Thoughts for this Republic Day

Smart people changed the camera angle, and it all started to look different thereafter. Many people I know, many from my family, had lived lives in the republic seeing it from their own personal camera angles and viewpoints. Another viewpoint is reduction of hours spent on celebration of a republic and its showcasing. Now, it looks like a drill, something necessary that is, and a little of entertainment with it. The whole concept of a country, the concept that provides and props and unites amongst many similar things need changing, for the times they are changing. No, I don't have anything new to sing, for it is a wheel, so it will spin. A wheel I agree can be a concept too but when more than a billion unite for ethics and stand for who they are in a righteous manner, become more than humanity. The country or the republic emerges as more than a concept, it becomes more than reality too. A hyper reality. Worth living, I guess. 

A glimpse from Colonel Gautam's notes

Generally I find quoted quotes, and even most originals, purty quoty, that is good to know, and that is it. But, I am amazed by this one original by Colonel Gautam. In verbatim:

Traditionally, in India, when a child is born, his/her birth is celebrated based on the gender, but those who are blessed with person with disability, their celebration starts with the well being (physical and mental health) of the child. They wait for the cry of the child and sucking of mother's feed or any such existing activity for the newly born baby. They never think of gender.

Is there any need for an object?

How can letters or words be made to dance and so make an interesting sentence? How can then these be danced to make a whole comprehensible piece of a paragraph or writing? What works to make all this work?

So, why are there questions when there is no need for any answer? Is it lack of structure? Or, just lack of inspiration?

Is there some static force in play leading me to a status quo or a vacuum? Or, is there some too much vague movement to handle- dance or no-dance?

Flats to the Hills- Shamless Travel broadcast- May and June 2015 - 02

The wonderlusty green lawns with mounds,
I pick up somebady's guitar and pluck some sounds,
handy as the guitar is, so I sing more, Harry Mclintock's,
Big Rock Candy Mountain- you don't need any socks,
neither any money. There, a burley bum by the shady lanes,
of the sugar canes,
in this month of May...

So on this hot summer day,
A rucksack and another bag on my back,
I say good bye temporarily to Jack,
he wags his tongue along with the tail,
I kiss him a lick, and he licks me back a kiss,
I will miss you I tell him, and then I sneak out, quick.

 

Flats to the Hills- Shamless Travel broadcast- May and June 2015 - 01

It is getting hotter day by day,
day after day is passing away,
The arid desert is left behind,
and mountains are coming to mind.
The brawling air conditioner gives needy resting,
makes complacent, sleep is in,
remembering past isn't that bad,
darkness or light, I wonder what is more exciting,
tucked in a city with a whiff of intelligence,
I dream of travel North,
where it must'be cooler,
while the dog sleeps, I shall pack my bags.

Intent for curves in buildings

They ask me, why curves? When most buildings are boxes and straight lines, and it is much cheaper to build them the regular way?

Yes, admitted, but it looks different and ... ummm probably fancier

and

perhaps curves are interesting, and perhaps more importantly, liberating. Live in a cave compared to a house, you are bound to become more liberal.

It is like couches maybe, aeroplanes and large suspension bridges maybe. Straight ones may not be comfortable when compared to the modern ones which have incorporated ergonomics in designs. Or maybe, forces of nature have just forced them to become aesthetically more interesting.

Why do you need bend on a road? Simply because it makes things more interesting. It is in the air, a manifestation of the air to allow to see what great things it contains.

Usefulness of Dreams

To dream and then to experiment with the same dream in probably one activity humans can look to pursue. Although, when I notice Banjo -- note a dog not a human being -- dreaming while sleeping I wonder if he is also looking to convert them into reality? Anyways, it doesn't matter if he is or not. Probably, his life because of his dreams is already much interesting; probably more entertaining than the human observer who believes more on reality.

And, since the dog's interpretation of dreams also relates to us, the humans, should the task of dreams converted to reality matter more to us? And, so, shall we look to pursue it?

