I am going through, very slowly, translations of Rainer Maria Rilke's letters to an aspiring poet, Franz Xaver Kappus, in the early twentieth century; these have been translated and bundled together in a book 'Letters to a Young Poet'. As the introduction aptly reminds us, they could as well be titled 'Letters from a Young Poet' for the poet Rilke had a tremendous impact on German poetry.
The letters, reflections of some of his poems, are at times dark and disturbing, at other moments, revealing and spiritually profound. He talks of writing, life, the essential creativity of the spirit, the inevitability of solitude and how to accept it, and more. The words seems to spring right from his heart and flow out in a compelling torrent - this is what makes the book haunting and thought provoking. He writes at the end of the first letter:
"What else should I say to you? I think everything has been emphasized as it should be; and all I wanted to do in the end was advise you to go through your development quietly and seriously; you cannot disrupt it more than by looking outwards and expecting answers from without to questions that only your innermost instinct in your quietest moments will perhaps be able to answer."
And, later-
"Make use of whatever you find about you to express yourself, the images from your dreams and the things in your memory. If your everyday life seems to lack material, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; for there is no lack for him who creates and no poor, trivial place."
We have only to read some of Rilke's poems to see this (though something is probably lost in translation)-
A Walk
My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
(Translated by Robert Bly)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Yogasanas : An Inward Transition
Moving inwards is the ultimate aim of a yoga student and, initially, many decide they are not quite ready for this : they need to wait until they are more qualified or more relaxed or ready to begin the pranayama (breathing techniques) or meditation before they move inwards. The beginning stages of the practice, especially the asanas (postures), seem so outwardly oriented, apparently focussing on the body, that many people dismiss them or overdo them for this reason.
There is an essential need to strengthen and tone the body even for those interested only in the mind. Meditation requires a stillness that cannot be achieved until the body can be quietened - those muscular spasms, nervous jerks and the drooping of the spine will hinder a long, uninterrupted session of meditation. On the other hand, those interested in relaxing the body first may spend long hours lying down in a particular position, trying to accomplish this, while their minds are churning away, wasting large amounts of energy. Asanas are an unusual technique, dynamic by nature, but providing tremendous opportunity to work internally at subtle levels.
Initially, of course, one struggles just to attain a particular posture and be comfortable in it. One should keep in mind that one is only attempting the asana at this stage (footnote 1). Mastering an asana takes time and works at different levels - the joints, nerves and muscles (which make themselves painfully felt!), the breathing, the mind, the energy flow and eventually the spirit (these also make themselves felt but in a different way) (footnote 2). The transition from an outer movement to an inner one comes when one begins to focus on inner aspects - initially the bandhas (internal muscular locks), the breath which changes as different parts are extended or squeezed and finally the mind, which must be completely free of thoughts. This is attempted by closing the eyes after attaining stability in each pose and looking not on the specific point that each pose demands, but within, to the heart instead. There is an immediate withdrawal of energy from the mind and external senses and an inward channelizing which brings a deeper level of relaxation than the physical movements themselves. You feel a sense of calm and well-being and begin to focus on messages from the heart and the breath; stray and unwanted thoughts are easily dispelled, rigid mental patterns broken (footnote 3).
This paves the way for breathing and meditation techniques which require one to focus on internal aspects while the body is kept still. Each method brings its own satisfaction but the exhilaration of gradually allowing the body to realize its potential, while remaining oblivious to the outer world (as much as possible!) is unique.
Footnotes from the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali:
1) "Sthirasukhamasanam" (Yoga sutra 2.46) - Asana is stability of the body, steadiness of the mind and a state of ease of the spirit.
2) "Prayatna saithilya ananta samapattibhyam" (Yoga sutra 2.47) - Perfection in an asana is attained when the effort to perform it becomes effortless and the infinite being within is reached.
3) "Tatah dvandvah anabhighatah" (Yoga sutra 2.48) - From then on, the practitioner is untroubled by dualities (external influences).
There is an essential need to strengthen and tone the body even for those interested only in the mind. Meditation requires a stillness that cannot be achieved until the body can be quietened - those muscular spasms, nervous jerks and the drooping of the spine will hinder a long, uninterrupted session of meditation. On the other hand, those interested in relaxing the body first may spend long hours lying down in a particular position, trying to accomplish this, while their minds are churning away, wasting large amounts of energy. Asanas are an unusual technique, dynamic by nature, but providing tremendous opportunity to work internally at subtle levels.
