'Thought' Spring

If I were a Kargil war widow.....

2010-11-27T20:16:00.000-08:00

If I were a Kargil war widow, I would be perplexed at a few things emerging from the 'Adarsh' Housing Society scam.....

Why was Colaba chosen as a location for building houses for war widows? (Ideally, I would have liked to live in a place that provided, among other things, a strong social support network. Especially now, with my husband gone, I would have preferred to stay in familiar surroundings rather than an alien city. That would make me ask my next question)

How many Kargil war heroes were from Mumbai? How many of their widows even knew of this scheme?

Were the flats meant only for the widows of officers, or for those of persons below officer rank (PBOR) too?

Assuming I was allotted a flat in "Adarsh', how would living there actually be for me?

If I as an officer's wife would find it difficult to survive in a place which is said to have one of the highest costs of living in the country (my husband would have been a young man in his thirties, and maybe a young father, who at the time of his death wouldn't have had a very substantial saving), could the wife of a PBOR even think about it?

How many of us would have then sold our respective flats to the highest bidder, and bid adieu to Mumbai?

Questions that haven't been raised by even the media, because like every other Mumbaikar and metrophile, it is completely consumed with the fact that some people who didn't deserve to, got a flat in a prime location.

(Image from http://himachal.us/2009media/kargil_Peak.jpg)

If I were a Kargil or any other war widow, I would be dismayed that the term 'war widow' , instead of being used with great caution and respect, had been (mis)used to throw people off guard and stop them asking too many questions.

I would be indignant that the term could also be associated with something as murky as a scam

I would wonder how many cases of real need would now be viewed with suspicion because of this one incident.

I would wonder how one act of greed could bring such indignity upon the service and the war that my husband and others like him gave up his life for.

I would find it very difficult to remind the public that they need not get cynical about the Armed Forces just because of the greed of a few men.

With passing time, and scam upon scam, who knows how long my child/children and I would be able to view the Armed Forces and the country as my husband saw it, worth dying for......

(Image from http://i41.tinypic.com/25fmwyr.jpg)

Thinking like two, or maybe more.....

2010-10-21T22:54:00.000-07:00

What was the "wisest" advice given to you before you went for that crucial job interview?

I remember one well meaning friend asking me,

"Think hard, would you hire yourself?"

Another one quipped,

"Try and think like the interviewer. What does he/she want? What are they looking for in an employee?"

As if it wasn't enough that my blank mind had forgotten what and who I was, like a cruel joke, I now had the added burden of imagining who and what my interviewer(s) was(were)! If they didn't know who they were and what they wanted, did they have any business interviewing me in the first place?

Such sane questions occurred to me only after the mind numbing experience of being grilled over a slow fire, glad that my anatomy was not any the worse for the ordeal.

I'd heard of the saying that one has to be cruel to be kind, and I decided whether my well meaning friends had been one or the other only after the outcome of the interviews.

I digress, hugely. Let me try and get to the point I'm trying to make (and at the moment I'm thinking just like plain old me, not like any of my readers, I swear!).

Vishwanathan Anand claims it, job seekers swear by it, and many other successful people vouch for it...being two, or sometimes more than two, people.

Perfect case for schizophrenia, you say?

Wait a minute. Vishwanathan Anand, our very own Chess hero, claims he always thinks what his opponent will be upto. Not that his opponent doesn't do the same.

Look all around you. The people who know other people better than they know themselves always seem to have the upper hand. Which is why the majority of human beings are happily engaged in this engaging sport!

I no longer find those American movies that have control of all the people of the world as their core theme, stupid. That is what everyone around is engaged in, after all!

Doesn't the lawyer think of what his opponent must be up to? Ditto for the politician, the marketing person, the advertiser, the maidservant.....the list is endless...Seems like everyone is trying to second guess everyone else, and trying to know them better than they know themselves! Insane!!

Well, its often been said that there is a thin line between sanity and madness.

Many celebrities claim that well controlled madness has helped them achieve fame and success.

The only differene between such people and those locked up in asylums being that on account of their amazing abilities, their 'strange' behaviour is explained away as 'eccentric'.

I cite some of my observations of one such 'strange' behaviour--thinking like two, or maybe more, people, and its consequences....

In the days of instructive teaching, in my sepia tinted memories, I can almost hear my teachers saying (with advancing age, they appear, horror of horrors, en masse in my mind's eye, instead of individually, all mouthing the same words!)

"Think like the examiner. Imagine him/her surrounded by mounds of answer sheets. Imagine if he/she has had a fight with his/her spouse. Your different answers will only irritate him/her. So, just write as I'm telling you to. Believe me, I have been teaching board classes for 10/20/30 etc. years."

So, at such a young age, I and many others like me, were already thinking like two. Sounds similar to 'eating for two" when you're expecting a baby, but with comparatively less than happy outcomes.

After school, you feel you have left thinking like two behind for good, when you discover the gory truth.

Two is the minimum you think like. You have to think like the boss (that's if you've gone past thinking like your interviewers), the boy/girl-friend (oh yes!), the prospective in laws, the customers, the neighbours, your domestic help ......

Strangely, a little bit of sanity returns when one gets married. After a certain period of time(different for different individuals) if you're married, you have at least two or three people less to think like-namely, your spouse(sometimes the activity ceases within hours of tying the knot!), your in laws, and for a brief period, your children.

Of course, the hiatus is short lived, as, once your children become teenagers, your sole preoccupation in your waking hours as well as when you're asleep, is to think like them, and try and pre-empt and second guess their every decision, failing miserably at most times, but like an obsessively compulsive (or compulsively obsessive-take your pick) person, going on trying till they are well past that dreadful period. The fact that your own parents never succeeded in this herculean task doesn't occur to you at all.

After a certain period of time, when you are exhausted thinking like everyone around, you realise that you were so busy thinking like so many other people, you've forgotten to think like yourself, almost completely. Mid Life Crises! (I wonder who comes up with such scary names for life's simple processes?).

So you now spend the rest of your life attending Sri Sri Ravi Shankar Art of Living Sessions, wondering aloud, "Who am I?" !! Round robin, but still thinking like two!

All that hoopla just because God gave you a brain so you could think for yourself like yourself, but you taxed it heavily by thinking like others. All that time and money wasted on shrinks, gurus, and retreats, when all you have to do is stop and say, "From today onwards, I'm only going to think like me, for me", and hey! Presto! The crises is gone!

