The Night the Aurora Danced

Outside it was a freezing -35C. But the Alaskan sky was not clouded and that is all that mattered! The time was 12 AM and the vigil began !

Inside a preheated bright room huddled groups of people. Each group differed from the other in head shape, skin- color, hair form, body build and stature. In fact, their physical traits presented so much of diversity that an anthropologist could have started his study in typology right there. Truly, physically, there was nothing common among the groups, but all their hearts beat in unison for the same thing. While a two decade old dream inspired by a Reader’s Digest article on Aurora Borealis had driven my friend and me to the distant Alaska from southern India, surely, similar compulsions had brought the others there. It was indeed an anxious vigil. It was an expensive visit for most of us. Our success of sighting the Aurora depended on a cloud free sky. Needless to say, an air of impatience, restlessness, a sense of urgency and apprehension filled the room. Every two minutes somebody or the other would pop out, gaze at the sky and when he returned, all fifty pairs of eyes would rivet on his face. Outside there was tranquility but inside it was all agitation and nervousness. To diffuse tension, while some people played bulls and cows others drank coffee or just babbled in their native tongues. In fact, for the first time in my life, I understood what the Tower of Babel must have sounded like.

Suddenly Aurora got moving! She literally danced into our presence. She pirouetted on her foot , swirled and twirled and held on to the hems of her diaphanous green and red skirt and swooped. Wasn’t she beautiful! Hearts filled up with awe and cries of ecstasy filled the air. Indeed, she outdid any Holly wood or Bollywood star! Now it was time for the clouds to roll in and so they did, the Aurora disappeared.

The intermission was welcome. As we trooped in, brimming with satisfaction, savoring what we had just then witnessed, we found we were all talking in English. Aurora had loosened our tongues! We swiped stories, exchanged emails and recipes and salts to keep fingers and toes warm, discussed the trials we had undergone to be there, thanked children who had made the experience possible, heard the tale of woe of the driver suffering from cancer. Wasn’t it fun to run into the Japanese woman, living in Malayasia speaking Tamil? A spontaneous bonhomie filled the room.

The Aurora returned and so did we. This time round the sky was awash with green. The North star twinkled, so did the Orion. She may be the Roman goddess Aurora or Greek god Eos or Rigvedic Ushas or Germanic Ostara, what mattered was her enchantment. According to Greek mythology, she flies across the sky announcing the arrival of the Sun. She rides in a chariot drawn by winged horses. She is the personification of that light that precedes the sun. The Aurora hovered, fluttered and with a swoop rushed out of the sky. While this celestial drama was unfolding all round us, down below, on permafrost, another human drama was in the process of unfolding. A korean boy knelt before a korean girl beseeching her for her hand, while their friends stood around them holding lighted candles in their hands in the formation of a heart. There was a moment of suspense before the overwhelmed girl said yes.

It was bliss to be alive that night. The expansiveness that the Aurora brought made us forget our petty animosities and polemics. The stapled visas that the Chinese issued, Arunachal Pradesh showed as part of China in the Google map, Taliban, Recession- nothing was relevant to the moment. What mattered was we had participated in a great natural wonder and it was not likely, that we would forget it in a hurry.

The Atlantic Ocean Crossed Us

One day, a student of mine transformed the active voice, “we crossed the Atlantic ocean” into the passive, “the Atlantic ocean crossed us,” making an impossible feat possible, and likewise, “Rama married Sita”, became “Sita was married by Rama,” completely ignorant that if the verb is not transitive, the sentence cannot be transformed. While as an English lecturer for nearly three decades, I would have taught literally over a thousand students, today, I don’t remember either their names or faces, but indelible are the comical situations they created in grammar classes. They loved transformation of sentences and the technique of switching the subject and the object by inserting a “be” form and adding “by” to indicate agency.