Initially, of course, one struggles just to attain a particular posture and be comfortable in it. One should keep in mind that one is only attempting the asana at this stage (footnote 1). Mastering an asana takes time and works at different levels - the joints, nerves and muscles (which make themselves painfully felt!), the breathing, the mind, the energy flow and eventually the spirit (these also make themselves felt but in a different way) (footnote 2). The transition from an outer movement to an inner one comes when one begins to focus on inner aspects - initially the bandhas (internal muscular locks), the breath which changes as different parts are extended or squeezed and finally the mind, which must be completely free of thoughts. This is attempted by closing the eyes after attaining stability in each pose and looking not on the specific point that each pose demands, but within, to the heart instead. There is an immediate withdrawal of energy from the mind and external senses and an inward channelizing which brings a deeper level of relaxation than the physical movements themselves. You feel a sense of calm and well-being and begin to focus on messages from the heart and the breath; stray and unwanted thoughts are easily dispelled, rigid mental patterns broken (footnote 3).
This paves the way for breathing and meditation techniques which require one to focus on internal aspects while the body is kept still. Each method brings its own satisfaction but the exhilaration of gradually allowing the body to realize its potential, while remaining oblivious to the outer world (as much as possible!) is unique.
Footnotes from the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali:
1) "Sthirasukhamasanam" (Yoga sutra 2.46) - Asana is stability of the body, steadiness of the mind and a state of ease of the spirit.
2) "Prayatna saithilya ananta samapattibhyam" (Yoga sutra 2.47) - Perfection in an asana is attained when the effort to perform it becomes effortless and the infinite being within is reached.
3) "Tatah dvandvah anabhighatah" (Yoga sutra 2.48) - From then on, the practitioner is untroubled by dualities (external influences).
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Baking Rugelach And More
When I opened my baking book and selected some recipes for a baking session at home yesterday, I had no idea what I had let myself in for! My large oven refused to cooperate, so a one-day baking indulgence got stretched to a two-day concentrated affair, as my trusty toaster oven stepped in to substitute. Working in Indian conditions also added some unexpected excitement to the process.
Interestingly, without my knowing it at the time, both recipes were Ashkenazic Jewish in origin. I began by making challah, a wonderful soft, braided loaf that tastes heavenly even if the braids don't quite come out in the right shape after rising. I had a lot of problems with getting the perfect shape and finally realized that there are subtleties to the braiding - the number of strands one can use and also the shape of the individual strands. I realized that the strand must not be uniform in thickness but considerably thicker in the middle, a bit like a crocodile! And while braiding, the dough looked to me just like three crocs piled one on top of the other, like we see them sometimes, when they are sunning themselves. After the first loaf went in, I remembered I had forgotten to add salt, but all was not lost! Indian butter is fairly salty and for good measure I sprinkled a bit of salt over the surface of the second loaf, which made it look arty! This arty look, alas, was lost by the morning, as the salt had absorbed some moisture and dissolved in tiny patches...
The next recipe was a little more ambitious, attempted because of the sudden appearance of cream cheese in the market. Local cream cheese (though very good) is almost never seen, perhaps there are not enough consumers here. It appears one every decade or so and then I buy a few packets and try some different recipes with them. Rugelach was on the top of my list - it is a tender pastry filled with dried fruit and nuts, rolled up and baked. It began smoothly - making the dough was quite simple. But when I had to deal with the filling, things got a bit sticky. For one thing, I was using an American cookbook (Baking with Julia) and American dried fruit are quite different from the Indian ones! The introduction to the recipe was tempting - "...And the filling - layer after layer of wonderful dried fruits and fruit butter. Don't skimp on the quality of the filling, nor on the variety, for this is what makes the cookies so remarkable. The dough is spread with very thick prune or apricot butter (known as levkar), either homemade or store-bought, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, studded with nuts, and strewn with plump, moist pieces of dried fruit. Absolutely excessive, but exceedingly good."
Well, there was no question of buying levkar here, so I got down to making it with tiny Himalayan apricots. I forgot to look closely at the key word ("thick"), so the paste just dribbled all over the dough. We also don't find many of the nuts used in American cooking (especially hazelnuts) so I added some cashews. I also found the flavours of all the dry fruit when mixed together overwhelming, so midway I threw out all the dates! Rolling the pastry lengthwise was impossible but I managed breadthwise and somehow transferred it to a baking sheet- it was a very gluey gloop! I didn't care too much, knowing that food chemistry would come to my rescue; I generally believe that if the ingredients are good, things will taste fine even if they don't look appealing!