Let me end this piece here and now, before you split up even further than you already have, and try thinking like me...Meanwhile, I have to go back to thinking like you readers...What must you be thinking of this piece, will you forward it to others you know, will you be interested enough to leave a comment.....??!! Have a good day!

Who Else am I not-Part Five: "The Bell(e)s of St. Mary's"

2010-06-09T01:02:00.000-07:00

All eyes in the school refectory (dining hall) were on the tiny bell in Sister's hands.

The hands of the girls were busy too. It was bath day for Class twelve.

Boot camp drill would have been shamed at their crack readiness for bathing in a matter of minutes, between finishing lunch and running helter skelter towards a separate building reserved for the activity, the Bathhouse!

Unseen by Sister's eyes, hands were busy undoing what could be undone without any indecency involved--hair, shoes, etc., so that minimum time was wasted once in the bathrooms.

All conversation ceased as THE moment drew close. Slowly (many a times I felt Sister deliberately slowed the entire motion for dramatic effect), the hand holding the bell started to rise.

It's tingle was lost in the clamour of chairs being pushed back, girls getting behind them in a trice and pushing them in again, the fast-forwarded-at-a-speed-of-12x recitation of the after-meals prayer, followed by the sound of screaming and running out of the refectory, past the library, dodging the huge stone pillars, towards the bathhouse.

In the two years that I spent there, no amount of admonishing by the nuns ever made us stop doing this, including the yelling.

The reason was simple. Hot water was switched off after around ten minutes, leaving us with as much icy cold water as we wanted. I wonder if you've ever tried washing your face with icy cold water in the hills, leave alone have a bath. For some minutes, the face falls off the mind's sensory map. It's the closest to 'rigor mortis' a living being can get!

The older girls knew exactly which bathroom had a big fat spout, that gave double the amount of water in ten minutes. Many had favourite bathrooms, and they had a common understanding amongst themselves not to bag the other's.

Joining a boarding school at an age when the survival skills of most of its older boarders were honed to perfection (there were many who had been there since class one) was tough.

I joined St. Mary's Convent, Nainital, also known as 'Ramnee'(established in the year 1879, on a piece of land owned by a Col Ramsay, from which the word 'Ramnee' came about) for two years, a couple of days before all the girls returned from their winter holidays. So I had the opportunity to check out its grounds, the field, the classrooms, the infirmary. I was already feeling quite settled by the time the first batch of the girls and their trunks and holdalls made their way up the wooden staircase and into the dormitories. I was ready with my welcoming "Hello, fellow boarders" smile.

I got a stare, and looks that said, "Who's she?", or, when I persisted, some giggles and another look that said, , "What's wrong with her?"

The girls, some of them in their eleventh year there, must have felt like being welcomed by a stranger in their own home.

The two years of boarding school made me realise I had a lot to learn, as well as a lot to teach, in life. The 'belles' of St. Marys' came mostly from wealthier backgrounds than my fellow students in previous schools. Many had experienced a life of travel outside the country, but I found few that had traveled extensively within the country like me.

Friendships were difficult to form at that age. I was lucky to have two other new girls besides me that year. We stuck together, and had the most memorable two years ever. One of the girls' parents lived close-by, and I have many memories of us rushing off to their place, enjoying her mother's cooking, and roaming the countryside. Twenty eight years on, the bond has only grown, to include our husbands and children. That is something I shall always thank the school for.

Academics, to me, was an insignificant part of the whole experience of being in a boarding school, as I proceeded to drink it all up to the maximum in the meagre time I had.

I have never seen a hotel housekeeping staff as efficient or dedicated as the housekeeping nuns of the school. We girls were spoilt rotten, as we had our clothes washed, ironed, and neatly arranged in our cupboards by them. Twice a week we would get a fresh set of clothes, our shoes were polished by the smiling old Samson, our trunks were packed tidily.....I think I appreciated this effort only when I started looking after my own house

A few years ago I revisited the school with my husband, and was amazed to find how fully we had lived our lives in such a small area. Each minute of our lives was accounted for and organised, and we made the most of what we had, despite the outwardly stiff demeanour of the European nuns (they did let down their guard at times, and give us a glimpse into their softer sides, except a few like Sister Christine), and the sullen behaviour of most of the Indian nuns, barring just a couple (the unhappy mix of a small difference in our ages and a big difference culturally made for many explosive encounters, and what was often dismissed as girls-will-be-girls behaviour by the old guard was considered gross misdemeanour by the latter lot).

More than a bunch of buildings and fields, the school was a storehouse of stories, traditions and customs that were carefully preserved and shared by the European nuns, especially by Sister Josephine. An ex Ramnee-ite herself, it was rumoured that she chose to become a nun after the death of her fiance in World War Two. Another nun, Sister Christine, whose father was in the British Indian Army, used to live in the house that is now the Municipal Hospital, on the hill facing our school.

An example of how a sense of connectedness with the past was woven into our lives at the school was the visit to St John's Church in town.

The year that I joined was the centenary of the massive land slip of September 18,1880, that had caused the demolition of an entire hill near what is known as Mallital (malli = high, tal = lake; higher end of the lake).

(Nainital before the landslip in 1880)

Sister Josephine spent an hour with the senior girls describing the entire horrific event, bringing it alive so realistically that I could almost see the helpless victims disappearing into the vortex of the muddy earth! It was after this description that we walked down to the church for a prayer service, in memory of the victims. I felt like the land slip had happened the day before, and not a hundred years ago...

(Nainital after the land slip in 1880)

As I grew older, I realised Ramnee and Sisters Josephine, Pia, Margaret and Dominica did have more of an effect on me than I had thought they would.

At the end of school when our character certificates were being written by Sister Josephine, she told us that she would never ever write anything negative for any girl, because, for the discerning person, it was not what she wrote, but what she didn't, that counted!

Ramnee and my other schools may not have made me a brilliant pupil, but they have given me a healthy, vocal conscience, and a sense of fair play that has made itself an integral part of my being . Subconsciously, I try even now, to live up to the values exhibited by these indomitable spirited women.

The buffet that life had spread out for me was soon to get more interesting, as college, and marriage awaited.....of course, I had no inkling, as usual!

Who Else Am I not? Part Four-'Living in Shangrila'

2010-03-24T20:47:00.000-07:00

My first day in Yangchenphug High (then Central) School in Thimphu, Bhutan, was declared a national holiday. A Bhutanese national had committed suicide by jumping from the bridge in the city into the Thimphu river below.

This was the capital of Bhutan, and the entire nation mourned the death of the suicide victim, so rare was the occurrence.

