Two Cultures (again)

I want to share the following with everyone.

I am now attending a Bio Physics Conference in San Diego, in the state of California, US. It is the western coast of US, and San Diego is a beautiful city on the shores of Pacific. There is much to say about California and its wonderful people. But I would reserve that for another occasion.

The conference is organised by University of California, San Diego (UCSD). About 300 students and researchers from many countries have come here. To my surprise there are a few old friends and acquaintances; and there are also many big names in real flesh and blood sharing their most recent work. Altogether the atmosphere is friendly and enthusiastic.

People came from different areas of biological physics; those who study physics of cancer, dynamics of cellular processes, self organization and pattern formation in biology, the science of protein folding, theory of simple behavior, and so son and so forth. To accommodate these varied and wide interests, the sessions would run parallel. But in plenary sessions we would all assemble in a single hall to listen to a leader in one of the fields. The quality of the plenary speakers is attested by the fact that, out of six, three were Nobel laureates- I have to admit it is the first I came across so many good people in a single place.

Yesterday we listened to Roger Tsien, who won the Nobel prize in Chemistry in 2008. Dr. Tsien looked Chinese, but spoke impeccable English.  He looked very confident, and took the listeners with him quite easily. Tsien spoke non stop for an hour, frequently cracking jokes that made us all alert and waiting. He works on florescent proteins, and his latest attempt is to try to make cancer tumors fluoresce so that surgeons can remove them completely. All his talk was only about his darling fluorescing molecule. Even his jokes were about his molecule- after a while he started attributing human qualities to them. He cared them, scolded them, got angry, and showed how their stubborn nature could be manipulated to the best advantage of a surgeon or a neuro biologist. During the talk, Dr.  Tsien showed results that are only a few days old and narrated his difficulties obtaining that data- he wanted an ultra fast camera to collect that data, and he borrowed the camera from a manufacturer "under the pretext of doing a demo experiment". Now he will have to use that result to convince the funding agency to buy that camera for him!

After the talk we all felt he was extremely smart. He knew how to give good talks, how to ask a right  research question, and found a way to a carry out that work. This guy is indeed a big scientist. 

Today evening we had Ada Yonath. Ada is an old lady from Israel, and she spoke slowly about Ribosome structure. It was as if she was translating as she spoke, picking words one after other.  Her slides were less flashy, and style of delivery poor. Among people like Tsien around, she appeared naive and simple, like a good old grand mother. Ada spoke of ribosomes as if they were her babies; over years of painstaking work, she had unraveled their structure. And she then said how that knowledge can be used to beat drug resistant bacteria. "You cannot prevent them completely. Bacteria want to live too, and they will find a way to get around". Then as she finished she went on to show pictures of her mentors, students , and daughters. Then she showed a painting gifted to her by her grand daughter: 'Ada is the grand ma of the year'.  "This is the best award I received- and I have got it for last five years consecutively!  .... I wanted to show this, to show you that it is possible to do science and still have a loving family". She went on to show now how in Israel people imitate her hair-do and a caricature of hers by an admirer.

Then the organizers announced it was Ada's birthday. She just turned 72. A big cake was brought in, and Ada was overwhelmed, and tears started rolling through her eyes.

I could not help thinking about the contrast between two scientists, Ada and Rogers. There is an obvious difference in gender, but Ada has elsewhere said that did not matter to her (in last 45 years, she is the first woman to win a Nobel prize in Chemistry). I went on to check their biographies in Wikipedia. Tsien's biography says he is the 34th grandson of the king Quian Liu of the kingdom of Wuyue, China. His family always had very important engineers all through- his uncle started China's ballistic missile program, and his relatives are professors in the best universities around. "I am doomed by heredity to do this kind of work", he says.

Ada's family emigrated to Israel from Poland, and her father was rabbi and ran a grocery shop. Her father died prematurely and she was exposed to abject poverty and starvation. She started working to support her family and her own education at the age of eleven. Unlike Tsien, science was a luxury she could afford only later in her life. Ada said: "(simple) survival is far more complicated and much more demanding (than doing science) ... when you are hungry, you are hungry!"

I saw Ada sitting in the beach that night. She looked happy but thoughtful. I saw many young people going to her individually. They are not surrounding her to hear an inspirational speech from a great orator. She is speaking to them like a simple old woman and a mother. But otherwise she sat there alone, abandoned to wander in her world. I got the courage to go, because she did not appear like a big scientist  or a Nobel laureate. I told her that her talk was very inspiring. She blushed- and smiled heartily. "Thank you", she said,  "thanks for letting me know".

I had always ranked a scientist along with poets and writers and other great visionaries. All I saw was some smart people. Standing in front of this unpretentious woman, I felt I have seen a scientist of my imagination. I should have captured the moment, because she represents a fast vanishing tribe. But I could only stand there, feeling the breeze and the murmur of Pacific. 

