Saving India's rice

“If you tickle the earth with a hoe,” it is said, “she laughs with a harvest.”

Not anymore.

The agricultural yield of India has been steadily decreasing over time. Nowhere is this depletion more evident than in the cultivation of rice, once a staple crop in the country.

There was a time when fields across the country saw the harvesting of numerous varieties of rice that were native to a particular village and were not to be found anywhere else. These strains of rice were treasured by generations of farmers for their capacity to grow well in extreme weather conditions such as droughts or floods. Such rice also had a strong medicinal value (some could even prevent cancers) and were not affected by saltwater.

Dr Debal Deb, noted India rice conservationist, estimates that India was once home to more than 100,000 local varieties of rice. That number has now dropped to 6000, owing to modern methods that encourage the growth of hybrids in the hope of netting high yields.

Abysmal as the loss is, it would have been much worse were it not for the efforts of Dr Deb, who has singlehandedly worked hard to remedy the situation. An alumnus of the Indian Institute of Science, Dr Deb is a Fulbright scholar who has done post-doctoral ecology work at the University of California at Berkeley. Buoyed by the courage of his convictions, he gave up his job at the World Wildlife Fund to save the country’s rice strains.

Dr Deb has made it his personal mission to give renewed life to those lost varieties of rice. He visits remote regions and gets in touch with marginalized farmers that the country has forgotten about in his quest to source the seeds to these varieties. His efforts require him not only to battle larger issues of climate change and poverty, but also to fight against bureaucracy and the apathy of people.

His battleground is a 2.5 acre plot of land in a forest area on the Niyamgiri hills of Odisha, where Dr Deb is growing 920 varieties of rice. These varieties are planted in the traditional manner, with care taken to ensure that no two varieties grow at the same time, to prevent cross pollination and ensure the genetic purity of the varieties.

Over the last few decades, Dr Deb has collected more than a 1000 varieties of rice from 13 states across India. He stores the seeds in a seed bank named Vrihi, the Sanskrit word for rice. These are seeds that Dr Deb painstakingly collected from farmers. But for his efforts, these numbers would have been added on the debit side, aggravating the loss that the country suffers.

To do this, Dr Deb has initiated a unique method, a seed exchange programme that rewards farmers for sharing. He grows the rice and then distributes it in 1kg packets. Farmers receive the packets free, but must bring back 2kg to him, to prove that they have cultivated it. And so the cycle continues, including more and more farmers in its ever increasing spiral of generosity.

The spurt given to the cultivation of these varieties of rice contributes to food security and helps perpetuate the culture and the local biodiversity. Enabling these varieties to thrive has also served farmers well. When Cyclone Aila destroyed parts of West Bengal in 2009, some farmers in the Sundarbans who were cultivating salt-tolerant varieties of rice, with the support of Dr Deb, reported a rich harvest.

As the devastating effects of global warming become a reality and extreme weather conditions become more and more evident, the value of Dr Deb’s efforts will become more evident. Dr Deb also hopes that this resurgence will re-kindle farmers’ interest in traditional farming methods.

In a world in which food security has begun to cause grave concern and in which food varieties are disappearing forever, Dr Deb’s efforts can help herald a new era for Indian agriculture.

I believe that Dr Deb's efforts are all that stand between profusion and extinction for India’s rice heritage.

Dear reader, if you are reading this and believe, as I do, in the perseverance against all odds displayed by Dr Deb, please do not forget to vote for him. Please vote for Dr Deb. 



“I’m voting for Dr Deb’s #WillOfSteel and blogging on BlogAdda to help him get felicitated and eventually enabled by JSW."

Climbing Mt Everest on limbs of steel

Reputed world federalist leader and editor-in-chief of the Saturday Review of Literature Norman Cousins wrote in his book, Human Options, “Most men think they are immortal -- until they get a cold, when they think they are going to die within the hour.”

It was a quote that sprang to my mind when I read about the brutally horrifying accident that Arunima Sinha lived through. The newspaper, the largest selling English newspaper in India, had given her three paragraphs in a single column.

A national level volleyball player then, Arunima was pushed out of the general coach of a running train, the Padmavati Express, on April 11, 2011, by thieves who attempted to snatch her bag and gold chain. When she resisted them, they pushed her out. She had been on her way from Lucknow to Delhi to take an examination that would qualify her to join the CISF [Central Industrial Security Force].

Falling on the tracks, struck immobile by the force of being catapulted out of a moving train, Arunima lay powerless on the track when a train on the other track went over her leg. Soon after that, a train on a parallel track ran over her leg again, crushing her leg below the knee. She lay there all night, even as rats chewed on her broken leg, and 49 trains went up and down. She was only rescued in the morning.

Doctors at the local hospital had no anaesthesia to operate upon her. Arunima told them she had already lived through pain, and that they should go ahead to save her life. Eventually, they had to amputate her leg in order to save her life.

Anyone else’s spirits would have been crushed, following such a devastating accident. Not Arunima.

Days later, she was moved to AIIMS [All India Institute of Medical Sciences]. A private company gave her a prosthetic leg free of cost. Meanwhile the media had a field day, accusing her of travelling ticketless and of jumping off the train. Others said she was intent of committing suicide. Arunima battled these misconceptions as much as the pain.

