Bhavani’s mother is worried. Her grandson of 3 months is 10 shades darker than she. He is at least 20 shades fairer than his grandpa.
How sad. How is he ever going to face the world, she sighs. “What’s colour got to do with it?” I think, as her eyes cloud and she raises her head heavenwards.
Dark clouds looming heaven downwards, wheat complexioned cousin S chokes on her words as she narrates her tryst with discrimination. Her paternal aunt, a well placed entity in a media company has expressed her soft corner for her fairer nieces. “K is fair and beautiful, D is even better; she is so fair and so pretty. They are my favourite nieces, you pale in comparison,” confirms her aunt V.
Colleague R too, is rather taken in with the new girl who has joined the editorial team of our newspaper’s business wing. “She is so fair and hot,” he confides in colleague C.
But alls not fair in our country. Paati (grandma) has a grouse: “Isn’t my Spanish grand daughter in law T, too fair?”
Which colour do you choose?
The Silhouette
The near six-foot frame stood still. Stillness in a chugging train can be nerve-rattling noisy. It drew me out of my just acquired slumber.
Eyes wide open, now accustomed to the blue night light on the Londa- Bangalore Night Mail, I figured the frame was that of a well-built man. As I looked on, he stepped over a cement bag sized kit bag between the six sleeper berths. Eyes positioned on the man, I looked on from my conveniently structured side-berth behind. He bent and quite noisily dragged a suitcase from below the lower birth. No one stirred. He continued to unzip the bag.
A burglar, I mutter to myself. Moving slowly, so as not to attract attention, I grab the Bisleri water bottle gently sliding from window pane to my head.
The burglar by now has found his loot. He holds up a full-sleeved shirt, re-zips the bag, pushes it beneath the lower birth unmindful of the noise and slips it over his head.
A petty thief, I mutter to myself in disgust. The silhouette turns to face me. I draw my eyelids almost shut, waiting to sneak a look at what his next move might be. His face looks startlingly familiar. I open my eyes wider, look firmly on and realise… the petty thief is Sunder!
Sunder is cousin Bharat’s friend. We, along with friend Usha, who is sleeping on the side berth above mine are travelling back to Bangalore on the night train. Sunder had earlier convinced that not so easy to convince Usha to give up her bigger berth for the sake of his long legs. He and Bharat had also managed to convince me that I was small enough to fit in with the lover boy and his girl friend on the RAC berth, which was originally meant for Sunder! Alls well that ends well, it’s a good vantage point to exercise my sleuthing skills. So, while it’s clear that Sunder’s intention isn’t thievery, I watch on with increased aplomb. Unaware that he’s been caught wearing one shirt over another in the deep dark night, he climbs up to his berth, and shortly starts snoring.
Hours later, the near six-foot frame stood still again. Familiar stillness can also draw you out of deep slumber. Sunder goes through similar drill. Only, this time around, he holds up a trouser and wears it over the one he already has on! He goes back to his berth and I begin to wonder whether he’s dropped an essential part of his brain back in the sea in Goa.
A few more hours later, the near six-foot frame stood still for the last time that night. Pressed by thought of a fellow traveller going insane, I’ve remained awake, to watch him fish out yet another shirt from his bag. When we alight the train the next morning, I confess to Sunder that I’ve witnessed all his madness. “But I was freezing and Bharat hadn’t told me to get a blanket along. Didn’t you see, he’s lost his socks and was freezing too,” he says!
Insiders all out. Outsiders in?
Heavy droplets of smog laden rain pelted my helmet’s visor, screaming oblivion. The security guard at our parking lot refused to make way for my bike. I yelled, calling him inhuman. He retorted saying, we don’t have raincoats like you guys pointing towards the row of bikes owned by TOI and Wipro employees.
Is it my fault that he doesn’t have a raincoat? Perhaps it is. I earn thrice or four or maybe five times more than he does, albeit the fact that I am a journalist. And raincoats don’t come cheap these days.
