Two's A Company

As Daddy and Mummy enjoyed sunshine and another afternoon of post-lunch happy conversation (or nagging? Who knows!), I clicked this from inside the house.

Neeraj

Sid's On His Way!

One flew out of the cuckoo's nest!

Sid is on his way to Cape Town. He left for Delhi early today and will finally leave India on the evening of 14th. We woke up early (for a change) to see him off. As you can see from the pictures below, Sid is more than happy to be moving away from his parents. In the background of the first picture, his Dadi is making a brave attempt to surmount cold and arthritic pains to see him off. In the second picture, while he continues to smile at his freedom, Neeti is less than happy to see him go. And Ginger is trying to climb up all of six-feet for a last lick!

Sid's Dadaji waved him goodbye from his bed. And I am behind the camera!

Abhishek is flying in from Mumbai to meet him at Delhi and will be around till the 14th (there is also the small matter of the Valentine's Day coming up, remember?!) 

Sid leaves just a day before Chachaji arrives from the US; his college has already opened and he wanted to rush off to ensure he did not lose any time.

Neeraj

11 Feb 2012 ,1159 p.m.

Just came back from dinner at Mamu's.

The chicken ( dahi based gravy), rice, nuggets and barfi were pretty legendary. Thank you Mamima.

Greetings from the youngest admin

10 Feb 2012 - 11:59 p.m

Dear Bali and Co.

I write, not out of love or affection, but, because I am scared...scared that if I do not write a post before midnight, Dad might actually carry out his threat of telling all of you that I still pee in my bed at night.

Love

Sid

P.S Oops

About Our Blog

As Siddharth gets ready to board his flight to Cape Town on the 14th, I have been thinking of starting a blog that keeps not just him but all the family members in touch with each other. There is, of course, the alternative of emails but I thought that a blog was a much more comprehensively connecting medium. So, here it is....our blog.

Separately, you would have received invitations to be authors on this blog. Please accept that invite and as and when you want to share the going-ons in your life, come here and write a post. Or upload a picture. Or do both!

I have so configured the blog that its members (Rakesh Chachaji, Neeti, Pallavi, Abhishek, Sid and I) will automatically receive each post in their Inbox.

The name of the blog is tentative and all creative suggestions are welcome. As are any recommendations on its looks and layout etc.

Incidentally, this evening in a restaurant, Neeti, Sid and I discussed possible names. We also chatted with Abhishek. But the names - Bali Belly, Bali Nama, Bali Daily (to name three of the many wacky suggestions) - indicated to me that the serious business of christening the blog will eventually fall on my tender shoulders!

Please feel free to write a new post or comment on other posts. It does not matter how routine or mundane the conversation is.....everything is welcome. (Among other things, I will be regularly sharing my weight and Ginger's antics, for example!) When you write a post, do mention your name at the end of it so that everyone knows who the author is! And yes, pictures are most welcome!

A tip: if you want, after you have written your post, click on the link 'Schedule' on the right and fill in date and time. Then click on Location, fill in yours in the box, click Search - so that your location gets recorded too. These are optional steps and can be ignored without any anxiety!

So, here we go! 

Aik Alif........

Aik Alif

English Translation and Lyrics originally in Punjabi:

(Courtesy Silent Conversations at http://ilovesunrise.blogspot.in/2009/06/aik-alif.html)

Parh parh ilm te faazil hoya
(You read to become all knowledgable)

Te kaday apnay aap nu parhya ee na
(But you never read yourself)

Bhaj bhaj warna ay mandir maseeti
(You run to enter your mosques and temples)

Te kaday mann apnay wich warya ee na
(But you never entered your own heart)

Larna ay roz shaitaan de naal
(Everyday you fight Satan)

Te kadi nafs apnay naal larya ee na
(But you never fight your own Ego)

Bulleh Shah asmaani ud-deya pharonda ay
(Bulleh Shah you try grabbing that which is in the sky)

Te jera ghar betha unoon pharya ee na
(But you never get hold of what sits inside yourself)

Bas kareen o yaar
(Stop it all my friend)

Ilm-oun bas kareen o yaar
(stop seeking all this knowledge my friend)

