The Man with 39 Wives

A remote village in Mizoram.

Returning from Lunglei to Aizawl I took a detour via Sirchip in order to meet this man with a new idea of life.

Communication with the locals has been a challenge in Mizoram. Unlike the neighbouring states, where people knew either Hindi or English, the Mizos and I share no common language. Not knowing their language is entirely my loss – because they have really no interest in me or my life. But I am here to know about theirs and not knowing their language is a huge limitation.

My driver did not know any words I knew – so through hand signs we established the action required of him when I tapped his shoulder and yelled out ‘stop’. For communicating beyond that word, I’d stop a passersby, ask for an English speaking person and that person would translate my instructions to the driver. Quite an adventure.

So with the help of my ‘saarathi’ or charioteer – we somehow managed to reach the village of the man with 39 wives.

***

When I arrive with my driver, the first question I am asked is whether I would like to be hosted for the night as it is almost sunset.  Aizawl is at least another 3-4  hour drive away. I am taken aback by their warm hospitality they have offered to a stranger they have only just met – for all they knew, I could have been a murderess or a thief! But I decline, as the Chapchar Kut festival is scheduled for the next day in Aizawl.

An English speaking son is called out to meet me. He is about 30 years old. I ask about their life and allow the discussion to flow in any direction he wants. But he is a shy speaker. So I ask basic directed questions.

A unique sect was set up by the late Mr. Chana within Christianity and this sect has its own church

and its own laws, of which polygamy is one. Mr. Chana had 16 wives.

This sect has been taken forward by his son Mr.Ziona – the man with 39 wives

Mr. Ziona is now about 68 + years old.

There are 160 members in his family. He has about 60 children, the eldest being around 55 and the youngest being 7.

A large home with a community hall serves as a home for the entirely family of 160. Cooking, washing and other household processes are conducted collaboratively in the large community house.

Children of various age groups, born of different mothers hang out together and play and eat together.

Income is generated through piggery and carpentery.

I ask to meet Mr. Ziona – and I am told he is busy and will be free only after dinner.  That seems too late, but it is too early in my meeting with Mr. Ziona’s son to be pushy.

So I ask permission to stroll around the hall.

Two wives seem to be in charge of the dinner.

Children of all age groups are having dinner sitting in different age-group circles with their half-siblings.

After attending church on Sunday the entire family gathers together in the main hall for a family meeting.

And Mr. Ziona presides on his special chair.

These pictures from past media coverage hang on his wall. But this was many years ago, and his family size has increased since then.

I meet some of the teenaged children who are warming themselves at the hearth and laughing and enjoying their evening post dinner.

I meet some of the senior wives.

And finally I meet Mr. Ziona -

who emerges with his two young wives.

There was a B&W Hindi movie in the ’60s in which a matronly actress Dulari once blessed the hero with the blessing “May you have so many children that, at bedtime, you will need to do a head count” (in the olden days in India ‘more’ children was a good thing).

To me this blessing sounded cute but impossible to achieve. But Mr. Zaina has achieved that state and Dulari would have been happy!

jm

March 2012

Street Dwellers in Bombay

Everyone has heard about the much romanticised and much media-exploited slums of Bombay. There are even organised tours through the slums!

Most outsiders think that slum life is the rock bottom of all the layers of living. But the slum layer is two layers away from the real bottom.

The  layer lower than slums is that of street dwellers – people who have homes on the streets. No houses – just homes. They are not the same as the homeless of the West. The Bombay street dwellers have homes and have flourishing families.

These are actual households with pots and pans and cooking and washing. These are families consisting of grandparents & parents and children of various ages living together. They even have pets that live with them and sleep with them. All happening in the open. Without a roof over their head.

