Being Mortal

What is that elusive quality that elevates writing to an art? Fiction writers have it relatively easy: they can draw from a repertoire of elements to demonstrate the art: plot, characters, lyrical prose, metaphors etc.  It is much harder for non-fiction writers. They cannot indulge in hyperbole, or create fantastic worlds or drop pithy aphorisms. Writing about a  compelling subject is the easy way out...you might engage the reader, but credit may go to the subject matter and not the writing. If you take away the subject, the insights, the wisdom, will there still be something left? If so, that may be writing as an art.

Atul Gawande is one such writer and artist. Dr. Gawande is a Surgeon based in the US, and I had previously liked his 'Checklist Manifesto'. With his direct, economical and yet evocative turn of phrase, his books are enjoyable just for his writing. Being Mortal is the latest of his books, published a couple of years ago. 

In this current book, he searches for an answer to the question: How does a doctor trained to fight disease and used to success, accept that he must ultimately lose? We are mortals and death is the inexorable victor...all prior efforts are sandbags and stopgaps, skirmishes and street fights that the doctor may win, but winner of the war is inevitably death. But doctors (specially in the US), are not prepared for that reality, he says. So they may offer options to patients that may extend life by a short period, but at the cost of great suffering, loss of dignity and the loneliness of the company of strangers. He thinks this is wrong and the book seeks other solutions. 

This is a book focused on the US medical systems and culture, but his Indian links has him exploring these answers in India and other countries as well. In his search, he looks at alternatives to the attrition in the ICU: geriatric medicine, palliative care, hospices, nursing homes, assisted living, elderly communities etc. He traces the history of medicine and how it culminated in the current system when most people die in ICUs than at home. 

The search is a personal one too. His elderly father, a successful doctor and leader of society, suffers a terminal disease, degeneration and death in his old age and Dr Gawande is forced to confront his own powerlessness in that process. 

It is an enjoyable read, with compelling anecdotes that span the US and India. But the second half flags a bit, as he seems to run out of things to say and there is some repetition.

But I felt that he also missed seeing the big picture- confronting mortality is not just about the tactical options. The profundity of life, our relationship with our loved ones and with the Universe, who we are... these deep questions that have us playing blind man's buff for answers in such vulnerable moments seem to be addressed only peripherally in the book. Perhaps it is hard for a doctor to sound credible if he talks of things that are not concrete, subjects that are the focus of philosophy and religion. But nevertheless the book comes across as missing some pages. 

But in summary, definitely worth a read!

Meghadutham

The search: The journey to reading the Meghadutam was as interesting as the work itself. I was looking for the best English translation of it there is- after my enjoyable experience with 'The Essential Tagore',  I realized (rather obviously) that the quality of translation is key to enjoying the original. This sentiment is very well expressed in the preface of the translation I finally ended up reading: 'The cloud message' by Mr. Srinivas Reddy. He makes an interesting and strong case for the creative standing of translations- he cites the long tradition of such translations in India, and how each translation stands as a work of art by itself. He quotes Sri Vishwanatha Satyanarayana (someone whose work I am sure all elder Singampallis are intimately familiar with), who in his introduction to the Ramayana Kalpavrukshamu says:

I worship the same Rama as everyone else

but the devotion in my poetry is my own.

Specifically about the oft translated meghadhutam, the author likens the theme of a messenger carrying tidings between separated beloveds as a metaphor for translation. In his words:

Towards the end of the poem, just when the cloud begins to finally deliver the message, he assures the yaksha's wife that he has kept the message safe in his heart (hrdaya nihita). It is as if the cloud was claiming both fidelity and feeling, the spirit and letter of the yaksha's heartfelt words. In the following verse he states that carrying news between a husband and wife is almost like uniting them (sangamaat kincit unah), suggesting in a sense that a translation is nearly the real thing, almost a new original. It is in these ways that the translators long and winding journey is much like that of the cloud's.

So all this underscores the importance of a good translation. My Google search revealed a couple of interesting things:

1. How the Hindu continues to be the only newspaper/magazine that cares about literature. Apart from an Amazon link to buy the book and the Wikipedia link, all relevant links (except one) were from articles or reviews from the Hindu. I enjoyed reading those high quality articles and even wrote to them asking for a recommendation (did not get a reply)

2. Every review of every translation I read said the same thing: very nice work, but doesn't capture the vibrancy of the original.

Then after some conversation with SGK, I settled on buying the translation that I ultimately read. That conversation had its own interesting momentum, resulting in the excellent translation of 'Banshi' by SGK that he posted on SH, which has met the approval of his elite literary circle! Kudos to SGK.