Ik Alif teray darkaar
(Only an Alif is what you need)

Bas kareen o yaar
(stop it all my friend)

Ilm-oun bas kareen o yaar…
(Stop seeking all this knowledge my friend)

Allah Sayyaan Allah Sayyaan
(God is Greatness, God is All)

Nee main jaanaa Jogi de naal
(I shall follow the Jogi {ascetic/Sufi})

Jo naa jaane, Haqq ki taaqat
(those who deny the strength of Truth)

Rab naa devey us ko Himmat
(God does not give them courage)

Hum Mann ke darya mein doobey
(We have drowned in the river of Self)

Kaisi nayya? Kya manjhdhaar…
(the boat and the flowing waters do not matter)

Bas kareen o yaar
(stop it all my friend)

Ilm-oun bas kareen o yaar
(stop seeking all this knowledge my friend)

Allah Sayyaan Allah Sayyaan
(God is Greatness, God is All)

Eventually, as one moves towards knowing who one is (or, more accurately who one isn't - one's Ego and outer form) it begins to dawn that pure awareness - and not knowledge-laden thoughts - are the sphere where awakening lies.

We are all part of that flow of Higher Intelligence that is everything in the universe. We are one with it. And yet, we flounder and desperately seek the shore of fulfillment. Hum mann ke darya mein doobey, kaisi nayya? Kya manjhdar...? (We confuse ourselves with our forms...our Egos. Drowned in this river, what boat can take us to the shore?!)

And we go on seeking that fulfillment outside of us. Kade mann apne wich warya ee na....

Unmindful that we are the one we have been waiting for. 

When A Crocodile eats The Sun

I read this book a few years ago when I was still in Lesotho. Haunting, beautiful, inspirational.Thought I will share the impression it made on me, here....

When I began reading it, I was cautioned that this was a White man’s version of contemporary Zimbabwe. Even if I assume that it did suffer from that implied infirmity of bias and discount for it, the narrative is moving, heartbreaking and compelling. It rings with credibility. It is a tale of twin and parallel furrows of despair and love, of hopelessness and courage, cruelty and generosity. And yet, this is no outpouring of bitterness alone; just beneath the surface hope for humanity is visible, swimming serenely, waiting for its time to rise.....

This is a true tale of the family of ex-policeman Peter Godwin as it negotiates an increasingly bleak and even cruel landscape rolled out by Mugabe in the country of its adoption. It is a human story that makes the contours of political and economic life in contemporary Zimbabwe rise in relief so that we see a vivid picture at our arm's length.

Zimbabwe: the horrors of land-distribution, the sheer anarchy, the dark despotic shadow over millions of lives and the de-humanizing of a generation or more are a – for want of a better word – madness that has afflicted it, like the disease of a moment of passion. Only this moment appears to live itself again and again, in a terrifying loop. One aging man appears to have put Zimbabwe into an unstoppable tail-spin that can have but one ending that could defy every styptic effort. Or so one fears.

Reading it, I once again marvelled at the miracle of neighbouring South Africa and silently thanked Him for Nelson Mandela. In the post-apartheid decade, this country too could have careened onto the vengeful path. It too could have unleashed the pent up fount of vitriol and, in the name of ‘righting the historic wrongs’ destroyed a beautiful country. Even today, the fears of a Zimbabwe-like slide have not entirely stopped hemorrhaging; we can hope though that with the horrendous example of Zimbabwe to learn from and with the passage of each year, that ominous specter will fade beyond retrieval.

It also brings the question of 'how far back in history can we go to claim ownership of truth, facts....or assets and land'? Can the way to move forward in human affairs ever be to navigate through the dark alleys of the the past first?   

The book is lovingly crafted, each sentence a surprising necklace, studded with imagery that shines and shines in its own lambent brilliance. For me, a truly inspirational work!

Sunday Times blurb on the cover got is exactly right, “A moving meditation.....”

'Charting' Me!

Who am I?

I certainly am not my outer form, I am not the incessant chatter that fills up my head, I am not my Ego....

I am part of the larger consciousness, the Higher Intelligence that 'runs' the universe, the awareness that is even aware of my thoughts and stands silently behind them, observing and listening, inseparable from everyone and everything else around us......

