The Journey

It was a gang of four or five youngsters. They hit him and kicked him, and tried to push him out of the train. He was terrified and desperately tried to hold on to something or the other. But he didn’t want to fight. Why would he? He was at his friendliest best, full of love for the world. Can’t these guys see it, the love in his eyes? 

He tried explaining he meant no harm to anybody. Yes, he was sitting on the doorstep of a moving train, drinking his rum-cola mix, singing his songs to nobody. But he wouldn’t bother anybody. He’s happy. The world is beautiful. Live and let live.

But the youngsters apparently belonged to a different world. They weren’t interested in any dialogue. It was clear from the start when one of them tapped him and his happy lazy eyes met their steely gaze. 

He was sitting there, taking the strong gust on his face, bellowing out his favourite songs that rushed past his ears inaudible, staring at the moon and the stars and blurry dark landscapes and tree lines, smelling the peculiar cold smell of a running train—perhaps a mix of steel and water and crap on the tracks, sipping his drink, loving everything and everyone…in a beautiful world, a world of his own.

Then he felt this firm tap on his back and turned back to see this gang of boys—teenagers perhaps, or, in their early twenties. What stood out was their aggressive, intense self-righteous gaze. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. So he signaled that they were inaudible, stood up, closed the door, and moved closer to the guy closest to him to hear him. 

They all screamed together, barraging him with many different questions that they sounded just like the train – loud and unclear. It wasn’t hard to guess though: they wanted to know what was he doing there, what was in the bottle, where was he going…things that ideally shouldn’t concern them. They were asking for his ticket, too. They had their fingers pointed at the cola bottle in his hand. There was nobody else. Most people in the three-tier air-conditioned compartment had gone to sleep, and almost all the lights in there were out. 

He smiled gently—he knew he was an offender in their book of morals—and started an earnest attempt to answer all their questions one by one. But, of course, nobody listened. The youngsters had already got their answer. He had hardly said it was a mix of booze in the bottle when one of the boys grabbed his throat and pushed him back. The closed door stopped him from falling out of the train. He was sort of dazed and tried to regain balance. Somebody slapped him. His glasses fell off. As he bent down to pick it up he got a kick on his butt. He tumbled and all of them pounced on him, kicking and stomping on him. 

He tried explaining even as he curled up and hid his face and head under his arms. He didn’t want to create any trouble. He knew how to handle his drinks and never misbehaved with anyone just because he was drunk. Not even once in about three decades, perhaps more, since he started drinking. What has he then? Around the age of his assaulters. Probably younger. 

Hello? Is anyone listening? This guy has been drinking for some 30 years, and travelling for more than that. He knows exactly where he is and what he wants, don’t worry about that. Leave him alone and he would sit there for some more time, enjoy this lovely night, finish his drink, tiptoe to his berth, eat his dinner, and catch a good night’s sleep. 

That was his plan. If only somebody cared to listen, he could give a lecture on the benefits of booze – the best appetizer, the best anti-depressant, the best sleeping pill ever…. Why, that night, if not for the out-of-the-blue visitors, he would have gorged on the tasteless dinner they serve in the train and slept peacefully. And what better way to sit back and relax through a 56-hour journey from the north of the country to the south, enjoying the music of a running train and the relentless march of trees and farmlands and hills and rivers and buildings and platforms, forgetting adulthood tensions and cherishing childhood memories, and seeing the good things of life? He would’ve loved to explain. He longed to show those youngsters what he saw.

But they were too busy beating him up and shouting the choicest of expletives of their regional tongue. It was extremely painful for him. One of them had a heavy pair of boots and another a cane in his hand. Every blow felt like breaking his bones. But what hurt the most was their intense animosity towards him, without any apparent reason or provocation.

He thought about his assaulters and their lives. He tried to picturize their homes and their parents and teachers. He thought about racism. He thought about Jesus on the cross. All that to help the pain here and now.

But soon he realized mere thoughts wouldn’t save him that night. The boys kicked him aside and one of them opened the door. The air gushed in. The roar of the train rushed in. They pulled him up. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t open his eyes. Every part of his body ached and stung. He thought about death. They pushed him to the door. He clung on to one of the metal bars at the train’s entrance. They hit on his fingers. He held on to the window grille on the side. They took turns to kick him and beat him with the cane. He knew he would fall off any moment. 

He felt immense pain in his chest. Why? He didn’t get any answer. He cried out to his tormentors: “I’m not evil, this booze is not evil; the evil is the hatred that your masters have fed you with.” 

And he cried. He cried for the boys. He cried for the world. His own sobs echoed in his ears as a lullaby as he slowly blacked out. 

When he opened his eyes he was still hanging on to the window grille and the youngsters were still beating him with the cane. But something had changed. He was no longer weak or helpless. Their strikes no longer hurt him. He felt only a vibration. It was like his body had turned into a strong energy field. Nothing touched him. Not even his clothes. Everything was happening at a distance. All he could feel was the vibration. It felt it right in front of his forehead, somewhere between his eyes, at the edge of his nose. He breathed it in and became a part of that energy, that vibration, a network…of eternal life?

He felt strong, very strong…full of life, full of energy. He stepped on the doorstep and grabbed the side bar. He pushed the youngsters back and got into the train. He shut the door behind him and stared at them. He felt nothing for them. He no longer owed any explanation to anybody. All that didn’t make any sense. He just sat there on the floor, breathing in the vibration. When they hit him he growled. When they hit him again he snarled at them. But nothing touched him.

He didn’t notice when they went away. Perhaps they got down at some station, or they might have just walked away, it didn’t matter. When he felt hungry he washed his face and hands—he didn’t feel any sting in the cuts or bruises—and went to his berth and climbed atop carefully. He turned the reading light on and started eating greedily, almost snatching the food from his hand. He didn’t feel any taste, but he loved it. It was energy, it was more vibration. He saw a noisy child of the day clinging on to his mother with a hand and a leg on her in the dim moonlight. She who spent the whole day scolding him and fingering her smartphone is now holding on to him. A man who never removed his suit and was constantly fixing up meetings or shouting at people on his phone is now snoring with his mouth open. Everyone looked rotten and wretched. He saw a compartment, a train, a world, full of miserable, lifeless creatures. They put him off. He could no longer relate with them, or make sense of their thoughts and talks. He had nothing to do with them. Not any more. 

