(bdnews24.com, February 25, 2011)
My mother tongue is Tamil, the native language of much of South India. Having been brought up in Mumbai, many miles north of the state of Tamil Nadu, and parts beyond, it was hard enough to keep pace with the many languages that I was exposed to and had to communicate in, let alone one that was, in many ways, alien to me. The only person who spoke it with any degree of accuracy or authenticity was my mother, and that was not assertive or sustained enough where input was concerned to keep me linguistically rooted. And, of course, like any good single child with a strong minded and independent streak to her personality, I was not about to listen to anything a parent said, especially if it smelled even slightly of authority. As a result, like so many people I know, while I take great pride in my own personal heritage and am immensely privileged to be an Indian in today’s progressive and futuristic world, I cannot speak to the very ethnic group to which I actually belong. Is this a good thing? Not at all. After all, I am a Tamilian and should know how to speak my own mother tongue.
This is perhaps the result of an urban upbringing. Almost everyone I know communicates – and prefers to communicate – in English mixed with a touch of the local idiom, a kind of everyday Esperanto. It gets the job done, it makes life easier and it works all around. But is it a good thing, long-term, especially in a time when people are moving further away from their origins and becoming amalgamated, homogenous, even anonymous, none any different from the other, linguistically speaking. Unfortunately, in most cases, this tends to mean that local languages, dialects, even idioms are often lost, as is happening in much of the sub-continent, especially in northeastern India, where some languages are so esoteric and obscure that they are limited to just one small tribe – and the death of the last member of that extended family implies the extinction of the very word itself!
This could conceivably happen in Bangladesh as well, especially if children are not taught and encouraged to use their native language. A recent report tells me that textbooks in their mother tongue and teachers who can use that to communicate with the youngsters are in short supply in the country, particularly in Chapainawabganj district. Children are finding it difficult to deal with classes – and the teachers involved – in Bangla, which they are not as fluent in and cannot manage to catch up with too easily. Some prefer to drop out rather than struggle with not only lessons, but also in building relationships with others of their age who speak either Bangla or English. Santali, for one, is not used in textbooks, so it has to be taught using the Roman alphabet, which makes things a lot more difficult for the youth.
It is indeed a matter of irony that the country itself has signed the United Nations charter that gives “all communities of the world the right to receive education in their mother language”. The charter was ratified in Parliament by the passage of a bill, but the law in this case has not yet been implemented. Which means that these children will have to wait even longer for their lives to be made more comfortable – to a point where they can earn and living and be valuably contributing members of society. Of course, the question does arise: why should the youngsters bother if the government doesn’t? If it is not important enough to provide them with ways and means to be educated, to become self-sufficient and more global citizens, beyond their immediate ambit, why should the children themselves bother to muster up enough motivation and initiative and effort to get the job done without help?
Eventually, it is not a battle that can be fought, leave alone won, by the school children alone, or even by the small community to which they may belong. It has to be a concerted effort by many people – those directly involved, those that run the local schools, the government and, perhaps most important of all, those who care about keeping the culture and traditions of the nation alive, healthy and flourishing. And it is not just a matter of textbooks, but about a lifestyle, a way of living, a style of communication, a route to the future – a future of not just young people and individuals, but also of a country that wants to look into tomorrow. A tomorrow that is the story of success, of development of achievement, of progress. That same tomorrow which we all look forward to, whether we are in Bangladesh, in India, or anywhere else in the world.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Draupadi
(The Hindu Sunday Magazine, February 13, 2011)
Shivani Wazir Pasrich was once often seen on the catwalk, her back straight, her stride measured, her head held elegantly. And then she stepped out of the limelight and into a world that was more private, personal, her own life. But her next step was on to a different stage, one where she could communicate with an audience every time she spoke, talking to each person sitting in front as if they were her friends, the faces changing every day but the intimacy always staying the same. As a theatre actor, Pasrich has found a new world to challenge her, a world that has accepted her and lauded her talent. This was obvious after the staging of Draupadi, a play in English that she, as first-time producer, recently brought to Mumbai, to the National Centre for the Performing Arts. It has managed to bring the classic heroine out of the shadows of her many husbands and onto centrestage, literally and metaphorically, with a little help from luminaries such as Ritu Kumar (costume design), Aman Nath (set design), Shubha Mudgal (music/voice) and Anjolie Ela Menon (a signature painting). Draupadi was directed by Tina Johnson and Pasrich herself.
The story draws on the original character from the Mahabharata, but begins after the war has ended. Draupadi (Shivani Wazir Pasrich) is wandering through the neverworld that lies somewhere between heaven and earth and is wondering why her life has been the way it has. And, as she did on so many stressful occasions through her life as wife of the Pandavas, she talked to Lord Krishna, her confidante, advisor and savior. Why do women need to suffer, especially the way she did, she wants to know. And Krishna (Dilip Shankar), the all-seeing, all-knowing, introduces her to Maaya (Charu Shankar), a modern woman in today’s world who has faced societal abuse and is on the verge of killing herself. Draupadi strikes a bargain with her for her life versus Draupadi’s salvation. And the debate of revenge over resilience, life over death, pain over endurance begins…
According to Pasrich, the process of producing a play was very different from just being an actor playing a part in one. “It was as traumatic as the story of Draupadi!” The venture was never planned to happen in the way it did, since “At the core I am an actor. I am used to taking a subject and making it my own, in my own space and comfort zone. A producer is exposed to the elements – I would laugh at production people when I was doing television and plays.” When she watched Dilip Shankar during the process of Mahesh Dattani’s Dance Like a Man with Lilette Dubey, “Dilip did the lights – he would be looking after everything, and I would laugh and say ‘You could easily be an actor, why do you do this?’. Inadvertently I became a producer. Suddenly I realized that as an artist many ideas come to you and some day someone would ask you to do something that relates to it all – the road that you take in life has no knowns; it is just a very hard road.” She realizes that “If you set your heart to something, you need to find the route to make it happen…and it does!”
