A Letter to Aruna Roy: Practitioner of People’s Politics

A Letter to Aruna Roy:
Practitioner of People’s Politics

Dear Aruna Ji,

Namaskar.

I’ve never met you, though I’ve read about your amazing work. Why am I writing this letter to you? To thank you for The Personal is Political: An Activist’s Memoir, a book which you were reluctant to write.

I almost did not read the book. I stumbled upon this book in the library, borrowed it, read the commendations by Amartya Sen and Jean Dreze, and the foreword by Gopalkrishna Gandhi.

Aruna Roy is a dedicated social activist, but is her memoir worth reading? I wasn’t very sure. I read a few chapters, and thereafter, just couldn’t stop. I’m glad I read the book.

Notably, you have called your book a memoir, not an autobiography. Gopalkrishna Gandhi says, ‘… this book is more than a memoir, more even than a story of the writer’s times.’ Indeed, it is.

You’ve said, ‘My journey from urban middle class to rural marginalized India is interwoven with the warp and weft of other people’s lives. ’

You further say, ‘Writing has given me an opportunity to walk through memories - a gallery of portraits and anecdotes of remarkable people - to think of experiences, events and struggles. They are cameos of unrecognized greatness of many ordinary people.’

Thank you for telling us about the feisty women - Naurti, Mangi, Bhuriya, Billan, Chunni Bai and others – whom you call friends and mentors; of Chunni Singh, Shankar, Mohan Ji, Tej Singh Ji, Lal Singh and many other comrade-saathis. Your book tells the story of your shared life with these and other marginalized people of rural India.

Who’re you, really? Feminist, social activist, change agent, Gandhian, anarchist, urban Naxal, sickular? You have been labelled with these and many other adjectives. Many have commended your missionary zeal and exemplary work; others have vilified you for your alternative politics – non-party politics, the politics of people as differentiated from electoral politics. Politics is ‘everywhere,’ you assert.

Gender is my primary identity, you mention; but that’s rather inadequate. Elsewhere you’ve said that you can’t be catalogued. That’s more apt.

You’ve called yourself almost a midnight’s child, born just a year before India’s independence. Drawing inspiration from many makers of modern India, you’ve endeavoured through your life and work to realise the dream of equality and justice for all peoples of India.

You quit the IAS in 1975, after seven years in the system, choosing rural Rajasthan as your home and place of work. Tilonia, only 360 kilometres from Delhi, was ‘a different world in every way.’

You say, ‘My shift from the IAS to an NGO – Barefoot College, SWRC, Tilonia – was dramatic. It changed the socio-economic and political context of my life. From Tilonia to Devdungri was a greater dramatic shift in ideological perception.’

Chunni Singh, a founder member of MKSS (Mazdoor Kisan Sangharsh Samiti) and ‘comrade-saathi’ who went with you to Manila to receive the Magsaysay, says, ‘Karni aur kathni mein pharak nahin honi chahiye.’

Shunning publicity, you walked your talk, and lived as your saathis lived - in a mud hut that had no electricity, no running water, and no toilet.

To better understand the plight of minimum-wage labourers, you enlisted as a labourer for a fortnight. The work involved using gainti-fawda for digging, and lifting and carrying mud. You confess that you lacked the skill and was a total failure, but were more convinced than ever before that all manual work involved specific skills and merited wages for skilled labourers.

Your memoir is a report on the state of India’s republic, particularly the yawning gap between the guarantees and promises made by the Constitution and the unrealized dreams. But the book reaffirms your firm faith in democracy, the Indian Constitution, and the Gandhian methods of satyagraha, non-violence and civil disobedience as instruments of protest to speak truth to power.

Not an autobiography, not the story of your life; but the story of the many unnamed and unsung participators and partners who dreamed of equality and justice guaranteed under the Indian Constitution, and fought to realise it in bits and pieces.

You and your saathis established MKSS (Mazdoor Kisan Shakti Sangathan) whose slogan is ‘Nyay Samanta bandhutva ho adhaar, aise rachenge hum sansaar.’ (We will create a world based on justice and equality.)

An aspirational, almost utopian, goal in the present world of stark inequality and denial of justice to the poor and the marginalized.

You have quoted Eduardo Galeano who said, ‘Utopia is on the horizon. I move two steps closer; it moves two steps further away. I walk another ten steps and the horizon runs ten steps further away. As much as I may walk, I’ll never reach it. So what’s the point of utopia? The point is this: to keep walking.’

You firmly believe: ‘Courage lies in walking towards what may always recede.’

You’re saddened by the rise in economic inequality, the assault on the Constitution, and the undermining of democratic institutions. Yet, MKSS’ campaign has resulted in powerful rights-based legislations – Right to Information (RTI Act), Right to Work (MGNREGA), Right to Food (NFSA), Forest Rights Act and others, directly benefiting millions of people.

