Hop on the train!

Train journeys are perfect to introspect, let your mind wander aimlessly and generally, unwind. They are so much more preferable, than driving out of the city to find a plane to fly in. All the paranoia surrounding flights, makes the security check a nightmare. Baggage size, weight and shape rules are as unpredictable as the English weather. More importantly, who wants to be touched all over, with what I believe is a metal detector, have one's clothes and toiletries checked for anything suspicious, like more than 100ml of foot cream.... my foot!

On the train, the blossoms on the trees, pansies on the railway platforms and daffodils in the countryside were announcing the much awaited arrival of spring. Most of the trees were still leafless, their bare profiles silhouetted against the horizon. The rolling green fields dotted with fluffy sheep and giant rolls of hay, whizzing past my window was refreshing to watch. Horses, ponies and cows, all leisurely grazing in the afternoon sun made me almost envious.

The waterways had ducks, geese and swans cruising along in various directions. I saw a field full of semicircular metal pig homes and lots of pigs and piglets gallivanting around, outside. Rabbits, the little brown furry creaturs sometimes sitting still meditatively or hopping away, are a pleasant sight. Some farms had colourful pheasants on an inspection round.

While I was busy appreciating all this, most of my co passengers were on their mobile phones, talking to friends and relatives. One Chinese woman beside me was talking constantly for more than an hour, but the irritating thing was that she would say some crucial things in English and leave me wishing I could understand the whole conversation, like, "I don't want to be a housewife" or some such interesting tit bit and I would start guessing what her occupation was, who she was talking to etc etc.

Then there was the woman who was admonishing her ex-husband for not having made an effort to get her kids to talk to her on mother's day. She then asked to speak to her older eight year old and proceeded to explain to him that even if she gets in after his bed time, she will get him home and,..and then, she would hopefully get a Mother's day card. I found myself feeling sorry for the boy, who had, I hope, for his own sake got the hint, and had started looking for a card.

I was nearly falling off to sleep when this young man's conversation woke me up simply because it sounded so alarming. Something about going down at 45 degrees and keeping on turning in spite of a burning sensation or did I hear wrong? Thank God, I remembered that I had heard him ask the person he was talking to about skydiving. I was definitely put off skydiving, not that I was ever interested.

Most people's phones start ringing and most start calling others, at the approach of a station. Nobody likes to speak to the person sitting next to them, but there are plenty, who are happy to be discussing redundancies, house hunts, salaries, mortgages in nice normal voices which are crystal clear in the confines of a railway carriage, while on the phone to their dear ones. No wonder then, there are areas where the mobile phone is not allowed. I wonder if you pay more to get into that cabin.

Then suddenly,it began to get dark, the sun seemed to peep out like a beacon, from behind a band of dark cloud at the horizon and then, as it descended, the cloud acquired a golden lining. Soon, it was dark and the approach of a village or town was announced by a gathering of twinkling lights, in a distance. There were the usual lighted signs of Sainsbury's, Morrisons, Argos and the famous ToysRUs, which has the toys and us watch, as R looks in the mirror.

There is something very warm and inviting about stranger's homes, when you look into the interiors in the diffuse light of a lamp, from the impersonal comfort of a train. When we arrived into Birmingham, I felt like the country mouse who had been thrown into the city. Life is relative and so the multi storied buildings in Birmingham looked like skyscrapers, whereas in New York, one tended to look over anything lower than the big landmarks like the Empire State Building.

Its my life

Children were watching Hum aapke hain kaun with great interest today. It made me think about all the various so called middle class values, like living in big joint families, dressing, smiling and working while worrying about everybody's needs, thinking as a group, working with consensus, crushing your own individual likes , dislikes, joys, ..etc etc.

Today, we young shining Indians are a selfish lot. We are learning rapidly from the west all the things like pub culture, job hopping, living in sin etc etc in the name of "Its my life!"

Little do we realize, that the erosion of all these traditional values has destroyed communities and collapsed businesses in the west and that age old values of honesty, integrity and loyalty or namak halali was, is and always will be, the way to go.