For 4 months, she stayed in AIIMS. While still there, she decided to climb Mount Everest and take up mountaineering. People belittled her efforts but she could not be stopped. Meeting Bachendri Pal, the first Indian woman to climb Mount Everest, helped her to realize her dream, giving her the training and the exposure she needed to make her dream come true.

Becoming a part of the Tata group-sponsored Eco Everest Foundation, Arunima took on the larger-than-life challenge of climbing a mountain that has deterred and attracted bravehearts for centuries. It took her 52 days to reach the summit. She was on top of the world on May 21, 2013, a little over 2 years after her accident.

Very close to the summit, the Sherpa refused to accompany her, saying that an amputee would find it difficult to climb Everest, that they should turn back. When he refused to listen to her pleas, she went on alone.

Her oxygen tank was nearly running on empty. The sherpa pleaded with her. At this point, even her artificial leg came off.

Through this ordeal, she became the first Indian amputee and the first female amputee to climb Mount Everest. In fact, she drove herself so hard that she overtook the others who accompanied her on the climb. You can listen to her story first hand in her own words and voice here:

I was so completely touched on viewing this video. Arunima is a plucky girl, who has shown uncommon courage, in spite of her disability.

Soon after, she was determined to climb the highest peaks on each of the continents. She followed up her Mount Everest success with Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa, Mount Elbrus in Europe and Mount Kosciuszko in Australia.

She is now working towards opening a free sports academy for the poor and differently-abled. Her courage and determination have made her an inspiration to millions of differently abled people. Her actions have shown that they can live their lives with dignity.


Arunima’s achievements remind me of another quote by Norman Cousins. He said, “If something comes to life in others because of you, then you have made an approach to immortality.”

I believe that Arunima has earned her right to immortality.

Dear reader, if you are reading this and believe, as I do, in Arunima's rare courage and strength of will, please do not forget to vote for her. Please vote for Arunima. 



“I’m voting for Arunima Sinha’s #WillOfSteel and blogging on BlogAdda to help her get felicitated and eventually enabled by JSW."

Grabbing a Second Chance

I’ve just finished reading and reviewing The First Phone Call from Heaven, and one line from the book is still fresh in my mind. It goes: The mystery of death lies in the moment it chooses. And that helped to remind me of some promises I had made to myself.

Having watched The Bucket List, starring Morgan Freeman, I too made up a bucket list for myself with a staggering and impressive array of things I wanted to do before I died. But then, as often happens, daily demands of life elbowed thoughts of death out of the way. Death can come at any time, and yet we humans live as though we are going to live forever.

After the children were born, I toyed with the idea of getting one important thing done.

1) Making a will: I thought that in the event of my death, I must divide up any assets among those I loved so I could be sure that they were looked after even after I was no longer with them. We Indians regard conversations around the subject of death with morbid distaste. As if talking about it would bring it closer. Would not talking about it put off the eventuality?



There are other things that I need to do, things that I have been putting off for far too long.

2) Publish my book: This has been so long on my to-do list that I am beginning to wonder about my commitment. Surely if this meant anything to me I’d give it more of my time and energy. The book isn’t going to write itself. My dream is calling. Will I answer?

3) Learn to speak Spanish fluently: I’ve got the basics down. I can handle the grammar. I have got the vocabulary in place. I know the websites to go to. I have the books. What I need to do is to get away from the shores and sail out to sea. The longer I persist in thinking in English and translating it into another language, the longer fluency will elude me.



Will I be able to achieve these things this year? I hope so. Life doesn’t always give us Second Chances. And we don’t know when our time will be up.

“This post is a part of the #SecondChance activity at BlogAdda in association with MaxLife Insurance”.

Let's all become Akshaya Patras for our children

None of us wore watches to school, but that was alright. We didn’t need a timepiece to let us know that it was recess time. The loud rumbling of our stomachs and our increasing inability to focus on what was happening inside the classroom was enough.

Soon the tring-tring-tring of the school bell would sound over the clamour of the voices of a thousand schoolgirls and it would be time to dig into our little plastic and steel tiffin boxes and savour the joys they contained.

Most of us had been sent to school with a full breakfast. And the recess was only a comma in what would end in a hot home-cooked meal when school closed and we got home. Most moms were stay-at-home in those days.

I cannot even begin to imagine the plight of children, millions of them, who go to bed hungry, wake up hungry, then go to school hungry, their minds unable to hear the voices of their teachers over the din raised by their empty bellies.

If at all they go to school.

In between they might nibble on something utterly devoid of nutrition that does nothing to appease the hunger pangs.

What is their motivation for staying in school?

More importantly, what is their parents’ motivation for sending them to school? Their poor parents are more likely to pull them out of school, and utilise them as two more hands to work, rather than one more mouth to feed.

The promise of a meal at school is the key to keeping a child at school while providing for their growth and nourishment. The offering of one square meal in the middle of the day might seem trivial to those of us who have never known real hunger. But to the child who is malnourished and seemingly destined for a life of misery, it is the only means by which we can ensure a healthy future for both their bodies and minds.

The Akshaya Patra Foundation has been working relentlessly, not only to fight hunger but also to keep children in school, away from the streets, and give them the opportunity to better their lives. Beginning in the year 2000 by serving 1500 children across 5 schools, Akshaya Patra is today the world’s largest (not-for-profit) mid-day meal programme which serves wholesome and sufficient foot to over 1.4 million children from 10,661 schools across 23 locations in 10 states of India.



How much does it cost to keep a child fed through the academic year? Just Rs 750.