I admire your commitment to the values you cherish, and your courage to pursue it regardless of outcome. Keep walking, Aruna Ji.

Warm regards.

Sincerely,

A reader moved and inspired by your memoir.

***

Mr. Zombie’s Zest for Living

"Men are such fools! They only realize how beautiful life is when they're face to face with death.... Some die without knowing what life is." (A quote from Ikiru)

Why did a South African film-maker adapt a Japanese film made seven decades ago for his first English-language film for which a Nobel Prize winner in Literature wrote the script keeping in mind the veteran British actor whose stellar performance received an Oscar nomination?

If you’re a film buff, you may have already watched Living (2022), an adaptation of Akira Kurosawa’s Ikiru (1952). Kazuo Ishiguro wrote the script, and Bill Nighy played the lead role.

Why the adaptation? Because Ikiru (To Live), inspired by Tolstoy’s novella The Death of Ivan Ilyich (1886) is a timeless classic. Kurosawa had a five-decade long distinguished career in cinema-making and had adapted works of Shakespeare (Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear), Dostoevsky (The Idiot), and Tolstoy for his films.

Living tells the story of an old man’s confrontation with imminent death. Williams, a senior bureaucrat in the London County Council leads a monotonous life, buried under paperwork and adhering to rigid routines. When a child, his life-goal was to grow up to be a gentleman who donned a business suit and hat, took the morning train to his office in London, and returned home in the evening. He achieved his dream, but as the years rolled on, he turned to Mr. Zombie, the nickname coined by Miss Harris - a junior, youthful, and a little irreverent colleague. ‘Sort of dead but not dead,’ she explained. ‘Small wonder, I didn’t notice what I was becoming,’ says Williams.

The film narrates how he stepped out of his robotic role to affirm and celebrate life before death claimed him. His life takes a profound turn when he is diagnosed with a terminal illness. Confronted with his mortality, Williams endeavours to find meaning and purpose in his remaining days. He pushes a project to transform a World War II bombed-site into a children's playground, confronting and dismantling bureaucratic inertia along the way.

How does one confront and come to terms with imminent death? When served a death sentence, how does one live out the remaining days of his life? Ivan Ilyich’s searing self-introspection, akin to a spiritual journey into the core of his existence, helped him to reconcile with his mortality. In the Hollywood dark comedy The Bucket List (2007), two terminally ill men (Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) escaped from a cancer ward and headed off on a global jaunt to tick off their bucket list before they die. In Living, the protagonist has no bucket list; only a wish to live at least for a day – ‘If only to be alive for one day,’ says Williams.

What’s special about ‘Living’? The dying man’s simple, yet profound and rebellious defiance of the stifling ordinariness, the unbearable dullness, the enervating drabness of life. The three ladies from a poor colony make multiple rounds of the County Council demanding establishment of a public park in a war-ravaged strip filled with debris, garbage, and overflowing sewerage.

Bureaucracy’s response is predictable – deflect, defer, reject. Saying ‘no’ comes naturally to the men at the top, and their minions in the nooks and corners of the building stuffed with racks and papers. Except when Williams breaks ranks, steps out of office disregarding the wet and cold weather and marches to the site with all four of his junior colleagues reluctantly in tow. He walks into the ankle-deep sewerage sinking his shiny black shoes in the cesspool.

During his search for meaning in life, Williams sings an old Scottish song The Rowan Tree, first at the Bar, and later, swinging alone in the park which he had helped create. The song is nostalgic - a touching remembrance of times gone by when life was filled with love, laughter, hope, and joy.

The final scene is poignant. Williams is swinging alone in the park at night. It’s snowing and freezing; very dangerous for an old, terminally ill man to be out in the open. But Williams doesn’t care. He’s happy, and at peace. Resolute and unafraid, he had snatched a day of living from the jaws of deathly monotony and ordinariness of life.

The film is about life and living, the question posed is existential and eternal. Are you, indeed, living; or going through the motions of life?

The unexamined life, as Socrates said, is not worth living.

You may enjoy watching the film, I guess. It’s on Netflix.

Though tempted, I refrain from comparing Living with Ikiru, Bill Nighy with Takashi Shimura (who played Kanji Watanabe), and the poignant thematic songs The Rowan Tree with Gondola no Uta. If you watch these films, you may yourselves evaluate and judge.

Takashi Shimura in Ikiru

***

The Rowan Tree

"The Rowan Tree" is a traditional Scottish folk song penned by Carolina Oliphant, Lady Nairne (1766–1845). The song nostalgically reflects on childhood, family, and the cherished memories associated with the rowan tree, a symbol of home and innocence in Scottish culture.

Lyrics of "The Rowan Tree":

Oh! rowan tree, oh! rowan tree,
Thou'lt aye be dear to me,
Entwined thou art wi' mony ties,
O'hame and infancy.
Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring,
Thy flowers the simmer's pride;
There was nae sic a bonnie tree,
In a' the countryside,
Oh! rowan tree.