It will be too late, when we realize that the power point presenting gadget flashing global MBA culture of looking after your own bonus while the company goes bankrupt, is not the way forward.


The other news which really made me despair, was the misuse of science and progress to bring into this world eight little babies at one time, who I wonder whether I should still say are blessings of God, or were they a result of a woman's indulgence and a doctor's unethical practice? Only in today's world can one achieve 14 children without a dad. Is that really progress? Should humans be trusted with making babies and now making designer babies?

The good news this season, not without its share of controversies, was Rahman and Pookutty's Oscars. After my blog on slum dog millionare threatened marital harmony, the oscars united us, both huge fans of Rahman.

Lets celebrate the fact that two most deserving people, from India received international recognition and have heralded an era where the famous Bollywood song and dance routine is being enjoyed by the whole world, which used to look condescendingly while we swayed and mouthed all the numbers, new and old.

It hasn't happened overnight, mind you, one of our friends who visited us while he was doing a fellowship in Germany told us how Germans love "Darde Disco.." and how it seems to be playing everywhere where he lived in Germany...now the new anthem I am sure is..Jai Ho!

Childhood- a generation ago

I remember my mother saying that the generation gap between her and me was much more than what she had felt between her dad and herself and that in turn was more than what her parents felt with her grandparents.

As the years go by this phenomenon becomes more pronounced and I remember looking at freshers, when we were in final year of Medical College and thinking that they seemed a generation apart, by the way they walked, talked, dressed….and their worldly wisdom, their knowledge about red or blue films, X or Y rating etc simply amazed us seniors.

Now I see my children growing up in this virtual world of computer, television and mobile screens and I wonder whether they will be prepared for the real world when they face it. My experiences from my childhood are so different and so real!

If I wanted to visit my classmate, Roopa, who stayed in another neighbourhood in Dhanbad, I had to be extra nice to my all powerful elder brother, who owned this vaahan or mode of transport- the bicycle. If I played my cards right, requested him, made nimbupani for him, pressed his feet and managed a court injunction from my parents, I would be lucky enough to sit in front of him on the rod connecting the seat to the handle of the cycle. I would be transported to play with my friend but only amidst countless comments on how heavy I was, giving rise to numerous nicknames, which included baby elephant, potato, football and the like.

There were strict rules though. “Mummy please tell her that as soon as I suggest it is time to go home, it is. I don’t want to stand foolishly and listen to pleas for more time from her friend. Otherwise, I am never ever, and I mean it, going to take her around….” Well, little sisters will know that big brothers are like khuda- vahi hota jo manzoore khuda hota hai.

Life was simple, going to school, reading and exchanging comics, Tintins, Enid Blytons and watching my brothers come home from school to find a reason to fight like they would kill each other. Evenings were spent playing home or teacher teacher with my friend and then as darkness descended and the street lights came on, our journeys back and forth started. I would first offer to walk Jona (my friend) to her house, then she would offer to come halfway to mine and then this would go on until somebody shouted a warning from one of our homes and we would run in different directions, painfully separated everyday.

Then there was homework to be done. Electricity was elusive and inverters and generators were luxuries only few people could afford. We managed very well with candles. The senior most i.e big brother was allowed a kerosene lamp, which did not go off with a gust of wind. A storm and the presence of electricity in the house were mutually exclusive. As soon as the thunder clapped, wind velocity increased, clouds darkened, the lights would go off. I was told, it was to prevent short circuits.

Coming back to the all important status symbol, the lamp, the flame could be reduced to allow it burn throughout the evening. Wow! The naked flame of the candle was crude in comparison, getting the candle to stand upright on the candle stand was such a struggle and carrying it around was sure to get hot wax on your fingers.

The humid heat and pouring sweat were the least of our worries; the biting pests who hid under furniture, mosquitoes were our worst enemies. If you closed the windows, you nearly died of heat and suffocation and if you opened them they attacked with a distinctive war cry as they closed in, near your ears. I can never get rid of that musical sound from my head for as long as I live. Closing of the windows had to coincide with the dawn and dusk, which is the time for a community song and dance routine for the mosquitoes who all seem to be in Brownian motion at the time.

