law of life. As we move on, old things disappear. However what remains, is still valuable to me. Though I know that it too will vanish as life goes on.

The journey to Kanyakumari mattered. But leaving Kanyakumari mattered too. Both were turning points for me. The journey, after all, continues—always.

242 To Kanyakumari

2025-09-01T12:55:00.001+05:30

(ही पोस्ट मराठीमध्ये इथं वाचता येईल.)

Honestly, I had no plan to go to Kanyakumari.

But a project I had worked on for nearly twenty months had just come to an end. Working online has many advantages, but I had grown weary of endless conversations through the computer screen. I longed to get away, to wander somewhere far. My original plan was to travel to Spiti Valley, but that trip was cancelled by the group I was supposed to join. So, almost on impulse, I thought: “Why not Kanyakumari?”

Reaching Kanyakumari is time-consuming. Of course, today there are multiple routes: Pune–Mumbai–Thiruvananthapuram–Kanyakumari (by bus, train, flight, taxi....) , or Pune–Chennai–Kanyakumari, saving a few hours but adding to the fatigue. Since I wasn’t in a hurry, I chose the slower but more comfortable option: the train from Pune all the way to Kanyakumari.

Decades ago, when I first went to Kanyakumari, it was on the old 1081 Down train. That was my very first long journey in the general compartment. I still remember the thrill of it. Vendors calling out “Paal, Paal!” startled me until I realized “paal” meant milk. A little girl, Rosie, barely two years old, became my playmate, and her parents helped me through the journey. Back then, one had to change train at Trivandrum, and everyone told me to buy a ticket to “Cape.” Only then did I learn that “Cape” meant Kanyakumari. Memories like these made me choose the Pune–Kanyakumari train again, with a smile.

Now the train is 16381 down, starting directly from Pune and reaching Kanyakumari in about thirty-six hours. It passes through five states—Maharashtra, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, and Kerala—before re-entering Tamil Nadu at Nagercoil and reaching the southern tip. Along the way it crosses the Bhima, Krishna, Tungabhadra, Palar, and many other rivers. A journey in itself, rich and varied.

Before booking train tickets, I had to arrange accommodation. For me, staying in Kanyakumari always means staying at Vivekanandapuram. I cannot even imagine staying anywhere else. To my surprise, their website mentioned that single travelers are not allotted rooms anymore. In today’s age of “solo travel,” this seemed a sharp contrast. I wrote to the campus manager anyway, reluctantly mentioning some of my old connections with senior workers. And the accommodation was booked.

This time I wanted to explore Kanyakuamri a little, something I had never done in my earlier visits. I also planned two days in Thiruvananthapuram on the way back. Accommodations and tickets done.

On the night of July 23, I reached Pune station. My mobile internet (BSNL, of course!) failed just when I needed to pay (online) the taxi driver. He promptly offered me his hotspot so that I could make the payment. A small act, but one that reflected his professionalism. There is a bridge connecting Metro Station and Pune Railway station. I sat there for a while - doing nothing!

The train was on time.

One of my co-passengers was a quiet gentleman who promptly fell asleep on the upper berth, and later, a lady who got on just before departure. We exchanged a few words—she was headed to Erode. The ticket checker merely asked our names and ticked them off without even looking at our tickets. And so, the journey began.

The next morning, I woke up without an alarm. Travel always makes me alert, almost eager to watch the world from the train window.

Wadi Junction, Karnataka

The lady on the opposite berth was soon on video calls and YouTube, without earphones. The chatter and music filled the compartment. I gently reminded her to lower the volume a few times, but it didn’t last long. It is a familiar experience in India—people rarely follow the simple etiquette of using earphones in public places. Still, she was warm and simple, and I couldn’t hold it against her.

River Krishna? or Tungbhadra? Not Sure.

By mid-morning, another woman joined us—a fluent speaker of both Tamil and English, working as an agriculture officer for a agri-supply company. She had just been given charge of Vidarbha in Maharashtra. Over coffee and shared idlis, our compartment became a small community. Conversations about farming, rural India, and family journeys flowed easily until each of them got off at their respective stations.

Through the day, though, I saw another side: how rigidly people cling to linguistic pride. Railway's outsourced staff couldn’t speak English; and my passengers could not speak Hindi. Communication was left hanging in mid-air. At first, I helped translate, but after a while, I quietly withdrew. It was amusing to watch the stubbornness on both sides. People are ready to ignore each other in the name of language. There was also a Hindi-speaking family with a two year kid. My co-pasangers even did not speak to that child - who probably did not need any formal language except for a smile. People are ready to experience discomfort because they are proud of their language. I mean come on! Is it too difficult to understand that "tea" means "chai" and "das" means "ten"? People can be ridiculous at times! I just thought it better to read this book. I haven't read it after I wrote it :-)

In the process, I picked up a handful of Tamil words—Vanakkam (hello), Nandri (thank you), Saapad (meal), Thanni (water)..... Enough to remind me that with willingness, even language barriers can be bridged. We don't need grammatically correct language to communicate, we just need the will to connect and communicate.

The train moved through landscapes that kept changing with each state. Green stretches of Karnataka, the dry lands of Andhra, the lush fields of Tamil Nadu, the waterways of Kerala—it was as if the geography of India unfolded in one continuous film.

ShaktiNagar, Karnataka

Somewhere near Cuddapah station, Andhra Pradesh

Somewhere near Nagercoil, Tamil Nadu

And in between these sights, I kept thinking: Why am I going back to Kanyakumari? I have always followed the rule of not returning to places I’ve left behind. Yet here I was, retracing my steps. Perhaps it was an attempt to reconnect with the past. So much has changed—me, my circumstances, even the train’s number! Was I testing where I now stand compared to the “me” of decades ago? But I know for that review I don't need to travel miles and miles.

Kanyakumari was one of the most important turning points of my life. That first visit had left both immediate and long-lasting imprints—some joyous, some difficult. In many ways, that journey had now come full circle. Perhaps returning to Kanyakumari was my way of celebrating it.

After Trivandrum, the train was nearly empty. Slowly, it rolled into Kanyakumari station—the southernmost railway station of India.

Kanyakumari Railway Station

Decades ago, I started a new path from here. This place is important for me. It will always remain important.

(To be continued…)

241. Accidental Joy

2025-04-28T18:36:00.003+05:30

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं आहे.)

On that day I realized that for a long time I have been planning 'moments of joy'. When one is working, one has to plan leave, one has to arrange for work. Then planning the travel and stay, packing the bag .... come into picture. ‘Vanishing away’ is no longer an option for me. (Ah! Those golden days when I could disappear!) This has been my lifestyle for many years. Of course, within those planned moments, there are always surprising moments of joy.

On that evening, there was a Hindi play at a nearby institute. I read about it on Facebook. The name of the drama was ‘Court Martial’. I searched about it on the internet and found it interesting. Indian Express describes it as: The play Court Martial is about a highly obedient soldier who is found on the wrong side of the law. His actions shock the regiment and the Army orders a court martial to investigate the actions of this soldier.

Coincidentally my friend Yamini (name changed) called me on the same morning. She was to be in the same area for another event. So, we decided to meet at 7.30 pm.

When I reached the venue for the play, there were already a lot of people. Many young and old were in the compound. I asked the institute staff about the exact venue for the play. There are couple of halls in this institute, so always better to get the direction in advance! The two staff members were engrossed in a video on their cell phone. They asked me to go a particular hall. When I entered the directed hall, I picked up the third-row seat. I saw some young girls in a classical dance attire. I was bit confused. But I thought that may be couple of young girls are performing before the play starts.

One old lady sitting behind me asked, “Is your daughter or granddaughter going to dance?” Then I realized that I was sitting in a wrong hall.

I came out again and asked the same staff about the play. By this time their video watching was over, so they listened to me properly. Then one of them told me, “Oh! It was yesterday!” He added, “it was little loud, but it was good.” It appears that the Facebook account I follow had posted a wrong date.

Now I had four options. To go home and come back to meet Yamini. But coming back seemed next to impossible. Second option was to go home and cancel meeting Yamini. But I wanted to meet her. We had not met for a long time; it was good opportunity to catch up. Third option was to sit outside under a tree and wait until 7.30 pm. Unfortunately, I was not carrying a book. And the fourth option was to attend the dance or cultural program – whatever it was.

It sounded a bit funny. Not only I did not know anyone of the organizers or participants, but I also did know nothing about dance. I was not invited but had gate-crashed their event. But there were empty seats. I sat in the last row, so that if their guests needed seats, I could leave without disturbing the event.

It was an event organized by one Dance School. The school specializes in Bharatnatyam.I am not providing the name of the school and photos of the performances, because I don't think it is proper to do so.

The person anchoring the program spoke in two languages – Marathi and English. She was fluent in both the languages. Her anchoring was fantastic. It was poetic but clear. She did not keep on talking but only briefly introduced each dance. It was obvious that she had prepared well. After a long time, I was seeing someone anchoring so well. I was impressed.

Bharatnatyam is an Indian Classical dance originated in Tamil Nadu. Even without reading about it, I could guess this - with the kind of music being played when the event started. The music somehow took me back to a period almost forty years ago – to Kanyakumari. When I was in Kanyakumari, I was introduced to the singing of the legend M.S. Subbulakshmi. The early morning devotional songs, the cool breeze, the smell of the sea, sound of high-tide sea,, the peace, the joy … it all came back to me in an instant. It is amazing to note how our mind reacts to different stimulations.

Girls of various ages performed on the stage. It was beautiful to watch them and appreciate their performance. They were using the body to express and communicate to the audience. I did not understand the words that were being sung. But the dancers’ movements and expressions were meaningful to me. Their synchronization of movements with each other and with the song was amazing. For a while I also envied them for being expert in performing art. I am an ‘artless’ person and I sometimes feel bad about it 😊

Do these dancers always feel connected to their body? Do they find words unnecessary to communicate? How do they build the bridges between what dance requires and what the daily life demands?

Some students were very young. And some of them were experienced women. These older ones were actually dance teachers. But there was no hierarchy in how they performed and the focus of the performances. Except one, all were group performances. How much efforts the performers and their guides must have gone through – one can only imagine.

Most of the dances were about Shiva, Nataraja, Goddess Parvati, and Ashtalakshmi. I heard different terms like Pushpanjali, Alarippu, Jatiswaram, Devi Kirtanam. There was also a brief description of Raaga and Taala.

Enjoying the performance for about ninety minutes, I had number of reflections.

The first was about how I lost interest in Mythology. Many Indian mythological stories (like Shiva is dancing, and Ramsetu is being built etc.) are wonderful. I used to enjoy them a lot. However, in recent times I have lost all connection to these mythological stories. Why? Because nowadays ritual have taken control of everything. In my world, in the world around me, the innocence of celebrating festivals (with love, with joy, with connecting communities around) has vanished. It is more of being “proud of being born in a certain religion”, it is about “us versus them” and so on …. It does not suit my disposition. So, I have distanced myself from these festivals. But it is time I go to the mythology again.

Another reflection is: you don’t have to belong to some group/community to be able to enjoy and appreciate. If there is something good happening, one can always feel positive. One can laugh well with strangers too. One can enjoy with strangers too.

