On the Campaign Trail

I got to the AAP office on Monday morning, late for the volunteer meeting that was scheduled at 9 am, and unsure if I would contribute much in any case. My 3-year-old Seher in tow, I was recognized instantly (I had mentioned that I would be campaigning with my little one). I was handed a coffee and I waited on the sidelines while the busy planning work continued. Sure enough, I had nothing to add – I was too new. I would be going to a rural area called Nuh, I was told. I hadn’t prepared for a day trip, and wasn’t sure how it would work, but figured that I could pick up supplies along the way. Alright, I shrugged, and got in the car. My teammates that day were three starry-eyed youngsters, all set to change the world for the better, and I was just sitting in the car wondering if I would survive the day.

We got on the road and in an hour pulled in front of a barebones AAP office in Nuh, the district headquarters of a particularly poor part of the Mewat region of Haryana. We got into the big van that had been arranged for us and set off for the villages. Seher had decided at this point that she did not like villages and did not want to campaign, so I steeled myself for what was going to be an interesting day. As we approached the first village, we put on our AAP hats and got the flyers and postcards out. The modus operandi as it turned out was to find a spot where a few people were gathered, send the youngest ones of the crowd out into the village to find others, and then start talking. We gave our speeches and were pleased to see people nodding in agreement. I talked at the end, not much to add, just wanted to share my reason for campaigning for AAP.

“My name is Sherebanu, I am a Muslim [the crowd was entirely Muslim] and my ancestors come from Gujarat. I wasn’t there in 2002, I was living in the US then, but like everyone else was horrified to see what happened. When I moved back, I went to Gujarat to talk to people there and was really shaken. Uptil now, I have been so upset that I have only voted for whoever would beat the BJP. Now, for the first time in my lifetime, a party that has come that has such good people that my vote is FOR them, not against anybody else. A party that I really like, so much that I am campaigning for them. I urge you to consider them.”

One of the elders in the crowd looked at me. “Are you telling the truth beti?” I nodded. “Then our vote is definitely for AAP.” He took my mobile number, am not sure why. I was shaking a bit at this point, not entirely sure if what I had said was appropriate. It turned out that it had resonated with the crowd. As we got back into the car, the locals that were accompanying us said “Make sure you say your story every time.”

As we drove along, I learned a bit about the region. Villages are sharply divided – they are either entirely Muslim or entirely Jat or entirely Brahmin. The Hindus and Muslims maintain a shallow truce, I could sense the tension. As for the history, I asked our guide, an elderly Muslim man about the name Nuh. “Oh that would take too long to explain to you all” he laughed and said. Now of course, we really wanted to know so we urged him on. The Meo Muslims (as the Muslims of Mewat call themselves) believe themselves to be descendants of the Pandavas who spent their 12 years of vanvaas in the nearby forests. There is a famous temple in the region which commemorates this tradition. From that temple, a holy cow had set out. When the cow stopped, she clawed on the ground (Nuh means claw mark) to mark the spot where the settlement was to be built and hence the area’s name. It was a picturesque area, some ponds for aquaculture, wheat fields, small hills every now and then dotted with quaint villages. The local people weren’t happy though. High salinity in the region had ruined their water supply, the quaintness that I liked in the villages was read as extreme backwardness. Schools were few and far away, jobs were non-existent.

As we entered what I thought was the prettiest village, I noticed that the main road into the village was basically mud and sewerage mixed together. I wouldn’t even call it a dirt road. There was one TV antenna sticking out in the entire village (a good thing in my book, but not so much for the locals). After talking to the usual group of men, the young ladies in my team ventured into the village to find the women of the village. We asked passing girls to come and bring their mothers and got a decent crowd of women to form in the aangan of one home. As we started the speech, we quickly realized that the women knew nothing of Modi, Kejriwal or any of our usual speech points. We changed tactics and pulled out the postcards. We were handing these out with Yogender Yadavs home address printed on them and asking people to write down their grievances and send them in. With the ladies, we simply had to start writing down their grievances when the flood burst and everyone had something to say. I was amused – how little in common I had with these women, yet how many times have I sat in a drawing room of a Gurgaon house when we start putting forth our grievances against the government and everyone perks up to participate in that conversation.

As we got on the road, our guide told us that the next village on our way was a Jat village, a BJP stronghold. We debated whether it would be worth our time to stop there. The young ladies insisted that we try. As we got into the village, we saw a few young men hurry into their homes. They came out wearing a saffron version of the AAP hat, and a lotus insignia scarf wrapped around their neck. One such man very graciously said that we will hear you out and a small group sat down. He proceeded to pepper us with questions about the integrity of Arvind Kejriwal, getting louder by the minute. I watched from the distance. Seher had decided that she had had enough of meetings and was far more interested in the defecation habits of the village buffaloes. “Look Mama, this one is peeing!” A woman from a nearby house beckoned me in and handed me some chai. “Don’t pay attention to that fellow, he’s drunk as usual” she said shyly. We were struck by the village. Paved roads, well built houses, TV antennae sticking out of each of them (by now I had come to terms with the Development=TV equation). The starkness of the differences between Hindu and Muslim villages were clear – a pathetic example of vote bank politics I thought. Later I was told that since the 1857 revolution, the Muslims of the area (who actively participated, entire villages were hung) were oppressed by the British and their poverty is a legacy of those times. Another historical tidbit – during Partition, the entire Meo Muslim population had packed up to leave for Pakistan. Gandhiji himself arrived in the area and begged them to stay, upon which they changed their mind, even recalling some of their relatives who had already moved.

By now Seher had fully warmed to rural life. We stopped in the middle of some fields and she ran out onto a path, checking out the growing wheat (“Look Mama, this wheat is brown and this is green!”) Later it turned out this little run in the field was the high point of her day, edging out defecating buffaloes by a narrow margin.

The last village we stopped at was quite large, almost a small town, again entirely Muslim and entirely devoid of real infrastructure. A large crowd gathered here. After our speeches, we went into town looking for the women. While the young women of our team were chatting with the ladies, I was sitting aside with Seher who was thoroughly done with meetings and busy running up and down some stairs. A few women came over, very curious about us. “You’re here without your husband? Is this your only child? (One said proudly, “I have four, and I’m only twenty-two!”) Why do you have short hair? (I pointed to Seher and they all nodded in sympathy) Why no bangles?” The crowd grew. This was far more interesting, for the younger girls especially.

