The Left and Right Of A Debate

A book written by a well-known journalist Rahul Pandita ‘Our Moon Has Blood Clots’ which I read last week, has impacted me deeply. Pandita has also published another popular work ‘Hello Bastar’ which introduces the reader to the naxal movement in Central India. Amidst the heated debate on intolerance in India, the book by Pandita on the plight of Kashimiri Pandits bears great significance. We all have read that lakhs of Pandits were persecuted and hounded out of their own homeland of centuries-Kashmir-by the majority Muslim population. This is perhaps the only case in the recent past where a large number of people have become internal refugees in their own country. The book by Rahul Pandita opens bare the trauma and the angst of a helpless people who have been largely shunned by the ‘secular’ politicians and media. It is only by their sheer grit, hard work and perseverance that many Pandits have found a new life and freedom in various climes across the world. But several thousand still live the life of a refugee in Delhi.

If I say that the on the night of January 19, 1990, Muslims in the Valley went into a mob frenzy and through hundreds of mosques across the State, threatened the ‘kafir’ Pandits to leave Kashmir or convert to Islam, with blood-curdling slogans like “We will turn Kashmir into Pakistan along with Kashmiri Pandit women, but without their men”, will I be called a right-winger? On the other hand, if I say that the lynching of a hapless Muslim man in Dadri for what he alleged to have eaten, must be condemned unequivocally, does that qualify me as a leftist? And whom do we call a centrist? A person who walks the tightrope to keep both sides happy, may be!?

In this melee of the left versus right, we seem to have forgotten that what is right is always right, whether left or right. Today I read a statement of P Chidambaram who conceded that banning of Satanic Verses was wrong. We understand the timing, don’t we? In the twilight of his career, one knows that he is not going to lose much by accepting the truth. When credibility was the measuring jar for politics anyway? I am also waiting for the day when some  secular leaders accept that the amendment to our constitution to deny justice to Ms Shah Bano was also wrong. Denying justice to fifty percent of the Muslim community still continues in the form of triple talaq and polygamy but if there is a murmur of protest, why it is brushed aside as ‘right-wing propaganda’? Many Muslim countries have banned these two tenets of Muslim Personal Law followed so religiously in India. But in the garb of upholding secularism, a section of the polity in India mollycoddles and cultivates the religious far right among the Muslims. Ironically, the Muslim religious leaders have no qualms in accepting criminalization of triple talaq and polygamy in Western Countries and the US. But here in India, when 70,000 Muslim women give a representation to the Prime Minister demanding equal rights as their men, mullahs and some politicians question the credentials of the petitioners. They smell a right-wing conspiracy, again.

Take the case of alleged sexual harassment in Madrasas as revealed by a female journalist and a male film maker in Kerala. I am sure you have noticed that Arnab is not shouting, ‘the nation wants to know’, Barkha Dutt is not conducting any panel discussion on the issue. But one statement from a right-wing political leader will send these media people into a frenzy.

If someone criticizes the demolition of Babri Masjid as a criminal act which led to the death of thousands of innocents in its aftermath, permanently driving a wedge between two communities, do we have to call that person an apologist for the left? Similarly, will the persons who are demanding an overhaul of the Madrasa system of education with a thorough investigation into sexual harassment angle be hauled over the coals as communal?

Being secular is essential for the growth of a healthy democracy but we cannot be selective in this. It is time we realized that what is right will always remain so, whether we paint it with hues of saffron or green.

PS: Curious to know the origin of these two words, I went to Wikipedia and here is what I found. Even though we understand the concepts broadly, the clear definitions below give a proper perspective.

Right-wing politics are political positions or activities that view some forms of social stratification or social inequality as either inevitable, natural, normal, or desirable, typically defending this position on the basis of natural law, economics or tradition. Hierarchy and inequality may be viewed as natural results of traditional social differences and/or from competition in market economies.