Maybe, the house we own in JP Nagar 8th Phase; that includes travelling on Bannerghatta Road, with a promised traffic jam at the junction is our curse. But maybe not. I have a home to go to, a room to call my own and a patch of green that brightens my day despite soaring realty rates caused by the BPO/IT boom. Doesn’t matter then that HSBC, Accenture, Honeywell and other smoked glass dungeons cast biased aspersions and glare down at my dated bike even as I crawl snail like, revving and polluting, the once tranquil road to Bannerghatta National Park. Doesn’t matter that the cop, who perhaps earns half my salary (that believe me, wanes in comparison to those mighty IT cheques) has just enough to make ends meet. Like many government employees, it’s no fault of his that he aspires to make a buck or two from the owners of splendidly polished Honda City’s, IKON’s, Accent’s, Octavia’s…that eat up half the road and often transport one or two people at the most. And he doesn’t even have a room to call his own, to rest his polluted lungs, clogged with litres of fume and smoke pumped into the atmosphere, invading the spirit of the bird and bee and many a Bangalorean, including me. My family now owns a home, in an area that was once considered the outskirts of Bangalore, thanks to the IT/BPO boom and the purchasing power of 20 plus nothings, who believe in investing in a home of their own, before they have learnt that car pools could save the cop from asthma and a smile or greeting could win his heart. And we are talking about the same cop who might stand at the junction, clearing the metallic mess, infused with spurious fumes, if only he were able to breathe.
Twenty years ago, we travelled by bus. There were buses and there were roads that bus drivers could reach us to our destinations on. Bangalore then was perhaps in her second round of pregnancy, glowing in her new found motherhood, making life comfortable for her older one and waiting earnestly for the life within her. We welcomed Infosys and Wipro with open arms. Twelve years ago, we dreamt of being experts in labour law. Ten years ago, we watched the cosmopolitan influx filter in. Eight years ago, we opened doors to Nike, Reebok, designer and branded stores because our cosmopolitan mix, could afford it. Good old Bata took a back seat, but still survives because that’s what the bus driver, the cop, the security guard, the waiter, the school girl and the average Bangalorean can afford. Also, Bangaloreans preferred lounging out at Koshys or at the splendid Victoria Hotel, on whose remains stands Bangalore Central. But ofcourse, Central is not to blame; it’s Mr Mota, who couldn’t afford to maintain prime land on which Victoria saw many a generation bask in coffee fresh from the plantations of Coorg and Nilgiris and a musician or two serenading you whilst you sipped on your wine. And it’s Mr Mota’s fault that he couldn’t cater to the growing needs of the cosmopolitan mix that has turned day into night and night into day. And ofcourse, its Mr Mota’s fault that this poor, cosmo mix, so in need of money now spends hours on end in drab, grey chambers, staring at computer screens and yearning for colour and noise Ofcourse, it’s Mr Mota to blame for all he could offer was rock n roll and stark white coffee mugs when cosmo whiz kids deserve rave and trance to help them unclog their pent up emotions, diffused by the ultra violet rays of the computer. Poor, dear, cosmopolitan, hard working, kids whose lives have treated them with such bitterness and they know not why their jeans get lower and T’s get tighter even as they curse Bangalore by night. And ofcourse, it’s not their fault that night is all they get to see and if an eve teaser or two (like my good friend R says) believes that the bum cleavage is where he needs to swipe a card, it’s his illiteracy speaking! Sunshine my dear is for losers and people who can’t afford raincoats. Sunshine is for wannabe cosmopolitan fashionistas.
Our security guard has a second hand raincoat now. We had coffee together. We realise that cosmopolitan as our city gets, we love our Bata shoes, by two coffee, summer rains and traffic junctions. We care for the cosmopolitan mix. Our heart bleeds for those traffic jam ups, but afterall we’ve got to let the mud and stone loaded lorry get to those construction sites by night. You see, they transport raw material to building sites that are to be homes for millions of cosmopolitan residents.