How fair wert thou in simmer time,
Wi' a' thy clusters white,
How rich and gay thy autumn dress,
Wi' berries red and bright.
On thy fair stem were mony names,
Which now nae mair I see,
But they're engraven on my heart,
Forgot they ne'er can be,
Oh! rowan tree.

We sat aneath thy spreading shade,
The bairnies round thee ran,
They pu'd thy bonnie berries red,
And necklaces they strang.
My mother, oh! I see her still,
She smil'd our sports to see,
Wi' little Jeanie on her lap,
Wi' Jamie at her knee,
Oh! rowan tree.

Oh! there arose my father's prayer,
In holy evening's calm,
How sweet was then my mother's voice,
In the martyr's psalm.
Now a' are gane! we meet nae mair,
Aneath the rowan tree;
But hallow'd thoughts around thee twine,
O' hame and infancy,
Oh! rowan tree.

A Long Road Trip

Senior citizens with creaking joints might be disinclined to travel especially if it involves a long road trip; but when cruising high with birds of their own flock, and in a Hyundai luxury coach speeding gently across a well-maintained highway, it’s another matter.

Meeting friends after ages is not just fun, it’s an aphrodisiac and an analgesic. Who has time to think of aches and pains and routine worries that afflict old men and women?

What is special about that bond, the little sapling that sprouted when chance brought these men and women together more than four decades ago, and grew and grew even when many of them had never met again after their training in the picturesque hills. Now, after hanging up their boots, it was time for periodic get-togethers, and travel down the memory lane; the group jaunt was just an enabler.

A lot can happen over a long road trip!

Their destination city was 317 kms away with a travel time of six and a half hours including lunch break and two loo breaks. Surprisingly, even though they had boarded the bus after a lavish, leisurely brunch, no one dozed, for the gossip had begun by the motley group at the back, soon pulling friends from the middle and the front, with several standing close to the epi-centre, risking a fall but unwilling to miss a word of the tittle-tattle.

Tour Manager attempted to brief them about the destination city, but he was politely requested to sit down.

‘Why don’t you brief us tomorrow morning when we begin our tour of the city? We’d be fresh and ready for the sights and sounds of the beautiful city,’ someone suggested.

How to spend more than six hours in a bus? Nothing had been planned, but the spontaneous bonhomie took them in her lap and rocked them so gently and tenderly that the city arrived too soon.

I hope the long journey was worth the trouble, said the group leader.

‘What trouble? This was the best part of our holiday, and the most memorable. In all our future trips, a long road journey must be included.’

Snacking started as soon as the bus began moving. Packets of namkeen, thepla, murukku, tangy lightly-roasted makhana, gud ke pare, khas-khas ki barfi, and home-made sweets made in shuddh desi ghee moved up and down the bus with the clock-work precision of a conveyor belt. Intermittent fasting had given way to non-stop snacking, and worries about blood sugar level were tossed out of the window. No one was hungry, but everyone munched and nibbled to savour the delicious snacks to honour the thoughtfulness of the ladies who had lovingly packed it for friends. Companionship, as is well-known, grows from eating together. The word companion comes from the Latin com- (“with”) and panis (“bread, food”)!

A gifted storyteller narrated an anecdote from the Trekking trip during FC.

“Reaching well after nightfall the forlorn, bare-boned rest house with no rooms and no electricity, we had a quick dinner and spread our bedrolls on the floor in the dormitory hall. Very tired, we fell asleep quickly. When Bahadur, one of the porters kept turning from side-to-side Rana, his boss spoke sharply to him, ‘What’s your problem? Why are you disturbing everyone?’

Bahadur lay still for a while, and then began shifting on his bed-roll ever so cautiously. ‘Stop that,’ hissed the Chief. ‘If you do that again, I’ll boot you out to sleep in the open veranda.’

When they woke up in the morning, Rana asked, ‘What bothered you last night?’

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’ said Bahadur, and rolled up his bedding under which lay a snake about two feet long but flattened by the heavy weight on it during the night. It took several minutes to regain consciousness and slither away slowly and in pain.”

A closet poet read a few poems addressed to his beloved spouse and composed during their brief separation when they had been posted in different cities for a few years. A lady took out her old diary where she had hand-written her favourite lyrics and sang a few charming songs. After the good singers had entertained the group, a few ladies and gentlemen who had never sung in public took the mike and sang their favourite songs, following the lyrics from the phone. Two gentlemen sang Ja Jaa Re Bhasi Bhasi Ja, the same song that they had made bold to sing at the cultural evening at Mussoorie, with an improvised band comprising three ladies (a Punjabi, a Bengali, and a Marathi), two tuneless Odias, and a much better Assamese.