They loved other things, too: word-building, collocations, malapropisms and corrections of sentences. I was once discussing how, by adding the suffix “-al” to a noun they can get a new word, an adjective, a new entity. If the word “mind” becomes “mental” what does “tooth” become? No wonder it became “testicle” according to them. Collocations can also be very tricky: the students came up with “thick tea” as against light tea, and the mythological Nala was described as having “vast legs.” Correction of sentences is a hassle: Struggling with the interfering mother tongue, they came up with gems such as “give one one to one one fellow” and “your good name please”. Since their exposure to language is limited you can only pity them when they come up with sentences such as, “I could not be able to do it,” and its logical variation, “I can be able to do it”.

A language teacher is acutely conscious of errors in speech and writing of others. Most of these are grammatical errors, and the teacher ought to correct them. However, there are quite a few that are culture-specific, or, are literal translations of the local idiom. The traditional Indian respect for the elders has led to rather funny terms such as mummyji and Madam Principalji. And for some reason, the use of such terms as “backside” and “expire” by our countrymen has become pandemic. I once heard a respected advocate describe a certain judge as living at the backside of the Court. In India, people don’t “die” but “expire”, possibly because we believe in rebirth?! I once tried explaining to an unbelieving audience in a Spoken Language institute how only driving licenses and medicines expire, to no avail. In fact, I could not stop even my brother from using the word in the obituary for my mother.

The position of the preposition is another sore point to the language teacher. “Where you are going?”, “What I am telling, …”, “It is very nice, no?” are classic examples. Interrogative sentences are problematic, too. For instance, “You are not coming to school?” often with an elongated “…ool” and an inflexion of voice, replaces: “Are you not …”.

I wouldn’t like to be faulted as being critical of Indianisms. In fact, when I come across errors such as these, I seriously wonder if I shouldn’t put puritanism aside. After all, what is really wrong with them? Except of course that “they” (read, the English people) don’t use them in the same context as we do. Certainly we cannot arrogate to ourselves the right to mutilate the English language, but certainly, again, we can, with head held high accept and freely use these so called Indianisms.

My views about appropriateness and grammaticality while using English have changed in these globalization days. I subscribe to a linguistic theory gaining ground, according to which if a population uses a language in a certain manner, consistently over a long period of time, they must be allowed to do so. In fact, such usage should be allowed to permeate into the lexicon of the language. It is a case in point that the modern OED, surely after a good lot of deliberation, has included such desi words as pundit and guru into highbrow English parlance, and By the same token, they ought to permit ‘expire’ and ‘backside’ and such other words. It wouldn’t be far too long before they also add “our” phraseology and word-usage. What with the second largest population in the world, we should have every right to modify English, really, at least the English that we all speak and write in India. Language is meant for communication, after all. Purists should learn to look beyond strict grammar and the classic British English idiom. ‘Indianism’ shouldn’t be a derogatory term any more. It is only proper that Indianisms are accepted; for good reason, at that. If they aren’t, you will have to live with them anyway; and that makes for quite a bit of discomfort, doesn’t it?

Death by Drowning

Peaceful co-existence is impossible when your nocturnal visitor is a big bandicoot. Initially, the rodent seemed to be interested in just rummaging our garbage can. Thinking that a new can would rid me of the animal, I invested on a new one, but within twenty four hours of its installation, the pest had gored the can so hugely, I didn’t have to open the lid to shove the garbage in. Soon, becoming bolder, it bore a tunnel from our coconut tree to the bath room, scratched and broke the plastic hubs of the car tyres and chewed through the gear box of the washing machine. It was now or never! Upon advice, I bought arsenic and mixed it with rice for bait. And I don’t know what attraction the beast had for it! It showed up earlier than usual and hurriedly gobbled up the mixture for its dinner, as though its very life depended upon it. Promptly, it returned at its regular visiting hour again and polished off the unwashed eating plate.

It was the metal strap, next. Wanting to make the rat’s last supper worth it, I tried a piece of pizza reeking with garlic as the bait. Precisely at eight, the trap shut with finality. The next morning, at the break of dawn, my husband left for the verdant lands of Bangalore University with our prize catch and so sure was he that the rat menace had come to an end, he hurled the trap itself into the woods.

