Update- and I still mostly don't look forward to the rains

And as if to prove my point, a day after I posted the last piece, I had another conversation with my maid Vibha.

So she took a day off because her child was unwell, and then turned up late the next day. When I enquired why, she said they were preparing for the rain, keeping stuff up at a height. So late, I asked with surprise, you should have done that in the very first week of June, Bambai ki baarish ka kya bharosa. Yes, she said, but we had heard that there might be demolitions, so we were waiting for that. But then there were the pre monsoon showers the previous day, and so much stuff got wet, that they went ahead and prepared for the monsoon anyway. What does this preparation entail- a brand new tarpaulin roof. They had a roof of course, but it was an old weathered sheet, enough to shield from the summer sun but not enough to bear the brunt of the fury that the monsoon rain in Bombay can be.

Anyway, whether or not demolitions follow, they have had to put up a new sheet to keep out the water. How often do demolitions happen, I ask. About three or four times a year, she says. I am incredulous. You rebuild every single time then, three or four times a year? Yes, she says simply. We rebuild. It takes them two to four hours to rebuild and get everything in order, provided they don’t lose much to theft.

Rebuilding a house, twice a year (she admitted later that there isn’t always demolition every time there is a threat of one, so it actually really happens about twice a year.) A house that will be defenseless once the monsoon hits with full force, and the streets begin to overflow with water that simply doesn’t have anywhere to go because we’ve built multistory buildings and blocked its natural drainage path. Upar se aane wale paani ko to rok bhi lete hain, she had said to me once, neeche se jo aata hai uska kya karen. (We are still able to prevent water from coming in from above, what do we do about the water that comes in from below- that collects in the streets and threatens to and sometimes does come in to the house through doors.)

Why I’m not looking forward to the rains

Why indeed? I mean, who doesn’t like pleasant weather and the romance of rains after the oppressive heat that is Bombay summer? Well, me for one. I’m not looking forward to rains.

It’s not like I don’t like rain. It’s beautiful of course. From my window. The moment I have to step out, it doesn’t seem so great anymore. Bombay in the monsoon sucks. It’s filthy most of the year; during monsoon it’s filthy and wet- ie gross. If you are not from the privileged class that travels only in cars, chances are you will have to wade through dirty water at some point or another, every single time you step out. And even if you are from the privileged class, in fact especially so, you will get stuck in traffic.

And then there is the matter of all those people living on pavements and in slums, with no proper drainage to speak of. Do they find the rain romantic when the water reaches their doorstep and beyond? Do they find it romantic when their roof starts to leak, or when the streets become rivers of floating muck, and excreta from several living forms? Do they find it romantic when they spend nights huddled under plastic sheets?

I’m not sure when I started to view the rain differently. I don’t want to be a spoilsport when everyone seems to be waiting with such anticipation, and there is joy all around. Maybe this conversation is partly to blame. At any rate, I can safely say, as lovely as the rain still is from my window, as stunning as the skies are these days, and luscious the green, I will henceforth always have mixed feelings about rain.

A day in May

Scorching sun, oppressive heat; no sign of the slightest wind, not a leaf stirring.

Househunting blues.

An owner trying to impress on me that the rent is justified, after all it is a ‘good society’, a reference to a building being gated, relatively well maintained and with inhabitants who are typically a little better off. A hierarchy even in buildings. ‘A good society’ does not mean good people, it just means people with more money, I think to myself but don’t say it. When will the Mumbai housing Gods smile down on me?

Sweaty, hot and depressed, I come back home and stare out of the window at the limping palm leaves that I am going to miss very much.

Call from Faiza. There have been demolitions in Ambujwadi and Sion Koliwada.

My househunting blues are now coloured with a tinge of guilt.

A healthy obsession... or maybe OCD?

I have what some might call a bit of an obsession. :)

I like to take informed decisions, but the process of ‘informing’ myself can sometimes be long. And I mean *long*, by most people’s standards.

The latest one concerned drinking water, and one would think that that alone should have been reason enough for a quick decision, but that would be underestimating my ability to procrastinate.

Anyway, to begin at the beginning: I moved into my current house at Yari Road about 6 months back. It’s a nice enough house, though the building is very old and not very well maintained, but that’s another story. Even when I had first moved in, the broker had informed me about the water situation- that the water in the tap is a mix of BMC (ie municipal supply) and borewell water, and therefore, I should procure drinking water from the couple of taps in H block that have continuous BMC water supply. For the first week, while I was still settling down, I got a 20l bottle of Bisleri while I tried to figure out what to do about drinking water. For those of you who are not from the country, let me tell you that the water that is supplied by our municipal corporations, though treated, is often not fit for drinking. There are all kinds of impurities and contamination to be found in the water, and while many of us seem to have developed a healthy immunity thanks to having grown up here, sometimes even we succumb to water borne diseases. And that is why there is a wide variety of water purifiers available in the market, all of which do brisk business.

