Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Monsoon Magic
Monsoon Magic
Mihika was bored. It was only a month and half since school started and she already wanted a break! She was waiting to get out of the school-home-school routine and do something exciting. So when Aunty Anchal suggested a trip to Tamhini Ghat, located a little beyond Mulshi, near Pune, Mihika was delighted. Aunty Anchal was a lecturer and mom’s good friend. She was an avid trekker and never missed the opportunity to explore the countryside. Besides, she was good fun to be with.
As planned, Aunty and Mihika set off in a car on a Saturday morning. It was a clear day with a hint of impending rain. Once out of the city, the drive was beginning to get interesting! Mihika could not imagine that the rains had transformed the landscape to such an extant. Every leaf and pebble sparkled. She was totally entranced by the sheer beauty of the streams, waterfalls, fields, mountains and valleys which sped past her.
They finally stopped near a rivulet at Tamhini. Mihika rushed out of the car and stood motionless, sensing the freshness in the air, the vastness of the sky, and the brilliance of Mother Earth. She removed her shoes and felt the grass on her feet. Aunty was happy to see Mihika so excited. She suggested a short trek across the hill.
As they trekked along Mihika noticed that Aunty was inspecting the plants and streamlets very closely. Mihika wondered why! On asking, Aunty pointed out an insect in the stream.
“Its walking on water!”, Mihika said in amazement, looking at the spider like insect with long legs.
“That’s called a Water Skater” Aunty explained. She also pointed out to a water beetle, which looked like a chikoo seed floating on the water and a toad near the stream. She explained how toads have spots on their back and were different from frogs, which are generally smooth skinned.
Sensing Mihika’s interest, Aunty went on to show her bug hoppers and grass hoppers on bushes. Some grass hoppers, she said, look green during the rains and brown during the summer months. Mihika had studied about `camouflage’ wherein animals change their color so as to blend with the surrounding environment and cannot be noticed easily and thus protect themselves from any harm! Aunty also showed her different kinds of centipedes and millipedes. Although exaggerated, centipedes are supposed to have a hundred legs and millipedes, a million!
Aunty explained how trekking becomes even more exciting when one tries to see, hear, and appreciate life forms like, insects, reptiles, butterflies, birds and such within or on the trees, plants and water bodies. On the short trek that followed Mihika learnt how to recognise the loud call of the Malabar Giant Squirrel, to identify male and female minivets and the Malabar Whistling Thrush, birds so common around Pune.
Mihika was so happy to learn about these little creatures. Back at home she wrote a small essay on her trip; the memories of which she knew would remain with her forever.
Bina Thomas
Mihika was bored. It was only a month and half since school started and she already wanted a break! She was waiting to get out of the school-home-school routine and do something exciting. So when Aunty Anchal suggested a trip to Tamhini Ghat, located a little beyond Mulshi, near Pune, Mihika was delighted. Aunty Anchal was a lecturer and mom’s good friend. She was an avid trekker and never missed the opportunity to explore the countryside. Besides, she was good fun to be with.
As planned, Aunty and Mihika set off in a car on a Saturday morning. It was a clear day with a hint of impending rain. Once out of the city, the drive was beginning to get interesting! Mihika could not imagine that the rains had transformed the landscape to such an extant. Every leaf and pebble sparkled. She was totally entranced by the sheer beauty of the streams, waterfalls, fields, mountains and valleys which sped past her.
They finally stopped near a rivulet at Tamhini. Mihika rushed out of the car and stood motionless, sensing the freshness in the air, the vastness of the sky, and the brilliance of Mother Earth. She removed her shoes and felt the grass on her feet. Aunty was happy to see Mihika so excited. She suggested a short trek across the hill.
As they trekked along Mihika noticed that Aunty was inspecting the plants and streamlets very closely. Mihika wondered why! On asking, Aunty pointed out an insect in the stream.
“Its walking on water!”, Mihika said in amazement, looking at the spider like insect with long legs.
“That’s called a Water Skater” Aunty explained. She also pointed out to a water beetle, which looked like a chikoo seed floating on the water and a toad near the stream. She explained how toads have spots on their back and were different from frogs, which are generally smooth skinned.
Sensing Mihika’s interest, Aunty went on to show her bug hoppers and grass hoppers on bushes. Some grass hoppers, she said, look green during the rains and brown during the summer months. Mihika had studied about `camouflage’ wherein animals change their color so as to blend with the surrounding environment and cannot be noticed easily and thus protect themselves from any harm! Aunty also showed her different kinds of centipedes and millipedes. Although exaggerated, centipedes are supposed to have a hundred legs and millipedes, a million!
Aunty explained how trekking becomes even more exciting when one tries to see, hear, and appreciate life forms like, insects, reptiles, butterflies, birds and such within or on the trees, plants and water bodies. On the short trek that followed Mihika learnt how to recognise the loud call of the Malabar Giant Squirrel, to identify male and female minivets and the Malabar Whistling Thrush, birds so common around Pune.
Mihika was so happy to learn about these little creatures. Back at home she wrote a small essay on her trip; the memories of which she knew would remain with her forever.
Bina Thomas
Be the change!!
The words kept churning in his mind. “Be the change you want to see in the world”.
“He is right. It makes sense to work towards change, rather than sit and crib about every system in the country,” thought Siddharth. Although the old man, had not gone into great lengths to explain what he meant by those words, the more Siddhart thought about it, the more grown up and responsible he felt.
It all began one morning when Siddhart and his friends were waiting for their Junior college admission forms. The queue was so long that it seemed to snake through the entire college campus! Siddhart and his friends were still far away from the counter and the queue was moving at a snails pace!! By noon they were most certain that they would miss the afternoon show at the multiplex. That one thought got them agitated. Their cool attitude in the morning was replaced by anger. Their irritation showed and their frustration took a voice.
“The system is all in a mess. It’s so faulty and slow” complained Siddhart. “Why can’t they have a couple of more counters to process freshers’ application?”
“Such inefficiency,” growled Udhav, “its either tea break or lunch time. When will all this change?” Udhav sounded exasperated.
“Nothing will change,” concluded Anand.
“Why don’t you make an effort?” said a voice from behind them.
The startled boys turned around and saw an old man standing behind them in the same queue. The boys were so immersed in themselves that they hadn’t noticed the old man or anyone around them. Suddenly they became aware of the crowd, the noise, the heat, the restlessness written on everyone’s face.
“I have been listening to your endless complains,” said the old man, “why don’t you do something about your misery?”
“What can we do, if the staff and authorities are not doing anything about it,” Siddhart defended himself.
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” said the old man prophetically.
“I too had a lot of complaints at your age,” he continued, “of a different kind though. We were being treated as a second class citizen in our country. We were restricted entry into certain clubs and theaters. We wanted our situation to change. And, that’s when the words of the Mahatma “Be the change you want to see in the world” made an impression on me and my friends. If you are not happy with the way things are, go ahead and try to make it better,” the old man concluded.
“And then did you ring in the change,” Udhav was curious.
“Yes, we did,” he said with pride. “Today our country is our own. We are free from bondage. Initially, we disagreed with Gandhiji’s ideas of non-violence, non-cooperation, or Satyagraha. But slowly the meaning and value of his teachings dawned on us. We joined the youth movement of those times. Yes, it was a struggle. But when I see young people like you, free and happy, I know the effort was worth it,” he smiled.
The boys were very impressed. As they headed back home, each one was thinking aloud on how to go about requesting the authorities to allow for few more counters at the admission form collection centre.
“The old man has done his bit by shaking us up, and now, I just can’t seem to sleep thinking about how to proceed to bring about change,” Siddhart smiled to himself as he tossed and turned in bed.
Bina Thomas
The words kept churning in his mind. “Be the change you want to see in the world”.
“He is right. It makes sense to work towards change, rather than sit and crib about every system in the country,” thought Siddharth. Although the old man, had not gone into great lengths to explain what he meant by those words, the more Siddhart thought about it, the more grown up and responsible he felt.