I always feel that I am thrown in this world (like I was in that event hall) without knowing anyone. I don’t belong here. It is not my home. I am here just for a while. I am not going to carry anything from here. Hence I have no bonds. I have no chains. I have no attachments.

At the same time, there are people, places, mountains, rivers, sky, ….. who are part of me. They have enriched me. Without them I won’t be who I am. As long as I remember, within me both these contrary aspects ‘live happily with each other’. 😀

I have always found avenues to enjoy. to smile; to have fun; to experience and express emotions. Without any formal label for these connections, I have always been connected. There have been many strong connections throughout - some temporary, some long lasting. It is never about whether ‘to be or not to be’; it is more like ‘be and be not’.

After some time, it was time to call my friend. I silently left the venue – without saying goodbye to anyone, without giving explanation to anyone. No one noticed I was there and no one noticed that I left. Perfect. That one and half hour was a kind of summary of my life. Have fun, carry nothing, leave. May be in real life I am one of the performers at times – definitely not Bharatnatyam performer 😊

Another reflection point is - Planning is good. But that does not necessarily mean unplanned is bad. There can be joy even in accidental experiences. There can be joy even with strangers. One has to be always open to new possibilities. One has to be open to new opportunities. New experiences count. New people enrich us.

“Accidental Joy” happens. It might be waiting for us at the next corner. The ‘accident’ of entering into a wrong event not only gave me moments of unfiltered joy but also gave me opportunity to reflect and realize.

This was great.

What else do I need?

Nothing!

240: An Experiment in 2024

2025-02-03T14:02:00.001+05:30

(ही पोस्ट मराठीत इथं वाचता येईल.)

Questions like "Who is your favorite teacher?" or "Who is your favorite author?" often seem amusing (and sometimes even pointless) to me. The reason is simple—there is rarely a single person who stands out so distinctly that no one else comes close. We can admire multiple teachers and/or authors simultaneously, each for different reasons. Our memories of people and experiences are shaped by various contexts, and predicting which memory will surface at a given time is impossible.

Someone recently asked me, "What was your happiest moment in 2024?" and I found myself utterly confused. Several things came to mind, but ranking them seemed impossible. How do I compare the joy of unexpectedly spotting a beautiful bird with the happiness of mastering a new skill? Do I even need to rank them? Must one experience be considered superior while the rest become insignificant? Of course, I didn’t express all these thoughts to the person who asked. Instead, I gave a quick, generic response and moved on.

A Yearlong Experiment

Later, when my work was done, I opened a small box from my cupboard.

No, not to eat Shrewsbury biscuits (those were long gone!) This box contained notes from an experiment I had been conducting throughout the year. It was time to examine them carefully.

At the beginning of 2024, I came across a Facebook post suggesting an interesting activity: Every week, write down a positive event from that week on a piece of paper, store it in a jar, and at the end of the year, revisit all those moments to reflect on the good things that happened.

I was curious about the experiment. I decided to try it, with a few modifications. Instead of a jar, I used a box. The idea of simply noting a "positive event" felt too vague, so I redefined it: "What made me feel happy or content this week?" This is what I recorded every Sunday evening. A reminder on my phone helped me stay consistent with this Weekly Positive Note practice.

Of course, I didn’t always manage to write the note on Sunday itself. Sometimes, I would delay it by two or three days. When I finally opened the box at the end of the year, I found 51 notes out of 52 weeks—one week must have been missed, or perhaps a note had slipped outside the box into my cupboard.

What Did These Notes Reveal?

There was nothing grand or extraordinary in these notes—just small moments, everyday experiences that might have otherwise been forgotten. If I had tried to recall my happiest moments of the year without these notes, I would have remembered only two or three. But here, I had written proof that I had experienced joy 47–48 more times! And this was just what I had consciously recorded—surely, I had felt happiness even more frequently than that.

So what were these happy moments?

Meeting people and sharing their joy.
Unexpectedly spotting a beautiful bird.
Enjoying the rain.
Taking a peaceful Sunday morning walk on empty roads.
Visiting parts of the city (like Kondhwa and Ramwadi) for the first time.
Noticing magnificent trees while riding the metro.
Buying books.
Reaching my goal of reading a certain number of books in the year.
Writing something meaningful.

Even work-related joys made it into my notes. I have always chosen work that makes me happy, but looking back, I realized that even the small details of the work gave me joy.

Successfully holding an engaging discussion with rural communities on LGBTQ+ topics made me feel accomplished.
Completing a training manual was a moment of satisfaction.
Seeing participants in a workshop actively engage in meaningful discussions brought a sense of fulfillment.
Learning a new language and watching a film in that language with minimal reliance on subtitles was an unexpected delight.

There were new experiences too—visiting the Pune Meteorological Observatory for the first time, attending a workshop on Constitution of India, and listening to instrumental music at Yashada. Even something as simple as eating a pancake after many years found its place in my happiness list! 😊

Healing and Gratitude

2024 also brought an accident, followed by a necessary surgery. Naturally, a significant portion of my recorded happiness revolved around medical progress—

The ability to sit up on my own.
Regaining movement in my arm.
Being able to eat with my right hand again.
Returning to typing on my laptop.

For nearly three to four months, my notes were filled with milestones in my recovery.

Some entries expressed gratitude—for people, for life itself. Even letting go of certain things effortlessly brought its own kind of happiness.

What Did This Exercise Teach Me?

Happiness and contentment aren’t found only in big achievements or major events—something I already knew in theory, had read about, and even experienced before. But going through this year-long process reinforced that understanding.

Of course, my year wasn’t without struggles. There were challenges, pain, and difficult moments, as expected in life. But now, looking at these notes, I find myself smiling again.

In the final balance, these small joys were what remained and truly mattered.

I am sure such positive moments have always existed in my life, but I had never made a conscious effort to observe and appreciate them before. If I pay even closer attention, I know I will find even more layers of joy in everyday life.

So, I think I’ll continue this experiment in 2025 as well! 😊

239. The Search... for a Book

2024-08-18T15:07:00.000+05:30

To begin with, this post is both about 'that one novel' and yet, it isn't. It's not about that novel because this post doesn't aim to introduce the book. Yet, it is about that novel because... well....

In truth, this piece is less about that novel and more about myself. As usual 😉

*****

This story dates back to around 1993-94. It's so old, and the details are so hazy that I might even be remembering the year incorrectly. The point is, it's a very old story.

A friend of mine was working in Allahabad at the time. The atmosphere around her was such that people insisted on calling it 'Prayagraj' instead of 'Allahabad.' She was working full-time for an organization. I had worked full-time with the same organization for six and a half years and had left a couple of years earlier. However, there was no animosity between my former colleagues and me, or if there was, I wasn't perceptive enough to notice it.

This friend, let's call her Meena (I've changed her name since we're not in touch anymore), was eagerly inviting me to visit Prayagraj. I was drifting through life at the time. Having a clear direction and I never really got along, so whenever something new caught my eye, I'd take a peek. (Not that things are any different today!)

So, I went to Prayagraj. Meena was busy with her work, surrounded by a group of activists, all of them enthusiastic and young. Some of them I had met earlier during my time with the organization, and some knew of me from stories they'd heard. So, whenever Meena wasn't free, one of them would keep me company, take me around, chat with me, make me eat local dishes, and gift me things.

But one day, no one was available to keep me company. They were busy planning an important event and would be in a meeting for half a day. I found a book on Meena's desk and said, "You all go ahead with your meeting. I'll read this book in the meantime." They felt reassured and got back to their work.

I had (probably?) never read a Hindi book before, so I hesitated a bit at first, but that novel captivated me. The flowing language, the unique subject matter, the blend of worldly life and spirituality... it was delightful. I enjoyed it. The three or three and a half hours flew by unnoticed. It felt like I had been transported to another world. I made sure to write down the name of the book and the author on a piece of paper and carefully tucked it into my bag. I decided that whenever I have a home of my own, this book must be in my collection. This thought made me smile since it was somewhat contrary to the message of the novel.

The next few days were busy. Eventually, I returned to Mumbai (I was living in Mumbai at the time). Later, I moved out of Mumbai and settled in another city. I worked as a volunteer for a year in the earthquake-affected areas of Latur. Then, I worked full-time for another organization for four years. My work took me to various parts of Maharashtra. Amidst all this, the memory of that novel would surface occasionally. But the piece of paper with the book and author's name, carefully tucked away in my bag, had vanished. I remembered some characters, dialogues, and events from the novel, but I couldn't recall the name of the book or the author, no matter how hard I tried.

When I met Meena, I asked her about the book, but she had no recollection of such a book being on her desk. So, there was no point in asking further.

Ten years after this visit to Allahabad, I began to visit the city regularly again. By then, I had stopped working as a full-time volunteer and had started working for a social organization as a salaried employee. During each visit to Allahabad, the memory of that novel would inevitably resurface. I thought of asking my new colleagues about the novel, but the details I could provide were so vague that even a well-read person might not recognize it. Moreover, there weren't many book lovers around me, and the few who were didn't read Hindi. As a result, I found myself reading more and more English books.

As life settled down, the urge to recall the name of that novel grew stronger. Meanwhile, I had become quite familiar with the internet, but I couldn't figure out what keywords to use for the search. I couldn't remember the author's name. I remembered a few specific words from the book, like "Rishikumar," "Princess," "Bullock Cart," "Life," and "Brahma." I was struggling to type in Devanagari. Whenever I found some free time, I tried searching for the book using these words, but I couldn't find anything. I just couldn't remember the right keywords.

Then, I searched for a list of famous Hindi authors, but none of the names seemed familiar in the context of that novel. Thus began another restless search in the dark—a growing frustration at not remembering the name of a book I loved, the annoyance at not having anyone (who reads Hindi) in my circle who could provide the right information, the self-reproach for losing the piece of paper with the book and author's name twenty years ago, and the repeated attempts to convince myself that "If I can't remember it, maybe it wasn't that important a book for me." But these efforts would only lead to a sense of helplessness. There were countless things happening outside, I didn't have time for them... yet, within me, the struggle to recall the name of that book continued relentlessly.

Meanwhile, in 2010, I moved to Delhi. During that time, I focused on reading Hindi books. I bought a lot of Hindi books, which took me years to read, but that's another story. I read classics like "Kathasaritsagara," "Sant Kavi Ke Pramukh Dohe," Premchand's "Mansarovar," "Shrikant," Ismat Chughtai's "Tedhi Lakeer," Shrilal Shukla's "Raag Darbari"... one after another, But I did not find the novel I was searching for.

Eventually, I left Delhi. While living in another country (other countries), the only support I had was my 'Kindle'. Along with that, I tried to learn the basics of foreign languages (other than English). I made clumsy attempts to read in those languages.

*****

While searching for Hindi authors, I ordered some Hindi books from 'Rajkamal Paperbacks' in 2021. One of them was Hazari Prasad Dwivedi's 'Punarva'. During my search for Hazari Prasad's books, I came across the name 'Anamdas Ka Potha', and it felt somewhat familiar. When I looked it up online, I found its cover, and...

...And this felt like the very novel I had been trying to remember for the past thirty years.

But Rajkamal didn’t have the book available; perhaps the edition was out of print.