I noticed the first family just around the corner of my apartment, living on the foot path along the highway. Their spot stretches for about 20 meters of the public road on which all their belongings are parked. No one really uses that stretch of the road so they are not really in the way. And besides, even if they were in the way, the Bombayite always ‘adjusts’ and ‘accomodates’ everyone else – so that no one is inconvenienced by an obstacle. Every time I see them, a faint desire arises to go out and chat with them. This family has 3 dogs – strays who have been adopted by the the family.

This week in my daily trips to Nanavati hospital, I have noticed another such family on the footpath on in a different suburb. Again – with dogs as pets. Today I watched the woman of the house, sitting near the cooking fire and pulling her two pet dogs close to her to feed them with love.

These people are among the poorest I know. They really do live hand to mouth.There is no ‘unemployment cheque’ coming to them and they have no government who will listen to them. They live, finding food from one day to the next. They have no shelter in the monsoons and they have no toilets all year round. They have no water supply and street lights are their only power supply.

The rich drive past that drive past, these poor are rendered invisible by the rolled up window glasses of the chauffeur driven cars. The middle class feel bad for them and even though they know that there is little they can do to change the lives of these people, they give do their bit of charity by giving them food or old clothes or just a few rupees occasionally.

The Street dwellers  live in the open. In full view of the world. I wonder about the compromises they must be having to make with the municipal authorities and the local police – just to keep their home in a given spot. I wonder how they protect their little toddlers as they learn to walk. And I wonder how they protect their young girls from the predators. Their life is not easy.

Yet, they find enough love in their hearts to share their resources with stray dogs. As permanent full time members of their homes. As though the chaos in their day to day life is not enough! As they they don’t already have enough mouths to feed!

Who are these amazing people who have still not allowed their very tough lives to toughen their hearts?

Someday I will reach out and find out. Someday soon I will take pictures and post them here.

jm

March 2011

People Kaleidoscope

Interactions that have left a mark on me with people who were connected to my life either through art or travel have been detailed in this set of posts. There is no sequencing in these posts – you could either scroll down and read them all, or click on any title that catches your eye!

Travelling between two eras – an encounter with Pushpa the maid servant 

The teachings of All-eh, Ball-eh and Che

Lives of Others – The Beggar-Toddler

Lives of Others – The Kurdish Photographer

A journey on a state transport bus, Satara district, Maharashtra

Tears in Kohima

Noel

Soul Rainbows

Only 4 at a funeral

The Story of Kashi Neembu

Collectors of Art- 2

The Love Letter

Ajrakh Artists

Collectors of Art – 1

And then there was the Naabob

Bicycle Tourists

New posts are added regularly and are found at the top of the list.

jm

Travelling between two eras – an encounter with Pushpa the maid servant

Pushpa used to work for the previous owners of our portugese villa before the family dissipated in numbers and before the house fell to ruin

As per Goa laws, she was given a little piece of land on which she build a hut.  In the recent years, she earned a living doing day jobs in the fields around the village and could easily be summoned to work for us.

I never needed her services, but the sellers had handed us a legacy of relationships within the village, when we bought the dilapidated house, all jaded, all frought with problems of baggage and lack of maintenance. Just like the house, these relationships would need some tender loving care.

And so every time we visited we would all make a deliberate attempt to chat with all the newly introduced villagers.

On one such trip, along with the rest of my family, I walked down the little path to her home. After a happy exchange of hellos, she offered to make tea for the 5 of us. This is a customary ritual – offering tea is meant to convey that you are welcome in the host’s home.

( It is important to note that home-made tea in India – is milk tea – brewed the Indian way with milk and sugar all brewed along with the tea leaves. This Indian tea is strong and full bodied and amazing and its nothing like the tea of the English Sahibs and the Indian sahib-wannabes that is weak and insipid in comparison in which milk is not a necessary ingredient)

I knew Pushpa and her life well enough to know that there would be no milk in her house. Living alone, she would simply not have the need to stock milk in her frugal home. And so her offer of making tea, whole-hearted as it was, would require too much effort out of her. She would have to rush to the village shop to get milk and then make the tea for us. Then she would have to borrow 5 cups from the neighbours to pour out the tea…the little operational issues would be endless.

