Splendour of India, Exhibition at Queen's Gallery. UK

Saw a poster for this exhibition in subways (called the London Tube, or metro by some).  I knew I had to see it.  It was small and compact but ultra rich!!  Most of the materials were made of gold, silver, and precious stones.  Much of this was given as gifts to the British, by India, a country which for several decades --no centuries---would be called a developing country.  The money that the exhibition made to the British authorities allowed them to invest in more museums and put some money in research. 

Above is an ink well presented to a British official by a prince., in a shape of a peacock boat. All made of gold and precious stones.  But if you look at the following picture you see what it actually is. How much more than just an ink well.  It had a pen knife, a scissor, two ink wells and two spare nibs, fitted in the boat shaped 'ink' well--all made of gold!!

Here is a tool box that contains a hammer (placed outside for viewing).  This exhibition in general was something that makes you wonder, how much was stolen and ripped off from countries.  I remember attending an exhibition about 8 years ago in Singapore, where Indian jewellery and fashion was on display.  Hair clips made of gold and rubies, purses, scabbards, covering for braids (it was over 12 inches long with a hinges on the side, women were supposed to put it around their braid), writing tools with gold covering etc.  We were not allowed to take pics.  But here is something to think about---all of it was owned by some Sheikh in Middle East.  If I remember carefully, in Kuwait. 

Were they stolen and then sold? Were they sold? (doubt it)?  We will never know.  But we do know that gold was not the only thing that was stolen.  Material things are usually associated with much pride and respect.  People and countries who loose that also loose their self esteem and other things related to pride. 

Sure enough countries are now trying to bring the stolen goods back. some countries are actually going to extreme measures to retrieve them back.  Even hiring high level thieves to get them back.  

I will end with one of my favourite stories from the US, when I was teaching International Communication (post 9/11).  Post 9/11, I got to see so many great things about my students.

As a part of an assignment the first part of which was understanding a country, and its media and second part to create and NGO, the group representing China created an NGO that would work with locals and international media to bring back the stolen goods from Iraq museum!!  

Goodness exists, and we should never forget it. 

Cultural Appropriation

Pardon me for using already used material but I so bad want to share it with you all.....This just takes the cake!!

EXCUSE ME, MA'AM.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT CULTURAL APPROPRIATION MEANS?

Yesss....Its all Normal!!

Saw this on twitter, could not resist sharing with you all!!

This Used to be My Playground-1

First published on August 20, 2017---this post is something I come back to often.  Of all the posts published here, I have read this post the most of all. 

I come back to it and re-live my childhood.  So grateful that I can put these down and retrieve them at will.  

So many emotions connected to this 'space' and 'place', that even today they come alive just by looking at this image.  Imagine what happens when I stop here deliberately.  Although situation, people and visitors have changed.  Some have gone, many moved away, and the our house that was a ground floor house with four and half rooms and large areas to play and enjoy winter sun both in the front and the back, is now a four storey apartment building.  

Yet, so much of that house I have carried within myself, ---yes----much beyond that chipped tooth that everyone sees when I open my mouth!!

This picture is right from behind the row of houses where I grew up.  It used to be an open area, with a  little fence, on the opposite side of which were two huge trees.  Peepal and Neem!  

Both the trees are native to India.  

Neem tree is medicinal and very useful. Its twigs are used to brush teeth and it is said that bacteria would not even breathe near your teeth if you use it regularly.   People, even today, keeps its twigs at home, and chew on it first thing in the morning. Its more bitter, but better---than any toothpaste that uses fluoride.

Neem's fruit, nimboli, which is utterly bitter is good to control diabetes and its leaves are used as moth repellants in clothes or even for preventing lice in hair, and several skin diseases. It is quite common to find face masks and face washes made of parts of this tree.  

Some pharmacy companies in the US were trying to patent the medicinal qualities of Neem, along with Tumeric, the yellow powder used in Indian food, and today popular as 'Tumeric Latte' in Starbucks!! (an unhealthy trend, which is what happens when you take away the context of use).

Picture of pipal tree, from our house 

Peepal tree grows tall and large.  There were always several peepal trees in every village. One surely in the village centre, around which a 'thada' a seating arrangement was created in cement. Village elders and travellers would rest under the tree. It was also used by sages for meditation. Like the neem tree, it has medicinal properties.  