It all began one morning when Siddhart and his friends were waiting for their Junior college admission forms. The queue was so long that it seemed to snake through the entire college campus! Siddhart and his friends were still far away from the counter and the queue was moving at a snails pace!! By noon they were most certain that they would miss the afternoon show at the multiplex. That one thought got them agitated. Their cool attitude in the morning was replaced by anger. Their irritation showed and their frustration took a voice.
“The system is all in a mess. It’s so faulty and slow” complained Siddhart. “Why can’t they have a couple of more counters to process freshers’ application?”
“Such inefficiency,” growled Udhav, “its either tea break or lunch time. When will all this change?” Udhav sounded exasperated.
“Nothing will change,” concluded Anand.
“Why don’t you make an effort?” said a voice from behind them.
The startled boys turned around and saw an old man standing behind them in the same queue. The boys were so immersed in themselves that they hadn’t noticed the old man or anyone around them. Suddenly they became aware of the crowd, the noise, the heat, the restlessness written on everyone’s face.
“I have been listening to your endless complains,” said the old man, “why don’t you do something about your misery?”
“What can we do, if the staff and authorities are not doing anything about it,” Siddhart defended himself.
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” said the old man prophetically.
“I too had a lot of complaints at your age,” he continued, “of a different kind though. We were being treated as a second class citizen in our country. We were restricted entry into certain clubs and theaters. We wanted our situation to change. And, that’s when the words of the Mahatma “Be the change you want to see in the world” made an impression on me and my friends. If you are not happy with the way things are, go ahead and try to make it better,” the old man concluded.
“And then did you ring in the change,” Udhav was curious.
“Yes, we did,” he said with pride. “Today our country is our own. We are free from bondage. Initially, we disagreed with Gandhiji’s ideas of non-violence, non-cooperation, or Satyagraha. But slowly the meaning and value of his teachings dawned on us. We joined the youth movement of those times. Yes, it was a struggle. But when I see young people like you, free and happy, I know the effort was worth it,” he smiled.
The boys were very impressed. As they headed back home, each one was thinking aloud on how to go about requesting the authorities to allow for few more counters at the admission form collection centre.
“The old man has done his bit by shaking us up, and now, I just can’t seem to sleep thinking about how to proceed to bring about change,” Siddhart smiled to himself as he tossed and turned in bed.
Bina Thomas
Mini and the Sacred Grove
MINI AND THE SACRED GROVE
Mini was woken up by the shout of “Chaaya, chaaya…!” She peeped through the window and was surprised to see the yellow board that read ‘Palakkad Junction’. The train was two hours late, but Mini was not bothered. She had always wanted to see the River Bharathapuzha in the morning light as it snaked through the green paddy fields and coconut plantations. As the train began to move, Mini woke up her elder sister Moni and both of them sat by the window, entranced by the natural beauty.
‘Everything looks so beautiful in the rays of the rising sun,’ thought Mini.
The ten-year-old eagerly looked forward to this annual trip to her grandparents’ home in Thrissur, Kerala, every summer. For Moni, who was slightly older than Mini, it was just a welcome change from Mumbai and school. But for Mini, it was one month of total bliss. The annual holiday was like one extended picnic: one day to the paddy fields with grandpa, the next day to the cashew orchards, another day to the coconut plantation with Uncle, visits to the village pond, temple, and other interesting places.
During these trips Mini observed in fascination how the water from the canal flowed into every field through tiny inlets, how effortlessly Moopan climbed one coconut tree after the other, how young boys and girls trapped fish in their towels at the pond…
But she always went back to Mumbai with a feeling of regret: that she had not visited the kaavu or the Sacred Grove adjoining the temple in her village.
Today as she thought of the kaavu, she recollected a conversation with her father and Moni a few months back. Father had said that the government had declared certain areas as Reserved Forests, Sanctuaries, and National Parks to protect the environment. But, he explained, more important than the government’s efforts were the local traditions that helped to protect patches or even vast areas of natural vegetation. He had explained that Indians believed nature to be sacred. And so, people in rural areas had marked out sacred groves for protection. These groves, called kaavu in Malayalam, were generally dedicated to a deity. It was sacrilege to disturb plants that grew there or kill the animals that lived there. “The sacred groves are the most effective way of preserving biodiversity at minimum expense, with the local people tending to them and protecting them,” Father had commented.
‘We must visit the kaavu this time. I shall ask Uncle to take us there one day,’ Mini thought as the train chugged along.
Soon they were at Thrissur. Once they were comfortably seated in Uncle’s car, Mini announced, “I want to see the kaavu.” No one seemed to have heard.
“I asked whether I could visit the kaavu this vacation?” she repeated.
“Why? Do you want to grow a moustache?” Mother demanded.
“Who said so?” Mini was defiant.
Her Uncle and Father, who had been talking, fell silent. They, too, wanted to know.
“Well, that’s what my grandmother used to say. Children who dared to enter the kaavu grew a moustache and beard when they came out. So my sisters and I never visited a kaavu, not even the one near our temple.”
Mini and Moni kept quiet but exchanged glances. Their eyes twinkled with mischief. Nothing was spoken about the kaavu during the rest of the journey to their ancestral house. But Mini’s little head was bustling with ideas and plans!
Days rolled by. Mini and Moni enjoyed themselves romping about the fields and plantations. But every time they went to the temple, Mini would longingly eye the tunnel-like entrance to the sacred grove. Oh! How she wished to go in and come out at the other end.
Then one day, curiosity got the better of the sisters. It was a lazy afternoon. The time seemed ripe for a visit to the kaavu.
The rest of the family was settling down to an afternoon siesta. “We’re off to the temple,” the girls announced as they hurried out of the house.
The temple was deserted. The girls lost no time. They ran into the kaavu. They did not stop till they were deep inside it. Mini felt the cool earth with amazement. “It does not feel like summer here at all,” she whispered to Moni.
When they got used to the darkness and quietness, they could hear the humming of bees and other insects. They could hear the birds crying from the branches of the trees and could see tiny creatures scurrying on the ground.
The kaavu was dark, except for the occasional ray of light that streamed in through the canopy of trees. The trees looked big and ancient. There were giant climbers around them. The whole place looked like one tangled mass of vegetation with trees, shrubs and creepers of different kinds. There were many flowers the girls had never seen before. Mini remembered her father saying that the sacred groves were a treasure house of rare and endangered species of trees and medicinal plants.
Moni whispered softly, “I hear a stream gurgling.”
Mini strained her ears and yes, she could hear it, too. Excited, they ran in the direction of the sound and nearly stumbled against a stone platform. There were several small figures of deities on the platform. Some of these looked like snake gods, with a serpent hood over their heads The girls folded their hands in prayer and turned to resume their search for the stream.
Just then Moni looked at her watch and exclaimed, “Oh no! It’s four o’clock! We should rush home before grandpa sends out a search party!”
As they walked towards their house, Mini stopped.
“Moni, have I grown a beard…or a moustache?” she asked, running her fingers on her cheeks.
“No!” said Moni, “have I?” “Indeed not. So, why did mother say we would?” Mini wondered aloud as they entered the house.
She waited till late in the night. When Mother was alone, she snuggled up to her and asked, “Moni and I had been to the kaavu today. And we haven’t grown a beard or moustache. Why did your grandmother lie about the beard and moustache?”
Mother drew Mini close and stroked her head gently. “Don’t call it a lie, my dear. My grandmother, and adults like her, might have feared that when children went into the kaavu, they might pluck a flower, or trample upon young saplings, or hurt a bird or animal. Or they might innocently invite trouble for themselves: there are snakes, insects and so many little creatures in the kaavu that might bite or sting a child. To make sure that children did not enter the kaavu, they made up frightening little stories of children who entered the kaavu growing beards!” Mini was convinced. She dropped off to sleep.
Another afternoon, Mini and Moni went to the sacred grove again to see the stream! And the kaavu made that particular summer vacation the most memorable one in their lives.
