Langford Town From The Back Seat

  A Shop in Langford Town

A Shop in Langford Town

You enter Langford Town at the complex of the old graveyards, existing from colonial times, a good expanse of them, parceled out to a couple of Christian faiths, Hindus, the Shia Moslems, the Sunni Muslims. The street you enter is Berlie Street, which starts wide and begins to narrow, inching inward as you progress, and you fret at horns that blare demanding overtaking room when there’s no room to give. Berlie Street is the longest street in Langford Town, embracing a half of it in a U-shape.

The other streets in Langford Town bear their old names as well: Alexandria Street. Bride Street. Rose lane. Walker Lane. Norris Road. Curley Street. Names suggesting decent beginnings, diminished now, and one would think a neighborhood with street-names like these would have at the least one nice bakery, one cozy cafe, one cute restaurant. I haven’t seen any but a florist, and a dealer in antiques whose wares seem more like riffraff from broken homes, but I experience Bangalore mostly in the back seat of my car, casting occasional glances at it. It might be that Langford Town prefers to be private, with least visitors, for fear that a busybody might apply himself to renaming their streets, localizing them, altering their character.

Langford Town falls in the Shantinagar constituency whose elected representative is N.A Harris, a third-term Member of the Legislative Assembly (MLA). As is in vogue in Bangalore for many years now, posters bearing the face of Haris ornament the streets in his domain. His is among the better faces: there are faces of other leaders that are regularly hoisted across the city, most of them murky and suggestive of no good intentions — you wouldn’t want your child to see them. The posters wish, at various times, happy birthday to the MLA, greetings from the MLA to his electorate for Eid, Easter, Sankranti, Pongal, Deepavali, Christmas. It’s all a vigorous and successful onslaught to burn Haris into our psyche.

Haris is not bad, even if Langford Town could be better. On the eve of elections an NGO rated him the best-performing MLA in Bangalore, which has 28 MLAs. Speaking for myself, I’ve been able to bear his posters without too much animus — complaining only occasionally to my wife next to me in the car that Haris foists himself to an excess upon his electorate.

I like the faces I see in the flesh in Langford Town: Tibetan, Northeast Indian, North Indian, South Indian. People from all faiths have tucked themselves into this tight little neighborhood: Buddhist, Hindu, Moslem, Christian, Jain. A little black statue of Ambedkar in a square there attests to the presence of the vulnerable Hindus. The neighborhood lacks spaces, there’s no parking room at all, but there’s charm in the diversity of the people of Langford Town.

A Christian neighbor in Rajmahal Vilas, where I live, told me once: “You work at Electronics City? You pass through Brigade Road, then. You know the Shantinagar MLA? Haris! Handsome man, you know. Dynamic. We meet often at the Catholic Club …”

These recent rain-soaked days, Haris has multiplied significantly his posters. He is asserting himself, because there’s a new government in our province, and some ministerial posts have yet to be filled. As a third-term MLA, Haris feels entitled to a berth, and he is flexing muscle, which a recent incident had cramped for a while.

It happened a few weeks ahead of the elections. It happened with Haris’s son who went with his friends to a cafe at eleven at night. Haris’s son’s leg scraped another customer’s outstretched limb. The customer asked Haris’s son to take care: He had a broken leg, it was in a cast, and the man had rested it across the seat before him.

Haris’s son didn’t like to be asked to take care — he is the son of a very important man, after all. What happened afterwards is widely reported. Let me say it was all big news, and although Haris’s smile didn’t fade on his posters, it put the formidable man’s chances of even running for elections in doubt. But Haris prevailed. He ran, he won, and is now reaching for a bigger prize.

Bold and resilient, he now has his son’s face on every one of his posters. The biggest face on the posters is Haris’s. The next biggest is his son’s. Per protocol. Then there the other faces, smaller, of men who tend to Haris’s muscles, keep them strong, ease the occasional cramp.

It helps Haris that his son has looks that compete with his: lanky body, loping gait, a trimmed beard on an oval face that is in keeping with his lean frame, eyes behind sleek sunglasses, and a white smile. If I commute a few more years more through this neighborhood, I might well be treated every workday to Haris’s son’s face, succeeding Haris’s.

