Days of Khus scented Seista and Mango blossoms

“I am glad, I live,
Where seasons change
I like my world
To rearrange….”
I read these words in the Airlines’ magazine during a flight to Kolkata last month and I smiled. The rearranging of the world with changing seasons ,it brings back so many memories. Be it the beginning of winter in October and taking out of woolen clothes or the anticipation of rains in June-July, checking out the first winter roses in December or the comfortable sunshine of march …every season has so many memories , so many daily ritual associated with it. Today when I boarded train for Lucknow , my mind was full of expectations for viewing familiar sights of a typical North Indian summer on the way. O yes, it is already May .and the time is ripe for preparing the combat against the blazing sun and irksome ‘loo’…..the dusty storms and rituals of beating the heat in the traditional ways - the freshening Neembu sherbet or melons, thandai served with homemade potato wafers in the evening or gulps of sour-sweet aam-panna before you step out of the house . The delicious Aam-panna -even as I write these two words- I can feel the scent of raw mango around me. It is a portent of summer- it’s arrival is eagerly awaited in my land . Mango blossoms with their acrid scent are usually visible by march and as soon as the mango fruit is big enough to be eaten raw , preparations start in a big way for making mango chutneys, pickles, panna and many more delights of this king of summer .

There is still time for the fruit to ripe and savored as a dessert . My train will pass through Malihabad, a region near Lucknow which is so famous for its Dussehri mango that few year back authorities started international flights from Lucknow to the gulf countries exclusively to export this mango . It is a great favorite in India as well. You travel from Lucknow by train or by air in June –July and you will find every other passenger carrying boxes of mangoes .
But summer is not all about eating. It also reminds me of those khus scented afternoons when a siesta was a must. However much we pleaded , mother would not allow us out in the sun . Huge coolers will be installed in the bedrooms and these will be dutifully filled with water twice a day . Today we don’t get real Khus grass easily . The Cooler perfume has replaced it in most houses . Ironically when the sun goes at its brightest best India decides that it is time to move out of house. It is a period of summer vacations after all. And as Kalpish Ratna wrote in one of their articles -“ Every summer India escapes into itself. Every May it burrows deeper into the labyrinthine warren of friends and relatives whom it loathes for the rest of the year. May brings a mad caper to reclaim family. Demented uncles, dying aunts, cousins long since gone to the dogs, nieces strictly unmentionable, nephews better not recognized, princes, pauper, drunks deadbeats, the detritus of genetic mishaps several times removed- how come we didn’t know , even as recently as April that they were family? But now we have all the May and half of June to correct that.”
So the trains were full . Special summer trains also ran on tracks to ensure these family re-unions, where aunts always exclaim (with almost genuine) delight : how kids have grown up since they last visited her…how so and so has thinned down and why this and that has not come with us etc etc. Then the next ritual of formalities would start with exchange of gifts from the two sides( each taking it while saying : what was the need to bring all these?)
Evenings were be very pleasant, very homely .After sunset plants would require watering . With scented bela, jasmine, chameli and other creepers in the background, lawn chairs were taken out and this used to be the venue for the evening family get together. Summer months also have pleasant memories of sleeping out either in the lawns or on the roof – with mosquito nets on and sometimes table fans too. In the age of centrally air-conditioned houses , I still miss those lively antaksharis which we used to play before going off to sleep . Most of the slokas, dohas, urdu couplets and choupais I remember now were learnt in those days only. (Film songs were a complete no-no for the game ).
There are so many things I miss about those happy summer days. More than the ‘things’ I miss the emotions associated with the season- mother’s anxiety when we ran barefoot in blazing sun to get some kulfi from the kulfiwala, my maternal grandmother’s delight to see us after one year, our embarrassment to be introduced to so many unknown ‘close relatives’ and many more . I think, Ghalib must have felt somewhat similar longing for the days gone by when he wrote –
Muddat hui hai yaar ko mehmaa'n kiye hue
josh-e-kadah say bazm charaagha'n kiye hue
ji dhoondhta hai phir wohi fursat, ki raat din
baithay rahay tasavvur-e-janaa'n kiye hue
I guess it is the excitement of witnessing the changing colours of the season that makes this rearrangement so memorable. Seasons may be part of the cycle of the year but each one of them is complete in itself. Or should I put it the way Khalil Gibran did when he says-

But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,
And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.