Two hours for work, two for chores, two for somebody else's errands. Rest eighteen for dreaming which includes sleep could be Life worth living probably.

Why Stop

I think I am missing on a beautiful activity on most of my days. That is, to spend time writing, and hence-on, also improving my hand on the craft; the craft of writing.

Call it critical writing, observational writing, creative writing or so on, perhaps this pause in my writing output can be called  Writer's Block, as famously put by many. And, I think it is an insulting remark. For, it shows- One, I have become lazy. Two, I probably don't enjoy writing. Or or And, three, the writer in me isn't confident that what I am doing is creative.

Then, I notice why people don't face this Writer's Block when carrying out writing activities, such as writing exams, filling out application forms or creating petitions. Why? Perhaps, simply because,  these things do not suffer from requirements of a creative force, or if I am right, a motivating creative force which will eventually create something new. And also maybe, creative writing is such a beautiful animal that though it cannot be undone it can always be redone, redone again or newly done again.

Genuine creative written matter, doesn't suffer from any block, I think; for anything written genuinely will create something new. Creativity just doesn't equates with any stoppage or a block. Writing is about flow of words, free flow or hindered flow but yet a flow. Hence, the term Writer's Block, is therefore clearly a weed in the process of creative writing; maybe an expression which is unnecessary.

Someone who likes writing should just keep writing, perhaps.

What can Bhola do?

Bhola is in mid twenties and runs a small shop in a desolate single lane road which connects two obscure regular villages in a typical flat arid terrain in India. The ten by five feet mud shack doesn't serve any tea, but keeps some handy bidis, biscuit and chips packets, a bicycle repair kit, and perhaps some other handy items of local village consumption or a local passer-by's use. A shade next with a mud floor and a mud  bench is also handy to usual gathering of the youth in the hamlet.

Many reports on many youth like Bhola and my personal observations after meeting him show an evident charm in him towards innovative farming, participating in improvement initiatives in his village housing environment, and also nearby travelling as a desire. But for the farm hand and part time shop owner, lack of income opportunities accentuated by inclination to stay with own in the villages perhaps keeps Bhola still in the village, and continue a frugal life. Perhaps, as Bhola says, it could also be lack of good jobs in nearby cities, as they are hard to pursue because of inability to adjust to demanding working conditions, out of context exam questions and the question of settling in a new environment.

Seems for Bhola now, there is no-place exciting to go to -- or stay -- for any new ambitions, when really a lot can be achieved by him and his gang of scaterred youth in his own very hamlet he is living in these days.

***

In the the above lines, something's seriously wrong. Isn't it?

Good Cocktail

Do the two fields of Human condition , i.e. Development and Art make a good mix? Think about it, it can either be nicely cocktailed or it can go really bad. Asit is right in reminding me, that tradition is something to learn from, and what really have you done when you haven't added your art to it? Hence, where will development and empowerment come from otherwise?

These words inspire me to think about all the work we do with building houses in poor regions, rural settings and disaster situations. Shouldn't the rural artisans or regular contractors involved in daily work must be inspired to put art in their development work?

Really, how much of this cocktail can really go bad?

Good Morning Gloominess

Is it isn't because of the gloom and the feeble struggles of lights trying to seep inside this room from the few windows it has that I can see the vapour rising from my new hot cup of tea?

Imagine what would happen when suddenly you find that this next morning you have your tea cup missing from its usual place?

Nothin. You just might wanna sketch it.
 

Watercolors

To enable you to make a painting or draw a sketch, you need your mind in peace, or a certain restlessness.  Let me try to explain this.