When we came out, we were told that word of mouth had spread about us and lots of others in the village wanted to meet us too. We had a couple more meetings like that. People plied us with cold drinks and snacks and the list of people signing up to volunteer for AAP grew quickly. As we walked down the streets I could hear people whispering – “That one, she’s Muslim, an engineer, from America”. Totally cool experience.

Blue Jeans

You are old, my friends
So old and frayed
You are torn, my friends
Scraped, stained, a-fade

Yet nothing, my friends
Feels as good on me
No nothing, my friends
Feels so comfy

The people they say
Chhi! Throw them away
The people may say
You're wearing THAT today?

But they just don't know
All we've gone through together
They just don't know
I've dwelt in you forever

Yes forever...
In so many lives you have been
My comfort, my stalwart,
My pair of blue jeans

I'm Safe

A crazed mob is at my gate
They want me 
They wave their torches, tridents ferociously 
We will burn down this house
If she doesn’t come out
My family weeps and tries to stop me
But I know I have to go
Draining myself of my fear
 Face of stone
 I step out alone

 I wake up
 Shivering
 My pillow soaked in sweat
 I’m safe
 This won’t happen to me
 I reassure myself
 I have married a Hindu
 I live behind strong gates
 I have money, pull, influence, education
 The police will come if I need them
 The army will come if I need them
 Right?

So what if my very Muslim name Is etched in voter rolls
 They won’t look up these lists
 And come for me
 Right? 

So what if another Muslim somewhere
 Has done an awful thing
 They won’t seek me out
 To vent their fury
 To teach us a lesson 
To assert their manhood

So what
 I’m safe
 Go back to sleep

10 Things I Learned from my 3-Year-Old

1. Cry when you’re hurt. Get it all out, there and then. And then completely forget about it and move on to the next interesting thing.
2. Dance, often and freely. If there’s no music, sing and dance. Or dance to the music in your head. Either way, dance.
3. Yearn to fly.
4. Pay attention to the unusual. Bulldozers, horses, cows, trains, cement mixer trucks, pigs, airplanes – these are all supercool things to be seeing on your daily commute.
5. Move. All the time.
6. Enjoy being tickled. Beg the tickler to stop, and then ask for more. Repeat.
7. Eat your fill. Then stop abruptly and completely.
8. Experiences are only real after they have been reported to the person you love.
9. Anything that is spilt, stained, torn or broken can be wiped, cleaned, taped or fixed. 
10. Insist on doing what you want to do. If you insist forcefully enough, the universe will make it happen.

Book Review: Soulful Symphony by Meenaxi Singh

Just got my hands on Soulful Symphony, a collection of poems by Meenaxi Singh. In her maiden work, Meenaxi reveals herself. She pours every feeling, thought and idea she has had into her poems and you are in there, in her heart, experiencing each one of them with her. Since I've had this book, I read it through once, and then spent some time just opening a random page and soaking in the sentiment. Some poems, like her ode to her mother, brought tears to my eyes. Some, like her poem to her daughters, had me nodding thoughtfully in agreement. Her poems on love are just lovely to sink into an armchair with. Overall, a powerful synthesis of womanhood, with all the glory, love, sacrifices and melancholy it entails.

Pounding the Pavement 2

"I have never voted before, but I will go cast my vote this time."
(A 70 year old grandmother)

"I know all about Arvindji, so I did not hesitate to let you in when I saw the hats"
(A 30 yr old lady)

The feedback we are getting from our door-to-door campaign is incredible. People know that this time things are different. They are comfortable opening their houses to us, offering us water, apples, and love to chat about politics.

Before I embarked on this campaign, I had done a google search on effective door-to-door campaigns. One thing I had noted (these were all US based sites) was that they had all said to spend not more than a minute per household. During our campaign though, we were sitting and listening and expounding on politics. I mentioned to the group that 15 minutes per household may be a bit excessive. They shrugged, "that's what it takes..."

I've thought about it some more since then. One thing we found very amusing was that when we pulled out voter lists, there would be upto 25-30 registered voters in a single house! This was because most houses had either large joint families or had made flats above their existing bungalow. So we may have spent extra time, but we had also garnered the vote of the entire clan!

Some anecdotes from today...

- A Sikh family we visited had guests over. We spent a lot of time discussing as a group why the perpetrators of the '84 Sikh massacre were still holding positions of power in the local Congress body instead of being in jail. How many other rapists, murderers, thieves and dacoits hold positions of power? (Answer: A lot)

- A highly irate Bengali lady answered our doorbell. "Too many people have written down my cell number only to bother me with SMSes all day and night!" We promised we wouldn't and explained who we were. "Oh, I'm done with politics! I did so much work first for the Congress, then the BJP, but we have nothing to show for it." She talked for a while about how exasperated she was with security, water quality, cow dung, and many other issues. We listened and tried to provide explanations of why things would be different with AAP. At the end she conceded, "My family was discussing politics last night and we all decided to vote for AAP anyhow."

Lots of such stories. Construction workers, cycle rickshaw drivers, domestic help, small shopkeepers called out to us as we walked through the street to tell us their stories of why they already support AAP. Incredible energy around it all.

Pounding the Pavement

This has been an action-packed couple of days in an otherwise leisurely life. Yesterday I went to the Aam Aadmi Party's office. I had volunteered my services, and they told me to join a volunteer meeting that day. So I got there, thinking I'd meet a few people, pick up some pamphlets, ask how I could help. Little did I foresee the two-day adrenalin ride I had embarked on.

"You have a car? Good" said the lady that greeted me. Three people hopped in, we picked up another along the way and they told me to keep driving. We reached a slum. "Your car should be safe right outside".  I nodded.

We walked in through the tiny streets of the slum and came to railway tracks. Lots of people everywhere, ladies chatting, children playing. I waited for instructions. Would we now go to the designated meeting spot? There was an open sewer next to where we were standing, mosquitoes and flies buzzing everywhere. I tried not to swat them, not wanting to appear as uncomfortable as I felt. That didn't work too well, and I noticed that everyone was swatting too, so no problem. A few minutes passed, people in AAP hats were walking around looking busy. Then a man brought out a few straw mats. This was the meeting spot. We were having a neighbourhood meeting and ladies were being rounded up to attend.

As the lady who had first met me, Pushpa Singh, started talking, a substantial crowd gathered around out of sheer curiosity. She looked at me pointedly. "You're going to have to speak too" she said. She spoke, then another lady. I didn't hear a word they said. I spent the next 15 minutes trying to figure out what I would say, and more importantly, how I would say it in Hindi. Not my first language. A distant second. Not to mention, I had never ever given a political speech before.

