A vehement objection. Now he knew what it meant. Always the altruist, he stooped to pick it up. Under the sole, the insect struggled to break free. It was alive and kicking. They always are. Especially in the autumn – the falling leaves have something to do with it. But what a spectacle? One could watch the scene for hours. And be fascinated by the intrigue. Drop by drop, inch by inch. It was relentless.
Kopachchan adjusted the goggles. It was almost dusk. But he could not chance it. He had to take the decision mow. An inexplicable tap on his shoulder startled him. Who could it be? At this hour? And at this God forsaken place? He dared not turn. So he let out the blood curdling scream. At the end of it he felt better. His hair stood on end. But he felt better. Eyes closed, he sat in the lotus position.
The insect struggled to break free. It was much more alive now. But the objection was even more vehement. Suddenly he went blank. Nothing. Just a blank whiteness. An endless beep. Was he dead? He could see vivid shapes. The light appeared blinding. The insect was miniscule, yet its every feature was clearly silhouetted. Kopachchan knew it. It was over. He sighed. And relaxed his grip. As he fell, time stood still. And at that very moment, the insect broke free. It fell too. Kopachchan could see the insect falling. It was just above him. Almost within reach. But he just watched. They fell in slow motion. It was a graceful dance. Almost gravity defying. And as the light dimmed, the water fell away. Clouds of cool moisture enveloped them. They were suspended in mid-air. Time and space stood still. Kopachchan's mind was a blank. He had no thought. He had ceased to exist.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Abode of Peace ****
Purushotaman entered the bus terminus. The chaos he encountered was overwhelming. He placed his trust in a tout, and was pleased to secure a seat on a Super Deluxe Airbus. As he waited, he watched the dust and pandemonium in the bus terminus. Everyone went about their business. The vendors, beggars, touts and assorted travelers. Soon, a run down bus backed into the bay in front, rattling loudly, and emitting sporadic bursts of black smoke. It was the Super Deluxe Airbus. The words were emblazoned in bold letters on its side. Purushotaman got in. Inside it was an oven. A dank smell of sweat and damp cloth and unwashed bodies hung in the air. People carried their large suitcases, baskets of farm produce and all manner of goods on-board, filling the aisle, the overhead compartments and even the roof racks.
Soon the bus moved. This brought relief from the still and humid air. Now there was a constant blast of dusty hot air coming through the windows. Purushotaman sat - uncomfortable in his threadbare seat. The arm rests were missing, and the screws which had once held them poked his forearms. And then the passenger in front decided to recline his chair. This brought his head on Purushotaman’s lap. The journey lasted 3 hours.
Prashanti Nilayam. The name conjured magic. The Avatar Himself is here. As he neared the place, Swami’s photos were everywhere. His projects were everywhere too. Sathya Sai Water Project, Super Speciality Hospital, schools, colleges.
Purushotaman was excited as he made his way into the ashram. He dragged his suitcase and enquired about accommodation.
“Block N-8 saar. Faraners accommodation.”
It was a good distance. Purushotaman was sweating and tired as he reached Block N-8.
“Sairam. Please sit down saar.”
“Sairam. I come from Malaysia. I need a room for 2 days.”
“Sary saar. No accommodation available.”
This was unexpected. Purushotaman sat and stared at the man.
“All rooms full,” the man added, to drive home the point.
“You can try hotels outside.”
Purushotaman collected his things and began the long trek back outside. After several inquiries, he managed to get a decent room. The rental was steep, and the facility bare. But he was contented. He thanked Swami for the room.
***
Purushotaman decided to have lunch at the Ashram Canteen. He was in a long slow moving line. He was hungry and tired, and the shoving and pushing and queue jumpers added to his misery. At last he was at the front of the line.
“Sairam. 2 chapattis please.”
“No money. Only token.” The man waved him on.
Purushotaman asked around and was pointed to another long slow-moving line outside.
Finally he got his chapatti. He said his prayer and took his first mouthful.
***
It was Dharshan time. As Purushotaman tried to walk in, the seva dal stopped him. “Saar, no bag, no book. Purushotaman looked at the articles in his hands. Someone pointed out the cloak room. He queued up. As he reached the front, the man was brusque. “You read sign. Only cell-phone.” And he started dealing with the next person in the line. Looked like he had no choice except to go back to the hotel room to leave the things. Suddenly it started drizzling heavily.
Purushotaman sat in the Dharshan hall. He was wet. The floor was cold and hard. The crowd was jabbering away in a cacophony of languages, drowning out the sweet melodies of the Vedic chanting. Then, a sudden calm. Heads were bobbing up. Swami was here ! Purushotaman strained to catch a glimpse. Suddenly, a spot of orange in the sea of white. Tears flowed. He was no longer wet. The floor was no longer cold. Nothing else existed except him and Swami. He was in bliss.
