Not a Nice Place to be!

Published in The Red Elephant Foundation

                                                              http://www.redelephantfoundation.org/

Image from Pixabay (c) Lucida

The fiends are at it again! The dust hadn't settled after the rape of the 23-year-old in Delhi, (and may it never do so!), when the next gang rape was committed. The numbers of atrocities grew, as criminals, who should have quaked in their shoes, danced in abandon over the corpses of their hapless victims!

Just when one thought that human cruelty could not get worse, it did. A labourer from Bihar picked up an innocent five year old girl and raped her over three horrific days. When the poor mite was finally rescued, the doctors found bottles and candles inside her, a scenario too gruesome to even imagine. And yet, a monster of a man had done that, caused immense pain to an infant, confident that he lived in a country where he could get away with it. A country where in a gang rape, the most brutal rapist actually has knowledgeable lawyers and activists pleading for his acquittal because he is a juvenile. Underage he might have been, but in mental years, he was older that Methuselah himself, as he used modes of torture that even hardened criminals might have hesitated to use! And yet, shamefully, he actually had people on his side, as does almost every felon who has been sentenced to Death Row. 

Patently evident, and painfully so, is the fact that India has turned into a soft state, a state soft on criminals, corrupt politicians and the venal wealthy. However, the common man, the helpless and the poor have no means to evade justice, even for a petty theft. The police serve the ruling class, stomping heavily on those who cannot serve their purpose.  Every time there is a horrifying case of rape or brutality, determined protesters come on to the streets, trying to bolster public support and sympathy. But this ends in a one-way street, with no support from the politicians, who pay lip service with put-on accents as they lisp, “We will find the perpetrators, and let law take its own course!" 

Unfortunately, by the time law gets out of bed, puts on its socks and decides to take a stand, all the clues are lost, as in the Aarushi case, or the afflicted people have lost heart, as their loved ones have gone beyond the pale, leaving behind pain and anguish. The 23-year-old girl’s case shook not only the nation, but the whole world, but even today, seasoned lawyers argue about whether the main accused, Ram Singh, committed suicide or was murdered in jail. And shrill social activists argue about whether the death sentence will really deter people from committing crimes like rape and murder. This is just the point! The four ‘adult’ rapists in the 23-year-old’s case have been given the death sentence, maybe because the entire nation rose up in arms against them.

The “most unkindest cut of all” is when these same activists argue about the human rights of the criminals, who have got away with heinous crimes. What human rights are we talking about here? Don't victims who have suffered at the hands of these monsters have the right to be avenged?  

The ones who protest the loudest are those who, most often, have never undergone the agony of having their loved ones cut down in youth. They have never been parents who have lovingly nurtured their young ones to adulthood, only to lose them to crazed sex maniacs.  Or faced a living death when their innocent little babies are raped and brutalized by men whose wives have gone away for a vacation!  They have not seen their daughters turn into vegetables because ward boys have raped them in hospital, or witnessed their daughters' beautiful faces eaten away with acid, and left blind and helpless, because of rejected men with huge egos. 

Even as we debate endlessly, more rapes take place every day. An eighteen year old German teenager was recently raped on a train, and a fifty one year old Danish woman gang raped that very week. According to an official document, rape cases in Delhi have doubled in 2013 and molestation has gone up by almost four times. A new Chief Minister is at the helm in Delhi, with all the right motives behind him, but methinks he is getting a trifle swayed by the not-so-right motives at the moment. One gets a sense of the one-eyed man leading the blind! May he settle down soon and actually go after the corrupt and the cruel, the reason why he was voted into power.

Whom do we blame finally? The politicians who pull the strings, and turn a blind eye; the police who react to wires pulled by their masters; the silent bystander who allows crimes to be committed before his eyes, where lone girls are molested by gangs of men, and drives his vehicle away in haste when he sees a woman and her six month old baby dying on the road, despite the pleas of a hapless husband.    

Do we blame the law of the land that has no harsh deterrent that could stop these criminals in their tracks? Or the advocates who cry foul at every juncture, putting a spoke in the wheels of justice? 

Or do we just form strong silent groups and take tough measures to keep ourselves and the people round us safe and secure? After all, self help is the best help, and the day we stop being mere onlookers and dumb witnesses, and take action against those who break the law and harm others, criminals might think twice before they commit crimes. And that might just be the difference between life and death!       
 