He finished the food. He still felt hungry and gulped down a bottle of water. He felt unbearably hot. Wasn’t the AC working? He wanted to tear off his clothes. He felt suffocated. He carefully rolled up the food packet without spilling anything. He crawled down from the berth and sneaked out of the compartment. He pushed the empty food packet into the already full waste bin. He opened the train’s door and threw his face into the strong wind. He felt good. He felt the vibrations again. He closed his eyes and let out small groans of happiness. He wanted to roar.

He roared.

********************

May 2016

Lockdown

It's hard to say whether I feel more like

Naranathu Bhranthan, that is Kerala's own Sisyphus,

or the blokes who waited for Godot.

Well, I don't even know what they really felt like.

All I know is it's absurd

My life, my deeds, my thoughts

All shrunk into four rooms and four screens -- 

the score is even if you keep the balcony out.

Balcony is the other world,

My stage and my gallery

In the real world of absurd theatre

Where I become we and the show never ends.

You and I, we act and watch the same play

On all the balconies all the time

We see slight improvisation sometimes

But you know it doesn't make a difference.

Nothing does. It wouldn't matter 

Whether you expect a change,

Or accept it'll be the same,

But imagine you're happy. That may help.



April 2020

Citizen Foreigner

Correct me if I am wrong.

So, you say it’s stupid of them 

To oppose the changes in the citizenship act,

That the law does not affect the minorities in the country,

That it is not related to any of the 130 crore citizens here,

That no local has any reason to be worried about it,

That it will not change the idea of India and its secular base,

That it will not impact its promise to treat every person equally

Without discrimination no matter their

Gender, religion, caste, cash, colour, degree….

Right? Good.

Now tell me,

When you have tens of millions of homeless and jobless to take care of

Why bring in a law that does not have anything to do with any of them?

Why insist on it when tens of thousands have taken to the streets against it?

Is it so important to offer fast track citizenship to some foreigners?

Can’t they wait for six more years like all other refugees?

Why bring this law in spite of the deaths and violence?

To protect a tradition of giving shelter to the needy?

Athiti devo bhava?

Is it? Good.

Then tell me,

Why limit its scope to select minorities from select countries?

Why not open this aafast-track window to 

All 'persecuted minorities' from all neighbouring countries?

Why not? After all they too have daughters to honour
And dharma to save, don’t they?
And it will not affect the 130 crore here. Right?

Then let’s do it. Be fair. Make peace.

Okay? Good.

Prayer

I pray only when I’m helpless, desperate,

When I have nothing else to do.

Now is such a time.

But I don’t know what to pray,

For life or for death

Of my dear Ammama...

Drowned in Liverpool

Liverpool have done what looked like impossible just 10 hours ago: beat Barcelona in the Champions League semifinal’s after losing the first leg 0-3.

Surprised? Yes.

Unexpected? Completely.

So what did they to make this happen, that too when their top strikers Mohamed Salah and Roberto Firmino were not available?

For me, they just did the only thing they could have done: stay aggressive, run hard, press hard, and chase every ball.

What was surprising was, Barca looked like they didn’t expect it. They were looking for a stroll in the park. In a Champions League semifinal!

So they were stunned when Claudio Mane pounced on a back pass, cut into the box and passed the ball to a rushing in Jordan Henderson whose shot was saved by ter Stegen only for an alert Divock Origito slot it home. 1-0 in less than 10 minutes. Anfield exploded. Liverpool were all over the ground. 

Barca just could not hold on to the ball as the reds pounced on everything. It took at least 10 minutes for Barcelona to find their feet. Then they managed to slow down the game and created a number good chances even as the whole of Liverpool rushed to the other half every time they got the ball.

The first half was even, but Liverpool came at them even harder in the second half while Barca seemed happy to just try pass around the ball without really looking to score an away goal and settle the issue. That was a mistake I thought. Because it seemed clear to me that a second goal for Liverpool would set Anfield on fire. That happened.

The second goal came from the boots of substitute Georginio Wijnaldum, through the armpit of ter Stegen, and once again the reds were all over the place. The third came in less than a minute, with Wijnaldum heading in.

By now Barcelona were completely done. They were too slow, and it looked like they had no plan B. They showed no fighting spirit. Messi hardly touched the ball in the second half. 

This was exactly what Roma had done tothem last year, in the quarter final: overcoming a 1-4 deficit in the second leg. 

They apparently didn’t learn from their mistake and paid the price.

Liverpool went one step ahead, stealing afourth to settle the issue without having to go for a penalty shootout.

Well done Liverpool! 

Forget Sabarimala, think #MeToo

Call it dogmatism, religious fanaticism or a calculated right-wing Hindu move to help BJP get a foothold in Kerala -- all that could be true -- but to my mind all the drama and widespread protests over Sabarimala is another manifestation a strong male chauvinism that remains ingrained in the Malayali psyche despite all the social progress that Kerala has made. It's no different from the hero's welcome that the rape-accused Bishop Franco Mulakkal got from Keralite Christians in Jalandhar, and actor Dileep, accused of masterminding sexual assault of a female actor, got when he was released on bail. So, forget Sabarimala, think #MeToo.

post truth

The other day my soon-to-be-teen daughter was talking about some kind of pamphlet or poster that they made in class that day on Indian Independence. Apparently they had good fun. As an aside, she mentioned a conversation between two of her classmates. A girl drew an image of Mahatma Gandhi on one of the pages and a boy who was her partner said something like, "Hey why are you using this guy's pic? He's a fraud." And the girl said: "I know yaar, but it fits here." !

I was like, "And you said nothing?" She didn't. 

I wonder where that kid got that from. All of what, 12 or 13, this child says with conviction that the father of the nation is a fraud.

Well, I have heard several gossips about Gandhi. I've heard some say Gandhi could have saved Bhagat Singh but he chose not to. I've read Nathuram Godse's defence for killing him. 

I'm sure Gandhi had his points of view, his politics and perhaps his biases too, like almost everybody does. I don't think he was a fraud...but then of course I've no idea what went on in his mind.

But, for me, or I guess for any citizen of India, what matters is Gandhi played a key -- if not the most important -- role in securing the independence of this nation after two centuries of British rule.  That's good enough to make him a great man as far as this country is concerned, and an appropriate face in a poster on the country's freedom.

Anyway, the question here is how did our little man got it into his head that Gandhi was a fraud? From some book? Or did anyone tell him? My hunch is that he must have picked it up from some conversation at home or somewhere possibly involving his parents or somebody else he looks up to.

