Posted on by nikita

Fill-in-the-gap

people holding puzzle pieces

If filling generation gaps were as simple and easy as filling the gaps in an exam question paper! 

The inspiration for this analogy emerged from an interesting discussion among ‘pupils’ from different generations – Baby Boomers, Gen X, Millennials, and Gen Z. 

I say ‘pupil’ because everyone engaged in the discussion learned one new thing about a generation distinct from their own. It seemed so. A new perspective. A different thought, encompassing topics such as social constructs, parenting, lifestyle, life partners, marriage, and religion.

Surely, the answers to the questions raised weren’t as easy and definitive as the responses to fill-in-the-blanks. We either fill in the blank with a correct answer or a wrong one. True for subjects that are based on logic and facts. For example, math, science, geography, civics, and so on. 

Those were fun exercises; easy-to-copy questions in exams, like other objective-type questions. What was true for my friend was also true for me. 

But we can’t be certain when the question involves filling a generational gap, since each generation has different options to consider. The probability of having a definitive answer is negligible. It’s more like literature, history (a blend of objectivity and subjectivity), art, and music that are subjective. These subjects require interpretive, analytical, and evaluative skills, which are also vital for understanding the communication gaps between people across generations. 

On second thought, a lack of communication is also evident between people belonging to the same generation. And sometimes the result is violent and gory — a recent Meghalaya honeymoon murder case.

In some cases, despite the language of communication being the same, people fail to understand each other; in others, language itself becomes a battleground. For instance, a brawl between an auto driver and a commuter in Bengaluru over language use — the driver demanding to speak in Kannada and the commuter speaking in Hindi and English. 

Wasn’t it unnecessary for both parties to fight over language? 

When the rickshawala knew English (as shown in the viral video), he could have replied to the commuter in English. At the same time, if the commuter were a migrant, one would expect her to know the regional language. At least the basics.

And now that we already have AI to fill the language gap, why clash over languages? Use a Google translator and keep moving. What’s the big deal? Why create a ruckus over the language preference of the natives and non-natives? Instead, why can’t we respect and celebrate the diversity of languages? Isn’t India known for its ‘Unity in Diversity’? 

However, in today’s braver India, the slogan could be tweaked to ‘Unity in Adversity’, considering national unanimity during Operation Sindoor. Only if the still-young Gandhi doesn’t take any offence, much like he did with the EAM’s particular remark regarding Operation Sindoor. Mr. Gandhi claimed that Mr. S. Jaishankar had informed the Pakistani defence about the military operation ‘at the start’ of the attack. But anyway, most Indians already realize that filling the cognitive gap in Mr. Gandhi’s political and linguistic understanding is a tough task.  

In all probability, such a lack of understanding in an adult could be one of the reasons why the government insists on mandating multilingualism in the school syllabus, which enhances an individual’s cognitive abilities. The government would want kids to grow up into smarter adults for a progressive India. 

But, of course, like any other issue, the language issue is also politicized in India, particularly in the states of Maharashtra, Karnataka, and Tamil Nadu. Apart from daily skirmishes over the means of communication, which sometimes become fatal, the leaders in these states are engaged in a battle with the Centre over the three-language policy. 

Sometimes I wonder — Where do these people get so much energy from? Don’t they get tired of quarrelling over everything? Even if it’s their job to oppose, still, it must be stressful to fill in the unanswered blank by the government with sensible arguments every time. 

*****
Friend: Seems I need to stop binge-eating.
Me: Fill the gap in your belly applying the ‘Jordan Formula’. New gyan. 




Posted on by nikita

Reborn — The X-factor

‘Why don’t you buy a pet?’ comes one recommendation. 

Pets are adorable, but I prefer to be at arm’s length from pets and pethood.

‘Why don’t you adopt a child?’ That’s another.

At that moment, all I could hear in my mind’s ears was the beautiful song from the movie ‘Maachis’ — Chhod aaye hum woh galiyan … Gone are the days of potty training, teething troubles, and midnight burping. At the menopausal stage, managing my moods is somewhat challenging for me — how do I summon the elon to babysit a child as the trolled President Mr. Trump unintentionally did at the Oval Office? 

While Father Musk, an X-DOGE, was addressing the reporters regarding the scope of the Department of Government Efficiency work, Grandpa Trump was unexpectedly seen babysitting Musk’s X. Mind you, it’s not an Ex, it’s just X. Confusing naming trends, much like the language itself. After all, names are born out of a language.

The world is not unknown of the fact that Elon Musk takes his little X to almost every meeting, disregarding criticism — is it a gesture of parenthood or for creating some public perceptions? Similarly, many women across Brazil and the UAE are spotted taking ‘Reborn Dolls’ to different places, making me wonder for a nanosecond — How about adopting a reborn doll?

For those who are unaware, these dolls are gaining attention globally due to their life-like realism and intricate craftsmanship. A hobby turned into a million-dollar business for many craftsmen, and an adorable collection for art lovers. These dolls have also proven therapeutic benefits for women who struggle with infertility or infant loss.

Sifting through different options and on conscious pondering, I realize that I can’t adapt myself to adopt either a pet, a child, or even a reborn doll. I ain’t that adept. 

