Do we really want justice?

If we were to make a list of the most urgent problems in India, I can safely bet that ‘politicians’ would be on everyone’s list. They might even top the list. They are on my list too.

Corruption is endemic. We are defeated by it in every way imaginable. And while politicians or bureaucrats are definitely not the only ones guilty, it is actually important to focus on political leaders. Not just because India is represented by politicians, but also because they reflect our own aspirations. They are our face in the mirror — a face bloated out of all recognition but still, there’s no denying that the politician’s face represents the majority.

This is key: Representation. It is why ministers are called upon to resign when something goes very wrong. Say, a railway accident happened and the fault lay with faulty equipment or over-worked drivers. The rail minister may offer to resign, as a way of saying: ‘I am in charge and a systemic failure is my failure’. If it is clear that another group of people are responsible, they must be punished instead.

If we fail to punish politicians in a democratic way, our democracy sours. When we fail to question politicians about why they act in ways that are contrary to the electorate’s values and aspirations, we are building a society without accountability.

If we do this over several years, then there is little doubt that this is what we actually want for ourselves — we do not want to be punished for corruption; we do not want to be held accountable at our jobs; we recognise that we ourselves would divide people on the basis of caste and religion because it suits us to do. We would inflict violence upon other citizens when we think we can get away with it, and that is why we do not really cry out against politicians. Because far too many of us are guilty of the same acts of commission and omission.

This is part of the reason why I was very pleased to hear that Sajjad Kichloo, Minister of State (Home) had resigned in the wake of the violence that broke out recently in Kishtwar, Jammu and Kashmir. Kichloo may or may not have ‘felt’ responsible. After all, the army was called out in a few hours, a curfew was imposed, and hundreds of people were not killed.

Still, there were allegations that the state police did not do its job. And so, the minister shouldered his responsibility and the J&K government promptly ordered an inquiry. Therefore, Chief Minister Omar Abdullah has every right to ask — what about Gujarat 2002?

There was evident mismanagement at least, if not a deliberate pogrom. One can ask the same question about Delhi, 1984. In fact, one should ask and one is asking. What about Bombay 1992? What about 1993? Who resigned? How long did it take for someone in power to take responsibility?

Surely, someone should have resigned. Surely, a good leader does not promote and reward trouble-makers? Surely, such leaders don’t deserve to be re-elected?

But if we continue to insist that this is good leadership, if we continue to elect such men and women to office, then that is a way of saying that we are electing what is us. At least, the majority of us. That the twisted face in the mirror does not just wear our face like a mask. That face is our face. That soul is our soul, and it does not crave justice.

Which leaves us with this awful question — if not justice, then what do we actually crave?

First published here

Getting out of the cage

By now, you would have read some reams about what stops our great nation from being truly free etcetera. 

I’ve been reading a lot of books recently that were written before 1947 or set in the ‘Colonial’ era. These books have been breaking down the neat constructs of schoolbook history. We’d been given to understand that the British sailed east (like the Portuguese and French), saw that India was rich, began to wage battles against ‘our’ kings and began to rule India.

But the truth was slightly different. For starters, there was no ‘us’. There were hundreds of kingdoms, all part of a power hierarchy. A kingdom could be ‘sovereign’ but it might have to pay tribute to a bigger, more powerful kingdom. That was the only way to stay ‘independent’. It was the only way a king or queen could stay on the throne. If kings or queens were devoted to citizen welfare, they would also sign peace treaties to save people from violence and total economic ruin in the course of war. Our ‘foreign invaders’ could be Bhutanese (from Assam’s perspective), Maratha (from Bhopal’s perspective), or Tibetan (from Spiti’s perspective).

But Britain gained in power to the extent that almost all kingdoms – despite racial and cultural differences – suffered. Taxes were heavy; wealth was leaving the subcontinent. Now, there was a common enemy, racially different and blatantly discriminatory. So enough people – even the rich – could say: ‘Quit India’.

It took a long time but Britain did quit India, politically at least. And ‘India’ was born. But that didn’t mean we stopped trying to enslave other citizens.

There was a recent news article about a domestic worker from Jharkhand, a teenaged girl, who was beaten and starved for three days by her employer. Does this not sound like a slavery? The teenager survived but imagine her situation – she doesn’t speak any of the three main languages that most neighbours would have spoken; she had no money and circumstances at home were probably desperate enough for her to be sent to Mumbai in the first place.

Another report from Kanpur. A husband asks his pregnant wife to undergo a sex-determination test for the foetus. She refuses. He pours acid on her private parts. Now think of the wife’s situation – perhaps she has no money or property; if she had walked out on her husband before, she would face the risk of attacks from other men. The police and legal system being what it is in our country, she couldn’t have hoped for timely intervention in any case. Does this not sound like a slavery-enabling system?

It has become fashionable to dismiss M.K. Gandhi and his methods of non-violence, non-cooperation, and self-reflection. But there is a reason Gandhi chose these tools in the struggle for freedom. What was being done to us by imperialist forces was violence. Indians were not necessarily being locked up in a cage, or whipped. Those might be our mental images of slavery. Our main shackles were economic and psychological.

We could not make decisions for ourselves, nor controlled natural resources. If we tried to, we confronted physical violence. Which is exactly what is happening to hundreds of millions of Indians today. If one can’t make decisions about how resources will be used, who to have sex with, and whether or not to have babies, how can a citizen be called free?

This is why the question of “women’s freedom” needs the same answer, the same tactics. Non-cooperation. Non-violence. De-conditioning. If freedom means anything to us, we must struggle as if we struggled for India, in the name of humanity and justice.

First published here

Flushing for karma

I was slightly jealous when I read about this Kerela initiative – 'e-toilets' at government medical colleges. These toilets are called Eve's Own for they will reportedly have napkin-vending machines, incinerators, automatic sensor taps, fans and lights that auto-start when you step in. Plans include sensitive doors that open only if the water tank has enough water.