The people seemed very happy with whatever they had, and the Gross National Happiness factor, that made headlines the world over recently , was very much in evidence all around us at the time.

The world as we had known it so far, was left behind, as we began our relationship with the only place that could come close to the legendary 'Shangrila'.....

The sound of the deep Bhutanese 'dungchen' (long trumpet) and the Tang Du (drum) intruded our conversation one Sunday morning.

(http://img147.imageshack.us/img147/1042/dungchenqe9.jpg)

It was now two months that we had been living in a house on a hilltop in Simtokha, that overlooked the scenic Thimphu valley and river, seven kilometers before Thimphu, the capital city of Bhutan.

Our house faced a lawn edged by a wired fence, from where the hill fell unnaturally sharply, interrupted by a broad road. It had been cut to make way for the national highway, which, at the time, was the fastest road link from the capital city to Phuntsholing in the plains.

Below the road, the hill continued as before, gently sloping down to meet the river.

(http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/1c/70/bf/thimpu.jpg)

At the time, the river banks boasted of apple orchards with apples that were so maroon in colour that they appeared almost black. During the apple season, sometimes at night, we could hear mountain bears grunting with pleasure as they feasted on the fruit.

That morning, my brother and I ran out to see what was happening, but our vision was hidden because of a curve in the road.

A procession seemed to be headed our way. The wind carried the sounds of Buddhist chanting, guttural, slowly getting louder and louder.

We hung patiently onto the fence, sure that something interesting was just about to unfold, and what luck that it was to happen so close to home!

Suddenly I shouted, "There they are!", as the first bit of red and orange of the monk's robes flapping in the wind appeared round the corner.

Slowly, as if it were a stage show, a line of monks appeared, followed by another, then another. After them, clad in a striped regal 'Kho' followed a very handsome young man (who, we learnt later, was the king, His Majesty Jigme Singye Wangchuk).

I don't remember whether he wore a crown or other 'kingly' items. Viewed even from that distance, he clearly stood out. He, in turn, was followed by a group of around fifty or more men, (at that distance, I couldn't make out if there were any women in that group), all wearing the national dress, the 'kho".

The image of that 'royal' spectacle, with the smoke from the incense burners in the monks' hands rising up and lingering in the air, their orange and maroon robes and scarves fluttering nervously in the breeze, is still vivid in my mind.

They all made their way down slowly to the banks of the Thimphu river, and carried out a couple of hours prayers, punctuated by periodical blowing of the 'dungchen', chanting, and beating of the 'tang du'.

(http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2257/1568191459_74f1d877a0.jpg)

The next day, when we went to school, we learnt the reason for the elaborate ritual.

There had been no rain that year, and the king, a representative accepted by the largely agricultural population as appointed by the Almighty, had gone to the banks of the sacred Thimphu river to pray to the Rain God.

Bizarrely, it did rain the very next day!

School for me meant putting on the 'kira' (the Bhutanese national dress for women) five days a week.

For the first timer, it is no less frustrating than wearing a saree, and coaxing that one elegant fold in front was the result of forty five minutes of hard labour. Despite all our efforts, the Bhutanese girls looked like they were born in them, and we 'foreigners' like uncomfortable lesser beings.

I often wore my normal clothes underneath, so that when I reached home, I could just rip off the whole garment, and run off to play.

(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/58/Bhutanese_Girls_in_National_Dress.jpg)

It was strange to be called a 'foreign' national in school.

My school followed the I.C.S.E. pattern, and while the second language in the ninth and tenth grade was Hindi for us Indians, it was 'Dzongkha' for our Bhutanese classmates.

Since they were larger in number, their Dzongkha teacher took class in the classroom itself, while our Hindi lessons were conducted in the Physics Lab.

The first time that I had a period in Hindi, I wondered why my Indians classmates ran out as soon as the bell rang. I took my time collecting my books, and was about to leave, when the Dzongkha teacher walked in.

He looked at me like Cyrus Broacha looks at a new 'bakra' on MTV.

Using sign language, he asked me to stand in front of the class, and wish everybody in the local manner (bowing down with hands outstretched, and saying loudly, "Quuzzu-zam-bola"), modelling it for me. He wouldn't let me leave until I had demonstrated it. The next time round, I was more than prepared to flee as soon as the bell rang for our Hindi lesson!

I tried not to miss a single day of school. The 'naughtiness' we indulged in was at times innocent (once on our return from a class picnic, the boys stole apples from an orchard, and were nearly hacked with a 'khukri' by a zealous Nepali guard!) and at times ingenuous (we tried to use a periscope to see what specimens were laid out for us in our Class 10 Biology practical!)

A self contained world, unmindful of what chaos existed outside its frontiers....truly Shangrila!

Who Else am I not-"The Two Idiots"

2010-01-22T22:02:00.000-08:00

The next decade was a blur of places, names, people, schools, uniforms, teachers, exams, report cards.....

The one thing that remained constant in our lives were the Himalayas.

In this time, my father went from Udhampur, through Kalimpong(a second time), and Phuntsholing(Bhutan) to Thimphu (Bhutan)

By now I had started taking the weather, always ranging from pleasant to cold, the breath taking view, and the non polluted environment for granted.

Whenever we visited our cousins in the plains, I longed to get back to ‘our’ side of the continent.

Academics appeared to be the only black lining in our silver cloud, as we joined our new schools at any time of the year. Sometimes, after more than half the academic session had elapsed!

It never occurred to my father that my mother, my brother and I should stay back in a place to complete a session, and I will be eternally grateful to him for that.

In a way that was good for all of us in the long run, he felt strongly about the family staying together at all times, whatever the consequences.

Our regular traipsing all over the Himalayas with our parents had two very happy consequences, in my opinion.

The first was that academics became an inconsequential matter in our household, though not deliberately.

Our school life just could not match our experiences outside the classroom.

Though our parents sang the usual refrain of “you must come first with 90%”, they were easily distracted by the other options available.

Udhampur saw my father come into his own (he was a trained classical singer, an amateur actor, and a stand up comedian), whether it was announcing tambola at the Chinar Officers’ Institute, singing popular duets with officers’ wives and /or daughters, having musical evenings at home (where everyone sat on mattresses covered with white sheets, and ate pakodas while listening to classical and film music), or writing and acting in humorous plays.

He was all over the place, and, as a consequence, so were we.

The second was that, with my father’s penchant for travel, and despite my mother’s distaste for it, we were enjoying holiday weekends long before the phrase became popular in India.