Having said that, BMC water is actually not bad in most places. There is a friend of mine who scoffs at me and drinks water straight off the tap, but then he has the constitution of an ox. I have in fact had water at his place many times and survived it, but that simply wasn’t an option I was willing to consider as a permanent solution. Besides, much as I would love to trust our government agencies, it’s just not practical. So as I sipped on Bisleri that first week, I happened to visit a friend who lives in the same building. I was surprised to learn that she had no idea that the water in the tap wasn’t entirely BMC and had happily been using it, albeit with a storage water filter. I corrected her, and told her how all the residents, or most of them anyway, get their drinking water from H block in cans. That’s what all the big white cans lined up on the ground floor are for; they pay the guard a monthly fee to fill them up and leave them at their doorstep everyday. But she couldn’t be bothered, she declared, and neither could I, I decided.

And how about the purification? Well, as far as eliminating microorganisms is concerned, the surest, most effective way is boiling water and that’s what I decided to do, in lieu of getting a filter. Sure it’s tedious, and sometimes one plain forgets; the worst is when you plain forget after you’ve put the vessel on the burner, and an half hour later you smell something burning- you run into the kitchen to find a red hot steel vessel, disfigured for life! But you get used to it all after a while.

So what happened now, six months later? Well, lately I’ve noticed a layer of oil in the boiled water. Also there is a residue of salt in my plants, left behind by the evaporated water I assume. Both these trouble me needless to say, and when my maid mentioned to me (not for the first time,) that I should reconsider where I’m getting my drinking water from, and worse- that she never drinks water at my place because I use tap water, that really was the last straw!

I got myself another big bottle of Bisleri and got down to the task of researching to figure out a solution. Here are the findings of two days of off-and-on and half a day of concentrated researching and reading:

The kind of purifier you use depends on the quality of water in your area (but of course.)

In my case, since part of the water was ground water, it was likely to contain oil, solid contaminants, and dissolved salts. All of these are hard to remove, and only by a process called reverse osmosis. RO filters are some of the most expensive in the market and are not efficient- they waste 2 to 3 times as much water as they purify. These factors effectively ruled out a wall mounted water purifier connected to the tap.

This left the other solution- getting water from downstairs in a water can. I am not very comfortable with the idea of a plastic water can to get and store water, however temporarily. This is not to say that I have managed to eliminate plastic from my life- not by a long shot, but I am trying!

Even if one gets BMC water, there is the matter of purifying it, although this task is much easier since this water does not contain oils and dissolved salts and is already treated with both UV radiation and chlorine.

Therefore, even a simple storage type water filter should suffice (which typically uses activated carbon though companies nowadays have patended technologies, using two or more steps) though even in this case, boiling is best.

I have read reports of doctors saying that one should boil water even after filtering/ purifying using a purifier! By the way, the right way to purify water by boiling is to bring it to a rolling boil and let it boil for about a minute if you reside near sea level, and for 3 minutes at higher altitudes. It doesn’t even need to boil really, it just needs to attain a temperature of 72deg for about 5 minutes, but since this is harder to achieve practically, bringing to boil and letting it boil for 1 minute is recommended (although is there was a way around it, it would lead to substantial saving in fuel consumption.) Storage of this water needs some care so as to not contaminate it post boiling.

And while several top companies such as Eureka Forbes (the market leader in water purifiers), Tata and HUL, all have very affordable storage water filters in the market, do a basic search for reviews and you would realise almost none are hassle free, though HUL clearly scores better than the others. (I won’t get into the technologies they use, for while I am vaguely aware of them, I am none the wiser as to which is better.)

But, there is an environmental cost to boiling water- it uses LPG which is not a renewable resource.

So there it is then- that is my dilemma. Most people would just go for a filter I suppose and it is probably the wiser choice. It saves one the hassle of having to boil water and does a reasonably good job of purifying water of BMC quality. A filter like HUL’s Pure-it actually uses a two stage process where it eliminates solid articles by passing the water through thin semi pervious membranes, and chlorinates.

Heck, most people would have done that without the research and the waste of a couple of days! :)

I’ll just draw solace in thinking of myself as a little better informed- for whatever it’s worth.

Wislawa Szymborska

First a quick post to honour this wonderful poet I just discovered.