Learning Delhi Decorum

Can you name a city which thrives in contradictions, boasts of its greed with a very apparent pride and is unabashedly character-less in its dealings ?Even Mumbai (before Raj Thackerey happened) could claim a transparent character. But Delhi is unusual. A city on steroids all the time , a city which calls for more questions than it can afford to answer …..a city where power driven schizophrenia is a norm of day to day life and where Gods and Anti Gods love to share space on page 3 . So it was me versus the city for last one week.
Delhi despite its heat (and dust) is still manageable for me ...but can't say the same for the so called dilli-wallahs . They speak a different language....most of them. We were not even 24 hours old in the city when we faced about half a dozen times repeated inquiries about our next 'career move' , strategy ...game plan for next few years . There were equal number of advices as well...mostly pertaining to what 'goes' and what doesn't in Delhi. Delhi- the power crazy city , makes its own rules and break them too....both times with equal pride. I want to plug my ears against these voices of worldly wise advices . I want to close my eyes from this shameless display of power and egoist behaviour. I cut down my interaction , spend more time with my PG Wodehouse and with my trusted friend Rani ( who still remains very very un-dilliwalah ) . Well, no more talk about things I dislike ...after all, there are equal number of things in this city that I always admire.
It was not my first date with delhi …..I have spent 2 unforgettable years in south Delhi when I was undergoing training . Even in those days , I found Delhi very ruthless yet romantic, frivolous and yet fascinating. Delhi after all is not only a city of dilliwallas but is also housed by djinns of yesteryears. A place of history. A place where legends and fables were enacted for centuries on the reality theatre of time. It is this Delhi of old grandeur that I intend to search in the coming years . I hope to improve my acquaintance with that Old Delhi - which I always find much more interesting than Edwin Lutyens' creation -New Delhi. Old Delhi, in sharp contrast with the modern, glistening towers and the broad, sweeping avenues of New Delhi, remains a dense mixture of colors, textures and sounds that have endured over centuries. It is a crowded mixture of lanes and bylanes, shops and encroachments around the shops ...made lively with the ugly bunches of wires and hoardings of all types and yet very living breathing space ...a slice straight out of history . A place so used to creating history that it no longer cares to be in headlines .

I am sure there are enough places I would like to visit in Delhi . National Gallery of Modern Art - my favorite haunt , will top the list. I hope I will not be deterred by the distances or discouraged by the transportation cost .

I also hope that I will never adjust to the value system this city follows . I pray I always remain stranger to the nasty Delhi decorum and never manage to master it.

It aint easy, to ever say goodbye

"The simplest questions are the most profound. Where were you born? Where is your home? Where are you going? What are you doing? Think about these once in a while, and watch your answers change. "

--Richard Bach in Illusions

For someone like me who has seen answers to these questions changing with every 3-4 years (or may be less) changes should have been a way of life. Throughout my life at regular intervals, I had to say good-byes to my schools and schoolmates, cities I lived in, rooms I called my own, routes so familiar and friendly that they almost look like friends, sights so lovely that you want to gaze them till eternity and of course, people I shared my life with . But I could never find the ‘good’ part of the good-byes. Despite my gypsy streaks and lifelong practice of changing surroundings, I still find it difficult to deal with. The brain accepts the change but the heart rejects. There were times when I was almost happy to leave the place, the people and the surroundings and naturally, was quick to say goodbyes ….but even in those cases, goodbyes came with a package deal of adjusting to new surroundings.

Last month was hard for me due to this typical capricorn-ian inertia . I did not even enjoy visiting Lucknow this time. My mind was full of worries of tidying up things at Kolkata ....and settling down in the new surroundings of New Delhi. Even travel which otherwise I would have loved, could not distract me.