Take that kind of money with you to the mall, and you’d soon learn how pitifully insufficient it is. If you and a friend went to a multiplex to catch a film, you’d spend much more for the film and the snacks during the interval.

After the film, if you and the same friend went to a decent restaurant with that kind of money, I doubt you’d even reach as far as the appetizers.

And yet that kind of money can feed a child. For a whole year.

A startling idea that brings a whole new perspective to life.

If you want to be part of this revolution to defy hunger and build a new generation of people, you can. As Mother Teresa said, “If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one.”

If you are willing to do that, rush to the Akshaya Patra Foundation’s online donation page and see how easy it is to make a difference.


A nation that does nothing while its littlest citizens go hungry has no right to call itself a great nation. Over time, children who are hungry or even malnourished find themselves suffering from a diminished capacity to understand and learn, to make the right decisions and to live life to the fullest. It is one meal a day that can save them from such a cruel fate.

Poverty is a complicated issue. And despite decades of posturing and shouting slogans like “Garibi Hatao,” I doubt it will be possible to eliminate poverty. And yet, through a programme like the midday meals, Akshaya Patra offers us a way to break down the barriers of poverty and make a difference to each child.

A midday meal boosts school enrollment, attendance and academic performance. A child that is well-fed is a child that will stay in school. A generation of children who are well-fed will mean a stronger, more able-bodied generation, that is not just literate, but intelligent and more competent to steer this country forward.

Akshaya Patra’s efforts teach us that it is possible for each of us to do something to feed our children.

In the Mahabharat, the Akshayapatra (Sanskrit for inexhaustible vessel) held a never-failing supply of food for the Pandavas every day.

Each of us could be the Akshaya Patra for our children. All we need to do is to spare Rs 750 to feed one child for one academic year. 

One hungry child at a time.

• I am going to #BlogToFeedAChild with Akshaya Patra and BlogAdda.

Book Review: PRIVATE INDIA

Title: Private India
Author: James Patterson and Ashwin Sanghi
Publisher:
Pages: 470







Private India is a part of a franchise of Private stories, set in different countries, and there is the suitable combination of local and global flavours, like a McDonald’s offering, that might appeal to the mass market reader.

The Prologue brings up memories of the train bombings of 2006. Subsequently, the novel dives into the action, a murder of a doctor in a hotel room. A private investigative agency, Private India, headed by Santosh Wagh, is called in by the hotel to investigate the murder. The police, for an unconvincing reason, agree to let PI handle the investigation as long as information is shared with them and credit given to them entirely.

The next day, there is a second murder, followed by one murder every day. Each time, the victims are women. In each case, there are strange, incongruous objects arranged around the victims’ bodies. As the bodies pile up, the investigators step up their investigations, hoping to find the link between all the victims, and prevent another murder.

Midway through the story, Jack Morgan, the founder of Private and an ex-CIA agent, drops in and becomes embroiled in the story. The list of suspects grows, as does the killer’s appetite. Will Wagh be able to avenge the victims?

For readers starved for crime thrillers set in Mumbai, the reasonably authentic descriptions of the setting help. The 470 pages of the novel go by fast enough, thanks to the simple writing and the large point size, but tighter editing would have made this a better read. Whole chapters should have been done away with.

The chapters are short, but the pace is slow, picking up marginally after the second murder, and then floundering again with one too many murders. It is hard to imagine an individual hating nine women equally, hating them enough to want to kill them. After the fifth murder, I began to feel bored. At 116 chapters, a Prologue, that doesn’t quite fit in, and an Epilogue, this book is at least 2/5ths too long.

In keeping with clichéd tradition, the leading man, Santosh Wagh, head of PI, has a distressed past, a nightmarish car crash in which he lost his wife and son. He also has a severe drinking problem. It is to drive home his agonies that the narrative keeps going into flashback mode. Unfortunately, each flashback reveals more of the same, utterly failing to reveal the complexity of the character.

Wagh’s assistant, Nisha Gandhe, comes with her own baggage. As do the other members of Wagh’s team, Mubeen Yusuf, the forensics expert, and Hari Padhi, the computer specialist. All these guys are supposed to be the best in the business, but you wouldn't know that unless you were told. They are that good at hiding their brilliance.

There are far too many characters, all superficial and clichéd, and many of them coincidentally acquainted with each other. The character of the gangster, Munna, completely lacks punch and fails to come across as a fearful gangster. All the characters are painted in the same washed out colours. This is an example of lazy writing that failed to evoke any emotion in the reader.

In many places, the writing is poor, with grammatical errors. Dr Zafar, the state forensics doctor, says to Dr Mubeen, "Never knew you would come so late," when he should have said, "I never thought" or "I didn't think."

There are so many paragraphs that are loosely and lazily written. At the first crime scene, Nisha speaks of wanting to bag evidence: a single strand of hair, as though she already knew that the police would allow a private investigative agency on its turf. In another chapter, Dr Mubeen says that his medical estimate is that the second death happened between 8.30 and 10am. He then adds a fact that we learned a few pages before, that the cleaning lady discovered the body at 9.30am. Why didn’t his medical estimate take the fact into account?

There is far too much happening here. The underworld, a sleazy godman, Bollywood, terrorism via the Mujahideen and the ISI, drugs, the Thugee cult, transsexuality, the Tower of Silence, some sex scenes that made for extremely tedious reading. I began to lose interest midway through the novel.