The book: It was an enjoyable read. I think most of the senior Singampallis and spouses would anyway have read one version or the other of the Meghadutham by now, so I won't dwell much on it. I enjoyed all the things that ones praises Kalidasa for: the elegant metaphors, the strong visual language, the underlying rhythm that slowly entrances the reader, the contemporary attitude of the protagonist. But I enjoyed most the mental picture that the poem draws of majestic nature in ancient India. Particularly, there were two aspects that were captivating:

1. The intricate and exhilarating relationship that all nature in India has with the monsoon was depicted well in the poem. As you read the poem, you can see the rains moving across the country, making  an already wonderful land more beautiful

2. The powerful description of the Himalayas as the apex of nature was also good. Even today, the Himalayas hold that allure. There are some places on Earth where nature is so grand in scale and beauty that mother nature becomes a tangible presence. The Grand Canyon, the Bharmaputra, the Himalayas, the Yosemite valley- all of them have a profound impact on my consciousness, as it has for countless others. The poem provides that distinction to the Himalayas very eloquently

 In any case, Kalidasa does not require my endorsement. But if some of the younger generations have not read it, then hopefully this will give them the fillip. 

A couple of excerpts:

When you approach Lord Himalaya, the very source

           of the River Ganga,

Where the peaks are snowy white and the boulders

           are scented with the musk

Of crouching bucks, rest there on one of his ridges

           and ease the toil of travel,

As if you were a living allusion to Shiva's White Bull

           digging up the dark earth.

One more excerpt from a little later:

Soar even higher and accept Mount Kailasa's invitation

             to fly through her chasms,

Cleaved sheer by the many arms of Ten-Headed Ravana,

             but used now as mirrors

By the wives of the gods. There the high peaks, heaped

             with snow, day after day,

Will pierce the sky like lotuses of white, as if revealing

             the laughter of Lord Shiva.

And yes, while the translation was great, I was indeed left with an impression that no such work can do justice to the original.

స్వ"గతం"

చెక్కుడురాయిమేడ వీధి                         తడిపొడిగోడలు

మెట్లకింది గది                                        పెచ్చులూడి   రాలుతున్న సున్నం

కటకటాల గవాక్షం                                  పొడలుపొడలుగా అలుముకున్న నాచు

రెండంతస్థుల మేడ  

వీధి మొగలో 

ద్వారానికి అతికించిన                               నాతో మరోజీవి

మూరపొడుగు ముతకగుడ్డఫై                    అద్దెలేని సహజీవనం

ప్రాపంచికవరదాత వినాయకుడు                గోడమీది బల్లి , మాలో తేడా అది నిరాహారి 

జీతం నూరులో నాలుగో భాగం                   యంత్రాల లయబద్ధ శబ్దాలమధ్యలో

 వ్యాపారగృహంలో  చిరుద్యోగం                    చెవులు చిల్లిపడే కూతలు ,ప్రయాణీకుల సందడి

సుబ్బయ్య భోజనశాలలో భక్షణం                మోతకూలీల చెవులుమోతెక్కించే కేకలు

తన కొడుకుకు విద్యాశిక్షణం                        పదిన్నరకు నిశీధిలో

 వాల్తేరు రైలుస్టేషన్కి సాయంవ్యాహ్యాళి          చీకటి ఏకాంత స్థావరానికి తిరుగుప్రయాణం

కాలందొర్లిస్తే గదిలో గుడ్డిదీపం నూనె తొందరగా అవదు ఖాళి 

మేనత్త నివాసం గోదావరీతీర గ్రామంలో                        వధువుగా నాతో గృహప్రవేశం జరగకున్నా

అత్త మరిది కూతురికి ఈ దౌర్భాగ్యుడికి ప్రధానం            తరచుగా తలపుల్లో అవతరిస్తుంది

ఇప్పుడు ఋజువైనట్లు ,పెట్టింది సుముహూర్తం              ఉప్పాడ పట్టుచీరలో ,నుదుట కళ్యాణతిలకంతో

అప్పుడే మనం పలాయనం చిత్తగించాం                        

అమ్మాయికి ఆపద తప్పించిన అదృష్టం                         

నాపై కూడా విసిరిందో కటాక్షవీక్షణం

రిక్షాలపై ఖర్చు పెరిగింది జీతంలో తరుచు తరుగుదల          

వీధిమలుపులో  రాశులుపడిన మామిడితొక్కలు రాళ్లు        

 పనసపండు దళసరి తొక్కలు ,చేపల పొలుసులు,               

 చచ్చినపిల్లులు ,దేవుడికే తెలియాలి మిగిలిన చెత్త.             