So I carried on, slicing, glazing, sprinkling that home-made cinnamon sugar on them and baking. As I had only a small oven, I couldn't space them out, but they looked fine eventually and I decided that at worst I would just have to re-baked them (like biscotti).
o
They smelt yummy while baking - the monkeys thought so as well (they came in a large group and some of them began pounding at the windows making small growly sounds)! An additional instruction to add to Indian cookbooks -"Keep the windows and doors closed while baking"!
Am weary and worn! But we now have this wonderful bread and rugelach (yes! they do taste good - once they have cooled)!
(While reading about rugelach, I learned that the pastry was traditionally leavened with yeast or sour cream and cream cheese doughs are an American innovation. This makes more sense to me, flavour wise and also because I feel the cream cheese dough is too rich for something like this. I'm quite determined to make more batches in the future with more traditional recipes and also to simplify the combinations of dried fruit and nuts. It seems like this would be a delicious after-yoga breakfast, with a cup of steaming tea!)
Interestingly, without my knowing it at the time, both recipes were Ashkenazic Jewish in origin. I began by making challah, a wonderful soft, braided loaf that tastes heavenly even if the braids don't quite come out in the right shape after rising. I had a lot of problems with getting the perfect shape and finally realized that there are subtleties to the braiding - the number of strands one can use and also the shape of the individual strands. I realized that the strand must not be uniform in thickness but considerably thicker in the middle, a bit like a crocodile! And while braiding, the dough looked to me just like three crocs piled one on top of the other, like we see them sometimes, when they are sunning themselves. After the first loaf went in, I remembered I had forgotten to add salt, but all was not lost! Indian butter is fairly salty and for good measure I sprinkled a bit of salt over the surface of the second loaf, which made it look arty! This arty look, alas, was lost by the morning, as the salt had absorbed some moisture and dissolved in tiny patches...
The next recipe was a little more ambitious, attempted because of the sudden appearance of cream cheese in the market. Local cream cheese (though very good) is almost never seen, perhaps there are not enough consumers here. It appears one every decade or so and then I buy a few packets and try some different recipes with them. Rugelach was on the top of my list - it is a tender pastry filled with dried fruit and nuts, rolled up and baked. It began smoothly - making the dough was quite simple. But when I had to deal with the filling, things got a bit sticky. For one thing, I was using an American cookbook (Baking with Julia) and American dried fruit are quite different from the Indian ones! The introduction to the recipe was tempting - "...And the filling - layer after layer of wonderful dried fruits and fruit butter. Don't skimp on the quality of the filling, nor on the variety, for this is what makes the cookies so remarkable. The dough is spread with very thick prune or apricot butter (known as levkar), either homemade or store-bought, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, studded with nuts, and strewn with plump, moist pieces of dried fruit. Absolutely excessive, but exceedingly good."
Well, there was no question of buying levkar here, so I got down to making it with tiny Himalayan apricots. I forgot to look closely at the key word ("thick"), so the paste just dribbled all over the dough. We also don't find many of the nuts used in American cooking (especially hazelnuts) so I added some cashews. I also found the flavours of all the dry fruit when mixed together overwhelming, so midway I threw out all the dates! Rolling the pastry lengthwise was impossible but I managed breadthwise and somehow transferred it to a baking sheet- it was a very gluey gloop! I didn't care too much, knowing that food chemistry would come to my rescue; I generally believe that if the ingredients are good, things will taste fine even if they don't look appealing!
So I carried on, slicing, glazing, sprinkling that home-made cinnamon sugar on them and baking. As I had only a small oven, I couldn't space them out, but they looked fine eventually and I decided that at worst I would just have to re-baked them (like biscotti).
o
They smelt yummy while baking - the monkeys thought so as well (they came in a large group and some of them began pounding at the windows making small growly sounds)! An additional instruction to add to Indian cookbooks -"Keep the windows and doors closed while baking"!
Am weary and worn! But we now have this wonderful bread and rugelach (yes! they do taste good - once they have cooled)!
(While reading about rugelach, I learned that the pastry was traditionally leavened with yeast or sour cream and cream cheese doughs are an American innovation. This makes more sense to me, flavour wise and also because I feel the cream cheese dough is too rich for something like this. I'm quite determined to make more batches in the future with more traditional recipes and also to simplify the combinations of dried fruit and nuts. It seems like this would be a delicious after-yoga breakfast, with a cup of steaming tea!)
Monday, September 5, 2011
A Great Sadness Among the Trees of Bangalore
"...'Diesel fuel in an ordinary engine,' he said, as he entered her office, wiping his hands on a large piece of lint. 'Would you believe it, Mma Ramotswe? That... that silly boy, the younger one, put diesel fuel into the tank of a non-diesel vehicle. Now we have to drain everything out and try to clean the whole thing up.'