In this part of the country -- I live in Delhi NCR -- I've noticed that a lot of middle class people, including several good friends of mine, back BJP. Now, Hindu hardliners have never liked Gandhi. I guess they believe but for Gandhi India could have been a Hindu Rashtra. 

I believe those hardliners have a propaganda machinery that spreads stories and rumours that support their points of view as facts. 

But why would anybody buy that? Why would somebody our little man looks up to accept that Gandhi was a fraud without questioning it (as I assume)? Is it because it suits their politics? Or because they did some serious research on Gandhi? Or just peer pressure? Why did the girl readily agree with the boy?

Is it that as a society we just don't care about facts or truth?

In February this year during a brief visit to Mumbai my brother and I had a conversation with a taxi driver on civic elections there where BJP almost matched Shiv Sena and the Congress put up perhaps its worst performance.

This man launched a scathing attack on the Congress, saying it has been looting the country (to which I gleefully nodded). But soon it turned into a personal attack on Jawaharlal Nehru. It went something like this: "Do you know that s.o.b was a Musalman. He went to Kashmir for 30 days and the whole family returned as Hindu Pandits..."

He went on to alleged that there was an election immediately after independence to select the prime minister and people chose Vallabhbhai Patel, but Nehru was selected on Gandhi's insistence. 

We asked him who told him all this. He said everybody knew it and that it was in newspapers. We said we also work in newspapers and what he was saying was factually incorrect.

Yes, there have been rumours about Nehru's biological father being a Muslim client of his lawyer father. But that's just rumour. And anyway what's the problem even if he was Muslim?

Our man just wouldn't relent. He insisted that he was right and that Muslims are anti-nationals. 

Luckily it was a very short trip, otherwise we would've had to get out of the taxi midway.

In social media like Facebook and Whatsapp there are endless rumours like this circulated as facts. And people are consuming them without raising any doubt.

This is not being done by the right wing alone, all lobby groups -- be it political, religious, racial or casteist -- seem to be doing it, across the world. Only in India right wing seems by far the masters of this game. And now that the party they support is in power, it looks like they are using such propaganda to divert people's attention away from the real issues that the country faces. Sometimes it looks like nobody wants to talk about issues that impact people, be it demonetisation causing a lot of job losses and affecting the economy's growth, or rising prices of fuel, or the killing of an anti-Hindu right wing journalist that a lot of right wing supporters apparently celebrated on social media.

Welcome to the world of post truth.

I came across this usage, post truth, last year when Oxford Dictionaries named it the word of the year 2016. 

Oxford lists 'post-truth' as an adjective meaning, "Relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotional and personal belief."

That seems to be the case in present day India. And several other parts of the world as well.

One factor that facilitates this is the rapid growth of social networks such as Facebook and whatsapp. People share all kinds of conspiracy theories, fake news that appeal to them as facts and at the same time shrug off genuine reports as fake.

The result, I guess, is that readers are often confused and they either believe what appeals to them emotionally or doubt everything including genuine facts.

Early this year I'd shared an article on the challenges teachers face in a post-truth world with some of my daughter's teachers. One of them responded that she believed that there's no such thing as post truth and that our feeling of insecurity will go away when our children learn to sift truth from obscurantism (that's the exact word she used).

As a teacher I guess it is natural for her to be positive about tomorrow.

I wish she is right. I wish today's children will ultimately learn to identify truth and respect others without considering their sex, race, religion or wealth.

But right now, our generation, the grown-ups, seem to be allowing ourselves to be swayed by some selfish, narrow-minded propagandists of a post-truth world. By doing this many of us, perhaps unintentionally, could be leading our children into a narrow well of a world of prejudice and intolerance.

I am not afraid

Gauri Lankesh, a Kannada journalist known for her anti-Hindutva stance, was shot dead yesterday by unidentified people in front of her home. I had never heard of her and have not read any of her articles. But I want to protest her killing.

Because the way she was killed -- similar to some other rational voices in recent years -- seems to sending a message, a warning: shut up.

Of course it's not clear who killed Lankesh with what intention. But there seem to be several hardline right wing supporters who justify her killing. That is not acceptable. In a democracy, everybody has the right to express oneself, and everybody else has he right to agree or disagree with others' view. But nobody has the right to silence anybody.

If anybody's voice is silenced for her ideas, then other voices that share her ideas must come up.

That's why I feel a need to speak. To write.

I don't think I share Lankesh's ideas about whatever she has been writing on. I don't even think I will talk about things that concerned her most. Also, I don't think I have anything new to say.

But I want to make it clear that I'm not afraid to speak. And I think everybody who believe in free speech should make a voice: just to assert that we believe in free speech, and that it's all right to disagree with one another.

For example, I don't agree with the aggressive nationalism that some political leaders are trying to sell the people. In fact, I am not a 'proud Indian'. I am an India, alright, but I guess identify myself more as a human being. I do stand up when the national anthem is played in a theatre before the start of a movie, though I don't see any reason for playing national anthem in film halls.

Anyway, all that doesn't matter. I am perfectly fine if my wife and daughter is a proud Indian. They don't need to share my views or ideas.

In fact, I want to speak out basically to encourage everybody, particularly my daughter and her generation, to think independently and express themselves anywhere they want to, without any fear. I want to tell them it's alright to disagree, with anybody -- no exception.

So, here's to independent thinking, and freedom of speech, for every human being.

Reality Check

It was results day for four state elections yesterday and four different fronts won -- at least that's what I thought till I saw newspapers this morning. They made it look like a BJP show all the way. Really?

Why didn't I realise it yesterday itself? Maybe because I didn't watch the TV analysis. But I did see the results, and I thought it was about Mamata Banerjee in West Bengal, Jayalalithaa in Tamil Nadu, BJP in Assam and the Left in Kerala. And, yes, one big picture was Congress continuing its spectacular downfall. It was the biggest loser, losing power in Kerala and Assam and its coalitions failing to wrest power in West Bengal and Tamil Nadu.

But how come it all added up to BJP's moment in history? Wasn't it more like big regional leaders once again proving their might, just like Nitish Kumar and Lalu Prasad did in Bihar?

Yes, BJP did thrash Congress in Assam and made its first ever government in the Northeast. And? And it won an assembly seat for the first time in Kerala. And? That's about it, I guess. Or did I miss anything?

