A brief digression on love

Spring is the season of love. The sea-breeze that sets in at three thirty starts to set in at three. The wind picks up and rustles the leaves on trees, like a maid giving a room a complete shakedown before the owners of the house are to arrive. Little piles of green tender coconuts appear on the sides of the pavements and lie there unattended. The shopkeepers know that no one will buy a green coconut till its summer and when it’s summer it’s too hot to lug around green coconuts, so they fill up the pavements on the street during spring and leave, only to arrive in force in summer. Sometimes, rarely, you will find one of these piles and also the owner standing besides the pile, caught in the very act of leaving,  and then it becomes easier to buy these tender coconuts at a sharp discount of up to five rupees per coconut. Every little counts, when you are in college. Because you need the rest of the money to take the love of your life on long bus rides, around the city, in the middle of the afternoon. Only in spring is this feat possible, without sweating too much, or needing to wrap up your face in a wet handkerchief. Evening or morning bus rides are too crowded and it is difficult to sit next to the love of your life on the `ladies only’ section of the bus. And you’d rather not sit with her on the ‘gents only’ section of the bus, and have all the gents ogling her. And so afternoon bus rides are the only way to go, and spring is the only time that they are even tenable in this city. Some of these days it is even cloudy and there is a little drizzle that makes the roads wet and sends everybody scampering indoors. And if you are on the bus that is taking the long road that lies right besides the beach, you can stare out into the sea and pretend for a minute that you are in one of those pictures that they put in magazines with titles like “Santorini Island”, so beautiful does the Marina look. And then you look into her eyes, hold her hand tightly and pray that the bus ride goes on and on and on. But then, in a week it becomes summer. And the sun seems to want to turn the entire city into a crispy masala dosa. Spring which brings forth love, is a very fickle season that close to the Equator. So is love, come to think of it. And so on the 24th of February (in summer, spring having begun exactly one week earlier on the 15th of February) young Sakti stood despondently outside the gates of the ladies’ hostel of Mamta Engineering College, clutching a yellow and a red rose. He had fallen in love with Sarmila exactly one week before and their whirlwind romance had seemed to be progressing so smoothly. Now courtship over, he had proposed the question and had been rudely rejected. And yet, Sakti did not rend the roses or keen over in pain. Sarmila was the sixth girl he had fallen in love with and he knew from long experience that the roses would be brought back by the florist just outside the gates of the college. When you are in college every little counts. But he had to admit, he was heartbroken.

A love affair in a college is a rare and yet common occurrence. A jilted one has the entire college buzzing. To the male denizens of the college it is a challenge. Friends immediately come surging around to offer their helpful advice and to broker peace accords between fighting couples. Some of this is a rather vicarious pleasure. But the occurrence of the affair itself is inevitable. Take a set of boys. Take a set of girls. Put them in a college that is miles away from every human habitation. I can assure you the love that then happens is an all consuming passion, unconquered, unquenched, that lights up the entire boys section of the hostel like the electric bulbs in their rooms rarely do. And so, “louve happenz”. And so do breakups. And a breakup follows a life of its own. First, there is the initial spurning. Where the girl gives a reason. In Sarmila’s case the reason had been simple. She had wanted to concentrate on her studies, and though she loved Sakti she had to ensure that her studies were not interfered with too much and she did not pick up an “arrear in her papers”. Poor Sakti. What could he do? Other than to prove it to Sarmila that he loved her and had her and only her best interests at his heart. And that he would willingly undergo anything, if it meant her life would be better. What was needed was something, anything, that was a challenge. Needless to say, it had to be painful.