There was such a sense of liberation that that night I left the kitchen door open that day, and mistaking this for an invitation, another huge bandicoot got in. Trouble having started all over again we got another trap and our hunt re-commenced in all earnestness. We caught it easily and once again, off my hubby went to the University woods for disposal of the carcass. He, wisely, he says, let off just the beast and saved the trap. Since then we have captured dozens of rats and bandicoots.

But our enthusiasm for the hunt has waned. I no longer plan the bandicoot’s last meal nor does my husband run to the blessed University to dispose off it.

Today, my freezer is packed with slivers of coconut and the trap is always ready to clap shut any intruder out to cause havoc. A bucket of water stands ready as a watery grave. You find it repulsive, don’t you? A friend, nauseated by my annihilation technique suggested that I should smear the bait with arsenic. It sounds quite merciful for the animal, doesn’t it? I would do it but for crows and eagles who invariably make a meal of the carcass.

Loathsome, the description is, isn’t it? You must be accusing me of a criminal mind with sadistic temperament. Sorry to disappoint you. I am no more violent than Gandhiji or you. Trust me, I can’t kill even a mosquito, unless it draws my blood, that is. I am just a harassed human being trying to safeguard my property. It is after a lot of scheming and plotting that I have evolved a way to deal with an existential problem.

If there were a more humane way of getting rid of these household terrorists, I would opt for it. I am as bothered by the milk of human kindness as was Lady Macbeth; in fact, I say, let’s carve the rodent as a dish fit for a decent burial, not drown it to get carcass fit for the eagles, as Bill Shakes would have put it. If rats were dogs, they could have been sterilized. I have racked my brain and searched my soul. The only idea I have been able to come up with is an electric trap and I want an executor please. If electric chairs are possible, why not electric traps? I am open to views but not that there ought to be a rat-slaughter ban!

The not-so-nasty Police

Perhaps it cannot be gainsaid that a policeman has to weild his lathi, that symbolises both power and force, in order to instill fear in the minds of the malafides. Perhaps it is also sort of understandable that whenever he wields it when it is not so necessary, he should earn a harvest of encomiums such as, brutal, savage, inhuman and so on; and that's besides being condemned as corrupt, lazy and dishonest. But then, I was shocked the other day when an alleged victim described police as 'terrorists', on TV. The entire force can't be vitiated, really. There must be exceptions.

I know of at least one exception: My father joined service as a sub-inspector most reluctantly, thwarted by familial obligations. While he wanted to become doctor, having obtained a medical college seat, his family wanted a breadwinner. He had enough to be frustrated about. But never did he raise his lathi to charge at or intimidate lawbreakers. In fact his gentle ways and his detective skill earned him the respect of his superiors. He served the British, but never did he cringe or crawl before them. Soon, he was transferred as inspector to a crime ridden Taluq headquarters near Mysore. He was literally the monarch of all he surveyed, wielded immense power, but never did he misuse or abuse it. While his colleagues freely resorted to third degree methods like the infamous "aeroplane treatment", my father bored into his victims with his penetrating eyes or lashed at them with persuasive tongue. And what I related now must sound bizarre - he used to share homemade sweets with the dregs of society!! And this invariably produced the desired result! Even before they had digested the sweetmeat, out they would spill their innermost but dreadful secrets. One depredator bonded with my father so closely, that after his prison term, he followed my father to Mysore, and served him faithfully as a manservant!

Police officers conniving with criminals hobnobbing with smugglers to amass wealth sound like horror storied to me. In fact, burdened with a large family and an ailing mother, my father had the most pressing need to stretch his hand for tainted money. But he would rather borrow money on interest for medicines to the sick, than compromise his principles.