తరిగినజీతంలా విరిగిన చిల్లుల గొడుగు 

ఉద్యోగశాల వస్త్రాలు గోపాలుడిఆత్మలా రసమయాలు 

తేమగా ఉన్న గదిలో అడుగిడితే         

  చీకటినీడలా చిక్కటి వాన  

 వలలో చిక్కిన మెకంలా అపస్మారకంలో అచేతనంగా               

నేనేమో కాళ్ళుచేతులు కట్టబడి 

అర్థమృత ప్రపంచానికి బందీగా 

వీధి చివరన నివసించే కన్నయ్య 

 మధ్యపాపిడిలో చక్కగా అటు ఇటు వేరయిన జుట్టు 

విశాల నయనాలు కళాత్మక  నైపుణ్యం 

మురళీవాదనంలో  అభిరుచి 

అప్పుడప్పుడు భీతికొల్పే వీధిగాలిలో 

విషాదనిషాదాలు  తేలియాడతాయి 

కొన్నిసార్లు దట్టమైన చీకటిరాత్రిలో ,సంధ్య కనువెలుగులలో 

మధ్యాన్నపు  వెలుగునీడలక్రీడలో ఒకసాయంత్రం 

ఆకస్మాత్తుగా సింధుభైరవిరాగం కాటేస్తుంది 

ఆకాశం ప్రతిధ్వనించేలా 

నిత్యవిషాదంలో విడిపోయిన విరహపుజంటతో 

అధాటున అవగతమయినది  వీధి ఒక భ్రాంతి భ్రమ 

తప్పతాగిన మైకంలో వదిరిన విషయాల్లా 

హఠాత్తుగా గుండెలోకదలిక 

అక్బర్ పాదూషా కి చిరుద్యోగి రామారావు కి మధ్య తేడాలేదు 

వేణువువిషాదాలాపనలో  జనించినరాగాలలో 

శిథిలమైన గొడుగు, వైభవపురాజఛత్రం 

ఏకంగా వైకుంఠద్వారంవైపు  పైకెగుస్తాయి 

ఆ అనంత సూర్యాస్తమయంలో 

ఎక్కడ సంగీతం సత్యమో శివమో సుందరమో 

అక్కడ గోదావరి ప్రవహిస్తూనే ఉంటుంది 

నదీతటాల కొబ్బరిచెట్ల దట్టపునీడల్లో 

ప్రాంగణంలో ఆమె వేచిఉంది

ఉప్పాడ పట్టుచీరలో ,నుదుట కళ్యాణతిలకంతో  

 

 

                                                                                           

 

                                                              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Wind Instrument: A challenge/request

This is a poem by Tagore called 'Banshi', translated into English. At the surface, it reflects the isolation of a penurious young man in Calcutta; but it is also about the loss an urbanite feels as he lives separate from his country roots, and the harmony we miss due to being away from nature.

I enjoyed it a lot: how topical the theme is and how contemporary a feel it has, for something written about a century ago. The wry tone, the Haiku-like sensibility of nature and seasons are appealing. Note how the oppressiveness the monsoon evokes in him is so well laid out- as is the denouement that lifts that weight.

The translator, Mr. Kaiser Haq, has done an excellent job. This is from a fairly recent  anthology of Tagore that I acquired a couple of years ago.



The translation challenge: I thought this poem would give the elder Singampallis a Telugu translation challenge, if they feel like it. Gopal babai? G Pinni? SLN?

Wind Instrument

       Kinu Goalla Lane:
ground-floor room---grilled window---
       in a two -storey house
             right  on the road.

The walls damp---
      plaster crumbling in places,
           lichened patches.

Pasted in the door---
     label from a bolt of long-cloth,
           bearing an image of
     Ganesh, fulfiller of worldly desires,

One other creature
    shares the room rent free---
a gecko. We differ in this---
    it never wants food.

    A salary of 25 rupees---
           junior clerk in a trading house.
I get my meals
    at the Dattas',
           tutoring their son,
    go to Sealdah station
           to while away evenings---
                 saves on fuel for the lamp ---

amidst the rhythmic noise of engines
     shrill whistles,
           bustle of travelers,
                 shouts of porters,
            then at ten-thirty
get back to the dark room's lonely stillness

An aunt--father's sister-- lives in a village
     on the Dhawaleswari river.
a match was arranged between her brother-in-law's daughter
             and this wretch.
The time fixed was auspicious, as was presently proved---
      That's when I ran away.
             Lucky escape for the girl---
                   me too.
But though she didn't come to live my house
      she often appeared in my consciousness---
             in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on her forehead.
                   At the monsoon's height
             spending on trams goes up,
and still there are occasional deductions from the salary.
      At the bend in the lane---
             mounting piles
of mango peels and stones
      jack-fruit cores,
             waste from gutted fish,
dead kittens---
     and heaven knows what other rubbish
The umbrella is like my depleted salary---
             lots of holes.
My office wear
      is like Gopikanta Goshai's soul,
             ever steeped in rasa.
On entering the damp room
      the dark shadow of rain
             is like an animal caught in a trap---
      knocked unconscious, inert.
Day and night, it seems, I am shackled hand and foot
             to a half-dead world.