Left-wing politics are political positions or activities that accept or support social equality, often in opposition to social hierarchy and social inequality. They typically involve concern for those in society who are perceived as disadvantaged relative to others and a belief that there are unjustified inequalities that need to be reduced or abolished.

(It is also interesting to note that many leftists these days prefer to criticize capitalism in the cosy confines of a Ritz or a Taj or a Park Hyatt a la Arundhati Roy).

A Bengaluru Weekend

‘Wish you a wonderful weekend’, screams the DJ on FM as my car labours its way through the serpentine traffic. For the happy weekend to begin I must get home first and so must the lakhs of office-goers. But Friday evenings are not like any other. Now I am at the nerve centre of the city, ‘Majestic’ which is bursting at its seams. People are scrambling towards the KSRTC bus stand on their weekend journey towards home or ‘native’. To other parts of Karnataka, to Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Andhra, or to Telangana. Private buses are parked haphazardly along the roadside and travellers have no other option but to cross the road hither and thither. The city bus station looks the same, just how it was in 1993 when I was in college but the population has doubled. Did we hear somebody say that Bengaluru will be transformed into London or Singapore? Or is it about Mumbai? Whatever.

I drive past Majestic and head towards Malleshwaram, past the ever-ongoing Metro works (will it ever end?) and hit the Sampige road. Almost home now. After suffering another ten minutes of violent struggle of vehicles to get the better of one another, tympanum-shattering honking, I am at the pearly gates of the heavenly campus of Institute of Wood Science and Technology. I know that I am fortunate to stay in this forested part of the city which does not feel like Bengaluru one bit. So, the best part of my weekend is staying at home and when push comes to shove, driving or walking within the Malleshwaram ward boundaries.

 My children can never be put to bed before 11 on Friday nights. They have the liberty to sleep till they get bored the next day. The riotous gang of kids is late to raise dust on the cricket pitch and a hapless kitten in the neighbourhood is allowed to loll freely for a little while more. I am certain that the kitten despises the weekends when the kids are always after its life and must be welcoming Mondays with a sigh of relief.

Then it is the time for ‘special weekend classes’. Music, abacus, computers, dancing, singing, cricket coaching, painting and what not. We all are in a frenzied hurry to make our children what we are not or could not. A couple of months back when my son Adithya pestered me to allow him to join a cricket coaching centre, I was not amused. I remembered my childhood in the 1980s when one Sunday morning, me, my brother, a cousin and another friend-owner of a cricket kit, gathered at the school playground. We reverentially touched and felt the pads, gloves, leather ball, bat and then put on the gear and experienced the thrill of playing cricket just like the real players on TV! These days every fourth kid in the neighbourhood carries the hope of his parents to become the next Tendulkar which is manifest in the overcrowded grounds. It is near stampede like situation with small armies of cricket enthusiasts in whites practicing in the limited spaces of shrinking playgrounds. Incidentally, I am not entirely unhappy that Adithya’s interest in cricket is waning fast!

 Malleshwaram ground in the weekends is a sight to behold. Once I counted at least 25 cricket matches going on simultaneously which means a total of fifty teams. In such a scenario it is extremely important for the players to concentrate on their match. You blink longer and then you may end up catching a ball hit by a batsman from another match, inviting angry protests! Many a matches have been lost when an excellently executed shot has been stopped by a third party player preventing a four. Similarly, many run out have been effected due to unintentional deflection. When the ball is struck along the ground, it is highly unlikely to reach the boundary what with hundreds of pairs of legs moving in all directions! One interesting thing I observed while watching the matches here is that most of the bowlers chuck and only a few bowl the genuine way.

An evening stroll along the Sampige or Margosa road is not without its usual rewards. Benne dose at CTR is one and Vada at Veena stores is another. Now there is an excellent ‘bye two kaafi’ in front of CTR! We walk past the Adigas hotel and cross the Saibaba temple. Weekends are not the rush hours here but Thursdays. Some devotees stop their vehicles almost in the middle of the road and try to get a long-shot darshan. Never mind the pile up of vehicles behind. Bhakti comes first.