Of course, it is a pity that these are restricted to medical colleges. There is no reason why all public toilets should not be woman-friendly. Even if they're coin-operated, it would be a huge improvement from current washrooms where coins are no guarantee against dry taps, broken door latches, flooded floors, and worse.

Curiously enough, I have often heard it said that “women's toilets are dirtier”. Usually it is women who say this. Having not been in a men's toilet, I cannot compare but I have been to offices and restaurants that have no separate male and female toilets. I found there was very little difference in levels of cleanliness. This must mean that women are either not that much dirtier, or that they become more careful about toilet habits if they know that men will be witness to these habits. Or, men are cleaning up after women (hey, the world is full of wonders!)

Back in college, I recall discussions where girls would swap tales of toilet adventure. I myself recalled how my mother always carried a bedsheet when we went on outdoor picnics. Others mentioned moms who usher kids to the edge of railway platforms, urging them to just 'go'. One girl mentioned that she had witnessed saree-clad women relieving themselves whilst standing upright. This had quite an impact on our youthful imaginations – the possibility of doing such a thing had not struck us before, but in an emergency... Of course! One can and one should!

Over the years, I had my share of fury and frustration. As a young reporter who was always on the move, this was anxiety number one – how far was the nearest loo? I remember times when I was out on assignment in residential colonies, and there was not one public toilet in the area. I waited hours before an option presented itself, then I'd be lucky if the door was not locked. If there was running water, I felt positively blessed.

All Indian women are familiar with this sort of panic, regardless of whether they are 'working' women or not. For one, there is no guarantee that there is a toilet even in the house. According to the National Family Health Survey (NFHS 3), only 26 percent of rural India had access to sanitation. A Unicef report estimates that 54 percent of India does not have access to clean, safe toilets. Hundreds of millions live in mortal terror of – at worst – an attack by human or animal or insect, and – at least – the fear of infections. Things are not much better in cities where there are no semi-discreet woods or rocks or fields, so you could just go under the open sky.

Life is hard enough without having to worry about how much water you can afford to drink before you step outdoors. Many women endorse glassy air-conditioned malls just for their promise of usable toilets.

I have personally lived with the panic for so long, it has made me a believer of sorts. I worry a lot about toilet karma these days. If it is true that what goes around comes around, I better be careful and leave a toilet as clean as I want to find it. So help me god!

First published here

Down the drain... Back again?

Did you hear about the contamination levels of waterfronts in Mumbai? It's worse than it used to be. The beaches are filthier. And what's more, much of the contamination is faecal matter. Yes, shit mostly.

Before you start blaming the hundreds of thousands of people who must squat on the beach – although there is that problem too – consider the facts. Mumbai generates 2677 litres of sewaage, every day. Of this, only 774 million litres is treated. The rest just goes into the sea.

Perhaps you have heard of men dying in sewers while trying to clear blockages. Sometimes, people die just breathing the noxious air around a manhole. There was a news report about the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation wanting to install a ventilating system over manhole covers, after three people died from the poisonous gases wafting up. There was another report about a seven-year-old boy dying after he fell into an open drain in Mehrauli, Delhi.

India has hundreds of open drains in each city, and there are hundreds of cities. It is high time we began to ask – how is it that we invest hundreds of billions in aircrafts, even space-craft, but are unwilling to find clean, efficient technologies to fix the overwhelming toilet and sewage problem?

How is it that we continue to flush our filth into rivers that form our drinking water supply? In Pradip Saha's documentary 'Faecal Attraction', a dual question is posed to the citizens of Delhi – where did they think their water comes from, and where does the shit go? 

Some respondents sheepishly admit that the answer to both is probably the river Yamuna. Others, including young and educated citizens, seem to think that once they flush the toilet, the sewers carry their shit to a mysterious location, a convenient 'somewhere else'. As the documentary shows, sewage usually flows into water bodies like rivers, lakes, or else, groundwater.

India generates 38,000 million litres of sewage a day. 35 major cities account for over 15 million litres. The government can treat only 12,000 million tonnes, about one-third of the total. The Central Pollution Control Board released a report called the ‘Status of sewage treatment in India’ a few years ago, which said that the problem was likely to magnify to unmanageable levels very quickly.

In one interview, Bindeshwar Pathak (founder of Sulabh Sauchalaya) was quoted as saying that, even if we halt the development of our cities, it would still take India 3000 years to lay safe sewer lines leading to centralised sewage treatment plants. Only 269 towns (out of 7000) have treatment plants. Experts suggest that a large part of the problem is that we depend heavily on the state, and the state itself banks on a centralized system of sewage treatment. Basically, this means that we are not responsible for our own shit.

I can't help wondering why we don't look to our glorious ancient culture when it comes to sanitation? Thousands of years ago, the Indus Valley civilization had invested in sewage systems. Humanity is as much about shitting as eating or procreating, after all.

Nobody likes to embrace shit, of course. But we simply can't go on if we let it flow into rivers and seas. There are other, better ways of treating sewage. The technology exists. And every cooperative housing society, every bunglow, every town ought to invest in it, just as we invest in security systems and water filters. We cannot eternally outsource the problem of sewage to the government. We need to start seeing it as part of our own struggle to build a decent life for ourselves.

First published here

Starting with One

I read about two people recently who undertook tasks that seem to require the patience and courage that's beyond most ordinary citizens. Imagine creating a whole forest! Imagine being an extremely vulnerable self-appointed guardian of a forest!

That's what Hara Dei Majhi is. She guards a wooded hill called Kapsi Dongar in Sinapalli, Odisha. According to a magazine profile of the brave woman, Majhi took on where her husband, Anang, left off. He had started planting trees on a barren patch at the foothills, even at the cost of foregoing wage labour or income through forest produce. He was too busy nurturing and patrolling the forest. He was killed by timber smugglers in 1995.