At the mouth of the lane lives Kanta Babu---
      long, neatly parted hair,
             large eyes,
                   artistic bent.
      His hobby, playing the cornet.
Every now and then
             the notes float
                    in the lane's horrid air---
sometimes deep at night,
             in the twilight before dawn,
       amidst the afternoon's play of light and shade.
             Suddenly one evening
the Sindhu-Barwa raga strikes up---
       the skies resound
             with the  perennial lament
                     of separated lovers.

At once it's clear--
              that the lane is an illusion
like the things described
                    in a drunken delirium.
      Suddenly I feel it in my heart---
there is no difference
               between Badshah Akbar
                    and Haripada the lowly clerk.
Borne on the plaintive tones of the wind instrument
     Tattered umbrella and royal canopy
              rise together
                    towards heavenly Baikuntha.

In the eternal sunset--
     where the music is true
              the Dhawaleswari flows on,
its banks in the thick shade
     of tamal trees----
and in the courtyard she is waiting,
     in a sari of Dhaka cotton, sindur on the forehead.

***

ఓం నమఃశివాయ

నేను భవుడిని                నేను భర్తను                     నేను మూలాన్ని
నేను ధవుడిని                నేను కర్తను                      నేను  శూలాన్ని
నేను సదాశివుడిని          నేను హర్తను                    నేను కాలాన్ని,కాలుడిని ,కాలజ్ఞుడిని

నేను శ్రుతిని                    నేను శాంతిని                   నేను గుణాన్ని                    
నేను కృతిని                     నేను కాంతిని                  నేను గణాన్ని  
నేను ప్రకృతిని                  నేను జవాన్ని                 నేను  శరణాన్ని
నేను జాగృతిని                 నేను జీవాన్ని                 నేను కారణాన్ని ,కారణభూతాన్ని                                                                              భూతనాధుడిని


 కపాలపాత్రధారిని            అనంగభస్మకర్తను              నేను జంగాన్ని
 జపాలసూత్రధారిని          కనంగవిశ్వభర్తను              నేను జంగమాన్ని
 చరింతు రుద్రభూమిని     వాసం హిమవన్నగం          నేను స్థావరాన్ని
 చతుర్వేదగామిని            నగ మహాపన్నగం              నేను దత్తవరాన్ని


  అజాతశత్రువును           విశ్వచక్షువును
  శత్రుంజయుణ్ణి              ఆదిభిక్షువును
                                     మోక్షప్రదాతను  


                                                    తపించి రక్ష పొందరే
                                                    జపించి మోక్షమొందరే
                                                     హరహర మహాదేవ                                              

A stroll by the lake

Saul kere  (lake) is a peaceful lake near our house in Bangalore. Raghav and I enjoyed a nice morning a few days ago, along with a friend Chandu and his son Virat. Chandu is an avid observer of nature and it is always fun to go along with him. The lake was small and but had a spectacular diversity of birds and other creatures. The kids had fun spotting ladybugs, praying mantis of various kinds. We also spotted a spectacular butterfly, the common banded peacock. All things considered, an enjoyable morning.

Can you spot the Bark Mantis, a specialist in hiding on tree bark?

There it is!

Chandu showing some creature to Raghav and pal

A mantis lying in wait for some insect to come to the flower

Birds:
Painted Storks
Open Billed Stork
Scaly breasted Munia
Silver Bill
Paddyfield Pippit
Cormorant
Black headed Ibis
Spot Billed Pelican
Darter
Spotted Dove
Jungle Myna
Common Myna
Purple Rumped Sunbird
Purple Moorhen
Bronze winged Jacana
Pied Wagtail
Red Wattled Lapwing
Several ducks (not sure which)
Ashy Prinia
Common Tailor Bird

We went back the next weekend as a family and had just as much of a good time.

World's Best Restaurants

https://www.cnn.com/travel/article/worlds-best-restaurants-2018/index.html

Made reservations at Gaggan(Number 5) on June 22. Shall post review afterwards.

Summer trip

Leaving tomorrow to Thailand Cambodia Vietnam and Australia .back on 14 th July along with Krupa and Adi.