The Malleshwaram market on the 12^th cross will transport you to a perfume factory with an array of beautiful and fragrant flowers on display. The market has a diverse and exotic collection of vegetables. But the prices of greens is a scam here. I have found the rates of cauliflower, beans and okra at least twice that of what we find in Hopcoms. Of course, the vegetables look fresh, clean and shiny green but I am sure that each piece of an edible item has at least two percent of its weight of chemicals on it. I avoid them scrupulously.

Now that the market has been razed to the ground, the sellers are completely on the footpath and also on the roads with their wares. They say that a multi-storey shopping complex is coming up soon. Hmmm, may be in a decade.

Weekends are not the best of times to walk the footpaths of Sampige road. The crowds are like ants on a candy stick. Between tenth cross and sixth cross you cannot walk without brushing against others. Occasionally during these wanderings I see a drama enacted by police with sickening regularity. Some officer is about to arrive to inspect the footpaths. There is a mad and desperate rush by the hawkers on the footpath to collect all their belongings-flowers, trinkets, bags, dresses, toys, cut fruits-and then they run towards the awning of adjoining buildings two steps away. There they wait with trepidation for the rage of the policemen to subside. The police scream at them, occasionally landing a couple of blows with their lathis on the merchandises but rarely on people. The officer arrives in a jeep-does not usually get down-and slowly drives away. Then it is business as usual for the hawkers. You discuss the problem with the hawkers and they reveal that it is all part of a drama. The ‘maamoolu’ anyway has to be paid to the police. There are no prizes for guessing the most efficient hafta collection system in the country.

A routine round of vegetable shops and a couple of provision stores and we are back home. Praneetha has the garden work and tending to her roof-top vegetable orchard to keep her busy. By the way ‘oota from your thota’ (food from your kitchen garden) feels great and is also chemical-free. Occasionally I roam around the campus with a camera. Bengaluru has grown so much over the years and so haphazardly that it is a punishment to travel from one end of the city to another, especially to meet relatives and friends. I stay at home and console myself by saying that everybody needs their break to relax after a hectic week.

The weekend is over before it even began, or so it feels.

(You can also read the blog here- 

http://bangalore.citizenmatters.in/articles/a-bengaluru-weekend)

The Jannat on earth: Trek to Tarsar-Marsar in Kashmir

The best of the journeys are the ones that are least planned. This strikes me as the mini bus we are travelling in winds through the snaky and precipitous road inside Aru National park. The drive brings back the memories of the fear I felt when I first journeyed in a recklessly driven and rickety Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam bus along the treacherous, hilly stretches of Uttarakhand. But what breath-taking surroundings!

Aru, the base camp of the trek, looks spectacularly beautiful and serene in the fading evening light. The orange-coloured tents are pitched in a glen, away from a small hamlet. We are a group of twenty three, mainly from Bengaluru, Pune and Delhi. Our trek leader is a passionate, bearded young man, Ankit, who is in love with the mountains. The trekkers exchange pleasantries, strike up conversations with each other and when darkness finally envelopes all by 8.30 pm, slip into the tents.

          The next morning, sky is clear and mood upbeat as we begin the trek. A slushy climb along a village track. Then we enter the deodar forests and occasional pines. A comfortable walk through the conifers. Most of us have offloaded our rucksacks and carry a light backpack. We walk in and out of the forests and the slopes are gentle. Lunch break is near a stream. Water is clear and clean and none of us have any hesitation in quenching our thirst.