Malnad Diary: Sound And Silence In Coffee Country

 Bangalore (Bengaluru) - Hassan  Highway (NH48)

Bangalore (Bengaluru) - Hassan  Highway (NH48)

The plains from Bangalore to Hassan are sporting fresh vegetation these days: There’s areca now; more wild-neem patches; the coconut groves have expanded with acres of fresh saplings beside older, flourishing crops of tall, mature palms. And I saw plentiful banana. The monsoons have been generous so far this year, and the terrain is glinting and oozing every shade of green.

So I enjoyed the drive to the plantation last weekend.

Beyond Hassan, the coffee belt of Malnad received 20-inches of rain in a single day. On that same day, upon Kadumane’s hills and cusps fell most of heaven’s largesse: 42-inches in 24 hours — a record for them — their tea is twice-blessed.

I mentioned in several posts last year how the rains were holding back, preferring the skies to lowly earth. “Sorry,” they appear to be saying this year.


☁️☁️☁️

Having suffered errant rain ever since the first seven beans of coffee were planted in Malnad, the planter has finally an opportunity to discount the weather and move to other opportunities with which to profit from his land. The vagaries of weather might kill the coffee but they cannot take away the hills of Malnad and the trees on them and, most of all, the absence of the din of the city. So the planters have taken to the homestay hospitality business, and one such startup has sprung within earshot of us.


☁️☁️☁️

Sound travels far and well in Malnad.

Waking at midnight, I thought it was a generator bothering me, perhaps powering a pump to draw water from a tank. But no planter draws water in the night. After sundown the plantation is handed in full to the night, for it to perform its miracles and mysteries with it. It was an unusual sound moreover, droning and grating, rising and falling in a very narrow band, a directionless sound, with no apparent rhythm, distant, and not so loud but enough to be a nuisance through the night. It was without doubt sound created and delivered by machine. I woke several times and it was always the same sound and it was still playing when I got off the bed at my usual time. I waited a courteous while and called the writer (supervisor).

“Where’s the noise from?” I asked.

“It’s coming from …” he told me the name of the plantation, not far, not near, two plantations between us.

“Why is he running a generator in the night?” The noise was still in the air.

“That thing is not a generator, sir,” he said, a trace of amusement coming into his voice, a voice heavy with morning-grog. “It’s music. I called them last night to tell them it’s disturbing us. They wouldn’t answer the phone.”


☁️☁️☁️

A weekend getaway from Bangalore.

On a bare patch on his plantation he pitches tents; he sets up music in a corner, with room for dancing; and sends into the cool night hot chicken and warm roti from his home to the dozens of youngsters who come over Saturdays to dance all night and turn in at breakfast-time and wake for lunch and leave for Bangalore in the afternoon.

I know that planter. I’d gone to his house for some neighborly thing in the early days when I’d bought my plantation. When I left his place his son asked me if I could give him a ride to Ballupet.

He was taking a bus from Ballupet to Bangalore. It’s where he was working, in a rather lowly job for a planter’s son. “I hate it here, uncle,” he’d told me, speaking in Kannada. “Specially in the rainy season. There’s nothing to do here. All day all night the rain will be dripping and the cicada will be sawing.”

It’s the boy who is managing the weekend-party business, I learnt later in the day.


☁️☁️☁️

In sum I’m saying I’m allergic to noise. But the birds showed a greater aversion to it: They were silent like there was an eclipse about them. They couldn’t have slept, of course, and were sulking in the concealments of the branches, and must’ve missed many a worm during the important morning-hunt that is so rich in proverbs.

I smiled for the lucky worms — but only for a moment. The party over, the tents would be free of Bangaloreans Sunday evening. With the night back in the hands of the elements, the usual quiet of Malnad would rule. The worms and other hapless prey like them would come under a vigorous attack at sunup on Monday.