Deepti Menon has always believed in the power of the pen. Having done her post graduation in English Literature and her B.Ed. in English, she had the option of teaching and writing, and did both with great enjoyment. She started writing at the age of ten, long before she acquired a Diploma in Journalism. Deepti also had the advantage of being an Army kid, and later an Army wife, and loved the idea of travelling around India, meeting new people and acquiring new skills. She firmly believes that much of her personality was honed during those travels. For Deepti, writing needs to sparkle with simplicity and originality, and she strives to find that one word that conveys her ideas most meaningfully to her readers. She believes that Mark Twain had the right idea when he said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

Mirror Image

He could not take his eyes off her exquisite profile. Her face reminded him of the moon, but minus all its flaws, radiant as it emerged from behind the clouds. She carried herself with unconscious grace, and he adored the ground she walked on. He recalled words from a classic Hindi movie, where the raspy voiced hero pleaded with his beautiful heroine, asking her not to place her dainty feet on the ground, lest they be soiled. He had laughed, with the rest of his generation, at the idea, but he could see himself adoring her blindly, willing to anything she asked him to.

Then one day, in the throes of twilight, when the breeze blew into his ear balmily, he could contain himself no more. In the shade of a tamarind tree, with all its little leaves twinkling and swaying, he went down on his knees. “Marry me, please! I cannot live without you!”

Her face paled, her lips trembled, as she shook her head gently, not wanting to tread upon his heart wantonly. “I cannot marry anyone at the moment. I have an older sister who is still unmarried and only after she marries...!” The words fell like a hammer on his ears. He did not think twice as he said desperately, “I will look for a boy for her! We can wait!”

She shook her head. “It is not that easy. She is in love with a man, who is also in love with her. But our family is against it as he is from a different caste.” She took out a crumpled photograph from within her bag. The same exquisite features and lustrous eyes stared out at him. As he stared at the aquiline nose and a complexion like dewdrops on a rose, he said impulsively, “She is beautiful! Anybody would fall in love with her! I didn’t know that you are a twin!”

She smiled ruefully as she said, “The man she loves is in hiding from his family as they are determined to get him married to a girl from an affluent family. Even we do not know where he is, as he does not want to put us in any danger.” She looked at him squarely. “I will marry you if you find him for us.  My sister’s happiness means everything to me!”

He agreed instantly! How difficult could this be? “In the meantime, I do not want you to meet me. This is a dangerous game and I do not want you to be hurt.” Much against his wishes he succumbed, confident that he would succeed in his task in a couple of months. He saw himself as a Knight from King Arthur’s table, riding in armour, to win his lady love. All those Literature classes which he had taken to impress his pretty young neighbour, came in handy now.

And so the hunt began, as he pretended to be the boy’s friend, and walked into the opulent house that took his breath away. The parents proved to be as close mouthed as clams, and he could get nothing out of any of the numerous cousins, aunts and servants, except suspicious sidelong glances. Then one day, he was ousted from the house unceremoniously, as the smiles had begun turning strained. He was dejected, but the thought of his beautiful bride to be, and the sorrow in her eyes as she spoke of her sister’s happiness being vital to her own well being, made him plod on.

One day he called her up. “Could I speak to your sister? Maybe she knows where I could find him! Some little clue... anything!”

“She is still in a state of shock. She will not be able to help you at all! She was always so full of life, but now she has forgotten to smile even!”

Months dragged on, with no news. He went everywhere, photo in hand, even though she had cautioned him to be careful. “They are rich, unscrupulous folks. They will not hesitate to kill you. Don’t let anyone know you are looking for him!”

She paused and went on. “The girl they want him to marry also comes from a family with a tendency to quarrel. So, pray, be very careful! I don’t want to lose you!”

At that moment, he could pluck stars from the sky, jump off the highest mountain for her [all those Literature classes again!]. And all she wanted was for him to find one measly man!

Every day he would scour around the town, even taking leave from his not-so-exciting job. His mother was livid. “Why are you doing all this for a girl you don’t even know that well, you besotted fool?”
Not know her? She is the love of my life, he wanted to proclaim to the world, stand below her balcony and spout classic lines to her. But it was all too premature. His parents would lift him up bodily and lock him in his room, to cure him of his ‘madness’. He had just got a job, and they did not want him to throw it away.