***
Purushotaman was due to leave after this Dharshan. He watched the slight figure in orange wheeled out of the hall. He continued to watch until the very last moment. As he left the hall, he was already planning his next trip. To the Abode of Peace.
Soon the bus moved. This brought relief from the still and humid air. Now there was a constant blast of dusty hot air coming through the windows. Purushotaman sat - uncomfortable in his threadbare seat. The arm rests were missing, and the screws which had once held them poked his forearms. And then the passenger in front decided to recline his chair. This brought his head on Purushotaman’s lap. The journey lasted 3 hours.
Prashanti Nilayam. The name conjured magic. The Avatar Himself is here. As he neared the place, Swami’s photos were everywhere. His projects were everywhere too. Sathya Sai Water Project, Super Speciality Hospital, schools, colleges.
Purushotaman was excited as he made his way into the ashram. He dragged his suitcase and enquired about accommodation.
“Block N-8 saar. Faraners accommodation.”
It was a good distance. Purushotaman was sweating and tired as he reached Block N-8.
“Sairam. Please sit down saar.”
“Sairam. I come from Malaysia. I need a room for 2 days.”
“Sary saar. No accommodation available.”
This was unexpected. Purushotaman sat and stared at the man.
“All rooms full,” the man added, to drive home the point.
“You can try hotels outside.”
Purushotaman collected his things and began the long trek back outside. After several inquiries, he managed to get a decent room. The rental was steep, and the facility bare. But he was contented. He thanked Swami for the room.
***
Purushotaman decided to have lunch at the Ashram Canteen. He was in a long slow moving line. He was hungry and tired, and the shoving and pushing and queue jumpers added to his misery. At last he was at the front of the line.
“Sairam. 2 chapattis please.”
“No money. Only token.” The man waved him on.
Purushotaman asked around and was pointed to another long slow-moving line outside.
Finally he got his chapatti. He said his prayer and took his first mouthful.
***
It was Dharshan time. As Purushotaman tried to walk in, the seva dal stopped him. “Saar, no bag, no book. Purushotaman looked at the articles in his hands. Someone pointed out the cloak room. He queued up. As he reached the front, the man was brusque. “You read sign. Only cell-phone.” And he started dealing with the next person in the line. Looked like he had no choice except to go back to the hotel room to leave the things. Suddenly it started drizzling heavily.
Purushotaman sat in the Dharshan hall. He was wet. The floor was cold and hard. The crowd was jabbering away in a cacophony of languages, drowning out the sweet melodies of the Vedic chanting. Then, a sudden calm. Heads were bobbing up. Swami was here ! Purushotaman strained to catch a glimpse. Suddenly, a spot of orange in the sea of white. Tears flowed. He was no longer wet. The floor was no longer cold. Nothing else existed except him and Swami. He was in bliss.
***
Purushotaman was due to leave after this Dharshan. He watched the slight figure in orange wheeled out of the hall. He continued to watch until the very last moment. As he left the hall, he was already planning his next trip. To the Abode of Peace.
A stroke of genius ***
Vengaiah squatted in front of his shack in Doddapatti. The heat shimmered off the rocky ground. His few goats rummaged among the rocks for grass. The wells had no water, and the villagers had to haul water from nearly a mile away. It had not always been like this. He recalled that even a few years ago the wells had water all year round. Crops grew and there were grazing grounds all around the village for the cattle and goats. The Ranch had changed their lives. Although some of the villagers worked there or sold their produce to the Ranch for paltry sums, they now lived in abject poverty. On top of that their access to Uravakonda town had been cut off by the Ranch fence. Now the villagers had to take a more circuitous route to town.
***
Ramarajulu Reddy alighted from his Mercedes Benz stretched limousine. As he entered his mansion, the manager of the Ranch followed. He had urgent papers to be signed. They were buying up another 1000 hectares to the north. “Our Ranch must be the biggest in the country. Do whatever it takes.” This was Reddy’s clear order. Over a short span of just 8 years, they had amassed a vast area in Kedahalli, stretching all the way from Uravakonda to Doddapatti. Through innovative and often questionable methods, they had tapped surface and ground water and transformed the Ranch into a green showcase. All types of crops grew there. Vast gardens bloomed. Many VVIPS visited the Ranch. It was a model and a showcase. The brochures handed out to visitors did not fail to mention that the per capita income of the Kedahalli taluk had increased a thousand fold since the Ranch had been established. But it did not say that 98% of the income was Reddy’s. It did not mention the exploitation of the poor ignorant villagers. Or that the massive extraction of water had depleted the water in all the surrounding areas, causing desert-like conditions in many of the areas around the Ranch. In short the Ranch served to enrich one man while impoverishing the community as a whole.