Day after tomorrow I leave for a new city, a new office and very soon a new home… and here I am still attached to my ties with the city , office and the house I am leaving. In last eight years of my career I changed 5 stations ( Mussoorie, New Delhi , Shimla , Jaipur and Kolkata ) but it was never so difficult as it is this time. I was amazed at the reaction I got from people around me. In the heart of my heart I know I don’t deserve such affection from them. I also know that system will take care of itself. Everyone-including me , will soon adjust to the change. After all its a system where no one is indispensable. Whatever we think to pamper our vanity or say at the time of farewell, the bare fact remains that -
कल और आयेंगे नग्मों की खिलती कलियाँ चुनने वाले

मुझसे बेहतर कहने वाले तुमसे बेहतर सुनने वाले
कल कोई मुझको याद करे- क्यों कोई मुझको याद करे ?
मसरूफ ज़माना मेरे लिये क्यों वक्त अपना बर्बाद करे

but still , I will think about the places and people I leave behind . May be very soon in this blog you will find me telling about my new home ,new work and new city ...but I know there will be times when my mind will take me back to the scenes and smells I miss in the changed surroundings.

Like always, I look at it philosophically. ...Best comfort I get these days is from the words of Tagore . In one of his songs he says -when my footprints will no longer be on this door,when I will no longer tie my little boat on this shore and I will go away from this place ...what if no one remembers me , things will remain just the same and in some other form it will still be 'me' participating in everything going around here. Here you can listen to this beautiful song .Wish me luck for my new posting .

Rendezvous with the Masters of a Bygone Era…

I was desperate to meet them before I leave the city they built and transformed from a small, dingy trading port to the biggest metropolis this side of London.But the time was against me. There are just few days in my hand and there are many important things to do. But last night when I was reading about Shillong , another city where presence of the colonial masters changed the fate of the place and its inhabitants forever ,I again thought of them. Mostly young men who came in search of their destiny. These were among the earliest Europeans who came to Calcutta from a different world, thousands of miles away, leaving their families and homes in search of money, fame, and power. Some with the missionary zeal of spreading the word of God as well. Most of them died young- many in early twenties. The climate was against them . The terrain was unfamiliar . The customs were uncivilized to their eyes . Only one out of three survived for more than one monsoon . Yet their spirit was triumphant. Some went ahead to subjugate the natives, some others busied themselves in collection of booty for a comfortable old age back home, few others ironically, fell in love with the culture of the ‘barbarians’ and here they are- still in the land they once ruled . Dead and buried in the soil they considered foreign and inferior . I could not stop myself any longer and today (finally!) I walked in the South Park Street Cemetery during my office lunch hour. The dead can usually be relied upon for glamour. It is further helpful of course if they are long dead . But the glamour factor for these gentleman and ladies was much more higher than the normal. In fact the entire cemetery complex has a romantic aura of its own(Or was it just the afternoon glow of the sun) . The complex is a monument of paradox – that of being dead and buried in a conquered country. The colonial cemetery in the postcolony is located in the irony of its previous glory, its past power, and its present powerlessness. It is a silent witness to an imperial regime amidst the chaotic environs of its now postcolonial subjects, who live, work, and ignore the dead remains of their earlier masters. The cemetery is rarely visited by any of its neighbors; just like the dead remains it houses, it is in a state of decay – slowly dying a sad death.
Very apt to the nature of the communist ruled state housing it, the cemetery, I found housed not only the dead remains of the colonial bureaucracy, military officials, mercantile elite and their families but also common and sundry citizenry. There were also those women, who came to India, some with their husbands, others, searching for husbands amongst the English officers. Many stayed on, married or otherwise, devoting their lives to the ‘women and children of India’ and whose service and devotion, is recounted for all time on their tombstones. Death interestingly came with many excuses, sometimes through wars or epidemics and on others by old age. Tropical illnesses and childbirth were the main causes. Battle wounds for soldiers and shipwrecks for mariners. Those were the days after all, when death was the chief occupational hazard, for the foreign community. Strangely, a surprising number were recorded as having been struck by lightning. They lived at the mercy of the inhospitable climate and the environment, and all too often passed away, when they and Calcutta were still young.
The cemetery houses more than 1000 dead – buried over a period of more than a century when the colonial power was at its zenith in India. The earliest grave dates to 1767 ( of a writer of Customs House named John Wood ) and the last memorial was erected around 1895. Each having an interesting tale to tell. I find some old acquaintances here . To begin with , my very favorite- Henry Vivian Louis Derozio. He was the youthful, Anglo-Indian poet, rational thinker and inspiration behind the Young Bengal Movement, of the early 19th century. He was influenced by the ideas thrown up by the French Revolution and as a 21 year old teacher, sought to transmit these, to his pupils at Hindu College, (Presidency College of today). His unconventional teaching methods, resulted in his being accused of promoting Atheism and led to his dismissal from the College. He died soon after at the age of 22, but he left a rich heritage of poetry and ideas that inspired generations of youngsters . Just imagine, dying at the age of 22 and leaving behind such a legacy! Every time I enter the Presidency college, I try imagining his face, his charisma , his lectures and his fascinated students …..he is most definitely the pole star of the galaxy of distinguished names associated with that college .