I started. [translating to English] I come from Bombay, so my Hindi is er.. different. But I shall make sure that I am loud and that you will understand. [giggles from the crowd]. Some of you mentioned earlier that you had concerns about ration cards. Let me inform you, that's where Arvind Kejriwal started. He left a high-paying job at the income tax office and spent the next few years working in slums to help people get ration cards and utilize them. In the process, his people were attacked, his office was attacked. That's where he started. Ration cards. Now he is famous, and has formed a party and is asking for your votes. One of you mentioned, How is this party going to be any different? They will say good things until they get power, then it will all be the same. Let me tell you. Each paisa received is made public. Who gives money to the big parties? Nobody knows and for a reason. Very rich people give them money to get elected, and then they want something in return. Where do the politicians find money to give them? From looting us. Aam Aadmi Party has accounted for each small donation and we know exactly who donated it. They do not owe anything to anybody. That's where the difference lies.

I don't know how the speech went over. I got a few pats on the back afterwards. People had stayed really quiet and seemed engaged. I was shaking. A woman came over from the crowd. "My son has been trying to take the entrance test to the Railways. He gave the exam twice but hasn't gotten through. Anything you can do to help?" she said. I smiled weakly and shook my head. She shrugged and walked off.

The next day I met the volunteers again for a door-to-door campaigning session. The veteran campaigners arrived with voter lists and we got started. One of the ladies I had met the previous day, a tough 60-year old yoga teacher was leading us through her immediate neighbourhood, so everyone knew her and was welcoming. Of course we will vote for the jhadoo was the gist of the meetings. One person, an old man who had seen much, said that he would vote for AAP, but didn't think they would be able to resist the compromises and corruption that comes with power. I listened with interest, didn't talk much. We got most people to sign up to be members of the party, even got a little donation from one person.

From these conversations and others, I am getting the sense that the elderly are hearing a lot about Aam Aadmi Party from their children, most of whom are living far away. People are excited, but a little hesitant. Rightly so, I'm sure. But they also know that this is the only glimmer of hope. And this is the only small window of opportunity (elections for Delhi Vidhan Sabha are on December 4th).

Time for a New Religion

The problem with the grand old religions is that they are, well, old. They were wise and progressive, even revolutionary, for their era. And now they're not.

I was born a Muslim, so let me start there. Islam is based on the life of the prophet Mohammed and the words dictated to him by an angel of Allah. It was a remarkably rational, scientific framework for its time. Problem is, that time was 1300 years ago. It was a radically revolutionary feminist religion. No no, don't scoff, it really was. Women getting equal inheritance was huge at a time when women were trophies at best, but mostly just considered property. Restricting wives to four was a relief to women who were part of enormous harems of tribal lords. This kind of thinking must have (and did) generate a lot of opposition to Mohammed, and to his credit he stuck to his guns (swords, actually). But that was a very different world. A world where a 50 year old man could marry an 8 year old child (Mohammed did). We live in a better world today. Thank God.

I live in India and have married a Hindu (well, a Jain). Now that is truly an ancient religion. Perhaps too ancient? Yes yes, the point of scriptures is that they are timeless, and some are. Some. A small minority. Well, maybe just the Bhagvad Gita. Can we change the rest please? We already have, here and there. No thinking person would justify the caste system, sutti, dowry. But there's too damn many non-thinkers out there.

And we can dissect all major religions and come up with the same critiques. The world has evolved in thought, but religions simply cannot. So here we are, defending our own religions, bickering within and without, going nowhere. No messiah in sight, all we have is our texts. So we read them, discard the embarrassing parts, cherry picking the rituals and beliefs that we like. We can do better.

Look around. There are values that we all believe in. Gender equality. Equality of opportunity. Environmental protection. Peace and nonviolence. Scientific thought.

Now look around again. Does the world we live in reflect these? If like me, you are chuckling morosely, then you disagree. Alright, so how do we go from here to there? Yes you guessed it... A new religion. New texts, new prophets, a few miracles thrown in, some great stories to raise the kids on, and boom! Now we're all on the same page and we're all moving together to create a fantastic world!

And a hundred years down the line, when values evolve, I sure as hell hope someone gracefully discards this religion and comes up with something better

The problem with the grand old religions is that they are, well, old. They were wise and progressive, even revolutionary, for their era. And now they're not.

I was born a Muslim, so let me start there. Islam is based on the life of the prophet Mohammed and the words dictated to him by an angel of Allah. It was a remarkably rational, scientific framework for its time. Problem is, that time was 1300 years ago. It was a radically revolutionary feminist religion. No no, don't scoff, it really was. Women getting equal inheritance was huge at a time when women were trophies at best, but mostly just considered property. Restricting wives to four was a relief to women who were part of enormous harems of tribal lords. This kind of thinking must have (and did) generate a lot of opposition to Mohammed, and to his credit he stuck to his guns (swords, actually). But that was a very different world. A world where a 50 year old man could marry an 8 year old child (Mohammed did). We live in a better world today. Thank God.

I live in India and have married a Hindu (well, a Jain). Now that is truly an ancient religion. Perhaps too ancient? Yes yes, the point of scriptures is that they are timeless, and some are. Some. A small minority. Well, maybe just the Bhagvad Gita. Can we change the rest please? We already have, here and there. No thinking person would justify the caste system, sutti, dowry. But there's too damn many non-thinkers out there.

And we can dissect all major religions and come up with the same critiques. The world has evolved in thought, but religions simply cannot. So here we are, defending our own religions, bickering within and without, going nowhere. No messiah in sight, all we have is our texts. So we read them, discard the embarrassing parts, cherry picking the rituals and beliefs that we like. We can do better.

Look around. There are values that we all believe in. Gender equality. Equality of opportunity. Environmental protection. Peace and nonviolence. Scientific thought.

Now look around again. Does the world we live in reflect these? If like me, you are chuckling morosely, then you disagree. Alright, so how do we go from here to there? Yes you guessed it... A new religion. New texts, new prophets, a few miracles thrown in, some great stories to raise the kids on, and boom! Now we're all on the same page and we're all moving together to create a fantastic world!

And a hundred years down the line, when values evolve, I sure as hell hope someone gracefully discards this religion and comes up with something better

Capital Sincerity

Yesterday I met a particular breed of Delhi-ite at a bar. He came and sat down – introductions all around. Then he started talking.