A dark cloud appeared over the horizon, as it were, and moods soured when the terrible incident was revisited with a few eye-witness accounts not known to the rest of the group. But that unpleasant recall was swiftly buried, and the rest of the trip was filled with banter, leg-pulling, harmless jibes, and joyous laughter.

‘Your turn now,’ a gentleman told a lady colleague, ‘to tell us about the whispers from the rooms of the Ladies Hostel.’

She hesitated, but only for a moment, and stood up. She was at the back of the bus.

‘Please come to the front, and take the mike,’ requested the eager group.

“A few skeletons may tumble out of the cupboards. I hope no one would mind, especially the spouses. Anyway, I won’t name names. It’s easy to figure out, though,’ she said.

During FC, the group was too large for any close bonding which began with Phase I. A few pairs looked promising, and sparks began to fly. Sadly, none reached the destination. Maybe, destiny ruled otherwise; or was it a lack of decisiveness?

We were thirteen of whom one had already married. Of the 115 gentlemen, only a few were married. What happened? Were the ladies and gentlemen too timid to take the plunge? Or, just over-cautious, mulling over pros and cons? When Phase II ended, and it was time to bid adieu to the Academy, a senior Faculty chided in friendly banter a group boarding the bus, ‘A hopeless batch, that’s what you’re. There were several happy pairings in all the recent batches!”

Can you be a little more specific, please? A friend requested the lady teller of tales.

“Sure, I’ll, but without naming names. A lady had several suitors of whom one is here with us. A gentleman, also present here, so gawked at all the girls that he was nicknamed majnu by us. How could any sensible girl take him seriously when he was enamoured by any lady, mercifully excluding the one who was already married?”

‘Tell us about the marriage proposal hollered from the porch a little before midnight.’

‘Well, we were about to tuck into our blankets when we heard someone address a lady by name. Parting the curtain a little and peeping out of the window, we saw a batchmate shouting. ‘Hey, why don’t you marry my friend? He’s a very good boy, and madly in love with you.’ The ‘good’ boy was so very ‘good’ that he stood behind a large, manicured Thuja bush at a discrete distance.

The proposer had not bothered that his loud proclamation might wake up the Course Director whose residence was adjacent to our hostel.’

***

The Girl in a Red Gown

‘This is just a loo-break. No time for shopping. Please return to the bus in ten minutes. We got a long way to go, and have a packed itinerary for the day,’ the Tour Manager announced.

How very hospitable, the senior citizens from India marvelled as they stepped out of the toilet, when a smiling girl curtsied and offered them wine-coloured soft-drinks in paper cups neatly lined on a bamboo tray she held. How could they have turned down the gentle nudge from the soft-drink girl to step into the enticing, fragrant room facing the bamboo products shop where they were greeted by the girl in the red gown.

She was fair, slim, and tall; her height accentuated by the long red gown which hid her stilettos. She had a smile that could launch a few if not a thousand ships, and a dulcet voice that could lull the listeners to a trance.

Please be seated, she beamed at the tourists.

May I please have five to seven minutes for a quick demo, she asked the Tour Manager?

Five minutes or less, the no-nonsense Manager from India said.

‘We got many innovative bamboo products, 100 percent Natural, both for ladies and gentlemen. But this one is unisex, highly recommended for joint pains.’ She waved the item.

‘Does anyone suffer from neck ache, back ache, joint pain?’ She need not have asked. She already knew.

‘I need a few volunteers, please.’

When none of the hesitant tourists stepped forward, she picked up the gentleman with a kindly face, and almost holding his little finger led him to the front. How did she figure out that that senior citizen was yet to hang up his boots, and as the CEO of a large, profitable plant put in fourteen hours of work six days a week? Or could see read his net worth from his facial lines?

After fastening the heat-therapy belt on his neck, she picked up another gentleman most likely in pain from cervical spondylosis, and strapped the belt on his neck.

Then, she put on her own person a bath robe, and a hair-drying towel, both in alluring pink. Highly absorbent and much quicker to dry than a Turkish robe or towel, she assured.

She asked the two gentlemen with the heat-therapy belt, ‘Are you feeling hot?’

‘No.’

‘Give it a few more minutes.’

She showed a few more products.

The CEO stood up and said, I got a strange sensation. Please remove this belt.

‘Sir, the belt is doing what it is designed to do. You feel hot, don’t you? In a few minutes, you’ll feel hotter, and still hotter. Guaranteed therapy. No side-effects.’

Hot, Hotter, Hotter. Being Vietnamese, and with modest command over English, was she unaware of the connotations of those words, or did she deliberately tease the men with her innuendo?

Tour Manager barged in. Time to leave, she announced.

Two more minutes, please, the girl in the red gown coaxed.

No, your demo has already overshot by twenty minutes. We’re way behind schedule.

The tourists filed out of the room with much reluctance, it seemed. The only way to the bus in the parking lot passed through the BAMBOO shop which had brisk sales in less than ten minutes.

