There is some talk these days of reform in Land Acquisition Act. I fully agree that what suited colonal rulers does not suit a more eqitable society. I am however against going 180 degrees from the present position. Before I go into this question, let us lay down some facts.
1. The Society is supreme.
2. Governments are structures created by the society for regulating some aspects of its functions. Let us not mistake the part to be the whole - the servant to be the master - the government to be the society.
3. The society can not and should not delegate all its responsibilities to the government especially to one that is capable of transmitting only 15 to 17 paise out of a rupee spent for the purpose intended ( as per the admission of no less than a person than a former Prime Minister. )
4. One peculiar Indian structure - the N.G.O. has fared no better. In fact, it has fostered what I call crony parasitism on the same lines as crony capitalism.
5. Forms of governance - Monarchy, Dictatorship (whether benevolent or otherwise), Socialism, Communism, Democracy, Plutocracy and so on are again created by the society to fulfill its needs at a given time and given circumstances. No form of governance is sacrosanct. If it does not fulfill the needs of the society, it gets changed, however slow the change may be. We just have to look at history of the past centuries of the various countries of the world to realize this.
6. There is no panacea for all our ills such as poverty, ill health, illiteracy and so on for all of India which is a multi - religious, muti - linguistic, multi - ethnic society. Different paths, different methods are required for eradicating these ills. What is true for Gujarat or Maharastra or Panjab is not true for the south or for that matter the east. Some principles followed by Mahatma Gandhi are however relevant even today.
7. We need to accept that the maturity level of the Indian society is not uniformly distributed. This is much more disturbing than the inequitable distribution of wealth or incomes. You can not for example, equate Kerala with say parts of India which kill their own offsprings for the crime of being the unwanted gender or for the crime of marrying a person not in consonance with parental idiosyncracies. One can imagine what can happen if the principle of grass roots democracy is unifdrmly applied throughout India right now.
8.Perhaps if Mahatma Gandhi had his way, he would have preferred Indians to become self - reliant and independent economically, socially, educationally, healthwise and so on before becoming politically independent but the overwhelming majority of the then existing lower rung leadership was too impatient.
9. Consequently, politics of service to the society was replaced by the politics of power over the society. Both the crony capitalism and the crony parasitism are the products of this phenomenon.
All those wanting to give 26% of profits of enterprises to the project affected people are only wanting to create a new class of zamindars - a new class of parasites. No doubt, those uprooted have to be rehabilitated, each according to his/her potential but they should not be withdrawn from productive workforce. A part of the profits must be kept aside - it could be even more than 26% - for the purpose. It must however have a time limit - till such time as rehabilitation is complete. We have not yet eradicated the old zamindari completely. Let us not create a new set of parasites. Uneducated masses with a steady unearned income and idleness could lead to evils such as drinking, gambling, womanising and so on - all at the expense of their womenfolk. I appreciate the good intentions of the proponents of the idea of profit sharing but they must not create new problems. I have given up on the political parties with their votebank politics to carry out social reforms. Those whom I would have thought as being capable of doing so appear to be muddle headed, if I may use this rather strong term. We all need to concentrate on removing social evils while simultaneously striving for economic self - sufficiency of the masses. Subsidies are the worst drugs - worst narcotics devised by our politicians to keep the poor perprtually poor and thus under their control. They can then keep on shedding crocodile tears over them while quaffing whiskey. Monarchy bred zamindari as a bulwark - a second line of defence. Our modern day rulers want to create a similar institution by withdrawing a sizeable population from the workforce. This will have long term baneful repurcussions. Same goes for our misguided intellectuals. They are adopting the agitational path in stead of going over to the villages and helping the masses to become self - reliant. Both the masses and the intelligentia are behaving like children. One hopes to please the Sarkar Mai - Baap while the other wants to coerce the Mai - Baap by throwing tantrums and creating a ruckus. All those who wish to better the lot of the dispossesed, had better become proactive, engage themselves in rehabilitation activities, train the victims in alternative trades and professions, taking help from a fund created for the purpose. The hand of the victims certainly needs to be held till they become self - sufficient. Mahatma and not Mao is our ideal.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
SWATI AND SASHA
Swati was about 3 years old, wheat complexioned,chubby and short. She was a neighbour's daughter in the Bhilai Steel Plant's township. What distinguished her from other children in the neighbourhood was the fact that she had a Russian boy friend called Sasha who was also of her age.