So on behalf of all of us, I refused the tea, explaining gently that we had just eaten and that there was no need for tea. In my own head I was doing the right thing and the kind thing keeping in mind her constraints.

But an unexpected reaction followed. A reaction that showed me how different our worlds were.

She asked me with direct eye contact “Are you not willing to eat and drink in my house because I am of low caste?”

This question stumped me completely.

Throughout my childhood I had eaten street food, ranging from salted raw mangoes and salted-chillied tamarind to the most amazing Pani-puris and faloodas, all sold to me by persons of ‘unknown origin’. I had no idea who these men were who sold all these soul-fulfilling foods to me. Were they brahmin? Were the Hindus?

To me they were the most important people around – they stood outside school, outside a park, outside a railway station offering me snacks that are remain unbeatable even 30 years later a period in which my palate has been exposed to a much wider plate that it was at that time. So who were these people? Why didn’t I know?

The people around me, my family, my grandparents, my neighbours, my educators – no one ever mentioned the issue of caste in my growing years.We lived in a building with Gujaratis and Maharashtrians and we all lived in amazing harmony. But the caste of my maharashtrian friends, even though it was definitely different from mine, was not worthy of a single mention in my home. And so, as one large neighbourhood, we all ate from each other’s kitchens and we all ate street food and we all ate from hotels once a year – without ever even thinking about the caste of the cook!

Today I get palpitations thinking that had my grown-ups been caste conscious, I might have been deprived of the street food of Bombay ….. that would easily have been the ugliest impact of the caste system on my life. I truly am grateful for being born and raised in a caste-less society.

And so when Pushpa asked me this question – I did not know how to answer.  The idea that was so absurd to me, was completely real to her.

It was awkward. I wanted to tell her all the miscellaneous stories that were bursting into my head in defense – stories about my favorite chefs – the pani puri vendor, the chole puri vendor and even the muslim falooda vendor. But I knew that all the verbose explanations would only confuse her further.

And so all that I did manage to say was that I didn’t believe in the caste system at all. And that to make her believe it, I would love to have some sugar from her kitchen. So we all sat in her little room, and ate a pinch of sugar each. The kids also received a banana from the tree outside her home.

The episode ended on a good note. And we all meet every now and then.

But that one question taught me, that even though Pushpa and I share the dates on our respective calendars, the reality is that in our minds we are living in different eras.

Living in a village always held its charm. Life in the village is slow paced, and simple, with fewer inputs to one’s mind, fewer interactions, fewer episodes to mark one’s life by. This much I knew.

But I did not know that the people of the village lived in a different era. And every trip to my village would also result in time travel.

Pushpa lives in a time zone that I thought existed 100 years ago. But it does exist even today.  Other events like this one, have proven that to me. If our lives are lived mainly through our perceptions and perspectives, then there is no doubt that in every way besides the calendar date we share, we live in different time zones.

And so, to travel to the 19th century, all that my antique loving friends need to do, is to walk deep into the life of an Indian village. And they will be transported to another era!

jm

Aug 2011

p.s. this story occurred in 2003 and it triggered so much thinking that 8 years later this small episode remains with me

The Teachings of Al-Leh, Bal-Leh and Che

At 46 I am still being taught life lessons! I’d thought that as a bright human I  already knew it ALL – and so I am shocked and surprised when I am taught new lessons! ( I won’t say ‘when I learn new lessons’ because being forcibly taught something does not necessarily amount to me “learning” it)

What’s worse is that the lessons come from All-eh, Ball-eh and Che  – that these three people should attain guru status in my life is an affront! But this only proves the lesson that I will write about first:

Lesson # 1 : Adults have fragile egos

Here’s the story: In my early stages of passionate photography, I used to post pictures on a forum. And wait eagerly for feedback. Through self-selection, I posted only the best not wanting to be laughed at. The individuals on the forum, probably the most popular photography site, provided feedback and ratings. And so, like a little school child, I would put up the images and wait….Not for critique, but for the applause that I was so sure of! In time the ratings began to flow in. A 7 was the highest and my ratings would hover between 5 and 6. And I would shake my head knowingly…. after all – I was good, this was expected, its only natural that others recognise a star ….and such other self congratulatory statements feeding my delusion ….ad nauseum.