“I’m rich,” he said, “very very rich.” Or words to that effect (disclaimer, I didn’t take notes, so a lot of this conversation is vague - from memories making their way out of the fog of this damned hangover). Anyhow, we were suitably impressed. Then he went on to tell us how he got to be this way.

“My parents are rich,” he said, “very very rich.” He’d been doing his MBA in America, when a call came from home – the family business needed him. He came back. Then the opinion at home was that he should get married. Alright, done. Subsequently two sons. He thought he’d start his own side business, but his father insisted that he would not give our man a single penny to start it up – so he built it from scratch. Working long, stressful hours, six days a week he’s built it up. He enumerated all his big clients – again, we nodded our heads, widening our eyes enough to indicate that note had been taken. “But Saturday afternoon,” he said, “I make it a point to get home by 4 pm to play with my two young sons. They’re at that age, you know, where you have to cherish every moment.”

I was loving it. A bit drunk, a bit depressed (we had just come to the bar after a book reading – where I hung at the fringes convinced that nothing I’d ever write would be interesting enough to be anything but mocked by this crowd). And here is this guy, on a long soliloquy about his life, and it was absolutely delightful.

“I’m a BJP man,” he said, “not particularly because I like BJP, but because I absolutely hate the Congress. And the Left! – come on – only idiots could vote for the Left.” Uh-huh, I said to myself. Of course he’s a BJP man.

Then he said something that made me sit up from the leaning-back-on-barseat-clutching-mojito-for-dear-dear-life stance that I had adopted. “Now Mayawati,” he said, “I could see her as our next PM.”

Really?

“You see,” he said, “the BSP and the BJP are very complementary. The BSP starts at the bottom of the caste system and works its way up, and the BJP starts from the top and can potentially work down. They are both forward-thinking, very constructive…”

Constructive! BJP! “Now hold it there cowboy!” I said (again, perhaps not in those exact words). “What about the nasty communalism?” He gave me a pitying look. “Yes, the VHP et al. are making a mess of things,” he said “but communalism is not what the BJP stands for at the core. And it’s a truly democratic party – people have worked their way up to the top – not simply landing there because they happen to be descended in some way from Nehru.”

True, I grudgingly agreed. I had gone to the Congress website to register as a supporter, but got turned off when I was asked to tick a box pledging undying fealty to Sonia Gandhi. (Sidebar: What’s up with that?! How would Nehru have felt about that?!)

But I quickly gathered myself together. I was agreeing with a BJP man?! It must be the alcohol (not really – only one mojito, that too on a full stomach, does not a drunk Sherry make).

Alright, so on to the litmus test. “Modi as PM, or not?” He pursed his lips, settling in for a fight. “Absolutely,” he said, “I don’t see why not.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I cannot continue this conversation.”

“Yes, yes, a massacre happened,” he said, “and it shouldn’t have. Modi would have to ‘regret’ it in some form or the other before taking the national stage. But keep things in perspective – people are being massacred all over India – Naxalites, policemen, tribals, Christians – it’s a tough country. But look at all the good things Modi has done.”

“Is it so hard,” I asked, “for someone to be an honest and effective politician and NOT be a mass murderer? I mean, Modi was doing fine along the career track when 2002 happened. He didn’t Need to do it.” Our man shook his head and said - “the way the constitution of this country is written, it’s almost impossible…”

“Sheila Dikshit!” I yelled triumphantly, interrupting him. “Honest, effective, and hasn’t yet overseen any genocides.” He graciously gave me the point.

“And of course bad things happen all over the country,” I said. “The point is that ALL the perpetrators should be imprisoned. Jagdish Tytler should be in jail for the ’84 Sikh massacres.”

“Yes,” he nodded eagerly, “and so should Rajiv Gandhi.”

“Well…” I said, “I’m not sure about that one… but sure, he should’ve been investigated like anyone else. The Salwa Judum should be incarcerated, so should any Naxalites that have committed murders, and here’s the kicker: SO SHOULD MODI!!”

Was that a hint of acquiescence I detected in his eyes?

He changed the subject – “so what would you think of Mayawati as PM?”

My turn to purse the lips. “She would be an embarrassment to the country,” I said.

“Oh, because she doesn’t speak English!” he sputtered.

“No,” I said, “because she steals money from her very impoverished state. To build big elephants, big monuments to herself; throw the infamously big birthday parties, stuff the party coffers.”

“I deal with big projects in Noida,” he puffed, “and she’s very effective at getting things done.”

“That’s because she personally owns a large share of each of the companies that get these big projects!” I exclaimed. “A bit of a conflict of interest, no?”

A pause.

“The important thing,” he said, “is to stay open to these arguments. Keep your mind open. For example, I myself was an atheist till ten years ago,” (again, a pricking up of interest – this was another little departure from the box that I had inserted his stereotyped character into), “but now I think, how can I be so sure there is no God?”

“Sure,” I said, relaxing back to my mojito, “I’m all about open minds.”

I’m not sure why I’m reporting this conversation. Part of my general warming-up to middle-class Delhi, I think. I’ve been reading a lot of the popular Delhi-walla blog and I do resent, a little bit, the way it, and the literati class, dismiss suburban Delhi as being uncouth, unread, uninteresting. It just seems wrong to be so contemptuous of this huge class of people – they are hard working after all, they do love their families as much as anyone. They weren’t brought up to read tomes about the profound ironies of meaningless Russian lives, or the absurd cruelties inflicted on Prague after its famed spring. But, or maybe because of this, they have a sweet sincerity, a generosity, a lack of sarcasm and cynicism that is refreshing to someone like me, who is constantly inflicting more jadedness on what is, really, a perfectly lovely life.

I didn’t win points on all aspects of our conversation. A lot of times, there weren’t any to win.

“We have extensive garment businesses,” he said, “and I went to the government to ask for a tax break.” (The government had increased the minimum wage, hitting their bottom line hard). The guy in charge basically said that he’d give their business an exception (for a fee, needless to say). The garment industry could keep the minimum wages low. Our man protested, saying that he didn’t mind increasing the wages; he just wanted some help on other aspects of the tax code. The babu said, “Saab, isn’t getting more money all you want?” “No,” our man protested vehemently, “it’s giving employment, creating a good business.”

“For nine years,” he said (unsolicited, again, and in no context that I can remember), “I have ensured that no matter what, we get our employees their salaries on the first of the month. That is the top priority, the thing I’d never compromise on.”

Now, in a land cringing beneath the jadedness inflicted by Satyam, that’s kind of sweet.