Well, today I am looking outside my window and all I see is grey trees, windows and everything grey.  Really, everything is grey indeed.  The head gets gloomy and numb.  And perhaps, the only way to deal with this gloom is to draw something colourful.  In my opinion Water Colours can be one good choice here.  There is no need to draw something within boundaries or any specific colour, just find something cheery, I mean a cheery colour, mix a few drops of clean water, to it. Pankaj says, "thicker the paper the better it is; so,  the colour water can flow within as well as on the surface of the paper".  Just look outside the window, your window, and draw what you see.  Remember, no boundaries or no fixed lines, just your few cheery water colours flowing.  And, using "black" for colour here would only give more contrast.

Keep colouring keep drawing, you might get so absorbed in your work that next time you look up at the window, you will find that the beautiful darkness has arrived.


Below, one wintry day in Delhi...

 

The Time Warp of Capacity Building

The so called capacity building in development slash empowerment programmes in India appear to be in a time warp. 'Capacity building', a term which aims for human development is pretty much an intangible term made tangible through mostly grant-in-aid type of projects, and with a major chunk focussing on trainings for skill development; and in the cases of poor and vulnerable, for income generation. In addition, it is slowly becoming apparent that the likes of Aid agencies, Government and Non Government Organizations (NGO's) who design such capacity building policies and implement them have perhaps become dated entities, or own some sort of a secretly kept time-machine to travel swiftly through time to know and be enlightened about the problems a developing society faces and opportunities it might have.

So, I bendly ask the time warpers- if they factor for 'time' as a component in their so called 'capacity building' programmes, or not? If not, perhaps with changing time you can think of including it. As time becomes an important -- from an intangible to a tangible -- term in today's India, instead of more than helping anyone anymore, it can , or has, become a factor representing degeneration. One gets a little more dated as time passes. Therefore, the so called capacity building projects offering benefits without a denominator of time should be simply considered obsolete. Even the secret time-machine is not of much use here, because even a time-machine may need amends with time.

Think again. About, the so called 'Capacity Building' programmes. What progress is an individual expected to make unless he has been equipped to compete and improve over time?

The Chequer (folk song)

I am black and I am white, simultaneously,
I am juxtaposed with myself, clearly,
I can be visible and I can hide, simply,
because, I am, I am, a chequer.

I can cut a curve, sew a patch, easily,
I can be a word or can destroy one, comfortably,
I am right and I am wrong, knowingly,
because, I am, I am, a chequer.

I am a game and I am a board, playfully,
I can be steps, and I can be stepped on, laterally,
I am boring and all this while I can be amusing, truly,
because, I am, I am, a chequer.

I can smile and all this while I can be sad, cheerfully,
I am false and I am true, paradoxically,
I am me and I can be you, think-of-it,
because, I am, I am, a chequer.

hey hey hey hey, I am, I am, a chequer.

Animaldom

 
The morning was dewy and light soft. Walking with Shubham on a smooth pavement next to the river, the still river flowed along the left of the road. On the right continued a lane of well maintained light green grass lawns. The occasional neighbourhood found rare in India, and mostly in dreams, has posh houses lined behind the lawns. Ah, an elite artist friend lives in one of them! We think of visiting him, so we jump the bordering feet high bushes which after the communal lawns lead to the private garden of his property. A dog like creature is hiding in the small bush and growling through it. Shubham tells to watch out since he hasn't seen this kind of animal before. Soon, I am down on my knees pinning the animal by locking his teeth. I look up at Shubham and tell him to have a closer look. I convince him that the thing is neither poisonous nor a reptile, and by now the thing has understood we mean no harm. The rabbit/dog/mini-dragon mellows down, and as soon as it is released he has become playful knowing we are his new friends. The animal who was scared and hiding moments ago is fearlessly rolling, running, jumping around on the greens, looking gay and happy. Meantime, we get called for coffee by the host, and are engrossed in talking and listening about the house's architecture, especially its high span and quality wooden joist ceilings. The talks eventually end and so does the breakfast, and jumping back from the green lawns we notice the bones of the dead animal, with carcass of plain white bones scattered about. We soon notice a few lobsters hanging around about. And, this was perhaps the reason why the iguana cum dog was hiding in the first place. The caterpillar lookalike lobsters, a couple of them around, have had recently fed on our not-so-old friend. Harmless to us, and as tall as street dogs, they are gaily hopping and dancing after their happy meal. For a moment, my heart skipped a few beats as I was accidently about to step on one's feet. The two are of dynamic plastic colours like Lego toys standing in front of us like earth-digging equipment. We both hum and agree, "yeahh it is all about survival".

