Theming the wolf..

I have been thinking... maybe I should give this blog a direction, a purpose. As it stands, I don't know what to write when I get to this page, hence the sparse posts. It is great to have an outlet, of course, to write about something that has been on my mind, and be sporadic about it. I can always supplement my blog with those episodes. But as a regular instance, perhaps a theme wouldn't be such a bad idea. 

Hmm. And so the search begins.. 

And the moral of the chocolate cake is...

Poverty is a blatantly harsh reality in India. The contrast between the slums and the high-rises is stark in appearance as well as experience. While in India last summer, I had a close encounter with the experience of street children, one of which I will recount here.

It was a sunny, cheerful kind of day when I met Sunil - a little boy of 4 or so, whose only business with me was the giant slice of chocolate cake that I had every intention of devouring. He had the bluest eyes I have ever seen on any Indian face, and could not speak proper hindi. Barely 4 years old, he had already been taught to beg.

He sauntered up to the patio table my friends and I had occupied, with the biggest, most hopeful smile as we settled down with our prized slice of cake. He had spied it of course, and like any child (including us) was tempted by its delicious display. Our hearts went out to him, so my friend Kshama asked him if he would eat "bhutta" (corn-on-the-cob). He nodded eagerly, his blue eyes sparkling with anticipation, and followed Kshama as she walked towards the corn vendor. I followed them both, curious to know the outcome.

Halfway there, he gently tugged on Kshama's sleeve and asked if he could go buy it himself. Kshama hesitated. She knew the reality of this innocent looking child's circumstances. Her dilemma was clear in her eyes as they looked over at me and questioned, "What to do? Should I insist on buying him food and make sure he eats it, while risking a beating from whoever asked him to beg? Or should I give him the money and perpetuate this vicious cycle of begging?"

Her question was not an easy one. A desi, and yet a foreigner, I couldn't understand her plea for help...could not understand the reason for her hesitation. So, Kshama made a difficult decision on her own, and reluctantly handed over the money. Sunil whooped with joy, and thanked us. We told him: "Khaana kha lena! Theek hai?" "Haan! haan!" he said as he skipped away. A few steps later, he turned around, caught us watching and motioned vigorously with his arms: "Aap jaao, main le loonga! Jao!" he said entreatingly.

We retreated, but with heavy hearts. On our way back to the table, Kshama explained to me the true consequences of our actions. The most probable scenario would entail Sunil relinquishing the money to either a parent, or a local gang member, who use these children as an easy means of making money. They know that there are always those among the otherwise desensitized middle-class, who will give in to those pleading eyes and be moved by their plight. Sunil's reward for this successful endeavour would not be the bhutta he promised us he'd buy. But he had either earned himself a meal, or a blanket for the night. The joy in his eyes had lit up my day until I realized that I was not helping a little boy, but contributing to the complicated web of an existing social issue. Don't get me wrong. I have grown up in India with the same motto that everyone else heard when they were young: "DON'T give them money! They will spend it on alcohol and drugs!" But growing up in the west has made me realize that there are no black and white issues, there are always grey areas. This experience has taught me to ask a follow up question to that motto: If we shouldn't give them money, and if they won't accept food, what can we do to help them? The answer to this is intertwined with the need for change in India. A change in ideology, changes in modes and methods of development, changes in its social infrastructure, and political future. And change begins with activism - activism that must begin within the people, by the people and for the people.

It didn't take us long to put Sunil out of our minds and finish our decadent chocolate cake (which was probably not even fair-trade, but that's a different story entirely). But I won't ever forget those piercing blue eyes that captured my heart. Where might he be now? Is he safe? Is he alive? How is he? Is he sad? or happy? He had a captivating smile. He's going to be a handsome boy someday. I just hope he retains his untarnished soul as well.

Do Re Mi

I sometimes find myself wishing that I could put a tune into words. Not words to a tune, because that's a poet's job, but a tune into words. To be able to describe a tune, to be able to explain to someone who cannot hear it, what it might sound like. Adjectives (like melodious, lilting) that are often used to describe music are so......inadequate.

I think the most creative anyone has been with putting a tune into words is the song "Do Re Mi" from The Sound of Music. Maria, played by Julie Andrews (who I think has made that character really come alive!), finds a wonderful way to teach the basics of music to the 7 children she is governess to. Do, stands for a female deer - a doe. How simple. Re, of course, is a ray of sunlight, Mi, refers to myself, and so on and so forth.

But how does that simplification of musical notes describe the tune that each note stands for? When poets put a song into words, what is s/he thinking? Are they attempting to complement the tune with their words? Or are they concentrating on their grammar, and literary devices?