Next comes clean and whitewashed tomb of Sir William Jones, the founder of the Asiatic society of Bengal. Being a student of Sanskrit, I am familiar with his work. He arrived in India in September 1783 and was a judge in the Supreme Court, in Calcutta. He possessed outstanding literary genius and had mastered every European language, including many oriental languages. He wrote extensively about India, the local laws, music, literature, botany and geography, and made the first English translations, of several important works of Indian literature. I found on the grave that he passed away, at only 48 years, due to an inflammation of the liver. I am glad he did not live to see the decay of the institution he established- the death of his idea of knowledge beyond bounds . A very corrupt version of his dream, in the shape of Asiatic Society still marks the entrance of the Park Street .
Though I could not trace her grave , I am told that the accomplished (and ravishing) Elizabeth Sanderson also lies in the premises.Taking with her the memories of the Calcutta social life where she created a storm by her arrival in 1775. Memories of the men who danced to her tune- spellbound by her beauty. Memories of her famous pranks on her suitors and also memories of the pain she suffered as wife of her gambler and womanizer husband Richard Barwell. All of it in a brief life of 23 years.
Then there was Major-General Charles Stuart, an eccentric Irishman, who was nick-named “Hindu Stuart”, after he became a Hindu, within a year of his arrival, in Calcutta. Stuart adopted several Hindu customs, including bathing in the Ganges every morning, the habit of chewing paan, as well as wearing Indian clothes. He even encouraged European ladies in India, to adopt the sari. When he died on 31st March 1828, he was buried with his Hindu idols, in his coffin. His tomb takes the form of a Hindu temple, surmounted by an elaborate edifice, with stone carvings of the Goddess Ganga.His tomb was undergoing repairs and despite my pleadings the adamant security person did not allow me to click picture of it. (Perhaps in hope of a bribe I did not offer.)

The notice board informs me of other names also. Cemetery contains the tomb of Colonel Vansittart, whose wife was a descendant of Oliver Cromwell. Other graves of note, are those of Lt. Col. Robert Kyd, the distinguished botanist and founder of the East India Company’s Botanical Gardens, down the river; Lt. Col. James Lillyman, who supervised the building of Fort William; sons of Captain Cook and Charles Dickens; and many others.

