If we have no machines, must we perish?

                                                                                                                

I have always wondered why in India we have not been able to use science to empower the weak and the oppressed. More so, after I had seen a carpenter in England hack away on a raw piece of wood, single-handed; doing practically everything from sawing to chopping to slicing it off, even shaping it into objects of common use.

Quite simply, an ordinary worker in the West is equipped with all kinds of small handy machines that make his life hassle-free. All he needs is a bagful of simple machine tools to complete his routine chores, which for an average Indian workman, would make life burdensome, even miserable.

So, when a couple of years ago, Chandigarh Administration decided to convert local dhobi ghats into state-of-the-art washing marts, I was among those who had stood by and applauded quite generously. I felt that Chandigarh administration was not only people friendly, but was also making a genuine bid to soften up the tough, hard life of a neglected section of society.

Like other people in our society, who work with their hands, dhobis have to work under the most inhospitable conditions to make a living. Well, I thought, science was finally knocking at their door, giving them an open invitation to revolutionize their lives, only if they so desired.

During this period, I visited the dhobi ghat on several occasions. Every time, I saw the place buzzing with activity, as dhobis, young and old, ran around cheerily, loading dirty piles into the machines, switching them on, setting a program and then waiting for the washing cycle to complete itself.

On each of these occasions, I was impressed seeing their faces glow with a rare pride, and their immersion in work, total. It was as if they were born to work on these ‘machines,’ no strangers to this new found ‘mechanization.’ 

The other day, when I visited this dhobi ghat, again, after a gap of a year or more, I was quite shocked to see the place look deserted, almost gloomy. In the sultry afternoon heat, I could only spot a solitary young dhobi, going about his work, desultorily. He was busy drying up a pile of clothes he had manually washed.

Surprised, when I asked him the reason, he informed how the washing mart had closed down, and how things were now pretty much back to square one. On probing further, he revealed that the dhobis had run into trouble with the ‘authorities.’ 

Apart from charging them hefty rent, the ‘authorities’ insisted that they pay the exorbitant electricity bills of the Administration-owned machines, too. Stung by the blatant injustice of it all, I had expected him to turn plaintive and launch forth into a litany of complaints. On the contrary, he simply wound up the conversation, saying, “We are negotiating with the Administration. I’m sure, something positive would come off it.” In the face of an apparently provocative situation, I had found the young man’s composure, calmness and unnerving self-confidence almost unsettling.   

Puzzling over the response of the young dhobi, as I walked back home, it was as if someone whispered in my ears, “To heck with the machines. Science or no science – we, the poor and the neglected have our pride and dignity, too, and know how to preserve our ‘positive outlook.’

By Rana Nayar

Let’s not play such ‘Spoil-Sports’!

“You know, things were going just right, but this ‘media’ has queered the pitch!” Mr. Suresh Kalmadi was recently overheard, confiding to a close friend. “It’s all your fault. Why do you give them so much of freedom?” pat came the reply.

“Freedom? If we had our way, we’d gag them all and dump them in some stinking backyard. That’s where they really belong. Don’t they?” The Chairman of OC was now getting a little edgy. Sensing the pain behind his words, the friend offered a quick-fix reassurance, “You are right, they do stink. That’s because they are always out to raise a stink. And often enough, it’s over such trivial things.” “Trivial. Yes, that’s the word. I tell you, they have no sense of priorities.” It was as though the Chairman had found his voice, all over again.

“Yes, they always lose the big picture, and start swatting the flies. Trust them to do that!” The friend knew the magic of his words had begun to work on the Chairman. So, he picked up a little courage, “Can’t they see that country’s prestige is at stake? You tell me, what is more important, the Commonwealth Games or a few hundred crores? And how does it matter, if money changes hands. It’s our money, and it’ll remain with us. And once it comes into circulation, via London or Sydney, won’t it ultimately boost our own economy?”

“I wish, there were more patriots like you. That is the real rub. Patriotism is at a discount these days. I see a foreign hand here. All these news channels, I suspect, are on the pay rolls of a foreign agency. And this time, it’s not the Pakistanis, but the Chinese who are behind it. They put up such a spectacular show during the Olympics last year, and now that we were going headlong into our preparations for the Commonwealth Games, they felt threatened. They knew we’d outdo them. It’s plain and simple jealousy. Look at the way they have pulled all the plugs.” Having analyzed the situation threadbare, the Chairman now appeared more confident, even calmer.    

“I think, this is what you should have stated in your press conference. Why did you brandish that letter from the High Commissioner? That really put you in a tight spot. Don’t you think so?” The friend was trying to be sympathetic.

“Don’t talk about that! It’s all cooked up. That fellow Arnab has gone off the rocker. What does he think he is! Super Prime Minister or what? When our PM is not asking any questions, who is he?” The Chairman’s voice had a harsh, grating tone to it.     

“You are right. Arnab is the real spoil-sport! He doesn’t know what sportsman spirit is all about. After all, such things do happen, don’t they? It’s all in the game, no?” The friend was now downright obsequious. 

“To tell you very honestly, I often miss those golden years of license raj and Official Secrecy Act. Things were much simpler then. No prying eyes, no hidden cameras, no nosey journalists and no such bloody nonsense. ” The Chairman was almost bleary-eyed with nostalgia.

“Why the hell did you have to go in for things like ‘liberalization’ and RTI? It was perhaps Chanakya who once said, ‘Politics is the art of concealment.’” This time, the friend was not too sure.

“We, in the government and bureaucracy, have been ruing the day we decided to open things up. I think, the fissures have become so wide that all our ‘slips’ are showing.” The Chairman had unexpectedly turned reflective. 

