The magic fingers of Kumartuli, right here, in Bangalore.

From Kumartuli to Bangalore, from mother to son...

On the New Airport Road, a little past the Sahakarnagar entrance marked by “Big Market”, on your left, just off the service road, you will see a very curious looking installation art. Unclad, unpainted clay figures of Ganesha and other Gods stand tall, with a motley group of men quietly going about their work under a thatched roof. These are the famous Durga clay idol-makers from KumarTuli, north-central Calcutta, innovating with tradition, making Kumartuli-style Ganeshas in Bangalore.

As we sauntered in, camera in hand, our curiosity stirred, an artist was immersed in making a frame made of wooden planks and bamboo sticks and almost nothing else (in the background, in the pic above). What is really striking in the way these artisans work is that they use very few tools. The basic idol is practically, completely bio-degradable and environment friendly.

In the next step, the deity is roughly shaped by clumping together straw on strips of bamboo, and tying it and sculpting it into the basic deities’ skeletal frame, using jute thread. This skeleton is then tied onto the wooden pedestal made in the earlier step. This step decides the form and structure of the deity and is one of the most significant steps in the idol-making process.

Next, a thick coating of clay is applied over this skeleton and allowed to dry. This coating is made of special, black clay mixed with rice husk, to improve the binding of the clay onto the straw skeleton. This is allowed to dry for a few days in the Sun.

Then, a sand-clay mixed with jute is smeared all over the idol. Hands, feet, ears, trunk, crown and other details (made of terracotta or cement) are added on.. To give the smooth external finish, a wet cloth is deftly used to smooth the entire surface of the idol. The joints of the arms, legs and feet are all covered in cloth soaked in clay-solution. This is again allowed to dry completely. Such idols were the ones we’d first seen while going past the place.

The halo and other jewellery are now added. Then the idol is white-washed with chalk solution and then painted over with a base colour. Then the delicate finishing process begins, with the idol being painted in its final colours and all the finer details like the eyes, brows and lips are filled in by the seniors among the artists. Synthetic hair is added on as an embellishment and the deity is draped in real clothes made of a satin-like material. Then the idol is ready. This entire process takes about a week, depending on the size and the amount of detailing required. These idols are then sold for a few thousand rupees, mostly to institutional organizers or Ganesha Mandalis.

This amazing art form uses very few tools and materials and is built around inherently earth-friendly design practices. With design inputs from appropriate sources, these artisans can practice their age old art and keep it alive by innovating on design, making it more eco-friendly and sustainable. If they can be organised into an artisan's collective and provided technical and marketing support, that would give the artists and their art, a much-needed boost. Jai ho!

Unconditional love.

When you see beauty

not in colour or in smell

but in a rose's thorns.

Rewind.

Faded melodies

whiff of a long-gone summer

sepia toned memory.

Eponym

Before you say bolt

Like a bolt of lightning, WOW

100 metre bolt?

All I need is....

My cup stands empty.
All I need is a drop - a drop of human kindness.
My cup of woes runs over.
To decant my woes
And to distil my existence into a higher plane
All I need is a drop - a drop of human kindness.
As I lie listless, on a windless night
My cup sits half-empty, half-full
Then suddenly, my cup is bathed in moonlight
And my cup runneth over
With just a drop of human kindness.
(3/7/08)

Lost in time

after the funeral
H1N1 positive-
report just arrived.

Stillness.

Longing for quiet
amidst the cacophony
of thoughts in my head.


(Raintree at LalBagh, Bangalore, April 2009.)

Waiting to catch...

my runaway muse -

not in the closet nor under the bed

not even on the net.

Rainmen.

in the pouring rain

I see umbrellas hurrying past

from a high-rise window .

Strange Consolations.

creaking sounds, eerie shadows

all alone at home -

monkeys in the bamboo grove.

The Inner Core.

autumn reveals

trees bereft of leaves

when will it come to me?

Wondering....

why people hurt

bystanders, fellow wayfarers

even beasts don't do that.

Gloomy mornings.

is there
even one bright spot in a man's morning

other than his shaving foam?

leaf-drop silence
for weary souls to rest



in the graveyard.

Bubbles.

framed emptiness
here now, gone another moment -

hollow reflections.

Unfinished business

hole in the wall
wall outside hole inside



peekaboo within

Zombie

wake up sleepy head
listen to the clarion call

lose your illusion.

Love.

A gentle warmth in the eyes
A tender touch of the hand
Sweet words unspoken – yet said
A strong shoulder to cry on…
A face bright upon one’s arrival
A deep anguish upon one’s absence
A smile, open and bright - on a calm, guileless face
Laughter – uninhibited and free, ringing in unison.
A pillar of strength when spirits are low
A silent understanding of each other’s woes
A divine forgiving of each other’s blunders
A strange peace in just being there for each other.