Swati and Sasha were inseparables. Swati spoke no language other than Gujarati and Sasha likewise could speak only Russian. This did not pose any barriers between them. They understood each other very well. In course of time, Sasha picked up a few words of Gujarati and Swati, a few of Russian. At Sasha's, both sat on the dining table for their repasts of Borsch soup or Kalabassa from ceramic tableware. At Swati's they squatted on wooden boards ( Patlas ) on the floor and feasted on Dudhpak or Dhokla from stainless steel plates.
Both were banished from time to time from their homes for such harmless acts as Sassabhai's ( his pet name at Swati's place ) presenting crabs to Swati's vegetarian mother as a token of affection or Swatka's ( her pet name at Sasha's place ) eating noisily, making slurping sounds, at Sasha's mother's table to show her appreciation of the food that she was devouring. At such times, my bachelor household provided them with a safe haven. Here, they could frolic, sing, dance or upset things without any demur on anyone's part. I was their Kaka and Dyadya Gujarati and Russian words for uncle.
All good things have to end sooner or later. So they felt when they learnt that I was to marry. They had seen my fiancee's photograph on my bedside table, so when she came as a bride to my house, she was grudgingly accepted. Luckily, my wife, unlike their mothers, had more time on her hands. She could therefore put up with their ways. On their part, they gladly ran errands for her. All went smoothly for some time.
Then, my mother came down to see how her son was coping with married life. For a week, Swati restrained herself. But then it was too much. One day, she cornered the old lady.
" Do you eat here everyday " ? she enquired.
" Yes " said my mother, somewhat amused.
" Do you bathe here also " ? was the next.
" Yes, why " ?
" You even sleep here " ?
" Yes, Of course !
"Well, when are you leaving " ? This with Swati's hands on her tiny but determined waist.
My mother was struck far too dumb at being told by a rank outsider that she was unwelcome in her own son's house. She could not readily muster a suitable rejoinder. Pressing her advantage further, Swati added,
" This is MY Kaka's house "
"Ha, MARA dyadyanun " ( yes, my uncle's ) supported Sasha in his best Russo - Gujarati tongue.
In the evening, on my return home, my mother mentioned about this tete - a - tete to me.
" Did you object to Swati's dancing on the dining table with metallic plates and spoons for musical accompaniment " ? I asked.
" Yes ", said mother.
" Did you refuse entry to Sasha when he was wearing snails for earrings " ? I probed further.
" Yes, Of course ", indignantly replied my mother.
" Well then, what else do you expect " ?
Comprehension descended on my mother like a ton of bricks. And she smiled. Needless to add that thereafter my mother became " Dadi " for Swati and " Babushka " for Sasha just as my wife had earlier become " Kaki " and "Tyotya ".
How old have I grown ? For, to-day I have on my hand, an invitation card for Swati's marriage. No, not to Sasha, you romantic fools !
Swati and Sasha were inseparables. Swati spoke no language other than Gujarati and Sasha likewise could speak only Russian. This did not pose any barriers between them. They understood each other very well. In course of time, Sasha picked up a few words of Gujarati and Swati, a few of Russian. At Sasha's, both sat on the dining table for their repasts of Borsch soup or Kalabassa from ceramic tableware. At Swati's they squatted on wooden boards ( Patlas ) on the floor and feasted on Dudhpak or Dhokla from stainless steel plates.