🐛 🐛 🐛

The Yelahanka Clan And The Mayo Hall Museum

 Statue of Kempegowda at the Mayo Hall Museum, Bangalore

I was the lone visitor. Two ladies manned the door that leads from the porch to the museum upstairs. “There’s nobody inside,” they said. “Repairs. The repair fellow broke his arm. He’s gone home.” There wasn’t a guard even, but that’s all right. The Mayo Hall Museum has no antiquity save the building itself.

There’s one lone artefact in the hall, and it dominates the show. It is a statuette of Kempe Gowda in brass, a lean and wiry Kempegowda in the attire and aspect of a devotee, hands folded and eyes shut in bhakti. A sword dangles from his left shoulder, close to the armpit. The artist exercising his license, I first reckoned. Then I mimed drawing a sword with the scabbard at the armpit. It appeared to work: The scabbard would’ve to be pushed back and gripped under the arm, and the sword pulled forward, instead of clumsily upward.

The second exhibit is a glass-topped map on the floor that you walk about on. Smudged by splashes of light at the time I stood over it, the map proved itself more novel than informative.

The third and last exhibit is a set of flexes that tell the history of Bangalore under the Yelahanka clan. The flexes are mounted on glossy scaffolding that surrounds the statuette of Kempegowda. The museum seeks to memorialise Kempegowda, the unanimously acknowledged founder of Bengaluru — and Kempegowda’s Yelahanka clan, which ruled in this region for 497 years, from 1230 until 1727.


🤺🤺🤺


The first Yelahanka was Devarasagowda. He established himself at the time of the Hoysala, as a vassal to him. In a short time, the last Hoysala fell to the Turk, who stuffed the Hoysala’s carcass with hay and hung it at the gate of the Madurai fort.

Two Yelahankas passed. The fourth Yelahanka was Bhairadeva II. In his time the Vijayanagara empire was nascent, and Bhairadeva II participated in its early growth.

Vijayanagara reached its zenith at the time of the seventh Yelahanka, Kempegowda the Elder. The emperor was Krishnadevaraya, Kempegowda the trusted vassal. Kempegowda asked to establish a new city in his realm, an ambitious mercantile city, and Krishnadevaraya said yes. That city was Bengaluru, equidistant from the sea on the west and the east, on a plateau in jungle country, with even weather all year. The empire was teeming with the finest craftsmen, traders, warriors, mercenaries — every stripe of achiever. Kempegowda invited traders to his new city, built a walled pete for them, and sank wells and built tanks and made Bengaluru a fine place to work and live in. Feeling grateful for his success, he built temples across the city in thanksgiving.

The next two Yelahankas — Kempegowda II and Kempegowda III — furthered the elder’s works.

But Vijayanagara had to see its end, too. Ramaraya, its last ruler, was defeated by a united front of five Bahamani kingdoms. The year was 1563. He was beheaded on the field even as the battle raged, and his severed head was held aloft for all to see. Two-hundred years of a prosperous empire ended with that stroke. The Bahamanis had no wish to rule Vijayanagara. They plundered the place and left.

The empire crumbled and the Yelahanka found himself a sort of sovereign, now surrounded by hostile neighbours hungry to expand. He fought and won and then lost. The Yelahanka was tiring.

The tenth Yelahanka was Kempayya. He was captured in the Savandurga fort by Doddakrishnaraja of neighbouring Mysore, and thrown into the dungeon at Srirangapattana. The base of the dungeon was lower than the riverbed of nearby Kaveri. Kempayya didn’t last long in captivity. He died in 1727. The story of the Yelahankas ends there.


🤺🤺🤺


The origin of Mayo Hall itself begs narration.

We shift our attention to 1872, when Lord Mayo was viceroy, having taken charge in 1869. En route somewhere by sea route, he halted at the Andaman Islands, where the British ran a prison that mostly held political prisoners, among them the vanquished in the 1857 Mutiny.

Mayo went into the prison, where a convict leapt upon him and stabbed him. That convict was Sher Ali, and his motive was to avenge his father who’d fallen in the Anglo-Afghan War. Mayo didn’t deserve punishment for Sher Ali’s tragedy, he appears to have been a decent administrator, the reforming type, an Indophile even, but he was British, and he was viceroy, and so there’s argument favouring Sher Ali as well.