The challenge was found two weeks later, It was a science fair that was being organized by the first year students of this college on the auspices of the college getting its first clinic and ambulance. As socially responsible citizens Sakti and another classmate of his called Mudassir had been given the challenge of showing visitors the sublimation properties of dry ice. Why Mudassir started the conversation he would never know. Maybe it was the boredom of the long afternoon- pulling dry ice out of some flask and waving it around before families with little kids-or Sakti’s smile that was getting him down. What he wanted now was the cool of his hostel room, and the comfort of the fan circling above. And so irritated, he turned around to look at Sakti and decided to play a prank with him.
-Dey Machhi. He said. Look at the girl over there
-Who? asked Shakti
-That girl. Wandering over there. Super figure macchi.
-Hmmm… said Shakti, unwilling to be drawn into this conversation.
Having cast the opening, Mudassir now slyly decided to needle Shakti.
-Super figure that girl has man, just like Sarmila
He might as well have exploded an atom bomb under Sakti. He had strongly suspected that another man could be the reason that Sarmila had left him. Was Mudassir that reason. And to think that it was only yesterday that he had got Mudassir a beer. Springing to his feet Sakti yelled:
-Dei. Don’t you dare speak another word about Sarmila. I. I love her. he said
-But she doesn’t love you mama, needled Mudassir. She doesn’t trust you.
It was the very challenge that Sakti had been looking for.
-She is a fool, he sneered. I can never harm her. In fact I can tolerate any pain for her.
Mudassir pondered this for ten seconds. He was a bit of a sadist, and it was very rarely that his victims ever so willingly walked into his trap.
-Will you do anything for Sarmila’s love machan, he asked
-Yes, da, replied Sakti
-Then quick, said Mudassir, hold this dry ice in your hand, and I promise you Sarmila will know that you love her.
Mudassir had always wanted to see what would happen when dry ice touched skin. He had thought about dropping it on some of the smaller kids who had visited the stall but prudence had won over. With Sakti, he realized, he was onto a good thing.
-Quickly, he insisted. If you really love her,hold it.
As Sakti held out his hand, he used the tongs in the thermos flask to lift out a piece of dry ice, and put it into Sakti’s hands, and closed Sakti’s fist around it, for added effect.
-Machan, how does it feel da.
-Nothing, said Sakti.
-Why nothing? You have to feel pain for Sarmila no? Should I put more, enquired Mudassir
-Nothing, said Sakti
-Machhan, if you love her, you have to keep more dry ice da, said Mudassir. He had always wanted to do dissection in biology, or failing which become a butcher in his village. It had been his dad’s idea to send him to this college.
-Nothing, said Sakti.
-Machan, what Nothing da?
-I can’t feel. Anything, said Sakti and then fainted. Dramatically.
And so, on the very first day, the college ambulance was put into service. Sakti earned the sympathy of the entire college, while Mudassir was given two weeks suspension “for misusing college property”. The circular suspending him never made it clear if Sakti or the dry ice was the college property.

Having spent a week in hospital with second degree burns and a frostbitten hand, Sakti had been released back to college. When he entered the hostel, the only greeting he had received had been the sarcastical clapping of another room mate. Much happens in a college in one week. Sakti had been spoken about fondly for two days and then forgotten for more pressing matters, like a record that had to be submitted, problems to be solved, and the outstanding credit in the canteen that was yet to be fulfilled. Sarmila in the uncaring ways of girls everywhere was now to be found laughing (yes, laughing!) and talking (some might even say chatting!) with another boy from the same class. Sakti found this out on Monday, once he was attending class, and it bothered him no end of deal. Here he was, with a white one centimeter spot on his hand. And Sarmila seemed to be unaware of his very existence. Sakti had to do something. Anything to reclaim his love. He decided to get a tattoo.

The tattoo was going to be a big problem. Their college was a long way away from nowhere. Even the littlest village that could be expected to serve them meals was a full twenty kilometers away. He did not know if tattoo artists could be found in those far away places. And even if they did, tattoo artists demanded to pay a lot of money, up to twenty rupees and it would be the rare tattoo artist in a remote village who would know English. For in his love Sakti had determined that he would tattoo Sarmila’s name in English. He did not feel that the language of his fore-fathers could ever express Sarmila’s beauty the way it was expressed in English. And so Sakti, the romantic at heart pragmatist decided to do the tattooing himself. But there was a problem. How ever did one tattoo?

And this led Sakti to the library to research tattoo’s. Not that the librarian was helpful. Sakti’s polite inquiries about books on body art, had been laughed at by the librarian. “This is a technical library” , he had told Sakti. Sakti briefly toyed with going online to research the subject, but the college’s only computer needed permission from the principal before it could be accessed. And Sakti balked at the thought of talking to the principal. The question of his grades could come up, or his absence from certain classes, or worse still his episode with dry ice. And so, Sakti decided to give himself a tattoo. He knew that it involved blades and ink and so he went down to the local store and bought two ‘Max 3′ blades and some Camlin ink, and he decided to do it that very day, before his nerve gave out. In all these plans he had not factored in the caring nature of his room mate Vijayan.