'I'm sorry,' said Mma Ramotswe. 'But I am not surprised.' She paused for a moment. 'What will happen to them? What will happen when they are working somewhere else - somewhere where there is no longer a kind person like you to watch over them?'
Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni shrugged. 'They will ruin cars left, right and centre,' he said. 'That is what will happen to them. There will be great sadness among the cars of Botswana.'
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. Then, on a sudden impulse, and without thinking at all why she should say this, she asked, 'And what will happen to us, Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni?'"
(A Great Sadness among the Cars of Botswana, from The Full Cupboard of Life, by Alexander McCall Smith)
What happens to trees in growing cities when there are no longer kind people watching over them? Or kind Gods? Or benevolent officials? A great sadness has filled the trees of Bangalore and, closer to home, the trees of the campus where I live.
Just outside our campus, a whole row of trees were cut down illegally for 'road widening'. Perhaps they had to go, in the interests of the city planners, but they were perched on the slopes of a road abutting a tank and it is hard to see how this road can be easily widened. The entire neighbourhood protested and several people were hauled to the police station. A few tree lovers actually camped on the high branches of the trees for some days. Before the matter could be legally resolved, the municipal corporation began an auction and ultimately hacked off the trees in the dead of the night on a weekend. Why the haste?
The city looks bare and dusty and I have been witnessing scenes of the trees' despair. Just behind my house lived a jackfruit tree. A large, magnificent creature that provided a temporary resting place for clouds of tiny birds, squirrels, monkeys and bats. Armies of red ants sewed its leaves together to make nests and spiders scurried along its bark. It also provided at least a dozen gigantic jackfruit that would feed the entire neighbourhood. One Sunday evening I even saw some jackfruit thieves, bringing down the large fruit and running off with them. (Despite this) everyone seemed happy.
Suddenly last week, someone called the campus maintenance and the usual band of axe wielding goons (somewhat like Mr. J. L. B. Matekoni's apprentices) appeared to 'prune' the tree, which implied that they would hack every branch within reach and then take the rest of the day off. The tree now stands, branchless with protruding stumps. Barely a leaf is left on it and the hacked off branches are carelessly strewn all round the base. Red ants have swarmed into our house and a deadly silence fills the area behind. But everyone seems oblivious. The neighbours walk past, and around, without a glance or word. It's just a tree and perhaps they were not fond of jackfruit anyway.
The same scene greeted me this morning at my yoga class. The class was full after a long time and I slipped into a corner and drew back the curtain. Instead of the leafy jackfruit and mango trees, I saw a wall of concrete, grey and smooth and characterless. Instead of the breeze, there was a smell of dust. I drew back in shock, glanced at the yoga teacher and he nodded to confirm my suspicion. The window could no more be opened during the yoga practice.
What happens to cities growing at this pace? A tremendous happiness fills the hearts of the city 'planners' and builders, employers and do-ers and a great sadness fills the small green spots and the laid back little watering holes of local inhabitants. The soul is going out of Bangalore's trees. The animal are scurrying away. And then, I wonder, what happens to us? Will we find other sources of gentleness and respite and beauty? I hope so but I have some doubts.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Thoughts of Tea
I'm unpacking an old tea set (or what remains of it), salvaged and brought back from my family home, and my thoughts turn simply and naturally to tea. Surprisingly I have been discussing tea for some days now with my family, in different contexts.
With my husband, because our supply of Darjeeling tea (which is the Indian tea that we like best) is running low and we need to replenish our supply. With my mother in law, because she has been looking in vain for a brown English tea pot (or for that matter any well made teapot) and can only find strange designerware in shops. I tell her that these days most people don't have time for teapots and that in recent years we have only had 'mixed tea' in people's houses (the traditional Indian style where tea, milk and sugar are boiled together and served directly in cups) and she feels that it is the end of the 'plantation generation' of tea drinkers.
My family, living far from plantations, greatly enjoyed their cuppas and had all sizes of teapots. I can still remember my relatives instructing the servants as to whether to use the 'chhoti ketli' (small kettle) or 'badi ketli' (big kettle) depending on the number of tea drinkers present. Just yesterday, my father was wondering what to take as a housewarming gift for a friend and I automatically suggested an embroidered tea cosy and tray cloth set. Having thought a little more though, I felt that people no longer use these things and it might be a waste. My father sighed and said that he would rather keep whatever sets he had for his own use. (There is a little history behind this. My maternal grandmother, post-partition, had set up a small enterprise for the wives of factory employees, where she taught them embroidery. Thus our houses have always been filled with embroidered stuff, tea cosy sets being high on the list and always being handed out to friends and relatives). So... things are changing, I reluctantly admit to myself. We are all now going through tea thing troubles.