I also found the narrative voice annoying. Wagh has an encyclopaedic memory but the omniscient narrator dismisses it as “information that no normal individual would bother to hold on to.” Surely a detective’s profession required such wide-ranging knowledge. Elsewhere, Wagh is described as answering “robotically.” The omniscient narrator is supposed to be neutral. Yet in speaking of the Shiva Spa Lounge, it comes across as sarcastic, when referring to a character.

There were many false leads that were thrown along the way with the attempt to mislead the reader, and at least one of them is not taken to a satisfactory conclusion. Padhi is projected as a suspect. He calls a husky female voice on the phone, and the brief conversation is rather mysterious in nature. Thereafter, the authors simply forget to explain this hitch away.

The painting in the home of Priyanka Talati, a singer and one of the victims, is worth $3 million. Her home is worth $20 million. Indians talk in terms of lakhs and crores. Weren’t the authors sure of the market they were trying to address with this book?

I have never read a James Patterson novel, though I’ve seen two films, both starring Morgan Freeman, based on his books. Considering how tightly the films were scripted, I can only conclude that this book is more Sanghi than Patterson, and that the latter’s only contribution is the franchise element of the novel. Patterson has earlier collaborated on such novels with other writers in the other Private books. This one is the 8th in the series.

While most of the book failed to thrill me, it was when the PoV turned to that of the killer that the writing turned markedly better, particularly when the killer spoke about feeling pleasured by the fabric used for the strangling. The chapters written from the killer’s PoV exuded the right touch of menace. Ideally, there should have been one after every murder.

The mystery of the killer, I thought, was handled well. It was the lead that was way too long and annoying. Also, the terror element, like an afterthought, didn’t do much to the story.


In sum, not a book I want to recommend.

This review is a part of the biggest http://blog.blogadda.com/2011/05/04/indian-bloggers-book-reviews" target="_blank"> Book Review Program

for http://www.blogadda.com" target="_blank">Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

Five gifts for my children

As parents, we make it our life’s mission to give our children the best that our purses and imaginations can conjure.

Nothing less than the best will do for our children, we tell ourselves. So fierce is our love for our children that it seems to consume us, making every other priority of our lives shrink in comparison.

We make spoken and unspoken promises to ourselves, regarding the sort of care we will give our offspring. We will give them the best to help them soar, to realise their potential and to enable them to hold their own in a world that, unfortunately, will not view them with the high regard that we do.

We get so fixated on our desire to give them the best that money can buy, we often overlook the need to give them the things that money cannot.

We get so carried away in our desire to give them the things that we didn’t have when we were growing up, we forget to give them the things that we did have growing up.

I’m not a great one for buying toys for my children. Having grown up in a SITK (Single Income Three Kids) family where the budget was often stretched thin, I have learned to regard thrift as a virtue. Reduce, reuse and recycle are not just some catchy mantras for me. They are credos by which I live my life. Credos that I seek to inculcate in my children.

Most of the gifting I do happens in honour of my kids’ birthdays. Of course, I do buy them things on impulse, things that I think they might like. Mostly clothes or books, or even small clips, crayons and drawing and colouring books and odds and ends that might inspire them with a sense of novelty.

But whenever the thought of gifting them something arises, both the Husband and I like to think big. Beyond a Made-in-China toy that might not live to see the morrow. Or an expensive gadget or remote controlled toy, for that matter.

A very famous quote, attributed to more than one person, goes: “There are only two lasting bequests we can give our children. One of these is roots, and the other, wings.”

This quote has had a profound influence on me. It has become the philosophy that colours my choice of gifts for my children. I believe that every big gift that we buy for our kids should make a substantial investment in their lives, and should give strength either to their wings or their roots.

Here are the five gifts that I would like to give my two children, known on my blog as La Niña and El Niño. 

1)  The most immediate gift I would like to give them is the gift of my TIME and PRESENCE. As children, my brothers and I were fortunate enough to have parents who were fully invested in our lives. They were interested in the small and big events of our lives, and were always willing to listen and talk to us about the profundities and inanities that occupied our minds. Their deep involvement in our lives and their unconditional love and acceptance have touched me deeply.

Children live in the here and now. They are too young to remember the past, or care about the future. They long to have their parents play a more active, vital and participative role in their lives. One that goes beyond buying them the basic necessaries and hoping they will amuse themselves with some trinkets and gadgets while the grownups go chasing after the items on their own to-do lists.

The way I play a more active role in my kids’ lives is by paying attention to them, by answering them every time they call me, by making time for them, switching off the TV and the computer and setting aside the mobile phone, each time they clamour for their Mamma to play with them.

   2)  The ability to LEARN and KEEP LEARNING would be my second gift for them. I wish my children to always want to learn, to know more, to drink in, with wide, greedy gulps, of the vast reservoir of knowledge that humankind has accumulated so far. But I would also wish them to realise that not all the learning happens in a classroom or a school. The most ordinary, unspectacular people can enhance our learning, if we learn to keep our eyes and ears open and our mouths shut.

As WB Yeats said, Education is not the filling of a pail but the lighting of a fire. As a parent, I feel bound to teach them to consider themselves students of life and living as long as they are alive.

I would also like to equip them with the means to learn some skills of their own choice. Whether they choose to learn sewing, dancing, playing a musical instrument, baking, designing, swimming, cooking, painting, building or some form of martial arts etc, no learning is wasted. Every new skill can do wonders to an individual’s sense of self-discovery and ability.