Vijayan was a caring person. Born into a family which had also produced one elder sister (whose marriage he was responsible for) and two younger brothers (who he had to care for when his parents went to office), responsibility and caring hung over his every word and deed. He knew that his room-mate Sakti was in love and though he did not know exactly why Sakti had held dry-ice in his hand, he suspected the motive. All the movies he had seen till now, had invariably had a hero, in love with a heroine, who had both messily died in the last scene of the movie. He suspected something similar was the problem with Sakti. So it was unfortunate, that he should happen to open the door to their room when Sakti was just in the act of giving himself a tattoo. While opening the bottle of Camlin ink, Sakti had spilt some of it on his pants, and he had therefore taken off his shirt and pants and was wearing only his ‘lungi’ as he was giving himself his tattoo. Vijayan saw Sakti standing in the room, in a lungi, before their small mirror, his left hand outstretched, and a blade poised in the other hand.  Vijayan had never heard the term ‘ritualistic suicide’, but this seemed like a perfect example of it. ”Dei, Machi. Careful da!!!”, he bellowed, in a loud voice, before pouncing on top of the startled Sakti with the intention of wrestling the blade out of his hand. The ensuing struggle was fierce but brief. Having pulled the blade out of Sakti’s hands, Vijayan  got to his feet.

“Payitiyama da (are you crazy)”, he asked Sakti.

“Dei. That was only for a tattoo da”, said Sakti, from his prone position on the ground.

This stumped Vijayan. He had not considered this possibility. But he knew in his heart that Sakti was only lying. He looked around for other evidence and found it.

“Then why are you bleeding from your wrist?”, he asked Sakti.

“Where”

“There, from your left wrist”, said Vijayan.

Sakti turned around to look at the red liquid that his hand was covered in. The quantity was copious, and flowing so freely that it almost looked like ink. Had the shopkeeper sold him red, when he had requested blue. If so, he would have to be very harsh with the shopkeeper indeed. Blue ink was thirteen rupees while red cost only eight and…

“Machi”, said Vijayan, then gulped and said evermore softly “oh, shit!”

And so for the second time in a span of two weeks the ambulance was again pressed into service again.

This time around they kept Sakti in hospital for two weeks. Potential suicides by students are taken very seriously by the college authorities, a theory which Sakti was at first happy to support before he realized that it would possibly mean a visit from the police and he was too embarrassed to confess the real reason why he had been found ‘naked with a blade in his hand’. And so he hit upon the ’saving’ story. He claimed he had been ’saving his arms and armpits’ when Vijayan had stepped in and mistaken this act (in the overzealous way ofVijayan) for suicide. What he was doing trying to ’save’ the underside of his wrists the unimaginative bureaucrat from the police station never bothered to ask him. Sakti was offered two weeks leave by the Head of his department to go home. At any other time Sakti would not have thought such an offer possible. But the thought of going back home and explaining this entire ordeal (and his bandaged left wrist), to his mother was too daunting. Even for Sakti. The offer was politely declined, and Sakti returned to college two weeks later.

But what about Sarmila? The object of all this misguided affection. In any small college any news of love, spreads faster than a infection of a common cold, and this was precisely the case in this one. News had spread throughout the college, that Sakti had attempted suicide, because Sarmila had spurned his love. This was surprising to the many boys who had always been interested in Sarmila, but had never found the courage to talk to her.  Suitors for Sarmila’s hand popped up all over the college. Boys began talking to her, noticing her and writing her love notes. Sarmila now found herself at the center of a lot of attention, all of it unwarranted and she not unnaturally blamed it all on Sakti. With the result that two weeks later when Sakti came back to college, Sarmila walked up to him in the college canteen (which happened to be the social pivot around which college life revolved), at lunch (when most people were in the canteen) , spoke harshly to him and told him to his face (before the rest of the college who were now watching with open mouths), that she did not want to speak to him. Ever. Again.

The effect on Sakti was to push him into a fit of exquisite depression. He had loved this girl. He had really loved her. He had tried to prove it to her, that he had loved her, he would never harm her. The burn marks on his left hand, and the interesting and deep scars he carried on his left wrist, should have assured her, instead of irritating her. But there he was. Girls! For some inexplicable reason, this girl had decided to spurn his love instead of loving him. There was only one thing to do. He would have to breakup with her, and forget her.  And so he decided to resort to a ritual which was as old as history itself and the most effective in forgetting a girl. Sakti was going to get drunk.