Both were banished from time to time from their homes for such harmless acts as Sassabhai's ( his pet name at Swati's place ) presenting crabs to Swati's vegetarian mother as a token of affection or Swatka's ( her pet name at Sasha's place ) eating noisily, making slurping sounds, at Sasha's mother's table to show her appreciation of the food that she was devouring. At such times, my bachelor household provided them with a safe haven. Here, they could frolic, sing, dance or upset things without any demur on anyone's part. I was their Kaka and Dyadya Gujarati and Russian words for uncle.
All good things have to end sooner or later. So they felt when they learnt that I was to marry. They had seen my fiancee's photograph on my bedside table, so when she came as a bride to my house, she was grudgingly accepted. Luckily, my wife, unlike their mothers, had more time on her hands. She could therefore put up with their ways. On their part, they gladly ran errands for her. All went smoothly for some time.
Then, my mother came down to see how her son was coping with married life. For a week, Swati restrained herself. But then it was too much. One day, she cornered the old lady.
" Do you eat here everyday " ? she enquired.
" Yes " said my mother, somewhat amused.
" Do you bathe here also " ? was the next.
" Yes, why " ?
" You even sleep here " ?
" Yes, Of course !
"Well, when are you leaving " ? This with Swati's hands on her tiny but determined waist.
My mother was struck far too dumb at being told by a rank outsider that she was unwelcome in her own son's house. She could not readily muster a suitable rejoinder. Pressing her advantage further, Swati added,
" This is MY Kaka's house "
"Ha, MARA dyadyanun " ( yes, my uncle's ) supported Sasha in his best Russo - Gujarati tongue.
In the evening, on my return home, my mother mentioned about this tete - a - tete to me.
" Did you object to Swati's dancing on the dining table with metallic plates and spoons for musical accompaniment " ? I asked.
" Yes ", said mother.
" Did you refuse entry to Sasha when he was wearing snails for earrings " ? I probed further.
" Yes, Of course ", indignantly replied my mother.
" Well then, what else do you expect " ?
Comprehension descended on my mother like a ton of bricks. And she smiled. Needless to add that thereafter my mother became " Dadi " for Swati and " Babushka " for Sasha just as my wife had earlier become " Kaki " and "Tyotya ".
How old have I grown ? For, to-day I have on my hand, an invitation card for Swati's marriage. No, not to Sasha, you romantic fools !
PAPA GOES TO SCHOOL
During our last visit to Vadodara, our home town, we were received at the railway station by my younger brother and his little three year old son Anand. While his father rode his scooter on the way back home, Anand preferred to accompany his somewhat older cousins in the taxi that we took.
When we were passing by the impressive building of the Science faculty of the M.S. University of Baroda with its distinctive metallic dome, my sons looked at it with some amount of interest.
" That is my Papa's school ", calmly explained Anand.
Soon we passed by the even more impressive big - domed building of the Arts faculty. My sons' pupils got even more dilated on seeing this spectacle.
" This is my mummy's school " even more calmly asserted Anand.
This exhibition of his cousin's Papa's and Mummy's schools seemed to chafe little Ashesh, just a year older than Anand. Not long however.
" There goes my Papa's school " triumphantly shouted Ashesh.
Having been busy in my own thoughts about the expected reunion with the family. I had, thus far, not paid much attention to the childrens' patter. Since the faculty of Engineering was nowhere nearby, I shook off my thoughts to look in the direction of Ashesh's pointed finger.
Going ahead of our taxi was an oil tank truck with INDIANOIL, my employer's name blazoned across its rear ! To little boys, noise making moving objects are more impressive than static buildings, however beautiful their facade.
When we were passing by the impressive building of the Science faculty of the M.S. University of Baroda with its distinctive metallic dome, my sons looked at it with some amount of interest.
" That is my Papa's school ", calmly explained Anand.
Soon we passed by the even more impressive big - domed building of the Arts faculty. My sons' pupils got even more dilated on seeing this spectacle.
" This is my mummy's school " even more calmly asserted Anand.
This exhibition of his cousin's Papa's and Mummy's schools seemed to chafe little Ashesh, just a year older than Anand. Not long however.