These dead are commemorated with monumental tombs, some enormous in their size and sheer volume – huge canopies, supported by giant pillars, structures raised to about 100 ft above ground – providing a grandiose effect. The architectural feature of each tomb in the cemetery imitates the glory of the British Raj – its power, its ideological ubiquity.
Rudyard Kipling in his ‘City of dreadful Night ‘ comments about these tombs , rather sarcastically :
“It is as though we walked down the streets of a town, so tall are they and so closely do they stand – a town shrivelled by fire, and scarred by frost and siege. Men must have been afraid of their friends rising up before the due time that they weighted them with such cruel mounds of masonry.”
I look at it from a different point of view. It was again, to a large extent, a statement of Raj . The grandeur, even in death , symbolized - power .Not only the size of the tombs, even the epitaphs make a political statement . Take for example this one: “Here lie the remains of Augustus Cleveland, Esquire, late Collector of the Revenue; Judge of the Dewanny Adawlat of the Districts of Bhaugulpore, Monghyr, Rajamahal, &c. &c. He departed this life 12th January 1784, at sea on board the ‘Atlas’ Indiaman, Captain Cooper, Proceeding to the Cape for the recovery of his health, aged 29 Years. His remains interred here on the 30th of the same month. The public and private virtues of this excellent young man, were singularly eminent in his public capacity; he accomplished by a system of conciliation what could never be effected by a system by Military coercion; he civilized a savage race of the mountaineers, who for ages had existed in a state of barbarism, and eluded every exertion that had been practiced against them to suppress their depredations, and reduced them to obedience; to his wise and beneficent conduct, the English East India Company were indebted for the subjecting to their Government, the numerous inhabitants of that wild and extensive country, the Jungleteterry.”
Isn’t it a funerary tomb transformed into a monument of power? Cleveland, as the epitaph declares, was a martyr who penetrated the heart of darkness and civilized the barbarians, assimilated them into the grace of the mighty empire.
But I decided not to go deep in the history and power equations written by these people of yesteryears' . As for me, I am glad I could visit them after all. It was an humbling experience – something that made me think for long. Hereditary titles, distinguished careers, valiant characters, imperial backing and money power- nothing could save them from the clutches of nature …or should we call it time . It was like the Yaksha Prashna of Mahabharata – we see people dying all the time and yet we crave for immortality.
The world outside the cemetery walls carried on its business as usual . Traders selling goods, householders collecting their shopping and traffic man busy in work- everyone blissfully oblivious of the history sleeping in the vicinity.

Find my other pics of the cemetery here

All my bags are packed...I am ready to go ....

“The city grows on you….despite all its shortcomings, restrictions and negativity, you tend to love it as the times goes by.” I was sure even at that time that the speaker meant whatever he was saying. A Marathi colleague was speaking at his farewell function .He was transferred after 5 years of stay at Kolkata .That day I thought that I will never give such ‘cliché-ed’ speech when I have to leave this city. I was very angry with Kolkata in those days. It was inhospitable, ugly and unfriendly for me and it fall far short of my expectations compared to Lucknow, Shimla , Jaipur or any other city I had lived till then.
It is almost three years now from that farewell function. This morning I got a two line order that changed the course of my day …may be for days. I have been transferred from Kolkata to New Delhi. It seems I have some strange connection with the Raj Capitals. First I came from the Summer capital-Shimla to this place and now I go back to THE Rajdhani of India . Delhi- the seat of power, the place which evokes mixed reactions in my heart and also the heartless- rule less- ruthless city which belongs to no-one .
It was not Delhi and its character that I was worried about. It was Kolkata – and more than that my life in Kolkata that I was thinking of. I have a mental list ready of things and people I will surely miss once I moved out of here . People who taught me the basics of work , people with whom I traveled every morning and evening and numerous other associations which I made here . Come to think of it, I guess I will even miss the vegetable seller with whom I regularly fight over vegetable prices. But the two places which I will cherish for rest of my life are –my first HOME and my office. It was here in Kolkata that for the first time me and hubby set up our first home . Everything from furniture, linen to kitchen appliances was bought keeping this house in mind….and I am not very sure how they will fit in any other house . It is definitely the loveliest, most wonderful, most beautiful house. And my office-well, it was not my first of course. But it was the best so far. I was a pleasure to work with this group of competent officers. As I am writing this post , so many images come to my mind. Meetings and arguments with boss, discussions with colleagues, my trips to Andamans, Bhutan, Farakka and many other places. My interactions with the subordinates, my attempts to ensure discipline, my efforts to understand the audit reports put up to me . My failures…my successes. I got so much to see and learn in this office. And however much I resist, there are images outside office also…of the city, I love to hate. A city that disappointed me with its bad busses, horrible roads and terrible services . A city of suffocating politics and unnecessary aggressiveness. But have I not already mend up my relation with Calcutta in my mind? For quite sometime now, I have accepted (though grudgingly) its slow speed, its argumentative attitude for everything and even the peculiar sense of timing.
I know I will miss my years at Kolkata and the people I met here. I try my best to look at the positive side of the transfer – it will be closer to Lucknow, transfer is a reality for all of us in civil services, the new office may be even better – but none of these consolations work…the lump in my throat and the bitter taste in my mouth, continues. Don’t be surprised if you find me saying good things about Calcutta when I leave – the city, indeed, grows on you!