In December 2023, I went to the Rajkamal stall at the Pune book fair. I had decided to buy 'Kashi Ka Assi' by Kashinath Singh, and suddenly, I spotted 'Anamdas Ka Potha'. Needless to say, I immediately bought it.

So, after thirty years, I found this book back again!

That whole idea of "Kayanaat" (the universe conspiring to help you achieve something you truly desire) ... it’s not that, you have to make efforts yourself—that’s another truth I realized during this journey.

It felt as if I had met my past self once again. Will the novel resonate with me today as it did back then? Will I understand it now as I thought I did then? Or will I discover something new—about the novel, and about myself as well?

After getting this book, I felt an immense sense of calm. The restlessness that came from the feeling that something precious had slipped away from my hands (and memory) was gone. I experience a state of peace. I felt having a strength to completely shut out the external noise. The feeling that there’s nothing left to search for anymore... a sense of having reached the destination, with nothing more to do.

These feelings don’t seem to align with the message of the novel, I realize now. Perhaps I’ll gain more clarity when I read it again.

For some reasons, it took me six months to finally open the book.

Currently, I’m reading it, which is why all of this came back to me.

*****

Hazari Prasad Dwiwedi (1907 to 1979) was a renowned Hindi author. He taught at Shantiniketan for many years, and the influence of that experience is evident in his writing.

This novel includes the story of the sage Raikva, mentioned in the Chandogya Upanishad.

Raikva, who lost his parents at a young age, is deeply immersed in meditation and asceticism, and has come to the conclusion that Prana (life force) is indeed Brahman. During a stormy rain, he encounters Jabala, the daughter of King Janashruti. She is the first woman Raikva has ever seen. What follows is a love story, as well as a tale of the search for truth.

The characters in the novel are all remarkable. Much more could be written about them. But as mentioned at the beginning, the purpose here is not to provide a book review.

More about the novel can be found here.

238. Just Walking!

2023-07-15T21:45:00.002+05:30

Within a day or two I would probably reach the destination!

The destination is none other than 'the Earth's Core' according to this Pedometer!

Well, this is hypothetical destination. So far human beings have not been able to travel to the Earth's Core - except for the trio Axel, Otto, and Hans - who travel to this destination in the novel ' A Journey to the Center of The Earth' by Jules Verne!

Nevertheless, it is fun to reach somewhere - even if that somewhere is actually nowhere

I always had (and still have) special affinity with 'walking'. This monitoring of walking started on 2nd September, 2018 in Nay Pyi Taw in Myanmar.

It continued in Philippines. During Covid era, home was my walking ground. Then came the Bharat Jodo Yatra. And I kept walking, meeting different people in the process.

What next? If I continue to walk straight, I might end up in a strange land or more possibly in Pacific waters

So, I will return home - walking! Or may be start walking towards another unknown corner!

237. To Burma: With Love

2021-02-02T13:25:00.001+05:30

It is now almost 36 hours since the Tatmadaw (Myanmar Army) took over Myanmar by detaining legally elected party leaders. It has been a hard day for me. I can just imagine how hard it would be to the people of Burma. Burmese friends are aware that they will be cut off from the world at any moment. I do not know how to reach out to them if this happens. I do not know how to support them. I feel devastated. But I also feel determined to stand with the people of Burma.

I had an opportunity to stay in Burma for two and half years. I had many conversations with Burmese citizens – across political affiliations, ethnicities, gender, class, education, and age. With all hope and positivity, the conversation always ended with the statement: “We don’t know how long this (the freedom, the democracy) will last.” So, we all knew this was coming; but we hoped and prayed that this would never become reality. Alas! It has. Once again.

Before arriving in Burma, my knowledge about the country was limited to couple of points. That Rangoon (Yangon) is its capital (which is Nay Pyi Taw for more than a decade); Burma was part of British India (so we have similar colonial experiences) and Vipassana (meditation) is practiced in Burma.

When I landed in Burma in June 2016, Burma was breathing fresh air with the new formed democratic government. I found the country like an innocent child – just waking up from decades of alienation and exploitation to see that the world around has changed so much. Credit to Burmese people, they geared themselves to the new reality – with the hope that they can cover the decades they have missed during the Tatmadaw (Myanmar Military) exploitative rule. There was so much of hope in the air that I still feel it.

It is disheartening to read some of the posts on social media rejoicing detainment of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi. I know some people were disillusioned with her sometimes; I was one of them. But there is a democratic way to remove a political leader /party that you do not find fulfilling your expectations. You vote for another party. The fact is Myanmar voted in 2020 for National League for Democracy (NLD) in the leadership of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi. The Tatmadaw claims of ‘election fraud’ are as imaginary as Trump’s claim in the recent USA elections. To all those, who rejoice the downfall of NLD and ‘The Lady’ (as Daw Aung San Suu Kyi is called by many) do not know what Tatmadaw is capable of. Mind you, I am not using the word capable in good sense! No people on earth should have to face Tatmadaw like rule!

I have heard many stories from my Burmese colleagues about the Tatmadaw atrocities. I have read many books on this topic. In addition to that, I have personal experiences of ‘Big Brother is Watching You’.

When I went to one NGO office in Yangon (and I am not going to mention any names to protect them from the possible harassment), there was a small shop at the entrance of the building. I was searching for the address and confirmed with the shop person. He confirmed and asked me who I was and what was the purpose of my visit. Being new to the country, I assumed it to be a friendly conversation and provided him information. When I entered the office, the NGO workers looked stressed. When I asked what happened, they wanted to know whether I met the shopkeeper. I was amused that it could be a topic of stress. Later they told me that Tatmadaw has this practice of putting their people in disguise and keeping watch on the citizens. This was in 2016 – when NLD had just taken the charge.

Once we (the NGO I was volunteering with) invited media persons to share our plans of our upcoming series of activities. The activities were aimed to generate awareness about violence faced by women and girls. As the meeting started, two plain-clothed men entered and asked, ‘why you have not taken permission from the authorities to hold press conference’. We were confused as there was no press conference. When I looked at the journalists, I realized that some of them had come with their video cameras. But how did these guys come to know about these journalists? Someone must be watching this office and had informed the authorities. The two guys did not reveal their identities to us, they refused to sign the meeting attendance and listened to every word that was spoken in the meeting. This happened in 2017.

In 2018, I moved to Nay Pyi Taw (NPT), the capital of the country. To stay in the city (not in the hotel, but in the house and for long term) we had to take permission of the concerned immigration officer. While signing the documents, the immigration officer told me that every time I move out of NPT, I must inform him in advance. He used to call randomly to check my whereabouts. He was a nice guy and was doing his duty. Once my earlier meeting got delayed and I had to rush to the bus station to catch a bus for Yangon. So, I had not informed the Immigration officer that I was going to Yangon. The bus had just left NPT, and my mobile rang. The Immigration officer at the other end was terribly angry at me for not informing him about my movement. Again, how did he know that I was on this bus? Who informed him? I apologized to him and assured him that now onwards I will never forget to him. I never forgot.

There are many such experiences.

I can understand keeping an eye on foreigners. Protecting your own citizens is an important duty of every government. For that if they watch people like me, it is fine. I have no issues. If I do not like being watched by Myanmar officials, I can always return to my home country. But imagine what would I feel if I were watched in my own country? That is not the idea of Freedom. People across the world need to understand the ‘Constitutional Power’ Tatmadaw has given to itself and how difficult it is to change it.

There are people in Burma who criticized Daw Aung San Suu Kyi and NLD. But every person who criticized; knows in their hearts of hearts that on any given day if they have only two options, they will always choose Daw Aung San Suu Kyi over Tatmadaw. Period.

‘The Lady’ is not perfect. But honestly, tell me one name who is perfect. Each one of us commits mistakes. Learning from mistakes and moving forward is what makes us human beings.

I learned many things from Burma. Two things stand out: Kindness and Forgiveness. Taxi drivers will always donate money if someone asks for it at the signal. They will not complain about their poverty or insult the person asking for money. They will especially keep some change to distribute. At four in the morning, even when the signal is green, the vehicles will patiently wait for the monks to cross the road. I was once talking to a man, a political activist (in his 40s) who had spent 20 years in jail. I asked him why they do not take the army to the court for violation of human rights. He calmly said, “I did my duty. Things are now fortunately becoming better. At this hour of reconciliation, do you think revenge will help us? In fact, revenge never helps.” I do not think I would be so gracious if I were wronged.

Burma made me realize the value of forgiveness, the value of kindness. Not for others, but for ourselves. The Pagodas, the Pathana (chanting of sutta), the kindness, the friendship, the smiles, the laughter, experiments with Burmese food and language, Burmese longyi …. Living in Burma made me a different person. - a better person - I would like to believe. It was a kind of healing process for me – healing from the pains of living, healing from the pains rising from my ego. Amidst all the problems a social activist has to live with, Burma introduced me to the inner peace. Burma will always have a special place in my heart.

Shwezigon Pagoda, Bagan

No, Burma is not a paradise, definitely not for all. Apart from the Tatmadaw atrocities, people have many other issues to grapple with. Some are natural, some are made by the society. It is a long way to go for Burma. Burmese people have an immense potential to dream big and strive to achieve that dream. They are peaceful people and happy souls. What they need is Freedom to realize their immense potential.

Tatmadaw has once again taken their freedom back from them. The world has to take the responsibility – all those who have entertained Tatmadaw for years – knowing their atrocities too well; and ignoring them. People’s lives are at stake. We need to stand with Burma.

Let us get our Freedom back from Tatmadaw.

To Burma: With Love!

236.Investigators of Truth (InTru)

2020-07-18T12:05:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 59; the fifty-ninth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with IndiCreator. For Creators. By Creators.. Share Your #LockdownTales at indicreator.com

17 July 2120. I will never forget this date – that is until they wipe out my memory and recharge me, which is a kind of routine for all of us. This was the day which changed my career, it gave a new direction to my life. It made me what I never thought I would be one day.

To begin with, there was a joint call from DepHeal and DepFam. Well, if by any chance you are from the last century, DepHeal is Department of Health and DepFam is Department of Family. Again, such a joint call is a yearly routine. So, I was not at all alarmed. What floored me was that they told me that Shanti (my great grandmother) was coming home and that too with immediate effect. In fact, they were not waiting for me to pick her up, but were to drop her home in twenty minutes. They did not need that much time to travel 300 kilometers, they were just giving me time to prepare.

Please, do not take me wrong. I like Shanti. To be with her for a day or two is always a fun. She makes me laugh a lot; and she never bores me with the instructions of what I should be doing and what I should not be doing. She shares some of her life experiences – which are more like a fiction, I guess. The resource material that we have does not at all corroborate what she believes as the truth.

But that is natural. Afterall she is 157 years old and she was born and brought up in 20th Century. She is rather independent, and I do not have to look after her. She is not ill. But now all old people (more than 150 years) have to stay in the government HoLCa (that is Home-Like-Care). Once in six months they are supposed to visit their family. That visit had just happened last month and so this call surprised me.

By the way, I am Ganesh (right, named after a Mythological God in the area which was called India in the past) and I am 12. I am doing postdoc research in Virology.

The SecGd (Security Guards) team dropped Shanti and made me sign (electronically of course, I cannot write with my hands as Shanti can do!) a document. “Why is this unscheduled drop?” I asked. They did not answer. “When are you going to pick up her again?” They ignored me. “Is she kicked out of HoLCa?” I asked. “Check your email. All the details are there. If you find any change in her health status, alert us immediately” one of them responded sharply and they were gone in an instant.