Srinagar was on our monthly calendar, so, at least once a month, sometimes twice, breakfast would be in Batote (two hours from Udhampur), late lunch in Verinag (just after the Banihal tunnel-now called the Jawahar tunnel), evening would include a shikara ride on the (then) beautiful Dal Lake, and dinner would be in the cosy Officers’ mess situated on the main road running along the lake.

This was also the time were visited by dozens of relatives and friends.

Kashmir, and the expansive and generous nature of my father was too loaded a combination to miss out on! Thanks to them, we visited Vaishno Devi four times, and seemed to practically live in Pahalgam and Gulmarg!

How could school and boring text books ever match up with this?

The occasions when our father would glare at us before signing our report cards were tiny blips dismissed by the radar of our minds!

Kalimpong the second time round was very different compared to our previous stay there.

This time, we had to stay in a colony built by my father's organisation for its personnel. While my brother and I did have a good time, I missed staying in our previous house on the hill above the 'Kali Mandir'. In my mind, that was the ‘real’ Kalimpong.

I believe that the beauty of a place can only be felt by seeking out and absorbing its native, local flavour, which was absent in the colony.

After the gay abandon in Udhampur, with the happy informality of the Indian nuns, getting back to the strict and at times unsmiling demeanour of the European nuns was difficult.

Academics could not be overlooked here, as long as they could help it. So, life did get a little tough for my brother and I, when we failed in, of all things, Moral Science(I had to read up the Holy Bible in a couple of months) and Nepali!

Though I got back with my old classmates, I noticed now what I had missed, and what may not have been as distinct, earlier.

The boarders were THE people to be in the school and dayscholars merely incidental (I saw the other side of this world only after I attended another school as a boarder myself, later on). For the boarders, spending five hours a day with 'dayskis' as we were called, could not compare with spending every waking moment with each other.

I remember being extremely envious of their midnight feasts and after-school activities.

Some other things about round two of Kalimpong will remain forever etched in my mind.

The omnipresent Kanchenjunga was everywhere. I didn't remember taking notice of it as a child, but now its beauty seemed inescapable. Like the sea, this majestic mountain had different moods, and just when you thought you had seen them all, it surprised you with a completely new one!

Our school song, which I loved to sing, was sung to the tune of the Scottish National Anthem (of which I learnt only a couple of years ago!).

Our uniform included a light blue beret, and made our uniform look the smartest I've ever worn to any school.

On the 15th of August in 1978, we girls put up an 'Ai-Ki-Do' (a martial art form) performance in front of the Town Hall, to the tune of 'Kungfu Fighting' by Carl Douglas!

(photo by Tashi Chamjee Sherpa)

At home, life continued as before. My father was undeterred in his zest for travel. So, it was no big deal to visit Gangtok for the weekend, or to be woken at 2 a.m. in the night, be bundled in the back of a Willys jeep, and be driven to Darjeeling in time to see the sun rising behind Tiger Hill!

Like I mentioned before, my cloud was made of special sterling silver!

Very soon, we were off again, this time to tranquil and breathtakingly beautiful Bhutan...!!

Who Else Betrayed You, Ruchika?

2009-12-29T05:11:00.000-08:00

I'm supposed to write the next post in my series , Part Three of "Who Else Am I Not"?

However, I cannot. I'm distracted, angry, alarmed, and nauseated all the same time.

The reason is not some blogger's block, but a fourteen year old girl called Ruchika Girhotra.

Ruchika Girhotra was molested one fateful day in Chandigarh, in 1990, by DGP S P S Rathore, betrayed by someone she trusted.

That wasn't the last day she was betrayed, however.

Ever since the news of the trial made headlines, she has been and is being betrayed every single day.

Right after an experience that would send into shock even a grown and mature woman, Ruchika dried her tears and agreed, with her friend's help, to file a complaint.

She loved herself enough to demand that she needed justice and the wrong doer punished.

Little did she know that this was just the beginning of a long series of betrayals.

The most serious betrayal was by the media, which instead of calling it the "Molester DGP S P S Rathore" case, perversely, called it the "Ruchika Molestation Case", and continues to do so till date.

The traumatised girl was compelled to give up her life so her family could live in peace, but it seems her sacrifice was in vain.

The focus has been and still is on her father, her brother and her brother's family. While the media coverage will help their case, why isn't there negative publicity yet, for the Rathore family?

Does anyone know who the family members of the Molester DGP S P S Rathore are ?

How many children he has?

Whether they are afraid now or have ever felt afraid?

What do they think of their father's act?

The second betrayal was by Ruchika's school, the Sacred Heart Convent School in Sector 26, Chandigarh.

Does a school have any right to call itself a school, leave alone"Sacred", after betraying the trust of its own pupil?

Time was when schools and its staff were responsible for shaping the character of its students by setting personal examples. Today, one moral science period included in the daily time table, and they feel their job is done.

Can it ever hope to instill courage into its students, after itself failing to stand up to the pressure of molesters and goons?

This is the time to set right the wrong decision of the past, by admitting to it and openly supporting Anand Prakash and his family.

Does Sacred Heart Convent have the courage and the "Heart"?

The third group of betrayers are the entire administration involved in passing the buck now that the shit has hit the fan.

Was this a case where technicalities mattered? Did the administration have to tie itself in knots of red tape in not being able to file an FIR due to some flimsy reason?

"Show me the face and I'll show you the rule." is a very apt saying, specially applicable for just these kind of 'government servants'.

One more thing is bothering me.

The silence from one quarter is almost deafening. Molestation is not only physical contact, but a betrayal of trust by a grown up, with a gesture or even a look, that gives the molested a sudden and terrifying glimpse of the animal within a seemingly ordinary human being.

How many women, or for that matter men, encountered the same , when they were children?

Many more I'm sure, than are admitting and joining in this fight.

Is this case destined to be yet another qualifier for a candle light vigil, and nothing more than that?

Don't you think the Girhotra family needs more true friends like of the family of her freind, the Anands, who doggedly pursued the matter, for who knows, it could have been their daughter instead of Ruchika that day.

Think readers, it could have been, or could be, our daughters, sons, grandchildren, we ourselves....

So, join in in any way that you think you can, but do not be indifferent...

Let us not betray Ruchika, yet again......

Who Else Am I Not? Part Two- “Are you from India?”

2009-12-09T07:27:00.000-08:00

A week later, I stood in front of a dilapidated building. My father said it was to be my new school.