Ever since, Majhi has been protecting the forest herself, though in later years she also began to involve other villagers through the Kapsi Dongar Vana Surakshya Samittee.

The second story was about a man called Jadav Payeng from Assam. He created a forest, starting from scratch in 1979. According to another article, Payeng had witnessed the aftermath of flood as a teenager, and decided to do something. He began by planting bamboo on a sandbar, brought red ants to improve the soil, then introduced other plants. Wildlife followed naturally. The forest is called the Mulai woods and is reportedly home to birds, deer, rhinos, even elephants.

What both stories illustrate is that change – public change – often begins with an individual. Nothing ever gets done unless something shifts within one human soul. Somebody decides to do something by becoming a person who is not afraid to be the only person doing this, whether it is planting trees on an island or fighting off timber smugglers.

Who wants to risk their life if there's nothing in it for them? But that's exactly what some people do. Others may join the campaign, driven by a sense of communal duty. Or the awareness that everyone benefits from their efforts.

So much of our common benefits are owed to a few people who are fighting to give us whatever little forest cover India has. They gain little themselves, except what everyone living in the area might gain. And yet, most of us are too thick-headed and short-sighted to do our bit, even though it is in our own best interests.

A recent World Bank report has said that the cost of environmental degradation in India is about Rs 3.75 trillion a year. That would be about 5.7 percent of India’s GDP (gross domestic product). The degradation would include not just air pollution – though that is the most obvious contributor to the damage – but also water and soil, as well as forest and cropland degradation.

We pay the price with our health (not to mention hospital bills). Still, most of us do nothing to reverse the damage. We neither plant trees nor fight to save them. And this ought to surprise us. An illiterate woman, armed with nothing but a stick, can save a forest. A teenager can create a whole forest. Why is it that our college degrees, our awareness of World Bank reports, our relative affluence – none of it arms us with courage or initiative?

Perhaps the difference is that Majhi and Payeng acted as individuals, doing whatever needing doing. Courage and passion are not mass emotions, after all. A 'system' or a government can only reward initiative or bolster courage where it already exists. If only there was a way of teaching ourselves how to be more self-centered when it came to taking responsibility for change, rather than just focussing on how much we suffer because of nobody else will work towards this change.

First published here

On good and bad poetry

There is an art gallery called MOBA – the Museum of Bad Art – where the motto is “Art too bad to be ignored”.

I went to the website to check out the collection. I was intrigued. But a corner of my mind was also truly anxious. Anxious for the artists who find their work featured in such a gallery. It is all very well to say the work is being 'preserved' and 'celebrated' but who can stomach their work to be called 'bad'? What would it feel like to walk into such a gallery and find on the walls a shred of your own soul?

To my relief, I found that much of the work was listed as Anonymous or Artist Unknown.

I still had gooseflesh though, just thinking about the people who run this thing. They unapologetically use the phrase 'bad art' even though the curator has been quoted in Wired magazine as saying: “The paintings are all inspired, genuine attempts at something. There's a lot of passion in them, but something ran amok. As a result, they need to be seen.”

So, then, this is not 'bad' art at all. It is simply art that doesn't quite transcend the artists' limitations. It fails to be stunning. But it remains compelling (check out some of the portraiture, or the 'noods' online: http://www.museumofbadart.org/collection/ ). In fact, it is better than a lot of art I've seen in mainstream, popular art galleries. Besides, somebody is putting time and money into a 'bad art' project. Thousands of miles away, I'm staring at 'bad' paintings, trying to tap into the energy that fired the artist. I actually like a lot of what I saw.

So, what makes these paintings collectible and viewable if they're neither good nor bad? And what would be truly bad art?

Perhaps, bad art would have to be something you can ignore. It neither offends nor grabs you. It disturbs nothing, triggers nothing, causes you to wonder about nothing. Art that can, at best, be described as the sum of its materials – canvas, colour, representations of live creatures or abstract shapes. Art that does not seek to speak. Not only does it leave you cold, you suspect that even the artist did not care to submit her/his soul to the canvas.

Now, just replace 'painting' with poetry. I think, the principle holds.

It is true that I write a fair bit of bad poetry myself. I write across genres and poetry is the thing that pays least. My soul has to be hurting. My mind has to be exhausted, flying, longing to be centred and stilled. At such times, I write a poem. If I'm lucky, if I work hard and long, it turns out okay.

Occasionally, I also write for practise. Art doesn't like dabblers. Your muscles get flabby. Your eye stops 'seeing'. There's a reason for phrases like 'being out of touch' or 'losing touch'; you must keep touching what you don't want to lose. So, I make myself write sometimes even if I don't want to.

Usually, I end up discarding such poems. A stray line or two might be 'working'. I try to salvage them, using them as a diving board to work into new poems.

I destroyed much of my early work. A decade later, I could see what it was – emotional outpourings punctuated by enjambment. As if line breaks could convert a diary or blog post into art. Still, those were good practising years. Some poems escaped being awful. Some were mediocre – some metaphors, some alliteration, a few nice leaps of logic. Maybe five poems over the first five years of writing were good enough to keep in my file.

But I wanted to write better and I went looking for feedback. I joined peer review writing groups. In groups like Caferati, poetry used to dominate. There were many people writing and sharing poems. At one stage, I used to spend several hours a day reading, re-reading, carefully phrasing my critique.

Much of what we shared was bad poetry. And I don't mean 'bad' in the MOBA sense. I mean that these were poems that could easily be ignored. There was nothing to distinguish metaphors and similes. They did not disturb, trigger, cause wonder, or delight. They were a loose collection of impressions and memories. 