          Our campsite in Lidderwat is in a large grassland. There is a government department building nearby which looks like a forest guest house. Two more groups are camping a hundred metre away from us. Lidder river gurgles downhill.  We gorge on hot bread pakodas. A cricket match is on in the backyard of our tents.  A lone woman trekker from Europe sits atop a rock and watches the proceedings with interest and occasional smiles. She is trekking alone to Kalhoi glacier which is the source of Lidder river. During an evening walk, I come across another lone Western trekker who is sitting at the mouth of his small tent, painting the vista in front of him. He doesn’t notice me or doesn’t care. I take a quick peek at the small canvas and get a glimpse of trees and snow peaks.

          The next morning is bright at five and damp and dull at six. Ankit takes the tough call of going ahead with the trek hoping that the weather would improve. It doesn’t and we walk in the constant drizzle. Ponchos and raincoats are out. The climb is a bit tedious today and there are not many trees now. A few trekkers are tired but march on bravely. The toughest part is crossing the rivers. It is not dangerous but the water level is slowly rising. The chill freezes the bones and the force almost sweeps us off. After wading through rivers and streams four times, the sole of my right shoe comes off. Nagendra lends his gaiters to me and it makes a good job of holding the sole in its place. By noon, many are exhausted and all are hungry and we invade a small Gurjar house on the way. There are several Gurjar habitations dotting the terrain. What a lovely people. Men are tall and handsome, women are exceptionally beautiful and children are angelic. The ladies serve us Kahva tea and we polish off our packed lunch savouring the warmth of the house and the hospitality. A Gurjar woman shows an abscess on her shin and pleads for medicine. A child has a gash on her leg. A man asks for stomach-ache reliever. It is a tough life up here in the mountains. What in case of an emergency?

Rain relents briefly when we reach Shekwas, our camp site. Draught horses, with their fore legs tied together lazily graze in the meadows. The landscape is bewitchingly beautiful and dazzling blue Aconitum flowers are everywhere. There are many more too, of different hues. White, blood red, yellow and blue.

Cloudy skies clear by 7.30 the next morning to a collective sigh of relief. A stream hugs the trek path throughout our walk, giving us the company of its murmur. It is a moderate climb of five kilo metres and the weather gets better as the day progresses. Butterflies bask on flowers and a skink briefly mirrors sunlight on a rock. What a panorama! Green undulating grasslands interspersed with clear brooks. Mountains all around. Ground carpeted with blossoms of indescribable beauty. Now I know what Amir Khusro must have felt when he recited;

“Agar firdaus bar ru-ye zamin ast,

Hamin ast o hamin ast o hamin ast "

"If there is a paradise on earth,

It is this, it is this, it is this”.

It feels wonderful to walk slowly during a trek and more so if you walk alone. You don’t need words. There is so much to see, so much to appreciate, so much to soak in. As Ankit says, trek is about the walk and not about reaching the campsite quickly. We are at Tarsar lake before lunch time. All of us try our hands in pitching the tents and it is easier than imagined. The tranquil lake beckons. The rocks and boulders strewn around become the royal seats. The blue waters are crystal clear. This and Marsar are holy lakes for the Kashmiris. No one is supposed to touch the waters. Stone throwing and polluting in any form is prohibited. Our Kashmiri guide, the ever-affable Bilal warns of terrible weather in the event of sacrilege.

As I walk in the vicinity, I notice a trekker from another small group of youngsters, spit into the lake. I am aghast. So are my trek-mates. I confront him and sparks fly. The literate hooligan feigns ignorance and apologises. Later, the same group throws stones into the lake, plays loud music and dances at the banks. This time, I keep my counsel.

On the fourth day, we cross the Tarsar peak in the morning. This is the highest point of our trek, at around 13,400 feet. All rejoice at the successful scaling. After the ascent, the steep downhill walk is tricky. And then it is rolling grasslands all the way till we reach Sundarsar lake. The campsite is next to the waters. The weather is windy and chilly. Anup has pitched and reserved a ‘lake view’ tent for me and sanjeev. After lunch we head towards Marsar lake, a small distance and a sharp climb away. The blooms are everywhere. Delicate, creamish Saxifraga flowers with red and yellow centre cloth the lakeside rocks in all their splendour. We walk past the boulders, streams and more flower beds and begin the ascent. The hill which looked innocuous from far seems intimidating now. Once atop, it is a leisurely stroll of twenty minutes to the viewpoint. Marsar is mesmerizing and we enjoy the view from the hill overlooking the lake. The lake is supposed to be almond shaped but I am not so sure as one side is a straight line. The skies continue to disappoint the shutterbugs and clouds clear only in bits and pieces revealing a reluctant blue underneath.