Enchanting Empresses : Two Parallel Asian Traditions of Entertainers

Victoria Hemming was born at Lucknow to parents of European descent: her mother was an Armenian jew and her father English. Victoria was a trained dancer of Kathak thanks to her Lucknow connection and was well versed in Urdu poetry and singing too. Around 1870 she married a certain William Robert Yeoward, who was an Armenian Jew working as an engineer in a dry ice  factory at Azamgadh near Benares. In 1870, she gave birth to a daughter named Angelina. Victoria was however destined to be far off from the secured life of a housewife. Her marriage did not last long due to Victoria’s love for dance and music and her relations with a Muslim friend named Khurshed. So after the divorce, she moved to Benares with Angelina and Khurshed, only to be deserted by her lover soon afterwards. Unable to go back to her parental or marital home, she chose the time tested profession of women fallen to misery and became a Tawaif at Baneras, which was still a centre of power and culture in 1880s. She took a new name of Malka jaan and as there was already two celebrated Tawaifs of that name at Lucknow and Agra, soon she came to be known as Badi Malka jaan. As the strongholds of Mughal empire were broken under British repression following the mutiny, the centre of power was shifting and like other women of her trade, Malka jaan too around 1883, shifted her base to Calcutta. She came here with her daughter Angelina now known as Gauhar. Gauhar also joined her mother’s profession and grew up to become the iconic Gauhar jaan of Kolkata. A woman of legendary beauty and intelligence, she was a skilled dancer, singer and was known for her repartee and poetry too. She was in the words of a historian, “the most famous, most charismatic and perhaps the wealthiest female singer/dancer at the turn of the century”. Gauhar Jan lived a very wealthy life, and she also donated generously to a number of causes. Numerous legends are associated with her. In Calcutta, she used to ride in a buggy driven by four horses, threw a party spending 20,000 rupees when her cat produced a litter of kittens, and donated only half the promised amount to Gandhiji’s ‘Swaraj fund’ when he did not keep the promise of attending the ‘fund raising’ concert and deputed a representative instead. But the glory was not everlasting for Gauhar Jaan; with the grey hair the times also turned grey for her. The lady who was also the first recorded singer of India , was soon left with little means for survival. It must be around second decade of 20th century when she started giving tuitions for wannabe singers and tawaifs. One of her student was beautiful Jardan Bai who later on moved to the newly established Cinema industry at Bombay and become a known side actress cum singer of 1940s . Later an entire generation was charmed by the gorgeous daughter of this Jardan bai - Nargis. After a successful career of film, actress Nargis even served as a member of Parliament and much like Gauhar Jaan and Malka Jaan, was associated with a number of charities. It was an unbroken chain of four women entertainers and a dramatic story of their rise(and fall) with the changes in the society . All this came to my mind as I was reading the book Memoir of a Geisha by Arthur Golden and the book made me think of a similar system back home at Lucknow. The book per se is nothing much except for the information it gave me about the things associated with the geisha.
The comparison came naturally to me. Like the Geisha in Kyoto, the world of tawaif in Lucknow is as complex and hierarchal as the society of which it is a part. In those days when even most women of good families owned nothing in terms of property in their names, these women were among the highest tax payers. Britons with their shrewd sense of business while controlling the activities of these women by legislation and otherwise did not hesitate in imposing tax on them. These tawaifs at the time of annexation of Awadh owned considerable income from the landed properties mostly received as gifts from their benefactors. Much like the Geisha of Kyoto and their okiyas these tawaifs functioned from Kothas (loosely translate as salons /pleasure houses) owned by Chaudharains who were veteran tawaifs of their own times. In a departure to the general belief these women (geisha and tawaifs ) were not prostitutes. Abdul Halim Sharar considered tawaifs as the channel through which the morals, manners and distinctiveness of Lucknow culture and society was sustained. They were not only preserver and performers of the high culture of the court but also actively shaped the developments in Hindustani music and Kathak dance style. They commanded great respect in the courts and in society and association with them bestowed prestige on those who were invited to their salons for cultural soirees. Even the young sons of nobility were sent to them for instruction in etiquettes, the art of conversation and polite manners, and appreciation of Urdu literature. They were the artists and entertainers for noble society- till the British arrived on the scene and change the society and its fabric forever. ( Much like as fate of geisha after Japan lost the war with Americans) Many of the tawaifs could not find the patrons to survive and turned to prostitution. Some other chose a life of anonymity and poverty.
Contrary to the conventional perspective of this profession historian Veena Talwar in a famous essay on the life of these courtesans argued that these women, even today are independent and consciously involved in the covert subversion of a male dominated world; they celebrate their womanhood in the privacy of their apartments by resisting and inverting the rules of gender of the larger society of which they are a part.
In the book of Arthur Golden, I found a vivid description of the rigorous training of a geisha and a great deal has been said and written (e.g in Mirza Ruswa’s novel Umrao Zaan Ada) about the education and training of the tawaifs. Besides the dancing and singing , poetry and playing instruments , calligraphy and conversation – both sets of entertainers of Japan and India are skilled in the art of Nakhra- pretense, which they have to master in order to spare no opportunity of coaxing money out of their admirers . These well practiced ploys,,- some learned, some invented, some even improvised were so much a part of their lives that even their Bollywood avatars cannot but copy those. The spontaneity of these ploys to attract attention made several otherwise worldly men lose a fortune in a moment . This may sound more like self enrichment than style but in a society which has virtually denied women control over wealth and property, perhaps it was a kind of countercultural way of life.
I try not to judge them with my contemporary morality and values. I visualize them ( much like the Witch of Portobello) as women who faced the life with courage and managed to sail through the current of society and horrors of their past lives – sometimes with relative happiness and sometimes with a resigned disinterest .

