The Measures of Progress

With moist eyes, my office driver Basappa told me that he would never work in Kerala again. I understood him and empathized with him. He had seen his government jeep vandalized and burnt down in front of his eyes. And he along with his four colleagues had managed to escape death by the skin of his teeth. ‘Even when we ran into the naxals in Andhra Pradesh, we were treated well’, Basappa said.

Kannur district in Kerala has a well-chronicled history of political violence. But this fact never crossed my mind when our team went to Kannur for the forest inventory work. The first few days were uneventful even though the local forest staff cautioned about some public protests in the region. This is nothing new in Kerala and my staff is used to being interrogated, their ID cards checked and clear resentment shown by the local people. But what they encountered in Kottiyur range of Kannur on a fateful November night is terrifying.

The irony is that my staff had not even heard about the Kasturirangan committee which has recently submitted its report on Western Ghats to the central government. The report has been provisionally accepted by the Ministry of Environment and Forests and the same news was being broadcast during that period across Kerala. The villagers mistook the FSI team to the Kasturirangan committee members who they thought had come to survey their land, measure the extent of encroachments and evict them. The local forest staff explained to them about the mandate and work of FSI and so did our staff. But the reasoning fell on deaf ears. The local people are wise enough to grasp this but they did not want to listen and understand. The idea was to create an unrest that would effectively preempt the implementation of the Committee report which would allow the encroachers and quarry mafia to preserve the status quo. The FSI team was taken hostage, approach road blocked and a mob of more than two thousand people gathered in no time. Soon, miscreants in the group began to pelt stones and a young staff of FSI was injured on the forehead. When blood started gushing out, he was not allowed to be taken to the hospital. ‘Let him die here’, was the response of the crowd. A small, unarmed contingent of thirteen policemen who managed to reach the spot was chased away and our staff was attacked. My staff, which included an ageing driver, ran for their life with several drunken men in hot pursuit. Fortunately, they managed to scamper into a thick and steep patch of forests. They spent three hours in the darkness not knowing where to go. A good Samaritan gave them shelter and police reinforcements managed to reach the site in the midnight and rescue them. Eleven government vehicles including an FSI jeep were burnt that night.

Violence happens everywhere and when there is a mob situation, things usually spiral out of control. But why I am saddened more today is because this happened in a literate, forward looking and aware State like Kerala. In 2005, when our first son Adithya was born, we went to a government hospital in Kottayam for vaccinations. I marveled at the facilities at the hospital and the clockwork efficiency with which it was run. The building was spic and span, staff was helpful and the doctors were on duty. Such well-managed government hospitals are unimaginable in any other part of India.

But beneath these apparent signs of progress, there lay layers of maladies which afflict the Malayalee society today. Highest per capita consumption of liquor, the highest crime rate in the country, one of the top States in crimes against women, institutionalized dowry system, insatiable infatuation with the yellow metal, obscene display of opulence in the form of palatial houses and luxury cars.

Ram Chandra Biswas from West Bengal has bicycled across 157 countries over a period of 29 years. He says, ‘I have never received more hospitality than in Africa. In a poor country, you will find hospitality, humanity, love and peace. In a rich country you will find anger, jealousy, fear and selfishness’ (Down To Earth, Nov 1-15, 2013). Me and my wife can say without an iota of doubt in our minds that we have never come across people who are more peace-loving, genuine, dependable, simple, trustworthy and wonderful human beings than the adivasis of Chhattisgarh. When we progress materially in life, do we gradually become more self-centered? Do we tend to be indifferent to the importance of relationships, love and empathy? Do we transform into egotist, glum, aloof, stiff upper lip society that is more concerned with its own ilk?  

The rich States of Haryana and Punjab have the highest rates of female foeticide. On the Noida expressway last year, a father pleaded with passersby for help after his wife and a baby were fatally injured in an accident. Nobody came forward for twenty helpless minutes as vehicles zoomed by. A similar and more tragic case was reported from China recently. I cannot imagine this happening in Bastar or a village in North Karnataka.

I remember having read an article in Geo magazine on the Nazi crimes. The author writes that what is shocking is not how a crazy dictator like Hitler became the premier of Germany. History has often thrown up such freaks. What is inexplicable though is how the ordinary citizens of Germany-young and old, women, mothers, sisters and brothers-unequivocally supported his each and every action. It is a different matter that the then victims (Jews-again a prosperous community) are the perpetrators of inhuman offences now in Palestine.

On similar lines, the USA becomes more hospitable for outsiders as it is a country of immigrants at heart and is a potpourri of disparate cultures whereas many Asians perceive Europe, perhaps with the exception of England, as a closed society which is cold and indifferent. But European countries top almost every parameter of human development index. Is it not anthropologically perplexing how human beings manage to fail the test of humaneness so often? 

A Room In The Woods

The drive up the hill for a stretch of three kilometres is rough. We park our car at the forest check post and take the departmental Bolero jeep with four-wheel drive to negotiate the boulder-strewn path with sharp, steep bends. A porcupine crossing the road is caught briefly in the headlight. It raises its quills in alarm and scampers into the bushes. After a five-minute drive, a desolate, old, Mangalore-tiled building greets us at the summit of a hillock. The Forest Rest House (FRH) of Makuta looks diminished since my last visit sixteen years ago. Our small batch of nine students was here in 1997 taking part in a project work. We had thoroughly enjoyed our short stay at Makuta. There was no electricity then but now, solar lamps are working quite fine. Raghavendra, the caretaker is not sure about the year of construction of the building but points to the pediment where the number ‘36’ is inscribed. ‘Might be 1936’, he says and adds that ‘the British built this rest house’.