" There goes my Papa's school " triumphantly shouted Ashesh.
Having been busy in my own thoughts about the expected reunion with the family. I had, thus far, not paid much attention to the childrens' patter. Since the faculty of Engineering was nowhere nearby, I shook off my thoughts to look in the direction of Ashesh's pointed finger.
Going ahead of our taxi was an oil tank truck with INDIANOIL, my employer's name blazoned across its rear ! To little boys, noise making moving objects are more impressive than static buildings, however beautiful their facade.
AN AMATEUR CHILD PSYCHOLOGIST'S ERROR
During the 1965 Indo-Pak war, our three year old son Santosh's vocabulary was enriched by warlike words. Guns, Tanks, Bombs, Fighters were words constantly playing on his lips. Soon after the war, he heard that the Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri had died.
" Who shot him " was the question he shot at his mother. A little shocked, the mother somewhat testily replied that he was not shot by anyone.
"Then, how did he die " ? was the next one. Before his mother gave an even more shocked response to this second baffler, I thought I would butt in. A child psychologist that I considered myself to be, I was anxious that my son should be explained this thing about death in the logic and language of a child.
" Well, you see darling, Shastriji fell very much sick and that is why he died ", was the explanation given by me.
" But I did not die when I fell very much sick " was his argument apparently referring to his measles.
" But then, Shastriji was very old whereas you are very young " was my childlike reinforcement of the earlier explanation, Absence of any further discourse on the subject gave me the satisfaction of having used my child psychology successfully.
Six months later, we went to see our parents who were anxious to see their grandson. Mother was down with influenza so she called him to her bedside. He was immediately interested in the grandma much to the latter's delight.
" So you are grandma " ! he broke the ice.
" Well yes, I am your grandma " proudly countered my mother.
" Aren't you sick " ? my son went on.
" Yes dear, I am very much sick, that is why I could not come to the sta.....
" Oh! that's alright " interupted the little one.
" But tell me, are you old " ?
"Yes, my dear ! I am very old " piteously replied the granny.
" Well, well ! getting a little excited, the little devil spoke out triumphantly, " Then, you are going to die " !
My mother was struck dumb but her glare was eloquent. It showed unmistakably the contempt that she had for this new fangled thing called child psychology that I had been proudly parading about !
Post script:- My mother died eventually at the age of 95 years at Santosh's house in New Delhi of nothing but old age.
" Who shot him " was the question he shot at his mother. A little shocked, the mother somewhat testily replied that he was not shot by anyone.
"Then, how did he die " ? was the next one. Before his mother gave an even more shocked response to this second baffler, I thought I would butt in. A child psychologist that I considered myself to be, I was anxious that my son should be explained this thing about death in the logic and language of a child.
" Well, you see darling, Shastriji fell very much sick and that is why he died ", was the explanation given by me.
" But I did not die when I fell very much sick " was his argument apparently referring to his measles.
" But then, Shastriji was very old whereas you are very young " was my childlike reinforcement of the earlier explanation, Absence of any further discourse on the subject gave me the satisfaction of having used my child psychology successfully.
Six months later, we went to see our parents who were anxious to see their grandson. Mother was down with influenza so she called him to her bedside. He was immediately interested in the grandma much to the latter's delight.
" So you are grandma " ! he broke the ice.
" Well yes, I am your grandma " proudly countered my mother.
" Aren't you sick " ? my son went on.
" Yes dear, I am very much sick, that is why I could not come to the sta.....
" Oh! that's alright " interupted the little one.
" But tell me, are you old " ?
"Yes, my dear ! I am very old " piteously replied the granny.
" Well, well ! getting a little excited, the little devil spoke out triumphantly, " Then, you are going to die " !
My mother was struck dumb but her glare was eloquent. It showed unmistakably the contempt that she had for this new fangled thing called child psychology that I had been proudly parading about !
Post script:- My mother died eventually at the age of 95 years at Santosh's house in New Delhi of nothing but old age.