It was in the winter holidays, that one of our memorable projects, Project Badminton was undertaken. Encyclopaedias were consulted, blueprints were drawn and taut ropes were used to dig out straight lines of the badminton court. Holes were dug and poles were positioned to hang up the net. The challenge, however, was to be able to play in the late evening, because the days were short in winter and by 6PM it was dark.

One of the dads, the encouraging and resourceful Dutta uncle provided the wooden boards, wiring and bulb holders and they were used by our industrious brothers to create a lighted badminton court. I wonder if I have ever felt so proud and good to be out in the crisp winter watching people in hand knitted sweaters play badminton as they shouted in joy or disappointment, threw rackets, examined feathers, all in the yellow artificial light.

Similar creativity was shown on the days preceding Saraswati Puja at Dutta uncle’s house. There were cutouts for decoration, coloured paper banners and saris as backdrops but then there had to be a lamp with a rotating cut out cardboard on which different coloured cellophane paper was stuck to create what was, a primitive set of disco lights. We felt great pride in doing what we could, to make our Saraswatiji the best in the neighbourhood.

All of us pitched in to get dry sticks and dried paddy stems for the bonfire on Holika. One of us would make a doll to signify Holika, who would burn in the bonfire. There was always a slight struggle to get the fire going but when it did, we pranced around and sang in Bangla- “Ajke holo nadapoda, kalke hobe dol, poornima te chand uthechhe, bolo hori bol” i.e. Today is the bonfire and tomorrow will be the festival of colours, the full moon has risen, praise the Lord.

Holi or the festival of colours meant looking like black, silver, green and pink monsters with shining white teeth. Armed with coloured water and lots of gulal (coloured powders) we would accompany the elders as they knocked on each door, all religions included and dragged everybody out to play Holi. The procession became bigger as the neighbourhood was combed for any defaulters and then we all met at the boss’s house. Drinking herbal intoxicants, dunking people in tanks and tearing clothes continued followed by a tasty lunch, eaten with dirty hands while drying ourselves in the sun.

Thank you God for such a wonderful childhood, hope my children remember theirs with the same fondness!

slumdog millionare

I watched Slumdog Millionare yesterday. It was a very real film even though it had its practical flaws...like I still dont know how his brother knew who created the revolver or how the blind child knew about Benjamin Franklin but I guess it succeeded by being an inspiring and interesting way of telling a story.

The movie told me the story behind the face I encountered so often, while driving through the streets of Delhi, of a child begging or selling something at red light junctions or picking their way through garbage dumps. I know a lot of us have felt saddened yet helpess when faced with such situations.

I was reminded of the time when I was waiting in the car for somebody, in Mumbai. A little child came along with a little monkey who he had been trying to train. The poor monkey cub could hardly perform any tricks apart from jumping at his little master's cue. I felt sorry for the twosome and gave the boy (he must have been 5 or 6 years old) some change. That was a mistake.

The driver in the car reprimanded me (I must have been 19) and asked me to sit tight and roll up my windows, as we faced an onslaught of an army of street children each with a little monkey on his arm, all plastering their noses to my window asking for money. I felt terrible, to say the least.

Another time, at a traffic light, a lady asked for money to pay for transport for her pregnant and now labouring friend under the tree. My mother, a righteous obstetrician and my dad a supportive citizen decided to go and see the woman and perhaps take her to Safdarjung Hospital where my mom worked. When they got out of the car, they realized there was no pregnant woman.

I am glad there wasnt another gang at hand to steal the tyres from the car. We continued to see such groups over time on the same junction, they would soon move on to another car when they realized who we were but I presume they continued to make money from their deceit.

Talking about the movie, I think the movie threw bad light on what was an excellent television program and very polite and positive hosts namely Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan. I think that must be the reason nobody agreed to make the movie in India.