I am not a compulsive tea drinker but I welcome a cup of light tea in the mornings (and on cold, rainy days, in the evenings as well). However, more than that, I enjoy the ritual of tea - sitting together, pouring it out and watching it steam over delicate china cups, sniffing the aroma and sipping it gradually. I also await the delightful teatime snacks (served when we have company). If we are in the mood for something substantial, it is crusty samosas filled with mashed potatoes and peas (and the occasional raisin) and crisp, slender and sweet jalebis bought from our neighbourhood sweetshop. For a somewhat more elegant tea, it would be delicate sandwiches, perhaps cucumber or chutney (in India, chutney generally implies a delicious, green concoction - a combination of mint and coriander leaves ground together with a hint of green chilly or lemon and salt) and pakoras (sliced vegetables dipped in gram flour and fried) or fish fingers - we need something hot to munch on otherwise we are really not quite content. In Kolkata, we might be offered prawn cutlets (gigantic prawns that are flattened, marinated, crumbed and fried) or luchis and alur dom (poories and tiny potatoes cooked in a mild, thickish sauce) (and on occasion, even both!) along with the mishti (sweet stuff) that Bengali meals are incomplete without.
It's not just the eating and drinking (though that's great fun) but the other aspects too - changing into clean, crisp clothes and visiting people in the evenings, sitting down together and chatting about nothing very essential- taking a few hours off from one's 'prime time schedule' to unwind and spend time with people whose company we enjoy.
Perhaps it's wishful thinking, but I would like to organize some tea parties in the days to come. I gently wash the tea set and it lies in the kitchen, slowly drying, nodding its approval and encouragement.
With my husband, because our supply of Darjeeling tea (which is the Indian tea that we like best) is running low and we need to replenish our supply. With my mother in law, because she has been looking in vain for a brown English tea pot (or for that matter any well made teapot) and can only find strange designerware in shops. I tell her that these days most people don't have time for teapots and that in recent years we have only had 'mixed tea' in people's houses (the traditional Indian style where tea, milk and sugar are boiled together and served directly in cups) and she feels that it is the end of the 'plantation generation' of tea drinkers.
My family, living far from plantations, greatly enjoyed their cuppas and had all sizes of teapots. I can still remember my relatives instructing the servants as to whether to use the 'chhoti ketli' (small kettle) or 'badi ketli' (big kettle) depending on the number of tea drinkers present. Just yesterday, my father was wondering what to take as a housewarming gift for a friend and I automatically suggested an embroidered tea cosy and tray cloth set. Having thought a little more though, I felt that people no longer use these things and it might be a waste. My father sighed and said that he would rather keep whatever sets he had for his own use. (There is a little history behind this. My maternal grandmother, post-partition, had set up a small enterprise for the wives of factory employees, where she taught them embroidery. Thus our houses have always been filled with embroidered stuff, tea cosy sets being high on the list and always being handed out to friends and relatives). So... things are changing, I reluctantly admit to myself. We are all now going through tea thing troubles.
I am not a compulsive tea drinker but I welcome a cup of light tea in the mornings (and on cold, rainy days, in the evenings as well). However, more than that, I enjoy the ritual of tea - sitting together, pouring it out and watching it steam over delicate china cups, sniffing the aroma and sipping it gradually. I also await the delightful teatime snacks (served when we have company). If we are in the mood for something substantial, it is crusty samosas filled with mashed potatoes and peas (and the occasional raisin) and crisp, slender and sweet jalebis bought from our neighbourhood sweetshop. For a somewhat more elegant tea, it would be delicate sandwiches, perhaps cucumber or chutney (in India, chutney generally implies a delicious, green concoction - a combination of mint and coriander leaves ground together with a hint of green chilly or lemon and salt) and pakoras (sliced vegetables dipped in gram flour and fried) or fish fingers - we need something hot to munch on otherwise we are really not quite content. In Kolkata, we might be offered prawn cutlets (gigantic prawns that are flattened, marinated, crumbed and fried) or luchis and alur dom (poories and tiny potatoes cooked in a mild, thickish sauce) (and on occasion, even both!) along with the mishti (sweet stuff) that Bengali meals are incomplete without.