Yet, most of my life I have gone on in an unconscious state, simply acting from my Ego, acting as if I was separate from others and, therefore, in perpetual need of seeking approval, controlling, judging, criticising or at least advising - not always from true concerns for others' well-being and growth but because, at a subliminal level, I had this overpowering need to prove some sort of 'superiority'.

This teaching is at the heart of many spiritual traditions. The crux of our pain (or 'dukha' as Buddha put it) is falsely identifying ourselves with our egoic identities. As I begin to grasp Tolle's teachings better, even to my layman's eye, dots are joining neatly and seamlessly between them and Bhagvadgita's offerings and Zen (the little that I know) and Kabir's dohas....and more. Even momentary awareness of this truth brings instant peace and makes me more effective in discharging my worldly duties.

I have not even scratched the surface so far, of course, much less attained the perpetual joy that must follow. But, with my extremely limited understanding (and nudged by my military mind) I have organised the learning so far in a chart. Here it is:

I am my Ego	I Am
To plod on through life, carrying the burden of my Ego, forever taking counsel of my Ego’s bidding, is my lot. To struggle is my purpose.	To awaken and stay awake is my inner purpose.
At every moment, I am either superior or inferior to another.	I just am.
I judge. I criticise. This tells me I am superior.	I just am.
I am not complete unless I have approval – so I seek it in many guises.	I am complete and do not need external approval.
I am not complete unless I control.	I am complete and do not need to control.
I need to have instant gratification and predictability to feel that I am okay.	I do not need gratification to be in joy; the ‘pain’ of discipline deepens my joy.
I am separate from everyone and everything else – and that is how I treat the world.	I am connected to the universe. I am part of the consciousness.
I live in the past (beset by guilt or emotion about moments that will never be) or the future (and anxieties of unborn moments that might never be).	I live in the only moment that I ever can – now!
I work because it is a chore and has to be done.	I fulfil my outer purpose(s) in alignment with my inner-purpose – with energy, enthusiasm and acceptance.
I am my thoughts.	I am my consciousness.
Life is a perpetual combat.	I live in flow and joy.
I have this perpetual urge to advise others – I know best!	I am immersed in hearing the drum-beat of my inner-self. How can I compulsively prescribe for others?
Disagreement angers me.	I hear with equanimity.
I wrestle with what is. I cannot accept ‘reality’ as is.	I accept.

Mindfulness

A great deal of peace - even 'success in dealing with life's 'problems' - lies in mindfulness. To be present in the Now is to live in the only moment that one can ever live in. To focus on what 'is' rather than what was or could be is the answer to many questions.

Take eating, for example. I recently browsed a book called 'Mindless Eating' by an author whose name I do not recollect (which gives you a clue to my own state of 'mindfulness'!) The crux of his conclusions is that we eat mainly not because we are hungry but out of sheer reflex which, in turn, is born out of our perceptions, the way the food is presented, the number of people we eat with, our estimate of the size of the helpings etc. The answer to not eating mindlessly, therefore, is to eat mindfully. In other words ‘awareness’ is the key.

This seems to join the dots with Eckhart Tolle’s teachings. Living in the present – in the now – then is the core of the solution. Could it be that when we eat mindlessly we are ‘feeding’ the same ego-body? Could it be that we can turn it around with awareness of the now, of being acutely mindful of how hungry we really are, what and how much we are about to eat and thus side-step the temptations and pitfalls that come our way?

This needs to be explored.

Another thought that came to my mind was that the more a person lives in his or her ‘now’, the greater is his or her situational awareness. How is it that some people remember details such as where they kept their keys, parked their cars or in what sequence even the mundane events happened while others struggle? Perhaps it indicates that they tend to be more in their ‘now’ and thus these things get imprinted in their minds. At that moment, what they are doing is of importance and they are completely engaged (or at least almost completely) engaged with it.
Do such individuals have a lower tendency to operate from their ‘egoic’ selves? Are they likely to be happier, even more successful?

This too needs to be explored....

I am my Ego. Or Am I?