Makuta in Coorg

 The charm of an old FRH is unparalleled. I say old because the new or the ‘renovated’ concrete structures are bereft of any appeal even though they are full of modern-day amenities. There are three most important considerations for a lovely FRH - location, location, location. (Ok, I filched this. Somebody has told the same about hotels).  Even in the remote corners of the country, where you cannot find a single tea-shop within a radius of five kilometres, you come across colonial-era forest buildings. They surprise you with their elegance and muted beauty. You are walking or driving through muddy forest track and then suddenly the edifice appears at the end of a turn. They materialize in the middle of nothingness. A brown or brick red façade against a background of green wash. The chowkidar, if he is present, would offer you ‘lal chai’ and a couple of Parle or Marie biscuits. No light, no TV, no music, no running tap. You dump your luggage in one of the bedrooms, located on either side of the central dining hall. The bedsheets are clean even though the room is a bit musty. There are wooden pegs on the wall to hang your dress or hat. On the way to the bathroom, you pass through a spacious dressing room with a mirror on a tall wooden stand. A long cloth stand with two crossbars, again made of wood, stands in a corner. The bathroom is spacious enough to be a bedroom in Bangalore and the water closet seems to have survived the tests of time, at least in existence if not in functionality.

Near Agartala

As darkness descends, you settle in front of the glowing fireplace in the dining room on a cane chair with a cup of lal chai (or a peg) and turn the pages of the timeworn FRH register. If the book is well-maintained, you might spot the names of some British officers complaining about leaking roof or commenting on the flora along the bridle path. If you are lucky, there could be interesting observations about forests of the area or sighting of tigers by some officers or other visitors. The cook announces that the dinner is ready. It is a simple fare of roti, dal, sabji and rice. The ambiance makes the food wonderfully delicious and you devour as if you have not eaten for days. Then you read a book for a while under the lantern or venture out for a brief night walk. You sleep to the lullaby of owls and the distant alarm calls of a barking deer. This joy of an FRH experience is without equal.

A 'hut' at Eravikulam National Park

My profession has given me opportunities to visit some of the most beautiful and secluded forest guest houses across the country. I find the FRHs of the Himalayas and the Western Ghats to be most alluring. The old buildings of the Central India, I feel, are falling prey to the growing menace of ‘renovation’. What happens in this tragic exercise is that regal cane or wooden furniture are replaced with flashy and gaudy sofa sets; pillars of huge, round, supporting timber give way to cement poles; air-conditioners are installed and so are satellite TV sets. Mercifully, this renovation bug has not bitten the foresters of other parts much.

Inside an FRH near Ooty

In the Himalayas, you feel privileged to stay in ancient forest buildings and to gaze at the white peaks when you come out in the morning! The crisp temperate air, towering firs and deodars and the view of the Himalayas take your breath away. Apart from the physical beauty of the place and the building, the FRHs play a vital role in forest protection and management. Officers camp here and conduct field inspections. It is arguable whether forest officers still halt at FRHs regularly or prefer to return to the comforts of their homes. I think we can safely say that the frequency of stay at FRH has reduced over the years but most of the young officers still do camp.

Devban in Uttaranchal

On several occasions, I have been witness to interesting conversations among foresters about allowing public to access the remotely located FRH. The conservationists argue that with more visitors, the sanctity of the place is destroyed as most people treat FRHs as a place to picnic with liquor, meat and loud music. Many tourists behave rudely with the local people and the forest staff and leave behind a trail of garbage. The other group argues that by involving people and by exposing them to our beautiful natural heritage, we can promote the cause of conservation. There is a sizeable percentage of public who is responsible, environmentally aware and assiduously follows the forest ethics. Such citizens deserve to experience the delight of forest stay as they would be able to appreciate the importance and fragility of such places. But the difficult part is prejudging whether a person is a true lover of the wilderness or not!

The Turn

Dear friends,

short-story writing is an unchartered territory for me. But somehow I have mustered up the courage to put this up on the blog. Hope you enjoy reading this.

The Turn

This is the story of Sukumar uncle whom I knew as a kid. He used to wave at me and my brother occasionally as we walked past his house to the school. My father knew him well. We lived in a village and everybody knew everybody. My father owns a small areca nut plantation. Sukumar and my father used to discuss prices of crops and efficacy of pesticides. Sukumar uncle never visited our house and looking back now, I don’t think that it was because we were from different castes. Perhaps there was something in Sukumar’s persona that repelled people and it was as if they did not want him to pollute their houses with his negative aura. As me and my brother grew up and went to different schools and colleges, we forgot about him. Much later, once when both me and my brother had come home from abroad-me from London where I was a dentist and my brother from Australia, where he was a successful doctor-my father asked us whether we remembered Sukumar uncle. ‘Yes, I do’, we replied in unison. Father smiled and went on tell us his story, with a bottle of beer in his hand. So, here is Sukumar uncle’s story as told by my father with a little modification in the narration without affecting its heart.

…………………x…………………….

Sukumar ran his dark and stout fingers over his sumptuous belly and belched loudly. ‘Good meal, good meal’, he repeated so that his wife, who was cleaning the greasy utensils in the kitchen could hear him. Gayathri had cooked a lavish dinner of mutton biryani and fish curry that night. She knew that her husband was in good mood and that comforted her. Sukumar could not live without eating meat at least once a day. Only Gayathri knew how he liked his food and she took utmost care not to disappoint him at the dining table. Any laxity from her side would mean nursing a bruise, a cut or a burn for weeks.

Sukumar sat in front of the television and began to eat pieces of neatly cut apple, arranged artistically on a glass dish. Monsoon rain of the Western Ghats was lashing heavily outside and Sukumar stared through the glass windows at the steady flow of water falling down from the rooftop. It was time for his daily news on television and politics interested him immensely. After all, he too was a party man. He supported the ruling party and he had considerable clout in the political affairs of his village. In fact, his ancestors were the oldest registered members of the ruling party. Sukumar took pride in this. His family had benefited substantially from its association with the rulers. They had built a sizeable empire over a period of several decades in the form of land holdings and stashed cash and jewelry in bank lockers. Sukumar owned areca nut, coconut and rubber plantations, all cash crops with considerable revenue. He was once the local Panchayat president too. He made his money, had a fling with a lady secretary of his office and lost the next election. It did not bother him much. He was respectfully called the ex-president anyway.