    3)  The next treasure in my basket of gifts would be my BOOKS. My father introduced me to the world of books and instilled in me a love for reading. It was a love that opened my world view, and broadened my horizons. It gave me hours of sheer unbridled joy, and helped me to forget all my cares. It helped me learn from minds wiser than my own, and taught me to love the magic of words. It is a treasure that I have always sought to share with my children.

My books are some of my most valuable possessions. Many of these books I received from Dad. Over time, I have added to my collection. Always the kind of books I would want to read and re-read. The kind that expanded my mind and my heart and enriched my soul. I hope to share my small library with my children.

4)  The other gift that I would like to leave my children is one whose worth will be evident to them when I am no longer with them. I would like to make a WILL, so that, having sorted out all my assets, I am able to leave my tangible and intangible possessions to the two little people whose welfare is and always will be my greatest concern.

5)   The greatest gift that I would like to leave my children is a twin one. It consists of the MORAL VALUES that I learned from my parents and the FAITH in a loving God that they instilled in me.

The values can serve as a compass for a good life, helping them navigate the pitfalls that threaten impressionable youngsters. The faith can be the light that helps see them through the toughest times.

Living a life with faith is no guarantee for an easy life. It will not give them the assurance of having all the answers. 

What it will offer them is the assurance that things will work out alright, and that the doubts that rage in their minds will be stilled in time, if only they are willing to let go and let God.

I hope to be able to share with them my deep conviction that everything will work for good, if they allow themselves to move on meanwhile. To do the chores and the jobs that need to be done, while waiting for the answers to reveal themselves. And they always do.

These are the gifts that I would like to leave them.

Everything else is only pretty wrapping paper.

This post is a part of the 1001 Gifts Activity by HDFC Life in association with BlogAdda

Staying Safe in My City

I am old enough to remember when my city was called Bombay. I was young then, and my city was a safe place. People said that this vibrant place where Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Parsis lived together was the best. 

People could travel home at late hours of the night and still arrive home safe. Women could come home late and not fear for their lives or their virtue (how quaint that word sounds!). Neighbours swapped sweets at festivals, and shared one another’s joys and sorrows. They watched over kids and everything felt safe.

It isn’t like that anymore. It hasn’t been like that for years now.


As a woman, I’ve learned to look over my shoulder when I walk. I’ve learned to watch the shadows that fall on the street beside me to see whether they are lengthening or shortening, depending upon the time of the day. I’ve learned to be wary of people, of strange things.


It ought not to be like that. I long for those days of innocence. When the world felt safe. There were bad things happening, but they seemed to leave us unscathed. Now danger hovers near.


I fear for my children, for my dear ones, for myself.


And I realize that if anything can save us now and again, it is the rule of Safety First and Always.


So here are my 10 Suraksha tips for staying safe in Bombay.


Pity I have to call it Mumbai now.



1)  Listen to your gut: Your instinct. Intuition. Women are blessed with the sixth sense. That inner voice which knows without knowing it knows, long before our conscious selves do, that all is not well, that there is danger in the air. We are all blessed with a Spidey sense that tingles. If only more of us would listen to it! 

Not all danger announces itself through tell tale signs, but there are a lot of times that it does. If someone or something makes you uncomfortable, be warned. If we only listened to our gut telling us not to trust certain people or to flee from certain places, it would bail us out of a heap of trouble.

2)  Verify, verify, verify: Make sure that the antecedents of your domestic staff, including cooks, maids, drivers etc are verified. Keep a current photograph of your domestic staff members with you and have them registered at the local police station. Get proof of their residence.

3)  Stay alert: When you walk on the street, make sure that your senses are alert. In the moment. Don’t talk on the mobile. And don’t listen to music. Whether the phone is glued to your ears or whether you have the hands-free earphones on -- both are bad ideas. You need your ears and your wits about you on the street. Whether it is to see the rickshaw, car or bus hurtling down towards you or whether to see that suspicious person rushing towards you with malicious intent. Suddenly rummaging in the innards of your voluminous handbag for a key, lipstick or equally insignificant something is also a bad idea.


Whether you are at home or in a hotel, it is best to be on your guard. Don’t open the door until you see who the person outside is. Have a safety door set up. Once you are indoors, make sure you bolt the door well as soon as you enter. Don’t leave the balcony door open. Or the window, for that matter, if there is no grill fixed on it. When staying at a hotel, don’t take off the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign even if you are going out for a while.

4)  In the driver’s seat: When you are driving, peer into the backseat before entering the car. Get into the car and lock it, before driving away. As far as possible, take known routes. Taking the road less travelled is a good idea when you are speaking figuratively, but not when you are being literal, and certainly not in the late evening or at night. Also as far as possible, stay in public spaces. Park in a parking lot that is easily accessible, not in a lonely area. By the same token, basement parking lots are a no-no. And have a trustworthy person walk you to your car, particularly when it gets dark. Never mind those sneers about how paranoid you are.


5)  Use your mobile phone well: Keep the phone numbers of family members, close friends and colleagues saved on speed dial. It is also a good idea to keep the numbers of women’s helplines handy. Apps like Smart Suraksha are a useful weapon to stock in your arsenal. Download it and use it when required. When you get into a taxi or an autorickshaw late at night, call a close family member or friend and tell them the licence plate number.