A nomination for Parveen

Today's McGill Reporter, the administration run weekly campus newspaper, features in full colour the 'Exceptional staff and teachers'. It has the usual mix of professors, deans and other administrators- but what drew my attention was a beaming man in a blue shirt with a broom stick. That is Mr. Pietro who won the Principals award for exceptional staff in trades and service category. According to the report, Pietro is service man in the Arts Building of the University for nearly 35 years, making sure offices, hallways, and classrooms are always clean and functional- conducive for productive research and learning. Pietro is seen proudly grinning with his broomstick.

That made me thinking- if I had to give an award for the outstanding staff in the physics department of IISc, my alma mater, who would I give it to. To Parveen, of course.

Parveen is not a professor; she is not even a research student- she has not yet authored single scholarly publication. Yet, I would say, she is more useful to the department than many of its professors. Indeed, about eighty percent of professors are mere parasites who do not contribute anything to research or learning, merely living on the glory created by the rest.

Parveen is our sweeper. Though she is a good sweeper, what makes an easy choice is that her long time companions have left the scene and she is virtually without any competition for the award.

Eight years back when I joined the department as a graduate student, Parveen was a cheerful plump lady, accompanied by her friends Reena and Shanthamma. I soon found the trio to be a pleasant variation to the department that only had unfriendly and exceptionally dour faces everywhere. They were there on the hallways wherever you went, sweeping, mopping, chatting, and laughing. They even mocked people- we were never short of pompous people who could be helped with a little mocking. It was always Parveen who led the gang, Shanthamma and Reena could only follow her. Indeed, left to themselves, they could only give a timid smile- It was Parveen who made them laugh.

Shanthamma must have been the eldest. It is hard to say from the appearance alone, after years of toil and poverty, appearance can misleading. Nevertheless, she looked old. By far she was the smallest too- she was a short, thin, lady with eyes indicating deep pain and misery, but with a face that always had a mild smile, Shanthamma was a motherly figure in the department. Left to herself, she walked quietly, smiled at everyone, stopped to exchange niceties with people she knew. She considered everyone as somehow related to her, though we, the thankless wretches, did not reciprocate the feeling.

Reena was the youngest, she was in her late thirties. She looked as big and as stout as Parveen- but her face bore a stupid or innocent expression, that made us all think that she was actually an overgrown girl. Dark, heavy, and muscular, she walked with heavy steps, and made the whole building shake under her steps. Come face to face with any of us, she would blush and give us one of her typical smiles.

But with Parveen both Shanthamma and Reena became bolder and talkative, they even did not mind taunting us a bit if Parveen was around. Parveen's energy must have been contagious. Because even when we spoke to her we felt like jumping and shouting afterwards. Parveen's age was anywhere between Reena's and Shanthammas, and she looked ageless between these two extremes.

We were always busy in the department with our experiment, seminars, and various talks and discussions. We had our share of intellectuals, rightists, leftists, Trotskytes, fascists, and Naxals, always engaged in some pointless discussions that made no one any better. Meanwhile Parveen and co came in the morning, did their sweeping and mopping till the evening, day after day. We always took them for granted, and complained if there was more dust in the room. We had our comfortable hostels in the campus; but they came just beyond our walls, from a world we did not know, worked among us to clean the offices and classrooms till evening, and disappeared in the evening to the same mysterious world. While they knew everything about us and our life, little we knew about them.

I once got a hint of what it might be like, when one day for the first time, I saw Parveen crying; she was talking to a professor, pleading to him to put her case in the next departmental meeting. The professor was kind, wanted to be gentle and nice, but he was embarrassed. I do not know if he did put her case to the meeting, but it did not have any effect. I learned later that Parveen was asking for a salary hike. All salaries in the department had gone up in the intervening years by huge proportions, but Parveen and co were working on the same salary they started with fifteens years back. They started with a salary of Rs. 1500. In Bangalore at that time you could not even rent a shack in a slum for that money.

They were all contract employees. Though they were working in the institute all time, the institute was not related to them- as far as the institute was concerned, a contractor supplied them. Parveen, Shanthamma, and Reena were buried in the total number employees contractor provided to the institute. This was just becoming a norm those days, as it was more convenient and profitable. As they were not one of 'our own', their working condition could be safely ignored, there was no obligation when they were sick or dead- contractor would quietly find another one, and the number would not change as far as the institute was concerned. But Parveen believed some day professors would take note of her hard work and dedication, and some committees would take pity and regularise all of them. What did she know about those shrewd policymakers!

Sickness did visit them, only they were left to fight it all alone. If it was headache or fever they came nevertheless. The contractor was not a very kind man to allow them to rest at home and to pay them.

But then Shanthamma started taking long leaves. When she came back intermittently, she looked much older. Sometimes we did not see her for weeks and months together, and we did not to bother to find out as long as there was somebody else to do the work. One day we received email from a good clerk in the office- Shanthamma was diagnosed with cancer- and she need our support; after working in the department for more than fifteen years, she had to depend on the charity of its student and professors to fight for her life. Places like Canada would take care of its people when they are ill; but in India you have to face it all alone, helpless and abandoned. To make it worse there are all those doctors, laboratories, and hospitals. These scavengers are much more malicious than the malady itself. Shanthamma must have wanted to die sooner. There was no other way for her.

