Gone With the Wind.....

Deepavali, a Festival of lights, hope and joy, was an enchanting part of my childhood. The legend states that this festival is celebrated as a victory of Lord Vishnu, appearing in the form of Sathyabhama and killed Narakasura, a demon who gave trouble to the people. The deepam or diyas are lit to commemorate the destruction of the evil . 

Though the festival is just for a day, the preparations would commence well before a week. My mother would prepare the budget for that year’s celebration which includes the cost of sweet making, new dresses, crackers followed by a good feast. She would sit in the verandah with a paper and pencil (to erase and rewrite) surrounded by children on floor, grandmother and father who is half asleep in his chair. She would sound very formal, as a Finance Minister would do when he announces the national budget.

Once all the expenditures were covered she would turn into cost cutting. She would start eliminating the expenses which she feels is not really necessary. However, I have never seen a compromise on the cost of sweet making or feast, which according to her is a prestige issue among neighbors and relatives. To our horror, grandmother would induce my mother on how it was a waste to spend hard earned money on crackers, and gives a small lecture on how to could the money be spent in useful ways if the crackers were eliminated from list. But mother would convince grandmother on spending fewer amounts on crackers and would eventually convince us into buying costly dresses if we agree to her terms. Father would remain a mere spectator to this event, but proves his presence by nodding at times and makes sure that he takes turns to support both the ladies at least once. 

We would eagerly look forward to the shopping day, when we would be taking bus ride to reach the Town hall. Mom would make us swear at home that we would not be demanding anything apart from dress. We would obey her reluctantly, fearing that if we make her angry she would decide to leave us back at home. The one and a half an hour ride from my village to the Town hall would be so memorable. Fighting for the window seats, which my mother would resolve by asking us to sit in turns, the swift flying of trees, houses, lampposts, adds glitters to our journey. If we were lucky that day, we would even catch a glimpse of the moving train while the bus waits at the crossing. Waving to the train furiously and giggling among ourselves was indeed fun. The town hall would be crowded mostly by shoppers from surrounding villages who would have come like us for deepavalli shopping. We even saw our maths teacher Chitra miss once, whom I despise a lot because of my slow picking mind in maths, was shopping at the same place. My mother volunteered to speak to her. Much to my surprise Chitra miss cast a smile at me. From that day on, my mother would threaten me of complaining to Chitra miss for all my mischief. After the shopping is over, we would visit the Lala Sweet shop for a small snack before taking the return bus to our village.

The new dresses would be analyzed and scrutinized by my grandmother and our neighbors and would take their place in the wooden almirah. I cherish the moments when we peep into the almirah and ensure that our dresses were safe and sound. Father would buy crackers while returning from office. He would convince mother that he has in fact bought crackers less than the intended amount. But we would know better than mother that father was generous, by deceiving mother. 

By now, grandmother and mother would have finalized the sweets, savories and the menu for the feast. They would be very busy for the next two days, preparing the edibles and would look forward for the arrival of Meenachi aunty, my father’s sister who comes with her 2 children every year to celebrate deepavalli with us. We would also anticipate eagerly of her visit mainly because our dresses would be displayed once again to aunty and our cousins who would accompany us in all our games.

On the day of deepavalli, mom would wake us early and makes us sit in a row for applying oil to our heads. Eager to wear the new clothes, we take Gangasnanam,  reciting the mantras half heatedly. The morning would evade soon by distributing the sweets to neighbors. We take up this distribution job mainly to show off our new dresses to friends. We burst the crackers and save the sparklers for the evening. Then we would accompany mother to the temple. After returning, mom would hurry to prepare the feast, leaving us to play with neighbors and cousins, but never fails to keep an eye on us. 

The afternoon wades away by running between the kitchen and the verandah; playing hides-and –seeks, with occasional stealing of crispy vadas and appalam from the kitchen. After the feast the elders go into a short nap which is the time for us to continue our play. As the night falls, joy fills us once again. The sparklers would be shared and we take turns to burst them. Some would even be saved for the Karthigaideepam, which comes the following week. Mother would drag us from play, feed us the remains of the feast and would make us to sleep. Even after the festival is over, the joy it created would linger in our hearts for a week.