I went back to the election commission site (http://eciresults.nic.in) to look for what I missed. I confess I couldn't find much. I added up the numbers to compare BJP's performance with that of Congress. (I did not count their allies because I just don't have it in me to look for the numbers of each and every partners of their coalitions...but don't worry it sort of evens out: if BJP allies won 26 seats in Assam, Congress allies won 25 in Kerala.) Here's what I found:

BJP won 64 seats in all in the four states plus the union territory of Puducherry where assembly elections were held: 60 in Assam, three in Bengal, one in Kerala, and none in Tamil Nadu and Puducherry.

Congress won 115 seats: 44 in Bengal, 26 in Assam, 22 in Kerala, 15 in Puducherry, and 8 in Tamil Nadu.

What about vote share?

Assam
BJP: 29.5% (41.5% adding its allies)
Congress: 31.0%

Kerala
BJP: 10.5%(14.4% adding allies)
Congress: 23.7% (36.8% adding allies)

Puducherry
BJP: 2.4%
Congress: 30.6%

Tamil Nadu
BJP: 2.8%
Congress: 6.4%

West Bengal
BJP: 10.2%
Congress: 12.3%

So, clearly Congress remains a bigger party than BJP in the far corners of the country. Yes, it is on a rapid downward spiral, but perhaps it's too early to talk about a 'Cong-less India' though that possibility is very much there.

More importantly, I think there is nothing in this round of elections to suggest that BJP has reached a new high. Assam results are not exactly a surprise. It was a straight fight and there was supposed to be a big anti-incumbency factor. This Assamese friend who I met in a recent trip to Meghalaya was saying he wanted Tarun Gogoi to lose more than he wanted BJP to win. I am not trying to take anything away from BJP's win. In fact this guy and the taxi drivers I spoke to felt it's a tough fight and too close to call. So, of course it was an impressive performance by BJP in Assam.

But winning one seat in Kerala, three in Bengal and gaining less than 3% vote share in Tamil Nadu in my opinion do not call for celebrations for a party ruling the country with a majority of its own. And has it managed to improve the vote share in garnered in Lok Sabha polls in these states? I doubt.

Many people who follow Kerala politics would attribute BJP's win there to the candidate -- O Rajagopal, who is the face of BJP in Kerala for years, contesting in almost every election and consistently getting a lot of votes. In fact, he had come very close to winning in the last assembly elections as well. Left circles are also talking about alleged cross-voting, pointing out a significant fall in Congress-led UDF's vote share in Rajagopalan's constituency. That's not necessarily correct because Rajagopal is a strong candidate and BJP did get a significant number of votes in Thiruvananthapuram in the general elections.

With the kind of campaign BJP did in state elections this time, led by the prime minister, my feeling is that the party has reasons to feel disappointed with the results in Tamil Nadu, Bengal and Kerala.
I would rather agree with a comment my colleague Ashish made yesterday: This elections have proved that BJP can beat only Congress. Wherever there is a big regional party -- be it Mamata Banerjee's Trinamool Congress in West Bengal or AIADMK or DMK in Tamil Nadu -- BJP has failed to make a mark. Just like Congress.

My take is that the national parties need popular regional leaders to make a big impact in states. I guess both Congress and BJP lack them in several states.

*****************

Holy Shit

With all respect to all those who worship cows, including my ancestors, I just don’t see any holiness in a cow—not any more than what I see in a sheep or a deer. I see them everyday on the streets—sometimes majestic, walking on the road leisurely and nonchalant, ignoring relentless honking of hapless office-goers; sometimes dirty, with dung and mud all over them; sometimes pathetic, being harshly shooed away by roadside vegetable vendors. They have nice, expressive eyes, though not as beautiful as doe eyes. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. It’s not about my likes and dislikes.

It’s about cow worship. The other day I went Google-searching for the origins of holy cow. I found some articles that said traditionally most Hindus including Brahmins used to eat beef. B R Ambedkar in fact stated that cow slaughter was declared a mortal sin by Brahmin pandits around the fourth or fifth century to regain the ground Brahminism had lost to Buddhism in most parts of the country. I also found that several people have strongly refuted this theory and some in very harsh words. I don’t want to take sides. It doesn’t matter when holy cow came into being. She’s here, and she has been here for at least 15 centuries.

But does she make sense? Or, is cow worship another baseless custom like Sati, where widows jumped into the pyre of their husbands? Well, protecting cows made economic sense because she provided milk, perhaps the main source of protein. Also, oxen were widely used to plough farmlands. So there was a reason for protecting them until they turned barren or too weak to work. Was that a reason for banning cow slaughter? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Now, while cow continues to provide the bulk of the milk we use, oxen have been steadily losing their place in the farms to tractors. That is to say there’s not much economic sense in protecting the male cattle. But then this is not about economy or what makes sense to you as an individual. It’s about one’s belief.

Fair enough. I have no problem if you worship cow, or snake, or rat. It’s absolutely up to you. Of course I don’t like it when you take away my food. Beef was one meat most people could afford and, as a matter of fact, it’s very tasty. Now, vegetarians may not get it—when I talk about beef or pork it’s not a bull or a pig that comes to my mind, but some of my favourite dishes or finely cut pieces of meat. Anyway, if the majority worship cow and the state has banned beef, as is the case in Delhi, then I would stick to the rule although I’m not convinced about such rulemaking in a highly diverse and secular country like ours. Nevertheless I would fall in line, in the spirit of 'when in Rome, do like Romans'.

But what has really got into me and prompted this blog piece is the disturbing vigilantism and plain vandalism some right wing groups have been displaying and the way a lot of us, the people, have come to consider such incidents normal.

One person, who apparently had mutton in his refrigerator, was lynched after being accused of cow slaughter right next to the national capital. After that so many central ministers and national leaders talked about cow slaughter, plans to impose a nationwide ban on it, putting up labs in ports to check beef exports, and declaring that cow is our mother. Did anyone talk about crowd violence and steps to check it? Did anyone care to remind people that law enforcement is the job of the police and administration and not that of the public? Even if anyone did it went unnoticed.

There have been several other incidents since—another person was lynched for trying to transport cattle, allegedly to a slaughterhouse, a Kashmir MLA was attacked in state assembly for holding a beef party and later inked in Delhi, a writer was inked for organising the launch of a book by a former Pakistan foreign minister, a Pakistani family spent a night out in the streets in Mumbai because no hotel would give them room… Then there are all those writers returning awards in protest against “rising intolerance” and the Sahitya Akademi and government’s silence over the murder of Kannada writer MM Kalburgi, which is another story.