Shanthamma left us without any complaints. Parveen and Reena continued their work with less vigour. Shanthamma's silent presence had meant a lot for them, and they missed her quite badly. It was Parveen who suffered most. We noticed a visible change in her face that could not have been the result of grief alone. Her cheeks started sagging from both sides, eyes became dull and lifeless. Walking became more and more difficult for her. Suddenly she seemed to have aged. She brought in her daughter with her to help with cleaning. She still foolishly believed that she had some claim on the job, and when the institute regularizes the job at least her daughter would get it. Now there were two people working on that paltry sum still hoping for some miracle.

Then came another blow. One day, Reena died.

It was a massive heart attack. Why it had to be that way, I have no idea. As if they did not have enough trouble already. Reena could not afford to die just then; her husband had passed away a few months back in similar manner. She was the sole bread winner for an aging mother and her three school aged girls.

In our department Parveen was the one who took it hardest. We all were sorry, of course. We would miss Reena and her innocent smile. But Parveen lost her sole working companion. She looked like a ghost of her former self.  Despite her sorrow, Parveen mustered all her courage. To her, it was important to keep the death of Reena hiding from the authorities, and possibly contractor. They should not recruit someone else and snatch away Reena's job when it will be regularised. She found an ingenious plan- she enlisted those small girls to do the work Reena was doing. Everybody knew her intentions, and they all pretended as if they did not know anything.

If you go to the department now you would most probably see a fat old woman, who can hardly walk, somehow dragging herself from door to door, panting heavily every now and then, giving instructions to a bunch of girls who should be at school now. If you have the picture of Parveen as a boisterous lady, as I tried to describe her in the beginning, you would be disappointed to see her now. There is nothing that would show the signs of the Parveen that she was. She and her retinue, all those girls who want to inherit the job some day, would rather look like a funeral procession now.

Or who knows- I am writing this about Parveen sitting across continents. The institute probably has hired a new contractor now who has cleaner looking staff- you know, with nice uniforms and so on. That would have put an end to Parveen's fifteen year old chase after the mirage.

When I saw Mr. Pietro beaming with his award, and proudly showing off his broomstick, I just wished that if we could at least once recognise Parveen for her dedication and hard work, before she too follows Shanthamma and Reena. If we could allow her just once to take pride in what she did all her life. Or is that too much to ask ?

[image courtesy: http://www.guardianangel.in/ga//uploads/mailer_pics/cleaning_lady.jpg]

A Defiant Rebel

They say that the power corrupts everyone without exception. The frustrated electorate in Trivandrum this time tried a highly educated and articulate Tharoor and found even he is no exception.

While reading the whole unholy incident and Mr Tharoor's highly embellished statement (more about it here) I could not help remembering Sri Subodh Banerjee. I quote the following touching incident from Sri D Bandopadyaya, who was once the seceretary to Govt of India. (from mainstream weekly)

A Defiant Rebel

Wednesday 8 August 2007, by D. Bandyopadhyay

To write about a politician, one runs the risk of being either a self-seeker trying to get some material advantage if one spoke good of him, or a run-of-the mill faultfinder who failed to get his desired benefits if one wrote against him. But being neither, I do not hesitate to record an incident of great moral magnitude regarding the late Subodh Banerjee.

Subodh Banjerjee was a firebrand labour leader with such incendiary oratorical skill that both his friends and detractors used to say that he could set fire to the sluggish currents of the river Hooghly. Unlike many of his ilk, he was not a purchasable commodity available to the highest bidder. Employers used to be afraid of him so much that they would always prop up another trade union with a pliable leadership to subvert his union. They would concede more to the other union than come to any understanding with Banjerjee’s union. He would fight hard to get his demands met. But once an agreement was made, he would ensure that it was strictly implemented both by his followers and the employer. He would not allow any under-the-table adjustment which would be personally beneficial to the union leaders and, of course, to the management leaving the workers high and dry. All his dealings in labour matters were open and above board leaving no scope for future manipulation by the twist of a phrase or turn of a punctuation. Employers always thought him to be an uncompromisingly obstinate and dangerous leader.

He belonged to the Socialist Unity Centre of India (SUCI). Its leadership believed in the Brahminical tradition of pollution free purity of socialist thoughts and principles. In the rainbow spectrum of Socialist-Marxist parties of West Bengal, it represented an extreme position. Though small in size, it had the reputation of being aggressively combative which could make its followers suffer untold police torture without any demur.

The late sixties of the last century witnessed tumultuous political upheavals in West Bengal. In 1967 the ruling Congress party was unseated from power by a hotch-potch combination of Right and Left parties who made a post-electoral alliance. Subodh Banerjee became the PWD Minister. Being scrupulously honest, the Department—which even in the British days had earned the sobriquet “plunder without detection”—felt the sizzling heat of a firebrand honest Minister. His lasting contribution was the removal of all statutes of “guardians and rulers” of the Indian empire from public places in Kolkata. But he did not destroy them. He appreciated the artistic value of many of them and stored them in some other public places not in the public view. The first United Front Government only lasted for seven months. The Ministry was dismissed and President’s Rule was promulgated.