And seemingly neither is the LOP in India. Considering the current political status of the INDI alliance, they need to be adept enough to Modi-fy their weak and outdated narratives  — not just with slogans, but with substance — or it might cost the party more senior leaders (one could be Mr. Shashi Tharoor) who appear to be modi-fying themselves. The party may want to learn a different RaGa and reinvent itself from its threadbare political structure. It needs to become more realistic in its approach to fill the void of a strong opposition in a democratic nation, akin to the hyper-realistic reborn dolls, which fill the void in the lives of many women across the globe. 

Because Modi — a political figure who consistently and effectively redesigns his vision for a new India, for better or for worse? — doesn’t just believe in surgical strikes when needed, he also has the acumen to strike the spiritual chord of global citizens, as seen in his introduction of the Indian practice of yoga on the Global stage. From local to global — a shared vision for a healthier and more conscious world. 

Inspired by such initiatives, I decided to incorporate a few more yogic postures into my simple exercise routine, and in no time, the universe conspired to help me achieve it. In a couple of days, a good friend of mine shared information about an online yoga session. My third eye, meditatively trained to remain alert, immediately captured the message of the universe. Without much ado, I registered myself for the session. And in a couple of days, in harmony, my body and mind — which are not mine as per the spiritual concept of Sadhguru —  revealed to me that my not-so-younger tissues and muscles need to be reborn. 

All said and done, aren’t we all trying to reborn ourselves in one way or another? Be it at a personal, professional, or spiritual level.

*****

Friend: If given a chance, what would you want to be reborn as?
Me: The grass in my garden is sufficiently green.


Posted on by nikita

Rains, ruins, and remedies

Premature birth results from internal complications within a mother’s body; premature rains, the consequence of human-induced external disruptions. For instance, deforestation and urbanization. Unchecked human activities have a ruinous effect on the environment. 

One such corroboration is the recent unseasonal rains in May, affecting the mango crop yield in Gujarat. Not to mention the strong winds that knocked down baby mangoes from their mother tree. Prematurely. 

These are known facts. But I wonder if this untimely rain carried some subtle message for the city’s municipal corporation. 

Hey, when an apathetic civic authority finds it difficult to understand the obvious grievances of its citizens, how will it decipher hints from a voiceless rain? 

So, here I am — the voice of the rain, communicating its pitter-patter as a forewarning, something I attempted to decode.

  1. Make sure your city roads are sturdy enough to defend themselves from the mighty showers. Designer roads with different-sized patchwork don’t last long. Patchwork is aesthetically pleasing only on clothes, not on city roads. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what’s weaker—the roads or the human conscience. 
  2. Make sure that the recently repaired roads across the city—which you’ve dug up again, this time for installing water pipelines—are timely and evenly smoothed out. On my last visit to Earth, hillocks of soil and gravel were visible on every other road.
  3. Make sure I don’t get mixed with the sewage waters in case I come down as torrential rains. Presumably, the city’s sewer system and drainage infrastructure are in place. I don’t want your citizens to blame me for any waterborne diseases. After all, ‘jal hi jeevan hai’. 
  4. Make sure there’s no waterlogging in the city. I don’t enjoy staying stagnant in one place. And that too, bearing the angry brunt of the commuters. I despise people giving me disdainful looks even when the fault isn’t mine. Let me reiterate—your city’s drainage infrastructure must be well-maintained.
  5. Make sure that after a week of my coming down, you install sign boards at every meter or two on the roads, especially cautioning the commuters on motorcycles about the menacing craters since these vehicles have little cushioning. For example, place sign boards indicating the width of a pothole – 3-4 feet, 4.5-5 feet, and so on. Possibly, also mention the depth of these potholes, warning the commuters to maintain their speed accordingly. Water-filled potholes camouflage their actual depth. These depressions not only reduce the vehicular life but also shorten the life of the riders because of accidents. 
  6. Make sure to also place sign boards indicating ‘KEEP RIGHT’ and ‘KEEP LEFT’  to guide the commuters through their dreadful journey on two-lane roads, helping them to dodge as many potholes as possible. That many of these two-lane roads have shrunk into a single-lane road because of the Metro project is a different story, though. On these roads, the commuters can only shift their bums right or left.  
  7. Make sure that the traffic police are effectively managing traffic jams, especially when the traffic signals are dysfunctional. More often than not, the traffic personnel are on their phones managing calls and messages, which leads to chaos at the crossroads. 

That’s all for now.

See you soon.  

*****

Mr Sharif: Mr Modi, can India give us lessons in effective rainwater harvesting?
Mr Modi: Talks only on terror and POK.



Posted on by nikita

Jane Kaha Gaye Woh Din …

Summer days bring to my lethargic mind,
My childhood days — one-of-a-kind.
Carefree days, filled with frolic and fun,
Till the moon pleaded to the sun for her turn.

Mixed-gender cricket was played before the two meals of the day,
Unheeding of the indiscriminate suntan to the bodily clay. 

Despite losing sight of the flying shuttlecock with the approaching night,
Badminton was still played under the supervision of a dim street light. 