There are many poems that have been put into song. And in such cases it seems to me that the tune finally assigned to the song enhances the meaning of the words. Is that also the objective when words are being written for a tune? But can words truly enhance the tune? Or is it that they both play off of each other to create something extraordinary, something that redefines the meanings of both the tune and the poem, and instead emerges as an entity that should perhaps be credited for its own unique personality - the song?

Ahhh, I have no answers here. If anyone can think of anything, let me know?

Until then, I shall be content with the doe basking in the rays of the sun in my backyard, while I watch from afar, so awed and distracted that I don't laugh when the teapot begins to dance.

Yes, I know that was a bad one.

Aventuras Peruanas II

The next morning we departed early for Cuzco (alternatively spelled Cusco), which during the time of the Incas, was the capital city of their empire. The name itself was so intriguing (try saying it...Cooossko!) I couldn't wait to get there. After landing, as we waited to collect our baggage, we were serenaded by a group of musicians, with an assortment of local instruments. They almost had everyone tapping their foot and wanting to salsa right there at the airport! I know I wanted to. My sister pretended she didn't know me.

There was a car waiting to take us to our hotel, which was located in a quaint-sounding, and as I would later discover, gorgeous place called Sacred Valley. The hotel was part of a chain of hotels around Peru called Casa Andina. I couldn't wait to get there. If I have not already given you an impression of my eagerness to see all these places, let me do so now. Peru has been a source of mystery and interest for me since I read James Redfield's The Celestine Prophecy. Redfield's description of the place and its beautiful landscape had long held me in awe. The way he describes the jungles of Peru and the fact that his fantastic story unfolds in that region made Peru seem like the Mecca for all explorers...well, all explorers who fantasized being in an adventure, Indiana Jones style, of which I will admit without shame, I am one.

Anyhow, I've digressed enough. So we were driven to Casa Andina, Sacred Valley, and the journey took a little more than an hour. The drive was bumpy and I alternated between sleep and a groggy wakefulness that took the charm out of the ride. Arriving at Casa Andina was worth every bump that gave us a backache. The day had dawned beautiful, and Sacred Valley was soaking up every inch of its beauty. Perhaps the thing that I noticed first was the fact that the mountains around us were red! Although the vegetation on the mountains was sparse, the valley was green enough, and the red earth contrasted with the sprinkles of trees and shrubs that populated the slopes. The colours were so rich and intoxicating, I took a moment to just breathe it all in. After a while, the quiet morning air was rent with frantic clicking noises as we attempted to capture each and every perfect moment. I don't think we did the landscape any justice in our photographs.

Our stay at the resort was simply blissful. The dinners were fancy with live Andean music, there was a pool house and a gym (neither of which we visited, although we talked about doing so after every meal). It was also where I tried Alpaca meat for the first - and the last - time (to be honest at the time I didn't really know what it was, I thought it was a type of beef), and didn't like it much. I was also a bit repulsed once I found out what alpacas look like. We also did some sight-seeing. We went to Ollantaytambo, which used to be an Incan village built on a slope, and of course, Machu Picchu.

Machu Picchu. I'm sure poets and authors have done more justice to this place with their words than I could even attempt to. There are so many legends about Machu Picchu. Even the sound of the name produces mystical vibrations that travel from the lips directly to the heart, where it echoes and resounds, endlessly weaving its spell upon travellers. It is built on a high peak (almost 2,500m above sea-level) and affords breathtaking sights of mountains and valleys that surround it. It is no wonder that outsiders did not know of it until 1911 when Hiram Bingham, an American historian chanced upon it during his travels.

We went a bit crazy with our cameras, but no pictures can do justice to the experience. I cannot explain what it felt like to be there, to be part of such magnificence and glory. And yet, we were just passing through. Like mere punctuations on the pages of time that constantly flipped through. Our presence was marked only by the briefest moments in the vast history of Machu Picchu. We arrived, we experienced, we departed.

Our guide was Rodolpho, who knew anything and everything about the place - history, religion, magic. He answered our questions patiently, adding detail and flair to his story. I wondered how many times he had had to answer the same questions. Did he ever get bored?

Nevertheless, he was phenomenal. He told us tall and short tales in colourful language. He explained the myths and legends of Machu Picchu. He painted a picture in our minds that we will never forget. In true national spirit, he also denounced the American Hiram Bingham as the "discoverer" of Machu Picchu. You cannot discover what is already known, he said.

The Peruvians have one complaint against the Americans - when Bingham came to Machu Picchu, he took many artefacts back to Yale with him... and there they still remain.

We returned to Sacred Valley that evening, thoughts weighing on our minds.