My issue is not with the central government or the prime minister. As their supporters point out, law and order is a state subject and the central government has nothing to do with these incidents. I don’t disagree. My problem is with the way we people and those in power have been receiving these news as normal everyday incidents. It’s like, if you kill cattle then you may get lynched, if you are from Pakistan then you may not be able to find a place to stay, if you oppose cow slaughter ban then you could get inked…as if these are the most expected things to happen!

During the same period there have been many incidents of rapes, tens of them, of both grown-ups and children, mostly in gangs or pairs. Man’s real, biological mother is treated worse than any animal! But there is no vigilante to protect her. There’s hardly any central minister talking about such crimes. No marks for guessing why.

The problem is not with India or one political faction or ideology. The whole world is full of conflicts, between religions, between races, between cultures and communities. There are civil wars, terrorist attacks, border conflicts, western/US interventions… ISIS and Boko Haram are killing thousands in the Middle East and Nigeria, there’s civil war in Ukraine and several African countries, US and Russia are bombing parts of Iraq and Syria, many European countries won’t let refugees in, there’s no end in sight for the Palestine issue, racism still prevails in several parts of the world… Terrorist attacks have killed almost 18,000 people this year, according to global think tank Institute of Economics and Peace that has placed India at 143 out of 162 countries in its 2015 Global Peace Index. India is among the worse, but there are not many peaceful countries in the world. Why is it so?

Why do cows become more precious to some people than fellow human beings? What makes some people think their own faith is the only truth and those who don’t share it deserve nothing but hell? After all, our faith would have been different if our ancestors chose to follow a different custom. Yet, many of us scorn those who follow a different custom!

I think the biggest problem with man is that a lot of people don’t identify themselves at the primary level—as a human being. Look at all those people: Hindus, Muslims, Dalits, upper castes, Nagas, Tamils, blacks, whites, feminists, homosexuals, bisexuals, Chinese, refugees, settlers, Africans, Sunnis, Shias, rich and poor, capitalists and communists, Indians and Pakistanis, graduates and illiterates, vegetarians and non-vegetarians… there are so many kind of people. Yet, looking for someone who sees himself primarily as a human being would be like Diogenes of Sinope going around holding a lamp in the daytime looking for an “honest man”. We are just not used to identifying ourselves as humans.

It’s strange considering there’s a lot to celebrate about humans. OK, man might be the primary culprit for putting the planet at high risk by attributing greatly to global warming and climate change, mining out resources and changing landscapes in selfish pursuits. Still, there’s a lot to boast about man's journey, transforming from being just another animal to being at a striking distance of travelling to Mars! Not bad for a species, huh?

Why isn’t the world celebrating the human race’s progress and great achievements—be it the day Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon or the day Usain Bolt ran the fastest race in history, or what about a Stone Age day? Instead of that we are busy killing each other in the name of cow and caste. Holy shit!

*********************** 

Coincidence, Really?

Day before was a rare Monday when we were home in the evening. And our neighbours--a mother and her two children--found themselves locked in a room without even her phone in hand. Their only possible contact with the outside world was through this window from where all then could see is our living room and their own living room on either side, the living room windows of the two flats upstairs, and exhaust windows of four bathrooms straight ahead, and plastic roofing sheets that our downstairs neighbours have used to shut out the air shaft. There's a smaller window on the other side of the wall, which opens to their balcony at the rear, which faces a similar balcony on the next row of balcony. Now almost all rear balconies are covered with grills or nets or plastic sheets to keep away robbers and birds, and anyway it wouldn't be almost impossible for any potential rescuer from the apartment on the back side to jump to their balcony even if by some rare chance they managed to call them out. Their only possible physical contact with the outside world was through the small openable part of the window to the shaft from where they could receive something we hand over through a similar window in what's supposed to be my daughter's room--but what's essentially her piano room and my dressing room, because she sleeps with us--provided it's small enough to go through the grills.

I have no idea when exactly this mother and two kids locked themselves up. I was at home, alright, but there was no way I could've heard their panic calls, because I was on my computer in a room at the front part of the house, working. Usually I work at office, but that day I had severe cold and cough and decided to work from home. Anyway I was on the computer and I had music playing almost the whole time. And I was alone at home till late in the evening. That's because on Mondays my daughter doesn't come back home straight from school. Instead she goes to my in-laws' place to attend a dance class. My wife also goes there after work. Usually I pick them up on my way back from work around 11, but this Monday since I wasn't well and was at home, they took a cab and reached home around 8.30.

I was on the computer and my wife was in the bedroom when the boy in the other house managed to get my daughter's attention after yelling out her name. He's around her age and sometimes they play badminton or cycle together. And thus we found them locked.

I first handed over my phone to the lady so she could tell her husband what has happened. Then I handed over my screwdriver set for her to try break open the door handle and lock. We offered them water but they said they were fine. Anyway after about half an hour of struggle she opened the door.

I can't remember when was the last time when we were at home n a Monday evening. Perhaps during my daughter's summer vacation when her dance classes too were off.

What would've happened to this mother and two children if we were not at home? Maybe her husband would've broke open the house with somebody's help after finding it locked from inside and unable to contact them on phone. Maybe she would've found some tool to break open the door from within the room. Whatever, it would've been much more traumatic. They were lucky that we were at home.

Some coincidence!

Weekend

Every work day is a wait for the weekend
Not that I hate my workplace
Just that I feel more at home at home

Ah, the freshness in the face of leaving a task undone -- Fernando Pessoa

Ah, the freshness in the face of leaving a task undone
-- Álvaro de Campos (Fernando Pessoa)

Ah, the freshness in the face of leaving a task undone!

To be remiss is to be positively out in the country!

What a refuge it is to be completely unreliable!

I can breathe easier now that the appointments are behind me.

I missed them all, through deliberate negligence,

Having waited for the urge to go, which I knew wouldn’t come.

I’m free, and against organized, clothed society.

I’m naked and plunge into the water of my imagination.

It’s too late to be at either of the two meetings where I should have been at the same time,

Deliberately at the same time...

No matter, I’ll stay here dreaming verses and smiling in italics.

This spectator aspect of life is so amusing!

I can’t even light the next cigarette... If it’s an action,

It can wait for me, along with the others, in the non-meeting called life.

Foreigners

I am an Indian
She is from Canada

I work in a multinational bank
She teaches Bharatanatyam to children

I love action movies and iPad games
She plays Indian classical music all day long

I am into gymming, I love to work out my body
She does yoga, says it helps her feel her body

I stay connected 24x7 and hate that she doesn't keep a mobile
She smiles and says meditation keeps her connected

I shrug
She smiles

We are foreigners
We love each other.