“Ma, give me just two weeks more? I promise to stop after that!”

The clock clicked on onerously, he began to lose weight, his heels became calloused and his hair grew frizzy, as he walked around the seamier side of the city, where the shadows shielded crime and criminals. He peeped into the red light areas where garishly made up women beckoned to him, and men with deep fathomless eyes stared at him. He had never been exposed to the underbelly of life and he had very little idea how to deal with it.

A knife rasped against his neck as his wallet was torn away, but he managed to escape. “All because of her prayers!” he breathed to himself.

Once, after a particularly exhausting day, he went to her room, even though he had promised not to see her. He lay down, his head on her lap, eyes red rimmed and watery. She stroked his forehead gently, almost maternally, as she said softly, “Maybe you should stop. You’ll kill yourself at this rate!” Her large eyes were filled with concern, and he could hear the regret in her tone.

“I will not rest till I hunt him down!” He sat up with a jerk. “You and I can rest after that!” She smiled at him, but there was a strange sorrow within her eyes that made him wonder. But he shrugged it off!

Then one day, he struck gold! He was getting off an auto rickshaw in front of a three star hotel, in a remote area of the city, when suddenly he saw him, walking down the lobby. It was him all right – the same lanky build, the grey eyes that looked around furtively, as though he was ready to duck at any sudden movement, almost like an animal that senses it is being preyed upon. He appeared to be a man in turmoil, a man on the run!

He recalled her words, “He will not come willingly because his father has sworn to break his legs if he is seen anywhere in public. He is petrified, and hence, you will have to bring him here under false pretences!”

He walked into the lobby, accidentally brushed against him, apologized profusely. The next day he went back, sat down in the mini restaurant and ordered coffee, and waited for him to come in. They smiled perfunctorily at each other. A week went by, before he made his first move. He introduced himself and offered him a drink, and another, and yet another. By the end of the evening they were best buddies.

This turned into a routine, and he sensed the other man had no suspicions about him. “Why don’t you come over home tomorrow and have a drink with me? This is getting a bit monotonous, isn’t it?”
“No!” came the spontaneous reply. “I cannot go anywhere! I am in deep trouble!”

“Can I help?” he asked with the right amount of concern.

But there was no getting anything out of him. His face turned into a blank wall and he clammed up completely. This was a wall that could not be breached. It was time for Plan B.

One balmy evening, as they sat drinking together, he managed to slip a drug into the other man’s glass. He watched as the liquid went down in deep draughts. They talked about life, love and longing. The evening grew darker till finally the drug took effect. He slumped over the table, with glazed eyes. It was now or never!

He hailed a taxi, hanging on to the drunken man, making inane excuses for him as they bumped into strangers. People looked at them, but not with suspicion. Just a couple of youngsters letting their hair down! As the taxi moved, he was filled with a strange sense of elation. He had done the seemingly impossible. She would be his finally! Maybe they could have a double wedding. She would look so lovely in her rich brocade sari, eyes a-lustre with adoration and hope. Sudden love filled his heart and he hugged the unconscious man, who was the key to their happiness.

She opened the door and her face paled as she looked at the two men, one holding up the other. As he made him sit on an armchair, she stared in disbelief as his head lolled against the cushion. There was a strange expression of triumph on her face, one that disconcerted him. Wasn’t it supposed to be relief and joy?

Suddenly she turned to him, arms outstretched, and burst out crying, “Thank you, thank you! You are wonderful!” and she collapsed into his arms. He smelt the fragrance of her hair as he clasped her closely, ecstatically.

The next moment, she turned business like, as she sat him down in a chair. “You need to hear the truth now!” Her eyes were deep pools of mystery and a sudden dread suffused his body. She appeared to be almost a stranger as the whole story tumbled out.

Later they wheeled the still unconscious man on a wheelchair, into a stark white building. She was pale as she looked at the young man who walked alongside her, still shell-shocked at the story she had told him.

Her sister had been the victim of a brutal attack by the very man who had claimed to love her. He had professed to love her, but had had no intention of marrying her. When his ambitious parents had found a rich girl for him to marry, he had readily fallen in with their plans, not wanting to forgo a life of wealth and comfort.

When he broke the news to her, she resisted violently. “You cannot leave me high and dry! I love you and cannot live without you!” She fell at his feet, tears adding more lustre to her beautiful eyes, but he shook her by her shoulders as he barked, “I am not going to marry you!”