Apart from his promiscuity, Sukumar was also well-known in the village for his temper. He lost his cool for the flimsiest of reasons and he had even man-handled a couple of servants for not doing the household chores to his satisfaction. After the second incident, people refused to work in his house. You may argue that the era of feudal landlords, wherein it was a common practice to whip the servants and take their women as a matter of right, is over. Especially in the coastal regions of Karnataka which have always been progressive, these things were almost never heard of even when we were kids. That is the reason why there was no help for Gayathri at home and Sukumar found it difficult to get laborers to work in his farm. So, he had to make do with occasional smacking of his wife-for sugary tea or bland fish curry.

As he watched the local news on television, Sukumar heard somebody calling out his name outside the gate of his house.

‘Sukumar sir, president saar! Lend me a torch to go home! Sukumaar saar!’

Sukumar rushed out of the house and switched on the lights of the gate. It was raining steadily now and suddenly the power went off. A bolt of lightning struck somewhere with ferocity followed by a deafening thunder. Sukumar saw the face of Aitha in the momentary flash of the lightening, holding the latch of the gate. He had a torn umbrella in his left hand and an old and dirty cloth-bag hung from his right shoulder. He was drunk and he wobbled.

Aitha was a tribal who lived a kilometer away from Sukumar’s house. He was around thirty, lean and had a bony countenance. He worked as a laborer in plantations and was an expert in climbing areca nut trees. This was a tricky job as the climbers once atop a tree, had to pull the top of the adjoining areca tree towards them using a hooked stick and hop onto that treetop. In this fashion, the climbers covered the plantation in quick time by not getting down from a tree to climb the next one. Aitha executed this task effortlessly and was good at his work. But over the years, as the price of rubber rose and rubber plantations increased in acreage, he had shifted to the job of rubber tapping. This was more rewarding to Aitha in terms of money and gave him more spare time to loiter around. People frowned and disapproved of his choice but it was after all Aitha’s life and his choice. Wasn't it?

During the previous year’s harvest season, Sukumar had asked Aitha to pluck areca nuts from his plantation but Aitha had flatly refused. He was a regular in Sukumar’s farm before but this time he was not interested. No other laborer was willing to work for Sukumar either and this had infuriated him. He was firmly of the belief that Aitha had instigated others against him but he could do nothing. He had to hire laborers from the neighboring village at exorbitant wages.

Sukumar went inside the house and fetched a torch and umbrella and slowly walked towards the gate.

‘What happened?’, he shouted at Aitha.

‘I lost my torch. It fell down somewhere. I can’t find it. Can you lend me a torch so that I can walk home? I will return it tomorrow morning’.

Aitha was reeking of liquor and Sukumar noticed that his right hand placed on the gate was shaking. Sukumar thought about Aitha’s refusal to work for him and seeing his temerity to come to his house on a rainy night and ask for help, his blood boiled with rage.

‘You bloody bastard! You can’t come and work for me and now you have the gall to ask me for a torch!!’, Sukumar screamed.

Standing sideways near the gate and holding the grills with his left hand, Sukumar slapped Aitha’s arm hard and pushed him back. Aitha swayed unsteadily and then fell backwards on his haunches.

‘Saar, don’t hit me. How can you hit me like that? I am just asking you for a torch. Give me that and I will go away! I promise that it will be returned tomorrow’.

Sukumar was beside himself with anger. How dare this lowly tribal talk to me like this? And look at his tone! Sukumar opened the gate, walked up to Aitha who was slowly trying to get up and kicked him on his chest with all his might.

‘That serves you right, scoundrel! Get lost from here’. Sukumar turned around, closed the gates and walked back to the house.

Aitha writhed in pain and cursed Sukumar loudly. ‘You are a shameless coward’, he yelled at Sukumar’s back. ‘And a tarty crook too. You think I don’t know what you did to that panchayat secretary!? Hah!! Hitting a poor soul like me! Motherfuckers!’ Aitha let out a hearty laugh and stumbled away from the gate.

Sukumar heard every bit of Aitha’s humiliating words clearly. He could feel his ears heating up and his moustache jumped in unrestrained fury. He was in a state of frenzied wrath unsure of what to do about the unexpected insult. ‘I must teach him a lesson. I must make sure that he regrets his words till his death’, he muttered under his breath. He stood silently for a while. A thought ran in his mind as a curved smile broke on lips. ‘Why not?’, he asked himself aloud and took measured steps towards the bedroom. It had been a long time since he had the thrill of thrashing anybody. He flung open the wardrobe and pulled out a long leather belt. As Gayathri watched from the corner of her eyes, Sukumar rolled the belt around his fist and walked out into the rain with a torch and an umbrella.

Aitha had started trudging slowly and unsteadily towards his house. The terrain was undulating and there was not a single habitation in the vicinity except Sukumar’s. The rain was a steady drone and it was almost impossible to make out the bald contours of the forest path which led to Aitha’s house through a shrubby forest patch. Sukumar caught up with him just as Aitha took a turn from the main road and hit the forests. Suddenly there was a whizzing sound as the black length of leather hit Aitha’s back violently. He screamed in horror and pain and fell flat on his face. Sukumar kicked Aitha on his ribs and again on his shocked face. Blood spluttered out from Aitha’s mouth through broken teeth as he made a painstaking effort to get onto his knees.