WHY MY SONS PREFER HARD BOILED EGGS
With no daughter who could help their mother, we had taken to encouraging our sons, aged six and eight, to do some household chores during their holidays. This would prepare them for the coming days of their married life. Who knows whether servants would exist twenty years hence ? In all probabikity, their wives would be working for a living and would dearly appreciate husbands adept in helping around the house.
Having learnt how to make tea, we left them to experiment on making boiled eggs for breakfast as a first step in cooking. After a few almost raw or highly boiled, cracked eggs which spilled their contents into the boiling water, they learnt how to boil eggs properly. I was a bit curious to know how they learnt this.
" It's easy " ! said six year old Ashesh, " When the eggs start fighting, they are no longer raw " !
"Yes, but how do you know whether they are hard - boiled " ? I questioned, a bit amused at his imaginative expression.
" That's easy too " ! interposed eight year old Santosh, eager to show his power of observation. "When my egg breaks the head of Ashesh's egg, his egg is over - boiled but my egg is just hard - boiled. "
" Well, but if you want half - boiled eggs " ? I probed.
" Oh that ! gloomily said tiny Ashesh, " That's when you switch off the gas before you have really enjoyed the egg fighting " !
So now, I know why they never eat half - boiled eggs or for that matter, their eggs are never over - boiled. They neither want to miss the fun of the egg fight nordo they want either one's egg to lose !
Having learnt how to make tea, we left them to experiment on making boiled eggs for breakfast as a first step in cooking. After a few almost raw or highly boiled, cracked eggs which spilled their contents into the boiling water, they learnt how to boil eggs properly. I was a bit curious to know how they learnt this.
" It's easy " ! said six year old Ashesh, " When the eggs start fighting, they are no longer raw " !
"Yes, but how do you know whether they are hard - boiled " ? I questioned, a bit amused at his imaginative expression.
" That's easy too " ! interposed eight year old Santosh, eager to show his power of observation. "When my egg breaks the head of Ashesh's egg, his egg is over - boiled but my egg is just hard - boiled. "
" Well, but if you want half - boiled eggs " ? I probed.
" Oh that ! gloomily said tiny Ashesh, " That's when you switch off the gas before you have really enjoyed the egg fighting " !
So now, I know why they never eat half - boiled eggs or for that matter, their eggs are never over - boiled. They neither want to miss the fun of the egg fight nordo they want either one's egg to lose !
Saturday, September 18, 2010
WHAT IS A THOUGHT?
Being the first grandchild in both her paternal as well as maternal households, little Dipti at two and a half years, was a bit spoiled. Her mother, a strict disciplinarian, found it tough to manage her in the face of all the spoiling done by the rest of the extended family. The child, used to all the indulgence from the rest of us, found this act of disciplining rather repugnant. In a sort of retaliatory tactic, she had learnt when and how to irritate the parent.
Once, she wanted to wash her hands in the dish that she had partaken her lunch from. The mother forbade it. "Why", asked Dipti. "Well, it is simply not done. You should go to the washing place for that", sternly replied the parent.
"Alright, if I can't wash my hands in the plate, can I pee in it "?
This did it. The mother boiled with rage, gave her a lecture on sanitation and finally asked,
" How could you think of such a thing? Don't you get better thoughts"?
" Tell me, Mummy, what is a thought "? This simply stumped the mother. She had no ready answer. In exasperation, she did what parents are apt to do on such occasions. She punished Dipti.
As a bystander, I was myself puzzled by this question. I could find a precise definition of the word " Thought " in the oxford dictionary but how could I explain it to a two and a half year old? The nearest that I have come to is this. " Say, you are sitting, doing nothing and in your head, some 'Yum-Yum' is going on. It is called a thought ". However, by the time, I came to this solution, I also came to realize that a child at that age acts by instinct alone. No 'yum-yum' ever goes on in their head. Action being thoughts tightly wound like a spring, the stage of thinking has already been passed by a child. It can not think just as a brilliant school boy can not act like a backward boy in the class.