 Next day we call on my friend again. This time his old age naukar receives us at the door and tells us in a scruffy tone that his master is not in house since he has gone out on business, and he is not sure when he will return. No cup of tea is asked.

 Walking dryly with Shubham, I start thinking we humans have become like this- valuing things and having friends only for the moment. And, when the moment's gone so is the reason why we valued those things. We just look forward to a new day, new friends and new things.
 

How Dreams Become Real

Think again when someone asks, "how do dreams become real?"

And, I think one suggestion can be- if your night sleep is broken, do not curse or become miserable, just get up and switch on your music player and preferably play a list of some folk songs. Go back and try to catch up with the rest of your sleep.

The Pete Seeger's "A Link In the Chain" is a thirty eight song album, and I hear an Angloman singing one of its songs while he descends steps and a passageway; his voice echoing because of the side walls. It was a usual cloudy day in Manchester and it was a surprise to see good old bald Mike, the office admin handy assistant, humming the tune, and soon bursting out into the whole song. The spotless grip on pronunciation of words and control on the tune made me an immigrant Indian engineer think, "yes, this is the way a song should be sung. See how perfectly he sang it. What a treat!"

The clock had struck seven approximately, and the Indian engineer found himself waking up fully and finally in another solitudal bight morning which belongs to Dahod. The waking up clarified that it has been years since the engineer has spoken to Mike. The latter half of the sleep had Mike and this real-definition music video as a dream. Nevertheless, the morning dream did give a nice high. The dream had made it a day even before it had started, for it was too real, and it would cover up for the rest of the mundane routine day ahead.

DeArt

Being a citzen of India and having Chinese as neighbours inspires copying, improvisation and tradition passing. In order to tackle the mundane routine, boredom, lazyness and nothingness which I found aplenty in the town of Dahod I made a copy of some good sketches of my students, and layered them with dry pastels, and thus I found serendipity. Sharing them here.
I call this process 'DeArt'- where the original idea belongs to someone else and you try to make it attractive to claim ownership.

Link to the Album

Teach Art

Asking Tribal kids being vocationally trained in construction sector skills to learn sketching and drawing is quite comparable to music lessons for soldiers during a war. Not only this additional activity should help alleviate an individual's stress while learning it might also help in winning over enemies or clients when in the field.

I am always a proponent of the thought that the power of imagination is theoretically boundless and even a little of it which can be converted into action has always been exciting for mankind.

So, here at the Vocational Training Centre at Dahod, I initiated some drawing classes. The students who come here at the centre are tribal youth from Gujarat, mainly Dahod district, and spend about forty five days in residence here to get introduced to construction skills such as masonry, bar bending, plumbing, site supervision and carpentery. I was very much supported and encouraged by all my colleagues here at GVT and GIZ  to undertake this; the aim being:

1. Make students realize that skteching can be used at work to share ideas and plans with colleagues and clients
2. Foster creative thinking
3. Value creativity

During these sketching classes the methodology focussed into following rules:

1. Always draw with a pencil on a blank paper
2. To begin, break down your sketches into polygons, triangles and circles
3. Never ever copy an existing image
4. Draw a real 3D object, whether it is visible or it comes to your mind
5. Do not worry about realisticness of your drawn image
6. Let the drawing flow with your hand following your head
7. Make your image rich with your own imagination
8. Always improvise
9. Practice, practice and practice
10. Observe, observe and observe

