November 07, 2009
November 06, 2009
No Stealing the Curves
I called it "No Stealing the Curves", the magazine decided "Dream Run" would be better. Either way, it's about a train journey and it's now live on Our Judgement Free.
Please do read!
Please do read!
November 04, 2009
Unease in the Museum
The edit page of the Hindustan Times today (Nov 4) carries a short essay by me that's about some of what's been discussed in this space before.
The folks at HT sliced and modified it a bit, so I'll append the original below anyway.
Any reactions welcome.
***
The Golden Temple in Amritsar is one of my favourite places: welcoming, spectacular and peaceful. But tucked away up a steep staircase, in the Central Sikh Museum, are reminders of less peaceful times. On a recent visit, I take the stairs two at a time, then walk through room after room lined with paintings of gruesome incidents from Sikh history, all the way to what is, for me, the heart of the Museum.
On the walls, plenty of portraits of admired men. On my left, a handsome one of Shahid -- note, "Shahid", meaning martyr -- Bhagat Singh in prison shackles, awaiting his fate. In front, Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale; this is when I get my first flutters of unease. These images, complete with explanations in English and Punjabi.
To the right of Bhindranwale, an artist's rendition of "Sri Akal Takht after Military Attack, 6 June 1984" -- at the climax of Operation Bluestar, when the Indian Army entered the heart of Sikhdom to defeat armed men holed up here. The painting shows the Akal Takht badly damaged and burned. In fading English below, these lines:
"Under the calculated move of Prime Minister of India Indira Gandhi, Military troops stormed Golden Temple with tanks. Thousands of Sikhs were massacred. Sri Akal Takht suffered the worst damages. Sikhs rose up in a united protest. Many returned their honours. Sikh soldiers left their barracks."
There's one more sentence: "The Sikhs, however, soon had their vengeance."
The unease, again. It grows as my eyes move further right, to settle on three portraits, all the same size as Bhagat Singh's. These list only names and dates:
"Shahid S Beant Singh Ji, 1949 to 31 Oct 1984."
"Shahid S Satwant Singh Ji, 1967 to 6 Jan 1989."
"Shahid S Kehar Singh Ji, 1940 to 6 Jan 1989."
You know those names and dates.
Note, "Shahid" again, all three times, exactly as it is used for Bhagat Singh.
She has plenty to answer for, Indira Gandhi. My feeling is that a vast number of this country's myriad intractable problems can be laid at her door. It's why I have minimal regard for her.
Yet even so: she was, when shot dead by Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, India's Prime Minister. To see her killers accorded the same esteem as Bhagat Singh, to see them called "Shahid" like him, is to ask some serious questions about nationhood. About terrorism. About freedom and those who fight for it. About what those words really mean. About India itself.
Then the memory of the days after Indira died. To me, the slaughter of 3000 Indians because they were Sikh remains the greatest act of terrorism in our 62 years. That we have not punished the murderers is, a quarter century later, a national shame.
But this Museum underlines what so many of us find hard to swallow: one man's terrorist is another's … what? Martyr, freedom fighter, hero? On this wall is a revered martyr of our freedom struggle. On this wall too are three other men, also called martyrs. Yet how many would agree with that characterization; how many would instead find it repugnant?
And doesn't that reflect our essential dilemma about terrorism? We agree that the killers of 200 innocent Indians in Mumbai in November of 2008 were terrorists. How many of us agree that the killers of 3000 innocent Indians in Delhi in November of 1984 were terrorists?
Yet what else were they?
The Golden Temple is a favourite spot, yes, despite the unease. Yet perhaps we could all use some unease.
The folks at HT sliced and modified it a bit, so I'll append the original below anyway.
Any reactions welcome.
The Golden Temple in Amritsar is one of my favourite places: welcoming, spectacular and peaceful. But tucked away up a steep staircase, in the Central Sikh Museum, are reminders of less peaceful times. On a recent visit, I take the stairs two at a time, then walk through room after room lined with paintings of gruesome incidents from Sikh history, all the way to what is, for me, the heart of the Museum.