Out beyond the ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing,
there is a field.
I'll meet you there

Sufi poet Rumi

There is a ‘me’ that is inseparable from Higher Intelligence or God. That ‘me’ does not ‘live life’ – it is life itself.

And then there is the ‘egoic’ me - that identifies itself with the outer form, the thoughts and causes all the pain by not letting me live in the Now. This egoic me is one that has become the larger, indeed, mostly the only me. It operates from ego and feeds and strengthens itself. It acts from a position of superiority or inferiority. It loves drama and conflict. It thrives on role playing, never from doing simply.

It is diluted by awareness. The moment I am aware of thinking or acting from my ego, I dilute it. It does not require ‘will power’. It needs awareness.

Ever since I read Eckhart Tolle, I have become more aware of that small ‘me’ than ever before. And a number of things have become obvious simply from that awareness:
The egoic (or small or petty or mischievous) me is, as of now, quite persistent. It pops up all the time and plays mischief. It retreats when the light of awareness is flashed at it.

The moment I refuse to act from it, the world begins to change! Other egos appear to retreat and dissolve too!

Eternal vigilance is needed to weaken this small ‘me’.

The retreat of the ‘small me’ does not imply that I have to retreat from worldly affairs! It is all about the gentle dance between the 'human' and the 'Being' in me. It is about balance.

It is about acting with a detachment from ego.

The word "I" embodies the greatest error and the deepest truth, depending on how it is used.

Eckhart Tolle

How Do You Do?

In life 'what' you do is important.

But not anywhere as important as 'how' you do.

Indeed, the 'how' is critical. To a point where the 'what' does not really matter.

To be immersed in whatever you do, you bring the very best to it. Whether it is simply paying attention to someone, cleaning your desk, composing a verse, dressing up (don't all the ladies instantly agree?!), savouring food, studying for an exam or taking aim to shoot.....to be one with the Now and completely absorbed in the act itself is what brings it quality.

There is more that examines it.

What is your intent in doing what you do? Are you impelled by the prodding of your ego? Or is it pure love ("the ability to stretch your ego boundaries to accommodate another person for his or her long term good") that lies at the heart of your endeavour? Are you saying or doing something because you must get instant acknowledgement or approval? Or are you, bereft of the burden of ego, simply fulfilling your purpose in life in the best possible way?

The answer to these elemental 'why' questions defines the 'how' of what we do.

And, it is the 'how' that defines our work and eventually us.

What Is This About?

Now, where was I?

Nowhere in particular, it seems. Generally floundering, often desperately lost, sometimes adrift, occasionally sure-footed…..moving on this journey called life. As you might have too.

Along the way I have hitch-hiked I picked up many maps and clues as I was given the many free rides, some generously by Masters and others absorbed consciously or unconsciously. As you would have too.

In this blog I will share those maps – big and small. To make the journey easier.

A collection of clues. A hitch-hiker's loosely bound guide of sorts to (I know this sounds pompous!) inner galaxy that we all share.

Solar by Ian McEwan

Solar is a story of greed for gratification on a scale that refuses to allow any transgression by ‘love’ or ‘commitment’. Michael Beard, a Nobel laureate and a much heralded genius is also a much married man. His five marriages have floundered without making him a father, a result neither of incapacity nor abstinence but purely of disinclination. As the curtain rises, his fifth marriage is staring at The End and, for a change, it is his wife’s indiscretion that is bringing it about.

But even the staid lives of scientists are not always bereft of drama; a sudden turn of events – dramatic even in its ordinariness (a man tripping over a rug) – sets off choices for Beard that appear to provide solutions to his somewhat messy life. I must take a break from recounting the bare bones of this tale to add that it is precisely under the cloak of such ordinary moments that Ian McEwan tends to hide the tale that he then unleashes on unsuspecting dramatis personae and the reader. Who does not recall the tipping of the porcelain jar into a shallow fountain in Atonement or the slight brush between a doctor and street-side ruffians in Saturday or the accidental unshackling of the hot-air balloon in Enduring Love? In each case, what followed so credibly from the turn of events could hardly have been predicted.