You see, I was never into poetry; or literature for that matter. I used to read voraciously as a child, but had no one to guide me in new directions so it was all fairly usual and popular stuff. All the authors I read were ones I discovered myself or those that close friends were reading. In hindsight, I feel that I missed out on a great many. This is not to say that my teachers didn’t try. I remember getting books as prizes year after year. When I look back now at the books that I was gifted, I can see perhaps a conscious effort on the parts of my teachers to acknowledge my reading preferences, and introduce me to new books, usually classics. I still have copies of ‘Twenty thousand leagues under the Sea’, which I never took to, and ‘Silas Marner’, that I read and enjoyed and many such, which were prizes for various academic achievements.

I never took to the classics, somehow. Shakespeare and Charles Dickens bored me, mostly (blasphemy, yes!) though I did fall in love with ‘A tale of two cities’, which was such a welcome change from the morose ‘David Copperfield’ or ‘Oliver Twist’; as for Shakespeare, all I can say in my defense is that I find plays hard to read. There was also the fact that I never read the originals because the language was just so tedious and hard to understand, and I suppose one does lose something of their beauty in translations, especially in translations for children. I hope to go back to such classical authors someday, and discover them anew.

My reading habits grew worse as I grew older, and speed declined, and how! I nearly gave up reading because it took so long that it almost seemed like a chore. This was a long and sad phase that is not yet over, though I am trying to get back to reading.

Which is not to say that I don’t spend long hours in front of my computer screen, reading all kinds of stuff- newspaper articles and blog posts mostly, but still. It’s just that I don’t have the attention span for long pieces, which of course books are. Which is why it surprises me somewhat that I didn’t take to poetry earlier, which does come in lovely short capsules, mostly.

Of course, I still can’t claim to like too much of classical poetry. I admire it for its technique and mastery, no doubt. I just don’t take to stuff that is too lateral in meaning, or makes me reach for a dictionary (or rather, open dictionary.com.)

There are advantages of course, to not having known of countless authors and poets- and that is the joy of discovering them. There is a thrill that I get from reading a good book or story or poem that is indescribable. Sometimes it makes me shiver with excitement; sometimes it makes me sigh with wonder at the sheer beauty of the words, expressed with such simplicity. Sometimes there is an urge to share the words, and they end up as facebook status messages and mails to friends. The last such book that I read was Milan Kundera’s ‘Life is Elsewhere’. And this post is to share a couple of poems of Wislawa Szymborska, a name that I can barely pronounce and a woman that I didn’t know existed until she passed away recently, leading to her being quoted by several of my friends, as a tribute. One line caught my attention and I’m glad it did, for it belonged to a beautiful piece. And the search led to several other beautiful pieces, from which I reproduce two here:

Under One Small Star

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.

My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.

Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.

May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.

My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.

My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.

Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.

Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.

I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.

I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.

Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.

Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.

And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,

your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,

forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.

My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.

My apologies to great questions for small answers.

Truth, please don't pay me much attention.

Dignity, please be magnanimous.

Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.

Soul, don't take offense that I've only got you now and then.

My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at once.

My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.

I know I won't be justified as long as I live,

since I myself stand in my own way.

Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,

then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

This one struck a chord! Yes, my apologies, many, many apologies, for all that I want to be, try to be, but fail more than I succeed;

apologies to all the people that I love, in the many ways that I love them, which sometimes goes unexpressed, or not expressed enough or is sometimes just not sufficient- for them or for me;

apologies to all the less fortunate, for it’s nothing but my good fortune that I have food to eat and a roof over my head, it could very easily have been otherwise; apologies for all the times that I have expensive dinners or wear expensive clothes, it’s not the divide I wish to highlight, sometimes I just indulge in my taste for good food and beauty;

apologies to all the persecuted, you don’t deserve it any more than I do; apologies for laughing and making merry while you have your house burned down, or run for life, or are tortured in prison, I do stand by you;

apologies to all of you fighting distant wars, or living in war like conditions, sometimes in not so distant places; apologies for the normalcy I enjoy- simple freedoms like travelling without having to carry identification papers and roaming the streets after dark.

And such apologies to many others that I may not yet remember, but who sometimes, just sometimes, introduce a tinge of guilt in my everyday living.

The other one is a wonderfully simple poem that ends with such hope and beauty, even as it drives home a feeling of injustice perhaps, but also inevitability. So much, in such few words!

The End and the Beginning

After every war

someone has to clean up.

Things won’t

straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble

to the side of the road,

so the corpse-filled wagons

can pass.

Someone has to get mired

in scum and ashes,

sofa springs,

splintered glass,

and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girder

to prop up a wall.

Someone has to glaze a window,

rehang a door.

Photogenic it’s not,

and takes years.

All the cameras have left

for another war.

We’ll need the bridges back,

and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged

from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,

still recalls the way it was.

Someone else listens

and nods with unsevered head.