Same Deepavalli comes these years also. We purchase new dress, buy assorted Bengali sweets from Adayar Anandha Bhavan, burst thousand wala cracker chains and get glued on to the TV for rest of the day. We listen to the interview of some new actress who would blabber in English to the questions asked to her in Tamil. We finish of our breakfast listening to the conversation of how she accidentally entered into the film industry and wishes us merry deepavalli (!). Afternoon wades of by getting dressed up and going to a nearby temple, followed by lunch at some expensive hotel. Then we enjoy taking a small nap but would not forget to wake up at 6 pm, as they would be screening a very recently released blockbuster movie. We would manage to burst the remaining sparkles during the news and commercial breaks. When the movie is about to end, we would be reminded about the work to be submitted by tomorrow and concentrate on that. So here goes our deepavalli like yet another Sunday, with no internal joy or bliss. 

It seems that the city life has engulfed the soul purpose of the festivals along with the bliss it creates in our minds and the peace in our hearts. Blessed were those who had a lively childhood experiencing all its joy to the core! I dread to think what my daughter would recite to her kids about her childhood deepavallis.

Threads Of Life

You enter into the silk sari section of that air-conditioned textile shop, with a contended smile on your lips for having stepped inside the shade escaping the wrenches of the Sun at last. You are very pleased with yourself for managing to reach the intended floor as it seemed a very long journey for you to make yourself walk from the car to the crowded shop, cramp yourself into the already crowded lift and to land in the actual floor.  “Oooh! What a climate” You exasperate!  In those days it was not this hot! We used to climb the stairs in no time. “You seem to say this much to yourself than to your neighbor, who nods in acceptance.

You ignore the tampering shop assistants who seem to be excited on your arrival (or at least on the outset). You start scanning the clothes yourself. The racks in the shop are laden with rows and rows of attractive materials, from sheer chiffon saris to shimmering silk saris of colors which are beyond your imagination. The clothes were glimmering with fascinating patterns, and jubilant designs. Having scanned the shop for more than two hours you end up with half a dozen saris to choose from. Here is where the ignored shop assisstant steps in giving you his expert opinion. You rely on him to provide you with a conclusion of which suits you better, the blue one with a dancing peacock craning its beautiful neck or that realistic mango pattern sari in the sunset orange color. The assistant convinces you that both are really fantastic on you and finally you buy both the saris convinced that you deserved them both.

This may be an ordinary event happening in everybody’s life. But we hardly give a second thought on how those saris ended up with us. Not many of us would have ever wondered the hard work and turmoil which the weavers would have undergone to make the saris? We seem to have the habit of taking things for granted.  Since its available it doesn’t mean that we can exploit it.

Owing to the extreme temperatures on the sub-continent, sari fills a practical role as well as a decorative one. It warms in winter and cools in summer. A look into the lives of these struggling weavers may change our perspective on these otherwise simple saris.

So, how this silk is made? We simply answer it as Sericulture. But sericulture or the production of cocoons required for the filament is just the initial step. Silk, a natural protein fiber, is obtained from the cocoons of the larvae of Mulberry silkworm.  Farmers or Sericulturist raise these silk moths under tightly controlled conditions. The silk worm begins life as an egg, and then becomes a silk worm, pupa and, finally, a moth. The silkworm, when ready to become a pupa, secretes a protein-like substance through its head to form the cocoon. Some silkworms are allowed to become moths to propagate the species but most are harvested in this stage to be used in silk production.

Farmers deliver the cocoons to special factories called filatures. This is where cocoons are turned into silk threads through a four-step process. The cocoons are first sorted by color, size, shape and texture. Then the sericin or silk gum holding the cocoon's filaments together is softened by alternating hot and cold immersions. Next, the silk filaments are unwound and, because individual filaments are too fine for commercial production, several strands are reeled together, are at the artistic hands of the weavers to give life to these threads with their exemplary designs. There are exotic varieties of birds, animals, deities and natural patterns to be brought from imagination to realistic world. But the irony of their life is life itself. The lives of these artisans are not that artistic.

They generally come from the working class communities apart from the merchants, most of them working at daily wages, with no security to their future. They pawn their own lives for very small amounts and make a life imprisonment of their kinship. If the father dies without fulfillment of the bond, the tradition continues with the son. 