------------------------

Another version...


I am an Indian
She is from Canada

I work in a multinational bank
She teaches Bharatanatyam to children

I love action movies and iPad games
She plays Indian classical music all day long

I am into gymming, I love to work out my body
She does yoga, says it helps her feel her body

I stay connected 24x7
and hate she doesn't keep a mobile

She says meditation keeps her connected
and bows in front of the temple

I sigh and say I'll wait outside
A seer waves his forefinger from top of the stairs:
Foreigners not allowed

I shrug
She smiles


We love each other
We are foreigners.

A Challenge for Appu & Everyone Else...

OK, here is a game. There is one alphabet that I can't type now. Because the key is not working. You have to guess which one. Whatever I am writing here is without that particular letter. The faster or earlier you guess, the more points you win. Fair enough? Or, you think it's crazy? Anyways, just see how much time or how many sentences it takes you to realise which letter is missing in this note. So, be quick.

Now, you want a clue? I miss that alphabet in almost every line I write. For me, it is extremely tough to write without that letter. It makes me change my sentence structure. It makes me write in a style I am not familiar with. I am trying my best not to make it apparent. It's challenging. But very interesting too. Have you got it yet?

Of course I am not trying to make your task any easier by making sure I use all the other alphabets. Perhaps I will, by the time I am through with this.

This morning I took Appu to her school, for a workshop on photography. The learners were making a newsletter each in two groups. They were loving it, I saw. Tomorrow they will go to a park, early in the morning, to take pictures. Again in two groups. One will focus on trees, animals, joggers, etc. The other will concentrate on the history of the place. It will be interesting. Now I am sure you've got the missing alphabet. I can't go on without it. It's tiring. An now there is no power. Aircon is not working. :(

In fact, I guess I have all the other alphabets in here. So just go through the text again in case you are not yet sure. Or call me. Cheers!

A Poet's Suicide Note

And I picked up a huge mirror
And I walked into the crowd
Of mad men digging their own graves
And yelled,
"Bastards, look here, look at you,
See what the fuck you're doing!"

And they, they looked through my mirror
And shouted in one big voice,
"There goes a loafer, catch him!"
And they broke my mirror and tore my clothes
They dragged me to the ground
And handed me a pickaxe and said,
"Lie low, you devil, dig your ditch,
Toil to death if you want to live!"

Baudelaire's Toy of the Poor

The Toy of the Poor
-- Charles Baudelaire

I want to suggest an innocent diversion. So few amusements
involve no guilt!
When you go out in the morning, determined only to wander up
and down the highways, fill your pockets with little gadgets that cost
no more than a sou—like the flat puppet worked by a single string,
the blacksmith beating on an anvil, the rider and his horse, with a
tail that works as a whistle—and in front of taverns, or under the
trees, give them out as gifts to the unknown poor children you
encounter. At first, they won’t dare to take them; they won’t believe
their good fortune. But then their hands will eagerly snatch up
the present, and off they will flee, as cats do when they go far away
to eat the morsel you have given them, having learned to distrust
people.
Down one road, behind the gate of an enormous garden, at the
back of which could be seen the whiteness of a pretty chateau struck
by the sun, stood a fine and fresh child, dressed in those country
clothes that are so coyly attractive.
Luxury, the absence of worry, and the habitual spectacle of wealth
make these children so pretty that one would think them made from
a different mold than the children of mediocrity or poverty.
Next to him on the grass lay a splendid toy, as fresh as its master,
gleaming and gilded, wearing a purple outfit, covered with little
feathers and glass beads. But the child was not playing with his
favorite toy; instead, this is what he was watching:
On the other side of the gate, on the road, among the thistles and
nettles, there was another child, dirty, puny, soot-covered, one of
those pariah-animals in which an impartial eye would detect beauty
if, like the eye of the connoisseur detecting an ideal painting beneath
a layer of varnish, he could wash off the repulsive patina of poverty.
Through this symbolic barrier separating two worlds, that of the
highway and that of the chateau, the poor child was showing his
own toy to the rich one, who examined it eagerly as if it were some
rare and unknown object. Now, this toy that the dirty little child was
provoking, tossing and shaking in a box with a grate—was a live rat!
The parents, through economy no doubt, had taken the toy directly
from life itself.
And the two children laughed with each other fraternally, smiling
with teeth of an equal whiteness.

-- Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen

What the fuck?

Long, long ago, in our college days
we drunken radicals,
smokers, lovers and sports fans,
living what we still call ‘the life’,
would often say,

Hey let’s not waste our lives,
let’s a couple of us work at a time
and let’s the rest of us live in merry

At forty plus it’s too late to go back
but it’s true I feel more insecure and unsure,
wasted and spent, more than ever,
growing addicted to money with every pay rise,
luxuries turning necessities day after day.
What the fuck?

My next car is an Audi, after that Bentley,
my iPad keeps me connected
to my clients and my bosses
who of course keep the world spinning
through butcher houses and cock-fight clubs.
What the fuck?

They say work is worship,
I say whatever it’s a waste of time
I miss ethics, I lack passion–
to teach and heal are businesses,
news is what entertains the well-off.
What the fuck?

They say unemployment’s big challenge,
I say bullshit, man has toiled enough,
now let robots and machines do the job.
Why would I do a thing that a software can?
To live, to make money, they say.
What the fuck?

Wait a minute, world, take a break.
Where are we going? What’s there ahead?
Why do we make, sell and buy things all the time?
Is that the only way to live?
What the fuck?

All the deaths, the calamities, tragedies and wars…
life is an accident,
perhaps a gift, perhaps just a chance–
now me, now what?
Yet I make this stupid product,
convince you to buy it,
and fool ourselves saying it’s a boom!
What the fuck?

Hey let’s not waste our lives,
let’s some of us work at a time
and let’s the rest of us live in merry

#######

Work to work, live to live

I don't want to get into the argument over growth versus jobs. That's not my concern here. I want to talk about man and work.

Basically the world is getting more work done with less number of hands. And I think it's good.

I know unemployment is one of the greatest problems India and the world have been facing.

Recently there was a report that some new generation outsourcing firms use robots and humanoids to provide IT outsourcing services at one-fourth of the cost of what TCS and Infosys charge their clients. That could potentially translate into Bangalore getting Bangalored and BPO ceasing to be one of the largest job creators in the country.