In case of Michael Beard several arrows appear to be closing in on him in a small desert town in Southern US, where he has arrived to unveil his latest and perhaps last magnum-opus – a project to produce electricity from water. None of the arrows is benign and none entirely misses the mark. Yet, in the moment of his catastrophic defeat, for one fleeting moment, Beard experiences an unexpected emotion that even he could not have suspected of possessing.

Ian McEwan draws Beard with great dexterity – there is no reason why we should not loathe the man and yet we might not. He deserves no sympathy, of course; but we might be forgiven if that impulse arises at the very end.

It is another masterpiece – satirical, funny and suspenseful.

The Bear Trap

The author, then a Brigadier of the Pakistan Army, handled the Afghan bureau of Pakistan's spy agency, the ISI, during the Soviet presence in Afghanistan. Coming from an ex-spy who worked with an organisation known for secrecy, his account is surprisingly detailed. Does it also tell us how the ISI might have attempted to handle its incursions into Kashmir?

The account is straightforward, a planner-trainer-soldier's version of a momentous effort lasting a decade. But one does detect attempts to give some elements a spin. For instance, it is hard to believe that the Soviets would have indulged in such indiscriminate scorched-earth bombing of the civilian population, a stratagem that could have achieved nothing but to pit the entire population against the Soviet Army. Surely, the Soviets understood as well as anyone else that no insurgency has ever been surmounted without people's support. Having said that, I must also admit - in contradiction to my own disbelief! - that the record of Pakistan's Army in Waziristan has been no different. So, perhaps there is enough room for making such obvious strategic errors.

The Soviets come across as less than competent, which is perhaps rather harsh. The Soviet soldier was poorly paid and kitted, tells the author, and a far cry from the resolute patriot that defended Leningrad. This was a war he did not identify with.

The mujahideen emerge as extraordinarily brave, capable of suffering unimaginable privations and steeped in vengefulness. They have also been portrayed as poor strategists and extremely fractious in their efforts. Indeed, it was the weight of their disunity that eventually prevented the fall of Kabul.

The CIA is painted as an agency focussed on ensuring that the Soviets were repaid for Vietnam - and eventually succeeded in that goal. They supplied billions of dollars worth of weapons and equipment, mostly purchased from other countries - including China - and eventually relented to supply a weapon that arguably triggered the Soviet withdrawal - the Stinger anti-aircraft missile. But the Americans too do not come unscathed at Mohammad Yousaf's hands; they lacked understanding of the ground realities, the author tells us.

General Zia also comes across as a scheming but small-minded leader who succumbed to US pressures and kicked the Director general of ISI General Akhtar upstairs when the Americans wanted him too, even though the moment was inopportune from the point of view of winning the war.

The two fascinating chapters in the book relate to the assassination of General Zia. The theory behind the plane crash is developed meticulously and while the author stops short of naming names, the finger is unerringly pointed at the KGB and KHAD combine, with help from within the Pakistan Army.

The other relates to the 'end' of the war. As the Soviets withdrew (under Gorbachev's tutelage, thus making him a darling of the West), it was in their interest to ensure that the mujahideen did not roll over the Communist regime of Najibullah and take over Kabul. Ironically, this was in the interest of the US too! They did not want a fundamentalist regime to assume power. They had driven the Soviets out and that was the end of their interest in the mujahideen. A speedy and smooth withdrawal of the Soviets was in their interest - that would ensure a 'victory'. The author claims that several factors magically combined to help the Americans and Soviets achieve these goals. The Director General of ISI who wanted it otherwise was replaced, the author retired, the successors were inclined to toe the US line, the huge 10000-ton arms and ammunition dump at Ojhri blew up thus choking replenishments for the mujahideen planning to launch attacks on the withdrawing Soviets and the mujahideen planned and executed a poor assault on Jalalabad, resulting in defeat at the hands of the Afghan Army.

A useful account!

The Idea of Pakistan

had the pleasure of meeting Stephen Cohen when I briefly visited Brookings at Washington, back in 2003. I needed some advice on a career in academia and I had sought audience with a few people in the US - he was one of them. In the half an hour I was with him, I heard in rapt attention as this pleasant man held forth on Kashmir and other topics - precise, knowledgeable and humorous in an understated manner. Several years later, I met him again at the Staff College where he was a visitor and I a 'teacher'.