Just as there’s no free lunch, there’s no free loo-break!

The girl in the red gown had followed the tourists into the shop and seemed pleased with the success rate of her promo. She was the only one dressed in red, her colleagues in drab business suits mandated by the owner.

Why in red? In Vietnam, as In China, red signifies luck, happiness, and auspiciousness; traditionally donned by girls for New Year, important festivals, and family get-togethers. Maybe, this girl had high sale-targets for which she needed all her luck every working-day.

‘You men are so gullible, all it takes is a smile from a pretty face to rob your wallet in broad daylight,’ a lady who had made no purchase addressed the gentlemen who were walking with her to the bus. Chalat musafir moh liya re… she added. Her spouse soon caught up with her with a stuffed shopping bag in his hands. “Just a few things for you, Darling,’ he said sheepishly.

Another tourist bought a unisex heat-therapy belt for 250,000 VND (INR 1000), and a head-towel for 235,000 VND for spouse. The towel has been used, looks and feels no different from an ordinary cotton towel. A fortnight after return, the heat-therapy belt is not yet unpacked. The packet has a ‘Friendly Tip’: Please contact the manufacturer if you fell discomfort.

Product: Made in Vietnam

Protective Appliance Processing Factory, Add: Shimabara City, Negasaki, Japan.

The reference is presumably to Nagasaki Prefecture!

Notes

India is the largest producer of bamboo in the world. Clothes and accessories made from bamboo fibre are manufactured in India, and are exported, too.

In Bhagwan I Trust!

I solemnly affirm, ‘In Bhagwan I Trust.’ But that has nothing to do with religion.

Long ago, after moving to Burla, a small town near Sambalpur, I went for a haircut to the modest, minimalist, unnamed salon near Anand café. It had two creaking wooden chairs for the services, two not-entirely opaque ancient mirrors hung precariously on nails on opposite walls, and a rugged wooden bench for the waiting customers who flipped through the pages of Filmfare if it was not already in the hands of the customer ahead in the queue.

Bhagwan was the Owner-Proprietor-Manager-Head Barber (no pun intended)-Cashier-Accountant-Cleaner and Sweeper, with his younger brother as his understudy and help. I often wondered why he had migrated from a village near Vizag to set up shop here, and how he managed with his limited proficiency in Odia-Sambalpuri.

Yet, he was the little town’s Google before Google was conceived. He talked less, listened more, and deftly filed in his memory the bazar news, gossip, and rumour. When asked, he shared only with valuable and trust-worthy customers the relevant gossip duly curated, abridged, and referenced for source. He never generated gossip, happy as he was to be a truthful disseminator.

Business was rather modest, almost a trickle on weekdays. Engineers of Hirakud Dam Project would not deign to get a haircut where their clerks and chaprasis were serviced; and the Engineering and Medical college students wanted Rajesh Khanna cut for which they took a bus ride to Sambalpur.

When my turn came to move from the bench to the Master’s Chair, he took a quick look at my head and asked, ‘Who gave you the previous cut?’

‘The barber in my village.’*

‘Alas, he has ruined your head. No worry, I’ll fix it.’

Bhagwan’s expert eyes had quickly spotted the stubborn tuft of hair at the back at the top of my head which seemed to have a mind of its own, stood up and stood out from the rest of the hair, demanding to be seen and commented upon. An exhibitionist, for sure.

Bhagwan’s scissors clipped fast and furious, and he was done in less than ten minutes. Satisfied after his restoration job, he said, ‘I’ve repaired the damage done by that inept barber. I bet the cowlick will never again bother you.’ He was right; his magic fingers had made it disappear.

During all my years at Burla, I went to Bhagwan only, for he had a deep understanding of my head. Later, whenever I went to a salon in a new town, I cautioned the barber, ‘Take care, don’t agitate the whirl, let the sleeping lion sleep.’ I glared when I suspected he was moving close to the forbidden territory.

Once the job is finished, I compare them with Bhagwan. A few barbers come close, but I’m yet to meet someone as gifted as Bhagwan, the Master Hair-Artist in my life. That’s why, ‘In Bhagwan I Trust!’

***

Postscript

A few readers have shared memories of the affectionate bond with their preferred personal service provider who gave a shave, a cut, and a refreshing champi - the icing on the cake.

Bhagwan Ki Maya

At Sambalpur, on Laxmi Talkies-Ashoka Talkies-road, there was a barber shop named Bhagwan Ki Maya. Yes, the proprietor was Bhagwan, but how very intriguing was the name of the salon! Was it self-deprecating humour, or a gentle ribbing of his beloved clients? It began business in the early 1970s, became hugely popular, and is still in business though Bhagwan is no more.

The barber's salon was a veritable news agency, a pro-bono public broadcasting branch of AIR, as it were. Before the age of the internet and the mobile, they used to be matchmakers and privy to the gossip of the town.