Draupadi came from the research that Pasrich did while she was working on a project dealing with Karna, the anti-hero figure in the Mahabharata. “I found it was all quite male-centric and did not do justice to Draupadi. I thought long and hard – why is it the same kind of track people think about when it comes to her? As a human being, there must be many aspects to her. There seemed to be a strong parallel to many of us today – we are individuals on so many fronts, so why box us into whatever limits we are in? We are after all as rounded as anyone else, and need to explore as many possibilities as anyone else. If you – or I - are going through a tough time, so is everyone. Draupadi went through more difficulties than anyone else,” Pasrich thought. “I did a lot of research on her – the story in my mind that took shape was that as women we face challenges – we have to be malleable as clay, as hard as rock and like sand, fill gaps wherever they appear. It is not possible to be all three in any situation with a given conflict. You will always have problems, but if other women have survived, dealing with more conflicts, so can you.” For her, “Draupadi was an inspiration to conquer all adversity, as strength, as that voice inside speaking out against injustices meted out by society. The whole concept is to not let it all fly into anger and rage and emotions that have no resolution, but to create a system of actually harnessing that energy and channelizing it positively.”
And the choice of Pasrich as the title character seemed pre-ordained. As she tells it: “We were rehearsing for a play on Karna; I was playing Draupadi. I wanted to improvise, but the director did not like it. And a man from ISCON man who came to watch said, ‘Ma, you are Draupadi.’ I believe the project was destined and the people who came on board were all fated to be there. It all just happened.” Over two years, paths just opened up, says Pasrich, “The ones I had chosen were blocked, others opened up, and it made me very vulnerable, emotional, fragile. Draupadi was never just a play for me. It is much more. I don’t think it has changed me, but it has changed people’s perception of me - which is very flattering. I hope it does not change me! The whole idea of creating is to know who you are and what you are, you know that you are grounded and solid.” And who is she? “I am the mother of my two daughters – but with that, I feel greatly inspired to do things that could change the perception of what women are how they are perceived in society.”
Draupadi the woman may have been traumatized by circumstances and have risen above them to become a heroine of all times, but Draupadi the play is “completely entertaining,” insists Pasrich. “It is not a sermon, yet it has a message, not something that is preached, but an insight into life. This play really is about healing in a sense. I believe it is so relevant in our modern-day world, where we face so many expectations, so many burdens, as wife, mother and human being. We need to be kinder to ourselves.”
The play has been staged in Delhi and Mumbai. It will be seen in Bangalore in January and Pasrich looks forward to staging it in Chennai and Hyderabad as well. She enthuses, “I am looking forward to performing in the South - they are so aware of the epics and our history and tradition and it would be interesting to see what they say about this take on the character.”
Shivani Wazir Pasrich was once often seen on the catwalk, her back straight, her stride measured, her head held elegantly. And then she stepped out of the limelight and into a world that was more private, personal, her own life. But her next step was on to a different stage, one where she could communicate with an audience every time she spoke, talking to each person sitting in front as if they were her friends, the faces changing every day but the intimacy always staying the same. As a theatre actor, Pasrich has found a new world to challenge her, a world that has accepted her and lauded her talent. This was obvious after the staging of Draupadi, a play in English that she, as first-time producer, recently brought to Mumbai, to the National Centre for the Performing Arts. It has managed to bring the classic heroine out of the shadows of her many husbands and onto centrestage, literally and metaphorically, with a little help from luminaries such as Ritu Kumar (costume design), Aman Nath (set design), Shubha Mudgal (music/voice) and Anjolie Ela Menon (a signature painting). Draupadi was directed by Tina Johnson and Pasrich herself.
The story draws on the original character from the Mahabharata, but begins after the war has ended. Draupadi (Shivani Wazir Pasrich) is wandering through the neverworld that lies somewhere between heaven and earth and is wondering why her life has been the way it has. And, as she did on so many stressful occasions through her life as wife of the Pandavas, she talked to Lord Krishna, her confidante, advisor and savior. Why do women need to suffer, especially the way she did, she wants to know. And Krishna (Dilip Shankar), the all-seeing, all-knowing, introduces her to Maaya (Charu Shankar), a modern woman in today’s world who has faced societal abuse and is on the verge of killing herself. Draupadi strikes a bargain with her for her life versus Draupadi’s salvation. And the debate of revenge over resilience, life over death, pain over endurance begins…
According to Pasrich, the process of producing a play was very different from just being an actor playing a part in one. “It was as traumatic as the story of Draupadi!” The venture was never planned to happen in the way it did, since “At the core I am an actor. I am used to taking a subject and making it my own, in my own space and comfort zone. A producer is exposed to the elements – I would laugh at production people when I was doing television and plays.” When she watched Dilip Shankar during the process of Mahesh Dattani’s Dance Like a Man with Lilette Dubey, “Dilip did the lights – he would be looking after everything, and I would laugh and say ‘You could easily be an actor, why do you do this?’. Inadvertently I became a producer. Suddenly I realized that as an artist many ideas come to you and some day someone would ask you to do something that relates to it all – the road that you take in life has no knowns; it is just a very hard road.” She realizes that “If you set your heart to something, you need to find the route to make it happen…and it does!”
Draupadi came from the research that Pasrich did while she was working on a project dealing with Karna, the anti-hero figure in the Mahabharata. “I found it was all quite male-centric and did not do justice to Draupadi. I thought long and hard – why is it the same kind of track people think about when it comes to her? As a human being, there must be many aspects to her. There seemed to be a strong parallel to many of us today – we are individuals on so many fronts, so why box us into whatever limits we are in? We are after all as rounded as anyone else, and need to explore as many possibilities as anyone else. If you – or I - are going through a tough time, so is everyone. Draupadi went through more difficulties than anyone else,” Pasrich thought. “I did a lot of research on her – the story in my mind that took shape was that as women we face challenges – we have to be malleable as clay, as hard as rock and like sand, fill gaps wherever they appear. It is not possible to be all three in any situation with a given conflict. You will always have problems, but if other women have survived, dealing with more conflicts, so can you.” For her, “Draupadi was an inspiration to conquer all adversity, as strength, as that voice inside speaking out against injustices meted out by society. The whole concept is to not let it all fly into anger and rage and emotions that have no resolution, but to create a system of actually harnessing that energy and channelizing it positively.”