This is a work of great scholarship. Stephen Cohen has looked at contemporary Pakistan through a microscope - and a telescope! His analysis of how the original idea of Pakistan casts a shadow on its present, the central role of the Army, the reach of Islamists, the apparent failure of the political class, the growing wave of anti-Americanism, the influence of madaris, a faltering economy that appears to be driving towards a precipice and the overall and growing lack of confidence among its people in the correctness of the direction their country is taking.

Cohen builds several scenarios and evaluated them for likelihood and desirability - status quo, Army/ authoritarian rule, full-fledged democracy, Islamist rule, break-up of the nation et al. It also discusses options that America has in dealing with its now-ally-now-headache 'friend'.

Cohen's work is extremely well researched and rings with authority. He argues that, contrary to the opinion of some, Pakistan is not about to become a failed state anytime in the near future. He is, however, not optimistic about a radical turnaround in its current (the book was written in 2004 or so but things have steadily got worse since then) status.

I was also struck by the fact that of all the future scenarios he built, 'liberal democracy' in Pakistan is considered the best for improving the India-Pakistan relations; and yet, that is among the scenarios that Cohen finds less likely to come to life. As in everything else, the Army's role casts a long and unwavering shadow on this scenario.

I strongly recommend this book to anyone having interest in contemporary Pakistan. Even if you end up only validating many of the beliefs that you have held all along, the book certainly illuminates many dark corners with great clarity and force.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

The tale of Mariam and Laila, two Afghan women united by several tragic tosses of the dice, bond of common humanity and, above all, love, is a heartbreaking story. It is also a ride through the contemporary history of Afghanistan, as seen through the eyes of its powerless women.

This is master story telling – a credible tale, simply told. It hurts and uplifts at the same time. The sheer cruelty that we humans – in this case mostly men – are capable of inflicting in the name of misplaced understanding of duty, ideology, politics and, of course, religion is indescribable and so unforgivable. As I read the story, I felt the pain of a decent and warm-hearted people who are caught up in endless cycle of bloodbath. I know that emancipation of women or fostering of human rights is not among the strategic goals of the Western forces currently combating the Taliban, but having read A Thousand Splendid Suns I hope and pray that the Taliban never again return to power in this nation.

It is natural that curiosity and that natural propensity for passing judgements will drive many of us to compare this book with its predecessor offering by Khaled Hosseini. In my opinion, that exercise is neither necessary nor useful. If you were moved by The Kite Runner, be prepared for another emotional roller-coaster ride that is bound to leave you all churned up inside, yet – surprisingly – thrilled and happy.

Saturday by Ian McEwan

This is a brilliant work that can scarcely be embellished with known adjectives. The story of one Saturday in the life of Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon, is an extraordinary and loving peek into his soul. A day that is both ordinary and extraordinary reveals the innermost recesses of the devoted family man, competitive squash player, ambivalent right-winger, thorough professional, dissolute cook and, perhaps, much else.

As the story unfolds, tracing gentle contours till it hits a bump or two, one is carried along by the marvelous and exact - but never parsimonious - prose. At every step, one can spot oneself hovering in the backdrop or even inside of Perowne himself. Surely, I too have been here before, even though, God knows, I cannot cut open brains or fish. Or do anything else that Perowne does and can.

McEwan’s book fulfills a profound criteria of greatness – it keeps the bright focus of searchlight burning inwards – our inwards – and persuades, even compels, us to come face to face with our own anxieties and fears, emotions and feelings, attitudes and perspectives. It is a moral book that perpetually nudges us to ask the critical existentialist question, “What must we do?”

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen

I had not heard of Jonathan Franzen till a couple of months ago when Time lifted me out of slumber and informed me that he was the current big American novelist, cast for fame – and perhaps immortality – in the mould of Saul Bellow and John Updike. That made me curious enough to scour several stores in two big towns of South Africa till I found one copy of The Corrections. It would not have mattered and indeed it was a bonus that the 650 plus page book was even priced reasonably.