Drinking in a college, especially in a small technical college, is one that requires a lot of effort. Drinking was expensive. Drinking inside the college was banned. And yet. A college with 300 boys, all of whom had nothing to entertain them after three in the afternoon apart from two volleyball courts, had found a way to slake it thirst. And in the case of forgetting a girl, when the thirst to be slaked was huge, friends were sought and alliances made. The word was passed around. Sakti had broken up, machi. He needs to drink. To forget the girl. Sakti’s friends gathered around to help him forget. Five rupees were searched for at the bottom of pant drawers and handed over to Vijayan. Sakti’s friends ate vegetable puffs at the college canteen rather than their preferred egg puffs for a week.  And so, in a week, the necessary amount of 400 rupees (210 for a whisky bottle, 65 for cigarettes and the rest for snacks), was arranged for.  All items were procured and the date of the drinking session was set for the Friday of the same week. All those who had contributed money were allowed to attend the drinking session. A contribution of ten rupees earned you a ‘tube-light’ (since it lit up slowly and was subjected to flicker) which was a peg mixed with water. Since Sakti needed to forget he could drink neat. The drink was called a ‘head-lamp’.

The party took place in Sakti and Vijayan’s room. For technical reasons involving a warder, it actually started on Saturday at three in the morning. Social custom within the college dictated that all drinking had to be done only in the night. Anything otherwise meant you were an alcoholic, so there was a rare speed to the proceedings. In order to accommodate the large number of contributors, some of them had to be seated on the sunshade, below the room’s balcony, where they were to be found half an hour later, still nursing hopefully their ‘tube-lights’. The conversation in the first half hour had veered, as it eventually did to the topic of girls, love and life.

-’Machi, girls da’, said one, ‘they use you and leave you’

-’I know da.’, said another, ‘they just don’t understand how much we love them’.

-’Machan, remember Vasan, he loved that first year girl da. Even wrote her record for her. The girl just left him for that senior da. Just because he had car’.

The conversation was carefully designed to stir self-pity in Sakti, to ensure that Sakti truly believed that Sarmila had left him for no fault of his. To enforce it, Sakti was constantly plied with the whisky, till he was more and more inebirated. Sakti opened up an hour into the party.

-’Machan’, he sobbed, ‘ I loved that girl da, but she left me.’

-’It’s okay da’, said Vijayan, ‘there will be a girl for you da.’

-’Machan, but girls don’t understand da. What have I not done for her. I held dry ice for her da. I got a tattoo.’

This stumped Vijayan. He did not know Sakti had a tatto.

-’Where machi?’, he asked.

-’Here’, said Sakti holding up his bandaged wrists for all to see. ‘Here’. He gulped twice before turning on Vijayan.

-’Dei! You also owe me twelve rupees. You broke the Camlin ink pot. Plus twenty rupees for the hospital da. They asked me…’

-’Machan, have another peg da’, said Vijayan hoping that the alcohol would also remove this memory along with the memory of Sarmila that they hoped it would remove.

Three hours, most of the contributors had left. Sakti had got more and more belligerent. Two-thirds of the bottle down, he had become paranoid, and was now suspecting most of the male population of the college, including the professors and the office boys of holding a spirited campaign to steal his Sarmila from him. He was now ranting away.

-’Machan. Mudassir da. He stole the girl away from me da’, he said.

Mudassir standing in a corner, took offense with this statement.

-’Machi. Ask your friend to shut up da. I don’t steal girls. I don’t need to steal girls.’, bellowed Mudassir to Vijayan.

Vijayan did not want trouble. He turned on Sakti.

-’Machan. Chumma iru da (keep quiet)’, he pleaded with Sakti.

-’Why machan? Why? He took my girl away from me. He stole her da.’

-’Who the fuck stole her. She went out with another guy’, yelled Mudassir.

This new piece of information was too much for Sakti to bear.

-’She left me da’, he bellowed. ‘Left me for another guy. Lalita! Lalita…’, he sobbed.

Mudassir and Vijayan turned around to face Sakti.

-’Machi’, slurred Mudassir, ‘who are you crying for machan? ‘

-’lalita, machan. I love her’, sobbed Sakti.

-’Who the fuck is lalita?’, asked Vijayan

Sakti was silent for a moment.

‘Don’t know machan, but I love her da’, said Sakti.

‘Maybe my first love’, he hiccuped and then more helpfully ’maybe third…’

The sun which rose up half an hour later found Sakti nestled in his bed, a smile on his face, his hands touching the bottle  of whisky which lay on the floor. Nights can be brief this close to the equator. So can love affairs.