‘Saar, don’t hit me saar! Why are you hitting me? What have I done to you?’, Aitha pleaded in a hoarse tone and with great effort sprung to his feet and suddenly made a dash into the forests. Sukumar was taken by surprise and he ran after him hurling abuses. He quickly caught up with a limping Aitha. This time a hail of blows fell on Aitha as the leather belt swished incessantly. Aitha rolled on the ground trying frantically to block the strikes with his elbows and satchel but the attack was relentless. Sukumar was panting. His eyes were bloodshot, heart thumping and he could feel the rise of blood in his loins. He enjoyed the sound of the belt whipping Aitha’s skin through his torn shirt. ‘This is what I have been waiting for, to show this asshole his deserved place’, thought Sukumar as he continued the assault.

Exhausted, Aitha almost stopped his protest and efforts to ward off the blows. His frail frame was no match to the masculine massiveness of Sukumar. The stinging pain of the flesh and the ceaseless rain began to unclutter his mind. The high of the arrack had long evaporated and he was acutely aware of his battering by Sukumar and the unbearable agony. As the cobwebs in his mind cleared, Aitha remembered his visit to the blacksmith that evening. He was asked by his wife in the morning to get an old knife sharpened and Aitha had paid ten rupees to the blacksmith for the job. The knife was in the bag! ‘If only I could get my hands on the knife!’

Sukumar was continuing his attack with belt and his feet. Aitha went on with his pitiful cries for mercy as he slowly pushed the satchel under his stomach and lay with his face down. He groped inside the bag and amongst the modest contents, soon found the wooden handle of the knife. He crawled slowly towards Sukumar’s feet and continued to beg him for mercy. Sukumar laughed and spat at him, mocking him, ‘Oh, you know how to beg too’! Suddenly Sukumar felt a stinging pain near his right ankle. Warm blood gushed down and mixed with the falling raindrops. A screaming Sukumar bent down to hold his leg with dread in his eyes. Aitha sat on his knees in a flash and pulling Sukumar’s head down by the hair, stabbed him hard on the back of the neck. The knife sunk easily into Sukumar’s thick flesh as he made a gargling sound from his throat. Blood bubbles trickled from his nose and mouth as he flailed his hands feebly and collapsed to the ground in a heap. Aitha stood up, steadied himself and briefly looked at the convulsing body of his tormentor. Then he bent down near Sukumar’s head and jabbed him thrice on his back, puncturing his heart. He pulled out the knife, held it against the torrential rain, washed his face and feet and walked home.

………………………..x…………………………….

We looked at father in disbelief as he finished the story. ‘What happened next’?, we wanted to know. ‘The usual things’, father said. ‘Aitha was arrested after a couple of days and charged with murder. The case dragged on for years. Aitha spent some time in jail, may be a year, I think. Then everybody forgot about the incident. Sukumar’s wife moved to Dubai to live with her only son. After seven years, Aitha was acquitted. The police could not find the murder weapon and they could not prove that Aitha was responsible for the death. They did not even appeal against the judgment’.

‘Where is Aitha now’?, my brother asked.

‘He is still here. Must be over sixty now. Nobody can beat him in hopping from tree to tree in areca nut gardens, though whether he will climb any tree or not is entirely decided by his whims!’, father said with a smile.

                                       ------The End-------

(You can also find this story here http://yourstoryclub.com/short-stories-social-moral/social-short-story-turn/)

Stooping steel frames and Durga Nagpal

Dear friends, I understand that perhaps I am stepping into a minefield here. But something has prompted this blog. When I was driving home one night recently with my family, I met with a minor accident. It was raining heavily, street lights were off, roads deserted and I could not see much ahead. Before I knew what was happening, my car came to an abrupt halt with a couple of thundering noises. Did I hit somebody, I wondered with a thudding heart. I got down and realized that the car had climbed up a road divider. Luckily, everyone was safe. Later, when the Maruti Service Centre people came and got the car down, I was told that this was the tenth similar incident on the same spot during the past one and a half months! Had there been an iridescent sign marking the beginning of the divider, no untoward incident would have taken place. What about the accountability of a public servant in such a situation where not doing one’s duty could actually endanger the lives of others? Hence this piece and hope you would bear with me.

Stooping steel frames and Durga Nagpal

After the initial hype, we have now all but forgotten Durga Sakthi Nagpal, the young IAS officer from Uttar Pradesh who was quietly reinstated from suspension last week. As a positive fallout, this case has helped in galvanizing public focus on the necessity to provide sufficient safeguards to those public servants who do their duties without fear or favour. Prospects of immediate course-correction look bleak. But this time, for a change, there have been murmurs of disapproval and muted protests by several associations of All India Service officers.

Before we start demonizing the political executive, here also lies another important question to ponder over. Are only the politicians to be squarely blamed for all that is wrong with our bureaucracy today? Has the conduct of the members of the higher babudom in India been above board? What has made the civil servants servile? Are they not equally, if not more, responsible for every failure in governance?

This is the feeling I get when I see the newly paved/repaired stretch of roads in Bangalore becoming un-motorable after a few hours of drizzle or after one month of regular traffic. Who approved the estimates of the road repair? Who performed the works? What were the specifications? Were they adhered to? Who inspected the work? Who passed the vouchers? Who was the contractor and how much was paid to him? And finally, who is accountable for the bad roads? It is pertinent to mention here that the president of a contractors’ association in Bangalore recently confessed on a national television that they have to pay 40-50 % of the total work outlay to bureaucrats, engineers and politicians. Mr Ashok Khemka hit the nail on the head when he told last month that ‘If the bureaucrats were really public servants, there would have been no 2G or coal scam’.

A recent survey in Hong Kong by a reputed agency has rated India’s bureaucracy as the worst in Asia. ‘They have terrific powers’, noted the report and observed ‘doing business in India is frustrating and expensive’. So, when I read an article by a bureaucrat recently (Mr Srivatsa Krishna on 15-08-13 in Times of India) about IAS being, by and large, one of the finest higher civil services in the world, I was truly baffled. The article blamed the lower bureaucracy for red-tape and dreaded their ability to stymie any effort towards progress. Amazingly, the piece went on to fault the Hazare-Kejriwal movement for the reluctance among the honest officers to take right decisions.