After the election in 1969, the UF again came to power. Subodh Banerjee got the portfolio of his choice, Labour. In little over a year that this government lasted, he left a permanent imprint on the industrial scene by introducing “gherao” as an instrument of industrial action by militant workers. So much was the intensity of this new method of labour action that the word “gherao” got inducted into the English languge. The Concise Oxford English Dictionary, Eleventh Edition, 2004, on page 598 has the following entry: “Gherao: n (pl. gheraos). Indian; a protest in which workers prevent employers leaving a place of work until demands are met. Origin: From Hindi.”

So the English language was enriched by his gherao policy. Though as an incidental side-effect, the investment climate in West Bengal collapsed and a long process of de-industrialisation started. The second UF Government imploded because of its own internal contradictions. After a spell of another President’s Rule during the Bangladesh war, the Congress came back to power in 1972.

UNDER the new government, I was posted as the Labour Secretary. Dr Gopal Das Nag, a well-known general physician, became the Labour Minister. He was an amiable person and had excellent relationship with all trade union leaders irrespective of their political colour. One day he sent for me and asked whether I knew Subodh Banerjee. I told him that though I did not directly work under him during the two UF governments, I had had interaction with him in land maters. Notwithstanding his notoriety in the corporate circle, I found him to be an extremely friendly and polite person.

Dr Nag then told me that Banerjee was very sick. He had been admitted to the School of Tropical Medicine. He said he would have himself gone there but for some reasons he was unable to go, so could I go and meet Banerjee and find out from his family members and attending physicians whether Dr Nag could render any help either as a Minister or otherwise.

I could easily appreciate Dr Nag’s predicament. As a gentleman he wanted to be by the side of his predecessor in office. On the other hand, during the period of “restoration” if he were seen publicly with the “gherao Minister” it might be misinterpreted both in the business and political circles. With alacrity, I agreed to be his personal emissary to visit Subodh Banjerjee in the hospital. I was also to find out from the Director of the School whether any special medicine would be required which Dr Nag could procure quickly avoiding the usual medical red tape.

During the visiting hour on the same day, I went and met Subodh Babu. He was in a small ordinary cabin on the ground floor. He was very happy to see me. His voice had become very feeble. His body was frail. I could see that it was a strain for him to talk to me. He thanked Dr Nag and then me for coming to see him. He inquired about many officers of the Labour Department. After the usual pleasantry when I inquired whether we could do anything for him, he gave a benign smile and told me that he was already in a government hospital so he had nothing more to ask of Dr Nag as a Minister of the government or as a person. It was very kind of him to make this gesture. When I was coming away, he dropped a hint he would not mind my coming again for a chit-chat.

Thereafter, I went to the Director’s office. Dr Nag had already informed him that I would be visiting him. I found a number of other physicians in his room, I was ushered in the midst of a medical conference. When I inquired about the prognosis, he told me it was bleak and he did not expect Subodh Banerjee to last more than a fortnight at the outside. He had a bad type of blood cancer for which there was no specific medicine available in India. But some of the physicians who were doing research on the subject were aware of a new drug just made available in the market in the UK which, according to some medical journals, may prolong the life for a while, though it could not cure the ailment. In fact, the conference was about the possibility of using that drug for Banerjee.

That drug was not available in India. By the usual procedure it would take months before it could be accessible here. I requested him to give me the full specifications about the drug. With that I returned to office.

Though it was late, Dr Nag was waiting for me. He had a talk with the Director so he knew about the drug. Those were the days of strict foreign exchange and import control. Even by extraordinary measure an indent from the Government of West Bengal to the Health Ministry at Delhi would take days if not weeks to get processed. When he were discussing about the matter, it struck me if some Kolkata managing agency houses, which were now owned by Indians and which still had their London offices, could be approached to procure the medicine in the UK and send it to India by hand. Dr Nag told me that he was also thinking on that line. He then rang up the chairman of a well known former sterling company which had an office in London and told him of this problem. The gentleman agreed to come to Writers’ Buildings at once to discuss about it.

The gentleman was told about the urgency of the problem because the physicians did not expect him to last beyond a couple of weeks. He went back to his office to call his London office. Next morning Dr Nag told me that the London office of that Indian company had been advised to procure the medicine. The prescription of the Tropical School of Medicine had to be faxed to London to enable them to buy it. As a humanitarian measure the company would buy the medicine on their own and would not accept any payment. The problem was how to send it quickly. Dr Nag was a Press-friendly person. So some of his friends in the Press came to know of the whole episode. The next morning two important dailies of Kolkata carried news about procurement of a rare medcine for Subodh Banerjee from London. Seeing the report the local manager of the British Overseas Airways Corporation came to the Minister and told him that if the medicine could be handed over to a particular officer of the BOAC in London, they would have it transported to Kolkata free of charge on humanitarian ground. The BOAC then had three flights a week from London to Kolkata. So by the fifth day from the day the prescription was received the medicine would arrive in Kolkata.