Most writers simply do not read and write enough to know that you have to sweat over the lines until the page is slick with meaning. The reader does not want to witness your labours. The reader must be left with only a vague memory of salt.

The reader must be able to see a tar road on a rainy night and start thinking 'sky'. You must pull it off without saying 'sky' or 'night' and if you can help it, not even 'road'. Everyone knows the sky is full of stars. Everyone knows stars shine. Where's your 'art' if you're just going to tell me the sky was dark and the stars were shining and you were driving and the road was shining too?

Knowing this, of course, does not preclude me from the gallery of bad art. I still write bad poems. I put words on the page, trying to capture something – who knows what? Hopefully, something I didn't capture in the last poem. Hopefully, something nobody has captured before. Something that is mine to capture. Something that cannot be ignored.

This was written for Raedleaf, a site devoted to poetry.

Because the mausam is indeed awesome

I shudder in anticipation of every Mumbai monsoon. But anticipate it, I do.

Here's an attempt to capture some of the swirly-ness, giddiness, the stillness, even happiness I experience every time I am out in the pouring rain in this city, so cleverly illustrated by Jasjyot Singh Hans.

Where it comes from, where it goes

The other day, I came upon a strange comment thread on a website. Somebody had posed this question: are villages an asset for India or a liability?

At first I just laughed. What kind of question was this? But then, I also read an item of news from Odisha. Apparently, a herd of elephants had wandered into Rourkela and were reportedly nudged back towards the Saranda hills. But, according to locals who live in villages on the outskirts, the herd was simply pushed out a few kilometres out of the city and the elephants were still destroying houses and crops. There were complaints that the administration seemed to care only about the lives and property of those who lived in the main city.

Could it be that somewhere in the collective city-dwelling urban subconscious, we are actually convinced that villages don't matter? Could we actually be that clueless about our own lives and our economy?

Grain and most vegetable and fruit comes from villages. Much of our diary produce and meat too. Our homes are built of cement and steel, or stone and wood – all of which are mined or made in rural or semi-rural areas. Our clothes – the good ones, anyway – are made of cotton or wool, for which we depend on farmers and shepherds. Much of the cheap labour that builds cities and provides essential services is drawn from villages. 

One could go on. Water, coal, herbs, medicinal extracts, and ultimately, power.

And what do we send to the villages? Manufactured goods, of course. From shampoo to tyres. Modern medicine, perhaps – if one can get a doctor to live in a village. Technology, perhaps. But the side-effects of industrial activity and modern urban lifestyles are also imposed upon villages.

Recently, matters reached a head in Kottayam district. For years, Kottayam town had been dumping its waste on the outskirts. The residents of Vijayapuram village were demanding an end to this system because they had to tolerate tonnes of garbage in the vicinity, and the dump was a breeding ground for diseases. Besides, the water in their wells was getting contaminated. When the municipality failed to listen, a rally was organized. People went to the dumping yard and forcibly locked it up.

In this instance, the protest got some media attention because the result was immediately felt in the city – garbage began to pile up in Kottayam. But there are thousands of villages affected by urban waste, industrial effluents, or because a disproportionate share of resources is taken away with no resultant benefit to the locals.

For instance, Sundargarh district in Odisha. The people who live near the mines are complaining that they don't have enough water for farms and that water is taken away to a factory several miles away. In Goa, villagers in Pissurlem were reportedly complaining about industrial waste being dumped in open spaces.

How many of us who live in cities know what happens to our waste – where does it go? 

The garbage collector takes it, and that's that. We don't want to know if there is a system that ensures nobody else is made miserable or sick on our account. We don't even want to know if we ourselves are getting sick because of bad waste disposal practices, and whether there are alternatives.

Sometimes, I wonder how citizens and administrations would react if villagers began to drive up to cities with tractors piled high with personal, agricultural and industrial filth, and dumping them in any open space they saw? What do you think might happen?

First pubhttp://www.dnaindia.com/analysis/1863651/column-where-it-comes-from-and-where-it-goeslished here.

In other words, mera gaon mera des

Did you hear the news from Amsterdam about 'scum villages'. Apparently, there are 13,000 complaints of anti-social behaviour every year and now now there's a plan to create separate camps where people who are making a nuisance of themselves, or behaving in ways deemed 'anti-social' can be sent away. Families might live in caravans or be granted very basic housing while being monitored by the police.

The question is – who decides who is a nuisance to whom? There is much scope for injustice and the targetting of individuals who represent a moral/political minority, and it is a pity that Amsterdam is considering going down this slippery road. Reports say that municipal officials could identify offenders deserving of a “compulsory six month course”. Which sounds a lot like 're-education' and reminds me of non-democratic states and penal colonies.

There's a fine line between being anti-social or not wanting to follow every law in the land, and actually harassing others who might be forced out of their own homes, since they ae unable to confront or retaliate in equal measure. What makes the situation more dangerous is the politicians' attitude. One leader has been quoted as saying: “Put all the trash together”.

To think of, or describe, citizens as trash or scum is not healthy. It damages the human spirit. Which is why this whole business of 'camps' for the anti-social makes me uncomfortable.

And yet, in another corner of my head, there is also this fantasy – what if all the 'misfits' could petition the government to be allowed to set up their own villages? A bit of land where they could live by their own rules, without police interference?

We all want to pack off people we don't like to some place where they can live with their own sort. That's what ghettos are. But what if India was divided on the basis on behavioural preferences rather than linguistic or religious heritage? The only law that would apply to all would be against physical assault, murder and enslavement. At 16, children could decide whether they wanted to stay put with their parents, or start traveling to look for a colony where they share the values of the local residents.

There was an online test doing the rounds a while ago. It figured out where you 'belong' based on your values and personal politics. It turned out that many of the people I like and love 'belong' in Sweden or Norway. These are tolerant, liberal, non-violent people who believe in social justice, gender equality, freedom. Yet, none of us is trying to quit India.