6)  On the commute: When travelling by local train at night, get into a bogie that’s meant for women alone for 24 hours. One of the women’s bogies on the Western and Central Railway lines turns into a general compartment at night. I have seen men rushing into those bogies past 10.30 pm. When travelling by BEST buses, make a big noise, if someone tries to grope you. Move away and sit next to women. 

Avoid travelling in an empty train or bus, at night. If you need to travel to Bandra by train at night, don’t get into a Bandra local. Get into a Borivali or Virar local, so there will be other people in the train with you. Also, avoid wearing flashy gold jewelery, unless you are Bappi Lahiri. When travelling alone, make sure you aren’t wearing a tight skirt or heels, so that you can run if you have to.


7)  On a night out: Go out only with people you trust. But don’t accept food or a drink from a stranger, no matter how handsome he looks and how charming he acts. Don’t leave your drink unattended. Watch it at all times. Take it to the bathroom, if need be. Make sure the drink is made in your presence. Failing that, drink only that which comes out of a sealed can or bottle. Also, make sure that at least one of your friends stays sober so he/she can drive you home.

8)  Save yourself: When in trouble, fight tooth and nail. Lash out at your attacker, but don’t flail around randomly. Hit him where it hurts, on areas where he is most vulnerable. For example, the eyes, the groin, the throat. Use those manicured nails to scratch his face. 

Bite. Claw. Jab. Stab. Thrust. Poke. 

It might incapacitate him for a brief spell, but at least it will give you time to run. Also, when you flee, take care to stay in crowded places, so you can lose the attacker. Don’t ever run into deserted alleys.

9)  Steel your mind: This is easier said than done, but it must be said. Don’t allow the attacker to know that you are afraid. Fear is natural, of course. I am filled with fear at the very thought of being accosted by an anti-social element.

But allowing the attacker to see your fear is the equivalent of losing the battle before it has begun. He will relish scaring you further, toying with you as a man-eater plays with its prey before tearing it to bits. Tell yourself that you will not allow yourself to be a victim. When you walk on the street, walk confidently with your head high. Don’t look frightened, even if you are. If someone accidentally brushes you on the street, don’t let yourself feel a sense of shame. Turn around and shout at the person.

10)  Be Cybersafe: Don’t let your FB friends in on every little sneeze and cough in your life. Especially don’t tell the whole world that you are going out on a vacation with your family. The information tells thieves that your house is unoccupied. As far as possible, avoid sharing personal information on social media. Nothing is private, as far as FB and Twitter are concerned.

Stay safe. 



I am sharing my Smart Suraksha Tips at BlogAdda.com in association with Smart Suraksha App.

Home: A Safe Haven?

It was ironic that she died at home, when everyone warned her of the dangers that lurked outside.

Home was a haven, everyone said. Elsewhere in the world, there were robberies, rapes and murders taking place. But home was where one could forget that one lived in a cruel world. Home was where one was safe. One could shut the door on all the negativity and the horror that prevailed outside.

They forgot that trouble often does drop in unannounced.

Across the street from their home was her husband’s new office and barely 200 m away was the local police station. Children played outside her plush ground floor apartment. The neighbours were home too.

Help was close at hand. She was surrounded by it, and yet she died struggling and fighting for her life, alone in her last moments.

This happened in 1995, so a number of the safety measures that are considered hygiene today had not yet been learned by society. It is only Experience that teaches us the lessons we know.

She was a family friend of ours, a gentle and kind lady whose personality, from her simple slippers to her cotton sarees, was far from flashy and never gave an inkling about the wealthy family she hailed from or was married into.

No one could have wanted her dead. She had a kind word for everyone. She never raised her voice when talking to anyone, not even to the servants that worked in their home, the man as a cook, the two women as general help. She would relay instructions to them in her quiet voice, and they would go about their duties respectfully.

And so her routine went on. Her husband went to his office in the morning, coming home for lunch in the afternoon, then heading back to the office and returning home rather late. Their only son was working for a bank in London. But she was not one of those that spent her day idly, pining for the two men in her life. No TV serials or kitty parties for her either.

She spent her time reading. And teaching English speaking to some underprivileged children.

That day, her husband had had lunch and had returned to the office. She had settled down with a quiet book, when there was a knock on the door. The security guard of the building later revealed that it was the cook with one of the maids and two unknown men.

What happened next was a knowledge that the hapless woman took to her grave. But the police speculated that perhaps the four asked the woman for the key to the safe where the husband kept the money, and when she refused, they must have hit her on the head with something heavy. They then stuffed her mouth with a rag to prevent her from calling for help, and tied her hands and legs. They also ransacked the bedroom and the kitchen to find the hidden key. But they found nothing.

Furious with her, they must have attempted to strangle her but she passed out before their eyes. Fearing that the commotion might be heard by someone, they grabbed the gold jewellery and left hurriedly.

The post mortem indicated that she was alive for at least half an hour after they left. The report surmised that she must have been in considerable pain. The slow decline had begun. Her life was being snuffed out. But it wasn’t peaceful.

How she must have thought of her husband and son, and wished she could meet them one last time! Had someone come to her aid then, she could have received timely medical attention. Perhaps she would have been alive today.

I was quite young when she died, and honestly, I never gave her much thought in the years since she died. But when I heard about the Smart Suraksha app, just like that, her face rose before my eyes.

And I thought of her.