Islam it is for me

Well maybe I might just convert to Islam and move to one of these Arabic countries. Look at some of the perks that they just have given employees. Very perky I must say

Indian Snake Oil

Pratik Kanjilal in a piece today on Hindustan Times claims that “British doctors looking to ban homeopathy is positively medieval” and wants a “healthy agnosticism to replace scientific fundamentalism”. I do not understand how Pratik defines agnosticism versus fundamentalism. But I would think that it is better to be fundamentalist about the truth of a claim rather than to be agnostic. The pertinent question here is does homeopathy cure a specific disease or not? The answer can either be a Yes or a No. If someone is determined to answer that question with a Yes or a No, does that mean he is a fundamentalist. I suppose then that to Pratik Kanjilal Copernicus, Magellan, Galilleo would also be guilty of scientific fundamentalism. How much better to sit around and say “It could be true, it could also be false, how can we ever know” than to actually look for the answer and destroy the precious fantasies of millions of people who believe in a myth. Pratik is guilty of being no more than an apologist for hoemopaths the world over.

The fundamental illogic of his position goes even deeper. He claims that:

Homeopathy’s benifits are unproven because they can’t be tested by the method of science. Even the most diligently designed double blind test must fail in one count. Science requires a valid experiment to be replicable. If Aconite 30 cures the sinusitis of Andy West of Tintagel, it must identically cure Judy North of Inverness. However, homeopaths go by clusters of symptoms rather the names of diseases. And, rejecting the egalitarianism of mainstream medicine, they believe that Andy and Judy are different people and should be treated differently. How do you design an experiment to accommodate that difference?

Arey yaar. You cannot treat a cluster of symptoms or a symptom. You can only treat the underlying disease. If homeopathy works on curing only symptoms it needs to be banned just for that fact. But Pratik Kanjilal displays his thoughtlessness even more blindingly. How dare scientists insist that Aconite 30 must cure sinusitis in all patients. It may cure it for Judy. But it might not for Andy. It all depends on your luck and your horoscope.

The fundamental premise of medicine is that patients suffer from an underlying disease which is the same across patients. Which is why you can have medicine to cure or control malaria, hypertension, aneamia. You can have medicine that either cures a disease (which is a name given to an set of symptoms produced by an underlying pathology) or does not. To quote Jared Diamond “You have medicine that works. Or does not. There is no alternative medicine” You cannot have medicine which can cure herpes for Dhawan from Delhi but not for Sandra from Santa Cruz. Well you can. But then, either Sandra does not suffer from herpes or the medicine given to Sandra does not cure herpes. Either way Sandra has paid for some medicine she hopes would cure her medical condition, because the person who sold her the medicine promised her that. And the medicine did not work. This is exactly the problem with homeopathy. Let me put that into perspective. How about an LCD TV that might work for you or might not. Pay me some money, take the LCD TV back home and it might work. Or not. If it does good for you. If not. Sorry. You were just not lucky pal. Would there not be a consumer court case? Wouldn’t you quickly check if the manufacturer of those LCD TVs adhered to some quality standard? When we won’t tolerate such low standards for our TV sets, why tolerate such low standards for life saving medicines?

There are other parts of the column that are even scarier:

Many patients turn to alternative schools when mainstream medicine fails and leaves them facing chronic disability and pain, or the inscrutable mystery of death. Unless homeopathy is unequivocally proven to be quackery, which is not the case, it is irresponsible of doctors to bar access to it

Again the illogic of the above lines are crazy. Unless a homeopathic drug can be proven to effectively treat the disease of what use is it? Plastic has no medicinal value as a drug. Let us say a person is suffering from cancer and the doctors have told him that he has exactly six months to live. What would you say to me if I were to sell Plastic to this person. What would you call me if I told him “Hey it might cure cancer. It might not. Some doctor somewhere reported it cured it for him. I prefer to remain agnostic. It could or it could not. I prefer not to find the answer since then I might be called a fundamentalist.” What would be the difference if I were to sell this plastic to the cancer patient from a tent on the roads of Gurgaon with a sign outside saying “Neel bhabha ke Himalay se jadi bhootian” (The mendicant Neel’s shrubs and herbs from Himalayas dispensary) or from an office in plush Sector 42, wearing a white coat?

The other equally stupid claim made by Pratik Kanjilal is this:

Homeopathy is routinely denounced because no one knows how it works. But a physician should be asking a simpler question: does it work for my patient? The doctor’s cure is to offer a cure, or at least a comfort. Ruminations about its scientific basis come later.