Long Live Valentine!

What a day it was today! Though I spent the day in the usual way of fire fighting the trivial issues of office and home , romantics around the world are celebrating Valentine's Day, an occasion named after a Christian patron saint for lovers. Today was the red and white day when Cupid's arrow will dart towards the pockets of many who are looking for ways to purchase gifts or provide special experiences for their loved ones. This evening I was browsing through the news related to the excitement and concerns this day is raising worldwide and was amazed to find the variety of reactions. If you ask me , I think when it comes to Valentine's Day, there are two types of people: those who love it, and those who love to hate it. I am sure shops and hospitality industry loves it much more than the lovers’ themselves as for them it means a sudden boom in revenue. The commercial sector specializing in chocolate, wine and roses see a dramatic rise on the purchase charts. So it is for the mobile companies as with the mobile phone revolution in our country, lovers are using the hi-tech mode to express their love and the telecom companies are reaping the profits. This year's Valentine's Day was the busiest text messaging day ever, according to industry experts. VeriSign predicted that 2.2 billion text messages will be sent in North America alone, representing a 40 per cent increase over normal daily traffic and a 300 per cent increase over Valentine's Day in 2007. However, for agencies, activists and businessmen Valentine's Day is no longer confined to just roses, chocolates , messages and cards. In the Arizona Republic for example Valentine's Day is a big day for divorce. On average, 19 more divorces are filed on February 14 than on any other business day in the County Superior Court, according to an analysis of divorce filings over the last decade. Ironic isn’t it ? Can you guess why it is so? For some it is the disappointment of not having the V-day as expected for others it is a statement of poetic revenge- or so believes the local social analysts . Hence while hot and heavy couples are exchanging little blue boxes and designer ties over romantic dinners today, other couples are celebrating in another was-- Divorce. Moving on to the Africa , where though Kenya's post-election reconciliation talks have not yet come up roses, the nation's crucial flower industry is blooming for Valentine's Day. The annual festival of romance is a key pay-day for Kenya's flower producers, who sell more flowers on Valentine's Day and Mother's Day than during the rest of the year combined. Most are exported to Europe of course .