“I am pregnant with your child!” She wept hysterically, clutching at the lapels of his shirt. He shoved her aside, but her next words transfixed him. “I will not let you dump me! I will tell your parents everything. Or go to the police!” Her voice had turned shrill, and she had turned into a virago, eyes distraught, hair all over her face. Never had she looked so beautiful, and never had he been more tempted. Her beauty haunted him, day and night, but he did not want to jeopardize his golden future. Cunningly he managed to quieten her down, as he promised to marry her.

“Give me time to tell my parents!” he said, as he left her.

Two days later, he went back to her house. In the dark of the night, as the stars hid their faces behind the clouds, he unlocked the door with his key and moved in quietly. He could see her sleeping on her bed, a silhouette that breathed delicately. He knew what he had to do!

And now they were going to see her at the hospital, where she had been ever since. The nurse opened the door for them, and waved them in. “Please do not excite her in any way! She has been through enough already!”

She lay in her bed, a slight form, her back towards them. She moved towards her sister softly, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He stood, not knowing what to expect, even as the man on the wheelchair groaned, maybe because the drug was finally wearing off.

The room was dimly lit, and the girl on the bed turned around, making a strange pleading sound. Her sister kept her hand on her shoulder, as she asked him to turn on the light. He did so, and as he looked at the prone figure in the bright light, his heart almost stopped, as he struggled to stay upright. For the face that looked up at him from the bed was nothing like the photo he had carried around. It had been marred beyond recognition.

“The louse threw acid on her beautiful face!” She burst out crying, as he stared at the shapeless mass that stared back at him blindly. The acid had eaten away at the flesh on her face, and what was left was a hideous travesty, a mutilated apology for a face. He felt as though he had been hit by a club on the pit of his stomach. How could any man be so bestial, so callous? He had half a mind of smashing his hand on the brute’s face, over and over again, till there were no bones left, no face left!

She sensed what he was going through, even as she crooned to the pitiful figure that lay on the bed. The man on the wheelchair opened his eyes blearily, trying to get his bearings. His eyes widened as he saw the figure on the bed, and his gaze changed as he looked around like a cornered rat. Two pairs of eyes stared back at him stonily, even as he realized that he was in real trouble.

“You have a last chance to apologize to her!” Her voice was steely, but there was a deep undercurrent of sorrow within it, as she faced him squarely. His eyes widened as he looked at her, and gasped, “How... how...?” She looked at him in loathing, and then turned her gaze towards her sister who lay so still.  “I will make it up to you, my dearest!”

They drugged him again, and took him back home. They sat in silence, as he tried to make sense of what he had just seen. She glanced at him from time to time, but said nothing.

The air was still and oppressive, as she had shut all the windows in the room. He sat there on a chair, hands pinned behind him, terror in his eyes. What he had done was even worse than he had imagined, and he saw it in her eyes... the eyes he had once loved!

She took a vial from her pocket, as she said softly, “What you did was unforgivable! Who gave you the power to make such a decision?”  She held up the vial which held the deadly acid. The next moment, her voice broke down, as she added, “Did you even realize that you had attacked the wrong twin?”

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A Girl's ‘Horror’scope!

Deepti Menon writes about the trials and tribulations of what many young women across India face when it is time to be married off. Even as many girls in urban India are empowered with the best of education and careers, the sword of society’s prying eyes hangs over their heads when it comes to matrimony.

Would such a hue and cry have been made if
the boy had rejected the girl? Not really!