Later in the evening, a game of cards in the dining hall followed by checking of blood pressure and blood oxygen level by Ankit. Then the much awaited, lip-smackingly delicious food cooked by Kushal. We wonder how this man manages to dish out gajar ka halwa, custard and cake at 13,000 feet!

In the night, I try my hand at sky photography, aided ably by Kishan. Not a bad beginning but results are not entirely satisfaying. The chill in the air brings out gloves and thermals and I snuggle cosily into the sleeping bag.

Sonmasti is our last camp and the downhill walk is easy and relaxed. Again we reach early and have lots of time to explore the area. Some people decide to take a dip in the cold and sparkling waters of the rivulet nearby. Later in the evening I spot several Himalayan mormots on the hillside. They look healthy and alert. They let out a shockingly shrill alarm call on spotting me and scurry towards their burrows. Sonmasti waterfall is not huge but charming.

The last day of the trek is a tiring, arduous downhill trudge of twelve kilo metres in searing sun. But the sights are rewarding. Again a wide array of stunning flowers, high, narrow waterfalls in the distance, bewildering variety of mushrooms. Sumbul is welcomed with a sigh of relief and vehicles are waiting to take us to Srinagar.

This has been one of the best weeks of my life. No internet, no phone, no TV and of course, no office. Absolute company of nature and new friends. Hills, brooks, lakes and above all, flowers of paradise. I can’t wait to get back to the hills again.

(Here is the link to some pictures)

Tarsar Marsar

				Tarsar Marsar Srinagar panorama from Pari Mahal.jpg 21:58
				View on drive.google.com	Preview by Yahoo

Swamped By The Screens

Like the Buddhist monks completely immersed in prayer, the heads of all five window seat passengers in the vehicle were bent. Were they meticulously observing their crotch, I wondered for a while. At the next traffic signal, I managed to closely watch the Tempo Traveller which was carrying this young bunch. Some faces were serious and some had a hint of smile playing on their lips. Ah, then I realized. They were looking at their mobile screens! As I caught a glimpse of them off and on for the next five minutes, not even once I saw anybody looking straight ahead. Two years down the line, will some of them walk with a permanent tilt to their torso? May be.

In this age of technology, I am just past the Ice Age. I discovered whatsapp about 4-5 months back and am yet to get hooked. 4G is still an option waiting to be adopted and internet is switched on in my mobile only occasionally. Ipad and imac, though enticing, seem obscenely expensive and I have refused to bite the bullet. A pocket notebook continues to be my option to jot down the grocery list though I find the reminder option in mobiles extremely useful. I enjoy music on my mobile while travelling. As I am uncomfortable with typing on a touchscreen I have shied away from tablets till now even as my kids keep telling me that a tablet would be great for games. Despite all these precautions, I feel that somehow I am failing to arrest the invasion of technology into my private life. I am being dumbed down by technology. My attempts to prevent the assault have been, I am afraid, feeble. Mobiles and laptops have thrown my schedule-if ever there was one-into complete disarray.

From morning till night, technology gives us company. Checking the facebook page sitting on the pot, sticking the plastic headphone buds up our ears during the morning walk, stealing furtive glances at the mobile screen (placed opportunely on the thighs) during office meetings, gadgets have become an extended appendage of our body. I am sure you have read about a man who took a selfie with the corpse of a relative and posted it on the facebook. Sad that there is no option to click ‘dislike’. This selfie craze completely beats me. Is there really a craze or it is just a media hype, I am not really sure. Don’t you think selfie is self-love, an unhealthy narcissistic trend among the youngsters?