But Peepal is associated more with spirituality and its use of 'giving shade' to travellers, being home to many other beings, squirrels, ants, sometimes snakes, birds etc. Hindus would generally shy away from chopping its branches, its considered a sin.  Ofcourse, due to population and the fact that some of these trees are now too close to our houses and interfere with cables and electric wires, may damage cars if heavy branches fall on them, sometimes the unthinkable has to be done.  But often, it is the non-hindus who will do the chopping.  The tree is also used for pradakshina (circumambulation, or meditative pacing) as a mark of worship. 


Both these trees were planted by my father.  He told me numerous stories about the trees.  Pipal tree was popular with the goat herders.  Yes, even in Delhi!!  They (mentioned here) would beg my grandfather to have some small branches so that their goats could graze on fresh leaves. 

Once Dad had planted them it was the travellers who used them, many street workers used them to rest under and shepherds used it for their goats and cattle.  He told me numerous stories about the trees.  Pipal tree was popular with the goat herders.  Yes, even in Delhi!!  They (mentioned here) would beg my grandfather to have some small branches so that their goats could graze on fresh leaves. 

Neem, Dad told us, could not grow to its full potential because of the wire he had tied around its young trunk as a support, got absorbed into the tree as it grew in thickness. And the tree, though tall and large could not really become as big as is possible . One summer Dad put a swing on the Neem tree, there as just a low metal fence between us and the Neem tree, and it was about 10 feet away from our back door.  We enjoyed the swing thoroughly.  But, my youngest sister who was barely two could not.  So smart as father has always been, he took a bucket instead and tied it to the end of the rope.  My sister was put into the bucket!! I still remember it was red plastic bucket with a silver handle.  Few seconds after you saw a beautiful rosy smile on her cheek.  Yup, she had relieved her self in the bucket.  We all went eeeuwww and laughed at the same time.  

This area, behind our back door was also the place where we played in the mild winter sun.  All the neighbourhood aunties were back from work, or the housewives were done with cooking --at least two meals of the day and would pick up their sowing and knitting--mostly knitting and chat away about life, discuss movies and recipes.  We, carefree under the watchful eyes of our mothers, would play with abandon.  Anything from stapu (hopscotch), to catch, to Vish (poison) Amrit (ambrosia) to Elastic (here you view another version of it and another one here).  Badminton and Cricket and dodgeball were played on the other side of the street. Even though there were about 6 parks within 5 minute walking distance we usually stayed around our lane, maybe because we felt protected because of our parents and may be we were just lazy.  Chupa-Chupai, (hide and seek)--we played only during the power cuts (this requires another post), when the entire neighbourhood was dark.  There was another game we played, but for some reason it was played just about any place we hung out. Pithu!! (Seven Stones).  Someone needs to revive that game. It requires one ball, several useless stones, some kids crazy to play and a large field!!  No plastic toys, no computer chips, and its a great exercise for eye-hand coordination and exercising your synapses!!

As I write, I keep remembering more names.  Another one was Gilli ( small stick) Danda (long stick).  The game must be an earlier form of both baseball and cricket. Among other things, the similarity lies in hitting a small stick or shaved wood, with a bigger stick (Danda).  And then there was Kho Kho, which for some reason, we played only in school.  May be because it was better when the teams were larger, like they could be in school.  

Tiipi tipi tap, What Color do you want? remained one of my favourite games.  One person would say, Tippi Tippi Tap, what color do you want?  One color would be chosen, Purple, red, yellow etc. and then within the next minute all the players ran to touch something of that color, if they got caught before they could touch the color they were out.  Then other games such as Langdi-taang (Lame leg--it was like tag only the person catching would hop on one leg, what an amazing exercise for teaching the body about balance), Dodge ball or basket ball, were school sports, including some badminton and table tennis.  There were other games such as LONDON (also called Statue),  where players were supposed to freeze before the person catching could finish spelling LONDON, and the one who stayed in that statue state despite being made to laugh or talk won!! 

For a short time, I remember, my grandfather had grown a kitchen garden there. It was public land but empty and no one used it.  A few summers most of our vegetables came from this patch.  Then two successive years the area was cleared and cleaned to stage the Ramlila, a ten day enactment of the Indian epic, the Ramayana, making our house the green room for actors. Oh what fun, I felt like I was in the company of Bollywood stars.  Even then, it remained our 'playground'.  Whenever this area was cleared ---it felt like 'possibility' but shortly after, it would be covered in grass and weeds. 