Sher Ali was quickly hanged, and Lord Mayo’s body was shipped to Dublin, where they gave the deceased his due in full.

Meanwhile, in Bengaluru, the British were planning a building to house administrative offices for their cantonment, with room for gatherings. They wished to make the building their best in South India, grand in Greco Roman style. Came news of Mayo’s death and they decided to name the building after him.

Salim Ali, Maa, Salim Ali!

 Mobor Beach by The Leela Goa, Cavelosim, Goa

A little girl came down the narrow wooden bridge across the slim lagoon that snakes between the villas at The Leela Goa.

“Salim Ali, Maa. Salim Ali! You don’t know Salim Ali?”

Her maa was silent, but I heard her embarrassment as I passed them. As regards myself, I’ve heard of that ornithologist, but I haven’t read him, and I don’t know more than a half-dozen bird types.

Anyway, for this entire short stay at The Leela Goa, I’ve been sighting mainly crows. Last evening, I’d been sitting in a corner at the Susegado, the beachside restaurant the hotel. Beneath me the stone floor ended and the flour-thin sand of the beach began its long smooth run to the sea. I was reading Kathleen Jamie’s Findings, and sweating in 32º heat like it was 40º. There wasn’t any breeze, just the somnolent beauty of the Mobor Beach by which sprawls The Leela. A fisherman’s boat was moored on the higher sands, small, charcoal black, weatherbeaten. The fisherman appeared now and then, pulled something from his vessel, righted something, and went, and returned. A few guests played on the fringes of the water, all of them Indian, all fully clothed — the season for foreigners starts October.

Above the sparse action sat the lifeguard on a yellow perch, by a red flag that he’d raised to honor the choppy sea. The state has banned fishing for two months in anticipation of the monsoons; the lifeguard in his turn had forbidden swimming in the moment.

Round me and running as far as I could see, were castrated coconut palms — the nuts hacked to keep the guests safe — should one fall on a head. Being at the end of the shore, close to densely wooded headlands that jut into the sea and stop the run of sand, the beach before the Leela is private, and, during the lean season in June, quiet.

After a time I became aware of the crows, of their insistent cawing, and their large number. I put down my book and gazed at the sea, favoring the crows back of me with only my ear. Just then one of their number shot into view, flying high and seaward, flapping its wings like the crow and sailing now and then in the manner of the eagle. How far over the sea can the crow travel and return safely? It flew and flew and after a long while it fell — a free fall, actually, the wind-currents revealing themselves the times the bird faltered in its fall. It touched down, and soon it rose, gained height and, just as I thought it was coming back, flew toward the white horizon. In time the lone flier became a speck, a flickering dot, and vanished.

The following morning during my walk I caught sight of a bird sitting tall at the lotus pond in the golf course on the property. Its lush, tan body reminded me of the golden retriever. Its neck and breast were white. It dipped its beak into the pond — for water? Was it this — and not the crow — that I’d seen the evening before, taking off on a lofty flight over the Arabian? A sea hawk? The osprey? Is the sea hawk nocturnal? I suppose not. What was its mission then? At six in the evening? And why had this golden thing appeared so black?

At breakfast at the imaginatively named The Restaurant in the resort, I leaned back in my chair and looked out. The teeny couple hopping about on the branches of a distant plumeria were woodpeckers, I figured, after first guessing them as the kingfisher. Their colors glittered in the morning sun, and the jutting peaking on the head leaned backward and high. But I’m not so sure now as I put this post together: I’ve spent the last few minutes on the Internet, trying to extract the image of the bird, and its name, querying for a small bird with brilliant colors, predominantly blue, and a prominent peaking on top.

I could ask that girl who was outraged at her mother’s ignorance of Salim Ali. She should be here, somewhere among the abundance in this luxurious watering hole where all guests must arrive for the lazy resort-breakfast. She’s not in this South Indian section where I am sitting, relishing idli and dosé with red, white, green, and yellow chutney. She’s not in the North Indian bay from where I fetched cut-fruit and coffee. I’ll try in the large Asian n’ Continental hall at the far end.

