After a gap of fourteen and a half months, my now 91-year-old father spent three nights in a private hospital in November, whose rates for various services and supplies have been jacked up by many multiples of 10% on a long list.

“Don’t you provide a bottle of water in the patient’s ward?” I asked a nurse the first evening. She said she’d ask for one to be supplied (by the sub-contractor in charge of the pantry).
“It’ll be charged,” she muttered under her breath.
“So I could just get one from across the road?”
Cheap (in both senses of the term).

Quick however/moreover.

A bit earlier, while having brief conversations with one of the hospital representatives re major problems with Internet access in the ward and twiddling thumbs as she checked her screen which was taking its time, I asked (mindful of the #MeToo movement):
“Out of sheer idle curiosity, Ma’am, do you have an Internal Complaints Committee?”
“Yes, we do,” she said in what sounded to me a confident tone. “We brief staff every month.”
(Disclosure: She’d asked me about my profession.)

But I fidgeted. Having noticed aspects of the hospital’s labour relations that are far from what may be deemed best practice, I wonder how much of staff briefing actually takes place.

For one, most of the staff seem harassed all the time. Short-staffed in almost all departments, be it reception, accounts/billing, nursing or cleaning.

As for the last named, i.e. cleaning, their distinctly different-coloured uniforms and lapel logos mark them out as contracted from another company. Meaning they’re not hospital staff.

Room cleaning and cleaning of patients as well as assisting patients to go to the washroom when able to do so or to take a walk in the – rather too narrow – corridors when so advised by the doctors is the responsibility of the cleaning staff, not the over-stretched nursing department.

So, I got talking with a few of the cleaning staff.

Had to.

As I and/or my brother were expected to tip them for services rendered such as ensuring my father had his … er … ablutions, had his diaper changed, got himself cleaned up through a ‘sponge bath’ and so forth.
They had subtle and not so subtle ways of letting us know that tips were expected.

“Saar, I gave your father a sponge bath…
“Saar, I cleaned the toilet even though it was not my duty but only because – here come a couple of almost untranslatable words from Kannada – ‘neevu vicharskotheeri’ (broadly meaning you pay attention or rather pay attention to the need to tip).

Only one – or so I was told by one of my interlocutors among the cleaning personnel – and I can personally endorse this, based on my experience as of November 2018 – of the actual hospital staff in charge of cleaning can be recognized by way of a different-coloured uniform: Grey.

Now, there is a broadly predictable caste-wise break-up of the hospital personnel: 1. Doctors/specialists, managers, 2. Receptionists/accountants/front-managers 3. Nurses 4. Cleaning and security personnel with salary scales and employment conditions too being on a declining scale. At any rate none of them is unionized and some categories being contract workers ensures they won’t even begin to consider unionizing.

A while after this hospital experience, at a meeting at SCM House to release a small booklet, Right to Love (about the implications of the Supreme Court’s Navtej Singh Johar verdict), Prof Babu Mathew who has a long labour rights background, brilliantly linked the issue to assaults on other disadvantaged sections. To wit the absent/denied (with backing of the full force of the state) right to association of informal sector workers. “Structurally adjusted”, as Prof Mathew quipped balefully. Hoary International Labour Organisation (ILO) conventions a century in the making are being trampled on blithely.

There is a term for workers lacking stable employment conditions, insurance, paid holidays and so forth: ‘Precariat’ described elsewhere.[1]

After the 2017 hospitalisation episode when the final bill was presented, my elder brother took a careful look, argued with one of the surgeons who – so my brother repeatedly tells me – said, “the hospital is looting you and you are keeping quiet”, and got a small discount.

In late November this year, we learned a lesson for questioning the hospital’s billing practices: I’d noticed that in the final bill before my father’s discharge could be effected, the discharge order having been pronounced pre-noon, there was a mention of a medication costing Rs 200+ – a MERE Rs 200 in hindsight – that had not been administered.

Punishment: my 91-year-old father, and elder brother had to wait until nearly 3 pm before we were let go. Incidentally my brother and I also had to watch while my corpulent father devoured a standard meal while we’d both wished the hospital had provided for a wee bit of variation. The hospital having contracted out the catering, perhaps there was little the physicians and surgeons could do by way of suggesting appropriate diets.

On the way to and from the hospital, we’d been provided ‘complimentary’ ambulance pick-up. I noticed that the driver was not the same one I’d met in 2017 and described in the following:

The current one sounded tense and preoccupied. In the few minutes it took to get home, I asked him about his work.

“Neighbours just watch, they don’t offer any help (with getting the patients into and out of the ambulances),” he muttered.



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A less than six weeks old kitten came into my life early in August and by the time I found a permanent home for him he had inadvertently paid me back many, many times over for spending a few sleepless nights worrying over his welfare.

I was forced to bend and pick him up so often every few hours from late afternoon on August 3 and until the evening of the 7th that a backache which had sapped my physical and mental energies for nearly two months had – lo and behold! – begun easing rather than aggravating as I’d feared it might while fussing over the precious little being.P1030967.JPG

That backache started in early June, perhaps after I lifted one bucket too many filled with wet clothes to feed the washing machine and collecting the drained water to carry to the parched plants in the garden.

Although a painkiller ointment seemed to take care of immediate symptoms, the full force of the punishment came on a Sunday afternoon. So excruciating was the pain that I found myself unable to stand. It was panic-inducing.

The American humourist and filmmaker Woody Allen is credited with quipping:  “Not only is God dead, but you can’t get a dentist at the weekend.”[1]

Nor orthopaedists, he might have added.

A neighbourhood private hospital in the part of Bangalore I live in was open. The duty doctor ordered a painkiller injection and prescribed a couple of pills. We’ll see five days later if an X-ray is needed, he said. A fat lot of good the injection and pills did.

After a couple of days, well-intentioned relatives began suggesting myriad remedies, therapies and doctors (as well-intentioned relatives do) and my mother commandeered my brother and his car to drive me to the clinic of a reputed orthopaedist near our home.

His quick-fire diagnosis was followed by a prescription for super-strong pain-killers. I tried asking the reputed ortho about possible side-effects but he had no more time for me.

“We’ll see about the side-effects,” was all he said. Duh! Thanks, Doc.

However, given how much faith people around me had in his wisdom, I did take half of what he had prescribed for about half the duration. That rid me of the unbearable pain and I could get up from a reclining or sitting position. An underlying feeling that something had gone wrong remained. Fear of bending and lifting things or exerting myself in other ways gripped me. A cousin lent me his Lumbo Sacral Belt. I began walking slowly, avoided sitting before my laptop for long stretches and tried lying flat on my back listening to music and spoken word programmes via the Internet.

What next? ‘Alternative medicine’ was suggested. Ayurveda, obviously! An Ayurvedic doc prescribed pills, potions and an oil to be applied to the back, plus hot fomentation. We’ll see whether an X-ray is needed, he too said.

He told me to avoid climbing stairs. Er… there’s no way I can avoid using the stairs to my room at least 15-20 times a day. Thanks, but no thanks, Doc.

Next visit, he did prescribe two X-rays at a newly opened outfit which charged a bomb: The radiologist’s observation: “Early lumbar spondylosis”.

The Ayurvedic doc prescribed more pills, but this time he threw in – following my own query – massages costing a few thousand rupees for a week.

Now, there seems to be a link between backache and depression. My own situation was not helped by my staying away from meetings – private and public – with many brilliant and hard-working human rights lawyers and other activists. And the media rife with the exploits of the likes of Donald Trump, Narendra Modi, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and their followers is not exactly mood uplifting. I began to wonder whether I’d ever feel better and get back to my routine.

Fast forward to early August: I’d been avoiding climbing the steep stairs to the 2nd floor roof of our house for a few weeks but was forced to as some masonry work was going on.

A dry coconut branch had fallen on the roof. I tried to ease it down but it landed partially on a neighbour’s roof. I resolved to retrieve it the next day. But the neighbour had thrown it into our back alley. (We use dry coconut branches, shells and husks to heat our bath water.) On August 3 evening, I opened the locked doors to the alley to retrieve the branch.

It was then that I saw and heard the kitten.

The alley was bereft of any other activity. No feline or human guardian of the kitten seemed to be about.

I bent down and picked up the tiny creature and took him – yes, a male as a vet later pronounced him to be – to my mother. We both fell head over heels in love with the precious being.P1030954.JPG

Pulling out a saucer that had previously been used to offer milk and cat food to an exalted Daily Visitor[2] who had been gracing our compound for several years until January 2015 was but the work of a moment.

The tiny one lapped up a few tongues-full. I posted a notice on the wall of a nearby veterinarian clinic inviting adopters and bought a bag of kitten food from a pet shop.

From that evening on, I was at the kitten’s beck and call almost 24/7. I felt duty-bound to get up at unearthly hours to check on his welfare, offer food and drink, play with him, lead him back to his saucer…This routine could have gone and on and on.

But my mother and I knew we could not keep him as we share a house with others who exercise a veto.

Discreet messages were sent to a few friends alerting them that I shall go public requesting human would-be serviteurs to this feline being to raise their hands.

One of my respected friends, Cynthia Stephen, independent researcher and journalist, got cracking and supplied me with a number to call before I was even half prepared. But after showing great enthusiasm in the beginning, the gentleman went off the hook. Cynthia then posted my request on the facebook page of Pet Adoption in Bangalore.[3]

An almost immediate response led to a couple from a locality in the vicinity of Bangalore’s International Airport coming all the way to my area, just south of the Indian Institute of Science, and picking up the teeny-weeny.P1030959.JPG

Although I had taken the kitten to the neighbourhood veteran veterinarian on August 5 and he had declared that the kitten was sound of health, I was worried about some excretions from his beady eyes. His assistant, who was on duty the following Monday, gave the eyes a wash, prescribed some eye-drops and the kitten was on his way to his furever home.

While going to pick up the eye-drops from a chemist’s a few steps away, I was telling the couple about the incidents that led up to our – three humans and an uncomplaining little creature – finding ourselves where we were.

“He was meant to be for us”, they said, and I paraphrase from my rather delirious memory of that exchange as I was over the moon at having found good caretakers for a tiny being who had nearly eclipsed my thought processes such that he and his welfare were mostly all that I was ruminating about for several dozen hours.IMG-20170810-WA0008.jpg

[The last photo shows the kitten in his new home. Photo courtesy Sudhir Kumar.]