Many riots broke out among the people demanding rise in wages.  But they were suppressed in one way or the other by their masters. Either they were convinced of high wages or threatened that they would be bringing workers from other places to replace them, in both case the merchants were benefitted. Many weavers working under private managements are bonded laborers. They beat the warp rhythmically for hours together in dingy rooms, hoping against hope to see light at the end of the tunnel. But truth dawns very lately on them that the tunnel is a never ending one. Mere appreciation of this artistic excellence is not enough. It needs a valiant heart to praise and value these artisans along with their artistic exquisite.

Sssh! Thats Secret

          We always remember people mostly with their appearance. On speaking about a groomed gentleman, eventually brings the image of a well dressed man from our memory, a beggar with a shabby, dirt shirt, but not the vice versa.

I infact was kindled to have these thoughts while reading a novel named "The Seventh Secret" by Irving Wallace. People reading this novel for the first time will surely be questioning themselves regarding the depth of truth involved in this novel. Our conscious questions us a lot “Hey ! You knew that Hitler committed suicide, putting an end to the World war. How could have he lived further?. What about that by-hearted version of 8th Standard History saying Hitler died on April, 1945. Can that be wrong?"

All sane people’s brain will definitely linger on these questions. But there may or maynot been a possibility for him to have escaped, lived and died out of natural causes outsmarting the world.

            We are quiet convinced by history that Hitler is a ruthless dictator; a killing machine sucking many innocent lives. Mere thinking of the devil itself creates hatred in our souls. Imagine putting yourselves in the shoes of thousands and thousands of innocent people killed in the Extermination Camps, who were mass murdered for political reasons, without any fault of theirs. Just because you were born a Jew at a wrong time and at a wrong place, is enough for you to be sentenced to death.

            In spite of all these killings and insane acts, there was an approachable, charismatic soft side of this otherwise eccentric man. An ardent Alsatian lover, Herr Fuhrer owned a German Sheppard named Blondi, gifted to him by Martin Bormann.        

           

This image of Hitler with his dog, promoting the countryside and dog lover at rest, was reproduced with the startling caption (paraphrased) ‘When evil people wanted to hurt him [Hitler] inside, at his most vulnerable, they poisoned his favorite dog. This is how evil fights against a good man’.

            A mediocre painter himself, Herr Fuhrer was inspired by the works of Arnold Bocklin. Hitler owned eleven of his paintings and cited Bocklin as his favorite painter.

He was greatly influenced by architectural designs and most of his paintings depicted the same.

           

He actually moved to Vienna hoping to join the Academy of Arts at Austria, where to his astonishment his application was rejected, not once but thrice, stating that his paintings were not up to the standards required. He took to selling his own paintings to shop owners, mostly Jewish. This utter misery of poverty deeply influenced Hitler. He adopted a harsh, survivalist mentality, which left little room for consideration of kindness and compassion – an attitude that would stay with him until the end. Rightfully Hitler stated in Mein Kampf, "I owe it to that period that I grew hard and am still capable of being hard,”

He wore a good luck charm bearing  a photograph of  Federick the Great. He also had a large wall hanging of Federick the Great in his living room, and carried it everywhere.

On first hearing the news of World War I, Hitler had sunk to his knees and thanked heaven for being alive. A huge, enthusiastic crowd including Hitler gathered in a big public plaza in Munich – the occasion – to celebrate the German proclamation of war, on August 1^st 1914. 

                       

As true patriot to his nation, two days later, Hitler volunteered for the German Army, enlisting in a Bavarian regiment.

"For me, as for every German, there now began the greatest and most unforgettable time of my earthly existence. Compared to the events of this gigantic struggle, everything past receded to shallow nothingness," Hitler said in Mein Kampf.  What he did, he claims to be the patriotic riot of the once hand cuffed Germans, which is his version of the fact.

This life of a simple, poor, struggling artist who sold painted postcards for a living, turned to be a murderer using fear as a political weapon. In his life, we were shown only what was intended for us to see. But there was always an other side to the hill, about which people refused to see or thought never existed, actually grew green pastures and meadows for the birds to rejoice.