Today, at 95, with an unencumbered conscience, my father's enjoyment of life is pure. He never desired great riches, never acquired it and of course, never regretted not having it. He spends the evening of his life in contentment, in the company of children and grand-children, not in worrying over how to conceal ill-gotten wealth. He has no fears of retribution and neither does he have an axe to grind. No awards came his way; no TV camera focussed on him but the satisfaction that he discharged his duty effectively and honestly gives him immense satistfaction.

Unfortunately, the media projects a very unsavoury image of the police. I am myself a victim of police trickery and their penchant for bluff. But, denouncing the entire force in unpalatable lingo is being grossly unfair. The media should at least know that in all walks of life, there are corrupt or 'terrorizing' elements. In cinema, it has become a fashion to show the police arriving invariably after the hero has caught the villain or thrashed ruthlessly the lawbreakers. This kind of singling out of the police, making them a target of all kinds of invectives and ridicule, has eroded confidence in the police so vastly that the public equates them with anti-socials they deal with. It must be noted that the police are a great binding force of any society. Demoralizing then can only imperil societal interests.

Perhaps if the noble deeds, however few they might be are highlighted, and the honest honoured adequately, it will restore public confidence in the police and the police's confidence in themselves.

It will do good to the society at large.

Tips Please

Tips, I had always understood, were tokens of more-than-formal appreciation of service rendered. However, if it were not forthcoming, the service provider only needed to scratch and bend his head and say, inaam for chaipani; and the recipient would plunge into his pocket; and lo, out came sundry coins which were slapped into the hands of the beseecher. This was straight forward. But now, service providers have differing modus operandi.

What do you say of the policeman who wheedles a “a fee” for preliminary enquiry for passport issue; what do you make of the gas-cylinder boy who demands “extra” for carrying weight; what about the tax collector who, after collecting “facilitating” money, contemptuously says he would not like to be in my runa (indebtedness). But nobody can beat the lineman from BSNL. The first time, after installation of the land-line, a grateful me parted with a crisp hundred rupee note. He looked at it as if it were a used bus ticket. He pocketed another crisp Hundred Rupee note, not before uttering, “Actually, I could have demanded 500, but didn’t because it is not Dharma. The second time, while we were shifting to the ground floor, all he had done was unplugging and plugging in the set. Like a goon from the Bombay underworld, he extorted 350!

It rankled; and when BSNL conferred on us a free second connection, I determined to teach this lineman a lesson. I would threaten him, even. I keyed myself up, like Macbeth must have, before killing Duncan. The lineman delivered the instrument ceremoniously and resolutely marched out. The next day he promptly commissioned it and lectured me about the virtues of B-Fone. I waited patiently for him to give me a chance to unleash the vitriol I had prepared. Soon, he picked up his bag, said namaste and left; in fact, left me speechless and numbed...

For the next few days, I mused about the remnants of goodness still active in this wicked world. Ere long, there was this call from the lineman, to enquire if the new instrument was okay. Despite assurances he insisted on a personal visit to check up; and he did turn up. Soon. He discoursed on ‘Service After Sales’ of BSNL; and with a customer-friendly smile, was gracious enough to accept what he was pleased to call a “small loan” of ‘about’ a Hundred Rupees.

I am now resigned to it all. Well, tips are here to stay, I say. The only hope is that the menace isn’t like the proverbial iceberg with only a small ‘tip’ above the water, and monstrous, huge bulk beneath! Won’t it be a good idea to streamline and codify ‘tip’ operations!

Colossal Beauty

Thanks to bad Bangalore roads, I was able to withstand the most tortuous tour through the CharDhams of Uttaranchal. You may not believe the legent that the Dhams are the gods aboard until you realise the feast nature has in store for the visitor. And nature here is uniquely Himalayan - tiers of snow-clad peaks, precipices, pinnacles, valleys and ravines with glacier-fed rivers rushing along, vast streches of sun-kissed meadows, dotted over with bleating sheep, lowing clows, chattering monkeys, fluttering butterflies and buzzing bees.