Perhaps we all dream of a place in India – a village or town – where we could apply for domicile on the basis of our personal values. For instance, a colony of atheist artists who cultivate land – what would it be like? And why not have a colony of misogynists where all misogynists can live happily ever after?

If only the government could do a nation-wide psychological survey to figure out who wants a zero tolerance approach to sexual violence? Who prefers a soft apologists' approach? Who wants the freedom to harass man, woman, child or animal with no serious consequences?

I can imagine such a survey: “Whoever believes in dowry, stand in this line. Whoever believes in purdah, stand in that line. Who does not believe in legal marriage or inheritance? Raise your hand.”

If only we could all find our nearest soul-citizens, and then go off into our own scummy villages where our own rules apply... That would be something, eh?

First published here

Tech it up

Recently, I had to apply for a new PAN card. It was a relatively painless process, despite a few weeks' delay on account of a misplaced cheque. But what made me feel better through the whole business of following up on the application was that there was someone I could reach. The fact that I could send and email and actually get a response, that I could call a helpline to understand the problem and an executive told me what to do – this made me feel less frustration. And when the application was processed, I was sent an update via email, telling me that the card had been dispatched and would reach me soon.

Interactions with the state have become slightly smoother because of newer technologies. You don't have to waste precious time standing in queues, watching the defensive faces of government employees who are responsible for either blocking or expediting your file. Now citizens can apply online for a few basic services and receive updates on mobile phones or via email.

This is a major relief, of course. Many communication problems can be resolved if the technologies push deeper into the countryside, and are made available in more languages. But the first step is for the government to decide to use technology to make life better, simpler, more fair for citizens.

Even with existing knowledge, much can be done to improve the average citizen's relationship with the state. CCTV cameras are constantly being used to check crime. Video-calling and conferencing is connecting families across the globe. There is no reason these should not be used to monitor village schools and hospitals, so teachers and doctors cannot absent themselves so easily.

In fact, the failure to enable things like tracking files online through government departments is making us more vulnerable to corruption. We should be able to see why municipal clearances for various projects are granted or denied. We should be able to report violations of the illegal use of public space to the concerned state department.

Citizens should be able to reach the administration without wasting time and money travelling to block offices. Even if they're illiterate, or don't have personal laptops or uninterrupted power supply, it is possible to enable a video-call using a combination of solar energy, a public media centre and the internet. They should be able to make a phone call to complain if their pension are delayed.

Last week, I'd mentioned a protest in Delhi, where activists demanded solar energy. They wanted to emphasize that many alternatives are available to the human race to generate electricity, and reports said that they had connected their bicycles to a sign that was lit up as the activists pedaled.

Indeed, there are a dozen possibilities. In Tambaram municipality, methane gas was drawn from sewage and used as cooking gas for local residents. A bio-methanation plant has reportedly been set up to treat sewage generated from public toilets, which serves the dual purpose of ensuring sanitation and reducing the use of kerosene or LPG in kitchens. The state of Chhattisgarh is reportedly trying to use satellite imagery to curb illegal mining and transport of minerals.

In other nations, gyms have used exercise equipment to generate electricity. Magazine reports have mentioned music festivals that experimented with bicycle-powered concerts, and bars that make customers pedal up the energy needed to create their cocktails.

If we'd snap out of our overwhelming dependence on huge grids powered by coal or hydro-power, every district would have a shot at energy independence, we'd use natural resources better, and we'd all be one step closer to de-centralized democracy.

First published here

Un- comical adventures

My second graphic story for Mint's 'The Small Picture' had appeared a few weeks ago. This one is about the trials and heartbreaks of home-seekers, particularly single people, in Mumbai.

Here's a link:  http://www.livemint.com/rw/LiveMint/Period1/2013/06/20/Photos/StandingObjects/Jun21_tsp.jpg

3 new poems in Big Bridge

I have three poems in the new anthology of Indian poetry at Big Bridge:
'Cine Sestina'
'City, Twilight'
'Lifer Giving Advice to New Convict in Female Ward'.

Read here.

After the suffering

About a month ago, I'd read a critique of the report of the Inter-Ministerial Group (IMG) on hydropower projects in the Upper Ganga Basin and Ganga River. The report was submitted to the Ministry of Environment and Forests. It came in for sharp criticisms from the South Asia Network on Dams, Rivers and People (SANDRP), which claims that the report is biased in favour of large hydropower projects.

IMG stated that 69 large hydropower projects in the Upper Ganga basin already exist. But, apparently only 17 are operating and 14 under construction. SANDRP points out that the report has even included projects which were officially dropped.

Another criticism is that the report doesn't bother with science. It says “the distance between two hydro projects should... ensure that over-crowding is avoided” but doesn't define over-crowding. At the same time smaller distances between projects are justified if gradient is high. I quote from the SANDRP critique: “if gradient is high, for the same distance, the river will have less time to travel than if the gradient were low. It is in fact the 'time of free flow' that is a crucial... for river to regenerate itself. So if the river were to have the same amount of time to flow between two points, with higher gradient, river will require more distance.”

IMG wants six rivers to stay 'pristine' but also recommends projects on these rivers. There are other serious problems. It wants to implement projects on a stretch of the Bhagirathi that has already been declared eco-sensitive. It is also interestting that none of the non-government members in the group (3 out of 15) have endorsed this report (those who are interested in details can read the full critique at http://www.sandrp.in/).

The question now is – after the tragedy in Uttarakhand, after over a thousand have lost their lives, will the ministry of environment change its attitude to large hyropower projects, or not?

A lot of India's messing about with Himalayan rivers is on account of our hunger for electricity. But it has always confounded me why India doesn't work harder to minimize the burden by turning to our greatest resource – the sun.