Even if that doesn't happen, the country's job picture is bad and getting worse. Apparently, during the boom years of the second half of the last decade, when the economy grew almost 10% a year, the country miserably failed to create enough jobs. For every 100 basis points increase in the growth of gross domestic product, or GDP, there was only one basis point increase in the number of jobs, according to the Planning Commission. This was much lower than the pre-reform decade (1983-93) when employment generation was 52 basis points for every 100 basis points growth in GDP.

And the problem is global. In its World Development Report the World Bank considers jobs as the new big problem. “High unemployment and unmet job expectations among youth are the most immediate concerns,” it says.

I agree.

But I don't think creating jobs is the solution for this problem. The trick is to pay man for doing what she wants to do.

If machines and robots and computer programs can do what we do, let them do it. And let us do what we want to do; explore the space, make paintings, teach children, play badminton, study mathematics, travel, make movies, whatever. Of course, there can be some riders. The activity or work one chooses should  ideally give back something to the society--share, entertain, solve problems, build friendships, invent, whatever, man decides what she wants to do. Of course, you can choose to just screw around, but no payment for that. 

Sounds crazy? It sounds crazy to me too. And impractical. But, at the same time, I think it's inevitable. That's where we are headed.

After all what humanity's progresses all have been for? Why would generations after generations man would toil in the fields or factories or offices just to eat and drink and sometimes amass wealth for her future generations to do the same, and die and be forgotten? That's what we have been doing. And that sounds even crazier than doing what you want to do!

Agree, all their toil might have been critical for the survival of man as a race, as a single entity. Agreed we need food to eat, home to stay, dress to dress and gadgets to stay connected. But if robots and machines can take care of  these needs why not? Why would man struggle for her survival if our own inventions can do that for us? 

Imagine a world where your job is to do what you want to do.

What do you see? Chaos? Of course it is hard to imagine anything other than chaos in a world where people do what they want to do.

But personally I believe most individuals can imagine herself behaving in the most responsible way in case such a thing happens to her. She will not misuse such a chance, she will give back to society whatever she can, she will probably volunteer to teach children what she knows or  help her neighbour to hospital or whatever. But she can't be sure what others will do with such freedom! In fact, she could bet that more than 90% of the people will behave in the most irresponsible way.

And she could be right. After all, man has never trusted man. The reason for that must be that man is not trustworthy.

At the same time, without trust, without accountability and responsibility, such a system cannot work. Another equally big question against this idea could be, who will pay for it? There may be a hundred other practical constrains to even spare it a thought. Fair enough. But I believe there can be solutions. In fact, I believe it is inevitable and perhaps the next natural course in man's evolution.

Perhaps governments can create safety nets such as compulsory social services or making it mandatory for every citizen to share common responsibilities and take turns to do jobs still left for men--like overseeing and maintenance, and dividing existing jobs among more people with shorter shifts and less number of working days/hours. Perhaps government can give tax rebates to people and organisations that sponsor researchers, students, artists, historians, players, adventurers, entertainers and so on.

The point is, it's time manhood stopped debating over 'work to live or live to work?' We can live and we can work; we don't need to do one for the other. The solution for joblessness is not creating jobs. The way out is to increase productivity and share the jobs as well as the bounty.

And man can live to live.

:)

Venice: Floating on Gentle Waves

view from a bridge

Stephania, an artist

by the grand caanal

The bus passes hundreds of parked cars on both sides of the road and crosses a long bridge over what looks like an estuary before halting at a big circular terminal. End of road. Start of waterways and footpaths. Welcome to Venice.

One of the first things I notice is Santa Chiara Hotel, an old decrepit red building with cracks and worn-off coating, across a wall full of murals. It looks abandoned but isn’t. Further to the left is a stylish foot overbridge with fiberglass railings arching over a canal, a line of ferry stops, ticket counters, buses, shops and a lot of people, mostly tourists. On the other side of the canal there’s a big building, perhaps the railway station. It's a rare sunny day in the first week of March. Cold breeze carries the salty smell of sea. I move closer through tens of visitors and touts to see the Grand Canal, busy with ferries and boats, disappear into a city of grand palaces, statues and churches on either side.

A picture postcard. Venice is full of it. Look around from anywhere in those narrow streets or waterways, or from one of the several arch bridges, or anywhere by the canal—it will look like a painting, beautiful, grand and, yes, with clear signs of decadence.

The land of Marco Polo has it all.

All its grandeur maybe like a beautiful Venetian mask; underneath, the city, the real face, may be crumbling. But here, mask is part of the face and life is part of the show. The cracks on the buildings and bridges and their peeled off coatings are as much part of Venice’s beauty as its magnificent palaces, churches and museums, architecture, statues and art work.

They are all brought together and mixed and blended into a marvelous dream-like experience by water that reaches every part of the city through wide and narrow canals.

It’s hard to say if Venice is a floating city or a sinking one. It’s hard to say if water will slowly consume it or help it grow. Perhaps uncertainty is part of Venice’s beauty.

My nostalgia over a childhood spent in Kerala backwaters may have influenced my instant love for Venice. But I’ve never felt more at home, more relaxed, in any other global city.

Is there any other city where there is not a single vehicle in the streets, not even a bicycle? I don’t remember seeing a single policeman in Venice either, though I did see a couple of police boats.

Boats there are, of all kinds, from ambulance, electricity services and telephone services to ferries, taxis and private boats, motorboats, rowing boats and gondolas. They are all over the numerous canals, moving at their own relaxed pace along backsides of buildings, by paved streets, below hundreds of arched bridges, or parked, sometimes with covers on.

Get out of water and walk the narrow streets past countless souvenir shops selling Venetian masks and Murano glass jewellery works, high-end retail outlets, cafes and bars that have set tables on the streets, happy tourists, hugging couples, smiling street musicians playing accordion and guitar, probing roadside vendors, including several Bangladeshis and Blacks, and some jobless folks who asks for a fag as soon as you light one, to the grand squares, palaces, churches and museums, and get lost in the perfection of murals, paintings, sculptures and architecture, or get mesmerised by the minute details of masks, glassworks and jewellery. Or, feed parrots at Saint Mark Square—it’s wonderful though the birds seem to have a clear preference for girls, as they refused to bite on a piece of bun I offered until I threw it down. Or, sit by the canal watching boats and birds and buildings, people and water. Eat you food, drink your drink, take your time.