My Irrationality

We have several superstitions in our community. Some of which I internalized, and still follow stubbornly, despite the scorn and jibes of the rational; the rest I mock for their utter stupidity.

There’s one where, if you’re lying down, and somebody steps over you, they have to step back. Or… well no one is quite sure of the specifics, but some kind of misfortune will be invited in. I follow that a bit halfheartedly, where I ask that the steppers-over step over again, but I don’t push it if they refuse. Its just a preference on my part. I heard a story of a distant cousin who refused to move for an entire day until he was restepped-on, but that’s just ridiculous. I wouldn’t, um, do that. 

Another one, which is more universal, and which I adhere to more strictly is touching wood when I allude to my good fortune, or that of anyone else that I care about.

There’s also a little Arabic prayer that was taught to me, whose meaning I never knew (and most of my very religious family doesn’t either, which is OK because now I almost don’t want to know). But I will swear on anything that saying it puts up a protective shield around me, and it has calmed me in the face of numerous dark nights, would-be ghosts, interviews and dates. 

I learned a Spanish custom that I use quite often. Its very specific. If you hit your elbow hard against something, it is very important that you do not touch it or cry out in pain until you say the following: “If its good let it come, if its bad let it go”. Three times. Then yell out in pain or rub your elbow or whatever. At which point you’ll find that it doesn’t hurt anymore. So it works.

And then there are all the superstitions I mock. Which I’m not going to list, because they seem alarmingly similar to the (rather more numerous than I had previously thought) ones of my own. 

Wishes are strange things. They are perhaps the only reason I believe in the supernatural, the unknowable. Yet so much of Eastern philosophy talks about giving up wishes, desires, fears. Then, what would we be left with?

My Eternal Lover

The police mill around, trying to look busy, like they have something to do, like they may actually find my murderer. What a joke. Though, to be fair, they are doing what they can. One of them took a photograph of me and made several copies. A couple of constables went around the park and posted pictures of me, bloodied neck and all, with a handwritten note asking for information. 

Joggers and walkers and strollers in the park pass my neatly zipped up body. They wrinkle their nose, shake their heads, strike up conversations with perfect strangers using me as an excuse. A young lady, interrupted her jog to stare at my photo, looked quite disturbed for a while afterwards, which pleased me. Not that anything would be done. What could be done that would matter to me anyhow? Another life had passed, another heartbreak, another awful end at the hands of he who loved me the most. And I don’t want him to be caught, or punished, or even feel guilty. After all, I loved him too. I still do, and will for all eternity. No, this is not a declaration, merely a statement of fact. More precisely, a statement of condemnation.

Forgive my morbidity. I usually have quite a sunny disposition. Pair that with unusually good looks and I have been called quite attractive in each of my lives. Its just this part, this post-traumatic death part. The stark contrast between my cherubic life and the last days always leaves me a bit shaken, pulls me down into this gloomy mood. 

In this last life, he was, unusually, my brother. Three years older than me, and absolutely devoted to me. On my last birthday, he single-handedly threw a surprise party for me. Invited all my friends and his as well, made a painstakingly-complete video collage of my life. There I was, giggling as a baby. There, a four-year-old fussing over her lehenga for a cousin’s wedding party. Me reading, me performing at a school dance festival, me winning awards at swimming meets, athletic events (I was particularly good at the long jump), even a beauty pageant. At almost all of these, I turn to the camera and wave lovingly, for at almost all the events that shaped my life, I remember him being there, holding the camera. At the party, I was feted by all my friends for having such a close, loving relationship with my brother. In my neighborhood, we were already legion, the sibling pair that were pointed out by other parents, frustrated with their fighting offspring - “see how close they are? See how well he protects her? Why can’t the two of you be more like that?!?!”

In some ways, my behavior in the weeks following was his fault (isn’t it always?). Cocooned by so much love, I already had a sense of infallibility. I could do anything, and my big brother would be there to defend me, to make it all right, to give me what I wanted. Perhaps I took it a step too far falling in love with my college professor. Well, the words “falling in love” are bandied about too casually, it really was just an innocent crush of an impressionable young girl for her more-powerful superior. If it had gone unnoticed, it would have played itself out, ending with the shattering of the illusion of his grandeur, and I would have walked away no longer a spoilt child, but a wiser, more thoughtful woman. But it wasn’t to be. We were caught, his wife filed for divorce, it was all over college, and then our neighborhood. My brother stopped talking to me, though sometimes I would see him from the corner of my eyes, as he alternated between glowering at me and shutting his eyes tightly as if to wish me away, far away.

That gesture, those looks. Within a week of it, I find myself in this position. Looking over my body, hurting for my abruptly ended blessed-life, and even more, hurting for him and the hell that I put him through. It started several centuries ago, when I asked him to fetch me an enchanting golden deer. After all this time, I will never forget the horror in his eyes as I went up in flames. And then there was my most painful death, walled in alive for the sin of letting him, the heir to the Moghul throne, fall in love with a common dancer. I have burned with him in his funeral pyre several times, his express wish to prevent me from falling into the hands of another. 

It is now time to move on to my next life. I am to come back as his daughter in that one. But it will be a very short life. His wife, unloved and mistreated, will abort me when she finds out it is a girl - she thinks, poor woman, that his horrid nature is due to his hatred of all things female. She doesn’t know that he was eagerly waiting for me, and when he finds out, something dies in him, to be followed shortly by his actual death due to heart failure. And then we shall be reborn again in this same land. As lovers this time I would think. To love, to hurt, to kill and to die.

This blog is dedicated to the as-yet-unidentified body of a young woman that was found in my joggers park (Delhi's Northern Ridge). I cannot get her out of my mind. May she rest in peace. article here.

Dog Dayz in Delhi

Delhi summer afternoons, for those not in the know (adapted to the current day from Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Delhi)

"As the heat becomes intense and a hot wind begins to blow, the sky becomes bronzed and grey, dirty with the dust and sand that floats in the air. The kites shrilly cry, and the grating noise of the honking far away sounds more dreary. A heart-rending monotony and a blinding glare creep over the earth. People go inside the rooms and close the door. Drowsiness comes upon every living thing. The dogs hide in cool corners, and the sparrows find shelter in the shade of trees or inside their nests in the walls. Only now and then the wild pigeons fly in and out of the veranda, coo awhile, and add to the feeling of monotony."

Amazing how so little changes in 70 years.

Today I watched three traffic policemen huddled humbly in the shade of a tree, surrounding a nimbupaani wala (fresh lemon juice vendor), as the frenzied traffic at the intersection broke every rule in the book. Not that they wouldn't do this otherwise, but today they all had my utmost sympathy. 