ON the morning of the sixth day, the manager of the BOAC Kolkata brought the packet himself and handed it over to the Minister. Dr Nag sent for me and gave the packet with the request to rush to the hospital to hand over the medicine to the Director. I went to the hospital, As I was going towards Subodh Banerjee’s cabin I met the attending physician who was coming out of the room. I told him that I had the medicine and I would like to hand it over to him. He suggested that I should keep it in the patient’s room for the time being till they start administering it.

I went to Banerjee’s cabin. His condition had visibly deteriorated in the last few days. His voice was so feeble that it was not audible. He had a slate and a piece of chalk. Looking at me his eyes sparkled and he broke into a pleasant smile. I kept the packet on a stool by his bedside. His wife and daughter were on the other side of the bed.

He spoke something to me. I could not hear. His wife told me that he wanted to know who had bought the medicine. I could understand the catch in his question. I replied that the BOAC brought the medicine free of charge from London. He again said something. It was not audible to me. His wife told me that he knew about it and that he was grateful to the British public sector corporation for taking this trouble but he did not get the answer to his query. I thought it would not be proper to parry his question any further. I told him at the request of Dr Nag the chairman of an old managing agency house procured the medicine in London on the basis of the prescription of the School of Tropical Medicine and that the company refused to accept any payment either from the government or from Dr Nag personally. The company donated the medicine for a humanitarian cause.

His face hardened. That pleasant smile vanished. For a fraction of a second his eyes blazed. I could perceive that something was boiling within him. Then he gradually calmed down. Again he resumed his pleasant self. Then I noticed a flicker of smile on his lips. He took the slate and the chalk. With his unsteady hand he wrote a few incomplete sentences and handed over the slate to me. There I found, he profusely thanked Dr Nag and the chairman of the managing agency house for their kind gesture.

Then came the bombshell. He wrote that he fought against this managing agency house for their unfair labour practices throughout his trade union career. He could not and would not accept the medicine from them. Then there was almost an appeal to me: “Please do not try to pollute me in the remaining hours of my life.”

I was stunned, I just could not react. I stood shell-shocked for a while. When I got control over myself, I thought his wife and daughter had the right to disagree with him so that the medicine could be administered. I gave the slate to his wife. She said nothing but nodded consent with her husband’s stand. I then gave it to his daughter with the faint hope that she might disagree. To my surprise, she also agreed with her father.

There was a patient who was to die in another 72 to 94 hours. There was the medicine procured from half the world away which was to prolong his life by three to six months. And here was that determined and dauntless non-conformist who would not accept the medicine donated by his class enemy. I did not know what to do: I looked at him directly in the eyes. I saw a naughty look of a child who had just outwitted his headmaster. There was again that pleasant smile indicating that he was totally in peace with himself and with the world outside.

I bowed and picked up the packet. I went to the Director’s office where he was conducting a meeting with his fellow physicians about that medicine. I kept the packet on his table and told the dumbfounded audience that Subodh Banerjee refused to accept the medicine given by a corporate house.

A couple of days later, while I was having tea I heard in the news of the All India Radio that Banerjee had passed away in the wee hours of that morning. I was alone in my room. I stood up and bowed to the indomitable spirit of a defiant rebel.

(Courtesy : The Statesman)

The author was the Secretary to the Government of India, Ministries of Finance (Revenue) and Rural Development, and the Executive Director, Asian Development Bank, Manila.

Koyakka

    

Boys in my place these days make fun of Koyakka. They laugh at his rather strange uniform, his odd appearance, and his rickety pushcart on which he sells vegetables. After all, it is very easy to make fun of the old man. If it is a good joke he will join you with a hearty laugh. If it is rather painful, as youngsters are more prone to do these days, he would smile sadly and walk away.

Of course, you do not know Koyakka. In the recent past, when many of these youngsters were yet to be born, Koyakka was a security guard. That is where he got that uniform from. In those days he used to wash it with starch and press it to finish. He was proud of it. It was much more respectable to be a guard then. Simple folks in our place held guards in hospitals and film theaters in high regard. But now they are all the same. There is nothing enviable in being a guard these days. Most of them are boys barely out of their teenage years, always scared of something. Looking back, I think Koyakka was the only guard I knew by face, by name, and in fact he was the only guard I knew was a man like us. Other guards I come across later had always one face, rather grim and expressionless, and had only one generic name, 'guard!', and we never knew what kind of men they were.

Koyakka was not even a guard to begin with. He had a small, I mean very small, shop in the corner of our street. There was not many things worth buying there. He had only one kind of soap, the colorless and odourless lifebouy, that too old and dusted. The bananas in his shop were black and about to fall apart. He kept cheapest candies in his shop that, incidentally, sold well. Among the old curiosities in his shop, he also looked another worn out item. But by evening he was a transformed man. His shop was a gathering place for local intelligentsia where they discussed the collapse of eastern Europe and fate of Poland. Koyakka thought about everything, and had read all newspapers during his eventless day-time, and participated in these discussions as passionately as the headmaster of our school.