Love needs no cards, no flowers,
No gifts – not even words,
It just needs a heart – a heart that gives!
(1989.)

The BubbleMaker.

It was a dreary Monday evening and a sudden, heavy drizzle was threatening to turn into a heavy downpour. There I was, unarmed and outside my child’s music teacher’s apartment block, cold and sheltering under the porch, waiting for the class to end. Meanwhile, a boy aged about ten to eleven years darted out onto the porch in front of the block, stopping with a skip and a hop. As I watched, he brought out a bubble blower with a flourish and starting enjoying himself, blowing bubbles into the rain. If only I could paint, I would have probably frozen that vivid picture of the child against the rain, the light and colourful bubbles against the heavy raindrops and the absolutely unadulterated joy on the child’s face, all in the form of a watercolour. But alas, I had to make do with my mind’s eye.

My heart sank further as the pitter-patter of the rain and the bellowing of the wind progressed steadily onto the next level. Meanwhile, the performance of joy unfolding on the porch-stage also progressed onto its next act, sort of serendipitously. The child suddenly sensed the wind blowing into his face from a specific direction. He just followed the wind and thrust himself against it and before I could bat an eyelid, he stopped blowing bubbles and thrust the blower out in front of his face, in the direction of the wind. And it was the wind’s turn to blow bubbles now. The bubbles now formed at a furious pace and hit the child’s face equally furiously, smearing his face with the soap suds. The child immediately instinctively tried ducking the bubbles. Then, all of a sudden with a sweep of his arm, he dipped the blower into the bubble mix and with a flick of his hand, raised his hand high, in front of his face. The bubbles now came fast and furious right over his head. As if to maximize his joy or double his return on investment, he started picking up the bubbles again onto his blower and recycling the bubbles. Are we as adults, ever inclined to recycling, so intuitively and effortlessly? Do we ever consider multiplying our joys by recycling our own positive experiences? Are we as proactive as this child in conserving energy and latching on to viable alternatives, even when the going is good? Are we as nimble-footed in responding to change – in harnessing it to our advantage?

As the rain settled into a light drizzle, this boy was no longer content with this outsourced bubble-blowing. He then proceeded to more creative bubble-making. This time around he started throwing bubbles into the air, just like a long arm bowler bowls his balls. Even at this stage, he continued with his recycling. And when the soap solution was exhausted, the child returned home, happy, glowing, content and renewed but not exhausted.

As I stood there in the wings, I was no longer cold - this performance had more then warmed the cockles of my heart. But, I could not help but feel pity for ourselves, for our lack of creativity in our everyday lives. If as children we were blessed with it in abundance, I wonder where and how we lost it. Is our education at fault here or are we to blame ourselves for this?

Reverie.

I thought the storm was over.
Like the swarms that come out after the rains
my dreams spread their wings and soared towards the new light
- A strange sight of multiple hues, charting out their pre-destined paths.
The gentle breeze that swayed, only seemed to propel them higher.
But within a blink of my disbelieving eye -
my dreams lay shattered, broken wings scattered,
sprinkling drops of realisation on me
arousing me from my eternal reverie.
(1987)

An ode to L21 of MPWE2009

Back to the campus, or so I thought, last Friday afternoon.

The security procedures at the gate were the same. The trees were all there. The blooms were still there. Every nook and cranny looked familiar. The bookshop was just overflowing with new arrivals. The library bookshelves still bulged with books. There was a “Hogwarts-in-the first-week-of-school” air about the campus. Posters giving directions to “Mars”, a campus students’ store, were all over the place. The beautiful big football ground had a big pile of sacks dumped in the center, on the makeshift “cricket pitch”. Construction seemed to have reached out further right trying to stretch its arms towards the Tennis court. Suddenly, the familiar campus looked so alien and strange, in just about a month. The smiles and faces were different and unfamiliar. There was lots of energy and activity on the campus. Busloads of triumphant-looking PGPs were trooping in, after a field visit, in their first week’s stay in the campus. The friendly, smiling “bhaiyya” at the Amul kiosk was the same. There were hundreds of saplings, stored opposite the kiosk, waiting to be planted by the new kids on the block. But, everything being the same, there was something that was very different - the faces I sought - those were missing. The EB block looked so eerie and empty, as if it joined in my sense of loss.