If you accept that watching the screens is a normal thing to do, then there is nothing much to worry. When Wikipedia is the only source of knowledge, Arnab’s harangue genuine fount of news, PlayStation is what children call games and TV room the sole place of family assembly, all is well. No chirping of birds in the morning, no cycling or cricket for the kids, no social life with friends but for facebook and whatsapp. What really gets my goat is seeing couples in restaurants or parks busy unto themselves engrossed in their respective mobiles. What #$%^&# kind of romance is this? Thank god, mobiles were non-existent during my youth!

Nowadays I sometimes find myself involuntarily reaching to the mobile and checking for the latest whatsapp messages. Or typing ndtv.com to see the most recent news. As if CBI is going to be independent or China has relinquished its claim on Arunachal or Srinivasan has decided to dissociate himself completely from cricket in a matter of thirty minutes. What rubbish! No wonder I take twice the time to read one book these days than I used to before the onslaught of screens. My wife Praneetha who is spectacularly unimpressed by the gadgets is at peace with her Nokia qwerty mobile, rarely visited facebook page, never-opened whatsapp and only-when-necessary email account. I am not surprised that she has much more time than me for morning walk, to read, garden and to go through the kids’ schedules.

Many of us surf the internet for unnecessary knowledge which we will never use, fancy products which we will never buy and exotic locales which we will never visit. But when there is some free time, the laptop is pulled close and we type google! Though internet is a treasure-trove of necessary information, we find it difficult to put a full stop when the essential job is done. Trivial matters become important and we conveniently invent genuineness of the inevitability of the material we are seeking through the web. The gadgets definitely have their positives. But are they also making us lazy, less-active, hunch-necked, irritable, less-sociable and screen-centred? After all, there is more to life than screens and monitors. As for myself, I do not know when I will be able to wriggle myself out of this web but I believe that I am making an effort!

Some Days To Remember

Rain lashes down on Bengaluru with a rare vehemence I have seldom seen in the past three years. Not a good omen. We are about leave for my village. The power conks. All packed but frantic last minute searches. I forget to take my camera. By the time we are inside the bus, I am thoroughly drenched.

Next morning at home, kids rush to see two kittens. Brown and dappled. The little mass of furs are scared by strange faces. One lifts its paw and hisses, then snarls. ‘Don’t touch them too often’, my mother cautions.

Children are off to cricket sessions in the courtyard. The thicket at the boundary of our land abutting an areca nut garden is a graveyard of lost and never found tennis balls. Gone are the days when we fished out the best looking keel of a coconut frond for a bat from the fuel wood stack. Now, a quarter century later, I am happy to see coconut leaves as stumps.

Off to Goa for a training on “Effective time Management”. We try the Koknan railway route from Mangaluru. The train is late by more than five hours and we hop on to a passenger train. Spacious and empty coaches. Entrancing vista outside. Terrible scene along the tracks. Can we call our railway tracks as the longest dustbin in the world? I cannot find a single trash bin in the entire train. Mera swach bharat mahaan.

Basilica of Bom Jesus in Panaji

Time management is a subject in which I have always felt a need for lessons. The program is relaxed, informative and different. Evening visit to a beach. Dirty, crowded and horribly administered. The sun is blazing. We amble towards the shores. Water looks clean. We stroll back and sit in the shades of an unused speedboat. There is a big family of seven a few feet away from us. A woman makes two small kids defecate on the sand. Using her feet, she pushes and piles the sand on the excreta. We gingerly feel the patch where we sit. As we watch in dismay, the mother takes the kids to the beach for a wash, in the same water which we felt clean a couple of minutes ago.