Alfa

Alfa, who had his salon in front of G.M. College was another famous barber in Sambalpur. Fair, and immaculately dressed in his signature white kurta, pyjama, and a pair of white chappals, he looked very distinguished. Knowledgeable and well-informed, he could hold forth on any subject; discussing the challenge of theatre acting with Sadhu Meher, alumnus of FTII, Pune; classical music and dance with Rahas Bihari Mishra; and geo-politics of Cold War in Vietnam with professors of history and politics . For a haircut, one had to book with Alfa well in advance, and after checking his notebook he assigned the date and time.

Babubhai

At Gandhinagar, Sec-19, I found Babubhai providing excellent service from his modest salon, a 10 ft by 10 ft structure with two chairs and one bench. He was keen on both local and international politics and could easily convince you about the suicidal policies of the US president. I went to Babubhai from 1980 onwards. In 1996, upon return to the town after eleven years’ absence from the cadre, I was sad to learn that he was no more. His son now ran the salon, but he was not as good. So, I bid adieu to my favourite salon.

A colleague

“Such a charming blog! By the way, I'm yet to come across a 'hair-artist' who doesn't comment adversely on his predecessor - much like most IAS officers.”

A veteran colleague

“Incidentally, the barber in my area retired about six months back. Since then, I have not been to any barber as I don't trust them.”

Barber-Nama

C.P. Singh, my batchmate and friend has shared an interesting anecdote.

In 2011, I was Chairman, Tamil Nadu Electricity Board. Late one evening, about 11.00 pm, I got a call from his office. ‘CM would speak with you,’ said his PS.

‘A transformer is out of order in Venkatachalam’s village since the last three days. It’s in Pollachi Taluk of Coimbatore. Please get it fixed quickly,’ said M. Karunanidhi.

‘Sure, Sir, it will be done. I’ll get Shri Venkatachalam’s contact number from your office, Sir.’

‘Arre Bhai, you may be having his number. Have you forgotten your talented barber when you were Collector, Coimbatore many years ago?’

I was Collector there fifteen years ago!

M. Karunanidhi had many stories of Barber ‘shops’ and had once observed that the DMK was born in these humble shops and grew up in them. He connected directly with the most prominent barbers in many towns and villages all over the state. Such is the महिमा of hair-dressers.

*The Village Barber

An excerpt from Kathapur Tales, an autobiography of a village, by this blogger.

“In a village, the best a man could get was the best that the village barber could provide. The barber was the same, but the outcome was variable depending upon his mood that morning, the number of persons waiting for his services and the economic and social status of the customer. A kid brought by his father for a haircut, would be serviced at the very end when all other customers, including men who came much later, had been attended to. And the boy would receive a tupli cut. That was the only styling on offer for kids. Now, a tupli is a small circular bamboo container. This special cut looked as if the barber had put an upturned tupli on the boy's head, and then snipped off all the hair protruding outside. That was called a tupli bhadar. No one complained since all boys in the village got the same identical cut.

In Kathapur, there was just one barber family at the starting point of Talipara, and on the edge of the village choupal where gahaks and bahaks performed at night during Kartik Puni Yatra. The family had two sets of razors and scissors for the two brothers who provided the services. On a regular day, there was enough work for only one barber. Services of both the brothers were required only on special occasions like deaths and births when the entire clan will come for the mandatory shaving on dasahkarma day for deaths, and the end of chitkia for births.

There was no shop, no chairs or stools, and not even a mirror. The person who went for a haircut and a shave never thought of asking for a mirror to check the styling or the finish. The barber was expected to do his job, and the customer was expected to be happy with the service. The family was a monopoly service provider, with no competition whatsoever. It was a basic necessity, so no one ever expressed dissatisfaction over the quality of service.

A customer sat on the earthen floor of the wide pindha which could seat two customers to get the service and two or three to gossip while waiting for their turn. If more people turned up on a particular day, they'd see the number of customers waiting to be serviced, figure out the time when their turn would come and go back home to return later. Sometimes a father would ask his son to go and check the current status of waiting customers and report to him periodically. The facility was less than five minutes walking time from most parts of the village, so it was no big deal.

No one paid cash. It was a cash-less transaction round the year. Every family paid in paddy. Yearly rate for each male member availing the barber's services (boys excluded) was one khandi of paddy. Paddy was measured in maan, tambi, khandi and pudug - 4 maans made a tambi, 20 tambis made a khandi, 8 khandis made a pudug. One tambi was a little less than a ser which was a little less than a kilo, so go figure. If a family had five adult males, they gave five khandis of paddy to the barber after the annual harvest. During puspuni or nuakhai festivals every family paid a bonus, again in paddy.

Holi: Festival of Spring

Holi is so joyous a festival that it has permeated the entire range of cultural expression in India, and is ubiquitous in literature, painting, song, music, and dance. How could Bollywood be untouched by it?