And then someone gave  me a ’3′ rating.

My shock could not be contained.

I searched for the person who had rated – to check out whether he knew any photography in the first place – but this turned out to be an ‘anonymous’ly given rating.

I simply couldn’t take it. The day was ruined.

I had to tell one and all about this  injustice had been done to me.

So when All-eh, Balle-eh and Che arrived later, I narrated the incident. Arrogant and annoyed.

They listened and all 3 burst into guffaws. And in a simple statement they summarised what had just happened “You’ve been trolled”

“trolled”???

a new word that had escaped webster and the nuns that taught English at my school?

trolling = going after someone and ‘destroying’ him – not viciously but in a sporting, fun and light spirit.

In their world of internet games and internet lives, trolling was commonplace. And everyone trolled everyone else.When anyone got trolled, they just shrug their shoulders, laugh it off and move on to the next thing. In their world, victims of trolling do not go into a shell. There are no shards of broken ego lying around as evidence of a trolling incident. A t least not in their world!

And so they laughed at me. And made fun of me. And of my fragile ego. And it was impossible not to face the truth they told. It was impossible to be blind to the fact that as adults egos do become too fragile. And no one is able to say anything to anyone’s face directly, without the fear of hurting another and incurring some back lash.

All-eh, Balleh and Che’s lessons helped me to turn time back and grow down …..I had obviously grown up way too much!

jm

August 2011

Lives of Others – The Beggar-Toddler

A hot summer noon. Sometime in the year 2008.

A crowded traffic junction in a suburb in Mumbai. ‘Crowded’ as defined by Bombay peak hour standards.

Me in an autorickshaw – a vehicle that is semi-open.  The driver waiting for the lights to turn green which takes about 8 minutes.

The 3-seater sofa was just right to hold me, my bag of work things and my big purse in which I carry not only money, keys and credit cards but also a mini-household ….never know what I might need where…All traffic lights in Bombay are micro retail hubs. Men, women and children go from vehicle to vehicle peddling their wares such as mineral water, peanuts, pirated copies of bestselling books, umbrellas, toys, strawberries, figs and feather dusters. So waiting in an auto-rickshaw or car at a traffic light is always an entertaining experience with the constant stream of street sellers who approach the passengers to try their charms and sales skills. Most of these sales people are recent immigrants from villages and although most car-owners shun them, insult them and treat them like fleas, I have found them to be interesting individuals with a great sense of life and living. But I am digressing!

Alongside these sellers – there is also a parallel stream of beggars. Of all ages. The beggar industry in Bombay is probably a financial force by itself – extremely organised, extremely well run, with high entry barriers for new organised players and also high exit barriers for the individuals at the bottom of the food pyramid in that industry. ‘Slumdog Millionaire‘ provides a good peep into this industry.

Beggars here play on your emotions of ‘guilt’ appeal to the beggee’s heart and pity. They may have a physical handicap which is well displayed, or may have the handicap of age or may be poor young women with  a newborn.

Feeling pity and putting in selfless effort to help others is always a good thing. And these beggars provide the opportunity at your door step, to earn good karma, for those who are in the habit of putting off everything postpone-able to an elusive tomorrow.

But in the recent times, there have been stories that these beggars are not helpless and that there are various schemes in place to generate an income through begging – such as renting a baby for Rs.30 for a day – so that a young girl renting it can pretend to be the mother and extract some donations through this fake display of her helplessness and vulnerability. There are many other horror stories that I have personally encountered but there is nothing I could have done but watch.