He had a penchant for international affairs. Koyakka did not know or care much about who played for Santhosh trophy, but always knew about latest additions in Manchester United.

He was a far more cheerful man those days. He had a small house in the woods, with a nice garden in the courtyard. His grand daughter used to be a local beauty, and he would spend most of the money on colourful frocks and hairpins. His days were spent between his rose plants, his grand daughter, and his shop. Though he was rather poor, he did not seem to mind it, and though he borrowed money from almost everyone, they all spoke to him with respect.

But then gradually city started invading our little hamlet. One by one big buildings started appearing, Cadburies became a rage, and kids were no longer interested in the candies he sold. His shop became drier every day, and occasionally he did not open his shop to attend a friend's house warming or a neighbour's wedding. Then his shop was left closed for a week. We slowly learned how to buy dry fish or tapioca from nearby shops, and when he understood that we could get along without him, he closed it forever. Along with his shop Koyakka also whithered away from our landscape.


He came weekly back to the place. He bought new and expensive chocolates from the city that he generously showered on all of us, his former customers. He said he is now a security guard in a big hotel in the city. That was a very big hotel, he said. A tea was forty rupees there. We gaped with amazement. For us, who always sacrificed tea worth fifty paisa for an extra parota, that was the ultimate wastefulness. He was full of stories about his new job. Rather funny stories that made us laugh our inside out. He showed us how he held the door and did his salute, banging his foot on the floor, when
customers came to the hotel. We were all laughing mad when he imitated how a 'society lady' scolded him in English- with lots of 'shoo shoo's and eneded with a 'bludddy ffool!'. He also laughed heartily with us. Of course, we did not notice the slight twitching of his lips or the sparkling in the corner of his eye when he laughed. You see, Koyakka was a proud man.

When I saw the guards in my institute in Bangalore, sitting shelterless in heavy rain,or in the harsh Banglore winter, trying to make maximum out of their torn jackets, I thought of him. What he might be doing. In cities I saw them in front of shopping malls, restaurants, with the cloak of servility, I wondered how did he manage.

But as I heard later, he did not manage. Not because he could not learn to be servile- he learned it very fast- or because he was not willing to endure hardships. But boys from his dream-land came in large numbers to Kerala for jobs. Boys, barely out of their teenage years, came from Bengal and Orissa, closely packed in general compartments and trucks. They slowly replaced construction workers first. These boys were amazing, willing to work in any condition and for lesser wage, they camped on construction sites, worked like donkeys from dawn to dusk and slept in nearby tents. They would start work early after a heavy breakfast, and would continue non stop till evening, unlike the worker from Kerala, who wants a break for food every two hours. A Bengal version of perpetual motion machines - contractors just loved them.

Koyakka would not have grudged losing his jobs for Bengali boys. Koyakka, like many in his generation, loved Bengal and Jyoti Babu. So when they came ready to do any job, he only praised their hard work, calling them "that's Jyotida's boys". When someone mentioned that Jyoti Babu's only boy is a big businessman he got into a heated arguement. He then picked up an old pushcart and started selling vegetables in our village.

The village was no longer the old village, and Koyakka and his cycle had no place in it. His odd appearance made all of us a little uneasy.

We would rather see him in his spotless white shirt and dhoti, scoring a point with our headmaster. How much we love to see him sitting on an easy chair in his villa tending his rose garden and sharing a sweet with his grand grand daughter! How much more comfortable all of us would have been if he was dead and gone!

But that it is not to be. He wanders through the town in his ridiculous old uniform, with a rickety cart, carrying rotten vegetables.

When Jyoti Babu passed away, he pasted red portrait on the cycle.

[image from: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/141/319730022_41d8aac3e9.jpg?v=0]

Mary

Mary is a real estate agent.
She has been an agent before I was born. She must have started in the 50's; if there was such agents in 50's.

I had fixed an apartment to stay temporarily even before I left India, thanks to many possibilities the internet has opened up for my generation. But finding an apartment for long-term became a challenge. That had to be optimised in a complex plane, as the mathematicians say. Budget, distance, and the facilities, strictly in that order, had to be tackled very delicately and with skill. So we searched in internet, walked around, made phone calls, visited several apartments, and finally made a call to an agent. It was a number given below an "Alouer" (read 'alew') sign. I thought I was talking to the owner. But it was an agent. French can be a very confusing, especially if you have English prejudices.

Calling an agent certainly was not in my mind. I have known such agents, and I personally prefer to avoid them. Mary spoke to me very nicely over phone. It took my slow brain a few minutes to register that I was talking to an agent. By then she knew where I work, that I do not drive a car, I do not even have bicycle, and I hate to spend money or time on transport. She had a way of talking, like a school teacher or nurse; some times sweet and caring, sometimes stern and commanding. So when she said she can show me several apartments in the area, I smelled a rat. I knew it was a shrewd, cunning, greedy real estate agent.