It's not just the eating and drinking (though that's great fun) but the other aspects too - changing into clean, crisp clothes and visiting people in the evenings, sitting down together and chatting about nothing very essential- taking a few hours off from one's 'prime time schedule' to unwind and spend time with people whose company we enjoy.
Perhaps it's wishful thinking, but I would like to organize some tea parties in the days to come. I gently wash the tea set and it lies in the kitchen, slowly drying, nodding its approval and encouragement.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Unique Identification Number
A couple of days ago we get a campus message saying that they are facilitating the UIDAI (Unique Identification Authority of India) in the process of issuing unique identification numbers to each of us. Long sentence but grammatically correct. We try and see what it means.
"What is unique about this scheme?" we wonder. What is different about this from the five census and one electoral identification schemes each year.
"Don't you know?" says one smart, techie prof from Mechanical Engineering. "They are going to scan your retina. It's amazing technology. All the big IT and company guys are keen on this. Think of the cost! Amazing!"
"Yes!" say some others enthusiastically. "And you will be fingerprinted. And thumb printed as well!"
Well, it sounds only marginally worse than applying for a U.S. or U.K. visa, so we shuffle along to the large lecture hall, where we find fifty candidates already seated ahead of us, with that determined look on their faces we see in people who are waiting for an examination. Well, we shuffle some more, look at each other and ask, "Is it worth it?"
Outside, the sun is shining and some protesting students are making paper planes out of the UIDAI forms and throwing them about. They are not doing a very good job of this as the planes are not flying at all but falling flat on their noses. Inside, there are murmurs of how this scheme will usher in a new way of dealing with things, all high tech and fancy sounding.
We look at each other once more and then someone else enters. We immediately sit down for fear of losing our seats. And then we wait - and wait and wait. And curse, silently at first and less silently as minutes go by. Each person is taking twenty minutes on average, and there are still forty five fellows and dames waiting; only one man to check the identification details and the place closes at 8 p.m. Plenty of time for that mental math.
"Don't worry," I say to my husband, who has already made two trips to his lab and back, "I think that man will start rushing around tea time. Meanwhile, let me go home and cook dinner."
I go home and return with a racy novel and a bottle of water and take my seat. My neighbour is fidgeting now and all of a sudden the big table in front is buzzing with low level sounds and people. My neighbour is fretting; swiftly he stands up and yells,"Move those people away from that table. Hey you! Security! Get them away. We have all been waiting here!" Heads turn and people strangely slink away from the table. Security man, who is just a normal looking guy like us, sits down at the table pretending to keep an eye on things. My neighbour (a prof.) says, "See- all these forms- these people have been slipping them in without waiting." I frown and nod in support. Then we wait some more.
Finally, after shuffling, row by row, we reach the front. My husband looks at me, "Did you bring the bank details?"
"That is optional," I reply. "We are not submitting them."
We look at the line of people with documents in their hands- phone bills, gas connections, bank statements, passport, driving license, school leaving certificates, ration cards and maybe other stuff too. We look at each other. My husband rushes out, back home, to get some more papers.
The line crawls along. My husband returns in the nick of time. I open my bag and check my passport. It has expired! I have brought my old one! Anyway, all they need is a driving license, I say to myself. And then, we are on stage!!!
Hah! It only takes us five minutes, and that too because I show only my driving license at first. "Passport is preferable," says the man and I take it out like an automaton. He looks at it in the same way, there is so much data to note that he does not see that it is the old one. Anyway. We realize that many people before us had not filled in the forms and so maybe it takes them longer. Maybe they write in a more meticulous way than we have done. Anyway, step one is over. We leave only to realize that we both have the same UID number. Unique?
Behind me is an elderly guy and a very pregnant lady, still managing to sit and wait. Now the solitary man on the table decides that he is thirsty and needs to take a tea break.
We shuffle upstairs and by this time we are tired and thirsty too. Upstairs there is a false ceiling and the room is hot. My husband waits in line while I lounge on the roof above the ladies toilet and kitchen disposal area. It smells not so good, but at least I get some oxygen. I open my book and read and keep reading till it is dark and I cannot see the words clearly. My husband calls on the cell phone. Oh, the wonders of technology! I go back inside and wait a little more.
Eventually I reach the scanning counter. I check the data and again show my driving license and passport and it is over. Almost! We need to check if my husband and I have been given the same Unique Identification Number. We ask the man. Fortunately the place where UID is supposed to be written is only the verification number, which is common for us. The actual UID is different. This is a relief otherwise we would have to shuffle back down.