On the walls, plenty of portraits of admired men. On my left, a handsome one of Shahid -- note, "Shahid", meaning martyr -- Bhagat Singh in prison shackles, awaiting his fate. In front, Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale; this is when I get my first flutters of unease. These images, complete with explanations in English and Punjabi.
To the right of Bhindranwale, an artist's rendition of "Sri Akal Takht after Military Attack, 6 June 1984" -- at the climax of Operation Bluestar, when the Indian Army entered the heart of Sikhdom to defeat armed men holed up here. The painting shows the Akal Takht badly damaged and burned. In fading English below, these lines:
"Under the calculated move of Prime Minister of India Indira Gandhi, Military troops stormed Golden Temple with tanks. Thousands of Sikhs were massacred. Sri Akal Takht suffered the worst damages. Sikhs rose up in a united protest. Many returned their honours. Sikh soldiers left their barracks."
There's one more sentence: "The Sikhs, however, soon had their vengeance."
The unease, again. It grows as my eyes move further right, to settle on three portraits, all the same size as Bhagat Singh's. These list only names and dates:
"Shahid S Beant Singh Ji, 1949 to 31 Oct 1984."
"Shahid S Satwant Singh Ji, 1967 to 6 Jan 1989."
"Shahid S Kehar Singh Ji, 1940 to 6 Jan 1989."
You know those names and dates.
Note, "Shahid" again, all three times, exactly as it is used for Bhagat Singh.
She has plenty to answer for, Indira Gandhi. My feeling is that a vast number of this country's myriad intractable problems can be laid at her door. It's why I have minimal regard for her.
Yet even so: she was, when shot dead by Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, India's Prime Minister. To see her killers accorded the same esteem as Bhagat Singh, to see them called "Shahid" like him, is to ask some serious questions about nationhood. About terrorism. About freedom and those who fight for it. About what those words really mean. About India itself.
Then the memory of the days after Indira died. To me, the slaughter of 3000 Indians because they were Sikh remains the greatest act of terrorism in our 62 years. That we have not punished the murderers is, a quarter century later, a national shame.
But this Museum underlines what so many of us find hard to swallow: one man's terrorist is another's … what? Martyr, freedom fighter, hero? On this wall is a revered martyr of our freedom struggle. On this wall too are three other men, also called martyrs. Yet how many would agree with that characterization; how many would instead find it repugnant?
And doesn't that reflect our essential dilemma about terrorism? We agree that the killers of 200 innocent Indians in Mumbai in November of 2008 were terrorists. How many of us agree that the killers of 3000 innocent Indians in Delhi in November of 1984 were terrorists?
Yet what else were they?
The Golden Temple is a favourite spot, yes, despite the unease. Yet perhaps we could all use some unease.
November 03, 2009
Light of the night
Madhai is one (the?) entrance to the Satpura Tiger Reserve. You cross the Denwa river here, where it is actually part of the massive Tawa reservoir, to enter the Reserve. It's a five minute boat ride and on the other side you're greeted by a couple of elegant deer, grazing on the grounds of the MP Tourism resort there. From here, you can sign up for a safari through the Reserve in open MP Tourism Gypsies.
Which is what we do. With our driver and a guide, we -- my wife, two kids and I -- get going about 430pm. It is a bumpy but fun ride. The jungle is green and thick. We see sambhar, chital, wild boar, gaur, alert kingfishers, a silent stork on top of a dead tree, and screeching angrily from just above us, a crested hawk eagle. Handsome sort, if somewhat reminiscent of stern teachers from my youth. Miss R, in particular.
Then, just as the light starts to fade, our Gypsy stops. The driver tries and tries to start it, but has no luck. The guide takes a bottle of water and pours it into the radiator. We wait several minutes. The driver tries again. This time it starts. We move on. Ten minutes later, it stops again. It's now quite a bit darker, if not completely dark yet. Both young men peer into the engine, fiddling here and there. It won't start. The driver gets back into his seat and peers at his dashboard. Unable to see whatever he is trying to see, he yanks out his mobile. There's no connectivity in the middle of this forest, I checked, but that's not why he pulls it out anyway. He tries to see what he can by the light from the screen of his little celphone. The authorities here have not only sent a group of tourists out in a dodgy car, they haven't even seen fit to give the crew a flashlight.