The flurry begins when a girl turns eighteen and wedding bells begin to ring in every neighbouring home! Sly glances are cast, comments on complexion, education, appearance and lifestyle begin ricocheting off the ceiling. A dusty/ musty horoscope is pulled out and perused by a plump astrologer who predicts the position of planets, benign and malevolent.
Matrimonial sites loom ahead, with thousands of profiles falling into one's lap like manna from heaven. That is exactly when one realizes how many different kinds of species make up the world! And that one man's meat is another man's poison!
Luckily an uploaded photograph can be protected, if one is a paid member on the site. It is worth it to pay to keep one's picture away from covetous eyes. For not all viewers are genuine as some are out to just have fun. Like the man who claimed to be a Hindu Brahmin and wrote an enticing message, “I can see the beauty in your profile despite there being no photograph!" Very romantic and very off putting, as a person who could wear his heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see, could have very little left over in the end.
However, the rest of the profile proclaimed him to be from a different religion. Not that one has anything against any other faith, but why on earth would a Hindu mom looking for an arranged match for her daughter look for a groom from so different a background?
The girl in question does not want a Prince Charming or an Adonis - just a boy who is well settled [youngsters today are very level headed and practical!], tall [but that is negotiable!], family oriented [which includes an orientation towards his spouse's family as well, warm and genuine. And yes, most importantly, she needs to like what he looks like [no Adonis, mind you!] And her mom wouldn't mind a son-in-love with a good sense of humour, a person she hopes will laugh at her horrific puns!
Suddenly appears the perfect horoscope -the well settled boy, compatibility 8 out of 10, a well known family and the whole proposal one made in Heaven. There is no question of the girl rejecting the boy, and the family waits with bated breath for the response - which never comes! The girl finds the boy not quite her type. She does not want an Adonis, but she does need to feel a tiny bit of attraction towards him, after all!
An ice rink forms, the verdict is consensual! How dare a chit of a girl reject such an eligible boy? Who does she think she is - Miss Universe? The clucks increase, the nods are disapproving and the whispers clear, "No point in looking out for any more boys!"
The sad part is that this is the first proposal put forth by the family, not the 25th, and yet, they take it to heart. The parents shake their heads in unison. They will stand by their daughter, and hold her hand, and why not? Would such a hue and cry have been made if the boy had rejected the girl? Not really!
The heartrending fact is that no one can gauge the tender mind of a young girl as well as her parents, who have brought her up with care, nurtured her every wish and allowed her to blossom out in her own beautiful way. They have spent hours of joy and laughter, wielded control and chastisement, doled out advice and cherished very moment spent with her. They have allowed her to make her own choices in life, reposed perfect trust in her, fully aware that when the time comes, she will take the right decisions. So when it comes to the most important choice in her life, is it fair to fetter her and make their choices hers?  

Deepti Menon has always believed in the power of the pen. Having done her post graduation in English Literature and her B.Ed. in English, she had the option of teaching and writing, and did both with great enjoyment. She started writing at the age of ten, long before she acquired a Diploma in Journalism. Deepti also had the advantage of being an Army kid, and later an Army wife, and loved the idea of travelling around India, meeting new people and acquiring new skills. She firmly believes that much of her personality was honed during those travels. For Deepti, writing needs to sparkle with simplicity and originality, and she strives to find that one word that conveys her ideas most meaningfully to her readers. She believes that Mark Twain had the right idea when he said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”

Published in The Red Elephant Foundation

http://www.redelephantfoundation.org/

Invasion of Private Space, Wish for Outer

Have you ever, while reading a newspaper, or standing in a line in a store, had that eerie feeling that a curious face is peering over your shoulder, so uncomfortably close that you can almost feel its breath wafting across your shrinking body? Guess what? Your personal space has just been invaded by bad breath and body odour, and that too by an entity that is not even aware that it is trespassing!

The queue system can be quite harrowing. You stand in a line along with myriad others, holding a basket filled with the bare necessities, and just as you get to the front of the line, comes a cheeky arm over your shoulder, and hey presto, there appears a basket on the counter, as cheeky as its owner. I always object, but often, a sheepish smile with a “Please, Madam, only two items!” accompanied by the aforesaid body odour makes me retreat in haste.

A moving queue is even worse, especially when you are going into a movie theatre, or climbing up a flight of stairs. The swell of the crowd carries you along, as you are hemmed in, with umbrella handles, sharp edged handbags, elbows at 90 degrees [have you ever realized that even the fattest of arms have bony elbows?], and of course, the ubiquitous smell of faded jasmine flowers and sickly sweet deodorants!

Traffic jams are the order of the day! At busy signals, vehicles jostle for space, even as they stand, bumper to bumper. There is never any personal space on an Indian road, as impatient drivers begin to honk even before the signal turns green. It is as though they have a personal race they have to win, at all costs!

I once remember going on an international flight to Dubai, where the man sitting next to me was hugely obese. Not that he could be blamed for his size, because some folks are just made that way, but since he bulged out in every direction possible, I found myself cowering in the large space that made up his armpit! [Not the pleasantest of experiences, I can assure you!] Luckily, the air hostess was able to shift me to another seat, and for the rest of the flight, the gentleman could spread himself out liberally! And thankfully, so could I!

