How can I understand it if I cannot experience it? How can I explain it if I cannot understand it? How can I control it if I cannot explain it?
Does everything, then, begin with experience? But, is experience not a set of feelings? Or, the result or residue of our feelings? Does everything, then, begin with feelings?
30 May 2007
27 May 2007
The taming of the shoes
You could say it was the midnight run. The bus, one of those modern air-conditioned Volvos, took off at 11 o’clock from Calicut and was on its way to Bangalore. Within the hour, most passengers were comfortable in their seats, and asleep. Some were even heard snoring in subdued tones.
Soon, the bus began its laborious climb up the ghats at Waynad and the hairpin bends had the entire bus – passengers, luggage and all – swinging in their seats and in their racks in slow motion. As if we were all moving in tune with one of those ‘We are the world, we are the children’ sort of songs.
The bus swung this way and that. We all swung that way and this. Except for the discomfort of keeping our balance, I’d say it was a rather moving experience.
On one occasion, as I planted my feet on the ground, I was surprised to find the cold floor, and not my pumps which I had worn for the trip, but had taken off to get comfortable when the journey began. I looked down and saw nothing. A silent panic hit me. These were my favourite Gaitondes, export quality moccasins, picked up several years ago at a heavy price. And now, they were missing.
I sat up, bent down and twisted myself to look for them in the dark. I found them languishing in the aisle, among a dozen other shoes belonging to several passengers traveling with me. Oh, okay. I understood. The swinging of the bus had dislodged the shoes from their proper places at the feet of their owners. And, since my seat was right up-front, I noticed an assortment of them quietly gathering there.
I picked up my Gaitondes from the assortment and placed them beneath my seat. However, I couldn’t sleep. Every fifteen minutes or so, I couldn’t resist an inspection. I looked down and, sure enough, I found the shoes had moved again, falling into the aisle. By this time, the conductor of the bus had discovered several shoes scattered near the driver, and he started pitching them in, back into the aisle.
After several inspections, I was determined to find a solution to this problem. I just had to tame the shoes and not lose them to the mood-swings of the bus. God forbid if I lost them altogether and had to walk around Bangalore in bare feet! No, a solution had to be found.
First, I placed the shoes parallel to my feet in the direction the bus was moving. No, a failed attempt. Next, I kept them perpendicular to the direction of the bus. They stayed in that position longer but, alas, the right shoe betrayed its loyalty and fell back in the aisle with the others. Finally, I found a way to wedge them into a corner, one shoe parallel to the bus and the other, perpendicular. This seemed to work and, several inspections later, I was pleased.
My strategy of taming the shoes was a success. It had kept me awake for two hours, but what the hell, I tamed them in the end, right? Soon, I was asleep with a satisfied smile on my face.
Soon, the bus began its laborious climb up the ghats at Waynad and the hairpin bends had the entire bus – passengers, luggage and all – swinging in their seats and in their racks in slow motion. As if we were all moving in tune with one of those ‘We are the world, we are the children’ sort of songs.
The bus swung this way and that. We all swung that way and this. Except for the discomfort of keeping our balance, I’d say it was a rather moving experience.
On one occasion, as I planted my feet on the ground, I was surprised to find the cold floor, and not my pumps which I had worn for the trip, but had taken off to get comfortable when the journey began. I looked down and saw nothing. A silent panic hit me. These were my favourite Gaitondes, export quality moccasins, picked up several years ago at a heavy price. And now, they were missing.
I sat up, bent down and twisted myself to look for them in the dark. I found them languishing in the aisle, among a dozen other shoes belonging to several passengers traveling with me. Oh, okay. I understood. The swinging of the bus had dislodged the shoes from their proper places at the feet of their owners. And, since my seat was right up-front, I noticed an assortment of them quietly gathering there.
I picked up my Gaitondes from the assortment and placed them beneath my seat. However, I couldn’t sleep. Every fifteen minutes or so, I couldn’t resist an inspection. I looked down and, sure enough, I found the shoes had moved again, falling into the aisle. By this time, the conductor of the bus had discovered several shoes scattered near the driver, and he started pitching them in, back into the aisle.