I turned to Shanti. She was calm and smiling. “Did you play any mischief again at HoLCa?” I asked.

“Nope”, her eyes twinkled. “I am going to tell you something very shocking, so sit down,” she said. “Are you in love again?” I was starting to worry about her calmness, sure sign of a mischief.

“Ah, my falling in love still shocks you! You are incorrigible. But that is not what I am going to tell you,” Shanti said mysteriously. I was relieved. It must be some story from her past.

“Is there any news in your field of Virology?” Shanti asked. She was always interested in Virology but why is she asking about it after she is suddenly dropped by SecGd?

“Well, you know, there is a new Corona virus emerging from area that was once called China,” she whispered. “Come on Shanti, you know Science has won over the chain of Corona viruses long back. The last known virus came in 2019 and the United World won the war against that virus. Only 26 people died even then and just 1000 had to be hospitalized all over the world. Even in 2020, Corona virus was not a threat. It was a minor flue at the most.” I was happy to explain my favorite topic.

Shanti was stunned. “Where did you get those numbers regarding Corona virus in 2019-20?” she demanded. “Oh, it is everywhere," I showed her online resources.

She was shocked. Her face became pale, she was trembling, tears rolling from her eyes. That was something I had never seen Shanti to be in. What just happened? What did I say or do wrong? Has it triggered some bad memory for her?

We were silent for couple of minutes – which felt like years. I do not know what to say when people give emotional reaction to scientific facts. And why should somebody feel something about a minor incident about a hundred years ago? Did her husband die then? Was he the one amongst the 26 people died? I did not know. I went forward and touched her shoulder from a distance. You know, we avoid human contact as much as possible, but the old guards like human contact.

Slowly Shanti became calm. She looked at me and said, “Ganesh, I respect you. You are an intelligent boy. I do not want to comment on the EduSys (Education System) you thrive on. I don’t know how to tell you but your information about Corona virus in 2019 is completely wrong.”

“What do you mean by wrong? I just showed you references,” I was bit irritated with her now.

Shanti took some time. She took a deep breath. She said, “It is not your fault. The disastrous truth is hidden from all of you very shrewdly and systematically. The truth is replaced by misinformation. In India, where I lived then, we had more than 150 days of #Lockdown. People not only died of Corona, but the economy too died with unplanned and extended series of #Lockdown. There were twenty million affected by Corona virus in the world in 2020 and about a million people died.”

I started laughing. “Shanti, you are funny. But tell me what happened at HoLCa? Why are you dropped here? When are you going back?”

“Two persons died in my HoLCa unit yesterday morning. And their symptoms of breathlessness made me suspect that it was another strain of Novel Corona Virus. One of them had just returned from Wuhan after home visit. You know Wuhan was earlier in the country called China, from where 2019 Corona virus (and some of the earlier viruses) emerged. This man was showing something to the other person on his tablet and the other person had touched the tablet. Moreover, more people developed fever and some lost sense of smell and touch – all this happening within hours. They tested all of us and sent many of us to our homes. There is a #Lockdown at HoLCa. We don’t know how long it will be as we don’t know how many people are infected by this new virus.”

Just to show Shanti that she was imagining something, I opened HoLCa website. Wow, it was closed ‘for maintenance’. This was the first time I have seen HoLCa site closed. I tried to access DepHeal and was surprised to see that access was open ‘only to officials'. DepFam and SegGd websites showed no unusual messages or activities.

I checked with my friends. Sure, everybody’s HoLCa member was dropped home this morning, without any adequate explanation. Everybody thought that it happened only to them and did not check with others.

I was thrilled. Something strange was indeed happening. Is it possible that Shanti is right about the new virus? Is she right about the Corona 2019-20 virus information hidden from the public? Do some people still have the access to it? I needed to check the facts before I could take on the more detailed investigation.

“Do you have some information from 2020, Shanti?” I asked.

She pulled out a small, thin metal stick from her inner pocket. “Do you know how to extract information from this device?” she asked. I did not. But it took me just fifteen minutes to access the information. It seems that hundred years ago they used this device called pen drive or stick to store information. Shanti had saved this one and somehow had managed to keep her secret. How she did it, I will have to ask her another time. Because the information I see on her drive is shocking and shattering.

For example, look at this site exactly one hundred years ago:

https://www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/

The country called India, where Shanti lived was in a bad shape as well. I can imagine why it stunned her when I said ‘only 26 people died because of Corona Virus 2019’.

“And this was just the middle of the pandemic that you see the data of”, Shanti added. “It took another two years for the world to overcome Corona virus and that too with lot of cost. It is true that we won the war against Corona Virus, but many lives were lost, many lives were destroyed, many were forced to commit suicide. The inequalities and the exclusion in the entire world was as if opened by the Corona virus. It was one of the worst time I have lived through. We would never want to live it again. Even my enemies should not suffer from such a deadly virus. If we indeed have the new strain of the same virus, I am sure Government will declare #Lockdown again, keep on extending it, reducing whatever social interaction we have and hiding information about people in distress.”

“Ganesh, I want your generation to come out of the misinformation loop. If it is a new strain of Corona virus which has killed my colleagues at HoLCa, we are due for another disaster. We need to learn lessons from past generations, past experiences. The World Government will try to hide the information – because after last century disaster, the politician had to face people’s wrath. I know you are very young. But you are not alone. We are many… on the right path, where everybody is treated with respect and dignity.” Shanti went on.

“What do you mean by ‘We’?” I was suspicious. I remember that my parents never liked me to have a good relationship with Shanti. Was she trying to allure me towards something bad? But my parents are complete moron. Both of them are high level Government officials. They want me to give up my interest in Virology. But I never followed their orders. I believe that the right path has less travelers. So be it.

Shanti was smiling again. “We are group of people who deal with misinformation and exploitation related to it. We call ourselves InTru - Investigators of Truth. We make people aware of the truth, collaborate and advocate with policy makers insisting that they share the truth and address the real issues. Would you like to join us? We are old. We badly need young techno-savy people like you. I assure you that saving people from misinformation is as vital as saving them from virus. The choice is yours my boy!”

Of course, I was wise enough not to instantly fall for Shanti’s appeal. Old people are sometimes Utopian. They also want to fulfill their dreams through us. We can’t allow others to dominate our life like that.

I talked to my friends. We checked. We hacked. We cracked websites. We went to libraries. We checked old newspapers (by the way they were printed on papers!!). We discussed. We challenged each other. We prepared ‘Worst Case Scenarios’ and we developed strategies to address various challenges. We had to build security measures around us.

I am sorry to give up Virology. It is kept in #Lokdown. Now I am an InTru. We are going to shake this power structure (which by the way is based on exclusion, inequality, exploitation etc) and make the world better so that nobody is left behind.

If you are interested in joining InTru, you are most welcome. A secret code is embedded in this post. Crack the code and join the most needed rebellion today.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon59 & #LockdownTales. Participation Count: XX.

235. Ten days of Lockdown (Curfew notes)

2020-04-03T16:50:00.000+05:30

#Coronavirus, #SocialDistancing, #CurfewNotes

Part 1

As I said in the earlier post, the Curfew did not end on 31^st March. We are now in ‘21 days Lockdown’, which is supposed to end on April 14. Again, it is supposed to end. Depending on the gravity of the situation, this could be extended.

To begin with, I was confused. Is it Curfew? Is it Restriction? Is it Lockdown? Even before the National Lockdown was announced, we had Curfew. Or was it Restraining order? I am not sure whether the original Administrative orders were confusing or the interpretation of these orders (by media, by self-declared experts on social media) caused confusion.

The first case of Coronavirus pandemic in Maharashtra was confirmed in Pune on March 9, 2020. There were actually two people who tested positive. On the next day, three more people tested positive. On March 13, Epidemic Diseases Act, 1897 was invoked. Corona epidemic was declared in five cities of Maharashtra; closure of commercial (movie theatres, supermarkets etc.) and educational establishments was ordered. Public gathering and events were banned on March 14. Pune Municipal Corporation closed 200+ gardens in the city. Barring essential services closure of all workplaces was imposed on March 20.

Take the case of Pune city. On March 18, Section 144 of Criminal Procedure Code (CrPC) was imposed – this means it was curfew. But later it was explained that this order was Section 144 (1) – which was specific to tour operators, restaurants in the city. Later Section 68 of Bombay Police Act was used to achieve the same. There was lot of confusion about whether the restaurants were ordered to be closed or whether they voluntarily closed it – for three days – March 18 to 20. On March 17, Pune Municipal Corporation ordered ‘closure of all places that attract a crowd’. So, were the restaurants closed or not? Same applied to marriage celebrations. They were not ordered to be cancelled, but owners of the marriage halls were ‘requested’ by the administration to stop bookings. Pune Divisional Commissioner on March 16 said, “People related Section 144 with Curfew and think its imposition will bring all movements to standstill. Nothing of that sort has been invoked till now….: (The Hindu, March 16).

The National Janata Curfew on 22^nd March, was extended up to 31^st March by the Government of Maharashtra. Not only interstate but inter-district borders were sealed on March 23. The National Lockdown was declared on 24^th March at 8.00 PM and began from 00.00 on 25^th March.

I am just trying to document the process and trying to make sense of it. It seems confusing even today. What this meant to me was to “Stay Home”. I last went out on March 14 for Medical Check-up and since then I am staying home. But I have a home, I am on vacation. Imagine the horrible time homeless people and migrant laborers have to go through. Imagine people suddenly stuck at home where they are not safe, and they cannot seek any options.

Looking at the timeline of the Corona virus, we had ample time to be well prepared. But as usual we have messed it up and we are busy with self-appreciation and eulogizing our leaders. Our medical teams, police force, administrative staff and many other invisible people are carrying the burden of the mistakes committed by those who had the authority to take right decisions at the right time.

So, what am I doing? Well, doing nothing. I have always been cooking, cleaning, washing myself. There is no house help for me, so on that count nothing has changed. One day I got so tired of doing nothing that I slept for almost twenty hours.

I used to take one-hour morning walk in the compound of my residential complex. It has to be stopped. That meant I had now time for bird watching in the morning. I joined ‘Lockdown Birding Challenge’. You are supposed to watch birds from your home – everyday 15 minutes in the morning and 15 minutes in the evening. The challenge started on March 27. Curfew or no Curfew, I always been able to watch 25+ different species from my house. So, it was fun to watch them again. Once you get hold of a binocular, bird watching can be an addiction. It is good to meet the usual species like Red-vented Bulbul, Red-whiskered Bulbul, Black Kite, House Crow, Common Myna, Rock Pigeon, Purple Sunbird, Rose Ringed Parakeet, Yellow-wattled Lapwig, Asean koel, Greater Coucal and so on. But it is special fun when the White-throated Kingfisher sings close to you; Indian Grey hornbills are so close that you don’t need binocular; Shikra is sitting motionless; Little Cormorants and Pond Herons are flying gracefully; Great tits (I am aware they have got a new name now, but I still call them by the old name!) are chirping. And Coppersmith Barbet and Black-hooded Oriole is the cherry on the top. I am enjoying it and I am spending more than an hour each day with birds.