The worst kind of invasion of privacy is, however, when people stare at you with beady eyes, wondering which planet you come from, followed by nosy questions. This happens when one is travelling by train, when hours and hours stretch before you, and the fact that you are busy with a book, seems not enough of an excuse to stop the chatter around you. “Are you married?” Your nod provokes the next question. “How many children?” The fact that you have a solitary offspring who “shines like a good deed in a naughty world” does not appease their avid curiosity. “Why did you stop at one?”is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. You look down your snub nose with disdain as best as you can, and burrow more deeply into your book.

The electronic world brims over with invasion of private space... hackers, paedophiles, sex offenders, spurned lovers et al! Rapists add a dreadful dimension, as perceived in the heinous cases in the recent past. With Big Brother spying openly on countries, this invasion has taken on international tones!

Would going into outer space, or Mars, give us more elbow space, I wonder!

New Indian Express

October 17th 2013

Everyone has a Reason to Pray!

God and I share this wonderful relationship. When I was born, He said, “Let there be light!” And my parents named me Deepti, meaning ‘light’ in Sanskrit. My grandparents were very religious, and they had this enormous pooja room filled with idols of all sizes and shapes.  My favourites were the pot bellied Elephant God, who was always a ally in arms, and a tall blue Krishna who stood in a glass cabinet with a friendly smile on His face.

My parents were never temple-goers, but they made sure they never even harmed a fly, a philosophy which implied that God was in every creature. This, maybe, made me love all creatures, dogs in particular.

When my daughter was five, we were out for a walk one day. As we stopped at a traffic signal, by a temple, I suddenly noticed her making the sign of the cross. That was a huge moment for me... here was my little one acknowledging in her own way that all religions were the same; God was one, whether Rama, Allah or Christ, such a profound philosophy encapsulated in a little gesture!

When in the Army, we would celebrate every festival with equal fervour. We would immerse Ganeshas, light lamps, eat langar at gurudwaras, sit in silence within the cool interiors of a church and find joy in every moment the festival lasted. The festival of colours would find us drenched in colour, and Id would consist of mutton biryani that melted in the mouth.

Diwali is one occasion we look forward to every year, that time of the year when the whole country looks star-studded, with lights and crackers that light up the inky sky. Goddess Lakshmi glides into homes, brimming over with agarbathis, diyas, ghee-laden aromas and sheer happiness.

What better way could we choose to welcome the Goddess in than by using the Sampoorna Lakshmi Pooja Pack this year? The idea of performing our own pooja is appealing, with the shlokas playing mellifluously in the background! Our prayers have always come straight from deep within our hearts, almost as if we were having a conversation with a friend and a guide. What better way to communicate with Him than through the intonation of shlokas, the smoke of the agabathis, the sparkle of the lamps and, of course, the thought of all those wonderful sweets smiling up at us out of highly decorated boxes?

After all, God Himself loves His goodies, be it Krishna or the adorable Ganesha!

http://www.pureprayer.in/

Unpleasant exit of good old pleasantries

Being an Army kid does have its advantages! I remember mom admonishing me when I was a little more than a toddler for not wishing an uncle good morning. “You do not look through people, or act coy and peep out at them from behind me!” she warned. “You must wish them properly!” And so I did, and the habit has stayed with me for decades now.

I would sometimes even startle folks by jumping out at them from behind a tree, chirping cheerily, “Good afternoon, auntie, uncle!” It came to a point when they started looking over their shoulders any time they passed my house, for fear that they would suddenly be waylaid by my beaming little face and squeaky voice.

Not surprisingly, at a certain event my name was called out and I was given a little medal for being the best behaved child in the cantonment, a feat mom was rather proud of. My daughter too began lisping ‘Goomoning!” even when she was toddling about on her chubby legs.

However, it is distressful that this habit of wishing people, especially elders, has died out in today’s world. I have come across children who will either ignore you, as if that would make you disappear from sight, or glare at you, wondering why you were ever born to torture them. The other option is to smile shyly and hide behind a curtain, a chair or their mother’s sari, whichever is within arm’s length.