***
Minister Venkataraman was bored. The taluk officer was going on and on in a monotonous drone. “The Union Government has identified this as a problem. The development goal set was for the income disparity between taluks to be less than 25%. But here are two taluks next to each other with vast difference in income level. Kedahalli is extremely prosperous. The per capita income is among the highest in the State. But right next to it is Doddapatti. Per capita income less that Rs 400 per annum. Far below hardcore poverty levels.” He went on to show pie charts and more data. Then he showed a map of the area. Suddenly Venkataraman sat up. He had a brainwave.
“Hold on. Can we table a proposal to the State Assembly to merge these two taluks?”
***
Ramarajulu Reddy alighted from his Mercedes Benz stretched limousine. As he entered his mansion, the manager of the Ranch followed. He had urgent papers to be signed. They were buying up another 1000 hectares to the north. “Our Ranch must be the biggest in the country. Do whatever it takes.” This was Reddy’s clear order. Over a short span of just 8 years, they had amassed a vast area in Kedahalli, stretching all the way from Uravakonda to Doddapatti. Through innovative and often questionable methods, they had tapped surface and ground water and transformed the Ranch into a green showcase. All types of crops grew there. Vast gardens bloomed. Many VVIPS visited the Ranch. It was a model and a showcase. The brochures handed out to visitors did not fail to mention that the per capita income of the Kedahalli taluk had increased a thousand fold since the Ranch had been established. But it did not say that 98% of the income was Reddy’s. It did not mention the exploitation of the poor ignorant villagers. Or that the massive extraction of water had depleted the water in all the surrounding areas, causing desert-like conditions in many of the areas around the Ranch. In short the Ranch served to enrich one man while impoverishing the community as a whole.
***
Minister Venkataraman was bored. The taluk officer was going on and on in a monotonous drone. “The Union Government has identified this as a problem. The development goal set was for the income disparity between taluks to be less than 25%. But here are two taluks next to each other with vast difference in income level. Kedahalli is extremely prosperous. The per capita income is among the highest in the State. But right next to it is Doddapatti. Per capita income less that Rs 400 per annum. Far below hardcore poverty levels.” He went on to show pie charts and more data. Then he showed a map of the area. Suddenly Venkataraman sat up. He had a brainwave.
“Hold on. Can we table a proposal to the State Assembly to merge these two taluks?”
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Wash your hands **
I nervously looked up at the small fading sign “Cellphoon reapars”. On my way to buy a new Blackberry, my innate sense of foolhardy adventure made me stop my car and investigate. A shop not more than 6 feet by 6 feet in the backstreets of Chennai. Grimy and uncleaned.
“Can you fix a blackberry ?”
“Of course.”
The boy was no more than 10. I certainly wasn’t handing my precious blackberry to a 10 year old in unwashed and torn T shirt and khaki shorts.
“What’s wrong with it ?” “Well, the roller track ball does not respond. It’s kind of stuck and I cannot operate it”
He grabs it from my hand and looks at it.
“You should wash your hands. Many customers have same problem. Roller ball get greasy and dirty, then no working.”
Look who was telling me to wash my hands. He probably has not bathed for 10 days, I leaned out to snatch my useless blackberry back.
“You come back in one hour and I fix it.”
I was not leaving all my precious data in this unwashed kid’s hands for an hour. No way.
Then suddenly big brother walks in. He is no more than 19.
“What problem ?” He says grabbing the phone from the boy’s greasy hand into his greasier hand.
“Normal blackberry problem. I replace with original part now. You must wash your hand before you use this.”
I look sheepishly at my hands.
He rummages through a dubious drawer full of junk and fishes out a spare roller ball packed in cheap cellophane wrapper. There is no escape as he fishes out a couple of screwdrivers and sets about opening my Blackberry.
“How long will this take ?” “Six minutes ”
This I have to see. After spending the whole morning trying to find a Blackberry service centre and getting vague answers about sending the phone in for an assessment that might take a week, I settle down next to his grubby cramped work space. At least I am going to be able to watch all my stored data vanish into virtual space. People crowd around to see what’s happening. I am getting a trapped feeling. I am breathing heavily. I have a desperate urge to grab my precious blackberry back and make a quick escape.
But in exactly six minutes this kid handed my blackberry back. He had changed the part and cleaned and serviced the whole phone. Taken it apart, and put it together. As I turned the phone on there was a horrific 2 minutes where the phone would not come on. I looked at him with such hostility that he stepped back.