I’ll also check with the kid if the snow-white birds that that Sujaya spotted among the pure-pink villas here are the crane. Cranes as I know are long in the neck and leg and beak. These ones are medium-large overall, but short and thick in their parts. Are they the stork? I’ll ask. What’s the difference between a crane and a stork?

The child will not be kind to me.

Elections Karnataka: Games To The People

 Vidhana Soudha, Bangalore, Karnataka

What happened around me these last days?

The traffic came back. The posters and hoardings showing the faces of our pretty politicians came back. (The use of posters and hoardings for campaigning had been banned.) More posters showing more faces joined them. We got a change of chief minister for our state of Karnataka, but that man — a driven but aged man of 75 — lost the job in two days. He was short of majority support by just so much and resigned ahead of a vote of proof.

On his heels came in another, new chief minister, who always appears jaded, and who accepts every honour given him with exhortations of sorrow (“It’s not with any great happiness that I’ve agreed to be Chief Minister”). He is 57. He might survive in the exalted role for a few months, a year even. It is hard to bet that he’ll last the tenure of five years — he is not sure of that himself, so he toured eleven temples and seven mutts in a mere three days, giving thanks for his lucky turn, but also praying for the gift of a full term.

On Wednesday, leaders of major regional parties from all over India descended on Bangalore to bless the second man at his swearing in. The streets were lined with flexes with their faces on them. The leaders smiled a lot and made friends and announced an alliance that would stop the incumbent prime minister of the nation from returning to power after his term ends in 2019. The development was interesting, not least because the salad the alliance holds forth has spice and flavour from across India, and it would be tossed by many cooks, each with their stubborn inclination. That admixture would compete with the great-great-great-grandmother’s-recipe that the incumbent prime minister has on offer, which has him in power this term. With his opposition thus invigorated, the prime minister would need to now dig deeper into the past, to the kitchens of Lord Rama himself — to the most authentic Indian fare.

I cannot be excited about the emerging menu. I lost my appetite for the political manifesto a long time ago.

I didn’t go to the swearing in. I wasn’t invited. But I passed by the event as it happened because the Vidhana Soudha is a prominent presence on my commute. A gathering of over a hundred thousand had massed outside the building; I could see that in aerial shots broadcast on my iPhone. The crowds had slowed the traffic, but not so much. Most supporters of the new government had come from far off places; they had parked their vehicles outside town and rode the Metro to the Vidhana Soudha.

It rained hard that day, but on the open high ground on which stands the Vidhana Soudha, where the ceremony happened with many of the most prominent politicians of India participating, the rain was shy to touch down, so it sprinkled a small, notional shower — in blessing, some might say. After that, the leaders held hands and raised them high and smiled and talked to best effect before the cameras. Those pictures, taken together, display hope, resolve, and real joy at having been given a chance to fight again.

How hopeful are we, the people? How relieved? I can’t say more than that we’ll be treated to endless games in the days ahead, and the weeks, the months. The spectacle will be free to watch, but we’d be paying a terrible price overall — as though the show was all our idea.

The intimation of the cost to us was given yesterday when the assembly met to confirm the new chief minister. Both sides spat poison (the serpent was mentioned more than once in the vile speeches), promised personal vendettas, and vowed that each party would expend its full energy to undermine the other — to hell with grace, and as regards the people, damn them all. The venom that bathed the once-august hall was thick and sticky.

We’ve been had.


This article is cross-posted on Churumuri.

Austrian Airlines, And The Colour Of Good Times

 Austrian Airlines

We flew to Vienna from Frankfurt on Austrian, a partner airline of Lufthansa.

On the return, the flight was full. Austrian had improvised a rule to control cabin baggage. All roll-on hand baggage had to be re-checked on the broad aisle leading to the gates — they’d imposed a new, reduced limit. Mine was four kilograms over for Economy, the class we’d chosen for the short hop. I was redirected to the counters by the firm Asian lady who was doing the weighing. At the counters, the agent urged, “Remove something. Carry it separately.”