Brilliant. Would you want a doctor, who decides to give you a tablet that can cure your liver but might paralyse both your leg. No, you wouldn’t. You would want your doctor to think through all the possible ramifications of a course of action. Will it cure only that specific disease. Will it cause any side reactions. However according to Pratik Kanjilal, it doesn’t matter. You went in with a problem about the liver and the doctor should try and cure your liver problem, what’s the loss of a couple of legs to do with it. Or offer you comfort. Not just crazy. But extreme lunacy.

Having tired of plying the readers of Hindustan Times with these little nuggets of bad logic, Pratik now becomes increasingly irrational. Homeopathy he asserts

uses statistical shorthand like ‘miasm’ and ‘psora’ to cluster people and their symptoms into groups, which are mapped to cures. If one banned it, one should also consider banning other disciplines founded on statistics. Economics, a notoriously erratic discipline, immediately comes to mind. Should one ban economics? Maybe.

Statistics is a tool. I can quote statistics all I want, but if I claim that Australia is close to the North Pole I would still be wrong. The problem here is that just because homeopathy uses statistics it does not become correct, no more than a man wearing a white lab coat can become a doctor. But I guess these subtle distinctions are rather lost in the black hole of illogic that are Pratik’s arguments.

And to finish off the piece here’s this little flourish from Pratik

And by the way, did I mention that Queen Elizabeth II has a personal homeopath? Maybe I forgot. Yeah, maybe. I love that word.

Queen Elizabeth II also has twenty personal pets who all exclusively happen to be corgi dogs. So? When has Queen Elizabeth II been the last word on medicine or a registered medical practitioner? The Queen is free to have a personal homeopath, or snort drugs. That is entirely her personal choice. Whether it gets labelled as medicine will require just a bit more evidence than that.

Tales from beneath a coconut tree

Hop, Skip, Jump, Turn.

and…

Hop, Hop, Hop, Skip and the stone arcs gracefully out of the hand of the young girl standing by herself on one leg under the hot afternoon sun.

The young girl must be six or seven and is dressed in the traditional pavada chattai of this dusty village in a silent corner of India.

Overhead the sun is working away at the long fronds of the coconut tree, looking to crinkle it to a brown the color of the girl herself, while far away in the distance little puffs of dust spurt over the road.

The road on which the little girl is playing her hopscotch has been leached a dry white by the sun while the ten squares, which now is to the girl her entire world, is a bright brick red. The rest of the world is now inside the houses with the sloping roofs which line the sides of the road. Those who have work, have left for work in the far away city, and the women of the houses are now working in the cool shade of the trees,  in backyards bordered by reed fences of just the right height to enable the women to pause between work and lean on the fences and to talk to their neighbors and listen to their neighbors to talk to their neighbors, till the entire long backyard is a babble of voices and it feels like the entire village is talking .

- Did you hear about Saraswati’s son. I hear he has decided to go to Presidency College in Madras

-Saraswati’s son. No. But I did hear that Ambi mama is now looking for a boy for his daughter

-Mami. Can I borrow some chakarai from you. I remember telling my husband. But he seems to have forgotten. As always

-Uma. That husband of yours, someday he’ll forget to come back home. Better take care of him to ensure that doesn’t happen.

And while the chatter continues inside the young girl is outside navigating troubled spaces of her own making. The young girl is called Pammi. Named with one of those tongue twisting names which only the specially privileged can ever get, her name has been shortened to Pammi. The youngest of a brood of seven, she is still too small to go to school and yet to old to be held against her mom while she is working and has now been left entirely to her own devices. But only for a time.

-Pammi. Come inside or you’ll be baked to a crisp and then no one will marry you! comes the voice of her mother from the dark shadows of the porch of her house.

Pammi knows from the tone of voice that her mother is still not angry. She is just checking on the status of her daughter. And that the next time her mother will threaten her with the boom-boom-matukaran. The man with the buffalo that can shake its head and predict your future. She is scared of the boom-boom-matukaran. She tried following him down till the end of the street. That was.. one no two weeks ago. And then she ran back since she is not allowed to step outside the street. Only once did she ever stray outside the street. And that was after her dad when he was going somewhere but then quickly her eldest brother came running after her, lifted her and took her back to the house. She remembers this like a dream from very long ago.