I am using the time (knowing that most of my friends are also at home now) to connect with friends. One call in the morning and one call in the evening. Nowadays no call is for less than half an hour – so an hour spent with friends is a good time too. I have friends in different countries and exchanging notes with them and knowing they all are good also matters a lot these days.

There are some people who are moving out (with police permission of course) and helping people – migrant laborers, old people, sick people, people who are alone and need help etc. I came across some of these groups on social media. One of my senior citizen friends in Pune needed medicine. Approaching this group was an amazing experience. My friend called on the given number, the volunteer came to her home with medicine. So, spreading good word about this available help is also one task which can be done sitting at home. It is a positive feeling to know that people are ready to help strangers without expecting anything in return. I always have a faith in Generation Next and it is good feeling to see them working tirelessly and taking the risks. I also contributed some amount to one of the groups who are supplying food to all those migratory laborers who are stuck on the road.

Though I have reduced internet time, I have not given up it completely. Now it is the only source of information and communication. I make it a point to comment on posts of strangers which are spreading hearted and or superstitions. People use horrible language on internet, one has to learn to ignore it. But when there are famous people posting rubbish, one has to take it on. For example, when Avinash Dharmadhikari (ex-IAS officer) wrote a post about ‘this is the time to attack and take PoK back’ – I also trolled him a bit. Another example is: hatred speech. No sane person will justify what happened at Tablighi gathering in Delhi. Those who are guilty should be punished according to the law of the land. But blaming the entire coronavirus epidemic on this one group is not a wise thing. So, I just tried to compile the news where people have broken the #SocialDistancing guidelines. This will help people to understand that irresponsible people exist in every group, every community. Blaming a single incident is not the right way to look at the reality.

I also joined the team of ‘online volunteers’ with covidindia.org. Though I am yet to identify the areas I can contribute, I am preparing myself for it. I have also registered for blood donation and I have been given a morning slot on April 11.

And of course, reading. Now planning to read ‘Dhammapada’.

The Executive Committee of my residential complex is very active. We have 11 buildings and we have created building-wise WhatsApp groups for help and support. So, I know if I need anything, I have to just write a message on this group. They also arranged vegetable sell within the compound - every day two hours. Cell number of a grocery shop is shared with us. I can order the grocery on WhatsApp and collect it at the gate of the society. Though I have not used any of these facilities yet, it is good to know that they are in place. I am also aware of the 'E-pass' arrangments made by Pune police. Our elected representative in the Municipal Corporation has shared the number of medical stores - who will deliver medicine at home. So everything for me is settled.

Another 11 days to go.

234. #Coronavirus Curfew Notes: Day 2

2020-03-23T23:08:00.001+05:30

#Coronavirus, #SocialDistancing, #CurfewNotes 

 (Well, Day 1 notes don't exist)

Though my short stay in Afghanistan was kind of 24X7 Curfew, it is amazing to note that it is my first experience of a Curfew in India. I am old enough and I have known many Curfew occasions, but somehow, I was never in the area where the Curfew was imposed. So, it is my first time to experience  what a Curfew means. Given the situation of #Coronavirus, I was expecting this Curfew. So, it is not sudden. I was mentally and physically prepared for it. 

It is not a Curfew which is imposed after riots or terrorist attacks etc. So, there are no security issues. No stress about what will happen next moment. The city Administration, Police, Medical team, and so many other invisible people are doing a great job. I can't express my gratitude in words. 

I am in a privileged position. I have a home to stay. I have cash in hand and cards to use if required. I am in my hometown, so language is not a barrier. I have friends. I know doctors in the city. I have good neighbours. I have a good mobile range and data pack to access internet. I know whom to approach if I have any problem. 

For last ten years, whenever I am home, it is on vacation. So mostly I stay home, read books, listen to music. Sometimes I go out, eat local dishes, meet friends. So, I am used to staying at home. I always look forward to it. #SocialDistancing suits me 😊

However, when there is a Curfew, I am forced to stay at home. It is not my choice (though my choice would mostly be to stay at home!), so there is a feeling of suffocation. It is like I am made to follow somebody's orders and I am not used to it. Intellectually I know it is in the best interest of me and others that I stay at home - so I stay at home, but I don't like it. I have a sudden urge of going out. That is a rare internal conflict. And I know this is just a beginning. 

Another aspect is seeking information. As internet is easily available, I tend to check the number of Coronavirus cases. It is kind of obsession though I can’t do anything about it. I don’t have to take any decisions about the situation. But the habit of looking at the data, processing it, inferring from it – that is an intellectual obsession. It has to stop. If I am not looking at the data, I am spending more time on Social Media and reacting to people’s posts and comments on Facebook and Twitter. Generally, I access social media, but hardly react to it. I always have been fortunate enough to be able to work with people. I discuss with people face to face: sometimes we agree; some other times we don’t. I never seek online interaction – I seek online information, online entertainment but never online interaction. 

But today I found myself responding a lot to people’s posts and comments. I also spent considerable time in reading some of the comments. 

I have realized that I have to learn to switch off internet for some time. Take a break from it for couple of hours at least. I need to pick up one or two interesting books from my collection and enjoy reading. 

I don’t have Refrigerator at home, never wanted it. But that means I cannot purchase items in bulk and store. For example, I had only enough milk to make a cup of tea. My young neighbor when he was coming home, called and asked me whether I wanted him to pick up anything for me from the grocery shop. I asked him to purchase milk. But it turned out that milk was not available.

Again, I am not very fond of tea and coffee. I drink it only occasionally. If some guests are coming, I purchase milk, otherwise I don’t.  Since my Myanmar days, I mostly take green tea. But now there is no milk, I suddenly crave for typical Indian tea with sugar and milk. Mind is funny, that is for sure.

Let us see how it goes for the next ten days. I fear it is not going to end on 31st March. But if it is going to control the spread of Coronavirus, I am all for it.   

Next

233. Thadingyut

2016-10-29T08:00:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 58; the fifty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Saravana Kumar Murugan, the editor of Shades Of Life book series.

This year I celebrated Deepavalee a bit early. Hmm, not a bit early but almost two weeks earlier. I was surrounded by crackers, small earthen lamps and candles, lanterns in the sky. There were big "Sale" in the Supermarkets around. Shops were full of gift packages and were displaying those in windows and sometimes on roads. Those roads were crowded, more than they normally are. People were shopping enthusiastically and there was joy and happiness in the air.

Shop from the Street. Woman selling betel-leaf.

Lanterns at Junction Square Supermarket

Whichever is the country and whatever is the cultural occasion, Market is overtaking it, controlling it. I could not help myself to think about whether the innocence of the festivals will remain the same in future or not. So it be.

Okay. So, I was saying that the entire atmosphere around me reminded me of Deepavalee celebrations, but it was not Deepavalee. It was a festival outwardly similar to Deepavalee. It was a local festival named Thadingyut - to be pronounced as TaDinju.

A note before we move ahead. I have checked the pronunciation of Burmese (Myanmar) words with English speaking Myanmar people. It is no wonder that if we try to pronounce the word according to the English spelling, chances are 8 times out of 10, we would fail to say the word properly.

I am talking about a country called Myanmar and about a language Myanmar (or Burma). For the last few months I have been in Yangon and exploring the language and the culture - or should I say culture and language?

In Myanmar, some of the traditional festivals are associated with specific towns or Pagodas. So I was not sure where I could go to observe and enjoy Thadingyut. Later I realized that Thadingyut festival is celebrated nationwide and hence I could enjoy it in Yangon as well.

Majority of Myanmar population follows 'Therwada Buddhism'. The traditional festival are celebrated according to the lunar calendar. So they don't occur on exactly same "dates" (of the Gregorian calendar). The seventh Lunar month is called Thadingyut. The full moon day of this month is the middle day of the three days light festival - Thadingyut festival. This year the full moon day of Thadingyut was on 16 October, hence the Light Festival was celebrated on 15,16 and 17 October.

This festival has an interesting mythological aspect.

It is a traditional belief that on the full moon day of the fourth month called "Waso" (which happened to be in July), Siddhardha Gautama , the Buddha went to Celestial Abode called "Tavatimsa". There he stayed for three months and guided the Gods (Devas) in spiritual enlightenment. There are six such Celestial Abodes according to Buddhist mythology. Buddha particularly chose this one, because his mother of previous birth "Maya" was in this abode. Buddha wanted to share his knowledge with her and hence he went to Tavatimsa.

On Thadingyut full moon day, Buddha returned to earth. His path to earth was lighted by various Gods. Thadingyut is a Myanmar celebration of Gautam Buddha's Return to earth.

Elders in the family are respected by all the members with offer of special gifts. Some people observe half day or full day fast on full moon day. Clothes, umbrella, food is offered to Monks. People light their houses and visit Pagodas to light the Pagodas.

I visited Kyaik Waing Pagoda with two of my friends and enjoyed interacting with local people. A mythological story of a "hide and seek" between a Nat (powerful spirit) and Buddha is associated with this Pagoda. This Pagoda was initially built in 1872 and later was expanded.

Here are some moments of Thadingyut in Kyaik Waing Pagoda.

Enthusiastic Citizens at the Pagoda

Special Stands to keep the Candles and small Earthen pots

While celebrating a Festival of Lights, which is very similar to Deepavalee celebrations in India, I came across one more realization. Whichever is the country , whichever is the religion (or even if people do not believe in any religion), people like to celebrate together. People always dream for destruction of darkness (pain, suffering, poverty etc.) and the Return of Light (happiness, joy, smiles) in their life.

"From Darkness to Light" is the common prayer we all have.

We all want to Return to Light.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon58 & #Aativas50. Participation Count: 50.

232. Glimpses of Bangkok: 1: Bangkok Art and Culture Center

2016-06-22T16:29:00.004+05:30

Bangkok was never in my "To Visit" list. Suddenly I had to come to Bangkok for some work. First surprise was the name of the Bangkok airport - "Suvarnbhumi" (Golden Land). My first impression of the city on that Thursday night was good. Wide roads, no traffic jam, and shining skyscrapers. The receptionist at the hotel welcomed me by folding both the hands. It was only next day that I realized that this hand-folded welcome is the traditional Thai greetings.

My plan was simple. Work on Friday, leave Bangkok on Saturday morning. However, the work remained unfinished on Saturday and I had two full unplanned days in this world famous tourist destination. It was very humid with no sign of rain. So, I decided to go slow, visit only couple of places. On Saturday morning when I left the hotel, I saw that the roads within the city were narrow.

I had finalized two spots on Saturday, for which Sky Train was more convenient. I was staying in Sukhumvit area and the nearest Sky Train Station was 'Asok'.

In the station there was a counter where we can exchange notes for coins and use the coins to get a ticket from the vending machines. There were maps in the station and the exact amount needed for each station was displayed, so there was no problem in purchasing the right ticket.

There were regular announcements in the station and in the train. I smiled when I heard a station name "Nana". The Sky Train was crowded but the crowds were disciplined. I have traveled for considerable time by Delhi Metro and I noted certain differences in Delhi Metro and Bangkok Sky Train.

Delhi Metro has a reserved coach for women, which Bangkok Sky Train does not have. Second: Bangkok Sky Train has sliding glass doors on platform also - which Delhi Metro does not have.