“I’ve nothing I can remove,” I said after I’d unzipped and looked up stuff I’d packed myself. The agent thought for a while, tapped about on his keyboard, pondered a bit, and looked up. He was a nice-looking burly man with a round face. A smile had replaced the indecision that had so far been on it. “I’m allowing it,” he said. “Because I don’t want you to feel bad about Vienna. Please take care the next time.” He put a red paper-band of permission around the handle of my roll on.

“Thank you,” I said, bringing on my best earnest expression. “I’m going to remember this gesture before many people.”

Austrian is all about red. A lovely bright red. On the tail of the plane, on the wingtips, on the piece of cloth held by Velcro on the headrest, on the trims of the magazine pouch, on the catch of the tray before you, on the checks on sashes and on the curtains that put Business beyond Economy — everywhere the color red rules against a background of white and half white. Among these reds flit about the cabin crew — who are themselves awash in red.

The ambience cheered me and reminded me of another airline which used the same colour on the same scale to similar advantage. It was called the Kingfisher Airlines, its brand burnished by the byline, “The King of Good Times.” Indeed, I have pleasant memories flying on it; the airline was my local favourite for the time it operated. The good times didn’t last, however, and Kingfisher is now only a memory, a mixed memory. I’ve seen some recent photographs of its ruddy founder, who now lives in England, and the colour of good times appears to have faded on that flamboyant man as well.

Ah, but this piece is for Austrian — may that rouge on them ever be fresh.


Photo Copyright: Austrian Airlines Flight: funlovingvolvo / 123RF Stock Photo

A Day And A Night In Slovakia

  From Vienna to Piestany via Bratislava

From Vienna to Piestany via Bratislava

Chasing Windmills

Soon after we’d left the Vienna airport, they came up, on both sides of the Bahn, an unending presence along the route running from the edge of the highway to the horizon itself: white towers with long blades drawing energy from wind that pushed them. As in Judo. Standing tall on the rise and fall of the Austrian landscape, they turned with gusto. It was raining. Gray air and grey cloud pressed down on the lush green expanse of earth, earth free of buildings, cut through by grey road and dotted with these high windmills. Until yesterday Europe had been awash in uninterrupted golden sunshine, but this moment in the rain changed two weeks of the sun into mere memory.

“This rain is good,” our customer who was driving us from Vienna to Slovakia said. “There’s been too much pollen flying.”

The Austrians voted out nuclear energy a long time ago, and they must succeed with alternates. In Slovakia, our customer said, a Soviet-era nuclear plant is serving its five-million Slovak population just fine. (I haven’t done a fact-check. The customer was brilliant, so well informed.)

At the border, the profusion of windmills ended.

Auto Power

The big thing in Slovakia is auto. Most big European names have moved in, whisking to effervescence the dour east-bloc economy of yesteryear: Porsche’s Cayenne, Volkswagen’s Tuareg, the BMW 5, Citroen’s C3, Land Rover, KIA’s Sport, the Audi Q5. Auto has done for Slovakia what software did for India. Nearly half the industrial output is auto, which constitutes a quarter of its exports. Every few moments we passed trucks lugging fresh-made cars out to the world, cars shining like candy even in the absence of sun.

“They bought used cars from us in the past,” our customer remarked. “Now Germans buy new cars from Slovakia through agents in Germany. Up to 33% cheaper.”

The first things that show up when Bratislava appears are the spanking new malls, rising behind arched sound barriers lining the stretch of highway that passes through town. Slovaks have it good these days. A forklift operator in an auto plant makes a thousand euros a month, with an indirect payout of 47% on top.

Going through Bratislava, looking at a hill covered in old buildings, India’s police quarters and its railway quarters came to mind. The buildings were painted in bright colours, but the colours couldn’t hide dullness, the communist past of them. They weren’t painted back then. The newer buildings nearby were different, designed by free-market architects.