Labour officer gari servant maid

ముదనష్టపు దానాఁ ఎంతసేపు తింటావ్ .. తిండి మీద ఉన్న ధ్యాస పని మీద లేదు .అని నెత్తిన  ఒక మొట్టికాయ మొట్టి ఇంట్లోకి పోయింది లబోరు ఆఫీసర్ క్రుపాకర  రావు  భార్య  దయామని .. నిన్న రాత్రి  మిగిలిపోయిన నూనె  లేని ఎండిపోయిన చపాతీ ముక్కల్ని  నీళ్ళతో మింగుతూ కన్నీళ్లు కార్చింది పనిపిల్ల షాహిన్
ఫ్యాక్టరీ లో జరిగిన ప్రమాదం లో దెబ్బ తగిలి మూడు నెలల నుండి పనికి  పోటంలేదు జహీర్ . ఇల్లు గడవక చదువుకుంటున్న పిల్లను కృపాకరరావు ఇంట్లో పనికి పెట్టింది షాహిన్ వాళ్ళ అమ్మ ముంతాజ్ .
అమ్మా ఈయనకు  బాగైతే దర్గాహ్ కు వస్తామని మొక్కున్నాము . ఆదివారం పనికి రాము శనివారం రాత్త్రి పనిచేసి వెళ్తాము అన్న ముంతాజ్ తో ఊరికే సెలవలు పెడితే పని ఎవడు చేస్తాడు మీ తాత .తర్వాత వెళ్ళండి అన్నది దయామని.
అమ్మా పిల్ల వాడిని బడిలో వెయ్యాలి ఇంకో రెండు వందలు జీతం పెంచండి అన్న ముంతాజ్ తో తిండి కి గతి లేదు చదువులు కావాలి .. మేము ఇక్కడ రాసులు పోసుకొని కూర్చున్నామా అనింది దయామని.
15 రోజుల తరువాత ఇంటికెళ్తున్న షాహిన్ ను పిలిచి  మీ అయ్యగారు ఈరోజు టీవీ లో మాట్లాడుతారు . స్పెషల్ గా మీ అయ్యగారిని పిలిచారు. మీ కాలనీ లో అందరిని కూడా చూడమని అని చెప్పింది దయామని
 
ఆదివారం పొద్దున్న ఇంతకు రాని పనిపిల్లను తిట్టుకుంటూ  నిద్ర లేచింది దయామని .. పెయిన్ వున్నా ఇంజినీరు గారి ఇంటికి ఫోన్ చేస్తే అక్కడ ఇంతే.

అరగంటలో అపార్ట్మెంట్ కాంప్లెక్స్ లో ఎవరింటికి పనివాళ్ళు రాలేదని వార్త  పాకిపోయింది . పది  గంటలకు వాకిట్లో కలకలం విని బయటకు వచ్చారు కృపాకర రావు దయామని.

గుంపు గా ఉన్న ఆడవాళ్ళలో నుండి ఒక యువతి  ముందుకు  వచ్చి అయ్యా మీరు దేవుడు . మమ్మల్ని చీకటి నుండి వెలుగు లోకి నడిపించిన మహానుభావులు .. మీరు చెప్పిన దాకా మా హక్కులు మాకు తెలియలేదు ..మీ సలహా  ప్రకారం మేము సంఘం ఏర్పాటు చేసుకున్నాము
1.. వారానికి ఒక రోజు సెలవ  ఇవ్వాలి
2 . పదిహేను సంవత్సరాల పిల్లల చేత పనిచేయించటం చట్ట విరుద్ధం . అందువల్ల పిల్ల లెవరు పనికి రారు
3. మినిమం వేజ్ ప్రకారం జీతం ఇవ్వాలి
ఇట్లా మీరు చెప్పిన సలహాలు అన్నీ పాటించాలని మేము నిర్ణయించు కున్నాము
అని కృపాకర రావు కు పూలదండ వేసిన వాళ్ళను చూస్తూ నోటా మాట రాక నిలబడి పోయిన మొగుణ్ణి గిర్రున చూస్తూ ఇంట్లోకి నడిచింది

Father

జానకి టిఫిన్  నా మొహాన పడేస్తే ఆఫీస్ కు చస్తా .మూడు బస్సులు మారి పోవాలి. లేట్ అయితే నా మొగుడు చంపుతాడు.

ఆ వెధవ నిద్ర లేచాడా .... ట్యూషన్ కు తగలడమను .. పరీక్షలు  నెల లేవు .చదువు చంక నాకి పోతే అడుక్కు తినాలి .ఆ చాకలి కి గుడ్డలు వేసి చావద్దు.చొక్కాలు ఏడాది కూడా రావటం లేదు .ఇల్లు వాకిలి ఎగిరి పోయేట్టు అరుస్తున్న  సీతారాం ను ఏమన  లేక గుడ్ల నీళ్లు కుక్కు కున్నారు అమ్మ కొడుకు . చూస్తుండగానే ఈ ఈ అరుపుల తోనే ఆరేళ్ళు గడిచి పోయాయి 

ఇంజనీరింగ్ పాస్ అయి క్యాంపస్ ప్లేసెమెంట్ లో ఇన్ఫోసిస్ లో ఉద్యోగం తెచ్చుకొని బెంగుళూరు వెళ్ళిపోయిన ప్రశాంత్ సంవత్సరం తర్వాత ఇంటికి వచ్చాడు. అమ్మా నాతో నిన్ను తీసుకొని పోతాను ?ఇన్నాళ్లు ఈయన తో పడ్డ  బాధలు చాలు ..నాతో వచ్చేయ్.. 