In Delhi Metro, each passenger has to go through personal security. Here in Bangkok one has to enter through metal dictator, there is a security official, but they not necessarily check every passenger again. The instructions show how Buddhist Monks are respected.

The 'Sky Train' map was also printed on the ticket, so I had no difficulty in reaching Siam station. After coming out of the station I was confused about the direction I needed to take. I spotted a 'Tourist Information Center' just outside the station and the staff there, guided me to reach at 'Bangkok Art and Culture Center'. There is no entrance fee.

I had assumed this place to be a museum and I was partially right. This nine-storey building has paintings, sculpture, handicrafts, woodcraft, ceramic art,music and design displays. There are couple of book stores and an Art Library. There are coffee shops where one can have lengthy discussions over a cup of coffee. When it comes to art, I am almost illiterate. However, I was in this center for more than three hours and enjoyed the visit. Here are some of the snapshots from the Center.

It was good to see that the information of the artists was also displayed.

There was some experience/experiment related to sound waves. This was something new for me. There were number of photographs on the walls. Each photograph was given a unique number. Every person entering the exhibition hall was handed over a small cellphone-like handset.

One was expected to type the photograph number on this machine, press the green button and hold the machine near the ear. For different photographs, I could hear different sound waves (if I am using the right term!), but I could not understand what it was all about. For people more interested in this, the following photograph might be of some help.

I was surprised to see this huge wall poster of the Hindi film in the Art section. Is this film already released in India?

I was feeling tired as I was walking for more than three hours. When I asked for the directions of my next destinations, I realized that it was nearby. So, I continued walking with enthusiasm.

To be continued ...

231. #PledgeForParity

2016-03-07T21:27:00.000+05:30

Tomorrow is 8 March. Tomorrow is ‘International Women’s Day’. Tomorrow is a day of exchanging best wishes. Tomorrow will be presented women’s problems with statistics and concerns will be expressed. Tomorrow there will be speeches, articles and sighs. Tomorrow people will be hopeful after coming across examples of women’s success. Tomorrow Radio, Newspapers and Television channels will salute Women and many will express Gratitude. The Market will shout about ‘Discounts to Women’. Tomorrow women will wear their best dresses and lunch together. Tomorrow will be a day of smiles and despair.

Whatever is the experience, for many people it last for at most 17-18 hours. On 9 March, everything generally falls back to normalcy. People, especially men joke about ‘how there is a need for men’s day’ or ‘how women are getting all the favors in this world’. Many times I feel that such opinions are expressed because people are not aware of the history of why and how ‘Women’s Day’ came into existence.

Before moving further, I would like to emphasize two points. One, I do not believe that only women have problems in this world and all men are happy. No one with common sense would make such a sweeping statement. Men too face problems, they too struggle, they too have responsibilities and men too are unhappy. However, when we think about women-men relationships, we realize that men have an upper hand. When I say women-men relationship, it is not about husband-wife relationship (as most of us in India spontaneously think) but son-mother, brother-sister, father-daughter, colleagues … all such relationships show that men get better treatment, men get favor. Women favor their sons over their daughters; because women are born and brought up into a system which favors men. It is an invariable impact of the social structure and the upbringing. I am not going to discuss ‘Patriarchy’ in details. However, we need to understand that Women’s Movement is not challenging individual men but Patriarchy. Patriarchy means secondary status of women, the existing men-women hierarchy, the stereotypes regarding roles and responsibilities of women and men.

Secondly, one has to accept that not all men are insensitive because they are men and not all women are sensitive to other women just because they are women. There are sensitive men and insensitive men. All the men in the world do not behave badly with every woman they come across. Similarly, there are sensitive women and there are insensitive women. Transformation is expected in both men and women. So, Women’s Movement works not only with women but also with men. For many years we have been taught to treat women as secondary. So it becomes our habit to treat women as if they are inferior to men. It has not happened and it is not happening only in India, but it is a world-wide phenomenon. There was a time when some believed ‘women to be a separate Class’ and expected them to revolt against another class called ‘men’. But, women’s identity has many aspects (common with men) – such as Religion, Ethnicity, Province, Language, Caste etc. All these factors influence men’s and women’s identities. At the same time women have to carry the burden of being women – across all the societies. In spite of being many differences among women in the world, they share something common which cuts across all the above mentioned factors.

I won’t describe the concept of Patriarchy in details here. Broadly speaking, male progeny preference; discrimination between men (sons) and women (daughters) in food, clothes, educational opportunities (Women also discriminate because they are born and brought up into Patriarchy); household chores being the responsibility of only women (and girls); control over women’s movement and body; sexual exploitation of women and girls; lack of inheritance right (in India we have improved laws now); lack of decision power to women regarding how many children she wants and when; … all such points highlight the importance of men in the life we all live. There might be some exceptions around, but we are discussing the general norms.

So, Patriarchy means: men have control over women: control over women’s productive and reproductive capabilities; control over women’s sexuality, control over women’s mobility, control over all the resources etc. Different institutions and systems like Religion, Family, Law, Education, Market, Politics shape and strengthen Patriarchy.

Let us accept openly that men are also burdened by Patriarchy. They too have to fulfil specific roles and carry out specific responsibilities with which all men are not comfortable. They are also trapped in a system, which no doubt is still more beneficial to them. Women’s Movement turns away from these traditional roles and responsibilities and appeals to us create an environment where all individuals will have equal opportunity to realize their potential. Men and Women have different bodies (though only reproductive system is different), but based on that an entire social structure of discrimination and favor has been created. Women’s Movement is not asking us to change the body, but the asking us to change our ways we look at women’s body. If you review the life of your grandmother/father – mother/father- and you – you will realize that social change always happens. The changes Women’s Movement is seeking are difficult and time taking, but they are not improbable.

If women’s awareness about their Rights increases, men certainly will have to give away most of the benefits they get in Patriarchy. That is one of the reasons why some men dislike Women’s Movement. However, we need to realize that Women’s Movement (and there are different schools of thought within the movement) is not against Men. It is not about Men versus Women, but it is about Men with Women. The “women” are not someone we do not know; she is the mother, the aunt, the grandmother, wife, girlfriend, friend, daughter, colleague, neighbor …., these women enrich our lives, their happiness would make men too happy. Men and Women both need to contribute towards this struggle of Women’s Rights.

The struggle for Women’s Rights is on for centuries. These Rights are classified into Economic Rights, Civil Rights, Socio-Cultural Rights and Political Rights. Basically, all these are Human Rights. The form of the struggle has changed, the tools used by the movement have changed and the response also has changed. Many sensitive men have supported Women’s Movement during the long journey. Many laws have been improved to accommodate Women’s Rights. But we still have a long way to go. Not only in India but across the world, we still have lot to do to achieve the goal of Women’s Rights.

We are not going to discuss history of Women’s Movement here – may be some other time. However, we would briefly look at the evolution of ‘International Women’s Day’.

In 1908, women working in Garment industry in New York (USA), declared strike to demand better working conditions. To support these demands, in 1909, women in USA celebrated ‘Women’s Day’ on 28 February. In 1910, Copenhagen hosted Socialist Conference in which more than 100 women from 17 countries participated. The Conference passed a resolution of celebrating “International Women’s Day’ to support Women’s Rights movement and Right to Vote for Women. However, the date of celebration was not fixed.

In India, on 26 January 1950, Constitution was adopted and it established Right to Vote for both women and men (who have completed 21 years, later the age was reduced to 18). We in India, do not know about women’s worldwide struggle to get Right to Vote. (Also in many countries all men did not have Right to Vote; description of this journey will need separate blog-post.) Let us look at the journey of some of the countries – which will give us some idea of women’s struggle.

Sweden – in 1718, taxpayer women members of the City Guild had the Right to Vote. Women’s Right to Vote was achieved in 1921. United States of America – in 1756, one woman in Uxbridge (Massachusetts) was given a Right to Vote in Town Meeting. In 1910 women’s Right to Vote was established in some of the States and the process was complete in 1920. Great Britain 1928; New Zealand 1929; United States of Soviet Russia in 1917 (after abdication of Czar); 1935 British Raj (included India) and Burma (now Myanmar); 1945 – France, Italy and Japan; 1947 China and Pakistan (initial only literate women could vote in Pakistan, in 1956 the right was extended to all the women); this process is going on. In Saudi Arabia women were granted Right to Vote in 2011 and they could contest municipal election only in 2015. So, the struggle is still on.

As an impact of Copenhagen Conference, on 19 March in 1911, millions of people (both women and men) celebrated ‘Women’s Day’ in Austria, Denmark, Germany and Switzerland. With Right to Vote, they also supported demands like Right to Work, Right to Vocational Training, Right to Equal treatment (no discrimination) at workplace.

In 1913, women in Soviet Russia filled the streets on the last Sunday of February in demand of Peace. In Europe, Women’s Day was celebrated on and around 8 March in 1914. In 1917, on the last Sunday of February, Russian women took the streets demanding “Bread and Peace”. This was 8 March according to Gregorian Calendar. (Later Russia accepted Gregorian Calendar in 1918.) Within 4 days, Czar abdicated.

Different countries kept on celebrating Women’s Day. In India, All India Women’s Conference Initiated Women’s Day celebration in different towns on 1 March 1930. India celebrates ‘National Women’s Day’ on 13 February which is a birth anniversary of our First Women Governor and Freedom Fighter Sarojini Nayadu.

Women’s Day became truly International in 1975 when United Nations Organization declared 8 March as ‘International Women’s Day’. All the countries now celebrate this Day and many events, discussions are organized on this day to review progress and strategize towards achieving Women’s Rights.

The journey to Gender Equity is a continuous journey. Every year for ‘International Women’s Day’ a theme is declared so that it does not remain one-day activity. In 1975, the theme was “United Nations recognizes International Women’s Day”. I easily remember the following themes: Women and Human Rights (1998); World Free of Violence Against Women (1999); Afghan Women Today: Realities and Opportunities (2002); Women and HIV/AIDS (2004); Women in Decision Making (2006); Empower Rural Women, End Poverty and Hunger (2012).

The theme for 2016 International Women’s Day is #PledgeForParity. Four types of activities are suggested which can be taken up by individuals and/or organizations. 1. Help women and girls to achieve their ambitions: challenge conscious and unconscious bias 2. Call for Gender balanced leadership 3. Value women’s and men’s contribution equally and 4. Create inclusive, flexible cultures. If you come across any other idea, you are free to act on it. I have pledged for the first idea, though these four ideas are not compartmental but connected.

You can sign the page here. If required, develop ideas which you think will work in your environment.

Can we declare our commitment to “Parity” – in home, at workplace, at whatever place we spend time? Can we act with consciousness towards Gender Equity? Both Men and Women are expected to work jointly to arrive at a better world. Signing this pledge only makes us feel better to know that we are not alone on this path. There are millions in the world who are trying to make the world better.

Happy International Women’s Day to you all.

Please, do share your experiences of the journey. I look forward to learning from you.

230. Meena

2015-12-28T16:37:00.000+05:30

When I was in Kabul, I came across www.rawa.org, which I found to be very insightful and trustworthy. RAWA stands for ‘Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan’. This in local language is ‘Jamiat-E-Inqalabi Zanan-E-Afghanistan’. There is a sentence which attracts the attention of readers. It says, “If you are freedom-loving and anti-fundamentalist, you are with RAWA. Support and help us.”