I think, the Chairman has a point. After all, isn’t he our torch-bearer? It’s that Arnab fellow who needs a reality check. Doesn’t he know that our politicians have been playing hookey (not hockey) with us and our future, ever since they got the reins of our destiny in 1947?

Only, this time round, they have won all the medals (in corruption) much before the games could actually begin? Hurray!

 By Rana Nayar

Education is....and is not.....

Education is not literacy.
Education is not ruthless competition.
Education is not mindless chase of high percentages.
Education is certainly not a certificate for employability.
Education is opening a window in a dark wall.
Education is opening doors in a closed room.
Education is allowing free winds to swish through our minds.
Education is blossoming of the mind.
Education is awakening of the spirit. 
Education is discovering who you are.
Education is discovering the world around you. 
Education is stepping out of yourself.
Education is developing understanding with compassion.
Education is showing emotion to those we do not know.
Education is wiping the tears of those we do not know.
Education is really a way of communicating with self, man, family, society and God.
Education is not what you get in school, college or university but in the lab of life.
Education is an unending experiment.

Well, let us not tear each other apart

I thought we no longer lived in the jungle, we do
I thought we were no longer animals, we are
I thought we only tore apart arguments, I was wrong
I thought we only tore apart dead conventions, I was wrong
We love to tear each other apart, I must say 
We love to paw our way into each other's flesh, I must say
We love to claw our way into each other's heart, I must say
Only if we knew that pawing and clawing is not exactly love
Onlly if we knew that love is not a piece of mutton or carrion flesh
Only if we knew that love is our only chance of becoming human
Only if we knew that love is our only way of transcending beastliness
Only if we knew that love is our only option of being close to God.

Wishing all my readers a very happy Diwali

A festival of lights
Is an opportunity
To light the dark corners of our hearts
To light the dark lives of others
To spread good cheer among the joyless hearts
To infuse strength among the weak and oppressed
To share what we have with those who are not as blessed
To snuff out the burning desire inside us to harm others
To burn the monsters of envy, greed and anger
To attain peace, contentment and eternal light
To renew our pact with knowledge and wisdom
To make life little more bearable for the ones we care
To serve Him by serving those who are left unncared 
To renew our promise to our Creator
To keep His eternal flame alive in our hearts and minds
To make sure that no heart bleeds in neglect
To make sure that no mind slips into darkness
To live life just the way He wants us to live
To continue to light one torch with another
And spread so much of light through the year
That 'Amavas' is shamed into hiding and quietly disappears.    

By Rana Nayar 

A Song, Unsung

Not very long ago, we had moved into the first floor of this new house. One day as I stood, looking out of the window, a large beri loomed into sight. It stood in one corner of the park facing the house, silently, unobtrusively. Its thick, leafy canopy sprawling over its twisted, angular branches almost had a human presence. I don’t know why, on seeing it, I had been reminded of my overprotective mother who always insists on fussing over me even now when I’m on the wrong side of forty. Perhaps, in this season of autumn, I was thinking ahead of the gruelling summer, when scorched by the heat, the birds shall return to its protective arms. Looking at its strong, brawny roots, a sense of calm reassurance had surged through my being.

A few days later, when I got up one morning, I was somewhat surprised to see a litter of polythene bags around its roots. Rather than become a cradle of the singing birds, the tree had fallen prey to the decaying menace of garbage. Initially for a few days, these questions did come back to haunt me: who is defiling this tree? Why is it being used as a dumping ground? With the stink constantly on the rise, will the birds ever be able to return to its yellowing branches? Disturbed by these simple, rather naive questions, I did make an abortive bid to track down the culprit(s). But was it easy? With each passing day, the bags continued to multiply in number. So much so that now the stink had almost ceased to offend our nostrils. It was as though the entire neighbourhood was participating in a silent ritual of decay.

In winters, when the beri had already shed some of its leaves leaving the branches almost bare, a family moved into a house adjacent to ours. Right from day one, for some inexplicable reason, our new neighbour appeared to loathe this tree. His antipathy was obvious from the way in which he often looked at it. It was as though the presence of beri in direct line of his house, was a thorn in his eye. The day his telephone was to be installed, he was standing and watching outside. Though the telephone wires were in no way disrupted by the spread of its leafy crown, he ordered, rather imperiously, that a few of its branches be maimed to prevent the wires from getting entangled. Being a lawyer and a man of straight vision, he perhaps fears all kinds of angularities and puts them out of sight wherever he sees them. The thought of summer or that of the impending return of the birds couldn’t have possibly crossed his practical mind. After having presided over the chopping of the branches like some dark, sinister priest, he ordered them to be lugged into the middle of the park for everyone to view.

And the branches had lain there for several days, rotting away like the garbage around its roots. Not a single voice tore into protest. Everyone appeared to have accepted his authority rather demurely. Perhaps, this is what had emboldened him even further. One evening, he stepped out of the house along with his brother and son. With murder in their eyes, three of them marched towards the tree. While he stood watching with his son, his brother started hacking at the convoluted roots with a pickaxe, rather mercilessly. Despite repeated assaults, the tree refused to fall, holding on to its right to defend its dignity. After his brother had cut a deep, fatal wound into the main stem, he stepped over it, pushing it down, jumping over the half-cut branch. And when the main branch finally severed itself from the root, an umbilical cord snapped, sending a silent scream up the sky. Standing upon the severed branch, he had flashed a sudden smile of satisfaction, something you often see on the face of a mid-wife after a successful delivery.

Now waiting for the season to turn, each time, I look out of the window; a lifeless lump is what stares back at me. Who knows how many summer-songs lie stifled inside its dried-up sap?