What’s the government doing? We are a democratic nation – aren’t we? We voted them, didn’t we? Does the constitution say that `outsiders’ aren’t supposed to vote? Or that `outsiders’ aren’t supposed to contest elections? Or that `outsiders’ aren’t permitted to get off their cars and help clear traffic jam ups, just like we do when there is a crisis? Come on now, Bangalore is doing all it can to accommodate `outsiders’. Bear with her, she is in her eighth pregnancy and has seven children clamouring for her attention, but she still believes in that new life inside her – You! Give her a chance, she too has morning sickness!
Nutty Trouble in Backyard
An apple enlightened Newton. It took a medium sized, half-rotten coconut to shake me out of my wits!
We stood in a backyard full of coconut trees that fateful Sunday in September. Peter, Sham, Abhi, Bharath, Deepu, Pupul, nine month old Akhil and I enjoyed the partial sunlight through the coconut leaves. It almost felt like Goa, but for the missing sea.
Suddenly, my head suddenly felt like ten bricks had been emptied on it. Akhil wailed simultaneously. My tongue was wet with fresh blood.
Abhi stood in front of me with a half rotten coconut. “Idhe nimma tale mele bithu (this fell on your head), he explained. Oh my God, I’m dying, or worse still, I’m going mad,” I muttered to myself.
But Akhil, on whose head the coconut had bounded off was smiling by now!
We handed him over to his mother Viji an hour later. “The two of you are really lucky. Coconuts are very auspicious,” she smiled.
But my head still throbbed.
Mother wasn’t convinced about Viji’s theory. “See Dr Baliga,” she said.
Dr Baliga examined my head, carefully checking for soft spots. He shone a pen torch through my eyes, fastened a half smile on his lips and asked, “Is the coconut unhurt my girl!”
Now that it was confirmed that I wasn’t going insane he explained: “It is a myth that coconuts don’t fall on your head. I’ve known patients who’ve suffered multiple fractures as a result.”
It’s not just one gruesome coconut story I’ve heard. There was Mrs B’s sister who sat in the portico of her house when two coconuts from her neighbour’s tree fell on her head, driving her insane. A 19-year-old walked home from her tuition class one evening when a coconut loosened itself from the tree above, crushing her skull. Others I know have had narrow escapes like Mr PC. A dried coconut leaf brushed his shoulder, narrowly missing his head. Coconuts are also known for their notoriety in damaging potted plants, denting fenders, breaking window panes and busting electrical wires.
“Enough,” I’ve decided. I’ve started a campaign against coconut trees in residential areas by sending coconut plucking men regularly to neighbouring houses.
You see…one coconut has shaken my wits and rearranged them to act in the best interests of other wits in peril!
Working child
It was close to the end of a working day. Weary shoppers were slowly filtering out of the shopping complex. Shopkeepers held the shutters half open hoping for some last minute customers. A tight slapping sound followed by a torrent of harsh words invaded the placid atmosphere.
I instantly turned to face a petty shop owner. He held the collar of an eight year old and let his rough hands come bearing down on the child’s face once again. Yake hoditha iddira (why are you hitting him), I inquired. Kelsa madalla avanu, yallo nodkondu ata jasthi agide (he is distracted and playful), the shop owner replied.
I looked around for support. People either carried on with their work or looked on from a distance. E magu nimmage yenu aga beku (what is your relationship with this child), I asked him. Illi kelsa madthane (he works here), he replied. Still attempting to hold my temper, I informed the shopkeeper that it was against the law to employ children and harass them. “Shut up,” he yelled at me. “I could lodge a complaint against you,” I yelled back. A traffic policeman lurked in the background. I explained the case to him. The policeman justified to me that these children land up from small towns. He said that they were poor and the shopkeepers help out by employing them. The cop also felt that it didn’t matter if they got a thrashing or two. The argument was getting pointless. Deciding to think about the situation calmly, I returned home.