As I walked out of the hostel, towards the amphitheater, deliberately taking the path that leads to the “Garden seat below the trees”, the strains of this familiar song played on in my mind.
“Oh when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And if I had the choice
Yeah - I'd always wanna be there
Those were the best days of my life…….
I knew that it was now or never
those were the best days of my life
Back in the summer of 69……..
We needed to unwind
I guess nothing' can last forever - forever, no, yeah
And now the times are changing'
Look at everything that's come and gone……..
I guess nothing' can last forever - forever, no,yeah”

I could almost see Pragnya strumming her guitar and a motley bunch of us jamming alongside her, the brave hearts going for their daily run, the not-so-brave on their quiet walks around the place, groups of people hanging out at Chai Unchai, at Athica’s and at Amul, picking up their orders from the serving window, delivered with smiles, …………. a sudden gust of Shruthi’s throaty opera singing just floated in on the air…..Prof. Prabhu on his scooter, YLR on his daily walk…. fading strains of Baishali’s rendition of “lobe beel keep us alibe”…….

As I walked past the MDC, I just paused to look out for a hint of the MDC Woods. As if in reaffirmation, I could see the twinkling of the fairy lights (though it was still 6 in the evening) and I thought I heard Aparna sing -
“Na Jaane Kyun, Hota Hai Yeh Zindagi Ke Saath
achaanak Yeh Mann, Kisike Jaane Ke Baad
kare Phir Uski Yaad Chhoti Chhoti Si Baat
na Jaane Kyun ...
jo Anjaan Pal, Dhal Gaye Kal,
Aaj Wohrang Badal Badal, Mann Ko Machal Machal
rahen Hai Chal,.....
wohi Hai Dagar, Wohi Hai Safar
hai Nahin Saath Mere Magar Ab Mera Humsafar
idhar Udhar Dhoonde Nazar Wohi Hai Dagar
kahan Gayi Shaamein, Madhbhari
woh Mere, Mere Woh Din Gaye Kidhar
na Jaane Kyun ...”

I really pinched my goose-pimpled hand hard enough to almost let out a small scream. Was I really imagining all that!

Like the wise, old men said it all, “You can never get into the same river twice”. But then, like they also say, maybe you can take us out of a place, but you can’t take the place out of us……

How (not?) to catch a mouse.

1. Catch a mouse by its whiskers. (Mooch nahin tho (chooha) kooch nahin!).
2. Beg, borrow or steal your neighbour’s cat till mission is accomplished.
3. Leave around lots of soaked, seasoned beans as bait. At least, chasing the mouse with a trap, will be easier, since you can hear it wherever it goes.
4. Improvised 3. Leave bait in a mouse trap. Instead of the trap closing in on the mouse, improvise it for spraying a foul-smelling substance on the mouse. You will have a choo(h)a(a)chooth (Untouchable), walking into your trap, pretty soon, of its own accord. Social ostracism to your advantage.
5. Improvised 4. Using latest technology. Use bait and strap the mouse with an RFID tag – at least tracking becomes easier.
   
   DISCLAIMER: The author does not subscribe to any such crazy ideas on the premise that it is either a gross violation of animal rights or a grosser violation of human sensibilities.

Random thoughts on Silence

They say the Universe began with the Word and will end the day it melts into silence. Just wondering how life on earth starts with silence and ends in silence.... and how many feelings and stances in life, silence can convey, so effortlessly, in the days in between. Music systems worldwide, classical and otherwise have always had a very hallowed place for silence. Yet different cultures and different times seem to accord different status to its place in our lives. Asian cultures traditionally seem to have a deep-seated reverence to silence, whilst the Western world seems to look at it as a void that must be filled up as soon as possible, even before it is detected. Popular culture seems to associate negative connotations of rudeness or inadequacy with it.

As a child, when I went to my father with a request (not brave enough for a plea) to send me on the school picnic or college study tour, his silence said it all.

I remember when I was still engaged to be married, my nightly ritual of a long-distance call to my fiancé comprised of a large dose of intermittent silence. After a long hard day’s work, to both of us, that silence was more eloquent than anything else between us. We were actually OK with burning huge holes in our pockets to hear each other’s silence!

When talking of conflict resolution, people suggest talking things out across a table. What do you discuss with a person who intentionally hurts or harms you or undercuts you? What use any words, other than hotting up each other’s tempers? Silence is the weapon of choice here. Strange isn’t it, this concept of silence as a weapon?

Silence is the accompaniment for meditation of the highest levels. Whatever else people do to express their faith or communicate with worldly and other-worldly powers, silence is the ultimate accomplice in this act. Eckhart Tolle in his “Power of Now” talks of gaps in your thoughts – isn’t he referring to the silence of our minds? Is this, what learned minds across timezones and from times immemorial told us about looking inside of us – to find our real selves. So, is silence in a way, a mirror to our real selves?

Breakfast Table Entrepreneurs.

Dedicated to my friend SriVidhya
(Thank you for being my muse, you set me thinking on this).