All that I’d say is that a series of coincidences led up to the denouement.

After I was already on the mend – and again thanks to relatives’ advice – I consulted one of the most reputed of orthopaedists practising in my area.

He let me off saying there was nothing to worry 1.Without prescribing any pills and potions. 2. Suggesting just two exercises to strengthen my ancient back.

What he did not suggest was what I credit with having done the trick: Kitten Therapy!





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Late Tuesday night (Sept 12), I had to rush my father to the hospital in an ambulance. The nurse and the ambulance driver had made ingenious efforts at getting my corpulent father on to the stretcher. In the ambulance, the nurse sitting beside me got loquacious.

“This whole neighbourhood is full of aged people whose children live abroad,” he began in an arresting tone.
“They address us via video-conferencing…
“So many elderly people with two or three children all living abroad. When you told me (on the phone) that your father was 90 years old, I assumed he must be yet another one of those…
“They abandon their parents and live abroad. Why do they need to earn so much money and neglect their parents? What is the use of all that money if this is the way you treat your own parents? …
“Hotte uriyatthe, saar (Kannada for ‘the stomach burns, sir’, or ‘the blood boils, sir’.)

“A lot of the buildings here have no lifts.” (It’s an old locality.)

“How long have you been working, sir?” I ventured to ask while he paused.
“Two and a half years. Earlier I was working ward-side. I want to give up this ambulance job.” (If I’d had an itch to give him unsolicited advice to request him to… but we’d neared the hospital.)

It so happened that on Wednesday night too I was in the ambulance with him and reminded him of his last remark regarding his job the previous night: “Too much tension in this line of work. People call rather too late and some of them need to be transported from second or third floors. Things can go wrong and we get blamed.”

Needless to say the area I live in is typical of several such in other parts of Bangalore, Chennai, Hyderabad and many others – a large number of elderly people coping and moping, awaiting visits once in a blue moon by their children and grandchildren settled abroad.

The above exchange took place a few hours after I’d returned from Bangalore’s Central College grounds where vast numbers of people including representatives of Adivasis (indigenous peoples), Dalits, Muslims and other groups were present in massive strength, protesting the assassination of Gauri Lankesh.[1]

Anger over the murder of the widely respected journalist – how widely and in how many parts of the globe has been evident in recent days – had already been expressed through spontaneous and peaceful demonstrations in scores of cities and towns in Karnataka and beyond.

Tuesday’s protest rally was one of the largest yet and more are planned including in the Indian capital to keep focus on the issue of Gauri Lankesh’s assassination and what it means for the future of dissent in India.

Speakers on the dais said what has reverberated through social media: “we do not know who killed Gauri Lankesh, but we do know who are celebrating the criminal act.”

The reference was clearly to the obscene and ugly comments on Facebook, Twitter and myriad other social forums by Hindu fanatics and jingoists hailing the killing of Gauri Lankesh: Hers was a doughty voice against obscurantism and for values enshrined in the Constitution of India, a document that is gradually being called into question by forces that want to shred the secular fabric of the nation and the egalitarian aspirations it invoked. Gauri Lankesh, a votary of the ideology of one of the principal authors of the constitution, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar as well as a staunch opponent of communalism, was a thorn in the side of the Hindutva forces


These forces are not only active in India but among the Indian diaspora especially in North America and Britain. They agitate against accurate portrayals of Indian society in universities, fund Hindutva outfits back home and – as in the case of Britain – mount a campaign against proposed legislation outlawing caste discrimination. This ties together the slogans and speeches heard at the rally for Gauri Lankesh and the ambulance nurse’s rant about people settled abroad and being unavailable to care for their elders.

Many of the Indian expatriates are Hindu fanatics who have contributed to the rise of Hindutva. Of course, there are sizeable sections opposed to the Hindutva crowd but it is the latter that seem to be the more vocal, affluent and influential. They have forged links with White racists and the Trump camp. And they rail against anyone writing about Hinduism and the Hindus as the celebrated Professor Wendy Doniger of Chicago University[2] and others too many to name have found. And yet these Hindu fanatics neglect one of Hinduism’s precepts: “Maathru devo bhava, pithru devo bhava, acharya devo bhava, atithi devo bhava.” (Mother as god, father as god, teacher as god, guest as god”: From the Taittiriya Upanishad.) Of course, the words need not be taken literally nor were they likely meant to be, given the richness of ancient Indian philosophical discourse that celebrates argumentation.
Rather these expats and their fellow Hindu fanatics back home practice a ritualistic form of Hinduism limited to building and gathering at temples and hating Muslims and Blacks and other minorities while ignoring some of the finer precepts of their faith. Caring or not for parents is one thing and another is pushing guests such as Rohingya Muslims back into the jaws of death and rape is another – something that had been the subject of a column in Gauri Lankesh’s eponymous journal’s last issue which she had been putting to bed when she was assassinated.[3]




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Hong Kongers ought to savour this award-winning work showing as part of HKIFF

A movie currently doing the rounds of festivals in Asia – it was lately in Indian ones and will enjoy three screenings at the Hong Kong International Film Festival starting today, 21st March, 2016 – is one that simply ought not to be missed by those not only seeking rollicking laughs and entertainment but also, more crucially, by employers of Foreign Domestic Workers (FDWs) and – hopefully, as many of the latter as possible.[1]

It is a well-paced, never-a-dull-moment film full of humour, most of it infused by the protagonist, Val, a brown-skinned woman from the impoverished northeast (Nordeste) of Brazil working for a middle-class white-skinned family in affluent Sao Paulo. Her young, rarely met, fair-skinned daughter turns up in the city, pursuing a course in architecture and Val requests her female employer to let her stay with her until the young person finds her own accommodation.

Needless to say, things don’t go according to plan and accommodation eludes. The young woman having been educated to think in terms of equality ends up spending a few more days than bargained for at her mother’s employer’s abode. And the employer’s elderly husband develops a crush on her to the bewilderment of not only his wife but her employees, namely Val and a white-skinned colleague of hers, who agonise over the liberties the young person – the daughter of a mere domestic helper – seems to be taking in accepting invitations to dine at the employers’ table or swim with the employer’s son of the same age in their pool.

The film might make the audience cringe over the various “faux pas” committed by the domestic helper’s daughter, such as helping herself to a special tub of ice cream from the fridge and noticed by the female employer, leading, along with other “transgressions”, eventually to an ultimatum.

Val and her daughter in the film are from Pernambuco in the northeast of Brazil. Translation: that’s like southern Philippines or many parts of Indonesia or vis-à-vis Indian cities, parts of the states of Jharkhand, Chattisgarh, Assam and so on. In Brazil, class and race and massive inequality are living issues: In fact they are headline news these days.

In Hong Kong, race and the race-based policies that the Hong Kong government follows towards FDWs – its ignominious two-week rule (requiring anyone losing a job, never mind whether she deserved to be fired or not to leave) among others – have attracted some attention but not nearly enough, such that most employers get away with ill-treating a few hundred thousand of them.


In India, in addition to geography, there are other elements such as caste that are seized on by employers to deny women the rights, not to mention the dignity, that are inalienable according to the constitution of the land and the international human treaties the country is party to and gets criticised but given the much of India’s media is dominated by oppressor-caste males, rarely gets reported.

Incidentally, Hong Kong too gets periodically criticised by treaty bodies – committees overseeing its commitments to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women and International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms or Racial Discrimination – as well as other entities. Until some years ago when Hong Kong boasted of a vibrant free press, now greatly tattered, rebukes by these treaty bodies got prominently reported.

But now Hong Kong is beginning to resemble India where the words “human rights” have become the subject of abuse thanks to Hindu supremacist and quasi-fascist tendencies having grown powerful.

And so it is particularly important to point out the strong egalitarian message that is infused in the film which ends with a delicious denouement!

Among domestic workers are some extraordinary achievers such as Baby Haldar in India,[2] now a noted author and Liza Avelino, a Filipino domestic worker in Hong Kong who has made a mark as a trekker and mountain-climber.[3] Many others are accomplished artists and/or boast tertiary education. But regardless of their qualifications and achievements or lack thereof, by the very fact of being workers, women, human beings, they have an inalienable right to dignity. It is to be hoped that employers watching The Second Mother will leave the cinemas not only with a smile but with some fresh thinking.




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The Independent, a British newspaper (ceasing print publication), is reverting to the spelling Bombay rather than Mumbai, its India-born editor Amol Rajan widely quoted as having said that the move was to resist toeing the Hindu nationalists’ line. It’s not so much the spelling change to Bombay now but rather the publication’s previous decision to acquiesce in the Hindu supremacist Shiv Sena’s change to Mumbai that ought to be under the scanner. That is for the paper’s internal ombudsman, if it has one, to attend to.

But what need concern us in India is the bewildering amount of online and print media attention as well as other Internet chatter devoted to this minor decision in just one publication in a faraway city. As is many Indians’ wont, some of the attention has gotten deflected towards the origins of the words Bombay and Mumbai. Bombay is not an Anglicized form Mumbai of The Portuguese words ‘Bom Bahiya’. That much seems to be agreed on. But then some of the chatterati began saying the Portuguese could not possibly have spelt it as Bom but as Bao. What some, though not all, of these commentators fail to reckon with is the crucial squiggle on top of the ‘a’ – missing in English publications – such that the whole syllable is pronounced nasally as in the name of the most populous Brazilian city, Sao Paolo, which, depending on how you wish to hear the two words, sound like Sam/Som/Sum Paulu. Someone transliterated Bao wrongly, perhaps. Big deal. Far too many names in too many climes have been mangled massively. So please: Here’s hoping the Bom/Bao controversy shall be laid to rest at the very least.

But hey, if you are a Marathi speaker, Hindi speaker or, in fact, speaker of any number of languages in this subcontinent and beyond and wish to use the spelling and the pronunciation, Mumbai, please do go ahead. International human rights laws and the laws of almost all constitutions allow you to do so.