The Human Development report of 2013 released by UNDP ranks India at an abysmal 136^th position out of 186 countries surveyed. After 66 years of independence and innumerable billions spent on development, we are decades away from providing to the citizens the basic necessities of clean drinking water, reasonable healthcare, good primary education, responsive justice system, durable roads and working drainage. Isn't this a bit of a paradox while having one of the ‘finest higher civil services’ in the world?

When young men and women enter bureaucracy at the age of 23-35, their minds are no more impressionable. They come into the Service with their own baggage of ideas and ideologies. Once on to their field postings, they taste unbridled power, control over huge government finances and face scant accountability. There are numerous subordinates, contractors and businessmen who try to appease them with flattery, gifts and cash for favors in return. Most succumb easily. For the honest, there are challenging times in the form of political pressure, stress from the superiors to bend rules and the threat of repeated transfers. Only the truly principled and disciplined survive this test of character and come out clean and unscathed. It is a miniscule of officers, not more than five to ten percent by any stretch of imagination, who remain steadfastly honest, ethical and just throughout their career. The rest accept and adapt to the system of complacency and commissions. This is the tragedy not only of the IAS but also of other Services as well. In several states, officers pay money or promise favours to the political executive in return for prized postings. If some upright officer refuses to kowtow, there are many waiting with suitcases and stooping backs at the doorstep of ministers. And we keep blaming only the politicians! Steel frame, did anyone say?

Officers like Durga Nagpal of IAS and Sanjiv Chaturvedi of Indian Forest Service are exceptions and we are in dire need of such rarities. There are many more officers from the entire spectrum of civil services who are struggling hard under trying conditions to make a difference to the life of aam admi. Even though their number is considerably small, it is they who offer a glimmer of hope in this gloomy environment that is so all-pervasive.

Today, our bureaucrats have scant regard for providing good quality of life to the general public. Being on a higher pedestal from the common populace makes them oblivious to their sufferings. Babus have no scruples in pocketing commissions from the line departments like health, education, public works, irrigation etc. Several officers display abject dearth of courage in the face of pressure from seniors and politicians. When the officers enjoy perks like government quarter, chauffeur-driven vehicle, attendants in office and at residence irrespective of repeated transfers or place of postings, timidity cannot be accepted as a virtue. The lack of basic quality like courage to speak the truth and act accordingly cannot be blamed on Hazare-Kejriwal movement. The bureaucracy has been cocooned for decades in shrouds of secrecy and now when the prism of accountability is flashing at them through RTI and assertive and demanding public, they are feeling uncomfortable.

In essence, the bureaucrats run this country along with the politicians. They formulate policy, oversee their implementation and share a strong bond with their political masters. When things go well, they are quick to claim credit. But when things turn bad, it is the fault of the subordinates you see! On the front of accountability, the report card of the bureaucracy has not exactly been spectacular. When it comes to prosecuting the corrupt, systemic brakes are routinely applied. Departmental enquiries drag on for years and quickly fade from public knowledge and scrutiny. With powerful friends in politics and police, the criminal cases seldom move forward. Under these circumstances, bureaucrats will only be fooling themselves by playing victim. It is time the higher civil services of the country stopped blaming everyone else for their own weaknesses and failures and start thinking of a clean-up within.

Bangalored!

When we shifted from Chhattisgarh to Bangalore two years back, I had made a silent vow that I would not buy a car in the new city. It was a sentimental decision, not wishing to contribute further to the traffic mess and the spiraling pollution of the once-lovely city. But circumstances forced me to eat my unspoken words soon.

First concern - distance from home to office. In my case it is thirteen kilo metres from Malleshwaram to Koramangala which takes almost an hour on the congested and pot-holed roads of Bangalore. I googled the website of BMTC to find out any direct bus connectivity between these two points. No luck. ‘We had a Volvo service before. But there were hardly any passengers and all those who did travel, had passes! So the bus was cancelled’, informed the helpful bus depot manager at the Malleshwaram bus stand. Then I tried carpooling. I surfed various websites and registered my name and address, place of work and convenient timings for travel. My wife teased me that I was desperate to find a young female partner for travel. I ignored the taunts but fondly hoped that her words would come true. Nothing happened! A good sixteen months later, I did receive a response from a lady but I had to inform her with a heavy heart that I was no more looking for a companion, for carpooling or otherwise. Like they say in cricket, timing is of utmost importance.

For three months I traveled by bus and my boss in the office refused to part with an unused office vehicle. Since there was no direct conveyance to the destination I had to switch buses. In the evenings, I hated to pay through my nose for travelling in overcrowded Volvo buses, with the smell of stale perfume from hip co-passengers (mostly software guys) mixed with sweat assailing my olfactory senses. Once, a young man in sleeveless shirt standing next to me pushed his hirsute, open armpit right under my nose. Revolted, I shoved him hard and ducked to regain my breath and some fresh air. In the mornings, auto rickshawwalahs refused to ply short distances. I took down the numbers of errant auto drivers but lacked the perseverance to pursue. In the evenings whenever we wanted to go to a hotel for dinner, again, the omnipotent autowalahs spoiled the party (and peace at home) with a casual shake of their heads. If the school van failed to turn up one morning, I had to borrow a friend’s vehicle. At long last, I listened to the advice of my wife and children, swallowed my pride, broke my vow and quietly bought a ‘pre-owned’ Maruti car.

For close to two years now, it has been my habit every evening before I leave the office to part the blinds of the window to peer at the overlooking streets below to gauge the mood of traffic. Is it all clear? Is the vehicle movement maddeningly slow? Is it gliding smoothly, like a knife through amul butter? I perform this ritual with trepidation. Not that a roadblock would stop me from heading home! But a traffic jam when you hit the road is a harbinger of a long, long journey ahead.