The night-sky unfolded the celestial drama. Arundhati and Vasista, the ideal couple, consorted with each other; the Orion chased Pleides; Castor and Pollux fraternised, I simply went ecstatic. Then, the early morning sun lifted the screen of mist and revealed an exquisite tapestry that no human can weave. I remembered the revered poet, Dr. D V Gundappa, wondering in Mankuthimmana Kagga: "Why does nature take such pains to create something so beautiful, in a forest, away from human eyes."

I suddenly understand what Wordsworth meant when he said, "my heart leaps up to behold a rainbow in the sky". After all, the senses comprehend just the sensuous, but the soul will be in communion with the ethereal, touched by what he called the "universal soul". The palki-carriers, the mule-guides and the tea-shop owners, mostly migrant Nepalese, are part and parcel of the Himalayas. Strong and sturdy, they zero in on the place during the season, help pilgrims progress, save money and when it starts freezing, return to Nepal, and to "kethiwadi".

I was surprised to meet a delightful sever-year-old-rebel. Refusing to be left behind, the little lad had chosen to brave the hostile Himalayas, to be with his father. Cherubic of countenance, dressed in tattered overalls and a frayed cap, he smiled cheerfully. He did not go to any school, but surely had made the mountains his master. The mighty Himalayas have their dark side too. The terrifying debris from the landslides is an evidence of "the bleak side of the colossus": nature's response to man's exploitation. Here is a plea: In the name of tourism and development, let us not ravage the treasure that the Himalayas are.

The Hue of my Resolution - ...to dye or not to dye...

To be or to be, said Shakespeare and immortalized the Hamletian dilemma. As a student of Literature I could appreciate the struggle the poor Prince of Denmark underwent, but only recently could I empathize with the agony and torment the Prince must have faced, when confronted with a dilemma. Mine, “ to dye or not to dye”, may not have been as grave as Hamlet’s, but I lost all peace of mind, just the same.

Since I would be Sixty shortly, I decided that I should stop dyeing my hair. Soon, visions of a dignified self with a silvery mane flooded me. The resolve pleased me because it meant no more fortnightly visits to the beauty parlor. The hair started whitening at the edges first, and then spread slowly like light does in the early morning. The neighborhood was aghast, daughter shocked, brother devastated. Coincidentally, I developed lumbago, so when I crawled during the morning constitutional, I drew a lot of sympathizers. Suggestions about dealing with lumbago and requests to re-dye my hair poured in. My immediate neighbor, a beautician, said that I look like a half dead rat and my hair was exuding negative energy. When I pleaded dandruff as the reason, she said,”Damn dandruff, you look doomed!” Strong words! Internally I felt pleased that so many had noticed and cared. Like Hamlet, I debated whether dyeing would improve my condition. I felt how I had become too esoteric for appearance to make any difference. So, unmoved, I trudged along but when my indifferent husband of 35 summers, whom I believed to be blind with regard to my looks, also pleaded, I realized that like Hamlet I should say it was time to change the “hue of my resolution” and with it, the hue of my hair, too.

Flattered at the attention I had received from even my husband, out I rushed to the nearest parlor, Garnier in hand. Imagining how exhilarated my entire family, and neighborhood would be, and flushing at the thought of how my black hair would make everyone happy, I had my hair daubed black and Like Della, O Henry’s heroine in the Gift of the Magi, waited.

The clock struck five. In walked my husband without a glance at my crowning glory. The neighbors, except for one, appeared to have gone blind – at least to the colour of my hair! I had given up hopes until one day, a kindly old neighbor I had limped together with and bonded well when we were both sick, re-kindled my nearly-dashed hopes. The first time he saw me after the dyeing, there was no reaction. The second time, he stopped me and asked me whether I had dyed my hair. Good I thought, at last somebody had recognized my black hair and apologetically hastened to say that I had dyed for others. He said, “That’s great, Lady; and I hope you won’t give up dyeing till you die!”