Luckily I had clipped my flashlight to a belt loop before leaving our room, for no reason I can think of. Now I unclip it and hand it to the pair, and they use it to fiddle some more under the hood. I hear one of them spitting, and I know he has tried to suck petrol through the hose. They shut the hood and try the ignition again. It sputters and stops. Then it starts.
We move on. Five minutes later, trying to get up a steep muddy and rocky slope, the Gypsy slides back down and stops again. It is now, simply, dark. I mean, dark like someone has thrown a blanket over us. How far is it to the resort, I ask the men. "Oh, not far", they say, unconvincingly. Yes, but how far? Can I walk? "Oh about 3 km," they say ("teen-ek kilometre" are the guide's precise words), still not convincingly.
I'm starting to get tense about the tigers and leopards I know are in this forest (about 25 of the former and about 75 of the latter, the guide had told us). I'm starting to wonder about how we'll hunker down for the night. All of us crammed into the two front seats? I'm starting to think about whether I should go for help on foot. An uncertain 3 km in this forest in the dark, leaving the family, but what are my options?
Meanwhile, the same rigmarole with the men, the hood and my flashlight. It takes longer this time, but they get it started. By now, I know the score: Five more minutes, it stops again. Later, again. My nerves are shot and so are my wife's, though we're both trying hard not to show it. It was a game for the kids at the beginning, and they've taken it well, but now they are fretting too. The men still cannot say how far it is. The darkness is impenetrable. Without the light of my torch, we can't even see the trees and bushes we know are nearly within touching distance.
What are my options, really?
As they suck fuel through the pipe for the nth time, as we wait in the Gypsy, we hear, faintly, a thoroughly welcome sound: the rumble of another vehicle's engine. Soon enough, we see the glow of its lights, then it's suddenly upon us. Two men, sent out in a Mahindra pickup to look for us. Relieved, we transfer to the pickup.
We urge them to leave the Gypsy behind to be picked up tomorrow, while all of us return in the pickup. No, they try some more to get the Gypsy started again, and drive off with us in the pickup behind. Yep, it stalls again. This time when they get it started, it rushes off into the night and the pickup won't move. Turns out it has got stalled in the middle of some large rocks. The family and this pickup driver, now, alone in the forest in the middle of the night, trying to negotiate these rocks. Talk about shot nerves.
We finally do limp into the resort. This is true.
When we get there, an official is giving the guide and the Gypsy driver a serious dressing down from an official. It's all in Hindi, but for some reason he switches to English for this final remark: "And you guide, you please go, I don't want to see your face here!"
Early tomorrow morning, says the guy taking us back across the river in the boat, we can do another forest safari. Thanks, I say, but I think we'll pass.
Which is what we do. With our driver and a guide, we -- my wife, two kids and I -- get going about 430pm. It is a bumpy but fun ride. The jungle is green and thick. We see sambhar, chital, wild boar, gaur, alert kingfishers, a silent stork on top of a dead tree, and screeching angrily from just above us, a crested hawk eagle. Handsome sort, if somewhat reminiscent of stern teachers from my youth. Miss R, in particular.
Then, just as the light starts to fade, our Gypsy stops. The driver tries and tries to start it, but has no luck. The guide takes a bottle of water and pours it into the radiator. We wait several minutes. The driver tries again. This time it starts. We move on. Ten minutes later, it stops again. It's now quite a bit darker, if not completely dark yet. Both young men peer into the engine, fiddling here and there. It won't start. The driver gets back into his seat and peers at his dashboard. Unable to see whatever he is trying to see, he yanks out his mobile. There's no connectivity in the middle of this forest, I checked, but that's not why he pulls it out anyway. He tries to see what he can by the light from the screen of his little celphone. The authorities here have not only sent a group of tourists out in a dodgy car, they haven't even seen fit to give the crew a flashlight.
Luckily I had clipped my flashlight to a belt loop before leaving our room, for no reason I can think of. Now I unclip it and hand it to the pair, and they use it to fiddle some more under the hood. I hear one of them spitting, and I know he has tried to suck petrol through the hose. They shut the hood and try the ignition again. It sputters and stops. Then it starts.