So I played smart, and did not go to meet her at 5'O clock sharp, as she had asked me to. Then she called me at 5.05; She said she has been waiting for me. I said I have work. She reminded me that I had promised her to meet her at 5, and it is five minutes late already, and she has been waiting. She was a headmistress then, and I ran to meet her. But when I reached the place, there was nobody.

Of course, I did not count a frail old lady in her seventies sitting there on a bench. Montreal population is largely very young students and very old pensioners. The old people are seen walking around with their only comfort, small dogs. They live in apartments all alone. And when they die, someone will know somehow, and they dial 911 for emergency services, then the police will take care. Till then they are treated well with publicly supported hospitals, parks, and in public transport. They enjoy considerable discounts on all services, and generally roam around trying to see their place in a world they have built up.

So I ignored Mary until she asked me if I am looking for the agent, for this frail old woman was the agent. Half my misgivings went away when I saw her, she was indeed a sweet old lady. She was short, hardly four feet and with short white hair. She was wearing small black skirt and blouse, and I suspect that's her work clothes; I have never seen in the last four months in any other attire. She was weak too. But her ways were pleasant, and people seemed to like her. She was formal somewhat, and asked everyone "Hello! how are you" on the way. Her phone rang continuously, she attended all of them, only to say something like "Hello, Julie, I am in work, I can't talk to you just now. I will call you later".

Mary did find me a cute, small, apartment to stay, meeting all my criteria, and she did not charge me anything. She said she will be paid from the owner. She works for a large real estate company, and the apartment-owner has to pay something to the company to take care of the legal formalities of renting out, and she will in turn get a commission. We had met her several times before and after that, and she gave us lifts a couple of times in her car. And once when it seemed that we would not be able to rent an apartment soon, she offered that we could stay in her home. "I can always go to my daughters' place. Not that I like to live with my daughter ..." When Femi said she has a grand mother who looks like her, she was more than happy. She said she has 9 grand children.

Children leave their parents when they are between 15-20. It is considered a shame to stay with one's parents after that. They are supposed to find some job. Most would have worked in restaurants or other places in small jobs, and they are often very proud to talk about it. They think it built their character, whatever that means. The boy or girl will find their own partners, and often live together. This gives more freedom not only to the children, but also to the parents, to have their own lives. But the flip side is that if you are left without a partner either because of death or divorce, you are left all alone.

Things are fine as long as you have old-age support and pension. Quebec- the province in which I am living- certainly has several social security measures in place (like if you are old and crippled, the public transport company will send a taxi to pick you up and drop to places for the same ticket others pay for the bus service; from what I hear, health care almost free, and they take very good care of old people. I went to the doctor recently, and had to pay only for the medicine. If you are citizen, even medicine is covered. These programs are funded by heavy tax). Though it looks a quiet and benign city, every right and social security measure here was earned through quite bloody struggles. Quebec certainly has a violent history.

But even then Mary has to work. We will never know if it is because she loves her work, or because she has no choice. I had thought that almost all of the old here are living comfortably. Sometimes I have come across very respectable-looking old men acting as security guards in some building. That is a painful sight. To see them in a guard's uniform and opening doors for all and sundry, when they should be sitting at the garden telling stories to the grandchildren. Life is not that kind to many- even in Montreal.

Mary came to Montreal from Greece long back. In fact, she says she is Greek, though she has been born and brought up here. That's the fate of most people here- to live without roots. They are born and brought up here for generations- but they are still Americans, British, Jemaican's, Chinese or Indians. Blacks came to Canada during American civil war, to escape slavery and certain death. Irish started pouring here during the harsh potato famine in 1840s. The Greeks also came from poor villages. The whole country is made up of people from different parts of the world came to escape from the harsh realities of their own mother-land. Over two centuries they struggled with wild nature, harsh weather, and fought several colonial masters, and now with their own masters, laying down their lives to gain whatever concessions and rights they have.

I often see Mary talking to her clients. Though still meticulously professional, she always takes some time off to remind me that if I ever have any problem I should contact her. When I don't see her, I often thought of her. Then yesterday I came across a half-page size close-up of wrinkled old face in the front page of 'Globe and Mail'. Globe is running a 7-day series starting yesterday . It is about the retirees forced to go back to work. Mind you, people retire at 65 here. Several big companies have pleaded bankruptcy this year. Employees have suddenly found that the companies have not kept their promise to contribute to the pension fund. According to the journal, about 40% of the pension promises will remain just that- mere promises. "Canadians are facing national pension melt down", says the Globe. It seems next week about 11000 retirees of Nortel Canada is going to demonstrate in Parliament hill, among them an old president of Nortel Canada along with then union leaders. The report tracks down retirees selling homes, selling paintings once they have done as a hobby, trying to find new work and realising that they are too old to be hired. Suddenly a country tells its elderly, we have nothing saved up from your life's toil, get back to work, or starve!

I still see Mary around. I love seeing her, and I hope she is working for the sheer pleasure of it.