After several inspections, I was determined to find a solution to this problem. I just had to tame the shoes and not lose them to the mood-swings of the bus. God forbid if I lost them altogether and had to walk around Bangalore in bare feet! No, a solution had to be found.
First, I placed the shoes parallel to my feet in the direction the bus was moving. No, a failed attempt. Next, I kept them perpendicular to the direction of the bus. They stayed in that position longer but, alas, the right shoe betrayed its loyalty and fell back in the aisle with the others. Finally, I found a way to wedge them into a corner, one shoe parallel to the bus and the other, perpendicular. This seemed to work and, several inspections later, I was pleased.
My strategy of taming the shoes was a success. It had kept me awake for two hours, but what the hell, I tamed them in the end, right? Soon, I was asleep with a satisfied smile on my face.
25 May 2007
Before the rains
The meteorology department promised rains last evening. Thundershowers to, officially, bring in the monsoons in Kerala.
What it didn’t promise was the ever-so-familiar profile of the dark leaves of the Bunyan tree trembling against the bright orange westward sky before the rains came down. No, that was a promise only God could keep.
What it didn’t promise was the ever-so-familiar profile of the dark leaves of the Bunyan tree trembling against the bright orange westward sky before the rains came down. No, that was a promise only God could keep.
23 May 2007
Free for all
There was the word; and then, dissent.
There was the word; and then, censorship.
In this struggle for power, the truth was forgotten.
Now we have blogs and the Internet – a total free for all.
There was the word; and then, censorship.
In this struggle for power, the truth was forgotten.
Now we have blogs and the Internet – a total free for all.
22 May 2007
Suprovat, Mr O’Shaunassey
I was 11, a skinny dark-skinned boy with white teeth and a mop of thick black hair, amidst a class of thirty-two freckled white children with grayish-violet teeth (some in braces) and smooth-as-silk hair in a palette ranging from platinum blond to yellow to ginger to red to black. In spite of their colours, I stood out in black and white.
The other children seemed to know each other from their previous class. So, they jostled in groups, talking amongst themselves. One or two glanced in my direction, out of curiosity. No one spoke to me, which was reassuring in a way as I couldn’t speak English properly, let alone their Australian tongue. Naturally, I was nervous.
He welcomed us in, requesting us to take our seats at any available desk. I was the last person in and got an empty seat on the aisle, at the back. He wished us ‘good morning, class’ in a loud gravelly sort of voice and we all wished him back in unison, standing by our seats. He introduced himself as our class teacher, an elderly gentleman with silver hair. We were to address him as Mr O’Shaunassey, he said.
We were all settling down when, out of the blue, he asked me what was the equivalent of the English ‘good morning’ greeting in my language in India. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure. India spoke many languages. Moreover, in India, we normally didn’t greet each other with a ‘good morning’; preferring to use ‘namaste’ or the equivalent of a ‘how are you?’ in our respective mother tongues.
However, in the nick of time, I remembered a word in Bengali, my mother tongue. It was ‘shuprobhaat’, though I wasn’t sure if it was a greeting. Mr O’Shaunassey said it would do and tried several times to pronounce it correctly (the way I did), throwing the class into fits of laughter. Finally, we settled upon ‘su.pro.vat’ (broken down in syllables), and he wrote it in capital letters on the top left corner of the blackboard.
He made a rule, instantly. Every morning he would wish his class ‘good morning’ and they would respond in English. Then he would wish me ‘suprovat’ and I would respond in Bengali.
That wasn’t all. Now and then, Mr O’Shaunassey invited me to the front of the class and asked me questions on India, requesting me to speak to the class about India, encouraging the class to learn from me. He would explain to the class that they were fortunate to have among them someone from another country, another culture, from whom they could learn first-hand. Culture was such a difficult thing to learn, he would say.