Panaji is a small town. Looks a lot similar to Pondicherry. Same rulers before independence and similar style of buildings, architecture and colors. It is a pity that such a lovely town is so filthy. Wherever we go, mounds of garbage greet us. When you drive out of the city, in all directions, a line of an assortment of refuse gaze at you along the roadside. A longer dustbin, perhaps.

A street in Panaji

Back to Bengaluru and then to Nagarahole. The landscape comes to life as one crosses Hunsur. Good rains for the past fortnight has made the forests verdant green. We spot several herds of spotted deer. Plenty in numbers and a very good prey base for the carnivores. The old, wooden forest rest house is charming. Built in 1928, the building has not been splurged upon. No AC, no TV, no fancy sofa sets. A spartan setting with an exquisite appeal. Flowering rows of white lily hug the boundary of the building.

A view of and from the FRH

Spotted Deer

Indian Gray Mongoose

A pack of dhole (wild dog)

Drives in the Park are exhilarating. The feeling is irrespective of the sightings. Fresh, crisp air of the morning and the deer are already up and about. We drive along the winding roads, past the alert sambar in a water body, past the indifferent herd of wild dogs, past the muscular and powerful gaurs. A monitor lizard hastily crosses the road and vanishes into the bushes. An Indian Gray mongoose is languorous and inquisitive and turns back to have a quick look at the jeep. We get to see hare, mongoose, wild boar, gaur, elephant, sambar, monitor lizard, spotted deer, barking deer and dhole. Big cats remain elusive.

In the late evening, we accompany the forest staffs who are carrying water to another camp where the pump is out of order. While returning, we cross an elephant on the roadside and it trumpets in fury. The noise is ear-shattering and before we could regain our composure, the headlight of the jeep catches two more elephants with a calf on the road. The driver brakes and we wait. We worry about the possibility of the first elephant approaching us from behind. The adults quickly guide the calf to safety between them and all the three start moving away into the forests. Then one turns around and heads towards the road again and then changes its mind and walks back.

Later in the night, as we stand near the window and look out, large herds of spotted deer slowly arrive and camp all around the rest house. They must be in hundreds. Their eyes shimmer in the dim light and compete with the large swarms of fire flies around them.

The drive to Ammathi the next day morning is enchanting. The roads of Coorg have been handsomely upgraded now and it is a pleasure to be at the wheels. Meticulously trimmed durantha bushes form the boundary of lush coffee estates all along the road. We drive past the picturesque golf course of Polibetta and reach Alath Cad Estate, a home stay. The property is huge and lovingly maintained. The Ain Mane (ancestral house) of the Kodavas forms a part of the home stay. The traditional Kodava food is delicious and sumptuous. There are fruit trees abound here and guava berries in front our room taste great. We take a leisurely stroll in the surrounding coffee estate and spot Hill Mynas on a coconut tree hole.

Road to Ammathi-miles to go

A view of the estate

A magpie robin at the Estate

The drive to Bengaluru from my village is uneventful and tiring but we are welcomed by pleasing rains. It is back to the office again from tomorrow with the joy of a well-spent week behind me.

Whose Father’s What Goes?

All those who had fervently (and as we now know, foolishly) hoped for a better political discourse in the country when a people-propelled movement metamorphed into a political party are in a state of shock and despair. It is a clear case of ‘kya se kya ho gaya’. Politics without money or muscle power, responsive public representatives, no VVIP culture, swaraj, democracy and what not. Now it turns out that what we were actually hearing was not alternative politics but an alternate political party. How stupid of us, no? The drama that has unfolded in AAP over the past one month has all the essential ingredients of a potboiler. Conspiracy theories, betrayal, personal egos and ambitions, ruthless dictators, fawning sycophants, secretly taped conversations, suspect donations and a hint of sleaze too. The cheerleaders and the ultra-optimists are left with a bitter taste in their mouth. It is improbable that the aam aadmi would be enamoured by a similar movement in the future. When all turn out to be the same, why bother? Whose father’s what goes, really?