And the choice of Pasrich as the title character seemed pre-ordained. As she tells it: “We were rehearsing for a play on Karna; I was playing Draupadi. I wanted to improvise, but the director did not like it. And a man from ISCON man who came to watch said, ‘Ma, you are Draupadi.’ I believe the project was destined and the people who came on board were all fated to be there. It all just happened.” Over two years, paths just opened up, says Pasrich, “The ones I had chosen were blocked, others opened up, and it made me very vulnerable, emotional, fragile. Draupadi was never just a play for me. It is much more. I don’t think it has changed me, but it has changed people’s perception of me - which is very flattering. I hope it does not change me! The whole idea of creating is to know who you are and what you are, you know that you are grounded and solid.” And who is she? “I am the mother of my two daughters – but with that, I feel greatly inspired to do things that could change the perception of what women are how they are perceived in society.”
Draupadi the woman may have been traumatized by circumstances and have risen above them to become a heroine of all times, but Draupadi the play is “completely entertaining,” insists Pasrich. “It is not a sermon, yet it has a message, not something that is preached, but an insight into life. This play really is about healing in a sense. I believe it is so relevant in our modern-day world, where we face so many expectations, so many burdens, as wife, mother and human being. We need to be kinder to ourselves.”
The play has been staged in Delhi and Mumbai. It will be seen in Bangalore in January and Pasrich looks forward to staging it in Chennai and Hyderabad as well. She enthuses, “I am looking forward to performing in the South - they are so aware of the epics and our history and tradition and it would be interesting to see what they say about this take on the character.”
Monday, February 21, 2011
Just say 'die'!
(http://www.cricketcountry.com/cricket-articles/The-repercussions-of-publicly-dubbing-cricket-a-stupid-game-/529)
aka The repercussions of publicly dubbing cricket a “stupid game”
It was just last week that someone tried to kill me...or so I thought for that one crucial moment when all escape routes seemed to be blocked and my bloody – but unbowed – end was a given. It wasn’t that I was being a bad husband, or that I could be a husband at all, since I am all woman, but that I made what tends to be a rather tactless remark in the context of the average Indian conversational ambit. I made the fatal – almost – error of saying that cricket was a “stupid game”. For a few seconds there was a stunned, unbelieving, incredulous silence.
Then the quiet, deliberate tap of a glass being set carefully down on the table. The gentle clink of a fork touching a plate. The muted gulp of water rushing down a throat clogged with an undefined but ardently felt emotion. Oops, I thought too late to myself, that was not a good thing to say.
It would have been perfectly okay in certain contexts. Just after a college baseball game in Port Jefferson, Long Island, for instance, where most people cannot understand the concept of cricket and why it has to be played with much pomp under circumstances that are alien to any self-respecting contemporary citizen.
Or during a formal tea hosted by the Queen of England for the Arsenal team where the idiom would be a ball that is larger and kicked around with the feet rather than with what seems like an oddly configured two-by-four with a strange paint job. Or even at that fabulous after-party for the latest Bollywood blockbuster premiere where in the film there is no role for a wannabe sportsperson of whatever persuasion.
But in an Indian home with a group of Indian guests, all hotly debating the virtues of leg-before versus leg – presumably - after, the occasional cry of “Howzzat!” echoing around the spacious sitting room even as terms like “googly”, “mid-on” and “run out”, danced in the air along with a floating cat hair and a bit off fluffy feather the vacuum cleaner and the otherwise eagle eye of the hostess had missed? Never. The deathly silence slowly, inexorably, inevitably grew menacing.
There was a sense of violence, barely contained, that overwhelmed the gentle fragrance of sandalwood and hot, sweet ghee that wafted around the dining area. A large man rose from his chair and turned towards the dining table, where the perpetrator of the verbal crime stood. Me. I. Myself, the hostess of the dinner evening, the co-owner of the apartment and the one who had made the remark without sparing a tiny thought for the consequences.
You see, I tend to forget that in some – a very few – ways, this is not a free and democratic country. All people are not equal, not where holy cows (forgive me, oh Lord of the Speech Censor Board) are concerned. You do not speak with any lack of discernible tact about religion, local politics or (may I be forgiven the temerity of even mentioning the word after my gaffe) cricket, not unless you want to face a penalty that can range from a cold silence to complete social ostracism to, in some dramatic and extreme cases, murder.
I believed for the second that that would be what I was going to have to deal with, as the large gentleman loomed up alongside me as I stood with knees going ever-so-slightly wobbly, my cold and admittedly clammy fingers clenched tight around the handles of a large glass dish holding the ghee-scented dessert. “Pudding?” I asked weakly, as perhaps a form of atonement for my blunder.
Mercifully, my guests had known me for as many years as I had been alive. They understood that in some aspects of everyday Indian life, especially cricket, I was not as bright as I could have, should have been. They smiled, forgave, even made a joke about my ignorance. And they continued the meal and its accompanying chatter without too much attention paid to what had been said, without bothering about me, in fact. I was still alive and undaunted. But it had been a close thing...
(Ramya knows little, if anything, about the gentleman’s game, but she is capable of inviting comment, occasionally of the murderous kind)
aka The repercussions of publicly dubbing cricket a “stupid game”
It was just last week that someone tried to kill me...or so I thought for that one crucial moment when all escape routes seemed to be blocked and my bloody – but unbowed – end was a given. It wasn’t that I was being a bad husband, or that I could be a husband at all, since I am all woman, but that I made what tends to be a rather tactless remark in the context of the average Indian conversational ambit. I made the fatal – almost – error of saying that cricket was a “stupid game”. For a few seconds there was a stunned, unbelieving, incredulous silence.