I have attempted to help street children in the past. There are many remedies to the problem of child labour, but the loopholes are innumerable. One such instance was when a boy at a parking lot, wide eyed and earnest clamoured to clean my bike and get paid for it. I bought him food instead and talked to him about his home, education and family. I had heard about certain non-governmental organisations that would take on children, educate and teach them a profession. On my part, I could contribute money and time. I needed to speak to the boy’s family and we agreed on meeting at the parking lot the following day. When I did go back, there was no sign of the boy! Almost every darshini in Bangalore employs child labourers. My friends and I were out at a darshini having ‘chat’ the other day. I placed an empty glass on the table; a little boy whisked it away to clean it. Another boy cleaned footprints on the floor.
“How old are these children?” I asked the manager. “They are all over fifteen. We have given them a place to stay, clean uniforms and food to eat,” replied the manager in one breadth. I could vouch for the fact that none of these children were a day older than twelve. A few children were able to confirm the fact. “If you are so concerned about the children, why don’t you send them to school at least during the day,” I asked the manager. “They are not interested madam,” he replied.
Should one blame the manager who thinks he’s helping these children? Is the disciplinarian shopkeeper to be blamed? Or should one blame the children who often contribute money to large families? Is there something I can do to prevent financially empowered children from developing distaste for education?
Yes, for a start I have stopped visiting shops, darshinis and other establishments that employ child labour.
Discovering a new deity
The concept of Kula Devatha or family god is ancient. Most of my religious relatives are quite unaware of the origin of the concept. Amma has an interesting theory though: “People living in various towns and villages adapted the local temple as their kula devatha,” she revealed. Fair enough, I thought and got around to creating a new, unique Kula Devatha.
The origin of my Kula Devatha dates back to Sunday, January 27, 2000. I sat on my thinking chair at home, pondering over the idea. In fact, the seed of the idea was a scene with a Kula Devatha in a Tamil movie grandma was watching a few days earlier. In front of me sat one of my favourite terracotta collections, a black elephant from Madanapalli. I had been contemplating the idea of adding a touch of colour to it for months. So, out came my painter’s kit, gold and orange fevycryl, paintbrushes and a pallet. Cut glasses and fevicol complemented the collection to enhance it with a royal touch.
Two hours later stood a bedecked, royal, resplendent elephant. Heavenly and divine are the other two adjectives that led me to believe that I had created the would-be Kula Devatha. Now came the difficult part. I needed to get on with convincing everybody that the Kula Devatha of the 21st century had arrived. Here I was, painter doubling up as marketing guru. Dad was my first target. After much cajoling he bowed before the lord (by this time named Jumbo by eight year old Ranjini), mainly to get rid of me and retire for the night. With the first devotee to Jumbo’s credit, my confidence rose to attainable heights.
Superstitious grandma was the next to bow. By this time, I thought Jumbo began to look more powerful. This aspect coupled with final exams has brought in a few tenth and twelfth standard devotees from the neighbourhood. At this point I guess their faith is purely conditional. My cousin Sindhu rushed up every morning to fall at Jumbo’s feet before writing her pre-final papers. “But Sindhu, is it working for you,” I asked her. “Yes, ya, except for the first one when I didn’t pray,” came Sindhu’s reply. Sindhu’s extraordinary performance had invited another devotee, it was her classmate Sagarika. In case Sagarika couldn’t bow to Jumbo personally in the mornings, Sindhu prayed on her behalf. So, with Sindhu and Sagarika advertising the product, the next to visit Jumbo was Shivangi. The result: Shivangi was really happy with her performance in the ICSE exams. And of course, now there is Ranjini who promises to pray to Jumbo when her final exams start.
Jumbo requires his share of devotees. So, along the way I have taken the liberty of extending the concept of Kula Devatha from family to neighbourhood far as devotees are concerned, there is no dearth for them as long as humans have desires. Philosophical as I might sound, experimental as my experience was, this is probably how devotees have evolved through the ages!