Equally, those of us who wish to spell, pronounce, or even alter the names of your, our and other cities the way they wish to, why, I rejoice in that diversity. Thus when I hear a migrant worker from West Bengal in Bangalore (please note the spelling of my city, more anon) referring to a ‘rupee’ as a ‘taka’, I’m genuinely thrilled.

Have the Shiv Sena types protested against the use of “Bollywood”? Have they ever demanded that the Indian media at least – if not the international – use Mullywood? Incidentally, why bother with this –wood stuff? Why look up to Hollywood whereas far more serious cinema is emerging from many other corners of the globe? This is quite an honest question but are the Shiv Sena and other Sangh Parivar outfits listening?

Has the Shiv Sena or BJP sought to change the name of Bombay High Court? Most likely not. Ditto the ruling dispensations in Chennai and Kolkata, whose highest judiciaries bear the names, respectively, Madras High Court and Calcutta High Court. Incidentally, Suketu Mehta’s critically acclaimed book Maximum City: Bombay Lost And Found was thus named in 2004, nine years after the official spelling change. But Mr Mehta’s is an upper caste Hindu sounding name, isn’t it? Any murmur from the Shiv Sainiks?

It is not only rightwingers and Hindutva types who have this name and spelling change obsession. The late Professor UR Ananthamurthy, one of the foremost intellectuals from the southwestern part of southern Asia and a doughty left-liberal intellectual to his last days, unfortunately got off on an ego trip to change Bangalore’s spelling. Now in Kannada, Bangalore has always written as ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು and it is impossible to accurately transliterate the third syllable: ‘lu’ does not equate to ಳೂ which, moreover, comes with a long vowel. Five years ago, the centenarian lexicographer G. Venkatasubbaiah had spoken against the unnecessary spelling change. But Ananthamurthy misused his proximity to the powers that be to push his hobby horse, thereby causing unnecessary expenditures such as printing of new texts with the altered spelling and repainting of signboards. (More on this:

If the Austrians have no objection to their capital Wien spelled Vienna in English, the Romanians to Bucuresti written Bucharest or the Italians to Roma as Rome, why do Indians make much ado about minor spelling differences? If Peking University can continue to call itself so (, why do Indian nationalists go breast-beating over changes of couple of letters of the alphabet? And when will Indians focus more on the issues that matter such as farmers’ suicides, the scandalous write-offs of loans owed by big businesses or the Hindutva groups continuing attacks on Dalits, Muslims and Christians?

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As a Youtube video which has gone viral testifies, Mehdi Hasan is a brilliant intellectual and while several versions of his scintillating delivery in the Oxford Debate are extant on Youtube, that the following has a mere 1.75 million hits (as of late December 2015) is rather surprising:

That said, I believe Mehdi Hasan, who obviously did much homework and gathered a massive amount of facts regarding his latest interlocutor and the latter’s poisonous ideology, perhaps prepared too many questions and was over-anxious to run through them.

For instance, Ram Madhav claimed “36,000 intellectuals” said the return of awards was “wrong”. Making generous allowance for the obvious exaggeration, it ought to have been challenged. Incidentally, hundreds of prominent intellectuals and thousands of those not so prominent, have protested and been protesting against the anti-Muslim, anti-Christian, anti-Dalit statements from members of what is known as the “Sangh Parivar”.

Madhav refers to “(awards) given by the people of India”. No way. The awards were given by entities such as the Sahitya (Literature) Academy, the Government of India (ex-Congress-led now BJP-led, which are but Tweedledum and Tweedledee) and other entities functioning entirely oblivious to the real concerns of the blessed – or should I say – accursed people of the subcontinent.

When Madhav is asked about government data showing a 25% rise in the incidents of communal violence, he counters that over the past 18 months, the incidents have come down. Hasan notes that the NCRB disputes that but does not press the point.

Hasan agrees with Madhav re the bizarre rationale behind beef ban in India. Err… Might Hasan explain what compelled him to do so?

“Many Muslims in Kashmir don’t eat beef” OK. Quite possibly many people of all faiths and no faith in Kashmir eat or do not eat paneer/tofu/tempe/whatever. So?

Credit where due: Good that Hasan brought up the issue of BJP ministers and MPs and the Haryana CM making bizarre anti-minority statements but, alas left Madhav largely unchallenged.

And he let Madhav off lightly over the official figures of the UPA government regarding the anti-Muslim pogrom in Gujarat of 2002. In actuality the number of 2,000 Muslims killed that is widely quoted is possibly an understatement.

After a brilliant intervention by Dr Nitasha Kaul, Hasan instead of calling on Madhav, calls on someone who – as anyone with a modicum of brain cells can see – is a sold out Modi-toady to respond.

Madhav, who had clearly been expecting to have Golwalkar’s hateful writings quoted back to him, had come prepared with one of those anodyne paragraphs where the Hitler-admiring second Sarsanghchalak had said something contradictory to most of his anti-Muslim and anti-minority writings. Hasan did challenge that with a very short quote but wish he had quoted back to Madhav this from Golwalkar:

“The non-Hindu people of Hindustan must either adopt Hindu culture and language, must learn and respect and hold in reverence the Hindu religion, must entertain no idea but of those of glorification of the Hindu race and culture or may stay in the country wholly subordinated to the Hindu nation, deserving no privileges, far less any preferential treatment – not even citizens’ rights.”

These are widely quoted sentences and a mouth-piece of the Hindu chauvinist groups, Organiser, has defended the formulation.[1]

Hasan asks, “If David Cameron were to say let British Hindus understand that their real safety lies in the goodwill of the majority…” But alas, being too Brit and too subtle, Hasan fails to let the bigot Madhav understand what he was getting at and respond.

Madhav says (regarding the state’s responsibility), “you say, protecting me is your responsibility. That’s not the way we look at it…” Good grief. Madhav needs to read the UDHR, ICCPR, ICESCR, ICERD, CAT, CEDAW…

Again when Dr Nitasha Kaul is called on to comment and she makes valuable points, she is not allowed to persist with them and given short shrift.

And where are the people of Kashmir in the following several minutes re Kashmir?

Brilliant catch by Hasan re “your ISIS”, which has gone viral! Bravo! But wish he had pressed the point.

Again brilliant questions by Hasan re the human rights groups’ allegations! Bravo!

But alas, after Dr Kaul’s all too brief expose on the human rights violations in her native Kashmir, wish Hasan had not cut her short and more importantly, instead of asking Ram Madhav to respond, not turned to that silly Modi-toady on her left.

Some excellent questions from the floor and Hasan moderated well but could have persisted rather than letting Madhav off by saying “you didn’t answer…”

Mehdi Hasan has since noted that Hindutva trolls have reacted more virulently (my term, not his) than any others regarding his Head to Head programmes.

Next time he interviews any Indians, he might be better advised to not be too anxious to run through his laundry list of questions and issues, can his subtlety and humour and go hammer and tongs.


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On joining a social networking site in mid-2010 I noticed that most people had posted some picture or other – their own or their canine or feline companions’. So I put one up of a donkey on a street, a jaywalker, near my parents’ house in Bangalore. It elicited a few sarcastic comments.

But more importantly, it set me thinking about my memories of donkeys from my childhood.

Those donkeys – beasts of burden, as we humans refer to them – were to be found in large numbers around a washer-people’s yard and a now no longer extant swimming pool about a kilometre from where I lived in Bangalore when I was young, and where I returned to in early 2012 after 34 years away.  Today, the donkeys’ numbers have dwindled as the washer-people have mostly mechanised the transport of laundry.

The donkeys stuck in my memory because, when I was ten or eleven years old, I had to accompany a woman to that swimming pool next to the washer-people’s yard a few times for a bizarre ritual.

The Woman, as she shall be referred to for almost the rest of this narrative, had exceedingly stern and ritualistic parents-in-law who made her life miserable by forcing her to follow all of the practices they had grown up with.

Purity/pollution is a major concept ruling almost every minute of many Indians’ lives and a major tool of Brahminical Hinduism’s stranglehold.

The Woman’s parents-in-law had extremely strict rules on how she should conduct herself from the crack of dawn until she went to bed.

From the moment she showered in the morning, she had to watch what she touched. Her children were not allowed near her. When that’s the norm all day long it becomes the norm for the whole life.

During his adolescence for a while, her youngest son took to following her after her post-dinner cleaning up asking when he could go near her:

“Amma, Amma, may I touch you now?”

She, a slim person who had grown up in a large family and had lost her mother when she was six years old and had perhaps not been too well nourished, had to wear a nine-yard sari in a ritual style all day long.

“And I had to wash that heavy sari with my own hands,” she recalled recently.

She also had to wash her mother-in-law’s equally heavy sari each and every day in addition to her father-in-law’s veshti/dhothi. And they had to be washed with water drawn from a well behind the house, because municipal tap water was deemed “impure”. Although her mother-in-law sometimes helped with drawing the well water, the Woman had to perform most of the chores, which included grinding all kinds of flour, spices, coffee powder and so forth.

Well water was also needed for cooking and washing all the vessels and so she had to make several trips between the well and the kitchen, carrying massive quantities of water in vessels balanced on her hips.

As for her periods:

Each time she had them, she had to sit and sleep in a room towards the front of the tiny house and not shower for three days. Her meals were served there via one of her sons.

She used to carry around a piece of previously white cloth, a rag in fact, during those three days. In my pre-teens and even early teens I never understood what that rag was for. This was an era when sanitary pads were still light years away in India.

To use the toilet, she had to walk out of the front door and go round the house to the back. So her periods were public knowledge. Everyone in the large family of close relatives that lived at the back would know.

But then that was not unusual those days. When a girl started menstruating, everyone was told about it. A spherical candy known as chigaLi unde made of sesame and jaggery (with a hint of spices) was distributed among family and relatives.

On the fourth morning after the start of the Woman’s periods, she could shower, wear the regular sari in the normal way and perform some tasks that did not require contact with the “pure” parts of the house such as the kitchen and the altar nor contact with anything consumed by or susceptible to be touched by her parents-in-law.

On the fifth morning she had to take a dip in a natural water source to “purify” herself. Well water was not deemed adequate for the purpose. It had to be a river or a lake: so the crazy rituals dictated. There’s no river running through Bangalore. Sometimes she would take a bus to a place called ThuLasi Thota (meaning basil garden) in the centre of the city to take a dip in the tank there. But to save time, she took to going to the swimming pool nearby.