Sacred Groves exist all over the country. They are called kaavu in Kerala, deorais or deoban in Maharashtra and orans in Rajasthan. They vary in area from one square metre to about one million square meters.. They form a countrywide network of protected areas where the flora and fauna are preserved. But due to various pressures, sacred groves today are under threat. Before A.D. 1800 Kerala had about 15000 sacred groves. Today the numbers have dwindled to a mere 761!
Bina Thomas
Mini was woken up by the shout of “Chaaya, chaaya…!” She peeped through the window and was surprised to see the yellow board that read ‘Palakkad Junction’. The train was two hours late, but Mini was not bothered. She had always wanted to see the River Bharathapuzha in the morning light as it snaked through the green paddy fields and coconut plantations. As the train began to move, Mini woke up her elder sister Moni and both of them sat by the window, entranced by the natural beauty.
‘Everything looks so beautiful in the rays of the rising sun,’ thought Mini.
The ten-year-old eagerly looked forward to this annual trip to her grandparents’ home in Thrissur, Kerala, every summer. For Moni, who was slightly older than Mini, it was just a welcome change from Mumbai and school. But for Mini, it was one month of total bliss. The annual holiday was like one extended picnic: one day to the paddy fields with grandpa, the next day to the cashew orchards, another day to the coconut plantation with Uncle, visits to the village pond, temple, and other interesting places.
During these trips Mini observed in fascination how the water from the canal flowed into every field through tiny inlets, how effortlessly Moopan climbed one coconut tree after the other, how young boys and girls trapped fish in their towels at the pond…
But she always went back to Mumbai with a feeling of regret: that she had not visited the kaavu or the Sacred Grove adjoining the temple in her village.
Today as she thought of the kaavu, she recollected a conversation with her father and Moni a few months back. Father had said that the government had declared certain areas as Reserved Forests, Sanctuaries, and National Parks to protect the environment. But, he explained, more important than the government’s efforts were the local traditions that helped to protect patches or even vast areas of natural vegetation. He had explained that Indians believed nature to be sacred. And so, people in rural areas had marked out sacred groves for protection. These groves, called kaavu in Malayalam, were generally dedicated to a deity. It was sacrilege to disturb plants that grew there or kill the animals that lived there. “The sacred groves are the most effective way of preserving biodiversity at minimum expense, with the local people tending to them and protecting them,” Father had commented.
‘We must visit the kaavu this time. I shall ask Uncle to take us there one day,’ Mini thought as the train chugged along.
Soon they were at Thrissur. Once they were comfortably seated in Uncle’s car, Mini announced, “I want to see the kaavu.” No one seemed to have heard.
“I asked whether I could visit the kaavu this vacation?” she repeated.
“Why? Do you want to grow a moustache?” Mother demanded.
“Who said so?” Mini was defiant.
Her Uncle and Father, who had been talking, fell silent. They, too, wanted to know.
“Well, that’s what my grandmother used to say. Children who dared to enter the kaavu grew a moustache and beard when they came out. So my sisters and I never visited a kaavu, not even the one near our temple.”
Mini and Moni kept quiet but exchanged glances. Their eyes twinkled with mischief. Nothing was spoken about the kaavu during the rest of the journey to their ancestral house. But Mini’s little head was bustling with ideas and plans!
Days rolled by. Mini and Moni enjoyed themselves romping about the fields and plantations. But every time they went to the temple, Mini would longingly eye the tunnel-like entrance to the sacred grove. Oh! How she wished to go in and come out at the other end.
Then one day, curiosity got the better of the sisters. It was a lazy afternoon. The time seemed ripe for a visit to the kaavu.
The rest of the family was settling down to an afternoon siesta. “We’re off to the temple,” the girls announced as they hurried out of the house.
The temple was deserted. The girls lost no time. They ran into the kaavu. They did not stop till they were deep inside it. Mini felt the cool earth with amazement. “It does not feel like summer here at all,” she whispered to Moni.
When they got used to the darkness and quietness, they could hear the humming of bees and other insects. They could hear the birds crying from the branches of the trees and could see tiny creatures scurrying on the ground.
The kaavu was dark, except for the occasional ray of light that streamed in through the canopy of trees. The trees looked big and ancient. There were giant climbers around them. The whole place looked like one tangled mass of vegetation with trees, shrubs and creepers of different kinds. There were many flowers the girls had never seen before. Mini remembered her father saying that the sacred groves were a treasure house of rare and endangered species of trees and medicinal plants.
Moni whispered softly, “I hear a stream gurgling.”
Mini strained her ears and yes, she could hear it, too. Excited, they ran in the direction of the sound and nearly stumbled against a stone platform. There were several small figures of deities on the platform. Some of these looked like snake gods, with a serpent hood over their heads The girls folded their hands in prayer and turned to resume their search for the stream.
Just then Moni looked at her watch and exclaimed, “Oh no! It’s four o’clock! We should rush home before grandpa sends out a search party!”
As they walked towards their house, Mini stopped.
“Moni, have I grown a beard…or a moustache?” she asked, running her fingers on her cheeks.
“No!” said Moni, “have I?” “Indeed not. So, why did mother say we would?” Mini wondered aloud as they entered the house.
She waited till late in the night. When Mother was alone, she snuggled up to her and asked, “Moni and I had been to the kaavu today. And we haven’t grown a beard or moustache. Why did your grandmother lie about the beard and moustache?”
Mother drew Mini close and stroked her head gently. “Don’t call it a lie, my dear. My grandmother, and adults like her, might have feared that when children went into the kaavu, they might pluck a flower, or trample upon young saplings, or hurt a bird or animal. Or they might innocently invite trouble for themselves: there are snakes, insects and so many little creatures in the kaavu that might bite or sting a child. To make sure that children did not enter the kaavu, they made up frightening little stories of children who entered the kaavu growing beards!” Mini was convinced. She dropped off to sleep.
Another afternoon, Mini and Moni went to the sacred grove again to see the stream! And the kaavu made that particular summer vacation the most memorable one in their lives.
Sacred Groves exist all over the country. They are called kaavu in Kerala, deorais or deoban in Maharashtra and orans in Rajasthan. They vary in area from one square metre to about one million square meters.. They form a countrywide network of protected areas where the flora and fauna are preserved. But due to various pressures, sacred groves today are under threat. Before A.D. 1800 Kerala had about 15000 sacred groves. Today the numbers have dwindled to a mere 761!
Bina Thomas
My clothes are my Blanket!!
January 12, 2007
My clothes are my blanket!
In winter, women gather together in the courtyard of their houses to sew together old and faded bits of cloth creating amazingly colourful and comfortable quilts.
It's that time of the year — the time to cuddle under a warm woollen blanket or a cloth razai with cotton stuffing. These are easily available in the market. But in the rural areas of Gujarat and Rajasthan there is a unique way of making this. It's called the godadi — a quilt that uses old, torn, faded pieces of cloth from garments like the dhoti, saree, odhani or dupatta, ghagra, or skirt. Such quilts are also common in the drier parts of Maharashtra and Karnataka.
It's a common leisure activity among the women of the household during winter. They gather in the courtyard or the aangan to make the godadi. The old clothes kept aside over the months are brought out. Work on the godadi begins by carefully removing the buttons or hooks, and even the folds so as to get that extra length! Then they are spread to a required quilt length and breadth by overlapping and interlocking every piece by hand. The layers of fabric depend on how thick or heavy the quilt needs to be.
Stitched together
Once all the pieces of cloth are joined together, the entire quilt is stitched up in a running stitch, so that the entire godadi is tightly bound in place. This final hand stitching is done so neatly that the surface of the quilt looks as if it was embroidered! Sometimes, a long single piece of garment like a saree or two dupattas joined together is used as the final covering. Depending on how special the quilt is, a separate patchwork sheet is prepared with smaller pieces of brightly coloured fabrics and saree or skirt borders of silk and zari.
The warmth of layers of fabric, made extra soft with use, cannot be compared with expensive woollen or synthetic blankets or even cotton razai. Smaller and thinner godadis are very commonly used for newborn babies. Soft and easy to wash, these are popular with the urban families also; mostly made by the grandmothers.