And so the middle class and the rich vacillate between feelings of pity and feelings of scepticism, until both these sentiments combine to form numb de-sensitising blinkers which render these beggars invisible.

So on this hot afternoon, as I at in the rick and waited for the lights to turn green, a little boy beggar approached the rickshaw from the open door on the right of the 3-seater bench that I sat on. Torn clothes. Running nose. Dirty scruffy hair. Between 3 and 4 years old. I waved him away. I had many things on my mind and at that moment I did not have the energy to engage in this forced interaction. He stood where he was, lazily perching his arms on the seat of the rickshaw and he watched me with as much interest as I watched him. The eye contact drew me in and I began to speak to him – he was just a little toddler and some maternal thoughts half-arose in my head as I spoke. He didn’t respond to any of the words I said, so I concluded that he did not know the local language or maybe any language at all ….he hadn’t been taught to speak yet! He continued to extend his hand in the begging gesture – completely ignoring all my words and my body language that said I would not be giving him anything.  After awhile, in order to indicate decisively and clearly that his effort of begging from me was not going to succeedl, I began ignoring him. I  began looking in the other direction and pretended to be engrossed in watching some shop in the distance. Yet I could see him standing there with the corner of my eye.

And that’s when I got a shock!

This little toddler reached out in one speedy swoop and tried to snatch my purse.

Had my grandma not taught me to be suspicious of everyone on the road and be alert at all times, I would probably not have had that the strap of that bag wound around my wrist and would have lost it to the little beggar-thief-toddler!

I pulled the bag close to me and yelled at the toddler as he ran off empty-handed to become an indiscernible drop in the ocean of traffic.

My bag was saved. But my psyche was not.

The rest of the way, I couldn’t think of anything other than this incident. How did this come to be? How did a toddler who probably hadn’t developed his speech skills yet, know to snatch bags? What kind of life has it become, where adults empower a virgin mind  with the skills of the act of theft instead of skills of literacy? Did he even know it was wrong ? Or the difference between right and wrong? Will he ever be taught morals? Are they even relevant in a world of people struggling to survive ? Who are these people teaching a human child to be an obedient monkey-thief? (yes there are trained monkey thieves). And what are their compulsions that led them to this point where they molded a child’s mind in this way? What if a whole large group of children is raised in this way, with no cognition of right & wrong  – would that society be sustainable? Would jungle laws of life not teach them? Would not the same moralities evolve and rise again, even if a deliberate effort is made to train children to be thieves?

If the choice is between “not eating” and “stealing” – the choice for a starved person is obvious. So when starvation is perpetual isn’t morality a superfluous unnecessary barrier that comes in the way of survival?

I have no answers. Only questions that led to more questions – and all of them led to quicksand.

And is there any validity to all these judgemental questions I ask sitting here on the 17th floor of my  secure apartment in the safest country in the world, about people who were born with a circumstance that I might – only with the greatest of  effort  – comprehend slightly  but never ever be forced to live? Who am I to ask any of this?

They as individuals are as valid as I am. Their decisions for their own lives as valid as mine are for me.

And so, the moral choices made by the mother of my little beggar thief toddler  are probably based on some logic that works optimally in their circumstance. And they are probably just as justified within their context as my choices are within my context.

In these beggar communities, girls survive through the one asset that they are  born with. Is that wrong?

The babies born to such mothers are not celebrated births. But a baby becomes an earning member of the household pre-natally – even as a bump seen on the young beggar mother.

Once born, in their drugged state, they are carried around as rented value adding-props  …helping older beggars to survive.

And when these babies grow older, they are molded anyway their handlers find profitable. Is this the child’s fault?

They grow up, with the same sentiments of ambition – ambition to be at the top in the only world they know and understand ….and grow up to join the hierarchy of the begging industry….i.e. IF they grow up …..is this wrong ? More importantly did they EVER have an alternative?