I wish she had Smart Suraksha with her.

I am sure that if she had had the Smart Suraksha app, she might have lived. Her life would have had a kicking, struggling, fighting chance. 

At the press of a button, the Smart Suraksha app enables one to alert five pre-set mobile numbers besides the police to the fact that one is in danger and needs help.

Additionally, it also enables the police to trace one’s whereabouts regardless of whether the GPRS is on or not.

After she died, there were the usual things people said to console one another. They said, she was a good woman, and God has need of good people. Some said that she was in a far better place, removed from the misery and the pain that afflicted the rest of us.

None of this meant a thing to her husband and son who were devastated by her death. Nearly 18 years later, there must still be a large hole in their lives where she once was.

I am participating in the Seeking Smart Suraksha contest at BlogAdda.com in association with Smart Suraksha App.

The Goodness of Amla

Everyone knows that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Even the grammar books, Wren and Martin, in particular, used to reiterate that fact.


Few people know about the goodness of amla. Sigh! In this world, PR is everything.


The truth is that this small fruit is a nutrient-rich powerhouse; it is an excellent source of Vitamin C and is high is antioxidants, thereby helping to prevent cancer. Regular intake of amla enhances the body’s immunity, aids in digestion, enabling the body to assimilate nutrients from the food we eat, and strengthens the liver. Amla is also good for the hair, skin, bones, teeth and nails. Do you need more convincing? 

Amla helps to flush out the toxins from the urinary bladder. It helps to nourish the brain and strengthen the functioning of the liver, the heart and the lungs. It helps the body to produce more red blood cells, prevents constipation and increases vitality.

Having been a proponent of amla eating for years, I have in recent times become something of an amla evangelist. I love eating amla in the raw form and am always trying to convince others to do so too. In spite of all my advocacy, I failed to get my kids, known on my blog as La Niña and El Niño, to eat the amla. Then a friend told me about amla candy, and shared her recipe with me. I tried it successfully and now I have the satisfaction of seeing my kids eat amla regularly.

Incidentally, October and November is when the fruit is in season. So I ensure that I make sufficient quantity of amla candy for my family to enjoy all through the year.


Yesterday while going home, I saw a woman sitting just outside the railway station with a large basket filled with amla in front of her. One of these days, I shall make the coming year’s stock of amla candy. Meanwhile, you can read my doodled recipe and try your hand at it too.

My Doodle recipe is a part of Easy Doodle Recipe contest at BlogAdda.com in association with TastyKhana.com


(This post has been written for the Ultimate Blog Challenge, October 2013.)

The Haunting

At the stroke of midnight, she sallied forth.

White saree -- Check

Lit candle -- Check

Hair untied -- Check

The street was deserted, and she was feeling more than a little nervous.


It was not her first time haunting. But the last three times, she had failed to do her bit, and had become the laughing stock of the community. At least this time, she hoped to make a good impression.


This was after all what was expected of her. If the others came to know of the uneasiness that tormented her non-existent heart, they'd laugh louder. There'd be no getting away from the embarrassment.


She had watched the others at work. But in the other life, the one before this state, she had been a well-brought up girl from a good family. Laughing raucously in people's faces, opening the mouth wide to reveal fangs that dripped with blood -- these were not things she approved of. Or enjoyed doing. She longed for release but it was not to be, Merciful release had eluded her so far.


Suddenly the stillness of the night was pierced by some loud and off-key singing. A dark figure, emerging from the distance, zigzagged his way across the street. The figure came closer and she recognised him. He worked in some office downtown, What he earned during the week he blew up on the weekend. He had a wife and three children back home, who dreaded his return home.


Startled, she could barely get her teeth to stop chattering. She quickly ducked behind a tree, only to remember seconds after hiding that she was invisible. Still, it was a wise move. Drunkards can often see what the sober cannot. and she didn't want to frighten this hapless unfortunate needlessly.


She knew the signs and could predict the way they would lead him. Before long, he'd be borrowing, begging, even stealing to fuel his drinking habit. He needed something to jolt him, frighten him out of his wits so he'd never touch the stuff again.


Should she do it? She thought of that other life. It had been lived only for herself. She alone was the intended beneficiary of every single act she had committed, of every word she had spoken.


She wondered now. Was that why Death had not brought peace? Was it because she had been selfish and had thought only of herself? Would it help if she did one good deed for someone else?


She hesitated, but for a moment.. Then appeared in front of the man, laughing that raucous laugh she so hated.


The man beheld the spirit, fear and disbelief fighting for control over his face, and then he began to run. For a man who a few seconds alone had struggled to walk, he managed to canter along quite briskly. 


She learned later that he never drank again. The haunting had sobered him up with lasting effect.


The news increased her standing within the community. Not that it mattered anymore. She had decided to devote the rest of her life, this in-between life, to doing more such stuff.


She smiled to herself. This was going to be fun.




This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

The Best Days of My Life

You can get the Cynthia Rodrigues out of Xavier's, but you cannot get the Xavier's out of Cynthia Rodrigues. Years after leaving college, this is one truth that stands firm. You only have to mention the name of the college for me to get all nostalgic and race into flashback mode.

Post-class X exams, when I made known my desire to join St Xavier's College, Bombay, I was warned by all and sundry that it was a very degenerate place. Drugs were freely snorted on the campus and in the classrooms. The atmosphere was overly permissive with couples smooching everywhere and indulging in scandalous and sinful acts. This was the gist of everyone's dire pronouncements against the college. I doubt any of the many people who warned me against it had actually stepped foot inside the campus. It was a case of a bad reputation getting ahead faster.