The story of Lambert family is an attractive tale of great sadness. A dull ache runs through the book and as you turn each page, you keep looking for relief that must arrive, perhaps with delightful suddenness. You never lose hope because the characters are not evil; they are simply us. There is always a chance then that a new window would open and defeat the sad gray enveloping the Lambert life. But, as is life, this is not a story with dramatic twists and turns that change the course so suddenly that one has to catch ones breath or say aha! Even a leading character’s fall from a luxury liner fails to alter anything and the trajectory corrects itself into a smooth wave again. In fact, if it were a film, it would masquerade as a reality-show like documentary, where the characters had no clue that they were being filmed incessantly. It rings true to life and one can trace bits of oneself littered innocuously across the pages, some that have already been lived and other, one suspects, might be lived a bit later.

I wish I could put my finger on one thing and say that this is a book about ‘old age’ or ‘love’ or ‘family’ or ‘character’ (Half a dozen more ‘themes’ readily spring to mind); It is hard for me to say it in one word what the background music of this symphony was. But it is certainly a poignant tale, one that makes issues of responsibility, loneliness, love, selfishness and individuality fellow-travellers on one journey, sometime walking on different paths but always converging and looking in each other’s eye for answers.

It is an enjoyable read, of course, but, for me, had several stretches that were relatively pointless – Albert Lambert’s tryst with his turds, for example – and the writing is deliberately not ‘tight’ in most part. Like most things American, it is a big book that takes a very small slice of time and spreads it delightfully on a large canvas, celebrating each detail with every stroke of the brush. Franzen is no Ian McEwan (one of my favourite authors) and he isn’t so by choice. By the end, it became very clear to me why, when posed the question, McEwan forgot to mention Franzen as a great contemporary American novelist.

For me, much as I enjoyed the book thoroughly, even I – with my extremely limited familiarity with English literature, mind – would hesitate to pin the lapel of greatness on this book.

The Long and Winding Road

When I sat down to write this piece, I wondered if HIV infections - and its dreadful consequence AIDS - make for a suitable subject anymore. Hasn’t all that needed to be said already been said? Haven’t the horrendous reach of the affliction in the land we live in, the heart-wrenching human story, the pathos and the urgency of meeting the challenge already filled up all the print space – and all of our consciousness? Are we not oh-so-completely aware of statistics like over 23 percent incidence, the problem of the ‘missing generation’, the budding adolescents who embarked on the journey of life with the unwanted inheritance of disease already stamped into
their fibre, the hapless women who may not be in control of their own destiny and the dispossessed strung out in inaccessible areas unable to benefit from the growing support system and the contours of the massive combat that is underway?

It has been some time since I began to educate myself on the extent and depth of this issue that stands between progress and decline like a demon with arms crossed over its chest and defiance in his eyes. There are several questions I have been asking myself:

What is the true dimension of the problem?

Do we really have a measure of it or are statistics the convenient pegs on which the issue has fuzzily been hung?

Are we rising to the challenge or has rigor mortis of hopelessness begun to stymie our efforts?
Are we winning, losing or running hard to stay in place? How and by when can we beat back the
scourge?

I have adopted the route of observation and anecdotes to arrive at my own conclusions. This is no scholarly research – I flinch when I use the words ‘scholarly’ and ‘research’ – but a layman’s journey to understand one issue bedeviling the country I have come to love so much. As we go along, I hope to share my stories and conclusions here with fellow travellers.

Today, I want to begin with the end. What is it that, in my opinion, should lie at the heart of the matter? What is it that we, the civil society, should do to lend our shoulder to this gargantuan enterprise in which the government, the professionals and the NGOs are so deeply engaged?

It would appear to me that two picket fences separate us from the road that lies ahead. I call it a 'picket fence' because one can see the view across it and
with some effort, it can be torn down too.

One, there is the real danger of getting tired of spreading the message against the causes of the pandemic. Sometimes, sheer repetition can lead to ennui and enervation. No matter how horrendous the problem, human mind – individually and collectively – can begin to exercise
‘acceptance’ simply because there appears to be no light at the end of the tunnel. Some call it denial. Many a society has lulled itself into beliefs that flew in the face of all rationale. This is a challenge we need to guard against with persistent determination. No matter how long and arduous the road and how elusive the success, the messengers and the warriors must not allow inertia to chip away at the heroic battle that is underway.