“You have more than thousand phone numbers ?”
I nodded.
“Backed up ?”
I shook my head sadly, ready for more admonishments.
“Must back up. I do it for you. Never open phone before backing up.”
“You tell me that now ?”
But then the phone came on and my data was still there. Everyone watching laughed and clapped. This was becoming a show. A six minute show.
I asked him how much.
“500 rupees saar.” He ventured uncertainly . People around watched in glee expecting a negotiation. That’s $ 10 dollars as against the Rs 30,000 ($ 600) I was a about to spend on a new blackberry or a couple of weeks without my phone. I looked suitably shocked at his high price. But calmly paid him. Much to the disappointment of the expectant crowd.
“Do you have an Iphone ?”
“No, why?”
“I break the code for you and load any ‘app’ or film you want. I give you 10 film on your memory stick on this one, and change every week for small fee.” He offered.
I went home having discovered the true entrepreneurship that lies at what we call the ‘bottom of the pyramid’. Some may call it piracy, which of course it is, but what can you say about two uneducated and untrained brothers aged 10 and 19 that set up a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and can fix any technology that the greatest technologists in the world can throw at them.
I smiled at the future of this country. If only we could learn to harness this potential.
“Please wash your hands before use phone.” were his last words to me. Now I am feeling seriously unclean.
(adapted from original by Unknown Author)
“Can you fix a blackberry ?”
“Of course.”
The boy was no more than 10. I certainly wasn’t handing my precious blackberry to a 10 year old in unwashed and torn T shirt and khaki shorts.
“What’s wrong with it ?” “Well, the roller track ball does not respond. It’s kind of stuck and I cannot operate it”
He grabs it from my hand and looks at it.
“You should wash your hands. Many customers have same problem. Roller ball get greasy and dirty, then no working.”
Look who was telling me to wash my hands. He probably has not bathed for 10 days, I leaned out to snatch my useless blackberry back.
“You come back in one hour and I fix it.”
I was not leaving all my precious data in this unwashed kid’s hands for an hour. No way.
Then suddenly big brother walks in. He is no more than 19.
“What problem ?” He says grabbing the phone from the boy’s greasy hand into his greasier hand.
“Normal blackberry problem. I replace with original part now. You must wash your hand before you use this.”
I look sheepishly at my hands.
He rummages through a dubious drawer full of junk and fishes out a spare roller ball packed in cheap cellophane wrapper. There is no escape as he fishes out a couple of screwdrivers and sets about opening my Blackberry.
“How long will this take ?” “Six minutes ”
This I have to see. After spending the whole morning trying to find a Blackberry service centre and getting vague answers about sending the phone in for an assessment that might take a week, I settle down next to his grubby cramped work space. At least I am going to be able to watch all my stored data vanish into virtual space. People crowd around to see what’s happening. I am getting a trapped feeling. I am breathing heavily. I have a desperate urge to grab my precious blackberry back and make a quick escape.
But in exactly six minutes this kid handed my blackberry back. He had changed the part and cleaned and serviced the whole phone. Taken it apart, and put it together. As I turned the phone on there was a horrific 2 minutes where the phone would not come on. I looked at him with such hostility that he stepped back.
“You have more than thousand phone numbers ?”
I nodded.
“Backed up ?”
I shook my head sadly, ready for more admonishments.
“Must back up. I do it for you. Never open phone before backing up.”
“You tell me that now ?”
But then the phone came on and my data was still there. Everyone watching laughed and clapped. This was becoming a show. A six minute show.
I asked him how much.
“500 rupees saar.” He ventured uncertainly . People around watched in glee expecting a negotiation. That’s $ 10 dollars as against the Rs 30,000 ($ 600) I was a about to spend on a new blackberry or a couple of weeks without my phone. I looked suitably shocked at his high price. But calmly paid him. Much to the disappointment of the expectant crowd.
“Do you have an Iphone ?”
“No, why?”
“I break the code for you and load any ‘app’ or film you want. I give you 10 film on your memory stick on this one, and change every week for small fee.” He offered.
I went home having discovered the true entrepreneurship that lies at what we call the ‘bottom of the pyramid’. Some may call it piracy, which of course it is, but what can you say about two uneducated and untrained brothers aged 10 and 19 that set up a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and can fix any technology that the greatest technologists in the world can throw at them.
I smiled at the future of this country. If only we could learn to harness this potential.
“Please wash your hands before use phone.” were his last words to me. Now I am feeling seriously unclean.
(adapted from original by Unknown Author)
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