In the 1970's, Nagaland had a lot of Christians, but surprisingly, not the kind of schools that the missionaries built in hill stations and other parts of India. The Indian government was hated, and therefore, not allowed to do much.

We had just arrived a few days ago to Mukokchung, and had settled into a nice big wooden house on stilts, in a little valley surrounded by hillocks.

We were to share it with another family from my father's organisation.

The road trip from Mariani to Mukokchung that usually took three hours, had taken us five, as just out of the town had occurred a mud slide. I have never again seen such a huge pile of soft silky light brown mud.

I distinctly remember how peaceful the long line of vehicles on both sides appeared. No honking, no gathering of irritable people desperate to get to the other side. Loved ones would simply assume the best, not the worst as is the case now.

Laden with memories of the vast expanse of my previous school, with its sunlit classrooms, manicured lawns, and pretty little flower beds, I looked with distaste at the structure my father now ushered us into.

My brother and I wrinkled our noses at the smell in the ‘office’ of the dishevelled ‘principal’, and giggled, silenced by the stern look on our father’s face.

Soon, both of us were escorted to our respective classrooms.

I looked around for polished desks with small attached seats that I thought every classroom would have, only to find rough long wooden tables, with one long bench shared by ten or twelve children. The ground was littered with pencil shavings and paper.

I noticed, many of the children were wrapped in red and black shawls, some of which were faded (I don’t think the school had a uniform).

They looked at me in my yellow frock curiously,and when the teacher read out my name haltingly from a slip my escort was carrying, there was much laughter and giggles. It was deja vu time.

The girl I sat down next to (I don't recall her name. In fact I don't remember a single person's name from that school) asked me, "Are you from India?"

I took my time to reply, as I wasn't sure. My concept of India was vague at the time.

"No, I'm from Kalimpong."

That broke the ice, and though I was very different in many respects ( I wore frilly, sometimes starched frocks to school, while many children wore either the tribal dress or jeans, which the missionaries got them),I was accepted very soon, as my English, Math and Science was the best in class, thanks to my three years with the scottish nuns.

Although I gained the respect of my classmates easily, there were many things about my new friends that invoked envy in me.

I noticed that the world (comprising, for me, of Kalimpong and here) was full of girls and boys with black straight silky hair, skin that was hairless and smooth, and eyes that were small and sparkling.

I spent many hours in front of the mirror pulling the corners of my eyes upwards in a slant, to see how I looked.

I felt like the ugliest creature in class, with my strange large eyes, hairy arms and legs, and curly long hair that my mother dutifully made into two long tight plaits every morning.

My prowess in class did assuage some of my feelings, but deep down I wanted to look like the rest so much!

The one thing that I was glad was different from ours was their food.

Once, on a holiday, I asked my father to drop me off at one of my school friend’s house to play. It was raining, and the evening air was full of little bugs flying all over, and crowding the streetlights.

My friend’s mother called out to her and gave her a little mug, with some instructions. She ran about with the mug in hand, trying to catch as many little bugs as possible.

"This was a great game", I thought, and joined in, collecting as many as I could till the mug was full.

We handed the mug over to her mother, who then, to my horror, proceeded to fry them in hot oil! All for my benefit!

My vegetarian mother, equally horrified at the ‘honour’ accorded to me, forbade me from visiting other friends’ houses, and didn’t wish to entertain them either.

The hillocks around our house had little huts on them belonging to the labourers who worked on the roads that my father’s organisation was building.

Every evening, they burnt their wood fires, and cooked rice and (I learnt later, after the loss of our Alsatian, Peter) sometimes, dog meat. While waiting for it to cook, they strummed their guitars, and sang quaint songs I had never heard.

I noticed that every family for miles around, rich or poor, owned a guitar.

The sight of the beautifully burning fires lighting up the night sky is still fresh in my memory.

The knowledge of how different we were perceived to be was brought home in a rather unwelcome fashion one summer night.

That night, three or four men quietly broke into our house via the back bathroom door, with the intention of causing bloodshed.

The Naga insurgency was at its peak at the time, and my father's organisation was part of the Army, which was hated by the insurgents.

As children we were blissfully unaware of this fact. I just remember waking up that night by the screams and shouts coming from my parent’s bedroom.

On hearing the commotion, my father's colleague and another friend who was staying the night, rushed in to my parent’s bedroom, to find my mother, shaken and alone.

My father, not one to be scared easily, had momentarily overpowered one of his assailants. When they all ran back, out from the bathroom door, he followed them in hot pursuit!

He managed to catch that one guy. After interrogation, in a week's time, the rest were caught too.

Post this incident, it was considered too dangerous for us all to stay in town, so as quickly as possible, some makeshift accommodation was constructed for us near the project office, and we were shifted there.

Childhood is a time of flexibility, and I had settled in beautifully in my strange new surroundings, but, my parents, it seems, couldn't quite adjust. So, in just a matter of ten months, we were all packed and on the move again.....

To be continued...

Who Else Am I Not? Part One-"What's not in a name?"

2009-12-08T23:57:00.000-08:00

There is a saying that if we wish to understand life, the answer to just three questions can reveal all:

1. Who am I?
2. Where have I come from?
3. Where am I going to?

In today’s time, when the nation with its demands for separate statehoods simultaneously splits itself along hitherto non-existent seams, while appearing to be united and secular, I often find myself plagued by the first question.

If you know me by name, I appear to be a female Hindu Kayasth. Yet, my mind cringes at the thought of all the stereo types that most people imagine when they hear my name or meet me for the first time.

Being born to a UP man and a Haryanvi woman, raised in different states in the North East of India, living for the past 25 years in the west and south of India, loving Hindustani Classical music as well as Western Classical and Carnatic, I find that I’m at the same time part of all groups, and also a part of none.

Similarities and differences are two sides of the same coin. So, I thought, in order to find out who I am, let me first discover who I am not.....

Here is the first post in a series towards that end.....

"What's not in a name?"

There was something funny about my name.

The teacher ran through a list of names like ‘Karma Choden’, Deki Wangmo’, ‘Sonam Tsering’, ‘Charmaine Jones’, and similar other names. Then , a pause, and very carefully, as though trying out a new tongue twister, ‘Smita ************.’

This was my first day at school at *****************, Kalimpong, a boarding school that also allowed day scholars, in the year 1969 or was it 1970?

I forget which, but that trivia is insignificant.

What’s significant is that I felt different that day, and I didn’t want to be different.