More heroism, not surrender, is the need of every hour till we have the issue by the scruff of the neck.

Two, we must work towards destigmatization the existence of the problem. Once the matter is seen for what it is – a disease like any other that need support not shunning – communities will begin to engage in the effort far more than has been the case. There are successful stories from elsewhere – Uganda for example – where it was the civil society that became the biggest support system for those who were affected. I am no expert (of course!) but perhaps that is where the salvation lies. It is the community that can take charge and spearhead the battle;
that will only happen when layers of stigma are peeled off and the problem is looked at in the eye – not with shame or aversion, but unblinkingly, and with love.

Eavesdropping on Satyajit Ray

In The Argumentative Indian, Amartya Sen invokes Ray to propagate his view that it is possible - indeed desirable - to completely retain 'indian-ness' while remaining open to other cultural influences. He provides an insight into Satyajit Ray's approach and thoughts; speaking of the problem of making films that contain nuances of language and so on that the foreigner may find hard to grasp, he says:

Such difficulties and barriers cannot be avoided. Ray did not want to aim his movies at a foreign audience, and Ray fans abroad who rush to see his films know that they are, in a sense, eavesdropping. I believe that this relationship of the creator and the eavesdropper is by now very well established among the millions of Ray fans across the world. There is no exception that his films are anything other than the work of an Indian - and a Bengali - director made for a local audience, and the attempt to understand what is going on is a decision to engage in a self-consciously 'receptive' activity.

In this sense Ray has triumphed - on his own terms - and this vindication, despite all the barriers, tells us something about possible communication and understanding across cultural boundaries. It may be hard, but it can be done, and the eagerness with which viewers with much experience of Western cinema flock to see Ray's films (despite the occasional obscurities of a presentation originally tailored for an entirely different audience) indicates what is possible when there is a willingness to go beyond the bounds of one's own culture.

Sen then quotes Ray:

There is no reason why we should not cash in on the foreigners' curiosity about the Orient. But this not mean pandering to their love of the false-exotic. A great many notions about our country and our people have to be dispelled, even though it may be easier and - from a film point of view - more paying to sustain the existing myths than to demolish them.

Steve Jobs on Life

Knowing the purpose of life, and investing time and effort only to it are the keys to fulfillment.

There has to be 100 percent integrity in using one's time, without any exceptions for self-gratification.

When A Crocodile Eats A Sun

When I began reading it, I was cautioned that this is a White man’s version of contemporary Zimbabwe. Even if I assume that it does suffer from that implied infirmity of bias and discount for it, the narrative is moving, heartbreaking and compelling. It rings with credibility. It is a tale of twin and parallel furrows of despair and love, of hopelessness and courage, cruelty and generosity. And yet, this is no outpouring of bitterness alone; just beneath the surface hope for humanity is visible, swimming serenely, waiting for its time to rise.....

This is a tale of the family of ex-policeman Peter Godwin as it negotiates an increasingly bleak and even cruel landscape in the country of its adoption. It is a human story that makes the contours of political and economic life in contemporary Zimbabwe rise in relief and we see a vivid picture.

Zimbabwe: the horrors of land-distribution, the sheer anarchy, the dark despotic shadow over millions of lives and the de-humanizing of a generation or more are a – for want of a better word – madness that has afflicted it, like the disease of a moment of passion. One aging man appears to have put Zimbabwe into an unstoppable tail-spin that can have but one ending. Or so one fears.

Reading it, I once again marvelled at the miracle of neighbouring South Africa and silently thanked Him for Nelson Mandela. In the post-apartheid decade, this country too could have careened onto the path of vengefulness. It too could have unleashed the pent up fount of vitriol and, in the name of ‘righting the historic wrongs’ destroyed a beautiful country. Even today, the fears of a Zimbabwe-like slide have not entirely stopped haemorrhaging; we can hope though that with the horrendous example of Zimbabwe to learn from and with the passage of each year, that ominous spectre will fade beyond retrieval.

The book is lovingly crafted, each sentence a surprising necklace, studded with imagery that shines and shines in its own lambent brilliance. Sunday Times blurb on the cover got is exactly right, “A moving meditation.....”