I remember noticing many a sunsets there.  One of my favourite memories is when Sahni aunty, our neighbour, who was also a school teacher, one late afternoon pointed to us kids, who were busy with a game of elastic, and said, 'Who wants to chase that golden ball'.  That sunset is etched in my consciousness, it was bright and round and gold.  The kind of sunsets you get in India---long and warm.  That is a peculiarity of Indian sunsets, they are slow and take long, and for about thirty minutes or so everything 'under the sun' acquires a golden hue!!

This was also the place where in fifth grade, while skipping rope, I chipped my front tooth.  My teeth were still new and I remember staring at my face for the longest time, not wanting to smile.  But that 'chip' has become my trademark and I almost do not notice it now. 

Since this area was the 'back door' area, you also had somewhat of nefarious activities .  Well, not really --but somewhat.  I remember one young couple that used this place for their rendezvous.  We kids, not understanding much, knew by their scared looks that something was up.  And we would follow them screaming, 'someone should know, what are you doing? shall we tell your parents' and we would then give an evil laugh.  And we were not even in our teens yet---most of us younger than ten years.  

When this area was still dirt road and unkempt, cows would walk here freely to graze on the little grass on either side of the fence.  Everytime mom made chapatis for cows and birds, she would say open the back door and find a cow.  Sometimes we would make special dishes for the cow.  I remember when I was very young, possibly under four, I have a faint memory that there was a hut in this area, where a village-family lived, they actually owned a cow.  And we would often get gifts and sweets when a calf was born, including the milk that a cow gives right after birth (colostrum).  It is very good for health and we would make sweets out of it. My parents told me it is because our house was among those hastily built for refugees from Pakistan claiming their houses, and that only a 5-6 decades ago that place was completely rural, even though a part of the capital.

Sometimes I would open the back door to just pull a chair and read, and other times, especially in my teens, I would use it for my lone time.  Around the time I was tenth grade, Dad made an attic like room which was quite spacious, and we lovingly called it our palace.  From the window of that room, I had a clear view of this area, still unkempt. The Government never kept its promise of turning it into a park, which we kept hoping for (today I seriously think we should stop blaming governments and take charge and do things ourselves if we are lucky enough to be living in democracies, no matter how frail). 

Quite often this area was filled with construction materials, because our neighbourhood always had some or other house being constructed, or renovated, or upgraded.  Also, at the time there was much empty space, some of which has been filled with new houses.  So, our most favourite material was gray-sand, that is mixed with cement to be used as a binding agent.  I remember once we made a sand-castle out of it, it was quite expansive, meaning we built roads and walls ...to make it look like a fort. 

One of my distinct memories about this place -is studying late at night for my boards (standardised exams for tenth grade) and listening to construction workers singing (mostly women were singing) ----they sounded like trained voices, (like in Fiji and Botswana)--the songs they sang that winter, around a bonfire, still warm my heart. And have always kept my interest in music of the land.  What we get to hear today is commercial and connection to commission and fame, but real music came from the hearts of the people, who knew their environment and made it a part of their songs.(Here is one, but not a very good example. Sort of commercial.  The lyrics are good though. If you ask for mercy, you shall get mercy, if you ask for forgiveness, you shall get forgiveness. But the ones I am talking about had a major environmental theme in it)

Now, instead of that low metal fence there is a ten inch stone wall.  On the other side is small shopping centre.  Not exquisite.  Also a parking lot. 

Or at least it looks like a parking lot.  The above picture was taken from our now four storey building. I grew up in a house, that had only the ground floor, with the exception of our huge attic. Now, we live far above from the ground. We either stare into the peepal tree, or look down at some of its branches. The Peepal is still the stalwart, and stands taller than we can imagine, giving shade to passers by.  But the dirt path is cemented. May be on purpose,  no cows come there, because their hooves cannot find traction.  The stone wall blocks our view, and all we can see of the sky is turning shades during the evening.  Many high rises and huge houses have come up in the area. We have stopped using this path because we usually use the front gate. 

The peepal still stands, holding all our memories, and shines them back at us, whenever we look at it. 

Its branches are cut many times and they grow back.  Like India, the tree must be a senior citizen, it looks young and green though.  Ready to allow children to play under it. 

The area, now cemented and supposedly much more organised remains lonely and quiet.  No children play here, nor do women chat over knitting and gulping cups of tea, no one opens their back doors to exchange a bowl of daal. The neem tree, that we used for our swing is gone, because it needed to be cut to make room for cars. 