In our villages where nothing is wasted, including kitchen waste, animal dung, dry twigs and leaves from the backyard, broken pottery and many such things, it's wonderful to note that even pieces of fabric are reused. And a godadi stays with you for years together!
* * *
What can I do?
Get creative with old clothes. Bits of colourful and printed cloth can be hand-stitched to form a patch-work sheet, which can then be made into bags or cushion covers or table cloths. Making a patchwork sheet can be a fun group activity. Thick, faded fabrics can be used as lining to strengthen the patchwork bags. If old clothes are still in good condition, donate it.
In collaboration with Kalpavriksh Environment Action Group (kvdelhi@vsnl.net)
BINA THOMAS
My clothes are my blanket!
In winter, women gather together in the courtyard of their houses to sew together old and faded bits of cloth creating amazingly colourful and comfortable quilts.
It's that time of the year — the time to cuddle under a warm woollen blanket or a cloth razai with cotton stuffing. These are easily available in the market. But in the rural areas of Gujarat and Rajasthan there is a unique way of making this. It's called the godadi — a quilt that uses old, torn, faded pieces of cloth from garments like the dhoti, saree, odhani or dupatta, ghagra, or skirt. Such quilts are also common in the drier parts of Maharashtra and Karnataka.
It's a common leisure activity among the women of the household during winter. They gather in the courtyard or the aangan to make the godadi. The old clothes kept aside over the months are brought out. Work on the godadi begins by carefully removing the buttons or hooks, and even the folds so as to get that extra length! Then they are spread to a required quilt length and breadth by overlapping and interlocking every piece by hand. The layers of fabric depend on how thick or heavy the quilt needs to be.
Stitched together
Once all the pieces of cloth are joined together, the entire quilt is stitched up in a running stitch, so that the entire godadi is tightly bound in place. This final hand stitching is done so neatly that the surface of the quilt looks as if it was embroidered! Sometimes, a long single piece of garment like a saree or two dupattas joined together is used as the final covering. Depending on how special the quilt is, a separate patchwork sheet is prepared with smaller pieces of brightly coloured fabrics and saree or skirt borders of silk and zari.
The warmth of layers of fabric, made extra soft with use, cannot be compared with expensive woollen or synthetic blankets or even cotton razai. Smaller and thinner godadis are very commonly used for newborn babies. Soft and easy to wash, these are popular with the urban families also; mostly made by the grandmothers.
In our villages where nothing is wasted, including kitchen waste, animal dung, dry twigs and leaves from the backyard, broken pottery and many such things, it's wonderful to note that even pieces of fabric are reused. And a godadi stays with you for years together!
* * *
What can I do?
Get creative with old clothes. Bits of colourful and printed cloth can be hand-stitched to form a patch-work sheet, which can then be made into bags or cushion covers or table cloths. Making a patchwork sheet can be a fun group activity. Thick, faded fabrics can be used as lining to strengthen the patchwork bags. If old clothes are still in good condition, donate it.
In collaboration with Kalpavriksh Environment Action Group (kvdelhi@vsnl.net)
BINA THOMAS
Heat and Dust
Heat and dust
“How boring!” groaned Shashank, as he got into the school bus. “Another history lesson, that’s what this trip is going to be!”
“I know,” groaned back Rahul. “And that too, not in the classroom, but in the middle of a hot desert!”
Mohan remained silent. He loved history and he did not think the trip would be boring.
Mohan was part of a study tour from his school in Ahmedabad. They were visiting the archaeological site of Dholavira, a 5000-year-old settlement dating back to the Indus Valley civilization.
All along the way, their history teacher, who was escorting them, spoke about the civilisation. Rahul yawned and yawned. Shashank tried to drown her voice by loudly crunching up potato wafers. Only Mohan listened keenly.
And then they were there. The children tumbled out of the bus and teacher led them forward. Dholavira was located on the Khadir Island, an elevated landmass with mountainous outcrops, in the Great Rann of Kachchh. The settlement complex was huge and the remains looked like the ruins of a fortified palace. Standing on the excavated archaeological mound with the others, Mohan surveyed the region.
`But why would any one want to settle down in a dry and barren region like this?’ he wondered. At a distance he could see the glistening salt deserts of the Rann. Surely there was a mistake! Mohan knew that there were no rivers here and that t he place received very little rainfall. He wanted to clarify his doubt but was a bit hesitant. His classmates were looking rather bored and uninterested. Rahul was scratching some picture on the ground with the tip of his shoe. . No one else seemed to have any question to ask. Mohan decided to take the plunge and ask it out.
“But, ma’am, why did the people of the Indus valley settle here? In a land so dry and with no water?”
His teacher smiled, “That’s a smart question, Mohan!” Mohan went red with pride and the other boys turned to stare at him. “To begin with, reaching Dholavira was not difficult 5000 years ago because at that time, the Great Rann and the Little Rann were like extended arms of the Arabian Sea through which small boats could sail. Even today, this Rann, which is just a little above sea level, gets flooded with a shallow sheet of water during the monsoon. Since the water is mostly from the sea, when it dries up, the area turns into a saline desert, with thick deposits of salt crystals.” As they talked, teacher led them away from the ruins. Mohan kept pace with her while the others trudged along.
`Secondly the region was very fertile 5000 years ago,’ she continued. Rahul and Shashank had got into a scrap by now, much to Mohan’s irritation. Shashank pushed Rahul who slipped and fell. The teacher stopped to help him on his feet. “Rahul, if you had fallen here 5000 years back, I would have to swim to save you,” she said. Now the children looked up at her, puzzled. They were walking through a dry area and why would ma’am have to swim?
“This is the dry bed of the River Mansar, which once was a source of fresh water to the entire region,” said the teacher, smiling at their puzzled faces. The children gasped and looked around them, stunned. A river and not a drop of water? "Another river, called Manhar, joined up with the Mansar after flowing around Dholavira. The people collected water from the rivers by erecting stone bunds across them. The water was then diverted into the reservoirs inside the Harappan township.”
“What happened to Mansar and Manhar ?” That was Rahul, now all agog!
“Around 5000 years ago the people of the Indus Valley and its surrounding regions took to cultivation. As time passed, agriculture and cattle rearing became their main occupation. More and more land began to be cleared for irrigation, firewood, grazing, and other purposes. In a short while, the forests began disappearing. So the region began receiving less rainfall. The ground water level started falling. Soon the rivers were dry!” The teacher paused for a minute. “The dry winds would pick up the silt from the riverbeds and blow it all over the region. This entire process is called desertification. It turns a semi-arid landscape into a completely dry one. Here at Dholavira, desertification began at the end of the Harappan period, 3500 years ago. Today this is happening all over the world!”
Meanwhile Bhola, the local guide from a nearby village, came to call them for lunch. “Couldn’t anyone do anything at all to prevent further desertification?” Mohan wondered as they trouped behind their guide. Lunch was waiting for them in the village. The children were rather surprised to see that the village was quite unlike the arid surroundings of the ruins. It was rather big and full of people and domesticated animals. Besides shrubs, there were also some trees.
“This village looks green and fertile. Not like Dholavira!” whispered Rahul to Mohan.
“Yes it is,” replied Bhola. The two boys sprang around, surprised. They had not expected a reply from him. Bhola continued, “If we don’t take care now, the village will also very soon become as dry as Dholavira! But we are determined to prevent that. The little fresh water in the wells is just enough for drinking and household purposes. Farming is very difficult. We rear animals like cattle, sheep, goat, donkey and camel. We have developed common grazing grounds close to the Rann. We don’t let our animals eat up the sparse vegetation in and around the village. This helps to regenerate the original vegetation of this place. We have also planted many trees and shrubs which are unique to this region.”
After lunch, the children roamed around the village with Bhola. They saw how the villagers had taken to using cow dung cakes as fuel instead of firewood. They saw how they collected every drop of rainwater they could. “One day we will surely have enough water for dry land cultivation,” said Bhola, almost dreamily. The children grew solemn when they saw the villagers struggling to make their land fertile and bring the vegetation and water back.