 [image from: http://image.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/172054/172054,1252963225,1/stock-photo-old-lady 37065358.jpg]

Life in the Undergrowth

It was long back. There used to be an old man a pale young woman sitting outside the hostel I was living in Bangalore. The woman- or girl, for it was impossible to ascertain her age- wore saree, and sat quietly besides the man, always pointing her gaze downwards. Both were in rags; the man had rather ugly voice, and he begged for money in a passionless or monotonous way, that only irritated passersby. Even with the miserable look of the girl, they did not make much money, for she did not partake in begging, only sat there, without any expression, and the man was also not a seasoned beggar. Over time they became a constant background of that Yeswantpur bus-stop,like the advertisement of radio mirchi, and the regular passengers always ignored them. One Sunday morning, on a what promised to be a beautiful day, not too hot and not too cold, bright red flowers of March beginning to appear on both sides of the highway, we were going to the market. We saw the man sitting a bit far away from his usual place. There were some other usual beggars squatting nearby, some smoking, as if on a holiday. As we walked close by the we saw the girl was lying on the earth, her body covered in a new white cloth, and an agarbathi burning near head, along with a few bananas, and sweets. She had that calm look on her face as she always had.

We don't know what happened to the man. He was never seen there afterwards. I believe he begged only for the sake of the girl. From remote parts of Karnataka and India people flock to Bangalore in the hope of finding a livelihood. The old man could have come from Bellary from one of the closed mining fields. Or from Shimoga, Kolar, or from neighbouring Peenya Industrial Estate, which recently threw away tens of thousands to street. Or he might have owned huge land in Marthahlli that he was coaxed by big builders to part with. We don't know for sure. If we had a Dickens among us, he would have told us the story of the wandering old man and his grand daughter. But we don't have and we don't care.
In those parts of the world, the third world, human life does not value much. And in big cities bare survival itself is a very delicate balancing act for many.

In India we were made to believe that there are too many to feed. It impossible to feed the teeming millions, and it was implied that, some will have to, well, die. Charity was of course encouraged, cited, and celebrated, as if that is the only thing left to try. (There was even a nobel price for charity.) Naive and gentle intellectuals always assured us that as we control population we will have more resources to spare and share.

Canada is about three times bigger than India. And it has thirty times less people to feed. While India has about 364 people in every square kilo meter Canada has only 3. And Canada is one of the wealthiest nations in the world. It is full of philanthropists of all kinds. To top all Canada has one of the most benevolent (from a naive Indian perspective) and extreme welfare capitalism at the helm

shaped by strong wave of working class movements here. So even when we get rid of extra people- 99 out of 100- who are assumed to be there only to eat and multiply and even when we become the next superpower, and even when half our

rich turn into philanthropy, we will be doing only as well.

Montreal appears as quiet beautiful city outwards. Students, professors, and the government staff. Tourists. Smiling faces everywhere, nice manners, clean city.

But beneath this benign skin lies city's under privileged. They have been carefully segregated from the main city to distant neighborhoods so that the poor

do not swarm around the slums and sewage canals in the city, and prick your conscience.

But city is not well cemented. In July alone 80,000 lost their jobs (Source: Canada Labour Force Survey). Sometimes it is not hard to come across healthy looking men and women, even in the prime of their youth, walking or cycling, with a bundle carrying all their belongings. A bundle of clothes, a water bottle, mug, few tissue papers, all rolled and attached to a single bag. They are not leisure hikers. They are the modern nomads, forced to live on the move, because they have no place to call home. If you are an early bird, and walk around parks and other public spaces you would easily come across many sleeping there. There are more artistic ways as well: like our train musician and street painters. (some are quite amazing, but one must keep in mind that they attract talent on an international scale and level, among them some end up in streets.) Some would come to you, like decent gentlemen or ladies. "Sir, can you spare some change ?". Often when you say "Sorry, no change" they would walk away. Resigned to their fate, and too proud.

But it is hard to maintain decorum, particularly when one goes hungry in extreme weather. Many would sit in street corners often keeping a placard in front of them narrating their situation. Refugees out of provincial healthcare, or other umpteen situations which left them without the support of the state, to seek

charity elsewhere. One such placard was blunt and to the point: "I need to eat."

Yesterday happened to be birthday for one of us. Being a special day, and far from near and dear, a stroll along St Catherine seemed like the right thing to do. It was a beautyful sunny day, and being a long weekend, streets would not be crowded.

St. Catherine is one one saint in North America who share same fate of Saint Gandhi. Roads named after him are usually the busiest and poshest. They contain the most expensive showrooms, restaurants, pubs, massage parlours, and other murky things of city life. They have the statue of the saint in some obscure corner

shadowed by flashy hoardings of obscene liquor or lingerie advertisements.

On rue st catherine near a big supermarket we came across a family- a young handsome man in his twenties sat looking downward on a bundle of clothes, trying to quieten two dogs (I have never seen children in street); a woman of the same age, sat on the pavement. The lady(?) carried a placard, which read: "Today is my birthday; please spare some change".

So much for the first world.

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'Life in the Undergrowth' was a David Attenborough documentary on the
creatures that live under the earth, termites, caterpillars, and the like,
too small or insignificant to notice except when they become nuisance.

[image courtesy:   http://www.aliceneel.com]