Then the quiet, deliberate tap of a glass being set carefully down on the table. The gentle clink of a fork touching a plate. The muted gulp of water rushing down a throat clogged with an undefined but ardently felt emotion. Oops, I thought too late to myself, that was not a good thing to say.
It would have been perfectly okay in certain contexts. Just after a college baseball game in Port Jefferson, Long Island, for instance, where most people cannot understand the concept of cricket and why it has to be played with much pomp under circumstances that are alien to any self-respecting contemporary citizen.
Or during a formal tea hosted by the Queen of England for the Arsenal team where the idiom would be a ball that is larger and kicked around with the feet rather than with what seems like an oddly configured two-by-four with a strange paint job. Or even at that fabulous after-party for the latest Bollywood blockbuster premiere where in the film there is no role for a wannabe sportsperson of whatever persuasion.
But in an Indian home with a group of Indian guests, all hotly debating the virtues of leg-before versus leg – presumably - after, the occasional cry of “Howzzat!” echoing around the spacious sitting room even as terms like “googly”, “mid-on” and “run out”, danced in the air along with a floating cat hair and a bit off fluffy feather the vacuum cleaner and the otherwise eagle eye of the hostess had missed? Never. The deathly silence slowly, inexorably, inevitably grew menacing.
There was a sense of violence, barely contained, that overwhelmed the gentle fragrance of sandalwood and hot, sweet ghee that wafted around the dining area. A large man rose from his chair and turned towards the dining table, where the perpetrator of the verbal crime stood. Me. I. Myself, the hostess of the dinner evening, the co-owner of the apartment and the one who had made the remark without sparing a tiny thought for the consequences.
You see, I tend to forget that in some – a very few – ways, this is not a free and democratic country. All people are not equal, not where holy cows (forgive me, oh Lord of the Speech Censor Board) are concerned. You do not speak with any lack of discernible tact about religion, local politics or (may I be forgiven the temerity of even mentioning the word after my gaffe) cricket, not unless you want to face a penalty that can range from a cold silence to complete social ostracism to, in some dramatic and extreme cases, murder.
I believed for the second that that would be what I was going to have to deal with, as the large gentleman loomed up alongside me as I stood with knees going ever-so-slightly wobbly, my cold and admittedly clammy fingers clenched tight around the handles of a large glass dish holding the ghee-scented dessert. “Pudding?” I asked weakly, as perhaps a form of atonement for my blunder.
Mercifully, my guests had known me for as many years as I had been alive. They understood that in some aspects of everyday Indian life, especially cricket, I was not as bright as I could have, should have been. They smiled, forgave, even made a joke about my ignorance. And they continued the meal and its accompanying chatter without too much attention paid to what had been said, without bothering about me, in fact. I was still alive and undaunted. But it had been a close thing...
(Ramya knows little, if anything, about the gentleman’s game, but she is capable of inviting comment, occasionally of the murderous kind)
Getting rid of the bugs
(bdnews24.com, February 18, 2011)
Much of today’s beleaguered economy turns on the axis of appearances. Since a great deal of money comes in – or, at least, is invited in – to any country from outside it, that country has to present an image that is favourable, “pretty”, perhaps a little mendacious. It happens anywhere in the world; just before an event that focuses the global media’s hawk-eyed lenses on any nation, there is a frantic rush to get things cleaned up, to make sure the best face is presented, even if it means last minute whitewashing (literally and metaphorically), huge amounts of ill-afforded money spent on cosmetic alterations and more manpower than is practical put on the job. India did it for the Commonwealth Games last year. Now Bangladesh is doing something similar. According to news reports, the country “has launched an all-out war on mosquitoes in and around cricket stadiums to ensure a bite-free World Cup for spectators and players”. Two venues in Dhaka will host the opening ceremony and six matches in the tournament and spray teams have been deployed by the Dhaka City Corporation to wipe out the buzzing bugs before they can take a bite out of those involved in the game. Apparently, there has been an alarming increase in the number and proliferation of mosquitoes in recent months, and so special measures are being taken to kill the insects in the stadiums and for three kilometres around those centres, as well as around the hotels used by the teams and their supporters. And, in the process, the authorities look to make sure that the picture of the country presented to the rest of the world remains as bug-free.
The problem, in Bangladesh and much of the Third World (or what used to be considered the Third World until some nations made enough economic progress to lift themselves to the next rung in the relevant ladder), is one of familiarity breeding more than just contempt – there is a laissez-faire attitude to the environment, a disregard for hygiene outside the personal or immediate, and a generally abysmally low level of consciousness of the huge disparity between the haves and the so many more have-nots. In India, in China and perhaps in Bangladesh (where I have not yet been), people will be immaculately clean, no matter how poor they are, their homes will be as spic-and-span, again no matter how poor, but look outside the window, or just beyond the gate, or even along the stairwell to their apartment, and you will see discarded bottles, spit stains, plastic bags, everything that makes up the detritus of a human existence.
This is another aspect of the great clean-up act. And Bangladesh is reportedly working on that aspect of life too. The story goes that “Authorities have already evicted hawkers and beggars, forced worn-out buses off the roads and banned laundry from being hung out near stadiums to improve Dhaka's image.” Which is, really, the crux of the whole matter: improving an image. Throw these unfortunate individuals out of their accustomed habitat, change their lives and not for the better, send transport companies out of business because they cannot afford to change their worn-out vehicles for newer ones and make sure that the face that the foreign visitors see is shiny and sparklingly clean. But what happens to those who are dispossessed? Or do they already know that it will not last, that within a few months, or even just a couple of weeks after all the noise and gimmickry is over, they can move back in and take over the turf they know and control so familiarly? I have these questions, but who will give me answers for them?