Being too young to know that one can take all one’s grouses to God, without fear of reprimand or a shouting at, I went home and cornered my mother. Why on Earth did I have such a funny name? I wanted it changed at once!

How should I do it? Should I tell all our neighbours, friends, my younger brother, my father’s friends, or would she and my father do it. Why was I named by them? Shouldn’t I have some say in what I would like to be called for the rest of my life?

I wanted it to be Sonam Caroline Wangmo.

That way it would be better than all the others.

I raved and ranted, to no avail. She just gave me an exasperated look that turned into a dismissive one, and carried on shelling peas. Even at that age, I could sense that I shouldn’t try my luck too far, as she would take just one second to decide whether she could pause long enough in the rapid disembowelment of the peas to give me a whack on my behind.

I returned to school the next day, determined to tell my new classmates my chosen name.

Once there, however, I soon forgot all about it, as we all found a surprise waiting for us in our desks. Each one of us had been gifted an old, empty little metal tin by our teacher, to keep any odds and ends that we liked.

Each tin was different, mine had been an old tea container (in those days, tea mostly came in metal tins), red, with a black pagoda on the top and also on all the sides. Some of the others got old tea tins as well, while some got biscuit tins, and a few got toffee tins.

Mine was one of the prettiest, and soon everyone knew my name in the class, as they tried hard to get me to part with my tin. I realised that it didn’t matter if I was Miss Unpronounceable for them as long as I held on to that tin, so I guarded it zealously.

Three beautiful years in one of the prettiest school properties later, it was time for my father to move. The orders were for him to move to an unheard of tongue twister of a place, Mukokchung, in Nagaland.

With packed boxes painted black, that displayed the neatly stencilled name of my father, where we were boarding the train (New Jalpaiguri) and where we were going to (Mariani-in Assam, the last point the train would take us to), we all headed for Nagaland. Little did I know that the comfort I had arrived at after three years of being ‘Smita *****************’ would be short lived.

To be continued.....

Fall out of the royal flutter!

2009-09-18T23:49:00.000-07:00

Shashi Tharoor’s unwitting twit may have caused a royal flutter amongst the Congress flock, but there could be other consequences of his act:

Social consequences:

1.Mass migration of social butterflies and birds from other netwotking sites such as FB to twitter.(What, you DON’T have a twitter account? Oh, you poor darling!)

2.Books written on Tharoor’s life, with titles like:
a.Humour(less) in a Lungi (or is it Mundu?)
b.Cat(tle) Call
c.‘My Life’, as (T)witnessed by a ‘Holy Cow’

Consequences on the English language:

1.‘Bird- brained’:
a.Earlier: adj., meaning dim witted, small brained
b.Now: adj., meaning a very sharp and active mind able to deliver the meaning in as few words as possible, in short, a twit.

2.‘Cow’ering:
a.Earlier: adj., crouching in fear
b.Now: adj., giving it back in befitting terms, invoking the blessings of the ‘holy cow’

3.Cattle:
a.Earlier: noun, meaning animals of pasture
b.Now: verb, meaning to rattle all ‘holy cows’, with apt remarks, show the ‘holy cows’ their place

4.Holy cows:
a.Earlier: phrase, meaning “sacrosanct issues or principles that no one dares challenge”(acc to Mr. Tharoor)
b.Now: phrase, meaning a group of individuals deficient in a special gene called ‘humour’, fairly common in the masses, but rarely found in politicians.

5.Cattle class:
a.Earlier: phrase, meaning economy class, where everyone is herded like cattle
b.Now: phrase, meaning a class of individuals who are easily rattled by ‘holy cow’ remarks, who huddle together to think of new strategies to overcome and overpower the ‘twit’ who made them

Consequences on trade:

1.The biggest beneficiary of this issue will be the satta trade. It will make more money on trying to figure out whether Tharoor will be in or out, than on cricket, and will go crazy trying to decipher whether Jayanthi Natarajan’s remarks should be given more weightage than Manmohan Singh’s

There wii be new bets too:

a.Whether Jayanthi Natarajan is in or out

b.Whether Manmohan Singh is in or out

c.Whether the masses will get the joke, and start reading P G Wodehouse

d.Whether the masses will take the term ‘holy cow’ at face value, and take on Jayanthi Natarajan for disallowing Shashi Tharoor to call our most sacred animal ‘holy’

e.Whether Shashi Tharoor will become minitser for Animal Husbandry

f.Whether Shashi Tharoor will use this controversy to make a firmer place in the minds of the masses (after all, from now on, no news paper reading Indian will ever be able to separate the images of a cud chewing cow and the Mundu clad Tharoor), or not

For other similar serious consequences that may have been overlooked here, please contact writer of this piece. Let me warn you, one consequence of your act could be the displacement of Katrina Kaif as the most searched name on www.google.com!

Egg on our faces?

2009-01-01T22:33:00.000-08:00

Recently, amid all the indignation at the government’s insensitivity and unfairness to the Indian soldier, who, incidentally, has been chosen by the public as the icon of the year, one TV channel lamented the comments of a politician. Apparently, the politician had questioned the entitled rations of service personnel, specifically the number of eggs they get per week!

As the media is uncovering more such 'alarming' acts of 'treason', there is growing public anger at the treatment meted out to the Armed Forces by the government, the civilian administration, its own senior officers, etc. The constant updates about the Sixth Pay Commission have been moved from Page Somewhere Inside to Page One.

This attention is all very welcome, and the people's efforts to understand the actual role of the soldier on the ground is very heartening. The trouble is, do we thank Pakistan or the terrorists for their assistance in highlighting the just cause of the disparity in pay and other matters? For, once again, only when the nation is in collective dread do the Armed Forces seem to evince support and understanding.

It has been my observation that the nation and the media tends to focus on the Indian soldier when they are scared, ignorant and uncertain. It may sound a bit harsh considering the efforts of the media in bringing back the spotlight on matters that the government seemed to be dragging its feet over.

However, my mind fears the fact that once they are done campaigning for the appropriate financial compensation of the men in uniform, they will carry on with their daily lives, much like an individual does after he has employed a security guard, holding him and him alone responsible for any breach of security.

What after once all the due compensations have been given? In case the Army fails to perform 'well' as perceived by the media and the public, then will the media campaign again to take back those privileges?

Accountability to the taxpaying public is important, especially in a true democracy. But does the onus of vigilance, protection, and security lie only on the head of the soldier?

Isn't an individual too a part of the whole process of security, of which the armed forces are an important and large one, and he or she a small one? Doesn’t he or she need to have ownership of this process, and not only monitor or pass the buck, but to partake in the activity itself?