Bratislava is hilly, riparian with two rivers — the Danube and the Morava. Riding a wide old bridge, I noticed a hotel named after Chopin. And on a hoarding, again by the bridge, a hotel was advertised which was named after Mendelssohn. Europeans fight the most horrible wars and yet they unite completely for the arts.

Leaving Bratislava, we were in the plains again, fertile plains with hills in the distance. The mountains lurked beyond the hills, perhaps, but we couldn’t see them from the valley of the Váh river, from the road to Piestany.

Tiny Piestany

Piestany is small, population 30,000. It is a spa town whose springs have drawn humans to them since 80,000 years ago. The town centre has the things a town centre should, in a petite pedestrian zone — in a brisk ten-minute walk we’d covered the area. The boutiques were modest (Zaira, selling garments, hit my eye). The restaurants suggested French and Italian cuisine, but the Argentinian steak ruled everywhere. The Hotel Park Avenue, where we checked in, boasted unchallenged the best Argentinian in town. The hotel sat on the corner of a nice old park. Communist dictatorships nurtured parks — I remembered the large ones I’ve seen in Ceaușescu’s Bucuresti.

Everybody spoke German. They learn it at school, a carryover from when East Germany and Czechoslovakia were ideological buddies. Our waiter spoke English, and he organised for us vegan soup and aglio olio. Afterwards, he urged that we try their chocolate egg — a shell of chocolate the size of an ostrich egg, with ice cream inside, and raspberry sauce. “Somebody should order the chocolate egg,” he said and laughed. He was tall and young and good-looking, and he laughed after every three sentences. “I’ll take it,” our customer said, relieving the vegans.

Loveable folks, the Slovaks. Only five million of them, living in a beautiful land with room to spare. They won’t take one single refugee.

We’d come to Piestany to visit a factory, with a mission to move a hundred-worker operation to India. The senior executive who showed us around didn’t hide our purpose from the workers. They weren’t afraid of losing work they’ve been doing for years, because they wouldn’t be losing their jobs. We came away without suffering guilt.

On the return, the clouds had gone, and the world was again golden.

Batting Against Some Straight Bowling, Bon Appétit To All

  Bats in Flight: Photo by Erdnuss90/iStock / Getty Images

Bats in Flight: Photo by Erdnuss90/iStock / Getty Images

A tiny blip nipped at a rising sense of well-being that I’m experiencing these days: The bats came calling last week.

A small batch arrived first, scouting. You could hear the screech, un-birdly, unbecoming. The army of them alighted the following day, and took possession of the weeping-fig tree on the corner in my compound, and lost no time felling nonstop the little fruit above, letting off continual, annoying cries.

The first day, when the scouts announced themselves, I said to my wife, “Bats. We must spray phenol on the tree.”

Paapa,” she said — Poor things.

In the morning, when she stepped out of home to get in the waiting car, she changed her mind, seeing the hundreds of fruit the bats had felled from the branches, fruit that dropped even as we watched. A thick, resistant bed of wet, organic mush had formed on the stretch of ground on which we stood — it felt like standing on a piled carpet.

We sprayed phenol daily on the tree, and in front of the house, toward the tree, we let every available light shine through the night. The things held out for three days, and then they left, leaving me drenched in guilt. I wouldn’t have bothered them, I told myself, if they weren’t dropping things like rain from above, messing the street and the stonework in the compound, and the shingles on top — and if they didn’t cry as they do, and if they weren’t visiting in such numbers.

The confession — this written one — is not easing the guilt. I’m trying to feel better: Maybe it’s not the lights or the phenol, I think as I write these lines. Maybe they finished the fruit and went.

“You don’t like bats, no?” my conscience is telling me. “You’re scared they bring you bad luck. Admit it!”

I like my conscience even less.


🦅🦅🦅


Meanwhile, at work, on the campus, there are hawks wheeling at low heights, which I can see from my window. They appear to be corroborating a Bangalore Mirror report that the prevailing summer is breeding-season for snakes, and they’d be out now — blinded by passion, easy prey for raptors.