And so The Beggar-Thief-Toddler will continue to be re-born. Again and again and again.

How does this get solved? I have NO idea!!

But I do all I can to be kind to each of these individuals who definitely face much harsher lives than I have  ever will.

jm

August 2011

Lives of Others – the Kurdish Photographer

An excerpt from a fellow photographer’s biography – I do not know him and he does not know me. While searching for some data I stumbled upon his description of his life:

“I am XY a Kurdish photographer, I was born 1981 in Iraqi Kurdistan.

and I am graduate in the photography institute in London. Major news agencies and publishing companies have published my work such as: New York Times،  The Guardian Newspaper, Human Rights Watch, Chicago Tribune, etc.

Description of My Work

 : Although I want no part of war, war leaves its mark on me and I have come to consider both what is happy and sad in our lives by its measure.

Thus, in my mother’s mind, I was born ‘when the Iran-Iraq war started’,

and my grandfather would recall he got engaged (to be married)  ‘during World War I ’.

It seems that war has become part of our lives.

Our children do not know of peace and as a result grow up playing war. In Slemani, a child made a picture of a passenger plane which had bombs falling from it. Above the picture he had written ’I can travel’. It made me wonder. I asked him, “why is your passenger plane dropping bombs?’ His answer was,’ Why? Is there a plane which does not throw bombs?!’

Through my photos I try to erase the idea of war.”

jm

Aug 9th, 2011

A journey on a state transport bus in Satara district, Maharashtra

That India is a land of diversity is an often repeated cliche.

The spectrum found on any parameter – wealth, lifestyle, mentality, cultural beliefs to name a few – covers such a wide range, that in a lifetime of experiencing India it is impossible to absorb the entire rainbow presented by its people. So broad is this spectrum that even an Indian Indophile like myself, is constantly surprised and delighted with the next new experience.

The key in finding all these experiences, is that I have had to push myself out and plant myself into the thick of the uncertain unknown world out there. Because it is unlikely that all the wonderful people in the world are going to coming to visit me at my home in my own comfort zone!

And once out there, armed with only an open mind, specks of soul-touching experiences have come flying at me, captivating me and holding me in awe!

And so in one such attempt to escape from the limiting walls of my comfort zone I decided to take a state transport bus into interior rural Maharashtra (the state in which Bombay lies) just for the sake of the journey – there was no destination in mind at all. It would be a round trip journey. To the town bus stand and back on the next bus.

In India, you can move from town A to place B in many ways. We have the private airlines, an extensive government-owned railway network, expensive bus networks – both private Volvos in which you can sleep on a bed in your journey and really inexpensive state government b uses, and finally private car operators. Trains have an incredible reach, but beyond the stations they service there are innumerable villages – and these are all serviced by state transport (ST) buses. At incredibly low prices.

If the options are all available for a route, the state transport buses are the simplest from of transport and therefore the cheapest. And because they are cheap, they are at the bottom of the preference chain of the ‘aspiration’ driven Indian lower-middle income class, of which I was a part as I grew up. As my financial life got better and we moved higher up in income brackets, the lowest level of facilities in India moved further and further away from me, unknowingly. Not just facilities, but the whole ocean of people and experiences were becoming unavailable to me….

The day this disgusting and claustrophobia-causing realisation hit me, I decided that in order to stay ‘alive’, and in order to remain a growing organism, it was essential for me to take deliberate plunges into all the other layers of life surrounding me, as often as I could. Otherwise staying within a rarefied elite layer within a homogeneous group of people – whom I did not necessarily share all values with -  stagnation and slow mental death would be my destiny.

And so, in one such attempt to escape the social prisons in my mind, I took an ST bus into Satara district in Maharashtra.