We all, I am sure, have had this feeling of despondency and resignation at one stage or the other in our lives. You see a broken water pipe on the roadside on way to your office, slowly spewing trickles of water. Should you call the municipal authorities? Even if you call, will somebody respond? How long before the plumber decides to pay a visit to the site and repair? Should you call or let somebody else do it? Then you call and a person replies that the problem would be fixed soon. While returning from office you make it a point to check whether the pipe has been repaired. No, water is still leaking, pouring out hundreds of litres by the hour. Your concern and efforts have not yielded any results. That is when you get this feeling-whose father’s what goes?

  

(This spot in 18^th cross, Malleshwaram is under repair for the past two years or more. A fit case for accidents, especially in the nights.)

 (A regular scene in the evenings on either side of Sampige road in Malleshwaram, for the past four years, at least.)

Today morning this thought came to me after a not-so-cordial meet with the head of a civil construction department. I was upset about the quality of construction of residential quarters of our staff. The building is about ten years old but had started to leak even before its first birthday. Things have only gone worse since then. Some government agency or the other keep spending thousands of rupees every year to seal the seepage, replace the rotten wardrobes and plug the cracks. After the disgruntled officer left my chamber mumbling his displeasure, I sat lamenting my indiscretion. What was the point in antagonizing an officer of a different department? The work was executed by his predecessors about a decade back in which he had no role to play. At least on paper, the quality of the building was checked, found ok and payments were made. The occupants of the quarters have never sat on a dharna against the poor quality of construction and I am anyway not staying in that campus. It may look selfish but if you keep stretching your involvement, there is no end to it.  

This brings us to the moot point. ‘Is it only ‘karmanye va adhikaraha te ma faleshu kadachana’? What constitutes one’s karma and who defines it? No social or civic responsibility, no call to the electricity department to switch off the street lights in the hot afternoon? Or is it also a part of karma? How far and wide does the boundary of karma extend? When a pang of guilt pricks, donate some money to charity and feel happy and proud about it? When the general state of affairs need redress, even when they do not concern us directly, should we be indifferent? And how long can genial interventions last if there are no perceptible end results?

Here is another example. Some time back, I came across a case of contract labourers being paid less than what is due, even lesser than the minimum wages by employment agencies. The agencies collect money higher than the minimum wages, including their service charges from the organizations and then shortchange the workers. (This is a phenomenon across the country. You can crosscheck with the security at your office gate!) There was a complaint by the affected. It is no rocket science to understand that minimum wages act is applicable everywhere. An inquiry was conducted and irregularity was pointed out. But not unexpectedly, nothing happened.  Either to the agency or to the workers. Status quo is maintained and life goes on. Then you curse yourself for taking undue interest in the matter, wasting your time and energy when you jolly well knew that the person who should take a call, is either incapable or willfully indifferent.

Just to get a clarification, and to highlight this sickening trend, I emailed to the Secretary, ministry of labour and employment, GoI, New Delhi. It is more than six months now and a reply is awaited. The next time I see a similar case, I would perhaps be less inclined to get into the details. Why take the pain when you know that the chances of a change are bleak? Whose father’s what goes?

Recently, a well-meaning senior officer had this piece of advice-“look at the problem from a distance”, he said. “Like how a mechanic sees a bike in his garage. Dispassionately. See what best you can do if it is in your domain and then move on”. Who can argue with that? Easier said than done because the officer himself is now disenchanted by the state of affairs in the organization where he is working. 

 Let me end the blog with a positive note. Some people - ordinary folks, not those who are paid to work for others - even while knowing well that things might not change much, doggedly carry on with their efforts with a single-minded determination. The best example I can quote here is of a group called ‘The Ugly Indian’ in Bengaluru, that has a simple motto - ‘Stop Talking, Start Doing’. Not an easy job when it is more comfortable to be ensconced in our comfort zones of office, family, friends, malls and vacations. May their tribe increase.