The craziness of this appears not to have occurred to her mother-in-law. A swimming pool is NOT a natural water body, but an artificial one. Moreover, exceedingly casteist though the mother-in-law was, it did not seem to have dawned on her or on anyone else around her that people from all castes and communities could use the pool and that she was subjecting her daughter-in-law to be touched, nay polluted, by waters that had washed “low-caste” bodies. Or if they did think of it, perhaps they deliberately made the Woman go and take that wholly meaningless dip in the pool as it was a way of asserting their control over her.

Apparently one relative of the mother-in-law’s dissented and tried to intervene on the Woman’s behalf.

“Why are you torturing this child in this way?” he had asked the mother-in-law, the Woman recalls. “Child” was not much of an exaggeration. The Woman had been married off when she was 17 and her husband 19, and the “torture” began from day one. But the older woman would not budge even though one of her own male relatives was ticking her off.

After all, her own mother-in-law had made her go through this drill too.

The Woman had six sisters and a brother. None of her married sisters’ parents-in-law imposed such rituals, even if they had practiced them once or were still doing so (we’re talking of the 1960s now). The only times her sisters wore the nine-yard sari was at their own, and later, their children’s weddings if at all.

Of course, there were other problems such as violence and discrimination that two or three of her sisters faced. So much so that one of the Woman’s sisters opted out.

“Seeing the way my sisters’ marriages worked out, I decided this is not for me,” she once said.

Actually, one or more at least of her sisters had had very gentle parents-in-law and husbands endowed with a keen sense of humour. And other sisters too went on to build relations of near equality and affection with their husbands, who too were not at all lacking when it came to a sense of humour.

The Woman had drawn the shortest straw and a way too short one at that.

Why did she put up with it? That elicits a predictable answer:

“Where could I have gone?”

One younger sister of hers had tried walking out of her marriage resenting violence, both physical and verbal, only to be persuaded to return. She went on to eventually work out an equation with her husband who had grown to respect her to the extent that she could quell him with a stern look when he threw tantrums. She also says her sisters- and brothers in-law respect her much now because they know what she had gone through in the initial years of marriage.

Identical is the experience of the Woman. She too says her sisters- and brothers-in-law respect her greatly now, not only because she is their oldest surviving sister-in-law but also because they are aware of what she had undergone.

But there was another reason for her having gone along with the treatment she received. She deemed it her karthavya or duty.

“I genuinely believed in serving my parents-in-law. I wanted to,” she says.

By the early 1960s, the Woman’s mother-in-law, whose health had begun to fail, decided she wanted to die in the sannidhi (abode or vicinity) of her family deity and pressed to move to Nuggehally, a temple town, where her husband owned a house and small patches of land.

The woman decided to send her second son to her elder sister’s in Mysore and went with her oldest and youngest sons to the village. (The disruption of her children’s education was not an issue for her mother-in-law.)

Her husband, then a technician working for the central government was being transferred every two to three years to various parts of the country. His wife was less a wife than a caregiver and servant of his parents, who, incidentally were not his biological parents but adoptive ones, but more of that later.

In Bangalore the parents-in-law’s house had a low compound wall separating it from the busy road in front. In the village, the front door gave out on to the temple street. So whenever the Woman had her periods, people in several houses nearby and passers-by would know.

The distance from the front room to the toilet, or what passed for it – two raised stones on which you sat and did your business on to stitched leaves, manual scavengers (Dalits) coming around every morning to clear up – was longer in the village.

Life was obviously harsher there. Although there was a domestic worker who helped wash the clothes, they had subsequently to be “purified” using water fetched from a temple tank about half a kilometre away. The Woman had developed a major ankle infection and suffered greatly until she was taken to a nearby hospital for a minor operation.

Her greatest problem in the village was that she had no one to turn to in order to vent.

“The children were too young and I had no one else to confide in,” she recalls.

About a year and a half or so after moving to the village, her mother-in-law died. Then she and her father-in-law and sons moved back to Bangalore.

Her father-in-law insisted on keeping to the rituals imposed on her by her mother-in-law.

Thus again began the trips to the swimming pool – and sightings of the donkeys – whenever she had her periods. And this was the time when I accompanied her a few times there guarding her dry clothes while she climbed down the dangerously slippery steps. (Chlorine was not being used and there was hardly any maintenance of the pool.)


Once a few kids about my age or a year or two older who were standing nearby pointed in her direction and laughed. They also appeared to be saying something among themselves, jeering at a woman about the same age as their mothers or just a few years younger.

For me this semi-traumatic memory remains bound up with that of the pool, the Woman’s “ritual” dips and the donkeys nearby.

Now that there was just one woman in the home, an old father-in-law and three young sons, none of whom had been initiated into cooking because of the purity/pollution belief, a major problem arose whenever she had her periods.

Her father-in-law had to go over to the house at the back and request/beg his sister-in-law to let him and his three grandsons eat at her place for three days (and supply his daughter-in-law’s meals).

The Woman’s parents-in-law had had no children of their own. Her husband’s biological mother had 11 children. The childless couple adopted her second son.

Thus, what old the man was asking his sister-in-law was really to feed him, i.e. her older sister’s husband, and her daughter-in-law and biological grandchildren for three days.

But it became more and more embarrassing as the months passed. And so the Woman’s father-in-law began to relent. Already, she had begun to perform most household tasks from day four after the start of her periods. Soon, she was back at work from day three. And eventually at some point, the bizarre swimming pool routine stopped as did the sightings of the donkeys.

In the late 1960s, her husband was posted in Madras/Chennai. She moved there with her father-in-law and youngest son, leaving behind her older sons who had entered college. They were to eat at their biological grandparents’ place.

In Madras, the well water routine as well as the nine-yard-sari thing continued, however. Her husband had been given quarters in a central government colony and there was no well there. He stumbled on a house on the edge of the colony which had one. That family was befriended. In the initial weeks, the Woman, her nine-yard-sari tied ritual style, had to make her way through the colony to that house to fetch the well water.

Her youngest mid-teen son had to accompany her, praying that none of his schoolmates from the colony was watching. (To minimise the embarrassment, his request that this routine be performed after dusk was granted but then street lights were on by then.) Soon a man from a nearby town was engaged for that sole purpose.

In under a couple of years her husband was posted to Bangalore, where he resentfully did the honours in the kitchen for the mandatory – by now  – two days after his wife’s periods. Three years later he was posted to Bhubaneshwar. By this time, her father-in-law had begun to go senile. Her periods were no longer noticed. No more well water and no more nine-yard-sari.

Her father-in-law passed away in mid-1975. She recalls that by this time he was extremely senile but in a moment of lucidity, he had expressed an apology to her.

“I gave you a lot of trouble,” he told her, she recalls.

And so, rather than rancour, it is reverence that she expresses when her father-in-law is mentioned.

“He was a gentleman,” she said recently to my shock and amazement.

To her father-in-law’s credit, he always spoke to her politely and used euphemisms, e.g. “anything rounded?” for a deep-fried doughnut-shaped snack known as a kodubaLe in Kannada – to her amusement – when he felt peckish.

The unstated, as well as often overtly stated, subtext to her comment is that she compares him favourably to her husband whose domineering and short-tempered ways she has long resented and which she continues to deal with even now.

Her husband is not violent physically. There are times when he speaks to his wife as an equal, discussing religious mumbo jumbo or the welfare of a large number of relatives. But he expects his wife to be at his beck and call, never answer back and cook every dish just so. Something no intelligent being can tolerate.

He is not a bad man, far from it. He has led a largely honest life. He worked all his life in a highly technical side of a government department with – at least then – zero opportunity for rent-seeking should he have been so inclined. And in Indian middle class parlance, he had and has no “bad habits”.

Some months ago, very close to where I live, I found that a donkey was hobbling around as the forelegs had been tied together. This, alas, is a common practice among “owners” of the hapless species. The absurd assumption is that if two of the donkeys’ legs are tied tightly, they can’t stray far. But in fact they do.

I went back home, found a large knife and tried to cut that donkey’s legs free. The donkey resented being approached and kept turning and walking away. I pleaded with passers-by to try and hold the donkey. Some of them said “the donkey belongs (sic) to someone, that’s why they have tied the legs”. Initially, there were also looks of consternation as I was wielding a large knife but soon the penny dropped. I cut the knot that had, alas, already by then left a deep gnash round that donkey’s forelegs. Just one of innumerable donkeys who go through similar fates, and all that I did worth perhaps a few hours of freedom before recapture, although I dearly hope not.

Taking a knife to let a “dumb” donkey roam free for a while is easy.


The Woman, my mother, turns 92 tomorrow, 17 October 2021.

(This was originally written seven years ago when she turned 85.)

P.S.: I had previously said 18-yard-sari in the text. I had meant 18-moLa in Kannada (and -moLam in Tamil), which translates as nine-yard and not 18-yard. I regret the error.

Posted in Caste, Domestic violence, Gender, Patriarchy, Women | 19 Comments


A nephew of mine, Jayasimha Yashas,  who teaches in a government primary school in Chennai/Madras while on two years’ sabbatical working for one of India’s foremost IT companies, invited me to speak to his young charges while I was in that city briefly a few months ago.

My Chennai visit was at the invitation of V. Suresh, National General Secretary of the People’s Union for Civil Liberties,[1] one of the foremost activist groups in India affirming human rights and – given that the right to life is inalienable – opposing the death penalty.

And so, while addressing my nephew’s students – although aged a mere seven or eight – human rights were uppermost in my mind.

With the kind permission of their teachers, and since I had just attended two days of meetings of human rights groups from various parts of the country to discuss ways to promote the abolition of the death penalty (and condemn the anti-Tamil genocide in Sri Lanka), I chose to focus on that topic.

Asked whether the children, aged 7-8, had heard of the words “human rights” (manidha urimai, மனித உரிமை in Tamil) they predictably and understandably said no.  So another approach was called for.

What does everyone need?

“Air” said a few of them in English. (That hour, the kids were expected to be speaking in English and so both languages were featured). Air, or clean air. In a way they were, without knowing it, expressing something people far away were writing about too.[2] But the kids did not mean that in the sense of a human right to clean air. Just that everyone needs to breathe.