And yet every time I walk past this place, sometimes on purpose, I stop, and turn to this area, breathe in the memories.  Laughter and jokes and sunsets mingle, sand castles come alive, I can hear cow bells, I see my grandfather yelling at the Afghani goat herder to not take more leaves than he needs, I see my Dad snoozing there in autumn afternoons, I hear my mom sharing a recipe with others, I see Sahni aunty pointing at the sun, I see myself running to the mirror to see if there was any blood on my chipped tooth, and there I am, my teen self, all brooding and thinking life has just ended because I had a bad day.  Then there is the background music of the village construction workers, that soothes it all.  

As I walk away, I hum to myself, This Used To Be My Playground!!  (video). 

A Brave New World

First Published on February 18, 2012, here it is again. I am silenced. At the enormity of my own life, sometimes.  As I take in the reality of how much land I have covered in my travels and how many people I have had decent, and often times deeply meaningful conversations with. How many of them have shared their lives with me. This deep desire for human connection.  That gives meaning to it all, the working, the living, the struggling.  
In between, it is the human connection, that I see myself in the other. 
Sometimes, sometimes, as said the author, my life is beyond my imagination!!

From the Left:  The little boy, the Hungarian man, the German man, little boy's father. 

Berlin, July 2010. 

The  last few years, have brought me a realization that I use travel to bring a sense of peace and rest to my restless soul.  That right before I travel I get all nervous, but I truly rest when I am in trains, in planes, and buses.  In these places I am stuck and cannot be anywhere else.  That is the time to truly enjoy, being in the moment.  However, I must say that in the last few trips, I have brought work with me.  Computers and constant availability of WiFi usurp our peace or beingness.  We feel obligated to continue with the mindless activity that constant link to the world provides us.  It is like being connected to all the 'going-ons' in the world that are of no consequence to our immediate life.  

    Ever since I can remember, 'volunteering' has excited me.  So when a friend asked me to volunteer for the World Culture Festival in Berlin, especially with putting together a documentary, I could not resist.  I knew I had to be in Thailand by middle of July and yet I decided to go Berlin for three days.  Thanks to Ryan Air, and a friend who let me crash at her place to make the early flight, I could make it.

'You have a wanderlust, and you need to acknowledge it' my friend said to me the last time I was in the US. 

    I never did, but for some reason, I do have it now.  May be, as one gets older one fears that the world needs to be explored to be understood.  May be because  there are too many of us who live outside the norm, and want to legitimize our existence by knowing trivial details that will never make it in literature and popular culture.  Whatever that may be, I do feel that places call me. I can hear their whisper.  I can hear them call my name.  And I feel a sense of newness every time I step onto a new land.  I breathe the air very deliberately, as if it will infuse a new life in me.  And hope that it will push some of the restlessness, resulting from the existential angst out through my pores. 

    But, beyond that  travel-addiction or 'wanderlust' as my friend defined for me, I have the need to talk to strangers. To know of their lives, to understand the human condition.  And for the last six years I have been rewarded very well.  Some of those strangers have ended up becoming e-pals, some I have shared some deep emotions with, many I  have taken pictures of, but most I leave behind. And more than most, because of lack of time, hardly even get mentioned in my journals.  

    However, what I have realized in the last decade is that there is a new world that is birthing.  The process is slow, excruciatingly painful, but it is happening and very welcome.  And here is how we recognize it.  We cannot tell (or even right guess) simply by looking at people, where they have come from?.  The way they talk, the way they live, has little connection to the way they look. 

     I have met Korean Germans, African Swedes, Iraqi Kiwis, and many many more who have moved through several countries before settling in one.  I am certainly one of them.  And I always get asked, 'So, where are you from?" 

    This world that is birthing is very brave.  It is unpredictable, and unlike the one before has no rules.  While all that is scary and unsettling, it is freeing in the sense that it has little expectations of us, and often is less restricted than the times of our parents.  But its unpredictability does not ensure equality or happiness.  We still have to work at both. 

Following is the account of my first evening in Berlin, when I was returning to the hostel, after having spent a day helping out with the organization of World Culture Festival. 

July 1st--- arrived in Berlin in the morning.  Finally made it to the Prasier strasse, based on what Eduardo from the hostel told me.  In the train met Paulina, a french girl who is moving to Germany to study.  I could hear some Indians who had come for the World Culture Festival as well.  Only they were coming from Moscow.  As usual, I arrived at my hostel, after getting lost, and asking a few questions…just as in life…

My dorm was a mixed dorm. After all these years, I still get quite nervous in mixed dorms.  Interestingly this time there was a young boy from Brazil, J, staying at the same room.  May be because I am older than he is, may be because he is so polite and kind, I was quite comfortable talking to him.  This was his first time to Europe.  Unlike others he had decided to stay only in Berlin and see the entire city for the next three weeks.  And to my surprise I met, R and D, two boys from India.  The boys, who were brothers, were are little more worldly than I was at their age, even though I had travelled a bit by their age.  But the difference is probably that I did it all on my own.  One of the brothers was actually looking into studying in the US, including PSU.  