Whenever the question of solar power came up in previous decades, one heard excuses like how it is too expensive, how it cannot be supplied off-grid easily, how it is 'unfeasible'. But it's nowhere near as unfeasible as it's made out to be. I've lived in houses that use solar-powered water heaters. I've been to villages where people are denied grid-connectivity but with a solar power unit, each home could at least charge mobile phones, torches, and light a bulb at night. Why is this dismissed or scoffed at?

Many states are now giving solar energy a bit of a push. Kerela, Tamil Nadu, Gujarat have taken steps to introduce solar panels on roof-tops. Every town has its own climate to factor in, of course. But Delhi has a better chance at capturing solar energy than Kerela and it is high time greater efforts were made. In fact, Greenpeace organised a 'bike-a-thon' recently. Reports say that bicycles were generating electricity, lighting up the message: “Switch on the Sun”.

Delhi has had plans for solar-powered households since 2011. This year Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit finally launched a project whereby reportedly 1,257 solar panels generated power from the roof-tops of the discom BYPL.

I believe that should a time come that hydropower is not available, alternatives will spring up overnight. Every home (starting with the richest) and every state will make provision for its own supply. The tragedy is that it hasn't happened already.

First published here

Waste not, want not

The other day, I had to throw out a kilo of potatoes. I bought a bunch of vegetables, took them home and put away some inside the fridge. Potatoes and onions were placed on the shelf as usual.

Three days later, a luxuriant layer of white mossy fungus had appeared. So I threw away the potatoes, which were still inside the plastic bag. Of course, I felt guilty about wasting food. But I felt even worse because one corner of my brain had warned me: “Take the potatoes out of the plastic bag; wash and dry them or they might rot.”

This small bit of advice is part of a larger wisdom about food handed down to us – to women of my generation at least – by our mothers and grandmothers. But then we went to hostels and found jobs before we learnt to manage our own meals. Or, we allowed hired workers to take over the kitchen. Partly through neglect and partly because we cannot be bothered, we no longer apply that wisdom.

Some of us may have learnt the science behind food management – how air and moisture is trapped inside plastic, how fungus grows in dark moist places, how fruit can be ripened naturally. We may even retain this knowledge from school text-books. But we forget to apply it. We forget that it is one of the most important kinds of knowledge a human being can have. 

And this forgetting is costing us. Not just as individuals who are struggling to cope with food inflation, but as a nation where every other person is malnourished. Even Pope Francis has said that wasting food is akin to stealing from the poor.

The world produces more than enough food – four billion tonnes of grain. But 1.3 billion tonnes, one-third of the food produced, is wasted each year. Both developing and developed nations are responsible. Lack of good storage facilities or transport infrastructure are to blame, but so are unimaginative and wasteful lifestyles.

A recent series of articles in Tehelka pointed out that rural Indian households very rarely waste anything. Even peel and straw is used as fodder. But more and more Indians live in cities and they know very little about growing, storing, preserving or recycling food. Besides, supplying to people in urban areas isn't easy. Our current situation is so bad, we're losing 25-40 percent of India's fruits and vegetables. The food waste burden could be an appalling 100 kilos per urban household.

There's another kind of loss happening. The head of the United Nations panel on biodiversity, Zakri Abdul Hamid, had pointed out that the loss of diversity is intensifying the nutrition crisis. There are 30,000 edible plants around the world but we usually cultivate only 30 crops. Which means that every time there's a minor shift in ideal weather, soil or water conditions, and a crop fails, many more people are likely to go hungry. Animals are at risk too – 22 livestock species are on the verge of extinction because animals are being bred with the single purpose of extracting milk and related marketable produce, not because they are sturdier and more likely to survive in tougher climate conditions.

I can't help wondering how we got here – how is it that modern, fast-urbanizing nations are not aggressively promoting food management knowledge? Is it because managing food is low-paid or unpaid work? Or because many generations have never grown a single potato on their own? Or because people who can neither grow food nor care to experiment with dietary possibilities are the ones who control the economy?

First published here

The Decent Thing To Do

I've often heard it said that you come into this world with just your body and you leave the same way. Which is to say, don't get too attached to what you have. But as long as you live, you need certain things. Your desire to live is proportional to how much you have – money, work, love, support, freedom.

Indirectly, our laws acknowledge this fact. That's why every society eventually has to allow for divorce in some form. No culture can deal with mass unhappiness for too long. This is also why governments have to enforce minimum wages, the right to work, or unemployment doles.

In a humane culture, allowances are made for those who have suffered. People who are under extreme stress – say, they lose their livelihoods, or their health, or have been emotionally abused for too long – may lose their desire to live. Sometimes, businessmen kill themselves rather than adjust to a life of poverty. Some farmers kill themselves because they cannot bear to lose their land, or their dignity. Some people kill themselves because they feel trapped in an unhappy marriage and see no way out.

In a decent society, alternatives are created. Farmers don't have to lose their land if they lose a crop. Being homeless and jobless doesn't have to translate into you becoming easy targets for violence at every street corner. A divorce doesn't have to translate into abandonment by your own family.

In an indecent society, you are forced to stay alive because others do not want to acknowledge your pain, nor do they want to look for long-term solutions. It is easier to criminalize suicide. Or call it a 'sin' against God.

But criminalizing doesn't help (and God, obviously, doesn't care enough to intervene). If someone is deeply unhappy and starts feeling powerless, that person will quit. Even animals stop eating if they're unhappy. 

But suicides make the rest of us feel guilty or upset. Everyone has troubles. If people just quit whenever we feel pain, what happens to the family? To the nation?

Besides, families (and governments) invest in individuals. Even from a socio-economic perspective, suicide is such a waste of resources. So we try to prevent it, or locate the source of a suicidal person's pain. A decent society looks for reasons why people feel hopeless. An indecent society looks for a scapegoat, a convenient target on whom we can collectively turn. We make laws about 'suicide abetment'.