On sharing these thoughts with my friends, I have had many questions asked, like how do they go about it, without a clue on to how to begin. My answer to them is that I don't mean one should get enrolled for combat training to contribute!

All of us can be a soldier in our own ways. But like Rome wasn't built in day, a responsible citizen too is not made in a day. This quality has to be deeply ingrained and a way of life, starting with very small and obvious things.

A step by step method would, in my opinion, unfold something like this.

Number One: All citizens can begin by inculcating in ourselves a sense of dicipline and efficiency , something that is deeply admired and respected by all citizens, but never enough to be emulated. This is the basic building block of the armed forces.

Number Two: Start THINKING secular. The only truly secular person in this country is the Indian soldier. If we could imbibe this aspect to begin with, it would naturally lead to a feeling of identification with this land, and its diverse people.

Number Three: Travel within the country extensively, and see how people in all parts live. Patriotism in the soldier is not some theatrical emotion, but a deep feeling that comes with not sightseeing but actually living in all corners of the country. This is the real reson for the soldier to feel one with India. We Indians prefer going 'abroad' than exploring our own country. Even a lifetime is not enough to see it all!

Number Four: Get out of our comfort zones, experience a bit of roughing it. Adversity and tough living conditions are what makes the soldier mentally and physically tough. I must narrate a small example that was given to me by an Infantry Officer. He said that once the Indian and the American Army had a joint exercise.While the American backpacks, apart from the ammunition, contained video games, assorted packaged food, mineral water, tablets to purify other drinking water, etc. the Indian backpack carried ‘skakkar para’(home made sweetened balls of wheat flour), and ordinary bottles of water and of course ammunition. They sing and dance to entertain themselves. No fancy video games!

Number Five: Spend more time with the family. Especially in tough times like these, family support and love count far more than money. So, forgo a well paying job that offers more money for one that may give less, but promotes mental well being and nurturing of relationships. These are what can bail out a person of difficulties, even financial ones, and not some impersonal bank.

Number Six: Play games. Real games, as in sports. How many people play games other than boardroom,political or computer games? Too much time is spent in front of the computer screens and TV. In the services, there is strong emphasis on being in shape, as it toughens the mind too, which brings me to the last, most significant point of my discussion.

Number seven: How do you think a handful of terrorists held a siege over Mumbai?After seeing the way ten , undoubtedly, armed people held an entire city to ransom for sixty hours, do we still doubt the power of the human mind? The soldier and his entire family is MENTALLY perpared to deal with DEATH. In fact the soldier’s biggest weapon is his mind! So, stop prophesizing and circulating Doomsday theories, and concentrate your energies on positive thinking.

While the Indian Armed Forces are quite capable of handling the defence of our country, I feel true victory can be ours only if each and every individual embarks on this self improvement program that will help us bond as people of one country. Maybe, then our nation will be secure from outside threats, and the Indian soldier will not land up with egg on his face!

Is religion to blame?

2008-12-16T23:02:00.000-08:00

The Mumbai terror attacks have once again brought the spotlight on Muslims in India and abroad. Yesterday, on a private English news channel, one guest,during a discussion on whether tighter terror laws would help, said that he was very glad he did not have a muslim surname, for he feared what he might have been subjected to if that was the case.

Why blame religion, and a particular one at that, for the evils of today? Blame the interpreters, the so called 'custodians' or the self appointed keepers of these religions. In the same manner that we said 'NO taxes", can we also say "no mullahs, no priests, no pundits?"

We have been blessed with sound intellect, reasoning ability and logical skills. We have elders in our homes, who have a wealth of experience of life. Then why do we give more importance to rituals, ceremonies, God men than common sense?

Religion, to me, is actually a particular community's combined wisdom, there for the next generations to benefit from, so that they may go farther and do better than the previous ones.

Wisdom can be shared but never compared. In fact, like the English language, it can borrow from each other to become richer and more relevant. Exclusion always denies knowledge. Imagine if each religion studied others and borrowed from each other to enhance their own!

Can any of the terrorists claim to have read even one of the holy books? The fourth standard pass Kasab may not have read even the Koran in its original state, forget about the Ramayan and the Mahabharat. How many non-Muslims could claim to have read the Koran? How many non Christians would have read the Bible? Maybe the few sane voices that we hear belong to this tiny minority!

Since most of these texts are written in languages long forgotten, they are interpreted at will by manipulative people. The real terrorists are these people who manipulate the meanings of these old texts to suit their gory purposes.

When we logical beings always ask for proof for even the smallest of things, how do we accept opinions that have such a huge consequence without checking out for ourselves?

Also, are we brave enough to stand up and say that since some of these texts were written for a different time, they may not all be relevant today in totality? It does not mean that we are debunking an entire way of thinking, but adapting it to suit the times. Its like how we use a constitution or a school curriculum, constantly amending and reframing it to keep it relevant.

A knife is not evil by itself. It depends on the user and the use it is put to. In a chef's hands it is perfectly harmless, but becomes lethal in the hands of a killer. The intent of religion by itself is not bad. But in the hands of wrong and negative people it can bring in the end of the world.

The fault is ours, who persist in looking outside ourselves for a religious experience. All religious texts like the Koran, the Ramayan, the Bible, and others, were the result of deep meditation and introspection, and observation of the way of life. Religion was supposed to guide us to a more fulfilling and enriched life, not become slaves to it.If we allow our minds to follow our instints without insecurity, we can sense religion and spirituality deep within us, without the aid of texts, priests, mullahs and god men.

The trouble starts when our insecurities and fears, rather than a deep happiness at being born, make us seek religion. This makes us doubt our own ability to find it, and we turn to supposedly 'learned custodians.'

Pride India

2008-12-13T02:42:00.000-08:00

This happened a year ago. I was travelling by train from Indore to Mumbai. I had just concluded a hectic six day workshop at one of the city's premier schools.

As I stowed my suitcase under the aisle berth, I looked forward to a good night's sleep.

The coach was an A.C 2 tier, and the four passengers in the coupe were already in their seats. Two men, two women. Perfect.

One of the men, the younger one, looked a little weird, I thought. His face was a little lopsided, with the symmetry slightly askew. He had very short, almost crew cut hair.