కొడుకు మాటలకు నవ్వి జానకి మీనాన్న సంగతి నీకేమి తెలుసని ఇట్లా అంటున్నావు .నీ కు  స్కూల్ కు దూరమని అయన అయనమూడు బస్సులు మారి ఆఫీస్ కు వెళ్ళాడు .నీ కాలేజీ ఫీజు కోసంరాఁత్రి  పూట  పని చేసాడు .నలుగురిలో నీవు తక్కువగా ఫీల్ అవకూడదని రెండు చొక్కాలతో సర్దుకొని నీకు బట్టలు కొన్నాడు.ఇవ్వన్నీ కాదు ఇంకొక బిడ్డను భరించలేనని నేను ఆపరేషన్ కు  ఉంఫిట్ అని ఆరేళ్ళు భర్తగా నానుంచి దూరంగా వున్నాడు .
మీ నాన్న ఆ మండే సూర్యుడు. ఆ వేడిని నువ్వు చూస్తున్నావు. సూర్యుడు లేకుంటే ఈ భూమి మీద జీవమే లేదు . తాను కాలి  పోయి కరిగిపోయి జీవితాలు నిలబెట్టే సూరీడు మీ నాన్న. .ఇంట్లోకి వచ్చిన సీతారాం కాళ్ళ మీద పడి  న  కొడుకును వెధవా ఈ వేషాలు వద్దులే . జాబ్ చేస్తున్న పిల్లను చూస్తున్నాము ?నాలుగు రూపాయలు దాచుకో 

I am not able to post any images! anybody else have the same problem?

Bliss.....

After a few busy months of hectic travel and work, spending a relaxing evening reading some Telugu novels and listening to some old melodies...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=11yh-UCeev4

And catching up on the blog posts.

Chennai - The unchanging city

What changed in Chennai in the 60 years I knew the city.
Much and not so much really.

plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose (Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr)-- Ha! my french showing through-  It means "The more it changes, the more it is the same (thing)."

(as Pondicherry was an ex French Territory, The Govt. of India had promised to protect the french heritage and culture. So, a study of French was compulsory in all colleges in Pondy.. I scored 111/200 in the certificate course in French run by University of Madras.)


I.The Railway Stations
1. The Central--Madras central railway station looks the same--a few cosmetic changes like chairs in the waiting hall, a new waiting hall at the side and a new A/c waiting room and dormitory hardly mark a make over. Same platforms, same stalls, same food and same dirt and same jostling crowds. Luggage on the platforms, waiting to be loaded into the parcel vans and coming in the way of passengers, puddles of water from (?fish) from some parcels, bad smells, food smells, filter coffee smells and a mix of languages make up a typical day on the platforms. Polite crowds, passengers gossiping with total strangers exchanging stories of their life and asking about the others' lives are my favorite people. It holds up the mirror of life to you and lets you get an insight into life as such.
2.Egmore - My interaction with Egmore was very little. There was a train service to Pondicherry. It used to start from Egmore at 10.00pm after all the important trains going south left. It used to reach Pondy by next morning - 6 to 8 am. When you can travel in 4 hrs (those days-now it is 2 1/2 hrs), why travel 8 to 10 hrs? The languages heard were either Tamil or Malayalam.



2. The Bus stands--
The Pallavan Express Bus stand at Parry's corner, next to the high court complex has now been shifted out and since it is nearly 15 years since I traveled by a bus, I do not know what the new one looks like. In my day, I used to take a rickshaw to the bus stand from Central. It was at the end of the block from Law college entrance on Broadway. We had to get a token at the ticket booth and when the bus comes in, you embark as per your token no. No pushing, jostling or reserving a seat by throwing a hanky through a window. All very peaceful and slow as the frequency was not great. But the roads were good and the travel was comfortable. ( Mullapudi's joke-"you know that you have entered AP from Madras when you feel the first bump.")