As they boarded their bus back home that evening, even Rahul and Shashank admitted that the trip had been an eye-opener. “Not a boring history lesson, eh?” Mohan grinned at the two, his eyes twinkling. And they could only grin back sheepishly!
Every year more than 60,000 sq km of soil turns to desert and over 200, 000 sq km of land becomes unsuitable for crops because of desertification all over the world. Desertification affects millions of people and animals all over the world, posing serious problems of water and livelihood. It affects the entire biodiversity of the region. Desertification is a major problem in Kachchh. Kachchh is the sole habitat of the last surviving population of the endangered endemic Indian Wild Ass. It also supports the largest breeding colony of the Greater and Lesser Flamingoes in South and South East Asia. More than one million Flamingoes are estimated to breed in the Great Rann of Kachchh, the world’s largest saline wetland. It is also home to the unique saline grassland called Banni (approximately 3,847 sq. km in area), which harbors unique and endemic salt tolerant grasses and numerous wild relatives of commercially cultivated and economically valuable species.
“How boring!” groaned Shashank, as he got into the school bus. “Another history lesson, that’s what this trip is going to be!”
“I know,” groaned back Rahul. “And that too, not in the classroom, but in the middle of a hot desert!”
Mohan remained silent. He loved history and he did not think the trip would be boring.
Mohan was part of a study tour from his school in Ahmedabad. They were visiting the archaeological site of Dholavira, a 5000-year-old settlement dating back to the Indus Valley civilization.
All along the way, their history teacher, who was escorting them, spoke about the civilisation. Rahul yawned and yawned. Shashank tried to drown her voice by loudly crunching up potato wafers. Only Mohan listened keenly.
And then they were there. The children tumbled out of the bus and teacher led them forward. Dholavira was located on the Khadir Island, an elevated landmass with mountainous outcrops, in the Great Rann of Kachchh. The settlement complex was huge and the remains looked like the ruins of a fortified palace. Standing on the excavated archaeological mound with the others, Mohan surveyed the region.
`But why would any one want to settle down in a dry and barren region like this?’ he wondered. At a distance he could see the glistening salt deserts of the Rann. Surely there was a mistake! Mohan knew that there were no rivers here and that t he place received very little rainfall. He wanted to clarify his doubt but was a bit hesitant. His classmates were looking rather bored and uninterested. Rahul was scratching some picture on the ground with the tip of his shoe. . No one else seemed to have any question to ask. Mohan decided to take the plunge and ask it out.
“But, ma’am, why did the people of the Indus valley settle here? In a land so dry and with no water?”
His teacher smiled, “That’s a smart question, Mohan!” Mohan went red with pride and the other boys turned to stare at him. “To begin with, reaching Dholavira was not difficult 5000 years ago because at that time, the Great Rann and the Little Rann were like extended arms of the Arabian Sea through which small boats could sail. Even today, this Rann, which is just a little above sea level, gets flooded with a shallow sheet of water during the monsoon. Since the water is mostly from the sea, when it dries up, the area turns into a saline desert, with thick deposits of salt crystals.” As they talked, teacher led them away from the ruins. Mohan kept pace with her while the others trudged along.
`Secondly the region was very fertile 5000 years ago,’ she continued. Rahul and Shashank had got into a scrap by now, much to Mohan’s irritation. Shashank pushed Rahul who slipped and fell. The teacher stopped to help him on his feet. “Rahul, if you had fallen here 5000 years back, I would have to swim to save you,” she said. Now the children looked up at her, puzzled. They were walking through a dry area and why would ma’am have to swim?
“This is the dry bed of the River Mansar, which once was a source of fresh water to the entire region,” said the teacher, smiling at their puzzled faces. The children gasped and looked around them, stunned. A river and not a drop of water? "Another river, called Manhar, joined up with the Mansar after flowing around Dholavira. The people collected water from the rivers by erecting stone bunds across them. The water was then diverted into the reservoirs inside the Harappan township.”
“What happened to Mansar and Manhar ?” That was Rahul, now all agog!
“Around 5000 years ago the people of the Indus Valley and its surrounding regions took to cultivation. As time passed, agriculture and cattle rearing became their main occupation. More and more land began to be cleared for irrigation, firewood, grazing, and other purposes. In a short while, the forests began disappearing. So the region began receiving less rainfall. The ground water level started falling. Soon the rivers were dry!” The teacher paused for a minute. “The dry winds would pick up the silt from the riverbeds and blow it all over the region. This entire process is called desertification. It turns a semi-arid landscape into a completely dry one. Here at Dholavira, desertification began at the end of the Harappan period, 3500 years ago. Today this is happening all over the world!”
Meanwhile Bhola, the local guide from a nearby village, came to call them for lunch. “Couldn’t anyone do anything at all to prevent further desertification?” Mohan wondered as they trouped behind their guide. Lunch was waiting for them in the village. The children were rather surprised to see that the village was quite unlike the arid surroundings of the ruins. It was rather big and full of people and domesticated animals. Besides shrubs, there were also some trees.
“This village looks green and fertile. Not like Dholavira!” whispered Rahul to Mohan.
“Yes it is,” replied Bhola. The two boys sprang around, surprised. They had not expected a reply from him. Bhola continued, “If we don’t take care now, the village will also very soon become as dry as Dholavira! But we are determined to prevent that. The little fresh water in the wells is just enough for drinking and household purposes. Farming is very difficult. We rear animals like cattle, sheep, goat, donkey and camel. We have developed common grazing grounds close to the Rann. We don’t let our animals eat up the sparse vegetation in and around the village. This helps to regenerate the original vegetation of this place. We have also planted many trees and shrubs which are unique to this region.”
After lunch, the children roamed around the village with Bhola. They saw how the villagers had taken to using cow dung cakes as fuel instead of firewood. They saw how they collected every drop of rainwater they could. “One day we will surely have enough water for dry land cultivation,” said Bhola, almost dreamily. The children grew solemn when they saw the villagers struggling to make their land fertile and bring the vegetation and water back.
As they boarded their bus back home that evening, even Rahul and Shashank admitted that the trip had been an eye-opener. “Not a boring history lesson, eh?” Mohan grinned at the two, his eyes twinkling. And they could only grin back sheepishly!
Every year more than 60,000 sq km of soil turns to desert and over 200, 000 sq km of land becomes unsuitable for crops because of desertification all over the world. Desertification affects millions of people and animals all over the world, posing serious problems of water and livelihood. It affects the entire biodiversity of the region. Desertification is a major problem in Kachchh. Kachchh is the sole habitat of the last surviving population of the endangered endemic Indian Wild Ass. It also supports the largest breeding colony of the Greater and Lesser Flamingoes in South and South East Asia. More than one million Flamingoes are estimated to breed in the Great Rann of Kachchh, the world’s largest saline wetland. It is also home to the unique saline grassland called Banni (approximately 3,847 sq. km in area), which harbors unique and endemic salt tolerant grasses and numerous wild relatives of commercially cultivated and economically valuable species.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Raja Ravi Verma at Malavli!
Raja Ravi Verma at Malavli!
Bina Thomas ( binatho@gmail.com )
Dear Diary,
Mom and I were driving towards Pune after visiting the amazing rock cut prayer halls at Karle and Bhaja. Suddenly Mom asked me if we could stop by at Malavli, a village by the expressway. I was a little tired after our morning trek and was longing to reach home and rest. But when I heard Mom say “Raja Ravi Verma’s press” I was interested.
Earlier on Mom had told me about Raja Ravi Verma, a 19th century prince and painter from Kerala. He belonged to the royal family of Travancore (South Kerala). He began painting at a young age and his works are world renowned. I have seen them on the internet. Ravi Verma’s real life portrayal of human figures, especially in scenes from Indian mythology and ancient literature are very beautiful. Various palaces hosted him as a special guest and he created enchanting portraits of its royal residents. He is even credited to have `dressed’ our Hindu goddesses and gods in sarees and dhotis!! “And what did the Prince have to do in this remote village in Pune? Isn’t that what you are wondering about?” Mom’s question shook me out of my reverie, and I agreed.