Uff the heats-a-got-to-go!

The Galis of Gated-Community Delhi: Holi Hooliganry

I headed on foot to the grocery store - a few blocks from my house. As I passed a tiny neighborhood park, I heard a loud splat at my feet. Looking down, I saw a puddle of water. A bit disconcerted, I looked around and with raised eyebrows, said “Umm.. Excuse me?” to no one in particular, because I couldn’t see anyone. Then I heard a voice below - a little boy - “Didi didi its those boys over there that did it.” I looked across the park and sure enough, a group of 6-7 boys of various ages stood with water-filled balloons in their hands. I walked up to them. They watched me approach, poker-faced all.  

“Did you throw the balloon at me?” No reply. The youngest broke his poker-face and dissolved into giggles. The house under which they were standing had a family of 8, parents included, standing at the balcony.  

“Are these kids yours?” I called to the adults  

“All kids are like our own” came the lazy drawling Delhi-boy answer. This tone is sometimes charming, but on this occasion, not so much.  

“Well then, if they’re like yours, keep them under control!” I snapped. At this point, a lot more kids broke into snickers. Infuriated, I turned towards the market and marched off. Two more balloons burst at my feet. Saving the little dignity that had been spared for me, I declined to acknowledge them.  

After the shopping, came the time to decide how I would head back. I could take a longer route and avoid these kids altogether, but that would be a defeat. I considered buying more eggs that I could throw back at them but that would be war and I was far outnumbered. So I headed back, my only concession to them was that I walked around the other side of the park. No use - a few more splatters at my feet - luckily they all had missed me so far.  

After a couple of blocks, I found a couple of policemen sitting around, engaged in serious discussion - no doubt a sabziwallah had been caught flirting with a housewife in the community or something absorbingly outrageous like that. I approached one of them - a rotund friendly-looking sort.  

“Bhaisaab, I would like to complain about a bunch of kids throwing balloons at me.”  

He looked at me. That poker-face again!  

“Yes ma’am - where are they?”  

“Oh just down the street at the park - I’m sure its not illegal, but it was annoying - could you just go and scare them?”  

Grinning, he headed down. But now I was afraid - I had upped the ante - no doubt, if I passed that way again, I would be seriously pelted. I got home and called my husband for sympathy.  

"Sorry babe, I used to be those boys a few years ago” was his response.  

No help there. These past few days, I’ve not been walking down those streets. For grocery shopping, I call my driver and have him take me to another, more distant, store. Perhaps getting a little wet wouldn’t have been so bad after all. Holi spirit and all. Huh.

Magic

Desperately seeking solace in an otherwise infuriating city, I wandered in the ancient Lodi Gardens. The tomb of Sikander Lodi, with the high walls surrounding it, is usually a good bet for tranquility, but today was the day the lawnmower chose to make its racket inside. So I headed right outside the tomb complex, and sat perched on a rock facing the 500-year-old Akbar-era bridge, which spans a lotus pond, that was today sadly devoid of lotuses. I opened my book and began reading. The late afternoon sun illuminated the rocks on the bridge to beautiful effect, and the ripples of the water cast dancing shadows on its underbelly. Apart from a half-hearted beggar, I was left alone to my luxurious read. I need this beauty, I thought, I need this magic. That’s it. That’s what I need – some kind of magic. Outside there are horns and unfriendly drivers and traffic jams, pollution and economic crises, jobs lost and identities yet to be formed. Sitting here felt good.

A scream snapped me out of my reverie. A couple, boy and girl, were standing a few feet away and staring excitedly at the same scene. The girl clutched her boyfriend and seemed to hyperventilate as she pointed to a fountain in the pond. The fountain had barely registered to me, in spite of its considerable height. It was hardly a fountain – just a sawed off pipe that gushed water upwards with surprising strength. The shrieking continued – “Look, a rainbow!” Indeed, in the spray of the fountain, a little rainbow had formed. “But how is this possible?!” she yelled, “It’s not even raining! And I’ve never seen a rainbow so close to the ground!”

Eventually she shut up and the two of them retired to the lawn nearby to hold each other and stare some more. The boy wasn’t too concerned about the fountain, it seemed, just content to see the girl excited. I had just managed to forget about them and return to thoughts on the poetry of the setting; when I heard the same voice.

“Ma’am, excuse me! Excuse me, ma’am!”

I rolled my eyes and turned to the couple, who had extricated themselves from each other.

“Ma’am, do you know if the rainbow is natural, or caused by some kind of lighting?”

“Natural.” I muttered

“What?”

More loudly, and enunciating my words carefully this time, I tried again.

“Its natural – something to do with drops of water filtering the sunlight, I think.”

“Wow,” she said, turning back to her boyfriend. “It’s, like, magic, no?”

Flash Drama

Thought I'd do this too. The theme for this competition was "Truce"

(Two girls, Eresh and Inanna, are onstage. Eresh is hiding behind a box. Inanna is daydreaming. A broken doll (with head pulled off) and a mound of toy bricks are lying nearby. Mother is backstage)

Eresh (jumping out, knocking Inanna over): Got you!

Inanna: Stop doing that! One more time and I’ll come after you! I will!

Eresh: Come after me?!?! Ha! Remember the last time you tried? You’re pathetic!

Inanna: Waahh!

Mother (comes up running and turns to Eresh): What did you do this time!

Eresh (shrugs): Nothing.

Inanna: Nothing! She jumped out and knocked me over!

Eresh: I did not!

Inanna: And she’s done this before too!

Eresh (smirking): No I haven’t!

Inanna (breathlessly pointing to broken doll): And and… yesterday she tried to break away another part of Kashmir!

Eresh (serious now): That’s because Kashmir belongs to me!

Inanna: No she doesn’t! she was always mine!

Eresh: No she wasn’t!

Inanna: Well… before she was mine, she belonged to Harry. And he gave her to me!

Eresh: She never belonged to Harry either! Mom! Tell Inanna!

Inanna: Mom?!

Mother (sighing, turns to Inanna): Now.. you did say you’d give Kashmir to Eresh, if Eresh could get her to talk…

Eresh: Yeah!

Inanna (sobbing): Mom! How could you say that! Kashmir could never talk because Eresh broke her! And took her head away! And now she’s ruining my part too!

Mother (grabbing the pieces of doll): Stop it! Both of you! Right now! I’m taking Kashmir away! (Points to the toy bricks) Now sit quietly and rebuild your houses together! Look at them! They’re a mess!          