There was a lot of reality in the movie...the slum, Hindu Muslim riots, gang wars, child prostitution, organized beggars etc, yet it was an inspring story of survival and also flirted briefly with the upcoming other India- the call centres.

The movie dwelled on the foreigner's perception of India and thus, did not relate to the middle class modern Indian's life or aspirations. I dont think it will be appreciated in India as much as it has been abroad. Lets see how the Slum dog crorepati does.

I know of many other movies who deserve awards- Traffic signal (it was an excellent movie by Madhur Bandarkar on similar issues) Lagaan, Tare Zameen Par, Rang de basanti, Lage raho munnabhai, Corporate, Page 3 etc etc. but then I am Indian.

I can smell the garbage heap when I see it in the movie, can feel the street child's grubby fingers tugging at me or knocking at my car window and movies such as Slumdog Millionare disturb more and entertain less, though I must admit I was moved to tears by the time Jamal had reached the crore question.

Babies and personality

Early morning, the other day I was called out to the pregnant ladies' ward ...

The ward was dark and full of heavily pregnant women, wishing they could have their babies before Christmas. They were sitting up in their beds, segregated in their cubicles with curtains drawn all around them. Some had their bedlights on, but breaking the complete silence was the resounding repetitive sound of baby heart sounds from baby heart monitors attached to women's tums.

The little people, still safely kicking in their mothers' wombs, seemed to be competing with each other and the overlapping loud and rhythmic heart sounds made for a good rock beat, a very reassuring sound which ironically added to the peaceful harmony in the ward.

Trouble only ensues, when the beat slows down to that of an adult heart rate...thats when the the woman is asked to turn on her side, emergency buzzers are pulled and all hell breaks lose.

Another reassuring sound is that of a newborn crying. I am sure young parents come close to tearing their hair, when trying to figure out why the baby is crying. But my heart remains in a contracted state unable to breathe, after I have carried out an operative delivery, until I hear either a vigorous "what the hell do you think you are doing?" cry or even a reluctant, "Do I have to breathe?" kind of a cry.

That is probably one of the reasons, why I dont find water births physiological. God created babies to come into this world, fill their lungs and let out a wail...not be born under water like fishes or whales to swim alongside their mums...

After I have used a suction cup on the baby's head and I must admit, quite uncermoniously, pulled the poor thing out, I am usually busy trying to stitch things up at the bottom end, while the dad and mum hug each other, amidst tears of joy and relief.

Then, either the loyalist dad refuses to leave the mum's side until urged by the mum herself, to find out how the baby is doing, or in the more likely event, the dad is ready with his camera and follows the baby out to the baby's first consultation with the baby doctor.

But usually, when the baby comes back to the delivery room, he or she has a complaining wail, which is intermittent and to my guilty mind, it sounds like the baby is saying to the parents -" Yes, my head hurts, its that doctor in the green suit, she is awful, wonder what she had for lunch today, she really hurt me, what on earth are you thanking her for?...I am sure we would have been fine without her..." and so on.

I will never know what the baby is saying to the parents but I do wonder...I usually do personally say sorry to His/Her Highness...and am greeted by a "Go away!" cry or worse "who are you?" look. Newborns have personality, I tell you!

I am not an economist, but as a law abiding, tax paying, money saving citizen of the world, I am bewildered by the rapid demise of financial institutions and am tempted to ask, like the Queen of England did-"Why didn't the experts see it coming?"

The explanation, I suspect, lies in the modern corporate culture, which promotes people who survive by making projections, armed with graphs and figures which are based on half truths. Whistle blowers are a no no and everybody believed till a few days ago, that a debt fairy will come and pay it all off with a wave of a wand.

In recent times the people who have reported bad news e.g. "The pound is going to go down further" or "There is huge credit crunch lurking around the corner" have been accused of having caused such things to happen by predicting them, which is ridiculous.

One also hears the most implausible explanations from bigwigs like George Bush who said a few months ago, that the people of India and China have started eating and driving, and thus are to blame for the rise in oil and commodity prices.