Venice is made up of more than a hundred small islands in the Venetian lagoon connected by bridges on the Adriatic Sea in northeast Italy. It was first built in early fifth century when several mainland Italians decided to settle in the salty water lagoon from fear of invading barbarians. The buildings here stand on thousands of closely spaced wooden pilings driven into the mud. Then they were sawn on top to make a flat surface. Most building in Venice today stand on piles sunk more than 1,000 years ago.

Venice has many landmarks—Doge’s Palace, Piazza San Marco, Rialto Bridge, world’s first Jewish ghetto Sotoporto, Santa Maria Della Salute Basilica, Murano island, Mozart’s residence, Harry’s Bar….

But the place is not about going from place to place, crossing out “must see, must do” items one by one. Venice is more about relaxing and doing things at your own pace. About walking around and getting used to the slow pace of life on water, to let yourself float like gentle waves, directionless.

Landmarks are great, gondola rides are lovely, the Campanille or bell tower is grand, churches and sculptures are magnificent, masks and glassworks are fascinating, but it’s best to avoid rushing through them. Venice demands to be explored, to be discovered, to be savoured.

Walk away from the main streets to inside the city without any particular destination. That’s when you discover the life in Venice. You’ll cross small bridges and canals, see the yellow and pink buildings where people live, flower vases on their windows, clotheslines outside them. You’ll see small squares where kids play and elders sit around cafes and shops. You’ll reach dead-ends facing narrow canals where people park their boats. You’ll see men and women rowing or motoring away to work. You’ll see parents and grandparents taking kids out on a walk. You’ll see old Jewish ghettos and new ones. You’ll see people go to market and laugh out loud.

If you get lost and ask for help, you’ll realize that most locals don’t understand English. Then you repeat words like “ferry”, “station”, “boat”, “vaporetto”. And they will tell you in their sweet local language where the nearest ferry stop is amidst roars of laughter . You may not get a clear idea, but don’t worry, move on; the ferry is never too far.

In one of those walks we come across Stephania selling her paintings in a square. She studied in an art school in Venice, and her paintings are beautiful, with arch-shaped bridges, yellow and pink buildings, colonnades, landmarks, gondolas, the sky and reflections on wavy water in brilliant water colours. She sells them for around 20 euros each. She looks happy. Beautiful life, I think.

Another artist we met is Rsgar who makes and sells masks from papier-mache at his studio shop. Venetian masks--many sporting florid designs and bright colours such as gold and silver, and decorated with fur, fabric and feathers—have their own magic world and a long history. People in the city actually used to wear masks to hide their identity and social status and, of course, it helped them involve in non-social activities. Sorry, those days of masqueraded fun are gone. Anyway, this day, Rsgar introduces us to several popular masks such as the Casanova mask, Pierrot and Joker. We are lost in the details of their design and stunning colour combination. He says he takes about four hours to finish one mask. He charges 30-50 euros each.

On a Sunday morning, walking the streets of a residential area, we notice that Venetians are not much into television. We see people sitting outside their houses, drinking coffee or tea and staring at the water. We see young fathers playing with their little ones. We drink coffee from a small shop. We sit outside by the canal. Some locals are there. They are friendly and courteous. On higher floors, windows are open. We hear children and grown-ups, but we don’t hear any television. Almost every house has TV antennas outside, but who needs TV here on a beautiful Sunday morning?

The gondola boatmen are unique. Almost all of them wear that typical T with horizontal stripes. Some wear round straw hat, some others sport shaved heads, almost all use dark sunglasses. They hum and they whistle and they always offer you a ride if you look at them. We ask the rate and one of them says it's 80 euros for 35 minutes. I ask if he would sing, “Do lafzon ki hai dil ki kahaani…” song in Amitabh Bachchan’s The Great Gambler playing in my mind. “In the opera house,” he says in his masculine voice, grinning.

We did hear a song from a gondola. But it isn't the boatman singing. It's a bulky man standing on the gondola comfortably and singing in the highpitched voice of an opera singer. His voice stay in the air and set the background for several minutes. We feel good.

Most local men and women are not really sophisticated. Of course, those in designer shops and big showrooms are suave. But most those you find on the streets come across as plain people. The language itself is let’s say a bit naïve. It’s a pleasure to hear them say “grappa” without ignoring a single letter, giving due respect to the “r” and the second “p”; it’s almost like caressing that word or, in this case, caressing a bottle of grappa, which is a local drink. The drink itself is not very smooth, but it has the Venetian flavour and it’s a pleasure saying “gurrappah”, be it in a bar or a supermarket.

Well, bars in Venice—as most cities of the world—are a bit expensive for people who don’t count their drink. So we largely bought our drink from supermarkets and kept it in our bag. Readymix :). Nobody minds if you drink or smoke in some corner. And, cheers, there are no probing policemen.

One problem with frequent boozing is frequent leaking. And that’s not cheap as I realised in my only trip to a public toilet in Venice. Like metro stations, there are barriers at the entrance. You insert one and half euros and it opens. I put in two coins of one euro each and waited for the change. The door opened, but no change. A woman there tells me the machine doesn’t return money, I could have taken change from her. At two euros, or almost Rs 140, that must be my most expensive leak.

I never went back to a public toilet. Of course not. I’d rather spend three or four euros in a beer or a drink and use the loo in a bar.

Although entry is restricted in loos, the entire public transport system in Venice runs on trust. Mostly. You can just walk in and walk out of ferries and buses; no one asks anything. I saw only one ticket examiner in my entire trip and at that time I didn’t have my ticket in my pocket. He just walked away when I said it’s with my friend.

I could never make out the real feeling of local people towards tourists. Obviously tourists are ruling the place, going wherever they feel like, having fun and clicking photos, and perhaps restricting the locals and denying them privacy. The old people may be missing certain things and traditions, but not many people could be complaining. After all they live off tourism, making and selling masks and glassworks and other stuff for tourists, renting out rooms, running bars and restaurants, rowing gondolas and riding water taxis and ferries…

So tourists are always welcome, provided they don’t dirty the place. Venice is very clean. Spick and span, streets and waterways. It’s a surprise, almost a wonder, to see a place so full of water to be without mosquitoes and flies. Kerala should do a study on how Venice is managing its waste, wastewater, drainage and drinking water systems. And, of course, making visitors feel at home.

an old woman hanging clothes

the bridge near the bus stop

a tourist feeding parrots at st mark's square

Rialto bridge in black & white

a shop window