RAWA is working in Afghanistan since 1977 and is one of the oldest Socio-Political Women’s Organization working for Peace, Freedom, Democracy and Women Rights. RAWA was established by Afghan women and is being run by Afghan women. Referring to the RAWA website, I could understand Afghan women’s perspectives, could better know their struggle and also could understand what they want to achieve, what they are dreaming and striving for. The RAWA website can be accessed in seven to eight different languages, which clearly shows that their well-wishers are spread across the world. It is a surprise that in war-zone Afghanistan somebody thought of establishing Women’s Organization. Moreover in an environment where human rights are least respected, this organization is working for 38 years without diluting its founding principles is a miracle to me.

The person who created this exceptional organization is Meena. She is the founder member of RAWA. There is a brief introduction of Meena on RAWA website. However, I was searching for more information regarding Meena. Then I came across a Marathi book on Meena. This book is a translation of Meena: Heroin of Afghanistan by Melody Ermachild Chavias. The English book was published in 2003. The book is translated in Marathi by Shobha Chitre and Dilip Chitre and published by Rajhamsa Prakashana in 2008.

The International Women’s Year celebrated in 1975 (followed by Women’s Decade) was instrumental in generating discourse across the world on status of women and the need to improve women’s participation in all spheres of life. Even in India, Women’s Movement faced the challenge of existing gender stereotypes – this challenge still exists. We will fail to understand the importance of Meena’s and RAWA’s work unless we have a know their context – the situation in Afghanistan.

In July 1973, Daud Khan forcefully removed King Zahir Shah, thus ending his 40 years of rule (1933-73). Daud Khan established Government which was pro-Russia (then USSR). Zahir Shah Government encouraged education of girls and women, even co-education; women were working in different establishments. They were announcing on Radio, they were Air Hostess, they were Telephone operators. For the ease of operations at workplace, these women were not using burqa (veil). However even during those days women’s existence was secondary as the society was governed by Sharia. Meena understood women’s plight at a very young age and in Malalai School she met some wonderful teachers who gave right direction to her inner spark. Meena started thinking independently, rationally and started dreaming about Rights of Women.

Meena was born in Kabul on 27 February 1956. In 1975 she joined Kabul University. The University atmosphere was charged with passionate discussions on different topics including Marx, Islam, Afghan culture and so on. But slowly the atmosphere was spoiled by fundamentalist elements amongst students and professors. In 1976, at the age of 20 she got married with Faij, this marriage was little late compared to the tradition surrounding her. Before accepting marriage proposal, Meena put conditions like she would continue studying even after marriage and Faij will remain loyal to her. It is interesting to note that Faij not only accepted these demands but lived accordingly. He was certainly a different kind of man.

To protest Daud Khan’s pro-Communist approach, Islamic Fundamentalism rose in Afghanistan. People were caught between two conflicting approaches, which were equally harmful for them. During this period of turmoil, Meena decided to establish a Women’s Organization and started meeting women. At this time, Meena was a young girl of 20; newly married; without economic support and without experience in organizing women. However, Meena’s empathy, tenacity and hard work created a group of enthusiastic Afghan women who were ready to struggle for Democracy, Peace and Women’s Rights.

Meena starting meeting different women - with whom she was acquainted – one by one and in 1977 RAWA was established. Both Police (Government) and Fundamentalists treated RAWA as its enemy. So, right from the beginning, ‘Secret for Security’ principle was followed by RAWA. This was necessary because police would have tortured women to get information about RAWA. The hostile police and the fundamentalists – neither were able to destroy RAWA forever. The credit for this strategy goes to vision of Meena.

While reading this book, I was amazed by the work done by Meena and her known and unknown colleagues in RAWA. I kept wondering about the source of the tenacity, the sensitivity and the determination to march forward to achieve the goal – irrespective of the situation. They all were and are indeed amazing women.

Afghanistan’s known history shows that RAWA was the first attempt to organize women to fight for their rights. For these women, the atmosphere was neither congenial outside nor within the home (for most of them) to work through RAWA. They began with small group discussions, helped each other when required, conducted literacy classes – and RAWA progressed from strength to strength through these activities. On many occasions the resolve of RAWA women was tested, and through every such difficulty, their resolve became stronger. Whenever the Government in the country was changed, women paid the worst price.

This is not the place to review history of political situation in Afghanistan. But briefly speaking during the period 1978 to 2001 the head of the Afghan Government were: Daud, Tarakee, Amin, Babrak, Kishtmand, Najibulla, Taliban and Rabbani. Every change in power came with bloodshed, thousand were jailed for no reason and without inquiry, thousands were killed and many more fled away to other countries. With every change, women’s life became more difficult, the restrictions on them kept on increasing, the walls around them grew bigger, and they were more and more suffocated. Life of women in Afghanistan became more difficult with passing time.

During this period RAWA became stronger, its work spread. RAWA was always ready to help women. Women in Afghanistan gathered in front of jail to find out the status of their family members. These women were treated with cruelty. RAWA used to inform the word about these brutalities through pamphlets and distributed them even when the Police was chasing them all the time. RAWA also brought out a monthly called “Payam-E-Zan” – which was first of its kind in the country. RAWA women had always to be worried about police raids on their homes. In such situation how difficult it would be to publish a magazine and distribute it – one who has never faced such situation can only imagine.

Meena was instrumental in bringing out USSR brutalities in Afghanistan. At the same time she foresaw the danger of Fundamentalism and Terrorism. She tried to make the world aware of the problem of Fundamentalism, but we did not listen to her.

In 1982, Afghan Government (that was USSR) declared that it would arrest Meena at the first opportunity. It was impossible for Meena to work in Afghanistan. So she crossed border and went to Pakistan where thousands of Afghan migrants were somehow managing to be alive. Many times Meena and her colleagues took risk and crossed the Afghan-Pak border. RAWA colleagues and women stitched clothes to earn livelihood, the provided home and education to orphans, the conducted literacy classes for migrants, the established Malalai hospital and served many sick people.

Even though Meena’s movements were kept secret, on 4 February 1987, Meena disappeared from Quetta (Pakistan). Later RAWA realized that Meena was assassinated. It was a tremendous shock to RAWA, but they continued Meena’s work with a greater determination; realizing that it was their obligation to realize Meena’s dream of Democratic and Peaceful Afghanistan. Unfortunately even at the end of 2015, Afghan women still have a long way to go.

We need to know that Afghan women never had an option of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ government; for decades they have to choose between “worse” and “worst”. It is true that Mujahidin fought against Taliban, but when it comes to women, both Mujahidin and Taliban were equally cruel with women. Even after the New Era of 2001, when Afghan women saw Warlords as part of the existing governance, they knew that their plight and fight was not yet over.

It was necessary for Meena and RAWA to keep a low profile. They had to destroy papers on many occasions fearing police raid. They had to be careful about not keeping any proof about their movement and activities. Whosoever was ruling Afghanistan, they certainly were against Meena and against RAWA, simply because Meena and RAWA fought for Women’s Rights. This is the reason why we had hardly any information about Meena.

After the attack of United States of America on Afghanistan in 2001, Melody Chavias visited Pakistan and Afghanistan; interacted with many colleagues of Meena and then she wrote this book. Generally when we read a biography, we get an almost complete and consistent picture of the life of the heroine/hero of the book. Due to the circumstances in Afghanistan, this book cannot give us the complete picture. However, the glimpses of Meena’s life and work clearly tell us the plight of Afghan women and their courage.

Meena’s life and work and the way RAWA is carrying the torch is very inspiring.

The book is available on Amazon:

229. Guess Who?

2015-11-07T23:20:00.000+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 57; the fifty-seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Madhu Vajpayee, the author of Seeking Redemption and Shades Publications, the publisher of Friendship- Bonds Beyond Time.

Voting day is an important day in sustaining and strengthening Democracy.

There are Different parties and Different slogans.

There are Different promises and Different manifestos.

There are Different faces and Different issues.

Somehow to me, they all look alike. I cannot differentiate between them, not a bit.

As a patriotic citizen, I always register as a voter and I always vote – that is if my name does not miraculously disappear from the list.

Today the magic – black magic I must say – happens again.

My name is not in the list.

I have a Voter Identity Card but probably I won’t be able to caste vote today.

I move from one counter to another counter.

There are many Smart guys using tablets and smart phones, but my name does not appear on any of those screens.

I am getting irritated, frustrated.

I move away from the polling station, cursing the system, cursing the rules.

***

Far away from the polling station, one young man approaches me. Apparently, there is no one else on the road. All that crowd I saw is left behind.

He certainly understands that I have not voted, my face is quite transparent, especially when I am in a problem situation. So maybe he is going to convince me about ‘importance of voting’ or ‘citizen responsibilities’ or something of that kind.

I can ignore him but I automatically stop so that he can talk to me.

He politely asks, “Can you please hold my hand for a minute?”

I am surprised. I don’t know how to respond to this strange request.

I am not young, but still a man, a stranger asking this question to a woman!

***

Then I realize that he is offering me a small plastic hand.

It is an election symbol of one of the National Parties in the country.

I forget my frustration and start laughing.

Well, well, now a days this party badly needs someone to hold its hand.

Who will be that? Any guess?

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 49.

228. Pessoas Estranhas

2015-07-07T15:34:00.001+05:30

Ontem fui a farmácia para comprar penso rápido. O custo para quatro pensos era de dez meticais e quinze meticais para seis. Tinha só onze meticais de troco e duzentos meticais em nota.

A mulher de caixa levou os onze meticais que eu tinha e deu-me quinze meticais para fazer o pagamento na caixa principal. Fiquei confusa porque se eu ter pedido nada, ela deu-me quatro meticais a mais para que eu pudesse comprar seis pensos.

Algumas vezes encontramos pessoas estranhas que ajudam-nos sem motivo. A lição e’ que todos devemos ajudar as pessoas mesmo sem conhece-las.

227. Opening Part II

2015-06-27T01:17:00.000+05:30

This post narrates glimpses of development work of VSO Mozambique. However, this is written in individual capacity and VSO Mozambique does not necessarily endorse the viewpoint. Names of individuals and places are either not mentioned or changed. If you want to know more about VSO, click here or here .

Part I

Understanding a new environment is mostly challenging – even in the era of Information and Technology. As an outsider one has limited access to people’s lives and their perceptions about life. In addition to that as an outsider I am exempted from the general norms and rules of the society; which has a tremendous potential to create superficial interpretation of what I come across. So, cautiously I try to evolve general understanding not only based on my experiences (as I know my limitations) but also based on the experience of others – which they share.

Understanding a society poses another problem; especially when I try to understand through urban societies. With the increased influence of Market Economy and to certain extent its impact on traditional livelihoods; societies are no more homogeneous today. There are multiple streams within any urban society. So I keep on checking and crosschecking notions, practices, ideas, norms, rules and also exceptions – as change is constantly happening.