Of course, there are young souls who glance at you and say hi or hello in clear ringing tones, even if they are about four decades younger than you. But it is acceptable as a frivolous greeting is better than none!

It comes as a shock when you walk into someone’s house, and prepare to sit on their one free chair (the rest covered with books, magazines and pets!), only to find a small form ensconced comfortably within it, eyes glued to the television, hardly breathing, and in no mood to shift. Alternatively it could be a big hulk, sprawled out, hairy legs stretched out, straddling most of the room, accompanied by his friends. Not even by a flicker of an eyelid do they acknowledge there is a bewildered person in their vicinity!

In both cases, you look about feebly, even as the host says warmly, “Sit down please!” and disappears within to call his wife, his mother, his daughter in law, and the family dog!

It is sad to think that many youngsters miss out on the bountiful blessings of people older than them, blessings that go a long way to ensure that benevolence and love envelop them wherever they go. There is no denying that the good wishes of grandparents, teachers, elders and even compassionate strangers play a vital role in bringing positivity into young lives.

Our epics describe instances where irate gurus and ill-tempered sanyasis would curse those who disrespected them. Thank God those days have disappeared into the annals of history, or slipped into the Harry Potter chronicles.

Finally, to quote Thomas Sowell, “Politeness and consideration for others is like investing pennies and getting dollars back.” Now, there’s an inspiring thought!

New Indian Express
26th September 2013

Watch Out for the Weirdos!

Dante’s Inferno could not be more chaotic, I muse! Our car crawls along on a surface, choc-o-bloc with vehicles, bumper to bumper in four wavy lanes, originally meant to house two orderly lines, ‘orderly’ being a misnomer, of course! The signal glints red, and before it turns ochre, buses start blowing their horns frantically, noisily revving their engines. The car ahead moves forward tentatively, not wanting to ram into a scooter that is a miracle in itself, with five people clinging on to one another - a father, a mother and three children of varying sizes, all pasted together like a club sandwich! The bus behind complains incessantly, ignoring dirty looks, as the signal turns green with reluctance, and a cacophony of horns break out, as at the start of an ancient battle.

As the vehicles begin to move, two jay walkers dart across the road, holding up their hands in supplication, causing curses to add to the confusion. An auto rickshaw driver, hardly the most polite homo sapien alive, sticks his head out, hawks loudly and lets out a stream of red spittle, narrowly missing our windscreen. Our driver screams at him, and the aforesaid homo sapien decides to sidle out, finger his collar and stick his head through our window to scream back. By now one can sense tempers around us getting frayed.

Four lanes of vehicles lurch forward, brakes squeal and heads hit windscreens, smoke and pollution redden eyes, and the stench of petrol [for those who hate the smell!] fills the interior, making me gag! On one occasion, we were stuck at a signal, and my daughter, who gets car sick at the sight of a car, felt faint. On the other side, my mother lolled against her window, trying not to breathe in the fumes. I was caught between them, wondering whom to attend to first. When the car moved, both recovered, but not before they had scared the daylights out of me!

One television advertisement always evokes a smile, the one that says, “Watch out – there are idiots on the road!” So true, especially when you are cruising along happily and suddenly an energetic driver cuts from your left, and zooms across to take a cheeky right, millimetres in front of you! And to add insult to injury, he has the gall to flip the finger at you as well! Or the woman who puts one tentative foot out to cross the road just as the traffic gets going, causing folks to swerve violently. No wonder my aunt says all her prayers in the car!

Most rule breakers are educated, canny, and oh-so-well behaved when they drive anywhere abroad. They stick to their lanes, avoid honking and wait for pedestrians to cross the road patiently. However, the moment they drive in India, a little imp forces them to run berserk, skittering around like cats on a hot tin roof.

Maybe the only time drivers do slow down is when they are forced to do so! Like when a VIP makes an appearance, causing a galaxy of cops to stand around, mobiles in hand, waiting for a sighting in the horizon which causes them to stand to attention, while a mighty traffic jam forms around, growing larger every restive minute.

And to end, a grandfather would take his young granddaughter driving every Sunday in order to bond with her. Once he fell ill, and his wife opted to take the little girl out. When they got back, the grandfather asked the little one how she had enjoyed her drive. Prompt came the reply, “It was fun, and guess what! We didn’t see a single ‘Idiot’, ‘Moron’ or ‘Blind Fool’ on the way today!”

Deepti Menon