At lunch, I watch the birds longer, watch them come down to the treetops and start mewling there. Their cries I cannot match with my inner-eye’s visualization of them. The other day I saw a hawk grab its meal and carry it off, beating its wings with greater effort than usual, because what it had in its talons was a huge rat. A bunch of crows chased after the slow-moving hawk, cawing in unison as they went, making gross the grace in the hawk’s hunt.

As regards the snakes, enough of them should survive and make babies, and the babies would surprise us in unexpected places. Beware the young, those who know warn, because the young frighten easily and let loose more venom than the adult in a similar situation.

But it’s okay, as you’d surely say to me. So, together with you, here’s wishing bon appétit to every creature up and down the food chain.

Neo-Minimalist

  Image from the site of The Minimalists

Image from the site of The Minimalists

I’ve been in āshrams at various times in my life. Among them, I remember most the Sabarmati Āshram in Ahmedabad, where Gandhiji lived with fellow satyagrahis, where he hit upon the idea of the Salt Satyagraha, the march that transformed the dream of Indian independence into a real possibility, and gave it impetus. The olden-day āshram was a simple, humble abode. Lofty thoughts arose in it; great doings proceeded from it.

There is now a movement that has begun in the West, and in the Far East: to live in the simplest homes and to practice a life of least consumption. The activists seeking and preaching such a lifestyle call their creed Minimalism. Their tribe appears to be growing, and they are receiving increasing mainstream attention. A Netflix documentary titled Minimalism came out a year ago, and writers and journalists have been writing in the Guardian and the New York Times and such, telling how it felt for them to give up a large portion of their possessions. There are on YouTube numerous videos uploaded by all kinds of folks saying why they got started in Minimalism, how they are doing, why others should join them.

I watched Minimalism — the movie — about eight months ago. Its argument, made by minimalism-activists Joshua Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, was compelling. Looking for books to consolidate what I’d picked up from the documentary, I found on Amazon a books by Fumio Sasaki and Marie Kondo. The books injected an urgency for action in me. But I had to choose: Sasaki’s approach went to the limit, to the extremity of the ascetic. At his present stage in his journey to a minimalist life, Sasaki lives in a 200 square-foot dwelling that challenges the self-denial of Gandhiji himself, it seems. Marie Kondo lives more comfortably, and she didn’t mind if you kept a little stuff, so long as each thing that you retain passes a test: Does this thing give me joy?

I decided on Marie Kondo’s method to decide what to discard and what to keep; and Sasaki’s approach in regard to time — like him, I took a few months — Kondo urges instant action, all in a day if you can, for the crucible-effect the sudden change gifts you.

Now my house is bare but for the absolute essentials. It is still a short distance from the desired state, however, although I’ve been disposing of stuff continually these eight months. I’ve given away books, CDs, DVDs, shelves, tables, sofas, beds, shirts, trousers, jackets, coats, cameras, lenses, tripods, MacBook, iPad Air, Google Pixel, bags, more bags, wallets, pouches, pictures, picture-frames, vases, Buddhas — and I’m still giving. Outside the house, I’ve had plants potted and arranged on a grid-work on the compound wall, and the ground sports only grass — the compound, too, is bare.

The exercise has proved that I’ve been wasteful, that I have been suffering the press and weight of extreme clutter.

The barer the house, the lighter I get, the freer I feel. The expanding white-space is liberating. The things I have left are things that I love, and when I sight them they make me happy. Since I have fewer things I gaze longer at them, savoring each one. I’m raring to come home these days: driving back at the end of the day, I have no desire to stop to dine out, or to drop in at a cafe, or halt for anything at all.

So there. My home has come to resemble — in appearance at least — an āshram. I’m waiting for the big, noble thoughts, but there’s not yet the scent of them.

As regards tall deeds, I ask them to wait. Let me think first, I’m telling them.

  Gandhiji’s Study, Sabarmati Ashram

Gandhiji’s Study, Sabarmati Ashram

*** 

Photos

  • Minimalism Documentary from the site of The Minimalists

  • Gandhiji’s Study: Shashikiran Mullur