A few selected sketches are scanned and shown here. Most of the sketches were drawn in classes and I don't think most students took any particular interest because sketching is seldom seen as an important subject in today's Indian mainstream learning. However, whatever that was attempted, somewhere in these skteches, to my luck, I found the present state of tribal living, interpretations and a few aspirations.

https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=107874027219736477260&target=ALBUM&id=6030679721185976449&authkey=Gv1sRgCPuFvpDY-f-zVw&feat=email&mode=SLIDESHOW

 

Please fold your hands

The sun was high and it was pleasant and cool inside the room. I was in a new high ranked job position and my employers and colleagues looked just happy on my joining. It seemed all liked me. I also received a handsome grant amount for research I wanted to pursue; as promised. I had finally joined a democratic institution in my own culture. Nobody was happier than me.

As the job progressed, the outside sun was as bright as always. I wore blue kurta to work and seldom a few times western clothes. But I started having differences with my colleagues. Probably, because of my working style which they said is slightly different. But I was also reassured that there was nothing wrong with it. "There's nothing wrong with it you know. But just then what do we need to spend so much of energy for? But anyways, do what you like", my new and close aides would say.

Months passed by and the sun outside reduced its intensity. But is never lost its glare, so most events would happen inside. This time it was a ceremony where all including the trustees would be present. They called all seniors, including me, to the stage and receive honorary certificates of contributions. On my turn I took the three steps that lead to the stage and received my commendation. It was a weird ceremony because in the end there was a strange unknown God to be prayed to.

All on the stage except the seated trustees folded their hands and joined their palms against their chests for a typical namaskaar. I folded my hands too, but did not feel like  taking my hands up to my chests like everyone, and out of respect locked my hands in front of my crotch and bowed my head out of respect. I knew I was being noticed but not expected the trustee to sternly warn me that this is not the way. I must do namaste like everyone else.

The sun was up. It did not matter.

 

The crocodile boy

The crocodile boy was sitting on the floor while I seated on a chair was busy bantering with my college colleagues. He didn’t say anything to any of us but there were expectations in his eyes. He wore ragged shorts and a t-shirt. He only wanted to learn and had expressed his desire to me to be his mentor. So, with a genuine heartfelt acceptance I gave him money to buy himself some decent clothes and a notebook and pen and pencils. He was back in no time looking immaculate in his new clothes and shining green crocodile eyes. The ten year old crocodile boy looked like any other ordinary boy, and just a little brighter. Soon he was learning words as I taught him alphabets. He would elocute when I would teach him to read. He was fast and soon became apple of my eye. I taught him to swim and in two lengths he became as fast as me. I tried teaching him to leap out of the water like a frog but it didn’t work out. His head would hit the swimming pool's wall and he would fall back into the water while I landed triumphantly on the floor. A teenager was noticing this and intervened. In some masterful euphemistic coyote teaching style he taught the crocodile boy how to leap out of the water. I looked at the teenager with thankful eyes and he nodded back. He looked at me with appreciative eyes which were distinct and similar eyes just like the crocodile boy's. He walked hurriedly to the swimming pool hall door putting on his white shirt back. Surprisingly his black trousers and red hair were dry. Soon I realized he was also a crocodile boy who never had any mentor to educate him things of intellect. Silently, I was praising myself of my prized opportunity of mentoring a pupil who was a mutant wanting to mix well with the humans.

I had another surprise when an old female friend checked with me finding that we work in the same college now. I was glad to see her again after a long time. To my surprise she requested me for a lift on my bullet to drop her home. By then I had already sent the crocodile boy to wait for me at the parking.

We walked to the parking and I cribbed about waste of parking space and broken fences. She seemed to agree to my points. There were more than thousand two wheelers parked in about ten to fifteen long rows. I tried locating my bike for I could not recall where I had parked it last. It was about fifteen minutes of searching that my female friend said she will go home by herself and after another half an hour of frantic search I couldn’t find my bike. Perhaps it has been stolen. Crocodile boy wasn’t in sight either.