There is a small space left unfilled on the form. It is mandatory only for children below the age of six and asks for the names of their parents and spouses. However, it seems that we must all fill it in. We do the needful and oblige. And finally, all is done. We leave with a small print out, a promise of glorious things to come- now we can open a bank account easily because we have proved that we are Indian and moreover, we live in India! What better way to show this than the UIDAI card? And if someone doubts us, they just have to look into our eyes and see that we are telling the truth.
"What is unique about this scheme?" we wonder. What is different about this from the five census and one electoral identification schemes each year.
"Don't you know?" says one smart, techie prof from Mechanical Engineering. "They are going to scan your retina. It's amazing technology. All the big IT and company guys are keen on this. Think of the cost! Amazing!"
"Yes!" say some others enthusiastically. "And you will be fingerprinted. And thumb printed as well!"
Well, it sounds only marginally worse than applying for a U.S. or U.K. visa, so we shuffle along to the large lecture hall, where we find fifty candidates already seated ahead of us, with that determined look on their faces we see in people who are waiting for an examination. Well, we shuffle some more, look at each other and ask, "Is it worth it?"
Outside, the sun is shining and some protesting students are making paper planes out of the UIDAI forms and throwing them about. They are not doing a very good job of this as the planes are not flying at all but falling flat on their noses. Inside, there are murmurs of how this scheme will usher in a new way of dealing with things, all high tech and fancy sounding.
We look at each other once more and then someone else enters. We immediately sit down for fear of losing our seats. And then we wait - and wait and wait. And curse, silently at first and less silently as minutes go by. Each person is taking twenty minutes on average, and there are still forty five fellows and dames waiting; only one man to check the identification details and the place closes at 8 p.m. Plenty of time for that mental math.
"Don't worry," I say to my husband, who has already made two trips to his lab and back, "I think that man will start rushing around tea time. Meanwhile, let me go home and cook dinner."
I go home and return with a racy novel and a bottle of water and take my seat. My neighbour is fidgeting now and all of a sudden the big table in front is buzzing with low level sounds and people. My neighbour is fretting; swiftly he stands up and yells,"Move those people away from that table. Hey you! Security! Get them away. We have all been waiting here!" Heads turn and people strangely slink away from the table. Security man, who is just a normal looking guy like us, sits down at the table pretending to keep an eye on things. My neighbour (a prof.) says, "See- all these forms- these people have been slipping them in without waiting." I frown and nod in support. Then we wait some more.
Finally, after shuffling, row by row, we reach the front. My husband looks at me, "Did you bring the bank details?"
"That is optional," I reply. "We are not submitting them."
We look at the line of people with documents in their hands- phone bills, gas connections, bank statements, passport, driving license, school leaving certificates, ration cards and maybe other stuff too. We look at each other. My husband rushes out, back home, to get some more papers.
The line crawls along. My husband returns in the nick of time. I open my bag and check my passport. It has expired! I have brought my old one! Anyway, all they need is a driving license, I say to myself. And then, we are on stage!!!
Hah! It only takes us five minutes, and that too because I show only my driving license at first. "Passport is preferable," says the man and I take it out like an automaton. He looks at it in the same way, there is so much data to note that he does not see that it is the old one. Anyway. We realize that many people before us had not filled in the forms and so maybe it takes them longer. Maybe they write in a more meticulous way than we have done. Anyway, step one is over. We leave only to realize that we both have the same UID number. Unique?
Behind me is an elderly guy and a very pregnant lady, still managing to sit and wait. Now the solitary man on the table decides that he is thirsty and needs to take a tea break.
We shuffle upstairs and by this time we are tired and thirsty too. Upstairs there is a false ceiling and the room is hot. My husband waits in line while I lounge on the roof above the ladies toilet and kitchen disposal area. It smells not so good, but at least I get some oxygen. I open my book and read and keep reading till it is dark and I cannot see the words clearly. My husband calls on the cell phone. Oh, the wonders of technology! I go back inside and wait a little more.
Eventually I reach the scanning counter. I check the data and again show my driving license and passport and it is over. Almost! We need to check if my husband and I have been given the same Unique Identification Number. We ask the man. Fortunately the place where UID is supposed to be written is only the verification number, which is common for us. The actual UID is different. This is a relief otherwise we would have to shuffle back down.