I am a Breakfast Table Entrepreneur (BTE, for short) and I have no qualms admitting this. You must have heard of Kitchen Table Entrepreneurs – mind you, we Breakfast Table Entrepreneurs, though ubiquitous, are not some kind of poor, country cousins of the former. We struggle just as hard or even harder. Well, let me just explain this for you.

Even before the next operating cycle starts, we start all over again from a visioning exercise that leads us to examining the past, assessing the present and seeing where we want to be. This decides what our target for growth is and a detailed brainstorming leads us to our product offering and Market Mix. Even the BCG Matrix falls short at arriving at this magical mix! Mind you, again, this is not a one-off exercise. This happens fresh for every Operating cycle and don’t let your jaws drop – we operate on daily cycles. This is followed by checking up on stock and Inventory and Work-In-Progress, optimizing production to match the super-optimal, Just-in-time Inventory. This is Supply chain Management, stripped of its esoteric appeal, at its practical best. Our products have very low shelf-appeal (though shelf-life is much longer) and break-even is a daily goal. External forces like the demand-supply dynamics definitely affect our functioning. Feasibility Analysis for the chosen offering and operating cycle is done from different perspectives, from produce to platter and thereafter, to add depth to the exercise, every single day.

Production is a multi-level, multi-tasked, parallel-processing activity. This is where labour has to be handled very deftly. Managing people sounds so easy on paper – just try handling these paper tigers on a daily basis! That’s when you curse yourself for not having done a Management Program specializing in Human Behaviour and Labour Relations.

What’s a product without a consumer? You think having a captive customer means a high-resolution pen profile – where every like/ dislike/ preference of his is known to you, where positioning your offering to him is a cakewalk. Whoever says a cakewalk is easy? Try even imagining plodding on through the gooey mass… Anyway, you do all your planning and strategizing to fit your offering into a segment (which you think is very niche!), offer a highly differentiated product and peddle multi-pronged benefits on a platter. And you wait for reaping the benefits of being in a niche segment! Far from it - the battle is still on, for higher acceptance and customer satisfaction and loyalty, though not for a higher market share.

Marketing takes on a whole new meaning here, because the product is its own talking point, unless you follow Table Etiquette very strictly. Viral marketing has no place here, you would not want to be caught dead, parlaying with the germs. The Internet, at its best, can be a business enabler, nothing more. The mobile though emerging as a major marketing tool elsewhere, fails miserably here, except for its Alarm and Clock functions, which anyway are not mobile-specific features. Power lunches and Power breakfasts are loaded with Negotiations and your demonstration of your strongest Persuasion skills. The force of the Bargaining Power of the Customer can actually be seen here, to be believed and to be contended with. Which Business Development Teams of FORTUNE 500 companies wouldn’t want you on board, for precisely these skill sets that you display so casually and effortlessly, every single day?

Legal and taxation issues are best left undiscussed for fear of setting off a wave of paranoia amongst the Entrepreneurial community. Thankfully, suing producers for falling short of customer satisfaction has not touched this space as yet, but you never know. It would be prudent to keep open multiple Customer Grievance Redressal channels to mitigate this high risk. Almost like running a Call Center.

For the BTE, there are no VCs, no angel-investors in this space, not even Incubation Cells. The BTE has to jump straight from the planning table, literally into the fire (well, in front of it). That’s what the BTE has anyway, a fire-in-the-belly, like no other class of Entrepreneurs.

Networks exist, but only as fonts of information. Ultimately, the BTE has to learn the ropes of the trade, literally by burning her fingers.

But, the ROI that BTEs realise makes it worth it all for them. It is when the two extremities of the line that stubbornly stays flat at most times (even during high growth period ) steep upwards and when the thumb and the pointer fingers break into a “Big O”, that’s when you know that you have arrived as a ” Breakfast Table Entrepreneur”, at last!!!

Midnight Muse

Poems for my daughter Ananya

(written for her, inspired by her, when she was a month old)

Who are you?

Who are you, my darling?

What tidings do you bring?

Where do you come from?

Where do you have to go?

When today was still unborn

Where were you, my life's breath?

When today will be gone

Where and how will you be (after I'm gone)

What made you come to me?

Who showed you to me?

Have we met before somewhere, sometime?

Will we meet again, after we part this time?

What is it that makes you part of me, but separate

That you belong to me, but are not mine?

Are you -

a lost angel looking for your lost world and your lost wings?

Gentle Stirrings.

Like the gentle stirring in the bosom of the woods

When the first light of dawn warms a million beating hearts within

Like the sudden burst of colour on a dreary, rainy day

When the wind blows away wisps of gossamer cloud as He shines through

Like a little pink bud shaking all over with dew

Waking up for a new day, bathed and cleansed

My baby stirs up, from a restful repast.

(2001)