Loyalty issues

I have a loyalty issue.

I don’t know if anyone else feels the same way. And this problem creates a lot of other problems in my life.

Take for instance today, when I went to a Crossword store to buy books for my nephews. After buying what I wanted for them, I made a beeline for a shelf containing Ruskin Bond books. It’s no secret among my friends that Vikram Seth and Ruskin Bond are two of my favourite writers. Sure, I’ve decided books are very costly and I won’t buy them anymore etc, etc, but when I go to a bookstore, I end up checking if there are any new books by these two guys. That’s loyalty issue no 1, for this means I barely check out other authors. Even if I decide on a book by another author and buy it, I always go check if there are new books by Bond and Seth.

Loyalty issue no 2 extends to my cellphone. My sister once told me Nokia phones are the best. In the past 11 years since I have begun to use these gadgets, I have only bought Nokia. Even the most cheap or most user friendly phone by another company will not convince me to buy it.
There are more loyalty issues, but let’s stick to Bond here. I love Bond for another reason. He’s not one of those authors who boasts of an education abroad or a jet-set lifestyle (Yes, Seth kind of fits into this description, and he’s the only exception to the rule whose works I like). Here’s a man of so-called English origin – juxtaposed with our many young present writers of ‘Indian-origin’ – who admits he missed India in England and returned home. He knows Mussoorie like the back of his hand and he’s a simple man who uses words to weave stories from his life. He writes about the same place, and sometimes the same people, and most of us love him for this.

In a time when every Indian writer in English claims to be a ‘global writer’, I prefer going back to the writings of this podgy gentleman from a small town, who has no pretences of ensnaring readers with his international style or erudition. I am happy reading about rain in the mountains, or how it feels like to swim in a pond, or how a python was fascinated with his reflection. I don’t have to find the perfect frame of mind when I want to read his books. Most importantly, I can keep reading them again and again like going back to meet old friends.

Some may say Bond never strays from ‘the formula’. But if its an author whose words I can trust to make me happy, or even cry when I am feeling low, or uplift my mood if I am simply tired, I will buy his books. Then this is one loyalty issue which I am happy with.

On writing

I started my other blog as a tribute to my sister whom I lost to complications from breast cancer. But four months ago I lost another person I loved. My father. He was bedridden for a while after a stroke.

I am still learning to live without him.

It’s going to take some time getting used to writing again. The art both my parents, my mother, an author and translator; and my father, a well known author and veteran journalist, passed on to me. Each time I write, I know I pay tribute to them. I shall cease to exist the day I stop writing.

I always find solace in words, but there is a time when I didn’t. That was the time my sister died. Everyone who came home spoke the usual gibberish consolers speak. I longed for them to stop. But they didn’t. They all kept saying the same words intended to comfort us. But I was tired of hearing them. Then a neighbour’s son came to meet us. He didn’t say anything. He just hugged me. And that was all that I had wanted.

Over time I have made my peace with words. After my father died, the same people returned with the same words they had spoken when my sister had died. This time I succeeded at keeping both of them away. And now, four months on, I am accepting words back into my life. The last time I found solace reading ‘Tuesdays with Morrie’. This time too, it’s another book and another experience. It was my gtalk status message saying ‘Can someone lend me a copy of ‘Eat, pray, love’’ that made my friend G buy me a copy of the book which was delivered to my home.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote the book when she was 36 – my present age – and lost in life. I had heard a lot about the book and wanted to read it. Honestly, I didn’t enjoy it in the beginning. But as I read it, I began to find solace in it.

I don’t know what I will read after this book. But one thing’s for sure. It has made me want to think about what I want to do in my life. And I do want to write.

My tribute to Julia

I love to cook occasionally. Lately, I’ve been addicted to reading food blogs and saving recipes taken from them.
During one search, I discovered the blog of Julie Powell. Then recently I saw the film, Julie, Julia. Whenever I see a film based on a book, I have to read it. In this case, the movie is based on two books – 1. My life in France by Julia Child and Alex Prud’homme and 2. Julie and Julia: 365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen by Julie Powell. I found myself looking for Julia’s book. Thanks to a friend who works with the USIS, I managed to get a copy of My life in France.
The book moves through the period she and her husband Paul spent in France where she learnt to cook, to his postings in other countries where she followed, and the time they spent at a house they later built in France. It is the story of a woman who wanted to cook well for her husband. It is also the story of a novice cook growing into a celebrated TV chef who went on to introduce French cooking to America.
I haven’t had French food yet. My favourite food is home food, followed by Punjabi and Chinese cuisine, followed by Italian. Still, under the influence of Julia’s writing, I tried a French garlic soup recipe. My little tribute to Julia. I found a recipe on the net which had carrots in it, so the soup looks a little carroty. But it tasted good.