But already there are those nearby

starting to mill about

who will find it dull.

From out of the bushes

sometimes someone still unearths

rusted-out arguments

and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew

what was going on here

must make way for

those who know little.

And less than little.

And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrown

causes and effects,

someone must be stretched out

blade of grass in his mouth

gazing at the clouds.

Food. For thought? No, just food!

Isn’t it nice when a belief you intuitively hold, sometimes not even aware that you hold it, for it’s a hazy unformed thought at the back of your mind, the need for having articulated it never having arisen earlier, turns out to be one that others hold as well? There is a feeling of acknowledgement and validation, not that it is needed, but which is nice to have anyway. That is one of the most distinct memories of my first Vipassana shivir.
My favourite part of the day in the shivir used to be the discourse in the evening. (And it took only a couple of days, and listening to the discourse one day in English and one day in Hindi, to realise that he was much better and at his humorous best in Hindi.) It was a pleasure to hear that discourse, to hear him explain in simple language using everyday examples, such concepts as love and compassion towards every one and tolerance towards other religions. I often found myself nodding in agreement, and a sense of excitement rose up in me as I realized that what I was listening to were concepts that I had intuitively believed, but had never strung together in words. It’s a wonderful feeling. It gave me goose pimples sometimes, at other times it made me teary eyed, and filled me with gratitude for everything in my life, all the joy and pain, all the people I loved and who loved me, and all the people who didn’t, and everything else that had come together over the years, towards this moment in time, which was as beautiful as it could be.
Does that sound tacky? Maybe it does, but that is how it was.

And it happened again recently, as I chatted with Neel, a dear friend from college days. Neel and Supriti are two beautiful people, and fantastic designers of buildings, furniture, lamps, and almost anything else that takes their fancy, who live and practise in beautiful Pondicherry as the design ensemble, ‘Ovoid’. They are also dear friends, who I happened to have the good fortune to visit in the later half of November. In one of our innumerable conversations, Neel mentioned to me why they make it a point to cook themselves, no matter how busy they are. He said food is best, and most nutritious when it is cooked with love.
It made me smile, for I couldn’t agree more. It is perhaps this secret ingredient- love that makes a mother’s cooking special. Have you ever noticed how you can tire of the best food, from the best restaurants, or the best cooks, but you never tire of your mother’s cooking no matter how many times you have it, over however many years. Have you also noticed the pet peeve of many a young bride that no matter how hard she tries, she can never quite match up to the standard of her mother-in-law’s cooking? :) In India of course it is taken to something of an extreme, for a mother’s love is often best expressed by food and the act of feeding. Indian families, many of them, tend to be rather undemonstrative in their show of affection, and uncommunicative too, to the extent that many topics are taboo, no matter how important they may be. But food remains the one way in which a mother continues to express her love, however old her child may grow.
But I digress, the point is: food cooked with love has a special wholesomeness, and a transfer of a kind of energy and good vibes happens, for lack of a better term, when you eat food that is cooked with love. There can be no substitute for this magic ingredient.

And it was perhaps this belief, as yet unarticulated, that made me cook all these years in Mumbai, coupled with the fact that it’s very hard to find a cook whose cooking you can endure for any length of time!And so it was also that I was thrilled when my maid walked in today with a dabba full of yummy veggies, sent over by someone who I once worked with as part of a film crew, but who I otherwise barely know. And it made me smile to read these words, as I providentially enough, stumbled upon this blog. 

Ruminations

There was a time, when I was in school and the Ramayana and Mahabharat formed part of course material. Thus it was that I knew even the complex Mahabharat with its many characters fairly well and could predict which episode would come next in the tackily produced Mahabharat that was aired on Doordarshan then. I took great pride in it too. It never occurred to me as unusual that a religious text was part of school course material. Many years later, and for many years now I have felt miserable about my dismal knowledge of other texts and cultures that form part of my country. I am quick to proclaim myself a secularist, but I’m never sure I even understand what that truly means. I now have friends from different faiths, and several of them have cross married. I’m always delighted when I see them celebrating each others’ festivals and explaining to the children their respective significance. So it is that Tanvi is as excited about making rangolis on Diwali as she is about picking out the perfect Christmas tree. And so it is that I almost faced a language barrier when I first met Sanaa, for I started to chat with her in Hindi while she blabbered away in Bengali and Malyalam with equal ease.

I’m equally distressed when I see youngsters so enamoured by foreign cultures, their concept of Diwali is more about playing cards and bursting noisy crackers than about the victory of good over evil. And of course I’m distressed by my own lack of understanding about my religion which is being misrepresented by the fundamentalist Hindu right on the one hand and simplistic and distorted depictions in films and television on the other.