        When the drive begins, I try not to see the madness outside. I close my eyes and struggle to catch my forty winks. I fail. Then I turn on the FM and try to listen to some new Hindi or Kannada songs. But these days there are more ads and less music in radio channels. Dejected and defeated, I look out.

        Traffic is senseless and depressing in Bangalore and the hapless traffic police are responsible in the least for the chaos. In fact, they respond to your calls with alacrity and try their best to mitigate the havoc. Motorists break the rules at will and honk at the slightest of pretext and sometimes for no reason at all. I have drawn two conclusions after prolonged observation of motorists in Bangalore. First, the number one culprit in breaking traffic rules are two wheelers, followed by autos, taxis and buses in that order. Secondly, women are in no way inferior to men in violation of road codes.

        But there is also another facet to Bangalore, which makes this city definitely livable even to this day despite all the pockmarks. A part that struggles for survival in the face of unimpeded growth of population, vehicles, malls and indifference. The weather is wonderful here and this is the biggest draw for most outsiders who once in Bangalore, do not feel like moving out. A considerable part of Bangalore is still green, especially the older neighborhoods. Of course, green zones and the lung spaces have shrunk and you can hardly find fluttering leaves against the sky in the new localities. But random efforts are on by active NGOs and foresters to bring back the lost glory. This city has a vibrant middle class which still cherishes the values of a decent, dignified living. People are courteous and helpful. Private schools are not only about air-conditioned class rooms, ipads and NASA visits. MTR (Mavalli Tiffin Room) is still there and so is the charming Gandhi Bazar. Darshini hotels are ubiquitous, clean and serve tasty food at reasonable prices. Where else can you have a glass of fresh fruit juice for ten to fifteen bucks? Lalbagh and Cubbon Park are serene and enchanting, even today. The only question is, for how long.

Taare Zameen Par ?

Why am I writing this disheartening piece? I really don’t know. The bitter truth about the abuse of innocent children assails us every day but nothing seems to change. As a parent and also as an ordinary citizen worried about the falling quality of life in every sphere, this topic has been troubling me for long. So, it is an effort to scribble something about this national disgrace, a kind of catharsis. Even if a few of us try in our own little ways to mitigate the misery of the luckless souls, what could be better than that?

In India, one child goes missing every eight minutes. This translates into 65,700 disappeared children in one year. So says the National Crime Records Bureau. Forty percent of them never get to see their parents again. This is a chilling statistic which unfortunately gets buried under the din over secularism, GDP, sliding rupee and growth rate. The children are kidnapped for human trafficking, begging, as domestic slaves, bonded labourers in factories, prostitution and child porn racket. Many are mutilated before being forced into begging to evoke sympathy. This is horrifying, shameful and extremely disconcerting.

The response of the police (after granting the requisite latitude for all the handicaps faced by the force) and our society towards this shocking chronicle is typical. We remember the horror of Nithari but initially when the slum-dwelling parents went to the police to lodge complaints about their missing children, they were shooed away. In sharp contrast, when the Adobe India CEO’s son was kidnapped for ransom, senior police officers paid visit to the house of the CEO and everything was done to ensure that the boy was released unharmed.

Why millions of children are suffering this fate when they should be actually enjoying their precious childhood, playing with toys, attending schools? Is the administration doing anything to provide some semblance of dignity and happiness to these poor kids? Or rather, is it nigh impossible in a stable democracy like ours to plan and execute dedicated welfare schemes targeting such children? How many tiny tots we see on a daily basis, begging, rolling in mud and filth near construction sites, on the roads, train stations and footpaths? God forbid, but let us replace, only for a moment, the face of a child begging on the street in Delhi with that of our loved one. Does not a shiver  run down our spine?

   In ‘Brothers Karamazov’ by Fyoder Dostovsky, there is an interesting discussion between the brothers Ivan and Aloysha on God. Ivan cannot reconcile the existence of a loving and all-compassionate god with that of the ineffable suffering of blameless children. He questions Aloysha, ever the believer, about incidences wherein parents themselves punish their children cruelly, and the crimeless little souls are terrified, confused and shattered. Many of you might have read about a father and stepmother assaulting and maiming their five year old son last week in Kerala. I am not philosophically inclined, but even then, the logic of karma seems absurd here.  

While I was posted briefly in Nagaland in the year 2004, I regularly used to travel via Kolkata and Guwahati by train. I would be disturbed by the sight of young street urchins at railway platforms, sniffing at a piece of cloth in their fists, dipped in some stimulant, having nasty physical fights with each other. They were foul-mouthed and violent-pelting stones and crushing bandicoots near the train tracks. Almost every one of them had one open wound or a leaking abscess on his little body. What circumstances might have placed these young ones in such a pathetic situation, I used to wonder. Later, when I was working in Durg district of Chhattisgarh, I was privileged to be associated with a program which aimed at educating the homeless, street children in special, boarding schools. One lady from the town used to voluntarily visit the kids every evening, teaching them alphabets and telling stories. I was moved by the response of these juveniles when they were shown love. Till then, perhaps throughout their childhood, what they had experienced was only scorn, abuse and hardships. When they were treated with tender words and kindness and when they realized that are some people who care for them too, their reciprocation was touching.

The plight of children is the same in most of the poor countries of Asia, Africa and South America. It is possibly much worse in the war-ravaged zones. Perhaps, as the great man Buddha once said, life is nothing but suffering. The world is of course not perfect but what makes this fact more poignant is the misery of the little angels of God. 

The Wrath of Gods

              The Himalayas have this unique ability to force even an atheist to wonder about the possibility of the existence of a superhuman power, although ephemerally. These were my thoughts when I came out of the Gadhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam (GMVN) hotel at Ghangariya in Chamoli district of Uttaranchal one August morning in 2001 and looked around. The weather was cold, crisp and enchanting. Towering mountains stared down majestically at the tiny hamlet. Lakshman Ganga river gurgled through the small town before it merged with Alakananada at Govindghat further down. On that day, we enjoyed a short trek of six kilometres up to the famous Sikh pilgrimage centre Hemkund Sahib. After a tiring walk, we had delicious khichdi at the langar, gazed at the amazingly blue lake near the shrine and on a nearby hillock, touched the Brahma Kamal (Saussaria lappa) flowers. The experience was pleasant and unforgettable.