Pustakancha paus

Years ago, my mother who worked for the government of Maharashtra in Goa, started a unique project. She took books donated by the government of Maharashtra, to different villages in Goa, where they would be distributed among children. Three or four hours later, when they had finished reading, they would be taken back.

Elaborating on that, my father started Pustakancha Paus – Shower of Books. He appealed to people to donate story books. These were filled up in bags – 100 books per bag – and distributed to different Goan villages for the children to read. They were told to exchange the bag with a neighbouring village when their children were done reading the books.

Some time back, a colleague wrote about an orphanage run by a teacher in Srinagar. I longed to do something for the children. Some days later he told me people had given him money for the orphanage – he had managed to collect Rs 50,000.
It seemed they had enough money. But children need more than money. That’s when the memory of Pustakancha Paus was probably stirred. Me and my parents bought Rs 1,500 worth of books and sent them to Raahat Manzil, the orphanage.
But I wanted to send more books. So I put in more of my money and appealed to my neighbours to participate. I asked each of them to give me only Rs 100. Many of them gave me more. One of them even gave me her daughters’ old books which were in good condition. Thanks to my neighbours, I managed to collect over Rs 3,000.
Then I bought the books. Amar Chitra Katha, Ruskin Bond, Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Mahabharata, Ramayana, I bought so many!

I soon did the other happy job of sending them to Raahat Manzil. How I wish I could have been there to see the kids with the new books!

Pustakancha Paus continues to drench children in words.

To buy a house

Oh to buy a house
To decorate it
To make it home
To rush home from work
To spend a few hours
To worry about the loan
And finish paying
Just when its time to renovate

Please ask for exact fare

I am perpetually at loggerheads with Mumbai’s yellow and black taxi and rickshaw drivers. They think it is their moral duty to annoy and anger me.

Here’s a recent incident. I hired a rickshaw near my house and told the driver I had to go to a bakery nearby and return. (yeah, I love to walk but it was really too hot!)

On our return, as the fare was Rs 15, I gave him two Rs 10 notes. Since our taxi and rickshawwallahs never have any change on them, he insisted I give him change.

“I have three Rs 2 coins. Do you at least have Re 1?” Me.

“No,” rickshawwallah.

“How come you guys always walk out of home without even a rupee in your pocket? Take a rupee less now,” Me.

“I will not. It was a return fare.” Rickshawwallah.

“So you will take more money from me but not carry change!” Furious me.

Rickshawwallah drives away.

I was fuming. I went to the grocer nearby where I managed to get change. Now I only had to find the rickshawwallah. It didn’t take long. The stupid man had parked his vehicle at the same spot where I had hired him.

I marched upto him, handed over a Re 1 coin and took back a Rs 2 coin.
I walked home wickedly happy with my little victory!

Just why do they think they can get away with everything? First they hold the city to ransom each time there is a hike in petrol and diesel prices – even taxiwallahs, most of whose vehicles run on CNG – demanding a rise in their fares. And then there is always that issue of dirty and old vehicles, unworthy of being driven.

I have even been in an accident when a taxi’s brakes failed and it rammed into a BEST bus that had stopped at a traffic signal.

It’s no secret that most of Mumbai’s taxis and rickshaws are driven around by drivers in shifts. The vehicles are always in need of maintenance. But the owners only care about the money they earn. So passengers are forced to travel in these terrible vehicles, some driven by men barely out of their teens, and holding new licences.

It’s all very well to say these drivers are poor people come here to make a livelihood. Hey, I am working too! What gives that man the right to disrespect me and take more of my hard earned money on the pretext of being poor and earning his livelihood? Why should I part with even a few rupees each time because of some arrogant rickshaw or taxi driver looking for easily earned money? And before I am criticized, let me say I have often paid more money that what is meant, without cribbing. But it has become a habit for most of these drivers to demand more money. This is what angers me.