She explained that printing technology was advancing at that time. German printing machines for oleographs or prints of paintings were gaining popularity. A press was started in Bombay for the same purpose. Prints of Raja Ravi Verma's paintings of Hindu gods and goddesses were made available to public and it gained acceptability among the ordinary people. This was the beginning of `calendar art’ in India. Today, can one imagine an Indian household without pictures or calendars of gods and goddesses? But the press had to be shut down due to various reasons. Raja Ravi Verma shifted out the press from Bombay and in 1896 set it up in Malavli; a quite and peaceful village not too far from Bombay and close to Peshwai Pune. Later the press was sold to one of his German technicians, and sometime later was shut down. Descendents of the German owner now own the property.
With permission from the guards, we entered the 100 acres of private property. We strolled around the press building, and surveyed its dilapidated condition. The guard informed us that apart from a couple of printing machines and perhaps a few oleographs strewn around the few rooms that housed the press there was nothing in the locked building.
Our visit was like homage to the great painter. As we continued our journey home, Mom and I discussed the possibility of converting the building and premises of the Raja Ravi Verma Press into a museum or an institute for Fine Arts. Is someone listening?
Bina Thomas ( binatho@gmail.com )
Dear Diary,
Mom and I were driving towards Pune after visiting the amazing rock cut prayer halls at Karle and Bhaja. Suddenly Mom asked me if we could stop by at Malavli, a village by the expressway. I was a little tired after our morning trek and was longing to reach home and rest. But when I heard Mom say “Raja Ravi Verma’s press” I was interested.
Earlier on Mom had told me about Raja Ravi Verma, a 19th century prince and painter from Kerala. He belonged to the royal family of Travancore (South Kerala). He began painting at a young age and his works are world renowned. I have seen them on the internet. Ravi Verma’s real life portrayal of human figures, especially in scenes from Indian mythology and ancient literature are very beautiful. Various palaces hosted him as a special guest and he created enchanting portraits of its royal residents. He is even credited to have `dressed’ our Hindu goddesses and gods in sarees and dhotis!! “And what did the Prince have to do in this remote village in Pune? Isn’t that what you are wondering about?” Mom’s question shook me out of my reverie, and I agreed.
She explained that printing technology was advancing at that time. German printing machines for oleographs or prints of paintings were gaining popularity. A press was started in Bombay for the same purpose. Prints of Raja Ravi Verma's paintings of Hindu gods and goddesses were made available to public and it gained acceptability among the ordinary people. This was the beginning of `calendar art’ in India. Today, can one imagine an Indian household without pictures or calendars of gods and goddesses? But the press had to be shut down due to various reasons. Raja Ravi Verma shifted out the press from Bombay and in 1896 set it up in Malavli; a quite and peaceful village not too far from Bombay and close to Peshwai Pune. Later the press was sold to one of his German technicians, and sometime later was shut down. Descendents of the German owner now own the property.
With permission from the guards, we entered the 100 acres of private property. We strolled around the press building, and surveyed its dilapidated condition. The guard informed us that apart from a couple of printing machines and perhaps a few oleographs strewn around the few rooms that housed the press there was nothing in the locked building.
Our visit was like homage to the great painter. As we continued our journey home, Mom and I discussed the possibility of converting the building and premises of the Raja Ravi Verma Press into a museum or an institute for Fine Arts. Is someone listening?
Anaconda in my backyard!!!
Anaconda in my backyard!!!
Bina Thomas ( binatho@gmail.com )
Nandini was very happy. Her dear friend, Meghna, was visiting her during the holidays. For friends who had grown up together in the same city and school, Nandini’s shift to a new city had been heartbreaking for both. So, when Nandini heard of Meghna's visit during the holidays, she was delighted. Finally they would be chatting away like old times. In person, and not on email!!
And there was so much that Nandini wanted to show Meghna. Her brand new pink room, her new computer and study table, the smart glass cupboard which displayed all her precious curio collection, and the old trunk that Nandini was nostalgic about, chock-a-block with stuff toys that they shared when they were younger.
However there was one silent prayer on her mind. May Meghna never open the window overlooking the backyard of her building!! The Anaconda would strike her and she would be smitten with disapproval of her room, house, building, and perhaps even the posh locality they lived in!! Nandini couldn’t bear the though of it.
Actually what Nandini called an `Anaconda’ was a dirty, smelly nalla flowing behind the building. Till just a few months ago, this dirty, smelly nalla was a stream. A gently flowing tributary of the river the city was located by. But things had changed so rapidly in the last few months. Many new construction activities were sprouting in the vicinity. Initially, it was the construction debris from these sites that was very conveniently dumped by the edge of the stream. The workers were instructed by the contractors to do so. Slowly, the heap of debris became a curtain for the workers to use the stream as a common toilet!! And when residents came in to occupy these buildings, it became a common dump yard for all kinds of domestic waste!!! To the extent, that the once gurgling stream turned into an unbearably smelly nalla that snaked the area, like a dark and dense Anaconda!!!. Post monsoons it had even stopped flowing. The stagnant nalla not only looked ugly, it also posed a threat to the resident's health.
“But why don’t you do something about it?” asked Meghna, when she did open the window and saw the dirty nalla. Nandini was clueless. “At least begin by asking friends and neighbors to suggest what we could do to prevent further pollution of the nalla,” Meghna clarified. “I am sure we will find somebody who will help in this matter”.
And sure they did. Not one. Many residents. Seniors were soon writing letters and talking to people in authority like the Area Ward officers, and Corporators. They were geared up to even meet the Municipal Commissioner if needed. The two friends were very happy that things were moving. The fact was, the residents were equally concerned about the matter, but were perhaps waiting for `coordinators’ like Nandini and Meghna to bring them together and `push’ them forward.
Bina Thomas ( binatho@gmail.com )
Nandini was very happy. Her dear friend, Meghna, was visiting her during the holidays. For friends who had grown up together in the same city and school, Nandini’s shift to a new city had been heartbreaking for both. So, when Nandini heard of Meghna's visit during the holidays, she was delighted. Finally they would be chatting away like old times. In person, and not on email!!
And there was so much that Nandini wanted to show Meghna. Her brand new pink room, her new computer and study table, the smart glass cupboard which displayed all her precious curio collection, and the old trunk that Nandini was nostalgic about, chock-a-block with stuff toys that they shared when they were younger.
However there was one silent prayer on her mind. May Meghna never open the window overlooking the backyard of her building!! The Anaconda would strike her and she would be smitten with disapproval of her room, house, building, and perhaps even the posh locality they lived in!! Nandini couldn’t bear the though of it.
Actually what Nandini called an `Anaconda’ was a dirty, smelly nalla flowing behind the building. Till just a few months ago, this dirty, smelly nalla was a stream. A gently flowing tributary of the river the city was located by. But things had changed so rapidly in the last few months. Many new construction activities were sprouting in the vicinity. Initially, it was the construction debris from these sites that was very conveniently dumped by the edge of the stream. The workers were instructed by the contractors to do so. Slowly, the heap of debris became a curtain for the workers to use the stream as a common toilet!! And when residents came in to occupy these buildings, it became a common dump yard for all kinds of domestic waste!!! To the extent, that the once gurgling stream turned into an unbearably smelly nalla that snaked the area, like a dark and dense Anaconda!!!. Post monsoons it had even stopped flowing. The stagnant nalla not only looked ugly, it also posed a threat to the resident's health.
“But why don’t you do something about it?” asked Meghna, when she did open the window and saw the dirty nalla. Nandini was clueless. “At least begin by asking friends and neighbors to suggest what we could do to prevent further pollution of the nalla,” Meghna clarified. “I am sure we will find somebody who will help in this matter”.
And sure they did. Not one. Many residents. Seniors were soon writing letters and talking to people in authority like the Area Ward officers, and Corporators. They were geared up to even meet the Municipal Commissioner if needed. The two friends were very happy that things were moving. The fact was, the residents were equally concerned about the matter, but were perhaps waiting for `coordinators’ like Nandini and Meghna to bring them together and `push’ them forward.