There is a small space left unfilled on the form. It is mandatory only for children below the age of six and asks for the names of their parents and spouses. However, it seems that we must all fill it in. We do the needful and oblige. And finally, all is done. We leave with a small print out, a promise of glorious things to come- now we can open a bank account easily because we have proved that we are Indian and moreover, we live in India! What better way to show this than the UIDAI card? And if someone doubts us, they just have to look into our eyes and see that we are telling the truth.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Personalities of Cupboards
It was cupboard hunting time again! Not really for ourselves, but to furnish a flat we wanted to rent out. In order to decide on the best option, I had to talk to various cupboard makers and sellers, see what people were opting for and also - my favourite bit - look at old cupboards that were on sale.
I love old cupboards because each one has a distinct personality, unlike the new ones. The newly made furniture, covering every inch of wall space, looks invariant, like those busy executives at a meeting or security guards in white or grey. It looks like it is there for one purpose alone and is not really interested in any communication. It looks at you impersonally and does its work efficiently.
Now, old cupboards have a completely different feel. They stand there, tall and imposing, often a little battered, sometimes scarred, but they greet you cordially and you can hear them sigh and say, "Just a little bit of polish is all I need and then you can see my true colours." I saw several capacious cupboards in teak and a beautiful set of "his" and "hers" in Indian rosewood. A gleam appeared in the eyes of Mr Valentine, the elderly salesman, who showed me these cupboards and he proudly opened the gleaming dark doors to display an entire row of fine rosewood rods spaced millimetres apart - for hanging sarees or dhotis (in the days when there were no hangers for clothes). The cupboards stood politely, with the elegance and dignity that rosewood displays. Mr. Valentine said, "The boss doesn't want to sell them on their own, they are not for display. But perhaps you can talk to him and try and convince him." I suppose he recognized a fellow cupboard lover.
I also saw a huge, magnificent teak cupboard, solidly built with a triangular headpiece that was carved in two shades of teak. It had original fittings (including a solid looking lock) and a movable rod at the top that could be swung out so you didn't have to grope for you clothes in the large, dark recesses. It had belonged to an old Chettiar family and the cupboard appeared to have a distinctly patriarchal air.
I took to it instantly and so did my husband, but after considerable thought and research into what people wanted, we realized that people really just needed efficiently constructed space to keep their things in, hinges that moved smoothly, material that didn't expand in the rains, drawers that rolled in and out on steel ball bearings...
So, with a small sigh of regret, we didn't buy any of the old cupboards. However, we did peep into the patriarchal teak one and amongst the odds and ends stored there, we discovered a lovely family of rhinos - a father, mother and baby, beautifully carved in teak. We thought they would enjoy grazing on the wooden side tables in our house, so we have bought all of them, and once their skins are cleaned up a bit, they will be brought home.
I love old cupboards because each one has a distinct personality, unlike the new ones. The newly made furniture, covering every inch of wall space, looks invariant, like those busy executives at a meeting or security guards in white or grey. It looks like it is there for one purpose alone and is not really interested in any communication. It looks at you impersonally and does its work efficiently.
Now, old cupboards have a completely different feel. They stand there, tall and imposing, often a little battered, sometimes scarred, but they greet you cordially and you can hear them sigh and say, "Just a little bit of polish is all I need and then you can see my true colours." I saw several capacious cupboards in teak and a beautiful set of "his" and "hers" in Indian rosewood. A gleam appeared in the eyes of Mr Valentine, the elderly salesman, who showed me these cupboards and he proudly opened the gleaming dark doors to display an entire row of fine rosewood rods spaced millimetres apart - for hanging sarees or dhotis (in the days when there were no hangers for clothes). The cupboards stood politely, with the elegance and dignity that rosewood displays. Mr. Valentine said, "The boss doesn't want to sell them on their own, they are not for display. But perhaps you can talk to him and try and convince him." I suppose he recognized a fellow cupboard lover.
I also saw a huge, magnificent teak cupboard, solidly built with a triangular headpiece that was carved in two shades of teak. It had original fittings (including a solid looking lock) and a movable rod at the top that could be swung out so you didn't have to grope for you clothes in the large, dark recesses. It had belonged to an old Chettiar family and the cupboard appeared to have a distinctly patriarchal air.
I took to it instantly and so did my husband, but after considerable thought and research into what people wanted, we realized that people really just needed efficiently constructed space to keep their things in, hinges that moved smoothly, material that didn't expand in the rains, drawers that rolled in and out on steel ball bearings...
So, with a small sigh of regret, we didn't buy any of the old cupboards. However, we did peep into the patriarchal teak one and amongst the odds and ends stored there, we discovered a lovely family of rhinos - a father, mother and baby, beautifully carved in teak. We thought they would enjoy grazing on the wooden side tables in our house, so we have bought all of them, and once their skins are cleaned up a bit, they will be brought home.
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