Rang Barse, one of the most popular Bollywood Holi songs, was filmed on Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha in Silsila (1981). The lyrics by Harivansh Rai Bachchan are believed by some to be inspired by a Meeran Bhajan which begins with these lines:

Rang barse O Meeran,

Bhawan mein rang barse,

Kun e Meeran tero mandir chinayo,

Kun chinayo tero devro,

Rang barse O Meeran,

Bhawan mein rang barse…

Since Meeran’s oral bhajans were transcribed much later, the lyrics in Rajasthani and Haryanvi versions vary. However, Meeran’s song was intensely devotional whereas there’s nothing devotional about the song in Silsila which handled the risqué theme of adulterous amour. It is a holi song and dance scripted for the film’s plot.

In another adorable song, Meeran pines for Krishna; since Holi is drab, dull, and colourless without Kanha.[i]

Remember the evergreen song from Navrang (1959)?

अरे जा रे हट नटखट

ना छू रे मेरा घूँघट

पलट के दूँगी

आज तुझे गाली रे …

The beloved feigns anger and threatens to abuse the lover, and the latter is game for the love-sport, including her mock-insult:

आज मीठी लगे है तेरी गाली रे

The song captures the spirit of Brij ki Holi, and Bharat Vyas’s lyrics could be inspired by Surdas, the 16th century bhakti poet who sang eloquently of Krishna-Radha Raas-leela.

In one of Surdas’s famous holi songs, Kanha and Radha गावत दै दै गारि परसपर (sing open insults at each other).[ii] Love is camouflaged in the playful gaali exchanged between them. In Girija Devi's soulful thumri kaise shor machayee, the gaali is as sensuous as a loving caress.

The uninhibited revelry, flirtatiousness, teasing and taunting may have progressed from the merely verbal to the unabashedly physical lathmaar Holi of Barsana.

Vasantotsav, the ancient Festival of Spring, is now better known as Holi, the Festival of Colours. It is not known when Holi shed its sinister association with Holika, the demoness, to emerge as a festival of joy; but there are as many distinctive Holis with their unique traditions and cultural legacy as there are regions in India: Brij ki Holi, Barsane ki Holi, Lathmaar Holi, Phoolon ki Holi, Avadh ki Holi, Masane ki Holi, Dol Yatra of Lord Jagannath of Puri, Holla Mohalla of Punjab, Madanotsav of the South, and the kapda-phad Holi of Gujrat. Ashutosh Rana presents in his You Tube video ‘Kos-Kos ki Holi’ an excellent summary of these varied traditions.[iii]

Previous Blogs

For readers who might be interested, here are the links for my previous blogs on Holi, and Kalidasa’s celebration of Vasanta in Ritusamhara.

[i] होली पिया बिन म्हँनै नी भावै, घर आँगण न सुहावे ।

दीपक जोदूँ चौक पुरायूँ, हेलि पिव परदेस सजावे।

सूनी सेजह ब्याळ बुझावे, जागत रैण बितावे॥

नींद नैणा नी आवे॥

कब री ठाडी म्हें मग जोनूँ, निसदिन विरह जगावे।

किण सूँ मन री बिथा बतायूँ, हिवड़ो म्हाँ अकुलावे॥

पिया कब दरस दिखावे ॥

दीखे नी कोई परम सनेही, म्हारो सनेसो लावे ।

वा बिरिया कब होसी म्हारे, हँस पिय कंठ लगावे॥

मीराँ होली गावे ॥

[ii] “होरी हो हो हो हो होरी

षेलत अति सुष प्रीति प्रगट भइ

उत हरि इतहि राधिका गोरी बाजत तार म्रिदंग झंझ डफ

बीच बीच बंसुरी धुनि थोरी

गावत दै दै गारि परसपर

भरि कांन्हहि ब्रिषभान किसोरी …

‘Ho, ho, ho, Holi!’

They joyfully play and their love comes clear-

Hari there, here fair Radha.

Long drums, round drums, cymbals, and tambourines

pound-and through it faintly, the flute-

as Kanh and Brishabhanu's daughter

sing open insults at each other….”

(Excerpt from 'Surdas: Sur's Ocean -Poems from the early tradition', Edited by Kenneth E. Bryant,

Translated by John Stratton Hawley, Murty Classical Library of India)

[iii] Kos-Kos ki Holi by Ashutosh Rana: https://youtu.be/AwUznUdGPQg?si=SEqpRAIpM1Zy4GKN

The Boatman on Ngo Dong

Our boat cruise on Ngo Dong river in the picturesque Tam Coc region of Ninh Binh, Vietnam had just begun when spouse said, ‘Let’s go back.’ A little startled, I asked, ‘Are you unwell?’

The two-hour cruise had several attractions; a spectacular view of the lofty, verdant green mountains, a leisurely ride for each couple on a traditional sampan boat with the boatmen and women using their signature leg-rowing technique, and passing through the three fascinating caves bored by the river through limestone mountains over millions of years.