Finders Keepers
Finders Keepers!
Bina Thomas ( binatho@gmail.com )
Often in our daily lives we come across instances which reveal great Truths. They bring us face to face with the teachings of Saints and Philosphers. And that is exactly what happened to Monu and his mother when they met a group of young boys from the neighbourhood slums. Read on to know what happened …….
Monu was engrossed in his search, when a gang of boys stopped him.
“Are you looking for this?” asked one of them. He held the `lost’ book.
“Yes, that’s mine!” Monu jumped at it.
“But now it’s ours,” said the boy shoving the book into his shirt, “and if you want it back you have to pay 50 rupees for it” he said.
“50? That is too high! My mother would never agree to pay that much.”
“How about 30?”
“Could we settle for 20 rupees?” Monu finally asked.
“Ok. Done.”
Monu heaved a sigh of relief. It all was his fault. While cycling home from the library, he did not realize when one of his story books fell off the bicycle carrier. On confiding to mom, she had suggested that he retrace the entire stretch between home and library once again and look for the book. The book must have dropped off at the hutments near the cross roads and was found by one of the boys.
Thus, the matter was settled. 20 rupees! Although Monu knew his mother wouldn’t be happy with this negotiation, he desperately wanted his book back. What if the library cancelled his membership because he lost a book? What if he had to pay the cost of the book? That would be much more an amount!
Monu told the young boys to wait at the same spot till he returned with the money. His mother was both angry and amused on hearing the demand. She decided to accompany her son. The boys were a little nervous on seeing an `Aunty’ accompanying their `prey’. But, they put up a strong front. Aunty too was prepared to explain to the boys that it was wrong to keep something that didn’t belong to them.
“But the book doesn’t belong to you”, Aunty pursued.
“And I am going to return it,” replied the young kid and sniggered. His gang giggled among themselves.
“But only for a price?” asked Aunty.
“Yes, 20 rupees,” he confirmed.
“Why?” Aunty wanted the kid to think and realize how unreasonable his demand was.
But his reply was quick!
“Madame, I am being honest and told the truth that I have the book,” said the boy. “It was your son who was careless and lost a book which does not even belong to him. I found it and kept it safe. It is now my property. I could sell it to any secondhand books store and make some money. But, I chose to return it to your son,” with complete confidence the young boy reasoned it out.
Aunty was speechless. It reminded her of an episode in the life of Gautama Buddha. Prince Siddharta, as the Buddha was known when he was young, once saved a bird which was shot down by his cousin Devadratta. When Devdratta made his claim for the bird, Siddharta refused to part with the helpless creature. The matter then went to court. The young princes had to present their case. Siddharta said that since he had saved the bird from death and thus given it a new life the bird should be allowed to remain in his care. The court was adjourned in Siddharta’s favour, because, a Protector is nobler than a Destroyer.
Aunty was so impressed by the young lad’s reply that she could not resist but give him the 20 rupees he expected. “This is for your honesty and fearlessly speaking your mind,” she said.
Bina Thomas ( binatho@gmail.com )
Often in our daily lives we come across instances which reveal great Truths. They bring us face to face with the teachings of Saints and Philosphers. And that is exactly what happened to Monu and his mother when they met a group of young boys from the neighbourhood slums. Read on to know what happened …….
Monu was engrossed in his search, when a gang of boys stopped him.
“Are you looking for this?” asked one of them. He held the `lost’ book.
“Yes, that’s mine!” Monu jumped at it.
“But now it’s ours,” said the boy shoving the book into his shirt, “and if you want it back you have to pay 50 rupees for it” he said.
“50? That is too high! My mother would never agree to pay that much.”
“How about 30?”
“Could we settle for 20 rupees?” Monu finally asked.
“Ok. Done.”
Monu heaved a sigh of relief. It all was his fault. While cycling home from the library, he did not realize when one of his story books fell off the bicycle carrier. On confiding to mom, she had suggested that he retrace the entire stretch between home and library once again and look for the book. The book must have dropped off at the hutments near the cross roads and was found by one of the boys.
Thus, the matter was settled. 20 rupees! Although Monu knew his mother wouldn’t be happy with this negotiation, he desperately wanted his book back. What if the library cancelled his membership because he lost a book? What if he had to pay the cost of the book? That would be much more an amount!
Monu told the young boys to wait at the same spot till he returned with the money. His mother was both angry and amused on hearing the demand. She decided to accompany her son. The boys were a little nervous on seeing an `Aunty’ accompanying their `prey’. But, they put up a strong front. Aunty too was prepared to explain to the boys that it was wrong to keep something that didn’t belong to them.
“But the book doesn’t belong to you”, Aunty pursued.
“And I am going to return it,” replied the young kid and sniggered. His gang giggled among themselves.
“But only for a price?” asked Aunty.
“Yes, 20 rupees,” he confirmed.
“Why?” Aunty wanted the kid to think and realize how unreasonable his demand was.
But his reply was quick!
“Madame, I am being honest and told the truth that I have the book,” said the boy. “It was your son who was careless and lost a book which does not even belong to him. I found it and kept it safe. It is now my property. I could sell it to any secondhand books store and make some money. But, I chose to return it to your son,” with complete confidence the young boy reasoned it out.
Aunty was speechless. It reminded her of an episode in the life of Gautama Buddha. Prince Siddharta, as the Buddha was known when he was young, once saved a bird which was shot down by his cousin Devadratta. When Devdratta made his claim for the bird, Siddharta refused to part with the helpless creature. The matter then went to court. The young princes had to present their case. Siddharta said that since he had saved the bird from death and thus given it a new life the bird should be allowed to remain in his care. The court was adjourned in Siddharta’s favour, because, a Protector is nobler than a Destroyer.
Aunty was so impressed by the young lad’s reply that she could not resist but give him the 20 rupees he expected. “This is for your honesty and fearlessly speaking your mind,” she said.
Teach children about religion
INTERVENTION
Teach children about religion
They may be more perceptive than you think
BINA THOMAS
Religion is indeed a very sensitive issue. And for some, especially the cosmopolitan liberal, it is a exceedingly personal issue. It is either not right or appropriate to discuss it in any informal gathering. And for the same reasons we try and keep away from discussing it with our children.
Or maybe we think our little ones are too young to understand the complexities of the issue. But the fact is religion is the most important source of identity for millions of Indians. Thus, the knowledge of the religious diversity in this country and the need to be sensitive and tolerant to the teachings of every religion and, most importantly, the need to coexist in peace and harmony with all are integral learning exercises for any child.
It is not that children don’t wish to know. They are curious. Right from the time they join a school and mix with other children, they want to know why certain festivals are important to some and not to all. Why do objects of worship differ from home to home? Why do some bury their their dead, while others cremate them? Questions on ‘my God’ and ‘your God’ are a part of their identity. One need not be a regular at a temple or mosque for the child to grow curious about these matters. The school and playground are adequate to set the child thinking on what for others are ‘intellectual’ musings.
As responsible parents and teachers, it is important that we explain religion to the child. Let’s teach them young, even before the ‘rewritten’ history textbooks get to them. Preferably with love and reason. Such an exercise also makes it easier for a child to analyse why then if ‘all Indians are my brothers and sisters’ should people live in fear of being hacked to death one day simply because he or she belongs to a different religion?
We cannot shield our children from these doubts forever. And why should we? It’s not being harsh on young minds at all. They get to know of it anyway. In between shifting channels or flipping through newspapers, they learn about the world around them. They have seen the damage caused in Gujarat. The older ones may have even read articles or watched news clippings with tears in their eyes. There would be many wanting to know what we mean by words like ‘fundamentalism’ or ‘communal harmony’.
Why should we be reluctant to address these queries in the same spirit of humanity that we render to issues of the drought or earthquake-affected? Are we scared to teach or children to love the ‘other’ because there is so much hate among ourselves? Or is it as plain as not wanting to learn from or listen to our own respective religious texts? As educated citizens, it’s time we equip ourselves with answers for such ‘personal’ questions. Children are more perceptive than we give them credit for. Sometimes they are more perceptive than adults.