The Maharashtrian villagers of Satara district speak a unique dialect of Marathi – an accent that is extremely endearing. Large built strong village men with befitting large moustaches accompanied by women in 9-yard saris and large powder bindi. Majority of the people there work in the fields and live an agrarian life.

The men wore white long shirt-kurtas that are unique to this region, along with either a mulmul dhoti or extra-wide tailored pajamas. Unlike in other parts of the world, in Maharashtra pajamas are used outdoors and during the day. In the variant worn here, each leg can have a circumference of about 3 feet!  Men must always cover their heads – in some parts ta white turban is the norm while in others the Gandhi cap  is popular. As a result of this must-have garment, it is common to see little boys scampering around the village, totally naked except for the white cap on their head!

Women wear 9 yard saris and a blouse made of a unique fish-weave material – with silk and cotton woven together on a narrow loom. The fabric always has a border in a contrasting color that makes the pieces look stunning! Will post pictures in a few weeks.

So in this rural land, the ST bus starts. Uncrowded. The bus takes on exactly the number of people that can be accommodated on seats. What – no standees? No packing the bus till there is an overflow onto the roof? No. Everyone sat comofrtably. There would be another bus for additional travellers. And each bus would only take seated passengers. And I thought rural India would be less organised than urban India??? My first surprise!!

I was a bit wary, as I had no experience with village folk and the stories that we hear growing up in mega cities is that everyone  poor or from a different class of life is out to mug you and steal your money or molest you or find some way to take advantage of you. And so I sat, wary of everyone around, clutching at my bag for security. A woman traveling alone – in rural India – on an ST bus …this was clearly an invitation for disaster. Reality provided the anti climax to the tales that I had heard while growing up…. My co-travellers were gentle, kind and respectful people from the district. They were caring and open and smiling happy people content in their own lives. There was nothing in my life that was better or more than all that they had in their own lives. There was nothing about me or my life  that they envied or wanted. What??? Wasn’t my urban financially superior life supposed to be closer to heaven than the rural life that is made out to be downtrodden and disadvantaged by the capitalist media of the world? My second delightful surprise! Obviously the sources of all the impressions I carried – the  elders and the media – had never been to rural India! I found them to be the contented and well-adjusted and bonded and warm human beings.

Looked out and noticed the sugar cane fields ….fields that I was told are home to rats and snakes! From the corner of my eye I noticed the bus conductor and mentally got ready to pay for the ticket.

The tickets on the bus are sold by a conductor who travels along with the bus,  goes from person to person and vends tickets. This brings me to the third delightful surprise that I received on this journey – the experience that has stuck in my mind and has made me write this out 3 years after the event occurred.

The bus conductor in a khaki uniform turned out to be a lady. A young lady in her mid-twenties! Vending tickets to strangers! In rural India!!

Indians who are self-appointed India-bashers say that India can never progress or develop. They are blind not only to all the technological and financial parameters of progress, but also to Nobel-lauereate Amartya Sen’s parameters of development. He defines development as ‘freedoms’.

I was stunned by her presence and couldn’t help asking her all kinds of questions about her work. Did she have any problems working among strangers? Did she feel safe? Had she ever had any gender biased problems? And she answered all these calmly – but her manner suggested that she felt I was from some underprivileged world that caused me dream up such bizarre questions and have such gender based apprehensions.

This woman conductor -  confident in her work role and in her position, as a woman conductor in a remote district in Maharashtra has been an amazing eye-opener for me and affirms my love for the great Indian village life!!

Travel has really opened my mind!!

jm

feb 28, 2011

Tears in Kohima

My friend who had fought several wars as part of the infantry brought me to look at this landmark site.

It probably held some significance to him, but I had a brief look around and it did not interest me.

All that it meant to me was that during WWII, the Japanese had been defeated here, and the British soldiers who died in that battle lay here. I looked at the landscape and sat down to enjoy the view of the city from the hilltop and did not follow my friends who went around the cemetery for an hour long look.