Next alternative, the moffusil Bus stand a few yards down the road from Broadway signals towards the flower bazaar police station- Stalls on to the road, a narrow entrance and crowded place with buses going down south standing and loaders yelling "Pondy, Pondy" or "Cuddalore, Cuddalore".
 All very hectic and buses with lots and lots of luggage on top-Keerai and miscellancy- standing waiting. I used to travel mostly by express buses as an express bus will take me by the JIPMER campus and I can get down there instead of going to Pondy bus stand. They used to go via Dindivanam(or Thindivanam)----Chennai--Chengalpattu--Mamandur-Maduranthakam-Thindivanam. I shall talk about it later. The moffusil buses used to ply the road along the coast via Marakkanam and go to Pondy directly. On return journeys, I had to go to Pondy as there may not be any vacant seats by the time the bus comes to JIPMER campus. Then the choice was any bus.


The rarely used bus stand (by me of course) was the  Basin Bridge Bus Stand at the end of Wall Tax road. all the buses going to Andhra started from there, but my choice was the train. The Karuvadu stalls (dried salted fish) from near the Padmanabha theatre to the Basin Bridge were a source of nauseating stink which improved my breath holding capacity by 3 times.

A Sunday morning walk

On Sunday, Sasi and I went for a walk at Valley School. This is a branch of the JK Foundation Rishi Valley school at Madanapalli. They have a large tract of shrub and bamboo forest land, with a brook running through it. We had an enjoyable 3 hours observing various kinds of flora and fauna. Among the finds of the day:

Birds:
Indian Gray Hornbill (a pair)
Coppersmith Barbet
White cheeked Barbet
Red whiskered Bulbul
Red vented Bulbul
White browed Bulbul
Tickell's Blue Flycatcher
Fan tailed Flycatcher
Indian Parakeet
Indian Robin (male)
White breasted Kingfisher
Greater Coucal

We also could hear several peacocks and a couple of babblers

Butterflies:

Indian Wanderer
Common Crow
Common Mormon
Common Rose
Yellow Orange Tip
Crimson Tip
Dark Blue Tiger
Bright Babul Blue
Pale Grass Blue
Common Emigrant
Plain Tiger

Other creatures (including from another Sunday at the same place):
Tortoise shell Beetle
Jewel Bug
Robber Fly
Several grasshoppers
Assassin bug
Several frogs
Stick insect
Several beetles
Ant Lion

It was an enjoyable morning.

Stick insect

Jewel bug

Tortoise shell Beetle

ICU Tales - 2
Arrogance,Domination
                                      I observed a typical Hyderabadi Muslim family which seemed to be very affluent also.There were almost ten members eight elderly  and a young  couple.Patient was an oldman in a critical condition. They occupied the entire place on the right side.They adjusted the pedestal fan into their direction and turned the wall mounted fan to provide them comfort.Their daily routine was provided by the young couple with fiawless obedience like supplying coffee tea cakes cookies all in a time fitting pattern.Allthe other attendants were awe struck and impatient also. Then the sweeper came and admonished them for the garbage they  had thrown and readjusted the fans.Sadly the patient died  and they all disappeared from the scene.I still remember their costly mobiles and it was just like watching a Hindi serial on T.V.Their behaviour was   very unbecoming and out of place.                                 

Chennaiyan

My favorite city has been (and may be will be) Madras (not Chennai) always. My association started when I visited Madras with my parents when they went there for Thyagaraja Aradhana in the month of December when I was 11 years old. Music Academy was the venue. I was left to play with kids in father's friend,Mr. VK Balasubrahmanyam , a professor in Madras Law college. They were living in Shenoy Nagar, on the outskirts!!  (Now it is such a busy center).

My next visit was a memorable one for it got me kicked out of Andhra Loyola College, Vijayawada, where I was doing my PUC (class XII). I wanted to attend the convocation and receive my Visarada certificate from Dakshina Bharatha Hindi Prachar Sabha in T. Nagar. I was denied permission by our Vice Principal, as it will mean missing 3 days of college at such a crucial time (quarterly exams). I went anyway, had a jolly time, saw Cleopatra in Safire and went back to Vijayawada, only to find that I was expelled for indiscipline.It ended happily after my father came, apologized and paid a hefty readmission fee. To his great credit and to my utter astonishment, he did not scold me. He merely said " you won't fit into such colleges." I remembered this when I went to admit my son in Bangalore when I chose MSR over PES due to the strict rules of the latter and as my son was more free spirited than me.
Safire complex hosted a theatre with continuous shows--The Blue diamond. You can buy a ticket and walk in any time, stay any length of time, see the same movie again and again. But if you come out, you have to buy a new ticket. In the later visits, I used to walk in in the middle of a movie, watch till the end, wait for it to start again, see till the point where I started and then walk out. So most of the time I knew how it ended before I knew how it started.
Once I became a student of JIPMER, I was a frequent visitor as I had to pass through Madras on my way to Pondicherry.
More to come----------------