We move on. Five minutes later, trying to get up a steep muddy and rocky slope, the Gypsy slides back down and stops again. It is now, simply, dark. I mean, dark like someone has thrown a blanket over us. How far is it to the resort, I ask the men. "Oh, not far", they say, unconvincingly. Yes, but how far? Can I walk? "Oh about 3 km," they say ("teen-ek kilometre" are the guide's precise words), still not convincingly.
I'm starting to get tense about the tigers and leopards I know are in this forest (about 25 of the former and about 75 of the latter, the guide had told us). I'm starting to wonder about how we'll hunker down for the night. All of us crammed into the two front seats? I'm starting to think about whether I should go for help on foot. An uncertain 3 km in this forest in the dark, leaving the family, but what are my options?
Meanwhile, the same rigmarole with the men, the hood and my flashlight. It takes longer this time, but they get it started. By now, I know the score: Five more minutes, it stops again. Later, again. My nerves are shot and so are my wife's, though we're both trying hard not to show it. It was a game for the kids at the beginning, and they've taken it well, but now they are fretting too. The men still cannot say how far it is. The darkness is impenetrable. Without the light of my torch, we can't even see the trees and bushes we know are nearly within touching distance.
What are my options, really?
As they suck fuel through the pipe for the nth time, as we wait in the Gypsy, we hear, faintly, a thoroughly welcome sound: the rumble of another vehicle's engine. Soon enough, we see the glow of its lights, then it's suddenly upon us. Two men, sent out in a Mahindra pickup to look for us. Relieved, we transfer to the pickup.
We urge them to leave the Gypsy behind to be picked up tomorrow, while all of us return in the pickup. No, they try some more to get the Gypsy started again, and drive off with us in the pickup behind. Yep, it stalls again. This time when they get it started, it rushes off into the night and the pickup won't move. Turns out it has got stalled in the middle of some large rocks. The family and this pickup driver, now, alone in the forest in the middle of the night, trying to negotiate these rocks. Talk about shot nerves.
We finally do limp into the resort. This is true.
When we get there, an official is giving the guide and the Gypsy driver a serious dressing down from an official. It's all in Hindi, but for some reason he switches to English for this final remark: "And you guide, you please go, I don't want to see your face here!"
Early tomorrow morning, says the guy taking us back across the river in the boat, we can do another forest safari. Thanks, I say, but I think we'll pass.
November 02, 2009
A call, 25 years ago
Must be 25 years ago today, or one of these days, since that call.
It came from a man who topped the rankings in my college, who later completed a PhD from one of the premier engineering institutions in the USA. A brilliant, gentle, thoughtful man: my friend G. In 1984, we were both living in the USA. He was on his way to his PhD; I was in Texas, trying to cope with my first job. One day in November that year, even while 3000 Indians were being slaughtered in India solely because they were Sikh like him, G called.
"I feel completely betrayed by India," he told me. "I will never go back there again."
I tried. But I had nothing to say. No comfort, no argument, no explanation, no rationalization, nothing. G was unable to comprehend how the land that had given him birth, that had nurtured him and his talents, could have turned against him so completely. Through those crisp November days, he was struggling to come to terms with the thought that had he been in Delhi instead of the USA, he would have been murdered. I could feel his anguish pour through the phone. Yet I could offer him nothing.
Consider what we know about those bloody days in November 1984. A Congress government was in power then, though its head, our PM, had just been gunned down. After the slaughter, various inquiry commissions picked out senior Congress politicians like HKL Bhagat and Sajjan Kumar for their roles in the killing: the commissions found that these men instigated and directed looting, murdering mobs. Cases against Bhagat and Kumar, filed by brave
women widowed in the killing, tried for years to find the light of day, stalled by the pernicious efforts of the very men they sought to bring to justice. Eventually they failed. Bhagat himself, having successfully eluded justice for 21 years, died four years ago.
As far as I can tell, three murderers from that time have been punished. (Their crime was exactly 25 years ago today).
3000 murders, three men punished.