What else?

“Water”,[3] and later, “food”,[4] “education” ( padippu, படிப்பு)[5] and “house”.[6]

Yes, yes, yes, yes… Indeed, all of these figure in international human rights declarations and treaties as well as in national constitutions.

“Hospital” said one of the kids as they got into the spirit of the conversation. It did not take long to make the connection to another basic right: “health”.[7]

“Mouth” (vaai வாய்) said one child.

Ah, interesting. What do you use that for?

“Speech” (paecchu பேச்சு). DSC_0184

Yes, the right to free speech and by extension, freedom of opinion. Unbeknown to them, the young ones were articulating the provisions of a precious, identically numbered, article in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR),[8] the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights[9] and the Indian Constitution[10] so dear to so many of us: ARTICLE 19.[11]

“Respect”, one of the children said in English.

With my extremely limited Tamil, I was unable to probe further but the word “respect” – I wonder whether that child had heard the word because it is well known to members of oppressed castes in Tamil Nadu as it was beloved of Periyar E.V. Ramasamy Naicker who founded the “Self-respect Movement”[12] – is closely related to “dignity”.

The very first line of the preamble to the UDHR uses the words “inherent dignity”.[13]

That child was on to something.

It is possible that many or most of the children in that class would by now have forgotten the issues discussed. But some seeds lie buried and sprout in a wild season. I hope that among at least one or two of them, there will be a flowering of the ideas from that brief conversation.

Before concentration flagged, I wanted to get on to my pet concern.

What should no one take away from you? (The exact words I used then in Tamil escape me now.)

After a minute or so, came the response: “Life”.

Thus we came to the death penalty (maraNa dandanai, மரண தண்டனை).[14] If I recall right I mentioned the names of Murugan, Santhan and Perarivalan – those convicted in connection with the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi.

A lot of Indian media houses refer to them as “Rajiv killers”. Technically that is totally wrong. And Mr Perarivalan, at least, is almost entirely innocent of any role in the wider conspiracy.[15]

Does anyone have a right to take your life?


What if a judge orders that someone may be given maraNa dandanai?

Many murmers of “yes”.

But you just said no one should take anyone’s life.


Case closed. Eventually end of class.

[October 10 is the annual World Day Against the Death Penalty.[16]]


[Photos courtesy MANASA RAMAKRISHNAN.]

















[13] “Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,…”

[14] Subject of a major new United Nations Publication, “Moving Away From The Death Penalty” with a Chapter on India by noted legal scholar Dr Usha Ramanathan:



Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments


(With a long prologue, longer epilogue and a short main section)

Exactly 40 years ago, on the evening of 3rdSeptember 1974, I entered the jail in Daltonganj, headquarters of Palamu district (then of Bihar, now of Jharkhand state) and was to spend nine days there.

They were fairly eventless, except for a couple of chats with a smiling, soft-spoken and clearly very well-read person, jailed for being a “Naxalite” (extreme leftist) who organised poor, oppressed-caste rural folk to resist landlords’ terror, peacefully for the most part but otherwise if need be.[1]

But how and why did I get to be lodged in that prison?


During my undergrad years studying in St Joseph’s College, Bangalore, I used to occasionally attend talks and seminars at various venues around town, especially over the weekends. Those days the local branch of the Gandhi Peace Foundation was somewhat active and as it was easily reached by bicycle, I used to gravitate there often. Moreover, I had read books in praise of Gandhi. The Gandhian and socialist Jayaprakash Narayan was much in the news in the early 1970s as he was raising a voice against the then prime minister Indira Gandhi’s autocratic ways. Incidentally, I learned of an atheist Gandhian named Gora (Goparaju Ramachandra Rao) and it felt good to know that there were precedents to an atheist such as me admiring the deeply religious Gandhi.

At one of the weekend meetings around town, I met two interesting people. One was a person living in the Gandhi Bhavan compound but who seemed quite pro-left, especially pro-Soviet Union. He continues to live there. During a couple of my recent chats with him, I was shocked to note that he had now turned pro-Modi.

The more interesting person was V.T. Rajshekhar Shetty, who went on to found Dalit Voice. Mr Shetty, whose son Salil currently heads the global human rights organisation Amnesty International, had already written a paper entitled “Why Marx failed in Hindu India”. I began to call on Mr Shetty from time to time and he taught me a great deal about caste and casteism. From what I understood of his thesis then, he argued that the left parties were under Brahminical control, had neglected to address the issue of caste and that any change to the current exploitative structures in India was impossible without tackling caste oppression. Mr Shetty was from the Bunts sub-caste, which he proclaimed to be Dalit, much to the chagrin of his community (which includes the actress Aishwarya Rai).

Mr Shetty was then a reporter with the Indian Express and he was but one individual. The Gandhians had brick and mortar institutions and their pull was greater. The desire to “change the world” was strong within me and the Gandhians seemed to offer opportunities. One of their publications carried an announcement from the Banwasi Seva Ashram in what was then Mirzapur district of eastern Uttar Pradesh calling for volunteers. I wrote to its then head, Prembhai (who used just one name) and he replied inviting me and offering a stipend of Rs 100 a month to cover expenses.

My father had just been posted to Bhubaneshwar, capital of Orissa, and I went with him until there, with the plan of going on to Mirzapur via Howrah (Calcutta). Once in Bhubaneshwar, my father said he wouldn’t give me the money for the ticket and asked that I join the M.A. Economics course in the local university. Nice try. I’d already hoarded the cash needed. And so I left on a train, the very first time I was going to northern India. And was immediately gripped by a feeling of ennui and homesickness. There had been a number of times I had left home to go to camps with school and college mates and visit relatives but this was my first foray so far from home and in a distant land. It was also the longest train journey I was making yet. And I was 19 then.

Banwasi Seva Ashram was a reasonably cheerful place (now with a web presence, obviously).[2] It received funds from a number of foreign NGOs and used them to build small earthen dams for the benefit of people in the mostly forest area.  There was a well-run residential school for children from the area and the kitchen that served them, next to a biogas plant, was also used by those who did not cook their own meals. The monthly bill came to just about Rs. 50 or so – the usual fare was rotis and boiled vegetables with a hint of salt and spices. No tea, nothing. And so I was left with a like amount but with absolutely nothing to spend on for miles around.

Moreover, I was gripped by bouts of Gandhi-style self-abnegation. There were times when I wanted to give up things like tea and coffee. Now, twice-daily doses of coffee had been part of my life ever since early childhood. My attempts at giving up these beverages as a 19-year-old merely led to my thinking of little else for parts of the day.

The Ashram – as it was usually referred to – had placed some workers in distant villages, the better to cater to the needs of neighbouring areas. After a few days of orientation I was asked to accompany one of the workers to the village where he lived. This man was the starkest in simplicity I’ve met yet. Absolutely no question of tea, breakfast or snacks. Just two meals a day consisting of crudely made thick rotis and boiled vegetables. I was to assist him in collecting socio-economic data in nearby villages. Fortunately for me, he decided after just a few days to hand me over to the care of another worker elsewhere. The latter engaged a local lad to cook rotis and vegetables with not just salt but some pepper. The difference, though small in retrospect, seemed immense then.

Once during lunch break, while the worker I was assigned to was resting, I noticed a farmer close by ploughing. He seemed tired. I asked whether I could take over for a while. He let me do so. There is a set pattern to the ploughing. So the buffalo I was supposedly overseeing kept at it. But after a while he must have realised that behind him was no farmer but some clueless idiot. And he stopped.

The Gandhian worker I was with used a small corner of his cottage to shower. But obviously the water had to be carried there by the lad he had engaged. I was asked to use public conveniences. And so I had to adjourn to a nearby well to shower. I used to strip down to my underwear, pull up the water and pour it on myself. Often I was asked whether I wanted some oil to rub over myself by the villagers who were also showering. (It was much later in life that I learned of their good sense in asking me. The skin needs a bit of oiling to avoid getting dry. I’m reminded that in the film Reds, the Grigori Zinoviev character is shown in one scene to be eating lemon slices and explaining to the celebrated journalist John Reed that this prevents scurvy. And sure enough…)[3] After a few days of this, a discreet and indirect message was communicated to me: “wear a towel around your waist while showering. This undie thing is not done, even if there are no women about”.

I found that many of the workers had little conviction in the job they were doing or in their membership of the institution. Some of them wanted to be paid more. Many seemed to lack enthusiasm for the task. A lot of them fully subscribed to the caste system even though the head, Prembhai, by suppressing his surname, was making a point about the need for a casteless society.

One point of disagreement I had with the Gandhians was on alcohol. Tribal villagers and others in many states of India brew a drink from the mahua flower and consume it in moderate quantities as part of their culture and animist religion.[4] Prohibitionist zeal directed against them was, I thought, misplaced and poorly thought through. The Gandhians might have been, and still be, sincere in their opposition to alcohol but some state governments have cynically banned arrack and toddy only to replace those with products from super-affluent urban liquor manufacturers.

After the first few weeks at the Ashram and its workers in far-off villages, I began to realise that I, an economics honours graduate, was making little contribution. Had I been a doctor, engineer or otherwise talented in crafts or arts, I might have been of use to the rural communities.

Around that time, Prembhai had gone visiting in Bihar, where Jayaprakash Narayan (known as JP) had launched a movement opposing Indira Gandhi’s authoritarianism and corruption.[5] This was a time when among India’s Gandhians there was a deep split between the JP line which opposed Indira Gandhi’s authoritarian ways and the massive corruption that was flourishing under her, and the Vinoba camp which was supportive of the government. (This earned Vinoba the sobriquet, “sarkaari sant” or pro-government monk). Prembhai was in the JP camp. On his return from Bihar he asked me whether I wanted to go over to take part in the JP movement and I jumped at it.

By this time, JP had already led a couple of major rallies in Patna, at one of which he had suffered beatings by the police. This was also the summer when India’s first nuclear test had taken place and most Gandhians were opposed to it. There was considerable sympathy for JP’s message of waging a war on corruption and official high-handedness. He proclaimed that the movement was not limited to corruption but “total revolution”. It might sound hollow now, but in those days quite a few people, especially in his native Bihar, thought he knew what he was talking about. And so did I, an urbanite from south India.