Ofcourse since then, the price of crude oil took a free jump from the cliff and the jetsetting automakers were forced to drive the cars they can't sell and beg for a bailout, a familiar word nowadays. Airlines went bust, house prices plummetted and jobs are being lost everyday. As the discounts and closing downs are failing to make people spend foolishly, the world is deflating like a Hot air balloon going down. Wonder what happened to the Indians and Chinese, they perhaps went back to bicycles and eating one meal a day within a space of four months.

The weather and the economy are not the only bad news here in England nowadays, the horrendous stories of child abuse, a toddler being battered over months, before dying from his wounds and a mother drugging and kidnapping her own daughter for prize money, have made the world sick.

I heard a talk show on child labour on one of the Indian TV channels and one of the suggestions to prevent child labour was introduction of child benefits. If ever the Indian Government thinks in that direction they should study how this "something for nothing culture" has ruined the British society.

People have children not because they cherish them, but to earn child benefits. People are known to be given bigger houses if they have bigger families and even 1000 pound grants to sort out outdoor play equipment. Now when the Government is trying to crack down on people who don't want to go back to work, women dont shy away from saying on National Televesion that they would be worse off, if they went back to work. I know of staff at the hospital who enjoyed working but due to a change in circumstances like death of a spouse, were advised to leave their job to save their house and make ends meet. This leaves the workforce disillusioned and disgruntled as they are penalized for working while people on benefits go on holidays.

When there were jobs, immigrants from Eastern Europe came and took them and now when the Government, whose coffers are empty as the pound plummets below the Euro, wants people on benefits to go back to work, the Govt has the added responsibilty of trying to create jobs.

We live with our bags packed, but as a British doctor wrote in a letter to the editor of Hospital Doctor many months ago-"I am supposed to be sympathetic towards International Medical Graduates who have to return "home" because they cant find a job, but what about me? Unfortunately, I dont have another home to go to..."

When you spend a winter or two in England, you begin to rationalize the quick peeling off of clothes and abundant show of bare chests and long legs by white men and women, as soon as they experience warm sunshine on their skin.

We too have started treating the sun with deference, which is a big change from when we were in Raipur, a town close to the Tropic of Cancer or when we were in the Middle East. The sun was taken for granted out there, because it hardly ever was guilty of any absenteeism, whereas here in this island in the Atlantic we hope, we pray and watch the weather forecasts for upcoming visits by the Sun God.

Today I woke up to freezing temperatures, which no longer deters me from walking to the gym, a much needed outing to curb my ever expanding girth. As if to prove the weather warnings right, the road was slippery and covered in thin ice. All the puddles were frozen, each of the grass blades was discretely covered in thin white fur of ice. The ground was sparkling uniformly as the ice crystals caught the early morning light, the cars were glistening as were most objects standing exposed, all covered by the solid form of the wonderful compound which is the USP of our planet.

Later in the day, people stepped on the puddles making them look like they contained broken ice, but they still showed no signs of melting. The trees were bare, the air was freezing and still. There were no signs of life in the cold outdoors except for wrapped up humans scurrying back and forth from cars and doors. This is in such stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the Indian outdoors in the monsoon season, which is shared by insects, lizards, snails, tadpoles and frogs apart from birds, cats, dogs, pigs, donkeys and cows, which share our space in all seasons.

I attended my son's school concert and watched lovingly as he sang songs of Christmas in a chorus with the other children, who somehow, seemed to blur in the background, for me.

One of the songs was "I am dreaming of a white Christmas" I know that the kids are, especially after they enjoyed creating numerous snow people, in what looked like a winter wonderland, a few weeks ago. I am not so sure about myself, but...I guess it will make decorating our very first Christmas tree, more fun.

Kids have ensured we think about celebrating Christmas, (when in England, do as the English do) and worry about the gifts, which have to go underneath the tree.
Hubby and I have less scope for arguments nowadays as kids tend to rule the roost. How about you all? Are you allowed to have options like...not buying gifts? I dont think so.

So long, take care and be safe!