In November 1984, India lost much more than a brilliant young man like G. The loss is compounded with every year, every day, that passes without justice for Indians slaughtered.
A quarter century later, we know well the fruits of that compounding. The massacre of hundreds and thousands of Indians -- take 1984, take Gujarat in 2002, take Bombay in 1992-93 -- is considered no more than part of the landscape. Just as the men who dreamed up and led the 1984 massacre have eluded justice, the men who instigated slaughter in Bombay and Gujarat are free and unpunished. Whichever political party it is, it sidesteps the issue of punishment. Criminals dominate politics everywhere you look, whichever party you pick. They are there because they know well, as Bhagat and company knew well, that politics will protect them from their crimes.
That our own, your own, particular partisan leanings will keep them protected.
And even so, even with all that to bemoan, the saddest thing for me is the profound betrayal I knew my friend G felt, that day in 1984.
***
A sample of the other writing I've done on the same subject:
Inquiry into inquiry.
See you at 3000.
Martyrs.
It came from a man who topped the rankings in my college, who later completed a PhD from one of the premier engineering institutions in the USA. A brilliant, gentle, thoughtful man: my friend G. In 1984, we were both living in the USA. He was on his way to his PhD; I was in Texas, trying to cope with my first job. One day in November that year, even while 3000 Indians were being slaughtered in India solely because they were Sikh like him, G called.
"I feel completely betrayed by India," he told me. "I will never go back there again."
I tried. But I had nothing to say. No comfort, no argument, no explanation, no rationalization, nothing. G was unable to comprehend how the land that had given him birth, that had nurtured him and his talents, could have turned against him so completely. Through those crisp November days, he was struggling to come to terms with the thought that had he been in Delhi instead of the USA, he would have been murdered. I could feel his anguish pour through the phone. Yet I could offer him nothing.
Consider what we know about those bloody days in November 1984. A Congress government was in power then, though its head, our PM, had just been gunned down. After the slaughter, various inquiry commissions picked out senior Congress politicians like HKL Bhagat and Sajjan Kumar for their roles in the killing: the commissions found that these men instigated and directed looting, murdering mobs. Cases against Bhagat and Kumar, filed by brave
women widowed in the killing, tried for years to find the light of day, stalled by the pernicious efforts of the very men they sought to bring to justice. Eventually they failed. Bhagat himself, having successfully eluded justice for 21 years, died four years ago.
As far as I can tell, three murderers from that time have been punished. (Their crime was exactly 25 years ago today).
3000 murders, three men punished.
In November 1984, India lost much more than a brilliant young man like G. The loss is compounded with every year, every day, that passes without justice for Indians slaughtered.
A quarter century later, we know well the fruits of that compounding. The massacre of hundreds and thousands of Indians -- take 1984, take Gujarat in 2002, take Bombay in 1992-93 -- is considered no more than part of the landscape. Just as the men who dreamed up and led the 1984 massacre have eluded justice, the men who instigated slaughter in Bombay and Gujarat are free and unpunished. Whichever political party it is, it sidesteps the issue of punishment. Criminals dominate politics everywhere you look, whichever party you pick. They are there because they know well, as Bhagat and company knew well, that politics will protect them from their crimes.
That our own, your own, particular partisan leanings will keep them protected.
And even so, even with all that to bemoan, the saddest thing for me is the profound betrayal I knew my friend G felt, that day in 1984.
A sample of the other writing I've done on the same subject:
Inquiry into inquiry.
See you at 3000.
Martyrs.
November 01, 2009
Still gathering
The vultures are at it still.
The brother and his wife took away the scanner the other day.
Meantime my neighbour lies in the other room, sinking slowly and oblivious. Which vulture will be next and what will it carry away?
The brother and his wife took away the scanner the other day.
Meantime my neighbour lies in the other room, sinking slowly and oblivious. Which vulture will be next and what will it carry away?
Ten year-old view
Ten year-old I know took me to see "This Is It" (the Michael Jackson film) on Saturday evening. On returning home, he wrote a review. Take a look: A Song of a Film.
He has some earlier poems up on that site too, if you'd like to browse a bit.
He has some earlier poems up on that site too, if you'd like to browse a bit.
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