Our large group had driven about a hundred kilometres from Hanoi to enjoy the cruise. The peak rainy season was long behind, the river looked like a rivulet flowing gently with no waves but for the little ripples created by the manually-rowed boats.

Originating in the Tam Diep mountain range, Ngo Dong is rather small with a length of only 14 kms, but a boon for the two abundant rice crops a year which the fertile valley grows. Vietnam is the world’s fifth largest producer and the third largest exporter of rice.

‘The driver is drunk. We’re at serious risk. Didn’t the tour guide mention that the caves are dark?’

‘I don’t think he is drunk.’

‘How can you tell? Why don’t you stop gawking at the scenery and focus on the boatman’s strange behaviour?’

She was right. I had paid little attention to the boatman who sat behind us at the far end of the boat. It is a little unsettling when you can’t see the driver of your vehicle or vessel. She had good reason to worry.

I discretely craned my neck a little pretending to appreciate the passing mountain cliff to my right. Behind us he sat on a wooden plank at the stern, his torso leaning backwards while he pushed with his muscular legs the two oars secured with rope-knots on both sides of the boat. At every push, he heaved, grunted, and squealed.

‘That’s strange, I conceded. Other boatmen and women are rowing quietly and effortlessly. But I don’t think our man is drunk. We’ve hired a reputed local tour operator, and they won’t engage a drunk driver for foreign tourists.’

‘Why, then, is he behaving strangely?’

It was difficult for me to figure out. He was seated behind us, and I had managed only a brief, furtive glance. He had noted that I was checking him out, was amused, and squealed louder.

Don’t pay him any attention, I counselled spouse.

What if he crashes the boat? This river must be infested with crocodiles and snakes, she persisted, one worry fuelling other fears.

But the river is shallow, an unlikely habitat for crocs which need to eat a lot of fish. Snakes are very shy reptiles, and particularly afraid of the Vietnamese whose traditional cuisine includes snake meat. Anyway, we’ve put on the life jackets. Impossible to drown.

Spouse was annoyed. How about delivering your erudite lecture on the preferred habitat of crocodiles, and the culinary preferences of the Vietnamese, after the cruise? Why don’t you be pragmatic for a change and attend to the grave problem at hand? What if he demands money when we’re inside the dark tunnel?

The first and the longest cave was visible at a little distance. Her apprehension would soon be tested. As we entered the cave, our man squealed louder than before and poked my back with his right toe, not to demand my wallet but to handover a little plastic bag which had two small, squarish, battery-operated torch lights. I passed one to spouse and switched on the other.

The stalactite hangings were spectacular though irregular, the river having patiently carved the tunnel with little fancy for sculpture, but a few hung so low that we ducked well before time. What if the boatman had not given us the torchlights?

He purposely rowed the boat, it seemed, under the low-hanging outcrops, for were we not tourists in search of adventure? He squealed in sheer delight after rowing the boat out of the tunnel, and repeated the drill for the second cave, and the third cave which had a very low ceiling.

Once or twice, he let his boat gently nudge a passing boat, as though shaking hands with a friend. The boatman or woman who received this unusual greeting acknowledged with a courtesy and a smile. He was an elder, it appeared, and well-respected. During our entire cruise, he made it a point to demonstrate his superior strength and navigating skill by racing all other boats for our group and leaving them far behind.

Give me your phone, I’ll click you, he signalled.

Don’t, warned spouse. What if he drops the phone into the river?

A tad disappointed with his dull, timid, and uncooperative tourists, he picked up his jacket from the floor with his left big toe and the middle finger, pulled out a cigarette, clicked on the lighter and began smoking. The wind direction brought the smoke to us, and irritated, I signalled him to put it out. Though unhappy, he at once dropped the cigarette into the river.

Then he picked up his transistor and tuned into the local station which was probably playing a folk song. Was it to entertain us, his fellow boatmen and women, or was he capable of hearing but had a congenital speech impairment? I wish I had checked with the local guide.

But there was no need. He was entirely harmless and well-meaning, just wishing to tell his customers that he was no less capable than the other boatmen and women, and his speech impairment was no handicap for entertaining the tourists.

At the end of the cruise, he asked for a tip. Nothing unusual. So did all the other boatmen and women. Our local tour manger told them in Vietnamese that the group had paid for the tickets and a tip for the cruise, too. Our man grunted in unconcealed disapproval. A tip involved the exchange of currency, as far as he knew, and the tactile pleasure was an inseparable part of the transaction. His fellow boatmen and women were also unhappy.

Maybe, the operator would shortchange them or deduct his commission. All they had asked for was 100000 Vietnamese Dongs (about 350 INR) per boat. Not a princely amount, especially since this was off-season, and each one could be earning a modest daily wage of four hundred rupees or less.

***

Prasanna Dash