And yet, Pammi knows that this, is only the first of many warnings before she will have to run inside and at least three warnings away  before her mother will finish her cooking and come outside and drag her in for lunch. With the satisfaction of knowing the way of things Pammi throws the stone again and gets ready to hop to where it touches ground.

And then comes the song from far away.

-Hari, hari, ramay, krishnay, radhe shyam

From far away comes the sweet tones of the song  unlike any she has heard before. Songs to her are happy and here is one that does not seem to be happy. It will be a long time before she understands that this is one song that speaks of longing and sadness. But that is still far away and young Pammi races to the veranda and clambering onto it, hopes to find who is singing it.

It is a mendicant. A female mendicant at that. With her black hair gracefully tied back and wearing the signature color of saffron, the mendicant is carrying a bowstringed instrument that she strums to keep track with her music. The mendicant stops at the end of the street at the veranda of Papa mama’s house, and standing there begins to sing her song.

Pammi hops on the veranda watching the mendicant. Visitors to this dusty village are far and few in between. Teni the district center is two hours away by bus and Madurai the closest city is a full four hours away. Madras Pammi herself has never heard of. The only time visitors are expected are around Deepavali when Sundaresan mama’s sons return from Madras. Pammi wonders about this mendicant. Who is she, and where has she come from.

The mendicant meanwhile has tired of waiting at Papa mama’s house. She sings out again for the third time hoping for the alms that it is her right to receive. She has received none, and it does not look like she will receive any more from this house. She steps to the next house.

Young pammi watches with her heart racing in excitement. Usually when mendicants or beggars walk down the street begging for money, they turn away once their demands are met. And pammi’s house being right in the middle of the street, she has never had the chance to ever feed a mendicant. But others have told her that it is a good thing to feed a mendicant, or a sick person, or an animal in need, or any animal.

-How much punya will I get if I feed a bird, she had once asked her mother.

-Enough to keep you in heaven for ten days, replied her mother

-And how much punya will I get if I feed a cat, she had then asker her mother.

The results she had not expected

-Pammi, are you playing with the stray cats again. If I catch you playing with the stray cats again, I’ll call the boom-boom-matukaran inside the house, catch hold of you in a gunny bag and give you to him

Petrified she had never fed the cat again. Or hoped to sneak milk to it.

But then her mother had caught the sadness in her eyes and stroking her hair gently had told Pammi

-But you can feed mendicants. That brings you a lot of lot of lot punya. Enough to keep you in heaven for ten years.

-Really, piped Pammi

-Really. And if you feed a mendicant, it is as if all the other mendicants have also eaten. So you get more punya

-Really?

- I hope so said her mother

And this time Pammi had caught the look of intense sadness in her mother’s eyes. And her mother had not said anything, but retired to the kitchen leaving Pammi to wait for one of her brothers to come back from school

And so, Pammi waits for the mendicant with growing impatience, and counts the remaining houses on the sides of the street once again.

The mendicant is now making her way to Subu mama’s house. Subu mama has three daughters, the youngest Shanta who happens to be about Pammi’s age and between her and Pammi runs a river of jealousy that has both their mothers smiling. Pammi watches the mendicant with growing unease. She knows that Shanta is inside the house. She also knows that Shanta would know that Pammi would want to feed the mendicant. But Shanta can feed the mendicant all by herself thereby gaining ten years of access to heaven. The thought is unbearable. And Pammi clutching the stone does not know what to do. Will Shanta come out? Will she hear the mendicant? And at this moment, seeing the mendicant raising her instrument to sing her song again, Pammi yells out.

-Ey. Please come here.

The mendicant turns around to follow the voice. She can only see the deep shadows in the porches. Not the little figure standing by one of the pillars.

-Who is it darling? she enquires

-It is me Pammi, says Pammi and leaping out onto the street, runs to the mendicant and grabbing her hand pulls her to her house.

-Wait here, says Pammi and starts to run inside but stops.

She turns around and faces the mendicant and tells the mendicant

-I’ll bring you things to eat. My mother is cooking inside, and I’ll bring you rice and curd and pickles. And I think we have some mangoes too. I’ll bring that to you too.

And so saying she runs into the house and down the long corridor.

With practiced ease she leaps over each one of the small padikattus at the entrance to each room to reach the kitchen near the very end of the house.

She races upto her mother and pants out to her

-Amma, quick give me some rice, and curd and pickles

-Edukku di (Why? ) asks her mother

-There’s a mendicant outside. And she…

Her mother’s face twists in irritation.