Govindghat is a ghost town now. The villagers have locked their houses (or whatever remained of them) and disappeared into the safer plains below. On the day when the disaster struck in the form of foaming, muddy and ravaging waters cascading from the hills in a flurry of fury, everything on its path was destroyed. Houses, hotels, dams, road, vehicles and people. Multi-storied lodges crumbled like castles of sand kissed by the lapping sea waves. This tale of disaster was repeated in other hill towns of Uttarakhand and in some parts of Himachal. The wrath of nature and the mayhem it brought on its wake is perhaps unprecedented.

On the expected lines, we see Barkha Dutt, Arnab Goswamy and Rajdeep Sardesai on prime time television crying hoarse over the environmental degradation in the Himalayas over the years which has pushed us to the edge of the precipice. The sad fact is that this calamity will soon be forgotten like all other breaking news before this. Do we see or hear anything about Commonwealth Games, 2G, Ponzi schemes of West Bengal these days? People move on and life goes on. But mercifully, this tragedy in the hills is different and it has given a rude wake up call which should be reverberating through the lengths and breadths of the country. We can forget this at our own peril.

As on today, around 600 small and large-sized dams are either operational, under construction or being planned on the river Ganga and its various tributaries like Alaknanda and Bhagirathi. If all the projects go through, 60 percent of Alaknanda and Bhagirathi would permanently dry up. About 130 kilo metres of the rivers would continuously remain tunneled. These ‘developmental activities’ would drown thousands of hectares of forests, twist and turn the course of rivers, dig burrows and stuff concrete, bring in heavy machinery to the tranquil lands, and finally kill the soul of the place. But even after all these, the stated lofty objectives are almost never achieved. Here is one small example.

 On 15^th May, a Member of Parliament, Rewati Raman Singh made the following statement in the Parliament. “Having commissioned the Tehri dam on river Ganga as the irrigation and environment minister of Uttar Pradesh, I have no qualms in saying that it was the biggest mistake of my life. The then Union Minister for Environment Ms Maneka Gandhi was opposed to the project. But we were somehow led to believe that the Tehri dam would generate 2400 MW of electricity and irrigate 1.67 lakh hectares of land. Nothing of this sort happened. Not even 400 MW of electricity is being generated. I am reminded of the words of social reformer Madan Mohan Malviya, who had said that if we construct dams like this in the Himalayas, then the whole of north India will be destroyed” (Source-Tehelka Magazien, Issue 22, Vol 9)

According to several independent observers, the major purpose of all these projects (does this not apply to most of the civil works executed by various departments in our country?) is only one-contracts and commissions.

On an average, nine to ten lakh pilgrims visit Badrinath and Kedarnath annually. If you take a conservative estimate of half a kilo gram of non-biodegradable waste generated by one pilgrim, it amounts to a staggering 450 tons of junk every year. How this is being segregated/managed and disposed-off is anybody’s guess. The stench of our footprints on rivers, mountains, streams, air and the soil - all divine blessings of nature - is nauseating, all-pervading and impossible any more to ignore.

In these times of rapacious greed, where it is difficult to tell the wrong from the right, where the suave and genteel are taken to be sincere and honest, where the rulers and the ruled do not think twice before poisoning the fountains of our very sustenance, it is indeed pertinent to take a peek into the pages of history. During the treaty negotiations with the colonial whites in 1852, the native Indian-American chief of Seattle gave a now famous speech in response to an offer by the US government to buy two million acres of Land that belonged to the Indians. He said;

“How can you buy or sell the sky? The land? The idea is strange to us. What will happen when the buffaloes are all slaughtered, the wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forests are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe mountains is blotted by talking wires? Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. End of living and beginning of survival”.

It is time to pay heed.

A walk through the magical land

            As the curtain of mist slowly lifts, we make out two dark, hazy, rock-like structures, about a hundred metres away from us. Then the rocks move, forward and backward and we see two fully grown elephants blocking our path or is it the other way round? Sajeev Kumar, the forest guard who is walking ahead of us, slowly places his right forefinger on his lips and swiftly and silently walks up the hill with the objective of skirting the saddle path. Excited and terrified in equal measure, I and Praneetha run after him. Those who have encountered the elephants in the wild and who understand the unpredictability and the resultant danger of these colossal giants would be able to appreciate our thumping hearts!

who is there?

now you know!

              Eravikulam National Park is a small expanse of wilderness in Idukki district of Kerala, created with the purpose of providing a safe sanctuary to the rare and endangered Nilgir Tahrs. As a part of Forest Inventory works being conducted by Forest Survey of India in Kerala, I am here to see the forests and our field work. We start the trek rather late, at 3.30 in the afternoon. Pre-monsoon showers and thick blankets of mist could make the walk tricky, the wildlife warden Mr Saju had warned us. But the weather holds and we strike gold even before our walk could begin. A mountain-hardy jeep is ferrying us to the starting point of the trek and suddenly a big herd of Nilgiri Tahrs runs across the road and stands watching us from a safe distance. As the vehicle huffs and puffs towards them up the torturous bends, bouncing over liberally strewn rocks, the Tahrs bolt, jump down a fence of slab-stones and vanish into the trimmed tea-bushes.

               The long march starts from the point where the tea plantations end and the shola forests (a typical forest type found at the valleys of rolling grasslands in the high altitudes of Western Ghats) begin. The ground is wet with the previous evening’s rain and the leaches are waiting on the trail eager to latch on to warm skin. It begins to drizzle a little but the shower fails to dampen our spirits. As we walk up, the valley below is a carpet of greenery of tea plants and other flora speckled with sparse habitations. After a climb of about thirty minutes, we come across the first of several Rhododendrons. The trees are in bloom in a mass of red petals. I remember the refreshing drink I had five years back, made out these flame-like petals in the hills near Manali.