The writer is an archaeologist, working with Bodhigram, a Pune-based centre for alternate education
Teach children about religion
They may be more perceptive than you think
BINA THOMAS
Religion is indeed a very sensitive issue. And for some, especially the cosmopolitan liberal, it is a exceedingly personal issue. It is either not right or appropriate to discuss it in any informal gathering. And for the same reasons we try and keep away from discussing it with our children.
Or maybe we think our little ones are too young to understand the complexities of the issue. But the fact is religion is the most important source of identity for millions of Indians. Thus, the knowledge of the religious diversity in this country and the need to be sensitive and tolerant to the teachings of every religion and, most importantly, the need to coexist in peace and harmony with all are integral learning exercises for any child.
It is not that children don’t wish to know. They are curious. Right from the time they join a school and mix with other children, they want to know why certain festivals are important to some and not to all. Why do objects of worship differ from home to home? Why do some bury their their dead, while others cremate them? Questions on ‘my God’ and ‘your God’ are a part of their identity. One need not be a regular at a temple or mosque for the child to grow curious about these matters. The school and playground are adequate to set the child thinking on what for others are ‘intellectual’ musings.
As responsible parents and teachers, it is important that we explain religion to the child. Let’s teach them young, even before the ‘rewritten’ history textbooks get to them. Preferably with love and reason. Such an exercise also makes it easier for a child to analyse why then if ‘all Indians are my brothers and sisters’ should people live in fear of being hacked to death one day simply because he or she belongs to a different religion?
We cannot shield our children from these doubts forever. And why should we? It’s not being harsh on young minds at all. They get to know of it anyway. In between shifting channels or flipping through newspapers, they learn about the world around them. They have seen the damage caused in Gujarat. The older ones may have even read articles or watched news clippings with tears in their eyes. There would be many wanting to know what we mean by words like ‘fundamentalism’ or ‘communal harmony’.
Why should we be reluctant to address these queries in the same spirit of humanity that we render to issues of the drought or earthquake-affected? Are we scared to teach or children to love the ‘other’ because there is so much hate among ourselves? Or is it as plain as not wanting to learn from or listen to our own respective religious texts? As educated citizens, it’s time we equip ourselves with answers for such ‘personal’ questions. Children are more perceptive than we give them credit for. Sometimes they are more perceptive than adults.
The writer is an archaeologist, working with Bodhigram, a Pune-based centre for alternate education
Spirits of History
December 01.2006
Spirits of History saunter around the fort
BINA THOMAS
Malhar and Mallika were admiring the architecture of the fort, when suddenly they met with the past.
"The fort walls look so magnificent in the evening sun," said Malhar.
"And so spooky!" added Mallika, a little nervous. The siblings were waiting for their parents outside the old fort.
The 200-year-old fort was the most important architectural feature within the city. It formed the core around which the entire city had grown. The monument stood strong and mighty, as the city bustled around it.
They were admiring the huge wooden door with metal spikes and plates. Suddenly they heard someone sobbing.
"Who's crying?" asked Malhar. There was no reply.
"Who's crying?"asked Mallika.
They looked around and spotted two men, dressed in silk dhotis, with regal turbans, and wearing leather joothis. Malhar and Mallika walked up to them.
"What happened? Who are you? Are you from the village? Do you need help?" they asked. But the men only wept. "We are not from the village," they finally said. "This fort is our home."
"What! Even the watchman doesn't live here!" said Malhar. The two men looked puzzled.
"But we have been living here for the past 200 years."
"What do you mean?" "We are the chief architects of this vast fort," they explained. "We selected this spot and planned not just the fort but the market and residential areas around it," they added with pride as they wiped their tears. "You mean you are ghosts?" they nervously asked.
"Not ghosts. They are scary. We are souls of the fort, or better still, call us spirits," they smiled. "We are two of the many spirits that reside in this old monument."
Great grief
"Why were you crying?" asked Mallika, now a little relaxed seeing the gentle ways of the spirits.
"Everyday hundreds of visitors come to see the monument we built. We feel proud. But when we see the damage and the filth they leave behind we feel sad. The sweepers clear the trash every morning, but what about the stains and graffiti on our stonewalls? They are like scars on our body! People and children too, spit and urinate in any isolated corner within this structure! Would you do such a thing in your house?" they asked, seething with anger.
"Of course not!" said the children rather alarmed.
"This fort was the residence of the royal family. It also housed a few offices. It was all so neatly planned with corridors and balconies, gardens and fountains... " the spirits were ecstatic with nostalgia. "That was all so long ago. We are happy our country has declared this fort and many other such structures as `Protected Monuments'. But do the citizens really care? They cause so much damage!" they began to cry again.
"We can imagine the effort it takes to build a structure like this," Malhar consoled them. "We will talk to our teachers, so whenever children from our school go on a picnic to a historical monument, they will take care not to damage or dirty the monument or its premises," promised Mallika.
Suddenly they heard their names being called. They turned around and saw their parents at a distance. Malhar and Mallika turned once again to say `Bye' to the Spirits, but they were gone. "Sorry to keep you both waiting," apologised their father. "Were you scared?" he asked.
"Not at all! The spirits kept us company, " they said.
Spirits of History saunter around the fort
BINA THOMAS
Malhar and Mallika were admiring the architecture of the fort, when suddenly they met with the past.
"The fort walls look so magnificent in the evening sun," said Malhar.
"And so spooky!" added Mallika, a little nervous. The siblings were waiting for their parents outside the old fort.
The 200-year-old fort was the most important architectural feature within the city. It formed the core around which the entire city had grown. The monument stood strong and mighty, as the city bustled around it.
They were admiring the huge wooden door with metal spikes and plates. Suddenly they heard someone sobbing.
"Who's crying?" asked Malhar. There was no reply.
"Who's crying?"asked Mallika.
They looked around and spotted two men, dressed in silk dhotis, with regal turbans, and wearing leather joothis. Malhar and Mallika walked up to them.
"What happened? Who are you? Are you from the village? Do you need help?" they asked. But the men only wept. "We are not from the village," they finally said. "This fort is our home."
"What! Even the watchman doesn't live here!" said Malhar. The two men looked puzzled.
"But we have been living here for the past 200 years."
"What do you mean?" "We are the chief architects of this vast fort," they explained. "We selected this spot and planned not just the fort but the market and residential areas around it," they added with pride as they wiped their tears. "You mean you are ghosts?" they nervously asked.
"Not ghosts. They are scary. We are souls of the fort, or better still, call us spirits," they smiled. "We are two of the many spirits that reside in this old monument."
Great grief
"Why were you crying?" asked Mallika, now a little relaxed seeing the gentle ways of the spirits.
"Everyday hundreds of visitors come to see the monument we built. We feel proud. But when we see the damage and the filth they leave behind we feel sad. The sweepers clear the trash every morning, but what about the stains and graffiti on our stonewalls? They are like scars on our body! People and children too, spit and urinate in any isolated corner within this structure! Would you do such a thing in your house?" they asked, seething with anger.
"Of course not!" said the children rather alarmed.
"This fort was the residence of the royal family. It also housed a few offices. It was all so neatly planned with corridors and balconies, gardens and fountains... " the spirits were ecstatic with nostalgia. "That was all so long ago. We are happy our country has declared this fort and many other such structures as `Protected Monuments'. But do the citizens really care? They cause so much damage!" they began to cry again.
"We can imagine the effort it takes to build a structure like this," Malhar consoled them. "We will talk to our teachers, so whenever children from our school go on a picnic to a historical monument, they will take care not to damage or dirty the monument or its premises," promised Mallika.
Suddenly they heard their names being called. They turned around and saw their parents at a distance. Malhar and Mallika turned once again to say `Bye' to the Spirits, but they were gone. "Sorry to keep you both waiting," apologised their father. "Were you scared?" he asked.
"Not at all! The spirits kept us company, " they said.
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