Luckily, we now have a phone number to complain about such issues. The transport ministry has announced that it will introduce a toll-free number for registering complaints against errant taxi-drivers. The number will also be applicable for rickshaw drivers who misbehave with passengers.

I can’t wait for it to start.

Bhau

Picture shot by Dr Shrirang Purohit

Sunday morning was a sad one for Sahitya Sahawas, the colony of writers in Bandra. One of its most respected residents, noted litterateur Govind Vinayak Karandikar – Vinda – passed away.

I had the fortune of knowing him as a neighbour. I also profiled him in 2006 when he won the Dnyanpeeth Puraskar. It was late afternoon and he had been tired of meeting and speaking to visitors and journalists who came to congratulate him. He just answered one question – did he have any advice for young writers? “There is nothing I want to say to the young generation. Let them do what they want. If I was in their place, would I have liked someone to tell me what I should do?”

Indeed, Bhau as he was lovingly called, lived life on his own terms. He never sought puraskars or the coveted chief guest position of the prestigious Marathi Sahitya Sammelan that even many noted authors fight and claw for. The awards came and they were many – the Janasthan Puraskar, the Kabir Puraskar and more. But his truest award lay in the following he had among Marathi readers.

With the awards came the prize money, but Bhau had no use for it. A Marxist, he donated over Rs 7 lakh he won, to the chief minister’s earthquake relief fund, to the SNDT University to start the R D Karve memorial lectures, to the University of Mumbai to start the Madhav Julian lecture series, and even to the Family Planning Association of India.
His major collections of poems include Swedaganga, Mrudgandha, Jatak, Virupika and Dhrupad. He has also written essays such as Sparshachi Palavi and Akashacha Artha. He has written ‘A Critique of Literary Values’ and Parampara Ani Navata – a critique on tradition and modernism in literature. He translated Sant Dnyaneshwar’s Amrutanubhav into modern Marathi. Sometime back he created a flutter when he announced he had ‘retired’ from writing poetry.

His poems for children are well known. As a child I remember asking him about one of his ‘spells’ to stop the ink in a pen from drying, that I had seen him recite on TV. A child when with children, Bhau promptly fetched the book and read it to me, along with other spells he had written.
Years later, on finding that I had chosen English Literature in college, he presented me with a book by John Dos Passos. “It’s a prize for choosing English Literature,” the former English Literature professor said. He also told me he had a copy of ‘A History of English Literature’ by Louis Cazamian and Emile Legouis and I could borrow it from him anytime. Strangely, when I did ask for it, he had no recollection of making the offer! But he trusted me, and though he said he never lent it, he firmly warned me to be careful with it. I was petrified and returned it a few days later, without having referred to it at all!

Bhau was active till about a month before he passed away. He would come down from his fourth floor house at least once a day, carrying a small cloth bag, and buy some vegetables from Anand Bazaar across the road. He had a habit of calling out to Sumatai, his wife. Sometimes in the evenings she would come down to chat with her colony friends. Restless that she was not back after some time, Bhau would stand in the balcony and clap and call her to get her attention.
Sometimes when he went downstairs, he would have forgotten money. He would then call her from below, “Sume! Sume!” When she arrived in the balcony, he would yell, “In our room, in my drawer, from the wallet kept to the left, not the right, throw me the Rs 2 note, not the Rs 5 one.”

Bhau remained a man content with simple joys till the end. He and Sumatai were most happy being with children. Every summer he cleaned the small canal passing through the colony. A poem on his lips, he would inspire many colony kids to join him. During the rains, if he saw the clogged parapet at the entrance of the building opposite his, he would fetch a ladder and clear it himself. If a kid’s kite was caught in a tv antenna on the terrace of his building, he would climb up and free it. He was always ready for a spot of carpentry at home, working on two chairs for himself and Sumatai in the balcony.

Like Sumatai who passed away a little more than a year ago, his body will be donated for medical causes. His eyes have been donated.
A lot will be said and written about him in the days to come. But he lives on in his works. Perhaps the best tribute to him will come when one simply enjoys his works time and again, just as much as he did creating them.