Rhododendron

Gaurs grazing

Tahrs from far

 Another thirty minutes of gradual ascent and we reach a plateau. It is five in the evening and Sajeev assures us that the difficult stretch is behind us. It is only grasslands and more grasslands from here with forests confined to the valleys below us. The weather is a bit chilly and crisp now. As we look around us, we realize that this place is no less than the valley of flowers of the Himalayas. Whichever direction we see, the views are mesmerizing. The floor and the sides of the hills are carpeted with a cornucopia of flowers - asters, wild lilies, ground orchids, begonias and daisies. We spot numerous Nilakurinji (Strobilanthes kunthiana) plants which flower once in twelve years and are scheduled to paint the hills blue in 2018. A small brook flows silently, meandering down the hills along the valleys and forms a puddle of clear, sweet water. We quench our thirsts and Shankar, a forest watcher and our companion hands us a few wild raspberry fruits-bitter-sweet, fresh and rejuvenating. We sit near the creek for a while. It is serene and peaceful. Sajeev shows us several insect catching ‘drosera’ plants by the stream and indeed a couple of flies are trapped in the glandular tentacles of this carnivorous plant. The sun has already set and we make haste. Then from nowhere, a small lake appears in the gorge below us. ‘Bheemnaoda’, or the pond/channel of Bheema, Sajeev explains. It is straight out of a picture post card and the bewitching spectacle is beyond words.

Bheemnaoda-picture postcard

blues, bees

drosera, the insect catcher

solitary beauty

white and wild

yellow bloom

star flower

the ensemble

It is dusk when we stand in front of the small forest guest house, or the Eravikulam hut. There is a fading, dreamlike, mildly glowing but soothing light on the landscape. I quickly click a few snaps before the moment slips into darkness. A saddleback (mature, male Tahr) appears on the ridge of an opposite mountain, tilts his head a wee bit looking in our direction, turns and slowly walks away. We drench in the moment, gazing into the horizon and standing still, with a cup of black tea in our hands. It is quiet all around and the world is at peace.

after sunset

a vine snake poses briefly

mini valley of flowers

Nilagiri langur, near the base point

The lessons they teach

I have been postponing this decision to start a blog for quite a long time. 'Who are going to read my blogs anyway?', I thought, was a reasonable assessment both of my abilities to write and readers' ability to endure. Secondly I was worried whether I would be able to sustain the flow. 'Aarambhashooratva' (a Sanskrit phrase), a common human weakness that afflicts many a well-meaning endeavors, applies to writing as well. But then, suddenly I discovered a purpose today. May be, if I stick to writing two pieces (okay, one) in  a month, I would be doing something creative. This could perhaps keep my sanity intact and give me a well-deserved break from the monotony of file-pushing, travelling in the maddening traffic of Bangalore and umpiring during the fights between my two sons. Or so I hope. Though a forester by choice, I will not be restricting myself to all things green and wild. Ok, here I go.

The lessons they teach

            About twenty-five years back, on a cloudy-sky gloaming, I climbed up the stairs of the Syndicate Bank building in my village with mounting unease and sweaty palms. I was returning home after the school hours when suddenly a thought came to my mind. Why not go to the bank and ask my father to buy me an ice-candy? My elder brother, who has always had a more mature head above his shoulders, had assured me before walking home that father would not agree as he had acceded to my demand only the previous evening. Undeterred, I ambled up, my spirit a little dampened by my brother's refusal to accompany me. Familiar faces of my father's colleagues greeted me as I entered the office and someone called out, "Shastriji, your son has come to meet you". 

Busy doing some calculations on a thick register, my father raised his eyebrows and looked at me, without lifting his head.

"I want one ice-candy', I mumbled, a little shaken by his stern countenance.

"No", my father shot back almost immediately. "Not today. Only yesterday evening you had one".

"But appa I need only one", I pleaded.

"Today you will not get any ice-candy. Just go home. I have work to do".

Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that all the staff of the bank was looking at us and I shrunk with humiliation. Determined not to end up a loser in front of others, I tried again, "appa please".

"Look here son", my father told firmly with a raised voice. "No more arguments. Go home now and do not irritate me any further".

"Shastriji, why don't you get him a candy? Poor boy, he is almost crying", a sympathetic lady staff told my father. Encouraged by this support, I ventured once more, "appa, it's only ten paisa".

Perhaps that was the proverbial last straw.

"Enough of it son. It is not the question of ten or twenty paisa. You will not get candies everyday. Is that clear to you? Now, will you go home or not"?

I realized that my father was in no mood to relent and I certainly did not relish the prospect of getting a beating or two in front his colleagues! I was left with no option but to walk home swallowing my pride with my mission unaccomplished.

          This incident comes to my mind whenever I see young kids being pampered by their doting parents these days. Chocolates, chips, ice cream, toys-whatever the little ones ask for, the parents are more than eager to grant their wishes, just to see their children happy. Is it not worth to pause for a moment and reflect-are we doing the right thing by acceding to all the demands of the tiny tots? Will it not make the kid think that she can get whatever she wants? Will it not make her trash the idea of thrift? Will it not make her indifferent to the fact that every kid in this world is not as fortunate as her? Will it ever make the kid realize the value of money? Will it not make her more materialistic from a very early age?

          When my father refused to buy me a candy on that evening I realized that had he wanted he could have mollified me by spending ten paise. But he wanted me to understand and accept that I will not get whatever I want or demand. Perhaps he knew that his denial would teach me this important lesson. Not to be greedy and to acknowledge the truth that in life we do not get everything we desire. Values that are arguably of high relevance for today's generation.


rajesh kallaje
bangalore