A short train journey took me to the western town Garhwa Road in Palamu district where I hooked up with one Arvind Sinha who had arrived from Patna. JP had given a call for Bihar Bandh (general strike). Arvind and I went to a nearby village on the night of 2nd September 1974 and the following morning stopped a train. After an hour or so the police and a sub-divisional officer arrived there and asked us to go away quietly or they’d have to arrest us. We opted for arrest.

We spent the good part of the day at the police station in Garhwa Road. I gave honest answers to all the questions regarding my address, father’s name and occupation etc. All that we got the whole day was a cup of tea and perhaps a couple of biscuits.

Late in the afternoon Arvind and I were handcuffed together and, along with a police constable, put on a train to Daltonganj. While on the train, both he and I had to use the toilet once, but thankfully only for what in our school days was known as number 1. I shudder to think what might have ensued if either of us had had the number 2 urge and whether the constable even had a key to the handcuffs.

And thus it was that I found myself in Daltonganj jail.



There were perhaps another 150 or so people arrested the same day in various parts of Palamu district. We were put in two large halls and had to sleep on the ground. Each of us was given a thin white cloth to serve as a “lungi” and a small and thin white towel. There was just about enough room for us all to sleep, in that there was at least a foot or more of space between us. I was lucky to get a place near a window and away from the toilet which, like most Indian facilities, was ill-maintained. I was young and slept soundly and so could contain myself until the hall was unlocked in the morning and use the slightly less intolerable facilities outside.

Food, prepared by convicted prisoners, consisted of a measured amount of rice and dal, breakfast consisting of a paratha. Apparently each prisoner was allotted a certain amount of rice, flour, oil and dal a day but obviously there were many slips between the ledger and our lips. At mealtimes, each of us was handed an aluminium plate for the food. These plates, which were new when we checked in, started suffering massive damage from one day to the next. It was as if someone was deliberately beating them with a stone. For what purpose remained a mystery.

For most of the day, we were allowed to roam around the prison compound, which, if memory serves me right, was the size of five or six football fields. A couple of times I saw the prison chief making his rounds. It was a bizarre spectacle: an orderly walked behind him carrying a huge umbrella made of coloured cloth, the kind usually used in temple processions. It was said that he would personally taste the food from the communal kitchen. If that was so, it did not show in the quality of the fare.

An ex-member of the Bihar Legislative Assembly of the then Bharatiya Lok Dal (led by Charan Singh) had also been arrested but his conditions were palatial compared to ours. He had a room plus kitchen and bathroom all to himself in a separate building and a prisoner to cook his meals and clean his clothes. I and a couple of others called on the diminutive man once and he treated us to a cup of tea, perhaps the only cup that I had during those nine days.

By far the most interesting person in the jail was the genial “Naxalite” I mentioned in the second paragraph. He was in solitary confinement but his quiet dignity might perhaps have won over the jail authorities and led to his being let out in the sun for long periods. I failed to ask him what his crime was and of the treatment he had received at the hands of the police. But I guess that was partly because he effortlessly made his interlocutors the subject of his conversation. I’d told him more of my background than he had told me of his. On learning that I had been hobnobbing with Gandhians, he asked me if I’d read a certain book on Gandhi. (I’m afraid I do not remember the title nor the author he named.) That was his way. No preaching, nor talk of Marx or Naxalbari.

By about the sixth or seventh day in jail, it became clear that most or all of us who had been arrested on 3rd September would be released on bail. Some lawyers sympathetic to the JP movement were working on it. One of the prisoners who acted as a cook sidled up to me once and said he wanted my white lungi and towel when I left. It sounded more like a menacing order than request. Which I ignored.


Given the large numbers of people who had courted arrest, the Bihar government had the good sense to drop charges a few days later. In other words I’m unblemished in legal terms.

A sign of the misplaced and perverse efficiency of the Indian bureaucracy was that a few days or a week or two after my brief incarceration, it transpired that my father, then a central government technical officer in Bhubaneshwar, received a visit from the local police who asked him how and why his son was taking part in an anti-government protest in Bihar. My father replied entirely truthfully that he had no control over his son.

(In the good year 2014, I’m able to say that my father, 87, and mother, 85, have as little control over me as I have over them. My corpulent father ignores my advice regarding the fat and salt content in his consumption and the need for exercise and my rake-thin mother ignores the opposite. And I turn a deaf ear to most of what they tell me. Modus vivendi.)

Many weeks later, I found myself in Garhwa town where a certain young man named Vijayji, who was a local forest contractor’s son, had taken part in a pro-JP movement meeting and invited me to a “havan” (or “homa” – ritual offerings to a consecrated fire). Not to be impolitic, I turned up there, only to find the sub-divisional official who had overseen my arrest a few weeks previously near Garhwa Road looking daggers at me. He took the head of the household aside for a quiet word. I was then severely ignored. No food, nada. I left. And found that subsequent efforts to contact “Vijayji” were thwarted.

Incidentally, while getting to Garhwa town, I had to pass through Garhwa Road station. The previous time I had taken the train from the (unstaffed) station close to Banwasi Seva Ashram, a Travelling Ticket Examiner (TTE) on board had issued me a ticket. This time, no TTE turned up. I had every intention of paying for the journey and was left anxious. After I got off at Garhwa Road, set on paying the fare at the counter and exiting legally, I was accosted by a railway official who demanded a bribe. My explanation that I was heading to the ticket counter to buy the ticket (albeit post facto) fell on deaf ears. I was a South Indian in a rather strange land, quite young and tired. I confess I gave him the bribe demanded – Rs 10 perhaps, not a small amount those days.

By a strange coincidence, the next evening while I was calling on a local homeopathic healer who was said to be sympathetic to the JP movement, the railway chap who had shaken me down dropped in. After overcoming my shock, I reminded him of the previous evening. He denied his bribe-taking completely. My host weighed in on his side.

I was to have other bits of education regarding train journeys in Bihar in the following weeks and months: “chain-pulling” to stop a train close to one’s village was fairly common. Once while travelling from Gaya to Patna, I got on to a train as it was steaming out and noticing that the crowded bogeys (carriages/compartments) had no TTEs I could spot, went over to the last compartment to buy a ticket. The man mumbled something to the effect that it was the first time since Independence (1947) … I hope he was exaggerating.

I was in Bihar – off and on – until late May or early June 1975, with one or two visits back in Banwasi Seva Ashram. There were a certain number of “shibir”s or camps where some of us gathered for training or conferences. One of them was at Benares (Varanasi) where I met Narayan Desai, son of Mahdev Desai, Gandhi’s secretary. Narayanbhai, as he was called by everyone, used to spin the charkha constantly, even while delivering a lecture. Another was in Ujjain where JP addressed the meeting. JP spoke at length about the situation in the country and the need for “total revolution”. The next day’s local papers highlighted some minor reference he had made to misunderstandings among his supporters.

While in Ujjain, I saw S.N. Subba Rao, who had acquired renown for having rehabilitated hundreds of “dacoits” in Madhya Pradesh, interpret JP’s speech for a couple of visiting foreigners. It was simultaneous interpretation of superb quality.  Another abiding memory from Ujjain was the high quality of the tea in local shops. It was thick, with generous amounts of ginger and cardamom.

Once in Muzaffarpur (from where the erstwhile socialist firebrand George Fernandes was to contest Lok Sabha elections in 1977 and win with a massive margin), I met senior Gandhian Siddharaj Dhadda who, despite his advanced age, picked up a broom and started sweeping the front-yard of a place we were staying at – perhaps the little-used office of a local activist group. I relieved him of the broom and it was a lesson in the importance of cleanliness. While in Muzaffarpur, at one of the functions organised by local youth, I heard that the name of one of them was Chakravarthy. I went up to him and asked if he were a South Indian. I was to learn later that the name is found not only in southern India but is a common surname in Bengal. I guess I had come to see myself as a South Indian and it had been months since I’d met and spoken to one. Years earlier, when I was studying in Madras (Chennai) where my father was posted, the class teacher, a Tamilian, made me feel that non-Tamilians were somehow inferior. And in 1977 when I moved to New Delhi to work, I learned that I was a “Madraasee”.

In Gaya I met S. Jagannathan and his wife Krishnammal, who were both so concerned with the issue of land ownership that they had even named their son Bhoomi Kumar. Gaya and neighbouring districts presented a pathetic scene. In some villages, there were so-called ashrams headed by a “mahant” that owned vast swathes of land and the rest of the population there had little or nothing. These districts were fertile grounds for extreme left movements.

Casteism was rife. Caste seemed to be the first and abiding identity. Often while walking from village to village, someone would ask me “kahan makaan ba” (where do you live)? I was to learn that it was a loaded question. If I’d mentioned the name of a nearby village, the person could size me up and place me in the caste hierarchy (many are dominant-caste villages. I presume that in the case of multi-caste villages, further interrogation as to which part might have followed). Since I came from far away, it led to more questions: “thaithil (title)” (meaning surname)? Obviously most surnames in India are identified with a specific caste and even sub-caste.  (Singh and Rao among others are used by members of more than one caste.) There again, I told my interlocutors in Bihar truthfully that I had no surname. I guess my father figured surnames had gone out of fashion in post-independence India and gave just the village name, abbreviated to one initial, N. and my given name, Jayaram when I started going to school.

A few who did not want to give up would ask me outright “what is your caste?” It was an article of faith with many of us in the JP movement that we wanted to build a casteless society.  I was stubborn. Once in a village in Gaya district, a Brahmin villager I was visiting offered me lunch but said he had to know what caste I was from because that was vital to where I would be seated. I refused to divulge. So he made me sit outside his house and brought me a plate of rice and dal there. He was rather courteous otherwise and accompanied me till the edge of the village to see me off. I was debating whether to deliver a parting shot by telling him but thought better of it.

I once met a Brahmin named Pathak who said “we Pathaks are the highest sub-caste among Brahmins” immediately adding, “I don’t say so, others say so.” And I met a man surnamed Haq, who said “we Haqs are the highest sub-caste among Muslims”. And he too went, “I don’t say so, others…” In Daltonganj, a so-called Gandhian named Jha (Brahmin surname) who owned tracts of land and houses in several villages in the district, asked me how to make out the caste from South Indian names.

