Ten Rupees Only.

Heard this anecdote from a friend, who is actively involved with several NGOs and, through them, comes in contact with many corporates who are doing their bit for social causes. A particular batch of IIM graduates, all well into their fifties, began a non-profit organisation with one single aim - to provide education to the underprivileged girl child in rural areas. They went about it by basically identifying responsible NGOs in those areas and funding them, also keeping track of the reports, and thus holding them accountable.

One of the two 'adopted' places is Alwar in Rajasthan - it has the dubious distinction of having one of the highest rates of female infanticide in the country. A girl studying in the primary section of one of the funded schools came across a receipt given to her father, who was a daily wage labourer. She realised they were paying him only thirty rupees every day and writing forty on the receipt. And told him immediately. How it got resolved I do not know. But I'm sure the father won't be cheated again.

After this incident, the people are extremely grateful for the effort and have requested the NGO to try and do more. Also, a lot more girls will be going to school in Alwar.

Chuck De

The last week has been the final proof, if any was needed, that cricket in India can absorb anything and everything. At the moment, it has adopted the slogan of a movie that was supposed to be about hockey finally finding favour with a cricket-crazy nation. Kind of missed the point, didn't we?

The world is still turning. With half-open eyes, Ganesh watched a cloud loll past. He'd always loved the beach, the sand giving way under his feet, the salt in the air. This was a little different, though. His back itched from the sand, and the roar of the waves seemed to be coming from a mile away, even though he could feel the water slapping his body. He thought about the past week. He'd enjoyed the adulation in the beginning, but the incessant din got to him later. You can only eat so many laddoos. And they can steal only so much power. He waited for the big wave, but knew it would bring him back to the shore again. If not now, next year, for sure.

Cops and Robbers

It's Ramzan. The terrorists want to stop fighting for a month. The Govt. wants them to put this in writing. Would love to get my hands on that one. (Dear Sir, this is to request you to stop trying to kill us for a month since we are observing a holy festival. On our part, we assure you none of our men will try to kill you either. Yours sincerely, xyz.)

Time please.

George Orwell was bloody clairvoyant.

P.S.:The first 3 sentences I heard on radio. In Hindi. No, the RJ wasn't joking. It wasn't even an RJ, just a news announcer. I wrote to bring out the absurdity of the situation. It's not racist. It's just plain stupid.

As for the poem, here it is. It's easier than looking for the link among dozens of favourites.

This is thy hour O soul,
Thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou loveth best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Yallelujaa

Was going to post a poem by Walt Whitman. Then, checked my mailbox and saw a miracle had happened. The mail hadn't been delivered.(Wait, wait.)And I had received a mail to tell me that.

Mail says mail can't be delivered.

Okay, so you're not finding this funny. You would if you worked in an office where the computer mouse co-existed in blissful harmony with it's stinky, furry, whiskered and very-much-breathing counterpart. (The pied piper thingy with the mice falling over the cliff? My current fantasy.)You would, too, if your computer was called the pre-pentium. You would, too. Someone at work mentioned the number of systems guys that have arrived and departed in quick succession. Names that come to mind include Afroze (urf Ofcourse urf Afsos urf Rosita), Sukumar (suku suku) and loads of others that I can't recall at the moment. More on them later, definitely.

And ya definitely, give it back to Dada. The one, the only, the prince.
Waise Dhoni se bhi kaam chala lenge. Option hai kya? (Memo to self:
Examine possibilities in armchair-critic shit as a career.)

Ram Rajya?

I wouldn't touch Ayodhya with a bargepole. Especially after Gujarat. But this comedy just keeps getting funnier.(You can afford to call it a comedy if none of your relatives have died because of it.) This time, it's a Sethu that's sending them into a tizzy. Earlier, something like this would've just made me shrug and do the they-are-like-this-only routine. Now, I'm not so sure that's the way to go. When we're being superior and expressing our amusement at all this religious fervour, we're missing the plot. Governments have been toppled by it. And continue to be, to this day. Sorely needed: a little understanding on how this is so important. (Forget the why. If it made any sense it would've been resolved by now.)Or maybe some divine intervention would help.

Back To School

Came across a ghastly thing called sparknotes or some such while googling One Hundred Years Of Solitude. Gave the context to the book, which was great, but also had high-school students review it in the attempt to make their assignments easy. At the end of the summary was a set of questions you could attempt and then be judged (by who? how? "yes, yes, 10 on 10...for perfect recollection of paragraph 2 on page 122.")on how well you'd understood the novel.

Took me back to school and all those rapid readers. For the lucky few who've never had to undergo that torture, rapid readers are the things that can put you off Dickens forever, what with their questions at the end of each chapter and the monotonous reading-aloud-before-the-class of 'A Tale of Two Cities' and 'Oliver Twist'.

I almost feel lucky for having escaped. The next time I'm struggling to complete a book, I'll visualise a 'guide', questionnaire et al. That should get me going again.

One Hundred Years Of Solitude

Beautiful, beautiful. Reminds me of Roots in the way it tells the story of an entire people, and the language, excuse mine, is fucking gorgeous. As thick with tension as the Macondo heat, yet flowing so swiftly that its 422 pages seem very little. I've always been one for memorable characters, who isn't, and Macondo is overflowing with these, living, breathing, perfect in their imperfections. Next on my list: Love in the time of Cholera.

More on this one after the hangover.

-----------------------------------

Then again, maybe not. Would rather spend the time reading some parts again. Or begin a new one.

Lords

Sachin's back. This time, with an entire team of (contributing) players.

Bring out the bugles.

Animal’s People

Believing in a cause is one thing. Trying to make others see why you believe, completely another. You have to be objective towards a subject you feel strongly about, tell your reader the story without sounding indignant, and hope it will move him enough to think, even act.

Indra Sinha has pulled this off with Animal’s People, and quite effortlessly at that. The man has taken on the onus for justice for the victims of the Bhopal Gas Tragedy- writing appeals, contributing to the clinic and doing everything possible to make Union Carbide pay its due. He’s also met some exemplary people along the way. Animal’s People is their story, told simply, without making victims of the Bhopalis, or the ‘Khaufpuris’, as they are known here.

The narrator and protagonist is an unruly, shrewd boy of seventeen who refuses to call himself human. Back literally bent by the poisonous gases from the Kampani, ‘Animal’ walks around on all fours ‘jamisponding’ for Zafar, the almost superhuman activist who is hero for the entire town. What really defines him is his relationships with the women in the story, be it four year old Aaliya, the resolute, batty Ma Franci, the mysterious Elli doctress or the idealistic Nisha, who both Zafar and he adore.

Having Animal tell the story is a great device, and, in retrospect, the only way Sinha could have got through without sounding preachy or plain barking mad. This account is anything but bitter. Funny, yes. Ironic, yes. Bitter, no. And somewhere between the endless questions about the future and the sharp one-liners (“…that’s a trade secret, Kha”) you start understanding why, thirty years later, they still haven’t given up.

The most moving part of the book? The dedication to Sunil, one of Bhopal’s unfortunate survivors and heroes and a man who, like the protagonist, heard ‘voices’ after that night. We may have been spared from hearing those voices, but Animal’s voice is not going to die down anytime soon. Here’s hoping it never does.