Over the next few weeks, Mr O’Shaunassey turned me into ‘an India expert’ for the class, and had the other children asking me questions, sharing stories, interacting with me freely. Soon, I was accepted as one of them. I guess that was a part of Mr O’Shaunassey’s intention.
Life moved on. Mr O’Shaunassey left us to become the Vice Principal of the school and, several months after that, suddenly left us for his heavenly abode. He was 59, I remember. Mrs Wells became our new class teacher, a cranky lady who was fond of using the ruler for discipline. But ‘suprovat’ remained written on the top left corner of the blackboard and the practice of wishing ‘suprovat’ every morning continued with Mrs Wells.
That was a long time ago.
The night before last, while thinking about the Western world’s curiosity about India in the early seventies (in connection with another blog I was writing), I was reminded of my childhood in Australia. And strangely, Mr O’Shaunassey and his ‘suprovat’ greeting suddenly flashed through my mind. Inexplicably, a heavy grief overwhelmed me and I felt unsettled.
It is only now that I am able to put my thoughts down in words.
The other children seemed to know each other from their previous class. So, they jostled in groups, talking amongst themselves. One or two glanced in my direction, out of curiosity. No one spoke to me, which was reassuring in a way as I couldn’t speak English properly, let alone their Australian tongue. Naturally, I was nervous.
He welcomed us in, requesting us to take our seats at any available desk. I was the last person in and got an empty seat on the aisle, at the back. He wished us ‘good morning, class’ in a loud gravelly sort of voice and we all wished him back in unison, standing by our seats. He introduced himself as our class teacher, an elderly gentleman with silver hair. We were to address him as Mr O’Shaunassey, he said.
We were all settling down when, out of the blue, he asked me what was the equivalent of the English ‘good morning’ greeting in my language in India. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure. India spoke many languages. Moreover, in India, we normally didn’t greet each other with a ‘good morning’; preferring to use ‘namaste’ or the equivalent of a ‘how are you?’ in our respective mother tongues.
However, in the nick of time, I remembered a word in Bengali, my mother tongue. It was ‘shuprobhaat’, though I wasn’t sure if it was a greeting. Mr O’Shaunassey said it would do and tried several times to pronounce it correctly (the way I did), throwing the class into fits of laughter. Finally, we settled upon ‘su.pro.vat’ (broken down in syllables), and he wrote it in capital letters on the top left corner of the blackboard.
He made a rule, instantly. Every morning he would wish his class ‘good morning’ and they would respond in English. Then he would wish me ‘suprovat’ and I would respond in Bengali.
That wasn’t all. Now and then, Mr O’Shaunassey invited me to the front of the class and asked me questions on India, requesting me to speak to the class about India, encouraging the class to learn from me. He would explain to the class that they were fortunate to have among them someone from another country, another culture, from whom they could learn first-hand. Culture was such a difficult thing to learn, he would say.
Over the next few weeks, Mr O’Shaunassey turned me into ‘an India expert’ for the class, and had the other children asking me questions, sharing stories, interacting with me freely. Soon, I was accepted as one of them. I guess that was a part of Mr O’Shaunassey’s intention.
Life moved on. Mr O’Shaunassey left us to become the Vice Principal of the school and, several months after that, suddenly left us for his heavenly abode. He was 59, I remember. Mrs Wells became our new class teacher, a cranky lady who was fond of using the ruler for discipline. But ‘suprovat’ remained written on the top left corner of the blackboard and the practice of wishing ‘suprovat’ every morning continued with Mrs Wells.
That was a long time ago.
The night before last, while thinking about the Western world’s curiosity about India in the early seventies (in connection with another blog I was writing), I was reminded of my childhood in Australia. And strangely, Mr O’Shaunassey and his ‘suprovat’ greeting suddenly flashed through my mind. Inexplicably, a heavy grief overwhelmed me and I felt unsettled.
It is only now that I am able to put my thoughts down in words.
21 May 2007
19 May 2007
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