But the issue is more than an immediate and makeshift change in presentation. The alterations must go deeper, much deeper, to a very personal and core level, one that is long-term, permanent perhaps, a new and improved attitude rather than just a cosmetic spit and polish job. As many nations have found – Singapore being a case in point – it is not impossible. It may take more than just presuming that people have a conscience and will clean up their acts – literal and figurative – because it is the right thing to do all around, it could need a little enforcing of the law and a couple of deserved and painfully felt punishments, but it can work. This is not about the activist-style pronouncements of environmental doom and death by non-observance of high standards of hygiene, but about leaving behind an environment worth living in for the generations that have not yet been thought of. It could be that shame is a good trigger towards achieving this end – being seen as an unaware, unclean, uncivilised land where the rats, mosquitoes and humans fight for a common goal: survival.
It could be, of course, just trying to save the World Cup visitors the trouble of finding good hospitals to treat a serious case of malaria!
Much of today’s beleaguered economy turns on the axis of appearances. Since a great deal of money comes in – or, at least, is invited in – to any country from outside it, that country has to present an image that is favourable, “pretty”, perhaps a little mendacious. It happens anywhere in the world; just before an event that focuses the global media’s hawk-eyed lenses on any nation, there is a frantic rush to get things cleaned up, to make sure the best face is presented, even if it means last minute whitewashing (literally and metaphorically), huge amounts of ill-afforded money spent on cosmetic alterations and more manpower than is practical put on the job. India did it for the Commonwealth Games last year. Now Bangladesh is doing something similar. According to news reports, the country “has launched an all-out war on mosquitoes in and around cricket stadiums to ensure a bite-free World Cup for spectators and players”. Two venues in Dhaka will host the opening ceremony and six matches in the tournament and spray teams have been deployed by the Dhaka City Corporation to wipe out the buzzing bugs before they can take a bite out of those involved in the game. Apparently, there has been an alarming increase in the number and proliferation of mosquitoes in recent months, and so special measures are being taken to kill the insects in the stadiums and for three kilometres around those centres, as well as around the hotels used by the teams and their supporters. And, in the process, the authorities look to make sure that the picture of the country presented to the rest of the world remains as bug-free.
The problem, in Bangladesh and much of the Third World (or what used to be considered the Third World until some nations made enough economic progress to lift themselves to the next rung in the relevant ladder), is one of familiarity breeding more than just contempt – there is a laissez-faire attitude to the environment, a disregard for hygiene outside the personal or immediate, and a generally abysmally low level of consciousness of the huge disparity between the haves and the so many more have-nots. In India, in China and perhaps in Bangladesh (where I have not yet been), people will be immaculately clean, no matter how poor they are, their homes will be as spic-and-span, again no matter how poor, but look outside the window, or just beyond the gate, or even along the stairwell to their apartment, and you will see discarded bottles, spit stains, plastic bags, everything that makes up the detritus of a human existence.
This is another aspect of the great clean-up act. And Bangladesh is reportedly working on that aspect of life too. The story goes that “Authorities have already evicted hawkers and beggars, forced worn-out buses off the roads and banned laundry from being hung out near stadiums to improve Dhaka's image.” Which is, really, the crux of the whole matter: improving an image. Throw these unfortunate individuals out of their accustomed habitat, change their lives and not for the better, send transport companies out of business because they cannot afford to change their worn-out vehicles for newer ones and make sure that the face that the foreign visitors see is shiny and sparklingly clean. But what happens to those who are dispossessed? Or do they already know that it will not last, that within a few months, or even just a couple of weeks after all the noise and gimmickry is over, they can move back in and take over the turf they know and control so familiarly? I have these questions, but who will give me answers for them?
But the issue is more than an immediate and makeshift change in presentation. The alterations must go deeper, much deeper, to a very personal and core level, one that is long-term, permanent perhaps, a new and improved attitude rather than just a cosmetic spit and polish job. As many nations have found – Singapore being a case in point – it is not impossible. It may take more than just presuming that people have a conscience and will clean up their acts – literal and figurative – because it is the right thing to do all around, it could need a little enforcing of the law and a couple of deserved and painfully felt punishments, but it can work. This is not about the activist-style pronouncements of environmental doom and death by non-observance of high standards of hygiene, but about leaving behind an environment worth living in for the generations that have not yet been thought of. It could be that shame is a good trigger towards achieving this end – being seen as an unaware, unclean, uncivilised land where the rats, mosquitoes and humans fight for a common goal: survival.
It could be, of course, just trying to save the World Cup visitors the trouble of finding good hospitals to treat a serious case of malaria!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Soup: good food indeed!
(The Bengal Post, January 2011)
It all started way back in time, around 6000 BC, or perhaps even before then. According to archaeologists, it could date back to the time when waterproof containers, made from the skins or internal organs (nicely cleaned, of course) of hunted animals, first came into being. That is when the first records show that people made and drank soup. They combined water with meat, vegetables and flavourings to produce savoury and more-or-less-liquid foods that they ate – drank? – as a meal, with a meal, as a way to keep warm, to re-hydrate their bodies and gain quick and easy nourishment to maintain, nurture and heal the system. As the word spread and the concept of ‘soup’ evolved, the categorisation began – clear soups, also called bouillons or consommés, capture the essence of their main ingredient, are light, and do not have any chunks or inclusions; thick soups, on the other hand, are heavier, incorporating a thickening agent that could be flour, cream, eggs, butter or grains, like barley and peas, and serve more as comfort food, as it were, than an appetiser or digestive. Stews, as a different kind of food, are even more thick, have plenty of pieces of vegetables, meats, seafood or cereals and can be a complete meal in themselves, including rice, pasta or other starch form.