It would take some unwinding or dis-education for the child to be able to comprehend even the explanation of the word " Thought " that is given by me. At thirty, now Dipti should have been diseducated enough to understand all that I have written. May be, it would give a clue to some of the actions of her own daughters.
Post script:- At sixty, now, as a grandmother herself, she would perhaps understand some of her own mother's compulsions in acting like she did !
Once, she wanted to wash her hands in the dish that she had partaken her lunch from. The mother forbade it. "Why", asked Dipti. "Well, it is simply not done. You should go to the washing place for that", sternly replied the parent.
"Alright, if I can't wash my hands in the plate, can I pee in it "?
This did it. The mother boiled with rage, gave her a lecture on sanitation and finally asked,
" How could you think of such a thing? Don't you get better thoughts"?
" Tell me, Mummy, what is a thought "? This simply stumped the mother. She had no ready answer. In exasperation, she did what parents are apt to do on such occasions. She punished Dipti.
As a bystander, I was myself puzzled by this question. I could find a precise definition of the word " Thought " in the oxford dictionary but how could I explain it to a two and a half year old? The nearest that I have come to is this. " Say, you are sitting, doing nothing and in your head, some 'Yum-Yum' is going on. It is called a thought ". However, by the time, I came to this solution, I also came to realize that a child at that age acts by instinct alone. No 'yum-yum' ever goes on in their head. Action being thoughts tightly wound like a spring, the stage of thinking has already been passed by a child. It can not think just as a brilliant school boy can not act like a backward boy in the class.
It would take some unwinding or dis-education for the child to be able to comprehend even the explanation of the word " Thought " that is given by me. At thirty, now Dipti should have been diseducated enough to understand all that I have written. May be, it would give a clue to some of the actions of her own daughters.
Post script:- At sixty, now, as a grandmother herself, she would perhaps understand some of her own mother's compulsions in acting like she did !
NIRAV"S CHOICE
Nirav, my nephew was then about three years old. At a family gathering of both his paternal and maternal sides, he was the youngest. Naturally, everybody fussed over him.
We were talking about his impending entry into a kindergarten. He wanted to know why he should go to a school when he was perfectly happy at home. All of us told him in our various ways, the advantages of education. We also told him what he could become after a stint in education. By way of illustration, all his uncles and aunts told him what each one of them had become by pursuing education. We also explained to him what it meant to become a doctor, an engineer,a teacher and so on. After listening to the rest of us, he turned to his favourite - his grandfather, who said that he was a retired man.
Now, we wanted to know what Nirav would like to become. Once again, each one of us vied with each other in praising his or her profession in the hope that he would choose that profession. Standing in the middle, he scrutinized each one of us by turns, while the object of his scrutiny was keen with anticipation. Nirav did not however, did not choose any of the professions listed / recommended much to our cumulative surprize.
Before the next unspoken question on our lips could materialize, he walked upto his grandfather, sat in his lap and gravely said, "After school, I am going to retire". He had chosen the ultimate destination of all the professions !
We were talking about his impending entry into a kindergarten. He wanted to know why he should go to a school when he was perfectly happy at home. All of us told him in our various ways, the advantages of education. We also told him what he could become after a stint in education. By way of illustration, all his uncles and aunts told him what each one of them had become by pursuing education. We also explained to him what it meant to become a doctor, an engineer,a teacher and so on. After listening to the rest of us, he turned to his favourite - his grandfather, who said that he was a retired man.
Now, we wanted to know what Nirav would like to become. Once again, each one of us vied with each other in praising his or her profession in the hope that he would choose that profession. Standing in the middle, he scrutinized each one of us by turns, while the object of his scrutiny was keen with anticipation. Nirav did not however, did not choose any of the professions listed / recommended much to our cumulative surprize.
Before the next unspoken question on our lips could materialize, he walked upto his grandfather, sat in his lap and gravely said, "After school, I am going to retire". He had chosen the ultimate destination of all the professions !
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)