Not wanting to stare, I hung my handbag on the peg above my berth, and settled down on it. I then pulled out my mobile phone and dialled my husband's number to give him a "sit rep"('situation report').
While I was on the phone, three well built young men came in and plonked themselves on my seat. Asking my husband to hold the line, I looked enquiringly at them. One of them pointed to the berth above mine, signalling that it was his. I nodded and went back to my conversation.

As I spoke, the three, while laughing and joking amongst themselves, slowly started hogging up more and more of the berth, while I shrunk more and more into one corner, until I reached the extreme limit of shrinking. Extremely cramped, I cut off my phone conversation, and declared to the three that I wanted to lie down and would they please move out?

One of them pointed to a notice stuck above the berth that said that passengers could use the berth to lie down only after 9 p.m. Until then everyone had to sit.

Before I could give a fitting reply, several of which were on the tip of my tongue, and without my realising it, the young man with the lop sided face was beside me. In a very soft, calm manner, but with a cold gaze, he asked the three to get up and move to the next coupe. The three men looked at my 'rescuer', one of them looked ready to say something, but one look at the young man's eyes, and they quietly moved out.

I turned around to thank the young man, and his "Not at all, Ma'am", gave away, to me, his profession.
"Are you in the services?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Infantry. Came to Mhow for a short course."
"My father and father-in-law were both in the Army."

One question led to another, and our conversation soon turned to the current situation in the country, and especially in Kashmir.

By now our co passengers (excluding the young man who had left with his friends) had joined in. None of them had ever been north of Delhi, and they more than I, wanted to get a first hand account of how bad things were in the valley.

The Army Major (whose name I shall not disclose) then held us spell bound for the next couple of hours with his experiences, of which a few are mentioned here.

As a young officer, his first day in the unit was also the first time he killed a man (a militant), that too at close range. After the incident was over, he was distraught, and it was the care and counselling of his seniors that brought him out of his depression.

He spoke of the utmost trust and camaraderie that he shared with his unit members, which was more valuable than any money in the world, because that was what their lives depended on.

Like a true soldier, he also spoke of values and just behaviour, even towards the enemy.

Once during the Kargil war, his unit had surrounded a post occupied by Pakistani soldiers. They fought fiercely, and finally overcame the enemy. The Pak soldiers, though in mufti, fought with all their medals on, as they knew they were going to die, and wanted to die a true soldier's death. After it was over, the Indian Major had his men identify the soldiers from their I- cards, and sent a letter to their unit in Pakistan praising them, requesting that they be honoured accordingly. It was later learnt that the request had been carried out.

His own face was lop sided because it was shattered by shrapnel during the Kargil conflict. He had a rod in his back and legs, which is why he could not offer his lower berth to one of the lady passengers.

He was full of praise for the Army doctors, who reconstructed his face, and "made it almost as good as new". We all asked him what his family had to say about his new face.

"My wife and six year old daughter feel I look more handsome now", he said with a laugh.
He said the toughest job was to flush out militants holed up in houses in villages. (I was reminded of this while watching the recent Mumbai carnage).

"It's a game of extreme patience and vigilance. The exercise takes place mostly at night and entire villages are cordoned off for the task."

While the army personnel grew more experienced at tackling them over a period of time, the militants too became smarter.

"These days they aim not for the chest or head, but for the thighs, where the main artery is located. At times, if a soldier injured in the thigh is not rushed to medical help immediately, we risk losing him."

I listened spellbound, my sleep long forgotten. I could see the other passengers similarly engaged; horrified, but unable to break away. It was almost an 'ancient mariner' kind of scenario.
At one point I asked him whether he had received a bravery award for all he had done.
"No Ma'am."
"Why not?"
"Ma'am, if the Army had to give out awards to everyone who has done what I did, they would soon run out of medals. "

His answer stumped all of us. What we thought of as extraordinary bravery was in fact an everyday and routine affair for most Army personnel in Kashmir and other insurgency-hit areas.
I sat quietly, reflecting on a real life example of selfless service.

"What motivates you people?", asked one of my fellow passengers.

"Love for our country, its people, and pride in being an Indian."

This simple statement brought out the goose pimples on my arms.

I remembered how as a child whenever we went to see a movie, the National Anthem played at the end, when we all stood up to attention.
Independence Day and The Republic Day were never holidays meant to sit at home, but to go out and march and hoist the national flag.
"Jai Jawan Jai Kisan", was the slogan that popped out almost everywhere, worshipping the two different kinds of people who protected and respected Mother Earth.

We still need these two people, one to feed us and the other to protect us.

"Love for our country, its people, and pride in being an Indian."

I'm sure each one of us has the same pride buried somewhere deep down inside. Its been in the attic of our minds for far too long.
It's time we brought it out, dusted it, and displayed it proudly in the mantelpiece of our hearts, so we can see and feel it with every beat, and have our actions governed by it on a daily basis.

"Jai Jawan, jai Kisan, jai Hind."

Dial 'F' for failure

2007-11-06T23:22:00.000-08:00

In today's world, there are so many dreams sold to us that promise eradication of the undesirable. It could be a pimple, a scar, unwanted weight, an irritating spouse, hot weather, dirt, etc. Everyone is aiming for a perfect world. Corrective gurus are espousing cleansing of the soul. Everyone is aiming to become God, and create a heaven on Earth!

Is it possible? Can an environment be a 100% "enabled"?

Ability cannot be defined as the capacity to be 'able' to do something, without the existence of 'disability'. For the creation of an 'enabled' environment, there needs to exist some disability in it.

People with an with an 'eradication' mindset need to understand the importance of the need for a disabled environment. It is the way we look at disability that needs to change, the way we feel about it. If we can get on in our lives despite disability, we are demonstrating ability. It is not necessary to eradicate it.

In our lives, we are dynamically moving towards ability from disability, even when we feel we are stuck in a situation. The feelings generated about our disability in our minds and in those of others determines the speed of our progress.

The wife of my husband's cousin is one of a family of four, who lost their father when they were very young. They faced an acute shortage of money, and their untrained mother took to teaching. Yet, she remembers her childhood to be a very happy one. She once told me, "It was not the lack of money, but how it(the lack) was viewed in the family that determined our attitudes."

Since God has made everything on this Earth, our learning must encompass acceptance along with striving. Whoever has lived life long enough knows that the mountains in our lives never cease to exist. After scaling the summit of each one, there is always another one waiting to be scaled, right till the day we die.

Let us view success that is not an eradication of failure, but the outcome of the learning from failure. Let us embrace disability and adversity, because otherwise we would be ignorant of ability. Let us deliberately court failure, in our attempt to savour true success! Let us dial "F" for failure!