I don't know why I had insisted on joining Xavier's. No one we knew had gone to Xavier's at that time. Subsequently many have, but none at that time. I knew nothing about Xavier's, of its fine traditions or its glorious history. I had not even seen pictures of the college.


The name had fired my imagination, that is all. To fight for my right to go to Xavier's, I resorted to every melodramatic trick I could think of. I refused to eat, even showing a saintly aversion when Mum tried to tempt me by cooking my favourite dishes. I announced grandly that it was Xavier's or nothing. If I couldn't go to Xavier's, I would give up my education. Fortunately, my parents were too sensible to be taken in by these stupid threats. After approximately a week of holding on to a hardline stance, my parents, having made an informed decision, agreed to let me join Xavier's.


And that was when the chilling import of what I had earned first hit me. What if I didn't like it? What if it really was degenerate? How could I possibly save face?


The admission form had been picked up by my cousins. We lived in Thane and Xavier's was in VT (now CST). For a Bombayite, whose thinking often follows the linear tracks of the local railways, this was the furthest halt on the Central Railway line. Perhaps that had subconsciously influenced me. I don't know. But the idea of starting something new, something that was physically at the opposite pole from the point at which I was then must have appealed at some level.


When I first went to college with my dad for the admission process, I was prepared to be surprised. This was after all a whole new world, far removed from the sedate convent-school outlook that was mine. As we stepped into the driveway leading to the college, I was transported. My heart beat faster. I had never seen any building quite as beautiful as this. Then when we walked through the commonplace lobby and then into the resplendent Gothic beauty of the quadrangle, every stone block illuminated in the sunlight, I was entranced. I knew I had to be a part of it.


Everywhere I looked, youngsters milled about. I desperately hoped none of the scandalous stuff was happening in plain view. I didn't want my parents to change their mind about admitting me to Xavier's. But there was nothing to worry about.


There was excitement in full force, as many hopefuls like me looked forward to being a part of this world. I remember praying hard. A girl standing next to me in the admission queue asked me my name. When I told her, she said, "Oh, don't worry, of course, you'll get in. This is a Catholic institution. They'll take you in. They are duty bound to take all Catholics in."


Hard as I was praying to be admitted in, I remember wishing that she would turn out to be wrong. Something told me that this was a fine institution, one of the finest. Nay, let me say it. The finest. But I wanted them to take me in because I was intelligent and creative and honest and sensible and had much to gain from here, much to learn, much that I would make my own and then someday, years hence, take out into the big wide world. I wanted them to take me in because I deserved to be in. I wanted the Sorting Hat of Xavier's to think me worthy.

Over the next five, and they were the best years of my life, I learned to take great pride in being called a Xavierite. To a large extent, Xavier's made me the woman I am today. Amid its hallowed halls, I learned that it was as important to question as it was to seek answers. I learned that I was stronger than I thought I was. I learned to get out of my cocoon, and seek out the best in others.

I also learned that the negative reputation that the college had earned was entirely undeserved.

Today St Xavier's College is an autonomous institution. But even then, despite being affiliated to the University of Bombay, there was a breath of freedom that pervaded the place. There was a yearning for education that inspired you to cherish learning for learning's sake, that could not be restrained by any syllabus or curriculum. Most professors encouraged us to call them by their first names, reasoning that we were all on the road to learning from one another. It was a refreshing stance, one that enabled us to see them as friends, to be more understanding of each other.

Laughter resounded within those ancient walls. Nothing was so serious that it couldn't withstand being laughed at. Nothing so lighthearted that it couldn't teach us a solid truth.
There were so many treasures within. The reference library where I first learned to imagine that Heaven had to be a library, the biggest of its kind. The lending library with its tall rows of books that I would eye greedily, even ravenously, wondering if I would ever be able to read them all.


Incidentally, the lending library was where I received my first taste of Western classical music. Every afternoon, they would play classics from Beethoven, Mozart and Handel, among others. Having grown up on the heady music of the BeeGees, Abba, Boney M and Kenny Rogers (that was all the music my Dad had), it was my first initiation into Western classical music.


Those were the best days of my life.




There was another reason that made Xavier's very special. Three more reasons. I made three friends who continue to form a very important part of my life. Angela, Liz, Lo and I were inseparable. It was a friendship that was destined to happen. I always believe that the greatest friendships of our lives are brought to us by some sort of a cosmic radar. An overarching force that skims through thousands of people and then, against all odds, out of the blue, brings to you the people that are the sisters you never had.


We used to call ourselves the GAX (the Great Amigos of Xavier's). I didn't know any Spanish then, so it was only much later that I learned that since we were girls, we should call ourselves amigas. But the original name stuck.


Together we laughed each time one of us was bitter and disappointed. And we cried until our sides ached at nothing at all.


At our third year farewell party, I cried as if my heart was breaking and would never mend again. Friends and classmates tried to comfort me. They promised that we would never lose touch. We would call and write unfailingly (pre-Facebook era). But I was weeping for something more.


I was weeping at having to leave a college that had become home for the five years we had been there. I was weeping for a college that was more than an institution, it was our life.



Thankfully, memories are doorways and they can take us back to our past faster than we can imagine.


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.