Soon the idea that a meal needs soup to be complete spread and cookbooks almost always had entire chapters dedicated to the food. The famous slogan of ‘Soup is good food’ took over the canned foods business and became a truism. People from various parts of the world cooked up pots of delicious soups, each a showcase for local culture and customs. For instance, the Germans became well known for their potato soup, while the French used butter to add life to delicately seasoned bisques and bouillons. As travel became easier and often more necessary to make commerce happen successfully, soups – as indeed all foods – needed to become more portable; this resulted in the development of dried soups, first with concentrated chunks of meat stock and then, spurred by the Japanese penchant for invention and innovation, vegetable extracts. These ‘instant’ soups just needed a little hot water and some stirring to become delicious, quick and nutritious meals. It was just a hop to the next step, when tastemaker or bouillon cubes were created to be added to rice, stews, curries and more for that additional kick of flavour. Of course, the instant noodles in a Styrofoam cup were an instant hit with the college student, since they were filling, cheap, very easy to make and provided a hot burst of energy on a cold winter’s day of term papers and studying for exams.
A somewhat unusual concept is a sweet soup, usually made with seasonal fruit and served cold. Watermelon or musk melon is commonly used to make a soup that acts as a base for other fruit or interesting soufflés, sorbets or desserts. In Norway, fruit soup is made with prunes, raisins and other dried berries, served warm or cold. Cram, milk, spices, alcohol (port, brandy or champagne) are commonly added for a little punch and richness, while potato starch may be used as a thickener with a neutral taste. In the Middle East, China and Central Asia, fruit soups tend to be warm or even hot, the sweetness cut with a little lemon or even acid cheese; the Chinese in fact make a delicious winter melon soup that has a chicken stock base and is savoury, including mushrooms, scallions and other vegetables.
Perhaps most complex in flavour and multifarious in ingredients are the soups from the Orient. They combine the intensity of a long-stewed broth with the lightness of tofu, the heat of spice pastes, the textures of fresh vegetables, the sweetness of seafood and the heft of meat, sometimes all packed into one delicious bowlful. The laksa, the tom yum, the thukpa, even the shorba combine east and west to produce an inimitable and undeniably irresistible blend of flavour, texture and spice that set up a wonderful ‘item number’ almost of Bollywoodian proportions in each mouthful. There is a crunch, a slurp, a spark, a, explosion of gustatory fireworks with every bite and the stomach and the soul do a joyous and exuberant dance.
India has a unique way of looking at soups, broths and stews. Many soups are about healing, using ayurvedic or naturopathic tenets. Cumin, for instance, like fennel and cardamom, is ideal for digestive disturbances, while cucumber is cooling and mustard is heating. Turmeric aids in the treatment of diabetes, skin infections and inflammations, while ginger can help to deal with fever, cold and respiratory congestion. Adding these ingredients to soup or stews at various stages has different effects, most of them therapeutic and relieving, some supportive and nutritive and all delicious. In fact, most Indian food is created with therapy in mind, and thus works on the body and mind as a holistic system, indivisible and always balanced.
Just as good food satisfies the mind and soul, a balanced meal can work to satisfy the digestion. Soup, according to the French, makes food better, while the Chinese, who like soup to end a meal, believe that it helps digestion even as it serves to balance all the flavours that do a merry dance in the mouth, lining up the tastes, as it were, for that last segue into the stomach.
RASAM
(A staple South Indian soup-like dish, eaten with rice or drunk plain. This is the easy, almost instant recipe. Best when it is cold outside or your sinuses are blocked, or your tummy is uneasy)
Garlic – to taste, minced fine
Salt – to taste
Pepper – to taste
Tamarind water – 1 glassful
Plain water/lentil water – 2 glassfuls
Ghee – 1 tsp
Asafoetida – pinch
Mustard seeds – 1/2 tsp
Cumin seeds/powder – 1 tsp
Curry leaves – 6-7
Coriander leaves – 2 tsp, finely chopped
Tomato – 2 tbsp, chopped
Splutter mustard seeds, cumin seeds and asafoetida in hot ghee. Add garlic and sauté gently until softened. Add curry leaves (if using, cumin powder). Add tamarind water, simmer gently. Add water (or lentil water), salt, pepper and bring to the boil, then simmer gently for ten minutes. Put in chopped tomato, simmer until soft. Turn off the heat, add coriander leaves and serve hot.
CHICKEN SOUP
(A good way to use up bits of leftovers and make yourself feel better when a cold threatens – there are no proportions, just throw in whatever fits in a large pot)
Cut up chicken (better without skin but with bone)
Garlic – chopped
Ginger – chopped (do not overdo!)
Onions – rough cut
Carrots – rough cut
Potatoes – rough cut
Celery – Rough cut
Peas
Corn kernels
Salt
Pepper
Rice/pasta
Throw all this into a large pot with enough water to cover it with two or three inches more. Boil vigorously at least twice, skimming off the dirty foam. Then simmer for at least an hour, more would be better. Serve piping hot in a large bowl.
It all started way back in time, around 6000 BC, or perhaps even before then. According to archaeologists, it could date back to the time when waterproof containers, made from the skins or internal organs (nicely cleaned, of course) of hunted animals, first came into being. That is when the first records show that people made and drank soup. They combined water with meat, vegetables and flavourings to produce savoury and more-or-less-liquid foods that they ate – drank? – as a meal, with a meal, as a way to keep warm, to re-hydrate their bodies and gain quick and easy nourishment to maintain, nurture and heal the system. As the word spread and the concept of ‘soup’ evolved, the categorisation began – clear soups, also called bouillons or consommés, capture the essence of their main ingredient, are light, and do not have any chunks or inclusions; thick soups, on the other hand, are heavier, incorporating a thickening agent that could be flour, cream, eggs, butter or grains, like barley and peas, and serve more as comfort food, as it were, than an appetiser or digestive. Stews, as a different kind of food, are even more thick, have plenty of pieces of vegetables, meats, seafood or cereals and can be a complete meal in themselves, including rice, pasta or other starch form.