The kitchen is never the right time to catch hold of her mother. It’s dark, it’s smoky, it’s extremely hot, and the lunch has still not prepared. Her four young brothers will be back from school in no time at all, and they will all have to be fed, and their clothes will have to be inspected for tears, which her mother insists on doing in the afternoon itself, so that she can darn it before the sun sets, and her patti (her dad’s mom), will need her special food even before her brothers are in.

-That’s all we need, says her mother.

- But amma, says Pammi, you only told me that there is a lot of punya to be had by feeding mendicants

- Yes darling, but first one should have food then punya no, says her mother, looking to mollify the little girl.

-But then if we feed one mendicant, then we feed all mendicants, you said. Think about how much punya we can get, says Pammi

Her mother’s eyes look shocked, then sad, then fill up with tears.

-Get me that banana leaf, she tells Pammi

Her mother quickly folds the leaf and fills it up the with some rice, from the large pot, ladles some curd from the large brass vessel, drops some pickle onto it

-Now, go quickly and don’t let granny know, she tells Pammi

Pammi quickly picks up the parcel and readies to sneak out of the house.

The house is an old one. There is a long corridor that connects the kitchen to the front door and there are five rooms that run off one side of that corridor. Her patti could be in any of those rooms of that corridor.

Gathering the pleats of her pavadai in her hand, young Pammi starts to run through the corridor. Just as she crosses the second room she sees her Patti come out of the third room.

-Where are you running, you young donkey, asks her Patti

Young Pammi slows down. Running around Patti is apt to get her six on the behind with the rear end of Patti’s hand fan.

-Nothing Patti, I was just…

-What’s in your hand? demands Patti

-Nothing, just some food, says Pammi.

-For who? asks her Patti.

-For the mendicant, sobs Pammi.

-For the mendicant!, yells her Patti, Give me that

Reluctantly, her plans thwarted yet again, Pammi hands her Patti the banana leaf carrying the food for the mendicant and her hopes for Punya and spending ten years in heaven.

-Laxmi, yells her Patti, to her mother. Have you seen what this daughter of yours is doing, yells her Patti to her mother as she walks towards the kitchen. She is giving food to mendicants. Is it not enough that your husband has become one, and left his family and his mother without any food. Is it not enough that you have to send what little money you earn to the temple to support him. Now your daughter wants to give mendicants on the street food. For what. So that we should also join your husband…

Pammi hangs her head as she looks at the face of the mendicant by the doorway. The mendicant having listened to every word, is now watching her.

Head hung in shame, eyes brimming with tears, she walks to the porch, and once there, she hugs the pillars of the porch.

-Sorry, she sobs, Patti took the food.

-It’s okay little one, says the mendicant and reaching into the bag behind her back she reaches in, removes an yellow mango and places it before Pammi.

-There that is for you, she says.

Turning around she walks down the street, leaving the little girl standing by the shadows of her porch sobbing to herself. And far away over the streets comes the lilting cry.

Hari hari ramay, krishnay….

Prayer and Other Puzzles

In a column called “Inner Voice” on HT, Roy Eugene Davis tries to explain to us when and how to pray. It is necessary he feels to not pray to GOD but to pray in GOD. Before praying, he feels, it is also necessary to clearly define your needs and desires. He also lists the following things that need to be done to have an effective prayer:

• Be still until you are calm and you are aware of being one with God
• Do not beg for what is needed
• Rest for a while in that consciousness of fulfillment until you are permanently established in it
• Be thankful that you have realization of fulfillment

Sigh! This has been done so many times and yet…

Of all the things that humans do, eating, washing their behinds, day dreaming, writing proposals, no activity comes closer to uselessness than praying. Prayer as an attempt to fulfill a need or a desire is essentially stupid and verily futile. Ever wonder how every priest who has asked you to pray has also said that “God helps those who help themselves”?

If we had already found out the most effective form of prayer that got us what we wanted, believe me all humans would know it. However I suspect that isn’t the case.

There are only two possible things that can happen after you pray:

1. God answers your prayer
2. He does not

People have this bias only remembering the cases when a result reinforced their belief. When somebody/anybody has kept score then the results have become negligible. This hasn’t been a problem for the religious since the one single rare occasion is called a miracle. Well if you define a single rare occasion as a miracle then there is no reason to celebrate a miracle. It is rare, and entirely produced by randomness, thank you very much.