Incidentally, just as the English word “title” is used in that part of India to mean surname (euphemism for caste identity), I learned that there were a few other words with different connotations in Bihar and Uttar Pradesh. “Gaarjun” (guardian) meant parent, “diet” meant a meal (“you have consumed x diets this month and you owe…”) and “professor” was anyone in the teaching profession.

Many Indians have a peculiar notion of “purity” and “pollution”. Once in Garhwa town I had a glass of tea and kept the used utensil at one end of the counter. The teashop owner abused me roundly for polluting it. My sin was that I had kept the used glass on the same level as the one where he was keeping glasses full of tea, not yet drunk from. My mother too believes in such purity/pollution ideas: she objects to used plates being kept on the kitchen counter. But we Indians have abjectly neglected toilets.

One issue I have thus far not dealt with: What was I doing over all those months in Bihar and what did I accomplish? Precious little, to be honest. As the foregoing shows, plenty of time went in travelling from place to place. And much time was wasted in trying to gather people to talk to. I would talk about “total revolution” and the need to frustrate the corrupt government through non-cooperation. Mostly I was listened to politely but I guess people had their harsh lives to lead, and no time to bother with “revolution” or a distant entity called government which had no beneficial influence on their lives. One Muslim villager lectured me and another pro-JP volunteer who happened to be Muslim about the virtues of the Indira Gandhi government and the bankruptcy of the opposition.

I spent quite some time in Kalpana Kuteer in Patna, a sort of de facto headquarters of the JP movement, and helped by going to the printers to collect copies of the Hindi publication we hawked, Sampoorna Kraanthi (Total Revolution), and other bits and pieces of work. Once one of the local lads told me that outsiders such as me were “eating” Bihar’s resources and at best doing the work locals could do or contributing nothing. In other words he was accusing me of being a parasite. It stung, of course and I then thought it unfair. But somewhere the message went home. Perhaps weeks or months after that exchange, I decided to return to Bangalore and pursue “total revolution” there.

Looking back, what do I think of the JP movement?  First the person of JP himself: there have been some writings to the effect that he was a rival of Nehru and that he felt ignored by Indira Gandhi and therefore the movement. I find that difficult to swallow. The man consistently spurned office. What might stick is to say that he was upper caste, although not a patrician by birth, he became one thanks to his education and the opportunities he had. But he certainly came across as honest and principled and adducing negative motivations to his movement is plainly crass.

However, the movement he led, and the idea of “total revolution”, were nebulous and ideologically rootless. The movement had on board the non-communist left and the right-wing Jan Sangh-RSS in addition to many Gandhians and idealistic youth. The socialists (Lohiaites and others) were critical of the inclusion of Jan Sangh-RSS in the movement. JP is reported to have said, “If RSS is fascist then JP is fascist”. I believe he was plain wrong. Perhaps he mistakenly thought that by bringing the RSS into the mainstream, he could humanise them. Recent years and months in India have proved that it is the RSS that has eaten into the mainstream to the extent that one of its members is ruling the country today. JP grossly underestimated the fanatic fervour of the RSS and its lethal capabilities as shown not only in 2002 in Gujarat and 1992 in Ayodhya but also in New Delhi in 1984 when many of its members quietly cooperated with Congress party goons in their anti-Sikh pogrom following Indira Gandhi’s assassination.

Before returning to Bangalore I went to Bhubaneshwar to spend a few weeks with my parents, ageing grandfather and my brother. A cat and her kittens had adopted our family and I had a delightful time playing with them. My love of cats and – over recent years – many other species of fauna dates back to those few weeks.

On 25th June 1975, the radio delivered the news that Indira Gandhi had declared a state of emergency. A fortnight earlier, Justice J.M.L. Sinha of the Allahabad high court had set aside her election, declaring her guilty of corrupt practices.[6] This only further fuelled the long festering revolt against her rule. That night, as I listened to the news, I was left shaken and lost my appetite, a feeling that was to recur after news of the destruction of the Babri  Masjid in Ayodhya came in on 6th December 1992 and on 16th May this year after the election results were announced. (I was not in India during the anti-Sikh pogrom of 1984 and the anti-Muslim one of 2002 in Gujarat and, at any rate, the full scale of the carnage came to light in the days following. In 1992 I was in Beijing and a brief altercation on the Babri issue led to my spurning an influential Indian there.)

Upon returning to Bangalore post Indira Gandhi’s Emergency, I was left friendless and rootless. I thought perhaps I could use that time to educate myself. I can’t recall exactly why it was that I enrolled in the M.A. Economics programme in Mysore rather than in Bangalore but I guess it had something to do with the last date for applications.

I lasted just a couple of months there. The casteism in that university, including the economics department, was unbearable. When I submitted my application form, I’d left the religion column blank. The clerk who examined it objected and filled it without so much as a by your leave. The late U.R. Ananthamurthy was a teacher in the neighbouring English department. I wished I could have been his student (as I said in my previous blog).[7] One of my economics teachers (I was told she was the wife of an army officer) made us, MA economics students, write an essay on Indira Gandhi’s “20 point programme”. I wrote a stinker (and a classmate later informed me to my delight that the first thing she did in the next class was to call my name out.) That was the last straw. I quit and went back to Bangalore.

During the remainder of 1975 and early 1976, I wasn’t up to much other than some minor anti-Emergency underground pamphleteering. I believe many of these pamphlets were of RSS origin. The secular but Sanskritised language suggested as much. Nevertheless, in so far as they were opposing the current autocracy, I was in agreement. Incidentally, I learned a couple of years later that some of the pamphlets I’d left in the toilet of my Alma Mater, St Joseph’s College, had gotten a pro-RSS lecturer in trouble. (Most of the South Indian Hindu teachers in that college were fanatical and pro-RSS. Their gripe was that Christians were being favoured in that institution. Never mind that their kind controlled/and control many more multiples of educational institutions which had and have few, if any, non-upper-caste Hindu teachers.)

In 1976, I signed up for a journalism course during which, memorably, I met a member of my own sub-caste but who was pro-CPI (then pro-Soviet Communist Party of India, but which was also, incidentally, pro-Indira Gandhi regime). The man has since moved Hindutva-wards, or so it seems to me.

Do I regret my outing in Bihar/UP in 1974-75? Absolutely not. I do genuinely regret availing of the generous hospitality that I received from individuals and institutions. Then again, in my defence, I’d say that feeding a visitor (though not stranger – given our caste constraints) was something I’d grown up with. I feel grateful for the many generous souls I met in Bihar. Incidentally, the very rich culinary traditions of Bihar – the diversity of its meals and snacks and especially satthu and litthi – left me with great respect for that state whose lilting Bhojpuri I fell in love with. I met many brilliant people, albeit briefly and came away with great respect for Bihar and its people.

Moreover, during those months, I met some wonderful people with whom, thanks to the Internet and social networking, I have reconnected in recent years. Nachiketa and Aflatoon, sons of the aforementioned Narayanbhai and grandsons of Mahadev Desai, I was fortunate enough to meet in recent years. I’m also in touch with Arun Kelkar, Ashok Bhargava, Kumar Kalanand, Kumar Shubhamoorty and Sudhakar Jadhav (to mention only those I can remember, and who I’ve connected with now via social media.)

I’d met Nachiketa in New Delhi in either the late 1970s or early 1980s. Both of us had got into journalism. I reconnected with him via email some years ago and via social networking links in more recent years. And I met his brother Aflatoon and his wife several months ago when they visited Bangalore. I’ve mentioned only male names. The JP movement was mostly male dominated but behind it was a small band known as Tarun Shaanthi Sena (Youth Peace Force) consisting of both males and females, which inevitably earned the sobriquet “Tarun Shaadi Sena” as a few members clicked and got hitched.

Unbeknown to me then I had run into Harsh Mander in Banwasi Seva Ashram briefly but was to have a longer association with him in Gandhi Peace Foundation in New Delhi in the late 1970s. In Bihar I also met Krishna Kumar, who went on to become one of the best directors the National Council for Educational Research and Training has had and a doughty voice against communalism. During my travels I also met the Professor Thakurdas Bang and his sons Ashok and Dr Abhay Bang, who are both doing yeoman work in rural Maharashtra.

Now that I’ve been back in Bangalore since early 2012, I’ve reconnected with many people who work on caste issues. Plus social media has helped me connect with Kuffir Nalgundwar, who edits Round Table India.[8] And many working on communalism.

My education continues in the larger – intellectual though not in all our cases physical – jail that is India under Modi.









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(After Margaret Thatcher’s death, there was a brief discussion among many people on social media about the acceptability or otherwise of speaking ill of the recently dead. My takeaway was that we simply need to tell it like it is. So here goes.)

First some – in fact, many – words in praise of Professor Ananthamurthy:

He was teaching in the English Department of Mysore University for a while in the mid-1970s. I’d already heard of his formidable reputation and wished I were his student rather than in the Economics MA class where I encountered far too much casteism. As a Bangalorean having graduated from St Joseph’s College, I was least interested in the caste backgrounds of those around me, but the question of caste lay thick on the ground in the Economics department. I quit in disgust after a couple of months, the last provocation being that one of the lecturers made us write an essay on Indira Gandhi’s so-called “20-point programme” (it was her “Emergency” era), and like Prof Ananthamurthy and others, I was opposed to authoritarianism. And I thank his Samskaara for having partly fuelled my abhorrence of caste.

One of my cousins, some years later, was able to do what I could not. She was a student of his and once told me of how he had guided her choice of subjects to study and, needless to say, of his formidable scholarship.

Prof Ananthamurthy’s has been a strident voice against communalism/sectarianism. Together with Girish Karnad, he has been among Brahmin-born people in privileged positions to take staunchly secular stands – now increasingly derided as “pseudo-secular” or “sickular”.

He had no airs about him and did not stand on ceremony. He turned up uninvited at a function on 21 Aug 2013 to honour D. Devraj Urs, one of the more progressive chief ministers of Karnataka (for the benefit of any non-Indians who might be seeing this, the south-western state is now home to 64 million people), who did a lot towards bettering the lives of members of oppressed castes.