As I sat and waited for them, I got restless and began to walk around, reading the inscriptions on the gravestones. And that got me engaged.

The first one had me choking, and I walked on, reading, thinking, and feeling the feelings that were embedded in those words.

A few of the sad inscriptions…

It did not matter which side these boys fought on – I would have cried equally if the graves had been of the Japanese.

At one stone I broke down and cried – for a boy who at died at 19, laid to rest by his mother.

My son is 19, and is currently serving in the army.

And the saddest ones of them all – the despair of wives and sweethearts:

The absurdity of an avoidable death, the unfair exchange of lives for land, and pursuit of greed of a few individuals in power who have a flair to convince others to give up their lives ….all these realisations sank in and made me sad.

The broken hearted grief of a mother and of daughters, the screaming grief of a lover, and despair of a pregnant widow ….was it worth the win?

jm

Dec 12th, 2010

Noel

(Sept 2005)

Two days ago, I made a new friend. 31 years older than me. Will probably never see him again in my life – as he lives in a different country and is not in the best of health.

But, I have never met a more alive person. Living alone at 71. And looking forward passionately to the next 71. Firebrand personality – casting light with his cheerfulness and vigour.

We had recently moved to Mumbai and I had brought along my maid who was from Philipines. One morning we went out for a walk along the sea and that’s when we bumped into this cheerful silver haired man.

We were chatting and walking and people watching and came upon a silver haired man, too perfectly dressed, armed with a walking stick and a huge sunshine smile, chatting up a friendly pariah dog.  His cheerful presence as too attractive and inviting to ignore, and so, though this is not the norm at all, we stopped to talk to him.

He smiled at me, but spoke directly to Leida.  His opening statements acted as an introduction to himself : “I once had a filipina wife who had dumped him to marry my brother”! Combined with a huge smile this introductory cocktail of positive and negative ( must have been a negative memory for him I thought)  left us speechless . But his twinkling eyes and his general benevolence said a thousand things to put us at ease and the conversation continued. The walk which was meant to be half an hour long turned into a 2 hour chat session – he was too interesting to let go of!

From the beaming sunshine in his smile, it would be easy to believe that he had seen only good times and had been presented with opportunity every step of the way. That destiny had smiled all the way upon him.  But his eyes told a different story.

They spoke of the all the millions of experiences his soul had been through. That he had not hidden his soul away and kept in safe places and preserved his comfort. They spoke of the kite ventures of his heart and mind. They spoke of all the adversity his choices had led him to face. They spoke of the pain of the consequences of his choices. And they spoke of the resurrection of his spirit a million times over.

Strong core. Beautiful soul stories.

He talked of his two marriages, his estranged grown up children, his life living alone in an old age home.  He talked of stories as a pilot and his challenges with his travel.

He talked about the recently acquired old piano and how he was restoring it himself. He had just recently begun learning to play it for the first time in his life and was quite confident of mastering it in due course. He sat and played a few pieces jointly with my children when he visited for dinner 2 days later.

A man who had lived fully and faced life with strength. Sturdy, not from the knowledge that he would not get hurt. But strong in the knowledge that he would heal again.  He knew. He was afraid of nothing. Not because nothing could hurt him. But because even if it hurt, he would be able to recover.

The big thing about him, was his spirit at 71 still burning bright. He was roaring to go after each new day and fill it up with unforgettable memories. Lived long enough to have given up on the unimportant artificial impositions of life.  And lived long enough to treasure moments and their sources.  He had let go of the bitternesses that ultimately lead to so many floating dead people among the living. He had given up on the angers that poison the ability to cherish the next coming moment.

His struggle, his obvious victory shone in his face as twinkling eyes all full of sparkles of the joys he had received from life.  Joys that he’d received by letting his soul go off on wandering adventures. And the eyes also had the shadows of sweet sadness – in memory of the things he’d let go of, very consciously but still loved them to death.

What a man. What a life.