(The girls pout and begin to play with the bricks. In two minutes, their expression changes to joy and they build furiously. Curtain)

Flash Fiction

There was a competition last week to create stories under 55 words. I've never actually written a story before so I thought this would be a fun way to start. The topic was "Cheating"

------------------------------------------
I observed her sitting on the floor in the train, looking up adoringly at me, her savior.

“This is my escape,” she must have thought. “From the village, the boring husband, the infinite drudgery!”

Now, years later, as she prepares for her next client, she glances over again – her eyes are empty.
------------------------------------------

They snuck out at dawn through the empty streets. A wave of exhilaration swept over them as they reached the station. They kissed, then laughed hysterically.

Her father received her body the next day. The pieces of her lover had been fed to the kites, which swirled around the landfill for hours, fat with glee.
------------------------------------------

Fresh from a raucous night out with her lover, she crept back home in the early morning hours. Her mascara had smeared, her clothes were rumpled, and she was as happy as she had ever been.

Her husband was sitting on the porch, having tea. His boyfriend grinned, and motioned her to join them.
------------------------------------------
He came home. She stared at him, slowly and silently opening her mouth in wonderment.

The City had taken him three years ago, only sending four hundred rupees back to her as compensation.

And now her freedom would be taken away.

She pulled the edge of her sari over her face, hiding it.

Mangalore Madness

Read this delightful piece of news today on The Hindu's website:

BANGALORE: After their recent attack on young women at a Mangalore pub, the Sri Ram Sene has now announced an action plan to target couples found dating on February 14, Valentine’s Day.
At a press conference here on Thursday, Sri Ram Sene leader Pramod Muthalik, who is now on bail, said Sene activists across Karnataka would not only hold protests outside colleges, hostels and hotels, where Valentine’s Day celebrations are held, but also forcibly marry off couples found dating in public.
“Our activists will go around with a priest, a turmeric stub and a ‘mangal sutra’ on February 14. If we come across couples being together in public and expressing their love, we will take them to the nearest temple and conduct their marriage,” he said. If the couples resisted the move, the girl would be forced to tie a ‘rakhi’ to the boy.
Mr. Muthalik said his outfit would ensure that Valentine’s Day greeting cards were not sold. Activists would check out stores that sold such cards.
Asked if his men would use physical force against those celebrating Valentine’s Day, Mr. Muthalik said they “will not take the law into their own hands.”
Reacting to Mr. Muthalik’s statement, Karnataka’s Home Minister V.S. Acharya said: “The law will take its course against those indulging in any untoward activity, including violence. We will not bar exchange of pleasantries on Valentine’s Day, but people cannot use the occasion to indulge in unlawful activities.”
On Mr. Muthalik’s threat to forcibly marry off unmarried couples seen in public places on Valentine’s Day, he said: “Let them first commit such an offence and then the law will be enforced.”
The Bangalore City Police have taken Mr. Muthalik’s threat to disrupt the celebrations seriously and is reportedly considering a proposal to take him and other Sri Ram Sene leaders into preventive custody.

Oh there is so much to write about this! It’s like Karnataka is experiencing a social revolution in reverse! Here’s an earnest appeal to all Mangaloreans to participate in what can only be the historic Valentines Day Marriacre 2009:

-Gay couples who can’t get married in most religious or civic institutions in India (who can’t even legally be a couple, but that’s a different matter) can be married by The Ultimate Religious Fanatics! How great is that!
-People who are dating commitment-challenged individuals must, at all costs, be out at Valentine Parties to be targeted by these goons.
-People who want to propose marriage, but can’t find the courage, ditto.
-Cheap people who want to spare themselves the enormous cost of a marriage (we are in an economic crisis, you know), should definitely look at this money-saving opportunity. Tell the hordes of indignant relatives cheated out of a free meal that you had to get married this way – you did it for your country.
-Even if you’re not in a relationship, find a member of the opposite sex with a taste for adventure, have the male wear some Muslim symbology (borrow a pendant with something written in Arabic), and the girl something Hindu and ask if these guys will also conduct Nikaahs.
-Oh girls, please please please – am still looking for volunteers for a girls night out in Mangalore – and now the 14th presents the perfect date!
-All this shouldn’t involve any danger to your person – Muthalik promised that his boys will not take the “law into their own hands” – whatever that means!!!

Delhi vs. Bombay part deux

Ok so I finally did some research - Its rather trivial, mostly Wiki - yet, it expands the discussion beyond the bias that I impose, as well as the sub-strata of the population that I'm exposed to in both cities.

So, the child sex ratio, a good indicator of the value societies attribute to their women stands at 821 in Delhi to 875 in Bombay (number of girls born per 1000 boys). The shocking thing is that in South Delhi, the ratio is 762, while in South Bombay (Colaba & Cuffe Parade) it is 860. Presumably these are people that can easily afford abortions, so the sex ratio really reflects their preferences. Pretty pathetic in both cases, but 762!!! A quarter of the guys in South Delhi won't be able to find wives!! God only knows what will happen then.

There were 533 cases of rape in Delhi vs. 165 in Bombay (2006). There were 718 cases of sexual harassment in Delhi, vs. 357 in Bombay. Its hard to put much weight on these numbers though, as they are definitely underreported, and its unclear where the underreporting would be more pronounced. Still, the numbers are pretty stark.

Delhi vs. Bombay

Decided to weigh in on the Delhi-Bombay divide. It’s a venture fraught with danger, as I have dear, dear family and friends on both ends – although in a way that is immensely reassuring – I would never come up with hasty or hurtful stereotypes. I will keep this opinion fiercely independent of any cumbersome statistics or data, mostly out of sheer laziness, and restrict myself to anecdotes and fluff. That said, here goes.


There is something inevitable about this discussion. It seems to rear its head every time I chat with a Bombayite, and it comes up that I live in Delhi. “Oh how do you manage?!” or something like that is their retort. I have separately (and sometimes together) heard Delhi-ites being called thieves, liars, backwards-provincial-chauvinistic-pigs, stupid, vacant and the worst insult from a Bombayite – Uninteresting. All of these assertions are backed with earnest solicitude, and to none of the asserters occurs the slightest twinge of guilt that they are making a dramatic stereotype of some 1.5 crore human beings.


The strange thing is that when confronted with these assertions, Delhi-ites are strangely undefensive. Not even upset. The answer is a collective shrug, perhaps a chuckle – “Ah those Bombayites…” followed with, and this is the most shocking thing, a wistful look of assent. Bombay is lovely, if a bit crowded, they volunteer helpfully. Very sophisticated, very progressive, very vibrant.