While the school gave us lessons only in verbal communication,
The game of cards innocently taught us the art of non-verbal manipulation.

Boys played carrom in pursuit of the only ‘queen’,
Girls unabashedly took turns to pocket the ‘carrom men’, meandering in between.

The Bird’s Eye Spies turned into desi Dabba, I Spy (Dabba, Ice-pice?),
When the ‘seeker’ identified the players by the beast in their cry.

Life skills were learned while playing sakli,
Chasing and tagging players, holding each other’s hands firmly.

Pockets sagged, and the tin cans reverberated with the sound of marbles,
Which were triumphantly knocked out of the established circles.

Seven Stones was played only occasionally,
Because failing to dodge the red rubber ball would hurt severely.

Stereotypes made hopscotch quite unpopular among boys,
Just as they refrained from playing pretend play with miniature kitchen toys. 

Of course, summer vacations were all about plenty of games,
But this narrative will be incomplete if I leave out three significant names —
Collegian, Chapta Chana, and Pankh.

Relishing these delicacies felt like euphoria,
And that too, just at the cost of 25 paisa!

Spending a rupee or two was considered lavish,
‘Sharing is caring’, in that moment, sounded gibberish.

Jane kaha gaye woh din…
Jane kaha gaye woh kith and kin…

*****

Collegian is what we know as Collegian Bhel today. But back then, unlike today, it was just a mixture of blanched peanuts, spicy chutney, and drops of lemon juice. 
A man with a thin moustache, curly hair, and a white-toothed grin — Mangabhai — was our collegian guy.

Pankh is what everybody knows as baraf gola. I don’t know why we called it so, because neither was shaved ice moulded in the form of a pankh nor any pankhs were attached to the stick of the gola.
Mohammadbhai — our pankh guy — would announce his arrival with the sound of a bell hanging under his cart. Kala khatta was the preferred flavour for most of us.

Chapta Chana, famously called Chana Chor Garam, with green chutney, garam masala and drops of lemon juice.
Our Chapta Chanawala kaka (sadly, we never cared to ask his name) was more than six feet tall, with a shaven head and choti tied in a knot. A wooden peti (box), fastened with a sturdy black leather belt, hung around his strong neck. I don’t remember the exact words of his loud calls in our mohalla, but his voice still echoes in my ears.  

*****

Note: The title is inspired by a song from the Hindi movie ‘Mera Naam Joker’. 

Source of the image: https://shorturl.at/YZJgX

Posted on by nikita

Spic and span, here’s my hand

She pricked the vegetable uttapam with the fork in her left hand, moved the knife back and forth over it with her right hand, like a saw on wood, and cut a bite-sized piece of uttapam. Then, she elegantly dipped it in chutney and gently put it in her mouth.   

By this time, I had already mindfully chewed a couple of pieces, letting them glide down my fibromuscular esophagus into my hangry stomach, making at least one aspect of my life easy — eating with my hands. 

Generally, I avoid eating food that requires a fork and knife. And if it’s too tempting, I let others lead, and I follow suit. But when I see them struggling to cut a piece, I pounce on it with my hands and simply devour it. To hell with table etiquettes.

I don’t remember at what age I learned the art of eating with my own hands, just as I don’t remember the sudden appearance of forks and knives in my home — how they stealthily entered our kitchen territory!  

Forks still find their way out of the kitchen drawers on some days in many households — these days, many people even eat fruits with a fork (at home)! But knives remain reticent most of the time. Unless you are someone who eats pancakes, known as pudla or puda in desi language, with a fork and knife even at home. 

Doesn’t this cutlery look like armaments?

In a restaurant, when I see a systematically arranged fork and knife on either side of a plate, they conjure up an image of a military arsenal. Once the delicious food is lovingly placed on the table by the swiftly moving waiters, you pick up your fork and knife as if preparing for some kind of ambush — an attack on the unarmed food in front of your greedy eyes. For instance, using a knife and fork to eat hara bhara kabab, masala dosa, stuffed samosas, and a few other food items. 

Who needs a fork and a knife when you have five tines on each hand? And how can you chuck the joy of slurping a mango seed in an Indian summer till a couple of stubborn fibres get stuck between your teeth? (A tribute to summer)

I distinctly remember one aunt from my childhood who would run behind her small daughter, a fussy eater, trying to feed her with her loving hands. The daughter would scamper from one house to another in the neighbourhood. As soon as the aunt caught hold of her, she would forcefully stuff a big triangular piece of roti, concealing some sabji in the center, into her small mouth.

Imagine her chasing her child, fork and knife in one hand like weapons, threatening her child to eat — like a miniature, AI version of Rani Laxmi Bai. 

Of course, good table manners are needed,  whether you’re dining at home or in a formal setup. And frankly speaking, many Indian food items don’t even require cutlery except a simple, solitary spoon. But fascination with foreign culture has gradually overshadowed even our eating habits along with the choice of food. Often, people suppress the natural urge to eat with their hands, either because of the setting or social expectations. And as the adage goes, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do. ’ 

Instead, I would say, Rome or home, let your senses lead the way. 

*****

Mother: Today we have daal bhaat for lunch.
Daughter: Where’re my chopsticks?