That said, Prof Ananthamurthy misused his proximity to the powers that be, not to gain any personal favours, of course, but to flog a hobby horse and get the English spelling of Bangalore changed to the wholly illogical and unwarranted “Bengaluru”.
A centenarian lexicographer named G. Venkatasubbaiah has weighed in on the issue:

Moreover, had Prof Ananthamurthy set aside his self-importance and Kannada chauvinism for a while and focused on linguistics, he might have seen the error of his ways.

One of his arguments was that many nouns end with a ‘u’ sound in Kannada and that words from other languages get owned by adding that vowel at the end, as in ”bassu” for bus or “caaru” for car. However I doubt that Prof Ananthamurthy paid attention to the length of the first vowel accompanying “caaru”, also as in kaaLu (beans) or aaru (six) and more pertinently, ooru (city), as distinct from “uru” (rote-learning).

Almost all Indian languages have long and short vowels. And as in the ooru/uru example from Kannada above, they can change the meaning. Another example is madi (Brahminical purity) and maadi (a variant of mahadi for upstairs/rooftop). Moreover many consonants in Indian languages have been poorly transliterated into English to start with and it is rather late in the day to make changes. Queen is raani, with the ‘n’ pronounced as in name, the tongue held flat in North Indian languages. In Kannada and a few other languages it is raaNi, with the tip of the tongue turned up. Also maNNu (mud) and suLLu (a lie) are pronounced similarly. The L in Pramila is pronounced similarly in South Indian languages and Marathi (ळा).

Thus a more appropriate transliteration of ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು might have been to introduce an accent mark over L, capitalise it (BengaLooru) or in some other way distinguish it from a mere “lu”.

Prof Ananthamurthy neglected another aspect and that is, the way people actually pronounce it in quotidian conversations. No one really says BengaLooru all the time. The g and the r are sometimes swallowed and what is heard is “Ben(g)Loo(r)”. Moreover people add other vowels when conjugating. Ben(g)Looralli (in Bangalore), Ben(g)Loorigay (to Bangalore), Ben(g)Looraa/ Ben(g)Loorgaa? (is it Bangalore/are you headed to Bangalore?).

And what would Prof Ananthamurthy say to Tamilians as to how they should transliterate the name of the city? In Tamil there is but one consonant for p, b, ph and bh, as also for k, g, kh and gh, for instance. Thus ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು is written in Tamil as பெங்களூர், which may also be pronounced as PenkaLoor.

While he was at it, the good professor could have altered the spelling of his own name to suit the way it ought to be written in Kannada and pronounced: Ananathamooruthy.

Also, why did he neglect the spelling of the state: Karnataka. The second a is a long vowel: Kar-naa-ta-ka.

By insisting that his obsession with the spelling change become official policy, Prof Ananthamurthy caused massive amount of wastage in terms of new official texts to be printed and official nameplates repainted.

However, the private sector and the ordinary people have mostly ignored it.
ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು will always be ಬೆಂಗಳೂರು and Bangalore, Bangalore.

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During my childhood and youth in Bangalore many decades ago, we never had a fan or a refrigerator at home. We still don’t have an air-conditioner, although it gets unbearably hot in parts of the west-facing house in the afternoons.

Decades ago, it almost never felt too warm except possibly while bicycling on, or walking beside, asphalted roads at certain hours of the day, mainly mid-afternoons.

Distant memory now.

On a brief visit to New Delhi – a city where I lived for 11 years until 1988 and which my mind associates with crippling summers – on work last week, I was lodged in a room in an area endowed with much tree cover and adjacent to a sprawling garden with ponds and abundant arboreal growth. There was an air conditioner in the room but on entering, it was clear that AC use was uncalled for. I did mechanically switch on the ceiling fan. Duh! A little past midnight, I had to switch it off. Second week of April, mind!

Before leaving for Delhi, I’d checked the temperatures online. On that particular day it showed: Bangalore 38C, New Delhi 34C: obviously, the mean temperature. In New Delhi’s wooded areas, it’s generously cool, especially from dusk to a couple of hours post-dawn.

Decades ago in New Delhi, while taking the bus from/to work at night (I was a wire service hack), I invariably noticed that during the summer months temperatures dropped considerably while traversing through the area where ministers, senior officials and judges lived in sprawling bungalows inside large compounds featuring much greenery and along wide, tree-lined avenues.

With reservations regarding the incredibly enormous privileges enjoyed by the said worthies, I’d have to concede that in terms of the presence of greenery and absence of human marauding at least, it’s perhaps good there’s been no change over the decades to that part of Delhi.

Meanwhile, those controlling the fates of Bangalore and its denizens have been systematically chopping tens of thousands – perhaps hundreds of thousands – of trees and filling up dozens of lakes as if there’s no tomorrow. The said authorities work in air-conditioned offices, travel by air-conditioned cars, live in air-conditioned homes and hobnob with their kind in clubs, hotels and other facilities that are, needless to say, air-…

As for dust, during the late 1970s to late 1980s in New Delhi, I’d noticed that dust, soot and vehicular exhaust tended to saturate one’s skin and the collars of one’s shirts during the winter months when, following the laws of physics, suspended particles – what a harmless sounding term for noxious stuff – tended less inclined to rise into the upper atmosphere. In Bangalore now, whatever season, whatever the hour of the day or night, almost wherever thou liveth, dust and vehicular soot shall stick to thee.

Apart from the obviously uber-, ultra-corrupt cabal or mafia that rules over Bangalore, there is a fast proliferating, despicable species – the Bangalore Car Owner – about which over-affluent, sub-human creature that seems to have evolved in under two decades into a major, virulent menace causing massive pollution in terms of noise, light, heat, dust and soot, I have much to say and shall, in a future blog. 


This was my second visit to New Delhi in three months and the third in under a year. Having observed Independent Canine Personages in various parts of that city now – and stopped to offer a few of them some of the biscuits I usually carry for just such communions with members of that delightful species – I arrive at the tentative conclusion that those cute doggies are in general noticeably healthier looking than their counterparts in Bangalore.

I’m friends with a large number of ICPs (please avoid the word “stray” while referring to dogs!) around the area where I live and those I visit regularly elsewhere in Bangalore and have tried and am still trying to see what can be done as regards the ones who display obvious signs of skin disease but the numbers of dogs in various states of ill-health seem to be huge.

Perhaps this testifies to the superior attention to the well-being of non-human animals in Delhi compared to Bangalore, where even human welfare is criminally neglected.


Delhiites, I notice, refer to a T-junction as a “T-point”.

Ask for directions and people say, “go straight and at the T-point take a left/right… etc”.

Bangaloreans are more likely to call upon the powers in their lungs and the muscles in their tongues to say, “left/right at the DDDEADDDENDDD!” (Never mind that a dead-end is what the French call a cul-de-sac, where there’s no turning except back.)

Given that we Kannadigas, like our fellow South Indian Telugu-speakers – and Italians and a few others – end almost all words with vowels and carry that practice into the pronunciation of English words, more often than not it sounds like “dddeadddendddU!”

I have to concede: Delhiites 30 – Bangaloreans 0.

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I have seen you many times during my peregrinations around the area where I live and where you are confined.

A few times I have bent down to touch your forehead and your cheeks, acknowledging and celebrating your presence and that of other members of your docile and beautiful species in the urban jungle members of my species have built.

The other evening I thought you were looking at me for the duration of those few seconds as I moved from the extreme left of your line of sight and towards the centre.

You followed me with your large, expressive eyes and when I tried to stroke your head and neck you seemed to acknowledge the all too brief ministrations – by someone from a species that in your experience has an altogether different agenda – with noticeable twitches of your amply large ears.

It was the first time I’d seen you standing untethered, on a lane next to where you are usually confined. You were, in other words, free to go where you pleased. No human enslaver seemed to be paying attention.

“RUN, COW, RUN,” I felt like telling you. “Walk away as fast and as far as you can. Seize the freedom that ought to be yours. Go away from this Brahminical, Casteist, Speciesist hellhole, where hundreds of generations of your forebears have been enslaved, tied up in confined spaces and tortured, your calves spirited away soon after birth, to be butchered if male, your milk stolen for years on end …”

Even if I could have spoken your language, Cow, you might have demurred. Confinement, imprisonment or slavery are soul-destroying. It is not merely the body that experiences restrictions but the spirit as well.P1030126

Unless you were a character in George Orwell’s Animal Farm or Richard Adams’ Watership Down or some other anthropomorphising fictional work, you and members of your species, I’m sorry to say, have been and are pretty much done for.

Moreover, Cow, and I was obviously ignoring what you might instinctively have realised: even if you could run or walk, where to?

To be sure, there actually are a few – very few – small, grassy patches within a couple of kilometres of where you live. But you would be unwelcome there: in fact, your way would be barred. Even if you, my friend, were to make your escape, what of the dozens of other members of your species enslaved by humans within a couple of square kilometres of you? How and where to can all of you escape?

In your wisdom you discerned that already, perhaps?

Having said all this, Cow, I must confess that I am a lacto-vegetarian. I live with my parents who consume milk stolen from members of your species as well as by-products thereof such as yoghurt.

I shall allow myself this poor attempt at a pun by saying it must curdle your blood thinking that the milk meant for your – perhaps many a murdered – children are being boiled and set to curdle for the delectation of your slave-drivers and their customers.

Dear Cow, in India you are deemed a Hindu Goddess. But no benefit accrues to you from that status of which you are no doubt oblivious. Yes, a few caring dairy farmers observe an annual spring festival ritual of dressing you up and feeding you some dainties, but that is it. The rest of the 365 days minus the few hours or, more likely, minutes when you might be the object of adulation, your life is one of untold misery.

I have previously written about the plight of your kind, Cow: “An Indian Would-Be Vegan’s Defence of Beef-Eating” ( and shall not repeat the arguments I set out therein.

Suffice it to say, Cow, and I hope you will not be shocked by my making this mere rhetorical statment: I’d sooner eat a part of your flesh so long as you were killed with a short sharp cut or strike than see you suffer for the rest of your life – meaning many, many more months or years of your enslavement until you stop lactating and then your abandonment on the streets of Bangalore, to scrounge around among mounds of sickening rubbish until your eventual and excruciatingly painful death.

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