Due to my active participation in the VSO project (titled The Business of Girls’ Education), I get opportunity to interact with girls (and boys) in primary schools; teachers in primary schools; community members who are involved in School Management through School Councils and officers of Provincial Education Department. We have many discussions on barriers faced by girls in continuing education (and how to overcome those collectively) and that gives me ideas. These interactions throw light on Gender Roles, Gender Based Division of Labor, Access to and Control over Resources, Decision Making in the society. Triangulation is done by habit (not systematically, I must confess) and it fits into what I knew about this society even before I came to Mozambique.

We are in another school; meeting the 6 Lead Girls is an important agenda of the visit. We find that Marta is missing from the group and there are still 6 girls. Since Marta did not appear in the school this year, the school has substituted her with another girl –Cecilia. I do not want to discourage Cecilia, but I want to know where Marta is.

“Did Marta attend the classes regularly last year?” I ask the teacher; an enthusiastic and experienced teacher who is with us in the school.

“Yes,” replies the teacher.

“Why is Marta not coming to school?” I ask. Everybody chooses to remain silent.

“Is she transferred to other school?”

Silence. Not deliberate, but nobody knows.

“Is she not well?”

Nobody knows.

Looking at Cecilia’s face, I dare to ask, “Is she married?”

“Yes,” responds Cecilia

One more 13-14 year girl is married again. In 2015? Yes!

“Is she still in this village?” I continue asking. “Do you know her home?”

Cecilia knows Marta’s house. So accompanied by two girls and the teacher, we walk for twenty minutes.

We come across a cluster of huts and everybody stops. It takes some time for me to realize that the cluster of huts belongs to one family and unless the Head of the Family (invariably a Man) permits us to enter, we cannot move further.

The father arrives. He might be 40 or even 50, it is hard to tell. The teacher speaks in the local language and explains the purpose of the visit. This is not an occasion for taking photographs. I am using neither camera, notebook nor pen.

“Oh! Marta is married. I have no problem if she continues going to school; but her husband should give her permission,” he explains frankly.

Marta’s husband is studying in the nearby district and Marta continues to stay with her parents. How old is he? May be 20.

“I did not want my daughter to marry, but she married what I can do?” says the father.

“Can we talk to Marta, please?” I ask.

Father goes to a hut in the backside to call Marta, but she refuses to come out. So, with the permission of the father, I go to that hut. But Marta refuses to come out. One of her aunts is there. With her permission, I enter inside. Marta does not know me, we have never met. She pulls her face down, covers it by both the palms and clearly speaks, “I do not like school, and I do not want to go to school.” I am surprised by her clarity of thought. At that moment I do not want to invade her privacy, I do not want to threaten her by my presence. I come out of the hut and tell the aunt, “When Marta wants to meet us, we will come again, let us know.”

On the way back the team discusses. “These girls! They want to marry. Even when her father did not want, she married. What can we do?”

I ask about the lobolo (the bride price) the father would have received. It is about 3000 MT (approximately USD 90). In addition to this the groom clears surrounding land and builds a new hut for the girl’s father (or family).

We could not stop marriage of this girl. However, we can at least bring her back to school. But why did Marta hate the school so much? How many more girls would be preferring marriage, feeling that school is not a place for them? And what exactly happened in the school? Are girls punished? Do they have to do more work in school too? Is it a language issue? (Not Portuguese but local language is spoken in the village.)

We need to think. We need to strategize. We need to connect not only with the girls and teachers, but also with the community. Yes, through school councils, we have established initial contacts with the community, we need to strengthen those.

To talk to girls regarding consequences of early marriage is necessary but not sufficient. Adults have lot of power over their children, so it is important to work with adults.

And we need to work with boys as well.

Are our efforts good enough to open better life opportunities for girls like Marta?

to be continued...

226. Countdown

2015-06-14T14:22:00.002+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 55; the fifty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with Rashmi Kumar, the author of Hooked, Lined and Single and Jyoti Arora, the author of Lemon Girl.

10.

Sometimes I don’t understand my anxiety. I know you are not accountable to us and you always keep the date. However, I still check weather predictions. The news of your arrival helps me to survive the heat.

It is unfair to say that summer is always horrible. The kids have vacations; ample mangoes and rounds of ice-creams. Meeting friends and traveling. However in the corner of my heart, I know I am waiting for you. I know some people around me do not bother about you. They think everything could be purchased by money power. They are wrong. I argue with them. Such arguments make me feel vacant within. I wish you come a bit earlier this year so that I can forget and forgive these people.

In the world I live, there are multiple worlds. Women walk miles for a pot of water; farmers will be forced to either end their life or migrate. Animals are thirsty. The trees are dirty. The sky seems distant. The Sun blazes and we wait for you.

The evening brings cool breeze. On the western horizon I see black clouds. Will you come today? Oh, No! Within few moments the clouds move. May be not here but somewhere it is raining.

I am away from home for a week. It was work, so I could not avoid it. And then I see you meeting my home town – on the television, in the newspapers, on FB, on social media. Everywhere. Well, what wrong have I done so that you avoid me?

I am frustrated with the heat, with the work, with the world. I feel lonely. I feel like crying. I just want to go away. Problem is: I cannot go away from myself. I know I would be happy again when you come. When are you coming?

They say that you have arrived in Kerala. Good to know. This means another seven days. Life ise worth of all this waiting.

Where is the umbrella? Do I need to purchase raincoat? What about Floaters?

That is the problem of being a human. On one side, I wait for you like I have never longed before. On the other side I am thinking of all the things to protect me from you. Is it not ridiculous? Yes, it is. I can see you smiling on my contradictions.

I feel you around. I smell you. I look at the elephant like clouds, big, black. But they keep on disappearing. Why?

Will you come tomorrow or today? Will you come in the morning or in the evening?

Finally you come.

You make this world beautiful. You change lives. You make lives. You bring smiles. You bring value to everything around. You bring smiles.

Thanks for coming!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 48. Image Credits: Monsoon by Yann (Wikimedia Commons). Shared with GNU Free Documentation License CC Attribution-Share Alike.

225. Opening: Part I

2015-05-19T21:05:00.000+05:30

We turn right leaving behind a busy National Highway. As usual, with such turns the world around changes. The read earth road is stretched up to the horizon and after every ten minutes we see some people resting at the roadside. The interior villages have a road, but almost no public transport; so people walk for hours and rest when they get tired.

We take a left turn, then another right. There is the primary school. After examinations, there was a week-long vacation. It is the first working day after the vacation, so we do not expect all the students in the school. Still 10-15 girls and boys surround us. Their eyes shine to see a stranger amongst them, and they are not shy. One kid is almost touching me. I bend forward to talk to him- in broken Portuguese. He is studying in second grade and has three text books. I open one book and ask him about the pictures in the book. He narrates. Then I ask him to read a line for me. He says, “I can’t read” and further declares, “no one in my class can read.” He is such an honest kid. Everybody laughs.

We meet the Deputy Director of the school. From each school, six girls from grade six are chosen as Lead Girls (LGs). VSO is arranging a two days residential training for LGs (39 schools in 7 districts of Manica Province). The team is visiting the home of each LG and explaining the objective of the district level training and of course seeking permission of the parents.

Maria is one of the LGs and she knows house of the other LG, whose name we mention first. Deputy Director accompanies us enthusiastically. Mozambique struggles with poor school infrastructure. After visiting every school, my admiration for Mozambican primary teachers increases. But that is another story.

The road narrows down and after 15 minutes, we have to leave the car and walk. We continue walking for 30 minutes – by habit I keep on checking my watch to know how much this girl Rosa has to walk every day.Rosa walks at least one hour every day to reach the school and another hour to return home. The road is lonely; it cuts across fields and little forest; it is not plain road but has ups and downs as the terrain is a small range of hillocks.

After reaching Rosa’s home we see eight children – age 12 to 1. Boys bring a mat (for women) and chair (for the teacher- a man) and the elder one goes to call his father. These are local chairs. I like the creativity.

And yes, they are very comfortable.

Rosa comes. She did not go to school today. She says she had headache; but actually she is working in the farm. If I had to walk every day for two hours, would I have been interested in studying – I ask myself.

The question is hypothetical for me, but it helps me to be in the shoes of Rosa. By the way, I have noted that Maria is walking with us without shoes; and I don’t know whether Rosa has shoes.

The father comes; his children surround him. He has five sons and five daughters – three daughters are married. I want to ask their age, but do not ask. The visit has other objective. This is the first visit to Rosa’s home and certainly not the last; I can ask more questions in the next visit.

The teacher introduces us, explains about the training, my colleague elaborates further. The father is happy to send Rosa to the district headquarters; which is about 70 kilometers from the village. We are arranging to pick up the girls and drop them back after the training. “Actually there is no budget for sending a car,” my colleague had reminded me early this morning. But we don’t want these girls to first walk for hours and then wait for more hours for public transport which is being run by individuals as private business. Safety of girls is our prime responsibility.

I am also concerned about whether Rosa wants to participate in the training or not. Rosa is taking care of a young child. I whisper (I have to often do this because I do not speak Portuguese well and do not understand local languages!) to my colleague whether it is Rosa’s sibling or her child. I have seen many 12-13 year mothers here, so the anxiety. I sigh with relief when I learn that this is her baby brother. Rosa and Maria are smiling together. Rosa says, “Father has given permission, I want to come.” She knows she is LG and knows that there are five more LGs in her school. I am feeling good.

The mother arrives. I ask my colleague to explain the whole discussion to the mother. My colleague says, “Traditionally as Head of the Family, the father has the authority to share the information with his family. If he does not introduce us to her, we cannot talk to his wife. ” – Hmm! I am a woman too.

I respect traditions and culture. As an insider, I have always rebelled against discriminatory traditions (in my country). But as an outsider, I cannot rebel. However, I can take a little liberty; I can push the boundary a little further. Here my ignorance of local customs can contribute to my cause. So, when we are ready to leave; I approach the mother and tell her briefly about the training. She smiles. She did not participate in the decision about her daughter, but at least I try to keep her informed.

In the meantime, the father tells something to one of the boys and he comes with a basket of Tangerine – a gift for us, the guests. As a good guest, I put some money in the hands of mother; it is not cost of Tangerine; but a small return gift. May be that too is a tradition, because she accepts it without hesitation.

May be, I should not hurry labeling this father; he seems a kind person with understanding. He is instrumental in the continuation of Rosa’s education. It is possible that he is just following the custom and tradition by not inviting his wife to discuss with us. We are actually on the same path; the apparent gap can be bridged. I am sure, once he trusts us, these barriers will be broken and new opening would emerge.

to be continued

224.Quest

2015-05-10T20:35:00.001+05:30

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 54; the fifty-fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The Joy comes and goes;

The Sorrow returns and stays for some time;

They do not remain forever.

Peace replaces War

Then returns the War;

They do not remain forever.

Hunger, Thirst, Sleep, Desire,

Dream, Passion, Frustration,

Pain, Smile, Thought, Idea, Vacuum,

Lust, Jealousy, Kindness,

Selfishness, Empathy,

Belief, Commitment,

Body, Mind, Identity, Ideology, Ego,

God, Earth, Sky, Rain, Wind, Sun, Moon,

Nothing remains forever.

Even Life is not forever;

And Death too is not forever.

Only the Quest

To understand the meaning of the Existence

Remains Forever.

The baton is handed over

From generation to generation

With the same zeal.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 47