Soon the idea that a meal needs soup to be complete spread and cookbooks almost always had entire chapters dedicated to the food. The famous slogan of ‘Soup is good food’ took over the canned foods business and became a truism. People from various parts of the world cooked up pots of delicious soups, each a showcase for local culture and customs. For instance, the Germans became well known for their potato soup, while the French used butter to add life to delicately seasoned bisques and bouillons. As travel became easier and often more necessary to make commerce happen successfully, soups – as indeed all foods – needed to become more portable; this resulted in the development of dried soups, first with concentrated chunks of meat stock and then, spurred by the Japanese penchant for invention and innovation, vegetable extracts. These ‘instant’ soups just needed a little hot water and some stirring to become delicious, quick and nutritious meals. It was just a hop to the next step, when tastemaker or bouillon cubes were created to be added to rice, stews, curries and more for that additional kick of flavour. Of course, the instant noodles in a Styrofoam cup were an instant hit with the college student, since they were filling, cheap, very easy to make and provided a hot burst of energy on a cold winter’s day of term papers and studying for exams.
A somewhat unusual concept is a sweet soup, usually made with seasonal fruit and served cold. Watermelon or musk melon is commonly used to make a soup that acts as a base for other fruit or interesting soufflés, sorbets or desserts. In Norway, fruit soup is made with prunes, raisins and other dried berries, served warm or cold. Cram, milk, spices, alcohol (port, brandy or champagne) are commonly added for a little punch and richness, while potato starch may be used as a thickener with a neutral taste. In the Middle East, China and Central Asia, fruit soups tend to be warm or even hot, the sweetness cut with a little lemon or even acid cheese; the Chinese in fact make a delicious winter melon soup that has a chicken stock base and is savoury, including mushrooms, scallions and other vegetables.
Perhaps most complex in flavour and multifarious in ingredients are the soups from the Orient. They combine the intensity of a long-stewed broth with the lightness of tofu, the heat of spice pastes, the textures of fresh vegetables, the sweetness of seafood and the heft of meat, sometimes all packed into one delicious bowlful. The laksa, the tom yum, the thukpa, even the shorba combine east and west to produce an inimitable and undeniably irresistible blend of flavour, texture and spice that set up a wonderful ‘item number’ almost of Bollywoodian proportions in each mouthful. There is a crunch, a slurp, a spark, a, explosion of gustatory fireworks with every bite and the stomach and the soul do a joyous and exuberant dance.
India has a unique way of looking at soups, broths and stews. Many soups are about healing, using ayurvedic or naturopathic tenets. Cumin, for instance, like fennel and cardamom, is ideal for digestive disturbances, while cucumber is cooling and mustard is heating. Turmeric aids in the treatment of diabetes, skin infections and inflammations, while ginger can help to deal with fever, cold and respiratory congestion. Adding these ingredients to soup or stews at various stages has different effects, most of them therapeutic and relieving, some supportive and nutritive and all delicious. In fact, most Indian food is created with therapy in mind, and thus works on the body and mind as a holistic system, indivisible and always balanced.
Just as good food satisfies the mind and soul, a balanced meal can work to satisfy the digestion. Soup, according to the French, makes food better, while the Chinese, who like soup to end a meal, believe that it helps digestion even as it serves to balance all the flavours that do a merry dance in the mouth, lining up the tastes, as it were, for that last segue into the stomach.
RASAM
(A staple South Indian soup-like dish, eaten with rice or drunk plain. This is the easy, almost instant recipe. Best when it is cold outside or your sinuses are blocked, or your tummy is uneasy)
Garlic – to taste, minced fine
Salt – to taste
Pepper – to taste
Tamarind water – 1 glassful
Plain water/lentil water – 2 glassfuls
Ghee – 1 tsp
Asafoetida – pinch
Mustard seeds – 1/2 tsp
Cumin seeds/powder – 1 tsp
Curry leaves – 6-7
Coriander leaves – 2 tsp, finely chopped
Tomato – 2 tbsp, chopped
Splutter mustard seeds, cumin seeds and asafoetida in hot ghee. Add garlic and sauté gently until softened. Add curry leaves (if using, cumin powder). Add tamarind water, simmer gently. Add water (or lentil water), salt, pepper and bring to the boil, then simmer gently for ten minutes. Put in chopped tomato, simmer until soft. Turn off the heat, add coriander leaves and serve hot.
CHICKEN SOUP
(A good way to use up bits of leftovers and make yourself feel better when a cold threatens – there are no proportions, just throw in whatever fits in a large pot)
Cut up chicken (better without skin but with bone)
Garlic – chopped
Ginger – chopped (do not overdo!)
Onions – rough cut
Carrots – rough cut
Potatoes – rough cut
Celery – Rough cut
Peas
Corn kernels
Salt
Pepper
Rice/pasta
Throw all this into a large pot with enough water to cover it with two or three inches more. Boil vigorously at least twice, skimming off the dirty foam. Then simmer for at least an hour, more would be better. Serve piping hot in a large bowl.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Taking a break
(bdnews24.com, February 11, 2011)
Everybody loves a holiday, more so when there is no real reason to have one. Many working professionals do their thing through the week, looking forward to Sundays or even two-day weekends, while some who work in government organisations get breaks more often, as the bank or office or department takes time off whenever the local authorities declare it to be a time-out. And of course, especially on the sub-continent, play day is, logically speaking, time to take a day off and...err...play! Like next week, on February 19, when Bangladesh plays India, and next month, on March 19, when Bangladesh will play South Africa in the World Cup lineup. On those two days, it has been declared - or so I read in the local newspapers – that “all educational institutions in Dhaka and Chittagong cities will remain closed”. This decision presumably has prime ministerial approval, since Sheikh Hasina was the chairperson and chief patron.
Holidays are always welcomed, but can sometimes make life more difficult for the ordinary citizen. In India, a country trying to deal with the multiple whammies of inflation, recovery from a recession, overpopulation, underemployment, hunger, poverty, corruption and the aftermath of terrorism, all of which makes it very much like so many other nations across the globe, a day off generally means a day when business slumps, where profits drop and where nothing works to par. It is a day when banks do not update accounts, credit checks and permit withdrawals, meaning that the local ATM or any-time-money machines are functioning overtime. It is a day when the plumber will not come to fix that leaking tap, the electrician cannot buy the new fuses he needs to make the power go on in your home and the quick run into town will not happen by car because the gas stations are closed so you cannot fill up the petrol tank. Mercifully, in my home city of Mumbai, there will always be a grocery store open to deal with emergency needs, the trains run smoothly for the most part, rain, shine or holiday, and the electrician does work holidays if coaxed to, though he may charge overtime.