Now this either means that Delhi-ites are far more gracious than their Bombay brethren, or all of this is true. I am inclined to believe all of the above, and here’s why. First, hardly anyone in Bombay, while on their rants, mentions the redeeming qualities of Delhi – the infrastructure, Sheila Dikshit, and the incredibly layered history of its greatness. Today Delhi is seriously well on its way to being a city that is truly responsive to the needs of its citizens – clean, green, fantastic public transportation (built on time, and on budget, no less), and great roads. Perhaps even a clean river in the next few years. Delhi-ites could do some obnoxiously triumphal tribalism and horn-blowing of their own, but I’ve never mentioned it brought up. The few Bombayites that do stoop to acknowledge the progress in Delhi usually say it in the context of “Yes, the city is nice, but the people…” The head will shake; the exaggerated shudder will pass across their face.


And that brings me to the second point. The people. I grudgingly concede that Bombayites may actually have a point here. Delhi is far more old-fashioned – far fewer women work, drink, and show skin in any kind of interesting manner. Far more joint families (sometimes a positive thing), far more female foeticides, far less individuality. These are (with the one ambivalent exception noted) bad things. But Delhi, as its population currently stands, is a very young city. There is no old elite guard that could define the culture, progress the thinking, set an example. You know, the way the old money of Bombay – the gymkhanna lot – do. There used to be a substantial elite in Delhi, but they mostly relocated, and not exactly voluntarily, to Karachi. The current lot, the ones that form opinions and reign over dinner parties are a more cerebral, transplanted lot – professors, writers, artists, activists – not usually rooted in the city well enough to help contribute in a substantial manner to the progress of its thinking. The very rich, property-developer-types, are best not mentioned. And so the evolution is slow, as more neighborhoods turn inwards in a self-congratulatory reinforcement of their traditional ways. But the progress will happen. The third generation of the new-moneyed class is now entering their twenties and thirties. They look to Bombay, and the West, for inspiration; they tend to be far less tied down in caste-creed distinctions, they like a night out on the town, they take gender equality for granted, and they are far more likely to take risks and shape their own unique identities. Another decade or so, when these kids start to take over the decision-making and shaping-of-the-identity of the city, I predict that the landscape of the Delhi population will be vastly improved. And then there are the mistaken stereotypes – I was warned countless times when I got here that women could not walk/take buses/drive alone in Delhi, yet I’ve been out and about for more than a year without incident. Almost disappointingly so – I quite look forward to unleashing my tongue (and a nearby policeman) on a hapless eve-teaser.


Now I know that all this is dreadfully condescending to Delhi-ites. I am a Bombayite after all, inherently biased, although I suppose I do have some criticizing-credibility. For one thing, I have a husband that is a rare proud (and need I say, very progressive) Delhi-ite who is always pointing out the good things about Delhi, while acknowledging its shortcomings. Additionally, I also have heard these very things from the mouths of almost all Delhi-ites I have encountered. So I’ll end with an anecdote. I recently met a Delhi girl at a party who roundly criticized her city and its culture, or lack thereof. I remarked that it was very cool that she could introspect in such a candid manner, and she said of course I can – I just don’t do it around Bombayites. As soon as she was told by my giggling husband that I was one, she squealed in good humour, and promptly took back everything she had said and enumerated all the good qualities of Delhi. So that’s where Delhi stands for me – a bit self-conscious, very gracious; while silently but surely heading towards reclaiming its greatness.

Tales of Red Lights in Delhi

No, not that kind of red light…

Delhi, much to my delight, has a lot of traffic signals that have a clock that tells you how long you will have to wait. In the otherwise heart-and-mind-rending exercise of driving in Delhi, this gives you a lovely chance to ungrind the teeth, take a deep breath and switch off your car. It also gives numerous entrepreneurs the opportunity to clean your window, sell you tennis rackets that magically kill mosquitoes, and generally solicit money. Its fun to sometimes engage the little kids in discussion – “Now, wouldn’t it be better to stop wasting your time on me when I’m clearly not going to give you money, and move on to other cars during this all-too-short signal” – and sometimes, of course, just heartbreaking to see the display of diseased limbs, the desperate mothers clutching their children, the dead look in the eyes of children who have seen too much.

There is a family that lives at an intersection near my office. It’s a long light, and I have had plenty of time to observe them on my way to work in the morning. There is a mother that sits at the actual crossing suckling a newborn child, several young children that perform acrobatics in between the waiting cars, and one young man – in his twenties – that seems to collect all the earnings of these children, including, as I found out later, the fruit that I usually give to one particularly cute little girl. The mother looks like she hasn’t eaten for days, and I shudder to think of the quality and quantity of breast milk available to the infant. This last week, I haven’t seen them and hope they have moved on to better things. Not likely, but still.

And then there are the fellow car drivers. We look around, appraise each other. I get a lot of stares – maybe it’s the crazy hair, maybe it’s the fact that I’m dancing in my seat and singing along loudly to some old Hindi song – who knows? Once, the owner of a Hyundai Accent next to me rolled down his window and released an empty Bisleri bottle. Having the luxury of a long wait before the light changed, I got out of my car, picked up the bottle and tapped on his window – “Excuse me sir, this seems to have fallen out of your window…” He muttered as he took the bottle – “Yes it was an accident, I was just about to pick it up”. At another light, on another day, a car full of plump happy businessmen rolled down a window to release a wrapper of Kurkure wafers. “Excuse me bhaisaab, but you dropped something” I called out to them. “No no madam, we threw it out!” came the reply. I rolled my eyes – “Please pick it up bhaisaab”. And they quickly did! I was very impressed. No aggressiveness – it’s like they know what they’re doing is wrong but also take pride in their ability to do it. No, that doesn’t make sense. Huh.

Anyhow, if anyone has ideas on what to do at these intersections – How do we know when the money/food we give actually goes to the person, or are they part of an oppressive brothel-like arrangement as in some of the horror stories you hear? If someone has a dreadful untreated wound, should you offer to take them to a hospital, or are they (too awful to think about) needing to display it to maximize begging income? When a distraught mother knocked on my window to show me a prescription of medicines that she needed to buy for her dying child, how do I know that isn’t the latest fraud? Or in that scenario, should that matter? For God’s sake, can we have shelters that take these women, children and diseased/crippled people in to show them some real charity?