Grace & Forgiveness

Third Class in Indian railways: In those traumatic days when SRN was in the ICU, I also used to do shifts in the lounge outside. It reminded me of the times when I travelled in unreserved compartments between Chennai and Hyderabad (lack of planning being a long term vice). Strangers of all creeds and from all corners of the country, squeezed together in a small space in impromptu sleeping arrangements (mats on the floor in  between rows of plastic bucket seats), with a  daily competition for the 'cushy' berths (the spots in line with the wall-mounted fans), were yet able to spend many nights in quiet companionship and a camaraderie born of mutual sympathy. There were the 'long-termers' (such as us) and the dailies, with the former having some unwritten rights to their previously staked-out berths. The long-termers eventually got to know each other and the reasons they were there. (By the way, I took the title of this paragraph from the name of an interesting essay by MK Gandhi...just Google for it.)

The lady who said grace: One such long-termer was this middle-aged lady, who used to be next to Durga pinni and me. Her husband, a blue-collar employee of the Indian Railways, was in the ICU with a grievous injury, the details of which I forget now. Both Pinni and I were struck by her. She had a stillness about her, and had grace in her motions. Every night, and every morning, she would veil her face for a few minutes and offer a prayer. Over time, Pinni stuck up a friendly conversation with her and we found out she was a Christian, which seemed to explain her rather unique style of prayer. Her family seemed to consist of a brother and sister, who visited her at the hospital occasionally.  Days passed, faces changed, and we all remained a constant, helping each other with minor things.

The sleepless night: One night was a sleepless one, thanks to a series of alarms going off at different times of the night. My  hypothesis for this Greek chorus of alarms: people rushing to the hospital from out of town usually do so in the wee hours of the morning and have to use alarms, which on most phones seem to be by default in a 'recur daily' mode. Hence, the alarm rings  again the next night, and usually the said people are too deep in sleep to wake up to it. I had to get more than once that night and search for the offending phone in a dark room as it screamed away with impunity. That night, the ICU visitor lounge also seemed to be hosting a mosquito convention and I was definitely the popular item on the menu.

Three is company but four is a crowd: This next night, when I came to lie down in my spot, I saw that this lady had visitors-her siblings (not unusual)- who also intended to sleep there along with us that night (unusual). Pinni had gone home for the night and it was just me flying the Singampally pennant in the lounge. The place was more crowded than usual that night, and the mat that we proposed to share was just too small for 4 people (3 of them and 1 of me). Though I am not normally fussy about such details, the sleep deficit from the previous night had dried my reserve of patience. I thought it selfish of them to treat this like a hotel and have 3 people sleep when 1 or 2 could have sufficed, specially on a crowded night. I told the lady's brother that the place was too small and he should find a different part of the hall to sleep. I don't think I was impolite and but I was short with him. They didn't say a word and seemed strangely embarrassed. When I came back to the spot a few minutes later, the brother was still there, but had squeezed himself into a small space, leaving ample room for me to sleep. It was a compromise that I was OK with and the night went by peacefully.

Righteous, not righteously angry: The next morning, I was not feeling very good about my actions. While I may not have been selfish, I could have been more selfless, perhaps. The lady & siblings left, ablutions were performed and  a few hours later, pinni came back as expected. In conversation, I mentioned to her about the incident of the night, and asked her opinion: Should I apologize to the lady? Pinni said:" Well, the mat on which we are sleeping is actually hers. A few days ago, I was so struck with her piety that I requested her for her mat. I felt that God (whether Christian or otherwise) has to be with such a person and her grace can only help us". So: Even though I was the guest (on her mat), I had busily bundled out the hostess's brother from the guestroom. And the lady (and her siblings) had not once mentioned that to me. Instead, they accommodated me at the cost of their inconvenience. I thought back to a few occasions where people had wronged me: I don't think I let a moment lapse before I bubbled over with righteous anger at their offence.

Forgiveness: The next time I met her, I apologized. She immediately dismissed the matter to be nothing, and that was that. "To err is human, to forgive, divine." ,  said Alexander Pope. But I aver that the forgiveness is truly divine when it is bestowed silently upon the offender. The hospital had many lessons to offer, but this was a good one. 

My city

Would you like to describe your favorite city to the blog? We can see the city through your eyes and enjoy and may be see the same city in a different way next time? I shall start off with Madras AKA Chennai.

yesterday srn,durga,kanth svn padma manas summu came to our house.it was fun through out.every one shouting at the same time on different topics.elders nostalogy,youngerones indulging in selfies.dmr a silent spectator as usual.a typical singampalli union. very happy to see srn in his old form.

Phoenix

As Krupakar pointed out, this is indeed a Phoenix rising from its ashes. Come on guys and gals! Put your fingers to the keyboard and push or press those buttons! Let’s go. Race you to the first post!