A twenty-five-year-old quit because she saw no hope of ever finding happiness. She was hurt, possibly assaulted, but did not talk about it openly. She may have thought nobody would believe her and her career wouldn't survive, or that she herself would be blamed. She did live in a society where any hint of liberation is seen as an invitation to sexual violence. Where 'bachelors', especially artists, are not welcome as tenants. Where elected representatives get away with shaming rape victims. Where, despite alarming statistics about child abuse, schools refuse to allow gender workshops. Where officials conduct virginity tests before allowing weddings. Where, if she survived the suicide attempt, she could be punished by the law.

And we turn to the young boy who didn't want to take responsibility for her happiness, nor did he know how to cure her pain. This is the safe thing to do, after all. Because if we acknowledge where blame actually lies, we'd have to admit that our current way of being deserves to be smashed. Rapists would have to be punished. Women would have to be set free. And our society is not decent enough to allow this.

First published here

Reclaiming Magadh

One of the best things about reading a good book is that it makes one want to rush out and buy everything else by the writer. It makes us hungry for more. On that count, 'Magadh' and its translation by Rahul Soni scores high.

I was introduced to the work of Shrikant Verma only in 2009, when some translated poems from 'Magadh' appeared in Almost Island, the literary journal that has now published the book in English translation alongside the original Hindi.

When one first encounters Verma's pointedly sparse poems, the impact is electric. His unfussiness forces the mind to focus on the cacti of dilemmas and questions that never quite leave. These poems are about history, violence, direction, vision. They grapple with the attempt to reinhabit a place. But what is this place? Where does this path lead?

Perhaps he spoke for a generation that witnessed the crumbling of independent India's Constitutional ambitions, when he wrote: “There is pity in no one/ There is shame/ in no one/ No one thinks/ Those who think once/ don't think again.”

But Verma does not mention 'India' or 'Delhi'. He mentions Kapilvastu, Ujjaini, Magadh, Kashi, Mithila. He speaks of an Amravati that belongs to everyone. The book is populated with soldiers and amended laws, corpses and courtesans, ill omens and confusion, the unpleasant prospect of descent and ascent on staircases that don't care. The enemy is unarmed. Rulers are absent. “There are/ no rulers/ Those that were there/ thanks to liquor, stupidity and laziness/ are/ no longer/ worthy/ of being called our rulers/ What do we do then?”

Indeed, what?

In 'Wailing from the Inner Chambers', the poet asks: “...why this sorrow?/ When/ everyone/ says/ what happened/ was right, / why this repentence?”

The poet has dated the poem as being written in 1984, but he may as well have written it in 1992 or 2002. Most of Magadh was written in 1979 and 1984 and though the horrific events of the Emergency era or the Hindu-Sikh riots are not mentioned directly, the allusions are unmistakeable.

In 'The Customs of Hastinapur', Verma writes: “It isn't the custom to listen in Hastinapur – / those who hear/ are either deaf/ or have been appointed/ to turn a deaf ear”. The poem 'Kapilvastu' seems to refer to the new emphasis on us being a 'young' nation and the preference for younger leaders, starting in the 1980s. We can guess at the troublesome political coteries that would have made Verma write: “Being young/ only means/ that no one old should be in Kapilvastu”.

Yet, Verma is not mourning. He seems more interested in the people, those who mourn (or don't). He rejects the idea of an equal grief after a battle (or a riot). “I say/ it is not possible/ One-sided the murders/ One-sided the victory... One-sided the dharma/ One-sided the shame/ The number of dead on both sides/ is not the same”.

Reclaiming 'Magadh' for a new generation of Indian readers was necessary and Soni's translations go a long way to enable this. He communicates both the wiry frame and the lean flesh of these poems for readers in English.

The grammar and syntax of Hindi allows for a stronger rhythm, some of which is inevitably lost in translation, but Soni makes up for the loss by focusing on alliteration. Many poems also bear internal rhythms of meaning. Very few words are used. Entire verses are repeated. But then, a single syllable changed holds weight. Soni's decision to stay faithful to the original enjambment, as far as English grammar allows, also helps to retain some of the grace and nuance of the original poems.

There are things that are untranslate-able perhaps. For instance, the word 'anarth'. It means the lack of meaning, but it also hints at horrors to which no voice can be given. Yet, it is used in a poem that is about writing, giving voice. In English no word comes to mind that can convey both meanings so easily. The translator plays it safe and goes with the former meaning rather than the latter.

Besides, in Hindi, because there is no capitalization of names or the beginnings of sentences, meaning becomes ever more fluid, harder to pin down and yet, twice illuminated. Soni has worked around these difficulties admirably, though, and rendered 'Magadh' twice as readable.

Publisher: Almost Island Books

Rs 399

This review was published in DNA

Why not kiss and make it right?

Imagine being dragged out of your home at midnight, being beaten up and shamed publicly. 

Imagine that you have not beaten anyone else, done no violence, no economic fraud, nothing. All you've done is fallen in love, and decided to live with someone. And for this, you were punished by someone who claims to speak for everyone.

This is what happened in Balrampur district. The woman was separated from her husband and had begun to live with another man. This couple was reportedly dragged out of their home at the middle of the night. They were beaten, heads shaved, faces blackened, paraded around the village. The village 'pradhan' is another woman but she neither intervened nor reported the assault. Her own husband allegedly led the attack. 

Eventually an FIR was filed, which is how we read about it in the newspaper. But judging from the newspapers and TV channels, it would seem that the only thing occupying the collective mind of this nation is cricket. As if it really matters that people bet money on sports. As if it really does not matter that Indians can be beaten and humiliated for being in love. As if people's freedom to live with who they like is of no consequence. As if cricket matches alone assure us dignity and personal liberty.