The fellow traders in Israel are not that lucky . For Palestinian flower growers in the Hamas-run Gaza Strip, it was a holiday of love's labour's lost. Unable to ship their blooms to Europe for Valentine's Day because of Israeli export restrictions, they dumped two truckloads of flowers at the Sufa border crossing with the Jewish state on Thursday and fed some of the crop to sheep. And nearer home, at another border of dispute, it was an altogether opposite reaction. A rubber tube decorated with flowers and messages of love was set afloat on river Chenab for people in Pakistan on Valentine's Day by members of a political party in Akhnoor , a Jammu and Kashmir border town . In a south Asian country the health ministry is on its toes in distributing condoms as their survey shows that every third teenager will celebrate V-day by having unprotected sex.
Things are dramatically different in the northern towns of India where Hindu hard-liners are showing no love for Valentine's Day. A few dozen protesters blocked a road in New Delhi on Wednesday, burning Valentine's Day cards and chanting "Down with Valentine." In my own city Lucknow, extremists threatened to beat up couples found celebrating their love. I find it sad. Though I am neutral towards this day and the hype about it, I feel that Indian culture and values are not that fragile as these fanatics would like to believe. Their reaction is one of ignorance about their own tradition and culture.
And yet another reaction of the day for emailers --the Valentine's Day campaign that the bot-building Storm Trojan horse has been running for weeks is running at such volume that even the FBI had to issue a warning The Storm Worm virus has capitalized on various holidays in the last year by sending millions of e-mails advertising an e-card link within the text of the spam e-mail. Valentine's Day was identified as the next target.
Reminds you of the HSBC ad line : No two people have similar reactions in this world .
I really don’t know how real is all this hype and hullabaloo about the day . Some say it is the market that is driving the people for these celebrations and some believe it the other way round. Now, who is driving who is again a debatable point? Reminds me of the story of Winter prediction of red Indians which my boss told us in one of the meetings recently . The story goes like this that the red Indians by virtue of their traditional knowledge could predict how severe the next winter will be with much accuracy. The custom was that much before the beginning of winter, the group will go to their chief asking how the next winter is going to be and the chief will smell the leaves, check the moist of earth and feel the water before giving his verdict. But one year, the old chief died and his American University educated son took over . This new chief thanks to his superior education has lost the skill of predicting weather the Red Indian way. So when the tribe came for his verdict in August he called the local Met office and asked them. They replied it will be severe winter and the new chief repeated the words to his tribe and advised them to collect wood . People again came in September and October and both times the chief on Met office’s advice predicted ‘very severe winter’ and asked them to collect all the wood they can cut . Now it was November and winter was not at all severe. So the chief again called Met office and asked if they are sure it will be a harsh winter. They replied “ Of course sir, Just go to the wood and you will find even the red Indians have cut down the forest to collect wood. Take my word sir, these people are never wrong about the weather .”
But what the heck, for most of us ...it was just a day like all others ….full of an exotic mix of happiness and excitement, disappointment and loneliness, work and leisure .One cannot however, help feeling bit envious of the lucky ones who have time for V-day celebrations .And let’s be honest, its always nice to see people in love, people who celebrate their relationships, people who dare to show that they care ….and nice to watch lovey dovey movies on TV too .So in a limited way, I am also joining the bandwagon and am watching Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle saying –“Winter must be cold for those who have no warm memories.” Long live Valentine !