      Shortly after the introductions, I headed to meet F, to ask for my volunteer assignment.  I had been in touch with him for over a year and this was the first time to meet. We had no time to talk, but I was happy to be of service.  So, during the day, I met B, a young documentary maker from NZ, P from Brazil, who had been living in Spain for the last 6 months had hitchhiked from Spain to Germany to attend the event.  She showed me a bag of nuts and raisins, which was all she had eaten since she left Spain a few days ago.  P currently teaches English in Spain, and told me that the Art of Living has changed her life.   And Nati, lovely Nati from Poland.  (After two days of me praising her earrings, she came up to me a few minutes before she left and put her earring in my hands.  I had just met her, and have not talked to her since.)

     However, the highlight of the day was when I was walking back from metro to the hostel at the end of the evening.   I saw two grown men, probably in their fifties if not older, sitting around a small coffee table, playing chess.  After I stopped, said hello, I found out that one was originally from Bolivia and the other from Germany.  I wanted to record their voices, but instead ended up taking just taking one picture.   The gentle man from Bolivia said that he had been in Germany, 'mas de curenta anos'  More than 40 years.

       ‘Cansada con alemania? Oh, are you married to a German?"'  I asked.

       ‘Ungarian' 'Hungarian' he chuckled.

       'Nem todem madyar', I said, and they laughed.  (I don’t know Hungarian. (I used to have a Hungarian roommate. And my neighbors in Fiji were Hungarian. So I remember a few things, including ‘Seretlak’ –I love you in Hungarian).

      ‘Do you know a little Finnish too?  said the German guy, sort of impressed by my one line Hungarian.

       ‘No, men lite svenska.  No, but little Swedish.’ I showed off without really stating that my Swedish vocabulary is only good to converse with two year olds.

        The Bolivian man told me that he was fluent in German since he had been living in Germany for Forty years. I had met someone in Dresden, in 2006, who was a Bolivian and was married to a German.  His child was the blondest boy you could imagine, and one would never associate fluent Spanish with him.

         The German man told me that he had been to India many times.  He thought India was beautiful but something was missing.  And when he arrived in Africa, he said, ‘I thought, that is where life started.’ He explained, ‘India was all tea.  Africa was beer and dancing.

        ‘Beer and dancing all life?’ I thought.  For me, I would switch Beer for ginger tea!!

        The German man told me that his son is a good chess player.  The cute boy with a soft-afro, who was fluent both in German and French, blushed when his dad talked about him.

I had walked towards them only because I saw them playing chess on the street.  But that mere stopping for a few seconds and taking a picture resulted in such a beautiful human exchange.  It also reaffirmed my faith in this ‘Brave New World’ of no rules, and no expectation that is scary as hell, and knows no limits on the joy it can create.

All in all it was a good conversation.  Good for me --to confirm that I am right in thinking that sometimes people just need a good conversation.  It was a joy to talk to both of them. I had to pull myself away because I was so tired and had an early day.  On my way back to the hostel, I could not help but think that  this mixing and blending of races and cultures is unstoppable and happening at an unprecedented pace.  While one place will maintain its culture its culture and might be known for artifacts, history, cuisine.....and racially it will become so diverse that one will not be able to predict what people living there might look like.  Racial difference will gradually reduce, hopefully bringing more beautiful people, and sturdy homo sapiens ...Africans looking people will spout German, dark haired boys will sing in Swedish…and hopefully some day North Indians will be fluent in Tamil…..and language will not be a barrier for people who hold the same passport. 

That evening I spoke with J about Brazil, and all that my friends and students from Brazil had told me about it.  We were talking deliberately, using English and Spanish words.  While we were chatting, he waved his hand, asking me to wait ….ran to the room and brought me back a Brazil’s rugby team shirt.  Bright yellow and green.  Probably not my style, but I was so touched by his gesture. I could not refuse it, because he offered with such genuine love.  I will keep it for a long-long time, as a beautiful memory of the young polite Brazilian boy I met in Berlin, who had just acknowledged his wanderlust and was ready to experience, the Brave New World…..