I can imagine that we all have different views on morality. I can imagine that some of us might be moved to tears by cricket, and that most people toe the majority line when it comes to sexual freedom. But I fail to understand why we want to ignore the most pressing issues of our times.

I suppose a large part of our indifference comes from the fact that this incident was reported from a village. We like to think we are secure in our urban bubbles, where 'people like us' live as they like. We like to think that we will not have goons barging into our homes at midnight to thrash us.

There was another development reported recently, which was also largely ignored by most media houses. Turkey was witnessing a wave of protests that's described as unprecedented. The government, although democratically elected, responded with panic and brute force.

People were fighting to protect fundamental freedoms – their right to public space, and the right to kiss. Before the protesters took to the streets, there was a unique protest. Kissing had been disallowed in public spaces, and people began to stage 'kiss protests'.

It was the natural thing to do, perhaps the only thing to do. If you believe in your right to kiss, or to gather for protests, or to drink in bars, then you must do it. 

You must do it until it becomes ordinary, so much a part of your culture that it is ridiculous for anyone to be offended by it.

Indians, young Indians, especially suffer horribly from 'public morality'. Some bans are ridiculous but official – like a ban on mannequins wearing lingerie – but most of the time we suffer immoral, illegal attacks. Under the guise of offending some random group's sense of 'decency', we could be harassed or arrested. Young couples are often beaten up in parks, promenades and beaches. They often have to pay off the offended 'decent' citizen to avoid violence.

And I have never understood why we do not defy more often. Why do we not protest? Why do we not hold hands,or hug, or kiss until it becomes such an ordinary sight that nobody bats an eye? Until the only indecency remaining is the indecency of harming a couple in love.

First published here

2 poems

Two new poems published in Kindle Magazine.

A Flesh Poem about War

and March-end Sonnet

Schools spell trouble?

Schools have been in trouble lately. Hundreds have been derecognized. Thousands of them stand accused of fleecing us – all of us taxpayers, not just parents – of crores of rupees. There is talk of how the fate of millions of students hangs in the balance.

I have to confess that I find these developments slightly amusing, because schools are where we are supposed to learn basic democratic values.

Take this week’s report about 600 schools being declared ‘bogus’ by the Maharashtra government. It began in Nanded in 2011 when the then collector Shrikar Pardeshi asked for a survey of schools in the district. It turned out that about 30 % of enrollments were fake. Then Chief Minister Prithviraj Chavan asked for a state-wide survey and at least two million ‘bogus’ enrollments were detected.

The interesting thing is that several of these schools were controlled by politicians affiliated to various political parties. Now this should not really be surprising to anyone who understands the new Indian economy. There is money to be made in education. And politicians like to control anything that makes money. They get even more powerful as they make decisions that enable them to make more money. According to the state’s own website, Maharashtra set aside Rs 26,443 crore (Rs 13,670 crore for elementary and Rs 12,773 crore on secondary education) for the year 2011-12.

What is at stake is not just children’s education, but also their health. The Indian state aids schools through cheap land, grants for teachers’ salaries. Funds are allotted for mid-day meals, which is imperative for a nation where half the child population is malnourished. There are special funds for residential schools for adivaasi children. Hence, the scam: set up schools and apply for aid, then claim larger and larger grants based on the number of students and teachers. The state-wide survey also discovered at least 12,000 teachers’ names on fake payrolls.

One way of dealing with such scams, of course, is to stop aiding schools. To make education a thoroughly private enterprise – by those who can afford to offer the service, for those for who can afford to buy it. But the problem is not just politicians or scamming ‘educationists’. Unaided schools are also turning out to be a problem.

Take recent reports about Billabong International High School in Thane. The institute reportedly served a legal notice to parents protesting a fee hike, demanding Rs 5 crore against defamation. But the parents did not pull their kids out and enroll them in other schools. They’re heading for the law courts instead.

In recent years, there have been many school fees-related protests across India. Delhi, Coimbatore, Aurangabad, Kanpur, Jammu, Bhubaneswar. Parents form groups like the Forum Against Commercialization of Education. They demand ‘transparency’ and proof that teachers are indeed well paid. They want politicians, activists and the judiciary to intervene although it’s none of the state’s business. After all, the parents chose unaided schools that set out to be expensive and exclusive.

So what do they want? Good schools, of course. But there is also a definite attitude that education shouldn’t be a free-for-all bazaar, that people deserve ‘quality’ education, even if they cannot afford it.

People often conflate ‘quality’ with how much money they’ve coughed up and this is obviously a problem because the best teachers aren’t the most buyable. But what does this attitude among the upper and middle classes tell us? I think it tells us that we all recognize the fundamental principle of the right to education. Assured of ‘quality’, we might even prefer state-run schools for which we pay a modest fee via taxes.

First published here

On mirrors and foggy lenses

For the first time in years, I found my toes literally curling in fear during a film. My stomach was in knots and my knees were drawn up to my chest. The film was 'The Whistleblower', set in post-war Bosnia and based on true events. One scene was especially difficult to watch. A young woman was raped in front of many others – to teach her a lesson for trying to escape and as a warning to the rest. Yet, there was no lust involved. The film makes it quite clear that this brutality is essentially about money and power. Half-way through the film, I began to wonder if the director was a woman.

What was happening to those girls was torture and it communicated itself as torture. The camera focussed a lot on the girls' faces but it did not shy away from the violence done to them. I went online later to confirm my suspicion. Indeed, the director turned out to be a woman, Larysa Kondracki, who wrote the script along with Eilis Kirwan.

How and why did I start thinking about the gender of the director? 

Read the rest of this essay on how sexual violence and gender stereotypes play out in cinema, and the question of how women filmmakers in India hope to hold up a mirror to society if their work carefully avoids the rampant sexual violence in our society.