When I was much younger and in school, I would often wonder why I never got mid-week holidays. During the monsoon, when things were soggy and nasty and no one really felt like sloshing through the puddles, which occasionally grew into satisfying floods, we walked wetly to school and back, or were ferried there by cars or buses that seemed to have become boats. The best part was that the school was situated very close to the beach, which meant that flooding was a given during the heaviest part of the monsoon. But, for some reason we resented without knowing it, we never got a day off, even when other schools did. We even had to go to school on national holidays like Republic Day and Independence Day, when we stood in the assembly hall, sang the national anthem, raised the Indian flag and then ate a small celebratory snack of cake and chips, finally going home mid-morning to watch the parade in New Delhi on television. It was a holiday, really, but never felt like one, since we had to get up early, get dressed in uniform and spit-shined shoes, trudge down the hill (I lived in a building on the very top of a hill) and go through the prescribed routine.
These days, from the very grown-up and adult perspective I have now, holidays seem to be more easy to get from the powers that be. While I do not remember holidays being declared for reasons as trivial (may cricket lovers forgive me here) as a cricket match, the working person does get a day off for national celebrations, deaths of important people, strikes, go slows and the occasional flood. Even terrorism, as experienced by a shocked and horrified city in 2008, when a team of allegedly Pakistani villains sneaked in to our city and massacred innocent people, could not stop us working, with no declaration of holidays or indeed any time off. The same thing happened so many years ago in 1992 and 1993, when riots and then bombs ripped through parts of Mumbai – the city refused to stop and take a break. This, many journalists with a stock of clichés and little originality call the “spirit” of the city. But it is actually something else, something that I needed to grow up to understand. It is the drive to survive, not any kind of ‘never-say-die spirit’ that we as citizens of the city that is Mumbai possess. We need to go about our lives in order to live, to keep going, to feed ourselves and our families. We cannot stop and smell roses, even on the cricket pitch.
But we can, of course, make sure that there are televisions in the office to watch the cricket match on!
Everybody loves a holiday, more so when there is no real reason to have one. Many working professionals do their thing through the week, looking forward to Sundays or even two-day weekends, while some who work in government organisations get breaks more often, as the bank or office or department takes time off whenever the local authorities declare it to be a time-out. And of course, especially on the sub-continent, play day is, logically speaking, time to take a day off and...err...play! Like next week, on February 19, when Bangladesh plays India, and next month, on March 19, when Bangladesh will play South Africa in the World Cup lineup. On those two days, it has been declared - or so I read in the local newspapers – that “all educational institutions in Dhaka and Chittagong cities will remain closed”. This decision presumably has prime ministerial approval, since Sheikh Hasina was the chairperson and chief patron.
Holidays are always welcomed, but can sometimes make life more difficult for the ordinary citizen. In India, a country trying to deal with the multiple whammies of inflation, recovery from a recession, overpopulation, underemployment, hunger, poverty, corruption and the aftermath of terrorism, all of which makes it very much like so many other nations across the globe, a day off generally means a day when business slumps, where profits drop and where nothing works to par. It is a day when banks do not update accounts, credit checks and permit withdrawals, meaning that the local ATM or any-time-money machines are functioning overtime. It is a day when the plumber will not come to fix that leaking tap, the electrician cannot buy the new fuses he needs to make the power go on in your home and the quick run into town will not happen by car because the gas stations are closed so you cannot fill up the petrol tank. Mercifully, in my home city of Mumbai, there will always be a grocery store open to deal with emergency needs, the trains run smoothly for the most part, rain, shine or holiday, and the electrician does work holidays if coaxed to, though he may charge overtime.
When I was much younger and in school, I would often wonder why I never got mid-week holidays. During the monsoon, when things were soggy and nasty and no one really felt like sloshing through the puddles, which occasionally grew into satisfying floods, we walked wetly to school and back, or were ferried there by cars or buses that seemed to have become boats. The best part was that the school was situated very close to the beach, which meant that flooding was a given during the heaviest part of the monsoon. But, for some reason we resented without knowing it, we never got a day off, even when other schools did. We even had to go to school on national holidays like Republic Day and Independence Day, when we stood in the assembly hall, sang the national anthem, raised the Indian flag and then ate a small celebratory snack of cake and chips, finally going home mid-morning to watch the parade in New Delhi on television. It was a holiday, really, but never felt like one, since we had to get up early, get dressed in uniform and spit-shined shoes, trudge down the hill (I lived in a building on the very top of a hill) and go through the prescribed routine.
These days, from the very grown-up and adult perspective I have now, holidays seem to be more easy to get from the powers that be. While I do not remember holidays being declared for reasons as trivial (may cricket lovers forgive me here) as a cricket match, the working person does get a day off for national celebrations, deaths of important people, strikes, go slows and the occasional flood. Even terrorism, as experienced by a shocked and horrified city in 2008, when a team of allegedly Pakistani villains sneaked in to our city and massacred innocent people, could not stop us working, with no declaration of holidays or indeed any time off. The same thing happened so many years ago in 1992 and 1993, when riots and then bombs ripped through parts of Mumbai – the city refused to stop and take a break. This, many journalists with a stock of clichés and little originality call the “spirit” of the city. But it is actually something else, something that I needed to grow up to understand. It is the drive to survive, not any kind of ‘never-say-die spirit’ that we as citizens of the city that is Mumbai possess. We need to go about our lives in order to live, to keep going, to feed ourselves and our families. We cannot stop and smell roses, even on the cricket pitch.
But we can, of course, make sure that there are televisions in the office to watch the cricket match on!
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